theyxlived

[theyxlived]

"I can't help it. The twins give me the heebie-jeebies."

"Well, better build a bridge and get over it. We'd all be dead ten-times over if not for them and their abilities."

"They're still weird."

"We're all a bit weird around here. Sane people don't get called to fight in this war."

"It's a war now?"

"Damn right, and if you don't listen to the twins, you're gonna end up as cannon fodder."

@theyxlived

[theyxlived]

inspr.

No matter where you go, I will find you In the place with no frontiers No matter where you go, I will find you If it takes a thousand years

[theyxlived]

insp. | temp.

While you sleep, dream of me I'll be keeping our memories Living in my heart and soul Waiting for the day When we will be together again

Carry me to my love O'er the sea to the clouds above Where I know he's waiting for me Carry me to my love O'er the sea to the clouds above

[theyxlived]

Person of Interest muses:

anyone wanna plot something with Sasha?  send a dm. i have discord too if u wanna chat there instead. Thanks!

[theyxlived]

plot call. name your muse. :)

[theyxlived]

Independent Multi-muse blog 18+ to read | 21 to interact mun 30+ mature themes

[theyxlived]

Alternate Universe : Sasha

Verse: Ghost Life || Person of Interest AU Info: Her name is Sasha Petrov or at least that's what the file says her name is. The one she stole from the medical facility she spent most of her childhood in, before she escaped at sixteen. She's been living in the shadows ever since. Trying to piece together what happened to a family she had to have had. She’s remained a ghost. At least until her number comes up and she overhears a man in a suit has been asking questions.

[theyxlived]

@theyxlived​

Everywhere you go you leave a trace You're curled up under the light With the shadows of the fallen

[theyxlived]

My family came to America in search of a better life. When I was little my father set me upon his knee and told me my heart would hear what I was meant to be when it was ready. And it did. It sang the first time I helped my mother in the kitchen, and the truth is...I don’t think I..my heart...my soul--ever heard the song of anything else. Gusto was right after all. Anyone can cook but only the fearless can be great.

[theyxlived]

Not Just Another Number...

Closed starter for @anurbanlcgend​

Light travels faster than sound. Everyone knows that. But what most people don’t know? A bullet travels fastest. Sometimes hits its mark before the sound of it can even consider becoming an echo. That echo that reverberates in her skull. Wet heat on her skin. On her hands as pure shock has her looking down. Seeing what should be on the inside of her on the outside. Oddly it reminds her of properly made and blended marinara sauce. A slightly weird, if not disgusting thing to think of in the aftermath of a bullet ripping through her chest--but there it was.

The world streaking into colors. Buildings melding with sky. Brick with side walk. And the collison of her hitting gritty concrete. And maybe she notices the sky for the first time in a what feels like her whole life. Blue sky and whisps of clouds that so often go unappriciated because most everyone in this city lives in a bubble. Never thinking to look up let alone doing it. And the beauty of it is only interupted now by the fact she can’t breathe. By the instinct to cough as the dark closes in. By the fact she’s going t--

A half step back from crossing the street. No. No not that way. Worn converse on the sidewalk. A one eighty turn and weaving against the current of cross walkers until she can make it into the other lane of pedestrians. Feet hurrying her back to the corner, a breath. Two. A step towards the other crossing. 

Eyes. Green like the living room used to be on Sunday mornings. The sun washing in from the windows. Lighting up her mother’s small jungle of creeping vines and elephant eared plants. Color that got reflected into the rest of the room. Warmed it up. Made if feel like a home as much as look like one. They alone make her want to trust. Believe in the person they belong to. Even if she knows nothing at all about him. Not yet. Doesn’t know the story set into the edges of a five o’clock shadow. The history written into the laugh lines. What little tales lie painted in thin strips of grey through black. But it feels safe. That face.

Hands on her arms. Ones that catch not restrain. Shattered glass, water splattered on her shirt not blood. Ear piercing sound that drowns out his voice. Soft wool gripped in her hands. Fingers in her hair that do their best to shelter amid more peels of thunder and then it all goes quiet like the New York City sidewalk she’s standing on isn’t. 

A sharp intake. This way. This is the way she needs to go. And tired feet that have been traversing this city all night--she wills them to move from the dead stop the vision caused. The hood of her jacket pulled down further as she crosses the street and moves onward with the flow of other human beings trapped in their own bubbles.

---

That was hours ago. Now she stands at another street corner in a forgotten bit of concrete jungle. Staring up at the building that one day will be something else. A pity given the what it is. What she guesses it once was. It won’t ever see the glory days it once had. But so goes life right? Everything and everyone dies...eventually. 

A morbid thought all things considered. A deep breath drawn in. Shoulders drawn square with it and then allowed to sag with its escape. Hands in the pockets of her hoodie balled into nervous fists. Feet shuffling near balding soles on the concrete. She has to get every facet of this right. One tiny flaw and the future she sees that is best won’t happen. She’s got to be brave. She’s got--

Movement. A sky blue gaze that fixates on the silhouette coming clear of the building. Lips that she wets. Hands that fist all the harder, before one hand is pulled out. Set to her hood, that’s pushed back. Lips that are already dry again drawn into a thin line with the hard swallow she takes as one foot is put forward. Then another and another and so on until she comes to a stop a dozen feet from the man she’s only ever seen in clipped imagery. Another breath as she pushes out what she needs to say. No matter how much she wishes she sounded bigger than she does.

           “My name is Sasha Petrov...I think you’ve been looking for me?”

[theyxlived]

Dylan Black:

Experience teaches many things. When to show restraint. How to stay composed, locked in the façade. Trade the pristine white couch for something more beaten up, put a beer in his hand, and Dylan would be the picture of a regular Joe, kicking back to watch the Sunday game. Lacking significant care in the world. Certainly, unperturbed when the door slips open, refusing to even glance in its direction. He lets it play out first, rewarded with Ira halting the entrant by only the lift of her hand. In this domain, her dominion is near absolute.

Dylan had suspected as much. His line of work involves a certain reliance on creatures betraying other creatures. Happiness and rainbow-infused relationships don’t lead to retrieval fees being paid 50% upfront. Acquaintances folding, revealing clues to hideouts and refuges, help bring in that final payment. He’s decent at picking up on those weaknesses nestled within networks of his quarry. Would be easier if he possessed skills which allowed dipping into the minds of others, but Dylan was yet to meet a being where such gifts existed without the pairing of years of experience to hone and craft such power.

Instead, he takes in the flicker of Ira’s passing frown, whatever is present on her screen displeasing her. Perhaps it relates to some other business on the many plates she has spinning. Perhaps the fae has been searching his credentials. Either way, it has failed to lead to Dylan’s dismissal or other outright halting of the meeting, and that he can work with.

As Ira begins the motions to rise, Dylan starts his own retraction of outstretched arms and bent limbs. He is half to his feet when the fae pulls her own shift. A flicker. A flash of crystalline wings and ethereal skin. Stripping away all pretense of passing as a human. Ira Markov in the form which for centuries had birthed stories and legend, both in the mortal realm, and their own. In that heartbeat, Dylan suddenly understands. It is why the fae are always the kings and queens. The rulers and leaders. The ones that shatter bonds of love, parents leaving children, husbands and wives torn asunder, merely for the privilege to lick at their feet.

Another power which can never be replicated, no matter which form a shifter takes.

With respect, Dylan finishes the ascent to his feet and bows his head in turn. Gives due courtesy, treating it as something more than a facetious game of you-show-me-yours-and-I’ll-show-you-mine. If there had been cause to doubt the battle prowess of the legendary Markov twins, Ira has clearly demonstrated the folly in such thinking.  He presents similar manners at the suggestion they walk together. Stepping alongside to keep pace, offering neither his own back nor requesting she expose her own.

“The one I’m looking for has been in hiding for some time. Based on what I found in his abandoned sleeping spot, he always intended to run if found, not fight.” Dylan leads with truths, if omitting certain parts of it. “He’s also mixed…” One of the politer terms for a being born of copulation between differing species. “… so can’t say for certain how he’s presenting himself, though he does come from a beast shifting lineage.” Still true, if a broad sweeping use of the term. “All of which means I don’t know for certain how he looks or what name he’s using, if any.” This is as far as Dylan risks testing his host’s patience. He slips in the most calculated of true information. “What he was called in the past, was Ion.”

The bow of his head is...an unexpected but no less welcomed respect. Further proof that this one knows intricacies of the game. Might have even passed well as a courtly member in a bygone age were his manner of dress of higher and more classical caliber. And there is a brief curiosity if their ancestors would have ever tolerated holding said court as they do now with creature of his particular pedigree. Though the doubt is quick to slip in. From what they know of the old courts and rulers...there are many facets the twins are applaud by. Many that they still see in members of their own kind from members of the other elemental courts. They know their views and holdings are not overly popular with said courts but--as is the going consensus? They care ever so very little if at all.

A smile. Minimal though sweet in response to the physical show of respect. The way he moves to settle even with her. Neither ahead nor behind. And her hands once again collect at her middle. Fine heels clicking ever so against the marble floor as they begin their journey. Passing through the door that is smoothly shut behind them. A second shadow that slips in from sightless places to follow them along the hallway at a respectful distance. Nazir if their senses are correct, and it dawns upon them as their guest speaks they should perhaps make introductions as a start. After all Sonus for all that it is their dominion, it is the gargoyle’s charge. They’ve right to know who resides within the walls they protect. So steps are taken to lead them left at a corner of the hall. Ira’s expression softly pensive. 

“Ah--one zh’at can change shape is always hardest to find, da?”

A statement. To be taken by Dylan however the Black Dog chose. A play of things to see how it will be taken, because if anyone was ever gifted with word play aside from elves...well the long lived creatures had learned such skills from someone now hadn’t they? Still it serves another purpose. A moment to deflect their guest. A moment to give them time to converse. He searches for someone of mixed lineage. Someone who’s parentage had made it possible to change their shape. A he someone as can be assumed by what Dylan provides. And that is curious isn’t it? Sonus harbors hundreds of pure blooded and not so creatures here. And while they can not say for sure yet--that has to be the reason that the Black Dog is here. He thinks whoever it is he searches for might be beneath their roof. And that alone creates a whole new set of concerns.

             We do not like this. He digs without digging.

Mind our other guests, brother. We have this well in hand.

Do we?

A slightly angled turn towards an elevator, a single nail that drives itself into Ira’s palm. Her brother’s paranoia is making her blood itch. And so the inquiry is left to hang as the down button along the wall is pressed. The provision of the name following close behind the movement however makes it all the harder to keep her brother’s spiking wariness at bay. Because with that name--regardless of whether Dylan knows it or not...the game just became all the more complicated.

Complicated because now they are no longer hunter and procurer of inforamation. Now they are hunter versus protector. And where they are fairly certain Dylan will forgo his own client for the right price-they have made a far more binding deal with their proverbial own. Because Ion? Ion is not a commodity. He is the last viable creature of his kind. And he is under far more protection than just Sonus and the Markov twins alone.

                 Dispose of him.

           Not yet.

                We made pact with the Eldest to destroy any that come looking.

           We need to know who set this one upon Ion’s path. We will remove head from shoulders ourselves only when and if required.

She turns her head, chin tilted upwards to accommodate the height difference. Expression carefully kept neutral, despite the current disagreement. A flicker of their own anxiety igniting in their stomach. Because anyone looking for Ion--could not be for any good reason. The creature was old, worn down. Mistreated so badly in his youth it had shattered any hope of him having a normal life. Above and beyond the reality that just being himself put a target on his head. Still Ira keeps her expression softly pensive and nothing more.

             “A name can be useful.”

Another statement that gives nor takes nothing as the elevator doors slip open. Ira stepping in and turning about. A small moment to ensure their guest has followed before speaking the floor required.

             “One hundred please, Sonus.”

                      Of course, Ira.

The elevator doors close again, leaving their shadows behind. Ira knows they will appear again in short order, they’ve their own ways of moving about the santuary after all. And there is not a shred of concern to be found as the elevator seamlessly shifts into movement. Numbers beginning to pass them by on the door wide read out.

               “V’e shall set Sonus’ eye upon it.”

            “For now...v’e v’ould see proper accommodations. Vh’at v’ancies you, Dylan?”

[theyxlived]

Not 007:

“If I could touch anything it surely wouldn’t be you, Agent Z.” Her tongue was going to get her thrown in jail one of these days. Or horribly murdered. Either way it would not end well for her. Because then they would be calling her father, and her best friend. One to bail her out, the other to handle the backlash it would spark.

But the snapping was what really had her mind churning with interest. She could feel the caress that she so often used herself. Yet this was different enough that she knew it came from him. Had she been paying more attention the first time around she would have done her level best to needle and flay him through questions to figure out how and why. How could he be like her and yet not be anything close to what she was? And why of all had it been him chosen to be her shepherd of freedom?

These were all things she would ponder on her assumed ride from one forgotten basement room into another that was no doubt waiting for her. Maybe she would be sedated. Just to keep her from bringing her room down. Her muscles tensed at the very notion of using the other half of her curse. Making her bite back a whimper before she even started forming in the back of her throat. She braced herself then started after him.

“So tell me Secret Agent Man, what is the grand master plan of getting me out of here? You gonna dress in drag and put on a show while I sneak out the side entrance?” It was both a ploy to get information out of him and distract herself from acknowledging the responses of her nerves. She managed to keep herself from going head first into the man’s back. Now that she was able to move under her own power, all she wanted to do was sleep.

“I doubt that they are just going to let you waltz my ass out of here after they went through so much trouble to find me in the first place.” She didn’t know if he was listening to her or not. It didn’t matter really. But the very idea of ballroom dancing as they made their escape was far too entertaining given the soft chuckle she allowed herself. She guessed she would get some snide quip back and be asked for silence. Something she wasn’t great at.

“Last thing I promise, just don’t let your buddies dressed in black tie my arms up again. I think I might have nerve damage from this place.”

          If I could touch anything it surely wouldn’t be you, Agent Z.

Well look at that. Miracles do happen. Even if one eye is lagging into a brief twitching spasm. No remark upon the fact she repeated the nickname even after the correction. She’s doing it to annoy him now. He’s not stupid. And while every bit of him wants to lay a threat over his shoulder--it doesn’t come. Too focused on drowning her out and paying mind to what’s ahead of them. And maybe not for the first time he really wished he’d gotten some other power. Something like super sonic hearing or being able to see through walls. But he didn’t. So he’s got to work with what he’s got. And what he’s got is a rather exceptional recall ability and he’d made himself intimately familiar with schedules, shift changes and guard rotations in the few minutes he’d had with an unmanned computer a few levels above their heads.

         So tell me Secret Agent man...

An eye roll. That one was so dumb it physically hurt. Or so it felt like. And she’s afforded the slightest of glances. One brow arched so high and so sharply Jayden Specter could have rightly cut herself on it. Well if she could have reached it at any rate. Yet unlike most that that look was set upon it didn’t shut her up and eventually he’s forced to stop them at the end of the hall. A quick look around the corner with a trusted little compact mirror. Because for all the super agent spy gear Stark had help create for S.H.I.E.L.D. some times the classics were just better. And its only when he’s satisfied the hallway will be clear in the next twenty seconds does he round back on the woman. Voice pitched too low to carry the irritation even if his eyes betray him.

         “Look we’ve got a very narrow window here. If I don’t pause this hallway exactly at the right millisecond the guys on the cameras six levels above our heads are gonna notice something’s wrong. And if that happens we’re going to have half an army chasing us through this labyrinth. I would like to avoid that. So I need you to---”

A finger put firmly to his lips for a moment.

         “And just follow me. Stop when I say. Go when I say. Stay with me. Because if you don’t. If you step outside my immediate perimeter--you ever see 13 ghosts? The one that gets stuck in the door? That’ll be you.”

Both brows go up this time in a kind of silent Got it? before he’s turning back again. Checking the mirror one more time, along with his watch. Counting the seconds as they go by beat by beat.  The last of the staff and one roaming guard vanishing through a door and around a corner respectively.

       “And I told you already I’m here to get you somewhere safe. And last time I checked protecting someone didn’t mean tying them up.”

Though neck accessories may or may not come up at some point if she doesn’t play nice. And there’s a twitch of a shoulder. A finger that comes up to scratch a memory fueled itch, before he’s looking back at her again.

     “But you are right about one thing, Pumba. The side door is exactly where we’re headed. Come on.”

And he’s almost rolling around the corner by a shoulder. A snap resonating in the process. Fingers pressed against his thumbs in succession. Repeated twice before two brief fists are made. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. All the way to the elevator at the end of the hall.

[theyxlived]

[theyxlived]

Meme: ‘TOL AND SMOL’ PROMPTS Status: Status: Open [ all muses ] URL: @morgansmornings​

He could hear the conversation from the hall. The agent’s voice at least. The one that’s supposed to be responsible for all their comings and goings. The one that has to explain to the director when things go south. And by the tone and volume? Greenly isn’t happy. Then again the elder man never really is, and Zach’s convinced maybe never has been a second in his life. But regardless--right now the evidence of his anger is echoing up and down the hall. Zach leaned to opposite the door, arms folded over his chest. 

Higher ups had asked for something like this to happen, if anyone bothered to ask Zach. Her handler was about as bendy as gumby. Even Zach had rail roaded the guy a handful of times. Froze him when he wasn’t paying attention and gotten the job done entirely without his help. They’d yanked the poor idiot after that. Put someone else a little more inclined to take Zach’s abilities seriously. Acknowledge them for the threat they were. And he’d lasted a little while. But ultimately...well there’s a reason he’s one of the few walking around with powers that doesn’t have a babysitter.

                    I’d ask how it’s going but...

A glance away from the door. A brow arching at the sight of who has spoken. Zach’s arms dropping away as he stands up straight. Though there’s a wave of the other’s hand. Dismissal of the official for now it seems.

                    How long?

Zach checks his watch, as if he doesn’t already know.

            “One hour, ten minutes, seven seconds sir.”

There’s something amused to the expression that comes and goes on the Director’s face. A nod of his head that Zach’s seen a thousand times if he’s seen it once. And while no body else would have the balls...Greenly’s door is rapped on once before its opened.

         Not right n--oh...d-Director I wasn’t expe--

             I gathered that. Spectre go and get yourself cleaned up. I need to borrow Agent Greenly for a bit.

                    Yes, sir.

And out the door she comes as it closes behind her. The cut on her lip zeroed in on but not mentioned for now. Zach giving a toss of his head down the hall as hands find his pockets. The pair walking along in silence for several long minutes before he dares break it.

           “Thinking about a glass a ‘95 and something to eat...you up for it after you’re fresh?”

                    Yea...sure.

The quiet beats on again until they reach showers. A pause as he turns. One hand coming loose to catch her chin. Pull it up from where it had fallen to her chest. Hazel that tracks each point of her face before his mouth makes words.

         “Whatever got up Greenly’s ass I wouldn’t worry about it. Witts deserved you putting him in medical. Guy’s been on a ego trip for too long.”

A tap to the bottom of her chin before he’s taking his hand away. Moving on down the hall. Though he’s stopping a moment later, turning on his heel.

         “Meet ya at the east garage, okay? Need to leave a couple memos before I go.”

[theyxlived]

‘TOL AND SMOL’ PROMPTS

feel free to combine these with dialogue whether it’s something you make up or from other memes your partner has reblogged. 

[ BEND ]  for the shorter muse to tug the taller muse down so they can kiss their forehead. 

[ LEAN ]  for the taller muse to lean down to kiss the shorter muse’s forehead. 

[ LIFT ]  for taller muse to lift up the smaller one and sit them on a surface where they can be eye level. 

[ CLIMB ]  for the shorter muse to find somewhere to perch so they can be eye level with taller muse. 

[ INTERRUPT ]  for shorter muse to stop during the middle of a conversation and stand on a chair/sit on a table so they can be eye level with the taller one. 

[ GIVE ]  for the taller muse to place their jacket around the shorter muse’s shoulders,  the garment essentially ‘swallowing them whole.’

[ TAKE ]  for the taller muse to find the shorter one has ‘borrowed’ a shirt/sweater/jacket etc.  which is oversized on them.  

[ GO ]  for the taller muse to pick up the shorter one and carry them away from a potential/just started fight. 

[ RIDE ]  for the taller muse to give the shorter one a piggyback ride so they don’t have to keep up. 

[ SEE ]  for shorter muse to insist on getting to ride on the taller one’s shoulders.  

[ FIND ]  for the taller muse to lift the shorter one by the waist so they can reach something. 

[ EMBRACE ]  for the taller muse to lift the shorter muse off the ground when they hug. 

[ CATCH ]  for the shorter muse to run and jump into the taller muse’s arms. 

[ CARESS ]  for the taller muse to pick up the shorter one to kiss them. 

[ GIVE ]  for the shorter muse to stand or climb to sit on a higher surface to demand a kiss from the taller one. 

[  PULL  ]  for the shorter muse to tug the taller one down by the collar to kiss them. 

[ URGE ]  for the taller muse to tilt the shorter one’s chin up so they can look at their face. 

[ LOWER ]  for the taller muse to kneel in front of the shorter one so they’re less intimidating. 

[ HELP ]  for the taller muse to use the advantage of their stature to shield the shorter one from something. 

[ AID ]  for the taller muse to pick up the shorter one to lift them over something  (  stairs,  while hiking, a large puddle etc.  ). 

[ INSIST ]  for the shorter muse to guide the taller one to sit so they don’t have to keep looking up. 

[ COMFORT ]  for the taller muse to tuck their chin atop the shorter one’s head while they hug. 

[ MELT ]  for the taller muse to lean down so they can bury their face into the shorter one’s shoulder. 

[ GENTLE ]  for the smaller muse to hug the taller one while they are seated so the taller one can hide their face against them. 

[ BLOCK ]  for the taller muse to stand in front of the shorter one to prevent them from having to see something. 

[ CUDDLE ]  for the taller muse to the big spoon. 

[ HELD ]  for the shorter muse to be the big spoon. 

[ TENDER ]  for the taller muse to kiss the shorter one’s head while they embrace. 

[ GENTLE ]  for the shorter muse to kiss the taller one’s chest while they hug. 

[ REST ]  for the shorter muse to lean forward and press their forehead against the tall one’s chest/shoulder while they stand in front of each other. 

[ TOUCH ]  for the taller muse to lean down and press their forehead to the shorter one’s. 

[ PRESS ]  for the shorter muse to take hold of the taller one’s face to pull them down so they can press their foreheads together. 

[ GAZE ]  taller muse is sitting and the shorter one who is standing in front of them takes their face into their hands while they talk. 

[theyxlived]

Meme: send me a symbol for... Status: Open [ all muses ] URL: @morgansmornings​

1- 

Sometimes despite how everything about him says the opposite...it’s hard. The job is hard. Being who he is is hard. Because at the end of the day he goes home to an empty apartment doesn’t he? Neat and clean and everything in its place. Just the way he likes it. Work is work and the job is the job. A switch he can flip on and off and on again just as quick as his fingers snapping. But it’s still hard.

Hard the way the table between them is. Or at least if he thought to make that particular analogy. But he doesn’t. Extraordinary since of feel isn’t his wheelhouse. That’s some other asshole they dug out of the RAFT. So right now--all he can do is gauge the woman across the table. The one that’s looking at a little time out for the antics she’s being blamed for. One’s Zach isn’t convinced at all she’s responsible for.

But that’s why he’s here. To get to the bottom of it. So where he can hear his sister in the back of his brain telling him to show a little human compassion--there’s an internal glitch. One that’s only animated outwardly by the slightest of hitches to his otherwise painfully rhythmic pressing of each finger to his thumbs and dual clenching of fists.

It’s not going to kill you, Z. Honestly.

An involuntary tilt of his head. A few bones in his neck that crack. Fingers that hitch again. Almost as if they actually thought about--He shifts the glass of water closer to her instead.

           “You want to tell me your side of things, or are we just going to sit here like the Kurt and Khan remake?”

2-

It isn’t that he isn’t empathic. Isn’t that he sees her as any less than the next person. Isn’t...a whole hell of a lot of things. But the fact of the matter is he’s pretty secure in his estimation of her. How she was clearly someone that prefered to do things herself. Didn’t want help. Didn’t need it. Still it’s becoming increasingly painful to watch what’s unfolding before him occur without...doing something. And---

For fuck sake.

Hands that go for hers but then deviate at the last second. Wrap with only the needed amount of pressure around braces. The ones that are currently limiting her mobility just enough to make it impossible to tie her own god damn shoes. And they’re already going to be fifteen seconds late even with him helping. But fifteen seconds was better than fifteen minutes. Which is exactly the length of time he’s convinced its going to take her to accomplish just one set of shoe laces.

             “Let me.”

3-

Each finger is pressed against a thumb precisely twice in a row; both fists squeezed twice, rinse and repeat. He doesn’t like this. This inaction. This sitting and waiting. This trusting someone else to get shit done. This is why he’s gone through eight partners in the last few years. People make errors. Errors he doesn’t. Both because he’s more careful and precise but also because well...stopping time can help with a lot of things can’t it?

But right now that’s not something that will help this. And he can feel the seconds crawling by like rakes in his skin. It’s been too long. Something’s not right. And eventually---

          Will you come on!

His heart leaps right out of his chest. Reactive limbs going for a take down. But--his wrist gets caught dangerously close to a hand. A few seconds of eye to eye. A few seconds of stale mate. A few seconds that later he will not admit to anyone ever something in his insides went strange. Because maybe the vein crawling disgust skins meeting skin isn’t there and--

He pulls himself lose of her grip. A warning finger pointed at her, mere inches from her nose. The organ she displaced with her ninja like skills, getting swallowed down in the prelude of words.

           “Don’t do that.”

4-

Breakfast. Sometimes it isn’t glorious. Sometimes it isn’t even served on a plate. Sometimes it comes out of a paper bag with enough grease soaking the wrapping it’s going to take a seven mile run just to sweat it out. But food is necessity and sometimes cultured though he likes to think he is or not--you get what you can and you don’t complain.

Still he could have done with having separate fries. He hates sharing food. Makes his insides wiggle all kinds of wrong. But for now he’ll swallow it down with a burger thicker than time square crowds at new years. Flip open the file he needs to make sure he’s memorized every word of. And he’d just gotten to the good bit again when---

A record scratch. Finger tips meeting skin not poorly cut fried potato and he looks up. Hazel meeting brown. And for precisely eight point three seconds--he swears time stops without him telling it too. A weird knot in his stomach that isn’t exactly unpleasant. Kind of like free fall when he had to go through that jump school crash coarse. Not the greatest feeling in the world but not bad either. But then at eight point four seconds time catches up with itself and...

Fingers retract. Deviate to the other side of the fries pile. Brows knitting over hard hazel as he focuses back on the file before him. A fry plucked from the edge. He doesn’t venture for more after that. No matter how much fingers may itch to do the opposite. Itch in a way they haven’t in a while.

5-

A lot of things happen in the span of five seconds on a daily basis.  Peeling a banana for a morning boost shake. Wiping your plate down and putting it into the dishwasher instead of leaving it in the sink. Tying your shoes. Picking up your sunglasses and settling them on your head just right.  Locking and unlocking and locking and unlocking and locking the door when you leave for work.  Traffic lights changing from green to red.   

All things done on an everyday basis. Things he’s timed down to the second. But there are things that can happen in five seconds...that even he can’t slow down. Even he can’t grind to an unnatural halt. Not until its too late. And all he can do is deal with the fall out...literally.

Snap

And all of everything comes a grinding stop. Bits of fire frozen between flickers. Debris stilled in its missile like journey. Her stopped dead in her tracks. And it might be terrifying if he were to stop and think about it. But in the moment there’s no time for fear. Not of the situation nor of himself and what he’s done. What he’s going to do. Lifting her up from where she was meant to collide with the ground. Carrying her out of the blast radius. The damage already done surveyed. And he’ll never be able to say how he’d known to do it. What made him think of it...but as the world around them speeds up again--

There’s blood. Agony in sounds. Hands around his wrists and he doesn’t have a choice in the moment. Doesn’t think about the consequences, only acts. A hand to her wound and without having map nor key--he makes it all stop. All of her. Digs down to the very atoms that define her, halts everything. And the bleeding stops. As everything else around them crumbles--they remain. Removed from the spinning, and twisting disaster. Stillness. Silence. It takes two days to dig them out.

6-

It should have been telling. The fact that for hours he had sat there in a holding pattern. Dried blood on his shirt. Bits of it on his face. Underneath nails he hadn’t scrubbed clean. Telling that he had to be told to go get cleaned up. How his feet dragged to get to the showers one floor down. How long he had just stood in the jets of hot water. Auto pilot where even the ever unending count--felt muffled as much as it sounded that way. Where fingers and hands could barely do little else save repeat...

              repeat...

                            repeat...

                                          repeat.

That had been four days, six hours, twelve minutes, thirty-five seconds...thirty-six seconds....thirty-seven---ago and still counting. The quiet of the room echoes with each tick...tick...tick of his watch. The beep of machines carrying on in their otherwise silent duties. A gaze that focuses on the hands in his lap. The ones that had been caked in her blood days before. The ones that are still impossibly sore. Hurt worst if he stopped...repeat...repeat...repeat...repeat.

Hazels shut like tiny tomb doors. The ache in the back of his head, between his eyes coming and going like it has been doing in his hands. Trying to ignore it by thinking about other things. Things like how in the fuck all of it had gone so wrong so fast. Why he hadn’t seen it. Why he hadn’t stopped it. And there’s a tremor that runs through his skin. Ends at his finger tips, that curl into palms. Fists held for time outside of itself.

He’s stopped everything again without noticing it. At not until his heart beat starts hammer on the inside of his skull. Not until the silence grows so loud--

He’s sitting up. Sitting forward. Reaching through the bed rails. A last kind of hesitance, fingertips hovered just above her skin. And it is three heart beats exactly before he’s closing the distance. Slow and steady like one should do with a wild animal they don’t want to spook. But it’s not her he’s concerned with spooking now is it? Still the connection is made all the same. Settles. His hand covering hers, fingers tucked up underneath. And maybe in these moments he doesn’t consider the fact things start to ease. The ache in his bones and his skull. The need to repeat...repeat...repeat slowing to the crawl it usually is. And maybe...just maybe in a little while he’ll get some sleep. But for right now....

           “You got this, Spectre.”

[theyxlived]

Lucky Blue Smith