#some would argue they are worse than regular plastic even

[femmefitz]

Oh when we got Arby's in the airport the straws were labeled as being home compostable/biodegradable. Very exciting development.

[leggerefiore]

Uncanny

words: 1743

Summary: Ingo has a bizarre dream while napping on the subway.

cw: mentions of killing but nothing serious, no pairings, implications of someone not being human

It was a slow day at the station. People came and went at their leisure, broken into smaller groups rather than the regular masses that flooded the station during the morning, noon, and evening periods. It had been so slow, a much too rare occurrence, that Ingo had decided to catch some missed sleep while waiting for challengers to appear on the Super Single Line. No one was likely to come, and a headache was beginning to pulse against the innards of his skull annoyingly. This would not hurt anybody, and there was not a person over him within the station.

He laid against the plastic seating and settled his hat over his eyes. His coat had been zipped up in order to act as a blanket. The twin sighed with content as the momentary respite allowed him to relax his buzzing mind. Tax documents were to haunt his evening, alongside a disciplinary meeting. He was against being an unjust man, so a nap would be required to help ebb away the tension that had built throughout the day. Emmet had been busy handling some of the other meetings that were scheduled, respecting that his older brother was not in the highest of spirits.

Ingo was worried that he relied too much on his twin, but Emmet only shook his head when he posed the question aloud. "Silly. You are allowed to rely on me," he had said with a genuinely caring smile, "I am your twin. I care for you. Besides, I rely on you. Is it not fair to return the favour?" The older twin found it impossible to argue with that. Many times, Emmet had begged Ingo to take over the paperwork when he was unable to sit still long enough to focus or had asked him to juggle some angry commuters when he just was not feeling capable. They were a team. Always together, even before birth. If the entire world turned against Ingo, he knew that at least Emmet would be his cornerstone.

That is why, when Ingo finally fell asleep, his dreaming mind wandered to a time when he was younger. Back in the quiet of Anville town, away from the hustle and bustle of Nimbasa, his stay-at-home mother and his train mechanic father were seemingly his only companions, as he struggled with people at the time. He was so dreadfully lonely. Why was he lonely? It made no sense. Then he recalled that he was an only child. Why had his brain filled in with a bunk bed? He had a single, twin-sized bed with the average number of toys an only child needed. His bookshelf was packed with novels related to trains and mystery novels.

A few kids had tried to be his friends, but Ingo scared them away when he accidentally went on about different styles of locomotives. People had started to bully him, announcing him as the weird kid of the school. It was made worse when he tried to impress his teacher by reading ahead and answering all of the questions in class. A know-it-all and a weird train fan. He had been doomed to a life of loneliness at such a precarious age. His mother and father talked about having another child, but nothing ever came through. Ingo already required so much work, so they could not imagine handling him alongside an infant. There had been a few nights where he had cried himself into sleep.

Something changed, however. Ingo had been exploring the forest near his house. He wandered deeper, yet deeper. Twigs and leaves crunched under his feet. The sun broke through the tall trees overhead while a distant sound of life was heard all around. A sweltering heat overcame the natural location, and Ingo sat down under a tree. He closed his eyes. Strangely, he had hoped that he would never awaken; that the forest would consume him and leave him no longer a burden on this earth. A slumber took over his developing mind and left him to the will of the woods.

Nothing of which he had wanted to happen. His eyes opened to see his own face staring down at him. A bright smile played across their lips, and they gasped as he awoke. "Big brother!" the voice sounded like his as well, but was strangely weak and scratchy. Ingo was confused. Brother? He was no one's brother. "...Er, who are you?" he tried to push himself up, yet a strange weakness blossomed throughout his body. The doppelganger offered him a hand, and he took it. They pulled him up from the ground with ease. Ingo was pulled into a tight embrace suddenly. Their cheek rubbed against his, warm and alive. His entire body felt much the same. They pulled back and smiled again, "I am Emmet. I am your twin brother."

Emmet's eyes looked up at the darkening sky, and his face became worried. Ingo felt concerned, too, for a number of reasons. He wanted to argue against the claim, yet his heart shut him up. His brain shouted at him to just accept these weird circumstances and forget his previous life as a nightmare. "How could I have forgotten... I'm deeply sorry, Emmet... Did I fall asleep?" it felt easy to say the word. Emmet turned to him and nodded, grasping his hand gently. "You slept the entire afternoon away! Mom sent me to find you. She's worried! Verrrry worried!" his voice became more and more normal as he spoke.

Ingo felt a pang in his chest at the thought of worrying his mother. "It is quickly growing dark... Let's go home, brother," the word felt foreign yet welcome upon his tongue. His hand tightened around his brother's own. Emmet smiled at him and let out a small 'yep', before following him. During the walk, memories returned to his mind of how Emmet had always been at his side. How his bullies were chased away by his younger twin's more dynamic personality, and they played games in the backyard with each other. Evenings were spent studying together, Emmet was a natural at remembering the information. By the time they reached their home, Ingo felt secure in Emmet's status as his twin brother.

Emmet smiled at him, "I'll go in first and check how mad she is. Do you think dad's home?" Ingo nodded. Dad never stayed late on Fridays, especially when he had the weekend off. The younger twin sighed, "Ingo is mean. Leaving me to calm down two parents at once." He was pulled into a hug once again. This time, he reciprocated it. Ingo let Emmet head inside first, sitting down on the dead leaves and dirty ground below him. For a moment, there was shouting inside, but it soon stopped. Minutes passed by while Ingo contemplated taking the punishment to escape the uncomfortable sight of Joltiks emerging from their hiding places.

The back door, however, soon opened to reveal Emmet and his mother. Her hand was securely on his shoulder. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw her eldest son was fine. "You had me worried sick! Emmet started crying when you didn't come home when you said you would," her tone was stern as Ingo walked up to her. She laid a hand on his shoulder, too, before leading both inside. "I didn't even set a plate for you, I was so upset," she continued as the twins took their seats at the table. Their father peered up at them and shook his head disappointingly at Ingo. Shame dug a sharp blade into his heart.

From that day onwards, Ingo never felt alone again. No matter the strange circumstances, Emmet was always at his side. Of course, a memory of accidentally catching him changing haunted his mind. His brother's back had a strange black marking that spread across from the bottom of his neck to under where his high-waisted jeans had cut it off. Emmet jumped when he noticed Ingo, quickly turning around to conceal his back. A birthmark, Ingo remembered. Emmet had a birthmark. He apologised and left his brother to finish changing.

Ingo was startled awake as the train stopped. Long forgotten memories and deep loneliness set off red flags in his mind. He got off the train and rushed to his office, desperate to obtain some coffee and try to forget what his brain warned him about. The door opened to what was supposed to provide him sanctuary from his haunting thoughts. It was never to be. It sat at the desk, writing up some reports with a light hum. Without the delusion of belief, it was clear to see what separated him from the doppelganger. "Ah, Ingo! Did you get any trainers?" its voice was no longer identical to Ingo's own having taken on its own style and inflection.

"Are you really human?" his voice was low and cautious, carefully observing how the creature would react. Its head tilted before a strange smile came across the mimicry of his face. "What would you do, Ingo?" it asked with a lilt in its tone, "What would you do if I wasn't human?" What would he do? Kill it? He could not. Emmet was much too popular for his sudden disappearance to go unnoticed. Could he even bring himself to harm something that appeared just like him? He swallowed dryly. Did it even matter if Emmet was not a human? It had never done anything to hurt him, rather, the opposite. His life was improved considerably after Emmet's entrance.

Ingo let out a shaky breath and sat down at his desk. "Nothing. No matter what you are, you are still my brother," he admitted to both himself and Emmet. The younger twin turned to him with a curious expression. "Weirrrrd," he chimed, and a completed tax document was placed before him. "You're being so mean and all I did was your work," Emmet playfully complained, "I even did the disciplinary meeting for you." Ingo stared at Emmet while at a loss for words. They both knew what Ingo had realised, yet there was nothing to change.

"Ah, say, Emmet. Wasn't there a new café that you had wanted to try? Why don't we go there together after our shift?" the older twin attempted to amend the oddness he had brought earlier. Emmet beamed at him and nodded. No matter what, they would always be brothers.

[bonny-kookoo]

Ready Player 01 | JJK x Reader | 🔞❤️☁️

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Genre: dystopia!AU, former Game developer!Jk, former pro gamer!JK, former IT specialist!Reader, former programmer!Reader, romance, Smut, slight cyberpunk elements

Warnings/tags: injustice, forcefully controlled public, violence (police/government officials against citizens), unfair powerplay, interrogation, tech talk, Jungkook be antisocial as FUCK but so is the reader lmao wbk, fear of physical contact (Haphephobia), past trauma and mentions of a bad childhood, insomnia, crime, smut because yes it’s me hello my content isn't kiddy-proof in the first place what yall want from me I'm not sure, but that’s waaY at the end ya know, friends to lovers, a slightly sassy AI but we love her, reader struggles with emotions, I mean same tbh, they're both so sweet tho I cant, not proofread because let me live

Summary: there’s a war going on; silent, but it’s there. Media has been strictly become controlled and regulated- to the point of making it illegal to own a TV or phone with internet access without a valid license. But there’s always some people that will try to break free from the controlling force.

"-a new age. This is a new year. And remember; we're doing this for the greater good. Until tomorrow." The news reporter stops talking after she somberly looks somewhere behind the camera that is pointed at her.

Your room is dark- the TV brightness on it's lowest setting so you can see what's going on- but outside, no one can see the light shining in your tiny apartment. Investing in blackout curtains had really paid off at the end of the day.

You don't want to get caught.

There's an announcement van driving past your window; the tiny slits in your curtains where the light from outside can creep its way inside brightening a bit as the headlights pass your windows. Something is spoken, and by now everyone knows the routine speech.

"Electricity will be shut down in five minutes. We advice to save all progress immediately- and we wish a good nights rest. Electricity will be shut down in five minutes..-" It repeats, over and over, counting down the minutes. You slowly move into your kitchen, opening one of the loose floor tiles to turn on your own emergency electricity system. With well practiced movements you close the tile again, moving the rug over it as you walk back into your living room, swiftly sliding the TV behind your wardrobe to make it disappear. As if on cue; there's a knock at your door.

The same as always. Routine. Two times, loud and clear. You don't even have to look through the peephole to know what awaits behind it.

"Yes?" You ask, rubbing your eyes as if you had been already asleep. The officer behind the door nods at you shortly, a mild smile on his face as he looks down at you.

"We didn't mean to wake you miss. Just routine, as usual." He says, peeking into your apartment to look for any electronics still running. It's pitch black however- so he simply nods, as his colleague notes something into his tablet. "We wish a good nights rest miss. Again, sorry for intruding." He apologizes, and you nod, closing the door.

Only when the street lights turn dark, do you move from your bed.

"Creator." The AI voice chimes up, her voice greeting you as as you lift the tile on the floor again- your phone connecting to the AI to show information you instantly decode and note down inside your head. "Player01 has just connected." The voice states, and you sit down on your cold kitchen flooring, smiling a little. "He has sent a message. Would you like me to play it?" The voice asks, and you take a deep breath.

"Yes." You say, and there's a small sound indicating the start of the voice message. A male voice is head.

"Hey, whats up?" He asks, and you can hear something in the background- maybe an empty can or something similar. "I uh.. I'm on my way. Should I bring anything? Ah wait, I know the answer to that.." He says, chuckling at the end of his sentence, and you can hear him zip up his jacket as he moves around. "Yeah uh.. just text or something, I'll bring stuff over. Can't have you starve." He ends, and the AI speaks up again.

"Would you like to repeat the message?" She asks, and you shake your head at her; a signal the artificial intelligence has come to detect quite well. "Should I archive it?" She questions again, and this time, you nod- something your invisible assistant can pick up due to motion sensoring.

"Send him a message." You say. "Tell him: I only need you. Get yourself here in one piece and I'm happy. And I'm very capable of taking care of myself." You state, and your phone shows a small loading message- indicating that the voice is doing as you said. It chimes up after a moment. "Thanks Kana." You say.

"No problem creator. Would you like for me to run through the databases now?" She asks, and you nod, a smile on your face. "Database search in progress. Estimated time: sixteen minutes and eighteen seconds." You huff out a breath as you look at the tiny display on your arm; tiny, yet powerful as it's your way of keeping Kana- your AI assistent- close at all times. Tonight, there would seem to be a lot to dig through.

They really added a lot of content these days.

It's not the door that makes you notice that there's a visitor after a while- He never uses it anyways for some reason. You're sitting on your kitchen floor with a small cup of tea in your hands- kept hot inside a slightly beaten-looking thermos can since you can't use to water boiler at night. Using anything other than Kana would cause a spike the police would be sure to notice; and you're not ready to get caught yet.

Not tonight.

It's a boy who, after a moment, opens the unclosed kitchen window to climb in; his combat boots getting a little snow and dirt from the outside into your apartment as his 80's looking jacket makes distinctive noises as it brushes against the sides of your window. His blonde hair has grown out a bit these days you notice- the roots clearly showing. It's a little wet and slightly curly from the moisture. It must be snowing outside- or maybe it had. You couldn't know for sure.

You never left your apartment.

He closes the window after slipping on the tiles inside a little, the plastic bags noisy as he almost drops them- sheepishly taking off his boots as he smiles at you. His socks are different from one another- but that's another thing so distinctive and just so.. him. He's his own person, always has been; it's what brought you two together, after all. You both stood out against the 'regular public' these days; with his brightly almost white-bleached hair he was like an albino in a sea of crows.

But you knew he didn't need that to stand out to you.

You can still remember the first few times the boy in front of you has visited you; the times where he had just dyed his hair to rebel out, or when he pierced your ears in exchange for you to do it to him as well. It was like you had made a blood pact in your kitchen that night- you had somehow gotten closer, formed a little more than just a simple companionship in order to riot against the law. He began growing close. Gave you a nickname. Began calling you his player 2. Began calling you his 'ace'. He had explained that he thought of it from memories of his gaming days; the two fighting teams always called red and blue, and one of his favorite weapons having that nickname- simply because it always 'saved his ass last minute'. He had rambled on about his last tournament after that, eyes sparkling and cheeks round from cold noodles.

You had become friends.

"hey." He says after sitting close across from you on the cold floor; the opened tile and Kana's core exposed to you two, the only source of light apart from your bracelet. The colorful LED's paint marks on his face and illuminate his features to you; but it does the same to you from his point of view. It's a familiar sight. "How are you?" He asks, almost shyly, but you know that's not what's bothering him.

"Hey Jungkook." You simply say with the hint of a smile, as you answer him. "Haven't slept well these days but, what's new I guess." You chuckle, and Jungkook smiles too- though a glimpse of concern is still shown your way. He knows however that forcing you to sleep won't do much good- your insomnia was too bad to really conquer it in a day or two just by taking naps.

And also; who was he to talk about solving personal issues.

"Have you seen the most recent reports?" You ask him, and the boy somberly shakes his head.

"I was unable to." He states. "They were patrolling close to my apartment complex because there had been someone reporting a Glitcher today." A 'glitcher'- a slang word now commonly used for people like Jungkook and you. People who went against the nightly routines, people who tried to trick the system by using electricity at night, owning media, consuming it, or dealing with it. It somehow became worse than underground drugs. "They pulled him out at around twelve or so- but they seemed too on edge the entire day, so I didn't risk it." He says, and you nod. Jungkook had always been a very good person when it came to calculating risk versus reward. He was good at reading people too- even though he didn't interact much, he got out of his apartment a lot more than you did. "Anything important?" He asks, and you shrug.

"There was a report that China and Japan were still on edge- with the chinese government arguing that they would soon start with 'more drastic measures to get things under proper control', whatever that means." You say, and Jungkooks brows furrow as he starts to pick on the skin of his jaw. "Let's just hope the flood doesn't throw us under the sea as well if it escalates I guess.." You say, and the boy across from you nods.

"Creator." Kana's voice chimes up, making Jungkook look up before remembering that the only source would be your bracelet, which you look at as well. "My scan of your body shows that you have not consumed a sufficient amount of calories today. I recommend a meal in the next five to eight minutes to avoid malnutrition." She says, and you groan. "I take this as a form of verbal communication. Running data search..." She says, as Jungkook looks at you; thoroughly amused by the teasing banter between the AI and his friend. "My data search concludes that you are annoyed, creator. I have only stated a fact however-" She continues, and Jungkook steps in.

"I've brought some leftovers from my dinner today we can eat." He says, pulling out some plastic containers as he moves to get proper cutlery out of your drawers. He makes sure to push them towards you, making sure to nod with a smile as you nod and thank him a little embarrassed. "It's nothing. You know I love you too much to let you starve!" He states with a grin, bunny teeth on full display as bitterness creeps up your throat- something you make sure to swallow down before beginning to eat.

Because the kind of love he's talking about right now, is not the kind of love you want him to feel for you.

"You forgot to give it a proper validation there-" He points out as you type away. "Otherwise it will just run instantly, and everything at once. That could crash older systems, and we know that V95 uses an older laptop, so we should take that into account." He says, and you nod, clicking back to the spot Jungkook is talking about.

This is what you're both good for.

Writing code for you had always been something you did with a passion- simply because you were good at it. Numbers and short phrases were something you could remember with ease; but you never had to think much about the visual aspect of programs in your department back when you were able to work for a simple programming company. You had simply always been tasked to program security systems and automatically updating firmware, or simple AI's for factory robots. Jungkook however had been all about the visuals; he had been programming games after all. That's why you two fit so well together in this scene. Whenever he would be in complete awe of the broad knowledge you had about official guidelines and security breaches, of staying undetected and unseen while still gaining as much as possible from every single line of code, he could always throw in his input to make sure the program you were both writing and updating for the glitch community was easy to use and simple enough so it could run smoothly on as many systems as possible. Be it phone, laptops, PC's- you two made it possible.

This program was connecting Glitchers all over the globe- and with yours and Jungkooks knowledge, you made it almost invisible. And even if it was somehow detected; there was no possible way to track down any of it's users.

The fact that you had to hide a simple program from the government made you sigh.

"Okay. Yeah I think that fixed the bug." He says, and looks at your arm- at Kana. "Oh, by the way, Kana?" he asks, and the chime gives him the cue to talk. "I heard you had a bug-fix too recently." He says, and the AI chimes again.

"I did, Player01." The AI answers. "The addition of code to my current program has proven to significantly increase my ability to observe and save more data." The female voice answers, and Jungkook grins. "You are happy, Player01." She states, and he nods.

"I am." He says.

"Why is that?" The AI asks, and Jungkook shrugs.

"I'm just happy you're doing well. Someone has to take care of ace when I'm not close by, yeah?" He states, and you try not to react to it. Jungkook is by now used to your more stoic expression; you're not too emotional and barely let things get under your skin. You've been hurt before, he knows this even if you never told him- he can see it in the way you hide inside the safety of your home, how you're so cold on the outside but still clinging onto him. Sometimes he wishes he could touch you; run his hand over your head to ruffle your hair like in those cheesy movies, hold your hand, or simply give you some reassurance in the form of a gentle hand on your back whenever you struggle.

But he's got his own demons, and they love clinging onto him just as much.

"V95 has connected to voice chat. Would you like to talk to him?" Kana states, ripping him out of his thoughts as he watches you nod.

"JK? Y/N?" A deep voice asks.

"We're here. Heard there was a raid close to you?" Jungkook asks, and he can see you grow a bit more serious at that. "Are you okay?" He adds, and V answers, although quite.. tired?

"I'm good. They got Jimin though." He states, and you sigh, running a hand through your hair as you stand up, frustrated. Jungkook knows you're trying to calm down by pacing. He doesn't mind. "They didn't officially arrest him, took him for 'questioning' though. We know what that's about." He states somberly, and Jungkook takes a deep breath.

"Jimin is a master manipulator V. He'll get himself out of it, I'm sure." Jungkook tries to reassure, but it doesn't gain him much than a hum from Taehyung on the other end of the line. "What about Sleeper?" He asks, and a chuckle is heard.

"He's been checking the videofeed from inside the past few nights. He said he's send some of the big bites to Ace though?" He says, and Jungkook looks over at your form.

"Yeah I've seen it." You simply say, though Jungkook grows uncomfortable with the way you're suddenly standing there. You're a little hunched, biting the skin on your thumb as you look at the tiles as if they suddenly began to move. He knows himself that things inside the 'rehabilitation centers' weren't all that nice to see- but you rarely ever displayed so much distress over it. "Let's just hope Jimin get's his ass out of this situation. We can't afford to loose him." You say, and V stays silent before he sighs.

"Yeah. I tell sleeper you've seen the stuff. Oh, and our prince charming has asked for a date with Ace. Again." Taehyung chuckles, and you groan- while Jungkook can't help but clench his jaw. Kim Seokjin was a very good asset to the team; with connections reaching deep inside the government and his position as a former lawyer- but he still hated his guts.

You didn't need to waste your time dating. You were totally capable of taking care of yourself, you had even said it personally! And for anything else Jungkook would provide for you. You didn't need anyone else than him.

He was totally not jealous of him.

"Can he not use our underground connections for that circus?" You say. "I don't even go grocery shopping, why would I want to go on a fucking date?" You mumble, sitting down next to Jungkook as you take a spoonful of rice. Jungkook feels a weird sense of satisfaction about the situation.

"Who knows." Taehyung says. "Alright, 10 Minute mark- I'll hear from you two soon. Take care." He says, and you both say your goodbyes before the line goes silent.

Although Jungkook hates physical contact, he likes keeping you close.

His heart is melting like chocolate as he notes the way your hand grips his jacket tightly as the two of you walk through town to get your license renewed- a way of holding onto him, and he somehow wishes it could be his hand. He knows yours would fit so perfectly in his, and yet he can't bring himself to do it.

His body is not cooperating.

He remembers vividly how his fear had developed; with his father and mother both being dramatically overworked and overwhelmed with having a kid at a young age, they had no idea how to make a child behave. Every second touch would bruise, every time he had been held would be force.

And at some point, he started to dislike physical touch completely.

It had just been like his growing interest in freelance climbing- the way he would walk and jump high over the heads of unsuspecting people, away from all judgemental gazes they'd throw his way for behaving the way he did. Only when the wind could hit him freely, only when he couldn't make out faces of anyone down below, only when he was high up- that was when he felt safe. The ground below had nothing of interest for him, no point in going down, as his apartment was located on the top floor of the complex. Jungkook never took the elevator, always the stairs.

He liked being reminded how high he lived.

And yet, there's one thing that pulls him down, brings his feet to the earth below, calls him like a siren song. It's you, hidden away from everyone's sight inside your tiny home, just as troubled and judged as himself.

He'd fallen in love with you the second you told him his name.

It had been a rainy night, his clothes drying on your heater as he was wrapped in two of your blankets; the smell of your fabric softener and something so typically you surrounding him like a mother's hug would a child. It had given him a feeling of comfort he had never quite experienced before, and it had also been the first time he had imagined what it would be like to hug you.

To have you close.

He had explained to you why he had freaked out when you reached for his arm to steady him when he almost fell inside your apartment through your window; had apologized and bowed his head in shame until you had simply shrugged.

"You don't have to justify yourself to anyone, Jungkookie." You had said. Jungkookie. "You're you. And I like you." You had said, not looking at him as you typed in some code to Kana's internal system.

His heart had warmed up at that.

And while you had accepted him, he had accepted you just as much. While at first caught off guard by your quiet and sometimes harsh way of treating him, he had also gotten to know just how gentle and delicately you treated the ones you loved. You were a loyal person, always going out of your way to be helpful, and silently basking in praise any time it was directed at you.

He loved that view. The way your cheeks would grow warm, how your eyes would sparkle; and he loved most of all, that he had been, according to Taehyung who was the second closest to you, the only one to see you smile.

You even laughed with him.

It filled him with pride to know that you were able to let go around him, even if it was just a little. It made him feel like he did something huge. It helped him sleep at night knowing that you were trusting him enough to let down your guard a little.

And it hurt him even worse knowing that he couldn't do the same thing for you.

He was a coward-

and you deserved a hero.

"Ace?" He asked, slipping through your window as he noticed the apartment silent and dark. Nothing greeted him. "..Ace?" He tried again, maybe you were asleep? But your apartment was quiet, empty, nothing spoke of your presence. Dishes were in the sink, a cup of water left untouched on the counter, and something inside of him churned painfully at the way this looked. He checked the kitchen tile, sliding it to the side like he's seen you do it countless of times.

It was dark.

Instead, he was greeted by a post it note. "Underneath the bed. Take care." Was all it read. He stood up, pushing your bed away from the wall noticing how your carpet had been torn a little. And as he lifted the cut flap of carpet, there was an envelope.

Your watch. A small in-ear piece, and your old IT-identification, folded.

A noise outside your hallway made his head snap up as he pushed the bed back into place, making an escape for it as he climbed outside the window, watch safely inside his jacket as he climbed back up on top of a building, before he examined it further, turning it on, after putting the earpiece in.

"Hello, Jungkook." Kana greeted him, and it felt weird to hear the AI say his name like that. "Creator has advised me to answer all questions you might have, and assist you from here on." She said, and Jungkook simply put the watch on, making his way to his own apartment.

"What happened?" He asked, his face serious as he walked.

"At around 6:12 O'clock, creator was taken into further questioning regarding illegal possession and knowledge of classified information and technological equipment. She had shown no resistance and complied with authorities. My observations however showed that she was taken with more force than necessary." Kana explained. Jungkook shook his head. "She had prepared for this instance during the night, approximately twenty-six minutes after you had left."

"She knew?!" He suddenly said, shutting his apartment door violently as he started to pace around, throwing his jacket on the couch. "Why didn't she contact me?"

"Analysis; your body shows signs of-" Kana started, but Jungkook interrupted.

"Shut up. Why didn't she tell me?" He asks again, and Kana seems to hesitate for a moment.

"Considering her close relationship to you, she probably wanted to not get you involved." She stated, and Jungkook sighed, sitting down on his couch as he gripped his hair. He should've stayed. Hell, it wasn't the first time he wanted to stay. He had dreamed of staying over, of fucking living with you for months to no end by now, but he was a coward. And this was his paycheck.

"Kana." He said lowly, and the small tune gave him the cue to talk. "Contact V95. Tell him it's urgent. We got an emergency." He says.

"I can't watch this." He says, jumping up and holding onto his head as to not punch his wall, unable to go through the videofeed of your interrogation room.

There's not much to see, but Jungkook knows that's simply because they haven't had the time to see to you yet. You and him knew best what really happened in these rooms, and he hated knowing that deep down they wouldn't go easy on you simply because you were a young woman. It didn't matter to them.

He'd seen teenagers way younger than you and him getting the rough treatment before- and elderly didn't get spared either.

The government bragged about having everything in order; yet they couldn't even control their own law enforcement it seemed. When he really thought back on his history lessons in school, not much had changed at all.

The world was still in utter chaos.

His palm shuts his laptop harshly- earning a tiny chime from the AI he’s already forgotten shares his home with him now. “I suggest that you practice care in treating your electronics to-“ he groans, successfully shutting it off at that. “Why are you frustrated?” It- she? Asks, and he sits down.

“I don’t know how to help her.” He admits in shame, thinking back to the footage of your hidden camera; the way they had pushed you to the ground, before grabbing you, leading you out of your apartment a few minutes away from him. “I don’t know what I should do.” He says.

There’s a bit of silence, until the AI speaks up again. “Do you have a romantic interest in my creator?” She asks, and his head snaps up at that.

“What the fuck? Why would you ask me this?!” He barks, unsure where to look since he can only hear the voice.

“I have observed both my creator and your behaviors; you seem to have a very deep rooted interest in each others well-being and opinions. This is commonly found in partnerships. I was only asking you to confirm if my assumption is correct.”

He’s silent for a moment, until he speaks again, watching the announcement van pass his window; voices dull and unintelligible though the walls and windows. “It’s no use anyways. Who wants someone they can’t even shake hands with?” He sighs, looking into his lap again. He hates that he’s like this; that even though he very much loves and adores you, there’s no magic moment that makes him forget- even though he craves the contact, he can’t do it. Every time he’s close to you, he knows that he could simply hug you; or let you rest your head on his shoulder, like in romantic movies. He wants to hold your hand, wipe your tears- but his body won’t cooperate. He can’t do it.

Not even with you.

“Creator seems very comfortable with you.” The AI states. “I have been asked to archive all text messages and phone calls of you two recently. When I asked for a reason, she claimed she would need it someday- I was unsure what she meant.” Jungkook furrows his brow, raising his head again. “Sometimes, when creator is deeply upset, she has the habit of playing some of the recordings of you singing, or reminding her to take care. My research has shown that it slows down her heartbeat to a more normal level and also improves her insomnia.” Jungkooks eyes widen at that.

Does that mean.. that you like him back?

"Kana, fuck- cut the feed." He says, agitated.

"Are you sure?" She asks, and he sighs, before yelling his frustration out, sitting down to take a deep breath. He slowly shook his head no. He couldn't let all your hard work go to waste like this.

He couldn't stay a coward.

"Jungkook, it appears to be that the creator is being let go." Kana suddenly chimes up, and Jungkook rushes to his pc setup to see for himself. And she's right- your arm is being held tightly, and something is being said to you, but your hands are no longer chained to the chair- you're free.

What just happened?

Jungkook sometimes really hates himself for being the way he is.

There's no sugarcoating it that you need comfort now more than ever, even though you don't openly show it to him. He can see it in the way you're still biting your nails, he can see it in your eyes which never stay on one point for too long. And he can definitely see it in the bruises on your upper arm, and the cut on your lower lip where you had bitten in anger and frustration. He wants to comfort you, he knows you'd let him- and yet he can't move any closer than where he is right now; only the length of his palm of space between you two. And yet it's like his joints are locked into place. He can't touch you.

What if he hurts you?

And it dawns on him right then and there while he watches you drink your can of overly sweet soda while typing your code like second nature, that he's not scared of you hurting him. He's scared of doing to you, what's been done to him. Because deep down he is aware that his parents never had bad intentions, never hated him or wanted him to suffer; they were simply unsure and not at all confident in how to really care for a child. They had been caught off guard and gotten overwhelmed by the sudden shift in their situation that they never truly knew what to do. And nowadays he felt like he was simply heading down the same road.

He was starting to feel like he was becoming just like them.

"Hm?" You ask him, ripping him out of his thoughts as he looks at you, your eyes wide and worried as you put down your almost empty can of soda. "What is it?" You ask him, and he wants to scream. He wants to throw a fit like a child at the way you seem to worry for him every time you should worry for yourself. He's a coward, he's useless, he's everything you don't need nor deserve in his eyes, and yet you always look at him like he's the main character of your favorite movie.

If he was, he was sure he'd be merely a sidekick- because you deserved to be the focus of every story told in his eyes. And if you weren't included in the tale, he knew he didn't want to ever know about it.

He swallows, before he manages to make his hand move, finger pointing at your arm where a green-ish bruise already formed. "Does it hurt?" He asks, and he's not even sure if he's asking you about the bruise, of if he's asking something else. He doesn't know what he's saying, doesn't even know if he's asking you or himself.

"No." You answer, and he looks at you, searching for any hint of a lie in your eyes. But he only sees that slight smile, lips turned a little, almost unnoticeable. But its there, he can see it, and he wants to print it into his mind to never forget it. You were so observant, knew him so well, that he was almost certain you knew of his inner fight and what he really meant with his blurted out question. "Are you okay?" You ask him, and he swallows again, eyes stinging with unshed tears as his body grows rigid like an unoiled machine, only moving with as much force as he can manage to come up with. His breathing is heavy as his eyes can't leave the spot on your arm, and your watch him with wide eyes as his shaking hand slowly reaches out.

He doesn't know what he expects to really happen.

Maybe like those electric shocks you get when someone had rubbed their socks on a carpet before touching someone else. Maybe he had expected to recoil instantly. Maybe he had expected nothing- but he was suddenly in a rush the moment his fingertip touched your warm skin, delicate, soft, everything his rough hands weren't.

And you were still as prey in front of a wolf.

But the wolf in this scenario was holding his breath while his tears finally fell. He wants to speak, but he can't, he doesn't know how to ask for something when he doesn't even know if he wants it.

But suddenly he moves again, his palm now resting fully against your upper arm, shaking, as it moves over the length of it, softly, as he imprints the way your soft skin feels. "Jungkook.." You whisper out, and he suddenly snaps, leans forward, his legs on either side of your body as he snakes his arms around you from behind, pulling you close to his chest. You can feel him shake as he holds you, his cheek resting against your back and you don't care about his tears staining your shirt as he suddenly cries openly and possibly for the first time since he was a mere child.

He's unsure, overwhelmed, because you're so warm, you smell so nice, you're so soft, and he can't let go, doesn't want to let go. He whines out as you turn a bit as he thinks you're moving away but you're simply placing your legs over his as you sit in his lap, hugging him back as you make sure to give him a gentle squeeze.

He calms down after a long while of simply existing. Of breathing you in, of feeling you. "You're right." He whispers into your neck, and you can't help but shiver, leaning into his hug.

"It doesn't hurt at all."

"You know, I get why you come up here." You comment, as Jungkook makes sure to hold your hand tightly in his, your feet dangling off the edge of the building you're sitting on top of. "It's nice." You say.

He's not listening that well though.

All he can really do is watch your face, illuminated by the neon lights of the city, hair swaying in the wind as you look down below. He doesn't quite know what you two really are, doesn't know how long it will take him to really come out of his shell and give you the love you deserve, but he's trying. He's fighting, he's left his cowardly self behind.

He want's to change.

And not just for you alone, because while he hates seeing you hurt, he knows what you two are doing- what all of you are doing- is for the greater good.

Jungkook hates your ideas sometimes.

Simply because he knows they will work, but also end up with you getting into danger at the end of it. And just like now, all he can do really is hope that you make it out as he keeps a watchful eye on your movements from above, giving you directions via Kana as you sometimes trip and stumble a little.

You're not a very active person; running wasn't really your thing.

Fuck, you were basically a hermit, the most you walked around was from your bedroom into the kitchen!

But then again, sacrifices had to be made somewhere. And Jungkook really admired you; because every time he thought that you had reached your limit, you would face it head first and break through it.

"Ace, try and somehow get to higher ground. They're caging you in from all sides." He urgently tells you as he watches police chase you down the roads, pushing citizens aside to not loose sight of you.

The plan had been simple. Gain all the attention so Taehyung could infect one of the police station's servers with a new worm, giving you all a better and easier access to any data and communication of the area. Jungkook couldn't play the bate well enough; and you had been on their radar already, making you the best option to gain their interest quickly enough.

Although Jungkook hated that part.

"Come on, ah fuck it." He grits out, jumping down to grab a ladder, making his way to a nearby area he could pull you up. There was no way you could reach any of the fire ladders yourself, and by now, things were getting too hot for him to risk anything. "Here!" He barks out, not thinking twice about grabbing your hand and helping you upwards, trying not to worry too much about your heavy breathing. And then there's it.

A pop, loud, followed by another, and another, and another. You're suddenly falling, scraping your knees on the ground below as he can't catch you, too startled by the fact that they had actually decided to shoot to react quick enough. "Fuck!" He says, eyes wide and pupils blown as he looks at you.

"Jungkook, why the fuck aren't you running?!" You yell at him, a scratch on the top of your left cheek as you push his leg away from you- the only thing you can reach. "Go!" You bark again, and he growls out something, before he manages to pull you onto his back, adrenaline not letting his brain process what he's doing.

He can't just leave you.

"Taehyung, get out, Ace has been shot. Whatever was uploaded has to be enough." He says via the in-ear piece, doesn't wait for a response. He still gets it.

"Fuck, what?! Okay okay, I'm out" He says, and Jungkook can only catch a glimpse of the older man leaving the building via the backside entrance. He's only concerned with getting you somewhere safe.

"Urgh." You groan, slowly sitting up on Jungkooks couch. "I mean, I know paintball hurts, but rubber bullets? Jesus.." You complain, while Jungkook looks at you with a dark expression. "What?" You ask him, and he huffs.

"You sound like you haven't almost been killed yesterday." He grimly says, and you shrug. "Stop. I'm serious." He tells you, and you let yourself fall back down onto his couch.

"Whatever. At least we killed their communication." You say, closing your eyes. "Must've at least pissed them off." You say.

"Kana." Jungkook suddenly says, waiting for the familiar sound to tell him she's active. "Shut down for now." He says, and you sit up, hissing instantly at the sudden movement.

"Hey- ah fuck!" You say, as you watch on your bracelet how Kana complies; shutting down. "Why would you do that?" You say in an offended matter, before you grow quiet, watching him go onto his knees in front of you, as he lets his head rest on top of your lap.

"I just want.. you to myself. Just.." He mumbles, and you slowly bring your hand to his hair. "Just for a moment." He says, and you sigh. Jungkook had been under a lot of stress recently, you no doubt being the main cause of most of it recently. So you simply let him be, as he closed his eyes. "Y/N?" He asks suddenly, and you answer him. "I love you." He says, and your body stops moving.

What?

"It's okay if you don't." He says, not moving from his spot, and neither opening his eyes. "I mean it. I only want you to know." He explains further. "Because I.. couldn't fucking live with myself if something happened to you, and I've never told you." He admits, and you can't help but stare at him. Jungkook looked down on himself so much that it was sometimes frustrating to see; simply because you saw him as such an amazing human being with countless talents and beautiful flaws.

You knew you couldn't muster up the strength to actually answer him; not so spontaneously. You weren't that expressive, you couldn't communicate as freely and colorful as he could. All your words seemed black and white to you, mixing into grey and mundane sentences while his words seemed to bloom into the most amazing paintings. He had a way of charming those around him- and he didn't even know.

You slowly leaned down instead, moving his hair to the side as you placed a feather-light kiss to the top of his cheek, close to his eye.

You hoped he would somehow understand you.

And as he moved again, looking at you with eyes that sparkled brighter than any city's skyline ever could, you knew he did.

He'd always understand you, no matter how you communicated with him.

You didn't need words to understand each other.

The shy kiss you two shared, bathed in the purple glow of the neon lights outside his window, spoke enough.

"You should try and sleep." Jungkook tells you, taking away your can of soda as you whine at him. "No buts. Come on, I'll finish this for you." He says, and you let him take over the keyboard of your laptop. It's something you really only let him get away with- anyone else would've probably lost a finger or two trying to touch your work.

You don't trust anyone but him at this point.

"I know that Kana snitched." You comment, as you lean your back against his shoulder. He chuckles. "Can't believe my own creation goes behind my back like that." You mumble, and Jungkook has a light tune to his voice as he speaks.

"Well, it's a good thing though." He tells you. "I worry about you." He says.

"Ugh come on, you know that's not the part I meant." You laugh, and he grins.

"Oh, you mean the part where you listen to my crappy ass singing to help you sleep?" He tells you with a teasing undertone. "No wonder you got insomnia trying to find rest to that." He chuckles, and you playfully hit his thigh.

"Shut up, your voice is nice." You say, and he's glad your eyes are closed, and you can't see him blush.

Somehow, moments like these re-energized him again. Because it proved to him that there was still a piece of that innocent and untainted you inside that thick shell you had put up to protect yourself. And considering that you let him see you like that made his pride grow taller than any of the skyscrapers of his city.

Maybe one day the two of you will have a future together that won't be so difficult and unfair like your current one was. Maybe one day, you both will have changed enough to teach the next generation about what you've overcome.

But then again; living in the moment seemed to fit a lot better in his eyes, as he watched you sleep soundly against his shoulder.

Yeah, this moment was more than enough for now.

The world won't change over night- you both know that. All of you know that. But small things were starting to make a difference here and there; for example, the letter you held towards Jungkook as his eyes widened.

"..and we have officially decided that we no longer want to participate in the case against the defendant. The result of this agreement is that all charges against Y/N L/N have been dismissed and are no longer being investigated." He reads out loud, almost whispering as if saying it too loud could make it a lie. "They let you go?" He asks, and you nod, the small bandaid on your cheek making you look even cuter in his eyes as you shrug.

"Jimin had reached out too. They've let him go home as well." You say. and Jungkook huffs out in disbelief.

After infecting the police station with the worm you had all worked on, you had scared the entire country enough to take a step back from the overall aggressive tone. It wasn't much- but it meant that they knew you were there. You existed, and you were not bowing down.

You were still untamed.

Jungkook smiled brightly as he put the letter down to the side, reaching out to you to pull you onto his lap. He simply holds you for a moment, his lips kissing the skin of your shoulder as if in a trance. "I love you." He tells you, and you smile, squeezing him a bit in your arms. "I really do." He assures you, and you nod.

You don't answer him, and he doesn't seem to mind as he leans back from you, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he grins, hands holding your face so delicately as he places a kiss onto your lips, making you close your eyes as he breaks away from you, letting you rest your head against his shoulder.

He's still not letting anyone very physically close other than you; he's still scared of going out and around like everyone else. You're still rather hiding inside his apartment- both of your apartment now- and you still have trouble sleeping.

But Jungkook keeps the nightmares away.

And you make him brave in exchange.

It's really weird to hear the sound of a radio nowadays.

Things are still far from normal- but recently, citizens had been given radios to listen to public broadcast again. It only played crappy music with some rare good tracks here and there, but it was better than nothing.

Jungkook couldn't help but think that your breathless voice was far more entertaining than any music station he can remember from his youth.

While he hates touching other people, even friends and family, he can't help but feel a rush whenever he touches you.

His hands can't stop on one specific spot, can't seem to stay still even for a moment as his lips nip and suck at the flesh of your neck and shoulder, marking what's his, visualizing that you really belong to him. He bears the same mark on his collarbone from last night, and he should have been satisfied, but even an early morning couldn't keep him away from you.

The rain hit the window harshly, but he didn't notice at all. All his eyes could see was your form underneath him, skin glowing as he moves above you, euphoria filling his veins as he can't look away from where you're connected, where his cock disappears inside of you over and over and over again.

"I love you." He breathes out as he comes undone, holding you close, resting his head against your shoulder, as you hold onto his arms, a smile, a genuine and big smile thrown his way as he can't help but smile along.

"I love you too, Jungkook." You say, and he chuckles.

The radio in the background still playing, as you lay in each others' arms.

(c)Bonny-Kookoo. Please stop reposting my content on AO3 thinking I won't find it. I'm literally everywhere you clowns.

To everyone else: Thank you for reading this mess- I really apologize for the messy storyline, but I just wanted to put this out before the entire thing escaped me again and I would end up struggling to find my way back into it (cough cough flashback to mean lmao). I promise to somewhat post more regularly. Thank you for your kind words and for sticking with me!

[someonestolemyshoes]

Come to Me

This is my submission for @levihan-drabbles Trope Tuesday - I jumped firmly on the bandwagon and went with prompt #4: Injured/hurt Levi & caring Hange. Juuuust eeked inside the max word count, but I’ll take it! 

Warnings: This fic does contain some depictions of injury, nothing too graphic, but be aware if this is something that bothers you! 

**

“Who was it this time?”

Hange expected no answer. As such, they were unsurprised at receiving nothing but a grunt and a hiss as they pressed an alcohol-soaked swab to the apple of Levi’s cheek, where the flesh, feverishly red and swollen now, had split like a burst seam.

Only rarely did Levi disclose the particulars of his adventures, and never when prompted. Hange knew better than to press. It wasn’t their role to ask questions, but the silence quickly grew oppressive when left unattended, and Hange would much rather listen to the sound of their own voice than the stifling quiet.

“Do they at least look worse off than you do?” They asked, tilting Levi’s bruised jaw to angle him better beneath the hanging bulb. Levi gave another noncommittal grunt, this one accompanied by a shrug of his shoulder and a grimace that tugged at his bust lip. The forming scab cracked open, and a thin trail of blood dripped towards his chin.

He was quiet, tonight. Moreso than usual. It wasn't in Levi’s nature to divulge too much of anything, but he could be vocal, in his own way. Hange’s poking and prodding was most often met with a grumbled ‘mind your damn business’ or ‘keep your nose out of my shit’ and occasionally, when Hange was in a particularly obnoxious mood, ‘quit jamming your finger into my ribcage’.

There was none of that now. Levi remained perplexingly silent while Hange disinfected the open wounds on his face and knuckles, cleaning smeared blood and palpating the joints, checking the swollen flesh for signs of damage they couldn't hope to fix in their parents' tool shed.

This had been their routine for a little while, a semi-regular occurrence since the first night Hange had found him crumpled over a bench in the park, sucking wet breaths through his teeth and trying in vain to stem the blood flow from a yawning gash on his arm. He had colourfully refused Hange’s offer of calling him an ambulance, and had vehemently denied that he needed to see a doctor, but he had eventually resigned himself to at least allowing Hange to help however they could with the first aid kit in their kitchen and what little medical knowledge they had absorbed from their mothers medical journals.

He had been a relative stranger to Hange, then. They’d seen him around sometimes, in school corridors between classes, or in the lunch hall, or around the back of the science block, where Hange had caught glimpses of him sparking up or stubbing out a cigarette, but besides these sporadic sightings, Hange's knowledge of Levi came only from whispered rumours.

The rumours, more than anything, made Hange worry that this was not a solitary incident.

“Just come to me,” Hange had said, as they'd finished wrapping the bandage around his wounds. “If you need help again. I kinda like my evening walks, and I think it’d ruin my night if I found you dead next time.”

In truth, Hange hadn’t expected him to take their offer seriously at all. Shocked as they were to see him turn up bloody and bruised at their window, they had stayed true to their word. Levi had tolerated their needling questions with surprising resilience, but eventually acquiesced to give some vague answers when Hange had suggested that he might be involved in something highly illegal.

“You’re in a gang,” they’d said.

“Like hell.”

“Selling drugs?”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“I got it—human trafficking."  

“For fucks sake, four-eyes! I’m not—no, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Hange had accused him of every offense under the sun, but as it had turned out, there was nothing so terrible, nor so immoral or unlawful, about Levi’s affairs.  

“I just get in fights, sometimes. I live in a rough neighbourhood. Tensions are high, people snap easy.”

“Do you? Snap easily, I mean.” Levi had given her a noncommittal shrug.

“Depends,” he had said. “Whether something’s worth snapping over.”

Hange had never asked what held that kind of wealth, for Levi. He had a deceptively calm aura about him whenever Hange saw him in passing; a little grumpy perhaps, with his thin eyes and drawn brows and pouted lips, but he never exuded the crackling energy of a bomb ready to explode.

Now, though, he seemed stormy. There was an intermittent twitch in his jaw where the muscle bunched and flexed. Despite Hange's close proximity, sitting with their knees tucked between his splayed legs, his gaze remained resolutely fixed somewhere over their shoulder. His freshly bandaged fists rested clenched atop his thighs. There was a pallor to his skin, the sickly hue of it exacerbated by the fluorescent glow from above them; the angle of the light deepened the shadows beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. He looked, if possible, more sullen than Hange had ever seen him.

Perhaps more tenderly than intended, Hange smoothed their thumb over the last steristrip on Levi's cheek. Something in the softness of the action must have caught his attention, for he drew his gaze towards Hange's face for the first time since turning up tonight. Hange tilted their head at him.

"Are you okay?"

Levi scoffed. "Do I look okay?"

No, Hange thought. You never do. "You've looked better."

"I'm fine."

Hange fought the urge to roll their eyes.

"Like pulling teeth," they mumbled. Levi shot them a look, something petulant and withering. Hange poked their tongue out at him, and winced when he aimed a kick at their ankle.

"Stop being difficult," Levi said. Hange looked at him incredulously, chest swelling and cheeks puffing with indignation. Levi was watching them calmly now, his brow quirked, and Hange felt the futility of arguing with him before they even began. Instead, they blew out a long, calming breath, and began packing the first aid supplies back into the kit.

Silence swelled between them, broken only by the crinkle of plastic as Hange, perhaps with more force than necessary, jammed spare wipes, swabs and bandages into place.

For once, Levi broke it.

"Oi, Hange."

Hange, not looking up from repacking their first aid kit, huffed loudly, and tried their best to ignore him. In the end, though, curiosity won out. "Mm?"

"If—" Levi began, then cut himself off with a harsh huff, and ticked his tongue against his teeth. "If anyone bothers you. Come to me, okay?"

Hange looked up at him, surprised. Levi wasn't looking at them, head turned away and eyes cast down towards the floor.

They weren't friends, exactly. Outside of their strange arrangement, they never really spoke to one another. Hange had, once or twice, caught Levi watching them with a curious expression on his face, but he never spoke to them in public. Hange was mostly at ease with the whole thing. There was an itch of intrigue they longed to scratch, but Levi's responsiveness to questioning had already made itself well known. Excluding their meeting in the park, they had never shared a single word with one another beyond the confines of the tool shed. Why, then, would Levi expect Hange to approach him anywhere else?

"Why would anyone bother me?" It was an earnest question, but Levi met their questioning gaze with a scowl. He opened his mouth with the kind of frustrated ferocity that preceded an argument, then closed it again, and huffed through his nose.

"I heard some things," he said. Hange said nothing, only blinked openly at him, and Levi was pressed to fill the silence. "Someone saying shit. About you."

Hange's brows lifted towards their hairline. "Oh?"

Levi scuffed the toe of his boot over the floor, face twisted in a sneer. Hange found it difficult to tell where his disgust was aimed; at whatever conversation he had overheard, or at himself for bringing it up.

Hange shuffled forward in their chair, one of their knees bumping against the inside of Levi's thigh. His eyes flickered down to the point of contact, then up to Hange's face. Hange nudged his leg harder.

"C'mon, you can't say that and not tell me."  

When Levi showed no signs of budging, Hange sat up straighter and folded their arms over their chest. "At least tell me who."

Levi rolled his tongue between his cheeks, deliberating. His gaze flitted over Hange's face as though he was hoping he might find something reflected in it. Whether he found what he wanted Hange didn't know, but after a long moment, he slumped back in his chair and crossed his arms to match Hange, and said, with no absence of venom, "Zeke."

Ah. That at least explained some of Levi's seething. He and Zeke had a history. Hange was unclear on the details, and much of the story was based on rumours passed down in hushed whispers, morphing with each new retelling, but what was clear enough was that the two disliked one another. On Levi's part, it was all clenched fists and frosty glances, while Zeke carried himself with a mix of smug satisfaction and barely restrained resentment.

Still, Hange found it hard to believe that Zeke would have anything too terrible to say about them. Their communication had been inconsequential at best—he had an air of self importance that Hange found a little grating, and an overconfidence in his own opinions, but the handful of instances in which they'd spoken to one another hadn't been unpleasant. Hange told Levi so, and watched with interest as a hint of colour rose in his cheeks and his frown deepened.

"He's a creep," Levi said. Hange's brows arched even higher.

"What, did he threaten me?"

Levi said nothing.

"Is he gonna beat me up?" Still nothing. "Did he call me ugly? Say I smell bad?"

"You do smell bad."

"Did he perv on me?"

Levi's response was both fascinating and telling. He tensed visibly, spine snapping straight, fingers curling tight into his palms—even his thigh, still resting against Hange's knee, clenched hard. Hange's grin widened.

"Jackpot," they said. Levi curled his lip

"Well, I'm honoured by your chivalry, Levi. But you didn't have to pick a fight with him just because he thinks I'm hot. It's kinda flattering, you know?"

"He doesn't even mean it," Levi said harshly.  "He's just saying it because I—" but Levi cut himself off again, sharply, and pressed his lips into a thin line. The forming scab tugged, threatening to tear anew.

"Because you what?"

But Levi had had enough. He stood quickly, barely avoiding the low hanging bulb, his chair scraping back with a clatter. The new angle of the light cast his nose and brow into deep shadow, and illuminated his cheeks with a bright glow—despite the washed out look the light gave his skin, Hange could see twin strips of pink on either cheek.

"Thanks," he said. Hange blinked owlishly up at him, their mouth open. They wanted to press him, demand he finish saying what he'd started—and perhaps they would have, perhaps this time, curiosity would win out, and Hange would succeed in wrestling an answer from him for once, but he didn't give them the chance.

He ducked around the bulb and moved to brush past Hange's chair and out the door. Beside them, he stuttered in step and paused; Hange thought—hoped—that perhaps he might be debating telling them the full story. He opened his mouth, and closed it again, opened, and snorted quietly to himself.

Then he raised a bandaged hand, and ruffled it into the messy hair atop Hange's head.

"Thanks," he said.

And before Hange could speak, could move, could do much of anything but stare ahead in shock, Levi had gone.

**

If, come the following morning, Hange was at all surprised to see the cuts and bruises colouring Zeke's face—a rather delightful collage of red and purple, black, and blue—they hid it very well.

Levi's self-satisfied smirk was far less subtle.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Feverish and Teary & How Long Has it Been Since You’ve Eaten- Prompt Fill

@thatonekidellis​ Jon, Tim, and Martin have a rough time after the Unknowing. Especially Jon.  I hope this is kind of what you were asking for?  

@janekfan​ you get a ping because this is your au!

CWs: nausea, vomiting, fainting, fever, food mention, alcohol mention, canon typical mentions of Tim's pre-unknowing mindset, canon typical Jon not taking care of himself.

I am still accepting bingo prompts, so let me know which character, which prompt, and if you want a drawing of a fic!  Bingo card by the wonderful @celosiaa​!  This one is twice my usual length because it is two prompts and I did not want to cheat!

The Unknowing blows up.  

As simple as that.  

All according to plan.  

It really is as simple as that.  

Jon, Tim, Daisy, Basira.  Piled back in Daisy's car.  Ears ringing.  Soot slowly settling.  Trying to drive away before the actually police get there.  

It hasn't been Jon's problem how to avoid arrest.  

He is even more glad it isn't his problem now, as he slides down the beat up seat in the back of Daisy's car.  Ash streaks the window, mixing with the light rains that is starting to fall.  

Jon tries not to vomit the nothing he's eaten in the last couple days.  Nothing in him but frayed nerves and statements.  Hadn't even managed to stomach dramamine before their trip.  

Jon just wants to sleep.  

They still have their hotel reservation for another couple hours, so Daisy drives them back there to clean up before heading back to London.  Yes they have to go back today, it's less suspicious.  Jon isn't sure if that is actually true, but he doesn't have the energy to argue.  

Tim showers.  Jon sends a text to Martin.  'Alive.'  

He doesn't answer Martin's near-immediate call because just then he's dry-heaving into the small bin in the corner.  Stiff and shaking and sweaty and miserable.    

Jon showers.  Too dizzy to stand, he sits on the shower floor.  He hates that.  The tub feels filthy.  He feels filthy.  He scrubs his skin raw.  He stands.  He throws up more nothing.  He scrubs himself again, leaning heavily on the wall.  

He wants to talk to Tim.  He wants to tuck himself into Tim's arms and never move again.  Christ, he's running an impressive fever.  Probably.  It's hard to tell.  And his brain is swimming too much to even think about asking the Eye.  

He's cold.  He shivers in his threadbare joggers and stolen jumper (Martin's).  

He wants to join Tim on the bed by the window, but Tim ...looks too deep in a melancholy thought to even notice.  Somewhere between losing his drive for anything, adrenaline crash, and losing the last hope of a last glimpse of Danny, if Jon were to guess.  

Jon could say something.  He knows he could.  But, hasn't he caused enough of a fuss?  Made Tim and Martin trail after him after the ...the.... with Daisy and... that.  If he'd have just stayed quiet and stayed still... well Tim would still hate him... and might not be alive... but ....but he's caused so much worry with that.  And then with... his other kidnapping No.  He can't think about what that... what... not without puking again which... the point is not to worry Tim.  Which means he should try some medicine again.... if he can keep it in him half an hour he'll survive the drive back.  Probably.  

Christ, when is the last time he bothered to drink anything?  

He lays there in a daze until Daisy bangs on the door telling them it's time to leave.  

Tim sleeps on the drive back.  Finally giving into the last few sleepless nights.  Jon is jealous.  

Last night had been spent tangled together, shaking, awake, and silent.  Anxiety too thick to slice with words.  Not even nothing to turn off the lights, because the fear is a little easier to manage in the light.  Jon couldn't stop thinking about Nikola.  He couldn't stop thinking about plastic hands on him.  Couldn't stop thinking about how many things could go wrong and how he could lose Tim and Martin when he only just got Tim back.  

Jon was pretty sure Tim hadn't been sleeping the last few nights.  Jon knows he hasn't.  Not that he has slept well in a long time.    

In any case, Tim sleeps.  Jon doesn't.  

Daisy glares at him through the review mirror.  Jon isn't sure if she is still waiting for him to prove himself monstrous so she can attack, or if she is making sure he isn't ill in her car... again.  (He really wishes he could forget his first ride in her car.  Really really really wishes.  It was not a pleasant experience for anyone, and Daisy had made him pay the cleaning bill.)  

It doesn't matter, he slides down further in his seat and closes his eyes tightly.  

His head hurts.  

Thankfully the medicine knocks him out soon enough.  

Martin greets them at the institute door.  Melanie by his side.  

Jon hazily wakes up to Martin gently touching his shoulder.  

"You actually made it!  I'm so glad you're safe... I was so worried, Jon why didn't you answer your phone, I've been so worried, I mean I know you would have said something if something had happened, but Christ I've been so worried about you, come here."  

Jon starts mumbling some apologies, but is interrupted by Martin gently gathering him in a hug.  Jon sinks into it, fervently hoping Martin doesn't notice the heat rolling off of him.  

Thankfully Martin is too distracted, gathering Tim in a crushing embrace.  Likely very relieved that Tim didn't die, and knowing Tim is harder to break than Jon with his delicate bones and fragility following many incidents.  

Jon... doesn't really know what he's trying to accomplish.  Just... get out?  Or go in?  Or get to the cot?  Or just curl up on the cold tile of the basement toilets?  Get away from people he will inevitably worry?  

Just go somewhere where he can fall apart without taking anyone else down with him.  

It looks like Martin has been crying.  Jon hopes it isn't over him.  

Tim needs to recover from the emotional toll of the last few days without having to pick up the pieces after Jon Again.  

Jon slowly backs away.  

His head is swimming, but that's okay.  If he can just reach the Archives.  The cot.  Anywhere.  Anywhere away from this moment.  This breath.  

His vision swims violently, and there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to be very well acquainted with the pavement in a matter of seconds.  Either that or he's going to be ill?  No.  Sidewalk.  He's going to eat the sidewalk.  Heh... first thing he'll have eaten in days.  

He isn't sure if he loses consciousness or not.  It's hard to tell in the blur of motion and sounds and his spinning head.  Sound is almost gooey in this state of almost unconsciousness, but he thinks someone might be shouting.  Or several someones.  He should maybe worry about this?  But in actuality, he is praying he properly passes out to save himself any more embarrassment and save himself from his unsteady insides.  

His face hurts.  

Someone is holding him.  

Jon fights to open his eyes.  They don't seem to want to look in the same direction, rolling in their sockets instead of doing what he wants them to.  He blinks hard a few times, failing to bring things into focus.  Glasses?  Does he still have those?  Did they break?  No... still there.  Skewed on his face.  Just... too dizzy to see, then.  

Daisy and Basira are glaring at him.  Melanie is walking away.  Possibly.  Hard to tell when the world is tilting with unsteady regularity.  

Jon closes his eyes again, pressing a groan against the nausea that threatens to overcome him, despite the medicine.  

"Jon?"  

"Burning up."

He's too hazy to put a name to a voice.  The words dripping in the air around him, tightening around his chest, silly string sitting on his skin in fibrous heaps that jiggle uncomfortably, cold and clammy.  

Shit, thinking in gibberish.  That can't be good.  

“Does anyone know how long he’s been ill?”  

Someone grunts.  

Footsteps.  Two sets?  I’m asking away.  Leaving him.   

“I.... I don’t know.  I don’t think he was feverish last night?  But... I haven’t exactly been... It’s.  It’s been hard.”

“Jon?”

He’s being jostled.   He whines.  Stomach flopping dangerously.   

"Jon?  Are you awake?  Can you open your eyes for me?"  

"Oh shit, he's gonna puke."  

He's being lifted, shifted on his side, bin shoved in his hands.  Where he throws up more nothing.  

He's crying now, feeling like utter shit, and unfortunately more awake.  

He isn't sure if eyes swimming with tears is better or worse than the unsteady world tipping around him and making him feel worse.  

"Christ, Jon!"  

He finally pries his eyes open.  Martin and Tim solidify above him.  More or less.  Still fuzzing in and out of focus.  

Now that he's crying, he just... can't stop.  Fistfuls of Martin's sweater.  

"Oh Jon..."  Martin's arms circle him, carefully.  Gentle not to jostle him more.  

"Buddy.  Think we can get you off the sidewalk?"  Tim.  Cupping his face.  Smoothing back sweat and tear soaked hair, long since escaped his bun, still not dried from his earlier shower.  "My flat isn't far, you know?  Didn't bring my car here, though.  Still... wasn't..."

Tim cuts himself off, but even addled as he is, Jon can fill in the rest of the sentence.  

So can Martin apparently, because Martin frowns.  It's never been more apparent that he's been crying quite recently.  "Still weren't sure you were coming home...  Tim..."  And his eyes start looking damp.  

Tim is tearing up now.  "Martin... let's not in the street...  I can carry Jon back to mine, it isn't far.  You can come too.  We'll get some take out.  Drink some whiskey.  Get Mr. Smoking hot cooled off.  We can talk then.  It's.... it's been a rough week."  

"Jon?  Can I carry you?  I think that might be less rough than a cab ride?  Do you need a few minutes?"  

Martin's voice is soft, and Jon thinks he could sleep right there.  In fact, he might.  So he nods.  

Martin lifts him carefully.  His head swims again.  This all is feeling rather familiar.  Jon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.  He tries to relax despite the lingering anxieties about heights.  Martin feels safe.  Tim is also safe now.  He lets himself drift.  

He wakes briefly on the trip.

"Hey bud, how are you feeling?"  Tim.  Tim seems off.  Too many things crossing his face to parse out, probably even for someone with a better sense than Jon of what those subtle face changes mean.  But Jon is too hazy to think.    

Jon's mouth feels gummed up.  His eyes feel gummed up.  

He's thankful his mouth doesn't taste like something died in it, though.  Although he is very aware how unhealthy it was that he's spent a good portion of the day with his body trying to turn itself inside out, and he couldn't so much as produce bile.  

Jon feels sick thinking about it, so stops.  He drifts again.  

He wakes to a damp rag on his forehead, no memory of anything past the explosion. 

How did he get here? 

"Sorry, that looked like a nice sleep, but you'll feel better with some medicine in you, and some water.  We can try some tea later, once the meds work.  And some food hopefully."  

Martin helping him sit up.  Just enough to get a few sips and some pills into Jon.  Which, Jon thought was probably optimistic, but he'd try it for Martin.  

"When was the last time you ate?" Martin again.  

Jon blinks at him in confusion.  "Is it over?"  

"Is what over?"  Still Martin.  

Where's Tim?  Where's Daisy?  Where's Basira?  Where's Melanie?

His breathing picks up, and that makes his head spin again, and makes him wonder just how long he can keep the medicine down.  

"Is it over, what happened?"  He's panting now, halfway to a panic attack.  

"Jon?  Jon!  Calm down.  Can you take a breath for me?"  

How did he get here?  Where is he?  This looks like Tim's flat, but there is Tim?  Did he survive.  

Jon reaches for anything.  But comes up blank.  

"Where's Tim?  What happened?"  He gasps out.  It feels like his ribcage is shrinking, being laced up the front. fighter than the corset he had worn in acting class in uni.  

"Tim's... taking a moment.  As soon as we got you here... he.... it's been rough on him, you know?  He did all this for... and I know he said he wanted to live.  He wants to live... but he's... not been in a good place and it's helped that you two are talking again... and that he's had company more... but he saw an old picture with.... with his brother.... and that polaroid with ... with Sasha.  Well, he keeps going between you know tearful and sorry and cackling about how everything blew up.  It's... probably a lot to have three revenge schemes going at once for the same.... not a person really... but ... Her.  And then... having it sorted.  But...  Listen Jon I don't know.  What don't you remember... or what's the last thing you remember?"  Martin edges on histerical near the middle, but takes a turn for the sad near the end.  

"I remember the... the world was all wrong.  Then... then it blew up.  Is it over?  Martin are you real.  Is everyone alive?  What happened to you?"  He's desperate.  Desperate breaths too shallow.  Words interrupted by jagged pulling of too thin oxygen.  He's going to pass out.  

He does.  

He wakes feeling... clearer.  The last period of wakefulness a distant and flighty thing, dancing just out of his reach.  The rest of the embarrassing day back in vivid detail.  Tim's sitting over him.  Or rather, curled around him.  Jon's hair is being played with.  A stray curl looped around Tim's finger as he laughs softly to himself.  Muttering that he's alive.  That Jon's alive.  That Martin is alive.  he didn't lose anyone else.  That that clown is finally dead.  Finally.  

Gentle and warm hand on his face, refreshing the cloth.  Checking his temperature.  

"I..."  Tim chokes on a sob.  And Jon tries to remember how his arms work so he can let Tim know he's there.  

"Tim?"  

"Hey bud... sorry."  Tim wipes his eyes on his sleeve.  "It's been a hell of a week.  I... don't know how to feel about it.  Fuck I need a drink....  And to check in with Martin.  I... he hasn't told me what happened, but he's upset.  And.  Fuck I should have noticed you were ill, why didn't you say anything?"  Tim's voice starts to rise, and Jon tenses.  All the times Tim yelled at him still too fresh in his mind.  He trusts Tim.  he does... but Christ he is still afraid.  Afraid that it can't last, that it isn't real.  Where it be a trick of his mind, or some manipulation tactic to an end Jon can't see, he doesn't know.  

"Hey.  Hey.  Buddy... Jon.  I'm sorry.  didn't mean to yell.  It's just... been a day.  I'm not mad at you.  I just... I'm worried about you and Martin and I...I don't know how to feel about everything that happened.  I'm sorry you feel like shit."

Jon feels... like shit.  Marginally less nauseous, however.  A little less like he's going to pass out again.  Probably been given plenty of pills by Martin.  

"Sorry."  He croaks.  Voice probably shredded with smoke.  And fever.  

"He, bud, don't apologize.  I'm sorry I didn't notice you weren't well.  I... I thought I knew better than to be that preoccupied.  I mean... I guess I didn't make it worse this time, but..."  Tim sighs.  "I'm disappointed in myself because I don't want to fuck this up again.  And no don't apologize again part of that was on me and yes part of that was on you and we've done apologies to death.  All we can do now is keep going.  I just wanted to protect you and I couldn't see you were fading in front of my eyes.  Again.  I know you haven't been eating or sleeping, but I haven't been either so I didn't want to call you on it, and I didn't want you to call me on it, but I should have noticed.  I know I couldn't have done much, but I didn't do anything but shut you out again.  I could have told someone to stop to get you medicine, or food or even a bit more rest.  I know that would have done fuck-all, but I still could have offered you a little comfort and warmth and had us brought straight back here."  

Tim's crying properly now.  Jon is too.  Not sure if it is the fever, or just... everything.  There is so much to feel and think and worry about and yes they saved the world but that the fuck comes next.  

What comes next is that Martin enters with tea for Jon and a bottle of whiskey.  

Jon scrubs at his eyes.  "Martin what happened?"  Jon can see he's been crying again.  That is starting to scare him.  It's a goddamn miracle he hasn't pulled an answer out of anyone yet today.  

"It's... well it isn't fine.  I... well our plan worked here too.  Just... you know... Elias.  He can.... He can do things.  It's fine.  It's worth it."  Martin swipes at his eyes furiously.  

Jon pushes himself up, ignoring the room tilting around him, and hugs Martin.  Jon's still crying.  Martin sniffling.  Tim also crying.  It's... a very damp hug.  And Jon knows he's too warm to be comfortable to hold, and he's shivering hard enough to rattle Tim and Martin.  

"I'm... I'm so sorry Martin."  Jon chokes out.  

"It's alright.  It was worth it.  And you both.  Christ I am so glad to see you again... I thought... I thought.... I didn't..."  Martin is fully sobbing now.  Tea set down on Tim's bedside table, the whiskey being pried from his hands by TIm.  

Late that night the bottle is empty (and so are a couple more), Tim and Martin have killer headaches, and Jon is still feverish, but less so.  A lot of tears have been shed.  And Jon has been plied with enough liquids that he feels a little less like a crumbling husk.  

By the time that Tim and Martin are ready to think about food, Jon is finally feeling like he can maybe stomach something.  They order takeout.  Jon... has some broth. 

By morning Jon manages a few bites of leftovers.  

By afternoon, Elias Bushard is arrested.  

[spencersawkward]

switchblade faith//spencer reid - chapter 7

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid.

relationship: Fem!OC/Spencer

word count: 4.3k

idc if i've used this gif before it's AMAZING and i love it.

masterlist

somewhat unfortunately, Halloween rolls around. between the most intense case of my career and the rest of the ones that have come in, the meaningless holiday has barely crossed my mind. it's only Penny's eager reminder to find a costume that brings it to the front of my mind. I could half-ass it and pick something stupid, but then I would feel bad. everyone else in the office is just so excited about it, I don't want to be a sour influence. 

plus, we deserve to have some fun. 

I decide on a simple costume and on the 31st of October, I find myself in Penelope Garcia's bathroom with a tube of cherry red lip gloss and a somewhat reluctant expression. 

"oh, c'mon." her voice is muffled through the door.

"quick question," I tighten the scarlet string around my neck, looking at myself in the mirror. "how full-out did you go?" 

"baby, you know I only go to the extreme." she quips. I roll my eyes playfully, then open the bathroom door, stepping into the purple hallway with what can only be feigned confidence. 

it's not that I don't look pretty; I think I look good. but it's the sheer silliness of it that makes my walk a little less than proud. I stopped dressing up for Halloween before I hit twelve. and now I'm twirling (at Penelope's command) in a short dress. 

"I'm not even joking, Little Red: you look hot." she says, eyeing me up and down. there's an enormous purple seashell clipped in her blonde curls, sparkles all over her skin. she looks exactly like herself-- beautiful and whimsical in every aspect. 

"thanks." I blush. 

"come show us!" JJ calls from the living room. Emily would be with us, but she said she had to run an errand beforehand. I glance at Penelope once and widen my eyes. why am I so nervous? I'm acting like a child. 

"go on, then!" Pen practically shoves me forward and I stumble a bit in my heels before walking out of the hallway and making my grand entrance by the couch. JJ is holding an enormous bowl of popcorn, dressed like Britney Spears. her jaw drops. 

"do a spin!" she squeals. I do so, and the red cape flutters around me like the petals of a blooming flower. she sets the bowl down, claps. "I love it!" 

"thanks." when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on her wall, my cheeks are rosy. my hair tumbles over my shoulders and the cut of my dress is a bit low, but the cleavage is actually kind of a good addition. red ribbon falls just to my décolletage, a slight tease. 

"we should head out soon, though," JJ checks her phone. "wouldn't want Hotch to leave by the time we arrive."

"is he even coming?" I ask. 

"said he would. Pen made quite the case for herself." JJ pops a kernel into her mouth and I look to the tech analyst, who has a mischievous smirk on her candy pink lips. she raises an eyebrow. 

"I told him I'd bring candy corn."

"seriously?" I can't keep the surprise out of my voice. didn't realize someone that serious could be plied with the promise of candy. 

"yes, now come on." Penny scoops up her purse, which is shaped like a giant pearl, and goes to her cabinet to grab the candy corn. before long, we're out the door, chattering aimlessly on our way to the office. 

when we get there, I start to get nervous. although I'm not sure why, I get self-conscious about my dress and hood, about the secret black garter around my thigh. it's my personal secret, something I wore for myself. 

there are a few decorations up. some people from around the office are talking, and everyone is dressed to the nines. Garcia opens the door for me and I head straight for Emily's desk, where the rest of the team is gathered. Rossi works his way through a handful of hard candies in his palm. Emily is stunning in her black cat costume.  

"hey, you guys." she breaks into a grin when she sees JJ and Pen and me, the rest of the group parting to look at us. my eyes snag on Spencer, with his Frankenstein mask resting on the top of his head so he can talk normally. even Hotch is pleased to see the three of us. 

"thanks, Garcia!" he cheers as she hands him the bag of candy corn. 

"you know, you're lucky he left the house for that." Rossi raises his eyebrows and points at the unit chief. 

"oh, we know." JJ smirks. 

"you look great!" Emily gives each of us a hug. she smells like something slightly spicy and warm, a nice scent that makes me want to hold on tighter. I don't know how to explain it; Prentiss has a very calming presence to me. I always find myself hanging around her whenever I need to decompress after cases, even if it just means talking about regular life. 

"you do, too!" I grab a handful of caramel corn from the bowl she offers. "it looks pretty nice in here, actually." 

"don't sound so surprised. think we couldn't handle a few decorations and snacks?" Rossi questions. it's getting easier to be around him now, honestly. despite my initial hesitance about his seniority, he's never made me feel small for my lack of experience in this specific field. 

"she's against the whole holiday." Garcia makes a face as she berates me. Spencer shakes his head like I'm insane.

"that's not true!" I protest. "I never said I was against it, I just don't get why people are so excited about Halloween every year." 

"because it's fun." Spencer speaks up. I roll my eyes. 

"I'm not convinced." 

"well, I'm glad you said so, because I've actually planned a little activity for us!" Garcia is practically bursting with excitement as she says it, like she's been holding it in the whole evening. she probably has. 

my stomach twists. to be honest, I had been hoping for a relaxing evening and then an early night. an "activity" sounds like it'll interrupt those plans. but she's so elated that I can't help smiling. 

"what is it?" Prentiss feigns wariness. 

"well," Garcia simpers in a way that makes me think we're in for an interesting night. "I took the liberty of hiding certain candies around the office last night before we went home." 

"hiding them?" JJ repeats with a smirk. 

"in little plastic pumpkin cases. they're absolutely adorable, like Easter egg size--" 

"you're sending us on an Easter egg hunt?" Rossi looks at her disbelievingly. I let out a nonplussed noise. Penelope is ready to defend herself, however, pointing a finger at him and sounding as firm as she can manage. 

"it's going to be cute, dammit. whoever gets the most candies gets a special surprise at the end." 

"what's the surprise?" Emily asks. 

"it wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now would it?" Penelope replies. 

there's a silence in the circle as we all try to figure out how to react. it's childish, for sure. nobody is arguing that point; but it also sounds kind of not that bad to me.

"oh come on, guys!" she addresses our lack of enthusiasm. "we've had a hard couple of weeks. let's at least try and have some fun." 

JJ starts to laugh, putting her arm around the tech analyst's waist while she snuggles into her shoulder. 

"if it'll make you happy, Pen." 

"it will!" Garcia nods vigorously and turns to us. I catch myself breaking into a smile. there are much worse things than going on a Halloween candy hunt, especially given the usual circumstances of being in the office. 

"alright!" I throw up my hands and Emily is next to concede. Spencer has been quiet this whole time, but he straightens up from his usual slouching position and tries to hide the grin spreading over his lips. Rossi and Hotch glance at each other. 

"alright." the Italian shrugs. 

"what do we have to do, then?" I ask. 

"well, there are a bunch of pumpkins hidden all over. you'll know them when you see them." she clasps her hands together. "I'm timing you, too, so you're going to have half an hour." 

"wait a second," Emily frowns. "what if some of the other people who aren't in on it find the candies first?" 

there's a sound of general assent from all of us. we aren't the only employees here. Penelope doesn't seem bothered by this, however. 

"then I guess you'd better move fast." she pulls out her phone and presses a button, and we disperse with a quickness that really does make me feel like a kid again. I never did Easter egg hunts as a child, but this is a welcome distraction. low stakes competition. 

I start to wander around, starting at my desk. there's a pumpkin behind my computer monitor, and one in my desk drawer, although that's it for my personal workspace. my feet carry me to other place around the office, my fingers trailing over the tops of cabinets and under desks. Penelope sits in Prentiss' chair with a sucker-- a smug, luminous mermaid as she watches all of us scramble. 

"you got Hotch to search for hidden candy. impressive." I pass her on my way to Anderson's desk. she hasn't hidden anything in too private a place, but maybe there's something in his paperclip dish. 

"I'm a witch." she wiggles her brows. 

"I thought you were a mermaid." I wink. she grabs the hem of my dress and tugs on it. 

"just go find your candy, silly." 

"is there anything in Hotch's office?" I nod towards the almost intimidating room. her eyes flicker around to see who might be around us. fortunately, everyone is too wrapped up in their current task to even look our way. I look like I'm just wasting time. 

"you didn't hear it from me," she whispers. "but yes." 

a sparkle of satisfaction burns in my chest.

"love you, Penny." I make my way towards the office. the door is shut and the actual usual inhabitant of it hasn't gone inside, so he must have overlooked the idea that Garcia would hide candy in there. I'm sure they'll be easy finds, too, since she's terrified of crossing any boundaries with him and wouldn't press her luck by touching his things. 

I head over to the couch by the door and see a plastic pumpkin resting on the table next to it, nestled between the wall and the surface. 

"ha!" I snatch the thing up, then keep poking around. there's another one on the bookshelf. without anywhere else to put them, I put the found objects in the hood of my cape, dropping them in before moving onto the next. 

I'm under the desk when I hear the door get pushed open slightly more. my head pops up from the inconspicuous spot and there's Reid, pockets stuffed while he peers around the space. 

"hey." I say. he jumps when he sees me kneeling on the floor. 

"oh, hi," he frowns. "why are you on the ground?"

I grab the little orange pumpkin package that's tucked against one of the desk legs, then show him smugly. "winning." 

"how many do you have?" he pretends to be curious, but I can sense an undercurrent of competitiveness. I stand and shrug. he eyes my costume to see if I have any spots that hint at a candy stash. he doesn't think to check the hood of my cape. 

"that's for me to know and you to find out." 

Spencer squints briefly. "are you secretly good at this?" 

"am I?" I raise my eyebrows. "don't try to profile me, Reid." 

"I'm not profiling you!" he lets out one of those rare laughs, the musical sound that lives in his throat. I wish he would laugh more; there's something kind of cute about his face when he does. 

"mhmm." I say doubtfully and come to stand in front of him. "let's see it, then." 

"see what?"

"what you have so far." I say the words and he immediately places his hands over his pockets. 

"no way! you didn't show me yours." he protests quickly. I wrinkle my nose. 

"oh come on, Reid." I roll my eyes. "if you show me yours, I'll show you where I keep mine." 

he watches me skeptically again. "why?" 

"because I think we could be allies." 

there's a silence after the suggestion. truthfully, the idea just popped into my head. we could win pretty easily, though, if we coordinate.

"really?" the corners of his lips flicker upwards. he's unsure whether or not he should give in.

"are you kidding? with your smartness and my generally conniving nature, we could really do some damage." I tease. he giggles. 

"I've never heard someone describe themselves as conniving." 

"call it self-awareness," I smirk. "are you in or not?" 

he glances behind him at the bullpen, our friends still searching for the pumpkin packages while Garcia twists a pen between her fingers. when she wants to, she can look intimidating. I raise an eyebrow and wait for Spencer's response. his face turns to mine. those irises are such a pretty shade. 

"okay." 

"alright, boy genius!" I cheer, then reach up to undo my cape. he looks slightly panicked for a second as I undo the red ribbon, but relaxes when I grab the hood and show him the stash of pumpkins. "see?"

it’s crammed with orange packages.

“that's pretty smart." he admits with an impressed smile.

"right?" I agree. "come on, then. I think I've practically swept this place clean." 

he follows me out the door in our search. 

...

by the time the thirty minutes are up, Spencer and I have made shocking progress in consolidating our supply. we've decided that if we beat everyone, we'll share the surprise. if it's something we can't split, we'll rock-paper-scissors for victory (two out of three, of course). but I'm not too concerned about it. 

when we wander over to Penelope's spot at the desk, we're practically strutting. 

"someone's confident." she notes. I take my cape off again and slam the thing down on the surface. Spencer has an amused look on his face. 

we ended up spending a lot of time arguing about the best spots to hide candy, though I mostly let him take the lead— in terms of hiding places, he's been here longer and knows more than I do. and, unrelated, but he's pretty funny when he's not busy thinking about a case. his references are a little nerdy, but I kind of enjoy listening to the explanations. 

"we kicked ass." I cross my arms over my chest and Spencer nods. everyone around us is suspicious; JJ points between us. 

"did you two team up?" 

"maybe." I glance at Spencer, who's already looking at me to gauge my reaction to the question. 

"that's cheating!" JJ laughs. Spencer shakes his head. 

"actually, Garcia never laid out any formal rules for the game."

"mhmm!" I nod in agreement, grateful to have him there with his factual authority. JJ sighs, but nobody can stay mad at Spencer. we share a grin before Emily eyes the separate piles on the desk. 

Garcia went out of her way to hide a lot of treats. that said, it's clear that the combined amount from Reid and me beats out everyone else's. we high five once she announces us the official winners. 

"what's our prize?" Spencer asks as everyone lightheartedly boo's our victory. 

"a gift card to that new fried chicken place that we ordered from a while ago." Garcia presents a shiny plastic card to me. it's a great treat, honestly, becuase I'm hungry and takeout is one of my favorite things in the world. 

the team congratulates us on our win and things start to wind down. Hotch makes an excuse to get home and Rossi muses about a pack of cigars that await him. I feel the energy in the office start to dissipate, but now I feel like I'm on a bit of a victory high. I got all dressed up and now everyone wants to leave? disappointing.

as Prentiss and JJ shrug on their coats, I run my fingertip over the edge of the gift card. Spencer is packing some extra books into his bag. he told me to keep the gift card and that it wasn't a big deal, but I don't feel right not sharing. especially not when we didn’t rock-paper-scissors for it.

"Reid." I walk over to his spot, lean against the desk. he glances up in surprise. 

"yeah?"

"do you wanna share this with me?" I wave the reward in the air. his brows draw together for a fraction of a second. he seems confused. 

"right now?" 

"sure, why not?" I gesture to the bullpen, which is emptying quickly. "it's not even that late." 

he checks his watch as if to confirm my assertion, then stuffs his slim wrists into his pockets and stares at me for a second. I start to get the sense he’s going to say no, and something in me sinks. his tongue darts out over his bottom lip. he's got his mouth open a lot. "y-yeah, that sounds fun." 

I nod at the good news. "okay, cool. I'm too lazy to actually drive there, so I'll just order delivery?"

"okay." he gives me a small smile while I pull out my phone to call the place. I'm a little bit glad that it's just us. 

...

"try it." I pop the plastic cover off the sauce cup before setting it next to him. 

"that looks gross." Spencer shakes his head quickly through a mouthful of food. my jaw drops and I snatch the sauce right back, dipping the chicken into it and taking a hefty bite. 

"it's literally the perfect combination of salty and smooth." I protest. Reid looks dubious, however, and leans his head back against the side of the desk. we started the evening in the swivel chairs, but we're both fidgety at heart and now we're on the floor. 

he takes a swig of his drink. "I never knew lemonade could taste so good." 

"same." I laugh. "can I have your sauce thing, then?" 

he responds by dismissively pushing the thing over to me. we're sitting side-by-side, and somehow I think that's easier for him. we don't have to look each other in the eyes as we talk. 

"I'm proud of us." I announce. Spencer snorts. 

"why?" 

"we found so much candy! which we can now eat for dessert." I reach up to grab my cape off my desk, and the hood thuds to the ground. 

"we're a good team." he says it lightheartedly. Spencer is right, though; we work really well together on cases. it makes sense that it would translate into candy hunts. he's way smarter than I am, but it functions well. 

"we should do the Amazing Race." 

"I don't think either of us would like that." he takes a bite of his fry and I finish up the last of my chicken. 

"you wanna hear a secret?" my head turns to his. 

"what?" he reciprocates. his features appear especially delicate right now, almost suspended. I can see a darkness in his lids that contradicts the youth of his mien. I'm so close, I could kiss his nose if I wanted to. I don't, but I could. 

"aside from the team aspect, I don't really know what the Amazing Race is." I giggle. Spencer breaks into a laugh and turns away again, filling the office with the sound. I blush.

"then why did you bring it up?" his voice gets slightly high-pitched when he tries to speak through it. 

"I don't know, I feel like people say that all the time." 

"nobody has ever asked me to be in the Amazing Race with them." Spencer is still giggling when he looks over at me. I bite my lip before asking the thing that plagues me. 

"so, what is it?"

"the Amazing Race?"

"no, Newton's Laws." I deadpan. "yes, the Amazing Race." 

he throws his hands up and I chuckle. he straightens. 

"it's a reality game show where they race to travel the world." 

"that's it? no stats for me, genius boy?" I gesture for him to elaborate. Spencer shrugs. 

"I don't really care about reality shows." 

"you don't--" I blink exaggeratedly, as if the fact is shocking. "you don't care about reality shows?"

"we get enough reality here as it is."

"oh, Spence...." I sigh. "there are few things faker than reality tv."

"why do you like them?" he's genuinely curious. I see the glimmer of the Work Spencer with which I've become familiar. always trying to get under the surface, digging for answers even when they don't seem immediately relevant. 

"I like to turn my brain off sometimes, you know?" I close the lid of my food and take a drink of my lemonade while I wait for him to respond. although he doesn't look at me as he nods, I can tell he understands what I mean. if anything, he knows the feeling better than I do. 

"yeah, I get that." 

"everyone just acts really stupid and they care way too much about things that usually, like, don't even matter. it's sort of comforting in a weird, depressing, god-I'm-glad-that's-not-me way." 

"that's interesting," he peeks over at me for just a second. "you know, there's actually been studies done that show people with higher annual incomes suffer from higher levels of depression and anxiety."

"I believe it." I make a noncommittal sound and reach into the hood of my cape to grab a piece of candy. with the movement, I shift and the hem of my dress lifts enough to expose the garter on my thigh, and the object tucked within it. Reid's eyes pass briefly over me, but he does a double-take when he sees the thing. 

"is that--?" he points at my leg. I hitch up the garment a little so I can remove the knife that's been pressed to my thigh the whole evening. 

"a weapon? yeah, technically." I chuckle. Spencer's jaw drops in disbelief. even as I hold it in my hands, he seems afraid to touch it. 

it's not really a weapon. I got it from one of my friends as a gift a while ago, a lovely little resin dagger that's filled with red flower petals and gold flakes. it glints under the office lights. 

"you're really not supposed to have that in here." he gulps, glances up at the corners of the room, where I'm sure security cameras are mounted. I hand it to him, pressing the blade into his palm. 

"then stop looking at all the cameras so suspiciously." I scoff. he turns a bit to look at the thing, tilts the edges under the glow to examine it with a strange expression. his long, elegant fingers move over the handle.  

"where did you get this?" 

"it was a present. it's not dangerous." I shrug. the edges are pretty dull; it's more of a decorative piece. I would equate its actual risk level to that of a particularly pointy pen. 

"why did you bring it?" he hands it to me gingerly, our hands touching briefly before I slide it back into the garter on my thigh. his eyes follow my movements, and something in my stomach flips unexpectedly. 

"I collect them." 

"knives?" he doesn't seem taken aback, only interested, judging by the way he frowns quizzically. I nod and face him.

"yeah. I started as a kid, but I have a whole variety of them-- antique, new, ornate, plain-- I love 'em all." I explain enthusiastically. Spencer opens his mouth and I realize that he must have a million questions. he always has a million questions. 

"why knives?" 

I pull my mouth to the side of my face. it's not like there's some deep, dark reason behind my predilection for collecting sharp objects. and I’ve tried to answer that question myself, always coming up empty. some things people just... like. "I don't know." 

like I've put a damper over the conversation. 

"o-oh." Spencer's eyes drop into his lap, where he's been fidgeting with his hands for the past couple minutes. he thinks I'm withholding, that he's crossed some sort of line. my heart sinks. 

"I'm serious, Reid-- I don't know." I laugh it off. "I just think they're cool the same way that you think math is cool." 

"math is cool." he looks up for a second to smile. I nudge his shoulder with mine. his slight frame means he almost tips over and I laugh.  

"hard disagree, but sure."

Spencer stretches his legs out before him, and I'm reminded of how tall he is. he's prone to slouching, so it's easy to forget that his body is actually pretty lengthy. when he taps his Converse together absently, I notice the different colors of his socks. one has watermelon slices and the other has the Road Runner on them.  

"I like your mask, by the way." I compliment. 

"oh, you mean this?" he tugs the thing down over his face. it's gruesome, really, tinged green with baggy skin below the eye holes. I make a disgusted face and push his shoulder away from me.  

"ew!" 

"something wrong?" he uses a funny monster voice when he says it, wiggling his fingers playfully. I cackle. he’s never done that.

"god, that thing is ugly." 

Spencer removes the mask again, a ghost of a grin on his face. for all of his shyness, he's enjoying himself right now. 

we sit there in silence for a bit, cracking open the plastic pumpkin packages that Garcia has stuffed with all sorts of candy. we trade jelly beans like currency, blue raspberry for orange and anything remotely citrus-flavored that he loves. he doesn't mind taking them from my open palm, which fills me with a strangely warm feeling. 

I realize that there's more to Spencer's anxiety than germs, a thin layer of something that he lays between each person and himself. we don't talk about weighty subjects; we aren't friends like that-- not yet, anyway. but I'm glad that he feels alright with this kind of proximity.

[uglymanchronicles]

Ugly Man Chronicles Reignition Book 2 Chapter 2: My Breakfast With Evan

Just a couple dudes getting to know each other.

“If you must know,” Evan sighed, spearing a glistening sausage on the end of a flimsy plastic fork, “my jackass older sister thought it would be hilarious to give me a cupcake she'd baked with about a dozen powdered viagra for my fifteenth birthday. I wound up passing out eventually. Burst a lot of blood vessels. Damaged the erectile tissue beyond usefulness.”

Titus froze mid-coffee-sip. “Seriously? What a bitch!”

“Buddy, you don't know the half of it.”

“So... no signs of life down there?”

“Nothing for twelve years.”

“I think I would literally kill myself.”

“It's not so bad, I guess. At least I don't have to drain the blood out of it any more.”

“Eugh! Fuck! Did not need to hear that!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answer to.”

“Do you get, like, blue balls all the time, then?”

“That's basically my ground state of being.”

Titus whistled flatly, avoiding looking Evan in the eye. He settled for staring at the table. There wasn't a lot of Evan's face that he felt comfortable looking at; every part seemed to at least be adjacent to some unpleasantry or another. About the only safe area was his right eye, which, as luck would have it, was directly opposite Titus's 'good' eye. Titus rallied and met Evan's gaze again. “Alright, your turn.”

They'd agreed on a sort of mutual interview process, taking turns asking questions to suss out what the other was capable or if he was worth having around. Evan took a bite out of the sausage and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.

“Who's Moreno?”

Titus hissed through his teeth. “A real piece of shit.”

“I'm going to need more than that.”

“I'm getting to it. He's basically, like... a freelance henchman? Like, sort of a mercenary criminal. Sells his services to the highest bidder.”

“And why's he matter?”

“That's another question.”

“No, it is not,” Evan said, quiet and serious. “Do not argue with me in bad faith, Titus. I have very little patience for it in the best of times.”

Titus regarded him for a long moment. The man across from him was wider than the table they sat at. His muscles were so pronounced in some points that Titus could tell when he was about to move by the way they bulged and contracted. Yet he gave the impression that he was constantly trying to pull himself inward, to make himself smaller. He spoke quietly and with a simple formality, but only hours before Titus had watched him single-handedly beat down some of the nastiest people he'd met in the past month.

Hmm.

“Fine. Moreno matters because I'm after the guy he's working for. You see, Moreno isn't just a normal scumbag. He works for people who need nasty things done. Not like regular nasty, either. How much do you actually know about magic?”

“I've got some... notes. So far I'm not able to find a lot of coherent rules. It mostly seems like it relies on things that nobody would normally do.”

Titus snapped his fingers and pointed at Evan. “Hit it right on the head. Rituals, reagents, that kind of thing... the reason—well, one of the reasons—magic doesn't just happen all the time by accident is that it's all weird little things. A lot of the more heavy magic relies on some pretty elaborate and obtuse shit to get it going.”

Evan momentarily thought back to the Book of Fate and his ritual in the woods. “So Moreno does these things for people?”

“Yeah. Thing is, though...” Titus stopped raising a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth and set it down again, as if he'd momentarily lost his appetite. “The people who use his services generally practice some pretty vile magic. Real depraved shit. And to empower depraved magic, you need depraved rituals. Moreno is the guy you go to when...”

“I think I get it,” Evan interjected, since Titus seemed to be struggling with deciding whether to continue. “Your turn.”

Titus tapped his fingers on the table for a moment, then looked Evan in the eye. “How smart are you?”

The scars on Evan's face squirmed around as he actually smirked. “What kind of question is that?”

“Hey, we agreed no 'whys'.”

“Alright, alright. Well, there's really no objective metric for it, but... I have Master's degrees in computer science and theoretical physics, Bachelor's in those in addition to mathematics and electrical engineering, and associate's degrees and certificates in everything from EMT training to ballet. I should have my doctorate in physics, but...” he said, with a bitterness that Titus made a note of, then changed gears. “Oh, and I also speak Mandarin, Spanish, Japanese, French, and Arabic pretty fluently. I also know ASL. I can get by in German and Russian, too. I don't know if any of that is what you meant but--”

“Jesus, I get it,” Titus muttered, rubbing the side of his head. “How the fuck do you make money?”

“Software consulting, mostly. I specialize in security and processing efficiency. People pay me to break into their systems and then patch the holes, or to make their code run quicker or make their programs smaller. I've got a few patents I've licensed that bring in most of my income nowadays, though.”

“Anything I would have heard of?”

“If you've used a computer made in the last four years it probably has something I wrote integrated somewhere into it. I also helped develop a protein-sequencing program that helped develop a vaccine for this nasty SARS variant that broke out in China last year. They say if they hadn’t nipped it in the bud it could’ve spread worldwide and we’d be looking at millions of deaths by now.”

Titus scrunched up his face. “Oh yeah, just say that like it’s no big deal.”

“I’m just glad it turned out not to be one. What I'd really like to do is get my compression algorithm out there, but if I do that, somebody's going to try to hoard it all for themselves.”

“Are you talking to yourself or me?”

“Look, I... a few years ago I figured out a way to compress memory down by a exponential factor of six with zero loss. All it takes is a couple software plugins that don't take up much room themselves. Essentially, I could make a gigabyte fit in a kilobyte with very little trouble, now that the math's figured out.”

“Holy fuck, that's insane! Why haven't I heard anything about this?”

“Mainly because I don't tell people. If I put it up on the market, some ISP would buy it and bury it. If you make information smaller, you make it faster. Can you imagine what it'd do to internet access if dial-up and barebones cellular networks suddenly had the bandwidth of fiber optics? It would... maybe not revolutionize our society, but it would level a lot of playing fields. Bring a lot of underdeveloped areas of the world—hell, this country—up to modern levels with no extra cost. The telecomms would crash and burn so hard. But I don't have the means to get it out there without going through someone else. Yet,” Evan added. “So I basically work watered-down versions of the compressor into the software I make. Nothing that can be duplicated, and nowhere near its full potential, but enough to get me hailed as some kind of genius and pay the bills.”

“So why aren't you on your own private island or something somewhere instead of puttering around God's Ashtray in a shitty old Bug?”

“Hey, the Beetle is not shitty,” Evan said, defensively. “And I'm just waiting for the AC in my RV to get fixed or I'd be driving that.”

“Oh hot damn! Now that's the way to live!”

“Not the one I'd choose voluntarily, but it could be worse.”

“How come you're doing it, then?”

“I think it's my turn to ask,” Evan said, mildly.

“Fine,” Titus said grumpily, crossing his arms.

“How do you make money?”

“That's easy. I'm basically a freelance bailbondsman. I just roam around, drop my advertising around bars and courthouses.”

“You get many clients that way?” Evan asked, cocking his remaining eyebrow.

“Oh, you'd be amazed how desperate people can get,” Titus said, shrugging. “Of course, they're usually not the most responsible people, so when they bounce, I track 'em down myself, drag ‘em back to jail, get the money back. My eye usually makes it super easy. Sometimes they don't even see me before I get the cuffs on 'em.”

“Why did you feel the need to rob a bunch of drug dealers, then? The thrill of it?”

“I had a pressing need for a large amount of cash that my normal work doesn't bring in. That got me enough to hold it off for a while. My turn.”

Evan waved down a waitress for a refill of his coffee, trying not to take it personally when she gasped upon seeing his face. “Go ahead…”

“No, no, hang on.” Titus waved a hand dismissively. “I want to try something. Take your hair out of the ponytail.”

“What? Why?”

“Humor me.”

Evan groaned and reached back, removing his hair tie. After shaking his head, his hair fell over his face, obscuring everything but his nose and mouth. Titus pursed his lips and regarded him seriously for a moment.

“Can you see?”

“Yeah, I guess. Well enough to not walk into things, I think, and I could probably read if I had to.”

Titus snapped his fingers. “Good. Go with that from now on.”

“Why?”

“Because now you don’t look like God’s mistake. Now you look like a big, dumb-but-lovable goon. Like Jack Black would voice you in a cartoon.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Do you like seeing people contemplating their own mortality and the general cruel absurdity of the tragic farce that is human existence when they get a glimpse of your face?”

Evan felt his cheeks burn and was actually grateful his hair was covering most of his face. “…not particularly, no.”

“Then there you go. You’re welcome. Okay, question time. Uh… how did you get your powers?”

“Which one?”

“Oh, now who’s arguing in bad faith? Fucking all of them, you thick-lipped gargoyle.”

Evan had the feeling he hit a sore spot. Titus's easy-going, jocular tone had bled away from him, leaving behind the hard-edged razor-blade of a man that had ambushed him the night before. He decided not to belabor the point.

“I don't know why I can rege—why I heal so quickly. No, I'm serious, as far as I know, it just started happening sometime in the past few months. I can't remember. Don't look at me like that, I'll get to that in a minute. When I was younger I recovered from a lot of injuries a lot quicker than the doctors thought I would, so maybe it's something I was born with and it just got stronger recently for some reason.”

Evan took a sip of coffee, mainly to buy a few seconds to think of how much to explain for the next part.

“The ability to shut off powers... that's part of, well, I guess you'd call it a magic ritual, because I don't know what else to call it. I found a weird old book that said it contained the key to making someone an instrument of universal justice, or something of the sort. Since then I can see... I guess they're souls? Maybe? I can sort of move mine and when I run it into someone else's it seems like I can shut off their powers. Or... take them entirely, if they're dying.”

“Horseshit!” Titus scoffed. “That's... that's like meta-magic. I don't even know if that's real.”

“No, seriously! I don't think it's just magic powers, I think it... 'normalizes' things.” He briefly recounted his encounter with the pain monster.

“Are you kidding me? That...” Titus took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair, exhaling slowly and loudly. “Look, I don't know much, but the fact that you even ran into something like that, let alone survived... those odds are astronomical. And you say you negated not just its powers, but its whole form?”

“Yeah. Once I... reached into it, like I did with you—oh don't make that face. Grow up—I kind of disrupted what made it... different, I guess? Like I cut it off from its special qualities. Like it was...”

“Disjuncted,” Titus cut in.

“Yeah, that's a good word for it. Like the old Mordenkainen spell?”

“Fucking nerd.”

“Eat my ass. Anyway, after I killed it, I was able to reach into its... soul? Animating force? Aura? I don't know what to call it. I was able to grab something and pull it out and it just got pulled into me.”

“Not aura.”

“What?”

“Aura's a different thing,” Titus said, dismissively. “So what did you get from doing that?”

“I.. I feel pain differently. I don't flinch or get adrenaline rushes from injuries that don't actually impede my ability to function. I think I have a better sense of what is actually dangerous to my body now. It still hurts, but I don't react to pain like people normally do. It's like...hmm.” Evan drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you know anything about video games? Fighting games, specifically?”

“I used to fuck around on an old Alpha 3rd Strike cabinet when I was a kid. Why?”

“Do you know what 'super armor' is?”

“Isn't that where a move can't get stopped by being hit when you're doing it?”

“Right. I'm kind of like that now. Pain doesn't interrupt me.”

“Fucking nerd.”

Evan's fist involuntarily clenched. “I'm trying to put this in terms you can understand, you stupid reprobate. My experience with your judgment thus far hasn't given me much faith in your intellect.”

Titus burst out laughing. “So he does know how to banter! I thought you might be one of those Rainman types.”

“Oh sure, call it 'banter' to try to excuse the fact that you've been insulting me for the past half hour. Do you say you're ‘just joking’ when people get mad at you for saying stupid shit, too?”

“C'mon, lighten up! We're partners now! Tell me more about this soul thing. I still think you're full of shit.”

Evan sighed through his nose, then held up his left hand, forming his fingers into a circle and peering through them.

“Yours is... a sort of cross between a sea green and an oil slick. The tendrils of it keep reaching out and snapping back, going all over the place. It seems to keep expanding and contracting. It's almost flickering, like... it's indecisive. Very chaotic. The tendrils that aren't snapping around seem to be kept pretty close to your body, wrapping around you like... I can't tell if it's protective or restrictive.”

Titus's expression slowly became serious. “What does that mean?”

“I don't know. I have a lot of theories, but nothing solid to go on. I'm not sure if it's allegorical or a literal representation of a person's... power, maybe? Yours definitely looks a lot different than most people's.”

“I don't believe this for a second. Let me see.”

“How would I do tha—hey!”

Titus grabbed Evan's wrist and held his hand up to his eye. “Ho-lee...”

He pulled back from Evan's hand, staring at him. Then he looked around the room, mouth slack as he took in the diner's other occupants.

“Huh. Did you know it keeps working until you blink?” He said after a moment, a faraway tone to his voice.

“I didn't even know other people could do it,” Evan said, awe in his voice. “Hey, wow, you're right!”

“Jesus, yours is, like, really blue. It looks like... a bunch of steel cables. It's weird, I felt like I both could and couldn't see the edges of it...”

“I can kind of move it, but I'm not sure if I can do anything with it beyond interfering with people's powers. It's like learning to use a muscle you didn't know you had.”

“Huh.” Titus was again silent for a long moment. “Your turn.”

“Can you do anything else supernatural? Besides your time-eye?”

“Don't call it that, it sounds stupid. And... sorta. I seem to have whatever innate talent you need to actually do magic, but it's not like it's easy to find instructions. Most of the people I know who can use it just dabble with half-broken magic items—wands, amulets, charms,” he pulled the silence charm out from under his coat and bounced it at the end of its chain. “I guess I'm sort of a dabbler. I know a few tricks, I can use a lot of magic tools, I can sense magic pretty well, I can dowse... Most of the time I really never have to use anything besides the eye, though.”

“Is the eye all-or-nothing?”

“Yeah. It's not nearly as useful as you'd think, but any edge is an edge.”

“When I turned off your power and it was coming back, though, you started speeding up—or, I guess, everything else was slowing down? You were moving faster, one way or the other. You were able to touch me, and those punches hurt.”

“Huh, yeah, you're right.”

“Do you think there's a way you could learn to only partially activate it?”

“That'd be great, wouldn't it? Thing is, just using it is a huge strain, and that time spend outside of time adds up. Going by normal calendar time I'm only 26.”

“Fuck, I'm 27!” Evan laughed.

“Yeah, well, I'd rather be prematurely gray than what you've got going on. My turn. Uh... huh, I can't really think of anything else. Uh... are you gay?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“No, but the question still counts.”

“I'm bi,” Evan mumbled, crossing his arms across his prodigious chest. “Not that it matters. And before you ask, no, you are not my type. We're done talking about this.”

“Huh. You ever sucked--”

“We. Are. Done. Talking about this.”

“Fine, God. Go.”

Evan mentally circled back to an earlier question he felt hadn't been properly answered. “Why are you after Moreno?”

To Evan's surprise, Titus didn't hesitate. “I'm actually after his current boss. He's just the best lead I have to go on.” He took a deep breath, then started talking with a rushed, deadpan pace, as if he was eager to get the words out as quickly as possible so they wouldn't be in his mouth very long.

“Moreno is working for a guy only known as the Soultaker. He has an innate supernatural ability to pull a person's soul out of their body. When that happens, the person just... shuts down, usually. No motive force behind them. Eventually they just die of dehydration, usually. I've seen some people so set in routine that they keep going without a soul, but... it's not really life.

“It seems like the extraction process takes a while, so he can't just walk past you on the street and pickpocket your entire essence. So he needs people rounded up for him, held until he can do his nasty juju. So that's where a degenerate like Moreno comes in.

“So when he pulls out a soul, it, well, it looks like this.”

Titus pulled a battered, faded Crown Royale bag out of his jacket. It bulged strangely and made a quiet clacking when he set it on the table. He pulled out what looked like a large marble, or maybe a dull pearl, and handed it to Evan.

Evan brushed his hair out of his eyes and peered into the milky depths of the sphere. After a few moments of staring, the murky clouds inside the thing seemed to clear and a face floated to the surface. A black man, maybe in his late 40s, going thin on top. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping, but his expression had a look of discomfort to it, as if he was having a bad dream.

“Jesus Christ,” Evan whispered, “I've seen this guy... Martell Calloway? I saw some news article about how his family found him tied up in his apartment and completely comatose! But he didn't have any injuries beyond being a black eye... so he's dead?”

“Life support,” Titus said, taking Mr. Calloway's soul back from Evan's unresisting fingers, “technically, he's one of the lucky ones. They found his body before it wasted away to nothing, and I was able to intercept his soul before it got to a buyer.”

“Why would someone buy something like this? What use is it? Can you fix him?”

“A human soul is a damn near exhaustible arcane battery,” Titus said gravely. In the split second between sentences, Evan noticed something—after he'd put the bag back into his jacket, Titus surreptitiously touched a pocket on the other side of his jacket, as if he was making sure something was still there.

“If you know what you're doing, you can power a lot of magic using a soul. And you can reuse them as long as you don't overdo it. If you know what you're doing, you can wring all but the last drops of essence out of a soul and let it heal or recover or whatever, and it'll eventually be back to full strength. Very resilient things,” Titus continued. “I don't think they're conscious in there, but... anyway, it's supposed to be really hard to extract a soul. But this guy was born with or spontaneously developed or somehow figured out a shortcut to the whole process. So the market is getting flooded with torture-batteries and ECUs are getting flooded with vegetables. And families are winding up with loved ones who are as good as dead, without having any idea why this happened to them. Dozens of them have been taken off life support in the past few months. Half these souls have no body to return to. And no, I can't fix it. At least not yet,” he sighed again. “I was hoping once I found him, I could somehow get the secret out of him or force him to put them back, or... maybe I thought if I killed him it'd reverse the effect. He needs killing, either way.”

Titus's eye widened as a thought struck him and he looked Evan in the eye for the first time since he'd started the story. Evan realized what he was thinking and looked down at the tattoo on his left arm, flexing his fingers.

“If you can take people's powers after they die...”

“...then we can save these people.”

Titus put a hand over his mouth and for a moment Evan thought he saw his eye well up.

“I'm in,” Evan said, a sense of righteous purpose welling in his heart. “I don't really know what the universe wants, but I doubt... I know it's not this. We'll find him, we'll stop him, and we'll save as many of these people as we can.”

“...thanks,” Titus mumbled behind his hand. He swallowed hard, then seemed to come back to himself. “We're back to square one, though.”

“You said you could dowse? Like, for real?”

“Yes, for real. I can find things and people with the pendulum method. It's handy for tracking down bounties.”

“Why don't you dowse Moreno?”

“Why didn't I think of that?!” Titus said incredulously, smacking his forehead. “Because he's warded. He's not magic himself, but he's collected enough gear through his career that my normal methods don't work.”

Evan rubbed his chin. “What if we used an abnormal method?”

-------------------

An hour later, they were in the RV. Titus was poring over the collection of Evan's notes and the strange papers he'd bought from Delmann's shop. Evan was very carefully slicing a strip of skin from his own ankle up all the way up his leg. The Guiding Light—the Finder's Follysat on the table between them, filled with fresh blood.

“Even if this works, he's going to know we're coming,” Titus muttered, engrossed in the pages. “Remember what I said?”

“That's why we're not going to look for him,” Evan said, adjusting his grip on the potato peeler. “I don't know how we'd even write his name. Can you read that, by the way?”

“Kind of. This is... most of this is written in, like, arcane pidgin. Who compiled these notes?”

“I did, I think.”

“You think?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to clarify on that. Apparently a couple months ago, before the ritual, I drilled a hole in my own brain to erase some kind of very dangerous memory.”

“You what.”

“That's not a metaphor or anything. Really did it. I could show you the video.”

“I'll pass. So you don't remember where this came from?” Titus shook the Book of Fate at him.

“Nope.”

“Jesus shit, do you have any idea--”

“How reckless that was? Yeah, yeah, I'm still here and I'm the answer to your fuckin' prayers, aren't I?” Evan gave a whoop as the peeling skin reached his thigh. “Got it this time!” he said cheerfully, snipping the flesh-ribbon off with scissors.

“God, that's so fucking gross. Anyway, you haven't explained how we're going to use that thing to find Moreno.”

“We don't set it to look for him. We look for somewhere he's been. Maybe the last place he slept. Do you think you can describe him well enough in that language for it to work?”

Titus looked like he might actually be impressed, but he hid it well. “Yeah, probably.”

“Good. I've got a dictionary I've put together on that tablet next to you, but I'm not sure how accurate it is. Maybe it'll help?”

---------------------

Two hours later, they had it.

Find where a man born between the 27th and 28th north parallels during a new moon under the sign of capricorn with black hair and green eyes who has killed at least 10 people slept in the past week.

They really had to squeeze the letters in, but when Evan put a flame to the wick, it sprung to life, wavered for a moment, and then pointed east. Both men cheered. Evan threw Titus the keys.

“Drive! Drive north until I tell you otherwise!”

While Titus started the engine, Evan spread a map of the United States on the table in front of the lamp, then produced a protractor and a notebook from a drawer. “Okay, you bastard... let's see where you've been hiding...”

It took three days—one spent driving north, one spent driving back to where they'd started, and one spent driving south. While Titus drove, Evan made meticulous notes of the flame's direction, marking angles on the map. Finally he threw the pencil down triumphantly.

“He's in Salt Lake City.”

“Well, that narrows it down a little, I guess. So what, do we just go there and hope this thing points us in the right direction?”

“Too slow,” Evan called, stepping back into what used to be his bedroom and sitting at his computer. “Now I work my magic.”

After parking, Titus walked back to look over Evan's shoulder. The half-dozen monitors on the wall were flickering between rapidly-changing pictures of faces and what appeared to be CCTV footage.

“What is this?”

“This,” Evan said with dramatic pride, “is Blaccat. Facial recognition algorithms that the CIA wishesit had. I actually started working on it years ago before I thought about the implications of it, but I shelved it. I figured since I may be needing to, uh...”

“Be Batman?”

“...yeah...that I should get back to work on it. Right now it's comparing faces to the description you gave me and cycling through every damn security camera in the city looking for it.”

“How illegal is this?”

“Soooooo illegal.”

“Oh, hey, can you get into police department records?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

“See if you can get into the Las Vegas mugshots from... February 2019. Run your face-recognition thingy there.”

“Alright.... and... is that our boy?”

A handsome Latino man in his early 30s with shoulder-length jet-black hair and piercing green eyes stared at them from over a booking clipboard.

“That's him,” Titus breathed.

“Perfect! Now I just have to feed that into... wow.” Evan made a gesture and a black and white video popped up on the biggest monitor. The man in the mugshot was walking along the street, flanked by a short stocky man in bandanna and a lanky man with the ugliest white-boy dreads Evan had ever seen.

“That's him! Where is that? When is that?”

Evan grinned up at Titus. “That's live. I can track him and put us at the nearest intersection.”

Titus smiled, eye overbright, and began breathing heavily through his nose. “We got him.”

Evan met his eye and nodded. “Let's get him.”

[courtteeno]

Course Post #8: Dark Design in Nature

While driving to campus this week, I looked out the window and haven’t been able to stop thinking about one particular thing: cell towers. Not just regular cell towers though, the ones that try to disguise themselves as trees to blend into nature (even though they do a poor job at it).

Image from https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/take-a-look-at-americas-least-convincing-cell-phone-tower-trees

These cell towers are so obviously not trees. They stand out compared to the real trees, and they have to stand taller than real trees in order to provide good cell service. The saddest part about these towers is that they aren’t even a part of nature when it comes to materials.

“Most of the trees are built with artificial products such as fiberglass, plastic, and acrylic that are designed to feel like real bark. T-Mobile used 18,000 pounds of artificial branches to create the 155-foot-tall pine cell tower in Muskegon, Michigan, reports Tedium.” - Lauren Young

So, if these cell tower trees don’t look real and they’re made from harmful products like plastic, what’s the point? Some could argue that these fake trees look even worse than a regular cell tower would.

According to Young in “Take a Look at America’s Least Convincing Cell Phone Tower Trees,” cell towers being disguised as trees dates all the way back to the 1980s. Now, we have tree cell towers, palm tree towers, and even cactus-shaped cell towers. 

Anyways, this fake tree has had me thinking all week. I’ve been wondering if technology disguising itself as nature will be a trend we will start to see more and more of as time goes on? Or maybe companies will start to think of ways to adapt technology in a way that doesn’t harm or take away from nature? Perhaps that’s just wishful thinking.

Image from https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/take-a-look-at-americas-least-convincing-cell-phone-tower-trees

It’s interesting to see something that has a large stake in changing our future. Will nature be overcome by fake plants one day, with their only purpose serving our habits? Nature serves us already by providing us with food, oxygen, medicine, you name it. Will nature be overrun one day just so it can serve our habits, rather than our survival?

While not intended to serve as speculative design, these fake trees remind me of dark design. These were designed to serve a good, aesthetic purpose. But in reality, they just take away from nature itself and contribute to the further human takeover of nature.

[teaspoon-full-of-sugar]

kissed by mist and can dew attitude

pairing: harry styles x reader (farmers market au)

warnings: awkwardness!! shy!baker!harry, mentions of the qu*rantine, drug use, harry's chest hair, giggly, sweet high sex, some dirty talk :) unprotected sex

word count: 3.4k

synopsis: harry is an idiot, and y/n is a bit of a tease

author’s note: you can read this for a little background to this au (but it’s not really necessary; i tend to over explain things anyway, so you can get a pretty good understanding just from this) literally no one asked for this, but market season is coming up again, and i missed writing about these two :( hope you enjoy! xx

masterlist

—

Harry is so tired of being cooped up in this house.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves staying home.

He is normally the introvert that puts all other introverts to shame. He loves staying at home, he loves hiding away after a stressful day at work, he goes out of his way to not talk to anyone while he’s out, and he very rarely ever goes out on the weekends. He loves just being able to stay at home, relax, and not worry about anyone bothering him.

But, at a certain point, it becomes too much; now, he just wants to get out, go for a walk, go to the grocery store, talk to someone other than Y/N, just do something, anything, other than staying at home. Yes, it’s for a good reason, and he doesn’t want to be responsible for the illness spreading, but it’s also straining on his mental, physical, and financial health.

He honestly wants to go back to work.

Since this entire situation started, Harry has only had a couple of shifts at The Sweet Spot, since, apparently, cafes are “essential businesses”, but the nutrition store next door isn’t (the world definitely has their priorities straight). Honestly, it was kind of nice; he didn’t have to schmooze any customers, since he only saw the delivery drivers. There was the occasional ignorant person who would come up to the doors and pull on them, despite the very clear signs saying that they were not open to the public, only to find them locked, and Harry very happily told them to go away.

However, Marty couldn’t afford to have him take up any more shifts, which he completely understands, so he’s been stuck home for weeks.

Needless to say, both he and Y/N have been getting a little stir crazy.

They tried to keep a somewhat healthy lifestyle in the beginning, hiking the nearby trails or walking at the park, but everything started to become too crowded. They even went cycling, but Harry proved to be even more of a klutz on a bike than on his own two feet, resulting in a bump on his head and a scraped elbow, which is still healing beneath a floral printed plaster.

Y/N’s had some failed experiments, leading to several four-hour kitchen clean-ups, and she also started a “Fermentation Station”, with dozens of glass jars filled with fermenting fruits and teas, the smell of yeast strong in the air. She was so proud of herself the first time she made carbonated water from things they already had in the house (“Look, Harry, it’s so convenient”). She ended up adding more and more things to her collection. They argued about it for a couple of days before she finally settled and moved her jars to the back porch after the kitchen started smelling like alcohol.

While Y/N has her experiments, Harry stress-bakes. He can’t even count how many loaves of bread, fruit pastries, cookies, and cakes he has made. He made crepes using sourdough starter. That’s how bored he’s been. He waited five whole days for his starter to mature, just to make four crepes between himself and Y/N.

But, there’s only so many things to do before you’ve completely run out of ideas.

On this particularly boring day, it’s two in the afternoon before they finally get out of bed, no thanks to their terrible sleep schedules, and they move onto the couch, which is officially broken in after how many hours they’ve spent on it. It’s sunny outside, bright and warm, the bright light beaming through the large bay windows in the living room, making staying inside even worse.

Y/N convinces him to paint his fingernails (and not just his toenails), and he happily indulges her. It’s nice feeling pampered for once, and whenever Y/N gets into her let’s-have-a-spa-day moods, she goes all out. While his toenails, painted with a pretty green color called Can Dew Attitude and a shimmery top coat on them, dried, she put some all-natural mud mask on his face, that bubbled and seeped into his skin.

“This is great for your pores,” she says as she puts a lukewarm cloth on his mask. “Not that you have bad skin. It’s better than mine, you ass.”

He just smiles, feeling the clay crack, and leans into her touch. She’s gentle, waiting until most of it is soft and pliable before she wipes it away. As she dries his face, with a towelette that smells like lavender and honey, his freshened skin, flushed and smooth, glows in the afternoon sun, his pretty eyes magnified behind a pair of thick, black framed glasses. Y/N sits across from him, her leg tucked up underneath her with his hand steady on her knee.

“It’s not gonna, like,” he pauses, glancing warily at his nails, “poison you or anything, right?”

“What?” She laughs, putting an oil around his cuticles. He leans forward, watching her carefully. He readjusts the headband, inadvertently pushing it back a little too far, until some curls slip onto his forehead. She hits the bottle of Kissed by Mist against her palm, the pale pink polish making a nice ticking sound. She starts on his nails, but not before making a comment about how cute his little pinkie is, which makes him flustered.

“It’s not gonna poison you when I, ya know, like… when I…”

He motions with his free hand, grouping his ring and middle fingers together and curling them, and he bites on his cheek, brows furrowed, trying to see any changes in her expression. He stops and shakes his head, a frail blush creeping up to his ears.

“By the way you’re reacting, ‘m assuming it’s not a thing,” he sighs.

“No, the polish will not poison me when you finger—“

“Shh,” he hushes her, pressing his hand against her lips. She pushes him away.

“Harry, we are the only ones here,” she says, finishing his right hand.

“Ya know what that mouth does to me,” he mutters.

“Really? You get turned on when I say, ‘finger me’?”

“Ya know I do,” he pouts, grappling for her. His hands twist the thick cotton of her jumper for only a second before she’s scooting away, swatting at him.

“No, H, your nails are still wet,” she says, and he groans, sinking back into the couch cushions.

“So bored.”

“Everyone is,” she says, filing down his left thumb nail.

“Wanna get high?”

He just wants to stop this feeling of absolute boredom. It’s better since Y/N is here with him, but it’s getting to a certain point where he’s willing to do just about anything to feel, well, anything.

One night, they tried her “prison wine”, which was just cranberry cocktail and yeast that fermented for a couple of days; it tasted worse than it sounds. It did, however, get them very drunk, and they woke up the next morning with pounding headaches, upset stomach, and purple stained lips. It was honestly the worst hangover he’s ever had, and he vowed to never try it again.

Getting stoned has then become a regular thing. On those horribly boring nights where they had absolutely nothing to do, where they’ve both been on the couch for hours, not being able to find the willpower to move, and on those nights where they just wanted to feel and simply be elsewhere, they found solace in the warming daze.

She grins.

“Sure, I think we still have some gummies,” she says, moving toward their “special” drawer in the side table.

“Only a half this time, lovie,” he says as she turns back, and she rolls her eyes.

“They were a lot stronger than the other ones,” she says, ripping the poorly stuck tape from the plastic packaging.

“I know,” he smiles, popping the candy in his mouth. She sits back down beside him, her leg thrown over his lap. He moves his hand dangerously close to her inner thigh, his fingers dancing along the length of her thigh until they reach the hem of her panties, tugging at the material until it snaps back. He’s so close to feeling her warmth, if only he moves just a little further, but she yanks his hand back, puts it on her knee, and gives him a smug little smile, continuing her work.

It takes an hour, or two more coats of nail polish, for the edibles to kick in, but when they do, Harry thinks he pissed himself. Forgetting about Y/N’s leg across his lap, he mistakes her warmth as pee, and he jerks up, jolting her. She looks up at him, blinking. There’s a strip of white polish on the side of his thumb.

“You are so good at this,” he says slowly. He honestly couldn’t imagine painting such tiny details if he were sober; he doesn’t know how she’s doing it stoned. She’s swaying and blinking slowly, but she looks focused, her brows furrowed.

“You’re good at this,” she mumbles.

“What?” He laughs.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s easy if I can concentrate.” Her eyes flicker up to his, a smirk curled over her lips.

“‘M I distracting you?” He raises a brow.

“I can feel your cock,” she says.

“Please, don’t say cock while you’re touching my cock,” he says, readjusting his growing bulge. She just chuckles and moves her foot along his boxers, where his semi and the top of his thighs connect. His hips twitch.

She barely caps the nail polish before she tosses it to the side and straddles him. He cups her hips, the fact that his nails are still wet long gone from both of their minds. She holds him by the neck, tilting his head back. Before she can capture his lips, he hesitates, his hands tracing along her thighs.

“Are you sure?”

Even though they’re practically living together at this point and have had sex plenty of times, he can’t help but ask her that same question every time. He’s never been one to feel secure in himself, and to have someone who is so open and willing to trust him, it’s overwhelming and intimidating sometimes.

“Of course, H,” she says, nibbling at his bottom lip, and then, he kisses her, fully and profoundly. He could just melt into her, his senses consumed by her warmth and love. He wouldn’t go as far as saying that the sex is better than when they’re sober. It’s great all the time, but there’s something about being high, with his skin buzzing and all of his senses heightened yet dulled at the same time, that makes the experience different. It’s different because he’s not worried about what he’s doing and saying; he’s focusing on the feeling, all of the sensations and simply her.

She tries to pull his shirt over his head, but it gets caught on the chain around his neck, and she tugs a little too hard, yanking it tightly around his throat.

“Easy, Y/N,” he laughs, holding onto her wrists. “I know you’re eager to get me naked, but I think you forget that I am also precious cargo.” Her lips sink into a pout, and he’s able to get the shirt off, throwing it off to the side, his headband going with it.

“You are precious,” she says, squishing his cheeks together. She cups the back of his neck and pecks his lips, gentle and loving. “Love these little baby hairs,” she says, running her hand over his skin, teasing and tugging on his chest hairs.

“They’re not baby hairs,” he says, pouting. He teases his hands along her hips, nails digging into her fleshy skin. “I am a man.”

“Oh, I know,” she chuckles, feeling his hips jerk up, pressing his swelling bulge into her. He wraps his arms around her waist, fingers tracing along the expanse of her back, and nestles his face into her chest. She shifts further up on his lap, fingers carding through his soft hair. Being far too lazy to take it off, he sucks on her breasts through her worn tee, her nipples hardening in his teeth. She pushes his boxers down and readjusts herself over him, rubbing her clothed pussy along his pulsing cock. She tugs her panties to the side, and he moans at the sudden warmth, her arousal coating him.

“You like that?” She asks breathily, rocking her hips faster. “Like feeling me drip onto your cock?”

“What if I just—” She teases the head of his cock, just barely pushing him inside before she pulls out. He can barely make a sound, his throat tightening when

“You like it when I tease your cock? Can feel you throbbing.” Her eyes roll back at the burning feeling of him just breaking past the barrier of her tightness. “So needy for me, bubba.”

“Such a dirty mouth,” he moans.

“Tell me, babe.” She holds him by the jaw, the pads of her fingers pressing perfectly into his pressure points, and he struggles for breath, making his head even lighter and obscured. He grins. “Tell me how much you love my pussy,” she says as she sinks fully onto him, her walls swallowing him easily.

“Fuck,” he moans, long and drawn out. His head falls onto the couch cushions, eyes closing to savor the feeling of her gripping him, but she pulls him back, forcing him to keep eye contact. “I love it; love you more, though,” he says.

“Say it,” she coos.

He blushes, heat spreading from his chest to the tip of his ears. He has never been vocal when it comes to sex; he always gets flustered and anxious when having a normal conversation, so he couldn’t even imagine how how awkward he would be while trying to talk dirty. It’s even more difficult because of how much she’s teasing him, slow and languid movements up and down his cock, his head just barely inside her before she comes back down, her hips grinding against his. She has this look in her hooded eyes, a lustful and greedy look, that’s telling him to give in to his instincts.

“Love y-your pussy, baby,” he moans.

“Yeah?” She starts riding him faster, her walls milking him. He groans. “Tell me how it feels, H.” She smirks, like an actual full blown, teasing smirk; she knows exactly how good she’s making him feel. She likes seeing him so flustered and babbly and incoherent.

“So fucking good, so warm and wet, perfect for me, lovie,” he says, and she grins, teeth bared. She kisses him, messily and harshly. His arms wrap tightly around her waist, stilling her hips, and a hand travels up the length of her spine, beginning at the curve of her bum, dipping momentarily beneath her large tee, before moving up to the back of her neck, pressing her lips tighter to his. He cradles her head while he moves onto the floor, but it’s not nearly as graceful as he hoped it would be. They crash to the ground.

“Oh, god,” she squeals, and her walls squeeze him painfully tight. Her nails dig into his back.

“Wha’s wrong?” He wipes the sweat from his forehead, fingers raking through his hair.

“No, no,” she stutters, hands moving onto the swell of his ass, keeping him still. “You’re so deep.”

He swears his arms are going to give out at the sound of her sweet little whisper, her voice weak and broken.

“H-how deep?”

He can’t help the break in his voice, and embarrassment floods him. He’s honestly trying his hardest to sound sexy, but he just sounds like an idiot.

“As deep as the ocean,” she mumbles, and she looks so positively fucked, out of it and dazed with hooded eyes; he honestly doesn't even think she realizes what she said because when he starts laughing, she gives him the cutest look, her brows furrowed, lips curled. “What?”

“Congrats,” he says, leaning back and onto his knees, his arms curled under her thighs, knees hooked over his arms. “You almost just made me go soft. Never done that before.”

“Shut up,” she says, grinding her hips into him. His thrusts start slow, deliberate, but the more she reacts to him, the more she bucks and grinds, the faster they become, until he can’t anymore, driving his cock in with fast, precise thrusts.

“You look so good like this,” he says, groping her breasts over her tee, nipples swollen and hard. They move with every thrust of his hips.

“Thanks, it’s the shirt,” she says breathily, a weak smile on her lips. “It covers up all my ugly parts.”

“Tha’s not what I meant,” he says, frowning. He leans over her, hands on either side of her head, and she lets out a weak moan as his cock moves deeper inside her. “Look beautiful all the time.” He genuinely looks sad as he brushes away a bead of sweat from her forehead. “You don’ have to take your shirt off when we have sex, not if you don’ want to. I take it off normally because I thought it would be more comfortable for you, and, le’s be honest, your tits are amazing, and I love seeing your curves and your—”

She suddenly pulls him in for a kiss, ceasing his ramblings. He’s cute when he gets all nervous; despite the fact he’s balls deep inside her, he’s still a worrier. It’s sweet that he’s concerned about how she’s feeling, even though he’s not fully present, with red cheeks and hooded eyes, chest heaving for breath. She raises her hips, grinding up into him, her swollen clit just barely grazing against his abdomen. She clenches around him at the sharp, sudden burst of pleasure.

She raises her feet from the floor, and he presses her knees to her chest. The sound of him fucking himself into her wet cunt fills the air, obscenities and pleasured whimpers joining. Not having the energy to kiss fully, he traces his lips along the curve of her jaw, tender and messy. His thrusts become sharper and deeper, knocking the breath from her lungs with every move of his hips.

“Oh, god, ‘m so fucking wet.” She laughs, feeling through her soaked curls to her throbbing clit. She really is; her arousal drips onto their thighs and into the carpet. Her head spins, burning pleasure building as he grinds into her and spreads her legs further apart.

“Fuckin’ hell—” He whines as she tightens around him, her fingers rubbing her little clit raw.

“‘M gonna come,” she moans, tugging at his hair. “C’mon, baby,” she coos, “want you to—” She swallows thickly, her breathing shallow. Her eyes roll back as she pinches her poor swollen clit, her thighs trembling. She meets his thrusts, eager for her impending orgasm. “Want you to come in me, wanna feel your cum in my—”

She lets out one loud moan, her body trembling and shuddering beneath him as pleasure rushes through her, leaving her limbs tingling and her mind muddled. They bask in the afterglow, their breaths in sync and deep, and he slumps onto her, wrapping his arms around her, tracing his hands over any piece of skin he can. He just wants to savor this feeling, the closeness, the warmth, the tenderness.

Her hand suddenly fishes over to the caramels that Harry made a couple days ago, which have been taunting her in a faux-crystal bowl on the coffee table for the past couple of minutes. The make-shift wax paper wrapper crinkles, and the sound makes him look up, his eyes still hooded, movements languid with exhaustion. He opens his mouth sleepily, and she rips the caramel in half. They both moan at the same time at the taste and fall into a fit of giggles. He moves to his side, his chest pressed to her back, softening cock pressed to the curve of her bum.

“Sorry,” he says, “messed up your art.” He flashes his nails, the pink paint still soft and pliable, littered with nicks and dents and imprints from the couch cushions. She hooks her fingers through his and tugs his hand down to her lips.

“Worth it.”

—

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans Are Space Orcs, “ER”

Short story for Krill this morning. Hope you guys enjoy. 

Dr. Krill was back on Earth. He had no idea why he always seemed to end up in this insane hellscape, but here he was…. again. only the other day he had been caught out in an electrical storm while trying to commute his way to work, which he hadn’t particularly appreciated, especially not when massive balls of frozen ice came pelting from the sky with enough power to tear open skin.

Even the humans had been running for cover, and that was saying something.

He would very much have preferred a job where he wasn’t in constant danger of getting murdered by the elements on a regular basis.

But this was earth, one day he could be enjoying the sun, the next he was risking heat death, the next he was almost blown away by the wind, and the day after that he was almost whisked away by minor flooding.

Of course, it was either walking to work or taking public transit which was probably even more dangerous considering that it had humans on board. Humans who were half asleep, humans who were strung out on drugs, humans with children, humans with dangerous pets. Then of course there were the more than mildly xenophobic humans, who were, somehow, under the impression that Krill was there to still earthling jobs, which was not the case at all considering that he had volunteered him time for free.

Krill had no need of monetary compensation, to him, the work was the reward.

He leaned something new every day.

And now, with his current stint working in a human hospital, he was becoming even more acquainted with humanity… not entirely sure if that was in a good way or not.

OF course, Krill more than missed the simple life aboard the harbinger where most humans were relatively educated and competent, where most stupid injuries came about by overly idiotic actions rather than ignorance -- a point could be argued to which one of those things was worse, but, for the moment, Krill was under the impression that willful idiocy was still better than ignorance because at least they knew why they were stupid, and generally openly admitted it to krill whereas working with the general populace forced him to have to be patient and understanding towards people who just didn’t know any better.

Apparently telling people they are stupid to their faces is seen as off-color in the human medical world even though that is probably exactly what some of the people needed to hear.

Again, he found himself wishing for the harbinger, and for the return of the captain – the biggest idiot of them all.

He idly wondered how he was doing on his little trip across the universe.

He wondered how Sunny was doing exploring the human world on her own two feet/

He wished he knew when they would be back together.

The UNSC had given them extended shore leave, but they had never specified how long it was going to be seeming to hint that it was contingent on how the captain felt. Well Krill was under the impression the captain needed to get his ass back here so krill would stop having to pull things out of people’s butts.

 Speaking of pulling things out of people’s butts’ he was on ER rotation today. He found that the ER could be the most interesting, or the most infuriating part of a hospital. Just the other day he had led the surgical team that reattached someone’s arm, but then the day before that he had been in the ER to inform a woman that yes your shortness of breath likely comes from the run you just went on after years of never having exercised.

He took his clipboard and walked into the human waiting room.

He could write a paper on what sort of things it was important for a medical professional to keep in mind when treating humans. But here was an example of his typical day.

·         Isn’t this the second time I have seen little Jimmy in here for sticking something up his nose? I understand that he really loves playing with those toys, but you have to understand there is a reason the label says five and up. Yes, it would probably be best if you did not allow him around things he could get stuck in his face.

·         Your pregnant. Yes of course I am sure. I can do a blood test if you like. I know you said you are not sexually active, but I have looked at this blood test twice and a stick test twice and it says you are pregnant. Well what do you consider sexually active…. mmhmmm…. Mmmhmmm…. well I think it is probably my job to inform you that it is still sex even if the woman is on top.

·         You just…. fell on it huh? So, you were doing household chores…. Naked…. And you just so happened to slip and as you were slipping this item was magically vacuumed up into your colon. Mmmmm hmmm, quick question where was this potato located for you to have fallen on it like that? Well no sir, I am afraid that we probably won’t be able to get it out manually you are going to need a gastrointestinal specialist for that.

·         Yes sir, your chest pain probably has something to do with all the cocaine you have been snorting. Cocaine tends to do that to people.

·         Ok you are a diabetic trying to control your blood sugar. Ok, I am glad to hear that you have worked on toning down your sugar consumption, that’s good, but I am still very concerned about your sugar levels. This is far to high and I am extremely concerned. Let’s go through your diet and see what you have been eating. Have you cut back on soft drinks? Yes, and now you drink a lot of fruit juice…. ahh… I see. Well ma’am fruit juice just so happens to contain a lot of sugar which might be why your blood sugar is so high. Might I suggest drinking some water.

·         Ah finally, a real emergency. Yes, your grandmother’s breathing problems worry me greatly. Let’s get her back in to do an EKG, make sure nothing is gong on with her heart. I am glad you brought her in when you did.

·         Yes, little Susie is going to be fine. I am glad she knew how to use her epi-pen, excellent work Susie.

·         No, I don’t care that you have been waiting four hours to se the doctor. Your child has a mild stomach ache, their child is having intermittent seizures. No, I will not be calling the medical director in to see you about this.

·         Well that’s probably why it hurts so much. The condom is not supposed to cover the balls too.

·         No matter how much you deny your use of opiates, when you came in here you weren’t breathing and when I gave you Narcan you started breathing again, so I know where my vote is. Please try not to deny these things to your medical professional next time. It is not my job to call the cops. No, I am not going to rat you out. Yes, you could die if you don’t tell me about past drug use no matter what it is.

·         You got a WHAT in your WHERE. Why would you stick a toothpick in there? No sir generally most people are not ailed with an itchy urethra, in fact I am pretty sure that is not a thing. Look, I am not judging you sir, but please stop sticking pointy things up into places where they do not belong because you could cause permanent damage.

·         Ouch… now remind me again why you were trying o ride your skateboard down the stairs. And you openly admit that you are not good at skating…. Because you saw a video. I am very glad you know it was a dumb idea because at least I don’t have to say it.

·         Ma’am this says analgesic not anal-gesic, the pills are taken orally not as a suppository.

·         You have been bleeding once a month for ten years and you are just now coming in about that? I am sorry, but how old are you again. Yes, ma’am this is very normal, here let me get you a pamphlet to read, and if you have any questions feel free to ask one of the nurses.

·         So you don’t have any medical history. Well are you taking any medications. That sure is a lot of medications for someone who does not have any medical history. This one looks like it is for high blood pressure. Sir just because the medication is helping you manage your high blood pressure does not meant that your high blood pressure is cured.

·         When I say clear liquids that does not include vodka

·         I know vodka does have alcohol in it, but pouring it on your open soar sure did not help anything, and now you are probably going to need a plastic surgeon to fix this.

·         No ma’am you have to put ear drops in both ears. No, the ears are not connected. Yes, your eardrums and you know… your brain are kind of in the way. No there is not a tube that just goes straight through.

·         Please stop licking your wound.

·         Um no, those bumps on your tongue are not cancer…. They are taste buds.

·         Yes, that it a uvula…. Yes, it is supposed to be there.

·         What made you think sticking ice cubes up your anus would help with your fever. Well it will not and now you have frost bite in your rectum.

·         So it was the smell that got you to come in and not the…. Maggots?

 Krill groaned in relief as he went to clock out.

‘Tough day?” Someone asked

“I think something needs to be done about medical education on your planet.”

The human laughs, “We have been trying for more than two thousand years. Good lucky making it any better than it already is.”

 Please, Adam finish your journey of self-discovery soon because if I have to explain how to use a condom one more time, I might just loose it.

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 22

AO3

Beta reader as always is @thesnadger! Go read Something’s Different About You Lately and all her other fics!

Life goes on.

Martin is shaken from his thoughts.

Martin’s footsteps did not ring out against the interior of the lighthouse. The sound did not bounce around and up the spire to return in earnest, filling the hollow space with noise as he walked. Around him the walls absorbed every sound, every scratch of his pen. Or maybe he’d just learned to quiet himself. It was difficult to tell at times.

Whether or not the place had changed didn’t matter. The echoes had become a taunt over the dragging weeks, his own voice hitting the walls and bouncing back to smack him in the face. If there was a ghost in those walls, it wasn’t trying to talk to him.

There had been no sign of Peter since he’d spoken of Martin’s good fortune. Peter had wanted to avoid correspondence, no doubt about that, and the letter had sent him on another boating excursion that very day. If Simon were to send another message, there would be no one to give it to. The satisfaction almost made his mouth twitch. 

The boat trip could’ve been a cover, but Martin liked to entertain the idea of Peter jumping into a row boat and furiously paddling away from the shore just to escape the skinny little man who dared want to speak with him.

He even understood the impulse. It wouldn’t be so bad to sit in a little boat in the middle of the ocean if it meant avoiding the horrible old men in his life. He didn’t have to do that yet, not when he had a perfectly empty spot right where he was. 

The weather had worsened considerably, three days of heavy sleet pushing him home without stopping. If he ducked inside a shop he wouldn’t want to go back out, and he couldn’t hide forever. Therefore, when on that fourth day it was closer to a sprinkle than a torrent, he finally took the time to get groceries.

He recognized some of the faces in the little corner shop, several regulars seizing the opportunity to stock up before worse weather settled in. They walked around diligently, considering their needs for the next week and not risking side conversations that could end long after the rain returned in full force. There was no chitchat or calming music, only the squeak of rubber wheels on the cold tile floor. 

Martin focused on the task in front of him. Frozen foods, mostly. At least there was someone out there pre-packaging things for people like him who came back from work tired and hungry. He'd never had much reason to be ambitious with cooking,  and never terribly good when he did try. No wonder dinners had been such a sad affair, but he was the only remaining judge.

As he selected bags of frozen veggies, it hit him that he’d taken far too much. He stared at the white plastic packaging, frowned, and threw it into his basket. Stocking up on long lasting foods would save him trouble in the long run, and changing the budget would’ve been a pain. 

He continued from aisle to aisle, grabbing what his hands were used to reaching for from the shelves and weaving between people who were too busy browsing to notice him. If someone was blocking him, he could loop back around and let everyone get on with their business.

As he eyed some flavorless oatmeal he heard the tiny bell over the entrance ring. He sighed to himself and wondered how crowded it would get if he stayed too long. The balance between moving quickly and not interrupting fellow shoppers was beginning to grate on his nerves, each go-around making him more and more aware of the ones taking their sweet time. 

He went around again, the same backs turned toward him in different configurations. If he kept circling around other shoppers would take their place while he was gone. If he waited nearby he would look impatient and agitated. If he made the loop again more people might be lined up at the queue when he was finally done and then he’d be stuck standing in line even longer, which could make it even more likely that he’d get stuck in sleet if it returned and he’d spend even more time waiting with everyone else, and if someone started chatting with the woman at the register which was very likely then who knew how long-

Heavy footsteps squeaked in his direction. The person who’d just entered was making a beeline for his aisle. Feeling a tiny jolt in his chest at the approach, he reflexively glanced over to see the older woman from the Fairchild house wearing a sensible coat and some sturdy waterproof boots.

She did live in town, then. Of course she lived in town. The Fairchild house was still part of town. Not that he knew for certain she lived there, but either way she would need to buy food. Someone in that big house had to, right? He’d never seen Simon walking about and couldn’t imagine him running errands. At this point he should’ve expected her to be around town, he thought, as his heart slammed against his ribcage.

He didn’t know her name. Presumably she was a Fairchild, what with the way that family worked, pulling like-minded people into it rather than building outward. Otherwise, she was just a person. Just another someone.

Someone he was openly staring at, and who had finally pinned him with a look of recognition from the other end of the aisle. He gritted his teeth, turned on his heel, and hopped to the aisle over. He had food to buy and no need for more… whatever it was she might do. Really, he’d grabbed enough to last him through the week, so why stay any longer in the stale air?

To his relief the queue was empty. Of course as he walked back to the front with his basket full of microwave meals he recognized the cashier. She was a former classmate’s mother, someone he would chat with on his little trips to the shop. As he placed his items on the counter he recalled that he usually asked after her daughter.

No one really liked small talk, and he was sure there would’ve been no change from whenever it was he’d spoken to this woman last. That was fine. Speech wasn’t going to come easy with the way his lips stuck together. He paid for the groceries, took his paper bag full of food and absconded into the night air. 

It was then that he forced his lips apart to breathe, clutching the bag against his chest and walking down the road. He felt the need to wipe his glasses, but his hands were full.

He had only made it a couple of blocks before he heard a voice from behind. “It’s rude to stare without saying anything.”

He stopped and turned to see the woman a few meters away with her arms crossed. Words failed him, so he said nothing and hoped his confused expression was enough.

“What’s your boss been up to? Slinking around I assume,” she asked.

Holding the groceries closer to his chest, Martin lowered his eyes to the ground.

The woman rubbed her forehead. “Of course. Should’ve expected as much from someone like you.” After a brief pause, she continued, “Look, I’m not sure what your deal is exactly, being so clearly new to all of this, but if you’re this messed up when nothing’s happened yet I suggest you leave.” 

She must’ve seen some twitch or twist in his face, as she said, “Fine, do what you like. He must pay really well to make you stay this long.” Then she shoved her hands into her coat pockets and walked back toward the shop.

He felt like he should’ve yelled something back, let her know exactly how much her unsolicited advice meant to him. Tell her to piss off, or to jump back into the sky or whatever it was her stupid group did. 

But of course he couldn’t say that, not then, not with how he was sure he’d sound. It would have come out cracked and raspy, as if he were a teen trying not to sound petulant. And he knew better than to try and argue with a person like her who knew that she knew more.

Instead, once he’d walked far enough that she couldn’t possibly see him, he considered what little she had said. Was this Simon’s idea, using her to push him in some direction that would agitate Peter? Or was she acting of her own will and giving him what she thought of as useful suggestions from one person working for an evil company to another?

If she really wanted to be helpful she could’ve said something informative instead of being vague and weird about it. Who knew what any of these people were thinking? It wasn’t his fault they all wanted to be cryptic. And no matter what she thought she knew about his situation, there was no leaving for him. He could feel it in his gut, in his throat, as easily as he could feel the ice beginning to pelt him from above. 

Leave, she said. What would leaving look like? Being chased down because he knew too much. An empty stretch of road leading him to rooms full of strangers. Leaving someone behind.

The worst was how she looked at him when she said it. He could list out to her all his reasons for staying, but somehow she would know he was full of shit.

--

Sasha: so there’s a wrench in things that’s taking longer than expected to fix, can’t get into the details but we’re working on it

Tim: should be back on track before you know it! 

Tim: so dont go making things exciting over there without us

Sasha: sorry to be cagey, it’s hard to explain

Martin’s mobile sat on the weathered wood of his front porch, his only light source besides the cracks around the front door. Giving the notifications a once over, he released a slow breath through his nose. It burned less than before, much less now that it had been a few days, and he’d come to an understanding that soon it would stop altogether. His own stubbornness exposed.

She couldn’t say she told him so. That was a sort of blessing.

When the light of his mobile winked out, everything was still but for the waves and the creaking of the old house. His old house. Its joints strained with the high winds and plummeting temperature, but it was built to last through such things. Each evening those noises greeted him when he walked through the front door and went with him to sleep, jolting him awake in the middle of the night with a loud snap as if the building had cracked its spine. The house persisted, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to complain about it the whole way.

Tim: in the meantime let us know youre still breathing

Tim: i know i ran out of material weeks ago but that doesnt mean you get out of pretending to think im funny

With a sigh, Martin picked up the mobile.

Martin: im fine

Martin: not much happening still

Tim: think the boredom will get you first?

He considered the message and then set the mobile back down next to him. The meeting with the Fairchild woman had been enough to drain him without him uttering a single syllable. Texting was easier but not by much, and he had nothing in him to keep up with Tim’s lighthearted attempts to engage.

The notebook tucked into his jacket had been the only good receptacle for words recently. His jacket protected the little record of his thoughts from the spray of water that slipped under the porch roof and misted over his glasses and hair and cheeks, blurring his vision and sucking the heat from his skin.

He found himself in a little bubble outside of time where clouds blocked out the sky and any hope of telling time with it. Fog hid the path up and away from his home, no entrance or escape from where he sat but for the wide expanse of salt water ahead. 

When was the last time he’d seen a boat on those waves? The trek down the cliffs would’ve made dragging one to the shore a pain, and there were no other homes left down on the rocky beach. Had they owned a boat when he was younger, some small thing never meant to fit more than one person but forced to fit two and a half? Did he remember something like that happening?

He sighed and pushed the false memory away with her inside of it, but the obstinate thing sailed right back into his mind. He inhaled and then let a sharp breath out through his nose. 

With some effort, he pushed out, “Stupid. She wouldn’t have needed to go out in a boat.” What a grating sound.

It wasn’t as if his house had a place for a boat. There wasn’t even an overhang to drag a dinghy under in a lazy effort to protect it from the elements. 

Had there been one once, though? He couldn’t see much from where he sat, the fog creeping in from the sides and obscuring his view to his right and left. That and his glasses made seeing his stiff hands a miracle.

His mobile lit up the space beside him.

Sasha: it won’t keep us much longer though. it complicates things, but waiting won’t do any good. 

Sasha: so sit tight and we’ll have a plan of action soon

Tim: seriously though even if nothing happens you should still tell us youre fine

Tim: a quick thumbs up or a ‘hey im good’ is fine dont need to start a whole conversation if theres nothing to report

Tim: but saying nothing implies a worst case scenario. i know everythings sort of come to a halt on your end but we dont know when something will happen

Tim: so text us after work

Tim: or at least respond same day

A new lecture, from Tim of all people. He’d forgotten to respond to the others for a couple of boring days in a long string of boring days and he was being told off. His day to day life wasn’t any of their business. He’d needed the time to himself, away from his phone and all that. And they knew he was mostly off on weekends.

At least Tim confirmed that all they needed was proof he wasn’t dead. He could keep that in mind in the future.

He wasn’t being fair to Tim, the one who at this point still attempted to talk with him when he didn’t need to. Of course Martin not responding would look bad- he was lucky they hadn’t broken down his door by day two. But at the end of all things the problem was him. The problem was his. 

Martin: i will

Tim: good

The rain began to pick up a little, splattering the screen and forcing him to pocket his mobile. It was as good an excuse as any to ignore more messages. He’d agreed to not leave them in suspense about his safety. It was all he could give them.

Pushing himself off the front steps, he stood just outside of the porch roof’s reach and inhaled. It did still sting, but that seemed to be the point of the exercise. It opened things up, cleaned him from the inside and washed it all away with an exhale. It was no wonder his mother had been so insistent with how much he found leaving him with every breath. 

He looked up into the sky with eyes squeezed shut for a few moments, then looked one more time at the black water ahead-

A thrashing in the water cut the silence in two, forcing a yelp out of his chest as he caught himself on the porch railing. Past the fog, just barely visible against the dark backdrop of sea and sky, was a figure hunched and formless and slowly shuffling out of the water.

Martin stepped backwards and half-fell back under the porch roof, wiping the rain from his glasses. The fog had grown so thick as to obscure the figure of any distinguishing features, and as he continued to back toward the front door he squinted hard to get a better look at the- the person? The thing? The-

It couldn’t be. No, it wouldn’t- she wouldn’t come back. It wasn’t possible. But if it had come from the sea (where else could it have emerged from so suddenly?), then there wasn’t another explanation.

His throat went taught with panic. He grasped at it, using his other hand to fumble behind him for the doorknob and hold it tight. He wanted to run. Run away, run up the hill, run straight at her and scream until his voice left him entirely. Anything but stand there rigid against the reality creeping toward him. Damn it, when had this fog rolled in so thick? What time was it?

The figure stopped, its crunching footsteps giving way to the sound of waves and pattering droplets. Martin held his breath and waited for something to give, whether it be his mother’s patience or his own two legs.

Then the footsteps resumed, more certain and definitely faster than he’d recalled his mother ever being. Right, she had always needed to be careful of her knees. The sea couldn’t just fix a history of osteoporosis.

This wasn’t a comfort. As the figure grew near and gained definition to its stick legs and shifting, asymmetric middle, Martin could only stand there frozen in terror with his hands gripped tight around the doorknob and his own neck.

An uncertain voice shouted over the drizzle. “Martin? Is that you? This fog is-”

Wait.

No. No that didn’t make any goddamned sense. He didn’t hear that.

And yet, out of the grey shroud, hair sticking to the sides of his face, walked a stiff and mildly embarrassed Jonathan Sims. He stopped just short of the porch steps, and then Martin couldn’t register anything else, his vision narrowing to the thing clutched to Jon's chest.

“Ah. Hi.” Jon adjusted the awkwardly folded seal skin in his arms and cleared his throat. “May I come inside?”

[sunsetinmyvein]

You Pick a Fight - P2

Eyyyyy it’s prompt time. I have since forgotten what prompt’s @imagine-that-100​ gave me from the prompt list for this part two, but hopefully you enjoy it anyway. :P

And I was right, because it wasn’t over. The pool incident was just the start of much more bickering and fighting over nothing that was set to come during the months between Matty and I. We hadn’t known each other all that well prior to that day, but it definitely set the bar for future interactions. Being argumentative and stubborn was just a habit neither of us could break, much to all of our mutual friend’s annoyance. It might’ve been on the verge of immature, since we were both pushing thirty, but neither of us cared. And we never really meant it. Grudges about stolen floaties were not held for long. It was a rare occasion that we genuinely made up and said sorry, but typically by the end of the day we had either forgotten about it or played some prank on the other to feel avenged about our wrong doing. Over the course of many months of arguing and pranking, Matty and I inevitably became closer. Realistically, Matty was probably one of my best friends by this point in my life. We saw each other at least a couple of times a week for various reasons and I enjoyed his company (mostly). But that wasn’t going to stop me from trying to constantly one-up him and make sure I destroy him any time he challenges me to anything. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? You gotta know your opponent’s weaknesses to best exploit them.

 However, tonight was our regularly scheduled movie night. So, more than likely no arguing would be occurring tonight. The movie had already been picked by democratic vote by the group, which meant there would be no debates about that. Everyone was bringing their own snacks, nothing to fight over. And we rotated who hosted, so no arguments there either. This week it was Matty’s turn. Last week when it had been at my flat, we had picked a comedy movie to watch and ended up receiving a noise complaint from my neighbour about us being “too rambunctious”. I was hoping that we wouldn’t have the same issue to deal with this week given Matty’s much thicker walls. I was cutting up a tray of brownies that I was graciously bringing to share - one of which may or may not have been spiked with cayenne pepper just to spite Matty for last week when he mixed my bag of skittles with m+m’s - while I replayed the events of last week. The details of the movie were actually a bit of a blur, because after the few drinks that I had downed after a rough day at work, I recalled falling asleep. When I woke up, I found myself snoring on Matty’s shoulder. God, that was utterly embarrassing. Other than my snoring, to wake up cosying up to Matty? I’d rather be caught dead. But I must have been too distracted by these memories, because as I was cutting, I slipped and managed to slice open my thumb with my new knife.

  I felt the cut the instant it happened, bracing myself for what I might see before I looked down. Sure as shit, all I saw was a lot of red. The first thought to run through my head was that my brownie plan was ruined. I couldn’t serve brownies that had been doused in blood. The second was that I absolutely needed to seal this wound as soon as possible. I raced to the bathroom, grabbing a roll of gauze and wrapping it around my thumb as tightly as I could. Do I call an ambulance? No, this wasn’t an ambulance sort of emergency. Emergency, though. I should go to the emergency room. Now. But I had to let the guys know I wasn’t coming. I could see the gauze starting to turn red as I searched my phone for Matty’s contact. Fuck, I felt so bad for bailing on this movie night given it was our regular thing, but this was really not good. Really, really not good. The phone rang twice before he picked up.

  “Hey-”

“Look, I need to go to emergency.” I interrupted in a garbled rush.

“What?” He shouted down the line.

“I need to go to hospital, so I’m not gonna make it tonight.” I explained, slightly slower.

“What did you do?” He asked in an incredulous tone.

“I sliced my thumb open cutting brownies.” I just heard him laughing. “It’s not funny, Matty. I need stitches.” I frowned as I started to grab my essentials. What if they wanted to keep me in overnight? Oh my god, I was absolutely not prepared for something like this. I should have a go bag. Is that a thing normal people did? Have a go bag in case they accidentally injure themselves? Maybe smart people did.

“Do you need me to drive you?” He offered as I was contemplating what exactly I would put in a go bag.

“What? Uh, no. I’m okay. I think.” I rattled off.

“I’ll meet you there.” I heard him say. He what? Why would he want to come to the hospital?

“Wait. No, you don’t-” But he’d already hung up.

  Before I left the house, I slapped another few layers of bandage over the gauze on my thumb to try and put some pressure on this cut that was apparently bleeding like a tap by the rate it was turning things red. Driving to the hospital with a thumb as fat as mine was with all the bandages wrapped around it was not easy to say the least, but I managed to get there in one piece. Once I had gotten there, paid for my parking, and then managed to check myself into the ER, I was able to take a seat and decompress slightly. But, the peace and quiet didn’t last long, because not even five minutes after I sat down a familiar face entered through the sliding glass doors.

“Good job.” Matty said as he approached, with a slow clap for emphasis.

“Don’t patronise me.” I scoffed.

“Show me.” He said as he took a seat in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to my own.

“It’s okay-”

“Just show me what you did.” He dismissed.

“I mean, I can’t really take this stuff off-” I gestured to my half blood-soaked bandages, “-or it’ll bleed worse.”

He let out a low whistle as he raked a hand through his curls. “Bloody hell.” He muttered under his breath, before glancing up at me. “Pardon the pun.” He added with a smirk.

“Shut up. It’s really not as bad as it looks.” I lied. I was trying to play it down, to pretend like I hadn’t briefly seen how deep that knife went, but I knew that this was definitely very vital that I see a doctor very fucking soon.

He met my gaze, clearly seeing the stress I was trying to hide. “You’re not very convincing.” He chuckled.

  Despite my protests about him wanting to wait with me, Matty continued to ramble on about what he had done earlier in the day while we sat in the crowded waiting room. He also told me not to worry about cancelling on the movie night, and thanked me for trying to make brownies. If only he had known what his brownie was going to taste like. But at least he was distracting me from the weird sensation in my thumb. After about half an hour, I was called through to be seen by the nurse - which realistically just meant that I sat and waited in another room for a further ten minutes until I was finally seen by someone. When she walked in, she introduced herself and asked for a run down of the situation as she started gathering some supplies. After I had explained what I had done, she started moving towards my giant wad of bloody fabric.

“I’m gonna look away.” I warned the nurse, she just nodded in response. I felt her unravelling the bandages on my thumb, trying really hard to busy myself by studying the vision tester chart on the wall. She let out a quiet hum as she analysed the situation.

“All right. I am going to put some glue on this now to hold it, but we are going to need to anaesthetise you to properly sort this out. Is that okay?” She asked in a calm tone. They were going to knock me out? It was bad enough to need to be knocked out for?? Holy shit.

“Um, yep.” I nodded. “I suppose it’ll have to be.” I added with a nervous laugh. “When will that be?”

“As soon as they can get you in. Likely in the next few hours.” She answered.

  When I came back out of the nurse’s station, I sat back down and told Matty what they had said.

“They need to sedate you?” He asked in shock.

“I’ve apparently done quite a number on myself.” I could feel the stress building up as the realisation set in. Oh my god. I had cut off my thumb. I had cut off my thumb and now they needed to reattach it. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

“Hey, calm down.” He reassured, placing his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be all right.”

“But what if it’s too late? What if I cut too far? What if-”

Thankfully, Matty interrupted my downward spiral of anxiety. “They would’ve told you if that were the case. They’re going to operate, so it must be fine.” He moved to take my good hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing mind as I nodded in agreement. At least one of us was the voice of reason right now. “When are you going in?” He questioned, seeming genuinely sympathetic.

“They said as soon as possible. I just have to wait here until a theatre frees up.” I replied. He just nodded thoughtfully. “You should go back to the movie night.” I said, eventually feeling guilty that he’d already been sat waiting here for an hour.

“No.” He shook his head as he rifled through his pocket. “You want some gum?” He asked, holding a packet out in my direction.

I looked down at them apprehensively. “They’re not some ridiculous flavour, are they?”

He laughed loudly. “No, I threw the wasabi ones out.”

  It was another hour before I was finally called through to get ready for theatre. Now I was genuinely feeling pretty awful that Matty had been here this whole time. We had well and truly pushed past dinner time, he’d missed the movie, our friends were all sat at his place without him. He can’t have been having a good time stuck here with me.

“Okay, I gotta go in.” I said as I stood up.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.” He smiled up at me from his seat.

“Just go home, I’ll be fine.” I said as I gestured to the door.

“No.” He grinned.

“Go.”

“No.” His dark brown eyes bore into mine, clearly challenging me to push him further on the subject.

“I hate you, so much.” I grumbled as I heard the nurse call my name again.

“I love you, too.” He said, blowing a kiss for emphasis as I walked off.

  The doctors all reassured me that the operation was going to be quick and easy. Knock me out, stitch me up, wake me up fifteen minutes later. Easy peasy. I had never had any issues with operations, being knocked out was easy. It was the stuff you had to be awake for that was hard. True to their word, when I saw the clock when I started coming to, it had been no more than half an hour than when I last checked the time. But my god I felt groggy. My brain felt like it had been replaced with a bunch of cotton balls and my eyelids might as well have been made of lead. I glanced down at my thumb, seeing a much smaller pile of bandages on there, that were now thankfully not soaked in blood. That was nice. I then caught sight of the man sat next to my bed.

“Hey, you’re up.” Matty said quietly as he stepped over. As soon as he leaned over the bed frame, the fluorescent lights above him just illuminated his dark, curly hair. Holy shit. It looked borderline angelic. “How’re you feeling?”

“Your hair…” I mumbled as I reached out my good hand to touch it.

He seemed surprised by my actions at first, before letting my run a hand through it. “What about it?” He asked with a quiet laugh.

“It’s really soft.” I answered, genuinely quite surprised by how nice it felt. “Has it always been that soft?” I felt like I had been missing out. I could’ve been touching this hair for nearly a year now and instead I had been swapping his shampoo for ranch dressing and perfume.

  Matty seemed keen to indulge my anaesthesia haze, letting me bother him with all of my weird questions about his hair. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy. I did a lot of mean shit to him and here he was, sat with me in emergency all evening instead of hanging out with his friends. After the pranks I’d pulled, I likely didn’t deserve a friend like him. But he’d pulled them on me too. We were a pretty good pair, I suppose. And I had no idea if it was this lighting or what, but dare I say, Matty was looking pretty attractive today. Had I really just been so focused on butting heads with him that I never noticed these things before?

“Are you sure you really look this good? I feel like I must still be dreaming.” I said, pretending to shield my eyes.

He frowned, before the realisation dawned on him and his eyebrows shot up in surprise, “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged.

“Don’t use cheesy pickup lines on me.” He chuckled.

“How else am I meant to pick you up?” I scoffed as I rolled my eyes.

“Are you trying to?” He asked as a smile slowly made its way onto his face.

“Maaaaybe.” I said in an attempt to be non-committal, but then my curiosity got the better of me. “Is it working?”

“I’m gonna remind you of this when you’re properly out of the anaesthetic.” He just looked amused. Not the reaction I had hoped for. But I was too tired to keep trying to come up with clever lines.

“Okay.” I muttered, nodding softly. “Gon’ sleep now, though.” I added.

“Rest up.” He agreed. “You’re gonna need all the energy you can get to deal with me giving you shit for this tomorrow.”  

Part one

Part three

[ancientechos]

The Apothecary

Emet-Selch/Arianna ♡ 3782 words ♡ Revenant AU

Sequel to Omen of Beginning

Previous

Solus herds the woman into her home, shutting the door behind them both. The rain drumming upon the roof sounds strangely calming here. Or maybe it’s simply the house in general.

Sighing wearily, he drops her gloved hand and throws himself into the kitchen chair he’s sat at so many times before. He leans back; the front legs lift into the air. If he wants, he could probably count the leaves of the dried herbs that hang from the ceiling. He throws an arm across his face.

The clicks of he -- hooves on the floorboards rattles within his mind as she walks cautiously around him. He finally understands.

The question that instinctively comes to his lips is why did you never tell me?

But he knows the answer without having to ask.

The Garlean Empire hates her kind. Savages, revenants...the sort of humans with very inhuman features. And far more likely to be in possession of the “gift” of magic.

Slowly, he lowers his arm and lets the chair legs touch the floor once more.

“Whether you believe me or not, I have no intention of turning you in.” He presses his palm hard against the bridge of his nose. Staring at her through narrowed eyes, his gaze roves from her apprehensive expression to the hat she has yet to remove.

And the gloves...he’s never seen her so covered before. He’s seen her hands plenty of times. He is achingly curious. There must be a reason why she’s chosen to hide them.

But even he knows it would be terribly inappropriate to ask.

So instead an awkward silence drifts across them; the woman fidgeting nervously, as if she’s unsure of what to do, while Solus teeters precariously between simply letting his eyes shut and pretending this was all a dream, or getting up and leaving entirely.

Oh, he knows he can’t do that. Not in her...condition. It’s too -- dangerous to leave her like this...

Not to mention he should be getting back to his post. He can’t let the next watch catch it empty.

“It is...it’s all right...” he murmurs, though he’s not sure whether it’s to reassure himself or her. She doesn’t speak, of course. Arianna hasn’t even moved for what seems like years. He glances at her again, brows furrowing. Whatever it is that ails her...

“Just...I think you should likely stay here...until you, ah, turn -- turn back to...normal...”

The words feel like ash on his tongue, bitter and vile, and he cannot for the life of him discern why. He is simply stating facts.

He feels even worse when she turns her face away with nothing more than a stiff nod, her lips formed in a thin line. But then something like alarm or shock blooms across her features, and she quickly turns back to him with wide eyes.

Arianna’s mouth opens, then shuts; she pulls the cloth off her basket, removing her book.

I was going to the market. I need to buy something.

Such had been his assumption, of course. Though he knows not what -- it’s plain as day that she can’t go anywhere as she is.

“Perhaps I could get them for you. Just...” He speaks over her stare of blank astonishment. “Make a list for me, and I’ll bring them over.”

No need for coin, is what he wants to say, but the thought of not knowing what she needs makes him pause.

“What were you looking to buy? Or get?”

His intention is to leave no room for argument, and yet she musses gloved fingers over the creases of her book anyway. Does she not wish to burden him? Or is she anxious for another reason? Solus shifts upon the chair, armour creaking lightly.

“As I said before, I shan’t report you. There’s no need.  So...” He clears his throat. “Please, don’t be afraid. All right?”

Arianna’s green eyes peer at him from beneath the brim of her hat. Her teeth sink into her lower lip. But eventually, the tenseness seeps from her limbs, and she gives him a small nod.

Ah, good. She trusts him.

He isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or...pleased by this revelation.

It’s a few moments before she begins to write for him. Never before has he ever been bored waiting for her, but this time he finds himself almost restlessly anxious, awaiting her neatly printed words. It feels like an eternity until she wordlessly pushes the book toward him.

Down the second alley on third street, there is a small herb shop with a large bell in the window. An elderly woman owns it. I need the following ingredients: 3 stalks of blabberwort, 1 vial of pixie dust, 2 bunches of foxmittens, and 1 pouch of pumpkin seeds.

________

Solus has never heard of any of those ingredients, apart from the seeds, but then again he has never been especially interested in potionmaking...or witchcraft, anyway.

Because, that is what it is -- he’s sickeningly aware. Witchcraft. These likely aren’t normal ingredients.

Aside from the pumpkin seeds.

Alchemy, he confesses, he has been curious about, but never had an opportunity to try.

She had endeavoured to give him a pouch of coins, though he had pushed it back to her. There would be no need. He -- doesn’t want her to have to pay for this errand. It’s the least he can do after she had nearly been caught.

Though there is no particular reason he should be doing this. He simply. Wants to.

Cyrus is already where Solus should be, his hair tied back in its customary ponytail. His grin is easy and friendly beneath the lamplight.

“Lucky it was me coming on after you.” He tilts his head in curiosity. “Where were you? Chasing after ghosts?”

“None of your business right now, Cyrus.” Solus sighs, coming to a halt in front of him. His shoulders sag. “...But I’d appreciate you not breathing a word of it.” Whatever sting there is behind his words, Cyrus doesn’t seem to feel it.

“‘Course not -- I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Solus believes him. Why ever would he not? “Thank you.”

“Nonsense! However...” He trails off uncertainly, his gaze worried. “Everything all right? It’s not like you to just leave your post.”

Yet another sigh. There’s that -- prickly feeling again, but not because of Arianna this time. “I’ll explain...another time.” Briefly, he pats the other man upon the shoulder. “All right?”

This might be a lie. He’s not really sure if he can even explain this. Or if it’s his place to. But surely, if anyone could understand, it would be his best friend, no?

-- And yet he grimaces to think of the danger this would undoubtedly put him in.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Cyrus’ smile is just as effortless as it always is. “Whatever you’re dealing with right now, it’s fine.” His expression turns mischievous. “Even if you just needed an impulsive romp with the tea girl.” His utterly hilarious joke is punctuated by mirthful laughter as he slaps a hand against Solus’ shoulder in kind.

Solus, meanwhile, grits his teeth, exhaling loudly. Cyrus can already tell that he’s completely unamused by his harmless jab. How does he even manage to be so enthusiastic in this weather?

“Oh, come now, don’t be so sour.”

“...I have some business to attend to,” the Garlean soldier says smoothly, doing his best to straighten his furrowed brows. “So, if you’ll excuse me...”

“Oh, surely, I wouldn’t want to keep your rendezvous waiting.”

“Do shut up, Cyrus. I’ll see you shortly.”

He counts the streets as he walks. It doesn’t take him long to realise she hadn’t mentioned which side the alley ought to be on, but the bell isn’t difficult to notice. From the outside in the dim lighting, the place seems to be some sort of dingy, tiny apothecary. He’s somewhat surprised it’s even still open at this hour.

Though -- perhaps only a few people would know to look for it.

That sense of prickly unease returns; for some reason, Solus holds his breath as he grips the handle to drag himself into the unassuming shop. It’s not too much larger than Arianna’s parlour, though instead of being...a house and a treatment area, this is very much simply a store. There’s none of the amenities he associates to her cottage, albeit the scent is...similar.

Not exactly the same.

His gaze quickly finds an elderly woman toward the left side of the store, behind a large counter. And, for all her years and her wizened appearance, she’s not slow to notice him, either. Her gaze is piercing as the Garlean soldier puts on his best plastic smile.

Instead of approaching her, he takes his time to wander through the shelves of dried and boxed herbs and other eccentricities. The pumpkin seeds are not difficult to find, and he quickly snatches up one bag, as had been asked of him. But the painful minutes pass, and he cannot find anything even remotely approaching blabberwort, pixie dust, or foxmittens. It’s becoming disconcertingly clear that he’ll need to ask that old woman for help...

And that these are not the sort of ingredients they want Garleans to see.

Pixie dust. Not a single man of Garlemald would admit to the existence of “pixies”, much less their dust.

With a heavy sigh, he finally makes his way to the woman behind the counter.

“Good evening, ma’am. Terrible weather we’re having, no?” No response. He resists the urge to shrug, and clears his throat, setting the seeds upon the counter. He’s read over the piece of paper Arianna had given him countless times before, and recites it calmly. “I was informed I could find...blabberwort, pixie dust, and foxmittens here. I can’t seem to find them on your shelves, however; would you mind giving me a hand?”

He had thought the amounts for each to be somewhat...small, for whatever it is she needs them for, but perhaps she thinks this is the best way to not trouble him. He hadn’t been about to argue with her.

The silence stretches on uncomfortably; Solus thinks he can hear the rain outside.

“Blabberwort...?” the woman echoes, her brows knitting together. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about. There is no such herb, as far as I know.”

Ah, of course. She knows nothing. Her gaze flicks from his face to the hilt of his gunblade for the barest of instances.

“I know...I know, I am far from your regular customers,” Solus says, after a moment of thought. “But I -- know, from a reliable source, that I might find what I seek here.”

The woman crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing further into near-indiscernible slits. “And who might this ‘reliable source’ be?”

His jaw clenches, teeth grinding together. He had hoped he wouldn’t have had to reveal her name. But -- surely the herbalist must frequent this shop...if she had asked him to come here, no...?

“...Miss Rowen requested I retrieve these items for her.”

“Arianna?” Her hands slam upon the counter with more force than expected, jangling metal bracelets. “What have you done with her?”

“Nothing, I have done nothing, she is fine -- ”

“Then why is she not here herself?”

“She asked me to -- she’s -- ”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, Garlean.”

A low growl builds at the back of his throat; this old harpy is testing his patience. Regardless that she has every right to be wary of him.

“Listen to me,” he hisses out, “if I had truly wanted to, I could have simply burnt this shop to the ground. I’ve no intention of harming or hurting anyone here, she -- she -- ”

He fumbles with his satchel pocket and pulls out the neatly folded note, spreading it upon the counter for her to see.

“She asked me to bring them for her. See?”

The woman stares at the parchment with narrowed eyes. Her fingers trace the edge.

“It certainly looks like her handwriting...”

“Because it is. And no, before you ask, I didn’t press a gun to her head and demand her to write it for me. She asked. I promise this.” At the very least.

“Why isn’t she here?”

Oh, for the love of --

“And how long have you known?”

The soldier rolls his eyes skyward. “She’s sick, I’ll have you know. Which is why I’ve come in her stead.” Not technically a lie, he supposes. “And I’ve -- ”

“And don’t you try to lie to me, young man.”

Solus’ jaw clenches as he glares at her, arms crossed. “...She told me just a few bells past.” If telling and falling over pavement could be considered the same. A sharp exhale leaves him. “Now, I am trying to help her, so if you wouldn’t mind” -- he slams his coin purse on the counter, the coins within jingling -- “I would like to buy what she asked for.”

Instead of responding, the old woman levels him with a sharp gaze. Not about to be cowed, the man stares back.

The tension breaks as the woman smirks, though she does not speak to him. She claps her wrinkly hands together.

“Shtola! You heard the man. What do you think?”

A woman with eyes as silver as her hair shuffles out the back of the shop, her fingertips gently dragging along one of the shelves as she moves to lean against the wall. Something feels off about her -- her -- movements...? She does not look directly at him --

“He seems honest.” Her head tilts. “But that is just what I can assume from his voice. There’s far more, I recall, that can be discerned from a man’s expression.”

“He certainly has spirit...more than I can say about most of them.”

“And I don’t think Arianna would ask simply anyone. Come to think of it, she did mention talking to a ‘charming Garlean soldier’ last she visited...”

“Psh. I’ve seen nothing charming about this one.”

The silver-haired woman begins to laugh.

-- More than the apparent revelation that Arianna had described him as charming, he’s somewhat confounded as to how a mute and an apparently blind woman might even begin talk to one another at all. But more importantly than that --

“Forgive me for the interruption, but I really must be getting back to her...”

“What is your name?” the younger of the two women (Shtola?) suddenly asks. Her gaze is unseeing and yet still manages to be sharp as flint. “We will at least know if you are lying then. I doubt she would have had the inclination to mention her beau’s name to someone who held her hostage.”

Beau...? They certainly do take great joy in teasing him.

“...My name is Solus dus Galvus.”

The old woman glances at the younger. “I believe she did mention a ‘Solus’.”

“But perchance he has betrayed her trust...?”

“Mmm...too true...there is no way to properly tell, is there -- ”

Do they really intend to just sit around gossiping like old women while Arianna waits white-knuckled in her own home?

“The longer you two stand prattling about,” Solus snaps, breaking their musings, “the longer it will take me to return to her, and the larger the chances of her being discovered are. Are you going to allow me to help her, or not?”

Even Shtola’s eyes seem to widen. Then her lips curve into a knowing smile.

“...I will get what you need. How many of each was it, again?”

He wants to ask how a blind woman should be taking any of his orders, but bites his tongue. The old woman reads off the list, and the silver-haired woman gives a nod. Solus leaves the shop a few minutes later, small brown bag in hand.

“Take care of her, will you?” the old woman asks just before he reaches the door.

“...Why would I not?”

The air outside is crisp and welcoming after the cloying stickiness of that little hovel. Cyrus’ gaze immediately finds the nondescript little bag as he exits the marketplace.

“Sol, I had no idea you had it in you...to buy...”

“...What?” He can practically hear the laughter threatening to break free from Cyrus’ throat.  He has a feeling he won’t like whatever he’s about to say, but he bites anyway.

“Contraceptives...”

“I swear to whatever gods are left in this sorry world...”

________

The soldier knocks upon the door to make his presence known, then lightly touches upon the doorknob; it is unlocked. He makes his way within.

Not much has changed in the cottage -- except the scent of it all is far more welcoming than before. And -- she has gotten a fire going. Arianna stokes it gently, glancing up at him with first a hint of wariness, and then a shy smile.

“I’ve brought what you asked for,” Solus says as he approaches, carefully holding the bag out to her. She takes it from him gently, peering into it, and giving him a tiny nod of satisfaction. Placing it upon her table, she quickly retrieves her book for him.

Thank you, very much. I will give you money back in compensation.

Solus shakes his head, sighing slightly. “I’ve already said, there’s no need for that.”

Her brows furrow, but she does not try to argue.

Do you mind waiting here for a bit? I will not be long.

“Not at all. Take whatever time you need.” He still feels the chill and the stifling unease of his impromptu adventures; it should be nice to warm up by the hearth before he has to go. He stoops to sit near the fireplace upon a cushion laid out beside it. After a moment’s thought, he decides to remove his gauntlets, and draws his chilled hands near the flames.

He almost doesn’t notice when Arianna leaves, the crinkling of the bag the only indication she has gone. He wonders what she’s doing with those ingredients. And, come to think of it -- how has she...avoided detection for so long? The unease he had felt around her before...

Even now, he can feel it disintegrating, burnt away by the fire, stifled and snuffed out by the calming scents within her home. It almost makes him not want to think.

He has no idea how much time passes, but he more feels than hears her return. Glancing upward, he nearly jolts in surprise upon finally seeing her -- 

She’s removed the hat, the gloves and now -- now she simply stands before him as she always has. There’s not a thing strange or inhuman about her -- he suspects that even if he were to lift the hem of her skirt, he would see naught but human feet there.

“Ah, you are...back to -- normal, then...” Just like before, the words have an unpleasant taste to them. He’s not sure why.

Things should feel normal now, too, but instead they simply feel...off.

Arianna gives another small nod, arranging her skirts as she comes to sit near him. Her fingers push a few strands of dark hair behind her ears; he can’t help but wonder how her hands had looked earlier...beneath those gloves of hers...

And what had she been hiding with her hat?

Green eyes meet his, before she looks away, biting at her lower lip. Her hands quickly find her book once more. This time, it takes her a while to write, though the wait is not at all unpleasant. The crackling of the fire and the sound of her writing utensil against the paper put him at ease. He smiles at her faintly once she passes the book to him.

I suppose I should explain. The ingredients I asked you to get -- the blabberwort, pixie dust, foxmittens, and pumpkin seeds -- are used in a sort of alchemical potion called a glamour. I normally still have some, but this time I was careless.

There’s a strange flush to her cheeks, he notes as he reads. Or perhaps simply the firelight?

Our kind -- I believe you call us “revenants” -- use this potion to hide our inhuman features. It is simple enough to make, and typically lasts a while...and the ingredients are not too difficult to find, if you know how. Still, I was not did not think properly, and I apologise. I apologise that you had to go through this trouble for me.

This time, he has to speak, sighing lightly as he shakes his head. “It wasn’t any trouble.” Much of one, anyway. That is not a lie. “So please, don’t worry about it.” He looks up at her over the book, and offers her another smile. Instead of nodding, or even smiling in kind, she looks away skittishly. Had he done something wrong...?

And I must thank you, for not wanting to tell anyone about it. And for helping me. I truly cannot properly convey my thanks to you. Or my appreciation, for not throw casting me aside. Thank you, Solus. Is there anything I might do for you?

As he reads the last few lines of her note to him, he hears Cyrus’ treacherous voice at the back of his head. Idiot --

Clearing his throat, he has to resist the urge to slam the book shut. It would do naught but alarm the innocent herbalist sitting all too close to him.

Innocent. Perhaps in the past, he would have scoffed at the word. And yet...

Yet he knows without a doubt that he would never tell anyone else about this secret of theirs. Certainly no one he wouldn’t trust with his life.

“All I ask for is a cup of tea before I leave. Couldn’t possibly leave without one of those, eh?”

Her expression of bewilderment fades into a relieved smile, punctuated by a soft blush. Gently, she tears out several pages from her book. Holding the parchment in her hand, she glances toward her fireplace, and then hesitates.

May I have the list of ingredients I gave you, please?

“Of course.”

He watches as she quietly burns the evidence of their forbidden conversation.

Next

[steves-on-a-plane]

Dental Dread

Words: 1298 Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader Warnings: Dental procedures described. Summary: Reader hates going to the dentist, but it’s time for their regular dental check up so they force their boyfriend Steve to go along with them to the visit. Steve, who grew up sick and around doctors most of his young life doesn’t share Reader’s mistrust of dentist and willingly tags along to comfort his significant other.  Author’s Note: I had a dental emergency yesterday and had to go the the dentist. I ended up needing three fillings and honestly the idea of Steve Rogers being at the dentist with me was the only thing that got me through it. 

Your knee bounced impatiently. The back of your legs stuck to the cheap vinyl seats of the waiting room. Your stomach was turning. You should have had something for breakfast like Steve suggested, but well it was too late for that now. You were going to die with an empty stomach. You sighed, fighting hard to expel air from behind a paper mask. A warm hand reach over and came to rest on your anxious knee. The hand grounded you back into reality. Right, you weren’t going to die. You were just being dramatic. You weren’t even sick; it was just a routine dental visit.

“It’s going to be okay, [Y/N].” Steve promised.

“Easy for you to say, you’ve already had your dental exam.” You hissed. “And I bet you passed with flying colors!”

“It’s not a contest.” Steve chuckled, but the sound was slightly muffled by his own paper mask. He enjoyed seeing this side of you. The side that was capable of fear. Steve had seen you beat up thugs twice your size and launched yourself across rooftops without a second thought, but the idea of the dentist terrified you.

“They’re going to find a cavity; I know they will.” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “They always seem to find one no matter how many times a day you brush your teeth or if you floss or not. It’s a scam.” You continued to ramble, and Steve didn’t make an attempt to stop you. For once he was glad there was a mask hiding his smile. “I mean why do we even have these mandatory check-ups? Just so they can bill my insurance?”

“[Y/N] [Y/L/N]?” A young man called your name from a nearby door. You grabbed Steve’s hand while you tried to decide if the cartoon teeth on the hygienist’s scrubs were cute or sinister.

“I’ll be right here when you get back.” Steve vowed.

“No, no.” You shook your head. “You’re coming in there with me.”

“I don’t think they’ll let me, we’re not married…” Steve started to argue but you weren’t having it.

“Oh no, you and Tony ordered these mandatory visits. That means at least one of you has to come in and see me suffer. C’mon, Rogers.” You rose to your feet and tugged him along.

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologized to the hygienist. “I’m sure it’s against the rules but..”

“Actually, as long as the patient is fine with it, we do allow one other person in the room.” The hygienist smiled. “It tends to make our more…trepidatious patients feel more comfortable. Right this way, [Y/N].”

“I’ll be right here the whole time.” Steve said as he sat in a small rolling stool in the corner of the examination room.

“That’s too far away.” You complained.

You didn’t say much after that as the hygienist began to take X-Rays of your teeth. It was uncomfortable as he continued to wedge plastic pieces of various sizes in your mouth at seemingly random angles to get the films he needed. The only comfort during this process was the heavy lead blanket like apron he’d placed on your chest. It held you down like a vinyl coated hug. A small corner of your brain wondered if when Bruce went to the doctor or the dentist did they make him wear a lead apron. Considering the aprons were designed to protect the wearer from radiation.

“She’ll be right in.” The hygienist promised as he removed your lead security blanket.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.” Steve commented from his stool in the corner.

“That’s because she didn’t start poking around with the weird fishhook thing yet.” You told him.

“I think it’s just called a dental pick.” Steve guessed.

“Well, whatever it’s called, I don’t like it.” You complained.

“Okay [Y/N], oh and Captain Rogers, a pleasure as always.” The Avenger’s dentist smiled as she entered the room. “[Y/N], your X-rays look great, I’m just worried about this molar here.” The dentist pointed to a monitor that you could barely see from the bedlike dental chair. “You see this dark area here? It seems like you might have a cavity on that tooth. So, what we’re going to do is have Andy continue with your scheduled cleaning and then I’d like to take another look at this tooth okay?”

“Uh okay.” You agreed meekly. The dentist left the room and you were alone with Steve. He expected you to start ranting again about how you were right they always find a cavity. You very well may have if you weren’t semi paralyzed with fear. The only thing worst than the fish hook tool during a cleaning was the lidocaine needle they used during fillings. You heart was racing and your stomach felt like it was twisted in an impossible knot.

You tried your hardest to disassociate through the entire cleaning. You forced your mind to think about anything else other than the scratching sound that seemed to radiate through your skull and the slight ting from the dental pick as it pulled away from one tooth an on to the next. You tried to separate your mind from your physical self. It was an admirable attempt. When at last Andy the hygienist offered you a small cup of water to rinse your mouth with you felt your heartrate slowing. That is until the Doctor returned, and you watched Andy prepare a tray of instruments for her.

The dentist decided definitively that the tooth in question did need a filling. The thought alone had you gripping the arms of the chair until you left crescent shaped marks on the undersides of them. You knew it would do no good to protest, avoiding the cavity would only make it worse. So you nodded and said nothing.

“I can hold your hand, Doll.” Steve offered. “Do you think that would help?”

“Please.” You breathed, trying not to sound too childish. So, Steve wheeled his stool over to your side. You reached for his hand and held it with a vice like grip.

“Alright, you’re just going to feel a little pinch.” The dentist said as she poked a needle into your gums. “Great!” Now Captain Rogers you can stay there while [Y/N] gets numbed up but once we start doing the actually filling Andy and I will need some space to work.”

“You got it, Doc.” Steve promised. “You’re doing great, [Y/N]. Steve assured you. The hard part is over now.”

“Okay, [Y/N], are you ready?” Andy the hygienist asked.

“No.” You told him honestly.

“Captain Rogers is right,” Andy agreed. “the hard part is over. Just lay back and relax, you’ll be done soon.”

The remainder of your visit wasn’t terrible. Thanks to the lidocaine you heard more than you could feel. You were almost starting to find the whirl of the dental drill soothing before the dentist removed the tool and began filling in the cavity. At last you were offered another small cup of water to rinse your mouth and then the visit was over.  

You breathed a heavy sigh of relief and shakily reached for Steve’s hand as you climbed down from the dental chair. You leaned against him for support, not exactly feeling your best. The feeling would pass, you knew that much, but as your body came down from its state of shock you felt nauseous and dizzy.

“I’m proud of you, [Y/N].” Steve said as you walked down the hall together, away from the dental office. “What do you say I take you back to your room and we snuggle under the covers. I’ll put on a movie for us and you can watch it till you fall asleep?” He offered.

“I’d say, I love you, Steve.”

[psychopersonified]

Legend has it...

Part of the prequel series to "Are we ever going to talk about this?".

A glimpse into Bond’s shared office with the Double-Os. Explore a little more of Q’s recent backstory prior to meeting Bond. Mostly banter and fluff, but there are spots of emotional poignancy - it all ends well so it is safe. 

This one was inspired by a few things: like Bond in his Naval uniform, HRH Prince William’s real life weeklong stint in the Secret Service incl MI6.

Tags: Not dating, dates. Clueless Q but getting there. Intimacy in plain sight. Naval uniforms. 006 is a bit of a cad. Banter. Humour. Q Origins. 

---------------

“So you do have an office. A rather nice one in fact. Why then do you insist on doing your paperwork amidst the clutter in Q-Branch?”

Bond looks cagey, like he’s hiding something. He clears his throat and mutters, “The WiFi is better down there.” 

---------------

SIS Building, Level 9 - Double-0 Division Office

Of course Bond knows where his office is, the Double-0s share a bullpen somewhere on the 9th floor. Only Agent 009 ever uses it with any regularity, so the man practically has the whole space to himself - which if you consider the square footage alone, makes his office larger than Mallory’s, even if it is not as imposing. He’s even arranged his desk so he sits apart, monopolising the fantastic view behind him. 

Bond is mildly peeved. 009 had put him charge of housekeeping the Double-0 office though who made him the boss of the division is anyone’s guess. Agent 009 fancies himself Mallory’s deputy, which if you ask virtually anyone in SIS, he is - informally at least. 

In all honesty Bond can’t argue with that, 009 is possessed of good leadership skills and experienced enough to carry it well. It is just that aside from 009, Trevelyan and himself, all the other agents are away on mission. 009 is with Mallory and Tanner, busy finalising the itinerary for the coming royal visit by The Royal Highnesses Prince Charles and Prince William - a weeklong visit to the British Intelligence Services (which included MI5, MI6 and GCCHQ) so they are understandably swamped with the planning and coordination. 

The least Bond could do is to help out by doing this comparably small task of making the division office presentable for the visit. Alec is present in the office with him, but practically useless. He had injured his arm (bullet wound) during his last mission and it is conveniently in a sling at the moment. From the sounds if it, it was merely a flesh wound that Alec is milking for all it is worth in the face of menial labour. 

What this all means at the end of the day is that 007 is on his own - it reminds him of boarding school, only this time all his roommates are gone and he is saddled with the responsibility of cleaning clean up before the professors come to inspect their dorm or they all cop the punishment. 

“Would you stop your moaning?” Bond snaps irritably at his ‘roommate’. “All you have to do is feed the bloody papers into the shredder, you’re not a complete invalid.”

“I’m doing that! It keeps jamming!” Trevelyan slams the cheap plastic feed cover shut, having just unstuck the temperamental machine - possibly because it was cheap.

“Take the staples out first will you? And feed the thicker papers in one at a time.” Bond instructs. 

“Arrrgh! This thing is mind numbingly slow...” Alec continues to moan. 

“You have to empty it Alec. It’s not a bottomless pit.” Bond reigns in the temptation to throttle the other agent. 

The childish part of Bond is indignant, it is not fair. He hasn’t stepped into this office space for almost two years, preferring to do his paperwork and research in Q-Branch where he’d cleared a small empty space on Q’s workbench. Other times he would commandeer the makeshift Q-Branch lounge with it’s well worn Chesterfield sofas. If anyone asks why he’s there, he just uses the excus that the WiFi is faster down there despite not having a shred of either empirical or anecdotal evidence. 

Bond’s prolonged absence from his office means that his desk has since been converted into a catch all purgatory; collecting detritus from all thirteen agents - things that they couldn’t be bothered to decide to keep, file or dispose. There are at least two years worth of interdepartmental circulars, equipment manuals, Health & Safety reports, copies of expense claims, greeting cards, even copies of his premature obituary - piled a foot high over the entire surface of his desk. Even his chair hadn’t escaped the treatment. 

Bond continues to sort through the papers, sending those that need disposal to Alec’s growing ‘to shred’ pile. The other agent shoots him a dirty look. 

“Do you smell something?” There is a stench coming from somewhere around his side of the room that has been bothering Bond all morning. 

“Aside from your poor choice in aftershave?” Alec’s juvenile insult is automatic. 

Bond rolls his eyes even though they have their backs turned to each other. “No really, smells like weeks old bin.” He wrinkles his nose. 

Alec could care less as he is wrestling with the shredder bin. He finally manages to wriggle free the overfull collection drawer with a Neanderthal yank. Strings of paper explode absolutely everywhere. “Bloody fuck!”  

Bond turns around, Alec is trying to keep the mess under control by trying to shove the bin back in, which of course is now impossible. Her Majesty’s finest, ladies and gentlemen. 

“James! Hand me a bin liner will you?” Alec requests with some urgency. His useful arm pressing down on the springy mess threatening to overflow.

Bond grabs the roll and lobs it in his direction. The other agent only has the use of one arm so he can’t conceivably catch the projectile. It hits Trevelyan square on his injured arm. “Oww! Bond what the hell?!”  

“Stop your whining, you’ve endured worse. Now, clean it up.“ 

Minutes go by and countless invectives later, Alec has the situation under control. No, that’s too generous. The damage has been somewhat contained - with the majority of the shredded mess now in the bag, Alec ties it off then declares, “I need a break. I’m going to take these to the incinerator.”  

“Already? You’ve only been at it for an hour.” Bond can’t believe the lazy arsehole. There are at lest four more boxes awaiting his attention. 

“Try doing it with one arm, it’s hard work man.” he grouses. 

“Will you stop milking it. Take the blasted sling off, you don’t even need it.” Truly annoyed now.

“How dare you! It’s medically prescribed.” Alec defends himself with exaggerated affront, hefting the bag over a shoulder. 

Bond huffs in resignation, “Fine, then get me coffee while you’re at it please.” 

Alec is already heading out, his back is towards the other agent, he flips him off with the hand on his supposedly injured arm, “Not bloody likely!” and disappears out the door. 

A moment later, Alec’s booming voice carries down the hallway, “Oh hello Quartermaster. Come for a visit have we?” 

“Hello 006. How’s the tidying up coming along?” Comes the softer reply.

“It would be quicker if 007 would pull his weight. Look at this! He’s making me do all the work. Have a word with him will you?” he shakes the bag on his shoulder for emphasis.  

“Trevelyan!!” Bond warns from inside the room.

“Ah! There he goes again. Toodles Q.” Alec hurries off before 007 makes good on his threat. 

Q peeks around the door into the legendary Double-0 office. “Heard that you’ve been put to task. Came to see it for myself.” Q says cheerily.

Bond is standing behind a desk, a stack of papers balanced on one forearm, another held in his other hand hovering between two piles he was making. All around him are open box files labelled with post-it notes. Agent 007 doing filing. The rumours were true - only the Queen or in this case two Princes could compel Bond to clean up his office. Either that or hell really has frozen over.

“If you’ve come to gloat, please make it a quick one - before I set this place on fire.” 

Q steps further into the room. It’s a generous size. Each agent has a set comprised of a decent sized desk, high backed chair, side cabinet and a tall cupboard. There are even a little plaques on the desks engraved with their names. So very civil service. 

The room itself is divided into roomy cubicles and arranged into four rows of three. However, One set stands apart, closest to the panoramic glass windows and looking ‘over’ the others - Agent 009, Q presumes. 

On one wall there is a setup of communal facilities like a bulletin board, stationery cupboard, printers and a shredder. Speaking of the shredder, the poor machine is in a state; the collection bin is detached and lying on its side a few feet away. Scattered around the base of the shredder and indeed all over the carpeted floor are bits and strings of shredded paper; like someone had a fight with the machine and lost. The static from the carpet is going to make this mess an absolute pain to hoover up. 

Q comes to stand in front of Bond’s executive sized desk and picks up his name plate ::James Bond C.M.G, R.N::

“So you do have an office. A rather nice one in fact. Why then do you insist on doing your paperwork amidst the clutter in Q-Branch?”

Bond looks cagey, like he’s hiding something. He clears his throat and mutters, “The WiFi is better down there.” 

Q looks skeptical. He would know, he had worked with Mark to add secure repeaters all over the building’s dead spots. They had carried out WiFi speed and coverage tests all over the building and there isn’t any significant difference anymore. “That’s a common misconception, 007. We’ve tested the speeds—“

“—Yes well, it just feels that way.” Bond cuts him off before Q pokes more holes in his excuse with inconvenient facts. 

Q decides to let it go. Instead, he makes a slow circuit around the room out of curiosity - observing the individual touches that each agent has added to their space, a little glimpse at their personal choices and preferences.  

For example 001, their longest serving female agent, silver haired matriarch with a razor sharp wit that could cut through any armour better than depleted uranium bullets - but collects tacky porcelain teacups from her travels. Q fears she might become a politician someday and maybe even Prime Minister.

Then there is 008, who is retiring by the end of the year. Poignantly he has pictures of his family all around him. An ex-wife whom he still loves and is battling serious illness; and teenaged children that he has missed out on most of formative lives. His retirement couldn’t come soon enough. 

When Q is finally done snooping, he comes to a stop at the cubicle opposite Bond’s and seats himself on the edge of the desk, “Ugh something smells ripe….”

“Yes, it reeks in here.” Then suddenly Bond looks up concerned, “It’s not me is it?”

“No…don’t think so.” Q reassures distractedly. He turns around in place, sniffing. “It think… It’s coming from around here,” he spies the owner’s name on the plaque - Alec Trevelyan. Q gets up and rounds the desk. When he bends over closer to the desk drawers the smell gets significantly stronger. “I think it’s coming from in here.”

“What is it?” Bond asks curious now. 

“Well I’m not opening it! Who knows what kind of souvenirs 006 brings back from his missions,” Q backs away from the desk, images of severed ears and pinky fingers briefly crossing his mind. After all, they are all barely restrained psychopaths at the best of times. Although if that were true, what does that say about Q then; that he prefers their company to that of most people - well not all of them, just one in particular if he were to be honest. 

Bond laughs, knowing exactly what Q is imagining, “No stomach for the macabre?” he crosses the short distance to Alec’s desk, gently moving Q out of the way. “Besides if he were to bring back a souvenir, he would be sure to pickle them first.”  

He’s teasing of course - but nevertheless, as he hooks his fingers under the drawer pull, he braces himself for what he might find. The drawer slides out smoothly, releasing a noxious plume of rotting stench.

“Oh Christ!!” The smell nearly makes him gag. Q covers his nose with the sleeve of his cardigan and leans over Bond’s hunched shoulder to see. In there lies what looks to be the remains of someone’s putrefied lunch or lunches. A banana so rotten its has liquefied into black slush, a circle of half eaten soft cheese sitting on top of the rotting liquid that is now absolutely overgrown with mould and the piece de resistance - a quarter tray of what must have been sashimi of some kind. The rotting seafood, vegetation and cheese slurry a potent combination. 

Fucking Alec is always leaving food around to the dismay of his colleagues that share the space. It is no wonder then, there is every so often the passive aggressive ‘cc all’ email from some returning Double-0 about clearing out leftover food and a reminder to consume all food in the break room at the end of the hall outside. 

Bond slams the drawer back shut and retreats to his side quickly, herding Q along with him. 

Q looks a little green around the gills, “I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing that I ate lunch before I came in here.” 

“I hope you don’t mind being one agent short, because I’m going to kill Alec when he gets back.” Bond resolves.

“IF he comes back you mean. You know him, he’s likely absconded to an early dinner by now.”

Bond dreads the implication, ”There is no way in Hell I’m cleaning that mess up.” He draws the line at that. Nope. No way. 

Speaking of killing agents, there is a small stack of printed cards on the corner of Bond’s desk. Q picks them up, he’d seen these before, several years ago. It’s Bond’s premature obituary from the small ceremony the service held in his honour. Q was a senior tech then and had not known Bond other than brief glimpses when he came to pick up his kit. 

“Are you shredding these?” 

“Rather odd to keep them.” A curios thought pops into his mind, “Where were you then, Q? Had you joined the service?”

“I was Senior Tech, equivalent to Nish’s S position. It’s likely we never crossed paths but you would have been familiar with my tech in the field… You didn’t spend as much time in Q-Branch then as you do now.” Q tries to needle him about that again.

Bond sidesteps it with an expertly placed question, “Did you come to my funeral?”

“No, it was a small private affair. Only the old Q and R went. Besides, I was atoning for my sins then.” The question triggers Q to reminisce about those few months before he met 007 and how much his life changed within that short span on time. 

——

Flashback: 3 years prior...

45 minutes before the start of The Istanbul Incident.

The phone rings down in Q-Branch’s general line. After the sixth ring, “Anyone going to pick that up?!” Engineering Minion A calls out as he wipes his hands on an oily rag. Its early, 7:30am so Q-branch is mostly deserted. Minion A is loading ammo into 008’s BMW before the agent arrives to pick up his car. 

Nobody answers, so Minion A has to trudge over to the phone. For his trouble, he is rewarded immediately with a string of expletives as greeting coming through from the other end. It is too early in the morning for this, “Look either you calm the hell down or I’m hanging up.”

“Where are the cyberboffs in Q-branch?!” the voice on the other side demands. 

Minion A takes a deep breath and explains that it is early, they’re not in yet but he’ll check. He finds a still sleepy Q (who is currently still Collin Mitchel, holding the S rank) in the small pantry hidden in the back of Q-branch nursing his cup of tea. Hair in a wild mess as usual. He informs him about the call and warns that the person on the other end is in a right mood. 

Q picks up the transferred call to a frantic Mark of IT-Branch on the other end. “Fuck Mitchel! Please tell me its you guys messing about the Level 5 servers right now! I know we said surprise us but it’s a little early in the day don’t you think??” Mark is referring to the CyberWar games that IT and Q Branches usually play on Friday nights to strengthen MI6’s cybersecurity. 

“What are you talking about? I’m hardly awake enough to operate anything more sophisticated than a kettle…” Q sighs as he removes his glasses and rubs his sleepy eyes. 

“Collin…” Mark’s voice goes dead serious as he attempts to calm down, “… I’m not dicking around right now. If it’s not you or anyone in Q-Branch, then why the hell is my system logging unusually large data downloads from Level 5 severs?”.

That gets Q’s attention. Mark is one of the best in IT-Branch and and they share a mutual concern about the state of MI6’s cyber security preparedness. There have been times when Q has thought of asking Mark to transfer to Q-Branch, coaxing him to the ‘dark-side’ as they call it. So Mark’s uncharacteristic panic is like a jolt of adrenaline that wakes Q up faster than the strongest cup of tea. Q punches the speaker button and replaces the receiver before grabbing the nearest chair, spinning it around and settling in front of a console. He logs in and pulls up the data traffic log Mark is monitoring. 

Over the past year IT and Q Branches have come to a truce so to speak. Q-Branch will provide the cybersecurity tools and IT will carry out the implementation. What it meant was that Q and his colleagues would build the encryption and protocols, but it was up to IT to roll it out, monitor and patch. So just like what they did for the field agents, they made the weapons but it was up to the agents when and where to use it. In the event an active threat was present, they will work together to repel the attack. IT was in the midst of overhauling the systems - but as anyone can imagine, with so many layers of legacy systems, it was a slow process. But at least it no longer resembled Swiss cheese. 

They’ve secured the most sensitive files with the latest encryption at least - but that is always double edged, put too many padlocks on a door and you’re telling the burglar where you’re hiding your best stuff. 

“I see it. When did it start? Q switches to his game voice. Crisp, efficient.

“15 minutes ago. I was on my morning run when the alarm came through. I ran back as fast as I could.”

“Can you shut down the server?”

“Not while Ops is running. They’ll loose access to classified files for cross-referencing. As well as the encrypted satellite feeds that run though it. We’ve got Eastern Russia running right now and Istanbul is coming up soon.”

“Has M been informed?”

“Not yet. I was hoping it was you guys mucking around.” 

“Mark, I don’t have full access to the servers from Q-Branch terminals. I can hack it, but I’d rather not cause even more alarm.” 

“Get up here then! M and Tanner just arrived, you can work up here and.... I’d rather you came with me to face M.” 

“You’ll have to buzz me up, I don’t have full clearance.” 

A second later he hears Mark’s muffled voice yell something to someone in his team.

“Davis is going down to get you now. Fuck. …Mitchel is this it?”

The question hangs heavily. They’ve been predicting something like this to happen for a few months now. In the last 18 months, there has been an increase in breach attempts on MI6 systems. Together IT and Q-Branch have managed to repel most of them or limit the extent. It’s a cat-and-mouse game. Both sides using each successive attempts to gauge skill and strength. 

The elevator ride up to Q-Branch was excruciating. Q now understands why M wants to have the two branches working closer together, the bureaucracy is eating into their response time. 

When Q arrives at IT-Branch, Mark is tracing the source. M and Tanner standing close by. It’s coming from an MI6 laptop - using the credentials of an Agent Sebastian Ronson who is currently on mission in Istanbul. Q slides into the station next to Mark, they fall into practiced ease. Mark will defend the keep, and Q will chase the trail. 

“Contact Agent Ronson, now!” Tanner tells Mark. Mark calls the mobile number registered to Ronson in Istanbul. 

*Click* an automated female voice informs them that the number is currently not in service. 

They pull up the Istanbul Ops file, Ronson has three other field agents with him. He calls the other numbers with the same result. He calls the hotel next, but the front desk informs them that the men have checked out. 

While Mark is trying to make contact, Q is tracing the breach, trying to identify the affected files. To his relief, the files in this partition were not just encrypted, they were protected with a copy prevention and decryption protocol that he had written. He didn’t know what the files contained, he didn’t have that security clearance. He just built the moat and the fortress that surrounded it. What the higher ups put in it was anyone’s guess. But one thing he did know was that whoever wanted the data had to physically retrieve Ronson’s authorised hard drive to to get to it. 

He informs M as much. 

Something about the this whole situation seems odd, ”Ma’am if the hackers anticipated that they would need an authorised laptop as a file cache, and they’ve cut off Ronson’s communication with us - the only logical assumption is that they not only know the location of Ronson and the team but they have a plan to retrieve that laptop.... and very soon. Before we re-establish communication or Ronson suspects something is amiss.” 

Tanners eyes go wide, M goes very still. This would mean the hacker’s plan is live - making this a life threatening emergency.

“Do you know what files were downloaded?” M asks. 

“I can show you the list of files, but I don’t know what’s in it.” Q pulls up the log and moves aside for M to look for herself. 

One of the folders makes M’s heart skip a beat. It’s a summary of field reports from across NATO agencies informing each other of their activities including embedded undercover agents and informants. The idea was to coordinate efforts and reduce doubling up agents which might increase suspicion and also prevent ‘friendly fire’ so to speak from multiple agencies working independently. It’s not a list per se, but it would be fairly easy to put the information together into one. 

M points out the folder to Q, absolute certainty in her voice, “He’s after this folder. Can you delete it remotely?” 

Q activates remote access of the agent’s laptop and gets to work. 

::ERROR. Remote access denied. Sys admin required::

Q tries 3 more times with different admin credentials with the same result. Now they’re in real shit. 

“Mark I’m locked out.” Q looks to Mark. Mark tries an even higher level credential and still nothing.

“We have to pull the plug—” Mark tells him. 

“—Wait till I’m done. If you do that now, the download stops, and the hacker will know we’re on to them and cut the connection.”

“Isn’t that the point?” M interrupts him sharply.

“Ma’am, if he already has the file you think he’s after, and everything else is just a blind grab, then this is the last chance we have at wiping that drive. I need him to remain connected until I can hack in and execute the delete code.” 

M sees his point. Use the other files as bait, the hacker doesn’t actually know the right folder yet. Q turns back to access the laptop through backchannels, several long minutes later, he finally manages to get in. He has partial access, one of them happens to be turning on the webcam on the laptop. 

“Come on, come on…” The webcam turns on, but no-one is in front of it. “Mark, the webcam! Try getting through to Ronson.” Q broadcasts the feed to the main IT room monitor and the video conferencing camera attached to it.

While Mark scrambles into action, Q continues to chip away at the hijacked laptop’s protocols to gain delete access. Over his shoulder and speakers he can hear Mark trying to make contact with their agent, accessing the laptop’s volume control remotely and cranking it up as high as it would go. 

“Agent Ronson! Can you hear me?… Agent Ronson?” 

There are sounds of men talking in the background, and suddenly Ronson comes into view. 

“Agent Ronson! Your position has been compromised. You need to move urgently. You are to remove the laptop drive and destroy it immediately.” Mark informs him. 

“What? What’s going on? We’ve just finished our morning briefing and about to head out.” These precious few seconds of confusion will cost Ronson his life. 

“Abort mission, get out of there and destroy the laptop!” M steps into view of the camera and barks the order. 

Ronson finally realises the severity of the situation, but it is too late. He barely has time to draw his weapon when the sound of a door being kicked open is heard. Automatic gunfire sprays into the room, including two right into Agent Ronson’s torso and its over. Ronson collapses into the armchair, as they watch, impotent. Few seconds later the assailant pushes shut the laptop screen from behind. They never get a look at the person. 

In those few seconds before that, Q finally gains access. Just after he executes the secure delete code, the connection is terminated. The screen goes dark. Q doesn’t know if it worked. 

All eyes are on him. Not just his superiors, but the rest of IT techs, the room is dead silent. 

“I..I can’t be sure it worked. If they shut down the laptop before the drive is wiped, it would mean the data is still on it. But they will have to still break the encryption on the files to read it. That buys us time—”

M starts walking away before he is even finished talking. Tanner on her heels. Q can hear her rapid fire orders to him as they turn to enter the main Ops room and to her office. 

“Where is 007?”

“On his way.”

“Who else do we have in Istanbul?”

“Eve Moneypenny, junior field agent.”

“Get her on the ground to support 007.”

“Medical evac for Ronson and the team?”

“Still trying to contact them…..” Their voices fade away as the doors close. 

Mark and Q share a look. -Shit-….doesn’t even begin to cover the magnitude of this cockup. Q can’t stop the feeling of crushing disappointment building inside. They’ve lost this one. 

Mark in an uncharacteristic fit of anger-filled frustration, picks up his mouse and hurls it at a wall. There is nothing they can do anymore, Ops team will handle it from here. “I’m going to shower,” he announces to the quiet floor. Q notices that Mark is still in his running gear and sweaty either from the run or the emergency. 

Q waits till Mark is out the door before slowly rising and facing the rest of the IT techs staring at him wide-eyed. It’s literally first thing in the morning and they’ve just watched a field agent take two right in the chest. Not an everyday occurrence. 

He takes a deep breath and starts rattling off orders even though Q isn’t technically their boss. 

“Revoke Ronson’s credentials, check and update credentials of all the other agents in the field that we can contact, pull the activity logs and study the hack, comb the application code for a trojan, check the other servers to see if anything else was downloaded, request for Ronson’s laptop to be returned as soon as Ops can recover it…..” and so on. No one questions him, and the floor bursts into a hive of activity. 

Weeks later, when the dust settles and the forensics completed, they would learn that Agent Ronson was never aware of the breach. Ronson’s laptop was just an entry point, they intercepted data traffic through his WIFI. It was excruciatingly simple once they examined the remains of the laptop. The hackers switched out his secure mobile hotspot and used the same network name - a moment of inattentiveness on Ronson’s part and that was it. A key logger captured his credentials and the hacker used it as an entry point to gain access to the system, releasing a virus that burrowed into deeper levels of the classified database. 

———

Two Weeks later…

The young woman about his age in the monochrome pantsuit looks over at him,”What are you in for?”

Her question stops Q’s nervous pacing outside the conference room. 

“I mean we’re both here for the Istanbul investigation…” she coaxes. There is no smugness - just deadpan with a hint of dark humour to her tone. She doesn’t look so great herself, her hands have kept up their anxious smoothing of the fabric covering her thighs. It somehow puts Q at ease, knowing he’s not the only one here facing the firing squad. 

Might as well, she’ll hear about it in the meeting anyway, “Failed to delete Ronson’s computer hard drive in time. What about you?” 

“Shot the double-0 agent who was in the middle of retrieving said drive,” the woman replies wryly.

“Ah... that is unfortunate,” was all Q could come up with. He’s heard the story. It was all everyone could talk about the past weeks. So this is the junior agent with the dubious honour of being the first field agent to kill a Double-0 through friendly fire. 

Then because Q is an emotionally bumbling halfwit who thinks humour solves everything, he adds, “Do you think they’ll put us in neighbouring cells? I hear the dungeons are pretty bleak this time of year.” 

Instead of the exasperated look he is expecting, the woman regards him and smiles slowly, “Eve Moneypenny, Station-T.” She eventually offers as introduction. 

“Collin Mitchell, Q-Branch” he reciprocates, shaking her hand.

—

The meeting goes as expected. No intel about the drive or any sign of decryption activity. 007 is still MIA, no body was recovered - if they don’t find a body in another week, they’ll call off the search teams. There is now serious pressure to restructure how Ops is carried out. They can’t have Ops, IT and Q-Branches working separately without a clear chain of command not in this day and age. 

In addition to that, the incident brings home the need to have the handlers and agents work much more closely, like a ‘hand in glove’ so to speak - instead of fobbing them off to a constantly rotating shift of support team. Ronson second guessing Mark’s information was a result of a combination of factors; the unexpected mode of communication and him not knowing who Mark was and therefore not trusting the information. Precious seconds wasted in establishing veracity of the information likely cost him his life.

Agent Moneypenney is suspended from field duty. Pending reassignment possibly to a desk job. Q is temporarily assigned to IT branch to help with securing MI6 systems - he has already been helping out Mark the past few weeks, but this order means he has to dotted line report to IT-Branch Head Timothy Hayden who hates his guts and second guesses everything Q does. It is not going to be pleasant. 

Outside the SIS building in the park across from the train station, Eve and Q sit morosely on opposite ends of a bench, picking at their lunch arranged between them. 

“Well, I think we got off lightly all things considered.” Eve speaks first. 

“Speak for yourself. Hayden still wants his pound of flesh after the print-pocalypse I caused two years back. I’m going to be debugging applications for the rest of my life if he has any say in it.”

Eve snorts, then a few moments later very sombrely reminds him, ”I killed someone Collin.” 

Q hangs his head. Perspective. “OK. You win... “ He says very gently, trying to lighten the mood. “…So much for our promising careers in espionage.”

They eat their lunch in silence for a while before Eve speaks up again. “I thought of going to see his next of kin; you know... to make amends. Tell his wife and children how brave he was, how his last moments were spent defending his country. Least I could do... Maybe even ask for forgiveness one day.” Eve’s face crumples, her voice cracking. 

She draws in a long shaky breath, then through a thick sob she says,“Tanner tells me he didn’t have any. This bloody -job- was his whole life.” She gasps, a hand coming up quickly to cover her mouth and nose, muffling the earnest sobs that were wrecking through her now. Before this, she had held steady for two weeks to the day since she pulled that trigger. 

He doesn’t know what to say, up to two weeks ago he had been mostly sheltered from the more gruesome aspects of his job - Ronson was the first agent he’d ever seen killed live, not a recording after the fact. One moment he was talking, the next, fatally wounded - his story ended right that moment. Ronson had an ex-wife, no child.

Not knowing what else to do, Q moves their lunch away and scoots close, wrapping his arms around Moneypenny and she does the same for him. They don’t say much after this. But it is the start of their standing Thursday lunch. A friendship forged through mutual adversity and tragedy. The both of them having to work their way back into M’s good graces. 

——

Back to Present…

“Oh? Not classified is it? Would you be able to tell me about it?” Bond looks genuinely interested. 

“Over dinner… if you can finish up here by then.” Q raises an eyebrow at the amount of work still to be done. 

Alec chooses that moment to swan back into the room, two ladies from the secretarial pool in tow, one on each arm. They gingerly lower him into his chair and he sighs in excessive relief. The ladies coo soothingly at him, massaging his allegedly sore shoulders and back.

“Awfully nice of you to come back.” Bond says but refuses to acknowledge his theatrics. 

“I had to, left my pills here. Sam dear, could I have some help with these?” He pouts pitifully at her as he hands her the blister pack of pain medication that was on the table. Then,“Ta, so kind of you,” when Sam pops the requisite number of pills into his mouth and Ginny brings his coffee to his lips. 

Q shakes his head at 006’s antics. He can be such a loveable cad. Not too long ago 007 was reputed to be the same - twin terrors that made M rethink her decision on a daily basis. 

“Oh, and we brought your coffee as demanded.” Ginny comes over to hand Bond his coffee - it is no longer hot but warm. She glances apologetically at Q, “Sorry we didn’t get you one, sir.” 

“Well, now that you’re back, mind finishing up here?” Bond shakes a box of papers awaiting the shredding machine for emphasis.  

“Ooooh… give me a moment. The meds haven’t kicked in.” Alec moans woefully, which prompts the women to renew their fussing over him. 

“Really sir! Can’t you see Alec isn’t fit to do any heavy lifting?” Sam admonishes Bond. 

Her audacity takes Bond aback, he glances at Q and spreads his arms in a ’look what I have to endure because of Alec’ gesture. Q smiles back at him sympathetically. 

An idea forms in Bond’s mind. He makes a show of stapling a stack of papers that needs to be filed. “Oh bugger!” he proclaims loudly. “Ran out of staples. Alec do you have any refills?”

Alec still basking in the female attention pulls open his desk drawers distractedly before turning to look. Within seconds, the stench of his past meals come back to haunt him as it wafts intrusively into the room. He slams the drawers back shut again. 

“Oh! What is that smell?!” Ginny straightens, alarmed. Sam recoils as well. Both women stepping away from his desk instinctively. 

Alec shots to his feet, eyes wide, “Whoops! Looks like break time is over. I ought to get back to finishing the housekeeping.” 

006 quickly usher the women out, sending them on their way with a wink and a flirty quip, “I’ll see you ladies later this evening. 5:30? I shall count down the hours.” 

When they are out of earshot, he rounds on 007, “You bastard!” 

Bond’s infantile snickering turns into outright uncontainable laughter. “How is it my fault? Throw your dammed leftovers away.”

“Oh I’ll throw something alright,” Alec grabs his empty coffee cup and is about to pitch it at Bond’s head when Q slides in front of him. Q levels them both with his Quartermaster stare, quelling any further childish escalation of hostilities. 

“Well now, if the both of you are quite finished sabotaging each other, perhaps you’d like to bring those boxes and the offending drawer down to Q-Branch?”

Twin looks of confusion.

“We have an industrial shredder and a power washer down in the lair... If you gentlemen would like the use of it.” Q smiles and nods his leave. 

——

Day of HRHs Prince Charles and William’s Visit

Q-Branch is abuzz with activity, even more than usual. The labs are cleaner than they ever will be again. Not pristine, but not quite the mad scientist lair and far less a safety hazard than it usually is. 

Everyone has on their cleanest lab coat, overalls and PPE. Q’s even had a haircut and attempted to tame it with ‘product’ this morning. 

Center stage for this portion of the visit is the modified Aston Martin V8 Vantage recovered from 007’s latest mission - with a battered front end and deep gouges along its flanks. On top of Bond’s decorative additions - it was also generously riddled with bullet marks, much of it concentrated on the pockmarked windscreen and windows, none of which penetrated the bulletproofing thankfully. 

Q nearly had a fit, it would have been impossible to repair the damage in time; but Moneypenny had the brilliant idea to turn the narrative in their favour - a gritty, uncensored example showcasing the dangers their agents face in the line of duty and the tech used to keep them safe. And what better way to bring the message home than to have the actual agent that survived the ordeal; Commander James Bond aka 007 regale the Royal Highnesses with the story himself. 

So they left the car pretty much alone, other than rolling it into the centre of Q-Branch. It cut a forlorn picture sitting there, with its damage on full display - gun barrels sticking out, boot open and bits of carbon fibre hanging off. It looked like a squashed insect in the middle of a clean floor. 

As for the man of the hour himself, he had sauntered into Q-Branch right after the tour of the Double-0 office was done. He’s there practicing his story, memorising the script Eve wrote for him. Not that he needed a script to remember what happened - he was there after all, but he tended be a little sarcastic and churlish with his words, at least in his written reports so the script was an insurance against that. 

Moneypenny had insisted that 006 & 007 wear their military uniforms as it added to the pomp and circumstance, Mallory agreed. So Bond and Trevelyan were in their Naval uniforms. Trevelyan was somewhere in the building making full use of the uniform and the effect it produced on anyone inclined to go home with him. Last Bond saw of him, he had amassed a small entourage of both sexes in the cafeteria. 

*Pheeeww-whiit!!* 

There were loud appreciative catcalls and whistles when 007 made his entrance to Q-Branch wearing his immaculate Naval Commander ensemble. He’d politely tipped his hat to everyone as he went around looking for the Quartermaster to present himself - curios to see if it produced any effect.

“How are the preparations coming along?” He found the Chief Overlord in the back pantry making a cup of tea and had sidled right up behind him to rumble in his ear. Q chokes on his tea. Bond quickly rescues the mug from the quartermaster’s hand while the man sputters and recovers from the fright. 

“Bond! How many times have I told—,”Q’s words are cut off abruptly when he turns around to face the insufferable agent. 

“… have I… I…,” He tries to restart his standard tirade, but it dies on his lips so he gives up and resigns to just staring. His brain is frizzing out, Q’s sure. The only thought on his mind is what a dashing figure he cut - those magnificent the gold braids on his cuffs, the eight gold buttons glinting in the light, the shoes polished to perfection. 

He could almost forgive this man for ruining his prized car. Almost. -The navy colour brings out his eyes-. And for loosing the rifle. Maybe. -What do all those insignias mean?-

A minute later, and Q is still lost in contemplation. Bond leans in close again, blue eyes shining, “Are you nearly done with your assessment?” He brings Q’s rescued mug up to his lips and takes a long sip, never breaking eye contact throughout. 

Q’s eyes trail down to Bond’s throat, the way his Adam’s apple bob against the white collar and dark tie as the agent swallows. At the sound of Bond clearing his throat, Q’s eyes snap back up again to regard the agent in the eye. -What were they taking about again?-

“Right. Yes. Preparations. Everything’s ready… And how are you with your script?” Q reclaims his mug, clutching it with both hands to protect it. The bastard has taken to stealing his drink at every opportunity, ever since that night of the party* here at Q-Branch. 

“All squared away in here,” Bond taps his temple with a finger. “The hair’s new,” He makes an observation of his own. He brings up his right hand and lightly cards his fingers through Q’s fringe. It breaks up the neatly gelled hair, letting a few pieces fall more beguilingly over his forehead. Personally, he prefers the perpetually messy look Q wears on a daily basis.

Q is transfixed by the presumptuously familiar gesture. All he can do is let his gaze drift along the hands, up to the white cuff peeking out of the navy sleeve, the triple gold braid rank insignia on the sleeve, up the arm to the crisp line of the shoulder and back to Bond’s face. 

Those fingers that were a second ago in his hair lowers slowly to touch the back of Q’s hand that is wrapped around the mug, drawing a slow teasing circle on the skin before circling his wrist to pull his hand and the mug up to the agent’s mouth - stealing another long sip. When Bond finally withdraws, his bottom lip graze lightly over Q’s forefinger. 

Q’s breathing has transformed into embarrassingly short and shaky pants. -The fucker doesn’t even drink tea on a regular basis- so all this, is for Q’s benefit. And it is highly effective. The warm flush that has crept over his cheeks throughout the ordeal, spreads like wildfire over his skin right down to his groin at that final touch. 

It comes out as an almost whimper, “Is it just me, or is it too warm in here?… Perhaps I should check on the settings. It wouldn’t do to broil our royal guests.” Q edges along the pantry counter, out of the agent’s magnetic circle of influence - he needs all his faculties intact right now. 

“Are we still on for dinner tonight?” Bond catches his cardigan sleeve just before he is out of reach. 

“Yes, of course. See you after.” Q ducks out of reach as soon has Bond’s fingers release him.

  ——

Post Royal visit…

-It is perfectly normal to have a standing Friday night dinner with a colleague isn’t it?- Q questions the reflection in the lavatory mirror.

The royal visit to Q-Branch had gone off without a hitch. M was mighty pleased, 007 was engaging and respectful, his minions competent and efficient and all of Q’s live tech demonstrations went smoothly as rehearsed.  

Now that it was over, Bond was waiting for him outside so they can adjourn to their dinner appointment. The prospect of spending this evening with the agent, as they almost invariably do countless nights before this, feels daunting all of a sudden. What the bloody hell is wrong with him tonight? This is so uncharacteristically like him.

Q knows that Bond loves to tease. And Q has permitted and played along all this time - but he’s not sure how Bond would feel if the agent knew how many less than ‘proper’ fantasies of Q’s he has had a staring role in. Q feels bad about using the agent like this. He genuinely enjoys Bond’s company and tries to stay in it for as long as the other would permit; but sometimes Q thinks he might be imposing on the agent’s down time.

-This is karma- Q thinks. His sins finally catching up to him. That blasted naval uniform and its amplifying effects on Bond’s already considerable charms - he can’t think straight when the agent is in it. Squashing his arousal has been especially difficult this evening. He doesn’t want to cause Bond any discomfort... in case the agent notices. 

Perhaps cancelling tonight would be the decent thing to do; and maybe put a stop to subsequent dinner invitations. Oh but no… the thought of not having these evenings with Bond hurts him like a round kick to the chest. A curious if painful reaction, one that he is not prepared to examine just yet.

-Oh you selfish prick.- We all know how short a Double-0’s tenure can be. Bond should be spending his time with someone he has a chance of developing a consequential connection with; not humouring a romantically challenged quartermaster. There he said it, happy? 

Where had this melancholy mood come from? -From the depths of your guilty conscience you dolt.- Or maybe its sexual frustration?

By the time he’s done with with the self recriminations, Q’s so morose he’s close to losing it emotionally. He had turned his back to the mirror at some point, and is now leaning against the sink counter, head bent, a hand in his hair, phone in the other. He seriously considers calling Eve, she knows how to deal with… squishy emotions like adult. 

But before he can make the call, the lavatory door creaks open. It is after hours, so there shouldn’t be many people still about. 

“Q? Are you in here?” Bond’s voice calls out. Shit. He must have been waiting too long for this liking. 

The man steps into view. One look at Q and immediately concern colours his voice. “Q, are you alright?” Then seeing the phone in Q’s hand, “What happened?” He steps in close, wrapping his hands around Q’s elbows. 

“I uh… I… I don’t know where to start.” Q is hesitant for a few seconds, looking for his words. But then it seems the cork on his bottled up emotions pop and it all comes pouring out.

“Bond… I feel… somewhat guilty. These dinners, I mean. I sometimes feel I’m taking advantage of your time. I’m not imposing am I? And please be honest. I won’t hold it against you. I know you Double-Os have this weird game about flustering the quartermaster, but I don’t want you to think I take the game seriously and that I’ll withhold any tech you’ll need because of it. If you have somewhere better to be, please don’t hold out on my account—” 

He feels a full on ramble developing. Maybe he should stop talking so the man can answer. Or maybe he’s afraid of the answer and that’s why he can’t stop talking. 

“—Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely enjoy these evenings with you. I look forward to every one of them in fact, but I don’t want you to feel like you -have- to continue with them because of some silly game. We both know your down time is precious and you don’t have many opportunities to socialise outside of your cover. So it would be immensely selfish of me to continue to take up that time…“

Q pauses, not because he ran out of things to say, but because he ran out of breath. He gulps air like a drowning man and continues… because if he stops talking, he just might start blubbering like some hysterical idiot. 

“You ought to be spending this time more constructively, with someone you care about and have that reciprocated. Not that I’m indifferent… your welfare concerns me greatly. Hence this overdue lecture about not wasting your time on something that would essentially amount to… to… to nothing.” -Oh wow… that fucking hurt to say out loud.- Right in the diaphragm, just under the sternum. Q unconsciously presses a thumb as close to the spot as he can get. 

He meant every word of it. He wouldn’t stand in the way if Bond found someone he would rather spend time with. -What is he even saying, of course he wouldn’t be in the way, he had no claim in the first place.Silly dolt.-

“Not that there are any expectations on my side.” Q is quick to put him at ease on that front. -Liar-. Why is he even saying these things? It was just dinner between friends. Why is he being so bloody melodramatic about it? -Shut up. Shut up.-

Q gives his head a shake for finality, “Bottom line is, I’ve taken advantage of you and I apologise.” He finally looks Bond in the eyes, or tries to. The man’s face is blurry, Q thinks to reach up to clean his glasses but realises to his horror that it is unshed tears that is clouding his vision. -Well isn’t this perfectly humiliating.-

Bond is studying him with intense blue eyes - searching for something. The moment stretches…

It reminds Q of that silly Netflix show where the characters roll a dice and their futures split into six different outcomes. For the first time Q wonders if there exists a timeline where he and Bond could conceivably end up more than friends. There is a likelier chance that in some timeline, maybe even this one - Bond walks into the sunset with some femme fatale he picks up along the way. Alive and whole with the possibility of finally finding the happiness he so deserves after years of tragic sacrifice. And Q has no choice but to shake his hand and watch him go. Knowing Bond, he’ll probably ask to keep the DB5 too. 

-Well, good luck getting that thing serviced at any random garage.- Q digs his thumb harder into his diaphragm to distract himself from the flaring discomfort. 

Bond’s voice is low and soft when he finally says something, “Q… this might have been longest ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech anyone has made. Are you breaking up with me?”

That earns Bond an involuntary chuckle even through his unshed tears, “Don’t be facetious… *sniff*…I’m being serious.” Bond is right though, this whole conversation was silly, they were just friends. What kind of person weeps over dinner with a friend?

From Bond’s point of view; he knows if he leaves Q to his own devices tonight, the quartermaster will play the gentleman and logic himself out of going out with Bond ever again. Even if that’s not what Q wants himself. Bond can’t risk that. 

At the same time, he doesn’t want to push too hard, not when Q hasn’t had a chance to process his own revelations. He has heard enough between the lines of Q’s rambling admission to be fairly confident that his affections are not in vain. All that is needed is patience. 

Bond chooses his words and tone carefully, “You’re right… in some aspects. My time is precious, and perhaps limited—,” wry smile,”—So the fact that I choose to spend it with my quartermaster says something about the depth of my fondness for his company. 

“As for taking advantage of me, in so much as it is possible,” this one, he is less clear how Q came to the conclusion, “It is true, if there was anyone in the world who might be capable of it, it would be you. But only because I allow it.” He gives Q a few moments to process what he had said. The quartermaster wasn’t the only one who can tiptoe around a subject without actually referencing it. 

Bond studies Q as he mulls over the words. He would make a terrible poker player. Q fidgets when he thinks; self soothing gestures - fingers stroking his own hands or turning an object over and over. Over the last half year, those unconscious self soothing gestures have spilled over to include Bond himself, if he is in close enough proximity. Q’s favourite is the tie pin if available, and if not, the cuff links on his sleeve. The satisfaction he derives from be being a source of comfort to Q is unquantifiable.

This evening is no different, despite the ‘breakup’ speech, Q’s fingers have found their way to a gold button on Bond’s uniform - the pad of his thumb worrying over the embossed gilt crown and anchor motif. 

“So… it’s not an imposition then? You don’t mind this?” Q summaries felling terribly silly, now that the melancholic fog is lifting. 

“Q, not even terrorist with a gun to my head can compel me to give up state secrets, what makes you think I can’t fend off an unwanted dinner appointment?” This statement coming from anyone else would have been hyperbole, but from Bond, it puts his little freakout into perspective. “Believe it or not, I look forward our evenings as well.” 

“Ah. Right… “ More contemplative fidgeting with the gold button. Then a deep breath and a noisy sniffle, “Does the invitation to dinner still stand? Some food would do me good I think.” Maybe it’s the low blood sugar that is causing this silliness, Q’s certainly going to play it off that way. Though he suspects this weekend is going to be one of quiet introspection about this oddly personal relationship developing between them.

Bond smiles, leaning close to whisper in his ear, “Dinner always stands.”

Q lets Bond lead him out of the washroom and into the lift, thankful that no one was around to notice how long they spent in there.  

In the lift, Q rests his back and head against the side wall. Bond is crowding close next to him, despite the empty lift. He has his arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the same wall, body angled towards Q and watching him contemplatively. 

“You don’t mind my aftershave do you?” Bond asks all of a sudden with cheeky grin.

“What?” The bizarre question makes Q turn his head to look at him.

“Its not offensive or overpowering is it? You know, in case its off putting to the marks.“ Bond continues, verbally nudging Q to play along, to fall back into their usual banter. 

“I didn’t think it appropriate that I should have an opinion about it before.”

“Well, what if I want you to have an opinion about it now?”

Q can’t stay away from their usual play for long; this time it is him that initiates, leaning in close. Bond tips up his chin automatically, to give his favourite boffin better access. Q presses close, nose just shy of touching the underside of Bond’s jaw and takes a long whiff. 

It’s the end of a long day so there is only the barest hint of aftershave mixed with his natural scent. -God. He smells good.- 

Q passes his verdict, “I… I suppose if I were to have opinion about it, I’d say you smell… perfect.”

————The End————————-

Extended scene….

The lift dings and the doors open. Bond and Q part reluctantly back to a semi-respectable distance. But not before a waiting SIS employee on the other side of the door catches sight of them in what could be construed as a compromising position. 

What’s-his-name takes longer than normal to step into the lift, dawdling on the threshold trying to make up his mind to get in or take the next one - despite the virtually empty lift. 

The man in the Navy uniform is undoubtedly a Double-0, but the younger one he isn’t so sure, one of the boffs in IT or Q-Branch from the looks of it. If they’re carrying on a secret affair, he doesn’t want to be an unwitting witness - rumours have it, those Double-0s have a way of making interlopers… disappear. 

His indecisiveness makes both men shift their attentions towards him. Both expressions quizzical. Navy man sweeps an arm round the empty lift, welcoming him to enter.

“I’ll… um… take the next one…” he says awkwardly and steps quickly out of sight. 

——————Fin——————-

Note: If you liked this fic, there’s more like it on the blog. Enjoy!

Q’s Origin story might make more sense if you read my attempt at writing Q’s backstory in the plot outlines below: (they’re not full fics but you’ll get the sense of who this version of Q is.)

Series 1 Pilot here. 

Series 2 Episode 1 & 2 here. 

And Episode 3.

Also I’m lazy, so some of the other Double-0s are based on pre-existing characters from other fandoms. 

009 is based on Harry Hart (Galahad) in Kingsman.

001 is based on Emma Thompson in Johnny English and Late Night, I love how comedically irreverent and straight talking she is, I can imagine her being fed up with the way everyone else talks in their roundabout way and calls them out on it.

[timeaftertime-chriscornellfanfic]

Chapter 32 - I Get So Tense That I Can’t Speed Up The Time

Berlin Germany, April 17 1990

(Andi is 20, Chris is 25)

ANDI: Feeling the cold concrete beneath my body is something I will never get used to when I slip. It was dark. really dark. So dark that I couldn't tell just exactly where I was at all. I gather myself up and find that I seem to be in a dark alleyway in between two tall brick buildings, completely naked and cold as hell.

Why, just why in the fucking hell did I have to slip?

With my one arm covering my chest as best I could - thank god my dark curls are long enough to help - and my other hand trying to cover the rest of me, I attempt to make my way out of the alley, being careful not to step on anything that could hurt me. I approach the sidewalk, staying close to the corner of the one buildings and look down both sides of the street to see if I could figure out where I am. Everything is written in German so I just hope to fuck I'm in Berlin.

Ok think Andi, think... where can I find something to cover myself with?

It's always this part that scares me the most, especially since I'm in a completely different country. I remember the name of the hotel that I booked for the guys, so if I could just find a way to somehow get there.

*****

"Hey du was machst du? raus hier!"

I was able to find my way into an apartment through the back and sneak into a bedroom as quietly as I could, find a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that were a little bit too big for me and a pair of runners but just as I was sliding myself back out the door, I was caught by the German who is now screaming at me while I clamber down the fire escape.

"I'm sorry, I had the wrong place," I call back to him though I'm pretty sure he had no idea just what I was saying.

"Wenn ich dich wieder fange, bring ich dich um!" He continues to scream at me and I can only guess that he hopes I don't show up again. Given by the tone of his voice though it sounds like he might kill me if I was to show up again, which wont be happening anytime soon.

Once I make it to the bottom of the fire escape, I quickly make my way down the street, hoping to see if I can find anyone who speaks even just a little bit of English so that I can get to the hotel as fast as I could. I walk a few blocks and find myself in the downtown district and I catch a Newspaper box that showed that I was in fact in Berlin. Thank fucking god. Now I just need to find my way to the Hotel.

*****

Lindemann Hotel, Berlin

CHRIS: "Look I know, we missed soundcheck but I don't care. I'm staying right here in the Lobby until she walks through that door,"

"Chris, man come on we go on in like a half hour and we're not even at the fucking club yet - "

"I don't give a shit!" I cut Jason off. We had been arguing the entire trip to Berlin and he was really beginning to get on my last nerve.

"You're the one who's always so damn anal about making sure everything is perfect, but suddenly once Andi somehow goes missing - "

"She slipped Jason - " Matt defends.

"Whatever -" Jason snaps back.

"Hey guys, come on," Kim starts.

"No fuck that! We shouldn't have to wait around for your girlfriend to finally make an appearance,"

"Since when do actually have anything to contribute to any sort of conversation we're having?" I snark back at him. Jason just stares at me stunned at my remark and I add "Just fucking throw your headphones back on and ignore the whole thing like you usually do,"

"Fuck you Chris!" He says and pushes me which makes me stumble back just a little but I maintain my ground and grab his black T-shirt by the collar and pull him to me, his eyes burning into mine.

"Fuck me?! Fuck You!" I shout.

"Hey, Hey guys... c'mon break it up," Kim says as he gets between us and I let go of Jason's shirt when suddenly I see Andi walking up to the front doors of the hotel, completely soaked as it had started raining. She opens the door and sees the four of us grouped around the lounging couches.

"Holy Shit, Andi you made it," Matt says.

"Baby - ?" I exhale feeling my heart fly out of my chest at the sight of her. I immediately runover to her and wrap my arms around her though she seems a little stand offish with me.

"Can I have the room key?" She says without much emotion and I slowly let go of her as she holds out her hand. I quickly reach in my shorts pocket and pull out the hotel room key and hand it to her. She turns to move away from me but I catch her arm and turn her to face me again.

"Babe, what happened? What's wrong?" I ask furrowing my brow.

"You guys should head to the club, you're already late so... I'm fine I just need to shower and get changed and I'll meet you there," She says barely looking up at me.

"Andi - ?"

"Chris I'm fine, just head over and I'll meet you there," She says and without so much as a look at me, she pulls away and makes her way up the stairs to the hotel room. I turn back to the guys and they look just as confused as I am. I shrug and shake my head wondering why she wont let me at least apologize to her but I figure I'll just give her a bit of time.

"Let's go... she'll uh, just meet us there," I say as I head towards the lobby doors, Jason rolling his eyes at me with Matt, Ben and Kim all looking between each other, then shrugging and  slowly following me out the hotel doors.

*****

ANDI: I arrive inside our room and toss the hotel key on the table beside the door. All I wanted was to take these god forsaken wet stolen clothes off me and jump into the shower as fast as I could. I didn't want to talk and I didn't want to feel. I just wanted to get on with the night and do my job like I was hired to do.

Once I peel the soaking wet clothes off of me, I grab a plastic bag that was stashed underneath the bathroom sink and stuff the clothes inside. Then I toss the bag of clothes towards the hotel room door and quickly turn on the shower. Once the water was hot enough, I step inside and let the water wash over me as I quickly clean myself up. After a few moments it was like I couldn't stop the flood of emotions that suddenly rattled my frame. As the suds from the soap swirl down the drain, I lean forward catching myself against the shower wall and start to cry.

I didn't intend on crying but it was like I couldn't help myself. Traveling back to see Andy really just shook me up. I am by no means over him at all but whatever happened between us has really fucked with me. I feel horrible, heartbroken and guilty that I did the very thing that I never wanted to do. I love Chris more than life itself and I just can't get passed this horrible pain that I just keep inside.

*****

Once I finish my shower, I gather myself together and calm myself down enough to change into just some ripped up jeans and my Black Sabbath band shirt with my Doc Marten. I fix my dark curls as they fall down around my shoulders and find my bag that Chris had brought up for me before the inevitable time slip on the bus. I reach in my bag and pull out a little prescription bottle.

Just after Andy's funeral, I had an appointment with my neurologist for a regular checkup that I normally have every 6 months or so. He basically asked me all the usual questions that he has asked me since I began seeing him- when my original doctor from when I was kid transferred all my files over when I moved to Seattle - He performed a few tests, nothing out of the ordinary and suggested that I try lorazepam.

Years ago I was put on a different drug for epileptic seizures but for some reason, it made my time slips worse. Lately my time slips have been becoming more frequent once again but I was reluctant to try lorazepam, thinking it wouldn't do anything or once again make it worse. Since I'm traveling, I didn't think that I would actually have a time slip episode at all but as we all know, I can never seem to predict if or when it will happen and since I've been so busy, I've hardly had time to sit down and relax and play like I usually would to help keep the time slips at bay. The pills had been sitting in my bag from the moment I picked them up from the pharmacy and a part of me is still so worried about taking them. I obviously don't want to have another time slip happen again so I guess this seems to be my last resort until I can figure out a way on my own.

"Ok... Andi, here goes nothing,"

Reading the label, I pour out one tablet into my hand and close the bottle up, putting it back into my bag. I walk back into the bathroom and turn the tap on, placing the pill on my tongue and scooping up some water with my hands to swallow. I then check myself in the mirror and dab a bit of the water from my chin, and then grab the hotel key and head out to meet the guys at the club.

*****

Messehalle Bar and Night club, Berlin

ANDI: ".... remember, I love you, love yoooouuuu!!!!" Chris screams as he drops down to his knees on stage, pouring himself out to the crowd with incredible emotion. He leans back practically laying down on stage while Kim continues to wail on his Gibson Firebird. I stand off to the side of the stage as a few members of the road crew catch me up on everything since my time slip. After a few moments, the band breaks into 'Beyond The Wheel' and Chris continues the emotion all the way through. It's so incredible how he can do that as I admire him from the side stage.

Towards the end of their set, Chris picks up the mic stand and begins to smash it against the stage floor, causing the crowd to go crazy and scream how much they love Soundgarden.  A far cry from the crowd last night.

"Thank you!" Chris bellows into the mic and slams it down on the stage, making the loudest thump as Kim does his feedback outro. Chris flips his curls out of his face and heads towards me, glancing at me but not much else and then heads down the stage stairs.  I close my eyes for a second knowing that we need to actually talk this out and I follow him as he walks out the backstage door. I stay pretty silent as I follow him back to the dressing room, Kim and Matt trailing behind me and Jason following even further behind.

"Chris?" I call after him but he says nothing and doesn't look back at me as his curls sway with each stride. I exhale and try to catch up to him, reaching for his hand once I do. He just gives me a look but doesn't pull away as I look back up at him apologetically. I lace my fingers through his and keep my gaze on him as we try and find the dressing room to the place.

"Yo, Chris I think it's this way," Kim calls down the opposite side of the hallway.

"Ok, I'll catch up in a minute," Chris calls back with his eyes still on me. We stop for a moment and he suddenly moves me back up against the concrete wall, leaning down and cupping my face in his palm, pressing those incredible soft lips to mine.

It caught me off guard for just a moment, but this is exactly what I wanted from him since the moment we even started arguing. Our kiss instantly becomes heated, full of hunger, his tongue swiping across my bottom lip. I reach up and lace my fingers through his curls as his hands move to my hips, pressing himself against me. I can feel his excitement through his shorts already as my tongue plays with his eagerly wanting to just have him fuck me right here against the concrete wall of the club.

His hands move up under my shirt, his fingers feeling rough as they skip across my skin. They find their way to my breasts and he begins to tease each nipple through my sheer lacy bra. I sigh against his lips as his thumbs continue to brush across my nipples sending chills all over my body.

"I'm sorry baby," He says against my lips.

"Shhhhh, it's ok, I don't care. I just want you," I say against his lips. He chuckles and lifts me up as I wrap my arms around his neck, still never breaking our kiss. I wrap my legs around his waist as he somehow carries me down the long hallway looking for a back room.

With us both beginning to laugh, he finally finds a back room, which looked more like a storage closet but I could really care less as he maneuvers the doorknob and carries me inside. He closes the door and sets me down, finding a long string and pulling it to light up the room in a dim warm yellow glow. I quickly reach for his belt as he bites his bottom lip and unbuckle it as quickly as I can, pulling down his shorts and boxers, seeing his excitement before me. Without taking my eyes away from his, I quickly unbuckle my belt and slip my jeans along with my panties over my hips and down to my knees. Chris lets out a pleasing grunt, almost cave man-ish and turns me around, pushing me up against the wall of the closet. I let out a surprised squeal and giggle, loving how suddenly he is becoming so aggressive.

"You want me baby?" he asks.

"Uh huh," I breathe.

"You want me to fuck you baby?" He says low and deep in my ear as he grips my hips with his hands and urges me to spread my legs apart. I move my hands to steady myself against the wall as I feel his hardness, the tip of him teasing just at my entrance.

"Yea, yes I want you to fuck me," I bite my lip and I feel him push himself inside me, sending unbelievable shivers all over my body.

"Holy shit, you are so wet already," He exhales moving slow with the first couple of thrusts and then begins to pick up his pace. His left hand holds my hip to steady me while his right hand moves to cover mine against the wall, lacing his fingers through.

"Oh fuck yes," He growls as I push myself back against him just a little. He then slides his hand from my hip, his fingers immediately make contact with my clit, using slow circular motions at first, then gradually faster making my muscles clench around him.

"Fuck, don't fucking stop," I tell him half panting, my temple pressed against the wall.

"Don't worry baby I'm not gonna stop until you cum for me," He growls in my ear in which just the sound of his voice, deep and raspy from singing completely sent me right over the edge. In that moment I release instantly, surprised that I was able to get there so damn quick and it wasn't long before Chris himself cried out in animalistic hunger, releasing everything inside me.

"Oh my god," I pant, my cheek still pressed against the wall, my eyes squeezed shut as I try to come down with out falling on the floor. He chuckles as he gracefully pulls out of me and I try to turn around and face him. He laughs as he helps me and places his hands on either side of my cheeks, brushing some dark matted curls from my forehead.

"If that's how you apologize all the time, I should get mad at you more often," I giggle and he laughs, touching his forehead to mine.