imjustanauthor

[imjustanauthor]

Of all the things Mulder had ever expensed, a water gun would be far from the worst. Considering that, he was pretty confident he could get away with it. After all, compared to flights across the country, it was hardly going to be anywhere near as expensive, and the amount of headache it'd cause would be lesser too!

Draining the last of his drink, Mulder stood up from his seat. He drew some cash out of his wallet and left it on the bar before, having waited for Scully to join him, they made to leave.

The Eazy Inn wasn't too far away and there were more than a few rooms free. Scully had been more than astute in her assessment of the location based on its name alone - it was, without a doubt, sleazy with a capital S. They'd stayed in some dodgy placed over the years, but here? Well, it was lucky that Scully had made Mulder promise they'd stay for no more than two days. Somebody would have to be blind and insane to willingly want to stay there.

Like the Super Soaker, though - one of which Mulder had insisted on stopping to purchase on the drive over to the B&B - it was cheap. Mulder couldn't foresee Skinner complaining too much about it.

"Hey, Scully, have you checked behind the picture frames to make sure the owner's not drilled peep holes into the walls yet?" Mulder joked as he leant against the doorway of his room, having already placed his bag in his own. "Maybe that scarecrow's haunting nearby because it's appalled by the state of the local infrastructure."

"A Super Soaker?" Scully repeated, not sure why she was even surprised. Of course Mulder would want a water gun that once claimed its pressure had injured a child's eye. "Then you can explain that one to Skinner when we put it on our expenses," she told him with a smirk.

Checking her watch, she had to admit her partner was right and even the most city-centred library would probably be closed by now. The odds of one in a small town like this being open were slim to none. Scully sighed, accepting that any answers she might find would have to wait until tomorrow, and returned her attention to the business card from the local motel. Correction; B&B. At least that's what the little tagline on the back of the card claimed.

"Well, we know it's active in the day. Or at least near sundown," Scully agreed, as they'd been attacked by whatever was while the sun was definitely still int he sky. "And I'd like to actually be able to see what's attacking us when we shoot it with a Super Soaker," she added, only half-joking.

She grabbed the last few of her fries. "Come on, let's see if there are any rooms at the inn."

[imjustanauthor]

Well yeah, Charlie hadn't done this before - not with another man, anyway - but this was hardly his wedding night! He knew how the game went, and when it got to the parts he wasn't familiar with, well, it couldn't be too difficult to fumble his way through, right? After all, the male body wasn't exactly a mystery to him; he could draw on personal experiences for the most part, and then follow Arthur's lead to fill any remaining gaps.

Or, at least, that was what Charlie told himself. Whether or not he was correct in that assumption remained to be seen.

In another life, the sheer bravado of his thoughts would have concerned him. In fact, the entire situation in general would have concerned him. But Charlie was gone now. In his place stood a man who felt no need for apprehension - or rather, he felt nothing regarding it at all, and it was a consideration that didn't even cross his mind - only focused on the moment he was in, and how much he was enjoying it.

"Oh, aye?" There was amusement in Charlie's simple response, matching the glint of something roguish in Arthur. That was the first time he'd heard somebody describe a lack of predictability as a positive. It was the first time that anyone had described him as compelling, too. Charlie liked that about Arthur, though. The man had a way of speaking that he could only think to describe as timeworn, and it was immensely charming - especially paired with the quaint cottage as a perfectly matched backdrop.

As fingers traced the edge of his shirt, carefully urging the fabric upward, skin gently sliding against skin in the process, Charlie pretended to keep his focus on the bookshelves before him - acting as though he was reading the spines sitting in a line when, in reality, his attention was fixed entirely on the sensation of touch below. He could feel his heartbeat quickening, stumbling over itself in anticipation of what was to come, as equally excited as it was suddenly nervous. Everything was very quickly getting very real now, but he found that he didn't want to stop. No, instead, Charlie was moving on autopilot - following whatever urge happened to come into his head next.

Perhaps that was the lack of predictability that Arthur had claimed to be so fond of.

It suddenly occurred to Charlie that the drink that had been so kindly refilled for him was still in his other hand. A little Dutch courage never hurt - and besides, he was starting to think that hand could be put to a more interesting use - so, without further hesitation, he quickly downed the remainder (which, admittedly, was majority of the drink, the man having been rather distracted by his host of the tour he was on) and set the glass on the nearest surface. Charlie then glanced over the cabinet once more, before removing his hand from atop Arthur's and using it to close the opened front, following that, in a single fluid motion, he turned on the spot so he was facing the other man. As a result, the hand that had rested on waist, fingers angled towards his front in a pretence of innocence, was shifted to instead rest where anyone with modesty might begin to protest.

Apparently Charlie didn't have any modesty, though, because his own hands made no attempt to hide their intention as they reached out to mimic the placement of Arthur's - only, his movement less restrained, boldly and deliberately resting on the other man's behind. Charlie flashed a smirk as their eyes met, moving back a step so that he could be pressed against the glass cabinet, bringing Arthur forward with him.

"And exactly how unpredictable do you want me, then?"

Moments like these almost made Arthur resent how effortlessly the lies came. These small, habitual edits weren’t rooted in malice, but had become second nature, a reflex so ingrained that it felt as essential as breathing. Even well-intentioned, the truth arrived lacquered in charm, softened by omissions and misdirection. Here, with Charlie, he considered it a necessary thing. Sometimes, deceit was a kindness, especially among his own people. He knew they already sensed something—some strange, irresistible pull toward him, often all too easy to exploit—and it'd be reckless, even cruel, to make them bear truths they could not fathom. That was the guilt of it: lying to someone he’d invited into his home, whom he’d gotten a bit drunk, a little too close to. But the lies were harmless, he told himself. Protective, even. Small evasions to spare them both. He had no desire to unsettle the man. The last thing he wanted was to alarm him.

Still, his loneliness gnawed like a hunger no lie could conceal. The invitation to touch the books was an invitation to cross some invisible boundary, and he was glad that, though the detective could not see past his practiced deceit (why would he, really?) he at least recognised Arthur’s subtle advance. His breath hitched ever so slightly the instant Charlie’s hand pressed down over his, and a tingling warmth spread through him, sharper than he cared to admit. His fingers stilled for a beat, caught in the deliberate boldness of the touch, until a slow, knowing smile played across his lips, green eyes flickering with amusement.

He let his fingers flex deliberately against the curve of Charlie’s waist. Not possessively, not quite, but enough to test how far this familiarity would stretch. Arthur could feel the shape of him through the fabric, the lean line of his waist beneath his palm, and it made something in his chest twist in a way he hadn’t quite planned this early in the evening still. “Surely you don’t need confirmation, Charlie,” he murmured, his voice a low thread of silk, “Not with your hand quite so firm upon mine.”

His thumb pressed a little firmer in response, tracing with confident ease, as though claiming the space between them was the only natural course. “Like you’re daring me, to see how far I’ll go.” He leaned in slightly, breath warm near Charlie’s ear, the faint scent of rain drifting through the open window blending with the heat building between them. “You’ve a curious habit of taking liberties for a man who insists he hasn’t done this before,” he teased, soft and coaxing, yet his tone betrayed no real doubt, only an appreciation for how Charlie met his advance: bold and unwavering.

“These books aren't the only things begging to be touched,” Arthur’s eyes flicked down, noting the way their hands sat layered against one another, before rising to catch Charlie’s eyes, a hint of playful challenge in his own as slowly his fingers coaxed the hem of the shirt upward. “And you... You are something altogether more compelling. Not to mention far less predictable.” 

[imjustanauthor]

😠🔄 for Charlie, from Arthur

Send 😠 for my muse to be jealous of the attention your muse is getting from somebody else!

Charlie wasn't blind; he could see that Arthur was jealous. It wasn't exactly hidden, what with the way his narrowed eyes were constantly fixed on him, his clenched jaw, and his hand that had been holding onto the steering wheel of his car just a little too tightly all the way back to the cottage. It always wasn't exactly hidden that Charlie was pretty amused by the whole situation. What could he say? It was near exhilarating to feel so desired that a mere conversation with an attractive woman at the bar was enough trigger such a display.

So what if he'd put on the charm a little? She'd been nice enough to be friendly to him, so he should be friendly back, no? And anyway, it wasn't like he'd been ignoring Arthur! The man had vanished to the bathroom, and with how long he'd been going, Charlie felt it safe to assume that he'd needed to quickly deal with something work related yet again. So, he needed to entertain himself. They had been on their way out of the restaurant anyway, so his choices had been to either get a quick drink while he waited, or stand there looking gormless and as though he'd been abandoned.

Needless to say, Arthur hadn't been too thrilled to come back and find Charlie laughing with the stranger who'd struck up conversation with him. Was it really such a big deal, though? Charlie certainly didn't think so. It wasn't like it was anything more than a friendly conversation. He was a one man kind of guy - loyal to his partner and unwavering in that. It didn't matter how good-looking somebody was; his head wasn't going to be turned. Arthur surely knew that, right?

Charlie was confident that he did - just like he was confident that the same was true of Arthur - which was another reason he wasn't taking the jealousy seriously.

"You know," he said as he tugged his shoes off, leaving them haphazardly towards the side of the hallway, "sometimes, people are going to want to talk to me. It's not a big deal. Unless you fancy putting a collar on me and not letting me out the front door unless I'm on a lead, it's not like anyone automatically knows that I'm yours.

[imjustanauthor]

Send 😠 for my muse to be jealous of the attention your muse is getting from somebody else!

(Add "+ 🔄" or "+ reverse" to reverse the scenario, where your muse is the jealous one. Remember to specify character and/or verse if relevant)

[imjustanauthor]

"I know I'm supposed to tell you that it'll be okay, but I don't know if that's true." —Taliesin @ Charlie.

Ill & Injured Sentences, Vol. 6

Arthur's doctor friend was a strange man. Not in a bad way, mind you! Charlie liked Taliesin well enough, he just thought he was a little... Offbeat? That was probably the politest way of putting it.

Still, odd or not, it was nice to know that Arthur knew at least one who wasn't an utter berk. That revelation had allowed Charlie to be a little less concerned about the quality of his partner's acquaintances, even if he still felt that the people he worked with seemed highly dubious. Did he have any evidence to back up this opinion? Not really, no - or, at least, nothing more than he'd observed in conversation - but one could call it a detective's instinct, and Charlie wasn't about to be swayed from his convictions.

Whatever call Arthur had needed to take must have been important because the man had remained locked in his study for a while now, leaving Charlie and Taliesin to talk among themselves. That wasn't a problem, of course. Despite a somewhat rocky start - Charlie having been initially reluctant to discuss his heath with anybody, even a doctor, and, regrettably, found himself lashing out a little because of it - the conversation now was perfectly pleasant. Or, at least, it would be, if a particular problem of the detective's hadn't decided to rear its ugly head.

As they spoke, it slowly became clear that Charlie was doing something strange with his glass of water. He would pick it up, hold it for a few seconds, then put it down again. A few moments later, he'd repeat the action, never actually taking a drink. Even though he looked at the glass every time he lifted it, he didn't seem to noticed that the behaviour was peculiar until Taliesin had gently pointed it out to him.

Perseveration was the term for what could be described as a glitch in the brain's wiring as a result of the trauma dealt to it. It was characterised by the mind's failure to let go of an action, phrase, or emotion. Sometimes it showed through mimicking something he'd seen somebody else do, sometimes - as with the current situation - through repetition of whatever his head had got stuck on. It wasn't intentional behaviour, and it wasn't always something Charlie was aware he was doing.

Because it wasn't intentional, the best way to stop it was disruption. Taliesin's words had managed to do that for a second, but not completely, and Charlie couldn't help but sigh in frustration as he reached for the glass again. The blunt assessment of the situation that followed didn't help either. Even though Charlie knew there was no promise that things would be 'okay', he couldn't help but feel a stab of upset in response - and with his brain's energy being spent attempting to regulate the emotion, he had fewer resources left to try and get it to switch gears and stop the loop that was being played out.

"It's been getting worse," Charlie admitted as he put the glass down again. "Not just with this - everything's been getting worse. I've been worried that- Well, I've been worried that I'm backsliding, you know?"

That was the first time he'd said the thought aloud. Nobody liked to admit that they weren't getting better - especially when they were in a new relationship, caught up in the need to be something worth desiring - and Charlie was no exception to that.

He didn't know why it had been getting worse. If he had to guess, he supposed it could be stress from work. Being back on the job wasn't easy. It never had been, even when he'd had full cognitive function, and now he also had the additional pressure of feeling that he needed to prove himself to get his career back on track. Another option was his relationship with Arthur. Charlie didn't actually want to think that, but it was still a disruption to his routine, wasn't it? That was supposed to be bad for him now - according to his usual doctor, anyway - and in addition to that, intense positive feelings could be just as much a strain on resources as negative ones, couldn't they? That was why people felt exhausted after having the best night of their lives.

"Nowt I can do about it." Or, more accurately, it wasn't like there was anything he could do about it that he was willing to see through. After all, all those potential stressors were things that Charlie enjoyed. He'd fought so hard to get his job back, and he loved being with Arthur. Why should he give them up?

"Not like any of you doctors can do anything about it either. Everyone's been very clear about how this isn't something that'll go away."

[imjustanauthor]

"You know, I am stronger than I look." — Arthur @ Charlie.

Angry & Irritated Sentences, Vol. 34

Charlie couldn't help his slightly sceptical look in response, his eyes momentarily dancing over Arthur's body as he assessed the claim. Arthur was fit, it was true. Charlie still wasn't sure the exact details of his job, but it had something to do with the military, and that usually meant a certain level of fitness was expected, even if it wasn't required. Plus, Charlie knew that Arthur was fit. He'd seen the man's body - more than that, in fact -

But, while it was true that the man was stronger than he looked, it hardly seemed likely that he was stronger than Charlie was. He only had to look at him to know that! Arthur didn't have the size advantage - not in height, nor bulk. The speed advantage was perhaps another question, but that wasn't the matter at hand!

To be quite honest, the matter at hand wasn't even really how strong Arthur may or may not be anymore. The statement - delivered in response to one a thoughtless comment from Charlie while discussing his new gym routine - had swiftly wiped the prior conversation from his mind, replacing it with a single, vivid thought: whether or not Arthur was stronger than he looked, he really wouldn’t mind seeing a demonstration of that apparent strength.

By the time his gaze had finished their journey across Arthur's physique, a spark of something mischievous had appeared in Charlie's eyes, accompanied by a hint of a smirk on his lips, promising the intention of a challenge he already knew he would find more than enjoyable.

"Oh yeah? Prove it, then."

[imjustanauthor]

Why were they even talking about this? It was a strange topic to bring up over dinner - but then, as Hannibal had admitted, Mulder was dealing with a strange man.

Maybe it was because he was European. Mulder had spend time in England, having studied at Oxford, but he couldn't say he'd ever visited any of the Baltic counties. He couldn't even say he knew much of the area's folklore. Unlike some other countries, it had never really come up in any of the X-Files, nor in any of Mulder's research outside of his cases.

At some point, he'd have to ask Hannibal about it. The man knew all kinds of things, and Mulder had no doubt he'd have something interesting to share about the legends of his homeland. That was a conversation for another time, though. First, they were apparently going to discuss cannibalism.

"There's a difference between being seen as strange or having uncommon hobbies and consuming the flesh of another human being," Mulder pointed out. "Stamp collecting is unusual. Taxidermy raises eyebrows. Eating your neighbour? That's when people stop coming to your dinner parties."

He ate a little more from his plate, enjoying the taste, then reached for his glass of wine. "Still, I guess one man's felony is another man's delicacy."

Mulder has been an esteemed guest at Hannibal’s table lately. He found his presence enjoyable, one that held plenty of stories ranging from the absurd to the bizarre. The man has an extensive history and traveled to various places from his line of work, which prompted the topic of cannibalism.

Hannibal lifted his fork in a pause. “Did you know Cannibalism is legal in all forty-nine states except one?” Now the acquisition of such exotic meat was the true issue.

"It's pretty damn weird to eat people," @imjustanauthor says then.

Hannibal’s face contorts to a smile, his fork lowering to pierce the thin slab of meat on his plate. “As a psychiatrist, I can positively say that it is quite alright to be weird. I am perhaps far weirder than some of my patients.” Those patients may be inclined to agree. The “rich” have their quirks. Mulder had his own, Hannibal had picked up on a few. He’ll always enjoy saying his first name. Fox was far too unique to allow it to stay unspoken.

“How terribly dull would it be for us to all have the same interests.” He speaks after the meat slides down his throat. If only Mulder knew what he was consuming.

[imjustanauthor]

Domestic Sentences, Vol. 2

(Sentences for domestic and day-to-day moments between couples. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"I'm so glad you're home early!"

"Do you have any idea how much I missed watching you get dressed in the morning?"

"I didn't know you could cook!"

"Are you working while we're in bed together?"

"Do you have the day off tomorrow?"

"Have you any idea how much I've missed you?"

"My pyjamas suit you!"

"Why did you marry me?"

"Why don't you come home anymore?"

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

"I guess I love you too."

"I don't know what you're up to, but whatever it is, you have my loving support."

"Is that a grey hair?"

"We forgive each other, then?"

"I adore you with that slightly dishevelled look."

"I love you, even though I sometimes wonder why."

"Don't worry, I'll hold your hand!"

"I have felt alone all my life, except with you."

"Aren't you forgetting a little something?"

"Do you know what I'd like? Really like?"

"Will you hold me? Just for a moment."

"Do you have to work tonight? I don't."

"You look handsome today!"

"Why don't you have a glass of champagne?"

"Tell me I'm pretty."

"I have no secrets from you. You know that."

"Maybe you can take me home when this is over? Just like old times?"

"Something tells me you're not a flowers kind of guy."

"You're such a romantic!"

"So, how come you're being so sweet this morning?"

"You used to be a very good dancer."

"Can we just enjoy each other's company for a little while?"

"Don't worry, I'm still utterly devoted to you."

"You do whatever you need to do and I'll understand."

"Don't you like this suit?"

"You're the most wonderful man in the whole wonderful world!"

"Smile for the camera!"

"Why the hell were you naked in the kitchen?"

"I don't care about some tedious work thing - I just want to spend Friday night with you!"

[imjustanauthor]

Ill & Injured Sentences, Vol. 6

(Sentences for muses that don't feel so great, and for muses trying to take care of another. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"I can only imagine what you saw, or what it was like to nearly die that way."

"What a collection of scars you must have!"

"Is that blood? Are you okay?"

"You look a little pastey. Perhaps you shouldn't have checked yourself out of the hospital?"

"If there's anything I hate worse than pity, it's fake pity."

"Have you actually be discharged from the hospital?"

"Do you promise that I'm going to be okay?"

"You need a doctor - not that I'm complaining if you die!"

"How come you're always the one getting shot?"

"I'm going to need a rabies shot!"

"You're losing a lot of blood right now."

"You need professional help."

"You know, I think you need help."

"There are no questions in the world. A question is just a statement that tells me what you're really thinking."

"I know I'm supposed to tell you that it'll be okay, but I don't know if that's true."

"It's no fun being old, is it?"

"If this is another of your teaching moments, I would prefer to bleed out in silence."

"You keep picking fights with the wrong people."

"The bullet's still in there. I can feel it."

"How are you still alive?"

"I've been shot! Don't let me bleed out; I don't want to die!"

"It's my fault all this happened to you..."

"Who hit you?"

"If you tried to stand right now, could you?"

"I've seen the scars on your body."

"You were shot! Why didn't you tell me you were shot?"

"Do you reckon I'll get one of those medals for bravery?"

"I can't believe you actually shot me!"

"How's your bullet wound?"

"Apart from feeling like someone stuck knitting needles in my ears, I'm fine!"

"It wasn't an accident, was it? Someone tried to kill you."

"They say your life flashes before your very eyes in the moment you die. Is that what happened to you back there?"

"Are you sick or something?"

"You shot me in the ass!"

"Have you been feeling alright lately?"

"I've never taken a sick day in my life!"

"Tell me what happened and start with whose blood you're wearing."

"Please stop worrying about me and let me worry about you!"

"In a moment, you'll begin to be light-headed, then drowsy."

"You must be healed by now, on the outside at least."

"The fact that you can look at anything right now and describe it as 'fine' has a bewildering charm to it."

"Are you sure those things you saw today were hallucinations?"

[imjustanauthor]

Angry & Irritated Sentences, Vol. 34

(Angry and irritated sentences from various sources. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Why don't you grow a pair and tell me what you really think?"

"You know you're not supposed to be in here."

"Don't drink my whisky."

"You are the bane of my career!"

"Thanks for ignoring everything I said."

"I told you to listening to me! Why didn't you listen?"

"I never know if we're speaking metaphorically or not. It's exhausting."

"Are you having a good time humiliating me like this for no damn reason?"

"What monstrous egotism!"

"You really need to stop playing fifty shades of innuendo!"

"There you go, lying about me again."

"I want to go on record as saying that this is a very bad idea!"

"You just can't stop trying to give me advice, can you?"

"Don't pretend to give a shit with me!"

"You're a fucking drama queen, you know that?"

"You nearly got us both killed, which is about all your tears and rage would have amounted to!"

"What does she have that I don't have?"

"However you think you are going to manipulate this situation to your advantage, think again."

"Remind me to never take your advice again!"

"Could you be on your best behaviour tonight? Please?"

"You know, I am stronger than I look."

"Maybe you're incapable of being happy."

"I'm trying to be understated when I say that this is a bad idea."

"I can't believe that this is happening again!"

"Just for the record: I don't want to be here right now."

"Do you think it's appealing that the only time you open up to me is to give me orders?"

"Remember how we talked about picking your battles?"

"I don't like surprises. I bet you don't either."

"For the first time in your life, please just shut the fuck up!"

"Don't be sorry. It's unbecoming."

"Stop shouting! You know how much I hate it!"

"This is going to be very tedious if you're going to remain so dim."

"I'm so sick and tired of you showing up and fucking with my life as if you somehow know better!"

"I don't like to be touched."

"If you keep holding out on me like this, I'm going to have to get really nasty."

"You're going to have to stop correcting me if we're going to get along."

"You know, if you spent less time focusing on other people's flaws, you might actually notice that you've got a couple of your own."

"If you've come for an apology, you're wasting your time."

"Why are you being such a bitch right now?"

"I remember your offer, but I do not remember agreeing to it."

"It's rude to google people."

"You wanted me to play this game, so I did. You don't get to be upset with me because I didn't play by your rules."

"I still hate you."

"You don't need to apologise. You need to pay attention."

"I think you should get your head examined if you expect me to believe a stupid story like that!"

[imjustanauthor]

He would only have Arthur's attention most of the time? Well, why would that be if he had engaged a proxy to represent his garden for him? It sounded to Charlie as though he should be able to have Arthur all the time, but he did not complain about it quiet yet. Perhaps there would be cause to grumble later, perhaps there wouldn't - either way, he was too caught up in his affections to feel particularly put out for the moment.

For half a second, Charlie was surprised as Arthur reached out to his shirt, but this was quickly replaced with a grin as it became clear what was happening. That grin remained as he allowed his buttons to be undone, a little more skin than he'd usually display being exposed but with no complaint made about it. If Arthur liked the look and thought it suitable (which he clearly did, considering he was the one orchestrating it), then Charlie was more than happy to go along with it.

He would have liked to chase the kiss and spend a moment indulging in it, but there were places to be and Arthur's lips did not linger. Charlie had assumed that some shopping was on the schedule for the day, though he wasn't quite sure what the other man would be buying. Tools? Didn't he have what he needed already? Flowers? Were they driving back to his after the show, because otherwise where would he put them? Maybe Charlie could buy him something, though. That would be nice, he decided. Arthur deserved a little gift or two, did he not?

The journey to the show was not a particularly eventful one, though there was an undertone of excitement to it. Charlie was perfectly happy to allow Arthur to drive. The classic green car was, after all, far nicer than his own, and it only seemed right that they turned up to this event in style, no? Asides from a brief moment spent playing with the radio, Charlie entertained himself for the duration of the drive by looking out the window and wondering what Arthur's garden would look like. It had to be impressive, right? He'd spent a great deal of time on it, and anyway, if the cottage's garden was anything to go by, then this show one must be absolutely stunning.

By the time they arrived, Charlie's anticipation had suitably built up and he was very eager to see Arthur's work. "Will we go straight to your garden, or do we have to do something else first?" He asked after hopping out the car. "We should probably look at it before you start shopping, don't you think? Then we won't have bags of stuff with us in any of the photos."

They would be taking photos, wouldn't they? Charlie certainly hoped so. Arthur was proud of his work, and therefore they needed to commemorate it somehow!

No one could say that Arthur did not know how to dress for a British occasion, or the capricious weather that often accompanied it. He wore a dark beige suit and waistcoat, impeccably tailored to his slender frame. Its hopsack weave caught the hazy light that shone in softly from the window, and buttons of a darker hue offered a subtle contrast. A crisp white shirt and blue tie woven with fine russet lines completed the ensemble. The blue matched precisely that of the iris in his buttonhole as well as the pattern on Charlie’s shirt—details so exact that they bordered on poetic.

Having firmly secured the flower in place, he ran a hand through his coarse, sandy hair, coaxing it into its customary disarray. Chelsea was a smart-casual affair, after all, and with the unseasonable heat pressing down, the very thought of slicking it back was unthinkable, for he knew it would prove a constant irritation.

Once satisfied, Arthur graciously stepped aside to let Charlie claim the mirror, though he lingered behind him for a moment to admire. There was a measure of pride in having guessed Charlie’s size so accurately; the shirt skimmed his frame to perfection—not so tight as to be distasteful, yet fitted enough to flatter the sculpted lines of his chest and arms. The clear delight that spread across Charlie’s face as he noticed how the accents in their attire were charmingly matched drew from Arthur a satisfied smile, his eyes brightening with a gentle gleam, like sunlight filtering through new spring foliage.

“Nonsense, you’re dashing, and certain to draw plenty of those camera-toting nuisances—you know the ones, the personal blogger types; too many of them about these days.” Arthur’s humour often inclined toward self-deprecating, but he did feel that his companion surpassed him in looks. Next to Charlie, Arthur could not help but recognise the stubborn weariness that clung to his immortal reflection. “There’ll be no cause for anyone to concern themselves with me. I’ve appointed a spokesman to serve as the public face of the garden. He’s been thoroughly prepped, and will be the one to accept any awards on my behalf if it does well.”

He turned to gather the post scattered on the couch, casting a nosy glance over any names upon the return addresses before stacking them neatly atop the—rather dusty, if he were to be pedantic—coffee table, while waiting on Charlie and his disorganised faffing about. Arthur found himself in good spirits today (it was almost as though spring had revived him), though he was well aware of his talents for souring his own mood. He came close to faltering when his gaze strayed down the narrow hallway into Charlie’s cramped bedroom, where a dirty pile of clothes lay on the floor. Restraining a sigh, Arthur resolved to put a decent-sized laundry basket in its place at the earliest opportunity, if only to delay his own inevitable descent into griping.

“You know how I dislike publicity. I’d much rather hand that business to someone else,” he went on, despite his mind lingering on the state of Charlie's flat, which, though improved since his last stay, was still quite frankly concerning. “That means you'll have me to yourself most of the time.”

Arthur took less than an eighth of the time Charlie did to collect his own essentials. His phone, wallet, and car keys waited on the small side table beside a sorry-looking yellowed lamp, where he had lately made a habit of keeping his valuables, lest they be lost to the prevailing disorder of the place.

“I’m all set, but hold on a tick,” he said, stepping in front of Charlie to deftly undo the top few buttons of his flattering shirt. “It’s sweltering out. This’ll be more comfortable.” Arthur winked, pressing a quick, fond kiss to Charlie’s lips before heading for the door. “I’ve pre-booked a parking space, figured we ought to bring the car in case we end up overburdened.”

[imjustanauthor]

Well, Charlie supposed he shouldn't be too surprised that Churchie wasn't the fastest - he was, after all, a bulldog. They were known more for waddling than they were running. It was a shame, really; if the dog were more energetic, Charlie could have appropriated him as a running partner. Oeeh well. He'd still toss a stick for him at some point - only, maybe when Arthur wasn't looking, preventing the risk of embarrassment should it result in a blank stare instead of a game of fetch.

"It's a nice tree." Charlie's words were an understatement. The scene was as idyllic as they came. A picnic in the sun, under an old tree, with nothing to do other than enjoy the good company he was in... What more could a man ask for?

The view reminded him of home a little. Not London, but home. Back in North Yorkshire, where everything was green and the villages still looked like something out of a BBC period drama. Charlie had been so keen to leave after being forced to temporarily move back in with his parents during his recovery. The whole area had felt stifling, not helped at all by the fussing of his family, or being dragged along to church every Sunday he couldn't think of an excuse to stay home and avoid his newfound lack of belief, or feeling utterly useless due to his lack of capability when it came to quite literally anything at all. It didn't feel that way anymore, though. Now he'd got away from all of that, Charlie found himself missing life outside of the city. Spending time with Arthur provided him with an appreciated chance to indulge that longing for a quieter life, even if only for a day or two at a time.

"How long have you known about this spot?" As he spoke, Charlie reached out to take Arthur's hand. It wasn't an action he had thought about before enacting it, but even if he had, what reason would he have to restrain himself? There was nothing wrong with holding the hand of a man you were fond of!

"Do you bring many people here, or am I just special?"

Each time their eyes met, his heart blossomed, fed by the warmth of that charming smile. But though Charlie’s smile lit up his face, his eyes held a sadness that never quite faded. It was as though his heart had found joy, but his soul still wandered in the shadows of his past, and lingered in the depths of that deep blue gaze. Laughter softened his lips, but the eyes betrayed a tenderness that was shaped by old sorrows; a silent ache that Arthur recognised all too well. They hadn’t spoken about it much, not yet, but he felt its presence nonetheless. It was a quiet understanding that seemed to tether them in the hush between words. He'd almost forgotten what it was to feel like this, stirred by something soft and gentle—struck, and rather smitten.

Yet one thing had begun to gnaw at him. It was hard to ignore how poorly Charlie held his liquor, and how every night they’d spent together so far had been blurred by drink. Arthur couldn’t help but wonder why—whether it was liquid courage, a way to settle nerves, or something more. A prickle of paranoia suggested that maybe Charlie wasn’t really drawn to men after all, nevertheless carelessly stumbling into uncharted territory, chasing after something he can't name. And though Arthur hoped he was wrong, these thoughts bothered him like a splinter beneath the skin.

He figured he was probably overthinking, he was rather accomplished at that. The sweet detective still seemed eager enough to spend time with him, after all, but Arthur wished that Charlie might go to bed with him sober at least once, to settle these nagging insecurities he was far too old to be cradling. Of course, that meant Arthur would have to ease up on his own drinking as well, or at least make it seem that way. A few furtive sips here and there, he hoped, might go unnoticed.

The suggestion of an alcohol-free evening had been Arthur's, admittedly rather awkward, way of getting the message across without having to admit these things aloud. He shrugged off the bemused comment it earnt him, and let the promise lie. “Oh, he’ll fetch it, alright—but in his own good time,” he said, smiling down at the dog fondly. “Walks with this old fellow always stretch longer than they should, but we enjoy them all the same, don’t we?” Churchill snorted loudly, seemingly in full agreement.

“Ah, there it is,” Arthur then indicated, gesturing as if to an old friend. Beyond the hill a large mulberry tree rose into view, standing like a benevolent, timeworn guardian, its thick branches curled and twisted in fanciful shapes, as though caught mid-dance. 

[imjustanauthor]

"I suppose I have more experience tracking people than others, but I can't claim I'm an expert." Over the years, Charlie had dabbled in such things. He'd followed footsteps more than a few times over the course of his career - both physical and digital - but it had never been what he had been best at. Previously, his talents had focused more on the social elements - interviews, spotting gaps in stories, and so on. Now? Well, now he wasn't so sure what aspect of his job he was best at, but he obviously wasn't going to admit to that.

"The casefile doesn't mention that she liked to spend time outdoors - but then, it doesn't say that she doesn't either." In Charlie's opinion, that was an oversight. She was last seen near the woods, so why hadn't they checked if that was normal behaviour or not? Such information would never have been missing if he'd been leading the case.

As he spoke, Charlie began attempting to go ahead with his plan to see if there were any signs of paths in the woods. He knew that if there were any, it wasn't a guarantee that they'd been there before. It was worth a try though, right? Especially because if that didn't try that, then he didn't have any other ideas yet.

"Okay, well, we've got a path through the grass here," he said, glancing back to Sebastian as he pointed to where the foliage had been clearly beaten down by multiple people passing through. "Let's follow this. Make a mental note of where we've parked, yeah?"

While Charlie thought, Sebastian smelled the air, trying still to pick something out, but whatever had been left had been long since washed away. Without any idea of what he was looking for, any scent he followed could be as good as any other. If he couldn't rely on physical senses, then, he would have to rely on his mind. Ideally, the closer they got, the more he could use both, but he couldn't rely on one or the other. That was just fine, though. He was a professional, and he was good at what he did.

Between him and Charlie, Sebastian had little doubt that they could do this. He may not have known the man all that well, but the fact that he'd hunted him down to help him with a cold case meant he couldn't be all that bad, right?

They'd figure it out. He had no doubt.

He nodded, lips pursing, eyebrows furrowing in thought, in consideration of what he said. "It is strange. I guess she could have just been going on a walk, but heading out here, off the beaten path? Was she that sort? The outdoorsy type?" That could be it, but he didn't expect that. He didn't want to put too much into it, and he didn't want to dismiss it. Whatever happened, whoever hurt her, however she was hurt, it still happened. She was hurt. She was dead. Man or beast, a woman was dead.

"Maybe," he said, nodding. "That might be our best option." How good was he at tracking people, though? Pretty good. A hell of a lot better than your average man. Better than Charlie was, and that had nothing to do with skill. "I'm decent. How about you?"

[imjustanauthor]

Charlie had no reason to feel particularly enthusiastic about flowers. He liked them and thought that they often looked nice, and he knew more about them than the average Londoner owing to his rural upbringing, but they weren't a specific interest of his. There were a specific interest of Arthur's though, and that meant that if the other man wanted to indulge in them - be it through conversation, tending to his garden, or any other method - Charlie was all too happy to go along with it. He'd rapidly come to the conclusion that he would do anything if it were to bring a smile to the other man's face.

Preparations for the flower show were something that had been going on in the background for a while. Arthur had mentioned it a few times, always with great affection but never with anything more than a surface level of detail. This was presumably to spare the conversation from the possibility of growing dull. It was a shame, really. Whatever he was doing clearly made him happy, and that mean that Charlie would like to hear him talk about it.

Considering that, he'd been thrilled to receive an invitation to tag along with Arthur to see the results of all his hard work. For a while. Charlie hadn't been certain whether or not one would come, though he'd hoped that it would. He'd even gone so far as to drop a few hints about his interest a few times. The subtleness of these hints was up for debate, but that turned out not to matter because they'd been met with enthusiasm from Arthur in return.

With his ticket secured, the next step had been to work out exactly what agreeing to go to the show meant. Google was helpful when it came to that and, thankfully, there hadn't been too much to it - dress nicely, look at the gardens, maybe do a little shopping. The bigger job, it turned out, would be tidying up his flat before Arthur came to stay. Now, that job hadn't been quite completed. An effort had been made, but upon Arthur's arrival there was still a pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the bedroom, a small stack of empty pizza boxes on the kitchen counter, unopened post scattered across the sofa, and so on. All the dirty mugs had been washed, though! And Charlie had made the bed too!

The next day, as they got ready to head out, Arthur had revealed a surprise gift: a shirt with a nice flower pattern on it. It wasn't something Charlie would have picked out for himself, but the blue would match his eyes and the flowers would match their destination, and - already half dressed in one of his nicer work suits (which was admittedly just a touch too tight on the arms, owing to his improved physique since he'd purchased the item) - he'd responded with a quick kiss before anything else.

"I'm sure they'll be more interesting in photographing you than me," Charlie said after chuckling lightly. Arthur looked wonderful. That was no surprise, of course. He always looked exceptional, and there was no reason for that to change on the first day of whatever the hell it was he'd been working on.

Shirt on, Charlie nudged Arthur to the side a little so he could get some space in front of the mirror too, quickly checking his collar and making sure his hair lay flat. It was at that point he noticed the flower in the other man's lapel and, seeing that it matched his own outfit, Charlie couldn't help his delighted smile in response. How quaint! They really were going to look quite the picture.

"Do you have to do anything with your garden once we get there?" Charlie then asked as he moved away from the mirror. He pulled his jacket on, completing his outfit, then did the oh so typical thing of patting down his pockets to check what they had in. Everything was missing, so he immediately began searching for his wallet, keys, and anything else he needed to bring - leaving the bedroom to see if he'd left them on the side in the kitchen. Thankfully, the flat was small enough that he could continue to chat as he searched.

"You've not got to do a speech or anything, have you?"

It took a minute, but he eventually located his wallet down the side of the sofa, and his keys were in his coat pocket. Using his reflecting in the glass covering a framed photograph of his daughter, Charlie took the chance to check his hair one last time - just ensuring he looked as perfect as he could for Arthur.

"Alright," he declared, "I'm good to go if you are. Have you got everything you need? Don't forget our tickets."

@imjustanauthor: Charlie & Arthur — Chelsea in Bloom.

The Royal Horticultural Society’s annual floral festival was, without exception, the event Arthur most eagerly awaited each year, and the one to which he devoted no small measure of time and care. His own garden usually served as a modest rehearsal, a preparatory canvas for what he planned to present to this foundation devoted to England’s happiness, nurtured by the charm of nature in bloom. It was an occasion close to his heart—and fittingly so, as it took place in London, where, for a few days each spring, a glimmer of colour and cheer found its way into corners long resigned to gloom.

There was not a year that passed without Arthur devoting either his hands or his purse to the event, whether by shaping garden displays and floral installations, or quietly bestowing funds. However, this year, his initial plans had been scrapped in favour of a newfound cause; a charity he had not known of until a certain singular presence entered his life. Through this connection, Arthur became acquainted with Headway, a foundation for those affected by brain injuries. Together they worked to exhibit a garden of hope and rehabilitation—a refuge adorned with hawthorn and chamomile, almond and pear trees, forget-me-nots and spring starflower, irises and daffodils, sunflowers and roses, calendula, hydrangea, and delphiniums, all chosen to symbolise this very concept. The palette, a soft symphony of blues, creams, and warm ambers, breathed a sense of calm and quiet strength, in the hopes of casting tender light where despair might otherwise have taken root.

He had not shared the full details of the garden, the cause, or its meaning with Charlie before the event. He didn’t wish to run the risk of making him feel like an unwilling representative or some sort of frontman. This was never the intent. Charlie had simply been his muse. Still, Arthur made no secret of his fondness for the flower show, nor how pleased he would be if Charlie set aside his indifference towards plants and accompanied him for an afternoon. Arthur had after all poured a deal of time and effort into his project, and he also looked rather forward to wandering amongst the new species and cultivars on display, in hopes of purchasing some. 

Only, this was Chelsea, and much like Ascot, the flower show demanded meticulous attention to detail—not solely in gardening, but in one’s manner of dress. As they readied themselves in Charlie’s small apartment, Arthur presented him with a crisp shirt to complement his tailored trousers, its fabric adorned with an elegant blue floral pattern. Irises, symbols of hope and perseverance, but also, on a more personal level, a symbol of trust and admiration. Not that Arthur expected Charlie to recognise the meaning, though he quietly hoped he might by the end of the evening,

“There’ll be plenty of photographers milling about, and you’ll look so handsome in this, they won’t be able to resist wanting to snap the pair of us,” Arthur remarked lightly, turning to adjusting a matching blue iris into his buttonhole before the only full-length mirror. “Just tell them you’d rather not.” It mattered that Arthur’s face did not end up scattered across the internet, and he rather suspected Charlie would feel likewise.

[imjustanauthor]

The only appropriate thing to do was to drive him home. The brandy that Hannibal had generously shared was of an exceptional vintage, and its effects rapidly coursed through the bloodstream leading to a swift state of intoxication. Various confessions bubbled to the surface, which Hannibal observed with a knowing eye, fully aware that Mulder would likely have no recollection of them by morning. A hangover would ensue; he was confident of that.

The ride to Mulder's apartment was smooth, the luxury vehicle gliding over pavement with nary any jostling. As they traveled, Mulder shifted in his seat, his forehead making contact with the cool surface of the window. Hannibal took it upon himself to gently nudge Mulder away from the glass on several occasions, though these efforts proved fleeting.

When at last he reached the destination, Hannibal leaned over to examine the building that loomed before them. "Forty-two, was it?" he murmured, shifting his attention back to his half-awake companion seated beside him. "Let's get you inside, Fox." He still enjoyed that name.

Hannibal Lecter was a terrible influence - or, at least, that was what Mulder would say were anyone to question his current state of inebriation. In reality, while the man did possess a certain quiet charm that make it easy to agree with whatever it was he happened to suggest, the real reason for the lapse of judgement was because Mulder was not used to drinking alcohol that actually tasted good! After years of weak beer and cheap makeshift cocktails, what Hannibal had been an experience indeed, and it had been all too easy to overindulge.

Thankfully, despite Mulder's state and any undoubtedly foolish behaviour that had occurred, the other man had been kind enough to bring him home. At multiple points during the journey, he'd nearly fallen asleep in the car, only to be prodded awake again. Of course, Mulder hadn't connected the dots when it came to this being because he was leaving greasy marks on the window as he rested his head against it. Rather, he'd assumed directions had been needed - directions which he had promptly given, though their certainly accuracy had great reason to be doubted.

"Fox is a stupid name," Mulder said, rolling his eyes as began to make his way out of the car. He'd already told Hannibal that he never went by his first name, but the man still seemed to insist on its usage. Why he did that, Mulder didn't know. Maybe it was a European thing.

Having successfully escaped the confines of Hannibal's car, he made his way around it to reappear by the man's side. "Hey, why don't we order a pizza?" Mulder suggested, suddenly finding himself feeling hungry. "We could have a beer, maybe watch some baseball. Do you watch that? When I studying in Oxford, they didn't have it over there."

[imjustanauthor]

Oh. Um...

"No," Mulder admitted, "but it's in my kitchen, pinned to my fridge." He hadn't expected Scully to want to call straight away! That was rather eager of her, wasn't it? Shouldn't they stake the place out first? Or... Oh, he didnt know. Check the menu, at least?

Why would they know they were on to them if he ordered a pizza to his flat anyway? They'd already been there, and they'd probably just figure he was hungry again!

Oh... But then again, maybe they were watching him - and if they were watching him, then they'd see Scully was with him too, and maybe that'd trigger their suspicions. After all, why would he only order one pizza if he was entertaining a guest? And if he ordered two, then they surely wouldn't tamper with either. There'd be no way of knowing for certain which was his, and drugging Scully too seemed like it would be an incredible risk.

"I could probably point the building out, if you wanted?" Mulder then suggested as an alternative, not wanting to disappoint Scully - not even in his current unfortunate state. "You go in and order, while I wait in the car?"

Scully raised her eyebrows in mild surprise at the suggestion; as erratic and worrisome as Mulder was being, it was clear he wasn't completely mad. It was a solid suggestion and one that would allow for Scully to make comparisons, but only if they were clever about it. If the pizza place was responsible, rather than someone being opportunistic in the delivery, then they needed to make sure they didn't know that this pizza was for Mulder.

"That's a good idea, Mulder," she told him. "But I'll make the call," she added, already reaching for her cell phone, eyes on the road. "And I'll collect it rather than have it delivered. If they have done something to your pizza, Mulder, we don't want them to know that we're on to them."

And even when her partner wasn't currently drugged or whatever it was that was going on, he could be impulsive; she didn't want to think what he might do right now, the danger he might put himself in. Or the heads up he could give the people who'd done this.

"Do you know the number of the place?"

[imjustanauthor]

How would he know what direction to go in? Charlie hadn't worked the original case, and any evidence suggestion a path was long gone by now. If it had ever existed at all, it wasn't recorded in the files - but then, say it did exist, was its lack of record due to incompetence or a clue in itself?

The thing was, the Met wasn't flawless. It never had need. There were numerous cases of injustices in their investigations, and Charlie was well aware of it. He'd spent a large amount of his London based career having to deal with problems the lack of trust his colleagues - both past and present - had created. So, considering that, maybe the lack of record was incompetence. Maybe the entire investigation had been fumbled, and he'd be chasing loose ends forever because none of the evidence was ever actually going to point anywhere!

But he couldn't think like that, could he? If he was going to make any progress, it wouldn't help to assume that he was working with fatally flawed data. So, if the clues were there, which way would he check first?

"Well, the little evidence we do have suggests she went into the woods, not away from it. That's a bit weird, don't you think? What business would she have in there?"

It could have been a simple bad decision, or there could have been something more to it...

"Maybe she was meeting somebody," Charlie mused. "Let's see if we can spot any paths trodden into the ground, and follow it. There could be some common spots where people meet up. How good are you at tracking people?"

Of course she could. She could very well still be alive. But animal attacks, especially ones that left this sort of evidence, needed medical attention. Which led him to a similar line of thinking as Charlie--if she was alive, she'd chosen not to return. That, or someone had made that decision for her. He hoped dearly that it was the former. If that was the case, and they found her, he wondered what Charlie would want to do. He was of the opinion that people who didn't want to be found deserved to stay missing, but maybe the professional had a different opinion. He thought nothing unkind towards him, but only acknowledged the possibility.

Well, one step at a time. First they had to find her.

As Charlie rummaged, Sebastian took the lay of the land. It wasn't entirely unfamiliar to him, but neither was it particularly familiar. He'd been out this way, once or twice, but the impression in his mind was not particularly grand. That was why they were here, though. He moved to look over Charlie's shoulder as he looked at the map, though it served mostly to make him realize the restraint he was going to have to put on himself. To this man, he was human, but here, even if it was unfamiliar, this was where everything in his mind lit up. His vision was sharp, his sense of smell strong. The trail was old, but there was a reason the cops used bloodhounds, right?

Still, he did need a starting point, so Charlie was helpful. He looked up as the man pointed, trying to tell anything from the trees, wishing they would reveal their secrets. But the earth owed them nothing. He would have liked to locate the witness, but the house did seem pretty run down. Damn. When Charlie looked back to the map, Sebastian stepped to the treeline. Somewhere, there was a scent. He just needed to find it. But it was too old, and he didn't know where to begin. Maybe a random path was all they could do, for now.

"That might be all we can do." He exhaled, stepped back to Charlie. "Any particular direction calling to you?"