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captainillogical · 5 years ago

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Distant Lands Ch.19

Stranded on a planet with toxic conditions and nothing but the clothes on your back, your only means of survival lies within the gem that got you here in the first place.

Spinel/Reader

collab with my lovely wife @firstofficertightpants

Strangely enough, you wake up in your bed.

You don’t remember coming into your room to sleep, but here you are. It’s light out - the blinds are closed, but the window is glowing with sunlight. You rub at your eyes, trying to get the rest of the lingering feeling of sleep out of them. You wonder what time it is, and you look over to see your phone left on your small bedside dresser. Without moving from your lying position, you reach over to grab it off the flat surface.

You pull out the charging cable, and open your lock screen. It’s a bit past two in the afternoon. Ugh. You see a couple texts from Steven, and some from an unknown number. You open his messages first.

[10:23] Steven: I woke up fairly early and saw you asleep on the couch with Spinel. Color my face surprised. Wasn't expecting you two to be so chummy considering how you met, initially.

[10:23] Steven: I told you to get some sleep but you really don’t want to listen to me, huh? She helped me put you to bed. Was a little surprised at how careful she was with you.

[10:23] Steven: Anyway, you looked like you needed quite a bit of rest so Pearl, myself and Spinel are going to Little Homeworld ourselves to introduce her to some of the others and show her around a bit.

[10:24] Steven: Take it easy today, and don’t fret about the small stuff. I’ll take care of it, as well as giving some of the others a quick run-down of what happened so you’re not bombarded with the same questions multiple times.

[10:24] Steven: I gave Spinel one of my old cell phones that Peridot ‘upgraded’, the one with the heart stickers you put on the back (I thought it was funny), and gave her your number. Watching her try to navigate human technology was hilarious, btw.

[10:24] Steven: Also we still have that tub of blueberry yogurt in the fridge that I didn’t really like, so if you’re hungry please eat that first. Pearl won’t let me buy more yogurt until I finish that one. :(

You stare at the texts for a moment, brain working a little slow still. Lord.. you can't believe Steven saw you like that, and with Spinel. He could've reacted way worse, but you're glad that it wasn't the case. You kinda have a feeling he might ask you a couple personal questions regarding that.. ugh. You’re also trying to not be disappointed that you’re not there with them and Spinel, and getting to see her interactions with the others.

Oh well, nothing you can do about it now. You text him back before opening the other messages.

[02:09] Y/N: Pssh, I’ll sleep when I want to sleep. Plus, I couldn’t really pass out before talking to her about shit on my mind. It’s fine. And thanks for making sure I didn’t wake up with a stiff neck.

[02:09] Y/N: Keep an eye on her for me, yeah? She’s anxious about all of this.

[02:09] Y/N: And.. thank you, Steven. You know you're my favorite, right?

After sending the texts, you go over and open the unsaved number’s messages from a couple hours ago. They’re clearly from Spinel, so you save the number to your contacts before reading them all.

[10:42] Spinel: did it send

[10:42] Spinel: i think it did this time, phewwww no error message

[10:42] Spinel: this tech is old and weird but i can deal with it for now

[10:42] Spinel: i hope you got okay sleep

[10:42] Spinel: i’m out with steven and pearl as i’m sure he’s told you already

[10:42] Spinel: she’s kinda annoying sometimes, is that normal for her? i don’t know how to feel about her, especially knowing pink as much as i did

[10:43] Spinel: and i know you told me to be nice to steven, but he’s already laughed at me for being confused at your human tech. never listening to you again

[10:43] Spinel: little homeworld is not what i was expecting, but i think i like this a little better than whatever i had thought, anyway

[10:43] Spinel: bismuth is fun. i like her. she says she’ll put me to work for it, but she has a small place for me in this new housing block that’ll be ready for me later today

[10:43] Spinel: it feels kinda like too much at once and it’s a little overwhelming

[10:43] Spinel: but steven has helped a ton, and i’m starting to understand why you defended him as much as you did.

[12:16] Spinel: [attachment received]

You open the file, and it’s a very blurry image of the sidewalk and what you think is Spinel’s shoes. Did she mean to send that? You feel your face smiling, despite the weird feelings starting to blossom in your stomach. You’re glad she’s getting along with the others. You had been.. wary, really, and for good reason. But if the others can get over other gems trying to kill Steven fairly quickly, then you’re not surprised they can get over this, this soon. It was always you technically that held a grudge against the other gems that tried causing him harm. And well, you did hold a bit of a grudge against Spinel for a while..

You sigh out loud, and sit up before texting her back. It feels weird to be texting her, when you were so used to face-to-face communication.

[02:12] Y/N: I slept fine. Thanks for putting me to bed, Steven said some nice things about you :P

[02:12] Y/N: I’m glad you got used to cellphones pretty quickly, I’m a little impressed. And give Pearl some time, you just gotta brush off half her nagging for the most part.

[02:12] Y/N: What were you expecting little homeworld to be like? And how sweet of Bismuth, you should take a pic of the place when you get into it, I wanna see what it looks like inside.

[02:13] Y/N: Yeah.. it will feel like too much, Spinel. Think of what your life was like before this. I did say there was going to be a lot to adjust to.

[02:13] Y/N: Also did you mean to send that last image because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at exactly, there.

You check your social media for a second as you try not to let all of your thoughts linger on Spinel, and then roll your eyes at yourself when you realize ah right, a month didn’t actually pass here. There’s nothing new. You stand up, stretching your arms way over your head.

It feels good, not sleeping on the ground for once.

You make quick work of changing into an oversized sweater and some shorts from your current sleepwear, wanting to wear something loose and different. Phone in hand, you meander out of your room hungry, and into the kitchen. You see Amethyst in the living room, chilling on the couch and reading some magazine. Except you know she’s not reading it, she’s just looking for weird images to cut out and prank Pearl with in weird places.

“‘Sup.” She says without looking up from her browsing as you open the fridge, looking for anything but that yogurt. A month of only bullshit weird, plain fruit to eat and he thinks you’ll finish off his yogurt for him?

“Hey.” You reply back to her, and ugh.. unless you want to go through the effort of making eggs, toast and yogurt are really your only option since they haven’t gone food shopping. You make a face at the fridge, grabbing for the yogurt and closing the door.

“How ya’ feelin’?” She asks casually, flipping a page. An eye drifts over the page to land on you, and she lifts an eyebrow in interest. “You look better than you did yesterday.”

“...Thanks,” It comes out slightly insulted, but, well, it’s Amethyst. She doesn’t mince her words. “I got some decent sleep for once. Is Garnet home?”

“Nah, she’s got one of her lessons going on.”

“And you don’t?” You grab the bread out of the cupboard, and squint at it for a second. There’s.. a bit of fucking mold on the edge. Ugh. Your luck. You toss the bread onto the counter for Amethyst to eat later, and spot a single bagel left in the cupboard behind a bag of flour. Oh hell yeah.

“Not today, we pushed mine til tomorrow because Onion couldn’t participate for some reason.” She blows a lock of hair out of her face, turning a page.

“All for Onion, and he’s not even a gem. He can sit out one lesson.” You put the bagel in the toaster - getting crumbs everywhere and not caring, and grabbing a spoon for your yogurt.

“C’mon, you know the others love him, it was basically all their decision anyway.” She flips another page, and you can see her giving you a pointed look that you’re going to ignore. “Besides, I wanted to relax today anyway, considering all the stress you just put me under.”

“Cause it was totally by choice.” You retort with a roll of your eyes, opening the lid of the yogurt disdainfully and giving it a sniff. It smells fine but.. Ugh. You’re not much of a fan of yogurt. You take a bite, and it’s okay you guess.

“What are you planning on doing with the rest of your afternoon, anyway?” She asks as soon as you take another bite of yogurt.

“I uh,” You swallow. “I don’t know, actually. I was thinking I’d be with Steven and Pearl, showing Spinel around, but it seems they’re all doing that without me.” You say, half a frown forming on your face. You kind of realize that you’re way more disappointed by that fact than you had previously figured, but that train of thought is interrupted by the bagel popping out of the toaster. You jump slightly, almost launching your yogurt out of your hands. Amethyst notices but doesn’t make a comment about it.

“Y/N, I know you’re really caring and wanna help, but don’t you think you should take a couple days just for you?” She gives you a look.

“A couple days to what?” You match her look, popping an eyebrow for extra emphasis. “Relax? Like the weeks I just spent doing absolutely nothing on a forgotten planet in the middle of nowhere? I’m good.”

She looks at you, deadpan, and sighs. You notice a bunch of bananas on the top of the fridge that you had missed earlier, and get an idea that’s better than just eating yogurt.

“You’re kind of impossible. I’m telling Steven to not let you help him with any more of his current projects.” She sets the magazine down and cracks her knuckles obnoxiously. “Maybe it will force you to go out and do something for yourself for once.”

“Don’t you dare.” You say in annoyance, grabbing the bananas and blender from the top of the fridge, setting them on the counter. You grab the milk from the fridge and pour a little inside, and dump some of the yogurt in as well. You don’t care for proper proportions, you measure smoothies with your soul.

“I’m literally texting him right now and you can’t stop me.” She grabs for her phone, typing on it quickly.

“You can’t make me relax, Amethyst.” You say, peeling two bananas and tearing them into small enough chunks to blend, putting those in as well with a couple cubes of ice for good measure. “If I want to help out, I’m helping out.”

“Not if I can help it.” You hear her say as you put on the lid of the blender and plug it into the outlet next to it.

You grab your phone to text Steven to dissuade him from whatever Amethyst is saying to him, and press the liquify button on the blender.

A terribly familiar whirring noise fills the room, and your blood runs cold. You freeze on the spot.

You rip the plug from the outlet near violently, silence filling the immediate space. A beat or two passes.

“Uh.” You hear Amethyst say from fifteen feet behind you. “Y/N? You okay?”

You’re staring at the blender, and you can’t get your mouth to move. The chunks of ice shift, light from the afternoon sun hitting it and causing it to sparkle.

“Y/N?” She asks again, and you hear slight shuffling.

There’s this indescribable feeling of fear and dread swirling at the pit of your stomach, and then you feel an arm pulling at your elbow.

“Y/N.” Amethyst reiterates from beside you, and suddenly, you can turn your head to face her.

“Yeah?” You answer, facing her and blinking. She looks at you for a second before answering.

“What was that?” Her brows furrow in concern.

“I, um.” You realize you aren’t hungry anymore. “That was nothing.”

“Bullshit.” She looks offended at your response. “I’ve never seen you react that way before, to like, anything.”

“Uhhhhh, you know what?” You say, feeling like your mouth is working on autopilot at this point. “I’m gonna go out actually.”

You spin around, walking around Amethyst entirely despite her protests, and leave out the front door. You hear it slam shut behind you.

By the time you check the time, it’s nearly five in the afternoon, and you’re in front of the new bakery, Spacestries. You uh.. you didn’t realize you had walked all the way over here. You think you wandered the beach for a while, trying to definitely not think about what happened in the kitchen, with Amethyst as a fucking witness. Embarrassing. Could’ve been worse, you guess - it could have been Pearl there. It’s probably best if you don’t use the blender for a while.

You’re completely annoyed with yourself about all of that, really, and by pushing all of that away you’re trying to not let the rest of your thoughts linger on the other thing you shouldn’t put any more thought into, which are your obvious feelings for Spinel. That area is a whole ass disaster that you’d rather ignore right now. You have a few notifications that you swipe away as soon as they come; your heart pathetically skipping a beat when it sees her name there for a split second - you’re not in the right mood to reply to the messages at the moment. Later.

You sigh, pocketing your phone. You look at the shiny new sign above, squinting at the sun in your eyes, and someone nearly walks into you on the sidewalk. Ugh. You stand there for a second, letting the hot air of summer waft by. You smell fries from somewhere nearby, and your stomach growls. A car honks off in the distance.

It’s not even a busy day out. It’s just another lazy afternoon, something you’ve experienced many, many times in your life. But you find yourself listening to the muted sounds of Beach City, thankful that you’re standing here on a paved sidewalk that was made by humans. Your hair tickles your nose, and you blow air to get it out of your face.

A minute or so passes. You figure you should just go in and buy yourself a cheese roll or something. You don’t know why you’re just standing outside.

You take in a deep breath, and open the door. It chimes as you come in.

It’s cool inside from the air conditioning, and there’s no one behind the counter. You walk in slowly, hearing your footsteps tapping on the floor. There’s a small FM radio off to the side playing the top 40’s that you can barely make out due to all the static. It’s been a while since you’ve heard music.

There’s a lot of pastries on display, and they look good. You wonder if he’s working today. You walk up to the counter leisurely, looking at the glazed fruit tarts on the top display shelf.

“I’LL BE UP FRONT IN A SECOND!” You hear a familiar muffled voice coming from the back room.

“Take your time, Lars. It’s just me.” You reply, hearing your voice not carry very far. You hope he heard you despite the white noise of the AC. There’s a couple more shuffling sounds, as it sounds like he’s rounding the corner.

You see the tray of cream puffs in one hand before Lars walks out, and he’s got another in the other hand, balanced on his hip.

“Y/N? Is that you out ther-” He stops abruptly as soon as he sees your face; and one of the trays slips out of his hand, clattering on the floor loudly.

He opens and closes his mouth. Twice.

“What in the actual fuck happened to you!?” He nearly shouts, eyes wide. He rushes to set the remaining tray on the counter, and completely ignores what is on the floor to get over to where you’re standing.

“Uh..” You pull your sweater sleeves down, AC giving your arms goosebumps. “A lot. Can I have one of your fresh cheese rolls?”

He gives you an incredulous look. “Yeah, as soon as you tell me how you fucking died!? What the hell have I missed in the last fews days while I was out of town!?”

“Cheese roll first, buddy.” You say, and cross your arms.

“Ugh, FINE!” He tosses his hands into the air, and makes quick work of grabbing his freshest roll for you, placing it into your hands with a napkin. He gives you another look.

You take a bite out of it, and it tastes so good that you feel tears prickling the corners of your eyes, and you cannot stop them from forming. Lars seems to take notice.

“Spill. You’re being weird and I’m actually concerned right now.” He puts his hands on his hips. You finish chewing before answering, but he holds up a finger instead. “Wait. Sit down and finish that, I’ll go grab some coffee for the both of us, I just made fresh pot that should be done brewing by now.”

He leaves momentarily to grab the coffee, and you sit down at the little two person table in the corner of the shop. You feel your phone vibrate a few times in your pocket, but you opt to ignore it instead. They can wait; you told Amethyst you were just going out, and your brain can really only deal with so much right now. Namely food, and hyping yourself up to talk to Lars about this.

A few cars pass out on the street outside, and your eyes are glued to the bright blue sky and those giant fluffy clouds that are floating idly by. You take another bite out of the roll, savoring the way the buttery crust melts on your tongue. The song changes to one particular pop number that you hate, and you aren’t even irritated about it. You find yourself having missed the small things.

You hear footsteps approaching from behind you, and Lars sets down two cups of black coffee with a cream puff in front of you. Eh. You’ll deal with the coffee being black with no sweetner for it.

“So,” He sits down, taking a sip of coffee. “I’m gonna need you to elaborate. Was there some kind of freak accident or something?”

You take a sip of coffee before answering, staring at the new plugs in his ears. They’re filled with stars, and it’s kind of cute. Looks nice on him.

“You want a short version, or the whole thing? Because there’s a lot.” You say, exhaling out a long breath. The coffee is good, despite the bitterness.

He looks around his shop for a second, shrugging when his eyes fall back on you. “Business has been extremely slow all day, I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Okay. Well.. technically this was yesterday? Ish? It’s been a blur. Anyway..”

You find yourself opening up to him more than you did with the others, and you think it’s because he might be the only person who maybe understands how you feel in this moment. Human, thrown into too much space bullshit just to try to survive.

“..and yeah. That’s about all of it.” You finish, taking a small sip of your coffee.

Lars puts his face in his hands, sighing exaggeratedly. He’s been patiently listening this entire time, which is surprising for him.

“I need more coffee for this.” He says, getting up immediately to do so. It takes him a minute, but he comes back with a fresh cup for you both, and you’re thankful for it.

“Thanks.” You take a sip, and it’s nearly hot enough to burn your tongue.

“You know, I wouldn’t believe half the shit you just said if I didn’t actually know you. That’s nuts and utterly awful, even for it having to do with more gem bullshit.” He takes a drink, eyes roaming your face and hair.

“Yeah. I know.” You reply. “But what is life around Steven if not life-threatening and ridiculous? You know how it goes.”

“Yeahhh.. you’re telling me. Oh, has Amethyst texted you since your ‘incident’ earlier?” He asks, lifting his hands to do the air quotations with his index fingers.

“I’m not gonna lie, I’ve ignored every notification that has popped up on my phone since leaving the house earlier.” You feel another buzz ironically inside your pocket. Ugh.

“You can’t ignore all your problems forever you know, you should probably text them back sooner rather than later. I’m sure they’re worried about you.”

“I’ll get to it in a bit.” You say with a huff.

“Hm.. it’s kind of funny how I’ve also been stranded against my will somewhere away from civilization, now that I think about it. It just wasn’t with an alien.. and it was at least on Earth.”

“Yeah that’s a weird coincidence, I didn’t even realize.” You feel half your face perk in a wry smile. “You’re lucky you had Sadie instead of Spinel though, Sadie’s.. so much nicer.” He rolls his eyes at that. “Can I ask you something Lars? If you don’t mind.”

“Yeah? Of course.” He replies, perking an eyebrow in question.

“How did you deal with dying? Or uh, anything of what happened to you in space?” You avoid his eyes for a moment, looking out the window. You can see the heat rising off the pavement from here.

“Oh, god.” You hear him take another drink of his coffee. “Not well, at first. The off-colors helped me tremendously in dealing with my problems. I’m pretty whatever about the whole thing now, honestly. I take it day by day, and keeping busy doing what I love at this shop is helping. Also, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, as thankful as I am to be alive.” He points to his pink hair and face with his index finger, raising an eyebrow. “I hate the looks I get when I leave Beach City.”

“I’ll get used to it in time, probably. Still surprised when I look in the mirror." You sigh. You fix your eyes on the cup in front of you. “I also don’t want the gems to worry about me, and about what happened.”

“It’s something that took me quite a while to get used to. You’re wayyy more adaptable than I am, though, so I’m sure you’ll be a little quicker with it.” He says, running a hand through his hair and taking another drink of his coffee. “I’m sure they’ll worry about you regardless, and there isn’t really anything you can do about it. Kinda happens when they consider you family. Also, you’ve been through a lot. This isn’t just, like, breaking a leg or something.”

“I made the best of a shitty situation, and I’m alive and okay, it really isn’t a huge deal. I don’t want them walking on eggshells around me, or coddling me. I hate that. I’m not seventeen and stupid anymore.”

Lars stares at you like you’re definitely seventeen and stupid, expression that says ‘I cannot believe you right now.’

“You’re literally traumatized, you fucking idiot.” He says, completely exasperated. “Stop acting like what you’ve been through is as common as the cold. It isn’t. It’s going to take you time, and them some time. Talk to them if you’re that bothered with it.”

You shrug at him, affronted. “It’s whatever. I just want a normal life again.” Is what you hear coming out of your mouth.

“Your life stopped being normal the moment you accepted that babysitting job with the gems.” He rolls his eyes at you again, and you wanna kick him under the table. Just a little. “How are the gems dealing with Spinel by the way? I bet they thought they’d never have to fight another gem again, sheesh.”

“I was a little worried, but I think they’ll be fine honestly. They’ve dealt with worse. It probably helped that I was there to defend and vouch for her, really.” Someone passes the shop window, distracting your eyes for a second. A beat or two goes by, another car speeds down the street, and you wonder how Spinel’s doing right now. You hope Steven works his friendship magic on her, and you hope they become quick friends. They’re kind of like, two of the most important people to you. Oh, fuck. You think to yourself. Quick question, self? When the fuck did Spinel become that important to you? What the hell? Was it somewhere between hating her and dying for her?! You get the feeling you’re being watched all of a sudden so you look back over to Lars, and he’s studying your face with enough concentration to make you nervous.

“I feel like you’re still sitting on something that you want to talk about, but you’re too chickenshit to say it.” He says, full seriousness. You break eye contact, looking at your cup of coffee instead and sigh.

You and Lars have never been what you’d call good friends. Recently he’s been a lot better and you can actually talk to him like he’s a peer since he came back from space, but he used to be such a dick to Steven that you basically hated him, and you never hid that. You have no idea how he can see through you so well.

“How can you even tell?”

“Your posture isn’t relaxed whatsoever. You’ve been sitting like someone strapped a yard stick to your spine.” He answers bluntly. “You’re normally a sloucher.”

“Don’t read me like that ever again.” You scowl. “I’m sitting on it because I’m not sure I want to verbalize it out loud, okay? And I haven’t talked to anyone about it..” You say, ignoring his pointed look at you.

“Y/N, unless you’re going to say that you want to move back in with your shitty parents, or that all of a sudden you believe in the existence of saint nicholas, it can’t be that strange to say considering everything else you’ve said.” He leans his chin on his hand, nudging his coffee cup slightly with his fingers. You think, maybe.. maybe you can trust him with this too. Another shadow passes by the window, but you ignore it in favor of the swirling thoughts in your head.

“I have feelings for Spinel,” You blurt out with about as much grace as ripping off a band-aid; just as he takes another drink of his coffee. He chokes on it, sputtering everywhere - the entry door swings open with a chime and a customer walks in. He stands up suddenly, coughing into his hand.

“Give me just a second,” He says, turning to the customer, and rushes away from the table to go cough violently into the sink behind the counter.

The customer stares at him.

“Are you open?” They ask, even though they just came through the open, unlocked bakery door. You know, with the clearly printed hours on the glass.

He gives a thumbs up, coughing into the sink again and wiping his face.

“Yeah, just come up to the counter and I’ll help you out.” He says, a few coughs coming out here and there. He gives you a particular look from across the shop, and you’re not sure how to interpret it.

Your heart is beating wildly out of nervousness, and you kind of regret your honesty a little. Having feelings for a gem can’t be.. that weird. Right? Today is taking its toll on you already, and you’ve only been awake for a few short hours. You tune out Lars and the customer’s interactions, and pull out your phone instead. You should answer your messages.

You can kind of see the customer glancing at you in the corner, and you try ignoring it. You answer Amethyst messages first to let her know that you’re fine.

[02:48] Amethyst: dude, dont just leave

[02:48] Amethyst: esp after something like that [02:48] Amethyst: im worried about you, you know you can talk to me about stuff if you want

[02:48] Amethyst: or if u want a lounge buddy for distractions ig

[02:48] Amethyst: im here.

You feel bad that you rushed out like that on her, but you couldn’t stand in that kitchen anymore and you needed to be anywhere else but right there.

[05:32] Y/N: I’m fine, Amethyst.. I just needed some air.

[05:32] Y/N: Your concern is appreciated. Really.

[05:32] Y/N: Just needed to run away for a bit.

[05:32] Y/N: And I know. Thank you.

The customer talking to Lars is asking way too many questions about the gluten in the fruit fritters, and you can feel Lars’ annoyance from here. You see replies from Steven, and read those next.

[03:10] Steven: Of course I’m your favorite, who else has this Universe charm? ;)

[03:10] Steven: I’m gonna pick up pizza for us later, you deserve some good food after all of this, lol.

[03:10] Steven: And what’s Amethyst saying about not letting you help me out?

[03:10] Steven: Are you not resting like I told you to? I said to take it easy. I know we were planning on adding in a bunch of new classes and recruiting more people to teach them, but I can have Pearl help me out with that. Maybe Buck. He owes me a big favor anyway.

[03:10] Steven: It doesn’t matter, I was gonna tell you to take the next week for yourself anyway, because you need to chill.

[03:11] Steven: I’ll be home in a couple hours, and if you wanted to cancel wednesday movie night, I understand. :(

You stare at your phone, trying to not be irritated like you want to. You don’t want to be replaced, responsibility-wise. You like helping Steven out. It makes you feel useful, and if you aren’t being useful, what’s the point. You feel like no matter what you say to him, he won’t care though. He’s really stubborn like that. You’ll take the next few days off for yourself regardless.

[05:35] Y/N: I’m just out rn okay, didn’t want to be cooped up at home. I went out for a walk because of how much I missed the sand.

[05:35] Y/N: And no, I think I need movie night now more than ever lol. Kinda just don’t want to lay around in bed.

Mere seconds pass of you replying to his texts, and he’s answered you back.

[05:35] Steven: Want it to just be the two of us, or would you be okay with me inviting Spinel and the others?

[05:36] Steven: I might’ve hyped up Princess Diaries to her earlier, and well, this may be an easy way for her to be more.. at ease with everyone.

Oh thank god he asked. You didn’t want to seem desperate for her presence enough to suggest it. Also, he’s not wrong. You smile slightly to yourself as you reply to him.

[05:36] Y/N: Please do. :) That sounds fun.

Lars and the customer are now going back and forth about prices. You know he can handle himself, clearly, but you keep an ear perked in case this person goes full on karen-mode. You open Spinel’s messages last.

[02:52] Spinel: oops that wasnt what i was trying to send

[02:52] Spinel: [attachment received]

It’s another blurry picture, but it’s a candid shot of Pearl making a funny face while criticizing Steven about something. It’s actually fucking hilarious. You kinda want to send it to Amethyst.

[02:52] Spinel: shes been like this the last five minutes

[02:52] Spinel: its fun to watch

[02:52] Spinel: earth’s organisms are fun though so far

[02:53] Spinel: steven threw some food at the birds and i almost caught one

[02:53] Spinel: it pecked me

You try not to laugh out loud at the mental image, wishing desperately that you could’ve seen this.

[05:36] Y/N: I was going to ask why, except I know the answer to that already. You deserved being pecked, stop heckling local wildlife you fucking birdbrain

Before you can type up another message, you hear the door jingle again as the customer leaves - drawing you out of looking directly at only your phone. You must’ve tuned out the last of their interactions, because Lars is standing in front of the table with crossed arms.

He’s staring at you, half an eyebrow perked; like he’s trying to read your mind. You can hear his foot tapping on the cold tile floor. You are not going to lie to yourself - if you could get up and abscond, you’d do exactly just that. He suddenly whips his arm out, placing it upon the back of your chair.

“Don’t even think about running away from this conversation, Y/N.” He says, the radio crackling a bit in the background.

“Why would you think I want to run, Lars?” You avoid his eyes out of nervousness.

“Because I can see it in your eyes.” He plops back down in his seat, and sighs. His eyes haven’t moved from his gaze on you. “So. What the actual fuck?”

“Look. I didn’t even realize that I had these feelings until a couple days ago.. technically. Days on Golgotha. Not here, I mean.”

He brings his hand up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose in disbelief and scrunching his eyes. “You’re telling me.. that you have feelings for a gem that tried to kill Steven and yourself, after being stuck on a different planet with her for weeks?”

You’re staring at him, unmoving. A second or three passes.

“Don’t put it so plainly out there like that..” You groan. “I already feel stupid about this.”

“I’ve known you for years now, and you’ve refused any kind of prospect of romance. I watched you turn down several people, including fucking JENNY of all people. Where the hell is this coming from!?” God he’s so worked up about this that he’s half talking with his hands.

“Yeah because I was busy with Steven! Also I just wasn’t ..interested in anyone.” You level him with a look, slightly miffed about all of this.

“What made her different?!”

“I DON’T KNOW!” You hear your voice raise, heart beating wildly in your chest. You can feel the adrenaline running through you. “At first I thought it was because she didn’t treat me like a fragile meatbag! Or maybe because she took my shit and threw it back at me!! AND THEN SHE STARTED TO GET ALL CARING, LIKE, SHE ACTUALLY CARED ABOUT MY WELL-BEING? GENUINELY? And she wanted to be my friend EVEN after I treated her like shit!”

“Oh, my god. You DO have feelings for her!!!” He shouts accusingly, pointing his finger directly at you.

“I WASN’T LYING YOU IDIOT.”

“Well?! What are you going to do about it?!” He implores, leaning into the table - practically knocking off his half cup of coffee.

“Nothing, probably,” You say, avoiding his eyes again.

“You’re joking.”

“What if I’ve been reading signals all weird, and she thinks humans are super gross?”

He levels you with a Look, one you deem The Judgemental Gaze of Judgement. He sighs for like the fifth time this conversation.

“Ugh! Give me your phone.”

“NO.”

“Let me talk to her!”

“DEFINITELY NO.” You hear your own voice echo throughout the room.

“Okay, so, you’re just going to steep in your own feelings and pretend you don’t have them? Really, Y/N?”

“Well.. no. Maybe. I don't know.”

“You’re being stupid.” He says with a roll of his eyes. “What are you actually afraid of?”

“...what if she can only see me as a friend?” You reply, a bit nervously.

“It’s not the worst thing ever, honestly. At least she’d still be your friend, take it from me..” He glances at his phone on the table for a moment, a notification popping up. “But I don’t know. I haven’t met her yet, but if she’s everything you’ve said to me so far.. I think you might be a little dumb about this.”

“I’m not saying you’re right, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

“If I happen to see her in the next week, I’m telling her if you haven’t by then.” He says with a perk of his eyebrow, tone half mocking.

“If I catch wind of that happening I’ll set your shop on fire.” You reply, deadpan. His eyes get large.

“No arson!” He points to the center of your torso, like this would be a thing you’d actually do. “Anyway, I gotta get back to making a new batch of what I dropped earlier before the delivery I’m supposed to receive in an hour gets here. You’re welcome to stay if you wanna help me out. I had 3 part timers quit in the last month.”

“Bet they left because you suck at being a manager.” You say, pocketing your cell phone and standing up. “And as much as I’d like to keep busy right now, it’s best I be getting back soon anyway.”

“I’m a great manager, for the record! Just unlucky. Thankfully the off-colors help out plenty, even if most of them are preoccupied doing things for themselves now. Let me know if you know anyone that wants any part time hours? I’m flexible.” He also stands up, pushing his chair in and grabbing both cups of coffee - now empty. He gives you a look before smiling a little. “I’m glad you’re alive and well, Y/N. And really. Talk to Spinel. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, you’ll feel a lot better getting it off your chest.”

“Yeah, yeahhhhhh. We’ll see.” You reply with an eye roll, and head out the door.

On your way home you stop by the boardwalk by Funland. The sun is beating down on you, but you don’t really mind this heat. It isn’t nearly as humid as on the surface of that awful place. It’s almost lovely compared to it. You sit on one of the nearby benches to zone out for a couple minutes, watching people and their dogs pass by as you internally fight yourself.

You should talk to Spinel. You think briefly that you should just text her about it, and then immediately swat that thought away. That’s the cowards route. Get it the fuck together. You’ve been through so much shit already, and you’re this hung up on your feelings. Also, Spinel deserves a lot more than just a stupid text.

Oh my godddd, you do not want to put too much thought into this shit, it will just make you even more anxious around her. Ugh. Seriously, you've been through waaay more anxiety inducing scenarios than this, what's your deal? You feel your phone vibrate with a notification, and you pull it up to see that it’s a message from Steven saying that they’ll be home soon. It’s a bit after six by now, and you send him a reply saying that you’ll see him there.

The distant sounds of the crashing waves of the ocean put you at ease. You pocket your phone, and you notice Mr. Smiley talking to a couple kids with cotton candy forty feet away or so. He sees you, and you can see his eyebrows raise in confusion all the way over from here.

Ugh. You’re kind of tired of explaining what’s happened to you. You get up and leave to avoid any kind of conversation about it, opting to just go straight home instead.

You take your flip flops off as you walk through the sand up to Steven’s house. It’s warm, and the salty sea breeze tickles your skin. It’s making you a little reluctant to go up the stairs. You’re halfway up when you hear muffled voices coming from inside, quite a few actually. The rest of them must have got here before you did, oops. You hope they don’t implore too much about where you’ve been and why it’s taken so long.

Once you open the front door you feel a couple eyes turn to you, and you swallow the weird anxiety in your gut.

“Y/N!” Peridot shouts from across the room, and you set your flip flops down on the ground near the door. “Jeez, took you long enough to get home.”

“Sorry, I took the long way home.” You reply, seeing her with Bismuth, Lapis and Pearl all chatting animatedly about something on the couch with each other.

“You guys only got here a couple minutes ago anyway.” Amethyst snorts, walking into the kitchen after she gives you a discreet look-over to make sure you’re visibly okay.

“Yeah but she’s the last one here, and that means she gets cleanup duty!” She retorts, giving you a pointed smirk from across the room.

“I feel like I should be exempt from cleaning duty for the next couple of weeks.” You walk over to the kitchen where Steven and Spinel are talking to Garnet about something, and your heart does this stupid, stupid little flip when you see her with the others. Her eyes gravitate over to you as she’s talking, something sparkling in them when she sees that it’s you - and tears her eyes away back to the others quickly.

What the hell. That was kinda weird. Steven looks over to you, and then to Peridot after he hears you.

“I’ve volunteered to take over her responsibilities this week, anyway, so suck it Peridot.” He says, sticking his tongue out at her childishly.

“You mean it?” You reply, feeling immense amounts of affection bubbling up inside for him.

“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong about being exempt for now. Also I just love you.” He grins, shrugging at you. You walk over to his side, ruffling his thick brown curls.

“Steeeeven, what would I do without you?” You say, and you see Spinel watching you out of the corner of her eye as Garnet talks to her. “I miss when you were shorter than me, who am I supposed to use as a chinrest now? Amethyst? She’s too short.”

“Hey!” Amethyst huffs, flipping some of her hair over her shoulder. “Being this short is one of my best qualities.”

“I thought it was your obnoxious personality?” You raise an eyebrow in mockery at her.

“I thought that was yours.” You hear Spinel say as your heart jumps into your throat, and you whip your face to hers.

“You of all people cannot say that to me!” You hiss out at her automatically without missing a beat, and the others burst out laughing. Even Garnet. You feel your face heat up as Spinel grins, and whatever thoughts you had about her acting weird earlier vanish. When the laughter dies down, Steven looks over to her.

“I’ve gotta say, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that talks to Y/N that way and gets away with it.” He says, still smiling and shaking his head.

“Really?” Her eyes light up at that, and she gives you a particular look that makes you want to smack her. “I guess I must be kinda special or somethin’.”

“No, you’re just too stupid to realize when I’m telling you off.” You reply, and she splutters with a glare while the others laugh boisterously again.

It’s good to be in this kind of company again, you think.

Steven grabs the three boxes of pizza on the counter that you just noticed were there. The smell is very enticing. “Since we’re all here, I’m gonna go set up the movie so I can finally eat because I am starrrrrving.” He says, dragging it on a bit dramatically as he walks up the stairs over to his loft bed. “You guys can join whenever!”

You follow him immediately, mainly because you want food. Also, Spinel’s looking at you in a way that makes you hyper aware of literally every single thing you’re doing, and you need to sit down and calm yourself before you have some kind of self-induced heart attack.

“You wanna sit on the bed? You get first pick since.. y’know.” He looks at you, setting the pizza boxes down on the floor by the foot of his bed.

“Nah, I want the beanbag.” You say as the others make their way up here, and you grab said seat from the corner of his room, dragging it to the spot you want on the far left opposite of the stairs and next to Steven’s bed. Peridot likes to throw things during dramatic moments and you’d prefer to not be placed in the crossfire again.

“Suuuit yourself.” He says, popping the dvd case open and inserting the disk into the system below the tv. Amethyst plops on his bed with a satisfied sigh, rolling over to the edge to grab a slice from the boxes on the floor.

The rest of them come in, finding places to sit and lounge - all of them as loud as ever. You see Spinel off to the side by Pearl, and she looks like she doesn’t know where to sit. Eventually her eyes land on you - your heart doing a little flip, and you make a point to pat the ground next to you. Her eyes light up instantly. Not like you saved a seat for her or anything.

She gets over to you - having to stretch her leg waaay over to the side of the multiple gems in the center of the room making a commotion loudly over who gets to sit in front of the tv. She sits down next to you; wrapping her arms around her knees, her body language a little more at ease beside you than she was earlier.

You ignore your brain screaming about the implications. Just act normal, fucking idiot.

“You have fun today?” You turn your face to ask her, Bismuth bellowing out a laugh at something behind you.

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting them to be so.. welcoming.” She says a bit quietly so the others don’t hear, pulling her gloved hand up to scratch at her cheek sheepishly. “I still don’t feel like I deserve this.”

“Well, you do.” You lean forward, grabbing a slice of pizza and a napkin. “So you better get used to it.” Before you even take a bite, you notice her staring at you. Steven’s cursing out the dvd player for giving him issues, and Pearl’s tutting him for his language. “What? You wanna try?”

“No. It just looks weird.” She replies, scrunching her face.

“Spinel.” You look at her, deadpan. “Unless you try it, you don’t get to judge pizza. Even Amethyst likes it.” You take a bite, melty cheese easily pulling off the slice. Her eyes go kinda wide, watching you - and then her face gets suspiciously smug.

“Wow, what is that? Kinda similar to how much I can stretch-” You give her a kick with your bare foot, and she chokes out a laugh. You roll your eyes, taking another bite. Her constant teasing makes your heart grow fonder, and that fact irritates you.

“Finally!” Steven says, pressing the play button on the menu. Guess he finally got it to work. He sits on his bed where his pillows are, Amethyst up at the front. The others are lounging around the rest of the room as the volume dies down.

The movie starts to play, and you settle comfortably in your beanbag. Once you’re done adjusting yourself, Spinel leans half her side and props her elbow up on your chair, resting her chin on her hand. She’s close enough to where you can feel the heat emanating off her slightly. She’s most comfortable around you, clearly.

You’ve seen the princess diaries many, many times as it’s one of Steven’s favorite movies - he starts singing ‘stupid cupid’ and you join along, earning a wink from him. Spinel makes comments here and there about the absurdities of royalty here, and several human traditions that the other gems laugh and nod in agreement. She seems to like it though, as she laughs pretty hard at a couple scenes.

You're content, you feel. You didn't think you'd get to experience this like, ever, with her.

Two thirds through the movie and several slices of pizza later, you notice Spinel watching you more than the movie out of the corner of your eye. You try not to be self-conscious about it, but you wish you could ask her if you have something on your face without alerting the others around you. She lays her arm down on your beanbag, parallel to yours resting against your thigh; and you have a quiet moment of panic because your immediate thought is to grab her hand and hold it.

Okay. You need to calm the fuck down, first of all. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Also, the thought of anyone of them seeing that makes you want to run outside into the ocean to never return. You spend the rest of this movie consumed with so many thoughts about Spinel beside you that you don’t realize that the movie has already ended with the credits rolling, and the others are chatting and stretching their limbs from their stationary positions on the floor.

“Okay, do we want to watch another movie, or call it a night guys?” Steven asks, and a few of the others immediately all say they want to watch another movie.

“Okay but what exactly are we watching?” You turn your face to look at him. “Because I don’t want to watch the sequel.”

“But I loooooooooove the sequel!!!” He cries out, putting a hand on his chest in mock offense. “It has Chris Pine’s dreamy eyes!”

“There’s another one?” Spinel interjects, raising an eyebrow. “But they didn’t really leave room for continuation.”

“Exactly my point.” You reply. “It’s a bad sequel.”

“It’s not! You just hate good fun!” Steven whines.

“I kinda wanna watch it. I like the part when she pushes him into the fountain.” Amethyst chuckles, stuffing a room-temperature slice of pizza into her mouth in a single bite.

“Sweet! Then we’re watching it.” He says smugly, getting up to change the dvd out.

“You’re so biased it’s not even funny.” You groan, flopping your head back on the beanbag dramatically. “Next time I get to pick.”

“No! You always pick horror movies!” You see Steven whip his head towards you from the corner of your eye.

“Alien is a classic though. And besides, you always pick fucking romantic comedies my guy.” You retort.

“Yeah, how can you not get enough of them?” He sighs happily. “They always end good.”

“Alien ends good..” You pout, and hear him snort a little. “The cat lives.”

The movie starts, and you try to not zone out after the first ten minutes. Spinel makes several comments about ‘who the fuck is this guy? Where’s that guy she kissed in the last movie?’ and you get the joy of being the one to explain to her that sometimes, sequels are just Like That.

An hour or so in of you only half paying attention to the movie, and you think you see Spinel’s eyes droop.

Is she.. is she tired?

Another twenty minutes pass, and yeah, she’s definitely tired. She’s leaning against her hand on your beanbag again, a mere foot or so from yourself. You catch her drifting off a little - hand slipping - quietly startling herself awake. It’s so cute. You’ve never seen her this sleepy before. It’s strange, gems don’t get tired.. You think, briefly, of what that might imply. When was the last time she slept, you wonder? You worry a little about it - clearly she needs some rest if she’s nodding off right here.

By the time the movie is done and the credits are rolling, she’s got half her head curled into her arm that’s digging into your side, completely asleep. It makes your heart swell to see her like this. Steven turns his bedside lamp on, illuminating most of the room in a warm glow.

“Well! I’m beat.” He says, grinning and turning his face to you. “Did Spinel like the movies?”

“I’d ask her, but..” You look at him, shrugging and pointing to her.

“Is she asleep?” He whispers, some of the others looking over in your direction and away from their quiet conversations. For some reason your heart rate speeds up.

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting her to pass out. It isn’t really like her to be this tired.” You reply. Your legs are numb from lack of circulation, and you stretch them out in front of you.

“Spinel.. sleeps?” An eyebrow shoots up into his hairline that has you feeling strange about what you had just said.

“I mean, yeah? It’s not that weird, Amethyst does it sometimes.”

“Yeah, that’s because I’m just lazy. But you don’t see me sleeping on you.” Amethyst chuckles lowly, a slow grin spreading on her face.

“What the hell are you implying?” You ask, feeling your face start to heat up.

“Nothing! She must trust you a lot is all, sleeping like that.” She laughs a little. “She looks kind of like a lapdog.”

“Don’t call her a dog, jeez.” You roll your eyes, pushing down the blush on your face.

“Look at you, defending her even when she can’t defend herself, when earlier you were so easy to insult her.” Pearl says from across the room, putting a finger to her lip and looking smug. “You know…”

“Alright, enough picking on Y/N. I wanna go to bed.” Steven says with a yawn, and the others file out of his loft down the stairs without much of a fight.

“Does she have a bed in her new place?” You watch her shoulders rise and fall with her breathing.

“No, er, she has a bedroom though. Wasn’t expecting her to be the sleeping type, honestly. I’ll get with Bismuth tomorrow about it. Shouldn’t take long, though. She can sleep on the couch tonight if anything.” He says, taking his socks off and flinging them across the other side of his room into the pile of laundry he has there.

"Alright." You say, thinking about several things at once. Hm. She looks so soft right now, and it's taking like, all of your self control to not stroke her head. It sucks that you've got to wake her.

Steven gets up to go to the bathroom and brush his teeth before sleeping, and makes a comment about his floor better not ‘be occupied’ when he comes back. You roll your eyes, smiling at him fondly. You love his teen attitude.

Very gently, you shake Spinel's shoulders a little. You're actually surprised when she lifts her head a little, slow blinking and confusion all over her face. She's got lines pressed into her face where she slept a little too hard against her arm. It's extremely endearing.

"Did I pass out?" She asks, rubbing her eyes but still looking very drowsy.

"Yeah. We finished the other movie. The others went off on their own, and Steven's going to sleep."

You lead the gem down the stairs, careful to not let her sleep-heavy self trip. You sit her on the couch, and walk away to grab the spare blankets from the cupboard for her. You pass Steven coming out of the bathroom on your way back over, him giving the both of you a peace sign and telling you to get decent sleep. He also apologises to Spinel in case she hears any snoring coming from him.

Once he’s out of sight, you place the spare blankets and pillow next to her on the couch.

“Are you gonna be okay out here? Let me know if you need anything.” Leaning your hands on your hips, you give her a quick look-over. She’s tired, clearly, but a little more awake than before.

She looks at you hesitantly, like she wants to say something, but is unsure how.

"What?" You whisper at her. "Is there something wrong?"

"Um.." She looks away momentarily, like she's nervous to admit something. It's making you anxious.

"Spit it out, Spinel." You say, and it comes out a little harsher than intended.

"I don't know if I can sleep. I've had.. really bad nightmares every time I've tried, so I stopped trying. It's been weeks.." She trails off, avoiding your eyes. "That nap earlier was the most solid sleep I've had in a while."

Oh. You.. you weren't expecting her to say that. You feel horrible about it, actually..

"Do you want to sleep with me?" You hear the words coming out of your mouth, horrified at what it kind of implied. "I-I mean, um, maybe having another person next to you might help you sleep?" You quickly correct yourself, feeling your face heat up in mortification. Yeah yeah idiot, ask the gem to sleep with you god what the hell is wrong with you.

Thankfully, you think she’s too tired to really catch on to that, as she kind of looks a little.. sheepish when her eyes lock on to yours.

“You’re not just sayin’ that, right? To be nice?” You think you see her wring her hands nervously in her lap, and you’re confused by it. Why the hell is she nervous?

"You think I'm purposefully nice?"

"Well.." She gives you a look.

"Come on." You say with a sigh. "My bed is big enough for the both of us, and it's comfier than this couch."

She follows you to your bedroom, and your heartbeats pick up pace. Calm down. Sure, this is like, completely new territory for the both of you. She's seen where you live, what you're like around other people, and now she's about to see your room. It almost feels.. strangely intimate. You have no idea why this particular thought puts you on edge. Like you're.. waiting on something.

You open your bedroom door, the both of you shuffling inside and closing the door behind you with a solid click. She looks around at the walls, intrigued by many of the things you've put up as decoration. You watch her for a moment, your brain repeating the words 'Spinel is in my bedroom' like a mantra.

"Hmmm." Is all she says, and you feel a little insulted for some reason.

"Why do I feel like you're making fun of me by saying that?"

"I like it. Reminds me of you." She gives you a cheeky smile, and you don't know if you'd rather slap her or kiss her.

All of a sudden you realize you're alone with her, like actually alone, without anyone having the ability to hear you. Not that there is anything to hear..

You shake your skull, dismissing the thoughts in your head. You're not going there today, brain. It's time to sleep.

"Before I lay down, I'm gonna change into better clothes. Make yourself comfortable." You say as you walk over to your closet, and immediately grab a tank top because you know you'll be warm. You also grab another pair of shorts. You make quick work of going out to the bathroom to change and to brush your teeth, and by the time you get back to your bedroom, she's looking at all the photostrips you have with Steven.

You pull back your blankets, sitting down on the surface of your bed and setting your phone on your nightstand.

"Aren't you tired?" You say with a yawn, and she turns to you.

"Very." She's halfway to the bed when you stop her before she gets in, and she gives you a perplexed look.

"This is gonna sound weird, but I don't want you in my bed wearing those."

"My.. clothes?" She gives you a look, half a grin forming on her face - her canines shining a little in the dim light of your bedroom. "Are 'ya saying you want me in there naked?"

"No, stupid! It's just, you wear those clothes everywhere, and it feels unsanitary to-"

"Yeah, yeah, calm down you brat. I get it.” She gets this kind of.. excited look on her face, eyes brightening. “Am I gonna get to steal your clothes then?”

“Pick whatever you want from my closet I guess.” You say, and watch her rifle through your clothes.

“You have a lot of sweaters in here.”

“Sweaters are comfy. They’re my favorite thing to wear.” You state, the feeling of being on edge still fully not going away.

It’s strange, being this casual with her. Like you didn’t meet her under the circumstances you did, and didn’t go through all of that with her either. You haven’t really had many close friends in your life, but you like to think that if you had met her differently, you’d still eventually form some kind of tentative.. friendship, or whatever you call this, with her. Halfway friends, halfway something else. See now you’re just being too hopeful, because technically she hasn’t brought up feelings at all. Or that kiss. Or whatever the fuck she was going to say before she left you on the hill.

“-were you wanting to watch me change, or should I go to the bathroom?” You’re torn out of your thoughts by the sound of her voice, and you feel your face heat up as you tear your eyes away. How embarrassing. It's not like she can read your thoughts though, right?

“Was spacing, sorry. I’ll look away.” You keep your face turned towards your phone, checking the time and thinking momentarily about setting an alarm. You hear the shuffling sounds of moving fabric and boots hitting the ground, and forego the alarm altogether. Who’re you kidding yourself, you’re not waking up early.

Before you realize it, she’s pulling the covers away on the other side of you and you feel a weight dipping into the mattress beside you. You're getting jitters in your stomach as you turn to catch her eye, because she's got one of your oversized Sadie Killer band tees on that's large enough that the top half of her gem is peeking out, and her hair isn't up in twintails anymore and now you're just staring at this point. The fact that you can see the entirety of her neck as well as the area around her collarbones has you feeling some way that you just know is absolutely showing on your face. You've never seen her show this much skin.

"What.." She gets this sort of stubbornly shy look when she realizes you're staring at her, her cheeks coloring faintly. She looks so different like this.. vulnerable, mostly. She doesn't have her gloves on, and you're pretty sure she's wearing a pair of your shorts as well because you can see her bare legs. "Is there something on my face? Don't give me that look."

"No, I just wasn't expecting to see you with your hair down."

"It doesn't look weird does it? I wasn't-"

"Shut up, you look cute.. and very non-threatening." You say, throwing in the jab with a bit of a smirk.

She rolls her eyes, scowling a bit. You think you see her cheeks darken ever so slightly, but it could also be a trick of the dim light in your room and the lines on her cheeks. You'd love to see just how far you can push those buttons of hers sometime. The look on her face when she's frustrated is probably one of your favorites, but you'd only ever admit that to yourself.

"Oh, I'll show you threatening.." She replies with a glint in her eye, the corner of her lips twitching.

"Pfft, go to sleep. You're about as threatening as a chihuahua." You retort, feeling that smirk grow a little wider, but also seeing her reach for her cell phone. "Spinel, I forbid you from looking that up until the morning."

"Uggggggghhhh, you can't tell me what to do!" She flops down onto the bed next to you, magenta hair messily all around her head. She fixes it with a huff, giving you a dirty look that you find amusing as you lower yourself into the blankets you're sharing with her. "If I wasn't so tired I'd fight you."

"Oh, I'm sure." You reply with a chuckle, turning to the center of the bed to face her.

She turns her head to look at you, face drawn in a glare and yet her eyes are so very warm. Your eyes are caught here with hers for a moment, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. Two.. three seconds pass, and you're pretty sure she's looking at your mouth. She looks like she's about to say something, her lips parting ever so slightly.

And then she flops over to her other side, and you're left laying there wondering what in the fuck was that.

Ugh. You hate girls. And aliens.

"Don't let me sleep forever." She mumbles, and you lean over to your lamp to switch it off.

"No promises." The room is blanketed in darkness in a single click, and you switch on your salt lamp before leaning your head down on your pillow, back flat against the bed. There's still a tiny bit of light coming from the glow of the moon through the blinds, and you pull your blanket up to your chest. You try getting comfortable, and it's.. fairly difficult when you're hyper aware of the person next to you.

"Would it be too much to ask if you could.. y'know.." You hear her say, almost too quiet for you to hear. You think your heart does a little backflip inside your chest.

"Are you asking me to cuddle you?!" You reply, barely being able to hold the mirth in your voice back.

You hear her sigh aggravatingly, and you roll over to put an arm around her waist before she can protest.

"You are so annoying." She spits out.

"Whatever. I knew you liked being the little spoon." You grin smugly behind her back, siphoning all the warmth from her as you can. Your knees are almost hitting the back of hers, and because of how squishy your bed is, this is the closest you think you've ever been to her as you're basically flush with her body. It's comfortable, and intimate, and you're trying to not think about how easy it'd be to just.. confess your feelings to her.

"Shut it." You hear her say; and you just know she's rolling her eyes even if you can't see her, and smiling regardless.

Silence envelops the both of you, and you're feeling sleep start to catch up with you when all of a sudden you feel her arm move, and then her soft fingers are tentatively being entwined with yours.

Your heart speeds up tremendously and all you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears. Your face is on fucking fire, and you can feel it. She has to know that you're having an internal fucking panic right now, you're like a hundred percent sure your hand is shaking. What the fuck do you do? Are you gonna talk about this? Is this what's happening?

A mere minute passes that feels like a lifetime of you fighting with yourself. As soon as you open your mouth to say something, you hear steady sounds of breathing coming from her.

Oh.

She's fallen asleep holding your hand.

You blow out the breath you didn't realize you were holding, and stifle the laugh that wants to come out of your mouth.

You think, maybe, that you love her.

You watch the back of her head until you get tired, and fall asleep fairly easily, her hand warm in yours.

#spinel x reader #su #spinel #steven universe #distant lands #my fic #part one of end lol #its long as FUCK

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haikyuulovercompany · 5 years ago

Note

Eek! I’m so excited for request to be open!! Can make a request for Iwaizumi? In which, the reader and Iwaizumi have a kid together, but they’re not together anymore. And so, they don’t get along very well. But in secrecy, the reader actually still harbors feelings for Iwaizumi, and their child snitches on her to their dad. When the topic comes up at the dinner table, the reader is forced to admit the truth. Iwaizumi’s kinda shocked and weirded out, but also kinda wants to date her again.

This took me longer than expected to write, but I hope you enjoy it!! I kind of changed the idea of the narrative BUT here it is (: ENJOYY !!!

PAIRING: IWAIZUMI HAJIME X FEM! READER.

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One of the biggest reasons people avoided to dive into marriage, was the possibility of divorce. However, the vast majority of society bet it wouldn’t be their case. Iwaizumi had been one of those foolish enough to believe his relationship would never suffer such demise. He loved _____ so intensely it sometimes seemed to be endless. He could stare at the horizon their relationship was, as it extended as the sea did. He couldn’t tell where it stopped. But he was young and lacked experienced. Love would be enough, he had thought back then, and he had been very wrong. Love was the first stone for a solid marriage. The rest was a convoluted series of virtues and vices both had to work out and simultaneously make the decision to pull through.

They had failed at the task. They had fallen into the jaws of the routine until their relationship grew up stagnant. It hadn’t been an easy decision. After almost a decade together—from college where they met all the way to their early thirties—and a five-year-old boy they both loved beyond their physicality. Iwaizumi would sometimes spend hours staring at his son. He wondered what he could be dreaming about, he wondered about his own abilities as a father, especially when his marriage had failed.

It had been for the better. They were becoming strangers who could only snap at the other if they weren’t ignoring each other. How could the perfect relationship that had drove him into ecstasy so easily had become deadweight on his shoulders?

At first, he didn’t know. He was both relieved and saddened when he arrived at his flat. It was only him. No kiss from his wife or shouts of hoy from his son. He treated his divorce with the same fashion he would treat a regular break up. That’s how little he actually knew. You couldn’t simply get over the mother of your child, over the woman you surely swore was your companion for your short eternity on earth. That was his first lesson.

The second was the loss of communication with ______. He had thought the feelings they had felt for each other had died through their day to day life, and there wasn’t anything left to do. The reality was that love didn’t simply die. They had neglected each other. They had forgotten to talk, to have small and big details to help the other get through their issues—work it together. The had become two independent beings instead of working like a team. He had many regrets—many things he would do different.

It didn’t matter much anyway. It was too late. He was entering his second year as a divorced man and his five-year-old was now seven and the three of them had fallen into their new dynamic. They had adapted. Iwaizumi got out of his car and walked to the entrance of the building. He rang two times. “Hi, who’s there?” a very childish voice spoke. Iwaizumi smiled.

“A monster.”

Tiny giggled were heard. “Hi, dad! I’ll let you in!”

The buzzer went off and Iwaizumi entered the building. _____ had moved after their divorce. She had rented a different apartment not too far from their original home, or at least what have been their first home as a family. He had stayed a little longer in their old flat. He had due to their contract and it had been a slow torture. Two months later he was free and he rented his own flat. He had liked somewhere closer his son but that year wasn’t his year by any means.

He knocked on the now familiar door 401.

The door was thrown open abruptly, making a big slamming noise against the wall. “Eiichi!” ______ screamed, her quick steps coming fast from down the hall. She came to a halt and the air left her mouth when she was met with Iwaizumi laid back postured with his eyes planted in her. She seemed to stunned Iwaizumi couldn’t help arching an eyebrow. “Are you okay, _____?” He was always careful when saying her name, as if it was forbidden to him to say it. This was another heartbreaking sign of how radically everything could change between two persons.

“I am. Sorry. I forgot today was your day,” she admitted. “Let me go get Eiichi’s bag ready. Come in, if you want.”

She was gone before Iwaizumi could say anything else. He nodded to himself and closed the door. Eiichi was soon all over him, telling him about his latest adventure. He was barely five years old. He was discovering the world. Everything was whimsical and mysterious to him, and as a father, it was an endearing process to watch. He wished he could be there on a daily basis to see every step of the way. He would be surprised of the strong nostalgia he was undergoing, but with the second anniversary of his divorce so closed, he was bound to feel like that.

______ came back with a red backpack and handed it to Iwaizumi, offering a fleeting smile. “There’s everything he will need for tonight.”

“Okay. I’ll bring him back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sure.” Silence invaded the room and Iwaizumi knew it was his queue to leave. He got up with the red backpack hanging from his shoulder and gave ______ one last glance before walking out the apartment together with Eiichi, who continued rambling with his clumsy words and ill-formed sentences.

Iwaizumi carried his son and securing him into the backseat and after checking it twice, he went to the front seat and left. The nostalgia eventually dissipated. His son took over his attention and he had no time to travel down memory lane about the life he used to have. The days he spent with Eiichi were the ones he cherished the most, but they were also the most exhausting. He had been warned about the shot of energy children got around the age Eiichi was, and they had not been wrong. After a whole day at the park, running and climbing around, he had finally given Eiichi a bath, put on his pajamas and settled him in the small dinner table adjacent to his living room. The television was playing from across the room. The cartoon was hypnotizing the little boy, who sometimes forgot to chew and left his mouth hung open watching it. Iwaizumi had to give small nudges to Eiichi for him to continue eating.

A divorce could be vicious and Iwaizumi had heard horror stories about it. Not to say his had gone smoothly, but it had been more about the grudges he and _____held against each other, the issues they had kept unspoken and had led to the failure of their marriage. There hadn’t been cheating or someone new in the picture. It was just them and poor communication. They had put those differences aside and concurred to share custody because at least both agreed Eiichi didn’t have to pay for mistakes that weren’t his. Therefore, Iwaizumi had rented a flat with an extra room for Eiichi. It wasn’t a simple guest room, it was decorated accordingly to his age. It was for him and no one else.

Iwaizumi pulled out the bedsheet and signaled Eiichi with his head. “Come on. Get in.”

He did as told and climbed the bed until he was sitting down, his legs hanging from the edge. Iwaizumi knelt, taking off the pair of slippers ______ had included for Eiichi to use. “Are you and mom getting back together?” he suddenly asked, taking his father aback.

“Why do you ask?”

“I checked mom’s drawer and she has a picture of the two of you.”Iwaizumi’s curiosity sparked up. “What drawer?”

“In her room. She sometimes takes it out but then it’s inside the drawer again. That’s why I checked. She doesn’t know I checked.”

He smiled apologetically to him. “Well, there’s no plan for that happening. I’m sorry, bud.”

Eiichi looked down, swinging his legs a couple times before getting inside the covers. “It’s okay.”

Iwaizumi kissed his forehead. The hint of sadness in Eiichi’s face broke him to the core. The more he grew, the more he discovered and rationalized the circumstances around him, and life didn’t go easy on anybody and it pained Iwaizumi to know there were going to be many situations where he wouldn’t be able to protect Eiichi. He tugged the covers a little bit higher and turned the lights off. He left the door slightly ajar and stood still on the spot. He had never seen a picture of _____ and him in her apartment. He had been there a lot, he would’ve noticed his face. He pondered on the piece of information Eiichi had thrown out of pure curiosity. Could it be that ______ wasn’t entirely over them? Could she still think about him? Perhaps and she wondered as much as him what could’ve happened if they had tried a little bit more, a little bit harder.

Iwaizumi tried to go to sleep, too, but it was around two in the morning, after endless runarounds in his head he was able to fall asleep. The last thing in his mind was his wife, and even after, she appeared in his dreams.

….

He woke up to his son opening the door and climbing into his bed. Eiichi poked him on the cheek a couple times. “Dad, I’m hungry.”

Iwaizumi groaned and then yawned. “I’m coming.” Eiichi jumped two times and then off of the bed. “Careful,” he oredered, his voice still raspy, but Eiichi was already running down the hallway.

Thankfully, he had remembered to get frozen waffles. He warmed up a pair in the toaster for Eiichi and another pair for him. He cut a slice of butter for each waffle and took both plates to the living room. Breakfast was quiet with Eiichi again hypnotized by some cartoon. This gave time Iwaizumi to spend more time with his thoughts. He couldn’t stop going over as of why ______ still had a picture of them in her nightstand, and why was she hiding it? She didn’t have it for Eiichi, if that was the case she would let him have it. She wasn’t even showing the picture to him.

Maybe… just Maybe…

He decided to take Eiichi earlier back to his mother. He wouldn’t be able to shake off his doubts and he had never been a man to shy away. If their relationship had spiraled down, they could pick it back up. They had been fantastic together once, and if he was honest with himself, he missed his life with them. He missed seeing Eiichi daily, not missing a bit of his life. And he missed ______. He missed her as his wife, as his partner.

He pulled on her street half past six—a couple hours before he had to. Eiichi didn’t question. He had no idea at what time he was supposed to arrive, either way. However, ______ was surprised to see him there so early. Eiichi ran past her and disappeared inside the flat. “You’re early. Is something wrong?” she asked bewildered.

“No, I just wanted to see if we can chat.”

“Uhm, okay.” She stepped aside, letting him come inside and walking to the living room. Iwaizumi sat on a different couch than _____. He wasn’t going to push his luck. He went over his question. It was easy and straightforward. However, he couldn’t help feeling like he was twenty again, walking across the room and making some small talk to her and see if he had a chance. He was nervous and unsure if it was the right thing to do.

“So, what is it?” she asked when faced with his silence.

Iwaizumi liked his upper lip as his fingers intertwined on his lip. “Why do you have a picture of us in your drawer?” She sat straight, blinking fast. Her mouth opened and closed, hesitating on emitting any sound. He had taken her aback entirely. “Eiichi told me about,” he clarified, making it impossible for her to lie or avoid the answer.

She looked around huffing. “Well, we were married, Hajime. We were together for too long. Not all of us get over things that easily,” she explained, avoiding looking directly at him.

Iwaizumi felt it like a direct shot at him. “Who said I got over it easy? I think about my life here with you and Eiichi all the time. I missed my life in here.”

“Hajime…”

“I’m being honest. Sometimes I just wish I could still be here.”

“If you want to see Eiichi more, you know you can.”

“I’m not only talking about him. I miss us. I think we could have fixed it if we had really tried.”

“We were tired of each other,” she said in a whisper, which told Iwaizumi she wasn’t rock solid on that position. It was the reason why their relationship had ended. That had been the catch phrase of their divorce.

“Maybe we could have used a break but I think divorcing was too extreme.”

“What are you trying to get to?”

“If you aren’t over us, I would actually like to try it again. We could make it work.”

“We can’t just jump right where we left things.”

“No, of course not. We’ll take it slow. I think it’s worth it.”

She held his gaze with hers. She wasn’t agreeing with him, but she wasn’t rejecting him either. He didn’t dare to blink. He wanted to seem confident with his proposal so she could give in.

“What if it doesn’t work again?” she asked.

“Then we go back to… this,” he declared rather calmly. He couldn’t ignore that option existed. Still, he wanted to believe the time they spent apart and the maturity they had gained in those two years was enough to make it right.

She nodded and stood up. “Are you staying for dinner, then?”

Iwaizumi smiled wide, standing up as well. “If there isn’t a problem, I am.”

She grinned shyly and turned away before he could see her. “Let me set another place on the table.”

“I’ll help you,” he offered, and then followed her into the kitchen Needless to say, he was thrilled. The door for a second chance had been opened to him.

#Iwaizumi Hajime #iwaizumi x reader #aoba johsai #seijoh #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you

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morsking · 5 years ago

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Got around to starting and finishing Old World Blues in the past couple of days. I think it’s the strongest of the game’s DLC I’ve played so far.

At first, it feels like you’re in for some wacky science fiction b-movie shenanigans once you’re introduced to the Think Tank. They’re all whimsical idiots who forget what words are, repeat themselves to elongate their sentences to look smart, and even one of them is bizarrely horny and has a fetish for... innocuous human behavior? Stretching? Yawning? They are neurotic brains in machines who take stuff apart and break it without really creating anything with it, just replicating the same results over and over and none of them seem to notice how stupid they are and it’s amazing. They took your brain, spine, and heart out of your body in an attempt to turn you into a walking vegetable, only for them to become so fascinated with the damage you took from Benny’s bullet that they fuck up the surgery and end up finding a way to keep your intelligence about you with a remote device that connects your brain to the tesla coils in your skull. Their biggest scientific discovery since... who knows how fucking long, was an absolute accident. It could only come about by chance, because you, as an existence alien to the static Big MT, shook things up tremendously.

But as funny and baffling as all these things could be, the more you explore Big MT, the more apparent it is that for all their quirks the Think Tank are also responsible for some of the most heinous crimes against humanity you can witness in Fallout: New Vegas. They experimented with carnivorous, parasitic plants on human beings, spliced humans, dogs, and robots together, developed nightstalkers and cazadores you see in the base game, used the Sierra Madre casino and its inhabitants as a petri dish for holograms, the claustrophobic hazmat suits, and the poisonous Cloud that killed everyone and turned them into zombies. Their experiments killed all their staff, and not one of them batted an eye to what they did. And their most shocking crime is the repetition of Japanese internment with Chinese hostages, who you can find ghoulified from radiation and are forced to kill them. These prisoners can’t be reasoned with or saved because the Think Tank stripped them from their humanity long ago along with any humanity or rationality that was left in the Big Empty. The only thing they can do as being robbed of their humanity is lash out at anything that still looks human. All throughout the DLC, you are subjected to displays of the Think Tank’s obsessions and cruelties and aimless ambitions, and you wonder why. How did things get this twisted and distortioned? And then you meet Dr. Mobius, and you find out why.

In his introductory segment when you start the DLC, he seems like the parody of the crazed mad scientist terrorizing the slightly less crazy eccentric scientists and the bastard who kidnapped your brain. But when you meet him, he’s like a sweet, confused, senile old man. He’s got an endearing if a little weird addiction to radioactive snacks despite him being a brain in a machine who has no mouth to eat them. He forgets he keeps a giant killer robot scorpion with a OHKO death laser of infinite... death powered on and sucking up energy all the time and that’s why his shit never works. He uses the wrong words on his sentences because they sound like the actual words he means to use. He didn’t just steal your brain, he kept it safe for you. And also, he’s the one who lobotomized the Think Tank into the witless abominations they are now.

Dr. Mobius witnessed his co-workers, his friends, pushing the boundaries of science further and further into dark places. Terrified for what they might do, he robbed them of their sanity and created an army not to terrorize them, but to keep them busy and from getting out. Dr. Mobius feared for the world, that it might be subjected to one new horror after another. There is great compassion in his actions but also great cruelty. He was so afraid of his friends the new world he trapped them in the old one. That’s where obsession and abhorrence belong, in the big emptiness of the past. It’s so appropriate, that Big MT is misread as “the Big Empty”. Because obsession and madness are an abyss, and also because everything that happened there was meaningless and hollow. There was no purpose to the Think Tank repeating its process of lobotomizing and observing the lobotomites. The great irony is that. That they don’t realize that what they do to human beings is what’s been done to them. Like the nature of all their names, their actions and their philosophies are cyclical and self-consuming. (Ouro)Borous. Zero. (Man)Dala (circle in Sanskrit), 8, Klein and Mobius. They are concepts that loop into themselves, symbolic of the futility of holding on to the grudges and ambitions of the Old World, a world that new only conflict and supremacy and paranoia and hostility. The fact that Mobius had to resort to brainwashing his own colleagues itself is evident even he didn’t know how to let go of the brutal utilitarian methods of the Old World in an effort to save the New One.

And what’s even worse is that didn’t matter anyway, because the mutated abominations that Borous created still found their way into the Mojave anyway. Are we supposed to accept that as a mercy that night stalkers, spores, and cazadores are the only things that slipped through the crater into the desert and be thankful for it? The only thing you can do about it now is say “Enough.” Enough of the Old World and its curses. It has no right to turn this world into a graveyard with it. It has no write to take from it and toy with it. Many times that attachment is played for laughs in Old World Blues, particularly Borous’s anti-communist fixation and enactments of his high school trauma being the basis for a training operation. But when you truly look at it it really feels like gallows humor. How many people do you reckon died in those tests at Lab X-8 because he used the test subjects as a means of catharsis? What was the human cost of that myopic insecurity and resentment? You only have to look around you. The facility is littered with guts. And it’s not the only one that looks like that. Not by a longshot.

So it came my time to also say enough to the Think Tank. I chose to kill them (more like stumbled my way into killing them because you have to thematically cycle through speech and skill checks for Mobius to give you the option of sparing everyone). It was both a roleplay gesture of revenge as much as it was a choice from me as a player to put the Big Empty out of its misery. It was already a graveyard in concept, it had to be made a graveyard in reality.

So that’s it for my review of the story. As for the more physical aspects of the DLC, I’ll say the Big Empty is probably the most interestingly designed setting I’ve ever seen. From the moment I woke up at the top of the Sink’s balcony I fell in love with what I was seeing. The layout includes some interesting platforming and traversal of the terrain from labs to cliffs to caves. Every laboratory houses something useful for you or relevant to the story and it’s easy to circle around the entire map and unlock everything as you go. The exploration comes naturally and you’re always encouraged to go back and look to see if you missed something (which you probably did, because it sure happened to me). One of the best things I found was the stealth suit. I’ve written about it already, but it is simply adorable, quirky, and also very helpful. Getting all its upgrades is worth it and not all that difficult even if it looks like a case of trial and error. There are some neat unlockables in terms of weapons as well like the stuff Elijah and Christine left behind, and lore that elaborates on their time there and Christine’s chase of Elijah to make him pay for his crimes. There is also the excellent set-up of your encounter with Ulysses in Lonesome Road, since he’s left his mark everywhere for you to see, as if luring you and taunting you. The dialogue is some of the wittiest and funniest Fallout’s ever been. The personalities in the Sink’s assistant appliances are so varied and interesting. You have the weirdly horny and seductive seed processor, the germaphobic water sink, the pessimistic and exhausted Muggy mini securitron, the jealous bickering light switches, the radio man juke box, the brave little toaster that could (murder everything), the ultra-patriotic and self-unaware book chute, the compassionate level-headed Auto-Doc, and finally the neutral, loyal, and polite Central Intelligence Monitor. Old World Blues had such an interesting and loveable cast. There is not a single human character in the entirety of the DLC, yet all of those feel vivid and alive.

Those are my two cents on Old World Blues. A beautifully written, poignant, and entertaining piece of gaming. Now, we move on to Lonesome Road.

#homecooked meta #fallout #new vegas #fnv #old world blues #fallout nv

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fandom-necromancer · 5 years ago

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495. Who did this to you?

This has been prompted by an amazing anon! Thank you so much and enjoy!

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900 (Warnings: aftermath of a beating, wounds)

part2 part3 part4

[Thirium levels: 24% - stable] [System status: Core systems functioning and stable] [Low energy mode: active] [Checking biocomponents…] A flood of malfunctioning parts took over Nines’ HUD and, as if there was not enough blinding red in his vision already, a timer sat in a corner. It wasn’t ticking down but that didn’t make it much better. It was looming there, telling him that he couldn’t risk any more damage. [Movement restricted. Will cause further damage.]

Yeah, Nines hadn’t thought about lifting a finger. The misfiring from his violently disconnected sensors was enough pain already. He sluggishly looked at his legs, both broken in a weird angle and covered by thirium, Well, there were other damaged parts too, but this meant he wouldn’t be able to walk home. [Accessing communication systems…] [Access denied. Low power mode active. Responding to incoming calls only.] Damn, he hated his emergency protocols sometimes. Well, he would simply have to wait, Gavin would wake up soon enough and wonder where he was.

He sat there for about an hour thanking RA9 no one had noticed him yet. He sat in a back alley, not really a place someone would casually walk into. That was when the call came in. ‘Hey, toaster, where are you? I woke up and you weren’t there! Is everything alright?’ Nines couldn’t speak, so the emotionless robotic voice he produced in his mind had to suffice. It wouldn’t tell Gavin how relieved he was to hear his voice or that he didn’t want him to freak out, but it would tell him something was wrong with him. ‘I was out to buy you breakfast. But… There has been an incident, I can’t get home on my own. Could you come pick me up?’ ‘Holy shit, tin-can, yeah of course, send me the address, I’m there as soon as possible! Hang in there!’

The connection cut off and Nines hoped he would drive safely. He knew the man would probably violate every traffic law there was, but who was he to complain in his situation. It didn’t take long until Gavin’s car skidded to a halt across the street with screeching tires and the man jumped out on the street. An oncoming car honked at him, he shouted something at the driver and continued to run across towards Nines. ‘Oh my god, Nines! What the hell happened? Who did this to you?’ Not important, the android displayed on his palm. Let’s just get home, please. ‘No way, babe you need a Cyberlife store! This is not a scratch I can apply some of your weird repair paste to!’ NO! Not Cyberlife. You know why. Just… Please just get me home. ‘Nines, I’m no technician. I could get you to Eli, if that’s better.’ I know you still hold a grudge against your brother. I don’t want to be the reason you owe him. Get me home, I’ll tell you how to do it. I just don’t want to sit here in the open any longer. ‘Yeah, of course, I’m sorry. I- I’ll bring you to the car.’

Nines hated how concerned he sounded, scared even. God, the next time he would just stay in bed. Gavin pushed his arm around him and tried to lift him. Nines knew exactly how heavy he was, and this would put an enormous strain on his human. But he couldn’t do anything to help. His legs were disconnected and his arms not a big help. Thankfully, as soon as Gavin had heaved him out into the open, some people came to help – Gavin miraculously accepting it for once. Finally, he sat in the passenger seat, Gavin next to him, patting his hand over and over again on their way home. Nines was sure he even muttered some encouraging words, that they were nearly there and that it wouldn’t take much longer. Nines used the drive to preserve his energy and accepted the dulling protocols of the emergency mode.

Somehow Gavin had managed to carry him into his apartment and onto the couch previously covered by an old blanket. Nines really only regained full consciousness as Gavin came running up next to him with a few Thirium pouches, his systems informing him of a [proximity alert]. ‘Err… Can you drink it? Should I fill it into the port? Is anything there damaged?’ The android just reached for one and downed it relaxing as his thirium levels rose and allowed him to exit low power mode now that his cooling system was fully functioning again. That meant the android equivalent to pain spiked, too, but he could finally talk again. ‘Thanks, Gavin.’ ‘Will you tell me what happened now? I swear, if I find the guy who did this, he’s dead!’ ‘Gavin, please, it wasn’t his fault.’ ‘Come on, you aren’t me. You don’t pick senseless fights with random people just because they stared at you wrong.’ ‘It was an android, okay! One that had… a more unfortunate meeting with a RK900 model after the revolution.’ ‘Oh. You talking about the-‘ ‘The killers, yes. The units that couldn’t be pressed to deviate, the ones that had to be destroyed! Thanks for reminding me. The guy had every right to panic and I don’t blame him. Could we just go on, please?’ ‘Of course’, Gavin nodded reserved. ‘I would just feel more comfortable taking you to a Cyberlife store to get repaired. You sure you don’t want that? I would look out for you, phck them up if they tried something.’ ‘No’, Nines insisted. ‘They are responsible for this. I won’t let people work on my systems that designed me to be a part of an exterminator-series. I don’t know why it didn’t work with me, but I won’t give them a chance to correct their mistake.’ The human sighed and sat down next to him. ‘Fine. What do I need to repair you?’ ‘Nothing special. You need to solder some wires, connect a few tubes. The “weird paste” as you call it to reseal the hull. That would be all for now, I can ask Connor at work tomorrow to do the rest.’ ‘Good, I’ll fetch the stuff. In the meantime, go slurp some more Thirium, you need it.’

Gavin came back soon enough, starting to reconnect wiring and thirium-channels, asking questions when needed and working away to the instructions Nines was giving him. The android focussed on his human, hunkering over his legs and helping him to the best of his knowledge. He would lie would he say he didn’t admire the view. He wallowed in his concern and care, something he had always thought he didn’t deserve after learning what his brothers had done. He had been very quick not to call them that anymore. He wanted to be more like Connor, rebelling against programming and choosing his own path. He had chosen him as his brother, a figure so much more kind than his own series. He had taught him to look around, to find friends, what had ultimately led to discovering the confusing mess that was Gavin Reed. RK900 would say that he was happy now. He didn’t want anything to change, he wanted everything to stay as it was now. But the incident today just proved again how easily it could go wrong.

‘Gavin?’ ‘Yes? Did I do something wrong?’ ‘No. You are doing perfect’, he reassured him. ‘Just… could you promise me something?’ ‘Of course! I’m here for you.’ ‘Gavin, if I ever become like them-‘ ‘You won’t.’ ‘Gavin.’ ‘You won’t, Nines. I know you. You couldn’t do what they did. Believe me. How dare you try asking me to deactivate you. I will keep you here and I’ll keep you you. Just trust me.’ He was so sure of that. He simply said that, believed it and concentrated on the piece of technology in front of him. Nines sighed heavily.

Sometimes he wished he had human confidence.

#detroit become human #dbh #reed900 #gavin reed #rk900 #have a domestic #why do i love writing borderline sad stuff so much?#sometimes i wish i had human confidence

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maybekatherine · 5 years ago

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the second five nancy drew games, rated

6. Secret of the Scarlet Hand: TOO. MUCH. TIME. WASTING. good god this game is stupid at times. heavy walkthrough use just to avoid going back and forth between the quizzes and the displays. the bad guy is obvious and the ending is cheesy but in a bad way. some people can’t be called from the office phone for some bonkers reason, forcing you to go to your hotel solely to make a call. 0/10 or 6/10 depending on how much you care about the hardy bros.

7. Ghost Dogs of Moon Lake: nancy discovers personal electronics but is still tied to a landline, and as usual doesn’t bother to have any money on her whatsoever, wtf nancy. if i check my notes mid-puzzle the puzzle resets itself, which is a pain. having spent five years in a very similar setting (bumfuck of nowhere surrounded by state park), can confirm that jeff akers is OOC; also, i have never in my life heard of a goddamn forest with a leash law. am/pm system could be a good idea, but the only reason you’d want it to be night is for bug hunting and to get yelled at by red so it’s actually pointless. solid game otherwise. 8/10.

8. The Haunted Carousel: i’m pretty sure i discovered a bug that will automatically give you all the midway tokens. miles is creepy and way too technologically advanced for something that looks like it was made with a toaster oven and one of those toddler pop things. i’m kinda mad because i accidentally clicked second chance instead of continue and lost a bunch of progress. i don’t really have anything negative to say about this game, but not really anything positive either. 5/10.

9. Danger on Deception Island: i hate this game so much. it’s like HER just read some Fun Facts About Whales and called it a day. why the fuck didn’t katie lock her boat. why the FUCK did she just LEAVE HER GPS OUT for ANYONE TO TAKE, for that matter why did the culprit SMASH IT instead of STEALING IT. i have never in my entire goddamn life met a fisherman with same attitude as holt. fishermen are generally aware that taking care of the environment is kind of required for strong fish populations and therefore their future employment. the native woman being the one who’s all “don’t study the whale to see if it’s sick, rejoin it with its pod immediately regardless of consequences!” isn’t a good look.

and andy. fucking andy. it is literally impossible for his business to be run by one person. for me to even begin to suspend my disbelief, he’d need someone to man the desk and answer the phones while he was out doing a tour, but with what we see? his building, his little museum? dude’s got two boats, MINIMUM, and they’ve each got a captain and crew, because these aren’t dinky boats that can be run by one person either. and there’s probably a naturalist/guide on each boat too. plus at least two people to man the reception desk/do office work and answer the phone and take bookings. but with two boats worth of bookings to take, plus the accounting involved, my money’s on at least three, probably more. and when i say he has two boats minimum, i mean BARE MINIMUM. an actual tour business that can support its own little museum like that probably has like four or five boats. plus, if andy was properly “big business” as required by basic economics, that would make him trying to buy katie out more compelling.

also, i fucking hate whales. 0/10.

10. The Secret of Shadow Ranch: the horse girl one. aggravating for many of the same reasons as the previous game, but i also don’t have a personal grudge against horses. the UI gets some at this point badly needed TLC. shorty reminds me of my worst roommate ever, but at least shorty seems to keep the kitchen clean. not being able to take dirk’s notes with you is a pain in the ass. there are two mazes in the game that are the Absolute Worst, and only one of them has a cheat, and it’s not the one where you get murdered if you’re too slow. maybe my brain’s just not working this week, but every time i booted it up i had no memory of what i was supposed to do next. 4/10.

#nancy drew

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isakwon · 7 years ago

Text

Coffee Bean (Extinct) Part 6

Pairing: Park Chanyeol x Reader

Genre: Romance & Angst

Word Count: 3k

Coffee Bean Masterlist

Summary: It’s believed the red string of fate can tangle and make annoying knots. But it can never break, but can it become untied from one person on either end?

A/N: Warm thank you’s to @amberevans736 @vlessful07 and @ireallywannatryandbehappy.

Winters from Eastern and Central Time zones always had the perfect timing for anything hot and steamy to stay warm. Movie theaters turned their heat temperature warmer than toasters around the building and their seat people either wear fluffy coat layers and some three layers of pants and leggings anyway. The sun would shine in two hours, but people outside would still shiver because the wind blowing would make the air colder. It’s worse during the night.

You found Yixing and Sehun sitting on the bench inside the lobby.

”Damn it’s freezing,” Baekhyun says through his chattering teeth, gulping the last of his hot drink before tossing it in the trash can.

Shortly after Yixing leaves you to excuse yourself to the restroom while previews and trailers for upcoming movies play over the screen. Once Baekhyun pulled the snacks from his coat pockets and placed them on a saved empty seat, he realized how Chanyeol receiving a reaction quite the opposite from what was expected surprised him.

The natural interaction between them shocked him even more. She didn’t try to refresh his memory, tell him about their past nor showed him the matching string around her finger. They looked like strangers that were brought together for the first time due to an accident and got along instantly.

“Baek, are you okay?” Sehun asked, ripping the straw wrapper open.

He wondered about telling Sehun what happened once she left them alone. Upon your arrival, they mostly talked about your stardom in South Korea until there was nothing else spoke about leading with now. Baekhyun walked into the kitchen where Junmyeon and Sehun stood, banging glasses into the sink and giving them his glare. Baekhyun was thankful Y/N didn’t hear them talk about whether they continued speaking to each other absentmindedly. The last thing he wanted was seeing her sentimental and overcome with gloominess just at the mention of Chanyeol’s name. He had no idea that things Junmyeon suggested were right. No idea that she would still have hope on her shoulders for long.

“It’s nothing.”

Baekhyun looks down his hands rubbing together sucking his lips. He looks at Sehun looking at Baekhyun through his eyelids with brows narrowed down on the skin where his eyes and nose met.

“Baek, tell me what's wrong?”

Baekhyun glances down again before nodding.

“Y/N and Chan bumped into each other.”

Sehun droops his mouth open while his brows rose, forming upside down arched crescents. Yixing overhears the sentence that pulls his head toward in urgency. Just the other night when he and Yixing exchanged texts with Chanyeol, that plan backfired and came resulting that Y/N and Yeol could overcome breaking their vow.

“What? What happened?”

“I don’t know; I only saw Y/N facing his back turned on her.”

The smiles flashed brighter than the bulbs dangling from the ceiling, her eyes beady, listening to endless giggles and contagious laughter while seeing her face glow. Baekhyun stood beside the restroom door watching.

”All I heard was them laughing at each other like nothing.”

“How did you manage to leave?”

“We snuck out.”

Sehun was starting to get more irritated with Chanyeol. He wanted to grab him by the collar, hold grudges against him, call him a coward and even now he wants to communicate with him. Chanyeol knows who she is, and he needs to prove himself that he was lying straight to her face, but nothing seemed worthy now. Sehun leaves his lips agape. He was right, there was no hope, and Chanyeol was moving on. But how was forgetting their past lover’s name or how they looked possible. Y/N didn’t change much.

Did his memories get erased entirely?

The guys always believed that their friends deserved one another. Baekhyun also blamed himself for leading you to the cafe even though stopping there was just for getting the body warm with chocolate and lattes. He brought Y/N warming Chanyeol with hot chocolate, and both had their feelings warming with the exchanged smiling and soft speaking and patting his arm becoming closer than the last. He should’ve known better than thinking it would be okay after her sitting there for an entire morning several days ago, the morning after your arrival.

Baekhyun began to wonder whether you were actually using the restroom or using the restroom as an escape to allow tears to run freely onto your palms.

“Do you think they’ll meet again or-”

“Would that matter now?” Sehun asks, perking an eyebrow up.

He purses his lips into a thin line until they nearly disappear, shaking his head.

Sehun’s questioned expression remains over him. Chanyeol always sent cards, letters and sometimes taped small flowers or her favorite snacks that aren’t available in Seoul. He always wanted for someone to look at him or someone to look at the same way he saw looking at each other. His grin would form hills from his cheekbones rising, and the bags underneath showed fully while knitting her brows upwards watching Chanyeol from afar.

His friends shared examples of romance and health any of them could ask for in the future. But once they heard about the engagement, the hope of forever was mostly lost. Except for Y/N and Chanyeol carried something so intense, some grew helpless for them to have their forever. How does someone completely forget about someone they loved so much. Just how? Both of them turn their vision on the screen still playing cinema rules over the screen in silence without making a peep.

The water from the restroom faucet felt colder on your hand than the air outside, it also tasted refreshing. Enough for cooling down the knot stuck in the middle of your throat. Nobody would stop someone from using the restroom but would complain if that person took nearly three minutes, which you usually do not unless you had spent that time crying.

You should’ve been sitting down with Baek and Sehun in the auditorium eating snacks with them, instead of drinking water from the faucet but they cannot see tears that managed to come out. Everything still felt somewhat wrong, or you just felt heartbreak again seeing Chanyeol and not even remembering your name.

The self-made promise is respecting Chanyeol falling in love while another part wanted denial that things could indeed end.

“Aah,” Your mind went blank while your chest felt like a hole as you leaned against the sink and lifted your chin up toward the mirror. Just staring toward your reflection in the mirror, you felt like breaking down like the constant memories that ran over your mind.

Chanyeol smiling from the cafe hasn’t left the mind either. As Chanyeol calmly reacted getting burned to watch you with double lighting dots floating diagonally apart his large captivating dark brown irises eyes seemed like all-stars gotten closer. His smile could instantly turn whatever sour mood he saw you have become that mood into lightheartedness, and his eyes darker as if he knew that smile cured anything. His skin tone from the lighting reminded you of the bonfires glowing dark oranges onto him and made him look golden.

“Aish Chanyeol,” you muffle through clasped fingers, “I missed you so so much and not being able to say so while hugging you hurts even more. What’s worse is you’re still not leaving my thoughts, I don’t know how long until they stop though.”

You wiped away oncoming tears with your sweater covered wrist as you curve your back into a regular posture. Another person enters through the restroom door and makes glimpses toward you before proceeding, allowing you closer toward the door.

“Hey, are you...are you Y/F/N?”

The sudden question stopped you in your tracks, moving your head toward the woman who just passed. She must’ve been another international fan for Korean Entertainment Industry or a Broadway fanatic, another of the few that recognized theatre stars. Fame as Broadway stars differed from television actors and musicians, although you considered them similar. The musical theatre was your roots to your stardom where the theatre is constructed with positivity and bubbly behavior.

You smiled, “I am.”

“Oh, my-oh you have no idea how much I loved your debut covers!” her sudden excitement widens your flattered smile.

A few other fans approached you on the morning while walking to the cafe early morning asking for selfies and signatures in their journal and phone case that they later show off. If it weren’t for Broadway fans, your recognition wouldn’t have been what it is now, and that was the same story for the stardom in South Korea. Except learning Korean made the journey a bit more crucial even being tutored and applying for a visa after the engagement news and convincing immigration to accept your papers.

“Please, please, can I have a picture?”

You smile, “Yes.”

“Who was the person who turned these in?” Director Kim asked.

The Representative woman responds, sinking his chin into her neck. ”Your son Jongdae.”

Director Kim falls silent hanging his jaw open.

“Jongdae? My son Jongdae; whose on a work vacation?”

”Yes, sir.”

The look on her face more worried. Director Kim is dumbfounded and repressed. Impresa never had any scandals and shares equal respect for their employees and models. Anyone who has a problematic burden off their chest, confession, complaints, anything concerns Impresa mostly. Someone against the agency could be making these complaints anonymously.

”Take your leave, ”

The woman nods and quietly walks to the door. Director Kim felt angered by the early dates printed on each page, and each case had filed since April in the previous year. His son kept Illegal actions involving Impresa’s name hidden from him and now since he was away for three days, he cannot confront to Jongdae about.

Like any father, director Kim wanted to make sure his children are humble and honest and responsible and are taking care despite not carrying his DNA. The first time they met, a little Jongdae gave Director Kim no chances opposed to Somil. Though his older sister always clung around him and always bragged to her friends about him and how lucky they have the things the Director purchased for them, Jongdae avoided his adoptive father for weeks.

As a toddler, Jongdae opened up for his new parent and his sister once they were riding the train to an annual carnival where he held his new teddy bear and flashing light toy on the way back home while cuddling on Kim’s lap.If only Jongdae were back from his working trip Director, Kim would've called him to his office to speak privately upon this. Jongdae would already aware of the elephant in the room seeing manila folders with the police department titles.

Now at the moment, he would wait until Jongdae returns before bringing his daughter into the problem.

Neither you nor Sehun would stop talking about the movie you had just seen that bored Baekhyun to sleep. All talk about the film on the way home was beginning to drive him crazy that skipping toward the living room made him let out a relieved sigh. The boys present in the house greet you as Sehun tosses the leftover popcorn in the trash can. As the wind was getting stronger cracking the tree branches harder, Kyungsoo raises the heating temperature despite getting his ear nagged off by the others about high bill prices.

“How was the movie guys?” Minseok asks, “Who was the killer?”

“It was great, I can’t say who committed the crime though.” You raise your brows, and Minseok rolls his eyes while smirking. “It will tell you if you read the book too.”

You hum a quiet giggle turning away from Minseok pleading for you to give away the ending and you just told him off suggesting that he watches the film instead. He always fell asleep during the movies and admittedly that annoyed you. Snapped pictures of him sleeping on the couch during the films saved deep in your text messages.

Holiday lights flash from the tree standing in the corner next to the window beside the television playing soul music and Jongin places another present with the others. The boys finished wrapping some of their gifts with just five days left until new year’s eve.

”Y/N, ”

Junmyeon whispers your name looking over his shoulder where the boys then turn back to you. ”Here you go.”

He holds a rectangular box wrapped with metallic dark blue wrapping paper topped with silver ribbons forming to look like a tiny bow and a sticker tag saying ’to Y/N.’

”Happy New Year.” He says.

You look at him widening your eyes slightly and turning your lips into a small ’o,’ and he gives you a look of hope that you will like his gift. He tilts the box in front of you to take it. The paper felt smooth against your skin, and you shake your head while giving a gentle smile.

”Myeon, I can't open presents until New Year's Day.”

“But we don’t know how long you will be here.” He says. ”This is my way to say how much I missed you and how excited I was hearing you'll be spending the holidays with us.”

Junmyeon glances at the present in your hands still unwrapped and you turn the box while rubbing the paper with your index finger. Junmyeon was the heart in your friendship with the boys that never believed holding grudges, unlike Sehun.

You smile toward Junmyeon and tell him to follow you. There the boys are all present in the dining room, perfect for the small announcement you’re about to give away.

“Guys,” you say, clapping your hands together, “Since my flight over to New York I have had some big news that I wanted to share on New Year's Eve.”

Not one of them had asked for when you were going to board a plane after the year ended. Because it would sound like your friends would be urging you to leave and make you feel unwanted, but you didn't think that way. You carried so much love and trust and cared for the boys, and they stuck with you during the years as a trainee. Even tutoring you on learning fluent Korean. Sure, you did have trust issues before with friends from the past who made you feel like you were important or wanted more for just someone to spew their rant. But the relationship you have with them became more than friendships consists.

“I know you’re all thinking about I’ll be staying in New York and going back to Seoul.”

They all turn towards you.

”The thing is that I'm not going back to Seoul nor South Korea for a while.”

”Does that mean you're staying?” Jongin asks.

You smile while shaking your head. ”Yep. I'm back in the city, and I'm here to stay.”

Minseok, Yixing, Kyungsoo, and Jongin rise from their seats to approach open arms and widened smiles, each wrapping you in tight bear hugs. Some of them were a little speechless hearing the second sudden surprise; honestly, these boys' hearts probably can't take many surprises anymore since you arrived. Their wrath around you felt tighter than hugging you after coming out behind the tree.

”Y/N what about your career in Seoul?” Jongin rocked you side to side.

”I put that on vacation.” You revealed how the main reason you were staying was that you accepted an acting role in an upcoming drama. The casting director had seen your performance on a Korean West Side Story as Anita that made her think you would fit the leading role. When she mentioned New York as the setting, you tried keeping your excitement internal to look composed.

Junmyeon was the last person to hugged placing his hands on your forearms and smiling at you.

”Oh my gosh Y/N, I can hardly believe this. Are you gonna stay with us, getting a place because the bedroom is yours.”

Your eyes beam, ”Myeon, during the flight staying here, was the plan.”

”You haven't opened my gift yet.” He says, and you respond

”I’ll hold onto it to open first thing New Years Eve night.” His face slants scrunching his nose.

”Rules are rules.” You shrug lifting the box and start heading to your room.

Once you walked into the bedroom, you remember the blanket that was tossed away was still in the dryer. You didn’t feel the need of folding the comforter since it was going to be used again anyway, so you stuck your hands under the fluffy cotton boulder and began carrying your feet down the hall. Suddenly Sehun’s frame stands in front of you like a wall suddenly appearing. He was dressed in a blue-striped sweater and greyhound gray basketball shorts, his black hair curtain over his sharp eyes.

“Y/N do you not want to talk about something?” Baekhyun wouldn’t immediately spread the news of your reunion and you refused to assume what and who Sehun was talking about.

“Nothing.” You respond.

Sehun crosses his arms. ”I know you saw Chanyeol today Y/N. Though I wasn't there to see what happened, Baekhyun told me only part of what he saw. Also strangers wouldn't stare at each other for a long time after getting burned.”

Your fingers clasp around the blanket,

“So do you know that Chanyeol doesn’t know who I am?”

He nods.

Thank you for reading!♡

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you-guys--are-losers · 7 years ago

Text

Your Selection

Summary: Prom season has finally arrived, and the students at Midtown are not immune to all of the drama and excitement that comes with it. Peter's junior class is thrilled to be attending for the first time. People are pairing off to buy tickets a month in advance, and the ones who are in relationships have a new commitment to make to the dance.

This year, that includes Michelle Jones.

Peter does not know what he feels as he realizes exactly what this means, but as MJ is pulled further away from the trio they worked so hard to form, he knows it feels wrong. What feels even worse is watching MJ change without them for someone who takes her for granted... And then some. But it is not his place to say anything about her relationship. If it makes her happy, then it is his job to respect it.

However, each day brings Midtown closer to prom, and each day mounts tensions higher. How much pressure can Peter and MJ's relationship take until it snaps in two?

Characters: Michelle Jones x Peter Parker

Word Count: 1,498

Warnings: Swearing, Self-Consciousness

@one-way-ride @prettylilparker @transient-transition @nerdofthehighestcalibre

26.5 Days Until Prom

Peter doesn’t know why he feels so good that MJ is coming to movie night tonight.

The thing on Friday was a one-time thing, he reminds himself, nothing more than a fluke. It was just because of stupid prom, which will be over in a little less than a month, anyway. But Peter is more relieved than he would like to admit that MJ is coming, and he tries to ignore the fact that her decline to come over had spooked him more than he cares to admit.

When the end of the day comes, Peter is more than ready to go home. Their wood shop class completely numbed up his mind, and he is looking forward to having some stimulating conversation and Star Wars banter to massage his brain back to life. Ned is waiting by his locker at the end of the day, and Peter watches as his best friend’s face light up.

“Hey!” Ned greets cheerfully. “Guess what?” Before Peter has a chance to answer, Ned is rattling forward. Unbothered, Peter opens his locker and slides a few books into their places, leaving his backpack lighter and his books organized. “Betty actually talked to me today. I mean, it was about the project we have due on Friday, but like, she didn’t seem bored. And after she asked me about my shirt! I had to, like, explain basically all of Star Trek for her to get the reference, but you know. She even laughed and stuff!”

A grin spreads across Peter’s face, and he nods. “That’s great, man!” he exclaims, turning to lean against his locker so that they can wait for MJ. “Hey, at this rate, maybe by the time you’re thirty you’ll actually have asked her out.”

Ned doesn’t seem bothered by the comment. Rather, he takes on a lofty attitude, saying, “Hey, don’t joke, man. You gotta take your time, make sure that you give her a while to realize she’s into you, then that’s when you make your move-”

“-and then you wake up and realize that you’re still a nerd with no balls,” MJ’s serene voice finishes from behind Ned. Though her tone is as lofty as ever, both Peter and Ned have learned to tell when she’s joking, and based upon the way that one corner of her mouth is quirked upwards, she doesn’t mean it. Peter doesn’t know why, but he straightens up and tugs lightly at his collar at her approach, and he can’t stop a grin from crossing his face.

Ned makes a face and shoots her a look. “Come on, man! Is it so hard to believe that I could actually ask someone out?”

“I would like to be able to say no, but you don’t exactly have to best history with things that put you under pressure,” she replies as she quickly opens her own locker. Peter watches as MJ takes the massive pile of books in her hands and shoves them into the locker, shoving it shut before they can all fall out on her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking ab-”

“Last week, you squeaked when the toaster popped and you didn’t expect it. The toaster.”

Ned’s face turns red, but he tries to look stubborn. “That’s a perfectly legitimate reaction!”

“Then you unplugged it, and kept doing that every time we went back there for days.”

Peter lets out a small huff of laughter, and a grudging smile crosses Ned’s lips. “Whatever. Can we just go? I want pizza.”

“I agree with that sentiment,” MJ pipes up, turning to look at Peter for confirmation. For a moment, her dark gaze catches him off-guard, but he quickly nods.

“R-right, um, yeah! Yeah, we can order it on the phone on the walk home.”

“I want sausage,” Ned announces as they begin to walk. “And onions.”

“And remember,” MJ reminds as she falls into step with Ned. “Half has to be-”

“Mushroom, spinach, and full tomato slices,” Peter finishes as he pulls out his phone, grinning slightly. “I know. You’re not exactly the most unpredictable.”

MJ looks affronted, but Peter can tell she’s hiding a grin. “Excuse you, I am not predictable.”

“You wear, like, the same three hoodies on repeat with that jacket thrown in there every once in a while,” he responds, not looking up as he selects the number for the pizza place.

It is Ned’s turn to let out a little snort of laughter, and Peter hears her mumble of, “Yeah, whatever, loser.” But it’s comfortable, this trio of theirs, and the walk home is relaxed even though Peter spends most of it on the phone while Ned and MJ compete over who can kick an empty beer can farther down the sidewalk.

The pizza has arrived, the movie is rolling, and the smell of MJ’s hot chai tea is mingling with that of tomato sauce in Peter’s living room, the way that it always does when she is here. Peter shouldn’t be on edge, really. He should be paying attention to Ned’s Jar Jar Binks impression, which is absolutely perfect in every way. Normally, it never fails to get a laugh out of Peter. But today, it isn’t working the way that it normally does, and Peter hates it.

He knows it’s because MJ has been texting furiously for the last twenty minutes.

As far as Peter can remember, MJ hasn’t ever so much as looked at her phone during a movie night. She doesn’t particularly like her old Blackberry, and it rarely goes off. She comments every so often that the only person who really texts her is her mom, and only about their schedules and the like. If Peter has to guess, however, he doesn’t think that this is her mom. If it was, MJ would hardly have any reason to be letting out the soft, frustrated puffs of breath that she does whenever the phone buzzes again, normally just after she’s set it down.

After a while, Ned picks up on it, too. He glances over when the phone buzzes, then back at Peter as MJ picks it up and starts to type furiously. She only seems to begetting more and more annoyed, and finally after a particularly long time spent typing she sets down the phone with unnecessary force.

Ned swallows, glancing at Peter before looking back to MJ. “Hey, uh...” he says slowly, trailing off when MJ’s intense, frustrated gaze fixes on him. “You good?”

“Of course I’m ‘good,’“ MJ mutters, glancing back to the movie. “Why wouldn’t I be good?” Peter and Ned exchange another look as her phone buzzes at that specific moment, and a soft, frustrated exclamation escapes her lips.

There is a moment of silence, and for a moment all three of them are just looking at one another.

“Fine,” she mumbles after a moment, letting a long tuft of hair fall in her face. “It’s... It’s this stupid freaking dance.”

“You mean prom?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow. “Stupid, freaking prom?”

“Stupid, freaking prom,” MJ repeats, nodding. “I just... Ugh.”

Ned looks slightly concerned. “So what exact stupid, freaking thing happened?”

MJ glares over at her phone. “Lukas said he was paying for the tickets,” she mutters. “I said I could pay for mine, but he was all like, ‘No, I want to pay for my date!’ And I’m an idiot, so I let him, and I ended up spending a little more on a dress than I would have, since I had that extra money I wasn’t spending on a ticket.”

Peter nods slowly, trying to ignore the sinking feeling he gets in his chest when she says ‘my date.’ MJ isn’t anybody’s anything, but he doesn’t feel like she wants him to point that out right now.

“And now, he’s texting me saying he didn’t buy the tickets and used the money to pay for some ‘unexpected thing’ in his stupid tech class, and he’s asking me if I can buy my own ticket.” MJ’s eyes are filled with a peeved irritation, and Peter decides that he is glad he is not on the receiving end of that look. “I wouldn’t have minded, but now I’m going to have to take on extra shifts to pay for it, and--” She breaks off, running an agitated hand through her hair. “Ew. Now I sound like a stupid, whiny girlfriend. Shoot me, Parker.”

Girlfriend. Peter rather feels like the one who is getting shot.

“Nah, that sucks, man,” Ned chimes in, glancing at Peter. “I’d be ticked off.”

“Yeah, well,” MJ sighs, shaking her head and picking up the phone to shove it in her pocket. “It’s dumb. I guess I probably shouldn’t have said anything anyway, so if you tell anyone I’ll murder you. I think I read something about not talking about being pissed at your partner with anyone but your partner, so I should probably just talk to him. But I’ll do it after I’m doing roasting Anakin to a crisp.”

Ned laughs, and a little grin spreads across Peter’s lips. Still, it’s small and slightly strained... She’s trying so hard, and she should be, of course. But Peter can feel that little bit of worry inching in again, because she’s drawing closer to Lukas and away from them. It’s stupid and childish to feel that way, but Peter can’t help but feeling like if it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have that issue.

Because MJ deserves more than being used and inconvenienced.

#Your Selection #michelle jones #michelle jones fic #peter parker x michelle jones #michelle jones x peter parker #michelle jones fanfiction #mj #mj x peter #peter x mj #peter parker #ned leeds #aunt may #spider-man: homecoming #spiderman:homecoming hc #spiderman #spideychelle #spideychelle fic #spideychelle prom au #original work

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ragehappysecretsanta · 7 years ago

Text

Write It in Blood

Author: http://dmitrimolotov.tumblr.com

Recipient: http://nescamonster.tumblr.com

Summary: Jeremy and Ryan have been engaged for nearly a year; Jeremy’s career as an investigative journalist at Weazel news is starting to gain some real traction, while Ryan’s floristry business is booming. Jeremy has been chasing a trail of police corruption, but when he gets his dream promotion at work, it comes with a catch that threatens to throw him into the middle of it all. He can’t expose it without risking his career and in all likelihood his life. Luckily, Ryan stumbles upon a handy solution to both help Jeremy’s career and rid the force of their bad apples; but he soon finds himself walking a far darker path to protect the one he loves.

Note: This story is a sequel to Say it with Flowers, although it is not a prerequisite read.

Warnings: Mature. Blood, murder.

Word Count: 22880

Read it on AO3

Write it in Blood

Jeremy hit the snooze button on his alarm. The sunlight was filtering through the thin curtains at an angle he knew meant he’d be pushing to make it to work on time, but he was too comfortable to bring himself to worry just yet. Instead, he rolled over and a hand snaked around his waist, pulling him into a firm, warm hug.

“Stay?” A sleepy voice muttered from under the blanket beside him as the arm pulled him in even closer, “You don’t have to go in just yet…”

Jeremy sighed, smiling contentedly as he repositioned himself to fit more snugly against his fiancé’s frame, his back pressing into the warmth of his partner’s chest; the perfect fit for a little spoon.

“I guess I don’t have to get up right away.”

A tired-sounding “Yay!” escaped the blanket and there was a slow, lazy rustling as Jeremy felt a gentle kiss land on the back of his head and a soft, stubbly chin snuggle in close, rubbing affectionately against his face, before settling in the crook of his neck with a satisfied hum.

“Ryan? Aren’t you meant to be working today too?”

“Shhhh… It’s fine…”

Jeremy smiled and relaxed into his arms, letting his eyes fall closed again. They’d been engaged for nearly a year and hadn’t even discussed plans of making it official, but they were content as they were and there was no pressure. They simply were and they were happy.

As soon as Jeremy shut his eyes, a muffled ringing reached his ears.

He groaned and debated letting it ring out, but his sense of responsibility won out in the end and he forced himself to get up and answer it; prying Ryan’s arm off him to roll out of bed.

Caller ID came up as Matt, and judging by the time, he’d probably already be at work by now.

“’sup Matt?” Jeremy said cheerfully, pushing the curtains aside to let in more light.

Ryan whined petulantly and pulled the sheet up over his head to block it out.

“Hey man,” Matt replied, “did you remember to get something for Leslie’s baby shower today?”

Jeremy wandered to the door and glanced over at the bouquet of flowers and neatly wrapped present waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Ryan had prepared them for him the night before. Jeremy’s boss was expecting, and he couldn’t be happier for her.

“I did indeed!” Jeremy beamed, so smug Matt could hear it through the phone.

“And uh… you put our names on the card, right?” Matt asked bashfully.

“Nope,” Jeremy replied matter-of-factly.

“Oh…”

The panic in Matt’s voice was palpable and Jeremy giggled to hear it, but didn’t let him suffer for long, quickly adding, “Ryan picked out something just from you and Trevor, got you your own card and everything, so you guys are covered.”

“Jeremy! Don’t do that to me, I nearly had a damn heart attack!” He laughed nervously, recovering, “But thanks man, and thank Ryan for us. We owe you guys one! See you soon.”

Jeremy hung up the phone and looked back to the bed, where the pile of blankets had shifted and was very faintly snoring. Considering Ryan only had to walk a few doors down to get to work, Jeremy decided to let him sleep a little longer and took the opportunity to be first in the shower.

Today was going to be a big day for him. It didn’t feel like two years had passed since his boss, Leslie, had gotten engaged. He’d hated her then, but it was that very hatred that had brought Ryan into his life. It was hard to hold a grudge after that. This was going to be her last day at work; she was taking an early maternity leave to spend some time with her new wife before they started their family and she was due to be announcing her replacement as reporter and lead editor for their little slice of the Weazel News website – crime, breaking news and anything else the heads felt like slinging their way.

Jeremy stepped out of the shower and roughly towelled himself dry, a process much faster now thanks to a recent potential disaster with the clippers that left him with a look he decided to keep after Ryan said he had the head for it. A quick check in the mirror showed his beard was still neat and he didn’t need to shave anything yet, so he wrapped the towel around his waist and went to hunt down his nice shirt.

The pile of blankets was gone from the bed and Jeremy could hear shuffling in the kitchen just outside.

“Matt and Trevor said thank you for their gift!” Jeremy called out, “Matt said they owe you one. Not sure what that’ll entail.”

A chuckle came from the kitchen, followed by the spring of the toaster.

Mindful of the time, Jeremy quickly started getting dressed and as he was buttoning up his shirt, Ryan returned with a glass of orange juice and a plate of toast. He held out the toast in offering and Jeremy gladly grabbed a slice and shoved it in his mouth.

“Faankooo,” he mumbled through the mouthful, smoothing out the shirt.

Ryan chuckled again, settling back down on the bed, still just in his underwear, nibbling at his own piece of toast, “You remember what the flowers mean?”

“Uhhh…” Jeremy struggled to remember the details of the arrangement Ryan had walked him through the night before, “there was… Japanese maple? And purple basil for best wishes… coral roses were for admiration… Oh! And caladium! For… uh…”

Ryan laughed sympathetically at Jeremy’s sincere attempt to recall the frankly excessive bouquet. He grinned wide, “I wrote it down for you, don’t worry…” Despite that, he still felt it necessary to run through the composition off the top of his head.

“The Japanese maple leaves – supposed to represent a baby's hand – but mostly they look pretty. Red-and-green caladium are for delight, while dark green hosta leaves and purple basil are for devotion and best wishes respectively. They frame the burgundy calla lilies for beauty – unlike white ones which are usually symbolic of death – probably best not to mention that… and light pink bouvardia is for enthusiasm. You nailed the coral roses for admiration and I also threw in some spikes of heather as protection from danger.”

Jeremy found himself yet again in awe of his fiancé and just grinned back at him, dumbstruck.

“Like I said though,” Ryan nodded his head towards the kitchen, “It’s all on the card… You nervous?”

Jeremy swallowed, “nervous? Nah. It’s going to be great… if Leslie asks me.”

“She’s going to ask you,” Ryan reassured him, standing to help him straighten his shirt, “she’s practically been grooming you for this.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy admitted hesitantly, taking another piece of toast. Leslie had been unsubtlely hinting to Jeremy for some time now that he’d be replacing her; increasing his work load so it was comparable to her own and giving him bigger and more important tasks to get him accustomed to the pressure. He’d found his personal niche in the more investigative side of crime reporting following an incident with the Mayoral elections when he’d first met Ryan, but Leslie had been gently coaxing him into more breaking news and crime scene reporting, arguing he’d be less “bogged down” and distracted by the details and better able to delegate to the juniors.

“Jeremy,” Ryan clapped a hand on his shoulder, “You got this.”

Jeremy took a deep breath, “I got this,” he repeated, not sounding entirely convinced.

“And you look great.”

Jeremy laughed and blushed a shade.

Ryan leaned down and kissed him softly. They weren’t usually the kissing sort, and it caught Jeremy by surprise. A very pleasant surprise though. It left him a little breathless.

“Now go, knock ‘em dead. And give Leslie and Dannie my love.”

Jeremy beamed up at him, “Will do.”

Jeremy snaked a hand around to the back of Ryan’s head, fingers carding through his soft, long hair and he pulled his head down gently to press their foreheads together in an affectionate ‘boop’.

“See you tonight.”

He collected the gifts from the table and left the apartment feeling on top of the world.

* * *

A scarce half hour later, Ryan had hauled himself through the shower and his morning routine that was, as usual, unaided by caffeine and walked the five minutes down the block to his quaint little flower shop he still called work.

Living with Jeremy had freed up a lot of money and he’d been able to make significant renovations to the shop; upgrading their sales systems and bringing their online ordering up to speed as well as finally officially re-naming the shop to “Say it with Flowers”. Their hook was custom arrangements and bouquets with meaning, and for the past year Ryan had loved it. It had pulled him right out of the funk he’d been in to have new projects and challenges to work with every day.

The bell above the door, left unchanged for years, cheerfully chirruped his arrival.

“Good morning Rye!” Meg called brightly from somewhere behind a counter packed full of pre-made and sorted floral arrangements.

“Good morning,” Ryan mumbled back, fetching his faded green apron from its hook behind the counter and donning it, flipping open his hand-written notebook to check the day’s orders, despite Meg having a digital copy already pulled up on the screen they used expressly for that purpose. “On top of things, I see…”

He snatched a rubber band from the box they used for securing bouquets and pulled his nearly shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail in an attempt to make it more manageable.

“Always.” Meg popped up from behind the arrangements and smiled at him, “Look how long your hair’s getting!”

Ryan tugged at it, “yeah, I’ve been meaning to cut it, just haven’t gotten around to it…”

“It looks good. Have you ever thought about dyeing it? I could help, I think you’d look great with darker hair.”

“If this is your way of trying to get me to cover my greys, it’s not working,” he ribbed back playfully.

Meg scowled at him, “You’re not getting old Rye… well, you are, but that’s not the point,” she grinned, “point is, I think you’d look very nice with darker hair.”

He shook his head, still grinning, but was interrupted by the bell at the door again.

“Kdin!” Meg called, standing on tiptoe to see over the flowers and waving her in, directing her to the arrangements for the daily deliveries.

The recent success of the business had also freed up money to hire a couple of casuals to run hand-deliveries and Kdin had been a wonderful addition to the team. She made deliveries on her custom vintage Faggio scooter and it added an extra special touch that customers loved for special occasions.

Meg clearly had things under control, so Ryan snuck out the back to start preparing for the afternoon orders.

The day went by quickly, filled by the usual flurry of late week activity, interspersed with showing Meg some techniques for using some of the more exotic and seasonal blooms. Ryan had been training Meg and Ashley to make their own “meaningful arrangements” and they’d taken to it really well. Ashley had even started her own specialty section of the store: succulent terrariums. Ryan was happy that he could trust them completely to run the store in his absence. With the additions of Mica and Kdin, they now worked as a well-oiled machine; but Ryan was always more of a tinkerer and when there was nothing to take apart and fix, he easily grew bored and started looking for the next project.

It was a Friday, so the shop would stay open late; catering to the after-work date-night contingent of late-twenties nine-to-fivers, looking to re-live their younger days in blessed nostalgia down at the pier, most to be disappointed by the chipping lacquer on the veneer of innocence that Del Perro provided these days.

Clearly being with Jeremy hadn’t done much for his cynicism.

At any rate, it meant he’d be throwing together the remains of his daily stocks for cheap, last minute bouquets, between prepping for the Saturday rush. Kdin had finished her afternoon deliveries and gone home and Meg was starting to tidy up the shop for the day.

“When was the last time you took a vacation, Ryan?” Meg said seemingly out of the blue.

Ryan raised an eyebrow, “how long have you known me?”

“Mmmm, ‘bout… 3 years, little over.”

“Longer than that then.”

“Have you ever taken a vacation, Rye?”

“Do days off for renovations count?” He grinned.

She rolled her eyes, “not when you’re the one doing them, no… You need a vacation.”

Ryan very nearly groaned, “I don’t need to go anywhere, especially with Jeremy getting this promotion…”

“Then a staycation! Just take some time off, chill out at home, watch some movies, play some video games, find a Dungeons and Dragons group – that sounds like your kinda thing – just something to keep you from going completely stir-crazy. Find your project, we all know you need one.”

“I need a project now, do I?”

“Yeah! You’re settling and when you settle, you get bored and when you get bored, you make rash decisions…” she pointed at him accusingly with a de-headed rose-stem, “…not that that’s always bad thing, mind you, last time was how we became Say it with Flowers – which was definitely a good move in retrospect.”

Ryan beamed, just about to gloat when Meg cut him off.

“-don’t you dare say ‘I told you so’!”

Ryan’s mouth snapped shut and instead he just smirked.

“Just have a think about it at least, Ashley and I got this, and we’ve got Mica and Kdin to help out as well.”

Ryan shot her a sceptical look, but eventually resigned, “Alright… I’ll think about it. But no promises.”

* * *

The front door was unlocked when Ryan got home, and he could smell something delicious wafting from inside. He went in and kicked his shoes off at the door, where he could see familiar take-out boxes on the kitchen counter, still steaming.

“And I was planning on cooking you something special…” Ryan teased as he shook his hair free of his ponytail, putting the rubber band with about a dozen others in the bowl at the door they usually kept for keys.

He really needed to start tying his hair up before he left the house.

He knew he wouldn’t.

“How’d everything go with Leslie’s party?”

Ryan wasn’t even sure where Jeremy was, he might have been talking to himself, but he kept it up anyway, nosing into the boxes to see their usual: beef with broccoli as well as their more indulgent option of orange chicken.

“Ooh, today must’ve gone well to deserve orange chicken…” Ryan called out, heading towards the bedroom, half expecting to find Jeremy in an affectionate mood, until he heard rapid typing coming from the small side room they used as a study.

He peered in to see Jeremy hunched over his laptop, headphones on, intensely focused on the apparent dossier he was furiously typing up.

“Jeremy?”

Jeremy paused to look up, nearly jumping out of his skin to see Ryan standing there. He half-closed the lid of the laptop a little protectively, but almost instinctively, and Ryan cocked his head sideways.

“Everything ok?”

Jeremy took his headphones off and shook his head, as if to shake himself out of it. “Yeah… yeah! Everything’s great. I uh… I got the promotion.” He smiled, but it seemed nervous.

“Starting work early then,” Ryan gestured towards the computer and Jeremy’s eyes went wide.

“Oh, yeah.” He still seemed a little shaken, but maybe it was nerves about the new job responsibilities.

Ryan smiled back gently, “Well, not that it needs to be said, but congratulations! Knew you’d crush it.” He jerked a thumb back towards the kitchen, “Celebrating with Chinese food, I see?”

“Yeah! I didn’t really feel like cooking, so there’s that as well… I just, uh… need about five minutes to get this done, yeah?”

“Sure,” Ryan nodded, “I’ll go get some plates ‘n stuff, it’ll be ready when you’re done.”

“Thanks, Ryan.”

As Ryan left the room, the typing resumed, and he couldn’t help but feel a little worried at the stress this new job might already be bringing with it.

Ryan had cleared space on the couch and set up a cosy dinner in front of the TV. Far from a formal event, their celebrations were always more intimate and comfortable, legs tangled together and wrapped in blankets. Ryan put on a movie, not so much to watch, but more as background noise; a low-budget, crowd-funded comedy sci-fi cult classic. He’d re-heated the food and grabbed bowls and chopsticks, a beer for Jeremy and a diet coke for himself.

He’d just gotten comfortable on the couch and dished up his own bowl of rice and chicken – it was even better than he remembered – when Jeremy emerged from the study, his face still showing the same look of vague consternation. He brightened to see Ryan’s “nest”, the worry melting into a relaxed smile as he casually vaulted the back of the couch to land dangerously close to Ryan’s lap and nearly sent his dinner flying.

“So, good job today then…?” Ryan ventured as Jeremy dished up some food and got comfy.

“Today was… eye opening,” Jeremy said slowly, rubbing his right shoulder where he could still feel the scar from the bullet he’d taken. It was a nervous habit he’d developed, and Ryan didn’t fail to notice it.

“Jeremy, is everything ok?” He asked a little more seriously now.

Jeremy chewed his lip, “If I tell you I could put you in a lot of trouble…”

“Well, now I have to know…”

“I’m serious, Ryan. This is the sort of shit that could get us killed.” Jeremy looked around as if he might be being watched.

“Jeremy,” Ryan locked eyes with him, “You can trust me. You can tell me anything. But you don’t have to. I am going to worry about you regardless though.”

“Leslie’s leaving for good,” Jeremy blurted out, “She’s not coming back after maternity leave. Her and Dannie are probably going to be leaving town pretty soon.”

“Holy shit,” Ryan muttered.

“So, on the upside, the job’s more permanent than we thought…”

“But…?” Ryan knew there had to be a catch for Jeremy to be acting this way.

Jeremy sighed heavily. “I just…” he bit his tongue. “Just… there are some big decisions I have to make. A lot of things to think about…”

Ryan scanned Jeremy’s face, searching for any clues, but only finding more worry. It almost hurt to see him like this. So uncertain. It wasn’t like him at all.

“I’m sorry, Ryan. I want to tell you everything, but just… maybe let me sleep on it, ok?”

Ryan nodded, “Ok buddy. I’m here for you.”

He leaned down and gently booped Jeremy’s forehead against his own; Jeremy smiled and nuzzled back up, almost catlike in the display of affection.

“Thanks Ryan…” He sat back with a more content sigh and focused momentarily on his food before noticing the TV. “What are we watching, by the way?”

Ryan half shrugged, “Helmet Boy and Friends or some nonsense…”

* * *

Jeremy’s palms were sweating. Aside from napping against Ryan’s side through most of the movie, he’d hardly slept, instead spending most of the night in the study writing up what may very well be his last piece of published journalism.

Jeremy was sitting at the kitchen counter with his laptop and a glass of water when Ryan emerged, bleary eyed and worried from the bedroom. He rubbed his face before frowning at Jeremy.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” He asked, grabbing the carton of milk from the fridge and pouring a glass.

Jeremy nodded unconvincingly, “a little… I just had other stuff on my mind. Stuff I had to get down…”

Ryan took a long sip of his milk, eyes never leaving Jeremy’s.

“I need you to read over something for me…” Jeremy hesitated. “Because I need you to know this. I don’t want to put you in any danger.” He already felt guilty for sharing this much with him. The report contained everything.

No one has to know he read it. No one even has to know it exists. He reassured himself.

He took a deep breath. “I want you to read this first, because I want you to have the opportunity to get out and live a normal life in Los Santos if you don’t want to be caught up in all this.”

Ryan’s face fell.

“Jeremy, I’m-”

“Ryan, I need you to read this before you say anything else. Please don’t make promises you can’t keep. Read this and then we can talk about it… or not, but that’s your call. Whatever happens,” Jeremy swallowed thickly, he hadn’t expected this to be so heavy, “I’m glad for the time we had together, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Jeremy slid the laptop across to Ryan and waited patiently while Ryan read the whole thing.

Bluewashing – Concealment of corruption in the LSPD

By Jeremy Dooley

The “Blue Wall of Silence” – the unwritten rule of solidarity among police officers when accused of misconduct – has spread far beyond the blue in Los Santos. Many media outlets are receiving cash pay-offs to turn a blind eye to bribery and put a put a positive spin on police brutality. They are told to ignore the crimes that go unpunished because it would be unprofitable.

Weazel news is no exception to this…

Ryan’s eyes widened as he skimmed over the rest of the information contained within Jeremy’s thorough and well-compiled report.

It detailed several investigations into corruption allegations that had been dropped for no apparent reason – well, none that wasn’t just a matter of paying off the right people. There was information about bribes, including the names of several officers involved in the dealings. Ryan even recognised a few from recent high-profile cases. These weren’t bottom feeders trying to make a quick buck. He’d always had a good head for details and he made sure to mentally commit the names to memory.

Vasquez, Ronson, Stalley, Jones, Poro, Jernigan. There would be more. This couldn’t be it or they’d be cooked by now. Whoever was coordinating it was still an unknown.

Essentially the investigations uncovered they’d been paying off gangs, drug dealers and media outlets with money obtained from god only knows where. He didn’t need to be a lawyer to know that the evidence Jeremy had compiled wouldn’t be strong enough to stand up in court, especially with the blue wall of silence in effect. Which it undoubtedly would be.

Ryan looked up, his expression now of more certain concern.

Jeremy chewed his lip hesitantly, “I had an idea from my interviews with Burnie… I’d been investigating it on the side. After we published some of the first stories on it, Leslie tried to get me to bury it. It was a complete 180 for her, which I thought was weird at the time, but didn’t really question it.” Jeremy shut his eyes and shook his head. “But she told me at the baby shower, before she offered me the promotion. She’d been paid off by the LSPD not to run those stories. To pick which ones went to press. That I’d likely be the one they came to when she walked. If they let her walk…”

“Jeremy,” Ryan’s face was twisted with concern, “you can’t publish this.”

“Not while I work at Weazel,” he replied simply.

“Not ever! They’d kill you before it was approved to print. We wouldn’t find enough of your body…” Ryan reeled, the weight of it hitting him full-force. He lowered his voice and threw a glance around the room as if to confirm they were alone, “The fact that you even know about this at all is enough to put a target on your back.”

“I can’t stand by and watch this happen, Ryan. Especially not after what happened with Burnie…”

“What happened with Burnie got you shot!”

Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut, “I know. That’s why I’m giving you an out.”

Ryan’s heart dropped to his knees. “I don’t want an out Jeremy. I want you. Safe and intact with me…” He took a long breath, “now, call me selfish, but I don’t think that should be too much to ask.”

Jeremy looked away, tears and uncertainty shimmering in his eyes.

Ryan put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, “Stay. Please. For me.”

Jeremy put his hand over Ryan’s, gripping it tighter to himself.

“I know you’re a good person, you don’t have to prove it to anyone. But you can’t do any good if they find out about this. They’ll cover it up, they always do.”

Jeremy knew he was right. They always covered it up, they always got away with it. And he couldn’t do any good if he was dead.

He nodded slowly.

“Just… please, please go along with it. Stay out of the investigations. Stay safe. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Ryan pulled him into a hug and Jeremy felt the remaining shred of his resolve waver.

“Please delete it,” Ryan begged, his voice close to breaking.

Jeremy could wait, until they were both ready, or until the guilt of knowing consumed him. He would try. For Ryan.

“Ok.”

Ryan hugged him tighter.

“We’ll work this out,” Ryan assured him, “but not like this.”

Jeremy nodded into Ryan’s chest, “yeah, yeah, we will.”

Ryan let out a breathy laugh, “God, you’re just so good. Stupidly good. How have you survived so long in Los Santos?”

Jeremy pulled away slightly to look up at Ryan, “I guess I just got lucky. Met the right people... I suppose that’s going to change from now on though, huh?”

“Well, whatever happens, you’ll always be a good person to me.”

They visited their favourite café in Morningwood and drank hot chocolates as they walked through the cemetery, quietly watching a funeral service from a respectful distance on one of the benches.

The floral arrangement caught Ryan’s eye; it wasn’t one of his – for a fleeting moment, a small part of him mourned the lost business. The casket spray was definitely on the pricier side. It was made of pink stargazer lilies, white orchids and pink carnations; unique, heartfelt and colourful, likely a younger woman, possibly a mother. Ryan tried not to dwell on it.

“What did Leslie suggest?” Ryan finally asked, no real context to the question, not that Jeremy needed it; they’d both been thinking about it even if they hadn’t said anything.

“She basically said to keep my head down, not publish anything that might raise any suspicion, stick to crime and homicide and only report what they give us. Stick to the official stuff and commercial stuff.”

Jeremy sounded so flat, Ryan’s heart sank to hear it.

“I’ve just… I’ve worked so hard to get here and then to find out this is what it entails. It just… sucks.”

Ryan took Jeremy’s hand and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Hey, I know it’s real shitty, but we’ll figure something out. If you wanna take some time off, or hell, if you want to get out altogether, the shop’s doing great; I can support us for a while, while you take some time to work it out.”

Jeremy sighed and leaned his head against Ryan’s shoulder. “Thanks Ryan, but I can’t quit now.”

There was a hint of fight in his tone. He wasn’t completely defeated.

Good. It wasn’t like Jeremy to let something get in his way.

Jeremy pushed himself back upright to smirk at Ryan, “at least I get to assign who’s on what stories now. Maybe I’ll strike it lucky with a crime wave, or a serial killer or something.”

Ryan grinned back, “I like how you can consider that striking it lucky…” Ryan looked back towards to funeral, “then again, I guess I can’t talk.”

“Does it make us bad people?”

“Having survival instinct in this city? Hell no. We’re making the most of the hand we were dealt. You are the furthest thing from a bad person I can think of.”

The rest of the weekend was dedicated to relaxation and distraction; keeping their minds off it as much as they could, but still the looming sense of dread hung over them.

* * *

The following week had dragged on. Jeremy had returned to work, accepting his promotion and going on like nothing had happened. Trevor and Matt were happy for him as were the other editors, although as with any promotion, the usual brand of professional envy hung in the air. Ryan hoped for Jeremy’s sake, it would rapidly disperse. He had enough to worry about as it was, although some relatively harmless office drama might help to shift the focus away from the dread-inspiring thought that at any moment corrupt government agents could come down on him like the sword of Damocles.

In the shop, Ryan wasn’t faring that much better. He was worried about Jeremy. That much was clear, but not quite so much to Meg and Ashley who just got the impression he was stressed. Still, he maintained his ever-professional demeanour and went about his days as efficiently as possible.

By Thursday, Ryan had begun to settle down again, getting back to a semi-regular rhythm, but something about that in itself made him more uneasy than ever. He went about the daily duties with a huge weight on his mind. What could he do to help Jeremy?

He kept coming up empty. Any solution he could think of would likely result in one or both of them going to jail or getting killed.

He vaguely wondered how long it would be before they went the way of Leslie and Dannie and fled the city. He wondered if that would actually make them any safer.

It was getting late in the day and Ryan skimmed through the remaining daily orders. His eyes stopped at a familiar name.

Jernigan.

Ryan tapped the name a few times with his finger, looking to Ashley, “Regular?”

“Sort of?” She replied over the crinkling of cellophane, “he’s in here pretty often… I get the impression he must have someone on the side. He’s always after, like, ‘patience is a virtue’ and ‘someday our love will be free’ kinds of arrangements.”

Ryan frowned, “That’s a bit of an unfair assessment, isn’t it?”

“Well, once he asked for a bouquet that said: ‘I know how to show you a good time, sweet-cheeks’…”

Ryan raised an eyebrow incredulously, “well… I suppose that is slightly less ambiguous.”

“Total creeper. I think Kdin had an issue with him as well…”

Ryan practically snarled, “That’s not good. I asked her to report that stuff to me-”

“Ryan, she doesn’t need you white-knighting for her-”

“-and we don’t need the business of scumbags.” Ryan was quick to point out. “If that’s the case though, I’d feel better if I was the one to make the delivery… Then I can decide if they’re really worth the repeat business.”

Ashley set her gorgeously constructed arrangement on the counter and nudged a less impressive bouquet towards him.

“Your call. The address is out past East Los Santos; Nikola Pl in Mirror Park, near all that construction, so it’s not exactly on the normal delivery route anyway. It’s not like we’re understaffed anymore, you can make the run if you want. It’s for an evening delivery too, so you can go straight home from there and I’ll do close.” Ashley smiled at him, it was the same look Meg had had when she’d suggested he take a vacation.

“Have you and Meg been talking again?” He eyed her suspiciously.

“Never! Why would I ever talk to Meg, especially on a Saturday when it’s just the two of us in the shop together…”

“Does she have you trying to convince me to take a vacation too?”

“No!” Ashley exclaimed in exaggerated shock, “she suggested a staycation.”

“Figures,” Ryan mumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Please consider it Rye, you deserve a break.”

“I’ll think about it!”

He took the modest bouquet of hydrangeas, purple hyacinths and pink roses, that by the looks of it were meant to be interpreted as an “I fucked up, but I’m still into you” bouquet, and headed for home. As much as he scooter was cute for hand deliveries, he’d rather make the longer trip to Mirror Park on his bike. He had pannier bags for when he used to run small deliveries himself.

Jernigan. Where had he heard that name before?

He quickly ducked up to his apartment, grabbing his black and blue leather jacket and skull-decaled helmet, almost grabbing Jeremy’s hideously bright purple and orange one by mistake. That was when it clicked.

Jernigan. It was one of the names on Jeremy’s list.

His blood ran cold. Surely it was a coincidence.

You’re just dropping off some flowers. Making a delivery, like normal. Just a regular afternoon.

It was harder to convince himself than he would’ve liked.

It was a nice day. Sunny, but not too hot to wear leathers and with the wind whipping around him at the frankly dangerously high speeds he travelled, it was refreshing. It had been a day like this that he’d taken Jeremy for a proper ride, following the Great Ocean Highway north to Paleto Bay, topping speeds of 100 mph and living for the rush of blood in their veins. Jeremy trusted Ryan enough to let him take him to those speeds, even enjoyed it. That, or Jeremy was just as crazy as he was. Either way, he counted himself lucky to have met him.

The ride went far too quickly, Ryan arriving nearly 20 minutes before the arranged drop off time, partially due to light traffic and partially due to the fact that he’d been pushing the speed limits on every road.

As he pulled up to the address, he could see an LSPD cruiser parked in the drive and his stomach twisted. It was indeed that Jernigan.

Ryan made a mental note to tell Ashley they wouldn’t be accepting his business in the future. The guy was a scumbag and a corrupt cop. He parked the bike across the street and took off his helmet, leaving it with the bike. He retrieved the flowers from his bag, in pristine condition; he was still a professional after all.

He walked up to the large and ornate wooden door of the expensive property. If Jernigan was keeping someone on the side, Ryan could see how he could afford it. Then again, crooked cop was probably a decent-paying gig. Ryan’s blood simmered, but he carefully masked his face. Theatre training did come in handy occasionally.

Useless talent #14. Right after juggling and just before knife throwing.

He knocked loudly on the solid door and waited. No response. He noticed a doorbell and tried that, waiting patiently again; thankful for the shade of the porch as the warmth of the day started to make itself known. No response.

He was still early. If he left the flowers they’d wilt, even in the shade. He figured he should at least wait until the designated drop off time. Might as well kill some time walking around the area, rather than waiting on the guy’s doorstep. Especially if Jernigan was likely to be involved in gang activity.

He loaded the flowers back into the cool compartment of his pannier bag for safekeeping.

He’d take a walk. His bike was in the shade, parked inconspicuously next to a large tree out of the way opposite the house. He’d be ok to leave it and his helmet there for a while. The place was more or less deserted at any rate. He was rarely in this part of town, and it was something of an ongoing gentrification project, so he started lazily wandering down to see how construction was going in the street over, the planned gated community of “Utopia Gardens”. From where he stood on East Mirror Drive, he could see it was still more or less an empty cul-de-sac; the foundations poured and set, the site dotted with stacks of construction materials and machinery covered in tarpaulins, with a few shipping containers for the more valuable or weather-sensitive stuff and god knows what else. He was acutely aware of the fact that this was in the middle of the territory of The Lost MC. If he recalled correctly, Jeremy’s report pointed to Jernigan as the link to them. It seemed odd to make a local association… although it did perhaps make their meetings appear more coincidental. Might be a clever way to cover anything shady as “chance interactions”; lending a sense of plausible deniability to any case that might be brought against them. For the briefest of moments, perhaps a little bit out of wishful thinking, Ryan wondered if maybe Jeremy’s report was wrong. Maybe it was all coincidence.

A loose collection of motorbikes were gathered out the front of a dilapidated looking house opposite the site. There was a good chance it was a Lost MC clubhouse or hangout or something. The gangs were less than subtle so it wasn’t entirely unusual. Ryan tried not to let it spook him too much. He continued walking, and hooking a thumb into the pocket of his jeans, he felt the weight of the pocket knife he had tucked there. It was normal to have one on him in the shop and he hadn’t quite developed the habit of taking it out before he left, often finding it still in his pocket when laundry day rolled around. It was a modest blade, only a few inches long and mostly used for odd jobs in the shop, but in all things he did, Ryan was diligent and he kept it razor sharp. If he came into any trouble with gangs he doubted it’d do him much good, but it was still a mild comfort.

He skirted a wide berth around the house with the bikes and ventured into the construction site. There was nothing stopping him, he’d worked laying concrete slabs out of high school as one of his first jobs, the memories were still firmly planted in his mind. It wasn’t a bad experience, but it was physically demanding enough that Ryan had made a conscious effort to avoid toiling in the sun doing manual labour after that.

So far so good.

As he wandered, he could hear raised voices faintly echoing off the shipping containers. A little way down the street there were two containers, red and blue, placed perpendicular to one another. Sound travelled in odd ways in open spaces like this, it could be coming from the Lost’s hangout and bouncing off the metal containers, kind of like how a satellite dish worked. It certainly sounded like it was some kind of argument. He cocked his head and listened hard, trying to make out the words and find the source of the echo, fascinated by the way the sound seemed to reflect off the objects around him.

He caught fragments of conversation in the echo as they became clearer the closer he got to the containers.

“…fucking scum Vagos got paid twice what we did for … they didn’t even … the drugs!”

“Well they don’t also … fucking cage fighting syndicate that needs covering up – remember the deal, you scratch our backs, we scratch yours.”

“The deal is for cash, not fucking back scratching, Jernigan.”

Jernigan.

“Ungrateful cunts.”

Ryan was snapped out of it by a sudden loud crash of metal on metal and more yelling. It was distinctly coming from one of the shipping containers that were now not more than 15 feet away. The blue box to his left shuddered violently and the metal reverberated, as if something had been slammed against the wall from the inside. The thud was dull and heavy, an accompanied by a cry of pain.

Not an echo then. Shit.

Ryan ducked behind the red container, where he could peek along the length to see the entrance to the blue one, but could hide behind if anyone was to exit. Other than that though, he was dangerously exposed. He was at the end of the cul-de-sac between who he guessed were The Lost MC and their bikes. If he was to turn around to go back and they were to leave, they’d see him for sure, and they weren’t exactly known for their forgiving nature. Ryan pressed his back against the warm metal of the container and waited. There was a scuffle, wet packing sounds of flesh on flesh and more yelling.

A gunshot cut through the chaos and everything stilled.

He considered running. His legs refused to comply. Whatever was said or not said next, he didn’t hear over the pounding of his heart in his chest. What felt like an eternity later, six men, all of them bikers, filed out of the container. One was holding a hand to his face and wincing in pain. Ryan had enough sense to skirt around the box he was pressed against to stay out of their line of sight, while still getting a good look at them.

He waited until they were well clear of the construction site before he let out the breath he was holding. He didn’t relax right away though. He was sure Jernigan hadn’t left.

Really, Ryan should have known better. He could smell the faint tobacco smoke from the container. Some morbid curiosity kept him drawing closer to peek inside. See if he’d been shot, killed or left for dead, one less problem for them to deal with in the long run. It would’ve been something of a relief if Ryan was honest.

He crept closer to the open door of the container and looked around. It was poorly lit, with crates stacked in rows along the rear walls. Right near the entrance there was a mark from where the bullet had skipped along the metal floor. A warning shot. As Ryan’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see; at the back of the room, a younger man with short blonde hair took a long drag from his cigarette and looked up to lock eyes with Ryan.

Shit.

“Oi! Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.

Ryan’s mouth was suddenly very dry.

“God dammit,” Jernigan shook his head and pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster, “I don’t have time for this shit.”

He flicked the safety off and aimed the gun at Ryan.

Ryan panicked. He’d been gripping the knife in his pocket. Almost subconsciously, he’d pulled it free, flicked it open and weighted it in the palm of hand. Jernigan didn’t get a chance to respond before Ryan’s instincts took over and he threw the knife with unpractised, but not unskilled precision at the other man’s chest.

Useless talent #15.

He wasn’t sure if he’d intended for the throw to be lethal. He didn’t stop to consider the consequences; he just knew that this was a very bad man who had intention to hurt him. He had to slow him down or stop him. It was an act of self-defence.

Good luck trying to convince a well-paid jury of that.

Ryan was rusty. The throw had been aimed at Jernigan’s chest, but he’d miscalculated, and it flew high, striking him in the throat with a flat whump, the slim blade embedding up to the hilt.

In that moment, Ryan noticed everything, even if his mind would go on to attempt to erase all memory of the event later on.

Jernigan dropped the gun. His hands flew up to grab the handle of the knife, pausing momentarily, fighting all instinct to remove the foreign object from his flesh as blood gurgled and seeped around the wound, small bubbles escaping around his fingers as he coughed and spluttered for breath. Ryan saw himself draw closer, kicking away the pistol as Jernigan sank to his knees, hands tight around the blade in his neck, clasped almost reverentially in front of him. As if praying, or begging forgiveness.

Ryan was not the man to go to for either.

He thought nothing of it as he watched the man struggle for breath, eventually falling to his hands, letting the blood drip off the handle of the knife directly onto the dusty metal floor of the shipping container below him. Bloody handprints marked the spot where Jernigan’s life left him. Where Ryan watched and did nothing. It took longer than Ryan imagined it would. The officer had chosen the spot for it’s secluded nature, Ryan had to give him credit for that. It meant Ryan didn’t have to worry about the obscene wet and strangled noises he made as he attempted to cry out for help. He didn’t have to worry about trying to hide the widening pool of blood as Jernigan’s body finally slumped lifeless to the ground. He didn’t have to worry about being spotted by passers-by as he checked the officer’s breathing had stopped.

One less scumbag in Los Santos.

One less problem for Jeremy.

One big problem for him.

Shit.

The fear kicked in then. A small voice in the back of his head, almost quietly proud of him, reminding him, you just took a life.

What are you going to do now?

He debated calling Jeremy. He should. He’d understand.

The words: accessory to murder flashed through his mind.

Can’t drag him into this… So, what are you going to do?

He considered the evidence. His knife. That would have to go. Simple enough.

Careful not to touch the body, he grabbed the knife and pulled it free, a trail of blood flowing lazily after it.

He hadn’t physically come into contact with anyone. The gang members hadn’t noticed him, or hadn’t said anything if they had. The only other person who knew he was even in the area was Ashley and as far as she knew he hadn’t even made the drop yet. It wouldn’t be suspicious if he delivered the flowers and returned to the shops. It would just look like another run in with a gang on the streets of Los Santos.

Could he do it?

Could he walk away from this?

The flowers were surely for someone. Partner or mistress or some other unfortunate associate. They’d report him missing soon enough. The body was a walk from his house but inside the shipping container it wasn’t something they’d likely stumble upon. They’d find it soon enough once construction started again… perhaps too soon?

Jeremy had hoped for a homicide to report.

Ryan paused to entertain the thought for a moment longer.

Jeremy had wished for a serial killer. What if…?

Jernigan had been dealing with The Lost MC.

Leaving a small hint wouldn’t contribute to the evidence all that much. Especially if it was seen as an act of the gang marking their territory.

Perhaps it would inspire an internal investigation and put a stop to the corruption altogether.

A different voice in the back of his head kept repeating “this is stupid” as Ryan knelt next to the body to carve TLMC into the palm of Jernigan’s hand. A token. A clue. But not one that led to him.

He didn’t even look back as he folded up his knife and tucked it back into his pocket. He made a mental note to clean everything when he got home.

Somehow, almost miraculously, not a speck of blood had made its way onto his hands. Aside from the bloody blade in his pocket, he was entirely clean of the crime. He hoped.

He quickly returned to his bike, retrieved the flowers and left them at the doorstep in the shade.

Right on time.

He hadn’t seen a single car pass in the time he’d been there.

He could actually get away with it.

On the much slower drive back to Del Perro, all he could think was how relieved he’d be when he woke up and realize it was all just a dream.

Alas, he never woke up.

He went about the rest of his day exactly as usual, aside from the 15 minutes he spared to prepare a bleach solution and thoroughly clean his knife and the pocket of his jeans, it was as if nothing ever happened. He waited for the guilt to consume him. For that void pit to open up and swallow him whole, forcing him to confess his sins to all within earshot, lest he lose his eternal soul to the torment of his own mind. He waited, but it never came. He hadn’t felt any of that. He didn’t feel remorse. He felt good.

Knowing Jeremy was getting something out of it, knowing Los Santos was just a little bit less of a cesspool, knowing that Leslie and her family were one step closer to being able to safely return home one day; he could justify it. He wasn’t a good person, not the way Jeremy was. But he was redeemable. It was for the greater good.

He didn’t feel safe or like he’d gotten away with it and nerves still played constantly at the edge of his consciousness, but alongside that feeling there was a rush, an edge, a danger. And he loved it.

One thought kept coming back to him.

Jeremy. “Maybe I’ll strike it lucky with a crime wave, or a serial killer or something.”

It would certainly be a story.

* * *

It was strange how normal life seemed now that Ryan was effectively a murderer. It didn’t compute in his brain. It didn’t feel real, and yet it had happened. It didn’t quite compute that this 30-something florist who recycles and bakes his own bread and smiles at strangers and says please and thank you to every retail and hospitality worker who serves him, is actually a killer. He began to wonder how many others there were like him.

He went back to work and carried on like nothing had happened, occasionally wondering if anything had actually happened. A week went by and no new information emerged about the body. Or if it did, it wasn’t newsworthy. Perhaps the LSPD had written it off as collateral; covered it up. The acceptable price paid for dealing with the gangs.

Not knowing was the most frustrating thing. Ryan was tempted to drive out to see if the body was still there, but he couldn’t shake the memory of the line he’d heard countless times from cop dramas over the years: “they always return to the scene of the crime.” He couldn’t go back there, nor could he be the one to report the body. All he could do was wait.

On Saturday, Jeremy got called in to work on a developing story with a junior, which he was actually happy to do, so Ryan decided to surprise him by cooking dinner. When Jeremy got home, Ryan dished up Cajun-spiced baked catfish with collard greens and sweet potato wedges. It was one of those meals that sounded fancier than it was and was actually very quick and easy to make.

This time, they actually ate at the table.

“How was work, dear?” Ryan said with a smirk as Jeremy sat down to join him.

Jeremy grinned back. “It was good, dear,” he replied, clearly not in a bad mood and willing to indulge in Ryan’s playfulness.

“So, not wanting to quit just yet then?” Ryan ventured.

“Where’s the challenge in that?”

Ryan just grinned back at him, the look on his face very close to admiration.

“So, how’s the murder rate in Los Santos these days?” Ryan ventured, perhaps hopeful of some insider news.

“Sadly for me, about what it usually is…” Jeremy shrugged, “mainly just gang activity and stuff.”

Ryan slowly cut a chunk of fish and pushed it onto his fork, considering his next words carefully.

“I mean, if you get bored by the lack of murder, you could always come work in the shop for a while-” Ryan realised that hadn’t come out at all how he’d expected it to as soon as the words left his mouth and he suddenly went very quiet. Jeremy was looking at his quizzically.

“Ryan? Is everything ok at work?” His tone was joking, he could tell it was a typical Ryan misstep, “Are you planning on murdering someone?” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “Is it about Gavin?”

Ryan burst out laughing, his discomfort immediately easing.

Gavin was Meg’s new boyfriend. He hadn’t made the greatest impression on Ryan after he stood her up on their first date and Ryan had nearly scared him off, but Meg had been determined to have a “re-match” as she kept phrasing it. Weeks later and the relationship was still going strong and they all got along fantastically.

“What I meant was we can find things for you to do… We’re thinking about expanding our delivery area and having another person making runs. Maybe get a car…”

Jeremy nodded, experimentally dipping a sweet potato wedge into the creamy sauce Ryan had made for the fish. “That sounds good.”

“Yeah, I’ve made a few runs on the bike lately, it’s definitely do-able…” Ryan tried to make it sound as casual as possible, “I passed the site for Utopia Gardens out in Mirror Park the other day; you think they’re ever going to finish that eyesore?”

Jeremy shook his head, finishing what was in his mouth before speaking. “Nah, the company that owns it filed for bankruptcy. Plot’s technically for sale, but no one’ll touch it. Something to do with the courts, I’m not really sure, but Trevor was pretty interested in following it. The whole place is in a kind of financial limbo, who knows what’s gonna happen with it.”

Huh.

“Ah, that sucks. Could’ve been a real nice area…” Ryan mused, shifting his focus back to food.

His mind was racing though.

No one’s going to find that body.

The Lost are going to find the body and they sure as hell aren’t going to report it.

He could get away with it. Completely. Scott free.

No one would ever have to know.

But Jeremy wouldn’t get his story and the LSPD were no closer to being exposed.

Shit.

He wasn’t sure how to feel.

Thankfully, Jeremy changed the topic of conversation.

“Our anniversary’s coming up quick,” he noted with a small smile.

“It is…” Ryan smiled back, “and to think it’s been a year since we both tried to propose.”

“Technically, I did it first…”

“I was robbed! Those origami flowers took me days!” Ryan grinned back.

Jeremy blushed slightly, “Is that something you’ve… been thinking about?”

Ryan pulled a face that he hoped communicated an honest but non-committal “not really” and Jeremy instantly looked relieved.

“Ok, good, me either.”

Ryan smiled openly, relieved Jeremy felt the same way. “Not that I don’t want to… just…”

“There’s no need to rush into anything…”

“Yeah, we’ve both been busy…”

“It’s totally fine,” Jeremey concluded.

“Absolutely fine,” Ryan agreed with a giggle.

“But yeah,” Jeremy continued, “let’s maybe not do anything big this year, ok? No big presents or surprises or anything, just a nice night out… or in… or something.”

Ryan nodded, “Yes dear.”

Jeremy scowled at the use of the pet name, “You’re mean.”

“You love me,” Ryan teased.

“I do.” Jeremy said with all sincerity and without hesitation, and Ryan felt his heart flutter a little at it. “I really do... dear.”

Ryan knew at that moment exactly how far he’d go for Jeremy.

* * *

Jeremy’s new job had been busy, but not as confronting as he was worried it was going to be. Leslie had done a fantastic job of preparing him for the workload and the new responsibilities, while weighty, didn’t feel like anything he couldn’t handle. He also had Matt and Trevor to back him up.

Unfortunately, it did come with surprise wake-up calls at ungodly hours of the morning.

He reached, bleary-eyed for his phone as it vibrated across the bedside table and seeing it was Matt, he answered quickly, trying not to disturb Ryan as he got up and crept into the living room to talk.

“Matt, what’ve we got?”

“Shootout in the Projects; LSPD are on the scene, I’m heading out with Steffie now, but she’s closer.”

“Gang related? The Vagos are down that way, what’s the tension? I thought they’d been peaceful lately?”

“They had!” Matt sounded scattered over the phone, “I dunno man, might be something, might be nothing, but it seems pretty big. Might want to get in here to have something ready for print if they ask.”

Jeremy glanced at the clock on the wall. 2.40 am. Figures. At least he wouldn’t have traffic to contend with.

“Thanks Matt, I’ll be in the office in about 20 minutes, keep me in the loop.”

“Will do!”

“Hey Matt,” Jeremy added before he hung up, “be careful, alright?”

“I always am.”

Jeremy hung up and rubbed his face with both hands. He needed a shave, but it would have to wait. The news couldn’t.

He crept back into the bedroom and pulled on clothes, still conscious to try not to make too much noise. It wasn’t much use though, Ryan stirred as soon as he became aware that Jeremy’s weight wasn’t in the bed next to him. He propped himself up on his elbows, eyes still closed and hair sticking up at odd angles.

“Everything ok, Lil J?”

“Just gotta go into work a bit early. Don’t worry about it.”

“Y’sure?” Ryan mumbled.

It was a sweet and completely genuine gesture. If Jeremy had said he needed anything, Ryan would have undoubtedly gotten up and dutifully attended to it. Jeremy sighed, taking in a moment to consider himself so lucky.

“It’s fine. Go back to sleep, it’s not even 3 am yet.”

“M’kay,” Ryan was already drifting back off to sleep, “have a good day…”

“You too buddy,” he said quietly, picking up his shoes and heading out.

The office was never completely empty, there was a 24-hour news cycle to fill after all, but unless a major story was breaking, the hours between 3 and 6 am was the quietest it ever was. Jeremy still hadn’t quite developed a taste for coffee, but if these odd hours kept up, he felt like he soon would. Leslie was something of an addict before she started trying for a family. It was probably better than the cans of sugar-free energy drink he kept in the communal fridge for situations such as these. Thankfully, he was respected enough they were still where he’d left them. That, or Matt had been quietly re-stocking them for him, which was equally as likely. Jeremy cracked the tab on one and settled down at his desk to prepare what he could with the information Matt and Steffie were going to give him.

Jeremy nearly nodded off before the caffeine kicked in, but he didn’t have long to wait before Matt showed up in-person; scaring the absolute hell out of him by sneaking up behind him while he was starting to nod off again.

“So, I think I know what happened,” Matt announced after Jeremy’s heart rate had settled back to acceptable levels and he’d stopped laughing, “We got word that The Lost MC are trying to press into Vagos territory. Looks like things might get messy.”

“Where’d you hear that from?”

“Reliable source,” Matt winked. Jeremy took that to mean a local. He understood Matt had a respectable – he used the term loosely – circle of junkie and drug dealer contacts who were well in the know about the movements of the gangs. Well, where drugs were involved.

“Huh, that’s weird, thought the Lost and the Vagos had some kind of truce or understanding or something?”

Matt shrugged, “who knows with them, maybe a deal went south or something. Maybe they’re under new leadership. Caused a hell of a lot of trouble for the LSPD tonight though. It was a proper shootout. Heavy casualties; no one dead on the scene, but Steffie’s got an eye on the hospital if anyone dies from their injuries.”

“Really?” Jeremy asked incredulously, as Matt showed him the notes he’d jotted down. He knew the Lost had a contact and were on the take. Maybe that deal went sour. “And the LSPD gave you a statement?”

Matt nodded, “they were weirdly helpful this time. Might be a change in office politics, but Trevor would probably be the one to know more about that, if that’s the case.”

“Huh… well, that’s awesome. Make sure it gets another pair of eyes on it and we’ll run it.”

Jeremy was surprised he hadn’t been contacted by the LSPD himself about this one. Maybe he wouldn’t be. Maybe this was beyond their reach, or they were cutting ties. Maybe it had just been specific to Leslie. Or maybe there really had been a change in the politics. He made a note to check later with Trevor. Something had to be going on.

Jeremy was tempted to dive back into his investigations. Surely a purely professional inquiry wouldn’t set off too many alarm bells. Keep it low-key; office resources only.

A few hours and several cans of energy drink later, Jeremy’s office resources arrived right on time for work.

“Good morning Trevor,” Jeremy said brightly, catching him off-guard and nearly making him spill his coffee.

“Jeremy! God, scared the hell outta me. Didn’t expect you to be here so early. Keep forgetting you’re the boss now, gotta take care of all that… boss-y… stuff.”

Matt’s story had been published without backlash or comment from the LSPD and while Trevor hadn’t worked on it, he definitely would’ve read about it by now.

“Need a favour,” Jeremy launched right to the point, knowing if he ambushed Trevor for information, he’d get a more direct response. Leslie had confided in Jeremy that Trevor knew more than he let on a lot of the time and that was a card he should play very close to his chest. “What have you heard about LSPD happenings lately?”

Trevor frowned, throwing a glance around the room and dropping his voice, “they’re down an officer. Went AWOL last week sometime, no warning, no trace, no reason to leave. Current rumour is that the wife finally met the mistresses.” He smirked grimly.

Jeremy arched an eyebrow, “Got a name?”

Trevor pulled a face, trying to recall, “Began with J… Jerri- Jen-”

Jernigan. Jeremy made the connection instantly. The Lost’s contact.

Trevor shook his head unable to recall, “…wouldn’t be hard to find out, I can have a look if y-”

“No!” Jeremy blurted out before he could stop himself, “we uh… don’t need to do that… it’s fine, just never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

Trevor nodded slowly, understanding; knowing better than to question it. “Sure. Anyway… it hit pretty hard for one of the other cops in that office. Stalley, I think his name is. More rumours he’s gonna be getting fired, bit of the problem with the substances, if you know what I mean…” he made a drinking motion with his hand, “…but he’s been on the force a long time, so I don’t know how true those rumours are. You know how they are with dead wood.”

“They fuckin’ love it,” Jeremy muttered under his breath.

They weren’t going to get rid of Stalley. Stalley was the one who’d threatened Leslie. He was the contact, the muscle for the media outlets. Trevor would definitely have known that, but Jeremy wasn’t going to press him.

“Any movement in the higher-ups?” Jeremy asked, “Restructures?”

Trevor shook his head, “not that I’ve heard… but then that’s the kind of stuff we generally don’t hear about until after the fact.”

Jeremy frowned, but nodded, “thanks Trevor. Tell Matt you guys are square for Leslie’s baby shower present too.”

Trevor nodded solemnly.

Even though Jeremy trusted Trevor, silence always had its value.

Jeremy opened a blank document and stared at the blinking cursor on the screen for some time. Paranoia edged fear into the back of his mind. He tapped his fingers lightly on the keys, impatient but undecided. Ryan had all but begged him to erase all evidence of his investigations from his computer. He had a point. He closed the document. Checking the ‘no’ box on the prompt that asked if he’d like to save his changes. Instead, he walked over to the stationary closet and rummaged for a notebook. A5, 200 pages, lined. Brand new, no markings. He grabbed a handful of ballpoint pens while he was in there and took everything back to his desk. With a deep breath, he started to jot down all of the information he had.

* * *

Jeremy was stressed again. Ryan could see it. Ryan was stressed himself. He wasn’t sure if Jeremy could see it. For his sake, he hoped not. But still, Ryan worried. Jeremy had been keeping odd hours again, waking up in the middle of the night to work on something in the study. Ryan had his suspicions what that something might be. It was a Friday morning when Ryan found out. His alarm had woken him for the early start, Meg was taking the morning off to do something sweet with Gavin, so Ryan had taken the load for the opening shift. As he stretched and climbed out of bed, he noticed Jeremy’s absence. It wouldn’t have been the first time Ryan had awoken to an empty bed. Pulling on his pants and a clean t-shirt, he stalked quietly to the study.

Jeremy was slumped over the desk, still fully dressed in his clothes from the previous day, confirming he’d not come to bed at all. Four empty cans of energy drink were scattered about pens and pencils and clippings and a book. A journal that Ryan hadn’t seen before. He very carefully picked it up, so as not to disturb Jeremy, and leafed through the pages.

Jeremy had lied about not going digging. He’d brought a goddamn backhoe. If Ryan was honest with himself, he wasn’t surprised. This was the kind of evidence that could link him directly to Jernigan’s death. That wouldn’t look good for either of them… but that was never going to happen.

In the book, a big circle around Jernigan’s name had “missing??” scrawled next to it and the approximate date.

So, they knew he was missing and nothing further… that Jeremy had found anyway.

He had to do something. Jeremy wouldn’t stop until he had enough to bring the matter to courts. Ryan knew that wouldn’t work. No matter how good his case, Jeremy wouldn’t be able to go up against that kind of force in Los Santos. It just wasn’t done. Good intentions died here.

He couldn’t let him go through with it. He had to act first.

Ryan pored over the pages, taking in every bit of information he could, just in case he never got to see it again. One particular detail stood out to him.

The name of officer that had been threatening Leslie was Albert Stalley.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

The time had come.

It was after sundown, Jeremy had said he’d be working late at the office, some technical error had come up last minute and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. For what exactly, Ryan wasn’t sure yet.

On the corner of Strawberry Ave and Vespucci Blvd was Shenanigan’s Bar. It was the local for the officers of the Downtown LSPD station – just down the road – but as such, it was really only frequented by the older beat-cops, the rookies and higher-ups preferring to hide the shame of their addictions in the privacy of their own homes, or at least where they wouldn’t garner too much attention from their colleagues. Jeremy’s notes suggested Officer Albert Stalley was a regular.

Ryan parked a block over, in the lot of the motorcycle dealers where his bike wouldn’t stand out and walked to the bar. It wasn’t a bad area, opposite the business district and Legion Square, amongst some reputable hotels, but it was a far cry from a desirable haunt. The bar itself looked respectable from the outside, but inside it was just like any other establishment, with the usual collection of after-work clientele looking for their weekly, or, probably more likely, daily escape from the grind.

He found Stalley exactly where he’d expected to. Barely vertical on a barstool, leaning heavily into one elbow balancing precariously on the edge of the bar, glass of brown alcohol almost empty in front of him and the bartender keeping one wary eye on him, almost expectantly.

Ryan ordered a diet coke, shucking his leather jacket as he did, and slid into a booth close by, pretending to wait for someone. He fiddled with his phone as he listened to the conversation taking place between Stalley and the bartender. It didn’t sound pretty, even if he was clearly a regular. The man could barely string three words together, but kept trying to order another drink. The bartender was having none of it.

“Al, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. I’m cutting you off. Finish up and leave.”

Stalley made a noise of frustration and swept his hand across the bar, knocking his glass to the floor; the bartender shook their head thankfully when it didn’t shatter.

“F-uck you!” Stalley managed to spit out, almost literally.

“God dammit Al! I was gonna call you a cab, but you know what, you can just get the fuck out.”

Stalley stood up from his chair and staggered backwards, bumping another customer’s drinks and making them spill. Ryan could smell him from where he sat.

“You can’t… t’ me like this!” He swayed and the customers whose drinks he’d spilled glared at him.

“I’m-m goddamn cop.”

The customers looked away again, suddenly very disinterested.

Ryan saw why when he spotted the pistol at his hip that Stalley’s hand was creeping towards, probably instinctively. Ryan clenched his teeth and despite the fire welling up within him, he reminded himself that this man was dangerous and uninhibited and however he planned to proceed, it would have to be carefully.

The bartender, however, was unflappable. They tempered their tone and looked him straight in the eye, all fiery assertiveness and completely done with his shit.

“Go home, Al.”

Stalley snorted a contemptuous acceptance and his feet slowly began moving him towards the door.

Ryan wasn’t worried about losing him. He didn’t rush to finish his drink, playing with his phone and finally sighing, returning his glass to the bar with a sad sort of smile to the bartender.

“Maybe next time,” they said optimistically.

“Thank you. Perhaps,” Ryan agreed with a brighter smile, dropped some change into the tip jar and headed out, eyes instantly scanning for the shuffling form of Stalley.

He heard some vague muttering followed by a loud clanging noise and a string of nonsensical profanities spewed from the base of a fire escape a little way down the road. Ryan pulled on his leather jacket and gloves. The familiar weight of the knife in his pocket was comforting, but not in the same way it had been previously. Now it felt more like anticipation. Preparedness. He had a sense of purpose now.

Stalley still had a gun but drunk as he was, it wouldn’t take much to disarm him. Ryan felt a rush of adrenaline as he made his way, as casually as he could, towards the noise. The swearing and muttering had stopped and as Ryan drew closer, he could see why.

The cop had passed out, slumped against the wall at the base of the fire stairs, conveniently next to the alleyway that would serve as Ryan’s cover. Ryan scowled at the man’s limp form. It would be an easy kill. He was almost disappointed. He glanced around to ensure no one was watching too closely before shaking Stalley to a semblance of consciousness.

“You look like you could use a hand,” Ryan offered gruffly, grabbing Stalley’s arm and pulling him to his feet, supporting the man’s ample weight under his shoulder and half-dragging him into the alleyway.

Stalley started snoring loudly before Ryan even made it to the shadows.

When they were sufficiently out of the way, Ryan dropped him heavily to the ground and retrieved his knife. All he would have to do would be a quick flick of the wrist and walk away. It would be easy.

He couldn’t risk having it go unnoticed again. He had to go bigger. Make it newsworthy.

For Jeremy.

He flicked out his knife and, looking around once more to make sure they were alone, he clamped one hand over Stalley’s mouth and sliced the man’s throat ear to ear. Stalley seized and spluttered but barely woke, his alcohol-soaked brain too overwhelmed to bother playing witness to his last moments.

He stepped back and waited until he was sure the man was dead; no more gurgles, no more pulse. Taking his knife again, he carved the name of the man’s contact into his arm.

Blood welled up in the incisions, filling the space like ink from a fountain pen to form the word.

WEAZEL.

Ryan left the body next to the dumpsters, so it would have to be found.

That was sure to get their attention.

Jeremy would get his story.

* * *

“Jeremy, you’re not gonna fucking believe this!” Matt’s voice was a mix of excitement, fear and pure disbelief as he swung around from the door frame into Jeremy’s office.

Jeremy looked up sceptically. It was another early start for him and so far, the day had been full of disappointments.

“There’s a dead body with our name on it… Literally.”

“What?” Jeremy’s eyes widened. This could be exactly the kind of thing he was after.

“You’re gonna want to see this one for yourself. Trust me.”

On the drive over, Matt explained.

“So, I picked up the chatter on the scanner…” Matt often left his radio scanner on and tuned to the LSPD frequencies, “…and heard some interesting things about a body… so I did what I usually do. I called ahead to the bar where they found the body and said I was with Weazel and that the LSPD asked me to call though first to see if it was ok to ask some questions.”

“I love the way you think sometimes, Matt,” Jeremy interrupted with a proud grin.

“Thanks man! So anyway, I struck it real fuckin’ lucky. As soon as they heard I was with Weazel, they asked if it was about the body they found. Naturally, I played along and got a few choice facts. Our stiff’s a middle-aged man, probable alcoholic and there was a lot of blood. But also, the killer tried to contact us it seems.”

“How so?”

“They said the body had been mutilated. Someone had carved ‘WEAZEL’ into his arm.”

A chill ran up Jeremy’s spine.

“Freaky, yeah?”

“Right,” Jeremy muttered, already masking a sense of unease, “well, we keep that all to ourselves until we find out what’s going on.”

“Agreed.”

When they arrived at the scene, the LSPD were questioning the locals and the forensics team was already walking the grid. The medical examiner had done their preliminary investigations of the body and given their findings to the police. Jeremy had visited enough crime scenes to know the general routine and timing. Judging by the way the blood still looked sticky, he guessed whatever happened must have been in the last 24 hours. He picked out the officer in charge and went straight to them, Matt following his lead.

“Jeremy Dooley, Weazel news-”

“Just the man I want to see,” The officer cut him off gruffly.

Jeremy had never seen him before, which he took as a good sign, it wasn’t likely to be anyone directly linked to his investigations… he hoped.

“Why might you want to see me?” Jeremy asked, feigning ignorance.

“Got a few questions to ask you… informally of course.”

The officer pulled a notepad from his pocket and Jeremy’s suspicions piqued. Much like he’d seen Ryan do, he masked his expression, smiling politely.

“Of course, ask away, Officer…?”

“Detective Gibson.”

“Detective Gibson,” Jeremy repeated, correcting himself “if I can be any help…”

Gibson picked up a tablet and flipped it around to show a photo taken probably only minutes earlier of the deceased man, who, Jeremy could see from the corner of his eye, had hardly shifted. “Do you know this man?”

Jeremy looked at the photo. He hadn’t gotten close enough to see the body properly yet, but the photo was good quality and he could clearly make out the dead man’s face. It was Stalley. His blood ran cold, but again, Jeremy didn’t show it.

He squinted and stared hard at the photo, replying confidently, “I’ve never met that man before in my life.”

It wasn’t a lie.

The officer frowned, “Do you recognize the name Albert Stalley? – this is outside the official statement, so that name is not to be published -”

“Of course,” Jeremy nodded professionally, “and no, I’m afraid don’t.”

“Do you know of any association he may have had with Weazel?”

Jeremy frowned, “I don’t think so. Perhaps before my time? What makes you think he has connections to us?”

“We’ll have an official statement for you shortly…” The detective avoided the question, “Would you be willing to provide us some contact details for further investigations?”

“I can’t speak for other Weazel employees, but I can give you my contact details and if I can be of any help…”

“We’ll contact you, thank you.” Gibson said, his tone finally softening slightly.

Jeremy nodded again, giving the officer his business card. “You’re welcome.”

“Like I said, we’ll have a statement for the media shortly.”

Gibson went back to his team and their investigations.

Jeremy was thankful his attention had shifted. He felt like he was going to pass out. He hurried over to Matt.

“Our body’s Albert Stalley, LSPD officer, crooked as a hillbilly smile, alcoholic – probably drunk at the time, that’s how the killer would’ve been able to get the drop on him…”

If it had been anyone else with him, he would’ve stayed quiet, waited for the official statement. But he needed someone else to know – to have all the information he had in case… in case something happened to him. He’d have to call Leslie too…

“You get that all from detective Stick-in-his-ass?” Matt asked incredulously.

Jeremy shook his head, “Just don’t worry about how I know, I need you to know. But wait for the official statement and that’s what we’ll go off. Anything else we can find without too much digging can go in too. I don’t want to half-ass this one, ok?”

“Sure!” Matt actually sounded excited, “think there’s something to it?”

Jeremy nodded. “Even if there’s not, our name is on the line.”

…and possibly our necks.

It had been a long day. Between Jeremy and Matt, they had written up the story using the LSPD’s very vague statement and embellished it in all their usual ways, adding a few choice details that they figured were easy enough to obtain through usual investigative journalism… nothing that gave anything away just yet. The LSPD chose to sit on the information about the mutilation and the links to Weazel. Technically it was embargoed for legal reasons. Details like that couldn’t go out to the public – well, yet – without potentially risking their investigation. Jeremy didn’t want to risk getting the company involved in a lawsuit; god knows they’d been through enough.

Part of him wanted this to be a one-off, another cop finding out, or one of the gangs mistaking his dealings for something else… But another part of him felt the electric buzz of excitement that came from a real story and the possibility of some kind of vigilante justice. Maybe it was Leslie’s doing… she wasn’t likely to risk her family, he knew she’d be laying low, but then again… he had to check she was ok and find out if she knew anything.

As he drove home, he took a detour through Little Seoul to a payphone and called the number Leslie had left him for just such an occasion. It took a long while for her to answer, but that was to be expected.

“Are you safe? Have you seen the news? Do you know anything about this? Have you told anyone?” He was a little surprised at the way his voice mirrored hers, speaking in that rapid-fire staccato style she had, keeping it to the bare essentials to prevent from being understood if overheard.

“I think so. Yes. No. Of course not.” She replied equally as quickly. “Are you ok? I wasn’t sure if I should call.”

“I’m ok, just…” he rubbed the back of his neck and suddenly felt a knot twist in his stomach, “I’m just worried… Whoever did it, they knew something.”

“It’s not from me,” Leslie said matter-of-factly. Jeremy had no reason to doubt her, there was too much at stake.

“I just… I don’t know then.”

“This is going to sound dumb, but stay with it Jer,” Leslie urged him, “I’ve got a good feeling about this one and they don’t know what you know. They can’t. You’re ahead of the game. This could be the break you’ve wanted to blow them open. But just be fucking careful, ok?”

Leslie never swore. It was jarring to hear and drove home just how dangerous this thing was that he was getting involved in. He trusted her though.

“You too, thanks. Stay safe.” He hung up and lingered for just a moment in the booth.

He took a few long breaths in and considered his options. Leslie was right. He had to stick with it.

The only people who knew anything about this were himself and Leslie and what he’d shown to Ryan in the report. If someone else knew… had Ryan said something? Maybe just to someone in passing, mentioned a name. Los Santos was full of mercenaries looking to make a quick buck…

Oh god, Ryan wouldn’t hire a killer, would he?

No, he wouldn’t go that far. He could be a bit odd, but he wasn’t completely reckless.

Jeremy shook himself out of it and got back in his car. He’d ask Ryan about it when he got home.

* * *

Ryan felt even less remorse over the second death. He wondered if killing was something people got used to; got addicted to. He wondered if it could become a problem. He’d never really had an addictive personality, although he did make a conscious effort to avoid most things that constituted that kind of problematic behaviour.

Typical, of all things you could become addicted to, it’d be murder. In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.

He snorted at his inner monologue. Sometimes he wondered if he should worry about that.

Meg and Ashley had still been on his case about taking a break from the shop, and as far as they knew, they’d been wearing him down. He had better ideas for uses of his time.

Find your project.

He’d certainly found it.

When Jeremy came home that day, Ryan knew he’d found out. Something in the way he carried himself said he was anxious, moreso than usual lately. Ryan hated that it was his actions that led to it, but at the same time, he could take comfort knowing that the killer was definitely not going to be coming after Jeremy.

“Good day, dear?”

Jeremy brightened to hear the familiar teasing tone, and greeted him with a grin.

“Actually, dear, there was a very interesting story this morning.”

“Oh?” Ryan raised an eyebrow, “someone die?”

“Actually…”

“I knew it!”

“…a cop.”

Even though he knew it was coming, he had to be careful of his reactions. Act accordingly.

“Oh?” He repeated a little more incredulously.

Jeremy drew closer, lowering his voice, probably instinctively.

“You never told anyone about the report I showed you, did you?”

Ryan’s eyebrows knitted together, “No… why? What’s going on?”

“I’m serious, Ryan, even if it was a joke, even if it was just gossip in passing; you didn’t mention it to anyone?”

Ryan was stalwart in his response, “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that story’s dangerous, Jeremy,” there was a serious edge to Ryan’s voice now, “Do you think I’d risk anyone hearing about it?”

Jeremy seemed to slump slightly, nodding.

“Ok, I just had to know…” There was a long pause before he continued, prompted by Ryan’s scrutinizing gaze, “…The LSPD agent, the officer that was harassing Leslie – he turned up dead.”

Ryan took it in slowly. He’d seen the reports, he pretended he hadn’t. He knew full well the details.

“Cops die all the time in this city, Jeremy, the gangs are unforgiving. He probably just got caught up in something he shouldn’t have. It’s probably a coincidence. That’s all.”

Jeremy just hummed in response, pensive and silent.

Interesting.

“I mean, it’s good news for you though, right?” Ryan asked, “You won’t have to deal with that hanging over your head anymore.”

Jeremy shrugged after a moment of what Ryan knew to be some kind of internal struggle, “I guess. Yeah.”

Ryan instinctively felt a sting of hurt that Jeremy decided not to comment further, but he also knew it was a lot for him to take in and it would take a while for Jeremy to properly mull things over. Ryan couldn’t judge him for it.

“At least it’ll make for an interesting story for you?” Ryan suggested brightly.

Jeremy grinned, coming back to himself slightly, “yeah it will. Cops are going pretty hard after this guy, so it should be a good one to follow. I put Matt on it as well, should be a good boost for him.”

“Nice,” Ryan enthused, seeing a sparkle returning to Jeremy’s eyes, the same kind that made him fall in love with him to begin with, “at least something good can come of it… Might even open some avenues to expose them, yeah? Or let them expose themselves – open them up to an internal investigation or something.”

Jeremy nodded, “I’m gonna stick with it. At least see it through.”

Ryan moved closer to him, slipping a hand around his waist and pulling him in close, pressing their foreheads together with a slight nuzzle. “Just be careful, ok?”

“Always.”

It wasn’t entirely convincing.

* * *

It took less than three days for Ryan to decide his next victim.

He’d been keeping tabs on Jeremy’s notes, snatching pieces of information where he could. Thankfully, Jeremy kept the journal on him at all times, and that meant bringing it home with him from work.

Shari Vasquez was in contact with The Families and high up on Jeremy’s list. Incidentally, she’d also been aggressively investigating Stalley’s death. Jeremy’s most recent notes suggested he’d been keeping a close eye on her too.

Ryan would be doing Jeremy a huge favour. Lifting that weight from his mind.

That was how he justified it anyway.

Vasquez lived on Del Perro beach, not all that far from them, and it didn’t take long to discover she was a regular beach runner with a busy schedule that forced her out in the evenings.

He made the conscious decision to wear his leather jacket and gloves this time, despite the fact he would look out of place down by the pier. If there was a struggle, it would protect him and also limit the possibility of his DNA finding its way onto the scene, say, under the fingernails of his victim. The less exposed skin, the better.

To this effect, he’d also found an old Halloween mask amongst the window dressings they used for the shop – a black skull with a white toothy grin. It was latex, so he could fold it up and stuff it in his pocket, and it would cover his whole head; he could even tuck his hair into it, so if he screwed up, he wouldn’t be identified.

Besides, if he was going to commit to this, it couldn’t hurt to add a bit of theatricality, he reasoned.

He tucked a spare knife into his belt, just in case… well, just in case; and headed out.

There was really no going back now.

It was a pleasant evening with only a sliver of moon and the beach was growing rapidly darker as Ryan waited for the familiar figure to run past him under the pier. It was low tide and since he’d been observing her, that had meant officer Vasquez would extend her run to the water drain on the other side of the pier to see the lights of the Ferris wheel before turning around to run back. Under the pier was largely deserted of vagrants at this time of year which was usually far wetter, and the fact that it was mid-week meant there’d be fewer handsy teens using it as a make-out spot. School night and all.

Ryan couldn’t have asked for a more perfect setup.

What he wasn’t counting on was how alert Vasquez would be.

He stalked between the pillars under the pier, assuming he’d go unnoticed, just another passer-by in the evening, but her head was on a swivel and he struggled to unfold his knife without her seeing. When she passed him, he took his moment to flick open the knife and taking careful aim…

She turned to look back at the last second – clearly an instinctive response to seeing such an imposing figure lurking in the shadows – just in time to see the knife leave Ryan’s hand and she threw herself forward to the ground. The knife barely grazed the back of her skull, blade glancing off hard bone, rather than embedding in flesh as he’d intended and while she screamed and stumbled, it was far from a debilitating blow. She picked herself up and Ryan panicked as she turned back on him, suddenly going on the offensive.

She kicked a heel out and Ryan’s instincts took over, twisting his body in an attempt to dodge the blow, her kick mercifully missing its mark and striking hard on the inside of his thigh instead. His leg nearly buckled beneath him. Had her kick hit home, Ryan had no doubt it would have been the end of the night for him. He scrabbled for his other knife and pulled it free just in time to catch her forearm as she struck at him again. She hit hard, thumping him in the arm and he stumbled backwards, catching himself on his now bad leg and almost crumpling to the ground. Instead, he shifted his weight forward and launched himself at her with all the force he could muster, blade bared.

This knife was larger than the one he was used to and before he knew what he was doing, he’d plunged the blade into her throat and torn it free, leaving a gaping wound in its wake.

She was unresponsive, although he couldn’t be entirely sure she was dead when he retrieved his smaller knife from the sand and wrote “Families” across her exposed midriff with the sharpened tip, letters blooming behind it in her unique ruby red ink.

“For Jeremy,” he added under his breath.

He returned to the shop before going home. It was late, and Meg had closed, assuming he’d gone home for the night. He let himself in the back way and stashed his mask back with the Halloween decorations, inspecting it thoroughly for blood or signs of the struggle. He’d washed his gloves and jacket of any visible blood very quickly in the seawater before he’d emerged from under the pier, the whole time sweating bullets about being spotted, but thankfully he hadn’t seen anyone. His blood was ignited, he felt a rush of energy, better than any he’d felt before. It was addictive. He’d never felt more alive.

He wasn’t entirely surprised to discover he felt no remorse. It was like taking out the trash, just another job done. A small part of him wondered what Jeremy would think of that.

He never has to know.

Ryan used the work sink to clean up more thoroughly, scrubbing his knives with a freshly prepared bleach solution, then wiping down his jacket and gloves, before scrubbing his hands completely clean.

When he felt like himself again, he made his way home; knowing Jeremy would likely be working late again, like he had been often, giving Ryan a useful flexibility for his …extracurricular activities.

Unfortunately, his encounter had left a mark. The bruises came up dark and obvious within the day. Ryan was lucky enough that Jeremy had missed them when he’d come home in the dark and Ryan had gotten dressed and covered the larger one on his leg before Jeremy had woken up the next morning. His arm was pretty obvious though and he couldn’t cover it without drawing more suspicion. Jeremy had been so wrapped up in his work, he was up and out the door before he even had a chance to notice, barely even pausing to give Ryan their daily parting ‘boop’ as he left.

Surely, they couldn’t have found the body already… He wondered to himself.

Actually, with where he’d left it, and the popularity of morning beach running, that was very likely.

He felt an electric tingle run down his spine, less nerves than excitement at the prospect. There was a real element of danger there now. He was fairly certain he couldn’t be linked to the victim in any obvious way, that the LSPD would admit to anyway, that could make him a suspect by conventional investigation methods, and he wasn’t in any databases as far as he knew, so DNA evidence would be a long shot at best.

He grabbed a rubber band from the bowl by the door and tied his hair back, wondering briefly if dyeing it would somehow make it more difficult to identify if he accidentally shed at a crime scene. Maybe he should take Meg up on that offer…

Ryan went to work as usual, walking the few doors down to the shop.

He was greeted by the bell and not just Ashley, but also Meg, waiting for him.

“Good morning?” Ryan tried cautiously, “…why do I feel like this is an intervention?”

Ashley deadpanned it, “Because it’s an intervention, Ryan.”

“Ah, well… I suppose that explains it then.”

“We have to talk about your – frankly shocking – work habits.”

“I’m fiiiine.”

“You’re stressed out, Rye,” Meg started her tone gentle but serious, “and I’m sure you don’t mean to, but you’re stressing everyone else out, especially when you show up randomly and then disappear. We never know where you are. Take a break, roster someone else on and if you still really feel like it, come in to visit or something.”

Ashley had her arms folded and was nodding along.

He had been stressed, that much was true; although he hadn’t realised how it might’ve been affecting them. If he did take a break, it would give him more time to pursue …other interests… more thoroughly.

He sighed heavily, finally nodding in agreement, “Ok, I can see where you’re coming from, but I’m still going to come in and do the books and some stuff out the back. You won’t have to count on me for anything, and I won’t get in the way.”

“Thank you, Rye,” Meg said emphatically, “I think this will be good for you. About time you had a proper break.”

He smiled, mind already running with possibilities, “yeah. I think so.”

* * *

Jeremy was, unsurprisingly, home late again that night. Ryan had taken a good chunk of the day to make a proper dinner, doing up a roast, knowing Jeremy would at least appreciate the effort, even if the majority of it did become leftovers.

Considering he must have been exhausted, Jeremy seemed remarkably perky when he got home. The first words out of his mouth were an enthusiastic, “Another one!”

“Another what?” Ryan replied, playing dumb.

“Another crooked cop got got,” Jeremy explained, kicking off his shoes at the door and taking his journal and work bag to the study.

“Awesome!” Ryan tried to mimic his enthusiasm, before falling back on confusion, “…that’s good right?”

“I…” Jeremy’s tone changed when he realised the implication of his enthusiasm, brow knitting together, “Yeah. Sort of, I guess?”

“Then awesome.”

Jeremy laughed uneasily.

“I actually read the news this time,” Ryan admitted sheepishly, “so I already knew.”

“Ah…”

“But you’re looking at a serial killer then?” Ryan asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Jeremy nodded, “That’s what it looks like, yeah.”

“That’s exciting then, that’s what you said you wanted, that should be good for the paper and Matt too, right?”

Jeremy nodded again, “It’s real good news for us. Not so much for the victims, but definitely for us.”

Ryan smirked, “You should call him the Vagabond killer.”

“Excuse me?”

“Serial killer’s gotta have a name, right? Leaves the bodies out in the open like vagabonds…” Ryan shrugged.

“That’s… kinda dumb, Ryan,” Jeremy said with a quiet giggle.

Ryan shrugged again, a little more dejected, “I just thought it sounded cool.”

“It did, buddy, just probably want something a little punchier for this one.”

Ryan couldn’t help but pout ever so slightly. He really wanted that to stick.

Jeremy kissed his cheek, “thanks for the suggestion though, I’ll remember it for next time.”

“No, you won’t,” Ryan muttered under his breath, loud enough so Jeremy could hear.

“Probably not,” Jeremy confessed, “but I will do my best to humour you!”

“Aww,” Ryan leaned his face down close to Jeremy’s, “that’s all I ever ask.”

Jeremy met him to press their foreheads together and pulled away slowly, blinking up into his eyes with an affectionate grin.

“I made dinner,” Ryan said, returning his smile.

Jeremy collapsed into a hug, humming against Ryan’s chest. “Have I said I love you lately? I should.”

“Yeah you should, you ungrateful bastard,” Ryan ribbed playfully, “I love you all the time and this is the thanks I get…”

“Is that a bruise?” Jeremy interrupted, the large purple discolouration would have been very visible from Jeremy’s position pressed against him. “Holy shit Ryan, what’d you do?”

Jeremy prodded very gently at the bruise on his arm from Vasquez’s last-ditch efforts to overpower him. Ryan cringed to think how close she came.

“Oh,” Ryan said nonchalantly, brain scrambling to come up with an excuse, “that was …Meg.”

“Meg?” Jeremy repeated, bewildered.

Why was Meg the first one to spring to mind?

“Yeah, I used to do Kung Fu back in the day,” not a lie, “and I was teaching her a few things about self-defence, y’know, with Gavin and all…”

“And she did that?”

Ryan shrugged, “She’s got a mean right hook.”

Jeremy shook his head, but to Ryan’s relief, he seemed to buy it, “Maybe Gavin’s the one who needs protecting from her.”

“Oh definitely…” Ryan laughed, before adding proudly, “If she has to, she will kick his ass.”

Jeremy smiled, “they’re good though, right?”

“They’re great, real cute kids,” Ryan agreed.

“Kinda like us then,” Jeremy teased.

“Please, we’re not even remotely cute,” Ryan retorted, pulling Jeremy into a crushing hug before lifting him clear off his feet and spinning him around, placing him back down and pressing their foreheads together.

“Nope. Definitely not cute.”

* * *

Ryan wasn’t sure if it was something he should be proud of or not, but it turned out that murder did, in fact, get easier with time. The more names Ryan crossed off, the more Jeremy was busy, the less time he had to question exactly where Ryan was going, what he was doing.

He hadn’t told Jeremy about it, but Meg and Ashley were still smug about his staycation.

His twisted sense of humour had declared it a ‘murder break.’

He still dropped into the shop often, keeping track of records and using the space to unwind. It also provided a perfect alibi. No one could track his every movement in the shop, he could just as easily be cleaning out the back room as he could be stalking an alleyway in Vinewood waiting to bloody his blade.

In everything he did, Ryan was diligent. Ryan knew every name. Every contact. Every misdeed.

Over the next several weeks, Ryan carefully identified and observed his targets, waiting for just the right moment to strike. His death count rose, and so did his confidence.

Captain Poro. Contact for the Ballas. Bled out behind a dumpster in South Los Santos. “Ballas” inscribed on his forehead.

Captain Jones. Contact for the Los Santos Triads. Found in a construction site in Vinewood Hills. Multiple stab wounds, fatal slash to the abdomen. “Triads” scrawled unceremoniously across his back.

Officer Ronson. Contact for the Varrios Los Aztecas. Left by the canals in Vespucci. Throat slit ear to ear. “VLA” carved into his chest. Ryan was particularly proud of that one.

Their guilt written in blood. Left for Jeremy to find. To expose more and more of the rotten, decaying root of this city. They would get to the bottom of it. Had to.

Ryan had come to the end of his list. But there was one piece of the puzzle that was missing.

Jeremy’s notes had been getting increasingly desperate. With each murder came a flurry of activity and notes on the movements and reactions of the LSPD officers remaining. Jeremy had been narrowing down his suspect list of who might be orchestrating the whole thing.

There had to be a puppet master, and Ryan knew if they could just get to them, then they had a chance at wiping out this whole toxic syndicate.

Burnie would’ve been proud of them.

* * *

Matt had been meticulous about the story. He’d followed all of Jeremy’s tips and leads unquestioningly and kept on the scanners 24/7. He and Jeremy had been at every crime scene; they knew every detail of every murder, and Detective Gibson, while maintaining his reservations about the pair, had become almost friendly with them. Jeremy was glad he was still assigned to the case. Whoever was pulling the strings mustn’t have had any sway over the investigations, otherwise he’d be seeing the usual rotating cast of rookies incapable of finding evidence in the evidence locker.

Once the gangs were out from under the thumb of the LSPD, chaos bled over to the streets. Jeremy was in constant work reporting on their activity, the crime waves and turf wars and – amusingly enough – drug shortages that came with the gradual disassembly of the corrupt network. Professionally, he was thriving, but Jeremy was getting exhausted. He tried as tactfully as possible to build his story without drawing attention to himself. He needed all the evidence to be in place. Although, with the rate the killer seemed to be working at, the whole crooked connection could be dead before it got a chance to build back up.

To be fair, Jeremy wanted to wish whoever was doing it best of luck.

Because he had run out of names.

His journalistic efforts were spent in the papers, but his own investigations – trying to figure out who was running the show – those needed to continue. Once he knew, he could bring them down… but he needed a common theme. Returning no clues from the investigations the paper necessitated, Jeremy attended the victims’ funerals and memorial services. They were held in the same cemetery he and Ryan would visit sometimes, so it was easy enough for Jeremy to slip in and observe amongst the mourners. The first thing he noticed was a lack of overlap in their friend circles, aside from a few cops that turned up probably as if it was expected of them, but there was only one person he noticed was repeatedly present, and he nearly missed him. He discreetly managed to snap a photo of the man and messaged it to Trevor. He’d know what to do. If there was anything to find on him, Trevor would find it.

Less than 24 hours later, Jeremy knew he’d made the right choice when Trevor dropped a thick manila folder on his desk with a wink.

The name written on it was: Lee Whitless.

* * *

Ryan had come to the end of his list. It slowed him down significantly and frustrated him that he couldn’t just look up his next victim. He needed more information, but he kept coming up empty handed. There had to be more to it. There had to be someone running the show.

To try to give himself a break, he went back to the shop more often. He couldn’t be prouder of the way it had been running in his temporary absence.

In everything he did, Ryan was diligent. Even as a florist, a job some may argue was primarily an art, Ryan kept meticulous handwritten notes. Despite the new online system Meg and Ashley had installed, he still recorded every order that walked into his store in his notebook. It was originally for his own reference – recording the meanings of the flowers people had ordered, noting bunches with interesting aesthetics or curious meanings, analysing trends. Ryan had always fancied himself a bit of an economist, easily able to read patterns in data and extrapolate information. Every now and then he’d find himself flipping through the pages, looking for anything that might stand out, perhaps to anticipate the new “fashionable” blooms.

Despite the redundancy, Meg and Ashley had been filling in the entries for him while he was away, Ryan noticed the differences in their script immediately – suddenly it became legible. It was really sweet of them. Ryan noticed a doodle of a little skull and crossbones next to one of the names written as: Lee (Creeper).

“Hey Meg, what’s this guy? Creeper?”

“Oh, that’s just the nickname I gave him,” Meg said, blushing a little, clearly embarrassed, “He just gives off this real creepy vibe. I called him ‘Creepy McCreeperson’ one time describing him to Mica and it stuck – but don’t worry,” she added quickly, “it’s only like that in your book, not in any official records, he never gave a last name and always pays in cash, so it’s all I had to go off.”

Ryan shook his head, “that’s ok. What’s with the skulls?”

“That’s the other reason he’s creepy,” Meg explained, “he always orders funeral flowers.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. He flicked through the pages to double check the dates. They coincided with the murders. A few days after each. Surely that couldn’t be just a coincidence.

“What’s he look like?”

Meg pulled a face, “Does it matter?”

“I just… I think I might know who he is,” Ryan tried.

Meg conceded, “he’s a pretty big guy, thinning hair, blonde, probably late 30s, early 40s. Gives off a bit of a cop vibe… not sure how to explain it other than that.” She shrugged. “He has like an…”

“Air of authority?” Ryan suggested.

“…he acts like a total ass,” Meg said bluntly, “like he owns the place or something. You know the kind.”

Ryan sighed, “yeah… I do. All too well. Let me know next time he comes in and I can deal with him if you’d like.”

Meg let out a relieved sigh, “That’d actually be great. I can deal with him, but he just… makes me really uncomfortable.”

Ryan nodded understandingly, “that’s ok, I’ll handle it.”

His dark inner monologue chuckled at the implications.

Ryan hadn’t been paying close enough attention. One of them had been right under his nose this whole time. He double checked the dates of the pickups against the memorial or funeral services for the murdered cops so far. They all lined up. All the services had been held locally at Hill Valley Cemetery.

Funeral flowers were one of the few arrangements the shop offered a pre-made selection for. Mourning could be a difficult enough process and Ryan always wanted to make sure he wasn’t placing undue stress on those who needed it the least. Consequently, Lee “Creeper” had simply been coming to choose arrangements from a book and that offered very little insight into the relationship he had with the deceased.

Why had he not thought to look for connections there before?

He was frustrated with himself. Find the man who brought the flowers, find the common link.

Ronson’s funeral was the only one that hadn’t been held yet. The eulogy in the paper said it had been scheduled for next week.

Which meant Creeper should be visiting soon. And he would be ready.

Ryan took his bike out of the garage and parked it behind the shop so that he could quickly slip out to follow the Creeper if he happened to show up. Technically he was still on vacation, so he didn’t strictly need to be there to begin with. His sudden disappearances weren’t all that unusual to his staff anymore.

Day one, he didn’t show up at all. Ryan wondered if he was wasting his time on it. The second day, Ryan was prepared to spend another day essentially toiling in the back room killing time waiting to make a move, when the first customer of the day walked in, the little bell happily chirruping at his arrival.

Meg’s head immediately appeared in the doorway and she mouthed the words “help me!”

Ryan donned his green apron and headed to the front of the shop.

Meg’s nickname had been aptly chosen. “Creeper” was exactly that – a Creep. Ryan immediately saw the large man crowding Meg’s personal space as she attempted to back up even further into a display, clearly uncomfortable.

“Good morning, sir!” Ryan called out cheerfully, grabbing the man’s attention and letting Meg slip away to pretend to attend to something more urgent over the other side of the shop. “Can I help you today?”

He seemed a bit flustered to be interrupted and annoyed that Meg was more interested in something other than him. It was clear to Ryan this was a man who was used to getting his way, but he was courteous enough to accept Ryan’s offer and allow Meg to extricate herself from the situation.

The man smiled grimly, “I’d like to place an order for an arrangement, it’s for a funeral I’m afraid.”

Ryan nodded solemnly, “Of course, what kind of arrangement were you after?”

The man hummed, “A simple one, to honour a fallen friend. Something with blue in it.”

Ryan nodded and flipped open a display book to a modest arrangement that fit his description, “something like this?”

The Creeper nodded, disinterested, his eyes glancing up towards Meg as she bent over to sweep something off the floor. Ryan noticed. It took a tremendous amount of restraint not to growl.

The transaction continued as expected, a professional level of civility between the two of them.

“Do you need delivery? There’s a flat rate delivery to Hill Valley church if that’s where the service will be held,” Ryan explained.

“No no,” the man insisted, “I’ll come pick them up.”

“Very good, they’ll be ready for pickup after 9 am the day of the service,” Ryan made a note in the system, “Can I just get a name for that?”

“Lee.” The man said it in a tone so final that even Ryan hesitated to push for more information. He wasn’t getting a surname out of him, and even if he gave one, Ryan was almost certain it would be a decoy. He was going to have to follow him.

That was fine. He’d been prepared for that.

He wished Lee Creeper a good day amidst other pleasantries and kept an eye on him from the shop window as he walked down the block, towards where Ryan assumed he was parked.

“You weren’t wrong about that guy,” Ryan said to Meg.

“Right? Total creep to me, not as bad to you, but you still saw right?”

Ryan nodded, “Yeah, I saw… I just gotta run out for a bit, you’ll be right here.” It wasn’t really a question. Ryan was distracted trying to track Creeper. Meg nodded, but he didn’t really see her.

He slipped off his apron and dashed out the back, pulling on his jacket and helmet to follow him.

Creeper drove a nice car, expensive, all shiny metallic black and sleek and fast. But Ryan had no problem keeping up on the bike. Not that he had to keep pace long. Ryan followed him to a well out-of-the-way house in Pacific Bluffs, West of the Cemetery. As he pulled into the driveway, Ryan kept driving, but made note of the address. He had a feeling he’d be back here soon.

* * *

The one day Ryan planned on doing his reconnaissance, Jeremy came home early. Figured. Still, Ryan had an itch to scratch and he knew Jeremy was deeply distracted by his own work; he wouldn’t miss him for just an hour or two.

Ryan had left his mask and knives in the storage compartment of his bike, along with some notes he’d printed off if an opportunity presented itself. He dressed his usual casual self just for the occasion. He grabbed his jacket and helmet and started to pull on his boots when Jeremy emerged from the study, a look of curiosity and mild concern on his face.

“Where are you going?”

Ryan shrugged as he pulled on his boots and started lacing them up, “Out. Just gotta run some errands for the shop, post some things, pick up some seeds for Ashley. I won’t be long…”

“You’re not walking, are you?”

Ryan shook his head, “I’m taking the bike. I’m not going far, I’ll be fine.”

Jeremy hesitated for a moment. “You know there’s a killer on the loose. They’ve taken down guys bigger than you…”

Ryan pulled a face. “The big, bad Vagabond’s got nothing on me,” he cocked an eyebrow and smirked at Jeremy.

Jeremy scowled back at him, “Ryan, please be careful.”

“Jeremy,” Ryan started, but Jeremy’s eyes were full of concern. He sighed, “I promise, I’ll be careful.”

“People have died, Ryan… I’ve been following the story and we might be involved in all of this now… I just… I worry about you.”

Ryan’s face softened, “Well, I worry double for you. I promise Jeremy, I’ll be careful. And I will do whatever it takes to protect you too.”

“And I’d do the same, so don’t do anything stupid, ok?”

Ryan pressed a kiss to the top of Jeremy’s head. “Ok. I’ll be back soon.”

It was early evening, and the sun was setting, shades of orange through purple lighting up the sky and rapidly growing darker, but it was still early enough to be out and not raise suspicions. The drive was relaxing, more than it had any right to be for what Ryan was going to do. Although, to be completely honest, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

Ryan pulled up to park on the kerb and retrieved his mask, the notes and knives, before leaving his bike and helmet a few doors down and walking the remainder of the way to the large and likely very expensive house. The car was in the drive – it was a nice neighbourhood, and the car was likely insured, so Creeper probably felt no fear about leaving it outside. Ryan vaguely wished he could find that kind of security. Checking for CCTV cameras and onlookers, he slipped around the side of the house, making his way around the back. Lights were on inside the house, but there was very little movement that Ryan could make out. He found a vantage point amidst some bushes and, pulling his mask from his back pocket, he slipped it on to help his camouflage and squatted down to watch.

He saw the back of Creeper’s head as he sat down and flicked through television channels. He appeared to be alone. That was a good sign. Ryan backed up as he saw the creep rise, turn around to look almost directly at him out the window, before making his way to the back door, sliding it open and sticking his head out, looking around.

Ryan tried to melt into the shadows, holding his breath as Creeper looked around, seemed satisfied with his findings and went back inside, leaving the door ever so slightly ajar.

Ryan wasn’t sure what he’d been looking for, but he was certain he hadn’t been seen.

The weight of the knives at his hip gave him a sense of certainty and courage and he found himself inadvertently thumbing the hilt. A sense of impatience washed over him. He wanted this over. It could be over. It could be over tonight. All he had to do was get inside and finish it. And the universe had presented him with an opportunity, he’d be foolish not to take it…

Before he was completely aware of his actions, he was sneaking towards the back door, staying low and quiet, hand resting assuredly on the handle of his knife.

The creep wasn’t in front of the TV anymore. He wasn’t in the room at all. Ryan slid the door open and it was almost silent on it’s bearings. Perfect.

Inside was nice, modern, clean, minimal. A suitable bachelor’s pad. Ryan briefly wondered if it was a post-divorce thing, or maybe he was just like that. At any rate, there was nothing cosy about it, nothing that felt like home. At least to him.

He wandered as quietly as he could to the tiled area leading up to the kitchen where he’d seen the creep disappear to. Maybe he could catch him with his pants down.

He sensed movement behind him. A chill ran down his spine and Ryan froze.

He heard the slide of the pistol snap into place as the voice boomed with all the authority of a senior Sargent behind him; “Put your hands on your fucking head and turn around slowly, or I will shoot you where you stand.”

Heart pounding, head swimming with too many unhelpful or downright dangerous ideas, Ryan reluctantly obeyed.

At gunpoint, Creeper pulled Ryan’s knives from his belt and emptied his pockets, throwing everything to the floor to clatter along the tiles just out of reach. He tugged the skull mask off of Ryan’s face and held it up to examine it, shaking his head, before turning his gaze to Ryan’s face, studying it carefully.

“I know you… You work in that flower shop.”

Ryan looked at the floor and tried not to respond.

Creeper sneered, “You’re a goddamn freak, you know that?”

Ryan sneered in response.

In Ryan’s back pocket, there was the wad of folded-up paper, names and addresses and contacts, evidence of the web of corruption he’d been spinning, links to Ryan’s victims, including the flowers. The Creep unfolded and examined them, all the while keeping his gun trained on Ryan.

“You piece of shit, what the fuck is this?” he demanded, almost spitting in Ryan’s face as he looked at the notes, “You think this is a fucking game?”

Ryan started to lower his hands, slowly sliding them off his head and putting them up in front of him defensively.

Creeper looked back to the notes in his hand, lowering the gun slightly.

Ryan saw an opening.

He reached for the gun, planning on grabbing the man’s wrist and wrestling it free, but Creeper was faster. Much faster. Ryan wasn’t expecting it.

Ryan caught an elbow to the solar plexus and doubled over, gasping. Seconds later, the butt of the pistol connected hard with Ryan’s skull.

Ryan saw stars and could’ve sworn he heard Jeremy calling his name.

The world spun as it faded back into existence. Ryan’s head was on the floor, cheek pressed against the cold tiles, he quickly became aware of something warm and wet running down his face.

A weight was on his back, pinning his arms behind him. He heard the click of metal on metal and the bands press into his wrists painfully tight. It brought him back to reality with terrifying speed.

Creeper was a cop.

He was a was a serial killer.

Los Santos supported the death penalty.

As far as he knew, Ryan had killed everyone else involved in the corruption coverups. He’d done all the dirty work for him. All Creeper had to do now was tie up the one remaining loose end… and he could do that legally.

The creep climbed off Ryan’s back and placed the keys to the cuffs on the table well out of Ryan’s reach. He could see his knifes across the floor, but they’d do him no good now.

There was too much evidence against him already. Ryan wouldn’t stand a chance.

Jeremy would never forgive him.

Ryan wasn’t sure if it was the head wound, or the thought of never seeing Jeremy again, but suddenly he felt the urge to sleep; to give up and let Creeper do what he pleased with him. Kill him now or kill him later.

A fist in his hair pulled his face out of the sticky puddle that had formed beneath it, before slamming it back down hard onto the tiles. His left eye socket took the brunt of the impact, splitting his brow open before he was yanked ruthlessly back up. His back arched as he was pulled to his knees, wrists cuffed behind him; he was dragged back to sit on his heels. The hand in his hair yanked his head back, forcing Ryan to look up at the man he had planned to kill.

He snarled in response, an instinct, unable to stop himself, the thought of Jeremy still in his mind. He’d be so disappointed. The Creeper had ruined everything.

Ryan spat at him. It was mostly blood and it didn’t reach his face, the gob landing instead on his chest. It only served to make him mad. His right hand staying firm in Ryan’s hair, the meaty left fist wrapped around Ryan’s exposed throat and squeezed.

Ryan gasped and choked, feeling his face go red as he struggled uselessly in the bigger man’s grasp. Suddenly he wasn’t getting any more air and his heart was pounding in his ears. Everything ached and tasted like copper. His vision started to blur.

He was going to die.

His legacy would be as a killer.

If he was fortunate enough to have a funeral, the wreath should feature foxglove, yellow carnations and geraniums. He was a liar, a disappointment and a fool.

No one would mourn him.

“You pathetic fucking freak,” Creeper spat the words in Ryan’s face as he struggled to hold onto a shred of consciousness, fighting the blackness.

“You come into my house and think you can just get away with this shit? Try to fucking frame me? Was that your plan?” He briefly eased up his grip on Ryan’s throat, letting him drag a hot, ragged breath of air to his starved lungs before clenching tight again.

“At least you cleaned up the mess. I’m gonna turn you in and wash my hands of this godforsaken city. The LSPD will have a field day with a serial cop killer. You’ll be lucky if the trial lasts the day; even luckier if you make it to your official execution.”

Spots danced in Ryan’s vision, all his energy to fight leaving him. Creeper gave one final yank on his hair and dropped him. Ryan folded under his own weight and crumpled to his side on the floor, drawing his knees up instinctively as protection, fingers tingling, useless cuffed behind his back.

Creeper pulled out his phone to dial his buddies and report the arrest.

It was over. He’d been caught.

A dark part of Ryan’s brain mocked him, what did you think was going to happen?

He honestly couldn’t answer it.

He didn’t have to.

Something hit the Creep from behind and shattered in a spray of terracotta, dirt and flowers. The man stumbled forward, clutching his head, before reeling sideways as something again hit him from behind. As he fell, he struck his head against a wooden cabinet and lurched, lapsing into loud snoring as soon as he hit the ground.

Jeremy was left standing where Creeper had been moments before, clutching the shattered remains of the flowerpot he’d used to get the drop on the larger man. Dirt and flowers scattered the ground about his feet; small pinkish-red blossoms with waxy dark green leaves; begonias, if Ryan wasn’t mistaken. If he’d had more sense about him, he would’ve laughed.

Begonias meant “beware”.

Jeremy dropped the pot fragment and grabbed the keys for the handcuffs, kneeling next to Ryan to free his hands.

Ryan sat up and rubbed his wrists tentatively.

Jeremy wasted no further time bending down to inspect Ryan’s face, hands cupping it gently, his eyes full of concern as they skimmed over the laceration above Ryan’s eye, the swelling raising up on his cheekbones, tinging shades of red and purple already.

“Holy shit, Ryan, are you ok?”

Ryan rubbed his throat, not that it did any good, he could feel the crushing damage and bruising that would follow. “I’m ok…” he rasped, “How? ...why are you here?”

Jeremy shook his head, “I was investigating a lead in the cop killer story and I heard a struggle. Whitless has been known to get violent, so I got worried. I went to the window to see if maybe someone needed help and I saw you… you were in trouble…” Jeremy’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head again, “what are you doing here, Ryan?”

The snoring stopped suddenly with a snort. In the corner of his vision, Ryan saw Creeper twitch and struggle to pull himself upright.

Instinct took over.

Ryan jumped to his feet and dashed for his knife, snatching it from the ground where it had fallen and launching full-force into Creeper’s chest. In one decisive motion he jammed the tip of the blade up into Creeper’s neck, right at the jawline, before twisting and ripping it free, a spurt of blood spraying over Ryan as he fell back. Creeper gurgled and spasmed before eventually falling still.

Ryan scooted backwards away from the body, falling back to lie flat on the ground, chest heaving from the adrenaline and exertion.

Jeremy was in shock, eyes wide, he could only stammer, “Ryan… are you… have you..?”

Ryan sat up slowly, looking back at the body, before finally turning to look Jeremy in the eye.

“Surprise?” Ryan offered weakly, his voice hoarse, with an equally pathetic display of jazz hands.

Jeremy stared at him, mouth agape.

“It… was meant …to be a present…” he coughed and swallowed, tasting the copper of the blood in his mouth, “I guess things sorta… got out of hand.”

“All of them?” Jeremy looked so confused, “You’re the killer?”

Ryan hated to break it to him like this. He simply nodded.

“Ryan…” Jeremy stepped back, his tone was stony, “you could go to prison for this… you could get the death penalty if they catch you…” his voice caught, “Why?”

“It was an accident at first… but I figured I’d be doing some good, y’know? I have to do something to keep me busy… I did all my research and thought it’d make a good story for you and it started with just the one and it was only ever meant to be the one but it just…” he trailed off, realising he was rambling and his throat felt like sandpaper, “well, you know how these things are…”

“I… I really don’t, Ryan,” Jeremy stressed, at a loss for words.

“I wanted to help. I was only thinking of you. Of us. I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

Jeremy looked devastated, he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

“I mean…” Ryan shrugged helplessly, “it’s also been pretty good for the floristry business.”

Jeremy couldn’t help but laugh at that, his eyes beginning to tear up. “Well, you fucked up. How the hell am I meant to report on this now?”

Ryan paused, pensively, “Investigative journalist and all-around hero, Jeremy Dooley single-handedly apprehends the Vagabond serial killer?”

“Ryan,” Jeremy sniffed, “First of all, you’re the only person who’s ever called him that, and secondly, how’s it gonna look when I bring in my own fiancé? Aside from ‘suspicious as fuck’, I’m not cool with you turning yourself in for my sake. We’ll figure this out. Together.” He took Ryan’s hand in his own and let their fingers lazily entwine, Jeremy squeezing reassuringly, “We’ll get through this, ok? I want to help. Whatever it takes.”

Ryan looked confused, “You’re not scared of me?”

“Ryan, please. We share a bed. You’ve never given me a reason to suspect you’d hurt me. To be completely honest, I’m more afraid of you on chili night.”

This time Ryan laughed. Thankfully his voice was starting to come back.

Jeremy’s face fell again as he pondered the implications. “You’ve killed six people Ryan…”

Ryan cringed, “Well, technically seven… but the number of murders I’ve committed has no bearing on my desire for human companionship and the amount of cuddling I should receive.”

Ryan caught Jeremy staring at him, a bemused look on his face, as if he couldn’t figure Ryan out. That was fair, he supposed.

“What?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“You’re a florist.” Jeremy said simply.

“So?”

“How does a florist become a serial killer? And fucking get away with it, might I ask?”

Ryan smirked, half closing his eyes, “Yeah, I’m a florist, but I’m self-taught. Before I was a florist, I was in IT, before that I was prop-making for theatre, and before that I was doing pool installations and laying concrete. All self-taught. You’d be amazed at what you can learn on the internet.”

“Ryan, what the fuck dude? When were you going to tell me this? Were you going to tell me this?” Jeremy looked hurt and Ryan felt a pang of guilt for putting him in this position.

Ryan looked away, “I don’t know… but I was very careful not to leave any evidence that might tie me to the victims. You’re not in any danger.”

Jeremy shook his head, “remember a few hours ago when I said not to do anything stupid?”

Ryan blushed sheepishly, “I don’t remember that at all…” he lied.

Jeremy chuckled softly, still struggling to come to terms with it.

A beat of silence passed between them.

After a moment, Jeremy shook his head again, “Well, this makes me feel less guilty about secretly researching government corruption…”

“You’re still doing that?!” Ryan snapped.

“You’re a serial killer!”

“Well… Touché.”

“What are you going to do?” Jeremy asked, more seriously now.

Ryan shrugged weakly. “I was going to dispose of the body, wait for the cops to do their actual jobs and find out about the corruption scandal, maybe turn a blind eye like they always do.” Ryan bit his lip, “but now that you’re here… I guess… I don’t know. I always sort of… expected to get caught, maybe? I don’t know.”

Jeremy looked hurt, but resolute, “I’m not turning you in, Ryan. Besides, you’re not the only one with secrets.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow curiously.

“I worked as a crime scene cleaner just after I moved to Los Santos. Plenty of part time work in that industry; ‘bioremediation’ it’s called – so getting rid of all traces of a murder? Well, it wouldn’t be my first time.”

Ryan’s grin grew wide as he looked adoringly up at Jeremy. “You do realise this would make you accessory to murder if anyone ever found out, right?”

“For you Ryan, it’s worth it.”

A somewhat stressful hour later, aside from the body they’d wrapped in tarpaulin and moved to the bathroom, the house was nearly spotless.

“How did you know to follow up Creeper… what was his name?”

“Lee Whitless,” Jeremy informed him, “former LSPD spokesperson and all-round asshole.”

“Apt then.”

Jeremy snorted a laugh, “I went to the funerals. He was at all of them. The only one as far as I could tell, they didn’t have a great overlap of friend circles, apparently.”

Ryan laughed at the absurdity of it, “we sold him the flowers!”

They both laughed at that, a giddy, slightly hysterical, relieved laughter that felt good.

“Wait,” Ryan added, “does this mean I missed seeing you in a black suit? Damn.”

Jeremy waggled his eyebrows at him, “I can show you later if you like…” He blushed, “Ok, that came out far more ominous and way less sexy than I intended it to…”

Ryan laughed again as Jeremy blushed deeper. It hurt his bruised face, but he was beyond caring.

“So, what’s the plan once this is all cleaned up?” Jeremy asked.

Ryan chewed his lip gently, pensive. “Well, we dispose of the body – I know a place –” the shipping container came to mind, “and then we head home, wash off and pretend like none of this ever happened.”

“That’s it?”

Ryan shrugged, “For now… we could always go the path of Leslie and Dannie, flee the city, start a new life somewhere.”

Jeremy looked distressed, “but what if…?”

Ryan cut him off with a gentle kiss that tasted like copper. Jeremy returned it, letting himself forget in the moment.

Ryan pulled away and looked into Jeremy’s eyes. “Right now, we have each other. You said it yourself, we’ll figure this out. Together.”

Jeremy nodded.

“Ryan!” Jeremy exclaimed suddenly, “You know what tomorrow is?”

Ryan was confused, pulled a face for a moment, trying to think. “Oh! Is it… It’s our anniversary!”

Jeremy grinned up at him, eyes sparkling.

“So much for no surprise, huh? You saved my life though, so I guess I owe you something big…”

“Ryan, please; you’re the best present I could’ve asked for.”

Epilogue

A month had passed since the Creeper incident and they had managed to avoid any kind of investigation, for now. Ryan had gone back to work and was planning on expanding the business and Jeremy, Matt and Trevor had done a spectacular job with the write-up of the serial killer cases. Considering the murders had come to such an abrupt end, the leads went cold and the pervading theory was that the killer had met an unfortunate end, likely at the hands of the gangs they’d been disturbing.

Jeremy kicked open the door to the apartment, his arms full of bags of groceries, leaving the door swinging open behind him. He put the bags down on the kitchen counter and started unpacking the items while Ryan put them away, enjoying the breeze the open door let rush through the room.

“Did you get milk?” Ryan asked.

Jeremy looked at the items and the bags, “shit, no, must’ve forgotten…”

“Jeremy, how could you wound me this way?” Ryan cried theatrically.

Jeremy looked him dead in the eye. “Serial killer.”

Ryan looked sheepishly at the floor, “I’ll pick some up next time I’m out.”

It never failed to shut him up, but it had also become something of a running joke.

Jeremy paused, considering his next words carefully. “Do you miss it?”

Ryan froze. Jeremy could see the wheels turning in his head, could see the desire to say “yes”, fighting the socially acceptable answer of “of course not”.

“Funny you should say that,” a voice said from the doorway. They hadn’t noticed the figure that had followed Jeremy up, “Because if your answer is ‘yes’, then I might have an offer for you both.”

They turned around to see a tall man in a suit with tattooed hands tapping on his crossed arms leaning against the doorframe.

“Who are you?” Ryan asked, stepping forward defensively.

“I’m an old friend of Burnie’s.”

Ryan and Jeremy exchanged an interested glance, before looking back to him.

“The name’s Geoff Ramsey, and I’m putting together a crew.”

#Ragehappy #Jeremwood #dmitrimolotov #nescamonster #rhss17

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junker-town · 5 years ago

Text

The secret life of Floyd Lippencott Jr.

Jere Alhadeff

To hide his career from his father, drag racer Bob Muravez assumed the name Floyd Lippencott Jr. But he couldn’t outrun the truth.

BURBANK, California — The old drag racer is huddled inside his cozy backyard garage, the place where he has long spun his wrenches on carburetors and crankshafts.

For Bob Muravez, it’s a messy laboratory of sorts. He has spent years there, under autopsy-room-bright lights, grease trapped deep down inside his fingernails, modifying versions of the dragsters that once ruled the racetrack.

His walls are a photographic record of his best checkered-flag memories. Long-wheel-based dragsters hurtle along straightaways in a blur of motion, their fat racing slicks furiously spinning, raising smoke and dust like demons incarnate.

The photos depict a world of super-fast cars and cocky young men hungry for speed, where winners and losers were separated by fractions of seconds, at speeds so fast racers needed parachutes to slow down. Before he retired in 1971, Muravez won more than 600 sanctioned drag racing events across the U.S., becoming one of the most recognizable names in his burgeoning sport. In Muravez’s fastest run of his career, he reached 249.59 mph in just 5.89 seconds.

Yet at age 82, the old drag racer is most famous not for his speed, but for his secret.

For five long years, between 1962 and 1967, Muravez protected perhaps the most closely-guarded mystery in modern sports: An alter-ego who took full credit for his thriving racing career.

Every time he hopped behind the wheel for another wicked-fast run down the track, the wiry 140-pound Muravez became Floyd Lippencott Jr., the name he assumed to hide his real identity from an unlikely foil: His own father.

Ralph Muravez was a Czechoslovakian immigrant and self-made businessman with a third-grade education, a demanding taskmaster who founded a local washing-machine empire. Along with his Maytag repair shop in Burbank, he owned 5,000 washing machines in apartments across Southern California.

In 1958, as part of his retirement strategy, Ralph handed over majority control of the operation to his sons, Bob and older brother Ralph Jr., known as Bud. Ralph wanted to spend his retirement years enjoying the good life, visiting the world’s exotic ports aboard his 42-foot motorized sailboat.

He was his own Sinbad the Sailor, Bob recalled. But when it came to his son’s racing, he was more like Captain Bly. The last thing he wanted was to lose his rebellious younger son to a fatal dragster wreck. “In his eyes,” Muravaez recalled, “he was building something good for the family and he didn’t want to come home to find that one of his only two sons had died on some racetrack.”

The father issued his son an ultimatum: Quit racing or leave the family business.

Muravez devised a solution that would be unthinkable in today’s hyper-connected world of smartphone cameras and competitive press. With the aid and consent of reporters, photographers, publicists and even drag racing officials, Bob Muravez invented an entirely new identity.

Photographers never took his picture without his face being covered with a helmet and mask. Floyd never did interviews. Bob did those later. Joked Muravez: “Floyd did the driving and Bob did the talking.”

The National Hot Rod Association even issued Muravez a professional driver’s license in Lippencott’s name, the only one without a picture. In the winner’s circle, friends-turned-imposters donned his protective fire suit and kissed the trophy girl while a smirking Muravez stood in the background.

Left: Muravez collection, Right: L&M Films

Decades later, wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans and a thick mop of hair, Muravez could still be mistaken for one of those lanky car-crazy kids racing as a teenage rite of passage. Yet the need for speed has dissipated for Muravez, like air seeping from a leaky tire. He hasn’t had a speeding ticket in 40 years.

Now he uses the garage to relieve the stress of running the Maytag repair business his father started during World War II. He’s more often concentrating on honey-do projects than fixing dragster engines.

But Floyd Lippencott Jr. motors on. Both Muravez and Lippencott were inducted into the International Drag Racing Hall of Fame. And Muravez scribbles down two names whenever he’s asked to sign his autograph.

While Muravez no longer races, his mind still lives in the cockpit. He’s nervous by nature, hands fidgety, bolting his food like he’s rushing to start another race. “I’m a drag racer,” he said. “I’m either idling or going full throttle.”

The years have brought Muravez perspective, but some feelings never pass. To keep both his racing career and his alter-ego alive, the old drag racer admits that he paid a steep price.

Muravez came of age in the 1950s, a lifestyle captured by the film American Graffiti, when he and his buddies lived for their street rods. They’d cruise around the parking lot of Bob’s Big Boy, attracting looks from both the popular girls and less-popular cops, both of whom hounded them incessantly.

Muravez loved both cars and women. Before he was married in the 1970s, he was engaged seven times, and bought seven rings.

And yet, while he nurtured a James Dean persona on the street, his home life followed a different script. There, his demanding immigrant father called the shots. Ralph wasn’t a drinker, he was just mean, unvarnished. He was also a respected businessman.

In the Muravez household, Bob was relegated to second-son status behind Bud, a golden-haired boy who excelled in school and was his father’s favorite. As a child, Bob spent years confined to a sanitarium while suffering from tuberculosis, which also afflicted his mother Edith. He also struggled with dyslexia, a yet-to-be diagnosed condition that confused his hard-charging father.

Family friend John Moore calls “Uncle Ralph” a product of his time. “Ralph was hard-nosed. Lots of men of his era were like that,” he said. “I think Bobby felt overlooked as a boy. His father was busy building his business and he had one healthy son — there just didn’t seem to be time for Bob.”

Ralph lost his own father at a young age. One of five children, he entered the U.S. through Ellis Island in 1908. Not long afterward, his alcoholic father went out one night to play poker and never came home.

Relatives say the experience hardened Ralph towards his own two sons. “He mistreated those boys,” recalled cousin Glenn Clifford, now 84. “He could be cruel.”

To survive the Depression, Ralph sold Hoover vacuum cleaners door to door in Beverly Hills. In 1944, he opened a Maytag sales and service shop in Burbank. An old photograph shows him posing jauntily, leaning against the last in a line of retired washing machines. A sign reads “Keep Out. WASHING MACHINE GRAVEYARD. Let them rest in pieces.”

Muravez collection

Ralph loved boats. He built them and took them out on ocean trips, often with Bob in tow. Whenever the boy became seasick, the disgruntled father would drop him off at the nearest point onshore and order him to walk back to the harbor.

Bob worked in the repair shop from age 10. Ralph’s brand of you’ll-do-as-you’re-told discipline was stifling. “My father would always say, ‘When I tell you to do something, you start doing it before I even finish,’” Muravez recalled.

Bob would accompany his father on service calls, carrying the tool box with its hoses, screwdrivers and pliers, learning the washing machine repair trade. Wearing his Maytag hat, Ralph imposed rules that were Depression-era tough. “He’d say, ‘Don’t ever let me hear you say, ‘I can’t.’ If you tell me you don’t want to do something, fine, but never tell me you can’t.’”

In 1954, when Bob was 16, the old man asked if he wanted his own car. Here was a wide-eyed teen growing up in post-war Southern California, at the time of Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers, when politicians dreamed of going to the moon. The automobile had begun to dominate American life. Seemingly every new product featured sleek aerodynamics, from lamps and toasters, to bullet bras and cars with snazzy hood ornaments and elongated rear fins.

You bet he wanted his own ride.

Ralph called a Hollywood automotive dealer, who told him about a used car for sale. Days later, father and son pulled up outside the Beverly Hills estate of actress Betty Grable.

In the garage they marveled at the sort of car that might frequent a teenage boy’s dreamscape: a white, six-cylinder 1953 Corvette convertible with red interior and a mere 1,800 miles on the odometer.

The kid saw it this way: His father never hugged him. There were no parental pats on the back. That just wasn’t Ralph.

The Corvette was as giving as the old man would ever be. And it was perhaps the greatest gift anyone could give Muravez — a chance to go fast, a chance at status.

Of course he’d take it.

Muravez had just died and gone to automobile heaven.

That Corvette changed everything.

It took an awkward kid forever on the periphery and put him centerstage, behind the wheel of a sleek, sexy performance car.

The Corvette became Muravez’s calling card. He show-boated around town, and joined a local car club called the Road Kings, where members paid dues and worked on race cars.

Muravez also street raced.

He settled grudge matches mostly at night, on lonely River Road near the Forest Lawn cemetery, or on the gritty concrete bed of the LA River beneath the Sixth Street bridge. Those quarter-mile contests were replete with kids giving the go-signal at the starting line, and onlookers ready with buckets of water to douse engine fires.

It wasn’t long before an unwanted observer began to appear in the racers’ rearview mirror: a Burbank cop the boys knew only as Officer Stanley. On weekends, he’d lurk in the gas station parking lot across from Bob’s Big Boy, in the heart of a two-mile teenage cruising stretch.

“He’d write you up for anything, even a bad lightbulb on your license plate,” Muravez recalled. “We didn’t like his attitude.”

When he was 19, Maravez joined fellow Road Kings member and future drag-racing star Tommy Ivo in a teenage prank to spite the dreaded policeman. Muravez snuck beneath Stanley’s patrol car and tied a rope around the rear axle, affixing the other end to a nearby pole.

Then they hopped inside Ivo’s T-bucket roadster, revved the engine and took off past the gas station. Stanley gave chase, but not for long. The pole stopped the cop car dead, and Officer Stanley lurched forward, breaking the steering wheel. “We hid Tommy’s car in the garage,” Muravez recalled. “And we didn’t bring it out for a very long time.”

Left: Steve Reyes, Right: Jere Alhadeff

But by then, those Burbank glory days were nearing their end. One night, Muravez ducked into a back alley to ditch a pursuing black-and-white. The cop later stopped him, warning that the next time he ran, he’d shoot. “That scared me,” Muravez said.

By that time, Muravez had amassed an astounding 28 speeding tickets. His license was suspended for a year. His father took away the Corvette.

At home, tensions mounted. By the summer of 1957, Bud was married and Ralph was fixated on his younger son, who had graduated high school the year before. “We butted heads,” Muravez recalled. “He didn’t think I had any direction. I didn’t like him telling me what to do.”

Eventually, Muravez moved out. He slept inside his hand-me-down 1956 Chevy Belair convertible, and later sold the car to afford living expenses that included $8 a week to rent a room over a friend’s garage.

He got a job working at a buddy’s family machine shop and was doing well. He’d even gotten a few raises. Nearly a year after Muravez left home, Ralph approached him about coming back to the Maytag shop. They reconciled in part because they recognized a shared flaw: Their stubborness.

“He realized where I was coming from and I realized where he was coming from,” Muravez recalled.

Still, Muravez never fully returned home. He only saw Ralph when he showed up at the repair business. And while the young Muravez no longer had a car, the kid still had an incurable adrenaline addiction.

Those days, along with a lot of other Burbank kids with hot cars, Muravez hung out at Ivo’s garage, where he performed grunt work like wiping down tires, washing engine parts and polishing cars.

“He was a footloose and fancy-free kid who tripped over his own feet when he walked,’ recalled Ivo, now 83, famous for his light-hearted putdowns. “But he loved cars.”

Muravez went to the racetrack as Ivo’s gofer. He’d run his Corvette there before, but now he was ready to launch a new chapter of his racing career in earnest.

His relationship with his father was seemingly mended. Ralph had come to terms with his son’s wild side.

That peace would not last long.

Muravez loved the drag strip scene, with its camaraderie and testosterone-laden competition, being able to put pedal to metal without a cop car in sight. Racers were a colorful, braggadocious crowd, boasting nicknames like Sneaky Pete, Wobbly Wheels, Snake, Mongoose, Zookeeper and The Hunter.

Soon, Muravez built his own dragster and started winning races.

Then he got lucky.

In 1961, he began driving for John Peters and Nye Frank, a Santa Monica, California, team that owned the sport’s top racing car. In the years before, they’d developed a twin-engine dragster later known as the Freight Train for its sheer ferocity and the way it belched locomotive-like smoke while crossing the finish line.

What followed catapulted Muravez’s racing career: Peters took a foolhardy kid and helped turn him into a professional driver. Said Peters: “We won a lot of races.”

One old photo offers a closeup view of Muravez in the Freight Train’s cockpit, looking as much like an aerospace test pilot, or cosseted Hazmat worker, as an ambitious risk-taker seeking new speed records.

He wore circular goggles, a dual-cylinder breathing apparatus and facial heat shield to protect him from the spatter of hot oil thrown off the up-front engines by the brutal G-forces. And that helmet? Well, that wasn’t going to protect him much in the event the good Lord decided that he’d flirted with nearly-inhuman speed too many times. If that unfortunate eventuality occurred — if the engine exploded, or he flipped that dragster — nothing could save him.

Back then, as the saying went, drag racing rules were written in blood. “Gee, another guy got killed?” a driver would say. “Sorry to hear that. When’s the next race?”

In the late 1950s and 1960s, the mounting death toll in the sport led car builders to innovate, like adding a parachute when they learned mere brakes could no longer slow down a speeding dragster, and shoulder and lap harnesses to keep drivers from being thrown out of tumbling cars.

While Muravez was serving as one of drag racing’s guinea pigs, he still worked five days a week at the Maytag shop, racing on nights and weekends. Ralph barely took an interest in his son’s career, and never once saw him race.

Leslie Lovett, National Hot Rod Association

Then in March 1962, Muravez won his first major championship race in the so-called Top Gas category — in which dragsters used the same gas as street cars — at the Bakersfield Fuel and Gas Championships.

Well, that got Ralph’s attention.

By then, Ralph had given each of his sons a 40 percent share of the business and dreamed of sailing on his boat, stopping just long enough to cash his profit-sharing check.

A dead son would ruin that dream.

Within days of Muravez’s first major racing victory, Ralph approached his 24-year-old son and gave him a choice: Either quit racing or lose his share of ownership in the family business.

Choose family over dreams.

Appease the father.

So Muravez made one of the most difficult choices of his life. In June 1962, he abandoned his passion. He continued to go the races as part of the team, but served only as a crewmember, not as a driver.

For the next five months, without Muravez behind the wheel, the Freight Train did not qualify for a single race, despite being piloted by such famous names as Mickey Thompson, Tom “the Mongoose” McEwen and Craig Breedlove. Several drivers complained that the powerful race car pulled dangerously to one side, and there was talk of scrapping the dragster altogether.

Muravez begged to differ. One night after the Freight Train failed to qualify at Lions drag strip in Long Beach, Muravez accepted a dare from driver “Wild Bill” Alexander to slip behind the wheel himself. He took the dragster for what he called “a nice easy pass” down the quarter-mile track.

Seconds later, when the run was done, he heard the distant roar of the crowd. He lit a cigarette from the dragster’s glowing disc brake. Back at the pit, he learned that he’d set a new world speed record of 185 miles per hour.

That settled it: Muravez would go back behind the wheel, against his father’s wishes. He soon captured the National Hot Rod Association’s 1963 Winter Nationals trophy, under the name “John Peters.” The Freight Train was the No. 1-rated Top Gas dragster in the nation.

A drag racing legend was born.

One day, a young sportswriter named Steve Gibbs was filing a story for the weekly racing publication Drag News on the race results at the San Gabriel track.

Muravez asked that he not use his real name. “When he won the race, I thought, ‘I’ve got to make up a name,’” recalled Gibbs, who later became competition director of the National Hot Rod Association.

The author of one of his college textbooks came to mind — Lippencott. Gibbs couldn’t recall the first name, so he improvised — Floyd. In a final flourish, he added a Jr. “I had no idea the name would become a major piece of drag-racing trivia,” he said.

Muravez immediately ran with the alias, even adding a middle initial “J,” later explaining that it stood for “genuine.” “I was a lousy speller,” he laughed.

Convincing people to keep his secret wasn’t as difficult as Muravez — Lippencott — imagined.

He often bought pictures from moonlighting photographers, so they were eager to keep him happy.

And frankly, he added, racing officials didn’t care what name he used, as long as he continued to draw fans to the track.

Just to be safe, Muravez made sure there were no cameras around when he slid behind the wheel of his dragster. After races, he did interviews with his helmet and facemask still on.

In February 1963, Muravez won the Winternationals in Pomona, California, his very first race since returning to the sport as a driver. With Muravez in the game, The Freight Train was finally back.

In the winner’s circle, his roommate, Rex Slinkard, donned Muravez’s leather racing jacket and stepped up to accept the top award, his arm around the trophy girl. The real driver laughed in the background, knowing his secret was safe for yet another race.

Floyd J. Lippencott Jr. continued to win races, hundreds of them. But perhaps one too many.

In May 1967, after winning the Springnationals competition in Bristol, Tennessee, Muravez made a mistake: Flush with victory, sitting inside The Freight Train’s cockpit with his helmet and facemask off, he was approached by reporter Keith Jackson from ABC’s Wide World of Sports. “You’re really popular,” Jackson said, thrusting a microphone in his face.

“Yeah, we have a lot of fans in the South,” Muravez answered.

On the long drive home, he realized what he’d done. While his father was not a regular viewer of the show, Muravez had nonetheless put his face on national television. There was still a chance Ralph would somehow see it on the boat’s TV while out on a weekend fishing trip.

Left: Eric Ricman, Hot Rod Magazaine; Right: Muravez collection

“I thought, ‘What am I gonna do?’” Muravez knew the segment wouldn’t air for a week, so he hatched a plan. He borrowed the TV from Ralph’s boat — saying his was broken — so his father wouldn’t catch the Saturday sports show while out on the water. Not only was Muravez’s racing career now in jeopardy, but so was the tenuous relationship between father and son.

But Muravez couldn’t control every factor. Ralph liked to relax after a fishing trip with a few boilermakers at Burbank’s Elks Club bar, where a drinking pal broke the news that his son Bob had actually been racing as a professional driver for six years — all behind his back.

At first, the old man wouldn’t believe it, until the friend returned with an Orange County Raceway program that pictured his son.

The next day, Ralph stormed inside the Maytag repair shop showroom, surrounded by two dozen new washers and dryers.

It was early in the day and there were no customers. Just Ralph and his two sons.

The old man was furious. He was already going through a painful divorce, and now this. He thrust the racing program at his younger son, after making an X with a pen like it was Exhibit A in a trial.

There was Floyd Lippencott Jr. — Muravez — staring up from the page.

Ralph and Bob faced each other.

“Have you been driving all these years?” the father asked.

“Yes, I have,” the son replied.

“You’ve been lying to me,” Ralph said. “You’re no son of mine.”

When Bud spoke up in his brother’s defense, their father banished both from the business. He threw a hammer through a window and reached for another before both sons stopped him.

A neighboring merchant called the police. It was a messy scene. Ralph finally roared off in his 1959 El Camino, but not before threatening both boys.

“I built this business,” he said. “And I can destroy it.”

He vowed to never speak to either one for as long as he lived.

He kept his word.

What happened next was a family car wreck.

Ralph and Edith finalized their divorce. He wanted to keep sailing. She wanted to stay close to her family. The boys battled for control of the family washing machine business while the father made threats. He eventually remarried a woman half his age and moved into the bungalow the family had kept for years on Catalina Island. He later became Avalon’s assistant harbormaster.

He started to get drunk regularly.

“He was tired of it all,” Muravez recalled. “His world was crashing in around him and that’s how he dealt with it.”

Bob’s wife Sharon is more harsh. “Ralph was a bastard,” she said.

Without Ralph’s looming shadow, Muravez kept racing, but he did not retire Floyd Lippencott Jr. He even added the letter “e” at the end of the name to make it look fancier, more French. Years later, he played along with humorous public campaigns sponsored by racing cronies that promoted Lippencott as a candidate for California governor and U.S. president.

At the track, Muravez liked to taunt competitors. “Have a good race,” he’d say. “But if you beat Floyd, you beat nobody. He doesn’t even exist.”

Muravez retired from drag racing in 1971 when the National Hot Rod Association discontinued the Top Gas class of competition. He briefly returned to take part in exhibitions over the coming decades, but the final flag had fallen on his racing days.

He married Sharon in 1974 and raised two sons, Michael and Peter. He was always careful not to be overbearing like his own father, to let them pursue their own lives.

After his brother sold his share of the business to pursue an equestrian career, Muravez continued to run the shop under its original name, “Ralph’s Electric.”

Muravez spotted his father a few times over the years. When his paternal grandmother died in 1975, Muravez saw Ralph at the funeral, but kept his distance.

One day, Bud passed his father on the Avalon boat dock.

“Hi Dad,” he said.

Ralph ignored him.

In the early 1980s, a possible truce loomed. A drinking pal of Ralph’s walked into the Maytag repair shop, saying the old man would like to see his sons. So Sharon sent Ralph a letter with a picture of baby Michael. “It was a very welcoming letter,” she recalled. “I went into detail, extending an olive branch.”

A week later, they got their response — a handwritten letter. “It was full of hate, saying ‘I no longer have a son and therefore I have no grandchildren,’” Sharon said. It included a copy of a letter Bud’s wife had sent after having the couple’s first child, with the same invective response.

Sharon Muravez

“I thought, ‘You bastard! How dare you?’” Sharon said. “I threw the letter at Bob. I was upset, but he kept things inside. He just accepted it.”

The two rarely, if ever, mentioned the letter again.

Ralph died in 1993. Muravez was never told of the funeral. He doesn’t even know where his father is buried. Both Bud and Edith are gone, too.

Now, there’s just Bob. And Floyd.

“Ralph died a bitter, lonely, broken, miserable person, alone in his motorhome or camper or whatever the hell it was,” Sharon said. “There was nobody around him, nobody who cared about him. Bob could have been there.”

These days, when Muravez talks to groups, the audience gasps when it hears how Ralph disowned his own son. But Muravez slowly came to terms with the pain through stoicism.

He understood that old family stubbornness. Amid that last faceoff in the Maytag shop, before Ralph threw the hammer through the window, Muravez knew something very important had come to an end. “I realized at that moment that there was nothing I could have done or said to bring back my father’s final words to me.”

They hurt, of course, but Muravez also felt a sense of liberation. He no longer had to do something he truly loved in secret.

The lies were finished for good. Ralph could control his son no more.

While the father never forgave the son, the son has forgiven the father.

“I carry my father right here,” Muravez said, pointing to his head. “I understood him. I was the second-born son and I knew what that meant to him. He believed that the father was the ruler of the family, no matter what.”

Inside the garage where he bonds with friends like a teenage gear head, Muravez still quotes Ralph’s homilies. He considered what was left unsaid with his father.

He likened the loss to seeing colleagues die in dragster crashes. “The racetrack is like a war zone,” he said. “You tell a friend, ‘Be safe,’ and he goes out and dies. You wish you could have said something.”

For years, Muravez has kept a slip of paper inside his wallet, which he consults whenever he is overcome with a sense of loss — of long-ago racing friends, and Ralph.

“The clock of life is wound just once,” it reads in part. “And no man has the power to tell just when the hands will stop, at late or early hour.”

There are also words Muravez tries to forget. For years, he kept Ralph’s spiteful last letter in his office safe.

So where is it now?

Inside the garage, he moves his hands as though crumpling an imaginary piece of paper, and tosses it over his shoulder.

He flashes a look of hurt and sadness. “You only have one father in life,” he says.

Suddenly, he has to go. There is work to do.

Those machines aren’t going to fix themselves.

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