#what did those poor chairs do to you bailey

[dusky-stars]

i noticed this part recently and it made me laugh so fucking hard so have this masterpiece i made in 15 minutes

[scarletriddles]

Lost in the fire ˚༄ | S.R

↳ in which the team’s newest case puts your life in jeopardy, at your own accord.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

genre: angst, sprinkle of fluff

warnings: general cm gore/case discussion, fire/arson, injuries related to fire, swearing, references to religion + greek mythology, friends to…? (they’re in la-la-la-love, your honour), some possible inaccuracies (sorry!), small jemily mention because lesbian rights, hopeful ending, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, second person narrative.

word count: 4.3k

a/n: my first ever fic i’m very nervy🫣i’m not expecting this to gain any sort of traction, but lmk how you find it, i suppose!

“Haley Bradstone, aged twenty-five, and Laura Kilmey, aged twenty-seven, are the most recent victims in a series of murders in Detroit, Michigan. Both victims were discovered four days apart, and only five miles away from each other, their bodies disposed of in black FIBC bulk bags that were left in trash-sites.” JJ pauses, her gaze flickering between the team, almost hesitant as her thumb circles the silver remote. But, with a clearing of her throat, she continues. “Cause of death for both victims has been ruled asphyxiation…by smoke inhalation.”

You abruptly halt toying with the frayed edges of the case file, your eyebrows shooting up and head lifting to look at her, and then also at the rest of the team - who look just as bewildered.

“Sorry, did you just say smoke inhalation?” You ask, genuine confusion weighing down your tone.

JJ nods, her expression dismayed as she eyes the two beaming faces displayed on the board. “Yes, as laid out in the case files, high levels of carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide and hydrogen sulphide were found in both victim’s lungs. The coroner also noted soot around the victim’s faces, and TBSA burns, all of which are synonymous with death via smoke inhalation.”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning is actually the leading cause of death in smoke inhalation - causing approximately 2,100 deaths in the U.S each year.” Spencer adds, followed by his familiar flat smile, which he usually does when he doesn’t know what to do with his face - which happens to be always.

You blink, with a slight quirk to your lips, despite the circumstances. Trust your good doctor to know just about everything.

“Were there reports of any fires around the general area?” Hotch pipes up, his face set in his usual stony expression, though his eyes betray his pensiveness.

JJ shakes her head, adjusting her stance. “No, which is what makes this stranger. The DPD reported no calls about any sort of fire on the days our victims were killed.”

“What? So our unsub just…lit a bunch of fires in plain sight?” Derek questions, with a flick of his brow, his gaze alternating between the board and the manilla folder in his grasp.

You huff, turning to face him with a slight smile, musing. “Must be one hell of a magician.”

Derek smirks in general bemusement, his dark eyes swirled with mirth, his tone light as a feather as he shifts in his scratchy office chair. “Looks like it, lil mama.”

Ever the smooth talker.

“Or, he could be using a secondary location.” Emily chimes in, her narrow-eyed gaze set firm on the file in front of her, her slender fingers fiddling with a bullet-point pen, and her lips contorted into a reflective pout.

“That’s plausible, but you’d think at least someone would notice.” Rossi adds, with a slight huff of incredulity, his calculating gaze sweeping across the entire room before him.

The two smiling faces are quickly joined by two more, both just as radiant, both just as nausea-inducing. Those poor girls.

“We don’t know for sure. But, the most recent victims join twenty-eight year old Sarah Holloway, and twenty-two year old Jessica Bailey. Who, similarly, were found four days apart, five miles away from each other and dumped in black FIBC bags, also ruled dead via asphyxiation. However, Sarah and Jessica’s dumpsites were around 14 miles away from Haley and Laura’s.” JJ purses her lips faintly, eyes still fixated on the crime scene photographs of four similar looking women who didn’t even live properly yet, robbed of the chance to, just like Poseidon robbed Medusa of her autonomy, on the marble steps of her deity’s temple. The thought alone just worsens the crease between her brows.

“four victims…why are they only just asking for our help, now?” Spencer ponders, features frozen in contemplativeness. His fingers sweep up to push his black-rimmed frames back to their previous position on the bridge of his nose.

God, you love his glasses.

JJ’s face morphs into a faint grimace, as she replies in a reluctant tone. “Unfortunately, the media managed to connect the dots on this one, they’re dubbing our unsub ‘the smoke-killer.’ But, the DPD really needs our help with this.”

You sigh, eyes trained on the gruesome imagery displayed on the silver screen. No matter how long you’ve been with the BAU, the violence never quite gets bearable for you, though you can’t bring yourself to look away - like witnessing a car-crash. You understand the psychology behind it, shock rooting the human body in place as the brain tries to comprehend that what it’s processing is real.

But, guilt still flows around in your system like the Noachian flood. Maybe, if you thought about it hard enough, you’d feel the ark bashing against your innards as it tries to navigate the brutal waves.

You suppose the violence doesn’t get easier for the team, either. Perhaps that’s what keeps you all tethered to each other, bonded. After all, the Greeks did beat the Trojans in unity - and disguised as a large, ligneous horse, but you digress.

Hotch nods, solemnly. “Alright, we can discuss further on the jet. Wheels up in 20.” And with that, he abruptly stands up, striding out of the room with a sureness in his step that only he could possess, effectively putting an end to the briefing.

The screen then goes dark, the car-crash finally being attended to. The sounds of chairs scraping across the frizzled navy carpeted floor and paper rustling bounces around the small space, as everyone heads out and into the bullpen, all but the exception of spencer, who remains seated, brooding over his manilla file as though he’s a modern day Thomas Aquinas. always thinking. You muse to yourself, though your eyebrow still raises in question nonetheless.

“Reid, you coming?” You probe gently, standing in the doorway with a faint grin. Your eyes flickering like fairy-lights all around his hunched-over frame.

Spencer startles slightly, craning his head up from the file and over to you - a rosy hue creeping up the nape of his neck from the sight of you alone. He swallows, standing up suddenly, and pushing his chair out with his hip, as he breathes out. “Uh, yea-yeah i’m…i’m coming.” He collects his things quickly, scrunching up his case file as he slings his satchel over his shoulder. Though, it doesn’t really matter, he’s already memorised it from start to finish. Eidetic memory and all.

He flashes you his signature flat smile once again, as his muddy hues rake over your appearance. You look pretty today, well he thinks you always look pretty, but today especially. Your hair swishes around your face in wisps like cotton-candy, your frame adorned in your usual grey fitted slacks, paired with a pink striped puff sleeved button down and black leather boots.

He believes you’re the personification of an angel, and with the way the abnormally-harsh office lighting is dancing around your hair in a nimbus-like manner, he’s probably right.

“C’mon then doctor genius, we have an hour long flight to catch.” Your voice rolling out with a teasing lilt, a subtle smile curled around the edges of your glossed lips.

Spencer usually loathes being referred to as a genius, namely because it’s said with such obvious sneer and condescension, like he’s an abnormal form, like he’s still that twelve-year-old high schooler. But, you never say it with thinly-veiled disgust, no, you say it with such reverence- like it’s something to be admired.

Yeah, angel.

He mirrors your smile, eyes soft and starry eyed as he follows you out of the room. “one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 seconds.” He corrects softly, always keen for specifics, his satchel smashing against his upper-thigh periodically as he walks beside you.

You huff in amusement, rolling your eyes in jest. “Right. My bad, one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 second long flight.” Your head tilts up slightly to look up at him, your irises dipped in unsubtle gaiety,

Spencer lets out a huffy laugh of his own, shaking his head in amusement. He loved when you teased him, though he’d never admit that. At least, not to you anyway.

“Oh, forgive me for being specific.” He sounds out, airily, like a dish-soap bubble crafted by small exploring hands, as he places his own ridiculously large palm on his chest in mock-offence.

“more like particular.” You reply, just as you reach your desk, in faux-annoyance, the curl of your lips betraying that fact.

Spencer puffs out another slight laugh in response, as he leans against the edge of your desk, watching you comb through it. His gaze doesn’t settle, darting around the array of trinkets and just general stuff aligning the glossy oak, including the multiple pots of bright pens - some looking vaguely like the ones he’s seen scattered around Penelope’s ‘bat-cave’ - and even a stick-figure drawing of him scribbled onto a canary yellow sticky-note, featuring overly large glasses and converse, which are more akin to clown shoes, alongside an equally as dramatised stick-figure version of Morgan, complete with a badly scrawled out six pack and huge biceps.

He feels a warmth blossom in his chest as looks over the cluttered space. It’s just so irrevocably you.

“particular or not, i still believe everything-“ He begins.

“-everything should be accurate, wherever possible” You mock affectionately, with a barely hidden smirk, still rooting through your things like a squirrel digging for an acorn.

A slight pout forms on his face, bordering on more petulant than anything. “How’d you even know I was going to say that?”

A faint effervescent giggle slips past your lips, your head still firmly pulled down, as your hands continue their wandering through your desk drawers. “ ‘Cause you’ve said that line at least a dozen times now, doc.” You drawl out, still grinning to yourself.

He wants that sound to be his morning alarm.

He rolls his eyes, only half-seriously, a smile lighting the corners of his mouth up like a vegas ‘welcome’ sign. “I have not said that a dozen times!” He huffs out, with a shake of his head at the injustice of it all, his dark curls springing with the movement.

You just smile, continuing to rifle through your desk before you locate what you were looking for, quickly straightening up and collecting the rest of your things before turning to him.

“Well, I’m all set doctor, lead the way.”

“Is that just so you don’t get lost again?” he replies, with an overt teasing twinkle.

You groan, blowing out like a whistle “that was one time! i was still new, and the hallways are confusing!”

He just bellows out a laugh, pushing up off the edge of your desk and beginning to walk - more like stride - his way to the elevators. You in tow, but just barely. His legs are way too long.

“I can put a sign on my back that says, ‘follow me’, if needs be.” He throws behind his shoulder.

“Oh, shut up!” You bark out, not really with any bite. Never with him.

It had been about three days since you landed in Detroit, Michigan. Most of that time being spent cramped up in the tiny makeshift office curated for the team, downing copious amounts of coffee, reading files until the backs of your eyes burned and dodging the borderline leering looks from the mid 40-year-old, beer gut endowed cops.

In other words, it was hell.

The team had made some progress, though. Narrowing down the profile to a white male in his early to mid thirties, who works a menial job, of average height and build, and who clearly dislikes women. Obviously, that didn’t narrow down the ‘Where’s Waldo’ search by much. But still, you really just couldn’t shake the obvious question…

Why go through all the trouble of burning these women, but not completely, just to dump their bodies?

And it seemed that question floated around the backs of everyone else’s mind, too. It was bizarre, to say the least.

Currently, the team is all stuffed in said aforementioned makeshift office space, like sardines in a can, no less. Emily and JJ sat at the table together, as usual, Derek propped up against the wall, Hotch and Rossi stood brooding in the corner of the room, quietly discussing something between themselves, leaving you and Spencer situated in front of the board, where the geographical profile is mapped out.

“He’s operating within a 20 mile radius, dumping the bodies within an area he’s comfortable in. He’s either going to strike here.” Spencer points to a spot on the map with his finger, tapping against it slightly before dragging it across and towards another spot, “or here.” His features were swamped in pondering thought, his honeyed gaze encompassing the sight in front of him.

“Yeah, but i still don’t understand why he’d go through all the trouble of burning them till they die from smoke inhalation, and then discarding the bodies. jus’ seems a lil’ pointless t’ me” Morgan drawls out, his stance wide and his arms folded, one of his hands resting on his chin.

“well ain’t that the million dollar question.” You reply, with a sigh lathered in perplexity, your arms folded in a similar manner, but with one of your hands rubbing up the side of your arm, in a absentminded fashion.

“Morgan’s right, it doesn’t make any sense.” Hotch pauses slightly, contemplating - like everybody else in the room. His dark eyebrows stitched together, and his lips set in a taut frown.

“None of it makes sense, i mean, even the dumping method, why bulk bags and not just plain ol’ trash bags?” Emily questions, sitting back in her seat with an exhale, her legs crossed with her boot-clad foot tapping against one of the legs of the rickety table.

You blink, a thought coming to you at her question. “Theres a Hardware store in the middle of town, right?” You throw out, hands stuffed into the pockets of your black slacks.

Hotch’s brows furrow, as he regards you. “Yes, why?” He says simply, almost curiously.

You shrug, “so then he’d probably be getting the bulk bags from there, since it’s easily accessible.”

Everyone goes silent at your question, seemingly mulling it over, before Morgan responds.

“If so, why wouldn’t he just buy trash bags?” He says, with a cock of his brow.

“Because he wants the victims to be found.” Spencer states, plainly, piling onto your train of thought and rocking back and forth on his heels, as his tongue darts out, swiping his slightly dry bottom lip.

“Think about it, a bulk bag is much more conspicuous than a simple trash bag, he wants his handiwork to be seen - maybe not right away, but he knows at least one person would find the presence of a large plastic bag near a dumpster to be…alarming, whereas no one would bat an eye at seeing a trash bag. Same goes for his M.O, he most likely has some sort of access to an incinerator, perhaps due to his job, which allows him to discreetly ‘burn’ his victims, before dumping them in a way which derives notice.”

His hands flail around wildly as he talks, an endearing habit that makes it seem like he’s so excited to talk about what he’s discussing that, at the minimum, one part of his body has to move with the speed of his mouth.

You smile - more of a secret thing, really, just for yourself - you love listening to that man talk. It’s the eighth wonder of the world, to you.

Everyone nods, the notion seemingly settling into their psyche without much problem, as logically, it did make sense.

“If thats the case, then we have a problem.” Rossi scratches the side of his jaw lightly, his head tilted and his bronze hues directed at the table.

Emily raises her brow, in clear need of clarification. “What problem?” She murmurs out, her head cocked to the side, questioningly.

“We have an unsub who wants attention, and will stop at nothing to get it.” Hotch adds on, sharing a brief glance with Rossi, his expression more grave than usual, before he fishes out his phone, dialling a number and setting the onyx Nokia down onto the table. “Garcia, you’re on speaker.”

“Hello, my favourite crime-fighters! To what do i owe the pleasure?” The shrill cheery voice of Penelope Garcia rings out, immediately bringing a small smile to your face. She really was like bathing in sunshine.

“We were wondering if you could take a look at a hardware store’s sales within the last month, more specifically of FIBEC bulk bags.” Hotch drags out, his arms still folded and his face betraying nothing but his usual stoicism.

“Oh, that i can do upside down with my hands tied, sir! just…one…second.” Penelope’s voice hauls out, followed by the rapid clinking of keyboard keys. “What’s the name of the store?” She asks, her tone focused.

“Sally’s Shack” Hotch replies, his tone equally levelled.

After a few moments, and a lot more keyboard clicking, Penelope finally pipes up again. “Ah-hah! so, it appears that our shack in question has sold six FIBEC bulk bags within the last month, all to the same buyer - well, at least the same credit card was used, ending in 4678.”

Hotch looks visibly taken aback slightly, before he asks “Can you get a name, Garcia?”

“Already on it, sir.” Penelope replies, with her usual peachy tone.

A tense silence follows, only sporadically broken by the clickity-clack of Penelope’s rainbow pastel keyboard. Then, she pipes up again.

“Okay…looks like the card belongs to a 33-year-old, Mr. Eugene Humphrey, who currently works at…” Her words trail off, obvious hesitance behind them “…burns funeral home and crematory, and owns a residence just in the middle of town.”

Everybody seems to pause, then. He matches the profile - Mid thirties, works a menial job which would give him access to a ‘discreet’ burning method and just so happened to purchase the same material used by the unsub, whilst also owning his own property not too far away from the hardware store in which the material was purchased…yeah that can’t be a simple coincidence.

“Pen, does he have a criminal record of any kind?” Your voice floats out, drifting through the confined space like Thumbelina on her shamrock lily-pad.

“I will have a looksie for you now, my sweet sugar muffin, just hang on one second-“ Penelope cuts herself off as her fingers begin their ministrations again, the keyboard rumbling with every tap, a smile edging on your face at the absurd term of endearment.

“Alright…looks like our guy spent six months in juvenile detention when he was sixteen for lighting his girlfriend’s car on fire, claimed he caught her cheating on him with his best friend, youch!”

You can practically see the cogs turning in your teammates heads, looks like you got your guy.

“Okay, thats good garcia, could you-“

“-send his information over? already done, sir.” promptly interrupting the low voice of your unit chief, in a way that is so Penelope, that he can’t really object.

“Thank you Garcia, We appreciate it” Hotch replies in his typical authoritative tone.

“You’re welcome, my gorgeous gods and goddesses, now go and save lives.” Penelope chirps out, swinging on her swanky desk chair, her hands now preoccupied with a bright pink fluffy pen.

“You’re the best, babygirl.” Morgan calls out, his tone suave and a smirk illuminating his features.

Penelope lets out a giggle, replying in her token-teasing articulation. “Only for you, my chocolate thunder, now ta-ta!” Her sing-songy voice sounds out with finality, before the line drops, indicating that she ended the call.

“Alright, everyone, looks like we’re scoping a funeral home. I’ll go inform the captain, and i need all of you to gear up, as a cautionary, is that clear?” Hotch demands, his gaze expectant.

resounding murmurs of “yes” fill out the area, to which the dark-haired agent replies to with a curt nod, before swiftly exiting the room.

You let out a breath, turning to the rest of the team with a faintly reluctant expression. “Let’s get this show on the road then, guys.”

Morgan flashes an easy smile, coming up behind Spencer and clapping him on the shoulder, his smooth voice infused with teasing. “You heard her, pretty boy, let’s get moving.”

Spencer has to resist an eye-roll, his cheeks immediately flushing raspberry red, whereas you just let out a small confused laugh - clearly not in on whatever inside joke that seems to be playing out - turning on your heel and prancing out of the room, leaving the two of them to squabble like 10-year-old brothers.

Though, on your way out, you swear you saw Emily squeeze JJ’s hand underneath the table…

Something went wrong. Terribly wrong.

You don’t know how - hell, nobody on the team knows how, but Humphrey somehow found out you were coming. He might’ve gotten some frustratingly accurate in-tell, or maybe he just… knew. After all, bad news attracts bad news, right? And being arrested for the murders of four women sure seems like pretty bad news. Or maybe he was a paranoid fuck. Either thought seems plausible, but currently pointless.

Ironically, Burn’s Funeral Home and Crematory, was well…burning. The two-story high foundation, which you’re guessing was once a depressing waxen colour, is now engulfed in orange. Bright, blazing orange, and for a moment, you almost believe the sun crash-landed onto earth.

The ignited shades dance across your features , making you look like you’re almost glowing. You hear Morgan let out a few curses, and Emily mutter something eerily close to “Oh my God” under her breath. But, the rest of you remain silent, devoid of speech, heads lifted up and staring at the fiery wreckage. Drawn in, entranced.

You can’t pull your eyes away, Not even when Hotch snaps out of his own silent gazing and begins to talk around you, shooting out instructions like darts to your co-workers. Well, until you hear a fire-man trudge past you, in full PPE and carrying a winding anaconda-like hose, writhing along the gravelled floor with each step he takes, similar orders being barked out of his mouth to his team-mates. But, that isn’t what grabs your attention, it’s the information coming from his radio.

A mother and her child are stuck in there, apparently looking for a casket for her husband before the building went up in flames, and they aren’t even going to attempt to save them - something about the fire being “too large, too risky.”

A mother and her child. Her 8-year-old little girl who just lost her father, and now is going to lose her own life, trapped in a scorching maze.

Not on your watch.

You will not, cannot, let this sick bastard take another girl’s life.

Your legs move before your brain even has time to catch-up, darting straight past multiple fire personnel who all try to stop you, but you dodge each one. Not even the sounds of the team shouting your name halts you, your figure retreating straight into the raging inferno.

What’s that saying? Moth to a flame?

Well, consider the molten-structure your flame. Because you won’t stop, will not stop, not until the mother and her daughter are out. Safe.

Either way, God appeared before Moses in the form of a fiery bramble. And maybe, he was doing it again, instead for their freedom, not yours or a 120-year-old man’s. You were getting them out of this desert, even if there were no miles of grainy-sand and the occasional tumbleweed, but instead hot, piercing, smouldering heat.

Spencer’s astute brain doesn’t take long to register what the hell you are doing. And, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so panicked. He practically screeches your name, moving to go after you, but with no such luck as Morgan and Hotch hold him back. But he fights, and he fights harder than he’s ever had in his life, because this is you.

“Let me go! she’s in there! you can’t just let her go in there!” He shrieks, every word sharpened with utter desperation.

Neither Morgan’s nor Hotch’s replies to his incessant wailing actually penetrates his mind. He feels like he’s underwater, succumbing to the depths of the Mariana Trench, fading black and blue.

The water freezes over the longer you’re in there. Trapped in that dismal, enflamed formation. He feels sick, but he knows spilling his stomach content won’t provide any relief, it’s a sickness that’s lodged itself into his bones, into his very being. He wonders if this is what the Woolly Mammoths felt like during the first coming of the glacial-period, just observing as they, one-by-one, all perished to the frost.

He can’t have lost you. Not before he-

…Not before he could tell you that you’re his first thought when he wakes up, and his last before he surrenders himself to the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

No, this can’t be it. He refuses, he downright rejects the thought.

He just stares, and stares at the lit up property, his whole entity screaming for you to just make it. His mind and mouth spinning prayers to god’s he doesn’t even believe in because if there was any chance of that turning the cards in your favour, then he’s taking it and holding on tight.

The seconds feel like minutes, the minutes like hours. Time is a fickle thing, always stretching and compressing back together again depending on someone’s emotions. But, that philosophy does nothing to distract him from the ache. Because a life without you in it, he grasps, isn’t a life at all. Not one that he wants to live, anyway.

Two soot-covered frames emerge from the fiery entrance, immediately being swept away by fire-personnel for medical treatment. And his heart stops, until he realises you aren’t either of those coughing figures.

Where are you? Why aren’t you coming out?

Time seems to stretch again, expanding like a black-hole over his fitful, beating heart. Ready to consume, ravage. But, maybe, that would be an act of mercy, anything would be an act of mercy compared to the waiting. Agonising, hoping and waiting.

Then…a third figure finally bursts out of the flames. He’s seen that mop of hair before, he knows that hair. Even at a fair distance, hunched over and simultaneously gasping for air and hacking your lungs up, tousled, with skin embedded in ash, You’re beautiful and you’re alive.

You’re alive.

He pushes his body forward and he runs, he sprints and goes to you. And this time, Hotch and Morgan let him.

[dragonflight203]

Mass Effect 2 replay, Thane’s loyalty mission:

-Bailey says they don’t get many drell.

Logical enough. There aren’t many drell to start with, and presumably many stay close with hanar. Considering hanar are aquatic, how many enjoy traveling to terra based societies?

Those that visit the Citadel are likely on political business and would go to the presidium.

-“Duct rats” are a nice touch in world building. Of course the poor kids would play in the vents, and of course there are numerous ways for that to kill them. But who’s going to force them to stay out of the vents?

-Why do keepers maintain protein vats? Bailey just casually throws out their existence… Is that the raw material used to clone more keepers?

-I’m not fond of Bailey, but I respect his willingness to assist Thane because Thane is trying to save his kid.

-Thane: You didn’t tell him that kolyat plans to assassinate someone.

Renegade Shepard: I also didn’t tell him what you do for a living. Do you normally discuss assassinations with the police?

Good line.

-Mouse: I got some quarians that can strip the copy protection.

What’s the story here? Quarians on pilgrimage? Quarians on the fleet with a side hustle?

-Mouse turned around and saw a known assassin and the dead savior of the citadel. That would strike fear in anyone.

-The renegade interrupt is pretty brutal. You just go straight to beating the information out of him without even trying to talk him into it.

Given his history with Thane, that’s pretty shitty.

-There’s an extra layer of tragedy in that Mouse got Kolyat the assassination job as a favor to Thane, and that he refuses to tell you how he knows Thane because Thane hasn’t told you.

Mouse is far more loyal to Thane than Thane is to him.

-I’d argue that the upper right option to persuade Mouse is better than the blue paragon.

Blue paragon leans on his fondness for Thane to freely give the information.

Upper right, you pay him so he can get off the Citadel to somewhere safe.

-Mouse thinks Kelham will kill him for telling. He’s probably right.

If you go renegade, he asks Thane to kill Kelham if Thane has any fondness for Mouse.

And Thane… Never takes any additional steps to help Mouse. Considering the lengths Mouse goes to help him, you think he could repay him by pulling some strings to get him better work or the like.

-Bailey is so damn corrupt. Of course he takes bribes.

He acts tough and world weary and insists you need a strong hand to police a ward, but he doesn’t have the conviction to follow through.

-The interrogation room has a torture chair. What kind of “interrogations” does C-Sec normally perform?

-The whole interrogation is silly. Shepard should lead with that they’re a spectre. That should not require a high level of renegade.

I suppose it can be argued that the Council told Shepard to stick to the Terminus space, so they’re trying to avoid using their spectre status on the Citadel.

-How does Khalim not know what a spectre is and that they can operate outside the law?

That seems like criminal 101. He should be actively avoiding spectre attention.

-Renegade Shepard: I’ll cut your balls of and sell them to a krogan.

Another really good line.

-Khalim uses the insults frog and tadpole for drells.

-The reasons for anti-human sentiment that Bailey gives probably work better in a run where Shepard killed the Council.

Why did a human fleet guard the Citadel for months? Are you telling me the turians couldn’t divert one of their fleets to do so?

The increased number of humans in C-Sec is also a baffling. The presidium was attacked in the Battle for the Citadel; do you expect me to believe that’s where most C-Sec recruits come from?

Recruiting after the battle should have been normal for any post-crisis situation. The only reason I can come up with is that prior to the battle the number of humans on the force was restricted, and that was removed/relaxed after.

-I dislike paragon Shepard’s line about Talim being elected: If a majority votes for him, like it or not, that’s how the system works.

That is beyond naive. Plenty of elected officials have down awful things.

-I’m not fond of this part the catwalk part of the mission. I’d like to see all the outcomes to dealing with Kolyat, and that requires replaying the entire section.

-One of Talim’s campaign platforms is C-Sec corruption.

Since the Shin Akiba enclave opened, there’s been a 24% increase in racial crimes despite 116 more officers being assigned. Most of those are human, and human officers will turn a blind eye to human crime. Don’t expect a captain to behave any differently.

Khalim runs the Shin Akiba enclave, and he bribes Bailey to turn a blind eye to him.

Corruption does inspire more corruption. Even if Bailey treats everyone equally – and we have no proof that he does or does not – watching him take bribes sends a message to his people that ignoring regulations is okay.

-And of course, we immediately learn afterwards that Talim is also corrupt.

I wish he wasn’t. That dilutes the impact of his criticisms of Bailey. Which is probably the point.

-Why does Talim sprint at one point?

The section from the krogan intimidating the human shopkeeper to the bar where the barkeeper is shaken down is bizarre. There’s no reason for Talim to run through the ward. What message does that send to voters?

-Does Kolyat have any kind of plan? It looks like he positioned himself to shoot Talim in the back then make a run for it. That’s awful. The krogan bodyguard could just shoot him.

-No matter how you handle Kolyat, he’s obviously not an experienced criminal.

He’s very lucky Thane came to save him. The prison system or the underworld would eat him alive.

-You can feel the spite and anger when he speaks to Thane. Good voice actor.

Why did he even want to become an assassin? That’s never said. He’s furious at Thane; did he become an assassin to spite him? In hopes he might run into him if they’re both in the field?

I don’t think he wanted to be like Thane. At least not consciously.

-A running theme through this mission is that Thane is tired of violence. He’s not happy if you beat up Mouse, he’s not happy if you beat the target’s name out of Khalim, and he questions the morality of killing Talim to prevent Kolyat from doing so.

Thane’s comfortable with violence in his life, but he wants better for Kolyat. Part of that is keeping him as far away from it as possible.

-If you go renegade when speaking to Kolyat, he asks what right Thane had to kill all those people.

Thane: I was six when the hanar began to train me. I didn’t know any better.

Still insisting that you have no responsibility for those murders, Thane?

The cracks are starting to show.

-Thane admits to killing his wife’s killers in front of C-Sec.

Not the best choice, Thane. There’s going to be enough of an uphill battle getting Kolyat off the hook without adding you to the fire.

-I appreciate Bioware repeatedly stating that this does not fix the relationship between Thane and Kolyat. It’s a start, but they’ll both have to keep working to improve it.

-You can lean on Bailey to keep Kolyat out of jail.

Not the most moral choice, but nothing about this mission has been.

Normandy

-Aria gave Shepard’s email address to Diana, Nif’s mother

I am amused that she keeps giving all these random people Shepard’s email address. How does that go? Does she have them brought to afterlife? Does an email with the information arrives in their email box? Does she have a courier send them a datapad?

And they just go, Welp I guess I have to send an email to Shepard now. Don’t want to find out what will happen if I don’t…

-How did Irikah come to terms with Thane being an assassin?

He was still taking work when they were together, so he didn’t quit.

Was she okay with it as long as the targets were only bad people?

-Thane accepted death when he was 12.

That’s also the age where he first killed someone.

I’d love to hear the story of how those two are related.

-Shepard tells Thane that by his own rules he doesn’t need to feel bad about killing his wife’s killers since he was on autopilot.

Thane insists he is responsible since he made the choice to hunt them.

Apparently, the same does not apply to making the choice to accept a commission to kill someone.

Those are some thin lines you’re drawing, Thane.

-Hitting on Thane right after he explains to you how his wife died is rather creepy. I wish Bioware had handled that better. Maybe they could have left the option out of this conversation and given Thane an additional conversation where starting a romance was an option.

-Samara fought Nihlus because he killed an unarmed civilian.

Nihlus eventually got away be creating a situation where she had to choose between letting an innocent die or pursuing him.

Nihlus was definitely a renegade spectre.

-Samara also respects him for using her code against her so well.

There’s a running theme with Samara where she respects strength even if she disagrees with morals.

She regards Morinth the same way.

-As a mercenary Samara killed the rest of her band to prevent them from turning slaves over to collectors.

Samara has always been firm in her convictions and unwavering due to personal connection, even prior to becoming a justicar. It’s probably one of the reasons she made it through the training.

-She also lectures the slaves on strength and the ability to defend oneself, then gave them supplies and released them on the Citadel.

This makes me snort every time. These slaves were probably deeply traumatized, and then this asari who murdered all of her companions gives them weapons and armor, tells them to get stronger, and dumps them on an unprepared city. That must have been an experience for everyone. Did she even warn city officials?

I’m sure there are societies set up to help former slaves adjust to freedom. Samara probably could have found one with chapters in her system if she had run an extranet search.

[after-nine-at-the-oasis]

Hey guyss

😬 yeahh the cameras :(

:( bc that's just a rough situation

Ahh yeah then you can see all the trauma of that xdd

Oh right and they get real (not real) cameras lol

Hmm okay so he did try to break in

Ope?

LOL his accomplice o.o guess he did need help xD

Guess he doesn't care about being found now? Fair enough

Do you not see they're cops o.o

Ayy we love the commitment xD

Oh no-

Sir o.o

XD

Oh gosh they really hate her o.o

Don't go in too angry bestie be chill xdd

Yeah bestie she knows 😬

C'mon girl you got this 😬

😑 sir

Leave her aloneee

Okay good response good response

GLAD?

Bro I hate this guy 😑

Okay be chill be chill

But also go off girl xd

Honeyy xd 😭

OPE good thing they left those cameras o.o

??

The bandages and such, were there two of them?

Annnd they don't know the island 😭😬

Nope

Oh gross 😭

NOOO sir sorry 😭 poor girlie :((

Bro is crazy o.o

Bailey now is not the time xD

Nolan I don't think that'll work

Nah yeah he's way crazy o.o

I mean it kinda is a whole operation now xD

Nolannn be chill 😭

Guysss 😭😭

Maybe they'll hear the yelling?

UMMM

UH OH UH OH

EXCUSE ME???

Imagine if they killed Bailey right here

Did he shoot John in the leg???

YEAH RUN GUYS GUN

And screaming lol

Ahhh no him

Howw though?

OHH YEAH THE JAM

SLAY NOLAN :D

YOO go off Nolan with the chair

Y'allll 😭😬

Uh ohhh uh oh

OOP go off

Hey guys XD I mean why are they even there lol

Just for funsies xD

Ah for towels clearly 😌

EW

LOL the backup xD slay

ICONIC go off all y'all

XD funny that Nyla and Angela were too late lol but I'm sure the lift out and emotional just, them being there helped!

Ayy slay Celina :DD

Nice compliments Tim :))

Lol nahhh he ain't

Aww hey guys xD

XD yeah she's being going through it lol xd 🤢

Awww besties :'))

I love them sm thank you very much <33

Yeah it'll be back to normal soon :'DD :')

I'm glad we didn't drag that out too long <33

Aww that good night Celina was cute idk why

The way he said it was satisfying/sweet :)

Babeys <33 🥰

OOP detective's list o.o?

Uh ohh

Nah she's gonna see her name farther down but still there hey :)

Good shock?

Uh oh

Okay maybe it's not good shock xd

ಠ⁠_⁠ಠ huh??

Oh bc she'll be on it for so long :((?

Aww 17 😭😭 Honey I'm so sorry :(((

Lucyyy 😭😭😭😭😭💔❤️

Poor babey :'(( <3

I thought I saw a bit of a clip that said 17th place and that explains it xdd 😭

Nahh she'll do something that moves her up idk how but she will

I'm glad story wise she didn't do too amazing though :') :'/

XD hey besties lol

You look tired

I mean that's kinda what we expected though isn't it lol

Oogh gosh o.o pieces 😬

Ahh yeah xd makes sense

The getting paranoid lol

I mean they were conducting surveillance lol-

I mean they didn't do much xD

XDD guys

LOL

I mean is it really that pleasant there xD

After all the. yk. murder lol

Awww honey 😭 xd

Okay phew I don't have to see her tell Tim lol

Not that he would've been upset with her or anything, he probably hugged her lol :) but still it would hurt me

I mean is it worse though xD

Awww what is it (this is a tiny bit of the clip I saw, like "prize for 17th" is what I saw)

AWWWWW STOP THAT IS SO CUTE

Did he get that as 1st originally on purpose :'))?

Honey <33

LOL metro xD

AWWWW lovelies 🥰🥰 of course she did :')

If this doesn't prove he supports you doing that idk what does xD

Awww honey :')) :'( you could never disappoint him <3

AWW yeah :') xD

Y'ALLLLL they're so cute <333

Aww it is cute/sweet xD <33 🥰❤️

Ope 👀?

Nahh it's a tv ain't it xD

Yep

Lol good for you guys XD

I bet you got that from the beach though and I just have to say. You do know you live by the beach don't you xD

Awww y'all 🥰 at least you had a good time for a while there lol

Happy Honeymoon for real guys 🥰🥰❤️

Awww lol I love them <33

[necros-writing-stuff]

what if instead of signing them, bailey just tears the divorce paper.

I read your post about the ex-caretaker who forced bailey to rape pre-pc. maybe that would happen again but this time there's no one force him to do so. when he came to his sense, he would be horrified, yet he already decided to never let pre-pc leave him.

You're mistaken, thinking you have the choice to leave. You belong to him. Always have, since that first time.

Bailey wasn't that stupid naïve boy anymore. He is a hardened man that knows how cruel the world is. And you know that. You know how he's changed.

So you shouldn't be surprised when he rips up the papers and tells you not to be so stupid.

"Bailey, be reasonable. We rarely see each other because of work, and when we do we fight. This needs to end," you beg stepping around the desk to stand beside his chair.

"No. We got married for a reason. It's in the fucking vows, till death do us part," he sneers, glaring up at you from his seat. If you don't stop pushing, he'll have to show you your place.

"You sell orphans to the highest bidder, Bailey! Why would I want to stay with a man who does that?" here you fucking go again.

Bailey looks straight ahead as you list the various reasons you should divorce, each one only serving to drive his temper further up the wall. Eventually he has enough.

Grabbing you by the neck and cutting of your rambling, Bailey slams you into the desk. Even as your nails claw at his hands, he keeps his face blank and emotionless as he starts ripping your clothes off.

"You need to remember who you belong to. Who kept you safe all these years," he mutters, undoing his fly. He's not preparing you. You don't deserve it.

Flailing on the desk, you kick and punch, but non of seems to register to the caretaker. He just spreads your thighs and forces his way into your poor little hole.

Not even the choked sounds of your crying stop his assualt on your body. He just thrusts over and over and over as your body ragdolls, realisation that you can't escape sinking in.

Seeing how you become more compliant, his grip on your throat relaxes, allowing for a deep inhale of breath. You should be thanking him for not just choking you unconscious. He might, now that he thinks about it. Then use you over and over again. He's not using a condom either - he could get you pregnant.

The thought sends a shiver up his spine, and he had to lean over your body and start leaving a trail of bites up your chest, neck and jawline. Has to mark you properly, and hurt you while he does it.

"You don't need to go anywhere," he whispers into your ear, "you're going to stay with me. Let me take care of you, as always."

No response. That fine, he doesn't need one. Doesn't need to think about how you look like you're staring into the void, tears freely falling down your cheeks. How red your eyes are from the tears.

Behind the glazed eyes, you feel the last slither of hope you had for Bailey crumble. How had he gotten to this point? How had he fallen so far? Was it your fault? You had been with him this entire time, you should have seen the warning signs and stopped this.

It hurts, every drag of his cock hurts so bad, and your heart aches, too. Even back then he had tried to make it nice for you. That first time, when the old caretaker had ordered him to rape you. He had been remorseful and had done everything to make up for it.

This man above you wasn't the boy you had fallen in love with. He was just as evil as the old caretaker. Perhaps worse. Even after promising to be different.

Bailey finishes with a grunt, pulling you flush against his hips so that his prick is as deep in as it can get. He withdraws after that, sitting back down on his chair and swiping his hair from his face. You make no move to get away or fix your appearance. The damage was done. You only want to lie still cry for a moment longer, mourn the loss of your love. Even as the feeling of your husband's cum drips down your ass onto his desk. It has to be accompanied by blood.

Bailey, now calming, clenches his fists. He doesn't like you looking so sad. Doesn't like that it's because of something he did. But it was necessary.

And so will chaining you and keeping you in the house. You can't be trusted to work anymore, you could run off. Then there'd be the hassle of finding you, which wouldn't be hard. Just annoying.

"I hate you," you whimper out, voice fragile but full of venom.

It doesn't matter, he tells himself. It doesn't. His heart doesn't hurt over those words. Not at all.

[writing-in-april]

The Melody Lives On

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Seeing Spencer after so long apart makes past feelings come to the surface again.

A/N: Hey heyy 🥰 this is my third fic for my 1250 follower celebration!! It was based on a request that @imagining-in-the-margins passed along to me- if you want to see a photo of the original request it’ll be on the follower celebration Masterlist! It’s got vague references to the prison arc and is also inspired by Grey’s Anatomy 🥰 Thank you to @lexieshuntingsstuff for getting me back to realizing how much I love Grey’s 😊 Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy, and requests are open!

Warnings: Nothing I guess- unless vague references to the prison arc bother you

Main Masterlist Word Count: 2.2k

“Dr. Y/L/N to conference room A please. Dr. Y/L/N to conference room A please. ” Came through the intercom. I was sitting in the hospital cafeteria munching on crackers while reading a book that I honestly wasn’t paying that much attention to because of how dead tired I was. I couldn’t stifle the groan that escaped me, I didn’t want my first break in what seemed like forever to be cut short.

Besides the fact that my bones and muscles ached I willed my body to move out of my chair despite it’s very prominent protests. There was a line of attending that led outside the conference room, I guess I had been the only one they had forgotten to get the memo out too.

Karev then came up behind me with just as much of a quizzical look on his face as mine and the rest of the attendings- I guess no one knew why we were here.

The only hint that the rest of us got to what was going on inside was when Arizona left the room and said it was some sort of FBI interrogation before she scurried off back towards peds.

As the line dwindled down to just me and Karev with Meredith in the room my mind started to wander to the person that I knew that happened to be in the FBI. Well- I guess I didn’t know him anymore, it had been a decade plus since I had seen him.

Of course said person that I happened to be thinking about happened to be in the room.

As soon as I saw his fluffy hair memories came flooding back. He looked so different now, more mature. But, I could clearly tell who it was; it was Spencer.

We had met just as I had been starting my first year of college. At first I had assumed he was the same, a freshman. Then I had learned that he was actually already on his second PHD- which had been in mathematics if my memory serves me well.

I had admittedly gawked at him at first like so many had done to him as well when they found out about his vast valleys of intellect that seemed to go on forever. When I had asked him to tutor me in my own mathematics course it was for the sole reason of bumping up the grade I had let slip. That was until I had gotten to know the sweet boy who was almost a man, though his baby face definitely did try to fight that fact. Guilt had immediately cropped up within me once I realized how much of a fool I was to not want to get to know him deeper than just the ‘child prodigy’ that everyone knew him as. He was one of the nicest people I had ever had the pleasure to come across, plus his bountiful knowledge made conversations with him extremely riveting to say the least. I remember apologizing to him profusely that first night, that was the first time I had gotten the chance to see the true extent of how sweet his kind eyes could be.

What had first been a simple somewhat feigned friendship to get a good tutor turned into the closest friendship that I had ever had. That close friendship had eventually turned into a romantic relationship one that in my opinion rivaled any of the great classic love stories.

Unfortunately, fate is rarely kind to lovers and what had once been sweet turned sour. It wasn’t any one of our faults, I knew that. But, my blossoming career as a surgeon led me to get an internship in Seattle while Spencer was led to the front steps of the FBI.

Every time I thought back on it I bitterly laughed at the irony of us both being led to Washington, though they were different ones that were on the other sides of the country. I had no animosity towards Spencer and the last time I saw him neither did he. But, the memories stung painfully when looking back on them. They stung even worse when I was faced with the sight of the man who had stolen my heart more than a decade ago and had yet to give it back.

His hair had grown out since I had last seen him, it now curled more around his ears and was much fluffier. The color of his soft curls would make anyone obsessed, mousy brown that shined a little bit of a burnt caramel when the tops of his curls hit the light. He had taken to letting his curls run wild which I had always liked to see when he would wash his hair of the gel he used to religiously put in.

A new addition along with his curls was the scruff he had begun to let grow out a little. When I knew him growing out his scruff a little would’ve been a completely foreign concept to young Spencer. I remember him always complaining about how scratchy it felt when he even let it grow out a little. The scruff also used to seem jarring on his younger face, looking out of place on his boyish face. Now his face definitely suited the scruff.

He had changed a lot indeed, but underneath it all I could still see the Spencer I knew. His eyes held a darkness now that matched well with the fluffy curls and scruff. The darkness that deepened his eyes was attractive for sure, but I wondered what had made the sweet boy become so dark. There was a part of me that wanted to know this Spencer as well, even with the darkness, despite the fact that I hadn’t really known him in so long.

His eyes had been piercing right into my own as I took the sight of him in. Those dark eyes felt like they were reaching right into my soul and hooking their claws in deep to draw me right back into him. Though I can’t say I minded much, being drawn back into Spencer’s warmth sounded like something we may both need.

“Dr.?” One of the men that was in the room with Spencer spoke up to get my attention. They must have been talking while the both of us had zoned out looking at each other.

The older man that spoke to me looked like he may have been a bit too old to work for the FBI. If I didn’t know that Spencer worked for them I would’ve thought Arizona had been pulling our legs when she told us what this was for because Instead of acknowledging the other man I turned back to face Spencer and spoke softly,”It’s good to see you, Spencer.”

“You too.” His voice croaked and was hoarse when he replied. His coworkers looked extremely confused with what was happening, especially the woman with blonde hair that was eyeing me up and down. Though in her position I didn’t blame her, I’m assuming nothing had ever been shared with his coworkers ever since he had joined the FBI about someone that had been in his life all those years ago.

The group of us stood at an awkward standstill for a minute, I was unsure if I was supposed to say anything. I fidgeted a bit uncomfortable with a bunch of eyes fixated directly on me before Spencer decided to speak up to break the tension, “Um- well Y/N- there was a suspect that came here a few weeks ago to possibly find some people that would um- be suitable victims for him.”

I pushed my reminiscing thoughts of Spencer out of my mind just so I could properly answer their questions before hopefully snagging a minute away with him to talk. I wouldn’t lie, seeing him after all these years made my feelings flicker in a way I hadn’t felt in so long. And, it was really nice to hear him say my first name again. He was really the only one to ever make those butterflies in my stomach swell and sparks fly. I had even resigned myself to never feel those wonderful feelings of blossoming love again.

But, perhaps fate had decided to give us a second chance, realizing it had been too cruel to us by pulling us apart.

When the questions ended, which unfortunately I had really been no help to them- the only people that would’ve been able to help with the victims were probably Meredith or maybe Bailey who had been in contact with the poor people who had ended up as victims.

I moved to shuffle out of the room, though I purposefully lingered in hopes of Spencer pulling me aside to speak privately. I didn’t want to do it myself, he was on an important job after all.

My heart skipped a beat when I felt his fingers tentatively wrap his fingers around my wrist. Even from just a soft touch it was evident that his hands were not the same hands that I remembered. They were the same shape, his fingers were just as long and nimble and his palms were just as all encompassing, but there was something different in the way they felt. They felt rougher, covered in more calluses then I would think possible on him. The hands I remembered were baby soft as if they had been untouched by the world. Maybe the calluses were just from him handling the gun I saw strapped to his side, or maybe it was the same thing that had made the rest of him harder.

Even though he was an obviously harder- more damaged man compared to the one I knew I still wanted those callused hands to stroke my cheek again.

The yearning to be with him again had already flickered into a roaring fire just from seeing him with my eyes again and with one soft touch. I didn’t care in the slightest how much the world had changed him. The world had battered and bruised him, probably quite literally from my guess. I wanted to get to know this Spencer, even with the bruises he still filled my stomach full of butterflies and sparked my feelings into a roaring fire exactly like he had done so before.

I turned to face him, a little nervous that he’d tell me that he never wanted to see me again despite the fact that I knew he’d never say that to me no matter how much of a changed man he was.

“Do you want to get a coffee while I’m in town, maybe so we can- um catch up after your shift?” His voice was so soft, almost meek, giving me a little taste of what Spencer had been like and who he still was at his core.

“Yeah I’d like that, Spencer, just have one more surgery and then I’m yours.” His two coworkers that he had come with were giving us both looks like they’d be interrogating Spencer on the ride back. Yeah he definitely had never said anything about me judging by their looks I now cared to look at. I couldn’t blame him, the memories had been painful to look back on myself. But, seeing him now made them tinge with a little bit of sweetness instead of growing more bitter with time.

I pulled out my phone that was in my white jacket pocket and asked, “what’s your number?”

I had his old number memorized by heart easily even after all these years. It was as if I had taken a small portion of Spencer’s eidetic memory just so I could hold onto a number that after over ten years is surely not usable. He gave me his new number with a distinctly D.C area code with a sweet smile on his face. As I left the room to scoot over to the surgery I was due to perform I was sparkling with anticipation- I could almost taste the coffee already.

As I started my last surgery of my long shift, someone turned on the music playlist that I always had on a loop during my surgeries. A song that reminded me of Spencer was the first one that came on the shuffle. It wasn’t one that reminded me of the Spencer I once knew, but the new version of Spencer I had just met.

I focused in on the task at hand just as I always did. Cutting with pristine precision, I worked quickly but diligently. I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, but I wouldn’t skimp on my work. In the back of my mind I was still giddy like the schoolgirl I had been when I had first met Spencer. I couldn’t wait to get that coffee with him- I wondered if he still liked a gallon of sugar with it. Our first song had ended, but the melody lived on- maybe the melody was strong enough to start another.

—-

Tag list (message me if you want to be added):

All Works:

@shotarosleftpinky @oreogutz @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg

Spencer Reid/CM:

@calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes

[b3k1720]

Kidnapped

Massive trigger warning! : swearing, kidnapping, violence, corporal punishment, abuse and child labour. Not going far in to detail but I don’t know what’s triggering for some and not for others.

................

Ever Since Jacob had arrived in London and met Clara he has always been trying to eradicate child labour.

But no matter his efforts children always seem to wind back up in the factories....

Whether by choice, desperation of need or by force...

It was a seemingly normal day for the Frye family, Wednesday morning Rebekah sent Amelia and Emmette off to school with a hug and a kiss.

“When you get home for lunch there will be chocolate cake waiting so don’t take long, it goes cold quick” she announced.

“Okay mum!” Emmette answered with a large smile, extremely excited at the thought of gorging on cake then going back to school to brag about it to his friends.

“Come on we gotta go or we’ll be late Emmy” Amelia urged as she grabbed his hand and pulled him out the door.

The siblings walked down the Main Street of the strand, or more in their case jogged.

DING DING!, sounded the bell of Big Ben.

“Oh no we’re going to be late!”

“Don’t worry I know a short cut” Emmette offered as he pointed to the alley near them,

“That’ll take us to class in less than five minutes my friend Danny told me about it!”

Amelia looked to the alley...she didn’t know if it was a good idea...

“But mum and dad said not to go through alleys..” she answered in a worried tone.

“Hey do you want to get the cane because I don’t” Emmette huffed.

“No...ok but we gotta be quick!” Amelia quickly yelled to her brother before she started to run in to the alleyway.

Emmette followed close behind, not stopping at all!

Halfway though their path was blocked...by men in red.

“Hello kiddies...where are you both off to?” on of them called out with a grin.

Both the children took a step back, their father warned them about the blighters....although years ago he took control of London from them there was always those who stayed loyal...

“We are going to school...please we are already late” Amelia tried to beg, she didn’t want any trouble to start...they had some defence training but it would be useless against five large men with weapons.

“Oh I don’t think you lot need school, it’s pretty useless when you think about it” another man commented with a chuckle.

“Besides I think you’d both do well at the brick making plant...don’t you think boys?” Another added which caused the others to agree.

By this point even Emmette was getting scared,

“W-We don’t want to work in the factory...o-our mother wouldn’t like it” the poor boy stammered.

“We weren’t asking brat!” The man who spoke before growled as he grabbed Amelia and another grabbed Emmette.

Both the children let out screams,

“Let us go, please, please!” Emmette cried as the men got out some rope and tied them up.

“When our daddy finds out he’ll make you pay!” Amelia screamed, trying to put on a brave face for her little brother, which in the end was useless as she began to cry as well.

The Blighters laughed and shoved rags in their mouths to shut them up, they couldn’t have attention drawn to them of course.

Soon the children were thrown in to a carriage and taken across the city...

A few hours later Rebekah patiently waiting for her children to arrive home for lunch,

But as the hour passed she began to worry...

“What’s taking them so long..” she muttered to herself as the heat dissipated from the cake.

Soon it was one’ o’clock, lunchtime passed...the children had never missed lunch before.

Rebekah had a sick feeling fall on her...she had to be sure nothing had happened...

So quickly she threw on her coat, locked up the house and made her way down to the school.

‘Maybe they didn’t finish there work and had to stay in’ she thought in hope.

‘Maybe they met Jacob and he took them to get lunch instead’ Rebekah hoped and prayed she was right, before heading up the steps to the school house.

Carefully she knocked on the door and all noise inside ceased before it was opened by a tall man wearing a black suit and small glasses.

“Mrs Frye I wasn’t expecting you...why the visit?” Mr baileys asked.

“I’ve just come to see Amelia and Emmette, just for a moment and I will be on my way” Rebekah answered with a nervous smile.

“I’m sorry Mrs Frye...I was under the impression the children were sick...they didn’t arrive for morning classes” he answered with some confusion in his tone.

“W-What?”

Rebekah felt weak, she felt absolutely sick and a rush of pure terror filled her.

Where were her babies!?

“Oh god” she cried before quickly dismissing herself and running back home, tears in her eyes and her throat almost closing up.

“Mrs Frye you alright?” A rook asked as they happened to be close by, seeing her upset and stopping her.

“N-No no I’m n-not p-please please y-you have to find j-Jacob!” Rebekah cried as they sat her down on some steps.

“Y-you have to find my h-husband Amelia a-and Emmette a-are missing!” She sobbed as it felt harder to breathe.

Oh where were they!

“It’s ok mrs we’ll find him!” The rook announced before whistling to attract the attention of his comrades.

“Go find the boss, it’s urgent!”

They nodded and quickly sped away!

It wasn’t long till they found him near the Thames beating up a man who had been intentionally selling tainted food.

“Boss you gotta come quick, it’s your Mrs!” One of the rooks yelled to their leader.

“What!?” Jacob answered before dropping the man and sprinting over to the carriage,

“Take me to her quick” he ordered.

Again it wasn’t long until they made their way back to where Rebekah was sitting, sobbing and trying to calm herself.

Seeing his wife utterly distraught Jacob launched himself from the carriage and pulled her in to his arms.

“What happened, are you alright what’s wrong?!” He asked in a urgent and rushed manner.

Jacob made Rebekah look at him, he was worried sick he’d never seen her this distraught.

“A-Amelia and E-Emmette didn’t come h-home for l-lunch!” She cried.

“I-I went to the s-school to s-see if t-they were ok b-but their t-teacher said t-they didn’t c-come to cl-class this morning!”

Jacob felt himself now go pale.... this wasn’t good.

Blighters were still around, but there was a large number of people in London who would hurt children as well.

“It’s going to be ok d-darling w-we’ll find them” he answered shakily as he tried to console her.

“Let’s get you home...I’ll go find them” Jacob added as he helped her up and began to walk her home.

He to was scared for his children, he didn’t have any clues yet but he hid his worry.

Once home he sat her in the lounge room to relax the best she could before hurrying off to find them.

Meanwhile in Whitechapel Amelia and Emmette weren’t fairing well, once they were taken from the alley they were put straight to work.

The air in the factory was hot from the kilns, the dust hurt their eyes and got in their lungs causing them to feel sick and cough.

They were both given shovels and made to scoop coal in to the roaring fire.

“Hurry up or there won’t be any dinner for any of you brats!” The foremen yelled before heading back in to his office.

“I’m scared Meli” Emmette whimpered as he started to cry again,

The other children kept busy at their work, telling him to be quiet would only get them in trouble.

“I-I know Emmy b-but we gotta be brave” Amelia answered quickly before a blighter came up to the boy and smacked him upside the head.

“Shut up and work or I’ll have you both drowned in the cistern!” they threatened, pointing to a large metal barrel filled with water before hitting Amelia to and walking off.

Considering the era...this punishment was light.

Amelia rubbed her head, let out a sob as did Emmette and kept working the best they could.

It took Jacob well in to the night to find any clues of his children’s where-bouts, he searched all of London with his rooks offering a cash reward for anyone who could find them and report to him!

Around five in the morning it came as he was searching by a pub in Southwark, he heard a man drunkenly talking to another.

“I got five bob each for two kids I snatched yesterday at the strand” he laughed before taking a swig of his pint.

Jacob stood around the corner close by to listen.

“I sold ‘em to a buddy of mine in Whitechapel, chained them to a furnace he has” the man laughed as did the other.

“Cried like whimps begging for their mummy, the girl threatened to have her father on to me!” He bellowed.

‘You bloody bastard..’ Jacob growled to himself, not being able to stand it anymore!

Quick as a flash he had the man out of his chair pinned to the floor with a gun to his head.

“Where is the factory!” He roared.

“Who the fuck are you!?”

“I’m that girls father, you better tell me where my children are or that poor barkeep will be scrubbing your brains from the wood!” Jacob yelled as he jammed the gun in to the perpetrator.

The man started to splutter and whimper, the assassin almost swore he smelt urine!

“T-The brick factory I-in Whitechapel, p-please please let me go!”

The master assassin nodded and let him go but not before shooting him in the hand,

“Snatch anymore children again and I’ll fucking take your hands” he growled before running off, the mans screams behind him.

Jacob took a carriage and sped to Whitechapel...hoping they’d both be ok...

Later that morning Amelia and Emmette were woken to the machines roaring to life, they had been chained to the kilns all night by their waists and ankles.

Both children were exhausted!

“Get up you lazy good for nothing’s before you get a beating!” The foreman shouted pulling both of them up and shoving their tools in their hands.

And they tried to work they really did but poor Emmette was falling behind, stopping to rub his eyes and cough.

In the time they had been there their clothes and bodies were covered in soot and grime, turning their freckled skin black from the layers of coal dust.

Noticing this a large blighter picked him up and unchained him roughly,

“Tired eh? Well a dip should wake you!” He laughed before dragging Emmette away.

“Stop! Please don’t hurt him!” Amelia cried trying to hit the man with the heavy shovel, failing and being swatted away with a large slap.

The blighter took him over and held him head first over the cistern before dunking him under the water.

Left him there for longer than needed then let him up, laughing at the child’s spluttering and gasping before putting him back in.

‘THWAK!’ The blighter gasped before slumping to the floor and letting Emmette fall to the ground.

The children in the factory screamed out of fright as a large swarm of rooks ran in and started to kill the overseers.

“Daddy!” Amelia cried as Jacob jumped down from the beam above them and ran to them, there fire in his eyes and a terrible rage in his heart that only went away when he saw his children...

“Amelia sweetheart” he gasped, she was sooty and barely recognisable!

Quickly the assassin hugged her and smashed the chains off her body.

Then he went to his son, his precious boy and helped him up.

Emmette’s face wasn’t as dirty anymore from the dunking but the poor kid was trembling from the experience.

“D-Daddy..”

“Shh Shh it’s alright, let’s go home it’ll be ok” Jacob tried to comfort him as he held him in his arms before heading out to the carriage with his children.

A rook was kind enough to drive as Jacob sat in the back with them, cleaning off their faces and comforting them.

Rebekah hadn’t slept the whole night, crying and trying not to be sick with worry.

She waiting in the living room, pacing and waiting for Jacob to come home. Thinking of every horrible possibility to arise.

She prayed and hoped they would be ok!

The door suddenly opened and in ran Amelia!

“Mummy!” She cried and hugged her, Jacob came in holding Emmette who was still trembling.

Rebekah couldn’t do anything but cry and hold her daughter tight before getting her son off Jacob and holding him to.

It was a beautiful but traumatic reunion for the whole family....

For a while Emmette refused to bathe or swim as the water scared him to much.

Amelia didn’t ever walk alone, she only felt safe when her father or mother was with her, walking her to school and picking her up for lunch and after school as well.

And unfortunately both children would have night terrors for a very long time....

[brianc521]

Red Light | CEO Peter

Everyone knows now. 

It wasn’t totally your intention to tell his whole family and your parents, but with the situation it was inevitable.  

**

// 3 Hours Earlier // 

You were headed to the DMV, excited about why you were going. Sure it meant a lot of paperwork, but in the end it would make everything officially Mendes. Your ID, your passport, the likes of things Peter requires you have so he can whisk you away whenever he feels the need too. 

It was such a nice day outside, it was a bit chilly, but the sun was out and there weren’t that many clouds in the sky blocking out the gorgeous blue. 

Everything stopped. There was sudden white noise ringing in your ears. The ringing was loud, and disorienting. Everything was blurry and it took forever for your eyes to focus. Blinking helped but also made it worse. 

“Mrs. Mendes!” 

You wanted to tell Bailey to stop yelling so much. When did you have a headache? Why hadn’t you noticed it before you left the house? You're so good about keeping your headaches in check. 

“Mrs. Mendes!” 

Bailey was waving his hands in front of you, and your eyes physically widened when you noticed the blood trailing down the side of his face from his forehead. 

“Ba-” You coughed, reaching out for him. Your body ached, everything felt like it was being weighed down. In slow motion almost, like you were running through water. 

You flinch when someone grabs your head, holding it still. Something was then strapped over your body. You could hear someone crying, repeatedly saying sorry, and again Bailey called your name. 

What in the hell was going on right now? 

“Mrs. Mendes?” A soft feminine voice called. 

It was bright, white bright. But the noise stopped, and the throbbing in your head had you wincing. 

“Mrs. Mendes can you hear me?” 

You nodded slowly, trying to ease your head out of the dull throb. 

“Good that’s good. Does your head hurt?” 

“Yes.” You hiss, trying to reach for your head, stopping short when your arm hits the strap they’ve fastened around your arms. 

“Okay, they’ll take a look at that when we get to the hospital.” 

“Hospital?” You stare at her, taking in her soft features. She’s got gorgeous brown hair, hazel eyes, and a freckle on her left cheek.

“Do you remember what happened?” She asks softly, applying more pressure to your leg. It was then that you noticed the sharp pain in your leg. 

“No. It was so nice out, we were headed to the DMV.” 

“Mrs. Mendes, the car driving you was hit by a truck that ran a red light. The truck hit your side directly, and we had to cut you out of the car.” 

You stare at her in horror, and look around, finally taking in your surroundings.

“You’re in an ambulance with me and my partner Dean, we’re taking you to the hospital.” 

“Bailey? Where’s Bailey?” 

“Is Bailey your husband?” 

“No he’s my husband's driver.” 

“The man with you is fine, and being checked up at the scene. We need his statement for the accident.” 

“Peter?” You look at her. Her eyes snap to you and she raises an eyebrow. 

“Who’s Peter?”

“My husband, where is he? Is he coming?”

“The man you were with told me to tell Peter as soon as possible, I’ll contact him when we get you checked in.” 

**

“Mr. Mendes office, this is Stan, how may I direct your call?” 

“I need to speak with Peter Mendes please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?” 

“This is Sarah Paulsen, EMT, with truck 6, I need to speak to Peter Mendes regarding his wife Y/n Mendes.” 

Stan just about drops the phone. “Let me transfer you.” 

He transfers the call, then proceeds to storm Peter’s office. Peter looks up with a hard glare at the disturbance. He’s in the middle of a meeting with a potential client, one that’s really on the fence. 

“Stan!” Peter stands up, hands going to his hips. “Someone best be dead.” 

Stan gulps, tears stinging his eyes. “Don’t say that Sir.” 

“Stan,” Peter warns. 

“Line one, Sarah Paulsen needs to speak to you.” 

“Who is Sarah Paulsen?” 

“She’s an EMT, needs to speak to you about Y/n.”

His whole world crumbles. He physically feels the blood drain down to his feet. He looks at the phone, at that damn blinking light. His client looks up in worry, and watches as Peter sinks into his chair and grabs the phone with a shaking hand. 

“Peter Mendes.” He answers.

“Hello Peter Mendes, I’m Sarah Paulsen an EMT with truck 6. I’m calling to inform you that your wife Y/n Mendes was in an accident this morning.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“She’s conscious, and asking for you.”

“Where is she?” He stands, snapping at Stan then pointing to his keys on the hook by his door. 

“Sacred Heart Medical.” 

“Thank you.” He slams the phone back on the cradle and sprints out the door, snagging his keys from Stan on his way out. 

**

His office is a solid hour away from the hospital. He curses lunch hour traffic as he weaves in and out of lanes. His dash lights up with a call from his mother as he stops at yet another red light. 

“Mom?” He croaks out. 

“Oh Pete,” She sighs.

“What?” He barks. 

“She’s okay.” 

“Fuck Mom! Don’t do that.” He breathes easy. 

“Don’t you curse at me Peter Manuel.” 

“You just went ‘Oh Pete’ the same way you did when Papa passed when I was 10. You scared me. Don’t do that.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You just sound so afraid.” 

“I’m sorry for cursing.” He mumbles. “She’s okay?” 

“She’s getting a CT to check for brain bleeds, but they’re not worried about them.” 

“If they’re not worried about it, then why are they checking?” 

The cackles and suddenly it’s quiet around his mother. “Bailey requested them.”

He sighs, foot on the gas as he revs into the parking garage. “It’s not his fault.” 

He’s already been told the story, Raul was on his way out the door from suffering a cut during his shift when he heard her name in the ER. He called when they were transferring her up into a room. Told Peter everything he knew. 

Bailey accelerated at a green when a dark green toyota truck blew through a red and hit the back passenger door. Right where you had been sitting. 

“He’s scared Honey, he was driving.” 

“Hold on Mom, I’ve gotta park, I’ll be up in minutes.” 

**

The sight of him is the sight of a desperate man. He’s still in his work clothes, light blue button up, black suit slacks, dark blue tie. His dress shoes slip on the tile as he runs down hallways towards your room. 

When he made it to the check in counter in front of the waiting room he was stopped by a security guard. “Name and room number.” 

“Y/n, 2307.” He pants, trying to catch his breath.

“Your name?” The guard looks up. 

“Peter.” 

The man blinks at him twice before looking back at the screen and slowly clicks the mouse. 

“Listen dude,” Peter leans forward. “My wife was in a car accident and she’s back behind those doors so you’re going to open them with your keys and you’re gonna let me through.” 

“Wife?” His mother stands, followed by his brothers. 

“I don’t have time for this, take me to my wife!” He slams his hand on the counter. 

The door opens and your mom walks out, “Oh Peter, thank god. She won’t stop asking for you.” 

“Where is she? Is she okay?” He follows your mother, ignoring the calls from the security guard telling him he can’t go back there without a tag. 

He just about falls through the door of your room when he pushes the door open. His whole heart shatters at the sight of you. You’re laid up in bed, cast over your left foot, bandage on your forehead, bruising running along the length of your left cheek. 

“Baby.” He sighs, walking to your bed. 

“Peter.” You cry, reaching out for him.

“I’m here Baby.” He sits at the edge of your bed, hugging you close to his chest, being careful not to put too much pressure on you.

“I was so scared.” 

“I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here. Fucking traffic slowed me up.” 

“It’s okay.”

“Are you okay?” He asks, pulling back to inspect you again. 

“Yeah, they just took a CT of my head. They said they didn’t need to but someone urged them to do it just in case, I thought it was you.” 

“No,” Peter shakes his head. “Although it would’ve been if I’d been here. But Bailey requested it.” 

“Peter you can’t fire him!” You whine as you look up at him. “It wasn’t his fault, the poor man is beating himself up. I overheard him tell your father that he was ready to hand in his keys when you arrived.” 

“He won’t be doing such a thing. I can not believe that’s what you're worried about right now. That I’m gonna fire him.” 

“He was in the accident too Peter. He’s just as scraped up as I am.” 

“He’ll get medical leave, but he’ll be back when he’s healed.” 

**

After the read of your scans and some pain meds for your leg it’s been settled that you’ll go home tomorrow. Peter’s laying with you on the bed, holding you close as you snuggle into his chest. 

“Feeling okay?” He asks, kissing the top of your head. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good enough for my family to come in?” 

“They’re still out there?” You ask, sitting up, but being pulled back into his chest.

“They wanted to see you before they left.” 

“Bring them in.” 

He presses a few things on his phone and then there’s a quiet knock on the door followed by Karen and Manny poking, Shawn, Raul and Aaliyah shuffling in behind their parents. 

“Hey Fighter, how are you doing?” Manny asks, standing at the foot of your bed.

“Better since they finally gave me some ibuprofen.” 

They all chuckle and find places to take a seat next to your bed. 

“I hate to do this when you’re in here, but does someone want to tell me what the hell you meant when you said Wife this afternoon?” Karen gives a pointed look to Peter. 

He sighs, hiding his face in your hair. You giggle, looking up at him. He suffered telling your parents, guess it's your turn to tell his family. 

“We got married a month ago.” 

“Peter Manuel-”

“No,” He looks to his mom. “You used my middle name earlier, you don’t get to use it twice.” 

“Like hell I can’t. What do you mean you got married?” 

“We’re still doing the big wedding we’re planning.” You tell Karen, getting her to look at you. “We just, we just couldn’t wait that long to actually be married. So we had our own wedding, the intimate one for just us that we’ve always talked about.” 

“Then what’s the point of the one we’re planning?” She asks. 

“Because I still want my dad to walk me down the aisle. I still want Aaliyah to be a bridesmaid, and we still want to promise ourselves to each other in front of all of you. We just wanted to have our own first.” 

You explain it all, telling them how Peter planned it. How it was a dream come true and showed you how you truly wanted one with everyone else too. By the end of the conversation Peter was more in love with you then he has ever been before, and his mother was talked down from her rage. 

When they left the room for the night, leaving the two of you alone for the first time since morning, Peter kissed you fiercely. 

“I love you so much.” 

You grin, “I love you too.” 

“I mean, fuck, you’re in a hospital bed and you’re still protecting me.” 

“She wasn’t about to beraid you for marrying me when she didn’t fully understand it all.” You shrug, snuggling deeper into his chest.

“You scared me today Mrs. Mendes.” He whispers, hitting the button on your remote to turn the lights down. 

“I was scared too.” You respond sorely. “I just remember it being so nice out, and thinking that I could not be happier with my life, and the next I know I’m in an ambulance.”

Peter shuts his eyes, hiding himself in your hair and breathing in your scent deeply. 

“I didn’t like getting call saying you were here. I mean I think I totally lost my shit when Stan walked in the office almost crying.” 

“Stan was crying?” 

“He was scared too. You mean so much to mean and to everyone in my life. Today was a scary day.” 

“I’m okay.”

“I know, but the thought of you not being with me anymore, is the most scary thought I think I could ever have.” 

“Stop.” You lean up, wiping at the lone tear that dropped to his cheek. 

“I love you Y/n Mendes, please don’t scare me like that again.” He whispered, blinking the tears from his eyes.

[thesurielships]

feysand + “you promised me a cookie!”

kiss me like your ex is in the room

note: this is super late, I’m sorry. I hope you’re doing well, and I look forward to read your next creations when you feel better. Enjoy :))

note 2: uncle Colm is a character from Derry Girls and his lines are quoted from the show. It's a really good show, BTW.

Word count: 1.6k | Masterlist | ao3

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Rita’s bakery is the best in Velaris. They specialize in finger foods and exquisite little pastries, each more exotic and original than the next; but the town’s favorite – or at least, Feyre’s favorite – will always be their double chocolate chip cookies.

These are no simple cookies. Even though they have been critiqued by many a reputed culinary writer, the secret to the complexity of their taste has yet to be uncovered. With a chewy center and crispy edges, chocolate chips that explode in your mouth and a bittersweet aftertaste that is nothing short of addictive, plus the extreme exclusivity of Rita’s services, they are nothing short of an urban legend. In fact, hiring Rita for an event earns you a spot on the local gossip column for weeks, no questions asked.

Feyre supposes she shouldn’t be surprised that her cunning devil of a sister managed to get them to cater for her wedding. Or that she only made her maid of honor in order to work her to the bone. Nevertheless, as she gazes at Nesta’s dazzling smile and the absolutely enamored look in Cassian’s eyes, Feyre finds she is glad to be here. Even though she didn’t get to the cookies in time.

Her friend Alis catches her eye from a few tables away and as she walks towards her, a familiar voice makes her pause.

“Now, I don't mind a bit of a breeze, if any, I prefer it. But that one was aggressive. So I says to myself. I say 'Colm, this is no day for a do'. ”

The steadiness of his monotone never fails to amaze her.

“When the bride arrives, and I say by this stage, the wind was fierce. I've never heard wind like it -”

Feyre dares a peek at the new victim of her uncle Colm’s boring and endless ramblings, and the sight that greets her almost makes up for the missing cookies. Rhysand - the best man and general pain in her ass ever since she met him a couple of months ago – is the portrait of boredom. He is slouching in his chair, his chin in his hand and his eyelids drooping as he struggles to focus on uncle Colm’s story. It’s the first time she sees him without his usual smirk, and she hates that she misses it.

“Howling like a banshee it was,” her uncle drones on. “So the poor girl –”

Feyre clears her throat and Rhysand starts. She bites back a laugh at the hope that kindles in his face when he sees her.

“Feyre dear, I was just telling this handsome young fellow about –”

“The windy wedding story?”

Uncle Colm smiles at her fondly. “You remember?”

She nods solemnly. “It’s a very funny story. You should hear the rest of it, Rhysand,” she adds with a smirk.

Rhysand’s eyes are wide with horror. She can almost hear him shout ‘save me!’

“So the poor girl,” her uncle resumes his retelling, “the bride now this is –”

Feyre raises a brow defiantly. Why should I?

“She arrives and –”

He glances to his side and she follows his gaze. The prick has not one, not two, but three of Rita’s cookies on a plate.

“Isn't she no –”

“Uncle Colm,” she exclaims in a high pitched tone, “I’m sorry to interrupt such a good story, but I actually need Rhysand for a very urgent matter.”

The usually unflappable best man practically jumps out of his seat. “Duty calls, uncle Colm.”

“That’s a shame,” her uncle sighs. “I was so close to the end. Are you sure –”

“Yes,” Rhysand squeaks, and Feyre coughs to hide her laugh. “Maybe next time,” he throws over his shoulder as he drags her away.

No sooner are they out of earshot that she collapses into a fit of giggles. Rhysand frowns and she laughs harder. He tries to keep his face stern but the corners of his lips are twitching. When she finally sobers up, Feyre offers him her hand, palm up.

One groomed eyebrow lifts. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? You promised me a cookie!”

Rhysand slides his hands into his pockets and Feyre’s heart sinks. “I did no such thing.”

“But, but,” she sputters, “I saw you! You looked at those cookies!”

He chuckles, low and soft. “Those cookies aren’t mine, Feyre darling.”

“You tricked me.”

She glares up at him but freezes when her eyes fall on the doors behind him. Tamlin is here. The blood drains from her face. She can feel herself quaking in her heels and she hates how he makes her feel small just by walking in the room.

“What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer.

What in the Cauldron is he doing here? Is he here for me?

Her chest is too tight. She can’t breathe.

He’s here for me, he’s here for me, he’s here for-

“Feyre.”

She startles at Rhysand’s voice. He turns to look behind him and she grabs him by the lapel. “Don’t,” she whispers.

He patiently waits for her to explain.

“Tamlin, my ex –”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. His smile is grim.

Feyre dares another glance over his shoulder. “He’s –” she croaks, swallows, clears her throat, “comin –”

Rhysand’s lips on hers stop her short.

Feyre just stands there, too stunned to react. He draws away slightly. His hands cup her face and his thumbs stroke her cheeks lovingly. His gaze is steady on hers as he waits for her to make the next move.

Her hands are still clutching his lapels so she pulls him close and kisses him.

She means to repel Tamlin, but as soon as their lips meet she forgets everything but the man that has been haunting her dreams for months. The kiss is slow and languorous, and Feyre wonders at the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his caress. Her fingers bury in his hair and his hands trail down to her waist, setting her skin burning on their wake. She moans and he smiles. She bites his lower lip so he allows her entry, and Feyre is so busy committing the taste of him, the feel of him to memory that it takes her a couple of minutes to realize that someone is watching.

A throat clears next to them, and Feyre pulls away. Rhysand’s eyes are a mirror of what she’s feeling: a mixture of surprise, delight and longing. His smile is slow as he reads the naked emotions on her face, his hold tightening around her waist. Her fingers are still caressing the soft hair at the base of his neck.

Tamlin clears his throat once again and Feyre reluctantly untangles herself from Rhysand, though he nestles his hand in the small of her back to keep her close.

“Tamlin,” she begins and is surprised to find her voice strong and her knees steady. She remembers something an old friend of hers told her in the dark days following their break up. ‘Only you can decide what breaks you.’ And here, in Nesta’s wedding and in Rhysand’s arms, Feyre decides she is done being afraid of her controlling asshole of an ex.

She levels a condescending glare at Tamlin and says nothing, but he’s too busy scowling at Rhys to notice. “Who. Are. You?”

Feyre’s nostrils flare. How typical of him to dismiss her, to address any one but her as though what she has to say doesn’t matter.

Rhysand’s only answer is his arrogant smirk, and she kind of wants to laugh.

“Tamlin.”

Now he looks at her, frowning at the smirk dancing on her lips, a mirror of her companion’s.

“This is my boyfriend, Rhys. But you can call him Rhysand.”

Her accomplice’s fingers poke her side in amusement. “And who might you be?” he asks, looking down his nose at the man who has been haunting her nightmares for months.

“I’m Feyre’s fiancé,” Tamlin bites back.

Rhysand’s face is disinterested, almost bored. “Darling, you didn’t tell me you were engaged.”

She shoots him a sheepish smile. “I guess it slipped my mind.” And because she just can’t help herself, she puts a hand back on his muscled chest and says in a sultry voice, “I can’t think of much when you’re around.”

The moment she says it, the truth of it resonates in her heart. She doesn’t know what gives her away, but something sparks in Rhysand’s eyes and he pulls her impossibly closer. “Yeah?”

She bites her lip. “Yeah.”

His smile takes her breath away. She doesn’t bother looking back at Tamlin as she declares, “For the record, asshole, we are not engaged. I refused your proposal three months ago.”

“You were confused. You don’t know what –” Tamlin starts but Rhysand interrupts him, “You heard the lady.”

Rhysand’s gaze doesn’t stray from hers for a second. Feyre is drowning, no, floating in this moment. She feels free, unmoored. She wants to throw her head back and laugh until she cries. She wants to dance until her feet ache. She wants to hold this man and never let go.

“Thank you,” her voice is earnest. “You saved me.”

He leans so close their noses touch. “You know, Tamlin left a few seconds ago.”

Feyre loops her arms around his neck. “Is that so?”

His eyes are brighter than stars. “About those cookies,” he begins, almost hesitantly. “I could bake you some.”

She raises a disbelieving brow.

“I know, I know. I’m no Rita, but I happen to have a mighty good recipe. Except instead of flour, I use oatmeal –”

Feyre grimaces.

“Instead of butter, coconut oil.”

She scrunches her nose in disgust.

“And instead of chocolate –”

“You’re replacing chocolate?”

“It could be a date.”

Feyre’s heart stumbles. She glances left and right then stands on the tips of her toes to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “I would be burned at the stake if the people around here found out I chose this awful creation instead of a good ol’ Ritacookie –”

Rhysand rolls his eyes.

“But it’s a date.”

Tag list: @joyceortiz13 @bailey-4244 @quakeriders @standbislytherin @mariamuses @ignite14 @1800-fight-me @velarian-trash @rhysands-highlady @queenblueoffire @rowaelinforeverworld @feeoly @buckybvrnes @dayanna-hatter @shadowstar2313 @goldfishh20 @sleeping-and-books @crackedship @your-high-lady @thesirenwashere @whiskeybusiness1776 @amren-courtofdreams @tswaney17 @julemmaes @booksbooksbooksworld @queenofbumblebees @meowsekai @awkward-avocado-s

[redshirtgal]

You may remember seeing Lt. Farrell as one of the many rotating navigators on Star Trek. We saw him for the first time in “Mudd’s Women.”   In production order, this episode would have been filmed before the “The Corbomite Maneuver” and originally Dave Bailey was supposed to have the navigator’s chair. But Roddenberry never knew in which order the scripts would be completed and aired. So to make sure there were no inconsistencies, he came up with the character of Lt. John Farrell in case “Mudd’s Women” aired after Bailey’s departure to stay with Balok.

And actually for a foreground actor, his role was fairly meaty in this episode. The actor Jim Goodwin was a friend of John D.F. Black, one of Star Trek’s Executive Producers as well as the first Executive Story Consultant. Black had often steered roles his way and this part was a good one for Goodwin to display his acting ability. 

It appears Lt. Farrell is an excellent navigator at the beginning of the episode. He helps track Mudd’s cargo ship as it enters the asteroid field and suggests they put a deflector shield over it to keep it from being destroyed. A suggestion which Captain Kirk decides to take even though Scotty warns him it’s going to be too much of a strain on the ship. 

The revised draft of this episode described Farrell as being “a super-conscious twenty-eight-year-old... red-haired, one of those people who fight to put out 100 percent all the time... which is too much sometimes."

Which means sometimes you get this reaction when Lt. Farrell is a bit nervous ... as in this scene when it appears all the lithium crystals are going one by one. 

And another one - evidently Sulu and Farrell took a break and were in the corridor when the three beauties sashayed by. As Sulu leads a stunned Farrell back to his seat, he refers to him as Johnny-O. This is the only time we ever hear Lt. Farrell’s  first name mentioned. This was not his original first name though. In the final draft, his first name was Jim and Sulu refers to him as James-O in the same scene. 

Farrell’s judgment leaves him completely when Magda convinces him to hand over his communicator along with information about the miners. She turns both the communicator and said info over to Harry Mudd which allows him to blackmail Kirk. According to Memory Alpha, there were a few lines cut from this scene. In the final draft, Lt. Farrell tells the charming Magda as they stroll along that he has a girlfriend and also that he wants to grow a mustache. Later in the same version it appears Magda does have a heart when she tells Harry “ "I hope he doesn't get in trouble... he's really very sweet."

Poor Lt. Farrell can’t seem to shake off the effects of those gazes when the hearing ends and everyone returns to his normal station. He gets dressed down by Kirk because the captain has had to repeat an order twice. Which results in another Farrell wide-eyed expression. 

All ends well by the end, of course. Farrell’s composure returns once Captain Kirk returns to the bridge after leaving Rigel 12. But it’s a lot of fun to see how often we see the whites of his eyes as he reacts to whatever stressful situation he is in.

Going by production order, Lt. Farrell appears again as navigator in “The Enemy Within.” (strangely, this episode appeared right before “Mudd’s Women”). There was a deleted scene in the final draft right after Geological Technician Fisher calls for help over the intercom. Spock and Farrell are shown on the bridge listening to his call. According to this script, Spock bolts for the turbolift doors and yells back for Lt. Farrell to take over.  Alas, as mentioned, that scene was dropped. Which is a shame because it again establishes Lt. Farrell as someone who is competent and has the respect and trust of both Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. He’s not just some overwrought officer who makes goofy faces. Instead, we don’t see Lt. Farrell until almost the end when the Evil Captain Kirk enters the bridge and sits in the Captain’s chair.  Farrell’s above expression comes from Evil Kirk’s orders to leave the planet, even though that means stranding the other members of the landing party in sub-zero temperatures. 

About this time, the real Captain Kirk along with Dr. McCoy walk onto the bridge from the turbolift. Knowing he has to act fast, Evil Kirk orders Farrell and James to arrest what he says is the imposter. 

Once the real Kirk begins advancing toward his evil counterpart, Farrell is really confused and just freezes in position. At one point, he plaintively asks Mr. Spock what to do but Spock ignores him as he watches the drama play out.  Notice that our Lt. Farrell is the only one who seems to actually rise or make any attempt to get up out of his chair during this scene. Another sign that despite his shortcomings in “Mudd’s Women” he really is a fine office. 

About the time “Miri” was beginning to be filmed, John D.F. Black decided to leave the show. Which meant Jim Goodwin no longer had his friend and sponsor to steer roles his way. Lt. Farrell appears for the last time in this episode, although he is not in his traditional navigator seat. He has taken Uhura’s place at the communications station (Nichelle Nichols was considered a day player, not a contract player. So we did not see her in every episode). 

But Lt. Farrell does play an important role in this episode. He is the one who relays all the information Spock gives him into the ship’s computer in an attempt to find a cure for the deadly virus that affects the inhabitants once they beginning entering puberty.  Even though Jim Goodwin was assigned to roles originally meant for Anthony D. Call and for Nichelle Nichols, he was also on the receiving end of having parts meant for him given to other actors. Farrell had scenes in the first drafts of both Charlie X and The Naked Time. By the final draft, however, his part in Charlie X had disappeared. And his part in “The Naked Time”? It was assigned to a new character named Kevin Riley. 

Jim Goodwin came to Hollywood by way of Boston, Massachusetts. He had begun his acting career long before Star Trek, making his first appearance in 1950 on the TV show Starlight Theatre. After that, he had a fairly steady stream of small parts in both television and film. 

Before Jim Goodwin was seen on Star Trek, he had small parts in two episodes of a popular television western called The Virginian. In “A Man of Violence” he played the role of Corporal Perkins. The teleplay was written by his friend John D.F. Black.  In the same episode, DeForest Kelley was cast as Lt. Beldon, the medical officer for the camp. And Leonard Nimoy played a bad guy named Wismer (seen above lying on his side).  

Also before Star Trek, Farrell had two appearances in 1964 as a helmsman in the sci fi TV series Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. The above screenshot is from the episode “The Invaders.” 

As mentioned earlier, Goodwin did have small parts in a number of movies, including Ice Station Zebra (1968), The Reivers (1969), and Emperor of the North (1973), in which he played the part of Fakir (see publicity photo above).  This would be his last movie, although he still was active in television up until 1979 and ended his career with a total of 50 credits.

Sadly the year after his last film, Jim Goodwin’s death notice appeared in the Los Angeles Times on May 20th, 1980. It is quite scanty but since he was not buried in L.A., it is possible that a larger obituary was seen in one of the papers from the Boston area and from Beverly, Massachusetts.

There does not seem to be any information about Jim Goodwin. Many Star Trek extras had other careers or jobs on the side and continued those when the acting parts began running dry. This may well be Jim Goodwin’s story as well. No mention was seen of him ever appearing in a Star Trek convention, which is a shame, because certainly avid fans would have remembered him and been interested in hearing about his days on the Star Trek set. 

[ducknotinarow]

[BaileyRichard] “  you don’t have to tell me anything, we can just sit here.  ”

| softer prompts | "tck" Richard clicked his tongue as his tail feathers twitched a bit, rubbing at his head a bit. Headache was just settling in over him adding to the poor mood he was already in. Just one of those days where everything was just a bother to the eagle. Even the minor chattering in the cafe' was irritating him. Sitting off in the corner of the cafe' pinching at the bridge of his beak, there wasn't even many in the cafe' to justify why he was acting as if it were just that loud. Even when a fork dropped to the ground he peered over his glasses and just fixed the culprit with a glare. When the bell above the door rung out he just graned under his breath. Letting his head drop to the table he sat at today. Soon regretting that as it didn't help anything.

He soon felt someone pat his head, slightly forcing himself to move his head now so his cheek was against the table let him look up to Bailey. Playful speaking and asking what he was doing but all Richard did for a response was returned his face back to the table. Richard just listened to the sound of a chair scarp across the floor, was not all too welcomed to him either. But soon as he felt his husband slightly bump him he knew they were the one moving said chair around. Sighing out he forced himself to sit up again, looking over to them properly now.

“  you don’t have to tell me anything, we can just sit here.  ”

"I know," leaning over to rest his head on their shoulder "I'm just in a bad mood, everything's annoying right now. This damn headache isn't helping either." just complaining right now as Bailey reached his arm around so he could pat his husband head again. Richard closing his eye even as they teased him and calling out 'poor Richy baby.' Bailey being a pest was different anyway. Slightly turning to nuzzle against their shoulder.

Reaching his arms out as he wrapped them around Bailey now giving a slight tug, didn't take much for them to pick up on what he wanted at least thankfully since Richard wasn't in the mood to even talk to in the least ask. But Bailey was least nice enough to let themself be pulled into Richard's lap, hugging them tighter now. Stopping a second as Bailey removed his glasses "Thanks" he mumbled before just burning his face into their neck now. Bailey asking if that helped at all. "No, not even a little bit." Clearly, a lie as he nuzzled in against his husband's soft neck.

[abigailzimmer]

Favorite Reads of 2020

In this year of slowness, thank god for books to make the world a little larger again. I read several classics for the first time—Shelley’s Frankenstein and Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring and Bernadette Mayer’s Midwinter Day—all of which felt important to return to the source material, to see how these books shaped those that came after them. And I delved into new books from favorite authors whose words I will always seek out—like Kelly Schirmann’s The New World and Heather Christle’s The Crying Book—and I branched out into mystery and romance books because they kept pages turning and tidied everything up so neatly at the end, which if not my usual fare, was sorely needed in this strange year. But since I do love a list, here are the books that sung to me / inspired me / shaped me:

1. Exquisitely told and inventive in form, Women Talking by Miriam Toews centers on a group of Mennonite women in South America who discover they're being drugged and raped during the night by the men in their community. While the men are away, the women meet to decide whether they will stay and forgive their attackers, as their community’s religious leaders ask them to, or leave the colony and start anew. Their conversation over the course of two days questions the role of women, what freedom and forgiveness really mean, how to fulfill one’s calling as a woman, mother, and believer, whether one must choose one thing over another, and whether staying or leaving carries the greater risk. It’s a thoughtful and creative approach to hard questions and the complicated reasons why there’s never a right answer.

2. Ilya Kaminsky's collection, Dancing in Odessa, was one of the first books of contemporary poetry I ever read, lent to me by a friend in college, and I remember being stunned at what poetry could be and do. Deaf Republic stuns in the same way. The poems are incredibly cinematic, telling the story of an occupied town and its people and a couple who fall in love. When a young, deaf boy is shot by the soldiers, the entire town pretends deafness in rebellion, finding excuses to not understand the soldiers. They bear witness to the boy’s death and honor his life. Though a fictional town, the call to political action, to really see those who are being oppressed and stand for justice with them, is resonant for any time and place. Plus, Ilya writes the most beautiful love poems.

3. Another cinematically-inclined poetry book is GennaRose Nethercott’s The Lumberjack’s Dove. In this long poem/myth/fable, a lumberjack accidentally cuts off his hand, which turns into a dove, and then a story parts ways. The lumberjack is not just a lumberjack and the hand-turned-dove is not just a hand-turned-dove, and the story visits both an operating room and a witch, and the story, of course, is one you've heard before and one that brings surprise and wonder to the telling. I simply adored it.

"Living creatures believe they own something as soon as they love it. They refuse to believe otherwise, no matter how many times a beloved vanishes."

4. I fell in love—hard—with The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller and her exquisite, queer love story between Achilles and Patroclus. Miller’s writing is wonderful and after reading her novel Circe as well—another fantastic retelling of Greek myths—I spent the remainder of the year searching for a novel that compared.

5. Some books meet you in the right moment. The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey is a slow and attentive book on small things, which in 2020’s period of waiting and uprootedness was a gift. Due to chronic illness, Bailey finds herself confined to a bed with little to do. Her friend brings her a potted plant and a snail whose pace of life, matching her own, becomes a comfort and lessons her loneliness. As she watches, she learns intimately the snail's eating and sleeping habits, its daily adventures, and the conditions it best thrives in. Later she delves into the literature and science of gastropods and weaves her notes in with her own observations and stories of the snail. Her writing is light and funny and holds such tenderness for this very small creature.

"In the History of Animals, Aristotle noted that snail teeth are 'sharp, and small, and delicate.' My snail possessed around 2,640 teeth, so I'd add the word plentiful to Aristotle's description....With only thirty-two adult teeth, which had to last the rest of my life, I found myself experiencing tooth envy toward my gastropod companion. It seemed far more sensible to belong to a species that had evolved natural tooth replacement than to belong to one that had developed the dental profession. Nonetheless, dental appointments were one of my favorite adventures, as I could count on being recumbent. I could see myself settling into the dental chair, opening my mouth for my dentist, and surprising him with a human-sized radula."

6. Insecurity System by Sara Wainscott was one of my favorite books published in 2020. The poems in it make up four crowns—a series of sonnets in which the last line of each poem becomes the first line (or an echo of it) of the next. The playfulness of the form as well as the topics give the book an energy: Sara muses on time travel, levitation, memory, flowers ("people who read poems know a rose / is how the poet drags in genitalia"), motherhood, Mars, and mythical transformations (children tell their mothers they have turned to seals “and it is true”). Sara is funny and wry, and yet she also captures some difficult emotions of grief and depression, a struggle with complacency amid daily obligations “Sentences become drawn out affairs / but I am doing what I can / to answer one word each day.” The poems move from the mundane to a hard feeling and then onward to wonder and a bit of the fantastical, which I guess is just how life goes—I love how these emotions are all rolled together and always shifting.

7. Asiya Wadud’s powerful long poem Syncope is one I’ve returned to often throughout the year. She tells the story of 72 refugees who fled Tripoli in an inflatable boat in 2011 and were stranded for 14 days, despite the presence of 38 maritime vessels who could have rescued them, but didn’t. Instead, only 11 passengers survived. Syncope is both an indictment against those who did not act and a eulogy for the dead, returning humanity to people who were deemed not worth saving but who were “luminous in that / we were each born under the / fabled light of some star.”

“We began as 72 ascendants by that I mean we were a collective many each bound for greatness merely in the fact that we were each still living”

8. Eula Biss’s Having and Being Had is a thoughtful and exploratory conversation about capitalism and its effects on what we do and how we think. In a series of short vignettes, Eula picks apart what consumption, work, accounting, and investment mean on a personal and everyday level (albeit a white, middle class level). Who defines value among boys trading Pokemon cards and how did Monopoly's origins in economic injustice shift to pride in bankrupting players and if one of Eula's favorite things about being a new house owner is easy access to a laundry machine, is her house merely a $400,000 container for one washer and dryer? Her essays bounce from work that is valued, unseen or shamed; the perceptions and realities of being poor or rich; our approach to gift-giving and art-making and pleasure—weaving together research, observations, and conversations with friends.

9. In Grief Sequence, poet Prageeta Sharma’s grieves the loss of her husband in a kind of journal, tracing the memories of his diagnosis, the hard and normal days, the days before diagnosis, and the days after he is gone during which she tries to make sense of her new reality: “How gauche it is to be in this body being unseen by you now,” she writes. “You are not you anymore and I am trying to understand how a human with feelings has disappeared.” Her writing is excellent but it is hard to sit with and next to her pain, and it makes me wonder: when does one read such a book? When you’ve also lost a beloved to cancer? To be in conversation with someone who has, with Prageeta? Do you read for the sake of the living or to honor a body who was once here? Prageeta writes, “Poetry and grief are the same: you are taught to care about it when it happens to you.” I don’t know who to recommend this book to, but it spoke to me, and I’m glad she wrote it, as a monument, of sorts, to a specific togetherness and to a person.

10. The Lives of the Monster Dogs by Kirsten Bakis is a strange and sweet book about a race of genetically-engineered dogs, created initially to be soldiers, who move to New York in the ‘90s while still holding onto the customs and dress of nineteenth-century Prussia, which is to say: I don't know if I ever would have picked this book up had a friend not recommended it. Told through news clippings, letters, journal entries, an opera(!), and the first-person account of a human who befriends them, their story has echoes of Frankenstein as the monster dogs reflect on their creator and what it is to be human, to have purpose and hope, to wrestle with a clouded past and an uncertain future. "It's a terrible thing to be a dog and know it," writes one monster dog scholar after some of the dogs begin to revert back to their primal state. I loved the varied forms, the piecing together of the dog’s history, and the surreal mark they left in the book’s world and my world.

For more books throughout the year, follow along on Instagram at book.wreck.

[calpalirwin]

Love in a Coffee Shop

Summary: Finn starts dating again.

A/N: Y’all ever get curious what Finn gets up to during all of this? Or are we all so far up Ashton’s ass that we kinda forget Finn exists? Be honest! Well, I love Finn, so we’re gonna check up on him if that’s cool.

Word Count: 2.4k

And away, and away we go!

__

“You need to go out on a date,” Vanessa said with an eye roll.

If I had a dollar… “What do you think I do?” I asked.

“Work, take care of the kids, brood, visit you mom, brood some more.” She ticked each thing off on her fingers with a playful smile,

“I do not brood,” I defended while Ashton snickered into his hand. “And for the record, I have gone on dates. They just end horribly.”

“Aw,” Vanessa pouted. “Single, hot dad thing doesn’t work?”

“Oh, it works…” I shuddered. “Too well, that’s the problem.”

“Oh, boohoo, I’m Finn, and have lots of sex. Poor thing…”

I threw one of my fries at her while Ashton coughed to cover up a louder laugh. “Again, that’s not the problem, Ness.”

“Well, what is the problem then, Mr. Therapist?” she asked me in exasperation.

“Well first it was them running for the hills when I mentioned that my ex was pregnant with my second kid. That, uh.. Didn’t really sit well with women funnily enough.”

“That makes sense. But what’s the problem now?”

“The problem now is that they start planning these futures where we have kids too and…” I shuddered again. “I love my kids. I do. But one of each is enough for me. I don’t need exactly a bajillion like you do.”

Vanessa scoffed at me in offense, crossing her arms over her chest. “Wow… how did I ever let you go?” she sighed dreamily at me with a sarcastic smirk on her lips.

Ashton’s high-pitched giggle escaped despite his best efforts which set off both the couple in the booth behind us, and Mason and Bailey. “Stop!” Ashton wheezed. “Can’t breath! Couple behind us can hear!”

I was pretty sure the couple behind us was laughing far more about the grown ass man with the boyish giggle mixing with the gleeful laughter of small children than mine and Vanessa’s actual discussion. Especially when Ashton’s plea for us to drop the conversation resulted in the couple laughing even harder.

“Well,” Vanessa pressed on. “Mason starts preschool on Monday. Maybe you’ll find a cute single mom.”

“I don’t want more kids, Ness…”

“She probably won’t either! It’ll be great!”

“Yeah, minus the combined kids we have together from our exes? Pfft, perfect! What am I thinking?”

“Well what are you gonna do? Find a woman that doesn’t want kids? Women don’t admit that. You really think they’re gonna admit that to a dude with kids? Fuck no! Women get the stigma that if they don’t want kids it automatically means they hate them.”

“Okay, well I don’t think that.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know that.”

I groaned. “Ugh, I’m just gonna get a vasectomy and call it a day. Oh, you want kids? That’s cool, I can’t. Whoops…”

“That’s not a bad idea. Considering how easy it is for men to control their own reproductive rights…”

“Yeah, yeah, this country’s fuckin’ backwards. But move with my kids to Australia and… actually…”

Vanessa snorted. “I am not moving to Australia. No offense, love,” she said, patting Ashton’s hand.

“None taken.”

~~~

“Alright, Mase, I’ll pick you up in a few hours and take you to Nana’s,” I told Mason before straightening back up to my feet. I checked my watch. Perfect. Bailey was already with my mom, Mason had been dropped off at school, and I still had a half hour to make it in to work.

“Hi, I’m Mia,” a soft voice introduced and I lifted my gaze to find a woman in a knee-length patterned dress standing in front of me with her hand extended. Soft brown hair was piled on top of her head in a perfectly messy bun, escaped strands framing a set of equally soft brown eyes hidden behind black framed glasses.

“Finn,” I replied, shaking her hand.

“Finn… I don’t recall seeing you last week.” Her pink lips frowned in concern, and rightfully so. A strange man in a room full of preschoolers was mad creepy.

“Oh, yeah, my ex brought him last week. We have split custody of uh…” I looked around trying to spot Mason in a small sea of three and four year olds. “Well, he’s here somewhere… quiet one, bout this high.” I held my hand out measuring Mason’s height against my leg.

“Mmm” she hummed in response, her frown turning into a soft smile. “Well it’s nice to meet you, Finn.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Mia.” I returned her smile. Please be the teacher, and not a mom. Please be the teacher, and not a mom.

“Well, I’ll see you later for pick up then,” she nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll be here,” I answered, watching her move towards a chair in front of where all the rugrats sat cluttered on a rug decorated with the alphabet and numbers. Yes!

~~~

“So…?” Vanessa nudged my arm from across the table.

“So, what?” I asked, feigning innocence.

She rolled her eyes. “C’mon, Finn…”

“I had the kids, Ness. Didn’t exactly go on any dates.”

“Yeah, but did you see anyone you might be interested in when you dropped Mase off at school?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Oh, my god, who?!” Vanessa pestered, her eyes lit up with excitement. “Was it Gwen’s mom, Lydia? I think she just has the one, so that wouldn’t be too bad. And she’s so cute.”

“You act like I’m picking out a puppy… and no. Not Lydia. Mia.”

“The teacher?!” Vanessa oooed, lifting her hair up off her neck and fanning herself. “The scandal!”

“Yeah… so I’m not really sure. She’s cute. She’s great with kids. But she’s his teacher for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, but what if she’s one of those teachers who’s a teacher because she doesn’t want her own kids?”

“What if she’s the teacher who’s a teacher because she wants kids?” I countered.

“For a therapist, you're pretty pessimistic there, Finn,” she tsked.

I rolled my eyes. “Alright. Say you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

I rolled my eyes again. “Say you’re right,” I repeated. “She’s one of those ‘I get my fulfillment by teaching other people’s children rather than having them myself’ types. Still doesn’t change the fact that she’s Mase’s teacher. That’s not like… scandalous?” I asked, stealing her word for it and waggling my fingers ominously.

She shrugged. “Maybe. But isn’t that your guys’ business to decide that for yourselves?”

I let out my next breath in a huff, running my hands through my hair. “Maybe. But I dunno if this is a risk I can take, Ness. If I ask her out and she says no, then there’s the awkwardness of having to see her twice a day. If I ask her out and things end badly, it’s the same as if she rejects me outright, but worse because we already tried something.”

“Has it been awkward between us since we broke up?”

“What? No…”

“So there ya go. It’ll only be awkward if you make it awkward. And if things potentially being awkward is what stops you from trying in the first place… well, that’s the weakest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’ll think about it, alright?”

“Good enough for me!” she chirped.

~~~

I groaned as my phone rang, telling me it was Vanessa. Why was she calling me on a Sunday morning? I checked the time and groaned again. And why so early? “Yeah?” I answered with a yawn.

“Coffee shop on the corner of Fifth. Now!”

“What?”

“Mia! She’s here at the coffee shop.” By her hushed tone, I could imagine she was whispering into her phone so Mia must have been close.

“Jesus Christ, woman…”

“Are you coming or not?”

“I don’t even like coffee.”

“Then order a fuckin’ bagel for all I care. Just get down here!”

“Alright, alright…” I grumbled, pushing myself out of bed.

Ten minutes later I pushed my way into the little shop, spotting Ashton, Vanessa, and the kids chatting quietly with Mia at a table. Vanessa caught my eye, and said something that was probably “Oh, it’s Finn!” based on the way her mouth moved before waving me over.

“Hey guys,” I said once I got closer to them.

“Oh, hi!” Mia greeted with a smile. “Your little one with their mom?” she asked offhandedly, bringing attention to the fact that I hadn’t brought the kids with me.

I tilted my head to the side in confusion. Did she not know Mason was mine? “Uh, yeah. He is,” I said, reaching out to ruffle Mason’s hair whose primary focus was on his croissant and chocolate milk.

He swatted at my hand angrily before he lifted his eyes up. “Daddy!” he beamed.

Mia’s eyes went wide. “Oh! Mason’s yours! I thought…” Her gaze fluttered over to Ashton. “Oh, my, that’s embarrassing…”

I laughed, brushing it off. “Honest mistake. But yeah, he’s mine.”

Her gaze flickered over to Bailey. “Both of them?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Oh, now I’m really embarrassed. I can’t believe I didn’t pay attention to the fact that I’ve seen Mason all week, but not Ashton and Vanessa here. Oh, wow…” Her glasses slid down her nose as she ducked her head down, her cheeks bright pink. 

“Again, honest mistake,” I told her. “Don’t even worry about it.”

She shook her head, still wrapped up in the small mishap. “I’m, uh… gonna go get my coffee now. It was good running into you guys. Finn,” she nodded politely and excused herself to go wait in line, her arms brushing against mine as she squeezed past me. 

“Well…” Vanessa prompted.

“Well, what?”

“She didn’t say my name when she said goodbye.”

“Or mine,” Ashton added.

“Just yours. Funny.”

They were right. Why had Mia just said my name? And had she brushed into my arm as she moved past me or had I made that up?

“Finn? Finn?”

“Hmm?”

“Go order your bagel.”

“Yeah, bagel,” I nodded, hurrying to go stand in line behind Mia. It took her stepping forward to place her order for me to figure out what I was doing. “And a cinnamon raisin bagel, please,” I added, stepping forward and pulling out my wallet.

“Oh, no…” Mia stammered, shaking her head at the now thoroughly confused barista. “Just the coffee, thanks,” she reiterated, flashing her card.

“Nope. Bagel too,” I spoke again, blocking the card reader from her while I handed the poor barista some cash. “Sorry for the confusion.”

Mia’s eyes narrowed at me as the cash register clanged open and I got my change, dumping it into the tip jar. “Thank you, but that was completely unnecessary,” she told me as we stepped off to the side.

“You’re right. Probably should’ve asked first. Can I buy you a coffee sometime?”

Heat rose in her still slightly tinged cheeks. “No.”

I nodded, feeling the muscles in my jaw twitch. “Alright. No worries.”

“Because you already bought me one, so the next coffee should be on me.”

“Oh? Well, uh, I don’t actually drink coffee…”

Her lips pursed together in thought as a different barista put our items on the pick up counter. She dug around her purse, pulling out a pen and scribbling something down on the bag my bagel was in “Well dinner, then,” she amended, handing me the bag with a phone number written on it in a loopy scrawl. “Or do you only eat bagels?”

~~~

“I’m really glad you agreed to this,” I said, admiring the way the candle flickering on the table between us cast her in a soft glow. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if I was crossing a line, or something.”

“Oh, this isn’t a date. This is just me returning the favor for that coffee the other day.” Her words didn’t match up to the teasing tone and playful smile.

“Mmm, right. Maybe I’ll just have to buy you more coffees then.”

“Or pluck up the courage to ask me on a real date. Whichever is easier.”

“Would you say yes if I asked.”

“Ask me and find out.”

“Two Fridays from now. Say seven?”

“Seven,” she laughed. “Two Fridays from now? Little presumptuous of you, no?”

“Or optimistic. Whichever is easier.”

She laughed more, then sighed. “That sounds lovely…”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming…”

“However,” she said with a knowing look, and I was already in love with the way she played with words. “There’s something I should probably tell you first.”

“Oh?” I asked, trying not to let my mind take me down the rabbit hole of wildly outrageous deal breakers.

“I can’t have kids…”

“Oh?” I said again, stupidly.

She nodded slowly. “Yeah… just so you’re aware. I try to get that part done and out of the way as soon as possible. Makes it a little easier to deal with the rejection that usually follows.”

“That’s um…” I faltered and I reached for her hand. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, it doesn’t bother me. I didn’t want kids even before I learned I couldn’t have them. I mean, I love children. I love my job. But having children of my own wasn’t ever something I felt I needed.”

“That’s…”

“Fucked up?” she chuckled nervously.

“Great,” I corrected.

“Really?!”

“Oh, yeah,” I nodded, with a grin. “But, I have two. That’s not a concern for you?”

“Oh, no, not at all. I’m fine with that. It’s… complicated, I guess? I don’t mind dating parents and playing a role in their children’s lives. I just biologically don’t want to be a parent.”

“That’s not complicated at all, actually. That’s…”

“Great?” she offered.

“More than great.”

~~~

“C’mon… pick up the phone, Ness,” I muttered to myself as I bounced on the balls of my feet.

“Finn?” she asked as she answered.

“SHE CAN’T HAVE KIDS!” I clapped a hand to my mouth after the outburst. I probably could have phrased that better, but I couldn’t help myself. I was fuckin’ smitten. Mia was beautiful, and smart. She was good with kids. She didn’t care that I had kids. And she couldn’t and didn’t want kids of her own! Fuck, I felt like I had hit the jackpot and I needed someone to be just as excited with me.

“And you just blurted it out to me like that?” I could imagine her eyebrows raised in question. “Finn… do better…”

“Sorry! Yep. Probably could have phrased that better. Or not told you at all… but fuck, Ness! I’m so happy! We’re going on another date in a few weeks. And just… fuck, I haven’t been this excited in a long time.”

“That’s great, Finn. I’m really happy for you.”

“Oh! You have to swear to me you won’t mention to her that I told you. She didn’t make it seem like it was a secret, but… ya know?”

“My lips are sealed. And hey, Finn?”

“Yeah?”

“I fuckin’ told ya so.”

__

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[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 61 - Patience

Chapter Rating: Teen Warnings: Discussion of wounds and menstruation Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Read it on AO3 or start at Chapter 1

---

He waited, and the mages emerged from the room with bloody hands. All he could do was replay the moment over and over, watch as Erimond spirited Loghain away from the field, and Cailan shouting across the ranks of surrendered Gwaren soldiers for a healer, everything slowed to a horrific crawl he could not stop. They had carried her in still with the sword through her gut.

--

Her hand felt cold where he held it. The blood loss, Wynne explained, kept her heartbeat thready and the circulation poor in her extremities. She explained, too, that she was being held under a Sleep to speed the healing and that everything had been done that could be. That now they would have to wait. He could barely see her breathing, and he watched each shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath the piled blankets as if will alone could keep her from the dark. Fergus stood behind him, with Cailan, Teagan, Morrence, and even the maid he’d heard called Graela, and he didn’t care that any of them saw when he leaned over her to brush a lock of raven-black hair from the pallid, feverish skin on her forehead. An action so like on the first night he met her but with such a world more meaning behind it, it staggered him. Someone put their hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t care who it was. It offered only empty comfort.

“It’s my fault,” Cailan spoke into the silence. “I let this happen. I don’t –” But the words faded, lost, or perhaps waiting for someone else to pick them up.  

Alistair didn’t waste breath on contradicting him; he had seen everything from the walls.

Hours later, he heard the strains of an argument echo down the hall between the king and his newly reunited queen. The words didn’t carry through the distance, but the vitriol that carried to Rosslyn’s rooms held the sourness of long-buried resentment. Once, he might have worried for his brother, but now he only scowled and shifted closer into her side, careful not to disturb her wound as he shared his body heat with her. Despite Anora’s objections about propriety, he refused to be torn from her side, and they all agreed she was too cold, and her body needed to focus on healing, and someone had to stay with her in case – in case –

He refused to think about it. In between the mages’ examinations he lay on top of the covers pressed as close to her as possible, like a dog might, with his hand clasped tight around hers and his ear over her heart, willing it to keep time. Only Graela interrupted the monotony of the hours, bustling in every now and then to stoke the fire or purse her lips at him, but he never moved and she left him alone. The silence grated at him through the long, dark periods in between. To keep time and to ward away the spiralling turns of his thoughts, he did what he always did, and talked. He told her about the clean-up after the battle, the clemency Amell requested for Howe’s pressganged blood mage, the way Loghain’s forces surrendered when they saw the dead rise, and swore fealty to Anora not long after. The servants’ hall in the bailey had been transformed into an infirmary, and a mass pyre had been built for all those who didn’t make it. Fergus was improving now he was being properly housed and fed, but he worried. Of the riders who had gone out with her, only she still clung to life; Erimond had surprised the others with some kind of trap like the one he had seen snare Cullen in the Harrowing chamber, and there had been little left of them when scouts were finally sent out.

Howe had disappeared in the confusion.

“But when you wake up,” he murmured to her, desperate, “when you’re better, I’ll help you track him down, no matter how long it takes, and then you won’t have to bite off his other ear.” He snorted softly and brushed her hair from her eyes. “Yes, Graela told me about that. It’s a very you thing to do, and I’m sure he deserved it.”

But the darkness crowded in on such small assurances, and as the lack of answer pressed against his ears, the fragile quirk of his mouth sputtered like a candle flame and went out. Beyond the walls, a storm raged about the castle, a howling wind that buffeted the keep with enough violence to almost be felt through the stone as well as the air, that frightened even the fire in the grate and drove sleet against the windowpanes. He had to turn his head into his shoulder to blink back the sting in his eyes.

--

The Sleep had been removed two days since, and yet she still hadn’t woken. Alistair took his meals – the little food he could stomach – in her rooms. He didn’t dare take the time away from her to bathe, or even to let Marten shave him, all for fear that she might wake up alone. Only the healers could pry him from his place at her side, and their sympathetic looks grated on his fraying temper. She might be healing physically, but whatever had happened to her mind had left her murmuring in nightmares, fidgeting beneath her blankets without any recognition of the people who surrounded her in the waking world. Worst were the times she screamed, or cried out his name in terror, and he had to hold her down so her thrashing did not tear open her wounds. The pressure of his hand in hers went unreturned, his assurances she wound be alright growing smaller and smaller with every passing fit.

For the moment, five days after they had brought her in, she lay quiet, her eyes still beneath their lids. He tried to focus on the growing colour in her cheeks, and the deep, even suck of her breath, but exhaustion hounded him. It made his eyes gummy and fogged his mind, but he preferred it to the cavernous ache of uncertainty that throbbed with every beat of his heart, because if he were too tired to think at all, he would be too tired to wonder about the future, to fear she might waste away without ever again waking and turning her smile on him.

He shifted in his chair in an attempt to banish the shadow, sitting forward to check the arrangement of her blankets for what must have been the hundredth time. After that, he untucked her hair from behind her shoulders so it wouldn’t itch, and fluffed her pillows, and checked her forehead for fever. Cailan had brought him books from the library to help distract him, and he glanced to them for a moment before a dark spot on the sheets caught his eye. Frowning, he touched it and fell back, shouting for help even before he reached the door.  

“She’s bleeding,” he told Amell, who emerged from the room next down the corridor, where Fergus was convalescing. “It’s soaked through the sheet – maybe the last nightmare? I didn’t think it was that bad, but… Maker, I should’ve –”

“I’ll have a look,” the enchanter assured him, pushing past him into Rosslyn’s room.

Alistair lingered in the doorway, his sense of propriety warring with urgency as he watched Amell peel back the layers of blankets in order to examine her patient.  

“Well?” he asked, when her expression turned from concern to something he couldn’t read.

The healer shook her head. “She’s fine, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“But she’s bleeding!”

“Her monthly courses have come,” Amell explained. “It’s normal.”

He scowled at that, the outrage that despite the stress to the rest of her body, she couldn’t even be spared such an indignity. And yet, considering the alternatives, it was a straw to which he was more than happy to cling. “So she’s not in any danger?”

“Not from this,” Amell assured him. “She’s healing well.”

“Wynne said she should have woken up by now,” he said, before he could stop himself. When the healer refused to meet his gaze, the frustrations of the previous few days spilled over into anger. “If there’s bad news, I want – I’d rather be prepared for it. I don’t need coddling.”

Amell bit her lip, but nodded. “Senior Enchanter Wynne suspects there might be something holding her in the Fade.”

“A demon?”  

“Impossible to say, considering the trauma. But there’s still a lot to hope for.” For a moment it seemed like she wanted to say more, but as she looked him over that now-familiar pity shone in her eyes, and she shook her head. “You should go and get some proper rest, Your Highness,” she said. “You’re no good to Her Ladyship swaying on your feet like this. I’ll stay with her, and send for you if she wakes.”

“But –”  

“Please, Your Highness. What if she wakes and the thing that greets is her is some great shaggy beast she hardly recognises?”  

She meant the words as a joke, but they blunted the harsher truth. He had no response. He was so tired that the healer’s lightest touch on his arm guided him from the room, and by the time he realised he was being dumped in the corridor, she had already turned her most reassuring smile on him.

“I’ll make her comfortable, I promise,” she said.

“You’ll come find me? If –”

“Of course. Take care of yourself, Your Highness. I already have enough patients to deal with.”

The door shut in his face. Cut loose, he stood in the middle of the hallway, lost, without anywhere else to go. It was too late in the day to call for a bath, and how could he sleep with Rosslyn still yet to open her eyes? He considered going to see Cailan, to offer aid with paperwork so he might occupy his mind, but his few glimpses of his brother since the battle had shown him with sallow cheeks and sunken, fatigue-shadowed eyes that couldn’t be hidden by any amount of grooming. For the first time, Alistair felt a prick of guilt for not making more of an effort to help, or at least thanking him for the lightening of his own burdens. But it was the middle of the night, the castle was quiet except for the weather howling outside, and even if the king were still awake, Anora would likely not be happy at having their rest disturbed – and she disliked him enough already. He wished he could tell Rosslyn about her glares.

Instead, he took a lantern and turned to let his feet carry him down the three flights to the kennel, passing nobody, his thoughts turning to the long nights after his mother died but before he was taken to Rainesfere, when the warmth of dogs snoring in the straw became his only source of comfort. When he entered the harness room, the unexpected light roused Gareth from his cot, and the young man blinked and yawned as he untangled himself from the sheets. With the small number of Highever’s remaining war dogs needing to be housed, he had been declared kennelmaster in his father’s place. The majority of the dogs had gone to war with Teyrn Bryce, and those left behind had either been sold to help pay for Howe’s mercenaries, or had been sent to Vigil’s Keep to improve the stock in Amaranthine, which meant the young man’s duties consisted mostly of trying to track down which animals had gone where. It was one particular animal that Alistair had come to see.

“How’s the patient?” he asked, too tired to stand on formality.

“He knows something’s amiss, Your Highness,” came the reply. “He wunnot eat. If not for that Jowan he’d not be here at all, but he’s pining, and the poultices have knocked him further out’a kilter.”  

He thought back, to the first night he had met Rosslyn. “Last time she was injured, he wouldn’t leave her side.”  

“He’s not strong enough to leave the runs yet, let alone gan up all them stairs. You’ll see.”

Gareth shrugged on a jacket to ward off the chill, and beckoned Alistair into the next room. A few of the dogs rustled in their beds, and one chuffed in surprise at having its sleep interrupted, but they settled soon enough when they recognised who had come to visit, and why. In the nearest cage, piled with the deepest bedding, lay the only dark shape that didn’t move with the two humans’ arrival. Instead of a greeting, the dog stared vacantly at the far wall, the layers of blankets laid over his back rising and falling in time with his breath. Wraps of white bandage stood out against the brindle of his fur, breaking up his shape in the dim light.

“He’s not eating,” the kennelmaster said to Alistair. “He’s got no heart in him, and that’s without all the poultices sending him woozy.”

“Have you got any food I can give him?”

Gareth blinked. “Well… aye. But he’s trained to only take food –”

“I know.” At the sound of Alistair’s snap, Cuno’s head turned ever so slightly, nose twitching as he caught Rosslyn’s scent. “But he has to eat, and she isn’t here.”

Upstairs, he could do nothing for her but wait, and drive himself mad, but this – this he could do, and his heart surged with a faint hope that maybe by helping the one, it might help the other. Maybe the dog could do what he could not, and bring her back from whatever nightmare had her trapped. He had heard Dalish tales about the dogs that guarded their camps at night, and the Ash Warriors who sent their dogs into the Fade after their masters when they died, to protect them on the long road to the afterlife, so… why not try?  

If nothing else, he was sick of being useless. While Gareth went to retrieve the kitchen scraps from the pail by the door, he let himself into the cage, murmuring reassurance to the dog, who tracked his progress with the slow rotation of an ear but still didn’t raise his head. Gareth returned and passed a shallow dish through the bars.

“Here, boy. Are you hungry?”

Alistair sat close enough to Cuno to touch him, but didn’t, and instead set the dish down and settled back comfortably with his legs crossed and his back against the bars to wait. He had learned very early that a dog not overtly inviting touch was one that should probably be left alone. It was understandable. From where he sat, he could see where the poultices had soaked through and discoloured the bandages wrapped around the gap of the missing limb. Even with the numbing effect of the herbs provided by the mages, Cuno had to be in incredible pain, and groggy from blood loss, and confused about why his mistress had abandoned him. The blood mage, Jowan, had worked hard to save the dog’s life, pouring healing spells and blood magic both into the wounds until the point of passing out, according to those who stayed to help him – and it was the only reason Cailan had decided to leave the boy in the dungeons and not hand him to the templars until Rosslyn woke to pass her own judgement.

When she woke up, not if.

With a sigh, Alistair moved the scraps into his lap and lifted a hand to stroke along Cuno’s neck. The dog growled, a low, true warning that echoed too loudly in the confined space, and he let his hand fall to his side with the slump of his shoulders.

“I know,” he said. “I know you’re in pain, and I know I’m not the one you want to see.” He hauled in a steadying breath, which stumbled past the stinging lump in his throat. “It’s not… Maker, it’s not because you failed, or because she’s forgotten about you, it’s…” He closed his eyes, though the tears still leaked between the cracks and rolled down his cheeks, and only smeared across his face when his head fell into his hands, spent.

“She’s lost,” he admitted. “She got hurt, and now she won’t wake up and I can’t bring her back and I don’t know what to do. I – I can’t…”

Something heavy landed on his knee. Blinking through blurred vision, he found dark eyes gazing up at him, their expression somewhere between hopeful and imploring, and still glazed with pain.

“She’ll make it.” Alistair swallowed, but when he cautiously rubbed a hand over Cuno’s ears, there was no growl to make him stop. “There’s nothing she can’t do. But you need to pull through for her. Imagine what she’d do if she woke up now and found out you weren’t eating? You need to keep up your strength so you can climb all those stairs to see her. Imagine how happy she’ll be.” His touch ran to the base of the dog’s neck, where the edge of the bandage met the short, coarse fur. “Don’t worry about this – she’ll love you just the same, and she’ll tell you how brave you are, what a good dog you are, but…” He faltered again. “You need to eat. Just a little. Please.”

He took a small strip of meat from the bowl for the dog to sniff, holding his breath. After a long moment, the very tip of a pink tongue poked out just far enough to lick the morsel from his fingers, and through a shower of half-hysterical praise, Alistair picked out another scrap, and then another. In the end, after a long-drawn endeavour that left his hands covered in grease and slimy with drool, only about half of the food had been eaten, but just before Cuno settled back to sleep, he lapped some water from the bowl pushed under his chin, with more enthusiasm than he had shown since waking from his injuries.

The effort exhausted Alistair. He kept his hand in the dog’s ruff until his soft breath turned into gentle snoring, and even then couldn’t bring himself to leave – and not only because Cuno was seeking comfort pressed tightly against his side. He didn’t want to go back, didn’t want to find out what was waiting for him. What if she was just the same, pale and catatonic and unresponsive? What if she was worse, gripped in another nightmare and calling his name? And what if she had awoken while he was gone, only to find he had deserted her? He couldn’t face it, any of it. His eyelids felt heavy, and the blanketed straw was so warm, the dog’s snores lulling him to surrender to the exhaustion that had been clawing at him for nearly a week…

--

“Your Highness!”

Cuno barked, startled from sleep by the clamour, but even as he was called again, Alistair took longer to rouse.

“What –?”

“Your Highness, you have to come quickly!” Graela pivoted to a halt in the doorway, her hair and dress both awry, and her eyes blown wide with alarm. “It’s Knight-Captain Irminric, he’s saying – ugh, no time! He’s come for Her Ladyship – I think he means to kill her!”

Bewildered, but stung by the urgency in the elven woman’s voice, Alistair staggered out from under the weight of the dog, stumbling through the pins and needles in his legs as he barrelled past Graela and up the stairs. His pulse rolled like thunder in his ears. He should never have left her. He should have been there, ready to defend, like he promised.  

When he reached the second floor, he heard the commotion before he saw it, and skidded around the corner to see two templars standing off against Amell and a pair of soldiers in Cousland blue. Early morning sunlight fell across them from the open doorway, glinted off weapons drawn and raised.  

Alistair didn’t hesitate. The templars barely registered his approach before he was barging past them. The sight that met him as he crossed the threshold stopped his blood cold. Irminric advanced on the bed with his sword in a guard, while Morrence stood before him, her own weapon in her hand, the snarl curling her lips a ragged counterpoint to the melancholy determination on the templar’s face. Rosslyn still slumbered, peaceful and helpless to the drama playing out around her.

“She’s possessed – an abomination,” Irminric was saying, placidly, as if explaining to a small child. “I do not want to do this, but it is a mercy.”

“You won’t touch her.”

“If she wakes, it will be worse for all of us, now stand –”

Alistair’s fist connected with the templar’s jaw, before he realised he had crossed the room. Stunned, Irminric went down in a crash of plate and a yell as his sword spun out of his hand. Morrence kicked the offending weapon into the far corner by the window then turned her attention to the two who had crowded in in Alistair’s wake.

“Knight-Captain!”

“Don’t even,” Morrence growled.  

“I want you gone from the castle.” Every muscle in Alistair’s body shook, but his voice rang through the room like a bell, a lance of white hot fury that burned away even the smart where his knuckles had caught Irminric’s chin. “All of you. You’re no longer welcome here.”

The knight-captain worked his jaw, probing with his fingers for damage. “This is my duty,” he ground out. “It must be done.”

Incensed, Alistair took a step forward, raised his fist again. “You came armed with two knights as bodyguards so you could slaughter an injured, defenceless woman – who, by the way, saved all your lives less than a week ago.”

“I’ve heard her screaming too,” Irminric retorted. “Whatever demon is holding her in the Fade is torturing her, taking over her mind. I don’t want her to suffer, and she wouldn’t want to waste away like this.”

“And being murdered in cold blood by a coward is so much better.”

“I’ve known her since we were children,” he insisted, quieter now. “I do not wish for this, but it is a mercy. For the greater good.”

“She’s still fighting!” Alistair cried. “Whatever it is, she’ll beat it, and I will not let you take away her chance because your Chantry-fed paranoia likes to stab things first and ask questions later!”

“Your Highness –”

But whatever the reply was going to be, it cut short as a clatter in the doorway announced Cailan’s arrival with Graela, and hot on their heels, Fergus limping on the crutches that took the weight off his ruined legs.

“What’s going on here?” Rosslyn’s brother demanded.  

“Nothing that hasn’t already been sorted,” Alistair replied, without moving. “The knight-captain was just leaving.”

“The thing inside her is tightening its grip – you know it, too, even if you refuse to see it,” Irminric insisted.

“I will not give up on –”

“Help me…”

Rosslyn’s voice. Everyone stopped. A frown had come to her face, and her breathing had quickened in the way that usually preluded a nightmare, her eyes fluttering beneath the lids as she rose from the depths of unconsciousness.

He all but shoved Morrence out of the way to get to her, to catch her hand.

“I’m here, love – it’s me,” he murmured as he sank to his knees by the bed.

“Alistair…”

“Rosslyn –”  

She mumbled something else, too low and too quick to catch, but her expression crumpled into pain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he told her, with an iron grip on her hand, the softest touch to the side of her face. Behind him, Irminric was arguing with Fergus, but he didn’t care. “You need to wake up – I need you to come back to me. I need you to fight it.”

“There’s something… something following… so many eyes…”

“Fight it.”

Her breath shortened, brow creased, teeth gritted as her body twitched. The fit only lasted a few moments, and then she went limp once more, the grip on his hand loosening as she fell back into deep sleep. He didn’t have the heart to call her name, not this time as grief and disappointment swelled so tightly in his chest it took all his self-control not to fling something across the room. He wanted to sob. Instead, he pressed his forehead against her hand and squeezed his eyes shut, determined not to give in to the loss of control. He would not give up, and he would not lose her to whatever monster was trying to consume her.

[tinabritton-photography]

Clean White . . . The Next Project. NOT FINISHED -

Albert Watson

The iconic image below was captured by Scottish fashion photogragher, Albert Watson, in 1973. It was commissioned by Harper’s Bazaar Watson and framing their feature around Hitchcock’s prowess as a gourmet chef and his recipe for a Christmas goose.

There is nothing I don’t love about this image. The stark white background pushes Alfred Hitchcock and his prop (the defeathered duck wearing a bow tie) to the forground. There are no distractions of shadow. It’s purely about Hitchcock and his Christmas bird.

Amazingly, as this was Watson’s first famous subject, and since Watson had basic kit containing 2 lights, he managed this clean white portrait with only a white backdrop (to contrast with Hitchcock’s black suit), one light to the background and 1 umbrella light on Hitchcock himself.

The contrast in this image is amazing. I am a photographer that loves high contast images. This has always been a favourite of mine. It is humorous. It makes me smile (if you can get over the fact that he his holding a poor, plucked dead duck :(. ) There is an unimplied feeling about this image, as it is obvious to me, being a portrait photographer of sorts, that Hitchcock was at ease with Albert Watson. Humourous even. This says a lot about the photographer himself.

The image itself is crisp, the lines unhindered. There is no light spill. Nothing is out of place. As for pattern, there is a ‘gooseflesh’ pattern to the duck. 

1973, Alfred Hitchcock

(Johnson, 2019) (Profoto and stories, 2019)

Irving Penn

Jean Patchett, 1949

Irving Penn’s image depicts Jean Patchett in a dramatic fashion post. I chose this image not only for my love of hats, but for the close-fitting netting on her face that cause the honeycomb line pattern. The stark white background and high contrast really shows off her demur ‘oh my’ pose. There is nothing I don’t love in this image. The negative space has been made just as important as the positive. The eye starts at the top of the hat, moves around and down to the face and décolletage area, traces her fingers around then to her arm and leading back to her hat.

Since I love hats, this is my chosen image for practice in the studio on 1st of October 2019 when we come back from the holiday weekend.

(An American Goddess of Paris Couture: Jean Patchett | Official Site, 2019) (Christies.com, 2019)

David Bailey

Johnny Depp, 1995

David Bailey’s image of Johnny Depp is striking. Liquid blacks are riveting against the white of the background in this high contrast image. Depp’s fingers interlaced into his hair and the rings on his fingers create interest as the eye moves down to his black eyes then travels to his lips, up his arms and back to his hands. 

(Wall Street International, 2019)  (Artsy.net, 2019)

Platon Antoniou -

Was born in London in 1968. He first attended St Martin’s School of Art for Graphic Design and then recieved an MA at Royal College of Art for Photography and Fine art. He has worked for such magazines as ‘George’, Vanity Fair, Vogue, Rolling Stones, Esquire and GQ. Platon has captured images of many Presidents, from Barack Obama to Vladimir Putin. His last Presidential Portrait was of Bill Clinton. (All-about-photo.com, 2019)

Below we have a bold and graphic portrait of Stephen Hawking taken late 2017.  What draws me into this image is all the mechanical detail of Hawking’s chair leading our eyes into the face of the man himself. The perspective of this image, in my opinion, is superb. We are looking straight into the face of this great man. The graphic detail of this portrait, the blacks against the stark whites, and the perspective combined make this one of my favourite images of Platon.

(Platonphoto.com, 2019) (Medeiros, 2019)

Flóra Borsi - 

I’m throwing a wrench into this mix of famous photographers and images. For this brief we were to include 5 clean white images. It did not say the image could not be new, or old, or from only the very famous. Above I have included some iconic images that are some of my favourites.

However, during my research I found this young woman, and her series of white portraits. Flóra Borsi is a young fine art photographer from Hungary. She has exhibited solo in many places including the USA and Budapest to group exhibitions in France. She has been featured in publications from Adobe Creative Cloud and Adobe Photoshop to The Wall Street Journal.

While I am aware, at some point, after capture, that this image, most probably, has been taken into photoshop and added to, I just couldn’t exclude them. That being said, I could see that the image was indeed taken as a clean white, because we can see the slight reflection from the perspex beneath the model (unless of course, that was added as well, but I don’t think so).

This image is part of a series called Des Monstres by the photographer Flóra Borsi. It is fluid, graphic and most striking. Dark Fantasy meets Atmospheric. Everything about it screams motion. It feels alive. The extremes in contrast are eye catching, not only that, it holds the veiwer’s attention as the eye moves around the canvas. The perspective and flowing garment wrapping around this female model transforms the piece into a living artwork. Fascinating.

(Floraborsi.com, 2019)

Below are images of Alex Reilly showing us how to set up a clean white studio.

image from inside the isle we created.

taking readings with the Sekonic L-308S light meter.

Adam is the assistant. Alex is setting up the key light.

My test images Today . . . 12th September . . .

Noticed the red glare in Adam’s glases, so I had him remove them . . . Background grey. Adam’s face, in my opinion is too dark on the right. 

Again, we have the passport image of Adam. The background here is too grey. Adam is not looking into the camera. He was making a face, but it’s awesome because some of his personality is shining through. 

Much better. Here is Adam again. I wish I had noticed the headphones. I need to be more vigilant and aware of extraneous objects that do NOT need to be in the portrait. Again, the background is grey. 

Image of me that Alex took. There is no spill. The background is white. There has been no post processing. Question, Adam and I used the same set-up and took our images right after Alex did. What happened?

MY FINAL IMAGES on First day of Clean White Project With Alex Reilly

In Studio with Alex we were shown the correct way of setting up for Clean White. We used to lights on the background and 2 lights on the subject. We used the Sekonic L308S Flash Meter to insure even lighting of the background. It was at F11. Then we were better able to set up for the image, insuring we were at F8 for the shots. 

Here we have Adam in my 1st 2 images of clean white. We only got to take a couple of images each. He is looking directly into the camera. His eyes are in sharp focus. I took this image and his next into Lightroom. First I changed the settings to monochrome and worked within those parameters. I cropped the image to remove the headphones and bring immediacy to the portrait. There is a real punch to the image now after working with the contrast, highlights, shadows, whites and blacks. Then I moved on to the B&W Mix settings. I took the yellow to +51, the orange to +7, green to +9, magenta +100. I then went into transform change the vertical setting to -10. This brought Adam more in line with looking straight at the camera. I cropped the image further by bringing up the scale and close cropping. I wanted his eyes to be the main event really.  

We took the images into Lightroom with Alex in Imaging class to finish them.

This is a fun image of Adam. His eyes are serious, yet he is pursing his lips. I made the same adjustments to this image as I did with the one above.

This is my passport image I have edited in Photoshop . . . I have taken away the slight greyish tint using adjustment masks. It took longer than using Lightroom with Adam’s images. This is much better. I have cropped the image to the correct measurements required by the UK Passport website. 

2ND Day of Clean White In Studio with Dawn Martin

I feel the second day was more difficult. First of all, we had much trouble with the lights where we were working in the studio. Alex from the store was called in, and between Iain (Alex Reilly was unable to attend the class that day) Alex (store) and John, they helped change out the lights. By this time, 3/4 of the morning class time was gone. We were to get 1 silhouette, 1 low-key and 1 high-key image completed. That wasn’t to be. Our group was not quite as successful as we were the first day. We were shown a totally different way of doing the Clean White, and I felt it was confusing. But as we learned on the day, there are many different ways of capturing clean white images. 

The 2nd half of the day, Studio 2, was also chaotic. As a group, we kept forgetting to check our images to see if the clean white was achieved. So the first half of my clean white images in the contact sheet below were either too blue, too sepia, or had chromatic aberrations. Finally around half way through we were capturing more acceptable images. The images were not in total silhouette however, because of light leakage caused by the close proximity of the nearby ‘studios’ throwing light onto the subjects during flash. 

Contact sheet

In the above contact sheet, you can almost tell, before ever having seen the images up close, which photos were good, and which are not so much. We could have gotten a lot more acceptable images if we had checked often throughout the process. I have learned a lot today.

Final practice shots from 24th September . . . Still need work . . .

Adam . . .

Derek . . .

Hannah . . .

Derek . . .

Aiden . . . 

AL . . .

Johnson, B. (2019). Photographer Albert Watson on getting the stars to pose - Macleans.ca. [online] Macleans.ca. Available at: https://www.macleans.ca/culture/movies/up-close-and-personal-2/#gallery/albert-watson/slide-3 [Accessed 11 Sep. 2019].

Profoto, T. and stories, P. (2019). The story behind the image of Alfred Hitchcock. [online] Profoto. Available at: https://profoto.com/uk/profoto-stories/albert-watson-alfred-hitchcock [Accessed 13 Sep. 2019].

An American Goddess of Paris Couture: Jean Patchett | Official Site. (2019). Photo Art Gallery - An American Goddess of Paris Couture: Jean Patchett | Official Site. [online] Available at: https://jeanpatchett.com/galleries/photo-art-gallery/ [Accessed 13 Sep. 2019].

Nationalgalleries.org. (2019). Platon Antoniou | National Galleries of Scotland. [online] Available at: https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/artists/platon-antoniou [Accessed 17 Oct. 2019].

Christies.com. (2019). How Irving Penn ‘changed the way people saw the world’ | Christie's. [online] Available at: https://www.christies.com/features/Guide-to-Irving-Penn-9751-1.aspx [Accessed 13 Sep. 2019].

Wall Street International. (2019). David Bailey. Stardust. [online] Available at: https://wsimag.com/it/arte/13965-david-bailey-stardust [Accessed 13 Sep. 2019].

Artsy.net. (2019). David Bailey | Johnny Depp (1995) | Artsy. [online] Available at: https://www.artsy.net/artwork/david-bailey-johnny-depp [Accessed 13 Sep. 2019].

All-about-photo.com. (2019). Platon (Antoniou) Photographer | All About Photo. [online] Available at: https://www.all-about-photo.com/photographers/photographer/377/platon-antoniou [Accessed 19 Oct. 2019]. (All-about-photo.com, 2019)

Platonphoto.com. (2019). platon. [online] Available at: http://platonphoto.com/gallery/portraits/business--technology/edwardsnowden/ [Accessed 19 Oct. 2019]. (Platonphoto.com, 2019)

Medeiros, J. (2019). Stephen Hawking obituary: a life defined by brilliance and mischief. [online] Wired.co.uk. Available at: https://www.wired.co.uk/article/stephen-hawking-obituary [Accessed 19 Oct. 2019]. (Medeiros, 2019)

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[nekojitachan]

hi. after reading and rereading Armies and RP I just can't stop wanting this. a scene or two starring the amazing gossip network that is the Hatfords' Bodyguards XD (seriously awesome job there. go you! :D )

Okay, I know this is something that’s come up before in comments, but since I got this now… :)

This week is still a bit on the crazy side, but I was determined to get a prompt out! I’m still hoping for another before Sunday. Anyway, here’s some Armies/Hatfords’ bodyguards sitting around drinking and gossiping and plotting. I hope it turned out all right, it really has been a long week.

Uhm… yeah, Armies so some slight mention of not very nice stuff? And ALLY.

*******

Bren checked his phone and rolled his eyes upon seeing the raisedeyebrow emoji message from Davis; there were days when he wondered if the manwas enjoying a second childhood or something. Maybe he’d snapped after allthose years of watching over Stuart? Hmm, something to consider… but foranother time, since he’d finally reached the pub, with Billy and several othersgiving him a nod or wave in greeting once he stepped inside, and a table inparticular calling out to him.

“About damn time you got here,” Davis grumbled asBren pulled out a chair to sit next to him. “Asya give you grief about anight out?”

“Nah, just ran late taking care of a few things down inPiccadilly Circus and then dropped something off at those two’s on the way here.”

Liz perked up at that and paused in pouring him a glass ofwhisky. “Eh? Everything all right?” Sitting next to her as always,Liliya nodded in curiosity; they wore dark blue jumpers tonight, though Liz’swas form-fitting and Liliya’s loose and plush-looking. Davis wore a Chelseajersey, which was asking for a fight if he wasn’t so well-liked by everyone inthe pub (maybe he wanted one was once he left), and Nadav a plain light greybutton down with jeans. Since Bren had come straight from work, he took off hiscoat and undid a few buttons of the dark blue shirt and rolled up his sleeveswhile he answered the question. “They’re fine - well, as fine asever,” he added with a grin. “Still a bit tired so Ram didn’t feellike cooking tonight, which is why the hooligan wanted me to get some take-awayfor them.”

“You mean Andrewdidn’t want Abram to cook and told you to bring something,” Liliyacorrected him with one of her knowing smiles. “He’s so good toAbram.”

“Yeah, he is,” Liz agreed as she held the glass ofwhisky just out of Bren’s reach. “And you know the fee.”

“Harpy,” Bren muttered as everyone huddled closeraround the table while he pulled out his phone. “I was gettin’ toit.”

“Sure you were.” Davis tapped the scarred surfaceof the table until Bren set down the device with one of the pictures of thecats from his most recent ‘babysitting’ job displayed on it. “Ah, look atthose darlings.” That one had been of Sir and King caught napping togetheron the loveseat.

“This is a good one.” Bren smiled as he showed theone of them perched on top of the fridge, peering into the freezer with Kingleaning down to bat at the pints of ice cream - it had been when he’d restockedAndrew’s precious supply before their 'parents’ had returned home.

“Ha! King’s taking her life in her paws there, isn’tshe?” Nadav shook his head and motioned for Bren to show the rest, whichwere various photos of the cats playing or sleeping.

“This one’s brill.” Bren was rather proud of it,especially since he’d not only gotten it but managed to leave in one pieceafterward; Andrew and Abram had returned from their latest trip very late lastnight, with Sir draped over Andrew’s left shoulder and King held cradled in asleepy Abram’s arms as he leaned in to give his tired husband a kiss.

While Liliya made an affectionate noise, the rest of thepeople gathered around the table grinned over the image and Davis patted Brenon the shoulder. “Jamie’s gonna love it,” Liz proclaimed. “Youalready sent it to her, yeah? This is what she was smiling about earlier, Ibet.”

Bren nodded as he held out his hand for his owed drink.“Yeah. That got me and Asya a nice dinner out, it did.” He chuckledbefore he tossed back the shot.

Nadav shook his head as he motioned for Liz to hand over thebottle, which he used to refill everyone’s glasses before his own. “It’snot fair - you get chances likethat-”

“And deal with a certain American hooligan and Ram whenhe’s in a stabby mood,” Bren reminded the man, which Nadav acknowledgewith a wince.

“-true, while I deal with Ally.” That time, it was the rest of the table which winced.“I mean, he’s not all bad, it’sjust that no one wants pictures of him picking out a new suit or hanging out ata game or trying to get a date.” He slumped down in his chair while hedrank his whisky. “I spent three hours the other night listening to himdebate if he should give guys a try. Threehours.” Liz groaned upon hearing that and buried her face in her handswhile Liliya appeared stunned and Davis outright laughed - for himself, Brenwondered if he could somehow be on holiday when 'his’ troublemakers ran intoAlly next. “He’s somehow gotten it into his daft head that if Abram can beso happy with a guy that maybe heshould give it a try.”

“Bloody hell, that’s… oh yeah, that’s fucked up,”Davis said before pouring everyone another round. “Can’t wait to tellStuart about it.”

“I don’t get it,” Liz said, obviously still a bitgobsmacked by the whole thing. “Jamie and Ram are both really smart, sowhat happened with Ally? I mean, who thinkssomething like that?”

Bren gave Nadav a sympathetic look. “You know what? Stabby’snot so bad. I’ll stick with stabby.” He’d gotten rather good over theyears at predicting and dealing with Abram’s and Andrew’s bad moods, after all,not that they happened very often these days. Being married seemed to settlethe two of them down - that and working for MI6 kept them plenty busy.

That and they were all bark and no bite – well, with familyand friends, that was. With family and friends who didn’t betray them. Brenmight have to stock up on the Baileys, tea and sweets, and he wasn’t aboveholding a cat to ensure that the knives stayed put away, but Abram and Andrewwould never turn on anyone who hadn’t betrayed them, and it was the same witheveryone else at the table and their own ‘jobs’.

Well, Nadav might be in a spot of trouble, but Ally wasgetting there.

“So Abram and Andrew are doing well, yes?” Liliya asked asshe picked up Bren’s phone and tapped away on it, most likely sending thepicture of the two troublemakers to her own (Bren trusted her and so didn’tbreak her fingers. That and Liz would break his neck for doing such a thing,so…).

“A bit tired, especially Ram, which means I’d leave themalone for another day or two.” Bren shot Davis a grin at that comment, whichprompted the older enforcer to groan and pour himself a double-shot of whisky.

“Wonderful. Stuart’s only kept away so far because theirflight got in so late last night, but he’s planning on stopping by tomorrow.”He seemed to think of something as he swallowed the smooth liquor. “Maybe I canpretend that I forgot something in the car? Andrew’ll make it quick, I’m sure.”

“I’m gonna pretend I never heard that,” Liz drawled while Liliyagiggled and Nadav appeared to be fascinated with his phone. “And come on, it’sso adorable, watching Stuart fuss over Ram!”

“And then Andrew does that freaky narrow eye thing afterlike two minutes of it, and Stuart gets all jealous when Andrew settles Ramwith just a look or a touch, and then the two of them start arguing and Ramgoes on about tiles for some damn reason and… they’re gonna give me an ulcer,”Davis said in a plaintive manner. “How am I gonna enjoy my curries if I have anulcer?”

“There, there,” Liliya murmured as she reached over to givehis arm a quick pat. “Stuart would be much better about things if he had hisown lover. What happened to the woman he was dating? Uhm….”

“Sabine’s new assistant, Claudia,” Liz answered for her.“Yeah, what happened?”

Davis grimaced and reached for the rapidly dwindling supplyof whisky to top off everyone’s glasses, while Nadav motioned to Billy foranother bottle. “Yeah, her. They broke up about a fortnight ago, she wasn’t toohappy with him traveling all over the place – same old, same old.”

“Ah. That’s probably what had Jamie upset.” Liz draped herleft arm over Liliya’s shoulders and hugged her wife closer. “Might also be whyher and Sean are talking some more about making it official. When you thinkabout it, there’s not too many others our age who do what we do who have suchsteady relationships that I think it’s hitting the two of them not tounderappreciate their own.”

Nadav huffed at that. “That and Will and Miriam would beecstatic about Jamie finally tying the knot, considering how happy they wereabout Ram settling down.” He seemed to think about something then groaned. “Fuckme, I don’t want to be stuck with Ally if he has kids. Ally’s kids. They’ll reassign me, right? I mean, this isn’t somesort of punishment? You’d tell me, right?”He sounded ready to cry, of all things.

Davis laughed while he pounded the poor guy on the back.“You think some woman is ever gonna let that nitwit knock ‘em up?” He spoke theharsh words with affection, but they were still… well, harsh.

They were still the truth, too.

Nadav looked over at Liz and Liliya as if to get a woman’sopinion on things, and sagged in relief when they shook their heads. “If by some chance one does, they’re keepingthe kid and getting the money wired into their account so they don’t have todeal with Ally, but no one’s gonna chance messing with the family like that andno one’s going to be able to deal with him long enough to procreate with thesorry bastard.”

“Thank god,” Nadav sighed, and perked up when Jared, Billy’snephew, arrived with the new bottle.

“Makes one wonder what they say about us, eh?” Davis said ashe nudged Bren in the side.

“That you’re ugly as sin and dumb as a rock.” Liz smirked asshe opened the bottle while Liliya asked Jared for a pitcher of water andtwo platters of fish and chips. Everyone else was quick to order food too, asure sign that they were settling in for the night.

“Abram say where they were this time?” Nadav asked after hefinished his latest shot.

Bren shook his head. “No, so more hush-hush stuff. He did bring back some nice bottles ofvodka that I’m to take to Jamie’s main office later this week, so….”

Liz glared at her empty shot glass but didn’t refill it justyet. “That bastard’s working him too hard. Why haven’t we taken Lloyd out yet?”

“Something about Will saying ‘no’ and ‘government agency’and ‘let Andrew drive him crazy’,blah blah blah,” Davis griped. “I hear Stuart whinging about it all the time.”

“Talking about ulcers,” Nadav mumbled as he texted someone.

“Nah, he’s always good after some quality time with thegrandcats,” Davis said with a straight face. “Cup of tea with Ram out by thefish pond, does the dangling cat toy thing for about ten minutes… swear I brokea bloke by showing him a minute of a video of it, once – Stuart was taking acall while the guy was all tied up and bleeding out. Thought he’d lost hismarbles and started babbling right off.” He smiled as he propped his chin up onhis left hand. “Fun stuff.”

“You ain’t right,” Bren told his friend.

“And you are?”

“Eh, we’re not talking about me,” he shot back, while Lizseemed to be considering something. “What?”

“Think I could get footage of Andrew playing the cats?” At everyone’s incredulous stares, sheshrugged. “It’s gotta happen, right? And just think of playing that when you’ve got some poor sodhanging there all cut up.”

The table was quiet while everyone did.

Huh, it had possibilities.

“Maybe Jason could bug their house?” Then Nadav blanched andseemed to think better of that while the rest of them shook their heads – Bren hardenough to make his neck ache. “The living room? Maybe just the living room?”

“We’d have to offer him some pretty damn good incentive,he’s always real squirrely whenever Andrew’s brought up,” Liz reminded him. “Somenew tech, if anything good comes in.” That was directed at Davis, since Stuartoften got first crack at the imported stuff.

Davis tapped his fingers against the table for a couple ofseconds before he nodded. “I’ll have to think up something to tell Stuart, butyeah, should be doable. At the least, it’ll make his year to be able to teaseAndrew about it, if he ever finds out what we did.”

Bren could see the plan blowing up in their faces so manyways… but he had to admit, it could be worth it. “Eh, who wants to grow old?”

“I’m pretty sure Ram won’t let Andrew torture us,” Liz saidwith a half-smile. “He’d argue for our deaths to be quick.”

Nadav grinned at that. “I won’t have to deal with Allyanymore! I’m definitely in!”

They had another shot each to ‘seal’ the agreement, andtossed around some ideas once the fish arrived. Bren didn’t know they’d evermake it work (Jason was too smart, for starters), but it made for one of theirbetter get-togethers.

He had a wonderful girlfriend, a comfortable flat and a jobhe liked (other than the occasional prick shooting at him). Yeah, it was roughon the wardrobe and the hours a bitch at times, but most of the people heworked with were loyal and had his back, and the pay was great – he wouldn’tfind that in some boring ‘normal’ job.

“No, seriously, I’m willing to take the risk,” Nadavinsisted as he waved a chip in Davis’ face. “He tried to make a Molotov cocktailthe other day with a bottle of seltzer water. Seltzer! There was a bloody bottle of vodka right there and he grabbed the seltzer!”

“Uhm… isn’t there a saying about it’s the thought thatcounts?” Liliya offered while Liz appeared torn between laughing and crying, ofall things.

“Just tell me if this is some sort of punishment,” the poorguy pleaded. “I can take it.”

“It really is a promotion,” Davis tried to assure him. “Really.”

Ah yeah, so much better than some stupid office orconstruction job, Bren thought as he poured himself another shot.

*******

Again, hope it wasn’t too bad. New pov and all, but I had fun.

Poor Ally, still no respect…

And yes yes, definitely Raven’s Partner 17 this Sunday. Have to look it over once more and then send it off!