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darklydeliciousdesires · 2 years

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Runaway - Chapter Eleven.

Good morning (or afternoon, or evening, depending where you are!) besties! I hope everyone had a lovely weekend. Huge thanks for your continued interest in this little story, damn, you guys are understanding the assignment regarding engagement! We’re zooming to the 30 notes unlock on every chapter! I hope you enjoy the next as much as you have the rest :)

Previous chapters - Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten

Taglist - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 2,427

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

“So, you got that meeting this morning, huh?” Manny asked, Carmen lying against his chest, idly stroking his abs.

“Yeah, and I’m pretty nervous about it, to be honest. Sales haven’t been great, but I do keep on suggesting that we move to push greater into ecommerce. I even offered to appoint myself to it, since I know web design. For whatever reason, though, they’re reluctant.” She worked for a small cosmetic chain, with a few outlets across Southern Cali, most of their sales being from their storefront operations, as well as stalls at expo’s.

“Well, maybe the sales figures will suggest they can’t afford to be any longer. Hey, why not write up a business plan or something, see how they react to that when they see it all laid out, your plan of action, projected earnings, overheads, etc?”

She lifted her head, nodding. “What a great idea! I didn’t even think to do that, but I will! I mean, I don’t have time now, but I’m certainly going to mention it.” Pausing, she kissed him, humming happily. “You’re so great with this kind of thing.” When she was like this, she was wonderful. She was the bright, kind girl he’d fallen in love with, always quick to praise others, a stark contrast to how she could behave when something lit her fuse. “What do you have planned for today?”

“I’m meeting with Lily this morning, going to get some stuff for Lola since I don’t have a clue where to begin.” He waited for it.

“Oh, right.” There it was, disinterest, just as he expected. “Well, I better get up and get ready. Do you want breakfast?”

“I ain’t hungry, just a coffee, please.” She was quiet with him for the remaining hour before she left for work, Manny internally shaking his head, but not broaching it with her. He was in no mood for an argument, and he didn’t want her going into her meeting upset either. He was relieved when he arrived at the yard, to be greeted by one woman who never gave him an ounce of anything other than solid friendship and love.

“Hey, Lils. Thanks so much for doing this.” Greeting her with a hug, Manny turned to click the fob on the new vehicle he’d bought, figuring he needed adequate transportation now he had a baby to ferry from place to place when she was with him. He and Hannah had arranged it, Manny beginning in taking her overnight a few times a week so she could catch up on sleep and work uninterrupted, and he could begin building a bond with his daughter.

“No problem, buddy. I hope you’re ready to spend a fortune!”

She was taking him shopping for all things baby, except for clothes, since she had an absolute abundance of things from when Willow was little that she happily donated to him. He needed a guiding hand, and as a mother, she was perfect. She knew what to do.

“Man, this is a sweet ride,” she spoke, getting into the passenger seat, Manny nodding. It was going to cost him a sizable amount in monthly repayments, but not as much as if he’d bought the GMC 4x4 truck brand new. Being an outlaw, he made good bank, but anything he paid in cash for that he couldn’t explain was paid for out of his legitimate earnings, should he and the club become under such scrutiny as indictments, was at risk. He was smarter than that, they all were.

“Well, I gotta keep up with your fancy ass and the brand-new Jeep.” Lily’s very profitable earnings within the UFC had meant she could upgrade from her very old, very unreliable Toyota, buying herself the car she’d wanted for years.

“Did Angel tell you, we took it off roading at the weekend. It was so much fun!” Only Lily would spend that much money on a car and then take it out on a pursuit that almost guaranteed it getting trashed.

“And how much of it is left?”

“You’re rude! All of it!” she cried, smacking his shoulder.

“Hey yo, easy with the beats, badass. I’m trying to drive here! It’s been a while since I’ve been in charge of four wheels,” he protested, reaching to flick her forearm. “So, what was your dad doing underneath it yesterday then, hmm?”

Lily bit her lip, crinkling her nose. “Might have lost a couple of bolts on the oil sump.” His raised eyebrows prompted her laughter. “Stop with the face, or I’ll start telling you a load of unnecessary shit you have to buy just to fuck with you.” By the time they’d gotten to the store, making their way around, he did actually think she was fucking with him, by the sheer amount of stuff that got placed into the cart. Babies.; they certainly needed a lot of stuff.

“Okay, so you got the crib and other furniture for her room, right?”

“Right,” he confirmed, throwing an elephant print blanket into the cart. “I got the crib assembled already.”

“You got a chest of drawers for all her clothes to go in? What about a changing table? I mean, you don’t really need one, but it makes life easier than doing it on the floor or any other flat surface, trust me.” Nope, he hadn’t thought of that, although he already did have the chest of drawers there in his spare room that he could easily clear out and use. “Oh, I meant to ask you. How’s Carmen coping with it now?”

He winced slightly. “Yeah, not great. I’ve been heaping focus on her so that she don’t feel pushed aside, but I dunno. She ain’t happy about any of this at all. Well, she’s fine just as long as I don’t mention Lola.”

Immediately, Lily frowned, pausing from what she was about to say with an interjection of ‘you’ll need two packs of these, because they get lost all the time’ before throwing in two four packs of pacifiers, taking a breath. “Listen, I don’t want this to be coming from a place of bias, because we don’t get on,” she began, Manny snorting softly.

“Putting it mildly.” He smiled, though, because he understood that it was mostly his fiancée's fault, that the women didn’t see eye to eye. She was insecure over Manny’s female friends, especially ones as attractive and successful as Lily was.

She made an agreeable face, her lips pursing and tilting. “Alright, I’ll give you that. But for real, this is another human life, and she’s an adult. Lola is a baby! I get why she’s mad, because this is what she was looking forward to with you, and here you are having it with a woman who isn’t her. She likely feels very threatened, and Hannah is so pretty as well, and seems nice, from the short time I spent with her. I understand as a woman how all of that might impact her, but still, she needs to pull herself together and realise it isn’t all about what she thinks and feels.”

Lily had, as ever, articulated it beautifully for him. Also, she’d given him pause for some perspective he hadn’t thought of before, Carmen upset that she wasn’t the woman he’d had his first child with. Shit. Of course, that was going to be difficult to deal with for her, especially for a woman who had the kind of propensity for selfishness and insecurity as she did.

“Sleeping doughnut! You need one of these, they’re a lifesaver. You’ll get moments where she’ll likely only settle if you’re there, so you can just put this in your bed and put her in safely as the sides will keep her in place and more importantly, mean it’s impossible for you to roll over and smush her in your sleep.” She placed that in the cart, suddenly pausing. “What’s up?”

He shook himself. “Sorry, it was just what you said about Carmen being upset that the whole first-time parent thing wasn’t being shared with her, and it hit me, that you’re right. I didn’t even think of that, and I like to think I’m a thoughtful person when it comes to my loved ones, you know?”

“You are, Manny.” She paused, walking around to wrap him in a hug. “You have a hell of a lot on your mind. New baby, wedding planning, the club. Don’t be so tough on yourself.”

As it happened, it wasn’t him who would be toughest on him.

“I need to send a deposit for the wedding flowers. Is there even enough money to do that after all of this? I’d cover it myself, but I just paid out nine hundred for the bridesmaid's dresses,” Carmen asked, Manny carrying the last of the bags in a couple of hours after his shopping trip with Lily, who he’d dropped at home. A considerably less tense household than his own.

“Babies need a lot of stuff,” he explained succinctly, opening the door to Lola’s room, noting he needed to continue airing it in there as it still smelled strongly of fresh paint, the walls transferred from a mulchy dark green to brilliant white, giving it the illusion of a lot more space than the small room actually had. “You need a hundred for the flowers, right? Don’t stress, baby. I got it.”

“A hundred and fifty.” she confirmed, walking past into the kitchen after pausing to kiss him and give her thanks. No offer of help came, though, no interest in what was going on with him. She only cared about the wedding flowers being secured. It was beyond Manny why she needed to spend three hundred dollars on flowers anyway, but for the sake of a quiet life, he didn’t question it. “Just let her get on with it, smile and say ‘yes, babe’ whenever opening your wallet is involved, mano.” Bishop’s advice to him echoed through his head more and more, the closer they got to their wedding date, which was just over eight months away.

After he’d packed everything away, the room near enough completely ready to have a small person stay within it, he went to the kitchen, finding Carmen cooking her delicious shrimp curry, a frown creasing her pretty features. “Querida, we need to have a conversation about Lola, or more accurately, your reaction to her,” he began, his fiancée immediately sighing audibly, lifting her wine glass to her lips and swigging back a large gulp.

“Listen, I know that you’re upset about it, but what can I do? I’m not gonna abandon my child. As a child whose father walked out on him and his siblings, there ain’t no way I’ll be that kind of dad. I understand that it’s hard for you to reconcile, though, that my first child isn’t with you, that this is something we’re not going through together. Except we are, though. You’ll have your own relationship with Lola too, as her stepmom,” he explained, moving her hair and kissing the side of her neck. Immediately, she tensed.

“You have no idea what I’m feeling, now all this has happened! I feel like this is going to push me aside, make you lose focus over the wedding, over me! I don’t want to resent the baby, because she’s just a baby, but I do!” she cried, shrugging him away from her, stalking across the kitchen to the bottle of red wine and topping up her glass.

He closed his eyes, counting to ten. Manny wasn’t the type to escalate to anger quickly, but when dealing with someone who seemed to be revelling in being selfish and deliberately stubborn, it was a natural progression. “Baby, Lola hasn’t even come to stay here yet and you’re acting like she’s moving in and I’m asking you to move out. She’s gonna be here two nights a week to begin with, that’s all. And tell me how, so far, I’ve lost focus over you or the wedding?”

Her silence spoke volumes, Carmen knowing she was wrong.

“See? Can’t even give me an answer, because you know it hasn’t happened, and it won’t. All I’m doing is making room in my life for my kid. It wouldn’t kill you to do the same instead of being so disinterested and cold about it all.”

“Cold? Cold? How fucking dare you! I am not being like that at all, or disinterested! I’m trying to get used to it, so quit pushing it on me!” she shouted, stirring the curry aggressively, the sauce beginning to fleck the countertop beside the stove. “Anyway, did you get those food menu choices I emailed to you? What do you want?”

Again, with bringing it back to the wedding. He’d already told her he liked it all and so just choose whatever she wanted as he wouldn’t mind either way. “Whatever you want, darlin’.” The weight of it yanked at his shoulders, sagging down as he pulled a beer from the fridge.

“It isn’t just about me! I want you to take an interest as well!”

“I have, but if I say anything that’s even slightly different from what you want, I get a fuckin’ earful for it, so whatever, Carmen. You choose.”

Her response was sharp, each word toned with the vermillion of her ire. “See? You being passive is being uninterested, you just tell me to pick whatever, because you don’t care!”

Oh, he’d match the hue of her anger, unprepared to be the peaceful one for a second longer. “It’s because whatever input I have, unless it’s what you want, it’s a no go! I swear the Christ, Carmen, this whole wedding is bringing out a side of you I ain’t ever seen before, shit! Why you gotta turn everything into a battle?”

“I’m not!”

Yeah, not much. “You do, though, this is why I leave the decisions to you for the sake of not being argued with, and even that ain’t enough for you! Screw this, I’m outta here.”

He had to leave, because he knew if he didn’t, he’d bring the fact she was being selfish when it came to his child into it as well, and he was above throwing that at her, no matter how unreasonable she was being. He wanted to give her the chance to having Lola around physically first, thinking that perhaps seeing the baby might make her settle into it more.

He could but hope it would come together simply enough.

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ashleywool · 2 months

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late-night health update info-dumping into the void

The neuroendocrine surgeon and her nurses were patient, compassionate, and highly informative.

I walked away with more questions than answers, and like most autistics, I'm not good at sitting peaceably with the unknown.

The tl;dr is that I may not need surgery after all, but if I do need surgery, it would be a riskier surgery than I previously realized. Either way, we will have to wait at least another six weeks to get a better guess. And from where I'm standing now, that feels like an eternity--especially since, as I've often mentioned, my health insurance runs out at the end of August and by September I'll have to pay the COBRA premium. If I'm as lucky as it's possible to get with the NYS COBRA subsidy for entertainment professionals, that'll come to around $292 a month...which would still be cheaper than a marketplace plan and an overall excellent deal as health insurance goes, but guess what else runs out in August? That's right, my unemployment. And guess what happens if I get another job where I can qualify for any old crap minimum-essential health insurance? That's right, I lose the COBRA subsidy and would be stuck paying the full monthly premium...which, for the coverage I'm getting, would STILL be a better deal than most marketplace plans.

But hey, back in 2009 before the Affordable Care Act, even THAT wasn't an option, and the fact that it IS an option now is one of the main reasons why I keep saying that SOMEDAY we will step back and appreciate how much of a healthcare legislation LEGEND Joseph Robinette Biden really is, but I know you're not here for my oversimplified political takes, so let's get back to the other thing you're not here for:

THE ENDOCRINOLOGY INFO-DUMP, July 30, 2024:

Turns out...it's possible that my overall cortisol production is still being skewed by the birth control medications I stopped taking in early June (at my own discretion, remember, because I knew they would affect the cortisol test results even though the first (mean) endocrinologist said they wouldn't, and then said that they did).

What I had read was that 72 hours off the BC meds was sufficient to avoid interference with the low-dose dexamethasone suppression test--so I went off them in advance of my appointment with the first endo, because I was anticipating the ordering of that test.

I'd also read that four weeks off the BC meds was usually sufficient to rule out any potential interferences. When my second LDDST last week showed an even higher cortisol level than the previous one (meaning, the dexamethasone had suppressed it even less), I took that to mean that no, the BC was clearly not playing a part.

Also, the lab screwed up my second 24-hour urine test by not including the total volume in the lab report (what, did they spill it or something?) so there was no way to extrapolate the necessary data...BUT my first and second set of saliva cortisol tests came back normal--even with a high cortisol concentration in my previous urine test and all my blood serum tests.

Apparently, this "saliva vs. the other bodily fluids" cortisol discrepancy has to do with the fact that the cortisol tests measure both "free" cortisol, and transcortin, which is a protein secreted by the liver that binds to cortisol. A serum cortisol test (blood test) will measure both, while urine and saliva tests are meant to measure "free" cortisol. BUT, apparently, these BC meds can cause increased production of transcortin for up to three months after stopping the medication, and that transcortin production might be reflected in the levels associated with the urine test, but NOT in the saliva test.

To definitively confirm a Cushing's diagnosis, we would need to rule out not only any potential interference with cortisol (e.g. glucocorticosteroids), but also rule out any potential interference with transcortin production (e.g. the birth control meds). And the only way to do that is to just...WAAAAAIT.

BUT WAIT, WHAT ABOUT THE PITUITARY TUMOR?

WELL...enhanced imaging seems to indicate that the growth on my pituitary gland is fluid-filled, which means it's far likelier to be a Rathke's cleft cyst (technically not a tumor) than a pituitary adenoma (technically a tumor).

I'm sick of speculating and over-explaining what it might be, so until further notice, I'm just gonna call it Otis.

The possible good news is, if the September lab work indicates that my hormone levels were just screwed up from the birth control meds, then Otis's presence might have nothing to do with anything, and therefore, I may not need surgery at all.

The downside of that scenario is that it may take my body a long time to fully recover from any deleterious effects of the BC meds on my endocrine system. And that would also likely mean that my periods would become more regular again, which means that monthly spells of sensory nightmares would become more regular as well.

On the other hand, if the cortisol tests and other lab work don't resolve after the BC is definitively out of my system, and the culprit of the issues turns out to be Otis after all...I would need surgery, but not the straightforward transsphenoidal or endoscopic endonasal surgery that I was expecting. Otis is very close to my brain stem and it might be too risky to attempt draining or removing it through the nasal canal. It's possible they'd try to attack it with radiation therapy, but usually they only do that for RCCs that recur after surgical draining, so who even knows.

I'm just gonna say right now, in terms of symptoms and my knowledge of my own experience, I have a sinking feeling that it is Otis causing the problems. But we aren't even going to be able to attempt making a better guess until mid-September.

And what sucks the most is, there's probably nothing to be done for my symptoms in the meantime. Depending on the results of the bloodwork they did today, they might give me Metformin to treat any possible underlying metabolic syndrome (which is also something I suspected early on), but other than that, it's more "hurry up and wait."

I gotta be honest...in addition to all the physical and emotional overwhelm, I feel like my commitment to unlearning internalized ableism is REALLY being tested right now.

Owning my autism was easier. It was liberating. But I'm realizing that some part of me really did want to "be the poster child for 'if [s]he can, then you can.'" Part of me thought, if I had to be autistic, I was going to be a Model Autistic who can do anything the abled neurotypicals can do. I was going to Set An Example. Not a perfect example, but a solid and consistent example of someone who maximizes her potential but stays woke and stays self-aware and checks her privilege and advocates for intersectionality.

That simply isn't true right now. I can't do everything abled neurotypicals can do. My body is tired, weak, and prone to sickness. My voice is exhausted from regular conversation. My skin is dry and itchy and my face can barely tolerate makeup. I have NO appetite, and yet I've gained so much weight, like I can't get comfortable anywhere because there's too much. My stomach and my lymph nodes feel (and are) constantly swollen, my sense of dehydration is constant and I'm not retaining water correctly.

I feel hideously, embarrassingly ineffectual.

And conventional wisdom says "don't put this on the internet, or else you won't get hired." Don't share your behind-the-scenes, don't share the cutting room floor, only share your highlight reel.

Well, I'm sorry, but if acting is "telling the truth," and if art is about "the fullest expression of the human experience," then following those "rules" seems awfully hypocritical to me. Besides, what sort of disability advocate would I be if I didn't share the truth of what's going on, and how it feels?

Disability pride doesn't have to mean being proud of every part of every disability.

In fact, pride really isn't even the right word.

Because I'm not proud. But I'm not ashamed either. I'm just real.

Being honest about what I'm going through doesn't automatically make me a better or more aspirational person, but it doesn't make me a worse person either. It doesn't make me much of anything, really, because what I'm going through does not need to be anybody else's business, but it also doesn't need to be kept a secret. It is mine to do with as I choose, and the value my story might bring to the world has nothing to do with me. It has everything to do with the people who hear it, internalize it, and take something away that's valuable to them.

I hope, if nothing else, someone does that.

#actually autistic

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life-with-my-three · 1 year

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A few weeks back we went to change Harriet’s feeding tube button. It’s a six monthly task, and simple enough. You deflate the balloon holding it in, take it out, put the new one in, and inflate the balloon.

In true Harriet style she threw in some big curveballs for the “simple” task. We got the old one out, but could not get the new one to go in through her abdomen. With the stoma (artificial opening) it starts closing really quickly if you can’t get it in. Quick dash to local emergency who put a temporary stent in to allow us to drive to Melbourne. Kids hospital were able to get a new tube in but it was a different type and not really ideal for an active 3yo. It took laughing gas and 4 adults holding her down screaming though.

Emails sent come the working week, as of course this happened on a weekend. Her gastro department, made an appointment for last Wednesday to change back to her normal tube. We weren’t told if they wanted her fasted, so we played it safe and fasted her. Left home at 6am to get to her 9am appt on time. When we were 45 minutes over her appointment time we asked at reception if she was able to eat as she kept saying she was hungry. They went and “checked” said she was fine to eat. She had literally 3 bites before we were taken through. Doctor saw her with food and said they would have to cancel the change as she had to have fasted. Glad we drove 2.5hours for that. They managed to fit her in for the afternoon, but it meant being fasted and she had, had 3 bites of food since the night before.

The procedure was 5 adults restraining Hatt. Her screaming and hyperventilating and trying to get the laughing gas off. I feel like the worst mum having to do this. I’m traumatised buy watching her experience this. She’s 3. It must be so much worse for her.

They got the tube in though. She could eat. We drove home. All was good.

Thursday was our “rest day”. We had more appts at the kids hospital scheduled for Friday. I went to the bathroom at 8am Thursday and heard Aaron yell out. The balloon that held the tube in had burst and tube came out. Lucy had immunisation and health nurse at home. So Aaron stayed home with her, I put Hatt in the car and we drove straight to the kids hospital.

They put laughing gas on her and another procedure of multiple adults holding her down whilst she screamed. This time they could not get the tube in. They tried for 30minutes. They maxed out on all the sedation they could give her in a ward environment for the procedure. She therefore had to go into theatre.

What was supposed to be a 5-10 minute procedure in theatre wasn’t. Half an hour in I got a call from the surgeon telling me it was much, much more complicated than thought. They were wanting my consent to do scopes and a few other things. What was said to be a short procedure and then home, made the surgeons book a ward bed. Harriet was in theatre for 2 hours. They managed to get a much smaller sized tube in, but it’s still in. She is also going to need another surgery in the coming months to resite her whole PEG site.

Hatt won’t let anywhere near her stomach. Which is fair. It was traumatising. So very traumatising. It’s making self care tasks like dressing, toileting, PEG needs so fucking hard though.

I feel like the worst mum ever. The first words she said to me after this whole saga though were “I love you so much mummy” as she threw her arms around me. She has said that same sentence so, so many times spontaneously over the weekend also. Trying to remember them.

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ultraheydudemestuff · 2 years

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St. Raphael Church

225 E. High St.

Springfield, OH

St. Raphael's Church is a historic Catholic church in the city of Springfield, Ohio, United States. Established in the 1840s as Springfield's first Catholic parish, it is a Gothic Revival church building, the towers of which hold a prominent spot in the city's skyline. As a work of a leading city architect, the building has been named a historic site. None of Clark County's first residents were Catholics; the first Catholics moved into Springfield circa 1835, and by 1845, the community had nearly seventy Catholic families. The first priest to minister in Springfield was Henry Damian Juncker, the future Bishop of Alton, but his responsibilities elsewhere permitted him to visit Springfield only once or twice monthly, and services were held in private residences or in buildings owned by others. James F. Kearney was the first resident priest, coming in August 1840, but due to illness he resigned after one year's service.

The members bought land in 1848, and the parish was officially erected in 1849 and dedicated to St. Raphael. Although money was originally lacking for the construction of a building, the parish's needs were supplied by wealthy Cincinnati resident Michael Cassily, and with his money the members built the foundation of a church building. Over the next quarter century, twelve different priests served the parish, holding tenures ranging from one to eighteen years. By the late 1860s, the parish was growing to the point that a single priest could no longer serve everyone: an assistant pastor was appointed in 1868, even though a second parish, St. Bernard, had been formed in 1860. Another parish, St. Joseph, was established in 1884.

When W.H. Sidley became the pastor in 1873, he was distressed to discover the parish's diminutive complex: a small brick house of worship, a tiny frame house used as a school, and no rectory whatsoever. He soon arranged for the construction of a rectory, which was finished in the following year at a cost of $7,000. Two years later, he began a more substantial school building, three stories tall, which was completed in September, 1877, at a cost of $19,000. By the early 1890s, the church itself was proving insufficient for the parish's needs, and the process of replacing it began in early 1892 as the original brick building was destroyed. Six years passed before the completion of the replacement building, which was consecrated by William Henry Elder, the Archbishop of Cincinnati, on July 17, 1898.

St. Raphael's was the high school parish of Daniel Rudd, an African-American newspaperman who founded the first Black Catholic Newspaper in 1886, "American Catholic Tribune." An Ohio Historical Marker honoring him was dedicated Dec 12, 2021. During the 1920s, the church prospered amid civil strife. In 1923, when Archbishop Moeller was raising money for Mount St. Mary's Seminary of the West, St. Raphael's was wealthy enough to provide $10,000 for the school fund, amounting to fully 10% of the total. Its funds also sponsored Springfield Central Catholic High School, meant for students of all city parishes rather than for St. Raphael parishioners only. Conversely, the church was the focus of rising Ku Klux Klan sentiment in Springfield. Among the most exciting incidents in the parish history occurred during a KKK parade: the Klansmen planned to process past the church, but the parish priest stood before the parade, blocking the way, and the Klansmen turned aside.

St. Raphael's is a high Gothic Revival structure, built of sandstone from Berea. Since construction in the 1890s, it has been one of Springfield's most distinctive buildings, due in large part to its two front towers — the bell tower is 135 feet high, and the principal tower 184 feet . By climbing 156 steps to the summit of the principal tower, one gains a panoramic view of the city and surrounding countryside. The building's general plan is that of a streamlined Latin cross, with slight gabled projections near the rear forming the crosspiece. Three entrances pierce the facade, while lancet windows of similar height are placed at varying locations in the towers, and two-story windows fill the side bays. Widest and tallest are the windows placed in the rear-side projections and above the entrances on the facade. The Gothic stained glass window from the church apse depicts the Crucifixion of Jesus.

Both towers are topped with pointed roofs, surrounded by ornamental pointed roofs of far smaller sizes, while the roof of the main part of the church is a steep gable. Despite extensive Gothic Revival detailing, such as the pointed-arch windows and doorways, the building also retains some elements of the Romanesque Revival style, including the false buttresses and columns around the main entrance, as well as the sheer massing of both towers. By the time that the building was complete, parishioners had spent $75,000 on construction and ancillary costs. The architect for St. Raphael's was Charles A. Cregar, first among architects native to Springfield. Cregar was responsible for numerous grand buildings in Springfield, including City Hall, and St. Raphael's is among the chief examples of his work.

St. Raphael's remains an active part of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Cincinnati, but no longer as a separate parish: St. Joseph's and St. Raphael's have been combined into a single parish. The church building itself has received wide recognition: it was listed with the National Register of Historic Places on June 22, 1976, due to its historically significant architecture. It is one of six Cregar-designed buildings listed on the Register, along with the former city hall, St. John's Evangelical Lutheran Church, the former Arcade Hotel, St. Joseph's Church, and the former Third Presbyterian Church.

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bitcoinbanana · 2 years

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This template can be used for personal and professional life. Through this, people can store all the to-do things that are meant for users. The name itself indicates that a daily monthly planner template is used as a calendar control. It will be in the form of a book with several pages printed with details of the menu. This template can be used for maintaining daily, weekly and monthly list of menu offered to customers during the working hours of the restaurant. The monthly planner template document is used by many people today to ensure smooth and amazing management of menu in a restaurant. If the user wishes to plan his or her expenses, and maintain an account of bill payments, this document can be readily used with ease. It is a journal that consists of carefully arranged spaces catering to the month and week. The monthly expense bill planner is an excellent document that enables the user to organize the bills and plan expenses. Excel sheets are also helpful in maintaining a template as a budget planner to manage all the expenses. This template will enable the user to record a variety of categories and heads of expenditure involving payments. Through this, it is possible to allocate the desired budget needed for that particular month. Spreadsheets are helpful in developing a monthly budget planner template. Here, it is possible to write the plans enabling a person to perform a task at a specific time and date. The best part of the wall monthly planner is that it consists of a notebook. The best wall monthly planner provides any person a better view of how he or she can schedule the activities in the best possible way. It can be hung on a wall through the magnet or small hooks at the back of the board. This whiteboard can be updated through the movement of the colour coded magnet or writing with the help of a dry erase pen. It is provided with magnetic kits for designing the month’s activities, events and tasks. Thirty one day month planner is known as whiteboard monthly planner. Such an action will lead the user to gain success irrespective of the size of the aim. To achieve goals a simple method is to enter the schedules and tasks in a custom online monthly planner. This might be to reach a small or a big objective. The success in a person’s life depends on suitable planning. This big monthly planner can be hung on any wall with pins and clips. The planner can be used for preparing appointments, for dormitory bulletin board’s events and for company boards as well. It contains thirty-six pages wherein planning schedules can be written for seventeen months. Here, weekly, monthly or weekday programs can be entered for the user’s convenience.Ī useful and simple planner is the big or large monthly planner that is dateless. Appointments and events can be organized through blank weekly monthly planner template. This planner page can be printed, customized, and edited within Excel. They include:Ī spreadsheet containing the monthly planner can be used as a weekly or a monthly planner. There are several varieties of Monthly Planners through printable monthly planner 2020 template in pdf, word and excel that is freely available. But, according to a saying the fruits of the activities can be reaped only if they are planned properly. Most of them will dream of great prospects during this New Year, which might be through accomplishments. People will be expecting the arrival of the year 2020 quite soon hence a Monthly Planner is very essential.

#Microsoft word online free montly fee

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pinkfey · 2 years

Note

jasmine may i please humbly request some thea & august facts? 🥺👉👈

yes my love ofc u are the sweetest!!!!!!!! and i'm so sorry i have no idea how long ago u sent this!! tumblr didn't notify me :((

okay here are the fax <3

first off, august joined the royal guard because his family is dirt poor 😔 they live on the outskirts of an industrial district rapidly being bought out by One Rich Guy aka Reaver. their sole means of income is their family business!! creating dyes!! hence the surname!! and it's hard to compete with capitalism. so as the eldest, august volunteered at only fifteen to be shipped off to join the guard for a hefty monthly stipend :[

but how did he go from trainee to Literal Bodyguard so young?? well,, the royal family was getting desperate. thea had run through six bodyguards who each quit within their first week of working with her. walter (thea's mentor/uncle-figure) propositioned that maybe someone her age would understand her better and be able to keep her under control !!

august did not keep her under control.

in fact he helped her sneak out of the castle the first day they met.

in his brain what else was he supposed to do?? let her go alone?? manhandle her?? absolutely not. he is a Gentleman™️

from that day they became absolute besties. rather thea appointed him her bestie. thea is lively, loves shenanigans!! and august was quite literally duty-bound to get swept up in them

which isn’t to say he did nothing for her. he looked out for her, scolded and teased her, grounded her in reality more than a few times. but he never ever tried to control her and that meant the world to thea. he’s the only guard she’s ever listened to and will ever listen to, thank u very much

thea pretty much adored august from the get go, like he was her little scrunkly, and while august was definitely endeared by her that day they snuck out, his undying devotion to her grew naturally. about half a year after they met, thea’s mother died, and i think right then is when they became inseparable 🤧

lots of little things bonded them over the years. coming up with pretentious names for colors, practicing ballroom dances, teaching thea’s dog dumb little tricks, reading terrible poetry together and coming up with their own equally terrible alliterative ballads (one of which earned her the nickname dovey 🕊)

august never quite let go of the propriety of everything despite how close they were. never fully dropped the “my lady” and the upright posture. and it kinda got worse once he realized he had feelings for her

when did he realize this?? when he stood guard as she snuck out one of her many boyfriends at the time and, as thanks, gave him a kiss on the cheek. italicized oh moment. ofc rumors had been spread about the two of them for years but he became very acutely aware of them after that

fortunately for him, he didn’t have to deal with his repressed feelings much longer!! thea’s brother, the king, had grown corrupt and thea had to flee the castle, but the king had summoned august for a private chat 😟 and he did not get to come with her :((

fast forward a year. thea has begun a revolution and seeks to overthrow her brother and take the throne. she and august find each other in the castle as she seizes it and they crash into a hug and they’re both so relieved. but august notices something changed. maybe it’s her gait or the slight glower in her eyes, but she’s different. no one else notices—no one else would—but he does

thea is crowned at only nineteen years old and is tasked with stopping a devastating darkness from overtaking the kingdom. everyone has faith she’ll be different than her brother was

then she starts breaking promises

starts raising taxes

executes her brother for speaking against her

she turns her back not only on the friends who put her on the throne, but the citizens of the kingdom as well, and reaver (the guy that is the reason behind the kingdom’s poverty??) becomes her advisor. that bright, bombastic princess is gone in place of a queen corrupting everything she stood for

and august is helpless

his best friend is burning herself to the ground to stop the darkness because she sees no other source of light and he can do nothing to help her. he’s never been in this position before. he can always help her

her former friends tell him he has to put an end to her madness, but he refuses. he can’t kill her, not even for the good of everyone he knows. he just keeps on believing she can change and she will change because if no one will have faith in her, he will—he always has !!!

strong “i can fix her” syndrome like this man cannot let her go 😭 AND IT IS DEVASTATING !!!!!!!!

u know how padmé was literally dying and still said “there’s still good in him obi wan”,,,,,,, that’s august. but he’s RIGHT

she employs august’s family, giving them their very own estate on the castle grounds, because she knows how they struggle. because even in her corruption she still loves him and wants what’s best for him ;-;

when she’s sleeping and her face is relaxed he can almost see her as she was. as his princess. his dovey. the dark circles and frazzled hair can’t conceal the girl he once knew, even when she now pushes him away at every turn

tbh this is kind of the extent of their story :(( thea saves her kingdom but loses nearly everything in the process. her friends. her father figure. her people. her peace

but august is still there

she comprehends how useless all her efforts were. “your worst sin is you have betrayed yourself for nothing” type beat. she realizes how far gone she was. how her ends did not justify the means. how there was another way to have done this all along

maybe she can never redeem herself but she knows that if august can still love her as he does, there’s hope for her yet :’)

#smooches you for this!! mwah mwah mwah!!#this was unnecessarily long #zero fun facts in here just their life story fnjdbdjfkfhsfnbd #i hope u had fun reading it though :D #anyone shows interest in thea and august and i lose my mind for a solid hour #letters #shadowglens #x: the house is on fire and i can't get you to leave it

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misskittysmagicportal · 4 years

Note

can i request something to do with the thing about vincent having tics while giving oral or just vincent giving oral general i love the way you write things

I Think We're Alone Now

(Vincent Rhodes x Fem!Reader)

Warnings: language, talk of mental health, fem!receiving oral

A/N: With the pandemic keeping you and Vincent apart, he was glad that being alone didn't mean being lonely.

Vincent Rhodes didn't tic as bad or as much in his thirties. He wasn't cured. He didn't take medicine that made them magically go away. He took meds for his anxiety, and the “cure” was still going to therapy with Dr Rose. He didn't go daily or weekly or even monthly anymore. He managed every other month. Sometimes, perhaps, every three to four months. Yet it took twenty-five to finally accept a cliche: Tourette's wasn't Vincent, Vincent simply HAD Tourette's.

Don't worry though, cunt is still his favorite word.

Vincent also did all the things he told Marie he wanted to do. He finished school and went to college online. He found himself rather good at computers and a job that required the bare minimum of human interaction. His Tourette's was under control, but his social anxiety never seemed to be. We digress!

He had a job, and a place to call home that wasn't a treatment facility or a hoarder’s house bogged down by sadness and alcoholism. Vincent didn't find it shameful that his father bought him a condo. He and his roommate had an agreement to pay utilities and work on the re-election campaign.

Vincent finally had a dog. A dog he had to fight for because his roommate had.. Rituals. Rituals that also weren't as bad as they used to be thanks to the same therapy and right medication. Just like you can't get rid of Tourette's, Vincent couldn't get rid of Alex either. That was his first, and really only, friend. As tumultuous as they started out, if you survive a road trip with two neurodivergents, you're pretty much bonded for life. Alex was sometimes more work than their dog.

Vincent and Alex did things in their late twenties and early thirties they never thought they'd do. They went out. They dated around. They had awkward sex and one night stands that the two of them could finally laugh about. Vincent could hide, or save his tics from popping up during his dates. He could even manage to hold them off when he had sex. He was relaxed and focused on the woman beneath or above him.

But then he would spasm, or twist and pop his mouth. He would unintentionally squeal or swear, call her names or flip her off. Instead of understanding Vincent, or talking to him, whoever the girl of the moment was would leave and never come back. Fuck her, Vincent would think. I can't help that I have Tourette’s; she can help being an asshole.

-----

There could not have been a worse time in anyone’s life for you to meet quite possibly the single hottest guy in your neighborhood. At least, you thought he was in your neighborhood. You kept running into each other at various stores to the point you found yourself quoting an old movie from college.

“Are you stalking me?” You boldly questioned him one afternoon as he pondered Mcintosh versus Fiji apples. “Because that would be super.”

The man jumped. Then to your shock, he spasmed almost violently. His neck twisted to the left as his hand held on to his chin and yelled out, “Brown haired cunt! Grass licking big tits.”

You laughed. It wasn't malicious or in jest. You were nervous and stunned. Still you replied, “Normally a guy has to date me for a while before he calls me a cunt. Now as for grass licking? That was only once, but I was high and we were playing truth or dare.”

He stared at you, mouth agape. A violent spasm rocked his body again like an aftershock. It caused him to excessively blow a dark curl back from his forehead several times before his body relaxed and he appeared to sink in on himself. Embarrassed. A pink hue spread along his cheeks and angled jaw as he gazed at the apples again with large green eyes.

“You ok? I wouldn't say I've got big tits. They're more like medium sized. Unless you were talking about the melons.” You held up two cantaloupe in front of your chest. “I’m y/n”

Again with the mouth open staring. Then he came to, “Vincent. I've never had someone react to Arthur that way.”

“I'm from New York. That was a Saturday night in the village. Who’s Arthur?” You looked around. “Are you being held hostage? Scream cunt for yes. Vagina for no.”

Vincent laughed. It was almost a giggle that you weren't sure was a laugh or his thing. “Arthur is my Tourette's. He's the clown who shits in between my thoughts. My tics. You scared the piss out of him.”

“You named your Tourette's? You can't do that, they never go away once you name them.”

Vincent rolled his eyes, “ DAMMIT! I'll take away his bowl of food and dog bed too. Maybe I'll finally be cured!”

You didn't want him to think you felt something was wrong with him. “Mostly with all of this, I meant I keep seeing you around. Thought I'd say hi.”

“How about we exchange phone numbers, and you can say hello more often?” Vincent cocked an eyebrow.

“Bold of you to assume calling me a cunt is flirting! But you got it out of the way now instead of down the line. Give me your phone.”

He obliged and you put your number in. As you handed it back you joked, “Should've told me you had a much sexier friend.” You indicated Alex on the phone’s wallpaper.

“He's gay.”

“Damn! Lucky for men. Anyways, I work most days. Don't know how long with everything happening out there. Call me sometime?”

Vincent twitched and wolf whistled. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, but promised he would nonetheless. But then pandemic happened, so all you had for the next six months was your phone

-----

You met Alex and learned his rituals and empathized with his panic to follow or abide by heath guidance. His OCD aggravated by everything going on. Vincent couldn't even go for a run without his friend completely freaking out, so he just didn't. Their balcony was it for fresh air.

You took tours of each other's apartments. Had dinners and breakfasts together. Shared what books you were reading and watched movies together. Vincent teased you about your fat, lazy cat and you did likewise over his ten pound shih tzu. Although, you admitted, it was because she got to share a bed with him.

Somehow in month 5 you were roped into a three way phone call with his dad. Senator Rhodes and Vincent seemed to have an easy relationship, but you were filled in later that it was anything but for a very long time. So you turned the tables one night, and introduced him to your entire family.

Forgetting about his Tourette's, because you had really grown used to it all. To the tics, the whistles and excessive use of the word cunt (Pandemic drinking game, Vincent’s idea) that his biggest episode since you met stunned not only you but your clan. Vincent had buried his face, you were terrified of your mistake. But you got it from somewhere.

“Sure you ain't from Brooklyn, kid?!” Thank Christ for meathead brothers.

“This is dating right?” Vincent asked after their dinner. “Pandemic, COVID, for now dating. Even though,” he paused to twist his neck, “One of my coworkers has uh, dick appointments all the time?” He snapped a finger several times and shouted something about a whore and syphilis.

“Hey! Tell Arthur to fuck off. Sexual liberation. She's not a whore, she's in her twenties!” Vincent laughed. “Are you nervous about something? Usually the bedtime part of our phone calls are the least tic-ish.”

“Wanna have sex?” He was straightforward.

“Right now? Facetime sex?” You scrunch your nose but more to be cute than creeped out.

“Here. Alex is asleep. Come over? We've been isolated for months.”

“God, I love you.”

“What?” Vincent laughed. “Are you sure about that?”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

-----

Vincent opened the door and implored you to take your shoes off at the door. You expected nothing less as you complied and followed him in the stillness of the apartment to his bedroom.

The moment the door was shut, Vincent was on you before you could even adjust to the dark. Only street lamps from the neighborhood below showed through as his mouth consumed yours.

Your tongues at war with each other as the two of you scrambled to undress. Your lips broke apart long enough to throw shirts over heads and step out of flannel pants or yoga pants. Then they crashed together again as Vincent let his hands splay out the length of your back and shoulders.

Your one hand ensnared by his messy hair. The other under the waistband of his boxers and over his ass. You drew his body to yours to melt into. His erection strained and throbbed against your hip as you hungrily pushed your tongue as far inside him as you could.

The both of you eager like teenagers shot with adrenaline. Anxious and hoping Alex caught you as Vincent twitched and his shoulders shrugged up to his ears. His fingers fumbled with your bra made worse by his tics. Tics that frustrated only him; you reached and undid it for him. Your breasts were free for him to look at.

Vincent attempted to choke back his words but failed. “Tit fucker,” a sour look on his face as his eye involuntarily clamped shut, “huge nipples.” He swallowed his lips, mortified.

“Hey!! They make up for yours being the tiniest nipples I have EVER seen on a dude.” You took Vincent’s hand. “We can slow down if you want. I don't know what's up, do you tic like this every time you have sex?”

The two of you laid side by side on his bed, hands traced over inches of bare skin. Vincent was silent for a while as he let his fingers trail over you, his lips not far behind.

“I don't. I'm usually too focused. The last time I loved someone, it fell apart immediately. It's making me anxious.”

You held his head to your body with a tenderness. “I loved you first, didn't I?”

His mouth made its way amongst your breasts as he gently laid you on your back. His lips warm on your stomach and hips that he exposed by tugging your panties down over your knees and off. Vincent laid down between them and almost nuzzled his nose in your soft pubic hair before his tongue dove inside of you.

Your hips rocketed up into his mouth as you grabbed the back of Vincent's head. He licked and sucked on your sex. Small tics caused him to push his tongue and lips in further than before. They closed in on your clit. His tongue attacked it with a lapping motion that you could only bend to, helpless.

Vincent was insatiable, his mouth in a frenzy. Your fingers caught up in the sheets as the sensation of his mouth on your clit spread along your body. Now your words were a shock as they came screaming out into the quiet of the bedroom.

“Tongue fuck me! Faster!”

Instead Vincent looked up at you with a grin, “I see Arthur came to visit.”

Tag: @robertsheehanownsmyass @slutforrobbiebro @super-unpredictable98 @magic-multicolored-miracle @sean-falco @elliethesuperfruitlover @bisexualnathanyoung @bwritesstuff @firstpersonnarrator @rob-private

#robert sheehan #vincent rhodes #vincent rhodes x reader #vincent x reader smut

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jaethaone · 4 years

Text

Otherside

Paring: Massimo x Reader

Word Count: 2,464

Requested By @ee101abc

Warnings: Character Death, Swearing, Fluff If You Squint, Angst .. I Think Thats It

A/n : Im Sorry For Taking Forever In Posting But Between Running A Business, Working To Fund Said Business, And Being In School Its A Little Hard Finding The Free Time To Write But I Promise I’m Going To Find A Way, I Haven’t Forgot About You All . So Anyways I Hope You Enjoy And Sorry For Any Mistakes Seeing As To How This Version That You All Are About To Read Is The Second Time I’ve Written This Because The First One Went Poof.

Lyrics In Bold

Flashbacks In Italics

“Do You Ever Think That There’s Something More Out There” You Asked As You And Massimo Sat Out On One Of His Many Balconies Watching The Sun Set Out Over The Ocean.. A Sight That Was Truly Breathtaking.

“I’m Not Sure What You Mean Principessa” You Laughed At The Quizzical Look On His Face As He Tried To Think Of What Prompted You To Ask Such A Question

“You Know Like.. Once We Die Ya Know”

“You Mean Heaven And Hell” He Said Causing You To Slap His Arm In A Playful Manner At The Sarcasm In His Voice

“Yes And No.. I Just, I Feel Like There’s More Out There. Like This Wouldn’t Be The End” You Said Looking Out Onto The Horizon The Sunset Long Gone

“Okayyy , You’ve Had Enough To Drink” He Laughed Trying To Reach Over To Take The Glass From Your Hand, Causing You To Abruptly Yank You Hand Back Spilling The Contents Of The Glass

“Just Know Torricelli There’s More Than This” You Said Taking A Sip Of Your Drink “And When All Is Said And Done, You Will See Me On The Otherside

5 Months Later

Massimo Stood In His Office, Looking Out At The Sunset That You And Him Often Found Yourselves Watching Everyday. So Much Was Going Through His Head. Wondering Why You Didn’t Tell Him. If Only He Knew He Could’ve Done Something. So Caught Up In His Thoughts He Didn’t Hear Domenico And Mario Walk In Until They Spoke Up.

“Massimo.. You Cannot Stay In This Office All Day, You Have To Get Out Its Been Three Day.. She Wouldn’t Want This” Mario Said As He Went To Sit In One Of The Chairs Stationed By His Desk

“Its My House I Will Do As I Damn Well Please”

“I Don’t Agree With Mario On A Lot Of This But He’s Right On This Mas.. This Isn’t Healthy” Domenico Said As He Cautiously Walked Over And Put His Hand On His Shoulder As A Way Of Comfort

“I Could Have Did Something” Massimo Whispered Turning Away From Domenico As Tears Started To Fall But It Was To Late. Dom Had Already Seen Bringing Him Into A Much Needed Hug

“There Was Nothing We Could Have Done Mas” Mario Said Standing Up And Walking Towards The Two Men Wanting To Help Comfort The Man He’s Considered A Son “She Had A Heart Condition, There Was No Way Of Us Knowing”

If The Storm Comes

If We Burn Up

If The Wells Run Dry

You’re My Reason

To Believe In

Another Life

You Never Were The One To Want Peoples’ Sympathy.. Or Fake Sympathy If You Should Put It, You Never Liked The Looks Of Pity People Gave You Whenever Something Bad Happened So When You Went For Your Monthly Check Up And Your Doctor Informed You That You’re Heart Was Failing, The Current Medicine You’d Been Taking No Longer Working And That You Had At The Most Six Months Left You Chose Not To Tell Any One.. Not Wanting To Be Treated Like A Fragile Porcelain Doll For The Rest Of Your Life, Or At Least What You Have Left Of It.

Walking Into Massimos Office Like You Owned The Place Because In Some Sense You Did, It Was Your Favorite Place In The Whole House And Massimo Couldn’t For The Life Of Him Figure Out Why; You Noticed Him On The Phone And Sat Down At One Of The Chairs In Front Of His Desk Kicking You’re Feet Up Waiting For Him To Get Done With His Call.. Not That You Were In A Rush, You Liked Being In His Presence No Matter What.

“Sorry That Took So Long, I Wasn’t Expecting You To Drop By Today” Massimo Said Getting Off The Phone An Hour Later. His Loud Voice Causing You To Jump Out Of The Slumber You Unknowingly Slipped Into

“Huh” You Said As You Jumped Up Causing Massimo To Laugh At Your Confused State. Getting Up To Get Himself A Drink From The Makeshift Bar He Had In The Corner Of His Office Pouring Himself A Glass Of Whiskey And Shaking The Bottle In Your Direction. A Way Of Asking If You Wanted Any, Causing You To Nod Your Head.

“I Was Saying I Wasn’t Expecting You To Stop By Today.. I Could Have Rescheduled That Call” He Said As He Walked Over To You And Handed You Your Glass

“There’s No Need For That Mas, You Don’t Have To Reschedule A Call For Me, Especially An Important Business Call”

“Sciocchezze (Nonsense)” Massimo Said As He Leaned Back Against The Front Of His Desk “So How Was Your Appointment”

“Oh You Know, Same Ol Same Ol .. Female Stuff” You Started To Say But Massimo Cut You Off Saying He’d Heard Enough Causing You To Laugh At His Displeasure In The Subject

“So What Do I Owe The Pleasure Of Seeing You Today”

“I Can’t Just Come And See My Bestfriend Without There Being A Reason” You Said, And If You Were Paying Attention You Would Have Noticed The Slight Falter In Massimos Smile As You Mentioned The Word Bestfriend.. But You Didn’t Caught Up In The Nervousness That You Had Only Six Months Left. Six Months On This Earth, Six Months Until You Wouldn’t Be Able To See His Beautiful Face Anymore.

“Hey, You Okay” Massimo Reached Out To Touch You Arm, That Simple Action Bringing You Back To Reality, Back To Him

“Im Fine” You Smiled Up At Him, Then Looked Past Him Noticing The Sun Was Starting To Set

“You Sure Amore” He Asked Worry Clearly Written On His Face

“Yes, Now Come.. Watch The Sun Set With Me” You Said Grabbing His Hand And Dragging Him Towards The Balcony In His Office

“Since When Do You Watch The Sun Set”

“Since Now” You Said Walking To The Couch Patting The Spot Next To You For Him To Sit “Life’s Too Short Not To Try New Things And Enjoy The Little Things

If We Wake Up

Lose Our Patience

Or Even Lose Our Lives, Oh

I’ll Feel Lucky

To Say That You’ve Been

A Friend Of Mine

Today Was One Of Your Difficult Days, The More Time Passed The More You Had You Good And Bad Days, And Today Was Proving To Be A Bad Day But You Wouldn’t Let That Stop You There Were Things That You Needed To Get Done. First You Had To Stop Buy Your Lawyers Office To Drop Off Some Things To Give To Your Family And Massimo When The Time Came, Then You Had To Clean Out You Apartment. The Task Alone Was Proving Difficult Though Seeing As How You Needed To Sit And Rest Every Couple Of Minutes Causing You To Not Get Much Done.

You Let Out A Frustrated Scream Throwing The Object You Had In Your Hand Across The Room Knocking Over A Random Box Full Of Stuff. You Were Tired To Say The Least And It Looked Like You Weren’t Getting Closer To Finishing Even Though You Started At Noon, And It was Now Going On Six. In The Midst Of Your Frustration You Didn’t Notice Your Front Door Opening And Closing Massimo Walking Into View Using The Spare Key You Gave Him. You Weren’t Expecting Him To Stop By, But Seeing As How You Haven’t Been By His Place In A Couple Of Days Due To Your Shortness Of Breath Now, Its Not Completely Unexpected

“What Is Going On In Here” Massimo Said Stepping Over Box After Box Until He Reached The One Open Space You Were Currently Standing In The Middle Of “You Not Trying To Leave Me Are You Principessa”

“I Could Never Leave You Mas” You Said As A Small Smile Ghosted You Lips, As You Though About The Double Meaning To That Line, And The Soon Inevitable. Massimo Didn’t Miss The The Look Your Face Held Either, Worry Once Again Taking Over His Face

“I Know I Ask This A Lot But Are You Sure You’re Okay Love”

“I’m As Good As I’ll Ever Be Torricelli” You Said Smiling Up At Him

“What’s With All The Boxes Anyways” He Said Taking A Look Around

“Spring Cleaning” You Said Not Bringing Yourself To Tell Him The Real Reason For Packing All Of Your Things Up

“In The Middle Of Fall”

“Hey, You Have To Start Sometime Right” You Said As You Started To Laugh But Soon Turned To A Fit Of Coughing So Harsh It Caused You To Stumble Over Prompting Massimo To Reach Out And Grab You Standing You Up Straight

“You Okay Principessa” He Said Looking At You With Eyes Of Concern

“I’m Perfect.. I Have You Hear With Me” You Smiled Up At Him.. Taking In The Man Others Feared But You Called Your Bestfriend, Secretly Wanting To Call Him More “You Know, I Feel Lucky, To Say That You’ve Been A Friend Of Mine, That I Get To Call You My Best Friend.. I Love You Mas”

“I Love You Too Amore”

Massimo Eventually Left His Office, Only Moving To His Bed Room But It Was Still Progress. He Just Couldn’t Believe That The Last Words He’d Spoken To You Were “I Love You Too Amore”. If Only You’d Told Him Sooner, Why Didn’t You Tell Him Sooner. He Went To Your House That Day With The Intent Of Telling You How He Truly Felt But He Never Got The Chance.

You Had Soon Erupted Into Another Coughing Fit The Second Worse Than The First Causing You To Clench At Your Chest And Massimo Eventually Rush You To The Nearest Emergency Room. If Only You’d Told Him, He Would Have Gave You The Best Doctors Money Could By, They Could Have Saved You He Thought. He Would Have Told You That When He Said He Loved You, He Meant It With Every Fiber Of His Being.. And He Would Have Found Out That You Recuperated Those Feelings.

So Caught Up In His Thoughts He Ignored The Open And Close Of His Room Door Continuing To Stare Up At His Ceiling

“Something Came For You Today” Domenico Said Approaching The Side Of Massimos Bed

“ I Don’t Care”

“Its A Letter Fr-” Dom Started To Say But Was Cut Off By Massimo

“I Said I Don’t Give A Damn” He Growled

Knowing His Friend Is Going Through A Lot Right Now, As They All Are Because You Worked Your Way Into All Of Their Hearts, He Understood The Frustration

“Its From Yn” Domenico Continued To Say Causing Massimo To Look Over At Him “I Get If You Don’t Want To Read It Right Now, Just Know Its Right Here”

And With That Domenico Put The Letter On The Nightstand And Left The Room. He Was Hesitant At First But After A Couple Of Minutes Massimo Sat Up And Reached For The Letter, Rubbing His Fingers Over The Envelope Before Ripping It Open, Taking A Moment To Admire Your Hand Writing. Taking A Deep Shaky Breath, He Unfolded The Letter And Started Reading What Was Now Clear Your Last Words To Him

Dear Massimo,

By The Time You Get This Letter, It Will Have Been Three Days After My Funeral. I Know That You Are Probably Held In Your Office Or Room, Drinking Your Life Away Blaming Yourself For This, But It Is Not Your Fault. It Is No One’s Fault. This Is How Things Were Meant To Be And I’ve Came To Terms With That. I Know You Have So Many Questions As To Why This Happened Why I Didn’t Tell You, And I’m Sorry I Didn’t.. I Guess I had My Own Selfish Reasons For Keeping This From You. But To Give You The Explanation You Deserve, I’ve Had A Heart Condition For A Little Over 4 Years Now. I’ve Been On Tons Of Different Medications To Try And Sedate My Condition, But As Time Went On My Condition Worsened And The Medications Stopped Working. I Don’t Want You To Blame Yourself For This, I Don’t Want You To Shut People Out, I Know This Will Be Hard For You, Its Hard For Me Just Writing This Letter. But You Are Massimo Fucking Torricelli, My Bestfriend And The Man I Fell In Love With, And You Will Get Through This.. And When You Time Comes.. You Will See Me Again

Love, Yn

As He Got Done Reading The Letter, He Didn’t Even Realize He Was Crying Again. As He Was About To Lay Back Down Massimo Felt A Breeze, Turning To Get Up So He Could Close His Balcony Door, He Stopped Dead In His Tracks At The Sight In front Of Him.

Dressed In This Beautiful All White Dress That Just Seemed To Flow Endlessly, And Skin Glowing Stood, His Bestfriend, The Woman He Loved But Never Got To Tell. Goddess Doesn’t Even Begin To Compare To How She Looked. Shocked And Confused As To What He Was Seeing, He Stood There, Afraid To Move, Scared That What He Was Seeing Would Disappear

“I- .. How” Massimo Stammered.. Feet Still Glued To The Spot As You Walked Closer To Him “How Are You Here Right Now”

“It Doesn’t Matter How, All That Matters Is That I Am”

“I Miss You So Much Principessa” Massimo Said As He Reached To Touch Your Face Shocked That His Hand Didn’t Just Fall Through Your Figure “There Is So Much I Need To Tell You.. I Don’t Know If I Can Do This Without You”

“I Know I Know.. And That Time Will Come” You Said As Your Hand Graced The Side Of His Face As Did His On Yours “And You Don’t Have To Explain Anything I Know”

“I Wish There Was Something I Could Have Done” He Whispered

“There Was Nothing You Could Do, Nor Me But Except It” You Said Looking Up At Him “So I Need You To Be Strong For Me Okay”

“I Don’t Want You To Leave” He Said Placing His Forehead Against Yours And Closing His Eyes.. Taking In Your Embrace

“Hey” You Said Causing Him To Open His Eyes To Look At You “This Isn’t The End, Let Me Be Your Reason To Believe In Another Life”

“I Love You Mi Amore”

Taking The Chance To Kiss Him Before You Disappeared You Leaned Up And Connected Your Lips With His, Massimo Not Rejecting Eagerly Kissed Back, But After A Couple Of Moments He Started To Fell Your Once Solid Figure Fad Away. Opening His Eyes He Noticed You Smiling At Him But The Image Of You Getting Lighter

“Don’t Leave” He Whispered

“Best Believe Me, You Will See Me On The Otherside”

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

Based On The Song Otherside By Beyonce

Authors Note: Whew ... Yall It Is Currently 3:47am ... I Was Determined To Get This Out For Yall.. I Hope You Enjoy And Feedback Is Greatly Appreciated . So Please Let Me Know If You Guys Enjoyed It And More Imagines Will Be Coming Soon.

Taglist: @nebulastarr @posiemax @mjaudrey @akshi8278

#imagines #massimo x reader #massimo torricelli #massimo x laura #michele morrone #365 dni #365 days #klaus mikaelson #beyonce

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thecaptainhelm · 4 years

Text

Good Love

ch.2 is here, it’s technically an interlude, which is bad bc it’s so early. i never claimed to be good at this, so here’s Alfred being worried for almost two thousand words

Enjoy!

That day, it was one of the rare, bright mornings in Gotham, where the sky was overcast but the sun managed to shine through, sending dappled sunlight into the eastern wing of Wayne Manor. Alfred Pennyworth had been up before sunrise as he had been for decades, carrying out his more mundane tasks in service to the Waynes, though it would have been preferred that they learned to rely on him for other things.

Normally he wouldn’t complain quite so much, the stress from it was cumbersome in his old age, but the situation had been truly aggravating this past month.

The youngest master of the house had begun acting...strange. Strange in a way that genuinely worried both himself and Bruce. Damian was by no means the best at communication, but he did at least check in from time to time, and they saw him for when they needed extra hands on deck for their ‘night shift’ as they’d begun to call it.

He didn’t contact anyone for an entire week, dropping off radar, and the only reason anyone knew was that Dr. Norfey had left a message with his emergency contacts, asking him to set up a date to reschedule his bi-monthly appointments.

Everyone called Damian in a rush, and he said he was fine, but it was strange because Damian never did anything without a reason, ever. He was literally raised to make carefully planned decisions, and that idea was only reinforced under their care. They’d had to find out because he missed his therapy session as if he didn’t worry Alfred enough.

For the past three years, he had been in the care of a reputable therapist, competent, and more importantly, safe for Damian. They specialized in mentally and emotionally abused patients and unearthing childhood trauma. The success rate of Dr. Norfey was slightly above average, as most patients either leave positive reviews or receive recommendations for more intensive help. After arguing for days on end with the entire family, he finally relented and scheduled a two-hour session. After that, he went about his routine as usual.

Nothing extreme had happened, thank God, but there did seem to be a positive response. He met with Dr. Norfey again after two weeks, glaring at anyone who would look too long, daring them to speak up. It wasn’t long before it became the new normal. The young master gradually lost his scowl for something gentler, appearing relaxed when home, though he went back to it as soon as he left the premises. Certainly, he had his good days and his bad days, but he seemed all the more certain of himself as an individual. Truly, he didn’t think Damian could make him anymore proud.

Then, he met a young lady.

Her name was Marinette Dupain-Cheng, a petite young woman with kind eyes and a bright smile set upon a youthful face. She was polite, witty, with no small amount of talent and charm, and an endless amount of patience for Alfred’s brood. She was a breath of fresh air, especially for the suffocated Damian.

An investigation into her profile revealed that she was a rising star of the cutthroat fashion realm, her resume boasting high-profile clientele and lucrative business contracts. She hadn’t had anything notorious to her name, no criminal record, no illegal transactions, almost normal to the point of suspicion. After a while though, they managed to dig up something insidious.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng had connections to a terrorist.

Six years prior, a supervillain appeared in Paris for the first time, holding the city, it’s citizens, and tourists hostage for what would be the better part of three years. During that period, Ms. Dupain-Cheng would then begin to date Adrien Agreste, and then break up with him a year later. She and her entire family disappeared soon after. A month later, Hawkmoth was arrested, along with his accomplice Mayura, and seventeen years old son, Adrien Agreste. It didn’t take a detective to figure out what happened.

Looking at the classified investigation reports uncovered more of the truth, that Gabriel had the idea to use the miraculous to revive his wife. He planned to sacrifice his son’s girlfriend, a girl his wife would never know about by using Adrien to make the wish. In the end, he never even got his hands on the miraculous. Marinette had started to become uncomfortable with Gabriel’s strange questions and talked to Ladybug and Chat Noir.

When she told them of what types of questions she was asked, they grew concerned and sent her and her family to a safe house outside of Paris. From there, with police assistance, evidence was gathered and a warrant was issued. Gabriel was confident until Supergirl arrived, using her x-ray vision on the property and revealing the hidden lair beneath the building. He was quickly apprehended without fuss, and it was case closed. Adrien had been arrested as well, but he was quickly acquitted when evidence showed that he wasn’t involved in any way.

After that was the media firestorm, and the Dupain-Chengs weren’t spared. However, Ms. Dupain-Cheng was skilled as she showed her hand, and it was a revolution. Out from the woodwork poured celebrity after celebrity, vouching for her and her family.

She managed to turn her pariah status into that of a martyr in the eyes of the public because that was the bible-sworn truth. She’d rose to the occasion and exceeded all expectations. After that, she faded from the media for two years before returning as a critically acclaimed designer. The Bats gave her a grace period and soon they too began to gradually lower their guard.

And young master Damian appeared to be quite smitten as he decided to open his heart as well.

He watched his young master attempt to curry favor with the young lady, awkwardly wooing her to their family’s amusement. He saw her cautiously reciprocate, and he saw their tentative courtship, budding and fragile, blossom into something beautiful and delicate. He saw them weather the tough days and work hard for their relationship. He saw Damian start to let himself be happy without restraint. Soon a year had passed, then two, and then three. In the fourth year, master Bruce started to hint to Alfred to update the family registry, as joyful as he was.

So when he was sent word that Damian’s belongings would be shipped home, he hoped that Ms. Marinette would be there with him. Perhaps misfortune had come to their apartment and most of the young lady’s things had to be sent to storage, but it wasn’t meant to be. The message he sent left no room for misunderstandings.

I’m sending my things back to the manor. I’ll be home by the end of the week.

The young master shall be returning alone, then.

Alfred had long since received the delivery and moved everything back to its original place, save for items that were acquired after he’d moved out. Now the day had come for Damian to arrive home. The moment was both exactly and not at all what he’d expected.

On an unusually sunny morning, about an hour before noon, the one and only Alfred Pennyworth opened the doors to the sight of the youngest master, Damian.

His appearance was neat, shoulders back, and posture straight as a rod. There was not a hair out of place. However, his eyes…

It had been a while since he’s seen his eyes look so strained, it was clear that he had not slept well. This was when he knew that Ms. Marinette would not be returning for a visit for some time

“Welcome back, Master Damian,” he said.

“Hello, Alfred.” A rigid nod. “I have returned.”

“So it appears,” he opened the doors and waved Damian in. “I have your favorite pot of tea on. Would you care for a cup in the dining room or the parlor?”

“Neither. I’ll have some, but I’d like to rest for a while.” Damian stepped gingerly through the door, as though he was indeed tired. Normally, he wouldn’t let such an obvious wound slide, but he knew better to pressure a man trapped in a corner.

“Very well, young master,” Alfred shut the door and turned to accompany Damian through the main hall, a step behind.

“You’ll find your belongings in your old bedroom with the facilities fully stocked, as per usual. Please be sure to take care of your wound and to reschedule your session with Dr. Norfey before tomorrow.”

“Yes, thank you, Alfred.” A pause. Damian had never been one for conversation, but he would usually ask what was going on in the manor without wasting time.

“As your father will be out late at the office along with your brothers, dinner will be held an hour earlier to accommodate their sudden absence.”

A noncommittal hum came from the young man in front of him and Alfred nearly furrowed his brow in worry.

All too soon they arrived and Damian turned back to the Wayne family butler, stoic.

“Thank you, Alfred,” he nodded slightly. “I’ll be out for dinner, but I am feeling a bit hungry after my drive. “

“Say no more,” Alfred gave him a placid smile. “I’ve already set out the tea and snacks on your desk. I shall return for the platter after you have finished.”

Damian finally let loose a tiny smirk. “Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course, sir.” A courteous bow was the last Damian saw of the butler as he entered and closed the door to his room.

Alfred walked back towards the kitchen to check on his pot roast, feeling relieved. Damian wasn’t at his best, that much was evident, but that didn’t mean he was at his worst. At least not yet. However, there was still hope, because while it seemed like he had regressed in his current state, his tired eyes said that he had some sort of revelation.

Alfred began to prepare Damian’s portion, wondering what could have happened between the two for him to return alone, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else? The list of options was short but severe. He could have told her any number of secrets about his past, family history, current vigilante occupation, and while he had faith in Ms. Marinette, the young woman was by no means a saint.

It could have also been that she broke up with Damian, and it might be his extreme bias, but he couldn’t fathom why. Yes, this was Damian they were talking about, but he’d been in therapy for close to eight years now and was making steady progress as he continued to root out his trauma and slowly but surely heal. However, he did not know how their relationship was faring, as both proved to be rather private. Though, the young miss was more shy than possessive.

Damian had over ten years of trauma, all throughout his early childhood, and suddenly he was becoming an adult. A confused, depressed, and unstable child had become trapped in the body and mind of an adult, and while everyone helped to the best they could, all while trying to help themselves, it wasn’t enough. It never would be, not for this battle.

Alfred sighed, feeling his years. He pulled dinner out to rest and started to set the table, just in time for the proximity sensors to notify him of Bruce’s car pulling into the estate. Right on schedule.

“Welcome home Masters Bruce, Timothy, and Duke. If you would, hurry and wash before dinner. It’s been quite the long day, has it not?”

there, it’s gonna be a while for ch. 3

#Good Love ch 2 #daminette #marinette x damian #maridami

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yikesharringrove · 4 years

Text

Happy Trans Billy Week!

Day 3: Bakery/Chef!au

@transbillyhargrove @blurbwitch

Harringrove

BIlly is ftm, Stevie is mtf

“At least just try her stuff. She’s really good!”

Robin was trying to sell Billy on her friend, again.

He had been working his ass off opening this cafe, had been interviewing professional bakers around the city for it. And Robin wanted him to hire her friend. Who baked for fun.

“And she’ll work in house! You would just have to pay her a salary, not give her a cut of everything sold.” Billy rolled his eyes.

“But then I would have to buy all the shit for her to bake everything.”

“But you’ll make bank on her stuff. She makes these little doughnut things, but they’re double fried and made with like, puff pastry.

“So not a doughnut at all.” She slapped his chest.

“Fuck you. People would pay like, five whole dollars for one ‘a those. At least just try.”

“Fine. Have her bring me some samples of stuff on Monday. I want cookies, coffee cakes, specialty pastries, crossiants, and whatever that not-doughnut thing is.” Robin grinned at him.

Robin came in on Monday trying to awkwardly bring a giant box into the cafe.

“Stevie couldn’t make it. She had a doctor’s appointment or something. But anyway, here’s what you asked for.” She placed it down on a table, pointing at everything.

“So she made chocolate chip cookies, gingersnaps, snickerdoodles, and teas cookies, croissants, coffee cake, carrot cake, chese cake, that doughnutty-thing, actual doughnuts, brownies and lemon bars. I think she didn’t sleep for like, four days.”

Billy was impressed. It was a good spread.

“She also made me bring a loaf of sourdough in case you’re doing like, toast stuff. I said you weren’t, but I think she feels bad for not being here.”

They tried everything.

And unfortunately, is was all fucking delicious.

“Fine. She’s fucking hired.” Billy made a list of everything he wanted to sell, thought maybe the delicious not-doughnuts could be a bit of a speicality, new flavors every week. “I’ll need a comprehensive list of ingredients, and she’ll probably have to check out the set up we got here.”

Billy hadn’t really wanted an in-house baker, but he hadn’t ripped out the ovens, proving drawers, coolers and counters in the back, so he supposed it would work out okay.

“And tell her I want an in person meeting within the next few days.”

Billy was scrubbing out one of the ovens in the back when he heard the bell above the door.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” He called.

“Um, I’m Stevie Harrington? I’m Robin’s baker friend? You said I should come see the space?” Billy got up with a groan, stretching until his back popped.

“You tellin’ me, or askin’.” He pushed open the back door, smirking at the girl standing on the other side of his counter. She was tall, had much fucking dark hair, falling almost to her ass and big round eyes.

“Telling. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here yesterday. That appointment was important. Billy shrugged. “I have a list of ingredients for you. I figured how many of each item per day, and broke it up into waht I would need weekly and monthly, since I don’t know how you’re planning on ordering everything.” Billy nodded at the neat handwriting.

“Your stuff was good. I was thinking for those double fried things, we could do a new flavor every week. Make them a bit of a specialty.” Her cheeks went a little pink.

“Thank you. I’m so glad you liked everything, and decidded to give me this opportunity.” He smiled at her.

“You’re talented. Come see what I got.” She followed him to the back, her eyes going wide as she looked at the industrial ovens. “This place was a bakery, so we’ve got everything you should need.” The old owner had passed away, didn’t have anyone to leave the bakery to.

“Oh, this is perfect. When’s opening?”

“We’re four weeks out. I was planning on ripping all this out, so it has to be cleaned, but everything else is ahead of schedule.” Stevie opened an oven, peerinf inside.

“They’re not too gross. The old owners tool good care of everything.” She took of her jacket, was left just in her pretty dark blue dress. “I’ll help you clean.” She smiled at him as she took the cleaning supplies from him, getting to work scrubbing down the oven.

Billy played some music as they worked, chatting lightly to one another.

“So, how’d you end up in Seattle?” Billy had shot straight up here after graduating hisgh school, didn’t want to leave the west coast, but wanted to go somewhere different. Stevie had mentioned being from a small town in the midwest.

“Just kinda needed a fresh start. Robin and I moved out here together about six years ago, now. She went to University of Washington, and I jsut wanted to live somewhere interesting for once. Plus, it’s just better for me here.” Billy nodded.

“Me too.” She smiled at him. She had put her dark hair into a messy bun to keep it out of her face, and Billy had gotten her an apron to keep her dress neat.

“What made you want to open a cafe?”

“Well, I mean, it’s Seattle.” She laughed. “But I also just liked the idea of running my own business. Building something from the ground up. And I like the vibe of cafes. They’re just in between places. You can come alone and just hang out.” Billy had gotten many comfortable mis-matched chairs and placed them amoungst the tables and chairs. He wasnted it to be cozy. He had bookshelves on one wall, thought he could even have a take-a-book-leave-a-book kinda thing goin’ on.

“I think that’s really nice.”

Stevie started coming over everyday to help him clean out the kitchen. Somteims she would drag Robin, but more often than not, it was just the two of them, scrubbing everything out, listening to music and talking about random things.

But one day Stevie didn’t come in, didn’t call Billy to let him know, didn’t send Robin with a message.

Billy thought he was frustrated that his employee was missing, but really, he was just worried.

She looked tired the next day when she came in, her hair up in a messy ponytail, was wearing baggy jeans and a sweatshirt.

“I’m so sorry. I promise that will not happen again.” She had gotten right to work.

“Look, I don’t mind if you need personal days, just call me. Let me know.” She nodded at him, her eyes were bright. “Are you okay?” Her lip trembled.

“I’m sorry. I just, sometimes I have such bad days, and I can’t stand to look at myself, and I don’t want anyone else to look at me. And you’re always so nice to me, and I, I didn’t want you looking at me with your pretty eyes. I knew I would fucking fall apart.”

She was kneeling on the floor, fucking crying as she scrubbed at the proving drawer. Her make up was beginning to run just a bit.

Billy grabbed a fw paper towels, sitting down next to her.

“You wanna talk about it?” She shook her head.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” She wiped at her esys, smudging the dark makeup underneath. He took the paper towel from her hands, wiping up streaked makeup.

He was staring into her big dark eyes, noticed the soft honey gold in them, the forest green.

“Is it okay if I kissed you?” Her gaze dropped to his lips.

“Yeah,” she breathed.

Billy leaned in, kissing her softly, keeping it slow and chaste.

He pulled back, dabbing at her eyes again.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while. I’m sorry, that probably wasn’t the best timing, I just, I really like you.” Her lip trembled.

“The reason, the reason I was feeling so bad yesterday was, was because everytime I speak to my parents on the phone, they call me their son.” She swallowed hard.

“The last time I spoke to my dad, he called me his ungrateful bitch of a daughter. I get it, Stevie. I really do.” Stevie whimpered, another tear slipping out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t, didn’t know if I could tell you.” He smiled at her, wiping her eyes one last time, kissing her cheek.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to tell anyone anything.” She gave a watery laugh.

“Thank you, for being kind to me.”

“You’re a good person, Stevie. You deserve kindness.” She smiled at him, pulling back to take a deep breath. “And I meant what I said. I really like you. I’d like to take you on a date, if that’s okay.”

She nodded vigorously, ponytail bouncing.

“Oh, yeah! I had the biggest crush on you since I walked in here. I mean, Robin’s been trying to set us up for like, months.” BIlly raised one eyebrow, giving her a lopsided smile.

“Are you serious? Is that why she was so insistent on me trying your stuff?”

“Well, and that fact that I’m a damn good baker.” He laughed. She was grinning as she moved back to scrubbing the drawer. “She’s gonna be so smug. I can already hear her. Stevie, I TOLD you that you would love him. He’s JUST yout type.” Billy grinned iwder.

“And what is your type?”

“Beefy assholes that’re way smarter than me.”

#there's a touch of angst #Trans Billy Week 2020 #yikes writes #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #trans billy hargrove #trans!billy #trans steve harrington #trans!steve

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eirian-houpe · 4 years

Text

Prima

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Belle/Detective Weaver

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold | Detective Weaver, Wishverse Captain Hook | Detective Rogers, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Regina Mills | Roni

Additional Tags: Angst, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Crimes & Criminals, Organized Crime, Hyperion Heights (Once Upon a Time), A Monthly Rumbelling April 2020 (Once Upon a Time), Woven Beauty

Summary: Detectives Weaver and Rogers stumble upon a crime at a local theater where they meet the Prima Ballerina, Anabelle French in the process of apparently committing agravated assault with a deadly weapon, but as Weaver investigates, he discovers there is far more to it than a simple crime, and he is forced to run to a place of safety with his suspect in tow.

Written for the April, A Monthly Rumbelling - Mood Board.

Read on AO3

Prima

“Look,” Weaver sighed and hurried to keep up with his partner, “I don’t know why you’re getting so bent out of shape. It’s not as if it meant anything is it, you said yourself—”

Whatever Detective Weaver might have been about to say was cut off by the sound of single gunshot. Loud enough to be close, but not out in the open. On instinct he reached for his weapon and saw that Rogers had done the same, both of them looking around for the origin of the sound. They were rewarded by a second gunshot, and alert to it now, both men turned in the direction of the local theater.

“Front entrance,” Weaver ordered, already heading to the alley way that he knew led to the stage door. “And call it in.”

He picked up the pace, hurrying down the alley, already watching as half-dressed dancers were spilling out of a plain brown door. He pushed his way through, jacket pulled back to reveal the badge clipped to his belt, even so, he still announced himself to the stage door keeper as he struggled against the tide of frightened performers.

“Seatle PD.”

“It… it’s Miss Belle,” the man stammered. “She’s lost her mind. Gone mad!”

“Where?” he snapped, not caring for politeness.

“Her dressing room is that way,” the door keeper pointed along the hallway to the left.

He nodded, spotting Rogers as his partner came in the other way, and he signaled to the other man the direction he should take. Rogers took off before anything could be said, and Weaver followed after him, already starting to get an uncomfortable feeling of wrongness in his gut even before he had set eyes on the supposed crime scene.

He barely caught sight of the word, ‘Prima,’ before Detective Rogers kicked open the door so hard he almost took it from its hinges.

“Seatle PD! Drop the weapon!” Rogers’ presence and his words were rewarded with a scream, and as he drew closer, Weaver heard, the rattle of a weapon. “I said, drop it!”

He picked up his pace a little, finally drawing level with the door, and before going through, took in everything he could see. A young - and, he noted, incredibly beautiful - woman was standing at one side of the room. Obviously a dancer, probably the shoes that gave it away, she was in a close fitting costume and already made up for the stage. She had a gun; was holding it, inexpertly, in both hands, and shifting her aim - if it could be called that - between Rogers, and a man at the other side of the room. She was clearly scared. Her hands were shaking, and the safety was off; a terrible combination.

The man that she had presumably shot at, twice, seemed entirely unharmed. Another dancer, he stood maybe six feet tall, was also dressed in his dance gear which was obscenely tight in Weaver’s opinion. His hair short, but not so close cropped as to hide the fact that it was slightly out of place. He’d seen enough, and the entire situation smelled entirely bent.

“I’m warning you—” Rogers’ began, but Weaver cut him off.

“No, no,” he said almost sing song, softly. “You don’t want to do that.” He stepped deliberately between Rogers, who had shifted closer to the man, and the woman with the gun. “I’m sure we can work this all out.”

“Weaver, what the hell are you doing?” Rogers protested, his aim disrupted as Weaver had intended.

“I got this,” he answered, without taking his eyes off the woman who had now shifted her gun to point in his general direction. For the moment he followed protocol and kept his own weapon raised. “Why don’t you take our friend there out into another room; get his statement.”

“I’ll give you a fucking statement,” the man spat, his voice heavily accented, Russian, or else Eastern European, Weaver guessed. “She tried to shoot me. Bitch is crazy!”

The woman let out a snarling scream, shifting her aim only barely, and pulled the trigger again. From the corner of his eye, Weaver saw Rogers and the other man duck, but he kept his eyes fixed on the woman, flinching only slightly when he felt the hot wind of the bullet as it passed his head. She missed again, and the recoil on the gun made her stumble backwards, before she leveled her gun off again.

He didn’t want Rogers doing anything stupid, so he said, “Get him out of here, Rogers, I won’t tell you again,” and moved as Rogers complied, keeping himself between his partner and the woman with the gun.

“Let’s shut this door, shall we?” he crooned once he was alone with the woman. “Have a little talk. See what’s got you so wound up, hmm?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, just reached out with his free hand, and pulled the door closed; couldn’t latch it, of course, thanks to his partner, but closed was better than nothing. It gave the two of them a little bit of peace.

“There, that’s better,” he said softly.

“You… you can’t let him go,” she said, her voice as tight and shaky as her hands, another accent… Australian? It made him frown, momentarily as a half remembered itch niggled at him deep inside.

“Don’t worry about him,” he answered. “Listen, pointing guns at each other is not the best way to have a conversation, right? Why don’t we just - both of us - put our guns down?”

She shook her head. “Can’t,” she said.

“All right,” he said, “You’re scared. I get that. Tell you what. I’ll go first.” He slowly lowered his weapon, flipping on the safety as he did, before slipping it back into its holster before spreading his arms wide. “There,” he said. “Mind if I take off my jacket? Little bit warm in here.”

She didn’t answer him, just kept her wide, shining blue eyes fixed on his as he slipped his jacket off and tossed it onto a nearby chair. All slowly, carefully.

“N-n-name?” she stammered.

“Weaver,” he answered. “How about you?”

“Anabelle… French,” she answered.

“Now, see, we know each other,” he gave her a careful smile, “Much better than all the screaming and yelling, don’t you think? She barely shrugged. “Okay,” he said, “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

She shook her head.

“No one’s gonna hurt you, I promise. You have my word,” he said. “All you need to do is give me the gun, and tell me what happened.”

He took a slow step forward and reached toward her with one hand, but froze as she jerked the gun, not actually expecting that she’d shoot him, more like worried that with the way she was, the gun would accidentally go off in her hands. She was terrified.

“I get it,” he told her. “Not so close. Thing is, Miss French, I can’t help you while you’re pointing that gun at me. I want to be able to help you.”

“He… I… they…”

“Easy,” he sang softly, “Just… gimme the gun, and we can talk.”

He took a step closer, holding out a hand again, and this time she didn’t react. He kept his eyes fixed on hers; took another step and watched as the cobalt blue of her eyes filled with tears, and her grip on the gun loosened.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured as his hand closed over the top of the weapon and his thumb found the safety, flipping it on before lifting the gun from her hands, just in case she changed her mind. He set it down on the nearby dressing table, as he stepped forward again, unsurprised when she threw herself against his chest, trembling as though an earthquake had hit before she burst into tears.

Instinctively, he held her, his arms wrapped tightly around her, tucking her under his chin. He knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t care. She needed it and since when had he bothered about the rules anyway? There was more to this and it didn’t take a genius to work it out.

“It’s going to be okay,” he told her, “but you’re going to have to trust me.”

He felt her nod against his chest, then after a moment, reached behind him with one hand for his cuffs, and taking her hands gently from his chest, turned her around and slipped them onto her wrists.

“Anabelle French, I am arresting you for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present before, and during questioning, now and in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney, you may still request one at any time, and stop answering questions until an attorney is present.” He didn’t usually bother with Mirandizing the lowlifes he usually arrested, just palmed them off on the uniforms and let them do it for him. This was different. She was different. He was going to make this right for her. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He nodded and offered her an almost apologetic smile, then added, “Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?”

She looked up at him then, her eyes meeting his. “You,” she said barely above the whisper from before. “I’ll talk to you.”

He nodded then, and picked up his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, then slipping her gun into the back of his belt, he almost gently led her out of the room, and out toward the stage door.

It was a throng of chaos out there. Rogers was standing beside the man his prisoner had been threatening with the gun, and a few uniformed officers were milling around in the entrance way, with several more outside standing with their thumbs up their arses, doing fuck all to keep the small crowd out of the alley way.

Keeping a hand securely on Miss French’s arm he beckoned to one of the uniformed officers and when he had his attention, ordered, “You, get out there and help those other tossers get the members of the public out of this alley. Got it?”

“Sir,” he said and nodded in answer. Weaver knew the look on his face, it was the one that told him there were some on the force that understood when to dick around, and when to do what they were told and was gratified to see that he was right as the crowd began to clear.

He beckoned to a second officer and told him, “I want CSU in that room collecting evidence like… yesterday. You got it?”

“Detective,” the man confirmed, and he was about to head out with his suspect when he felt Rogers’ hand drop onto his shoulder.

“What’s going on, Weaver?” the man asked.

“You get his statement?” Weaver ask in response.

“Yes, but—”

“Then give him your card and send him home,” he interrupted, “Tell him we’ll be in touch.”

Trusting that Rogers would do as he was told, Weaver turned, calling the other uniformed officer over, while at the same time turning to Miss French he said, “Go with this officer. It’s all right.”

The officer apparently guessed what the detective was about to ask of him, and slipped his hand under the prisoner’s arm. She stiffened, and winced, even as Weaver said, “Take her down to the precinct and put her in an interview room. I want her seen by the medics and—”

“No!” Anabelle French suddenly started to fight going with the other officer, and Weaver had to break from giving his instructions and take her by the upper arms, leaning down to catch her eyes. “It’s all right,” he repeated. “I’ll be right behind you.”

It looked as though she was about to acquiesce, when she suddenly stiffened again and began to back away a step, almost pulling from Weaver’s grasp. It wasn’t until he felt the presence of someone at his back that he understood why, and releasing her to the uniformed officer, turned to block the male dancer from getting any closer.

“Vy derzhite rot na zamke!” he said, pointing a long finger at Miss French. She whimpered, and it looked like she was about to start fighting again.

Weaver planted both hands against his chest and pushed the man backwards as he demanded, “What did you say to her?”

The man ignored him, fixing an icy stare on Weaver’s prisoner, until she started struggling again with the officer holding her, and threatening to cause the room to descend back into chaos.

“Get her out of here,” he snapped, wincing as the uniformed sergeant all but dragged her away. The other dancer tried to push Weaver aside and follow, and it took both Weaver and Rogers to keep him restrained, pushing him against the wall.

“She tried to kill me,” he protested to Rogers as the taller detective pressed a restraining arm across the top of his chest.

“And we have her in custody,” Rogers reasoned. “All right?”

He struggled a moment longer, before nodding and apparently calming down, and Rogers let him go. Weaver didn’t buy it for a second.

“What. Did you say to her?” he asked again, standing as tall as he could and getting as far up into the man’s face as he could.

The dancer gave him a wintry smile as he pushed at Weaver’s shoulders, and said, “Have a nice day, Detective,” before he sauntered out of the stage door, becoming lost in the encroaching shadows of the late Seattle afternoon.

Swearing, Weaver followed out into the alley, with Rogers close behind him.

“What the fuck, Weaver?” Rogers asked, and even he had to almost trot to keep up, so quickly was Weaver walking.

“I want a statement from every single person that works at that place, even the janitors, and I don’t care whether you do it, or the uniformed attending do, but I want it by end of day. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Rogers said, “What I don’t get is why? Seems to me that this is pretty straight forward. Probably a lover’s tiff. In his statement he kept referring to her as ‘my Prima,’ and said she accused him of cheating on her, so…”

He trailed off as Weaver shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. Something going on.”

“Like what?” Rogers asked as they reached the car, and he waited for Weaver to release the lock. “She say something to you?”

“Not yet,” Weaver said, shaking his head as he got into the car, then looked over at Rogers as the other man climbed in. “But she will.”

Anabelle French stood mute and listless as the uniformed officer processed her into the precinct, and then took her to an office that had a desk, a computer and an examination couch - much like a doctor’s office. A short while after he’d left her, a woman came in with another, female officer. She had promised to cooperate with the detective who, for some reason, she trusted, even if she didn’t know him from Adam. So when the doctor - as she’d identified herself - asked her to remove the stage make up she wore, she accepted the washcloth and resignedly disclosed the bruises that it covered on her arms and shoulders… disrobed so that she could examine the others that discolored her chest, back and abdomen. Submitted herself to a thorough examination. Afterwards, in borrowed scrubs, she was shown to an interview room. Where she waited.

She had no idea how long it had been, but she felt small and vulnerable. Fasoli’s words echoing in her mind, setting her teeth on edge. She should have shot him. She shouldn’t have missed.

She jumped as the door finally opened, only relaxing when she recognized Detective Weaver coming in beside the man that had been with him when they first arrived.

“This is Detective Rogers,” Weaver said. “You remember who I am?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Detective Weaver.”

He nodded, and then asked, “And we’re still okay to talk, right?”

“Yes,” she said again, then asked, “but… could I maybe get some tea?”

Weaver glanced at Rogers, and the other man turned and walked out. As he left, Weaver pulled out a chair opposite her, and set the file folder he was carrying on the table between them.

“All right, Miss French,” he began, but she interrupted.

“Belle,” she said. “You can call me—”

“We’ll… stick with Miss French,” he said with a smile.

The door opened again and Rogers came back, carrying a steaming cup of tea which he set down on the table and nudged in her direction, also setting down a couple of packets of sugar and the same of the tiny containers of milk.

“There you go, love,” he said, and she wondered if he was actually as hard as she had first thought, and she thanked him softly.

Weaver seemed to be waiting until she’d taken her first sip of tea before he spoke, then he said, “Quite a bruise you have there, Miss French.” He nodded toward her upper arm, now devoid of make up and the livid purple against her creamy skin. Self consciously, she tugged at the short sleeve of the scrubs, failing to cover it. “He do that to you?”

“He?” she asked, even though she knew full well who he meant.

“Gaston Fasoli,” Weaver said. “The man you were threatening with the gun.”

She shrugged.

“We can’t help you if you won’t talk to us,” Weaver said, his tone almost imploring.

“It’s not that I won’t talk to you,” she said, so tired of it all that even though she was so afraid, she was ready to tell them everything she could, just to make it stop; for her… for the other girls.

“What then?” Weaver asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It could have been Fasoli. It could have been one of the others, I don’t. Know. Who.”

“Others?”

Belle sighed. “There are several of them,” she said, “Minders, dance coaches.” She closed her eyes, “They never treat the girls as they should. You think just because I’m the Prima I’m immune?”

“What do you mean, ‘treat the girls as they should,’?” Rogers asked, but Weaver waved the question away, as if he already knew - or could guess.

“Do you speak Russian, Miss French?” he asked.

She nodded, and added, “A lot of languages, actually.”

Weaver’s lips twitched and she thought he wanted to smile, but instead he seemed to catch himself and pressed it into a firm line. “What did Fasoli say to you at the theater.”

“He told me to keep my mouth shut,” she said.

“To keep your mouth shut?” Weaver repeated.

“About?” Rogers added.

Belle closed her eyes and put her head down on her arms, on top of the table… a whimper escaping unbidden from deep within her. She wanted to say. She wanted to tell him everything but a memory suddenly grasped a hold of her, like a icy vice. Lined up… all of them. The sledge hammer a warning blow against the fellow dancer’s knees and ankles. The girl had tried to run, had tried to talk. She was found weeks later where they’d dumped her, in the gutter of the bad side of some west coast town.

Suddenly her body was shaking with all the tears she’d held inside, and the new sobs she fought, her fears for herself, for the others, for everything that suddenly seemed to rest on her slender shoulders.

“I… can’t!” she wept.

“You’re safe here, Miss French,” Weaver told her, just for a moment covering one of her hands with his own.

“You don’t understand.” she whispered.

“So help me understand.” Weaver insisted. “Tell me what happened.”

She sat up, wiping her eyes with her hands, hands which shook almost as much as they had when she had been holding the gun. The thought it made her feel sick to her stomach, but it gave her a place to start.

“It… It was his gun,” she began. “I knew he had it; knew he kept it in his dressing room, hidden in his make-up drawer. The day before I’d heard them talking…” She caught the look of confused query on Weaver’s face, and continued, “Fasoli and Stephanov, the director. I’d been sick a few weeks before, but tried to carry on, and I made mistakes. Fasoli came into my dressing room every day. Told me I wasn’t good enough. Told me that I was getting too old, that I needed to be replaced by another girl, a younger girl. Said I was only fit for the farm.”

“Farm?” It was Detective Roger’s voice, but she saw Weaver throw him a impatient look, so she continued.

“I was scared. He said he was going to come for me and take me there himself if I made one more mistake. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I couldn’t. I know what goes on there, and I… I…” she couldn’t even bring herself to imagine what she would have done. “So when he was on stage with one of the other dancer, rehearsing, with her dancing my part, I went into his dressing room and stole his gun. He’d taken it on himself to decide. Stephanov hadn’t even said anything and Fasoli was ready to replace me. He came in today - told me I was through, not dancing today or ever again.” She looked between Weaver and Rogers, trying to find the courage from somewhere, from either one of them to speak the final sentence. “Girls in our company… if you don’t dance, they don’t fire you. They take you back… to the farm… and use you another way.”

She watched both men shift uncomfortably in their seats; saw the flash of fury that crossed Weaver’s face, the outrage in Rogers’ expression.

“This farm? It a real place or just a euphemism?” Rogers asked.

“Real,” she said. “A place you’re taken to when you first join the company, and never want to end up again.”

Weaver closed the file folder that sat in front of him, for the first time in a long time was actually surprised. No, not surprised, horrified. Horrified that he had stumbled, quite literally, into the middle of something so heinous, so organized.

He reached over and briefly covered Belle’s hand again with his own once more, offering quiet support as he said, “Miss French, I just want to have a quick word with my partner here, and a couple of other people, and then we’ll see how things are, okay?” He tapped Rogers on the arm and then gestured to the door with his head before adding. “We might be a little while. Is there anything you need?”

She shook her head, but in the exact same moment her stomach growled loudly, making her blush, and she gave him an apologetic look.

“We’ll get you something to eat,” he said, as he stood up, adding, “Sit tight.”

With that he led Rogers out of the room.

“I’m not imagining things, am I?” Rogers asked as soon as he closed the door. “She is talking about some kind of trafficking ring.”

“That’s what it sounds like to me,” Weaver agreed, then he slapped Rogers in the chest with the back of his hand. “Come on - captain.”

He started to stride away, heading for the captain’s office, but Rogers caught his arm and tugged him back.

“Wait,” he said, “You’re going by the book?”

There was a note of incredulity in the other man’s voice that set Weavers hackles on end.

“This is bigger than just the two of us, Detective,” he snarled. “You want these bastards to get off on a technicality just because I don’t know when to play by the rules and when to do things my way?”

“No, no of course not, I—” Rogers broke off when Weaver shook off his grasp, and headed once more toward the captain’s office. He emerged to a giant altercation in the bullpen.

“What the fuck!” he breathed, and altered his course to where two uniformed officers were holding a squirming, squealing Tilly between them as she lashed out with hands and feet as she tried to get free.

“Let me go!” she growled, wriggling first one way and then the other, “I gotta tell ‘im. Detective Weaver, ‘e needs to hear this!”

“You’re not going anywhere until you calm down,” another junior detective was saying.

“He needs to hear it now!” she shot back, “Are you stupid?”

He’d heard enough, seen enough, to know that either it really was important, or else she hadn’t taken her meds again and was having some sort of episode.

“What’s going on?” he called across to the others, then added in his most fatherly tone, “Tilly?”

“Oh, thank God,” she huffed, and stopped struggling. “Detective Weaver—”

“Detective Weaver,” She was interrupted by one of the others. “This… young lady turned up at the front desk asking to see you and when we asked her to wait…”

Weaver held up a hand, just as Rogers came out of the interview suites, having stayed to arrange for food to be taken through to Miss French.

“It’s all right,” he said, and nodded his head at the officers that were still hanging on to Tilly as though they were afraid she was going to tear up the room to tell them they could let her go. “She’s one of mine.”

They took a second, but at an added glare, as he drew closer to them, making his way between the desks toward where they had Tilly, they released her arms. He expected she’d pull her coat straight in that exaggerated way she had, and then walk the rest of the way to him with her nose in the air, so he was entirely unprepared when she all but vaulted the desk, grabbed him by the wrist so hard that the links of his bracelet dug into his skin deeply enough to be almost painful, and then started pulling him back to the interview suite doors.

“You have to take her out of here,” she insisted, and though a part of him wondered what she thought she was talking about, another part of him - a part that tapped cold fingertips all along his spine - knew exactly what she meant, even though she shouldn’t know. “Take her somewhere safe.”

He leaned down, twisting his arm around hers until he was the one holding her and and looked right into her face as he asked, “Did you take your medicine today?”

“What?” she asked, looking and sounding as if she didn’t think the two things should go together at all, and then frowned as she obviously realized what he was driving at. “Yes!” she snapped in irritation, “Of course I did. I promised, didn’t I? I’m not having one of my… funny turns if that’s what you think.” She pushed at him then, urgently, almost desperately trying to get him back to the door, back to Belle French. “We were at the theater, Atla, Billy and me, the girls - the dancers - they’re usually good to us, and Atla hasn’t eaten in days, I’m worried she’s getting sick, and we were about to sneak in like we usually do, and I heard the big man - tall, dark hair, ugly eyes… heard him telling some other bloke that she wasn’t going to say anything because there were people coming for her, and that even ‘Seattle’s finest’ wouldn’t be able to stop ‘em. Look, you haven’t got time for this, Detective, I’m telling the truth, you have to get her out of here.”

She was practically hopping from foot to foot, more agitated than he’d ever seen her, almost desperate.

“Did they say anything else,” Rogers asked, but Tilly gave him an almost defiant stare.

“Please, Weaver!” she urged, pressing both hands against his shirt, beneath his open leather jacket. He stared at her for a moment longer, and then nodded once, and she appeared to relax, but only a little. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a couple of twenties and his spare door-key, pressing them into Tilly’s still outstretched hand.

“Get Atla something to eat, then go get yourselves clean, dry and warm. It’s cold, and it’s going to be colder tonight,” he said.

She gave him a tight smile, with worry still crowding her eyes, nodded once and then turned to head toward the exit. Part way she stopped, trotted back to him and then stood on tiptoes to press a swift kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” she murmured, adding, “Good luck.”

She disappeared out of the door before he could tell her, ‘get away with you,’ the affectionate chuckle also dying on his lips as the gravity of the situation descended again.

“You’re not seriously going to—”

Rogers broke off when Weaver pulled his phone out of his pocket, as well as his precinct issued pager, and pushed them both into Roger’s hands.

“Take these, put them in my desk drawer,” he instructed,” then give me as long as you can before you go to the captain. Tell him what we know. Talk to the D.A.; whoever you have to. Work the case.”

“Where are you going?” Rogers asked.

“Better you don’t know,” he said, and turning, opened the door to the interview suite.

“How do I get hold of you?” his partner demanded, clearly vexed, and holding up the hand in which he still held Weaver’s communication devices.

“You don’t.” Weaver answered flatly, stepped through the opened door, and closed it on his partners protests.

He walked quickly, dismissing the the uniformed officer that he’d left guarding his ‘prisoner’ as soon as he stepped up to the door of the room she was in, and then waited until the corridor was empty before he opened up the door.

Belle looked up as he entered, her expression becoming one of tense, extreme fear again as her eyes met his.

“Change of plan,” he told her softly, and reaching the table, unfastened the cuffs she wore securing her to the table, and slipped them into his pocket before hooking her arm with his hand as gently as the urgency would allow, and tugged her to her feet.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice wobbling slightly.

“Somewhere safe,” he answered as he led her out along the corridor, toward the fire escape, as he muttered, “We’d better hope Rogers has the Irish gift of the gab enough to buy us some time.”

It was still too early when he arrived at Roni’s. He tried the door anyway, but it was locked, so he started pounding on it with one hand, the other still tightly holding on to Belle French’s wrist, even as he tried to shelter her from view half in front of him.

The fewer people that saw her, the better. It wasn’t unusual for him to be seen going into Roni’s Bar. It was almost his second home, after all, but for him to go in there with someone else - a woman. It wouldn’t take long for anyone in the know to put two and two together.

After a moment or two of pounding, he was rewarded with an irritated, “All right, All right,” before he heard the lock click. He didn’t wait for Roni to actually open the door, just pushed French in ahead of him, almost taking Roni’s teeth out with the speed at which he got them inside.

“A bit early, isn’t it, even for you?” Roni started, but if she’d been about to say anything else, she swallowed it when he turned and locked the door behind himself. “All right, Weaver, what’s have you gotten yourself into this time,” she asked.

He shook his head, not answering her question, instead pushed French down onto a nearby chair, and gestured with his head toward the bar, taking a moment to pull the key from the lock, not trusting that his charge wouldn’t make a run for it, given the chance.

When they reached it, Roni stepped behind the bar, and automatically reached for a tumbler, and poured a good measure of her best whiskey into it.

“Mind telling me, now, what’s going on?” she asked, sarcastic, true, but with a note of concern too. He was touched.

“I need a favor, Roni,” he answered. “Maybe a few.”

“I’m listening,” she said, but her body language didn’t say the same as she folded her arms across her chest.

“Look the less I actually tell you, the better - safer - you’ll be if anyone comes sniffing around and asking questions… just…” He took a breath. “I need to borrow your lake house,” he said, “Lay low for a while.”

Roni nodded over toward where he’d pushed French down into a seat. He glanced over his shoulder. She hadn’t moved. “She’s in trouble,” she said as much as asked.

“A witness, and she needs protecting,” he corrected with as much of the truth as he dared tell. For all that they repeatedly antagonized each other, he did have a soft spot for Roni that he couldn’t explain, and it went further than the fact that she furnished him with some of the best Whiskey in Seattle.

“Why can’t you use a safe house?” she asked.

“Because safe houses belong to the department,” he said, “and I think someone inside is bent.”

“Tell me something else I don’t know,” Roni said dryly, with a pointed look at Weaver.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “My methods might be a bit… rough around the edges, but bent, I’m not.”

Roni looked at him, long and hard, as if she were searching inside his very soul, until finally she nodded.

“Okay,” she said, “You can use the lake house, but I swear, Weaver, you break it, you bought it, get what I mean.”

He nodded once, sharply. “I promise you, I’ll give it back to you when this is over, good as new.”

“Well, that’s good,” Roni said, “because right now it’s little more than a run down shack, but it’s a roof and four sturdy walls.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at the hand that still held her keys, and began to take a small set of keys from the key chain. “You said a few,” she said as she worked.

“You still have that old banger out back?”

“My car, you mean?” she said sourly. “Yes. Not that I really use it, but I have it.”

“Well… gonna need a way to get to your lake house,” he pointed out, “and I can’t use mine.”

“Fine,” she huffed, pulling off another key from the chain. “What else?”

Weaver looked back at Belle French. She was sitting there, in the scrubs they’d given her at the precinct, all but wringing her hands. “She’s gonna need something to wear,” he said.

Roni looked her over from a distance, and he could see her eyes appraising the other woman, before she sighed again and said, “I’m not sure anything I have will fit her all that well, but… I’ll take her upstairs and we’ll see what we can do about finding a couple of changes of clothes. Will that be enough?”

“It’ll have to be,” Weaver said.

“She have a name?” Roni asked.

“French. Belle French.”

Roni nodded, then calling across to the other woman said, “Miss French?” Weaver watched as the young dancer started slightly, and then looked up at Roni, who said, “How about we leave this miserable old Roller to his whiskey, and go and find you something more comfortable to wear?”

By the time Detective Weaver pulled the car to a stop at the end of a long, gravel road, it was dark and the hour had long since passed midnight. She had been awake at midnight, but only just, having woken up a couple of minutes earlier when Weaver hit the rumble strip at the side of the road, and had jerked the car back into its lane.

“If you’re tired,” she said softly, having long since accepted that the man meant her no harm and was actually trying to look out for her, “I can drive for a while.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, “Just wasn’t paying attention.”

She had drifted off again a few minutes later, but remembered watching as the dashboard clock turned from 11:59 to midnight.

After she and Roni had found a couple of outfits that would fit well enough, and packed them into a bag, along with something to sleep in, and some jeans and a t-shirt she could wear for the time being, they’d hit the road in Roni’s car. They’d stopped after an hour or so at a Walmart store, where Weaver had bought supplies with the Money Roni had given him from her safe. After that it seemed to Belle that they turned around on themselves and headed back the way they’d come, but bypassed Seattle and kept on heading north.

They’d stopped for something to eat at a roadside diner once they left the highway somewhere around Everett and began heading east, and with a full belly, and the winding mountain roads they turned onto it was hard for her to keep her eyes open, and she had fallen asleep.

The night was absolute once Weaver turned off the headlights of the car, and though not usually afraid of the dark, Belle felt herself fumbling for some kind of contact with the man.

“It’s all right,” he told her softly, “We’ll be safe here.”

“Where is here exactly,” she asked, still clinging to his arm, as slowly her eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

“Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest,” he said. “It’s where Roni’s place is. It’s a bit of a walk from here, but we’ll get you settled first, and then I’ll come back for the rest of the stuff.”

“I can help carry things,” she said. “That way you won’t have so much to come back for.”

The stark flare of the interior vehicle light was almost painful after the pitch black, when they opened the doors, and the first thing Weaver did, as she stood blinking beside the car passenger door, was to go around to the trunk for the flashlights. They each had one, and then loaded up with as much as they could carry.

“Watch the ground here,” Weaver said in a low voice as though he were trying to avoid disturbing the very air around them. “It’s a little uneven.” Then, slowly, carefully, but surely, they made their way out into the nothingness of the National Forest.

It was tough going, even for someone as fit and supple as Belle was, and she was picking her way extra carefully over some of the rockier, rootier patches of ground they traveled. She didn’t want to turn her ankle, of worse, injure herself in a way that would be devastating to her career as a dancer - if she even had a career after all of this was over. She stopped frequently, and was just beginning to worry that perhaps she had read the man all wrong, and that Weaver was leading her astray, when she became aware of a new sound coming out of the darkness ahead and to the side, the sound of water, lapping gently at the shore.

“Almost there.” Weaver’s voice confirmed what she could hear, and a moment later, in the combined beams of their flashlights, a wooden structure up ahead, a log built cabin, began to reveal itself, and soon, she heard Weaver’s heavy, booted tread on the wooden porch ahead of her. She climbed the steps to join him and set down her burdens as she waited for him to unlock the door.

Inside, it wasn’t much warmer than the outside, and she wondered how long it was since Roni, or anyone in fact, had actually stayed there. Even so, as she moved her flashlight around to catch what glimpses she could of the interior, she saw a fireplace, and kitchen appliances, and what she could see of everything looked decent enough, and certainly not the ‘run down shack’ that Roni had named it. She did wonder about power though, or whether they would have to manage their entire stay by candle light and campfire cooking.

Straining her eyes to try and see where Weaver had gone, she barely caught sight of his leather-clad back, as he appeared to be poking around in a closet of some kind. She heard the sound of a heavy switch being thrown, and then a softer click, before light blinked into existence over in the kitchen area, where Weaver was standing.

“Solar power,” he explained as he turned back to her. “There are panels on the roof on the lakeside.”

She nodded. “Useful. I was wondering,” she said.

“Doesn’t power the heat and hot water, though,” he said. “For that…” he nodded over to the fireplace toward which she had wandered as she explored the room, and she moved aside as he came closer, and began to lay a fire in the hearth.

She couldn’t help but shiver, and pull the jacket Roni had given to her more tightly around herself, though it wasn’t entirely from the cold. The thought of a fire burning brightly, the sound of the lake that she could still hear even inside, the quiet, the solitude…

…and the man before her. A man whom, she felt certain, truly cared.

As if to confirm her thoughts, he glanced over his shoulder at her, and said quietly, “This will soon warm the place up, don’t worry. And we have plenty of wood to keep us cozy.”

She smiled. It seemed an odd word to be coming from a man like Weaver; odd, but endearing.

“What?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he turned to look over at her properly for a moment. She shook her head, not really knowing how she could say what was going through her mind without embarrassing herself. “Surprised a city boy like me knows how to build a decent fire?”

“You’re… not at all the man I thought you were, Detective,” she told him.

He chuckled softly, and asked, “And that bothers you?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m glad.”

He turned back to the fire, and made sure that it was lit, and burning well enough before he stood up, and wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. She watched him as he looked around the lake house, and the supplies they had already managed to bring from the car.

“If you want to make yourself at home, Miss French, I’ll go get the rest of our things.”

“Belle,” she said.

He regarded her for a moment with a look that she thought showed doubt, even reticence to do as she was asking him, and use her name.

“You… don’t know how long we’re going to have to stay here, right?” she asked into the silent scrutiny he was subjecting her to, which was becoming a little prickle over the surface of her skin.

“No,” he said. “No, you’re right, I don’t.”

“In that case, please,” she said, “I’d rather you not treat me like a stranger.”

Again, he regarded her, that same, penetrating stare, until, finally he nodded. “All right… Belle.”

She nodded her thanks, and said, “I’m pretty sure I saw some cocoa and milk in one of the bags we already brought. How about I make some for us when you get back?”

“Sounds Perfect,” he said, with a nod. “It’ll give the fire a chance to warm this place - reach up to the loft.” He nodded his head toward a set of steps leading up to a second floor that only reached half way across the room. “Bed’s up there.”

The mention of bed made her realize how tired she was, and she stifled a yawn, and then murmured a soft apology. He shook his head then.

“Been a long day,” he said in acknowledgment, then added, “Go on, make a start on that cocoa. I’ll try not to be too long.”

He headed for the door, but she reached out and caught hold of him by the elbow. He turned and looked at her, an eyebrow raised in query.

“Be careful, Detective Weaver,” she said, trying not to let too much of her fear show.

“Ken,” he told her softly, and squeezed her hand on his arm, before pulling away, and heading out through the door and into the night.

Outside, Weaver shivered and pulled just jacket more tightly around himself. It was surprising how quickly the fire had already warmed the lake house, making the change in temperature more than a little noticeable.

Grabbing his flashlight from where he’d left it on the porch, he began to make his way back toward the car. Letting the night swallow him, and trying not to take too much notice of his thoughts, his feelings, the way the woman under his care was getting well and truly under his skin.

Trying to keep it professional was not his strong suit at the best of times. He was willing to admit - to the right person, of course - that he was a bit of a wild card. He did things his way, and if that crossed some lines, well, so long as it got results it didn’t matter to him.

Now though, the result was keeping this beautiful woman safe, and allowing himself to get involved with her - in any way - was not the way to do that, but she’d insisted on removing that last barrier, that last shield against the way he was feeling. Anabelle French had asked him to use her name - and not just her name, but a pet name; one that friends might use. Well that was okay, right? He could be a friend.

Yet… there was something about this woman that touched two side of his nature, both at the same time - the protector, and…

“Not gonna happen,” he told himself aloud, “You’re going to hole up here, until Rogers gets it all leveled out and comes looking for you.” Eventually his partner would figure out to go ask Roni where the fuck he was. When that happened, he’d be able to let Belle go and get on with his mundane detective work, maybe go bend a few heads in the local street gangs, just for good measure. Fucking depressing!

The first splash of rain, when it came, out of nowhere, landed on his right cheek and for just a second he actually thought it was a tear. Then he figured it out and laughed at himself, humorless and maybe even a bit angry, but it hurried his steps all the same, and soon he found himself at the side of the car, pulling open the door and grabbing the rest of the supplies he’d bought - enough for an extended stay out in the middle of nowhere, if it came to it.

On the way back, he had to turn up the collar of his jacket to keep the ever increasing rain from dripping down the back of his neck and soaking his shirt. He knew it was a futile effort, but maybe it would just be a passing shower. At least he had a change of clothes now, and for the first time maybe since he was a kid just out of middle school, a pair of pajamas to sleep in.

It was probably a good job too, since by the time he got back to the lake house, his ‘passing shower’ had soaked him all the way through to his underwear.

“Oh my God!”

Belle’s voice was full of concern as he stepped back inside, and closed the door behind him. “You’re drenched! Here, put that stuff down and come closer to the fire.” As she spoke she started moving the wooden chairs, on which she’d hung the sheets, to give him space to get closer to the hearth. Then she stepped up behind him, and tugged on his jacket.

He let her help him off with that, but then turned and caught her by the upper arms, leaning down to look at her as he said, “It’s okay, I’ll just get changed. We’re going to want to get to bed soon, anyway.” He gestured then at the sheets, and she blushed.

“I found the linen closet,” she told him. “I wanted to get as much ready as I could, but the sheets felt a little bit damp, so…” she shrugged. “I also thought the fire would warm them some.” Then she nodded to a couple of other chairs behind where he was standing, which had thick toweling robes hung over them. “The robes too. I found them in the bathroom and I pretty much unpacked everything.”

He offered her a smile, and teasing said, “I didn’t think I’d been gone that long.” She shrugged, and the blush on her cheeks renewed, and he found himself wondering what the hell was going through her mind to cause it. Instead he said, “Why don’t you go and get changed for bed, then we can have that cocoa right?”

She nodded. “I won’t take long,” she told him.

“Take all the time you need,” he said, “I’ll change while you’re gone, and build up the fire a little bit.”

“Make sure you get properly dry,” she told him, “I don’t want you catching your death on my account. There are towels in…”

“…in the linen closet, yes. I know,” he said, and absently let his hands run up and down her arms, gently, and mindful of her bruises, a gesture meant to comfort. “It’s all right. Go on. I promise.”

He watched as she picked up the smaller of the two robes, and took it, and the bag of clothes that Roni had given her, and headed through to the bathroom. He heard the click of the wall mounted heater that he knew was in there, and satisfied himself that she was getting herself changed before he began to shrug out of his own, wet clothing. He’d hang it by the hearth to dry overnight.

He hadn’t been wrong about how wet he’d gotten, he discovered as he finally peeled off his jeans, and tugged at the boxer briefs he wore beneath that were stuck to his skin, they were so wet. Forgetting himself for a second or two, he padded naked to where he knew the linen closet was to grab a towel. It was only when he heard a click from the bathroom that he realized what he’d done. His heart rate doubled in an instant, and he grabbed a towel, hurrying back over closer to the fireplace, stepping close enough that the hanging sheets shielded the lower half of his body. Then he heard water running from the bathroom.

Get a fucking grip. He toweled himself off quickly, still berating himself for his carelessness. What if she had come out while he was parading around in nothing but his rough-hewn charm. There was unprofessional and there was unprofessional. He growled softly as a stray, rebellious, but honest thought pushed to the fore. Would it have been so bad?

As soon as he was dry, he pulled on the pajamas. The gray and black checks on the pants were subdued, and further quieted by the plain gray, long sleeved shirt, and the soft, brushed cotton felt good on his skin, enlivened by the vigorous toweling he’d just given himself. He’d do, he decided, but as an afterthought, pulled on the robe, appreciating the way it had been warmed by the fire, which he then set about fulfilling his promise and tended it, building it up a little, so that it would see them through the night.

He was just straightening up when Belle emerged from the bathroom. She was swaddled in the robe that was cinched tightly at the waist over… whatever she was wearing beneath. The robe covered her night ware completely, and he could see that her legs were bare beneath the robe, that reached to her knees. He swallowed hard, and clamped down on his vivid imagination.

She offered him a smile, and he held out a hand. “Come and get warm,” he said. “I think we can probably move the sheets now.”

“I need to finish making the cocoa,” she told him, but he shook his head.

“I can do that,” he said. “Wouldn’t be taking very good care of you if I let you get a chill, would I?”

She chuckled a little, and said a soft, “Touché,” before approaching, taking his hand, and allowing him to draw her closer to the fire. He breathed in deeply as she came closer, the soft, clean scent of her reaching deep within him to a place long since buried.

“Why don’t I move these over a bit,” she said, gesturing to the sheets, “let the heat out into the room, and we can sit on the couch and enjoy our cocoa.”

“All right,” he agreed, and realizing he was still holding her hand, he let it go with a murmured apology.

She shook her head at that, and offered even more softly, “It was nice.”

He closed his eyes at that, and kicked himself, realizing, perhaps for the first time since they’d met, that human touch, of a kind that was other than connected with dance, or with the abuse she’d suffered, was something she was lacking. He didn’t know why he suddenly thought he should have known, but he definitely felt he should have picked up on it, and for just a second wondered whether he dare give her more of that kind of solace.

“Cocoa,” he reminded himself after a moment, and then headed for the kitchen area. As he worked, he heard Belle shuffling things around behind him, and risked a glance. She had set the sheets on a single chair off to the side allowing the heat of the fire to reach further out into the room, to the couch, and she had picked up his discarded, wet clothing, and hung it over the back of another chair, set off to the side, ready to move when she went up to bed.

The domesticity of it all, belying the danger she had been in, and probably still was, made him smile. If there were ever a statement on the way his life had been lately, this was probably it. She was probably it.

Lifting the pan with the bubbling milk inside, from the heat, he poured it into the two cups she had prepared, and stirred both vigorously to make sure their was no powder left in the bottom. He almost started when he felt the soft touch on his arm, and felt Belle’s heat against his back.

“What have they ever done to you?” she asked softly, then added, “Come and sit down. It’s been a long day for you too.”

He nodded, and together they walked back to the couch and sat down. He tried not to notice, as Belle curled up with her feet up on the couch at her side, the way the bottom of the robe slipped open to reveal one shapely leg almost all the way up her thigh. She sipped her cocoa, and let out a soft sigh of appreciation.

“It’s good,” she murmured, lapping a splash of chocolate from her lips. He looked away. Looking instead into the crackling fire as he felt himself starting to respond to the thoughts running through his mind at her actions.

“You did all the heavy lifting,” he told her. “All I did was pour in the milk.”

“And beat it to death with a spoon,” she teased and he couldn’t help chuckle.

A silence fell as they both sipped their cocoa, and he figured she must be as lost in her own thoughts as he was in trying to ignore his.

“Thank you.”

Her soft voice drew his attention back to her, and he half turned her way with a frown on his face, and set down his cup. He was about to speak, when she reached out and pressed the tips of her fingers against his lips.

“Don’t tell me you are just doing your job. You didn’t have to do this. You could have just left me there and trusted the law to keep me safe,” she said.

He reached up and took her hand from his lips, stroking the tips of her fingers with his own.

“Wasn’t going to happen,” he told her softly. “They would have gotten to you. I couldn’t allow that.”

“Be honest,” she began, “Because of the case, or…”

He could have lied. He could have told her it was just about the case, that the fact that something in her had pulled at him from the very beginning, like a kind of recognition that he couldn’t explain, meant nothing to him, but she deserved better than that. She deserved the truth.

“No,” he said quietly, then with a expression full of regret, added, “But it would be wrong of me to take advantage of the situation; take advantage of you.”

“You wouldn’t be,” she told him, equally as softly. “To offer a little human kindness? How would have be so wrong.”

He laughed, humorlessly, his voice thick with unrequited need when he spoke. “Oh, believe me, what I have on my mind is far more than human kindness.”

Belle blushed, and he released her hand to reach up and cup her face, his thumb stroked softly over her reddened cheek as though he could wipe away the blush, when all he truly wanted to do was cause her a greater blush yet.

“And if that’s what I want?” She leaned into his hand and shifted closer.

“You say that now—” he started, but didn’t have the chance to get any further.

“I say that, period.”

In one graceful, fluid movement, that served as a reminder that she was a dancer, lithe, supple and flexible, she set down her cup on the floor beside the couch, and moved to sit astride his pajama clad legs. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders for barely a moment while she caught her balance, though almost automatically he brought his hands to rest on her hips, to steady her, and then her fingers stroked upward either side of his neck to cup his face, bringing his gaze up to hers.

“From the moment you walked into my dressing room,” she said, finding his eyes with hers, “I’ve had this overwhelming feeling… as though I know you - somehow - even though I know we’ve never met before. How could we?” She paused as if to give him a chance to answer, but all he could do was shake his head. “I want to know how. I want to know why. I want to know you.”

As she spoke her voice became quieter, and she moved closer still, pressing against him until he could feel the heat of her body close against him, and he let out a voiced breath, not quite a moan, before her felt her breath against his lips in the instant before she closed the final distance and kissed him softly.

It was barely as if a feather had brushed against the soft skin of his mouth, and the intake of breath he gave parted his lips. The feathery touch pressed again, then the warm softness of her mouth tugged against his lower lip, and he was lost.

He tightened his arms around her, holding her closer yet to his body, and the ache he felt in his groin as his already semi-hard cock became fuller, harder and trapped between them. She moaned into his mouth as his arms crossed her back, the fingers of one hand sliding into her hair as he took control of the kiss, parting her lips with his and plundering her mouth for all her sweetness. She tasted of mint and chocolate, and sunlight - somehow sunlight even in this darkest of places.

She tugged open the belt of her robe and shrugged her shoulders to let it fall as far as his hands would allow, effectively trapping her hands and he dragged his mouth from hers. He pressed a line of hot, wet kisses down over her neck to bathe the softness of her skin, left revealed by the spaghetti strap of her pajama top and bare to the upper curve of her breasts and the cleft between, as though he could wash away the bruises still visible there.

She leaned back, her breathing quickening, her fingertips searing scalding lines down over his chest until her palms pressed against his hard nipples through the shirt he wore. He ached to take it off, to expose all of her to his kisses, to take her completely and leave her trembling and breathless with fulfillment.

The thought brought him up short, just as her fingertips skimmed against his belly above the waistband of his pants, right above his heated erection. What the fuck was he doing? She deserved better than this, better than some hurried groping, fumbling around on a couch too small for her comfort. He forced himself to pull away, to tug her away until he could catch her hands.

“Ken?” she whispered, half question, half disappointment.

“Not here,” he said breathlessly. “Not like this.” She tipped her head to the side, regarding him, and he looked upward over her body, over her quivering belly, her breasts - nipples showing through the navy silk of the camisole top - over the beauty of her face until their eyes met, and he murmured, “Come to bed.”

Belle’s entire body was humming with nerves and need, and his words went through her like a bolt of electricity to leave her already soaked and aching core pulsing with want. In answer, she climbed from his lap, feeling the damp silk of her pajama shorts rub against her thighs as she walked to pick up the sheets from the chair, while Weaver moved a fireguard in front of the fire still burning in the hearth.

They climbed the stairs to the loft hand in hand, and together made short work of the mundane necessity of making up the bed, piling on the blankets and the comforter to make sure they would be warm in the night. She was just straightening up after after turning down the bedclothes, when she felt the hot press of his lips on the back of her shoulder, and she moaned, leaning back into him, and reaching around herself to dig her short fingernails into the top of his thighs as his hands came up to cup her breasts through her camisole. His thumbs danced over her nipples.

She could feel him, hard, pressed against the top of her buttocks and lower back, and she let her hips sway, caressing him with her body until his moan vibrated against her skin. One of his hands left her breast and dipped lower, slipped beneath the leg of her shorts and brushed slowly through her tight curls until his deft touch parted her wet folds, and glided through her liquid desire to circle her clit, barely touching, and she let out a whimper, trying to move to catch his hand, his touch, needing to feel it.

“Ken, please,” she gasped breathlessly, but he removed his touch from her body, turning her in his arms to press his mouth to hers, gathering her against him. Then he lifted her in his arms and set her down on the bed, following her down to press his body to hers, but only for a moment.

Resting on his elbows over her, his mouth descended over her neck and his hand pushed aside the top of her camisole to reveal the fullness of her breast to his gaze, to his touch, and to the pull of his lips as he closed them around her puckered nipple, and suckled softly, but without cease or mercy, his other hand cupped her other breast, first through the silk of her top, then slipped inside to pinch and tease her nipple, until she squirmed and moaned out her need for him.

Slowly, he continued his descent over her body, leaving her breasts, he pushed up the front of her top, to bathe her skin with with nips and kisses, leaving her tingling, gasping as he moved lower yet and he nuzzled at her wetness with his nose, his fingers teasing around the waistband of her shorts.

She gripped his shoulders, and at the same time lifted her hips in clear invitation to remove the garment. It seemed it was all that he needed, and almost agonizingly slowly he eased the silk down over her thighs, her calves, tugged them off over her feet as he knelt up to pull off his own shirt.

Belle ran her eyes over his chest and stomach. She ached to reach out and peel the rest of his nightwear from his lean, muscled frame.

“See something you like?” he teased, and she blushed, as he began to kiss his way up her legs, lingering at the back of her knees until she squirmed, and then he ran his fingers over the inside of her thighs, the touch firm, but against her too sensitive skin it felt like hot needles, painful in the most exquisite way, and more arousing than anything she could have imagined.

“You,” she breathed, as his insistent touch parted her thighs, and his hot breath bathed her wet core in the moment before his tongue pressed between her folds, swollen with desire, and lapped upward to flicker against her clit. She cried out, her back arching, trying to catch the fleeting touch more fully and escape it both at the same time.

He moaned, the sound vibrating against her as he lapped and swirled, as he suckled on the aching nub of her clit, leaving her trembling, her breath coming in short gasps as she felt herself, like a spring wound tightly close to breaking. The touch was her undoing. As he closed his lips around her clit, sucking and alternately flickering against her with his tongue, he teased her entrance with a long, slender finger, circling once, twice, before he slowly eased the tip just inside. Her muscles grasped at him, and he moaned anew, easing his touch in slowly, and out, in and out until every muscle in her body trembled on the edge of oblivion before she broke, the wave of her climax swept over her.

He lapped softly over the length of her, the touch inside of her slowly withdrawing as the edge faded, until he left her center and kissed his way back up over her, gathering her close and nuzzling at her hair, his fingers idly caressing the side of her breast.

She trailed her own fingers over his arms, his chest, felt the taught muscles of his belly harden at her touch, and the twitch of his cock against her where he pressed, hard, against her hip. She paused, only barely before she slipped a hand between them and pressed her palm against his length, feeling the heat of him through the cotton pants, but wanting the smoothness of skin against skin she drew away, sat up only to cross her arms and grasp the bottom of her camisole and peel it off. Weaver moaned her name.

“Take them off,” she answered, plucking at the side of his pants, and when he did she tipped him onto his back, and straddled him as she had before, this time with nothing between them - only skin.

Skin on skin, she lay herself down to feel every inch of him against her, then after a time, pushed herself up, her hands on his chest. Her thighs framed his hips and she undulated against him, letting his hardness glide between her folds, against her clit.

“Belle,” he moaned, and grasped her hips to still her. She ran her hands over his chest, his shoulder, to where the puckered circle of a scar lay stark against the tan of the rest of him in the dim and flickering light.

“You were shot,” she said quietly. The though gave her almost a physical pain.

“A long time ago,” he assured her quietly. Then he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him and deftly flipped her beneath him, covering her completely, and he kissed her, a deep, consuming kiss. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Ken,” she breathed, and slowly raised her thighs around him, slipped her hands down over his shoulders, down to draw tiny circles in the small of his back; the top of his buttocks. “I want you,” she whispered.

“Are you sure,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire that matched her own. What did it matter they were virtually strangers? And yet… that familiarity swept over her again, stronger than before, as he added, “We haven’t—”

She caught his lips in a kiss, cutting off his words, pulling back only to whisper, “Take me, slowly,” into his mouth.

He moaned into the kiss, and reached between them to guide his cock to find her.

She felt the broad, blunt head of his scalding heat press against her, part her, open her to him as he glided deep into her soaked and needful core. She gave a soft, almost sobbing cry at the sheer rightness of it as he pressed himself to her, filled her, their bodies meeting as he held a moment, buried deep inside of her.

“Oh, Belle,” he breathed, letting his head fall into the crook of her neck, and she ran her fingers into his hair, scraped her nails against his scalp and turned her head to find his ear. Her tongue lapped at his lobe, drawing it in between her lips, before she nipped softly.

“Feel… so good,” she whispered against his ear.

“Perfect,” he murmured, lifting his head to find her mouth with his.

His tongue plundered her mouth, and she tasted herself on him, moaning softly with increased need. It wasn’t enough for him to fill her, she wanted him to lose himself in her; wanted to break apart around him, draw him with her and milk him dry. She wanted to exhaust herself in him and he in her. She lifted her hips and squeezed her muscles around him, and he broke the kiss, gasping, a breath that turned into a low, needful growl as he began to move with her.

He was hot, and hard, thick and long, and she moved with him as though they’d known each other forever. Slowly, lazily at first their shared movements stoked the fires of their need, but with each thrust, each squeeze, each sigh and moan, their desire grew, and they gave their passions head.

His thrusts became faster, harder, deeper as she lifted her legs to wrap them around his back. She wanted all of him, and moaned against his shoulder where she nipped and sucked, as she felt the heat of his balls pressing against her.

“Oh, God!” he gasped. Then, “Belle.”

Her breath was coming in shallow snatches, panting in time with the rhythm of their lovemaking, and she moaned, “Don’t stop,” as she pressed her head back against the pillows, “Please, don’t stop.”

She was close, and she could tell from the trembling in his arms and the look of near bliss on his face that he, too, was hanging on the moment with her, until with a cry, she burst around him and he let out a primal moan as he lost himself inside her, each beat of his heart pulsing hot, thick seed into her. She pulsed and trembled around him, milking every precious drop. Until he sank down onto her, and held her close, tight, breathless together as they each began to calm.

Still shaking he eased from her, drawing her with him to nestle her into his side as though he didn’t want to let her go, and she clung to him, still breathless, still pulsing, still feeling all of him as he held her close, leaned his head down to take her lips gently, softly, in a sweet and tender kiss.

He reached down to draw up the covers over their sweat drenched bodies as they slowly caught their breath. He had never known anyone like her. It was as though she knew every inch of him, and he of her, and together they were only one whole being - lost apart. His throat felt tight with unshed tears that he couldn’t explain. He swallowed hard, swallowed them down.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” he murmured softly, pressing another soft kiss to her forehead as she rested against his shoulder.

She shifted against him. “Yes,” she whispered, “Better than all right.”

He chuckled softly, and she looked up at him then, an expression he couldn’t quite fathom on her face, and he raised an eyebrow in query.

She shook her head, but he pressed gently, “What?”

“It’s just…” she swallowed hard. “I wondered if it was short for something, or if it is really just Ken. Your name, I mean.”

“Kendrick,” he said, reaching up to run his fingers through her hair, and smooth it back from her face. “It’s short for Kendrick.”

“Kendrick Weaver,” she murmured his full name, and he suddenly felt as though his entire life, past and future were somehow being drawn together in the woman by his side.

“It suits you,” she said, after many long moments of silence, and settled herself against him again, safe in his arms.

#rumbelle #a monthly rumbelling #amr #woven beauty #angst #eventual smut #implied/referenced abuse

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rookisaknight · 6 years

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Who Knows What the Next Half Hour, Forty-Five Minutes Hold- A Sharky x Deputy fic

Guess who finally finished that meet cute ideaaaaaa. So this got long enough that I’m actually gonna put it on AO3 as well because I’m an attention hungry bitch. This is set pre-game events (like, a couple months before), and is a gender neutral Deputy because, in the words of a great man, “I don’t wanna go assumin nobody gender”

Fic Summary: You don’t expect your luck to turn around via getting caught trying to light a squad car on fire. But then, weirder things have happened for Sharky.

Word Count: 3721

They hadn’t invented a curse word good enough for the kind of day Charlemagne “Sharky” Boshaw the IV was having. Not that this was stopping him from cycling through a few choice ones, trying to find one who’s mouthfeel and vitriol would encompass the capital B Bullshit he was putting up with today.

First off, waking up in a drunk tank was never a good way to start the morning. Especially not with that shithead Pratt, who’d lately taken to amusing himself by waking up the nightly collection of hedonists with decidedly non-regulation use of the prison’s speaker system. The only thing worse than waking up with a blistering headache and a knot in your back is having it happen to the tune of “Chicken Fried” at 120 decibels.

“Fuck, dude, I should kill ya for bad taste if nothin else!” He had tried to scream over the fuckin acoustic strumming. Pratt had just snickered, handing a coffee mug to his P.O., who looked just as amused by the whole scenario.

It was only after he’d shouted himself hoarse that Pratt finally agreed to give him his phone call. Voice squeaking with dehydration and overuse, he’d by some miracle got Hurk on the phone and tried to talk him into bailing him out. Problem was, Hurk was (as per fuckin usual) short on cash. The old man was also piss drunk mad at him (once again, usual), but he thought maybe Addie might be in a good enough mood to chuck a little his way. The thought of Aunt Adelaide had momentarily perked him up until he realized that if Hurk couldn’t get the money from her, he was gonna have to be able to talk to Hurk again to sort things out. And given how absolutely certain he was that Staci was going to shove the “one-phone-call-only” stick up his ass in a few minutes......that meant he was gonna have to stay on the line.

He spent the better part of two hours, head pounding, mouth only getting dryer as he listened to Hurk putter around looking for his keys, getting continually distracted, finally getting in the fuckin truck and driving up to the Marina, only to discover the reason Addie had seemed so good-tempered in her response to her only son’s good morning text is that, judging by what Sharky could hear over the tinny reception, she and Xander were....busy.

What followed was a three way screaming match of Addie yelling at Hurk to get the hell out, Sharky yelling at Hurk to stay the hell there, and Hurk yelling their responses back and forth across the phoneline.

Finally Xander tossed his wallet at Hurk in an effort to make him leave (“he seemed real excited about this harness thing Mama was fussin with, I dunno”), and after paying off his bail, slipping an extra fifty to keep his P.O happy, and begging a ride home, Sharky was more than ready to take some aspirin, find a six pack, and wash off last night’s hangover with a tonight’s beer.

No such luck. His truck had been impounded after last night’s little misadventure. And he felt his heart sink into the holes in his socks when he saw the big black Eden’s Gate cross in the window of the only liquor store in walking distance

“MotherFUCKINGdamnit not you too!”

Had he lost his temper a bit? Sure. Did he expect the windows to still be alarmed? No. But, he thought to himself as he beat feet into the woods before any cops could pick up on it, Eden’s Gate had only themselves to blame for it! Wasn’t enough that they had to get half of Holland Valley so all-fired on chastity that he couldn’t move without getting a pamphlet on lust shoved up his nose and down his pants, now they had to deprive him of his well-earned booze too!

Like most residents of Hope County he didn’t know what the hell the cops were playing at letting the Peggies keep running as they did. Sure, John Seed and Faith were running spin so well it made carousels jealous, but it was the state’s worst kept secret that the recent rash of disappearances could be pretty easily traced to them. Not to mention the scars most of their members were sporting....Hell, maybe he should recommend Pratt to the evangelists that came knocking through his trailer park early each Sunday.

.....No. No he wouldn’t. Jackass though he was....well. From the stories Sharky’d heard and the bits and pieces he’d seen for himself, he wouldn’t wish that on anyone’s head.

Still, he felt irritated. Frustration building inside him like a pressure cooker as he shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets, feeling his feet unconsciously make tracks for the ruins of the old roller derby. He needed to cool off.

People made the mistake of looking at him alongside Hurk and assuming he was just as mellow. He wasn’t. Sure, the weed and the beers kept him nice and chilled out, usually, but without a substance in his hands he was at the mercy of the spastic energy that was always cooped up in his body. He needed to...shit. Hit something maybe? Prank calls?

No.....no he knew this feeling.

He needed to burn something.

He fished the lighter out of his pocket, sending up a quick thank you that Pratt hadn’t taken it off him. He was running low on them with the new P.O sticking his nose into every nook and cranny to squirrel out contraband. Something about enablement and all the other bullshit his court-appointed therapist liked to recite to him in their bi-monthly sessions.

With a huff, he leaned against a tree, flicking it on and off again. Trying to lose himself in the little bright patch of flame. Sometimes this would at least take the edge off. Today, though? He was gonna need a lot more than a measly little two buck zippo.

His options were limited. Normally in a case like this he’d go for a campfire but it was the dry season and any smoke was certain to have those smarmy pricks from the fire department up his ass. He flicked the lighter a few more times, hoping maybe it’d concur with a lightbulb moment and he could have that dramatic satisfaction.

Out of the corner of his eye he suddenly saw a gleam of white aluminum.

He glanced over and instinctively dove behind the tree once he realized what it was. Police cruiser. Of all the days....He observed it cautiously before slowly emerging. Didn’t look like anyone was there. Keys weren’t even in.

He’d gotten acquainted enough with most of the police vehicles in town to know this one was Pratt’s chosen steed. You could tell by the number of air-fresheners he kept in there: one of his tricks he insisted made chicks feel more at home in a car.

(Not like Sharky’d tried that or anything. And even if he had, the lingering odors were finally coming out of the upholstery after the fourth wash. “Stripper smell” his ass....)

Most importantly, though, like most people around here, Pratt didn’t lock his doors....

Sharky’s lightbulbs usually took a while to kick on but this one seemed to burn a few watts brighter than most.

He took a quick check of the surrounding woods. Long practice had taught him what made for good kindling and what didn’t. It was pretty much the only thing he’d kept from a few frustrating years in 4H, aside from a couple of hoofshaped bruises on his arms and a healthy fear of pigs.

And that was the moment when he realized all the bullshit of the day had been leading him to this single, perfect, shining moment. Because right there, nested amongst a beautiful layer of crisp pine needles and perfectly dried out branches....was chamerion angustifolium.

More commonly known as fireweed.

He moved fast as he could, carefully laying the groundwork in the backseat of the cruise, setting it up with the savoir-faire of a practiced artist. The finished product damn near brought a tear to his eye. He couldn’t resist taking a picture, moving it to a hidden folder reserved for porn and particularly nice stills from period piece movies.

He’d just found some clubmoss and was debating whether or not he had the time, scraping the fine powder off the stalks and into the center of the tinder...

“I didn’t find anyone”

The voice jerked him out of his reverie and his head snapped up.

“Yeah, me either.” Said a tired voice. Wait, he knew that one.....Deputy Hudson?

He slowly poked his head around. Yeah, Hudson alright, stomping through the woods, looking her usual vaguely tired/irritated self. She was talking to a figure he didn’t recognize (and Sharky flattered himself that he was pretty familiar with the figures of Hope County).

Shit. Should he run?

“Should we call it in?” they were saying, hand reaching for the radio clipped to their belt.

Hudson sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I dunno. Lot of trouble to go to over a busted window. Specially when there wasn’t anyone in there.”

Fuck shiiiiit they were looking for him then. He thought about bolting, but.....he looked at the kindling. There was no way this wouldn’t point back to him. He raised his hand to smash it but it was like asking Leonardo to smash the Mona Lisa. Or was is Raphael? One of the turtles...

“Still, it is Eden’s Gate property now....will that be a problem?”

“It will be. Question is, if we care or not.”

The stranger looked down, biting their lip. Hudson seemed to notice and snorted. “Right. Look, I know they seem intimidating but if the department went into a frenzy everytime somethin happened that Joseph Seed didn’t like then we’d never stop frenzy.....ing.” She grimaced a bit at how the sentence ended.

“So what should we do.”

They were too close, if he bolted now they’d see him run.

“Tell ya what.” She came to a halt. “We’ll do a last sweep. If we don’t find anything we’ll call it a day. Tell Seed it was a big bird or something.”

“You’re sure?”

“Trust me, Rook, the sheriff won’t care and I don’t wanna be out here any longer than I have to be. You go left, I’ll go right, we meet back in ten minutes. Sound good?”

He let out a slow sigh of relief. They’d leave, he’d (carefully) dismantle the pile, and he’d be gone. No point doing it if Pratt wasn’t gonna suffer the consequences. He started to slowly rise to his feet.

“Alright, see you the-”

Several things happened in the span of a few seconds.

One. Sharky remembered the sleeve of his hoodie was a bad place to keep his lighter. He remembered this as he watched it topple out.

Two. his instincts kicked in and he snatched at it, catching it just as it hit the pile of spores. The contact of his hand made them fly into the air in a puff.

Three.

His thumb caught the sparkwheel.

He felt a sharp pain in his right hand that caused him to scramble backwards as his eyes were blinded by a bright flash. He felt his facial hair singe and a wall of heat on his face, and heard distant cursing.

Long experience had gotten him used to being blinded, and his vision recovered quickly. Quick enough to see the minor explosion evaporate out of the air, catching the tinder just as it faded away.

His ears were ringing and he didn’t hear them running towards the car, but he sure as shit felt it when the stranger cop tackled him to the ground. Hudson followed close behind, cursing loudly and hurriedly using the jacket to stifle the flames that were steadily eating through the upholstery.

“Who the hell are you?!” the stranger said, grabbing the front of his hoodie and pulling him up to look at them.

“uh.....Jimmy Buffet?” He said stupidly, mildly dazed. Didn’t help that this stranger had a pretty ass pair of eyes. Or maybe that was just the shock talking.

Hudson finally managed to choke out the fire, backing off and taking a deep breath before taking a look at the culprit.

“.....Boshaw?!”

What mirror had he broken

“You know him.”

“Ohhhh I know him.” Hudson straightened off, looking torn between anger and mild amusement. “The local serial arsonist. Thought Pratt had you drying out in the tank?”

“I wanna lawyer” He groaned.

“Yeah, yeah. Get off him, Rook, contrary to appearances, he isn’t dangerous. Just stupid.”

The stranger (Rook? Rookie? A last name? Who knew) clambered off him, looking slightly sheepish at having gone full Rambo for no apparent reason. “What should we do.”

“What you’re gonna do.” Hudson said, hauling him to his feet. “Is start the car and make sure it still runs.”

“Aw, c’mon, this aint necessary-” Even as he protested, out of long habit he assumed the position against the cruiser, wrists moving into position for easy cuffing.

“No, but it sure is fun” Hudson said, snapping them on. Loose. Which was almost more humiliating, and not in the fun way either.

The car turned on as normal.

“Well. Guess we don’t have to add ‘vehicle replacement’ to your list of fines.”

“I didn’t put nothin in the dash! I’m not tryin to kill anybody, just deal with some highly justifiable frustration-”

“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you in court of law.” Hudson said quickly, cutting across his excuses as she forced him into the passenger side of the cruiser. “Rook, take him into the station, Pratt’ll know what to do. I’m gonna radio the Sheriff and let him know we found the window perp.”

“Hey, you got no evidence that was me!” He protested. “Just cause I happen to be in the same area as a liquor store doesn’t mean I’m-”

“How’d you know it was a liquor store.”

“........hey can we have a mulligan on the ‘right to remain silent’ thing-”

Hudson rolled her eyes. “Knowing Earl he’s gonna wanna come up himself and make sure the report’s in order. I’ll catch a lift back with him.”

“Got it.” Rook said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “See you at the station.”

They put it into drive and pulled out.

Sharky tried remaining in sullen silence but that was bound to last all of two minutes. His foot jiggled restlessly as he started racing through his options.

“Hey! You have any idea how serious this is?” they snapped, glaring at him. “What the hell were you trying to do?”

“Not talkin till I get a lawyer.”

“That ship’s kinda sailed don’t ya think? What the hell did you do, pour gasoline on the seats? An explosion that big, you’re lucky it didn’t destroy the car and take you out with it-”

“Its clubmoss”

“.....what?”

“Its clubmoss!” He said, snapping a bit more than he would’ve normally liked. But damn it, dude, this was the one area where he actually knew what the fuck he was talking about! Actin like Sharky Boshaw didn’t know exactly how much havoc he was wreaking was an insult to his professionalism. “Its basically plant flashbang.”

“What do you....”

“Here, just-” He slipped out of the cuffs easily enough, and ignoring their sputtering protests, he reached into the backseat and scraped up a handful of the green powder that hadn’t burned off in the explosion. “Slow the car down”

“I’m not gonna-...you-”

“I’m not gonna run. Not lookin to get tackled again.”

“....” Curiosity got the better of them and he felt the car slow to a crawl.

He rolled down the window, tossed the powder in the air, and in the same moment sparked his lighter. A burst of flame, much smaller than the last but burning out just as quick, appeared and disappeared, making Rook yelp.

“Clubmoss spores are chockful of lycopodium powder. They use it in movies and shit for special effects, the stuff doesn’t last long enough to cause real damage and won’t light unless it’s in the air.” He rolled back up the window, absently slipping the handcuffs back on. “Found that out from a behind the scenes featurette on this old bible movie from the church basement. Used to watch it a lot for the scene where God tossed down fire on the Egyptians or whoever. That is uh.....until the pastor confiscated it. Turns out the church basement still qualifies as holy ground and popping a boner anywhere on holy ground ain’t exactly considered kosher.”

.....Judging by the look on their face? Probably should have stopped after “behind the scenes featurette”

“So you’re a uh....special kind of crazy huh.”

“....The technical term is serial arsonist” He muttered, turning away with a flush.

“Well.....its a cool party trick at least.”

“Its-” Wait....wait, were they smiling?! Cops could smile at something that wasn’t the pain of others? Didn’t that violate some kind of code?

“Gotta say, if I were you I would’ve left the handcuffs off.” They turned onto the main road.

“Uh....” Shit, they really were cute. Or maybe that was the 6 months dry spell talking. “...gonna be honest, I don’t recall puttin em back on.” Cmon, cmon, think of something sexy to say. “Probably cause of uh...how used I am to being in handcuffs. For pleasurable reasons. I associate handcuffs with very....very good moments.” Nailed it.

“Well, given how much time Pratt says you’ve spent in holding cells I guess some of those memories have to be pleasant.”

Unnailed.

“So why’d you break the window?”

“What window.” He said instinctively. The Deputy gave him a Look and he shrugged. “.....look, I understand, freedom of religion and all that shit, but comin between a man and his liquor store has to qualify for some kind of offense, right?”

They snorted. “Well. Not that I don’t sympathize but I don’t know how well a judge is gonna take to that line of reasoning.”

“Wait, a judge? I don’t....look, we don’t need to take it that far-”

“Its probably what’s gonna happen. Those Peggies.....” their voice trailed off. Unsure how much shit-talking they could do in uniform. “Never seen a group so eager to press charges.”

Sharky groaned. “You gotta be fuckin....Officer, come on, I can’t do another couple months in prison. You know how boring it is in there? I mean, sure, the first few days are fine, you get to catch up with everyone, but after that you realize you’re gonna have to get used to watching all these guys take a piss for the next few months and it gets old real fast.”

“Its not really my call.”

“Its not like I even hurt anybody” This time. “Just a little reupholstering job, hell, I’ll stitch the damn seat cover myself-”

“I’m sorry but....I don’t think there’s anything I can do”

They sounded genuinely sympathetic, something he wasn’t used to from law enforcement. Maybe this one really did have a human side after all...

.....Well. Looked like the day had finally come that Sharky had been waiting for his whole life. He leaned back, pulling off his hat and running a hand through his hair a few times and trying to get a look at himself in the rearview mirror. Alright, so he wasn’t exactly Ryan Gosling, but this wasn’t the worst he’d ever looked...

“I mean uh...” He let his voice drop about a half octave and leaned into the hoarseness to go for that rougher quality. “If you want...I could find a way to make it worth your whILE”

His voice squeaked. Cracked like it hadn’t since early puberty.

A deathly silence settled over the car.

And then the deputy erupted in laughter.

Loud, long laughter, making their shoulders shake as they bent over the wheel. Gasping for air, they were forced to put the car in park just to keep them from driving off the road. Practically screaming with it.

“Alright, alright” He muttered, shoving his hat back on as his face went bright red. “I can take a hint”

They pounded the dash. “Y-you-....you-!” Tears were streaming down their face as they snorted helplessly. And despite the humiliation of the scenario....it was infectious enough to make him crack unwittingly into a grin.

Eh, what the hell, longer it took them to recover, longer he was out of prison.

“What’s so fuNNY” He said, forcing the crack again, which reinvigorated the laughing.

“Stop, stop, I-I’m gonna puke” They gasped out, choking a bit.

Sharky patted their back. “Sooo that’s a no I’m guessin.”

They shook their head, grinning ear to ear and straightening up as they caught their breath. “Get going.”

“What?”

“Go. Leave the handcuffs. I’ll make up some excuse.”

“....you’re serious?” His eyes widened. “Please, fuck, be serious, Staci let me get like 20 feet before hitting me with a taser in the back and let me tell you that think hurts like a bit-”

“You’ve been punished enough today, I think. And we’ve got actual threats to deal with these days.” They pulled off a key from the ring and handed it to him. “No offense.”

“....I mean, ok, a little offense normally, but given the circumstances, none taken” He unlocked the cuffs quickly and shot out of the car before they could change their mind.

“Hey, Boshaw!”

“Uhhh.....you can call me Sharky. Sounds a bit more normal.” He turned back to look at them.

They smiled. “Sharky then. Honey in tea is gonna help that voice of yours a lot more than beer. And try not to burn the forest down on the way.”

“Can do ma’-...si-....officer!” He waved and ran off fast as he could. He heard their laughter echoing a bit as the car pulled off.

.....Maybe it might be worth sticking on the right side of the law for a couple weeks, at least.

Or maybe not. How the hell else was he gonna see them again?

#far cry 5 #fc5 #far cry deputy #we all know its canon staci was kind of an asshole before the game #so i rode that #staci pratt #joey hudson #sharky boshaw #sharky boshaw x deputy #sharky x dep #far cry rook #deputy x sharky #hurk drubman jr #adelaide drubman

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bountyofbeads · 5 years

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The ‘follow-up appointment’

https://wapo.st/2z4uWXR

The ‘follow-up appointment’

'For many people in medical debt, it leads to a courtroom' (THIS SHOULDN'T BE HAPPENING IN AMERICA)

By Eli Saslow | Published August 17 at 5:41 PM ET | Washington Post | Posted August 18, 2019 9:18 AM ET |

POPLAR BLUFF, Mo. — The people being sued arrived at the courthouse carrying their hospital bills, and they followed signs upstairs to a small courtroom labeled “Debt and Collections.” A 68-year-old wheeled her portable oxygen tank toward the first row. A nurse’s aide came in wearing scrubs after working a night shift. A teenager with an injured leg stood near the back wall and leaned against crutches.

By 9 a.m., more than two-dozen people were crowded into the room for what has become the busiest legal docket in rural Butler County.

“Lots of medical cases again today,” the judge said, and then he called court into session for another weekly fight between a hospital and its patients, which neither side appears to be winning.

So far this year, Poplar Bluff Regional Medical Center has filed more than 1,100 lawsuits for unpaid bills in a rural corner of Southeast Missouri, where emergency medical care has become a standoff between hospitals and patients who are both going broke. Unpaid medical bills are the leading cause of personal debt and bankruptcy in the United States according to credit reports, and what’s happening in rural areas such as Butler County is a main reason why. Patients who visit rural emergency rooms in record numbers are defaulting on their bills at higher rates than ever before. Meanwhile, many of the nation’s 2,000 rural hospitals have begun to buckle under bad debt, with more than 100 closing in the past decade and hundreds more on the brink of insolvency as they fight to squeeze whatever money they’re owed from patients who don’t have it.

The result each week in Poplar Bluff, a town of 17,000, has become so routine that some people here derisively refer to it as the “follow-up appointment” — 19 lawsuits for unpaid hospital bills scheduled on this particular Wednesday, 34 more the following week, 22 the week after that. Case after case, a hospital that helps sustain its rural community is now also collecting payments that are bankrupting hundreds of its residents.

“Think of me as the referee,” the judge explained, as he called the first case. “It’s my job to be fair. I’m not going to be chugging for either side.”

On one side of the courtroom was a young lawyer representing the hospital, and he carried 19 case files that totaled more than $55,000 in money owed to Poplar Bluff Regional. Three nearby hospitals in Southeast Missouri had already closed for financial reasons in the past few years, leaving Poplar Bluff Regional as the last full-service hospital to care for five rural counties, treating more than 50,000 patients each year. It never turned away patients who needed emergency care, regardless of their ability to pay, and some people without insurance were offered free or discounted treatment. In the past few years, the hospitals’ total cost of uncompensated care had risen from about $60 million to $84 million. Its ownership company Community Health Systems, a struggling conglomerate of more than 100 rural and suburban hospitals, had begun selling off facilities as its stock price tanked from $50 per share in 2015 to less than $3 as the lawyer approached the judge to discuss the first case.

“We’re seeking fair payment for services we’ve provided. Nothing else,” he said.

Behind him in the courtroom were some of Poplar Bluff Regional’s patients — a population that was on average sicker, older, poorer and underinsured compared with the rest of the United States. More than 35 percent of people in Butler County have unpaid medical debt on their credit report, about double the national rate. Most of the 19 people on the morning docket had been treated in the emergency room and then failed to pay their bill for more than 60 days before receiving a summons to court. Many of them had insurance but still owed their co-pay or deductibles, which have tripled on average in the past decade across the United States. One patient owed more than $12,000 after being treated for a heart attack. Another was being sued for $286. If the hospital won a judgment, it had the right to garnish money from a patient’s paycheck or bank account or it could put a lien against a house.

“I’m hoping to negotiate a payment plan, but I can only afford $20 a month,” one patient told the court.

“I’m late for work, so if there’s someplace I can sign, I guess I’ll just sign,” said another patient, who owed more than $3,000 after spending six hours in the emergency room for chest pain.

“How am I supposed to pay $4,000 to see a doctor if I’m barely making $2,000 a month?” asked another.

One by one the patients came up to plead their cases until the judge called Gail Dudley, 31, who was sitting with her mother in the third row. She had gone to the emergency room at Poplar Bluff Regional in 2017 after passing out because of complications from Type 1 diabetes. The hospital had given her medication to stabilize her blood sugar, kept her overnight for observation, and then sent her home with a bill for $8,342, of which she was still responsible for about $3,000 after insurance. She’d tried to appease the hospital’s billing department by sending in an occasional check for $50, but with accumulating interest and penalty fees, the balance on her account had remained essentially the same for two years.

“I’m grateful for what they did for me, and I know I owe it, but I don’t have that kind of money,” she said.

The judge gestured in the direction of the hospital’s attorney and then looked at Dudley. “Would you like a chance to talk to this gentleman for a moment and see if you two can work something out?”

“Okay,” she said. “We might as well try.”

Matthew McCormick, 27, led Dudley into the hallway to begin the same negotiation he’d been having with dozens of hospital patients each week. On Thursdays he was listed as a hospital attorney for the court docket in Doniphan, population 1,997. Mondays it was Kirksville, Tuesdays were Bloomfield, and Wednesdays often brought him here, to a 95-year-old courthouse in Butler County, where he’d represented Poplar Bluff Regional on more than 450 billing cases so far in 2019.

“We’d like to find a way to work with you on this,” he told Dudley as they sat down together in the courtroom lobby. He reached out to shake her hand. He smiled and offered his business card. For the past year, he’d been working on behalf of the hospital as the newest attorney for a law firm called Faber and Brand, which promised to “use the judicial system to recover money owed.” McCormick’s cases hardly ever went to trial. More than 90 percent of the people being sued weren’t represented by an attorney and at least half failed to show up in court, resulting in default judgments in the hospital’s favor. The rest of the patients McCormick met came into court with little to offer in their own defense except for apologies and stories of poverty, poor health, unemployment and bad luck.

“I’m real sorry about this,” Dudley said. “If I’d been thinking straight, I would never have let them take me to the emergency room. I know I can’t afford that. I wish I could pay you all of it right now.”

“Let’s make this as easy as we can,” he told her. “Is there something you can pay? A little each month?”

“I don’t have anything extra,” she said, thinking about the paycheck she earned for a full-time job as a clerk at Goodwill, which totaled $736 every two weeks. After paying for rent and utilities on a subsidized three-bedroom apartment, groceries, and child care for her 6-year-old son and 3-year-old daughter, she sometimes ran out of money by the end of the month.

“How about $15 out of every paycheck?” she offered, even though she doubted she could afford it. When McCormick didn’t immediately respond, she revised her offer. “Thirty? How’s that?”

“Let’s say thirty,” McCormick said.

He had more patients waiting to negotiate, so he thanked Dudley and led her back into the courtroom to sign her judgment. It said she had agreed to a total claim of $3,021, plus $115 in court costs and 9 percent annual interest. She would send the hospital $60 each month until the balance was paid in full, and if she failed to make a payment the hospital could pursue garnishment of her wages.

“I’m glad you worked something out,” the judge said as he signed off on the agreement.

The court clerk handed Dudley a copy of the judgment, and once she was back outside the courtroom she took out her phone to run the math. If everything went right, and she somehow managed to save and pay $60 each month, she’d be sending checks to Poplar Bluff Regional for the next 5½ years.

In order to make 66 monthly payments, she had to somehow come up with the first, but her bank account was almost empty and payday was still a week away. Dudley left the courthouse, got into the car with her mother, then changed into a polo shirt for work. They drove away from the cobblestone streets of downtown and headed toward Goodwill.

“Could’ve been worse,” said her mother, Norma Garcia, 48. “Sixty isn’t so terrible.”

“It is if you don’t have it,” Dudley said. “Who do you know that’s sitting on an extra sixty each month?”

They drove past a dollar store, a payday lender and a fast-food restaurant advertising “full-time career opportunities” starting at $7.80 an hour.

“Maybe you can borrow it?” Garcia suggested.

“I don’t do credit cards or lenders,” Dudley said. “That’d just be another debt I couldn’t pay.”

“I meant from somebody.”

“Who?” Dudley asked. “Everyone we know is paying the hospital already.”

Their family had lived for three generations in Poplar Bluff’s predominantly black neighborhood just north of downtown, where according to credit records more than half of adults had debt in collections for unpaid auto loans, credit cards or medical bills. Dudley’s aunt had been sued twice by Poplar Bluff Regional and was forfeiting 15 percent of her paycheck to a court-ordered hospital garnishment. Her cousin was being sued for $1,200. Her sister owed $280.

But none of them had cycled through the emergency room as often as Dudley during the past several years. Her two pregnancies had complicated her diabetes, and she’d tried to save money by skimping on insulin. Instead of paying $50 every few months for a preventive medication, she had collapsed at work and been rushed to the emergency room, where she was sent home with thousands of dollars in now-unpaid bills. Poplar Bluff Regional was an ambitious rural hospital — a $173 million facility with a cancer center, a cardiac center, dozens of specialists and state-of-the-art surgical suites — and Dudley believed she was alive because of it. But during the past five years, the average amount that rural patients owed for hospital visits nationwide had doubled, and Dudley was earning $11 an hour at Goodwill as new hospital bills kept arriving in her mailbox.

She owed a $100 co-pay from another hospital visit in November 2018 that had already been sent to collections.

She owed $485 from another trip to the ER in April.

She owed $159 for lab tests, $85 for a doctor’s visit and now $60 for her first court-mandated payment, which was due at the end of the month.

“I’m trying to make peace with the fact that this debt could sit on me forever,” she said.

“Maybe I can help,” Garcia offered, even though she was on disability and avoiding her own billing notices from the hospital, seeking $365 in unpaid deductibles.

“It’s my bill to pay,” Dudley said. She’d been saving a little money for back-to-school supplies, and she said it was enough for her first month’s payment. “I’ll handle it,” she said. “There’s no other choice.”

There was one person in town who did believe patients had another choice, and over the past several years Daniel Moore had begun encouraging his clients to make it.

“Don’t pay one cent,” the lawyer had advised dozens of clients. “I don’t care how much the hospital says you owe. Fight them over it.”

Moore had been working for almost five decades as a self-described “old hillbilly lawyer” out of a converted house downtown. He specialized in criminal defense, with more than 400 cases pending all over the state, and he liked to align himself with the underdog. He’d been unable to afford a doctor himself while growing up on a farm with no running water, so when clients began coming to his office with bills from Poplar Bluff Regional that they could neither pay nor understand, he had agreed to take a look.

What Moore found in some of those itemized receipts didn’t make sense to him either: $75 for a surgical mask; $11.10 for each cleaning wipe; $23.62 for two standard ibuprofen pills; $592 for a strep throat culture; $838 for a pregnancy test. He searched through court records and discovered that the hospital was collecting hundreds of monthly garnishments from hourly employees at places like Quickstop, Earl’s Diner, Wendy’s, Instant Pawn and Alan’s Muffler.

He decided to represent several hospital patients free, and went to court against the hospital for a jury trial for the first time late in 2015. Moore’s client was a Poplar Bluff police officer with decent insurance, an Army veteran who went to the emergency room one afternoon because of chronic stomach problems. He’d been given a battery of tests in the ER, then treated with three IV medications before being discharged after three hours with a bill for $6,373. His insurance had paid some, but the hospital was suing him for co-pays totaling about $1,650, plus interest.

“The facts show that he came to the hospital and received treatment that alleviated his symptoms,” the hospital’s lawyer at the time told the jury. “He received three separate bills. He just didn’t pay the balance.”

“These charges are outrageous,” Moore told the jury. “He doesn’t owe the hospital anything.”

A billing manager from the hospital took the stand and said Poplar Bluff’s prices were in line with other hospitals in rural Missouri. She mentioned the high cost of providing care at rural hospitals, which must pay higher salaries in order to recruit doctors, nurses and specialists while also suffering more from federal cuts to Medicaid and Medicare compared with urban hospitals.

Moore began to question her about each charge on his client’s itemized receipt. Why, he asked, did it cost $800 to spend approximately 40 seconds with a doctor? Why was the hospital charging $211 for an oxygen sensor that was on sale for $16 at Walmart? Then Moore asked about three identical charges on the bill labeled “IV Push,” which each cost $365.

“An IV push, if I understand it, that’s the act of sticking the needle in that little port and then squeezing it,” Moore said. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” the billing manager said.

“So that takes maybe five seconds, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you, the hospital, think that act alone, not counting the drugs inside the IV, which cost thousands of dollars more — that act alone is worth $365.38?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“It makes me so mad,” Moore told the jury, in his closing argument. “If you’re content to let the hospital just crush people, then go on and give them their measly $1,650. But what you can do today is say, ‘Hey, we’re tired of this.’ How many times are we going to let working people take the shaft?”

“In reality, this is a simple bill,” the hospital’s lawyer countered. “All we’re asking for is his co-pay and his deductible. The hospital provided treatment. He still owes.”

The jury deliberated for less than an hour and then found in favor of Moore’s client, wiping away his hospital debts. But whatever sense of victory Moore felt was mitigated over the next months as Poplar Bluff Regional’s lawsuits continued to spread across the civil courts of Southeast Missouri, and he agreed to take on more free cases. “The hospital circuit,” Moore called it, which meant Mondays in Caruthersville, Tuesdays in West Plains and Wednesdays in Poplar Bluff.

On Thursdays it was Doniphan, a town of fewer than 2,000 people, where Poplar Bluff Regional had filed more than 300 lawsuits during the past several years. Moore drove past horse farms and timber plants, parking near an abandoned hospital. Ripley County Memorial had closed six months earlier, and there were locks on the doors and a sign taped above the ambulance bay.

“For Nearest Emergency Services, go 29 miles to Poplar Bluff Regional,” it said, and now several of those Poplar Bluff patients had been summoned right back to downtown Doniphan, to a red brick courthouse at the center of the town square.

They crowded next to each other on a wooden bench in the lobby, waving their hospital bills as fans against the late July heat while they waited for the courtroom to open and then entered one by one: a husband and wife who went for cancer treatments at Poplar Bluff Regional each week but couldn’t afford the co-pays. A community college student who owed more than $7,000 for treatment of a chronic heart condition. And then the judge, who had presided over hundreds of hospital cases during his career and also recused himself from one case a few years earlier, when the patient being sued was his wife.

“How are we all doing today?” he asked, as he looked down at a docket with 14 more cases between a hospital ownership company that couldn’t afford to keep losing money and patients who couldn’t afford to pay. Both sides were drowning in debt, fighting to stay above water, and pulling each other back down.

“It’s another full docket,” the judge said. “We might as well get started.”

Eli Saslow is a reporter at The

Washington Post. He won the 2014 Pulitzer Prize for Explanatory Reporting for his year-long series about food stamps in America. He was also a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in Feature Writing in 2013, 2016 and 2017

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Fred Hampton

Fred Hampton (August 30, 1948 – December 4, 1969) was an American activist and revolutionary, chairman of the Illinois chapter of the Black Panther Party (BPP), and deputy chairman of the national BPP. Hampton was assassinated while sleeping at his apartment during a raid by a tactical unit of the Cook County, Illinois State's Attorney's Office, in conjunction with the Chicago Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in December 1969. A civil lawsuit filed in 1970 resulted in 1982 in a settlement of $1.85 million The background and events of Hampton's murder have been chronicled in several documentary films.

Early life and youth

Hampton was born on August 30, 1948, in present-day Summit, Illinois, and grew up in Maywood, a suburb west of the city. His parents had moved north from Louisiana, and both worked at the Argo Starch Company. As a youth, Hampton was gifted both in the classroom and on the athletic field, and strongly desired to play center field for the New York Yankees. He graduated from Proviso East High School with honors in 1966. Following his graduation, Hampton enrolled at Triton Junior College in nearby River Grove, Illinois, where he majored in pre-law. He planned to become more familiar with the legal system, to use it as a defense against police. He and fellow Black Panthers would follow police, watching out for police brutality, and used this knowledge of law as a defense.

He also became active in the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), and assumed leadership of the Youth Council of the organization's West Suburban Branch. In his capacity as an NAACP youth organizer, Hampton began to demonstrate his natural leadership abilities; from a community of 27,000, he was able to muster a youth group 500-members strong. He worked to get more and better recreational facilities established in the neighborhoods, and to improve educational resources for Maywood's impoverished black community. Through his involvement with the NAACP, Hampton hoped to achieve social change through nonviolent activism and community organizing.

Chicago

About the same time that Hampton was successfully organizing young African-Americans for the NAACP, the Black Panther Party (BPP) started rising to national prominence. Hampton was quickly attracted to the Black Panthers' approach, which was based on a ten-point program that integrated black self-determination on the basis of Maoism. Hampton joined the Party and relocated to downtown Chicago, and in November 1968 he joined the Party's nascent Illinois chapter—founded by Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) organizer Bob Brown in late 1967. Over the next year, Hampton and his associates made a number of significant achievements in Chicago. Perhaps his most important accomplishment was his brokering of a nonaggression pact between Chicago's most powerful street gangs. Emphasizing that racial and ethnic conflict between gangs would only keep its members entrenched in poverty, Hampton strove to forge a class-conscious, multi-racial alliance between the BPP, the Young Patriots Organization, and the Young Lords under the leadership of Jose Cha Cha Jimenez.

Fred Hampton met Cha Cha and the Young Lords in the Chicago Lincoln Park Neighborhood, the day after the Young Lords were in the news after they had occupied a police community workshop meeting, held on the second floor hall of the Chicago 18th District Police Station. Later, the Rainbow Coalition was joined nationwide by the Students for a Democratic Society ("SDS"), the Brown Berets, and the Red Guard Party. In May 1969, Hampton called a press conference to announce that this "rainbow coalition" had formed. It was a phrase coined by Hampton and made popular over the years by Rev. Jesse Jackson, who eventually appropriated the name in forming his own, unrelated, coalition, Rainbow/PUSH.

Hampton's organizing skills, substantial oratorical gifts, and personal charisma allowed him to rise quickly in the Black Panthers. Once he became leader of the Chicago chapter, he organized weekly rallies, worked closely with the BPP's local People's Clinic, taught political education classes every morning at 6am, and launched a project for community supervision of the police. Hampton was also instrumental in the BPP's Free Breakfast Program. When Brown left the Party with Stokely Carmichael in the FBI-fomented SNCC/Panther split, Hampton assumed chairmanship of the Illinois state BPP, automatically making him a national BPP deputy chairman. As the Panther leadership across the country began to be decimated by the impact of the FBI's COINTELPRO, Hampton's prominence in the national hierarchy increased rapidly and dramatically. Eventually, Hampton was in line to be appointed to the Party's Central Committee's Chief of Staff. He would have achieved this position had it not been for his assassination on the morning of December 4, 1969.

FBI investigation

While Hampton impressed many of the people with whom he came into contact as an effective leader and talented communicator, those very qualities marked him as a major threat in the eyes of the FBI. It began keeping close tabs on his activities. Subsequent investigations have shown that FBI chief J. Edgar Hoover was determined to prevent the formation of a cohesive Black movement in the United States. Hoover saw the Panthers, Young Patriots, Young Lords, and similar radical coalitions forged by Hampton in Chicago as a frightening steppingstone toward the creation of such a revolutionary body that could, in its strength, cause a radical change in the U.S. government. The FBI opened a file on Hampton in 1967. Hampton's mother's phone was tapped in February 1968, and Hampton was placed on the Bureau's "Agitator Index" as a "key militant leader" by May. In late 1968, the Racial Matters squad of the FBI's Chicago field office brought in an individual named William O'Neal, who had recently been arrested twice, for interstate car theft and impersonating a federal officer. In exchange for having his felony charges dropped and a monthly stipend, O'Neal apparently agreed to infiltrate the BPP as a counterintelligence operative. He joined the Party and quickly rose in the organization, becoming Director of Chapter security and Hampton's bodyguard. In 1969, the FBI special agent in San Francisco wrote Hoover that the agent's investigation of the BPP revealed that in his city, at least, the Panthers were primarily feeding breakfast to children. Hoover fired back a memo implying the career ambitions of the agent were directly related to his supplying evidence to support Hoover's view that the BPP was "a violence-prone organization seeking to overthrow the Government by revolutionary means".

By means of anonymous letters, the FBI sowed distrust and eventually instigated a split between the Panthers and the Rangers, with O'Neal himself instigating an armed clash between the two on April 2, 1969. The Panthers became effectively isolated from their power base in the ghetto, so the FBI went to work to undermine its ties with other radical organizations. O'Neal was instructed to "create a rift" between the Party and SDS, whose Chicago headquarters was only blocks from that of the Panthers. The Bureau released a batch of racist cartoons in the Panthers' name, aimed at alienating white activists, and launched a disinformation program to forestall the realization of the Rainbow Coalition but nevertheless it was formed with an alliance of the Young Patriots and Young Lords. In repeated directives, Hoover demanded that the COINTELPRO personnel investigate the Rainbow Coalition and "destroy what the [BPP] stands for" and "eradicate its 'serve the people' programs".

Documents secured by Senate investigators in the early 1970s revealed that the FBI actively encouraged violence between the Panthers and other radical groups, which provoked multiple murders in cities throughout the country. On May 26, 1969, Hampton was successfully prosecuted in a case related to a theft in 1967 of $71 worth of Good Humor Bars in Maywood. He was sentenced to two to five years but managed to obtain an appeal bond, and was released in August. On July 16, there was an armed confrontation between party members and the Chicago Police Department, which left one BPP member mortally wounded and six others arrested on serious charges. In early October, Hampton and his girlfriend, Deborah Johnson (now known as Akua Njeri), pregnant with their first child (Fred Hampton Jr.), rented a four-and-a-half room apartment on 2337 West Monroe Street to be closer to BPP headquarters. O'Neal reported to his superiors that much of the Panthers' "provocative" stockpile of arms was being stored there and drew them a map of the layout of the apartment. In early November, Hampton traveled to California on a speaking engagement to the UCLA Law Students Association. While there, he met with the remaining BPP national hierarchy, who appointed him to the Party's Central Committee. Shortly thereafter, he was to assume the position of Chief of Staff and major spokesman.

1969 raid and assassination

Fred Hampton was quickly moving up the ranks in the Black Panther Party, and his talent as a political organizer was described as remarkable. In 1968, he was on the verge of creating a merger between the BPP and a southside street gang with thousands of members, which would have doubled the size of the national BPP. Moreover, it meant an alliance extending the Black Panther Party reach and influence united with white and Latino organizers, a step which Hoover viewed as an untenable ultimate threat and ordered an intensified FBI crackdown to the level of "any means necessary" to decimate the BPP.

In November 1969, Hampton traveled to California and met with the National BPP leadership at UCLA. It was there that they offered him a position on the Central Committee as the chief of staff and asked him to serve as the national spokesman for the BPP. While Hampton was out of town, two Chicago police officers, John J. Gilhooly and Frank G. Rappaport, were killed in a gun battle with Panthers on the night of November 13. A total of nine police officers were shot; a 19-year-old Panther named Spurgeon Winter Jr. was killed by police and another Panther, Lawrence S. Bell, was charged with murder. In an editorial headlined "No Quarter for Wild Beasts", the Chicago Tribune urged that Chicago police be given the order to approach all Panther suspects prepared to shoot. The FBI, determined to prevent any enhancement of the BPP leadership's effectiveness, decided to set up an arms raid on Hampton's Chicago apartment. FBI informant William O'Neal provided them with detailed information about Hampton's apartment, including the layout of furniture and the bed in which Hampton and his girlfriend slept. An augmented, 14-man team of the SAO—Special Prosecutions Unit—was organized for a pre-dawn raid armed with a warrant for illegal weapons.

On the evening of December 3, Hampton taught a political education course at a local church, which was attended by most members. Afterwards, as was typical, several Panthers retired to the Monroe Street apartment to spend the night, including Hampton and Deborah Johnson (also known as Akua Njeri), Blair Anderson, Ronald "Doc" Satchell, Harold Bell, Verlina Brewer, Louis Truelock, Brenda Harris, and Mark Clark. Upon arrival, they were met by O'Neal, who had prepared a late dinner, which the group ate around midnight. O'Neal had slipped the barbiturate sleep agent, secobarbitol, into a drink that Hampton consumed during the dinner, in order to sedate Hampton so he would not awaken during the subsequent raid. O'Neal left at this point, and, at about 1:30 a.m., Hampton fell asleep mid-sentence talking to his mother on the telephone. Although Hampton was not known to take drugs, Cook County chemist Eleanor Berman would report that she ran two separate tests which each showed evidence of barbiturates in Hampton's blood. An FBI chemist would later fail to find similar traces, but Berman stood by her findings.

The raid was organized by the office of Cook County State's Attorney Edward Hanrahan, using officers attached to his office. Hanrahan had recently been the subject of a large amount of public criticism by Hampton, who had made speeches about how Hanrahan's talk about a "war on gangs" was really rhetoric used to enable him to carry out a "war on black youth". At 4:00 a.m., the heavily armed police team arrived at the site, divided into two teams, eight for the front of the building and six for the rear. At 4:45 a.m., they stormed into the apartment. Mark Clark, sitting in the front room of the apartment with a shotgun in his lap, was on security duty. He was shot in the chest and died instantly. His gun fired a single round which was later determined to be caused by a reflexive death convulsion after the raiding team shot him; this was the only shot the Panthers fired. Automatic gunfire then converged at the head of the south bedroom where Hampton slept, unable to awaken as a result of the barbiturates the FBI infiltrator had slipped into his drink. He was lying on a mattress in the bedroom with his fiancée, who was eight-and-a-half months pregnant with their child. Two officers found him wounded in the shoulder, and fellow Black Panther Harold Bell reported that he heard the following exchange:

"That's Fred Hampton.""Is he dead?... Bring him out.""He's barely alive."He'll make it."

Two shots were heard, which were later discovered were fired point blank in Hampton's head. According to Johnson, one officer then said:

"He's good and dead now."

Hampton's body was dragged into the doorway of the bedroom and left in a pool of blood. The officers then directed their gunfire towards the remaining Panthers, who had been sleeping in the north bedroom (Satchel, Anderson, and Brewer). Verlina Brewer, Ronald "Doc" Satchel, Blair Anderson, and Brenda Harris were seriously wounded, then beaten and dragged into the street, where they were arrested on charges of aggravated assault and the attempted murder of the officers. They were each held on US$100,000 bail.

Hampton's fiancée, Deborah Johnson, was sleeping next to him when the police raid began. She was forcibly removed from the room by the police officers while Hampton lay unconscious in bed. The seven Panthers who survived the raid were indicted by a grand jury on charges of attempted murder, armed violence, and various other weapons charges. These charges were subsequently dropped. During the trial, the Chicago police department claimed that the Panthers were the first to fire shots; however, a later investigation found that the Chicago police fired between ninety and ninety-nine shots while the Panthers had only shot once. After the raid, the apartment was left unguarded, which allowed the Panthers to send some members to investigate. They were accompanied by a videographer and the footage was later released in the 1971 documentary The Murder of Fred Hampton. After a break-in at an FBI office in Pennsylvania, the existence of COINTELPRO, an illegal counter-intelligence program, was brought to light. The awareness of this program caused many to suspect that the police raid and the shooting of Fred Hampton were parts of the program's initiative. One of the documents that were released after the break-in was a floor plan of Hampton's apartment. Another document outlined a deal the FBI brokered with the deputy attorney general to conceal the FBI's role in the assassination of Hampton and the existence of COINTELPRO.

Aftermath

At a press conference the next day, the police announced the arrest team had been attacked by the "violent" and "extremely vicious" Panthers and had defended themselves accordingly. In a second press conference on December 8, the assault team was praised for their "remarkable restraint", "bravery", and "professional discipline" for not killing all the Panthers present. Photographic evidence was presented of "bullet holes" allegedly made by shots fired by the Panthers, but this was soon challenged by reporters (although the Chicago Tribune initially published these photos in support of the police action). An internal investigation was undertaken, and the assault team was exonerated of any wrongdoing. Hampton's funeral was attended by 5,000 people, and he was eulogized by such black leaders as Jesse Jackson and Ralph Abernathy, Martin Luther King's successor as head of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. In his eulogy, Jackson noted that "when Fred was shot in Chicago, black people in particular, and decent people in general, bled everywhere." On December 6, members of the Weather Underground destroyed numerous police vehicles in a retaliatory bombing spree at 3600 N. Halsted Street, Chicago.

The police described the police raid as a "shootout". The Black Panthers countered Hanrahan’s claim of a "shoot out" by describing it as a "shoot-in", not a shootout, because all but one bullet was fired by the police. A firestorm erupted on December 11 and 12 between the two competing daily newspapers, the Chicago Tribune and the Chicago Sun-Times. At that time, the Chicago Tribune was considered the politically conservative newspaper, and the Chicago Sun-Times was considered the politically liberal newspaper. On December 11, the Chicago Tribune published a page 1 article titled, "Exclusive – Hanrahan, Police Tell Panther Story." The article included photographs supplied by Hanrahan’s office that depicted bullet holes in a thin white curtain and door jam as evidence that the Panthers fired multiple bullets at the police. The firestorm was triggered in part by Jack Challem, editor of the Wright College News, the student newspaper at Wright Junior College in Chicago. Challem visited the Hampton apartment on Saturday, December 6, and took numerous photographs. The house was not sealed as a crime scene, and a member of the Black Panthers was allowing visitors to tour the apartment. Challem’s photographs did not show any bullet holes. On the morning of December 12, after the Chicago Tribune article was published, Challem contacted a reporter at the Chicago Sun-Times, showed him the photographs, and encouraged him to visit the apartment. That evening, the Chicago Sun-Times published a page 1 article with the headline: “Those ‘bullet holes’ aren’t.” According to the article, the alleged bullet holes (supposedly the result of the Panthers shooting in the direction of the police) were nail heads.

But Challem’s story and photographs, published in the Wright College News, tell a different story and pose unanswered questions. First, there were no nail heads (or bullet holes) in his photographs. The implication, though speculative, is that someone tampered with the crime scene between December 6 and December 12 to make it appear as though the “nail heads” were innocently mistaken as “bullet holes.” Second, it is difficult, if not impossible, to photograph a bullet hole in a thin white curtain without retouching the photograph, another sign that evidence had been tampered with. Four weeks after witnessing Hampton's death at the hands of the police, Deborah Johnson gave birth to Fred Hampton Jr. Civil rights activists Roy Wilkins and Ramsey Clark (styled as "The Commission of Inquiry into the Black Panthers and the Police") subsequently alleged that the Chicago police had killed Fred Hampton without justification or provocation and had violated the Panthers' constitutional rights against unreasonable search and seizure. "The Commission" further alleged that the Chicago Police Department had imposed a summary punishment on the Panthers. The federal grand jury did not return any indictment against anyone involved with the planning or execution of the raid. The officers involved in the raid were cleared by a grand jury of any crimes. The FBI informant, William O'Neal, committed suicide in 1990 after admitting his involvement in setting up the raid.

Inquest

Shortly afterwards, Cook County coroner Andrew Toman began forming a special six-member coroner's jury to hold an inquest into the deaths of Hampton and Clark. On December 23, Toman announced four additions to the jury which included two African-American men: physician Theodore K. Lawless and attorney Julian B. Wilkins, the son of J. Ernest Wilkins, Sr. He stated the four were selected from a group of candidates submitted to his office by groups and individuals representing both Chicago's black and white communities. Civil rights leaders and spokesmen for the black community were reported to have been disappointed with the selection. An official with the Chicago Urban League said: "I would have had more confidence in the jury if one of them had been a black man who has a rapport with the young and the grass roots in the community." Gus Savage said that such a man to whom the community could relate need not be black. The jury eventually included a third black man who was a member of the first coroner's jury sworn in on December 4.

The blue-ribbon panel convened for the inquest on January 6, 1970, and on January 21 ruled the deaths of Hampton and Clark to be justifiable homicide. The jury qualified their verdict on the death of Hampton as "based solely and exclusively on the evidence presented to this inquisition"; police and expert witness provided the only testimony during the inquest. Jury foreman James T. Hicks stated that they could not consider the charges of the Black Panthers in the apartment who stated that the police entered the apartment shooting; those who survived the raid were reported to have refused to testify during the inquest because they faced criminal charges of attempted murder and aggravated assault during the raid. Attorneys for the Hampton and Clark families also did not introduce any witnesses during the proceedings, but described the inquest as "a well-rehearsed theatrical performance designed to vindicate the police officers". State's Attorney Edward Hanrahan said the verdict was recognition "of the truthfulness of our police officers' account of the events".

Civil rights lawsuit

In 1970, a $47.7 million lawsuit was filed on behalf of the survivors and the relatives of Hampton and Clark stating that the civil rights of the Black Panther members were violated. Twenty-eight defendants were named, including Hanrahan as well as the City of Chicago, Cook County, and federal governments. The following trial lasted 18 months and was reported to have been the longest federal trial up to that time. After its conclusion in 1977, Judge Joseph Sam Perry of United States District Court for the Northern District of Illinois dismissed the suit against 21 of the defendants prior to jury deliberations. Perry dismissed the suit against the remaining defendants after jurors deadlocked. In 1979, the United States Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit in Chicago stated that the government had withheld relevant documents thereby obstructing the judicial process. Reinstating the case against 24 of the defendants, the Court of Appeals ordered a new trial. The Supreme Court of the United States heard an appeal but voted 5–3 in 1980 to return the case to the District Court for a new trial. In 1982, the City of Chicago, Cook County, and the federal government agreed to a settlement in which each would pay $616,333 to a group of nine plaintiffs, including the mothers of Hampton and Clark. The $1.85 million settlement was believed to be the largest ever in a civil rights case.

Legacy

Legal and political impacts

According to a 1969 Chicago Tribune report, "The raid ended the promising political career of Cook County State's Atty. Edward V. Hanrahan, who was indicted but cleared with 13 other law-enforcement agents on charges of obstructing justice. Bernard Carey, a Republican, defeated him in the next election, in part because of the support of outraged black voters." The families of Hampton and Clark filed a US$47.7 million civil suit against the city, state, and federal governments. The case went to trial before Federal Judge J. Sam Perry. After more than 18 months of testimony and at the close of the Plaintiff's case, Judge Perry dismissed the case. The Plaintiffs appealed and the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit reversed, ordering the case to be retried. More than a decade after the case had been filed, the suit was finally settled for $1.85 Million. The two families each shared in the settlement. Jeffrey Haas, who, together with his law partners G. Flint Taylor and Dennis Cunningham and attorney James D. Montgomery, were the attorneys for the plaintiffs in the federal suit Hampton v. Hanrahan, wrote in his book about the Hampton assassination that Chicago was worse off without Hampton:

In 1990, the Chicago City Council unanimously passed a resolution, introduced by then-Alderman Madeline Haithcock, commemorating December 4, 2004, as "Fred Hampton Day in Chicago". The resolution read in part: "Fred Hampton, who was only 21 years old, made his mark in Chicago history not so much by his death as by the heroic efforts of his life and by his goals of empowering the most oppressed sector of Chicago's Black community, bringing people into political life through participation in their own freedom fighting organization."

Monuments and streets

A public pool was named in his honor in his home town of Maywood, Illinois. In March 2006, supporters of Hampton's charity work proposed the naming of a Chicago street in honor of the former Black Panther leader. Chicago's chapter of the Fraternal Order of Police opposed this effort. On Saturday September 7, 2007, a bust of Hampton was erected outside the Fred Hampton Family Aquatic Center.

Weather Underground reaction

In response to the killings of Fred Hampton and Mark Clark in December 1969, on May 21, 1970, the Weather Underground issued a "Declaration of War" against the United States government, using for the first time its new name, the "Weather Underground Organization" (WUO); they also adopted fake identities, and decided to pursue covert activities only. These initially included preparations for a bombing of a U.S. military non-commissioned officers' dance at Fort Dix, New Jersey, in what Brian Flanagan said had been intended to be "the most horrific hit the United States government had ever suffered on its territory".

We've known that our job is to lead white kids into armed revolution. We never intended to spend the next five to twenty-five years of our lives in jail. Ever since SDS became revolutionary, we've been trying to show how it is possible to overcome frustration and impotence that comes from trying to reform this system. Kids know the lines are drawn: revolution is touching all of our lives. Tens of thousands have learned that protest and marches don't do it. Revolutionary violence is the only way.

Media and popular cultureIn film

A 27-minute documentary entitled Death of a Black Panther: The Fred Hampton Story was used as evidence in the civil suit. Although Hampton had criticized the predominantly white Weather Underground (also known as the Weathermen) two months earlier for being "adventuristic, masochistic and Custeristic", Bernardine Dohrn of the Weathermen, which had a close relationship with the Black Panthers in Chicago at the time of Hampton's assassination, said in the documentary The Weather Underground (2002) that the killing of Fred Hampton caused them to "be more grave, more serious, more determined to raise the stakes, and not just be the white people who wrung their hands when black people were being murdered." The events of Hampton's rise to significance, J. Edgar Hoover's targeting of him, and Hampton's subsequent assassination are recounted with footage in the 2015 documentary The Black Panthers: Vanguard of the Revolution.

In literature

Haas wrote an account of Hampton's murder, entitled The Assassination of Fred Hampton: How the FBI and the Chicago Police Murdered a Black Panther (2009). Stephen King refers to Hampton in the novel 11/22/63 (2012), where a character discusses the ripple effect of traveling back in time to prevent President John F. Kennedy's assassination, which the character postulates would give rise to a series of events that could prevent Fred Hampton's assassination, as well.

In music

Lyrics that reference Hampton include:

"Nashville" star Ronee Blakley's solo LP, "Ronee Blakley" (1972), includes the lyrics "I want to be a part of Fred Hampton / I want to be a part of his purity / You've got to heal the wounds".

Spoon’s "Loss Leaders", from the "Soft Effects" EP, says "Fred tried to change their ways 'til he got some bullet holes / now he lives in outer space".

Rage Against the Machine's "Down Rodeo" says: "They ain't gonna send us campin' like they did my man Fred Hampton".

Ramshackle Glory refers to Fred Hampton in "First Song, Part 2", followed by an explanation that "justice doesn't flow from police guns, I'm reminded of that all the time".

Jay-z mentions Fred Hampton on "Murder to Excellence" on Watch The Throne in the lyric "I arrived on the day Fred Hampton died, real n*ggas just multiply".

Kendrick Lamar mentions Fred Hampton in his song "HiiiPoWeR" from Section.80. In it, Lamar says "Fred Hampton on your campus, you can't resist his... HiiiPoWeR."

Wikipedia

#Fred Hampton

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