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#I’m about to test my luck....I have an idea.....we’re gonna turn the dials a little.....
saintprivateer · 3 years
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I've always thought of aaron as vronsky as my ideal nikolai and now you have given him a stache!!!!!
i mEAN
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YES thats one of the pics I referenced actually! 😂 I had a post somewhere here that showed some visuals I had in my head of Nik but I dunno what happened to it 😔🤘
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shurisneakers · 3 years
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harmless (viii)
Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)
Warnings: cursing, protesting, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, gamer (derogatory), smidge of angst
Word count: 3.5k
A/N: listen idk what goes on at construction site and im too sexy to research so we’re going with my version of the world. hello. how are we all doing?
here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333
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Previous Part || Series Masterlist
He doesn’t expect to see you on TV. 
In jail maybe, for something scandalous and completely unnecessary, but not TV.
But there you are, a sign board waving around furiously in your hand, voice in protest against the demolition of the community centre. You’re flipping the board back and forth to alternate between the messages you’ve scrawled on the cardboard.
You were among a few protesting, but clearly the loudest. 
He thinks that maybe he has the weekend off if you’re too busy fighting big corporations. He’d send his support even.
Until he zeroes in on the sign when it flips over, finally reading what it says.
You better get your ass here, sarge
And so he does.
Half the crowd had dipped by the time he arrived. You were there, still the loudest, but he couldn’t help but notice the lack of people as compared to an hour or two ago on TV. He supposed that justice could wait as long as it took to get lunch from the nearest café.
“I can’t stop you from protesting, y’know.” He’s a little wary of approaching your raging self. 
“Oh, hey Barnes. You got my message.” You break away for a second to scream a bunch of obscenities at the gigantic glass building before turning to him. “You wouldn’t be able to.”
“What’s your dumb plan then?” 
“First of all, it’s not dumb. It’s stupid. Put some respect on my technological genius.” You held up a finger. “Second of all, it’s not here.”
“Where is it?” 
“At the construction site.” You point down the road. “Come on.”
Right along the way you stop to chant another slogan. He waves his arm around meekly in support. He did, after all, have to stand up for what was right, but if his publicist saw him here she’d have an aneurysm. 
The construction site isn’t very far off. It’s adjacent to the community centre, which he assumes they’re going to tear down to make more space for whatever shitty commercial building was going to take its place.
There are already a few excavators and dozers there but no one to man them since it was lunch time. What garners his attention is the small silver plate that’s on the floor a few feet ahead in the direction you’re walking towards.
“Here.” You stop once it nears. “The plan.”
“Am I supposed to know what this is?” He lightly kicked at it, earning a smack on the arm from you.
“Stop that,” you scolded, “and look at it. It’s not hard to figure out.”
He narrows his eyes. There’s a small u-shaped piece of metal in the middle of the plate. “That’s a magnet.”
“Exactly.” You clapped your hands together in excitement. “The world’s strongest electromagnet.”
He looks around. The only possibly magnetic things are the cranes and excavators around him.
“You’re going to... stop the machines from moving ahead?” he hesitates in his deduction. 
“Yep. Can’t tear anything down if they can’t get to it first.” 
Bucky looks down.
“Does this thing even work?” He toes at it again. “It’s kinda small.”
“It works beautifully, stop kicking at it, you demon-”
“What happens if I step on it, huh?” He knows this would get on your nerves wonderfully. He raises his leg. “Do I get to go home for the day?”
“You’re such a little shit,” you whine, reaching for your back pocket. “Stop bullying my invention.”
“’m gonna squish it like a bug.” He’s only half kidding about that part. “I’m gonna-”
Before he can finish his sentence something yanks him down hard. His head nearly hits the ground before his right arm shoots out to break his fall.
"Woah there, don't go falling for me as yet.” 
“What the fu-” he begins, eyes locking on his metal arm that was pressed flat against the earth.
“I told you it works,” you say smugly. “Try crushing it now, Barnes. If you can even get off the floor.”
He tugs his hand but it’s firmly attached to the thing. No matter how or where he’s applying the effort, his limb refuses to move. He’s stuck.
“Turn it off,” he sighs. “You made your point.”
“No. Stay there.”
“Y/N, shut up and turn this off,” he groans, trying to find a better position rather than chin down on the ground.
“Lay there and rot. You deserve it for underestimating me.” You huff.
“I wasn’t underestimating you, Jesus Christ.” He really was planning to just step on it, but he had complete faith that it worked. 
When he doesn’t receive a reply, his gaze follows yours. Suddenly the crane looks a lot closer than it initially did. Awesome. 
“Those are moving towards me.” He picks up on the low groan and creak of metal.
“Yeah, they are.” You nod, one hand on your hip, watching them.
He didn’t think that getting crushed under construction equipment would be how his day went. 
“Not my problem,” you decide finally after a bout of silence. 
Now that simply wouldn’t do. 
Death was definitely a problem, but what was more important was that he was going to get a dust allergy from the mud. He could already feel the blocked nose and temperature incoming.
“Are you really going to waste this on me? Don’t you have a demolition to stop?” He manages to twist his body so that he’s lying on his back.
“Good point,” you squint into the distance at the whirring of the heavy machinery. Their owners wouldn’t be happy to find them missing from their original spot. “But I still can’t help you out.”
“You’re willing to sacrifice your-”
“I can’t help you out because I don’t have an off switch. Yet,” you add the last part in a hurry.
“Then when the fuck were you planning to build one?” He sits up, leaning on his elbow. The cranes weren’t a mini object on the horizon now; the closer they got, the faster they were starting to move towards him. 
“I don’t know, after they agreed not to take down the building?”
He could just detach his arm and come back for it later he but had no guarantee that you would stop here for the day or that the vibranium could withstand all that pressure. 
“You better make a switch right now and get me out of this, I don’t care how.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you grumbled, bending to assess how badly he was stuck. “You know, this thing runs really deep into the earth. It’d take forever to dig back up and then get you back to my lab and then build a switch.”
“How long?” He didn’t have a lot of time, clearly, but even generally he didn’t have the whole day to waste. He had a mission the next day. He had to put the fear of death into some Russians and bring some pirozhki back for Nat. 
“I don’t know,” you furrowed your eyebrows. “Too long for my schedule anyway, I have class prep to do.”
“Motherfucke- that thing’s like twenty feet away.” He’s worried about how you don’t look fazed at all when he points at the stupid machine.
He’s about to volunteer to detach his arm when he realises it’s definitely less than twenty feet now. He had a backup just in case. It didn’t move as smoothly, but who could tell the difference when a couple of tons of pressure was aiming for your face, and hell, if he explained his circumstances of the destruction of his arm to T’Challa-
“Okay, fine.” You reach into your backpack to grab something that looked like a wrist watch. It matched the one already around your hand. 
You reach over and clasp it around his hand before turning a dial on the side.
“You ready?” you ask, ignoring the large crane that was starting to charge towards you. 
“For what?” he replies, looking down at it. He can barely hear you over the sound of the whining of machinery.  
“Teleportation, baby.” You send him a big grin before slamming down on his watch.
“Huh-” His voice cuts off immediately. 
If there’s anything that can be said about teleportation, it’s that he feels like every atom in his entire body violently splits to float around briefly before suddenly rejoining again.  
The ground beneath him feels different, and it takes him a second to realise that he was on the floor of your lair. 
“What the fu-”
“Hello,” your voice comes from above him. 
“You can teleport.” It’s not difficult for him to look at you now without the sun in his face. His arm is still stuck to the magnet but since the giant rod it was attached to was no longer deep in the ground, he could lift the entire apparatus up relatively easily.
“What, like it’s hard?” You discarded your bag on the floor. “You good? Takes a while to get used to.”
He gives you a grunt in acknowledgement, shaking his arm to see if he had any luck. It didn’t budge.
“Come on, take a seat.” You gesture to a lab chair you’ve pulled up for him on the raised platform at the front of the room. He realises that this is the first time he’s properly seen what’s actually inside your lair.
There are various buttons that do God knows what, drawers and cabinets painted black, several computer screens and gigantic pillars of glass on either side of the set up that encapsulate some green bubbling liquid. There’s a giant television set up against the wall, divided into several screens.
“Whaddya think?” You do a small swoop of your arm to show off the place.
“Gamer,” he says simply, testing his luck.
“What did you just say to me?” you recoil instantly, disgust on your face.
“It’s a gamer set up.” He points a finger at the TV screen. He was told by Shuri to use it as an insult, but he wasn’t exactly sure why. It just felt appropriate. 
“Take that back right now.” You raise a finger accusatorially at him.
“No.” He was sticking with it even though he had no idea what exactly the context was.
“Fuck your arm,” you announce, throwing your hands up in surrender.
“Fuck your demolition then,” he replies simply, getting up from his place on the chair to leave with the thing still attached to him. 
He takes one step ahead before your voice rings out.
“Sit down, drama queen,” your voice calls from behind him. “God, you’re annoying.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I’m the best part of your week,” you fire back, ”and also your only way out of this. Now sit down.”
He didn’t even need the second warning, he was already on the chair the first time around.
“I’m not going to build a switch to turn this off. It’d take too long,” you examine the piece of equipment with more gentleness than he was expecting, “I’m going to remove it instead. It’s gonna take a while, so you better get comfortable.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s so sad,” you say without any indication of wanting to help. 
He rolls his eyes.
You pull up next to him, welding glasses covering your face and the tool in your hand. 
He turns away when you start, making sure his face is not directly within its trajectory. 
He makes himself busy by looking around some more. There are details you’ve put into the place, materials that are non-flammable made up most of the architecture. It’s dramatic, sure, but somehow the designs and colours seemed to go together. It did look sinister, he’d give you props for that.
The space was quite big. It occurs to him only then that that’s how you manage to sneak up on him so often in the past. Everything clicked. Fucking teleportation.
“So,” your voice was raised to speak over the noise. “How’s it going?”
He decidedly doesn’t answer. His position is more than enough.
“Right.” You clear your throat. 
He takes to counting the tiles on the floor, figuring out how many were there from the raised platform to the wall of the entrance. 
“Not how you imagined your day to go, huh?” you continued despite his lack of response. “But some might say it’s a privilege to be spending the day with a cool, mad scie-”
“Are you going to keep talking?” he interrupts, losing his count on the floor.
“Yeah, duh,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You got anything better to do?”
He didn’t. 
“What’s it like living with a bunch of superheroes?” You change course. He’s not sure if he’s really allowed to disclose top secret information. “I assume there’s a lot of protein shakes, talcum powder for the chafing-”
Then again, how much damage could you do by knowing that Steve preferred pancakes over waffles?
“It’s quiet,” he says. “Most of the time.”
“Save all your smart talking for the battlefield, huh?” 
He doesn’t reply. It’s quiet around the Tower. A lot of their energy goes towards missions and recuperating once they’re back. 
“You go on missions a lot?” 
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Boo, you whore,” you say with mock disappointment.
He got that reference.
“What’s your favourite food then?”
He scrunches his eyebrows.
“What?” The welding stops for a second while you look at him. “Don’t tell me that’s classified too.”
It’s not, he’s just never thought about it. 
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, “Pasta?”
“Vague, but I’ll take it.”
He used to boil a lot of pasta, from what he could remember of his days in hiding. Cheap and bought in bulk before he saved up enough to buy things like fruits. A lot of the times the amount of sauce he had access to was enough for maybe seasoning, not a whole component on its own. 
It’s one of the perks of being a free man in the 21st century he thinks, a steaming bowl of fettuccini drenched in sauce and garlic bread on the side. 
“What do you do in your downtime?”
“Nothing.” Well, he considers it to be a pass time and doing nothing is a full time gig. It takes effort to do nothing. He even has days dedicated to doing nothing, as suggested to him by his therapist.
“Really?” You sound a little surprised, although it’s hard to make out when you’re already speaking a lot louder than usual. “No shining your penny collection? No software update for this thing?” You tap at his arm. 
There really isn’t anything. Truth be told, he thinks he’s the most boring guy in the Tower. He sticks to himself, has a few succulents that he adores and occasionally watches trashy television. So then why are you so interested in him?
“You’re obsessed with me,” he says pointedly. “Why?”
You give a short laugh. “I think it’s the blue eyes, sarge, they’re really popping today. Gotta say, I’m loving this colour on you. Is it different from the black you wore last week? And from the one from the week before that?”
He looks down at his dark t-shirt and utility pants. He had other clothes but those were reserved for things that were not this.
“Or maybe it’s the grumpiness, I don’t know. I love it when someone shows absolutely no interest in me. Very sexy of you.” Oh jeez, you were going to continue. “Hell, maybe it’s the thighs-”
“Okay,” he interjects, feeling the need to count the tiles more than ever. He equates the heat in his neck from the welding going on beside him. 
The loudness of your laughter is clearer than the sound of metal on metal when you tug a large piece of the invention off. Things were moving fast. He could get back home to his Star Trek marathon and forget this day ever happened.
“You know, you’re more interesting than you think,” you pipe up casually. 
He doesn’t expect this and therefore he supposes he can’t stop the curiosity from enveloping his face. He hasn’t told you anything about himself, so then the inference you reached came out of nowhere.
Apparently, you take notice of the confusion on his face, even though he can’t see through the giant welding mask, because you let out a chuckle. 
“Oh, come on, really? You have no idea?” you ask lightly, pausing to see if he offers anything other than silence. “You’ve come back almost every week even though you know it’s a waste of your time, you always keep your promises and I know for a fact that if you wanted to stop me once and for all, you could have. But you’re not.”
He doesn’t realise you’ve stopped welding until you start again. Good, it gives him an excuse not to have to look at you after that. 
Frankly, he’s a little stunned.
You’re not looking at him, he can tell from his peripheral vision. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a small crush on me.”
At that, he’s forced to roll his eyes out of instinct. Thankfully you do know better.
A few screws out later, another piece comes out. You inform him that’s it’s going to get trickier from there since the circuit was a little more intricate, a lot more time than the original few pieces. He can see his Star Trek marathon fade away in the distance.
You ask him a few more questions. Some he answers with silence, others maybe a tidbit here and there. 
“How’s dating now compared to the forties?”
“Strange.” He purses his lips in thought. “One guy asked for a gym date. Didn’t know that was a thing.”
“How’d that turn out?” you laugh.
“He didn’t ask for a second one.” His Bumble matches with girls somehow had gone down since he cut his hair, but he’s not too bothered. Not like there was a huge shortage. 
He likes cats, thinks the worst merchandise that they make is the stupid baseball card with his face on it, and doesn’t have social media for the sake of his sanity. He’s seen the thirst tweets. 
Clearly, he’s revealed his deepest, darkest secrets. Utterly classified material. But he doesn’t know anything about you other than your name, number, address, where you teach, what your hobby is-
“You, uh-” he hesitates, “You got a favourite food?”
Your hands hold still to hover above what they’re working on. You fight back a smile. “Sure do.”
He asks a few more questions. Shuts up when he feels his social battery drain. That’s enough for the next month, he thinks.
The sun’s dipped down beyond the horizon by the time majority of the work is completed. Both of you have taken a few breaks to fight the feeling of stiffness that was creeping into your joints. 
You scoff and tell him you’re not planning to poison him when he denies the offer of a soda. He doesn’t deter in his decision.
“How much to go?” He has a mission tomorrow that he’d really like to get some sleep in before. Waking up at 3am to get ready was the worst part of the job. 
“Basically done.” You roll your chair back, rotating your shoulder and stretching your fingers. “There’s just this little part that I can’t access from this angle. How good are you at hanging upside down like a bat?”
Fuck it, he sighs to himself, it was almost finished anyway.
Bucky stands up, tilting his neck to the side slightly before pulling at a small latch under his arm, one so tiny that you’d never make out was even there unless you knew it existed. The arm releases from his shoulder with a small click.
He offers it to you, a piece of your magnet still attached to it.
Your eyes are slightly wide. He raises his eyebrows.
You don’t say anything, just accept it and flip it to a position you were comfortable with. It takes only a minute or two for the sound of the last piece hitting the floor to reverberate through the hall.
You give a small cheer. He lets out a tiny exhale in equal parts fatigue and relief.
“So,” you drawl, handing his arm back to him, “you could have just done that the whole time.”
He doesn’t reply, just slides it back onto his shoulder. 
“You had the option of leaving your arm here and coming back later to get it.” 
He gives it a few shakes, opens and clenches his fist shut a few times to make sure everything is working.
“You wanted to talk to me.”
He gives you a deadpan look. “I was distracting you.”
“Bullshit,” you laugh.
“Believe what you must.” He shrugs, turning around. “My job here is done regardless.”
“Oh, I believe alright,” you call out from behind him as he walks towards the entrance of your lair. “I believe you’re a sneaky bastard, Bucky Barnes.”
He doesn’t stop himself from smiling at the overdramatic gasp you give when he flips you a middle finger. From the metal arm, too. 
Next part
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fuckyeahharryhart · 3 years
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KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE, IN MY AU, HARRY HART WOULD STILL BE A BADASS WHEN THEY FIND OUT HE’S ALIVE. HE’S JUST A BAD ASS WITH NO MEMORY
IN MY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - this is what happened when they found Harry. And Roxy is alive, cause “what the hell?” And basically is an excuse for me to thirst on Colin Firth as Harry Hart, who will always be a badass gentleman spy, memory or no.
Merlin, Eggsy and Roxy survived the explosions that destroyed Kingsman. Following the clues from their doomsday protocol, the three of them traveled to Kentucky to Statesman HQ.
They are confronted by Agent Tequila where they try to explain what they are doing there. Tequila does not believe them. He disarms and disables them. The scene begins in Statesman underground holding room. Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin wake up to find that they are bound and restrained.
(apologies in advance for grammar, spelling, format. First draft, secondish draft. Just did one quick read-through and fixed most of the glaring errors.
PS I kinda nerded out with the amnesia and weapons research) 
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The room remained vague and shadowy. Eggsy fought against a heaviness that kept his eyes closed. He tried again to blink them open. No such luck. They were uncooperative. Moving on. Assessing what little he could, he tested the restraints that bound him to a cold metal chair both at the wrists and ankles. Zip ties. Cheap and easy, but harder to release from than traditional handcuffs. He tried anyway. And then a second time, only with more force. Nothing. He willed himself to relax. If he couldn’t get free with brute force, it was time to get creative. Switch to strategy and problem solving. At least try to figure out what the hell was going on and why a souped up cowboy was holding them hostage. 
His training, his instincts wanted to kick in regardless of the fact that he was restrained. He ran through his checklist anyway. Scan and clear the room. Assess the threat. Spot entrances and exits. Locate the nearest weapon. It didn’t necessarily need to be a gun. Any object that could possibly disable an enemy would suffice.
It was infuriating that he was unable to proceed with his training. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was a moot point anyway, nothing of him seemed to be responding to his commands. His surroundings remained a bleary haze. His brain still foggy, was trying to catch up.
The renegade cowboy that had disarmed and disabled Eggsy, Roxy and Merlin, was waiting rather patiently for them to wake up. That is, until the point he was no longer patient and decided to empty a bottle of perfectly good whiskey on Eggsy and Merlin. As he considered himself a gentleman, he spared Roxy.
 It was unsettling how he took the three of them down so easily. Eggsy reasoned that they certainly weren’t at their best. Shit had gone down in the last 24 hours and they were damn tired.
Eggsy and Merlin sputtered in protest. 
“So good of you to join us.” The cowboy’s tone was relaxed and untroubled.
He took a casual stance and leaned up against the wall like he was just waiting for something interesting to happen.
His head cocked to the right. “Now where was I?”
 Nodding to himself, “Oh yeah”, he said, as if he just remembered something fascinating. His fingers snapped together with a sharp click. “You were just about to tell me who ya’ll were and how the hell you found us.” He mentioned this as if he were waiting for them to describe what they ate for breakfast and whether or not they had enjoyed it.
The disparity between his gregarious tone, his friendly manner, and the slightly hostile glint in his eyes was disconcerting.
He crossed his legs on the other side and tipped his head to the left.
“Anytime ya’ll are ready to start talkin’, Im all ears.”
They had already tried to explain what happened to their headquarters. Well, their tailor shop backstop. How likely was it that generations of tailors had passed down a secret doomsday protocol for survivors in case of complete destruction? Of their tailor shop? Eggsy had to admit, as a story, it positively wreaked implausibility. But it was true, aside from replacing their secret intelligence agency with a bespoke suit business. 
From the cowboys perspective, it would seem kind of insulting that they expected the him to buy their story. Actually, It would seem pretty insulting to expect anyone with the most basic cognitive skills believe it. The problem was that, as ridiculous as story was, it was, in fact, the truth.
Eggsy didn’t have any more to say. Roxy, who would probably take him down if given half the chance, wisely remained quiet. Merlin’s furrowed brow meant that he most likely had a bloody lot to say, but nothing that would improve their situation. 
They had reached an impasse. 
The cowboy regarded them thoughtfully from under his Stetson, wide brimmed hat. 
“We don’t have folks from your neck of the woods in these parts that often.” His lips pursed in thought.
“I would reckon once every year or so, some might pass through here that sound like y’all. Why,” nodding his head confirming his own information. “I think it was just about a year ago, we had someone drop in unexpectedly.” 
He gazed up and to the right, as if recalling a memory. Maybe y’ll know him.” He said, his eyes falling back on them.
Merlin. “I highly doubt that.”
The cowboy drew back slightly, irked by their obstinance. These brits were stubborn as all get out. Did they seriously expect him to believe their doomsday protocol story? What was this? Were they on some kind of scavenger hunt?
“I just find it awfully convenient that you just “happened” to find this bottle of whiskey with our name on it. Right after your entire “shop” exploded with ALL it’s employees and everyone who worked there. Every single person who knows you, gone with it. That would be mighty upsettin’ if I was in ya’lls shoes.” He tried on a little sympathy for size. Nope, didn’t fit. He continued with his slight undertone of sarcasm. 
 “Can’t even make a call to see if anyone can vouch for y’alls.” Such a shame, he thought. Alrightly, he’d just keep talkin’ at ‘em until one of them slipped up or said something interesting.
He could talk into the night for all he cared. “Not even anythin’ left to take with you. Except a couple of watches that can unlock a biometric security system.” Now this was legitimately irritating. 
“Why would some little ole tailors shop need to have a biometric security system? I mean, ya’ll look mighty fine in them suits and spectacles, but sorry to say, not that fine.”
He used this opportunity to break out one of his favourite southern idioms. “You see, that dog don’t hunt.” He amused himself.
“Look.” Said the Scotsman. “We have no idea what you are talking about. The only reason we are here is because we found one of your bottles.” 
He nodded his head in understanding, before pressing his lips together, this time doubtfully twisting them to the side.
“See, here’s the thing. Lots and lots of folks have our bottles. Ain’t none of them ever broken into our maximum security “warehouse” before.”
“You’re looking for the Brit, ain’t ya? “His eyes narrowed. “And now why would that be?”
Merlin’s brow furrowed even deeper. “We still don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was reaching the far ends of his exasperation. “We do not know anyone here. Quite sorry to say, but we have never heard of Statesmen before. In our part of the world, we prefer a single malt scotch. No offence.”
“None taken.” He said pleasantly.
The cowboy pushed himself off the wall.
“Well,” he huffed, “It seems we’re at a stalemate.”
The cowboy continued to study them as he spoke.
“Ya’ll telling’ me a story you say is the truth.”
He shook his head in disappointment, feigning sadness. “And I just don’t believe ya. Now we could go round n round like this until we’re all blue in the face. But that sounds like a waste of time to me.”
“If we ain’t getting anywhere like this, might be time to switch things up a bit?”
“Ya’ll say you don’t know the Brit. But I’m thinkin’ y’all should talk to him. Might be able to make some sense out of what’s comin’ out of your mouth ‘cause I just don’t get it.”
Silence from the three of them. Well, weren’t they a stubborn bunch. 
The man sighed dramatically and shrugged his wide shoulders. 
“Well, it appears you wont be cooperatin’ with me. I think it’s about time ya’ll talk to someone else cause I sure aint getting’ nowhere with ya. But I don’t know if you’re gonna wanna talk to him.”  
He regarded them sympathetically. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that table when he’s the one asking questions. Ya’ll might be wish’n to see my pretty face again.”
Three almost identically frustrated faces looked back at him.
“Word is round here, don’t matter what you won’t say to me.” 
He started ambling across in front of them, from wall to wall in slow, measured steps. 
“What matters is what y’all gonna to say to HIM.” He stopped mid-stride, turned toward them. 
“Now, I’ve seen him doin’ his thing, right?  Believe me, he’ll have ya talkin’ in ways you can’t even imagine.” He continued along his thoughtful line, turning away from them.
He began to let the heel of his boots scuff the floor with every step. “You wont even be able to shut up, ya’ll talk so much.” He spoke over his shoulder. “ Tellin’ him things you ain’t even tell your mama.”
No response from the three Kingsman.
He turned toward Roxy. “My apologies little lady, but here at Statesman?  Guys and gals? We’re all on equal footing.” He had the gall to wink at her. “No matter what our name says.” 
He hooked his thumbs under this belt and hitched the whole get up, flask holster and all, up his non existent hips. 
“I hate to see a pretty miss like you have to go down with the likes of them.” He tilted his head in the direction of Merlin and Eggsy. “But, at Statesman, no special treatment for the fillies.”
Roxy proceeded to murder him with her eyes.
Absurdly, he decided it was a good and proper time to dial up the charm.  “Say, you don’t wanna tell me what you and your boys were up to here? I’m pretty sure you’re the one keeping these fellas in line.”
Her eyes were wide and fierce. It turned out that Roxy no longer needed to blink. 
“That’s quite a look you’re thrown’ at me.” The cowboy smirked.
“Well, I’m really sorry. I apologise for this, but ya’ll don’t give me no other choice.” 
He turned toward the side and pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket. The lenses were shaded to a dusky gold. He unfolded them, put them on and tapped the side of the lens. 
“Ya there?” He spoke into the air.
Evidently the glasses were a communications device and he received an answer in return. He nodded to himself. “Yep, affirmative.” 
There was another brief pause as he listened to the person on the other side. “Roger that.” He turned off the communication by tapping the side of the lens a second time. 
He looked at them almost sympathetically. “It looks we ARE gonna find out what happens when we change things up a bit.”
He walked over to the frosted panel window and flipped a switch.
Roxy, Merlin and Eggsy were momentary blinded by a brilliant white light. So bright and unexpected that they had to turn away. They squinted against the flare as coloured spots tripped behind their eyelids. They continued to blink until their eyes adjusted to the intensity of the new light. 
What they saw as the opacity of the glass dissolved… Well, to say they were ill prepared would be the understatement to understate all statements.
It couldn’t be.
It was utterly impossible.
But there he was. 
Outlined by a dazzling white light. 
Unmistakable.
It was Harry Hart.
The agents tried to gather their collective wits like they were trying to herd cats. It was nearly impossible. Harry disappeared from view. Sharp, tell tale footsteps could be heard walking down the short distance from the viewing area to their holding room. 
Between the three of them, none had taken a single breath from the moment Harry Hart appeared behind the glass.
For Eggsy, a white hot wave surged through his body and seared him from his finger tips to his toes. He could even hear the heat ringing in his ears. It was a high pitched whine that reverberated from one side of his head to the other. He had no control over his physical response. Any authority that he may have had, dissipated with the frosted glass. Apparently, his body knew exactly what to do, because it was doing its own thing, without any input from him. He set his thoughts aside and let his body do whatever it felt the need to. He was fairly certain he was exhibiting the physical signs of shock. He felt pale, his hands were damp and clammy. He felt weirdly mortified. He might as well be naked, for he felt exposed to the deepest, most secret recesses of his soul. Places that had no business being brought to light. 
He felt laughter bubble up through watery eyes he didn’t even know if he could call tears. For joy? Sheer bewilderment? Whatever the reason, his eyes were leaking. The buzzing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he felt sure he was about to pass out. He wanted to drop his head between his legs, but he didn’t dare pull his gaze away from the door he knew Harry Hart would enter from. He didn’t dare blink. Let alone look away. 
His ears burned, his cheeks flamed red and splotchy. It was as if he was caught off guard doing the most embarrassing thing he could think of, just times a billion and witnessed by everyone from his mum to his kindergarten teacher, not to mention every famous person that he had a crush on or looked up to and the whole mortifying episode was being televised live around the world. 
Whatever he was experiencing, it was nearly unbearable. Like suffocating and hyperventilating at the same time. Was that even possible? His heart had either stopped or was beating so rapidly that it felt as if it was hardly beating at all. Which seemed feasible as most of his blood had pooled in his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Surely, there was none flowing to his brain. It had signed out for the moment. It certainly wasn’t sticking around to see what was coming next. 
 He tried to arrange his face into the shape he thought would be appropriate for when his mentor, who he saw get shot point blank in the face, a man who died over a year ago, who he had spent what felt like a lifetime grieving, materialise as an interrogator for a covert cowboy secret agency in Kentucky. He couldn’t imagine what an acceptable face would look like in that situation, so he assumed that his face had no expression at all. It was the best he could do. 
He didn’t even posses the wherewithal to see how his partners where faring. He hoped that they were in a more presentable state. He moved his mouth to form words, but nothing came out. He tried clearing his throat, but it was dry and papery. Apparently, whatever autonomous system that controlled his salivary glands also decided that this whole situation was bullshit and decided to check out, too.
The track of the footsteps, even now so familiar, paused at the door. The handle turned with a weighty click. 
He didn’t have the brain capacity to even imagine what would happen next.
The only thing in his head were three letters. And they weren’t  ABC. 
They were W. T. F.
The door opened. 
They saw the man who had once been the foundation of their agency. 
The man who had once been its living and breathing heart and soul. 
How long had it been since he last thought of Harry Hart? After the initial grief, the denial, the anger, and finally, the acceptance, the loss became a dull ache.  Though tolerable, it never went away. They never found his body, but he didn’t have hope that Harry would ever return. He saw the shot that took his life. Even the best agent had no way of possibly surviving a point blank shot to the face. Harry fell where he had once stood. He didn’t get back up. And like that, Harry Hart was gone.
In the aftermath of V-day, Eggsy and the others didn’t have a chance to even stop and think about what happened to Harry, let alone process the loss. That came after. In the moments when time slowed down, things got quiet, and they no longer had the urgency of missions to distract them from the loss or to use as a vehicle for their anger and rage at the unfairness of it all.  
Eggy’s pain was not only due to the loss of his mentor, but also from the fact that he never got to tell the man just how important he was to him. Their final conversation repeated in his head, over and over, on endless loop. The last words that he had exchanged with Harry were harsh and accusatory. How much he wished that that conversation had not been their last. What wouldn’t he give to say the rest of the words that were caught in his throat. To finally release them. To say he was sorry. But the chance never came and the words clung to him, never to be spoken.
A tall man in a dark pinstripe suit entered the room.
At first glimpse, he was their Harry Hart. As perfect as they imagined and just as they all remembered him. Only on closer inspection did they notice small, but significant details that would indicate otherwise.
He was wearing what looked like the exact same suit he “died” in. But this one didn’t show any of the wear and damage that was sure to have happened in that final, brutal rampage. Either Statesman had an excellent tailor repair the original suit, or more likely, Harry had his suit replicated. 
The details were exacting as they had always been. The tie with the Windsor knot. The pristine white spread collar and crisp pocket square. French cuffs that were still held by the Kingsman cuff links. 
His standard horn rimmed communication glasses had been modified. The left lens was now shaded a solid black. There was an additional piece that covered his peripheral vision from the edge of the lens to the end of the arm on his left side.
How was it possible that he stood before them, as handsome and regal as ever? Hell, the man could even make a blacked out eye look distinguished. It added to his air of gravitas.
A curious pair of black cowboy boots with elaborate stitching, stood out from below the mid-break of his trousers. The footsteps they heard in the hallway didn’t come from his standard oxfords.
Neither did they see the familiar Kingsman standard issue pistol he would always pack without fail. In his right hand, held down by his side, he toted a nickel plated Colt Single Action Army revolver modified with a double barrel. He carried it by its smooth, wooden grip.
But he did walk with the same measured strides, familiar in pace and sound. Harry took his place in front of them as the cowboy found a space off to the side. 
They wore their incredulity in silence.  Words were insignificant compared to this impossible occasion. Words that would adequately express their turmoil did not exist. Merlin looked like he was trying to deconstruct a complex algorithm in his head. Roxy looked, he imagined bizarrely, like she had just been denied an orgasm. Where the hell did that come from? Eggsy fairly certain he looked like a bloody idiot.
And so they waited. 
Familiar, golden brown eyes, well, eye now, gazed over them. Making and then holding eye contact with each of them in the way they had always remembered he would when he required their full attention.
They searched his eyes and face for recognition. To see any kind of dawning realization that he knew who they were. Merely seeing Harry, alive and mostly whole, was something that was unfathomable to them. 
Finally, Harry spoke.
The vibration of his voice was able to resonate through their shocked and dampened senses. It was a deep and calming sound. Smooth, measured tones with an aristocratic accent that clipped his words. Vibrant. It was a voice that was warm, safe and familiar. It was a voice that sounded like home.
What was completely baffling were the words that beautiful voice said. 
“Please excuse my dreadful manners. But I don’t believe we have properly met.”
They turned and glanced at each other in confusion. What the hell? Surely there had to be some part of Harry that recognized them. At least Merlin, with whom he shared a history going back over twenty years. 
“Harry. It’s us.” Merlin implored. “We’re not undercover. Right now, we’re not anything. That’s why we came here.” 
“Harry.” Merlin’s voice was touched with sorrow. “Kingsman is gone.”
Harry’s face remained impassive. The spark of recognition remained unfired. There was no hint of softening, no warmth, no glint that told them, “Not to worry. Everything is under control.”  
Harry confirmed. “Yes, I had the pleasure of hearing your story.” He leaned back against the wall and took a casual stance. Crossing his legs in front of him much like Tequila did.  He placed a hand in a pocket. The other gripped the Colt lightly.
“It’s quite interesting.” He looked thoughtful. “And particularly unfortunate that this Kingsman Tailoring “Agency” that you speak of, was completely and utterly destroyed. How unfortunate that the three of you happen to be the only survivors.” 
Time paused with him as he contemplated this thought for awhile.
“It would seem rather convenient, on the other hand, for that gives us absolutely no way to possibly verify your doomsday scenario.” 
The disappointment on his face hit them with a guilt that was worse than his impassivity. 
“And why, all of a sudden, after a year, would not only one, but three mysterious Brits arrive here at Statesman, of all the places in the world, for no other reason than a bottle telling them to.” 
Beseechingly, Eggsy replied. “Harry, we don’t understand what’s happening. We thought that you had died when Valentine shot you outside the church.”
Harry’s face suddenly hardened. Slowly he pulled himself up to his full height.
“How could you possibly know that?” The air around them became sharp with tension. 
How did they end up on the wrong side of the interrogation table? They had never seen Harry from this perspective. But they had witnessed him work targets before. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.
As Harry continued, his voice remained very calm and very steady. 
“No one. Pardon me. I should clarify. No one alive except Statesman has that knowledge. Not even I had that knowledge in the beginning.”
Instantly, it was crucial that no one speak out of turn. Harry’s voice had taken on a tone that was flat and affectless.  They had rarely heard it before, but they knew it was dangerous to be on the receiving end of that dull and indifferent voice. 
Harry was walking his edge. And Harry on the edge was not someone you wanted to push. To anyone else, he would have appeared unchanged. But he had the sharp glint in his eye, the set to his jaw, and the steely note to his voice that betrayed he was very, very angry. They only knew this because of their history with him. It was critical to tread very lightly. 
Eggsy words were dressed with caution. 
“Harry, you were at the church, “he emphasised, “on behalf of Kingsman.” He carefully walked through a minefield of words, wary of any misstep that would trigger Harry’s anger in their direction.
“We knew that Richmond Valentine was up to no good. You were assigned the mission to find out exactly what he was planning. You flew to Kentucky. Valentine was testing his SIM card transmitter on the people in the church. You were there as well. Even though you didn’t have a SIM card, the transmission was strong enough to affect everyone, whether they had a SIM card or not.”
 “Merlin and I were on the communication feed. We saw everything…. You were affected by the sound waves, too… You had no control…” He wasn’t sure how to continue, but he definitely didn’t want to mention the number of people Harry had killed.
Merlin spoke on his behalf. “Eggsy’s right. We saw you confront Valentine. We saw him shoot you in the head. We thought that you had died. The bullet destroyed the communication feed or else it would have transmitted…” he paused. “Proof of life, or confirmation of death.” 
Harry reflected. “Yes, I did almost die on that day.”
Eggsy and Merlin flinched.
“It was only through, whatever would like to call it, luck, perhaps fate. Regardless, it was Statesman that located me. They were able to save my life. I owe them. I am a man who honors his debts.”
The room prickled with silence. They dared not say more until they were able to see more of the landscape they were trying to traverse. It was littered with threats.
Harry, now pacing in slow, steady strides, continued. “With all the resources you say this Kingsman agency had, how surprising that it had to be strangers that came to my aid. Otherwise,” he recalled, “I would be, quite dead.” 
The three of them realised they were on eggshells atop a minefield. Never before had they been confronted by Harry in this manner. Never before had they even witnessed Harry in this state. They were uncertain of what to do when faced with this degree of suspicion and mistrust from a man, who in the past, would have given his life to save any of theirs.
When no one spoke, he began to ruminate. “At Statesman, we knew that it was Richmond Valentine who shot me. Confirmed by two of their agents.” He turned back toward them. “Though the question of why still remained unsolved.”
Coming closer. “But you three, now, are here with that answer,” He paused in-between his points for effect. 
“But you are here, completely by chance.” pause 
“Only because of a doomsday protocol scenario.” pause 
“A scenario that led you to Statesman.” pause 
“And I just happen to be here as well.” pause  
“Do you know what the odds are of that happening?” pause  
“Rather extraordinary, don’t you think?” pause  
“I must say, you are quite the interesting trio. Unassuming.  Not quite what one would expect for this sort of operation.  Perhaps that is the point. Disarm me with your improbability, with your accents, so familiar to my own. Here to deliver stories of how I was part of an organization that no longer exists. And you are the only other individuals who know what occurred the day I was shot.” He stopped in front on them. He turned to face them and drew tall once more.
Looking at each other was a dare none of them were willing to take. They knew that the most important thing at that moment was to maintain eye contact with Harry anytime he looked in their direction. If they couldn’t offer him any answers, at least they could show him that they had nothing to hide. Now was not the time to look or act guilty.
No matter how many tactics he used, regardless of how hard he pushed them, their story would be the same because they had no other story. Was there no memory of Kingsman at all? What about Harry’s moral code, that Kingsman only risked a life to save a life. Was that a credo he still followed? The did not know what to expect.
“Regardless. Questions for another time I suppose.” He waved his hand as if brushing them away.
“The pressing issue still remains.” He was firm and unyielding. “Who are you and how did you find us.”
 What could they possibly say at this point? They remained silent.
“We welcome our visitors and our guests. However, we do not take kindly to trespassers. You say you have nothing to protect, but your honor. If the three of you are the only survivors of your organization and you are as close as you say, I would assume that you would, at the very least, protect a third of what remains of your agency.
Eggsy suddenly found himself on the business end of a Colt Single Action Army revolver. 
Staring down the barrel of the gun, he felt drunk, off balance, like he had fallen into an alternate universe. Where the laws of physics no longer applied. 
“Harry, it’s me.”  The only thing he could think of that could reach Harry was the guilt he had carried with him for over 17 years. The guilt that made him reach out to Eggsy in the first place. 
With self-possession he did not have, he composed himself as well as he could while being threatened by the mentor he once thought was dead.   
“My father saved your life.” He spoke quietly and deliberately and without hesitation.  “But you had made a mistake that cost him his. You were trying to repay him by helping me find purpose, to do something good with my life. You recruited me to Kingsman. You changed everything for me.” 
The look Harry returned for these words was almost kindly. 
“I’ll give you the following three seconds to prove that to me.”
Fuck. Eggsy was drawing a blank.
He could hear Roxy and Merlin, as if they were underwater yelling to Harry anything they could to make him stop.  
What felt like a lifetime later, the door burst open. Apparently, he had lost the ability to count, because that brief passage of time felt like much longer than three seconds. 
“Stop!” a woman yelled urgently. She tossed Harry a black umbrella. He caught it deftly with one hand.
“Their story checks out.” She held her palms out toward Harry. Please stop.
“I checked our doomsday scenario locker.” She explained. “Only to be opened in the case of a catastrophic event that cripples the agency to the point where we cannot rebuild on our own. It was established by a network of international intelligence agencies, forged when they first began. Since autonomy was the goal for each agency, once the protocol was put into place, no agency was to uncover it unless absolutely necessary.” 
“Take a look.” She nodded to the umbrella in his hand. “Kingsman. It has our logo on it.”
Harry paused to inspect the handle. Sure enough, the Statesman logo replaced the “s” in Kingsman.
He handled the umbrella in a way that seemed familiar to him. It almost seemed like he was looking for other recognisable features. Eggsy has seen plenty of Harry handling the umbrella like it was an extension of himself. He had saved Eggy’s life with it. It looked so natural in his hands. Like it completed the final picture of their Harry Hart and he was hopeful that this might be the final piece of the puzzle.  
Harry looked at the umbrella thoughtfully. It was difficult to read his face if he didn’t want it to be read. After a pause, he tossed it lightly back to Ginger. 
“Not good enough.” The gun swung back toward Eggsy.
They froze, unable to move, speak or even breathe. They were at a loss, nothing in their training prepared them for this. Roxy and Merlin could only watch helplessly as Harry cocked the revolver at Eggsy. Was it a live round? Or was it blank?
What kind of FU world would allow something like this to happen? Eggsy thought. He grasped for any hope, any last play that he could make, but the only thing within his reach was empty space. It simply slid through his fingers, without purchase, without substance. There was nothing that he could hold on to.
BUT… his eyes darted towards Harry’s right hand. The gun in his face was blocking his view… Fuck it. He squeezed eyes shut as he opened his mouth. The words ran together and toppled over each other as they spilled out without pause. 
“you wear a gold signet ring on your right little finger gentleman are traditionally supposed to wear the ring on the left hand but you wear yours on your right because a Kingsman always wears it on whatever hand happens to be dominant and you are right handed”
Nothing happened. And it was quiet.
Cautiously, Eggy peered from one eye. He wasn’t dead. He opened the other eye.
Harry regarded him from along the barrel of the revolver. Eggsy flinched away from its deadly mouth.
Harry deliberated. His mind took a step back and a step to the side. He looked at the situation from a different perspective. Because he was wearing a signet ring on his right hand, not on his left, as was the gentlemen’s  tradition. He was wearing it when he was shot. He could not recall where the ring came from, or its significance. Researching the insignia came up with no leads. But he continued to wear the ring, for no other reason than it felt right to him. Like he insisted on wearing his suit, rather than Statesman’s tie and jacket. 
His eyes let go of some of the hardness. Eggsy hoped that he saw a little softening at the edges. 
Harry’s voice, so familiar it made his heart hurt. Not accusatory, but with interest, he asked, “How do you know that?” 
Eggsy, with great effort willed his gaze to leave the barrel of the gun and meet the face that had once meant so much to him. He caught Harry’s eyes and didn’t flinch.
He took a deep breath. “I know,” he said with a calmness and a clarity he did not feel, “because I’m wearing one, too.”
Harry, without breaking eye contact, nodded to Ginger. She hurried to Eggsy’s side. After a quick glance, she confirmed, indeed, he was wearing a signet ring exactly like Harry’s.
Harry lowered his gun. There were three consecutive sighs of relief.
“My apologies.” He said as he holstered his weapon.
“It seems as if we have much to discuss.”
———
They found themselves in a massive great room at Statesman HQ, the top floor of a huge structure the shape of the Statesman signature whiskey bottle. Floor to ceiling windows circled the entire room, providing a 360 degree view of the rolling hills of Kentucky from every vantage point.
The centrepiece of the space was a leviathan of a conference table. Elaborately carved, solid hard wood. The trees that created that table must have had lived for years to grow to such a substantial size.  It had space to sit 12, but only few of the spots were occupied.
One of which by a larger than life, genial, vintage cowboy of a man. A little flashy, a little ostentatious, more than a little gregarious, he was the head of the Statesman outfit. With a place at the head of the table, he leaned back in his plush armchair with aplomb. He introduced himself as “Champagne” or Champ as he was known affectionately by his agents.
Roxy wasn’t surprised that, aside from Ginger Ale, she was the only female present. Hell, Ginger was the only other female that she had seen since they had entered Statesman HQ. Well, technically ‘broke in’, but still. They had an invitation, even if it was only in the shape of a whiskey bottle. A bottle that they had emptied while wallowing in self pity. Even Merlin was a bit maudlin, at one point, sobbing into his whiskey and singing Country Roads a little off key. Roxy had side-eyed him until Eggsy spotted the secret message hidden behind the label. She wondered they they had made the clue unnoticeable until the bottle was emptied. They could have quite possibly missed the hint. Being under the influence of, admittedly, very smooth whiskey did not enhance ones ability to spot decades old subtext on the back of whiskey labels. Whose clever idea had that been? 
Once again, she found herself in the odd situation where she wanted to be taken seriously as an agent, but Agent Tequila’s insistence on calling her sweetheart, miss, darling, filly of all things didn’t give her much confidence that Statesman would be any different from the old boys club that was Kingsman.
Even back at HQ, she was often, dear, dearest, or darling. The only person that she tolerated those endearments from where Eggsy, who used them in jest, and surprisingly Harry Hart. But Galahad, and Galahad Sr. calling her dear was much different than a two-bit, over the top, slick cowboy secret agent she had just met calling her something as intimate as “darling”. 
Would it kill him to call her Lancelot? It miffed her that he used Eggsy’s handle and not hers. Looking at the head of their organisation, she didn’t expect him to be much different. 
She took a seat the near end of the table, between Eggsy and Merlin. Agent Tequila walked in with Ginger, followed by Harry. She was surprised when he continued past them and walked around the head of the table to the other side, the Statesman side, and took a seat next to Ginger. He pulled out his chair, as smooth and as graceful as he sat thousands of times at the head of the Kingsman table. Even unbuttoning the last button of his suit so it wouldn’t crease and smoothing the back of his jacket before he leaned into his chair. The crossed legs, the hands folded on the knee. The authoritative, yet relaxed posture. It was all so familiar. What she couldn’t reconcile was the inscrutable, impenetrable expression that fell over his face every time he glanced in their direction. There was no warmth, no familiarity, no flicker of understanding. It made his face look unfamiliar and she did not like it one bit. 
To add insult to injury, Ginger had leaned over and whispered something in his direction. The small hint of a ‘not quite smile’ that pressed his lips together, his mouth just barely turned up at the corners, meant that she had shared an observation that confirmed something in his mind in a bemused sort of way. It was the look Harry had once made, when inquired about Eggsy’s tardiness, she revealed that he was running late because it was JB’s birthday party later and he wanted to get the dog “pupcakes” to celebrate. The memory tugged at her heart.
She didn’t turn her head to see how Eggsy was faring, but she could almost feel his dejection. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious on his face. Sometimes he was a little too earnest for his own good. Not that her other side was an improvement. Merlin was seated directly across from Harry. Only a distance of several feet, but it might as well have been lengths of the world for as distant Harry was from them. The furrow between the Scotsman’s brows had appeared the moment they discovered Harry alive. It took up residence on his face. Harry Hart, the man who was the only person close enough for Merlin to consider a friend, was now a mystery to him. 
The loss, between Eggsy and Merlin, was a cold empty space that Roxy had the unfortunate pleasure to be seated between. She was determined to warm up whatever mood vacuum that had sucked her in. Or at least not make it any worse.             
 And why did she always have to be the mediator? The men had elected Roxy as their spokesperson as neither of them thought that they would be able to speak without laughing, crying, shouting or hitting something. Predictably, she found herself the voice of reason. To be fair, she WAS the one with the least emotional involvement. Not that she hadn’t adored and respected Harry Hart, like everyone that worked under his guidance, but she had to admit, Merlin and Eggsy must be twice as confused and devastated by the recent turn of events. She mentally steeled herself against any additional revelations that might be thrown their way. But at this point, if there was something that could top this most recent turn of events, they might as well just blow up this joint and let it all burn down, too.
After everyone had settled in, and to her amusement, a pour of whiskey was set in front of each of them. She decided to get this “rodeo” started. She nodded in Champs direction. He tipped his chin, tapped his glass with his pen to get everyone’s attention and announced the opening of the meeting. All the Statesman and Harry, emptied their glasses. From her peripheral she saw Merlin and Eggsy follow suit without hesitation. Did all agencies revolve around the consumption of alcohol? She had already developed quite a tolerance from her brief stint at Kingsman so far. Well, if it brought these two agencies on familiar ground, who was she to argue? She tipped her glass back. And the welcomed the warmth after the initial burn, though still much smoother than could be expected. She appreciated the added touch of liquid courage. She cleared her throat. 
“We find ourselves here, under what we,” she gestured to herself and her colleagues, “believed to be the most difficult of circumstances. Only to be faced with another impossible situation. As you can imagine, the revelation that Harry Hart, our Sr. Agent Galahad,” she nodded in his direction, “who we believed had been killed over a year ago by Richmond Valentine, that he is still alive, has been shocking for us.”
In Harry’s direction, she continued, addressing him directly. “Harry. If we had believed there to be even the most infinitesimal chance that you could have survived Valentine’s bullet, we would have not hesitated to garner all the forces of Kingsman to find you and bring you back.”
Harry, respectfully listened to Lancelot, attentive, but without revealing anything aside from simple interest.
She faltered a little under his gaze. And she, too, wished for that little wink, the small tilt of his chin that would encourage her to continue. Just as he first did when she joined Kingsman, nervous over her first debriefing. There was no comfort to be found in his direction. She took a deep breath and continued. 
“Both Eggsy - our current Galahad - and Merlin witnessed the events of what we thought was your death.” She forced herself to face him, eye to eye, without hesitation. After all that he had sacrificed for them, it was the least she could offer him.
Her voice was clear and firm, her words meticulously thought out. “They saw you get shot, point blank, in the face, by no more than a distance of 10 feet, by a 9mm semi-automatic Heckler and Koch P30. The bullet destroyed the communication transmission via the left lens.”
Both Eggsy and Merlin were looking down. Both remembering all too clearly the events from that day. The details were painful for them to hear, especially when the man who they thought had died, was in fact, sitting across the table. Even though they had every right to call time of death, they couldn’t help but feel they had left him behind. 
Roxy continued. “Merlin, our communications and technology strategist and Galahad, who was at the time, your protege, had witnessed all the events up to the point the bullet severed the transmission. We could only deduce, at that point, that a bullet of that caliber, from that distance, would have shattered the lens.” She took a deep breath, “and continued through the left eye and exited the back of the head. Resulting in immediate death.” 
She could sense Eggsy flinch by her side. He had seen the whole thing far too clearly. 
“As much as we wanted to, we were unable to collect the body at the time of death. Due to unforeseen circumstances regarding treachery within the highest ranks of our agency, Merlin, Eggsy and I, had to straight away address both the source of our internal corruption and abort the plans initiated by Richmond Valentine. We were successful in both, but not in time to prevent casualties, both enemy and civilian.”
In speaking so intimately regarding what they thought was his death, she decided to switch identifiers from “the” to “your”. The man was sitting right in front of her. She spoke with a new earnest note in her voice. Rather than distancing herself from her words, she decided to speak from the place that had felt the same grief and loss as Eggsy and Merlin.
Harry’s eyes took on a different note as he heard the emotion in Roxy’s voice. 
“In the immediate aftermath of V-day, after the initial threat was neutralised, we flew to the States in an attempt to find you, identify you, and bring you home for proper internment, but we were unable to locate your body. We tried over weeks, through every channel, every resource, we followed every lead, with no success. We didn’t hope to find you alive.” 
She fought against the wave of emotion that threatened her composure.
“But we hoped that we would be able to properly commemorate your bravery, your integrity, your sacrifice, with the honour, dignity and grace worthy of your life and your legacy.” 
Roxy had stop for a moment, but she did not look away. A small tear rolled down her cheek without her noticing or bothering to wipe it away. It was as if the loss was new again. This pain was fresh. For all of them.
Harry’s eyes finally softened and they caught a glimpse of the man they remembered. But whether it was empathy for Roxy, clearly struggling to continue as her emotions caught in her throat, or understanding how they felt and what they had to do in the most difficult of situations, they did not know. 
And whatever amnesia he was experiencing had to be temporary, right? Surely Melin could devise a plan to help jump start his memory. Now that the were there, they could help him remember.
Roxy was determined to continue until the end. 
“After the events of V-Day, we had to recenter and regroup. Our agency had clearly been compromised. We needed to locate and close the leaks and tie up any loose ends.  Our losses were felt across the board. We had to rebuild what we could from the ground up. To recapture the integrity of our organisation. The immediate need to clean up the aftermath was one of the few things that we could focus on to help us come to terms with your loss. We knew, that if you had survived, you would have taken the mantle of Arthur. And that it would be your highest priority to rebuild the agency beyond reproach.”
“After several weeks, in which we continued our search for you, we felt that it would be best for us personally and professionally to move on. We held a private memorial for you, and honoured you as best as we could. After that, we could only move forward. It was a difficult time for all of us.” 
“We found ourselves here, after our organisation was levelled again. This time with only the three of us as survivors. Our HQ, our foundry, our storefront.” Her eyes flared with anger at this point. “And all of our agents worldwide aside from Galahad and I, were all taken down as targets.”
“Merlin was the only surviving handler and tech strategist and the only one of us that had been with the agency long enough know that a Doomsday protocol existed. With all of our resources destroyed, we had no way of protecting ourselves, to find out who had organised and carried out such a coordinated attack. Our last and only option was to see if this protocol existed.”
“We found the Statesman logo. Located your distillery here in Kentucky. At this point, we really had no plan beyond finding your organisation and hoping that you would be able to assist us.”
“We still had some tech in our possession, which I admit, looked suspicious for a group of tailors to have, let alone know how to use. That’s when your agent found us. We meant no ill will, but we had no other way to get into contact with your organization.  We didn’t even know if you existed. We had nothing to lose but to continue to follow any clues that we might come across. We had no protocol for a circumstance like this.”
“You can only imagine our bewilderment to be taken as adversaries when we were looking for help. And then our shock of finding Harry Hart. Finding him, not only alive, but with no memory of the agency he was devoted to over 30 years. It still is an unthinkable situation that we were not prepared for and obviously, are still trying to process.”
She had been speaking for a long time. She paused, took a sip of water, swallowed, before continuing.
She addressed the table. “Everything that we have said is the truth. We were also an independent intelligence agency with headquarters in London.” 
She turned again to Harry. “You were an integral member of this agency for most of your adult life. You know each of us well. Merlin has been your colleague for over 20 years. You knew Eggsy’s father, he saved your life in a mission that had gone sideways. That was seventeen years ago. You had recruited him as a way to repay his fathers sacrifice. My uncle was also a long time colleague of yours and our families go back many years.”
“We are so grateful that you are alive. We are sorry that we left you behind. That would never be our intention. We are forever indebted to Statesman for saving your life and taking care of you. But as you can imagine, we have questions of our own. How did you get here? How did you survive? Do you have no memory of Kingsman at all? What can you remember? Obviously, you have retained your skills, but to what extent? If you honestly don’t remember, then we can see how unbelievable our story is. But I think if you are still a man of honour and integrity, then you have to feel that we are not hostiles or adversaries. We pose no threat to you. Your instincts must tell you we are offering you the truth.”
She could tell that Harry was processing the information, she just couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Roxy concluded. “And that brings us here to the present. I think our most pressing question is “how did you survive?”
Harry nodded to Ginger to answer the question. He seemed to want to observe the conversation. His attention had never wavered from Roxy while she spoke, only widened at times to include Eggsy or Merlin. If he had come to a conclusion, there was nothing that they could see.
Roxy gladly handed off the meeting to Ginger. Harry’s unwavering gaze was getting a little unnerving. Without the added scrutiny, she could get collect her own thoughts and feelings. Kingsman recruitment training had been brutal, but nothing could have prepared them for the last 48hrs. Nothing in the Gentleman’s Guide had a blueprint on how to behave when your agency gets blown up and your dead mentor, comes back to life, has amnesia, and then almost shoots you.
——
Ginger spoke up.
“I would like to confirm that we now have proof that your story is legitimate Which means, Harry, what they are saying about your history with Kingsman is most likely the truth.”
Harry tilted his chin slightly in her direction in acknowledgement. 
She spoke in the direction of the three Kingsman. “We have just received corroboration from several independent sources that the events did occur as described and that your agency was the target of a massive strike against organisations such as ours. We are sorry for your loss. You will have full access to our resources to investigate this adversary and we will provide you with support. This is a threat that affects all of us.”
Merlin spoke up. His voice was rough with concern. 
“Harry, what happened?” 
Harry’s voice, deep and a with familiar, crisp authority, suddenly filled the space.
“At this point, I believe Ginger will be able to recall the events much more clearly than I. I have no recollection of events immediately following the shooting.” He turned to her. “Please, continue.”
Merlin gaze remained fixed on Harry and worried there for several moments, before he turned his attention to Ginger.
“The day prior to V-Day, we detected the transmission of a very low frequency sound wave. Much lower than what is normally used for any legitimate communication. This frequency, for the time and location, was suspicious to say the least and it was imperative that we investigate. Agent Tequila and I helicoptered to the spot, about 10 miles away.”
“The frequency stopped right about the time we were closing in on the location. We had already pinpointed the source so we knew where it originated from. Even though the transmission had stopped, we could still find clues to its origin.” 
“We were just flying into the zone when we witnessed the shooting. We saw Valentine and his accomplices depart. They didn’t confirm death. I expect they thought that shooting someone in the face.. well, there are not many outcomes. Our timing couldn’t have been better planned. We had developed what we call “alpha gel” to use on our own agents in the case of a head shot. Previously, a head shot meant immediate death. Body armour can only protect so much. We’ve lost very good agents.’ 
But depending on where the bullet entered the skull and if there was minimal damage to the actual brain and spinal cord, the gel could potentially save an agents life. 
Harry was still alive when I checked his vitals. I applied the alpha gel immediately. It’s crucial to activate the gel to prevent tissue damage and accelerate the nannites that are used to repair neural pathways. I won’t go further in depth at this point. The main issue at that moment was to preserve life. 
Of course, because of his glasses, we knew that he was intelligence, we just didn’t know whose and we had no way of finding out without compromising Harry’s safety and our anonymity.  
Harry suffers from retrograde amnesia, which could be from the injury. But it can also be a side effect of the alpha gel. However, when life it at risk, the benefits outweigh the possible negative outcomes. This kind of memory loss, you lose existing, previously made memories. This type of amnesia tends to affect recently formed memories first. Older memories, such as memories from childhood, are usually affected more slowly. 
She motioned to Harry, while he listened closely to her explanation.
“So while Harry was whole as a person, personality wise, function wise, cognitive and behavioural skills in place, he had no memory of who he was aside from what could be observed. He had no memory of his past, people, places, events. This was an interesting case because usually with retrograde amnesia, there can be the regression to the younger self. The skill set and knowledge and the growth that occurred during the time of memory loss can also be lost as well. Such as, if you learned French while you were in college, but you lost the memories of this timeframe, in most cases, you would no longer be able to speak French. In fact, the whole memory that you learned it to begin with would be gone. In these cases, the knowledge and skill learned during this time would also be forgotten. However, in some rare cases, the ability to remember the skill remains, while the memory of the past when it was learned is lost. 
“In Harry’s case, it was obviously the later.” 
The slightest shift in the landscape of Harry’s face indicated that we was thoughtful and reflective. How must it be to wake up and not know who you are.
Harry, while still maintaining full concentration on Ginger, set a small part of him free to revisit the day he regained consciousness. Which technically, would not be regaining consciousness, since he had no recollection of losing consciousness to begin with.
——
POV HARRY HART
“My name is Harry Hart.”  It was the first thought that went through his head.
Secondly, “Caucasion male, 6’2”, brown hair, brown eyes, 58 years of age. 13.5 stone” That all sounded perfectly reasonable to him.
Thirdly, wasn’t a thought, it was a feeling of emptiness. Not as if he was missing something. It did not feel like loss. It did not feel as if he was lacking. That would imply that there was something present to begin with.  It was not a feeling he could identify or that felt familiar or could find a word that was representative. It was unusual for him. He never found his vocabulary lacking. Perhaps if it could be called a non-feeling. He was a vessel. Neither empty, nor full. And no desire to be either or. An interesting sensation. 
When he first woke up, he had not realised that he was suffering from amnesia. Due to the amnesia there were no memories that insisted he should be a certain person. That he had to exist in a certain place. Doing something specific. A curious circumstance. There was no sense of surprise waking up in the condition he found himself to be. He did whatever he would do in a circumstance like this. Assess the situation. 
As he entered a conscious state, his mind automatically shifted into overdrive. But without moving. Without betraying any kind of change. He felt the need to remain unnoticed. He did this from where he rested. He first determined if he had sustained any injury or damage that had caused permanent physical disability or bodily harm. He had full function of all of his appendages. He did not know how long he had been in this state, but he did not notice any signs of muscle atrophy or joint stiffness. They must have a system that stimulated muscle tissue and nerves to prevent deterioration or he had not been in an immobile state for any length of time. Blinking his eyes was like scrapping sandpaper and his throat was a desert of sand. He attempted to make any kind of noise and found it difficult. That meant he had to have been out for at least some meaningful period of time. His head did ache something awful, and he noted a bandage or some other type of patch over his left eye. The use of only one eye would change his perception of depth, and the range of his peripheral vision, but he did not doubt that he would be able to adjust accordingly.
He had no reason to question his cognitive function. He processed information unhesitatingly and with ease. Without a sense of doubt, without faltering, he scanned the room and began to examine his surroundings. He was being held in some kind of hospital or medical ward. Not civilian. It was either private or for research. Maybe military. Hi tech, advanced equipment. Everything was in pristine condition. Two exits on opposing sides. No windows. A complex ventilation and filtration system suggested an underground location. No immediate threat that he could ascertain, but that could change at any moment. No apparent weapons. Some medical instruments that could possibly work. He was not restrained so he was not being held against his will. Or there was no need if he was unconscious the entire time. He did not feel any urgency or sense of immediate danger, but he did not question his need to assess the situation .
He heard two people approach the door to the left. Judging from the echoing quality and the gradual volume and clarity of their foot steps, from a fairly long corridor. 
His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow and steady, his heartbeat was slow and rhythmic. He concentrated on the sound. One set of footsteps was clearly male. The stride was longer, more pronounced, in heavy shoes, presumably boots. But an easy pace. Most likely 6’, 13 stone, physically fit. His gait was even, balanced and light. Not the walk of someone that led a sedentary life. The second set of footsteps he concluded were female. Lighter, but not timid. A confident woman. Just a smaller stature. Medium height. Slight frame. Like her partner, fit, alert, competent. 
He did not know why or how he came up with these deductions, but he did not question them. He held the information in his mind so it was easily accessible. The voices, once they became decipherable, were relaxed and easy. Their tone was jovial and non-threatening. Younger than he was. American accent, with a southern drawl. He could be in the US, but anywhere was possible. While he did not expect danger, he still prepared himself for the risk. Mostly, his need was to understand the where he was, how he got there and have leverage over the situation.
The door opened with a heavy swooshing sound. He did not hear the click of a lock being turned, so he was not being held in high security setting.
The two individuals were still conversing, and he could just almost decipher what they were discussing. The man remained on his right hand side while the woman walked around the foot of the bed to inspect the instruments and diagnostics panels to the left. Her back was turned away from him. The man remained at his side. A quick glance in his direction. A holster was slung around his waist, it held a nickelplated SIG-Sauer P226 with wooden grips. A quality weapon. To his advantage, the strap securing the weapon was not snapped in. That would have been a trickier maneuver.
He guessed the woman was in medical, the man, based on the weapon and the fact that he was not actively participating in the tasks, that he was a guard or protection of some sort. With their relaxed tones, and familiar interactions, possibly a friend or colleague. 
Not one to overthink a situation, he decided now was as good a time as any. No use in waiting, expecting a better scenario. Best to address the situation you know rather than wait for one you don’t. Never a guarantee for a better set of circumstances. Only guarantee is time lost.
He waited patiently for the moment to proceed. Just a small distraction was all he needed. It arrived sooner than he anticipated and under better circumstances that he had the right to expect.
“Tequila, would you be able to hand me the print outs right behind you?” 
Harry saw him turn away from the bed, his hips rotated in his direction, the angle ideal for him to grab, cock and point. He only hoped that his deductions regarding his physical state were correct, or it would be a moot point. He might not even be able to sit up, let alone hold a weapon.  Take the out, the told himself. 
These thoughts occurred within fractions of a second. Without hesitation, in one fell swoop, he grabbed the gun, pulled back the slide to load the chamber. Thankfully his body responded without any resistance or weakness and he slid himself back into an upright position. 
He judged the distance between the three of them. The man called Tequila, was close enough by his side to possibly disarm him, so he swung the weapon in the woman’s direction. She was far enough away that the gun was not within her reach. He centered the sight at her chest. It was not the aim of a stop shot. It was the aim for a kill shot. Might as well show them he was not a man to underestimate. He did not want to shoot her, but he did want to make it very clear to them that he was a man to take very seriously. 
Once he guaranteed that he had their attention. Though he had many questions he wanted answers to, he asked them the two questions that were the most urgent.
His voice was gravelly, but still clear enough to understand. 
“Who are you?”
“What am I doing here?”
For having a gun aimed at her chest, the woman was surprisingly relaxed. She held up her palm towards the other man. She would handle this. The man shifted his weight back to a holding posture rather than the offensive stance that prepared him to take action. 
“You have a British accent. That’s helpful to know. How are you feeling?”
“My first two questions still stand.” He regarded them impassively, but kept any notes of aggression from his tone.
—— 
Gingers POV
“My name is Ginger Ale, I’m Head Strategy Executive and Director of Medical here at our outfit.  This is Agent Tequila. Welcome to Statesman, our whiskey distillery. You’re at our HQ in Kentucky.” 
She handed him a cup of water. “Sip. Don’t guzzle.”
She was succinct. “As for what you are doing here, we were waiting for you to wake up so you could tell us. We found you outside of a church about 10 miles from here. You had been shot in the head. You were still alive, so we did everything we could to keep you that way. You’ve been unconscious the entire time here. Your vitals were strong. We were just waiting for you to wake up. We have some questions for you as well.” 
Her voice was gentle, but firm. He did not catch any inflections or hesitations that would indicate she was lying, or with holding information. Her tone was honest, forthright and it put him slightly more at ease. 
“I answered both of yours. Would you be so kind to answer mine?” She asked politely.
He did not refuse, but he didn’t say yes.
“How are you feeling.” she asked again.
“Would you care to clarify?” He asked in return. “There are multiple ways I can respond to your question.”
So he was witty.
“Pick one.”
“At the present moment, tolerable. Though this persistent ache in my head leaves something to be desired” He equivocated. 
“That’s to be expected with a headshot. You did lose your left eye. There will be residual pain/discomfort until the injury is completely healed.”
“What is your name? 
“My name is Harry Hart.”
“Do you feel comfortable enough at the moment to answer some questions for us? Is there anything that you require immediately? 
“More water would be appreciated. Otherwise, feel free. Fire away.” He looked amused. He reached over to return Tequila’s gun. “Perhaps a poor choice of words in my case.” He revised his response. “Very well then, proceed.”
She refilled his water and pulled a chair next to his bed. Tequila found a place strategically viable to intervene if things went sideways. He wasn’t one to get caught off guard twice.
“Now, since we are on a first name basis, can you tell us why you were at the church that day? Why would someone would want to kill you?”
“No.”
“No?” 
“I simply do not know.”
“Why you were there? Or why someone wanted you dead?”
“Neither.”
“Where are you from?”
His face remained blank.
“That may be a little vague.” Ginger specified. “Where do you live? Where is your home?”
No response.
How old are you?
“58” 
“Do you know what you do for a living? Where do you work?”
An almost imperceptible turn of the head.
“Can you remember where you went to school? Secondary or university.”
He squinted his eyes. But no answer.
“Do you know who the current world leader is? President? Prime Minister?”
Her regarded her impassively. She started to form her own understanding of how he was communicating. She could play along. Any form of communication was good for her. It didn’t have to be words. There was more than one way to impart information. It would all get her to the same place. Plus, she would have the chance to read his non-verbal cues. That would be a challenge. His expression was nearly inscrutable.
A slight turn of the head meant I don’t know. His impassive face meant maybe, but he can’t know for sure. The blank disinterested stare meant that he had no idea what she was referring to. She was already intrigued by her patient. She was becoming more fascinated by the moment. 
Changing tactics, she asked. “Can you play the piano?”
A slight tilt of the head. This was new. That meant the question sparked something in his mind. It was a possibility, but he couldn’t know for sure. Interesting. She went further down her tangent.
“What’s pi to the tenth decimal?”
Without hesitation, he rattled off. “3.1415926535”
“Parle vous français?”
“Oui”
How many languages can you speak?
“Six ”
“What are they?”
English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Arabic.
Hmmm. Arabic was interesting. She filed that away to look at more closely at a later time.
“Do you know were you learned Arabic or why?”
He was taciturn.
“Are you right or left handed?”
“Right.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
Impassive.
“Do you own a car?”
Impassive.
“Do you know how to drive.”
“Yes.”
Now they were getting somewhere, she thought to herself.
“What was your favourite game as a child?”
He furrowed his brow but answered.
“Chess.”
Were you good?
“Yes.”
“Did you compete?
No answer.
Hmm. Retrograde amnesia, she pondered.
“Can you shoot a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever killed someone?”
A tilt of the head. Possible, but can’t confirm.
“Do you think you’re a good person?”
“I have no reason to doubt that.”
“Do you know what orange means?”
“The color or the fruit?”
Good. “The fruit, what does it remind you of? 
“Winter. Christmas.”
Excellent. “Do you remember a Christmas from your past?”
Blank stare.
“Do you think you’re attractive? Good looking.”
He huffed, amused. 
“It’s not a trick question.”
“Not to seem chuffed, but I’ve never had any complaints in that regard.”
“Can you remember any specific compliments that you’ve received in the past?”
Thwarted.
Good. “So you know that other people think you are attractive and desirable. But is that how you see yourself?”
 “I was attempting to be modest.” 
She waited for his response.
Reluctantly, “Yes.” He admitted. “I know that I am attractive, handsome, good looking. However you would like to call it.” 
He continued even though he had already answered the question. It was his first moment of revealing information on his own.
“I would go out with myself if I were able, but unfortunately, that is not an option. I am not a narcissist. However, I would say that I regard myself with a healthy and acceptable amount of vanity. “ 
Did Ginger just discern a bit of sarcasm?
His good looks have been a point of contention in the past. Not that she could blame him. She was curious to know how his appearance either hindered him or helped him. She did note that there was no wedding ring when they found him. She couldn’t complain. It didn’t hurt her daily check ups that he was extremely easy on the eyes. Even his hospital issue gown made him look handsome.
Ok. Time to move on. She switched her line of questioning. 
“Where are you right now?” She asked.
His expression was doubtful. Of her, not of his answer. His face asked the question. “Didn’t we just discuss this?” Nevertheless, he answered her with a bemused sigh.
“Kentucky, United States. Apparently 10 miles away from a church where I was shot in the head.”
Ginger nodded. She was encouraged. 
He didn’t see why. It wasn’t difficult to recall. She had only just told him.
“Do you remember our names and what we do?”
He found the helpfulness of these questions debatable, but if it would accelerate his process, he was willing to comply. And participate, if it made this whole interaction a tad more interesting.
“Your name is Ginger Ale. After the beverage, I can only assume. Your colleague, here, is called Tequilla, after the alcohol. I am under the the impression that these are code names that are assigned by the intelligence agency that employs you. Statesman. With a distillery as a backstop. Hence the libation themed code names. 
“Ginger Ale, I gather from your code name’s slight variation, you are in an essential, but supportive role. Whereas Tequila, a right tipple, would be classified as an agent. Of your independent organisation. I would believe, comparable to the CIA, but without the restrictions that often hinder government run spy organisations. And with more interesting code names.”
There was just the slightest hint of cockiness in his tone and in his expression. She found it equally amusing and charming at the same time. Now they were making progress. More than she could have hoped for.
He was obviously intelligent, well mannered, well spoken, though taciturn. Understandable upon waking up with no memory of where he was and why he was there. It was a very promising discovery. He seemed to accept his situation without resistance. He was alert. No hint of confusion. Just a desire to understand the circumstances he found himself in. 
He was emotionally stable, if not a little irritated, by his current state. He took the loss of his eye as a matter of fact. Overall, his ability to acclimate was nothing short of remarkable. 
He folded his hands on his lap, one over the other, tilted his chin in her direction. His posture said. “I’m waiting patiently..” He was throwing shades of a personality she was already warming toward. 
There was a momentary pause. They regarded each other with interest. 
 Finally Harry spoke. “I have amnesia.” He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating it as a fact.
She confirmed. Nodding. 
“I would like to perform some additional CT and MRI scans, and EEG, but judging from the traumatic brain injury you’ve suffered, you most likely have retrograde amnesia. Just based on this conversation alone. To be more specific. Focal retrograde amnesia. 
She continued to explain. “Focal retrograde amnesia, also known as isolated or pure retrograde amnesia, is when someone only experiences the loss of memories that have already been made. Anterograde amnesia, on the other hand, is being unable to form new memories.
He listened to her with a new interest. 
She continued. “So, it appears you have retrograde amnesia, but no anterograde. This means that the ability to form new memories is left intact. You easily recalled information from a short time ago. That is very good news.” She paused, looking for his understanding.
“Please, go on.” He said.
“This kind of isolated memory loss doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence or ability to learn new skills, like playing the piano or affect previously learned skills, like driving a car, speaking different languages. Most likely, if we sat you at a piano, you would be able to play, based on your response to my question.”
“What is the prognosis?”
Ginger, equivocated, a little hesitant “With amnesia, it’s difficult to predict. Retrograde amnesia can result from damage to different parts of the brain responsible for controlling emotions and memories. These include the thalamus, which is deep in the center of the brain, and the hippocampus, which is in the temporal lobe and the cerebellum. There are many variables involved.”
“Thats is all very interesting, but doesn’t quite give me any predictions for my future.” 
“To be completely honest, for the injury you sustained, the amnesia is surprisingly less severe than I would have predicted. Most traumatic brain injuries are mild, resulting in concussion. But a severe injury, like a serious blow to the head, or a bullet for that matter, can damage the memory-storing areas of the brain and lead to anterograde amnesia as well. Depending on the level of damage, the amnesia could be temporary or permanent. I know that’s not very helpful.”
“Ginger, there is no need to “hedge your bets” as they would say. I am quite prepared to accept any answer you provide.”
“The fact that you can remember new information is promising. Your cognitive and behavioural skills are, as far as I can tell, excellent. I would be interested to test your knowledge further. You may have skills that you don’t know you have until you have a need for them.”
“If I were to summarise… “ Ginger concluded. “And please let me know if I go too far off the beaten path as I find this area of research very intriguing.”
She stole a glance at Tequila. “Many would find it boring.” 
Tequila gestured with a shrug of his shoulders..”So what? I think it’s boring.”
Ginger turned back toward Harry.
“Are you comfortable?”
“As much as one could hope.”
“Please understand that I’m generalising here. Just the fact that you are interested in this subject and can process information is extremely promising. The questions I asked you, though random, I asked for very specific reasons.” 
“Our memories” she explained, “can be separated into two groups: Explicit and Implicit. Each of these categories can then be further broken down. If I can use your case as an example?”
Harry nodded.
In the clear and assured tones of a professor, she explained. 
“Explicit memories, or declarative memories, are those we consciously try to remember and recall. When I ask you a question, such as, “Where were you born?” to answer, you would navigate through your explicit memory.
“Explicit memory stores events and facts. This is your conscious memory. You know that you have them and can remember them when you need to. In your case, I asked you to recall a derivative of Pi. You did that easily. That would be an explicit memory. Your knowledge of different languages also taps into your explicit memory.” 
Harry was still, but receptive.
Encouraged by his attentiveness, she broke the concept down further.
“Of these explicit memories, there are three different types. The first two are episodic and semantic memories. Do you know what semantic means?” She asked him.
“Of course. That which is related to language.”  replied Harry.
Ginger was pleased.
“Exactly. Our semantic memory stores knowledge about words, concepts and language-based knowledge and facts. Knowing the definition of “Semantic” is, in fact, a semantic memory. So is your knowledge of Pi in relation to the numerical expression, and the ability to speak different languages. This part of your memory seems to be unaffected.”
She checked in with Harry. She had the tendency to explain way beyond the interest of the listener. He confirmed. Go on.
“The second kind of explicit memory is called episodic memory. This is information about events that you have personally experienced. For example, if something looks or feels familiar, you’re probably trying to pull from your episodic memory. Times in your life, people, places, emotions and context that make up the events in your life. The what, when, where, how and why of your memory.”
“This seems to be a large part of your memory that has been affected and it seems to go back for a very long time. Typically, when you see lapses in episodic memory, it’s usually the more recent memories that can’t be accessed. Memories of childhood are still there.  In your case, your entire past seems to be wiped.
He asked his first question. Well, other than the first two, but that was at gunpoint, so they didn’t really count.“Then how is it that I still have all of this knowledge.”
“Yes, just getting to that. Now we move over to your implicit memories. These memories are not part of your consciousness.”
She took a breath. “These memories are based on behaviours and movements. Memories that are retained through practice and repetition. A learned skill would be part of this memory.”
She had vast knowledge of memory loss due to brain trauma and she welcomed the opportunity to share. “There are two types of implicit memories. Procedural and emotional conditioning.”
“Procedural stores information about how to do things. Why you are able to perform actions without consciously monitoring the sub procedures that need to be pieced together in order to perform the task. Or, more simply, it’s the reason you can brush your teeth without a second thought. It is the memory for skilled actions.”
“This part of the memory is why you can do things without thinking about them. You know how to drive a car. But you don’t know if you own one. You can play chess, but you don’t know if you played competitively. Same with the piano. You can shoot a gun, but you don’t know if you’ve ever killed someone. Even something as simple as brushing your teeth is part of this. You don’t have to consciously think about every sub action you have to make, or the motor skills involved. Probably the same way with a gun. If I asked to take apart and reassemble Tequila’s gun, you could probably do so without knowing how or why you possess that skill.”
“Lastly is Emotional Conditioning.  This can be a little trickier to identify. I would have to ask you more questions to see how this part of your memory was affected. These memories are made through classical conditioning, associations made through stimuli. You know what an orange is. You know what they smell like. It reminds you of Christmas. This is emotional conditioning. But you can’t remember any Christmas that you’ve had. That is your episodic memory.”
Harry looked openly thoughtful. He was no longer guarding his expression. The softness took years off his face. It was hard not to just stare at him. 
“There’s one more category of explicit memories that is important. Autobiographical. This memory system is made up of both episodic and semantic aspects of your memory. It’s a collection of memories specifically related to the self. This could be how you look, your height, specific meaningful points in your life, or the general idea of your concept of self. Which is why I asked you questions not just on how you look, but how you, yourself, viewed your looks.”  
“You know what a gun is. Semantic. You know how to shoot a gun. Procedural. You don’t know if you’ve ever killed anyone. Episodic. Killing someone is only acceptable under certain circumstances. Emotional conditioning. But without knowing whether or not you’ve ever killed anyone, you believe you are a good person. Autobiographical.”
“In regards to the actual landscape of your brain, your cerebellum and prefrontal cortex seem to be the least affected.  In addition to contributions to implicit memory, conditioned responses, fine motor movements, posture and coordination, the cerebellum also maintains internal representations of the external world, which allow you to move in darkness as long as the room or space is familiar to you, and how you would need to position your self to aim a gun and hit a moving target.”
Harry was still engaged, so she went on. 
“It seems the hippocampus was the most affected by your injury. This would make sense based on the entry point of the bullet. This part of the brain processes declarative and episodic memory, people, places, and things as well as recognition memory.” 
“I know that’s a lot to take in. I’d like you to rest in the meantime. You’ve only just woken up, in well, less than ideal circumstances. Even though you say you feel “acceptable” you are still recovering from a major injury.  We’ll follow up with you more frequently, now that you are awake.” She wasn’t asking.
Harry, for the first time, addressed Tequila. “I take it that she is always the voice of reason.”
“Without fail.”
“And I assume there is no sense in arguing.”
“None at all.”
——
For simplicity’s sake, they assumed that he was from the UK as many of his mannerism and idiosyncrasies were quintessentially British. Tequila had gotten into the habit of calling him Hart, or The Brit for short. Harry, who was not one for such informalities, was amused. He did, however, recognise that Americans, as well as Statesman, were more easy going and relaxed in their word, dress and interactions with each other, overall. 
——
“Was there anything, physically, or possessions that I had on my body when you found me, that would offer any clues to my identity.”
Ginger paused. “Well, Harry, we found you in quite a unique state.”
They had already been over the event numerous times. But Harry knew that little details were often overlooked the first time around and could surface after a spell.  Ironic, since his own memory wouldn’t be surfacing in any amount of time. He would have rather used a more elegant metaphor, but he was like a top notch computer with nothing to process. All of his files were wiped. Who knew if they were recoverable. No use in wondering. 
When Ginger Ale and Agent Tequila found Harry, he had made quite the impression. As the helicopter descended, Ginger and Tequila saw him closely for the first time. He was splayed out, flat on his back, unconscious, with a bullet through his eye, wearing of all things, an impeccably tailored, navy pinstripe double breasted suit. He was fully decked out with all the details. Spread collar, tie with a Windsor knot, suspenders, oxfords, even a tie pin, cufflinks, a pocket square, and a signet ring. It was a sight not often seen in their part of Kentucky.
While Ginger attended to the man, Tequila checked the church. It was the site of a bloodbath. This was no mass shooting. A mass shooting would be clean and simple compared to what he found inside.  These people had been slaughtered. Creatively. Luckily, whatever or whoever the threat was that had massacred the congregation, had departed. 
Harry had definitely been involved in the bloodshed, but to what extent, they did not know. The tell tale signs were on his suit. It hard to see the bloodstains against the dark wool, but there were unmistakable splashes of red on the crisp whiteness of his cuffs and collar. It was torn in places, whether from a weapon or some other object, one couldn’t tell. But mostly, the proof was on his hands. They were stained with blood and gunpowder residue up to his wrists. He did not have any weapons on his person when they found him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one inside. Nevertheless, a person doesn’t get that much blood on themselves from using a gun. Even at close range, the blood spatter would spray backward. 
Whatever he had been involved in, it was up close and personal. Rage sound waves plus the expert skill and killer instinct of a veteran assassin could definitely equal the carnage that was left behind. He was fitted with a shoulder holster, but no weapon. They didn’t have enough time to search for identifying evidence in the church. The object that they found the most interesting were his glasses. Handsome, squared off, dark tortoiseshell horn rimmed frames. But it was the lenses that revealed the most about him. The glasses told them he was intelligence. They just didn’t know whose.
Intelligence agents, as a rule, never carry anything that can identify them. Harry was no exception. His clothing, even his shoes, though exceptionally well made and no doubt very expensive, bore no labels. It was all bespoke, custom made to fit him, and him alone and as a result, no identifying markers.
They tried to reverse engineer the communications transmitter from the remaining lens. They also attempted to disassemble his watch, but both were designed to withstand and prevent external tampering. Whoever designed them was talented and had the foresight to put anti-tampering mechanisms in place. 
Of course, they had run a facial recognition and prints through their international database, but as they expected, there were no matches to be found. They couldn’t investigate thoroughly without compromising his safety. Obviously someone wanted him dead. It could even be his own agency. More than once, had an agent been removed by their own employer. The threat might still exist. Nor could they risk the anonymity of their own agency. 
They scanned news for anything surrounding the Kentucky event, who was involved, any unusual occurrences that happened at the same time, but they only found information on Valentine and his cohorts. They even kept their ears open on the secret spy wire, to see if a fellow agency was looking for an operative, or had an agent who had gone rogue, or had one go dark. They didn’t have any luck. It’s not like they could put out an “if missing an agent, please call” flyer. While Harry was recovering, they also put out feelers for possible missing persons that matched his description in the civilian world. Even if he was an intelligence agent, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a cover in place, a backstop that could possible lead to his identity.
His accent immediately suggested he was from the UK. However, his lack of a specific regional dialect, made it difficult to narrow their search criteria. Harry’s accent was that of the Queens English, or RP Received Pronunciation. Which might mean he was from Great Britain, or any of the commonwealth countries. Their contacts at MI6 and MI5 received a little exchange of information to see if they had any leads, of which there were none. Whatever agency that he was with, was not government funded. Of course there was the brotherhood of clandestine intelligence agencies across the globe. But in this circumstance, they did not want to broadcast that they were potentially sheltering an agent that could have possibly blown his cover, been burned, or been compromised in any fashion. The safest avenue for both Statesman and Harry was to remain inconspicuous until a tangible lead was discovered.
Because, at the very least, he was intelligence, and so were they, they were curious as to his specialty, his area of expertise. Handling a gun was part of every agents training, no matter where their loyalties lie. It was no surprise that he was comfortable shooting a weapon. All agents were. It was possible that he could be a clandestine officer, or focus on espionage, recruiting assets. He could be an interrogator. He was intelligent, well spoken, articulate. Psych-ops, psychological warfare or diplomacy could be just as likely.  His fastidious appearance, polite manner and gentlemanly demeanour would certainly lend itself to international relations. Certainly a man with his physical attributes wouldn’t be secluded to a desk in analysis. With his charming personality he could possibly be a raven, a male agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes. That would be effortless on his part. He would just have to show up. There were many ladies that had taken notice of the handsome figure who was a mysterious presence at Statesman’s HQ.
 It was also feasible that he had cross specialties. Some of the specialties would be more challenging than others to assess. Weapons were straightforward. You were either good or you weren’t. Once he felt both physically and mentally up to task, they brought him to their version of Hogan’s Ally or the Farm, the FBI and the CIA’s, respectively, tactical training facilities. 
When Harry’s health improved, they discovered the true extent of his abilities. They were far greater than Statesman expected.  As Harry’s strength and coordination returned, complex tasks became second nature again. His body began to respond to the stimulus and he gravitated toward the physical challenges that Statesman tested him with. What they learned on the shooting range, then in the Statesman tactical training facility and Special Operations Division, they did not expect and were not prepared for.
Harry found the whole process amusing. If not outright entertaining. Losing ones memory had its advantages. One need not worry about expectations, preconceived notions or judgement. He would either be good, or he would not be. Either outcome would be acceptable to him. No one, not even he, would know the outcome until after the fact. And he knew how useless it was to wish for one scenario or the other when anything was possible.
What did happen, was that the challenges of their tactical installation were not capable of quantifying his ability. His skills far surpassed the most advanced exercise they had.
He proceeded to excel at every exercise, drill, and challenge they placed in front of him. He performed without thought, without hesitation, with the grace and composure they had come to equate him with. First, on the shooting range and then finally on their full scale replicated “warehouse” where they would simulate real life combat situations, including the use of live rounds.
The first test was for speed and accuracy and his knowledge of different firearms.  At the shooting range, they laid out a variety of weapons in front of him. The guns were unloaded. He was tasked with loading the ammunition in to the proper clip or magazine and then loading the weapon. He was to discharge the all the rounds at the target at the end of the range. Aiming for a kill shot either at the head or chest, release the clip and return the weapon and then move onto the next weapon he was familiar with. 
Statesman didn’t know what to expect, but the certainly didn’t anticipate what they witnessed. 
Harry had insisted on wearing his full suit as he did every day. The Brit was calm, cool and composed. He was neither excited nor concerned regarding the proceedings. More than anything, he seemed relaxed, but slightly more interested in the tactical challenges than the cognitive behavioural tests that they had him perform. They explained to him what the task was. One by one, load the clip, load the matching weapon, discharge all the rounds, release and repeat. 
Without any visible effort on his part, Harry loaded the first clip, loaded the weapon, and then seemingly without aiming, pulled the trigger.  The first several shots landed off mark. He adjusted and then fired the entire clip, alternating between two chest shots, followed by one round to the head of the target at the end of the range, chambering each bullet between shots if there was a slide. It did not go unnoticed that his method was the one used by assassins. They all knew, when eliminating a target, it was without fail, two to the chest, one to the head. He was still completing his follow through on the previous round, while reaching for the next clip, before releasing the clip of the weapon in his hand and switching to the next. He did this smoothly, with ease, dexterity and without hesitation with the entire set of weapons. One after the other, shot after shot, hitting mark after mark without effort. No fancy moves, no showy stance, just incredibly efficient, accurate, skill and technique. With the reverb of gunshots echoing through their ears, Harry laid down the last gun in line with the rest, turned toward the observing Statesman. His precision was astounding. 
 There was no perceptible change in his demeanour. He could have been doing a crossword puzzle for all the exertion that was evident on his face. 
“Does this suffice?” His face was pleasant. There could have also been the tiniest hint of amusement. 
It was Ginger that spoke up first. “I do believe, yes, that will suffice.”
Tequila regarded him not only like he was from a different country, but a different species of man all together.
 “How the hell ’dya do that?”
Harry gave him a good natured smile. 
“Knowledge of the weapons.” He continued plainly while smoothing out the front of his suit and adjusting his cuffs to their proper length.
“One must possess an understanding of the moving variables involved when discharging handguns, especially for a significant number of rounds. One must focus on accuracy, which involves trigger pull pressure and control, proper stance, a secure but consistent grip, taking in to account grip tension and fatigue. Excessive trigger pull weight will cause muscle fatigue of the index finger and can ultimately lead to task failure during pistol marksmanship.”  
While opening and closing his shooting hand, he massaged the base of his trigger finger. 
“With the variety of weapons that were included in this drill, one must locate the front site alignment based on the make and model and identify the site picture, either combat, center, 6 o’clock hold, if adopting a classic stance. However, front site becomes irrelevant in situations where the target is not in front of you.”
The Statesman were surreptitiously glancing at one anther. Was this man for real?
“And then one must consider breath control, trigger press and reset, and naturally, follow through.  Of course, one must account for situational awareness. Needless to say, it is far less complicated aiming at a static bullseye in a controlled environment,” He gestured to the range. “rather than at a moving target under enemy fire.”       
He spoke with an easy nonchalance, as if he were describing how to serve tea. Incidentally, last week, Harry had already instructed them on the official rules of how to prepare a proper cup of tea. He had looked vaguely insulted when he inquired about tea and Tequila handed him a cold bottle of sweet tea from a nearby cooler. Following this incident he educated them on the finer points of afternoon tea.
“First and most importantly,” he informed them.” Select the appropriate English tea.”
Harry recommended Earl Grey, Breakfast Blend, or Traditional 100’s black teas. Slightly more bitter than American teas, he informed them.
“Always use freshwater for individual steeping. Boil water between 180-200 degrees.”
Harry stated that it was imperative that the water is at boiling point to properly release the flavours of the tea.
“Slowly pour into a teapot over a single tea bag or loose leaf diffuser. Let it steep for six minutes. Remove the tea bag. Do not squeeze the tea bag. Pour the tea into a proper tea cup, not a coffee mug. At this time, one can add milk, not sugar, unless you want to disrupt the flavour of the tea.” 
He was firm on the following point. “Only milk, if you are looking to make a proper cup. The color of the tea with milk should have a dark orange-brown hue, similar to American coffee. Once the milk is stirred, the tea should be at the perfect temperature to enjoy. If feeling especially British, one can pair with scones and clotted cream.” 
With the same casual, relaxed ease, he continued. “Naturally, it helps if one is familiar with muzzle velocity, air resistance, barometric pressure, humidity, air temperature and wind speed. The quantity and quality of propellant used in the firearm as well as projectile mass and length of the barrel.”
He saw the blank stares of the Statesman agents. He equivocated, “Or in more simple terms, front site, trigger press, and follow through.”
If he was this level on the shooting range, they were eager to see what surprises he had in store for the simulation. If his performance on the shooting rage was any indication of his abilities, his proficiency on the full scale replica could very possibly be stupefying. 
Word traveled with the wind on Statesman grounds. The following day, allowing his shooting hand appropriate time to recover, Harry prepared for the real life simulation.  A variety of curious onlookers, from fellow agents, handlers and operations support began to gather in small, inconspicuous groups at the control center where anyone watching would have full audio and visual of Harry the entire time. 
The immersive course was situated in two enormous warehouses with an open courtyard area in between.  It was devised to test Harry’s technical and tactical skill. So far, he had shown exemplary marksmanship. But like he had mentioned, it was much less complicated to shoot with accuracy in a range under a controlled environment. The ability to perform with the same accuracy and precision under pressure is what separated a good agent from an exceptional one. They were going to find out which category Harry fell into.
Harry, as an operator, would have to perform under the following conditions; unknown target distances that vary from close to extended ranges, identifying threats and non-threats prior to engagement, making decisions under pressure, speed vs. precision shots, tactical movements, utilising different types of cover and tactical shooting positions to accomplish the mission, which was to come out clean on the other side. Firearms ranged from pistol, rifle, shotgun, carbine rifle, AK -47, as well as improvised munitions. There could be an active shooter scenario. A hostage situation. Anything was possible.
The Statesman insisted that he didn’t have to wear his suit during the engagement and offered him combat gear. His suit was certain to interfere with his maneuverability. He showed up to the course, fully attired in his classic pinstripes, down to the cuff links. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt completely natural and at ease. 
“One should always be able to engage in life threatening situations while properly attired.”  He explained. 
 Call it vanity, call it pride, but he only felt comfortable in suits when he was in a professional role. Wearing anything else seemed sacrilegious. He wasn’t going to wear any less for an evaluation, no matter what the evaluation entailed. And he was very particular. About his suit specifically. He had several suits tailor made by a firm of Statesman’s recommendation. 
The one concession that he did make regarding his attire was to replace his Oxfords with the Statesman issue cowboy boots. Cowboy boots, of all things. But he had to confess, they felt good on his feet. It was easier to cover the unfamiliar terrain of the Statesman property, which included dirt, gravel, hay, barns, and stables and various other interesting outbuildings. At least the boots still made a familiar sound on hard surfaces. He particularly enjoyed the hollow, rounded quality his footsteps made when he crossed Statesman’s many hardwood floors. Particularly in the large storage areas the housed the enormous barrels of whiskey while they aged. 
He was also pragmatic. The boots were definitely more appropriate on the occasions they went horse riding, or other “outdoor activities” that his new keepers might engage in. While he might be fastidious in regards to his appearance, he still valued practicality.  For the landscape of Kentucky, the boots were more appropriate. And they did indeed, have a satisfying click that was comfortingly familiar. 
While the course was being finalised, he tested his right hand by creating a fist and then opening his palm wide. He repeated this several times. There was residual soreness from the prior days drill, but nothing that caused him concern. In the simulation, there would be a wide variety of firearms and weapons available in the course. Not every weapon would be a handgun. A shotgun or a riffle could be braced on the shoulder. Different weapons would require a different set of muscle and therefore prevent repetitive fatigue.
His shooting hand didn’t concern him, he was fairly certain he could fire from his weak hand as well. He was curious to find out. He decided to try even if the opportunity didn’t present itself. 
As he entered the course, the Statesman gathered around the monitors.
Even in a suit, he manoeuvred like an elite operator. His movement was refined, graceful, efficient. He held himself tall when he needed to check and clear areas, keeping his spine in alignment. His footing was sure and stable as he maintained a mid-foot drive with every step he took, balancing his weight between the ball of his foot and the heel.
He was not one to peacock. His skills and technique always had a specific goal and end result in mind. Ego had no place in life and death scenarios. But on the course, after he completed a task successfully, he could’t help but push the level of his abilities. Explore his edge. He began following up his kill shots with a second maneuver from a trickier vantage point, or with a more demanding technique, adopting more and more challenging strategies and unlikely scenarios. Each time, giving a little bit more than was necessary. He wanted to discover the full capacity of his skill. 
On the course, he felt a new vitality. Whether it be due to the physical exertion of being in the field, or the mental challenges that sharpened the edges of his mind, he did not question. He simply allowed it to flow.
He attempted to fire from his non-dominant hand when the weapon and the cover required it. He adopted a canted shooting stance, firing the gun from a 45 degree angle, aiming for a target that would be impossible in his position with a right hand grip. Well, that was confirmation he could shoot with both hands. When he needed to reload, he also did so with one hand, just to see if he could. He could. With the slide locked to the rear, he placed the gun between his knees with the grip facing upwards. He slid the magazine and then locked it into place and removed the gun from between his knees. His hand hit the slide release and he got back into the fight in a matter of seconds. Some of those watching hadn’t been noticed. His technique and execution was flawless.
He fired on the run at a moving target who was using a “civilian” as cover and hit his mark.
He shot two weapons at a time.
He shot from behind his back. 
He could shoot through things and still hit his target on the other side. 
He could shoot away from a target, knowing that the force and angle of the ricochet would hit its intended target.
He used bullets as a tool, shooting items into place, to remove barriers, open doors.
He used bullets to adjust a reflective surface so he could see around a blind corner.
It was as if he was mapping the entire course and picturing it in his head while he moved. Once he scanned an area, he was immediately able to place the location in relation to his position and the rest of the course. 
Not only was he expert at weaponry, a top notch marksman, his physical capabilities far exceeded their expectations. He was physically fit, but it was beyond that. He was evolved. He had a body awareness, not only in control of his physical actions, but the awareness of his own body moving through space. (He would be one hell of a lover) At times his movements were economical, not wasting a single iota of energy on a motion that was unnecessary.
But the movements that he did come up with were impressive. One motion would seamlessly flow into the next like a dance. A dance with bullets and weapons, but a dance nonetheless. 
He could shoulder roll while aiming and discharging a weapon.
He could knee slide to dodge obstacles.
He could position himself to make a defensive position into an offensive one. 
He could use a target as a cover, while taking out the target at the same time.
He could practice hand to hand combat for close quarter contact, simultaneously hit targets on the periphery with his weapon. 
At one point he threw his gun forward in the air, while on the move, used both hands to catapult himself over a low wall while the gun was still traveling through space. He caught the gun, landed and then swung it around in his hand and used it as a cudgel to incapacitate a target before he had a chance to reload. 
Agent Tequila leaned in.
“Holy shit.”
“Mmm Hmm.” Ginger replied.
If they hadn’t witnessed it on the monitors, they would not have believed it. 
It seemed like the further he got into the course, the better he performed.
He moved faster, with more precision, solved problems more quickly, took out more targets.
His most valuable asset, even more than his marksmanship and his physical and tactical expertise, would be his sheer creativity and his ability to improvise on the fly. It was as if, when faced with a problem, there was always a solution. You could almost hear him say, “Well, let’s find out.” The methodology that he used could be seen as unorthodox. It often purposely put him in harms way, but that same method enabled him to open a door to a solution that previously had not been possible. It wasn’t that the proposed solution was not feasible. The solution did not even exist until he created it.  He was confident enough to trust his own judgement and took risks in only the most challenging situations.
Agent Tequila, “If there was a soundtrack to go with this, that would be some kickass music”. 
Ginger nodded. She had to agree. Watching Harry move the way he did in his suit? It might seem silly or old fashioned or traditional to think what she did. He looked noble, gallant, honourable even.
Harry Hart was never one to disappoint. When he was expected to deliver, he delivered and then some. He completed the course while beating Statesman’s record time. To the observers, it felt like he had been in the warehouse for a lifetime. Hadn’t he been moving in slow motion? Some of them even forgot to breathe. 
He burst through the exit on the other side. The doors opened to the sound of cheers and applause. The breeze was cool on his skin, while the sun provided an inviting warmth. The air was fresh and crisp. It was a beautiful day to feel accomplished. He left any residual stress or tension behind. He felt light.
This was not a sight that Statesman was accustomed to seeing after a course was completed. More often than not, the agent would appear dazed, distressed, a little shell-shocked, a little traumatised, perhaps even rethinking his chosen career. Not many were cut out for this kind of work. Rarely did you ever see one, not just capable of the work, but made for it, thrive on it. Harry Hart was the latter.
Harry was exhilarated in a way that he hadn’t felt since he regained consciousness. The calm, cool, collected, focused, deadly Harry Hart from the warehouse gave way and a new man took his place. His expression opened up with a vibrant laugh that changed the very structure of his face. Hell, it changed him into a different person. Whatever, walls, barriers he built had fallen aside, revealing his true authentic nature. He was a man who enjoyed being alive. When he grinned, it was easy to imagine that he would have no problem winning hearts. Certainly most of the females that had watched him take the course were left a little breathless, a little enchanted. And actually, the men didn’t look that much different. 
Why did he seem so attractive at that moment?  
Why did he look so charismatic as he stood, tall and confident in his pinstripe suit, outside the warehouse with an easy smile and warm brown eyes? What had changed from the time he entered the course on the other side? 
The man who started the course had been handsome. The man that came out at the end? It would be easy to fall in love with him. That man was beautiful.
They were seeing a man in his element.  
They were witnessing a man finding his identity.
He seemed more present, more there, more alive. 
He finally felt like he had a place and a purpose. 
When he woke up in the medical ward, his first thought had been:  “My name is Harry Hart.” 
It was different now. There was a connection, a new realization. 
Now he was awakening outside the warehouse.
This time around, he thought to himself.
“I am Harry Hart.”
His brown eyes appeared even more golden in the sunlight. They were warm and inviting. No longer cold. No longer closed off. The light wind tossed a lock over his forehead. In a rare gesture he ran his hand through his hair.
He slung the communication headset around his neck, but not before jesting.
“All right.” He said definitively.   He paused for a moment.
He grinned. “Would you like to see that again?” 
——
What they discovered when Harry completed the course. …Whatever past Harry had come from, he had advanced tactical and technical skills that had muscle memory and strategy so ingrained into every fiber of his being that he didn’t need to think–he simply acted. In the face of immediate life threatening danger, he didn’t merely react to a situation. He took charge. He didn’t make decisions to survive. He made decisions to win.
They had to assume an agent of his caliber would be missed by his organisation. His talent, skill and expertise, if found in an agent, you very well make sure that agent stays in your employ. It was even likely that he was a senior agent or a director. They could certainly imagine him in a leadership role. A complicating factor could be that he was presumed deceased, and therefore, there was no chatter on the wire where you could find information, if only you knew what to look for. 
——
After Harry had literally triumphed over the course, there was a new aura about him. Before the trials, though he was always the perfect gentleman, he was reticent, distant, not quite aloof, but definitely keeping himself an arms length away. Both physically and metaphorically.
He wasn’t one to participate in any activities that weren’t directly related to him. He certainly didn’t spend time in the lounge, conversing with the others or stopping in for a cocktail. He didn’t socialise with any of the others. He would politely participate in conversations that happened around him. Could be quite engaging when immersed in a topic he was intrigued with. There was an unspoken invitation that he was always welcome. In addition, one of the Statesman usually asked him to join directly. Harry would always politely decline. Not offering a reason or excuse, but simply turning down the offer in his quiet, but firm way.
He answered questions that were directed to him, but when the conversation took a turn away from work and into more personal areas, he would offer his apologies and depart for a quiet location. He could often be seen a little aways from campus, sitting in the sun, an open book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. 
He never spoke of his past unless he was questioning Ginger or Tequila for any information that they may have overlooked when they initially found him. By all appearances, he seemed to be handling himself well. Especially under the circumstances. But since they didn’t have a frame of reference, they didn’t know if he was usually so reserved, or if this was a result of the situation he found himself in. 
They found that he could horse ride. Once he brushed up on tacking and the most basic fundamentals of horsemanship, he was able to recall the rest on his own. He only rode alone. He never left the campus unless it was required by Statesman. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go besides. The only time he was away, was when he was on horseback. 
He did make an exception regarding his attire when it came to this activity. The Statesman all rode western style. A suit wasn’t the most appropriate. If they rode English, he would have requested a riding habit. His compromise? A pair of trousers, and a button down shirt. No suit, no jacket, no tie. Regardless, he did make a striking figure on horseback. Once he was, quite literally, back in the saddle, he handled himself gracefully. He was both firm and gentle with the animals and they responded to him in turn. He seemed more at ease and communicate more with the horses than with people. It was auspicious, though, seeing a cowboy hat perched on this head. 
They kept an eye on him, at least from a distance. Making sure that they caught any signs of undue stress, mental or emotional problems, disassociation, anhedonia, or displacement. The side effects of amnesia were hard to predict. If a person is unable to reclaim their lost memories, they would have to start rebuilding their history from scratch. This was easier for some than others. The older the person was when they suffered memory loss, the more difficult it became to let go of a past they no longer remembered.
With Harry being older than most of the Statesman, he may be having a harder time assimilating. Even though upon waking, he was coherent, intelligent, adaptive, accepting of his situation, once the realisation sets in that their condition is permanent, there may be a later period of denial that was similar to grief. Suffering the loss of their identity. 
Looking at the person that he was before the physical trials was like looking through a window that was covered with a thick film of dust. You might be able to discern that there was something significant, meaningful, worthwhile on other side of the glass, but it would always be a shadowy, vague, dim suggestion of what it actually was.
The tests had cleared away the dust and debris until the glass was clear, crystalline, perfectly see-through. And what had been behind the glass suddenly shone through. That person was the real Harry. Not the shadow form that you would occasionally see, always crossing from one place to the next. Hardly ever still. Never comfortable to remain in one place for long.
After the trials, he was more open, quicker to smile and engage in conversation. Though he would still refuse invitations on occasion, he would be more willing to accept with equal frequency. They discovered he could be quite the conversationalist. His dry wit and biting sense of humour was a welcome change to the often crass or juvenile comments from the male agents. 
If he wanted to, he could easily hold court. His accent and his deep voice were as captivating as his words. But never did he dominate a conversation. He always made a conscious effort to include everyone’s remarks and would even ask the opinion of those who looked like they wanted to say something, but were hesitant for one reason or another. He was more than willing to have someone else take the lead in a conversation, but if the conversation veered in an uncomfortable or inappropriate direction, he always managed to guide it back to civility. Not that he was opposed to a healthy debate, but he did believe that some words should be either said in private or not at all.
He was just as expert at navigating social situations as he was the field. This was a surprise to them since he was so withdrawn at first. They discovered that he was just someone who never wasted words. 
Not only did he become an increasing part of the fabric of Statesman’s front, he also participated more in the intelligence side of the agency. His insight was valuable, his strategies were sometimes unexpected but always effective, and his analysis sharp and concise. He didn’t go out into the field on operations, but he often assisted handlers and their agents with more demanding, complicated missions. Many times he was able to foresee an obstacle that they could avoid, or lead them out of an operation that had gone sideways. At first, the teams were hesitant to request his assistance, whether they were averse, intimidated or just nervous to approach him. But as he led teams into more successful missions, with less loss, less injury, less risk, he was often sought out, his time claimed in advance.
If he missed the field, it didn’t show. They still didn’t feel comfortable sending Harry out on assignment and he never requested a mission. They feared that the lack of direct action, the kind that he had participated in during his test course, would revert him back to the state where he was listless, closed off, removed. But he did not regress. If anything, he become more. It was difficult to explain to someone who didn’t know him during his transition. But with every passing day, with every new interaction, with every mission that he assisted, with every training session he held for advanced weapon and tactical skills, which he did have to admit, he particularly enjoyed, he just become more himself. 
By the end of the year, he was The Brit. Everyone knew him. Everyone adored him. He was free with his smile, his laughter, with a kind or encouraging word. His pinstripe suit was now a common site on campus. He had his own group of women that would pine after him, though he remained firmly unattached. His opinion was respected, his advice valued, his critiques, though sometimes harsh, were always considered constructive. 
He was not exactly gregarious, but he was a very skilled conversationalist. He could exchange witty repartee, as well as engage in topics with depth and you could trust that there was always something interesting on his mind. When he excused himself for any reason, you were left knowing more, feeling more, thinking more. However, by nature, they learned, he was a reserved and private person. But whatever walls or fences that he had constructed at the beginning of his stay, had slowly but consistently been deconstructed. On that bedrock, he wasn’t rebuilding his history. Without even thinking about it, he was fashioning a completely new one. 
The last year had been spent laying down the foundation for his new life, accumulating building blocks, each experience a new row of brick and mortar. He had let go, completely, of who he might have been in the past. The exercises that he and Ginger went through to try to recover his memory, from hypnosis, light therapy, trauma induced memory retrieval, did not work. After not even a modicum of success, felt that he spent an appropriate amount of time trying to regain his memory. He accepted the fact that his memory was gone. That he would be best to move forward. Not to look back. It was simple really. There wasn’t anything to look back on. So he began his life at Statesman.
—-
His awareness circled back to Statesman HQ, to their stateroom and fully to the present moment.  Ginger was explaining the last of the progress he had made during his year at Statesman.  He had finally reached a point of satisfaction with what was his life. Was he looking for more? Perhaps. Contentment wasn’t a natural state for him. There was always room for growth, for learning new things, and having new experiences.
However, ironically, not just because of the amnesia, he was not one for looking back. He felt that he had always been this way. Now, here were three individuals who were asking him to do just that. Asking him very earnestly, sincerely, and genuinely. 
Like the girl had said, his instincts would be triggered if they were being dishonest or withholding information.  He believed they were telling the truth and had nothing to hide. But for once, he was at a loss.  What was he to do with this information?  Was it even possible to be the person they wanted him to be? He was looking for an answer, but could find none.
He tested the weight of his questions. Was this a burden that he wanted to carry? Does a past that you can’t remember even matter? Should it even? Perhaps the only reason would be to recognise the relationships with those who still remembered you. Where was the honesty in that situation? Wouldn’t faking a past that you can’t remember be just as bad as pretending that you are the person that you used to be. While organising these questions in the folders of his mind, he kept his face calm and neutral. He didn’t have to decide anything at this moment. But he did need to establish boundaries.
He couldn’t give an answer to these three individuals. But what he could do was help them in their current situation. Help them find out who had destroyed their agency, what they were planning and how to stop them. At least, that he could offer. That, he could do. The rest would still be there. Problems, if ignored, only became more vexing. He would look at them later. Perhaps the answer would come to him.
“My sincere apologies.” He started. 
“Ginger is correct. I suffer from amnesia and I recall nothing about my history. Nothing prior to my time recovering here at Statesman. While I retain the skills and knowledge that I possessed in the past, I do not have any memory as to how or why I have them.
“We have tried every means available to recover my memories, with no success.” 
“But we are here now.” Merlin interrupted, encouraged. “We can remind you. Perhaps trigger something that makes you remember.”
“We can help. He’s right. “ Eggsy added. “Who knows more about you, than Merlin?”
Roxy nodded in agreement.
It was probably the first time the group looked somewhat enthusiastic.
Ginger interrupted. She was worried about this. She would have to be the one to grab their hopes and tether them back to reality. 
“Not to discredit your suggestion. If this were a different case, then yes, there is the possibility that it would work. But when someone is suffering from retrograde amnesia, unfortunately, their memory cannot be recovered by simply being informed about their personal experiences and their identity. What you are referring to is called the reminder effect. This would consist of re-exposing the patient to past personal information. This can work for other types of amnesia, but simply giving Harry details of his life won’t help him retrieve memories.”
Eggsy eyes narrowed. He was dubious. He was convinced something they said or told him could surely open up the gates to Harry’s memory. They just needed to try.  They just needed a chance. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to say anything to him at all. They looked toward Harry, imploringly.
Harry was his usual respectful, attentive self. But his expression was guarded and he was quiet.
Their frustration limped across the table in his direction. Ginger needed to redirect.
These people had been through hell and back. But Harry was her patient. And he was Statesman now, regardless of his pinstripe suit, his accent, or his British mannerisms. As much as she sympathised with their situation, there was the risk that Harry’s progress would stall or that he could relapse. The worst thing they could do would be to insist Harry be someone he no longer was under the misguided notion that they were helping him. Harry would be trapped, defeated and they would only face disappointment.  Ginger arranged the words carefully before she spoke.
“Memories are exceedingly intricate. But to simplify, making a memory involves storing information in the brain as a specific pattern of electrical activity.” she explained.
While avoiding excess jargon, she wanted to emphasise the complexity of Harry’s memory loss. If only it were as simple as forgetting something and not being able to remember.
“When we recall a memory, we recreate the pattern of electrical activity that formed it in the first place. This information is then distributed across different regions in the brain to retrieve the memory.  Injury in any part of this circuit can fracture memory function.  It’s not that the synapses, the path, necessary to make these connections, is blocked. It’s much more than that. There’s nothing at the end of the path. There’s nothing to retrieve. It is as if the memory was never made. It’s not hidden. It’s not in the subconscious. It’s not filed somewhere deep in his psyche. It simply does not exist.”
Disheartened. Dejected. Depressed. The three of them were the dictionary definitions. Ginger sighed. Being the bearer of bad news was never a party, but this was less than enjoyable.  However, she wanted to explain as much as she could so Harry wouldn’t have to. He had made so much progress in the past year. It had to be unsettling to face an unknown past, when you had made so much effort to be in the present.
Getting to her point. “Unfortunately, there is no established cure for retrograde amnesia memory loss. There’s no magic drug or deep-brain stimulation that jolts memories back into the mind. I wish there were. If recovery does happen, it largely occurs on its own.  With amnesia as a result of brain trauma, If you're really lucky, new pathways form among the remaining brain cells, like in stroke victims, or other parts of the brain take over from the damaged areas in what we call neural plasticity. But that is very rare.”
“Sometimes, the reminder treatment is more than ineffective, it can also be harmful. Too often, the stories people tell amnesiacs sound like someone else's life and it can be unsettling to them. Witnessing the disappointment of past friends, colleagues, and family when they can’t remember, or be the person who they used to to be, can be emotionally damaging. Having people tell you how to think and feel, or that you’re not who you are supposed to be can be distressing.”  
 “I don’t mean to be discouraging or unsympathetic. It’s crucial for us, for our own sakes, but most of all, for Harry’s,” she placed her hand on his forearm for emphasis, “ that we are realistic.” She wanted to be very clear as she drew her hand back and made her final, essential point “Do not make expectations that can only result in disappointment.”
As Eggsy, Merlin and Roxy discussed Harry’s future with the other Statesmen, Harry claimed this time to examine the three faces across the table. He set aside any of their mannerisms, agitations, conflicts that were due to the current circumstance and concentrated on what he believed to be their true and natural state. He didn’t try to analyse them, judge them or question what he saw. He tried to feel them. To feel the look in their eyes, to feel the expressions on their faces, to feel the quality of their movements.
He closed his eyes for a moment and just listened, not to their words, but to hear the sound of their voices. He felt their vibration.  Not only to see if anything sparked in his mind, but viscerally. A reflex, an intuition, a sensation that stirred something deep rooted in his bones. 
But his mind and his body were quiet and still.
It was time for him to speak up. Before he addressed them directly, sat up even straighter. Tall and silent. He did not make any of the usual gestures he did when preparing to take over a conversation. Familiar movements of brushing something non-existent off his suit, adjusting his cuffs, running his hand along the back of his hair, adjusting his glasses. He was still. His hands were clasped and rested on the table. 
Only seconds ticked by until everyone quieted along with him. Their heads all turned in the same direction. Harry could always pull attention to him without saying a word. 
He was also not one to hold back words that needed to be said. Time would be lost and nothing would be gained.  He did not want them to get their hopes up. He did not want to them to expect something from him that he could not deliver. 
For the second time, he opened with an apology. “I’m very sorry.” His eyes were sympathetic. 
They had the feeling he was preparing them for bad news.
His words were sure and resolute. There was no hesitation. No wavering. When Harry made a decision, he was firm.
“I do not remember Kingsman.” 
He shifted his weight forward in his chair, resting his elbows and forearms on the table and folded his hands together. It was a gesture of familiarity. He spoke directly to them, as if they were having a conversation. It wasn’t just reciting a statement. He knew, full well, they would be affected by his words. He knew that they would not be the words they wanted to hear. He knew it would be painful for them to be on the receiving end of his words, not matter how gently and honestly he delivered them. He would serve them by being unguarded, unreserved and up front.
He paused so they could process what he was telling them. 
“Prior to your arrival, I was not even aware of its existence.” He added frankly.
“I do not recall any relationships I may have had currently or in the past.” He spoke plainly.
“As much as you may want me to, and I recognise that you do, and I understand where that need comes from, I cannot say, in all honesty, that I know you.” 
Harry was nothing if not direct. 
His eyes held each of theirs. He saw the dejection in their faces. He could not help but feel empathetic. It was obvious that, whoever he was in the past, these people cared for him very deeply. Perhaps even loved. But for Harry, he was never this person and he was never one to fake an emotion he didn’t feel. 
He was compassionate, but firm. "I’m unable to say I even recognise you. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am not the man you used to know. I may look like him, I may sound like him, at times I may even act like him. But I am not him.” His voice was kind now. His face was gentle. His expression no longer guarded. 
“However meaningful your relationship was, no matter how strong the connection, I am unable to reciprocate in a way that would honor that bond.”
With an honesty and an openheartedness that touched all their raw wounds, he offered.
“It’s not that I can’t remember the Harry I used to be. Or that I do not care. It’s obvious that your relationship with this man was very important, very meaningful, to all of you.” 
He softened both his voice and his manner.  
“It is, that this person you used to know, in my eyes, he never existed.” His face gentled. Became grave and solemn, almost tender. 
“Do you understand?” 
And for Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin, that perhaps was the most painful moment of all. Because with the kindness they heard in his voice, and the softness they saw in his eyes, the way he held his concern for them, on his sleeve where they could see it, he was in that moment, everything that they knew and loved. He was their Harry Hart. He was their Galahad. 
-----
Whew! If you got this far thanks for reading. Let me know what you think, good, bad, funny, dumb, sad, WTF? Whatever.  
Always feel free to reblog, share with someone else who thought TGC had sooo much more potential. Or was pissed that they killed off Roxy. And don’t even get me started on Merlin....
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chuckepisodes · 3 years
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Chuck vs. The Alma Mater Part 4
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As Sarah and Casey continued shooting the other men, you and Chuck looked over at the computer noticing the disk was still in and Chuck quickly took out the disc putting it back in its case. "I have an idea. Get us out of here!" Chuck shouted. Chuck, Y/N,  when I say go, run out the side door. Protect the disc. We'll cover you two. Go!" Chuck grabbed your hand as you both got up and ran out of the room, leaving Casey and Sarah to fight them off.
You and Chuck now found yourselves in a computer room. Chuck quickly sat down on on the computer chair and popped the disk in as you stood close to him, looking around the room, hoping no one finds you both. "Chuck what are we doing? We can't leave Sarah and Casey in there with all those men. They're gonna get killed." "I know Y/N. That's why I'm doing this." He clicked on one student and her number came up and he quickly dialed it. "Is this Glenda Mitchell?" he asked, starting to talk on the phone." We're in the science building. It's an emergency. Bring lots of big guns." Then there was a pause and you can see Chuck was trying to remember something. "Crap, there's a code phrase.... Are you coming to the toga party?!" he then hung up. You smiled at him. "Chuck you're a genius!" You both then began to work together, calling all the students in the file asking them if they would love to come to the toga party. Chuck's phone all of a sudden rang and he quickly answered. "Agent Katz?" All of a sudden you can see Chuck's face become annoyed and you had a feeling you knew why. "Morgan, this is really, really not a good time." Chuck said annoyed. "I knew it." you said rolling your eyes, laughing a little. He always had the worst timing. "Okay buddy I get that, but I'm at Stanford with Y/N. What do you want me to do?" he asked as he looked over at you. Whatever Morgan asked Chuck next angered him as he had to pull away from the phone and take a moment before continuing. You were trying not to laugh. Being best friends with both Chuck and Morgan was always entertaining. "Okay, okay. The code is O-U-8- 1-2-pound." and then he hung up and looked over at you. He can see you smirking. "Don't start Y/NN." "You good?" "I will be. Now..." he then bent down and took the disk out of the computer. You can see Chuck then become tense when he sat back up. "Chuck what is it?" What you didn't know was the man with the crossbow was behind both of you. "Oh no." Chuck said. He then jumped to the side, bringing you down with him as he tried to shield you from the man as he shot his crossbow, hitting the computer.
The man was walking around trying to find you both as you both crawled across the floor trying to hide. It didn't last long though when you appeared from behind a desk, Chuck behind you, the man was right there with the crossbow pointed right at  your head. "Oh my God." you said scared. Chuck began to freak out seeing this. No. Please don't, please don't, please don't. Don't." Chuck pleaded with the man as he bent down to grab the disk from you. Out of nowhere, a woman came in high kicking the guy, knocking him out as well as the disk out of his hand. "You must be Chuck Bartowski. I just got your message. Are you okay?" "I'm just glad you check your voice mail." Chuck said sounding relieved. "Yeah me too." you said letting out a sigh. Chuck crawled over grabbing the disk and then quickly pulled you into a hug, relieved nothing bad happened to you.
After all that, you were all finally back home. Well at Chuck and Ellie's place since they decided to invite you over. "I can't believe that game was such a wash." Ellie said as you all entered the house. " What a blowout." " Worst game ever." Chuck said. Devon was trying to wash the paint off of his face but was not having any luck. " It's not coming off. I think I used the wrong kind of paint." he said coming up to Ellie. " Well, what brand was it?" " Brand? I don't know. One of the guys picked it up." "Try some stronger soap." You and Chuck both walked into the kitchen and he passed you a beer as he took one for himself as well. "So how painful was it? Not the game, I mean." Ellie said coming up to you both. " Well, uh, do you remember the evening with Morgan at the karaoke club? His cover of Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love" he dedicated to you?" Chuck asked. " That completely ruined Karate Kid II. " Ellie said still sounding angry about it. "Seriously, though, thanks for pushing me." "Yeah me too." "After the initial shock and horror, it was a relief to finally go back. Say goodbye." "Yeah and seeing stuff from my school. Even some people I knew.  It was scary but...it was good for me." "I'm proud of you. You know? Both of you. You faced your past, head-on. Did you find what you were looking for?" " Almost." he said, but feeling bad for you because you'll probably never know. " You'll get there." Ellie said smiling at you both as she walked away.
You and Chuck were now in his room, chilling once again on his bed. Chuck had one question on his mind and he turned his head to look at you. "Y/N. I realized you never fully told me why you hate UCLA so much. Everytime I ask you always try to change to subject." "I know..." you said with a sad sigh. "I mean it's been quite a few years since and I mean...we are best friends. I thought we told each other everything?" "We do. It's just...I've had a hard time talking about it." "Okay. Well I won't force you to talk but...you know I'm always here." "I know..." you then took deep breath. "Okay." You then sat up and turned to him and Chuck did the same. He can tell you looked really nervous. "One night, my house was having this party. It was huge. Anyways, me and some of my so called friends got a little crazy with the drinking and...I got so drunk. And my ex, Steve, thought he could take advantage of me." You could see Chuck was getting angry at the thought of someone doing this to you. "He decided to do it in front of everyone to see and none of my friends helped and...and people were filming it and the next thing I know it's all over the school." you were now crying and Chuck quickly pulled you into his arms as you cried and shaked. "Oh my God Y/N. Hey...Shhh...Y/NN. I am so so sorry." he said softly as you still cried. "I am sorry I didn't tell you sooner. Hell even called you at school when this all happened. I was just so ashamed." "Hey. Look at me." You pulled away and saw there were tears in his eyes too. "It was his fault. Okay? Not yours .Plus you didn't let that bastard stop you did you? You still graduated at the top of your class. And you should be damn proud about that. I still really want to beat the crap out of him though." You smiled at him. "Thanks Chuck." "Thank you for having the courage to tell me." You hugged him tightly one more time.
“Please tell me he got taken care of. You know by the police and all.”
“Oh he did.”
“Thank God.”
You smiled at him once more.”
"Want to check out your file?"
You both got up and walked over to Chuck's computer. As he sat down he brought you down with him to sit on his lap and held you close as he popped the disk in. "You didn't think we'd let you keep that, did you?" Sarah said appearing at Chuck's door. " I need to know, Sarah." "Okay, Chuck." she said walking up to the both of you. "Test subject 0326. Bartowski. This will be his first interview. Send Chuck in. " Fleming said appearing on the screen. "Bryce? This isn't a good time. I'm waiting for another student." You and Chuck looked at each other shocked then over at Sarah who looked just as shocked. "Chuck Bartowski? He never got your message." "What are you talking about?" " You put Chuck on the CIA recruitment track? " "It's not up to me, Bryce. They want him for the Omaha Project." "That's a military operation. They'll turn Chuck into- " "I'm required to send all the top test results to the Agency." " I want my friend out of this." "He's a perfect candidate. Keywords in his essay responses correlate to 98 percent... of the images in the exam." "You don't get it. Chuck's a good person. He's got too much heart for this kind of work. He's no operative. You can't put him out in the field. He won't survive. " Chuck looked a little saddened watching this and you noticed and leaned your head on his. "The Agency is not gonna let go of a recruit this promising. The amount of information he can retain... ? They're not gonna give him a choice? He's in no matter what." "If he cheated on the exam, copied all the answers... it would invalidate the results, wouldn't it? " "Yes. " "Good. Now you're going to help me, professor." And the video was over.
"I'm sorry Chuck." you said softly. "Bryce framed me for cheating to save me. Why didn't he just tell me that?" he said, sadness in his voice. "He couldn't. They had already recruited him." Sarah said, trying not to cry. " If he had a reason for getting me kicked out... maybe he had a good reason to break into the Intersect too." " And maybe he had a good reason for sending it to you." " I just wish I could talk to him. It must have tore him up to not be able to tell me." "No one can know about this. " Sarah said walking over and taking the desk. "For your own safety, okay?" " Sure. No one would believe me anyway." You looked over at Sarah and gave her a little smile as she smiled back at you and closed the door, starting to let the tears come down over Bryce.
FLASHBACK You pulled into the Stanford parking lot and saw Chuck sitting there with his stuff, sadness and anger all over his face. You got out of your car and walked up to him. "Chuck?" He looked up and tried to smile but it didn't work. You kneeled down in front of him now and grabbed his hands. "Oh Chuck. What happened?" "I...I don't know. Bryce set me up. Why would he do that?" "I'm sorry Chuck. I don't know." He sighed and got up, picking up his stuff as you both slowly walked over to his car. "Thanks for picking me up and taking me home Y/N. I just didn't think I could deal with Ellie in the car right now." "Oh it's no problem at all Chuck. You know I would do anything for you. Plus I am all caught up with school right now and acing all my classes so I think I can manage being away for a short while." "That's amazing Y/N. I am so proud of you." Chuck quickly put his things in the car and then walked over to hug you which you accepted. "And Chuck?" He looked down at you still holding  you. "I'm still proud of you too. No matter what." Chuck smiled and you both got in your car and drove away. END OF FLASHBACK
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annamead--xo · 4 years
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Losing Their Precious Gift || Hanna
Who: Harry & Anna
Where: Their NYC Condo & Hospital
What: Anna wakes up in the middle of the night in pain to find that she miscarries their baby girl, Annabelle.
Anna: [in the middle of the night, Anna woke up suddenly from a sharp pain in her stomach] Ahhhh.![she sat up in bed and knew that something was wrong instantly] No, no.. Harry.. [she reached over to shake him gently] Harry.. wake up.. something's wrong.
Harry: [Harry was peacefully asleep when suddenly he felt his body move] Whaa.... [he said with a sleepy voice until Anna got through him, sounding like she was in panic. He immediately sat up straight] What's wrong, what's wrong?
Anna: [she let out a small cry at another sharp pain as she tried to wake Harry up] I--I'm bleeding.. [she was afraid to move in case she made it worse] Harry.. the baby, our baby.. please baby, it's okay. [she tried to talk to her small bump]
Harry: [The same feeling of panic came over him when she told him she was bleeding] I-I'll call an ambulance, okay honey? [He said quickly and turned on his nightlight to grab his phone and dial 911. His other hand he placed on hers] It's okay baby... it's okay [he said to both of them, a million scenarios going through his mind]
Anna: [she nodded quickly and squeezed his hand as another sharp pain hit her] Tell t-them to-- hurry. [tears threatened to escape as she heard him on the phone. Her hand touched her stomach.] Just hold on, baby girl. I got yo-- [she crouched over as she cried out in pain again] Harry!! No, no, no.. I-I-I c-can't lose.. her.. baby...
Harry: [He gritted his teeth as she squeezed his hand so hard she might've broken something, but that was nothing to worry about right now] I will honey, hold on, I'm here, we've got this [He told her as they finally answered his call] I need an ambulance for my girlfriend, she's 4 months pregnant and she's bleeding and in a lot of pain. Please hurry, we're at .. [he quickly gave their address as he held her hand and moved close to her so she could lean on him] We're not... we're not... keep breathing baby, okay? We're gonna be okay. They're on their way.
Anna: [as she used him for support, she started to cry. From the pain mixed with the idea that she was losing her baby.] She is supposed to be our miracle baby. [She tried focusing on her breathing but the pain was unbearable as it felt like someone was jabbing her with a sharp object] I-it hurts..
Harry: [Harry hung up the phone after they reassured him they were coming from the hospital a few minutes away. He wrapped his arm around her to hold her as he held back his own tears] I know honey, I know. They're on their way, a few minutes. You're gonna be okay. I'm here. A few minutes okay? Just hold on a little bit longer.
Anna: [she took their intertwined hands and placed it on her bump. She just wanted to reassure their baby that it was all okay but this was the best she could do. She nodded as she heard the sirens pulling up. She was starting to feel out of it from the loss of blood.] What—whatever happens.. save our.. baby, okay?
Harry: [He pressed a kiss on her hair while all he could do was hold her] I love you, okay? [He didn't answer the question, because he couldn't make that choice.] I'll open the door for them, is that okay? I'll be back in a second. I won't leave your side.
Anna: I-I love you too. [her eyes closed as they held onto each other. Her cheeks were still wet with tears as she had a million different sceranios running through her mind.] Hm? Oh.. okay. [she wasn’t exactly comprehending anything anymore because when he left to get the door, she passed out in their bed]
Harry: [Harry left the room to let in the guys from the ambulance as he rushed with them upstairs. When they got back to Anna she had already passed out. Harry helped carrying her on the stretcher even though they told him to step away; he didn't want any unknown hands on her.] S-she needs some clean clothes [he said with a trembling voice, but the doctors reassured him they'd think of that and that they had to go now. He rushed with them into the ambulance where he didn't let go of her hand]
Anna: [Anna was in and out of consciousness the entire ride of the ambulance and during all the tests they ran once they were at the hospital. An hour after they settled her into a bed, she let out a soft whimper. The images of the last few hours rushed back to her and her hand reached out to touch her stomach. She could still feel the bump so she tried to open her eyes. She saw Harry and immediately began to cry.] H-Harry.. wh-what happ..happened? Is t-the baby.. okay?
Harry: [He felt like it had been hours he had sat by her bed when she opened her eyes. His eyes were puffy and red from how he hadn't been able to keep himself together] H-hey honey...... [He said] S... they... s s she.... [he shook his head, meant as a 'no']
Anna: [she didn’t want to believe him. Like he would play this joke on her but he wasn’t like that. She could see it in his eyes that he was telling the truth.] N-no.. no, no, no.. [she tried to sit up, feeling like she was in a dream] No.. s-she’s okay! Harry.. she has to be!!
Harry: Careful, c-careful... [he stuttered as he got up to get her to lay down again] N-no.... Anna... I'm so sorry.. [his throat felt like he was suffocating]
Anna: Nooo. I need to.. see for myself.. [she tried to push against his arms but she was still so weak with the loss of blood. she couldn’t stop the tears from escaping] Why.. why do I—I still.. look pr-pregnant?
Harry: Honey honey please be careful, they said you need to lay down, okay? [He felt bad pushing her down again, but he didn't want her to be in even more pain... if she even could be] It's... it's common. That needs a bit of time, it's not going to change overnight but slowly it will fade away...
Anna: I don’t care.. I-I want my baby! [she gave up though when she lost all her energy in fighting against him. That’s when the tears began again.] I-it’s not fair.. we wanted.. h-her so much. [she curled up in the bed, her arms holding her now much smaller stomach] Fade away.. just like our baby.
Harry: I know honey I know [he said as he wiped away tears rolling down. He was surprised he still had them] We wanted her more than anything.... we did nothing wrong.. ... it's just... bad luck. Really bad luck. [He sat down on the side of the bed with her] Our babygirl [he said with more tears coming down]
Anna: [they had so many plans for the baby and she cried out for each one of them, their dreams and plans all crushed.] Bad luck? No, no.. but she was ours. She needed us. We need her. I.. I must have done.. something. [she reached out to him when he sat on her bed. She tried to pull at his shirt to bring him down to her level.] Did they say.. it was a girl?
Harry: Anna, my Anna.... [he cried out with her and when she pulled him down he placed his head on the pillow next to her so it could seem like it was just their world together; but it wasn't] No, no, we did everything we could, you didn't do anything wrong... you were perfect.. [He closed his eyes as he couldn't say it]
Anna: [when he laid down with her, she moved in closer. Her face nuzzled into his chest as she held onto him and let out all of her pain. She wanted to scream at the world for allowing it to take away the best thing they had.] But if I..I can’t.. [she was struggling to allow herself to believe she didn’t do anything wrong. She was worried her condition with having fertility issues could also have been issues to being pregnant too] I-I want our baby with you. [she pulled back for just a moment to see it in his face that the doctor did tell him that they had had a girl] Baby girl..
Harry: [He wrapped his free arm around her to hold her close as she cried hard into her chest and he felt her body shaking] Shhh shhhh [he said] It's not our fault, it's not our fault [he said knowing what she was thinking] I wanted it too. [He swallowed] Her. I wanted her too. She was so welcome. They... they couldn't do anything for her.
Anna: [she wanted to believe him when he said it wasn’t her fault. But there was still the feeling of guilt that didn’t think would ever go away. So she continued to hold onto him as they grieved for their baby. Her hand moved down to her stomach] I’m so so-sorry, baby. I- I love you. [it made her end up in tears again, pressing her face back in his chest] Harry..
Harry: [He placed his hand on hers as looked down at what had been their little miracle] I love you [he whispered as well] Our little Harriet [he said with a small smile]
Anna: [she looked up at him and tried to give him a little smile] She loved that name. I had thought of her as my little Annabelle.
Harry: I think she was trying to tell us we needed to think about that just a bit longer. Annabelle? ... Annabelle. I love it.
Anna: My precious little girl. [she was trying not to cry again] You do? It was just an idea. If you could have Harriet, I could have Annabelle.
Harry: I do. For real. Our little Annabelle. That's her. [He squeezed her hand]
Anna: [she smiled when she felt him squeeze her hand] She will always be with us as Annabelle then. I love that.
Harry: Annabelle. Our daughter. I love you honeybee.
Anna: I love it. And I love you. So much. [she leaned up and kissed him]
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crayonwriting · 5 years
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Irreplaceable You: 3 (Bucky Barnes)
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Summary: Unexpectedly diagnosed with a terminal disease, you embark on a mission to find a new love for your fiancé and childhood best friend, Bucky Barnes.
Disclaimer: This story is a rewrite of the movie of the same title on Netflix. Directed by Stephanie Laing and written by  Bess Wohl. Go check it out!
A/N: I know this is kinda going slow. I hope y’all don’t get too bored. 
Enjoy folks!
You sat quietly in the kitchen, stirring your bowl of oatmeal absentmindedly. Bucky stared at you, eating his own breakfast. Today was the day you would know your test results. You were scheduled for an appointment at the hospital and you couldn’t decide whether you should go or not.
“Y/N.” Bucky called.
You stopped stirring and glanced at Bucky. He smiled at you and pointed his spoon towards your bowl.
“Eat up. You need food.” He said, a little bit sternly.
You slowly spooned some oatmeal into your mouth and chewed slowly. Bucky bit his lip lightly, adjusting his glasses. He knew you were dreading this day and all he wanted to do was to make it easier for you.
“You know,” he started, “Come to think of it, a tangerine is better than a orange.”
You stared at him not knowing what he was talking about. He raised his eyebrow and gave you a look, flashing you a small smirk. It took you a few seconds to recall how Dr. Michaelson called the mass in your uterus a tangerine.
Bucky was waiting for you to respond, cautiously. You stared at him for a while, letting it all sink in. You knew how Bucky looked on the brighter side of things and he just wanted to make you feel better. You smiled a little.
"Or a grapefruit." You mumbled. Bucky couldn't help but grin widely.
"Yeah. Yeah, you're right." He ate a spoonful of oatmeal before asking, "Or a...uhm… What's bigger than a grapefruit?"
You both thought about it before simultaneously blurting out,
"A watermelon!"
You giggled a little, looking fondly at Bucky. He smiled back at you. He stood up and walked to your side of the table. He knelt beside you, taking your hand in his and kissed your knuckles.
"It's gonna be okay, Y/N. I'm with you."
It was almost like déjà vu: you and Bucky were sitting once again at the doctor's office, only this time you were with a different doctor and for a whole different reason. Dr. Kessler was already waiting for you when you came in and he had a bunch of papers on his desk which only made you weaker in the knees and your gut drop.
"It's two tangerines and a grapefruit." He showed you your scan with three highlighted blobs in it, indicating the, now, three masses in your uterus.
Your felt your whole body stiffen. Your anxiety was at its highest as you know that what comes after won't be good. Your palms started to get sweaty and you held them together tightly.
"T-that's a lot of fruit…" Bucky joked, chuckling nervously at the end. He tried to make the mood lighter but you didn't respond; how could you? Bucky looked at you and gulped down before straightening his back and waited for the doctor to continue.
Dr. Kessler looked nervously between you and Bucky. He cleared his throat and continued.
"The tests have shown that it is cancer."
There's this moment when everything changes. You look back, and there was the moment before. The person you were a few days ago, was a positive one. Just a young woman thinking about whether she's hoping for a boy or a girl, and tiny fingers and toes, and then it was ripped out of you when they said you had a mass.
And now, that mass has evolved into cancer.
"I know that this must be hard to hear. It's incredibly rare in someone your age. It's just…,” he paused, trying to look for better words—as if there were. “It's just terrible luck.” He put the scan down on the table, picking up what looked like pamphlets and held them out to you. “Now we can talk about options whenever you're ready.”
Frozen in your seat, with your eyes blurry with tears, you gripped the end of your dress tightly. You looked to your balled fists and, with determination, stared straight into Dr. Kessler’s eyes.
“I-is there one that doesn't involve dying?” You said, shakily.
“Uh, I-I've already consulted with a colleague, and after the initial surgery, there's a clinical trial I'd like to enrol you in—”
“You didn't answer my question.” You cut him off. You bit your lip trying to stop yourself from going off on him. You turned your head slightly towards Bucky. “Did he answer my question?”
Bucky knew what was happening. His eyebrows curved into worry. He put a hand on your shoulder but you shrugged him off.
“We don't like to make predictions. But in addition to your treatment, I want to talk to you about your quality of life. Uh, we can help with pain management and some palliative care. And also some people have found great solace from support groups…”
His voice sounded far and distorted to your ears. It was like you were underwater and you can’t see, hear or feel anything. You hastily stood up and put on your coat and hat, almost missing the buttons as your tears further blurred your vision.
“Y/N.” Bucky called out. He reached out for your hand but you were already walking towards the door and out of the office. You didn’t hear him shout for your name, speed walking out of the hospital exit, hugging yourself in comfort.
You had cancer. You were dying. You haven’t had children yet. Hell, you haven’t even been married! And now fate is ready to take it all away from you, then and there.
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. Tears fell down your face as you broke down in the middle of the street. Your whole body shook violently and you felt your knees get weaker by the minute.
“Hey Y/N!” Bucky caught up behind you, pulling on your arm to make you face him. “Hey, why’d you lea—” He stopped himself seeing you in that state. Not able to take it anymore, you let yourself crash into his chest and you sobbed hard. Bucky’s face was contorted in worry and sorrow as he buried you deeper in his arms.
"Woah, woah. Easy there." He rubbed his hands up and down your back.
"I-it's just… not fair…" You whispered. Bucky kissed the side of your head and leaned down to kiss your shoulder. He tucked his head in between your neck and shoulder and held you tight.
"We're gonna be okay, Y/N. You're gonna be okay."
You just held him tighter.
“Mom?...Mom!...Mom, stop crying and listen to me!” You cried into the phone.
“Well, I’m sorry if it makes me sad to know that my baby girl is…” Your mother sobbed once again and cried. You sighed heavily. Telling her over the phone that you had cancer and was dying wasn’t really the best of ideas.
“Mom…,” you tried once again, “I know it’s a lot to take in, just… just get here as soon as you can, okay? We’ll talk better.”
“I’ll be there by Monday, next week. Oh god, Y/N maybe I shouldn’t have used the microwave. All that radiation must’ve gotten to you.” You rolled your eyes at her statement, smiling a little bit at how ridiculous she was being.
“Mom, it’s not the microwave. Okay? You did great with me. It’s just that…” You stopped, thinking of what to say. “It’s just fate, I guess?”It was quiet between the both of you. You shifted your position on the couch. You sat up and tucked your legs underneath you, pulling the blanket you had under your chin.
“So, see you soon?” You asked, almost quietly.
“Yes, I will. I love you baby. I love you so much.” She sniffed in between her words.
“I love you too, mom. Take care now. I’ll see you next week.” You cut the call immediately because if you didn’t you both would’ve just cried into the phone for hours.
You scrolled through your phonebook, checking your contacts to see who you needed to call. You pressed on a number and waited for them to answer.
“Hi! I'd like to cancel my membership to Crunch.”
“That's so sad. Why?” The woman on the other end asked. You didn’t really know how to tell her but since she was just a stranger, might as well wing it.
“Well, because I'm officially dying, so I kind of feel like, ‘Why work out?’”
“You don't love Crunch?”
“No. No, I'm perfectly satisfied with Crunch.” You closed your eyes in frustration.
“Have you tried our classes?”
“Yes, I've tried the classes.”
“Have you tried Booty Kickin' Step?”
“No, I haven't tried Booty Kickin' Step.” You bit your lip, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“I'm gonna need to put you on hold.”
“Wait I—” Instrumental rock music blasted through your phone and you had to pull it away from your ear. You ended the call. There was no point to talking to them really. You scrolled through your phone again before dialing another number. The phone rang before going into voice mail.
“Hi, this is Y/N Y/L/N from the Y/L/N-Barnes wedding. Yeah, uhm, so we had booked your venue for our wedding, but, uh… unfortunately, it turns out I'll be…“ You could feel your tears start to burn your eyes for the umpteenth time this week so you squeezed them shut.
“Unavailable. Um… So we were hoping we could still get the deposit back. Yeah, that’s it. So, if you could call me back and let me know, that'd be great. Thanks.” You rushed out the end and ended the call. You threw your phone beside you on the couch. Your tears started falling and you choked out a sob. You furiously wiped away at your face, frustrated and just angry at the world.
When Bucky came home, he noticed the odd quietness of the apartment. He took off his shoes and coat and set them by the front door.
"Y/N?" He called out, padding to the living room. "Babe? Where are you?" He didn't receive an answer. He went to the kitchen next and saw a glass of water beside Ruby on the table. You couldn’t have gone that far in the small apartment. If you went out, you would’ve sent him a text—you knew how much of a worry wart he could be.
He headed to the bedroom and there he saw you sitting on the fire escape next to the window. You were curled up into a ball, knees pressed against your chest with your arms wrapped around them and your chin resting on top. You watched the city below you.
Bucky smiled, albeit a bit sadly as he approached you. He on your right and put an arm around you. You didn’t flinch at his touch; only humming in response. He leaned closer, placing a small, soft kiss to your shoulder.
“How you feelin?” He asked, quietly. You shrugged. He placed his lips back on your shoulders and let them stay there. A moment of silence passed, only the honking of the cars below, the distant voices of the crowd and the soft breeze could be heard.
“I’m scared, Buck.” You whispered. Bucky lifted his head up and kissed your temple.
“I-it’s gonna be okay.” He stuttered. He had to be strong, for your sake. He knew you needed him.
“What if I die, Bucky?” You turned your head towards him, worry pooling in your eyes. “I mean,” you lifted your hands in defeat, “I know I am gonna die but what if I die during the surgery?”
Bucky brushed your hair away from your face, letting his palm rest against your cheek. He rubbed his thumbs on your cheekbones and smiled softly.
“We’re gonna get through this.”
feedback?
Tag List: @justanothergirlwithdemons /  @butteryoptimisticpeanut 
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mikeyhatesit113 · 3 years
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forever and never: Chapter 7
“Why don’t you have one, Mike?”
Janie’s step-dad’s question r0se above the general chatter of the private clubs’s bar area. Janie, sitting beside me, eyed me suspiciously as I considered his question.
It had been a bittersweet Autumn. I lost my grandfather to pancreatic cancer, our relationship had somehow survived the “Corey” debacle, and I had proposed to her in a major American city. On top of it all, we were planning a wedding...why not have a drink ?
“Sure,” I said. “A Captain and Coke, please,” I said to the bartender.
Within seconds, an ice cold beverage was sitting in front of me. Janie finished her beer, putting the empty glass down on the bar top as I took my first sip.
The taste was smooth, despite the growing anxiety in my stomach.
After a few more sips, I couldn’t help but notice that Janie was no longer laughing and contributing to the conversations around us.
I looked over at her and she stared straight ahead, a look of discontent on her face. She refused another drink from the bartender.
“What’s wrong?” Janie’s mom asked her.
“Nothing,” she said. “I think I’m ready to go.”
And I knew, then and there, that she was upset with me. She didn’t like when I drank, and because of that, I could count on one hand how many times I actually partook in alcoholic beverages.
It wasn’t an issue of me being able to control myself or not. It wasn’t even an issue of who the designated driver would be, as we had walked from our house to this private club.
It was an issue of control.
Within moments, Janie had her coat on and purse slung from her shoulder. “I’m gonna go home,” she said stiffly to her mom, hugging her and pecking her on the cheek. The anxiety grew even more in my stomach as I guzzled my drink.
But amidst my anxiety...I felt something else. Anger...the kind you try to suffocate but somehow it survives, and now it wants to breathe.
By the time I finish my drink, Janie is halfway across the room headed for the staircase to the EXIT. I say my quick goodbyes and pursue her across the loud, smoky room. The anger inside makes itself even more known, replacing the anxiety.
Janie marches out of the private club into the Winter night, and I come out behind her. “Hey, what’s the problem?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she says, marching down the dark sidewalk in the direction of our house. “Obviously there’s a fucking problem,” I spat, trying to catch up to her.
“Nothing,” she says.
“It’s because I had a drink and somehow did something wrong,” I said. “You can do whatever the fuck you want, but when it comes to me? No way.”
Janie breaks her icy facade and an argument erupts. But she doesn’t communicate to me what she’s upset about. She just shuts me down, and this pisses me off even more.
“You know what I think?” I say, the anger inside grinning as it takes full control. A savage, resentful anger. “I think you fucked Corey!”
Janie shrugs off my accusation, and we make it home on foot as I continue my rant. We go inside, and she goes right to the bedroom where she lays on the bed without removing her coat, intentionally facing away from me. “Janie!” I yell. “Talk to me! CAN YOU AT LEAST LOOK AT ME?”
She never gave me an answer.
We went to bed.
I married her one month later.
8 MONTHS LATER
It was a sunny Saturday morning, and Janie and I had been invited by my groomsman Bill and his girlfriend Monica to watch a local pro wrestling program. They were taping a show for a public access channel and we were invited to witness it live. As the promotion was ran by Monica’s family, we had no idea what to expect.
We would not be disappointed.
Before the show, Janie had asked Monica if she could bring alcohol to the show. As there were going to be kids and families there, they advised against it. Janie got creative, instead.
On the way to the location, Janie asked me to stop at a distributor. She purchased 6 pounder cans of beer and a Four Loco. Each pounder can fit perfectly inside of her handy fast food cup. She was able to put the straw into the can’s open mouth and put the lid on. Nobody would suspect a thing.
But as the day went on, they’d start to.
We arrived to the location, which was a decrepit looking barn. You would have never believed that a full wrestling ring was inside of it. Men in spandex costumes strutted around, and we watched on with amusement. Janie giggled excitedly, taking frequent sips from her cup. The show began and the action was exactly what you’d expect from people wrestling in a rather dirty barn.
I felt like I needed to wash my hands every 2 minutes.
The day wore on, and Janie became more and more outgoing with the wrestlers and fellow bystanders. Hours later, the show mercifully ended, and everyone gathered outside before parting ways. Monica’s dad, an overweight bald man with tons of tattoos, was the head promoter of the whole show. He sat on a chair outside as people stood around him and talked about their matches.
The entire 6 pack was gone, and Janie had started in on the Four Loco.
Everyone pretty much knew by that point that she hadn’t been drinking Sprite all day. Janie laughed and slurred her words as she made her rounds. Men in spandex pants watched on with concern, murmuring to each other. Janie seemed none the wiser as she sat down on Monica’s dad’s lap. I wanted to hide.
“This my daddy,” she slurred to the bald man. He chuckled uncomfortably.
I wanted to leave.
We left a short time later, Bill tagging along with us as we decided to get lunch somewhere. We settled on a bar for some reason...the same bar I had performed “Last Resort” at.
I was about to reach another last resort.
We sat down at a booth, but Janie had since become silent and tense. She was upset that I had addressed her behavior, and there was no reasoning with her now.
As we sat there and waited for our waitress, Bill and I made small talk, but it was hard for me to focus on anything but Janie. I watched her shift uncomfortably in her seat, her eyes shooting fleeting glances towards the entrance.
The waitress came over and we ordered our drinks and some food. After she walked away, Janie excused herself to the bathroom. As Bill nonchalantly talked to me about whatever, I watched Janie walk to the bathrooms-
-and then take a sharp left, exiting the bar.
I jumped up abruptly and jogged across the bar, exiting it into the hot afternoon. Janie was marching down an alleyway behind a nearby convenience store. “What are you doing?” I asked her, jogging up to her. “Leave me alone,” she said.
“Janie, you can’t walk home. Just go back and get in the car, we’ll leave right now,” I told her. But there was no negotiating with her. Wherever she was headed, she was walking there. “Janie,” I said, pulling at her arm. She yanked away. “Janie!”
From the other end of the alley, a man was watching us. The situation from his view looked like nothing less than a domestic dispute.
He dialed 911.
Meanwhile, I was having little to no luck on getting Janie to turn around. Moments later, a police cruiser rolled up. “The fucking cops are here!” I told her.
Janie mercifully stopped walking. After seeing the cop car, she turned around and made her way back down the alley toward the car, but it was too late. I knew why the cop was there. As Janie walked to the car and sat in the passenger seat, I approached the cop.
“I think you’re here for me,” I said uneasily. “Domestic dispute?” he asked me. “Yeah, kind of,” I said. “What’s going on?” he asked me, eyeing me suspiciously.
I told the cop that Janie was trashed, and we had stopped at the bar for lunch, but she left the restaurant and was ready to walk home intoxicated.
“Do you live close by?” he asked.
“Probably 5 miles,” I said.
The cop told me to wait and walked over to Janie at the car. Though I couldn’t hear everything, he did ask her if I had hurt her. Janie told him that I had not.
The cop walked back over to me, and he was relaxed. “Have you had anything to drink?” he asked me. “No, not a drop,” I said. “I believe what you’re telling me,” he said. “But if you wouldn’t mind, just to confirm everything, I want to give you a breathalyzer test.”
I agreed, and as he went to retrieve the mechanism from his vehicle, I looked over at Janie in our car. She stared back at me, and I couldn’t conjure a more poisonous look. By this point, Bill had emerged from the bar in complete confusion. I pointed him out to the cop, and Bill confirmed my story completely.
As I took my first breathalyzer test ever, I looked over at Janie in complete disgust. I blew into the mechanism, repeating one single thought;
“I’ll never fucking forgive you for this.”
0.00.
The cop told me to get her home, and I did. Janie passed out immediately, and I drove Bill home afterwards. We sat at his house and talked about everything that had happened.
I didn’t hear from Janie, once.
But this time, it was because she had left her phone in the back of my car.
I knew, for more than one reason, things were spiraling out of control. She had recently seemed more unhinged...as if there was something else happening.
But what was it?
----
Days later, I was at work and Janie called. After a few word exchanges, it became clear that she was in the mood to fight again. I couldn’t understand why, and it was getting exhausting. After work, I decided not to go home. I went to my grandmother’s house and I mowed her lawn. Afterwards, I sat at her kitchen table with her and did some catching up. We hadn’t had many moments like that since I moved out 4 years earlier, so it was nice.
Night had fallen and after hours of not hearing from her, Janie finally called.
“Are you coming home or what?” she asked.
“Yeah, I am. Will you be there?” I asked.
“No. No, I won’t be,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I’m done. This isn’t working. We’re toxic,” she said.
I rushed right home after hearing these words, and true enough, she wasn’t home. She was across the street at her mom’s house. I marched across the street and across her mom’s dark backyard, stepping up onto the deck.
The back sliding door was locked, and I knocked.
Like a stranger who hadn’t known them for 4 years.
Janie came to the door and stepped out onto the deck.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“I’m done,” she said emphatically. “All we do is fight. We’re toxic.”
“Don’t do this,” I begged.
“I’m done,” she said. She cut me short and walked back inside, shutting the door behind her and locking it. But I wasn’t giving up that easy. This didn’t make sense. At all.
All of the sudden? It’s over? That’s it? That’s how marriages work? No counseling? No communication? Nothing?
I knocked on the door. She came back outside.
“Janie, come home,” I said.
“I’m. DONE.” she reiterated.
“Please,” I said, feeling the panic all over again. I dropped to my knees in front of her, sobbing as I hugged her around the waist. “My heart is breaking,” I said, tears streaming down my face.
She stood there, cold and stiff. No hand on my shoulder. She wasn’t even touching me. In fact, she acted as if she were quite repulsed by me. I might as well have been a beggar in the street.
It was then when I noticed how she was dressed, and then the scent of her perfume. Her black blouse went perfectly with her denim skirt. Perfect apparel for 10pm on a Friday night...right before bed.
“Go home, Mike,” she said. She turned around and went inside, leaving me on my knees in the dark. But I wasn’t done yet. I knocked on the door again, and she came out again, this time irate.
“Mike, my dad is getting pissed,” she hissed. “Go home. It’s over.”
She went back inside and locked the door again, and I knew it was no good. I walked back across the street and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. I called her.
“Janie, is it really over?” I asked her.
“Yeah Mike, it is,” she said without a hint of emotion.
------
The next day, I went to our pastor and poured my heart out. I was devastated at her sudden change of heart, and I was even more devastated that I’d be missing Brock’s birthday party for the second year in a row. Our pastor wasn’t so easily rattled.
“Call her, right now, and tell her that you’re coming to Brock’s party. Not for her, but for Brock,” he said. “Whatever is going on between you two has nothing to do with Brock.”
I placed that call, and Janie wasn’t thrilled. I was like a stray puppy she couldn’t get rid of, but nevertheless, I found myself standing amongst everyone later that day at Brock’s party. We celebrated with the presents, and then everyone got in the pool.
Throughout the party, Janie kept her distance from me and had private conversations with her family members as she looked over at me. In the pool though, we found ourselves in the same place and touching. Then hugging. Then kissing.
After the party, we were outside hugging. “Let’s go home together,” she said warmly, kissing me. I eagerly agreed, happy to have that temporary feeling of normal back.
It didn’t last long.
As I followed her car, I watched her answer a call. After a few minutes, I watched her end the call and then her car took an unexpected turn. I followed her lead and we ended up at that small park.
That small park we initially took refuge at during our days of hiding, and that small park we paid a visit to in the moonlight.
And now, on a muggy, rainy day in August, we were back at this park under different circumstances. She parked her car and got out, running to the picnic tables under the pavillion. I followed suite, and I sat on the table across from hers.
“I don’t know if I want to try anymore,” she abruptly said. “What?” I asked in disbelief...still high from the kiss we shared 15 minutes prior.
“You need a night to yourself, and so do I,” she announced. “And then at some point, if we happen to, we’ll check in with each other.”
I left that park devastated, but an amazingly timed phone call came from my friend. They were going out for a few drinks, and I was invited.
“You need a night to yourself, and so do I.” Fuck it.
That night, I drank with friends I hadn’t hung with in years. I forgot all about my silent phone as I spilled my woes to my buddies at the bar, bouncing my ring off the bar top. I felt good for once, and then I went back to my friend’s house where I passed out on his comfortable couch.
I awoke at 3am...and I stared at my phone laying face down on the coffee table. Anxiety seized me, as the alcohol had worn off. Had she tried to call? Was it silent with no notifications?
I picked up my phone and looked.
17 missed calls. 4 text messages. 2 voicemails.
From Janie.
“I don’t know where you are, but I’m at our home, and you need to come home, because this is your home, and this is where you belong!”
I got ready quickly and left my buddy’s house, speeding home to her. I got home and she eagerly welcomed me as I crawled into bed.
Things were ok again. She finally saw my value. She wanted me back home.
But that didn’t last long either.
One evening, Janie wanted to meet at the Last Resort bar for some drinks, and I agreed. It had been one hell of a Summer, and we deserved to unwind.
We were sitting at the bar and I saw her phone light up. A text from “Kelly”, her best friend who I was very familiar with. I thought nothing of it.
Janie said she was stepping outside to call her mom real quick. I thought nothing of that, too.
But when Janie was gone for more than 5 minutes, I was about to get up and go outside to look for her when she returned to the bar.
“What did Kelly want?” I asked, honestly curious.
Janie gave me a puzzled look. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Kelly texted you,” I said.
“No she didn’t.”
My wheels started spinning.
That night, Janie got pretty drunk again and as we drove home, I couldn’t get the thought of seeing Kelly’s text message out of my head.
I saw it clearly. And Janie said it never happened.
We got home, and Janie had trouble getting up the stairs. “Dad! Daddy!” she screamed as she crawled on the bottom stair. I was puzzled this time, because her dad did not live with us, nor was he anywhere near. Why would she be calling out to him?
“I’m gonna throw up,” she mumbled.
“Get up the stairs, quick,” I said urgently, helping her up the stairs. I walked her to the bathroom and she hovered around the toilet, before passing out beside it.
She was out cold, and her phone was laying beside her.
I do not check phones. I’ve never been a phone checker. The mere thought of it gives me anxiety to this day.
But that night, I did.
I picked up her phone and unlocked it, my heart pounding. I looked down at her on the floor to make sure, and sure enough, she was fast asleep.
I did not see Kelly’s text in her text messages, and I was questioning whether I was going crazy until I saw Janie’s call log.
There were many calls from Kelly, and many calls to Kelly.
Not abnormal, right?
But the question begs, why was Janie calling Kelly at 5:10am?
Coincidentally, that was 10 minutes after I left the house every morning for work.
And thanks to the glorious details cell phones provide, these calls lasted close to an hour.
Kelly, a stay-at-home mom, would not even be close to awake at that hour. Thus, I went to Kelly’s contact info.
3 numbers.
1 was Kelly’s.
1 was Kelly’s house phone.
1 was unfamiliar.
I called Kelly from my phone, and she answered. “Hey Kelly, sorry to bother you but I think something really weird is happening,” I said. “Can you tell me if these numbers are yours?”
Kelly confirmed the first two numbers were hers, but at the reading of the 3rd number, she was silent.
“Uh...that’s not my number.”
“Thanks,” I said and hung up abruptly.
I picked up Janie’s phone, found the 3rd number, and called.
It rang twice, and then someone answered...but they didn’t say a word.
“Hello?” I asked.
No answer.
“Who is this?” I asked.
No answer.
The mystery person remained dutifully silent, knowing Janie would never call at that hour.
That anger in the pit of my stomach was back, and it was burning hotter than I ever knew it could.
I hung up the phone and I walked up to Janie at the base of the toilet, passed out and unaware.
I couldn’t help it. There was nothing else to say.
“ARE YOU FUCKING CHEATING ON ME?” I screamed, the rage inside exploding.
Janie opened her eyes, looking up at me.
“WHO’S FUCKING NUMBER IS UNDER KELLY’S NAME?” I screamed, shaking her phone.
Janie got to her feet, but she wasn’t taken aback.
She wasn’t nervous. She wasn’t stalling.
She was ready to fight.
“Whatever, Mike,” she said.
“Fuck you,” she said. “Get the fuck away from me.”
She marched down the stairs and out the front door. I walked after her.
“I said, get the fuck away from me,” she said, turning around.
“No, where are you going?” I asked stubbornly.
She turned around and continued walking to her mom’s house.
It was late night at that point, and all the windows were dark. They had since gone to bed. Janie was coming there anyway, but she wasn’t doing so without me.
I wanted some answers.
“Get the fuck away! Piece of shit!” she said, turning around and punching me in the chest.
“Who is he?” I persisted, walking after her. We entered her mom’s dark house, and Janie screamed at the top of her lungs.
“MOM! MIKE WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Amazingly, her parents did not wake up and I followed Janie downstairs into the lower level of the split level home.
“Fuck this, man, I’m calling Jay,” she said.
“You’re calling Jay?” I asked, almost laughing.
Jay? Who had moved on with his life and had someone he planned to marry?
That Jay?
“I’ll do it for you,” I said. I found Jay’s number in her phone that I was still holding, and I called.
Tawny, Jay’s girlfriend/fiance, answered.
“Tawny,” I said. “Is Jay there? Apparently Janie wants to talk to him,” I said.
“I think Janie is seeing someone behind my back,” I told Tawny.
Oh, the fucking irony.
The call didn’t go well. Jay was in the shower at the time, but I can only imagine what Jay would have told me if he got on the phone that night.
After that call ended, I didn’t have to wait long for another to come through.
“Kelly” was calling. Fake Kelly.
I answered.
“I don’t want to know who you are, or even how you know Janie. I only want to know one thing...is my wife cheating on me?”
The mystery man finally spoke.
“I don’t know you, but I will say you and your wife have a lot of things to work out. If it’s any consolation to you, she isn’t cheating on you, but you also need to stop going out with your friends and drinking all the time,” the mystery man spoke.
Wait...Ekim Pper does what all the time?
“Now, if this works out, we’ll meet one day and shake hands. And also know, if you’re going for the Sheriff’s office, I’ve been on ride-alongs and found out that it doesn’t pay too well. And watch what you post on Facebook,” the mystery man continued.
Yes, you read that correctly. This guy not only has been hanging out with my wife, but he also knows things about me, and is giving me career advice.
The call ended right after that, and I handed the phone back to Janie. I was defeated. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on.
I left her mom’s house and walked across the street back to our house. Janie emerged from her mom’s house moments later, but she wasn’t coming home to stay home.
She was packing a bag.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Fuck you!” she screamed. She finished packing her bag and marched back out into the night. On instinct, I followed. Our pursuit led down the roads of our quiet neighborhood. Families were relaxed and fast asleep in their comfortable homes.
Mine was falling apart.
“Tell me where you’re going,” I demanded.
“Who is he?”
“Fuck you!” she screamed again, turning around and punching me in the chest. “Piece of shit, get the fuck away from me!”
She started jogging toward the development’s exit to the main road. I jogged after her. She turned around again.
“I fucking hate you! Leave me alone!” she yelled.
“Where are you going?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“You don’t want to be here when he gets here,” she warned me. “He has a badge and you don’t want to be here,” she said. “Get the fuck away from me!”
We reached the main road, and she kept walking into the darkness.
I stopped dead in my tracks, swallowed in a darkness of my own.
She was gone into the night.
But to where? And exactly, with who?
Tell me that I'm faded, Tell me that to you, I am already dead. Tell me that I'm crazy, For thinking that we'd ever be the same again. Tell me that you hate me, It wouldn't be the worst thing you ever said. But don't tell me that it's over, Don't tell me that it's over.
Rev Theory “The Fire”
NOTE: Though this is my side of the story, including my own personal recollections and opinions, the reader should not consider this note anything other than a work of literature. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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No Greater Sorrow
Characters: Misha Collins, Y/N Collins, Jensen Ackles,   
Pairing: Misha x Reader
Warnings: Character death -  aside from that I will list the warnings in the tags since I don’t want to give anything away.      
Word Count: 2300ish
A/N: Hey guys welcome to SPN Angst Appreciation Day 2017 - I hope y’all are ready to cry. As one of your hosts I thought it was my duty to do my best to make sure you go to bed with puffy eyes tonight so I am posting 3 brand new one shots in honor of this day. This is number 2
@chaos-and-the-calm67 was sweet enough to let me submit for her challenge a little late so I could post this on Angst day. My prompt was “She has this gentle laugh that sounds like running water. I’ll do almost anything to amuse or entertain her, just so I can hear it. But she’s not laughing all that much anymore, is she? Ever since…” - My prompt gif is under the cut.
Thanks to a billion to my sweet lil sis @mysupernaturalfics for betaing this for me.
***My fics are not to be saved nor posted on any other sites without my express written permission.***
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Misha’s heart jumped into his throat when he saw her across the street. She was as beautiful as he had always been, maybe even more so. He felt as if his entire body was being pulled towards her, but his head stopped him. She was smiling. It had been so long since he had seen that perfect smile of hers and he knew that the moment she saw him it would disappear. He was a constant reminder of what they had lost to her, even if Misha was barely breathing without her, he couldn't approach her. She needed time away from him and even if she could never find away to look at him without falling apart ever again Misha would accept that. He could live with his heart in pieces. He could live with being alone, but what he couldn’t live with was being the cause of her unhappiness. So he respected her wishes and he stayed on his side of the street. He couldn’t tear himself away though, he just stood there watching her. Remembering a time when they had been happy.
“Mish!!” Misha jumped from the couch where he had been sitting reading the newest Supernatural script, when her cry sounded through the house. Misha sprinted up the stairs and towards their bedroom where he had thought her voice had originated from, but when it was empty he instantly grew all the more concerned.
“Y/N/N? Where are you, baby?” Misha called out for her, to see her head pop out of their master bathroom.
“In here,” she replied with a smile and Misha breath a sigh of relief, when he saw her smiling at him.
“Dammit woman! Don’t scream like that. I thought there was a burglar up here or something,” Misha’s voice was more teasing than scolding as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in for a deep, passionate kiss. “You hollar?” Misha smirked at her resting his forehead against hers as they broke apart.
“Yeah,” she answered still looking slightly dazed from the kiss and Misha chuckled, making her slap her hands flat against his chest. “Well if you kiss a girl like that, it is no wonder she get momentarily amnesia,” Y/N sulked, making Misha full on laugh.
“You are aware we have been married for 4 years right?” Misha’s teasing made her eyebrows shoot to her forehead as she glared playfully at him.
“Doesn’t stop you from staring at my boobs every chance you get or smack my ass when we have guest over,” she poked his chest, pretending to be mad and Misha held his hands up in defense.
“Touche, beautiful.” He chuckled, “did your memory happen to return yet?”
“Oh yeah,” she beamed, quickly turning around grabbing something of the counter, before hiding it behind her back. “Guess,” she ordered and Misha felt his heart skip a beat.
They had been trying to get pregnant for months with no luck. It was getting to the point where it was getting a touchy subject, so Misha barely dared speak the words. He swallowed harshly, looking to her flat stomach and back to her face before speaking, “you’re… are you?”
Y/N laughed, pulling the pregnancy test from behind her back, showing him the little plus in the middle of it. “We’re having a baby Mish!”
Misha felt the tears press against his eyes as he thought about their son; Raiden Lionel Collins. Y/N had been glowing for 9 months and Misha had never seen her happier. She had grown more and more beautiful to him with each passing day until she had finally woken him up in the middle of the night, telling him it was time. Misha had panicked, falling of the bed and running for the car, with her bag in hand totally forgetting about his wife until he was pulling out of the driveway.
Misha hit the breaks, grumbling curses at himself as he jumped out of the car and ran back inside the house to find his very pregnant wife struggling to get down the stairs.
“I’m so sorry baby,” Misha pleaded with her when he saw the look in her eyes, “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking,” he admitted, grabbing her arm supporting her weight.
“I think the trouble is that you weren’t,” she snapped at him, before crouching over in pain from a contraction hiding her.
Misha held her up, preventing her from falling down the stairs, gently rubbing his free hand on her back. “It’s gonna be okay baby. Just br…”
“I swear to God Misha if you tell me to breath I am going to kill you,” she hissed at him and Misha instantly stopped talking.
It had taken them a few minutes to get her down of the stairs and to the car, but when they had Y/N’s mood seemed to have improved a bit. She was still in pain and uncomfortable but at least she was not making threats against his life anymore.
It had been a speedy birth, which Misha thanked the stars for. Had it been even a few minutes longer, he was sure she had broken his hand if not his neck. No matter what he had said seemed to cause a very angry outburst from her, but he had kept trying. Right up until the moment where Y/N held their son in her arms.
“Look at him Mish,” Y/N coed as Misha sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arm around her. He was so proud of her and he had never loved her more than he did in that moment. He had never thought he could love another human being as completely and instantly as he loved the little bundle in her arms.
“He’s perfect,” Misha gushed and Y/N looked up at him with happy tears in her eyes.
“We made him,” she spoke in complete awe and Misha smiled pressing his lips against hers in a tender, loving kiss.
“Well, you did the hard part,” he chuckled and winked at her, “though I am not sure my hand will ever work probably again.”
The first few months had passed in a happy, sleep-deprived daze and every day Misha had fallen more and more in love with his little family. He had never been more proud of his wife. The way she was with Raiden had taken his breath away completely. They had never been happier, right up until the night where Misha’s world had come crashing down around him.
A glass-rattling scream echoed through the house and Misha was instantly pulled from his sleep. He jumped from the bed, following his wife’s screams and cries until he reached their son’s nursery. His heart stopped the second he saw her on the floor with Raiden in her arms. The little boy’s lips were blue and he was completely pale.
“Misha,” Y/N looked up at him, silently pleading with him to do something. To save their son. To wake her up from this nightmare, but Misha knew it was too late. Still he rushed from the nursery, getting his phone, dialing 9-1-1.
Within minutes the paramedics rushed through the doors, doing everything within their power to receive their son as Misha held Y/N back. She was crying and screaming as they worked, but to no avail. SIDS had taken their perfect, blue-eyed baby boy and with their lose a deep abyss formed between them.
Misha had tried everything. The first few months after their son’s passing, Y/N had barely left their bed. Misha had coached her to eat and bathe but he couldn’t get her out of the house. His own heart was breaking. He had kept seeing Y/N and Raiden happy and healthy as he had silently walked around the house, keeping everything in order and cooking for his grief struck wife. He had to push everything aside for her and be strong. Falling apart wouldn’t do her any good, so Misha kept pushing through, but the way she acted around him didn’t make it any easier. She turned away from him when they slept, she shied away from his touch and she barely looked at him anymore. Misha wished there was something he could do. Hell he would take her screaming and crying over this, but her grief was too deep. Misha had no idea how to pull her out of it.
When he was home he had moved around like a robot, going through the motions, keeping her as healthy as he could. His heart breaking a little, every time she had refused to look at him.
It took Misha a few months of Jensen knocking on his trailer door each time he was on set to finally break down in tears himself. He hated leaving her behind, when she was feeling like this, even if it was only for a few days at the time.
Misha was sitting on Jensen’s couch across from his friend. In his hands Misha held a picture of Y/N and Raiden. It was his favorite one. He loved the way it looked like his son was smiling up at his mom and she was completely glowing.
“Y/N’s laugh might be my favorite thing about her,” Misha finally spoke quietly and Jensen just sat there listening to him. “She has this gentle laugh that sounds like running water. I’ll do almost anything to amuse or entertain her, just so I can hear it. But she’s not laughing all that much anymore, is she? Ever since…” Misha’s words trailed out and Jensen instantly shuffled to sit beside him, wrapping his arm around Misha’s shoulder as he fell apart completely. “This isn’t fair Jensen,” Misha sobbed into his friend’s embrace.
“No, buddy. It isn’t,” Jensen agreed letting the heavy silence fall between them, knowing there was nothing he could said or do that would take Misha’s pain away.
Misha still wasn’t sure how he had made it through after a convention he had come home to find her gone. He had panicked at first, fearing the worst. With the way she had been feeling he should never have left her alone. He called everyone they knew until her mom finally called him back telling him she was with a family friend and that she needed time.
He wasn’t sure how he had kept working or even breathing after that. She had been his entire world for so long. They had been dating for 10 years before they had finally gotten married and Misha had no idea how to even exist without her. Every night he read the letter she had left him over and over again, desperate to find some hope in there that she wasn’t gone for good. But every night he found none and he ended up crying himself to sleep, clutching the pillow wishing it was her.
Misha.
I am so sorry. I know this isn’t fair to you. I know you lost a son too. Our perfect little boy, with big blue eyes and fluffy dark hair. My little boy, who looked so much like my husband. I used to love that and now all I can see every time I look at you is him. All I can feel every time you are near me is the grief that is threatening to suffocate me.
Misha you are my best friend and the love of my life. I will always love you, but I can’t be with you anymore. I am so sorry and I hope that you can forgive me one day.
Y/N.
Now here she was right in front of him, almost a year after she had left. She had never filed for divorce and neither had he, but he had come to terms with the fact that he would never see her again. That he would never see her smile, and here see was. Smiling with a few of her friends. Right up until her eyes met his from across the street that was. Misha felt the tears stream down his face as she froze for a moment, just staring at him, before taking off. Running away from him as fast as she could. Misha didn’t think, he just reacted. Following her down to the beach, where he after searching for close to an hour found her, sitting on the rocks, staring down at something in her hands.
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“Y/N/N?” Misha spoke softly, hoping she wouldn’t run again. She didn’t but she also didn’t look up at him. She stayed as Misha sat down next to her looking over her shoulder to see the picture. She had taken it in the kitchen the day after their first family outing. Raiden was asleep on Misha’s chest and Misha was making a silly face as Y/N snapped the picture.
Tears were streaming down her face when she looked up at Misha and his heart shattered into a million pieces. “I miss you so much Mish,” she sobbed, “but I don’t know how to be with you without him.”
Misha gentle open his arms to her and she fell into his embrace, crying uncontrollably as Misha ran his hand over her hair, breathing a small sigh of relief. He knew there was no guarantees. He knew they were both still hurting, but at least she spoke to him. At least she was letting him hold her.
“I miss you too baby,” Misha spoke through his own tears as they clung to each other. “I miss you too...”  
Misha Tag Team
 @mysupernaturalfics @blacktithe7 @percywinchester27  @docharleythegeekqueen @hexparker @fellmyroarrrr @starswirlblitz @d-s-winchester @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @fuckyeahfeysand @winchesters-flannels @tennesseewhiskey-and-pie @supernatural-jackles @adriellej @dance4angels @jayankles @mouselovesmusic @twistnshoutx @redunicorn10 @atc74 @sandlee44 @gecko9596 @jensen-jarpad @deansleather @phoenixia67 @chaos-and-the-calm67 @aiaranradnay @castiels-broken-fool @bemyqueenofdarkness
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beebomeebo · 7 years
Text
Don’t Go
Type: angst/fluff
Request// “Okay so the joe fic.. The overall is basically reader takes a like pregger test and it turns out positive and reader is scared to tell how bc they weren't married but engaged and how didn't want kids atm (he eventually wanted them but like not that sec yknw) anyway he is like shocked and doesn't say anything so reader leaves and comes back and like how is upset with himself and then see reader and says that he is happy and he is sorry for making reader freak out (this is super fucking specific)
(A/N) this is gonna be hella short and this is gonna be more like a small drabble. (and by short, I mean longer than most of my smuts.) This is my first angst fic so I hop ya’ll like ittttttt. I'm also changing it a little bit. #sorry
Warnings: pregnancy, tears, angst, fluff, a little bit of alcohol, FRIENDSHIP
Pairing: Joe Trohman x Reader
Word Count: 3K
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“I don’t know what I’m going to do!” I run my fingers through my hair.
“Have you told Joe yet?” Jenna asks, attempting to calm my nerves.
“Not yet.” I stare at the floor, my head spinning. “I don’t know how he’ll react.”
“Maybe it messed up? How many did you take?” Jenna places her hand on my shoulder.
“Four.”
“And they all came up as positive?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn.”
I stand up and begin to pace in front of the couch. Suddenly, I hear Joe’s car pull up into the driveway. Jenna and I exchange worried looks. Before I could react to the situation the front door swings open.
“Hi, babe.” Joe closes the door and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Oh, hi Jenna.” He waves to Jenna- who was on the couch. Jenna waves back.
“Well, I better get going. Tyler’s making dinner.” Jenna flashes me a smile and grabs her things. As I escort her to the door she whispers, “Good luck.”
“Uh, Joe?” I turn around to an empty living room. I fidget with the ring on my finger that Joe had proposed to me with only two weeks prior.
“Yeah, babe?” He shouts from the bedroom.
“I need to tell you something.” My anxiety kicks in. Don’t tell him. He’ll leave you. No, he won’t, he loves me. No, he doesn’t. You guys aren’t ready for kids. He’s going on tour soon. What are you supposed to do when the baby can’t see his dad for the first three months of their life? Suddenly, it becomes harder to breathe and I lose my balance, crashing on the couch.
“Yeah?” Joe walks into the living room and notices me hyperventilating. He rushes to me and pulls me to his chest. He begins rocking back and forth and whispering, “Hey baby, it’s ok. Whatever it is, it’s ok.”
After about ten minutes I finally calm down enough to talk. I keep my face buried in Joe’s chest for a while longer as I attempt to silence the voices.
“Are you ok, baby?” Joe lifts my face and examines it with immense concern.
“Joe,” I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. “My period is late. Like, really late.”
He stares at me blankly. “Ok, well what does that mean?”
“It’s a sigh of pregnancy.” My voice trails off as Joe’s face throws into full shock. Wide eyes stare at me as if I’m a completely new person.
“A-Are you sure? Did you do a pregnancy test?” Joe shoots onto his feet.
Reaching for his hand I reply, “Yes. I did four of them.”
Joe begins to pace like I was before. “What are we going to do? We’re not even married yet!” Joe’s voice raises.
I feel tears poking at my eyes as I stammer an uncertain answer. Soon I’m completely crying in front of Joe.
“I need to think.” Joe quickly jogs down the hallway.
“W-Where are you g-going?” I stutter through the sobs. He ignores me as he heads straight for the front door. “Wait!” I lunge to try and grasp his wrist but he slips out the door before I could catch a hold of him. The door slams and I keep my arm extended towards the door before sobbing harder and crawling up into a ball on the couch.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
I finally calm myself enough to walk into mine and Joe’s bedroom. I reach for my cell phone and bring enough energy to dial Joe’s phone. Taking a deep breath, I put the phone up to my ear and listen to the other line ring. I hear a faint ring behind me and I turn around to direct my attention to it. A cell phone buzzes against the nightstand and flashes a picture of Joe and I. I pick up the phone and begin to cry harder, reminiscing the memories that Joe and I shared. I crash into the king-sized bed and sob again.
A buzzing from my own phone pulls me from my tears. Jenna’s face pops onto my screen and I try my best to pull myself together as quickly as I can before sliding my thumb across the accept button. “Hey.”
“Hey! How did it go with Joe?” I can hear voices behind her and loud music.
“He walked out on me,” I mumble.
“He what?” Jenna asks.
“He walked out. All he said was that needed to think. He left his cellphone here and I can’t get a hold of him.” My words jumble together to form one incoherent sentence. I can’t help but let myself sob again.
“Hold on. I’ll be right there.” Jenna shouts before hanging up. I let the phone fall from my fingers I stare blankly at the wooden floor. I don’t even have enough energy to cry. My body falls back into the sheets and I stare up at my ceiling.
It’s not long before I hear my front door open and Jenna’s heel clicks down the hallway. “Y/N, sweetie.” Her soft voice wraps around my brain.
“In here,” I shout, still maintaining my lifeless position.
The clicks become louder and quicker as she rounds the corner into my room. “Oh sweetie,” Jenna speaks softly, meeting me on the bed. She pulls me to sit up and holds my head to her. I begin sobbing again.
“It’s ok. Let it all out.” Jenna rubs my arm as she allows me to vent. I spill everything: how Joe makes me feel, how much I loved him, how much he made me laugh. I go on to explain that he goes on tour soon and that the baby would be born while he’s on the other side of the country.
For a while, Jenna just lets me cry. “Let’s go get you cleaned up,” she says, breaking the silence.
I sigh and nod my head. She takes my hand and leads me to my bathroom. I can’t help but stare at my reflection. Jenna snaps me from my thoughts, “The water should be warm enough.” She lets the water run against her hand. When she turns her attention back to me her face reads empathy. “I’ll help you raise them if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want this kid to grow up not knowing who his father is. I don’t want to grow up the way I did, a broken mother and a poor home.
“Oh, honey.” Jenna wraps me in a hug. “He’ll grow up with the best family ever: he’ll grow up with his cool Aunt Jenna.” She laughs.
I smile weakly at her joke and look back to her. “Thank you. This means so much.”
“It’s no problem at all,” She says, wiping a tear from my cheek. “Tyler and I always talk about wanting a niece or nephew that we can spoil.” We both giggle. “I’ll let you get undressed and you enjoy the shower. Ok?” She squeezes my hand.
“I’ll try,” I say as she closes the door behind her. Quickly stripping myself of my clothes I step into the hot shower. My muscles relax under the steam and my mind slows to only think about the shower ... and puppies. After what feels like an hour, I finally decide to get out. Wrapping the towel around my body, I try to dry off everything from my neck down so I could twist my hair with the towel. “Hey, Jenna? Can you bring me another towel?” I shout through the door.
“Yeah,” she shouts back.
While I wait for Jenna, I examine my reflection; my mascara was smeared everywhere and I try my best to wipe it away. A soft knock comes from the door before opening just enough for Jenna to stick her hand in with a towel. “Thanks.” I quickly wrap the cloth around my body, covering my chest and hips. The brisk air of my room hits me as I open the door to get my pajamas.
“Oh, your pajamas are right here.” She gestures to the pile of clothing on the bed.
“You’re cool if I just change in front of you?” I ask, picking up my clothes.
“Yeah, I don’t care.” She keeps her attention focused on my TV as she flips through Netflix. “So, I was thinking either Moana or Finding Dory.”
I shoot a look at her from over my shoulder as I pull the warm underwear to my body.
“What?” She laughs. “They’re good movies!”
I shake my head at her comment, slipping into the rest of my pajamas.
“You need a musical. Moana it is!” She excitedly clicks the option.
“Does Tyler know you’re here? I mean, he must be worrying about you…” I become concerned with my friend’s relationship.
Jenna picks up her phone and clicks something I couldn’t quite see. She then presses the phone against her ear. “Hey, Ty. I’m at Y/N’s right now. I’ll probably be home sometime tomorrow.” She pauses for Tyler’s response. “Yeah, I’m going to spend the night. Y/N needs a girl’s night in,” She explains as she pulls me into a hug. I can’t help but smile at Jenna’s kindness. She says her goodbyes and exchange I love you’s with Tyler before hanging up.
“Hey, do you have any clothes I can borrow?” She asks me.
“Yeah, go ahead and look through my closet.”
She pulls out an old hoodie of mine and a pair of joggers. She quickly slips her day clothes off and pulls the comfy ones on.
She bounces to face me, an idea obviously bubbling on her lips. “You have wine, right?” I laugh, knowing exactly what type of night this was going to be. I nod and she rushes out of the room. She comes back with two wine glasses, a bottle of unopened wine and a bottle opener. Handing me a glass, she sets hers on the nightstand along with the bottle. She jams the screw part of the opener into the cork and twists it so the opener digs deeper into the bottle. I grab a hold of the base of the bottle so Jenna could try and pull the cork out. After many attempts, the cork finally pops out and sends Jenna onto the floor.
“Oh, my God!” I exclaim, trying to muffle my laughter. “Are you ok?” I set the wine bottle on the nightstand before helping her back to her feet.
“Yeah, I’ve had worse.” She laughs.
She reaches over to grab her wine glass and the wine bottle, holding the bottle in the air to toast. “To good times and better friends.” I lift my glass to toast with her before she pours the red liquid into my glass. I gradually sip the wine throughout the movie. Jenna and I joke around about the different characters and sing along to the songs. I point out the Lin Manuel-Miranda composed the music and she points out that Maui looks pretty similar to Dwayne Johnson. We laugh through the rest of the movie. As the final song plays Jenna’s tone seems to shift.
“Hey, do you think the Joe will come back?” She questions.
I glance over at his phone that was on the nightstand. “He has to,” I reply, directing my attention back to Jenna and taking a sip of my wine. She looks at me puzzled. “He left his phone.” Jenna nods and smiles.
Jenna flips on Finding Dory and I soon find myself drifting. My eyelids become heavy as I sink lower into the sheets. Noticing my sleepiness, Jeanna takes my glass from me. “Ok, I think we’ve had enough for tonight.” She takes the wine glasses and bottle to the kitchen. Once back, she crawls back under the sheets next to me.
I rest my head on Jenna’s shoulder and let my body sink into a slumber.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
My eyes flutter open as they adjust to the slightly brighter lighting. I notice my head was still on Jenna’s shoulder. I gently lift my head from her body, trying not to disturb her. I sneak out of the bed, pausing when Jenna shifts. Heading to my bathroom I comb my fingers through my hair. I look to my reflection and wash off the last bit of runny makeup I still had on from the previous night. Look back over to the nightstand and notice that Joe’s phone is still there. I shake myself from my thoughts and grab my toothbrush.
“Mmm, good morning,” a sleepy voice pulls my attention.
I smile with a mouth full of toothpaste. I spit some of it out before replying, “Good morning.”
“I had this really weird dream where you found out you were pregnant, and when you told Joe, he left and I came over the comfort you…” Her words slow down as she realizes the situation. She brings her palm to her forehead. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive.”
I shrug it off, spitting the last bit of toothpaste into the sink. “I know it’s going to hit me hard later, but I’m just not feeling anything right now,” I explain, grabbing my brush to detangle my hair.
“Oh, ok,” says Jenna, surprised. “Well, what do you want to do today?”
I exchange looks with my reflection. “I’m feeling a movie,” I answer.
“Ooh! Yes. There’s this one movie that I want to see that just came out.” Jenna reaches for her phone off the nightstand. She unlocks it and opens Fandango. We quickly chose the movie we want to see and finish getting ready. I let her borrow one of my striped tops, a skirt and a pair of flats. “It’s crazy that I fit almost perfectly in these,” she laughs.
I leave a note on Joe’s phone that says that I’m just at the movie and when I’m most likely to be back home. Then Jenna and I do one last check to make sure we had everything before making our way to her car.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
“That movie was great!” Jenna blurts as we head back to her car.
“I know, right? But can we talk about that lead actor?” I swoon at the thought of him. We both laugh as we settle into our seats.
“Did you get anything from Joe?” She asks starting up the car.
I check my notifications. “Nope.” I paint my smile into a fine line knowing that I probably won’t for a while.
Jenna scoffs. “Screw him. There are plenty of fish in the sea. And I heard the Josh is newly single.” Jenna nudges my arm.
I swat her elbow away and roll my eyes at her offer.
She smiles. “Go ahead and play your music,” she says handing me the aux chord.
“Hell yeah,” I whisper to myself.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
I didn’t realize it but that ride home was what I really needed: my best friend and my favorite band blasting through the speakers.
We laugh at each other’s singing as we hop out and make our way to my front door.
“Do you want to invite the boys over and we can have a game night?” I ask Jenna as I open my door. Before a word could escape her lips we both freeze in the doorway. All I can focus on is a curly-haired man that was on my couch.
He turns around quickly and nervously. “Oh, hi Y/N,” he says.
“Hi, Joe,” I reply, hanging my purse on the hook nearby. “I didn’t expect you home so soon.”
Joe rubs the back of his neck, staring at his shoes he replies, “Yeah, I’m really sorry. I freaked and I shouldn’t have left you like that.”
I look over at Jenna for an answer and all she does is shrug her shoulders, giving me the exact panicked look that was plastered on my own face.
Joe continues, seeming to not even acknowledge Jenna’s presence, “I spent the night at Pete’s and I realized that I love you and that I do want to have a kid with you.” His face lifts from his feet to make eye contact with me and he steps around the couch to meet me. Taking my hand into his, Joes goes on, “I thought I wasn’t ready for a family but then I discovered: we already are a family; this would only be an addition. And I’m not leaving this child to make it go through the awful things your father made you go through.”
My heart stops as his words lap around my mind and all I can do is gape my mouth open. His eyes become watery and he tries to tuck his head away before I see a tear fall from his face. I hold onto Joe’s face with both of my hands and look at him with loving eyes that are also filled with water. Unable to form words I just crash my lips against his. His arms snake around my waist and pulls me closer to him. He picks me off my feet and spins before he gently sets me down. When we break away from the kiss I press my forehead against his.
“Does this mean I can be the Godmother?” Jenna startles us both.
“Oh, my God, Jenna. I forgot you were there,” I say awkwardly.
She shrugs it off. “It was cute. Anyways, can I be the Godmother?” She asks again, this time with more anticipation.
I exchange a look with Joe and turn back to Jenna. “Well, duh!” I announce.
Jenna jumps in excitement, almost dropping her purse. She runs toward me and Joe, bringing us into a tight embrace. “Congratulations! You guys are going to make the best parents.” Her words quickly escape her mouth and we can understand what she’s saying. Jenna suddenly gasps and breaks away from the hug. “I have to get home to Tyler to tell him about this.” She seems to instantly regret her words. “With your permission, of course.” I nod. “Yes! Ok, well, I’ll leave you two to attend to your baby business. Bye!” She gives Joe one last hug and pecks me on my cheek before skipping out the door.
Joe’s and my attention turn back to each other. “How long was she there for?”
“The whole time,” I chuckle.
Joe gives a small chuckle as he offers his hand. “Let’s go look up cute baby names.”
I lace my finger with his. “Let’s.”
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actually-impostor · 7 years
Text
Heroes and Anti-Heroes (3)
Saturday update, and I’m also here to tell that I’m posting this one in AO3 too
people tagged: @deafinatelyfangirling, @mira-jadeamethyst, @fearinghope  (Im not sure they wish to be tagged again, but let me know if you want to get out of the tag list)
Warnings for this chapter: None really, some cursing
Previous Chapter, AO3 Link
-0-0-0- Chapter 2: Control -0-0-0-
The years went by fast, faster than any of them could have predict they would, and when both friends last expected it, it was already time to apply for high school.
Both had their eyes set on Atlas, one of the best superhero academies in the USA. It was said that to apply there you had to be the best in not only your classes but also in your whole school, even knowing that fact, Enhos and Roman didn’t let it discourage them. They had faith in their abilities and in the other.
“Come on Roman, is just history!”
“Why would I even need history? I’m going to be a super hero after all”
“Those who don’t know the past are bound to repeat it”
Roman looked at his friend confused and Enhos shrugged embarrassedly, trying to hide his face with the hood of Shadow
“I-It’s what Papa always says!”
“Eh, I guess he’s right” Roman waved his hand around and turned to his friend, smirking “Anyway, any idea what your hero name is going to be?”
“Isn’t it a little too soon to be thinking of it?”
“No!” Roman eyes where shinning, and Enhos could swear there was fire surrounding his friend “I’ve had my hero name since I was ten! I’ll be known as Regal, the most amazing knight in the history of heroes”
“And then there’s going to be an egocentric kid complaining that they don’t need to know history and you’ll be forgotten”
“Ack, why must you rain on my parade?”
“It’s my job as your friend” Roman groaned and Enhos smiled “But anyway, I think it fits you Young Boss”
“Ugh don’t call me that, that’s how my mom’s security call me”
“I know” Enhos smirked “And it’s hilarious”
“Why am I your friend again?” With that both boys laughed “But, do you really think the name fits me?”
“Yeah, you give off that…” Enhos paused, making some random hand movements “I don’t know, Prince Charming kind of energy”
Roman laughed and put an arm around Enhos shoulders, pressing his friend to his side and making Enhos chuckle with him
“I’m flattered”
“Yeah, yeah. Now get to work Princey, or I’ll be the only one entering Atlas”
“Oh hush, we both are going in”
Enhos smiled, even if Roman was constantly assuring him that both were going to enter Atlas there was still that silver of doubt. Would they really be able to get in? Roman had a lot of troubles in history and math, and Enhos couldn’t understand a word of Physics. Besides that there was also the fighting part of the exam.
Enhos knew Roman would do well in that part; the boy could materialize weapons for Christ sakes, but what about Enhos himself? Would he get kicked out because his Quirk was too dark? Kicked out because his Quirk was too dangerous?
“Hey, I can hear you thinking over here. What’s up?”
“Nothing, I’m just anxious about the entrance exams”
“You’ll do great! I’ve never meet anyone with suck a great control of their Quirk, and you are like wicked smart”
“Wow, careful there pretty boy, one might think you like me”
“Nah” Roman waved his hand, like dissipating the idea “I only tolerate you because your dad makes the best cookies”
Both boys laughed at that, Enhos anxiety being calmed down for the time being
-0-
“Im going to fail”
“You’ll do fine Enhos”
“No, Dad no, you don’t get it. Im going to fail and I’ll bring dishonor to our whole family, and on me, and our cow!” Jeremiah looked at his son with a small smile
“Is he aware he’s quoting Mulan?”
“I don’t think so” Aaron laughed, shaking his head
“Hey kiddo, breath” He ruffled his son hair, no longer having to kneel in front of him to do so “You’ll do amazing, you are smart and have talent. It’s gonna be great”
Enhos breather deeply and tried to center himself. He looked at his dad and nodded, he was as ready as he could ever be to go to the exam.
The trip there was relaxed, Jeremiah had soft music playing in the background and Enhos was distracting himself with his phone. Apparently Roman wasn’t feeling much better
When his dad stopped the car Enhos opened his eyes wide, he could feel the panic clawing at his throat and in his need to feel calmer he had reached out to hold his dad hand
Jeremiah held strongly and smiled “Enhos, my wonderful son”
“D-dad”
“I’m proud of you, and I’ll be proud of you no matter what”
“E-even if I f-fail?”
“Even if you fail. You have defeated the odds, everyone told you that you could only be a villain but here you are! About to take the entrance exam to the best hero school in the US” he smiled, still holding his son hand “Your Papa and I are so proud of you my son, no matter what. Now go there and show everyone that Enhos Farandole is, and always was, a hero”
With that Enhos took a shuddering breath and nodded, he could do this. He had spent more than a month studying, his grades where one of the best in class (with a constant battle for the number one spot against Roman), he had the drive and motivation. He could do this.
As he sat down to take the test he stared at his credential, the number 2089 glaring back at him. He had to fight against other 2088 humans; probably more than that, considering he wasn’t the last one in the list, but could he really earn a place here?
He was playing with his pencil when someone else sat beside him; Enhos stared at the girl with beautiful brown skin and black hair, she looked slightly scared and stressed. He figured he wasn’t looking much better. At Enhos other side sat a boy that, compared to the others sitting around, looked relaxed and composed with the air of someone that already had been picked to enter the school. Enhos stared at him through his bangs in curiosity, and in that second the boy stared back at him.
“A pleasure, my name is Logan”
“A-ah, the name’s Enhos” He shook the offered hand and Logan smiled
“Good luck today Enhos”
“S-same”
When the examiner entered the auditorium everyone was sitting in, he took out some papers and started reading in a bored voice.
“Okay, let’s cut straight to the important stuff” He murmured “As you all know you have an hour to finish each exam. There are 4 written exams, one for every important thing.”
He took a small remote control and turned on a hologram, there was written everything that could be considered important for the examinees
“As you all can see there’s one for everything language related, one for everything math related, the other for the history of the USA, and a special one for the most popular heroes throughout history”
Here the examiner paused to yawn, making a few of the kids in the front row follow his example
“You are also forbidden from using your powers; we have a few people with cancelling Quirks around the room to prevent that from happening. Well, good luck and try not to die”
With that last statement the teacher made the test appear in front of them and a clock started the countdown. Enhos groaned, they had started with math and he was ready to throw his chair at the examiner.
He could hear the panicked murmurs around the room, whispered “what the fuck” around the room, making him chuckle under his breath because same. He looked at the clock and noticed that there was only 20 minutes left, so he concentrated as much as possible. By the corner of his eye he could see Logan almost done and the girl on his other side messing up her hair, making it stick up all over the place.
By the end of the hour he could hear a few sobs, there was also relief, a few heavy sighs, someone making a half-sigh half-hysterical laugh, a general groan in the room and the defeated air in a lot of others. At least he wasn’t the only one feeling defeated because of the exam.
History wasn’t that different, but there were less sobs and more relieve sighs after that one was over. The language one was the hardest, because what the examiner didn’t explained was that it was an exams on languages. There were different questions in different languages and honestly Enhos felt like his brain was about to collapse.
And then came the only one that Enhos was sure he would ace; the so awaited test about heroes, heroes of every side of the world, heroes with different powers, heroes that were called villains when kids and the ones that were always called heroes. When that one was over the room heaved a collective sigh of relief and the examiner laughed
“Be free tired kids” He dismissed them with a wave of the hand and the possible new students scattered. Logan gave a slight nod to Enhos and he answered back with the same gesture. In the entrance door he reunited with Roman who looked like he went to war and lost
“Though exams?”
“You have no- Wait, yeah you have an idea because you just went through the same”
“Yeah, my brain is not working well either” He shook his phone in front of Roman “Want a ride?”
“In your beat down car?”
“Excuse me your majesty” Enhos rolled his eyes “I’ll make sure my future car is better” with that he dialed his dad “Yo dad, exams are over!”
“I’ll be there in 5”
“We’re driving Roman to his place tho”
“Valerie is at work?”
“Apparently”
“Okay, not a problem. See you in 5” With that Jeremiah hang up
The following morning Enhos entered Atlas again, getting as mentally prepared for the fighting exams as he possibly could. He might have to use Shadow a lot, but hopefully he’ll be able to control it enough to not actually hurt anyone too badly.
He sat side by side with Roman and both were talking when the announcer of the program entered the classroom, their hair was all over the place and they had a shaky smile in their face.
“Hello! Im Talyn and I am a teacher here in Atlas” They fixed their glasses and chuckled “Are you all excited? I mean you probably are. Okay! As you all read in the application requirements, you’ll have mock battles after this”
They took a folder out of their bag and messed around with the papers a bit. Then the giant screen behind them turned on and a hologram showing five different cities appeared
“Now, these cities that you all see behind me are actually owned by Atlas and are in no way real cities so you don’t have to worry about a thing! You can let loose with your Quirks” Relieved sighs could be hear around the place “Your enemies are… this!”
In the hologram the image of a robot appeared
“There are three different types of robots that will act as villains. Your job is to defeat them”
“We are fighting robots?!” It was a general scream. Enhos stared in shock, that was definitely not what he expected
“Roman… Roman, im screwed”
“Can’t really deny that… Sorry”
Enhos groaned, this was not a good thing
“Calm down, calm down kids, let me finish. There are three different types of robots and all of them are worth 1, 2 and 3 points accordingly and you get them by defeating them. There’s one that’s worth zero points. Your job is to avoid him at all cost”
They nodded
“Anyone caught doing un-heroic things is going to be disqualified on the spot! Good luck, you have half an hour to get ready”
Enhos groaned in frustration, he wasn’t even in the same arena as Roman. He knew enough self defense and martial arts to hold his own but the others would be using their Quirks, and he was at a disadvantage.
He shook his head and changed clothes, wearing a black tracksuit pant and a grey sweatshirt, Shadow still wrapped around his shoulders as a cloak. He went out along the others several students and waited for the sign. The teacher, Talyn, started laughing at them.
“What are you all waiting for? It already started. There are no buzzers in real battle you know?”
The class stared at them in shock for a few seconds and then they all screamed, running inside the city to try and defeat as many robots as possible. Enhos racked his brain to try and think on what to do.
He grabbed a robot of 2 points by their leg with Shadows help and threw him at 2 other robots of 1 point. He could do this; he could even immobilize the robots with Shadow and kick them away. That would work, right? He was in the middle of a restless attack when he heard a “Heads up!”
Enhos moved to the side in a hurry when he noticed someone was flying at full speed at him, or more precisely, at the 3 point robot behind him that was going to attack his blind spot.
“Gee, boy! Use your Quirk!”
“It doesn’t work on robots, but thanks for the save” He turned to look at his savior and raised an eyebrow, it was the girl sitting beside him in the written exam
“Pleasure, the name’s Lilly!” She pointed at herself and smirked “What’d you say we work together?”
“How so?”
“We cover each other backs!” She was still smiling, and Enhos gave back a hesitant smile “You make sure nothing kills me and I do the same for you!”
“Sounds fair, I’m Enhos by the way”
“Well Enhos, let’s go!”
With that Enhos and Lilly kept each other as alive and safe as possible. Enhos was still mostly getting by with only his self-defense classes and Lilly was destroying robots with one hit and flying all over the place. Enhos documented that in his brain; apparently her Quirk gave her super-strength and the ability to fly.
“Less than a minute! Deploy Zero!”
Enhos and Lilly stopped when they felt the ground shook. Out in the distance a giant robot stood up, taller than any building around him and big enough to be considered a Mecha from Evangelion. Enhos gulped and Lilly cursed under her breath
“So that’s the Zero Points uh”
“It’s not really a wonder they told us to avoid him” Enhos nodded
“Let’s go Lilly; we are the closest to him. We gotta run”
“Okay!” Lilly got close to Enhos and smiled “Hold on to me, we are flying out of here”
“I don’t like flying…”
“Is that or death, but your choice kid”
“Ah fuck, okay”
He hugged the girl and Lilly flew fast enough to make Enhos lose his breath. When she stopped they were almost out of the gate
“Come on Enhos, run!”
And so he followed her, cursing slightly inside his head. He hadn’t destroyed enough robots to be able to enroll in the school, so now it all depended on the written exams. Once they were out of the city Lilly turned to him and smiled
“Well, that was fun Darky!”
“Why Darky?” He groaned, making Lilly laugh
“Because you are dressed in almost all black!” She passed an arm around his shoulder and smirked “I hope to see you around school, this looks fun!”
“Here’s hoping I make it”
She laughed again, slightly slapping his arm. They shared a few more minutes of conversation while walking to the changing rooms and then said their goodbyes.
Just like the past day he found Roman in the door, his friend looked so tired
“Did you over did it with the swords?”
“There were a lot of talented people there Enhos. One guy was just throwing robots and debris and parts of buildings all over the place with just his mind”
“Telekinesis?”
“Apparently, but he never really threw things bigger than him. There was other that was just teleporting all over the place. One that had heat rays Enhos!”
“Hey, Roman, breathe. I’m sure you did amazing” He smiled, texting his dad “At least between the two of us you have more chances of entering Atlas”
Roman sighed and hugged his friend one-armed “You’ll get in, somehow. I know it”
Enhos smiled, he wasn’t exactly sure of that. But they still had enough days to wait until the letters telling them their destiny appeared in their houses. They still could be kids, they still could relax.
Unknown to both of them a pair of eyes stared at the boys with a grin. This was getting more interesting.
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vixlynn · 7 years
Text
Here Comes Goodbye || Kender
TAGGING → Ryder Lynn & Kennedy Lynn. LOCATION → School, Car, Outside, Back to the car. They went a lot of places, okay? TIME FRAME → 4/10/17 - Noonish. NOTES → Ryder and Kennedy’s aunt comes to get the from school early only to try and tell them about their parents, or well, put it off before telling them but whenever she goes inside, Ryder and Kennedy get the news themselves. WARNINGS → Death TW, Parental Death TW.
Kennedy: Up, to school, home, find food, write Alec, spend time with Ryder, talk to TJ, shower, bed. That was Kennedys every day schedule give or take a few, or add in Cheerios but nothing changed. That was until today. Sitting in calculus, she tapped her pen on the desk, clicking the top to try and make the time go by. Class was close to being over and it was still early in her mind. That annoying ding that always made her jump came over the speaker in the class and asked for Kennedy Lynn to come to the front office, she would be leaving for the day. A confused expression spread across her face as she grabbed her papers and homework, tossing them into her bag and walking into the hallway. Once she had her things, she made her way to the office, keys in hand to go to her car when she was met with their aunt. "Oh. Hey Aunt Linda. What're you doing here?" She asked, pulling the straps of her bag over her shoulders and looking back at Ryder as he walked up. "Hey Kenny, Hey Ry. I though you guys might want to leave for the day, go grab lunch. Sound like a plan?"
Ryder: Now that basketball and glee was over he had a lot more time to focus on baseball and figuring out a cool way to ask Eliza to prom. School was the last thing on his mind. Luckily he was stuck in study hall drawing little lines all over his notebook. His mind had been all over the place since last week when he lost the championship game for the basketball team and then after Nationals, he was truly bummed. But it's not like anyone noticed from his semi-happy attitude. When the speaker came on in the room he wasn't hesitant toward gathering his things and heading toward his locker. He wasn't sure why he was leaving this early or at all but he didn't want to question it. That was until he rounded the corner and saw his sister standing there with their aunt. Pulling his backpack straps closer to his body he had a confused look on his face as she spoke. Looking over at Kennedy and then back toward his aunt, he shrugged, "I guess, I kinda have an English test but it's food so I can't turn that down." "I figured you all could use the company since your parents have been gone. Let's go." Looking over at his sister he gave her a small smile and nudged her shoulder with his. "You okay?" He asked as they went out the front of the school.
Kennedy: Whenever Ryder spoke about a test, she scrunched her nose then let out a soft laugh. She didn't need to miss anymore school but she figured if their aunt said it was fine, then why not? Walking with Ryder, she nudged him back and smiled up at him in return. "Yeah, of course. I'm fine. You okay?" She asked as she gently bumped into him as they walked together. Looking up at their aunt, she raised her eyebrows slightly and leaned on her tip toes for a second. "So, have you spoken to our parents lately or is this just a nice little visit for us?" She asked curiously, namely because their aunt never came to visit either. "Now is it such a shame I want to see my niece and nephew, Kennedy Ann? Just let me take you both to lunch and enjoy the beautiful weather." Looking at Ryder, she mocked her slightly behind her back and chuckled. "This is weird, right?" She whispered as they stayed back a little.
Ryder: He couldn't help but laugh back at her when he saw her reaction about his test. But he was really happy about not having to take it. When she said she was fine the look of confusion was written on his face. Weird. Then why were they leaving? "I'm fine. I just thought something was wrong with you and that's why she showed up." When Kennedy spoke to her he paid attention to the both of them as they got into the back of her car. When she mocked her he slapped her leg a little to try to get her stop before their aunt caught her. "Yeah, it's really weird." He agreed. Their aunt was never around because her and their dad never got along so she once came around on some holidays. "We're just going to go up to that new restaurant around the corner and get it to go sand we can just eat at your place." Giving Kennedy a glare he sat up in his seat. "I think something is wrong," he whispered. Their aunt was there and she never randomly came around. "Have you talked to mom and dad? No one answered when I called last night."
Kennedy: Shaking her head quickly, she looked around and then pressed her lips together tightly. She almost figured something was wrong with Ryder whenever their aunt showed up but his reaction told her differently. "No, I'm okay. I would have just bailed if something was wrong with me cause I drive and that makes this that much....weirder?" She questioned before she let out a deep breath. Chuckling as he slapped her leg, she nudged him and got buckled into the back of the car. She didn't understand what was happening. Why was she there? She was never there and the fact that she was so interested in spending time with them made her question what was going on. "That's fine. Can I get a milkshake?" She asked curiously as she smiled up at her then leaned back again. Then she heard Ryder's words and she nodded her head quickly in response. Her stomach dropped and she tried to not panic. Not yet. They could only hope it was okay. Reached for Ryder's hand, she gripped it tightly between them and looked at their aunt again and back to him. "I think so, too. I haven't spoken to them since Friday before they left. Have you?" She asked, letting out a breath as she looked at their aunt. "So, did you guys have a good trip to New York? I know that your parents said you were excited when I spoke to them last. Kenny, I didn't know you sang." Avoiding questions. Another sign. Looking at Ryder, she nodded once more. "I do."
Ryder: "Make that two milkshakes, we both like strawberry," he lied teasingly as he looked at his sister, knowing that she hated that flavor, in hopes he could have two. Gripping onto her hand he gave it a little squeeze as he forced a smile. "That's good to hear, sweetie. Alright i'll be right back." It didn't take long for their aunt to jump out of the car and look back in on them with a small smile. Turning in his seat to face Kennedy better he ran his hand through his hair. "Honestly," he paused, "I haven't spoken to day since Wednesday night since he yelled at me and I got mad at mom for not saying anything. I saw them before I left for school Thursday and Friday but that's it."
Kennedy: Groaning once her brother said strawberry, she leaned up to speak but their aunt was gone and she narrowed her eyes at him. "Ugh you're buying me a milkshake, ya meanie." Whenever he turned to face her, she looked at him and adjusted herself in her seat quickly as her grabbed out her phone. "I haven't spoken to dad since he told me I needed to focus on cheer and not singing and mom just said bye Friday. Ryder, somethings wrong," she rambled as she grabbed her phone again, flipping through the names and finding 'Mom'. Once she did, she pressed dial and waited but no such luck. Hanging up, she called 'Dad'. Straight to voice mail. Hanging up, she looked at Ryder, her phone in her hand. "Where are they?" She whispered before their aunt was back in the car and handing them milkshakes but no food. "I'll be back with food, I thought you two might want those though!" She said chipperily before getting back out.
Ryder: "I owe you nothing!" Leaning over as she flipped through her phone he pressed his ear to the other side of her phone, wanting to listen for himself when they answered. Except they didn't and he had an uneasy in the pit of his stomach. "I'm gonna find out." Reaching up to grab his aunts phone in the front seat he sat back quickly when she came back out. Taking the milkshake he was no longer hungry or thirsty. Placing them in the cup holders in the back he waited until she was gone again and then grabbed her phone. Unlocking the screen he took a deep breath and then handed it to her. "You're older, you do it."
Kennedy: “You owe me everything!” She teased, looking over at him before scooting closer to him as he leaned up to get the phone. She didn’t even want to eat anymore, honestly. She had no idea what was going on but she felt like she was going to throw up instead. Whenever Ryder gave her the phone, she quickly started to flip through it, text messages, anything that she could get her hands onto if she could. That was whenever she read the texts between her and her husband, uncle, piecing it together quickly but also nothing made sense anymore. “Funera...” Taking in a deep breath, she looked up at Ryder and then went through more messages before going to her voicemail and to the last one that she had there and pressed play. ‘Hello there, this is Randy from the morgue at Lima Memorial Health and we are looking for the family of Mr. & Mrs. Lynn. We need someone to come down as soon as possible to verify if this is in fact the remains of Mr. & Mrs. Lynn. If you could please give us a call as soon as possible or just swing by, we would greatly appreciate it. We need to also know about contacting Social Services for the children of the two as well. Thank you.” Letting the phone slip from her hands, she looked up at Ryder. More in shock but completely heart broken as she did. “Ryder.” She whispered, trying to understand what was actually happening at that moment.
Ryder: He tried to watch her as she flipped through the phone but he was too nervous. This was just his aunt being nice, right? No. Things like this never happened. "What the.." he mumbled under his breath, his throat getting dryer by the moment. Looking over at Kennedy when she dropped the phone he just stayed silent. This couldn't be happening could it? Opening the car door he immediately jumped out and got sick in the parking lot. His mind only focusing on his bodies rejecting his stomachs content at that moment. Wiping his mouth clear he stood there with his hands on his hips as he tried to hold back the tears so he could be strong for his sister. Everything was going to be fine, this was just a joke.
Kennedy: Jumping a little whenever he got out of the car, she sat there for a minute, trying to process what was happening but it wasn’t working. All she could do was listen to Ryder outside and try to make sure he was okay but she couldn’t get her mind clear. She couldn’t think straight. Getting out of the car after him, she walked to his side of the car and then looked up at him. Her eyes rimmed a light pink and her breathing was uneven as she tried to not cry. “They-“ she started but she felt a hitch in her throat as she tried to speak. “Please tell me this isn’t happening,” she whispered. “Please, Ryder.”
Ryder: Looking over at Kennedy when he got his thoughts together just a little he pulled her into a hug. "It's gonna be okay. We're gonna be okay," he choked, trying to catch his breath and even out his voice. He would always say things out of anger toward his parents or think mean things when they wouldn't let him have his way. But he never thought he would feel this numb to hearing a voicemail like that. Turning back to the car he grabbed their bags and handed hers to her, "Come on. I don't want to sit around and eat a crappy burger and listen to our shitty aunt break whatever news she has to us."
Kennedy: Wrapping her arms around her brother, she pressed her face into his chest and let out a choked up sob before sighing quietly after. She didn’t say anything, she just stood there, holding onto him before he was grabbing their things and she stood her bag, grabbing his hand as they started to walk. “I don’t want to either,” she said as she started to walk faster away from the place where they were meant to be. She never wanted their parents dead. She would get mad, slam doors, cry at them but never once did she want this. “I’m scared.” She admitted as they kept walking. Once they made it to the school, she hopped into her car, tossing her bag in the back and waited for Ryder to join her. Once he was in, she started to drive, blinking away any tears that she had and she let out a breath. “I wish I smoked right now but I don’t.”
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pippki-writes · 3 years
Text
An Ill-Fitting Name: Snippet 12
NOTES:
Snippet 1; Snippets 2 & 3; Snippet 4; Snippet 5; Snippet 6; Snippet 7; Snippet 8; Snippet 9; Snippet 10; Snippet 11
Word Count: ~4.7k
Faoust belongs to @thebiggestnerd - she writes him and the healer; Isaiah, Cat, and Detective Voros here are mine.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%
It isn’t long, but it feels too long when you’re in a crisis. Isaiah finds himself on the front porch of Faoust’s apartment, cradling in his arms a crow with a completely blasted-off right wing, and beats urgently on the door. Isaiah whispers the spells he knows, but healing magic isn’t his strong suit. Stopped the bleeding at least. Maybe.
Faoust is surprised to see Isaiah, blood everywhere, looking frantic with the injured crow in his hands.
“Hey, sorry, your healer? Can she help? Or can you?” The questions tumble out of Isaiah in a rush. “Shit, there’s several problems here but I need to make sure Cat’s gonna make it first and I’m not that good at healing.”
It’s late, but Faoust’s healer agrees to come, with the right financial incentives. She is none too pleased at the hour nor the particular company that has summoned her, but she’ll do the job. She works her healing magic, repairing the wound, stabilizing the injured crow.
“You should really get it to a vet or something. All I did was close the wound and heal any torn muscles. Can't replace the blood loss,” she says, holding out her hand to Faoust to take her payment. Cash in hand, she soon leaves.
The adrenaline starts to drain from Isaiah, and he wonders to Faoust about why his healer was so quick to leave. Almost imperceptibly, the crow begins to get bigger.
Isaiah stops rambling and considers a moment. “Am I hallucinating, or does this crow look bigger to you?”
Faoust looks at the crow, which has now doubled in size. “Dude, that crow is fucking huge.”
In the face of a lot of things he doesn’t know yet how to deal with, Isaiah decides to focus on the mundane. He continues to idly chat with Faoust about the fact that the healer apparently recently broke up with a roommate of Faoust’s that Isaiah didn’t even know he had, all while watching Cat incredulously.
The crow, as it has gotten bigger, has gotten significantly less crow-shaped and more human shaped, still mostly covered in feathers. The beak has become a nose, a mouth of dark lips. The face resolves into something mostly feminine, with olive skin and iridescent night-black hair, and dark-void eyes that stare up into the sky above. Isaiah is standing now, hands on his hips, staring in disbelief.
“…did I mention the officer?” Isaiah mumbles quietly. “That’s uh, another problem I need to mention…”
“What the fuck is happening?” Faoust asks.
Isaiah, as a practitioner of magic, has seen many strange things in his life. He’s never seen something like this. “Did that healer girl do something to my crow?”
“Want me to call her back?”
Isaiah shrugs, uncertain. “I dunno, Maybe? Ask if this is a common side effect?”
Faoust texts the healer, “hey why is the bird turning into a person?” and gets back a “???? Are you high????" for his trouble.
“…Cat?” asks Isaiah hesitantly.
Cat raises her left hand, which has resolved into a human hand with sharply pointed nails, and realizes she cannot raise her right, as there’s no arm there at all, and blinks.
“Uh, I’m gonna say it wasn’t our healer,” says Faoust.
Cat hums a single note, low, testing new vocal cords, and speaks very softly. “My true form, and an arm? The bastard god claims too much.”
Faoust stares. “Isaiah. Your crow is talking.” He pauses. “Are we sure we’re not high?”
Cat blinks again deliberately, and turns to Isaiah. “Isaiah, right? Your name? I would have named you for a star, but I couldn’t speak their names.”
“Wow,” says Isaiah. “Wow. I dunno man, maybe we are high.”
“I guess we aren’t taking it to the vet,” Faoust replies.
Cat shakes her head and stands, but wobbles a little as she does, lightheaded. Isaiah steadies her with a hand. She is taller than Isaiah, and shorter than Faoust. She looks between them.
“My blood will grow back fast. Faster still, with one less arm to fill, it seems. Thank you, my friend Isaiah,” she says, and pats him on his hair.
“What. Are you?” asks Faoust.
“I am not a crow, though I was a crow, and the bastard seems to have made it stick,” she says, and glances down at herself, most of her body still covered in feathers. She tsks. “I am, hm, a lesser immortal fresh from exile, shall we say?”
“Ah. Hmm.”
“I gotta say I was a lot more mentally prepared to handle this situation when I showed up at your door than I am right now,” Isaiah says to Faoust.
“I am a genius, and I've got nothin'.”  Faoust thinks a moment. “Speechless. Well, um, hi. Nice to meet the real? You?”
Cat shrugs. “This isn’t my true form. But closer than before, to me, sure?”
“Sorry we couldn’t save your arm.”
Cat shrugs again. “It has gone with all lost things. Fitting.”
“Yyyyes. Fitting,” says Faoust, with no idea what the bird is going on about.
“Holy shit,” Isaiah exclaims, “um, oh, I’ve got to get the fuck out of here Faoust, the officer, ah, fuck. No doubt she’s gonna come for you next, looking for me.”
“Ah, yes. That. Sorry for a moment, immortal being. Isaiah, what the fuck happened?”
“Damn, I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to come here, shit, ok.” Isaiah takes a breath. “We were sitting outside, just hanging out, and that officer showed up looking for her radio. Made it beep. I tried to stop her, bind her, and it just ...didn’t work?”
“The witch’s old curse?”
“No, no, my magic was there, this wasn’t like I didn’t have magic, it was just...like casting into a void.”
Faoust thinks for a minute, unsure of the solution.
“So I kind of maybe panicked a little and grabbed her leg,” Isaiah continues.
“I flew in her face in the ensuing struggle!” adds Cat triumphantly.
“I was going to try to kill her, but she got her gun out before I could stab her, and then she shot Cat, and I,” Isaiah waves his hand around, and second guesses whether he should have stayed to kill the officer. But how could he, when Cat had been shot? The officer could be dealt with later, but he couldn’t have dealt with losing his friend. “Anyway. I am probably in deep shit now.”
Together, Faoust and Isaiah hash out the details of getting him to lay low. Faoust will kill the officer if she shows her face around here, and surely she will, after what happened. In the meantime, Isaiah and Cat will find a hotel—not a motel, that’s been Isaiah’s go-to and surely she’ll start looking for him at every motel in town in the unlikely event she doesn’t come looking at Faoust’s first. Faoust fashions an eyepatch for Isaiah to cover up his scar, and Isaiah casts a glamor over Cat so that she looks fully human, and covered with clothes rather than strange feathers. They say their goodbyes and good lucks, and Isaiah takes Cat’s hand to slip them off through the shadows.
Detective Voros suspects that Faoust won’t answer a call from her phone. There are a few lone pay phones left in this town, and she dials his cell from one of them.
Faoust looks to his phone. No chance this isn’t some bullshit. He answers, “Hello?”
“Ah, solid citizen,” says Detective Voros, “Evening, hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“Hardly. I'm usually staying awake. Now what could you want from me when I told you to stay out of things?”
Detective Voros is sitting in her patrol car in the parking lot of the motel, recovered radio in the passenger seat. She has not started a call with dispatch, yet, for what happened, because what the fuck happened? She fought a suspect for a radio she’d failed to report missing, shot at him, and he completely fucking vanished? No. Absolutely not.
“Hate to trouble you, but I’m looking for your little friend again. He....vanished.”
“I've got nothing for you. I warned you, and you didn't listen.”
“He stole my radio, citizen. That’s all this is about.”
“I made myself pretty fucking clear, I thought.”
“I can arrest you for threatening me. I can do it in a heartbeat.”
“You can try.”
“Fine. Fuck you then,” she snaps, hanging up.
Detective Voros doesn’t like her options here. She’s dealing with very dangerous bullshit that she is not equipped to handle. And that no one would ever listen to her about. She searches in vain on her phone for things like “magic police” and “wizard for hire.”
She should make a report. She SHOULD make a report about what happened. But the longer she has waited and not made a report, the worse it is. And the more she leans towards, can I just not make a report about this at all? Hide what happened? At the very least until she can resolve it. Can she resolve it? Christ, what a mess.
Once checked in, Isaiah gets two of nearly every snack in the little convenience area of the hotel lobby and takes them up to the room to share with Cat. She opens up a mini box of Cheerios and eats a few dry.
“No meat cereal?”
Isaiah pauses with a Snickers halfway to his mouth.
“I am joking,” Cat says, with a wry smile.
Isaiah sits cross-legged on the end of his bed, watching Cat curiously and thinking up questions. Cat sits on her own matching bed, upright, and something in her posture makes it seem more like she is perching, surrounded by snacks.
“So, you were the crow this whole time? What’s your real name?”
Cat nods and shrugs. “My real name? Lost now, another tribute to the bastard god. Cat is good enough.”
“You could understand me the whole time?”
Cat nods again, and is about to eat the Reese’s cups with the paper still on.
Isaiah reaches out to help her. “Hey, hang on, you have to take the paper off those.” He helps her remove the wrappers, and sits back on his bed.
“Thanks, by the way, for helping with the officer. She would have shot me right in the face, or tried anyway. Not sure I could have shielded it in time.”
“You are my friend. I had to help.”
Isaiah lets a moment pass, thinking. “You know a lot about me then, and I have a lot to learn about you.” He sighs. “Does the, mm, me being a murderer thing bother you?”
Cat licks the residual chocolate off her fingers and shakes her head. “Do not worry. I have killed in my time. It does not bother me.”
Isaiah yawns. He misses the motel. An open door would let in fresh air and allow him to see and, if needed, easily flee outside. In a hotel, the windows don’t open, and the door leads out to a hallway of disorientingly repeating carpet, that hypnotic liminal space.
“Do you sleep, being immortal?”
“Yes. I need sleep to function properly. I just cannot be killed in any way that matters.”
“Hm. then let’s get some sleep. Ah, and don’t go out in the morning without waking me up first? You’ll probably worry people if you’re walking around in nothing but feathers.”
“Of course.” She gets under the covers of her bed, and Isaiah does likewise, turning off the lights. After a moment, Cat speaks again. “I miss the stars, in here.”
Isaiah turns onto his back, thinking for a moment, and then casts an illusion of stars along the ceiling, little twinkling points of light. Not a single one of the constellations is correct, but that doesn’t matter to Cat.
“Ah. Thank you, Isaiah.”
“You’re welcome...good night, Cat.”
Isaiah is up before Cat, thankfully. He makes two cups of stale coffee in the little machine, and uses magic to coax them into tasting better than such old powdered bean has any right to be, setting one on the night stand next to Cat with a spell to keep it warm. He misses the motel. If he were at the motel, or any motel really, he would sit outside the door now, watching the goings-on of the world. Hotels feel like traps. Looking out the window isn’t the same.
Cat sleeps more than Isaiah would have guessed. Being in the wrong form is exhausting. And though this isn’t the right form either, it’s much closer.
Once Cat wakes up, Isaiah offers to put another glamor on her if she wants to go out exploring, since she isn’t who the police were looking for after all. But Isaiah reluctantly admits that he should probably go out as little as possible. And perhaps do more to alter his appearance when he does. He is surprised at himself being so resistant to the idea.
But Cat demurs, topping her head from side to side. “I am still...adjusting,” she says, looking down at her hand, her sharp nails, carefully clenching and unclenching her fist. After so long in exile, Cat is most surprised that she doesn’t have more to say, right off. She feels a little disoriented, on waking, not totally trusting that this is real, that this isn’t a dream.
“Let’s get some pizza then. Have you had pizza?”
Cat nods, with a wry smile. “But not fresh.”
“Ah.” Isaiah is already looking up a place on his phone, and picking up the room’s telephone to place the call. “Freshest, crispest, most delicious pizza it’ll be then.”
They spend the day eating pizza, watching movies, raiding the vending machine for more candy bars, and occasionally trading questions. And occasionally bumping into questions neither wants to answer. Mostly around family, and where each of them belongs.
It’s funny, Isaiah thinks, that for all his crimes he’s never really been on the run from the police before. He’s done well picking victims, and more importantly, leaving no evidence. Previous versions of himself would have simply cut and run. It is so strange to him to have something, no, someone he doesn’t want to leave behind. He shakes his head and curses Faoust fondly.
Cat and Isaiah watch a marathon of Forensic Files in the hotel room, Isaiah all the while adding little judgmental comments against the killers and how they fucked up. But that is the point of Forensic Files, isn’t it? Dissecting the errors of the ones dumb enough to get caught. Isaiah has never been one to leave bodies, not where they would ever be found by the people who needed to find them. Just a random constellation of unsolved disappearances scattered across the country.
Isaiah lazily opens and closes his knife as he watches the tv, lounged in the desk chair. “What do immortals even do with all that time?”
Cat is sprawled on her bed, on her stomach, head propped in her hand as she watches tv. “Ah, what does a murderer do with his? We aren’t so unalike, you know. I watched you idle away your days. It’s like that.” She rolls onto her back and crosses her leg over the other knee, thinking.
“You persist. Eat, drink, sleep. Come in and out of lives like a comet, here and gone. Staying too many years leads to questions, so—“ she shrugs “—you don’t.” She pauses again, thinking. “It was perhaps easier, back then, to do. Become a part of the lives of others, and disappear when the time was right.”
The days pass, and they continue to wait, Isaiah on the run, certain he’s imminently wanted by the police, and Cat content to keep hiding at this hotel with him. They find things to keep themselves entertained.
Isaiah is waiting for the iron to heat up, and when it does, he’s got a small stack of cheese sandwiches wrapped in foil, ready. He’s googled this. It’s going to work. Of course, if it doesn’t, that’s what magic is for.
Cat is gazing out the window—longingly, Isaiah thinks. He’s told her she is free to explore without him, that he can put a glamor on her any time, but she is reluctant.
He’s acquired a pair of tongs, and clicks them together as he waits.
“Tell me about your life before you were a crow?” he asks.
Cat sighs, softly, and frowns. “It’s not...that I don’t want to talk about it. It’s....memory is hard, when you’re beholden to a god of lost things. When I slip from one life to the next, he slowly takes my memories as his due. All that remains are little bits and pieces, hazy fragments. Before I was a crow?” She shrugs. “I remember it was a hard time. I remember a few sentences and sayings, here and there. I don’t remember much.”
They sit in silence for a moment.
“Tell me about your life before you were a murderer,” says Cat, still looking out the window.
Isaiah presses the iron down on the foil.
“I’ve always been a murderer. There was no before.”
Cat scoffs in disbelief, looking briefly at Isaiah, and back out the window.
Isaiah waits, flips the foil-wrapped sandwich with the tongs, and presses the iron down again. “Nearly always anyway. I would have been too young to have anything worth remembering.”
The thing that makes no sense to Detective Voros is that she searched the motel room, and aside from her radio, she found nothing unusual. Nothing criminal. Nothing suspicious.
So why the reaction she got? It made no sense. Though some people just automatically react a certain way around police out of proportion with whatever situation is going on.
She thinks to herself, he didn’t want me finding the radio. But why. What does the radio link him to?
She knows. But she doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t even want to think it, because what actual evidence does she have? How the fuck would she ever get a warrant for this?
Maybe if she’d reported what happened the other night, she could’ve gotten him arrested for assaulting an officer and some other shit besides. Gone from there. But she had covered the whole incident up.
But she knows, she KNOWS...he’s got to be her suspect. Without a shadow of a doubt. Her missing, no, surely murdered victims—and her suspect is surely Isaiah James.
Cat takes to Isaiah’s smartphone, though at first accidentally deletes half his apps, and takes several hundred pictures, only some of which were intentional. As more days pass with no sign of police interference, and no indication from Faoust either way that the troublesome officer still needs to be a concern, Isaiah starts to go a little stir-crazy. He decides to take the risk of slipping himself and Cat through the shadows to the nearest mall to get her a phone of her own.
Isaiah relishes being outside the hotel room, and tries to keep an eye out for cameras, subtly turning some and avoiding others where he can. It’s enough, and they return to the hotel, with a decent little haul of mall goods and without incident.
On the one hand, Cat thinks of the smartphone, what a small and easily lost thing. But on the other hand (though, she thinks, she only has the one hand, huh), she is enamored of the ability to take pictures so easily and suddenly, and look back at them, and there is a little frozen moment of what was going on. What she ate. What a place looked like. Ah, if only she even had a picture of what her lives had been like before. But even a picture would have been lost. Still, Cat takes many pictures with the new phone, and then scrolls back through them.
Isaiah lays on his bed, the frown on his face—thinking. The nervous energy as he stares at the ceiling, opening and closing his knife with no purpose to the motion. Cat looks up from taking a picture of him. She recognizes this look on him now, after so many times where she couldn’t say anything about it at all.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking…” his frown deepens. “I couldn’t have done anything differently. I was too fucked up. Way too fucked up. But I, hm. I wish...I wish some things could have been different, maybe.”
On a whim, Cat and Isaiah buy one of those Lego sets with an obscene number of pieces, and start putting it together to pass the time. Cat can see better, but Isaiah has two hands to help with the assembly.
Or, he would have two hands, if he weren’t using one to text obscene things to Faoust.
“You must be texting him,” says Cat. “Hold that piece more this way.”
Isaiah tries to suppress his grin. “Yeah, you got me.”
“It’s good. It’s good to have someone that will make you smile. No, this way,” she says, and moves his hand and the piece he’s holding where she needs it.
Isaiah has, for Cat’s own sake, tried to convince her to go out more. She’s gone out only to buy more Lego sets. There are several quite elaborate sets in the hotel room now. Cat has said she doesn’t want to wander too far, because she’s concerned the glamor will wear off if Isaiah is too far away. Isaiah suspects this isn’t the whole of it, but hasn’t pushed yet.
Over their usual breakfast (per Cat’s sleeping routine, breakfast is usually a noontime affair), Isaiah decides to press a little.
“You know you can go out without me, yeah? I’m the one that has to be careful being seen, not you. The police have never even seen you.”
“Hm.” She presses her lips together in disagreement, and takes a cheap danish from the pile on the styrofoam plate.
“Is it the spell? Are you worried about the spell? The spell isn’t tied to me or how close or far away I am. It’s fixed to time, not me.” He sees Cat looks perhaps unconvinced, or at least no more willing to go out. “We’ll test it then. Next time I go out, I’ll do the glamour and you stay here, and watch me be right. It doesn’t take my concentration. I’ll be out highly distracted and busy doing other magic, and your glamour will stay exactly the same.”
Next time isn’t a long wait—Isaiah has plans with Faoust that evening. Plans to be highly distracted. Very busy. And with most enjoyable uses of other magic.
Strictly speaking, it doesn’t matter what Isaiah wears, if it’s all probably just going to come off shortly, but he puts on the nice, simple sorts of clothes that best show himself off, then comes back out of the bathroom to Cat and claps his hands.
“Magic time, my friend.”
Cat puts down her phone and sits up expectantly as Isaiah casts the spell. She looks down at her nails, no longer looking so sharp, at the illusion of a shirt, pants, and most importantly, no feathers, and nods.
“Text me if you need anything. I’ll be back later.”
When Isaiah gets back to his room, Cat has already fallen asleep with the lights on. He grabs her phone and takes a selfie of himself in the foreground, pointing to the bedside clock as a timestamp, and her in the background, glamour still clearly in place.
The next day, Cat wakes up around noon, and Isaiah motions to her share of breakfast on the dresser.
“Check your phone, I took a picture for you. What’d I tell you? No problems with the spell.”
Cat looks at her pictures. “That is true.” She begins to tuck in to her pastries with gusto.
“So I’m thinking we should probably figure out somewhere to stay besides a hotel. Maybe we can find something abandoned I could work some magic on. But I’d need you to go out looking for a place.”
He watches her reaction. She hesitates for a moment before continuing to eat with a “hm.”
“What’s the deal, Cat? Why don’t you want to go out on your own?”
“....a few reasons.”
“Like?”
“Just because I’m immortal...the world is still a dangerous place. I can’t just fly away.”
“I can help, there are spells I can—“
“That’s not all. I....am worried about running into...him. The bastard god.”
She puts down the half eaten cinnamon roll, drumming her fingers against her lips.
“He usually shows up, at the end of an exile, though I, I’m not sure this exile is over, to be honest. I hope it is, even if I’m stuck like this, but..I don’t want to see him.”
“Ah. Hm,” says Isaiah, feeling a bit defeated. “That...I don’t know how much I can help with that.”
Isaiah starts looking around for a suitable abandoned property, taking Cat along with him. He hasn’t found one he likes yet. And he’s beginning to wonder if he isn’t wanted after all—not that he’s chancing it. He’s not looking to run into the officer again without a plan. But he’s used apps on his phone to listen to police chatter, and searched online to see if he’s wanted under any of his names, but found nothing.
Is the car stolen if he intends to return it? Isaiah is simply borrowing the vehicle. It’s one that’s been in the hotel parking lot without moving since they’ve been there, and quite frankly all these Lego sets aren’t going to carry themselves. And he wouldn’t consider leaving them behind, after all the work they’ve put in. So Isaiah hot wires the car, and fills it with the things they’ve accumulated, because he’s finally found a building he’s satisfied with.
Isaiah hasn’t lived somewhere with the intention of staying...pretty much his entire life. Even in his childhood home, he intended to get out as far as he could remember. Staying somewhere is risky. It invites scrutiny, creates a point a pattern might be drawn from. No one ever tracks down a loose killer roaming the country; it’s the ones who stay still that leave too much evidence. But he wants to stay here, in this town, if he can. He pulls the car up to the curb in front of a thick patch of trees and overgrown shrubs, where the hint of what might have once been a gravel driveway can be seen in the grass, if you don’t look directly at it.
“Don’t judge it by how it looks,” he warns Cat, “because this is exactly how we want it to look.”
It looks like a weathered and vine-crusted structure is hiding among the trees. Isaiah motions for Cat to follow him along a zigzagging path through the trees, obscured from the roadway, until they are standing in front of a very distinctly abandoned looking single story house. There is a porch that looks like it’s one good sigh from giving up altogether. The brickwork is stained. Cat looks skeptically from the building to Isaiah, hand on her hip.
Isaiah smiles. “Looks like shit, right? Come inside.” He steps onto the porch, the boards groaning beneath his feet. He pauses at the door, disabling the wards he has put up, and pushes the door open, motioning for Cat to go in ahead of him.
Isaiah has been working on this for several days now. Some of the work he did with magic, and some he actually did by hand. Inside the building is—Cat blinks in disbelief—clean. Lit. A smooth, dark hardwood floor throughout. A kitchen. Two bedrooms. Some simple furniture. She opens doors as she goes. A pantry. A bathroom. A basement.
Cat flips switches, and the lights respond in kind. “This all works?” she asks, still not believing.
“If it doesn’t, I’ll make it work,” he replies. Suddenly he feels a little self conscious. “Anyway, what do you think? Better than a hotel anyway?”
Cat nods, quite satisfied for now. “Oh yes. I think it will do.”
- NEXT SNIPPET -
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mycasandstarrs · 5 years
Text
SPN 9x06: “Heaven Can’t Wait”
THEN: Reverend Buddy Boyle, the angels’ new way to find vessels. Abaddon vs Crowley for the throne of Hell. Crowley went almost human. Cas is human. Zeke told Dean to kick Cas out of the Bunker; Dean kicks Cas out of the Bunker.
Rexford, Idaho.
Poor man. I wonder what brought him to this moment.
RIP first victim. Vaporized.
Cas’ new human life, as Steve.
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Aww, denied a high-five. :(
“Okay, Steve, last question – where have you been all my life?” Don’t answer that literally, hon.
“There's... something different about you.”
“I can assure you, there's – there's not.”
“I know these things. You're ... hmm … special.”
Kevin’s back at the Bunker.
Research time. Dean does not look happy.
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Saved by the bell.
“Hello?”
“I may have a case for you. Four missing in Rexford, Idaho. Presumed dead, but no bodies have been released to loved ones. And, there were reports of a strange substance at the scenes.” 
“Oh, well, hello to you too, Cas. How are you?”
Aww. I love Dean/Cas phone calls.
“All right. So, how do you want to do this? You want to meet up at the latest scene? You want me to pick you up? What?”
“Um … I've got my hands full over here.”
Cas is just struggling.
Dean telling Sam that he won’t be seeing Cas while investigating the case he gave him...I’m sure he was really speaking to Zeke there.
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“You got me.”
“I also found a rolled-up sleeping bag behind the tool locker.”
“Yes, I wanted to be thorough with inventory, so I worked late last week, and taking a nap here was easier than going back home to my bed. Which I-I have, of course – a bed...and a home.”
:(((( 
“Wow, Steve. You're so... responsible.” HOMELESS. HE’S SO HOMELESS.
“I've been afraid to ask. I-I don't want to take advantage of you as my employee, and I certainly don't want to jeopardize our working relationship. But as a working single mom, it's hard enough to get a date, let alone meet a really great guy. And … tomorrow's my night off, and I know you're off, too, and … I was just wondering if there's any chance you're... free tomorrow night?” 
OKAY, BUT HOW DOES THIS NOT COME OFF AS A DATE?????
She even kissed him on the cheek when he said yes! Come on, now!
“Four dead. Just got confirmation.”
“And, uh, any common threads you can think of?”
“Well, Joe in there had the suicide hotline on speed dial. The gal before him was a shut-in. Had enough antidepressants in her medicine cabinet to stock a pharmacy. The first victims – a married couple out of Sugar City. Pretty much a walking billboard for no-fault divorce.”
All victims were basket cases.
“If the tests come back same as the others … it's everything. Blood, skin, hair, nails. Internal organs. Even clothing fibers. Like these poor souls got run through the world's finest wood-chipper.” Good lord.
“Have you tried Professor Morrison?”
“Yeah, he's unreachable. He took a sabbatical to live amongst the Trobrianders of Papua New Guinea.”
Professor Morrison! Holy hell, didn’t expect to hear about him.
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Dean just...stared at Cas...this entire time....
“He dumped me, Jace. In the cafeteria. In front of everyone. It's just like ... who does that, you know? Like, why couldn't he just dump me on Facebook like a normal person? I've been destroyed. Socially and romantically … totaled. I know. I'm just so embarrassed, Jace. I could just die.”
RIP teenager. Vaporized.
“Good day, ma'am. And good luck!” Cas, you sweetheart.
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Aww Dean. You really wanted to surprise Cas.
“I'm responsible for inventory, sales, customer service. I keep this place – thank you – clean and presentable. And when my manager's busy, I even prepare the food.”
“Wow. So you went from fighting … heavenly battles to nuking taquitos?”
“Nachos too.”
Cas takes pride in what he does, as average as it is. It’s kinda admirable.
“Crowley, the only reason you're alive is because my brother thought you would be useful. So far you've done Jack. Back to plan ‘B,’ I guess.”
“Which is?”
“Give you up to Abaddon.”
“You think you can threaten me with that hack?! She's all fury, no finesse.”
“I'm not so sure. Our last encounter with Abaddon, she was, uh – she was pretty terrifying. Scarier than you've been in years.”
Hit him where it hurts: his ego.
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What a freaking child.
“This is not you, man. You are above this. Come on.”
“No, Dean. I'm not. I failed at being an angel. Everything I ever attempted came out wrong. But here … at least I have a shot at getting things right.”
:(
What did Nora think of these two?
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“That's what this is about!”
“What?”
“The girl.”
Come on, now.
Agent Lee Ermey.
“There was another kill, over at the high school. You comin'?”
“I wouldn't be much use. I don't have my powers.”
What Dean said to Cas back in S6 still stuck. ( “Well, that's great, because without your power, you're basically just a baby in a trenchcoat.”)
“All right, my shift's over in five minutes, and my date's not until later, so...”
“Attaboy! I'll go get the car.”
“Not just yet. I have to clean the bathroom?”
“One second, we're talking, and the next, she just...stops. And then everyone in the cafeteria freaks, rushing, and pointing out the window, at— C- could that really be her?” Yeah it is, unfortunately.
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“Kinda bummed?”
“Yeah. Like more bummed than when she got a "C" on a quiz, and... less bummed than when her parents split up. 'Kind of ... bummed.'”
“Dean, this is bad. This is very bad.”
Rit Ziens. “It's, uh, Enochian for "Hands of Mercy." They functioned like medics. They tended to the wounded. They healed those who could be healed, but for the mortally wounded, those who were past saving, the Rit Zien's job was to put them down.”
“The Rit Zien home in on pain, it's like a beacon to them. So, when this angel fell to earth, he heard the victims' cries, and their anguish, same as he'd hear an angel's in heaven. He's continuing his heavenly work down here. One suffering human at a time.”
“Yeah, but this last victim was not suffering. She was just a normal, moody kid.”
“But he just got here. The ebb and flow of human emotion – Dean, I've been on earth for a few years, and I've only begun to grasp it. To him, pain is pain.”
“All right, well, we got to stop him.”
“You have to stop him.”
“You're scared.”
“It's different now, Dean. Everything feels different.”
Poor hon.
“You stay safe.”
Did Dean think Cas was gonna walk?
Crowley asked for a phone call with Abaddon.
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“I don't think so. I mean, I – I don't trust Crowley, either. But I can't honestly see him working with Abaddon. He hates her too much.”
OOHHHH HERE WE GO.
“Cas, wait. I can’t let you do this.”
*Destiel shippers hold their breath...*
“You're gonna wear that, on a date?”
*Destiel shippers release breath, disappointed as hell.*
“Lose the vest, come on.” “And do the buttons – why don't you unbutton it?”  
Bro. This is gay af out of context.
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Cas picked a rose for her. Swoon.
“Steve! I'm so glad you're here. Come in. I thought I was gonna be late!”
“Late for what?”
“My date!”
*groan* The plot twist. Cas is babysitting.
Aww, Cas. I’d go on a date with you.
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Cas’ face when Tanya starts crying is me when a baby starts crying.
Kevin still believed his mother was dead.
He still has his tattoo.
Crowley gets his phone call.
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“What? What happened?”
“I've been placed on hold.”
Never forget that Cas sang a lullaby to a crying baby...and it was TV show’s theme song.
(Singing a TV show’s theme song as a lullaby is perfectly in character for Cas, who loves TV and would’ve watched this show at some point. However, if they had stuck with the original idea of having Cas sing “Highway to Hell”, I would’ve flipped my shit. It would’ve been proof of Cas picking up habits from Dean.) 
“Nobody told you. Nobody explained. You're just … shoved out kicking and screaming into this human life, without any idea why any of it feels the way it feels, or why this confusion, which feels like it's … a hair's breadth from terror or pain. You know, just when you think you do understand, it'll turn out you're wrong. You didn't understand anything at all. Guess that's just how it is when you're new at this.”
Tanya’s the cutest little baby.
“You know, it wasn't that long ago when all I'd need to do to ease your pain was touch you.” 
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“Okay, Tanya, we're taking a little walk.” Aww. 
“Hello, Castiel.”
Ephraim. 
Cas has a habit of remembering any angel he meets, popular or not.
“You know, there's a lot you don't understand about humanity at first. If you would just stop—”
“Stop? I won't stop … until I wash the planet clean of all suffering.”
Good luck with that.
“Don’t. Touch. Her.”
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“No, Castiel. I came for you.” OOhhh, other plot twist.
“Crowley, how in the hell are you?”
RIP person. Killed by Abaddon.
Cas just cut his palm with rose thorns and didn’t wince once.
“Earth can be a hard place. But these humans, they can get better. They're just doing the best they can.” Thanks, Cas. :’)
Damn it, so close.
“Now what are you doing? Burying your head in the sand. Right when your kind needs you the most.” They’re trying to kill him, dude.
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“But as what, Castiel? As an angel? or a man?” Again with this dilemma.
Dean, who knew that Cas was in danger, comes barging in, angel blade in hand....Was he afraid that he’d enter that home to find Cas dead again??
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“...to be the Winchesters' bitch? It's been fun indulging in your bluffs, but we both know you have no real authority left, no leverage. You have nothing to offer me. You have – nothing.”
“Your way will backfire.”
That’s true.
“You. Will. Burn.” That’s also semi-true.
“Bring me the translations. I keep my agreements.” Crowley’s business ethics are great.
The spell is irreversible. “This spell can't be undone. The new world order – we're stuck with it.”
“You say you want to live. But you can't see what I see. By choosing a human life, you've already given up. You … chose … death.” Ephraim’s last words.
Teamwork!
RIP Ephraim. Killed by Cas.
Dean now knows about the spell being irreversible.
“I'm, uh, sorry I overreacted. Um. My friend gave me a tip. A low dose of acetaminophen brought the fever right down.” Dean told Cas how to deal with Tanya’s fever.
[How long was Dean around the house? At what time did Nora come home, and was it enough time for them to clean the house?? I have so many unnecessary questions.]
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“...that cares so much? That's what makes you special.”
“Where to, Cas?” Did Dean think Cas had a place to go home to?
A missing syringe...
Crowley’s addiction to human blood has been exposed. 
So, I gotta ask...where did Cas spend the night?
“Listen, Cas … Back at the bunker, I, uh... Sorry I told you to go. I know it's been hard on you, you know, on your own. Well, you're adapting. I'm proud of you.” Aww.
“Thank you, Dean. But there's something Ephraim said. The angels – they need help. Can I really sit this out? Shouldn't I be searching for a way to get them home?”
“Me and Sam will take care of the angels. You're human now. It's not your problem anymore.”
Dean had the chance to tell Cas the truth...and he didn’t. (What did Karen Singer say? “I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you've never been in love. He's my husband. My job is to bring him peace... not pain.”)
Cas, the jilted lover.
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:(
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