#other details probably not coming across well in these sketches is not-dot is supposed to have a bigger nose and is fluffier

[radrobotz]

actually idc how messy they look heres one old concept sketch for each Rat Syndrome creature. so u can know who im talking about

they never got names im still working on that also details not included: not-wakko has a bite in their tail and not-dot is wearing an overall dress rather than overalls like not-yakko and not-wakko. not-dot also has a sort of shorter and fatter tail

[spencerreidimagines]

Lovely Little Details

//Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: none

A/N: hey y’all, sorry for the late post!! This just a little coffee shop imagine that foreverrrr to get out of my head lol. Hope y’all enjoy! p.s. there usually is a read more link but I’m on mobile so this post is just gonna be left as is until I get my hands on a laptop :)

It was in a quaint coffee shop that Spencer had first laid his eyes on her. She was tucked into a corner, with her head low and her eyes steady. Her hands cupped a steaming coffee mug dotted with stars and hand painted constellations, as her eyes followed the wandering city-goers through the window beside her. A leather journal was splayed open before her; with a shift of her elbow, he caught a glimpse of the ragged manifestations of her thoughts.

He spotted lines and dots and creatures lining the side of her page, her sketches on the journal's edge were specific; definite. He followed along the coils and stray hairs that sprung from her high bun, the slope of her neck, the slight smile that rested upon her lips...

Spencer sighed and righted himself in his seat to face the nearly empty coffee cup before him; he had been staring, he realized. He clacked his fingers against the table as he silently hoped the splinted moment when they caught eyes hadn't been as noticeable as he felt it was.

A name was then shouted in the background, and through the bustle of the cafe he heard the soft kick of someones hasty steps. He'd held his breath as he ran through the incredibly slim chances that it might be that stranger from across the room, a slight knot curling in his stomach as he had no idea what to say to this woman if she decided to confront him. When he felt a tap on his shoulder, his face shriveled into a grimace before he fixed himself to face this stranger, his eyes soft and apologetic.

"I think this might be yours," a mild voice floated to his ears, "They handed me the wrong drink, then just gestured over here so..."

"Oh," he responded, surprised, before reaching to take the cup from her hands and nodding in thanks, which she waved away with an awkward smile resting on her lips.

"I also noticed you staring earlier," the beginnings of an apology began to push against his lips before she continued on, "Which normally would throw me off but, you're kind of cute, so I thought I'd just...invite you to sit with me for a while."

His brows shot up in surprise before he composed himself and checked his watch, thankful that he still had about half an hour before his lecture, "Sure," he responded as he began to gather his things.

"Alright," she sighed, donning an accomplished smile before she turned on her heel and crossed the room to return to her seat, nerves now beginning to fester in her core as she absently scanned over her notes to distract herself from the growing pit in her stomach.

‘what on Earth was I thinking?' she thought to herself before she stifled her thoughts as Spencer set his things along the back of the chair and sunk into his seat. He flashed her a courteous smile once their eyes met.

"I have to admit," he started, "I'm a little surprised that you'd invite me over here after you caught me staring."

“You know, I'm surprised myself," she admitted with a small chuckle, "I don't usually do things like this, but something about you caught my attention," She paused as her gaze flicked to his hands playing at his sleeves, he was fixing the watch to peek out of his tweed jacket, "do you have somewhere to be?" she asked.

“I have a, uh, lecture in half an hour," he responded, his voice stern and yielding against her open ears.

"You're a teacher?" she asked, brow raised in intrigue, to which he nodded with a shrug, "That explains so much about you."

"It does?" he asked, his head lightly cocked to the side.

"Mhm," she hummed, taking a sip from her mug, "You seem like the scholarly type." His eyes flicked to the side as he digested her oddly forward answer, "What's your name?"

"Spencer," he said before he quirked his brow to silently request for her own.

"(y/n)," her gaze wide and inviting, before she set her mug down with a soft clink, and rested her chin onto her hand, "So tell me about yourself, Spencer, there has to be more to you than teaching."

"I only teach lectures occasionally," Spencer flitted his eyes to the table, her unwavering attention slightly overwhelming, yet warm enough to keep his own tethered between them, "majority of the time, I work in the behavioral sciences unit, in the FBI."

Surprise and intrigue flashed across her features as she raised her mug to hide her gleaming smile, "Behavioral sciences unit, huh? So you study people?"

"That's actually a misconception," he began, "we investigate federal crimes through a behavioral lens. The creation of this department is actually a pretty interesting story," She nodded for him to go on, and as he spoke, (y/n) followed his hands as they fluttered about, "When it was first established, most of the general public didn't believe that serial killers could've had the capacity for compassion in their early lives."

"Well, in their defense, it's pretty hard to see someone as a compassionate human being after you've been a direct witness to the families that they tore apart," (y/n) responded, frankly, "So, what changed their minds?"

"The profiles started working," he said matter of factually.

(y/n) just nodded, a simple frown on her face as she digested his information, "It must've taken years for a turn around like that," she lowered her mug, "I can only imagine how hard it must've been to get that department off of the ground."

Spencer scoffed, "Yea, not many people liked to change their minds back then," he responded, accents of jest and spite dancing along his words, "So, uh, what do you do?"

"I'm an author," she responded, pride flashing across her features before melting into rested humility.

Spencer's eyes flashed before his tongue dashed across his lips, he could only imagine the worlds hidden away in her mind, "How long have you been writing?"

"Oh, I've been writing for years, and it was a challenge to find a way to get paid for it," she responded, dismissive yet firm with her voice, "nobody believed me when I said that I was going to open up the world through my words; make it seem more inviting and colorful than it's turned out to be."

He watched a storm roll across her gaze as she followed her rippled reflection in her mug, her finger lightly playing at the rim. "I know I probably just sound like every other starving artist out there," she chuckled, "but I've dreamt this big since I was a kid, so a couple of naysayers aren't going to stop me from doing what I love."

Spencer nodded, "I know how hard it is to be doubted by the people who are supposed to support you," an empathetic smile flickered across his lips, "it took my mother years to accept my career path."

"Oh, yea?" she asked, "I had no idea you could meet so much resistance in becoming an FBI agent."

Spencer chuckled, bashful, "Most of the resistance came from how young I was. The other training agents were nearly ten years older than me when I started."

(y/n) startled a bit, "Ten years? How young were you when you started working for the FBI?"

"Twenty two." He answered simply, and upon realizing her blase response, he quickly followed up with, "Most agents join the FBI in their mid-thirties."

"Oh, I see I have a genius on my hands," she jested, "somehow, that doesn't surprise me." She muttered wistfully, her hands interlocked under her chin. "The jacket, the hair, the wide intelligent eyes; you have scholar written all over you."

"You could tell that just from what I was wearing?" He asked, a mild wonder tinting his words.

"Mhm, writers study people too," she responded nonchalantly, "passers by present so many details of who they are on the surface."

He spared himself a glance as her eyes turned to the bustling city goers, drinking her in as much as he could. The white sheen of the snow covered sidewalks bounced off of her skin; she seemed to steep in the weak winter sun. He followed how her shoulders rose and fell with a wistful breath before she darted her gaze back down to her journal, her fingers caressing the page as kindly as the breeze that spins autumn leaves.

"That's how I make sense of the world," she started, "those little characteristics that no one pays any mind to make the world so bright for me, and I want to share that perspective with as many people as I possibly can."

Spencer felt the apples of his cheeks grow warm as he gathered the earnest hope held in her eyes while she cradled the page between her finger tips. Her drive to share her craft ran so deep; she was so open and honest.

Before he could get another word out, his watch beeped, drawing both of their gazes to his wrist; their half hour was up. The rising excitement in his chest deflated as he began to tuck his watch back into its place, “I hate to cut this short, but I have to go.” He said, apologetically, “When can I see you again?”

"I'm not going anywhere any time soon." An easy grin spread across her lips as she scanned her frenzied notes, “I like to come to this corner of the coffee shop whenever I have writer's block, and I usually don’t leave until I have a decent story on my hands."

Spencer's lips quirked up to a grin that matched hers, before he nodded and stood to gather his things.

"On the off chance that I do leave before you’re done lecturing," she started, grabbing a napkin and scrawling something across it, "Here's my number. I would love to see you again."

His grin widened as he took the napkin and pocketed it before gathering the rest of his things, “I’m glad you invited me over here,” he said bashfully with his hand gripping his satchel’s strap.

“I am too.” (y/n) responded, her hands cupping her mug once more, while she smiled softly, “now go before you’re late.”

With a curt nod and a gentle wave, Spencer turned on his heel, and made his way to the coffee shop doors, a slight bounce in his stride as he let his mind travel mere hours ahead of him when he could see (y/n) again. Her and her idiosyncrasies drew him in, and he could not wait to figure her out.

[sargentr]

crisp trepidation

wrote this thinking of the song fine line by harry styles.

read on AO3

"Parrish." the voice said, "Parrish. Wake up."

Adam jolted awake by two hands who shook him slightly. Around him he could only see the dark, pitch black sky, shimmering with stars and constellations that came with the Virginian night, miles away from the cities. He noticed then he was still in a car, seat let back completely and a leather jacket covering his bare arms. He didn’t turn to look at the person who called him; he thought about closing his eyes, hoping what had just happened was all a nightmare.

Adam did not move. Instead, he kept looking at the stars. Altair, Deneb, Vega, Arcturus. He could name half of the sky.

The silence lingered, almost like it made noise to him. "Adam." The voice was softer. Adam turned his head ever so slightly to look up at Ronan Lynch, peering down into the open driver’s door. Blood and black stains still covered his skillfully sketched face, and traced dots and lines down his dark clothes. Like this, Adam could only see his eyes. "Come on." said Ronan, quietly, unlike himself, or, like entirely himself around people he trusted, "You can't sleep in the car." Adam sat up, and just then realized he wasn't at the parking lot of St. Agnes like he was expecting to be. No, Adam found himself staring at a family house, posted in the middle of nowhere, with barns at its outskirts. He sighed, visibly. He wanted to ask Ronan why he had brought him here, ask why he would come back here right after his mother had just passed. Ronan Lynch, he thought, full of surprises. Ronan tapped a finger once on top of the car, then lifted his posture to start walking inside, irritated to a bare minimum because Adam was clearly still out of it, "You staying there, shithead?" and so Adam got out of the car, hesitating. His limbs felt sore, and his eyes felt heavy, but sleep seemed like a million years away from catching up to him.

The Barns, just like Ronan, was not a place to play with. He didn't know what that meant exactly. He didn’t like the feeling it gave him; of belonging, trusting. Those concepts were foreign to him. He was his own home. His body, his mind, his relationships. Home wasn’t a place to Adam, because he had never had a physical home. He didn’t know how it felt.

He had a hunch it felt like this. They marched up the porch in unity. God, that porch. Just to think that merely days before that he was kissing Ronan Lynch to death, a metaphor he then thought was harmless. Now, that moment seemed as distant to Adam as being a child. It had felt like peace in his troubled routine, to be a normal teenager for a night; being able to kiss the boy he liked, to cuddle on the couch and trace fingers across his skin and exchange soft words in Latin until life caught up to Adam like it always it. He should have known it was too good to be true. Too good to last. A wind had blown by, he remembered. Adam had shivered against Ronan's pressed up body as they kissed. A small frown formed on Ronan's face when they parted, and Adam almost lifted his hand to touch were his eyebrows met in worry that he might be cold. He pulled Adam to him even more that he already was, and slipped his arms around his hips, touching the side of their faces together. That was when Ronan's hands traveled upwards, and caressed his arms in hopes of warming him. Adam pressed the side of his face to his collarbone, hands drawn up to their close chests, and sighed. "We should head inside." he had said against Ronan's skin.

He couldn't describe it, and that panicked him. Not knowing what it meant to be that warm, numb and to lose the use of his body completely when his fingers and Ronan's were tangled, being pulled to the couch, and before he could even process what had just happened, Ronan's lips were on his already.

He remembers smiling against them, not even trying to contain it. Happiness felt like a prize Adam wouldn't have expected to receive, and yet this made Adam realize how incredibly euphoric he had been in that moment. And that had been their second kiss. Now, a thing like that seemed impossible. They stepped inside, and just then it hit Adam, "Where's Orphan Girl?"

Adam's voice sounded surreal. It was too quiet, making his already cracked voice sound unbearably unfamiliar. Ronan was by the kitchen counter, walking towards the sink before he opened the tap, "Upstairs already." he said, "You to sleep for another ten minutes in the car. So I let her into Matthew’s room."

He put a hand on the wooden island, sitting down on one of those rich people high chairs, "Why didn’t you just wake me?"

Ronan closed the tap and reached for a piece cloth, turning so he could lean on the counter. He crossed his legs, shrugging.

Adam knew Ronan was either arranging for him to sleep somewhere, or just needed some time to think. Ronan was not good with words; Adam didn’t needed to remind himself of that detail. Adam looked at his nails, bloody, probably from Ronan. He felt physically so incapable of moving he would gladly sleep on that kitchen island and only wake up by sunrise. His eyebrows met, eyes still fixed down, "Can I, uh, shower?" Ronan let out a laugh. Adam looked up, "Knock yourself out." he said, almost like Adam was supposed to, even before he asked, "You can use Declan's." They didn't say anything else. ***

Adam debated wether he should just lay down and sleep or walk downstairs to talk to Ronan.

He exited Declan's bathroom, towel hanging from his hips and paced to the bed. Adam sat down thinking about how his best friend had died and come back, merely hours ago; he didn't know what to think right then. Gansey, he thought, I should be with Gansey. Don't cry, he told himself. Quickly, Adam put on the clothes he had been wearing before; blood-stained shirts and dirty jeans were not exactly new to him. He walked outside, and when he was about to turn the corner and trot down the stairs, he saw Ronan walking up, and stopped. "Where do you think you're going, Parrish?" Ronan frowned a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. Adam said, "I was going to look for you.” Ronan frowned, looking at Adam's body, trailing up and down, "Why are you still in those filthy fucking clothes?" Adam lifted his eyebrows, thinking, "Well, I didn't exactly have time to pack--"

"Wait here." said Ronan, and before Adam could protest, he had sprung past him and into his own room. A moment later, Ronan came back with a pair of grey sweatpants and a white tee.

He took Adam’s hands from his sides and placed them on his palm, "I forgot to put these in Declan's room." Adam inhaled. Something inside him was poking his stomach. He said nothing, he just stared at clothes.

It wasn't the fact that Ronan had thought of something sweet to do --Ronan was, and not surprisingly, someone who cared about others-- it was the thought that Ronan had done it for him. Something as simple and intimate as letting Adam borrow his clothes.

Adam forgot, just for a fraction of a second, what they had just gone through. Instead, he felt giddy with surprise and affection that Ronan was giving him his clothes to wear. He was also dumbfounded to be so emotional over old sweatpants and a plain white shirt. Ronan noticed. Of course he noticed, "Fine. You can sleep in dirt, for all I care." "Wait." Ronan was going to take back the items of clothing before Adam pressed them to his chest, "Sorry. I’m tired, I can't function properly." Ronan's jaw clenched, "Go to sleep, Parrish."

Adam barely nodded, and when Ronan turned to walk back to his room, a wave of panic struck through Adam's body, "Ronan?"

He stopped and looked back. Adam knew Ronan hadn't brought him to the Barns so he could sleep in Declan's room and leave early to work, but he also didn't know what he wanted that exact moment. Kiss me, he thought, do something. In all honesty, Adam felt drained of whatever love he had left in him. It wasn’t fuel to simply run out, he knew that, but he felt empty. Deprived. Lost. Shaken. And God, he just wanted affection, for once in his goddamned life. He inhaled, and realized his eyes were starting to water. He gazed down, trying to control it, but Ronan had already walked to him. He wiped his tears; Ronan was too close, and still did nothing.

Adam let out a watery, breathless short laugh, peeking a look at Ronan's hesitant state. He had never seen Adam cry. He hadn’t ever had to deal with it, so Adam spared him, “You don't have to ask my permission to touch me, you know that, right?"

Ronan's expression changed, defensive, "I know that, asshole." There he is, Adam thought. He nodded, trying to contain a small smile of amusement at Ronan having absolutely no clue on what to do. Ronan just then moved huffed a laugh as well, and left almost no space between him and Adam. And just like that, they weren’t smiling anymore.

Adam didn't dare break eye contact. He hadn't realized being this up close to Ronan would leave him suddenly breathless, lips parted, waiting. Ronan touched the side of his face, fingers grazing his jaw ever so lightly Adam couldn't stop it when his breath hitched at it. His thumb found a still wet spot on Adam's cheekbone and wiped it, before leaning down and touching his lips to Adam's.

It wasn't like their other ones. No, this one was lighter, softer, something Adam was waiting for since their first hurried kiss; Ronan’s unmasked gentleness. His hands were placed involuntarily on Ronan's sides, bringing them closer and deepening the kiss just merely.

Ronan shivered under his touch. It was something Adam found quite exquisite, his effect over him. Ronan’s body was shaking under his hands, making something hot speed through Adam's whole body. Ronan stopped kissing him for a second, and Adam thought he might've done something physically that implied the feeling. "What?" asked Adam, voice rushed, light and sweet. Adam's eyes seemed glued to Ronan's blue ones, "Nothing." he whispered, a smile almost slipping. He exhaled, and let his hands slowly travel down Adam's arms until he had reached his hand, taking them in his own. "C'mon, loser." Adam knew Ronan was trying his hardest to hide a smile. Ronan led them into his room, to his bed, and sat down. Adam stood between his legs, and rested his hands on Ronan's neck, looking down at him. And just like that, it hit him. As Adam's hands rested on Ronan's neck, just above his collarbone, he could feel how swollen it was, how the colors around his fingers didn't match Ronan's skin. Adam dropped his hands almost immediately, and avoided Ronan's eyes, his own glued to the monstrosity he knew was his doing.

"Hey." he said softly, taking one of Adam's hand in his own, trying to stop him from stepping away, "Adam?"

When he looked up to meet Ronan's eyes, he knew his own were displaying how horrified, petrified, he actually was. Ronan, though, only expressed worry. He inhaled, almost nervously, "Adam, no." "I did this-" "You didn't." cut Ronan, taking his other hand and guiding Adam a few steps forward, "You'd never hurt me." Adam shook his head, eyes still fixed at how bad Ronan's neck actually looked and thinking to himself how he did not notice that before, "Ronan, I-" "Hey." he said again, soft as ever, and if Adam wasn't melted by fear that exact moment, he'd be starstruck by it, "It's okay." Ronan lifted both of his hands, and Adam knew where they were going, "Adam. Look at me." He did. Ronan's eyes were as trustworthy as Adam had been to Cabeswater. Slowly, Ronan touched Adam's fingers to his bruised neck. He flinched, "Ronan." his voice broke visibly, "S-stop."

"It's okay." he gave Adam's fingers a light squeeze before setting them. Adam's breath hitched, "It's you. It's okay."

It took him a whole minute to do anything other than just lay them there. After that, one of them slipped to the back of Ronan's neck, and the other to his jaw, "I'm sorry." he whispered. He knew Ronan was looking at him, appreciating whatever he saw in Adam that made him worthy of appreciating. Adam kept his eyes fixed on his hands caressing his jaw, "Why didn't you stop me?" "It wasn't an option." he said, not hesitating, “A guy finally kissed me back, Parrish. If he wants to choke me then that’s fucking fine.”

Adam let out an un-calculated scoff. He silently thanked Ronan for trying to lighten the mood, “Asshole.”

Ronan smirked, "If the situation were to be inverted, you'd do the same.” Adam frowned at that, "God, no." he shook his head, playfully, "You'd kill me twice as fast. Have you seen your size compared to mine?" Ronan's tipped his head back to look up better at Adam when he took a step closer. Ronan face was a centimeter away from his chest now. He smiled up at him, playfully, “You calling me fat, Parrish?" He smiled back. At that, Ronan placed his hands on the small of Adam's back. Adam got the idea and straddled Ronan, unhurried and calmly, letting them both appreciate new grounds. “This is okay.” he said, when they touched their foreheads together, “Right?” Ronan had closed his eyes. He gave Adam’s the softest smile, “Yeah. It’s okay.” Adam kissed him. It started off the same as the last one, though Adam knew it was going to end completely different. Kissing Ronan Lynch was different from making a bargain with Cabeswater, or doing something as crazy as finding a dead Welsh king. No, kissing Ronan Lynch felt like he was playing a game of chess, in which there were no winners, and the only way out was to break the pieces. Adam did not ever want to commit such a crime. They kissed, and kissed and kissed. This or that, Ronan made it feel like it was the first time he'd ever done it. This once, Ronan starting kissing the outline of his lips, then his cheeks, and down his neck, and Adam couldn't help but feel so incredibly comfortable he slowly made Ronan trail back before he ground his hips down. Ronan displayed a type of surprise, though he was violently trying to fight against it. Adam kissed him again, and felt how breathless he already was, "Is this okay too?” Their noses were still touching, too close. Ronan held Adam's waist close, "God." he breathed, "Yeah, asshole. You don’t have to ask every time."

Adam didn't know what he was expecting, or what he wanted for that matter. All he knew was that kissing, straddling and grounding into Ronan like he was that instant felt too good to be true.

It was a medium to calm rhythm. Both of them were exhausted, drained, incapable of wanting more than just each others presence. After what felt like an eternity of panting, of feeling each other fully and completely aroused, pressing together and hearing Ronan’s muffled groans on his neck, both of them came. Clothed, warm, entwined.

They were breathless, panting slightly, mouths touching but not kissing. Adam laughed, just merely, contented and sated. Ronan placed a kiss to his cheek, and pulled him to lay down. He had a feeling they were going to ignore the mess in their boxers, and found he didn’t really care.

Now, sleep was a second away from catching up to him. They faced each other, knees and noses touching, Ronan’s hand traveling up and down his back. He was already trailing away when Ronan's deep voice broke silence, "I'm not sleeping." he said.

Adam wanted to protest, he really wanted to, but he knew how many times Ronan wanted to do that as well when Adam worked and studied himself to death, and still did not dare say a word. Adam had warned him too many times those were not subjects his friends had sayings in, and Ronan would avoid a fight with Adam any day of the week.

"Okay." he whispered back, touching the side of his face just once before letting his hand drop between them, "Wake me up if you need anything." Ronan nodded, patiently. When he realized Ronan wasn't going to say anything else, he exhaled before turning his back to him and turning off the lamps.

Before sleep took him, Adam had the faintest feeling that they were going to be all right.

[anistarrose]

Ford in Amphibia - Chapter 2

Summary: Ford is subjected to mild bullying, and the gang decides to hunt an endangered species but makes an unexpected new friend along the way.

Warnings: none

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19375102/chapters/47328493

The Beginning

This chapter references a few more episodes of Amphibia than the last one, but doesn’t spoil any overarching plot details past the first episode, so it should be possible to read even if you’re not caught up. This is starting to look like it’ll eventually wind up as four-chapter fic, so stay tuned for more!

***

Ford sat on the couch next to Anne, watching intently as she flicked through albums of photos on her phone.

“Here’s my cat, Domino — oh, and here she is again, in my parents’ kitchen! What a little troublemaker!”

“She’s quite precious,” Ford agreed. “You say you have music on this device too?”

“Of course!” Anne answered. “I’ve got all the best tunes — stuff to dance to, stuff you can sing along with, stuff to listen to as you think about how far you are from home and regret your life choices —”

“Do you have anything by Eurythmics? Or Talking Heads?”

Anne stared at Ford blankly.

“Or do you prefer classical? The Planets by Holst, maybe?”

“Uh, I’ve got All Star by Smash Mouth —”

“Mention that song again and you’re dead to me,” Ford growled.

There was an awkward pause, and then Ford sighed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be surprised that we appreciate different aspects of human culture. You’re young, and I… left my dimension a very long time ago.”

“That’s, um — that’s too bad,” Anne stammered, not really knowing what to say. “Uh… do you want to keep looking at pictures?” she finally asked.

Ford didn’t say no, so she opened a new album. “Here’s some of me and Sprig, and of some wildlife we saw the other day — oh, and here’s where I tried to teach Sprig how to use the camera! You can tell because it’s all blurry and —”

“Wait!” Ford interrupted. “Go back! To the one with the caterpillar — er, the cat-erpillar, rather!”

“This one?” Anne pulled up a picture of a black, orange, and red cat-erpillar glimpsed from across a meadow.

“That’s it! See the flame pattern, and those prominent tufts on the neck? That’s the endangered Sunburst Mountain Cat-erpillar!”

“Whoa, are you like a conservation expert?” Sprig asked, springing onto the couch. “Do you need to capture it and get it to breed with others of its kind to save the species?”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Ford told them. “I need a sample of its chrysalis for my own use — and ideally I won’t seriously harm any specimens, but you never know!”

Noticing Anne and Sprig’s mildly horrified looks, he went on: “Let me explain. For years now, I’ve planning a mission to a very dangerous dimension, of which the atmosphere is contaminated with just about every pollutant imaginable. There will be zero margin for error on this mission, but if I inhale too many of those pollutants, they’ll almost certainly hamper my performance. So for the past few weeks, I’ve been searching for a solution…”

He pulled a carefully rolled-up piece of paper from his pocket, and spread it out in his lap to reveal a detailed scientific drawing of the cat-erpillar and its cocoon, along with a sketch of a mountain with wisps of smoke emanating from the peak.

“Every generation of the Sunburst Mountain Cat-erpillar pupates near volcanic vents, and as a result, they’ve evolved so that their chrysalides absorb and break down a wide variety of toxins. I learned of their existence shortly after coming to your world, and I’ve been trying to track one down ever since in the hope that harvesting some of that chrysalis material would help me design an air filter to get around that pollution problem — but unfortunately, the location of Sunburst Mountain has been lost to time, since those vents are dormant most of the year. The whole time I’ve been here in the valley, I’ve just been stumbling around blindly without glimpsing hide nor hair of any of the right cat-erpillar species.”

He flipped his paper over, and pulled out a pen. “The period of vent activity should only last another week or two this year, and at this rate I’m probably going to miss it — but if you could tell me where you saw that specimen the other day, then I’d have my best lead yet!”

“Cool!” Sprig exclaimed, at the same time that Anne spoke up:

“I gotta admit, tracking down a lost volcano sounds like loads of fun, but… cat-erpillars are a lot more dangerous than they look. Sprig can tell you about the Domino Two incident — did not end well for anyone, except maybe Domino Two herself.”

“Oh, I know how to handle myself, don’t worry! I’ve conquered many foes more deadly than a mere —”

They were interrupted by a yelp as Hop Pop jumped straight up, slamming into the ceiling.

“Darn it, Ford, I know you mean us no harm, but every time I walk by here I think there’s an owl perched on our couch and my heart skips a beat!” He rubbed his head, and began collecting the books he’d dropped.

Sprig snapped his fingers. “That’s it, an owl! I knew he reminded me of something predatory!”

“What?” Ford scowled. “I do not look like an owl!”

“Uh, except you kinda do!” Polly chimed in, bouncing into the living room behind Hop Pop. “There’s your big wide eyes, and the way your eyebrows jump up and your head whirls right around whenever you hear something behind you — oh, and the way your cloak billows behind you like giant wings!”

“You’ve got to be joking! I —”

“Such a majestic and terrifying creature!” Polly went on, tugging on Ford’s cloak. “You are the swift and deadly hunter I wish to emulate! Will you teach me your ways?”

Ford’s mouth opened and then closed, at a loss for words, but Anne cut in.

“Hey, that’s enough. Owls are supposed to be wise, remember? Ford set his face on fire less than five minutes after we met him. I think that instantly disqualifies him from owl resemblance.”

Ford just shook his head as Anne and Hop Pop cackled.

“And did you see how he slept on the couch last night?” Sprig added. “His face was buried in a whole stack of pillows and his feet were practically out the window! No majestic old owl would sleep like that!”

“I still want to see him in action, though,” Polly declared. “What do you hunt, old man? Tell me so that I may watch you and learn your ways of stealth and dismemberment!”

“I’m not planning to dismember any endangered species if I can avoid it,” Ford corrected her. “But you’re welcome to come with me anyways. The more eyes who know this area, the better!”

“Ooh, can we take Bessie?” Sprig asked. “Anne can drive us!”

Hop Pop’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. I’ve got errands to run, and I’m not sure how I feel about letting you all run off without a chaperone…”

Ford stifled a laugh. “Hopediah, I’ve earned degrees in everything from cryptobiology to quantum physics — I’m basically the best chaperone these kids could hope for. Think of it as an educational outing!”

“Oh, well why didn’t you say so? That’s fine, then — just be sure to be back before nightfall!”

“Woo-hoo!” Anne cheered. “Time for an adventure with the weird hobo scientist from outer space that we adopted!”

“Adventure! Adventure! Adventure!” Sprig and Polly chanted. Anne joined in almost immediately, and after a moment, Ford did too.

***

“Okay, I think this is where we saw it,” Anne announced as Bessie the snail slowed to a halt at the edge of a clearing. The meadow was dotted with patches of mud, and seemed devoid of any life besides a lone chickfly that squawked and flew off as the gang dismounted.

“It looks… swampier than last time,” Sprig mused. “Did it rain over here or something?”

Ford knelt down in front of one of the patches of exposed mud, removing his glove to run a finger along the edge. “If anything, it looks like a creature tore up the grass at the surface while hunting here, revealing the damp earth underneath.”

“But these claw markings are huge! Whatever made them must be bigger than me!” Anne shuddered. “Ford, do you know why everything is so giant here?”

“Not for sure, but I can certainly speculate!” Ford’s face lit up. “For one thing, my preliminary scans have shown that there’s more oxygen in the atmosphere of this dimension than there is in the environment either you or I would’ve came from, which paleontology suggests may allow for life to grow larger.”

“Ugh, forget I asked,” Anne muttered, but Sprig bounded over to Ford’s side, eyes wide.

“Wow, really? If you and Anne keep breathing our air, will you get bigger too?”

“Not necessarily due to the oxygen concentrations,” Ford told him, “but that’s not the only difference between our dimensions! Gravity is slightly weaker here too, which most importantly means that it’ll be easier for the skeletons of megafauna to support their body mass, but also could cause Anne and I to pick up a few extra millimeters when our spinal columns expand. The effect should be subtle, but less weight pressing our vertebrae together means we’ll stand a little taller.”

“You’re not a majestic owlish hunter after all,” Polly groaned. “You’re just a nerd.”

“He’s a brave adventurer and he knows all about everything!” Sprig told her. “I want to be just like him when I grow up!”

“Two nerds,” Polly grumbled.

“Hey, guys?” Anne poked Sprig in the shoulder with a stick. “There’s something coming this way, and it’s kinda… on fire?”

“Where?” Ford leapt to his feet. “Is it a cat-erpillar?”

“No, it’s more like… an amorphous blob.” Anne pointed towards the creature, which had made its way almost halfway across the clearing. “I’d stay back, in case it explodes in our faces… oh, or you could just walk right up to it! That too!”

“Would you look at that!” Ford exclaimed, kneeling at the creature’s side. “I hadn’t expected to find any cryptozoological oddities I was familiar with here!”

“Cryptozoological?” Sprig tilted his head. “I thought that stuff was all bogus.”

“As in, like, cryptids?” Anne asked. “I saw a Moss-Man here once, does that count?”

Ford plucked a twig from the ground and placed it in the palm of his hand, which he then slowly extended towards the anomaly. The mass of its body seemed to be concentrated in a blob of mud that spilled across the ground with a radius of about half a foot and a height of about five inches at its highest point, from which several plumes of glowing green gas extended.

Two small, dark eyes blinked within the largest plume, and a muddy tendril extended from the creature’s base. For a moment, the mud began to pool in Ford’s hand, but then it pulled the twig back to its main body with a sudden slurp, leaving almost no dirt or moisture behind whatsoever. The twig vanished inside the muddy blob, and the creature gurgled in satisfaction.

Ford ran a hand through the fiery-looking plumes and Anne cringed, but he didn’t get burned. The creature’s flickering eyes widened as it responded with some semblance of a purr, apparently eager for more petting.

“Fascinating! I’ve encountered Scampfires back home, but I think this individual might be better referred to as a ‘Swampfire!’ Although technically speaking, there doesn’t seem to be any actual fire involved — I suspect it’s fueled by phosphorus and hydrocarbon compounds from that muddy blob of biomass, which undergo some form chemiluminescence to produce light without a substantial amount of heat.”

“Is it dangerous?” Polly asked. “Or will it help us on our quest?”

“Neither, I think,” Ford replied. “It seems perfectly content to just ooze along here and keep absorbing plant matter while we head on our way — although, I should really get a quick sketch first!” He pulled out a pen and notebook, adjusted his sitting position, and set to work.

“What happened to finding the cat-erpillar?” Anne groaned. “I thought that was some critically vital mission or something!”

“Oh, it is!” Ford told her. “But it’s not every day one gets to discover and catalog a new anomaly! You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Swampfires exist in my dimension too, but are endangered due to habitat loss… Humanity really needs to do a better job of preserving wetlands and all the biodiversity they contain…”

Sprig peered over Ford’s shoulder at his work — a set of simple drawings, cartoonish yet detailed enough to capture all the details of the Swampfire’s form in multiple poses. “Wow! You drew that so fast!”

“Thank you, I’ve been doing this for quite a while! Now, Swampy, if you could hold that pose for just a moment…”

Swampy, naturally, chose that moment to bolt, darting back between the trees with surprising speed as its lights dimmed.

“Drat. Well, what I’ve got down here is still better than nothing —”

“Hey, guys?” Anne asked. “Is it just me, or did a really big shadow just pass over us?”

In unison, the four of them looked up. Above, a massive shape blocked out the sun — a shape with wide eyes, a pointed beak, and long, silently flapping wings.

“Scatter!” Ford shouted as the owl dove towards the clearing, and the children bolted as its talons raked the ground.

***

End notes:

Thanks for reading, feedback/reblogs are appreciated as always!

This was very fun to write, as fics with Ford often are, because I got to use him as an excuse to ramble about science! Since Sprig showed an interest in science in “Family Shrub,” I figured he’d be pretty inquisitive, and look up to the whole adventurer-scientist deal Ford has going on.

Swampy the Swampfire, also known as the best character I’ve ever written about, is based partly off the Scampfires from Journal 3, and partly off of the “will-o-the-wisp” ghost lights, which are believed to be a result of gases produced in wetlands by decaying plants. (The endangered due to habitat loss detail Ford mentions isn’t a joke, either — according to Wikipedia, will-o-the-wisp sightings are rarer nowadays, and it’s probably because wetlands keep getting destroyed. We need to save the Swampfires!)

[komorebirei]

The Water Was Never Afraid - Chapter 7: Branch

Chat Noir ran along the rooftops on all fours, using his staff only to vault from one building to the next. He didn’t know or care where he was going—Paris’ visible landmarks were enough to orient himself once he was ready to go back.

It was almost nine in the evening, and the sun was slanting, but the city was still suffused in golden light. Passing the restaurant where he and Kagami had eaten just a couple hours ago, he spied the same waitress who had served them still on her shift, taking an order from an outdoor table. She looked tired and a bit frazzled.

Seeing the opportunity to improve someone’s day, Chat Noir swiped a peony from a random window’s flower box and hopped to the ground. As the waitress pocketed her tiny pad of paper and turned to go back inside, he caught up to her and presented the peony.

She looked shocked and starstruck, turning to search her surroundings for the reason Chat Noir was paying her a visit.

“This is for you, mademoiselle. I’ve been to this restaurant before, and I recognized you,” Chat Noir confessed honestly. “Thank you for making dinner worthwhile for my girlfriend and me.”

He threw in the last detail so she wouldn’t think he was hitting on her.

Her face brightened as she took the flower from his claws.

“Ah, there it is,” Chat Noir grinned cheerfully, twirling his staff in one hand. “I was hoping to see that smile bloom on your face.”

The girl giggled and tucked the peony’s stem into her apron. “Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.”

He leaned into her ear to whisper. “Oh, and I trust you to keep it a secret that Chat Noir is seeing someone. Keep smiling, mademoiselle!” Waving goodbye, Chat Noir went on his way, smirking at the dumbstruck expressions of the restaurant’s patrons.

Hanging a left at the Arc du Triomphe, he followed the broad avenue of the Champs Élysées in the general direction of Collège Françoise Dupont.

Even though it felt good to be out and about, and to see Parisians milling from place to place, wrapping up the loose ends of their days, Chat Noir couldn’t help but feel lonely.

He couldn’t seem to escape this situation—the mask, the façade. No matter where he went or what he did, the curtain separating him from the world seemed to follow him around.

None of these people knew anything about him, and it was difficult to engage people in conversation when they were too blinded by his mask not to act like fools basking in the glamour of being noticed by a superhero of modern legend. Not much different from being Adrien, just a lot more fun when he could do parkour all over the city.

Still, it was nice to make people smile, so there was that.

Landing on a spire of Notre Dame, Cat Noir took a moment to scan the city. He’d made it quite some distance from his neighborhood in the 8th arrondissement, by the Parc Monceau. The lazy crawl of his eyes across the surroundings came to a halt when he saw a sight that made his chest warm.

He couldn’t be sure it was her. She was like a speck across the narrow channel of Seine separating the two islands, on the neighboring Île Saint-Louis, but that loose white blouse with oversized black-inked polka dots, paired with persimmon-colored straight-leg pants that contrasted sharply with the neutral colors and green of the balcony garden, looked strikingly familiar. He could have sworn he’d seen her wear that outfit to the office.

He extended his staff into the water and used it to pole vault across to the other island, landing in a tree near the balcony.

Now that he had a clear view, his suspicions were confirmed. It was indeed her. Her shoulder-length hair had been swept into a loose bun that was already starting to fall out of the claw clip. One knee pulled to her chest, she leaned over a round wooden table, cutting magazine clippings, blissfully unaware that she was being watched.

One sturdy branch of the tree he was sitting in extended toward her balcony, so he slunk across it on all fours, feeling his perch sway in the wind.

“I’m surprised to see the princess in a different tower,” Chat Noir called out softly, trying not to startle her.

It didn’t work. Marinette screeched and hurled the scissors at him, which he thankfully caught deftly between thumb and forefinger. He tutted as he used the branch as a bridge to Marinette’s balcony. “Trying to put my eye out, Princess? How can I protect Paris blind?”

“Chat Noir!” Looking horrified, Marinette leaned over the balcony rail toward him. The sudden movement had made her precariously lodged claw clip fall out, and her loose hair brushed her shoulders, slightly wavy from the previous style. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” he reassured. “Care for some company?”

Marinette moved aside, making space for him to land, and he leapt the short distance between the branch and her balcony.

“Did you pick this apartment in hopes of welcoming me someday?” he joked.

“Keep on dreaming, Minou. My balcony was my thinking place, growing up, and I got used to having one to retreat to when I was feeling introspective. So a cute balcony was an important condition when I was looking for my own place.”

It was refreshing the way Marinette talked to him like a normal person, not like she was speaking with a celebrity and watching every word that came out of her mouth. He had occasionally interacted with her or pulled her out of danger during an akuma fight, but nothing more than he had done to countless other citizens in the past. Judging from the way she easily spoke with Jagged Stone and even his father, Chat Noir supposed Marinette was just tough to intimidate. A woman with nerves of steel.

He picked up her claw clip, which had fallen to the ground, and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed, and he saw that her hands were smudged with colored ink, unadorned with nail polish. Honest, laboring hands.

“This one’s an upgrade. I like what you’ve done with it,” he praised, looking around. The balcony was larger than the one over her parents’ bakery, extending out from the relatively spacious wedge by the French doors that led into the apartment, in a narrow bridge-like protrusion. She had lined the perimeter with a variety of plants, mostly low flower beds and greens that came up to the level of the rail, but the vines and small trees next to the building’s exterior had begun to grow up the walls. She had strung lights from the roof of the building down to the balcony rails, and the golden glow blended with the violet hues of impending dusk. The overall effect looked inviting, comfortable and fresh, and gave her balcony an intimate feel.

“Thanks.” Marinette went back to her table, which, on closer inspection, Chat Noir realized was varnished bamboo.

“What are you doing with all of that, Princess?” he asked, peering at the clippings that littered the table, held down by several smooth, grey rocks. A few pens and alcohol markers lay in a messy pile near her elbow.

Marinette held up her sketchbook, into which she had already taped several clippings. Beside them were a few sketched mannequins in outfits that pulled from the color palette. “Just working on my inspiration book.”

Chat Noir snorted. “Like The Collector.”

Marinette gasped in mock offense. “You’re comparing me to an akuma?”

“You remember that?” Chat Noir was surprised she understood the reference.

“Well, of course! Gabriel Agreste was my idol, so I paid attention to him.” She broke off another piece of tape and fastened another clipping to the page.

Chat Noir marveled at how immaculate the layout looked, combining the magazine clippings with her fluid sketches and tiny, font-like handwriting. “You know, Princess, you could publish this sketchbook exactly as it is and people would buy it.”

“As if I’d do that,” Marinette retorted quickly. “This is a closely guarded book of Marinette Dupain-Cheng secrets. You better not leak my designs, Chat Noir. I fully intend on these designs hitting the market. Some of them, anyway.”

Chat Noir fought a huge grin that threatened to overtake his face. He was delighted that she was making it in their industry. He wondered if he’d get to wear any of her designs—but he couldn’t be vocal about his excitement yet.

“I guess you don’t have these layouts on Instagram somewhere then, do you?”

“Not these, but I do have an Instagram,” she admitted. “Not gonna tell you my handle, though. I challenge you to find it.”

“Challenge accepted.” He winked.

“So, Chat Noir,” Marinette looked up. “Are you just dropping by to say hello, or…?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, standing awkwardly by the table, suddenly feeling like he was intruding on Marinette’s alone-time. His father hated having someone hover over his shoulder as he designed. Maybe he was bothering Marinette. “It was just nice to see a familiar face, but I can get going if you’re busy.”

Marinette shrugged, an easy smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not really busy, just passing time. I can get a little obsessive when it comes to designing, so a distraction is always welcome if you wanted to stay a while.”

Since Hawkmoth wasn’t active and today wasn’t their day to meet, Marinette knew Chat Noir had no practical reason to be in the suit, so his presence on her balcony right now probably meant he was lonely.

Chat Noir nodded. “Thanks, Princess.”

“I can’t believe you’re still calling me that,” Marinette said, pushing one of the chairs out for him with her foot.

He took a seat, laying one arm over the other on the table, careful not to disturb her clippings. “We always seem to meet on a balcony. Should I call you Juliet instead?”

This time, she kicked his boot lightly. “Too far, Chat.”

He picked up one of the alcohol markers. “Why do you artists like these so much? What’s so special about them?”

Marinette ripped out a page of her sketchbook. He flinched and started to protest, but she waved off his concern and dropped the sheet in front of him. “The ink mixes together really well—give it a try. And I’m a designer, not an artist.”

“What’s the difference?” Chat Noir uncapped a light green slab marker and drew a thick line a couple inches long.

“Artists create to express themselves. Designers create for others.”

“Isn’t there some art in design, too?” He drew another line beside the first in a dark, forest green, and watched as the ink bled between the two strips of color in a gradient effect. “Wow, that’s really cool.”

“Isn’t it? It’s kind of like watercolor painting!” Marinette’s eyes twinkled with enthusiasm. “And yeah, you’re right. There’s overlap, of course, kind of like a yin-yang. But I don’t consider myself to be an artist. I want people to wear and use what I design. It’s not just to get some idea into the world, which I think is where a lot of people fall short in the fashion industry. Too conceptual.”

Chat Noir nodded. “I get what you mean.” A lot of the outfits he saw on the runway were just plain ridiculous, as if the designers were trying to push the line of how ugly you could make something and still call it fashion.

He wished he could tell her about the line he’d seen leaked photos of just last week from another fashion house, which literally made the models look like hunchbacks. He didn’t think he’d seen anything more hideous in his life. If he told her, though, she’d know that he had some connection to the fashion world.

Would that be okay, maybe? Hawkmoth already knew his identity, so what was there to hide?

“Marinette,” he said slowly, letting up on his Chat Noir swagger. A thrill ran through him when she looked up with searching eyes, probably catching on to his change of tone. “What if I were someone you actually knew? Would this be weird? Us hanging out like this, I mean?”

Marinette raised an eyebrow and turned her head to give him a sidelong glance. “Uh… no, not really? I understand the whole secret identity thing. Hawkmoth is still at large…” she trailed off, short of asking the unspoken question.

He could see the cogs turning in her brain—trying to figure out why he was asking. ‘Be careful, Chat Noir,’ was written in her expression.

He could tell her. She would keep his secret. It didn’t really matter as much now, anyway, and he knew he could trust her. She was a loyal friend. Wouldn’t it be nice to have one person in the world know his secret?

But then, he remembered the way she had backed off him when she remembered him dating Kagami, and the way she kept her guard up around him, since he was her boss’s son. The way they were now was good. Two friends hanging out, doing nothing, expecting nothing.

No, he couldn’t tell her. Let Chat Noir remain his sanctuary. Chat Noir wasn’t Adrien. He wasn’t anyone.

“Ah, don’t worry, Princess!” He waved both hands in an attempt to allay the worry and suspicion that was etched into her face. “It’s just, there’s someone I know in real life that I tend to see a lot as Chat Noir, and I, uh, just wondered if it was weird of me not to tell her. I certainly feel like a creep sometimes, since she doesn’t know it’s me.”

“Oh, I see.” Marinette cocked her head, looking more curious now than troubled. “She should understand you have to keep your identity under wraps. Any Parisian would.”

“I guess you’re right!” Chat Noir laughed, even though part of him throbbed with a deep, dull ache as he put on another mask over his mask. He returned the two markers he’d used to the pile and stood. “Well, Princess, I think I’ve overstayed my welcome for tonight. It was fun.” He winked and gave her a comically deep bow. “I bid you adieu, Princess.”

“Good night.” She brushed her bangs aside and waved, the golden fairy lights accentuating the curve of her cheek as she smiled. As Chat Noir leapt onto the branch that caught him with a deep swing, she called out, “You know where I live now, so feel free to come by when you’re lonely.”

He caught her eye—she was looking at him softly, with a patient expression, calm like water. She knew he was lonely.

“Good night, Princess.”

Feeling shaken from the adrenaline of almost spilling the secret he’d kept for eight years, he ran across Paris and transformed in an alley before reentering his flat.

He checked his phone reflexively as Plagg broke out of his pocket and made a beeline for the cheese cabinet. There were a few messages from board members, one from Celeste. He didn’t open them—didn’t feel like thinking about work at the moment.

Nothing from Kagami. That wasn’t too surprising. When they weren’t together, she was immersed in her activities and only texted him to make plans. He didn’t expect her to be the mushy girlfriend type with whom he’d have to argue about who should hang up first.

After a quick shower and microwaved meal, he went over the next day’s plans and puttered around the internet watching random videos until the hour grew late enough to sleep.

As he crawled into bed, he checked again for messages from Kagami, but nothing. He contemplated texting her to ask what she was doing, or say goodnight, but decided against looking needy and weak.

He lay in bed, feeling inexplicably restless.

A strange dissatisfaction gnawed at him, though he couldn’t find anything in his life to complain about.

It was at least another hour before he finally drifted off to sleep.

[welcometophu]

Not Your Love Song: Chapter 17

Marked Book 2: Not Your Love Song

Chapter 17

[ Previous | First | Next ]

The Parkinson Hills Cemetery in Valiant is old. Magic trickles down Rory’s spine as soon as they pass through the gates, and Dax’s jaw sets tightly. Alex calls his name, but Dax raises a hand and she goes silent. Near the gate, the graves are newer, the headstones shiny and tall. Rory can see statues rising near the back, along with the twisted overhanging branches of long-planted trees. He thinks he spots at least one mausoleum set into a hill.

Cars dot the roads that thread between the sites, but Dax drives through the newer sites and into the older area. He goes down a hill at the back, and Rory spots Darrik’s car just past a gate that leads into a separated off segment of the cemetery. Dax pulls in behind Darrik, then leans against the steering wheel, head slumped forward, breathing slowly.

“Let’s get out,” Alex says. She glances at Cass, then pushes past her.

“You go, I’ve got this.” Cass waits until they’re all out before she takes over the front seat, leaning with one hand on Dax’s shoulder. She brushes the backs of her fingers against Dax’s cheek, whispers something Rory can’t hear.

He backs away; it’s too quiet and intimate.

He almost walks into Alex, catching the tail end of her conversation with Kit. “You don’t have to stop being everything you were just so you can be who you are now,” she says earnestly. Rory stops himself from bumping into them, rocks back on his feet as if he can catch her when Alex steps his way.

“Sorry, I’m intruding.”

“No, it’s okay.” Alex tilts her head, frowning. “I don’t have a message for you. Which is weird because I think I have one for everyone I’ve seen so far today except for maybe whoever we’re here to—” Her eyes go wide, posture deflating. “Oh. You,” she says.

Rory turns to see Darrik standing there, his hands in the pockets of his beaten up leather bomber jacket, one eyebrow arched as he looks at Alex. “Miss Katsoulis,” he says.

“Mr. Malone,” Alex replies. She glances from Rory to Kit and back to Darrik. “In retrospect, maybe I should have asked Dax a few more details about this outing, rather than just going along on instinct. On the other hand, I really did need to be here.” She snaps her mouth closed, and it looks like she’s biting her tongue, trying to hold words in.

Rory slips past her, trying not to flinch when it involves touching her shoulders to make space for himself. Darrik holds out one hand, and Rory tangles their fingers together, letting himself be pulled into a hug. Rory holds on tight, presses his cheek against Darrik’s head; he can feel when Darrik exhales slowly.

“You okay?” Rory asks when he pulls back. “We sprang this on you last minute. But with Dax having the van, it seemed like a good time to try this again.”

“No,” Darrik answers plainly.

“I told you it’s okay if you—” Alex cuts herself off abruptly, clapping both hands over her mouth. “I’m going to go see if Dax needs help.” The words are muffled and tight.

Darrik shifts his position, his arm across Rory’s back. He’s warm and solid, and Rory has a feeling that it’s more for Darrik’s comfort than his own. He’s happy to do that, and lays his own arm across Darrik’s shoulders, holding on.

Kit clears his throat.

Rory motions for him to come over. “This is my friend Kit that I was telling you about. And the guy on crutches is Shane. And of course, that’s Dax, who talks to ghosts.”

Dax comes around the other side of the van, Cass and Shane trailing behind. “What happened with Alex? She’s sitting on Noah’s grave having a conversation like she’s the one who can talk to ghosts. And I’m pretty sure that Noah’s still not here.”

“That’s good, right?” Darrik asks.

Dax coughs, scratches at the back of his head. “As far as I know that’s good, yes. But we wanted to make absolutely sure he’s not here, too, so Shane, Kit, and Rory have some ideas for ways to try to augment my Talent. Most ghosts love to reach out and touch me. Noah’s not doing that, which should mean that he’s already gone on and doesn’t have any unfinished business.

Darrik’s shoulders slump. He twists, looking to where Alex sits cross-legged on the grave, talking animatedly with her hands moving. “On the first day of class this year, Alex walked into my freshman AP World class and said it’s okay if you don’t ever get over him, you’re not supposed to. Then she took her seat with her friends, and class went on like nothing happened. Noah was still alive then.”

“She’s part oracle, and she’s having a hell of a day.” Dax closes his eyes, exhales slowly. “I worry about her on days like this. I mean, it gets infuriating sometimes, because she’s just blurting things out, and sometimes they’re good, sometimes they’re bad. Sometimes they hurt people, because they’re not ready to hear it. But she has to deal with all of it, too.”

“She’s smart,” Darrik says. “I don’t usually have a problem with her in my classes, aside from a few cryptic comments.”

“What else has she said?” Rory asks. He’s curious, wondering if anyone’s ever started a notebook of what Alex says to who, and what kind of picture could be built like a puzzle from those statements.

“It’s latent,” Darrik replies. “Just that, nothing else. I’m not even sure she was talking to me. It was last Wednesday, when she put her report in the basket, and she just kept walking afterward to her desk.” He shrugs, and Rory moves a step closer to him. “Why don’t we just get this done?”

Kit holds up a hand. “Hang on, I’ve got something for this.” He ducks back into the van, digs through his bag and emerges with a piece of sketch paper. The drawing isn’t anything more than pencil, but it’s enough to make Darrik inhale sharply when Kit passes it over.

There is one figure on the page, black cloaked with the hood thrown back. Darrik touches the face. “Noah.”

“I went combing through newspapers because I wanted to create a focal point, and I thought I’d use the base Tarot imagery I was raised with, but try to incorporate something personal for Noah as well.” Kit points to where the image carries a keyboard under one arm, the cable trailing behind him. He walks a path of ones and zeroes, leading into darkness. “It’s Death, which sounds bad, but it really means change. Because death is the ultimate change. But if we’re looking for Noah’s ghost, that’s a different kind of change. I just thought….” He trails off, shrugs.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Shane says.

Darrik still stands there, the picture in his hand, staring down at it.

Rory leans into him. “Hey,” he whispers.

“I’m not okay,” Darrik whispers back. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re mourning. Not being okay is part of it.” Rory’s not sure what to do. There’s probably something he should say or do, rather than just being here and holding on. He can’t imagine losing someone that important, and doesn’t even want to try. “Do you still want us to make the attempt today, or should we put it off?”

Several slow breaths, quiet and even. The only sound is Alex’s muttered chatter in the background, and Dax’s footsteps as he shuffles his feet.

“Yes,” Darrik decides. “I want to move forward, and you’re doing this to help Lorraine. And your friends.”

“Exactly.” Dax carefully takes the image from Darrik’s hand, smoothes out the few wrinkles. “Darrik, why don’t you find somewhere comfortable to sit with Alex and Cass to watch, and we’ll try to get started.”

Shane convinces Alex to move, and she ends up with Cass and Darrik sitting under a nearby apple tree. Most of the graves here are older, but Noah’s is obviously new. There is a similar headstone to the left, carved with Adam Steinberg, and dates that make Rory think it might be Noah’s father. He can’t read the rest of the writing on the stone, all in Hebrew.

“Are we going to be going against his faith?” Rory asks. The gates set this section apart, separate from the rest. “This is the Jewish Cemetery within Parkinson Hills, right?”

Darrik nods. “The Jewish Community Center is right over there. They purchased space almost two centuries ago, ensured that this part of the cemetery would remain for them.” He points past the hill and through the trees to where a low building lies, surrounded by parking lot. “And I don’t know. Noah was—he was reform. He loved his rabbi—they spent a lot of time talking, especially after we started dating. Long conversations about magic and God. I should go talk to him, but I just haven’t been able to convince myself to.”

“Did you ever talk about death?” Dax asks. “I mean, are we being disrespectful?”

Darrik shakes his head. “We weren’t old enough to. I mean, we still thought we were immortal. Noah definitely did. But magic—magic was okay. And I think that as long as we’re not trying to bring him back, or make him a god, or otherwise screw with his passing, it’ll be okay.”

Religion and magic have a cautious intersection, one that Rory knows very little about. He’s aware of the Catholic view of magic; his grandmother does her best to stay within the church and still accept her heritage. But it’s something that changes, day to day.

“Eventually we should talk to his rabbi,” Shane muses. “If he’s local.”

“Noah was local. He grew up with Lorraine and Jonathan right here in Valiant,” Darrik says.

Dax turns at that, frowning. “Wait. Lorraine had an older sister, right? Crystal? I remember her. We dated for like two weeks my sophomore year of high school—her freshman year. I didn’t even put all that together.”

“I don’t remember them,” Alex says quietly.

“How’s your history paper coming?” Darrik asks, and Alex squeaks.

“Good. It’s good. So good.”

She’s lying, and Rory wants to snicker at the way Alex has her hands clasped in her lap, her head tilted up as she tries to look innocent.

“I’m just editing the final draft,” Alex says. Rory’s still pretty sure she’s lying.

“It’s due Monday.”

“Oh my God, shut up, I know.” Alex claps her hand over her mouth. “That was rude. Sorry, Mr. Malone. I’ll have it done, I swear. I just. Dax’ll drop me off at home after this.”

Darrik arches both eyebrows, and Alex squeaks again.

When Rory meets his eyes, Darrik’s smiling broadly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. That look makes Rory’s heart thump, warming him from the inside out, better than a hug.

It is really weird watching Darrik in teacher mode and finding it adorable. Really, really weird.

“Rory, you stand over here.” Dax grips his wrist, pulling him into position. They’re arranged around the grave, with Kit kneeling right in front of the stone, the picture propped against it. Dax stands behind him, and Rory is at the rear left corner of the fresh patch of grass, while Shane stands awkwardly at the other rear corner. “Usually this is easy. If they’re here, they want to talk to me. I don’t normally do any kind of ritual to call ghosts to me. I have plenty of them chasing me as it is.” He casts his eyes sideways, and Rory wonders if there’s one right there, waiting for him.

Kit lays out a metal bowl of clear water on the ground in front of the stone, then lights candles. It is absolutely traditional ritual, but without any of the tradition behind it. Kit simply lights one to either side, then one floating in the water and sits back on his heels. He inhales, staying focused on the hand drawn Tarot card in front of him.

There’s a rising warmth around them, a soft breeze through the trees.

“Noah,” Dax calls out.

Shane reaches for Rory’s hand, and Rory grips him tightly. He breathes through the instinct to let his innate talent win through and does his best to bring power out, to feed it into the air around them.

“Noah, if you’re here, I’d like to talk to you. Help you,” Dax calls. He spins on his heel, takes a step back. “Shit.”

“What’s that mean?” Rory asks. He doesn’t see what Dax does, but he does see Dax’s hands come up, the way he pushes forward abruptly, stalking through the cemetery.

“Shit means that Noah’s still not here, but that much magic is attracting attention. Shut down the ritual,” Dax orders.

Alex jumps forward, crouches next to Kit, helping him douse the candles. One catches the corner of the picture, and the bottom corner burns away before Kit drops it in the bowl of water.

The warmth fades, leaving Rory shivering in the cold February air. He doesn’t object at all when Darrik wraps his arms around him from the back, pressing in close.

“I’m just going to go—” Dax motions into the other half of the cemetery, past the gate that they drove through on the way in. When Shane waves him away, Dax breaks into a jog.

“They love him,” Alex murmurs. “He’s going to be exhausted. Don’t make it worse on him tonight, Cass. Take care of him.”

“I will,” Cass agrees.

“That didn’t go as planned,” Shane says, a resigned note in his voice. “Maybe I shouldn’t help you.”

Rory gives him a look as Darrik’s arms go tight around his center. “Why?”

“Sometimes things go strange around me,” Shane admits. “But usually not anything relating to other people. Just things that affect me, personally.”

Kit straightens up, the bowl in his arms, empty of water and filled with candles instead. Alex has the picture, and she holds it out to Darrik, who unwinds from Rory to take it carefully.

Rory switches their position, wrapping around Darrik from the back to hold on to him while Darrik stares down at Noah’s face.

“It could be that we went against faith,” Kit says quietly. “Which is my fault. I didn’t realize he was Jewish, and don’t they refuse to have images of the dead on their stones? Which means using Noah’s image as part of the focus may have backfired.”

“Or he could just not be here.” Alex is watching where Dax is having an earnest conversation just past the edge of the Jewish section of the cemetery, his hands moving expressively. “We should probably get out of here as soon as Dax is able.”

She glances back at Darrik, walks over to him and touches his arm. “I’m sorry it didn’t go better, Mr. Malone. Don’t forget what I told you about latency, too. It’ll probably be important eventually.” She shrugs and walks past them, heading for the van. The door slides open, then closed again.

“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Darrik says quietly.

“That’s okay,” Cass tells him. “No one ever really does. It’s just Alex.” She squares her shoulders, reaches up and undoes her ponytail, quickly fixing it all over again, smoothing her hair. “I’m going to go get Dax and make sure he’s okay. You guys get into the cars. We’re going home.”

[ Previous | First | Next ]

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 9

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 8 - Chapter 10

Chapter 9- In 

~~~

Is it better or worse that Moriarty could be woven into this mess with Chemco?

From what I understand from Amelia’s medical notes, she’d brushed the sleeve of death, and without his intervention, perhaps we would have been planning her funeral.

Even though she started as a client, I know I see her as a member of our little Baker Street family, and imagining her gone like that… it’s chilling.

I want this all figured out. Things seemed (ironically) so much less complicated when we were chasing down the murderers of anonymous corpses.

~~~

To her credit, Amelia handled the news surprisingly well. She dropped into the sofa, staring down at the floor wordlessly. Sherlock half expected crying or maybe some brief hysterics.

Instead, she took the information and tried to come up with an explanation, much like Sherlock had been doing when he locked himself away.

“It doesn’t add up,” she spoke up suddenly. “Let’s say he’s working with my mother, why would he do the dirty work himself unless he got a benefit from it?”

“You likely caused him to lose a significant bit of money,” Sherlock reasoned, taking a seat in his favorite chair. “He doesn’t like that.”

“Then why change his mind?” Amelia continued, drumming her fingers on her chin. “Rationally, I did ruin a lot for Chemco and their investors. That hasn’t changed.”

“He does have an unhealthy obsession with me,” Sherlock supplied. “And it isn’t as if we don’t spend a significant amount of time together. He could have come to his own conclusions. He did use John against me at the pool.”

“He must have seen you at the train station,” she agreed. “But, if he was working with my mother, surely he would have known that we were working together on this? I’ve just assumed she’s been monitoring me since I stepped foot in England.”

“Unless she didn’t,” he suggested with a tilt of his head. “Or she tried to betray him, hence why he would go back on his actions. You being dead benefits your mother as well, we have to remember that.”

“Mother dearest,” she scoffed dryly. “She does something stupid like cross a dangerous person like Moriarty, he takes back his actions, leaving up an opportunity to finally connect the dots and present the evidence to authorities. That still breaks up Chemco, and starts an investigation.”

“Have you heard anything from your mother recently?” he asked and Amelia paused, biting her bottom lip and pulling out her cell phone, scrolling through the call log.

“No,” she realized, filtering through a long list of ‘John’ and ‘Sherlock’. “Not a word. She tried calling a month or so ago.”

“I wonder if he has someone on the inside,” Sherlock paused. “Or he’s taken care of the Lydia Brenner problem and now he’s on a completely different track.”

“So, we could have potentially just wasted our time?” Amelia translated, sighing.

“We saved thousands of live, that isn’t wasted time,” he reminded her and she bobbed her head in reluctant agreement. “But, it does open a new chapter in the case.”

“Wouldn’t it be a new case?” she chuckled. “I hope you don’t bill hourly, you might run me to ruin by the time this is done.”

“Make the curry again and I’ll consider it even.”

~~~

John was equally perplexed when they caught him up later that night.

“Mycroft knows?” was his first question.

“That’s what you got from all of that?” Sherlock asked with an exasperated sigh. “Yes, my brother is unfortunately aware of the situation, because the two of you decided to pull him in.”

“I thought we were done,” Amelia tried to justify, but was ignored by the detective.

“And he hasn’t intervened in bringing Moriarty into custody?” John continued.

“I would imagine he’s a difficult person to track down,” Sherlock replied dryly. “Granted, I haven’t spoken to my brother about that particular point.”

“He tried to murder Mia!” John gestured toward her. Amelia perked up, having been doodling on her sketch pad, practicing some warm-up sketches of John’s deep frowns.

“It’s true, Sherlock,” she replied, returning to her drawing. “I did nearly get murdered.”

“It’s impossible to think with you two around,” he sighed. “Moriarty will come to us when he decides it is time. We have to be ready.”

“Business as usual then,” John didn’t seem particularly pleased about the tune of events, but who could blame him? There wasn’t much any of them could do except wait for the next shoe to drop.

Mycroft had enough evidence against Chemco, and a text update confirmed arrests would begin to be made as soon as the next morning.

“Do you make turkey during your not-Thanksgiving, basically Thanksgiving-, dinners?” Amelia asked, adding a daisy to the corner of her sketch.

“My mum made goose,” John replied with a fond smile. “It’s been some time since I’ve had a good Harvest Festival dinner.”

“Goose,” Amelia pulled a face. “What about ham?”

“Too sweet,” Sherlock shot it down immediately, scowling. “You would want something savory.”

“Lamb?” John tried.

“I’m just going to make an insane amount of mashed potatoes, and you’re all going to be happy about it,” she sighed, throwing her head back.

“Ah, come on, it won’t be so bad,” John tried reassuring her. “If you need help, I’d be happy to offer a hand. Lamb shanks are delicious.”

“Lamb,” she repeated. “Okay. When in Rome, I suppose.”

“You’re in London,” Sherlock supplied, pulling out a large leather bound book and opening to the first page.

“You don’t get any,” Amelia pointed her pencil toward him, frowning. “If you’re nice, maybe you’ll get pie privileges back.”

“You’re making pie?” John lit up, and the pair continued planning the full spread for the upcoming dinner.

It was nice to take their minds off of death and destruction, if only for a few hours at a time.

John eventually excused himself to bed, leaving Sherlock and Amelia reading and drawing, respectively.

Sherlock, midway through his book, lowered it to check the fire and steal a curious glance in Amelia’s direction.

She’d fallen asleep, her sketchbook plopped open over her chest, her hand dangling over the edge of the sofa.

“Go to bed,” he nudged her knee with the tip of his shoe, but she didn’t stir.

Sighing, he stood up, grabbed her sketchbook, and moved to set it on the desk, when the picture she’d been working on had caught his eye.

She’d been sketching a picture of him, buried in his book, with notes indicating she intended to turn it into a more formal portrait. At the top, a small section denoted potential colors for his eyes, with her scribbling names out, the pencil dragging across the page as she fell asleep.

The drawing was incredibly well done. She’d gotten every detail, the subtle frown when he concentrated, the way his fingers gripped the book itself- holding it nimbly with a trained violinists hand.

He’d always thought her smart, she’d long proven her ability to work complex equations and cite the classics. But this proved to him an element he’d, to his embarrassment, had overlooked.

The always observing artist's eye.

Was this how she was always able to interpret the tiniest shift in expression? She had so quickly determined his elusive attitude earlier was about the hospital footage. Had he tried to successfully keep a secret from her for longer than a few hours?

Tucking the book aside, he grabbed a blanket off of John’s chair and draped it over her. He poked the fire, added a little more wood, and repositioned himself back in his chair, eager to pick up in his book where he’d left off.

It felt like the first time he’d truly recognized and valued John’s insight on a case. Certainly the doctor had been a refreshing change in pace and dutiful companion prior to that point, but after Sherlock had his revelation, he’d begun thinking of John as a partner rather than an assistant.

Perhaps that’s what was happening here, having finally gotten to know the American woman, he could see beyond the fixed smiles and excitable outbursts.

She was kind because she observed and watched those she cared about.

His eyes drifted back to the sketchbook.

People she cared about...

It left a funny feeling in his chest, something new and hard to explain.

Three and a half months had felt like years. The way she had fallen into Baker Street, and his life, felt so natural- he’d almost forgotten what it felt like when it was just him and John.

Initially he’d been amused by their houseguest. She was a fun puzzle, a new client who’d leave the moment the case was resolved. He’d taken her straightforward emotions for naïveté, a crucial mistake.

While others he’d encountered in his life had been outward about their brilliance, she kept it close to the chest, a refreshing change of pace that confused him greatly.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Amelia yawned, rolling on her side, her hands folded under her cheek.

“I don’t understand how you’re capable of falling asleep anywhere your body drops,” he answered, adjusting his shoulders and lifting his book back up. He didn’t read.

Instead, he stole a sideways glance at his companion.

Amelia smiled sleepily, turning onto her back now that he wasn’t facing her.

“I tossed and turned in New York,” she admitted softly, her voice barely floating above the crackle of the fire. “Maybe dealing with all of this has helped.”

He hadn’t expected an introspective answer, having assumed she would have chimed back with her usual quip. She stayed still. He could have sworn she was holding her breath waiting for something- a response- from him.

Sherlock cleared his throat, a nervous tickle catching before he spoke.

“Your research could still bring a lot of good,” he offered. Pathetic. He cringed inwardly.

“I guess,” she sounded deflated. “I never wanted to work for her, or any of those big companies. Honestly, if she hadn’t threatened disowning me, I probably would have just studied art and lived quietly in an overpriced room in Jersey.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“I wonder if it would have been,” she mused. “Comparably, ya know? Never having had to force myself through things I hated, to do work I despised, for a person who never truly cared about me.”

She paused, letting the words fall before she choked out a breathy laugh.

“Maybe it isn’t too late to find a cottage somewhere and paint trees,” she shifted in the blankets. “Find a nice creek to stand in, cry a little.”

“It sounds like you’ve been reading too much poetry,” he teased. She hummed under her breath.

“Is that such a bad thing?” She sat up, setting the blanket aside and stretching. “You should get some sleep. It’s late.”

He kept his face tucked into his book, pretending to ignore her. He heard her tut under her breath, returning to the blanket only to drape it over his shoulders.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she smiled again, retreating to her flat in the basement, a long drawn out yawn following behind her.

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until she was out of sight. Taking a slow inhale to calm his nerves, an unfamiliar scent caught him off guard.

Fragrant, but with earthy, warm, undertones. A perfume.

He leaned into the blanket, taking a deep inhale. His mind flickered to Amelia posing him under the towering golden plants at the Conservatory.

Sunflowers, his tired brain filled in.

She’d changed her perfume from the peony one she favoured.

Why?

He tucked himself deeper into the blanket, the floral scent mixing nicely with the smell of burning wood and old books.

Chapter 10

[omnical]

I Sing the Body Electric... (1/?)

( Next )

Summary: All her life, forensic pathologist Dr. Angela Ziegler has dabbled much with the dead. After a bout of self-realization, she decides it was time she learned how to deal with the living.

And maybe ask her colleague out for a date somehow.

Genre: AU, Romance. Dark humor. Oh, and ghosts and psychics (anyone a fan of pushing daisies?)

Characters/Pairings: Angela, Lucio, Fareeha (mentioned), Pharmercy

Rating: T, mentions of body gore and third party violence, dark humor.

Links: AO3

Victim died from a singular sharp force: a penetrating wound to the head, resulting in cranial injury.

Left side, approximately 1.53 inches superior to the left orbit.

No murder weapon discovered in the crime scene.

Angela hummed, tapping her lip with the pen.

She paused the voice recorder and wrote her thoughts down on a yellow notebook, leg bobbing, her mind sinking deeper into concentration. By her elbow, a steaming cup of coffee remained untouched, and a nine-hour-old, empty sandwich wrapper laid crumpled up in a ball. Empty coffee cups littered her desk, alongside a mess of sticky notes with crucial thoughts written on them, such as: ‘the nasal cavity?’ and ‘lentil soup’.

Her uniform smelled freshly of antiseptic and murk from the examination they had performed earlier today. It sunk into her skin, her hair; lingering under her nose. Nothing she wasn’t used to, but being used to the smell did not mean she wouldn’t enjoy a long, hot shower back home. Finally, wiping biscuit crumbs off her wobbling keyboard and cracking her long, crooked fingers -- Angela got to work threading the details together. Her peering blue eyes did not break away from the notes and sketches she accumulated, as she typed down her meticulous observations regarding the case. And after what felt like hours, Dr. Ziegler sat back stiffly, curled hands hovering above the keyboard as she skimmed through her official autopsy report, eyes straining from overexposure to the monitor light.

She needed a few more moments of scribbling and typing and biting her pen. Playing the recorder again, keeping it on repeat; she listened to the sound of her voice, crackling and interspersed with static:

Body was found by janitorial staff at 1:30 PM.

According to the man in question, he was lying face-down on his desk, his pose suggesting a struggle, which explains various points of discoloration on his skin…

Blunt force trauma found on abdomen… bruising prominent beneath the left rib –

Where was his position when he received that bruise again?

Angela hummed, her thumbs tapping a random rhythm on the keyboard's space-key.

Once she reached the end of the tape for the third time, marked by a soft ‘click’, afternoon had already come and gone, her desktop monitor the only light bathing her in blue. She hid the recorder in the drawer, her free hand busy alternating between drafting a few rough sketches on paper, and typing exact details on the autopsy report. The doctor took a moment to grab a folder for Case #765 on top of a pile, opening it and flipping over to the photos of the crime scene: dried blood splattered outwards in every chaotic direction on the victim’s mahogany desk; his leather writing pad askew, probably because of how the body fell upon its expiry. She pinched her pen idly between her nose and upper lip, noting how neat the rest of the victim’s desk looked otherwise. She wondered what Satya would say about that particular pattern of blood. It looked like a bunny rabbit.

“Doc Ziegler?”

Cutting herself off in the middle of her thoughts before it drifted too far, Angela reached out to grab her coffee cup, not minding its ice-cold contents, and re-read her notes during their Internal Examination. Angela could only imagine what kind of weapon the murderer used. Or get an idea of what it was, at least, after seeing the results of the death blow herself. This seemed like a tricky one.

“Doc?”

Now if she were to make a guess, it would have been an extremely sharp knife with a serrated edge or…

Angela blindly grabbed for her pen, cocking her head when she realized, during her feverish thought process, she had lost the blasted thing somewhere and could not for the life of her remember where…

“Yo, Dr. Ziegler!” Angela blinked rapidly when Dr. dos Santos’ face appeared in front of her peripheral vision, her blurry sight sharpening until she could see the quirk of his eyebrow and his amused smirk up close. “Busy?” After a pause, a few seconds spent allowing her mind to buffer as she forcefully snapped herself back into reality, Angela jumped in her chair and uttered a small and startled ‘oh’. Her speeding thoughts halting violently in its tracks, not unlike a race car screeching out of the road in a rabble of chaos. She blinked again and, similar to the spread of colored dye blooming in water, her mind began to consciously feel the kinks and aches in her bones ignored for too long. A beat, and she realized her stomach had also released an embarrassing rumble on top of it all. She sent Lucio a sheepish look.

“Doctor, I’m sorry, I -- ” Angela shoved her skewed glasses up her nose, “You startled me.”

Lucio shook his head and rested hands on his hips while he regarded his frazzled mentor. There were biscuit crumbs dotting the corners of her mouth, and her blonde hair stuck up in several different directions all at once. Her clothing was rumpled and frayed, high heels pushed to the corner of her desk, leaving her feet covered in wrinkled stockings, and -- there were coffee stains on her shirt. He sighed, wondering who was really looking after who, in their professional relationship.

“So,” he said, elongating the word into a drawl, “Please tell me you ate lunch?”

Dr. Ziegler cleared her throat, “Yes, of course I had lunch.” she said, wiping crumbs off her chin. “I had something hot and soup-like almost an hour ago, and – “

“I don’t think coffee counts as ‘lunch’, Angela.”

Angela groaned in defeat and closed her eyes, watching bright spots dance beneath her eyelids as her body melted into the chair like putty. She breathed in deep, then stretched her legs out with an exhale. “Just finishing up on some paperwork, that’s all. You know how I get carried away sometimes.”

“How about all the time? And I think ‘carried away’ wasn’t exactly the term I was looking for. Try ‘workaholic’, or ‘perfectionist’.” Lucio leaned his hip against Angela’s desk, crossing his arms, and peering down at her with a mock frown, his neon green headset bunched up around his neck. Even if Dr. Lucio dos Santos was many years younger than her, and technically working under her, Angela hunkered down into her seat feeling much like a child under the watchful eyes of a parent. “When was the last time you took a ten-minute break, young lady?”

“I am not working too hard,” Angela groused. She sat back up in her seat with a grunt, feeling her back and neck pop. “This is just regular me, doing my regular me things,” She shot him a look. “Mom.”

“Don’t give me lip, young lady, you know you’re wrong about this,” Lucio said, “As your colleague, you know I respect and look up to you. But as your friend? You gotta start taking care of yourself, Angela.”

Angela huffed through her nose and began to get her hands busy, stacking the mess of reports which covered her desk into a neat-ish pile, and actively trying to avoid the look Lucio was giving her. “Just be glad I am out of my funk, Dr. dos Santos. I am happy, motivated, and ready to take on the next seventeen cases.” Even the smile on her face felt fake. “Bring it on.”

“Uhuh.” Lucio wryly glanced at the mess of documents under her desk. “Angela, I’m sorry I gotta tell you this, but you have got to get a hobby. Doing something other than work might help you more with this midlife crisis thing.”

“I am not having a midlife crisis thing. I’m not that old, doctor. And–” Angela raised her eyebrows, denial written plainly across her face, “I do have a hobby,” she said with a shrug, “It just so happens that my hobby is related to my work.”

“Your hobby is dead bodies.” Lucio muttered.

“Solving problems. Discovering the unknown.”

“… About dead bodies.”

“Now, if you would kindly excuse me,” Angela threw her entire weight into tossing a giant, teetering stack of documents on the floor next to her feet with a huff. “I was, in fact, about to go and take my break.” she said, dusting her hands together, “Want to have lunch with me, doctor? It will be my treat.”

“It’s seven-thirty in the evening, Doc.”

“Oh, well, time flies I suppose.” Angela said, opening one of her desk drawers, then absentmindedly shoving Jim Jam wrappers and empty coffee cups inside. As if that would make her trash disappear in the morning.

After six months working in King’s Row Forensics Department, the terrifying sight of Dr. Ziegler’s desk hygiene was common enough for Dr. dos Santos to see. He learned early from older residents how futile it was to drag Dr. Ziegler away from a job, and Dr. dos Santos no longer stared at her and her atrocious, self-destructive habits in awe. Their student-mentor positions didn’t stop Lucio from chastising her about her work ethic, especially after witnessing drawn shadows prominent under her eyes everyday, and her smudged make up only completed Angela's usual look. Now one of Lucio’s many fears was finding Angela Ziegler in their morgue someday.

However.

Dr. dos Santos peered at her above the rim of his glasses, and noted the glow about her cheeks with a raised brow.

"Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen you this excited about solving a case since…”

“I am always excited about solving cases.”

“But where was that Doc Ziegler who was ‘tired of it all’ and who ‘wanted to do something new with her life’?” he asked, “Someone who wanted nothing to do with ‘death and dead stuff’? Don't give me that look, you know what I'm talkin' about."

"Lucio--"

"Where was that Angela Ziegler who was planning to quit and maybe try being a football coach or a field medic or something?”

“She is still here, and she happened to get a grip on reality after a lot of thinking.” Angela said, ducking her head, as if that would hide the dusting of red on her cheeks. “Besides, I am already finished with this case. The precinct needs it urgently tomorrow, and, you know…” she stumbled on her words.

“And?”

“I had to finish it quickly.” Angela finished lamely, her voice raising an octave higher as if that would make her sound innocent with her intentions. “Detective Amari was asking about it this morning, and I felt compelled to help her crack this case as soon as possible.”

Lucio felt both his eyebrows reach up his hairline. “Oh. I see. I see.” he said, a twinkle reaching his eye while he casually turned to check his nails, trying to appear more interested with its polish rather than the conversation itself, “Detective Dimples is an awesome source of motivation, isn’t she? Hoping to share a hobby with her, huh?”

“Oh, Lucio!” Angela almost jumped out of her chair, smacking his shoulder with a manila folder. “Don’t call her Detective Dimples.”

“Hey, you were the one swooning over her ‘smoky voice‘ and ‘beautiful smile’ a few days ago.” Lucio laughed, rubbing at the spot she slapped. “Admit it, doc, you’re too gay to handle another meeting with her.”

Angela exhaled, and schooled her features before she became too flustered; raking her fingers through her hair, and hoping the red flush now covering her neck down would fade before another nosy nancy came into the office.

Relax. You are a doctor. You are a professional.

She straightened up in her chair, and folded her hands together in her lap. “I wanted to make sure I handed it in right away, that is all.” she said, managing an impressive professional lull in the tone of her voice. “I didn’t want to make our relationship with the precinct worse than it already is. And secondly,” Angela’s brows pinched in annoyance, and pointed at her office with a sharp jab of her forefinger: “‘Detective Dimples’ stays inside this room, doctor.”

“Detective Amari’s bone structure and cheekbones are so sharp and prominent–“

“Lucio.”

“It makes me want to take up anthropology. Oh Detective.”

“Lucio!”

“Fine, fine, I promise I won’t bring it up again.” he said, trying not to double up in laughter, his poor attempt almost making him slip off her desk. “Professional reasons my ass, though, I know you’re her favorite in the lab. Always asking about you and your ‘thoughts’.” he waggled his eyebrows, “You should ask her out instead of doing this–” he motioned his hands at her vaguely, “Weird flirting ritual thing you’re doing. I doubt you can woo her by talking about dead bodies, Doc Ziegler.”

���I do no such thing, doctor.”

“You need to get out there and get a life. Any life. Get a hobby. Get some friends. Ask Detective A out on a sweet date. Live a little.”

“I do have friends. You’re my friend, yes? Sometimes I even read books.”

“Thrilling.”

“And the detective and I do connect, socially, but just as acquaintances and nothing more.” Angela said, pulling her fingers thoughtfully, “I am a grown woman, doctor, I have complete control of my life.”

“Last time you spoke to her, you struck up a conversation about bile.”

“Well, I thought it was fascinating.” Angela grabbed the rest of her documents and began to rearrange them in a tray next to her monitor, this time with less gusto, feeling herself hunch over as her mind began to conjure up depressing thoughts. “I don’t think I am her type, anyways.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

But it was true. Whether Angela liked it or not, why would anybody consider dating a frumpy, high-strung workaholic, who liked to open up dead bodies for a living?

Dr. Ziegler and Detective Amari were connected through their profession only, no matter what her feelings were. They barely did anything beyond striking awkward pleasantries and empty conversations with each other. Trying anything more proved too much for her to handle. She found it difficult navigating through compelling words above work jargon, while stuttering and pushing through her infuriating and terrifying feelings. Not even the universe was kind enough to let them to meet on different circumstances, thus, they only ever saw each other to discuss murder cases among... other things.

Angela’s eyes, tired and unfocused, turned to look back at the autopsy report, wishing she could get sucked back into its world, where things had more clarity and sense and nothing was embarrassing.

Angela wondered when speaking with the dead became easier for her than dealing with the living.

She checked the time on her digital clock, blinking when she read it was now seven-forty six in the evening. The lights from the city cast a glow over the smoggy horizon, and as Angela listened carefully, she could hear police sirens echo off from a distance. She wondered if it was going to be another case they would eventually find through their doors.

Another body, another life ended.

She felt a hand on her shoulder ground her, all teasing gone from Lucio’s voice. “You won’t know unless you try, Doc.”

EDITED (26/09/17): Just the pacing and switched some words :) Thank you!