#you may kindly remove your fedoras

[tobacconist]

doing this for fun without telling my neighbours (satire)

[potatocrab]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (14/18)

Chapter 14: A Face and a Number

After a few weeks of preparation, Nick, Madelyn, and Deacon make their way to Fort Hagen undercover, searching for information on their suspect. At the agency, the group is joined by Piper and Hancock to discuss their findings. Madelyn makes a solo, impromptu visit to Concord. Later, at her apartment, Madelyn is faced with the realization that this time, she may have dug too deep.

“To me, you're a face and a number, and let's keep it that way.” - Cody Jarrett as played by James Cagney (White Heat, 1949)

[read on Ao3] x  [chapter masterpost] 

Just south of Concord, situated between the highway to the east and the hills to the west, was Fort Hagen, a sprawling command center for the United States Armed Forces. The military base was a township in itself—amongst the soldier’s barracks and administration buildings was a gas station, medical clinic, corner grocer, preschool and playground. But this wasn’t like any other town or city in Boston that could be visited while on a scenic drive-by. The satellite arrays, relay towers and other military equipment required the upmost of security measures. One did not simply walk into Fort Hagen.

As much as Nick wanted to storm the gates and follow-up on the lead they had discovered while snooping around Kellogg’s apartment, that was a sure-fire way to find himself locked up in a military prison. No amount of Madelyn’s charm or connections at city-hall would get the detective out of a court martial. And so, the two spent nearly two weeks carefully researching and organizing, coming up with the perfect plan that would get them onto the well-fortified base. A few weeks was nothing in comparison to how long the Eddie Winter investigation dragged on—they knew how to be patient.

Piper was still busy hunting down anything and everything she could about the Institute, so Madelyn and Nick made use of the rest of their resources and contacts throughout the city. MacCready had sweet-talked his way to receiving blueprints of the fort from the registrar’s office downtown. Like most of the files they had, it was heavily redacted, but still provided some clarity on what the two might find inside—if they ever got a chance. Preston and his so-called Minutemen monitored the Parkview Apartments in case Kellogg decided to make an impromptu visit. It was a longshot, but Nick didn’t want to take the risk in allowing the elusive man to slip through anybody’s fingers if there was even the slightest chance he could be caught.

Meanwhile, Madelyn and Nick poured over their case-notes and files, working in tandem with Tinker Tom who had continued to decode and reconfigure redacted report from Railroad cache sights. It was a slow process that ultimately yielded nothing the agency didn’t already know about Fort Hagen or their investigation. A breakthrough didn’t come through until Deacon revealed he’d gone through the old Switchboard files and discovered long-forgotten Defense Intelligence Agency clearances. At first the credentials seemed too good to be true—tucked away in some catacomb just waiting to be found at the opportune time—but Madelyn wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. They had their saving grace—all the more fitting that it was found in the basement of a (mostly) abandoned church.

That’s when the real planning started.

Even though the DIA wasn’t technically part of the military, they still belonged to the Department of Defense—the credentials were sure to get them past the security checkpoints at Fort Hagen. All they needed was a plausible reason for being there. Seeing that he was a master of disguise and skilled in the art of lying, Deacon was tasked in creating their personas and cover-stories, while Tinker Tom worked on updating the clearances to match their profiles. It was collectively decided that the best time for their visit would be right before Decoration Day, with the theory the base would be scant of soldiers, the top brass busy with coordinating celebrations elsewhere. The entire operation was full of unknowns and would require a healthy mix of luck and skill to navigate the variables. But this was their only shot if they wanted answers—only time would tell if their plan would work.

May 29th, 1958

Madelyn could tell from her spot in the backseat of Nick’s Cadillac that the detective wasn’t entirely pleased with his role in what Deacon had dubbed Operation ‘Lapins de la Mort’—jaw set tight and gloved hands gripping the steering wheel tight as he drove the trio west towards Fort Hagen.

“Remind me again,” he began in a measured tone. “Why I’m being ousted from my own investigation?”

Perhaps Nick was being a little over dramatic—he wasn’t being removed from the case, but he didn’t necessarily have a starring part in the grand scheme of their undercover operation. Simply put—he was the driver—the go man in the getaway car, on standby in case anything went awry. Safe to say he wasn’t happy about being resigned to wait around while Madelyn and Deacon snooped around inside the facility.

“No offense Valentine,” the Railroad spy mused from the passenger seat. “But since you won’t even try to wear a disguise, you’ll only stick out like a sore thumb.”

Deacon wasn’t wrong. Madelyn glanced up through the rearview mirror to observe Nick’s appearance—his stubble had grown out in the last week and a half, and for once, he’d swapped his tattered fedora and trench coat for a newer, cleaner set. But any Bostonian with a brain and a recent copy of the Boston Bugle or Publick Occurrences would likely be able to recognize him as the hardboiled detective that took Eddie Winter down. Not to say Madelyn hadn’t had her fair share of recognition lately, but it had always been easier for her to blend into the background as Nick’s nameless partner—the broad—she only hoped it would benefit her that day. That, and the long, brunette wig and glasses would help disguise her features.

She was also trying to settle into her undercover identity, chosen to play the part of a DIA investigator, who travelled between military sites to inspect operations and ensure they were running smoothly. Deacon—with a differently styled wig and his signature shades—would act as her second-hand-man. At first, she thought it would be better if their roles were reversed—he was the better liar and showman by far. She was reminded then, that she possessed what neither of her partners did—female persuasion. Madelyn would need to rely on all her skills in order to be successful—litigation, intrigue, investigation, and a whole lot of charm.

“This plan of yours better work,” Nick muttered as he turned down the private road towards the Fort Hagen security checkpoint.

“Our plan,” Deacon corrected, reaching up to adjust his tie. “Little late to start having doubts. I had you pegged as a man of faith.”

“I used to be.”

While Nick’s somber tone worried Madelyn, she didn’t have time to console him the Cadillac slowed, compelled to stop as they were flagged down by an approaching soldier. Another watched the exchange from a small, but well-fortified building, and his expression made it clear he had no intention on raising the barricade—not without knowing their business first.

“This is a secure area,” the armed soldier expressed as soon as Nick rolled down his window. Madelyn peered through the glass to see the name-patch and insignia on his uniform—Specialist Rhys. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and leave. Immediately.”

Deacon leaned over to address the man on the driver’s side. “Don’t you recognize a DIA agent when you see one?”

He wiggled his badge for the soldier, who bent in to try to get a better look at both his and Nick’s credentials. Madelyn straightened in her spot, attempting to look as dignified and important as she thought a government agent should.

“Just got in from DC this morning,” Deacon continued. “Hagen is our first stop today, best not to keep us waiting. Miss Kitty doesn’t like to be late.”

Madelyn gave Specialist Rhys a pointed look for good measure when he glanced to the back seat, and just as quickly diverted his gaze away. Still, the soldier didn’t look wholly convinced.

“We don’t have any scheduled visits for today, on account of the Decoration Day preparations,” he explained, looking over a logbook on a clipboard. “Are you sure you’re at the right facility?”

“Are we at the right facility, he says…” Deacon mumbled, lightly tapping Nick on the shoulder in mock amusement, though the detective was clearly on edge, eager to get moving. “That’s the thing about the DIA, we like our secrets and surprises. Like to keep the rest of you army types on your toes—”

Nick made an uncomfortable sound—something between clearing his throat and a groan—hinting that he was growing increasingly frustrated by Deacon’s posturing. Madelyn remained silent, only wishing he’d had the chance to see the spy in action prior to this little excursion—maybe then he wouldn’t be so anxious. The Railroad didn’t call him the best for nothing. Before anybody could speak, Specialist Rhys signaled back to the man standing guard in the building, and the road gate lifted.

“Sorry about the confusion, sir,” he nodded, pointing up the path. “We’ll radio ahead to have a delegation meet you at the command post in front of the main building.”

Deacon flashed a beaming grin. “Thank you kindly! I’ll be sure to put in a good word back at—”

The car lurched forward as Nick pressed on the gas, causing Deacon to tumble back to the passenger side. The detective let out a soft chuckle, and Madelyn had to hide her own amusement. “Don’t want Miss Kitty to be late.”

The streets and buildings of the Fort Hagen military base were already lined with Decoration Day fanfare—banners of red, white, and blue, flags waving on every lawn and from every storefront post. Between the many ribbons, streamers and balloons, however, was a noticeable lack of military personnel—dismissed for the holiday weekend or sent to other sites in preparation for the next day’s events. Madelyn knew it was tradition for soldiers to plant flags on the gravesites of former soldiers, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they’d leave one for Nate. A sobering feeling washed over her as she thought about finally visiting the Concord cemetery where he was buried, but the idea fell away as quickly as it materialized. She didn’t have time to be melancholy when they had a job to do.

As they pulled up to the command post outside the main building, it was clear that delegation meant two, well dressed, uniformed men. Their attire and insignia signified that they weren’t the average enlisted private, either. Nick pulled up to the designated spot along the curbside and released a sigh.

“Here goes nothing.”

Deacon and Nick exited the car in near synchronization, the detective rounding the vehicle to meet the spy as he opened the back door for Madelyn to step out. She silently thanked the two with a polite nod, steadying her composure as she approached the waiting soldiers, gripping the briefcase in her hand tightly as if to ground herself. There was a slight hesitation, as she nearly defaulted to a handshake before remembering to salute.

“Special Agent Catherine James of the Defense Intelligence Agency,” she flashed a demure smile. “Gentlemen.”

“Colonel Kells,” the man in dress uniform introduced himself, extending his arm for a handshake—finally a gesture something she was used to. He politely motioned to the taller man standing to his left. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Danse. To what do we owe the pleasure of such a visit?”

Madelyn could sense the tension in his tone, but it was filled with more irritation than suspicion as he eyed both her and the men she’d arrived with. She continued to smile, not wanting to waver or show weakness. “You know as well as I do that the government doesn’t hand out grants without proper inspection. We like our ducks shiny and all in a row, so to speak. And what better way to ensure everything is running smoothly than to show up when you least suspect it?”

“In war, the enemy never gives you a fair warning,” she added, with a wink.

While the Lieutenant seemed taken aback, nervously glancing away from her face, Colonel Kells appeared impressed. “Right you are.”

“As you can tell, we are in the middle of Decoration Day preparations,” he further explained. “You’ll have to forgive my absence, but I’m needed elsewhere. Lieutenant Danse will escort you through the premises and answer any questions you may have.”

Without further clarification, Colonel Kells saluted the Lieutenant. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, copying his superior’s actions.

The Colonel silently nodded to Madelyn before walking away to his own escort, and she didn’t dare to move or say anything until the officer’s vehicle was moving away from the outpost. She turned to face Lieutenant Danse, offering her hand in greeting. The man was tall, husky—built like a damn wall—fitting for the United States Army. With dark hair and dark eyes, he was handsome too, all the more easy to charm. But with the Colonel gone, his expression had shifted, and he eyed her with much more skepticism than before—she’d need to change that, fast.

“Agent James was it?” he asked, one eyebrow arced high. He reluctantly shook her hand, as to not appear rude, but she could tell he wasn’t completely comfortable with the action. Madelyn wondered if it had to do with her sex rather than her presence—something she could use to her advantage. What was it with military men and being unable to act rational around women?

“You can call me Kitty,” she grinned, letting his hand go as she noted the subtle flush of embarrassment on his face. She turned towards the waiting duo just a few feet away. “Agent Johnson will join us,” she gestured to Deacon, who was already hiding his amusement at the names he had chosen. She almost dared to go off script, just to spite him for being so smug.  “Agent Johnson will monitor the perimeter.”

Nick barely maintained his composure, sighing at the Lieutenant’s brief confusion. “No relation.”

“Right,” Lieutenant Danse answered, clearing his throat. “If you’ll follow me. We’ll make our way through the visitor’s center to the main offices.”

Madelyn shared once last glance with Nick, who stared back, expression stuck between a pout and a scowl—he wouldn’t be happy until she returned, evidence in hand. She only hoped the fort actually held the secrets they were after.

The interior of Fort Hagen was not unlike the Switchboard—a state of the art government facility, technology tailored for the times and to their specific branch of the military, albeit functioning and filled with a moderate amount of personnel, even with the approaching holiday. As Lieutenant Danse led Madelyn and Deacon through the halls of desks and offices, she kept a careful eye out for anything out of the ordinary, or anybody familiar. A shiver ran up her spine as she thought about the probability of running into Kellogg himself.

“Is there anything in particular you wish to observe during your visit?” Lieutenant Danse asked, his voice pulling her back to reality.

She scanned the room, pretending to observe the military staff with a keen eye, silently nodding to Deacon as if it was part of their secret code. It was and wasn’t at the same time, mostly used to confuse their guide. Madelyn knew they needed to play their cards carefully. Ask for the goods too soon, and the jig was up—she didn’t want to think of the consequences.

“Can you give me an update on daily operations?” she questioned, looking back to the Lieutenant. He was carefully watching her movements, hands clasped behind his back. “Our last report showed this facility was performing live training with protectrons in accordance to military contracts with RobCo.”

“That is still accurate, ma’am,” he answered with a firm nod. “The robots Mister House provided may move slower than your average soldier, but they certainly pack a harder punch.”

Madelyn raised a curious brow at his phrasing. “Concerned about being replaced by technology, Lieutenant?”

“N—no, ma’am,” he hesitated in answering, turning away as he led on through the offices to an observatory area. Below, army specialists were hunched over a spread of diagrams and blueprints, the charts too far away to discern.

She tilted her head, thinking back to the dossier Tinker Tom had compiled based on all the information he’d been able to drudge up on the fort’s activities. “And here I thought we’d stopped production on MK-1 turrets.”

“We have,” Lieutenant Danse confirmed, his eyes darting across the various people through the tinted glass. “Truth be told, I’m not privilege to everything that occurs within these walls. You’d have to speak with General Maxon, and I’m afraid he’s currently off-site.”

Madelyn wondered if he was holding something back, eyeing the soldier’s body language for any tell-tale signs. Not that she felt comfortable interrogating him for more information, but if there was even the slightest hint something sinister was occurring behind the scenes, she wanted to know. But whatever anxiety the Lieutenant appeared to be showing was more indicative of her close proximity and not some big secret he was trying to hide about Fort Hagen’s operations. With a disappointed sigh, she gave another nod to Deacon, who tapped his nose in return.

“Director Gould was explicit that we inspect the records room,” she spoke, driving the conversation and tour forward. “She has quite the reputation as being the most organized member of the DOD. Her demands aren’t to be trifled with.”

“Yes, of course,” Lieutenant Danse agreed, motioning with his hand towards a long hallway. “This way.”

In the next corridor, there was a secure door that required a keycode for entry. She was polite enough to look away as the Lieutenant entered the passcode, but she knew Deacon snuck a peak, unable to resist the forbidden knowledge. The room itself was enormous, akin to a library with tall shelves of books and binders, metal cabinets filled with files and paperwork.

“We’ve been following Director Gould’s suggested methods ever since she sent out the new directives two years ago,” Lieutenant Danse explained, walking them past the front desk where a lone clerk flashed a curt salute. “Every piece of intelligence is properly archived within these walls. Only authorized personnel are permitted to remove records, and all requests must be logged with the clerk.”

As she looked around, listening to his explanation, it started to sound and feel more like Fort Knox than Fort Hagen. “Would we permitted to perform an audit?”

The Lieutenant’s stern expression hadn’t changed much, but even then she felt like she might have crossed the line, shown their hand too soon.  After a few moments of silence, he slowly nodded.

“I believe that would be…permissible,” he agreed. “What would you like to assess?”

Madelyn paused, even though she had her answer long before they’d made their trip that day. “K—for Kitty.”

The three navigated through the rows of shelves and cabinets until they reached a section, little flags with black lettering blocking off every few feet. Ka—Ke—Yes, that would do. She set her briefcase down by her feet and pointed to the cabinet she wanted to inspect. “This may take a while.”

Lieutenant Danse didn’t seem phased at first, content to watch her as she clicked open the drawer and began filtering through the various files. Under his watch, she had to at least pretend to be slowly inspecting that the paperwork was in order, humming under her breath and smiling to herself as if she enjoyed playing secretary.

Deacon decided it was time for him to shine. “Catch the game last night?”

“Excuse me?”

“The game,” Deacon clarified, earning the Lieutenant’s attention. “Baseball. Ya’ know, America’s pastime. I swear, it was a close one—”

Madelyn tuned them out as soon as she confirmed her partner had managed to engage the soldier fully, rambling on about player statistics and the next day’s game against Baltimore. A part of her was humored, imagining Deacon studying up on the Red Sox players before wondering if he was actually, secretly a fan of the sport. God willing he never dragged her to a game. She quickened her pace, lest she become distracted by whatever the hell Vito’s save was.

The entire infiltration of Fort Hagen was a long shot. So, as Madelyn skimmed through the folders, she didn’t expect to find much, if anything of consequence. But then, right as she reached the back of the drawer, she saw lettering typed out in a bold font, displaying a familiar name—C, Kellogg. She almost gave herself a papercut yanking it out to inspect, refraining from opening the folder at the last moment when she thought about how to get the file into her briefcase. Deacon’s distraction wouldn’t be enough.

The idea struck her instantly and without a second to overthink her next movements, she tugged on the metal cabinet, shouting dramatically as the entire structure came toppling over. As hundreds of papers flied out, she swiftly captured the one she had been searching for, tucking in with a few others as she knelt to the floor, feigning collapse. Lieutenant Danse and Deacon were by her side in an instant, the two quickly lifting the cabinet back into place. Madelyn took the opportunity to stuff the handful of files into her briefcase, clicking open and shutting it closed again like a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it magic trick. By the time Deacon leaned to assist her, the job was done. Her hand in his, she gave him one last signal—three quick squeezes.

“Agent James, ma’am,” the Lieutenant’s concern was evident, even if he also appeared worried about the mess of files. “Are you alright?”

“While your files are organized Lieutenant,” Madelyn explained, breathing a sigh of relief—genuine, but only because their real task was complete. Well—so far. “They don’t appear to be structurally sound.”

The soldier frowned. “I apologize.”

“I appreciate it,” she answered, with a broad smile. “I will be kind in my report. You may lead on.”

For the following hour Madelyn and Deacon continued to follow Lieutenant Danse through the fort, her hand squeezing the handle of her briefcase so tightly she thought her fingers would snap in two. As confident as she had felt about securing supposed evidence on Kellogg, it was quickly dwindling the longer she was subjected to a farce of a tour. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep the façade up, pretending to be interested in what constituted as military secrets. Thankfully, Deacon appeared to be engaged and as collected as ever, silencing maintaining their cover.

When they were finally back outside, Nick was still standing by the Cadillac where they’d left him, left foot twitching as he tapped it against the sidewalk impatiently. When the group was close enough, she flashed him a wink, twitching her nose as she subtly glanced to what she was holding. The detective was barely able to hide his surprise, eyeing them as he eagerly awaited their return. Madelyn wouldn’t share in the excitement until they were far away from the military base, certain they had completed their operation without detection.

Lieutenant Danse turned to them near the curbside, never relaxing from his rigid military posture. “Agent James, Agent Johnson,” he nodded to both of them. “I hope your visit to Fort Hagen was satisfactory.”

“Very,” she answered, glancing to Deacon. “Johnny boy and I have a few more stops before we return to D.C, but I believe you’ve set a precedent.”

The Lieutenant, for once, showed the slightest bit of reaction—pride. He offered a salute, and parting words. “Ad Victoriam.”

“Defendam hoc,” she replied, copying his gesture. “Until we meet again.” 

It shouldn’t have been surprising that Piper was waiting for the trio when they returned to the agency that afternoon, as the reporter had a knack for occupying the space even though she had a perfectly suitable office on the second floor. Madelyn hadn’t visited the Publick Occurrences suite in a long while, but assumed it was just as cluttered as the last time she saw it, covered in newsprint, photos and paperwork. That day, Piper wasn’t alone.  

“Nicky boy, good to see you.”

It had been over a month since Madelyn last saw Hancock, when she paid him a visit at the Old State House during Nick’s hospitalization. He hadn’t changed much, not that she expected him to, still wearing his red coat and golden pin—of the people, for the people. He was leaned back in Nick’s chair, ankles crossed with his feet on the desk, flashing a lazy grin.

“Been a while,” he mused.

The detective was less than enthused by the sight, walking over to shove Hancock’s boots back to the floor, hovering intimidatingly until the other man finally moved. This time, he perched himself in an armchair, lounging back without much decency or care that there were others in the room. Even though Madelyn barely knew him, she understood the behavior aligned with his reputation. She crossed through the room to sit opposite of their guest, while Deacon followed to settle into his usual spot against the back wall.

He smiled at her, offering a low whistle. “Love the look, dollface.”

She returned the expression but couldn’t wait to slip into her office and remove the wig and return to her usual self. How did the saying go? Gentlemen prefer blondes—well, so did Madelyn, at least when it came to her own hair.

“What do you want, John?” Nick finally asked, removing his hat and coat before practically collapsing into his seat. Within seconds, he struck a match and lit a fresh cigarette, ignoring Hancock’s request for a spare. After a long day at the military base, it was to be expected—especially if they were about to reconvene on what they’d discovered.

“Miss Wright and I were just discussing the fascinating attributes of one, Mayor McDonough,” Hancock answered. “Otherwise known as my sleazy, good-for-nothing brother.”

Piper had never agreed with the mayor’s policies, or ethics—read any article she’d written on the subject and you’d get a clear understanding of her stance within seconds. She had McDonough pegged as corrupt before half the city knew what corruption was, only learning it was possible after Eddie Winter’s dirty laundry was left hung out to dry in the papers after his death. But that investigation hadn’t been able to link the mayor to anything nefarious. It seemed now that Piper was after the Institute, she was determined to root out McDonough’s secrets once and for all.

“He hasn’t been seen since the MIT demonstration,” she noted, and even Madelyn had to admit that was strange for a government official. The mayor of Boston couldn’t just disappear for two weeks without suspicion—thank God for intrepid reporters. “Even Hancock can’t get an audience.”

“Shut out by my own flesh and blood,” he mocked offense, holding a hand over his heart. “Guy has always been a pain in the ass, but hell, even on our worst days he’d still call me up on holidays and birthdays. Shake my hand in public. And on rare days, join me for a scotch in the Old State House.”

Nick was listening, but his focus was clearly on the briefcase Madelyn had situated on her lap. Piper sighed, resigned to the fact that the detective had his priorities. Until the Shaun Perlman case was solved, his interest in her investigation was limited. With all eyes on her, Madelyn took the cue to click open the case.

“I might have grabbed more than necessary,” she said, shuffling through the extra files before leaning over to place one on Nick’s desk. He read over the typewritten name, confirming it matched their suspect—Conrad Kellogg.

The group continued to sit in relative silence as Nick skimmed through the paperwork, tracing his finger across redacted lines and mumbling under his breath with a furrowed brow. “Most of this reads like any military dossier.”

“So your man really is a soldier,” Hancock suggested, inferring he’d been brought up to speed on their cold-case.

“Looks like it,” Nick muttered, but his eyes continued to scan, flipping through page after page of information. Suddenly, he blanched, and momentarily flicked his gaze to Piper as his mouth twitched. “MIT is mentioned.”

“What?” the reporter yelped, rushing to the desk and practically yanking the file from Nick’s hands. He didn’t resist, leaning back in his chair as he thoughtfully rubbed at his chin. Piper gasped as she read over the text. “This is his medical history. It says that in 1945, after returning home from the war in Europe, he received experimental brain augmentation in an attempt to cure a traumatic head injury.”

Her voice was shaky, clearly alarmed by what she’d recited. Madelyn sat in stunned silence, unable to believe was she was hearing—could it be possible Kellogg was linked to the Institute after all? “As far as these reports indicate, MIT considered the operation a success.”

“I’ll say,” Nick muttered, shaking his head. “This goes back to your theory on Institute experiments. Who’s to say they didn’t implant something while rooting around, only for it to backfire?”

Piper reluctantly nodded. “That means we were right. MIT has been hiding secrets for years. Decades even.”

An eerie silence filled the room as Nick stared down at his right hand—the prosthetic that he’d received after returning from the war, courtesy of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Similar circumstances to Kellogg, and yet set on entirely different paths. Madelyn knew there was little she could do to settle the questions that were likely running through his mind.

“Could this explain his crimes?” she asked in a hushed tone. “Any of his actions?”

Nick didn’t answer, so Piper took the initiative. “Anything is possible. The Institute has made that much clear.”

“Maybe they put one in Guy’s brain too,” Hancock joked.

At first, his statement didn’t resonate with the others, but Piper’s expression quickly shifted, her interest piqued. “That—that would make sense. It would explain everything about his actions.”

“Gives a new meaning to government puppet,” Hancock muttered.

Madelyn focused on her partner, and his continued silence. “What do you want to do, Nick?”

The detective didn’t answer for a long time, still focused on his hand, studying the hard lines of his palm. Only when his cigarette was burned down to the filter did he let out a deep sigh. “Only one thing left to do.”

He lifted his head to stare at the others. “We go after MIT.”

They’d managed to infiltrate Fort Hagen—how hard could sneaking into the Institute be?

There was something to be said about the dangers of women walking the Boston streets alone at night. Even though Eddie Winter and his crime syndicate had been shut down, and the corruption within the police department and government had been culled, there was always an underlying threat when living in the city. Between rumors of a so-called Fens Phantom and the Cola-Killer, or worries of running into a crazed, scarred gunman—there was always the possibility of running into something sinister behind every dark corner.

Madelyn wasn’t afraid, and it wasn’t because of the pistol strapped to her thigh-holster under her dress, or the backup stored in her purse for good measure. For all the potential danger lurking about after sunset, nothing was more terrifying than the idea of what she was about to do. Since the visit to Fort Hagen and subsequent discovery of evidence linking Kellogg’s involvement with the Institute, she’d had the overwhelming desire to return to Concord. Not with Nick to follow-up on their investigation, but to visit a place she thought she’d never come back to—the church. Perhaps something within her snapped when the connection had been made at the agency. Nick would sort out their leads, coordinate with Preston’s Minutemen on surveillance for the university. Piper would work with Hancock on locating Mayor McDonough in an attempt to shake him down for answers. Deacon would return to Railroad headquarters so Tinker Tom could mine the redacted information from the smuggled Fort Hagen files. Madelyn would rendezvous with the others in the afternoon, after she paid a visit to city hall to research caselaw and any court documents on file for the Institute. Their plans were set into motion without a moment to lose—the totality of it all, frightening.

Then again, she’d been delaying the visit for months—years—best not to fool herself into thinking some wild event had finally pushed her over the edge. If trauma was what she needed, Madelyn had plenty of opportunities in recent memory to travel north to Concord, and to the little church cemetery in which her husband had been laid to rest for all eternity. It was better late than never. If ghosts, spirits—guardian angels, were real—she hoped he could forgive her for the delay.

Madelyn stood at the gates for a long time, before musing to herself that if anybody were watching her, how strange it must be for a young woman to be staring longingly into a graveyard. Even then, her movements were slow as she navigated the tombstones and tiny monuments, paying them no attention. Underneath a shady tree near the back corner was her husband’s grave, the inscription easy to read thanks to the dedicated groundskeeper who worked to maintain the site, even when nobody visited.

Nathaniel James—Devoted Son, Husband, and Soldier

Madelyn swallowed back the flood of emotions that threatened to knock her down to her knees and released a shaky breath. “Hi honey.”

What? She shut her eyes tight, groaning at her own frustration. A year and a half, and all she could think to say was that? Instead of flowers, she fumbled with the most expensive bottle of whiskey she could find at the corner store and turned it in her hands, showing off the label as if he could see.

“I brought the good hooch,” she attempted to tease, but the words felt forced. Finally, with a defeated sigh, she slumped. “I—I don’t know how to do this.”

Tears prickled her vision and she gripped the bottle in one hand, reaching up with her other to wipe at her eyes. “I don’t know a lot of things. How to feel about you being gone, for starters. Guilty for the slightest bit of happiness? Sad and wallowing in self-pity? Nick doesn’t think so.”

A breeze shook the branches of the tree, startling her. She glanced around in the darkness before deciding to sit down on the ground, uncaring of the dirt and grass that would likely stain her dress—Codsworth would have words with her on laundry day. After some consideration, she unscrewed the bottle of whiskey and carefully poured a little out onto the ground in front of his headstone.

“Is Heaven a dry county?” she joked, smirking as the liquid disappeared into the earth. “They don’t teach such blasphemy in Catholic school.”

She took a sip straight from the bottle, wincing at the smooth burn as it travelled down her throat and radiated through her chest and gut. “Everybody always wants to offer unsolicited advice,” she lamented. “I know Nick means well, he always has. And maybe I shouldn’t give him such grief after—”

Madelyn broke off when she thought about her partner’s own, recent loss. “At least you and Jenny have each other now.”

The only sound—or response—were the rustling of the leaves in the oak tree. She sat in the quiet for a while, alternating between pouring more whiskey onto the ground and into her mouth until her skin felt tingly.

“All I know is—” she steadied herself as the tears clouded her vision again. “Damnit Nate, I miss you.”

“I have Nick, and Piper and—” her breath hitched, unable to prevent herself from crying. “I activated Codsworth. He’s such a sweetheart, for a robot with artificial intelligence. Worries so damn much. I—we—have a dog too,” she softly laughed, thinking off all the times she’d seen the Mister Handy walking Dogmeat outside her Cambridge apartment, much to the confusion and wonderment of her neighbors. “But I miss our house, I miss our life. Our plans. I miss dates at Shelly’s—they tore it down last summer—”

Madelyn stopped cold, realizing she’d gone on an emotional rant to an inanimate object, admitting more to empty air than she had to any living person. Remorse trickled through her mind as she realized there was one name she’d omitted, perhaps purposefully. She wasn’t lying about the way she felt—not in the slightest—but her feelings went beyond that of her late husband.

“I have more bad news,” she hushed, side-eyeing the grave like it could come to life and take his form at any moment. Maybe she’d taken too many sips of the whiskey. “I—I met someone. Maybe. Still trying to figure out the circumstances of our paths crossing. He might’ve stalked me. Might be stalking me now.”

She glanced up to the nearby church steeple window, looking for a looming shadow. “Despite the warning signs, and odds, and…cons list, I—”

Madelyn’s face felt warm, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. Why was she unable to admit how she felt, even though she’d made peace with the realization time and time again? Maybe it was the absurdity of expressing it aloud, to her deceased husband’s grave—I’m in love with somebody else.

“I’m a fool,” she sighed, tipping the whiskey bottle so more amber liquid spilt onto the ground. A little moved to dampen the edge of her dress, but she was beyond caring. “To want something after all the death and destruction—not to mention explosions—it’s new and exciting and terrifying.”

“And I’m still carrying around all this guilt and shame,” she tossed her head back, grimacing when her skull thumped the hard stone. “We’ve been busy with this case, but I’m afraid my apprehension is obvious. Even if I started it.”

“Was I always this stubborn?”

Madelyn shook her head. “Don’t—I know you can’t, but—don’t answer that.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she continued, quietly. “I don’t know why I finally decided to come see you. Like I said—I don’t know a lot right now, but I’m trying. Waiting for the next big break—though, I guess that’s already happened. Don’t suppose you can tell me if Nick and I are on the right track?”

Silence. Well—what did she expect?

“I need a sign,” she mumbled, gesturing to her surroundings. “Something a little louder than the wind in the trees. You know I’m not a fan of subtlety.”

Madelyn wasn’t sure if she was asking for divine intervention on the agency’s investigation, or for something else. Maybe both. Regardless, it didn’t hurt in asking for assistance from the other side. Unable to drink anymore, she capped the bottle of whiskey and tucked it safely against Nate’s gravestone, digging it into the soft dirt so it wouldn’t topple over so easily.

“There,�� she sighed. “Now you can get shitfaced with the apostles.”

A sad little smile pulled at her lips as she wondered if her husband would’ve found the joke in poor taste. Somebody else she knew would’ve laughed like she was Lenny Bruce performing in New York. She pushed away the thoughts of another man and the associated guilt that ensued, focusing as she ran her fingers across Nate’s engraved name.

“I love you,” she whispered, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “No matter what happens next.”

Madelyn didn’t linger for long, unsure if she wanted to know what could possibly occur in a cemetery after midnight. However, as she left the Concord graveyard and stood on the sidewalk to hail a cab, she couldn’t shake the sense that she was being watched. 

It was late when Madelyn managed to haul herself up the seven flights to her apartment door, the hallway quiet and dark save for one flickering, fluorescent light near the stairwell. She wondered, as she fished the keys from her purse, if her neighbors were fed up with her late-night escapades or were suspicious of her line of work. If they hadn’t seen the fruit of her labors plastered across the newspapers, she was sure they’d probably think of her as some kind of floozie. Maybe when the Shaun Perlman case was closed, and Kellogg was captured, she could settle down and return to practicing law at the District Attorney’s office downtown.

Laughter bubbled in her throat—first at the assumption there would be no more cases to solve, that the work would ever truly be gone. Second, that she’d ever leave the agency and Nick behind. Or anybody behind. To finally be part of something larger than oneself as she assisted not one, but two organizations—Nick’s partner with the agency by day, Deacon’s partner with the Railroad at night. Settle down? Never.

Deacon’s parting words at the office suddenly echoed in her mind and she turned on her heel to face Drummer Boy’s door. She hesitated before knocking, not wanting to disturb him at such an odd hour. But Railroad agents were habitual night-owls, and not a moment after tapping, the lock clicked open and she was greeted by a familiar, kind smile.

“Just checking in. Doctor’s orders,” she pursed her lips in thought. “Not Carrington, but—”

“Deacon called ahead,” he explained, cutting her off.

While Drummer Boy would never come out and interrogate her, the way he was eyeing her with one raised brow told her he’d been listening for her return. She liked having the Railroad agent nearby, but she didn’t need to be on surveillance—something she’d need to remind her partner of the next time she saw him. It was bad enough she had a Mister Handy unit that was likely ready to report her missing if she didn’t walk through the door in the next ten minutes. The last thing she needed was a babysitter.

“Late night?” he simply questioned.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she sighed, cutting him some slack—he was just doing his job. Madelyn’s head still felt dizzy from drinking all that whiskey at Nate’s grave, and exerting herself on so many stairs didn’t help the unsettling feeling in her stomach. Maybe some food would help. “Did you have dinner yet? Thursday…I’m sure Codsworth has some kind of casserole in the oven.”

“Rain check,” he grinned, even as he shook his head. She was remined that despite his duties to the underground organization, they had managed to form a good friendship. It was only natural, seeing as they were neighbors. “I’ve got a stack of dead drops to sort through and run to their next location before dawn.”

Madelyn didn’t take offense to his rejection, understanding that his Railroad obligations came first. “I’ll save a piece for you,” she said. “Well, if Dogmeat doesn’t lick the pan clean.”

The two shared a laugh before bidding each other goodnight. Keys in hand, she stepped through her door to find her apartment unusually dark. She tossed her purse and coat over the back of her couch and reached to turn on the lamp on the table, but even after a few tugs on the chord, no light shined through the bulb.

“Codsworth?” she called for the robot, and heard his buzzing from the hallway, but only Dogmeat came bounding out into the living room to greet her. “Hey boy, is the power out?”

She patted his head and looked around the room, trying to remember where she’d last stashed a flashlight or some candles. Curiosity filled her mind when she thought about the fact she’d seen light coming through Drummer Boy’s door—had she forgotten to pay her electric bill amid the chaos of recent investigations? Dogmeat barked, and Codsworth finally appeared from the hallway.

“Miss Madelyn, you’re finally home.”

She moved to meet him halfway near the kitchen island, ready to crack a self-depreciating joke about the circumstances when something shot through the nearby window, whizzing so fast in front of her that she barely had a chance to react or realize what it was—a bullet. A second shot caused the glass of the window to shatter and Madelyn was unable to hold back a frightened shriek. A third flew by, ricocheting off the kitchen counter and into Codsworth’s chassis. The Mister Handy didn’t seemed phased, brushing off the attack as he rambled off threating phrases to the phantom assailant, hovering closer towards the window.

In the next second, Drummer Boy burst through her front door, gun drawn. With quick strides he was at her side, colliding with her body as another bullet whistled by. They fell to the floor in a heap, Drummer Boy scooting them out of sight from the window and behind the kitchen counter to best of his abilities. Muted gunshots continued to echo through her apartment until finally—there was silence. Madelyn’s adrenaline continued to rush for a long while, and neither her or Drummer Boy dared to move, unsure if it was really safe. Judging by the way Codsworth was moving around the room, celebrating their survival, the coast was clear—for now.

It was only when she felt a dampness seeping against her chest that panic started to bloom and she thought to move—had she been injured? Her thoughts shifted as Drummer Boy flashed her a pained expression, breathing out through gritted teeth as he pulled away if only to collapse flat against the tiled floor.

“Robby?” Madelyn knelt over him, uncaring of Railroad protocol on codenames. Blood soaked through the side of his shirt where he’d obviously been shot. “Jesus, you’re—”

He shook his head and forced a smirk. “I’m fine.”

“Just a flesh wound,” he assured in a hushed tone.

Madelyn had a hard time believing it, considering the painful expression he was struggling to hide. He slowly gestured to her arm, and she realized she really had been injured—blood trickling down her arm from a tear in the shoulder of her dress. It was a small graze, as far as she could tell. Considering the wound could be worse—and that she’d suffered worse before—she wasn’t fazed. The shock would likely catch up to her later, as it typically did. All she cared about in that moment was finding out why she’d been shot at in her own home—who wanted her dead? Her sense of security was shattered, all over again.  

“On second thought,” Drummer Boy mumbled, catching her attention. Madelyn found his hand and gripped it tightly, listening as the sound of police sirens wailed outside the apartment building and filtered in through the busted window. At least somebody had the decency to call for help. Tears began their silent roll down her cheeks as she wondered, how much more harm would come to those she cared about?

He barely squeezed her fingers in return. “I’ll take that slice of casserole now.”

[ikesenhell]

IMAGINARY

IMAGINARY, CHAPTER 1. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here or become a Patron of mine! NOTES: Oh man, this is gonna be a wild one. I didn’t expect this to come up and snatch me, but it is. Let’s see how this goes. Bonus points if you can guess in the first chapter who the love interest[s] is/are!

She really needed to stop living in her head. That wasn’t a stretch. She spent so much time by herself that it felt like living on the brink of insanity. Any given second could dissolve into a dream. That was the kind of world she lived in--the kind where she spent more time alone than speaking to another.

Lonely was one thing. Alone was another.

Most of her meals passed in silence. She came home every day to an empty apartment. Dishes waited for her. Her bed went unmade. The little time she spent out and about was by herself. Sometimes her friend Ieyasu came by, but that was rare. He did enough himself, after all.

And it was taking its toll. There were nights where she laid awake and stared at the ceiling, willing it to open up and bring her somewhere else. All the stories she read as a child felt like a hollow mockery of her life. Where was Narnia? Where was Middle Earth? Where were the faries in the wood, or the genies in bottles, or the princesses in far away castles? Anything--anything at all, any trace of magic was welcome.

But there was nothing.

That was the reality of it. And reality crushed her.

Ieyasu shot her a long, penetrating stare one day, one of the few times they hung out together, and asked, “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” she responded, willing herself not to cry at just the inquiry. “Why do you ask?”

He opened his mouth, shut it again, and finally turned away with a shrug. “Pick your character. Time for me to kick your ass again.”

That night she curled up in a ball in bed and sobbed.

God! Who else would care? Maybe out there, somewhere, somewhere in the world, there was someone sweet who would. He would hold her in his arms and caress her hair and whisper kindly, and--

The bed creaked slightly. She paused mid-cry to absorb the shift of weight--and then there was a pair of arms around her. It wasn’t so heavy that it shocked. No. This was gentle, almost imperceptible, a ghost of something that she thought she remembered. It was like a dream.

“There, there,” the dream voice whispered, sweet and dear. Her whole body relaxed despite itself. “It’s okay. Just cry it out.”

“I’m sorry,” she managed breathlessly, “I don’t mean to cry like this--”

But the imaginary presence sighed gently and gave her another hug. “It’s okay. I’m here for you. That’s what friends are for, right?”

She reached back and patted a head of fine silver hair. He nuzzled her; she sighed and relaxed. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Mitsunari whispered back. She knew his name before she knew anything else. He was in her head, after all. “Any time at all.”

---

She almost didn't think about it again. It was a late night fantasy of not being alone. No doubt that was just the product of fatigue and loneliness. Right?

Right.

Except that odd things started happening.

She came home one day to find the shadow of a man passing through her kitchen, his full laugh echoing over the tiles before disappearing entirely. Someone rifled through her closet and picked out her clothes for the day. One night she had a dream of a man with white hair and an equally snowy duster cleaning a pair of pistols by her bedside, shooting her a wink with ghost-light eyes as she dozed off.

And then came the one she couldn’t deny.

She was puttering around the living room. Alone. Of course alone--always alone--and looking for the remote.

“Where did I put it?” She snapped, flinging a pillow to the side. “It’s just me. I’m an idiot. Gonna have to hire a private investigator just to find my things…”

“That would be a waste of your hard-earned nickels, don’t you think?”

That voice was too real to push away. She shrieked and flung a pillow at the man behind her--no, men. One of them started and drew a gun. Another smacked it away with a knife, a flurry of batting flying around the living room. The last and tallest man just laughed uproariously.

“Stop laughing,” snapped the one with the gun, holstering it immediately. He wore a suit that she couldn’t quite place, removing his fedora to reveal a fluff of reddish-brown hair. “It isn’t funny.”

“To the contrary, Yuki, I find it hilarious.”

“Of course you do,” the last man drawled, his winter’s breath voice matching the statuesque expression. “You would find this delightful, Mr. Takeda.”

Mr. Takeda shot her a wink, brushing his double breasted coat off his shoulders and taking a bow. All at once it hit her. These suits were vintage. She couldn’t place the year, but it certainly was from before the nineteen fifties. “Terribly sorry to bother you. My associates and I thought you needed a helping hand. You misplaced your remote?”

“What is a remote?” The blonde groused, but pattered around the living room anyway.

“Beats me,” the one named Yuki snipped. “What does it look like, Miss?”

“Yuki,” Mr. Takeda chided, “Be polite to the lady.”

Yuki grimaced and cast a blushing glance to the side. “What does it look like…. Ma’am.”

“Better.”

She sat, stone-stiff on the couch, utterly convinced she was having a mental breakdown. That is, until Mr. Takeda swept forward and took her hand in his. He was warm. “Shingen Takeda, PI, at your service. My associates, Kenshin Uesugi and Yukimura Sanada, are at your service.”

“Thanks,” she managed thickly. “Um, yeah. Uh. A remote is like, a black plastic thing…? It has buttons…”

“Black plastic,” Kenshin murmured, flipping a pillow with a scowl. “We’ve solved murders.”

“Shut it.” Yuki paused a second, bracing his hands on his hips. “Could you get up for us to check the couch?”

“I already checked it,” she answered without thinking, still too stunned to really gather herself. Still, she got up. “Uh, weird question, but what year is it?”

All three stared at her. Shingen doubled over with a laugh, clutching at his stomach until the sound transformed into harsh wheezing. Yuki blanched, taking a few steps towards his associate. The other man waved him off.

“Nineteen twenty-three,” Kenshin announced. “Why?”

Her stomach dropped. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t be a dummy,” Yuki chided.

“Yuki! You don’t speak to a lady like that.” Shingen composed himself once more. “Yes, why do you ask?”

“I--” What was she supposed to say? Had they materialized from somewhere else? Were they time travelers? What was happening? “Nothing. So, the remote?”

Kenshin flipped part of the rug back and found it there. Without ceremony, he tossed it in her direction. Mercifully she caught it. “Is that what you were looking for?”

“It is! Thanks!”

But--she blinked, and the second she looked back up, they were all gone.

---

“So.” She took a taste of pizza, realized it was too hot, waved frantically at her mouth and set the lava-hot piece down. “I had a weird hallucination the other day.”

Ieyasu shot his friend a questioning stare. “Hallucination?”

“Pretty sure.” She laughed. “I hallucinated three men in my living room from nineteen twenty-three. You know, hardboiled detective types.”

He lifted a brow. “Ahuh.”

“Yeah. It was really weird. They helped me find my remote.”

His other brow rose to match. “They helped you find your remote.”

“I promise it’s not as crazy as it sounds.”

He just eyed her doubtfully. “I’ll take your word on that one.”

---

The next time, a man toppled into her bedroom as she lay there with a book, wishing someone would join her. She screamed and flung the tome at him. It bounced off his head.

“Ah!” He swatted it away, his blue eyes--no, eye--flashing. “Sorry, sorry, terribly sorry--may I hide in here?”

“What?”

“Thank you!” The man leaped up, all the fine silks of his clothes glimmering in the lamplight as he shot her a grin. “I am indebted to you.”

“Who--?” But she already knew. Masamune Date, Prince of the Northern Territories. How did she know that? He was on the run from his family, who wanted him to marry before his time…

He rolled under her bed.

“Get out from under there!” She hopped off the mattress, yanking her underwear drawer out. “Jesus, I--you don’t have to be in there, I swear no one is going to find you here--”

He peered out, holding aloft a lace bra for her with a wink. “Are you quite sure?”

She snatched it away from him with burning cheeks. “Yes. Come on. You’re a figment of my imagination, I’m not going to imagine them finding you here.”

“Oh? A figment? You’ve got quite the imagination, then.” But he didn't challenge her further. Instead he rolled out from under the bed and dusted himself off, brushing back his brown hair and giving her another killer grin. “What else will you imagine me doing?”

“Here.” She shoved a book into his arms. “You can read that.”

He looked almost disappointed until he read the cover. “Cooking Around the Globe?”

“It seems your kind of thing.” How did she know that? But he gave her another fetching grin and all her questions dissolved.

“It is,” he assured her. “It’s quite my thing. I’ll be very entertained with this.”

She didn't question it after that. Instead she settled back into bed and he draped himself over the edge. By bedtime, she glanced up and he was gone, only the indent of his elbows to mark he was ever there to begin with.

With a sigh, she turned and shut off the lights. If she were hallucinating, at least it was proving interesting.

[bitchxwritings-blog]

I was wondering if I could get a Noir x reader one shot where the reader was hurt by an ex boyfriend and Noir doesn't know and wonders why she doesn't trust him. Thanks!

TITLE: I Was Made for Loving You

WORD COUNT: 634

WARNINGS: Abuse (mentioned)

This is my first time writing so sorry if it’s trash

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

All the Spiders were gathered at Aunt May’s house, each of them in the living room, trying to decide what to do next. You however distanced yourself from the group, and were sitting alone in the kitchen thinking.

You quite liked the one who was wearing all black, he seemed quiet and reserved. But you knew you couldn’t let yourself get close to him, he would hurt you just like the rest. Were there any good men left?

Back in the living room, Noir turned to look at you in the kitchen. You looked so lonely in there to him, he understands what that feeling is like. He gets up from his seat on the couch and makes his way to where you are seated and looking out the window.

He removes his hat from his head and places it to his chest, “I couldn’t help but notice that you were all alone in here… I was wondering if you’d perhaps like my company?’ He asked kindly as he placed his free hand on your shoulder.

“No thanks, I like being alone.” You said as you hauled the chair back, almost slamming it into Noir. He watched as you quickly exited the kitchen and walked outside, slamming the door on your way out.

“Woah man, what did you do to piss her off?” Peter B. asked with a puzzled look on his face. Noir simply shrugged his shoulders.

Half an hour passed before Aunt May spoke up, “Maybe you should go outside and try again with her, there’s much you don’t know”. Noir stood up, straightened his coat, and started towards the door.

You heard him walking up behind you before he even spoke. “I’m sorry if I upset you earlier.” You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes fixed on what was in front of you. “It’s fine.” You stated coldly.

“Can I ask something, and I apologize if it comes off as rude, but, why are you acting like this to me? I was trying to be nice and keep you company but you seemed to get in a twist when I did.” He asked in annoyance.

“Ok, you really want to know why?” You turned to face him with tears in your eyes, “When you touched me I remembered all the bad things that men have done to me! You happy now?” You screamed at him.

At first he stood there, unmoving, not saying a word. You huffed and turned back around.

“I- I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” Noir said as his voice shook, “May I?” He asked as you turned around to see him reaching out for your hand, and you hesitantly allowed him to hold it. He looked you in the eyes through his mask, “No woman deserves to have that happen, anyone would be so lucky to have someone so kind and beautiful.” Your cheeks began to turn a bright pink and you couldn’t find the words to process your emotions.

You were choking on your words, “I should apologize too, I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You didn’t know.” You said apologetically, more tears welling in your eyes. Noir lifted his hand to wipe the tears from your eyes, “I would never do that to any woman, especially you.” He confessed to you.

You could feel your heart dance in your chest as your face kept reddening.

He removed his fedora again, “Would you want to go on a date and get some egg creams sometime? I’d love to show you that there are still gentlemen out there.”

“I would love that, thank you. Why don’t we go back inside? It’s a little cold out here.” You laughed. Noir nodded in response, and gave you his coat while you both walked back to the door.

[meetmeatthecoda]

Grifting with the Enemy: Chapter 4

Hey all! :D Here is the next chapter of GWTE! I know, I know, it’s been 84 years. I’m hoping there’s still some interest in this fic! In the coming days, I will splitting my writing time between this and Amethyst, which is Part 2 of Facets containing all my soulmate and AU prompts. Super pumped :) That said, this is a bit of a return to writing for me since it’s been a while since a substantial update cause of real life and it’s CERTAINLY been a while for an update on this fic, in particular. So, as usual, I would love any feedback you can give me, especially concerning continuity with previous chapters, flow, and pacing. I’m hoping I picked it up okay but, as always, I await your responses with baited breath :)) Anyhoo, please enjoy if you can and this will also be posted, as well as the previous 3 chapters, on my FF.net and AO3 profiles! :D Thanks guys! :) Much love! <3 

Liz walks into the restaurant, standing on her toes as she scans the room for Red. She sees many diners, all dressed in casual, mid-day finery, and paying her no mind. Liz purses her lips. Only Red would invite her to a restaurant like this knowing full well that she would be wearing a leather jacket and a blue beanie.

Typical.

Red had left a day in between their last meeting before calling again – Liz tried to ignore how happy she was that he didn’t wait a full three days like the last time – and inviting her to lunch to discuss the heist. In a public restaurant. In broad daylight.

Unbelievable.

She had assumed that he had reserved the whole stuffy restaurant or something ridiculous for the sake of privacy (that was something rich people did, right?), thinking there was no way he would discuss secret illegal plans surrounded by potentially eavesdropping diners.

She was wrong.

He apparently didn’t think anyone would care enough to listen to their heist plans or, if they did, he obviously didn’t care enough to do anything about it. He was happy to sit and enjoy what will probably be a delicious lunch – if the small portions and pristine table cloths are anything to go by – out in the open, where anyone can see him.

Except Liz, apparently.

She continues to crane her neck, struggling to find him in the busy restaurant. She sees the host spot her and start to make his way over to seat her. Great. She was hoping to slink in unnoticed, feeling very out of place in her current attire, every inch the careless, fresh-out-of-college, youth she pretended to be. She doesn’t even know what name Red gave when reserving his table and it could be anything. If she could just catch a glimpse of him –

“Hello, can I help you?”

The host interrupts her desperate search, looking at her with undisguised interest. Hm. Well, at least he’s not snobbish and rude. He is cute, after all, despite being several years younger than her, probably actually fresh out of college, as opposed to her. Oh well. Perhaps he can help.

“Um, maybe, I’m looking for a, well, he’s a, uh, he –”

But Liz is saved from struggling to describe the walking enigma that is Raymond Reddington by the sight of a fedora perched on a hat stand near the back of the restaurant. She swears it wasn’t there a second ago but, if it was, it’s no wonder she didn’t see it. He must have secured a private table if he’s all the way back there. She can’t see him but there’s no mistaking that hat, probably worth more than her monthly rent costs.

The host is still watching her hesitantly.

“Oh, never mind, I see him,” she says kindly, relieved, and flashes the young man a smile which seems to dazzle him a little. “I’ll just go and join him.”

She leaves the stuttering waiter behind, catching a quiet little “oh, okay” before she saunters out of earshot, not sorry to be going. He is sweet but much too young for her, even if an on-looker wouldn’t be able to tell. Besides, she’s not interested in a boy.

She is having lunch with a man.

(Oh, bad, Liz, bad thought.)

Liz weaves her way carefully through the tables, minding the messenger bag slung across her chest, catching a few stares from elegantly dressed man and woman with her bright blue beanie and wide rimmed glasses, as expected, before she finally rounds the corner to a table situated out of the way in a little alcove. It is still within sight and earshot of a few tables, all of which are suspiciously empty. Perhaps reserving the whole restaurant wasn’t such a far-fetched assumption, after all.

“Lizzie!”

His warm, welcoming voice washes over her, as it always does, making her feel much less out of place than she did in the open dining area. Amazing.

He sits in a fancy chair at the beautifully laid table, looking just like all the other elegant, rich diners in the outer area. She sighs.

(He’s so out of her league.)

There are only two places at the small table, all the dishes empty, save two goblets of water at each place. Both glasses contain the same amount, however, meaning that Red waited for her to arrive before eating or drinking. Somehow, she’s not surprised. He is an unfailingly polite criminal. She smothers a smile.

“Hi, Red,” she says happily, slinging her bag over the back of the vacant chair across from him. “Where’s Dembe today? Won’t he be joining us?”

Red smiles easily at her, taking a moment to watch her remove her beanie, stuff it a little self-consciously in her bag, and smooth a hand over her ponytail before answering.

“Dembe is rather a connoisseur of fine foods and he enjoys watching professionals at work. He’s in the kitchen observing.”

Liz raises her eyebrows, surprised and skeptical. She thinks it’s more likely that Dembe is watching over Red’s meal at all stages to make sure no one slips anything in it. That fits with her current profile of Red, appearing completely at ease while really going to all lengths to assuage his paranoia. Poor Dembe, being quarantined to the kitchen to watch his boss’s food, how unfair –

“I know what you’re thinking, Lizzie, and it’s nothing like that. Dembe is quite an enthusiastic chef. You should try his dishes, they’re exquisite. His mushroom ravioli with sun dried tomatoes and white wine sauce is to die for. And don’t even get me started on his desserts.”

Liz smiles, amused by Red’s gushing over Dembe. Perhaps their relationship is something deeper than it appears at first glance. She’ll be sure to observe them more closely from now on.

“I see. So, he is a willing student of the kitchen, is he?” she questions, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Very much so,” Red says happily. “I’ll tell him you were worried for him though, he’ll be touched. If you’re lucky, he may even make you his famous crème bruleé as a thank you.”

“Good, is it?”

“Positively indulgent,” Red hums, his voice deep and his eyes dark. Liz stares back at him, entranced. The air warms between them.

(Liz suddenly wonders what would happen if she took advantage of their seclusion at this private table, out of sight, alone, together –)

And then a male waiter materializes out of thin air – luckily a different young man than the one Liz talked to before – and the heated staring contest between Red and Liz comes to an abrupt end. Liz can’t help but feel both relieved and disappointed.

She reaches for her water goblet and takes a fortifying gulp.

“Are you and the young lady ready to order, Mr. Kershaw?” the man asks professionally, completely unaware of what he just interrupted. “Would you perhaps like some wine to get you started?”

“Yes, please, Walter,” Red says smoothly, turning away from Liz to address the waiter he is obviously familiar with. “I think we’ll share a bottle of ’76 Merlot, if that’s all right with you, of course, Lizzie?”

Liz, who hasn’t even glanced at the beautiful menu covered with curly writing, nods easily. “Sure, I’ll have a glass.”

“Very good, ma’am,” the waiter nods and disappears again.

Liz sighs, turning to the menu, on the hunt for something that looks good. She doesn’t even know where to begin. But she certainly doesn’t want to admit it to Red.

“If I may, Lizzie, I would recommend the chicken marsala with roasted potatoes and red wine sauce. It’s delicious, easily my favorite thing on the menu.”

Well. That sounds lovely. How convenient. But she doesn’t want to admit that either.

“Hmmm,” she hums noncommittally. “Thank you for the suggestion. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Liz pretends to read the rest of the menu thoroughly, already having settled on the chicken marsala. Then she thinks of a way to tease him more. She can’t resist.

“Red wine sauce, you said?”

“Yes. Why, are you not a fan of wine?”

“Oh, no, certainly, I am. I love a good glass of red before bed just as much as the next girl,” Liz smirks at him over the rim of her glasses. “I’m just sensing a theme with your suggestions here, Red. Not trying to get me drunk, are you?”

Red only grins at her, his eyes sparkling. “Perhaps I am,” he murmurs.

Another moment starts to grow between them but is quickly stopped once again by the return of their waiter with their ordered bottle of wine. Liz is starting to feel a distinct distaste for this poor server and his timing. But then he pours her a generous glass of wine and she feels a little more friendly.

“Are you perhaps ready to order?”

“Lizzie?”

“Yes, I am. But you first, please.”

“Of course,” Red agrees easily, wasting no time in ordering his preferred chicken dish.

The waiter simply nods, making no move to write the order down. Liz tries not to be impressed by that. This order will probably be the least complicated thing he serves all day. He turns to look at her expectantly.

“And I’ll have the same, please,” Liz says politely. The waiter just nods again before taking their menus and moving off.

“Well, well. You took my advice, after all,” Red says to her slyly, regaining her attention effortlessly.

“Well, you know, there’s a first time for everything,” Liz says cheekily, reaching for her wine glass.

Red smirks at her, picking up his own glass and clinking it gently with hers before she can bring it to her mouth. “Indeed,” he purrs, holding her eyes as he takes a sip from his glass.

She blushes.

(Oh, my.)

“Well, I was under the impression this was a working lunch. Am I mistaken?” Liz prompts after another long moment, struggling to break Red’s gaze long enough to form coherent words.

Red continues to stare at her for a second even after she looks away. She can feel his gaze on her, a warm, drugging thing, before he nods to himself and slips into his businessman persona.

(Liz can see the change in him easily, another person sliding into place as if a switch has been flipped.)

“No, you’re absolutely right. A working lunch it is,” Red confirms, straightening in his chair. “Details are coming together well for the heist.”

“Excellent,” Liz murmurs. “Any chance you want to fill me in on those details? I’m used to running solo on gigs like this. I feel quite left in the dark.”

“I’m sorry, Lizzie, that’s not at all my intention,” Red frowns, leaning forward to convey his sincerity. “It’s only logistical things that I’ve been organizing. I invited you to lunch today for the very purpose of filling you in.”

“Oh, good,” Liz says easily. She doesn’t feel any animosity towards Red for the lack of information. She believes him when he says he was intending to tell her. She just wants to prod him along a little, with the heist date drawing closer every day. “So, what do I need to know?”

Red gives her a little smile of thanks for understanding and takes another sip of wine before answering her.

“We’ll rob AM&R Bank at two o’clock in the afternoon on September the twentieth.”

Liz almost chokes on her mouthful of wine.

“What? We’re robbing one of the most secure banks in D.C. in broad daylight? Are you crazy?”

“Quite possibly,” Red grins at her a little madly. “But this is a perfectly sane decision, I assure you, Lizzie.”

Liz puts down her glass and pushes it far away from her. Perhaps drinking wine at a working lunch with Raymond Reddington is not a good idea.

She crosses her arms. “Care to elaborate?” she asks primly.

“With pleasure,” Red answers happily. “As demonstrated beautifully by your response, the best time to commit any crime is when the ones who would stop you least expect it. This is especially true with a robbery. If the guards aren’t expecting a break-in, they won’t see one. The human mind is a remarkable thing, as I’m sure you’re aware, Lizzie.”

Liz purses her lips, mulling over his logic and the obvious reference to her psychology background. She has to admit he has a point. But that doesn’t mean she agrees with him.

“All right,” she says a little tersely.

Red frowns slightly. “You don’t sound completely on board.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Liz answers simply. “I admit that your logic is sound but only in theory. In reality, it simply can’t hold up.”

“And why is that?” Red challenges, seeming intrigued by her defiance and genuinely interested in her opinion.

Liz stares at him evenly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my studies of the human mind, it’s that people rarely do as they’re expected. There’s so many random variables that you’re not taking into account in this situation.”

“Like what?” he asks immediately, an odd sparkle in his eyes that pulls Liz forward in her seat, leaning towards him and lowering her voice into something more intimate.

“What if the guard on duty decides to have an extra espresso shot in his coffee that morning, making him more observant and on edge than he usually is? What if one of the cameras needs unscheduled maintenance and it’s left tilted two inches further to the left than you originally anticipated, at the perfect angle to catch our faces? What if Amos Rodfield himself decides to show up and inspect his bank that day and we’re caught? There are simply too many unknowns.”

Red nods seriously, leaning forward to match her posture, placing his forearms on the table, and looks earnestly into her eyes. “Absolutely. We need to be able to control as many factors in this situation as possible if we are to be successful in our operation.”

Liz nods, pleased. Good, she’s convinced him to see her side of things, excellent, perhaps now he’ll –

“Which is why I’ve planted a guard to be on duty that afternoon, a most trusted friend named Amilo, who, as it happens, abhors coffee. I’ll have one of my own men check the cameras and install fake feeds during the morning shift to avoid any unexpected technological mishaps. And, as far as Amos goes, I know his schedule. He’ll be on vacation with his young girlfriend Bridget in the Bahamas on the day of the heist.”

Liz blinks.

Oh.

“Do you agree with me now, Lizzie?” Red asks, a slight taunt in his voice as he leans closer conspiratorially, a dark twinkle in his eyes.

Liz stares back at him for a moment, mouth agape, entranced and in wonder at his brilliant mind, before looking down at her empty plate with a huffed little laugh. Impressive. But she can’t let him off the hook that easily.

“No,” she murmurs, looking up to catch his expression.

She sees his self-assured grin slips in an instant, the corners of his mouth pulling down in an unexpected frown.

How satisfying.

“You can only control so many factors, Red. And as impressive as all those things are, committing a robbery in the middle of the day is still a large and unnecessary risk.”

They stare at each other in silence, both sets of eyes flicking back and forth to watch the other.

(There is no anger or resentment between them, only good-natured tension and excitement, a friendly debate to see who wins. Liz loves the feeling.)

“But,” Liz suddenly breaks the silence with a careless shrug, moving abruptly to sit back in her seat, secretly lamenting the new distance between them. “It’s your heist, Red. So, I’ll show up whatever time you tell me to.”

She grins teasingly at him. She wants to make it clear that there are no hard feelings between them, at least not on her end.

Red seems to get the message, returning her smile after a searching look and a slow nod, easing back in his seat to copy her posture.

“That’s good to know,” he murmurs finally. “And, while I accept your reasons for thinking otherwise, I’d still like to perform the heist during the day.”

“All right,” Liz says easily, taking a sip of wine.

(She was right to save it. She needed her wits about her for that round.)

Red follows her lead, sipping his wine as well, observing her as he does so.

“So, you would never perform a heist during the day?” he asks, the teasing back in his voice, happy that they got through a mild disagreement without serious complications.

“Well,” Liz lilts, unable to resist playing with him a little. “Not by choice, no.”

“And why is that?”

“I’ve found that I always perform best at night.”

She looks up at him coyly, making her innuendo clear, pleased to see his lips quirk and his gaze darken as he looks at her.

“Oh, I have no doubt,” he rumbles.

Liz lets out a breathy laugh and they watch each other in rapt fascination until suddenly their waiter reappears with their identical lunches.

(And she is sure that in that moment they were both contemplating a “night performance” and the thought alone heats her cheeks.)

Red turns to their waiter, making a show out of thanking him for the quick service, using no shortage of flattery as he does so. Liz, grateful for the personal moment, takes a deep breath and attempts to steady her heart rate. Who knew lunch with Raymond Reddington could be this exhilarating?

(Oh, but she is enjoying herself.)

Liz looks back up as the waiter moves off again, feeling a little more in control and ready to tackle whatever disarming looks Red may choose to throw at her next.

(And perhaps throw some of her own. She can’t let him have all the fun.)

“This smells amazing,” Liz says. And it’s true. The chicken looks perfectly done with just the right amount of sauce. Her stomach grumbles. She suddenly remembers that she’s only had some buttered toast to eat today and that was this morning.

Red smiles at her. “I hope you enjoy it,” he tells her sincerely, picking up his wine glass and holding it towards her. “Cheers.”

Liz quickly picks up her glass to clink it against his once again. “Cheers.”

They dig in, Liz starting with her potatoes and Red going right for the chicken, cutting it up into neat pieces before delicately dipping it in the sauce.

(He is a methodical eater, Liz notices, much like herself, further reinforcing her suspicion that they have similar minds, detail-oriented and organized. The thought that they have things in common thrills her.)

They eat in silence for a few comfortable minutes before Red speaks.

“So, Lizzie,” he begins.

Liz looks up from her half-empty plate with her eyebrows raised politely.

“Yes?”

“Now that work is out of the way for now, should we indulge in some pleasant meal-time conversation?”

“Certainly, if you like,” answers Liz with a grin, amused by his playfully formal attitude. “Or, we could continue to sit in companionable silence until it gets unbearably awkward from lack of speech and one of us excuses themselves to the bathroom in a desperate attempt to get away.”

Red chuckles warmly at her. “Yes, we could also do that, although I must admit I would prefer the former.”

Liz smiles back at him. “Yes, I would as well.”

(She can’t imagine even a hint of awkwardness permeating the air between them. She just suggested it to be funny. Red is simply too comfortable to be awkward. Too suave and confident and handsome –)

“So, what should we talk about?” asks Liz, out of both genuine curiosity and an effort to halt that line of thought in its tracks.

Red takes a moment to drink his wine, swishing the liquid around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, clearly pondering her question. Then, having come to a decision, he looks up at her suddenly, his gaze direct and piercing.

“I’d like to talk about you.”

Liz blinks in surprise, her fork, chicken and all, stopping halfway to her mouth. “Me?”

Red’s mouth twitches. “Yes, Lizzie. You.”

Liz puts her fork down and takes a drink before answering, a little confused. “I’m not sure what there is to talk about that you don’t already know. I’m a professional grifter. I pick locks and do brush passes and steal things. That’s about it.”

“Those are your professional qualifications, Lizzie. I know all about those. I’m talking about more personal things.”

Liz frowns. “Personal things? Are you telling me you didn’t already have your henchman look up everything little thing about me?”

This time, Red’s eye twitches instead of his mouth. Hit. “Intel, for the purposes of the heist, mind you, only tell me so much,” Red murmurs. “I want to know more about you, Lizzie, as a person, not as a grifter, impressive though that side of you may be.”

“Oh,” Liz murmurs, feeling a little touched that Red would even be interested in her that way.

(She tries to tamp down the little flutters in her stomach at words “Red” and “interested in her”.)

“Well,” she says, feeling more at ease now. “What would you like to know?”

Red smiles a kind smile, his eyes warm and attentive. “Where did you grow up?” he asks softly.

Liz smiles back. “Nebraska.”

And it goes on from there, Red asking questions and Liz providing answers, opening up more as time passes. Red is an active participant, making it a true conversation, adding comments or occasionally sharing a related story of his own.

(He is a fantastic storyteller, engaging but not overpowering, and she thinks that she could listen to him all day, would like to, in fact. But, for some reason, he’s more interested in her right now and that creates a different but equally pleasant feeling inside her.)

Liz does most of the talking, the rest of her meal going cold on her plate while Red picks a little more at his own before abandoning it completely to give her his full attention. And Liz doesn’t mind not finishing her plate; she was getting full anyway and she can have the leftovers for dinner tonight.

(And the fact that Red values what she’s saying over their delicious lunch of chicken marsala – and he was right, it is fabulous – speaks volumes to her.)

Liz isn’t sure how long they talk but she knows she never wants it to end. She’s never enjoyed talking about herself very much but with Red, she doesn’t feel like something on display to be picked at and dissected, like she does with most people. She can feel his attention on her but it is polite and courteous and interested, a warm, flattering thing. It doesn’t suffocate her or pressure her like other people’s eyes do and instead gives her just the right amount of welcome to feel safe.

(It’s a lovely feeling.)

Liz isn’t sure how long they would have sat there talking and sharing and laughing if Dembe had not suddenly appeared by Red’s elbow, staring at him meaningfully until Red finished his current story (which left Liz holding a stitch in her side from laughing so hard) and managed to tear his openly adoring gaze from her.

“Yes, Dembe?”

“We must leave now if you are to make your three o’clock meeting, Raymond,” Dembe says quietly.

Liz’s mouth falls open in shock and she quickly turns to root around in her bag for her phone, needing to see the time for herself. She manages to extract it with minimal struggle and unlocks the screen. Dembe is right, of course. It is half past two. Her and Red have been eating and talking for just over two hours.

(Time flies when you’re…well.)

Red nods, gently dismissing Dembe, and takes a moment to shift back into his business man persona. Liz watches quietly, lamenting the return of Raymond Reddington and the departure of Red.

He turns to look at her. “Well, Lizzie, I’m truly sorry to say it but I do have to be going.”

“That’s all right,” Liz says, trying not to let disappointment bleed into her voice. “I didn’t realize how long it’s been. I can’t expect to steal any more of your time.”

Red shakes his head at her. “You of all people should know, Lizzie. The word ‘theft’ implies that you took something I wasn’t offering. And that was certainly not the case.”

Liz blushes lightly at his words, feeling quite light-headed at the clear insinuation.

(And perhaps it’s best that they part ways now; she’s not sure how much more overt flirting she can take without breaking out into childish giggles. How much wine has she had anyway?)

Red raises a hand to signal their waiter, who was apparently waiting nearby, unnoticed by Liz, and he hurries towards the table.

“Yes, Mr. Kershaw?”

“Walter, could we have the rest of the young lady’s meal to go, please?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Kershaw. I’ll be right back, sir.”

Red thanks the waiter who, to Liz’s surprise, whisks her plate out from in front of her and takes it away. Well, the service in this restaurant is certainly something. At the eateries Liz frequents, they usually just toss a flimsy box in her general direction. What a change.

Liz takes a breath. “Thank you for such a lovely afternoon, Red. The meal was delicious and the company was…better.” She smiles at him, trying to make her feelings clear.

“You’re very welcome, Lizzie. I assure you it was my pleasure. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

(And Liz thinks she might hear a bit of a tremble in Red’s voice as he says this, just a hint of uncertainty. It’s so unfounded that it’s almost laughable.)

“Oh, I think so, yes,” she says with a kind smile.

He smiles back at her gratefully and they just look at one another until the waiter re-appears, placing a small take-out bag on the table in front of her. She thanks him profusely and, once he’s gone, finally moves to stand. Red follows suit.

“Well, I expect I’ll be hearing from you?” Liz inquires cheerfully.

“Oh, yes,” Red hums, looking into her eyes. “I’ll give you a call.”

“Excellent,” chirps Liz, finding it hard to pull her gaze – and body – away from Red and his magnetic presence.

(Well, she has to leave sometime, doesn’t she?)

“I’ll talk to you soon then,” she says happily, and he simply nods at her. She turns to leave.

Liz makes her way back to the front of the restaurant, weaving through the tables in same way she came in. The only difference is that this time, she can feel Red’s eyes on her back until the door closes behind her.

Liz kicks the door of her apartment shut with a sigh, heading right for the kitchen to drop her bag of leftovers off in the fridge. As it happens, she’s not hungry, even after a full day of errands and shopping after leaving Red at the restaurant. It’s early evening now and she can always eat later.

She turns on some lights as she makes her way through her apartment, growing dim in the evening light, and tosses her bag on its usual chair, somehow managing not to stub her toe on any furniture as she goes. Amazing.

Liz enters the kitchen and sets the bag of leftovers on the counter, reaching in and feeling around for what should be a small box of chicken marsala, only to be confronted with what feels distinctly like two boxes.

She frowns.

Liz pulls out both boxes and sets them on the counter, squinting at them in confusion. After a moment’s deliberation, she opens the box on the left to reveal her entrée. So, then what is in the other box? Did the waiter perhaps give her Red’s leftovers as well? No, Red’s plate was still on the table when she left. So, what –

She carefully opens the mystery box and gasps aloud. A huge slice of tiramisu sits there, looking absolutely delicious. The scent of coffee meets her nose seconds later and her mouth waters. Liz loves tiramisu. How did Red –

Ring, ring.

Liz jumps, a little startled, and goes running for her discarded bag, her phone’s muffled ring tone luckily still audible from inside. After a brief struggle involving her car keys, a pair of earbuds, and her lockpicks, Liz finally manages to extract her phone and glance at the screen before pressing accept.

Unknown.

Her heart flips in her chest.

“Hello?”

“Lizzie.”

“Red,” she breathes, not realizing how she sighs his name until she’s already done it.

“Is this a good time?”

Liz can’t help but smile. Polite criminal. “Yes, perfect actually, I just got home.”

“Wonderful,” Red says and she’s sure she can hear a smile in his voice. “Did you, uh, get a chance to get settled?”

“If you mean look in my bag of leftovers and find the tiramisu, then yes, I did,” Liz can’t help but get straight to the point.

“Ah, yes, that’s rather what I meant,” he sounds a little hesitant, though Liz can’t imagine why. “Did you, uh, are you, well, do you –”

It takes a second for Liz to understand what he’s trying to ask. “Oh, yes, I love tiramisu!” she hurries to reassure him. “Yes, I could hardly believe it, it’s my favorite, how did you do it?”

Red gives a relieved chuckle, so deep she thinks that her phone might have warmed a little in her hand. “It was just a lucky guess. I know you’re a fan of coffee, at least in the morning, since I had some with you in your apartment last week, so I figured it was a safe bet that you’d like tiramisu. And I just slipped a note to Walter when you weren’t looking, that’s all. I’m surprised you didn’t catch me, to be honest.”

“So am I,” murmurs Liz, truly impressed that Red managed to perform what was basically a brush pass right in front of her without her noticing. “Well, thank you very much, I can’t wait to dig in.”

“You’re very welcome, Lizzie, and I’ll let you get to it in just a moment. I was just calling to see if you’d like to practice a little tomorrow.”

Liz frowns to herself. “Practice?”

“Yes, for the heist,” he answers, excitement now clear in his voice. “I was just thinking it might be a good idea to see how we work together under pressure before the big day. Just to be safe, you know.”

Liz has to admit it’s a good idea. She hasn’t done too many joint gigs – since she definitely prefers to work alone – but with the few partners she’s had, it’s never quite worked out.

(She has a funny feeling that Red is different though. In more ways than one.)

But, it can’t hurt to practice, as Red says.

“All right,” she agrees eagerly. “Do you have anywhere specific in mind?”

“Not really,” he says idly. “I figured I’d get your opinion on that since you’re no doubt more experienced in the field than I am. Of course, we could always meet at outside your apartment and wander until we find an appropriate location to steal a little something. Or is that too spur-of-the-moment for you?”

He sounds genuinely concerned that this won’t be to her liking, apparently oblivious to the fact that that’s exactly the sort of thing Liz had so much fun doing with her friends in high school. Besides, what better way to test themselves as a team than not planning a thing, all the while knowing that the actual heist will be planned down to the last detail?

“No, no, that’s fine,” Liz assures him. “Spontaneous crime is my favorite kind of crime, as it happens, however did you guess?” she quirks her mouth up in a teasing grin even though he can’t see her.

“I seem to be on a winning streak today,” he hums.

Liz presses her phone close to her ear. “One could almost say you’re getting lucky.”

Red’s delighted chuckle at her innuendo fills her whole body and she laughs breathily along with him.

“One can only hope,” he murmurs, making her smirk. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” Liz says, happy at the prospect of seeing him again so soon. “Does nine-ish sound okay?”

“It’s a date,” he murmurs.

“Excellent,” she hums. “I’ll see you then.”

“Good night, Lizzie. Enjoy your dessert.”

“Good night, Red, and thank you again.”

Liz hangs up, breathless and tingly, and does nothing but stand stupidly in her kitchen for a second, a ridiculous grin on her face.

Oh, Red.

Then she gets another whiff of the tiramisu and snaps out of it, turning to grab a fork from the drawer next to the sink. She wastes no more time digging into the tiramisu, spearing a generous forkful and putting it in her mouth, closing her eyes with a tiny moan as the coffee flavor explodes on her tongue. As she swallows, already helping herself to another bite, she catches herself having the oddest thought.

She wishes Red was here to share dessert with her.

Oh.

Oh, she’s got it bad.

[huntertower676]

Make Docker Run Without Sudo

The Docker daemon binds to a Unix socket instead of a TCP port. By default that Unix socket is owned by the user root and other users can only access it using sudo. The Docker daemon always runs as the root user. If you don’t want to preface the docker command with sudo, create a Unix group called docker and add users to it. I did find one solution that requires third party software. The software AlwaysUp allows Docker to run at startup without the need to login. I followed the instructions, except rather than Docker Tools as the executable to run, I pointed to reference dockerd.exe. Restarted the server, and sure enough I can now connect to my remote daemon.

Make Docker Run Without Sudo Command

Make Docker Run Without Sudo File

Sudo docker run hello-world. Ubuntu Utopic 14.10 and 15.05 exist in Docker’s apt repository without official support. Upgrade to 15.10 or preferably 16.04. A container is an executable unit of software where an application and its run time dependencies can all be packaged together into one entity. Since everything needed by the application is packaged with the application itself, containers provide a degree of isolation from the host and make it easy to deploy and install the application without having to worry about the host environment.

Table of Contents

Alternate installation methods

Certbot-Auto

Certbot is meant to be run directly on a web server, normally by a system administrator. In most cases, running Certbot on your personal computer is not a useful option. The instructions below relate to installing and running Certbot on a server.

System administrators can use Certbot directly to request certificates; they should not allow unprivileged users to run arbitrary Certbot commands as root, because Certbot allows its user to specify arbitrary file locations and run arbitrary scripts.

Certbot is packaged for many common operating systems and web servers. Check whethercertbot (or letsencrypt) is packaged for your web server’s OS by visitingcertbot.eff.org, where you will also find the correct installation instructions foryour system.

Note

Unless you have very specific requirements, we kindly suggest that you use the installation instructions for your system found at certbot.eff.org.

Certbot currently requires Python 2.7 or 3.6+ running on a UNIX-like operatingsystem. By default, it requires root access in order to write to/etc/letsencrypt, /var/log/letsencrypt, /var/lib/letsencrypt; tobind to port 80 (if you use the standalone plugin) and to read andmodify webserver configurations (if you use the apache or nginxplugins). If none of these apply to you, it is theoretically possible to runwithout root privileges, but for most users who want to avoid running an ACMEclient as root, either letsencrypt-nosudo or simp_le are more appropriate choices.

The Apache plugin currently requires an OS with augeas version 1.0; currently itsupportsmodern OSes based on Debian, Ubuntu, Fedora, SUSE, Gentoo and Darwin.

If you are offline or your operating system doesn’t provide a package, you can usean alternate method for installing certbot.

Most modern Linux distributions (basically any that use systemd) can installCertbot packaged as a snap. Snaps are available for x86_64, ARMv7 and ARMv8architectures. The Certbot snap provides an easy way to ensure you have thelatest version of Certbot with features like automated certificate renewalpreconfigured.

You can find instructions for installing the Certbot snap athttps://certbot.eff.org/instructions by selecting your server software and thenchoosing “snapd” in the “System” dropdown menu. (You should select “snapd”regardless of your operating system, as our instructions are the same acrossall systems.)

Docker is an amazingly simple and quick way to obtain acertificate. However, this mode of operation is unable to installcertificates or configure your webserver, because our installerplugins cannot reach your webserver from inside the Docker container.

Most users should use the instructions at certbot.eff.org. You should only useDocker if you are sure you know what you are doing and have a good reason to doso.

You should definitely read the Where are my certificates? section, in order toknow how to manage the certsmanually. Our ciphersuites pageprovides some information about recommended ciphersuites. If none ofthese make much sense to you, you should definitely use the installation methodrecommended for your system at certbot.eff.org, which enables you to useinstaller plugins that cover both of those hard topics.

If you’re still not convinced and have decided to use this method, fromthe server that the domain you’re requesting a certficate for resolvesto, install Docker, then issue a command like the one found below. Ifyou are using Certbot with the Standalone plugin, you will needto make the port it uses accessible from outside of the container byincluding something like -p80:80 or -p443:443 on the commandline before certbot/certbot.

Running Certbot with the certonly command will obtain a certificate and place it in the directory/etc/letsencrypt/live on your system. Because Certonly cannot install the certificate fromwithin Docker, you must install the certificate manually according to the procedurerecommended by the provider of your webserver.

There are also Docker images for each of Certbot’s DNS plugins availableat https://hub.docker.com/u/certbot which automate doing domainvalidation over DNS for popular providers. To use one, just replacecertbot/certbot in the command above with the name of the image youwant to use. For example, to use Certbot’s plugin for Amazon Route 53,you’d use certbot/dns-route53. You may also need to add flags toCertbot and/or mount additional directories to provide access to yourDNS API credentials as specified in the DNS plugin documentation.

For more information about the layoutof the /etc/letsencrypt directory, see Where are my certificates?.

Warning

While the Certbot team tries to keep the Certbot packages offeredby various operating systems working in the most basic sense, due todistribution policies and/or the limited resources of distributionmaintainers, Certbot OS packages often have problems that other distributionmechanisms do not. The packages are often old resulting in a lack of bugfixes and features and a worse TLS configuration than is generated by newerversions of Certbot. They also may not configure certificate renewal for youor have all of Certbot’s plugins available. For reasons like these, werecommend most users follow the instructions athttps://certbot.eff.org/instructions and OS packages are only documentedhere as an alternative.

Arch Linux

Debian

If you run Debian Buster or Debian testing/Sid, you can easily install certbotpackages through commands like:

If you run Debian Stretch, we recommend you use the packages in Debianbackports repository. First you’ll have to follow the instructions athttps://backports.debian.org/Instructions/ to enable the Stretch backports repo,if you have not already done so. Then run:

In all of these cases, there also packages available to help Certbot integratewith Apache, nginx, or various DNS services. If you are using Apache or nginx,we strongly recommend that you install the python-certbot-apache orpython-certbot-nginx package so that Certbot can fully automate HTTPSconfiguration for your server. A full list of these packages can be foundthrough a command like:

They can be installed by running the same installation command above butreplacing certbot with the name of the desired package.

Ubuntu

If you run Ubuntu, certbot can be installed using:

Optionally to install the Certbot Apache plugin, you can use:

Fedora

FreeBSD

Port: cd/usr/ports/security/py-certbot&&makeinstallclean

Package: pkginstallpy27-certbot

Gentoo

The official Certbot client is available in Gentoo Portage. From theofficial Certbot plugins, three of them are also available in Portage.They need to be installed separately if you require their functionality.

Note

The app-crypt/certbot-dns-nsone package has a differentmaintainer than the other packages and can lag behind in version.

NetBSD

Build from source: cd/usr/pkgsrc/security/py-certbot&&makeinstallclean

Install pre-compiled package: pkg_addpy27-certbot

OpenBSD

Make Docker Run Without Sudo Command

Port: cd/usr/ports/security/letsencrypt/client&&makeinstallclean

Package: pkg_addletsencrypt

Other Operating Systems

OS packaging is an ongoing effort. If you’d like to packageCertbot for your distribution of choice please have alook at the Packaging Guide.

We used to have a shell script named certbot-auto to help people installCertbot on UNIX operating systems, however, this script is no longer supported.If you want to uninstall certbot-auto, you can follow our instructionshere.

When using certbot-auto on a low memory system such as VPS with less than512MB of RAM, the required dependencies of Certbot may fail to build. This canbe identified if the pip outputs contains something like internalcompilererror:Killed(programcc1). You can workaround this restriction by creatinga temporary swapfile:

Disable and remove the swapfile once the virtual environment is constructed:

Installation from source is only supported for developers and thewhole process is described in the Developer Guide.

Warning

Make Docker Run Without Sudo File

Please do not use pythoncertbot/setup.pyinstall, pythonpipinstallcertbot, or easy_installcertbot. Please do not attempt theinstallation commands as superuser/root and/or without virtual environment,e.g. sudopythoncertbot/setup.pyinstall, sudopipinstall, sudo./venv/bin/.... These modes of operation might corrupt your operatingsystem and are not supported by the Certbot team!

[siren-dragon]

Niflheim Employee of the Year -- (Ardyn Izunia x Reader) Ch.1

Hey everyone! I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted a story and that was because real life has taken priority (and I’ve been having a horrible writer’s block). But then I saw the glorious post about Ardyn having a long suffering assistant that has to deal with his shenanigans. And so this fic was born.

Not sure how long I’m going to make this fic, but if people like it I’ll see how long I can make it.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it! ^_^

CH. 1 - INTRODUCTIONS

Life often had a way of throwing unsuspecting obstacles at a person. And, if one was lucky, they received warnings of such an event approaching them to prepare themselves. A simple ‘turn back now’ or ‘run away!’ would be shout to the individual; be it figuratively or even literally. So, when the job offers to be an assistant to a high-ranking government official appeared within your mail, you felt a feeling of dread crawl down your spine instead of the typical feeling of elation. Something about the vague requirements and obscene salary sent warning bells ringing all around your head. But, with no other job prospects and money quickly disappearing, you had become desperate and tossed such warnings out the window.

Perhaps you should have listened to the voice that seemed to scream, “RUN THE FUCK AWAY!” within your mind. Though as usual; when life gave you lemons, it seemed to only throw them into your face….

The next day as you boarded the train to Zegnautus you couldn’t help but wonder who your new boss was to be. Zegnautus Keep was one of the most secure facilities within all Niflheim, except for any ‘black-sites’ and the Imperial Palace. Whoever the individual was, they certainly seemed rather full of themselves to request your presence at the Keep.

As the train pulled into the station, you stood up and walked onto the platform; taking in the sight of the research facility. Massive freight cars lay along the tracks as cranes and staff workers unloaded the cargo within. Researchers in lab coats rushed about the place, looking oddly reminiscent of ants scrounging around for any abandon food one may have dropped. Glancing down at the paper in your hands, you took a deep breath and walked toward the elevators.

“Excuse me Miss, may I see some identification please.” A young soldier spoke, smiling kindly at you.

“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t have one. I am on my way to an interview for a job. This here is the room number,” you answered honestly, handing the soldier the written address.

You watched curiously as the soldier’s face seemed to drain of all color, making his skin appear pale and fragile. To any normal individual, that would have been warning number two.

“O-Oh, that’s an easy one. Just take this elevator to the 5th floor and proceed down the corridor on your left. You’ll get there in no time.” The soldier stammered.

“Thank you very much,” you smiled before walking into the elevator.

“Good luck, Miss.” The soldier replied seriously just as the doors closed.

The elevator climbed steadily up toward the higher levels of the Keep, the silence making you hum a tune under your breath to calm your nerves. You prayed to whatever Astrals would even listen that you got this job…as it was either this or working at that café Downtown.

At last the bell chimed; signaling your arrival. Walking out of the elevator you followed the soldier’s instructions and proceeded down the left corridor, glancing at every room number for a match to the one in your hands. After about five minutes you came across a large lobby with what appeared to be a bored secretary lazily flipping through the pages of a magazine at her desk. It felt more like a tomb of steel and iron than a simple waiting room, causing that feeling of dread to crawl down your spine once more. Gathering your thoughts and fraying nerves, you approached the secretary with letter in hand.

“Hello, I was told to come here for a job interview. Is this the right place, I don’t see any other applicants…”

“Just head inside, he’ll be with you in a moment.” The woman replied in a dull and monotone voice, not even looking up from her magazine.

“Terrific…” you muttered before proceeding into the office.

Whoever’s office this was, it was massive. The wall to your right was made completely out of windows, offering a beautiful view of Gralea’s metropolitan skyline. A large desk sat directly across from you on the opposite side of the room with multiple stacks of paper sitting on top and around it. To your right was a small glass conference table with several leather chairs all around while to your left was a pair of matching sofas placed around a low coffee table. If it wasn’t for the massive piles of paperwork on the desk, you would have thought the room was a display for a furniture store.

Sitting down upon one of the leather swivel chairs, you gazed out of the window at the Capital City. “I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait….”

Thirty minutes passed…then an hour…then two hours. You watched the sun slowly rise through the over-cast sky, your frustration and irritation rising with it. Glancing at the clock on the wall it had been a grand total of 3 hours since you had arrived at Zegnautus. You had spoken with the secretary to inquire on the whereabouts of your hopeful boss, only to have the woman tell you that he would be with you shortly. The soft hiss of metal against metal from behind you interrupted your train of thought, indicating the opening of the door.

“If you’re here to tell me that ‘he’ll be with me shortly’ then you can go march right back to your damn desk and tell your boss that if he wanted to make a good first impression, he could at least arrive on time!” You exclaimed in outrage.

A deep chuckle echoed around the office, “I shall take it under advisement.”

Immediately you spun around only to see the famed Chancellor of Niflheim himself: Ardyn Izunia. He smirked down at your frozen expression of surprise and removed his fedora, tossing it onto a coat stand. “I see that you have received my letter.”

“…You’re the one who sent the job request?” You asked in disbelief.

The Chancellor smiled, coming to stand before you. “Guilty as charged. And seeing how you’ve spent the entire day waiting for my arrival, I believe you are in need of a job. Am I correct?”

You narrowed your eyes, your earlier frustration coming out in full force as you stood from your seat. “Just because I need a job does not mean you can treat me as a personal doormat!” You shouted, feeling pitiful glaring upward due to the Chancellor’s staggering 6’ 3” height.

And having realized you had just shouted not once, but twice at the ruthless Chancellor made you wonder briefly if you would even leave the office alive. But Ardyn simply blinked in surprise at your outburst before a large grin appeared on his face. “You’re hired.”

“E-Excuse me?”

“I am quite certain you are not deaf, my dear.”

You stared at the Chancellor as he walked toward his desk, pulling out what appeared like a random stack of paper. “Why are you hiring me? You don’t even know me…”

“Au contraire, I know more about you than you may think Miss (l/n).” Ardyn replied, tossing the stack of paper on to the conference table. “And while your list of skills is quite impressive, I require an individual who is…well, let us say ‘able to speak their mind’.”

He held out a beautiful black fountain pen with the Niflheim crest upon it. “A simple signature is all that is required.”

You stared at the contract lying in front of you in an attempt ignore the delicious scent of the Chancellor’s cologne, and grabbed the fountain pen to write your name upon the parchment. For the briefest of moments, you paused; feeling as if you were signing a contract with the Devil himself. But as they always say; desperate people do desperate things.

Quickly you signed the paper before you could back out of the job offer. Ardyn smiled and snatched the paper from the table and gently placed the remaining stack of parchment into your hands. “Splendid choice, my dear! I look forward to our future…interactions.”

Despite your success with your interview and acquiring a job, you couldn’t help but feel as if Life had just thrown a lemon at your face…and you were too stupid to dodge it.

[theplagueofstars]

Would you kindly let me swap clothes with you for a day? I'd really love to try on that hat of yours!

Send ‘Would you kindly’ and a command and my muse has to obey.

The compulsion of magic overrode the reservations Ardyn had of removing his clothing and offering his beloved fedora of all things to a stranger. The stranger’s visage so unclear in the fog he had little idea of what they worse leaving the immortal to just opt for a state of nudity.

No shame to be had in his nude form for the Chancellor was a confident man. “If I do not see them returned within 24 hours there are consequences most grave that will befall you.” He may still go through with the threat regardless if his garments were returned on time or not. 

It did answer the age long question many of those whom stalked him had. His hair was indeed wine colored. Everywhere.

[daemonvols]

Chapter Four

That Which Hosts the Undead Would Be as Scary

 The men in my romance novels are unfailingly handsome. That breed of handsome that takes the breath away from however many readers it takes to create a “bestseller”. Such a man may have a scar – physical or mental, take your choic – but it becomes him, makes him that much more vulnerable and therefore more attractive. The authors of my romances, I’m told, write them that way for maximum arousal and some mental drooling (actual drooling I’d rather not consider; it damages the book). My point is, the hero could have a hairy mole, for crying out loud, but the authors are careful to place such flaws where they will cause the strongest visceral reaction among their readers.

By comparison, however, this gravedigger turned grave robber in the Plutarch grave fell a bit short. Yes, he was the same man who “stirred” my feelings from a distance that afternoon. I knew him from the union shirt and the jeans that fit so well (especially there). I knew and wanted the big hands pushing at the shovel’s handle on my own body while his square jaw sagged in profanity because he could not pry the lid open.

But the face?

I’ve had time and proximity since that night to try to find the words for the face as I saw it in the yellow Coleman light on that April evening. First, take my Grandpa Dov’s favorite comic strip hero, Dick Tracy. Remove the yellow Fedora and make the hair brown, wavy and wind-blown. Second, widen the eyes enough to tell from a few yards that they are brown, a soft, sable brown. Next, soften Tracy’s building block of a nose a little while you’re at it. Last, put that head on good shoulders on top of a strong chest that narrows down to those perfect-fitting jeans and there he stood, straddling Eulalie Plutarch’s coffined remains in pretty well-worn black Nikes. I almost envied her the view of that inseam.

A rustling in the hedge that separates Sections E and F told me Jerry tried to hide out of the light. I stood at the edge and kicked some of the loose dirt down into the grave. The digger turned robber lifted those eyes to me and scowled.

“Who the fuck are you?”

He told me later than I flinched. All I remember is that his question offended me. I can appreciate well-timed profanity. I’ve uttered my share in the appropriate circumstances. But when you’re caught (excuse the expression) dead to rights in a felony, I’ve always considered it bad manners to lead with the f-word.

I kicked in a little more dirt before I answered. “Well, since I pay the union who pays you, I guess that indirectly makes me your boss.”

He drew the shovel upright, balancing it on one of the brass handles on the side, and leaned on it. Then he smiled. I won’t say I was a goner when he smiled because that’s one pun too many for one scene in a cemetery. But, as I recall it, the night had grown a little less chilly.

“So you’re the lady in charge. Farmer, isn’t it?”

“It is. And you are?”

He started to laugh with a sideways glance. “Charlie. Charlie Tischler.”

“OK, Charlie Tischler, what precisely are you doing? You’re over five hours late filling in the grave and I would think standing in it is not the ideal position to do the job. Nor is the time particularly good, seeing that you’re digging in the dark.”

He chuckled. “You got that right. But do you know who this is?”

“From the death certificate and the papers, yes.”

“She’s the richest b-“

“Don’t say it. Neither of us knew her that well when she was alive.”

He stared at me for a moment. Not his most endearing expression; he looked like a snapping turtle who’s been poked from behind. He rephrased. “She was extremely rich and she wanted to be buried with a lot of her jewelry.”

“You know this how?”

“Her sons hung around after the service. They were fighting over letting diamond rings and pearl drop earrings and gold necklaces that are now in the ground on a rotting corpse. Must have gone on at each other for quarter of an hour. They agreed to let it lie for now. But, as you can see,” here he gestured to the shovel and the dirt on his hand, “I disagreed with their decision.”

“And the coffin lid is locked.”

His arrogance sagged a little with his jaw. “Yeah. I have a little turd for a partner. Looks like he ran for it.”

“And here we are. In point of fact, you’re screwed.”

“If you’re calling the cops, I guess I am.”

I suppose I did think it over too long because his mouth was just starting to curl up in that smile again. Not one of the heroes in my books had that smile.

I tried to look – and feel -  indifferent to that smile. And him. “OK, I’m not going to run back to my office to call the police because, by the time they arrive, you’ll have filled in the grave and run off. Yes, I have your name and a description to give them, but I don’t think you wouldn’t have an alibi and I’m in no mood to get into a he said/she said spat that the newspapers will eat up and that will cost me my job.” His smile widened to show teeth so straight he had to have endured yesars of sadistic orthodontists and their metal braces. “But what I will tell you is that you’d better fill in the grave and get out of here as fast as you can. I am by far the least dangerous thing in this cemetery.”

He laughed. A low, rolling sound that left me a little dizzy. “Why? You telling me there are ghoulies and ghosties around?”

My Grandma Rose always said deep breaths clear the mind and stiffen the backbone. That smile and that laugh had me wobbling, so I took three. “I have no idea what a ghoulie is, but, yes, we have ghosts and vampires here. They’re all very territorial. I know they won’t take kindly to someone violating a grave in their cemetery.”

He laughed again. “And what will the werewolves think?”

“I can’t say. This is a cemetery. A place for dead people. Technically, werewolves are still alive.”

You insert a quick question: do werewolves exist? I’ve heard that they do, but I cannot prove it one way or the other. I’ve never seen one since I live at the CPF and I rarely venture into Syracuse. However, I have heard of a pack running near the university. And that’s enough to keep me from going downtown when there’s a full moon.

“Look,” I said, “there about two dozen vampires who will be returning from feeding in Syracuse before long. They may be sated or they may not. For all I know, some of the younger ones might like you for dessert and the older ones can always make exceptions for people who piss them off. So, if they find you here still trying to break into Eulalie’s coffin, they will hurt you. They may even kill you. I strongly suggest you get your ass out of there, fill in the grave and leave.”

He studied me a long time. Long enough for me to look over all of the adjoining sections and count a few headstones. “You’re serious,” he said. “I almost believe you.”

“I’d recommend you do. In short, Charlie Tischler, you’ve got choices here. You can decide that I’m crazy,” I told him. “You can take your chances and keep working at the latch – which will give after a while, by the way. But you won’t live through the night if you do. Or –“ and, looking back, this is where I lost my mind before I lost my heart – “you can come to the house on your next night off and I’ll introduce you to some of them.”

He narrowed his eyes. I braced for more laughter or a string of profanities to insult my intelligence. He did neither. He did something decidedly un-manly: he listened and considered what I had said. “I’m tempted,” he admitted, “but I don’t know when I could do that. I work two jobs and a lot of double shifts at the Book-of-the-Month club. Might be a week, might be two weeks.”

Might be never. “Fine. They’re not going anywhere and neither am I. Leave me a phone message about which day. The union office has my number. Only give me a few days’ notice to make the arrangements.” I turned away and walked a little, then turned back for the effect. “And plan on coming between nine and nine-thirty. Our residents don’t care much for the sunlight.”

 I was reasonably sure Charlie had taken my advice to do without Eulalie Plutarch’s jewelry. If he hadn’t, if Derek and his “family” had found him and, as I suspected, feasted on him, I’m sure Missy and Mischa would have come screeching into my bedroom about the mess and how was I going to clean that up? The publicity alone would doom me.

Besides, the grave was filled in the next morning.

    And here you ask another question: How did I get to such a razor’s edge with the Board? I’ll try to make the long story a little shorter than plowing through over a hundred and fifty years of documentation.

My family’s relationship with the Board of Directors has been strained from the very beginning, or ever since Jacob Baumann applied for the caretaker and gravedigger job in 1840. It is never a good start to an employer-employee when the interviewing committee’s secretary, the Reverend Dieter Bruner, makes notes like these next to a badly-printed copy of the foundation’s charter:

Next to the First Article: “We get only one applicant and it’s a filthy Jew not four months off the boat. I’ll bet my hat he speaks no English.”

Second Article: “I’d have lost my hat. He speaks English. Speaks it better than Halberforth (Abernathy Halberforth, President of the Association). Speaks it better than Mason (Raymond Mason was the Association’s attorney), for the love of God! The Devil’s in this!”

Third Article: “In agony now, wanting to laugh and yet I want the man arrested for (a trail of blotted ink here) WITCHCRAFT! He’s got Meecham (Jerome Meecham, the treasurer) agreeing that the advertisement misrepresented the offer of compensation!”

Fourth Article: “Lord God in Heaven, save us sinners now and at the hour of our death, which has to be nigh! This man has us in his thrall!”

Most of the rest of the drama queen’s notes are smeared, but they seem to be in large part expressions of mental anguish and a pious whining at Life in general and the Divine Being in particular. I can’t read it without thinking it would make a sensational blog. Lots of followers and people to “Like” the page. That is, until readers tired of the whining – I’d give it a week at best – and they told Bruner in text and tweet to get an f-ing life.

Either in spite of or because of the Reverend’s side notes, the Board hired Jacob. They and their heirs tolerated him and his male heirs, despite having to give them a house, a carriage house, and eventually electricity by the time Jacob’s grandson Isaac was caretaker. Over the next 160 years, the Board saw quiet men who did their job and had families that caused no public comment satisfied them, whether the Board honestly was happy about their employees or not.

To be fair, the relationship wasn’t all unspoken tension. Once, around 1920, in what I can only assume was a fog of patriotic fever, the Board issued my great-great-grandfather Isidore and his son Jack a public commendation for their “good and faithful” service during the influenza pandemic of 1918-1919. Between the two of us, however, I still think the Board wanting some good publicity to come out of having the space for so many bodies.

But the bad feelings returned soon enough.  Great-grandfather Jack took them to court to force the Board to pay for the installation of indoor plumbing. Grandpa Dov fought with them to the point of filing a lawsuit over cost-of-living increases, insurance and the like after the Second World War. And the current Board members were none too keen on my crazy father Barry, who had wandered the cemetery at night to “tuck in” all the residents, had scared off his wife after producing one female child, and then had driven my grandfather’s Buick off the then incomplete 690 bypass all by the time I was five.

Grandpa Dov and Grandma Rose died after I graduated college with a Business degree, so the position came down to me. But, in the Board’s eyes, I was a single female of child-bearing age with no observable marital prospects. They exercised some interpretation of their prerogative so that I had to endure an application and interview process, despite Jacob’s contract article requiring that members of his family stay in the job to the end of the family line. Heaven knows these descendants tried, but they could find no escape clause and found themselves honoring the contract with a woman.

It must have bruised their egos. I kept their books and records as well, and in most cases, better than my grandparents because I could use a computer. I don’t even keep a cat. And yet, it has always been a precarious existence for me. One sixteenth of a column of bad publicity and I could be fighting for my house and my job.

 I sat up in the office for an hour and a half after leaving Charlie standing with his mouth open in Eulalie’s grave. No ghosts, no vampires, not even a soft spring breeze disturbed the quiet. I had only to calm the disturbance Charlie Tischler had created in me: a roil of hormones and other bodily responses I hadn’t had since the age of 14 when I’d picked up my first romance, A Love Unknown. Grandma Rose had thought I had menstrual cramps and recommended an ice pack and chocolate. I didn’t say no.

Age, however, turns such indulgences to fat, so I had to quell the (let’s be honest) arousal in another way. That took several deep Grandma Rose breaths, a dose or two of reality and the promise of better company in my books.

So I went up to bed and let the pull-up-toned arms of Brett Shackleford, the hero of His Arms, take my mind into a tight and promising embrace.

[mormonmovieguy]

INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL- Mormon Movie Guy review

By Jonathan Decker (family therapist, film critic)

“The glory of God is intelligence, or, in other words, light and truth.” (Doctrine and Covenants 93:36)

Jonathan's note: this film has not aged well for me. This review, written in the fervor of having a new Indy movie, is more favorable than what I would write today. I think Harrison Ford is great in this, but almost everything else in the movie doesn't work for me now.  Rent Kingdom of the Crystal Skull here or buy the series on Bluray and DVD here.

Where do I start? For nearly twenty years, the original trilogy has stood alone, nearly perfect, and repeat viewings have cemented its virtues in the minds of nerds everywhere. For at least a decade, rumors of a fourth film have had fans salivating, anticipating, and hoping. This film had an uphill battle from the start: how do you measure up to ten years of rabid anticipation?

You can't. So here it is. The Bad News- this is the weakest film of the series.The Good News: it's still more fun than most movies you'll see this year.The Great News: Ladies and gentlemen, Harrison Ford has got his groove back!

That's right, having not had a hit since 2000's What Lies Beneath, the a**-kicking, wisecracking, scoundrel with a heart of gold that you grew up with is back in fine form. Gone is the grumpy old coot who has phoned in performances in roles not worthy of him. Back is the iconic actor who thrilled you as Han Solo, Indy, Jack Ryan, and Dr. Richard Kimble. Harrison Ford actually gives a hoot! Not only that, but dude has been working out! He's in better shape in his 60's than most of us are in our 20's and 30's, and his action work in this movie will make you a believer. In spite of whatever flaws the film may have, the triumphant return of the Harrison Ford you know and love is reason enough to see the movie.

I'll address right now the primary concern: lower your expectations. Deflate the hype and just enjoy the ride. See, the problem with Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is not that it's bad. In fact, it's quite good. But the series had (theoretically) ended on such a high note with Last Crusade, it's a bit disheartening to see the series finish with a very good movie instead of a great one. Unlike the excellent Rocky Balboa, which redeemed that franchise by rescuing it from the awful Rocky V, Indiana Jones was not a franchise in need of redemption. However, if you're Jonesin' for a good new Indy adventure, this'll meet your needs.

Some things that might be perceived as flaws in the film may actually just be departures from formula that I might appreciate more with repeat viewings. Specifically, the artifact in question is not a religious one, as in the previous films, and the narrative and tonal direction might be jarring to fans. In fact, the entire main plot is only so-so, and the climax, while visually stunning, seems out of place in an Indy film. It would fit just as well in National Treasure, The Mummy, or even The X-Files, and doesn't carry the emotional or visceral punch of its predecessors. Plus, the film drags in the middle and some of it just doesn't make sense (though the type of power the Russians are seeking, though seemingly far-fetched, is actually a power they really pursued).

So what does work? A lot, actually! First of all, the action is up to par, no small feat given Ford's age and the fact that he did much of his own stunt-work. There is a fistfight with a big Russian that hearkened back to the old days and made me very happy. And, as each Indy film reveals something new about the character, the portrayal of an older, wiser, and more kindly Indiana Jones (who still kicks butt) is fascinating. As is the removal of the character from the 1930's and relocating him to the 1950's. He emerges here as a truly American hero, and the provided backstory of his life in the years since we last saw him (after all, WWII happened in that time) is wonderful.

I enjoyed the Russian villains. Shia Labeuf does just fine, and his chemistry with Ford is amusing. One returning character is most welcome, giving the film the emotional boost it needs. The post-climatic finale is sweet and crowd-pleasing, and while a few jokes fall flat, a lot of them stick, and I found myself chuckling often and enjoying a sprinkling of belly laughs throughout.

The use of CGI is not distracting, as it is primarily limited to shots where miniatures, stop-motion animation, and matte paintings would have been used in the original trilogy. We still get great, real-life stunts and giant, constructed sets. The creepy-crawlers are up to par with the previous films (spiders, snakes, bugs, rats, bats...now what? You'll see!) Cate Blanchett is chewing scenery and fun as heck as a Russian villain.

Heads up: you do have to get into the mindset of enjoying over-the-top action for this. Like in Temple of Doom, where they jump out of a plane using a self-inflating river-raft as a parachute? Or Last Crusade, when the plane follows the car into a tunnel? Yeah, be prepared for some cheesy scenes that'll make you roll your eyes unless you've got a fun, go with the flow attitude.

But when all is said and done...it comes back to Ford. The man is Indiana Jones, and it's good to see him in the fedora and jacket, bullwhip in hand. The script may stumble a bit, the story-line may be a departure from formula, but with Spielberg and Ford at the helm (and clearly, for the first time in a long time, having fun!), the movie works. It has enough of the classic elements in place to qualify as an Indiana Jones film and earn its rightful place in the canon. *** (out of five). 

In 2000 I wrote and directed an Indy fan-film for our Latter-day Saint seminary called Indiana Jones and the Search for Eternal Joy. In this action flick Indy and Short Round learn about The Book of Mormon. Check out the trailer above and the full movie below. 

While in BYU’s Divine Comedy I played a sword-wielding Ute and “The Old Kicker” in Indiana Jones and the Helmet of Kishkumen. Check it out below!

This year I’m taking my kids to Salt Lake Comic Con as Indy. What do you think of my cosplay?