#telephone is ringing- i got you under my wheels- you got me on the run

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

Billy singing Under My Wheels by Alice Cooper all the goddamn time because he thinks it applies to his everyday life

[spookiesmausoleum]

𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐕𝐨𝐱 - 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐆𝐨 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

A collection of lyric starters from Red Vox's album "What Could Go Wrong" cut for length. Please remember to specify for multi-muse blogs!

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐞𝐬

"Got a new woman, found her in an old bar."

"Got me a woman, baby!"

"There she goes in the morning."

"There she goes in the evening."

"There she goes when the day is, day is done."

"I found her on my new phone."

"Really should see her photos, too bad they weren't her own."

"Think this is the woman, baby, I really do."

𝐀𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐨𝐦𝐛

"Was on the news today, gotta stay afraid."

"Just leave it alone."

"It's out of control."

"They got a war machine but it's going green."

"I don't even know.

"They got another minion with no real opinion taking the fall."

"And I'm telling myself that I'm going to hell."

"I feel like an atom bomb."

"Just leave me alone."

"We're down in a hole."

"Can't take it anymore."

"Tearing me from the inside."

"Blowing me out of my mind."

𝐖𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐀 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤

"Watch me throw my life away, just for you, now I feel it's here to stay."

"Every time I close my eyes, I can see all the things I wanted to be."

"Take a piece there's not much left, but I feel that there's something more to say."

"We had a little talk."

"Got your reasons, got your code, and I know that you think it'll never change."

"Take the time to know yourself, not a clone or a fraction of someone else."

"Whatever you do, don't you throw your life away."

"Whatever you do, don't you turn turn your back on me."

"Don't you give your life away."

"Watch me throw my words away to wind, do we change or we stay the same."

"After all that's been and done, it was you I always running from."

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐨 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥

"I wake up on my own, but I don't wanna go."

"A million things to do."

"I caught another glance."

"Could be a second chance."

"I wanna go back home."

"Look out of the window and doubt everyone you know."

"I really wanna leave, but I know it won't last much longer."

"Half the day is done."

"I'll meet you after lunch."

"Throw me to the curb!"

"You said you had my back!"

"You gotta learn the rules."

𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞

"I caught you ringing on the telephone, but you couldn't spit it out."

"I heard you sounding like a dial tone, marbles in your mouth."

"Remember that funny feeling you couldn't live without."

"And you couldn't see the vision, head all in the clouds."

"I caught you saying that you're in control, but your wheels are spinning out."

"But you can't hear me shout."

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐎𝐟 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

"You've got a sentimental feeling, but you're under someone else's thumb."

"Now you'll play the victim from the start."

"Show off your sacred, bleeding heart."

"You claim to know the path to healing, empathy for all, but not for some."

"Gonna act this way."

"Gonna think this way."

"Gonna talk this way."

"Gonna 'splain away all the things you say."

"Never gonna change, gonna walk away to the next charade."

"Before you take the stage, I'm gonna walk away."

𝐀𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲

"I wish you luck along the way, I would have never told you, but I gotta say it's true."

"And if I'm wrong, along the way, I would have never told you cause I gotta play the fool."

"And now you got a problem with my company."

"You found a little bit of trouble and you're out to sea."

"And if you got nothing but time to kill."

"I get a back seat driver and a critic for my review."

"That makes the time and the effort worth the trouble of going through."

𝐇𝐚𝐳𝐲

"So I got a little older I got everything I thought I'd need."

"I got a little wiser, but I'm not everything I thought I'd be."

"Think you'd be better off in bed reliving the past inside your head."

"No I don't have a lot to leave and I'm not good enough to."

"Was it worth the time you spent?"

"I don't think so."

"Could have been worse is what you said."

"So I got another concept, I think it's my best idea in years."

"Gonna give it the very best of me."

"Think of all the shit that came and went."

"You'd think it's the wheel you'd reinvent."

"I guess I'll throw it all away, because I'm not good enough to."

"And you should give up before too long."

"But if I pretend to believe that I'm good enough to..."

"It was worth the time I spent."

"And now the voice is fucking dead."

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲

"I got you a job in the city now."

"But what you want isn't what you found."

"We're taking the bus and you're going downtown."

"Bet you tried to burn this opportunity down."

"So sorry, so sad."

"Slaving all day for your pennies now, should be proud."

"Got me a car and I bought me a house."

"When I was younger, I had it all figured out."

"I want you to notice."

"I want you to know just what I've done for you."

"It's time to come down from the top of that cloud."

"You're punching the clock for twenty odd years now above and beyond, but still on the ground."

"Take a bow."

𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐭

"She missed the beat on the day of the week she was born."

"Gotta go sometime, always losing."

"You're losing a part of yourself everyday."

"Gotta go somewhere, always something."

"It's something that you tell yourself."

"All the way… to the morgue."

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞

"I've been writing on your ghost page babe."

"I've been waiting by your grave."

"Once upon a time I watched you fall."

"It was written on your wall."

"Rain hell, rain it on top of me."

"Cause right now, no one is stopping me."

"And I would check it every day."

"We'll be together till the end of time."

"I'll be scrolling through your shrine."

𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

"And every time, that I feel afraid, afraid of what I'll say."

"I towed the line and now I'm alone - It doesn't mean I don't belong."

"It's hard to believe you when you say I'll never leave you."

"I could be wrong, but it's been a long, lonely night."

"And any time that I feel the pain."

"You told a lie and now I'm alone - I couldn't see when I was wrong."

"And any time, that I feel afraid, afraid of what you'll say."

𝐈𝐧 𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦

"Once, I dreamt I wasn't far away from you."

"And I just couldn't believe it, I was changed or deranged."

"Now, am I the one who's head is in the ground."

"But I don't know what any of this means to me."

"Turn out the lights and it's all so clear to see."

"All of this time I was holding out it seems."

"Go back to bed and I'll meet you in a dream."

"And you, you complicate the life you stepped into."

"And I just couldn't receive it, I was closed, predisposed."

"Now, am I the one who ran away from you."

"I don't know when I would see your face again."

"You fell like a star in the Milky Way back when."

[guerrilla-operator]

Alice Cooper // Under My Wheels

The telephone is ringing You got me on the run I'm driving in my car now Anticipating fun I'm driving right up to you, babe I guess that you couldn't see, yeah, yeah But you were under my wheels, honey Why don't you let me be?

[wonhaz]

good old-fashioned lover boy - p.sh

pairing : sunghoon x fem!reader genre : fluff, sunghoon being a sweet lovesick boyfriend, set in the london in the 1970's, inspired by queen's song - good old-fashioned lover boy wc : 0.6k warnings : kisses, hugging, eating, story details aren't entirely accurate to the time period synopsis : it was the summer of 1976 and your lovesick boyfriend is treating you like a queen a/n : currently obsessed with the song by queen and immediately thought of sunghoon in the second pic (i love his fashion style)

"i'm so bored" you tell your boyfriend sunghoon over the telephone. you were currently lying on your living room couch watching television and you had no interest in the current programe whatsoever. "is that so? why don't we go out tomorrow, go for a stroll at the park? how does that sound love?" the way he calls you love with his deep voice makes you giddy and giggly he has to ask you again to make sure the call didn't get cut off. "i would love to!" you reply, you're not aware but he's grinning ear to ear on the other side of the line. "great, pick you up at 3." he says and blows a kiss before putting the phone down.

you stand in your living room dressed and waiting for sunghoon, pacing back and forth. why were you nervous? you honestly don't know either, your snapped out of your trance when you hear the doorbell ring. running to the door, you open it only to be faced with the back of a striped blue shirt. sunghoon. he turns around and you're met with a bouquet of blue flowers, he smiles and motions for you to take them. your cheeks now brighter than the blush you had put on, you stutter out a response. "t-t-thank you, sunghoon, they're so pretty!", "pretty flowers for a pretty girl." he says and winks.

as you finish and place the vase on a table, sunghoon bows, as if you were royalty, "shall we go miss? your carriage awaits." holding out his hand for you to take. you smile and play along, "yes, we shall." you say, taking his hand and you both share a laugh. sunghoon carefully leads you to his parked car outside and opens the door for you before walking to the drivers side.

the car ride is silent, but not uncomfortable. basking in the presence of the other in silence, the only sound being the radio, you occasionally glance at him behind the wheel. sunghoon feels your gaze on him and turns to look at you and gives you a soft smile, placing his hand on yours. how did i manage to find someone like sunghoon? you think, you definitely got lucky, he was all you could ever ask for and you loved him dearly.

"we're here love!" he says smiling as you pull to the side. he jogs to the other side of the car before you can open your door and grabs a picnic basket that was in the back seat. sunghoon intertwines his fingers with yours and leads you into the park and to a spot under a big tree. you help him set up the mat and he takes out the foods he packed. all your favorite snacks you think and grin from ear to ear. you can't help but dig in and sunghoon watches your with a lovesick expression. "stop looking at me like that-" you say as you stuff cookies in your mouth. "like what?" he asks, "like that." you say, "is there something on my face?". "hm.. beauty." he says wiggling his eyebrows and using his thumb to wipe off a few crumbs off your cheek. you blush and lightly punch his chest to which he responds with a dramatic fake faint. "how could you punch me princess? i'm going to die!" sunghoon says and flops on the picnic mat. you lay on top of him and hug him, "i'm sorry love~" you coo, and peck his lips. his eyes light up, "apology accepted." he says grinning and traps you in a hug. "shall we walk now?" sunghoon asks and you nod. helping you up, he picks you up and spins you around in the air, you squeal at the sudden gesture and giggle when he lets you back down. your foreheads touching, sunghoon stares lovingly into your eyes. "i love you." he says, "i love you too, lover boy~". you respond and lean in for a kiss.

sunghoon was yours, he was your lover boy,

your good old-fashioned lover boy.

[spencesglasses]

sweet creature (spencer reid x f! reader) pt 3

a/n: no spence in this part, sorry to disappoint you simps. but uhh, y/n and jj rights! but as besties <3

tw! there are mentions of sexual assault and a minor character death! please be aware before reading!!

part one | part four

“St. Augustine, Florida,” Penelope starts, showcasing the most recent case. “Two bodies were found early this evening in a remote wooded area just west of the city. Neither have been identified yet.”

“This woman’s complexion…” Tara said, looking at the pictures of a woman with various injuries on her face.

Y/N looked at the board beside Penelope. “… she was exsanguinated.” she hissed.

“Correct, my dearest, which is a really fun word to say, but I didn’t know its terrible meaning until I started working here.”

“Odd that the only female had her blood removed,” Rossi said across the round table.

“Well, the male victim might have been collateral damage or a witness that needed to be silenced.” JJ added.

“I mean, it is the kind of message that would be sent to each other. The Curiel Syndicate recently set up shop in Florida,”

“Except it looks like these two were meant without anyone the wiser. How is that a message?” Asked Rossi.

“Well, cartels have also been known to use murder as a form of voodoo.” Derek pointed out. “In 1989, a University of Texas student was murdered by a satanic gang while on spring break.”

Y/N leaned further into the table, reviewing the photos they were given. “My guess is that this has nothing to do with drugs. Maybe someone with a blood fetish-”

“Vampirism?” JJ asked.

Y/N hums in response, glancing at her for a brief moment.

“It’s late and we need to hit the ground running. Wheels up in 30.” Hotch said as he closed the file he held, gathering any necessary belongings for the case.

Without another word, the team mirrored his actions and followed him out. This was one of the first few cases she has worked on with the team without Spencer. She didn’t mind it, of course. The team welcomed her with open arms and treated her as if she had always been there, which she appreciated. She had gotten used to everything that came with the job, and grew closer to the team, but she wouldn’t be lying if she said that some things she sees still make her skin crawl.

-

Y/N looked out the window of the jet, admiring the contrast of the dark, star filled sky beneath the white clouds. She was seated with JJ, Hotch, and Morgan at the small table, the rest of the team claiming their spot to the seats to their right.

“The coroner attributed the lacerations on the bodies to animal bites.” Morgan said. “Apparently there are a lot of raccoons in that area.”

Y/N felt JJ nudge her slightly and brought her attention back to the file on her lap, flipping through the photos. “The media’s going on about satanic mutilation.”  

“It’s happened before. The West Memphis three case showed how animal activity on a corpse can be mistaken for a ritualized torture.” Hotch noted.

“After the first bite, the insect infestation expands and distorts the open wounds,” Said Rossi.

Y/N heard Garcia groan over the laptop speaker, seeing her face scrunch up in disgust on the screen. “Ok, here’s my finger, here’s the mute button. Are you guys done talking about the critter damage?”

JJ and Y/N shared a look, and she smiled. “You can put your finger down, Pen, we’re done,”

“Thank you, and Y/N’s right; local news and radio outlets are going wild with this being a blood-worshipping cult murder.” she continues typing. “Hey, new information. Both of those bodies have just been identified, Cheyenne Pravato, 23 and George Henning, 71.”

The team leaned forward to inspect the photos of the recent victims popping up on the screen.

“Any connection?” asked Hotch.

“My level-one search says no, my level 2 through 20 await. Cheyenne was a waitress that is currently unemployed. Henning was a retired steelworker from Pennsylvania, lived in Florida a few years. They both went missing 3 days ago.”

“3 days?” Tara questioned. “Coroner estimated the time of death as less than 24 hours from the time of discovery?”

“Preliminary indicators show no sign of torture or sexual assault,” JJ said.  

Y/N’s eyebrows knit together in thought, trying to piece together the information. “What was he doing with them?”

The team brought their attention to Hotch, and he said, “Dave, you find out what you can about Cheyenne from friends and family. Morgan, you do the same thing for Henning. JJ, I need you to rein in the media. And, Lewis, Y/L, you two go to the M.E.. Hysteria’s growing and we need to contain it.”

-

“Still waiting on the full tox screen for the male victim,” said the medical examiner.

“We think they may have been held for up to two days.” Tara said. “Were they fed?”

“Stomach contents were empty, but nutrition and hydration levels were normal. My guess is they were both fed through an I.V.” he said, lifting the fabric that covered the body. “I did find one curiosity,”

He uncovered the victim's calf, showing a mark on the skin with red rings around it. Y/N furrowed her brows, her eyes scanning the injured spot. “It looks like an animal bite?”

“Not under magnification. It’s actually a surgically precise triangle,”

She saw Tara’s face harden in the corner of her eye; she turned to her and they shared a questioning look. They heard the telephone ring from across the room, and the medical examiner was quick to answer it. Tara lifted the fabric once more, bending down to look closer at the injury.

“You’re positive of that?” Y/N heard him ask over the phone. The medical examiner hung up the phone, turning on his heel to face the two women. “The tox screen and DNA tests on George Henning just came back. You ready for this? Most of the blood in his body isn’t his…”

Y/N tilted her head. “Then whose…”

“It’s Cheyenne’s…”

Her whole body tensed at his words, and Tara’s jaw dropped in shock.

-

Y/N tapped her pencil against the table as she read over the tox screening. “The blood drained from Cheyenne was put into George Henning?” Morgan questioned, gesturing to the document in her hand.

She slid the paper across the table for him to read. “It is strange, a triangle was cut into his calf muscle too,”

“And there’s still something in the toxicology screen that the M.E. can’t identify.” Hotch said.

“Yeah, we’re hoping to find something more in the next few hours,”

Morgan slid back the report to her. She heard footsteps coming closer to the room they occupied and turned to see JJ walking in.  She greeted her with a small wave and smile, to which she returned. JJ leaned against Y/N’s chair, resting her hand on the back of it. “So, it took a little arm-wrestling,” she starts. “But the media finally saw the wisdom in toning down the whole demon worship angle,”

“Don’t take a victory lap just yet,” Rossi said, Y/N handing her the tox report.

“You’re kidding,” JJ huffed.

Tara picked up the photos from the M.E., flipping them over for JJ to see. “Y/L and I are just trying to work out this whole calf muscle business,”

“Triangles are big in illuminati symbolism.” Rossi recounted.

Morgan let out a sharp exhale. “This is just bending back toward cult behavior.”

“What did you find out about George Henning?” Hotch asked him.

“According to the neighbors, the guy was a shut-in. No friends, a lot of health problems — hypertension, parkinson’s,”

“Cheyenne was the opposite,” Rossi interjected. “Vegan, into new age lifestyles. Never met a harmonic convergence she didn't want to converge on.”

“Well, I mean, I get it with him; he was a recluse, but how did nobody notice her missing for 3 days?”

“Her friends said that Cheyenne was flighty. It was not unusual for her to take off without notice for a week or two.”

“Transfusions and sustained I.V. feeding takes skill, planning and access to materials, and as crude as it was, the replacing of old blood with new is dialysis.” Hotch said.  “ What if the triangle isn’t a symbol, but a tissue sample? Could this be medical experimentation?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’ve got a youthful, healthy host in Cheyenne and a sick test subject in Henning,”

“If the new missing girl’s his next victim, the unsub could be getting ready to try again,” JJ said, clutching the back of Y/N’s chair.

Y/N gave her a look of confusion. “New missing girl?”

“A missing persons report came in earlier today, Andrea Gambrell,” JJ explained. “Her car was found abandoned at a cemetery near Jacksonville. Cheyenne and Andrea waitressed at the same restaurant.”

“If Andrea mirrors Cheyenne, then who mirrors George?” Y/N asked.

“I guess that’s what we have to figure out.”

-

Y/N stood with JJ and Hotch looking over photos they’ve gathered throughout the case, trying to come up with a conclusion. She tapped her foot anxiously against the tile beneath her feet, her brows furrowing as she looked closely at the photos. The sound of Hotch’s phone ringing startled her, making her jump. She let out a deep breath and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. JJ took notice of a very flustered looking Y/N and placed a hand on her shoulder gently. “You okay there?”

She gave her a half-hearted smile, moving past her to stand next to Hotch. “‘m fine.”

“What do you have, Garcia?” he asked.

He asked her to search for doctors or any medical professionals in the area, anyone that could pop up as a red flag, and of course, Garcia was quick to find just what they needed. “Nothing on my crimson flag doctor search, but I did learn about something with a super cool name,” she said through the speaker. “The mad scientist club,”

JJ took a step, now standing beside Y/N. “And what is that?’ she asked.

“They’re a student group from the Florida College of Medicine in Jacksonville. Before the disbanded, they used to get together and talk about experimental ways to cure disease.”

“Do you have any names of the people in the club?” Y/N questioned.

“Uh, kinda, sorta, not really. They were totally informal. Here’s the part that made me sit up straight. They used to meet at a local cemetery,”

JJ scoffed. “Let me guess, the same cemetery where Andrea Gambrell disappeared.”

“Yeah! The very one!”

“Alright,” Hotch started. “Keep working on the names and see if you can find out what the club disbanded.”

“Okay,” Garcia said before hanging up.

Before the three of them could say another word, Y/N's own phone started ringing. She reached into her back pocket and held the phone up to her ear. “Agent Y/L,”

“Yes, agent, I’ve got the full tox screen of George Henning,” he said, Y/N bringing her phone from her ear so she could put it on speaker. “There were massive levels of massive levodopa in his system.”

“The parkinson's drug?”

“Correct,”

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek. “But the blood was replaced with Cheyenne’s. Does that mean the levodopa was introduced into his system after the transfusion?”

“Yes, ma’am. We got the results of the other DNA samples and the surprises keep coming. Found traces of mesoglea and testudinata keratin,”

“That is…” she urges him to continue.

“Jellyfish and turtle. George Henning had animal DNA in his system.” He said.

Y/N scrunched her nose, looking up to see JJ with her mouth slightly agape and Hotch with a deep frown. Y/N quickly says ‘thank you’ before hanging up. But before she could turn her phone off, a quiet ding! went off notifying her about a new message.

“Guys,” she alerted. “Another body was found.”

“You two check that out, see what you can find. I’ll brief the team on the tox screening.”

-

Y/N and JJ walked in silence, their shoulders bumping as they made their way to the site where the latest victim was found.  “Okay so, a homeless man found him,” Y/N breaks the silence, lifting the police tape for her and JJ to go under. The officer close by handed them both gloves to search the area and a bag of belongings found on the victim. “We I.D.’d him as Harold McDermott, longtime local resident.”

“He didn’t even bother hiding the body this time.” JJ said. “The unsub might be unraveling,”

“He must’ve been the new George Henning.” Y/N muttered, crouching down and her eyes scanning the injuries the man ensued. “I don’t even want to think about what might be swimming around in his bloodstream.”

JJ crouched down to her level. “No obvious tissue removal, bruising on his face and chest.” she looked at Y/N, then to the bag in her hand. “What’s in there?”

Y/N eyebrows rose, following JJ’s gaze to the items in the clear bag. She stood up, opened the bag and it was a wallet. With a medical card. Ah, of course we’d find something like this in here, she thought. “It’s a medical I.D. card” she said, pulling it out for JJ to see. “Our victim suffered from epilepsy and cortico-basal degeneration…”

They tore their eyes away from the card, glancing up to each other. “We better deliver the profile.”

-

It’s been a few hours since they’ve delivered the profile to local authorities, and since then, they’ve gotten more information to help them solve the case. The M.E. had found more animal DNA in George Hennings body: sea urchin and some other type of tropical parrot neither of them could identify.

Penelope was able to locate one of the former members of the Mad Scientist Club, Diane Haller, and she was able to go in to talk to Tara; finding out that there was a man that could be a potential lead. Robert, or Richard, Diane couldn’t remember his name, but the club called him the magic man. He only went to the gathering a few times, according to Diane, and while he was there he would go on about how they were in a ‘magical place’. He attended the Florida College of Medicine in Jacksonville while the club was still active, his interest being in neuroscience.

A local doctor went missing, Laura Braga. She was a neurologist, which they believed was a connection to the unsub. Dr. Braga was heading back to her office to get files she’d forgotten when she discovered that the unsub broke into her office trying to get extra levodopa.  

“Garcia compiled a list of every medical student in the North Florida area with the first name of Richard or Robert, and I got to tell you guys, it’s a long list.” Tara said as she stood to the side of a board filled with photo evidence and a map of the area.

“So which one is our magic man?” JJ asked.

Y/N sat in the chair next to her, facing the board. She spun her chair around to face the other way and noticed a peculiar look on Rossi’s face. “What is it, Rossi?”

“They identified the bird DNA in Henning as coming from a scarlet macaw,”

“Mmhm. And?”

“That got me thinking about Turritopsis Dohrni,”

“Turri… what?’ Tara questioned him.

“It’s called the immortal jellyfish,” he explains. “Endlessly recycles its own cells through a process called transdifferentiation, a kind of lineage reprogramming.”

“Oh, my goodness. Dr. Spencer Reid, master of disguise.” JJ joked.

Y/N quirked an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth rising slightly. “If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve assumed that you were the resident genius, Rossi,”

He let out a soft chuckle. “No disguise. I called the kid last night.”

“Ahh,” Y/N and JJ said in unison.

“But think about it, jellyfish, turtle, sea urchin, and now a scarlet macaw. What do they all have in common?”

“A long lifespan.” Tara answered.

“Exactly, longer than a human’s.”

“So that means the unsub may not be focused on a specific disease but longevity,” Said JJ.

“Oh, God. Guys,” Tara gasped. “I think I know why the magic man thought this place was so magical,” She uses the file in her hand to point at the map. “We are right around the corner from the legendary Fountain of Youth.”

-

A local zoo reported a macaw stolen, the owner suspecting it to be a former employee, Robert Boles, who they’d believed to be the unsub. He went to medical school and flunked out in the middle of his first year. They found key information linking him to the case when Penelope found that he currently worked at the same hospital as Dr. Braga. The team rushed to the location where Boles did his experiments on his victims.

“All right, so, in high school Robert Boles got a summer job at a gift shop near the Fountain of Youth archaeological park.” JJ explained. “He got fired for breaking in after hours.”

Y/N and JJ sat in the back seat of the car, leaving Morgan and Hotch in the front. “That’s probably where his obsession with eternal youth started.”

-

They trudged through the hallways of the abandoned building with their guns pointed forward, ready to shoot if needed. “And I won’t let you get in the way!” they heard a man shout from one of the rooms.

The team followed the sound of the voice and turns the corner to see two men standing over a young woman. The younger man they’d identified as Robert Boles, and the young woman being Andrea Gambrell, Y/N assumed.

“Robert Boles, drop the weapon.” Hotch said sternly.

He whipped his head around to them.

“It’s over, man. You’re not getting out.” Morgan steps closer to him.

“Put the knife down, slowly.” JJ said.

Y/N watches as Boles lifts his arms in surrender, opening his hand to drop the knife. Morgan hurried to cuff him, while JJ rushed to untie Andrea strapped to the hospital bed.

“My wife needs help!” The other man, Ben Kebler, tells Hotch urgently.

“Where is she?”

“In the next room!” Mr. Kebler rushed out.

“Show me.” Hotch said, following him, and Y/N followed along. “Call an ambulance,” he tells her.

-

“Medics are on their way,” Y/N said softly, entering the room Hotch and JJ were in and she stood between them.

She looked down to see Eileen Kebler in the hospital bed, her husband leaning over her her. And her heart breaks. Eileen was dying.

“How is she?” Ben Kebler asked, eyes brimming with tears.

The three of them stayed silent, Y/N unable to comprehend what's happening, let alone come up with words to say in that moment. Hotch peers down at him, and Ben knows. He frantically shakes his head, hand shaking as he grabs his wife's hand. “What have I done?!”

“I’m cold,” Eileen mutters.

His face scrunched up. “Eileen, stay with me!” he pleads.

“I am always with you…” she whispers. “Always…”

And she was gone. Sobs echoed throughout the empty building, and Y/N could feel her heart bursting out of her chest. Her eyes watered with tears, then suddenly she felt a hand interlock with hers. It was JJ’s. She squeezes her hand gently, JJ rubbing soothing circles along her knuckles. She let out a soft exhale and used her free hand to wipe away any tears, trying to regain her composure. This part of the job was something she could never get used to. Something the rest of the team couldn’t get used to, no matter how long they’ve worked there.

-

It was safe to say that Y/N was not a night owl. The team were on their way home and she laid on the couch in the jet with a small pillow and blanket that could barely cover her. She smiled to herself as the memory of her finding Spencer snuggled with a far too small blanket the morning after their first movie night. She still cringes at the fact that she accidentally fell asleep barely into the first few movies, but smiles when she remembers what she woke up to. Y/N thought it was sweet that he stayed there with her, and finding Spencer curled up in a messy bundle of blankets made her heart grow twice its size. She took a mental note to call Spencer when they land, and she finally lets her eyes flutter shut, finally being able to rest.

-

tag list: @eevee0722 @ceeellewrites

[lizbotw]

SEVEN MINUTES IN HELL: MIDORIYA’S ROUTE - SENSES

YOU’VE CHOSEN A WINDING PATH: TURN BACK NOW (MASTERLIST)

pairing: midoriya x reader

summary: It’s probably best to bring a flashlight and watch where you’re going in dusty old cellars.

a/n: the fourth route of the halloween collab with deku and the prompt “tangled traps” ♡ also the title may or may not have been inspired by spiderman’s spidey sense

word count: 2k

“I think you should go first.”

“Wha- why?! You’re the one who got dared.”

You stood at the top of the basement stairs next to Midoriya, the darkness below seemingly endless. Leave it up to him to get dared to go explore the lower level of the cabin you had specifically avoided because it gave everyone the creeps. And to make matters worse, you had been roped into this as well because he had been graciously allowed to choose one other person to go with him. Why he chose you of all people was a mystery, and although any other time being alone with him would make your heart pound in happiness, right now it was pounding for an entirely different reason—one that may or may be related to your imagination running wild at what lay just a few steps below you.

You heard the sharp intake of breath and when you looked at him, you found that he was standing straighter now, a determined look in his eye. “Let’s just get this over with. It shouldn’t take long.” And then he was descending the steps, careful with where he placed his feet to avoid slipping. You followed in suit, grip tight against the worn out railing you could barely see.

You heard the heavy thud of a footstep. “I think I reached the bottom,” he called up and you could only vaguely tell where he was.

It wasn’t long until you reached the final step as well and then stepped out onto the floor of the basement. There was an earthy smell from the space being dug so far underground, but there was also a faint musk of all things ancient—seems like no one had been down here in a long time. Reaching your hand out in front of you, you realized you couldn't even see it.

“Midoriya.”

“Yeah?”

“Hold on, I’m going to touch you. Don’t scream.”

You couldn’t see his expression, but you knew there was a look of indignation from his tone alone. “You say that like I was planning to!”

“Shut up, I’m just trying to save us the embarrassment of the others thinking we’re actually scared.” You blindly groped in front of you, trying to place where he was based on his voice. You hand made contact with fabric and you could feel the warmth underneath. You patted the area, confused, trying to place what it was. “What am I touching?”

“Uh… that’s my shoulder.”

With that in mind, you slowly felt your way down his arm until your touch brushed against his hand and you hooked your fingers with his.

“What are you-”

“So we don’t get lost.”

That seemed like explanation enough for him and he adjusted his grip to hold your hand tighter, pads of his fingers pressing against the back of it.

“So… what now?”

“Kaminari did say we had to find something down here and bring it back as proof.”

“But how? I can’t see anything. We should just go back up.”

You felt a tug on your hand and realized that he was walking ahead, pulling you along with him. “There has to be some sort of light source down here. Hopefully we’ll eventually find a light switch or something.”

You followed him, praying that you didn’t trip over something. “I don’t think this place has electricity. We really are stuck out here.” You felt something brush against your leg and you jolted, clamping down on your lip so you didn’t yelp—what the fuck was that? There was the clatter of metal falling next to your feet—something small—and an idea filled your mind. Maybe you could just grab this mysterious object and book it upstairs? That should satisfy the conditions of the dare, right?

You shook your hand out of Midoriya's, but then you felt him reaching back to grab a hold of your fingers, making a noise of confusion. You shook them off one more and spoke before he could do it again. “Hold on. I think I found something.” You crouched down and hesitantly reached out to skim your fingers along the floor, feeling the dust that had gathered from no one being down here in who knows how long—gross. Just as you were growing frustrated, you felt something cool press against you. It was solid and as you fumbled to grab a hold of it, you felt your thumb brush against a button. You clicked it and light flooded the space in front of you. A flashlight. You shone the light around you, seeing now that stacks of boxes filled the room, along with old newspapers strewn about the floor. In the far corners of the room, large, draping cobwebs had formed, although you had been lucky enough to avoid them so far, not having ventured very far into the room just yet.

There was a dull ache in your cheeks and you realized you had been beaming—no pun intended—at the discovery. Finally, something was going right around here. You had to show Midoriya. Your face fell. Speaking of which, where was he? You remembered the faint footsteps in the back of your mind when you had let go of his hand. Had he gone up ahead?

You rose from your crouched position to scan the room again. No sign of him. Where in the world—

“Hey, (Y/N), I think I found something! Come look, it’s-” He cut himself off with a strangled noise. There were heavy steps as though he were stumbling over his own two feet and you heard muted “mmphs” and “hmphs” as though he couldn’t open his mouth to yell properly. There was a crash that made you jump and then a groan of pain. You swung the light to shine in his general direction and found him collapsed on a knocked down pile of boxes, silver spider webs that glimmered under the light draped over him.

He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the light and you shone it a little off from him so it wasn’t as direct. Actually seeing what was on him now with the illumination had Midoriya gasping in surprise and quickly clawing the strings off of him, especially trying to tug the ones on his face off.

You fought back a laugh, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at your lips. “I was about to tell you to watch out for those.”

He had succeeded in getting most of them off and was spitting out the remnants that clung near his mouth, brow furrowed. “Yeah, but you didn’t.” Midoriya tried to get up but fell back onto the boxes with a clatter, so you walked over and offered a hand to pull him up. He gratefully took it and was on his feet seconds later. “Thanks.” His small smile morphed back into disgust right away though and he stuck out his tongue. “I think some of it got in my mouth.”

“What do they taste like?”

“The spider webs?”

“Yeah.”

Midoriya peeled off a section of web that clung to his arm and held it up to you. “Wanna try?”

“Ew, no!” you shrieked and ducked away out of his reach while he was chuckling at your expense. The laughter eventually died down though as the flashlight began to flicker. You groaned. “Come on, I just found this. Don’t die on me, you stupid thing.” You knocked it against your hand and that seemed to fix the problem momentarily, the light shinning brilliantly one again.

Midoriya was rubbing his head now, wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand. “I think there’s a light switch somewhere over there. I felt it poke my side when I ran into the wall before.”

You used the flashlight to search against the worn-out wall, its white paint peeling in long strips, and found the switch he was talking about. It looked to have been fully white at one point too, but right now it was slightly yellowed and showing clear signs of age. You flipped it and the room instantly filled with light. Both of you shielded your eyes from the glare, but you forced your eyes open a few seconds later, now taking in the entire space.

It wasn’t exactly clean, but it wasn’t as messy as you’d thought. There was a thin coating of dust on everything. A bookshelf was against the opposite wall and adjacent was a wooden desk. Its surface was cluttered and overflowing with papers, however, you noticed something against the back corner that had you squinting to get a closer look.

“Is that-”

It seemed like Midoriya had noticed it too and a thumping filled your heart as he carefully walked over to it, making sure to avoid the hanging spider webs now. A light green antique telephone was what both of you had your attention on and you stayed still as he picked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear to hear if it worked. There was a beat of silence, and then— “There’s static.” He looked you dead in the eye, still holding the phone to his ear, and a boyish grin spreading across his face. “It works.”

Your eyes widened. “No way.” You quickly stalked over him and grabbed the phone from his hand, pressing it against your own face. The crisp sputter of static filled your ears—an active line. “...you’re right.”

“We should tell the others!” He turned to go bounding up the stairs, but you grabbed a hold of his arm to stop him.

“Wait, let’s try it first. What’s U.A.’s number?”

Midoriya wasted no time in reciting the digits to you and you spun the dial on the rotary in accordance, the wheel moving smoothly despite its apparent age. He paused when he was done. “How’d you know I had it memorized?”

“If anyone has it memorized, it’s you, Midoriya,” you replied offhandedly as you pressed the phone again to your ear with a baited breath. You didn’t want to tell the others just yet and get their hopes up for nothing if the phone really couldn’t work, and although they would be none the wiser if you didn’t tell them anything at all, now your hopes were up at just finding this. Please work, please work, please work— you heard ringing on the other side and almost dropped the phone. “Holy fuck.”

“What? What is it?” Midoriya was frantic now, your sudden panic sending him into a tizzy.

“It works, Midoriya. It’s ringing.” You were full on smiling now and in the middle of your euphoria, tucked the phone between your shoulder and ear to free up your hands and grabbed him by the front of his shirt to pull him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around you with no resistance, pulling you tight to his chest, and you two were practically jumping with glee at the discovery, so much so that neither of you had the chance to get flustered at the sudden proximity and the way you were pressed together (although the thought may or may not come back to haunt the both of you as you lay in bed the next night).

Midoriya finally pulled away, holding you at arms length, grinning so widely you were sure it was going to split his face in two. “I’m going to tell the others, okay?” You frantically nodded in reply, too happy to form words, your own lips pressed into a hard smile. You watched as he took the old rickety steps two at a time and disappeared through the doorway at the top where you two had stood minutes before just as you heard someone answer the phone and the sound of U.A.’s receptionist’s—no doubt working late at the office—sleepy “Hello?” filled your ears.

In the midst of your excitement, no one thought to mention how odd it was that a long abandoned cabin in the middle of nowhere had enough running electricity to power a phone in the first place.

YOU’VE REACHED THE END OF THE PATH: RETURN TO THE CABIN

[callmethehunter]

Thanks to @brownskinsugarplum76 and @firethatgrewsolow for being so incredibly helpful, willing to listen and give advice when I had a question or needed to regroup. Finally, here's Chapter 5 of Maggie and Robert which I hope you enjoy.💕check out the post I tried to make with links to previous chapters.

As they were leaving the restaurant, Steve turned away from the main doors and headed for the pay phones that were tucked away in a corner. He mumbled that he had to call about the boat.

Maggie stood a few feet away, casually looking over the plethora of flyers that advertised the perfect Florida vacation destinations. She usually wouldn’t eavesdrop on Steve’s conversations, but since the boat was central to her plan for seeing Robert play at Tugboat Annies, she was compelled to listen. What if the deal fell through?!

She overheard Steve say through gritted teeth “You’re still wanting the $5,500 for the boat...but you don’t have the cash for what I fronted you?! For the weed and acid?”

She stole a glance and saw him furiously rubbing the stubble on his chin and pacing back and forth in front of the phone.

There was a long pause as Steve listened and, raising his voice, asked, “What are you saying, Carlos, ‘For most of it? Where’s the shit you didn’t sell? Where’s my money!”

Steve paused, red in the face, then spat out “No. Let me tell you something Carlos” His tone was menacing. “ It’s always been my fuckin’ weed, not yours. Mine. So now you owe me the fucking boat. That’s how we’re gonna settle this shit.”

Her eyes came to rest on Steve’s as he tried to intimidate and exert his will, seeming to enjoy throwing out threats...It was at that instant that she saw him clearly for who he really was: a low level drug dealer, a wanna-be Mafioso, with delusions of grandeur...Mr. Tough Guy….He could be such an asshole! It sickened her, at the pit of her stomach and made her want to puke.

With that, he slammed the phone down on it’s cradle, kicked the bottom of the booth, and walked over to Maggie, who pretended to be engrossed in the Disney World brochures.

As he yanked on Maggie’s elbow, she turned and followed him. She couldn’t help but feel off-kilter from that whole exchange. She was honestly unsettled by his explosive anger and the way he belittled the man. And enjoyed it...His bad vibe hung over them like a dark cloud as they exited the restaurant.

They walked at a quickened pace back to the Camaro and were soon back on A1A, headed home. In total silence. Until Maggie asked “Where are we going? To get the boat?”

“Nah, I’ll deal with that later...without you”, he trailed off “It may not be…. too friendly”.

Maggie shrugged. She had her foot up on the dashboard, window down, her hair dancing with the wind. She felt traces of the acid from the night before...a flashback...and those pleasant feelings led naturally to thoughts of Robert. God almighty, he was exquisite- that long blond hair, the tautness of his body, his scent and his touch still lingered on her skin..She shifted in her seat to ease the slight soreness between her legs, a reminder of his massive manhood. She wanted to feel him pressed against her, again and again; feel him getting harder as they embraced...Her body ached with longing. Snap out of it, Maggie!... No use. Her mind was fixated on Robert, her body craved him like a drug...his golden curls so soft to the touch, his muscular arms around her, his throbbing cock in her mouth, then deep inside her... she longed for the feelings that Robert evoked in her, for the visceral reaction he inspired. But that wasn’t all, he was so kind and gentle with her, he was so funny and easy to be with... She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough...then she would see him again.

Steve and Maggie continued down AIA, each preoccupied with their own thoughts. He with the boat, his wheeling and dealing; and she with Robert and the way he made her feel. Steve was in some parallel universe, she realized, he was physically present, yet mentally and emotionally miles away.

She came out of her reverie as they turned onto their street. Exhaustion was settling on each of them. After their sleepless nights, they wanted nothing better than to lay down and rest. Steve soon dozed off on the couch, in front of the TV, mouth agape and snoring loudly. Maggie went to the bedroom, fell on the bed and slept until the next morning.

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

Maggie woke up on Saturday, the day of the concert, to the sound of the telephone ringing. It was her best friend, Kathy, calling to tell her she’d run into most of Steve’s crowd last night and they were stopping by Tugboat Annies. Maggie smiled. Her plan to keep Steve distracted was unfolding nicely.

Steve came into the room to say he was going to get the boat and then get supplies.

“Make sure to get the life jackets...and the beer.” Maggie called after him. She waited until the Mustang pulled away from the driveway to call Kathy.

“Come over!”, Maggie blurted out excitedly, “You’ve got to help me pick out an outfit before Steve gets home”. “Oh, and don’t forget to bring the platforms”.

Maggie felt giddy, filled with anticipation about seeing Robert again. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this happy and excited. She danced around to the music of Jimi Hendrix as she tidied up the apartment, grimacing as she picked up yet another one of Steve’s dirty socks from off the floor.

As Kathy walked through the front door, Maggie aimed one of the filthy rags at her friend like a projectile.

“That’s gross!” Kathy said as she batted the sock away. With long, silky blond hair and blue eyes as well as a feisty personality, Kathy drew the eye of everyone in a room. She had been Maggie’s best friend and confidant since 8th grade. She couldn’t wait to lay eyes on this “Robert” person that Maggie was gushing about…

“I brought everything that I thought would make you look hot”, Kathy said with a sly grin as she pulled out Maggie’s favorite platform sandals. It was a good thing they wore the same size!

The morning passed quickly as Maggie and Kathy tried on different outfits. Some were outlandish, like the beaded skirt and silky camisole over which Maggie draped a fluffy white boa around her neck and shoulders. They giggled like school girls as they twirled in front of the mirror. Most of their outfits were a combination of items from each of their closets, but finally after narrowing down their choices Kathy settled on a tight pair of bell bottom jeans, low on the hips, a suede halter top that laced up the front. Maggie looked radiant in her off-white, embroidered mini-dress that criss-crossed and tied in the front The pale leather platforms blended with her tanned legs, making her appear much taller than her true 5’2” height. They rummaged through Maggie’s jewelry box and picked out silver and turquoise earrings and bangle bracelets. Maggie completed her look with a dainty anklet bracelet made of tiny multicolored beads.

Once Kathy had packed her duffel bag and left, Maggie busied herself by reading The Great Gatsby on the balcony, her skin bronzing under the mid-day sun. The heat made her drowsy, and before she knew it, her eyes felt heavy and she dozed off. Time seemed to pass swiftly. She saw a joint Steve left on the coffee table. She lit it and inhaled slowly, filling her lungs with the pungent essence of sinsemilla...She heard faint sounds, it was music actually, the notes were vibrant as they traveled unseen with the tropical air...and suddenly she found herself at the threshold of the entrance to Tugboat Annies looking into the dim interior. The place was packed. Bodies moving past her through the darkened corridors until she stood outside under the light of a full moon.

Her eyes adjusted and it was then she saw him….a head taller than the rest, his golden curls caught under the silvery moonbeams and the spotlights, so that he glowed...She stood immobilized as her eyes took in all of him. Robert floated through the crowd toward her, his eyes fixed on her. He stopped in front of her, clasped the back of her head in his large hands, and pulled her toward him. As his fingers fondled her hair she melted into his kiss, her lips parting as she tasted his tongue. Heat traveled like quickfire through her entire body, her senses were lit up by his electric touch. His pants swelled as his erection grew, pushing the fabric to the limit. Maggie could feel his manhood growing erect against her as they embraced, making her ache for him. Wait!!.. What was that obnoxious pounding noise? An incessant banging that pulled her out of the kiss with a jolt. She found herself still on the balcony, laying on the chaise lounge where she now realized she had fallen asleep. It was just a dream. But the kiss had felt so real. More loud knocking and curse words as Steve pounded on the front door, which she had inadvertently locked after letting Kathy out. "What the fuck, Maggie? ” Steve shouted, punctuating each word with a bang on the door.”Open the door!” Bang Bang Bang.

And with that, the last vestiges of her dream disappeared like a misty fog that hovers over a darkened ocean. She sighed, disappointed by her reality. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and walked wearily to open the door.

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

[banashee]

Part 5 of my @badthingshappenbingo​ round 2

 With a bit of help

 Steve doesn’t run, but he very much wants to. His steps are wide and just quick enough so he can move as fast as humanly possible without making himself any more noticable. Walking quick won’t make him stand out in a busy street, but running would probably earn him some looks. It’s the last thing he wants right now.

 There is so much noise around here - chaotic traffic with honking cars and loud motors, people chatting, yelling, laughing. Somewhere, a toddler is crying. Phones are ringing left and right and people are shouting back into it.

 The noise on it’s own would be bad enough, but there are so many neon lights, and so many different smells - Steve wants to rip his own head off and bury it in cotton, so he doesn’t have to see or hear any more of it. It’s too much.

 Sometime, in the 70 years he was asleep in the ice, the world got really fucking loud. It’s close to unbearable, but how do you even begin to explain that?

 Luckily, it doesn’t take long for him to reach the SHIELD facility near Times Square. The street itself is one of his own personal nightmares. Steve isn’t sure if the reason for that is his less than pleasant awakening in the 21st century and the memories with this particular place, or if it is due to the fact that it is even brighter with flashing lights and video commercials here.  

 In any case, he is happy when he enters the sleek glass building. It’s busy, too, but not nearly as bad as outside.

 He smiles politely without really making eye contact at the people he crosses on the way back to his quarters. Once the door falls shut behind him, it’s like he deflates entirely. His hands are shaking, Steve notices, and he drops his bag onto the floor, next to his brand new, unused combat boots that they gave him. He didn’t have a mission yet - he’s itching for it, but at the same time isn’t sure what will be expected of him.

 With heavy limbs, feet dragging over the floor, Steve makes his way to the bed in the corner and collapses onto it.

 His ears are still ringing, his heart is still racing, and all he wants is just a moment of peace and quiet. Even the ticking of the clock sounds deafening to him, and he knows exactly what is happening in the rooms nearby.

 SHIELD barracks have paper thin walls, and his enchanted senses don’t help. In the room next to him, somebody is playing a video game. The gunshots and explosions are fake and Steve knows it, but he can’t help but flinch at the noise every time. It’s too much.

 Another room over, someone is having a heated but one sided argument - over the telephone, probably, if he had to guess.

 Across from him, it sounds like there are two people and - oh. Oh hell no. He really doesn’t want to listen to that, it would be incredibly rude.

 In an act of desperation, Steve crawls out of bed again and makes himself a pair of makeshift ear plugs out of toilet paper, then he buries his head under the pillow.

 He is shaking violently by now, wishing the world would be just a little bit calmer. It’s still so new, and he feels incredibly stupid, but he is absolutely overwhelmed with everything.

     There is a name for it, he learns later. Sensory Overload.

 That’s what he gets from typing “Why am I overwhelmed from noise, people and lights?” into the Google Thingy, and it makes a lot of sense. Unlucky for him, the only suggestion he can really find is to remove himself from the stressful environment, which is not always possible. Besides, he highly doubts that the articles he has been reading have taken a guy from the 40s who woke up in 2012 just a few weeks ago into account. His case is, admittedly, quite unique.

 “Quite Unique”, he knows, also means that getting help for The Thing is hard.

 Steve makes do with whatever he can, but it’s draining. Oftentimes, he’ll find himself collapsing into bed after a day around people, unable to stop shaking. The thing they gave him for alerts keeps beeping sometimes, even after hours, and he barely resists the urge to “accidentally” step on it one of these days.

 Then, aliens attack New York, and his life changes once again. He’s got a team now, even though their start was admittedly messy and his own attitude not the best.

 He has a chat with Stark, later, and they shake hands. Steve is not sure he’d call him or the others  “friends” at this point, but “friendly” for sure, and he trusts every single one of them. This has to be enough for now.

 Steve leaves the point of departure with a bag full of clothes on the back of his motorcycle and a mobile phone with a few numbers programmed into it. He isn’t sure if he’ll use it, but he figures it might be useful. Besides, they tell him that phone booths aren’t really a thing anymore, so better not rely on them.

 Steve intends to go see the country for a bit, drive wherever he sees fit at the moment.

 His plan to see the cities largely fails - much like New York, there is too much stress, too much noise. Steve can’t relax in any of those places, so he gives up and makes his way into much more rural areas.

 Back in the day, when he was with the army, he traveled the world, but he never managed to enjoy the sights, for obvious reasons. Now, he’s got all the time in the world to go watch the stars in a field where no light pollutes the air. He walks on a beach for the first time in ages, letting the feeling of water and sand around his feet wash over him.

 Luckily, he manages to grab a small, portable photo camera in a tourist shop. It’s a cheap, easy to use thing which he can deal with. There is a camera on his telephone, Stark said, but that doesn’t really seem necessary to him. He didn’t use the phone, but he keeps it charged - just in case.

 Two weeks after he left New York, his phone rings. The damn thing makes him jump and almost crash his motorcycle into a tree.

 Cursing, he pulls over to the side and fumbles it to answer. The sound of it ringing grinds his gears, and it takes every ounce of self control not to snap at whoever is at the other end.

 “Hello?”

 “Steve, hi. This is Natasha. Where are you right now?”

 “Oh, hey. I’m in Georgia right now - why? Am I needed back?”

 “We have a situation - sorry to interrupt your road trip. Can you please keep your phone on and wait at the nearest point accessible for the jet? We’ll pick you up on the way.”

 “Yes, of course. You will be able to find me?”

 “Already did.” it sounds like she’s smiling. “See you in about two hours, possibly sooner”

 When the jet sets down on an empty space of land, the ramp extends and Steve drives up there. The door closes behind him, and he is greeted by his team, already suited up. Thankfully, they brought his gear and his shield.

 The situation is messy and so is the fight they have to take part in, but all of them return to New York in one piece - small favors.

 When the jet settles down on the roof of the tower, it does so with little grace. A string of very colorful curses emerges from the cockpit, where Barton is ranting about shitty robots shooting at them and wheels that spontaneously fall off in the middle of landing, but other than that, they’re  fine.

 Internally, Steve has to agree with him, but externally, he keeps on a brave face. He refuses to lose it over this, although he very much would like to join in on banging his head against hard surfaces. Unfortunately, it’s just a bad look on a leader, so he remains calm.

 As soon as he steps out of the jet, the noises of the city drill into his brain, and it takes a lot of self control not to cringe at it. He’d gotten used to the peace and quiet of the countrysides, and even though he’d known it wouldn’t last forever, he already finds himself missing it.

 Thankfully, the inside of the tower is a lot more bearable. The walls must be thick and at least somewhat soundproof. It makes it easier to relax, and although the debrief takes a lot out of them all, they’re glad to be back.

 Before they shuffle off into different rooms to sleep off the last mission, Tony stops him on the way.

 “Oh hey, before you walk off - let me know if you’ll need anything specific, the apartments are in planning.”

 Steve blinks. “Apartments?”

 “Yeah. Here, for everyone. Didn’t I tell you?”

 “Uh, no?”

 “Oh. Here you go, then. We’ll move everyone in here and I need to know if you have any specific preferences. Layout, accommodations, furniture whatever. You can tell JARVIS, too, if you’d rather.”

 Before he can ask anything else or even say “thank you”, Tony has disappeared, leaving Steve standing there like he just got rolled over by a train. To be fair, this is the kinda feeling that most people have after talking to Tony when they’re not used to him, and Steve has been away for a while.

 He mulls over this on his way to a guest room. JARVIS is kind enough to explain the plans in more detail, which helps a lot because “Hey so, you’ll move in here for free, let me know if you want any stuff” is not what he expected to hear once he got back.

 Truth be told, it feels kind of weird and overwhelming, so he decides to shower, sleep and think about anything else later.

 As it turns out, the walls are soundproof in here - Steve falls asleep and wakes up in total silence, and he sighs in relief. Maybe, moving here wouldn’t be such a bad idea, especially since the tower is a lot more private and convenient than SHIELD barracks.

 When he makes his way to the kitchen for breakfast, there are voices and the clattering of plates, sizzling from the stove and gurgling off the coffee machine. His ears can pick up every single noise, but unlike the traffic on the streets or neighbours back at SHIELD, it’s not uncomfortable now that he is well rested and, most of all, got a break.

 Maybe, living here isn’t a bad idea. It’s an opportunity to get closer to the team, especially since everyone else will be around as well. So, Steve enters the kitchen to share breakfast with the other Avengers.

 He’ll figure out the rest.

*+~

Square 5/25: Sensory Overload

[pastel-kinana]

heart out || barry allen [ii]

// chapter ii: the storm //

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER  || MASTERLIST

"So, Barry, how was your trip? Did you find proof of the impossible in Starling City, or did you just make my dad mad for no reason?" Iris asked Barry with a laugh as they were walking to S.T.A.R Labs.

"Actually, while I was away I had a chance to think about... you know, relationships. How I'm not in one, and how you're not in one either. And you're my best friend, Iris," answered Barry as they stopped walking.

"You're mine, too. Why else would I be here?" said Iris.

"That's not what I meant. What I meant--" said Barry, stumbling over his words.

"I know what you're gonna say, Barry," Iris interrupted.

"I'm not sure you do," said Barry.

"Even though we pretty much grew up in the same house together, and we're kind of like brother and sister, because we're not brother and sister, it can get really weird and awkward. But I just want you to know that it shouldn't be awkward. There is nothing I want more than for you to meet the right person that totally loves and adores you for the amazing guy that you are," said Iris.

Barry suddenly felt like frowning. This was the right moment to tell Iris but then she says this and the smile she gave him didn't help at all. "Took the words right out of my mouth," he said, smiling to hide what he really felt.

Iris smiled wider and nudged him. "Aww, aren't you glad I know you so well?" she said. "Speaking of knowing you so well, what went on in your head when you saw her?"

"Saw who?" asked Barry.

"Alex. Who else would it be?" answered Iris in a 'duh' tone.

"You're at it again," said Barry as he shook his head.

"What do you mean?" asked Iris.

"Playing matchmaker," answered Barry. "To save all your questions, no, I don't like Alex like that. I mean, I just met her."

"Come on, Barry. You were staring at her longer than how a normal person should stare at someone. When you talked to her, you suddenly couldn't speak English," said Iris, raising one eyebrow.

"I don't know..." was what all Barry said, avoiding Iris' gaze as he felt his face heat up.

The moment she looked into his eyes after bumping into him, Alex made Barry feel things. He reacted the same way guys would if they meet her. She's really pretty after all (and Barry's face heated up more when he just called her pretty in his head). His heart started to beat a bit faster when she smiled at him and he wanted to hit himself after looking like an idiot in front of her. And why was he feeling like this when he likes someone else?

"Barry," Iris began and put her hand on his shoulder. "If I were a guy, I'm pretty sure I'd find her cute too and I'd think of getting her number. Go after her if she's not getting out of your head any time soon."

"I told you I just met her," said Barry, shaking his head.

"One day, you're gonna be regretting not asking her out," said Iris.

Then, the audience around them started clapping as Harrison Wells came out on stage. Barry couldn't help but clap as well with a grin on his face.

"Thank you. My name is Harrison Wells. Tonight, the future begins. The work my team and I will do here will change our understanding of physics. It will bring out advancements in power, advancements in medicine... Trust me, that future will be here faster than you think," said Harrison Wells.

While Harrison Wells was delivering his speech, a man passes by Iris and grabs her bag, running away with it. Alarmed, Iris turned around and exclaimed, "No!"

She nudges Barry, the latter turning to her in alarm. "Hey, my laptop! It's got my dissertation."

Immediately, Barry began to run after him. "Stop!" he shouted at the thief, who only ran faster.

"I'm sorry!" he says as he bumped into someone and continued chasing the thief.

Barry went around the corner and got hit, making him fall. The thief looked at him and Barry got up. "Alright, kid, you don't have to do this alright? Just give me back my friend's bag and we'll call it even. Okay?" he said.

The thief stared down at him and hit him again, sending Barry to the wall. As the thief ran away, Iris came to catch up and sees Barry on the ground. "Barry!" she exclaims.

The thief, thinking he was safe, jumped over the fence only to be stopped by a voice. "Police! Freeze. Or do you want to find out the hard that you're not faster than a bullet?" it said.

Iris and Barry were back at the CCPD after being 'saved' by Eddie Thawne or 'Detective Pretty Boy' as Joe called him. After Iris went home, Barry, sporting a bloody nose, went back to his lab. The TV was playing the news channel, broadcasting the events happening in S.T.A.R Labs. While the reporter was chatting away, Barry, with a pained frown, pulls up the map on his whiteboard to reveal cutouts that were all about his mother and her murder. Not wanting to feel more pain, he distracts himself by watching the news broadcast.

"Wait, we're now being told to evacuate the facility. The storm may have caused a malfunction in the primary cooling system. The officials are now trying to shut down the particle accelerator but so far have been unable to regain control of the--" said the surprised reporter and the signal was cut.

Alarmed, Barry looked up from the TV and his eyes widened as he saw an explosion right where S.T.A.R Labs was. Then, he saw the liquid chemicals in the beakers rise and the eerily familiar image sent a shiver down his spine. He immediately goes to the chains connecting to the roof of his office and pulled on them, closing the windows to shield him from the blast that now expanded throughout Central City. An ear-piercing shatter from above caused Barry to look up and the last thing he saw was a bolt of lightning that descended onto him violently.

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

“What’s wrong with this TV?” Rosie complained as the TV by the nurse’s desk was being faulty.

Alex was also watching the TV. She was already dressed in her coat and she had her bag with her. She figured that she could stay for a while and watch the particle accelerator go online. She heard about Harrison Wells and his work. In her opinion, he was an extraordinary man who broke the limitations of science. Tonight, his most-awaited invention, the particle accelerator, is going to change many things.

Then, the signal from the TV was cut. The coffee from Rosie’s mug that was just on the nurse’s desk rise up from the brim and float in the air. The water from a glass a doctor had in his hand did the same. Alex stumbled back in shock at the scene. Suddenly, the TV signal was back on and the headline changed to something shocking: MASSIVE EXPLOSION FROM S.T.A.R LABS PARTICLE ACCELERATOR.

“What the hell...” Alex said under her breath.

All telephones in Central City Hospital started ringing. Rosie answered one of the telephones on the nurse’s desk. The other telephone on the desk rang and Alex immediately answered it.

“Central City Hospital,” said Alex.

“We got three injured just within the vicinity of S.T.A.R Labs,” the officer on the other line said. “We’re headed to Central City Hospital via ambulance in ten.”

“Alright,” said Alex before hanging up.

She ran back to the locker rooms. She opened her locker and unceremoniously shoved in her bag and coat in it. Like earlier, she put her pen and penlight in her breast pocket and then closed her locker. While running out and convening with the rest of the nursing department, she was tying up her hair that she let down earlier. 

All the nurses were huddling up for the game plan. "Alright, we got a surge of calls bringing in a lot of people after what happened tonight," said Rosie to everyone in the nursing department. "I'm dividing all of you into teams so we can get everyone smoothly."

Rosie assigned a team of nurses on standby at the emergency room and another team at the reception area. Some nurses went to the different wards to take care of in-house patients and get ready for the incoming patients to be moved from the emergency room to their assigned wards. Alex was assigned to the team of nurses who would be assigned to the incoming ambulances. The Ambulance Team divided among themselves on who will attend to each ambulance and Alex was to wait for the last ambulance.

The wave of patients coming into the hospital grew slowly but dangerously. More and more injured were sent to the emergency room and the doctors and nurses were busily transferring some of the patients to either surgery or in another ward. Alex watched the scene play and her heart started to beat really loudly in her chest as panic and worry were slowly consuming her. She had hectic days at the hospital where so many people were rushed to the emergency room but not like this. Tonight was something more than just a hectic night and if there was anything that Wendy learned in life, it was to trust her gut.

"Last ambulance!" one nurse called, bringing Alex back from her own little world. Alex and one doctor, Dr. Reed, ran to the doors as they burst open and paramedics were wheeling in an unconscious man. She got a good look at his face and her eyes widened.

Barry.

"What happened to him?" asked Dr. Reed. He and Alex joined in helping them wheel the patient into the hospital.

"He was hit by lightning," said one of the paramedics.

"How's he still alive?" the other said in disbelief.

They were joined by the other doctors to bring him to a room. As they were running, Alex couldn't help but feel her heart clench at the sight of Barry. She had just met him and thought that he's a great guy. It was painful to see him like this but Alex had to keep calm and help him. Once they entered an empty room, they transferred Barry onto the hospital bed. Alex's eyes widened when the EKG showed a flat line.

"Go. No heartbeat. CBC Chem 24. Flatline!" Dr. Reed said and Alex hurriedly prepared the defibrillator for him. While the device was charging, she heard a familiar voice amidst the doctors and nurses urgently talking to each other.

"I'm family!" the voice cried.

Iris.

In her peripheral vision, Alex saw a nurse trying to keep Iris away, which pained her even more. When the defibrillator was charged, Dr. Reed exclaimed, "Clear!"

Barry's body jerked from the shock but was still unresponsive and flatlining. After a while of defibrillating him, his heartbeat came back and Alex felt a big weight lifting off her shoulders. The nurses with her gave each other pats on the shoulders for a job well done. Iris stopped crying and just stayed by the door, hoping her best friend was gonna be okay.

Alex walked towards Iris and the latter looked at her with surprise and worry mixed together. "Alex! Oh my god..." Iris exclaimed as she wiped her tears. "Is he gonna be okay?"

“He’s stable now,” answered Alex. “He’s gonna be okay.”

“Thank you,” Iris sobbed. “Thank you so much!”

Alex smiled at Iris and was thankful that Barry was okay but the fact that Barry was able to survive after being hit by lightning still boggled her.

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Six Baudelaires AU, Part Three {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One} {Part Two}

Chapter Fourteen → in which the Baudelaires encounter a Great Unknown

CRASH. 

“Well. That settles it.” Nick said, glancing up, one hand clutching his mother’s necklace. “We’re all gonna die.” 

Lilac jumped to her feet, looking up. “I think that came from above us, we should go check it out. Make sure nobody’s hurt.” 

“Make sure we’re not gonna die.” Nick said. 

Lilac sighed and picked up Sunny, as Nick grabbed the baby picture of Lilac from the table, shoving it into one of the waterproof pockets. Klaus stopped twirling the spyglass in his hands and shoved into his own pocket, while Violet and Lilac pulled out their ribbons. Nick lifted Solitude, and they ran towards the source of the sound. 

After several minutes trying to work their way through the halls, they managed to climb up into a small room, where Widdershins was pounding on a steering wheel with his fists. 

“That’s not good.” Nick said, crossing his arms. “What? VFD can’t get you a decent fucking submarine?” 

“Nick, be polite.” Lilac said, trying to hide the fact she was glad she got to say that phrase again. 

“This darned steering mechanism is a disgrace!” the captain cried. “Aye! The Queequeg just bumped against a rock formation on the side of the stream!” 

“Perhaps we should examine the steering mechanism first and fix the telegram device later.” Lilac said. 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Widdershins said. “If we can’t receive any Volunteer Factual Dispatches, we might as well be wandering around with our eyes closed! Aye! We must find the Sugar Bowl before Count Olaf! Aye! Our personal safety isn’t nearly as important! Now hurry up! Aye! Get a move on! Aye! Get cracking! Aye-” 

“Perhaps Violet could fix the wheel,” Klaus said carefully, “While Lilac looks at the telegram machine, and the rest of us look at tidal charts.” 

“Babbitt help!” Solitude added; the frog was now riding on her shoulder, and if Widdershins noticed, he didn’t seem to care. 

Widdershins shook his head. “You should both look at the telegram, aye! Two heads are better than one! Aye!” 

“If this submarine crashes and we all die,” Violet said, “It won’t matter what telegrams we get.” 

“Of course it matters! Aye! Without Volunteer Factual Dispatches, we might as well be wandering around with our eyes closed! Aye-” 

“You said that already.” Nick said tiredly. 

“Let Violet work on the wheel,” Klaus suggested, “And maybe Fiona can help Lilac with the telegraph.” 

Lilac gave Klaus a look. “I mean, Fiona was going to look over tidal charts with you. I wouldn’t want to bother her.” 

Fiona stepped into the room, pulling her hair into a hat, and she said, “Sorry, am I needed for something?” 

Lilac turned red again, but she managed to say, “We- we were just- can I borrow your wheeled platform? To look at the- the telegram.” 

To their surprise, Fiona also stopped a second, eyes widening. And she said, “Oh, um… yes. Yes, I… I like your hair.” 

“Thanks.” Lilac sputtered, pushing her braids back. “I… um, usually have it like this but-” 

The other five Baudelaires looked like their dreams had all come true. 

“We should- tidal charts.” Fiona said. 

“Aye! And Violet and Lilac will fix the telegraph! Aye!” Widdershins said. “Glad we’re all in agreement, aye!” 

“Fiona?” Violet asked, sighing and moving towards the telegraph, “Could you, um? Could you check for our friend Quigley? He was carried away by the stream’s other tributary.” 

“I can try, sure.” Fiona nodded. “Um, see you in a bit.” 

She turned to go, and Lilac somehow got redder. Klaus and Nick followed her, with Soli giggling and whispering something to Nick as Babbitt chirped from her shoulder. Sunny headed towards the kitchen, waving goodbye to her sisters and babbling something about chowder. 

For the next few hours, the siblings got to work. Lilac and Violet took turns sliding under the telegraph and fetching tools, twisting wires and tightening screws and keeping their hair pulled back. Nick, Klaus and Fiona sat at the table with tidal charts, tracing routes with pencils, as Solitude fed Babbitt and flipped through books on marine life, struggling to sound out words to herself. Sunny worked with Phil in the kitchen, standing on a large soup pot so she could reach the counter of the small, grimy kitchen. 

After quite a long time of not a lot of work, Captain Widdershins descended from a ladder, ringing a bell that clanged throughout the room. “Alright, everyone! Aye!” he called, as everyone sighed and stopped around a long table. “I want all to report on their progress! I’ll report first! Aye! Because I’m the captain! Not because I’m showing off! Aye! I try not to show off very much! Aye! Because it’s rude! Aye! I’ve managed to steer us further down the Stricken Stream without bumping into anything else! Aye! Now it should be easier not to run into anything! Aye! Alright, what about our telegraph?” 

“We thoroughly examined the telegram device.” Lilac said, tugging on her ribbon, not noticing that Fiona was staring very hard at her hair tied back in a ponytail and slightly-dirty face. “And we made a few minor repairs.” 

“But the thing is, we didn’t find anything that would interfere with receiving a telegram.” Violet said. 

“So the device isn’t broken?” Fiona asked, a little quietly. 

“Not at all.” Lilac said, biting her lip. “We think it must be a problem on the other end.” 

“Procto?” Sunny asked, which meant, “The other end?” 

“Well, a telegram requires two devices.” Violet said. “One to send the message and the other receive it.” 

“Whoever is on the ‘sending’ end must be having problems.” Lilac said. 

“All sorts of volunteers send us messages.” Fiona said. 

“Aye!” the captain said. “We’ve received messages from more than twenty-five agents!” 

“Then many machines must be damaged.” Klaus said. “It could be sabotage.” 

“We did never receive a reply from Mr Poe in the Last Chance General Store.” Lilac said. 

“Could’ve been because we had to flee.” Solitude said. 

“You’d think our letter would’ve made it to the papers at least.” Klaus said. “And from what we’ve seen, it hasn’t.” 

“If the telephone wires are down, that could interfere with the signal.” Fiona suggested. 

“Aye! That could be the problem!” Widdershins said. “What about the tidal charts? What have we got?” 

Klaus and Nick shared a look, and then Klaus spread out a chart onto the table; it showed the Stricken Stream winding through the mountains before reaching the sea, with tiny arrows and notations describing the way the water was moving, in different colors and ink. “It’s more complicated and dull than expected.” Klaus said. “These charts note every single detail concerning the water cycle.” 

“Dull?” the captain roared. “Aye? We’re in the middle of a desperate mission and all you can think of is your own entertainment? Aye? Do you want us to hesitate? Stop our activities and put on a puppet show so you won’t find this submarine dull?”

“Well!” Nick snapped, shooting the captain a glare. “There’s no need to be a dick about it! All Klaus meant was that it’s easier to research something that’s interesting!” 

The captain matched his glare. “You sound like Fiona. When I want her to research the life of Herman Melville, she works slow as molasses, but she’s quick as a whip when the subject is mushrooms.” 

“Mushrooms?” Lilac asked. 

“Are you a mycologist?” Klaus asked. 

Fiona smiled. “I never thought I’d meet someone who knew that word.” she said. “Yes, I’m a mycologist. I’ve been interested in fungi all my life, and when we have time, I can show you my mycological library.” 

“Time?” Captain Widdershins repeated. “We don’t have time for fungus books! Aye! We don’t have time for you two to do all that flirting, either!” 

Klaus’s eyes went wide, and Fiona sputtered, “We’re not flirting! We’re having a conversation!” 

“It looked like flirting to me, aye!” 

“But it wasn’t.” Nick said, glaring. 

Solitude, who was sitting beside Sunny on the table, said, “Why don’t you tell us about your research?” 

Klaus took a deep breath, and then he said, “If our calculations are correct, the Sugar Bowl would have been carried down the same tributary we went down in the toboggan. The prevailing currents of the stream lead all the way down here, where the sea begins.” 

“So it was carried out to sea.” Fiona said. “And the tides would move it away from the Sontag Shore in a northeasterly direction.” 

“Sink?” Sunny asked, meaning, “Wouldn’t the sugar bowl just drift to the ocean floor?” 

“It’s too small.” Klaus said. “Oceans are in constant motion, and an object that falls into the sea could end up miles away.” 

“The tides and currents in this part of the ocean would take the Sugar Bowl past the Gulag Archipelago here,” Nick said, gesturing to the map, “And then head down toward the Mediocre Barrier Reef before turning at this point here, mysteriously marked AA for what I’m sure are perfectly legitimate reasons.” 

Fiona flinched, and Lilac opened her mouth, as if to scold Nick for being rude, but she eventually decided against it and crossed her arms, staring down at the table. Widdershins sighed, and said, “Aye. Anwhistle Aquatics. It’s a marine research center and rhetorical advice service- or it was. It burned down.” 

“Anwhistle?” Sunny asked. 

“That was our Aunt Josephine’s surname.” Lilac said. 

“Anwhistle Aquatics was founded by Gregor Anwhistle, a famous ichnologist and Josephine’s brother-in-law.” Fiona said. “But… well, the problem is where the Sugar Bowl went after Anwhistle Aquatics.” 

Klaus nodded. “You see this oval, right next to the aquatics? It’s marked with a GG, but there’s no other explanation.” 

“There are two different arrows inside it, and each points in a different direction.” Nick said. 

“It looks like the tide is going two ways at once.” Fiona said. 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Violet frowned. 

“According to our calculations, the Sugar Bowl was probably carried here.” Klaus said. “But I don’t know where it would have gone after.” 

“I guess we go to GG and see what we find there.” Lilac said. 

“I’m the captain!” the captain cried. “I’ll give the orders around here! Aye! And I order that we set a course for that oval and see what we find when we get there!” 

“Lilac just said that.” Nick hissed. 

“But first I’m hungry!” Widdershins ignored them. “And thirsty! Aye! Cookie and Sunny, you’re responsible for food and drink! Aye!” 

“Sunny helped me make chowder that should be ready in a few minutes.” Phil said. “Her teeth were very handy in dicing the boiled potatoes.” 

“Flush.” Sunny shrugged. 

“Chowder? Aye! Chowder sounds delicious!” the captain cried. “And what about dessert? Aye? Dessert is the most important meal of the day! Aye!” 

“We have gum!” Phil said. “I have some left over from the lumbermill.” 

“I think I’ll pass on dessert.” Klaus said. 

“Yomhuledet,” Sunny said, meaning, “Don’t worry- Phiil and I have arranged a surprise dessert for tomorrow night.” 

Nick looked up, about to ask about that, but then he paused. “Hey, Captain Widdershit?” he said, looking both annoyed and concerned. “What’s that thing on the sonar detector? Is that from your shitshow organization?” 

Everyone followed his gaze towards a screen on the submarine wall that looked similar to a graph paper, with a glowing Q in the center, presumably representing the Queequeg. At the top of the panel was a glowing symbol heading straight for them, looking very similar to an eye. 

“Well, fuck.” Solitude said, as Fiona gasped. 

“Dear God!” Widdershins shouted, starting to run around the room. “Holy Budddha! Charles Darwin! Duke Ellington! Aye! Fiona, turn off the engines! Aye! Cookie, turn off the stove! Aye! Twins, make sure the telegram device is off! Aye! Boys, gather your materials together so nothing rolls around!” 

“How are we supposed to gather materials and turn the telegram off?” Nick asked, staring very hard at the table so nobody could see his expression. 

“I think he means us.” Lilac sighed. “We’re not the twins, Captain.” 

“Now is no time to argue, aye!” Widdershins shouted. “If we shut down, perhaps they won’t see us! Aye!” 

“I don’t think that’s how-” Klaus began. 

“Just hurry!” Fiona said, grabbing Lilac’s arm. “Help me with the engines, come on!” 

Fiona dragged Lilac up the rope ladder to shut off the engine, while Violet wheeled back into the telegram device. Phil and Sunny ran into the kitchen, while Nick picked up Solitude, holding her very tightly, and Klaus and Widdershins gathered up the materials on the table so nothing would rattle. Within moments, the submarine was silent as a grave, and everyone crept back to the table, staring at the porthole or sonar detector. After a moment, Nick crept into a corner, sliding to the ground and hugging Soli very, very close, trying to hide his trembling. 

The eye on the sonar drew closer to the Q, and they could see something out the porthole, emerging from the dark waters. It was, indeed, another submarine, much bigger than the cramped Queequeg, and as soon as he saw it, Nick curled up more, struggling not to cry, as Soli hugged him and slid Babbitt onto his shoulder. Lilac grabbed onto Fiona’s arm, and Violet quickly threw her hands over Klaus and Sunny. 

The second submarine was shaped like a giant octopus, with an enormous metal dome for a head and two wide portholes for eyes. The submarine, though, had many more legs than a normal octopus; small metal tubes sprouted out from the body and circled the water, making thousands of bubbles hurtling towards the surface of the water. 

As the ship drew closer, seemingly not noticing them, the Baudelaires could see a shadowy figure in one of the portholes. While they could barely see any details, they were all certain who it was. 

Nick let out a strangled cry, muffling the noise by shoving his face into his knees. Solitude hugged him and gasped, and Lilac instantly ran to him, dragging Fiona with her. The four huddled in the corner, and Lilac threw her arms over them all, holding them close. Violet grabbed tighter onto Klaus and Sunny, as the figure turned towards them, as if he could possibly hear them. 

The octopus moved closer, and they all feared that, at any second, the legs of the octopus would scrape against the side of the submarine and give away their presence. 

And then Sunny pointed at the Sonar Detector, her face turned towards Widdershins curiously, clearly asking, What’s that? Widdershins’s eyes widened, and Fiona gripped tighter onto Lilac’s arm and buried her face in her shoulder. Even Phil looked a little concerned. 

A third shape on the sonar screen had appeared, shaped like a small question mark and slithering towards the center of the screen. 

“Oh my…” Klaus began, and Violet shoved a hand over his mouth. 

Outside the porthole, the octopus stopped, as if it, too, detected the new shape. Then the legs whirred even faster, and the strange submarine vanished from view, disappearing into the sea. The question mark flickered across the screen for a bit, and then vanished. 

“What was-” Violet began. 

The question mark suddenly appeared again, and they felt something hit the side of the Queequeg, while a deafening and reckless roar sounded from outside. Lilac immediately held out her arms as everyone toppled, managing to catch Klaus and Violet, while Klaus caught a flying Sunny. Lilac and Fiona quickly hugged all of the children in a huddle, while Phil and Widdershins clung to the table, trying not to fall. 

There was another rumble, and then a dark buzzing sound, as they all felt something near them from outside. 

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. 

They waited several minutes, staring at the sonar screen, until they were certain the question mark wouldn’t show up again. 

“What was that?” Lilac asked, Violet and Klaus to their feet before grabbing Fiona’s hands to lift her up. 

“What was that third shape?” Klaus asked, hugging Sunny very close. 

The captain shook his head. “Something very bad.” he said. “Even worse than Olaf, probably. I told you Baudelaires there is evil you cannot imagine.” 

“We don’t have to imagine it.” Violet said, her voice breaking. “We saw it right there on the screen.” 

“That screen is nothing.” the captain said. “It’s just a piece of equipment, aye? There was a philosopher who said that all of life is just shadows. He said people were just sitting in a cave, watching shadows on the cave wall, shadows of something much bigger and grander than themselves. That sonar detector is like our cave wall, showing us the shape of things much more powerful and terrifying.” 

“I don’t understand.” Lilac said. 

“You shouldn’t.” the captain shook his head. “There are secrets in the world too terrible for young people to know. That’s why I don’t tell you about the Sugar Bowl. Aye! Now, I’m hungry! Aye! Shall we eat?” 

“I’ll get the chowder!” Phil said, running out. 

The captain reached for his bell, and then Nick, still in the corner, called, “No! No, we’re not hungry, we want goddamn answers!” 

“Nick-” Lilac began, as Fiona stiffened and Widdershins whipped around to face him. 

Nick shot to his feet, clinging onto Solitude, and they realized that his face was red and tear-streaked. “We’re going to be in the ocean with that thing, we should damn well know what it is! And if we’re going to search for the Sugar Bowl, we should fucking know what it is!” 

“Watch your language! Aye!” 

“Nobody gets to tell me to shut up!” Nick hissed. “Nobody gets to tell us to do shit! Was that- was that some kind of monster? Or a submarine?” 

“It’s the… the Great Unknown.” Fiona said, glancing down at her feet. 

“Aye, and you need to avoid it! That’s all you need to know!” Widdershins said. “That’s all Fiona knows, and-” 

“And maybe you should tell her shit!” Nick shouted. “Maybe you should tell her what’s in the Sugar Bowl, or why it was stolen from Esme Squalor, or why Count Olaf decided to go on a murder rampage, huh?” 

“Nick, listen-” Violet began. 

“Maybe you should tell her how your cult gets its goddamn recruits, huh?” 

Fiona gasped, and Widdershins gave him a confused yet infuriated look. “How recruitment happens isn’t our business at the time! Aye! And I don’t know what a cult is, aye, but it sounds like a weird way to refer to our organization!” 

“I think- um-” Fiona interrupted, sputtering and staring at the ground. 

Phil returned, carrying a huge pot. “Chowder!” 

Everyone turned towards him, and then Fiona sighed, “Good timing, Phil.” 

“Thank you!” Phil said. “I’ve got bowls- who wants to help me serve?” 

“I can help.” Lilac said, nervously glancing at Nick, who wasn’t looking at anyone. 

But before she started to move, Klaus suddenly started. “Oh!” he said. “Oh!” 

“What?” Violet asked. 

Klaus ran back over to the tidal charts. “I’ve got it!” he said. “I know where the Sugar Bowl is!” 

Nick bit his lip and groaned, shouldering Solitude and wandering over to another corner, while everyone else awkwardly made their way back to the table. 

“You’ve found it?” Widdershins said, looking like he’d already completely forgotten Nick’s outburst. “Aye! You figured out where the tide took it? Aye! But you just said you didn’t know! Aye! You said you were confused by the tidal charts, and that oval marked GG! Aye! And yet you’ve figured it out! Aye! You’re a genius! Aye! You’re a smarty-pants! Aye! You’re a bookworm! Aye! You’re brilliant! Aye! You’re sensational! Aye! If you find me the Sugar Bowl, I’ll allow you to marry Fiona!” 

“Stepfather!” Fiona cried. 

“Don’t worry,” the captain replied, “We’ll find a spouse for the others, too! Aye! Perhaps we’ll find your long-lost brother, Fiona! He’s much older, of course, and he’s been missing for years, but if Klaus can locate the Sugar Bowl he can probably find him! Aye! He’s a charming man, so one of the girls would probably fall in love with him, and then we could have a double wedding! Aye! Right here in the main hall of the Queequeg! Aye! I would be happy to officiate! Aye!” 

“Okay, well,” Nick said, as everyone stared at each other incredibly uncomfortably and he finally made his way to stand beside Klaus, “That’s not going to happen, for a number of reasons. First of all-” 

“First of all,” Violet said, “I think Klaus should tell us about the Sugar Bowl.” 

Klaus, who was feeling incredibly awkward at the moment, said, “Yes. Well, when Captain Widdershins was talking about the philosopher who said that all of life is just shadows in a cave, I realized at once what that oval must be.” 

“A philosopher?” the captain asked. 

“Absurdio.” Sunny sighed, which meant, “Philosophers live at the tops of mountains or in ivory towers, not underneath the sea.” 

“He means a cave.” Nick groaned, setting Solitude on the table as Phil started to pass out bowls of chowder. 

“The currents of the ocean would have brought the bowl right to the entrance of a cave.” Klaus said. “We won’t know what it’s like inside, though.” 

“I wish Quigley was here.” Violet sighed. “We could use a cartographer.” 

“But Quigley isn’t here.” Lilac said. 

“I guess we’ll be traveling in uncharted waters.” Klaus said. 

“That’ll be fun!” Phil said. 

They glanced at each other, and then Nick said, “Well. It won’t be the first time we’ve been in uncharted waters, will it?”

[writing-royza]

Tainted Blood, Tainted Soul: Chapter Eight - Bad Things Come in Threes

A/N: Happy Sunday, everyone, and happy (almost) holidays! I’ll just leave this week’s chapter right here, but don’t forget to check my profile on Tuesday for a new holiday fic! Warning: this chapter contains mention of serious violence and descriptions of blood.

I do not own FMA.

Chapter Eight - Bad Things Come in Threes

ROY'S APARTMENT, CENTRAL CITY

0347 HOURS, APRIL 15

The ringing of the telephone jolted him awake from an already uneasy sleep. For a moment, he lay frozen in disorientation – his eyes were open, he knew, but everything was utterly black. Gradually, memory of where he was and why he couldn't see returned, and he rolled onto his side, fumbling cautiously for the phone.

He caught it on the fifth ring, swallowing hard as he brought it to his ear to hide the sleep in his voice. "Hello?"

"Sorry to wake you, sir. I've got news."

Dropping onto his back, Roy breathed a long sigh, his free hand reaching up to massage tired eyes. "Go ahead, Fuery. What have you heard? And what time is it?"

"It's nearly oh-four-hundred, sir. I had a call from the military police earlier tonight." The young man's voice was calm on the surface, but the quick way he spoke and the clipped sound of the words belied his anxiety. "They say they've found a body that might be that missing hospital administration clerk."

Roy lay still, processing the information even as it brought him more fully awake. "What description did they give of it?"

"They've been working from her hospital I.D., but the body's torn up pretty badly." Fuery explained. "They were able to match height, approximate weight, eye colour… but that's about it. They have a request in for her dental records, but those could take a day or two. Dr. Knox says he's still swamped with all the casualties from the battle."

Doubt was beginning to percolate through the earlier interest. "And do they have a suspect?" He felt his stomach clench involuntarily. "Please don't tell me they think it's the Jameson and Walston killer."

"Sorry, sir. This has all the hallmarks of our guy and then some. The body was found by the river, in that little wooded area off of Tenth Street? She must have already been worked over, but in the day or two since she went missing… well, let's say that this serial killer isn't the only animal in the city."

"…I see." Roy bit thoughtfully at the inside of his lower lip, trying to puzzle out how to proceed. "I don't suppose we have any witnesses either. Anyone who had seen her would have come forward when they heard she was missing."

"No, sir. Just the man who found the body, and she's been here long enough that the killer is long gone."

He tried not to let his exhale sound too much like a sigh of defeat. "All right. Let the MPs know that Hawkeye and I will be there inside of an hour. And, Fuery?" He paused a moment, making sure he had the younger man's attention. "Good work with this. You've had a lot thrown at you in the last couple of weeks, and you're handling it well."

There was no mistaking the note of happy pride. "Thank you, sir!"

Hanging up, Roy stayed flat on his back for another minute, processing it all again. What had been intended as a quiet, restful night was once again curtailed by business. The familiar deep cushions of the couch were almost achingly comfortable, nudging him back toward sleep… but there was a job to do.

Turning onto his stomach, he picked up the phone once again, careful fingers counting over the holes in the dial until the tenth. A single spin later, the operator came on the line. Giving her the number he wanted, Roy folded his arms over the end of the couch, listening for the telltale rings.

There was a single one before she picked up, her voice even and calm without a single trace of the weariness that accompanied being woken. "Hello?'

Feeling taken aback, he hesitated for a bare second before he could marshal himself to speak. "Hey. Good morning, sunshine."

She laughed quietly. "The sun isn't even up yet, Roy."

"I didn't think you would be either, but here we are," he retorted. "I just had a call from Fuery. There's been some movement on the case, and we're needed over on Tenth. Could I impose on you to swing by and pick me up?"

Her reply was immediate, dropping into her usual business-like fashion in the space of a blink. "Of course. Did he say what we've got?"

"Probable new victim. The admin clerk that went missing the night before we checked out of the hospital." He hesitated, then added, "I can find my own way there, if you want to try and get some sleep. No offense, but you picked up awfully fast for four o'clock in the morning."

There was a long stretch of silence on the line, and the normal crackle of static sounded uncomfortably like forming ice crystals in the coldness of it. "…I'm fine, sir," she answered at last. "Hayate woke me up and I hadn't fallen back to sleep yet. Don't worry."

Had he been able to see, he would have been glaring daggers at the wall. "Strike one, Riza. Try again."

Another long silence, but her voice was softer when she finally spoke. "You of all people know insomnia is nothing new to me. Especially during high-stakes circumstances like this." She paused, waiting for him to interject, then continued when he didn't. "Let's not waste time worrying about it now. I'll be there in fifteen minutes; do you need me to walk up and get you?"

Reluctantly turning from the subject of her disrupted sleep cycle, he sat upright, running a hand back through his hair. "I'll meet you downstairs. Just try not to hit me if I end up in the middle of the street."

"I'll try," she promised, smiling, and hung up.

He dropped the receiver back into the cradle, but didn't stand. Frowning, he played over what had happened. Riza was right; it wasn't unusual for her to lose some sleep in high-stress circumstances or even after major events had concluded. But that was always during or immediately after, never almost two weeks.

This was new. Different. And when he couldn't see to confront the problem, Roy liked it even less than he usually did.

Well, he reasoned, I can always press her for more information on the drive. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he stood carefully and felt his way to where he had discarded his clothes on a nearby chair. It was back to business.

RIZA'S APARTMENT, CENTRAL CITY

0401 HOURS, APRIL 15

She hung up the telephone, and turned back to where she had left her half-full mug of tea on the kitchen counter. Though normally an early riser, she was more accustomed to five a.m. than the three-thirty she had woken up at. Despite only four hours of sleep or so, she had felt energized and ready to go, no matter what was in the offing. She had dressed, made her customary morning cup of tea, and been going over yesterday's copy of the Central Times when the phone rang.

She tossed back the last of the tea in a trio of quick swallows before leaving the cup in the sink and heading toward the bathroom. Hayate — still sleepy at this early hour — opened one eye to watch her from the bed, then closed it again. His mistress's odd hours never seemed to faze him; so long as he had a spot to nap and food in his bowl, he was content.

A quick brush through her hair and another on her teeth later, she turned off the lights, dropped a swift pat on Hayate's head, and pulled on her boots before slipping out the door.

She loved the quiet of the early morning, this time before the world itself even thought of waking up. Such calm, such peace…. After the last few weeks, that was all she wanted. Peace, quiet… preferably with Roy…. Distractedly, she reached up to run a hand through her hair, her memory calling up images of his hands on her skin, his lips on hers, those sightless eyes distant in concentration as he -

She emerged from the door at the bottom of the stairwell in the cool spring predawn, the fresh air yanking her back to the present. Shaking her head to clear it, she started for the small parking lot where she had left their borrowed car. It bothered her, on some quiet level, that she was lately so preoccupied with getting him into bed at every opportunity that presented itself, no matter how slim. It had never been that way before, though she supposed the forcible six-month separation played a role in it. Even so, she had to have more control than this. There was work to do, and she refused to let her work and personal lives mix too closely.

Settling herself into the old familiar mental space of soldier/bodyguard, she took a deep breath. She would ask Roy about the… about their recent uptick in bedroom activities, get his opinions on it. A smile tugged at her mouth as she realized what he would have to say if she phrased the question in that exact way.

Three hundred cenz words, Riza. Not fair.

And there she was, thinking about getting him into bed again. She paused, the key in the car's door lock, trying to get her thoughts under control. It didn't come so easily this time, and what calm she managed felt frayed around the edges by concern. Had the events of the Promised Day and the months leading up to it really changed her that much, that she no longer had control over her own thoughts and emotions?

Out of nowhere, as she slid behind the wheel, the anger flared. Anger at herself, at the nebulous concept of feelings. It was so… so useless, all of it! She had a job to do, and that job required her to keep her emotions in check while at work. She couldn't afford to be distracted by feelings when she was needed for other things. So why did she suddenly have so much trouble controlling herself when it came to whatever the current configuration of brain chemicals was?

As suddenly as it had arrived, the anger faded back into the general turmoil inside. Taking another deep breath, Riza started the vehicle, flipped on the headlights, and put it in gear. She eased onto the street, starting east toward Roy's apartment through the near-deserted streets of Central.

"Nothing to worry about," she murmured to herself, watching the street lamps and pavement move smoothly past. "Still in control. Still all right."

Perhaps, she thought, she was merely experiencing something she had only ever heard of. There had been reports — not widely published ones, but reports all the same — of men returning from Ishval that displayed irregularities and high emotions after the trauma they had seen. Riza had suffered nightmares and loss of sleep over her time there, had refused to speak of it for months, but nothing truly… detrimental.

If anything was going to traumatize her worse than Ishval, it would have been the feeling of her own blood seeping through her fingers. She felt herself beginning to relax into the seat. Yes, that had to be it — the Promised Day had scared her in a way she hadn't thought possible before, and these were the consequences. Both needing to feel something and feeling too much, all at once.

Making a right turn, she smiled, the light from the streetlamps illuminating the expression. Well, now that that was settled, she would be able to focus more on the task at hand. And if she needed someone to talk to about this… this emotional imbalance, for lack of a better term, she would call Major Armstrong. His own emotional breakdown had led to his refusal to comply and subsequent dismissal from the Ishvalan front; if anyone knew what it was like, it would be him.

Feeling calmer, she drove on. When her stomach flipped like a lovesick schoolgirl's at the sight of him waiting for her on the sidewalk, she didn't question the emotion.

RIVERSIDE DRIVE AND TENTH STREET, CENTRAL CITY

0451 HOURS, APRIL 15

They emerged from the car into light tendrils of mist curling off the slow-moving river. Headlights from military police vehicles and an ambulance lit the vapour as it swirled in a light breeze that rustled the crime scene tape and the coats of the men closest to the vehicles.

With his hand in the crook of Riza's elbow, Roy listened to the voices grow louder as they approached. When he heard them die away, he judged that he must have their attention. "Good morning, everyone," he said grimly. "I understand there's been some excitement." When no one answered, he turned in the direction of the one voice he had recognized. "Breda? Fill us in."

Footsteps approached, and papers rustled as a file was passed; he felt the movement as Riza reached out to take it. "Nothing new to report, Boss," the redheaded man said. "If it's the administration clerk, she's in civilian clothes instead of her hospital uniform, and she doesn't seem to have any ID on her."

"Would you mind if I had a look?" Riza said quietly. "If it's who we suspect, I may have spoken with her before she disappeared. If I did, I might recognize her."

"Lieutenant, there's… not much left to recognize." Breda sounded uncomfortable, as though he were grimacing as he spoke. Given the man's preference for game boards over battlefields, Roy could certainly understand. "You remember what Mr. Walston looked like? Take that, but there's also damage to the face and… chest area."

Something churned sickeningly in Roy's stomach at that thought, and he felt Riza's arm tense beneath his hand. "I understand," she said calmly, still quiet. "But if we're going to consult productively on this, we still need to see the crime scene itself."

With a sigh that sounded distinctly resigned, Breda's footsteps turned away and changed from gritting gravel to swishing grass. "Okay, sir, you win. She's down by the pedestrian bridge to the left there. Go slow, though; the ground's kind of muddy and I don't think the Colonel wants to go ass over teakettle into the river."

"I do hate swimming," Roy remarked offhandedly.

The descent of the riverbank was somewhat steep, slow, and felt probably twice as precarious as it actually was. Riza went in front of him, murmuring soft direction back to him, and one point turning to hold him by both hands as he negotiated a slight drop in the riverside rocks. Her fingers, Roy noted, were icy cold; the cool spring dawn would have her shivering lightly before long.

More voices floated up from the near distance, Fuery's distinct among them along with Armstrong's bass rumble. Both of them approached at Breda's call, joining the little party just inside the crime scene proper, as Riza told him.

"Doctor Knox has indicated that dental identification will have to wait until she arrives at the coroner's office," Armstrong informed them, after perfunctory greetings. "Until his transport arrives, we're just trying to gather what evidence we can."

"The hospital wanted to send the senior administrator to try and identify her," Fuery added in, sounding subdued. "But we dissuaded him to wait until we get the dental records and see if they match." His voice grew slightly muffled, and Roy surmised he was looking back over his shoulder at the body. "No need to expose people to this if we can avoid it."

Roy grimaced. "That bad, is it?" When neither man answered, it confirmed the fact. "I see. Well, let's not waste time."

He followed Riza forward, waiting for the quiet intake of breath that would be her involuntary gasp of surprise… and was surprised himself when it didn't come. Instead, she spoke in a detached kind of voice, articulating the scene. "Female victim, probably about five-foot-six, maybe one hundred thirty pounds." He felt the motion of neck and shoulder muscles as her head turned, scanning the area. "She's out in the open, as much as she can be under a bridge like this. The ground is partly rocks, partly sandy dirt, hardly any grass or weeds. The river is a fair distance away — maybe twenty feet."

Frowning in concentration, letting his imagination paint the scenery he couldn't see, Roy waited a moment before speaking. "Does she look like she's been in the water at all?"

A pause. "No, sir. Her hair and clothes are both dry. Rumpled, dirty, and covered with her blood, but not mussed in a way that suggests they were soaked and then dried on her."

The grimace was coming on again, but he held it back. "You said she's covered in blood?"

An edge of distaste filtered into Riza's otherwise clinical tone. "Yes, sir. The body is in much the same condition as Walston's was. Blood everywhere, and the throat torn out." Her head turned, the words taking on a slight fade as she directed her next question elsewhere. "Has anyone checked the lividity of the body? To see if it's similar to what we discovered at the Walston scene?"

"I told them not to so much as touch the body before I could get here," a new voice said, from just behind. A moment later, Knox clapped Roy on the shoulder as he passed, a rattle sounding from the direction he'd come as more newcomers set up what Roy could only guess was a gurney to transport the body. "Bad enough that I'm already overworked with cases from the battle two weeks ago," the older man grumbled. "Now I can't even sleep through the night without getting a call."

"High demand is the price of being too good at your job," Roy commented, deciding not to mention that they had all been pulled from bed as well. "I'm glad you could make it out, though."

"That makes one of us," the other shot back. His voice, forward from Roy's position, sounded from low down, presumably as he crouched beside the body. "What time was she found?"

"Approximately three a.m.," Fuery answered. "Or at least, that's when the MPs received the call. Give or take ten minutes for the discovery to be called in from the nearest public phone."

Roy could hear Knox muttering indistinctly to himself as he worked, the sound of a clasped bag being open, metal tools clinking against other metal tools, and Breda's choked-off noise of disgust at some coroner's field procedure all hanging in the damp night air. Finally, Knox spoke audibly.

"Whatever finished this young lady, it did so over twenty-four hours ago," he said grimly. "Tell me something: have there been recent reports of animal attacks in this area?

"Not to our knowledge," Breda replied. His voice sounded slightly thick to Roy, as though the redheaded man were struggling with some kind of lump in his throat. He began to suspect that perhaps the crime scene was in danger of being contaminated. "But it does fit in with our working theory on the recent serial killer attacks."

There was a long moment of silence before Knox's low voice came again. "…You think a human did this? Human teeth and jaws?"

Riza stirred minutely. "That's the theory we've been operating under," she confirmed. "Do you believe differently?"

Boots shifted on dirt as Knox changed position, followed by more silence. "Well… I'm not an expert on dentition, but I'm not a complete novice either," he said at last. "Without proper light to see by… I can see where you would get the impression that a human did this. But there are similarities to a large animal as well, something like a wolf or some kind of big cat."

"We weren't going on teeth marks as a sign of human involvement," Riza commented, her tone dark. "At the Walston house, there was a scrap of human tissue found in the sink. The same sink where the killer is thought to have cleaned himself up." The brief pause was heavy with grim meaning. "It's our thought that if he cleaned himself up there, he may have also cleaned his teeth."

Another shuffle of movement, and Knox's voice spoke from its usual height. "I'm not saying you're wrong," he said slowly, thoughtfully. "But if that's the case, you have a particularly twisted psychopath on your hands. One with an extremely strange dental arrangement. Here, have a look."

Riza's shoulder slipped from under Roy's hand as she stepped forward. Knox kept speaking. "Here and here…. Those are marks from canine teeth. In a normal human mouth, they are somewhat pointed, their purpose being to pierce food in order to tear it. But the impressions from these canine teeth are much deeper than I would expect of a normal human bite; they've pierced deeper than they ought to have, especially in relation to the surrounding teeth."

Breda chimed in, his frown evident. "If I'm following correctly, Doc, you're saying whoever did this… their canine teeth are longer than the average humans? More pointed?"

"Exactly."

Folding his arms, now that one no longer needed to rest on Riza's shoulder, Roy tried to picture what Knox was saying. "This could be a potential clue to the killer's identity," he pointed out. "If it is a human, that sort of condition can't be common. If this guy has seen a dentist at all, it's something they would be bound to remember."

"I think you're right, Colonel." Knox was still thoughtful, but beginning to sound more and more disturbed by it all. "The more I think about it, the more I believe this isn't the work of an animal."

Riza's voice was quiet, but firm. "If it were an animal," she said, moving back toward Roy, "there would be more of this woman missing. Not to be vulgar, but… an animal wouldn't leave this much of a perfectly good meal to go to waste."

Roy shuddered, partly from the ghoulishness of it, partly from the blank, detached tone of her voice as the hammer-heavy words dropped off her tongue.

DERELICT BUILDING, EAST CITY

0500 HOURS, APRIL 15

He slid his discorporate form through the gaps in the warped metal door frame, down dusty, cobwebbed hallways to the dark, windowless rooms in the centre. He had congratulated himself on such a perfectly appointed place, and even though it had been little more than functionally decrepit when he had made it here, it hadn't stopped him.

He thought of it as his nest. A place of refuge and relaxation where he could take his ease in between hunts as he waited for her to follow him. He had given her enough clues that she ought not to be long now.

The man took a deep breath of the musty air as he entered the room, brushing dust from his clothes. The black suit wasn't his usual style, but it would have to do, with all the nighttime skulking he did. Perhaps when she joined him, he could find something that better fit his style; getting caught was less of a concern when one had backup.

Stripping off the jacket, he moved toward the metal tub of water to one side of the little encampment he had set up. Loosening the necktie, he shed it and the white shirt as well into the water. Blood seeped out of both articles, turning the water a faint shade of pink. The man threw the jacket in with them.

A faint taste of the men still lingered at the back of his mouth. Both had tasted strongly of the cheap beer that had been in their hands and on their clothes as the man attacked, but that hadn't prevented either from becoming a meal. Taking a long stick, the man swirled the clothes around the washtub, watching the water turn redder. Dinner and drinks, he mused humourlessly to himself. Not that alcohol bothered him unduly anymore.

It continued to amaze and amuse him, the way it was detectable in the blood that a person lived their life. A lush tasted of their preferred alcohol. Someone that ate altogether too much red meat tasted sharply of the blood present in a good rare steak. A caffeine addict would taste of their latest cup of coffee or tea.

So far, the Lieutenant was the exception. The man had yet to pinpoint the reason, but her blood…. It called to him all the more for the way it tasted. She tasted of warmth and light. Of ash and soot.

Riza Hawkeye tasted of fire.

He supposed, since the long-suspected carnal aspect of her relationship to Mustang had been confirmed, that he could be the reason for that flavour. But how did it reach the bloodstream? Anything ingested eventually did in one way or another, such as alcohol, food, or coffee. But flames?

He pondered the questions as he scrubbed at the bloodied clothes, washing the stains from the fabric, and coming up empty of answers. Well, it would be something to figure out once she was his. They would have all the time in the world to discover the reason together.

Vaguely, he wondered when he had decided to keep her as some sort of pet, instead of using her to hurt her commanding officer and casting her aside once her usefulness was ended. He supposed he felt responsible for her now, in a way. He had sparked something in her, something that no one else could have done. He was creating a masterpiece, and he wanted to keep it within sight where he could marvel at it, enjoy its beauty.

Wringing the water from his clothes, he laid them over exposed, dead electrical wires to dry before retiring to the small cot close by. He stretched full length upon it, lying on his back, and folded his hands over his ribs. Two days, he estimated, and she would be here. Sooner or later, she would figure out where he was, and then….

Then, she would come and the real fun would begin.

As the first rays of dawn peeped over the eastern horizon in the world outside, the man smiled. His eyes drifted out of focus but remained open… and he slept.

RIZA'S APARTMENT, CENTRAL CITY

0745 HOURS, APRIL 15

She had only just unlocked the door when the phone inside began to ring. Giving one soft, exasperated sigh, Riza tucked her keys back into her pocket and reached back to take Roy's hand.

He squeezed her fingers once and let go, smiling. "Go ahead and answer," he said softly. "I can find my way, don't worry."

Stepping over Hayate as he came toward the door with a wagging tail, Riza murmured a quiet "Stay, boy," before crossing quickly to the table and scooping up the receiver on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Oh good, you're home." Rebecca's voice was full of obvious relief, her words clipped by tension. "I've been calling for an hour! Where have you been?!"

"Out at a crime scene." Brown eyes watched Roy close the door behind him, reaching down to ruffle Hayate's ears. No doubt he followed the soft jingling of the dog's collar. "Is everything all right? You sound like you've seen a ghost."

"I haven't seen any, but I think a couple might've been created," the brunette fired back. Riza grimaced at the heat in her friend's tone; she should have remembered that Rebecca was not a morning person. "Going to Central to deal with soul-stealing megalomaniacal alchemically-powered freaks was bad enough, but I shouldn't have to come home to homicidal psychopaths!"

Tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder, Riza began shrugging out of her coat. Satisfied that the dog hadn't escaped the apartment, Roy started carefully across the floor toward her. "Rebecca, what are you talking about? You're not making any sense."

"Your psycho serial killer came east, Blondie."

She froze, both arms in the coat sleeves even as the garment dropped halfway down her back. Still five feet away, Roy caught her sudden silence and stopped in his tracks. Grey eyes flashed open as he listened, brows lowering in concern. She met that unseeing gaze, forcing herself to draw breath.

"How do you know it's —"

"Throats ripped out and blood everywhere, that's how!" Rebecca was beginning to sound more angry than upset now. Riza finished shrugging out of her coat as her friend continued. "Breda and Fuery told me enough that I can recognize when one murder looks similar to another. Does this sound like your guy, or doesn't it?"

"It depends," she allowed, draping her coat over the back of a kitchen chair. "What has the East City coroner said about it a cause of death?" She cut her friend off as she heard the intake of breath for a no doubt sarcastic reply. "And don't tell me the cause of death is obviously the throat. Just what the coroner said."

The prevented comeback came out in an impatient huff instead. "He said it looked like an animal attack, but it would be the first one reported inside the city limits in over fifteen years. That surely somebody would have seen a creature this big before it had a chance to attack anybody, especially with how far from the city limits the attacks took place."

She frowned. "Where did the attacks take place?"

"Two different wooded areas in Bradley Park. Looks like it was two homeless guys, one right after the other." Rebecca paused. "Has he ever killed in two different locations in one night like this?"

Riza grimaced, leaning back against the table. "It's suspected he did two nights ago. A man and a woman; one was the crime scene you told us about at the hospital; the other was found near a bridge by the river. That's where we just came from." Taking a deep breath, she ran a hand back through her hair. "I'll talk to the Colonel; see what we can figure out. I'll get back to you soon. You're at Headquarters?"

"Yeah. I'll stay put until I hear from you." She hesitated, the anger gone. "And, Riza? Whatever you end up doing… be careful, okay?"

"Of course," she said, as reassuringly as she could manage. "Same goes for you. I'll be in touch."

The instant Roy heard the receiver click into the cradle, he folded his arms. "Sounds like we'll need those travel permits signed off on as soon as possible." Sightless eyes drifted in the direction of the telephone. "Things are heating up at home now, too?"

"From the sound of it." Taking a deep, calming breath, she stood straight. "But this is going to push the Ishval trip back even more. Scar and Miles aren't going to like it."

"I think they'll understand." He grinned, the expression still lop-sided and boyish, but lacking most of its usual good humour. "I mean, who better to know that serial killers should be stopped than a former serial killer?"

He stepped closer, finding her arm and using it to tug her closer. The grin faded to a soft smile. "And besides…. We needed to head that way sooner or later. Even if chasing this guy turns out to be a completely dead end, no pun intended…." He reached up to tap the outside corner of one eye. "… Then I think we can find a way to make sure the trip isn't a waste."

[crossroadart-seabear]

My instagram: A abandoned apartment in a city. Used to be a nice enough apartment, with a little balcony looking out into the high-street. Now the power if off, the water is off. The shelves are hanging open and empty, there are hooks on the walls with no pictures, newpaper on the windows and through the gaps in the print the grey light highlights the moat of dust drifting in its beam. The only evidence that anyone still holds the address is the mountains of spam mail piled high at the front door and the telephone that no one but telemarketers have the number to. It rings with the constancy of a broadband help line. And every third minute someone knocks to try and engage the absent occupant in a pyramid scheme.

My twitter: A traveling caravan on a road that is suddenly under what the supervisor, who is indeed as stupid as he looks, calls ‘construction’ but the rest of us know is ‘destruction’. I waited to see how this ‘construction’ was shaping up but alas, like so many others, I’m taking out my map book and figuring out where I should go next.

My Hive (@ crossroadart ): A tent that has just been pitched in a glade with a few other far away tents in sight 😂. I’ve got no reception but apparently some folks are trying to find me. When they do maybe we can go looking for mushrooms.

My tumblr: A mill house by the river. Very much been claimed by nature, which is the running joke of the hour, but it’s metaphorically true. Water has still been turning the wheel and so it never really died, but the ivy needs to be pulled aside to get in the door who’s key I worried I had lost. It needs a sweep, it needs fresh paint, the roof may be leaking and the name above the door is a bit out of date. But the lights work and the kettles been put on the boil. A few people have knocked on the door saying they saw smoke coming out the chimney and I’m honestly surprised to see them about too. Apparently the new governor or whoever the fuck keeps the place habitable is suitably 6 parts weird 🦀 🦀🦀 and 3 parts competent and 1 part troll. As opposed the last fucker who’s prudish ineptitude was only matched by the vacant lack of humour behind their glass eyes. So long at it stays that way I plan to be in the area.

My tiktok: A stall in a heaving high street. It’s a lot of work, but there’s also a lot of people. Somedays business is great and people are epic. Some days I wish I stayed in bed. However, the marquee is still up and I am still there, solely because somehow the best folk in the crowd find me there. When those people are no longer among the surging crowd I too will fold up and put all this energy into something else… or just get some sleep.

My patreon/discord: A tavern/clubhouse in the woods. I like being there, though I really do need to give the place a paint. The front door needs to be replaced and some redecorating is in order. Soon as I find the time I will. But the patrons don’t seem to mind, they more or less help themselves to the drinks and snacks and leave the money in an honestly box, some of them even use the kitchen, keep the fire place going and fill the bird feeders for me. Couple of them sit and smoke on the roof tiles and when they see me coming nod their head. Everyone else just comes and goes as they please, occasionally lingering for a chat or claiming an upstairs room for however long. I don’t know if any of them realise this place doesn’t exist because of me, it exists because of them, but they’re confident enough in the way they go about their business that makes me think they’re at least a little bit aware. They see everything I’m working on, help themselves to the sketch books I leave around, give me their thoughts on the next project and remind me that I they want another chapter 😂, thus keeping me focused and inspired. Definitely my favourite social media community.

If you wanna see these places, here’s my bio link 😂

If my accounts had houses my tumblr house would be a cozy little cottage, my twitter house would be one of those sandwiched boulevard apartments with plant boxes and my DA house would be an abandoned tree house. 

[teauix]

Sophomore (excerpt)

I see darkness in all directions.

I feel cold and weightless.

I smell the sweet scent of the cherry blossoms as they flutter around me.

“Always stay who you are.” A distant, familiar voice whispers to me sweetly from the darkness.

I’m falling with nothing to grasp onto.

The somber voice echoes around me, resonating in my clouded thoughts. “Stay who…”

I reach up into the darkness, not wanting to lose the voice, but it is already fading. A fog begins to swirl around me as I begin to feel weighed down. I can’t stop falling. There is nothing for me to hold onto. There is nothing at all.

Thump thump.

The fog begins to consume me as my mind begins to go blank.

Thump thump.

I don’t attempt to resist anymore and surrender to my endless plummeting.

Thump thump.

I open my mouth to scream and air begins to rush into my body, filling my lungs with the smell of stale air and industrial laundry detergent.

Then everything is suddenly white and blinding. There is a beeping sound, and ringing telephones. I can hear a stampede of footsteps and something rustling around me.

Who exactly is “me”?

Features begin to fade into focus around me.

White walls. White ceiling. White sheets. There is a huge window that offers a view of some city as the white curtains flap in the breeze. The sky is overcast and the clouds shine as the sun tries to break free from the cloud’s curtain call.

There is an I.V. attached to my arm and a television flashing pictures of a group of people sitting in the middle of the street with large signs.

Am I in the hospital? Who am I? Why am I in the hospital?

I look around as confusion begins to set in.

A nurse pokes her head in the door and gasps at my newly awakened state. I stare at her blankly, trying to let her know that we share the same confusion.

“You finally woke up, Miss.” She chirps and dashes off down the hall.

Finally? Was I out for a while? What’s going on?

I swing my legs over the railings on the bed and poke the cold floor with my toes, like a nervous swimmer testing the temperature of a pool.

It’s cold against the soles of my feet. The air is stale. There is so much light pouring in through the large bay window that it’s blinding.

On an adjacent wall, there is a mirror, reflecting more light into my retinas.

“Be careful moving around.” The nurse returns, with two other people. The guy holds a book and a tablet, making it clear that he is examining me. The other, a lady, who unhooks me from the I.V. that is intruding my arm.

“We’re going to ask you some questions, and you need to answer them to the best of your ability, okay Miss.” The guy tells me stoically.

I nod and grunt in response.

He quirks a lip and looks at the lady.

“What day of the week is it?” he cuts right into the questioning.

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know.” I mutter.

“What is today’s date?” he continues.

I shake my head at him. “If I don’t know the day of the week, why would I know the date.” I respond before I can stop myself.

“We aren’t here to converse.” The lady snarls at me.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and look at the guy, to let him know that he can continue.

“What is your name?”

My name? What does it even start with? Is this all real?

“…lunatic?” the lady is in the middle of questioning the guy.

“Maybe, dementia.” The guy says, standing up. They exit the room in a breeze of seriousness and a strange air of gloom.

I begin to meander in my thoughts while trying to listen to them outside of the door. Someone has to have answers.

“Will she be destroyed?” the lady asks him in a hushed tone, but I can still hear their conversation.

Either she’s not trying to be quiet, or I have excellent hearing. I even hear her let out a sigh.

“Probably. Too bad, she’s so young.”

Destroyed, like killed? Am I in trouble?

I need to get out of here.

On the dresser, there is a heap of clothing. Mine, possibly.

Even if they aren’t, they probably look a lot more normal than running around in a hospital gown.

I slip the clothing on quickly, and poke my head out of the door. The hallway is mostly empty, besides all of the equipment that is scattered, waiting to be wheeled off to some unknown place.

I must have hit my head, really hard, which would explain why I’m in the hospital suffering from memory lost.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” A voice of wary crawls up my spine.

I whip around to face the bewildered guy, decorated in white scrubs. “Do you happen to know who I am?”

The nurse takes a step towards me, obviously confused. “All we know is that you arrived here, covered in soot.”

“Soot?” I croak.

I remember fire. A world dancing in red. The moon was plump in the sky.

“Miss?” the nurse places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I flick it away and dash down the hall. My brain is trying to remember any little detail but all it seems to muster up is distorted images.

What was I doing in a fire?

“Don’t let her get away.” A husky voice says. It’s definitely the voice of the doctor from earlier.

What do the plan on doing with me? What exactly did he mean by “destroy”? I don’t like the sound of it, or the look he was giving me earlier.

I slide into a stairwell and stumble as I head down the steps. I’m on the twenty first floor, according to blue sign at the stairwell entrance.

21st floor… that seems to poke at my burned out memory but I can’t seem to pull anything out of the haze. There was something important I was supposed to remember about the 21st floor.

Something detrimental. Something I wanted people to know.

The door to the stairwell slams into the wall, and people dressed in black pour into the stairwell.

Why are they chasing me?

I trundle down a flight of stairs and smash into a wall.

They’re going to catch me.

“Stay who you are.” The voice begins to turn into vapors as my mind goes cloudy, again.

There’s a guy dressed in a black trenchcoat, jeans, and leather combat boots. I can’t see his face, but I can remember a smile.

I get up slowly, making sure I haven’t obtain any damage. My back feels kind of funny, but nothing seems broken. A guy swoops in to grab me, and I duck under his reach and kick him in the stomach.

I’m not sure where the sudden strength came from, but I’m happy at the timing.

As I make it down the last flight of stairs I hear the guys grumble amongst themselves. They are a few floors up but I can make out of few words.

“Desist. We go no further.” The doctor’s voice echoes off of the walls.

I’m not even sure how they got so far behind me.

“Too much daylight. Too many witnesses.” Another voice concurs.

I open the exit to the stairwell, only to be greeted by stares. Some filled with grief, and others with deflated hope.

It’s a waiting room. And just beyond all of the empty stares and filled chairs, there is a set of wide sliding doors lining the walls. Windows all around stream in endless sunlight and a huge floral display scents the rooms with the faint aromas of blossoming flowers.

Escape. I know I need to get out of this place, but I want to check the room for familiar faces.

Disappointment sets in as I make a few laps around the room, no one recognizing me. No startled looks or relieved smiles. Just robotic stares, as though everyone is operating on autopilot. They don’t even seem to notice my presence.

I shake my head, and long brown hair flops out of the loose ponytail on my head.

I look to the doors, wondering if I should continue further. What exactly will I do once I get outside? I don’t even know what town I’m in. What’s waiting on the other side of those doors?

Sunlight. Lots of blaring sunlight.

I feel like I’m floating -gliding- my feet moving without permission.

The doors squeak as they slide open.

Warm light. Too bright.

[onceuponamirror]

heart rise above

///// CHAPTER 2

summary: It wasn’t an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister’s college graduation. That’s it.

Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.

Mechanic!AU

fandom: riverdale

ship: betty x jughead

words: 7.5k

chapters: 2/?

[read from the beginning] [read the latest]

I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills 'Til the landslide brought it down

.

.

.

.

Sailors tell stories of calms before hurricanes. The wind is mild, friendly even, tickling the sails with soft breezes. The waves are coaxing and gentle against the hull of the ship. The sun is bright and strong. And then—chaos.

These are the kinds of thing Betty thinks about in moments like this. Two screaming—or laughing? She’s never totally sure—children running circles around her, her hands too greasy to try to grab one of them, her hair falling in her face, the garage telephone ringing shrilly, and she just needs it all to stop.

“Kids!” She yells. “Guys, please! Aunt B needs to answer the phone!”

Her nephew jabs her forcefully in the knee. “No! Tag! You’re it!” Then her niece starts mimicking her brother and they both start chanting tag! tag! tag!

Trying to think of a reason why she ever agrees to babysit these two terrors, especially when she has to work, Betty tries to weave her way to the phone.

“Aunt B isn’t playing tag right now, Artie,” she sighs, quickly wiping her hands on the rag next to the big red telephone before making a grab for it. He pokes at her again just as she pulls the phone off the receiver. “Ow! Arthur, stop. Cooper Garage, Betty speaking.”

“How are the Terrible Two’s, then?” It’s Veronica, sounding far too smug for someone who spoils the twins just as much anyone. She and the twins’ other aunt, Cheryl, have been broken up for over a year, but given that it was an amicable split (or, as amicable as two girls equally prone to dramatics can be—hence, the breakup), Veronica has remained a strong presence in the kids’ lives all the same.

“Terrible,” Betty breathes. She wipes her hand across her forehead. “What’s up?”

“So, I should cover my mom’s shifts more often,” Veronica chirps, and Betty feels an inkling of frustration that she practically sprinted across the garage for another one of Veronica’s social calls.

“Oh?” Betty asks, using the moment to brush some loose locks of hair off her sweaty skin. “And why’s that, Ronnie?”

“Boys,” is Veronica’s simple response. “Riverdale is absolutely devoid of them—or any that I haven’t test driven yet—but I always forget that Pop’s gets a surprising number of people off the highway. Girls too, I’m sure, but tonight there were these—”

“Well, I’m sure Pop appreciates that business,” Betty interrupts distractedly, watching her niece wander dangerously close to a tool bench. “Rose! Don’t touch that. You know you don’t play with Aunt B’s tools. Can you go grab your brother and go play in my office, please? You can put on the tv.”

Rose shoots her an embarrassed, apologetic smile and pulls her brother to the back of the garage and into her office.

“Sorry,” Betty declares to Veronica, rubbing her forehead. “They got into my cookie stash again. They’re angels until they touch sugar. You were saying? Boys?”

“It’s fine,” Veronica replies in her typically amused voice. “I should probably get to the point. I know you’re closing soon, but I’m actually calling because I have a truck smoking in the parking lot of Pop’s, and I figure they might need a tow and an allen wrench, or something.”

Ah.

“Okay, don’t trust an allen wrench for anything other than IKEA. Hold on,” Betty chuckles, cradling the phone between her shoulder and neck to reach for her notepad. “Alright, I’m ready. Describe the situation for me.”

“Uh…it’s a truck. Looks kind of old. Actually a rather lovely sea foam color…might be the same palette Jil Sander used in her FW—”

Betty stops taking notes. “Veronica.”

“Right. Not relevant. Well, I saw these two guys get in the car, and after a few minutes, the whole engine started smoking. Seemed like maybe they were trying to get it started.” There’s a sound like blinds shuffling around, and she imagines Veronica is watching from the window. “One is waving smoke around like a maniac and the other has just been banging his head against his steering wheel for the past three minutes.”

Betty presses her lips together to suppress a giggle at the mental image. “It sounds like it overheated, but I won’t be able to diagnosis why without seeing it,” she concludes, glancing over her shoulder at the office window. “Hm. They probably need a tow to get it here, but I can’t leave the kids…or fit them, two guys, and me in the truck. And Jason and Polly have that thing tonight, or I’d make them come get them.”

“Why don’t you bring the kids and leave them with me? I’ll take them home, or bring them over to the garage at the end of my shift. Pop’s got enough colored pencils to keep them occupied.”

“That might work,” Betty muses. “Okay, sounds like a plan. Tell those guys not to touch anything, and that a tow is coming.”

“Sí,” Veronica replies. “And call me when you’re done with them, if I don’t see you first. I wanna talk about the boys, because one is trés cute. Try to find out if he’s single, would you?”

“If it comes up naturally, sure,” Betty sighs, thinking that Veronica gets more romantic mileage out of Betty’s livelihood than she herself does. “Alright, it’ll take me a minute to wrangle these demons. See you soon. Thanks, V.”

“De nada. Besitos!”

They both hang up, and Betty presses another number into the buttons. She’d call Polly, but she’s famously bad at answering her phone. Jason picks up after a ring. “Hello? Is everything okay?” Her brother-in-law sounds frantic. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Breathe, Jason,” she laughs. “Everyone is fine. I just have a little dilemma here at the garage. I need to go pick up a car at Pop’s, but can’t fit the kids with everyone in the tow truck on the way back. I’m gonna leave them with Veronica at the diner, and she’ll bring them home if this ends up going too long. That alright?”

“Oh. Sure, Betty. Sorry again for leaving them with you last minute. Wh—oh, sorry, I have to go, the charity auction is starting. Thanks for checking. Have a good night!” And then he’s gone. Betty sighs, and wipes her hands on her blue work jumpsuit. If the boys are as cute as Veronica said, she briefly wonders if she should put on a bit more mascara. But there’s not really time, and she’s got a job to do anyway. So she settles for retying her ponytail and washing any leftover grease from her face.

“Kids!” She calls, and they come scrambling out of her office. “Who wants to go for a ride in the tow truck?”

After a resounding chorus of “We do! We do!” and gathering all their things into their little backpacks, she corrals them into the truck and sets off for Pop’s. Like everything in Riverdale, it’s not a long drive, but Rose and Artie are shoving at each other and it’s distracting for the whole ride.

She exhales. She loves her family. She loves her family.

Pulling into the Pop’s parking lot, Betty immediately spots the purpose of her trip; a mint green Ford pickup is stalled in its spot, the remnants of smoke stacks lingering overhead. Veronica is leaning against a nearby car in a yellow Pop’s uniform, talking to a well-built redheaded guy, and there’s another person still sitting in the driver’s seat, his head slumped against the wheel.

At least he’s stopped hitting his head against it, Betty thinks. She parks right in front of him, so it’ll be easy to hook up later on.

She and the kids pile out of the tow truck, and they immediately race over to Veronica, who scoops up Rose in her arms. With the kids’ bright red hair next to the stranger’s own, they could be a little family themselves. She shakes her head and marches over to the Ford.

“Hi there!” She says, knocking lightly against the metal door frame. “Heard you needed a hand.”

The guy looks up, eyes narrowed. He has dark hair stuffed under a gray beanie, a handsome, angled face and a smattering of attractive freckles and moles. This must be the cute one, Betty thinks, though Veronica seems happily preoccupied with the other guy.

“So it would seem,” he says, after a long moment of sizing her up. “You the mechanic we were promised?”

If he’s going to be one of those guys who underestimates a blonde woman under the hood of a car, he doesn’t show it. “Yep,” she says brightly. “Mind if I take a look at what I’m working with?”

With an incredibly burdened sigh, he slips out of the driver’s seat. “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters darkly behind her. He doesn’t seem to be in the best mood, though it’s not like she can blame him. Then again, she rarely comes across a customer happy to get their car ripped apart to be fixed, so she’s used to the attitude.

“So is the truck yours? Wow, is this a F150 ‘76? Haven’t seen one of those in a while,” she says, trying to clear the air.

“’77,” He corrects, a bit defensively, though she’s not sure why. He shifts from one foot to another, looking uncomfortable. “She’s not much, but she’s mine. A dependable old girl. Usually.”

“She’s a beaut,” Betty assures him. Veronica was right; the color is very nice. She flashes him an excited and secretive kind of smile that he clearly looks like has no idea what to do with. “I always love the diagnosis period.”

She sticks her head under the popped hood. She makes a lot of hm's, and ah's, and oh's under her breath as she digs around the engine. There’s almost no compressor left on one of his cylinders, which is probably the source of the breakdown. It’s been almost fried completely through, but otherwise, the engine is in pretty good shape, though there are certainly a couple of dark spots on its horizon.

“You’ve taken pretty good care of this car,” she says, briefly poking her head around the hood.

The guy clears his throat, looking slightly pained. “Uh, that was mostly my dad. This was his truck and I think he still fiddles with it when I’m not looking. But probably hasn’t for…a while. I haven’t done much more than change the oil every now and then.”

Betty hums and turns back to the engine. “Well, he’s done a good job.” Then she straightens, and wipes her hands on the rag that hangs from her belt loop. “So are you a good news first, bad news second, kind of guy? Or a—”

“I’m a bad news first, more bad news inevitably second kind of guy,” he says wanly. “So level with me. How bad?”

“Honestly, it’s not!” She says quickly, though he looks suspicious. He passes a fleeting glance over at his friend, but he and Veronica are still talking a few cars away. The kids are running in circles around them. “Really. You’ve got no compression left on one of your cylinders, which is easy to fix. And your truck has got great bones. But…the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”

He squints at her. “Are you making an Aristotle joke?”

“A bad one,” she sighs, smile fading. “Basically, I don’t have parts for a truck this old on hand right now. I just used up my last one a few days ago. And we’re the only garage in town. Now, I can order them, and they really shouldn’t take too long, but it could be a week before they arrive. Maybe sooner if my guy in Hudson hasn’t left for vacation yet. Once I get the part it’ll be done in a couple days. But…”

“But?”

Betty sighs. “But I don't know how far you’re planning on driving this car.”

He blinks. “We came from Boston, heading to Chicago and then back. Why?”

“I was worried you guys were on a road trip,” she says under her breath. “I'm not totally sure the truck can make it back from Chicago. It might, it definitely might, but you've got a couple of weak spots all over your engine that could cause another breakdown. Just a professional observation.”

The guy stares longingly at his truck. Something is working across his face.

“Some people might cut their losses here,” she wagers, taking a stab at what he’s thinking. He looks up sharply. “Might say that sinking money into a truck a over decade older than them is a waste.”

He doesn’t correct her, so Betty assumes she’s not far off. “But like I said, this truck has really great bones. It was built well before planned obsolescence, and all that. So I could do a quick fix of your compressor issue here and send you off, but honestly, your head gasket and one of your valves aren’t long for this world either. If I rebuilt about half your engine, it would run flawlessly for probably another ten years.”

The guy stares at her. “Don’t mechanics have a reputation for saying stuff just like that, to get you to spend more money?”

“Yes,” Betty agrees. “We do. But I know what I’m talking about. You can trust me.”

“That’s definitely what someone I couldn’t trust would say,” he murmurs apprehensively, running his tongue over his teeth. He blinks over at Pop’s, a sort of wistful look warring over his features. “I’m not saying yes, for the record. But let’s say, theoretically, I’m interested in my truck running for another ten years. Just how long would rebuilding an engine take?”

“Well, couple weeks, if I get the compressor within that window. I’ve got most of the things I’d need for the engine already. But I'd be able to get started right away.”

“So we’re talking, full picture, about three weeks,” he summarizes flatly. He appears thoughtful, rubbing his hand against his jaw. “That’s cutting it a little close. I have to be in Chicago in a month. And what the hell would we do for three weeks in some podunk farm town?”

Betty bristles; she’s not sure he meant to say that last part loud enough for her to hear it, but she sure as hell did.

“I’m sorry your truck broke down here, but I can assure you we have all the amenities of modern times here in Riverdale. Flushing water, even internet,” she says, in a perky voice that she knows belies her annoyance.

With the long day she’s had chasing two six year olds all over her garage and just the mounting exhaustion of the past year, she’s not in the mood to humor the snobbery of a stranger. And, maybe, just maybe, if she’s being honest with herself, she doesn’t disagree with him and it strikes a damn chord.

There isn’t much to do in Riverdale, a fact she’s been musing over her whole life. But it’s not like she has the option to leave, so she’s not really interested in sympathizing with his anguish over a three-week pit stop.

He seems to realize his mistake, as his ears redden. She adds pointedly, “We’re also on the MetroNorth line. So you can go down to New York City while I fix her up. Or you can head up the Hudson Valley. You’re not married to staying here.”

He looks embarrassed beyond his depth, but doesn’t apologize. He nibbles on his lips instead. “Yeah, okay. How much are we talking?”

She puts her hands on her hips and spares the engine another sigh. “Parts…hm, you don’t need everything…the head gasket is gonna run it up…compressors are about 120… So I’d say about 700 for all the parts. Labor for this kind of work is about 1500. I’ll bundle it and do it all for 2 grand.”

He pulls his hat from his head for the sole purpose of running his hands through his hair. She has a moment to appreciate his thick, dark curls before the hat is forcefully shoved back on. He looks frustrated, or maybe anguished, or maybe on the verge of a total mental breakdown. Or maybe all of the above.

He crosses his arms. “That seems low. What’s the catch?”

“It is low,” Betty exhales, half-forgiving him for his offense despite herself. She knows it’s not what her father would’ve done—but it’s her garage now. She can run it how she wants, including into the ground. Still, one of these days, she’d love to learn how to hold a grudge. “No catch. You just seem like you’re in a bit of a bind.”

He stares at her like she’s just touched down to Earth on a spaceship. Then, he shakes his head to clear his shocked expression, and thrusts his hand out. “Deal.”

She shakes his hand, and there’s a brief, but startling, moment where her skin sparks against his. It might just be static electricity, but he seems to notice it too, because he quickly pulls his hand away.

“Thanks, Betty,” he says quietly, much to her surprise. At her look, he gestures to the embroidered nametag over her heart. She glances down at it, having forgotten it was there. Forgot she was wearing this greasy, disgusting jumpsuit in the first place. “I’m Jughead, by the way. And no, that’s not the name on my driver’s license, which I guess you’ll see when I fill out whatever forms, so please just…call me Jughead.”

She raises an eyebrow, but it’s 2017 and she goes by Betty, so she’s not about to judge. “Gotcha. Okay, well I’m gonna load up your Ford to the tow. You’re my last call of the day, so how about I drop you at the local hotel and you can come by tomorrow to fill out the paperwork?”

Jughead opens his mouth, but Archie, Veronica, and the kids are making their way towards them and he promptly clams up.

“They’ve reminded me I promised them pie about fifty times now, so we’re going to head on in so I can deliver on that. A Lodge always keeps her word,” Veronica says, tossing her silky black hair over her shoulder.

Betty rolls her eyes, dropping into a squat so she’s eye-level with the twins. “Fine, but I’m not taking them back after you’ve pumped them with more sugar. Okay kiddos, say goodbye to me!”

“Bye!” They say in cheery unison, running into her open arms. They give her quick hugs and then dash into the diner, with Veronica crossing across the parking lot after them. She passes them a brief, delicate wave of her fingers and then disappears through Pop’s door.

Jughead’s friend stares after her like she’s water and he’s the desert. She isn’t surprised. Veronica tends to have that effect, even draped in polyester. Betty will have to double check which one her friend thinks is the cute one, because otherwise there might be tension on the horizon between the two boys.

But then, Betty realizes that Jughead hasn’t even spared Veronica a passing glance. Instead, he’s staring at his truck. He seems to sense her eyes on him, because then he looks her way, his face unreadable. 

“So what’s happening?” The redhead asks, forcing his gaze away. “Did you get it fixed?”

“As if it’d be that simple, Archie,” Jughead sighs. “No, we’re definitely stuck here. Or, the truck is. For a couple weeks, while Betty here licks the wounds we’ve inflicted.”

His friend, Archie, seems to realize Betty is here for the first time. He hastily makes his introductions and then turns back to Jughead. “A couple of weeks? Aw, man. I had all these plans for our road trip.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Jughead says, a bit tersely. “If you’d given me any time to prepare, I might’ve had the truck checked out before we left. Instead she didn’t even make it 400 miles.”

Archie frowns. “I’m sorry, dude, I just—”

But Jughead cuts him off with a noisy exhale, then shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m tired. Let’s just crash and figure it out in the morning.”

Betty slips away and starts unhooking her tow chains, deciding the two friends might need a moment to work it out. She’s a mechanic, but she often feels more like a bartender in a seedy TV procedural; the type of arguments she overhears picking people up from the side of the road could fill a book.

Archie and Jughead don’t seem as willing to fight, though there’s still clearly a bit of tension as she snaps the hood down and latches the Ford to her tow truck. While she’s fiddling under the carriage of Jughead’s truck, she overhears the last bit of their conversation.

“…just saying it might not be the worst place to stay for a little while,” Archie is murmuring wistfully, and Betty can imagine he’s staring after Veronica in the diner.

“I guess not,” Jughead replies, after a long, thoughtful moment. She can’t see his face, but there’s something markedly hidden in his voice. She inhales, unsure of the sudden prickling on her skin. “I guess not.”

.

.

.

.

.

[fortey]

The Adventures of Schade and Freud

PROLOGUE:

It’s midnight in the city. Probably everywhere in the time zone, in fact.  But the city is what matters.  Shadows from the darkest alleys creep into the streets at night, looking up close to the tiny pools of yellow provided by dim and buzzing street lights.  The moon is round.  It’s so round.  I guess. There are clouds tonight and I can’t really tell.

“You’re like Shakespeare if he drank drain cleaner and cried when he masturbated.”

I do not reply to the voice because I learned long ago to not take the bait.  He wants me to get angry.  He wants me to curse him for a bastard and toss him aside like garbage. Oh, he’d just love that.  He wants to be free.  I can’t allow it.

“More like you can’t get it up.”

“Then how can I cry when I masturbate?” I ask, trapping him in an oubliette of dark logic.

“You flog your little squishy,” he replies.  He has broken free from the dark logic oubliette.  I am briefly rendered speechless as I struggle for a comeback.

“Keep fighting the good fight, fella.”

Standing in the shadows near the mouth of an alley next to a shuttered pawn shop that goes by the clever name of “Pawn Shop” I raise the cold, black steel of the  Colt Python revolver to my lips.

“Shhh…” I shush. Across the street the skinny man in the ugly purple jacket has left his apartment above a Trinidadian restaurant. His name is Greg Holcomb and goes by “Grubs” on the street.  He tends to fence stolen goods and lives the life of a man-pig.  He’s my only lead so far on a stolen diamond ring.

“Don’t you shush me. Not like Grubs over there can hear me.”

“You’re distracting me,” I reply.  There’s a snort for an answer.  It sounds bestial and disquieting, as do most of the words the voice speaks in its guttural squeaky way.  I never knew you could have guttural squeaks before.  

“You’re just unbearable, you know that?” it says to me.  I look at the gun barrel before tucking it in a side holster and slipping from the shadows, stealthily following my target down the block.

Grubs moves at an easy pace, talking on a cell phone as he passes by numerous closed shops.  He pauses briefly at a dive bar and chats with a doorman.  I stand in the shadows between an atrociously painted pea green Prius and a telephone pole.  I am a shadow.

“You’re an ass hat.”

“You’re an asshat!” I shout back.  Grubs and the doorman look in my direction and I drop like a stone.  I peep around the corner of the car after a moment and see the feet.  Grubs stands above me, gun in hand.  He presses the barrel against my nose.

“You wanna tell me who the fuck you are and why you’re following me?” he says.  I don’t, to be honest.

“Name’s Freud. Garth Freud.”

“Well la-di-fuckin-da, Garth. Who are you?”  He presses the cold barrel harder into my nose, forcing it sideways.  I try to focus on the weapon, I think it’s a 9mm Ruger but it’s hard to focus.  Good gun. Reliable.

“I’m a private eye, Greg. I’m looking into a ring that got lifted from a house in the hills.  White gold, three karat diamond solitaire surrounded by blue sapphire chips.  Sound familiar?”  Grubs adjusts his ugly purple jacket taking the gun away from my nose.

“Come on, man.  I didn’t steal that!  I got that from Scurvy fair and square, he owed me!”

“Scurvy, huh?”  I’ll have to look into that one.

“Yeah, Scurvy, man! He’s a lowlife but he gets good shit.  You can’t pin any of that on me if that shit was hot.”

“If?  Your friend Scurvy normally pay you with $60,000 diamond rings?”

Grubs’ jaw drops and a look of utter bafflement overtakes him.  Dumbass had no idea what that ring was worth, did he?  I shudder to think of what he sold it for.

“Sixty large?  Now I know you’re fucking with me.  Bendo down at the pawn shop told me it was worth five tops and would only give me two for it.”

“Sounds like Bendo screwed you pretty hard, Greg.”

Grubs raises his hands to his head, spins on his heels.

“Jesus, man! Are you for real?”

“Real as me kneeling in this gutter,” I say.

Grubs looks like he’s about to cry.  I try to move and he points the gun at me again, forcing me to raise my hands as I kneel in a puddle I hope is water.

“Are you seriously going to shoot me, Greg?  I’m just here for a ring.”

“I didn’t steal it!���

“I never said you did. You’re just a stone in the path. You got it from Scurvy, you pawned it to Bendo.  Your part is done.”

“For real?”  He looks like he wants to believe me but is afraid to. I couldn’t care less, really.  If the cops want him they’ll arrest him when I’m done.  Not my job to care, really.

“For real.  Tell me where to find Bendo and we’re square.”

“No man, I don’t rat. I ain’t selling anyone out.”

“Scurvy and Bendo, you mean? The guys whose names you already told me?”

I can see the wheels turn in his head.

“Shit!” he says loudly. I slowly get to my feet as he lowers the gun.

“See, no harm done. Just point me towards Bendo, I’ll get my client’s ring, this all goes away.”

Grubs scratches the side of his head, sighs heavily.

“I shoulda known, man. Fuckin’ Scurvy.  He said it was his grandma’s ring!  But the inscription said ‘Vellspar.’  I knew he was full of shit.”

“Well, Mrs. Vell won’t hold it against you, I’m sure,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.  Grubs pauses mid-scratch.  His eyes fix on me, wide and damp looking.

“Mrs. Vell? Olivia Vell?” he says quietly.  I arch an eyebrow.

“Yeah, why –“  I don’t hear the gun go off.  I see it in Grubs’ hand.  I feel a pressure in my chest, like the worst punch I ever got.  I tumble back under the force of it, struggling to breathe.  It’s like someone is sitting on my chest and digging a bony finger into my lungs so hard it burns.  My god, it burns.

“You’re dying.”

Am I dying?

“That’s what I said.”

I’m vaguely aware of Grubs running away into the night.  I’m laying in that puddle now.  It’s cold. I don’t want to die.

“Good riddance to you anyway.  I’ll finally be free.”

Free.  That would be nice.  But didn’t that back alley shaman say eternity?

“Come again?”

I feel myself getting cold. It’s like the puddle is spreading up into my body.  I want to curl up in a ball but I can’t move.  And yeah.  He said eternity.  Beyond death. Boundless.  I’m absolutely sure of it.

“Are you shitting me?”

I’m in too much pain to shit anyone.

“Goddamn it.  Hold on.”  

I hold on.  In the gutter next to a Ford Prius, under the light of a yellow, humming street lamp, I hold on while Schade starts muttering. Schade, the Lesser Mischief Demon, Draconarius in Hell’s 456th Legion, Originator of Ingrown Toenails and all around asshole. Schade, assistant to Mulfeasius, Hell’s Gunsmith, who was shot point blank by the very 1955 Colt Python revolver his spirit now inhabits by Mulfeasius after the demon smith created it and needed a target to test it on.  Schade, the voice in my head for as long as our souls are intertwined. Schade started muttering the fel words of an unholy incantation.  And that’s when I lost consciousness.

[ukdamo]

A Child’s Christmas in Wales

Dylan Thomas

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder. "Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong. "There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas." There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting. "Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and ran out of the house to the telephone box. "Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?" "With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells." "You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?" "I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them." "I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells." "There were church bells, too." "Inside them?" "No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence."

"Get back to the postmen" "They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles ...." "Ours has got a black knocker...." "And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out." "And then the presents?" "And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger's slabs. "He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone."

"Get back to the Presents." "There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents." "Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?" "There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements. "I bet people will think there's been hippos." "What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?" "I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his tail." "What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr. Daniel's house. "Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box." "Let's write things in the snow." "Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn." Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?" "No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town. "Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said. "Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading. "Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.