#And I even guessed an idiom (I looked it up to confirm but I was like. in tune)

[passengerpigeons]

need to get back on my gaeilge game

[alexeimcconville]

My First Published Book: After Thoughts

Let me first credit the artist, Brenna Goche. She provided the cover art and it's absolutely wonderful. I appreciate her work.

I published this book in 2021 and am pretty proud I was able to do so. However, as they say, "you learn from your mistakes," I'd also reason that, at times, you can't learn without making mistakes. I guess they call that experience. I was so set on that title, 'About a Hero: The Dispute with Fantasy.' It's not so bad, yet it feels . . . meh. I was going for this meta thing because it's a story about a hero, you get it? And 'The Dispute with Fantasy' subtitle, though relevant to the story, feels too generalized. I also had no art for the back cover, which was my fault because I didn't want to spend more money for another commission, so I cropped one of the butterflies from the main image and blew it up. Then there's the cover formatting which I did myself, because I didn't want to spend the money. I had a thought how it would turn out but had no way to confirm my intention with the self-publishing service provider I was using, (or there were ways that I decided not to go about because it felt good on my end), and it's a mess. As was my decision on the blurb that was meant to be meta, too, and . . . I have the same meh feeling. As for the text formatting, which (you guessed it) I also did myself. It's passable but lacks flair. The titles for each chapter are barely bigger than the text and sit right at the top. All these things I didn't even think about, or never could have possibly noticed until I had the actual physical book in my hands, but then it was too late to go back and make changes. I'm proud of myself, and I'm proud of my book, yet I can't help this lingering sense of disappointment. Still, I learned from this. By the way, the lesson isn't, "leave it to the professionals," no. What I learned was how to format the cover and the text better for my next project because I still do not want to spend money.

But of all my concerns, they're only for the visual elements. I pray that people don't judge a book by its cover, as the idiom goes, because the content is golden. Well, I think so. I love writing and have never not love what I write. There are times I feel I can do better, maybe parts are a bit boring or drag on too long, but I love my work. I love my books. I am my first fan. And I have to say that this book is amazing. The only changes I'd make would be to alter the canon because, since completing this book, I've started working on other books within the IP.

For now, the book will remain as is. But my plan in the future is to remove it from circulation and republish it under a new title/subtitle with improved formatting. Unfortunately, doing so requires money which I don't have. (Or better to say I would rather use what little money I do have to publish new books. One day, when I have extra cash, I'll republish). Perhaps this version might become a collector's item. One can only hope.

Buy here. I get better commissions.

[ddarker-dreams]

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. Bruno x F Reader x Fugo

Word count: 1.3k. Note: i finally dusted off this draft thanks to gorgeous art drawn by @nanabrainrot​ depicting a preview i posted a while back ... it immediately whipped up my inspiration to finish things off 😌

[Scarlet Ribbons description]

There is very little that escapes Pannacotta Fugo’s notice.

He’s a man obsessed with details, down to the most minute. While this has aided him in his studies and other educational endeavors, it can at times be more of a bane than a boon, depending. This would be a prime example of the latter. Though he contented himself by admiring the passing scenery during the drive back to Napoli, he couldn’t shake the uncanny feeling of being watched. It wasn’t malicious, so much as it was something else, smoldering yet otherwise unidentifiable aside from that lone detail.

While Fugo had a guess about where this stare was coming from, he didn’t rush to confirm it. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say. He’s curious how the idiom would adjust for partial ignorance.

It wasn’t until a ways into the drive that he worked up the courage to confirm his suspicions. Just as he predicted, a pair of cobalt eyes belonging to Bruno Bucciarati greet him upon glancing in the rearview mirror. They lock gazes and hold it unblinkingly. All is silent, save for the hum of the rental air conditioner, and cars passing them by on the highway.

That is, until you pipe up in a half-intelligible voice. “First position… no… fifth…. position…”

Both of their attention redirects to you.

Presently, you’re helping yourself by using Fugo’s shoulder as a makeshift pillow. You’ve been out like a light since you plopped into the backseat. Alarm was Fugo’s initial reaction — who could expect him to think straight when you were so close? Closer than you’ve ever been. The warmth your body radiates only pales in comparison to the flush holding his cheeks hostage. Fugo thought it would fade away with time, and it did, up to the point you mumbled a cute little message while in the land of dreams.

In a way only you could, the tension threatening to build in the air momentarily dissipates. It’s like you’re looking out for him even in your sleep.

Quietly as he can, he clears his throat, not trusting his voice to have the strength necessary for the conversation ahead. “You don’t think there’s someone following us, do you Bucciarati?”

“No, I don’t,” Bruno replies without missing a beat. He must’ve been anticipating the question. “Why do you ask?”

If one applies pressure to a wound in the wrong manner, they can do more harm than good when it comes to stopping the bleeding. This concept is what bounces around in Fugo’s mind unceasingly. He wouldn’t mind if almost anyone else in this world bled. But this is Bruno, a man he admires more than his own parentage, to the point he’d follow any order received without question. Maybe it’d be best if Fugo dropped it. They both know where this could head otherwise, an unspoken yet mutually understood truth nonetheless.

This could potentially be the point of no return.

Yet, if there was ever a time Fugo would cross the line, it would be because you stand on the other side waiting.

“I just happened to notice you were looking back here a lot, is all.”

The atmosphere shifts to something colder without the actual temperature changing.

While not an outright challenge, it’s an undoubtedly bold move on Fugo’s part. Bruno is back to looking at the road ahead. Fugo notes the tension he’s holding in his shoulders, how his lips have been pressed into a firm line. He must be giving this plenty of thought like Fugo is, if not more so. His fingers are tight on the steering wheel.

It’s simple, really, Fugo reasons. Bruno’s behavior could be explained even by someone who wasn’t a genius like himself. At first, Fugo thought Bruno found you attractive and nothing else. Not a farfetched theory by any means. You’re a looker, even he could admit that when he first met you and wondered what good your addition would bring to the team. It wasn’t until recently that Fugo came to terms that it might go beyond that, into something more intimate.

Bruno almost always had a smile on his face when you were present. He hung on your every word, setting aside whatever he was doing previously to give you his undivided attention. While he took to Fugo’s advice for legal and financial matters, you were his top pick for jobs that required interacting with or winning over people. Bruno saw potential in you before Fugo even gave you the time of day.

Only a fool would chalk that up to simple physical attraction. Unfortunately, a fool is the furthest thing Fugo was from being.

“This was the longest job she’s had since joining Passione,” Bruno finally speaks up, his voice low so as not to disturb you. “Polpo will be expecting a full account from me. He had his reservations on sending her with us, I hope this will prevent any reservations in the future.”

The grace with which Bruno redirected the conversation was enough to earn Fugo’s admiration. He was being truthful by saying all this, though there were details he purposefully omitted. Treating you like his responsibility is a smart play. Fugo knows a brick wall when he sees one and decides not to press his luck further.

The topic could’ve been dropped altogether for propriety’s sake. However, much to Fugo’s disbelief, it’s Bruno who removes the spotlight from himself and shines it blindingly toward his younger teammate.

“What about you, Fugo? You were worrying over her plenty yourself.”

“That’s…” Fugo trails off, wetting his lips. “How could I not? Any mistakes she made would reflect poorly on Passione, and by extension, us. I was looking out for all of our best interests.”

“Mhm,” Bruno gives the most disbelieving affirmation.

Fugo, while frustrated, can’t bring himself to feel offended over the humbling he just received. Other men in Passione have had limbs refused when challenging their leader for less. Bruno was a compassionate and forgiving man when compared to that, or any other person, for that matter. He huffs and sinks back into his seat. Meanwhile, you keep snoozing away, entirely oblivious to the verbal battlefield with arrows whirring in every which way around you.

“... How do you think she did?” Bruno inquires. He wonders if Bruno knew how tender his voice became when you were the conversation topic.

“I thought that elderly couple wouldn’t ever give [First] back to us,” Fugo can’t help but joke.

You did well, he feels that goes without saying. The job was as such — some old money with connections to Passione that went way back where to stay in their Posillipo summer villa for a time. Neither Fugo nor Bruno knew anything about them aside from the fact the older gentleman recently retired from his business in Chicago, or as much as a mobster for life could ‘retire’. He cherished his wife dearly and wanted nothing but the best protection during their stay.

The Signora was especially taken with you. She found your company a delight, to the point she asked you to join her for breakfast every morning. Her interests in the arts aligned well with yours.

“I wouldn’t have let them keep her,” Bruno replies with a smile. Fugo doesn’t doubt it either.

No, they both have to share you enough as is. This team that Bruno is starting to build can already feel confining at times when either of them wants your attention — and it’s just the three of you for now. Apparently, Bruno has some ideas for new members he wishes to invite. Fugo may not be a religious man, yet he still prays whoever comes next doesn’t find themselves wrapped around your finger as well. That’d be pure misery for him.

Though when he looks at your sleepy face, and your soft, glossy lips that are almost always curled into the sweetest smile, he can’t help but have his doubts.

[dialovers-translations]

Diabolik Lovers DARK FATE ー Laito Dark [08]

ー The scene starts in the guest room at the Tsukinami manor

Laito: Geez, I never thought things would turn out like this. ...I’m sorry, Bitch-chan?

Yui: I’m fine. You’re here with me after all.

Laito: Nfu~ I feel relieved to hear that. I promised to protect you, but look at me now.

I was worried that might have just turned you away from me, you know?

Yui: Well...

Selection

→ I would never (♡)

Yui: I would never.

Laito: I see, thank god. I feel relieved.

Well, I expected no less of my Bitch-chan, of course. Nfu~

→ It might have

Yui: You’re right. My love might have faded a little.

Laito: However, both of us are unharmed, right? It could have turned out much worse, honestly. (1)

Yui: It was that dangerous...? I had no idea. 

Laito: Nfu~ I guess it’s difficult to tell for a human such as yourself.

To be honest, I was surprised myself to encounter someone whose power might as well be on par with that person.

Yui: ( With that person...He means Karlheinz-san, right? )

( I wonder what exactly Carla-san is if his powers are equal to those of the Vampire King...? )

Laito: Well, with the situation being what it is. I figured that it was in our best interest to obey and let ourselves get captured.

We wouldn’t be able to escape if we had gotten injured, right?

Nor would I be able to protect you either. As your knight in shining armor, that is~

Yui: Thank you, Laito-kun.

Laito: ーー That being said...I wonder what their plan is? 

Not only did they bring us here, but they’re having several dozens of wolves keep watch as well.

Yui: ...You have no clue either?

Laito: Hmー... I guess I do have one.

Yui: And that is...?

Laito: ーー The fact that I’m his child.

Yui: ...!

Laito: Or alternatively, your blood, I guess?

Yui: Why my blood...?

Laito: They might be...First Bloods.

Yui: That’s the imprisoned clan Reiji-san mentioned before, no?

Laito: I’m not 100% certain either though.

ーー Well, I guess it’d be quicker to just ask them directly.

*Knock knock*

Yui: ...Eh?

ー Shin enters the room

Shin: Hey there. Guess you could sense I was coming.

Yui: ( Shin-kun... )

Laito: You’ll give us an explanation, right? As to why we’ve been imprisoned here.

Shin: Can’t say I know much more. I’m leaving that stuff up to Nii-san.

Laito: Hm~ Well, I guess that’s fine.

Shin: ...Anyway, you’re being awfully calm, aren’t you? I thought so earlier as well.

Laito: Because I let myself get captured without putting up a fight? Would you have preferred if I protested a little? 

Can you blame me though? The difference in power is simply too great.

No matter what I did, I would have gotten injured or worst-case scenario, died.

Shin: ...

Laito: What? It’s the truth, isn’t it?

Shin: Even if it is, don’t you feel ashamed for just letting yourself get captured like some pathetic weakling?

Laito: Nfu~ I’m not the type of person who would feel embarrassed over such a thing, you see?

Yui: ( ...I wonder why? I feel as if Shin-kun is really on his case... )

Shin: Can’t say I relate. I would never do something to confirm my own weaknesses. 

Laito: A weakness...Huh?

Shin: But it is, isn’t it? Turning away with one’s tail in between one’s legs rather than trying to stand up against a strong foe can only be described as being weak.

Laito: ...I feel as if our opinions don’t quite match.

Shin: My thoughts exactly.

Carla: You two, enoughーー

Yui: ( ...! When did he!? )

Carla: Shin. You are late.

Shin: Sorry. I got a little caught up in our talk.

Carla: I will be waiting in the living room. Make haste.

ー Carla leaves

Shin: You heard him, so hurry up, will you?

Nii-san will tell you everything you want to know.

Monologue

I wonder who exactly they are, 

and why they decided to kidnap us?

According to Laito-kun,

they might be First Bloods (ファーストブラッド).

If they are, then what are these Founders afterーー?

With worry (不安な気持ち) remaining in my heart, we did as we were told

and headed towards the living room. 

ーー TO BE CONTINUED ーー

Translations

(1) Literally he says ‘that’s a blessing amidst a series of unfortunate events’. The idiom in English would be ‘every cloud has a silver lining’, but I thought ‘it could have turned out much worse’ fit well here too. 

→  LIKE MY TRANSLATIONS? SUPPORT ME ON KO-FI!

<- [ Dark 07 ] [ Dark 09 ] ->

[scienceoftheidiot]

I was tagged by @hughstheforcelou on an OTP song game (thank you !!) so I guess I'll do it too, with my usual babies ;) Long post so I put all under the cut

How Desden feels about Diane https://youtu.be/NMM02AO7mE8 Au Conditionnel - Matmatah

Faut-il que je songe enfin à me brûler les ailes ? Ne croyez surtout pas que j'en ai la flemme C'est sans doute par crainte que je chasse le naturel Mais il tombe dans vos bras. C'est commun, les mortels… Bientôt je serai prêt, je serai l'homme le plus formel. Une information à mettre au conditionnel, Mais il semblerait bien que je vous aime.

translation (and oh god is it hard to translate argh so many puns and idioms in so few sentences I am sorry) :

Should I at last think about burning my wings ? Absolutely do not think that I can't be bothered It's no doubt out of fear that I'm chasing away my character But it falls in your arms. It's common, mortals... Soon I will be ready, I'll be the most formal man An information yet to be confirmed, But it seems I might love you

How Diane feels about Desden https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnJ0wwdlKsI&ab_channel=Eels-Topic

Take a look in the killer's eyes And you see there's nothing there But something is sacred in your eyes And something to believe On a rainy day And as the world will blow to bits I'll cradle you and hold you tight

Their song https://youtu.be/RCVi9QvgZAY The Fastest Way Back Home - Frank Turner

I need to set my house in order, Confess and cover my sins. I need to make a home for you before inviting you in. Weather wears the mountains right down into the sea, So I will stand in the rain until I am clean. Rivers carve the country, A landscape shaped by a stream, So I will swim in the river for as long as you need.

Desden angst/break-up song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n50LrYEcqo4&ab_channel=FooFighters-Topic Cheer Up, Boys (Your Make Up Is Running) - Foo Fighters

I know you've got your reasons Hey let's call it even Turn out all the lights and go to bed Still I get this feeling No one will believe me When I let these ghosts outside my head

Diane angst/break-up song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0kXAAtTRp3Y&ab_channel=KyleMoore If I Ever Stray - Frank Turner

We all have secrets that we hold inside The worst little things that you never confide And the worst one of all that you just can't hide Is that you're never quite as strong as you sound So I'm sorry baby, for the times I've hurt you Sorry friends, for the times I desert you Most days it feels like I don't deserve you And I wonder that you're all still around

I don't have that many songs so it's the same as last time for most of them, but it's good because it allows me to share the exact bits that made me chose them, so thanks ;)

I tag @heirsoflilith, @ironweirdo, @omg-okimhere, @shutterbug-12, @foxesandmagic @le-chat-sur-mars and whoever has an OTP they want to do this for :) tag me if you do it !

[superheroesofbothuniverses]

Kidnapping Number Eleven (Wintershock)

Darcy grumbled and swore as she woke up in yet another dank cell in some unknown baddies’s lair. Working around Avengers and being married to one made her life wonderful, thrilling and…….prone to being kidnapped. She twisted around in the chair she was restrained in and glared at her bare left hand.

“Bitches stole my wedding ring!” she complained. “I will cut them!”

“I’ll join you,” said a similarly grouchy male voice from across the room.

Darcy whipped her head around to see she wasn’t the only prisoner. A man was tied up in similar fashion to her, wrists and ankles cuffed to the chair. His handsome face was bruised and cut, and he looked decidedly disgruntled. She squinted in the dim light and then recognized him.

“Sousa?” She asked. “They nab you too?”

“Yes and yes,” he confirmed. “I thought I had left the kidnappings behind in my field agent days.”

Darcy chuckled.

“Even being supposedly dead doesn’t mean one is exempt from being snatched, apparently,” she sighed. “I was on such a roll. Ten months since the last kidnapping. Guess I’ll have to reset the counter.”

“You have a kidnapping counter?” Daniel asked, with some amusement.

“Yep,” she sighed. “Twenty attempts and eleven successes, counting today. I do PR work with the avengers and that tends to make me a target. Not to mention, I’m married to someone that tends to make evildoers’ lives miserable and short.”

“Sounds familiar,” Daniel admitted. “I sure hope they aren’t being lured into a trap. I have no clue how many people they’ve got stationed here.”

“No worries. My husband’s pretty badass. He can take ‘em, and if he brings his buddies, well, it will be lights out for our captors,” Darcy said confidently, while Daniel fiddled with his leg.

“Are you hurt?” She asked, concerned again.

He shook his head and pulled up a small metal device, which he used to pick the cuffs and free himself.

Darcy’s jaw dropped.

“Smooth, Daniel. I’m only halfway there.”

She’d been working on her own cuffs with the hairpin she’d had hidden away, but it was slower going than usual for her. She was rusty. She made a mental note to ask Natasha to run some practice sessions with her.

“I gotta know, where did you manage to hide a lockpick?” She asked, as they rubbed the circulation back into their limbs. “They searched me pretty thoroughly, except for my shoes.”

In answer, Daniel pulled up his pant leg, exposing a prosthetic limb, which had a tiny compartment built in. He smirked and shut it again.

“Nice!” Darcy admired. “Tony’s work?”

“Jemma Simmons, actually,” Daniel said. “Though it would be something a Stark would do as well.”

“Bucky will be jealous,” she joked. “Don’t think he’s got any cool compartments in his metal arm.”

“He could also break down this door with that metal arm in a heartbeat, though.” Daniel said, eying the very thick cell door that so far was impervious to their attempts to pick the lock.

Darcy shrugged. “Yeah, most likely. I’m not hearing much from outside right now. Where are all the thugs and mad scientists?”

There was no window in the door, so all they could do was sit and wait and hope rescue came before their captors came back.

“You’re with Quake, right? What’s that like?” Darcy asked to make conversation.

Daniel’s eyes grew soft and warm, and she could tell she’d picked a good topic.

“It’s wonderful,” he said fondly. “She’s so incredibly smart and funny, and strong and loving. After all the stuff life has thrown at her, she still has such a huge heart. I think I was smitten from the first day I met her posing as a CIA agent.”

“Awwe,” Darcy cooed, heart melting at how massive his heart eyes were as he talked about Daisy. She’d only met Quake a few times, but she could totally understand how Daniel could have fallen for her right off the bat.

“What about you? What special someone will be bursting through here to carry you to safety?” Daniel asked her, a knowing sparkle in his friendly brown eyes.

Darcy chuckled.

“That would be one Bucky Barnes, badass extraordinaire and the world’s most adorable cinnamon roll of a husband.”

Daniel looked confused.

“Cinnamon roll? Is that some modern slang term? I’m not familiar with it.”

“Yes,” Darcy said, thinking back to how much Daniel reminded her of Steve with his general confusion about modern day idioms. “It means he’s got a sweet, gooey personality underneath all those layers. Despite everything the War and Hydra did to him, he’s still got that irresistible charm and gentlemanliness that seems to be a thing with the men of your era. I bet Daisy appreciates that too.”

“I think so,” Daniel acknowledged. “She does call me a square a lot, though.”

He gave an adorable sheepish grin that Darcy guessed meant the term square had become one of endearment.

She heard gunshots and banging noises and quickly hit the deck, self preservation instincts kicking in. Daniel was crouched down, too, listening intently.

About three minutes later, the door was violently opened and three figures appeared: one of which was obviously Captain America, the second a tall brunette woman she quickly recognized as Daisy Johnson, aka Quake, and the third was a very ferocious looking Bucky Barnes, gun aimed and ready.

“We’re alright!” Darcy declared before he could get himself more worked up, but he carefully checked her over anyway, needing to see for himself.

“I see you’ve picked the cuffs already. That’s my girl,” Bucky said with a proud grin, pulling her into a relieved hug.

“They took my rings,” she said with a pout against his chest. “Did you leave me anybody to yell at?”

“A couple. I’ll ask Barton to search them.” Bucky told her.

“Everything okay, Johnson?” He asked, nodding to Quake, who was tenderly wiping the blood off of Daniel’s face.

“Yeah,” she said absently. “Doesn’t look like more than some surface wounds. I don’t know what these idiots were trying to prove except how dumb they were in their terrible planning and execution.”

Steve, seeing that things were under control and he wouldn’t be needed to carry an unconscious body, shared a look with Bucky, and left the room again.

“So it wasn’t Hydra?” Daniel asked.

“Doesn’t look that way,” Bucky replied. “Looks like a wannabe who was tryin’ to impress someone. The guys we’ve caught are already squealing like stuck pigs.

“Did you make your scary murder face at them?” She asked. “I bet they peed their pants.”

Bucky chuckled. “Didn’t have to. Steve and Nat beat me to it. Besides, I have Resting Murder Face as you so frequently remind me, doll.”

“Yup. And it’s an awfully cute murder face, too,” she told him fondly. They gazed at each other for a second and then heard a sigh behind them.

“If you’re done with the flirting, could we please get out of here? I have a hot date I need to get to.”

Darcy pretended to roll her eyes.

“Oh, fine, Quake. I guess I can jump my hot husband a little later.”

She heard Daniel make a choked sound even as Bucky cracked up.

“No filter Darcy is the best Darcy,” he whispered.

“And don’t you forget it,” she ordered, winking at him.

The four of them met Steve, Clint, Nat and Sam in another room, where ten restrained men were sitting or lying, depending on their state of consciousness. Darcy recognized the thugs that had taken her and upon pointing them out to Bucky, watched in glee as he menaced them until they begged for mercy and gave up their boss. Clint, who had been searching them, found Darcy’s jewelry and she gave a huge sigh of relief as she put her rings back on.

“Better now, doll?” He asked her.

“Much,” she told him, admiring the way the Ruby and diamonds sparkled on her hand. Bucky’s proposal had been incredibly romantic and she would never ever forget the way her heart had throbbed when he’d gone down on one knee in front of her and looked at her so lovingly as he’d asked her to marry him.

After all the prisoners were rounded up and loaded on the quintet, Darcy took a seat beside Bucky and snuggled up against him as best she could.

“Thanks, babe,” she whispered. “You’re awesome.”

“You are, Darcy,” he told her. “You could have run FAR and fast from the Avengers chaos, but you stuck around and I’m very grateful.”

“Despite the Chaos and kidnappings aside, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. We’re worth it, Bucky,” she told him, squeezing his hand with hers.

[haberdashing]

I Am Destruction, Decay, And Desire (4/?)

Martin finds out that Jon’s going to meet with Jude Perry and acts to intervene. It goes… poorly.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

on AO3

Martin had never been a fan of the old idiom that time heals all wounds. In his experience, if time made you forget about certain wounds, it was only because newer ones took precedence. That being said, however, by the time Martin returned to the cafe where the life he’d known had ended just twenty-four hours ago, his mood was as least somewhat better than it had been the previous night. He still was all too aware of what had happened, but it didn’t sting quite as badly as it had when it was fresh.

He still had a purple smudge on his finger that had not in fact washed out during his bath, or rather his mostly-unsuccessful attempt at the same, but that was... fine. It would be fine.

Martin had made a point of being on time to the meeting he had arranged, but even so, he saw as he had arrived that both Jon and Jude had beaten him to the punch, having taken a seat at opposing sides of an outside table.

Jon was wearing the same ridiculous fluffy pink coat as he’d worn the day before, though if it was especially chilly out Martin couldn’t feel it, and Martin felt a pang as he got closer and saw that it was still visibly stained where his waxen hand had brushed against it.

As Martin approached the table where Jon and Jude sat, he found that that same coat he had fixated upon was apparently the current topic of discussion.

“Look, I lost my normal coat, and i-it’s cold. Some of us actually feel it, you know?”

Martin’s stomach sank a little further at that confirmation that it was indeed cold out, that he simply couldn’t feel the cold anymore, that that was yet another sign that he was no longer human. (Even if it was kind of amusing to watch Jon get so indignant about that coat, of all things...)

“You wouldn’t shake my hand.” There was a strange grin on Jude’s face as she spoke, a grin matched in intensity by Martin’s growing certainty that this conversation was going to be... well, simply “uncomfortable” was probably a best-case scenario, now, wasn’t it?

Martin pulled up a chair and sat down between Jon and Jude; Jon glancing his way for a moment before returning to staring at Jude, and Jude nodded vaguely in his direction but didn’t otherwise acknowledge him. That was fine, though. There were worse things to be than overlooked.

“Well, no, I’m not stupid! I saw what happened-”

Jude’s grin only got even wider as Jon spoke, and evidently he noticed, as he switched conversational tracks quickly enough.

“L-look, will you stop that?”

The wild grin turned to biting laughter, though only for a brief moment. “Oh, alright. Ah… I hate explaining jokes, but, um… Imagine you’re, um… a butcher, and one day an injured little lamb walks into your workshop, and strides right into one of the mincing machines, but when you go up to it, knife in hand, it shakes its head and tells you ‘I’m not stupid’. Do you get why that’s funny?”

“Right.” Jon didn’t sound the least bit amused even after the explanation, but honestly, Martin didn’t exactly blame him. “But no more abattoir metaphors, please.”

“Suppose it’s not really me, is it? Would you rather be a really stupid piece of firewood?” Jude’s grin and the playful tone in her voice suggested that she was amused enough by her own jokes for the three of them.

And then Jon just... plunged ahead, asking questions about names and dates and places that Martin by and large didn’t recognize; perhaps it had been foolish of him to assume that Jon’s research, Jon’s search for answers, would have stopped just because of a little thing like, oh, being on the run for murder. In hindsight, Martin knew Jon well enough that he really shouldn’t have been surprised that the man kept searching for information come hell or high water, kept seeking out danger even when he was already knee-deep in it.

Really, the surprising part was that Jude actually cooperated, more or less. Sure, she protested, she threatened, but she also answered Jon’s questions in the end.

(Some might have found it even more surprising that Martin managed to remain little more than an onlooker in the conversation, but not Martin himself; he was too used to it, too used to being overlooked and underestimated, and honestly, given the circumstances, he didn’t much mind not being the center of attention at the moment.)

“Yes, yes, I understand, you could easily kill me, I’m at your mercy...” Jon barely blinked an eye at Jude’s latest not-so-veiled threat, a reference to a statement Martin actually did remember and a man who ended up horrifically burned because of the events within it. Martin doubted anyone else could sound quite so bored when being threatened with agonizing pain and disfigurement by a woman who had already proven that she could easily make good on such threats if the mood struck her. “So... why haven’t you done it?”

“We’re in public.” Jude, for her part, seemed more amused with the situation than anything else, the grin on her face sneaking its way into her voice once again.

“Well-” Jon started to say, but Martin interrupted before Jon could finish the thought.

“That didn’t seem to stop you before, now, did it?” Martin didn’t bother hiding the aggravation in his voice--it was one thing to discuss weird happenings Martin wasn’t privy to without including him in the conversation, but ignoring the events of yesterday, ignoring the very relevant fact that Jude had burned him in a setting every bit as public as the current one, went a bit too far for his taste.

Jude tilted her head to one side, and both she and Jon looked Martin’s way for a long, silent moment; Martin couldn’t read the look in Jude’s eyes, but Jon’s contained something like guilt, or perhaps pity.

“I was a bit careless there, wasn’t I?” The upbeat tone of Jude’s voice was only slightly dampened, far from the apologetic tone her words might otherwise have signified. “I shouldn’t have given you time to scream. If I moved fast enough, I could-” Jude turned her gaze back at Jon as she continued to speak. “-reach through your chest like runny wax, and hold your heart while it cooked, and no one would even notice.”

“Right. R-right.” Jon finally sounded at least slightly affected by Jude’s threats rather than just bored of them; perhaps it was the graphic nature of this one that did the trick, or perhaps being reminded that Martin was now living proof that Jude’s threats weren’t empty ones was enough to make the seriousness of the situation start to sink in. “So why don’t you? Does your ‘god’ not want you to?”

“...mmm, hard to say. When I look at you, I feel that burning liquid pain, eager to flow out and purify your rotten carcass...” Jude glanced over at Martin, and her gaze looked almost conspiratorial, like she was expecting him to be in agreement, but all Martin felt upon hearing that was a bit sick. “But I feel that a lot.”

“Oh.” Jon looked a bit peaky, and if Martin had to guess, he felt at least as ill as Martin himself did upon hearing the graphic details of Jude’s desire to burn and destroy. “M-more or less than normal?”

“Hard to say when every nerve ending’s on fire. Hard to tell degrees.” Another glance Martin’s way, looking for something in him that wasn’t there. (Or wasn’t there yet, at least--Martin thought back to Prentiss’ statement, how she could recognize that something was wrong before becoming little more than a worm-filled husk. Maybe that’s where he was now, in the in-between period, no longer human but not yet monster.)

“Third degree, maybe?” Jon muttered, the words probably meant mostly for himself rather than for the benefit of his conversational partners, but Martin still snorted with amusement, though Jude looked more annoyed than amused (apparently in her mind, she was the only one allowed to make jokes in this conversation).

“Sorry, sorry, it was a...” Jon trailed off before finishing his sentence, and when he started speaking again it was to start on another train of thought. “I have a god too... right?”

“Is that another joke?” Jude’s wry grin was back, despite the fact that what Jon had said didn’t strike Martin as a joke, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that any laughter in response to it would have to be at his expense.

“N-no, I... I’m new to this. Everyone keeps calling me ‘Archivist’, like I’m special, and that... that I serve the Eye. Trying to kill me for it.”

“Yes.” Jude leaned back a little in her chair.

“S-so... i-it’s like your ‘god’, right?”

“Oh please, your god is nothing!” Jude wrinkled her nose, apparently disgusted by the mere thought of comparing the two “gods” on equal terms. “The Eye, Beholding, Ceaseless Watcher...  whatever you call it, that’s all it does. It watches and knows, sitting bulbous and comfortable in the ignorance of infinite knowledge. I serve a reckoning, a surging tide of destruction and pain.”

Martin could feel his pulse racing as Jon breathed, “The Lightless Flame.”

“The Desolation. Blackened Earth. The destructive, agonizing heat of burning flesh and land scoured of life. The light, the comfort of fire stripped from it, leaving nothing but the terror of its approach. When it triumphs, it will leave The Eye a burned and shriveled husk that sees nothing but its own agony.”

Jon spoke up again, starting to get into yet another tiff with Jude by the sound of it, but Martin wasn’t really listening as the two went at it, too preoccupied by dissecting the information Jude had just given him about the “god” she worshipped, the power she had pulled him into serving by force.

Martin rather preferred the term Jon had offered up for it to those Jude had given; lightless flames could still provide warmth if one didn’t get too close, after all, while desolation, blackened earth... those phrases spoke only to landscapes with all the life in them stripped away, spaces emptied by force of any comfort that might once have been found there.

The mere thought of it made Martin’s stomach turn a little... and yet, part of him wanted to agree that their “god” was the better one, the stronger one, destined to reign superior, even if all it could cause was destruction and pain.

Martin hoped, distantly, that he hadn’t reached the point where all he could cause now was destruction and pain.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

A Singular Cog in the Machine Chapter 3

Chapter Title: Soul and Emotion

Summary: "It was pure logic when it came down to it. Why allow harm befall the others if Logan could stop it? Surely, it was much more beneficial for only one to be harmed than for all to undergo excruciating pain and misery. A broken cog is more easily replaced than if the whole machine fell apart.“

Logan adheres to the belief that needs of the many far outweigh the needs of the one, the latter being himself. Or in other words, Logan tries to sacrifice himself for the sake of the others. Fortunately for Logan, they won’t let him get away with that.

Chapter Word-Count: 2k

Pairings: platonic lamp

Warnings: Injuries, Referenced Torture, Crying, Misunderstandings, Angst With a Happy Ending

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | End       AO3 LINK

As promised, here comes the comfort! I want to give a quick shout-out to both @delimeful and @today-only-happens-once as their own sci-fi aus helped inspire me to finish what I started with this one heh <3

-

Logan woke up alone for the first time in a long while. Approximately sixty-six cycles, five hours, thirty-two minutes, four, five, six seconds ago. 

‘Internal Clock program is running functionally,’ Logan thought as he closed his eyes, running a quick diagnosis scan. It was not...completely optimal. Parts of his code had been ravaged, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. His biological body still suffered grievous breaches. His artificial eyes were damaged, only working at 70% efficiency. 

This made viewing things from a distance rather difficult. However, it was clear enough to recognize he was not in his own quarters. Rather, he was still in the ship’s common recreation area. The “living room” as Virgil referred to it. 

He laid on the couch, swaddled in soft blankets and cushioned with a plethora of pillows. Both he expected came from Patton’s hoard in his quarters. He was almost surprised not to see a stuffed animal in the crook of his arm. The television was on, the volume lowered to only a pleasant murmur could be heard. Images of animals flashed onto the screen. A nature documentary, one that Logan had previously found to be captivatingly informative.

 “--we’ll take care of you, we’ll watch all your favorite nature documentaries, how does that sound?”

Patton had said that, he recalled. But when? He tried locating the source of the memory file. Except--

ERROR MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED.

He dug a bit deeper, finding more and more memory files in a similar disarray. He’d known this problem was occurring. But that didn’t explain the chill that swept through his body just then. A fever perhaps? No, his body temperatures remained at their normal regulated levels.

Before he could contemplate this further, his ears picked up on noises in the distance. Too far away to make it out from his position. There was a simple solution to his quandary. The ship computer. Or Odysseus as Roman insisted on calling it. He could request an audio transcript. 

Pinging...pinging...pinging…

He couldn’t reach the ship computer. That was not optimal. His only option was to investigate the noises himself.

Logic dictated he was wounded. He should remain on the couch unless absolutely necessary. He remained put, concentrating on the television. The urge to find the source of the noises would not go away. It festered, growing rapidly like a disease until he could not withstand it any longer. 

Standing up from the couch proved far more difficult than he anticipated. His torso flared in pain, his legs shaky and unstable. He gripped the side of the couch, breathing in deeply. His vision spun, distorted and decorated with bright spots of light. It took a moment for it to completely clear.

He looked down the corridor, the distance stretching into oblivion. No, that was a falsehood. It was only ten meters long. However, in his current physical state it might as well be a thousand meters.

It didn’t cause his pressing curiosity to fade in the slightest. He took a step forward, his foot stinging like pins and needles to quote an idiom of Virgil’s. He didn’t collapse. Granted, he heavily leaned onto the couch for support. He took another step forward and then another.

 He held onto the corridor wall the whole way, a small grunt of pain leaving him. The dizziness returned, but he pushed through it. All that mattered was reaching the end of the corridor. If Logan’s memory was still accurate, it should lead to the ship galley. Perhaps the others were engaged in re-energizing through fuel consumption? 

As he drew close, the noises crystallized into recognizable speech. 

“Are you sure?” Virgil’s voice asked, pointed and edged. Someone responded, much too low for Logan to catch. He gritted his teeth, propelling himself onward at an accelerated rate. His vision frizzled and crackled, everything becoming a blobby mess of colors.

“Maybe we should--Logan!” 

An arm wrapped around his waist, hoisting him up. Logan opened his mouth to protest when a wave of nausea hit him. He quickly shut it in favor of keeping his stomach contents down. The person guided him to a chair, careful and steady. He sat there, grimacing as the nausea gradually subsided from his systems.

When he glanced up again, he met the furrowed brows of Roman, Patton and Virgil. They gathered around him, forming a semi-circle. He examined them, scrutinizing every detail. His drive whirred from the amount of tests he processed in the matter of nanoseconds. Each one proving the validity of his suspicions every single time.

“You’re real.” He croaked.

They all exchanged a glance.

“Yes, we’re here Logan, you’re safe now,” Patton confirmed, laying a hand on Logan’s shoulder. A gesture meant to be reassuring except it wasn’t reassuring at all. 

“No,” Logan shook his head, “You should--cannot---I don’t--it does not make sense!”

“Why does it not make sense?” Roman asked, dropping down on one knee. He acted odd,  more muted than usual. The way his head bowed indicated a sign of exhaustion. Logan shook this thought aside in an attempt to formulate a response.

“To quote Spock from the movie Star Trek II Wrath Of Khan, ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one,’” Logan said. Upon their blank stares, he elaborated, “A singular cog in the machine is more easily replaced than if the whole machine falls apart. As the ship engineer and navigator, my role is vital but replaceable, therefore--” 

Patton drove into Logan, embracing him firmly around his middle. The titekan’s whole frame shook as deep, guttural sobs fell erupted from him. Logan blinked, almost short-circuiting from this unexpected turn of events.

“I...do not understand.” Logan admitted. He glanced up at Roman and Virgil only to find them in similar states of malfunction. 

“You colossal intelligent idiot,” Roman murmured, his face dripping with ivory tears. He shoved his head against Logan’s shoulder, placing his arms around both him and Patton. “Did you really think we could function without you?”

‘‘Yes,’’ Logan wanted to say, but he couldn’t. The word wouldn’t come out of his clenched throat. Virgil was the only one left standing at this point. He was the captain, the system administrator. He was a much-appreciated source of reality.  Surely, despite his human emotions, he understood the logic. 

“Lo,” Virgil sighed, running his hand through his hair, “When you disappeared, we searched all over the galaxy looking for you. We looked for weeks. And after we found you, we’ve been taking care of you in shifts. You know why?”

Logan shook his head.

“Because you’re not a broken cog to us. You’re more than that--you’re a kraffing sentient being. You’re--” Virgil’s voice wobbled. He inhaled harshly, pushing on, “Dammit, you’re family, Logan. And it’s cheesy but we don’t give up on one another. Never.”

“Captain Fearless is right,” Roman said, and Patton made a rumbling sound of agreement.

“Oh,” Logan managed, swallowing, “Oh.”

He’d thought so much about the others’ and their importance to the system. He analyzed and calculated it all. He saw how removing any of their variables would be detrimental. But in all his calculations, he never considered how he himself affected the equation. 

“I did not--I made a slight miscalculation--” Logan breathed in, “I am sorry.”

“No,” Virgil said, stepping closer, “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I should’ve told you, I assumed it was an understood thing. We could’ve rescued you sooner if I hadn’t second-guessed myself--”

“Virgil.” Logan said, the clenching feeling in his throat tightening. Wordlessly, he reached out a hand to Virgil. He wasn’t quite sure what he was attempting to convey. Fortunately Virgil seemed to understand. He leaned over and joined the entangling of limbs and bodies. 

‘A group hug,’ Logan’s dictionary program informed him, ‘an instance of three or more people embracing one another simultaneously, typically to provide support or express solidarity.’

They held onto one another for quite a while, not moving a single muscle. Great globs of tears were shed amongst them all; even Logan wasn’t immune to it. He rationalized it was his body reacting to the others’ emotional displays. It probably did not have to do with the strange, tingly warmth lit up inside his chest.

He would worry about this sensation if not for the melatonin in his system starting to take effect. He closed his eyes, a long intake of oxygen following this action. 

“Logan?” Patton sniffled.

“Yes?” 

“Th...there’s something we need to tell you about.”

Logan’s eyes fluttered open. He looked expectantly at Patton, waiting. The titekan opened his mouth to continue, but Virgil and Roman beat him to it.

“Patton, are you seriously going to tell him--”

“We should wait--”

“No,” Patton said, interrupting them both, “we can’t keep this from him. He deserves to know.”

It didn’t increase in volume, but Logan’s heart was the only thing roaring in his ears. Deserves to know? The only scenarios Logan could come up in his mind was his tests were faulty, wrong wrong wrong about this being real. It was all fake. A simulation, surely or worse; an experiment. The thousand eyes watching him behind a screen, shattering his hopes once more.

“Logan?” A soft hand touched his cheek, “you with us?”

“Yes,” Logan heard himself saying, “Yes, I’m here. Go on, Patton. What is it that you’d like to divulge?” 

“When we brought you back, I did a few medical scans, to try and see if there was any internal bleeding going on,” Patton hesitated, refusing to meet Logan’s eyes, “I found an AI chip in your brain.”

What? Impossible, his AI was supposed to be undetectable by scans--

“That disgusting buvah must’ve stuck it in you for the kriffs and giggles,” Roman growled, his scaled tail whipping with indignation. 

“As far we can tell, it doesn’t have a tracker,” Virgil said, “and removing it could be lethal.”

“Okay.” Logan said faintly. 

“Okay?” Roman repeated, squinting, “We just told you that you have a freaky AI chip in your brain and your response is, ‘okay?!’”

“Hey, lay off him, Princey,” Virgil hissed, “He’s been through a lot, you know that.”

“Well,” Logan began, “this is not how I expected to inform you all of the fact that I am an advanced artificial intelligence operating inside of a biological body.”

“What?!” Roman gaped at him. Virgil and Patton also stared at him, showing similar signs of duress. 

“I did not think it was imperative intel as it did not negatively impact my performance as neither an engineer or navigator.” Logan said. And while it was true, it was also a bit of a lie. The reality was that most people seemed to be wary of AIs. This was why he chose to clothe himself with a biological body to blend in, so to speak. All it took was working lungs and a beating heart for others to respect and listen as illogical as that may be.

“I admit, that perhaps that was another lapse of judgment on my part. I understand if knowing this...makes you uncomfortable,” Logan added, a weird twisting feeling settling in his gut. Perhaps he was ill? He could not find himself to meet their gazes. He tried not thinking about how that was a sign of nervousness. He was not nervous, after all, AIs do not get nervous.

“Freaky?” Roman let out a high-pitched laugh, “did I say freaky? I meant to say there’s a freaking fantastic AI chip in your brain.”

“I agree,” Patton chirped up, “You could almost say that he’s too cute to compute!”

Now it was Logan’s turn to gape at them. “It really does not bother any of you?”

“It’s like I said,” Virgil told him, a small smirk growing on his lips, “you’re family. We love you, AI or not.”

Logan blinked, slowly processing the others--no, his family’s words. It didn’t make sense. His systems struggled putting it in neat, quantifiable boxes. He feared trying would only result in his systems crashing. For once, however, he found it didn’t matter that didn’t need to make sense.

So his response to this was purely logical. In ways Logan refused to elaborate or share even within himself.

“I...find you all sufficient as well.”

[hopeless-nostalgiac]

with all appliances and means to boot: ncis/tiva fic

for this challenge, @loudlooks​ requested Tiva + "I didn't know you could do that." thank you for the inspiration!! *hugs*

set summer between S3-4 w/ team dynamics & tiva (a LOT of tiva—they took over the fic, basically, and I’m not sorry about it) 

also, this turned out like eight times longer than I expected & was the most fun and freeing thing I’ve worked on in years, so

enjoy:) 

FFN

“I didn’t know you could do that!” 

McGee’s voice filtered over news-chattering televisions, incessantly ringing phones, and chicken-clacking keyboards to reach Tony at his desk. 

“There was no reason to mention it earlier. It is not exactly a useful skill, my friend.” Ziva’s full-throated chuckles were wind chimes amidst the office drudgery.

Tony shook off the eruption of gooseflesh on his arms. It was way too early for that. And McGee was babbling again.

“I’ve just never met someone in real life who could do it.”

“Really?!”

A boom of shared laughter enveloped them.

Glancing at the digital read-out on his monitor, Tony silently cheered. 9:07. Totally busted. Then he pretended to be busy with paperwork, so his attention was occupied ahead of time. 

The agents’ conversation lowered until it faded completely, coinciding with their entrance into the squadroom.

Tony had that effect on them now. The tables, as the saying went, had turned. They were the class troublemakers to his super-strict teacher. They, the unruly cadets, and he, the veteran drill sergeant. They were Agents; he was Boss. 

“Agent McGee. Officer David. You’re late.” 

McGee froze while swinging around his desk. Ziva froze after dropping her gear. Tony continued to stare yet not see the file in front of him, but he didn’t need visual confirmation to know the teammates were exchanging glances, coordinating their plan of counterattack. 

“Well, technically we were in the building on time.” The opening lob courtesy of McGee. 

“Technically, that’s not good enough, McTardy.”

“It was when you were wearing our shoes.” 

Tony fought an eye roll. “You can’t throw me off the scent with a well-timed idiom blunder, Officer David.” 

“Can’t I, Tony?” Ziva’s voice was louder, closer to him. 

Out of his peripheral vision, he spied her leaning on the divider between their workspaces. So close now, he caught a whiff of her lavender mint shampoo as she flicked at a cascade of curls that had fallen over her shoulder. If this was their strategy, well, it wasn’t the worst angle. 

But Tony DiNozzo was better. 

“No, you can’t,” he reiterated, finally gracing each of them in turn with his steady gaze. Calm, yet intense. Everything rumbling beneath the surface. “And it’s Agent DiNozzo. Or Boss.” 

Ziva stared back, golden-brown eyes matching his intensity, but not the calm. She rattled off a string of heated Hebrew, ending with a sharp snap of her teeth before spinning around on her heel and dropping heavily into her desk chair.  

Crazy chick.

“So, anyway. Just to be clear: If you’re here after me, you’re late. Period.” Tony slapped a case folder closed, causing his desk to tremble; he could emphasize his words, too. “For today, you can make amends by telling me whatever it is McGee didn’t know Ziva could do. I’m thinking it involves lots of stretching, but if there’s a video game reference, leave it out. Go!” 

And like that, authority forfeited for curiosity. 

McGee did roll his eyes and muttered something that suspiciously sounded like waste of time under his breath. Ziva scoffed, typing noisily at her computer and decidedly not looking in Tony’s direction. 

“That’s an order.” Even he didn’t buy the command. 

9:10. The day was shot. 

. . . 

If someone asked Tony how his first weeks as leader of MCRT were going, he’d say, “Good, considering the circumstances,” with a flash of white teeth. He didn’t like to lose face, sure, but he was pretty confident it was the truth, too.

Because when your boss quit and ran off to Mexico, leaving you in charge of a team that for years affectionately regarded you as The Class Clown, the circumstances weren’t on your side and ‘good’ was the most you could hope for.

. . . 

“What did you do?” 

Passing through the automatic doors, Tony came up short—as much due to the always assaulting antiseptic stench as the accusation. “Why do you assume I did something wrong? Can’t I come see my favorite Autopsy Gremlin with no ulterior motive?” 

“Sure you can,” Palmer called from the freezer section, where he was sliding a corpse home. “But I already talked to Abby, who talked to McGee.” 

Fantastic.

“So before, with the ‘what did you do?’...that was kind of redundant, huh?”

“Guess so.” A dorky chortle escaped the assistant. “I mean, seriously, they were only late by a couple minutes, Tony. Sorry, Agent DiNozzo.” Another hiccup of laughter. 

Great. Just great. 

“Gee, I was hoping I could escape some of the ridicule down here....” Tony pressed his palms against the cold steel of an autopsy table, shoulders hunched, depositing weight into the defeated stance. All his course-correcting tactics, including buying his team lunch, had done little to reverse the morning’s death blow. McGee and Ziva were ignoring him aside for a lone campfire, and then their interactions were clipped—aggressively so where the ex-assassin was concerned. Now the damage was spreading to the sub-basement, it seemed. 

“Look on the bright side, you’re the team leader. It’s what you’ve always wanted, right?” Palmer mirrored Tony on the other end of the table, adjusting his glasses before adding, “This is a bump in the road, but no one ever achieved greatness without first overcoming resistance.” 

“That’s wise, Palmer. For a man who talks to the dead. You wouldn’t happen to know—”

“What McGee didn’t know Ziva could do?” 

Tony blinked. Maybe they’d been underestimating the Autopsy Gremlin all along. “Yeah. Know anything about it?” 

“It’s not a big deal. We were at the bar last night and first the waitress got Abby’s drink order mixed up, but it was super busy, so I suggested that—”

“Sometime today, Palmer.” 

“Well, it turns out Ziva can knot a cherry stem with her tongue, and then...” 

Oh, it was more wondrous than he’d guessed (and that list was long).

Palmer’s rambling dissolved to the background of Tony’s thoughts. He couldn’t get to the audacity of everyone going out for drinks without him because the dexterity of Ziva’s tongue was front and center. As he was recently familiarized with that very tongue and the talented mouth it resided in, it was all too easy to lose himself in a sexy daydream of the alleged feat.

Until he remembered how pissed she was at him. Bubble, burst. 

. . .

If someone asked Tony how his first weeks sleeping with Ziva, his former partner and current subordinate, were going, he’d say, “What? I’m not—we’re not—how dare—what?!” 

Because when your boss quit and ran off to Mexico, some of his rules haunted you. 

. . . 

“Rough day?”

Tony looked up right away. It was best not to play games with the director, who emerged stealthily in the dim, empty squadroom. He’d dismissed McGee and Ziva at regular quitting time, unable to make eye contact with either of them—for different reasons—but stayed behind to catch up on last week’s case reports. Him, voluntarily completing paperwork. 

Rough was an understatement.  

“I see my shortcomings are making the rounds.” 

Jenny’s smile was beautifitic, the one she wore during news interviews. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t seeking it out. I was speaking to Ducky on a separate matter, and he happened to mention talking with Mr. Palmer, who—”

“Got the scoop from Abby because McGee blabbed to her,” Tony finished, barely restrained. “Yeah, I’m well acquainted with the watercooler daisy chain.” 

It didn’t slip his notice that Ziva was the missing link. The text he’d started writing to her the second she disappeared through the elevator doors was unfinished and unsent on his phone. 

“Did you also hear they went for drinks after work without inviting me?” It came out as a whine.

Jenny didn’t mask her amusement. “Did you always invite Gibbs for drinks? No, because he was your boss and you were probably venting about him.”

Touché.

“I’m trying, ma’am.” This he intoned with every fiber of professionalism and sincerity he could summon in the moment. The problem was that this wasn’t his first mistake since taking over—wouldn’t be the last—but he was trying. He wanted that noted. Also, there was an insane learning curve, and yes, big shoes to fill. Could he be blamed for that?

The redhead stepped forward, switching her smile for an expression of...not quite pity. Understanding? “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, Agent DiNozzo.”

“Robin Hood: Men in Tights?” 

“Shakespeare.” Jenny chuckled, her fair eyes sparkling in the light of his desk lamp. Tony could see why Gibbs was once head-over-heels for her, back when they were partners. He knew something of those complicated emotions, of which the text draft on his phone contained damning evidence. 

“It’s the nature of being in charge,” she continued. “You’re going to have crappy days and plenty of nights when you can’t sleep. My advice, from experience? When you screw up, apologize and do better next time.”  

“Isn’t that a sign of weakness?” It was a reflex, after so many years. 

Jenny caught his eye and held it. “No. It’s a sign of respect.” 

. . .

He was sober when he showed up on her doorstep. Stopping off for some liquid courage briefly flitted through his brain, but flitted out just as quickly. McGee, he could buy a NutterButter, eat some humble pie himself. All would be cool again. Ziva was a different story. 

Namely, a story with a lot of sex in it, and it’d barely been a month yet. That he spent a large portion of the day envisioning her tongue doing erotic dances with a red cherry stem wasn’t helping. It also further convinced him of a brutal truth: Things were changing. Things had already changed. 

Ziva, outlined by the glow from inside the apartment, crossed her arms over a baggy workout t-shirt. Curls piled in a messy bun. It was Tuesday, kickboxing night. “If you are here for a booty call, you will be sorely disappointed.” Each word was wrapped in her delicious Israeli accent, momentarily distracting him from their sum meaning.

He’d expected as much.

“See, when you want to get them right…” Tony’s attempted humor and roguish smile failed to earn him leniency. 

“Goodnight, Boss.”

The door hurtled toward him, closing on his chance to repent—and more than that, his chance with her. His left hand flew up, catching the wood with a few inches to spare. 

“Hey, whoa. Wait. I’m here to apologize, all right?” Breath whooshed in and out of him; sweat beaded instantly on his forehead.  

Okay, so it wasn’t just about the sex. He was enamored with her, and it hadn’t been a full month yet.

Ziva yanked the door back, though the arrangement of her features maintained dubious feelings. She raised her eyebrows in a way that said, Yes, and?

“I was an idiot, Ziva.”

A corner of her delicate mouth pulsed. “Good start.”

The heaviness in his chest released. He dared another smile, softer-gentler this time, and the door stayed open. “I was too hard on you and McGee.”

“You will apologize to him as well, yes?”

“Yes. McSweetTooth will wet himself with glee, I’m sure of it.” Tony shuffled his feet, bringing him onto her brown doormat, never dropping her gaze. “But seriously, Ziva, I know I messed up, especially, you know...I mean, you should be able to call the guy you’re sleeping with by his first name, even if he’s your boss. That is,” he sheepishly tagged on, “if I’m still the guy you’re sleeping with, after today.”

For a bloated handful of seconds, Ziva froze, as she had that morning in the squadroom. Eyes like lasers, drilling through him. It lasted long enough for doubts to creep in. Then—

“Are you?”

So simple, but coupled with her head tilted to expose honeyed neck, her popped knee, and the slight part of her plumped lips, the challenge was clearly set for him. 

This would be fun. 

Tony launched over the doorway, literally sweeping Ziva off her feet as he plowed into the apartment. An honest-to-goodness squeal filled his ears, then that wind-chime laugh took over and his knees wobbled in their sockets—nevermind her 100-something pounds hanging on his torso. 

It was the first time he’d carried her this way—any way—but her arms and legs wrapped around his body with an ease he would have analyzed if not for the supple give of her breasts against his chest, or her frizzy hair tickling his chin. Her mouth alternated between whispering the dirtiest promises in his ear and nibbling on his neck. Thoughts would have to wait. 

How they shut the front door, how they maneuvered the hallway to her bedroom, how they undressed and (eventually) found the bed was a haze of details that didn’t matter. The shudder that coursed through her at his every touch, mattered. The inverted bridge her back made when his lips and tongue met her center, mattered. His name on a gasp, woven into a sigh, lifted to a shout...

In this area, Tony DiNozzo excelled. He was damn well going to prove it. 

. . . 

It took two rounds to sate her. The first go was part of the apology; the second was because he had a young, hot lover who could run eight miles at the crack of dawn, kickbox for an hour after work, and still have energetic sex with him—twice. Who wouldn’t take advantage of that? 

“Guess I got that booty call after all.” He love-tapped her ass, which was bare to the air. He braced for retaliation. 

None came.

Hair mussed and cheeks flushed, Ziva glanced over, fixing him in her line of sight. A smirk hiked up the side of her mouth not buried in the pillow. “As did I, Agent DiNozzo.”

“Never going to live that down, am I?”

“Give it a few months.” Her smirk widened as her eyelids drooped, each blink taking longer and longer to pull back up. 

. . .

They dozed together in the dark of her bedroom. They weren’t cuddlers, per se. Their connections left them too sensitive, sticky and unspooled. They stayed close, though. Touching random pieces of her to him, him to her. His head resting on her bicep curled closest to the mattress. Her ankle molded to the arch of his foot. Sometimes as conventional as their hands laid one atop the other, fingers loose. 

. . . 

He began talking while they ate cereal in the kitchen at quarter to eleven. He was talking as she cleaned and put away their dishes and led him to the front room, his body going where she steered and nudged. What he voiced was nothing new to either of them. All the same issues that overwhelmed him on a cool May night, that propelled him to Ziva’s door in what would become a habit. He was drowning; she was refuge. 

For that, and so many other reasons, he trusted her without question. 

Ziva allowed him to talk now because that was how he worked out problems. They both knew that, too. 

“I think it comes down to the fact that...I don’t know how to be a team leader that isn’t Gibbs.” The admission floated and settled on the sofa cushion between them. It wasn’t often they said his name anymore. The memory was sore to the touch. 

“We have been over this, yes?” Ziva tossed a leg across his lap, the other tucked beneath her. He immediately claimed the tanned skin of her thigh, rolling it under his hands. “This is a chance to be your type of leader, make your own rules.” 

“Every time I do that, it blows up in my face.”

“Not every time,” she corrected, her eyes darting to his lips and lingering. 

His heart rate ticked up. Very true. They might not have happened if Gibbs hadn’t left. But… “We’re one thing, Ziva. The team is another.”   

She turned his chin with her hand, locking his gaze with her steady and fervent stare. An imposing combination. “Tony, you either keep trying or you quit, just like Gibbs. What will it be?” 

It was Tony’s turn to sneak a not-so-subtle glance at her lips. When she put it like that, the answer was undebatable. What he’d told Jenny wasn’t a lie. And giving up wasn’t an option. 

Didn’t mean he’d hand her the win that easily. 

“How about we make a deal?” While his eyebrows waggled, his hands roamed farther than her thigh. “I persevere with the team leader thing. In exchange, you show off your fancy cherry stem tying prowess for me.” 

Her mouth gaped, eyes narrowing. “Who told you?”

“Palmer. The guy’s actually not a bad sounding board.” He’d have to remember that for future thorny cases. 

Ziva deflected, “I do not have any cherries in the fridge.”

Tony returned, “That wouldn’t stop a true parlor trick magician like yourself.”

Her face reformed in an expression that always intrigued him. A cat devising the perfect trap for her prey. It didn’t surprise him when she stretched her leg out, straddling his lap properly. He circled her low back, drawing her hips over him and generating a spark of friction. There was extra verve in her fingers burrowing the short hairs at his nape, tipping his head upwards. 

“You must really want me to—”

Ziva covered his lips with hers, swallowing his words as they melted to moans. Instead of continuing hot and heavy, everything slowed. Each kiss long and needy, a continuous caress. Her heady spice invaded his senses. The tip of her tongue slipped by his teeth, running the roof of his mouth before pushing in further.

Tony’s spine straightened at the sensation of tongue against tongue, the rough texture, the strokes and flicks. He gripped whatever part of her was in his reach, would likely leave marks. She didn’t flinch. She was all around him, practically tying him in a knot. 

It was exactly how he imagined it, but also superior.

He was smiling when they broke apart, breath imperative for them both. “Your ingenuity is an inspiration, Ms. David.” 

Ziva winked, leaning forward to kiss him again, a casual closed-lipped peck in the wake of such an intimate encounter. And he knew, no matter what came of leading the team, he wanted this—them—to survive. 

“Now you must honor your part of the deal, Tony.” 

“Whatever you say,” he agreed, flipping her onto the cushion and following her down for round three.

. . .

The next day, Tony waited at his car in the parking lot for his team to arrive. He walked into the building with them, and didn’t check the clock in the mornings ever again. 

He apologized to McGee, which just freaked out the newly-appointed Senior Field Agent. As Tony predicted, the Nutter Butter made all the difference. 

By the end of the week, he brought Special Agent Lee onto the team because there was symmetry in four and they needed a probie to act as a buffer. Plus, she was good at meeting case report deadlines and Tony wasn’t.

He doubled-up on campfires and went to Jenny for advice more often. Palmer, too. 

The team went out for drinks, occasionally inviting him to join. Occasionally not. 

A month later, he and Ziva started keeping their love in each other’s hearts along with spare clothes in one another’s dressers. Soon, there would be no sense hiding them anymore. 

And when someone asked Tony how leading his own team was going, he said, “Our results speak for themselves,” and meant it. 

Because when your boss quit and ran off to Mexico, leaving you in charge, you wore the crown and made it your own. 

fin

[phoenixrisesoncemore]

But Whose Deontology?

The Untamed: three-fifths mark

OK, @thearrogantemu​ I finally had a chance to look at a non-work screen for long enough to watch some more Untamed; through episode 30 now! Oh boy. Spoilers for anyone who isn’t this far yet below the cut:

I feel like this show didn’t exactly *hide* that it was interested in poking holes in everyone’s moral system, but it did spend a lot of time... not distracting us, really, but using the other assorted comical, tender, and otherwise emotional aspects of the show to deepen our investment in these characters’ lives and choices before it started really making its moves. I suspect it wouldn’t have had the same effect otherwise.

The long run up is a pacing I’m quite the fan of from almost three decades of JRPGs that start out as light-hearted adventures about teenage angst only to turn into philosophical ruminations on God and the nature of the universe (see my favorite example: Xenogears). Even The Lord of the Rings does something... similar, albeit not intentionally on the part of the author. It’s actually one of my favorite “tropes” in storytelling: the tone shift—the moment the light-hearted and comfortingly simple reveals itself to be something much wider and deeper and which will leave you unsettled in its wake.(1)

I’m really quite impressed with Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo. Xiao Zhan manages to believably play the process of aging from arrogant and ornery but innocent and lovable “student” in Cloud Recesses, to the (still arrogant and ornery but lovable) rebellious “hero” during the Wen indoctrination, to the (still arrogant but lovable) young man forced to grow up too fast when his adoptive parents are killed, to the Master of Demonic Cultivation and head of The World’s Most Wholesome Farming Co-op (why cultivate only demons when you can cultivate turnips, too!?).(2) And he manages to play it all as believably the same character, always deeply expressive but also somehow... authentic... even when he is putting on a show: his play-acted irresponsible argumentativeness with Wen Qing; his self-infantilization whenever he wants Yanli to mother him. The latter would be laughable if we were to take it as entirely straight-faced—he knows he is playing childish, and he knows that she knows, even if he does legitimately want to be mothered. Jiang Cheng on the other hand seems to never handle the reality of Wei Wuxian as well as Wei Wuxian handles the reality of Jiang Cheng...

I understand there was some criticism of Yibo’s perceived lack of expressiveness when the show first came out, but I think he’s doing a fantastic job portraying a deeply stoic character whose emotional turmoil is buried under mountains of learned and self-enforced composure. It’s not like he’s missing beats; he’s responding, it’s just subtle. He’s responsible for two of my favorite moments so far: when he first smiles ever so slightly when he sees the lantern Wuxian has made him with the rabbit drawing(3) and the scene of him kneeling in the snow as punishment. I don’t know if it’s the lighting or the fact that it’s one of the few times he’s not carrying tension in his eyebrows, but he looks SO YOUNG in that shot. Honestly, he looks more AT PEACE in that shot than I think he does at almost any other time in the show so far. It feels to me like, in that moment, he has no regrets either about what he did nor about the fact that he should have to atone for it. Like he has internalized some sense that both things are right and can exist in tension. The weird effect of this growth next to Wei Wuxian’s feels like watching one of the two grow older (Wuxian) while the other grows younger (Wangji).

Now, I’m a sucker for every last story where two highly disparate-seeming people move from from some variation of dislike (either on the part of one or both) to friendship to, sometimes, something more (no, no BL here, none at all *looks the other way*). Certainly Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji have very different personalities. Wei Wuxian has little regard for rules, authority, tradition, taboos, or social etiquette: he uses Lan Wangji’s ming(4) almost as soon as he meets him! The way he interacts with objects and spaces (and personal space!) shows his lack of reverence/respect for the people and things others expect him to have reverence for. He has no problem questioning what everyone else seems to see as obvious up to the point of outright suggesting the use of dark magic. Because...well, why not?? Because “they said so?”

It’s not that he doesn’t KNOW the rules. Another of my absolute favorite moments is during the Wen indoctrination when Wei Wuxian starts reciting not the Wen clan principles, but the Lan clan principles! Sure, he lacks the expected respect for sources of authority be they personal or ideological, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t KNOW them. He’s obviously naturally talented, gifted, a fast learner, curious, but also—and crucially—he has a very strong moral compass! He does not tolerate bullies, especially when they turn their attention to the vulnerable, like Wen Chao.(5) Yanli notes that their father always favors those with moral integrity and who does he favor? Wei Wuxian.

And this is where he and Lan Wangji are more alike than Wangji initially thinks, and why I love that moment, just after they release the lanterns, when you see, just for a second, the surprise on his face at the content of Wei Wuxian’s prayer: that he always be able to “stand with justice and live with no regrets.” It is, I imagine, the moment when it really hits Wangji that this rebel he finds himself irrationally attracted to truly is *good* despite the fact that he shows no outward signs of respecting the same sources of moral authority Wangji does.

So what is the main difference? Where the rules come from. Who makes the rules? Both of them are pretty sure they know.

Lan Wangji gets his moment to present his source just after their rooftop duel when he catches Wei Wuxian drinking: the Lan Clan principles chiseled right into stone. All 3000 of them. Interestingly, even though Wei Wuxian can and does memorize the code and seems perfectly happy with the notion of moral principles in general, I’ll wager a guess that he is confused by the very idea that a moral code would be so strict and unchanging and inflexible that it could be chiseled into stone *in the first place* or that it would *need to be memorized*. Surely you’d just...”know?” Besides, morality is too contextual to treat this way surely?

As a CLH (Confirmed Lifelong Heretic) my sympathies admittedly lie more with Wei Wuxian than Lan Wangji. It’s not that traditional codes of ethics and conduct are bad things. These are the things that provide stability across entire cultures and peoples. If they’re written in stone, at least that means they’re something everyone has a greater chance of pointing to and agreeing on.(7) And just as Lan Wangji has to learn that there are moral codes that aren’t written in stone and that individual minds can have very clear senses of right and wrong outside of group structures, Wei Wuxian has to learn to temper his arrogance—that his actions, for however right he *thinks* they are, can and do have consequences he would not intend for those he loves, as when he stops himself from calling to Wangji during the hunt. I have a feeling he’s going to be learning more...

Then there’s that whole conversation from ep. 29 as Lan Wangji prepares to leave the burial mounds which is just full of whammies (set, naturally, against the exceedingly domestic reality of the community as a whole and their exceedingly sweet interactions with a-Yuan). Wei Wuxian says: “But let yourself be the judge of what is right and what is wrong, leave others’ comments aside, and care little about gain and loss. What I should do. I know it very well. I believe that I’ll be able to control it well.” And then there’s that moment where you can actually feel Lan Wangji’s heart drop into the pit of his stomach as he presses his eyes closed.

This is the reverse of the moment when Wangji directed Wuxian’s attention to the list of Lan clan principles, so solid they are written in stone.(8)

Then there is that wonderful bit about their respective paths—Lan Wangji’s path vs. Wei Wuxian’s path: the wide avenue vs the one-log bridge. I assume this is a literal translation of the Mandarin. Is it an idiom? If so, I may mangle its meaning terribly and for that I am sorry. But it seems to me that a wide avenue is safe, easy, populated; a single-log bridge is comparatively dangerous and only one person can walk it. Which seems a pretty good metaphor for the differences in whose rule-book each of the leads chooses. Not to mention, with my Western ears, it sounds a WHOLE lot like a “straight and narrow path.” Interesting then, that it is The Master of Demonic Cultivation who is choosing it, while Lan Wangji—with his brightness and discipline and clarity—is following the “easy” way.

So, there it is: whose deontology is the right one? How do you choose?

It’s the epistemological aspect of the question of ethics that Newbigin gets right in that quote I posted the other day. Honestly, I disagree with a great deal (like, a lot) of what Newbigin says in that book, and I think he spends far too much time running himself in ever tighter Calvinist circles, (not to mention I have little interest in missiology and am highly skeptical of evangelism). But! I appreciate that he does, at least, recognize the danger of believing we have insulated ourselves completely from uncertainty or of expecting that certainty is even a thing possible to achieve.

But where do we choose to anchor our axioms? And why? Whose deontology is the right deontology? The rules written on parchment and stone? Or the rules written on our souls? Remembering, of course, that both are fallible. 16 years in the future, will the two leads have changed their minds at all?

And now with any luck, I’ll have a free weekend in which to watch the last 20 episodes, assuming no one wants me to do adult things like house cleaning or completing design projects people are paying me for.(10)

Like how Tolkien switches register from the low and comedic to the high and romantic but you’re fully aware it’s all really part of the same story and suddenly, bam!, you recognize that those aspects of life are somehow not able to be disentangled.

OMG is this an intentional play on “cultivation”? Sometimes I can’t tell what might be getting lost in translation, and I’m certainly too ignorant of Chinese culture, mythology, and folklore to really appreciate everything happening in this show, not least of which due to the language barrier.

He is, interestingly, far more moved by it than the drawing Wuxian does of *him* two episodes beforehand—is this merely the result of the progression of their relationship? This is post-cold springs after all.

That took some research to understand!

The main “vulnerable” character that he never seems to swoop in to save is Meng Yao and I wonder if it’s because he can sense something “off” about him. I felt bad for Meng Yao at first but he always put me on edge. Honestly, is there anyone who trusts Meng Yao as far as they can throw him? *looks at Elrond* OK, anyone except Elrond?(6)

Honestly, before I started watching this I saw that one of the characters was being referred to as Elrond and I wondered, going into it, if I’d know which character it was, and then Lan Xichen walked in and I was like “oh, yeah, obviously!” Seriously, what is it about him? Is it his physical appearance? The way he holds himself? His outfit? His pattern of speaking? How is this person so obviously coded “Elrond?”

Except they don’t really. That’s never how it works.

And interestingly, when looking at his name: “Wei Ying,  Ying is his 名, meaning, baby; Wuxian is his 字, it comes from an ancient prose “喜乐无羡赏,忿怒无羡刑”, which means when you’re delighted don’t reward without restraint,  when you’re angry don’t punish without restraint. Wuxian here means exercise your power reasonably.”(9)

The richness of the world in this show really appeals to me as does the carefully choreographed costume design, productions design, and cinematography (seriously, everyone needs to dress like this all the time; end of story; I have spoken). There have been some amazing shots that I can only assume are drone footage that have been ADRed?

20 years in and adulthood still sucks. 0 of 5 stars. Would not recommend.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Bedside Stories ch.4 (baon)

Summary: Stretch is on a quest and just because it’s on a bus and not a steed, doesn’t mean it’s not noble.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Domestic, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury,

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

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CH1 | CH2 | CH3

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Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

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When Stretch jerked awake his first panicked thought was that he’d missed his stop. But no, the Embassy dropoff was coming up next, looming up through the bus windshield. Guess he had some latent directional sense buried in one of the dusty corners of his psyche.

Not like he’d meant to fall asleep, but Edge’s insomnia seemed to be contagious. He’d started out the ride browsing on twitter, trying to think of something noncommittal to say that also wasn’t too lighthearted, given what was blaring about Monsters lately on Fox news.

He'd been strictly forbidden from discussing anything surrounding the bombings with his followers and normally restrictions like that made him bristle, his nonexistent nerves going full porcupine. In this instance, he’d only meekly agreed, but that didn’t keep his followers from doing their math. No Humans actually knew how few skeleton Monsters there were, but then, most Monster species were a little on the sparse side. Some clever bloggers had linked pictures of Edge’s boots from Stretch’s twitter to the shots the press released of the bombing aftermath. Stretch hadn’t looked at those pictures too closely, but he’d seen the zoomed in shots with the boots circled with Microsoft paint.

Without him saying a word, it was suddenly an ill-kept secret that his husband was hurt and the messages were pouring in, asking for confirmation, offering condolences, donations, even sending prayers which was weird, but sorta kind. Sorta.

Twitter was less a distraction and more an unwanted obligation this week, and he’d finally put his phone away. He wasn’t the only Monster on board, not on a bus route that went past the Embassy. At this time of day, there weren’t many others. They’d offered smiles and murmured greetings, then pretty much left him alone.

That was fine by him. But with no one to chat to, he must’ve drifted off and it was nice to see he’d managed to scrape together enough good luck not to end up all the way downtown. Hopefully, he had enough leftover to take him to the end of this mission.

He was still a little bleary as he got off the bus. The sight of the protesters lining the sidewalk, all bundled up and sitting in their lawn chairs with their signs woke him up pretty damn quick. Eh, shit, he’d promised Edge he’d teleport right into the lobby, but he hadn’t called ahead and popping in when they were under high alert seemed like a poor life choice. Instead, he shortcutted to the front door, hey, he was following the spirit of the promise which was to keep safe and scaring the shit out of the security guard wasn’t it.

The guard on duty didn’t much look like he’d be surprised if Stretch shortcutted in on his lap. Murray was a huge, hulking Monster, with curling horns and a thirst for crosswords. He barely looked up at his current one, mumbling a greeting as Stretch swiped his card to push through the turnstile. He’d done pretty much the same thing every time Stretch stopped in, including when he’d shown up in just a bed sheet. There was one Monster who wasn’t worried about current events, almost had to admire that kind of skill in blatantly ignoring a crisis.

Stretch stepped into the elevator alone and pushed the button, vaguely humming the theme song to ‘Mission Impossible’. Not that it was, but eh, life could use a soundtrack from time to time.

It was too damn bad he didn’t have time to visit Andy while he was here; he hadn’t even seen his office yet and was planning to get him something for his desk. Maybe a Newton’s cradle, that seemed traditional, but a Nerf gun was a good way to build a community. He made a mental promise to come visit Edge for lunch someday and stop in bearing gifts.

The elevator dinged and Stretch got off, heading down the hallway. He’d only been here a couple of times, but he knew right where he was going.

The slim Monster sitting at the desk looked up as he came in, his cheery smile fading into something a little more forced. Asgore’s assistant, Kevin, was probably an okay guy, but none-too-fond of Stretch’s approach where his boss was concerned and Stretch was never exactly excited to spend any time with Asgore’s biggest fan. “Can I help you?”

“yeah. is ass-gore in or is he busy glad-handing his way down the hallways.” Really, Stretch couldn’t fathom why Kevin didn’t like him.

That forced smile iced over. “I beg your pardon.”

Slowly and deliberately, Stretch said, “is. asgore. in.”

“I’m afraid he’s not taking appointments today.” If Kevin got any colder, he’d be spitting ice chips across his desk and mess up all that important paperwork.

Stretch gave him a thin smile. “look we both know i’m in your office as a courtesy, so let’s go ahead and keep it courteous, yeah? i don’t want to play dodge-ums today after i scaring the shit out of him popping in, and he could probably do without any fresh surprises.”

He was pretty sure he was about to be told in very polite and courteous language to get fucked with the intercom crackled, Asgore’s voice booming over the line.

“Let him in.”

It was probably petty to smirk smugly at Kevin as he walked past him. It definitely was to give him a little backhanded finger-waggle of a wave. But eh, it served his purpose to use up a little of his distaste before he stepped into the office where Asgore was waiting behind the desk.

He started to rise and Stretch could almost feel the cheerfully ‘Howdy’ start to vibrate in the air before he choked it back to a more sedate, “Good afternoon, Stretch, won’t you sit down?”

Asgore gestured to a large, overstuffed sofa and Stretch almost said no, less out of ingrained spitefulness and more because he was agitated, already fidgeting with his lighter as he took a seat.

He waited while Asgore did the same, settling across from him in a chair that’d probably had to be specially made. Not many Humans hit Boss Monster sizes and those that did probably wished for a shorter inseam. It was hard enough for Stretch to find pants.

Asgore laced his hands comfortably over his belly and asked, “What can I do for you?”

“i need a favor,” Stretch said bluntly, ignoring Asgore’s visible surprise. He didn’t much have the time or inclination to draw this out, “i need you to let edge come back to work.”

The surprise on Asgore’s expression only deepened, leaving him distinctly taken aback, his furry caterpillar eyebrows drawn downward. Yeah, Stretch got that; him not only asking for a favor but for THAT favor was worth some eyebrow gymnastics.

“You want him back to work,” Asgore repeated slowly.

“i don’t actually, not really, but he needs to come back.”

“Is everything all right?” Asgore asked delicately. Looking into his concerned face was making his anxiety give the mambo a try; Stretch didn’t want to discuss Edge with Asgore, not as his King, his boss, or that fatherly role that he tried so hard to step into. He looked past him instead, at the picture on the wall between two bookcases. A painting, not a very good one, but recognizably of golden flowers. They didn’t transplant well from the Underground, a lot of Monsters mourned easy access to their favorite tea and Stretch wondered if Asgore had painted it. Maybe Frisk, the kid was fond of their adopted dad and--

Asgore was nothing if not polite and didn’t say anything while Stretch woolgathered long enough for enough yarn to make to make a sweater.

Shit or get off the pot was one of Red’s favorite idioms, not one of Stretch’s faves and kinda ironic considering that none of them had asses, but sometimes it was the truth. “i know you think you’re doing him a favor but you’re not. he’s stuck at home on our sofa, he can’t go running, can’t clean, can’t even cook, and he’s being forced to watch all this shit go down from the buzzfeed angle. you can’t take away his reason for living like this.”

The chair creaked ominously as Asgore shifted his weight. “I’d like to hope his job isn’t his reason for living.”

“it’s not the job. it’s helping people. he needs to help people,” Stretch took a deep breath, he was doing a shit job explaining this and Asgore didn’t look very convinced. “look, i know depressed, okay, and he’s verging on it. you have to give him something. i know him, better than you, better than anyone. he’s been glued to the boob tube all week, writing notes, making plans. let him help a little, it’ll calm all those protective instincts down if he thinks he’s helping.”

At least Asgore seemed to consider that. He propped his head up on a hand the size of a meatloaf. Or a chicken. “He hasn’t scheduled his mental health assessment yet.”

“i know. skip it for now, he’ll get it done later.”

Asgore frowned, his face creasing with concern. “The assessment is for his own good. It’s not simply bureaucratic nonsense, it is for his well being.”

Stretch was already nodding, absently noting the click-click-click of his lighter weaving in and out through his fingers. “i get that, i do. can you trust my assessment? look, i’ll get him into the head shrinker if that’s what you want, but don’t make his job conditional on it. i’m a big proponent of mental health care and i’ve got vested reasons for making sure he’s doing okay. but he needs this.”

Asgore was obviously thinking hard, looking at nothing over his steepled fingers, but Stretch wasn’t sure which side of the teeter-totter he was gonna come down on. Being able to read people’s intent and souls was a skill Stretch still had, but he was hella out of practice and didn’t really want to train back up.

“All right,” Asgore said at last. “On three conditions.”

“three!”

He spread his large hands. “This is not a small favor.”

Stretch sighed and slumped back. He wasn’t wrong and Stretch knew from personal experience that when Asgore had you by the balls, he knew how to give ‘em a good, firm twist. It was kinda chuckilicious, really. “start talking.”

“First, I tell him it’s my idea.”

“why?” Stretch said immediately. He had an inkling, but better to not take anything for granted.

Asgore was ready for him. “Because he will appreciate my trust in him and his skills, and because he will not appreciate you interfering like this. Am I wrong?”

He wasn’t. “deal.”

“Second, you promise me that you’ll get him in for that assessment. I’ll give you until the end of the month, but if it hasn’t been done, I‘ll suspend him.”

“promise.” There was a sour taste on the back of his tongue as he waited for the last ticky box.

“And last, you shake my hand.”

“what?” That one got him sitting forward, sputtering out, “why?”

“Because you’re asking a favor,” Asgore said serenely. He laced his hands over his soft middle again. “And those are my terms.”

Stretch glared hotly at him, but Asgore was unperturbed. Probably had lots of people scarier that Stretch giving him the ol’ death glare.

Welp, it was hardly the worst thing he’d ever done.

Stretch held out his hand and Asgore leaned forward to take it.

The loud whirr of the joybuzzer made Asgore jump and jerk his hand back, but he only laughed heartily, slapping his knees as he rose. “All right, I’ll have his access restored by this evening. I trust you’ll keep him from overdoing it?”

“yeah, i got it,” Stretch stood hastily and tucked the joy buzzer back into his pocket. He resisted the urge to scrub his hand on his pants. Asgore would take it wrong and he wasn’t that much of a dick, even if that furry palm made his bones tickle something fierce. He headed for the door, relief already seeping in. “thanks.”

“Stretch?” he paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I’m glad you came to me.”

“don’t make this into some bonding moment, okay?” Stretch gave him a side eye. “it’s not like i had a lot of other people to ask.”

Asgore’s smile twisted wryly. “Of course. Be careful on your ride home.”

Stretch didn’t say, ‘thanks, grandma’, but it was a close thing.

Simply walking past the daggers Kevin was glaring at him was exhausting and the second he was out of the office, Stretch shortcutted down to the elevators.

In no time he was safely back on the bus, slumped down. He was ready for another nap, but there wasn’t time for that. The main story line on his adventure was was done, but he still had a side quest to finish.

He opened an app on his phone and tapped in an order, and by the time the bus trundled to a halt at the bus stop outside the Golden City, it was waiting for him with one of their drivers, bundled into a warm jacket with the goods in hand. The young man who handed in the bag filled with cartons of yumminess only grinned at him, but he took the hefty tip Stretch offered without complaint.

Stretch plopped the heavy bag on the seat next to him and slumped back again, “home, jeeves,” Stretch mumbled to nobody and he hoped if he zonked out again one of the other Monsters on the bus would be kind enough to give him a nudge.

By the time he walked through his front door again, feeling worn and jelly-wobbly , Edge was awake and dressed, with an opened book in his hands.

“hey, babe,” Stretch called, kicking off his shoes and leaving them piled on the mat. “sorry i ditched on you, but my cooking skills have been tested to their limit and it’s a little late to hire gordon ramsey for the night.”

“Yes, I saw your note.” He set the book aside and his warm smile was like an infusion, easing some of Stretch’s weariness. “What treasures did you bring us from the shores of Ebott?”

“arr, matey,” Stretch laughed. “except i didn’t get any fish. hope chinese sounds good.”

“Golden City?” Edge said slowly and something in his voice made Stretch hesitate.

Shit.

They hadn’t been back there together since the whole thing with Andy. Stretch hadn’t even thought about that in a while, he’d gone over it with his therapist and that’d been crap, but honestly, he liked to put that one into the win category. Andy was okay and had a new job, the shitbags were in jail, and public opinion ended up on their side. Plus, he wasn’t about to let any assholes ruin Chinese food for him, thanks, but Edge didn’t look like he’d gotten that memo.

Stretch’d gone back on his own a couple times for the lunch special, had he ever mentioned that to Edge? He couldn’t remember, he hadn’t been hiding it or anything, it just never came up. Until now, and the last thing he wanted to do was get Edge to relive any other shitty event highlights.

“yeah, um,” Stretch forced cheer into his voice. “i had them bring the takeout bags to the bus stop, saved myself a walk.”

Whatever Edge was thinking in that head of his, he didn’t let it out to play. He only nodded, looking back at his book as he said, “Clever. It does sound good.”

“great!” Stretch said brightly, maybe not a firework, but he could try for a sparkler. “i’ll go get some plates.” With dismal humor, he thought that if he injected in any more manic cheer, he’d start to sound like his bro. He set the bags down on the coffee table next to the pile of pillows and headed for the kitchen, since Edge had very strong opinions on eating out of cartons that he wasn’t shy about sharing.

By the time they were settled in with their plates, whatever concerns Edge had about Stretch revisiting the scene of a crime, as it were, seemed to have been banished. He ate hungrily and that alone was a relief. He’d been picking at his meals for the past day or so and Stretch didn’t think his cooking was entirely to blame. Just added data to his hypothesis that with proper application, sex was a cure for many ills. Worked for him, anyway.

Halfway through the last carton of chop suey, Edge’s phone pinged. Stretch kept his attention on his plate, slurping up noodles with an impressive amount of noise for someone who lacked lips. Out of the corner of his socket he saw Edge frowning at the message.

“Asgore is restoring my Embassy access,” Edge said slowly. “He said that with everything that’s happening, they need my assistance, and he’s asking that I work half days for the rest of the week.”

Okay, here was where he put his acting skills to the test and if he couldn’t go for an Oscar, he at least needed a Golden Globe.

Stretch worked up what he hoped was the proper amount of indignant anger and said, “seriously? you got one week off to recover from almost getting blown up and ass-gore can’t even give you that?” And before Edge could say anything, he threw his hand up, dumping his empty plate on the coffee table hard enough for his fork to clatter. “you know what? never mind. go ahead, help out, at least it’ll be for a good cause and not him using you as an extra security guard.”

“No,” Edge set his phone aside, “I’m not doing it.”

Um, what? “what?” Stretch said blankly, fuck, he was going to get a razzy with this performance, must’ve chewed the scenery too hard.

“No. I was thinking while you were gone and I’ve been acting appallingly since we got home. I’ve been sulking like a child while you’ve been trying so hard to care for me.” He touched Stretch’s cheek bone gently, his glove velvety soft as he ran his thumb across it. “Considering how things were between us when I left for California, I think I need to focus more on you than paperwork.”

Well, this was some modern-day gift of the magi shit, now wasn’t it? Last week he would have been thrilled to hear this and now that he’d made a special trip and begged for favors he was getting hoisted by his own fibbing petard.

Okay, nope, his hard work was not going to be in vain, damn it, this chapter of his life was going to end with happiness and accolades all around. Edge might be the strategy guy, but Stretch wasn’t half-bad on the fly, and his plans might be a little loose, or chaotic as Edge put it, but he could plan.

First, he gave Edge a kiss, made sure to linger, made it sweet, soft, trying to pour his love into it, until he was almost distracted himself.

Next step, bullshit.

He leaned back, cupping Edge’s face in his hands and gave him the best smile he had left on the shelf. “that’s really sweet, babe, but how about a compromise? you can spend a couple hours in the afternoon working while i take a nap. that’ll let you get all your ‘save the world’ energy out in time for dinner, yeah?”

Ooh, might have a winner here. Edge was visibly wavering, probably thinking of all the luscious paperwork he could get through in a couple of hours. Time to go for the throat, “beside, janice is probably going nuts without you. if you help out, maybe she’ll be able to get home in time to see her kiddos before bedtime.”

Direct hit, winner winner, no chicken for dinner, “That...would be helpful, yes.” Edge gave him another toe-curling, shivery kiss before he murmured, “Promise me that you don’t mind?”

Stretch twitched back, grimacing. He’d been making an awful lot of promises lately. “i promise.”

He stood up to clear away the plates and leftovers, and by the time he got back, Edge already had his laptop out and was typing away. Stretch was about to put a movie on and let him work, but before he could even steal the remote, Edge said, “My access is also conditional on my getting that assessment.”

Um, wow, okay, they were actually talking about this? Cautiously, Stretch offered, “i take it you’re not a big fan of the idea.”

He tried to say it as neutrally as he could, but Edge set his laptop on the side table and took his hand, tugging him down into his lap. Stretch settled gingerly, watching his husband’s face carefully for any hint of discomfort. There was none, and he let Edge tuck his head against his shoulder, his hand smoothing down Stretch’s back.

“Stretch, i don’t mean to imply that there is anything wrong with therapy or that it’s somehow beneath me. I’m not that much of a hypocrite and I can see that it’s been helping you,” Edge hesitated and Stretch held his breath, remembering when Edge told him it was easier to talk sometimes if Stretch wasn’t looking at him. He kept his head down, snuggling into Edge in what he hoped was an encouraging way. “My issue is that it’s difficult for me to open up to anyone and this is a colleague. I see them in the hallways, in the cafeteria. I’m struggling with the idea of answering the kind of questions they might ask me.”

“okay,” Stretch said slowly. “so see someone else?”

Edge jerked and when Stretch lifted his head, he looked so surprised that Stretch couldn’t help smiling. Trust his baby to be looking for the answer to a complex puzzle when the easiest route was staring him in the face.

“i could talk to my therapist?” Stretch offered. “see if she could recommend someone.”

“A Human.”

“yeah, probably. would that be a problem?”

“I..no,” Edge said slowly. “No, I think that would be better. Perhaps I should simply talk with your therapist, I already know her and she’s done well for you and Sans.”

That made him feel a little squirmy inside; he told things to Doctor Lee that he’d never told anyone, not his own brother, not Edge. It was only an assessment, not like a weekly commitment, but--

“can i think about it?”

“Of course.” No concern, no anger, only another gentle kiss. He slipped off Edge’s lap before they got carried away, no double-dipping on afternoon delights while anyone had a cast. Stretch settled down on the sofa, the top of his skull leaning on Edge’s femur, and flicked a movie on, the volume low and subtitles running. Edge was typing away on his laptop, but occasionally a hand would stroke over his skull, helping to lull him to sleep.

Stretch couldn’t say how long he lay there drowsing, and he murmured a faint protest when Edge eventually pulled away and stood.

“I’m only getting a drink, love and I need to work out the kinks.”

“i can help you with any kink, make a list,” Stretch mumbled.

An amused sound close to his skull and a rough kiss pressed on top of it. “We’ll try that when I’m back on two feet.”

Vaguely, he heard Edge crutch his way to the kitchen, the door swinging open then shut, listening to the faint murmur of the television. The sudden crash was almost deafening, even through the kitchen door, jolting Stretch awake. Before he could do more than look around wildly, Edge called his name, and fuck, fuck, he’d never heard Edge like that, called his name, no, no, he yelled it, screamed it. Not hurt, no, he sounded scared when had Edge ever sounded scared?

Before he shortcutted into the kitchen, his magic running hot, ready to deal with what the fuck ever dared come to their house, his last darkly amused thought was that he shouldn’t have used all his good luck that afternoon.

-tbc-

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[travllingbunny]

The 100 6x07 Nevermind

Season 6 of The 100 has been fantastic so far, and 6x07 is not just the best episode of the season so far, but also one of my favorite ever episodes of the show. Nevermind is, in many ways, a dream come true for me: this is exactly what I was hoping for at least since the promos for the show started promising the theme of characters “facing their demons”. At the time, I couldn’t have guessed that it would be about Clarke battling a centuries old woman who has taken over her body after her parents had decided to bodysnatch Clarke in order to bring their daughter back, but I was hoping for trippy, mind-bending, character-based storylines. Most of all, one focused on Clarke Griffin, the main character and hero of the show (oddly enough, this needs to be pointed out, since there are fans who keep forgetting it), her psyche, her traumas and emotional issues and character development.

After the wonderful last scene of 6x06 and the promos for this episode, my expectations were really high, and they were met. There was a little bit of fear that the whole “which characters will make a cameo”, “who will be mentioned how many times” thing would distract from Clarke’s character exploration, but that was not the case. This episode was almost entirely (except for the last scene) set in Clarke’s and Josephine’s mind space rather than the real world. The walk down the memory lane that the drawings we saw on Clarke’s mind-wall was there, but it was, above all, a great character study of the show’s protagonist, a battle of wills between the hero and the villain, and it had some big revelations – for the audience or for the characters. It had brilliant dialogue and acting, and was emotional, dark, intense and even funny at times (mostly thanks to Josephine, who is evil and detestable but also incredibly funny and charismatic).

And what particularly made me happy is that it addressed some long-standing questions of morality that the show had been ambiguous about. The show’s moral complexity/greyness has long bordered on moral relativism, and allowed (mis)interpretations in the fandom, to the effect that “There are no good guys, the protagonists are as bad as the villains, therefore it’s all the same and it doesn’t matter if someone does bad things, since everyone does it”. The unfortunate motto “for my people” has been overused and abused by many morally ambiguous or straight-up villainous characters on the show, to justify their own actions (the classic “who are you to talk, when you killed all the Mountain Men! Therefore I get to do whatever I want ‘for my people’’ – as if doing the only thing that could have stopped the evil society of technological vampires/overlords from killing and cannibalizing all your loved ones, is the same as killing people with no remorse to get power). By season 5, Clarke herself seemed to start buying into that view. Josephine Lightbourne again try to use that against Clarke in this episode, and nearly made her give up. This time, however, Clarke and the show both finally said “f*ck you” to that worldview.

One of the reasons why Josephine is such a great villain is that she is both a parallel and a striking contrast to Clarke. On the surface, they seem similar – their looks, background, family. When we first saw her in the flashback in 6x02, the similarities were obvious – another intelligent, capable, beautiful blonde girl with loving parents (Russell, in both versions, even matches the same physical type as Jake), a princess from a privileged background. But Josephine is everything that Clarke-haters (in and out of the show) claim Clarke to be, but that Clarke most definitely is not: selfish, narcissistic, with a god complex, remorseless, sociopathic, completely ruthless, pampered, classist, treating people as disposable. A start contrast to Clarke’s compassionate, caring, self-sacrificing nature.

Various thoughts about this episode in bullet points under the cut.

One of the many contrasts between Clarke and Josephine is the disorganized, beautiful way that different memories fill Clarke’s mind space, as drawings all over the walls of her room, unlike Josephine’s highly structured, organized mind. Just like “Monty”, I also like Clarke’s better.

I’m overall very happy with how this episode included references to various people and events from Clarke’s past, through a combination of drawings, flashbacks, mentions and objects. Most important people in Clarke’s life were referenced – both dead ones like Jake, Finn, Lexa, Jasper, Monty, and living ones like Bellamy and Madi (not so many mentions of Abby, but that’s because she’s both alive and, unlike so many others, not a source of guilt for Clarke).

The only exception is arguably Wells, and it’s really unlucky that the planned appearance by Eli Goree didn’t work out. We still got a confirmation of his importance in Clarke’s life (which should be big – he was her best friend since childhood and died tragically, even if he didn’t last long on the show) through several drawings (and the Chinese version of the idiom “A friend in need is a friend indeed” under one of them), and, more importantly, a close-up of one of them. Let’s be honest, the drawings are generally little more than a cool Easter egg for the fans, if the show doesn’t focus on them through close-ups and flashbacks or mentions – something that the general audience would notice.

I love the way that Clarke’s outfit and hairstyle kept changing depending on which memory or part of her mind space she was in at any given moment. For instance, she started as Ark Clarke from the Pilot, then turned into Eden Clarke when she visited her safe space of the life there with Madi for those 6 years – which was far from perfect (what with being isolated from everyone else, without any adult with her, without other friends or any chance of love or sex life, and waiting for Bellamy to come back and talking to him without answer to keep sane), but was still the most peaceful time she’s known. Except maybe for her childhood, which she did spend in a not-happy space (life on the Ark was difficult, if not for her, then for so many others who were less privileged, and we know Clarke was aware of that), but she had a happy family life, so it makes sense that her father is the first person she would see in her mind-space. Jake and Eden stood for safety and family life and peace, which Clarke thought she got when she briefly believed she had really died – before Jake (aka her own mind) told her it wasn’t true. It’s the sign of her being upset – the rain and storm outside that happened due to her mood – that alerted her to the fact she was still alive.

Every character, other than Josephine, who appeared in Clarke’s mind space was, of course, an embodiment of a part of her.  

Although I’m not sure about ALIE, whose code may have remained there, and who delivered information that Clarke may not have already known. It was the one cameo in this episode that really surprised me (since the rest had been revealed or guessed on social media). She was there for the big revelation that the neural mesh from the time Clarke was in the City of Light is what ended up saving her. This made this episode’s link to 3x13 Nevermore even stronger. (Funny that the erased memory of ALIE!Raven is what gave rise to that awful amnesia theory. Glad that this has been shut down now.) I guess this means that I was wrong about other hosts being savable, and that Delilah is gone forever? A big part of why I wanted it to be true, apart from liking Delilah, was to give the Earthkru more incentive to fight the Primes. But we have been given a lot of other reasons why they should make the decision to so that.

ALIE also had a conversation with Clarke about the nature of life and humanity, which, however, could be just Clarke talking to herself. Clarke has been tempted to run away from pain, she’s even tempted to run from it by accepting death in this episode, but she’s still insisting that pain is a necessary part of life and that there’s no joy without it. At the core, Clarke is not someone who gives up.

The revelation that the darkest and most painful memories are those that aren’t even on the wall and that Clarke keeps hidden, explained some things, such as why there were no drawings on the mind-wall of such huge moments as Jake’s death or Finn’s death (Clarke’s trauma from this was a subject of an entire episode – one of my favorites, 2x09, Remember Me)... However, while I don’t want to criticize the prop department, who did an incredible job drawing those pictures from scenes, they did make an error - one of the drawings of Lexa is actually from the scene of her right after being shot, which doesn’t really fit (her death is one of the “darkest place” hidden memories) – though you wouldn’t know that by just looking at the picture and not knowing the scene.

I’m glad that Josephine called out Clarke on child abuse, and that the drawing of Madi in pain in the shock collar was so prominent on the wall. Season 5 had Clarke at her lowest point, and that was certainly, IMO, one of the worst things she’s done.

We know (from 6x04) that Clarke’s biggest regret is leaving Bellamy in Polis in season 5, and this episode confirmed that this weighs so heavy on Clarke’s heart that she can’t even face Bellamy in her mind space (which fits with the fact that the darkest and most traumatic moments are those she did not put on the wall). She is afraid that he hasn’t really forgiven her in his heart, and that he can’t, because she can’t forgive herself. Even if Bellamy is alive and well, Clarke’s feelings for him make her betrayal of him unforgivable in her own eyes (even though, at the time she did it, she had been heartbroken and furious because she felt he had betrayed her). Octavia, or rather Blodreina, was the right embodiment of her guilt in a weird way, since she was the danger that Clarke left Bellamy to, the one who threw him into the pit in the first place (kind of like Jaha was the embodiment of Bellamy’s guilt over the culling in 1x08). She reminded Clarke of some of her other sins, those that involved Clarke being ready to sacrifice Octavia (while trying to protect Bellamy) – letting the bomb drop on the people in Tondc, stealing the bunker in season 4, but she was there mostly to talk about Bellamy, because the relationship between Clarke and Octavia has always mostly revolved around their respective relationships with him. Even in her own mind, Clarke is still deflecting when confronted with her feelings for Bellamy (“I care about both of you”, just like she said “I care about all of them” when called out on her feelings for Bellamy by Lexa in 2x14). Octavia is also the embodiment of the unwillingness to forgive, so her refusal to fight for Clarke makes sense.

Not that Clarke needed any help to kick Josephine’s arse. It was satisfying to see, but expected. Josephine is an actual pampered princess who’s never had to fight for anything, while Clarke has been fighting and surviving in adverse circumstances for 7 years.

Maya’s appearance made perfect sense, but she was the most OOC character of all the “mind space” characters – maybe because Clarke didn’t get to know her that well, but mostly because she was the embodiment of Clarke’s guilt over the innocent deaths she’s caused. Maya was a good person, someone who helped them against her own people because it was the right thing to do, and because she knew what the Mountain Men were doing was wrong. She is also linked in Clarke’s mind with her feelings of guilt over Jasper – Clarke didn’t know Maya well, but Jasper was one of her closest friends, and Clarke feels deeply guilty for indirectly causing his downward spiral that ended with his suicid4. I was happy to see him referenced so much in this episode – through “Maya”, the case Clarke found in 5x01, and his goggles that she found there, which all played a big role in this episode. The accusations that “Maya” (Clarke herself) made sounded a lot like the repertoire of Clarke-haters: that she likes being a savior, has a god complex, has killed more people than she’s saved, is no better than the Primes… This is a confirmation that Clarke herself has agonized over all of these things. But it’s not what the real Maya would have said – the real Maya died acknowledging the responsibility all of the Mountain Men had for the evil things their society was doing, saying “None of us is innocent”. When Clarke made her “Maya” character be helpful against Josephine, it was the closest thing to what the real Maya had been like.

Clarke’s darkest place, the most painful and traumatic memories she has, are the deaths of Finn and Lexa, the only two people she has had romantic relationships with – relationships that were both extremely brief and tragic, and ended with deaths that traumatized Clarke a lot and made her feel guilty – even though she doesn’t really have, IMO, objective reasons to feel responsible for either of them, it’s not hard to see why she would feel, on the emotional, irrational level, that she is the one causing people to die. (The show and especially the fandom have tended to ignore one of these relationships  post-season 2 and to over-focus on the other, so I was pleasantly surprised that they were both acknowledged in a similar way for their role in Clarke’s development and emotional traumas – with the visual references with Lexa’s throne and the pole Finn was tied to and the knife Clarke used to mercy kill him, combined with the flashback of Finn’s death, a different flashback of Lexa seen before, and Josephine’s indirect mention of her death – which was probably the most elegant solution, since I don’t think the show would ever dare replay the footage of her death for fear of more backlash.)

It’s certainly no coincidence that this dark place that’s about Clarke’s traumas of her tragic romantic life is the place where Josephine breaks Clarke by convincing her that Bellamy has given up on her and that he and everyone are better off with her dead. Josephine didn’t technically lie – she told her he took her death hard but in the end made the rational choice of agreeing to the deal with her murderers. But, by showing her an out-of-context memory of Bellamy taking the deal, she showed her a skewed version of the truth. Clarke didn’t see Bellamy’s grieving, despair and anger, and didn’t realize that Bellamy saying that she would do the same was out of admiration for her, as a leader who’s not just smart but also selfless and caring. She probably took it as another sign he sees her as a monster, doesn’t care that much about her and is better off without her, because it fed into her own insecurities.

Josephine: “Have you considered sacrificing yourself?” Bitch, watch the season 4 finale. She didn’t just consider it, she did it.

I loved the fact that the case Clarke used to hide the important memory was Jasper’s case, that it contained Jasper’s goggles alongside Jake’s video, and that the lock password was “102”. More confirmation of the importance of the initial Delinquents community from season 1 in Clarke’s life and the show. “You forgot Bellamy and Raven” may be my favorite line from this episode.

Monty’s return (which the show tried to hide by not putting Chris Larkin’s name in the credits until the end credits, but it revealed it through not cutting enough of one of the promo pics) was not a complete surprise, thanks to the detective work of some of the fans, but was still my favorite part of the episode. Monty was most in-character, because Clarke knew him so well, and it makes perfect sense that he was the voice of Clarker’s reason and moral compass, which is what made her change her mind after having given up and given Josephine the victory. (You want a great platonic friendships between a man and a woman on The 100? Here it is!)

The ‘Monty” part of Clarke’s mind fought back, against all the BS – the “bear it so they don’t have to”, “for my people” mottos and moral relativism and Josephine’s half-truths) and reaffirmed Clarke’s resilience and will to live, and reminded her that what it all comes down to is not just saving your people, but doing the right thing. After Monty told them to be good guys and be happy. Both of these messages are what Clarke had to remember. As I’ve been pointing out, doing better is not just standing by and not killing people. It’s also actively fighting against evil. They are not being good guys if they let the Primes murder, bodysnatch, oppress, brainwash and sacrifice the people from their community, just because it doesn’t affect them.  As “Monty” (Clarke) pointed out, it’s not doing better if you let the Primes murder people to live forever.

Clarke’s trip through Josephine’s memories (of being killed by Kaylee, and of killing Isaac and sacrificing a baby) helped her fully realize that Josephine is truly evil and needs to be stopped. Really, if killing babies is not enough to make you classify someone as true evil on a whole different level, what can?

Josephine tried to pull the “for my people” motto with Issac, but she was full of s*hit. She only does things for herself and maybe a few other people (not even all the Primes, since she murdered four of them). We learned that Children of Gabriel are literally the children that the Primes tried to sacrifice to the trees and that Isaac saved and brought to Gabriel. We also got another confirmation of the cruel caste system of Sanctum, where “nulls” (people who are not Nightblood gene carriers) are treated as lower life forms, and routinely sacrificed, and that Josephine would rather kill them all, if she was allowed to by her father. Not that having the NB gene is so good, as it means your child may end up as a host, and obviously, the “honor” of being a Nightblood means you get bodysnatched at the age of 21.

When Isaac said  “if only we were allowed to be more than your janitors and guards”, it felt like it was the writers’ way of reminding us of the class system on the Ark, where Bellamy was a janitor and a guard-in-training. It’s also another reminder of how different Clarke and Josephine are – Josephine would have considered someone like Bellamy expendable and useless, whereas Clarke quickly showed in season 1 she valued people based on their personal qualities rather than their origin or class.

It was cool to see a flashback to the time before the apocalypse, complete with references to Diyoza and Becca, but this memory was my least favorite part of the episode. I guess I just wasn’t that interested in Josephine’s traumatic memories, since I don’t think they’re enough to explain her sociopathic nature. On second thought, you could say that this guy was her Finn, and that her response to that trauma was completely different from Clarke’s – genuinely shutting herself down to any compassion or remorse.

I love the fact that what saved the day was the fact that Clarke and Bellamy were both good students of Earth skills (taught by Pike!) and that they are, once again, so well attuned to each other that they can communicate this way. Or the fact that Bellamy was watching JC so carefully, even though it must have hurt him emotionally to look at her, that he noticed her movements and read them correctly.

Nice to see Miller back, but did he have to be so… not-bright? In any case, it’s great to see Bellamy as determined to save Clarke, as he was despondent in the last episode. This is maybe the first time that Clarke really needs saving, but a huge and crucial part of that rescue was Clarke deciding that she wants to live.

Rating: 10/10

[mahjongteacher1]

Learn Mah Jongg with Debbie’s Golden Rules of Mah Jongg - Part I

With proper etiquette, you can learn Mah Jongg and become a master of your habits.

The game of mah jongg (also spelled mahhjong, mahjongg, and majiang mah-jongg), like any game, can be learned by being taught the American Mahjong rules, reading about American Mahjong strategy or my new beginner's book, Unlocking the Secrets of American Mah jongg, or other American Mahjong Tutorials. Over time, the rules and strategy will become second nature and you will soon be playing like a pro with seasoned players. However, this does not automatically make you a player with whom someone would want to play; hence the reason I created Debbie’s Golden Rules of Mah Jongg. These golden rules will help you learn mah jongg and the American Mah jongg Rules while demonstrating good habits and behaviors around the mah jongg table, making you the type of player that others will be delighted to have in their game.

Before we delve into Debbie’s golden rule #1, it is important to understand the difference between habits and behaviors, two things that greatly affect your presence during a mah jongg game. Let’s start with habits. Habits are actions that become automatic if repeated over and over again. When something becomes automatic, you don’t have to think twice about it. You, as the Nike commercial says, “just do it,” without putting any effort into it. For example, saying “please” before asking for something and saying “thank you” after receiving something are common habits. Once you have perfected a habit, you have become a so-called “habit master.” Even though being a “habit master” might sound funny, it’s valuable to have mastery over your habits. But keep in mind that you can also become a master of habits that are distasteful, annoying, or rude. And, if you are a habit master of a few distasteful habits, you can easily become the type of mah jongg player no one wants to invite into their circle of players. As the idiom says, “old habits do die hard,” so by practicing good habits from the start, you will avoid having to work hard at breaking them. After all, bad habits are, indeed, HARD to break.

Behavior, on the other hand, is triggered by the nervous and endocrine systems. What goes on in one’s environment will trigger a reaction that shows up as a behavior. The important difference between habits and behavior is that behavior is a conscious action, while a habit is a subconscious action. With a behavior, one must think before they react. We’ve all heard the words, “think before you speak,” or, “think before you do anything.” We’ve probably all run into this type of person at least once, if not more, in our lifetime. This type of person (forgive me for being so blunt) has, “diarrhea of the mouth.” Such a person doesn’t think before he or she speaks or reacts instantaneously, as if ready to do battle for their opinion about something or someone without considering the others around. For example, at a game I was hosting a few years back, a woman we’ll refer to as Joy carefully watched another full-bodied woman, whom we’ll refer to as Midge, as she made her way to the array of snacks I had placed out that day. Midge picked up a plate, walked past the lower-calorie fruit and veggie choices and stopped in front of the brownies. She placed two pieces on her plate and walked back to the table and sat down. Joy quickly blurted out, “Do you really need that?” Flushed with embarrassment, Midge said, “Mind your own business.”

Good for Midge, who stood up for herself, but shame on Joy for her rude behavior! One must ask themselves: Is this the type of person you want to be around your mah jongg table? For those new to the game, hopefully, your teacher has educated you on good habits and behaviors. I strive to instill good habits and behaviors in my students from day one. Being courteous and polite are things we are supposed to have been taught growing up. Unfortunately, it seems as though some have either forgotten good habits, are unaware of their behavior, or were never taught politeness growing up. If I observe a student who is either discourteous or rude—and believe me, there seems to be one in every class—I feel it is my duty to set an example for the others by addressing the behavior and saying something.

One of the most obstinate students I’ve had to date is one who came into class with a glass of wine. Prior to the first class, everyone receives a group text with reminders of dates, location, and rules. The rules are no food during class; water or coffee is permitted in a closed container. So, when this woman walked in with a glass of wine, I chuckled to myself, Here comes my one-in-every-class student. After asking her if she got my text, she replied, “Oh, I must have missed that.” I responded, “Only water and coffee permitted during class and in a closed container. Would you please place the glass of wine on the credenza (pointing her in the right direction) and away from the playing area?” She huffed and puffed and nearly blew my house down with her resistant comments. Instead of doing as I asked, she sat down and placed the glass underneath her chair. She had made the unilateral decision that under the chair meant out of the playing area. When I said something to her again, she got up abruptly and placed the glass on a nearby credenza. You can see the pattern, right?

You can guess what happened in the next class, can’t you? You’ve got it: she came strutting in again with a glass of wine. Had I not clearly addressed this with her last time? Though I felt quite uncomfortable, not only for me but for the entire class, I asked her to leave. When she finally realized the consequences of her behavior, she begged and pleaded to stay; she promised she would not be a repeat offender—again! Thankfully, she did clean up her act long enough to get through the next few classes.

So, my friends, what happens when we are dealing with seasoned players who haven’t a clue about being courteous, at least around the mah jongg table? Did they forget about good habits or is their mind somewhere playing a role in some Twilight Zone episode? At times, it sure seems like it, doesn’t it? Many of us excuse poor behavior and habits when playing and then complain to everyone else who will listen. And, of course, everyone knows about this inappropriate behavior except for the one displaying it. Regardless, I am here to help you handle a variety of awkward, uncomfortable, and bizarre behaviors around the table.

I’ve seen the impact of such behavior up close and personal, both as a mah jongg player and an instructor. From a player’s vantage point, inappropriate behavior and distasteful habits displayed through poor etiquette or rudeness impact everyone at the table. It is not only disruptive to the game, but can also change the mood of those who were looking forward to a fun-filled day, causing them to reconsider whether they even want to continue playing with the group. I dropped out of a weekly game because one player was repeatedly rude and argued about rules. She’d insist that a rule was a National Mah Jongg League rule to the point that I had to call the League to confirm that it was in fact a tournament rule and not a League rule. She spent so much time in her argumentative posture that the game was no longer fun for me. And games are certainly supposed to be fun! From an instructor’s vantage point, inappropriate behavior or poor habits are also disruptive to the class, as in my story about the woman with the wine. Precious time is taken away from the others who are eager to learn and who have paid for an instructional class. It is not fair to them that I must stop and address the behavior or habit that does not belong in my classroom. Suddenly, my role turns from instructor to disciplinarian, which is not at all a part of my class schedule.

Since many tenuous situations can arise, I am here to help you handle a variety of awkward, uncomfortable, and bizarre behaviors around the table. In order to help others and to spread the word about good habits and behaviors, I will be doing a blog series discussing a my 15 Golden Rules of mah jongg (and the list will surely grow). Sharing these rules with others can help you discuss awkward, uncomfortable, and even embarrassing moments around the mah jongg table. Now it’s time to look at Debbie’s Golden Rule #1.

Golden Rule #1: Wait until all your tiles are dealt out before racking them; this will prevent a misdeal and someone ending up short on tiles.

New students who want to learn mah jongg and American mahjong strategy are anxious to get those tiles up on the rack. Since the flow of picking and whether to pick clockwise or counterclockwise does not come naturally to the beginner player, ending up with the wrong number of tiles is easy to do. By placing each set of four tiles together on top of your mah jongg card and repeating the same, you can easily count and visually see that you have three sets of four tiles. Those three sets equal twelve, then East takes the first one and third tiles, while everyone else just takes one.

As you can see in this picture, it is easy to tell that after East picked his/her first and third tiles, they were short four tiles. This is a misdeal. Everyone would need to throw in their tiles and start over. But what happens if you didn’t leave them on the top of your mah jongg card and, instead, you racked them? If you are lucky enough to notice it, you can declare a misdeal, whereby everyone throws in their tiles, builds their walls, and deals again. But, if you don’t catch it and the Charleston begins, it is too late to declare a misdeal. So now you are thinking, I call myself dead and I need to announce it to everyone, right? Wrong; you are not supposed to call yourself dead. You are supposed to wait until another player notices that you have too few tiles and officially declares your hand dead. Once this happens, you stop playing. If no one calls you dead, you continue to play, but you must play defensively since you cannot make mah jongg with too few tiles! Plus, you really have to be careful because the last thing you want to happen is for you to be playing a dead hand and give someone else mah jongg.

One more thing: what if you forget the rules and call yourself dead after realizing you had been playing with too few tiles? Someone else still needs to officially declare your hand dead, and I’m sure, at that point, they will.

Following Rule #1 is really one of the easiest habits to form in one simple step. Don’t rack your tiles until you have verified that you have three sets of four tiles plus two (if you are East) or one (if you are not).

Something else to think about...what about those players that like to get fancy by placing their tiles all in a row and then using their card to flip them up? Pretty impressive huh? For me not so, but to each his/her own. Not a biggie unless that fancy move didn’t include the right number of tiles. Let’s move on to Golden Rule #2.

Golden Rule #2: Keep your hands to yourself. In other words, don’t touch anyone else’s tiles or racks.

New players who want to learn mah jongg should pay close attention to this rule. First off, I’d like to start this rule by asking a few questions. Why would anyone touch anyone else’s tiles? They are not yours, so why touch them? Don’t you have enough of your own tiles? And what about someone else’s racks? There is no reason that you would be touching them or moving them or doing anything with them for that matter.

Here are some things to live by when it comes to this rule:

1. Let players take their own tiles during the deal. 2. Let players pick their own tiles from the wall. 3. Let players pick up their called tile from the table. 4. Let players push out their own rack. 5. Don’t touch, move, or handle another player’s tiles and/or racks. 6. Ask for (don’t grab) the joker during a joker exchange (see below Golden Rule #4)

On a final note, some people don’t like their tiles or racks touched. So why not get in the habit of not doing it? This way, you leave any chance of bickering out of the equation. Is it the end of the world if you do any one of these things? Probably not; but be sure to check your tournament rules before you dare to touchy-touchy or put your paws on anyone else’s tiles.

Golden Rule #3 – Keep your Exposures spaced that are atop the flat part of your Rack.

This seems simple enough, yet I see players forget from time to time. It is the courteous thing to do and spacing exposures make it easier especially for the beginner player to find the potential hand(s) being played. If a player doesn’t leave spaces in between their Pungs, Kongs or Quints, you must put Rule #2 into play because the “bad habit” devil might be sitting on your shoulder waiting to will your Hand over to their Rack eager to space those Exposures. Be gone you “bad habit” devil because I am going to put Rule #2 into play and ask the player with the Exposed Tiles that are not spaced to please and don’t forget the thank you, space them. Easy as pie, right? My students learn this from the get-go so this good habit will become second nature.

If you want to learn more on mah jongg ettique the American mahjong way, stay tuned for the next blog in this series, where we will cover additional rules from Debbie Golden Rules of Mah Jongg.

Happy Mah Jongging everyone!

[demytasse]

[Shizaya] Coping Mechanism — Ch 5

[Previous Chapter]

    Izaya wasn’t a hot-blooded individual, he only mimicked one — merely caught up in the moment it was hardly a permanent detriment to his nature. It's just that he was currently hot and bothered, both mind and body struck with fever.

An overactive imagination compromised his chill composure as all his attention was drawn to the bathroom which hid a scene he could only pretend that he witnessed. Warmed ceramic cradled in his hands, overheated brew burned his throat; polyester-wrapped cushions redirected his body heat up onto him, an old flame barely separated by drywall yet completely exposed — Izaya could not keep cool.

              “Mind if I join, hot stuff?”

              “Only if you drop the shitty puns.”

Honestly it was the simple things Izaya remembered the most, what he missed more than the sex, but //clearly he was not without those lusty thoughts. Due to circumstance, one beat out the other as an obvious winner.

    “What a selfish beast he can be... probably doesn't even know that he’s a tease…”

The shower ran stifling as Shizuo was wont to run it which created a blanket of humidity inside the tight quarters while an extension of its steamy forcefield billowed into the living room. Although he couldn’t see it, Izaya knew how the suds further censored the attractive man in the shower, its attempts failed as soap slid over muscle to his feet. Izaya remembered the way Shizuo looked, though not the way he felt beneath his own fingertips. He remembered the way his own curves were felt up, but not the actual touch of Shizuo’s carefully rough caress. Memories recalled the initial chill of water, but couldn't reenact how heated the droplets became after they hit their skin; how the smell of retired deodorant and cologne washed away all distractions — how oddly sweet and hypnotising their sweat could be while its misty remnants swirled their bodies. Izaya distinctly remembered the satisfying burn of shampoo when it seeped through his ill-sealed eyes, what slipped beyond his own smirk while the two paused to drown in air; the sweet-nothings, crude compliments, the spoken sputters and spat words, groans and giggles, frantic and hungry touches...they were all painfully arousing to his senses and only his resolve prevented Izaya from adding himself to the scene; easily change the teen appropriate content to something R-rated.

              “It's good clean fun, hm?”

              “That’s what you call our showers?”

              “It's an idiom, Shizuo.”

              “So you would mind breakin’ it then…”

              “You know, just because we’re in the shower doesn’t change the fact that your thoughts are ‘dirty’.”

Of course their showers were hardly successful — they were an excuse to feel alright about jacking up the water bill, an expenditure that was satisfying enough to split dessert once in awhile, not like Izaya ever needed to worry about that sort of monetary slipup. Under the sensual effects of those moments it was fun to pretend that they were two living in financial poverty while rich in love. And now Izaya found himself in bankruptcy with an overabundant desire to spend beyond his budget.

That's what drove him to crack the door, curse as he remembered the shower stall was beyond visibility from that viewpoint. The mirror also a wash all hazy and ineffective, barely even a blurry form upon it. Frustrated he gave up, turned away while he tugged the door behind him until he heard a low and murmured externalised thought — an echo from within the stall.     “...Izaya…”

It shook him like the rain of discarded water that Shizuo shook from his hair, that to which he glimpsed between the door crack above the hinges.

    “Fuck.”

Izaya thumped his head against the corner door frame, chastised himself and Shizuo for setting him up with such a nuisance to deal with. One glance of the other man with his head hung at his shoulders, affected by his own sensations, had Izaya feel like he needed to join in the same act — separate, in secret, but still the same. Auditory cues sent him into his memories, to one in particular and perhaps a twisted favourite of his subconscious.

     His skin had burned red, agitated from the extended spray of the shower head; it was harshest across his shoulders and traced around his blades, stung over the tracks of nails that sliced like knives. Clean cuts were only deep enough to balance out the soft attention that pathed around his abdomen. A half-drenched mop even with the height of Izaya's waist while Shizuo's eyes stayed out of view, not as though it weren’t easy to read his intent without having access to facial expressions.

    “You have work today.”

    “Yeah…”     “And you’re taking your time.”     “Uhhu.”

    “You’re not leaving enough time for yourself.”     “Then make it up to me later, Izaya, just shut up.”

    “How bothersome, planned sex is such a travesty to the whole act.”

    “For fuck’s sake.”

Izaya had to hand it to Shizuo on occasion, he could be swift in motion, a flash strategist when need be. Unpredictability — the highest high that Izaya could extract from any moment, but especially from Shizuo's actions.

Within a second Shizuo towered over him once again, the next moment Izaya felt tile grout imprint instantaneous bruises at his kneecaps; and even though he knew what the implied course of action was, it was still exhilarating to look up and feign sweet naivete and wait for direction from Shizuo.

    “I guess I’ll...make it up to you later, louse.” Izaya grinned, tickled that his partner could get so flustered over others wanting to please him; clearly it was Shizuo who was more in desperate need of a release anyway. Izaya shook his head while he played it off as trying to discard excess water from his bangs.

    “I’ll hold you to that, Shizu-chan”

It was anticipation that often made Shizuo shudder, sometimes more than the sexual favour itself. He was just that intune with his instincts, feelings, and the moment — just a tease along the underside of his shaft riled him intensely, the intentionally slow buildup to his tip was on par with a low key climax.

The drawn out ministrations went on longer than needed, but it was a treat, something that Izaya could get off on simply by observing Shizuo while he was entranced by the atmosphere; how ecstatic he was, eyes widened at the increasing pulse. Jaw slack, he stuttered guttural words, braced himself against the shower wall with a suction grip that almost broke the tile. And with a light rake of teeth that ended with Izaya's tongue play, it dialed up the sensation as the slit was given explicit attention; Shizuo nearly did the same damage to the floor with his curled toes as he did the wall as he restrained from premature release. He wanted to extract everything he could from Izaya’s efforts.

He seemed blinded of all reality yet intensely aware of his partner. Paid Izaya his gratitude, who hid his face while he bobbed forward and back between without eye contact, shielded away so he couldn’t confirm who grasped his hips firm fingertips, took only a solo knee while the other rest against his calve as if any amount of contact wasn’t enough — as if there were any confusion of what man applied his skilled tongue. Shizuo stroked from the crest of Izaya's bowed head, around the outside of his ear in order to trace what he could of Izaya's cheek; sensual appreciation and a sincere //'thank you’. It made Izaya cum after the arduous stroke of his own erection that he could hardly focus on while he worked at the job he did for Shizuo.

    It was a struggle to restrain himself from whipping the door open, forgetting to strip his clothes and ask for that returned favour that he was promised so long ago. Slam Shizuo against the wall to make him snarl, smile with relief that he was still desired. But what cemented Izaya’s feet, what prevented him from doing much more than kneading his palm over his crotch, was ruined when he recalled the tragedy that had indebted Shizuo in the first place.

                “Was that good enough for you, sweetie?”

                “You're ruining the moment.”

                “Aw, how am I ruining the moment, sugar-tits?”

                “Ugh, you know how.”

                “Alright, alright. I'll stop…Shizu-chan.”

                “Fuckin’ brat…”

                “See you have nicknames for me too, sweet cheeks.”

                “Ugh, I shouldn't wanna marry such an annoying pest.”

                “...excuse me?”

Izaya stopped as the scene came back to haunt him at the most inopportune moment.

                “Ah, well... I thought of ways...the best time to ask...I just...nothing felt right yet...”

                “You think this is something you spring up out of nowhere, without consulting me first? Like a rigged proposal flash mob where everyone's in on it including one being proposed to? A cheap way of pressure me into saying yes?”

                “The hell is a flash mob?”

                “Shizuo that's not the point.”

                “What is it then!?”

                “You're not ready for marriage.”

Izaya forgot that he held his coffee until the mug dropped at his feet. The shock killed his desires upon crash of ceramic.

    “Hey! Izaya...you out there? You alright?”

Squeaks, thumps, the slide of a glass door caused Izaya to panic.

                “The fact you were thinking about how you would propose rather than if I would even say yes tells me that. How you’re still too selfish for a partnership.”

                “...ah...right.”

Izaya ditched the mess he made and bolted for the door; he scrambled over the couch instead of rounding the obstacle. Forgetting his coat and extraneous phones he left on the counter, he only snagged his shoes before he struggled with slide locks and deadbolts that used to be easier to undo.

    “Goddammit, you better not leave, asshole!”

Izaya peeked over his shoulder, noticed that Shizuo barely tied a towel around his waist like he knew he didn't have the time to dress in anything else.

    “Sorry,” Izaya wavered.

A salute and a door slam preceded his dash to the elevator, conveniently a crack away from shutting; he managed to slip on by and cushion his momentous collision with the back wall.

Izaya rammed his head on the surface, breathed all too heavily to calm his panic. Only then did he notice a mature older lady to his left who was shockingly tempered, like she long knew of Shizuo's chaos; he made sure to flash an apologetic smile regardless.

As the lobby neared, he slipped on his shoes, forgot about the laces and prepared to bolt.

              “You won't even move in with me, like you're intimidated by my success?”

              “...well...”

              “You're preoccupied by the romance, Shizuo, not as if we even have much of it.”

              “You finished?”

              “Not especially, no, but I think you want me to be.”

Izaya struggled a final breath as the doors opened. He took long strides through the space, but halted in terror. At the stairway exit stood his ornery ex, loosely wearing his trademark parka as some sad attempt to cover more of his decency.

    “That apology upstairs wasn't what I wanted, louse!” He didn’t even huff, was barely short of breath, just spoke clearly with a commanding bellow.

    “I know,” Izaya nodded, shrugged with a pained smile. “Sorry,” he directed his word towards the puzzled couple shoved in the corner in clutch of the other.

    “Neither was that! How obnoxious can you get!?”

Izaya faced the street entrance, a fraction of pride in his posture, though his legs still refused to progress; stationary, he continued to trigger the automated doors to open after their close. While paralysed he fiddled with a small item — his hand dangled at his hip; polished and unmarred, a piece of jewelry was spun around in contemplation, consolation. It was something he hadn’t worn nor held earlier.

    “You’re such a coward. Don’t know why I thought it’d be any different when you showed up.”

    “Well,” Izaya pocketed the item, replaced it with his cellphone, “you are an idiot.”

He gained confidence from the snide cover and walked off — to his satisfaction Shizuo let him go. Just outside he let go of his breath.

    “I screwed up again, Shizu-chan. Honestly, I’m sorry.”

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 10

This chapter is...so much, again, I...hope I didn’t mess a lot of things up but also I’m so excited for this to be out there

Ao3

Detective Eretson’s office isn’t roomy, but it looks bigger for the absolute lack of decoration. Snotlout has been complaining about him for a year, but there’s nothing on the walls except for a very official looking medal that Hiccup doesn’t recognize and the bookcase holds only a cardboard box neatly folded and marked “miscellaneous”. Hiccup can see Snotlout’s nametag on his desk out through the small vertical window, which is crosshatched with wire, the age old answer to bulletproof that actually makes it weaker.

Hiccup’s dad’s office had glass like that. They took it out after he died and replaced it with modern tempered glass, like there was no longer anything inside worth the falsely protecting.

Eretson brings Hiccup a cup of coffee from the breakroom, stale and obviously made that morning, but he accepts it anyway, taking the smallest sip he can while Eretson sits down and logs into his computer. The silence and clicking matches Hiccup’s speeding heartbeat and he clears his throat, fidgeting in the cold plastic chair. Something about the detective’s presence reminds him of his dad getting home after he’d done something wrong but it hadn’t been discovered yet. He learned young that confessing was easier than not, but his dad’s disappointment was heavier to carry than his own guilt.

“What? No bad cop routine this time?” He laughs, the sound echoing off of the undecorated walls, unwelcome.

“That was tired cop,” Eretson pushes his keyboard away and turns fully to Hiccup, eyebrows knit together in a heavy frown.

“What’s this then?”

“I’m good at my job, Mr. Haddock.” There’s swagger there but it’s buoyant, balancing. “And I’m good at reading people.”

“I’m guessing I say ‘won’t try to escape’?” Hiccup rubs one of his wrists and Eretson doesn’t flinch.

“This precinct lets you get away with a lot because of your father,” a jab that hurts worse than when Snotlout says it, “but not murder.” He flips through some photos from the crime scene and Hiccup swallows hard, trying to focus on anything but that flash of metal leg and regretting it. “People who do this don’t look at pictures of it like that.”

“I bet that’s true,” Hiccup remembers the guy who’d invited him over to see his collection.

“It is,” Eretson turns the photos over, “but that doesn’t explain why you keep finding the bodies.”

“So you think the cases are related?” It’s the only thing Hiccup has been able to think about for the last two hours. Or that’s not fair, it’s the only thing he’s been able to focus on.

He thought about his tour, and how it felt like the worst ever but he’s scared it’ll be his best reviewed. He thought about Astrid, one second blushing with her chin held high and the next pale and terrified, her shaky hand telling him to pull his foot out of his mouth and turn around. He thought about Dave and wondered if it hurt.

But he focused on all the reasons the murders can’t be related. Or all the reason, singular, and it doesn’t feel very reliable right now, sitting across the station from his dad’s old office, being lectured by strong, broad shoulders and an unshakeable scowl.

Lightning doesn’t strike twice until someone puts up a lightning pole.

“Your alibies check out. I talked to Gobber and he affirmed how you knew of the first victim. And I confirmed the tape—“

“What tape?” Hiccup can’t think of anywhere legal he’s been that would be taped and obtained by the cops.

“Right,” Eretson clears his throat and turns back to his computer, clicking again before turning the screen around. “This tape was recorded—“

“The back of the condos,” Hiccup nods to himself, watching grainy black and white footage of Astrid jumping and his arm curling her protectively into his chest. It’s a joke even here, she obviously doesn’t need his protection, but God he wanted to give it to her earlier as she shook, trying not to look into the alley and being unable to look anywhere else.

The memory twists his stomach, caught up in everything else. It was torture to see her scared after seeing her so passionate, defiant, happy. Embarrassed was his favorite, he liked it enough that he pulled off feigning confidence, even though the thought of her kissing him for revenge after trying to save his tour practically made him lightheaded.

Cameras. Astrid texted him that she’d talked to the police about cameras, this must have been why. He wonders what she thought when she saw it.

“This is approximately time of death, given the coroner’s statement and Miss Hofferson confirmed that you walked her home.”

“I did.”

“When does your first Viggo Grimborn tour begin?” He says Grimborn like an American idiom he finds deeply inferior and Hiccup wants to ask where he’s from, but the little Snotlout on his shoulder flicks him on the ear and reminds him not to yap without a lawyer present. He’s not sure when Snotlout got promoted to be both angel and devil, but now’s not the time to dwell on that.

“Seven or seven thirty, depending on the weather, and I try and get there half an hour before to let people know they’re in the right place.”

“Miss Hofferson says I can confirm with her coworker that you were at her job from five to six, approximately.”

“Sounds about right,” Hiccup wills his face not to move but Eretson’s eyes flash anyway, deadly like a predator that isn’t used to starving.

“So, the night of Jennifer Franklin’s murder, you’re attesting to the fact that you made it from 324 Harbor road to the alley behind the Ripped Tavern in less than half an hour, but you’re now claiming that being at the Berk Archives until six is enough evidence to say that you couldn’t have been killing this man at approximately six thirty, according to the coroner?”  

Eretson isn’t flip-flopping or changing his mind, he’s trying to steer his investigational sailboat with a strong lean and Hiccup’s lower back throbs.

His doctor doesn’t like him walking eight miles a day on cobblestones and his hips agree. His back is usually willing to compromise but the last week avoiding shortcuts at Snotlout’s request has done a number on its resolve.

“I’ve been staying out of the alleys,” Hiccup realizes all at once that there’s no way to know that Dave was wearing his old spare leg and the angelic-devil Snotlout on his shoulder applauds him for keeping the secret, “Snotlout—Officer Jorgenson, I mean, said it wasn’t a good idea after the first murder.”

“He did?”

“He’s not particularly confident in my ability to take care of myself,” Hiccup flexes an arm and laughs, the self-depricating sound less welcome in the office than the awkward one. “Ask him yourself.”

“You can’t tell me about it?” There’s frustration there but not disbelief.

“I uh…don’t talk much.” He clears his throat, “I’m shy around authority figures, you know how it is, I’m sure.”

“That’s the first lie you’ve told,” Eretson stands up and opens the door to his office, “don’t—“

“Don’t leave town, I’ve got it.” Hiccup walks out into the lobby, freezing when he recognizes a man in a crisp grey uniform talking to a man in a suit that makes Eretson stop short.

“Detective Eretson, I’ve heard that you’ve met Mr. Grisly—“

“I have,” Eretson answers stiffly, holding out a tense hand at the end of a flexed arm.

“My pleasure,” the man in gray shakes it, everything about him mocking and superior for no externally discernible reason. His accent is Bond villain and he raises a charcoal eyebrow at Hiccup. “It’s good to see you again, Hiccup, it’s been too long.”

“Has it?” Hiccup never thought he’d feel like he was backed against the same wall as detective Eretson by the same force, “I thought you didn’t enjoy your private tour.”

“Enjoyment isn’t necessary for an experience to be…influential.” He laughs, “you didn’t get my joke, by the way.”

“Joke?”

“It hasn’t been a long time at all, I caught you with your hands full the other night.” He’s having as much fun as Hiccup isn’t currently and as much as Eretson has never had.

“With unsanctioned cameras,” Eretson crosses his arms, respectfully glaring at the man in the suit. “I’m close, Sir—“

“The approval just went through this morning, we can’t have the media buzz right now Eretson, I’m calling in all the help we can get.”

“Then talk to another precinct, don’t bring in a civilian organization—”

“Other precincts don’t have anyone to spare,” Eretson’s boss is conclusive, leaving no room to wedge an argument in before he continues, “and Mr. Grisly’s help has the additional benefit of being free, so you’ll take the information he gives you.”

“I’m sure it’s unbiased,” Hiccup mutters under his breath and Eretson scoffs, their momentary agreement lingering as Eretson’s boss walks away.

“I look forward to working together,” Mr. Grisly’s smile is predatory too, but starving. A lion under a gladiator arena starved to amp up its ferocity, but something about the gleam in his eye makes Hiccup think he bolted the lock himself. “This case so far is of particular interest to me.”

Everything impulsive in Hiccup’s body wants to say ‘Grimborn’ but his stomach twists against it, the ghost of a gag keeping the words in his throat. If it’s Grimborn, that means at least two more murders and he doesn’t even want to think about it, especially given his recent luck in stumbling across them.

“Great, more hobby detectives,” Eretson gripes, dismissing Hiccup with a look at the front door and yet another reminder not to leave town. Hiccup wishes that was more of an issue, but he wasn’t exactly planning a lavish vacation before a second murder shut down his tours.

00000

The shelter is busier than usual, and Gobber lets Hiccup eat if he works, so he finds plenty to keep himself occupied through the next week. Plus, people at the shelter are scared, getting there earlier, every day with new complaints about the Neighborhood Watch Force flaunting badges they’ve been told mean something now. Snotlout is furious but for once, as helpless as Eretson, even though the phenomenon doesn’t seem to be forcing any kind of bond. If anything, Snotlout is angrier, but that could just be the fact that he’s stuck on traffic duty during an important investigation.

Home is quiet though, and Hiccup is restless. As much as his back appreciates the break, he doesn’t need the extra time to think. He could research, given his renewed access and enthusiasm about the archives, but he can’t think about Grimborn without thinking ahead like a meteorologist tracking Hurricane Death. That and as much as he’d like to hang out with Astrid, he’s not sure she feels the same and if she doesn’t, he doesn’t know if he can blame her.

She’s been texting him, mostly pictures from the Berk Enquirer. She found some article from the summer of eighteen eighty-five suggesting an earthquake was actually caused by a dragon fighting ring in a giant arena under the bay and asked for his thoughts on the topic. He said it seemed plausible, given that no one actually knows what’s under the earth as it hurtles through space like a Frisbee and she sent back a string of angry emojis that made him laugh, but flat earth jokes aren’t necessarily communication.

“Oh my God, dude, what are you wearing?” He barely gets two steps in the door after helping Gobber check people into the shelter on Friday night before Snotlout’s outfit accosts him from across the living room. “Or should I say what aren’t you wearing?” Hiccup pulls down the collar of his tee-shirt to mimic the deep V of Snotlout’s shirt.

“What?”

“You left the part of your shirt that covers your lack of tan in your closet, you might want to check on that before you blind someone.”

“Very funny,” Snotlout grabs his jacket, “I’m going to go get a beer, want to come?”

“Even I know I shouldn’t spend my last five dollars on beer.”

“If you want me to cover you, just ask, don’t be so cryptic all the time,” he chides as he rolls his eyes, waving Hiccup along behind him.

“I wasn’t asking you to cover me.” Hiccup clarifies on the way downstairs and Snotlout shrugs.

“Whatever, dude, keep telling yourself that.” He looks both ways before continuing, voice low, “they still don’t know it’s your fake leg, by the way, have you heard anything from Eretson?”

“Nope, apparently I learned how to shut up at a really convenient time, I just needed some pressure.”

“Well keep the pressure on, I doubt your closed mouth is permanent, and they’re no closer to solving this, even with Mr. Creepy skulking around the station.” Snotlout shudders, “the guy isn’t even helpful, he just looms over everyone’s shoulders. He caught me online shopping the other day and he just watched.”

“It’s a good thing I’m sure you were shopping for totally work appropriate stuff, as you always do,” Hiccup raises an eyebrow and Snotlout glares at him.

“Shut up, Hiccup.”

Gruff’s is busy but not packed yet, and they’re lucky enough to get a booth along the wall. Snotlout sends Hiccup to the bar to get drinks and Gruffnut jokes about his growth spurt instead of asking for ID. That’s something that wouldn’t happen anywhere else in Berk these days, the bars down on the main street that charge ten dollars for some locally made shitty whiskey usually end up asking Hiccup for two IDs if he makes the mistake of shaving too close to going. It makes him want to ask how Gruffnut manages to pay rent if Heather is struggling, but he guesses this is a worse neighborhood.

Or was, maybe murders happening so close to the condos will equalize property values a little bit.

Who’s he kidding? They’ll probably skyrocket. He saw his first article relating the current duo of murders to Viggo Grimborn this morning and couldn’t help but read it. It got a lot wrong, even ascribing to the theory that the third victim’s fiancé did it to first scare her into staying off the street and then to cover his tracks, but Hiccup gets the feeling it did what it was supposed to. Someone at the shelter was complaining about motel prices doubling nearly overnight and Berserker Tours added a RSVP tab to the website that Hiccup told himself he wouldn’t check, but when he did it was scheduling three weeks out.

Snotlout dutifully doesn’t listen to Hiccup’s rant about it, staring idly around the room like if he looks bored enough Hiccup won’t know he’s looking for a target. It makes Hiccup think about texting Astrid for what must be the hundredth time this week, and he sets his phone on the table where his pocket can’t accidentally make that decision for him.

“…absolute lying, thieving sack of shit!” The insult rises above the noise of the crowd mid-sentence and a few heads turn towards the end of the bar by the door. Hiccup turns in the booth to investigate and thinks he recognizes the blonde woman yelling at Gruffnut, hands planted on the weathered counter. “Don’t play dumb with me, I know exactly how dumb you are and you aren’t going to get away with acting any dumber than that!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gruffnut whistles, cleaning a glass with a filthy rag, “must have been Tuff.”

“Is that?” Snotlout frowns, talking mostly to himself. “I think that’s—”

“Ruff!”

Hiccup recognizes Astrid’s voice instantly and jumps to his feet, but Snotlout is already across the room, holding Ruffnut back as she’s trying to claw her way over the counter.

“Let’s calm down here—”

“I don’t need a cop to protect me from my dweeby little girl cousin, Snotlout.”

Ruffnut’s yell is primal and she elbows Snotlout in the chest almost hard enough for him to lose his grip.

“You absolute piece of shit, if you don’t find my money I’m going to kill you and claim next of kin, you creepy body snatching—”

“Ruff, calm down,” Astrid tries again, catching Ruffnut’s arm before she can take another swing at Snotlout.

“I don’t even have to hide it, I can just disembowel it in the street at a specific location and—”

“Hey!” Astrid booms, shoving Snotlout and Ruffnut out of the way and evidently taking the problem into her own hands. “Just give her the money, Gruff. And while you’re at it, I’d like my fifty bucks back.”

“You never loaned me fifty bucks, that was Tuffnut.”

“How about a free round,” Hiccup inserts himself, leaning elbows on the bar next to her and waving sheepishly when she cocks her head, surprised but not unhappy to see him. “Or I’ll tell Snotlout to release the beast over there.”

“He doesn’t listen to you,” Gruffnut narrows his eyes but starts pouring four shitty beers anyway.

“I might not have a choice,” Snotlout grunts as Ruffnut flings herself back against him, trying to kick at the bar, “fuck, she’s strong.”

“Flattery won’t work on me,” she grunts, yanking Snotlout’s arm off of her waist and turning to face him. Her posture changes instantly, hip cocked as she twirls long hair around her finger, “oh, yours might.”

“This isn’t even the first situation this week that my good looks have diffused,” Snotlout grabs two beers off of the counter and hands one to Ruffnut, smiling smugly at Gruffnut, “you should be glad to have me around.”

“Yeah, I’ll be glad to have you around the day it’s legal to charge cops ten percent more.” He grumbles, walking to the other end of the bar to serve someone else, “can’t even have a bar fight with your cousin these days. Fucking nanny state.”

“So…” Hiccup looks at Astrid as Ruffnut and Snotlout head back to the booth, “there’s a story here.”

“Yeah,” she tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, ponytail slightly crooked, likely from her own attempt to hold Ruffnut back, “I should probably tell it, I doubt Ruffnut has the attention span right now.”

Of course Ruffnut and Snotlout are sharing one side of the booth and Hiccup tries to be casual as Astrid slides in next to him, accidentally bumping his shoulder as she takes off her jacket and sets it between them. It’s not much of a buffer because it smells like her shampoo, floral even above the cigarette smell ingrained decades deep into the wood paneling on the wall, and Hiccup tries to focus on anything but the memory of encyclopedias falling in tune with his pounding heart.

“Guess what?” Ruffnut is too pleased with herself to really look annoyed, “after all, it turns out that Snotlout wouldn’t have minded you giving me his number. All that arguing for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Snotlout stretches an arm across the back of the booth, “I didn’t mind holding you back, babe.”

“I mean I’d rather you didn’t hold me back,” she grins, “and we were wearing less or it was strategically pushed aside—”

“Oh my God!” Astrid chugs about half of her beer in a single gulp, cheeks practically glowing and a stern expression on her face. “I’m sorry about her, Snotlout, thank you for helping me save my friend from assaulting someone.”

“Again, I don’t mind,” Snotlout winks and Hiccup usually asks him how he thinks anyone could think that looks cool, but now he’s just remembering how stupid he must have looked doing the same at Astrid and asking her to kiss him again.

And then they found a body.

That’s still a change in tone he hasn’t found a way to navigate.

“I kind of do,” Ruffnut puffs out her cheeks and releases the air in a small, deflated puff, “the holding me back part, I mean. Free beer is my favorite, but it takes a lot of free beer to add up to a thousand dollars.”

“Less to fifty,” Astrid snorts, “I might be up to it.”

“That would be like sixteen of these on happy hour,” Hiccup turns his glass between his hands, “I’m not doubting your power, but…”

“After the week I’ve had, I might be up to it,” she shakes her head, obviously tired. It looks different than the kind of tired he saw when he showed up at her door too late or too early, or the kind of tired she was when she just had to wait for his eleven o’clock tour to yell one last theory down at him. It’s deeper and he hates that he knows why she can’t sleep.

“So, how do you guys know Gruff?” Hiccup changes the subject before it can drift naturally into Grimborn and all the ways its meaning might be changing.

“Are you kidding me?” Ruffnut points at her face and then absently over her left shoulder with a habitual thumb. “Oh, shit, Tuff isn’t here right now, that would be confusing.”

“He’s Ruffnut’s cousin,” Astrid explains, “and her brother’s doppleganger, it’s a whole long confusing story.”

“Well, I don’t have anywhere to be.” Hiccup tries to feel natural but Snotlout’s easy arm on the back of the other side of the booth makes his heart race when he even thinks about doing the same to Astrid. He remembers what she felt like against him, the strong set of her shoulders under his hands, the curve of her waist, and his entire body itches to pull her into his side now.

Not that there’s any indication she’d let him. She might see him and remember an alley she never wants to see again with him presenting it like Vanna White happily revealing the prize behind door number three.

“He takes my twin brother’s clothes and asks for money or stuff and when he gets it, he falls off the face of the earth again. Last time it was Tuff owing tax money so of course I gave it to him,” Ruffnut rubs her temple, “I’m too good of a sister, that’s the whole problem.”

“How alike could they possibly look?” Snotlout asks, grinning when Ruffnut is apparently happy to be blinded by his chest.

“It’s…kind of creepy, actually,” Astrid sighs, “I didn’t believe it until Tuffnut didn’t pay back some money I loaned him. He’s usually good about that stuff but he just kept insisting I never loaned him anything, and then I met Gruffnut.” She waves her hand towards the bar, ponytail swinging for emphasis.

“You know, babe, if you had a case for identity theft,” Snotlout waggles his eyebrows and Ruffnut pouts, crumpling into his side, head dramatically on his shoulder. He wraps his arm easily around her waist and Astrid sits up straighter, so rigid if Hiccup didn’t know better he’d think she was a wax statue.

A wax statue that had its post-forming makeup touched up by someone red-green colorblind trying to make an absolutely gorgeous Wicked Witch of the West, but still.

“I wish,” Ruffnut groans, “Tuffnut worships the ground the guy walks on.”

“I get it,” Snotlout nods, “that’s how Hiccup feels about me, some cousins just have that energy.” He grins, looking pointedly at Hiccup’s awkward arm, setting limply in his lap like he forgot how to move it. “Some don’t.”

“I get that you’re pissed, Ruff, I am too, but maybe it’s not the time for the disemboweling threats,” Astrid says it like the words are likely to bounce back at her so she doesn’t want to sharpen them too much.

“Why not?” Ruffnut snorts and gestures at Hiccup, “I’m in the right company.”

“Right, that’s me,” Hiccup nods to himself, “the disemboweled body guy. It’s good to finally officially introduce myself.”

This is going great.

“Oh, we’ve met,” Ruffnut raises an eyebrow, “how’s the tour business? I bet it’s picking up with some crazy mimic on the loose.”

“Babe, I’m not supposed to talk about it, but I can’t help myself around you so I’ll just say that the police have no actual reason to link the murders,” Snotlout tries to steer the conversation and Astrid glares at him. “Aside from, you know, some obnoxious weirdos or whatever.”

“If you’re not supposed to talk about it, maybe don’t talk about it.”

“I didn’t,” he rolls his eyes, “I said what we haven’t found, which is not the same as saying what we have—”

“How about none of us talk about it?” Hiccup tries, drumming his hands on the edge of the table, “anyone read any good books lately?”

“Nope,” Astrid looks at him helplessly then, wide eyes begging him to keep a secret. A bookish secret, apparently.

Oh, their secret. It makes sense that what happened at the archives would get lost in the whirlwind of finding a body, but Hiccup can’t quite stop himself from assuming she regrets it.

“Right, like it’s possible to avoid talking about it,” Ruffnut points at the TV over the bar, where the news is showing a juxtaposition of a picture of the alley from the Grimborn file along with a modern picture.

“…police response has been sluggish, given the repeated nature of the murders and the plausible connection to the Viggo Grimborn case—”

“I’ll put it on Sports Center,” Snotlout stands up and Astrid follows.

“What? So we can watch more Superbowl reruns?”

Snotlout grins, “not a Pats fan?”

“Don’t talk to me,” she shoves him hard enough that he stumbles and makes a bee-line for the tv.

“Is it because you’re a sore loser or what?” Snotlout starts in on his favorite argument.

“Well, there goes his night,” Hiccup tries to joke with Ruffnut even as he watches Astrid’s furious, irritated expression. She takes the remote from Snotlout’s hand and changes the channel, ignoring a few complaints at the bar. “Especially because it looks like Astrid has an opinion on the topic.”

Ruffnut narrows her eyes and Hiccup clears his throat, unused to the position of Designated Normal Person and unsure if he’s doing it right.

“So umm, football?”

“Did you do it?” Ruffnut whispers, leaning close across the table.

“Football?” Hiccup laughs, “yeah, look at me. I was a championship kicker, won the big game for the whole town and—”

“No, the murders,” she clarifies, shrewd even as she tries to look casual. “I’m just saying, it’s a little suspicious that you were giving murder site tours to my best friend both times they happened.”

“No, I did not murder two people.”

“Because I mean it, Astrid is my absolute best friend, and if you’re getting her entangled in some weird serial killer cult, she won’t be the one getting blamed for it.” It’s too matter of fact to be a threat, like the sequence of events already exists in a universe Hiccup really doesn’t want to get to.

“I’m not introducing Astrid to a murderous cult.”

“Well, I know you guys aren’t hooking up because if you were, she’d probably have something more interesting to talk about than stupid Viggo Grimborn.” Ruffnut looks him up and down appraisingly, “maybe.”

“I’m not introducing Astrid to a murderous cult,” Hiccup repeats the truth, willing his expression flat.

“HGTV?” Snotlout scoffs over the crowd, “right, for all the renovating you do in your shitty apartment.”

“It’s aspirational,” Astrid jumps and neatly sets the remote on top of the tv where Snotlout can’t reach it. “Unlike the NFL’s stance that their system is really totally fine even if the competition has devolved into who gets cheated by a bunch of—”

“That’s my cue,” Ruffnut drains her beer and stands up, “she gets on me for threatening my dipshit cousin and then she starts dissing the Patriots in a bar in the middle of Downtown Berk. I don’t know what she’d do without me.”

“Always a pleasure, Ruff,” Hiccup waves before slumping forward, smacking his forehead on the table a couple of times for good measure.

Astrid regrets kissing him, her best friend thinks he’s more likely to be into ritualistic murder than to have a chance with her. He’s broke. Someone might be a ritualistic serial killer and their shared interest in Berk’s history is making him more broke.

He expects Snotlout to start right in on making fun of his absolutely disastrous performance with Astrid, so he’s shocked when someone quietly slides into the booth across from him. He doesn’t expect to look up and see Astrid biting her lip and staring pensively at her beer.

“Where—”

“They just left together,” she cuts him off with an awkward laugh, “just so you know.”

“Ah,” Hiccup pushes his hair back, half-relieved and half-jealous, unsure where the feelings overlap. He’d love to not be here, but Astrid seems committed to being exactly where she is, so he’s committed. “So I’m stuck here for a while then.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” she shrugs a stiff shoulder, “you’ve met Ruffnut, it’s not like she’s shy about…well, anything.”

“Oh no, not—It’s not about her, it’s for my own good.” He laughs, wishing she’d sat back next to him at the same time as he’s glad to be able to see her face, slowly relaxing away from it’s coiled, anxious expression. “Snotlout’s a screamer.”

She snorts mid-drink, clapping her hand over her nose and coughing.

“Sorry,” he shoves a crumpled napkin at her before re-thinking it, “never mind, I wouldn’t trust anything on this table—”

“I’m fine,” she wipes her nose on her sleeve and pointedly changes the subject, “how have you been? Usually I don’t have to ask because I see you every night outside my window.” She doesn’t mention why he’s not doing tours and that makes it more obvious.

Or maybe it’s obvious all on its own and he’s just skirting the issue by making her snort beer out of her nose.

“I’m good. Fine. You?” He wouldn’t try to deny that he’s asking how traumatized she is. In fact, he probably deserves an award for not tacking on a rating scale. One means she needs a ride to a licensed mental health professional immediately, ten means she’s smart enough to never want to see him again because he’s obviously a weirdo dragging her towards the macabre and it’s not good for her.

He’s hoping for like a six, meaning she’d take a hug but won’t necessarily make him talk about it.

“I just said I’m fine,” her half smile accuses him of being a little bit stupid and he can’t help but remember how soft her lips were. How weirdly sweet she was when she tried to save his tour. How adorably embarrassed she was when she impossibly let it slip that she thought he did something sexy, like that’s a word anyone has ever associated with him, least of all someone like Astrid.

And then they found a body.

“Good.” As bad as Hiccup is at performing the role of Designated Normal Person, he’s even worse at having nothing to say.

“Thanks, by the way,” Astrid clears her throat, sniffing like there’s still beer where it shouldn’t be, “for not telling Ruffnut about…you know, the other day.”

“Which part?” Hiccup scratches the back of his head, “because I think she knows about the whole umm…finding a body part, given she thinks I’m the killer.”

“She doesn’t seem to get that people can have a shared interest and nothing more.” Her words sting but her blush doesn’t.

“Right, shared interests always lead to ritualistic murder,” he nods, elbows on the table as he leans a little closer to not have to say murder so loud, “I don’t see the flaw in that logic.”

“Either murder or the inevitable ‘sex in a murder alley’ she keeps insisting is a thing.” Astrid is either very cruel or has no idea of her ability to short circuit minds.

“Yeah, that sounds pretty morbid and drafty,” Hiccup laughs, his heart slamming around his ribcage apparently untethered, “plus, if ritualistic murder alley sex was on the table, your apartment is already a murder site so…” He swallows hard, wishing the floor would do the same to him. “Not a new one—"

“Don’t remind me,” she says seriously, clearly choosing not to hear the worst of what he just said, and he’s an idiot who can’t take an out.

“So no point in risking the public indecency charge, I guess.” He gestures between them and shakes his head, “not that ‘murder alley sex’ is a thing that exists at all, let alone with—you know, you. Or me. Or—"

“Don’t you mean my apartment isn’t a new murder scene yet?” Her laugh is humorless and heavy as she cautiously meets his eyes. “I hate to even say it, but do you think it’s a Grimborn thing?”

Hiccup’s stomach twists and looking into her tired face, he wishes he was a better liar, “I guess we’ll find out.”

“If it is,” she looks at him carefully, her assessment entirely perpendicular to Ruffnut’s, “if someone is killing people like Viggo Grimborn did, how can we just sit there doing nothing? If this—what are you going to do about it?”

He knows the correct answer to that question. It’s been drilled into him again and again since before he can remember. Hell, probably since before he could walk.

The police are dealing with it. The system works. Getting in the way only slows down the process.

But he can’t say that because Astrid knows that means nothing. It’s an empty thing he’d say to tell her to move on with her life while people are getting hurt, to pretend that mental blinders do anything other than hide suffering. And she’s too smart for that. Too smart and too honest to go along with it.

And she doesn’t scare easy.

“Probably something stupid,” he shrugs and she nods, apparently satisfied with the answer.

“Sounds about right.”

[poweredbycoffeeandwine]

May As Well Be, Day 12: Abandoned

The expression was over used, in her opinion. Having used it herself a time or two hadn’t prepared her for what the idiom meant. Freedom’s Progress was a ghost town. Nothing stirred, and the only signs of life were the inanimate objects patiently waiting for the return of their missing owners.

Tavrien paced the narrow bunker she was searching and tried to wrap her head around the situation. Collectors working alongside the Reapers was a terrifying idea, but that nobody could begin to guess why was even worse.

“Shepard.” Tali stood just inside the doorway, how long she’d been there Tavrien couldn’t have said, but the look on her face made her anxious.

“Yeah, sorry,” she paused and rubbed at her forehead trying to suppress the beginnings of a headache, ���Lost in thought…”

Tali approached her, almost warily and pressed her finger to her mask in a very human-like manner to keep her friend quiet. She scanned the area and, using her omni-tool, shielded their conversation from eavesdroppers. “I need to know what is going on here. Why does Cerberus have you?”

With a groan and a small hysterical laugh Shepard sat down on a stool, preparing herself for a difficult conversation, “Honestly Tali, I am as confused as you are. I have been told I died, that I have been dead for two years?” Tali nodded in confirmation at the unasked question, and Shepard blew out a long breath. She worried Cerberus hadn’t told her the truth on that account. Knowing her friend believed her dead was harder to accept, but she was a trustworthy source at least. “I’ve been awake for a handful of days, and I am still adjusting to a world I shouldn’t be in.”

“So, they did what? Put you back together? Rebuilt you?”

“The leader of Cerberus funneled a great deal of money and time to bring me back to life. He says that I am humanities only chance at defeating the Reaper threat, but I think he is playing a different game. He’s using me as a pawn in a chess match and I have no idea who the opponent is.”

“Shepard, do you need me to smuggle you off this planet? I can take you somewhere safe.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Yes, you can. Shepard, you did so much for me during my Pilgrimage. Freeing you from Cerberus is the least I can do.”

Tavrien moved to take her friend’s hand in hers, a sad smile on her face, “No, my running away will only make things worse. Somehow these people have an infinite amount of resources. I’m a significant investment to them. If I let you rescue me, they will hound the Quarians relentlessly.”

“You’re giving up?”

“No. I am keeping my friend safe. The Illusive Man would not rest until you and your people paid for my leaving. That is too high a price. Besides, they know my weakness for helping people who can’t fight for themselves”

Tali pulled Shepard in for a tight hug, both women letting out choked sobs, “Damn you, Tavrien. I will do what I can for you; I’ll alert the Alliance. I won’t leave you with Cerberus without help.” She put a small device in Shepard’s hand, closing it up into a fist. “Take this, I know you could do it on your own, but I doubt you have been given access to materials.”

“Thank you,” Shepard hugged her friend more fiercely, “I have been so uneasy, the number of bugs my room must have. I have no illusions I am not a prisoner on that ship.”

“You are not alone my friend.”

“God, that is nice to hear.”

“You saved me once and gave me a place to belong. The Normandy crew sticks together.”

“Tali, how…” she paused, worried about the answer she might get, “how is Kaidan? Have you heard from him? Is he ok?”

With a loud exhale, Tali shook her head, “I don’t know. I tried to keep in touch, early on, but his communication was sporadic. I quit trying after a while.”

“Would you get him a message for me? I’m heading to the Citadel soon to try to talk to the Council. I really want to see him.”

“Ok, but Shepard,” Tali gave her arm a squeeze, “it’s been two years, are you sure you want to spring it on him like this?”

“Better it comes from you, who can verify I am who I say I am, then someone else.”

“I’ll try.”

Jacob pounded on the door from the other side, their cue to break apart, and for Tali to leave, “Shepard, be careful.”

“Always.”