#like yes because to CRIME SCENE PHOTOGRAPHER would know exactly what angles to take the pictures from🙄

[kindheartedgummybears]

episode 4-6 of season one down, I'm even more confused

[sweaterkittensahoy]

I don't really fancy established relationships but i love drawn out onesided pining, so maybe something about seeing Lestrade at work at the station or at a crime scene, being the right mix of disheveled & professional

(You and I are very different people; but I will do my very best because a good pining is a fun time)

Mycroft stands at the edge of the scene and twitches when the first few raindrops hit his collar. He opens his umbrella without thinking and lifts it to protect him as his gaze falls back to the scene.

Or, Lestrade on the scene, to be more correct.

He's standing several dozen meters away, lit up by the high-powered mobile lights from forensics. His shirt is in a state, wrinkled and creased. This is his third scene in nineteen hours, Mycroft knows, because this is the third scene he has been to as well. Someone is targeting informants to some of Mycroft's lower colleagues, and they're moving swiftly. Mycroft's people, led by Anthea, are working the angles they have. Sherlock is buried in information to find the angles they do not see. Lestrade is doing what he does the very best: being the boots on the ground.

Mycroft watches Lestrade yawn hugely, then turn and say something to a tech that makes the tired man flash him a brief, amused smile. Lestrade scrubs a hand over his hair, then looks up, squinting as the rain hits his face. It's nothing more than a light misting, truly, but Mycroft steps forward anyway, pleased at the people who nod at him in recognition. Lestrade had been insistent that his people know Mycroft on sight so he could move as easily as needed at these particular scenes, and Mycroft appreciates as always how well Lestrade understands what people need.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft says when he's a few meters away. Out of Lestrade's personal space but close enough to be easily heard.

Lestrade holds up a finger. "Two ticks," he says, flashing Mycroft a quick look to see his agreeing nod.

Mycroft watches Lestrade walk over to Donovan and have a brief conversation. The tension in her shoulders loosens minutely, and she flicks Lestrade on the chest in a friendly fashion that makes him grin.

Oh, that grin, Mycroft thinks. Such a dangerous weapon on the wrong man. Possibly even more dangerous on the right one.

Lestrade squats down to look at what Anderson is photographing, then he's back on his feet, working his way across the scene to the constables keeping watch at the tape. He says a few words, hands three cigarettes to one of them, laughs quietly at some reply, then leaves them to their work.

Mycroft is somehow certain the constable only requested a single cigarette, but Lestrade would never hand over one when he has several. It is yet another sign of the goodness of his heart. The goodness of the man.

"Mycroft," Lestrade says when he finishes his circuit and comes to a stop in front of Mycroft, hands jammed in the pockets of his trousers, his coat pushed back off his hips due to the stance. It makes him one very lovely masculine line from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes. The mist is just starting to flatten his hair, but the water makes it glimmer, and Mycroft cannot believe how devastating the mere existence of this man is to his being.

"I was going to offer you a bit of protection," Mycroft says, tipping his umbrella slightly forward. "But I am not sure you'll feel its use now that you've gotten damp."

Lestrade takes his hands out of his pockets and shakes his coat by its lapels. Water droplets fly off to the sides. "Waterproof," he says, "so I'm pretty dry overall. But I wouldn't say no to a little head protection while we compare notes."

"Certainly," Mycroft says. He steps forward at the same time as Greg, and they meet perfectly centered under Mycroft's umbrella. For a moment, all Mycroft can catalogue is the warmth that radiates from Greg's torso, the tiny cut on his chin where he nicked himself shaving, the scent of bitter, burned coffee that clings to his collar.

"Same as the others," Lestrade says, reaching up and pushing his hair backwards through his fingers. It makes it stick up more.

Mycroft gets a brief hint of mint and lavender shampoo mixed with the smell of new rain, and oh, that's new. The addition of the water to that smell that Mycroft has known for what feels like a very long time. This is what Lestrade would smell like in the shower, Mycroft thinks, and then blinks the thought away. "Stabbed through the back of the neck with signs of torture pre-death?" Mycroft asks to keep his mind focused on the present.

Lestrade sighs deeply, and there's sadness in his eyes. He feels every death he investigates, Mycroft knows, but he also carries that weight with a grace that Mycroft has very rarely seen. It is cousin to the grace Lestrade has that has him taking a moment to cheer his team. To give three cigarettes to a random constable. A relation to the grace Lestrade showed Sherlock and then Mycroft the day they all met.

Mycroft has been unquestionably and foolishly in love for a very long time. There is no other way to be in the face of a grace so casual given by a man so effortlessly beautiful.

"Yeah," Lestrade says. "How's it going on your side of things?"

"No updates, I'm afraid. And nothing from Sherlock."

Lestrade quirks a smile, then a small, dry laugh. "So, he has nothing, or he's hared off and doing something stupid."

"I would hope Dr. Watson would inform us if that were happening, but he is...occasionally unreliable."

Lestrade smiles at Mycroft, wide and amused, the flash of happiness in his eyes making Mycroft feel like he can't breathe at all. "John's entirely reliable. He will always be by Sherlock's side when he's being a fucking berk."

Mycroft huffs a laugh. There's warm annoyance and fondness in Lestarde's tone. Signs of friendship and care. Of sincere concern and affection. "I cannot argue against your accurate description."

The rain suddenly comes down harder, switching from mist to a proper downpour. There's shouts of displeasure from the scene techs, all rushing to try and preserve what they can. Mycroft is not surprised that Lestrade does not dart away to help. He is a man with a keen sense of when he's useful versus when he's not, and he will only be in the way as the techs rush with precise teamwork to cover the scene in sheeting.

"Shit," Lestrade mutters, pulling his coat around him and tying it closed. "I know we haven't found fuck-all at the other scenes, but the possibility we just lost something is going to hit the team right in morale."

"You will overcome it," Mycroft says. "Your people knows you will not blame them."

Lestrade looks at Mycroft, gaze flittering over his face. Mycroft stays still, allowing his face to stay open and readable. There's a shift to Lestarde's gaze when their eyes meet. From curious to pleased, and then from pleased to...Mycroft isn't quite sure.

Or, he is sure but he fears that to put a name to what he's seeing will mean it will go away.

Lestrade takes a half-step forward, just enough that they're truly close together under the protection of Mycroft's umbrella. "What do you see when you stand here and watch me?" he asks.

Mycroft takes a moment to answer. His heart is thundering in his chest louder than the rain hitting the umbrella just above their heads. "Everything," he finally says because it's the truest answer.

Lestrade nods slowly. He glances over his shoulder and takes in the scene. "Scene's basically useless now," he says. "But I need to check a few more things. When I'm done," Lestrade turns to look at Mycroft again, "me and you, let's get a pint. Warm ourselves up a bit and get a breather. Been a rough couple of days."

Lestrade's face tells Mycroft everything. It's not just a pint. Not just a chance to wind down with someone who understands the strain of being in charge. It's exactly what Mycroft saw and was afraid to name. Hope. Interest. Curiosity. Warmth.

"I'll wait in my car," Mycroft says. He tips the umbrella towards Greg. "Please make use of this."

Greg takes the umbrella. He gives Mycroft one more warm look, the hint of a smile, and then a sharp nod. "Ta," he says and walks away.

The way his shoulders and back straighten as he makes his way back to Donovan makes Mycroft feel warm even as the rain drenches him. He'd relaxed with Mycroft, comfortable to show a bit more of himself.

Mycroft walks briskly to his car, ignoring Anthea's amused look when she sees how wet he is. She shifts her umbrella so it covers them both.

"Any change, Sir?" Anthea asks.

Mycroft snorts at the utter flatness of her tone. Anthea cuts him an amused look. "Not in regards to leads," he says and lets her read on his face that, yes, there has been one change.

"Shall I fetch your spare suit from the boot?"

Mycroft glances over his shoulder. Greg has left the umbrella with Donovan and is making his way around without it. Were he a Renaissance painting, Mycroft thinks, his grace would glow around him like a lantern. "I am sure the heat in the car will be adequate," he says. He will never have Greg's grace, but he is very curious to try it on in some small way. They'll both be disheveled and damp when they sit down for their pint. It warms Mycroft to think of it.

"Very good," Anthea says with a blank look that laughs at his romantic fancy as she opens the door. "I assume we are waiting for the Detective Inspector to join us."

"Yes," Mycroft says. "Thank you."

[pallasperilous]

Boneless Wings

 {AO3 version}

So, blah blah blah, it’s their standard-issue disaster: pack of dumbass witches (always with the dumbass witches. Where do they find the time for this shit? Somebody get these women signed up for a Peloton subscription or a macramé class or a vibrator of the month club, seriously, whatever it takes—), ancient curse, Castiel being the actual angel of stepping in it, nobody cares. 

The point is, two hundred and forty-one hours of binge-worthy drama later, Dean and Cas are living in a semi-detached just a short thirty-minute commute to somewhere equally lame, Castiel has two literal-ass wings, and yes, Susan, they kiss now. 

The neighbors are weirdly cool with it. 

For those of you perving along at home, Dean could absolutely provide a list of the hundred or so ways that having a boyfriend* with giant fucking actual wings is super hot and/or awesome.

This is not that list.

(*you can just shut right the fuck up , Sam, because it’s either this or Dean will start saying lover. And nobody needs that. Nobody wants that.)

1.  Bird mites. Holy shit. 

 2.  Sharing a bathroom. The shower curtain rod, and consequently the security deposit, are early casualties. The medicine cabinet follows swiftly behind. Shower hijinks are not even an option.

 3.  Dean comes home one day from a gig and there is a giant plastic green turtle in the backyard. A closer inspection reveals that the turtle is actually a mule for about half a truck bed of industrial dust ‘n grit. It is, in fact, a kiddie sandbox. Dean points out that they do not, in fact, have a small child (FINGERS CROSSED), so...?

Cas then earnestly shows him an entire playlist of exotic birdy dust bath videos on Youtube. 

Dean then earnestly shows him the garden hose. 

4.  The down just gets, like...everywhere. EVERYWHERE. How many times have Sam and Dean practically sold their kidneys for a single angel feather for some dumb spell to solve some pointless Occult McProblem? And now Dean is picking them out of his damn teeth every morning. (No, gross, not because of... Jesus, no, that is not a thing.)

On the upside of this one, Dean finally has an excuse to buy a Dyson, which he’s secretly always thought looked awesome. It is. 

 5.  When Dean is scraping out the umpteenth canister of fluff he jokingly suggests they use some of it to supplement the tragically flaccid down comforter currently shaming their bed, and Castiel pitches an existential fucking sulk. Dean wants to experience happiness again, so he does not point out that it get ass-bitingly cold here this time of year, and decent bedding is not exactly inexpensive, and the Dyson kind of maxed them out on household purchases.

But whatever.

 6.  Castiel is indulging in what Dean thinks of as a sky pout when he flies right into a head-on with li’l Timmy NextDoor’s new Christmas surveillance drone. It dings the shit out of one of Cas’s left primary feathers (the scientific term is “those big motherfuckers”), which apparently hurts like a bitch. Cas is grounded for a few weeks after that and is cutely pathetic about it and at first Dean is absolutely down to kiss it better. By the end, Dean is almost ready to strangle Cas with his own necktie, but he has learned a lot of surprisingly interesting stuff about ancient Mesopotamia, like that it was super horny.

 7.  After the snow melts, Dean starts finding shit on the front step with the morning paper. It’s not even a good newspaper; Cas signed them up for the local fish-wrapper (or maybe it was Sam, before he fled for the hills— he occasionally breaks out in a  “support local journalism” rash). The crossword puzzle is insulting, but the paper does at least syndicate Carolyn Hax, whom Dean secretly suspects of being an absolute wildcat in the sack, so he grudgingly expends the calories to bring it in every morning. 

Anyway, at first the stuff he discovers crapping up the welcome mat is just shiny bits of trash — couple granola wrappers, some MGD pull-tabs, a few field-stripped twisty-ties. Probably just windblown, and he tosses it in the garbage can. 

Then a couple weeks in, things start getting...grisly? It escalates real slowly, from a variety platter of mouse bits to squirrel à la power line and then half of a dry-aged raccoon and an opossum that has recently graduated from playing dead to professional dead-being. The neighborhood crows obviously love that their front step is now a roadkill café; Dean has to bat increasing numbers of them away with the kitchen broom in order to relocate their horrible snack to the edge of the nearest storm drain.

Then one morning there are like twenty crows and they’re in just the cutest little football huddle-up around what turns out to be a human fucking finger with a retro-fun mood ring still on the knuckle (it’s feeling: Sad) and Dean fully loses his shit. 

Cas hears him freaking out and comes whomping out of the garage ready to, whatever, flap somebody to death maybe, but as soon as he establishes that Dean doesn’t need anything more than a fresh pair of boxers, he de-poofs a bit and assesses the whole human finger/crows situation in his usual infuriatingly unrushed way. The crows had mostly bounced up to the cable line over the house, safely out of brooming range, but one by one they start to drop down and hippity-hop back towards the world’s tiniest crime scene.

If Dean were five percent less freaked he’d be tempted to go inside and find out how much of a dent he can make in a six-pack before Castiel finally dings and spits out his results, but he isn’t, so he just stands there in silence clutching the broom like it’s a shotgun.

Eventually Cas says “hm,” and then he looks at the crows and makes some noises that sound like a spoon caught in a garbage disposal, and the crows make some scrawps and chuks back, and then one of them delicately noodges the tip of dead finger with its beak and then hippity hops back a foot or two, bows, and then they all fly away over the shitty little beige duplex across the street like they’re running ten minutes late to an important bird appointment.

Castiel stands up (Dean reflexively backs up into the doorway, as this involves Cas bomfing out his wings a bit for ballast and Dean has caught a blow to the nuts on more than one occasion), dusts off his goddamn slacks, pulls a plastic evidence baggie out of thin goddamn air or maybe his socks, and casually bags the finger like they’re doing a standard FBI wheeze. “So what,” Dean says, as Cas diligently zips the baggie, “the fuck?”

“Oh,” Cas says, blinking in surprise that Dean is still there and interested, “they think I’m their god.”

Dean kind of stares back at him, the six feet of dude and like sixteen feet of bird, and thinks sure, okay, but his face must still be stuck on “Tippi Hedren attic scene” because Cas puts a reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder and adds “Don’t worry. I’ve told them I don’t require further offerings, and I reassured them that you’re my consort and were simply jealous of other potential mates.”

It takes Dean two weeks to come up with a response to that, but by then it’s become evident that no bird is ever going to shit on the Impala again, so he decides to just chalk it up in the win column and move on.

You know. The family business.

8.  No matter how tightly he folds them, Cas can’t fit his wings through the definitely-not-up-to-code doorway of the wood-paneled family rec room in the basement, so Dean claims it as his man cave and dubs it the “No Fly Zone.” 

Castiel doesn’t find this funny, but Dean really only uses it to fold laundry. 

 9.  Transpo is an obvious issue. Cas can almost stuff himself into the Impala if he sort of reverse-cowgirls the back seat, but then the wingtips smoosh up against the windshield and Dean’s visibility is approximately zip. And, sure, Cas could fly himself anywhere they really needed to go, he’s basically a Chevy Of The Air, but sometimes it’s raining, and the seraph Castiel — Shield of God, Heavenly Soldier of the Lord, multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, will smell like a wet fucking chicken for days afterward. Febreze does not help.

Dean spends a few nauseating weeks contemplating the purchase of — and here he learns that the human gag reflex can be conditioned, but never truly eradicated — a convertible. Once Cas brings up the possibility of a minivan or perhaps a station wagon (he’s taken to studying family motor vehicles with all the intensity of a birder with a life list) and Dean makes him sleep on the couch.

Dean gets his own living room rotation after he shows Cas a Craigslist posting for a very reasonably priced horse trailer. Castiel points out that it’s used and Dean notes that neither of them is exactly mint in original packaging either. Castiel points out that he’s not a horse, and after a few necessary but admittedly unoriginal jokes, Dean pulls up a website with an exhaustive photographic tutorial on how to convert a horse trailer “for the safe and sanitary transport of ostriches, emus, and/or cassowaries.” Cas points out that he’s not an ostrich, emu, and/or cassowary, and Dean counters that he clearly isn’t, because an emu would probably show a little more gratitude, and that’s how Dean learns that the couch has a broken spring under the left cushion. The transpo issue remains unresolved.

 10.  Dean keeps a pair of shop-grade safety goggles by his side of the bed. It’s not the sexiest look, but it turns out feathers are stabby as hell when encountered at a particular angle. Cas can do the healy thing, of course, but they learn the hard way that cornea perforation is not really a mood enhancer. On the bright side, Castiel accidentally corrects Dean’s incipient presbyopia, which means Dean doesn’t have to hold the newspaper at arm’s length anymore when he’s idly speculating what Carolyn Hax looks like below the neck. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

 11.  You’d think that, when you’re coming down from a time-limited but incurable curse that makes you feel like every cell of your body has its own cute little individual headcold — because you missed a hex bag due to the fact that you were preparing your legal response to Sam turning up to the hunt wearing a goddamn hair scrunchy, as if he were fresh off the set of a very special episode of Clarissa Explains It All — anyway, you’d think that being wrapped in the warm embrace of an angel’s wings would be nice. 

But you would be wrong, because apparently your boyfriend has been out communing with the bees again, and those feathers pick up ragweed pollen like it’s their goddamn job, and guess what else angels can’t cure? Dean will take Motherfucking Seasonal Allergies for 600, Alex. 

12a.  One of the neighbors has that homesteading hippie brain disease that drives an otherwise normal-seeming person to brew their own beer and raise a bunch of chickens despite living within five hundred yards of a fully functioning Hy-Vee. There’s a week where one of the wee little velociraptors seems to be processing some kind of trauma because it starts yelling at dawn and keeps going until well past the hour that swearing is allowed on network TV. 

When Dean finally hammers on the front door the next afternoon the neighbor apologizes with some extremely nasty home-brew (HIPPIES) and some absolutely devastating weed (HIPPIES!) and explains that “Ginger is going through a rough molt” and then he kind of nods his head towards Dean’s side of the fence where Cas is futzing around in the squash plants and stage whispers (this is a direct quote) “You know how they get.”

Dean is about to rip the dude a new one for comparing his immortal space-kaiju lover to a fucking Australorp yard pullet when Castiel pops his head up over the white pickets and breezily contributes “Bad molt, yes, those are terrible, Dean can tell you all about how insufferable I am those weeks,” and sometimes Dean just doesn’t know why he even tries.

 12b.  The less said about angel molt, the better. 

Seriously, the freakin’ eyes-on-his-hands naked mole rat dude from, whatsit, Pan’s Labyrinth of Subtitles, would run screaming from this shit. 

 13.  There’s a 4th of July BBQ Potluck Block Party and Dean’s inability to stand idly by while good meat is abused ( shut up Sam ) means he winds up manning the grill and dismissing the pretenders to set some strictly inedible things on fire. Cas hangs out next to him and uses his flappers to kinda whupf the smoke away from Dean’s eyes now and then, which rules. It’s actually a pretty chill event until Sharon and Don From Number 4267, The Green House With The White Trim, turn up with a giant Pyrex full of naked, still-marinating teriyaki wings. 

Sharon And Don look down at their wings and then up at Castiel and then down at the wings and then up at Castiel and they are clearly teetering on the edge of a Midwestern politeness failure-based nervous breakdown. But then Cas, smooth as a margarine commercial, gently takes the dish from Sharon’s frozen hands, examines the contents for a silent moment, and says “it’s alright. They weren’t personal friends.”

He gets an extra burger for that one.

 14.  Cas keeps absent-mindedly trying to groom Dean — who, in case it still needs to be said at this point, possesses zero-point-zero feathers of his own — so he goes after Dean’s hair, instead. Dean has to stop him after his second hour of trying to straighten out a cowlick. “I don’t understand how you can steer properly with this deformity,” Cas says, as if it’s a genuine miracle that Dean isn’t constantly careening over ottomans like Dick Van Dyke. He’s even more horrified by Dean’s (frankly minimal) use of hair gel. “Jesus, Cas, it’s not like I’m drinking it,” he says, but then one time they have an epic make-out session shortly after Dean performs his masculine beauty rituals and there’s some smearage of various types of Product (tm) on the flappy areas. 

And, sonuvabitch, for the next six hours Cas is spirographing around the house like he has a heavenly inner ear infection, and he only stops veering into the doorframes after Dean wipes down every. Single. Feather. With mineral oil and about eighteen clean shop cloths. Dean switches to something called hair wax, which costs thirty zillion times more per ounce and makes him smell vaguely like church, but is a lot less gloppy. The things we do for love.

 15.  Seating inside the house is a bit of a conundrum, too. Cas can kind of flop his wings out to the sides if he sits in the middle of the couch, but then Dean’s stuck on the recliner, which is basically in the next county. Bar stools are disastrously tippy, Dean’s lower back and hips have not endured mumble-mumble years of hunting just to be subjected to a damn beanbag chair, and, after a brief flurry of optimistic excitement, Dean determines that they’d have to take the front door off to get a massage chair in. He finds a swing online that if, he can get the hardware properly installed in the crossbeam, is rated for up to 500 pounds, so he texts Cas the URL so he can check out the specs. After half an hour he writes back —

CASTIEL: Dean

CASTIEL: I believe this swing is intended for sexual congress.

DEAN: ...

CASTIEL: I can infer from the ellipsis that you have spent several minutes attempting to draft a response.

DEAN: ...

CASTIEL: Dean

DEAN: it’s multipurpose

  16 . On the plus side, though, big-ass wings make for a pretty good drying rack. He can get every sock in the house laid out on those suckers in a single round and, one episode of Dr. Sexy later, they’re perfectly dry and toasty warm, without any of the pair-busting casualties Dean has learned to expect from the apparently socknivorous dryer in the basement. 

Dean assumes it’s just the product of good air circulation and body heat until he realizes that he hasn’t had to toss a pair for being too worn out in...maybe six months? So he asks Cas “Are your wings... healing the socks” and after an entire Abbott and Costello routine centering around heal versus heel, Dean determines that the answer is: yes, his boyfriend’s wings are channeling the almighty power of Heaven to magically repair the socks Dean buys at Target in twelve-pack bags. On sale.

This is actually kind of sexy, if Dean is being perfectly honest, so, you know what? It doesn’t belong on this list.

 16.  So nobody really freaks out or bursts into tears or calls the news or the FBI or anything when Cas goes out in public with him, which Dean is secretly a little disappointed about, because come on. (Maybe giant wings just reads as a gay thing? Was there an episode of Will and Grace about this that Dean missed back when he was ass deep in wendigos or something?)

But no. Dudes tend to just glance at them across the Home Depot parking lot, throw them the Mutual Dude Acknowledgement Nod, and say some shit like “Comic-con,” or “nice anime” in a knowing tone. Then they go back to rolling their carts full of gaskets or hammers or whatever back to their mom’s station wagon. 

Little girls tend to go googly-eyed — Castiel seems to fall into the same category as a Disney princess, despite the stubble and the drabcore wardrobe, and Dean can’t count the number of times some mom has approached Dean at the grocery store (like he’s Castiel’s manager?? Which, okay...yeah, actually) and asked if they do birthday parties. The money would actually be pretty tempting if Dean weren’t five thousand percent sure that Cas would get them both arrested by launching into an anatomy lesson about duck sex or how God is a loser who favors relaxed fit jeans and Wild Turkey.

The worst is white ladies of a Certain Age, and it always seems to happen in the pudding aisle, for some reason. They either go cross-eyed with horniness and become indiscriminately handsy (Dean can’t blame them for the impulse, but also back off, Karen), or ask Cas for prayers for their cat’s chronic asshole problems (which Castiel WILL take seriously). 

Worst of all is when some hippie spinster clocks them. This woman inevitably reaches right for the feathers and asks in a willowy voice if they’d ever consider turning some of them into dreamcatchers to sell at her studio, which is literally always named The Faerie’s Glen. Then Cas gets confused about why, exactly, a sixty year-old WASP in a peasant skirt would need to call on the infant-protection powers of an Ojibwe spider goddess, while Dean just wants to bite the lady’s fingers off. 

Either way, it’s always a bad scene, and many fully loaded grocery carts have been lost to the fallout.

17.  For some metaphysical reason Dean is too dumb to suss out but also too smart to question, lugging a pair of Cessna-sized flappers around this mortal dimension actually seems to tucker Cas out. He doesn’t need to zonk out every night, but he semi-regularly throws in the towel and actually crawls in with Dean for the duration. 

This would be swell in theory, but the guy absolutely cannot settle the fuck down in less than three (3) human hours, which is the exact amount of sleep Dean requires to maintain his famously sunny demeanor. It’s not just ye olde tossing and turning — Dean can handle that, sharing a bed with Sam is like sleeping next to a kangaroo with restless leg syndrome — no, it’s a nonstop parade of little flippy-flappies and shiffle-shuffles and spontaneous outbursts of preening. 

So Dean makes him a Baby Sleep Sack. 

This is something Dean knows about due solely to one super dumb hunt involving a banishing sigil that had to be drawn in — he still feels like this had to be a misprint — human breastmilk, and that was obviously not happening. But the monster of the week wasn’t going to banish itself, so they wound up at the nearest Walmart, at 4am, picking up what turned about to be an unnecessarily generous supply of baby formula, along with a fresh box of shotgun shells because God bless America*. It doesn’t work, although “lots of stabbing” turns out to be a solid fallback plan, but the point is that while Sam was debating between Digestion Support or Neurological Development, Dean acquired an unprecedented familiarity with some of the products currently available to the sleep-deprived parent. So Dean finds some DIY Baby Sleep Sack knockoff patterns online and determines he can replicate and scale up the concept with some beach towels and duct tape, and the next morning he presents the lumpy but totally functional prototype to Castiel. 

Initially Cas thinks it’s a sex thing (reasonable, it probably is), but once they clear up that misunderstanding, he’s obviously a little peeved by the concept of being swaddled as if he were a gassy baby instead of a deathless sky monster in a sexy dude-shaped can. But Dean must be giving off some serious man on the edge vibes because Cas grudgingly agrees to let Dean tape him up the next time he’s feeling dozy. 

It’s real awkward and takes forever to get Cas bundled up right, and then he’s just kind of lying there on top of the sheets, like an enormous, grumpy baked potato. 

“I could easily break out of these restraints,” he says in a pissy tone after Dean has crawled in and turned off the light, and Dean rolls over to tell him “no shit”, but then he has to stop himself because the guy is already asleep.

Eventually they upgrade to a version made out of some of those trendy weighted blanket things, a few yards of parachute silk, and a whole lot of velcro. The dude looks so damn peaceful that Dean is honestly a little jealous.

*he doesn’t, actually. 

 18.  There’s a sunny afternoon that isn’t the usual Kansas is trying to murder you level of humid so Dean rolls the Impala out into the street for a wash. Cas helps him out a bit initially, although tragically not in a way that involves removing any unnecessary articles of clothing, but Deans sends him to grab a new tub of wax from the shed and he never comes back. After half an hour Dean needs a beer break and goes looking for him, expecting to find Cas lost in thought over whether Turtle Wax is made of actual turtles, or is made to put on actual turtles. Instead he finds Cas crouched on the shimmering pavement at the back of the driveway, sun beating down on him like it has a personal vendetta, and he’s got both wings stretched out real low above the ground. Dean kind of flips out because it’s the type of pose that just screams “stabbed in gut by angel blade” or “migraine from Hell, literally.”

Then Cas looks up, which pulls his wings up a smidge too, which in turn reveals that fully half a dozen neighborhood cats are lounging in the shady patch beneath his wings, spread out on the concrete like blobs of furry peanut butter. No, it’s actually eight cats. There are eight cats.

“Ling-Ling was feeling a little overheated,” Cas says, as if this explains everything. 

And, you know what, at this point, it does.

 19.  Dean has faith that eventually Sam or Cas or the third demon from the left in the second row will turn up a solution for the whole business. Castiel will get to tuck those bad boys back into the secret wing-closet dimension and he won’t have to worry about getting stuck in stairwells anymore, or being reported to the FAA (again). Then they can finally pack up the house, plaster over the more egregious spots of drywall damage, and go back to killing things outside of the tri-county area. The whole thing has been a pretty embarrassing interlude for a couple of dudes who’ve kicked Satan’s ass multiple times — Sam is probably telling other hunters that they’ve been deep undercover to take out a nest of suburban vampires, or a pack of ghouls with mortgages, instead of vacuuming angel down out of the AC unit and considering a Costco membership. 

And sure, there have been some...serious pluses to the situation (see: the other list), but, in his weaker moments, Dean has to admit that he’s kind of going to miss some of the goofy, irritating shit, too — like finding a six-inch feather in the veggie crisper (how? why?), or watching Cas fwap his wings out just in time to accidentally clothesline a jogger, or even the strangely compelling, sorta cheesy smell that starts to float around the house if Cas goes a little too long between hosedowns. 

He has actually grown fond of this shit. Which is 100% the least sexy thing on earth, it’s some genuinely, seriously pathetic goo goo crap, and that’s why nobody will ever hear a fucking word about it. People will ask “so what’s it like, with the wings” and Dean will waggle his eyebrows suggestively and review the highlight reel over an inadvisable amount of rail whiskey. His secret’s safe with, well. Him.

 20.  Seriously though, the bird mites. 

Gross.

[quillandink333]

Scarlet Carnations ~ Part I

BotW Link X Zelda ~ Detective AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.9k

WARNINGS: death, murder, loss, trauma, blood and gore, terrorism, organized crime, self-harm

Summary: Inspector Zelda Hyrule, assisted by the faithful Constable Link Fyori, is infamous for cracking the most confounding of cases in a town dominated by crime. Her latest assignment is to solve the murder of her own godmother, Impa Sheikah, the late CEO of Sheikah Tech. Incorporated, while staying under the radar of the dreaded Yiga organization.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII • Epilogue • Masterlist

A deafening blast jolted me out of my slumber. I snapped upright.

As a member of law enforcement, I was painfully familiar with the sound of a gunshot, and that was exactly what I’d just heard.

I strained my ears with bated breath, trying to hear over my own thundering heartbeat.

Loud, frantic footsteps raced down creaky, wooden stairs. Then a terrified scream filled the halls of my childhood home.

I tore away the sheets and rushed to where the scream seemed to have come from. When I reached the parlour was when I stumbled upon the scene. There, right at the foot of my mother’s memorial, was my godmother’s cold, lifeless corpse. Kneeling beside her was her granddaughter, Paya, weeping into her open palms in shock.

Only a minute or two had passed since I’d awoken at the sound of gunfire. “Wait here,” I ordered, then made a break for the front entrance, the nearest and most instinctual escape route.

But when I threw the doors open, there wasn’t a soul to be found.

I returned to the parlour with my tail between my legs. Then my toe hit something heavy and metallic that clacked underfoot. When I looked down and saw what it was, I froze. With caution, I ever so slowly stepped away from the weapon.

“Great...” I muttered, seeing as now it would have my toe prints on it. But the longer I looked at it, I realized I’d seen this revolver somewhere before.

Then it hit me. It hit me like a two-ton train car.

I quickly made sure Paya’s head was turned. Then with terribly trembling hands, I did what I had to do and carefully tucked it away in my nightgown.

I’d feared the precinct wouldn’t allow me to participate in the investigation seeing as I’d been on the scene at the time of the crime. However, it seemed they trusted me enough to even appoint me as the lead investigator. Granted, I had done a lot to earn their trust over the past three years, but this was unheard of.

Nevertheless, I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. The next morning, at seven o’clock sharp, I returned to the scene of the crime equipped with all the necessary tools of my trade.

I looked out the window of the cramped police buggy at our destination in utter astoundment. There were already droves of officers there, awaiting the arrival of me and my partner. The sight of the place I’d once called home being chained off and hidden from the public like this was jarring, to say the least. Of all the strange crime scenes I’d seen, this was the strangest. I never could’ve imagined I’d be returning here, not to eat Auntie Impa’s delicious pork buns or to hear Auntie Purah talk about her latest technological endeavours, but for work. How could I have?

“Zelda! Good—good morning!” greeted a rather skittish Paya when she opened the door for us.

“Good morning, Paya.”

She nearly lost her smile when she noticed Constable Fyori standing beside me. “Please, come in.” She stepped aside, and he and I entered into the low-ceilinged yet stately vestibule, removing our shoes and leaving them by the door. “Can I get either of you anything? Some tea, maybe?”

My assistant opened his mouth, but I raised a hand, silencing him. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. We have important business to take care of.”

“Oh, yes, of course! Silly me,” she chortled. “I’ll let you get to it, then.”

The first order of business was to examine the body. In most cases, a specialist would be needed to perform an autopsy, but unlike most inspectors, I had the forensic knowhow to take care of it myself. One might have said this was a side effect of my hobbies and my avid interest in all things related to science that I’d harboured since grade school. However, a full autopsy complete with the weighing of the body and the removal of the organs would come later. For now, it would suffice to determine two simple things: the time of death and the cause of death.

But before I could even get close to the body, I was stopped by my assistant, who grabbed me gently by the arm.

“You don’t have to do this,” he uttered in his typical, mousy tone. “I can call for someone else to come and take care of it for you.”

The look of real and profound concern seated deep in his aquamarine eyes pulled at my heartstrings. It had been a year, roughly, since he’d first begun working under me. He was always so worried for me, and I always felt terrible because of it. I unhooked his hand from my arm, putting on a warm smile. “I’ll be okay, Link.”

He looked at me as if to ask, “Are you sure?”

“Really, it’s fine. Don’t worry,” I insisted. “Thank you, though.” This finally got him to return my smile, albeit only briefly.

I already had a decent estimate of the time of death. The period we were looking at was between half ten at night, when the last person awake (which had just so happened to be me) had gone to bed, and three in the morning, when the gunshot had given me that rude awakening. Really I should have examined the body as soon as I’d discovered it. In most other cases I worked on, I even wished I’d been the first on the scene, before the stiff had yet to even go stiff. Of course, the one time I happened to be one of the first to discover a murder, it had to be like this.

And yet, until I knew who was responsible for this atrocity, grieving could wait.

Right off the bat, I could tell that this had been a homicide. This may have seemed obvious to someone like Paya, but as a detective, I’d had to forcefully train myself to assume nothing and question everything. Based on the characteristics of the hole running straight through her neck, however, I determined that the gun had been shot from too far a distance for it to have been suicidal. Auntie Impa’s arms simply weren’t long enough.

But for a death caused by hemorrhage from a severed jugular vein, there was a shockingly small amount of blood. The rush-woven mat beneath her was nearly spotless, and I knew from experience how difficult it was to get stains out of these mats. Even when I checked underneath the mat, there was still nothing. No blood, and no bullet.

With a final nod, I stood up and signalled the other officers to take the body away.

“Now, let’s see here...” I said to myself, scanning the area immediately surrounding the corpse before approaching my mother’s altar. But when I laid eyes on the damage it had sustained, I stumbled back.

Though she hadn’t been a follower of the same faith held by the Sheikahs, my mother’s memory had been enshrined here because, like myself, they’d been like a second family to her.

With all due caution, I picked up what remained of her photograph. The glass was shattered, and a bullet had completely erased her face.

If this wasn’t a sign of the Yiga organization, I didn’t have a clue what was. Who else would’ve borne such ill will toward Hilda Hyrule, the town’s beloved last mayor who’d been dead ever since the tragic “accident” at City Hall eighteen years prior? That massacre had been what had ushered in their age of power, and with no one left to stand in their way, they’d been terrorizing the city ever since.

Before I’d even had the chance to begin my analysis, I heard Paya’s timid footsteps shuffling up to me. “Zelda?” she whispered, obnoxiously tapping her finger on my shoulder. “Excuse me...”

I turned my head and forced a grin. “What is it?”

“Umh, I didn’t know he’d be accompanying you today.” I didn’t even have to follow her gaze to know who she was eyeing.

I suppressed a sigh. “Constable Fyori is my partner,” I reminded her politely. “I take him with me on all of my investigations.”

“Yes, I know, but...” Now her gaze was nervously flitting back and forth between me and Link. “I-I wasn’t prepared to see him again after so long. What if—what if he says something to me?”

“He won’t,” I huffed. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh my, I’m so sorry,” she fretted. “I’ll get out of your hair.” I gave her a nod of the head in thanks, and she kindly stepped back and out of my space. But even after that, I could still feel her intense stare from across the room. I let out the sigh I’d been holding in. Sure, Paya was irritating, and I was going on maybe four or five hours of sleep at most, but there was no excuse for me to be irrational, especially since it would get me nowhere in my line of thinking. What I wouldn’t have done for a nice, hot cup of chamomile at that moment.

Based on the extreme angle of the bullet’s trajectory, one could tell at a glance where the shooter had to have been positioned. They’d have been standing above the altar with very little space between the two—definitely not enough for an entire person. Therefore the bullet that had taken the victim’s life had to have been a different one. This was backed up by the absence of any blood around the hole or anywhere else on the shrine. So why had I only heard one gunshot that night? And where in the world was the bullet responsible for Auntie Impa’s death if not on the scene of the crime?

After photographing the hole and scribbling my thoughts and observations down in my notebook, I began the procedure of extracting the bullet from the altar. This was a delicate task, one that I admittedly had a hard time trusting anyone else in the force with. Once I’d succeeded in retrieving the bullet, I determined it was of the same calibre as the one that had passed through the victim’s throat, meaning it was likely that it had been fired from the same gun. Unfortunately, all these facts corresponded with the weapon I’d found on the scene mere hours ago, two chambers of which were empty. There may have been no prints left on the trigger, but even so, I simply didn’t have it in me to run a striation comparison.

Standing up straight and taking a quick, deep breath, I turned to my assistant, who seemed to be investigating the mantelpiece. “Right, then, Fyori.” He turned his head as I approached him. “Anything to report?”

“No, madam,” he replied solemnly, avoiding my gaze and peering straight ahead over the top of my head.

“Is that so...?” I tapped the end of my pen against my chin habitually. “We seem to have a dreadfully diligent killer on our hands.” I gave the room another once-over from where I stood beside him. “You’ve been thorough in your search as always, I presume?”

“Of course.”

“And you found nothing? Not even a fingerprint?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Then let’s move on,” I sighed, turning toward the doorway leading out into one of the building’s many corridors. He followed, just a few paces behind me. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to check since we got here.”

“That’s strange...” muttered Auntie Purah as she jumped through the footage captured by the front entrance’s security camera. “Symin, did I miss something?”

The Sheikah estate’s security supervisor shook his head. “Not that I could see.”

“Let me check it again.”

But even when she rewound and skipped through it a second time, the only person to appear was still myself on my initial search for the killer. Link gave me a furtive glance. I smiled at him in reassurance.

“Perhaps the other cameras caught something,” I suggested. “It would make sense that the culprit wouldn’t want to simply waltz right in through the front door.”

Auntie Purah looked to Symin. “Well, there are three other cameras, but two of them are so far removed from the scene that I doubt they’d be of much help.”

“And the third?” I asked, reaching for my notebook and something to write with.

“That would be the courtyard camera.”

“Ah, perfect!” The courtyard was located at the very centre of the property and served as an intersection between the four main hallways. “That one’s bound to have caught something. Let’s see.”

But this, too, would turn out fruitless. Throughout the night, there wasn’t even the shadow of a clue as to the killer’s movements.

“This...” I gaped. “This is impossible.” I knew for a fact that this particular model of camera was designed for the very purpose of protecting its footage from being altered or obstructed. Could the killer have made themselves invisible somehow?

“I don’t believe it.” Auntie Purah shook her head creakily. “Our company takes great pride in the reliability of our security cameras!”

Enraged, the tiny, old lady tried to stand up from her seat. Then a loud crack resounded throughout the cramped surveillance office. She screamed.

“Miss Purah, please calm down,” urged the kindly Symin, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she seethed, adjusting her glasses. “Thank you.” I didn’t know the man as well as I did the rest of the family as he had become a part of it a few years after I’d left the nest. However, it seemed like he would make a fine successor to Auntie Impa’s role of keeping her elder sister’s enduring impulsivity in check.

“There’s no reason to worry, Auntie. This is no fault of yours or your company’s,” I said, hoping to ease her pain a little. She’d suffered a terrible loss, and it was taking a great toll on her. It was difficult to watch such a brilliant mind come undone because of something like this. But after hearing my words, she looked up at me with a wrinkly smile. “My partner and I will just have to do an even more thorough inspection of the property tomorrow.”

The ride back to the precinct wasn’t a pleasant one. By the end of the day, my own mind had deteriorated into a swirling whirlpool of confusion, resentment, and woe. The investigation so far had borne so little results, it was hard to imagine that tomorrow’s search would be that much more successful. Of course there was still so much more that needed to be looked into, but right now, I just couldn’t see this turning out well. I still hadn’t solved the mystery behind my mother’s death in eighteen long years. Why, in this case, would I prove to be any less of a failure?

I curled my fists against my legs, trying my hardest to forget about the empty feeling in my stomach. Despite this, I knew I didn’t have the energy to do much more rational thinking today, if any at all.

Then my colleague broke the silence. “She was important to you, wasn’t she?” he asked, but such a personal question was strangely out of character for him.

“Yes.” I smiled sorrowfully into my lap. “I never really thought of her as a mother figure,” I admitted, “but she did put a lot of time and effort into raising me, in my actual mother’s stead.”

“She must’ve been a wonderful person.”

This made me laugh, to both his and my surprise. “Well, she would often scold me and Paya with the strictest attitude you can imagine, but I suppose she always had our best interests at heart.”

The longer I thought about Auntie Impa, the more I mulled over who could possibly have wanted her dead. She had already been getting on in age. Had the perpetrator’s need to kill her really been that dire? The only time people ever went that far was when their victim’s life would’ve put them in danger somehow if they’d have allowed them to go on living. But then again, there was the Yiga organization. They went around committing murders a couple times every week for seemingly no reason other than to flaunt their power. Perhaps Auntie Impa really had been just another one of their prey. Even so, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that there was more to it than that.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?”

The constable cocked his head, but kept his eyes on the road.

But then I stopped myself. There was still no proof of the Yiga’s involvement, so there was no point in bringing it up now. “Well, all of it is quite strange, frankly,” I amended. “The lack of blood, the missing bullet...”

“Could the killer have moved the body from somewhere else, perhaps?” he tentatively suggested.

“Very good, Link. That’s exactly what I’ve been theorizing.” The tips of his ears flushed, and he seemed to shrink back into his seat a little. “Oh, but then...wouldn’t that make it more likely for the cameras to have caught something?”

“That is true,” he concurred. “And there’s still been no sign of the murder weapon?”

I swallowed hard. “No...” My eyes flickered down toward my briefcase. “None.”

[okimargarvez]

THINK POSITIVE

Original title: Pensa positivo.

Prompt: Luke is worried for Roxy.

Warning: none.

Genre: angst, comedy, romantic, friendship.

Characters: Luke Alvez, Penelope Garcia, Roxy.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot 27 in Garvez collection.

Legend: 💏😘🐶.

Song mentioned: Giugno ’84, Tiziano Ferro.

GARVEZ STORIES

I written this story a year ago (at least), one day that I tried to do the same Luke does in this story, think positive. I’m not that kind of person, I’m not negative, just “realist”, as Rossellini said: “I am not a pessimist; to perceive evil where it exists is, in my opinion, a form of optimism”.

THINK POSITIVE

 It is no secret to anyone that Luke has never been a particularly positive person. Not that he was one of those who always walk around with his head down, eyes perpetually on his shoes or on the floor, in fact. He was skilled enough to disguise his emotions, with anyone, except with his best friend.

Able to mask unhappiness, always undercover, my love

It is a simple matter of attitude, and of character.

There are those who are his opposite, like Penelope. Always smiling, able at every opportunity to find the positive side, impossible to break down... despite the life hadn’t been particularly generous towards her; and he would have understood it immediately, and then he would deepen from day to day. Since when, unwittingly, he had made a joke about her surname, which didn’t match at all to that diaphanous skin and silky blonde hair, in which he would have so much desired to stick his fingers. And so, he had discovered that Penelope had been adopted when her parents were dead. At the time he got off calling her chica, jokingly, yet with a certain amount of flirting not too hidden; but he had thought about it for a long time, on many lonely nights, with Roxy, on the couch, the television turned off. He had imagined a young girl, still too small, the blond hair that covered her face, masking the tears, because in a second, she had become a woman.

And then, ten years ago, someone had shot her. He had inquired, he had done research, preferring not to ask anyone about the team. There was a file on the case, very detailed and complete with photographs, like any other. For five minutes he had remained with a steady hand, the mouse arrow to select the folder containing the images. Then he decided to do it. By now he had arrived up to that point, it would have been useless to stop. He had looked at them. The first was "the crime scene": the stairs that led to Garcia palace. A huge patch of blood smeared every step, a quantity of red liquid that frightened him, it had been a miracle that she had managed to survive. It was still fresh, you could see from the color. The scene was taken by various angles. Then he moved on to another section; he knew there would be these too, but perhaps he had wanted to forget it. It was the complete medical report, with also the radiography. He had almost laughed as he looked at them: it was the first time he could see Penelope's chest. The bullet was there, so close to the heart... He had closed his eyes. He had gone on. There was also a complete file on him, the bastard. Jason Clarke Battle, aka James Colby Baylor. Sheriff with the killer hero syndrome. He scrutinized every detail of his face. Ok, he was forced to admit it, it was not bad at all. He imagined him at dinner with Garcia, talking to her, flirting with her, the cheeks of his colleague blushing like in a beautiful nineteenth-century novel. And then he read and looked at all that was about the death of Battle, also the deposition of JJ. The only thing he didn’t even try to find was the psychiatric report that testified that Penelope was still able to do her job.

In the end, after that journey into the abyss of mankind, he didn’t know much more.

Yet, despite what had happened to her, Garcia could be such a happy and lively person. So much so as to continually tear out smiles and giggles. How to avoid it? Not just for all the elaborate jokes and puns she gave them every morning, before starting to talk about the case, and then on the jet. Not only for the colorful, flashy, low-cut clothes that had put him in trouble more than once. The nuances of her voice were enough. It was enough to see her face for a second, even when she didn’t smile.

However, today is not a day like many others. And what he would need, it would be just to be able to see her for a while, enjoy her sight, just this.

As the alarm rings, he throws the blankets away from his body. It takes very little time to get dressed. He laces up the shoes and keeps on sighing. But he made a decision. For once, only one, perhaps the first in his life... will do the opposite of what he has always done in these situations. He will try to think positive. Yes, everything will be fine. He will find out that it was nothing of that. Also because, how would he could go on, otherwise?

No, he can’t afford such conjecture. Think positive, only positive.

First he will find all the green traffic lights, so he will arrive very soon at work. No car that will go too slowly, exasperating him. And he will manage to park soon. Yes, it will go exactly like this.

He sighs one last time and greets Roxy with a hug a little too intense. Even the dog has understood that something is wrong. She licks his face. No tears. Not now, at least. Better not worry about the mule or... No, stop.

He closes the door. He sits in the car and starts the engine. Normally he would think something will not work. Not this time. And here, it works. No one in sight. And then, suddenly, a van loaded far beyond the allowed. But no, he will succeed think positive until he sees Penelope. It is his promise. If he succeeds in this feat, perhaps destiny will be generous and...

The traffic light is red, he sees it from afar. It takes a pinch. But just thanks to the van, when he arrives near the intersection, here, the light it's green. He remains amazed, surprised. Does it really work? He tries not to challenge his luck too much and doesn’t ask too much. Just keep driving. The head is focused on the road, but a small part evaluates which kind of dress will wear Garcia today. The color, first of all. Purple is the first that comes to his mind. Yes, purple with some shades on the blue. Naturally matched shoes. Hair? Smooth, maybe curly only on the tips. The blue glasses.

He can almost see it in front of him. He doesn’t even notice the passing time, he has already arrived at the parking lot. Usually the guardian is grumpy and finds every good excuse to complain. Luke was good at pretending it was nothing, but he was also tired of having to constantly pretend, to be quiet. He is already prepared and lowering the window. And he is again amazed.

-Good morning sir.- he shows the card to the bald man who is smiling gently. -I wish you a good day.- he takes a second too long to answer.

-Also to you.- maybe it really works. There is not the usual crabby employee. Just today. It must be a coincidence. He doesn’t believe in these things. But today he must try. He parks and heads towards the elevators. Here, a real sign would be if she were already on board, only her, though. It's been a long time since something like this has happened, that they can’t sit alone for a few minutes. And he misses it, why try to deny it?

The elevator arrives and the doors open. He gets on board. It's empty, there's nobody. Nothing strange, it's very early. But, anyway, he feels betrayed. He strives to continue to think positive. The elevator stops on the second floor. Without knowing why, he closes his eyes. Steps. High heels noise.

-Hey.- instantly recognizes that voice. -Are you ok?- if she says his name, then he will tell her the truth. Otherwise he will continue to keep everything inside. -Luke?- a hint of concern in her tone. He lifts his eyelids and looks at her for a moment.

-No, in fact, no.- he admits sadly. If he could afford to believe in dreams, if he could seriously think positive, in an ideal world... what is the use of thinking that now someone else will come in, or that Garcia will prove disinterested, that she will continue to behave in a detached way or will teasing him... so much is worth dreaming. -It's Roxy.- he knows it's an unfair move. He knows how much Penelope loves that dog. Almost as much as him. In fact, the woman's eyes widen and she opens her mouth.

-Roxy? What happens? Oh, don’t make me worry, tell me.- in the emphasis perhaps not even realizing, she grabs his wrist with her hand full of jewelry. Luke's gaze ends right there, so Penelope lets him go, not too embarrassed. He got exactly what he wanted, her complete attention. Of course, he wouldn’t have wanted such a bad excuse. Now, however, to say everything concretely seems extremely difficult. -Look, we're both early. No case has arrived, fortunately. Let's go out for a moment to have a coffee, or tea because the caffeine doesn’t make me sleep well...- she loses herself for a moment. -Ok?- Luke only nods. She turns to press the button that will bring them back to the ground floor. Again, she holds his arm. She understood. Garcia had understood that he was in trouble, that the situation was serious. After all, she is the BAU oracle.

-Penelope...- he dares to say, when they are out. When one has to do one thing, he has to do it well. In for a penny, in for a pound. In short, why not try to call her by name? She doesn’t seem bothered.

-I am perhaps not the person you would like to talk about this or anything else...- how wrong she is. -Because, let's face it, I've been a real bitch with you from the first day on and I'm aware of it. But, and I don’t say it because it's Roxy, I never wanted you to suffer. You don’t deserve it, Luke and... I think I never told you, but I love you.- Luke swallows, feeling the fucking tears in the corners of his eyes. He had promised himself that he would not cry until he received the result. He doesn’t want her to see him so fragile. A part of him doesn’t want it, the one that knows she think him as a macho, the military one that doesn’t allow him to express anything. But the other, the one that is only human, it dares to hope that by showing himself vulnerable he would get all the understanding he has never experienced in his life.

-Penelope...- again, he doesn’t seem able to say anything else. He sighs and shakes his head. She pulls him in a hug. He puts his head on her shoulder, enjoys the feeling of those hands that run through his back in gentle caresses, blond hair that tickles his neck. And then, that voice, dedicated only to him.

-Hey, Luke, everything will be fine, whatever it is. You're not alone, honey.- he should have found a way to do it first. If only he had known what it means to be hugging by Penelope Garcia. Being called honey from her. When they separate she immediately takes his hands in hers. There is nothing sexy or romantic in her gestures. It is simply what she does with anyone, but usually, he was excluded from this privilege.

-Roxy has... has a... there's a weird mass on her back. I took her to the vet, they said that we must wait for the outcome of the biopsy, to understand. But I...- he sighs. And then he says it, without asking himself whether to do it or not. -I'm scared, Penelope. I'm terrified. I can’t imagine my life without her, I know that one day it will happen, but I'm not ready yet. Well, I'll never be.- Garcia increases the grip on his hands.

-How long do you know?- there is no reproach in her voice. The low and calm tone. But also decided.

-From... from Thursday.- are five days. She also seems to have done the same mental calculation.

-And you kept all this inside for almost a week?- the woman's eyes are sad. He understands perfectly why. Because she imagines him taking care of the cases while inside he was dying, crying without tears. -Did not you talk about it with anyone?- but it's a rhetorical question, she already knows the truth.

-I know the BAU is like a family, I love being part of this group, but...- Garcia shakes her head and puts a finger on his lips, making him nod to keep quiet.

-I already know what you're going to say. You don’t want to be a burden to others. You don’t want to disturb them.- she gives him a slight smile, like saying welcome to the club. -Phil doesn't even know that?- Luke closes his eyes and shakes his head. -And...- since they came out she's got the situation in hand, but this is the first time she falters. -Lisa?- he want almost laugh. -You talked about it with her?- so naive, so sweet, so good, so understanding, so beautiful outside, but inside more.

-No... with Lisa... it didn’t work.- he shrugs. He is not particularly sorry. Of course, having a girl would have helped, but basically... if it's not the right person, with whom to share such a situation, what is the use of staying together?

-Oh.- she doesn’t say that she is sorry. -When... when will they tell you the outcome?- this time is Luke quickly to catch and find the woman's hand. He intertwines their fingers. It's something he needs to stand up. And Penelope today seems willing to allow him many things.

-It could be here tonight or tomorrow.- he swallows. She gets off her hand to put both of them on his face.

-Listen, here's what we'll do. I'll talk to Prentiss, even if there's a case, you don’t move from here today. Until we are sure that everything is ok, I will seize you as my assistant. I am sure that you will be able to make a valid contribution from here too and Roxy needs you more than them.- he loves her authoritative, decisive tone. He loves the fact that she took the reins of the situation and also that she can put a bit of pepper and irony to lighten the atmosphere. But more than anything else, the fact that she said “we” and not “you”. -When that phone rings, we'll stop to do everything we're doing and we'll take care only of that wonderful creature. I can find information even far from my office, and at most I will recruit Kevin... actually, I'm writing to him now.- while speaking, she quickly types a text on the phone that she has just extracted from the pink bag that carries over the shoulder. He remains as always fascinated by her every gesture. -And about the puppy... is she at home now, alone?- Luke nods. -Oh, let's go pick up her.- he is about to protest. -It's too long since you don’t bring her here and there's room for all my loves in the bat-cave.- this last sentence contains a confession, but Luke can’t catch it. -In this moment she shouldn’t be alone, she needs warmth, affection, positive thoughts...- he gives up.

She drags him to his car. She holds his hand, over his, all the time. -Penelope, I... Thanks. I don’t know what else to say but... thank you.- they are at the light; she smiles at him.

-Well, don’t get any ideas, I don’t do it for you, but for Roxy.- she's joking, but feels the need to reassure him. -Luke...- he shakes her hand on the steering wheel.

-I know.-

It all happens in a moment. The phone rings and wakes them both up. They are at his house. She insisted on sleeping on the couch. With Roxy at her feet. He couldn’t stand alone in his bed, so he ended up falling asleep in the chair, staring at the two "women" he loves most. Penelope, of course, also decided that she would stay close to him (to Roxy) until they would called. He hadn’t even tried to protest. It seemed to live in a dream and sometimes in a nightmare. He felt he couldn’t be happy for something that could prove terrible.

But he had decided to keep think positive.

Then, the call comes for real. While he talks, she gets dressed and when he hangs up, she's ready. Luke notices that she doesn't wear makeup. In five minutes, he is also dressed. She takes him by the hand, picking up Roxy on the seats behind them. They might seem like an ordinary family. They are this, in a not easy way.

-Penelope, thank you for being here. I know you don’t want me to say it, but I have to do it. You're... you're the best person I've ever known.- the squeeze increases until it hurts. She digs her nails in his flesh.

-Damn, Alvez, are you trying to make me cry? Because you're succeeding.- she sniffs and blows her nose with a tissue. He would like to tell her that without makeup she is even more beautiful. But this is not the right time. -Anyway, anyone else on the team would have done it. We are a family and families don’t leave... they shouldn’t leave their members alone.- that pause certainly didn’t go unnoticed.

-Yes, we are a family. But it is not true that everyone would have done it.- there is nothing else to add. They remain silent until they park. Penelope hugs Roxy, and thinking not to be seen, let some tears bathe her fur. Luke looks at her, shaking his head. Because Penelope is like that. Externally solid like a diamond, but inside friable like a crystal. Despite what she told him, she is not going to show him that she is worried, because this time it's up to her to act as the strong one. He loves her with every inch of his skin, and who cares if it's not the right time. It will never be. She reaches him with the dog on a leash and almost no trace of what she did on her face. Before he can do it, she takes his hand.

-Roxy is your child, but I feel like I've become her mother a bit, so, don’t ever forget it: we're together in this thing. Whatever happens.- she waits for him to nod and then adds, less seriously: -But don’t get any ideas, as soon as this story is over, or soon because Roxina here is fit as a fiddle, I'll go back to treat you like the Newbie you are.- Luke chuckles.

-Whatever, I’m happy just being in your thoughts.- he is playing the game, but she feels the hand in her becoming sweaty. Now that they are in front of the door of the surgery, they have to turn in adult people. They enter. He holds the door open for his ladies.

A young blonde woman immediately goes out from one of the many doors. -Oh, Mr. Alvez, good morning. Dr. Ramirez is finishing a visit right now, but it will be right away from you. Take a seat, meanwhile.- Luke nods, realizing he is terrified. The moment is approaching. He joked, dreamed, thought positive. He has also shamefully taken advantage of the situation. He put into practice Garcia's mantra: getting the best out of anything. But everything will seem like a joke to him, if now the doctor will tell him that Roxy...

Penelope keeps holding his hand and now she laying it on her leg. This woman is trying to kill him. He doesn’t have time to have that kind of thoughts, because the door opens again and this time it's his vet. They stand up in sync.

-Luke, good morning.- he bends to caress Roxy. -Hey, hello beautiful.- then he glances at the blonde woman next to the dog. -Let's go to my office.- Penelope hears the huge sigh that Luke makes. She still holds his hand. -I don’t want to lose time. Roxy will need surgery. The results of the examination were clear. She has a tumor...- everything collapses around him. He would like to get up and shout that he knew, that it was useless to hope for good, because these things always end up like this. But the made to have Garcia next to him brakes him. Fortunately, because Ramirez hasn’t finished speaking. -…benign tumor. So, I think we should make an appointment to remove it. But there is no hurry. What do you think about next Saturday?- Luke can’t speak because he feels all the emotions he has kept inside about to explode.

-Yes, that's fine.- Penelope answers his place.

They come out. They have the whole day free, so they decide to go to the park. Luke doesn’t know what's holding him back yet. They are holding hands as if they were engaged. And a sentence continues to light up in his head. Think positive works. It really works.

-So, Luke, did you see that I was right? Oh, hell, I did a mistake. I had to call you Newbie.- they both laugh and with those hair that flutter everywhere, framing that look irreverent, he can’t really make it anymore. He takes her face in his hands and brings it close to his own, kissing her gently. She opens her eyes but closes them immediately.

It is he who breaks away first, blushing instantly as he becomes aware of his gesture. -I'm sorry, I... I just got caught up in the moment...- Penelope shakes her head, annoyed.

-Don’t apologize. Be sorry only if it's something you wouldn’t have done regardless of what Roxy could have.- her eyes shine as she speaks. Their foreheads are still close, and their breaths intertwine.

-All right. So... I don’t apologize at all. I should have done it two years ago when we introduced ourselves. Because you were already in my destiny.- she still laughs. But she knows that if he said it, it's because he really thinks it. He is not one of those who lives exclusively to be seen by others, quite the opposite. But it's all so big that she should lighten it a little.

-Oh, Luke, but how melodramatic you are!- she leans her left hand on his chest, enjoying the fact of being able to touch those muscles on which before she could only fantasize. -Let's say we behaved like children and prickled each other constantly, what do you think?- he moves her hand in the direction of the heart.

-It's you, the one who likes to do this commedia, you have also admitted! I joined the game, because I couldn’t do anything else. But I would have fallen for you even if you hadn’t harassed me, perhaps more calmly, but it wasn’t avoidable.- Luke continues to insist and she knows that he is right.

-Ok, ok. I give up. But I liked to torment you and I will miss it.- when he thinks she has run out of cartridges she extracts the rabbit from the magic hat.

-No one said you can’t keep doing it, chica.- he lifts her chin with his thumb, bringing their lips to a close distance. He is aware of the charm he puts in place, not because he feels beautiful, but because of the way she is looking at him. -But now, what will happen about "us"? I remind you that we also have a child to take care of.- Roxy barks, feeling herself put in the middle.

-I would say to proceed calmly, step by step, live what awaits us, do what we feel at the moment. No pressure.- he agrees, but at the same time it doesn’t seem enough.

-But... Are we together? I want you to be my girlfriend. Officially.- a little laugh runs out from her mouth, for Luke's extremely serious tone. It's almost scary, but it's so sexy when he's authoritarian.

-Yes, Luke, we're together. I have not the habit of kissing random guys, even if the are intoxicating like you.- his life is a kind of paradise since he met her. It makes him feel so important, as he has never felt with anyone.

-Intoxicating? Do you think I'm intoxicating?- he repeats with a mischievous look, his mouth already pointing to her neck. But you are in a public place, demeanor! Penelope catches the uncertainty and doubts behind the fake macho irony.

-Yes.- she replies simply, as if it were an obvious fact. -And about make it really official... come here, take a picture with Roxy.- they pose sitting on a bench, the dog lying on their legs. It is probably the first selfie Luke has made since this mania was launched. -Well, now I put it on my profile. More official than that...- ripping yet another laugh. -Enjoy the quiet, because I know that in five minutes maximum our phones will start to sound like church bells on Christmas Day.- Luke caresses her cheek and then curls a lock of hair around his index finger.

-Mhm, I think it's better to take advantage of it, then.- fully agree, Penelope throws herself on the man's lips. But they don’t break off even when her predictions come true. Only Roxy, placing herself directly between the two, succeeds in the enterprise.

-Hun, you're really a bad girl. Mammy and daddy were having so much fun...- probably the days will come when they will quarrel and they will almost hate each other, they will say horrible things, but for now, this seems impossible to Luke. All that comes to his mind is that think positive really works and that he should have started doing it first.

 TAGS: @theshamelessmanatee  @arses21434 @kathy5654 @martinab26 @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @thinitta   @myhollyhanna23 @garvezz @mercedes-maldonado  @shyladystudentfan

[badgerinsocks]

A Wild West Experience Part 7

Part 7! Finally, some rising action coming up. Hope this one makes people think a little!

And so the town of Haven began to watch the newcomer. Of course speculation ran rampant. Sean the butcher discussed her merits over the counter, wiping his bloody hands on yet another rag. Riders debated her horse with Owen while he re-shod their own mounts. Gio wrote an article for the Haven paper, outlining the legal situation to come. He wrote to Sheriff Jacob, summoning him and council to Haven’s court. He would not be surrendering the outlaw.

Women were almost unanimous in their support of her. One lady, as Mary was taking her measurements, said to her companion, “Ye know, even if she did shoot her husband, I reckon she’s no guiltier than any wife alive!”

“Except,” her friend rejoined, “She’s the heroine for actually doin it!” Both ladies laughed. When Mary told her husband that, she perhaps reassured she’d never shoot him. He laughed, but, she thought, with just a touch of fear.

The most curious, and curiously quiet, were the bar girls. As a few days passed, and Kelly grew more confident behind the bar, they talked to her rather than about her. They liked the new bartender with the dungarees and the smart mouth. She liked them, with their open honesty and unhurried curiosity. She knew they wanted to find out something: everyone wanted to find out something, and no one was sure what that something was. But the bar girls knew better than anyone how to keep bedroom doors closed. 

They would sit on her stools and fill her in on the Haven gossip. “You might as well know, since every good bartender knows everything in town,” One said. “And if ye lose your trial, you’ll be dead and it won’t matter!”

Kelly had to laugh at that. Though, she did lay awake every night, listening to Jones softly snoring in the office below, wondering if Jacob would even let a trial happen. He might come to take her back regardless. Maybe he’d just kill her. He really wasn’t bright enough, or perhaps he was simply too desperate, to realize he would be the obvious suspect. She would lie there, rolling her wedding ring around her fingers, cursing herself for being 16 and thinking her husband and married life would save her. 

Jones, if he listened above Gilbert’s snoring, could hear her pacing in the small hours of the morning. Gio would hear her restlessly rifling through her belongings when he came in. Morning after morning, she would find one or two things she did not need, and the rejection pile grew.

One morning, Gio came up to knock on Kelly’s door. “Kelly? You awake?” 

There was a rustling, and the door opened. Kelly was still in her nightgown and morning robe she’d borrowed from one of the bar girls. “Yes, sorry, for runnin late.”

“S’alright, I have a solicitor here, best in Haven, wants to take your case.”

Kelly leaned on the door, knitting her eyebrows together. “How’s that? I haven’t written to any lawyers.”

“No,” Gio said, “I did.”

Kelly was quiet for a moment. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” He did not say that he knew she wasn’t sleeping, that the circles under her eyes were growing with each sunrise, that he knew Sass had to force her to go home every night. She didn’t say she hadn’t contacted lawyers because she felt her case already lost, that she just managed not to skip town every night, that the only thing keeping her in bed were the faces of people she would betray in Haven. She didn’t say she had nowhere to go, that Haven was as good a place to die as any. 

What she said was,” Right, tell him I’ll be right down.”

Gio nodded and went to offer the lawyer some coffee.

Presently, Kelly had changed and joined them. Gio noted that unlike her usual outfits, she had opted for a dress today. He assumed this was to humor the “wronged gentlelady” angle. She looked oddly different.

Kelly took in the strange scene before her. The sheriff was handing a cup of coffee to a tall, older man with the most magnificent mustaches, and shining military uniform. He was well built, and very animated of personality. Upon noticing her entrance, he bounded to his feet and gave her a bow.

“My dear lady, it is a pleasure to meet you, though grave given the circumstances. Admiral Aiden, at your service.”

Kelly glanced at Gio, smiled graciously, and said, “Wonderful to meet you, Admiral. Thank you for coming to see me.”

“Oh, no trouble, no trouble at all!” The three of them sat. “Your husband was a military man and a fellow defender of the law. Also, your case is intriguing; I greatly enjoy a challenge.”

“Well Admiral, that is exactly what I pose.” Kelly told him, accepting the mug of coffee from Gio. “I’m afraid my case is somewhat fatal.”

“Nonsense, no, I never think a case is over until the verdict comes down. Come now, it’s quite common to think you’re lost before you’re started. You are a sharp woman, and I,” the Admiral said, straightening his mustaches, “am an excellent lawyer.”

Kelly managed not to laugh. “There is also the issue of money. I have no money of my own, and I doubt my husband’s estate went to me, as I am his accused murderer.”

“Pish-posh, we’ll discuss my fee after the trial, my dear.”

Gio leaned towards her. “Why are you resistin this? If you lose, they’ll kill you.”

Kelly’s smile faded and she put a hand to her brow. She didn’t speak for several minutes, and when she did, it was in a brittle voice that startled both men. “Because I am going to a trial against a sheriff, a man with considerable power, and there is hardly any evidence at all. I do not know if it is worth puttin myself and Haven though that.”

Gio reached out and patted her hand still on the table. “You’re not puttin Haven through anythin it hasn’t seen before. And as for you, you have the best lawyer you could find, and I know for a fact that nearly all of Haven would rise to your defense if they could. So whatever you’re fearin the outcome to be, at least let us help your chances.”

Kelly seemed not to hear him. She was very still, almost not breathing. Finally, in the same brittle voice; “Alright.”

The sheriff breathed and leaned back in his chair.

“Brilliant!” The Admiral reached down next to his chair and brought up a briefcase, out of which he pulled a small writing pad. “Now then,” he said, putting pen to paper. Kelly inhaled deeply and lifted her head. “Who, what, when, and where?”

After several hours of exhaustive questions, Sam interrupted with the mail and a message from Sass asking if Kelly was to be expected. Gio sent him back an explanation and an apology. He tipped back in his chair, rifling through the mail as the others finished a discussion on the shot that actually killed Kelly’s husband. 

“I shall subpoena the crime scene photographs, assuming they do those here,” the Admiral declared. “And if there are none, find the mortician.”

“The mortician?”

“Yes, he would have examined the body for burial. He could tell us the size and shape of the bullet wound.”

“Could he really?” Kelly asked, intrigued. “How would that help us?”

“Well my dear, you carry a shotgun and a small caliber pistol, am I correct?” 

“Yes, as well as a knife.”

“My word, you do like to be prepared. As both of those guns have distinctive bullet patterns and sizes, we can be fairly certain whether they did or did not shoot the man. I could also write off to my friend, lovely man, detective at Scotland Yard. It would take some time, but those fellows are on the cutting edge of-”

“All out of time, Admiral,” Gio broke in.

“Pardon?”

“I mean, there is no time for a letter to England. This is from the Sheriff Jacob.” Gio held up a letter. “He’s comin to Haven.”

“What?” Kelly cried. “When?”

“It was sent a few days ago. He’ll not be two days.”

Kelly’s hands knotted together. “God above, that isn’t enough time. Admiral, how could we prepare an argument in less than two days’ time?”

The Admiral closed his briefcase, and strode around the table to clasp his client’s hands. “My dear,” he said with a smile, “we simply will.”

–

Buy me a coffee at https://ko-fi.com/badgerpride

-–

For more Content, check out @contentcreatorshaven or www.contentcreatorshaven.com! We are a creator collective dedicated to helping each other make it in this very crazy world.

[justasmallbloginabigklainefandom]

From Grey, chapter 6

Temperance_V: So this is a special blog post featuring a guest blogger, which I've never done before but it seemed like a pretty fun idea since *basically* we talk more than enough to do this without going out of our way anyway. So, this week the blog is in the form of this chat log between me and Paleanghostly, who's mostly active over in the 'ghostlanx' fandom.

Paleandghostly: You have to put the scare quotes around it to remind people that I basically devote my days to looking at pictures of superheroes like a fourteen year old, of course. TV: I think most of your gang spend more time staring at their butts than most fourteen year olds do, P&G. P&G: You might be surprised. I remember being fourteen. TV: Anyway, we met a while ago now when P&G commented on my blog to insult my taste in whiskey and was somehow sort of charming about how stupid I am, and we ended up chatting. Now we play chess over the mail. P&G: Actually over the mail, on actual paper. It's a thing. TV: I genuinely look forward to the letter sneering at my last move once a week. So we're here to discuss something we've already been talking about anyway but it's been a *particularly* interesting chat, so we thought we'd share some thoughts with the wider internet. So this discussion got kicked off by the fandom reaction to this photograph of the Ghost and Phalanx from I think three weeks ago now? P&G: They'll remember the fandom reaction. It's the kind of wank that's so much bigger than the incident that caused it ever could be. TV: I'm not actually in the 'ghostlanx' fandom, btw, I should put that disclaimer out for anyone who's reading this *from* that fandom. If I seem like a n00b, forgive me. P&G: Please god stop putting it in scare quotes. Temperance usually blogs about anything interesting in the media and reactions to the media, for those who have followed *me* from phandom, and it was during one of her posts on Mad Men that I found it necessary to educate her in what we drink and what we use to clean toilets with. And it's *whisky*, please tell me you are actually drinking the stuff that is worth drinking and is not overpriced rebottled mouthwash by now. TV: Moving on. The photograph is a candid caught behind a police van, and shows the Ghost and Phalanx in conversation with a police officer - in suit and tie, so I'm guessing a detective but he looks a little young for it. No-one appears to be trying to arrest anyone. You'd think that would be have been the main point of discussion, P&G? P&G: *snort* Have you *met* fandom? Get to the interesting substance of the issue? No! We want exactly what we want and we want it exactly when we want it, anything deviating from this is a cause of deep personal offence to me and the *entire internet must stop and feel my pain!!* TV: So, it wasn't the crime scene they *weren't* arrested at that most people were talking about (though presumably, the 'enemy' you actually face on the streets you have more in common with than you do your own boss in their high rise office; if I was police I think I'd think we had bigger problems than superheroes too). P&G brought the discussion to my attention via the medium of much swearing, because she has a lot of feelings about these things. P&G: Oh please do make me sound like one of them. The reason I drew Temperance's attention to the response was - well, threefold. One is that in terms of gender politics and misogyny and homophobia amongst those who claim to not be bigots it was *fascinating*. Slash depressing. Two is that it was an eyebrow-straining example of the fandom entitlement complex. Three is that it gives us a very interesting insight into their identity and how very un-black-and-white that is - because people are more complicated than their labels, always. TV: Let's deal with gender first, though these issues do run through each other. This all came about because of the Ghost's posture in the photograph. He's standing quite close to Phalanx, who's facing and speaking to the police officer - I'm sorry, is that police officer really tall or is he actually that short? It's kind of adorable. P&G: He's like the Swiss army knife of superheroes. Flexible crime fighter, folds into your pocket afterwards. TV: Phalanx is speaking, standing with his feet apart, hands apart, gesturing - something, to what he's saying. Possibly just emphasizing a word. No-one even mentioned how Phalanx was standing? P&G: No. Because the Ghost was innocently standing next to him. TV: The Ghost is standing with his left arm crossed over his chest - his cloak makes it a little hard to see, but he's probably supporting the opposite elbow with his hand, because his right hand is held up loosely at shoulder height, as if propped off a desk. And he's got his hip cocked, and his head tilted the other way, it's a great photograph actually, his posture's like a da Vinci composition. P&G: I knew I liked you for a reason. It is a great picture. It's just enormously aesthetically pleasing, Phalanx standing sort of open and easy, the Ghost a longer but narrower zig-zag of angles, eyes on him. Both the Ghost and the cop are looking at Phalanx; the Ghost's expression, as much as you can make it out under the hood and mask, looks attentive and relaxed. Like you would look at your lover, mid-sentence. What fandom chose to cry and cause wank over is, Jesus fucking Christ, the way he's standing. TV: It's not the most masculine posture in the world. P&G: Why the *fucking* hell should it be? TV: Let's go through this in bite-size chunks so it's not just a string of expletives again. Why, as succinctly as possible, did fandom start a flamewar over the Ghost standing like that? P&G: Because they, the idiot ignorant children, fetishize homosexuality in the most contorted and disturbing way possible. Because they're fine with him being gay - happy that he's gay, since they can use his name and form for all their little m/m fantasies on a whole different level of appropriation now. But how dare he, human being in his own life, how *dare* he not conform to strict gender stereotypes at the same time. He's perfectly well allowed to be gay, as long as he does it the 'right way'. God forbid he be any kind of queer that disturbs them, though. TV: There was a lot of negativity. P&G: They don't want to see a male hero stand in a 'feminine' pose. It demeans him. It makes him less heroic. TV: Because to be female is to be less, and to be a male imitating a female is possibly the worst thing it's possible to be. Some of the responses were genuinely unsettling, I read some of your replies to them. P&G: I might have been angry, but I do not disown a single word of what I said. Disgusting self-absorbed ignorant little shits deserved it. TV: But not everyone was so negative about it. P&G: No. Some of fandom is actually populated by feminists and not by people who think that they know what that word means but have never actually thought it through. And then some of fandom is populated by people who further fetishize his femininity in again the most contorted way possible. We kind of had perfect storm conditions for the wank after that. TV: You posted a short piece of meta about it at the time. P&G: I posted a rant, please don't dignify anything that happened during that shitstorm with a respectful title. I hammered out at my keyboard my undying rage that these people were treating him like a doll to dress up how they pleased, and then throwing tantrums when he failed to live up to what they'd dressed him up as in their heads, or subsuming him under the further homophobic, misogynist, *the opposite of accurate* image of him as a swooning 'heroine' in need of big strong Phalanx to 'rescue' him. TV: Little strong Phalanx. P&G: I sense some favoritism developing. TV: He's really cute now I've *looked* at him. Look, I'm not in this fandom, this is not my war to step into. But it *is* interesting. Because, obviously, there's a lot of misogyny involved in campophobia - even in the queer community, the feminine man is despised. P&G: Yes. A loud part of the queer community, weirdly, strives for heteronormativity. We focus on gay men and women as being 'normal', the way straight men and women are 'normal'. Possibly just because it makes us less threatening to straight people, or helps us deal with internalized homophobia, I don't know. But that 'normality' is a lie whether the person in question is gay or straight, these categories are weird, and troublesome, and some of them are actively steeped in hatred and lies. The only thing to do is let it go. 'Normal' has only ever been an illusion. It is all so much more complicated than that you would not *believe*. Let gender be whatever it will be, and stop trying to shame people into going about it the way you're comfortable with. People are who they are and they love who they love. No-one should ever have to sit in a labelled box that someone else nailed the lid down on. TV: Fandom's largely female and yet we still perpetuate the weird misogyny wrapped up in all of this. P&G: Fuck the patriarchy that lives in our own heads most of all. TV: And the weirdest part of it is, everyone knows who he is - he's a hero. There is so much photographic evidence of his extremebamfery that it was a struggle to narrow down which gifs to illustrate the point with. P&G: He haunted New York on his own for five years before Phalanx showed up. Criminals are terrified of him, there's enough documented evidence of that. He can take down a dozen guys all bigger than him and then stroll away when the cops arrive, the last man standing and still unarrested. He kicks so much ass and we've always admired that. He also just copes with what must be a frequently distressing and draining occupation - most of what he deals with on any individual night could be completely traumatic to many people. I admire his strength and bravery utterly. And somehow people cannot square that strength, bravery, and bamfery with the image of him standing with his hip cocked *like a girl*. TV: Because, really, the two just aren't connected. They literally have nothing to do with each other. It's not that either should make the other difficult, there is no logical inconsistency in his not being traditionally masculine and his simultaneously kicking lots of ass. P&G: No. It was never his testosterone-fuelled uber-manliness that kicked ass. It was him. Exactly as he is. He's the same person kicking ass as he is standing next to Phalanx, in what is to him an unconsciously comfortable position - it's only since Phalanx came along that he's started relaxing like that, btw, *that* is clearly what's comfortable to him, not that wary cloak-covered hunch he always wore before. And it says so much more about fandom, about *people*, than it does about *him* that people somehow cannot make the image of the butt-kicking man who stands 'like a woman' sit right. TV: Because - what, heroism is manly? Girls don't kick ass *like that*? Because like you said, there are those who emphasize and fetishize his femininity, and in so doing they often fail to capture the bamfy aspect of him. P&G: What this links in to is the fandom entitlement complex. TV: Go ahead, I can feel your need to preach. P&G: I have a rant brewing, if that's what you mean. The fandom entitlement complex links into fandom sexism in a really strange and powerful way. Because fandom feels like it *owns* its figures of fetishization; they are what they are because we made them that. There is an enormous sense of ownership, like they're just the scaffolding, *we* construct who they are. And of course, they can't live up to that. They're real people, not our dolls. And when they fail to live up to our particular construction we either ignore the facts and go on as before or else we get *really fucking angry*. How *dare* they be actual human beings. They're supposed to be *my doll*, not any real person. Especially not any complicated real person! They should be as simple as possible because I can't conceptualize more than three personality traits in my head at any one time, I am *actually* that dumb! TV: Ahem. Plus we live in a patriarchal society and we construct our dolls along the strict and misogynist gender lines given to us, which oversimplifies them in very dangerous ways. P&G: That's what worries me about many of the people who make the Ghost out to be 'girly' - they're often people who obviously really *identify* with the Ghost, and they still make him out to be weak. So what does that say about the psychology of some women in this world, that society taught us to hate ourselves so *effectively* that we even want our *heroes* to just be rescued, that when we use him as a stand-in for ourselves in *fiction* we still *make him weak*? Because the fic and meta where the Ghost is effeminate *and* is the still the strong, life-saving hero - well, I've rarely found it under the sheer mass of 'basically all the Ghost really wants is for Phalanx to *save* him' fic. TV: I mean, ouch, but yeah. It explains the bizarre popularity of misogynist romance fiction written for women by women, after all. P&G: Mm. So we construct our dolls as manly male heroes, and then throw a shitfit when the queer man actually turns out to be *too* queer. Or we construct them as weak and flimsy *caricatured* women with dicks, who angst and cry and need a more masculine partner to 'rescue' them. The entitlement complex is so strong that we either write over them with our own images - rewrite the Ghost entirely, forget that he kicks ass, forget his *strength*, because a 'girly' man could never be strong because *girls aren't strong* - or we rage and scream about all our butthurt that the hero turned out to not be a cardboard cut out MAN. The part where he's a hero - do I actually need to remind people that he stopped New York being blown up? (with Phalanx; they are partners, after all) - who is both 'feminine' and 'masculine', because we all are, because those labels fix to characteristics and not to people, *that* part gets forgotten. We want them to be what *we want them to be*. We forget that they're not obliged to be a damn thing for anyone except themselves. And often people in writing their definitions of other people do want to wipe queerness out. They want us to go back to that gender dichotomy. They either want him to be a 'man' (caricatured) or to be basically a 'woman' (caricatured) in male form, but they can't *stand* that he's actually just a human being, and human beings are difficult. TV: No middle ground? P&G: Are you shitting me? This is fandom. TV: So tell us how to fix this, great wise Ghostly. P&G: I appreciate your sarcasm so, so dearly. There is middle ground, I was being facetious. There was a small, feminist, pro-queer faction fighting this corner as loudly and rationally as they could. And Blackbindings - one of the fanficcers in the ghostlanx fandom - wrote a piece after that photograph was published called Graduation, which tried to actually ignore the wank and deal with what the photograph *did* teach us about the relationship between the Ghost and Phalanx. Because all that wank is nothing like the most interesting part of that photograph. In this fandom, *everyone* should have responded to that photograph how Blackbindings did, but unfortunately she's the only one with the brains to see what's actually important. TV: I haven't read the fic. P&G: It's a meditation - all of her fics are strolls around a subject, giving you new angles and a wider perspective to actually *see* something from, I swear she makes me realize I have my eyes *closed* half the time. It's a meditation on the balance of 'power' in their relationship. What power means, and doesn't mean, and how it doesn't have to dominate, those who have power can *share* it. We think of it like it's a limited resource but why can't everyone be powerful, if it's the right kind of power? It's about their teacher/student relationship. TV: You're going to have to explain that for those of us who aren't in the fandom. P&G: Tell me what you think it might mean from looking at that photograph. TV: I don't know. The Ghost is standing slightly behind Phalanx's shoulder, relative to that cop. It could just be that the way Phalanx is gesturing has knocked their shoulders out of alignment. It could be that Phalanx has *put* himself between them. It could be that the *Ghost* put Phalanx between them. It could be that Phalanx is taking the lead and the Ghost is happy with that. It could be that the Ghost is watching over him . . . P&G: Yes. It could be all of those things. And not one of us mentioned it because we were just too fucking busy screaming about the Ghost standing like a girl. The Ghost was there first, and it's pretty long been assumed by many that they had a teacher/apprentice role - the classic superhero/sidekick relationship. But it becomes obvious in that photograph - and when you look back, there's a lot of other pictorial evidence for it - that it's really not that simple, and maybe it never has been. TV: You know I love it when you elaborate. P&G: I'm sexy when I'm verbal. When you look back through gifs and photosets, whenever they're dealing with crime victims, the Ghost tends to be in front. His attention is all on the victim and Phalanx is looking at *him*. When they're dealing with criminals they're usually side by side and their attention is focused on the threat. But whenever they're dealing with anybody else - cops, reporters, fans, bystanders - usually Phalanx is the one in front and talking, and usually, the Ghost isn't looking at who they're dealing with, his gaze and his posture are orientated towards *Phalanx*. The Ghost often isn't even fully visible in those situations. Look at that photograph again; Phalanx is standing very at ease and in control of the situation, very relaxed being the one talking, and the Ghost is looking at *him*. This is not a hero/sidekick relationship. They have strengths and weaknesses and they complement each other. They actually are, in every sense of the word, partners. TV: That's quite sweet actually. P&G: If you're contemplating joining the fandom I advise you not to, it's populated mostly by cretins and children. Blackbindings is special. Very special, actually. She does cryptic crosswords for *shiggles*, I don't know if you've ever looked at one but they are torture for the mind. But it affects her brain in interesting ways. She called it 'Graduation', because partly the fic is about how they educate each other, empower each other (of course education is empowering: in her fic, knowledge elevates). But the fic is also very steeped in color terms. It gives it a really physical, sensual, *there* atmosphere, almost close enough to touch, and it was only when I remembered her twisty-turny cryptic little brain that I realised that 'graduation' is only a letter away from 'gradation'. It's the sort of thing she'd notice and play on, cunning little creature that she is. The way hues run into each other. There is no dividing line. The labels are a lie. Strictly, once you realize how difficult drawing a line between colors is, there aren't any *colors*; there's just *color*, and we fumble through labelling instances of it as best we can, pretending that the labels create real categories. They, the Ghost and Phalanx, are so much more complicated than anything we can paint them. Their identities are human identities and the labels are a *lie*. It's not that the labels aren't labelling something real but that they're only labelling *parts* of people when they are *wholes*. They are complex. They live in a world of gradations. They're not superhero/sidekick except for when they are, but who is which is a very blurry thing. Isn't it for all of us? TV: I can't tell if you're a fan of ghostlanx or of Blackbindings right now. P&G: Probably both. Sometimes I just contemplate that her mind exists and give a satisfied sigh that the world *must* be a reasonable place after all . . . TV: We should probably get back to the wank we were discussing. Did you have any closing thoughts on the subject? P&G: Just that being a fan is a very peculiar thing. We never know the person that we 'love' so much, though I do think that that love is often very sincere and fierce-felt, but we only actually know the doll we made of them in our own heads - with masked heroes the problem intensifies. And what we should do is be relaxed, and accept that people are always more complicated than we think they are - this has wider implications than fandom alone - and discuss these things in a way such that we can *learn* from it. Because learning, and the openness to strange new things that learning requires, empowers. The close-mindedness that treats people as characters to be owned by us, that demands simplicity where simplicity is an act of psychological aggression, that sense that we're entitled to special access to their identities almost more than they themselves are - all those things harm both them and *us* in thinking like that. And if people could not be dicks about gender norms that would also be really cool. TV: Indeed. The sheer scale of the meltdown is something to be appreciated, I dabbled in to take a look and - whoa, basically. P&G: It's a big fandom, when we make wank we make a *masterpiece* of wank. Still, most people did stay out of it. The sensible majority who just duck their heads and reblog gifs whenever the shit starts flying. TV: And do you have this week's move ready yet? P&G: It's in the mail, and you really should have seen it coming. TV: We'll see. So next week I'll probably be discussing US remakes of other countries' movies and TV shows, unless something more interesting happens in the meantime. P&G: Oh god, don't even get me started on that bullshit. TV: And it looks like you'll probably see Paleandghostly in the comments section next week too, ahem. Thank you for your contribution this week, P&G, couldn't have done it without you. P&G: You're more than welcome. I hope it was educational, at least insofar as discouraging people from irritating me quite so much. TV: See you guys next week, signing off!

[bigskydreaming]

I want it on record that this is all @quicklikelight‘s fault, because she said wing fic and then she said Scydia and then my brain did a thing.

Scott McCall didn’t show up to class on Tuesday.

Normally, this was not something that would be on Lydia’s radar. Normally, Scott McCall was not something that would be on Lydia’s radar. But AP Bio was one of the only two classes Lydia allowed on her schedule that possessed at least the potential to challenge her. Nobody else whose opinion she cared about was in it, and neither were any of them in the pass/fail History of American Literature elective she’d selected to be her alibi in case any of them ever asked what class it was she had that period. (They never did).

Ergo, when forced to partner up with a classmate for an assignment worth half of one of the only grades she actually cared about - despite her best articulated arguments - she’d done her research before selecting Scott McCall to be hers. Perfect attendance, rarely volunteering answers but always having them once actually called upon, no extracurriculars or social life whatsoever as far as she could tell. In summation, reliable and unlikely to stand in the way of her ending the class with that A she damn well better end this class with. The perfect patsy.

Partner. She meant partner.

Point is, when one Scott McCall both failed to be reliable and stood in the way of that A by failing to show up to class two days in a row, Lydia figured she deserved an explanation for that. Some might call that entitled. She called it - fine, it was entitled. Sue her. Her dad had good lawyers.

And so here she stood in a part of town she hadn’t really ever registered existed other than in a vague, abstract sort of way, standing on the porch of the McCalls’ house. It was small, picturesque and possessed of a quality she didn’t know how to describe with any word other than ‘cozy.’ She had no idea what to do with that, so she got back on task and knocked, sharp and brisk enough to bruise her knuckles on the wood paneling. She could hear the echoes resonate through the house on the other side of the door. She heard nothing else. She knocked again.

When she tried the doorknob after further knocking produced similarly ineffective results, it was simple frustration, really. It wasn’t like she expected the door to be unlocked. Who leaves their front doors unlocked?

Apparently the McCalls, however, because a simple twist of her wrist was all that stood between her and access to their home. Maybe they were the kind of people who counted on basic human decency to keep uninvited strangers on the other side of that door? Hmm. Can’t relate. Food for thought though.

Lydia ventured down the darkened hallway towards the stairs cautiously, because there was always the other possibility she’d accidentally stumbled onto a crime scene. One could never be sure. And when she made her way up the staircase, it was less about being entitled and intrusive and more about following the trail of photographs chronicling the evolution of Scott McCall from chubby-faced baby to gangly adolescent. It was slightly adorable. Don’t quote her on that though, she’d sue. Her dad had good lawyers.

And when she saw the door to the bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall ajar with light from a lamp spilling out into the gloom, then of course she had to check to make sure everything was alright, because why would somebody be at home and yet not answer the door if everything was alright? It was just basic mathematics at that point.

Whatever Lydia Martin expected to find when she pushed open that door, however, it was definitely not Scott standing shirtless in front of a mirror, with large, brown, gray and tan wings sprouting proudly from his back while he awkwardly tried to trap them against his sides with an ACE bandage. Feathers littered the floor; evidence this had probably been going on for quite some time.

In retrospect, that was the moment where Lydia Martin’s life got weird.

Look, she wasn’t just some small town girl who thought the world began and ended at the state line. She’d been to Paris. She’d mastered archaic Latin because she was bored. She actually understood Euclidean geometry and she was well aware that the world was bigger and stranger than anyone could possibly imagine.

All of that did nothing to prepare her for the sight of a classmate with actual wings, actual functional wings, if the haphazard flapping of the twin appendages were suggestive of anything.

So having absolutely no prior experience, knowledge or frame of reference to fall back on in the face of something THIS bizarre and inexplicable, Lydia did what she did best. She compartmentalized.

First off, they were massive. The tailfeathers drooped down to the carpet and they peaked a good foot and a half over his head, she put him at about five foot ten, maybe five foot eleven, did some quick calculations of the height by the approximate breadth of the wing folded tight against his body…Lydia whistled softly. They were looking at a fifteen foot wingspan, easy.

Lydia also whistled out loud, she realized belatedly. Mostly as a result of Scott whirling around with a startled gasp, hands scrambling to hide both wings behind his body, tucked behind him like a shield. Totally futile, of course. But precious. Definitely precious.

“Jesus,” Scott yelped. “Don’t you knock?”

“I did knock. Twice,” Lydia said, still tracking the curve of his wings with her gaze, comparing and contrasting the shape and hue of the feathers with a lifetime’s worth of nature documentaries. At a glance, she wanted to guess they most resembled the wings and feathering of bubo virginianus, aka the great horned owl. Not a species native to this part of California, but then again, teenage boys with wings weren’t exactly native to any part of California so she might just be parsing semantics at this point. “I think you were…preoccupied.”

That put Scott back on the defensive, even though it hadn’t been her intent. He shifted his weight from foot to foot awkwardly. Arched his back as though to try and shove the tips of his wings lower and more out of sight, but really all it did was make his nicely toned chest jut out more. Not that she was opposed to that angle either.

“It’s not what you think,” he tried.

“I think you have wings, Scott.”

“Okay, so, I can explain.”

Lydia tilted her head. “Can you? Really?”

Scott deflated. “Well. No. Kinda? I don’t know. Look, not that I’m complaining, but why aren’t you fleeing in terror right now?”

She shrugged. “You have fluffy brown wings, McCall, not fangs and claws and smoke coming out of your nostrils. Should I be fleeing in terror?”

“No, of course not, its just…I don’t know. Look, its not like I have an instruction manual here. You’re the first person to even see them.”

“I’m honored.” Weird thing is, she actually was. Okay, let’s be real, the weird thing was still the classmate with giant wings sticking out of his back, but relatively speaking. “So not to be crass or anything, but elephant in the room. How is it you have wings, exactly?”

Scott cocked his own head, a surprisingly bird like motion given the appendages framing it, and he shot her an odd look. As though he had any right to be the one acting like there was something strange about this Twilight Zone scene she’d found herself in. “How, huh? Kinda figured your first question would be why do I have wings.”

“Why implies there’s a reason or purpose for your having wings, which is an assumption with no practical basis. How implies simply that there was some mechanism or event by which you developed wings, which is a certainty given that I am one hundred percent confident you didn’t have those last week. Hence, how takes precedence.”

He continued to scrutinize her, and she resisted the urge to fidget, because fuck that, ladies don’t fidget, they make boys fidget. It wasn’t like Lydia was unused to the sensation of all eyes and attention in the room being focused on her after all, but there was a weight to this inspection that was not exactly uncomfortable, but wholly unfamiliar.

“You know, you’re not at all what most people expect.”

“Neither are you, McCall,” she said dryly. “Yes, I have a brain, you have a wingspan, shocking revelations all around. Back to my question please.”

He sighed and flopped onto the edge of his bed. She took it as an invitation to sit next to him. She had a suspicion they were going to be there awhile. Plus it increased her chances of accidentally brushing up against those wings and getting a sense of their relative softness. Purely for the purpose of adding to her mental notes, of course. Look, it was literally for Science.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Scott tried at last. She gave no ground.

“Five minutes ago I wouldn’t have believed what my eyes are telling me. Yet here we are. I’m a believer. You were saying?”

“It’s kind of a long story. A weird story,” he said, trying again. Lydia progressed to full-fledged eye rolling. God, it was like pulling teeth with this one.

“Let’s start with the Cliff Notes version. Once upon a time there was a boy with no wings. Then he had wings. How?”

“I was bit by a werewolf, okay?!”

Lydia blinked. Okay, point to him for that one. Her snark subsided ever so slightly.

“Okay. So. Werewolves are a thing, apparently. How does that equal you having wings instead of claws and an insatiable hunger for human flesh?”

Scott shrugged and scratched his head, a fresh downfall of feathers cascading to the floor following his motions. “I’m not sure I get it entirely myself, but according to this guy, Derek - he’s a werewolf, but not the one that bit me - so like, there’s some old werewolf proverb or whatever about how the shape you take reflects the person you are? I dunno. But apparently, turns out, I am not a wolf.”

He turned pensive. “I’m still not sure if I’m offended by that or not. Derek seemed to think that’s a bad thing, but he’s kind of a dick. So. Yeah.”

“Huh,” Lydia said as she digested this. “So rather than lycanthropy being a contagion that replicates exactly in each new host, its more like the bite of a shapeshifter is simply a catalyst for transformative magic the new host’s spirit provides the blueprint to follow. Fascinating.”

She refocused on Scott in time to catch him staring at her. “What?”

“You got all that from what I just said?”

She blushed before she had a chance to body check her basic physiological response to flattering male attention and since when was Scott McCall flattering male attention. Eww. Weird. Focus, Lydia.

“What, like its hard?” She joked, falling back on Legally Blonde quotes as her eyes drifted back down to his still bare chest and she remembered oh no, he’s hot.

“No,” Scott said, corners of his mouth twitching. “Just that I knew there was more to you than met the eye, but from what I picked up while working on our AP Bio project, I figured it was all science oriented. But you’re really running with this whole ‘magic is real’ thing, huh? I mean, it took me a second and I’m the one with the freaking wings.”

“Magic is just science we can’t understand yet,” Lydia shrugged, averting her eyes to the floor. She resisted the urge to twirl a lock of her hair. She. Would. Not. Fidget. Dammit.

“You read Asimov?”

“Who doesn’t read Asimov?”

“Touche,” Scott laughed. He ducked his own head. “Umm. Okay. Maybe it’d be more productive if we both just agreed to stop assuming things about each other?”

She studied him. “I can work with that.”

“Cool.” He grinned and held out his hand. “So hey, I’m Scott McCall, and I’m part bird, apparently.”

She smiled and took his hand. “I’m Lydia Martin. I like birds.”

“While we’re at it, any chance I can get you to stop eyeing me like I’m the blue ribbon at next year’s science fair? I mean, I totally get it, its just…yeah.”

Ooops. Busted. Lydia recovered with a casual hair toss. “Well, you’re just going to have to prioritize there. I can look at you like a marvel of the modern scientific world, or like a shirtless teenage boy who makes for great eye candy. Dealer’s choice.”

Scott blushed again. Point to her. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

She shrugged. “Me having a boyfriend doesn’t negate you having nice pecs. Kudos on those by the way. You should consider wearing tighter shirts.”

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently, and the playful climate they’d cultivated evaporated.

“I can’t even get a jersey on with these things, let alone anything tight,” Scott said, turning pensive again. “My mom thinks I’m just sick and holed up in my room but that’s not gonna work for much longer and if I don’t figure out something soon, I really am going to be next year’s science fair exhibit.”

“So there’s no way to get rid of them? They’re just part of being a…were…owl?”

They were definitely going to need to come up with some more expansive terminology, just for the record. Lydia Martin flat out refused to make it a habit of regularly saying things like wereowl with a straight face.

“I don’t think they are, but I honestly have no idea. I don’t think Derek even knows, like…he tracked me down after I was bitten and the fact that I’d already healed proved I was a shapeshifter, but then when he tried to teach me how to shift, like…this happened instead? And he pretty much lost interest then because apparently a werebird or whatever the fuck I am doesn’t help with whatever it is he wanted me for,” Scott said. With no small trace of bitterness.

“But he shifted into a werewolf form, right? And then changed back?”

“Yeah. So I mean I figure its gotta be possible for me to change back too, I just…don’t know how. Nothing I’ve tried has worked.”

“Well, that gives us our basic parameters to start with,” Lydia said briskly, standing and stalking over to his computer. “Clearly, we have two immediately available courses of action. Figuring out how to shift you back, knowing that it is theoretically possible, or else figuring out how to disguise your wings until we figure that out, acknowledging that it might take longer than we’d like to figure out the proper mechanism. Which direction should we tackle?”

“Umm. We?”

“Yes, Scott, we. How did you think this conversation was going to end? A fist bump and me leaving with a ‘cool story, I gotta get to the mall, see you in class if the government doesn’t cart you off to some black ops lab first?’”

“Have you ever given someone a fist bump in your life?”

“Not the point, Scott, I was deliberately emphasizing the ridiculous. Focus.”

He hesitated, standing, but still clearly uncomfortable and undecided. His shoulders slouched, his wings drooped…he definitely should never play poker while shifted, she noted absently. Those things were absolutely a tell. Who knew human-proportioned wings could be so expressive?

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, because I’m really grateful that you didn’t go fleeing in terror the second you saw me like this, but…why are you trying to help me? I mean, I’m trying not to assume the worst here or anything, but its not like we’re friends, and I have a lot to lose here, so how do I know you’re not just interested in writing a paper about me or turning me over to some science lab for a cash reward and a byline?”

“I have money, Scott, I don’t need more,” Lydia answered abrasively, not knowing how to address his perfectly valid concerns any more delicately than that. For all her varied skills, handling with care was not something ever likely to appear on her resume. So she fell back on playing to her strengths. When in doubt, steamroll them. “And as for the rest, you’re right, I absolutely could turn you over to the science community and solidify my place in history for all time. Fortunately for you, not all of us are attracted to science for altruistic purposes and because we want to spread and share knowledge and information with all for the betterment of mankind. Some of us are just smug bitches who like knowing we know more than anyone else, and knowing I’m the only one who knows all this right here? That’s my catnip.”

“Now sit,” Lydia patted the edge of the bed closest to his desk, having already claimed his chair for herself. “I’m thinking our initial approach should be delving into psychosomatism and the effects of the id and the superego on our physiologies. Obviously there’s a mental trigger involved in the shift from human form to your altered state, and such triggers frequently involve psychological factors like confidence and self-esteem, both of which, no offense, I don’t suspect your cup overfloweth with, so it seems worth a try.”

Scott shook his head and resumed his seat on the bed, albeit closer to the desk. A bemused smile played across his lips. “You’re kind of a force of nature, you know that? Hurricane Lydia.”

“Mmm,” Lydia said absently. She booted up his browser, gratified that his search bar didn’t autofill with various porn site selections. What a treasure. “I prefer to be classified as a tropical storm. It leaves me the option of upgrading to a full scale natural disaster when appropriately pissed.”

“Noted.”

“I always knew you were a smart boy, McCall.”

“No you didn’t,” he scoffed, though he seemed more amused than offended. Curious. “You didn’t even know my name two weeks ago.”

“An oversight on my part. Don’t worry. I learn from my mistakes,” Lydia assured him. They exchanged sidelong classes, complete with smiles. Something shivered along her spine. In retrospect, the wings were the moment Lydia Martin’s life got interesting. This right here? This was the moment Lydia Martin’s life got very, very complicated. That awareness would come later though. For the time being, she simply turned back to his computer, fingers poised above the keyboard, ready to begin the search of a lifetime. “Now in the immortal words of every teenage boy in the history of modern English: Let’s do this already.”

[stephenaltrogge-blog]

Is The Heart Deceitful Above All Things? Well, Maybe…

For many years, I had a habit of constant, soul-sucking, “Why do I keep doing this myself?” introspection.

Every motive was to be examined from every angle like I was crime scene photographer for the soul. I constantly scrutinized my actions, trying to evaluate whether I might have slipped into sin. If CSI married The Gospel Coalition, I would have been the result.

“Was I angry or was I just upset?”

“Did I turn my eyes away quickly enough or did I lust?”

“Why exactly didn’t I want to read my Bible? Was it sinful laziness? Maybe I was just exhausted.”

I was always playing Sherlock Holmes on myself, looking for clues, making startling (usually wildly inaccurate) deductions, and jumping to conclusions. The slightest unpleasant emotion was cause for deep evaluation.

As you can imagine, I was a boatload of fun to be around. If there were a character on Inside Out named “Constant Drag”, I would do the voice.

On top of that, I had been told that the heart is deceitful above all things. After all, in Jeremiah 17:9 it says:

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?

It turns out that for a spiritually insecure person, that’s a really unhelpful verse. It created an Inception-like phenomenon within me where I kept going deeper and deeper trying to figure out what was really going on in my heart.

But the deeper I went, the harder it was to see straight. The landscape pitched and tilted and abruptly shifted positions. It was like a nightmare within a nightmare within a nightmare.

Thankfully, as I’ve gotten older, two things have happened:

God has helped me far less introspective

I’ve come to the conclusion that Jeremiah 17:9 is not a verse intended for Christians, at least not in the sense it normally gets used. 

The reason for number one is relatively simple: I’ve learned that no matter what my motives, the gospel is ever and always my hope and that my eyes should constantly be directed toward it.

Number two takes a bit of explaining.

A Dead Heart IS Deceitful Above All Things

When you read the story of Israel throughout the Old Testament, one thing occurs again and again: they wandered from the Lord and pursued idolatry.

They are rescued from Egypt in a dramatic and stunning way, Moses goes up Mount Sinai, and the Israelites throw a debauched frat party/orgy around a golden calf. God brings them to the border of the Promised Land and they refuse to enter because there might be giants ( a nod to the band “They Might Be Giants”).

God sends Ehud to deliver Israel by assassinating a fat king with a knife to the stomach. A short while later Israel is serving Baal and Ashteroth.

Judges 2:18-19 are a nice summary of Israel’s behavior throughout the Old Testament:

Whenever the LORD raised up judges for them, the LORD was with the judge, and he saved them from the hand of their enemies all the days of the judge. For the LORD was moved to pity by their groaning because of those who afflicted and oppressed them. But whenever the judge died, they turned back and were more corrupt than their fathers, going after other gods, serving them and bowing down to them. They did not drop any of their practices or their stubborn ways.

It sounds insane, right? God rescues Israel, abundantly provides for them, leads them to sweet places, and then they turn around betray him. God would allow them to overrun by enemies, they would cry out for deliverance, and the cycle would repeat itself.

It was like a terrible, twisted version of Groundhog Day or a person who rampantly cheats on their spouse despite his/her faithfulness (which, coincidently, is the literal story of Hosea).

So what was their problem? Why were they so prone to wander? Why did they constantly desert the One who treated them with such kindness?

Because their hearts were sick. Desperately, terribly sick. Actually, dead would be a better word for it.

It’s pretty simple actually: apart from the regenerating work of the Holy Spirit, every person is dead in their sin, and every dead person has a heart that is deceitful above all things. A person who has a dead, diseased heart does things that are beyond understanding.

Sin is fundamentally insane. It’s why husbands abandon their families for a few fleeting moments of sexual ecstasy. It’s why a mother loves plunging a needle into in her veins more than her kids. It’s why a man or woman will pursue their career at the expense of everything else. It’s why an internationally known male athlete will decide to live as a woman. It’s why another massively popular athlete will brag about having had sex with 10,000 women.

Sin is like drinking Clorox and expecting nothing to happen. It’s like playing with a Molotov cocktail and believing you won’t get burned. Only an insane person would do that. Only a person who has been terribly deceived would do such a stupid thing.

Every person who isn’t born again has a heart that is dead, deceitful above all things, and desperately sick.

I think this is what Paul is getting at in Romans 1:21:

For although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened.

When you don’t honor God or give thanks to him, your thinking becomes futile, infantile, foolish, idiotic, destructive, and detached from reality. Your heart is deceitful above all things and desperately sick. The heart is a hustler and you’re the mark.

Jeremiah 17:9 is NOT written about those born again and it shouldn’t be used by Christians as a principle for godliness. Doing that is like a healthy person seeking out radiation treatment.

It does more harm than good.

A Living Heart Has The Holy Spirit

When you read the Old Testament promises of a new covenant, it becomes beautifully, startlingly clear that God intended to replace his people’s dead, sick, deceitful, putrid, decaying hearts with something else entirely.

With new hearts that pulsed and hammered and thrummed with spiritual life. With hearts awash with the Holy Spirit and bent toward obedience rather than idolatry.

In Jeremiah 31:33-34, God gives this breathtaking promise:

For this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, declares the LORD: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts. And I will be their God, and they shall be my people. And no longer shall each one teach his neighbor and each his brother, saying, ‘Know the LORD,’ for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, declares the LORD.

That verse makes me so happy. God would fundamentally, ontologically change his people. The very core of their being would be radically altered, and a spiritual heart transplant would take place.

Dead hearts gone. New hearts sutured into place.

Hearts that had the commands of God burned upon them. Hearts that had the law written within rather than upon tablets of stone. Hearts that were no longer deceitful above all things or desperately sick.

In John 16:13, Jesus told his disciples:

When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth, for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that are to come.

Now, to be clear, in context I think Jesus was talking about their apostolic ability to guide the church in truth after he departed.

But this also gives us insight into the role of the Spirit in our lives.

He guides us into truth. He convicts us of sin and righteousness. He pursues us when we wander, like the Hound of Heaven. He is faithful when we are faithless. He shepherds us when we stray outside the sheepfold.

We have the Holy Spirit within, and that deeply, fundamentally, powerfully changes everything.

Yes, I once had a heart that was dead, deceitful, and desperately sick.

No longer.

I have a heart that is alive. I live in Christ and he lives in me, and never the two shall part.

Can I still be deceived by sin? Of course. James makes that clear. Is it possible for a believer to dive headlong into catastrophic, sinful muck? Sure. I’ve seen it again and again, and it’s devastating.

But (and this is crucial), my fundamental disposition is not toward being deceived by sin. The Holy Spirit aggressively militates against that happening.

That changes everything.

And I couldn’t more grateful.

The post Is The Heart Deceitful Above All Things? Well, Maybe… appeared first on The Blazing Center.

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