#rifles and rosary beads

[steddieficrec]

Another list. All rated Mature. Enjoy.

Devil (take my hand and we'll walk into the fire together) by Hbyrde

(1/1 I 533)

The new album had been months in the making, and the members of Corroded Coffin were committed to finding just the right concept for their cover art.

After the recent Senate hearings Eddie was almost certain the lyrics alone would earn them a ‘Parental Advisory: Explicit Content’ sticker, but the band was determined to really drive the point home.

Some artists were annoyed by it on principle, or the fact that they thought it would hurt their record sales. And Eddie was by no means a fan of censorship, but he intended to wear that sticker like a badge of honor.

If this didn’t send the pearl-clutching mothers of America rifling through their dresser drawers for their own rosary beads, nothing would.

scared to want you by steddieas_shegoes

(1/1 I 1,021)

“Are you gonna stop staring at him anytime soon?” Robin’s voice asked loudly in his ear.

“Probably not,” Steve admitted. “He’s wearing my sweater.”

He saw Robin’s head whip around to look back at Eddie. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

(Un)Happy Endings by eyesofshinigami

(1/1 I 4,129)

"This bullshit right here is why Eddie doesn’t believe in happy endings. Fuck all those fairy tales and the people who believe in them. Princes don’t come, white knights don’t save the day, and people like Eddie don’t get to live out their dreams, do they? No, instead he gets to lie on the ground while Dustin watches him in his death throes. Like the kid needs another tally mark in the trauma column and it’s really fucking with Eddie that he’s going to be the one to add it there."

Or

Another take on Eddie's Not-Death and what comes after

and everything emptying into white by 02tilt

(1/1 I 4,996)

“Morning,” Eddie tells Steve.

“Good or bad?” echoes out of the shower, rising with the steam. (Steam that makes everything in here smell like Steve, every morning).

Steve’s voice tugs on either side of Eddie’s mouth— makes him smile, small and shy. Makes his heart flap its broken wings. “Good.”

“Great.”

(a day in 2002, where eddie gets back into the swing of things.)

a molecular rift you can't fix by cowlovely

(1/1 I 14,807)

The light covering of snow and frost has already washed most of the scenery in white and gray, which makes the figure clad in black at the edge of the road stand out all the more. Steve squints as he drives closer, slowing his car a little. The figure has one arm crossed against their chest and the other sticking outwards, their hand closed in a fist with the thumb pointed out to the side. As the clothes and the shape of the hair come into clearer view, Steve recognizes the hitchhiker immediately, stopping the car and reaching over the passenger seat to roll the window down.

“Munson?”

Not So Bad by outofmygourd

(9/9 I 43,409)

Vecna is dead. It's the summer after the party's freshman year. Steve Harrington spends it in the Family Video Store, and Eddie Munson is spending post-graduate life bothering him. And maybe Steve isn't as bothered as he used to be.

Summer '86 by how_about_no

(12/12 I 51,300)

After everything that happened during Spring Break, life for everyone in Hawkins returned to somewhat normal. Well, aside from Steve's new friendship with one Eddie Munson.

The gang decide they all deserve a break and head to Steve's family beach house for a week, featuring copious amounts of fluff, found family bonding, blurring (or completely ignoring) the line between platonic and romantic, and bullying being considered flirting.

A Coat of Paint by songbvrd

(13/13 I 56,334)

“Greetings and salutations to you, Harrington!”

And there he was. Just as in your face and over the top as ever.

Only he looked… different. He looked like fucking Bon Jovi. Jeans so ripped they may as well just be shorts and a crop top and hair pulled back into a bun with loose bits falling around his face. In some weird way, the jeans almost seemed more revealing than shorts. They weren’t, of course, Steve couldn’t see the backs of Eddie’s legs or his left knee or either calf, but there was so much open ripping around his thighs that almost seemed more… teasing.

“Holy shit, I can see your whole face.” Steve mumbled out, lips parted in genuine surprise, instantly reaching out to try to touch the bun at the crown of his head.

Eddie batted him away.

OR

Steve agrees to help Eddie paint his trailer, but isn't prepared for the bisexual crisis it sends him spiraling into.

Lovesick in Loch Nora by red0aktree

(11/11 I 62,603)

Even though Eddie's name has been cleared legally, he's still very much on trial in the court of public opinion. Dealing drugs isn't a lucrative occupation anymore, and getting a legitimate job in a town who still considers him a killer isn't much of an option, either. Eddie is beginning to think skipping town and starting over somewhere no one knows his name is the only chance he has left. Steve has another idea.

AKA: Steve gets Eddie a job as an anonymous columnist at a local newspaper.

the lathe by palmviolet

(13/13 I 82,547)

"This time, do it right. This time Eddie won’t bleed out in his arms, in anyone’s arms. This time, Steve will do it right."

— or, steve relives the day they try to kill vecna over and over, and eddie just can't seem to stop dying. steve finds this totally unacceptable.

[gay-caesar-truther]

I need to draw Gabe in his New Vegas fit- its some priest vestments (I know they aren't in game I'm using my powerful imagination) with leather armor peices he took from his armored Vault suit over the top. Of course he still has his spiked knuckles but he also has a rifle with some rosary beads wrapped around the stock.

[lovetransaction]

@egipci I wanted to do this but I didn’t want to hijack your post with a reblog lol

---

So John’s been away, and been away, and been away. And he doesn’t hear anything bad about it from Dean, and (for once) not anything from Sam, although that’s because Sam’s not with them, not at the moment. Why’s not important. What’s important is he hauls himself into the motel room and Dean’s rolling off the bed in a flump and flurry of movement and seems to be leopard-crawling under the bedframe, cussing under his breath. “I can see you,” John says as he dumps his duffel bag, goes over, kicks one of Dean’s bare feet lightly with the toe of his boot. “Don’t make me drag you out.”

He drags Dean out anyhow, by the ankles, because he’s tired and it feels good to put his hands on something he loves. Dean doesn’t even resist. He twists onto his back and he’s just wearing olive drab cargo pants and-- “That’s your grandmother’s rosary. The hell.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and looks for a minute like he might clutch at the cross but then doesn’t. He’s staring up at his father and his other arm is still stretched out under the bed and John stares down at the rosary beads dotting full of grace along Dean’s throat as he swallows, and John says, “what’ve you got under there.” He’s not overly surprised it’s a porno mag. He wouldn’t have guessed the subject matter, though. “You passed up Hot Rod Hooters for this?”

Dean looks over at the slightly mangled copy of Busty Asian Beauties. There’s a spot under the bikini top of the girl on the cover where the cheap colour ink’s been lifted by the sweat on his fingers. “You were there two years,” he says, “in-country, before you came back Stateside and met Mom. I thought....” Dean licks his lips and John realizes, a slow lurch low in his belly, that they’re swollen. He wonders why Dean didn’t just go the whole hog and wear John’s dogtags, instead of making do with Millie’s rosary. They’re basically the same thing.

“Well,” John says, “given the lack of it on display here, it’s a good thing the USMC doesn’t expect you to think, Private Winchester.”

The magazine flops onto the floor as Dean lets go of it, all his attention on his father, every line of him tense in anticipation. He’s making zero move to get up off the floor but he does raise his eyebrows and say out of the corner of his mouth, “...Private Winchester?”

“You don’t start at Corporal,” John says dryly in the same sort of aside, pinning down the temptation to grin, clearing his throat to get back to being CO. “If you’ve got time to be fumbling your rifle then--” he lifts his foot, planting his wet boot on Dean’s chest. “You’ve got time to clean the boots of every soldier in this here company.” He increases the pressure and watches as Dean’s eyes go so dark they look wet and John’s gaze slides on down to Dean’s mouth, again, the way it’s soft and open and there’s a slight movement of tongue--

--which means Dean’s thinking about something, because sure enough there’s a matching ruck between his eyebrows, and he lifts one hand to rest against his father’s ankle. “Sir,” he says. “Yes, sir.”

John’s gotten used to the unchanging fact that Dean’s forever devising ways to get closer to him. This one’s new. There’s something almost cannibalistic about it, his own life before the boys swallowed down and regurgitated in rosary beads and fetishistic girlie mags, his boot on his son’s chest. There’s an ache shooting up his sinuses into his skull, Dean watching him for every change in expression. “Hup to, Winchester,” John says, tugging at his belt buckle, and Dean, just like John himself had done at seventeen, Dean does. 

[maybe-itll-be-someday]

Addiction

A/N: Hi friends! This is my first time posting anything related to Bones, but I’ve binged 12 seasons in less than a month and it has to come out somewhere, so here it is!

Read on AO3

--

A character study of Seeley Booth that ties in the Pilot and The Parts in the Sum of the Whole.

--

He’s an addict. 

Addiction was etched in his genes, grown from the tang of bourbon that stained his father’s breath. His father was addicted to dark liquor, to swinging his hand against his mother’s cheek, to the crunch of his and Jared’s ribs underneath his knuckles. Bones talks relentlessly about statistics and certainties, of predicted outcomes based on probabilities. 

“Statistics allows you to validate claims based on quantitative evidence, Booth. It’s a crucial process in scientific expansion!”

The evidence of his life would all predict the same outcome - all the numbers and equations leading to the same conclusion. The remodeled fractures on his ribs that Bones had pointed out on his x-rays, the few and far between moments from his childhood that weren’t stained by a well-hidden bottle of whiskey and his father’s shadow looming behind him. The tally he keeps - 48, 49, 50 notches scratched on the back of a leather pocket notebook he carried in his gun case throughout his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. The other tally of 19 names, all brothers, and their next of kin’s contact information. The remnants of a sharp, burning pain as the butt of a rifle smashed each of his toes individually, tones of the Tehrani accent heavy on his captor’s tongue. 

Blood drenched his fatigues, both of his comrades and his enemies. If Bones ever successfully convinced him to do an MRI, she would find traces of the bullets that inscribed his bones. She would point out where shrapnel entered his lower back in Shindhad after he shielded the green private whose lower legs were blown off by an IED during a routine patrol. The bullet that wedged itself too close to his lungs in Mosul after an explosives raid went sideways by an ambush. Many more injuries that he brushed off as flesh wounds, his pain always ebbed away by the adrenaline that flooded into his veins with every close brush with death.

A laundry list of scars and traumas - he drowns in nightmares and holy water, hoping that God will eventually grant him mercy from the panic and pain that the war had woven into him. The beads of his rosary leave imprints on his palms, his knees cracking from the hours spent on them, praying for the safe passage of fallen soldiers and avoiding thoughts of the Sixth Commandment. 

But the nightmares follow him, as do the screams, and he just wants it to stop.  

Booth tries to avoid the bottle - always limiting himself to two whiskey doubles or no more than four beers. He drinks to dull, not to forget, not like his father. Not like Jared, who’s been bound to the bottle since he took a swig from the whiskey wedged between empty boxes of laundry soap in their garage at the age of 13. He tries not to be resilient, tries not to drink except on certain days, but it quickly becomes too much. He wants to feel something, anything, that wasn’t the guilt, the shame, the sorrow. 

He placed his first bet in Iraq while his unit was on patrol. The burning desert sun beating on his back as enthusiasm for their next hot meal had grown into a bet on what food was being served at the mess that night. Booth had seen what shipments had come in two days before and was confident that the shipment of ground beef and tomato sauce would result in chili. Phillips, three years his senior and had a gnarly hook that caught him on the chin during training last week, slipped him a fistful of twenties and tens after dinner that night. 

He stuffed the cash in his foot locker and joined betting pools for other things - fifty bucks to the person who could disassemble and reassemble their firearm the fastest, twenty to whoever could guess what time the visiting Sergeant snuck into their Corporal’s private quarters. There were a group of specialists who were Rangers fans and he egged them on to bet 50 each on the Flyers winning 3-1. 

Booth racked in $800 that night. More money than he’d ever earned in a week. His pay was shit, not nearly enough to take off the edge of all the hits he’s taken. Rebecca had called him earlier that day, tears thick in her voice when she said pregnant and father. He had just started his third tour. His deployment was 12 months and he was only three months in. She was alone in DC and he was in Baghdad. If he keeps winning, he can provide for her, for them. 

It has nothing to do with the feeling of winning, of the elation that God had twisted the tides in his favor. 

He gets an honorable discharge after he gets captured - he can’t keep up with the long distances, his once broken toes unable to stand being in his combat boots for hours. But he’s good with a gun and someone had taken notice. Some sargeant from the Rangers shows up at the hospital, telling him that with his abilities he could be a sniper. He could keep serving his country and didn’t need to end his career. There’s something about going back into war that makes his stomach curl and he says he’ll think about it. He gets sent back to the States and watches his son enter the world, loud yet so tiny and fragile and swears to protect him, to make the world a better place for him. 

Parker is three months old when he’s called in - one of the Ranger squads had lost someone and they needed help. National security, they said. For your country. He tells Rebecca that they should marry before he goes, that he wants Parker to have a complete family. 

“I’m so sorry, Seeley. I love you, I do, but I can’t do it.” 

They ask more from him. From surveillance to assassinating a member of the Shura council. His hand is steady when he flexes his finger over the trigger, delivering a clean bullet right between the eyes. A piercing wail fills the air. They chant his name, both a plea and a prayer. His stomach turns and he’s almost sick on his shoes, but he did it for Parker, for his country. They tell him he is a hero, the potential destruction that could have happened, but all he dreams of is the chant of a dead man’s name. 

But there are more members, more high ranking officers who are threats to their democracy, their freedom. Soon, he perfects it. The most accurate shot in their entire base, a moniker Booth wears with honor. To him, shooting is as easy as breathing, his rifle simply an extension of him. He adapts to the sweltering air, the arid climate, and learns how to ignore the sweat that beads on his eyebrow and drips onto his scope.

He feels that same rush, the flood of adrenaline, every time he hits a shot. Booth is good at what he does. He’s meticulous - he shifts his barrel based on the slope of the terrain beneath them, listens to the wind and does a rough estimate of his bullet’s trajectory as he aims downsight. He can read the differences in rooms full of high-ranking officials and rooms full of insurgents with AK-47s slung across their backs. He makes observations and adjusts accordingly, takes smart shots, misses only a handful. 

He counts his shots and tallies the lives he takes. By the 20th life, he feels something shift. By the 30th, he’s two years into being a Ranger and six months being a sergeant. He leads his own men, his own unit. By the 50th life, he’s lost too many men, too much blood is dripping from his fatigues and he can’t stand it anymore. He goes to the chapel when he can, whispers scared confessions into Aldo’s ear, and he’s not surprised when Aldo tells him one afternoon that God is a bastard. 

Suddenly, the sweltering desert air starts to suffocate him. There’s too much death, too much destruction around him and he feels like he’s losing himself. He’s trained not to sleep, to keep your guard up at every second of every day, but soon his nightmares start to chase away the little sleep he could have. At the end of his fourth tour, he doesn’t renew his contract. He flies back to DC, starts taking Parker on the weekends, and spends every moment between his time with his son trying to keep his demons at bay. 

In the idleness between his visits with Parker, the war comes back to haunt him. Nightmares of men he’s lost, brothers and friends, every life he’s seized before their time, every person he couldn’t save. Booth thinks of all the things he’s lost and wonders why God wouldn’t grant him a win. 

On a random Tuesday after three nights of recurring nightmares, he ends up on a Greyhound headed to Atlantic City. He bets $100 on a blackjack table and wins $2,300 in return when a King of Hearts is flipped up over his Ace. He takes it as a sign that God was finally making up for the shit hand he’s been dealt, and bets another $300. 

He’s only left with $500 at the end of the night, but it was still more than the $100 he had started with. He’s finally winning, gaining something instead of losing it. 

It quickly slips out of control. He keeps chasing it, keeps going for little tastes of victory among the hundreds of losses, and soon he can’t pay for rent. He owes so much money to his bookie after someone at the casino had told him about sports betting and the Flyers were having a shit season. Rebecca never asks for child support but Parker gets sick with pneumonia and needs to go to the hospital after he contracts a secondary infection. He tells Pops that he needs help because Parker is sick and his old man gives him $500 in old bills that he had put aside for Parker’s college fund. 

The money gets sucked into horses because he read in the paper that Stardust hadn’t lost five races in a row and they could use a little more money. Stardust breaks a leg on the track, and he burns with shame when he tells Rebecca that he doesn’t have anything . Luckily, Parker improves, and Rebecca’s new lawyer boyfriend offers to help with the bills. He almost gets evicted because he’s two months late on rent, subsisting on feeble meals of boxed mac and cheese and grilled sandwiches, when God gives him grace. 

An old army buddy had told him that they were looking for agents at the FBI; it was a few months of training, but it was a steady paycheck. He throws himself into training at the Academy, has less time to gamble but when his evaluation to be a Special Agent comes around, he’s flagged during a background check. 

“Addicts will do anything to get their fix. It’s a breeding ground for corruption. We cannot have such individuals representing the Agency, Mr. Booth.” 

The psychologist assigned to him had told him that if he managed to get his gambling addiction under control, that he would be an excellent addition to the FBI. The elderly man pushed up his wire frame glasses up his liver-spotted nose as he gave Booth some resources on help for veterans and told him of the Gamblers Anonymous meetings that happened on Mondays and Thursdays in the basement of the Catholic church up the street. 

He attends his meetings and gets a sponsor. He talks in group therapy about the things he’s seen and he feels a little less alone when a few veterans in his group speak up. He acknowledges that he has a problem, that he’s an addict like his father. He pinches pennies and apologizes to the landlord for the late rent, trying to pay him at least once a week to make up for the last two months. Soon, his re-evaluation comes and he passes with flying colors.  

He slips once in a while - bets $50 on an upcoming Flyers game, bets $40 that he can beat a biker at pool, but he doesn’t let it run his life anymore. He focuses on being a good agent and a good father. Two years into being a Special Agent, Jocelyn Arrington comes calling, pleading for help. She reminds him of a mother of one of his men lost in a rescue mission gone south named Paul Adams. She had collapsed into his arms, much like Jocelyn did, when they released Paul’s remains to her after he was executed by insurgents. Another bereaved mother pleads for help and he’s not about to deny her the closure so few people got. 

But the case is bare bones, only a few scraps of evidence and split jurisdictions led only to dead end after dead end. He confides in Camille, the now Chief Coroner of New York that he had gotten into a friends with benefits type of relationship during his first few cases as a special agent, and she suggests that he looks at Gemma Arrington from a different perspective. 

She tells him of a forensic anthropologist, one of the best, that had solved a 400 year old murder. He’s skeptical of the use of forensics because knowing your suspect is more important but the only leads he had led him nowhere. He figures that it’s worth a shot. 

Camille had said that a Dr. Temperance Brennan was teaching An Alternative Approach to Traditional Bone Cleaning Methods for Forensic Practice in a series of lectures this week at American University. Booth imagines a stuffy old academic, dressed in clothes mostly made of wool and smelled of old books. He imagines someone in their early 50s to late 60s at most, to garner the high regard that the Chief Coroner of New York held for the scientist. 

Instead, he walks into the lecture hall and is met with a woman who is probably a few years his junior, commanding the room with such rapport and attention. She speaks with certainty, as if dictating pre-written information from an invisible book in front of her, and every single person has their attention solely on her. 

He’s not surprised when she steals his attention, too. There’s something in her blue eyes that he’s drawn to, like there was a story between them that’s waiting to be written. He wants to know if she feels it too. 

“Do you believe in fate?” He asks her. 

“Absolutely not. Ludicrous.” 

She doesn’t believe in fate, but he can’t help but think that this is what it feels like. 

She says that she’s the best, but he needs his own evidence, his own proof. He never goes into a situation without reading it himself - a skill that’s kept him alive for years while serving overseas, won him many bluffs on a poker table. 

That, and old habits are hard to break. He felt like taking a risk on her. 

He realizes that she is, in fact, the best when she lists out Gemma Arrington’s life with the same certainty she had at her lecture. She knows of the move from Alabama, the car wreck that killed her father in 1996, that she sang without even knowing the existence of the tape loaded in the briefing room. She was arrogant with her intelligence, often using words that had Booth wishing he still had his old dictionary from his hot English teacher. 

The arrogance was well-deserved. She slots evidence into a timeline, identifies the murder weapon and a potential exit path. He thought he knew what smart people looked like, what they sounded and thought like, but Bones was in a whole different league. 

Temperance Brennan was brilliant.

Blindingly, absolutely brilliant. She has a brilliant idea, something about showing individuality and he thinks about the drawer of socks he can’t wear at the FBI. She asks him a brilliant question; why shouldn’t they be allowed to go on a date? He almost lies to her, wants to sidestep that rule about fraternizing with other agencies, but he plays the good agent and her response is as brilliant as she was: 

“That’s too bad.” 

She was exceptional - had an exceptional left hook that she used to sock a federal judge. It’s awesome and hot and exceptional like she is. He tells her as much and can’t stop the smile that curves his lips at the color that floods her cheeks. 

She has an exceptional tolerance for alcohol when he takes her drinking because he wants to soften to blow when he tells her she can’t work the case anymore. They drink, and they drink some more, and soon a soft, steady haze of alcohol blankets him. He can’t stop staring, can’t believe that a woman like her can drink shitty tequila like a sailor. She has an exceptional idea, that they should have sex because they’re not working together and Booth wonders if he’s ever going to stop being blown away by her. 

He feels his adrenaline surge when she slaps a few crumpled bills on the table and tugs on his sleeve towards the door. Booth stops her, wants to tell her his deepest darkest secret because he has a feeling that they were barrelling towards something he did not want to screw up. 

He knew it would be as brilliant, as exceptional, as amazing as she was. 

And he was right. It might have been the tequila, but he swears he gets more drunk on her. The soft warmth of her lips, the slide of her tongue against him, makes him dizzy. He feels something inside him slide into place and feels empty when she pulls away and tells him that they won’t be sleeping together. Booth wants to chase that feeling, those 15 seconds when her lips are on his. He wants to have it over, and over, and over again. 

He’ll never get enough. 

---

It all falls apart, too soon after. The judge is bulletproof and Bones doesn’t understand that powerful people get away with terrible things all the time. They fight and he is on the receiving end of only a taste of what she gave to the judge and he grows resentful of her - her fancy words, her seemingly endless knowledge of everything. 

She’s brilliant and he’s not. 

Temperance Brennan walks out of his life and is determined to keep him out of hers. In the year between Gemma Arrington and Clio Eller, he thinks of that moment in front of the poolhouse more times than he’ll ever admit. He can smell the supple scent of antiseptic mixed with fresh rain. He can feel the warm hand that anchors on the back of his neck pushing him closer to her in the same urgency he felt. 

He thinks of the slender angle of her jaw, the waft of warm breath and tequila, of brilliant blue eyes, and feels an itch, an urge. 

Then reaches for his phone, wondering if his buddy in the TSA was willing to do him a small favor. 

---

They slowly become friends, partners. They dance on this fine line, between friends and something more than friends. Maybe he’s a little too protective of her, following her around on crime scenes and always urging her to stay back, to stand behind him even if he’s seen her take down suspects bigger and burlier than she was. Maybe she’s a little too attached to him, wandering hands that catch on his elbows, his forearm, his knee. She tells him things he suspects she’s never told anyone before, her well-earned trust handed to him in a file folder that contained the details of her parents’ disappearance. 

They still argue and bicker, one of them always insisting that their viewpoint was the superior one when more often than not they found their answer in compromise. Bones lived by the laws governed by science and logic, while he relied on faith and feeling to guide him. 

She teaches him how to be more rational, to take the facts before him and use it to their advantage. He teaches her to trust in him, in other people - that she could be vulnerable and understand the human portion of her that she tries to bury under anthropological facts and history. 

They share bottles of beer and glasses of whiskey, barely dodge bullets, bombs, and close brushes with their death. He hops on the first plane to Louisiana when she wakes up bruised and battered with no recollection of the last 24 hours. He threatens, holds guns to people who would dare and try to hurt her. He holds her when her mother’s bones turn up, when she tells him that she doesn’t know who she is anymore.

But he knows who she is.

She was the one who always hovered in his periphery, the slant of her smile and the furrow of her brow something he could draw from memory, if he ever learned how to draw. He knew her Thai takeout order, the kind of whiskey she enjoyed, the burden of rationality she carries around in every aspect of her life. He knew that she was scared of being left behind again, so he always tells her that he’s not leaving, that she could always count on him. 

She was his partner. 

She was the unspoken reason as to why all his relationships were just meaningless reruns of women it never worked out with. She was the standard he held them all to, even if he would never admit it, especially to the new psychologist who looks like he’s barely out of high school. 

He knows who she is. 

--

He chases her, through war and ghosts and snakes and serial killers. 

He chases those 15 seconds she gave him in front of the poolhouse almost five years ago now, chasing it in the subtle upturn of her lips when he presents her with Jasper for the first time. He chases the way her eyes sparkle when she sings on the stage they set up for her, chases the feeling of her hand in his when the world starts to fade as a bullet he takes for her lodges into his chest. He chases the flip of his stomach when he finds her on the sidelines of his hockey game, a red beanie pulled tightly over her ears when she waves at him. 

Booth can’t stop himself, can’t stop the itch, the urge, that overwhelms him when she’s not near. An itch that had almost torn up his insides when she mentions that Sully wanted to take her away from him for an entire year and the relief of it when she decides to stay, to be rational, to keep doing their jobs because they’re amazing partners. He can’t stop the urge to shove the barrel of his gun down the mouth of any person who threatens her, or the urge to never give up on her because she wouldn’t give up on him. 

He can’t stop himself when Sweets tells him to use his addiction, his problem, to break the stalemate. He’s thought about it over the years, made and replayed scenarios in his head on what it would be like to finally cross that fine line they’ve been dancing on all these years. But he’s a good agent, one who follows the rules, and they always said that there would be no fraternizing with consultants or other agencies. He decides to screw it all because they were on the brink of something, of the unwritten story he saw in her eyes when they first met. 

It was going to be brilliant, exceptional, and amazing.

He tells her that he’s a gambler, unashamed in the fact that he’s an addict. He wants to take a chance on this, on her, on them .

But she pushes him away, tells him that he needs protecting. He hands her his heart and she crumbles it into little pieces in front of him. She doesn’t know how to make them work, doesn’t know how to risk the status quo for the potential. She didn't know how to take the less-traveled route, to bet on something out of her control.

“I’m a scientist. I can’t change. I don’t know how.” 

Booth had forgotten that gambling always came with risks. He forgot that you came down from the adrenaline you get when you place a bet, that reality always had the odds tilted against him. 

“Can we still work together?” She asks, after breaking the heart he’s offered to her. He glances at her, watching the tears that carve pathways into her cheeks and doesn’t fight the urge when he says yes. 

He’s an addict. 

And now, she is his only vice. 

--

[redadm1ral-moved]

scuttles back on this blog. I come bearing gifts

well, kinda: I'm still throwing myself against the wall that is reworking Chapter 1 of The Plagued Capital (for new followers who've been trickling in during my inactivity: that's my Dishonored/Call of Duty: Modern Warfare crossover). I've come to realize that the first two acts of the fic needed serious overhauling, which I think was contributing to my writer's block; now that I'm smoothing out those issues and changing the plot happenings up a little, I'm a lot more eager to write. I'm also getting a handle on the type of tone and writing style I want to go for in COH as a whole, which means my Chapter 1 rework is going a bit faster too.

it'll be a while before I have new stuff to share still (I've been at the mercy of ailing physical and mental health for a while). but I do really want to share a portion of what's for sure definitely gonna be the final version of Chapter 1. I'll stick it under the cut (and maybe also tag @onlycodcanjudgeme since it's WIP Wednesday)

Dove gray light scattered across the overcast sky as the frigid morning sun crept over the eastern horizon, pulling the jagged fragments of Prague into the tentative embrace of dawn. Black pillars of smoke towered over the city’s rooftops, spitting debris into the clouds and shrouding the world in a thick veil of gray and brown. The air shivered with the deep drone of patrolling helicopters, punctuated by the occasional crack of gunfire from the streets below.

An icy breeze snaked through the old city’s veins, scraping soot from the bottoms of mortar holes and dusting the steps of shelled-out buildings in ash. The ash clung to frost-coated walls, to rain water trapped in the dips and crevices in pavement, to the blood seeping between stones and pooling under the corpses of waxy-faced insurgents. Crows squawked and squabbled between each other as they feasted on the bodies amid the smoldering, mangled remains of the civilian vehicles and military transport trucks scattered across the Old Town Square.

Rising above the carnage, glimmering under brilliant white floodlights and crowned by a grand brass clock, the Hotel Lustig stood as a beacon on the southeastern end of the square. Golden light beckoned from around the scarlet curtains in her arched, frost-kissed windows. Her unblemished silvery walls promised security, comfort, warmth—though only for some.

Soap narrowed his eyes at the Hotel Lustig. Unlike the hotel, the Church of Saint Nicholas swaddled its many occupants in darkness, in the muggy warmth of moving bodies and the tenuous security of her stone walls. But that was many stories below Soap’s feet, in the nave. Up in the church’s mortared bell tower, Soap and his companion, Yuri, weathered the cold October morning on their own. The freezing wind plunged through the mortar hole and sank frosty teeth into exposed skin, chilling their blood and stiffening their gloved fingers, and Soap drank down the stink of smoke and the threat of rain with each slow breath. And yet, rather than envy, the Lustig’s rosy lie of safety inspired contempt. The hotel—and its occupants—could burn as far as Soap cared.

And by noon it would be, God willing.

Soap slipped his hand into his pocket, tangling his fingers in the cool, solid beads of his rosary. This would be the best time and place to appeal to God’s will, if he wanted. And once upon a time he might’ve. But he would not; Soap was certain God had long left the equation by now, just as he was certain of the cool, firm weight of the rifle resting across his thigh.

The shuffle of fabric and the soft clink of metal against metal alerted Soap to Yuri’s movement. He’d started yet another examination of his gear. Nervousness from Yuri wasn’t new—he’d always been quiet and reserved, sometimes to the point of neurosis—but he’d already counted his rounds ten times, and he moved with the careful precision of a man focusing too hard on staying calm. Truthfully, the anxious knot in Soap’s own gut left him with little room to judge even if he wanted. Any apprehension this morning was warranted.

“Which vehicle do you think he’ll be in?” Soap asked. A pointless question; unless he’d spontaneously gained the gift of prophecy, Yuri wouldn’t have a straight answer. And for once, Soap didn’t want one. What he wanted was reprieve.

A few moments slipped by before Yuri lifted his gaze to the hotel. The dim morning light glinted off the round he rolled between his thumb and forefinger, and a white cloud floated past his lips as he let out a long, low breath.

“They constantly rotate for security.” The gentle clink of metal against metal as Yuri slid the round into the magazine underscored his statement. “We won’t know until he steps out.”

It was a perfectly acceptable answer. An educated guess. Soap might’ve come to the same conclusion, had he been asked. Even so, Soap found himself lingering on his companion’s face as Yuri returned to refilling his magazines, searching for…well, he wasn’t certain. Because it was a perfectly acceptable answer, after all, and so he let out a low scoff and simply muttered:

“You seem to know a lot about Makarov.”

Yuri’s fingers stuttered over the rounds, not quite fumbling, then returned to their smooth, rhythmic glide over the metal.

Soap gave himself a mental shake. Paranoia at this stage would do him no good; Yuri was a man, just as susceptible to clumsiness and anxiety as any other. And as Soap turned his gaze once more to the square, to the corpses scattered across the stones and the writhing black mass of crows that devoured them, he knew as well as God that they had every reason to be afraid.

Because Vladimir Makarov was responsible for this. Every corpse, every burning building, every speck of ash and soot on the wind and every drop of blood seeping between the stones of every city square and footpath, the cracks in the pavement of every street—he had orchestrated it all, carving a bloody swathe from the Urals to the shores of the Atlantic. Chasing Makarov had been a long, grueling, bloody endeavor, a spiraling descent into cruelty and betrayal. But it would be worth it. Bringing the architect of a third world war to justice would give meaning to all of Soap’s sacrifices. And maybe, once the head had been lopped off the viper and all was said and done, the dreams would finally—

The crackle of Soap’s radio snapped him back to reality.

“Alpha One,” came Price’s low, firm voice through the static. “Radio check, over.”

The black hands of the Lustig’s clock read seven. Almost time. Soap untangled his fingers from his rosary and held down the transmission.

“Bravo One, copy,” he answered. “We’re dug in with line of sight.”

“Right. Kamarov’s our eyes and ears inside the hotel; once he gives us the nod, we’ll kick this off.”

Soap said nothing as he scanned the hotel again, hunting for any sign of their approaching quarry. A flicker of movement caught his eye—on the second floor balcony, human-shaped blots teemed in the shadows like maggots emerging from carrion. The long silhouettes of rifles stood out against the soft light filtering through the curtained window. Ultranationalists.

“You see that?” Soap growled to his companion. Yuri responded with a low hum, and Soap reached for his radio.

“Price.”

“What do you see?”

“I’ve got some activity on the balcony,” Soap answered. “Four armed guards.”

“Any sign of Makarov?” Price pressed.

Soap scoffed. “Bugger-all, mate; looks like Makarov’s late for his own funeral.” Beside him, Yuri let out a dry snort. “They’ve got curtains up on the second floor—you and Kamarov are gonna have to take care of ‘em if you want sniper support.”

“Right. Sit tight until you’ve got a clean shot.” Price’s low, dry voice darkened. “Then you can put as many rounds on him as you like.”

Here they were: three men perched on the edge of a bloody morning, poised to finally catch their kingfish after years of relentless pursuit. Yuri had never been completely clear about his stakes in this hunt for Makarov, but when their gazes met and the resolve in Yuri’s stony brown eyes mirrored Soap’s, suddenly, the specifics didn’t matter. All that mattered was putting Makarov in the ground.

“It’ll only take one,” Soap growled into the radio.

Silence settled over the bell tower.

The urge to smoke nibbled at the back of Soap’s mind. If time were on his side, he’d have indulged in that craving; instead, he chose to spare his lungs, slipping his hand back into his pocket to tangle once again in the cool comfort of his rosary. The sensation of the beads rolling between his gloved fingers melted some of the tension in his shoulders, and on his tongue settled the distant anticipation for the cigar he’d share with Price once this was all said and done.

“How are you feeling?”

Yuri’s voice snatched Soap from the comfort of his short-lived fantasy, and he gave his companion a quick glance—Yuri stared at the hotel, having abandoned his inventory-taking. With a low huff, Soap averted his gaze and grumbled, “I’m fine. Freezing my arse off, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No,” Yuri pressed. “How are you feeling, John?”

Soap turned toward Yuri with deliberate slowness, making no effort to hide his annoyance; he’d made it clear that he wanted Yuri to address him by either his last name or his callsign. Yuri had never slipped like this before—and if the earnest, though cautious concern lurking in Yuri’s eyes as he faced Soap was of any indication, he hadn’t slipped this time, either. A misguided attempt to foster familiarity, then. Or maybe Yuri just wanted to mess with him.

“What’s this, therapy hour?” Soap released the rosary in his pocket and brought his hand back to his rifle. “I’m fine.”

Yuri hesitated. “Are you still having those dreams?”

Soap arched a brow. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

He and Yuri spun away from each other, repelled by the awkward tension crackling between them. As Soap stared at the men patrolling the Lustig’s second floor balcony, he struggled—and ultimately failed—to suppress a low, sharp sigh.

They’d started in the early days after Shepherd’s last stand. Morphine-induced slumber had trapped Soap in a whirl of twisting dreamscapes, a contradictory cacophony of whimsical vibrancy and achromatic desolation. Under normal circumstances, none of this would be notable; Soap had always been predisposed to vivid dreams, and he blamed any disquieting dips into surreality on the drugs. But as the weeks dragged on, as his knife wound closed and he was weaned off the morphine, one dream persisted—and increased in frequency.

Words alone struggled to encapsulate the sheer vastness of his recurring dreamscape. To Price, he called it an abyss; in his journal, he called it a world of only sky. A cold, brackish mist diffused the light of a blazing sun, a brilliant hole punched through a limitless dark that stretched leagues, eons. Through the mist, a frigid, swirling wind carried the mournful calls of unseen creatures and shivering islands of jagged black stone. One of these islands kept Soap from plummeting into the abyss.

On another island stood a stranger; the flickering haze reduced him to a tangle of disjointed images, to snatches of curly, dark brown hair, patches of a deep umber complexion, and fleeting glances of curious black eyes. The stranger drifted through the mist, sometimes closer, sometimes farther. Sometimes the mist consumed him entirely, with only a deep-seated pull in Soap’s chest to assure him of his sole companion’s presence. Soap’s calls to this stranger went unanswered, swallowed by eternity.

Soap drank in a deep breath, and the frost and ash he swallowed down reminded his lungs of the freezing sting of that unending sky. Images of the black dreamscape lanced through his mind, and dense, deep pressure—the pull, the tether—battered against the cage of his ribs. It felt ridiculous to admit even to himself, but Soap never woke up from these dreams. He returned from them.

Soap drummed his fingers against the side of his rifle and glared out at the broken horizon. After a few moments of prodding the raw inside of his lip with his tongue, he finally asked, “How did you know?”

A few heartbeats passed before Yuri answered: “I overhear you sometimes. Talking to Price.”

“So you’re eavesdropping on us now?” Soap demanded, and internally winced—his attempt at a playful jab had come off far more forceful than he’d intended.

Yuri’s eyes widened. “What? No, I—” He cut himself off with a sharp sigh, then said, “You seemed distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Soap insisted. He drummed one last beat against the side of his rifle before forcing his fingers into stillness. “I’m just focused on Makarov.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Yuri asked.

Soap weighed his response against the rifle in his hands. He’d come to Price about the dreams because he trusted him in a way that transcended friendship, transcended family—an entirely different beast than the more tenuous, practical trust he placed in Yuri. To Soap, the quiet, solitary ex-Spetsnaz sat firmly in the categories of ally and asset but not quite friend. He’d assumed Yuri felt the same; perhaps that was why this uncharacteristic line of questioning bothered Soap so much.

“Aye,” Soap finally answered, and he gave Yuri a sideways glance. “I’ll be even better once we put a bullet in Makarov’s skull.”

Yuri nodded, silent and firm.

The minute hand inched past five.

A splash of green and red emerged from the Lustig’s main entryway: four more armed guards, milling impatiently before the Lustig’s stone walls. Then the telltale thunder of a low-flying helicopter rumbled through the frigid air, prompting Soap to duck behind cover moments before it swept into sight. It passed without landing, and Soap raised a brow at his companion, who’d also hidden himself away. Yuri responded with another silent nod just as Soap’s radio buzzed to life.

“You see that?” Price growled through the crackling static.

“Aye,” Soap answered. “Any sign of him?”

“Negativ— Wait.” A pause. “I think that’s them. Four armored vehicles, coming from the east.”

Soap swung his rifle into position and rested it on the edge of the crumbling wall, then settled into his perch overlooking the square. Yuri clicked his magazine back into place and mirrored Soap’s position.

“Head’s up,” Price said. “Makarov’s convoy is arriving now.”

[hbyrde36]

Lyrics borrowed from Devil by Moonwalker

No more anticipation Ain't gotta show no patience I'm just a canvas reflecting back what your system's painting Can't take away my pistol Can't take my ammunition I like to keep Jesus close, but my demons closer And they've got the floor

It didn’t hit home until Eddie arrived on set on the day of the shoot what he’d actually gotten himself into.

The new album had been months in the making, and the members of Corroded Coffin were committed to finding just the right concept for their cover art.

After the recent Senate hearings Eddie was almost certain the lyrics alone would earn them a ‘Parental Advisory: Explicit Content’ sticker, but the band was determined to really drive the point home. 

Some artists were annoyed by it on principle, or the fact that they thought it would hurt their record sales. And Eddie was by no means a fan of censorship, but he intended to wear that sticker like a badge of honor.

If this didn’t send the pearl-clutching mothers of America rifling through their dresser drawers for their own rosary beads, nothing would.

The thing was, when he’d come up with the idea, and even after pouring over the thick stack of untraditional “headshots” the modeling agency had sent over for him to choose from, it still somehow escaped Eddie that he would actually be spending an afternoon on his knees, below a literal model, tongue out and inches away from said model’s hard cock. 

Things only went from bad to worse when Eddie was released from hair and makeup and found himself being introduced to his partner for this part of the photo shoot, Steve Harrington, and saw his face for the very first time.

And what a face it was. 

The man with the most gorgeous cock he’d ever seen was equally blessed all over it seemed. Which wasn’t exactly a shock considering what the man did for a living, but that didn’t change the fact that Eddie was woefully unprepared. 

Still, he was determined to act as professionally as possible. 

He offered Steve a hand in greeting, which the other man shook, but then Steve was being whisked away for his own version of hair and makeup, while Eddie was taken to meet with the photographer to go over some last minute details.

To Eddie’s lament, amidst the chaos of the day and all the preparations, he and Steve never got the chance to actually speak before it was time to start the shoot. 

“Now, Steve,” The photographer began, as he directed them into their positions. “I want your hand on the back of his head. Make it look like you’ve got a good grip on his hair, but if you can manage, try to not mess it up too much. We’ve got other shots to do with the rest of the band after this.”

Steve nodded at the photographer before looking down, locking eyes with Eddie as he wound fingers through his thick curls, pulling him in until the tip of the cross hanging from its beaded chain, which was draped artfully around Steve’s impressive length, rested against Eddie’s lips. 

“Don’t worry baby, I'll be gentle.” Steve said quietly, and for Eddie’s ears alone.

Eddie’s mouth dropped open, the cool metal of the cross sitting heavy on his tongue, and it was all he could do not to whimper.

Permanent taglist(open): @penny00dreadful @pearynice @hitlikehammers @bookworm0690 @wonderland-girl143-blog 

@goodolefashionedloverboi @themagicalari @awkwardgravity1 @rocknrollsalad

I am slowly being led by the hand into hell by @hbyrde36

[sinceileftyoublog]

Three Women & The Truth Live Show Review: 1/11, City Winery Chicago

From left to right: Gretchen Peters, Mary Gauthier, Jaimee Harris

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Last night’s Three Women & The Truth show at City Winery offered the opportunity for a few female country folk artists, bound only by genre, to showcase diversity in style and story, or their power as troubadours of the human condition. Usually Gretchen Peters, Mary Gauthier, and Eliza Gilkyson, last night’s show took place sans the third, who was sick. Instead, newcomer and former student of the other two Jaimee Harris stepped in. Always accompanied by pianist Barry Walsh, the songwriters switched off in a roundtable format, perhaps accompanied by the other two on guitar or vocal harmonies. As such, you really got to intimately and individually know each one--Peters’ emotive coo, Gauthier’s matter-of-fact storytelling, and Harris’s bear-all soul.

The title of the group’s act subverts the masculine minimalism of Harlan Howard’s oft-cited “three chords and the truth” description of country music, and indeed, as Peters and Gauthier cited, their songs have a lot of “the sacred feminine” in them--even the ones written by men. Peters’ Dancing with the Beast, released last year, is an album of songs of girls, from 12-year-old Cora Lee in “Wichita” to the old woman of “Disappearing Act”. Her performances of those songs last night as well as “Guadalupe”, a song penned by Tom Russell, were empathetic and beautiful. Gauthier’s selection from last year’s Rifles and Rosary Beads, co-written with veterans and their families, was “The War After The War”, written with the oft-ignored wives of veterans who have come back. (Gauthier was proud to announce that Malcolm Gladwell had picked it as his favorite song of 2018; Peters was proud to announce that Rifles garnered Gauthier her first ever Grammy nomination as a vocalist.) The three also support women by supporting each other, always in awe of the other. “I have a better seat than any of you guys,” quipped Peters. By the time Harris came out to join in the rotation and debuted her material, Gauthier and the crowd felt her booming voice, sometimes unsure whether to become swept up in the upward melodies or sit there and introspectively listen.

But really, both Peters and Gauthier have care for all of their characters, whether fake or real, which was on display last night. Peters loved “the fighter and the bull” on “The Matador”; Gauthier paid tribute to Steam Train Maury, the “Last of the Hobo Kings” who “knew how his nation was doing / by the length of a side walk cigarette butt.” Gauthier’s performance of “Mercy Now” was an anthem for the crowd. And their last performance was a cover of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land”. “True songs get truer over time,” said a wise Gauthier. As the crowd sang along with the words, Gauthier was sure to include the original prescient verse that referenced a wall to everyone’s raucous approval. “A sign was painted said: Private Property / But on the back side it didn't say nothing,” she sang, the leader in a group effort to boost up each other, one that we need now more than ever.

[countrytomatoradio]

“Brothers" from Mary Gauthier's new album, Rifles & Rosary Beads, makes me cry every time I listen to it. The song is a collaboration between Gauthier, singer-songwriter Georgia Middleman and Iraq War Veterans Meghan Counihan and Britney Pfad. Beautiful, poignant, and heartfelt, it is a truly touching tribute to service women everywhere.

[msmercury84]

D-Day

*Author's Note: I am using the movie version of how Bill learned about his brother's death. The account of Wild Bill's actions after he landed in Normandy came from Guarnere's book and the movie. A special thank you to scarecrowmaxelectricboogaloo2 for the image in the upper left corner of Guarnere holding the rosary beads. This was posted out of sequence to commemorate the anniversary of D-Day. The story about Bill and Johnny Martin in Scotland is true.*

***********************************************************************

Leigh and Melissa were on edge. They knew that their boyfriends would soon be leaving for their first combat jump. The men had been prepared to go the day before, but heavy fog in the jump zone cancelled the event.

Had Spencer known about a shocking discovery made by Bill before he parachuted into Normandy, her anxiety would have been much worse. After the jump was called off, the men were assembled in the marshalling area to watch a movie.

Guarnere picked up a jacket he thought was his. When he saw a letter in the pocket addressed to Johnny Martin, he realized his mistake, but decided to read the letter.

Bill felt as if the floor had fallen out from under him as he read that his older brother Henry had been killed in action in Monte Cassino, Italy.He hadn't heard from his brother, but he thought it was due to the fact that V Mail took at least one month to be delivered.

His face showed surprise and shock as he struggled with his emotions. Bill was determined to take the news like a man. He vowed to kill as many German soldiers as he could in retaliation for his brother's death. It was no longer war for Guarnere, it was now a vendetta.

The day of the jump, he told Martin about finding the letter. When Johnny offered his condolences Bill replied,

"I feel sorry for my ma. He was...let's get this thing over wit'."before walking away from Martin. Those in Easy Company who knew of Bill's loss stayed out of his way.

Later in the day, Leigh got her rosary beads from a drawer in the chest of drawers in her bedroom. She knelt to pray for Bill to be protected during battle and for his safe return. Melissa was also praying for Bull.

A few hours later, numerous C47 Sky Trains loaded with paratroopers took off from Upottery Air Field. A number of the local residents wiped away a few tears as they watched the planes flying overhead, knowing that some of the young men aboard the airplanes would never come back.

Bill clutched his rosary beads as he sat in the plane with a menacing look on his face. He felt possessed by anger, wanting to get started on his vendetta as soon as possible.

Guarnere believed that he would be killed instantly. He didn't share this feeling with Leigh for obvious reasons. Bill wanted to kill as many of the enemy as he could before his life ended.

Later in the flight, as they approached the jump zone, the C47 was going too fast and it was lower than recommended for the men to jump. The pilot was shaken by the sudden death of the co-pilot from anti aircraft fire. He quickly turned on the green light to indicate that it was time to jump.

Lieutenant Winters told the men to "Stand up and hook up." Bill's leg went to sleep from the heavy leg bag. A British officer came up with the idea to have a bag that would be worn on one leg. It could hold a folding rifle and necessary supplies.

It added about 50 extra pounds on the paratroopers. Unfortunately, many bags were torn away in the rush of air from the propellers and jumping out of the plane. The paratrooper behind Guarnere had to shove him out of the open door of the plane.

The men didn't wind up in their intended location and many paratroopers lost the supplies in their leg bags. Winters landed not far from the burning wreckage of the C47 that carried the leader of Easy Company, Lieutenant Meehan.

He set out to locate the men. Using the metal crickets assigned them and by roaming the drop zone, the men of Easy gradually reassembled.

Bill had no gun and no cricket when he landed. All he had was a knife and a bent carbine. He ran into a soldier from Fox Company. Guarnere held him to the ground, pushing his knee into the fellow paratrooper's chest. Bill put the knife to the young man's throat, asking him,

"Whose side are you on?" He took a gun from a dead German soldier, but it made a distinct sound that was unlike the sound made by American weapons.

Every time Guarnere fired the gun, American troops would fire in his direction. Bill quickly got rid of the gun and found his preferred weapon of choice, a Thompson machine gun. From that point on, he displayed fearless behavior that earned him the nickname he would have for the rest of his life, Wild Bill, and a Silver Star.

Bill's drive to kill as many enemy soldiers as possible made him run afoul with Winters. A horse drawn wagon with enemy soldiers aboard was approaching down a country lane with tall, dense hedges on each side.

The Lieutenant told the men,

"Wait for my command." Bill stood up and killed the enemy soldiers and a few of their horses with his "Tommy" gun. Winters shouted,

"That's enough, Guarnere!" He faced Bill, telling him in no uncertain terms,

"When I tell you 'wait for my command,' Sergeant, you wait for my command." Guarnere tersely replied,

"Yes, Sir." Joe Toye used a pistol to put a badly injured horse out of its misery. Bill walked away, muttering something about Winters acting like "a fine Quaker," not wanting to kill.

Guarnere and the Easy Company men had the task of destroying four large German guns that were strategically placed to fire upon Allied troops landing on the beach at Normandy.

He and the other paratroopers were fighting German soldiers in trenches dug in a field near a house called Brecourt Manor. Buck Compton encountered an enemy soldier in the trench and tried to shoot him, only to have his gun malfunction. He would later say that Bill appeared behind him "out of nowhere" to kill the man before he had the chance to shoot Compton.

Although they were outnumbered by enemy soldiers, the men of Easy Company destroyed the guns and probably saved countless lives of Allied soldiers landing on the beach.Lieutenant Winters discovered and took maps plotting the locations of German guns in the area.

At the end of the day, the men were having their supper in an Army truck. Lieutenant Winters stopped by to talk to the men. Before he left he remarked to Bill,

"Sergeant Guarnere."

"Sir?" Winters grinned,

"I'm not a Quaker." Guarnere, the men and Winters laughed about the remark. A few men good naturedly patted Bill on his back. Guarnere grinned, replying,

"He must be a Mennonite. There are a lot of 'em in Lancaster County."

Melissa and Leigh got through the ensuing days the best that they could. Luckily they were spared the news about the fiery crash of the C47. The day finally arrived when the men would return for one week. Adams and Spencer waited outside in front of the office. Soon, Bull appeared. He hugged and kissed Melissa. They disappeared from the base for some time alone.

Spencer waited anxiously until she spotted Bill. Although he was exhausted he covered the distance between himself and Leigh very quickly. He embraced Spencer, giving her a passionate kiss. When Bill broke the kiss, Leigh said,

"Word got around and I am so sorry about your brother, Honey. I know you were close to him. I've been praying for him to get out of purgatory. If you need some time to yourself, I understand."

"Some guys are goin' to London to raise some hell on their seven day passes. I need to be wit' you, Sweetheart. You're all that's (he pronounced the word as 'dats') keepin' me sane right now. Thanks for prayin' for my brother. If ya wait just a little bit, I need to get my duffel bag, garment bag, some boxer shorts, my shavin' stuff an' my toothbrush an' toothpaste." Leigh assured him she would wait.

While she was elated that Bill returned safely, her heart ached for Guarnere and his family. She intended to send a V Mail to his parents expressing her sympathy. Bill soon returned with his duffel and garment bags. He apologized to Leigh,

"Sorry I didn't clean up first. I just wanna get the hell out o' this place for awhile." Spencer told him there was no need to apologize. Bill put his arm around her as they walked to the house.

When they got inside the house, Leigh got a clean towel, a wash cloth and a new bar of soap for Guarnere, leaving the items on the edge of the bathtub. Spencer sat on the couch. After some time passed, Bill came downstairs wearing a clean uniform shirt and trousers. Leigh told him,

"My parents sent some real coffee in a package. They saved up enough rations coupons to ensure that we all got a treat. Would you like something to eat? I baked some fresh bread earlier today and I was able to get some bacon, eggs and some homemade butter from a farmers' market."

"Thanks for offerin' to cook for me, Baby. I'd like some scrambled eggs, bacon an' toast wit' butter to go wit' that coffee." Leigh went into the kitchen and made a fresh pot of coffee, fried the bacon, scrambled the eggs and used the broiler in the stove to make the toast from two thick slices of the homemade bread. Spencer put a generous amount of butter on both pieces of toast.

Leigh put the food on a plate and she got a napkin, silverware, salt and pepper shakers and a large mug of coffee. All of these items were then put on a tray. She carried the tray to the living room and placed it on the coffee table. Bill thanked her, saying,

"I appreciate it, Sweetheart, but I coulda walked to the kitchen table. You don't need to go to all o' that trouble for me."

"It was no trouble at all. You deserve to take it easy for awhile." Guarnere made quick work of the food. Leigh asked if he wanted anything else to eat or a second cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Leigh. I think I'll have another cup o' coffee. Just sit still, Baby, I can get it." After Bill poured more coffee into the empty mug and returned to the living room.

"You make scrambled eggs an' bacon just like my ma. That bread is better than any I've had in a long time and the coffee is damn good. Would ya please thank your folks for me?"

Guarnere sipped the coffee and soon finished the contents of the mug. He got a cigarette and his lighter out of his pocket. Bill lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag. He put the lighter back into his pocket.

"I'm glad you enjoyed everything, Bill. There's a good reason the bacon and eggs reminds you of your mom's cooking. This is another thing I asked your mom, how you liked to have food prepared."

"You're somethin' else, Baby."

"Bill, I love you. I want to spoil you a little bit."

"I love you, too, Honey. When this damn war is over, I intend to get caught up on spoilin' you. Now, I'm gonna get these dishes washed an' after that, how about we call it a night?"

"I'll take care of the dishes. You need to relax. Now, don't try to pull rank on me, I was promoted to sergeant while you were gone."

"Congratulations, Baby! I'm proud of ya." He smirked before adding, "I'm still washin' the dishes."

"OK, let's clean them together." Guarnere stubbed out the remainder of the cigarette in the ashtray. They finished doing and putting away the dishes and they cleaned the kitchen. Then, they locked the door, shut off the lights and went upstairs.

Leigh went to brush her teeth and returned to her bedroom. She made sure the window was open, since it had been a warm day. Spencer put her dress and panties in the hamper, placed her bra in the chest of drawers and got out a sleeveless cotton nightgown with small flowers on it and put it on. Bill brushed his teeth and returned to Spencer's room, removing his boots, socks, trousers and shirt before getting into bed.

Spencer turned on a lamp on a table beside the bed and turned off the light and closed the door. She got into bed and turned off the lamp.

"Sweetheart, I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but I'm too tired to do anythin'. Hope I didn't disappoint ya."

"I understand, it's OK. Bill, If you need to grieve for your brother, just let it happen. It doesn't mean that you're less of a man if you cry, it simply means that you're human. I'm here for you and I promise that I would never tell anyone if you shed some tears.

Honey, it would be bad for you to keep everything in. You might even make yourself sick, in a way, by keeping everything bottled up inside."

Bill thanked Spencer and kissed her. Leigh could feel the tears on his face. She got up, not needing to turn on the light, and got a few lace trimmed handkerchiefs from a drawer in the chest of drawers beside the bed.

She discovered more tears coursing down Bill's face and she used the handkerchief to dry them. Guarnere remained silent as he grieved the death of his brother. Leigh handed him a clean handkerchief and Bill blew his nose. He put the used handkerchief by the bed.

They remained sitting up in bed. Spencer put her arms around Bill, pulling him close to her. He embraced her, resting his head on her shoulder as the tears continued to fall. She reached for the other handkerchiefs, using one to dry the tears on Guarnere's face when he sat up for a moment.

Her heart ached for Bill. She wished she could help him feel better. Leigh silently handed the other handkerchief to him and he used it, depositing it beside the other handkerchief on the floor.

"I'll take care of those tomorrow. Just try to rest." Spencer stroked Bill's back, hoping to soothe him. She tenderly kissed the top of his head as she continued to hold Guarnere close to her. The tears soon stopped and he asked Leigh for another handkerchief. Bill blew his nose and the handkerchief joined the other used handkerchiefs on the floor by his side of the bed.

"Baby, I done a lot of killin' on D Day. I wanted to kill as many of those goddamned krauts as possible for what happened to Henry."

"I don't pretend to understand war, but I know that it's kill or be killed. I thank God that you came back. If you want to talk about it, I'll listen. I'm sorry that I never had the honor of meeting your brother." Guarnere moved back enough to kiss Leigh and remain in her arms.

"Thanks, Honey. I feel bad for Ma and Pop. I gotta tell ya the truth, I thought I'd be killed instantly. I thank God that I made it back to you, too. It was hell, Leigh, but we whipped their goddamned asses! Baby, I hope ya don't mind, but I really need to sleep."

" I understand. Sleep well, Honey." Bill asked,

"Is it OK wit' you if I put my head on your chest for a change?"

"That's fine, Bill." Guarnere snuggled close to Leigh, resting his head on her chest. Spencer held Bill and stroked his hair, soothing him until they both fell asleep. He woke Leigh from a sound sleep when he said, in a loud voice,

"Ya want I should get your freakin' Luger, ya stupid Mick?" Bill settled down after that and Spencer soon drifted off to sleep again. The next morning as they were eating breakfast, Leigh told him,

"You were talking in your sleep and you asked something about getting a Luger for someone you called a 'stupid Mick.' Were you dreaming?" Bill apologized, and said,

"Sweetheart, I must have been dreamin' about the stupid thing Malarkey did. He's been crazy to get his hands on a German gun, a Luger. A kraut got shot not too far from us.

That crazy bastard ran out into a field wit' ten machine guns firin' on us to try to get the gun from that dead guy. Turns out it wasn't even a Luger, the dummy! The krauts must have thought that he was a medic, 'cause they didn't do nothin' at first.

Then, they poured on the ammo. The rest of us covered his ass, shootin' at the krauts while Malark ran in a kinda zig zag pattern back to us. When he got his stupid ass back, I asked him what ya heard me say last night." Spencer shook her head in disbelief saying,

"Don won't last very long if he keeps up that reckless behavior."

"I think he learned his lesson, Baby." Bill didn't say anything further and Leigh didn't ask any more questions about the war. They had a quiet, relaxing day.

When Spencer got up the next morning, she found a note on the dining room table.

Sweetheart,

Johnny Martin and I are taking a train to Edinburgh, Scotland for a day trip. I will be back later tomorrow night. We will have supper while we're there, both nights, so don't worry about cooking for me.

Love Ya,

Bill

Johnny and Bill got back a little after midnight. Leigh stayed up to see him before going to bed. Guarnere looked tired when he came into the house. After embracing and kissing Spencer, Bill flinched slightly when Leigh touched his right arm. Guarnere explained,

"Baby, me an' Johnny went a little bit wild. Don't worry, I'd never do anythin' wit' another woman. I love you an' you're the only girl for me. When we got to Scotland, we got drunk as sixteen skunks.

We got matchin' tattoos of paratroopers comin' down from the sky. If I'd been sober, I'd never got tattooed. When we got up this mornin' an' looked at our arms, we both said, 'What the hell is that?'"

Guarnere removed his jacket and rolled up the right sleeve of his uniform. She saw a very detailed tattoo of a man with a parachute. Spencer said,

"The artist did a good job. Did he give you anything to put on it so you won't get infected?"

"He gave both of us some cream that we have to rub over it once a day. Are ya upset wit' me for gettin' the tattoo, Honey?"

"I'm not upset at all, Bill. It's your arm and I'm not your boss. Actually, I think it looks good. It suits you."

"You're one hell of a woman, Baby. I missed havin' my angel sleepin' beside me." Bill paused to get a cigarette and his lighter out of his jacket pocket. Once the cigarette was lit, he continued,

'Speakin' o' sleep, me an' Johnny couldn't find a place to sleep. Johnny said, 'I'll get us a place to sleep.' We went to a USO Club, but there were no beds left. So Johnny said, 'Watch this.' He went to the door an' yelled, 'Fire!' Everybody ran out. We ran in, got under the sheets, an' went to sleep. No one said a word." Spencer laughed as Bill told the story. She said,

"That's a creative way to find a place to sleep." Guarnere and Leigh went into the living room to sit on the couch and listen to the radio. After Bill finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray, they locked the door, turned off the downstairs lights and went upstairs, getting into bed and drifting off to sleep together.

@lizziebitch33 @alluringmoonlightbabe @sparkycorleone @marycorleone @wontyoutakeitback @elioag2006

[laertesthelocalstranger]

Laertes appears again, crouching in the air and eyeing the person- a woman, bundled in an overlarge coat and wearing rosary beads- with a curious mix of excitement and hunger. They begin to walk, not touching the ground, but descending through the air with a sort of leonine grace. That look in their eyes shines clear and unobscured. He is going to cause damage before the day is done.

She bears a smile that looks nothing but predatory, but that same mischief is there. They’re not acting themself right now, but it’s still Laertes.

Usually, she feeds as a kid, knocking people off-balance with the mixture of childish features and an uncanny smile. Today, they could be Puck himself, here to make a mockery and perhaps worse of his chosen mechanical.

The rifle is gone, a staff in its place. But that same weight, that same offness hangs about it like a bloodied garland.

Laertes wanders the back alleys with a rifle that is comically large for her. She carries it loosely in their hand, with the lack of care of someone who doesn’t know much about the weapon. He brought it because of the increasing number of mannequins she’s spotted tailing her- and maybe because he likes the feel of it in his hand. Holding it makes Laertes feel safe, something he’s gone months without- though it’s only a safety in the way it’s safer to be higher up on the food chain.

Laertes feels odd- a mounting adrenaline high building beneath the surface, waiting for something to tip it over into action. They don’t know what it is, or why, but the buzz beneath their skin has him in a lovely state- jumping from one moment to the next using instinct and whim alone. He doesn’t have the patience to think, and so he doesn’t. And isn’t that what he’s wanted all along?

The thing in their gut paces, a live wire inside of him that has Laertes charged with energy and taut as tightrope, as an overstretched spring, as a bowstring waiting to be released.

[rotzaprachim]

Oh man as an aspie who clung onto the idea of autistic Nicky as soon as I watched the film, I'm super interested in knowing what people think his special interests are- I personally hc that he acquires a new one every century or so and sometimes that dictates where he and Joe travel

ohhhh ok time for my quarantine comfort hobby which is projecting upon fictional side characters in action movies! i think some of the big things for me about special interests is that they can be literally everything, and can also last for years or fade quickly! so some things that come too me off the top of my head, and although i totally think they all have a massive array of skills they’ve picked up over the years, i totally think Nicky is the one who is constantly pulling upexpected hobbies + skills out of his back pocket like ah yes. here is a perfectly executed lariat technique from 1800′s Sonora and here’s how to fix the wiring in a radio and write in mid 20th century secretarial shorthand at some point he picked up an incredibly amount of information about rare tree frogs of nicaragua and suminagashi, neither of which even Joe knew about. 

but anyway. some key Interests vaguely in order of CHronology 

- sailing + ocean stuff (also thanks to @captainshakespear !!! for a lot of the ideas on this one) 

i am a big believer in sailor Nicky! not an expert on medieval Genova or anything, but with my preferred background of him as being from a more modest background (not everyone in history was a royal, y’all) i think it’s quite likely his family earned their trade this way (or by fishing?). (might actually write a fic as sometimes i think it’s uh easier to write out characters thought processes than describe them but anyway) i have a real soft spot for Nico the kiddo who spent hours silently watching the sea either from the shoreline or his father’s fishingboat and who even if he had to be called by his mother three times for dinner and had a hard time focusing on conversations, understood the language of sails and ropes and knots from an early age 

- related to that- tying seaman’s knots 

- not to phrase this strangely but. religion 

there’s actually a lot of complexity to talk about with autistic people and religion/religious observance that i haven’t seen talked about much but! many thoughts on the this i might also expand upon later. Nicky eventually became a priest, even! 

but i do think that in the clamor and chaos of a medieval port city the ritualism and structure of religion would have been deeply comforting. the extremely set structure or a catholic mass, which quickly becomes the only time of the week where he’ll already know almost all of the words, and the feeling of wrapping his fingers around the rosary beads and counting through the decades. his mother’s been doing her best to raise all her children in the Faith, but she sees how fervantly her youngest actually remembers his prayers and sticks to them at the same time ever day on his own and is a little surprised. 

also like, lives of the saints! which are often exceedingly odd and strange, but Nico was like eh they’re Saints right they’re good this is a Normal THing to be Interested in and then lists off all the ways a few of the interesting ones were martyred over dinner. 

(but also in all of this he was definitely. a seven year old constantly questioning if God was real or not or could ever be kind when there were so many bad things in the world.) (we love projection.) and also a seven year old deeply interested in death and what happened afterwards. all things die. 

more to discuss later when i’m not about to fall asleep but! I think these interests lasted into his immortal life and long past the battlefield, especially as he starts to learn more and more about everyone the society and expression of faith in his first life taught him to hate. there definitely needs to be.. subtlety here, and he never intrudes on any closed traditions/is always respectful, but over the centuries he studies many, many holy texts and traditions from around the world, by himself and with Yusuf and also in various kinds of institutions and houses of learning. a LOT of religious text and discussion is surprisingly technical stuff about the practicalities of daily life or finer points of theologic debates as much as it is, like, the Big Picture, and also the finer point and big picture questions can be deeply related. anyway. 

- medicine

for all that there are a lot of autistic characters who are scientists, i rarely see one who’s a doctor/medical researcher and has that connected to their empathy and desire to heal others? but i very very much think Nicky has been a medic/involved in medicine and medical research since shortly after his first death and his centuries in the medieval Islamicate world with Yusuf, and has watched the way medicine has developed over the centuries, and is really fascinated by things like biochemistry and kept really studious logs of it all.  

- music esp guitar + folk music

also pretty fun to think about with so much of the history of stringed instruments linking to cross cultural trade around the mediterranean + Islamicate worlds, love the idea that Nicky has always kind of liked folk songs and music but has learned over time a number of varieties of stringed instruments starting with the oud, with his favorite being the guitarra batente and Hawaiian steel guitar with the slack-key playing style. sometimes he sings but a lot of his appreciation for music and stringed instruments especially is about the emotions that can be expressed without any words at all! 

- miscellanous other things 

the parts of a sniper rifle + shooting techniques, various kinds of sniper rifle scopes, buying + haggling for the best quality kinds of art supplies for yusuf, cooking, he reallllly doesn’t understand digital anything or the internet but he does like the elegance of electrical wiring and circuits, actually reads all the manuals that come with appliances for the interest value and is the one who wires safehouses to be off the grid and is just like. very good at odd household jobs + fixing things (which Joe finds unspeakably hot), he accidentally ended up as a star batter on a minor league baseball team at some point in the 1920′s and has an incredibly knowledge of baseball scores and runnings since even tho it’s literally one of like two sports who’s rules he understands and can focus on for more than five minutes (the other sport is the irish national treasure hurling), aforementioned nicaraguan tree frogs, in the last couple decades has gotten really concerned about biodiversity loss and the importance of protecting genetic diversity of species and crops, the large scale data of public health crises + antibiotic resistance, which he gives copley a long talk on basically the first time he speaks to him at all and which has copley pulling out a red sharpie and scribbling how massively he’s misjudged Nicolo di Genova, over the last few hundred years he’s become super concerned about medical + bioethics and the various technologies involved in that, stained glass window symbolism, angry birds and cooking 

[one-boring-person]

Only Traitors Consort With The Damned. (Part One)

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: blood imagery, injury

Context: The reader is a vampire hunter who works for an institution that specialises in hunting supernatural beings, and has been deployed in Santa Carla. Over time, she met the boys and somehow befriended them, choosing not to hunt them at all, rather keep their territory clear of other vampires.

A/N: right, so this is an idea for a series I've had for a little while now, and I've been itching to get it down. It's a little bit different to what I usually write, and I swear it will get better than this first part, so bare with me. 💛💛💛❤

Masterlist

“I thought I told you boys to be careful tonight?” I exclaim as I emerge from behind the dune i was crouched by, carefully slotting my dart gun into the holster at my hip, concealing it with my jacket before gingerly sliding down the soft sand, taking in what was the scene of a beach party, but is now in fact the remains of a coven of vampires’ meal. Bottles lie, stranded, in the bloody sand, clothes and shoes strewn all over the place, a foul stench emanating from the bonfire in the centre, where there are already three bodies burning, the platinum blonde vampire, David, having already started disposing of the evidence.

“He caught us off guard!” Paul whines, the lanky blonde picking splinters of wooden shrapnel out of his abdomen, Marko and Dwayne kneeling beside him to help, hands slick with blood, both vampire and human.

“I did warn you he was in town.” I point out, going over to the limp hunter lying on the floor a little way away, pulling out a syringe of sedative from my pocket as I crouch down beside him, rolling him onto his front with one hand. From his place by the fire, David comes over, watching as I remove the dart from his back and inspect its contents, noting that it is only half empty, meaning the muscular man beneath me is not nearly as unconscious as I would like. Moving a lock of dirty blonde hair away from the pale neck exposed by his loose collar, I inject him with a larger dose of the same sedative, making sure that he is well and truly out of it before rolling him onto his back, looking into his haggard face.

Unsurprisingly, I don't recognise him, though I am well aware that I probably should, given that the logo embroidered into the shoulder of his jacket is identical to the one on my own, identifying him as a member of the same unit that I am in - the stark white cross and blood red rosary beads a dead giveaway. Chewing my lip, I consider what I should do with him, thinking through my usual options: leave him where he is so he can pick up his own pieces tomorrow, take him back to the ramshackle hut I live in so I can help him recover and make up some story, or let the boys take him, an option which I've never seriously thought about. A short groan from behind me snaps me from my thoughts, Paul's stomach evidently still not quite healed after his encounter with a shrapnel grenade, a personal favourite of many inexperienced Hunters, due to its efficiency in incapacitating vampires in a large radius. Unfortunately for him, the tall blonde managed to take the brunt of one, as the Hunter's aim is apparently as bad as his ability to protect himself against his own quarry - no one serious about taking down vampires should leave their neck as unprotected as he does.

"You want some help getting the rest of those out? It'll be difficult without tweezers." I call over to the three vampires on the floor, knowing that the splinters tend to lodge themselves quite deeply.

"We haven't really got all that long left before the sun comes out. Will he survive with them in all day?" David chips in before Paul can reply, eyeing his brother in concern.

"It really won't be very comfortable for him. He'll be in agony the entire time, but he'll survive. If you want, I can drive over to my place and grab what I need and meet you back at the cave?" I offer, well aware that having Paul in constant pain will be as tedious for the others as it is for the vampire himself, seeing as he has a tendency to whine.

Across from us, the vampire in question whimpers again, head falling back, lip clamped between his teeth, Dwayne moving carefully to pick him up, concern written across his face. Upon seeing this, David growls, sending a murderous look at the prone figure at my feet, fist clenching at his side as he fights the urge to exact revenge.

"If it's no trouble, (Y/n), that would be much appreciated." Dwayne accepts, smiling tensly at me as adjusts the weight in his arms.

"Ok, I'll be over in an hour. I have to get him," I point at the Hunter, "Home, so I'll be a little longer than normal. Make Paul as comfortable as possible whilst you wait."

The brunette nods at me before floating into the air, moving to fly in the direction of the cave they reside in, Marko soon following with a quick grin, the younger vampire clearly as worried as his brother, leaving David and I alone with the Hunter.

"What're you gonna do with him?" The vampire inquires, toeing at the Hunter's face with his boot, disgust evident in his tone.

"I'll send him back to New Orleans in the morning." I inform him, having made up my mind.

"New Orleans?"

"Yeah, it's where the SRS have their headquarters. If I send him back with an appropriate story, I'll be sorting two problems in one go." I explain to him, referring to the relentless curiosity that I've been faced with for the past year, when the SRS (Supernatural Riddance Soldiers) superiors noticed that I never seemed to come back, an odd occurrence for one of their most experienced soldiers. If I tell the Hunter that I'm sorting a vampire problem here, they'll leave me alone; what they don't need to know is that I've accidentally befriended the only real vampires in Santa Carla itself. If they found out, I'd be excommunicated and then hunted down as if I were a vampire myself: anyone who consorts with the damned is damned themselves.

"Makes sense, I guess. Want some help carrying him back?" David offers, watching as I prop the body up against my own, judging the weight against me before I decide on the best way of getting him to my home.

"Err, yeah, that'd be great, thanks." I respond, standing as he easily reaches down and picks the body up, the weight resting comfortably in his muscular arms.

Together, we walk back the way I came, picking up my skateboard (my only method of transport) on our way, following the road back to the rundown shack I call my home. When I was first deployed here, the SRS put me up in a crappy motel off the highway going into Santa Carla, but after the first week or so, I moved out and into this shed, seeing as my only transport from my original lodgings was a bus, the price of which was too much for me to continue using. Being an avid skater, I swiftly purchased a skateboard and have used that ever since; it was also how I first met Dwayne, having accidentally bumped into him at one of the many skateparks in and around the coastal town. Approaching the rickety structure now, I feel a little self conscious at my choice of home, aware that the walls are patched with random pieces of wood, the roof made of scraps of corrugated iron and that the door is nothing but a sheet of riveted metal that I slide in place in front of the gap in South facing wall. David says nothing, allowing me to pull the "door" aside before entering, dumping the body on the floor with an unceremonious thud.

Quietly, I grab a rope off of the messy table top and get to work tying the Hunter to a loop of iron set into the floor, a feature that was already here when I first moved in, tightening the knots significantly, given that every Hunter is trained in the art of escapism when they go through their initial training, meaning it is likely that the man on the floor may well be able to break free. When I'm finished, I rifle through the gear littering the many surfaces in the room, eventually finding my tweezers, lifting them for David to see as I approach him.

"Let's go." I say to him, giving the unconscious Hunter one last look as we step outside again, slipping the tweezers into my pocket, "How are we getting there?"

"Well," David smirks, shrugging to himself, "Either we can walk, or I can carry you."

"You can carry me?" I question, blushing slightly at the idea.

"You look light enough, and flying is faster anyway." He reasons, chuckling at the redness of my cheeks, something he can only see because of his enhanced vision.

"I guess we can try that? It means Paul doesn't have to wait as long..." I start only to be cut off when David suddenly has me in his arms, my own hands wrapping themselves around the back of his neck, a yelp escaping me at the proximity.

"You'd better hold on, kitten." The vampire teases, before taking off into the night sky.

Part Two

[turtlepated]

The Ghost and the She-wolf

Part 5

------

Pirate!Zhuk (and regular but no less awesome Zhuk) belongs to @monsterlovinghours

Tag list: @beetlejuicebeadoll , @insomni-snacc, @do-ya-hear-that-sound, @dilfyjuice , @young-erstill , @nikkivfx 

Thank you all again so much for all the notes! I can’t believe how many likes and reblogs I’ve gotten on this story! Before we get started, this one is the longest chapter yet so buckle in! I think I’m going to forget about the bullet points this time and just post it as is. 

Enjoy! 

-----

A sort of dull stupor seemed to have settled over you as you stood there alone in Zhuk’s cabin. Your hands twisted themselves together against your middle as you wrestled with the rising fear chilling you from the inside out. The sound of men shouting and running, of heavy cannons being rolled into place across the deck drifted to you as your heart beat a rapid staccato in your chest. Apprehension was thrumming through your body, making your limbs twitch with the burning desire to move, to release the mounting energy in desperate need of an outlet. Your feet carried you mechanically across the room with no destination in mind, your eyes flitting over trinkets and odd bits of furnishings without really seeing them, but details managed to bubble slowly to the forefront of your racing thoughts. You spied an upright piano standing against the wall in the corner, tucked behind Zhuk’s bunk, and a faint recollection of distant piano music lilting to you in the brig teased the edge of your memory. In the opposite corner there stood an elaborate folding screen. Curious, desperate for a distraction from the bustling urgency just out of earshot, you strode forward to see what lay behind it. Zhuk may not be keen on you snooping through his quarters, but he had instructed you to remain there.

A small, spindly-legged table was nestled against the wall with a few knickknacks, a simple upholstered chair with a lush dressing gown draped across its back. All in all, less dramatic than you had perhaps expected. You stepped in closer to inspect the handful of objects set upon the table: narrowing your eyes in the poor light. There was a candle burnt down to almost nothing, the lit wick dancing in a puddle of melted wax. A rosary of wooden beads, a fine lady’s handkerchief trimmed with lace that may have once been white. Dried long stem roses, their buds a deep wine red that as almost black, had been set at the base of an oval picture frame like an offering before an altar. Inside the frame was a carefully painted cameo portrait of a beautiful young woman. Even in profile, you could see that she was smiling, her hair falling long and loose in chestnut waves. You studied it all with a furrowed brow, surprised to find what seemed to be a shrine secreted away in the fearsome Prizrak’s lair. Who was this woman? What had she been to him? And what had happened to her? You stood there, feeling more and more like an intruder in a private sanctuary when you heard the first blast of cannon fire from the crew of the Perperuna. The boom shook you out of your paralysis and you turned to the door, hesitating for only the briefest of moments before snatching it open and bolting down the corridor.

You burst out into daylight, the acrid stink of gunpowder in your nose. All around you the deck seethed with activity. The spent cannon was being cleaned and prepped for the next shot while other crewmen took aim on either side. The Colossus was progressing steadily, not quite within range of a volley just yet but very clearly taking position for a broadside sweep. Zhuk was pacing up and down the deck, shouting instructions as he went. He called for the men to hold their fire, to wait until the enemy ship was close enough for maximum damage. “Aim for the masts,” he ordered. “The shot may not penetrate the metal plates on her sides, but we can cut the legs out from under her can’t we, tovarishchi?” Zhuk’s men responded with uproarious yells and cheers, banging their fists on the gunwale, stomping their feet against the deck, rallying one another. Before the Colossus got the chance to begin the opening salvo, Zhuk gave the command to fire. The blasts weren’t quite synchronized, but they filled the air with clouds of smoke and deafening noise, like a thunderstorm in miniature had broken out over the ship. At least one of the shots missed its mark and hit the side of the Colossus, resulting in a deep, ringing metallic clang and leaving behind a good-sized dent. Chunks of the enemy ship’s gunwale had been struck and blasted away, but it didn’t look like the masts had suffered any damage just yet.

Zhuk called for the second string of cannons to prepare to fire, but a pair of gunports slid open in Colossus’s side to reveal cannon muzzles. You frowned, suspicious. Renard liked to play with his food, but surely he wouldn’t return fire with only two guns. The cannons did not look like any you had seen before, the circumference of the bore was small and dramatically tapered. Less like a cannon barrel at all and more like a nozzle. And fixed at the mouth of both was a lit wick, you could see it smoldering all the way from where you stood. Perhaps it was instinct that compelled you to take cover behind the quarterdeck stairs. You had the barest glimpse of some sort of viscous substance being forcibly propelled from the iron nozzles before the glowing wicks ignited the foul-smelling goop and shot pressurized streams of fire at the deck of the Perperuna. You winced against the wall of scorching heat as men screamed, scrambling to escape the flames. When you dared to emerge from your haven, chaos greeted you. Men were picking themselves up after diving away from the incendiary onslaught, burning puddles of the stuff pooled around the deck, on the mast, licking at the bottom of the sails. Before anyone on the ship had time to resume their posts, additional gun ports opened in the side of Colossus and more artillery slid into view. There was no mistaking these for ordinary cannons: they resembled spearheads, but much larger, wickedly barbed to make them harder to withdraw. They launched with explosive booms, trailing thick chain as they gouged deep into Perperuna’s side and effectively secured the two ships together.

On the deck of the Colossus, soldiers lined up along the rail, taking aim with rifles and began to open fire. Zhuk’s crew was again forced to take cover, though you could tell from the cries of pain that some were not fast enough. Zhuk rose to his feet behind the mizzenmast where he had taken refuge from the jets of flame, striding purposefully toward one of the cannons with no regard for the bullets whistling past him. Your heart leapt painfully into your throat as you watched him brace against the rear of the cannon, rolling the 400-plus-stone gun forward under only his own strength. You held your breath, your disobliging brain supplying you with a horrifying visual of the spurt of red, the choked off grunt and the inevitable sight of the fearless pirate collapsing lifelessly when a shot met its mark. Zhuk kept pushing even when the carriage wheels met the gunwale, baring his teeth in a terrifying grimace as the wooden bannister cracked and broke away, forcing the gun further forward. Zhuk pitched it downward, going so far as to physically lift it to reach the angle he wanted when it could pivot no more on its own. You couldn’t believe your eyes when the fuse lit, evidently of its own accord since both of Zhuk’s hands were occupied with aiming the gun straight down between his ship and the Colossus. It fired with a shuddering boom, quickly joined and almost drowned out by the high-pitched sound of tearing metal. Braving the tumult, you raced from your hiding place to the side of the ship, leaning over to look. Just as you’d thought, Zhuk had fired the cannon at the chain snaring his ship and broken it, leaving only one more at the bow end. You turned your gaze back to the captain as he heaved the cannon away from the gap, securing it so it wouldn’t go overboard. For one ludicrously long moment, time seemed to slow around you as your thoughts whirled in a dizzying eddy. What was this man? Was he a man at all? The inhuman display of strength, his utter indifference for the deadly gunshots ringing around him. You remembered the look on his face when you stabbed him in the chest, totally unconcerned and even amused. There had been no blood…

Time resumed its frenetic pace when a shout rang out from the starboard side of the Perperuna: “Captain! Astern! Astern!!” All eyes whipped around to look aft, and your heart plummeted all the way down to your feet. There was another iron-sided ship speeding towards the melee, a duplicate of Colossus in every way you could see. “Looks like the bitch has a sister!” roared Zhuk, his long legs carrying him in just a few strides to where you stood. He reached out and grasped your shoulder in one large hand, pulling you away from the side to duck down behind the stairs to the sterncastle deck. He pushed you down into a crouch, sinking with you, eclipsing you with his bulk and glaring heatedly. “Upryamaya zhenshchina!” he growled through gritted teeth that looked too sharp. “I told you to stay below decks!” Your reply was interrupted by cannon blasts as more siege hooks on chains lanced into Perperuna’s side. One crashed through the quarterdeck, perilously close to impaling the main-mast. “I’d say you need all the help you can get!” you shot back. You could see the hulking Russian pirate clench his jaw, the cords in his neck standing out as he swept a discerning gaze over the deck before settling his fathomless eyes back on you. “Very well, Captain,” he relented with a grim smile. “I’m sure I can trust you to keep my ship afloat?” You returned the grin with one of your own and then the two of you were in motion

You bolted for the stairs below decks. The first thing to do was to make certain that the siege hooks hadn’t struck below the water line and let water flood the hold. If it had, it would need pumping out quickly before the ship foundered. At some point you would need to find a weapon, you felt sure. You pounded down another set of stairs on the orlop deck, obliged to hoist your long skirt to keep it out from underfoot on the steep steps. You quickly inspected the lower decks for structural damage, descending all the way down to the cargo hold. Crates, barrels, casks and parcels lashed into orderly stacks that stood hip deep in seawater. It didn’t appear to be rising very fast, but it was still a perilous amount of water. You had to find the bilge pump. Slogging through the water, weighed down by the drenched skirt of your dress, you finally located the mechanical device and managed to get it working when the ship shuddered violently all around you. Something must be happening on deck. You hurried back the way you’d come, cursing the dead weight of the sodden dress and cursing Zhuk for his narcissistic fashion choices. You trudged back through the flooded cargo hold, hiking the trailing skirt up to your waist to keep it from tangling around your legs. At the foot of the stairs you paused. You still needed a weapon, who knew what you would walk into back on deck. The armory would be locked, and only Zhuk and the bosun would have keys; no time to find one of them. You stopped where you were, looking at the crates around you, reading what writing you could decipher on the sides, trying to find…. Your eyes lit on an oblong crate. The words stamped in black ink appeared to be Dutch, or German, but you had a pretty good idea what you’d find inside. Your fingertips were bleeding, fingernails broken or split by the time you were able to pry the lid off and rifle through the straw packing, feeling your hand close around a smooth wooden stock. You grinned, pulling the object free to examine it. It took a few moments of fumbling preparation, but soon you were charging back up the stairs into the uproar.

Once again you were momentarily blinded in the brilliant sunlight after the darkness in the hull, blinking against the smoke as fire continued to burn on deck and in the rigging. The second iron-sided ship had closed in and you could see open gunports in its side, more guns loaded with siege hooks in the apertures. You were momentarily frozen in place by the sight of yet another goliath sea monster, large as a whale with a broad flat head like a pike, its back covered over in thick armor. One siege hook had already been fired at the creature, jutting up from its back. Zhuk was nowhere to be seen, but the bosun and a few other crewmen were working to pry loose the chain from the hook speared through the quarterdeck. There was a teeth rattling roar from the behemoth in the water and you hazarded a glance, seeing the twin Colossus deploying its strange fire breathing guns on the poor creature. It wouldn’t last long, and then Perperuna would be outnumbered and outmatched. A cry rang out from the men working at the taut iron chain and they scattered as burning rope and sailcloth and wood rained down around the mast. You raced in with your borrowed weapon; a German-made blunderbuss. Dodging the rain of fiery debris you crossed to the chain, pressing the muzzle directly against the metal and squeezing the trigger. Your ears rang slightly at the sharp report, and you stumbled over your thrice accursed dress as you backed away from the recoil of the broken chain, losing your balance and falling to the deck. There was a snap from high above you and you raised your eyes into the rigging in time to see the burning mainsail come free from the mast, with you lying directly in its path as it came crashing down. You struggled to right yourself, to get to your feet, to roll out of the way but there was no time. Bracing yourself you raised an arm to protect your head as best you could, your eyes closing tightly as the roaring of burning cloth filled your ears.

Several things happened then in quick succession; first you felt arms hoist you effortlessly from the deck just before the burning sail landed with a suffocating blast of heat and embers that engulfed you both. You couldn’t breathe, the air was searing your lungs as your rescuer shifted and struggled to push out from underneath the sail. Finally fresh air wafted over you and you gasped it in greedily, coughing on smoke and blinking away the tears from your watering eyes. “Are you all right?” The deep timbre of the voice, so close you could feel it rumbling in the speaker’s broad chest. Zhuk’s shirt was smoldering slightly as he held you tucked you securely against him, reaching for your face and brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Your breath caught in your throat, feeling a blooming warmth that you hastily attributed to the brush with the fire. Zhuk stood and set you carefully on your feet, his gaze sweeping to the starboard side where the second ship was bearing down on the Perperuna. The behemoth was floating on its side, staring sightlessly at nothing as inky blue blood spilled into the sea from its blackened and smoking corpse. You tore your eyes away from the sad sight of the dead sea creature to Zhuk and you gasped quietly: you could swear that his eyes were glowing, his pupils shrunk down to tiny slits as he stood still as stone. His fists were clenched tight at his sides, the knuckles and tendons standing out in sharp relief.

“Bosun,” he said, his voice coming out as an animalistic growl. The loyal Russian man appeared as if summoned by magic at the word. “Tie everything down, tell the men to secure themselves. This is not a fight we can win.” The bosun nodded a swift acknowledgement and turned away at once, shouting to the other crewmen. Confused, you hurried after Zhuk as he paced down the deck toward the bow, taking the steps three at a time as he mounted the forecastle. “Zhuk, what are you doing?” you all but demanded. “We can’t escape with the mainsail down, the rigging’s in tatters. What is your plan?"  He did not answer, and you followed him all the way to the beakhead, the furthest forward he could go on the ship without climbing out onto the bowsprit. You did not ask again, standing next to him as he stared fixedly out at the sea. After a long moment he cast a considering look at you, a slightly sinister light to his slit-pupiled eyes. He grinned. “I’ll show you,” he rumbled, sending a chill down your spine that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Zhuk turned to face the ocean and began shouting in a strange, guttural language that did not sound like any tongue you had ever heard or one that a human mouth was capable of. It reverberated bizarrely out over the waters, as though he were speaking with several voices at once. His jaw appeared to open too wide, his teeth bestial and pointed. His eyes were definitely glowing. You were frozen by the spectacle of seeing him this way, monstrous, demonic, yet you felt no fear. He extended an arm in a beckoning gesture, his fingers curling into a claw as if holding an invisible sphere. Had the tips of his fingers been black and corpselike this whole time? Movement out of the corner of your eye caught your attention and you looked out to sea where a large disturbance was forming in the water. Part of you wondered if the waters were responding to Zhuk’s words, but that was preposterous. Wasn’t it? He turned, his back to you as he gazed toward the stern and raised his other arm in a similar fashion. Following his gaze you saw more activity in the water just a few hundred yards away from the rear of the ship: a ripple of motion as though something were moving just below the surface. As it got closer to the Perperuna it grew larger and taller, building into a monstrous wave. Quite subconsciously your hand reached back, fumbling for something to hold onto as your eyes remained fixed on the massive wave that would soon swallow the ship whole. When it crashed into the stern everything shook and you staggered, barely able to keep your footing. Rather that smashing the Perperuna to bits, the wave propelled her rapidly forward and away from the reach of Colossus’s siege hooks or flame throwers. You could see crewmen bustling on the deck of the iron-sided vessel, unfurling sails, preparing to come about and give chase while her twin was angling to ram Perperuna’s port side. Zhuk had not moved from his bizarre stance, but he made a dismissive swipe with his arm and to your great surprise a second wave rolled through the water toward the other ironclad, building higher and higher and pushing her away from Perperuna’s path. Was he controlling the waves? How could that be?

All questions were quickly wiped from your mind as you looked forward, where the prow was making a straight line for the churning water were a maelstrom seemed to have formed out of nowhere. Whatever madness had seized Zhuk, whatever creature he was or what forces he commanded, you lunged for him and gripped his arm tightly with both hands. “What are you doing?!” you shrieked. “Killing us all?!” The devilish pall that twisted his handsome, roguish face lifted in an instant, as though he were coming out of some sort of fit. He glanced ahead at the yawning whirlpool, covering both your hands with one of his own. “Hurry,” he rasped, not giving you time to answer as he all but carried you back to the mainmast. All around you could see the other crewmen had tied themselves to the railing, twisting ropes around their wrists and gripping for dear life. The roar of the whirlpool was growing louder and louder, Perperuna speeding up as she was caught in its pull. Zhuk produced a section of rope, tossing it once around the mast and taking one end in either hand with you between him and the mast. “When I tell you,” he said, shouting over the din of the vortex of water. “Take a deep breath!”

You gaped at him, too stunned and frightened to speak. He actually was insane, sailing his ship straight into Charybdis. The deck pitched underfoot as the ship tipped over the lip into the maelstrom, you could feel it beginning to spiral around and inexorably downward toward its demise. Zhuk adjusted his grip on the rope, pressing you back against the mast and pinning you firmly in place with his body. “Get ready!” he shouted, to you? To all? Terror was clouding your brain, making it impossible to process what was happening but you were certain of one thing: you were about to die. Seawater was sluicing up over the sides by the gallon, swirling at your feet as the ship creaked and groaned as though tearing apart. “Deep breath, volchitsa!” Zhuk bellowed and you opened your mouth, sucking in as much air as your lungs would hold before the ship plunged down the throat of the whirlpool. You kept your eyes shut tightly, feeling the press of water all around you. Zhuk had not budged, still pressing you against the mast. The deafening silence and pressure seemed to go on forever, your puffed cheeks aching from holding your breath, your lungs burning, your pulse pounding loud and painfully in your head from the lack of oxygen. Quite suddenly, you felt the water rushing past you. No, it wasn’t the water that was moving, it was you: it was the ship rising to the surface like a cork. Perperuna surged upward from the depths, sending sheets and fountains of water shooting into the sky. She bobbed for a moment or two in her own choppy wake before the waters calmed and she found her balance again.

Your eyes flew open and you gasped, coughing on sea water as Zhuk finally stepped back from you, gently swiping away the sodden hair plastered to your face. “Are you all right?” he asked, dripping but appearing normal again: no fangs or glowing eyes, no claws and no worse for wear. You coughed again, dazed, looking this way and that as your frazzled brain struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Where were Borneo and Sumatra? Where was the strait? Where were Colossus and her sister? This was not the Java Sea, the Perperuna was floating in slate gray waters under an overcast sky. You paced a little unsteadily to the rail, grounding yourself against the gunwale with trembling hands. “Where… where are we?” you asked no one. Zhuk came to stand next to you, surveying the surroundings. “I’m not positive,” he began. “But I would say somewhere in the north Atlantic.” You choked on your breath, whipping around to look at him. “What?” But you’d just been in the south Pacific! How could you possibly be on the other side of the world? Infuriatingly, Zhuk took one look at your overwrought expression and gave a warm chuckle. “Come with me, volchitsa. We will find you something dry to wear and I will explain.” He laid a hand on your lower back, steering you slightly ahead of him in the direction of his cabin. The bosun appeared, reporting that all souls were still aboard. “Very good,” Zhuk replied. “Get us underway as soon as you can.” “Aye, sir. What’s our heading?” Zhuk eyed you again as he said, “Where else? Set course for Nav. The time has come to call a meeting.” 

-----

It may be worth noting that Renard is French for “fox”. He’s a crafty sonofabitch, isn’t he? 

Originally l’d planned on keeping the story in the mid/late 1700′s Golden Age of Piracy as far as the kinds of technology that would be available. But then I decided screw it, this is way more fun. Researching the ironclads and coming up with Colossus’s arsenal was also a lot of fun. The Chinese had rudimentary rocket launchers centuries ago while the Western world was still on bows and arrows. The flame throwers were inspired by Greek fire (which worked hella well and even today we’re not sure exactly what it was made of).

Previous Chapters:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

(hope these worked...)

[renega]

Memorial Day is a hard day for people who’ve attended too many funerals at military cemeteries. Airborne is a tight community, and Memorial Day is a hard day for combat veterans. For many years it meant hosting bbqs where people drank too much and laughed too loud and were disoriented by their survival. And then the suicides began to pile up and it meant broken bottles and closed fists and grief you could drown in. But it was still a community.

Shout out to everyone on the homefront who makes it through the roughest patches. And a special hat tip to the military spouses who covered one too many bruises with concealer until they couldn’t anymore. Because the grief is still there. And the community isn’t. And it’s a sad, lonely time.

[redadm1ral-moved]

Hey y'all! It's WIP Wednesday again and I've been working on COH stuff recently, so I decided to share what I've been working on! Since it's long, I'll stick most of it under a cut, and I'll leave my commentary for the end.

For context: I've been editing Chapter 1 again over the past few days (will elaborate on that later), so a majority of what I've been working on is prose edits. So nothing new, just (hopefully) improved.

(@onlycodcanjudgeme)

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Black towers of smoke billowed high above the city of Prague and strangled the newborn dawn, shrouding the world in a dark veil of gray and brown. The distant rumble of passing helicopters rolled through the overcast sky, and through the broken streets echoed the occasional crack of gunfire. Snaking through the old city’s veins like frozen blood, an icy breeze snatched up dust and soot and ash from the bottoms of mortar holes and the steps of shelled-out buildings, only to spit it all across the blood-streaked stones of the Old Town Square. Between the scattered, mangled remains of Russian combat vehicles, crows squabbled over a sea of corpses. A few weak rays of sunlight struggled through the blanket of smoke and glimmered off the copper dome of the Hotel Lustig.

Though the remnants of battle laid at her feet, the Lustig herself remained untouched. And with brilliant white floodlights illuminating her silvery stone walls, and crowned by a grand brass-faced clock, the hotel stood as beacon in the heart of a blackened city. A golden glow from within promised warmth and company, and the scarlet curtains hanging in the arched windows offered the illusion of security. Only the illusion, of course—and only for some.

Perched at the mouth of a crumbling mortar hole in the side of a church tower, and fidgeting with the rosary in his pocket, Soap MacTavish narrowed his eyes at the Hotel Lustig. Unlike the hotel, this church—the Church of Saint Nicholas, if memory served him right—had no light or artificial warmth to speak of. Just people, swaddled in the warmth of moving bodies and delicate security of the church’s sturdy walls. But that was in the nave, several stories below Soap’s feet; here in the bell tower, he and his companion, Yuri, weathered the frigid morning alone. Still, even as the freezing wind chilled them to the bone and threatened them with smoke and rain, the Lustig’s rosy lie of safety inspired contempt rather than envy. At least, it did in Soap; the hotel—and the Russian troops within—could burn as far as he cared. And by noon it would be, God willing.

A soft snort escaped Soap. Hidden away in a church with his gloved fingers entangled in prayer beads was perhaps the best time and place to appeal to God’s will. And once upon a time he might’ve sent up a quick prayer, if only to cover his bases. Now, though, he wouldn’t bother. Soap was certain God had long left the equation by now, just as he was certain of the cool, firm weight of the rifle resting across his thigh.

The shuffle of fabric and the soft clink of metal at Soap’s side alerted him to Yuri’s movement, and a quick glance told him Yuri had started yet another examination of his gear. Quiet and reserved to the point of near neurosis, nervousness from Yuri wasn’t new—but the man had counted his rounds more times than Soap could remember, and he moved with the careful precision of a man focusing too hard on keeping it together. Soap couldn’t blame him even if he wanted to (the anxious knot in his own gut left him in no place to do so, anyway). Any apprehension this morning was warranted, given who they were up against. Soap and Yuri knew it well—perhaps a little too well, in Yuri’s case.

“Which vehicle will he be in?” Soap asked. The question was pointless; unless Yuri spontaneously developed psychic abilities, there was no way he could give a straight answer. And for once, Soap wasn’t probing for one. What he wanted was some reprieve from the mounting pressure—for himself, and for Yuri.

It took a few moments for Yuri to even look up from counting his ammo—and when he did, his eyes settled on the hotel, not on Soap. The dim morning light glinted off the round he rolled between his thumb and forefinger, and a white cloud floated past his lips as he let out a long, low breath. A thoughtful look flickered across his face, brief and genuine.

“They constantly rotate for security,” he finally answered, his voice firm with certainty. “We won’t know until he steps out.”

“How do you know that?” The question sprang upon Soap’s tongue and battered against his teeth, but he bit it back. The last time he’d asked, Yuri’s response had resembled anything but a straight answer. And yet, Price had been satisfied by it. Soap had to remember that. They were all paranoid these days, but Price had been satisfied, somehow, so maybe it had been enough of an answer after all and Soap was bending himself out of shape over nothing. And perhaps on a different morning, he’d have let it lie—but the uncertainty gnawing at the back of his mind refused to let up. So, Soap amended his approach; he raised a brow and lifted one corner of his lip in an expression he hoped suggested tepid skepticism, and with a low, sufficiently casual scoff, he remarked:

“You seem to know a lot about Makarov.”

Yuri said nothing. He didn’t even spare Soap so much as a glance as he returned to filling his magazines, and the gentle clink of each round sliding into place sent Soap’s stomach twisting tighter and tighter with doubt, with suspicion. But he kept his mouth shut, because confronting Yuri now would jeopardize the mission, and Price would never forgive that. Not when they were so close, not over a gut feeling.

---

Okay so I have to write chronologically. My brain will not cooperate with me otherwise. And on top of that, sometimes I have these bouts where I need to edit stuff I've already written and make sure it's Up To Speed before I move on, otherwise my little gremlin piss brain will throw a fit and refuse to let me write anything new. So I've been taking the opportunity to go back and really expand on some things I touched on in the chapters I've already written so that I have a stronger foundation going forward.

For this chapter, I wanted to touch more on Soap's weird suspicion around Yuri - there is a LOT I have to cram into this part, but my goal is to get this basic concept across: Soap knows Yuri is hiding something, but Nikolai and Price don't see it (or at least, Price doesn't care bc he's well into his downward spiral at this point). And because he's depressed and wants to trust Price's judgement far too much (despite knowing deep down that Price is not exactly stable at the moment), Soap doubts his own judgement.

So that's what this is; the culmination of several day's worth of pounding my head against the keyboard and rewriting each passage multiple times in order to hopefully get across what I'm trying to get across. Writing hard.

[jedi-mabari]

Last Rights

Summary: Out on a patrol, Deputy Sarah Harper is wounded, and Pastor Jerome is quick to her aid.

Word Count: 1151

Warnings:Canon style violence, blood.

A/N: I have decided that there is not enough Pastor Jerome content, so I’ve decided to take on the task myself.

___________________________________________________________

Sarah stopped dead in her tracks as she saw the peggie. She had already cleared out this stretch of road for the resistance, and there shouldn’t have been any peggie activity. She didn’t have time to pull her side arm out before the peggie noticed her. He drew his weapon and pulled the trigger before she even had the time dive for cover. She felt the bullets bite into her side, moving outward as her feet propelled her behind the truck.

Jerome heard the commotion from down the road and ran towards the gunfire. He didn’t even think when he saw the peggie. He just lifted his shotgun and took him down. He kicked the rifle away from the dead body, knowing it was better safe than sorry. 

“Sarah, you there?” He poked his head around the truck to see Sarah sitting on the ground, her hands pressed firmly against her side. Her face was all screwed up, like she was trying not to scream. “Fuck. Did he get you?” 

“It’s not so bad,” Sarah lied through clenched teeth. Jerome knelt next to her, his hand covering her, feeling the blood seep between their fingers. “I’ve had worse, I swear.” Jerome looked at her and shouldered his shotgun. 

“Even if I wasn’t sure you were lying, I’d still feel better if I could check.” Sarah looked up at him and nodded, allowing him to remove her hand from her side. He carefully lifted her shirt, carefully pulling it away from her stomach. She had three clear wounds, all of them gushing blood.

“How bad is it, Pastor,” she asked, trying to force a smile. “Are you gonna need to read me my last rights?” Jerome didn’t laugh at her attempt at a joke, he just dropped her shirt and placed her hand back over the wounds, adding pressure with his own hand. 

“Do you think you can keep this amount of pressure on here,” he asked. Sarah nodded and Jerome nodded back. “Good, because I have to lift you into the truck so I can get you back to town.” 

“Be careful,” she said, and Jerome nodded, lifting her carefully into his arms. He got her into the truck, propping her up with his hand as he slid behind the wheel. Jerome let her lean into his side, his arm wrapped around her so he could help keep the pressure on her side.

Had it been any other time in the world, if another driver had seen her sidled up to him like that, they would have thought it was cute, romantic even. But she was drifting in and out of consciousness from loss of blood, and Jerome’s face plainly showed how worried he was. He didn’t even try to park the truck as he pulled into Fall’s end, just stopping it and throwing it into park so he could pull the deputy out of it. 

“Mary, we need medical attention over here,” he called as he entered the Spread Eagle. Mary didn’t even give it a second thought, grabbing the first aid kit and the first pair of hands she could reach. No one was really medically trained, and the only vet in the area was over in the Henbane river teritory, so Mary had to make due. 

“What do we have, Pastor,” she asked as Jerome laid Sarah out on the table. 

“Three gunshots, all of them still in her,” he said, and Mary nodded, tying her hair back. It had become a regular sight in Fall’s End. Citizens all bandaged up because of the cult, but never had Jerome or Mary felt so shaky. This was the Deputy. She was supposed to be the one that saved them all from the Seeds, and here she was bleeding to death on their makeshift operating table. 

“Hun, I need you to grab me the tweezers and a knife. We need to get those bullets out so we can sew her back up.” The man she grabbed dug through the first aid kit quickly, handing Mary the tweezers. He pulled a pocket knife out of his pocket and opened it, laying it in Mary’s hand. 

“Don’t worry. It’s clean and I just sharpened this morning,” he assured when Mary gave him a look. She didn’t question further, or demand proper tools. She just set about fixing up the deputy. 

When Sarah woke up, the room was spinning and her head felt like it was filled with cotton. She didn’t try to sit up right away, knowing it was either going to end with her throwing up or sprawled out on the floor. She rolled her head to the side and spotted Jerome sitting in the corner, reading from his bible with a rosary in his hands, the beads carefully passing between his fingers.

“Is it time for you to give me my last rights, now,” Sarah asked, a small chuckle eeking out of her lungs. Jerome looked up at her and shook his head, a smile on his face. 

“You think you deserve last rights after the stunt you just pulled,” he asked, obviously amused at her joke this time. He stood up and crossed the room to stand next to Sarah, kneeling so he could examine the bandages on her side. They were still clean, so he dropped her shirt back over them and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. She instinctively leaned into his touch, his fingers cool to her forehead. 

“Do you remember what happened,” he asked, leaving his hand against her face. She nodded and let out a yawn. 

“I was clearing the road into the town when a peggie surprised me. Then you showed up and saved my bacon.” Jerome smiled at her and finally took his hand away. He grabbed something off the floor and unscrewed the top. 

“You need some water,” he said, pressing the canteen into her hand. She tried to scoot up in the bed, but let out a pained gasp, almost dropping the canteen. Jerome grabbed the bottom of the container with one hand and put the other on her shoulder. “You should also take it easy.” He helped her sit up carefully, propping her back up against the headboard. 

“I should be fine by tomorrow,” she said, taking a slow drink of water. Jerome sat on the edge of the bed and shook his head. 

“We’ll see about the end of the week,” he said, folding his hands in his lap. “You just get some rest. I’ll be back up in a bit to see if you need anything. Get some rest, Sarah.” Sarah carefully scooted back down into the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin. 

“Thank you, Jerome,” Sarah said, looking after the pastor, who had made his way to the door. 

“Anytime, Sarah,” he said, closing the door after him, letting Sarah get some rest.