#but then i was in the solitaire zone and i just wanted to keep playing solitaire…… | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cerisereids · 22 days

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𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗼𝘀- 𝘀.𝗿. [𝗽𝘁. 𝟮]

pairing- spencer reid x fem!reader

w.c.- 8.5k (wtf)

summary- it's been months since you've seen spencer reid. you miss him more than anything, but your friend convinces you it's better if you move on. what happens when he bumps into your new fling at the library?

warnings- sfw but making out at the end, reader is referred to as a woman, emily meddles in spencer's love life lol, angst to fluff, happy ending, not rly proofread im sorry yall i tried my hardest, reader is a little bit messy but she doesn't mean it, last part of this series! part 1 found here

masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You ready, Pretty Boy?” Derek claps a hand on Spencer’s back as he assembles his desk for the weekend.

Spencer shudders at the nickname, like there’s a bug crawling up his spine. He can tell just from Derek’s debonair tone what tonight is going to look like, and he wants no part of it.

“For what? To watch you get phone numbers from every girl you meet?” Spencer teases, doing his best to deflect as he reluctantly stands to leave his desk with Derek.

“Maybe,” Derek shoots him a smile and wraps an arm around his shoulders, “but it’s also time for a special someone to finally follow in my footsteps,” he pinches Spencer’s cheek and he playfully pushes him off.

“Ooh! Are you guys getting drinks?” Spencer turns to see Emily and Penelope coming up from behind him.

“Yeah,” Derek responds, “trying to see if Mr. Grumpy over here can lighten up a little bit,” he shakes Spencer’s shoulders, and he unsuccessfully fights an eyeroll.

“Haven’t been grumpy,” Spencer mumbles, completely proving their point.

“Yeah guys, he hasn’t been grumpy at all!” Emily starts, and Spencer can tell from the theatrics in her tone that the other shoe has not yet dropped, “we all spend our free time moping at our desk after work, looking through old case files that we’ve already solved.” And there it is.

“You know, you guys are this close to becoming a trio for the night,” Spencer holds his index finger and thumb mere millimeters apart, and his comment earns a chuckle from the group.

“Hey now,” Emily gives his shoulder a playful knock, “we tease you because we love you!”

“Well, regardless of Reid’s attitude, we are so in!” Penelope chirps, nudging herself in between Spencer and Derek so she can link arms with both men, and it does make Spencer smile.

Spencer uses their newfound company as an excuse to keep to himself, at least on the way there. He knows Derek won’t let it go when they get to the bar, but for now, he allows his mind to drift. Emily was right, to his everlasting dismay. It’s true that he’s been grumpier in the past few months than normal. He sequesters himself away in conference rooms of local police departments, and he spends hours upon hours going over case files and documents until his eyes go cross. He plays solitaire on the jet home, tucked into a corner, not to be disturbed. He mopes on nights like these, nights where Derek tries to inspire him out of his comfort zone.

It’s all because of one stupid day on the job. One singular day in Massachusetts has turned his life more upside down than seven years in Quantico. It’s torturous, the way you flood his mind, his senses at any waking moment. The way you looked at him, your eyes piercing straight through him, is forever seared into his brain. He doesn’t need an eidetic memory for that. It’s been years since he’s truly felt someone understand him for who he is, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for letting you go.

Spencer is rudely thrust back into reality by the ding of the bell above him and the incessant chatter of a crowded bar on a Friday night. They’ve made it, and now Spencer has to put on an Academy Award worthy performance so he doesn’t get lectured by his coworkers. Damn profilers.

“Now, you kids have fun,” Derek says, the glint in his eyes suggesting he’s already spotted a lady across the bar, “I will be over there, working my magic,” he swiftly points to the direction of the bar, the girl perched on a stool with a friend, “unless you wanna come with, Pretty Boy,” he adds with a knowing smiley.

He claps Spencer on the back again as he shakes his head no, “here, have this to loosen yourself up a bit, then come find me in 20 minutes,” he hands him a beer and moves toward his target.

Spencer fiddles with the glass bottle, feeling the eyes of Emily and Penelope burning holes right through him. He raises his brows, eyes glancing up for the briefest moment, and he knows it was a mistake the second he catches their accusatory glares. There will be no getting out of this one, he’s afraid, especially with Morgan gone.

“So, do you wanna tell me what happened with Pretty Library Girl? Or do you want to continue to avoid the entire team every chance you get?” Spencer’s head snaps to Emily, his stomach dropping at the mere mention of her, eyes wide and wild.

“Pretty Library Girl?!” Penelope squeals, and Spencers takes a big swig of beer.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sputters, a tiny drop of beer spilling over his lip.

“Who is she and why haven’t you told me anything about her?” Penelope sounds offended, like he’s done her wrong by not engaging with her in every detail of his life. It is Penelope afterall, though, so maybe he has.

“It’s nothing, it’s not important! Emily’s just being mean,” he feels himself going red as he takes another sip. The cold of the glass bottle against his lips makes him long for three months prior, when he had you in his arms and his mouth pressed against your temple. The alcohol infiltrating his brain encourages further thought of how sweet your lips would taste, how warm and soft they’d be compared to the icy feeling of the glass rim.

“I am not being mean, you baby!” Emily teases, and he shoves an onion ring in his mouth, “remember that one case we worked on about a few months ago? With that one east coast diplomat who was kidnapped?” Penelope nods so Emily continues, and Spencer feels the warmth in his cheeks spread to his ears.

“Well, Spencer here really hit it off with the librarian who called in that he was missing. We were sent to spend the day at the library to keep her safe, he was nearly starstruck at the mere sight of her,” Penelope’s jaw hit the floor at this information, as did Spencer’s, but Emily kept going before either of them could react.

“To be honest, though,” Emily added, “I think she was starstruck at the sight of you, too, if her reaction to your handshake was anything to go off of.”

Penelope immediately burst into happy squeals and claps at this revelation, and Spencer put his face in his hands.

“So that’s why you’ve been such a sourpuss? A girl? Oh Spencer, this is so exciting!” Penelope squeals as she shakes his bicep back and forth, her nails lightly digging in the skin there.

“No, it’s not!” he finally exclaims, “I didn’t get her number. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in three months and I feel like I’m going crazy!”

A weight was lifted off his chest at the confession, but it only made more room for the longing piercing through his heart. He took another sip of beer.

“Ahhh…” Penelope drawls, “so that’s why we’re grumpy. You know, you could just tell me her name and I’ll find her for you in two seconds flat,” she punctuates her remark with the snap of a finger.

“No…no, I don’t want you to do that. I screwed up by not going for it. If I’m going to contact her, I should at least be honest about it,” he rests his forehead in his large palm, another sip.

“Well, it’s never too late, you know,” Emily remarks, “I thought she was good for you.”

“Yeah, me too,” he mutters, chin in his palm.

Spencer’s on his fifth beer when Derek comes back to the table, this time with a woman on each arm.

“Spencer…” he drags out, introducing him to the one on the left, closest to him, “meet Callie. I was chatting with her and her friend over at the bar and I think you’d really hit it off.”

His tone is light, but his eyes are saying if you fumble one more time, I’m gonna kill you. Looks like he’s a dead man, because he’s quick to tell the girl he’s not interested. He’s never disrespectful, always straightforward. He doesn’t have time for games, unless, apparently, it’s his own heart he’s interested in playing with.

“Excuse us just one second, ladies,” Derek escorts Spencer out the doors of the bar, out to where it’s more quiet.

“What the hell is goin’ on, man?” Derek nearly interrogates, “that’s the fifth girl in the past month I’ve introduced you to that you’ve rejected. Something has been up for a while and I want answers, kid. I’m just trying to help,” his eyes soften with that last bit, but Spencer is now too tipsy to respond similarly.

“That’s just it, Morgan. I don’t need your help, I’m fine. Nothing is going on, all these outings are pointless, and you should’ve just let me go home,” Spencer turns to leave, the alcohol flooding his senses, dizzying him as he whips around. He stops for a moment to regain his balance, and he hears Derek chuckle behind him, which only makes him even more annoyed with himself.

“Come on, what’s going on, man?” Derek asks gently as he turns Spencer around by his shoulders, steadying once he’s faced him again.

He sighs, accepting defeat. Every single emotion he’s held in over the past three months is released with that sigh, and he nearly crumbles when he croaks out, “I miss her.”

“Who, man?” confusion laces through Derek’s tone, and Spencer folds himself in half before he can answer.

“The-ugh! Pretty Library Girl!” he exclaims finally, words slurring together ever so slightly, “and she’s not just pretty, either. She’s the most beautifullest girl I’ve ever met, Derek,” his voice comes out in a whisper, and he felt the gravity of saying those words out loud, there was no going back now, “didn’t get her phone number, it was the biggest mistake of my life, Derek! I don’t care about any of these other girls you’ve introduced me to because none of them are her! And now I’ll never see her again!” he buries his face in his hands at the end of his rant.

He's only vaguely aware of how dramatic he is in his drunkenness, holding in emotions for so long will do that to you. He’s thanking his lucky stars that Penelope and Emily exit the building the moment he says it. They can fill Derek in on the blanks on the walk home. He won’t be able to without bursting into tears.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A wine glass balances delicately between your fingertips as you decide which clothes you want to take with you on the move, and which clothes you’ll be donating to your local GoodWill.

“So, Hot FBI Guy will be living close by, right?” the crackled voice of your best friend, Mary, echoes from your computer, and you take another sip of wine at the mere mention of him.

“All I know is that he works in Quantico. I have no idea where he lives,” you try and keep the conversation about Spencer as neutral as possible, the ache of his departure still stinging like it happened yesterday.

“Well, I’m just saying that if he works near D.C. then he’s local. Just. Saying.” she drags out, innocently holding her hands up like she’s being interrogated. Ironic.

“What does that have to even do with anything?” you know you’re being dense, but you haven’t yet been able to confront what you’ve lost quite yet. That connection, albeit in its infancy, was a million times more powerful than anything you’ve felt with your past relationships. You long so desperately to know what you and Spencer could have been, and it gnaws at your stomach like a parasite.

“You know what it has to do with! If he was as into you as you told me he was, then I can guarantee you he’d jump at the chance to reconnect,” you wish you feel as confident as your best friend sounds.

Still, excitement sparks in your belly at the thought of being so close to him. When Mary came to you a few weeks ago with a job opportunity at the National Museum of American History Library in D.C., you lept at the opportunity. Mr. Anderson had decided to retire shortly after the incident that brought Spencer to you. You can’t necessarily blame him, and you’re elated about the new prospect.

Whether your enthusiasm had to do with the job itself or the brunette agent that would be nearby is anybody’s guess. In the months since you’ve seen him, your memories with him have morphed into something dream-like, something you’ve disconnected from your reality. It’s the only way you’ve been able to continue without him. Reality is becoming harder to ignore, though, the more you put items in boxes and clothing in suitcases. You’re flying to D.C. in a few days to begin the move-in process, and that’s what this video call was supposed to be about. Key word: supposed.

“I don’t know,” you take another big gulp, the acidity tickling your throat, “what if this silence is an answer? If he wanted to, he would, y’know?”

“Ugh! Fine! I guess that’s fair, if you want to be stubborn,” your best friend groans, and you smile at her theatrics, “so, how about I set you up with someone when you get over here? There’s a really cute guy that works at the local university, his name is Brad. He comes and works with us every now and then. Maybe when you get here I can introduce you guys.”

“Ugh, Brad?” you spit out. The name tastes acrid on your tongue, like you can feel notes of the red flags already forming on your palette.

“Don’t be so quick to judge!” Mary sputters, “you are the one who refuses to find Hot FBI Guy, so as your best friend, I’ve appointed myself to solve this problem for you.”

“Y’know, I never asked you to do that,” you joke as you finish the last drop in your glass, a pleasant buzz overtaking your senses.

“I know, that’s why you love me!” she chirps, finishing her own wine, “I’ll text you his number, okay? I gotta get going, we both have a busy next few days. I’ll come get you from the airport when you land here, though, okay? Fly safe!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Spencer’s long, deft fingers pad against the spines of books, some dating all the way back to the 1600s, some that must have been published within a year. He can tell by the condition of the spine itself. He hums to himself quietly, until the dull thud of books hitting against carpet takes him away from himself, his mind. He has to blink twice when he turns around, to make sure he’s not seeing things. It’s you. It’s you, and you’re flustered. You saw him first, he can tell by the way you scramble to pick up the books, avoiding eye contact while you shove them haphazardly back onto the metal cart you’re pushing. Melvil Dewey would turn over in his grave at the sight.

“Let me help you,” Spencer starts gently, so ask not to spook you even more. He kneels slightly, his large hands picking up twice as many books as you were able to. His chest puffs just slightly at the way your eyes linger on them, your gaze following the way the veins in his hands stretch to accommodate the thick text in his hands. He folds back into himself, though, when your eyes meet. Those eyes. Those eyes he’s dreamed about night after night for four months, now inches away from him, staring right into his soul.

“Hi,” is the only thing he can say. It comes out breathy, like a secret.

“Hi,” your voice is shaky, so is your breath as you stand to adjust the books, now lying disorganized across the top of the cart.

“Stop-” your hand shoots out to cover his, and you both make immediate eye contacts at the action. Yours are wide and big, brows furrowed in regret. It makes his stomach drop and he tears his eyes away from yours, stepping back from the cart.

“Spencer-” you start again, but he can take a hint.

“No-no, don’t bother,” he smiles sheepishly as he backs away, “I get it, I’m sorry if I overstepped. It’s good to see you again, you look good,” he can’t help but dote, even if it’s obvious you don’t want to see him.

He supposes he’s ruined things by not taking initiative the first time, has already accepted that life doesn’t hand out second chances. That’s why it’s not too difficult for him to start to walk away, even though his brain screeches at him to turn around with each step.

“Spencer-wait!” he hears you call after him, and he believes in a god for the briefest moment.

“I’m sorry,” you gush, “I just-I wasn’t expecting to see you, which I guess is silly considering that we’re both here now, an-and you surprised me and then I dropped all of this…” you trail off, gesturing down to the mess you both created, but before you could continue, Spencer registered your words.

“Wait-” his head snaps up, eyes locking with yours, brows furrowed in confusion, “what do you mean ‘that we’re both here now’? How long have you been here?”

Your face goes white, and his heart falls into his stomach.

“About a month,” you mutter quietly, and Spencer positively aches. One month of you being within 50 miles of him, and he didn’t even know. “I’m sorry, Spencer,” you nearly plead with him, and he wants to take your hands in his and kiss all over them so you know you don’t ever have to plead, not when it comes to him.

“I just didn’t know how to go about this, it’s not like we were really dating or anything…” you trail off, both of you seemingly struck by the verbal acknowledgement of a relationship, or whatever was going on between you two in Massachusetts. It hangs heavily between the two of you, absorbing all his brain power until an idyllic, domestic life with you is the only thought his big brain can create.

“Maybe we can start slow. Friendly,” he suggests. You’re reserved, not telling him something, so even though it physically aches to stay still, to not pull you in his arms and kiss every bit of skin he can find, he’d rather take this slow. He'd rather have you as only a friend than not at all. He did that already, and he never wants to again.

“Yeah,” your eyes sparkle, and he can see the rest of his life in them, “friends.” Your smile at this moment is worth any heartache he’d ever have to go through.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You know, that’s the fourth book you’ve checked out on American sewing patterns in the 1940s this week,” you smile when you hear your coworker’s voice float over from the checkout desk.

Spencer’s here.

“I got him,” you say once you’ve jogged into the front room, “don’t even worry about it,” you shoo your coworker who rolls her eyes, knowing full well you’re not alleviating her from a customer.

“Neither of you are slick, you know,” your coworker jokes in a quiet tone that only you can hear, and you blush furiously at her insinuation.

“Doing some light reading over the weekend, Doc?” you smirk as the scanner beeps, a red light flashing over the barcode of his book. He smiles and looks down, a slight pink tint dusting his cheeks at the title.

“Not really, actually. We’re working on a case with an unsub who’s very well versed in sewing patterns,” he chews around the words, a cinnamon sugar donut resting in his left hand.

“I see,” you respond, bagging his book, “and you’ve been assigned to do all the research on the symbolism of sewing patterns?” you raise your brows teasingly, and it earns you a million dollar Spencer Reid smile.

“You know it,” he chuckles a little as his cheeks redden, you’ll never get tired of seeing him blush.

“Well…maybe I can help you?” you offer shyly, “y’know, my mom was a professional seamstress back in the day. Taught me everything she knows. I’m no FBI profiler, but I might be able to help,” you shrug, and now it’s your turn for your cheeks to heat up. With the intensity with which he was looking at you, you were surprised you didn’t burst into flames on the spot.

“Realy? You never told me that,” Spencer whines accusatively.

“Well, we’ve only been friends again for three weeks. Sorry we haven’t yet gotten into our parents’ lore yet,” you joke, and you can just barely make out a shift in his eyes, like the acknowledgement of your current predicament pains him, “my shift’s done in about 15 minutes,” you soldier on, “let me finish up everything I need to do and I’ll meet you over there,” you nod towards one of the comfortable study couches in your library, complete with tables, cupholders, and outlets.

When you found him there a mere 20 minutes later, you could have melted. Glasses you’ve never seen before perch on his nose. Your heart swells, a symphony of angels could come down and sing at any moment at the mere sight of the wiry frames resting on his nose. There’s an extra pep in your step as you approach him, and his eyes light up once he sees you’ve arrived.

“Hey!” he chimes, happy as a clam, “you ready to study up on the importance of sewing during the second World War?” he punctuates his question with the slam of a thick textbook on the table, and you lean back slightly so as to avoid the dust emanating from it.

“Oof! Sorry!” he coughs, waving his hand in a weak attempt to dissipate the dust. It just makes you giggle, which in turn earns you yet another smile. You two stay like that for a moment, lost in time, lost in each other. Your head and ears become fuzzy, the pounding of your heart soon becoming the only thing you can hear. You rest your chin in your palm, and you won’t be surprised if cartoon hearts start beating out of your eyes while you listen to him spew out sewing information.

You pretend to listen as your eyes trail down his face, from his hairline, down to the slope of his nose, to his full, pink lips. There’s remnants of sugar dusting his lips from the donut he had earlier, and you allow yourself one brief moment to wonder what it’d taste like. If he’d let you run your tongue over his bottom lip and find out. The mere thought makes you shudder, and you adjust in your seat. You throw your right leg over your left in a way that allows the sundress you wore today to cling to every curve and dip of your body, something Spencer notices. You see him adjust, moving the arm closest to you to rest on the table. He feels it too. He wouldn’t be shielding himself if he didn’t.

“Sooo…” he trails off, cheeks reddening once more. You’ll never get tired of it. “How much do you know about sewing? Or was this all a ruse to spend some one on one time with me?” he raises his eyebrows accusatively at you, and it loosens the tension in your shoulders, a laugh bursting from your throat.

“There it is,” he mutters softly, seemingly to himself.

His chin is also resting in his palm now, and it’s brought you closer together. His nose is just inches from yours, your legs entangling with each other under the table. You see his eyes go down, down. You feel them scan over your body, studying the flowing linen of your floral print clad frame. You see his eyes linger on your chest for a brief moment, his own breath picking up at the slightest peek of your cleavage heaving up and down. The way it cinches your waist, the way it allows the rest of your curves to flow freely below it, he drinks it all in. It’s completely silent, save for your heavy breathing. All you can do is watch.

“There what is?” you ask, adjusting once more in your seat so you can face him directly.

You’re open to him, now. Chest fully open and facing him, one arm on the table and the other on the back of your chair. You’re showing him you’re open, you’re ready. You would push him onto this table and kiss him silly right now if you could, you’d give him a really good reason to love this sundress.

“Could tell something was keeping you tense. I wanted to make you laugh so you’d loosen up,” he smiles, “and because I love your laugh.”

You smile and inch impossibly closer, until you’re yanked out of your dream world and slammed onto the cold, hard ground in seconds.

“Hey, babe! You ready? We got reservations in like a half hour,” you feel a hand on your shoulder from behind and a kiss to your cheek. Your stomach plummets, eyes wide like you’re in a horror film and the killer is behind you.

You can see the instant disappointment creeping onto Spencer’s face. He doesn’t want to show it, but it’s there.

“Brad!” you chirp in the fakest possible voice you can muster.

You look up over your shoulder at the man Mary set you up with. He’s taking you on your third date tonight. You completely and totally forgot. A fire of guilt ignites in your lower belly, burning hot until you’re nearly sick with it. Your head snaps back to Spencer, where you see him collect his materials. Your heart sinks into your stomach, charring itself to bits with the rest of your guts down there.

“Spencer-” you reach an arm out to stop him, but he yanks it away. An internal skewer prods your fire, makes it hotter, bigger.

“I checked this out, actually. I’ll look it over at the station, it’ll probably take me not even 10 minutes to read it by myself anyway,” he rambles sheepishly, his face now turning red for the worst possible reason.

“Hey, man!” Brad chuckles obliviously, and you wish you could crawl into a hole right then and there, “you must be her genius FBI friend, yeah she talks about you,” he puts his hands on his hips as his head turns from him, back to you. Realization dawns on his face as Brad reaches out his hand, Spencer shakes it professionally and you want to die.

“Talks a lot about you, actually. It’s funny, I never really understood what a guy with such a high IQ would be doing in the FBI, but that’s just me,” he’s the only one that chuckles at his statement, his gaze now turned towards his phone, “plus, don’t you need to be more fit to be in the FBI? You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who chases down killers.”

“Yeah, well, my unit actually profiles the behavior of serial killers in order to catch them. That’s where my IQ of 187 comes in, as well as my three PhDs,” you can tell he's word vomiting, and he sends a fake smile at Brad, who gives not one signal that he listened to any of that at all. You can hear the shake in Spencer’s voice. He’s trying to make it through this conversation without blowing a gasket. You’re doing the same.

“Yeah, man, that’s sweet,” he flips his gum around in his mouth, chewing as he scrolls on his phone, “listen, can we go now, babe? I’m starving,” he tries slinking his arm over your shoulders, eyes still glued to his phone.

This isn’t unusual for him, he’s been guilty of this the past few dates he took you on. Whether it was when you were ordering the food, or walking home, a time would come on the date where his eyes wouldn’t leave his phone. It piqued your curiosity, but truthfully, you never liked him enough to care. This position allows you a quick glance at his screen, opened in the messages of someone named Emma, who he’s also calling ‘babe’.

Spencer takes this as his cue to leave, though. You know you don’t deserve it, but not getting a goodbye from him is like a kick to the shins.

“Yeah-yeah, I’ll be ready in just one second,” you say breathlessly, “gonna just go walk him out,” you give him a weak smile before breaking into a jog to catch up with him.

“Spencer!” you call as you jog out to the patio, where you saw him for the first time that March morning.

“When were you going to tell me you have a boyfriend?” he turns, not letting you get a word in edgewise.

“He’s not my boyfriend!” you exclaim, grasping at straws to save face, “he’s just someone that Mary set me up with. We’ve only gone out on a few dates, it’s not a serious thing!” the wind whips desperately between the two of you, an earthly manifestation of four months of swirling emotions, repressed and ready to bubble over the surface. It’s true that you’ve only been on a few dates with the guy, but you know what honesty means to Spencer. You know that lying by omission is still a lie. You were so desperate to pick up the pieces of your broken heart, you just wanted to let someone else do it for you. You never expected Spencer to come back, never expected a friendship like this to blossom, never expected to be in love with him while dating someone else. You didn’t know what to do. Clearly, ignoring it was not the best way to handle that.

“Serious enough to call you ‘babe’,” he mutters to the ground, rolling his eyes.

“Hey!” you spit, now defensive, “you were the one who wanted to just be ‘friends’,” you throw up air quotes, “you don’t get to be mad now!”

“‘m not mad,” Spencer insists, grumbly. His gaze is kept on the ground, the toe of his Converse kicking a rock, “I get it. You’re beautiful, he’s beautiful. No wonder Mary thought you’d be a great couple. I see it, I really do. I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me, ‘s all,” his voice is high pitched and whiny, an aggravated tone that gives away his true feelings whether he means to or not.

You roll your eyes and fold your arms across your chest, “because, Spencer, I didn’t realize I had to run every single relationship choice by a man I’ve only really known for three weeks! A man who took off without leaving any way for me to contact him! So yeah, don’t be too surprised that I’ve moved on,” you huff, eyebrows drawn downwards in an angry pout.

“Moved on?” Spencer whines, turning to face you, “we spent one day together! I’m an FBI agent, I can’t just hand out my number to random strangers I meet on cases!” “You and I both know I wasn’t just a random stranger on a case!” you shout, and a heavy silence falls between you.

The rain splatters harshly against the ground, moving so fast you can barely see each individual raindrop. Your mind is a similar storm, clouded, dark, and so desperate for sun. The sun in your case is the man standing before you, chest heaving as he stares back at you.

“I don’t know, Spencer, I don’t know,” you chuckle, breaking the silence with a venomous huff, “we spent one day together, yes, but I felt a connection with you that I’ve never felt with anyone else. I know you felt it too. Do you go around telling everybody you meet on a case about how amazing your mentor was and how much you miss him?”

He flinches, and you know you got him.

“Leave him out of this,” is all he can mutter.

“You brought him into it in the first place,” you jab back. You know you’re being petty, you know you’re in the wrong, but you can’t accept it. Not with Spencer standing right in front of you, looking at you like he’s Caesar and you’re Brutus holding a bloodied knife in your hand. Maybe that’s exactly who you are, but the humiliation of your mistakes creeps into every bone in your body, sitting most prominently in your throat. It’s strangling you, holding you back from any logic, your emotions running rampant throughout this conversation.

“Have fun on your date, I have a killer to catch,” Spencer doesn’t spare you one last look before leaving you stranded in the rain.

You return to your desk completely soaked through, and Brad’s eyes widen in a condescending way that makes your skin crawl.

“Whew,” he whistles, nearly scared at the sight of you, “well, it seems like you two have some stuff you need to work out. You’re hot, but I’m not interested in being a part of some weird ass love triangle you have going on with that loser. See ya around,” he raps his knuckles on the desk and leaves without second thought.

Your skin crawls at his third grade insult, your eyes trained on his retreating figure. You’re frozen in place, unbelieving that this all just unfolded in front of you, because of you. Your pruney fingers come up to hide your soaked face. You can only imagine how much of a disaster you looked like right now, dripping and wilted, like the dewey trees hanging outside. You stare at one in front of the window by your desk, and can’t help but feel envious of the sopping bark and dripping leaves. Their storm is about growth, renewal, yours was brought on by your own selfishness and humiliation. Your head falls back into your hands. You need to make things right with Spencer. You’ve already lost him once, you know you won’t be able to go through it again.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Hey!” Spencer whines, snapped out of his stewing by a crumpled piece of paper flying from Emily’s direction hitting him square on the nose.

“What’d you do that for!?” he whines, nose scrunching as he throws the paper back at the perpetrator.

“You need to focus, Genius!” her voice rings sarcastically, “were you able to get any help from your girly friend at the library or no?”

Spencer’s insides twist at her teasing, the sheer mention of you makes him want to crawl in a hole and never come out. He feels like such an idiot. In what world would someone so beautiful actually like someone like him? The humiliation regresses his emotions to the sinking feeling in his gut he felt when he was 12, watching the jock ask the girl from his AP calculus class that he’d fantasized about for months to prom. He knew it was a pipe dream then, but he should’ve known now, too. As angry as he is at you, he’s almost more angry with himself for letting his guard down. Your beauty destines you to someone like Brad, with his sculpted jaw and perfect hair. It’s a tale as old as time, one where there are two beauties and one beast left behind to study sewing patterns from World War II.

“Oof, sore subject?” Emily asks after a moment of bitter silence, “I thought things were going well. I was thinking we could even have her come in to help us with some of this if you want,” she pats the multiple books they have to help with the case.

If it were any other circumstances, Spencer would feel grateful for his friend doing him a solid, even though they both know he could read everything on the conference room table in an hour. Now, though, the thought feels like a boiling pitchfork slicing through his gut.

“Well, she’s on a date with someone named Brad right now, if you were curious,” Spencer snapped before walking out to read his books in peace.

“What?” he hears a high pitched shout from behind him, and he fights an eye roll when he hears the clicking of Emily’s heels hot on his tail. “I thought things were going well? You were over there all the time, I mean you practically spent all of your free time there, everyone else thought you were just going into hermit mode, but I knew-” “Well, things change, Emily. I won’t be going there so much anymore,” Spencer cuts off her rambling dryly, trying to sound as neutral as possible about the situation. The shakiness in his voice tattletales on him, though. He knows he’s been figured out by the way Emily’s eyes narrow down at him, her tongue poking at her cheek. He accepts defeat, his forehead falling to the crook of his arms resting on his desk.

“Alright…” Emily sighs, moving to sit adjacent to her distressed coworker, “lay it on me, kid.”

Spencer can’t help himself. Everything, every thought that’s been keeping him up late at night, every feeling that’s eaten through his stomach til it’s raw comes spilling out. He tells her about the last three weeks, about how it’s allowed him to actually establish a connection with you, and how it was better than he ever thought it could be. He tells her about Brad, about the patronizing way the beefcake eyed him up and down.

“I just feel so stupid,” he vents, unable to make eye contact with Emily, “I really thought she could actually like me, but it makes so much sense that she’s with someone like him instead,” he shakes his head, gaze turning towards his lap, “she’s so pretty, Emily, I just blew it too many times.”

He’s ready to give up, ready to wallow in his sorrows with Derek, maybe finally take him up on all the offers to set him up. That’s what you did, anyway.

“Well,” Emily scoffs, kicking her feet up on his desk. He frowns at the sight. “Your first problem is that you’re comparing yourself to this Brad loser-”

“You didn’t see him, though,” Spencer jumps in, defensive, “he’s perfect for her-”

“On the outside, maybe,” Emily cut him off, regaining power of the conversation. Spencer slumps back in his chair as she eyes him, “and honestly Spencer, that means nothing. I know you know that,” she says, and Spencer retreats into himself as her pointed gaze pierces through that rawness in his stomach.

“Honestly, Spencer, I’m shocked you’re so intimidated by some meathead,” she sits back, more relaxed now, it allows Spencer to loosen up too. “You’re Doctor Spencer Reid. Three times over, actually!” she makes sure to enunciate his full name, title and all, and it makes his chest lightly puff up once more, “just because you may not be some adonis with a six pack doesn’t make you undesirable, Spencer. I wish you knew that,” she utters that last bit quietly, softer, it makes his heart churn with vulnerability.

“Sometimes I do wonder what it would be like to be like Derek,” Spencer remarks, “to not be scared to go out and find a connection, to be able to act on it once you find it. It’s one of the very few things I’m not an expert at,” he jokes lightly, and Emily smiles at him sadly.

“Nobody is, Spencer,” Emily sighs, “love is messy, and it’s complicated, but it’s worth fighting for. If you really think going cold turkey on your library visits is the best way for you to handle this, then so be it. But I don’t want you forgetting who you are, what you bring to the table, because if someone is lucky enough to capture the attention of the Spencer Reid, she better be able to keep up,” she smiles at him, standing to ruffle his hair like a big sister. It still makes his cheeks go red.

“Thanks Emily,” he mutters, “I’ll think about it.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Your hands are visibly shaking as the elevator lifts you to the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They grip the visitor’s badge dangling from your neck in a desperate attempt to find something to do. You’re here on business, though you’re not sure Spencer knows that. You’re not in the mood to find out. After two weeks of staring at the door from your desk, waiting so desperately to see your favorite person walk through the doors, only to go home disappointed everyday, you have no clue how he will react to seeing you, let alone working with you.

Your eyes drop down to your phone, open to the email you received from Emily Prentiss earlier in the week, requesting a meeting with you for some advice on a case. Your eyes scan over one particular sentence, over, and over, and over again. ‘Spencer told me about how you helped him on cases, and I’d love to hear your expertise…’ You honestly stopped reading after ‘Spencer told me’. He talked about you. He told Emily about you, how you’d help him. It feels you with a mix of joy and fear at the same time. Did he tell her good things about you? Does she know the reason why he stopped coming by the library?

You don’t have much time to ponder, as the doors of the elevator slide open with a ding. You take one step off the elevator, and that’s all you can muster. Your eyes frantically scan the hustle and bustle of the bureau, and you can’t help but feel even more intimidated than you already were. Panic slithers its way from your stomach and wraps itself around your throat like a cobra. You wonder if this was all a big mistake, if you should have just ignored it and stayed out of Spencer’s way. He didn’t fight for you, so why are you fighting for him? You turn around, the only movement you’ve made since stepping off the elevator, and desperately press the button multiple times.

“What are you doing here?” you freeze when you hear the unmistakable voice coming from behind you. The shake in his voice, the slight grievance in his tone makes you freeze again, and now you know you’ve made a mistake. Anything that has to do with Spencer paralyzes you, why would you think you could pull this off?

“Leaving,” you respond curtly, pressing the elevator button a few more times.

“That won’t work, just makes it move slower,” his tone is playful, but biting. He’s mad, you know he is, and bile rises in your throat at the thought. You fold your arms across your chest and do your best to ignore him, but you feel him. You always do, only this time, he’s closer to you than he’s been in weeks. It’s infiltrating your brain, your senses betraying all logic as the heat radiates from his chest, nearly pressed against your back, the smell of his woodsy aftershave floods your nostrils, the spice of his cologne lingering on his sweater a close runner up. You don’t spend much time thinking about your next actions, if you had you wouldn’t have grabbed the collar of Spencer’s shirt and dragged him into the elevator with you.

“I’m sorry, Spencer, okay? I’m so, so sorry. I made a huge mistake not telling you about Brad, it was a mistake to even go out with him to begin with,” you say that last part mostly to yourself as the doors shut. You and Spencer breathe heavily in the newfound silence, unsure where to go next.

“What does that mean?” Spencer asks.

“What?” you huff.

“You said it was a mistake to go out with him to begin with. What does that mean?” he presses, like he’s in an interrogation. You don’t expect the sternness from him, but you can’t deny the way it sets your stomach aflame, burning embers warming your heart.

“It means that I never wanted to just be friends with you, Spencer. I thought you were going to ask me for my number when we met for the first time in Massachusetts,” you brush fallen strands of hair out of your face, still out of breath from the intensity of the conversation, of having Spencer so vulnerable, so close to you. “You didn’t, though, and to be honest? I was crushed.”

His eyebrow quirks, “you were crushed?”

“You’re trying to tell me you didn’t feel a connection, even from our first meeting?” you challenge him, and when he ponders silently for a moment too long, you know you have him. “Me too,” you breathe, “I was so upset, my friend thought it would be a good idea to set me up with Brad, try and help me move on, y’know? It didn’t work, obviously, because now I’m here, at the first beck and call of anyone who’s anywhere close in proximity to you,” you chuckle condescendingly towards yourself, eyes filling with hot tears as humiliation seeps through your veins.

“I mean…Spencer,” you scoff, breathing heavier now as tears spill over your lash line, “my entire life changed the day I met you,” his big brown eyes nearly turn you to applesauce in that moment, the way they gaze lovingly at you, a light shine reflecting off the LED light of the elevator.

“Mine too,” he mutters, voice raspy and cracked with emotion. “I’m sorry, too. I was just so hurt by that run-in with Brad that I didn’t think I could face you, was too humiliated,” his gaze falls towards the floor.

“I’m so sorry for doing that to you, Spencer, I should have told you,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion as tears slowly keep spilling.

“Yeah, well, I should have asked for your number that day in March,” he smiles sheepishly at you, and you want nothing more than to just put him in your pocket and take him home with you.

Your conversation is cut short by the ding of the elevator. You wipe at your cheeks before instinctively reaching for his hand, pulling him with you out into the parking structure.

“Hey-” he lightly protests, although he goes along with you anyway, “you know I have to work still, right?”

“Well, you can tell Emily to take the fall for you,” you quip, “because she was the one who told me I needed to meet with her,” you turn to face Spencer, whose eyebrow quirks in the cutest way, “mmhm, told me it was a big case and everything.”

“We’re in between cases right now, what does she-” Spencer stops himself, the lightbulb flicking on over his head, “...oh.”

“You just now figured that out, Spence?” you gently tease, “you didn’t see her and Derek spying on us by the elevator?” you stop by your car, and the tension from the elevator follows the two of you, settling like dust.

“No,” he chuckles bashfully, his arms lifting to lay lightly at your waist, testing the waters, “no, I didn’t. You ever considered a future in profiling?”

You can’t help but laugh further into his hold, you feel so naturally safe there that you can’t help but just step closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. This time, tears of relief, tears of overwhelming joy flood your eyes again. You know things aren’t perfect between you and Spencer, but the fact that there is finally a relationship to build floods your body with relief like a dam breaking. Your bones no longer ache for his touch, your heart slowly stitching itself back together, just from the healing powers of his magical arms. You feel his warm, calloused hand come to rest against your cheek, brushing a tear out of the way.

“Y’know,” he mutters, “the reason I stopped coming by after meeting Brad was because I felt stupid,” he continues when you quirk your brow, eyes full of confusion, “I felt stupid thinking you would like someone like me over someone like that,” he pumps his muscle in a weak attempt to mock Brad, but it earns him a chuckle from you, so his eyes shine.

“Oh, Spencer,” you dote, your eyes shining into his with the brightest confession of love, “he could never hold a candle to you, I mean it,” you punctuate when he avoids eye contact, “not only are you the smartest, kindest, gentlest man I’ve ever met, you’re also incredibly sexy. Your hair works wonders you’ve never even heard of.” He looks at you like you’re crazy, “sexy?!” he exclaims, nearly forgetting he’s in the parking lot at his work, “I don’t think anyone’s ever actually called me sexy, and meant it,” he adds, quieter this time, and you have no choice.

You place both your palms against his scruffy cheeks, clenching your thighs together at the thought of him not shaving for a few days, and press your lips to his. It’s not a picture perfect first kiss, either. It’s messy, it’s desperate, it conveys everything the two of you have been too scared to say over the past four months. You nearly swoon when he places a hand at the small of your back, tugging you closer and deepening the kiss. His scruff moves against your supple skin and reddens your chin in a way you’ll have to explain to your coworker later, but you don’t care. Right now, all you can care about is the feeling of his lips on yours, moving to your cheek, down your neck, nibbling at your collarbone. “Spencer,” you gasp, regretfully lifting his head up, “you’re at work.” His eyes close, like he’s trying to retain some composure. He rests his forehead against yours, and your eyes fall closed, too. Your hand grips his wrist as both of his hands rest against your cheeks, your breathing syncs, you lock eyes. You know from the second his blown out irises catch yours, there’s no way he’s going back in that office. He places the softest kiss to your lips, adding one more before he moves to bury his face in your neck, his arms wrapped tightly around you as he presses your back to your car.

“We can blame it on Emily, like you said,” he presses a kiss to your neck, “I’ve been thinking about the way your body would feel in my arms for four months, baby,” he rasps, and you want to hear him call you baby until the day you die. “I’m not giving it up now, if it’s an emergency, Hotch will call me,” he provides some reassurance before giving you one last kiss and heading around to the passenger side of your car.

“For now, though?” he poses, “we’re finishing this at your place.”

Your heart skips a beat as you hop in the driver’s seat.

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see-arcane · 1 year

Text

Cards with the Count

Thinking about how Jonathan is trying to pass the time during Vampire Hell Staycation with all the books in the library (a guaranteed Dracula Zone), no stationery (bastard), and a finite amount of secret pen ink and secret diary pages left at his disposal (shit). Reading and writing and art are all out. What’s left?

I like to think, in this order:

1) He remembers that he has a pack of playing cards in the general luggage Dracula didn’t snatch. A gift Lucy had bestowed on him and Mina, a pack apiece, as she insisted that it was the best way to pass an hour in dreary company that wasn’t to do with gossip or politics.

2) He doesn’t normally play, if only because he doesn’t have the coin to meet any real gambling stranger at a table. Just a ‘for fun’ thing.

3) Fuck it. Solitaire. Card towers. It’s something to keep his mind off the…everything.

4) He gets exactly one (1) day/evening of peace with this. Then:

5) “Whatever are you up to, my friend?”

(He didn’t even use the door to give Jonathan time to hide the pack. Misted in. No shadow to give him away. Fantastic.) Jonathan staples his smile back in place and rattles off something apologetic, so sorry, was he keeping the Count waiting? Let him just put this away, he wouldn’t be interested—

6) Smash cut to the library. The cards are now unofficially confiscated/a staple of the Dracula Zone, alongside the fancy crystal chessboard the Count loves to crush him with on a semi-regular basis. Jonathan is walking him through the rules of sundry card games. Unsurprisingly, he latches onto the concept of American poker readily. The game is a soup of similar European predecessors that light up his eyes with recognition—primero, poque, brelan—sewn together with England’s game of brag into a medley of the initial rules, both written and unwritten.

7) “A game of skill, then?”

“Skill, acting, and luck.”

Dracula grins as he produces a ransom of gold coins to use as chips. Jonathan deals.

(What are the extra rules here? Does he throw every hand? Does he play in earnest and inevitably lose anyway? Does it even matter? It isn’t chess, after all. Not a proper strategy game. Cards happen. Guesswork happens. A winner and loser every turn. What does it matter?)

8) Jonathan realizes two dozen hands later that what matters is, apparently, his face. One that, likewise apparently, cannot be read by the Count in this game. Out of those two dozen hands, Jonathan has won eighteen. Of those eighteen, his hand was the clear dud for nine. Through it all, Dracula’s eyes keep jumping from his own hand to Jonathan’s tired gaze. When Jonathan wins the twenty-fifth hand and the mountain of gold on his side of the table risks toppling off the edge, Dracula bites out a word Jonathan is sure is too caustic to have a spot in the lost polyglot dictionary.

9) “You have a gift for schooling your face, my friend.” Every word is an icicle; each as sharp as the canines jutting out of the rictus grin.

“I don’t,” Jonathan says.

And it’s true. Now he’s schooling his face—first lesson of anyone destined for the realm of serving others—but in the game, he’s barely thinking of anything else beyond the ticking of the clock. To punctuate this, he slides the heap of gold back to Dracula’s side of the table.

“This is only a game for the fun of it. In a game with stakes, there would be something worth playing and worrying for. When you get to England,” his face is very, very schooled as he says this, “you’ll find a much more varied competition at gambling tables. The players who really train their expressions can do so with fortunes at stake, while novices reveal every victory or loss plainly on their face.”

10) Dracula considers this. And smiles.

11) “Ah, then there must be stakes before we can play the game properly. Still, you have won the bulk of these rounds, my friend—” his hand seems like it wants to be strangling something when it drums atop the gold heap, “—and done me the charity of not taking your rightful winnings.” He throws down his cards. Ace and deuce of spades. “I shall have to speak with the kitchen about producing a stand-in prize.”

He leaves. Jonathan doesn’t blink when he hears the door lock behind him. A card pyramid is erected.

12) Paprika hendl for supper. As excellent as he remembers. Huzzah.

13) The next time he’s herded into the library, he sees what looks suspiciously like his travel paraphernalia flimsily hidden behind a bit of drapery. Dracula is shuffling the deck.

14) “A true prize on the table this time, my friend. I know you are one to appreciate the splendor of our beautiful country, just as I know it is, for your own safety, quite impossible to go exploring alone in the wild. Too many wolves about. But if you win the majority tonight, I shall see to it that my driver takes a leave from his own many errands to escort you beyond the castle for a time, if you so wish.”

“…And if I lose the majority?” He can’t help it: “I’m sure there’s little from me you’d be interested in.”

Dracula grins.

“We shall think of something, I’m certain. Here. Deal.”

15) As expected, Jonathan’s face isn’t effortlessly unreadable in its misery anymore. He has something to play for, even if his trust in Dracula’s dangling carrot on the stick is nigh nonexistent. He loses more. He struggles more. He worries more…

16) …But the wins and losses remain surprisingly even. On into the dawn they play, matching victory for victory. Even the Count seems puzzled. Jonathan is just tired. He was never going to win. The ‘driver’ will fall to some mysterious ailment, his possessions will disappear the moment he’s sent out of the room ahead of the Count. To Hell with it.

17) “I forfeit. We remain tied, so neither has to lose.” A sour smile curls. “Besides, I have kept you up too late again.”

“One more.”

“We can say you won—,”

Dracula gives him a Look.

Jonathan sits again. Plays again.

Wins again.

Dracula hisses several words the polyglot dictionary would be scandalized to translate. Jonathan feels the first genuine smile he’s wanted to make in a month and a half try to creep up on his lips, and stifles it.

18) Dracula turns over his cards and thumbs though the deck as if looking for a conspirator. He even scowls at Jonathan’s forearms, both bare through the whole game as he’d rolled up his sleeves. Still grumbling, his thumbnail finally hooks a card that makes a cloud pass over his face.

19) “What. Is this?”

Jonathan looks.

“Oh, that’s just a Joker.”

“Joker?”

“Yes, I thought I’d taken him out. He’s not a usable card in this game, but he’s sometimes used as a trump or wild card in others. That is, he’s there to turn the tide for whoever gets to play him.”

Jonathan reaches for the card to tuck it back in the box. Dracula pulls it out of reach, walks to the fireplace, and flicks it into the flames.

“Say what you will, but I recognize a symbol of sabotage when I see it. It should not be in the deck at all!” Still watching the little harlequin turn to cinders, he flaps his other hand at Jonathan. “Go rest, my friend. Take that infernal game with you. It is not a respectable pastime for men of our like.”

20) Jonathan gathers up the deck, gives his travel kit a last mournful look, and leaves for his bedroom, knowing not to ask after the walk in the forest as he goes. In his bed, he empties the deck into his hand again and thinks on four things.

Skill.

Acting.

Luck.

And…

21) He turns the deck’s neglected second Joker over in his fingers, the impish face seeming to hold a secret in its grin.

22) When he wakes next, he isn’t surprised to find the deck has been stolen. It doesn’t trouble him. Somehow, it even produces a tired grin on his face. It nearly matches the painted thing hidden, wild and powerful, in the pages of his journal.

#in which time is passed and you should always consider stray cards in the deck #jonathan harker #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily #poker #playing cards #joker #my writing

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where-does-the-heart-lie · 1 year

Note

Do you think Sabo will secretly smuggle Luffy-related items around the Revolutionary Army and boast about him whenever something slightly related to him is said? Or do you believe he tends to have random things that remind him of Luffy around his office?

Hm.. i dont think he would talk about luffy all that much to like, coworkers…

Dont get me wrong, he has definitely gushed about his super ultra mega cool badass younger brother to Dragon, Koala, and Hack, but i feel like he’s not that first option’s level of obsessive.

Cuz like i just feel like thats his own business. The thing about the asl brothers is that more than they are doting to the others, they respect each-other. They understand that their brothers lead lives and none of them, under normal circumstances, would try to interfere with what the others got going on. So i feel like being luffy’s brother is a part of who he is, but also he has a life outside of his lil bro.

Like unless theyre directly talking about *Luffy* i dont think Sabo would reach to bring him up. And even then i feel like at most he would be like “haha my brother’s doing crazy things”

Part of this is coming from my headcanon that sabo kinda keeps his emotions to himself? Like in canon, yeah he’s an emotionally charged person, but he doesnt explain himself when he does shit. He kinda just does it, gives a quick explaination if someone asks and refuses to elaborate further, half because he doesnt want to and the other half because he’s already zoned out of the conversation.

I do think though, that when he was in his amnesiac state he had two trinkets that he felt an inexplicable pull to that he kept at his desk. Just a simple deck of cards, and a coaster made from straw with a ribbon threaded through. And sure he used them for their intended purposes (i particularly like the idea that he knows a bunch of card tricks) but the reason why they’re on his desk isn’t because he plays solitaire to pass the time or that he needs a place to put his cups of coffee.

The reason is all too obvious after he regained his memories, but for the longest time all they were, were something he could glance at and feel… grounded… in a way. Like something that gave him some level of stability.

Smthn like these 👆

That’s just what me thinks though. As someone with siblings, I feel like I would never talk about them to that extent. Like even if I got hit in the face with a canon ball and lost my memories and then i regained them 10 years later only to find that one was dead and the other is god? Sure, I’d be very proud of them but also i would still talk about other shit. That’s just me tho🤷‍♀️

Thanks for the ask!

#ask reply #@tastywatermelonpie

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thebadchoicemachine · 3 years

Text

Petting Party (pt 1)

Rundown of dimensions AU: Quackity’s from 1920s dimension called Prowa, Schlatt and Charlie are his business partners *cough found family cough* and they run a casino/speakeasy. Sapnap is a knight from a fantasy dimension called Quarry. Karl is like Dr.Who.

tw - Mentions of guns and alcohol (1920s mobster dimension)

This is really just the fluffiest full I have ever written.

•••

@thecatchat

•••

Quackity walked through his rooms, digging around drawers for his keys. He squawked a little in frustration as he rummaged. He felt so paranoid, like he was already short on time even though he was about half an hour early and it’s not like Sapnap or Karl would mind waiting. He just wanted this to go perfectly. They’d had dates in his world before, they’d even had proper ones where they weren’t running from cops or mobsters or some other guns/knife/bat-wielding foes. Heh, foes. He was starting to think like Sapnap… and he was starting to feel like Karl— where was his damn key? Karl had literal worlds full of stuff to keep track of, it only made sense he got turned around and mixed up, what was Quackity’s excuse?

Finally, a glint caught his eye and he snatched up the silver piece of metal, stuffing it into his sleeve and practically skipping to the front. Their home was really just the back half of the casino so he just walked through into the back room. Schlatt and Charlie were sitting at a table, various game pieces scattered across the top, counting cards, chips, and cash. Charlie seemed to be in the middle of a failed game of solitaire and was stacking up a house of cards while Schlatt was just old-fashioned sorting, looking rather bored. It was a quiet night for them. Probably a few drinks and catching up till bed after they double-check the games for cheating. Quackity would usually join them but it wasn’t strange for him not to show. He gave them a wave as he walked past, motion enough for them to look up and acknowledge him.

Schlatt only glanced up before returning to his work. “What’s with the getup?”

“I told youse, I’m going out tonight.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m going out to meet my partners.” Quackity struck a joking pose. “No harm in good impressions.”

“Hey,” Charlie frowned childishly, “aren’t we your partners?”

Quackity chuckled, rolling his eyes, “Of course. My new partners, then. Actually, lemme see a cut of that doe, I wanna butter ‘em up tonight.” He snatched a few bills from the table and turned to make his exit.

“Wait,” Schlatt commanded, still barely looking up from his work. “Partners like you’re out for coffee to discuss getting new tables?” He took a sharp bite of his apple, eyes lazily growing dark. “Or do youse mean partners like I outta trail behind... y’know, keep you from gettin’ lead poisoning.”

“Uh...” Quackity blinked. “Partners like I’m off to a petting party.”

Schlatt choked. Charlie laughed while he coughed, moving to pat his back and smiled at Quackity. “Well, good luck.”

Quackity narrowed his eyes as he was almost certain he caught a ‘all knows you need it’ under Charlie’s breath. He played it cool and simply snapped, “Hey, I don’t need no luck. Certainly not from you.”

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to offend.” Charlie held his hands up, grin still plastering his face. “Was just wishing you the best.”

“Yeah... yeah,” Schlatt nodded, coming out of his state but still red-faced. Whether it was from embarrassment or lack of air Quackity couldn’t tell. He rolled his eyes again, smiling but waving goodbye without giving them a chance to drag him onto another conversation.

He stepped into the front, waiting patiently by the front of the door. Karl had said they’d meet him at the Vidrio, but should he wait inside or out? He paced, routinely adjusting his feathered headband and combing the actual feathers on his wings. He still worried he was overdressing a little but when he tried to lessen his look he panicked about underdressing. He wanted to look good for his boyfriends, a bit of makeup wouldn’t hurt that... would it? In the end, he’d settled on a simple pale blue dress, eyeliner, and a small headband. Nothing too gaudy but he still looked good. He looked good in everything, of course, he had absolutely nothing to worry about. So why was he all jittery? What, was he suddenly a dud? It didn’t matter. It was probably just because of the surprise factor.

He’d assumed they would come and get outfits at his place (no offense to them, they just really couldn’t go the way they usually dressed) but Karl had insisted they pick him up like a “proper date.” He didn’t know what Karl knew about proper dates or when he’d started to care about them, most of their dates involved some form of running for their lives. Quackity wasn’t complaining but he’d be lying if he said the idea of just being a snuggle pup for a change wasn’t wildly appealing, especially if it meant getting to have Sapnap and Karl got to hang out in his world and not just flee and sneak. There were some nice things here he felt he never got to show them.

He sunk into himself, suddenly feeling ashamed. It was bad manners, it was. Combining his work and love life to the point he may as well have made chumps out of his own boyfriends. He knew they didn’t mind, it was all new and fun for them and he was pretty sure Sapnap did the same thing. (He wasn’t entirely sure what his job was, like a knight sure but where was the line between work and just regular old Quarrian life?) Still. He should take them dancing more or something. Technically, that’s what he was doing here but he’d like to make a better habit of it, it really sounded like the bees-

A bright, impossible, but familiar, swirl interrupted his thoughts. He straightened himself, quickly fixing his headband one last time. His heart was pounding out of his chest— but not because he was nervous, because he was excited. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling like a giddy sap as out from the portal stepped Karl and Sapnap. His breath was caught in his throat as he got a good look at them. He wasn’t sure what he expected, nothing bad, but he mentally made a note to give them an apology for being SO wrong. Whatever he’d imagined, they looked a million times better.

Sapnap was in a white dress shirt. He had on a maroon vest and black tie he clearly didn’t know how to wear but wore well nonetheless. He had his hair slicked back, completely showing his pretty silvery, misty, eyes. Quackity noted the headband he usually wore in his hair was tied in a ribbon around his neck. Sapnap just couldn’t be without it, he warmly mused.

Karl had on something with colors in patterns like Quackity had never seen before, not in his world at least, which— of course, it was Karl. Beautiful, strange, mysterious, adorable Karl. The top of the pantsuit was made of several pale shades of green. They washed over it like waves of seafoam, a strip of pale purple lace swirled around it, almost mimicking a deconstructed form of his usual crazy attire. A herringbone cap was pulled over his head, shaping brown curls.

Quackity stared, absolutely gobsmacked, until his brain caught up to his eyes. Sapnap was saying something and waving his hand a little. Quackity blinked, shaking himself out of it. Egad, he was goofy for them. Luckily, Karl and Sapnap didn’t seem to mind his zoning out. In fact, Karl seemed to find it tickling, he clearly held in a giggle as Quackity snapped to. Quackity guessed this wasn’t the first time he’d found himself stunned. It certainly wouldn’t be the last either.

“Hey, jackpot,” Sapnap gently flicked his forehead. “I asked how you think we look.”

“You... good. You look good. Mmhmm,” he managed to squeak out, finally remembering to close his mouth. Slick. He was slick.

“I’m glad you like it,” Karl chuckled. “I know you don’t really trust me to dress myself for nice places in Prowa.”

“Hey, I never said I didn’t trust you!”

“You never said it, no.”

Quackity gave Karl a small punch in the shoulder. He flinched way more than was warranted, stumbling dramatically, but a broad smile settled on both their faces.

“Aw, sugar! Did I hurt you?”

“Yes!”

“Hey, hey! Sir,” Sapnap stepped between them, also joking. “What is wrong with you, daring to assault my beloved in front of me?” He threateningly toward over Quackity, grabbing his shoulders and backing him up against the wall. His eyes flickered with playful malice. He leaned in close, expression caught between a smirk and a snarl, completely aware of the growing blush on Quackity’s face. “I’ve half a mind to challenge you, and another half to crush you right here for your audacity.”

“Aw, my knight in shining armor,” Karl sarcastically patted Sapnap’s shoulder, thoroughly less impressed by the display than Quackity. “Whatever would I do without you here to defend me from this sweet, cuddly, small, duckling?”

“Hey!” Quackity snapped defensively. “I could fuck you up if I-“

“Ey, Q! Have you seen-“ Schlatt stopped upon seeing the scene, turning on his heel and walking right back into the back. “Nevermind. Not my business. None of my business. Absolutely not my business…”

“I-“ Sapnap dropped his boyfriend (who crumpled onto the floor in laughter), instantly turning a shade twelve times redder than Quackity had been. “I am so sorry.”

“Ah- Schlatt?” Karl called over Quackity’s wheezing. “Schlatt, it’s fine-“

“NONE OF MY BUSINESS!” A shout came from the backroom.

Quackity dropped his face into his hands, his chortling turned to full hysterics as he sat curled up against the wall. His dress, which he had been so unreasonable nervous about moments before, creased and probably picked up some grime from the floor. He didn’t care at all. Now that his boyfriends were actually beside him he could care less if he was painted green and orange. He had no one to impress, at least no one who would let anything bad happen over a stupid look. “Oh,” he snickered, the burst dying down. “Oh wow.” He wiped his eyes as jubilant tears stung, apathetic as he’d become he hoped his makeup didn’t run. It wasn’t necessary but he’d still like to look nice for the occasion. He pulled himself to his feet, brushing off his outfit and sighing. “Ah. He’s got a point though, really should be saving that for the party.”

“Speaking of which—“ Karl snapped his fingers in a jazzy rhythm. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yes, let’s!” Sapnap turned with Karl as all three of them began to speed out the door.

Quackity made sure to bump in front of them before they made it out, he was not letting Karl anywhere near the wheel.

The car ride was bright and lively although quiet. Quackity couldn’t help but grin just being next to these goons, one could practically feel Karl vibrating with excitement in the back, even Sapnap seemed to be enjoying the drive (he’d never quite gotten over the time Karl had offered to drive... Quackity could barely blame him for remaining he cautious and paranoid around automobiles). The blanched twilight hummed overhead as they made their way through the streets. It was relatively empty this time of night, too late for errands but just before everything started to swing. They pulled into the end of the road and all stepped out.

“It’s a bit of a walk the rest of the way,” Quackity explained. “Especially cause ‘s considered… ‘impolite’ to pull attention.”

“Hmm…” Sapnap nodded, glancing behind them.

“What’s up?” Karl put a hand on his shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“It’s fine, I just-“

“Just what?”

“Uh, maybewecouldgoseeSchlattandCharlie?”

“Huh?” Karl blinked.

“Is… Schlatt and Charlie coming? Could we go get them?”

“N-no?” Quackity stammered, surprised to say the least. “This— uh- ain’t exactly the kind of party you bring your family to. Not ‘less they got dates of their own... and you know Charlie ain’t keen on that stuff.”

“Okay, well, maybe we could spend some time with them for a while at the casino? Before we commit here. The night is young!”

“I means, I’m pumped for your sudden urge to hang out with them and all, but I kind of wanted to spend time with the two of you.”

“Ah-“ Sapnap shrunk into himself. “Of course, I- me as well, I’m so sorry to imply otherwise. I was just thinking Charlie may like to hear about the slimes...” He trailed off, fiddling with the headband around his neck, just the slightest hint of panic on his face. He was very good at hiding it but Quackity and Karl knew him better than that. They shared a glance, this had nothing to do with Charlie.

“Spice, are youse nervous?”

“N-no!”

“You sure? We don’t gots to do nothing you don’t wanna.”

“Yeah, it’s just-“

“Chivalry and all that?” Karl chimed in, sympathetic. “I know our courting isn’t exactly conventional.”

“No. Well, not exactly. Ah... think I’m merely... flustered?”

“Flustered?” They spoke at once.

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… romance in my world is so different. Much more complicated. It involves a lot of the other’s family and specific sets or roles for meetings, it changes depending on how long you’ve been together and what kingdoms you hail from, so such and so forth. I’ve never been a martinet for the rules but, the way you describe these kinds of parties, I- I- find myself… lost.”

Karl blinked. “So, you’re used to having a bunch of guidelines and, while you don’t miss them, are floundering without the stencil?” Sapnap nodded at the ground. He took a breath and shook his head, clearing his mind before bowing slightly. He held his left arm over his chest, middle knuckle up with his pinky and thumb slightly out, keeping the rest of his hand balled in a fist. Quackity recognized the symbol by now as something like a salute of the Nether kingdom. It was used to show respect while speaking. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes, remembering the formality was only habit.

“I apologize for my trepidation,” Sapnap held a bashful tone. “I am just not used to courti-“ he paused, searching for the word, “dates being so… open. I don’t mean that as an insult to your world! I only-.”

“Okay, buddy,” Quackity pushed Sapnap upright by his shoulders. He seemed confused but obliged. “I get it’s polite and nice for you but, if you really love me, please never do this again.”

“Do... what?”

“You have a habit of getting all formal when you’re worried you’re messing up with us.” Karl shrugged.

“I do?”

“I don’t know.” Quackity tapped his chin. “Let’s see.” Without warning, he grabbed Sapnap by the shoulders and takes him downward, planting a firm kiss right on his lips. He tensed a little as he felt a sudden wave of hotness wash over him (that was to be expected from surprising a demon) but stayed in the moment. As he pulled away, Sapnap blinked a few times, stunned although the faintest hint of a smile shone through. His gelled hair fell just a little messy.

“What the fuck, Quackity?”

“There we go! Back to normal! You see the difference?”

“I- I guess so!” He nodded, a look of mild surprise mixing his comprehension as if he’d just realized what color his own eyes were.

“Now, did youse like that?”

“Yes?”

“You want more?”

“Yes...”

“You wanna go inside?”

“Yeah.” Sapnap energetically nodded, slamming the car door shut, slicking back his hair again, and holding out his arms. “Yes, I do.”

Karl jumped between them, linking arms on his side before Quackity had the chance, and holding out his own instead. Quackity shot him a look but took it, joined by Sapnap in confusion at the sudden demand to be in the middle. Karl only smiled as they made their way down the street, nearly skipping at the attention until he lowly murmured, “So… do I get a kiss?” Quackity opened his mouth, smiling, but was cut off by Sapnap swiftly swooping in and planting one on Karl’s cheek.

“Oh- you-!” Quackity squawked, envy and agitation peaking his tone. “I was gonna-!”

“Well, I did.”

“Boys, boys, I do have two hands… and two cheeks,” Karl half-sang, leaning over to Quackity awaiting his kiss.

“Oh, no. Fuck you. You’re gonna have to wait for it now,” Quackity pouted. Sapnap let out a taunting laugh as Karl gasped in mock offense. Well, probably mock. Regardless, Quackity only smirked and turned to face a door in the wall next to them. “Besides, we’re here!” He unlinked his arm, rattling out a little pattern into the door. It opened slowly, revealing a dapperly dressed serpentine blocking the view inside. He smiled wildly as the warm smells and colors hit him regardless, it had been a while since he’d been to one of these, long before he ever met them and certainly not while they were dating, but he missed them.

He couldn’t wait to share this.

#karlnapity dimensions #ksq dimensions content #karlnapity fluff #woah those are words I wrote

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anistarrose · 3 years

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Chapter Summary: Barry gets a job offer. Kravitz sees a new side of the moon. Taako has a long-overdue chat with his umbrella.

Characters: Kravitz, Taako, Barry Bluejeans, Angus McDonald, Magnus Burnsides, Merle Highchurch, Noelle | No-3113, The Raven Queen, The Director | Lucretia, misc. BoB cameos, Julia Burnsides, Garyl

Relationships: Taakitz, Angus McDonald & Taako, Barry Bluejeans & Kravitz, Kravitz & Angus McDonald

Lately, I’ve been thinking of this fic as a story told in two acts. They’re not necessarily going to be equal in length, but this chapter is definitely the end of Act One.

***

“That’s basically the whole story, Your Majesty,” Kravitz concluded, after several minutes of talking at speeds that no being who needed to breathe could hope to match. Barry and Noelle stood on either side of him, mustering the most innocent expressions he’d ever seen on the faces of a lich or a robot, respectively. “Not that I’d blame you for having follow-up questions, because… well, holy shit.”

Holy shit, indeed, the Raven Queen agreed. A projected image of her visage was floating above a circle of five perfect raven feathers, having been carefully arranged on the cave floor by Kravitz. Istus said we were approaching unprecedented times, but…

She sighed. Well, I must admit that with the apparent exception of Istus, we gods hardly think about what lies outside our planar system. It’s… inconvenient, uncomfortable, how we hold so much power in this world yet understand so little about what’s beyond it. This threat, this Hunger, is news even to me — but didn’t you already know that, Barry, from all the Celestial Planes you’ve seen invaded before?

Barry nodded. “Yeah. I never saw stuff like that directly, of course, but Merle’s a cleric, so… he had his ways of knowing it was never a pretty picture.”

The Raven Queen let out a sigh, like wind escaping from beneath a whole flock’s wings. Then I have more important things to do than reconcile your undeath with the laws of this world, and you have more important things to do than defend yourself to me. Barry, Noelle, you are free to go at least until the apocalypse is averted — but if we get through that, and only then, I’d like you to start thinking about accepting jobs in the Astral Plane. Whatever state the world is in after the Hunger arrives, Kravitz and I will probably need your help.

Barry went dead silent, while Noelle’s whole display lit up with excitement.

“Are we talking afterlife office jobs,” she asked, “or something more along the lines of what Kravitz does?”

“We’ve got plenty of open positions, honestly,” Kravitz explained. “You could probably pick either.”

“Huh,” Barry finally muttered, so soft that Kravitz could’ve missed it. “I — I appreciate the offer, but — I gotta know one thing before I even consider it. Will I have to — to bring in any of my family? Anyone from the Starblaster?”

I’d like to speak with them all eventually, and I may ask you to facilitate that, the Raven Queen replied, but they won’t be punished.

Barry nodded. “Okay. That’s… that’s something I’m willing to consider, then.”

I hope you find out what happened to Lup. Her location is concealed from even me, but I know she’s never entered my domain, so I believe you’ll find her out there somewhere.

Barry’s eyes flickered, shedding drops of light that ran down his face for a few seconds before they coalesced back together. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

It’s the least I could do. From here, my priority shall be to warn the rest of the pantheon, but we’ll be in touch. The Raven Queen’s visage disappeared with a clap of thunder and a gust of wind that lifted the feathers into the air, carrying them back to Kravitz’s waiting hands as her voice boomed throughout the cave one last time. Good luck, my children.

“That went well, right?” Noelle asked when the echoes faded. “That felt pretty good for a conversation with the death goddess.”

“She’s a lot more reasonable than most gods, I think you’ll find,” Kravitz concurred. “But what’s the plan now? Because other than heading up to the moon, and bringing the boys back down for you to tell them what little you can, I haven’t got a lot of ideas.”

“I dunno either. I don’t like keeping them in the dark either, but it’s very little we can tell them aside from —” Barry paused. “Wait. You can go on the moonbase?”

“Yes? At least, no one’s tried to stop me. I guess I can see why you wouldn’t be allowed up there, but —”

“It’s more than a ban and a wanted poster keeping me off! It’s an anti-undeath ward —” Electricity crackled inside Barry’s silhouette, and he let out a laugh that could’ve woken the not-yet-reanimated dead. “But you, Kravitz, apparently possess enough celestial energy to balance out the undead elements of your soul — which is perfect! It changes everything!”

“Uh,” Kravitz began, reflexively taking a step back, “I think I’m missing some context here —”

“That ward’s the only thing stopping Barry from sneaking onto the moonbase and stealing the ichor he needs to inoculate his family!” Noelle explained, totally unperturbed by Barry’s mad scientist laugh. “I couldn’t steal it for him because the same ward keeps me from leaving my fuse for very long, and this robot body’s not exactly stealthy — but you can decorporealize for as long as you want on the moon, right?”

“I’m not sure I’ve actually tried,” Kravitz replied, rubbing his chin as the puzzle pieces fell into place, “but I’ve never had issues getting through anti-undead wards before, corporeally or otherwise!”

Barry rubbed his hands together, smoke and sparks pouring out from between them — but for the first time, Kravitz was sure he saw a glint of a smile flash on Barry’s face.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Barry asked. “Let’s head back to my place and plan a heist!”

***

“So what do we do now, Fantasy Columbo?” Taako asked, staring at the Umbra Staff in his hands. “I didn’t hear any jingles start playing for solving some sick higher power’s umbrella lich puzzle — how does this help us? What does it change?”

This should have been a revelation, Taako knew. This should have changed everything. But his mind was lagging behind his racing heart, struggling to fit together puzzle pieces that he knew should connect. Struggling to understand why he cared so fiercely about an evil ghost of an evil wizard being trapped in the arcane focus he’d looted her corpse for.

“I… I guess we should try to communicate with her?” Angus suggested. “She’s a Red Robe, so she must have something to do with —” He gestured wildly from his notepad, to Taako’s head, to the incinerated coffee table. “With all of this. Right?”

He removed his glasses, wiping off drops of sweat, and Taako realized that Angus, the smartest person he knew, had ran into an uncomfortable mental wall of his own — and after just a split second of looking at Angus’s pained expression, Taako made a decision.

“Hey, kid. I need your arguably expert opinion real quick — Magnus and Merle aren’t smart enough to be memory-wiping masterminds, right?”

“Oh, absolutely not, sir. We both know they’re no good at keeping their lies straight.”

“Could you check in on them for me? And try to bring ‘em back here — but, uh, only if you can do it without Lucretia or Davenport spotting you, and I need you to really focus on looking out for them. I don’t know who else I can trust with this —”

With a huge, determined smile on his face, Angus saluted. “I won’t let you down, sir!” He looked far less pained as he slunk out of the room, and Taako breathed a sigh of relief.

“Okay. Kid’s gonna be alright with his mind off of this, and now we can have some peace and quiet, Lup.” His mouth lingered on the name Lup but his mind didn’t, giving no thought to the affection he instinctively voiced. “So… let’s chat?”

***

Lucretia’s office looked just as Barry had described, and not all that different from the Reclaimer’s dorms in terms of architecture. The sole occupant was not the Director herself, but a mustached gnome man who sat at the oversized desk, focusing intently on a game of solitaire. He didn’t even look up as Kravitz’ soul drifted past, steering clear of the desk and floating right through a heavy, closed door.

Kravitz kept inside the left wall of the corridor — Barry may not have reported any traps in this stretch, but the puzzle that Barry had reported was nowhere to be seen, and Kravitz knew a suspiciously empty-looking hallway when he saw one. He phased through a second door at the end of the chamber, ignoring the computer that looked even more foreign to him than his Stone of Farspeech, and recorporealized inside a second office.

This close to the source of the ward, a spinning disk imbued with radiant energy, Kravitz could finally feel its influence — a faint burn and refreshing cold that coexisted, an antipathy towards his undead body and a resonance with the Raven Queen’s blessing. Tempted as he was to knock down the disk and short-circuit the ward, it wasn’t poised do much besides mildly distract him, and he was making this visit with a much different goal — one that he’d expose, if he ended up dramatically trashing someone else’s holy symbol.

At the far end of the office sat a murky tank, and above that tank, an alarm was ringing. A few feet to the alarm’s left, a needle punched holes in a steadily scrolling paper, recording what Kravitz inferred to be times and intensities — and there was a lot of information to infer from, because the paper output had not just reached the floor, but piled up to almost waist height.

A massive volume of alarms had clearly been accumulating, and someone — presumably Lucretia — was far too busy to check on every message. Ever since he’d died, Kravitz had been notoriously bad at keeping track of dates, but a quick comparison with the dates at the bottom of the pile and the dates of the current output revealed that the alarms had started trickling in last night, before a massive influx took shape only about an hour ago.

This was all very interesting to the part of Kravitz that loved a good mystery, but his pragmatic side won out, knowing this alarm could attract unwelcome attention at any moment. He switched his attention to the contents of the tank — which appeared just like Barry had said it would, but was still plenty fascinating. A jellyfish floated in murky ichor, illuminated from within by a dark purple nebula pattern, and recoiling away from Kravitz as he rested a hand atop the tank.

“Now, now. It’s alright,” Kravitz murmured, in the same tone he might use to calm a distressed soul. “No need to be scared…”

The baby Voidfish hummed two chords, far lower and louder than Kravitz had expected from such a tiny creature — but music, at least, was something Kravitz knew he could work with. He summoned his scythe in the form of a lute, plucking out a peaceful melody he’d been fond of for hundreds of years… and only a few bars in, the Voidfish began to echo him, humming along with increasing volume.

“I’m just here to do my friends a favor,” Kravitz promised. “It won’t take long at all.”

The Voidfish seemed to relax, so Kravitz let go of his lute, allowing it to float at his side with a faint blue aura suspending it in air. He pulled a canteen from beneath his cloak, slowly submerging it in the tank until it was full to the brim with ichor — probably a slight excess, but he’d rather have too much than not enough.

“See? All done,” he whispered, reattaching the canteen’s cap. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

The Voidfish hummed the refrain of his song once more as he reformed his scythe, and as if to say farewell, waved a tentacle in his direction as he stepped through the portal off the moonbase.

Just a moment later, the very second Kravitz’s feet hit solid subterranean ground, Barry was at his side with a barrage of questions. “How did it go? Have you got the ichor? Did anyone see you?”

“Good, yes, and no in that order,” Kravitz replied, handing Barry the canteen. “The only thing I’m worried about is… well, you’ve seen how Lucretia has an alarm system in her office, right? It’s going a little haywire right now — and has been since last night.”

Barry’s relief morphed into frustration mid-relieved sigh. “I was hoping we could avoid that, since the boys haven’t had a run-in with me in a couple days — but I guess someone’s still trying to remember something, and it won’t be long ‘til Lucretia picks up on it. We gotta get a move on.”

“I did talk to Taako about the stars disappearing last night, come to think of it,” Kravitz recalled. “I hope he’s not still hung up on that, but it sounds like he might be.”

“Shoot, that coulda done it. No fault of your own, obviously.” Barry sighed again, picking up a couple of scrolls from his desk and placing them on a much more neatly organized bookshelf. “Sorry for the mess, by the way. You and Noelle have been my only visitors so far this whole decade.”

Kravitz had seen Barry’s home before he left for his heist on the moon, and it had already been pretty respectable as secret lairs went. Aside from the stalactites and the dubiously legal cloning pod, it had looked more like a disheveled academic’s study than a necromancer’s dungeon — but in Kravitz’s absence, Barry had apparently gotten up to some spring cleaning. He’d draped a sheet over the pod, which was still glowing bright green and far from innocuous, and somehow gotten his hands on a decent-quality couch, either from a pocket dimension or a conjuration spell or gods knew what else.

“Before you got involved, my plan never involved the boys coming in here while they could remember me,” Barry admitted. “They’d still be far from seeing me at my worst, but — well, I dunno if I can make this place look welcoming, exactly, but I’d rather not make them worry about me ‘cause of it.”

“If it helps, this is easily the nicest cave I’ve ever seen a lich holed up in,” Kravitz said, which got a quiet laugh out of Barry.

“Yeah, I bet it is.” He opened the canteen, pouring a modest sample of the ichor into a glass vial. “Hard to believe this is happening so suddenly, but… I think now’s the time. Lucretia could catch on at any minute, and I — I’ll be ready by the time you get back, I think.”

“Good luck remodeling,” Kravitz told him with a nod, and tore open a portal back to the moon.

***

“So… let’s chat?” Taako suggested. He didn’t know what kind of reply he was expecting, but he had to admit it stung when the Umbra Staff didn’t move an inch.

“Okay, what you do isn’t exactly chatting. That one’s on me. Can you just give me a sign, a little poltergeisting or something, if you’re listening?”

Still nothing, which continued to hurt more than it should have.

“Are you mad at me? I thought you smacked me in the face today to get my attention! ‘Cause you wanted to talk, but…” He glanced away from the umbrella in his lap. “I guess you really hate Kravitz, don’t you? And I was helping him hunt you, even before we started dating…”

He sighed. “And you’re only here because I stole from your grave! What was I even thinking? Of course you hate me, and maybe I half-deserve it —”

The Umbra Staff twitched in his hands, subtly yet so abruptly that he jumped to his feet with a yelp and dropped it onto the floor. It spun over ninety degrees as it fell, landing to point at the shelf of seldom-used spell components that Taako and Merle shared.

“You… want me to cast something?” Taako knelt on the rug, gently wrapping a hand around the handle but not raising the umbrella from the floor. He didn’t feel even the slightest movement. “Hey, if you’re not mad at me, then… do something. Do anything.”

He thought the handle might’ve trembled slightly, but wasn’t sure — it could’ve just been wishful thinking. “Okay, flip side. Do something if you are mad at me.”

This time, he was certain there was no response. “Okay, I’ve narrowed it down to either ‘you’re not mad’ or ‘you don’t want to talk to me,’ but I don’t get why you’re being so subtle about this. I mean, I’m not asking you to cast Sunbeam on my boyfriend again, but I know you could be giving me more obvious signs than —”

He happened to glace back at the component shelf, noticing the chest of spare wands he’d stockpiled — arcane foci, just like the ones the Umbra Staff consumed — then just like that, it clicked, and there was finally one quirk of his rogue umbrella that Taako had an inkling of an explanation for.

“Unless… you can’t give me a bigger sign because I haven’t beaten a magic user in a while!” he gasped. “You’re not trying to ignore me — you’re running out of power!”

He unlatched the little chest, grabbing two cheap wooden wands and snapping them both — and sure enough, the Umbra Staff inverted with more vigor than Taako had seen from it all day, swallowing them whole.

“Better?” Taako asked, and a tiny pink flame sparked to life at the tip of the umbrella. Lup must’ve summoned it with a variant of Prestidigitation, because it smelled less like smoke and more like comforting home cooking.

“Now I know why you chose me instead of Merle at the cave! You’re an adoring fan of Sizzle it Up!” Taako teased, and the Umbra Staff bonked him on the head. “Okay, fine, maybe not. Gods know that’s not the only thing I’ve got going for me over Merle.”

He glanced around the room, rubbing his chin. “I was going to say you could turn that flame on and off real fast, send me a message in Fantasy Morse Code, but then I remembered I don’t actually know Fantasy Morse that well. Maybe you could, like, burn something into the wall —”

The flame atop the Umbra Staff intensified, excited.

“But I guess we’d run out of space real fast — never mind explaining it to Lucretia, yikes! We’d be toast… just like the walls.”

The flame died down, replaced with a disembodied, glowing red Mage Hand. With an upturned palm, it made a motion that Taako guessed was meant to convey a shrug and a then what?

“Oh, you didn’t tell me you could do Mage Hand from in there too! I can work with that!”

He made a beeline for the dorm kitchen, ripping open a fresh bag of flour and dumping it directly onto the counter. “I really don’t wanna leave written evidence, so you write stuff in this, and I’ll erase it when you’re done. Sound good?”

Lup squeezed his shoulder, then traced four words in the flour.

I’ve never hated you

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Taako muttered, pretending he couldn’t feel his whole chest seizing up. With a bare hand, he wiped the flour flat, and only sent a little flying onto the floor accidentally. “I… I wanna let you out. Because this is a really inconvenient way to talk, but — but also ‘cause I know you didn’t mean to get trapped in there, and living inside your arcane focus sounds like it’s the pits. Is there a way I can free you?”

yes but not right now

“Why not?”

no liches on the moon

“Oh, have they got wards to block you off or something? I guess we wouldn’t be able to talk at all if I freed you, and that… that wouldn’t be great.”

I’d miss you :(

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Taako replied, and he said it before he meant it. The figure of speech slipped out right away, ingrained after years of overwhelmingly insincere conversations, but his emotions caught up to him more slowly — starting with the loneliness and the longing, before they ate away at him and left an emptiness behind, a dread of never being whole again and a temptation to tear the whole world apart, because what would he have left to lose?

It ended with a throbbing skull, with static clouding the peripheries of his vision, with a mind that couldn’t fathom why missing someone would hit so close to a home that should have never existed. The last year notwithstanding, he couldn’t remember a time where he’d be caught dead missing someone’s company… but now all he could think, all he could feel, was I’m not losing you again.

“There’s gotta be a workaround — right, Lup?” he managed. “Like, is there a way I could take the wards down?”

maybe, but

Lucretia would notice

“I’m gonna go out on a limb, and assume… she wouldn’t be too thrilled to know you’re here.”

Lup took longer to reply than usual, erasing the first few letters of her response to start over several times.

it’s so complicated

don’t think I can explain

“Right. Of course. ‘Cause of the Voidfish.” Taako rubbed his cheek, expecting to wipe away stray splotches of flour — but instead, he felt his fingers grow damp with tears that he knew weren’t just from the pain of his headache.

“I — I don’t know what to do, Lup. I want to help you, but Kravitz is probably in danger because of me so I have to make sure he’s okay, and I know he won’t like me helping you — then there’s Angus and Magnus and Merle, too, I have no clue if any of them are in as much trouble as us. And I just… I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this. That the worst of all the bombshells still hasn’t dropped, and I’m about to lose all you while I still don’t know who I am, or who I can trust besides —”

The fingers of Lup’s Mage Hand interlocked with his, and it was a strange sensation — fuzzy and only about half-tangible, as simple magic constructs were expected to be, but warm like a living hand despite the lack of flesh and blood. Taako couldn’t say how long he was silent, just focusing on just that warmth and the inexplicable nostalgia that accompanied it, before he finally asked: “What do you think I should do?”

Lup withdrew her hand slowly, but didn’t hesitate nor erase as she traced four new words:

find Barry

trust Barry

“…I’m glad I’ve got you, Lup, ‘cause I never woulda come up with that on my own,” Taako muttered, chuckling in spite of himself. He didn’t doubt for a second that Lup’s advice was worth following, but he had to admit it was ridiculous how every time a problem came up in his life, someone insisted it could be solved by tracking down a denim-clad lich. “Do you know any of his favorite hangouts, or —”

As Lup’s Mage Hand zipped back into the Umbra Staff, Taako didn’t quite notice the scythe rending space behind him, but he whirled around at the sound of feet hitting the ground and an incredulous voice speaking up.

“Uh, Taako?”

Kravitz carried himself with considerably less poise than usual, wearing a tattered suit that had presumably once seen better days, but he appeared otherwise unscathed, and Taako’s heart jumped for joy.

“I — I — I’m sorry?” Kravitz’s words sounded less like an apology, and more like a sincere question of whether or not he should be sorry for intruding. “I should’ve just portalled to the hallway and knocked. I didn’t mean to walk in on — on whatever this is —”

Before he could stammer another adorably confused word, Taako rushed in for a hug — never mind how crazy he knew he looked, covered in flour and inexplicably teary-eyed over an umbrella.

“Holy shit, I can’t believe — I was so worried about you. I thought for sure you were in trouble and it was all my fault — it was all because —”

Kravitz slipped a cool, but unusually not cold hand under Taako’s hat, mussing up his hair to match the rest of his appearance. “I won’t lie, Taako — there were moments today where I was worried for me. But it turned out to all be a misunderstanding, which is always a pleasant surprise in my line of work — and even better, if you can believe it, one of my new friends knows what’s up with those deaths you can’t remember!”

Kravitz was beaming, but Taako’s blood ran cold like he was the dead man walking. Just when he’d been so sure, so relieved, that he hadn’t dragged Kravitz into the Voidfish conspiracy after all, it turned out that Kravitz had sleuthed his way right to its very center.

No wonder he gets along so well with Angus, Taako thought wryly. Two constantly endangered nerds of a feather.

“This friend can explain it much better than I can, so we’ll visit him by portal — but Magnus and Merle need to hear the truth, too,” Kravitz went on, still seeing no reason not to be enthusiastic. “Are they available?”

“Oh, those clowns? They’re off playing kickball with Angus or something — should be back soon.” Taako knew how Kravitz thought, and knew that Kravitz believed he was doing the right thing by digging up these secrets. He was fulfilling an oath to his goddess and helping Taako get some closure, which should have been great news as far as Kravitz knew — but now he was on the moon, speaking openly about truths a Voidfish had suppressed…

And Taako was conspiring with a lich, soon to be two liches, behind Kravitz’s back. He wasn’t expecting to like the truth behind his eight deaths, if he could even wrap his mind around it — and he had a feeling that when it came time to be judged by the Raven Queen, Kravitz would like the truth and its consequences even less, regardless of whether Taako could think clearly enough to defend himself.

So he withdrew from the hug, wiping the flour — and the incriminating mention of Barry — off the counter with a swoop of his hand. “Oh, drat! Did not mean to do that, ‘cause now I’ll have to mop the whole floor —”

“Okay, Taako. What’s wrong?” Kravitz asked firmly — and Taako didn’t know why he’d thought he’d be able to stall for time, given how Kravitz knew him pretty well, too. “You’re not in trouble with the Queen — I mean, we’ll probably have to invent and then fill out an entirely new form of paperwork about you and your pals, but I told her everything and she’s not mad, I can say that much. Same goes for Magnus, Merle, and — uh, forgive me, just Magnus and Merle. It’s been a long day.”

“Okay, that’s the second piece of good bird news you’ve dropped on me in like twenty-four hours, and I appreciate that,” Taako sighed. “But — okay, listen. We’ve got to be quiet about this, for both of our safety, but I think — I know I’m dealing with more than just memory loss here. I’ll try jumping through your portal and talking to your friend, but I really don’t think I’ll be able to understand —”

“Oh!” Kravitz gasped. “I think I know what you’re talking about — I ran into it with Angus earlier, and we should definitely have a way around it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “My, uh, my new friend didn’t know if you could understand that there was a second Voidfish — but you heard that, right? It wasn’t garbled?”

Taako nodded frantically. “Yeah, and we’ve gotta get off the moon. If Lucretia finds out we know, I — I’ve got no idea how far she’ll go to keep this under wraps, and that’s the worst part. She’s already suspicious of me, and I —”

He felt a tug from his umbrella, and he cast Message as quickly and subtly as he could, hoping the Umbra Staff’s propensity to absorb magic like a sinkhole would somehow pull his unspoken words to Lup.

I’m not going to tell him about you. Not until I get more information.

Her reply must’ve hardly escaped from the umbrella, being little more than a distorted whisper — Be careful. Love you — but Taako’s legs almost gave out beneath him when he heard her voice, and Kravitz winced.

“We’ve really got to get you out of here, don’t we?” he murmured, taking Taako’s hand — and Kravitz’s skin was definitely warmer than usual, because of course this frankly adorable development would happen when Taako had a million other things on his mind. “You said the other boys will be back soon?”

“I hope.” Taako led the way into the living room, giving a wide berth to the remains of the coffee table. “I sent Angus to go find —”

On cue, the rattle of a doorknob and the sound of Angus’s voice rang out from the hallway. “Sir? We’re back! Could you unlock the door?”

The next sound was the telltale thump of a small child being affectionately shoved aside, followed by Magnus exclaiming: “Hey, I’ve got thieves’ tools now! Gimme a shot at picking it!”

Kravitz pursed his lips. “Don’t Magnus and Merle have their own keys?” he muttered under his breath.

“Of course they do,” Taako sighed, and the door swung open with a snap of his fingers and a Knock spell.

“Magnus, look!” Merle cheered. “You did it!”

While Magnus and Merle high-fived, Angus’s eyes lit up at the sight of Kravitz half-alive and well.

“You’re okay! I’m sorry I didn’t end up finding Noelle, but Taako said he was worried about you, so I started worrying too — did you have a nasty fight with a necromancer or something?”

“…Yes and no,” Kravitz responded after a moment of hesitation, “but I can explain that whole incident later. Right now, I need you all to come with me to —”

“A cool skeleton rave!” Taako butted in. “And… there’s also supposed to be skeleton dogs there! So you guys will definitely wanna get in on it!”

“Yes, exactly!” Kravitz corroborated without missing a beat. “It’s one of those, you know, very rare skeleton raves that receives the Raven Queen’s approval. Once in a century opportunity, so you won’t want to miss it!”

Magnus rubbed his chin. “I dunno about this. How do you pet a skeleton dog?”

“Only one way to find out!” Taako told him, then breathed a sigh of relief when it got an approving nod from Magnus.

“Fair enough! I’m sold!”

Angus narrowed his eyes, so Taako grinned and winked, hoping it came across as equal parts conspiratorial and don’t you dare blow this for me. It must’ve worked, because after a few seconds of surely intense mental calculations, Angus plastered on a convincing innocent smile and gave Taako a thumbs-up.

“Thanks for inviting me on this fun diversion, sir! I’m sure you could’ve come up with a more convincing lie if it was a trap or a prank, so I’m all in!”

Smiling awkwardly, Kravitz turned to the the lie’s final mark. “Merle, my bud, how about you?”

“Are we buds now?” Merle grinned. “You know what, sure! Anything for my bud!”

“Then away we go!” Kravitz tore open a rift and immediately stepped through, beckoning for the others to follow with the single arm that remained on their side of the portal. Magnus leapt through almost immediately, Merle hot on his heels, while Angus approached the rift more skeptically.

“Well, sir,” he announced softly once Magnus and Merle disappeared, “you and Kravitz owe me an explanation… but I trust the both of you.” He took Taako’s hand, and the two of them stepped through the portal together, emerging in a cold, dimly lit cave.

And Taako thought he’d been “moving fast” through a lot of things, lately — through worldview-shattering realizations, into a romantic relationship, into unofficially and semi-accidentally adopting a boy detective — but nothing could’ve prepared him for how fast everything moved in the next minute.

Kravitz faced Noelle and a now-familiar disembodied robe, very obviously struggling to suppress a mood-inappropriate laugh. “Can you believe I was planning to lie to Magnus about skeleton dogs, but then Taako interrupted and independently came up with the same fib?”

“That’s love, baby!” Taako exclaimed, in the moment before the absurdity of the situation dawned on him. “Wait. Why’s Barold here?”

As the rift fizzled and disappeared, Magnus drew Railsplitter, only to whirl around on himself with no idea who to aim at or threaten. “Hey, did we just get kidnapped? ‘Cause I’ve gotta say, this is the last combination of people in the world I expected to team up and kidnap us.”

“It’s not a kidnapping,” Kravitz began, “it’s just —”

“Did you kidnap a child, Kravitz?” Barry interrupted, gesturing at Angus. “When was that ever a part of the plan?! We didn’t need to involve —”

“With all due respect, Mister Bluejeans,” Angus butted in, “Kravitz didn’t technically kidnap me! I knew perfectly well that he was bullshitting, but I decided to come along with him anyway, out of my own free will!” He turned to face Kravitz, adjusting his glasses. “That said, he did deceive and therefore truly kidnap Magnus, Merle, and maybe even Taako by the sound of things — so if he could go ahead and explain his presumably very good reason for doing so, that would be just dandy!”

Barry sighed. “Real smartass kid you’ve dragged into the fate of the universe, huh, boys?”

“He was already involved enough in things that he deserves to know. We’re bringing him up to speed too,” Kravitz declared, and Barry shrugged.

“Alright, sure — but why the hell was there a child on the moon in the first place?!”

“He’s the world’s greatest detective,” Noelle spoke up, and Angus beamed. “I told you about him, remember? He’s the one who figured out that you were amnesiac when you were alive —”

“Oh, I do remember that, though I don’t remember you mentioning his age — so I guess it’s my bad, then, for assuming a secret lunar society would give a flying fuck about child labor laws!”

Kravitz ignored them both. “Merle, Magnus — I’m so sorry for the deception, and Taako, I’m sorry for not saying that Barry was my new contact. I didn’t want anyone eavesdropping on us on the moonbase, and I swear, I will explain myself as soon as I physically can —”

“Hey, hey, it’s cool!” Taako’s words were intended not just for Kravitz, but for Lup within the Umbra Staff, which had started trembling at the sound of Barry’s voice. “I would love an explanation, but I needed Barold’s help anyway, sooo… doesn’t this work out pretty great?”

“Needing Barry’s help is a new one, sir,” Angus commented, but no one in the room looked more incredulous than Kravitz and Barry themselves, who both froze in place.

“Um, that’s — that’s news to me too?” Barry stammered. “But if — if you don’t need any convincing, then…”

He floated a little taller, robe a little less ragged, voice a little more hopeful. “Let’s get you inoculated, bud.”

A glass vial appeared in Taako’s hand, and he sipped the dark liquid inside without a second thought, even though he gagged while passing the vial on to an apprehensive Magnus. No memories rushed back to him like he’d braced himself for, but he thought he felt the nature of his headache change — less like the roar of static, and more like the pressure on a dam about to burst.

“You should really sit down for this,” Barry told him, resting a cold hand on Taako’s shoulder. “Take it as slow as possible. You obviously figured out a lot, more than I thought you would, but you still won’t be ready for —”

“Relax, it hasn’t even hit me yet!” Taako interrupted. “So in the meantime, I can catch you up on this whole funny story about… my… umbrella…”

The metaphorical floodgates shattered, and the deluge of memories swept him off his feet.

Growing up bouncing between relative to relative, growing skilled as chefs and wizards on the road. The IPRE entrance exams, the best day ever, the Hanging Arcaneum, “back soon” —

His head burned as the static was expunged from his mind, displaced by visions of days and months and cycles that just kept hitting him. He was dimly aware of someone, two someones, clutching his arms and lowering him to his knees on the cool cave floor —

“Stay with us, Taako!” Kravitz pleaded, holding Taako’s left hand. “Listen to Barry —”

“I’ll walk you through everything,” Barry — the animal kingdom, learning to swim, “what if she’s just gone?” — promised from his right, clinging to the same arm with which Taako held the Umbra Staff. “Just don’t think ahead. I’ve been through this before, and I can get you through it now, as long as —”

“B-but — but Lup!” Taako cried. “How could I forget —”

“I know, bud,” Barry whispered. “I forgot too. I understand —”

“You fucking don’t understand!” Tears fell from his eyes, but his mouth twisted into a cautious, still half-disbelieving smile. “Barry, she’s right here!”

“What?!” The cave was plunged into red and black, blinding lights and impenetrable shadows, as the lich at its center seemed to fall apart and come together all at once. “WHERE?!”

Taako closed his eyes, and with a strength he didn’t know he had, snapped the Umbra Staff over his knee.

#taz #taz balance #taakitz #kravitz taz #taako taaco #barry bluejeans #lup taaco #angus mcdonald #taz balance spoilers #fic: ftrala #rosalia writes fic

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soaringsearingphoenix · 4 years

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Any advice for those with writers block trying to write lyrics for a song?

Ooh i've been there! That's a tough one.

Honestly I have a few approaches for this, depending on what I'm going for. And I should clarify that none of them are really founded in music theory, which I have no formal training in.

First, it generally helps me to have an idea for the tune in mind. I take a lot of recordings of myself, and if I only have the first few lines, I'll still usually hum the next verse or so to get a feel for thw tune I want - for me it's easier to fit words to a cadence than it is to fit a cadence to words. (Singing sea shanties keeps me well in practice for that). It might help to have a consistent reference to get yourself in the mood of the song - for some songs, I've made a playlist of other songs with the right Vibe to almost get into character to write it. For others, I couldn't listen to other similar music or it would distract me from my own ideas, or make me too worried about ppagiarizing them to write anything for a while. Make sure to record your initial ideas before you go looking for comparable music.

Speaking of recordings, my second bit of advice is just to talk yourself through it into a voice memo. It might help if you can distract your brain out of being self-conscious first. I talk to myself a lot when I'm driving because the energy I need to focus on the road takes energy away from the part of my brain that second-guesses my creative process (although the recordings tend to be punctuated by bursts of silence where I'm concentrating if I need to merge or something - if that kind of multitasking doesn't feel like something you can do safely, maybe just something that engages your hands. Get a rubik's cube, or shuffle a deck of cards and play solitaire. Try to fold some origami. Direct any frustration you're feeling away from your songwriting.

Alternately, isolate yourself with your song. Maybe there's too much multitasking - if you can, find a spot where you can sit still and kind of zone out. If i'm having trouble writing i'm either understimulated or overstimulated, and if it's the latter, turning the lights off can help. I don't know if you get under/overstimulated, but take a look at what you're turning to to distract yourself.

Third. Make sure you're giving yourself a little bit of structure. If you have a rhyme scheme, sometimes you just need to write a bunch of lines, and then you can come back to them and once you list a bunch of rhymes for each line their matching pairs will be more obvious. You may have to remove or reword lines with no good rhyme, but that's fine. It's part of the process.

Four. Know the story you're trying to tell. And that doesn't necessarily mean your song has to have a narritive (though it might!), but what is significant about what you're trying to say? Why is it sognificant? Pick out a few key words, and then center around those concepts. Just talk about what it means to you. Sometimes it becomes more obvious how you need to say it when you know what needs to be said.

And lastly, honestly sometimes the best thing you can do is walk away. It may be for a while - until you stop feeling frustrated about it. It may not take very long - even just the time it takes to get a snack and water can help. If it takes longer, don't bee too hard on yourself! It's very cool that you're even working on a song at all!

#if you want we can chat about it #i AM curious what kind of song you're working on #but if that sounds mortifying you absolutely do not have to!!#sometimes telling someone about a project helps me work through it #sometimes it distracts me from it completely or makes me lose interest for a while #sometimes i want input. sometimes i absolutely DO NOT want input #either way i get it. do not feel obligated to tell me more #i hope you figure it out!!#sorry some of my advice is contradictory #it really boils down to 'try things. see what works. over time youll get to better know what it is you need when you feel this way'#but youve got this! i believe in you #thanks for asking!!

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eeveevie · 4 years

Text

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (1/18)

Chapter 1: That Dame Upstairs

One year later, on the anniversary of Nate’s death, Madelyn is still struggling emotionally. Nick Valentine, her friend and partner, celebrate Christmas together, and begin work on a string of disappearances that may be connected to crime boss Eddie Winter with the help of reporter Piper Wright. On New Year’s Eve, Madelyn gets the first hint that she may already be in too deep.

“I was thinking about that dame upstairs, and the way she had looked at me, and I wanted to see her again, close, without that silly staircase between us.” – Walter Neff as played by Fred MacMurray (Double Indemnity, 1944)

[read on Ao3] ~ [chapter masterpost]

July 6th, 1946

Shelly’s Shake Shack always had a peculiar smell, Madelyn thought. Like the busboys used too much bleach when wiping down the tables or there was too much acetone in the paint swiped across the vinyl finish of the bar. Regardless of the questionable scent, it was her and Nate’s go-to spot, their tradition ever since sneaking out that one fateful night in sophomore year of high school. When she thought about it now, just five days after her eighteenth birthday, and with college on the horizon, the niche atmosphere felt very nostalgic.

“What are you thinking about?”

Nate had his elbow up on the countertop, cheek pressed into his palm as he gazed at her. His eyebrows waggled suggestively, green eyes bright as they danced across her face. Madelyn could only laugh, though his question harkened a million thoughts to bounce through her mind, struggling to land on a specific one.

“Everything,” she decided to answer, piquing his interest.

“Oooh,” he cooed, sliding closer so his shoulder bumped hers. “I hope that includes me.”

Madelyn didn’t humor him with an answer, hiding her bashful grin behind her menu. It hardly mattered that she always ordered the same thing every time—a strawberry milkshake with a small stack of ‘shack fries’ for dipping. Soon enough, the handsome man she called her boyfriend peeked over the laminated edge, beaming smile distracting her from the candy red lettering she wasn’t even trying to read.

“You seem to be thinking of something,” she commented, noting the rosy color on his cheeks and how they accented his barely-there freckles. “Care to indulge?”

Nate shrugged, playing coy. He was staring at her, a pastime of his that he could make a career out of, if he wasn’t already committed to joining the Army now that he was of age. His expression softened, eyes slowly blinking, trancelike. She was about to ask him again when he spoke.

“We should get married,” he said it with such casual gumption that Madelyn didn’t catch what he said at first. “Maddie?”

She did a doubletake of where he sat on the barstool next to her, twisting left-to-right as he faced her silence. The sound of her heart pounding in her chest echoed in her ears but she was more dumbfounded than nervous. “What? Is that a real proposal?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Suddenly her mind went quiet and she was unable to produce an answer for a second time, but for a completely different reason—she was speechless. Madelyn gaped, utterly gob-smacked at his calm and relaxed demeanor. Only then did she think to question him, call his bluff one more time.

“Do you even have a ring?” she asked, almost defiantly, ignoring the way Nate was softly chuckling at her. “Did you even ask daddy?”

Nate sat upright, snatching her left hand in his as he slowly sank down to the tiled floor on one knee. “Baby, I’m no fool.”

Madelyn gasped, the surreal magnitude of what was occurring washing over her. He pulled a small, black velvet box from his jacket pocket and inside was a ring she had only dreamed of wearing—a silver band with two inlaid diamonds on either side of a modest, solitaire cut centerpiece—it looked like a sparkling flower.

“My parents might not agree, but they hate everything. But my grammie always liked you, so she entrusted me with this in the hopes that you’d wear it.” His rambling explanation was the first real indication that he was absolutely petrified. Nate filled the space between them with more words. “You know, as my wife.”

He let out the most adorable, breathless laugh. “Madelyn Hardy, please do me the honor of becoming my wife,” he squeezed her hand, thumb brushing across her knuckles. “Say you’ll marry me?”

“Nathaniel James,” she mimicked in reply, sure her cheeks would be sore from smiling so much. She reached out with her free hand to weave her fingers through his thick auburn hair before resting her fingers along his cheek. “Yes. A hundred—a million times, yes.”

December 24th, 1957

“Mrs. James?”

The voice pulled Madelyn from her deep trance, forcing her to blink several times as she lifted her gaze from her tightly clenched hands in the skirt of her dark-blue dress to the circle of people looking at her expectantly. Embarrassment settled in when she realized she had zoned out during the meeting, falling into another memory from the past she was desperate to cling to. That wasn’t the first time she had drifted away while the other widows and family members droned on about their departed loved ones, and if she continued coming to these gatherings, it wouldn’t be the last. She knew the support group was supposed to help her get over Nate’s untimely death—his murder—but so far each meeting had left her feeling just as empty as that Christmas Eve in 1956.

“Mrs. James,” the counselor leading the session repeated her name and Madelyn didn’t bother to correct her—she hadn’t used Nate’s surname in months. “Would you like to share with the group?”

Madelyn swallowed the lump in her throat, feeling the insurmountable pressure of stranger’s eyes silently imploring an answer. Their stares were filled with sympathy and sadness, something she was annoyed with seeing when people looked at her. For a year straight, sorrow filled expressions was all she knew, and she was sick of it. Still, guilt over her continued silence consumed her. Since she started attending the ‘circle of misery’—perhaps a poor codename she kept to herself—she hadn’t shared her story of loss. It was wrong of her to compare her grief to the others, but selfishly, she doubted there was anyone that truly felt the pain she carried with her every agonizing day.

She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. “Not today. I’m sorry.”

The counselor was clearly disappointed, but Madelyn was relieved when she wasn’t pushed for further information. She settled back into her chair, staring past the group as another person spoke, sharing a story about his deceased wife. It was difficult to stay focused when all the stories sound the same. Somebody died, either by disease or tragically—in a car accident, in the war years ago—sometimes by suicide. A few mourned the missing—up and vanished without a trace—there was no closure for them. But nobody was processing an unsolved murder—she was alone in that anguish.

Madelyn thought about the present rather than the past in order to distract herself. She visualized how much paperwork was left on her desk at the detective agency, envisioning the stack that awaited her—at least she had her own space to work out of. When she was first assigned to the Valentine Detective Agency, she was still a legal aid for the District Attorney’s Office, a year away from graduating law school and passing the bar, a year away from watching her husband die right before her eyes. At first the assignment was handed to her as a joke to keep her busy, out of the way of ‘the boys’. Nick Valentine was considered a laughingstock to many—the police, the courts, the political bigwigs. But a friendship quickly developed between her and the grizzled gumshoe and she quickly realized that the city hadn’t isolated him out of laughter, but out of fear.

She maintained her position with the investigator after becoming an attorney, providing legal counsel on the various cases from lost kittens to grand larceny. After all, Nick had been her closest confidant after Nate’s murder, working to keep the case open when leads dried up with the Boston Police Department. The way Madelyn saw it, she needed Nick and he needed her, a kinship made over crime and punishment. Though, she knew her work ethic had been declining in recent weeks and it was too easy to blame it all on the anniversary of Nate’s death. Another year without him, another year without catching the son-of-a-bitch who ended his life.

A chair squeaked and Madelyn snapped out of her daze to find the session around her disbanding. She forced a polite smile to her lips as others, all strangers, said their goodbyes, offering hollow condolences when they knew so little about her. Did they even know her name? What she did for a living? That she carried a gun in her purse for protection just in case the same man who killed Nate came back for her? She was pulling on her winter coat when she felt somebody looming behind her. The last thing she wanted was to be dragged into another conversation with the group leader about how she needed to open up—or worse—be set up with a fellow attendee. She was already forming the excuses in her head of getting back to the office despite the hour, despite the looming holiday when hands—one warm, one cold—joined her in a familiar way, helping her tug her coat into place.

“So, Mrs. James,” Nick’s teasing tone had her spinning on her heel to face him.

Whatever alarm she felt dissipated as she took in the familiar sight of his faded brown trench-coat, the edges frayed by many years in the field. Underneath he wore his usual dark-grey suit, silver pin shining, keeping his ironed black tie in place. Tucked under one arm was his trusty fedora, just as weathered as his outerwear. He always refused a replacement, as if doing so would deter from his character—maybe he was onto something with that theory. Nick smoothed out the lapels of her coat before pulling his hands away, twisting his right hand awkwardly, probing the wrist with his left fingers. His right had long been a prosthetic, lost in the war when he was just a youth, rebuilt over time thanks to the modern marvels at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. For Madelyn, it was just another part that made Nick who he was.

“I wasn’t ready today,” she explained under his silent, scrutinizing gaze. “I know, I know. I promised. I’m sorry.”

Nick half-shrugged, unbothered. “You don’t have to apologize to me, doll.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, gathering her handbag from the community table. It didn’t matter that he knew she came to these meetings, knew all about the demons she struggled to face in her day-to-day. He had his own life outside the agency—it wasn’t always broken leads and dead ends.

“It’s Christmas Eve Nick, shouldn’t you be at the in-laws with Jenny?”

“They aren’t my in-laws yet,” he laughed in response.

Jennifer Lands—Nick’s fiancé and one shining light in his plight to rid Boston of scum and treachery. She was a day-nurse at the New England Medical Center, who had met Nick when he was first starting out, chasing ambulances downtown. Jenny was a true Boston spit-fire—red hair and ocean eyes—tall and slender like she walked right out of a Billy Wilder picture-film. She could talk for hours on end about fashion and Hollywood gossip but just as quickly educate you on Gray’s Anatomy. While others might have been jealous, Madelyn saw her as the perfect match for the detective—cool and calm met fiery and hot.

“She knows where I am,” he further explained.

The realization dawned on Madelyn all over again and she sighed, disappointed, more so in herself. “I don’t need a babysitter just because today is—” she tapered off, unable to speak the words. “I just need to go home or go to the office. Stay busy. That’s what I need.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking what you needed was a friend.”

He always was good at calling her bluff, especially when she wasn’t feeling up to crafting an elaborate charismatic show of words to indicate otherwise. Madelyn relented with another exhale, tucking her arm around his elbow when he offered. “It’s a long walk.”

Nick tucked his fedora atop his feathered, dark-brown hair, adjusting it so it was firmly in place. “Isn’t it always?”

Madelyn’s Cambridge apartment was modest enough for a single—widowed—woman. One bedroom, one bath, a tiny living space, and a kitchen she wished was larger for entertaining guests. Even as an attorney, her wages paled in comparison to those of her male counterparts, and Nate’s military benefits hardly helped to bridge the gap. There was her late parent’s estate, but she pretended it didn’t exist—it was meant for her children—but with Nate gone, that dream seemed futile. Now, it was a last-resort safety net, just in case she royally fucked up (and if she made a mistake that large, she had every right to be using foul language).

Her apartment had other quirks too. The elevator never worked, the hot water ran out at the most inconvenient of times, and her next-door neighbor Myrna was too suspicious for her own good, always ranting and raving about how every stranger in the building was there to kidnap her and replace her brain with wires. It wasn’t surprising that that she recoiled anytime Nick paid a visit. The seventh floor also housed a baseball coach, a Vault-Tec salesman, and a man she only knew as Robby—but she hardly saw or spoke to them, everybody coming and going at odd hours of the night, including herself.

As soon as Madelyn and Nick passed the threshold of apartment D, a sharp bark greeted them both. Dogmeat—a silly name for a German shepherd, but it was the one the collar had etched into it when she found him abandoned at the Red Rocket gas station. Madelyn had tried to track down the owners of the puppy but had no luck. Six months later, she had a full-grown dog, ever faithful to its rescuer. The furry companion had been just what she needed to help quell the lonely nights.

“Hey Dogmeat,” Nick greeted, patting the dog’s muzzle as it nudged against his pant leg. “Doing a good job protecting the lady of the house?”

The dog barked in reply even as she tutted her disapproval. “I can protect myself.”

“You know I worry about you, Madelyn.” The use of her full name had her focusing on Nick as she discarded her coat, hanging it on the nearby rack before offering to take his. He shrugged the trench off, passing his hat along with it. “We all do. We just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Madelyn wondered who ‘we’ was alluding to. She silently gestured for him to sit on the couch before circling to the kitchen, clinking together two shallow glasses as she pulled them from the cabinet. The whiskey she poured was cheap, but she knew neither of them cared, and emptied what little was left of the bottle. She handed him the frosted glass and he nodded in appreciation, biting back a wince at the fouler-than-usual taste.

“I’m doing the best I can,” she assured with a small smile, gulping down her sip of the amber liquid. “Thank you, Nick.”

He tilted his chin up in a nod, glancing up at her with his light green eyes. Under the light of her living room, they almost looked yellow. “Sure, sure.”

The two sat in amiable silence, nursing their alcohol until Madelyn noticed they’d arrived just in time to catch Jack Hynes’ broadcast on her television set. At first, the nightly report was mundane—the Red Sox charity game canceled due to snow, Mayor McDonough’s annual lighting of downtown’s Christmas tree, a runaway swan in Boston Common. But then, the broadcast took a somber turn when the screen flashed the image of an infant boy before cutting to a news conference held earlier in the day.

“…please, if you’re listening, we just want our son back,” the weeping mother turned away in her sorrow, into her husband’s chest. His voice echoed into the microphones instead. “Shaun, if you’re listening, we love you. Please come home.”

“Poor kid has been missing since ’47,” Nick interrupted, pulling Madelyn’s attention away from the screen.

She was startled by his revelation. “What?”

He took a long sip of his whiskey, holding a grim expression as he spoke. “That was my first case after coming home from the war, after the folks at MIT fixed me up,” Nick shook his head, the recollection painful in his mind. He was only seven years older than her, and yet had a lifetime of scars and memories that had aged him—made him wiser, but also bitter towards those who escaped justice. “Never could figure out who would want to steal a baby.”

“Doesn’t look like the Boston P.D. has had better luck,” she replied, knowing it was of little solace.

By the time she looked back to the TV, Hynes was speaking about the decreasing crime rate in the city proper, ironic considering the previous story. Despite the information, the next name out of his mouth had Nick on high alert.

“Eddie Winter is expected to be released from the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Cedar Junction later this week, a full six months earlier than his originally scheduled discharge date. Department officials comment Winter’s release is due to quote, good behavior, unquote. At this time, the District Attorney’s office has declined to comment on pending cases against the notorious Boston businessman.”

“Businessman, my ass,” Nick bristled, his anger clear as he gripped the glass so tightly in his prosthetic hand she could almost hear the plastic and metal threatening to shatter into pieces. “Even the news is too afraid to call it like it is. He’s a thug. A gangster. A no-good crime boss responsible for far more than money laundering and white-collar crime.”

Madelyn couldn’t say anything to calm Nick when he was worked up like that. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before—he had been chasing Eddie Winter for years, always two steps behind the infamous mobster. Even she believed the case against him was clear cut—cases—but her bosses at the District Attorney’s office said otherwise, always misdirecting with bureaucracy and politics. As the years dragged on, and the crimes and bodies began to pile up, Nick and Madelyn started to believe there was a conspiracy afoot. But alleging collusion was one thing, proving it was another.

She poured the rest of her drink into his and he gladly shot it back—the action seemed to calm his nerves. Nick sighed, forlorn as he rested the empty glass on her coffee table with a loud clink. She already knew the answer, but she had to ask. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to catch the son-of-a-bitch.”

December 25th, 1957

“Merry Christmas boy,” Madelyn ruffled the fur atop Dogmeat’s head, scratching his ear as he yipped in return. He was all too happy to greet her that morning, even if he looked at her inquisitively, tilting his head back and forth as she dressed for the day. Nothing extravagant, but she figured she might as well wear red, given the holiday. “I’m only going out to visit the office. Just for a little while. Maybe visit the church. Maybe. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

Dogmeat barked as if he understood every word. Perhaps he did, the smart dog that he was. As Madelyn passed through the hall she paused before the open storage closet, peeking inside at the contents with a frown. She had been in the process of unboxing her holiday decorations the previous week when she decided against it, unable to fathom the emotional strength. A second Christmas without Nate—this was how her life would be measured now—counting the years, how many significant dates had passed without him. Inside the small room was another unopened box, a Mister Handy robot—a Christmas gift from Nate—the last gift from Nate. She couldn’t bear to open or activate it.

Before leaving, Madelyn made sure to leave Dogmeat a treat of sliced roast in his food bowl, tuning the radio to fill the quiet room with holiday music so the pup wouldn’t feel so alone. With her fur lined coat wrapped tightly around her, she left the safeguard of her apartment for the snow packed streets.

Valentine Detective Agency was just a quick taxi ride south over the Charles River bridge, a small nondescript building nestled in the Kenmore neighborhood. Nick liked to joke that if you didn’t know where you were going, caught up in the hustle and bustle of the crowds or the alluring bright green walls of the baseball stadium, you’d end up in the middle of Fenway park. But right there on Jersey Street stood the faded brick building with the red neon light, the flashing, arrow pierced heart a dead giveaway she was in the right spot.

Madelyn was only slightly surprised to find the office doors unlocked, sliding away the key back into her purse as she entered the dimly lit space. Ellie Perkins, Nick’s longtime secretary was absent, sent home for the holiday, the front room void of any visitors. Behind the receptionist’s desk were two doors, each with black lettering etched into the frosted glass panes. The one with Madelyn’s name was closed, but Nick’s was open, two echoing voices in the midst of discussion.

Inside she found the detective at his desk, suit jacket discarded over the back of his chair, tie loosened, but his fedora still firmly in place. He was shuffling through the disorganized pile of casefiles littered before him, lips wrapped firmly around a freshly lit cigarette. The full ashtray told Madelyn it had been a busy morning, or a long night. Occupying one of the armchairs in front of the oak tabletop was none other than Piper Wright, the woman who ran her own newspaper—Publick Occurrences—in the office space upstairs.

Piper had made a name for herself in Boston with her independent publication—she was no Boston Bugle, and could never compete with the national affiliates, but her reputation for gathering the cold, hard truth put her in the forefront of a lot of newsreaders’ minds. It also made her a lot of enemies, sticking her nose where it didn’t belong for the next big story. Birds of a feather, as they say—she knew Nick and Madelyn could be trusted, and over the last year, the three had become good friends.

“Oh hey, Blue,” Piper greeted, glancing over the back of the chair to look at her in the doorway. Madelyn had never determined where the nickname had originated—maybe her eyes, the affinity for the color—Piper never explained. She lifted up an unfolded newspaper. “I was just reading Nicky the Christmas edition of Publick Occurrences. Care to join?”

Madelyn softly laughed as she peeled off her coat and hooked it over her arm before sinking into the opposite chair. Piper was leaned back, black Mary-Jane heels propped up on Nick’s desk—either he was too focused to notice or didn’t care. Her ruby-red jacket was slung over her lap along with her matching press cap—a definitive look no reporter in town could replicate.

“Mayor McDonough’s Police Gala: Charity or Swindle? —I wrote an expose on how much of the taxpayer’s money is spent on his annual New Year’s Eve party. An insider says that all that charity money that is raised isn’t even sent to the hospitals! It’s lining the politician’s coats!”

“Not surprising,” Nick mumbled between a drag of his cigarette.

Madelyn smiled to herself—what Eddie Winter was to Nick Valentine, Mayor Guy McDonough was to Piper Wright. Perhaps the main difference was that one wasn’t an outright criminal (that any of them were aware of), but the two reeked of corruption. Piper was far more vocal in her displeasure of McDonough’s actions, using her freedom of the press to convey her contention.

“I can’t wait till an election year,” she sighed, tilting her head against the cushion. “Did you know his brother has started a grassroots campaign to see him kicked out of office?”

Madelyn was curious. For all her political dealings downtown, she didn’t know the mayor had a brother. Another coverup from the boy’s club? She had to clarify. “His brother?”

“John McDonough, he’s younger than the mayor, about Nick’s age. I don’t know him personally, but I admire his tenacity,” Piper grinned.

“He’s a rabble-rouser, trying to stir up trouble,” Nick commented with a grimace. “That kind of man is dangerous, if you ask me. He should leave any crusading to the professionals.”

“Are we knights now, Nicky?” Piper laughed, folding her paper away. “I could use a big pointy sword, might get some informants to start talking.”

Madelyn shook her head with a sigh. “What did I say about threatening civilians?”

Piper flashed her best Hollywood glamor-girl smile, batting her eyelashes as she flipped the back of her hand through her curled, ebony hair. “Charm first, shoot last.”

Nick blanched. “We should’ve never given her a gun.”

Piper’s heels clicked against the floor as she shifted to lean against the desk, trying to peek at any files she could see. Madelyn and Nick were careful with how much information she was privy to, friend or not. The agency wasn’t affiliated with the police—hell—the Boston Police Department didn’t even give them the time of day unless they were compelled to, or on the rare occasion took pity on the gumshoe and his lady sidekick. But Piper was no ordinary citizen—she had more knowledge of the city than any beat cop or tenured investigator—a valuable asset when it came to cracking cases.

“How many have gone missing this month?” she asked, glancing between the desk and Nick.

“Twelve,” Madelyn responded glumly. “Nick is convinced there’s a connection to Winter’s gang.”

“Damn,” Piper cursed, straightening. “That’s more than last month—that’s more than last year!”

“Which is why it can’t be a coincidence Winter is ramping up business,” Nick grumbled, stubbing out his smoke as he leaned back in his chair to look at his companions. “His underlings have been busy. Shaking down local businesses, raiding warehouses, encroaching on smaller gang territories to snuff them out. The police don’t want to link the recent gang war murders to him, but I will.”

“Damn,” Piper repeated, this time with a cautious expression. “You sure about all that? How deep have you been digging?”

Madelyn had similar concerns, but she wasn’t going to voice them in front of Piper. Instead, she allowed Nick to continue, tapping his hand against a stack of papers. She leaned forward to snatch them up before the reporter could. Scribbled in Nick’s barely legible scrawl were two words—the Railroad—with a question mark beside.

“The Railroad?” she whispered, confused by what it meant.

Piper’s eyes widened, like she had won the jackpot in a Las Vegas casino. “The Railroad? Where did you hear about the Railroad?”

“Came up only recently. Had it pinned as gossip, but your reaction has me second guessing my intuition,” Nick eyed her carefully, waiting for the insider information.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she responded in a breathy laugh. “Honestly, as much hearsay as I gather about the Railroad, I can’t ever find any concrete proof they actually exist, beyond a cryptic phrase; ‘follow the Freedom Trail’.”

“The Freedom Trail downtown?” Madelyn questioned, to which Piper nodded. “A tourist trap. How bizarre.”

Nick struck a match as he lit up another cigarette. “Peculiar catchphrases aside, one has to wonder if they are tied up in these disappearances. Working with Winter.”

“A shell company?” Madelyn offered, looking to Piper.

The newswoman shook her head, doubtful of the accusation. “I’m uncertain they are nefarious. Mysterious? Sure. But as evil as Eddie Winter or McDonough? I’d rather have proof in hand before drawing any conclusions.”

“That’s saying something,” Nick dryly chuckled.

Piper didn’t linger for very much longer, leaving her newspaper for the two to finish perusing. She’d see the two in a few days, as Madelyn’s plus-two to that reprehensible police gala—perhaps one good thing she was able to leverage for her and Nick from her job at the District Attorney’s office. At best, it would gain the group leads for news stories and cases. At worst, they’d be drunk on expensive champagne before Auld Lang Syne. Almost as soon as they were left alone, Nick produced a brand-new bottle of Irish whiskey from his desk, struggling a moment to fish for two clean glasses.

“How long have you been working?” Madelyn asked, noting the strain in his eyes.

Nick muttered something unintelligible, the smoke bobbing between his lips as he poured, pausing in after-thought to add some more. “Jenny got called into the hospital late last night, so I decided to come in. I know she’ll call me when it’s time to come home. I can celebrate Jesus’s birthday then.”

“Isn’t she Jewish?”

Nick waved his hand as he offered the glass of whiskey, a look that simply said don’t start now. Madelyn pursed her lips with a smile, content that there had been some humor in her day after all, if only for a moment. The whiskey was much better than the swill she had served the night before, smoother as it slid down her throat in a delightful burn, hitting all the right spots. Even though they had both taken several sips, Nick raised his glass in a toast.

“Merry Christmas, Madelyn.”

“Merry Christmas, Nick.”

December 31st, 1957

Faneuil Hall had been adorned floor to ceiling in gold and silver, balloons and streamers, glitter and confetti strewn about the historic halls. Madelyn wondered what the Founding Fathers that once gathered there would think of the gaudy decorations. Probably dump them in the Boston Harbor—they seemed to be into that sort of thing when they disapproved of something. The idea alone had her wishing Samuel Adams was there now, if only to scoff at the waste of Bostonian taxpayer’s dollars.

Mayor McDonough’s New Year’s Eve police gala was in full swing by the time she arrived, uniformed officers and detectives gathered in the downstairs hall, basking in their glory like peacocks in a zoo. Madelyn found it all very amusing as she checked her coat, smoothing out the lines of her baby blue gown as she peered around for someone familiar. She noticed some bigwig lawyers from the District Attorney’s office that never gave her the time of day, and a few defense attorneys that were slimy enough she didn’t want to risk walking within a ten-foot radius of where they stood.

“Blue! Over here!”

Madelyn turned to find Piper, all dolled up in a floor-length, red evening gown, waving her towards the meeting hall. It had been reconfigured into a dancefloor, couples paired off as they waltzed to the live band playing on the nearby stage. The two women continued up the stairs to the overlooking balconies where by one tinsel wrapped pillar stood a penguin-suited Nick Valentine and his lady luck, Jennifer Lands.

“Ah, the woman who’s been keeping my Nicky safe when I can’t keep an eye on him,” Jenny winked, blue eyes sparkling. The dark green dress she wore was in sharp, beautiful contrast to her fiery red curls, tucked up in the latest hairstyle from the pages of Vogue. “Oh but it is good to see you, Mads.”

“Likewise, Jenny,” she greeted, the two sharing a warm hug and kiss on the cheek. “I do apologize for all the late nights.”

The soon-to-be Mrs. Valentine waved her hand dismissively. “Better to know where he is, fighting the good fight, than have me pacing in the kitchen wondering which sleazy bar or motel my schmuck is lost in like these poor women do.”

Madelyn tried not to laugh, avoiding the stares of the prim-and-proper officer wives that roamed around them. Piper and Jenny indulged in their amusement, gaggling like schoolchildren while Nick sighed—but even he was cracking a grin. More laughter and jokes flowed between the four, more so as a passing waiter handed each a glass of sparkling champagne. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Madelyn sensed the spark of normalcy returning. Just a glimmer beyond the lingering sorrow, but it was there, a warm little spot of hope.

“You gonna keep me hidden up here all-night Nicky boy?” Jenny suddenly teased, stepping back to gesture over her outfit. “I didn’t get all dressed up for nothin’”

He chuckled, taking both of their glasses and depositing them on the balcony. “If I’m not back before midnight, check for my corpse on the dancefloor.”

Piper shouted over the railing as the couple descended, garnering the attention of passersby’s once more. “Yours or McDonough’s?”

“You know, he ain’t that easy to kill,” a sultry drawl called from behind them and simultaneously the women turned to look at the man who was sauntering towards them. Tall and lean, with combed back blonde hair, eyes so dark they almost seemed black. He was wearing a well-tailored suit with a red tie, a golden pin on his lapel with tiny embossed letters—of the people, for the people. He flashed a wide, toothy grin. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

It was easy for Madelyn to note the shift in Piper’s expression—she recognized this person and the realization excited her head to toe. The reporter practically beamed as she extended her hand, quickly switching to interviewing mode. “Mister McDonough, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Piper Wright with Publick Occurrences—”

“Mister McDonough is that sleazeball over there,” he pointed downstairs to where the mayor was boasting near the stage in front of a large crowd of spectators. He took Piper’s hand, shaking it once before lifting it to his lips in some old-fashioned show of flattery. “I’m just regular ol’ John McDonough. But you can call me Hancock.”

Madelyn chuckled, gaining his attention. She thought back to Piper’s previous remarks about the younger McDonough’s plans to overthrow the mayoral seat. “You can’t win an election under a moniker.”

“Who says I’m going to wait that long?” he asked, avoiding her comment. “I’m inspiring the people, making them realize he’s not the same man they voted for in ’55. Boston is under a chokehold of crime and corruption and they don’t even know it. It should be of the people, for the people, ya dig?”

“I dig,” Madelyn humored him, but as his fevered words settled in her mind, she realized he had a point. She wondered why Nick was nervous about his actions. It was her turn to introduce herself, slipping her hand into Hancock’s momentarily when he offered. He seemed to know that a kiss to the back of her knuckles was not the wisest choice. “Miss Hardy,” she greeted politely. “When did you start your…movement?”

“Fought in the war overseas and came back disillusioned with the government and the establishment,” Hancock interlaced his hands as he spoke. “Guy was already rubbing elbows, buying favors to climb his way up the ivory tower, ensuring his winning ticket to the state house. At first he offered me a seat on his counsel but there was no way he’d ever adopt my progressive views. Feeding the hungry? More money for our schools? No, my own brother kicked me out, so I’ve been fighting the man ever since.”

Piper was nodding—of course she agreed with the plight to help the little people and anyone who worked to accomplish these goals was good in her book. Madelyn, however, was skeptical of anyone who talked too fast with too wide of a smile—she chalked it up to working in a proverbial shark-tank of lawyers.

Hancock noted her uncertainty with a smirk, spreading his hands in a wave. “But enough grandiose monologue, we’re here to have a good time, aren’t we?” He offered a hand to both her and Piper. “Would either of you ladies care for a dance?”

Madelyn silently deferred to Piper but extended the smooth-talking man a small grin. “I’ll have to give you a rain-check.”

“I’ll hold you to it, sister.”

Alone on the balcony, Madelyn overlooked the couples dancing in the hall below, slowing as a female voice crooned out Dream a Little Dream of Me. It was typical in these quiet moments that her mind drifted and that night was no different, her thoughts instantly filled of the last time she had danced with Nate. But she wasn’t melancholy, despite the tightness in her chest as she slowly swayed to the music, content to watch her friends.

“Ma’am.”

Madelyn was about to dismiss the waiter, showing off her half-full glass when she noted he was delivering something else, quickly passing off a folded note before rushing off. She turned on her heel to watch him go but lost him in the crowd, a mix of confusion and panic settling in her gut. What was happening? A phone-call? Telegram? The only people she knew in Boston, let alone cared about were right there in that room. Madelyn’s suspicion only grew when she unfolded the message, looking over the four words typed on the parchment.

You can’t trust everyone.

#fallout 4 #fallout au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #madelyn hardy #fanfic #nick valentine #piper wright #jennifer lands #john hancock #dogmeat #noir au #check ao3 for additional tags #long post #*weeping* it's here y'all #I will not flail in the tags #👀👀👀#comments will fuel my soul

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undauntedtcg · 5 years

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Deck Profile: ZoroToad

Starting off with a fun one... for the person playing solitaire.

At heart, I am a die-hard Zoroark player and I have played just about every Zoroark deck that has ever been a part of any meta since the card became legal. This deck, in simple terms, is just mean. That’s never stopped me before, but there, that’s my disclaimer. A more important disclaimer however, deck profiles are looong. List, card explanations and strategy below.

The List!

Pokémon - 19 4 Zorua DEX 70 4 Zoroark-GX SLG 53 2 Seismitoad-EX FFI 20 1 Oranguru UPR 114 1 Girafarig LOT 94 1 Articuno-GX CES 31 1 Exeggcute PLF 4 1 Tirtouga PLB 27 1 Articuno-GX CES 31 1 Shaymin-EX ROS 77 3 Tapu Lele-GX GRI 60

Trainer Cards - 35 2 Brigette 2 Colress 1 N 1 Professor Juniper 1 Pokemon Fan Club 1 Lt. Surge's Strategy 1 Guzma 1 Acerola 1 Faba 1 Team Flare Grunt 1 Plumeria 1 Team Skull Grunt 1 Team Rocket's Handiwork

4 Ultra Ball 4 VS Seeker 2 Cherish Ball 2 Counter Catcher 2 Field Blower 1 Rescue Stretcher 1 Reset Stamp 1 Float Stone 1 Dowsing Machine

2 Silent Lab

Energy - 6

4 Double Colorless Energy 2 Water Energy

A 4-4 Zoroark line, I think, is fairly self explanatory. If you can’t draw cards, you’ll lose. Draw all of them instead. Also sometimes an attacking option, but this deck rarely takes prize cards.

Seismitoad EX is our early game attacker, if you can call it an attacker. The item lock by itself isn’t really enough to keep our opponent at bay, but adding energy denial makes it so difficult for them to play the game, which is pretty much our goal. I’ve found that, since the Lusamine ban, you will need to begin using resource management eventually in order to close out the game, but toad is your best attacker until you’re out of VS Seekers.

Resource management is the lifeblood of this deck. This deck' s late game plan is to cycle through VS seekers and other disruption tools until the opponent is completely out of resources.

Girafarig’s use cases are so much bigger in expanded, especially with Mew & Mewtwo GX using attacks from discarded Pokemon. But the primary use of this card is lost zoning supporters to render VS Seeker a dead card and energies in the event that the opponent has methods of energy retrieval.

Tirtouga is a card that first saw play in Jimmy Pendarvis’s list from Portland Regionals last year. It prevents deck out forever, save the opponent playing N or Team Rocket’s Handiwork and it’s an easy discard for trade, ultra ball, Plumeria, ect.

Articuno GX is usually the nail in the coffin against most decks. A well-timed Cold Crush GX on a fully powered up attacker should buy you enough time to take full control of the opponent’s board. Reshizard and Pikarom are the two most common victims.

The trainer’s in this deck are pretty standard, so I won’t spend too much time on them, but I will cover some new additions and interesting inclusions.

Fan club replaces what would normally be my third Brigette in this deck. It can grab Seismitoad EX, Tapu Lele GX, or Shaymin EX early on which helps getting Quaking Punch going from turn 2 easier.

A new addition to the expanded format, Lt. Surge fits perfectly in this deck. Ever wanted to play a draw supporter and Guzma in the same turn? Surge has you covered. Also allows us to play Plumeria/Flare Grunt in combination with Team Skull Grunt which is completely insane.

This card is literally an evosoda that’s also an out to a supporter in this deck. Unfortunately, it can’t grab Seismitoad EX, but that’s the only bad thing about the card. Play Cherish Ball.

The last new addition to the deck is Reset Stamp! It’s just a one sided N that allows you to pull off a lot of cool combos. This, along with surge and counter catcher allows you to effectively play 4 supporter effects in a turn.

So, with all the cards out of the way, let’s talk strategy. If you want clarification on any cards I didn’t cover, just ask! I’m more than happy to answer questions.

This deck has a ton of options, but it’s actually quite simple. In the early game use Seismitoad and your disruption cards to harass the opponent and slow the game to a halt, then transition into resource management and deck them out with Team Rocket’s Handiwork.

That being said, this deck is, at times, a headache to play. Unless you’re extremely comfortable with it, I wouldn’t take this to a regional-level event. The games take forever and it’s far from easy to play. On the same token, don’t take this to best of one events. It won’t work, you’ll always either tie or lose and that’s not a successful strategy for making top cut. But, if you’re as sadistic as I am, go ahead! Ruin some poor, unsuspecting normal person’s day.

This is the first in a large number of deck profiles you can expect to see leading up the Richmond Regional Championships in November, but I won’t be all expanded content. I’m attending a standard league cup this weekend (Sept. 14th) and you all can expect a full report on that, be it a tale of glorious victory or a masterclass in failure.

Happy Trading!

(Scans from https://www.pokemon.com/us/pokemon-tcg/pokemon-cards/)

#ptcg #ptcgo #expanded #Zoroark #Seismitoad #play! pokemon #pokemon #pokemon tcg

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franciscofrlh873 · 2 years

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How to Explain jeux Les Sims 4 pc to Your Grandparents

Spider solitaire is a really perfectly-regarded solitaire video game, which has acquired a great deal in reputation considering that Microsoft have began transport it totally free with Home windows. It is very tricky although, and A lot of people need to know how they are able to enhance their odds of profitable.

The goal of spider solitaire is to build an ascending match sequence in the inspiration zone. But this is easier explained than done! Specially when actively playing 4 go well with spider, it could possibly sometimes look practically impossible to finish the game.

But there are actually techniques You should use to radically improve your probability of winning spider solitaire. But prior to I'm going into that, a quick Observe. On this page, I suppose there is a solitaire video game which allows multi-undo, and which you don’t head utilizing it. Lots of people don’t have a solitaire software that supports multi-degree undo, or think that working with undo is somehow “dishonest”. These individuals can continue to get one thing outside of this informative article, although not everything they read through could implement.

So what's the golden mystery to profitable Spider Solitaire?

It’s easy! Vacant-Columns are definitely the vital!

The main aim of spider solitaire is to secure a vacant column. The target after that is to try and have A different vacant column. After getting 2 vacant columns, the sport begins to become winnable, but if you can, try and type Yet one more vacant column. When you get to 3 or 4 vacant columns, you've got a very good possibility of successful, Except you get an especially unfortunate run of playing cards.

Obtaining the To start with Vacant Column…

The first shift you should make in the sport is Regardless of the highest rank card that could Enjoy is. If offered a selection, Perform in the stacks on the proper hand aspect, given that the 6 suitable hand stacks begin with one particular considerably less card.

From then on, Participate in cards In this particular get or precedence:

one) If a stack is nearer to other stacks to getting comprehensive, Participate in that card (If you're able to)

two) If you can’t Perform from the stack which is closest to remaining emptied, than Engage in the cardboard with the highest rank.

three) If 2 or more playing cards contain the exact same significant rank, and one of these could be played into a exact same go well with sequence, then Engage in that one.

Hold taking part in like this, until a column is emptied, otherwise you run out of moves

Once a column continues to be emptied, the main target of the game improvements a little bit. You will find now three principal objectives, “cleanup”, “re-set up”, and “expose”.

An overriding principal at the moment is usually to try to maintain the vacant columns. Vacant columns offer you a good deal much more decisions in the sport, and whenever achievable, you only want to fill your vacant columns temporarily.

CLEANING UP

The 1st aim for the second phase of spider solitaire is “cleanup”. This is certainly my expression for re-arranging columns so that they come to be same-match sequences.

As an example, suppose you experienced two columns. The primary one has:

-7 Diamonds

-6 Hearts

and the next just one has:

-seven Clubs

-six Diamonds

We are able to quickly use the empty column, to rearrange the columns to ensure that these columns come to be:

and:

We make this happen by relocating:

-6 of Diamonds into your vacant column

-six of Hearts onto the seven of Golf equipment

-six Of Diamonds on to the seven of Diamonds.

The key point to notice right here, is usually that soon after We've got completed cleaning up this sequence, the empty column is still vacant. This is certainly crucial, mainly because we always require to help keep our columns vacant when probable.

RE-ARRANGING

Following We've got cleaned up any sequences we can find, the next goal is to re-prepare any columns. This is simply going any sequences we are able to, to kind lengthier sequences. If transferring the sequence will expose a different card (or maybe a card that is not Element of the sequence), then we normally move it. The remainder of the time it’s a judgement simply call, based on whether or not the new sequence would be the very same match, together with what other playing cards are Keeping up the sport at this time.

EXPOSING

Finally, we try to expose new playing cards, while striving to maintain our empty column. We do this by using multi-level undo:

-Transfer a card/sequence to the empty column, which exposes a different card.

-If the new card enables us to move the initial sequence back again do so.

If the new exposed card isn't going to permit us to move it back again, attempt relocating another card/sequence as an alternative. If you can’t expose any new cards while retaining the vacant column, then try working some cards in the talon.

The most crucial thing is to generate vacant columns, and take a look at and retain them empty! Now, will these techniques make it easier to to get each and every sport of spider solitaire? No, they received’t. Are there much better techniques? Sure, therefore you’ll likely think of a few of your personal when you Participate in the sport some more. Though the methods above ought to confirm a superb foundation that will help you start out winning a Les Sims 4 pc lot more online games.

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kyidyl · 6 years

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So...this has been induction week and I’ve had stuff to do, but the bast few days I’ve been chillin in my apartment because I’m running low on meds and my printer (to print the registration paperwork so I can register and get a GP and get a re-up or better meds.) comes tomorrow, but I haven’t gone anyplace extra really because I don’t want to waste the meds when I know I’m going to need them.

To those of you in the UK: What in the hell do you watch when you watch TV???? Half of netflix isn’t availible, Hulu will let me login but won’t let me watch anything because it’s all American TV, HBO just straight up doesn’t work (I STG I will strangle someone if I have to miss GoT when it comes back on the air.)...

I’m losing my goddamned mind because I don’t have my xbox (so no video games - the only two I have on my laptop are minecraft and WoW and I cancelled WoW months ago.), none of my TV works, I’m in a different time zone than most of the people I follow on Tumblr, I’ve read most of the things in my Kindle.

Every single one of my normal ADHD procrastination vices is near useless here and I’ve been reduced to playing solitaire and hole.io (which, incidentally, I’m actually really good at but there’s only like 3 maps and there’s only so much of the same 3 maps I can take.). I have a feeling it’s probably making my anxiety worse (although I have a panic disorder type of anxiety not the always-on type so when I’m here in my room I’m fine. I’m now settled enough that I’m actually not doing terrible anxiety wise and I clearly feel safe in this space and not anxious.), but I’m out of stuff to do. x.x

Uuuggghhhh can’t wait to talk to a GP so I can get some meds. I DID, however, figure out that my school has a therapist and I have an appointment next week. How useful it’s going to be, IDK, because there’s obviously gonna be a period of time where they play catch-up and we get to know each other but it’ll never become useful and that’ll never happen if I don’t just go...so I accept a few less than productive sessions as the cost of doing business.

But I’m so bored you guys. So. Bored. I haven’t figured out eating dinner yet either, but I’ve got breakfast down. Breakfast is easy. Fruit, muffins, cereal, OJ. Dinner...less so because of the lack of space. I have a cooktop/range and a decent microwave, but no pantry and only a fairly small fridge. No oven either, although I rarely used mine before. And anyway I haven’t figured out where the undergrads are getting food from...I should go ask the people downstairs at the front desk because I can’t keep ordering Deliveroo every night. It’s like 25 pounds every time I do. >.<

#personal #live update #kyidyl moves to another country #someday I will google how to make the pounds sign #today is not that day

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imnotasuperhero · 6 years

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Aaaaaaand here’s another Bechloe oneshot. You’re welcome

Thanks to @damn-lexa for the prompt. Here you go, kiddo!

Based on Alone by Hayley ft Big Sean.

The last few weeks were messing with Beca's mind. Chloe kept insisting on meeting her and try to rebuild their friendship. But she was smarter than that and she knew she couldn't drag Chloe, her precious sweet Chloe, to this hard world of fame and gossip. Hell, the redhead deserves more than being stalked by paps just because of being part of Beca's life.

It's been three years since the Bellas parted ways right after the USO tour. Random messages and calls were made if the chance was given but clearly, time played its part and those ways of contact vanished. Beca and Chloe's friendship wasn't an exception.

Beca was shining in the industry before she even got time to process it. Her impressive skills and talent turning her in one of the youngest music producers in history in a span of 2 years. That and her current DJ gigs she gets to do turned her into a workaholic with no time to work on old relationships. Much less in a relationship with someone who lived on the other side of the country.

But here she was. Chloe right in front of her demanding for answers. Scratch that- she was demanding for Beca to be back in her life. Her bright baby blues containing all the words she couldn't say.

"I know you're famous now and that you're very busy. But I'm still your Chloe, Becs. I should never let us fall apart" the redhead spoke calmly. Trying to hold back the tears.

"Pease, don't do this to me. I can't make you go through all this mess" Beca pleaded the words. "Hell, I can barely manage myself and it's been almost 3 years" her hand moved to Chloe's thigh.

"I can look after myself. I'm not a child!"

"I... I didn't mean it like that" the brunette closed her eyes and breathed deeply in an attempt to find the right words. "Look. You're so important to me, Chlo. You need more than someone who can get zoned out of important things because of work. You deserve some-"

"I need you, Beca. Can't you see it?" the redhead moved closer. "For fuck's sake! We've been apart for so long. I can't keep living without you in my life. We are more than family and you know it"

Beca didn't know she was crying until she felt Chloe's thumb brush a tear away. Her head tilted and she allowed herself to cherish the caress. This was the reason she kept her distance. She couldn't go through the process of getting over Chloe again. She couldn't be that strong. Not after this.

"Beca" the older woman called her "I know you're solitaire right now. I know you don't feel connected to anyone. And... and I want to be your anchor. I had a lot of time to think and analyze this. I know that it won't be easy and I'm fine if I have to spend little time with you if I get to be the one you come home to. And I'm more than okay with being the bitch who got your heart" Chloe giggled softly at Beca's smile. "Please, let me be the sun to your raincloud"

And Beca couldn't resist it anymore. Her heart was beating fast and her whole being imploring her to say 'yes'. Just one word that could change everything. Three letters that would put her life upside down. She just needed to agree and they'd be in this mess together.

Closing the distance, her lips captured Chloe's in a soft motion. Their lips fitting perfectly while dancing together in the sweetest melody. Both women smiling at each other in a silent promise.

#pitch perfect #bechloe #writing #mine

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nochiquinn · 6 years

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campaign 2 episode 17: belated edition

(my internet is out so I watched on my phone; I’m camping at Arby’s to post this APPRECIATE MY DEDICATION)

it looks like the alpha mobile app MIGHT hold up so I'm just gonna sit here and play solitaire and try to do my reaction post even if I'm not gonna be able to post it until at least monday

(I am blessed with an unlimited data plan)

matt you dork I love you

"I'm not supposed to have tuna!" I ate sushi AND rare steak while I was pregnant, get on my level

"PUNCH ME" I love beau

"I punch her in her butt"

"a little hip action" [lenny]

"past her HEAVING BOSOM"

"don't talk about tiddies"

skeleton semantics. skelemantics.

"if you can't eat the body anymore then it's not a body" paging mala

upside to watching like this, I don't have to worry about being behind anyone

"I want to be at renfaire"

matt is super into this saga of the little girl playing trebuchet

aww, fjord paying for his date

"for dignity's sake" we don't do anything with dignity

fjord throws things at mothers pass it on

I can't believe fjord embarrassed himself like that in front of his date

these fucking con artists I love them

these guys are really bad at carnival games

Aww, Molly gets excited at carnivals

Barbarian Piss Mead

Yasha's accent is getting more pronounced as she's been around more and I love it

just picturing the little anime "foom" effect when she rages

they're gonna get kicked out, it's gonna be great

jester stole candy from a homeless orphan pass it on

"he just humansplained me"

robin nott

candied rats

as an old lady who just burped

aw, I wanted her to have the crazy eyes like vex's old lady disguise

"just like my grandma"

"making out with your god?!" "they have a special relationship"

gross, military recruitment

wangstacker

wrestling with the arms

oh shit racist arm wrestler

nat20 the racist!

"sweep the leg, johnny!"

"I don't like...groups...of people...working together...for a cause..." same tbh

I reiterate my original statement: ew, military recruitment

ew, mercenary recruitment

"we're really good at keeping secrets" citation needed

as caleb tries to go to where all the good books are

ew, cobalt recruitment

laura what is that

"I'm going to ignore laura bailey"

solid nott

cobalt soul tramp stamp

"I wanna be him"

how many nines has travis rolled

I zoned out is that a poop monster

"I've had this dream" beau

does it have poop blood bc that's gross as fuck

and yasha flees immediately

poopteeth

oh shit wolves

good news about the alpha app, it doesn't get mad at me for jumping back and forth btwn it and discord

(my friend is venting at me about wedding planning)

look at all this strategery

ice wolves!

maaaaw

"everything's more epic when you're flying through the aaaair"

"you still kill it but I'm going to correct your math"

I've been binging The Magicians so I'm just picturing the hand motions they do when Caleb and Nott cast their spells

the concept of emt clerics is my favorite. in this and also in everything else.

also y'all it's late I wanna sleep

"it might be a terrible plan but I'm into it"

man doors just KEEP fucking them up

they have a cave troll

#critical role #reaction post #crititag #spoilers #liveblog

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chewysugar · 3 years

Text

someone will be with you in a moment

you phone the Employment Insurance office because you made a mistake on your report. you’re up at the crack of dawn, and there’s still a wait time. of course there’s a wait time. millions of people are out of work on account of COVID and the stupidity of others. but you bear with it because you need the money.

a breezy voice says “all of our agents are currently busy. please stay on the line and someone will be with you in a moment.”

between this and other variations, they play a mellow, borderline mariachi tune. it’s the kind of thing designed to be inoffensive. all guitar strings, soft horns and a steady beat that ticks with each stroke of the second hand.

after one hour, you get discouraged. but the music could be worse. it keeps you hypnotized, really. and you need the money. still, the voice keeps saying “all of our agents are busy. please stay on the line and someone will be with you in a moment.”

two hours pass. you’ve tried to keep yourself zoned in by playing solitaire on your computer.

the music has you wanting to fall asleep despite three cups of coffee going into your empty stomach.

“all of our agents are busy. please stay on the line an someone will be with you in a moment.”

three hours.

you’ve put the phone on speaker. the screen is greasy from being pressed against your skin and hair. your stomach lurches from lack of food and acidic coffee.

you’ve kept playing solitaire because there’s nothing else to do. you mostly lose, but sometimes you win. not that it matters when your fiscal future is in the balance.

by now you thought the appropriated Latin music would have abated, but no. it’s still gentle. coaxing. seducing you into staying on the line like a trout with a hook through its upper lip. on the other side of this there will be a person who can help you. who can give you money for rent and food.

it’s almost three and a half hours. you’re knuckles are cracking from the need to hit someone or something out of sheer impatience. but you’re not going anywhere because--

“hello, this is Severin, how can I help you.”

a person! an actual person, and not a robot.

you turn the volume on your phone up, and fumble for your information. before you, your umpteenth game of solitaire is half-finished and unimportant.

almost tripping over your words, you tell Severin about the basis of your call--how you made a mistake on your report. how your previous employer neglected to mention that they’d be giving you your vacation pay out on a final paycheck which you received after registering for EI.

“of course,” says Severin. they have a cool, pleasing voice. the kind of voice that says “i can take charge of an apocalypse and not break a sweat.”

“if you’ll just give me two to five minutes, I’ll take a look at your file. would you mind holding?”

“not at all.”

“thank you.”

severin lures you back to that music. almost at once your racing pulse slows. it’s pavlovian at this point, the need to remain calm as the strings put you in mind of somewhere dusky and warm with a view of the ocean.

you stare at your computer screen, not really seeing it. you wonder if this game of solitaire is something you’ll win, or if you’ll bust like you have the last twenty-six times.

“hello, thank you for holding.” Severin is back, their voice a dead even for the lulling music they just interrupted. “i see where the error was made, and we can update it. i just need some further information from you. is that alright?”

“yes. yes, of course, anything.”

“Current address?”

you tell them.

“And how long ago did you leave your previous employer?”

it was three weeks ago. before Christmas. you emphasize that it was on account of COVID, and that you’re sure that you’ll be rehired just as soon as people start getting their act together.

“yes, yes of course.” Severin doesn’t seem a font of empathy, but you can tell they understand. they’ve heard it from thousands of people by now. and they want to help you. it’s a simple error.

“before we proceed, I need your mother’s maiden name.”

you narrow your eyes, and when you respond, it’s a little snippy.

but Severin doesn’t sound at all ruffled.

in fact, there’s something of a laugh in their voice.

“thank you, thank you. we really appreciate your patience. times are tough right now, and we’re doing all we can to help you. i just need the name of the street you grew up on.”

you tell them, your chest tightening. they should know who you are already. you gave them your social insurance number and your password almost four hours ago.

“and that was near Killarney Elementary school? where you went from kindergarten until fifth grade when you moved to a new city?”

“yes, yes.”

“this was because of the fire, right? in the arts and crafts room? your best friend died there along with three other children and two teachers.”

“yes, that was why, but--

“when you moved, you had night terrors. you hit your mother in the face when she tried to comfort you and skipped school in from grades six to eight until you were threatened with academic probation. is that right?”

you’re on your feet now. you’re so hungry, and tired from the lack of sleep you’ve gotten over the last three weeks.

“that’s right!” you tell them your name--first, middle and last. you tell them where you’ve worked since you pulled yourself together and graduated high school only to enter college, dropout and cling to a string of minimum wage jobs.

“please be patient,” Severin says, still quite at their leisure. “we’re only trying to help you. goodness knows you need it after all the failed relationships you’ve had. your second romantic partner in high school, that was the one they found in a psychotic rage after overdosing at your house party, wasn’t it. the one you gave the drugs to in the first place. you told them it was the best high you’d ever had, didn’t you?”

it’s then that your deprived, dulled senses catch up with you. information about your childhood is one thing--you did have to answer to a lot of authority figures following the Killarney fire until you pulled yourself together at the age of fourteen.

but they shouldn’t know that you told your distant ex something that private.

“what’s going on?” you say, stunned and borderline brain-fried.

severin still has the same chill tone in their voice. “we’re just trying to help you process the mistake you made on your unemployment insurance claim.”

“but--

“you’re fortunate to have worked for the school board as long as you did, even if it was as a lowly custodian, what with your turbulent track record. i suppose you felt a great sense of responsibility towards education, as it was you who started that unfortunate fire.”

through a throat gone tight, you look towards the sliding glass door of your apartment. the dark curtains you put there for privacy are shutting out a january morning too warm for your part of the world.

“is this some kind of joke?”

“our agents are not in the habit of making jokes,” Severin says, and for the first time, an iota of feeling laces their words. they’re very displeased with you, and you feel like a foolish child again--chastised and questioned by hysterical, furious grown ups who just want answers. who just want you to behave.

you swallow at the obstruction in your gullet.

“please,” you say, “please I just need my report fixed.”

“report? what report? you have no file on record. in fact, from what my information is saying, you’re fate is to never make money again. expect an eviction notice by the end of the month. none of your friends will help you, because you’ve been relapsing during the pandemic and they secretly find you burdensome and frustrating.”

something hot and wet slides down your cheeks, and you sink, weak-kneed into your chair. you’ve always been afraid of this--you’ve known it to be true, even when your closest friends answer your calls at two in the morning because you’ve fallen to pieces again. but you were going to get better, honest you were! it was just that the pandemic has been so hard, and you’ve already been through so much, what with the arson and the overdose and the dropping out.

“the streets won’t protect you much, i’m afraid,” severin continues. “we’ll still be keeping our eyes on you. now before I let you go, I just want to clarify something with you, for training purposes.”

you can’t bring yourself to reply. severin takes your silence as acquiescence.

“if i were you,” severin says, “i’d move the ten of diamonds to the jack of clubs if you hope to win the game. thank you for using our telephone services. our agents look forward to hearing from you in the future.”

the line goes dead, and you’re not alone.

#short story #short stories #spooky #unemployment #pandemic #covid #horror

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emmerrr · 7 years

Note

if your'e still taking prompts. how about a pynch au with adam as a massage therapist and ronan as regular and they chat during their appointments ft. adam freaking out about ronan's tattoo and back muscles and ronan freaking out about adam's hands until adam is just like.....here's my personal number i'll do it for free.

I’m so sorry this took so long thank you for your patience! also I have never done a trc au before so how dare you drag me out of my comfort zone lmao. I tried, I hope it’s okay!

also this is the last prompt in my inbox, high five for getting shit done! let’s just ignore the two that I had to apologise for not being able to do (again I’m sorry to those anons!). I think if I offer up prompts again I might have to get people to pick from a list or something so that it’ll be something I know I can do and no one ends up disappointed. you live and learn. anywho, onto the prompt. this was meant to be shorter but it got away from me because, hello, of course it did, it’s me and my lack of self-control. so I’ve just posted the first scene here but the whole thing is on ao3 here.

(disclaimer: I know nothing about massage therapy or how muscles work and I did zero research so please forgive me, I am but a humble, lazy fic writer).

“Adam, your two o’ clock’s here. Shall I send him in?”, Henry’s voice crackles through the intercom, startling Adam out of a daydream.

Adam’s just returned from his lunch-break following back-to-back appointments since 8am, and he’s got another packed afternoon in store for him despite the fact that what he’d really like to do is go home and sleep for a thousand years.

If only.

He sighs, then clicks the button on the intercom. “Sure, Henry. Send him on through.”

“You got it, boss.”

In the remaining minute or so he has, Adam pulls up the appointment details and runs through it briefly just to remind himself. It’s a first-timer, a Ronan Lynch, complaining of back discomfort. Other than a date-of-birth (he’s just a few months younger than Adam), that’s about all the information Adam has on his newest patient; an incomplete file even by Henry’s lax standards.

Knuckles rapping on the door-frame draw Adam’s attention and he looks up, then momentarily freezes at the specimen crowding his doorway. The man he’s faced with is tall and broad-shouldered and surly looking but in a hot way, his hair shaved short, dressed entirely in black from the beat-up leather jacket to the intimidating boots. Adam realises his jaw has slackened and fallen open, no doubt making him look like a gormless idiot, so he quickly pulls himself together.

He fixes his best patient smile in place. “Mr. Lynch, is it?”

The man grunts and steps into Adam’s office. “Ronan,” he says.

“Ronan,” Adam amends, and he stands up and holds his hand out towards him. “I’m Adam Parrish, I’ll be your massage therapist for today.”

Ronan eyes Adam’s outstretched hand for just a little too long to be comfortable, but then he does begrudgingly shake it. Adam gestures to the chair opposite his desk and Ronan sits down and crosses his arms. Huffily. Adam’s smile starts to slip; a disgruntled patient first thing after lunch seems like a bad omen for a long and arduous afternoon.

Adam sits at his desk and glances at his computer where Ronan’s file is still open on the screen. “I’m a bit lacking on your details, I’m afraid,” he says. “I’d just like to check a few things with you if that’s okay?”

Ronan shrugs which irks Adam, but he takes it as permission to ask anyway. “The problem’s just listed as ‘back discomfort’ here, but are there any outlying circumstances I should be aware of?”

“Like what,” Ronan says.

“Like is it being caused by an injury, for example, be it recent or old.”

“No.”

“Okay…” Adam types this into the file. “Is the pain constant, or just sometimes?”

“It’s not constant. But it’s often.”

“What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I run a farm.”

“Oh, right, okay. Lots of heavy lifting then, I reckon.”

“You reckon right,” Ronan says dryly. He’s not looking at Adam, but rather letting his gaze dart around the room, taking everything in. He keeps darting glances at the massage table, something akin to suspicion in his gaze. It’s a little bit endearing, actually.

“You’re, uh, you’re supposed to lift with your legs, you know,” Adam can’t resist saying.

“Oh really?” Ronan says sarcastically, but there is the tiniest hint of a smile on his face and he locks his eyes on Adam’s for the first time since entering the office. “They teach you that in massage therapy school?”

“They do actually,” Adam replies matter-of-factly, rewarded with Ronan’s brief snort of laughter.

“Hey, is this place even like, fucking legit?” Ronan asks abruptly.

“What do you mean by that?” Adam says, although he’s pretty sure he knows where Ronan’s doubt is coming from.

“I dunno, it sort of seems all… new agey and shit.”

“It is ‘new agey and shit’,” Adam says, air-quoting with as much derision as he can muster. The place is run by psychics after all; tarot readings and all-sorts go on here. But also, acupuncture, there’s a spa, and massage, which is where Adam comes in. “You don’t need to be worried though. I’m a certified massage therapist. I’ll even show you my certificate and everything.”

Ronan regards him evenly but then shrugs. “Nah, man, I’ll take your word for it.”

“Thanks for that glowing display of support,” Adam says with a magnanimous smile. “Alright, one more question. What made you book an appointment?”

“My friend made me,” Ronan says, looking like a petulant child with his arms still crossed. “I’m here under duress.”

Adam laughs lightly. “Okay, well—hang on, wait…” he trails off because this is starting to sound familiar. “You’re not Gansey’s friend, are you? Richard Gansey?”

“So he’s mentioned me,” Ronan replies, sounding resigned.

“Yeah, like six months ago! He said he had a friend who was a farmer with a bad back and that he was trying to get him to come and see me.”

Ronan smiles wryly and does jazz-hands. “And here I am.”

Adam shared a couple of classes with Gansey in college and managed to strike up a friendship that had endured long past graduation. Despite life pulling them in different directions, they still make the effort to meet up every month or so to catch up in person, and it was one of these occasions that Gansey had mentioned his farmer friend. Now, Adam shakes his head at Ronan. Based on the limited information he has and everything he’s assuming from the two minutes since Ronan’s been in his office, he reckons that it’s been six months because that is literally how long Gansey took to convince Ronan to come. He’s probably only here now because his pain has worsened. Not to mention that he’s probably in more pain than he says he is.

All in all, it’s a good thing he’s here. Adam is very good at what he does.

“Alright then, Ronan. Take your jacket and shirt off and lie down on the massage table for me?”

It looks like it physically pains him to do so, but Ronan starts to do as he’s asked, albeit with plenty of grumbling under his breath. Adam returns his attention to his computer so that Ronan doesn’t feel scrutinised and only looks back over when Ronan has made himself comfortable. Or at least as comfortable as he can get.

Adam gets to his feet and heads over and is unable to stop the slightly awed, “Oh!” that falls from his mouth.

“What?” Ronan asks, a little muffled thanks to his face currently being in the face-hole of the massage table.

“Your tattoo,” Adam says. “It’s beautiful.”

“… Thanks,” Ronan mutters, and Adam can’t see his face but thinks he sounds a bit guarded; perhaps the tattoo is a touchy subject. It covers the entire expanse of Ronan’s back, creeping up his neck and over his shoulders. It’s all swirling vines and claws and beaks and flowers, and things Adam’s not sure he even has a name for. He thinks he could look at it for hours and not get bored. Then he remembers that he actually has a job to do, and forces his attention into doing that job.

“Try and relax for me,” Adam says.

“I’m perfectly fucking rela—Jesus fuck, Parrish, give a guy some warning!” Ronan exclaims when Adam first touches him, flinching so hard that it almost makes Adam jump.

Adam’s half-exasperated, half-amused by the theatrics. “Me telling you to relax was your warning. What did you think was going to happen?”

“Yeah, alright. You just took me by surprise.” He sighs. “Okay, go.”

Adam rests his hands flat on Ronan’s back near his shoulder-blades to acclimatise him to Adam’s touch. Gradually, the tension Ronan’s holding starts to loosen, and Adam gets to work.

He doesn’t say much; just works away at the knots seizing in Ronan’s muscles, and there’s a lot of them. Occasionally he asks Ronan a question about how he’s feeling, if it’s uncomfortable or painful, and Ronan grunts a response. But on the whole it’s quiet. Adam can usually tell when a patient wants conversation and when they’re just counting down the minutes until it’s over and Ronan definitely falls into the latter category. At least for now.

When the session is over, Adam steps back while Ronan puts his top back on, surreptitiously getting one last glance at that glorious tattoo and the very nice back it sits on.

“How was that?” Adam asks.

“It wasn’t terrible,” Ronan allows, which Adam is happy to take as a win.

“Did you want to book another appointment? Regular treatment would do wonders for you. There’s only so much I can do in one session, particularly as you obviously lead a very physical life.”

Ronan raises his eyebrows at that and smirks, and Adam prays his ears aren’t turning pink. He didn’t mean to imply any innuendo so he’s just gonna slide straight on past like nothing happened.

After a moment Ronan finally replies, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“A wise decision,” Adam says sagely, then leads Ronan out of his office and down to the welcome desk, where Henry is ‘busy’ playing solitaire on his computer. He looks up at their approach and smiles widely. “Henry, could you book Mr. Lynch in for next week, please?”

“Absolutely,” Henry says, and there’s a knowing edge to his voice that Adam doesn’t trust for a second. Henry taps away on his appointments spreadsheet and hums thoughtfully. “Next Thursday at…3? Any good?”

“That works,” Ronan says, and he’s gruff and grumpy again.

Henry writes the details down on a card and hands it to Ronan. “Then I guess we’ll see you next week, Mr. Lynch.”

“I guess you will.” Ronan gives Adam one last look, then he nods and walks out the door.

“I like him,” Henry says when Ronan’s gone. “He’s stoic.”

“He’s something alright,” Adam says absently, and Henry waggles his eyebrows.

“Think you’ve got yourself a new regular?”

“Fuck me, I hope so.”

“Adam Parrish!” Henry says delightedly. “I thought you were a professional.”

“I am a professional,” Adam says, and he plasters on a smile, feeling lighter than he has all day. “Send in my 2:30 please, Henry.”

Henry salutes. “You got it, boss.”

“And stop calling me that.”

read the rest on ao3 :)

#the raven cycle #pynch #trc fic #tumblr prompts #trc

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