#spencer if you click on this post i will murder you in cold blood

[skygemspeaks]

please please please keep your tags and replies spoiler free I have friends who are only on skypeia rn and they follow me and even though i had them filter out op spoilers, i do not trust them not to click on my post when it shows up on their dash

[sit-down-and-shut-up]

time- a. hotchner

SUMMARY: you get kidnapped lol

WARNINGS: kidnapping (duh), some injuries but everyone lives, aaron being m a d, and reader being a freaking baddie

WORDS: too many 6604

A/N: sorry that it’s been a hot minute since i posted, im lazy

Aaron glanced up as the workday finally drew to a close, watching you wave goodbye to the team and stroll towards the unit chief’s office, just in time to see JJ as she ascended the steps on her way to the room as well. You started to wave, but JJ murmured something you couldn’t make out and you stopped. Aaron’s blood ran cold, and he mentally cursed himself for being naive enough to believe that things would work out for once. He turned to look at Emily and Morgan through the blinds, who’d been talking near Emily’s desk, and saw their eyes trained on you and JJ. Emily swore under her breath, then headed to the conference room with Spencer and Derek not far behind.

+++++

Aaron sat down next to you in the conference room, meeting your eyes and giving you a halfhearted smile. You returned the gesture and went back to scanning the grisly photos before you. He zoned out as JJ spoke, giving the rundown on each of the girls that had been abducted, then murdered mere hours later. The murders seemed somewhat random, with the exception that the victims were all girls in their upper 20’s. In fact, they were all 29, just like you were.

Something clicked in your mind, but you didn’t want to jump to conclusions. You could feel Aaron’s steely gaze on you, and you wondered briefly if he could tell what you were thinking. You were lost in your thoughts, to the point where you didn’t hear Aaron’s deep “Wheels up in 30.” After everyone had left the conference room, Aaron turned back to see you still staring at the photos, searching for something you couldn’t quite name among the blood spatters and empty faces. He walked over to you and gently tapped your shoulder, causing your head to whip up to face him. Realization washed over your eyes, and you mumbled an apology.

Aaron shook his head in response, saying “I’m sorry. I was hoping we’d actually get to go out tonight.” You sighed, then replied.

“Who knows? Maybe the unsub will be caught by the time we get there and we can go get dinner or something.” You laughed as you said it, but your laughter was tinged with a resigned sadness Aaron despised, wishing he could take you somewhere you’d never be forced to feel this way again. Aaron watched you for a few seconds longer, as your face darkened and you grabbed your files and left the room, heading to his office, where both of your go-bags were. He wanted to tell you so much, but wasn’t sure how to start. He wanted to tell you that he’d been planning to propose this evening, that he wanted to be with you forever. But he couldn’t.

+++++

Aaron noticed you lost in your thoughts again on the plane ride while the rest of the team went over the case. The sheer amount of bodies was enough to give someone pause. In addition, the unsub took a girl each Thursday, but never kept them for more than a few hours. Why?

The plane ride felt fairly short. You were hit with a wave of nostalgia as the plane touched down in New York, where you’d gone to college years earlier, and worked before you were transferred to the Behavioral Analysis Unit and moved to Quantico. As you walked into the FBI field office with the rest of the BAU, you couldn’t stop your mind from remembering the last time you’d been in the building, when working a terrorism case alongside Agent Joyner four years earlier.

She’d been killed immediately by a bomb in your SUV, and metal had been lodged in your left leg, cutting the femoral artery and nearly causing you to bleed out. If not for your Aaron, you would’ve died there, on the cold pavement. When Aaron came to visit you while you recovered from surgery, you managed to slur out that you loved him. At the time, he blamed it on the drugs you were on, until he showed up at your hospital room again a few hours later, to drive you home. You’d suffered hearing loss as well, and coupled with your leg injury, you couldn’t go in the field or on the plane for a while. As he helped you up and handed you the crutches you’d be relying on for nearly a year, you met his eyes and said confidently, “I meant what I said earlier.”

He’d paused for a second, before his lips spread into a rare smile, and he said, “I love you too.” You’d always known the relationship wouldn’t be easy, considering his recent divorce and your unconventional jobs, but you were fine with it. Being with Aaron was good enough.

Present-day Aaron subtly placed a hand on the small of your back, a sign of encouragement he’d adopted over the years. You glanced up at him and nodded, silently letting him know you were okay. He dropped his hand, and held it out to the new director of the New York field office: Agent Milenka, an enthusiastic but imposing woman you’d met at the Academy when you were younger. You caught Morgan glaring at her for a second, reminding you that Morgan almost got that job. Still, you knew that Morgan loved you all too much to leave the BAU for a job directing the New York field office. The team was his rock, the weight that tethered him to reality when he was at his lowest. Aaron introduced Milenka to the rest of your team, until she cut him off when he got to you.

“I know her,” she declared loudly, “I was her firearms trainer at the Academy, but she had to show me up and be better with a gun than I am.” Spite dripped from her words, but the mischievous smile on her face told you she wasn’t really upset. Aaron nodded slightly, caught off-guard by her remark, then interjected to ask where his team could set up.

Agent Milenka led all of you to an empty conference room, with the case files already arranged neatly and a blank evidence board at the front of the room. She turned on her heel and stared firmly at the team. If you hadn’t known her for years, you’d assume she was going to attempt to assert control over the case, but instead she said, “My agents have come to see this office as a family, and probably won’t take too well to the fact that I’ve called you in. If any of them give you hell, tell me, and I’ll make the devil look like a cuddly teddy bear.” She pivoted on her heel to leave, then turned back around. “Agent L/N, my office.”

+++++

You were shocked, to be honest. This woman could bring grown men to their knees, and now she sat in front of you, spinning in a swivel chair, teasing you over your obvious infatuation with Aaron Hotchner.

“Really, Milenka, I gotta get back to the team,” you sighed, rubbing your temples.

“Fine”, she grunted, making a shooing motion with her hand. “But here’s what I meant to tell you. I’m guessing you and your team want to know why it took this many bodies for me to call you in. I mean, I’d be wondering that, too. The bodies were all dumped two days ago, even though they’d all been dead for various amounts of time, so I’m guessing the unsub wanted to make sure I had to call you guys. Keep that in mind. He knows how this works.” The humor and mischief was gone from the agent’s voice, and in that moment you knew how she’d risen through the ranks of the FBI so quickly. Something about her made you want to do everything you could to solve the case as quickly as possible. She wasn’t someone you could let down.

You grimaced, then nodded, unable to say anything, and left her office, getting coffee from the espresso machine for you and your teammates as you walked back to the conference room. As you passed around the cups, Aaron watched you expectantly, obviously waiting for you to relay whatever information Agent Milenka had told you, and so you did. The reactions among the team members were the same, set jaws and darkening eyes. You didn’t know where to start with the case, until you remembered the idea you’d gotten back in D.C. You leapt from the black desk chair you’d just sat down in and practically ran to the evidence board, grabbing a red dry-erase marker and organizing the victim’s pictures from the first to the last to be abducted. You circled the eyes on some of the pictures, the hair on others, the widow’s peaks on some, and other various defining features.

“He’s working up to someone specific,” Spencer muttered as you worked. You whipped around, pointing a finger at him and downing the last of your coffee.

“Yes! Okay, so, look at this: The first and last girl are wildly different, but when you look at the chronological order of the victims, each one gains another characteristic that the next one didn’t have, like he’s working up to getting one specific girl, and kept killing those that looked increasingly similar to his real target!” You blurted the words, and watched as your teammates looked on in a mix of awe and horror, at both the board and a piece of paper Spencer had messily written on. Aaron, who was usually so emotionless, looked especially horrified, and scared. You shot Spencer a questioning look, and he held up the paper he’d shown the rest of the team. He’d taken the first letter of each woman’s name, and when lined up, they spelled out a message.

Your name.

+++++

“You’re off the case.” Aaron said, crossing his arms over his chest as you paced around the empty office he’d practically dragged you to.

“What? If some psycho is after me, I want to be the one to catch him!” You spoke firmly, almost yelling but not quite.

“If some psycho is after you,” Aaron started, sounding much calmer than you had, “I want you to be safe. Sending you out to hunt him down isn’t keeping you safe.”

You scoffed, then yelled, “As long as he’s out there, I’m not safe! If you let me help, we’ll find him faster. I can’t- no, I won’t- just sit here doing nothing while this man kills women just because he’s got some sort of vendetta against me!”

Aaron’s resolve broke down. You could tell from the way his back slumped and he pulled you into his chest. You wrapped your arms around him, basking in the feeling of calm it brought. Your anger dissipated when he held you like that, and he knew it.

He murmured, “I can’t lose you,” into your ear, and your heart broke from the way his voice cracked from fear and sadness. Aaron pulled away far too soon, and gave you a look that you knew meant to stay put, and pulled out his phone to call Penelope Garcia.

A few moments later, Spencer walked in, hands in his pockets. He looked unsure of himself, and you couldn’t figure out why until he said, “Hotch wants me to drive you to the hotel.”

You stared at him silently for a second, then mumbled curses under your breath and stormed out of the room to find your bag. Spencer put an arm out to stop you, then said, “He said he’d bring it for you tonight.”

You glared at him for a moment, before averting your gaze to the suddenly interesting polished linoleum beneath you. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t be mad at you.”

Spencer gave you a small smile, and replied, “It’s okay. You’re stressed. We all are. Hotch just wants you to be safe.”

You nodded, and he led you from the building to the shiny, black SUV parked outside. Aaron jogged out of the building towards you, and grabbed the handle of the vehicle before you could. You met his eyes, and he murmured, “I know you’re mad at me, but I need you to stay in the hotel room, okay? Lock the door, and I’ll be there tonight with your go-bag.” You nodded, and he paused a second before saying, “I love you.”

Your pride got the best of you, and you simply muttered, “I know.”

+++++

You’d been sure that the SUV’s tires were full when you’d arrived in New York, but the flat passenger tire begged to differ. Spencer pulled into a nearby gas station to fill up the tire, something you were fairly sure he’d never done before. You couldn’t help but laugh when he called Morgan to ask what to do, who responded that it would be easier for him to come fill up the tire himself. You mouthed that you had to go to the bathroom, and Spencer nodded as Morgan’s laughter came through the phone. You stifled laughter as you walked into the gas station, grimacing at the smell of sweat and cheap hot dogs.

+++++

Aaron wasn’t sure if he’d ever been so mad. No, mad wasn’t the word. Was there a word that could encapsulate the unadulterated fury coursing through his veins? He paced the conference room like a caged lion, practically screaming at Spencer and Derek through the phone.

“What the hell happened?”

Spencer was crying, he could tell that much from the muffled sobs, and Aaron couldn’t help but think that he might never see you again. He slammed the phone onto the table with nearly enough force to break it, and looked up to see Emily, Rossi, and JJ already halfway out the conference room, before he’d told them what happened. The four of them slid into the two remaining SUVs. Aaron screeched out of the parking lot, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Rossi kept shooting him worried glances he pretended not to notice.

“We’ll find her,” Rossi said, “But you need to stay calm for us to do it.”

Aaron nodded. He didn’t trust his voice to work right now. If he tried to speak, he knew he’d probably cry. He pulled into the gas station just before Emily and JJ, and a voice in his head reminded him that this might be the last place you’d ever see. Rossi hopped out of the car, giving Aaron a sympathetic look as he did so.

+++++

The team had been at the gas station for almost three hours, interviewing customers, collecting evidence, and talking to workers. Multiple people reported seeing a woman similar to who Aaron described enter the bathroom, but no one saw her leave.There was a window in the girl’s bathroom that had been broken from the inside, with blood on both the window and the glass. The forensics team ran the blood, and it was all from the same person.

Aaron didn’t need to hear the results to know whose blood it was. Spencer tried to help, informing him that she hadn’t bled out because women had approximately 4.5 pints of blood and that was at most half a pint, but Aaron cut him off. He couldn’t hear it, couldn’t listen to everyone talking about his girlfriend, the love of his life, as though she was already dead. He knew the odds, knew that she was almost certainly going to be dead within the first 72 hours, considering how the unsub had killed the other women.

He was going to find you alive. He knew it.

Because he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he didn’t.

+++++

Everything was fuzzy and painful and oh my god what is that stuff coming out of your side and out of your hand and holy crap you can’t move you’re tied up what are you tied to what’s going on and-

“You’re even prettier than I remember.” The voice sounded familiar, but the only thing your brain could fully focus on at the moment was the excruciating pain. You felt a hand on your side, and then a searing pain that was somehow worse than the pain you’d already been feeling.

“You got a piece of glass in your side. I’m getting it out.”

You felt pressure on the spot, and forced your head to move so you could see what was going on.

He was wrapping your waist in some sort of bandage to staunch the bleeding. You forced yourself to look around the musty room you were in. You were seated in a chair, with your arms tied to the back of the chair by a coarse brown rope and a metal chain and heavy shackle attached to your left ankle. Your eyes followed the chain, to where it connected to a silver hook jutting from the wooden floor, which was coated in a layer of dirt.

Dirt.

You must be in a barn, or shed, or something. You definitely weren’t in New York City anymore.

You vaguely remembered what had happened in the gas station bathroom. There’d been a man waiting in the first stall, who jumped on you, shoving your head against the mirror hard enough to crack your skull. You figured that you’d blacked out, and he’d jumped the window with you in tow.

Then another memory washes over you like a tsunami, flooding you with regret.

Aaron said he loved you, and you didn’t say it back. Now, you might never get to tell him that you love him again.

+++++

Aaron removed himself from the case, leaving Rossi in charge. He knew he’d only slow everyone else down with the torrent of emotions dancing inside his skull. So now, he’s resorted to sitting in your hotel room alone, wishing he hadn’t told you to go to the hotel. He’d been crying for the first time in years.

Aaron had no clue what to do, and it gives him newfound respect for the families of abducted victims that he speaks to. He pulled the sparkling diamond ring he planned on giving you tonight out of his bag, staring at it and imagining it on your ring finger. It doesn’t make him happier, instead it just turns the steady stream of tears into a storm.

+++++

Morgan, Rossi, JJ, and Emily, seated at the silver table in the conference room, were going over every last piece of evidence they have, while Spencer made a map of the abduction sites as Agent Milenka told him the addresses. They already established that the victims were high-risk due to their above-average athleticism, and each victim was taken from a high-risk location. Spencer looked for any sense of a pattern in abduction sites, but couldn’t find one. Eventually, he sat down next to Morgan and Emily, defeated.

“So all we know is that he’s obsessed with Y/N, and that he wasn’t remorseful about the murders of the other women.” Derek sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“Well, if he was able to subdue her, he most likely had the element of surprise. So, he probably isn’t physically strong, and needed that advantage to knock her out.” Rossi added, and Derek nodded.

Spencer looked up from the crime scene photos. “There’s no ligature marks.”

Derek nodded. “Yeah, we went over that. So?”

“Why knock the women out and transport them if you’re just going to kill them immediately instead of holding them somewhere? Why not just kill them wherever they already are?”

Emily’s mouth fell open. “Practice. So that when he had Y/N, he knew exactly what was going to happen. But he didn’t want to ruin the rest of the fantasy by taking someone else where he’s planned to keep Y/N. He wants that to be special.”

“So we know he’s going to be holding her somewhere secluded, then,” Milenka chimed in.

After a few moments of silence, the phone rang in the center of the table, and the team members all stared at it for a few moments before Derek turned to the computer next to him, where Garcia was currently on a video call with the team.

“Can you trace this call, babygirl?”

Garcia nodded. “I don’t have a trap and trace set up yet, but I can get one, honey. Just gimme one second.”

Derek’s hand hovered over the button on the receiver to answer the call, and when Garcia affirmed that she was ready, Derek pressed the button. Instantly, a somewhat timid male voice filled the room.

“Where’s Agent Hotchner? I want to speak to him, not any of you.”

The team shared a perplexed look, and Emily asked, “How do you know who is here and who isn’t?”

“The window’s open.”

JJ ran to the window, then turned. “He’s there,” she said, pointing to a man directly underneath where the conference window was with a phone to his ear.

The rest of the team sprinted down the stairs and out of the field office, with JJ not far behind. By the time they got to where the man had been, he was long gone. No one near the area said they’d seen him, either.

Derek turned and punched the wall out of rage, while Emily cursed loudly. The rapid darkening of the sky didn’t help with trying to catch an unsub, either.

Dejectedly, the team returned to the conference room, where Garcia excitedly said, “Your man forgot to hang up for a few minutes! I don’t know entirely where he went, but I know the direction he was headed!”

“Where, Garcia?” Spencer asked, desperate for a lead.

“Straight west.”

Spencer looked to Emily, who said, “Let’s go.”

+++++

The team knew the unsub needed somewhere secluded to keep you, but couldn’t figure out where. He’d been on foot when they’d seen him, so it had to be somewhat close. Or maybe he’d had a car in a parking lot somewhere? There were too many variables. They needed Hotch.

+++++

“Drink.”

The man held a cup to your lips, but you kept them closed tight. After trying to force you for a while, he gave up. Sighing, the man ran a hand through your hair, forcing your head upright. For a serial killer, he was surprisingly gentle.

“You need your strength,” the man murmured, but you looked away when he picked up the cup again. He set it down, shaking his head, then pulled a knife out of the back pocket of his blue jeans. You knew better than to scream. It was likely that he craved your pain, so allowing him that satisfaction would coax him to continue. He walked behind you, to where you wouldn’t see him. You closed your eyes, praying for a quick death, praying Aaron would find you, praying you could see your team one last time.

But you didn’t need to.

The man cut through the rope binding your wrists, then left the room. He was rarely in the room with you, and you wondered what he was doing outside of it. For the first time, however, he came back within a few minutes of leaving. You could theoretically move if you wanted to now that the rope was gone considering how long the chain attached to your leg was, but you were weak and hurting. The last thing you saw before your vision went black yet again was the man standing above you with a syringe.

+++++

Aaron was with the rest of the team, visiting each abduction site for something, anything to help the profile, when the unsub called him.

“This is Hotchner.”

“I have her, Agent Hotchner, and I treat her better than you ever could. You think what she needs is a big strong man to control her,” he mocked, “But you don’t truly love her. No one could, except me.” Although the man’s words were confident, he sputtered out the words like an old truck engine. It sounded like he was reading a script, as though he’d had to plan out what he was going to say beforehand. As soon as the unsub finished speaking, the tell-tale click of the phone hanging up sounded.

Emily, who’d been walking next to him, stopped, pulling out her phone to contact Penelope.

“Can you get the rest of the team on the line? I think Morgan and Reid are at the Central Park crime scene, and JJ and Rossi are probably still by Times Square.”

Emily could practically hear Penelope’s smile as she responded, “Can do, gorgeous.”

A few keyboard clicks later, Penelope stated, “You’ve got me, Morgan, Rossi, Reid,and JJ.”

Emily took a shaky breath before saying, “We think Y/N knew the unsub.”

“What do you mean, knew?” Reid’s voice sounded.

“He claimed that he loves her more than Aaron ever could. He thinks he knows her better than us, so he probably knew her when she used to live in New York.”

“She went to college here, didn’t she?” JJ responded.

Penelope chimed in, exclaiming, “She went to John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Graduated top of her class.”

Morgan cleared his throat, then added: “Maybe the unsub didn’t know her, but thought he did. He could’ve been stalking her when she lived here, then kept tabs on her when she transferred to the BAU years ago.”

“He probably found out about Y/N’s relationship with Aaron recently, and that’s his stressor.” Rossi added.

Emily stared into the distance. There was something off about this. The theory made sense, but at the same time, it felt, well, wrong.

Agent Milenka, who’d been surveying the crime scene Emily and Aaron were at, sauntered over.

“I know who did this.”

Aaron met her firm gaze, confused and intrigued.

“Who?”

“There was this guy she met at John Jay, didn’t talk much, but he ended up applying to the FBI just because she did. He made it in a few months after her and got a job as a forensic analyst at our field office here. They worked together pretty often, and he was never too strange, but you got the feeling there was something off. He started acting weird after Y/N’s transfer to the BAU. I ordered another psych eval for him a few months ago, and he failed. I fired him, and I haven’t seen him since.”

Aaron and Emily shared a look, both hopeful and sad.

“What’s his name?”

“Ian Foster.”

Aaron nodded, murmuring a quick thank you, then turned back to Emily.

“Call Garcia. We need all the information we can find on Ian Foster.”

+++++

Your head hurt. You were somewhere different now; the dirty brown floor had been replaced with plush white carpet, and the chair you’d gotten used to was gone. Your left leg was still shackled, but this time it was attached to a shiny metal spike in the center of the room. You surveyed your surroundings, noting the vast difference between your current location and your past one. The chain attached to your ankle was long, probably meant to give you full access to the room you were in but keep you from leaving. The walls were white and spotless, along with the queen-sized bed behind you and the dresser and vanity along the far wall. You knew you must look out of place compared to the neatness of your surroundings, with your frizzy, dirty hair and torn, wrinkled, and stained clothes. You realized that you’d never checked your holster for your gun, and in doing so, found it empty.

Great.

Sun shone through the window on your right, and birds chirped happily, as if mocking you. They were telling you that they’re free, while you’re locked in this stupid white room.

Your captor walked in soon after you woke up, and you knew he must be watching you through a camera hidden somewhere.

“Drink.”

Your eyes searched his face, trying to understand who he was, now that you had enough light to see.

“Foster?” You managed to croak out through your parched throat.

Ian nodded, then grabbed your face with one calloused hand, forcing you to open your mouth so he could pour water in, which you promptly spat into his eyes. Instead of causing him to stumble, all it did was make him laugh.

“I see you’re still as fiery as ever.”

You clamped your mouth shut, pursing your lips and staring him in the eyes until he left. After he was gone, you tried to move your arms as much as possible. Your limbs felt heavy, like you were attached to weights, but moving was somewhat possible, a little bit at a time.

For now, that would be enough. You just had to pray that Aaron could find you.

+++++

Ian Foster’s paper trail was a series of dead ends, but Penelope Garcia, being the lovely omnipotent being she is, was able to find two properties owned by his dead uncle in upstate New York that he was likely using to hold you.

Aaron couldn’t describe the relief that wrapped itself around him, like a soft blanket, when Garcia chirped that she’d found where he was. He’d refused to allow himself to think that you might be dead, and the knowledge that now he had your location was sweeter than any candy could ever be.

He wiped a tear from his eye that threatened to fall, and cleared his throat, nodding at Emily and Agent Milenka, wordlessly signaling her to join him as he ran towards the SUV they’d been using. Emily followed, calling JJ and Rossi to give them the address as she ran. The first property, an old farmhouse, was about 40  minutes away from their current location, while the second one, a pretty two-story house, was about three hours away. Hotch, Emily, and Milenka, being farthest from both locations, were driving to the house, while the rest of the team would check out the farmhouse first then meet them there.

+++++

There was this feeling, blossoming in your chest, comforting you, whispering that Aaron was on his way. You’d learned over the years that your instincts rarely lied to you, and you hoped to whatever God there was or wasn't, that this wasn’t one of the times they misled you.

So you knew what you had to do.

You acted nice every time Ian came to visit, roughly every half hour.

Then, after five visits, you drank the water he offered willingly. Gently, Ian helped you up off the ground, a gesture that would’ve been comforting had he not been a serial killer. He moved his hands until they were lightly situated on your waist, and gazed into your eyes with the crazed fanaticism of a deranged man. He leaned in for a kiss, and the second he closed his eyes, you drove your right knee directly into his crotch.

Serves him right for being dumb enough not to fully restrain you. While he doubled over in pain, stepping back, you set up for a roundhouse kick that you placed to the back of his knee, knocking him onto the ground in an ungraceful heap. While he was on the ground, you punched him in the throat with enough force to knock the wind out of him, leaving him gasping for air on the ground like a fish out of water. Sending another kick to his temple for good measure, rendering him unconscious, you searched his pockets for anything that could remove the shackle from your leg. Eventually, you settled for a wire cutter that you used to cut off the attaching chain, but your clumsiness left an angry gash in your leg in the process. Limping from exhaustion, you ran from the room as fast as you could with the pain in your side from the glass that had been lodged there and the blood from the cut in your skull dripping down your face and neck. Your head felt fuzzy and faint, and you knew you were likely to pass out from blood loss any second. You repeated Aaron’s name in your head like a mantra, telling yourself that you needed to get back to him first, then you could pass out from pain. Every part of your body ached, screaming at you to give up as you stumbled down the creaky carpeted stairs, leaving a trail of blood in your wake.

As you neared the foyer, you heard the engine of a car, along with footsteps. The door flew open, with Aaron directly behind it, followed by Morgan, Emily, Spencer, Rossu, and a few agents from the New York office. Aaron’s eyes scanned the room before settling on you, bloodied and bruised, and he ran to you, gathering you in his arms while you whimpered like a child. He whispered things in your ear that you couldn’t make out as you let the blackness at the edge of your vision take over.

+++++

Lights. Murmuring voices. Were you still in that house?

You opened your eyes to see two people, one man and one woman, leaving the room you were in. There was a pressure on your hand that scared you, and slowly, you turned your head to see the source of the sensation, and you were greeted with what was quite possibly the best view you’d ever laid eyes on: Aaron Hotchner asleep at your side, desperately clutching your hand.

“Aaron?” You murmured. He was a light sleeper, so you knew the sound would most likely wake him up. When it didn’t, you squeezed his hand while murmuring his hand again. His head jerked up, and his tired eyes met yours.

“Y/N.” His voice was filled with so much anxiety, grief, and regret that your heart shattered, as he reached up to ever-so-gently caress your face, then kissed you softly.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.” His words took the broken pieces of your heart and smashed them again with a hammer, until you were sobbing against Aaron’s chest. He held you, and let you cry, becoming painfully aware of his inability to help in times like this. His specialty was catching criminals, not helping people through the trauma, and he entertained the thought of asking JJ to talk to you for a fleeting moment, before deciding that he couldn’t let you out of his sight for the time being.

After a few minutes, you sniffed and lifted your head to wipe away your tears, but Aaron did it before you could. You stared down at your side for a moment, watching the blood that seeped through the bandage every time you took a breath, while you gathered enough courage to speak without your voice wavering.

“I’m sorry. You told me you loved me, and I didn’t say it back, and that could’ve been the last-”

Aaron cut you off with a kiss, murmuring against your lips, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

You sat in silence with him for a while, leaning your head against his shoulder as he stroked your hair. Eventually, Aaron broke the silence.

“I saw what you did to Ian.”

You choked out a laugh despite the pain that ripped through you while doing so. “Yeah, I left him in pretty bad shape, didn’t I?”

Aaron nodded, smiling. “I’m proud of you. Most people wouldn't be able to escape a serial killer.”

“Well, I’m not most people, Hotchner.”

“That’s for sure.”

+++++

The rest of the team left for D.C. the next morning, but Aaron stayed to drive you home once you were discharged from the hospital. First, however, he dropped you off at the FBI field office to talk with Agent Milenka while he called Jessica to ask if she’d mind watching Jack for a few more days, explaining what happened to you. She practically viewed you as a sister, and after recovering from the initial horror, was happy to agree.

“Hey, Y/N! You’re alive!” Agent MIlenka called brightly as you limped into her office, bumping your crutched on the doorframe.

You chuckled. “Sadly, I am. Aaron told me it was you who figured out Foster had taken me. How’d you know?”

Milenka shrugged. “I may not be a profiler, but I sure as hell can tell when someone’s not right. The guy went almost crazy when you left New York. It just made sense.”

“But if that was his stressor, he would’ve started murdering earlier.”

“We thought at first that finding out about you and Agent Hotchner might’ve been the stressor, but it was impossible to tell when he’d found out, so we switched gears. I fired Ian a few months ago because he’d just been getting worse and worse, and eventually was a liability on cases. The last straw was him failing his psych evaluation. Maybe he felt that losing his FBI job meant he lost his last chance to be with you if he’d been hoping to transfer to your unit someday.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s around the time the kidnappings started, isn’t it?”

Milenka nodded. The two of you stood in her office in comfortable silence for a bit, until she stood up from her desk, crossing the distance between you and engulfing you in a nervous hug. She pulled away fairly quickly, most likely out of fear of hurting you, and awkwardly patted you twice on the shoulder. “Take care, Agent.”

“You too, Milenka.”

You turned to go, but stopped when you heard Milenka call, “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Hotchner’s a good guy. Don’t let that one get away.”

You merely offered her a smile, then strode out of her office as elegantly as one can with a limp.

+++++

The ride home was nice, full of easy discussion, laughter, and a few guilty looks that Aaron snuck at your stitched-up side, wishing he’d listened to you.

You made a joke he didn’t hear, and leaned over in your seat so you could wave a hand in front of his face, calling his name in a sing-song voice.

“Aaron, you good?”

Aaron shook his head slightly, rubbed his eyes, then turned towards you. “Yes?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

You hummed in affirmation, then turned towards the window. The rest of the drive was spent in comfortable silence, until you arrived at Aaron’s house. You spent practically all of your time there. Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d stepped foot into your apartment. Aaron helped you into the house and to your shared bed, where you passed out immediately. You vaguely heard a soft whisper of “sleep well” before you were out cold.

Aaron watched you for what felt like hours, feeling pent-up stress and anger roll off of him in waves as he silently stroked your hair, grateful beyond words that you’d lived. You murmured something in your sleep that sounded suspiciously like “I love you,” before rolling over to curl against his chest, nuzzling your head against the crook of his neck. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself a smile. Aaron basked in the rare feeling of relaxation, thinking about how nice it would be to bottle up this feeling and keep it forever, until sleep finally pulled him into its soft clutches. And for once, with you safely nestled into him, he slept easily. He still hadn’t proposed, but that was okay. Now that you were safe, you two had all the time in the world.

[lunas-criminally-writing]

panic room part one

maggie hotchner x spencer reid

word count: 11917

a/n: this is the long awaited third installment of written in the stars. this chapter has been in process for almost a month between writing and editing. i wrote this chapter on google docs instead of my normal notes on my phone, the chapter made its way to being 58 pages and a total of 11917 words pre a/n. i am very proud of this chapter. i wanted to be able to thank some people that made this possible. my lovely beta @bacchicly and my best friend @spencerreidsworld, my sophie. i am posting this chapter in two parts so tumblr does not decided to cut part of it off before the ending. i will repost the triggers and summary for the next part.

summary: takes place right after 'his princess'. maggie begins to have nightmares again and starts to fall down a self-destructive path. spencer watches maggie change before his eyes. one visit causes spencer to finally reach out to aaron hotchner, maggie's father, to reveal foyet's threats and how it was affecting maggie’s mental state causing him to worry.

trigger warnings: nightmares involving death, weapons, drinking alcohol, hallucinations, swearing, threats, arguing, self-harm, possible overdose/suicide attempt, blood, trip to the er.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

"i have been watching you, little maggie hotchner." foyet smirked at the brunette female in front of him. "you thought i was done with you. i am far from done with you - your mother was just the beginning"

maggie looks at him with murder in her eyes.

she wants to end this.

"i will kill you foyet"

she takes a step toward him but stops cold when she sees spencer tied to a chair behind foyet

"i don't think that would be a good idea."

foyet leers, pointing a gun at the unconscious spencer.

"you come closer and he gets it."

"he has nothing to do with this foyet." maggie squeaks "please let him go"

foyet shakes his head - clicking his tongue softly "he has everything to do with this. he made you forget about me. he made you feel again"

in gross parody of foyet’s gesture - maggie feels herself shaking her own head as tears form

"i have never forgotten about you and what you did to me. i see it every day"

"that is not good enough."

foyet pulls the trigger.

the bullet flies straight into spencer's heart.

🖤🖤🖤

maggie woke up with a scream - exploded from spencer's warm embrace - she was crying and gasping for air - confused by the fact that they had fallen asleep on the couch in the living room

spencer shot awake at her anguish. he swiftly engulfed maggie into a hug and tried to calm her down. he had not seen her like this in months.

maggie had looked at him not seeing him. she instinctively pushed him away breaking down further.

“don’t touch me!”

spencer let go for a moment in shock at the harshness in her voice.

...but once he thought she'd let him touch her again he asked her a silent question - cautiously placed a hand on her upper arm. when she didn't flinch away - spencer ever so tenderly wrapped his arms around her.

"m&m shush. it is okay i promise" he whispered over and over until she calmed down

maggie slowly caught her breath.

she looked at spencer still shaking

"he took you from me"

she whispered sounding frightened and quite small

spencer shook his head

"i am still here, princess. i promise, he did not get me"

spencer's voice was low and raspy - filled with a wish he could do more.

"no no you don't understand. foyet is back. the nightmares are back"

spencer put his hand on her cheek and rubbed his thumb across it

"i will do everything i can to protect you from foyet"

maggie shook her head rapidly, much like how she shook her head at foyet

"you cannot protect me if you get caught by foyet. he is going to kill you"

her voice squeaked in an eerie echo to the one she used in her dream.

"i will be at your side so foyet won't get you, m&m. will never get you."

maggie looked at him - biting her lip - scared out of mind

"i can't lose you, spencer"

"i can't lose you either, maggie"

spencer kissed her forehead

maggie finally melted into his arms and just stayed there.

"you ok, maggie? can you back to sleep now?"

"of course."

"should we go to bed?"

"no. don't wanna move."

spencer kissed her forehead again - convinced - relieved - he pulled the sheet over them not worrying about the blanket on the warm night when they had each other.

maggie listened to his heartbeat and breathing. the sound was enough to soothe her into a numb but not quite numb enough state. she normally would have relished the sweet sound but she was so out of it and the nightmare wouldn't fade from her mind - in fact it seemed to get more vivid not less.

soon enough she was relieved to hear spencer had fallen into a deep steady trusting slumber. . .

finally.

maggie carefully wiggled out of his arms - made sure he was settled comfortably - then covered him up with the discarded blanket which had fallen to the ground during her struggles - she didn't want him to be cold without her.

it seemed to her that the only reason this man - this man who looked for all the world like a fallen angel - had fallen asleep was because he was exhausted from all the worry and the walking they did that day. otherwise surely his profiler brain would have seen through her fib and been wide awake to make sure she was okay.

suddenly she is furious. he was beyond used to the sleepless nights he had when he was out on cases or when maggie had her nightmares when she first came to live with him. something in him made him fall asleep, probably that despite saying he loved her…

he didn't…

couldn't...

but in truth, it was nothing so sinister, it was just that he did not sense a change in maggie, not yet anyways.

maggie padded blindly over to the alcohol cabinet in the kitchen. taking a deep breath she guiltily pulled open the door and took out the honey jack. she tossed a glance over her shoulder to confirm nothing has awoken the agent she was just been sharing the couch with - convinced - relieved that he wasn't awake to judge - she unscrewed the cap and took a swig from the brand new bottle.

she smiled softly as the alcohol burned her throat - enjoying the feeling. she took the bottle with her to the living room. she sat in the armchair that was next to the couch and took another long gulp of the honey jack savoring the smooth sting - anticipating the escape it promised.

through the course of the night, maggie finished off at least a fourth of the bottle. maggie was never really one to drink but she needed something to numb the pain of her nightmare.

once numb enough to no longer see foyet's leer every time her eyes closed - she hid the bottle in the bathroom behind her pads - furiously brushed her teeth - washed her face - so spencer would not know what she had gotten into.

back in the livingroom maggie watched over spencer - silently tracing the shadowed dear lines of his face with her eyes before slumping back to her armchair and finally letting herself be sucked into the insensibility.

🖤🖤🖤

in the morning spencer woke up first.

he looked at maggie who was curled up and still asleep in the armchair. her sleeves were pushed up and the bandages spencer had put on her were gone. maggie must have scratched them off in her sleep. spencer noticed with relief that the wounds were pretty much healed - but the bandages were there for a precautionary measure to keep her from scratching. he got up before going to grab the wrap he always used to rebandage maggie's arms. as she continued to sleep he carefully wraps her arms, sending silent pleas into the universe that things would get better not harder. once he was done he rolled her sleeves back down and kissed her forehead.

"princess it is time to wake up" he whispered

maggie grunted rubbing her eyes then she stretched, waking up "what time is it?" she mumbled

"It is 10 am on saturday, princess. it is pancake day!"

that woke maggie up instantly and she grinned - surprisingly not feeling even a tiny bit hungover

"let's get pancake day started!"

"and you know there was a study done at the prestigious vermont institute of flapjack science in 1973 that proved that beautiful women were 93.6% more likely to have a good day if breakfast included pancakes and Vermont maple syrup. so up and at'em, missy."

"you are a goof, dr. reid."

"that is correct. but I believe, ms. hotchner, that it would be more accurate to say that I am YOUR goof."

spencer offered her his hand which she took with a smile. he pulled her up and into his arms. they stood in the middle of the apartment arms wrapped around each other - spencer leaning in for a kiss - but that was when the hallucinations started for maggie.

over spencer's shoulder, maggie saw foyet standing there smirking at her.

the brunette squeaked and rubbed her eyes, after that foyet was gone.

"you okay princess?" Spencer asked, hearing the squeak.

maggie nodded "i just thought i saw something is all"

spencer quirked an eyebrow but didn't push her - before leading her off into the kitchen so they could make their pancakes.

pancake day was something they started one saturday after they came home from a case that had been an extra difficult one. maggie had suggested making pancakes to cheer themselves up. it did help and now it's something they did every saturday - even if they were on a case - they would do their best to make time to order the fanciest pancakes at whatever breakfast place they could find.

spencer grabbed the dry ingredients and maggie grabbed the wet ones. but just as they had everything laid out on the counter ready to go - another vision of foyet hit - this time looming in the corner holding the gun

shaken, maggie excused herself to go to the bathroom.

once in the bathroom, maggie quickly pulled out the hidden honey jack - frantically scrabbling at the cap until it opened and she could take a few huge swallows.

maggie looked into the mirror to check that there was nothing to give her away to eagle eyed spencer - but gasped when she saw foyet holding a knife behind her.

she whipped around only to find that no one was there.

she tipped the bottle again - the alcohol burned like it had last night - seemingly chasing away the horrors

she looked in the mirror again and sees nothing but her own haunted reflection

resolutely she sealed the bottle and returned it to it's hiding place - then for good measure she brushed her teeth quickly. perfect that was all she needed - she was good to go now.

she flushed the empty toilet then rubbed her eyes desperately one last time before heading out to the kitchen - thankful the spector of foyet did not reappear

maggie plastered a smile on her face - she had to make sure spencer didn't suspect anything beyond the usual was wrong

"ready to make these pancakes?" spencer asked and maggie made herself nod fiercely

the two threw themselves into making the pancakes, leaving a small mess in the little kitchen. they both had flour on their turtlenecks and pants, even their hair, but it was nothing they couldn't clean up.

the pancakes of the week were chocolate chip. once their breakfast was ready, the couple sat in the living room with their plates and spencer turned on saturday cartoons. the two enjoyed their pancakes as they watched superman and lois lane waltz across the small screen.

🖤🖤🖤

by the afternoon it is clear that maggie can't seem to help herself and has excused herself a few times to the bathroom rarely actually used the facilities - although always made sure to flush and run the water as though she was washing her hands - gargling with mouthwash - but really she was just there to drink more.

so far the alcohol seemed to be keeping the hallucinations away.

by midday, the bottle was close to being halfway gone and maggie was feeling happier and more relaxed than she had in what felt like forever - she smiled dreamily at her new boyfriend - spending hours just playing with his long fingers - or humming little songs against his chest

spencer noticed something was off - but he was not sure what it was yet - and well - it was nice to see maggie so happy.

as the day continued maggie and spencer cuddled and enjoyed the saturday to themselves watching movies.

and anytime spencer felt a prickle of unease or worry - he pushed it down deep - after all if something was really wrong he trusted maggie to tell him.

happiness wasn't something that happened in his life easily - he was damned if he was going to squander these moments of being with the woman he loved with what was likely just his trademark neurotic overthinking.

🖤🖤🖤

that evening maggie's phone rang with her father's ringtone. she quickly answered as spencer was asleep with his head on her lap.

"hey dad" maggie prompted quietly as she played with spencer's curls

"hey, mint. i was just calling to see how the fair was"

maggie giggled softly and truth be told a little drunkenly before answering "the fair was an amazing dad. i hate that you missed it this year. it was not the same without you"

"i know. i wish i could have gone. i did wanna see if you and reid wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow evening. i'll make spaghetti" aaron weedled.

"dinner sounds great, dad. i'll let spencer know when he wakes back up. we can be over around 5, if you want?" maggie offered

"5 works for me. i can't wait" aaron said

"me too dad. i miss your cooking" she said

"i'm sorry, i have to go now. talk to you later mint? i love you"

"i love you too, dad. see you tomorrow" she said hanging up.

maggie kissed spencer's forehead, trying to wake him up now

spencer stretched slightly and opened his eyes. "hey princess." he whispered softly

"hey love. my dad invited us over for dinner at 5 tomorrow"

"that sounds amazing." spencer hummed out tracing her profile with a finger

maggie nodded absently playing with his hair again "you know i love you spence, right? i love you so much - no matter what" she whispered.

"i love you too m&m. i love you so much" he said, watching her and still trying to figure out what was off about her

maggie told herself she was acting as normal as possible - not to throw off her profiler boyfriend - oh no never that - but because revealing the hallucinations of foyet would make things too hard.

so maggie kept the smile on her face but it did not reach her eyes.

"are you okay maggie? you seem anxious," spencer asked, sitting up.

maggie nodded watching him but all she saw was him with a bleeding chest and not breathing.

"i am fine spence"

"okay. if something was wrong you would tell me, right?"

"of course, i would. excuse me i have to use the bathroom - you mister have been squishing my bladder!"

"that's doctor bladder squisher, to you! not mister"

"oh my apologies - doctor head-as-heavy-as-an-anvil- because-he-has-so-many-brains reid."

spencer faked a smile as he watched her head to the bathroom and shut the door for what felt like the millionth time today although he knew it was only the 14th. he was starting to really worry about her so he got up and went to the kitchen. he checked the alcohol and was not totally surprised that a bottle was missing. he sighed realizing what must be going on with maggie - but why?

it hurt him to see this side of her, he hated that she was hurting again. foyet had caused her to break all over again after the months of hard work it took for her to be okay. at the sound of the bathroom door opening, spencer crossed back to the couch, determined to figure out what was going on.

maggie stepped out of the bathroom mid deep breath, her face was wet from splashing water on it. the hallucinations had stopped for the time being and as long as she kept them at bay she was gonna be fine.

maggie had stopped taking her prescription for them because it had stopped working. the drinking seemed to be the only thing that was currently working. she wiped her face on her sleeve and walked towards spencer. "hey love, do you want to order takeout tonight?" she asked

spencer nodded with a small smile. "can you order my usual? i am gonna use the bathroom" he asked

maggie nodded before taking out her phone, putting in the number for the place.

spencer walked to the bathroom and shut the door. He opened the mirror cabinet where maggie kept her prescription, noting there were several bottles in there. she had been picking up her refills on the dates she was supposed to still which seemed good - until he checked the bottles - but the one that was dated for the week they had started living together they were still all full. they had been living together for about 6 months at this point. he took a deep breath as this information set in.

maggie had not been on her meds for months - how long had the hallucinations been back? spencer closed the cabinet and stared himself down in the mirror. how was he supposed to help her if she would not let him in?

once spencer walked out of the bathroom he had so many questions but he wanted to wait until maggie was ready to talk. he was not gonna force it out of her. he moved to his beautiful broken girl and gave her a big hug.

maggie's first impulse was to push him away - in her mind's eye he was soaked in blood pouring from a single bullet wound to his chest - but she had to keep up appearances when in reality she did not wanna be touched.

she was still hallucinating that he was dead.

why was this the only one that seemed to stay even with the copious amount of alcohol in her system? but she couldn't ask that question out loud so instead...she leans back and looks up into his face...and...

"what is this lovely big hug for?"

"you just looked like you needed a hug is all,"

maggie nodded softly before breaking out of the hug. "food will be here in about 20 minutes. do you wanna set up another movie while I go change for bed?"

the male nodded and he moved to grab the remote and a book.

once in the bedroom, maggie took off her shirt quickly - it was then she saw the fresh bandages on her arms.

when had that happened? she remembered taking them off. why hadn't she felt them earlier? was it the alcohol?

it hit her that spencer woke up first so he must have redone her bandages. it caused her to sigh softly because she knew how much he wanted to protect her even from herself.

she quickly grabbed a fresh tee-shirt, hoodie, and pair of sweatpants. all of the clothing had belonged to spencer - he'd given them to her when she'd first moved in and had been unable to face collecting her own things. the moment she put them on she felt safer. next she went to their little gun safe and punched in the code and took out her revolver. the metal felt hot in her hands. she put the gun in the holster and placed it on her hip. she draped the hoodie over it before walking back to the living room.

spencer smiled at her before walking past her to change himself.

maggie touched her hip and felt her gun. she sighed before putting it next to the armchair hiding it. she was planning on sleeping out there and she wanted to be able to protect herself. she looked at the tv and saw the movie spencer picked. he put on one of her favorites, back to the future. it made her smile. she was broken out of her trance by spencer's return . he looked deep in thought.

"everything okay my love?" maggie asked

spencer nodded before speaking "yea just thinking about work is all" it was not necessarily a lie as he was thinking about how maggie had been acting while on cases.

"did we get a case or something? i didn't hear my phone."

"no, we did not. i was just thinking how nice it is that we have been able to have a little bit of a break is all"

maggie nodded smiling "it has been kind of nice actually"

with that, the doorbell rang and spencer went to answer it. maggie went into high alert, almost throwing herself at the cushion which hid her gun.

it was just their food from the chinese restaurant.

maggie let out a breath she didn't know she was holding and went to the kitchen. she grabbed a fork for spencer before settling on the couch as spencer joined her.

he smiled at her before handing off her food. she handed him the fork smiling back. spencer took the remote before turning on the movie.

the two ate their food and watched the movie. maggie stayed put for the entire movie, enjoying it though she had watched it a million or so times.

spencer watched her more than the movie - trying to figure out how he could help her. after the movie he cleared his throat causing maggie to look at him

"you ready to head to bed?"

"yes I did not realize how late it was," she said softly - getting up to gather the trash.

spencer got up to help her but she stopped him. she urged him to get the bed set for them. he looked torn but finally nodded and went to do as she bid.

maggie finished cleaning up the living room before joining him in the bedroom. spencer was already laying down on his side with the outsider in hand, one of his beautiful girlfriend’s favorites.

"would you like me to read to you tonight?"

"i would like that very much," she said before getting into the bed. she left a space between them which was unusual but spencer did not mention it

spencer opened his book and began to read.

maggie listened intently. normally it would put her to sleep but she was wide awake thinking about her revolver in the living room.

eventually spencer began to nod off so maggie took the book from his hands. she put the book on her nightstand and reached over him to turn off the light on his.

maggie leaned down and kissed his forehead then left the room. maggie went to the bathroom and grabbed the bottle of honey jack. she looked back at the bedroom before turning to go back to the armchair. she put the bottle on the coffee table before grabbing her hidden gun. she sat down placing her gun on her lap still holstered and grabbed the bottle.

maggie frowned at the amount left in the bottle - she had not realized that it was almost gone. she made a mental note that she had to replace it before spencer noticed. she unscrewed the cap and took a huge swig. she swallowed and put the cap back on.

throughout the night maggie stayed awake drinking and playing with the gun in her lap.

spencer slept through the night.

eventually, maggie fell asleep - the bottle was empty and left on the coffee table - her gun remained in her lap.

maggie's face was tear-stained from the hallucinations causing her to break down over and over throughout the night.

[masonscig]

first line tag game

thank you for the tag @crackerdumortain !!!!! yours were so much fun to read omg !!!!

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag some of your favourite authors!

[disclaimer: i write for the choices fandom and some for litg so you’ll see a mix of those fandoms on this list LMAO]

1. stay [twc – mason x sofía]

The first time was casual. She had a knack for musing her thoughts aloud, tossing her harmless opinions out for anyone who’d catch them.

She was good at starting conversations in that way – while he’d never been one for talking.

She never did it with heavy topics, though.

2. thieves in the shadows [choices – blades au – mal x zilyana]

bullets pelted the crates they were crouched behind, wood splintering in every direction. bodies were strewn across the warehouse, the unmistakable pools of blood streaking across the stone.

“raine! to your left!” immy yelled her way, barely sparing her a glance before unloading her clip, shell casings clinking against the ground.

the gun trembled in yana’s hands. she’d shot one before – practice at the gun range, glass bottles in a back alley – but never a live target.

3. if we meet again [choices – open heart au – bryce x spencer] 18+

year one

The ride from the airport to her parents’ home was long and grueling, the slushy ice pelting the windshield barely passing for snow.

It was practically sub-zero outside, a stark difference between the mid seventies weather she’d just left.

4. clandestine [twc – mason x sofía] 18+

“hey. hey wake up –”

she stirred at the greeting, but jumped when he kicked the desk. her face contorted into a grimace, the imprint of her tweed jacket on her cheek outlined in pink. “hmm?”

“you fell asleep again,” he said, plopping a bag in front of her.

5. undying [choices – blades – mal x zilyana]

Zilyana stirred, resituating herself against Mal’s bare chest, feeling his arm instinctively tighten around her shoulders. When she realized she was missing the sound of his deep breathing, accompanied with an occasional soft snore, she cracked an eye open to see his chin tipped upwards, his gaze trained on the ceiling.

6. talent show [choices – platinum – shane x dom]

There wasn’t a day that went by where she didn’t cross his mind. Even since they were kids.

He admired so much about her – her fiery spirit, her drive, her unwavering tenacity.

And he’d been in love with Dom for as long as he could remember.

7. redeemed [choices – platinum – raleigh x dom]

As soon as he stepped off stage, he was shuffled to his tour bus, Fiona on his heels. She looked like the human embodiment of rage in a grey blazer, a look in her eye that made him thankful he wasn’t the one it was directed at – or at least he hoped he wasn’t the reason she was two seconds away from a murderous rampage.

8. hidden [choices – foreign affairs – blaine x carina] 18+

Her cheek slipped out of the palm of her hand, forehead smacking the desk, nearly jumping out of her skin at the abrupt awakening.

“Ow.”

She prodded the tender spot on her face, thankful her foundation was thick.

A soft snore caught her attention – next to her, Blaine was passed out. Leaning back in his chair, his head was thrown back, arms crossed against his chest, the textbook on its face in his lap.

9. is this fate? [litg au – bobby x mc] 18+

The peroxide was cold when it hit her skin, the liquid bubbling on her knee, relentlessly stinging. She sucked in a breath through gritted teeth.

“Sorry… should be over soon,” he murmured, wiping up the stray liquid that streamed down her leg with a small rag.

The heaviness of the atmosphere between them was almost too much to bear – they’d barely spoken since he helped her onto the counter in his small office, leg propped up between his own, where he sat in his desk chair.

10. asvista cove [litg college au – bobby x elena]

Bobby’s thumb flicked the lighter repeatedly until he got a consistent flame, moving slowly from left to right over the edge of the blunt. His cheeks hollowed out as he sucked in, the tip of it an auburn ember. He pulled it out of his mouth and sucked in an even deeper breath, holding it.

When he blew out the thick cloud of smoke, he passed it to her, coughing under his breath. “Whew. Your turn.”

She followed suit, the thick smoke coating the inside of her lungs, bitter and heavy. She exhaled, the shroud smoke enveloping her view of the sealine.

11. reticent [twc – mason x sofía] 18+

She was bare.

Bare in the way that one is when they’ve been stripped down and torn apart with a trained gaze just calculating enough for them to feel seen – parts of her she didn’t know she’d hidden splayed out like withered pages of a book, dog-eared and marked up like a frequently reread novel.

One he’d reread because it was familiar, because it had fallen into his lap (he hadn’t searched for it), not so much because it was his favorite.

12. more [twc – mason x sofía] 18+

He laced his fingers through her thick hair, reveling in the way his skin looked contrasted against the midnight of her hair.

[the way i can’t post more than this bc it’s....... very nsfw right out the bat LMFAO]

13. calm before the storm [choices – open heart – bryce x spencer]

Since the moment his hands trembled amidst one of the most important surgeries of his life, Bryce was holding on by a thread.

With each half-assed joke he cracked, each wavering smile, each time he tried convincing others – including himself – that he was coping, he fell apart more and more.

The first night he went home after Spencer was quarantined, he trudged through the halls of Edenbrook, like he was dragging his legs through wet concrete. He was nearly magnetized to her bedside, not wanting to leave, but he needed to rest – he’d been awake for nearly a day and a half by the time he clocked out.

14. envy | part two of the attached series [twc – mason x sofía x felix]

He strode down the hallway, hands in his pockets to give the illusion that he didn’t give a shit, when he was most definitely on edge. His fingers flicked his lighter open and closed against the twill lining of his pockets, trying to focus on the soft clicking noise it made instead of the swarm of thoughts clouding his conscience.

He still couldn’t figure out why he cared so much.

15. comfort | part one of the attached series [twc – mason x sofía x felix]

He noticed it before she did.

Her pulse didn’t jump the same way it did the first dozen times he walked into the room. The blood didn’t rush to her cheeks, or creep up her neck, the crimson flush absent even when he tried his hardest to fluster her. And it normally took next to nothing to get her to turn into a bumbling mess.

16. out of time [choices – open heart – sienna x danny]

She sprinted down the hallway, pager still beeping erratically on her hip, the weight of the numbers enough to make her feel like she was slugging through wet concrete.

No, no, not him, please, not him, she chanted to herself, vision blurring with tears before she had the chance to let the negative possibilities set in.

17. unrequited part three [choices – open heart – bryce x spencer]

She slumped into the seat in the deserted waiting room, her joints popping as she stretched, her deep sigh echoing off of the tile. She was exhausted.

She could usually push through the worst of her shifts, but fatigue settled into her bones, a lethargy she’d never experienced entrapping her like a net, and she couldn’t fight her way out of it this time.

18. signs [choices – ride or die – logan x raquel]

“A final in sign language? Couldn’t you just have a conversation with the teacher or some shit?” Logan sat across from her on the couch, watching as her fingers bent and flexed, transfixed.

She stopped abruptly, screwing her mouth to the side in concentration. She repeated the same few moves, getting more and more frustrated with each sequence.

19. mementos [choices – ride or die – logan x raquel]

The sound of his boots slapping against the damp pavement reverberated off of the brick of the alleyways, his gasping breaths adding to the symphony that was his escape.

20. warmth [twc – mason x sofía]

“You’re going the wrong way,” Mason grunted, looking particularly stiff in her passenger seat.

“I thought we could take the scenic route,” she shrugged, flicking her high beams on as she turned off of the main road leading downtown, easing on the brakes when the tires hit the gravel.

okay so....... i didn’t really realize just HOW MUCH i’ve written since the summer? i’ve fallen into a pattern where i think i’m a failure bc of how slow i am to write because i have so many series i’ve started and dropped off and wips i’ve abandoned but.... i’ve managed to write for most appreciation weeks i’ve both hosted/participated in and i’ve written for THREE fandoms.... i don’t normally gas myself up but? i’m really? proud of myself? KSJDJKSD if you read this far thank you and you’re prob watching me have a breakdown over how much i’ve managed to write oh my GOD ok i need to lie down KLSDFKASFJD i didn’t even think i could hit 20 but i did???? alright i’m officially gonna treat myself at some point bc i did all this in less than a year.... these are from the end of july 2020 to now..... wow ok im done i promise SKDFJKSDF

tagging: @raleighcarrera and @pixeljazzy !!! <3 

[island-delver-go]

A wake up call from George Godwyn

For going on two years now, I have been following several Donald Trump groups, alt right groups, and just general far right reactionary groups. I have seen these groups grow from 500 or a thousand people to 20,000, 30,000, 50,000, 100,000, and more. One particularly grotesque example is almost half 1 million. There are more, I’ve lost track.

When I joined them, I felt like something was changing, something new was happening, and I wanted to try and understand it. (As well as for an occasional laugh, it would be fruitless for me to deny that now.) Of course, it was fucking appalling. But I kept watching. I knew Trump would win the primary long before most people thought it was a possibility on the basis of what I saw in these groups. I’ve become familiar with memes and tropes and ideas common in the groups and I think I’ve gotten a fairly good grip on the culture. I’ve been pretty accurate in my predictions regarding the Trump and the hard right over this period of time, other than his victory in the general election. Because of these groups.

Since that time, when the subject of Trump, or the alt right, or neo-Nazis in conversation, sometimes I will suggest to my friends, people on the left, that they join a trump group or an alt right group, to see what’s going on in them. And I can’t remember one time offhand when the person I was talking to thought it was a good idea. (If I’m wrong, if I’m forgetting, feel free to correct me, but I can’t remember anyone wanting to.) My memory is that, to a person, anyone I know on the left who has heard the suggestion has expressed feelings somewhere in a range between lack of interest to horror, generally tending towards the latter.

So the other day I wake up to my feed full of people angry about the New York Times profile of the Ohio Nazi, Tony Hovater. I read the piece and it just seems like a profile of a Nazi to me. Completely unsurprising or notable in any way, other than its correlation with my own experience. I thought it was very well done.

Then I started reading my friend’s posts about the article, articles about the article. Apparently everyone is angry about the normalization of the Nazi in the piece.

Hey, guys. Hey, as someone who’s been watching this shit for two fucking years, here’s a little wake up, You really don’t have to worry about the New York Times normalizing Nazis because it’s too fucking late. THIS SHIT IS NORMAL NOW.

Like I said, for two years I’ve been telling people to join a Trump group, watch a Nazi website, do something to keep yourself familiar with this shit, and for two years I’ve been watching everyone ignore that advice and then act surprised when Nazis happen. Guys, THEY’RE HAPPENING. If the Times profile bothered you, if you were surprised that the Times would print something so bland about a Nazi, you just haven’t caught up to where we are. There’s just no way you would be surprised if you were really familiar with real world, ground-level, political landscape of 2017. It was spot on perfect, in execution and conception. You’re angry because you wanted the Times to treat the Nazi as though he were abnormal, but he just isn’t. You want to read about Nazis leading some sort of twilight existence, on the cultural outskirt, but THAT’S NOT WHERE THEY ARE. The New York Times didn’t normalize that Nazi. He’s normal. Journalists can’t hyperventilate at every Joe Dokes with a swastika poster, anymore. Normal people are Nazis, now. It was a perfect, accurate representation of the ordinariness, the commonness, of contemporary white nationalism and authoritarianism. It’s exactly where America is at, and if you don’t get that, you really need to.

They’ve come in and out of the libertarian group I run, they’re all over the far right pages. The people who actually call themselves Nazis are the minority, of course, and most of the people in the Donald Trump groups wouldn’t dream of referring to themselves as Nazis, right now, but they are not one iota less hateful. To be honest, they are probably more hateful than the guy the Times profiled. And half the people who wouldn’t dream of actually calling themselves Nazis are EXTREMELY sympathetic to great portions of the Nazi program. Shit, white nationalist ideas go down with barely a spoken objection in some of the straight Trump groups, quite often. They’re not problematic at all. The Overton window has shifted so far and so fast, the Nazis are in it now. It’s that fucking simple. They may be on the edge, but they’re well within the frame. The guy in the Times piece is in there, smoking a cigar, kicking back, and putting his feet on the ottoman. Again, guys — THIS IS NORMAL. THE NAZIS ARE NORMAL.

I’ve watched these groups proliferate, grow. You want to tell yourself that this is a fringe, that the worst, loudest, biggest assholes take over groups like that. That ain’t it. A couple dozen groups have become hundreds, thousands. I’ve read the comments, I’ve clicked on the profiles, and I’ve read the user info for all the perfectly nice, seemingly intelligent, well-spoken citizens cheering ICE incarcerating some sick 10-year-old, saying all Muslim-Americans should be deported, demanding football players who protest the police should be put in jail until they stop kneeling, that some reporter should be thrown in jail for asking the president an uncomfortable question, that Iran and North Korea should immediately be nuked. I’m not talking about five or six unpleasant comments on your local newspaper website, I’m talking about literally hundreds of posts with threads that are thousands of comments long, every day, in every group, exactly like this, in too many groups to count.

So how long would you stay in a group where people post gloat in video of children being physically separated from their family if you didn’t kind of agree? With threads thousands of comments long reveling the torture and murder of civilians, or their nuclear annihilation? Advocating beating and murder for using a bathroom? Or laughing at “another monkey” being murdered in cold blood by the police because “he didn’t follow orders.”

At certain point, sticking around watching a crime makes you complicit, don’t you think? And there are millions of people happily sticking around, watching all this, if they’re not actively participating. They’re not monsters, they’re not the prison gang leader with the swastika on his neck. They’re just folks. They’re filled with hate. But they are still just folks, most of the time. This is America now.

Nobody thought Donald Trump could win the Republican primary because he was just so stupid, so venomous, and so obviously beyond the bounds of what WE tought were the cultural/political norms, but he did. No one thought he could win the election for the same reason, but he did. And he won not despite those flaws, because of them. A huge segment of the population of the United States is filled with hatred so intense they actively want a vastly more authoritarian government that will shove that hatred down the throats of the left. They want fascism. They’re hungry for it, whether they call it that or not. In the kind of Orwellian doublespeak this administration has become famous for, they call it “liberty” or “freedom” or “American values”, but they’re talking about hard authoritarianism. They’re talking about fascism. A lot of them would balk at the term, but they know what they want.

The guy in the apartment next to you thinks this country would be a lot better off if we dealt with drug users the way Trump’s friend in the Philippines does. One of your coworkers doesn’t like the term “Nazi” because his grandfather fought them, but he goes home every night and sits in front of his computer and considers whether or not some of the points Richard Spencer is making might not be exactly what America needs. The cop that gave you a ticket for speeding last night has a 14 words tattoo that he’s been hiding in the locker room for the last couple years, at least around the black officers. And the girl next to you on the bus, on the way home, she’s a fucking Nazi. I guarantee she’s a fucking Nazi.

November 8, 2016, all of us on the left and a substantial segment of the right watched in amazement as Donald Trump rode a burgeoning wave of race hatred and ideological tribalism into the White House. If you think victory has satiated this monster, you are very fucking mistaken. And if you think defeating the Republicans in 2018 or 2020 is going to stop it, destroy it, you’re delusional.

The new authoritarianism is here, it is part of the culture, and it’s making itself comfortable. Ethno-nationalism, white supremacy, hard right authoritarianism, has been back in Europe for awhile and now it’s here. Not the bad part of America you never actually visit, not some backwoods hillbilly America that we get to ignore in our little leftie bubble. Not the supermax the next county over. It’s all around you, it’s next-door, and it’s in a little town in Ohio where a nice, young, newly married couple are starting their life together.

This is something new. Remember when Bush was president, and you’d hold up a piece of cardboard and shout that he was a fascist with a bunch of your friends? Yeah, he wasn’t. Neither was Obama or Clinton or the other Bush or Reagan. They might’ve been terrible presidents, each of them. They might be terrible people. They might’ve done unforgivable things. Every single one of them was squarely within the tradition of Western liberal democracy, and so were the politics. Donald Trump isn’t. His followers aren’t. We are through the looking glass.

If the left doesn’t stop pretending these people don’t exist, pretending they’re an anomaly, pretending they will go away if the Democrats take back the house, or Mueller catches Donald Jr. red-handed, or your friend posts another meme about Donald Trump being orange, the left is going to get its fucking silly ass kicked again. It’s not going to get better overnight, and if Trump loses in 2020, trust me, I know these people — the hard right, the Trump right, the authoritarian right, is going to lose their goddamn minds. If Trump loses, it’s going to get worse. And what do you suppose happens then? What do you suppose happens when the apple pie fascists find someone capable to do the job? What happens when someone capable realizes there’s an opening? What happens when that person isn’t a fucking clown?

This is it. This is American politics in the 21st century. We are going to be fighting the lumpen neo-authoritarian right for the rest of our lives, likely. That’s the political territory. This is new, at least in my lifetime. The ideas existed, the culture existed, but it was never so open, so brazen, so pervasive and acceptable. If it’s going to be stopped, it’s going to be stopped by people who understand what’s actually happening, not people with their heads in the sand and asses in the air. If you care, it’s time hike up your drawers, accept the facts, and familiarize yourself with the culture you’re part of, the parts of it that you’ve been trying to ignore. It’s not going away. It’s likely going to get worse before it gets better. We all need to understand what the fuck is going on before reality slaps us all in the face again, harder, with more permanent and deadlier results.

-- George Godwyn

Source

[tinuviel-undomiel]

Until Proven Guilty Chapter 2

Hi guys! I know it has been a while since I posted anything, but I hope you guys haven’t forgotten about this story. Here is another chapter for all of you and I hope you enjoy it.

Also found on AO3 and FF.Net.

Chapter 2: A Matter of Justice

           “Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?” Gold couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It had been two weeks since Milah had disappeared. By now they should have had some inkling about what had happened. A ransom note, a fingernail, a bit of hair, something of substantial. However, the Maine State Bureau of Investigation was stalled. The sheriff had called in for aid once he’d realized they didn’t have the resources to find Milah on their own. Now Gold was wondering if he should have phoned the FBI instead.

           “We have nothing,” Agent Walker said, “No leads, nothing beyond the fact that you were found covered in your wife’s blood.”

           “What about the drifter that was seen in the area?”

           “I’m afraid we simply don’t have any solid witnesses to identify this drifter.”

           “You have no suspects at all?”

           “None that we can share.”

           Gold felt like he was beating his fists against a brick wall backed by titanium. He was getting nothing out of the investigators. They had been all over the town, asking everyone he knew about his marriage, Milah, and anything else that popped into their minds. They’d combed through his finances, his businesses, leaving no stone of his life unturned. Try as he might, he couldn’t shield Bae from the way the world had unraveled. As hard as it was not knowing where Milah was or if she was still alive, the hardest part was every night when Bae would ask, “When is mama coming home?”

           Killian had come over every night to pour him a drink and talk to him. Belle was also a constant presence, often helping with Bae and around the house. He didn’t know what he would do without both of them. As solid as they were, they couldn’t give him any answers as to what had happened to his wife. Only the police could do that and they were locked down more than Fort Knox.

           “I’m sure they have something,” Killian said over scotch. Bae was asleep, but Gold kept one ear trained upstairs in case he had another nightmare. “You know cops, they keep to themselves.”

           “I’m not asking for every detail on the cast, but I just want to know if they’ve made progress.”

           “What have they told you?”

           “Nothing. They won’t even say if they have a suspect.”

           Killian nodded slowly and took a sip. “Did they say they have no suspects?”

           “None that they could share.”

           “Well then it sounds like they have someone in mind.”

           Callum knew Killian was trying to comfort him, but something about those words had his gut twisting into a knot. “They won’t tell me,” he said at last, “They have something, but they are hiding it from me.”

           “Why do you think that is?”

           Gold looked down at his barely touched drink. “I wish I knew.”

           The sick feeling didn’t go away. He tried to go back to work, but he found himself looking at the clock and counting the hours to…something. When the bell rang above his shop’s door and he saw the investigators shuffle in, he knew the countdown was over. Belle stared at the men, but they barely looked at her.

           “Callum Gold,” Agent Walker said, “You are under arrest for the murder of your wife, Milah.”

           His jaw dropped and he felt his heart sink down to his shoes. Belle gasped out “What? No! This isn’t right!”

           He couldn’t say anything. He barely heard as they read him his rights, just nodding once they finally asked him if they understood them. He felt the cold steel slip around his wrists, then painful click as they locked in place. As they led him out of his store, he realized he should have seen this coming, but he still couldn’t believe that this was truly happening.

           Overnight, the town of Storybrooke, Maine became the center of attention throughout the country. Journalists, bloggists, and crime chasers from all corners of the United States attacked the mostly forgotten town. Granny’s Inn was at full capacity. Trailers lined the parks and streets. Reporters tracked down passerby to grill them all they knew about the victim and the killer.

           Gold did manage to post bail, but he found himself trapped in his home. The press had camped out on his front lawn not to mention the dozen or so people carrying signs like “Wife Beaters Must Die!” and “Fry Killer!” Apparently the notion of “innocent until proven guilty” was uncool at the moment.

           He’d hired his old friend and brilliant attorney Mallory Ficente to represent him. The media had speculated whether or not he would defend himself since he was also a lawyer. As entertaining as that notion was, any lawyer would say how foolish it was to try and represent yourself, especially for a charge of murder.

           Belle and Killian were around constantly, doing everything they could to try and keep Bae occupied during the times Gold was with Mal preparing his case. Despite there best efforts, the boy was well aware that things were not the same. Bae had taken to sleeping with his father every night and usually watched cartoons quietly than played with his toys. For that alone, he would never forgive the investigators for doing this to his son.

           Mal maintained their best defense was the fact that he had no motive to kill Milah. “You had a good life insurance policy on her,” she admitted, “but it’s not an exorbitant amount, and the fact that you have far more lucrative assets makes this look weak. Why kill your wife when you’re better off as you are?”

           “Aside from the fact that I’m innocent you mean,” he groused, “isn’t that better than not having a motive.”

           “Come on, Cal, I’m just laying out their case for us. This lack of motive will hurt them in the end. Not to mention, your limp.”

           “What about my limp?”

           “Well it’s pretty hard to carry a dead body when you need a cane,” she said.

           “I don’t have any experience in carrying a dead body, so I’ll take your word for it.”

           Mal only grinned and took another sip of her scotch. “I’m telling you, the judge will throw this whole thing out in a week.”

           A week later and the trial was right on schedule, despite Mal’s insistence it would all be over soon. He was sick to his stomach the entire time, unable to eat a bite, barely able to swallow water. He was never a heavy man, but now he was downright sickly.

           Opening statements were like the first shots in a war. Prosecutor George Spencer spoke of how they had witnesses to account over the state of his marriage, forensic evidence that proved Milah was dead, and they would explain how the crime occurred and produce a motive for why he supposedly killed his wife.

           Mal countered that by insisting they would prove that the marriage was good, that he had no conceivable reason to kill his wife, and provide witnesses to vouch for his character. She was a brilliant speaker, but right away he saw troubled waters ahead.

           Spencer put forth a forensic expert to discuss the blood found in the home. “All of it belonged to Milah Gold,” the scientist said.

           “How much blood was lost?”

           “It’s hard to say, but a very significant amount.”

           “Could a person have survived losing so much blood?”

           “Absolutely not.”

           None of this was new. Callum had accepted weeks ago that Milah was dead. He’d had the conversation with Bae, tearfully explaining that his mother was no longer with them. Still, he fought back tears at their words. Sadly, it didn’t end there.

           Spencer put on the men who investigated the case. They explained their method of chasing leads, how dogs had led them to the river where the presume Milah’s body was dumped. “Did you find anything else on your way to the river?”

           “Blood.”

           “Did you identify whose blood it was?”

           “Objection!” Mal cried out, “He is an investigator, not a DNA expert.”

           “Sustained.”

           It was a weak victory, but one that they took gratefully. Still what he said next was even worse.

           “Did you notice anything else while you searched the area?”

           “Yes, tire tracks.”

           “What sort of tracks? A car?”

           “No, smaller than that. Our techs determined they were likely from a wagon.”

           The knot in Gold’s gut tightened even more. Already he was thinking about the old wagon he’d kept in the shed. It was easier for him to use than a wheelbarrow when he was cleaning out the cabin and working in the garden there.

           “Did you find a wagon on the premises?”

           “Yes. It was in the shed.”

           “The locked shed?”

           “Yes.”

           “Did your forensics try and match the treads to the wheels?”

           “Yes.”

           “And what did they conclude?”

           “It was a perfect match.”

           Mal cried out another objection, but Gold knew the damage was done. None of this made any sense. How could they have so much evidence on him if he was innocent? Wasn’t this system supposed to support an innocent man?

           The state then brought in their plan to assassinate his character. Gold was not stupid enough to think he hadn’t made any enemies in his life. He’d even prepped a list for Mal of the people he thought they would call. A few were lawyers from his old firm. Some were residents who hated the fact that they had defaulted on their loans and he’d collected their collateral.

           The one they put up there was not on his list. In fact, he’d forgotten all about Janice Gothel, having been out of her parties since he’d left New York. He watched as her heavily botoxed face barely moved when she smiled as she placed her hand on the Bible to take her oath. Of all of Milah’s friends, she was the one he’d been glad to see the last of.

           “Ms. Gothel, state for the record your relationship with the deceased.”

           “Oh Milah and I go way back,” she said, “We were sorority sisters and roommates. I was the maid of honor at her wedding.” She dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief, but Gold doubted her eyes were capable of producing tears anymore.

           “So it is safe to say you were close?”

           “Very close. Like sisters.”

           “Did Milah tell you much about her life?”

           “She told me everything.”

           “Including the details of her marriage?”

           “Of course,” Gothel said.

           “Was it a happy marriage?”

           “Objection!” Mal called out, “Your honor, I don’t believe gossip should be counted as evidence.”

           “Your honor, the witness has said that she and the deceased were close friends. I think any woman, including Ms. Ficente, would tell you how much they tell their close friends about their lives.”

           The courtroom let out a chuckle and the judge banged his gavel in disapproval. “Overruled, the witness may answer.”

           He was certain the smirk Gothel gave him wasn’t his imagination. “They had happy times,” she admitted, “But recently, Milah had confessed things had been rocky.”

            “Will you expand on that for the court?”

           “There move to Storybrooke caused some tension, a lot actually.”

           Gold couldn’t deny that. It had been a major adjustment for their family and their marriage. They had gone through a rocky patch where they had been silent to one another at best, or argued at worst. However, things had settled recently. The trip to the cabin had proved that. Surely Milah would have told her friend this.

           “What do you mean by tension?”

           “Arguments, really bad ones. Milah told me all about how he’d yell at her, tell her to get out and do something.”

           What? He hadn’t done that…well not exactly. She had told him she was bored, that Storybooke wasn’t nearly as exciting as New York. It had been an argument and he’d told her to find something to occupy her time. It was Killian who had suggested teaching her how to sail.

           “Did Milah tell you anything else?”

           “Yes, she said that once he nearly pushed her down the stairs.”

           There were many gasps in the courtroom, but Gold saw his vision go red. Milah couldn’t have phrased it like that. Gothel had to be lying. The whole thing had been an accident. His leg had been hurting worse and Milah had been helping him up the stairs. He nearly lost his footing and accidentally fell into her. She managed to grab the rail to keep from falling. That had been the end of it.

           “Can you tell me about your last conversation with her?”

           “Yes, Milah told me she was concerned about her marriage. She wondered if Callum was having an affair.”

           “Was he?”

           Gothel shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

           “Thank you. No further questions, your honor.”

“The defense calls Miss Isabelle French to the stand.”

           The bailiff opened the door and Belle slipped into the overly crowded courtroom. She was wearing a dark blue coatdress with a gold belt and matching gold shoes. She always had wonderful taste in fashion, but it was strange seeing her now in this state. She looked older than her twenty-one years.

           She raised her right hand and gave her vow to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth before Mal asked her first question. “Now for the record, you work for Mr. Gold?”

           “Yes,” Belle answered, “I am his assistant at his antique and pawn shop.”

           “How long have you been working for him?”

           “Two years now.”

           “And how did you begin working for him?”

           “I’m a college student at Grimm State Community College,” Belle said. “I was dating a boy my father had set me up with. He wanted to marry me, but I said no. My father told me that I should drop out of school and marry him, as my ex wanted me to do. When I refused, he cut me off. Mr. Gold was collecting my father’s rent when he saw me taking my things. I told him my story and he was kind enough to offer me a job.”

           Belle looked over at him and gave him a small smile. He nodded back at her.

           “And how would you describe Mr. Gold as your boss?”

           “Wonderful,” she said, “He may have a rough exterior, but underneath that is a generous heart.”

           “And how is he as a father?”

           “He’s an incredible father,” Belle said, “I’ve had my own difficulties with my father, but Bae is Mr. Gold’s whole world. He’d do anything for him.”

           “And as a husband?”

           “He’s a good husband. He did everything he could to keep Milah happy. His family means everything to him.”

           “Do you believe Mr. Gold murdered his wife?”

           “Not for a second,” she said firmly, “He loved Milah and he loves Bae. He would never do anything to hurt his family.”

           “Thank you.” Mal looked up at the judge, “No further questions your honor.”

           Now it was Albert Spencer’s turn to question her. Gold didn’t like this, not one bit. He should have never let Belle go up there. She was too sweet for her own good, too insistent that she stand up for him. He shouldn’t have gotten her involved in this mess.

           “Miss French,” Spencer began, “would you say you and Mr. Gold are close?”

           “Yes, I suppose we are,” she replied calmly. Meanwhile warning sirens were going off in his mind.

           “How would you describe your relationship with him?”

           “I don’t know,” she said, “He’s…he’s my dearest friend.”

           “Do you trust him?”

           “Of course I do.”

           “So how close would you say you are?”

           Belle frowned at him. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

           “Are you afraid to answer that?”

           “Objection, your honor,” Mal said from her seat, “Miss French is not on trial here.”

           “Sustained,” the judge said.

           “I’ll rephrase my original question,” Spencer said, completely unruffled, “Would you say your relationship with Mr. Gold is closer than the average employer to employee relationship?”

           “I suppose it is,” she said.

           “What about your relationship with his son, Baeden? Are you close with him?”

           “Yes,” she said with a smile, “Bae is such a sweet child. I often babysit him.”

           “What about Milah? Were you close with her?”

           “I…not close really,” she said.

           “But you are so close to the rest of the Gold family. Why not her?”

           “We never had a lot in common,” Belle said.

           “Yet you have more in common with a four year old?”

           “Objection, beyond the scope,” Mal argued from her side.

           “Withdrawn,” Spencer said, but a slight smile curved his lips. “Would you consider Mr. Gold a violent person?”

           “Absolutely not,” she said.

           “Do you remember what happened on April 5th two years ago?”

           Gold felt his stomach drop at the date. Belle blinked, frowning slightly, before recognition dawned on her. “Yes,” she said, “My ex, Gregory, tried to convince me to change my mind. He was harassing me at work. Thankfully, Mr. Gold convinced him to leave.”

           “And how did Mr. Gold convince your ex-boyfriend to leave?”

           Belle shifted in her chair, darting a glance at her boss. He just shut his eyes. There was no way getting out of this trap.

           “He shoved him out,” Belle said.

           “How did he shove him?”

           “With his cane.”

           “He hit him,” Spencer said.

           “Not very hard,” she said, “And that was only when he grabbed me. After that he just pushed him out the door.”

           “But he did react with violence,” Spencer said.

           “Yes, but it wasn’t—.”

           “Miss French, you said before you were close to him, did you not?”

           “Yes,” she said, “But the last question, I was going to say—.”

           “Do you have feelings for him?”

           Every soul in the courtroom froze. Gold couldn’t even breathe. Belle gaped at the attorney. “Wh-what?”

           “Do you have feelings for Mr. Gold?”

           She stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Dear God, this was all his fault. He shouldn’t have let her do this. How could she answer that? A small voice in his brain wondered just what her answer would be.

           He would never know.

           “Objection, your honor!” Mal shouted with fury, “Miss French is not on trial here and her love-life is not evidence in this case.”

           “The state speculates that there could have been an affair between the defendant and the witness,” Spencer said.

           “Speculates,” Mal spat out, “Where is the evidence? Is that how the state plans to win this case, with gut feelings?”

           “Sustained,” the judge said, “The question will be stricken from the record and counsel will be reminded that any claims must be backed up with evidence. You may continue your questioning.”

           “I have no more questions, your honor.” Despite his reprimand, Spencer walked back his chair with a smile on his face.

           Mal gave him a poisonous look as she marched over to Belle. “For the record, were you having an affair with Mr. Gold?”

           “Of course not,” she said.

           “Do you recall him ever saying he was cheating on his wife or he wanted to be with another woman?”

           “No. He never said anything like that and I don’t believe he would.”

           “Were any charges filed against Mr. Gold in relation to the incident with your ex-boyfriend?”

           “No,” Belle said, “Gregory was harassing me. I had even considered filing a restraining order. Once Mr. Gold told him to leave me alone, he did.”

           “So you feel Mr. Gold protected you from a possible threat?”

           “Yes,” Belle said.

           “Thank you, Miss French,” Mal said, “No more questions, your honor.”

           “You may step down, Miss French.”

           She let out a deep breath and nodded, almost tripping as she stepped away from the bench. Belle looked over at Gold again and gave him a shaky smile. He returned it, but dropped his head to the desk once she was gone. He didn’t have to be a lawyer to know this trial was not going in his favor, not by a long shot.

           Killian was his last hope. As his oldest friend, it was up to him to seal in the minds of the jury the reasonable doubt that could save him from a prison sentence. Mal was doing her damnedest to assure him that they still had a strong chance, but he knew they were hanging by a thread.

           However, you couldn’t tell that the weight of his life rested on Killian’s shoulders by the look of his friend. The handsome man smiled as he put his hand on the Bible and swore to be honest, giving the head of the jury a wink as he finished. Well, maybe he could flirt the jury into convincing them that Gold was innocent.

           “Mr. Jones,” Mal began, “Tell us how long you have known Callum Gold?”

           “Oh we go back to law school together,” Killian said, “Cal was serious about his intentions in being a lawyer. Me, I had fancy dreams of being some hotshot like Perry Mason, but I quickly realized the whole thing wasn’t for me. So I skipped out, but we kept in touch. I was even the best man at his wedding.”

           “So I take it you are close?”

           “Callum is my best friend.”

           “And how would you describe his marriage with Milah?”

           Killian shrugged. “No marriage is perfect, or so I hear anyways. I’m perpetually single myself.” The earned a chuckle from the gallery. “They had their problems, but Callum would have done anything for her. Milah and Bae are everything to him.”

           “Do you believe he murdered his wife?”

           “Hell no. I am certain of that.”

           Mal smiled at him and nodded. “Thank you. Counsel, your witness.”

           Spencer buttoned up his jacket as he left his chair and coolly made his way to the bench. “You said the defendant is your best friend, how often did you guys speak?”

           “Often enough before,” Killian said, “but after he moved to Storybrooke, we saw each other nearly every day for lunch.”

           “He told you all about his life?”

           “Yes.”

           “His marriage?”

           “Of course.”

           “Did he mention any problems?”

           “Some,” Killian confessed, “but he was trying to work them out with Milah.”

           “But he shared with you things he wouldn’t tell anyone else?”

           “Well I never asked him that, but we are friends. You normally tell your friends things you keep private between each other.”

           “I understand he gave his employee a present, is that true?”

           Gold felt his blood run cold. To his credit, Killian only blinked at the question. “Yes, it was her birthday.”

           “A rare book is a rather pricey birthday present, don’t you agree?”

           “Objection,” Mal called.

           “Withdrawn,” Spencer said immediately, “How close is your friend to Miss French?”

           “If you’re asking me if he was having an affair with her, the answer is no.”

           “You’re certain of that?”

           “Yes I am,” Killian said.

           “But did he ever say he’d thought about it?”

           Killian flinched, his gaze flickering over to his friend. Gold just shut his eyes and bowed his head. “Well…yes,” Killian said, “but it wasn’t…”

           “Thank you, no more questions, your honor.”

           Gold didn’t have to look at Mal to know just what had happened. Spencer had just blown the final hole in their sinking ship. There was no bailing out of this now.

           Court rested for the day, but closing arguments would begin bright and early in the morning. However, Gold knew there was no time for rest. This was his last night of freedom and, he had work to do. He’d drawn up the papers weeks ago, now it was just a matter of crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s.

           It was nearing midnight when he called Killian over. He was confined to his house until the verdict was given, but there were no doubts now what that would be. His friend could barely look him in the eye when he arrived.

           “Killian…”

           “I’m sorry, Callum,” he said quietly, “I didn’t…I wasn’t…shit…”

           “You were telling the truth, like you swore to do,” he told him, “None of this is your fault. They’ve painted a pretty damnable case against me. If I didn’t know I was innocent, I’d have thought I was guilty as sin.”

           He sighed and reached over for the papers. “That’s why I asked you to come here. We both know what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

           “You don’t…”

           “I do know and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I got this ready just in case, and now it’s time to use it.” He handed Killian the paper.

           He scanned the document for a minute with a puzzled brow. “What is this?”

           “I’m giving guardianship of Bae over to you.” Killian’s mouth dropped to his chest, but Gold continued. “I’m signing over all my possessions and accounts to him, but he won’t have access of it until he turns eighteen, so you’ll have to manage it all for him. Also, the insurance policy on Milah will be turned over to him. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

           “You…you shouldn’t be doing this,” Killian said, “I mean, I’m not his family.”

           “Milah’s parents are dead and I’m sure as hell not going to let him go to my dad. Belle is too young to be saddled with a child. You’re the only person I have left in the world that I trust with my son.”

           “But…”

           Gold shook his head and held up a pen. “Please, Killian, just sign them.”

           Killian took the pen and smoothed the paper out onto the table before adding his name to the bottom, right below Gold’s. “I hate this, Callum.”

           “You’re not alone, but thank you.”

           “Is there anything I can do? Get you drunk?”

           Gold chuckled a little. “No, but…could you bring him by? Not every week, maybe every two weeks or once a month? I just don’t want him to think I abandoned him.”

           “If course. I’d bring him by every day if you asked.”

           “Thank you for that,” Gold said, “You—you’ve been a good friend, the best a man could ask for.”

           He was never much for hugging, but to hell with all of that. Killian didn’t hesitate to hug him, even patting him on the back. “Do you want me to stay and get drunk together?”

           “No, thank you, but now,” he said, “I just want to be with my boy.”

           Killian nodded. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that.” He swallowed hard and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

           “Goodbye, Killian.” It would be the last words he would say to his friend before they locked him away.

           Gold filed the papers away to give to Mal in the morning. It was done and there was some relief in that, but even more pain. He slowly walked through his house, the home he’d made with his wife. It was hard to believe that she would never return to this place, neither would he.

           He made his way upstairs to where his son lay sleeping. Bae was wrapped up in his Superman comforter, his Mickey Mouse toy tucked under his arm. Gold stretched out beside his son and pulled him into his chest. He breathed in his scent, savored the warmth of his breath on his skin. This was it, all he had left. Tomorrow he would be locked away from his boy. He didn’t dare waste any of these final moments on sleep.