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onechicago-upsteadrhekker · 4 years ago

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I’m alive!! And I’m here with another prompt fic that @randers198 requested. If you have requested a fic, I promise they are in progress!! I’m not writing them in any particular order. Just when inspiration strikes and I get an idea so that’s why it may seem like it’s taking so long. Also, I’ve been bombarded with school for the past couple of months so I haven’t really been writing much. Also, my one-shots (all my fics really) get a little long *insert facepalm* but I do hope it’s worth it!

I’m hoping to get back into the swing of posting more regularly! Things seem to be slowing down for the moment so I’m gonna try to take advantage of that and write a bunch!

Also, with season 8 coming soon (insert excited screaming), I am hoping back into the deep-dive, hard-core, fangirling, shipping train that is upstead! I can’t freaking wait!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyways, enough of my rambling! Here’s #62 “What the hell is your problem!?”

*title comes from sleeping at last’s song ‘two’ (you may have picked up that I have a slight obsession with sleeping at last)

sweetheart, you look a little tired

Jay almost always woke up before her. She had never known him to sleep soundly past six and on weekdays he was usually up at five or even earlier sometimes.

It was a habit that had been ingrained into him during his time in the military and one she didn’t think he’d ever really outgrow.

Sometimes, he would get up when he woke and start his day by running or working out (he had tried to get her up too but it failed more often than it succeeded--she was more of a six-thirty am runner). He would get a shower, be dressed and have a coffee pot full of coffee waiting for her all by the time she forced herself to roll out of bed and come downstairs.

But more and more often, Jay had been staying in bed after he woke, preferring to hold her till she woke up. Hailey was fine with this arrangement, liking the feel of his strong arms wrapped around her and knowing that when she turned over, she would be met with bright green eyes and a smattering of red freckles.

So this morning when she woke, feeling cold and empty and alone she felt a little disoriented because she hadn’t woken without him at least somewhere in their bedroom in quite sometime.

She knew even before she opened her eyes he wasn’t there but she moved her legs and threw an arm in the direction of his side anyway, hoping to feel his warm body next to hers.

Hailey sat up, looking to her left with a frown at the tangled sheets but no Jay. She scooted over and found that his side was cold which meant he had been gone for a while but his phone was still on the nightstand and his clothes from the previous day were still thrown over the chair in their room.

He wouldn’t have gone anywhere without his phone and he was notorious for leaving his clothes strewn about on the floor unless she told him otherwise so she didn’t think he had gone somewhere and come back.

She hopped out of the bed, calling his name softly as she poked her head in their closet and ventured into their bathroom just in case he was taking a shower or something but he wasn’t there. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand and saw it was actually later than she thought. She must have forgotten to set her alarm last night--they had gotten in pretty late from a raid.

Brushing through her hair with her fingers, she pulled it up into a ponytail with the hair tie on her wrist as she walked downstairs upon not finding Jay in any of the rooms upstairs, “Babe? You down here?”

Hailey peeked into the living room and saw that there were blankets on the couch but still no Jay. She bit her lip, starting to get a little concerned when she walked into the kitchen to find him sitting at the island. His elbow was resting on the counter, propping his head up on his hand and he was looking off into space, bleary eyed.

“Jay, honey,” Hailey spoke softly, padding further into the room, being careful not to accidentally scare him.

It took a few seconds but eventually he blinked, focusing on her figure standing in front of him.

She put a hesitant hand on his chest, “Jay? Are you okay?”

He recovered quickly from whatever stupor she found him in, shrugging off her hand and stretching nonchalantly before pecking her cheek. She watched him grab his coffee cup off the counter as he slid off his chair, forcing her to step back. He moved to the sink and poured the still half-full cup of coffee down the drain, stetting the mug down.

He nodded to the coffee pot, “I made coffee.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Hailey prompted, crossing her arms. He turned around and she ran a meticulous eye over his appearance, biting her lip in concern.

He was wearing sweat pants and a form-fitting t-shirt which wasn’t all that unusual except he preferred to sleep in boxers and even then, he never slept with a shirt on but the couch looked slept on. His hair was sticking up slightly and he looked tired, his eyes faintly red.

Jay tilted his head in confusion, yawning, “What question?”

She raised an eyebrow, “I asked if you were okay. And I was calling your name earlier. Did you not hear me?”

“Oh,” He scratched the back of his neck, “I uh--Just a little out of it this morning I guess, with the raid and all. I’m just tired.”

Hailey furrowed her eyebrows; she wasn’t quite sure she believed that, “Was it just the raid?”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead, “Okay, maybe I had a nightmare earlier this morning.”

She huffed in exasperation, giving him a look, “How many times have we talked about this? Wake me up. I’m right here.”

He smiled and he looked back to his normal self if not a little tired, “I know, I know but since we got in late last night I wanted you to get as much rest as possible. I was fine, I promise. Nothing I couldn’t handle on my own.”

He checked his watch, “We need to get ready or we’ll be late for work.”

She was still standing in her spot in the kitchen with her arms crossed when he came over to give her another peck on the cheek before retreating upstairs.

Slowly turning towards the direction Jay went, she narrowed her eyes in suspicion and concern. She was pretty good at spotting when he’d had a nightmare. She usually woke up when he was having it but she hadn’t this morning and when she’d found him in the kitchen with that spaced out look on his face, he had acted odd. Different.

She wasn’t sure what it was but there was definitely something going on and she was going to figure it out.

The morning passed relatively smoothly and she kept an eye on him but she couldn’t detect anything really wrong. He seemed a little quiet and maybe a little more subdued when discussing things with the unit but that wasn’t anything to be worried over. He just seemed tired but then he’d sort of snapped at Adam and retreated down the stairs to grab some paperwork they needed.

It had clearly taken Adam aback and he turned in her direction but she responded with a shake of her head, telling him without words to let it go because she wasn’t sure what was going on and she wasn’t sure if she should push it just yet. Not unless whatever this was got in the way of the job.

Adam seemed to get her message and didn’t say anything about it. The day continued and she could tell he was trying to cover whatever it was that put him in this mood and he did an admirable job but she knew him. She could see through his act.

It wasn’t till Voight sent them to a scene did she feel the need to intervene and force Jay to tell her what was wrong.

Hailey eyed him carefully, watching as he jumped out of the truck. He hadn’t said anything the whole ride and while that wasn’t entirely unusual, there was still this broodiness she couldn’t quite put a finger on.

They approached the scene, a patrol officer guarding the crime tape that had already been set up. Hailey glanced at Jay and when it was clear he didn’t intend to say anything she addressed the cop as Jay started to duck under the tape.

“We’re Intelligence.” The cop nodded and Hailey followed Jay in ducking under the tape, jogging to catch up to where he was starting to crouch down beside the body.

She stood beside him watching as he pulled the tarp covering the victim back to examine the bullet hole right over his heart. There were no signs of a struggle and it looked like the bullet had hit him point-blank in close range.

Hailey glanced at Jay who was still squatting, looking at the body but he seemed a little out of it. She furrowed her brows, “Jay? What do you think?”

He glanced at her then, shrugging his shoulders and standing up, “Don’t know yet.”

Jay turned and walked to a couple of patrol officers who were standing off to the side. Hailey frowned at his short answer, taking a couple of hurried strides to catch up to him again.

“You were first on the scene?” Jay’s tone was short and to the point and he almost sounded irritated. He was never one for much small talk when working a scene but he never sounded like he didn’t want to be there which was the vibe Hailey was starting to get.

She didn’t say anything though, instead she watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye, on high alert for whatever was bugging him.

“Yes sir,” The patrol officers turned to them, their postures straightening and their eyes widening. They also looked a little pale and fidgety which meant that they were probably, most definitely rookies and Jay was in a mood. Just great.

Jay pulled out a pocket-sized notebook to jot down information, glancing up at the two rookies that stood nervously in front of them, “Any witnesses?”

The two officers glanced at each other before the taller one piped up, “Yes sir, there was a lady on the scene when we arrived.”

Hailey frowned, glancing quickly around, looking for said lady and she saw Jay do the same. He turned back to the officers, a hard look on his face, “And where is this lady? We need to speak with her.”

“Um,” The shorter one swallowed, “After we initially spoke with her she said she needed to go pick her kids up from school so we got her information and we uh,” Both officers visibly gulped at the growing anger coming off of Jay and Hailey herself was a little taken aback at how aggravated he looked, “We got her information and let her go.”

“I’m sorry, you let her go?” Jay’s jaw clenched, “You don’t have the authority to let witnesses go. This is a murder case and you might have just let the killer walk free. She might be headed to Canada for all we know! Of all the idiot things two patrol officers could do this is about biggest.”

Hailey’s eyes were wide; Jay didn’t get riled up very often and when he did, it was most likely because someone deserved it. The officers had made Intelligence job harder and Jay was right, they should have kept the witnesses till she and Jay showed up but the rookies didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.

Jay was practically oozing irritation and he was rubbing the back of his neck like it was stiff. Hailey grabbed his elbow to drag him off to the side. This had gone too far; whatever it was that was putting him into this mood needed to stop.

“Jay,” She hissed, flinging a quick glance back towards the patrol officers who still looked a little shell-shocked, “That was uncalled for. Yeah, they made a mistake but you didn’t have to yell at them like that. They’re still inexperienced and they aren’t going to learn anything if you keep telling them all the things they did wrong. You know better than that, Jay. You know what’s like to be in their shoes.”

Hailey let out a huff, rubbing her forehead in thought watching as Jay didn’t say anything. He just had this funny expression on his face, “What the hell is your problem!? I mean, it’s not just this. You have been acting strangely all day, first this morning and then you’ve been in this funk, snapping at everybody. And now this? This isn’t like you and this isn’t from a nightmare.”

Jay didn’t say anything, just standing in front of her and Hailey got a good look at him. She cataloged everything from the way he was standing to his facial expression, trying to figure out what it was he wasn’t telling her about and then it finally clicked.

There was finally a little crack in the mask he’d been wearing all day and she could see how utterly miserable he looked, his forehead scrunching together like he had a headache and it hit her like a ton of bricks.

“Jay, are you sick?” Her face held a mixture exasperation and concern, “You don’t feel well, do you?”

Her hand immediately went to his forehead, “Honey, you’re burning up. Why didn’t you say anything!?”

How did she not notice this? She’d been watching him carefully all morning but it had never occurred to her that he might not feel well and now that she thought about it, he had felt a little warm when she’d brushed up against him in the bullpen earlier today and just now when she’d grabbed his elbow.

Jay shrugged, but even that looked painful to him now that he wasn’t trying to hide his illness from her, “It wasn’t that bad at first.”

Hailey’s eyebrows furrowed, her hand moving to rest on his neck, “At first? Meaning it’s worse now?”

He grimaced at his slip-up but didn’t try to refute her. She sighed, removing her hand from his neck and Jay missed the coolness and comfort of her hand immediately.

She reached into her back pocket, pulling out her phone, scrolling through her contacts then raising it to her ear. Jay frowned, “What are you doing?”

Hailey gave him a look that brokered no argument, “I’m calling Voight to tell him we’re going home.”

“What!? No,” He protested weakly, “I’m fine.”

She gave him another look, angling the phone slightly away from her mouth, “We’re going home and that’s final. You have a fever.”

Voight must have picked up because Hailey quickly moved the phone back to it’s proper position, “Hi Sarge. Yeah, we’re at the scene but you’re going to have to send Adam and Kim because Jay’s sick. I’m pretty sure he’s got a fever.”

There was a pause and he watched Hailey nod, “Yeah, apparently since this morning.” Another pause, “I was planning on it if it’s not too much of a problem.”

Hailey chuckled at something their boss said before saying goodbye and hanging up, sliding her phone back into her back jean pocket. She turned back towards Jay, holding her hand out, “Give me the keys. I’m driving.”

She could tell he wanted to fight her but he must have thought better of it because he nodded his head and reached into his pocket for the truck keys. Once he handed them off, she was making her way to where Jay had pulled the truck up to the scene, Jay trailing behind her looking like a miserable little boy who didn’t feel well and had gotten in trouble on top of it.

Hailey smiled to herself as she got into the driver’s side. He was her little boy and it was her job to take care of him even when he was stubborn and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Once he climbed in, Hailey started the truck and headed towards their house. It was quiet and Hailey kept sneaking glances at her husband and she couldn’t believe he had hid how badly he was feeling because he actually looked pretty terrible.

Now that his guard was down, she could see how tired he really was and there were two red spots that had shown up on his cheekbones. He looked feverish and miserable as he laid his head against the window, his eyes closed. And he looked a little pale too.

Hailey pulled into the driveway, taking the key out of the ignition and unbuckling her seat belt. She opened her door, looking over at Jay who had fallen asleep. He must have really been sick to fall asleep in the middle of the day in a car.

She reached over, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder so she didn’t scare him, “Jay, honey,” She spoke softly, “We’re home.”

He shifted, his eyes opening blearily. She rubbed his arm, “Let’s get you inside. You’ll be a lot more comfortable.”

Once he was mostly awake and sitting up, she hopped out, shutting her door to come around to his side. He opened his own door and he was moving slowly like he was in pain and Hailey was starting to worry that this was more than a simple fever.

She followed his slow steps up to their front door and she quickly nudged her way in front of him so she could unlock the door for him. Once the door was open, she followed Jay to their living room and watched as he gingerly sat on the couch, his hand going to rest over his eyes.

She sat beside him, her hand going back to his forehead and she could have sworn it felt hotter than it did a few minutes ago.

Hailey frowned again, “Jay, tell me what hurts. I think you have a pretty high fever. What are your symptoms? And be honest with me.”

Jay removed his hand, letting his head loll in her direction. He cast her a bleary, sad gaze and Hailey felt her heart break at how pitiful he looked as she carded her fingers through his short hair.

“My head hurts,” He admitted. When he didn’t say anything else, she prompted, “And?”

He threw another glance in her direction and she knew how much he hated admitting that he wasn’t feeling well.

“And my body aches.”

Hailey bit her lip, “I think you have the flu, Jay.” She did another feel of his forehead and he leaned further into her, “I’ve heard it’s pretty bad this year.”

Jay gave a low groan, breathing out, “I can believe it.”

Even though she felt bad for him, Hailey couldn’t help the small smirk that came across her face, “Well, if someone would’ve gotten their flu shot this year, they wouldn’t sick.”

He looked up at her from where he was resting his head on her chest with puppy dog eyes and an adorable pout, “Don’t make fun. I don’t feel good.”

She gave him an exaggerated sympathetic look, brushing his hair back lovingly, “Oh my poor baby.”

Hailey bent down to give him a swift kiss on the top of his head before removing herself out from under him. She helped him lay down on the couch, pushing a pillow under his head and taking off his shoes, “I’m going to go take stock of all the medicine we have in the bathroom and then call Will to see what I should give you.”

“Hailey,” Jay whined, his eyes following her as she walked around the couch and into the kitchen, disappearing out of his sight.

“You’re taking meds. No if, ands or buts about it,” She called back to him as Jay grumbled loud enough to be heard.

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

All day, Hailey answered every beck and call he had made, always with loving touch and soft kiss on his forehead.

After getting flu information from Will, they’d determined the correct medication for him to take and she’d run out to the closest pharmacy. She came back with his favorite type of juice from when he was little and a golf documentary she’d just happened to see.

After some initial grumbling on Jay’s part, he finally decided to drop his ‘tough guy’ act and give into the care Hailey was trying to provide him with for which she was grateful for. Mostly because she wasn’t having to force feed him his medicine anymore.

It was still a pain to get him to take the medicine she was giving him but at least he wasn’t outright trying to refuse her. The complaining was still in full effect though especially because the medicine Will had told her to get wasn’t in pill form.

But then she reminded him that she could always to take him to get shots instead and he usually stopped being grouchy and grudgingly swallowed the liquid Hailey was holding out in a tiny measuring cup.

She would refill his cup with juice or water, bringing it to him on the couch as she tided up the house, taking advantage of the unexpected time off to tackle chores. Always asking him if he needed anything and occasionally sitting with him for a half-hour or so to give him the comfort she could see he wanted.

And right now she was in the kitchen, making his favorite soup. He would never admit it but Jay secretly relished this time.

He didn’t much care for being sick but he loved it when Hailey played nurse. She reminded him of his own mom when he got sick as a child but more than that it proved how great of a mom Hailey would be some day.

He didn’t get to see this side of his wife very often. Playing the role of domestic housewife, picking up and taking care of him and while he wouldn’t ever want her to give up the things that made her a freakin’ bad-ass detective, he enjoyed seeing this softer side of her.

Hailey, the wife. Not Hailey, the cop. Watching the things only he saw.

She didn’t dote often but when she did, he would take it. Even if that meant feeling like crap.

“Hey honey,” Hailey came into the room with a bowl of soup in her hand and his medicine in the other, “You feel up to eating something?”

He sat up, trying not to wince from his sore muscles, “Yeah.”

“You don’t have to eat all of it. I just want something in your stomach other than juice and medicine,” She deposited the half-full bowl of soup into his hands before pouring the proper dosage of medicine in the small measuring cup for him, “And speaking of, it’s time for another dose of your medicine.”

Jay took a bite of soup, watching Hailey warily as she held out the cup full of purple liquid and grimaced at her stern look. He sighed and put down the soup.

He had learned quickly that it didn’t go well if he tried to refuse so he decided he’d better just get it over with and take the stuff. He was still looking at Hailey with a sulky look as he obediently drank the disgusting medicine before making a ‘yuck’ face.

She took the cup from him and handed him his juice to wash it down with, giving him a satisfied smile.

“See, that wasn’t so bad was it?” He knew she was teasing him and he gave her a grumpy face. She chuckled, kissing him on the forehead, “You enjoy your soup. I’m going to go wash the dishes.” Hailey gave him a mothering look, “Call if you need something.”

Shaking her head, Hailey walked back into the kitchen to clean up. She put the medicine on the end of one of her counters before going over to dish out the rest of the soup into storage containers to put into the fridge.

She was glad that they were heading into the weekend, giving her more flexibility to look after Jay. Unless there was a major case that came up then she would be able to finish up the paperwork from the past week at home.

Hailey planned to keep Jay on the couch, resting and taking his medication the entire weekend so that hopefully by Monday he would be well enough to go into work. If that meant babying him for a couple days then so be it because he was a nightmare when everyone was at work but him.

He was constantly calling all of them to ask for updates on whatever case they were working on because he was bored.

And while Hailey had never really known him to get sick like this, she knew what he was like when he got injured so she figured it would be similar.

In the whole time Hailey had known Jay, he had maybe gotten a couple of colds and never during their married life so this was a somewhat different experience for her. She was more used to gauze and PT exercises. Not soup and liquid medicine.

But fortunately, or unfortunately, she was a pro at getting Jay to take medicine because he gave her a hard time even with pills which made no sense to her but he always tried to convince her he didn’t like how narcotics made him feel and any antibiotics he was prescribed was making his immune system weak.

He was just stubborn. But she could be stubborn too.

She supposed she would be thankful for the experience when they had kids of their own who inherited their father’s stubbornness.

Lord help her when that happened.

Hailey rinsed a dish, thinking of Jay in the other room and the events of the day.

He had gone from moody and trying to cover up his sickness to a needy little boy who wouldn’t take his medicine, moping around her.

Jay always tried to put up a tough guy act and it usually worked but not with her. Once he had been convinced to give it up, he was the most high-maintenance man she knew. She knew how clingy he could get when he was injured and it seemed to be even more so when he was sick because he had been calling her into the living room to ask for company all throughout the day.

She almost laughed out loud at how domesticated they had been today. She almost felt like she was playing house but it was real. She really had a husband who needed her from time to time, picking up after him and making him a homemade dinner. Something they didn’t usually have time for.

And while she wouldn’t trade her high-action life for anything, she secretly loved when these slow days came. Which usually meant Jay was injured but in this case he was sick and she couldn’t deny the satisfaction she got from taking care of him. Of doing the mundane things that came with a house and a husband.

Not that she’d ever admit it but standing there doing the dishes, listening to the Black hawks game Jay had turned on, knowing that he was in there, laying on their couch, well-taken care of made her heart swell in a way she didn’t ever think she’d ever get to experience.

The feeling of a safe, happy home and a bright future full of love.

Even if that meant taking care of a grumpy Jay from time to time.

Was that ending to cheesy for you... I’m so terrible at endings but hopefully it wrapped the story up in some sort of profound, cohesive way. This started out as a small little sick fic but turned into a mammoth of a thing and honestly I wasn’t really sure what I was writing... I just knew I wanted Hailey to pick up on Jay’s not feeling well at work hence the prompt. Hopefully you enjoyed it and I’m trying my best to get through all these prompts but seeing as how I’m incapable of writing things under a thousand words, it takes a little while. I’m also trying my best to work on Dancing in the Minefields if any of you are following that...I know you guys deserve the next chapter but I’ve sort of lost steam on it and I’m trying to find the grove again. But in other news I have a couple of big fics coming your way and they are in progress but I’ve decided I’m not going to post them until it’s totally completed so I don’t leave you hanging!!

Anyway, let me know how you liked this prompt fic and I’ll see you next time!

#Chicago PD #jay halstead #hailey upton #jay halstead x hailey upton #upstead #married!upstead #fluff #stubborn but clingy #Hailey is such a good wifey #couple goals #prompt fic #prompt

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futurewriterwannebe · 3 years ago

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AR YOU CHEATING short fic

Beth Closes the Door behind her,takes of her Jacket and hangs it on the Schrank besides the door.

She then locks at a Photo of her and Rick smiling,and runs her Belly. Tomorow,she Things and hugs herself,tomorow I will tell Rick about you!

She Takes a few stets Towards the Stairs,trying to Not wake her Boyfriend,already thinking of was to apolagise for postponing ther Date again when a Light in the Livingroom turnen on!

Beth Shriked and turnen to the tight side!she Saw Rick siting in of of the Sofas playing with his Fingers while also Trying to lock at everything but her.

"Rick,My Rock Love of my Life!Why...ar you awake?"

Rick takes a big breath and asks:"Ar you Cheating on me?"

Beth Blinks once.Then Twice! Then Three Times.

She takes a Step towards Rick,but he Sees to try to get evenndeeper into the Sofa as if the thought of Beth being to close to him was frightening him

This Never happend Befor!Up untill now Beth Was the only one who was alowd to Touch Rick without permission,his trust in her was so streng!

But it seams that Beth Not being ther, and posponing Dates the last 2 months must have plantet a Dark thought in his Mind,and his Fear of being Abondond by her must have returned with it.

"Rick ofcours not,but why ar you thinking that?We Talked about this!I Would never...!"

Rick Snaps:"Then Wher THE FUCK WHER YOU THE LAST FEW MONTHS? WHY POSTPONE DATES? WHY AVOIDE ME?YOU CAN STOP LIEING!"

Beth takes a big breath,and answears Calmly:

"Honey,I was gone tell you Tomorow but.... I Was going to the Hospital the last few months,geting cheked out..."

Rick jumps up and goes over to Beth.

"What?Why...didnt you...Ar you ok?Ar you Sick?"

"No I'm Fine...We both ar Aculy!"

"You arent pissed that I thought...!"

Beth shakes her head smiling,with tears in her Eyes

"You ar going to be a Father Rick Tyler"

And after thes Magical Words left Beth Tyler's Mouth,Rick Kisses her with a passion last fellt during ther Wedding!

#hournite #shortfic #writen in one go.

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multi-fandom-imagine · 4 years ago

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If you don't mind, could you write a fic where Lassie falls asleep at work after a long day and has a dream where the reader gets hurt or dies? Which then leads to him waking up and hurriedly confessing his feelings to the reader in one of the interrogation rooms? Hope you're having a nice day!

A/n: I love this, I also apologize if this sucks, I wrote this in the car. { I was driving }

He didn’t mean to fall asleep but he was so tired, so he did what all detectives did when they were sleep deprived. He fell asleep at his desk.

Part of Carlron knew that he was in a dream but it certainly didn’t feel like one. You were with him, you two were working on some case together then the next thing he knew was that you were lying on your back bleeding from a gun shot wound to the gut.

“Nonnono....stay with me y/n....please.” Why did this feel so real? Why did your blood seem so warm.

He felt like know matter how much pressure he put down on the wound, he couldn’t stop the bleeding.

“Please don’t leave me....c-come on keep your eyes open...”

Though it didn’t take long for him to watch the light fade from your eyes.

He didn’t know if he was screaming your name but nothing felt real anymore, he couldn’t breath.

It took a loud slam to jolt him out of his deep sleep, quickly looking around Carlton noticed a frowning Shawn.

“You uh...alright Lassie?”

Clearing out his throat Carlton rubbed his eyes, that..nightmare felt so real.

Fixing his tie he looked Shawn over. “Where’s Y/n?”

��Uh I think she’s finishing up in the interrogation room.”

Muttering a quick thanks Carlton pushed past the young man making his way towards to, spotting your form slipping out of the room he suddenly grabbed your shoulders. “Y/n!”

“Yess?”

“I love you !”

Blinking a few times you tried to process what the tall detective just told you.

“I said I love you! I had this awful dream and I felt like I had too...I mean forget all of that...I love you...I wanted you to know my feelings for you.”

Sighing you gave him a crooked smile as he stetted to babble on. Grabbing his tie you tugged him in for a kiss. “I love you too....took you long enough though.”

#drabbles #drabble #request #psych usa #psych #carlton #pysch carlton lassiter #carlton lassiter x reader #carlton lassiter #lassie

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polar-stars · 4 years ago

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1-35 !!!

o.O Well you aren’t kidding around...! But thanks, that gives me something to do at least ahdhd

1. From one to five stars, how would you rate your writing? (No downplaying yourself!)

3, maybe?

I’ve seen improvement from my fanfic-beginnings for sure, but there’s still a lot of things I can improve on I believe.

2. Why do you write fanfiction?

I’ve held a fascination with writing ever since primary school. We were given a couple creative writing tasks back then and I actually got a lot of praise for my stuff ;v; So writing an actual book someday as actually always been a dream of mine.

I did not really write much fanfic before entering the Shokugeki-fandom, being real. But I suppose I got into it for multiple reasons: manifesting my ships (MarYu is a lot more common these days, but it was nowhere when I first entered the fandom, lol. And I don’t think I have to tell you about how much content for EtsuNe there was before I began making it), giving the OCs I came up with a story, playing around with AU ideas & later on: giving the character I’ve come to love so much more love and justice than the canon gave them.

It’s a lot of fun being real! I’m glad I started it. And it’s honestly cool to see the improvements I made from the first “Shokugeki no Kimiko” chapter to the most recent one ;v; !

3. What do you think makes your writing stand out from other works?

eeeeeehhhh, oh dear...

I really don’t know...possibly a little sense of naivety maybe? I’m-

4. Are there any writers that inspire you?

Within the Shokugeki-fandom @wishingforatypewriter & @hanzome-hasashi.

I really love wishingforatypewriter’s exploration of the characters, Totsuki, the families and so on and so on. I still remember the days when I would read updates of “The Third Year” in the school-corridor, waiting for my first lesson to start! Good memories!

With hanzome-hasashi, I really love the atmosphere in her story and I hold both “Late Night Lullabies” & “Akai Ito” very dear. LNL is so fluffy and romantic and !!! ahh, it’s all the things I love. Meanwhile Akai Ito, is just....so enchanting and captivating...In different manner than LNL, but still so, so, so good!

5. What’s the fic you’re most proud of?

It’s not finished yet...It’s not even close to being finished yet, but...”Shokugeki no Kimiko” ;v;

It will actually have it’s 5-year anniversary this year and that’s such an incredible number to me! I’ve never been able to commit to a story this long before and it just feels good, because I am really excited for so many things that are yet to come!

I really like the characters I came up with and I’m very happy to see they’ve been well-received by others as well. I tinkered on it so long and I think there’s some stuff I did very well on, to be perfectly honest.

This story is also what gave me some confidence that I might someday truly be able to fulfill my dream and write a book. It has overall received a lot of compliments and such a good response, that I’m stunned.

For finished works, I’d have to say “Waiting for the rain to stop”.

6. What element of writing do you find comes easily?

I think I have a good pacing! (And I’ve been told so as well)

7. What element of writing do you struggle with most?

Detailed descriptions.

8. Which character(s) do you find easiest to write?

For Shokugeki, I think I’d have to say Nene Kinokuni.

9 & 10, I answered already

11. Who or what do you find yourself writing about most?

My OCs & my romantic fantasies, I’d say adhfhg

Though, lately...I do have a coping fic going on, that I started in late 2019, I believe and that I occasionally work on when I’m not feeling too well...It’s a story about change, as I am one of those kind off people who have a hard time dealing with changes.

12. Tell us about a WIP you’re excited about.

For one, I really like the beginning of the previously mentioned Coping-Fic. I’d show it, but ahdhd it’s in German. Because I write this thing in German...

Another couple things I’m excited for it so finally add onto the Shokugeki Next Gen One Shot collection! A lot of people have been asking me about Shigeo’s and Chieko’s first meeting and yes, I’ll try to work on it as soon as I can!

13. First fandom you ever wrote for?

Attack on Titan, I wrote one or two things in German...I believe.

14. What’s your favorite fandom to write for?

Lol

15. What’s the weirdest fandom you’ve ever written for?

Also Shokugeki maybe? Because it’s so small ahdhd?

16, I’ve answered already

17. A trope you’ll never, ever write for.

I can’t see myself writing a fic with an unhappy ending...But I mean? Maybe I’ll surprise myself.

Besides that, I don’t think I’ll ever tackle truly harsh, dark topics either. I don’t feel occupied for that.

18. Wildest fic you’ve ever written?

Most stuff I wrote when I first entered the fandom ahdhd

The most weirdest thing was an AU that’s basically a role reversal of Rebels vs. Central but it is also in space, in a Star Wars inspired AU ashdod

I really don’t know ahsdhd

19, I answered already

20. Gen fic or shippy stuff?

Shippy stuff.

100%

21. Favorite pairing to write for? (platonic or romantic!)

Romance-wise, my faves would be EtsuNe, MarYu (no one is surprised) & AkiSako.

For my OCs it’s ShigeChi (no one is surprised, Pt.2)...aka. Shigeo Eizan & Chieko Marui.

My favorite platonic relationship to write for would be Shun and Zenji I think, in terms of my OCs it’s definitely Suzume Hojo and Shigeo. Because they greatly amuse me and ngl, their basic dynamic is a little akin to the dynamic between me and my best friend.

22. Do you listen to anything while you write?

I do! I have an extra playlist for when I write anything SnKimiko-related & it’s full of a variety of genres, haha.

At times I also listen to Jazz or Lofi when writing though.

But yeah ultimately music really inspires me. There have been songs that painted entire scenarios in my head & song lyrics might end up being chapter titles in SnKimiko at some points ahdhd (watch out)

23. Do you prefer prompts and challenges, or completely independent ideas?

Independent ideas, I tend to struggle with prompts...but they can be fun at times!

24. One-shots or multi-chaptered works?

I like both hdd

But for a slow turtle like me, multi-chaptered works can be a struggle...! If I was a little bit faster, I could have brought down so many ideas already.

25. Have you ever daydreamed about side adventures/spin-offs from your fic? Tell us about them!

Well, I already do have a spin-off & a One Shot collection with side adventures for SnKimiko!

But well...The Coping-Fanfic would also play in SnKimiko-Verse.

26. Is there anything you’ve wanted to write, but you’ve been too scared to try?

A prequel fic to SnKimiko that showcases the future parents getting together :,))) If I made the Coping-Fic a multi-chapter thing...that could be it...

but ah, I’m still so unsure about it. I feel I’m just too inexperienced and naive to tell a compelling story in that regard given that I have no actual romantic relationship experience, haha.

27. What’s the nicest comment you’ve ever received?

So many, hnnn

A very recent review highlighted how they’re enjoying the conflict of Hiraku & Kimiko and how they think it’s fascinating how both of them differ from Soma and each other as well....And ah, that just kind off made me super happy to read :,)))

I also received a couple reviews of people who said they usually don’t read Oc-centric fanfic but they liked mine and that also got me all :,)))))))))

28. How well do you handle criticism when it comes to your writing?

When it’s not given to be in disrespectful manner, I’m willing to hear it out.

29. Have you ever gone outside of your comfort zone for a fic? How did it turn out?

Yeah, I wrote an Unrequited Love One Shot once.

It wrecked my heart in half and I cried for the rest of the evening.

Okay, but beside that...”Spoonful of Affection” and some other One Shots, I probably haven’t even shared on here, has some stuff where I tried out “new things” ig.

30. Tooth-rotting fluff or merciless angst?

sahdhfJGJGG

God, tooth-rotting fluff...please! I want to indulge into sappy, romantic scenarios all the time.

Angst wrecks me ahdh. I don’t write Angst to wreck others, I write it to wreck myself. The one time I wrote something very heavily angsty, it ended in me crying on my bed while listening to Toni Braxton’s “Un-Break my heart” on loop.

31. Do you have any OCs? Tell us about them!

✨ I have too many ✨

But they have their own blog ✨😌: @shokugekinokimiko

32. Summarize a random fic of yours in 10 words or less.

“Shokugeki no Hiraku” - Chaos, Parties, Social Clash, Mean Girls, Underdog, School Tournament, Yearning

33. Is there anything you wish your audience knew about your writing or writing process?

I write mainly on my mobile.

34. Copy and paste an excerpt you’re particularly fond of.

“Schlagartig änderte sich Hisako’s Leben als sie die Sonne ihres Lebens das erste Mal traf.

Schlagartig änderte sich Hisako’s Leben als die Sonne dann plötzlich verschwand und Hisako’s Universum, stets ausgerichtet auf das strahlende Licht namens Erina seit jenem schicksalhaften Tag, kollabierte.” I’m sorry, but it’s really the best I can offer rn ahdhd

35. Ramble about any fic-related thing you want!

I literally love fanfiction so much and we have quite some talent in this smol fandom, no one can convince me otherwise.

I’ve run out of words, I’m sorry.

But you...you reading this!!!

You’re amazing 💕✨

#I hope this wasn't too boring #Gofer answering to stuffz

2 notes · View notes

syneilesis · 2 years ago

Text

[fic, wip 2/3] Let It Stand | chapter two

Let It Stand

Ikemen Prince | Chevalier Michel x Main Character (Emma) | T

ao3 link

Emma gets a new editor. This editor doesn’t like her that much.

A/N: Finally, ugh. I tried my best with the novel excerpts. Also, things get slightly serious in this chapter.

chapter one

chapter two

Page 84:

Did the main character waltz into the basement without getting flagged by security?

Why would Chevalier focus on the security of the palace? The scene was the first emotional confrontation between the main character and the male lead; nobody would bother to think about the shifting schedule of the palace guards!

Page 132:

The generals are not doing anything in accordance with their function.

It's a romance novel, not a military novel.

Page 256:

This scene doesn’t contribute to the overall narrative. Either remove this or revise this into something that will strengthen the connection between the main character and the male lead.

… Okay, this one was fair.

Page 401:

Flowery prose in this scene will only take away the quick pace of the action. Rework this.

Tch, fine.

Page 445:

The sacrifices made in defeating the antagonist are not comparable with what I suspect you want to achieve; if you want to highlight their love, you need to find something of equal value—say, his magic, for example.

Oh. This was a good point. A bittersweet approach, but utterly effective. Emma opened her notebook and started to take down notes; she was definitely going to lose a lot of sleep for revisions.

✏︎

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

subject: Re: Re: Re: Manuscript Editing

Dear C. Michel,

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day.

I am submitting the latest version of my manuscript. I’ve revised it according to your suggestions; however, I feel the need to defend some of my narrative choices, particularly about my decision to have the main character stay with the male lead.

I totally understand your point about the main character doing the most of the concessions, and I do feel that way about it too. But for this novel I want to capture the magic and fantasy of love, that it triumphs despite their being from different worlds. Besides, we all want, at some point, to escape and live within a fantastical world, don’t we?

I hope you let this one go, as it’s central to one of my goals writing this novel.

I’d like to reiterate my sentiment in my previous email: I greatly appreciate your feedback; I feel like I’m learning a lot, even if I already have some experience in writing stories.

Sincerely,

Emma

✏︎

“Any news about Luke?”

This time, Emma could hear a background hum, which she surmised was the photocopying machine. Maybe the same poor intern managed to fix it. Sariel sounded like he was in a good mood today.

“Unfortunately none. He remains elusive to our search.” Sariel paused, then excused himself, his muffled voice indicating that he was speaking to somebody in his office. Emma waited patiently, shifting her groceries on one arm. It was Saturday, and she had to catch up with her chores. She felt bad that Sariel had to work during the weekend because of Luke; she silently hoped that they’d find him as soon as possible.

The thump of something at the other end of the phone call brought Emma back to the matter at hand.

“My apologies,” Sariel resumed. “I had to employ the assistance of the national intelligence. The boy is starting to test my patience. He needs some disciplining once this is over.”

“I’m sorry, Sariel, did you say that the national intelligence is now involved?”

“All for Luke’s sake, of course.”

“And what do you mean by ‘disciplining’?!”

Sariel’s tone was amused, and Emma, again, felt dread for Luke’s well-being. “Oh, you know. I just meant that Luke should learn the importance of responsibility.”

While Emma did agree that it’s important to learn responsibility, Sariel made it sound like it’d be the most grueling thing that Luke would go through in his entire life.

“No funny stuff, Sariel!”

Even if Emma couldn’t see him, the way the incredulous silence that followed was palpable, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine Sariel raising one disbelieving brow at his phone, the corners of his lips quirking slightly. “Oh? Are you seriously warning me?”

Emma gulped. “N-No …”

“Glad to have that cleared up. By the way, how are you?”

The abrupt change of subject gave Emma whiplash. “I’m great?”

“Working with Chevalier.”

Oh. Right.

“I just sent him my revisions,” Emma said. She’d clicked that send button with a slight tremor and immediately closed her laptop once it went through. So far, she hadn’t received any notification of his reply, even if it was just a confirmation that he got the revised manuscript. Emma had to convince herself that Chevalier seemed like a man who would email a writer once he finished reviewing the draft. Waiting should not be treated as an apprehension; it should be seen as an opportunity to let go and relax.

“Good. He works fast, so expect him in a few days.”

Okay. Waiting with apprehension, then. It brought to memory Clavis’s stories of Chevalier as an editor. While a lot of them had been about how intimidating Chevalier was in general—thinking about them now Emma realized that what she wanted to know wasn’t really about Chevalier’s eye for detail and narrative logic or his job as an editor; she wanted to figure out the philosophy that Chevalier was operating under. What he thought were good stories, great stories; his vision, his ideals—what was he looking for whenever he sat down to read manuscripts of different writers?

What was he aiming for when he wrote A Solitary Moon?

“Hey, Sariel,” Emma found herself saying, “how did Chevalier become an editor?”

A beat. “Are you curious about him?”

“I’m just—” How to say this without giving herself away? “He’s quite the character, you know? I’m surprised that a lot of writers rely on him in spite of that attitude.”

“He’s very good at his job, personality notwithstanding.”

“And I agree, but …”

“Ah, so you’re regretting having him as your editor?”

“No, it’s not that. I just wonder …”

“Emma,” to which she startled, nearly dropping her groceries. It was rare that Sariel would call her by her name; most of those times had been during serious moments, so whatever Sariel was going to say now, Emma began to brace herself for it. “Have you developed an interest in our top editor?”

Emma sputtered, the sound overlapping with Sariel’s amused chuckle.

“I don’t mean it that way!” she exclaimed, feeling flustered all of a sudden. The profile picture of Chevalier buzzed in her mind like an unwelcome signal. “I just thought he’s too much of a perfectionist to work well with other writers! But I read things about him and they’re mostly praises. I don’t know if they’re just good at hiding their fear towards Chevalier or what.”

“Maybe they’re just good at masking their fear.” Sariel hummed in thought. “Do you fear him?”

Did she? Emma recalled all her interactions with him. It wasn’t so much fear as it’s irritation with the way he approached editing work. Instead of running for the hills, Emma felt more like clobbering Chevalier with a giant pencil due to how he phrased his comments. No, she never feared Chevalier, because even though his words lanced like a thousand needles, Emma understood that in the end he’s still doing his job. And it’s showing in her manuscript.

“No.”

“Good,” Sariel said, sounding satisfied. “That’s all you really need to know about Chevalier.”

“Huh?”

“That he's severely competent at his job, and that he will demand the same of his writers.”

But that didn’t really answer her question about Chevalier. About his path in becoming an editor. About what was most important to him when it came to the written word. Was he searching for the greatest novel yet written? Did he want to elevate all the novels he’d edited into great literature?

Maybe the others couldn’t answer Emma’s question. Maybe only Chevalier could.

✏︎

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Manuscript Editing

Do we.

Read my comments.

✏︎

A few days later, Emma was turning on the lights of her apartment living room, exhausted from work, when it’s revealed that Clavis was lounging on her couch for god knew how long, feet crossed and perched on the coffee table, a paper bag sitting beside him. Emma’s heart leaped out of her body and fled to another country, taking on a different name and identity, never to be seen again.

She screeched.

“Oh my god, you stalker!”

“Now, now,” Clavis said, singsong, like it was totally normal to break into someone's home and scare them to bloody death. “You have a nice apartment. Cute. Needs more fun and color though. Three-and-a-half stars.”

“How did you—you didn’t break the lock—Clavis, I’m calling the police—”

“After I risked my life just to give you this?” He left the couch with the paper bag and presented it to her, smirking all the while. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Emma was still reeling from the scare, palms sweaty and hair on her nape bristling. She eyed the bag suspiciously. Nothing about Clavis was trustworthy anymore; instead, everything about him invited violence. Against him. “What’s that.”

“It’s Chevalier’s novel, of course. Have you forgotten?”

She hadn’t forgotten, but this certainly shouldn’t be within the realm of the possible ways of acquiring Chevalier’s novel. Clavis giving it over coffee or visiting her in the bookstore seemed the more reasonable scenarios in her head; she should’ve known after that stunt he pulled the first time they met. What an unhinged man. She should stay away from him from now on.

Snatching the bag away from his hand, Emma stepped to the side and showed him the door. “Okay, thank you for the novel, Clavis. Now get out.”

Clavis didn’t look bothered at the very least; he even laughed like this was all so funny—and maybe to him, it was. That violent urge resurfaced. “Enjoy reading Chev’s novel, Miss Writer. I want to hear your thoughts after you finish reading it.”

“Ugh yes fine—don’t ever come back here again.”

Clavis bowed a gentleman’s bow, subtly mocking, and left. His chuckling echoed throughout the hallway. Emma slammed the door shut, double-locked it for good measure.

✏︎

Emma buried the Clavis Incident way, way deep down her mind, never to emerge again if she could help it. She seriously contemplated asking Sariel’s permission to file a restraining order on the man, for the sake of her apartment and her health.

But right now—regardless of whether she’s indebted to Clavis or not (she wasn’t)—Chevalier’s novel was calling to her like a siren, beckoning Emma to pick it up and read it on her bed. She inspected the book: a sturdy hardcover with smooth and creamy pages, the texture of which Emma would enjoy running her fingers on. The front cover depicted a stylistic illustration of a lady sitting as though she was modeling for a painting. Her hands were folded on her lap, her body tilted slightly to the right, but her head remained facing straight ahead, her gaze bright and defiant. She wasn’t smiling, but her rouge lips hinted of it. Her hair cascaded freely down her shoulders and chest, shimmering against the light outside the frame. She was, for all intents and purposes, beautiful. Just like the author, whose picture was printed on the inner flap of the back cover, with a brief blurb that recounted his accomplishments heretofore the novel’s publication. The photo in the book was different from the one displayed in the website. Here, Chevalier sat cross-legged on a rococo chair that almost looked like a throne, a king in repose, with a huge bookshelf in the background. He’s wearing a cream suit jacket over a white shirt, the first two buttons opened, revealing a perfect set of collarbones. Emma squinted; she’s not well-versed in designer brands, but Chevalier’s probably wearing Tom Ford or Dior or something unpronounceable.

She examined the cover further. The visual presentation of the novel gave her the impression that Chevalier writing fiction wouldn’t be a one-time thing. Maybe she could ask Sariel (or even Clavis? … Chevalier himself?) sometime in the future about it. Shrugging, she put those thoughts aside and started reading.

This was how A Solitary Moon opened:

It figures that exactly twenty years after he decided to study art instead of creating it, Claude Allard discovers the most beautiful painting in the world. It happens by chance – as all world-upending discoveries are wont to happen. It’s as if someone has pulled a rug under you, and as you fall your soul remains suspended in air, snapshot glimpse of the above seared behind your eyelids, lines and colors blurry with motion, the taste of shock on your tongue.

The first chapter chronicled how the main character, art historian Claude Allard, stumbled upon a painting of a woman so beautiful he fell in love with her. It was displayed at an indie art gallery, whose gallerist boasted to him that the artwork had once been owned by an archduke three generations ago. The artist was unknown despite the presence of signature, which was believed to be random letters strewn together. The novel narrated Claude’s attempts to determine who the painter was—propelling him to travel the world and meet the most interesting kinds of people with the most poignant experiences—so that he could identify who the lady was in the painting.

It wasn’t the sort of thing to be read from start to finish in one sitting, Emma realized. It’s meant to be read slowly and carefully, savored at lush moments, sighed at others. A Solitary Moon was the kind of novel that you think about during odd moments: right before ordering your favorite coffee blend at a café, crossing a street on a particularly windy day, watching people through the bookshop window. It had that tender quality that filled the silences of lost thoughts.

Even then, Emma didn’t notice that midnight had passed. She was still raptly glued to the book.

✏︎

He’s old – a willowy figure with wizened skin, hunched over as though he’s one cough away from collapsing. His great-granddaughter stands two steps behind him, a sentinel with a hawkish gaze, ready to come alive should a threat fall upon Dimitri. Claude observes them as he sips his tea, allowing the silence to linger and fester.

For years in between his work, his search for Luce’s painter brought him unimaginable adventure and even danger, and now, as he sits across Dimitri who can no longer even lift a brush, Claude thinks that this is a reprieve, in a way. The loud and explosive leaps of his quest thin into a reedy whisper, a bitterly unworthy conclusion. But regardless – he’s finally here and with one question, Claude will know. It doesn’t matter if Luce is already dead; Claude will render her immortal, as all beautiful existences are fated to become. One painting is not enough. The world should know and experience what it’s like to have your whole life, body, and soul seized and upended.

Except even there, he is denied of that. “I forgot,” Dimitri mumbles, repeats them over and over, the words blurring into each other that Claude has to strain his ears to hear them clearly. “I have forgotten.”

The teacup wobbles on his trembling hand.

This is the thing: a great journey doesn’t guarantee a reward at the end. But it is the driving force for all of them. What is hope without direction? A mere fantasy. All goals work towards a destination, and they all need an ideal—something to look forward to. For Claude, it is Luce, and thus he had faced all the challenges that arose in pursuit of his ideal, and he had emerged victorious.

But this journey only rewarded him with a dead end. Nothing! Not even a full name. Luce, on the brink of immortality, flickers and fades into lonely oblivion. An elegy to the forgotten.

Claude leans back on his seat and closes his eyes. Swallows.

✏︎

It took Emma a whole week to finish A Solitary Moon. All her available time spent in the corners, on the bed, hands and eyes intent on the book. A few instances, she vaguely noticed Rio shooting her worried looks, especially during lunch time, when they usually went out to eat. Food seemed like a distant necessity compared to the pressing need to unravel Claude’s love of Luce. Emma had complicated feelings towards Claude: on the one hand, the idea of falling in love with a person in a painting and searching for them in real life sounded brave and romantic; on the other hand, the love Claude had for Luce was so pure and exhilarating it felt like an illusion. Emma wondered what Chevalier was thinking when he wrote this. Was this how he viewed love?

But in the end, Claude never found out who Luce was. Was she still alive by the time he met the painter Dimitri or was she already dead? Was she even real and not just an idealized vision he created for his art? It would be devastating for Claude if she was just a painter’s dream—to go through so much and all for nothing. What was the point of it all? Why would Chevalier write a story that set up something grand and transcendent only for it to end in a whimper? Or was that his goal all along—the shock of subversion?

To almost taste it—what you’d been searching for most of your life—only to be deprived of it at the end. Reading that chapter, that scene, sent Emma to a floating state of disbelief. She couldn’t believe Chevalier made that narrative choice. The catharsis of the journey was absent; there was no closure. No wonder some of his Goodreads reviews mentioned something along the lines of reader heartbreak (one even wrote Why would you captivate my heart and then crush it?). What was he trying to say—that love might be real but ultimately pointless? Was he reflecting reality in that case?

But Emma refused to believe that. The way Claude’s love was described in the novel read like a nostalgic reminiscence of what was once simple and innocent, a sweet memory filtered through a myth of roses. It was by no means an indictment of such feeling; it’s more like Chevalier wanted to capture that kind of love, the only way he knew how.

Or maybe it’s this: the love was real, even if the person didn’t exist, and that still mattered.

Regardless, Emma finished the book a changed person, heart heavy and hurt and carved out from the inside.

A Solitary Moon ended with this sentence: And as the din of the airport washes over him, Claude continues to stare beyond the glass windows, to the airplane in the sky with its white jetstreak that cuts against the cloudless blue, weightless in flight, like the heart inside his ribcage, beating like a flap of wings, colorless.

Colorless. Did Chevalier think of it that way—the implosion of love?

✏︎

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Manuscript Editing

Your manuscript is two weeks late. Explain.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Manuscript Editing

Dear Mr. Michel,

I sincerely apologize for not submitting my revised manuscript. I know it’s now seventeen days past the deadline, and I still have not attached my manuscript. You must think very unprofessional of me for not honoring our agreed timeframe, and I most certainly agree with you. It’s just that I’ve been struggling with writing lately. I’m trying my best to follow your suggestions, I really do. But lately all I feel about my writing is that they will never amount to anything.

I’m sorry if that reveals a lot more than you probably want, but I swear, I’m working on my manuscript. Please give me a few weeks.

Emma

✏︎

When asked if Emma had ever imagined she and Chevalier meeting in person, she would of course say yes, as all writers and their editors should. Of course, she would never say that she had imagined their meeting with a frequency that might provoke Rio to a nervous fit. She would also never say that she had imagined their meeting in various creative scenarios. That one where their hands brush getting the same book in the library like a meet-cute was her favorite, though somewhat uninspired. Sometimes, she included Chevalier’s nasty personality, but most of the time she’d exercise her creative liberties. It’s her imagination, after all; it’s not like Chevalier would get wind of it and would then savagely edit her fantasies in a fit of petty revenge.

What Emma hadn’t accounted for was the possibility that Chevalier would come to her.

There’s a new part-timer in the bookstore, and Rio was teaching the kid at the payment counter. A group of high school students was hanging out at the YA section, their excited giggles echoing throughout the small shop. It was another slow day, but that’s all right; the batch of newly released titles would arrive a couple of days later, and the bookstore anticipated an increase of customers and hence sales by then.

Rearranging the philosophy section occupied most of Emma’s afternoon. Her mind, though, was elsewhere. Absently she shoved the books into the shelf, ignoring how Nietzsche stared at her from the book cover looking all sad and monochromatic. Which was why she failed to hear the door chime tinkling, along with Rio’s gasp and the high schoolers’ squeals. All of this went over her head, too absorbed by the anxiety of dealing with writer’s block.

Distinct footsteps—Oxford soles clacking against the polished wooden floor—slid into her awareness, growing louder and louder, then stopping near her. Still, Emma soldiered on her task; if the customer wanted to buy philosophy books, they would have to wait until she finished.

And for a moment she thought they would have, were it not for a harsh, exasperated sigh and a “You.”

Emma startled. The voice was deep, sonorous, the kind that would penetrate your bones and rattle them from the inside. It was also the kind that Emma would like to listen to in audiobooks.

Attention leaving the shelf, Emma pivoted to greet the owner of that gorgeous voice and instead let out a gasp that was even more dramatic than Rio’s.

“Oh my god,” Emma said.

“Oh god, no,” Rio said.

It was Chevalier Michel, in the flesh. And what glorious flesh. His pictures didn’t do him justice at all. The light from the shop and the one filtering through the windows haloed his outline like an angel descended from heaven. Emma could even hear a choir singing in the background. He seemed to be wearing Armani this time—jacket, shirt, and slacks highlighting his tall, lean frame. Was his prior engagement a fashion photoshoot? Emma wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Honestly, he didn’t look like a book editor at all.

“M-Mister Chevalier Michel!” Emma sputtered, afraid that she was gawking at him too much. “What brings you to our humble bookshop?”

Against her will, Clavis’s gleeful voice resurrected and ricocheted around the walls of her mind, his stories of Chevalier eviscerating writers pumping her already accelerating heartbeat.

“Are you really that much of a simpleton to ask why I’m here?” There’s an undercurrent of disdain in Chevalier’s tone and in his eyebrows, which was an impressive feat considering eyebrows were just relatively thick lines plastered on a person’s face.

“No…?” Emma cursed internally; the intonation at the end of the word rose like it was an interrogative sentence. Was that just a rhetorical question? Was she even required to answer it? She knew she should be offended, but truthfully Emma was still stuck on the fact that Chevalier Michel was here. In the bookstore. Standing in front of her, looking all so handsome and otherworldly and expensive.

Chevalier must be a telepath too, because he rolled his eyes as if he’d read Emma’s thoughts and responded accordingly, which was a dangerous thing for her. He must’ve received a lot of comments about his appearance all throughout his life; Emma shouldn’t add herself in the list.

Rio raced towards them, the new kid trailing after him like a confused foal. Meanwhile, the high schoolers encamped around them—understandable, Emma had to admit. Chevalier was objectively a gorgeous man, and there’s no way these high school students would pass up an opportunity to interact with him. A couple of them discreetly whipped out their phones and attempted to take a picture of the man. One even courageously ventured, “Hey, mister, are you a celebrity?”

Rio cut off that poor girl. “Dear customer,” he pronounced, blocking any path the students could verbally take. The distance between the counter and the philosophy section stretched into infinity; Emma could clearly note the hundred varied expressions flitting through Rio’s face as he hastened to approach them. There was shock, alarm, anxiety, dread, and other myriad ones that Emma could sympathize with. She was partial with dread, of course. Anyone would feel dread when confronted with Chevalier’s sword-sharp glare.

But it’s as if Rio didn’t exist; Chevalier paid him no notice and remained judging Emma with his (beautiful! heavenly! heartstopping!) ice-blue eyes.

“It’s eighteen days past your deadline,” he said, like that answered all the questions in the world. Which, to be fair, it did. Emma’s heart started galloping. A part of her, numbed and removed from the immediate situation, felt sorry for Schopenhauer being stuck between her sweaty palms.

“I-I’m sorry!” Emma stuttered and gracelessly thrust Schopenhauer next to Nietzsche. Thank god they’re both hardcovers; she might scream in horror if either cover got ruined in her carelessness. “I know I’m late; I’m working on it, really! I sent an email yesterday—I was hoping you’d grant me that extension.”

But it’s clear that Chevalier had made a different decision. Emma was pretty sure he’s going to castigate her in the middle of her shift with Rio, the new kid, and the high school girls as unfortunate witnesses.

The line of Chevalier’s mouth twitched. Downward it seemed, like he was trying to tamp down the urge to sneer but failing to quell the reaction because Emma screwed up big time. She gulped and braced herself for the inevitable fallout.

Then a strange thing happened: whatever it was Chevalier’s going to do, he stopped himself from doing it and just heaved a long-suffering sigh. It reminded Emma of the countless sighs she’d heard from Sariel, but this one was more along the lines of I’m surrounded by incompetent fools rather than I don’t deserve this level of stress in my life please god almighty make Clavis go away. Hope budded inside Emma’s chest. Was she going to get away with not submitting on time?

But then Chevalier scowled and Emma’s nascent hope died a swift, painful death. He spun towards the direction of the exit and in a voice that brooked no defiance, ordered, “Come with me.”

So this was it, then. Chevalier was leading Emma to her demise. It had been a nice life, all things considered. She read, she wrote, she published. She lived the dream. She was just sorry that she hadn’t written her will yet; she hadn’t settled on whom to bequeath her book collection up till now. Maybe Rio, but knowing him, instead of reading all the books he’d inherit from her he’d just make a shrine out of them.

She threw an apologetic glance at the books. She would’ve wanted to read more, but this was as far as she could go.

Suddenly Rio’s at the door, barricading the exit with his arms akimbo and his face contorted in a way that his customer-service smile looked more seething than cheerful.

“Dear customer!” he repeated, jolly as a rabid dog could be jolly. “If you’re undecided about what books to buy, may I suggest a couple of titles?”

The bookshop fell into a hush. Nobody dared to breathe.

Emma must have a death wish, because she added, helpfully: “I’m on the clock, Mister Michel. I can’t follow you outside right now, much as I want to.”

With her and Rio to intervene in her impending doom, Chevalier would have to yield, right? But they had regrettably proven to be weak adversaries, for Chevalier merely glanced at them both and then strode back to the philosophy section to pull out Nietzche and Schopenhauer, after which he migrated to the—shocking!—romance section and grabbed a Jane Austen novel. (It was Emma; Emma didn’t know what to feel about that, honestly.) He returned in front of Rio and pushed the books into his unprepared arms. “There,” Chevalier declared, tone final. He handed his credit card (Oh my god, Emma inwardly gasped, zeroing in on the card; it was black) to the newbie, who paled upon the sight of such a display of status. “This will suffice, will it not.”

Then he stared emphatically at Emma, who received it with the poise of someone on the verge of diving behind the stacks of self-help books. She had no choice but to say, “Rio, I think I’ll take my c-coffee break now.”

✏︎

So far Chevalier hadn’t murdered her once they went outside. There was no glove-slapping, or surprise-stabbing, or a sidewalk shootout, and that invited further paranoia from Emma. Maybe he derived sick pleasure in pushing his victims to their terrified limits.

He led her to a sleek, blue Chevrolet Camaro, opening the passenger seat and demanding her to get in. Once they’re both inside, seatbelts on, Chevalier huffed. “I’m not taking you somewhere else to kill you.”

Emma’s head whirled so fast her neck cracked. Chevalier’s eyebrow twitched, unimpressed.

She goggled at him. “How did you know what I was thinking?!”

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have already done so the day after your missed deadline.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?!”

All she got was a derisive snort. Afterwards Chevalier turned the engine on and drove away from the bookshop. For a fleeting second, Emma had the wild thought that it was the last time she’d see it. Rio had begrudgingly allowed Emma’s early coffee break since he had a co-worker staying behind with him and Chevalier had—in addition to Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, and Austen—purchased plenty more books to force him into capitulation. It would be sad if that was her and Rio’s final contact. He hadn’t even yet replaced the skincare set he ‘accidentally’ used up.

They passed through a familiar route that Emma eventually realized was heading towards Rhodolite Press. Perhaps Chevalier was just taking her to his office to talk about her manuscript? Emma sneaked a glance at him. Chevalier appearing at the bookshop was truly something unexpected, and although they should have met long before, Emma still felt unprepared seeing and speaking to Chevalier in person.

Rhodolite Press loomed over them, casting its shadow over the road. It’s a modest building of three storeys, one side transparent glass walls that doubled as windows. Only the first floor had no blinds, so Emma could peek into the interior and make out a spacious lobby decked with modern furnishings. There were a couple of vending machines, Emma recalled; one for drinks and the other for assorted junk food.

The car sped past the building, and Emma made an aborted sound. Not Rhodolite Press, then. So where were they going? A café? A five-star restaurant? His house? … An abandoned area unknown to most people?

Chevalier clucked his tongue as if responding to her rapidly spiraling thoughts. Which he probably might have, for all she knew.

After several turns, they left the main road and continued down a narrower path that appeared to lead to an upper-class neighborhood. Buildings became large houses, the cost of which Emma couldn’t even afford in her lifetime. Another glance at Chevalier, studying him as if his face held the answer to her current burning question. It didn’t, but it was a good face, an amazing face, so that’s a consolation.

A few minutes later they pulled over at a small parking area. Across it was a gated garden; however, nobody seemed to be guarding it.

“Out,” Chevalier said, removing his seatbelt and opening his side of the door. Emma scrambled after him.

Chevalier moved like he’d been here several times before, his strides long and sure. He knew exactly where the entrance was and marched in without hesitation. Emma, worried that they’re trespassing, scanned the area for any onlookers.

She was interrupted by an impatient grunt and a flick to the forehead. “Ow, hey!” Emma rubbed the painful spot—and then froze. She gawped at Chevalier open-mouthed. “Did you just—”

“You’re unnecessarily distracted. Even other simpletons could focus better.”

He resumed walking inside the garden, and Emma valiantly clung to a zen-state instead of surrendering to the temptation of throwing her shoe at Chevalier. She followed him before he could turn around and reprimand her again.

There’s an isolated part of the garden that housed only roses. All in full bloom, a rich blanket of red that assaulted the senses. Emma inhaled sharply; it’s one of the most beautiful places she’d ever been to. It was like stepping into a dream, one in which she didn’t want to leave.

“I didn’t know there’s such a place like this,” she found herself whispering in reverence.

In her periphery, Chevalier paused and cast her an assessing gaze, to which she returned the favor. Surrounded by the roses, Chevalier looked like he belonged in this garden. The contrast between the crimson hue of the flowers and his pristine figure—cornsilk hair, azure eyes, and ivory skin garbed in white—served to highlight Chevalier’s preternatural beauty. If there were only a painter to immortalize this vision.

Helplessly, she added, “I love it. Here, I mean.”

His implacable expression never faltered. It reminded her of the marble statues exhibited in the museum she visited a couple of months ago—perfectly chiseled, perfectly haunting.

To Emma’s astonishment, it’s Chevalier who dropped the eye contact. But it turned out that he just redirected his scrutiny to the roses on his left. “It’s a good place to read. Quiet, peaceful,” he murmured.

The volunteering of such information caught Emma off-center. “Do you read here?” she asked. When Chevalier stayed tight-lipped about it, her previous concern came to the fore again. “Wait—I got it. This is where you’ll murder me. In this beautiful garden where you like to read. You’re going to use my corpse as fertilizer for the flowers.”

For the entire duration of their walk they never encountered any other people in the garden, which solidified her theory that Chevalier had planned on committing a criminal act, irrespective of his prior statements about the place. It didn’t help that his glower conveyed a definite homicidal inclination. But contrary to conjuring a sword, Chevalier merely crossed the length of the rosebushes that lined the path to a gazebo. He gestured at a bench as he sat on the one at the other side, ankles locked, one hand on his thigh, the other perched on the backrest.

Emma obeyed; there’s nothing else to do. Nerves still persisting, she blurted, “I’d like to say my last words, if you’ll allow me.”

Chevalier inclined his head, eyes narrowed into slits. “Careful, because I have half a mind to fulfill what your silly imagination dreads happening.”

“Oh.” Emma laughed, high-pitched and tense, ready to bolt if necessary. In that precise moment, Chevalier truly did emit an aura of having killed before and getting away with it. “I’m sorry,” she hastily said when she noticed his hand twitching. “I’m just—why are we here?”

A pause, a breath. Chevalier still as a statue, with a piercing look that had Emma squirming in her seat.

Before she could do something stupid, like confess to a nonexistent crime, Chevalier spoke.

“Explain,” he said. His tone might be clipped, but it was firm and implied nothing—not even judgment. It threw Emma for a loop; she’d always thought that Chevalier was pretty much a judgmental person, as evidenced by his neverending comments in her manuscript. But then she remembered what Sariel had told her: that Chevalier only demanded the best of everyone, even if others hadn’t the same standards as he had.

Even though it’s only a single word, Emma understood. And suddenly, everything shifted and gained clarity, like a dissipating mist revealing what was concealed. The rose garden was a beautiful place; it elicited the feeling of comfort, of peace. Chevalier brought her here to ease the tension that had built inside her the moment he entered the bookstore—no, maybe even before that: the moment she failed to submit her revision. He had exacting standards, sure, but Chevalier also knew exactly how to improve one’s writing skills (approach notwithstanding), and Emma had been benefiting from that talent. This too was a part of that: Chevalier needed to know what was wrong so he could address the problem. And if he had to resort to this, well—it was his job.

Which was why it was embarrassing to reveal to him the reason for her failure. But it appeared that this confrontation was a game of attrition, and Chevalier played to win. No matter how Emma tried to hedge, digress, and prevaricate, Chevalier would yank her back to the crux of the issue.

So, she capitulated. Hands on her lap, one on top of the other, she took a deep breath, and began. “I read your novel,” she said, slowly, softly. She picked on her skirt, traced the design with her index finger. Refused to lift her head and gauge Chevalier’s reaction. From his side of the gazebo there was neither a shift nor a shuffle, and Emma took that as a cue to keep going. “I was curious in the beginning. You’re very unsparing with your criticisms, you know? Your comments made me want to tear my hair out. And then when I found out that you’ve published something before, I wanted to know how you write. There was a bitter part of me that hoped that you weren’t a great writer, so I’d chalk up your fussiness to your inability to write well. But then I read your novel, and it was so good and so perfect and it left me breathless and heavy with emotions for days. I couldn’t do anything else with all these lingering feelings inside me. The way you write was just—so gorgeous and lovely and all the best adjectives I can think of. Compared with mine, yours is flawless. I can never measure up to your prose. And I guess that got to me. Now, I read my work and all I can think of is that it’s not enough. How can I write like you? I don’t think I ever can. I want to throw my novels and my manuscript away. I should just give up—that’s what I’ve been thinking all this time.”

She trailed off, letting the silence take over. In a way this was an exorcism: expelling what was plaguing her and the shame that came with it. The burden gone like a final sigh. It’s still uncertain whether this would help her writing from then on, but nonetheless it was a welcome development.

Chevalier hadn’t responded. The entire confession, Emma persisted in averting her eyes, afraid that any change in his expression could undermine the strength she’d mustered to talk. And even afterwards—only the distant twittering of birds broke through the quiet. A breeze rolled past and rustled the leaves, susurrus loud in her ears. Her reluctance prolonged and drawn out.

But then:

“Do you know why—even if Clavis meddled with the initial arrangement—I accepted becoming your substitute editor?”

Emma jerked her head up and discovered Chevalier observing her, a pensive look on his face. It boggled her; truth to be told she anticipated a roasting—grousing at how pathetic she was to see herself that way. In fact, she had braced herself for it. This, however, was a tentative surprise. “You knew it was Clavis’s doing?”

Chevalier closed his eyes, pained, and pinched the bridge of his nose, like she asked a stupid question.

“Sorry,” she amended, feeling a rueful smile forming between her lips. “I did wonder about it. Sariel said you have work to last you a decade. What made you accept it? Is it because it’s just temporary?”

“Of course not. I don’t like wasting my time with useless work.” A beat, as though he was debating on what to say next. “You said that you could never measure up to my prose. That I write beautifully and every word in that novel is flawless—”

“Wow, okay, that's right, it’s true, but do you have to rub it in my face—”

“—and it devastates you to compare your work with mine, because you feel like yours is worthless. Why would you compare other people’s writing with yours? It’s foolish and unproductive.”

Easy for him to say. A genius like him would never understand the agony of toiling over words, characterization, and plot. Despite her experience as a fanfiction writer, Emma felt like she bit off more than she could chew. Writing a novel was a different beast. She could still remember with vividness her bedroom walls filled with post-it notes and index cards outlining her story and characters. Her steady diet of caffeine, her near-brush with carpal tunnel syndrome. The anxiety of introducing original characters to new readers and existing readers who were used to transformative fiction.

Emma opened her mouth to argue but Chevalier apparently wasn’t done yet.

“You know where your strengths lie, your readers know where you excel—which is why they keep buying your books. Whereas I may write beautifully, you write with sincerity. Your novels are earnest—naïve at times, true—but that is what makes your books effective and appealing. Rhodolite would not support you if we didn’t think your stories would resonate with readers.”

Oh. Emma’s jaw slackened in shock. She gaped at Chevalier as if he’d revealed an earth-shattering secret—like he’s secretly nice all along (impossible, but a girl could dream)—and it wasn’t too implausible at all. Never in all the time she’d known him that Chevalier had the capacity to give her—even if in a roundabout way—a pep talk of all things. But he did! For her! To get her out of this downward spiral of insecurity! And it was truly an incredible thing: he believed in her and her ability to write. Something warm began to unspool within Emma’s chest, climbing to her cheeks, and the sentiment pulled her attention inward. If it had been from other people, she would have received the words of encouragement with grace and enthusiasm; but coming from Chevalier, whose writing ability could trounce Emma’s emotions in both art and editing, it made her bashful all of a sudden. Shy. Like peeling away her skin and exposing the vulnerabilities beneath.

She might not have known Chevalier for a long time, and taking into account all their exchanges plus Clavis’s and Sariel’s stories it would be safe to say that what Chevalier did today was quite uncharacteristic of him. To bring Emma to a wonderful place and say wonderful words to lift her spirits. Perhaps this was what Chevalier-the-editor would do, for the sake of work. After all, to his eyes, Emma was a job first and the rest a hyperbolically distant second.

Regardless, Chevalier had touched Emma’s heart with his positive words, no matter how awkward and backhanded they were. And because it’s him, it’s the thought and effort that counted. The possibility that Chevalier might have grit his teeth enunciating each encouraging word was hilarious, but Emma was too busy stamping down the swell of tears. She’s acutely aware that she’s telegraphing her emotional state like a large neon sign, but Chevalier was acting like nothing extraordinary happened.

“Do you understand now?” he said.

Emma resisted the urge to cover her face in mortification. “Yes,” she mumbled, sniffling. Three seconds later: “Your approach needs improvement, though.”

It’s a miracle Chevalier’s response was only an eyeroll. “You have a month to pull yourself together. I expect your revised manuscript by then.”

Now this was more like him: in business mode, succinct and demanding. But Emma was beginning to realize something: for Chevalier, one month was already a generous concession. It shouldn’t engender a warm, fuzzy feeling in her, but it did, and she didn’t know whether that was a dangerous thing or not.

But for now, she’s basking in the weightlessness of her writing concerns and in the radiance of roses. And in Chevalier’s steady and steadfast gaze.

“Yes,” she said, smiling sincerely. “Thank you, Chevalier.”

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