#I very genuinely think he is from somewhere in the Midwest or one of the Carolinas/Vermont/New Hampshire

[qsmpbutwithsignlanguage]

I have convinced myself that BadBoyHalo is from Minnesota. I based off of a singular graphic from a Skeppy video I watched once, but it has consumed my life. If I were to find out this very moment that BadBoyHalo lives in California or New York, I think it would break something in me. That man is Midwestern, and even if it's a figment of my own imagination, I take it as truth.

There's no going back anymore.

[spideyharrington]

One and the Same

summary: you’ve been assigned to help Newt Scamander save an endangered creature, as you are the only other person the ministry knew who was interested in magical creatures. you’d always admired his word and try not to essentially fangirl over him. but, you also manage to impress him with your knowledge.

warnings: uh just shy / kinda anxious y/n with typical awkward newt and typical sarcastic theseus

A/N: wrote on my laptop for once :) also this is my longest Newt fic so far and it took forever and it’s very late so i hope it’s good LMAO also also i hope you like the end. i tried leaving it a bit up to your imagination?

word count: 2.1k

When you were told you’d be working with the Newt Scamander, you tried not to freak out in front of the ministry. You knew you’d have to keep it professional and pretend he wasn’t literally your biggest inspiration. You could do it though. All you had to do was focus on the task at hand. At finding the endangered Augurey, and getting it into Newt’s case to be taken care of. Easy, right?

Oh you were so so wrong. His smile was much cuter in person and his voice was so soft. Not to mention the way he talked about the creatures and how much he genuinely cared for them. Literally the only other person you’ve met who wanted to do everything in their power to help these amazing creatures.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were in the shed in Newt’s case with him and Theseus, whom you did not realize would also be trying to help, discussing where you needed to go and how exactly you planned to catch the creature.

“Well, Augurey’s tend to search for food when it rains heavily. So maybe we try somewhere that’s quite rainy this time of year?” You suggested and Newt nodded his head after raising his eyebrows in mild shock at your knowledge.

“She did say the ministry sent her because of her knowledge on these creatures, Newt. You can pick up your jaw off the floor,” Theseus teased his younger brother, making his face have a pink tinge to it, “anyway, they said it’s in America, correct? I say we try the Midwest. It seems to be quite rainy and awful this time of year.”

“That’s actually a great idea.” You agree and Newt nods too.

“What do they even eat? Just bugs like a regular bird?”

“Yes, and fairies.” You and Newt answered in unison, both immediately nervously laughing.

“Oh great, now there’s two of my brother. This should be interesting.” Theseus wore his famous grin, which somehow made you both want to slap him and made you want to smile at the same time.

Regaining his composure, Newt spoke, “I think we should start in Ohio. It’s been having massive amounts of rain recently, and it’s essentially in the middle of the other states we should check if it isn’t there.”

You and Theseus nodded and you all went back upstairs to begin packing up to leave.

While walking past you, Newt had accidentally brushed your hand against his own and he felt you jump, “I’m terribly sorry. I hadn’t meant to do that. I especially hadn’t meant to startle you.” He nervously looked to the ground as he rambled out an apology, which you found to be adorable.

“No, no, you didn’t startle me. I’m sorry, the reaction I had was quite odd I suppose.” You nervously laughed.

“Merlin’s beard, this is going to be one long mission.” Theseus laughed lightly and shook his head at the painfully awkward duo.

Once you had all finished packing, you apparated to your destination. When you all had to hold hands to do so, Newt looked at you in question, making sure it was okay so he didn’t startle you again. You laughed and gave him the ok.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once you arrived at your destination, Newt was immediately looking for any sign of the mournful looking bird. You could tell how important this was to him. He already was starting to seem a bit frantic and you had only just started searching.

You searched for hours, not finding a single sign of the Augurey. Newt was visibly stressed.

“Hey,” you carefully walked over to him, approaching his side from behind and slowly placing your hand on his shoulder as a comforting gesture, “it was only the first location. We’ll find him, alright?” You gave him a warm smile and he sent a small smile and a nod back.

“Maybe your love for creatures isn’t the only reason the ministry sent you.” Theseus patted you on the back, throwing you off.

“What does that mean?” To be honest, you weren’t sure how much you liked Newt’s older brother.

“Not even our mother could convince him things would be alright that quickly.”

You blushed, “I’m sure he agreed just to make me leave him alone.”

“You give him too much credit. He may be smart in some ways, but he’s not so clever when it comes to human interaction. Maybe you two just have the same energy.” He smiled but you couldn’t tell if that was meant to be a compliment or not. He walked away before you could ask anymore questions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After much convincing from both you and Thesues, Newt agreed on finding a place to rest for a day while you came up with where you’d go next.

After dinner, both brothers went to their shared room in the small hotel while you stayed seated on the couch. Newt walked over to grab his case and ask when you were heading to bed.

“Newt!” You hadn’t meant to sound so urgent.

He jumped slightly at the sudden urgency of his name coming from you, “yes, Y/N?”

“Sorry,’ you muttered, “would you actually mind leaving the case in here? I promise I won’t let anyone loose, I just…” you trailed off, not wanting to give your embarrassing reasoning.

“Oh, uh, I suppose I can. But, may I ask why?”

You quickly came up with an excuse and smiled, “I just want to check and make sure everyone is alright one more time.”

Newt may not be the best people person, but he did not believe you for a second. Yet he trusted you already somehow. He nodded before adding, “goodnight, Y/N. Please get some rest.”

You smiled in return, “goodnight Newt.”

“Let me get this straight, you let someone who is essentially a stranger keep the case with her?” Theseus asked purely in shock.

Newt nodded and scratched the back of his head.

“Are you sick? Did she put some sort of literal spell on you?”

Newt laughed softy, “no, I’m not sick and I don’t believe she used a spell.”

“So you fancy her then?” He wriggled his eyebrows and Newt turned red, which really was too easy to do.

“No, I just trust that she cares for those creatures and has no ill intentions.” He answered, looking at the ground. He really was a terrible liar.

“I’d still check in a couple hours.”

And he did. He went to the main room to see you weren’t there. But the case was. He went inside to make sure everything was alright. What he wasn’t expecting to see was you, asleep in the grass with a Mooncalf also asleep in your arms. As he got closer he realized you were surrounded by the Mooncalfs, who were all asleep. He smiles to himself while also having a million and one questions. He figured they could wait till morning. However, Newt being Newt, knocked a bucket over when he turned around too fast. He startled the Mooncalfs, which in turn startled you.

“Oh Merlin,” he mumbled, “I’m so sorry Y/N. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I didn’t mean to wake you, unfortunately I am quite clumsy, however and I-”

You cut him off laughing, “it’s alright Newt. Truly. I think they're the ones who need to be apologized to.” You pointed to the adorable creatures squinting at Newt.

“I’m deeply sorry. You know I would never purposefully disrupt your sleep.” He was sincerely apologizing to them which only made you laugh harder.

After he felt satisfied with his apology to the big-eyed creatures, he turned back to you, “might I ask how you managed to fall asleep with a bunch of Mooncalfs?”

You sighed, “I came down here because I’m terribly afraid of thunderstorms to be quite honest. And not only do creatures help me feel better, but the environment is quite safe and controlled in here.”

Newt bit back the small smile that was threatening to show. He thought it was possibly just as cute as the creatures who had just been resting all around you. Was Theseus right? He shook the thought away before asking another question, “do you happen to know why exactly they’re so drawn to you?”

“My mother used to raise them when I was young. Maybe they can sense that I have experience? Or they like my energy? Or maybe I simply remind them of you a bit.”

Newt tilted his head sightly in confusion.

“Sorry, it was a comment your brother made to me a couple of days ago. He said something along the lines of us having the same energy.” You nervously laughed again. Newt realized that he much preferred your genuine laugh.

“Well, it’s quite late. You can stay in here if you’d like. Or if you prefer to sleep on an actual bed and use a pillow instead of a rock, you’re welcome to take one of them out of the case, just as long as you lock your door. Or, of course, you could possibly talk Theseus into sleeping on the couch in your room. He really is much more caring than it seems. I suppose I could even-”

“I’ll just stay in here. Thank you though Newt. From the bottom of my heart.” There was that genuine laugh again. The one that was starting to give him butterflies in his stomach.

“Alright then. Goodnight, again.” He smiled and wished a goodnight to the Mooncalf that was back in your arms again as well.

“Goodnight Newt. Again.” You smiled widely.

The next morning, Theseus gave you a weird smile, but you decided to ignore it. Until after breakfast when Newt left the room for a moment and he hugged you. You stood, frozen in shock and confusion.

“He most certainly fancies you. You better be careful with him or you’ll have me to deal with.” He somehow sweetly threatened you slightly?

Newt walked in and didn’t even blink at the sight, “sorry. He’s a bit of a hugger and knows no boundaries really.”

You laughed at that before comparing him to an otter, then it was Newt’s turn to laugh and Theseus’ to turn red for once.

Upon further discussion, the three of you decided to follow the weather to Tennessee.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After almost giving up five hours into your search for the Augurey, you spotted some quite odd ‘blades of grass’ sticking up behind a rock. You looked for Newt or even Theseus but you weren’t quite sure where they wandered off to. You slowly walked towards the rock, hoping and praying to any and all gods that you could come up with a plan. Without the case you had no clue how to catch the creature, but you had to figure something out. You couldn’t lose it.

You grabbed a handful of bugs and slowly walked around the rock and towards the sneaky creature. It looked up immediately. But, to your surprise, it didn’t try to fly or even run away. You held out the hand with the bugs in it. You hated the feeling of bugs crawling in your hand, but it really was the lesser of two evils in this case scenario. It quickly snatched some of the insects out of your hand, but you could tell it was also mindful not to accidentally bite you in the process.

You looked up to see a surprised Newt standing directly behind the creature with his case open. You looked at the remaining critters in your hand, then looked back at the case. Newt nodded. You quickly threw them into the case and the Augurey bolted in after them. Newt hurriedly closed the case and locked it back up. He looked back up at you with wide eyes.

“How did you know it would take those insects from you? How did you know it’d trust you?”

“I didn’t. I guess I just hoped it did.” You laughed as you visibly relaxed.

Newt laughed too as Theseus came over and asked what he had missed.

“Are you two sure you can’t just communicate with them at this point? I’m personally not convinced you can’t.”

“I’m certainly questioning her.” Newt pointed to you, making you laugh.

“You two are really one and the same.” Theseus shook his head as he looked between you two. He recognized that smile his brother wore when he saw it. The boy was absolutely smitten. And he didn’t have to know you well to be able to tell that you were as well. And he certainly knew this mission was not the last he would see of you two together.

[agent--swan]

Close to Home

In which the reader interrogates a suspect and is reminded of some shit.

One of these days I’ll write a decent Criminal Minds fic.

Well, I’ve got some personal bullshit going on, so here! Have a self-indulgent angst fic! As if I haven’t written enough of these already. (See: @swan--writes.) You can also find this fic on AO3.

Warnings: childhood trauma, emotional/psychological abuse, all offscreen, Hotch is an angsty boy who cares about his team, show-typical violence, Swan-typical language

Words: ~1,420

Other Stuff: reader is gender neutral but was raised as a daughter, you could read this as Hotch x Reader but it could easily be read as platonic

The first time Hotch noticed was on a case.

He wishes that the first time he noticed wasn’t on a case.

He wishes that it had happened on a relaxed day, when there was nothing going on but consults and reports and accounts and logging. He wishes that the rest of the team had been so busy with paperwork that they wouldn’t notice him pulling you into his office to sit down and talk about it. In retrospect, even he could admit that there were benefits to not being at Quantico, and therefore not having a private office to pull you into. There was more time to think about what he wanted to say – to be gentle.

You were on a case somewhere in the Midwest, but neither of you would remember exactly where even two months after it was over. The unsub was attacking teenaged girls. The unsub’s type was specific: ages between fourteen and seventeen, brown hair, brown eyes, most of the girls had freckles, and all of them were chubby. That seemed important to the unsub. It made you see red. You only had one survivor – your only material witness – but she was holding back, feigning memory loss. Morgan was certain that the cognitive troubles she was having weren’t genuine, but he had no way of proving it. That was his pet project while you were on the case.

Reid was on the geographic profile as always. JJ had her hands full with the media circus, teenaged girls always got extra attention. Rossi was leaning pretty hard on the principal of the school that all three of your victims had attended, along with your one attempted victim. Prentiss was covering the guidance counselors. The school had three. She had her hands full. You did not envy her.

That left you to speak with the mother of the attempted victim. Hotch had asked you to handle her before the jet even landed, and you had readily agreed. It was the first time he had handed you your own angle since you’d joined the team just a few months earlier, and you felt more than capable. You were good with mothers, Hotch knew that.

Hotch had never tried to limit your role in investigations, not even in the beginning. He knew that you were capable when you joined the team, and he saw that you were a fast learner. He wasn’t cautious with you, didn’t watch you too closely, didn’t take you under his wing. Hotch let you do your thing and facilitated where necessary. It wasn’t often necessary, you fit right in.

So, Hotch asked you to talk to the mother, and you thought nothing of it. Until you started asking her questions.

It was subtle at first. She was defensive of her daughter, and defensive of her parenting. You understood that, it wasn’t uncommon. What was uncommon was the way she seemed to interpret your questions. “Why did you insist she only apply to in-state schools?” became, in her mind, “Why are you holding her back?” “Why do you limit her social life?” became, “Why are you isolating her?” The less accusatory you tried to sound, the more her hackles raised. It wasn’t entirely unjustified, every time you walked out of the interrogation room you learned something new about the way she had held her daughter back or isolated her.

You started leaving the mother in the interrogation room by herself for longer and longer stretches of time, though never an unprofessional length of time. You were careful about that. It was just that you were finding it harder and harder to catch your breath. The tinnitus in your left ear seemed to be growing steadily worse, and you couldn’t force your hands to stop shaking. That wasn’t when Hotch noticed it, though. He asked if you were alright once but dropped it when you told him you were.

Finally, Rossi cut the principal loose and Prentiss came back to the station. You were in interrogation when the others realized who the unsub was.

Surprise, surprise, it was the mother of the survivor.

Morgan had been right. Your survivor did remember who attacked her and was terrified to admit that it had been her mother. In the survivor’s mind, her mother was a huge, tyrannical figure who could talk her way out of anything. Even a murder investigation.

The rest of the team gathered around the one-way mirror and watched as you and the mother of the survivor – as you and the unsub – zeroed in on each other. Reid wondered aloud if they should intervene, but Hotch insisted on waiting. Hotch watched you closely. Later, he would wonder if he had been watching you more out of interest than a genuine belief that you could get a confession out of this unsub. He would feel badly about that.

You were standing. The unsub was seated. You were leaned over her and shouting. She was watching you with venom in her eyes, and though you held firm, Hotch notice the way you were pressing your hands into the table. The way you slid photographs toward her instead of picking them up and dropping them in front of her; a more aggressive move that any of the rest of the team would have used.

“You couldn’t stand it, could you?” you asked while the unsub openly glared at you, her jaw set, her expression stern. “You couldn’t stand the idea that your daughter would never be you. She was never going to stay at home and be mommy’s perfect little helper, she was never going to forget about the pain you caused her. You gave her everything?” You shook your head. “Well, she took it, and she learned how to be a decent goddamn human, and instead of letting her grow and maybe, I don’t know, being proud of her? You insisted–” you slammed the table right beside a photograph of some of your survivor’s worse injuries “–on making her pay for your bullshit.”

You were shouting right in the unsub’s face when she lunged with an enraged cry. The team moved as one to back you up.

The unsub managed to scratch your face before you could react. You managed to get her hands behind her back and pressed forward against the wall by the time Morgan and Prentiss reached you.

“Get her out of here!” Hotch commanded.

“After everything ungrateful little leech put me through, she got exactly when she deserved,” the unsub spat.

Hotch didn’t spare the unsub more than half a glance, he just went straight to you. You had never heard his voice so soft as when he asked if you were alright. He moved to wipe away some of the blood trickling warmly down your face, but you pulled away before he could and insisted you were fine. Of course you did.

The case ended there, four victims deep but one still alive. It was a relative victory and the team treated it as one. They chatted comfortably on the ride back, but not you. You curled up on the couch at the back of the jet, facing away from everyone. You didn’t have a book, you didn’t have your headphones in. You just lay there with your eyes closed, fighting tears that you tried very hard to blame on your migraine. Your head killed; your heart hurt. As horrific as parents hurting their children always was, there was something about this case – something about a mother and a daughter – that was more painful, more personal, and hit even closer to home for you.

You couldn’t help thinking about how the unsub had killed three people but hadn’t killed her own daughter. You wondered what that meant. You wondered if it meant anything.

You stayed still at first when you felt someone sit down at your feet. They didn’t move for a long time, and when you finally gave in and opened your eyes, you saw Hotch. He looked at you with more concern injected into his normal frown, and there was something in his face that was gentler than usual. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to comfort you. He just watched you, watched the tears gather at the corners of your eyes, watched as one made its way down your cheek like blood dripping from a wound. You knew you looked miserable, but you watched him right back, and you knew he understood. He did.

.

.

Please reblog if you’re comfy with it

If there’s any interest I’ll make a tags list

[athenasbloodyspear]

The Viper: Chapter One

What happens when an agent of the Red Room falls into  the hands of Hydra? What happens when Hydra puts out a hit on their  favorite assassin? Who is the mysterious woman with a twisted history  and an even more twisted mind?

The team wants to know. They want to know what you know. Nat and Bucky want to know if there’s any light left in you.

They want to know you.

Bucky x Female Reader

The Viper Master List | My Writing Master List

The sounds of car horns are loud around you. The blaring, beeping and  bustle of pedestrians creating layers and layers of sound. You’re  trained well enough to sift through the sounds, listening to pieces of  conversation and various sounds of your environment to orient yourself.

You can feel the smallest shift of every person who’s moving in the  space around you. Your senses are so focused you can practically hear  the blood rushing through the people closest to you. Your prey is about a  block up, completely oblivious to where you followed.

The streets around you were loud and the sounds were strong, but nothing could keep your focus off your mission.

Underneath your hood and the rim of your baseball hat, your face was  hidden in shadow. If anyone would have seen or marked it, they would  have seen the wicked gleam of a grin.

--

“What’s got you all in a tizzy, Tony?” Nat asks from Bucky’s right.  The whole team was gathered around a conference table in Avengers tower  looking kinda bored. Tony had called everyone here this morning, much to  everyone’s chagrin because he had promised a week off and then  apparently changed his mind a mere three days later.

Bucky sighed and rolled his shoulders, leaning back in the office  chair he currently sat in, lifting the two front feet off the floor. All  he really wanted was to go back downstairs and into the city with Nat  and finish looking for a birthday gift for Steve. That’s what they were  doing this morning before they were quickly called back to the tower.  He’d procrastinated too long and really had zero idea of what to get the  man.

“I’m confused about something and I don’t like being confused.” Tony retorted.

“Oooo” Sam piped up from across the table. “The great Tony Stark  admits to not knowing something. I’m surprised there isn’t steam coming  out of those ears.”

Bucky smirks at his friend. God he loved Sam and his remarks. He  would say something similar, but his relationship with Tony still wasn’t  perfect and he didn’t want to push his luck at the moment.

“What is so confusing, Iron Man? Don’t know what to get Pepper for  your anniversary? Or did you say something stupid again and your giant  brain can’t figure out exactly which asshole statement pushed her over  the edge this time?” Nat chimed in with a mocking smirk.

Tony pointed a single finger at Nat. “I have had our anniversary  present for two months already and I’m actually getting better at  figuring out which one of my snarky comments goes too far, just so you  know.” He sighs and presses a few buttons on the large screen under the  glass conference table, whipping up a bundle of information to appear on  the screen behind him. “What I’m confused about is why Hydra put out a  public hit on one of their top agents.”

At that, Bucky’s chair drops back to all four legs abruptly. The  confusing piece of information startled him into finally giving his full  attention to the conversation. His heart rate picked up a bit.

“They did  what ?” Steve asks from the end of the conference table opposite Tony, voicing the question on all their minds.

“This morning Hydra posted a bounty on a known dark web forum. It’s  not unheard of for them to post some of their lower enemies on this  anonymously for unaffiliated assassins and bounty hunters to take down.  What’s different this time is they made it very clear that  Hydra  was posting.” He whipped up what looked eerily similar to a reddit post up on the screen. “And what makes even  less sense is I know for a fact that the person they called a hit on has been their little secret weapon for over ten years.”

Bucky scanned the post up on the screen. Sure enough, it said that  Hydra had a hit out on a well known assassin and was offering 50 million  along with diplomatic immunity in a country of their choosing for the  head of the operative.

“Who’s the target?” Nat murmured.

“So, this is the fun part. Especially for you two.” Tony continued, pointing at Nat and Bucky.

“What?” Bucky grumbled. Fun for him? What the hell? What could  possibly be in Tony’s twisted brain to think anything to do with Hydra  would be  fun for him?

“Here’s the mark.” Tony pulled up a blurry photo of a figure wrapped  in muted colors clearly captured on some sort of security camera  somewhere on a bustling street. If Bucky was tracking the cobblestones  and architecture of the buildings correctly he’d guess it was taken  somewhere in Cairo.

“Is that the best fucking picture you can get us, Stark? You can  barely see their face.” Sam quipped, leaning forward in his seat to  squint at the screen.

“This is the clearest photo of her face, yes.”

“Her?” Nat snapped, popping her eyes to Tony.

“Yes. Her.  The Viper .” He smirked back at Nat. Bucky heard a quick intake of breath from his right. Nat.

“No…” She whispered, and trailed off.

“Oh yes, Natasha. Oh yes.” Tony flicked his fingers across the table  again and all the known stats on the Viper pulled up on the screen.  “This is where the fun begins for us. This is what we know about the  Viper. She was “found” at a young age somewhere in middle America. It’s a  little unclear where, but from where I tracked it must have been  somewhere in the Midwest.”

“They stole a kid from Wisconsin? Why would Hydra bother when they  had their fingers in so many other countries?” This was from Steve.

“It wasn’t Hydra…” Nat murmured.

“ What? ” Bucky piped up again. He felt like his brain was  spinning. A top Hydra assassin? Did he know her? He would have to spiral  into his memory to find out if he ever met this Viper…

“It was the Red Room.” Nat whispered then. Her eyes staring directly at the table.

“Yes indeed!” Tony quipped. “Remind me Nat, were you still there when  they dragged in the little girl kicking and screaming or not?”

“Tony!” Steve seethed from his end of the table.

“I wasn’t living there anymore, no. I had just graduated. She was a  couple years younger than me. They said she caused quite a nuisance  during the assassination of a target. Instead of killing her they decided  to bring her back. I saw her maybe twice. They had always referred to  her as the snake. She was less refined than the other girls, she started  her training a little too old, but she was… desperate to make up the  difference.” Nat shuddered a bit then and Bucky felt compelled to reach  out and place a hand on her shoulder. “She reminded me of… me.”

There was a small moment of pause before Tony started again. “So our  little snake graduated from The Red Room and spent a few years as an  agent for them before falling in with our buddies at Hydra.” Tony looked  at Bucky then, “Where she was trained and conditioned to fill a missing  position in their ranks after they unfortunately lost control of a very  important  asset. ”

“You’re a prick Tony.” Steve muttered, his eyes falling on Bucky.  Bucky waved him off. He was fine, really. He’d started making peace with  his history when he was on Wakanda and though he still had a long way  to go, he wasn’t going to fall to pieces at the mere mention of the  Winter Soldier.

“You’re telling me that they…” He trailed off, his mind spinning in  circles. This poor woman he didn’t even know subjected to what he went  through, simply because he had left. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but he  still felt responsible that someone else had to fill a hole he had  created.

“Yes they trained this little spitfire to be their top assassin and  she has been in their top ranks since about 2010, only stepping into the  role of top assassin after the events in 2016 finally severed you  completely from the organization. She’s been racking up kills ever  since. Much like you my dear metal armed friend, she’s nearly impossible  to catch on camera, let alone see with your own eyes.”

From the corner of the room, where he sat in a chair separate from  the table, Bruce finally spoke. “I always thought The Viper was a  myth.”

“Yeah and you thought the Winter Soldier was a myth. Hell I always  thought Thor and Loki were just some folklore.” Sam remarked. “I believe  almost everything nowadays.”

“Wait so, this woman was a trained Red Room assassin, then a top  Hydra operative and now they’re asking the internet to kill her? Why  didn’t they just take care of her themselves? Surely they had her locked  up or brainwashed somehow.” Bruce said.

“You guys are seriously just assholes sometimes.” Steve murmurs.

“I’m fine, Steve.” Bucky says. “It’s a valid question. Even when they  wanted me eliminated, they only worked with people inside.”

“Exactly.” Tony said. “My theory is, they want us to know that they  want her dead. In fact, my more specific theory is that this is bait in  order to get us to hunt and eliminate her. I want to know why.”

“She must have slipped away from them.” Nat said then. “Even if no  average internet bounty hunter could ever touch her, surely they’d at  least keep her a little busy. Busy enough that we might be able to get a  jump on her. She must know something.”

“Exactly. What does she know? And why don’t they want her to utilize whatever information she knows?”

“So we’re going to find her then.” Steve said. “What if this is a  trap? Specifically set up to intrigue us into bringing their very own  top operative into our facilities.”

“It could be.” Nat responded. “But it seems a little weird to send a  bunch of people they don’t control after her unless they genuinely  didn’t care about what happened to her. It seems unlikely she’s still an  asset to them if they’re willing to risk her actually being caught off  guard, no matter how unlikely that is.”  

“See, this is what I meant by being confused.” Tony quips then,  heading for the door. “I’ve sent everything I know about the woman to  each of you. Study it. See what conclusions you come to on your own.  We’ll reconvene here tonight to discuss an action plan.”

--

You sat in a corner booth at a tiny cafe, facing the door. There was a  swinging door into the kitchen to your left, which led to three back  exits. Directly in front of you was the only door facing a main street.  The whole front of the coffee shop was glass, giving you a clear view of  the two targets you’d been tracking all morning, who had stopped to  grab breakfast at a restaurant across the street.

You were twirling a long since lukewarm cup of coffee in your hands,  your eyes flicking back and forth between your marks and the swinging  kitchen door at your shoulder.

You watched as your marks both stretched and stood up. The woman hailed a cab. They seemed disgruntled.

 Interesting.  

While the woman tried to snag the attention of a cabbie, you threw a  few crumpled bills on the counter of your table and slipped through the  swinging kitchen door. There were a few shouts of alarm as a stranger  wandered into the bustling diner kitchen, but you quickly weaved through  the crowded kitchen and out a back door. You jumped on the sleek black  Kawasaki bike you’d stashed behind a dumpster in an alley.

You pushed the bike out and around the corner before turning it on,  waiting to confirm that they had both piled into a cab. You revved the  engine and punched the accelerator, weaving quickly   between the piled  up traffic, causing lots of horn honking and a few near rear-end  accidents.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you tore after that cab.

The grin still plastered on your face.

--

Bucky’s head was reeling as he read through the intel, albeit a small amount, that Tony had managed to dig up.

There were a total of 3 videos captured on a security camera of the Viper on a job. He watched them all multiple times.

The Viper was ruthless and unnervingly calm. It reminded him of  himself, what he saw in the footage of the Winter Soldier. It made the  bile in his stomach churn. He knew that feeling of uncontrollable calm  very well and it made him break out in a cold sweat.

The first video showed her walking calmly up to a high security  warehouse, putting bullets between the brows of every operative in  sight, barely even looking in their direction before pulling the  trigger. She walked directly with purpose toward the door that was  clearly her mission. Once every operative in view of the camera had  fallen she reached for the door handle. Before she slipped inside, she  lifted her pistol without looking and fired one round into the camera,  cutting the feed. With the hood on her jacket, there was no clear  footage of her face. Bucky wondered how they were even sure it was her.  Her murderous calm must have been enough evidence.

The second was a terribly grainy video taken in some basement  somewhere. There was someone strapped to a chair and he watched as the  Vipers fists slammed into the man repeatedly. A choppy, distorted, and  heavily accented voice spoke about 40 seconds in. “Good, Viper. You may  play now. Make sure there’s something left of him to interview  tomorrow.” Bucky flinched as he saw the woman stride toward a table,  likely filled with instruments of torture. The man strapped to the chair  began to scream, pleading in Russian that he’d say anything they wanted  him to. He heard a low woman’s voice come through the video, murmuring  “Too late.”

The third was a more recent video according to the time stamp. It was  less than six months ago off a security cam in Maracaibo. It was about a  9 second video, just watching the woman cross a bustling street in  Venezuela. Bucky remembered that some hot shot Hydra agent had been  found dead in Venezuela this year. Could it have been the Viper taking  down one of their own? Is that why they were mad?

There were about 5 other attachments of images. The only photographs  that Friday could find of this enigma apparently. 4 were blurry security  camera footage from various places. The one Tony had shown this morning  was truly the only one that even sort of showed the woman’s face. Well,  except the 5th.

The 5th made Bucky even more sick than the footage of brutal  violence. It was a Polaroid image of what appeared to be a 16 or 17 year  old girl in ballet clothes, standing in the middle of what he assumed  was a dance studio. It would have been normal, a young woman after a  dance class, if it wasn’t for the red blood splattered up her pink  tights, dripping off her knuckles and smeared on her jaw. The subject  wasn’t looking at the camera, but rather seemed to be standing at  attention with her focus to the right of the photographer. Written in  sloppy Russian at the bottom corner of the Polaroid was “Option 4.”

What does that mean?  Bucky thought to himself.  Option for what?  

It made him sick staring at that photo. If the blood wasn’t there, it  would just look like a young woman preparing for a ballet class, or  perhaps being photographed so a costume designer could see her figure  while they created dazzling outfits for a production. It was so wrong  for someone so young, whose face was filled with innocence, to be  covered in blood. He felt so protective over her, this young woman he  didn’t even know. This young woman who he knew grew up to be a murderer  with a kill list almost as long as his.

He knew, looking at that photo, that this woman had never wanted  this. He didn’t know how he got such a gut reaction to the image, but he  saw himself in it. A young person who was given the worst hand of cards  to ever be dealt, and was simply trying to stay alive. He stared at her  thin frame, the hollow look in her eyes and nearly wept.

He needed to find her. He needed it more than he’d needed anything in  a long time. He needed to find out how far she had fallen from this  image, and if he could pull her back.

He needed to do it, because he’d always be grateful that someone did it for him.

--

Your marks had gone into the tall skyscraper a few hours ago. You  were too antsy to sit around and wait to see if they’d venture back out  into the city.

You prowled the sidewalk like a caged animal. Tracing patterns through the busiest blocks. Keeping track of nearby cameras.

Everything smelled like garbage and piss. You hated it. You loved it. It was such an easy city to get lost in.

An even easier city to be found in.

--

When Bucky finally dragged himself back to the conference room that  evening, he felt like a wreck. He had worked himself up considerably  throughout the afternoon. He was antsy and apprehensive.

He really didn’t know what was wrong with him. It was just some random assassin, why was he so worked up?

Steve noticed his touchy mood as soon as he walked in and raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m fine.” Bucky grumbled. “Just want to figure this out. It’s bothering me for some reason.”

“Maybe because it’s a little too personal, Buck.” Steve said quietly.

“Yeah maybe.” Bucky coughed out. His chest felt tight with someone who knew him so well staring at him like this.

Before Steve could rib Bucky more, Tony sauntered into the room with  Nat behind him. “So what’s everyone’s thoughts on our little snake in  the grass?”

“I think the woman is damn fucking scary.” Sam piped up from the same  chair he’d been in this morning. “And really good at her job. Reminds  me of robocop over there a little too much if you know what I mean.”

“That’s what I find so interesting.” Steve says. “Because obviously  we know that Bucky wanted out, and was not the person that the camera  showed. I wanna know what’s really going on in her brain.”

“Banner, question for you, if we managed to set a little trap for our  snake and actually got her in here, would you be able to scan her brain  and see how much of it was under her actual control?” Tony said as he  dropped into a chair at the head of the table.

Banner responded from where he sat in his normal chair in the corner.  “I could compare a brain scan to early scans of Barnes’s brain. See how  similar they look. Then compare to his post-Wakanda scans. In a sense,  yes. But the brain is complicated as you know.”

“Can’t we just talk to her?” Bucky pipes up. “I mean, if it makes you  feel more comfortable to hook her up to a lie detector whatever, but I  just… I know what they do to people there and let me tell you there’s no  way she’s in control.”

“What makes you so sure?” Tony questions. “I mean, I was wrong about  you. I’ll admit that. I’m a bigger man now. But not everyone is Cap's  former BFF brought back from the dead with a heart of gold trapped in a  twisted hydra web. She could have gone willingly. In fact, I have a hard  time believing that a Red Room agent was accidentally captured by  Hydra. What if she went to them willingly?”  

“But then why did she leave?” Natasha counters. “Who’s to say that  she ended up in all this willingly. I don’t know the whole story of how  the Red Room got her, but it’s rare that people join without coercion.  There’s more to this story, I can feel it.”

“Me too.” Bucky whispered. There had to be so much more to that 17 year old girl than a brutal murderer.

“Nat, can you explain this image to me?” Tony says, pulling up the  very polaroid that was going to haunt Bucky for weeks. “This looks like a  pretty willing agent to me.”

Bucky cringed at Tony’s short sighted assessment. Sure, the subject looked relaxed but that didn’t mean willing. Nat sneered.

“Well Tony, when every week your instructors challenge two students  to spar and the loser is killed however the classmate prefers, you too  would willingly fight back, to the death if necessary.”

Steve flinched, and looked at Nat with eyes full of grief. “They made you kill each other?”

“Kept us from attaching to each other.” Nat said simply.

Steve just shook his head, placing his face in his palms. This was  one of the reasons Bucky and Nat had gotten along pretty quickly. They’d  come to terms with their trauma, and the others sometimes had a hard  time brushing past the torture that the two of them had simply moved on  from.

“Touche.” Tony shrugged. “So why does this image say option 4?”

“That I don’t know.” Nat sighs. “No photos were ever allowed to be  taken of us, but the fact that this was clearly taken by an instructor  confuses me.”

“So we have no answers.” Sam quips. “Do I need to go stand on the  street with a sign that says “Viper take a crack at me” so we can maybe  get a glimpse of her? I’m only doing it if I can wear the suit Tony.”

“That’s the thing, there have been no sightings of the woman for  years, and the one tiny glimpse in that surveillance shot from Venezuela  6 months ago was a blip. There was no record of anyone matching that  description entering or leaving that country or any near it. We have no  idea where she is.” Tony muttered. “I have Friday combing every single  camera we can get access to, and hacking into those we don’t. The tip  line on that forum is blank. No one seems to have seen her.”

There was silence for a moment, as everyone sunk into their own minds. Letting the gears turn.

“Mr. Stark.” Friday’s voice came lilting out of the ceiling. “I have a hit.”

Everyone jumped a bit, leaning forward in their seats.

“Put it on the screen.” Tony snapped. Suddenly the whole blank wall  of the room was filled with various camera angles showing crowds of  people wandering on the sidewalk. In the middle of a cluster of  pedestrians was a figure draped in black, a baseball hat on their head  and a hood pulled up over it. As the person moves, the different  security camera’s flip past on the screen, keeping up with their  movement.

Instantly, Bucky’s blood ran cold.

“Where is this?” Sam whispers.

“Queens.” Bucky, Steve and Tony answer in unison.

“Very close to Parker’s apartment…” Tony whispers.

“It’s empty.” Steve mentions. “Happy and May are on vacation and Peter is staying with his friend. That Ned kid.”

“I know.” Tony says. “Doesn’t mean I like her being around the corner from his place regardless.”

The room goes quiet for a few moments as they all watch the Vipers  progress through the streets of Queens. She never picks up her head,  seeming to be watching the sidewalk in front of her. She slips easily  between groups of people, never bumping into anyone even though she  doesn’t seem to be looking at anyone.

“What are we doing?” Sam says then. “We know exactly where she is. She’s so close. Let’s go suit up.”

“There’s no way she’s here by accident.” Nat says quietly. “It’s like she wants us to find her…”

“Another layer of intrigue.” Tony snarks.

“She wouldn’t be stupid enough to show up in this city unless she  actually wants us to find her.” Nat continues. “Either they sent her  here as a trap and finally had her look into a security camera long  enough for us to track her, or she’s doing this on her own. Either way, I  don’t understand the motive.”

There’s another moment of silence as they all watch the cameras track the target.

Abruptly, the Viper stops in the middle of the sidewalk. The  pedestrians continue to flow around her, many seem to be grumbling and  some throw rude gestures in her direction.

There’s now only a single security camera in the area able to capture her image, she stands right in the center of the frame.

“What is she doing?” Steve whispers.

Through the grainy camera footage, the whole team watches as it looks  almost like her shoulders shake slightly. She seems to be looking at  her feet.

No one breathes as the woman in the center of the video lifts her  head slowly. Her eyes land directly on the lens, as if she’s peering  straight through the shitty security camera and into Avengers tower.

There’s a huge grin on her face.

Then, from the pocket of her hoodie, she pulls a pistol and calmly points the barrel at the camera.

The last thing the camera sees in her head dropping back as she begins to cackle. Then she pulls the trigger, ending the feed.

“Holy shit.” Sam whispers.

Bucky is speechless. His heart is pounding in his chest. He felt like  her eyes seared through the camera and right into his chest. He can  barely breathe.

“Friday, show us the other cameras in the area.” Tony barks.

Friday pulls up tons of camera angles of the street the Viper was  just standing on. The crowds are screaming, attempting to run away from  the spot that the Viper had clearly just been standing. However, there  are no further gun shots and no one looks injured.

“What the  hell? ” Bucky says under his breath. She just shot out a camera in the middle of a busy street in Queens? For what?

“Are there any figures matching her description on any of these feeds?” Tony snaps again.

“No sir.” Friday replies. “I’ve scanned every camera in the borough and I can’t see her on any of them.”

Everyone sits in shocked silence as the security footage continues to  roll. The NYPD show up, helping to calm the pedestrians. They watch  quietly as they start to tape off the area. Everyone knows however that  if no one was hurt, it’s unlikely that the cops will pursue the incident  further. They have much bigger fish to fry in this town.

“Well goddamn.” Sam finally breaks the silence. “That was quite a little performance.”

“She really wants us to find her then.” Nat mutters.

Around the room everyone mutters their agreement.

Bucky finds his voice finally.

“So let’s find her.”

--

There’s unending adrenaline in you now. It was reckless you knew  that. It was also so obvious what game you were playing with them at  this point, but you didn’t care.

They clearly weren’t going to make a move, so you had to play your hand first.

For better or worse, it was their move now.

[shireness-says]

Seeking Shelter, Seeking Solace [1/3]

Summary: 1895. Emma Swan answers an ad in the paper from a man looking for a wife in order to flee Boston - only to arrive in rural Storybrooke, Minnesota and discover that her intended husband is dead. Left with no other options, Emma takes a position at the local tavern alongside the sullen, dark-haired barkeep with demons of his own. But what will she do when the forces she’s worked so hard to escape reappear in the new life she’s building, forcing her to turn to this unlikely savior for aid? ~8.6k. Rated M for suggestive content. Also on Ao3.

~~~~~

A/N: Every year, my mother insists we watch “Sarah, Plain and Tall” because she thinks it’s a great tradition and doesn’t quite understand that she’s the only one that loves it. So last time, I plotted this in my head instead of watching: CS fic inspired by that story. 

Thanks, as always, go to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan​. 

Tagging the interested parties (and let me know if you’re one of those!): @welllpthisishappening​, @thisonesatellite​, @let-it-raines​, @kmomof4​, @scientificapricot​, @ohmightydevviepuu​, @profdanglaisstuff​, @thejollyroger-writer​, @superchocovian​, @teamhook​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @searchingwardrobes​, @katie-dub​, @snowbellewells​, @spartanguard​, @phiralovesloki​, @initiala​​, @revanmeetra87​​, @quirkykayleetam​​, @captain-emmajones​​, @hollyethecurious​​, @officerrogers​​, @lfh1226-linda, @jrob64, @therooksshiningknight.

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Emma can’t help but fidget in her seat as her train tears across the Midwestern landscape. Though this was her choice, she still can’t help but be nervous; after all, this is a very different world from Boston, the only home she’s ever known. She’s used to bustling streets and the lap of the waves against the docks at the harbor, not these miles after miles of plains and crop fields. It’s almost enough to make her second guess this whole thing.

It’s not a mistake though, she knows. She’d needed to get out of Boston, as quickly as possible, and this had been the best of a variety of bad options. Emma has never been particularly romantic, even as a little girl, but in the few imaginings she’d allowed herself of her future, answering a newspaper ad for a wife had never factored in. Then again, her fantasies had never anticipated the particular situation she’s trying to escape: a man who wouldn’t hear no, who was willing to pursue her relentlessly, from city to city, always a threat on her tail. The security of marriage, and of distance, had only made sense. And then again, she’s never been sentimental ; true love isn’t something she anticipated in a union, or even particularly believed in, for that matter. 

The man she’s travelling to meet seems kind, she consoles herself with knowing. Emma hadn’t been particularly picky in selecting a man from the handful of querants in the paper, but Graham Humbert seems to be a good one. He’s the sheriff of a small town in Minnesota, who found himself lonely and wanting companionship.

I can darn my own socks and cook my own dinner, though neither with any exemplary skill, he had written. I’m not looking for someone to look after me in that way, regardless of what my friends’ wives think; I’d hire a lady to do the cleaning if that was the issue. I’m searching for someone to speak with at the end of a long day, someone to listen and to laugh with. I don’t believe myself to be a sweeping romantic, but I will be happy to give and receive a kind of gentle affection. Maybe we can come to love each other in time; I would be happy with that too, though I am not counting on it. 

She’d liked that about him, that amiable practicality so evident even in his letters. It’s what had made her agree to travel to Minnesota with the intent to marry him, really - the feeling that they viewed a union in the same way. There will be a trial period, of course, a month during which to decide whether the two of them will suit each other before anything is formalized - but Emma is determined to make it work. What other choice does she have?

The train will be pulling into Storybrooke soon - a tiny dot on the map, where Emma doubts anyone else will be alighting. All of her belongings have been tightly packed into two measly carpetbags in order to, hopefully, start a new life. Maybe it’s foolish, but Emma had splurged on a new, sleek jacket before she’d left the city, a cheery blue to pair with her navy skirt and white blouse in an attempt to impress. Mostly, she wants to look neat more than anything else: a capable woman, one who won’t be afraid to adapt to a new life with a minimum of fuss, one who won’t make Sheriff Humbert’s life more difficult. Pretty is of secondary concern.

She sees the town coming long before the train pulls into the tiny station, roofs and chimneys rising above the flat landscape and copious corn fields. Somewhere in this state, she knows, are hundreds and thousands of lakes; however, they’re nowhere to be seen here. Storybrooke itself is a bare cluster of buildings seeming to group around a single main street, with homesteads and farm plots doubtlessly stretching out to the surrounding area. It’s a whole different world from what she’s used to, but that’s the entire point, really; no one will think to look for her here, in the rural midwest as the wife of a sheriff. 

When the train finally pulls into what passes for a station, a single cramped building with barely enough room for a ticket office and a luggage closet, a man is waiting on the platform, sheltered from the late-spring sun by an awning off the station roof. The star-shaped badge on his coat and the way he shifts nervously from foot to foot make Emma think this must be the anticipated Sheriff Humbert. His hair is rather more golden than the sandy blonde-brown color Mr. Humbert had tried to describe in his letters, but Emma supposes that’s to be expected. She likely didn’t give a perfect description of her appearance either. 

Quickly, she gathers her bags and alights to the station platform with the assistance of a young porter. The man waiting quickly doffs his hat, playing with the brim in another nervous gesture. “Miss Swan?”

Carefully, Emma arranges her face into something she hopes passes as an amiable smile. “Yes, that’s me. And you’ll be Sheriff Humbert, I presume?”

“I - well, no,” the man who isn’t Graham Humbert stutters out. “I’m David Nolan, actually. One of the deputies here.”

Unexpected - but there are countless excellent reasons that Deputy Nolan might be sent instead. Trouble can happen even in a small town, dozens of minor disputes that can somehow only be settled by the sheriff himself. “In that case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nolan. I must admit, I was expecting Mr. Humbert. Pardon my mistake.”

“About that —” Deputy Nolan cuts himself off, looking curiously uncomfortable. It sets Emma a bit on edge, but there’s no way to dance around it - not when she doesn’t have all the information.

“Yes?”

Deputy Nolan swallows heavily, visibly, his fingers tightening around the brim of his hat again before he drags his eyes to meet hers. “I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Swan, but Graham - Sheriff Humbert - died two days ago.”

Of all the things she thought he might say, all the ways she imagined this might go, that certainly wasn’t one of them. 

———

“It wasn’t anything violent, or related to his job,” Deputy - well, now Sheriff Nolan tells Emma once he’s led her to a seat in Storybrooke’s one and only bar, the Sherwood Tavern. Emma finds herself grateful for the glass of dark liquor the man behind the bar slides to her without asking; after this shock, she could certainly use it. “He just collapsed. Graham had been bothered by periodic chest pains for… as long as I can remember, really. We figure it just finally caught up to him.”

Emma nods at the words, not sure what to say. It’s all jarring, really, sad for the loss of who she believes had been a good man, but it’s hard to muster much emotion. She had only known him through letters, carefully crafted missives in which they had doubtlessly both tried to show the best sides of themselves; she doesn’t have the same attachment to the man as Nolan, and everyone else in town, understandably did. Her grief is for plans and possibilities never realized, for the idea of a man instead of the genuine article. 

“We know you came out here specifically with the intent of marrying Graham. There’s not much other reason to come to Storybrooke,” Sheriff Nolan comments with a laugh. “Graham’s savings and property are set to go to the town, but we’d be happy to buy you a ticket back to Boston. It’s the least we can do, when you turn out to have come all this way for nothing but disappointment.”

It’s a kind offer, really. There’s no reason for Emma to stay, after all, and Storybrooke doesn’t have much to offer. But even if Emma hadn’t needed to escape Boston… there’s nothing there to pull her back. No family, and only a single friend. She isn’t even attached to the city, though it’s all she’s ever known. Returning to Boston would be returning to a sparse boarding house room and a life spent looking over her shoulder. Here - well, there’s no promises, but Emma would be willing to bet it’s not any worse. 

“If you don’t mind,” she responds carefully, “I’d prefer to stay. There’s nothing for me back in Boston either, believe it or not. This may not be permanent, but… for the time being, I’d prefer to stay.”

“Then we’ll be happy to welcome you.”

———

And they are. Sheriff Nolan takes her down the street to the boarding house run by a Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter over their family’s pharmacy, where both women welcome her with open arms. Ruby Lucas, the granddaughter, is tall and willowy, every inch of her full of personality, and her grandmother is a gruff old lady poorly hiding an enormous affection for her loud-spoken granddaughter. Emma can practically see the moment Mrs. Lucas - “That’s Granny to you, girl, only strangers and enemies call me Mrs. Lucas” - absorbs her into their little fold. The room they provide is small, but clean and bright; Emma is more than agreeable to the small fee she’ll owe to rent the room each month, especially knowing that breakfast and dinner are included in the rent. 

Storybrooke is exactly the quiet little town it appeared to be from the train. Besides the bar and the pharmacy and the sheriff’s station, there’s a general store and a post office, a bank and a rudimentary library. There are a handful of other buildings too - Emma’s been told that one houses the doctor’s office - but she hasn’t had cause or need to learn them. Perhaps in time, she’ll learn all the ins and outs of who belongs where in this little place. It seems inevitable; after all, that’s small town life, even when so many of the so-called residents live further out on isolated farmsteads. 

As much as Granny seems to immediately see Emma as her ward, Ruby Lucas seems to view it as her duty to introduce Emma to Storybrooke’s small social scene, and attacks the task with gusto. Even if it’s just a small circle - Mary Margaret Nolan, Sheriff Nolan’s wife; Belle Gold, the town librarian; and Elsa Jones, whose husband operates the general store - Emma finds herself somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. She’s never had this before, not really; there hadn’t been much of a chance to make friends, growing up in an orphanage. There’d only really been August, who she’s come to view more as a brother than anything else. It will take some getting used to, having this number of people eager for her company and opinion.

(There’s an argument to be made, Emma supposes, that Neal had been a friend, too - but he’d been a lover, more than that, and then he’d been gone. It’s hard to justify counting him, even in her pathetically brief list.)

“It’s so nice to have a new face about town,” Mrs. Nolan - Mary Margaret gushes as she leads Emma arm-in-arm down the street to the library. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the familiar faces of course - oh no, of course not! But it is so nice to hear new perspectives and meet new personalities, you know? Oh, I’m just so thrilled you’re here!”

It is exhausting and touching, all at once - and just another thing Emma will learn to expect in this little town, she’s sure. She’s determined.

———

When Emma decides to stay, Sheriff Nolan offers to put some of Sheriff Humbert’s assets towards paying her room and board, but Emma refuses. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the offer; it’s a nice change to have someone else trying to look out for her, even if she gets the sense that David does this for everyone. However, she never even met Graham. They’d exchanged letters, had come to a rudimentary understanding, and that was all. She has no right to lay claim to any of his money on such a flimsy connection, no matter how obligated Sheriff Nolan feels to look out for her.

Emma resolves to get a job instead, to pay her own way, and only accept the help if she’s forced to. It’s not a particularly big deal; Emma has been working in one way or another since she was a teenager. She’s worked in factories, and shops, and more recently as a secretary in a bank and then a law office. Her favorite had been the stint as a companion to a wealthy invalid. Ms. Ingrid had had a sharp tongue and had loved to turn her quiet, yet cutting comments on passersby outside her townhome’s windows, often leaving Emma in fits of laughter and the older woman with a satisfied look on her face. She’d had a fondness for Emma, too; privately, one of Ms. Ingrid’s nieces had once told Emma she had lasted longer than any of the previous companions, a small compliment she couldn’t help but treasure. She’d ultimately left, shortly before the old lady died; one of Ms. Ingrid’s sister’s husbands had been making ever-more-insistent passes Emma had been struggling to dodge, and she hadn’t been needed much as Ingrid had slowly slipped away. 

(She thinks about Ms. Ingrid often, still, and the year she’d spent in that house; sometimes, Emma thinks it was one of the only times she’s ever been purely happy.)

Her opportunities for employment are limited. The general store doesn’t need additional help, and the library is barely big enough to justify one employee, let alone two. She’d played with the idea of helping out at the Sheriff’s station; with the way Sheriff Nolan seems desperate to be of assistance, for Graham’s memory if not her own sake, she’s certain he wouldn’t mind. But the fact of the matter is that this is a tiny town, with a tiny sheriff’s office to match. What would there be to do? It’s not like Boston, where there’s enough crime to produce enough paperwork to keep her busy. Sheriff Nolan himself had said that they didn’t deal with much more than petty disagreements and the occasional barfight. Even the local pickpocket had reformed and was working at the post office, running the telegraph machine. 

Instead, she turns to the Sherwood Tavern - the one place in town she’s certain gets enough business to need help. Making inquiries, she discovers that it’s owned and operated by a pair of friends: Robin Locksley, who spends most of his time just outside of town at the horse stables he runs with his wife, and Killian Jones, the sullen, dark haired man who’d been behind the bar that first afternoon when Emma had arrived. They’re an interesting pair; Mr. Locksley is all smiles and sunshine, even with that slightly roguish grin, and happy to talk about anything, while Mr. Jones barely talks at all and smiles even less. Still, it’s obvious that the two men are friends, watching the way they work around each other in the space behind the bar. Maybe that speaks well of Mr. Jones, or poorly of Mr. Locksley; Emma thinks it’s likely the former, just based on Sheriff Nolan’s own reaction to the two men. Somehow, she doesn’t think he’d allow her to take a position at an establishment run by men he didn’t trust. 

Mr. Locksley is immediately amenable to giving Emma a position as barmaid. It’s Mr. Jones who has more questions, and evidently more hesitance. Emma isn’t sure what to make of him; he’s an attractive man, objectively, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, but his silence and moroseness are jarring, even if he seems to be a beloved member of this little town. There’s a story there, somewhere, maybe related to the scars that dominate the skin of his left hand.

“This isn’t a glamorous job, you know. It’s messy, sometimes even rowdy,” he says, studying Emma carefully where she stands in her neat skirt and shirtwaist. 

It only makes her draw up taller. “I know. I wasn’t expecting it to be. You run a bar, not a tea room.”

That gets her a faintly approving nod, at least. “Pay won’t be anything to write home about either.”

“Will it be enough to cover my room over at Granny’s?”

“Aye, it ought to be.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

When Jones finally gives his nod of approval, Locksley beams across at her. “Well, Ms. Swan, it looks like you have a job, and we have a barmaid. Welcome aboard.”

———

It is not remotely the life that Emma expected to find herself living, but it’s nice in its own way. There’s a pleasant routine to it all, of Granny fussing over her at mealtimes and Ruby dragging her out to socialize and keeping busy at the bar in the afternoons and evenings. It’s almost… cozy, she supposes the word is. The citizens of Storybrooke seem determined to absorb her into the fold and make her feel at home, and Emma even finds herself becoming fond of the regulars at the bar. There’s something constant and reassuring about Leroy’s complaints and the way Mr. Marco comes in for exactly one beer each night, no more than 30 minutes after sundown. Will Scarlet might be her favorite; he’s a mouthy bastard, a former thief who now inexplicably runs the post office and operates the telegraph line, but his particular brand of attitude amuses Emma and keeps her on her toes.

(It takes her approximately a week and one passing observation in the street for Emma to realize that he’s head over heels for Belle Gold, wife of the man who owns half the town, and most likely reformed his life for her. A brave man, too, then - or maybe just a fool. From what Emma understands, it’s a bad idea to get on the wrong side of Mr. Gold; he’s a manipulative man who always needs to be in control of everything and does not tolerate people standing up to him or encroaching upon his perceived territory. Emma imagines that Gold’s wife is very much included in that inventory.)

It’s usually just her and Jones and the other barkeep, Mr. Smee, working at the bar every day. Emma thinks Mr. Locksley - “Robin, please, I’m not the formal type” - might have been involved just as a favor to the other man; he’ll put in appearances every so often, especially when his business partner requests it, but he mostly seems happy to stay out at the horse farm he operates with his wife. There’s a story there, Emma’s sure - but she’s certain that she doesn’t yet have the right to ask. 

She doesn’t know what to make of Jones, really. He’s a meticulous man, and she thinks even a good one, based on the way he takes care of his establishment and is willing to patiently listen to various gripes from patrons at the bar as they work their problems out themselves. The sullen, quiet demeanor doesn’t seem like his natural state; sometimes, she catches his eyebrows twitching or the sides of his mouth trying to quirk up when one of the regulars says something suggestive, like it once would have been instinct to reach for innuendo or even jokes in the same way. She almost wonders if this is something of an emotional shield, an affectation he’s worn for so long that it’s become comfortable. Regardless, there must have been something in his past that led him here - something that’s emphasized by the careful way that Robin and Sheriff Nolan - David, now - treat him. 

Jones’ brother, Liam - who operates the general store and is Elsa’s husband - seems to be the only one that doesn’t indulge Killian’s reserved state. It intrigues Emma, and really reinforces her feeling that the younger man must not have always been like this. It’s somewhere between a matter of the elder Jones not having a tolerance of it, and trying to purposefully provoke the younger. 

“Is everything alright?” she dares to ask one afternoon after Liam Jones storms away from a discussion carried on in angry, hissed tones. 

“Fine. Liam’s just trying to control everything again.”

It’s probably a wonder she managed to get that much out of him. 

It’s hard, though, to be expected to spend so much time with a person and barely trading ten words in any given day. It makes the day longer, and the work harder. On a particularly slow day, when there’s barely a soul in the place and no longer even any cleaning left to do, Emma finds herself scrambling to break the silence, just to cut the boredom. 

It is a mistake. 

There’s a tattoo on his right forearm, usually covered by his shirt sleeve and just barely allowing hints of dark, swirling ink to peek through. Emma usually only sees the edges in flashes, when the sleeve of his shirt shifts just right as he reaches for something, but his sleeves are rolled nearly to his elbows tonight, revealing the whole work. It’s a detailed piece, one he must have gotten in Chicago or Minneapolis or some other city big enough to have an artist of talent. There’s certainly not a tattoo shop in Storybrooke, of all places. The swirls of black she’s caught glimpses of frame a heart with a jagged dagger through it, with a single word on a tattered scroll at the forefront.

“Who’s Milah?” she asks, instead of wiping down the tables for the twentieth time this evening. “On the tattoo.”

It’s like his whole body seizes - spine straightening, eyes shutting down, every inch of him infused with tension. It’s obvious she’s struck a nerve, one that affects his entire being.

“Someone from long ago,” he finally mutters, before stalking off to scrub imaginary grime off already-spotless tables.

It would be stupid to wonder what she did; that’s obvious to anyone with eyes. What she’s more confused about is why that particular question set him off. It’s obvious there’s a story there, one she doesn’t know but that must be central to the man he is. 

Robin is there that day, taking care of something in the small office at the back; without Emma even asking, he slides up next to Emma with an explanation.

“Milah was his fiancée,” he explains quietly. “She died, several years back, in a freak accident. He was driving her to town and the horse startled, flipping the whole wagon. It’s how he injured his hand, too.” Another question answered, then; Emma can see the way the scarred limb still pains him, seizing and spasming in ways that make him scowl deeper with irritation. 

“He wasn’t always like this,” Robin continues. “He used to be the most charming man you’d ever meet, always with a smile and some saucy comment. You’d have barely recognized him back then. It’s funny, and awful, what grief does to a man.”

And that explains a lot too - the way she sometimes sees his eyes flash or mouth pull like some half-forgotten instinct. That’s the look of a man who was broken, and who forced his pieces back together with the weakest glue, where things no longer fit together in the same way as they did before, even if all the fragments are there.

It is just another piece of the puzzle that is her silent coworker, but maybe the bit that makes it all make sense.

(Emma has never been much for guilt - but she can’t help but feel some small guilt for this.)

———

The thing about living in a small town, for better or worse, is that there are expectations. Despite its small size, there seem to be a million and five social functions in Storybrooke - church picnics and sewing circles and, tonight, a social and dance in Mr. Clark’s new barn. Emma could decline to attend, technically; it’s not as if she’s contractually obligated to make a showing. But Storybrooke is a tiny town, and Emma is the new face, and she’ll be thought of as unfriendly, even odd, if she doesn’t at least put in an appearance. Besides, everyone is going - and Ruby would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t at least make an appearance. 

So she goes. She stands with Mary Margaret and David and lets Ruby pull her along and compliments Granny on her contributions to the potluck spread. She even takes a turn around the dance floor when asked, even dares to enjoy herself a little bit. 

That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t get to be too much, however. The residents of Storybrooke are all so welcoming and well-meaning, but Emma’s spent so much of her life alone, and suddenly being inundated with all this good cheer is a particular variety of overwhelming. It’s not their fault - it’s entirely hers - but Emma can’t resist slipping out the barn doors to creep around the side, seeking a quiet and solitary moment. 

It’s not to be found, however; as Emma rounds the corner, it is easy to see Jones in the light of the nearly-full moon, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back and clearly avoiding the festivities in the same way. There’s half a thought of just retreating, creeping around the other side instead, but he turns his head to meet her eyes before she has the chance.

“I’m so sorry,” she tries to apologize. “I’ll just leave you be —”

A brief smile without much feeling twitches across Jones’ face. “Hiding from the party?”

“Yes, but I can find somewhere else —”

“There’s no need. Stay.” 

Emma stays. What other choice does she have? She isn’t exactly eager to spend this time with Jones, but it would be blatantly rude to insist on leaving after he had made such a generous offer. Carefully, she props herself against the wooden wall, ignoring the way that stray splinters try to poke through her dress. 

She assumes they’ll just stand there in silence - they aren’t exactly friends, for all the time they spend together, and after the other day she’s sure he isn’t much fond of her - but Jones surprises her by breaking that silence after only a few minutes.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Swan,” he says softly, but clearly. “I’ve been less than welcoming these past weeks. I am sorry for that.”

It’s the last thing she expected him to say, and Emma has no idea how to respond. “Thank you,” she finally settles on. “I appreciate it.”

She thinks that’ll be it; that he’ll have said his piece, and they’ll go back to a more-or-less easy civility. It isn’t. “I suppose Robin, or one of the others, told you about… about Milah?” Emma nods. It’s clear this is difficult for him to speak about; she wonders a little why he’s bothering to tell her, of all people. “After she was - after she passed, I rather fell to pieces. She was gone, and the accident all but mangled my hand so it seemed like I couldn’t do much of anything with my life, and it was easier to fall into a bottle than to face my grief. Robin helped a lot, giving me something to do at the bar and eventually letting me buy into the place, but some days I still feel like all those pieces are still barely held together.”

“I understand,” Emma tells him softly, almost too softly to hear. And she does; she’d felt something of that despair when Neal had left, like she’d never find anyone or anything to compare again and there were a whole host of feelings and experiences she’d never reclaim, never experience without him. She can only imagine how much deeper that pain must run for him, when his fiancée had died and not just run away. 

“Thank you,” he says, but she can tell he doesn’t fully believe her. That’s alright; she hasn’t given him any reason to. “Anyhow. It’s been five years now, and I’m… acceptant, I suppose. I don’t anticipate being that same man I was ever again, or being able to truly move on and find someone else, but I’m not actively trying to drown all my feelings anymore, which most agree is a significant improvement.”

“Most?”

“Most,” he repeats. “I believe you’re acquainted with Mary Margaret Nolan?”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Exactly. Ah. Mrs. Nolan is a very kind woman, of course. She truly does mean well, and she and David are wonderful for each other. But she is… unbearably optimistic, if I’m being blunt. Mary Margaret is of the opinion that now that I have reached an acceptance of everything that happened with Milah - everything that I lost with Milah - that it’s time I move on, and find a new ‘happy ending.’ So when you came to town - a new face, lonely, needing help…”

Emma sees exactly where this is going. “You assumed she would immediately start trying to play matchmaker.”

“Precisely. Well, not quite assumed; I’ve known Mary Margaret long enough that it was more like knew.”

“And you decided to head it off before it even started.”

“Aye. Again, I do apologize for how it means I treated you. You didn’t deserve that kind of hostility. But I didn’t want her getting any ideas about fixing us up together.”

“Then I forgive you.”

Killian stares blankly at her for a moment, clearly not quite processing her words. “Just like that?”

“You forget - I’ve met Mary Margaret too.”

His lips twitch in that almost-smile again, and Emma could swear she hears him huff out the hint of a laugh. “She is nothing if not persistent. A second chance, then?”

And Emma finds herself surprisingly happy to agree.

———

They’re still not friends, exactly. Jones isn’t exuberant, and that doesn’t change just because they had a chance to reset things behind the barn. But they’re… friendly. Amiable. Companionable. A whole host of other almost-type words. She no longer feels like he resents her very presence in his place of business, and even makes sure to make her life better in little ways, like helping her wipe down glasses and handle more belligerent patrons. She appreciates it, truly; it makes her life easier, knowing he’ll back her up, and that’s more than enough. Despite the small town-big family feel of Storybrooke, she’s still a city girl at heart who’s fine not to make best friends with everyone. She’s more than satisfied to be his employee, and nothing more; in fact, it’s a welcome change after some of the jobs she’s had.

(That’s what landed her here in the first place, after all: a man who doesn’t much care about her many, many denials.)

Even if they’re not friends, she spends enough time around the man to recognize some of his reactions, the slight variations of “sullen” that still play across his face if you’re watching closely. And as soon as Belle Gold walks in with an older man Emma can only assume is her husband, Emma sees the way that Jones’ entire body tenses up. The tension in the air is palpable between the two; even Belle shifts uncomfortably as they approach the bar.

“Could I have a small glass of beer, please?” she asks Emma softly. It’s a relief to reach for the glass instead of just waiting for whatever this is to explode. “It’s so terribly warm out there today, I found myself needing a little something to cool down.”

Beside her, her husband hasn’t broken eye contact with Jones. Emma doubts he’s fully aware of what she and Belle are doing right next to him. “You’re still here then, Jones?” he asks in an icy, sinister voice. 

“Aye.” Jones’ face is just as stony when he responds. Emma can practically see the way he vibrates with suppressed rage.

“I suppose you don’t have anywhere else to go, do you, or anyone else to chase after. No one really wants to take on a man with only one functional hand.”

“Let’s go, Robert,” Belle urges. Her beer is barely touched, but her refreshment seems forgotten as the encounter turns increasingly hostile.

Carefully, Jones sets the glass he had been holding back on the bar as the rest of the room holds its breath. Emma can see the way he flexes his scarred left hand, though she doesn’t think anyone else is playing close enough attention. “That’s true,” he says in that deadly quiet voice, “but you’re stuck here too, Gold. And we both know you’re the one who trapped me in this town.”

“Strong words from a weak man —” Mr. Gold starts to say, but his target has already stalked away towards the door Emma knows hides a staircase. Jones keeps an apartment above the premises; doubtless he’s gone there to lick his wounds. 

Belle quickly ushers her husband out after that, leaving the barely touched glass on the counter. Emma takes a long drag, not one to waste the beverage; she can’t help but hold some bitterness towards Belle for this altercation, even though she knows the woman is otherwise lovely and kind and even something like a friend to Jones. She must have known this might happen, bringing her husband in here. The man has a reputation, one that makes it hard to believe that his wife is so kind - and married to him. Besides, the whole exchange reeked of an unknown history between the two men, of so many words and actions leading to today’s explosion. 

Behind the bar, Mr. Smee - a timid man by nature, a predilection not remotely helped by these dramatics - looks anxiously between the room half-full of patrons and the door through which Jones had disappeared. It only takes a moment to realize what needs to be done - and that Emma will have to be the one to do it.

With a nod toward the bar floor for Smee, Emma quickly climbs the stairs, a glass of rum in hand. She’s noticed Jones taking a shot of the stuff when some customer is drunk enough to buy a round for everyone. If there’s ever been a time when a drink of something biting would help - well, this is probably it.

It isn’t hard to find Jones. He hasn’t even made it into his apartment proper, instead sitting propped against the wall in the hallway with his head hung between his upright knees. He looks up at the sound of her boot heels clicking on the stairs, happy to accept the proffered spirits, only to hunch back over the glass once it’s in his hands. Emma waits patiently for the explanation she knows is coming; she’s long since grown used to silence sitting between the two of them.

“He killed her,” Jones finally says, draining the remains of his rum in one swallow. “Milah. My Milah. He wanted her, but she wanted nothing to do with him, and she chose me.” He smiles softly in remembrance, a foreign look on his face from what Emma has come to know. “I could never prove it, of course. But he hated that she chose me, hated me for supposedly stealing what was his by pursuing the woman who pursued me first. And that wagon… it never should have tipped. It was sturdy, not even a year old, and the road was even. But there was a shot, fired someplace close that I could never pinpoint, and the horse startled, and the axle was apparently so weak or damaged that it broke, and by the time it was all over…”

“She was gone,” Emma supplies softly. Somehow, in the middle of all this, she’s found herself on the floor next to him. It seems like what he needs right now. 

“It was quick, at least. She broke her neck and died instantly. I just… I could never prove it, but I always knew it was Gold. The sabotage of the wagon and the shot to set everything in motion.”

It makes horrifying sense; maybe Jones is wrong, but from everything Emma has heard and seen of Mr. Gold, she wouldn’t put it past him. “And now you’re forced to see him all the time.”

“We had plans, you know,” he tells her, staring into his glass like he can make it refill by will alone. “We were going to pack up, move to Duluth or Chicago - somewhere along the Great Lakes, where I could get a job on one of the ships. But she was - she was dead, and my hand was barely functional, and when Robin offered to let me buy into the bar instead of just doing my damndest to drink myself to death… I took it.”

“And you lived.”

He snorts. “Or close enough to it.” His head falls back against the wall heavily as he sighs. “He’s gone, I imagine. I’ll come back down in a moment, I just…”

“Take all the time you need.”

(Emma knows she didn’t do anything more than listen, but there’s still a satisfaction in seeing the way he has started to pull himself back together as she traipses back down to the bar.)

———

They’re still not friends, but knowing those bits of another’s soul bonds two people together in a way that’s hard to describe. Jones is still sullen and quiet, but it’s less off-putting when Emma knows it comes from a place of pain. What matters is that Emma feels comfortable and safe here in Storybrooke and at the tavern, in the midst of these kind - and yes, in some cases morose - people. 

That all changes when a telegram arrives unexpectedly, marked urgent and portending dangers Emma had hoped she had finally escaped. 

She opens it right away, of course; there’s only one person outside of this town who knows how to reach her, and August is too busy for needless correspondence. He hadn’t even responded when she’d wired him back in Boston that first day in Storybrooke just to let him know what had happened, and that she was still staying. Him sending a message can mean nothing good.

Emma sinks onto a barstool as she reads the stark letters. Even without a mirror, she can feel the blood draining from her face as her nightmares resurface. 

Be aware Oz sniffing around STOP Hired private detective STOP Be on alert and do what you must STOP Will keep apprised STOP

Emma doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring at the little slip of paper. Somewhere, the yellow envelope it was delivered in has dropped away; she hadn’t noticed. She only comes back to herself when a firm hand shakes her shoulder.

“Swan!” Jones all but barks, jerking her back to attention and to meet his eyes. It’s evident he’s been trying to get her attention for a while; thank god there are only a scant handful of people in the bar at this early hour, though she’d rather Will Scarlet hadn’t had to see this either. “What’s the matter?” he presses ahead. “Are you alright?”

What an absolutely absurd question to ask as she sits here, white as a sheet. As much as Emma would like to deny it, claim everything is fine, she can’t. “No,” she barely manages to gasp out. 

It’s like everything around her has become a blur, like her mind can’t focus on anything but impending doom. Jones and Will Scarlett must have corralled her into the little back office; she has no memory of how she came to be sitting in the padded chair. Jones crouches by her side, his shoes lost beneath the edge of her skirt, wearing a surprisingly tender look on his face.

“This is about what you’re running from, isn’t it?” he asks in as gentle a voice as Emma’s ever heard from him. It snaps her to alertness, eyes blown wide; it’s not remotely what she expected him to say. 

“How did you know that?” she demands. Emma hasn’t told anyone in town the underlying reason why she came to this little nowhere town, and yet here Jones is talking like it’s obvious to see. 

“I recognize the look of someone with demons to hide, and to hide from,” he says softly. “You’ve met mine, Swan.”

Faced with that kind of understanding, it’s like all the pride, the reticence, the fight seeps right out of her. What’s the point? He seems to see right through her front anyways, for some reason she can’t pinpoint. 

“Yes,” she says, carefully making sure that neither her voice nor her hands tremble at the admittance. “It’s about the things I ran from in Boston.”

“Tell us.”

And she does. As Will Scarlet stands by the door and Jones moves to lean against the desk, Emma lets the whole tale unravel: about the law office in New York she’d been a secretary in, about the junior partner, Walsh Oz, who’d taken a sudden interest in her, about the way she’d left that job when he wouldn’t stop pressing his attentions on her. About how he’d found out where she lived, and forced her to move three times. About how she’d finally packed up and moved to Boston, only for him to track her there as well, showing up in the department store she worked in. How she’d gotten more and more desperate, finally seizing upon the idea of answering one of the marriage ads in the paper.

“It seemed like the perfect solution,” Emma explains. Against her will, tears have begun pooling in her eyes, and she blinks furiously to dispel them. “It’d take me so far away from Boston and New York that Walsh Oz would never track me down - and besides, I’d have a husband. It didn’t matter that I probably wouldn’t love him, I’d be safe. He wouldn’t be able to bother me anymore if I was already tied to another man.”

As Emma has told the whole sorry story, Will Scarlet has become visibly more upset in his stance by the door, bordering on fury, but Jones has remained implacably, unshakably calm. Emma appreciates it, in an odd way; it’s something stable to focus on, to keep the panic from overcoming her again. “And then you got here, and there wasn’t a husband to marry,” he says softly.

Emma nods. “I thought it would still be enough - rural Minnesota is so far from New York or Boston, you know? But now…”

“But now.” There’s something horribly ominous about his agreement. 

“At least I have August to watch out for me - my friend, almost a brother. He works for a private detective agency.” Jones probably doesn’t much care about that, but talking and explaining keeps her in the moment. It only works for so long though, as the reality of the situation sets in. “If Oz comes here… where else can I go? What am I supposed to do?”

The silence sits for a moment, Emma trying not to cry, Scarlet and Jones looking at one another as if coming up with something. The question hovers in the room, threatening to suffocate them all.

“You came here because you thought a husband could protect you?” Jones finally asks.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll marry you instead. If you like.”

It’s an absurd proposition, not least of all because Emma knows Jones may never get over his late fiancée. Beyond that… they barely know each other. They’ve worked together for two and a half months, and Emma has shared little bits of herself along the way and learned pieces of his own character, but that’s not enough to base a marriage on. But wasn’t that exactly what she was trying to do with Graham Humbert? To marry him, even though she barely knew him?

The difference, of course, is that Emma has worked alongside Jones for months, and knows this is not remotely what he’d ever planned for himself. It is much harder to go through with this when she knows that it isn’t something that both parties actively want.

“You don’t have to. I would never ask that of you,” she hurries to protest - but he’s already shaking his head.

“I know I don’t,” he tells her. “And if you don’t want to, that’s fine, and we’ll try to figure something else out. But I think it might be your best option.” Jones pauses, and his face softens. “Graham was a good man, and a good friend of mine,” he tells her quietly. “He waited a long time for me to be a better man, and do something with my life. Let me do this for him.”

And Emma agrees.

��——

It is a small wedding - not that the occasion warranted anything different. They’re two people who barely aren’t strangers anymore, who hadn’t planned for this remotely or had even imagined such a possibility two days ago. 

(Technically, it’s the second time since Emma arrived in Storybrooke that two days have abruptly changed the course of her life. Maybe it’s an omen, of some sort; Emma doesn’t have the energy, or the opportunity, to pay heed to such a thought.)

They make as much of the occasion as they can when Mary Margaret and Ruby only have two days to fuss. Emma wears her nicest dress - a summery, pale blue confection that makes her look a lot more girlish and innocent than she actually is - and there are fresh flowers along the pews of the little church that match the small bouquet in her hands. Only a small number of people attend to witness - the Nolans, Jones’ brother and his wife, Robin and his wife, and Granny with Ruby - but that’s alright. Emma may not know what her soon-to-be husband’s favorite color is, or his favorite meal, or even his middle name, but she does know that they’re both somewhat solitary creatures. Neither needs a crowd, or would be comfortable with one.

There’s something oddly comforting about his presence at the end of the aisle, waiting for her in front of the reverend. He isn’t dressed particularly elaborately, but he’s taken the effort to put on a tie and coat and comb back his hair a bit, even if pieces keep popping up again. Most of all, Emma appreciates that his hands don’t tremble when they take hers. She’s terrified out of her wits about the foolishness they’ve both agreed to, but he manages to be so calm; so certain. It’s like he’s found an odd kind of purpose in doing her this favor beyond thanks, beyond reason. He’s calm when she meets him at the altar, and calm all through the short ceremony, and still calm when he slides the thin gold ring on her finger. It feels like some kind of blessing.

Before she knows it, the words are all said, and they’re moving to sign the paperwork and make this legally official. And that’s it: some of the most momentous minutes of her life are over and done, and Jones - Killian? - is leading her back down the aisle of the little church with her hand tucked into his arm, still that pillar of stability and reassurance. 

She’s married. 

———

Eventually, they find themselves back in the little apartment above the bar. Emma’s pretty flowers have been set aside, her hat carefully extricated from the pins holding it to her hair, and Killian has worked off his jacket and tie. Silence stretches between them as they sit, she in the armchair by the fire and him at the kitchen table, but it’s not yet comfortable. They don’t quite know each other enough for that. It’s like they’re in a holding pattern, both just waiting for something to give, for the other to break or break through. 

“I never expected to get married,” he finally says. Emma jerks her head to face him, but he carefully looks anywhere else, staring towards the opposite wall, fiddling with his fingers. “After Milah died… I expected I never would. That that would be it for me.”

It is not a good way to start a marriage - hearing that her new husband never wanted to get married in the first place. “I’m sorry, then. For trapping you in a marriage you never wanted.”

But he shakes his head at the words, finally meeting her eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I mean, Emma. I’m not trying to - I don’t want you to think I regret this. It is its own kind of honor, doing this for you and for Graham. Makes me feel like a better man than I’ve been in a long, long time. What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is…” He pauses, as if collecting his words. “I suppose I don’t have… expectations, so to speak, of our marriage. We get along. I think you’re a good woman, and I’ve appreciated the help in the bar. And that can be it. I’m not expecting anything more. I’m perfectly happy to have a paper marriage, companionship and nothing more, because that’s already more than I ever expected for the rest of my life.”

Ah. He’s alluding to sex. It’s kind of him to dance around this, but entirely unnecessary; delicacy has been out of the question for 8 years now, since she still thought Neal was her forever. It never really mattered for an orphan from the worst of Boston anyways. As kind as it may be, it’s unnecessary, and frankly too chivalrous for her purposes. In return, Emma chooses her words just as carefully as he did; at the beginning here, setting the stage for what may become the rest of their marriage, it seems important to do so. “Thank you, Mr. Jones —”

“Killian.”

“Killian.” He’s right; they’ve already traded vows, such as they were, after all. “Thank you, Killian - but the fact of the matter is that I need this to be a real marriage. If our marriage is to protect me the way I need it to… then I need there to be no reason for anyone to claim otherwise.”

———

They consummate their marriage that night.

It is not making love by any means, and it is not even particularly good - it’s been too long for either of them to be in practice, and too little feeling between the two of them - but there is no denying that it is a real marriage now. Emma can smell the shot of rum he drank for courage as Killian determinedly avoids her lips. His body is warm and firm above her, inside her, but there’s no feeling to it, except in the apology he mumbles against her ear when he finishes before she’s even close to satisfaction.

It is fine. It is no more than she expected.

But at least it is a union, in almost every sense of the word. 

———

(She had been anxious about this - the idea of giving her body to a man she barely knows, no matter how much she knows it to be necessary - but as mediocre as the act itself is, Emma can’t help but feel… connected, afterwards. Despite everything, he had been gentle with her, considerate. She doesn’t quite feel an affection for him - not yet, though she hopes she might one day, if this is to be the start of years to come - but it’s the first link in a bond that they’ll strengthen with time. Consummation had been a fraught decision for both of them, an emotional minefield in many ways, but they’re truly in this together now.

All things considered - she’s glad she’s in it with him.)

[hargrove-mayfields]

You’re The One I Want To Go Through Time With

Day one of HWOL is finally here!! So excited to share all I’ve written! For today I chose the prompt Neighbors AU!!! You can read this on ao3 also as part of the collection as well!!  Hope y’all like it!! 

Word Count: 11,952

Rated: G

It finally happens when he’s 15 years old. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it coming, but Steve gets kicked out.

In the very beginning of a particularly brutal Hawkins summer, he had decided to invite Tommy over to smoke weed in the pool house. He thought nothing of it, but the neighbors complained about the smell, and, coupled with every other act of his deemed irresponsible, immature, disgraceful, by his stuck-up parents, a couple of blunts was apparently the last straw.

They tell him the Harringtons had a reputation, an air of elegance and respect they had to upkeep, so they couldn’t just let him bring drugs onto their property. He thought it was ridiculous, considering that they were allowed as much wine aging in the cellar and expensive whiskey propped up on a hutch as they wanted, but when he’d brought it up he’d gotten nothing but a stern look.

They’d been through this a thousand times over, how worthless and terrible a son he could be, grounding him for bringing too many girls home, taking his car away when he failed a class, so he knew to expect a punishment.

This is obviously the next step, the throwing him out on the street thing, for years he could feel the neglect and tension starting to build up and boil over. Sometimes, they’d even hang threats of it over his head, so now that was told he had to be out of the mansion by the end of next week or there would be consequences, it couldn’t be too much of a shocker.

Though at some point, he’s got to wonder if they ever really thought as far ahead as consequences, or if they just knew they trained their boy well enough that it never got that far. If only he had more of a spine.

Now, as unsurprising as the scenario may be, Steve was still absolutely in no way, by any means ready to be thrown out on the streets before he even had his driver’s license.

In the case of emergency, like the time Stephen Sr. got just a little too rough and popped his wrist out of place, or when they’d left him alone for a month at age 9 and he went three days without food because he didn’t know how to turn the stove on, he had his aunt, the thankfully much more compassionate counterpart to his mother, who lived over in California.

The minute they’re gone, having passive aggressively hurried off somewhere, probably the country club or something, to complain about how disappointing their son was with their rich friends, Steve grabs a suitcase from the closet and gives his Aunt Margaret a call.

Before he knows it she’s got him a flight booked, a written agreement from her sister that proved taking him in was legal, and a set of luggage. Three days later, he was flying first class towards the rest of his life.

~~~~~~~

Touching down in San Francisco has got to be the most surreal thing he’s ever done.

He’d never even left the Midwest before, his farthest ventures being into the three states surrounding his home state, so to be charted off to the west coast? It’s an experience alright.

Aunt Margaret is there waiting for him, her jet black permed hair a few inches above the rest, her brown eyes sparkling with the kindest smile he’s ever seen as she runs up to hug him.

She takes all of his bags, swatting his hands away when he tries to carry even one, and makes him sit in the car while she shoves it all into the trunk.

He wasn’t used to not being the help, since that’s all his parents ever really saw him as anyways, only valuable as their son if they got something out of the time they spent with him. It’s got him feeling weird the whole drive back to the Margos apartment, like he’s in some alternate reality where people are nice to him for a change.

She lives in one of those shared places, a duplex where the house is divided into two halves for two different renters, the very kind his mother would’ve turned her nose up at despite having been raised in one herself. Margaret told him there was a mother and son who lived in the other half, but they’re quiet enough, and polite.

Just pulling up outside of the house, Steve already knows it’s everything he’s ever wanted.

The house itself, painted a pale shade of peeling yellow and missing the majority of the shingles off of the roof, is actually a reasonable size, a direct contrast to the mansion he grew up in, fit for a dozen but occupied by one most days.

Brutal summer heat has dried up the lawn and the garden so they aren’t perfectly tailored, not trimmed by underpaid staff or watered by automatic sprinklers. All across it there’s a scattering of ornaments, like colorful pinwheels in the front garden, and plastic flamingos standing guard by the mailbox.

There’s even a rickety old fence, all mossy and broken up to mark the edges of their property, so different from the white vinyl fence in his backyard at his parents house.

It would seem too that the garage was only big enough for one car, not three like he was used to, and that the makeshift gravel driveway leading up to it was at max capacity with only his aunts Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais, and a dinged up old Karmann Ghia the same color as the house parked in it.

Basically, there were none of the telltale signs that a neglected rich boy lived there, and from that alone he already knew he belonged here.

His aunt hurries him into their section of the house, theirs is the right side, so he can get to resting off the jet lag before he starts unpacking, but he’s far too distracted taking everything in to worry about being a little drowsy.

The rooms are small and the ceilings are low. Where there would’ve been beige and white and other sophisticated tones, there was a rainbow of colors in Margos apartment, from the curtains to the carpet, the Afghan on the back of the couch to the little trinkets in the entertainment center and windowsills.

He notices that, to accommodate for the heavy summer heat, there was a fan spinning in the corner, and all the windows were left wide open. His parents had the windows painted shut back home.

It might’ve been overwhelming, being thrown into a place like this so suddenly, but in his heart he knows this was what he was made for: a cozy life with someone who treated him with the bare minimum of respect.

~~~~~~~

Eventually Steve does fall asleep, the switch from Eastern Standard to Pacific time just being too great for his body. He doesn’t really mean to, he thought he’d just lay down for a minute while he was putting his clothes away in his new dresser, but he ends up sleeping until it’s almost dark out.

He goes looking for Margo when he realizes the house is empty, an irrational pit of dread growing in his chest at the familiarity of being alone, and finds her out back.

The yard also seems to be shared with the other house, a wispy line of barely showing through grass separating the two where a divider had once been, but had since been ripped up.

His aunt is with another woman, a blonde lady who he assumed was from the next door apartment, were sitting in mismatched lawn chairs, cigarettes glowing as the sun got lower and lower in the sky.

Margaret beckons him over once she notices him, and shows him off to the woman. It’s not at all like his mother would’ve done it, none of the flaunting him to make a good impression. This is more like her wanting to introduce him because she genuinely cares.

In a way, it almost makes Steve more uneasy. He could handle all the fake stuff with only the slightest hint of discomfort at being gawked at, because most of the time he’d never have to see those people again, but this was astronomically different.

“Maria, this is my nephew Steve.” Deep blue eyes seem to take him in, accompanied by a polite smile that makes his stomach drop for no good reason.

He panics, shifts into the role of the perfect little socialite he’d been working on his whole life. Without thinking, he extends his hand for her to and produces the generic response his mother’d trained into him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms..”

She takes his hand, but looks a little surprised about doing it. “Hargrove. But we don’t have to do formalities.”

“Right.” It feels awkward to Steve, but judging from the laid back attitude of the women, it’s not a universal sentiment. That only makes it more embarrassing, to be the only one bothered by it.

His aunt leans back in her chair, tapping the ash of the end of her cigarette and tells him, “Go ahead and grab a chair Stevie.”

He straightens his back out and scans the yard, expecting a chair to already be propped open somewhere. The confusion must be apparent on his face when he finds nothing but grass and more grass, because his aunt specifies, “By the shed, kiddo.”

His parents always told him they weren’t allowed to have lawn furniture except the pool chairs cemented to the ground, because they said it didn’t fit the lifestyle they tried to lead. Even the concept of a shed would’ve been insulting to their tastes.

He's done enough growing up to know now that they were just afraid to look too much like they were people who lived in rural Indiana instead of in true big city luxury. They couldn’t risk seeming too much like they weren’t in the upper middle, it would be a disgrace.

The contrast between that and just sitting out there and not having his guard up is so, grounding. Not having anything at all to do but just, sit and appreciate instead of performing and worrying, it’s a lot to take in at once.

He was so nervous the whole way up, even though it was his aunt and he already knew she was nice, that they wouldn’t get along, since that’s the way things always were with his own mum, and lord knows he hardly ever even spoke to his father.

But it’s really not tense at all, actually, it’s sort of the opposite. For once in his life he feels free of expectations, and takes the moment to just exist. Ruthie and Stephen Sr. had long ago made sure that was a concept he could barely understand.

It’s not too long after that that the screen door to Maria’s side of the house swings open, scaring Steve so bad he almost tips his chair over as he startles.

There’s a boy who he’s guessing is about his age leaning out the door, but from the distance he’s at and with how dark it’s getting, Steve doesn’t see much else about him. “M back momma.”

“Okay baby.” The screen door clicks shut again in the next moment, and Maria offers Steve an apologetic smile “You’ve gotta excuse my Billy. He’s not too good with other kids.”

“No, it’s alright.” He assures her, like a polite social butterfly should.

Maria goes in a little while after that, and Margaret and Steve follow suit, since the sun’s almost all the way down.

But Steve’s curious now. He wants to know more about the boy, Billy, he thinks was what Maria called him. It’s only right to wonder, being that they’re neighbors now and all.

It gets brought up later that night, when they’re watching TV on the couch, a thrifted, feather stuffed thing he thought was simultaneously the most hideous and most comfortable thing he’d ever sat on.

“I didn’t know you had neighbors.” He’d been trying to work himself up to talking about it, sitting in the corner of the couch in a little ball and picking at his nails as he worked up his courage.

It was funny, being so nervous over casual conversation, but he guesses he could blame his parents for that one.

His own mum wouldn’t have even paid him any mind, at most pretending to listen while her eyes stayed trained to the television or magazine or coworker in front of her and hummed a non committal response, but Margo turns her whole body on the couch to face him while she answers him, with a complete sentence even. “Oh, people used to come and go all the time over there.”

“How long have they been here? Maria and her son?”

She thinks for a moment, a little surprised at her nephew's interest in the topic of their neighbors. “I don’t know, probably about a year or so now.”

“What’re they like?” He comes across as maybe a little too eager, and his aunt notices.

“What’s got you so curious?” There’s a teasing bit of reprimanding in her tone, just enough to suggest that she knows he’s being a nib-nose, but doesn’t mind it.

And he feels himself flush, because he is being nosy. To try to save face just a little, he comes up with an excuse that isn’t quite a lie. “Nothin’, just knew all my neighbors back in Hawkins, I guess.”

But she wasn’t upset with him, it wasn’t her intention to get him to shut up, like it would’ve been had he heard the same thing from one Ruthie Harrington, so she answers that question too. “I don’t know, they’re nice, sort of reserved, but I’ve never had any problems with them.”

~~~~~~

The two boys are properly introduced for the first time the next morning, when Steve goes out to fetch the mail for Margret. It feels like the least he can do for bumming off of his aunt.

Stepping out on the porch just shy of 8 in the morning and not seeing dewey grass, or the early sunshine muted behind rolling fog and dreary clouds is something he’s going to have to get used to.

Summers in Hawkins were always muggy, full of thunderstorms and unpredictably dreary days. San Francisco is so bright, so different, and such a relief.

While Steve basks in it, the already warm breeze and the sun shining bright, the neighbors’ door opens up and Billy comes out to do the same, standing on his tip-toes to reach up into the mailbox beside the door, holding a traveler's mug of coffee in the opposite hand.

When he turns around to go back inside, Steve, staying true to wanting to get to know the other boy better, has taken a few steps closer, and has extended a hand for Billy to shake, the same sort of introduction panic he’d felt last night.

But, Billy, seeing that his hands are a bit preoccupied by a stack of bills and a cup of coffee, just offers a sheepish smile.

Steve settles for a formal introduction without a handshake, though it’s still too stiff an interaction to really get to know him beyond the awkward new rich kid in town. “Hi. My name is Steve Harrington. I’m uh, I'm your new neighbor.”

“Pleasure to meet you Steve Harrington. M’Billy” They stand there, neither of them making any move to do anything but just look at one another. Billy clears his throat and shakes the coffee cup towards Steve, sensing that maybe this was the place for hospitality. “You want some? My momma always makes too much.”

“No thanks. I’m uh, allergic to coffee beans.”

“Huh.” He seems amused by that, scrunches his nose up like he doesn’t believe it, and Steve wants to curl up and disappear. “I’ll see you later then, Steve Harrington.”

He watches the other boy turn back to leave after that, and still sort of just stands there before his brain comes back on and he realizes he should say something in return. “Right, uh, bye.”

It’s just a moment's passing, but Steve can’t get the interaction out of his head.

He chalks it up to being nervous that his new neighbors won’t like him, the fear that Aunt Margo will send him back to his parents if he can’t get along here, and that makes logical sense, except, what he’s caught up on is Billy’s crooked smile, and his blond curls that lay just past his ears, messy from just waking up and bleached from the sun, and the spatter of dark freckles across his nose.

First full day in California and he has a crush on the neighbor kid. He can’t believe himself.

There isn’t very much time to mull that fact over though, because, over breakfast, what his aunt calls her ‘special occasion breakfast’ of cinnamon rolls with ice cream, she tells him she’s going to do some errands today.

And that’s alright, he tells her he’ll be fine all by himself, and he is, for the first few hours, but the more time she’s gone, the worse and worse he starts to feel. It’s that worry again, that deep rooted fear that he’ll be left alone forever.

Experience has taught him to try to calm himself down, to catch his breath and try to focus on the fact that he knows he’s being irrational, but those techniques don’t cut it, as they often don’t, and he’s sending himself further into a panic attack trying to think too hard about it

Sitting inside, he gets stir crazy, feels suffocated by everything that had before been inviting to him, so he goes for some fresh air out front. Watching the road for so long, just waiting for the Oldsmobile to pull up, he starts to feel antsy again, so he goes out back where it’s quiet instead.

There’s a glider on the porch back there, an old rusty thing that squeaked every time Steve rocked it forward or back, but the calming motion of it is probably the only thing keeping him from spiraling too far.

He doesn’t really know what time it is anymore, only that he’s hungry, and that the sun’s going down, and that he’s been sort of zoned out back there for a long while. He feels hot and cold at the same time, and he’s lost in his head.

The sound of a screen door gently tapping against the side of the house brings his eyes up from the spot on the ground he’d been staring at with tears in his eyes, but it isn’t his aunt Margaret coming home, it’s just Billy.

With his hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning against the wall between the back doors, he says real quiet like, “Momma told me to ask if you wanted some of the dinner she made.”

He shrugs. “I’m alright.”

“I figured.” Billy looks at the floor while he tries to figure out how he wants to approach this. For a long moment, neither of them say a word, no sound between them but distant field crickets, until Billy asks, his voice quiet enough it barely registers in Steve’s mind. “You okay?”

If he’s being entirely honest, Steve doesn’t really know if he’s okay. He trusted his aunt enough to move all the way across the country with her, and yet he can’t manage enough trust to believe her when she said she’d come home from some errands? Doesn’t sound too okay to him.

But he’s not in Hawkins, he’s away from the people he knows for sure wouldn’t be coming back for him unless it was to pull something like they had and treat him like garbage. So in a way, he guesses he’s better than ever.

Unable to think of any words that might convey what he’s thinking, Steve just shrugs again, but Billy seems to get it. He sits down next to Steve on the glider and plants his feet so it won’t move, and so Steve’s attention will be on him.

Knowing he’s got Steve’s focus, since he looks over at him with glossy eyes, Billy tries to reassure him, “Your aunt’s a good lady. She wouldn’t leave you.”

“Who said I thought she would?” It sounds pathetic, wet and stuffy with the remnants of tears he hadn’t known were falling, but there’s a vulnerability he couldn’t hide behind even the toughest of masks that reveals he isn’t being honest.

“The way you watched for her car said enough.” It makes Steve feel exposed, having a total stranger see right through him, but Billy explains himself. “When my momma went out looking for this place, I was sure I’d never see her again.”

“Why did you guys move here?” If he was going to psychoanalyze Steve, he felt it was only fair to ask Billy a pressing question back.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.” He deflects it back onto Steve in a way that might’ve seemed cocky, but it's obvious he’s just trying to avoid the question.

Steve won’t let him win this one though, maybe just to save his own ego, or pretend like he hadn’t been caught crying by someone he met that morning, or maybe it was just because he had asked first, but he wants Billy to answer, so he tells him, with the slightest hint of a bashful smile playing at his lips, “You first.”

“Stubborn.” He cracks a smile back though, and goes ahead and goes first at the other boys insistence. “My dad’s a real nasty s.o.b. Would get drunk and mean for no good reason, so momma took me and we high-tailed it before he did anything too drastic.”

He didn’t know what he was expecting, why he even felt like it was any of his business, and he doesn’t know what he should say to that.

For lack of a better response, he gives his own little life story summary. “My parents were rich. They didn’t want me, so they have the time of day for me. No matter what I did they punished me for it, grounded me, hit me, sent me to Christian school, until they just got sick of me, I guess.”

“That sounds pretty shitty.” Billy offered.

“Yeah, yours too.”

After a while, Billy, sounding for a moment like he’s a lot wiser than any 14 year old has the right to be, says “What matters is we’re here now.”

Steve feels so touched hearing that. It was so simple a thing for the other boy to say, but coming from Billy after he’d just shared what he did, it means a lot more than just basic condolences.

Hardly anybody had ever been that genuine in anything they said to him. Steve can hardly force a response out of his shocked mouth. As he looks over at Billy’s face, still turned up towards the sky, he sees all that meaning there illuminated by the stars, and he's able to mutter a breathless, “Yeah.” in response.

They both jump when the door flies open, and aunt Margo comes running over to Steve. Frantically she explains that she’d been trying to make sure everything was legal, only to find that some of Steve’s papers were missing, and they had to try to track them all down and get some of them faxed, and it ended up taking way longer than expected.

It feels nice to be understood. Just a few years ago his parents left for what was supposed to be a three day trip to Indianapolis, only they didn’t come back for what was almost two months. Once they were home they didn’t even mention it, just continued going about their business as usual until it was time to leave again. His aunt taking the effort to explain herself was already a vast improvement from that.

He lets her pull him into a big hug, accepts her apology as the air is squeezed out of his lungs, and when he pulls away from her, Billy’s gone.

~~~~~~~

Finish reading on ao3! You can find this posted under the same title by ej_writer or as part of the hwol collection over there! Sorry tumblrs word limits deemed this too long!

[fanfictionaries]

Your Little Ritual

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X female reader

Summary: You and Bucky have started your own weird little ritual when it comes to being stuck in hotel rooms on missions. At first it’s fairly innocent. Until it isn’t.  

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: Swearing, smut, NSFW/18+ only, mutual masturbation

Author’s Note: Inspired by THIS audio because...damn. Listening to the audio with the story is advised!

I have no beta reader. So I apologize for any typos or grammatical errors. I didn’t go over this very in-depth. I just really wanted to get it out. 

***

It had all started very innocently, this weird little ritual you and Bucky now shared. Never in your life did you think it would have propelled into what it was now. You swore by that. One night, after a complication with the mission plans had arisen, you found yourself in a hotel room with Bucky awaiting further orders. Steve had informed you that a response on how to proceed wouldn’t come until the next day. He had told you to head to the hotel and sit tight while they tried to work through the logistics. No big deal. Things like this happened all the time. In fact, only a few months prior you had gotten stranded in Belize with Sam and Wanda after you had discovered your intel was compromised. Seven days and nights in a bed bug ridden motel had put the three of you on such edge that you and Wanda had almost come to blows. And she was easily your best friend. A single night in a nice, clean hotel wasn’t the worst thing in the world. In fact, it could have easily been considered a mini vacation as you and Bucky had raided the vending machines that night before jumping onto the big king size bed and flipping on the TV.

You were digging into the assortment of chips, candy, and soda when Bucky asked you what you would probably consider to this day to be the weirdest question anyone has ever asked you.

“Hey (Y/N), what’s Wetter the Better? I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.”

You stopped, mid-bite into a twinkie, and looked over to him and then the TV. Sure enough, there on the channel guide was Wetter the Better playing from 9-10pm on channel 581. You couldn’t help but let a snort out through your nose as you bit down into the overly sweet cake and synthetic filling.

“That’s a porno Bucky Boy. I’d be more concerned if you had seen it. No one pays for porn anymore,” you stated bluntly, mouth full of twinkie.

“Seriously?” Bucky asked, looking at the television with a bewildered expression.

“Yea, with all the free sites online, why pay someone to watch people get it on?” you continued, taking another bite and picking out a bag of Doritos from the pile of junk.

“No. Not—I mean. You can get pornographic movies on TV? Can just anyone watch it or?” Bucky questioned, turning to you with a curious expression.

“Wait. How do you not know about porn Bucky? Haven’t you like…been around?” you asked, utterly confused by what was going on at that moment, “Like I understand why Steve might not know about it, but…”

“I know what porn is,” Bucky rolled his eyes, “Obviously I’ve heard of it. But I’ve never seen it. Most definitely didn’t know they’d just have it on the TV like this where anyone can see it. Children even!”

“Not everyone can see it. You have to pay for it. Here look,” you leaned over and grabbed the remote from his hand and clicked on the movie title. Up popped a screen asking if you’d like to purchase the channel for a flat rate of $20 a day. “I’m still confused. How do you not know about this? Porno channels have been around since before the 90’s and I’m pretty sure you were Winter Soldiering about the normal world then.”  

“Well yea, but I spent half of it frozen and the other half well…let’s just say he didn’t have much of an interest in sex, let alone watching others have sex,” admitted Bucky, scratching his neck and discretely looking back at the television.

“Bucky…” you lingered, unsure if your assessment of the situation was correct or not, “do you want to watch the porno movie?”

Bucky blushed, looking away from you.

“Oh my god! You do!”

“(Y/N)…” whined Bucky, obviously embarrassed.

“We totally can if you want,” you said, smiling from ear to ear at the poor man sitting at the end of the bed.

“What?” Bucky turned to you, his voice dripping with surprise, “Won’t that be…I don’t know, weird?”

“Only if you make it weird,” you shrugged, “You’ve lived a deprived life Bucky Boy. I think if you want to buy a porno movie in a hotel, you should be able to. Plus, sometimes they’re really cheesy and funny. We might get a good laugh.”

“Okay…okay yea. Let’s do it,” decided Bucky, grabbing a Baby Ruth and scooting back to sit against the headboard. His body almost vibrated in excitement as you proceeded to buy porn on Tony Stark’s dime and clicked ‘Play’.

And so, the night had gone as such. In the beginning, Bucky was like a teenage boy seeing a Playboy in his dad’s basement for the first time. He stared in wide-eyed amazement as the music began to play and the camera focused on the overly done-up, but impressively attractive woman on screen. Then, as it played on, very quickly did you both realize how incredibly ridiculous the movie actually was. Between bad dialogue, poor acting, and the obviously fake moans, the two of you were in tears. You laughed and joked around as you continued to snack and watch. Near the end, however, the movie took a turn and the last scene had become a little more believable and a little less hilarious. By the end, Bucky had cleared his throat and made a casual comment about taking a shower. You nodded, telling him to take his time. It was very clear that you both needed a bit of private time.

And so, a ritual had been born.

Every time you and Bucky found yourselves spending an evening together in a hotel room, it was expected that you’d end up watching a porno, laughing your asses off and then occasionally parting ways to take care of certain needs if required. It should have felt weird. It should have been weird. You both knew that. It was the reason you didn’t tell anyone about it. But still, you both seemed to bond over the act. Inside jokes were formed, good times were had. You liked to think of it as the oddest coworker team building exercise in the world. And that’s all it was.

Until it wasn’t.

That particular night had started out like any other. You and Bucky were stuck in a grungy little motel somewhere in the Midwest. You had raided the vending machines, you were sitting on the bed, as Bucky scrolled through the TV guide to find the porn channel. The only difference this night was that the bed was smaller than usual. Often you and Bucky had to get rooms with only one bed. The guise of a couple staying the night on a road trip was much more believable and did well to cover your tracks. However, you usually tried to get rooms with at least a queen mattress. Bucky was a big guy and you liked to flop around in your sleep. Or so he told you. But, the motel in question only had rooms with doubles left. And that was fine. You could both deal with that no problem.

“What’s playing tonight at the Skinemax theatre Bucky Boy?” you asked, crossing one ankle over the other as you took a sip of orange soda. You placed in on the side table next to you and hugged a throw pillow close to your chest.

“Well, we have what appears to be a parody of The Wizard of Oz or The Sex Therapist.”

“My vote would be for the second one. I actually like The Wizard of Oz, I don’t think I need it ruined by a bad porn parody,” you confessed. Bucky nodded in agreement, pressing play on The Sex Therapist and popping an M&M into his mouth.

“I can’t wait to see how bad this is gonna’ be,” said Bucky, getting comfortable.

“I know right? Probably some guy in glasses telling a girl the only way to cure her mental issues is to fuck it out of her,” you snorted, exchanging a look with Bucky. You were both fairly familiar with the bad porn tropes at this point. In fact, one of your favorite parts of your ritual was trying to predict what was going to happen.

The screen changed from the title to the opening scene and what you saw took you by surprise for a second. The main actor happened to look a little like Bucky. Not exactly, but the resemblance was still enough to make you feel slightly awkward. He wasn’t as muscular as Bucky, but he shared the same shoulder length brown hair and rough stubble over his jaw.

“Awww Bucky Boy, why didn’t you tell me you stared in porn on the side?” you teased, hoping to distill any tension. You turned to look at him, titling your head to the side in a condescending manner.

“Shut up, I could say the same thing about you,” Bucky pointed to the screen and you turned back to see a woman who sure enough kind of resembled you. She was a little shorter than you, but you shared the same hair and eye color, as well as similar noses.

Very quickly, the two of you realized that this was unlike the porn movies you usually watched. It was…good. Really good. The acting was believable. The plot was well thought out. The actors shared a genuine chemistry and it was...hot. Very hot. Then of course to top it all off, it didn’t help that if you squinted it was almost like watching you and Bucky having hot and heavy sex right in front of you. A heat began to pool in your stomach that slowly swirled and coursed through your body. Hugging the pillow in your arms closer, you made the embarrassing realization that your nipples were rock hard. The friction of the pillow against them made you squirm in your spot on the bed. Suddenly, you were very aware of Bucky sitting next to you, close enough to touch. You glanced over, looking at him out of the corner of your eye. He appeared to be just as uncomfortable as you were. An obvious bulge starting to form in his sweats.

You cleared your throat, “Wanna’ get under the covers? It’s a bit cold in here,” you said, hoping to give you both an excuse to hide. Him, to cover his budding erection, and you to conceal the way your thighs clenched together. He graciously took the excuse, agreeing and slipping under the covers with you.

The two of you continued to watch, both afraid to admit that either of you were turned on by the movie in front of you. A pool of arousal was beginning to form in your underwear, as a particularly intense scene play on where the man had the woman bent over a desk as he spanked her ass over and over again. Bucky coughed into his hand, shifting under the blankets, his elbow bumping yours. At the contact, you jumped away from each other, Bucky muttering a few nervous apologies. It was clear that you were both feeling the effects of the movie in full force.

“You’re fine, um, this is…something,” you commented, your face heating.

“Yea, uh, yea. Very…well done,” said Bucky, not looking away from the screen.

“You know…” you began the sentence not knowing where it was going and surprising even yourself when you finished it, “if you wanted to…you know. I wouldn’t, um, I wouldn’t mind.”

“You mean…” Bucky started, looking over at you skeptically.

“I just mean, this is pretty intense. I would understand if you needed to take care of…things.”

“You mean if I wanted to get myself off,” Bucky chuckled, “You don’t see anything weird with that?”

“Well when you say it like that it is,” you rolled your eyes.

“Why wouldn’t I just go into the other room?”

“Because then you wouldn’t be able to watch the movie,” you responded, wanting to kick yourself. What were you saying? Why were you continuing to talk? It was like all the blood and common sense had left your brain and was now currently residing in your throbbing clit.

“You know what, never mind. It’s not like I was going to look or anything. Just a suggestion. Forget I—”

“Okay.”

“What?” It was your turn to look at the man beside you in surprise.

“Okay,” Bucky repeated himself resolutely before stammering on, “I guess, I wouldn’t mind either if you, ya know.”  

You nodded, turning your attention back to the screen. Neither of you moved at first, almost as if you were both afraid to be the first to take the other up on their offer. But then, the ache and need deep in your core began to overtake you once again as you watched the way the Bucky look-alike entered the woman slowly from behind as he bit her shoulder animalistically. Slowly, you lowered your hand down your chest and into your sleep shorts. At first you merely rubbed yourself through your panties, allowing yourself to press against your palm, letting the pressure give you some relief. You struggled to keep your breathing even, as you watched the two on screen pant and moan as they clung to each other, sweaty and wrecked. Your arousal was becoming so great, that the cotton material under your fingers was damp, molding to the outline of your folds. Eyes glued to the two gorgeous actors, you slipped your fingers below your last barrier and made contact with your wet sex.

A gasp escaped your throat as the pads of your fingers grazed your clit, the small bud swollen and sensitive. Bucky inhaled sharply in response to your small outburst. You stilled, embarrassed by the noise you had made and glanced over at Bucky as discretely as possible. Some of your embarrassment was dissolved when you observed the subtle movement of the blankets near Bucky’s groin. With a deep and steady breath, you turned your attention back to the movie and began to explore your folds. Dipping a single finger down, you collected some of your moisture and brought it back up, circling around your clit but not making direct contact. You teased yourself, building yourself as if you had all the time in world. The whole while, the weight of what exactly you were doing hung heavy in the air. You were in a bed with James Buchanan Barnes, your coworker and friend, watching a porno and masturbating. You’d never done anything like it in your life. No one had ever been present when you touched yourself. Even when you were in relationships. Equally so, you’d never been present when someone else masturbated. At least, not to your knowledge. It was such an intimate act. Intimate and incredibly taboo.

Before you knew it, your eyes were closed, and you no longer cared about the television screen in front of you. No, instead you allowed yourself to get off to the erotic scene around you. Bucky’s heavy breathing filled your ears, the small catches and strained noises he made spurred you on. That combined with the wet sounds from your centered had you so hot that it felt like you could combust at any moment. Reaching further down, you slipped a single finger inside of you and moaned lightly at the feeling, unable to stop yourself and really not caring at this point. It’s not like he didn’t know what you were doing.

Out of instinct, your legs spread, knees pulling up as you fingered yourself. That’s when it happened, your left leg made contact with Bucky’s bare thigh. Without thinking, you reached out with your left hand towards him, apologizing as your palm landed on his hip. You both stilled. Opening your eyes, you turned your head and met Bucky’s eyes.

“I…I um,” you struggled for words as you took in what you had just done. God, you had ruined it, “Sorry, I’ll—”

You went to finally move your hand away but were surprised when a cold metal hand locked around your wrist. You stared into the depths of Bucky’s blue eyes. He looked hungry, desperate, pleading. Licking your lips, you followed his silent command, pressing your hand back and firmer against his hip right where the material of his boxers met the exposed skin of his midriff. He closed his eyes with a shuddered breath and let his head fall back against the pillow. You stared at him for a few moments more, watching the way the blankets shifted as his hand moved up and down over his length beneath them. Eyes tracing his profile, you realized just how good-looking Bucky was. His features were a delicate mix of hard and soft, feminine and masculine. His plump lips were parted in pleasure and heavy breaths passed his lips as he continued to pleasure himself. A few moments passed before you realized that you had resumed your ministrations under the blanket. You had been so swept up in watching Bucky that you hadn’t realized just how much of a mess you were. The slick between your legs was so great, your hand was soaked, slipping easily inside of you and throughout your folds. Bringing your hand up, you rubbed your clit lightly. Your left hand clenched, fingernails digging into Bucky’s hip.

“Fuck!” Bucky moaned, his head pressing into the pillow behind him, “Do that again,” he growled, his eyes closed tightly. You did as you were told, digging your nails into the exposed skin on his hip as you rubbed your clit. The sounds he made were so delectable, so erotic. They spurred you on, your own quiet moans falling from your lips. If you could make him moan like that from touching his hip, you couldn’t imagine the type of noises he’d make if you touched him. Actuallytouched him. Feeling bold, you slid your hand down until you reached him. Cautiously, you pushed his own hand away until it was only you wrapped around his hard length. The gorgeous man lying beside you gasped at the feel of your hand.

“Oh my god. Fuck, god!” he moaned, reaching out grasp your thigh in pleasure. His fingers dug into the flesh of your inner thigh, spurring on your own arousal. You now understood why the feeling of your hand on his hip had turned him on so much. The feeling of someone so close, but not quite there as you pleasured yourself was thrilling.

Bucky’s whines and moans filled the room, growing louder and more desperate as you continued to stroke him. Up and down. Up and down. You continued to pleasure yourself, your own orgasm rising and building. But it wasn’t nearly as important to you as getting Bucky there. You wanted to be the one to get him there. You wanted to hear the sweet noises he made when he finally toppled over the edge.

“Oh my god! Yes, yes, yes!” he growled out the last ‘yes’, the sound deep and guttural and oh so delicious. It pushed you further towards your own peak, but you wouldn’t, couldn’t finish until he did. You needed it. You released him, reaching your left hand in between your legs before returning it slick with your own arousal. Faster, you stroked him, twisting your wrist and swirling around the tip with just the right amount of pressure. The lubrication from your sex making it easier. Bucky seemed to agree as every muscle in his body seemed to tense. His fingernail dug into the delicate flesh of your thigh, sure to leave indentations later. But you didn’t care because with a few more harsh pulls, he was cumming. The warm wetness of his released covered your hand, dripping down your arm.

“Fuuuuuck yes! (Y/N) oh my god,” exclaimed Bucky.

The sensation of his warm seed mixed with the sound of his release sent you over the edge. You tensed, fingers stilling over your clit as you rode out your own orgasm. Electricity shooting throughout your whole body as you spasmed and shook.

The two of your lay there, catching your breath before you finally extricated your hand from Bucky’s softening erection. You let it fall onto the mattress beside you, your body heavy and satisfied. Bucky’s hand remained on your thigh, rubbing up and down soothingly. Turning your head, you found him already looking at you, a satisfied smile spread across his face.

“So, can we make that a regular part of hotel porno nights?” asked Bucky, causing you both to let out small chuckles.

“Yes. It’s definitely part of the ritual now.”

Everything Tag List:

@caffiend-queen

[walkerismychoice]

Unwritten - Chapter 3

Book: Platinum

Pairing: M!Raleigh X MC

Rating: This series will contain mature themes. Any necessary warnings will be listed before each chapter, but the overall series rating is 18+

Series Summary: Newly discovered talent Aria Campbell get unknowingly assigned to help write Raleigh Carerra’s latest album and rehabilitate his image in the process.

Summary:  Aria is ready to start writing. Raleigh? Not so much.

Chapter Warning: Hints at excessive drinking/alcohol abuse

Word Count: 1750

Master List

She should really go back out there and try to start writing. They only have six weeks to write enough songs to fill an entire album. Then again, six weeks is kind of a long time. What’s a little bit longer?...

Aria picks up the flip phone from her nightstand. She would just text, because who actually likes to talk on the phone anymore, but texting without a keyboard is hardly worth the effort. Seriously, why do they still make cell phones like this? Her finger hovers over the call button momentarily, and then makes the call.

Several rings go by before Aria hears an agitated voice on the end of the other end of the line. "How many times do I have to tell you to take me off your list? How can my car warranty be expired when I don't even own a car?"

"Shane! Wait, don't hang up," Aria pleads into the phone. "It's me!"

"Aria? What are you-" His angry tone gives way to confusion. "Whose number is this and where are you? Wait, are you doing your writing thing? Tell me who you are writing with - is it Avery Willshire?"

If only, she think to herself, hesitating a moment before replying. "I can't tell you that. It's in my contract. If it were to get out, they'd kill me."

"Who are they, the mob?" Shane chuckles. "How many years have we been friends? You know you can trust me. And besides, I had to sign an NDA to be on your contact list, if you go down. I'm going down with you."

"Well that's reassuring," she answers dryly. Sure Shane's in film school and could be the next big director, but as of right now he's unknown, and Aria's got a lot more to lose. But he's right. They tell each other everything and she knows she can trust him. "Fine. But you can't tell anyone."

"Promise."

Aria inhales sharply. “It's...Raleigh Carrera."

"No fucking way!" Shane practically screams into the phone. "Binge drinking, property destroying, R&B singing Raleigh Carrera? You writing for him is...unexpected."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." She replies dryly.

“Ari, you know what I mean. You're more indie pop, with meaningful lyrics. He sings about getting laid in the club. You've never so much as had a tardy at school, and he's got quite the bad boy reputation.”

"Yes, Shane, I know I'm a boring, wholesome girl from the Midwest.”

“No, no! I just don’t want you to have to sacrifice your integrity. It can’t be easy to make sure your voice is heard with with someone like that.”

“I’m a big girl. I can handle myself,” Aria asserts trying more to convince herself than anyone else. It’s not like she hasn’t feared what Shane has said and more ever since she got here. But she’s determined to fake it until she makes it as they say.

"I know you are. I've seen it in action - like when you dumped that smoothie on Chad's head because he made a comment about your ass."

"Oh my god. I can't believe I didn't get fired for that." Aria laughs genuinely for probably the first time today.

They continue on their path down memory lane until Aria's cheeks hurt from smiling, and she finally says goodbye.

 "Maybe I should just call mom first," she ponders out loud before thinking better of it. Things ended on a high note with Shane, and she doesn't need get all homesick and weepy right now. She supposes it's time to face the music - literally.

Aria peeks in the open doorway across the hall, and Raleigh's room is empty. She checks the main areas downstairs, but all is quiet. Finally she looks out the the beachside picture window to see a human form spread out on the sand.

As she heads out and towards the beach, she makes out a familiar object next to Raleigh and rolls her eyes. Apparently he has no plans to fully sober up before starting to drink again.

His eyes are closed as she approaches, and when she calls out his name, he doesn't stir. She won't shake him awake because that feels a touch too intimate for someone she just met. Especially someone of his status, lying their shirtless in the sand, a sheen of sweat glazing over the tattoos covering his neck and torso. Ugh stop ogling him, she thinks to herself. You hate tattoos and he's an ass. Aria grabs the bottle of rum and jabs him in the side.

"Huh?" Raleigh jolts upright and frantically looks whips his head around until he gets his bearings. "Oh, it's you." He grabs the bottle from her and takes long swig.

"Bacardi straight from the bottle in the middle of the day? Doing your best to live up to the cliché rockstar lifestyle, huh?” She immediately regrets the words and wonders if she went too far.  

He shrugs it off with a laugh and points the bottle at her. "Want some?"

"No." She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. Sipping straight out of the bottle is not her style. Not to mention they're supposed to be working and she prefers to write with a clear head.

"I guess Learning How to Party Like a Rock Star 101 is not part of a music major’s curriculum. You could use some real-world instruction from Professor Carrera." Raleigh teases.

"Haha, very funny.” Wait, how does he know she majored in music? Probably just a lucky guess. "Anyway, I came out here to see if you wanted to get started."

"Nah, I'm good." He takes another pull from the bottle. "I like to write when the mood strikes. If you're so moved though, feel free to whip something up on your own. I really don't give a shit what's on this crap album anymore."

Her blood is boiling now, and she fights a juvenile urge to kick sand in his face and stomp away. "That's not how this works. If they wanted me to just write everything on my own, I could have done so from the comfort of my own home rather than being stuck here with you."

And there it is again - that mischievous twinkle in Raleigh's eye. And before she has much time to worry about what it means, Raleigh's up and scooping her off her feet. He runs towards the water as Aria yells at him to put her down to no avail, and once the water level reaches his knees, a wave hits, sending them toppling under.

Before Aria can get her bearings, she feels Raleigh’s firm grasp pulling her upright. She wipes the seawater from her eyes to see Raleigh standing there with a big shit-eating grin, his hands still bracing her arms to keep her steady. Maybe if she wasn’t so pissed off at his antics she’d notice the slight tingle where her skin was touched by his, but then again she might just attribute that to the chill from the cool water.

She shrugs out of his hold with an exasperated groan. “Why are you such an asshole? I know you don’t want to be here with me, but this wasn’t my idea. You don’t have to take it out on me.”

“Relax, Ice Queen. I’m just trying to thaw you out a bit. We’ll both have a much better time here if you can learn to have fun.”

“Ugh! I’m not..” That remark cuts Aria deep, more than Raleigh could possibly know. “Maybe if you actually agreed to do some work with me, I’d be more in the mood to have some fun.

Raleigh looks her up and down with an undiscernible expression that makes her uneasy before plopping back down on his towel and putting his sunglasses on. “We’ll just have to see about that.”

Fiona looks up from her laptop and spots Raleigh and Aria emerging from the ocean and engaging in what looks to be an intense conversation. The guest house has a spacious wraparound porch with cushy patio furniture. If she’s got to be stuck somewhere on glorified babysitting duty, as if she’s got no other clients and nothing better to do, it’s not a terrible place to be. At least there’s wifi and she can keep working on her projects with other artists on the label.

She’d been skeptical, to put it mildly, when Ellis brought Aria in to discuss working with Raleigh, and based on his initial reaction this morning, she wouldn’t have been surprised if Aria had tried to quit on the spot. Sure Raleigh getting wasted on the beach and throwing his writing partner in the water day one would look bad by anyone else’s standards, but Fiona’s know him a long time. The fact that that he’s engaging at all is a good sign. Maybe that little chat she had with him earlier stuck.

“Looks like things are going as well as can be expected with those two.” Fiona muses aloud. Hank stands and watches attentively, arms folded across his chest. You’d think he was guarding the President with how serious he takes his job. There’s not another human in sight aside from the four of them. He weighs his words before responding. “It seems so, ma’am.”

“Eww, don’t call me ma’am.” Fiona visibly shudders. “We’ve worked together for years now. You can call me Fiona. And anyway, nobody is around. You don’t have to take your job so seriously here. Why don’t you go grab a beer.”

Frank tugs at the knot in his tie. Yes, he’s still wearing his suit and tie - at the beach. “Drinking on the job would be unprofessional, ma-, I mean Fiona.”

"Okay then," she utters under her breath. It says something that self-described workaholic Fiona is the fun one here, but if she's going to make it through this period of time without dying of boredom, getting Frank to loosen up might just be the side-project she needs. Maybe he'll even take his tie off at some point. Fiona looks back to the beach where Raleigh is sunbathing and Aria is nowhere to be seen. "Would it be unprofessional of me to run out there and smack him upside the head?"

"Yes, I believe so," he replies dryly, but Fiona can detect the corners of his mouth curving upward ever so slightly. There might be hope for him yet.

[theelliottsmiths]

Could you please liveblog the making of Amerika?

Yes

I'm anticipating complaining about the penis zip guy already

Did you know that for a long time as a child I thought the English version was the real version? Cause I did

The bit where they're putting the paint on their faces is weirdly cute even though Richard looks kind of silly

Flake grow out your long hair pleaseee just like. A cute little bob again. I would listen to him talk for hours honestly I like the way he pronounced the words and his tone language doesn't matter

You can always tell by how he holds his face vs his eyes when he's joking "that's what this song is for: to sneak ourselves into their hearts" i feel like they have done that pretty well. For some reason it seems like most of the American fans are from the Midwest but maybe that's just coincidence

Rammstein saying they have no message except "Fleisch, Fleisch" or "ja" or "ich will" I forgot this entire thing is ceaseless dunking and sarcasm

i like the sounds he makes like the. There's a name for them what is it. The noises you make between words for emphasis etc? Those

"America was so fucking annoying we felt the need to call them out on it"

Oli talks a little like he's trying not to yawn. Them saying the war was on while they were in the practice room is strange considering how long the various wars had been going on just from like a born in the late 90s living in 2020 perspective

Ah yes you really were. So subtle. It's very. Clever many double meanings

"sehr gut, Till". :).

The sehnsucht thing tickles me so much he starts off by saying yes it's better to leave things up for interpretation and naturally my brain assumes he means the well thought out probably not true but poetic stuff, right, and then he goes on to say Americans thought sehnsucht was chainsaw and I cannot

The knife also is good.

In a way Amerika as a video is a precursor Ausländer and I like seeing how it compares because its

AS I WAS TYPING THAT OLI SAID THE WORD AUSLÄNDER

Oli does not seem happy to have his words captured At All

I wonder how many people did the Deutschland thing and went straight to saying it's racist without thinking through the reasons behind what they were doing (at least in part criticising American racism) I'm pretty sure l've seen someone complain about it somewhere like it was serious, I think on Reddit around the time the Ausländer Making of came out? Which is why I bring it up

"we wanted to make it clear that it wasn't a love song so these lyrics are perfect" Till: literally just saying this is not a love song

I would like to see them perform a cheer in proper cheerleader costumes instead of the uncomfy stickman Deutschland dance that makes me cringe my skeleton right out of my skin in 2021 please

The juxtaposition of Richards pro-america comments and flakes sarky comments about how nice the urinals are is so reminiscent of that post that's like America where freedom is the choice between thirty kinds of bread that you can't afford to buy

I was going to make a Regan's grave joke but I do prefer to keep that one for Margaret Thatchers grave

I like schneiders hair at this length

Schneiders capacity to oscillate so wildly between being a vacant dumbass and saying intelligent and thought out things is ceaselessly amazing

Saying it's hard because "it's like a punk concert for them" Jörn my guy my dude almost all of them were in punk bands I just checked and this was 2004 Feeling b only broke up in the 90s do you literally just mean Oli (I do not remember if there was any punk going on in the Inchtabokatables) or

Schneider is making it look so easy was he truly just so -_- about feeling b that he can be completely calm in the face drumming that fast? Cause we know usually his fast drumming involves screaming faces and or actual screaming I swear he does and it's just not hearable under the music sidenote he sings along sometimes and if he does it out loud I NEED to hear it

Richard when it's slowed down looks uh. Looks like he's eh. Hm. Is that the real reason people are so into guitarists?

I don't know which part of the sentence Glasses Paul says in that louder voice (schossen? Is he saying that/shot?) but I do like it if I knew more German I would take on way more Rammstein things as echoes you have no idea how much time I spend saying es reicht wenn hier so 'nen fleischfarbenen Draht lang legst which If that's wrong it's exactly what I was told he said so please correct it but it's not my fault unless you consider it my fault for not knowing enough German in which case it is my fault

But anyway yes hes Talking like its a museum tour and in his little glasses and shirt and everything he is totally playing the part of unhinged historian which is the best kind of historian honestly if you're going to be academic in nature you might as well be fucking mental

I want to know what vibes his speech gives off in German because to me he in English and German seems very theatrical in the way he talks? Including how much he rolls his rs it's very... Showy? But maybe not actually?

I forget how many videos Jörn has shot with them honestly

What do you do with this ash sand once your finished with? Some of them had kids I'd have taken it home and pretended it was real moon dust or something

They really go for it when they decide to do something like this and it really is admirable. It's rare they'll half-ass something and even when if feels like their director has they don't themselves

Richard looks very handsome in his space suit before they hang him up

Pretti

He looks like a marionette now nevermind

THIS FUCKER

I just. Do. Not. Enjoy this man I'm sorry to you and the mullet man I'm sure he's great but for fucks SAKE man he

TILL LITERALLY SAYS DONALD SUTHERLAND POINTS TO HIS DICK AND MIMES ZIPPING YOU KNOW WHAT HE'S FUCKING TALKING ABOUT SO WHY DO YOU LOOK SO CONFUSED

YOU TOLD HIM THE STORY YOU KNOW WHY HES SAYING DONALD SUTHERLAND AND POINTING TO HIS PENIS WHY ARE YOU SO GORMLESS

Look. I have nothing against Americans individually B is American Nick is American i love them dearly i know also other Americans a lot of you guys are Americans and I love you lots but here's the thing why are Americans like this

If it's not in English the brain turns off even if the context is obvious it's like when English people see Welsh/English signs and are so anti-welsh that they don't acknowledge that they're also in English and get angry that they don't know where they are

The sweetest little face though!

Softest boy ever besides Rosenrot Till

Till gets bored of the guy and decides to tell a story about a dick it's very him

This is the hair I think of when I think of Till this is the quintessential till haircut no?

God I do dislike this man

Tills voice is so so high here I adore him so completely it's so soft and high and the song is Not

If you're trying to learn how to say L sounds like a German I feel like richard is the easiest one to copy? Unless they're all weirdos and no other German says L sounds like that. Him and flake.

Flakes smile is more cheerful than Paul's there I said it

I know it's not foreshadowing but Jörn foreshadowing Ausländer

Richard talking about America's tendancy to exaggerate is really interesting since that's something the community as a whole seems to agree is a personality trait of his. They didn't fight, they almost broke up. He hates touring and yet he loves touring. Is that why he likes it there or is living there why he's like that?

Can you casually buy ten litres of orange juice? The boys are busy they cannot confirm and Google does not understand what I'm asking

Yeah Richard and Till, get closer

Knife

Schneiders handprint

I forgot about "there was a rumour in the DDR that America didn't exist" what is it with Germany and conspiracies about places not existing I'm there are tears in my eyes I genuinely I never watch this one flake is so fucking funny

Till talking pictures of the others

It's better than I give it credit for in my memory is there anything they've made that is in not a single way entertaining? I feel like no

Thank you for asking for this one it was every fun actually

[tonyspep]

this night is sparkling, don’t you let it go (i’m wonderstruck blushing all the way home)

a/n: like always when it comes to my richard fics this is @rocketrhap917​‘s fault but in the best way possible.rae has become such a great friend these past few months since i found her fics for richard. my inspiration was this https://veinsofmantra.tumblr.com/post/188848193579  post and my face claim for you aka maddie is elizabeth olsen best known for playing wanda maximoff in the mcu. you can see her here. also i used lyrics from “enchanted” by taylor swift for the title of this fic.

~*~this night is sparkling, don't you let it go~*~

(i'm wonderstruck blushing all the way home)

pairing: richard madden/you

summary: you were never a risk taker, but the last thing you wanted was for everyone to think you had a lousy time in paris, so for the first time you took a risk; asking a handsome strange for a kiss, the worst he could do is say no, except he didn't

rating: t

The sun slowly setting while you rode the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower reminded you that your time in Paris was dwindling. You didn't think a week had ever gone by so fast, but this was your lone vacation of the year, as you had only been working at Gourmand Magazine for a year and hadn't accumulated much paid time off as a result. So instead of staring at the familiar sight of Bryant Park, you were taking in one of Europe's most vibrant cultural centers, seemingly unearthing a new sight every time you blinked.

You sighed heavily, your teeth sinking into your lip as the elevator dinged, signalling you had reached the observation deck. Your camera – yes, camera complete with multiple lenses and a small tripod – weighed heavily in the bag you slung across your shoulder. Though, Gourmand hired you for your writing, you had experience in food styling from when you were in college and photography had always been a hobby of yours, so you brought your beat up – but still functional, thank you very much – Nikon with you.

Your lips twisted wryly as you thought of your sister, Maggie, who teased you for bringing it along while she helped you pack. mads, i don't get it, sue me, but you have a perfectly good iphone ten for pictures. why are you packing that old dinosaur? dad doesn't even remember giving it to you. save the space for thongs for the sexy french dudes you'll be hooking up with.

You managed to hold down a bark of laughter as you stepped out onto the crowded space. Your sister – though, she was older – thought you were going to be whisked into some kind of romantic comedy or at least an episode of Sex and the City the second you touched down at the Charless DeGalle airport and your week long trip would be nothing but hook ups with Gabriel, Raphael and Louis, ever so enchanted by your Midwest twang and slouchy beanies and beat up boots.

yeah, mags you thought with a roll of your eyes i'm every frenchman's dream

You shook your head, pasting on a warm, friendly smile as you manuevered your way through the throng of tourists and locals on the deck, hoping to squeeze your petite frame into a good spot where you'd be able to get shots of the city at sunset. Your heart couldn't help but sink as you looked at the couples all around you – apparently you hadn't gotten the memo that tonight was couples only – which only served to remind you that you weren't supposed to be here alone. You were supposed to be here with your boyfriend of nearly two years Nick, but he broke up with you a month before the trip and of course the deposit on the hotel room was non refundable and it was too late to change your ticket, so you were stuck going to Paris alone. He at least – ha – had the courtesy to Zelle you the money for his ticket.

Another sigh passed your lips as you found some space between the couples exchanging longing glances and fevered kisses.

X

“Beautiful night isn't it?” A rich baritone came from beside you, nearly making you jump out of your skin. “Didn't mean to startle ye,” Their tone somewhat sheepish and when you turned to face them, your breath caught in your throat and your heart stuttered while your pulse raced.

You were sure you had never seen a more handsome man.

Not even Leo looked this good to you while you were swooning over him in Romeo + Juliet and Titanic as a lovestruck teenager.

He was at least a head taller than you, just a little under six feet or just at the six foot mark, you guessed. His eyes were the bluest blue, so blue it was like staring into the ocean itself, you thought you could drown if you stared long enough. His lips were plush and inviting, as if their shape had been specifically made for kissing. His jaw, that looked sharp enough to cut glass, was covered by a neatly trimmed russet beard – briefly a sizzling thought was seared into your brain as you wondered what the bristly hairs might feel like between your thighs.

You flushed, but willed the heat in your cheeks to recede, the thought replaced by something tamer. The wonder of wanting to know what it would feel like to card your fingers through the thickness of his simply styled hair, the grey streak at the front capturing your attention. The silver mixed among the otherwise dark auburn only enhanced his attractiveness and you thought your touch/romance starved brain might have conjured him up, like some sort of mirage as if you were wandering in the desert and were desperate for water.

Because, honestly, how could he be real?

“An amateur photographer, perhaps?” Brought you back to reality. Just as your lips parted, he shook his head, “No, no don't tell me,” He flashed the most charming knee weakening grin you'd ever seen, thirty two perfectly white teeth shining at you and your thighs clenched as he stroked his beard, pretending to be deep in thought. “Let me guess,” He leaned in close as if you weren't complete strangers, his breath – minty fresh – warming your face.

“Artist,” He declared and you were sure your panties would be ruined if he spoke another syllable.

“I can only draw stick figures, sorry,” You remarked, your lips twisting into your first genuine smile since you stepped off the plane. “You, uh,” Your voice took on a lighter, airier tone – dare you even say flirtatious – as you moved a little closer, your bodies nearly touching. “Were right the first time,” You gave a breathless giggle and were rewarded with a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

“An amateur photographer, are ye?”

“I write for a food magazine,” You explained, not really taking the time to analyze that you were telling all of this to a complete stranger. “Back in New York. Gourmand. It's, uh, just barely getting off the ground and I've only been there a year, so I don't have a lot of vacation time saved. I was supposed to be here with someone, but it didn't work out,” You could feel your cheeks heat up from the admission. “I couldn't get the hotel room deposit back and it was too late to switch my flight to somewhere else. I, uh, did some food styling in college, but photography's actually been a hobby of mine since high school.”

“An actual camera's a rare sight these days.” His breath warms your face again as he angles it just so, his fingers brushing along the strap that keeps the camera around your neck. The tips – calloused and rough, but not unpleasant – catch, briefly, against the skin of your neck and you don't know how you're standing.

“My sister,” Your tone is rueful just as your smile is. “Thought it was a waste of space. She voted for thongs to fill the space inside my suitcase instead,” The words fell from your lips without a second thought and another low chuckle left those criminally plush lips. “Thongs, you say?” He arched a perfect brow. “But since your camera took up all that space, am I to assume no thongs accompanied you on your trip?”

You laughed instead of flushed like you expected yourself to do. You gave him a shove, surprised by your bold move and he laughed again, his crystal eyes twinkling while they squinted and crinkled attractively until the last rasp fell from his lips.

You stood on your tip toes, your lips brushing along the shell of his ear – again, taking yourself by surprise – and murmured, “No thongs, I'm afraid, but some lacy pairs accompanied me. I may be wearing a pair right now.”

“Oh,” He sounded breathless, and you felt yourself swell with pride. You – little Maddie Rogers – from Naperville made this incredibly handsome guy with this too die for accent breathless and flush. You who always waited for the guy to make the first move did that. Where it came from you didn't know, it was probably the fact that you were in Paris and though not quite the romantic Maggie was, you were being swept up in the vibe that the Eternal City gave off, that rush that anything could happen, that you could be anyone or anything and it wouldn't matter because in, like, two days you would be gone.

For the first time since you landed, Nick was the furthest thing from your mind. You were doing the thing you had struggled to do since you were a kid, live in the moment and just be.

Your brain was buzzing while heat surged through your veins, the urge to have those perfect lips pressed against yours too much to ignore. You turn yourself, your soft but lithe frame pressed against him and he's just as you thought he would be; lean and hard, not overly muscled but the perfect amount that you can feel the toned shape of his pecs through the fabric of his henley that clings to him just so, your breasts cushioned wonderfully against the muscles.

“Kiss me,” You basically demand before you can stop yourself.

Without a second thought, his large hand reaches between your bodies, touching your chin gently to angle you in a more advantageous way and just as you feel your lashes brush your cheeks when your eyes close, his lips are on yours.

If you're breathing, you don't know. All you know is his lips feel just as plush as they looked and yes, they were specifically designed for kissing. They literally shouldn't be doing anything else. Your lips open with no resistance for his insistent tongue and you allow him to coax your own out of hiding, tangling with his with no regard that you don't know his name and he doesn't know yours.

Breathing – unfortunately – is a necessity and when you break apart, you feel as though your coming up for air after having been under water. Your lungs burn, but it's pleasant and all you want is to capture his lips again, never wanting to go another second without them moving hungrily against your own. Your foreheads are pressed together and you feel your lips curve into a smile. He laughs, his hand moving languidly over your back, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your shirt to touch the small of your back, and god what you wouldn't give for him to touch you everywhere, no barriers between you.

You're under an intense haze, your brain foggy in a way it's never been and just as his lips brush against yours again, you pull away before the kiss can turn hotter. You give a soft smile, your fingers lingering along the bristles of his beard and you giggle at the roughness of the hair there – so different than the soft, thickness you felt as your fingers carded through the hair on his head - “just a sec,” you breathe and it takes everything to pull away.

Your camera's on the railing, when you took it off you don't know, but you slip your phone from your back pocket and tap a middle aged woman on the shoulder. You ask if she speaks in English, unsure if she is French or not and when she says yes – her Minnesota accent coming through – you laugh and ask if she'd be willing to take a picture of you and – you let the white lie slip from your lips – boyfriend, a tingle rushing up your spine from the word while your stomach dips and tumbles from the heady thought you desperately wish was true.

She says yes and you're pulling him in for what you intend to be another steamy kiss. Instead, he's unbelievably gentle. Taking special care when his lips slide along yours, one of his hands anchored in your hair and the other at the small of your back, to keep you pressed against him. His tongue is slow and languid as it moves against yours and you pull back just as the woman goes, “there you go,” and you sigh softly, your breath literally stolen and he says, “thank you ma'am,” the accent – Scottish, you finally realize – sending your heart beating like a runaway train.

“Oi, Dickie!” A British accent calls from a foot away and you laugh when he mutters, “fuck all,” under his breath. “Dickie?” You can't stop yourself from giggling. You're not sure what you would have guessed his name to be, but he definitely isn't a Dick. “It's Richard,” He murmurs, thumb stroking your cheek. “My father's also named Richard so my Mum took to calling us Big Dick and Little Dick. My friends think it's funny.”

“Oh,” You murmur, giggles slowly fading from your tone. “Take care,” He says, flashing another knee weakening smile and yeah, you're positive your panties are ruined at this point. “And whoever you were supposed to be with is a bloody fool.” His tone is so sincere you fight back a swoon. “I'd never let  a beauty such as yourself end up in Paris – of all places – alone.”

“Thanks...”

“Bloody hell, mate...” His friend grouses after he pushed his way through the throng of people to get to where the two of you were standing. “For finding my camera,” You finish, reaching for the familiar device. You knew what was going to happen next, his friend was going to ask who you were and then you'd probably end up wherever they were going and in the morning he'd be in your bed just a day left on your trip and he'd, somehow, convince you to stay and that was something you couldn't – literally – afford to do. You were barely making the rent as it was since you didn't have Nick's extra income coming in anymore.

“Of course,” He muttered, those pure crystal eyes going cloudy and your stomach twisted. His handsome face looked sad, though it was probably your imagination. He had no reason to be sad. You were just a stranger he kissed in Paris. It's not like you were ever going to see each other again.

“Who was that?” You heard his friend ask as you slipped through the crowd to make your way to the elevator. You bit down on your lip, twisting the flesh between your teeth and you swore you could still taste him; minty fresh with something spicy and deep underneath. Just like you swore his scent lingered in your nose; bergamont and orange with notes of musk and wood, a scent you doubt you would forget any time soon.

X

Before you shut the light off in your hotel room, you found the picture the fellow tourist had taken of the two of you, and before you could stop yourself you logged into your instagram account.

You posted the pic with the caption; i hope this guy i met at the eiffel tower and asked for a pic of us kissing so i could pretend i had a romantic time in paris is doing good.

The next morning your phone was buzzing and you rolled your eyes at the stream of text messages and dms Maggie had sent you. As you stretched your limbs and twisted your hair into a messy bun so you could prepare to wash your face and brush your teeth, your phone pinged. You were prepared to leave Maggie on read – not wanting to deal with her craziness so early in the morning and on your last day in Paris no less – when you saw that it wasn't a text or a dm from her.

Someone had liked – along with a few hundred other people – your photo of you and the stranger kissing. Your eyes squinted to read the user name – your glasses on the dresser in the middle of the room and you had taken out your contacts when you went to sleep – and saw it was from madsrich.

You didn't recognize the name and just as you were about to put your phone down, it pinged again letting you know you had a dm. It was from madsrich. huh?????????? you thought before clicking the message so it could fill your screen.

you hoped the guy you met at the eiffel tower and asked for a pic of us kissing so you could pretend you had a romantic time in paris is doing good, eh? i can confidently say he's doing well. though, he'd really like to know your name. it can't really be maroge12.

You nearly fell off the bed. It couldn't be... Your mind was racing and when you clicked on his username it took you to his profile and sure enough those unreal crystal blue eyes you believed you could drown in were staring back at you from various photos.

You quickly typed a response to his dm, your fingers shaking and tripping over themselves enough times that you had to go back and retype your message before you clicked send.

my name's maddie. and you're doing well, are you? that's good to know. i'm doing well also. i had a romantic time in paris, after all ;)

[cowlovely]

The Losers Club + Maine

i feel like as a mainer, it's my obligation to make this post, so here i am

disclaimer: for the purposes of this post I’m pretending that none of the losers left derry until graduating high school because the alternative makes me sad

* to start this off, in case you were wondering, yes it was extremely unnerving to watch it (2017) the first time. the foliage/town layout etc. looks exactly like where i live

* you can bet your ass at least one of them works at a local convenience store or grocery store as a teenager, probably Wallgreen’s or Cumberland Farms (my bet's on Richie)

* this means that summer is a fucking nightmare what with all the tourists from Massachusetts and Quebec (affectionately called "massholes" and "queebs")

* the movie did not exaggerate swearing. i'm sure it's like that in other places too, but mainers swear a LOT. especially teens. we're very liberal with our f-bombs

* halloween does sometimes get snowed out here. We have snow on halloween more often than on christmas

* one unrealistic thing about IT (seems kind of stupid to nitpick a supernatural horror movie but I’m going to anyway): the kids didn't complain about humidity a single time. The average mainer complains about this ten times basically every day of summer

* this is just occurring to me now but?? bev living in an apartment building is kinda weird.....we have apartments, but usually in very small house sized residences, not huge ones like we see in the movie (but derry is bigger than the town I live in so idk)

* bill’s stutter would absolutely get worse during the fall/winter (it gets cold as fuck where I live, and Derry is way farther north)

* The beach is fun, but the water is not. The water is fucking ice cold. We get a weird warm current once every like. 15 years

* stan, excitedly calling bill: bill!! this [book/movie/show/whatever] takes place in maine!!!

* bill: I k-know. The others a-already all c-c-called me

* ^ this was literally everyone at my school when once upon a time was really popular

* I'd like to formally apologize to mike for the amount of white people in maine (if any of you were watching the movie like “why is everyone white” the answer is that maine is 94% white people and i wish i was joking)

* mike, stepping outside in the middle of winter: oh! it's not that cold today!

* mike's grandfather: it's -3 degrees mike (yes this is a real interaction I’ve had)

* at LEAST one of the kids turns out to be a stoner like....there's one in almost every friend group here

* i can confidently say that one of the kids has ruined some piece of clothing with tree sap

* eddie is really twitchy during the spring cause that's when everyone starts freaking out about ticks

* ben, his first winter there: im so excited for it to snow!!

* all the other losers, dead inside:

* there are just. so many antique shops. like at least one or two per town

* so much camo. so. so much. you can pretty much guarantee that every asshole boy in high school wears camo and hunts with his dad

* you either love moxie and whoopie pies, or you hate them. end of story. there's no in between (the kids are very divided on this, blood has been spilled)

* 99% of kids/teens in maine own something by L.L. Bean, but don't remember buying it (not a single kid in chapter one had an L.L. Bean backpack??? that’s bullshit Mr. Muschietti)

* richie at ben's house for the first time, practically choking: oh god that's definitely not real maple syrup

* If you don’t know what that means, you’re definitely not from New England

* Wicked is an adjective in maine, and the kids use it ALL the time (i.e. wicked cold, wicked good, etc). The fact that this is in the book and not in any of the adaptations is a hate crime

* The kids, every time they walk by an old building: it's haunted

* Honestly? Any time they walk by any building. Everything in Maine is haunted and everybody knows it

* Someone over the internet, to one of the losers: is there internet in maine?? (this legitimately happened to my brother and I will never stop thinking about it)

* Fluff is the SHIT (the rest of the kids nearly had an aneurism when they found out that ben had never had any)

* I know they have it in more places now, but until like the 90s/early 200s it was only in New England and like. I think a few states in the midwest

* The squirrels are sometimes violent and will occasionally throw pine cones at you. and they hit HARD

* I don’t know if this is just a southern maine thing or if it goes for the whole state but the fucking chapter eleven furniture ad. I don’t know if there’s a video of it somewhere but literally everyone here makes fun of it. I have no idea when they started playing it, but according to my parents it was before I was born

* billboards are illegal in maine!! this doesn’t really have that much significance to the losers but i thought it might be a helpful note for those of you who write fics

* Bill goes (or maybe used to go? you tend to do it more when you’re younger) fishing with his dad. Don’t know why, I’m just feelin it

* At least three of the losers took french in high school, it’s the one that makes the most sense practically (I’m thinking eddie, mike, and ben)

* Richie absolutely took spanish. I don’t know why I feel so strongly about this but he did

* I love the idea of Stan taking latin, but I know a lot of high schools probably don’t offer that (mine did, but they also have greek and arabic so clearly they’re an outlier)

* Central maine is mostly trees, so there’s a sort of divide between southern and northern maine. This is probably why the politics are so different between the two (some people up in the most northern part of the state wear confederate flags like what the fuck is that about)

* Someone please write or draw anything that includes the losers apple picking. I know that’s not unique to maine (duh), but it is REALLY big here

* I genuinely don’t know how much of this is common knowledge because I’ve never left new england

[hurtcomfortetc]

A fill for Setting a Broken Bone featuring Jim Kirk and Nyota Uhura!

Uhura had volunteered for this mission, but the poor newly-recruited science officer had not. It felt unfair that the young man had been plucked onto his first ever away party into an Enterprise-grade shit show. 

Although, at the moment, Uhura wasn't even sure he'd made it down to the planet's surface. The moment that'd materialized, it was immediately apparent that they were in for trouble. 

“Where the hell is Ensign Roberts?” Kirk's voice came from somewhere close to her. 

To Uhura's eyes, she was on a flat, desolate landscape. It appeared to be made up mostly of packed brown dirt, oddly reminiscent of the quarries in Iowa where the Enterprise had docked when she'd met Kirk. The air was filled with glistening particles that looked like crystal dust particles. Uhura took in a cautious breath, expecting to choke on a breath of sand, but it felt smooth as butter. 

She spun around, searching frantically. There was not a single, solitary figure on the horizon. 

“Captain?” She said, trying desperately to keep her voice level. 

“I'm right here-” Kirk replied. After what must have been a subtle shift in position, he appeared beside her like a mirage. She grabbed his upper arm like a life preserver. He took a look at her expression and pulled up his communicator with stormy eyes. 

“Sorry, Captain, there was a glitch in the transporter and we delayed his arrival.” 

“Good,” Kirk cut in, curtly. “No one else is coming down here until we figure out what's happening.” 

“Sir, from our readings, you should be in the center of the civilization, as planned.” 

“I know where we were supposed to be, what I need to know now is where we actually are.”

“We're on it. But, Captain, we're also detecting a frequency from the planet's surface that seems to be contributing to the misfire in location. We can't beam you and Lieutenant Uhura back until it's resolved or we risk-” 

“Send Chekov to the transporter room. If he can't figure it out, then we're in trouble. Let me know once you have news. We're going to see if we can find anything on our end.”

“Understood.”

“Kirk out.” 

Kirk took a long, surveying look at the planet's surface.

“Reminds me of that summer I got sent to work in the salt mines,” he said, smiling wryly. 

“Is that some type of backwards Midwest expression for 'oh, shit'?” Uhura countered. She was only marginally steadied by his attempt to lighten the mood. There was something sinister about the desolate horizon, the 360 degree optical illusion of it, the silence. 

“Ladies pick the direction,” Kirk offered. Uhura rolled her eyes, and pointed straight ahead, towards the descending orange sun. He nodded. 

“Weird, that was exactly the direction I was thinking,” he said. He started walking forward, his steady steps portraying a nonchalance in the face of their surroundings that almost seemed natural. 

Nyota followed her captain, but couldn't help staring out into the mysterious swirling horizon, trying to make a semblance of visual sense out of it. 

They had just settled into a rhythm when Uhura heard a strangled yelp from Kirk, and then scraping sound followed by a low thud. She spun around, heart pounding. 

By all appearances, she was alone. 

“Captain!” She yelled. 

“Down here!” Kirk's voice came, sounding both further away than she expected, and very near. 

“Down where?” She called. 

“Right in front of you,” he replied, voice strained. Uhura took a step forward, peering around and wondering if this was all an elaborate hoax. 

“Wait, careful! You're right on the edge,” Kirk cautioned. Uhura inspected the surface in front of her carefully. It looked like a shiny, mineral covered pathway, not a cliff's edge in sight. Still, and possibly only because no one was there to witness it, Uhura lowered herself gingerly onto her butt and tentatively pushed herself forward, prodding the ground in front of herself with her feet. 

Sure enough, just as she was about to be overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of her position, her foot dropped out. Uhura took in a sharp breath of air, horrified to see her foot seemingly disappear in the swirling mineral ground. Her stomach swooped, but she crept further forward until the illusion dissipated, and she spotted her captain lying on the ground about eight feet below. He was gripping his arm near his elbow and his face was milk white. 

“There you are,” she breathed, still working to shake the ambient unease from the optical illusion. 

“No shit,” he grit out. Uhura set her face against a grimace, deciding to allow the slip-up in light of the clear pain Kirk was in. 

“How badly are you hurt?” She asked. Kirk looked dismally at his crooked arm, and then back up at her. 

“I'm fine-” 

Uhura shot him a warning look. 

“-just this arm is for sure broken,” Kirk continued, wisely. 

Uhura took out her comm. 

“McCoy here.”

“Doctor McCoy, Captain Kirk just fell about eight feet off of a ledge. Other than a broken arm, he seems fine, but I don't know what to do.” 

There was a heavy pause during which Uhura was sure she could hear McCoy pull his most lethal “disappointed but not surprised” face.  

“Dammit, Jim. Are you with him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Dammit, Jim!” McCoy repeated. “Are you physically incapable of not -” 

“Thanks for the concern, Bones. Can we skip the lecture and get some actual medical advice?” 

“What type of fracture is it?” 

Uhura peered down at Kirk's mangled limb, but couldn't manage to make decipher anything about it other than “gross.”

“I'm not a doctor, Bones.” 

“Come on, Jim. You're practically an expert at broken bones.”

Kirk rolled his eyes. 

“Fine. It's closed, probably displaced.” 

McCoy sighed heavily on the other end of the line. 

“Uhura, how much do you remember from your field medicine training?”

“Enough,” she replied, without hesitation. It wasn't exactly true, but Uhura figured she would be better than nothing in a pinch. God, she'd hated medical training...

“Good, you're going to have to set and stabilize it. You two need to be mobile on that godforsaken rock.”

Kirk's face managed to lose even more color, which Uhura hadn't thought was possible. 

“Ugh.”

“I heard that. Sack up, Jim. This is what you get for being more danger prone than a fucking medieval princess. Now hang tight, I'm filling Spock in on the situation. McCoy out.” 

For what it was worth, McCoy's ribbing seemed to restore some of the vitality to Kirk. He now looked more delicately pissed off than immediately corpse-like. 

“Sorry about this, Lieutenant,” Kirk said. Uhura felt a flare of anxiety. She much preferred her Captain unrepentant, demanding. 

“No need,” she stated. 

There was a moment of heavy silence. 

“So, you and Spock.” Kirk said, plainly. 

Uhura started, and then briefly wondered if he'd hit his head, after all. 

“What?”  Her sharp tone made Kirk shift nervously, then attempt to stifle a wince when he jarred his broken arm. 

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, but forged on. 

“Look, we have some free time here, and I would love a distraction.”

“It would be unprofessional to discuss my personal, romantic life -” 

“Actually, this is a professional question.”

“What?” Uhura was just about to reach her maximum limit for surreal experiences for the day. 

“I'm actually supposed to write a report on interpersonal relationships between crew men. In the event of a possible need for intervention.”

Uhura felt like she'd been clubbed over the head. Of course James T. Kirk would find a regulation to follow in order to gossip. 

Kirk seemed to recognize her tacit assessment of his thought process. 

“Look, I've been putting it off for a while now, since you guys have seemed fine. But I need something to write, officially,” he explained, and at least had the courtesy to seem genuinely apologetic. 

Uhura might have told him to stick it where the sun don't shine, but the thin lines of pain around his eyes were a powerful incentive to speak. 

“We're both entirely capable of working together. It ended amicably.” 

“You're still friends.” He didn't phrase it as a question. 

Uhura actually thought about it. Friends didn't fully encompass how she felt, but it wasn't incorrect. Not exactly. 

“Yes.” 

Kirk didn't miss her hesitation, but he looked away, unable to conjure a follow up question that might not provoke her more. 

“We grew apart,” she found herself saying. At the same time, she realized that she hadn't really spoken to anyone about her relationship with Spock. Everyone on the Enterprise kept a careful distance from the topic, as he was her commanding officer. While no one had ever been rude or spoken against her, Uhura had convinced herself that she appreciated the privacy, the way that their feelings were so personal and covert. 

For the first time, she wanted desperately to talk about it. It felt like a physical urge, like hunger or exhaustion. 

“He was always bound by his duty, to his people and to the Enterprise. I wanted something else,” she said. Her skin was crawling with the bold honesty of the statement. She forced herself to look at Kirk, to regain some sense of casual calm. 

Kirk's lips quirked up from some private sense of irony. Then he caught her shooting him a questioning look. 

“Sorry, I just – I get it. Spock has an interesting set of priorities.” 

Uhura wondered whether Kirk was marveling at Spock's undying need to put his job before his chance at meaningful relationships, or if he was relating to it.

“Is that enough for your report?” Uhura asked, wryly. 

“I can paraphrase if I need to.” Kirk matched her tone. 

Uhura opened her mouth to attempt to say something meaningful when her communicator signaled her. 

“McCoy here. You guys ready for this?”

[haloud]

any other rose

ao3

With Dad in a coma and Flint nowhere to be found, Alex takes a leave of absence from Roswell to check on the other ducks in this particular row. He goes alone, though Kyle offers to come with him, puffing his chest up like that jock he used to be, only this time it’s to protect Alex from theoretical threat, and it’s frankly fucking adorable. He doesn’t even tell Michael he’s leaving until he sends him a text at a rest area a hundred miles away to tell him he’ll be back within two days.

This is something Alex has to do for himself. He needs information, something more tangible than what he can read off his computer screen, before he declares open war. His family may be hateful to the core, maybe, maybe, but a lot can change in relatively little time, and Alex just—can’t keep walking blind not knowing who his actual enemies are.

As Flint so eloquently put it, Alex has always been the black sheep of the family. His brothers, well, they toed the line much more skillfully, and grew closer together because of it. When Alex sets out to track down his two oldest brothers, he first runs into a wall. The eldest, Harlan? His military records check out up until the very recent present, then he just disappears. Definitely concerning, but maybe he just turned into a doomsday prepper and is living in a bunker made out of nonperishable food somewhere in the Midwest.

Robert, in contrast, doesn’t appear to be hiding his tracks at all. His whole life unspools for Alex in a perfectly neat paper trail—which is funny, because Robert is the one who hasn’t spoken to anyone in the family since 2013, making the possibilities frankly endless. Deep cover? Maybe, but his credit card activity is bland and consistent every statement Alex rifles through. A fight or falling out with Dad, Harlan, or Flint? Well, Flint doesn’t have the backbone to really ‘fall out’ with anyone, and if it was a fight with Dad then the old bastard would have taken it out on the rest of them tenfold. Harlan is a distinct possibility, but what might be so bad that both of them would drop off the grid, with Robert maintaining a convincing facsimile of civilian life?

No, there are two possibilities that Alex deems actually likely.

First: Robert is as neck-deep in conspiracy, murder, and torture as Dad and Flint, and he cut off contact with the family as a minimalization of risk. If one arm of Project Shepherd gets discovered, then a manufactured estrangement offers plausible deniability that the others had no knowledge of it whatsoever.

The second possibility has Alex pacing his floor at three in the morning more nights than he’d like.

(Why? Why? The world went dark around him as he stared at his computer screen with his hand over his mouth, staring at the name of a niece he’s never met. Aubrey Alexandra Manes. Why?)

A phone call would be too much warning, would give Robert time to hide or come up with a story. So Alex just finds his address, gets in the car, and goes searching for answers. What he finds is a simple ranch house six hours out of Roswell, one with a flag hanging from the porch and a slightly overgrown yard full of soccer goals and Barbie jeeps and other childhood detritus.

Maybe Robert knew to expect him somehow; maybe he just wasn’t expecting a car in the driveway at this time of day and therefore came out to inspect it. Either way, Alex doesn’t even make it up the porch stairs before Robert opens the door and brings them face to face for the first time in a long, long time.

“Alex!”

The shock would almost be funny, if Alex wasn’t bracing for either a punch or a bullet.

“Hey, big bro,” he says, curling his mouth in a deliberate smile. “It’s been six years since I got a courtesy Christmas phone call. What’s new in your life?”

Face thunderous, Robert steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him. “Cut the crap. Believe it or not, I’ve been following your career. I know you could find out anything you wanted about me, and hell, I know you probably did. So it’s you that needs to start talking.”

Alex nods pensively. Reevaluates. Strange, to be properly estimated by a family member. It is true, though—Alex never would have gone in blind, and the research he did produce some interesting results.

Six years ago, Robert stopped coming to holidays. He stopped picking up the phone. He made polite, manly excuses whenever their dad pressed him, but he made those excuses every single time. And what did Alex find when he went looking? A birth certificate for a little girl, dated 2013; immunization forms; preschool and elementary registration; another birth certificate dated two years later. Aubrey Alexandra. So yeah, Alex knows, as if the yard cluttered with toys wasn’t enough of a clue. What he doesn’t know is why, so that’s what he’s here to find out.

“What’re their names?” Alex asks casually. He keeps his hands still at his sides, empty and loose. Not a threat. He has no interest in making Robert fear for his family, and if he’s being generous, he knows that Robert has no more reason to believe Alex isn’t working under their father’s orders than Alex has to trust him.

“Hope and Aubrey,” Robert says, the like you don’t already know hovering understood between them. He takes a step forward and shoves his hands in his pockets, shrewd soldier’s eyes scanning Alex just as much as Alex scans him. It’s a little strange, more so than Alex expected, to discover that Robert actually is a stranger now, not frozen at eighteen and stocky and mean-spirited.

Robert doesn’t move forward like he’s making threats. He presumably came outside because he felt either surprised or threatened by an unexpected vehicle in the driveway, but he isn’t even wearing a holster. Not even the suggestion of a weapon on his person. Is he the kind of military father who locks his guns away? Their dad was never that conscientious—presumably because it builds character for a little kid to accidentally shoot himself; either that or he just assumed his boys were too scared to go near anything of his. A fair assessment.

But what is a fair assessment of Robert? Maybe he just thinks girls can’t handle exposure to guns—safer parenting, to be sure, but still indicative of a toxic mindset. After all, Robert would’ve gotten suspended three times for snapping girls’ bra straps if dear old dad hadn’t intervened every single time.

“And are they why you’ve been MIA all this time?” Alex asks, point blank.

“You’re going to have to tell me why you’re here before I give you any information about my children. That’s non-negotiable.”

“Fair.” Alex holds his hands up in surrender, then lowers them as Robert takes another step his way.

“Are you here because of dad.” The question falls flat, like he doesn’t really want the answer. Robert’s face is inscrutable, his tone still thinly pleasant, but something darker lurks beneath the surface.

“In a manner of speaking.” Alex tilts his head and looks his brother up and down. Robert’s put on a little weight since the photos Alex saw from his last deployment; he’s got laugh lines around his eyes. They’re all of them getting older, but Alex—once again wrong-footed, and he’s getting increasingly frustrated with himself—Alex never expected Robert to wear his age so openly. “I’m doing a little reconnaissance. You see,” this time it’s Alex who steps forward, “Last time I saw Flint, it was in a secret torture prison our father has been running for decades, and he had a gun to my head. Harlan appears to have gone off the grid, so one can only guess what’s going on there. Which leaves…you. I thought it was high time we had a little reunion, bro.”

Genuine shock flicks over Robert’s face, and his eyes dart up and down Alex’s body as if looking for injuries. He is a military man, however, so the emotion is quickly replaced with more grim impassivity. “What kind of information are you looking for? Are you in danger right now? God damn it, Alex, my family—”

“Aren’t home at the moment, and I will happily be long gone before they get back. This is about our family, not yours. Hope won’t need to be picked up from school until 2:30, and your wife takes Aubrey to Tiny Tots ballet classes after preschool from one to three every Monday and Thursday. No one knows I’m here; if you’ve really been following my career, you know I know how to cover my tracks. I didn’t come here to make threats, Robert.”

“Then why are you here? You seem to know pretty much everything already.”

Alex feels a pang of…actual guilt at the fear lurking on Robert’s face, in his defensive posture, in the way he clenches his hands compulsively in his pockets. Rattling off his kid’s routines like that…might have been an excessive show of force, and Alex grimaces at himself. Robert is a soldier, sure, but somehow…somehow Alex forgot that not everyone has been unraveling earth-shattering revelations for the past year. He dug into Robert’s life remembering the dick who did shit like flushing his toothbrush down the toilet and dying all his clothes pink because he was ‘basically a girl anyway, right?’, and he did it expecting to find yet another monster with Alex’s same blood pumping through his veins.

He needs to remember: high school. Ten years to the left. Alex nods sharply to himself. He went about this the wrong way—it’s a reunion, not an op. If it goes poorly, he walks out of here with better knowledge of his enemy and the exact same amount of family he walked in here with. Nothing to lose.

“I just needed to see for myself, I guess. The reason why you haven’t even talked to dad in over half a decade. Or me. I don’t know about Harlan and Flint, but I’m guessing they’re getting the same treatment?”

Robert thinks for a minute, then he jerks his chin towards the rocking chairs squeezed into the corner of the narrow porch. “I’m not inviting you inside just yet, but I’ll get us some beers. We can sit out here and talk.”

Alex takes a seat in one of the rocking chairs and rests his hands on his knees. In between the two large chairs are two little ones, painted all kinds of crazy colors, sponge-stamped with bunnies and butterflies and dinosaurs. A pang of—something echoes deep in his chest. Can you be nostalgic for something you’ve never, ever had?

“Okay.”

Robert sticks a beer in Alex’s face. It’s already open; Alex sniffs it, swishes it in his mouth, holds it on the back of his tongue before swallowing. Well, if Robert was keeping undetectable poisons around on the off chance he got to slip it into Alex’s drink, he probably wouldn’t be walking around without a gun. Alex takes a real swig and waits for Robert to start talking.

His brother doesn’t look at him, just stares into the middle distance as he says, “You might remember Alanna, my wife. I think you met her a couple times.”

“Of course. Dad didn’t ‘approve of her family,’” Alex says with a thin, sarcastic smile. The real reason, of course, is that Alanna is black, but Jesse would never be so uncouth as to say something like that outright. No, it’s always dogwhistle central with that man.

Robert snorts and spits in disgust, the largest show of emotion he’s displayed since Alex pulled into the driveway. “Yeah. Fucking hell. You and I both know how deep Dad’s hatred runs. For everyone and everything that doesn’t march to his fucking tune.”

Alex folds his hands in his lap and does a terrible job of keeping the knives out of his voice. “Of course. I just wasn’t sure how you would approach the topic. Of hatred, that is, since I was the only member of the family not invited to the wedding.”

It’s surprisingly difficult to get the words out. How many times is he going to have to go through this? First with Flint, now…Robert may not have pulled a gun on him (yet), but it’s still a piece of Alex’s soul that gets chipped away bringing up this old pain. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being the black sheep,’ Flint said, and the answer is, frankly, not fucking likely, considering the standards set by the other Manes men past and present. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to be alone, doesn’t mean he didn’t feel the lump in his throat and the pain in his chest when he saw the wedding pictures on Facebook and realized he was deliberately excluded.

Alex clenches his fists on top of his knees and gets pissed at himself for showing even that much of a reaction.

Robert cuts his eyes away, clenching his jaw. Finally, he says, “Fuck. God damn.”

“No, I get it.” Alex forces a laugh. “Couldn’t have the gay gaying up your big day. We’re not here to talk about me. Forget I brought it up.”

Shaking his head sharply, Robert says, “I’m airing old shit, and I’m doing it once, then we’re getting back on topic. I didn’t invite you to the wedding because Dad already invited himself, you had just gotten stationed far away from Roswell, and I didn’t want to put you back in his path. That’s the sum of it. End of story.”

An ugly laugh, a real one this time, busts out of Alex’s chest. God, that’s even more rich than Flint’s bullshit about protection!

“I’m serious,” Robert snaps. “’Lanna opened my eyes to a lot of shit, okay? I won’t pretend I was some kind of amazing fucking ally back then, but I wasn’t afraid of your gaying, got it?”

And Alex wants to fight back. He does. He’s still owed a fucking pound of flesh. But in the back of his mind, he thinks—Aubrey Alexandra. And it gets him back on track. It even lets him see the humor, because, come on, Robert saying gaying like that is pretty fucking funny.

“Okay. Apology accepted,” he says, one last snark because Robert never actually apologized, and the way he looks away again says he knows that. “Tell me more about Alanna.”

“Right. Well. So anyway, she knew what she was marrying. Dad gave her the fucking creeps, but she married me anyway.” He fiddles with the label of his beer and quite obviously tries not to smile. “And we did the happy family thing for a while. I was deployed; the distance was hard. She felt a lot of pressure to be the right kind of military wife, but she had zero support. I was wrapped up in myself. The missions, the medals. I was a shitty husband, a shitty partner.” He drains his beer, then stares at the bottle like its emptiness is a personal betrayal. “Between deployments, she gave me the ultimatum. Couples counseling—completely non-military—or that’s it.”

“You went to a therapist?” Alex blurts. Robert? The guy who would lurk outside the guidance counselor’s office and trip kids if they came out crying? Maybe Alex should have done a deeper dive into whether or not Robert could have had alien contact.

Robert snorts and shakes his head. “I deserve that. God I was an absolute fucking cock as a kid. And as an adult. But Alanna gave me something to fight for, and damn if she didn’t push me to fight for it. I don’t know. I didn’t understand half the crap the shrink said. But I listened. Followed orders. Not so hard.”

“But you still had some contact with dad in that time. You didn’t go radio silent until several years after you and Alanna married.”

“He’s not an easy man to say no to. When his number would come up in my phone…”

Robert’s jaw clenches hard and tight. Alex hopes he has good dental.

“I always picked up. Autopilot. But the shrink helped me realize trying to be like Dad was…well, in real terms, ruining my fucking life.”

Damn. Alex is gonna find this therapist and send an annual fruit basket.

“And then Alanna got pregnant?” he prompts; Robert nods curtly.

“Changed my whole life. Scared me shitless, too, I don’t mind telling you. I was just working out how fucked our whole upbringing was, and now it was my turn? God.”

“So that’s the story? That’s why it’s been six years since you acknowledged any of us?”

Robert looks at him dead-on for the first time since they sat down. He looks like Dad. He really does. The same squarish face, the same thin mouth, the same soldier stoicism. But there’s a softness in the next words he says that Alex never once heard come out of their father’s mouth, and it shakes something in Alex’s very core.

“I got kids of my own now, man. And I work with kids too, or around them. Eighteen, nineteen years old. And I think about how dad treated us. I’m not exposing Hope and Aubrey to that. Not ever.”

“Good reason to avoid Dad, then. But what about the rest of us? Harlan, Flint? Me?”

Shrugging, Robert says, “I talked to Harlan a while longer, since we were closest as kids. But he got weird, man, I don’t know. And Flint…ended up I couldn’t trust him one bit. If I talked to him at all, he’d hand the phone over to Dad, and I didn’t want this shit getting that messy.”

“And me?”

Aubrey Alexandra. A little slice of Alex’s world has been disorienting and surreal ever since he read that name. Aliens are one thing, but having a niece that’s carrying his name—Alex doesn’t know how to live in that world. He has to hear it out of Robert’s own mouth, this brother he didn’t know he had at all.

A huge sigh gusts out of Robert’s chest. He goes back to staring into the middle distance. It’s a long while before he says, “I told you already that I’d started realizing Dad was fucked up.”

He cuts off there like there’s something physical blocking the words, and Alex waits for him to continue.

Finally, he says, “That was a hard thing to come to terms with. I always thought Dad was what made us into men, you know? If times were hard, well, they had to be, to toughen us up. But it turns out Dad was just an abusive fuck. So then what good is any kind of lesson he ever taught us? What good is being any kind of man he’d be proud of, when I’ve got ‘Lanna and two baby girls I could be making proud instead?” He sighs heavily. “So that’s why. I wanted them to be proud of me, and there’s nothing to be proud of in the way I treated you. The way I let you be treated. I thought about calling you up, but I was too damn cowardly to dial the phone, and somewhere along the line I convinced myself it would be better if I just let you live your own life without fucking bullies sandbagging you.”

Alex takes a moment.

In that moment, Robert runs his hand over his close-shaven skull three times. He bounces his leg, stops himself, and bounces again. He brings his beer up to his mouth like he’s forgotten already that it’s empty.

And Alex just…breathes.

Flint carried his orders like absolution so he could sleep at night. With Robert being such an unknown after six years of radio silence, Alex thought he was prepared for all eventualities this reunion might come to, but turns out he wasn’t actually prepared at all. Not for the reality of the two little rocking chairs, allowed to be bright and clumsy. Not for a version of his brother that sees the world with open eyes.

“You going to say anything?” Robert finally says gruffly.

“I saw Aubrey’s birth certificate when I researched you.” Alex swallows and tries to wet his throat with the beer, but it’s gone flat. Ugh. Still, he won’t back down. “Aubrey Alexandra.” Saying the name out loud chokes him up, just a little bit, and he forces it back down like he learned to do a long time ago. “You could have just called me.”

Robert ducks his head to hide his own too-bright eyes, and that sheepish, honest gesture cracks deep in Alex’s chest to feed some very small, very young part of him.

“Yeah,” Robert mumbles. “I know I should’ve—asked you. Or just not. But I was all emotional ‘n shit. It felt right at the time.”

“All right.” Alex shoves his emotion unceremoniously aside. He has the information he came for, so it’s once more time for action. The fact is that no matter how skilled Alex is at covering his tracks, his presence has the possibility of putting Robert’s family in danger. Until Dad is dealt with for good; until Flint and Harlan are neutralized; Alex can’t be a part of his brother’s life, or his wife’s, or the lives of his nieces.

Something else to fight for, then. As if he needed more motivation.

Alex gets swiftly to his feet, and Robert mirrors the motion.

“You’re leaving?” He blurts out, and something like grief, chased by acceptance, runs across his face. God, Alex almost wants to do a double take every time he sees honest emotion in eyes like those. But it’s time he gave credit where credit is due.

“I should,” Alex says. “I promised I wouldn’t put your family in danger before I heard your story, and I intended to keep that promise no matter what you said to me. But now it is imperative that you listen.”

He puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder for what may be the first time in their entire lives. Robert swallows.

Alex says, “Do not change a single thing about your routine. Do not tell anyone I’ve been here. When it’s safe, I will contact you—and at that time, it’s your decision if you want me in your children’s lives or not.”

He can see every single question in Robert’s face. Pride and anger tense him up, but, miracle of miracles, Alex also gets to watch him let them go.

Fruit basket. Seriously. Maybe an Edible Arrangement, for the actual miracle worker.

“How much danger are you in?” Is all Robert demands, voice still gruff with emotion.

“No more than usual. Don’t you know I love to live dangerously?” Alex says breezily, but Robert doesn’t unclench. Great, just what he needs—another person in his life taking his safety seriously when there are things that need to get done. Alex gives a fond roll of his eyes and lets his hand fall off Robert’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says, honestly, as Robert follows him off the porch and to his car.

“Pretty sure you don’t get to thank me for anything ever. I basically owe you for life.”

“Well, then, get started on your debt and give me that ‘you’re welcome’ you owe me just now.”

“You’re welcome.” He hesitates, swallows a couple times. Then he raps the top of Alex’s car and chokes out: “Drive safe, kid.”

Alex drives home in a different world than the one he drove up in. He barely notices the miles fly by, and when he gets home to Roswell, everything still looks the same, no matter how impossible that is.

Still, life goes on. A week later, a letter comes for him at the base. The return address makes him furious—how’s Robert made it this long if he can’t follow a simple order for his own good?—but he can’t hold onto that anger as soon as he sees what’s inside.

The thick envelope contains three sheets of paper and a fridge magnet—just a generic #1 Uncle! design, but it still hits him hard right in the chest. The first page of the letter is covered in small, need script he doesn’t recognize—Alanna’s, most likely. The next page he unfolds is covered in a child’s deliberate print, and he puts that aside too, gently, reverently, so he can read it later and savor every word. The last page is covered in drawings, big and bright; god, he’s gotten more medals than he knows what to do with, but he’s never felt as honored as he does now by the fact that clearly Aubrey busted out a brand-new pack of markers for this. And the magnet—he’s going to put these on his fridge, like that’s something that exists in his life—and now it does, this part of his family he thought was closed off to him forever.

And his world is different now. A little brighter, a little bigger, a little fuller.

Now all he has to do is protect it.

[artmutt]

A Little Knowledge...

I grew up with educational television. I was always discovering something new and unexpected, something that went beyond what I learned at home or in school. Channel 11 in Chicago, WTTW, your “window to the world,” was indeed a crucial part of that. I should also note, however, that in the 1950s and ’60s, mainstream television was a very different place than it is today. I recall amazing musical performances and dance and theater on Sunday mornings on CBS, and programs like “I’ve Got a Secret” brought in people like John Cage or John Cale. My parents were slightly appalled when I started watching The Magic Door on Sunday mornings, a program that was about Judaism. And they were taken aback when I started spouting Russian after watching a language program on PBS. They must have wondered if educational TV was making me smarter or turning me into a wise guy.

I have recently been thinking that two of my favorite programs on PBS, specifically This Old House and Travels in Europe, have not just provided me with entertainment over the years, but have also contributed to national and global problems. (Let me warn you in advance: I’m not really blaming these TV shows for larger social issues, any more than I really blame the Brothers Grimm for the rise of German nationalism and subsequently for World Wars I & II. But it has been on my mind lately. Please try to keep a sense of humor here.)

I’ve been a dedicated watcher of This Old House since it first came on the air in 1979. I grew up in a house that my father always seemed to be in the process of renovating. When we weren’t stripping and refinishing the floors, we were putting up paneling or painting the dining room or making some kind of change to the place that disrupted the normal patterns of living. My dad also had a workshop in the basement where he dabbled with different kinds of projects. I also had a good friend who, after graduating from college decided to become a house carpenter, and I spent a number of hours helping him rip out drywall, or do other kinds of demolition work in houses. And my former brother-in-law was a house painter, and I used to work for him occasionally during the summers when I was in college. So This Old House struck a nostalgic note with me on several levels.

What wasn’t anticipated was that the show would prove successful and spawn a kind of minor industry of derivative shows. Shows about people repairing or updating their homes, or shows about buying houses and flipping them for a profit. And while the folks on the original program still amuse me, many of these other shows just kind of bewilder me with their egotism and reality TV show mentality. What began to disturb me was driving around the city and suburbs, and seeing the proliferation of people making “additions” to their homes. Somehow, after watching TOH or one of its strange offspring, people were leaping into projects to expand and “update” and glamorize their homes. Not enough to have a functional bathroom: it needs mirrors and a rain shower head, and glass doors, and and and…I’m sure the construction people and contractors don’t mind, but a lot of the stuff I see happening looks architecturally challenged. Riding the El in Chicago, you see a lot of back yards, and people have made some very alarming and tasteless expansions of their homes over the years. I also wonder how many “McMansions” out there were built for people who were dedicated watchers of TOH-style programs. I can’t lay all of these violations of taste on TOH, but honestly, I suspect that the impulse these people felt to remodel may well have come from watching TOH as they grew up.

And what about Rick Steves and Travels in Europe? Well, I have done a fair amount of traveling myself, so what I’m about to say is about my own sense of guilt. World tourism today is one of the chief contributors to environmental stress. This is chiefly due to jet air travel. I recall taking an Environmental Geology class, and we talked about the weather and the phenomenon now called “Climate Change.” I vividly recall the instructor talking about the impact that jet planes had on the so-called jet stream in the upper atmosphere. Heating up the upper atmosphere, stirring it around if you will, was likely to have a destabilizing affect on the planet.  Living in the American Midwest, near one of the world’s biggest airports, I watch in dismay when I see arctic air dropping down as far as Texas, or causing snowfall in Los Angeles, or resulting in snowfall in late April and early May. The jet stream that used to flow with some regularity across the country now dips and drops and bends like a fever chart, resulting in horrible weather conditions.

Tourism has also brought environmental and social damage to popular destinations. The city of Venice, for example, is ravaged by Cruise ship tourism, that disrupts the waters of the lagoon, and disgorges hundreds of people every day, who are only in the city for 24 hours, and who deplete resources without staying long enough to spend money and reinforce the economy in more meaningful ways. The rise of Airbnb apartments – real estate owned by people who rent out the apartment to travelers, in essence like a hotel room – is damaging both the social fabric of neighborhoods, and making it difficult for locals to find places to live. As a result, there are now very few Venetians actually living in Venice. Why am I traveling somewhere except to interact with locals?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not laying all these issues on Rick Steves. He seems like a very nice guy, and I know he encourages people to travel thoughtfully and to genuinely engage with local culture. But I can also tell you, from my own travels, that I’ve seen plenty of people, armed with Steves’s guidebooks, thoughtlessly wandering around the streets of European cities, and not exactly being goodwill ambassadors for America.  Steves’s message is, you don’t need a guide, you can travel on your own, it’s fun, it’s doable. I think many people arrive and hit the wall when they discover just how non-American Europe can be. Not everybody speaks English! Again, why are you traveling if not to engage with locals?

Moreover, Steves likes to provide viewers/readers with his “special secrets,” his little places that aren’t on the major travel maps. I was annoyed, while attending Mass in the church of St. Sulpice, to see tourists wandering around, Steves’s guidebook in hand, looking for things in the church he had mentioned. As much as his shows caution respect, unchaperoned Americans can be a handful. Those charming little “secret” places he tells people about sometimes find themselves overwhelmed with American tourists they can neither accommodate nor desire to have around. (Ask any of the Italians in the little hill towns that Steves “discovered” years ago, that now find themselves overrun with tourists every summer.) This is true of travel writing in general: someone writes about a gorgeous deserted beach somewhere, and the next year, it’s overrun with tourists, who are all looking to recreate that special moment they heard about, now impossible because there are dozens of people around. Steves isn’t solely responsible, but his guidebooks and TV programs have very long legs. His son Andy, who kind of grew up on his father’s programs, is now running tours of his own, aimed at young people who might be put off by his Boomer dad.

In the case of both This Old House and Travels in Europe, I am struck by the old saw about how “a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”

[themyscrian]

OC Interview

inspired to do this by @lesly-oh‘s one here. im rly happy with how the portrait and his character register turned out.

It is 2152. A young man slouches in the chair opposite you, legs spread, and arms folded. One boot taps the stone floor rhythmically as he watches you and waits for the interview to start recording.

name ➔ ‘Ḍamīr.’ He sits in silence, watching your expectant face for a few uncomfortable moments, ‘No surname.’

are you single ➔ His gaze hardens and his arms fold tighter, ‘Yes. Next question.’

are you happy ➔ ‘Hm, да, let’s go with that.’

are you angry ➔ One eyebrow raises, ‘Do I look angry to you?’ The impression you’re getting is somewhere more between indifference and contempt. You decide not to press your luck.

are your parents still married ➔ ‘Yes. They got married a few years ago. I am very happy for them.’


NINE FACTS

birthplace ➔ ‘The Midwest’, 

hair colour ➔ ‘Eh, I bleach it.’

eye colour ➔ ‘Green, or grey. Depends on who you ask.’

birthday ➔ ‘18th of November at 14:41, I think.’

mood ➔ ‘Tired’. Almost in punctuation, he tilts his neck to the left until there’s a satisfying crack.

gender ➔ He shrugs, arms still folded, ‘Just put male.’

summer or winter ➔ ‘I am a medic, and I have to work during flu season. Summer.’

morning or afternoon ➔ ‘They are basically the same for me. In the evenings I have free time; I pick evening.’


EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

are you in love ➔ That hard gaze returns, ‘No.’

do you believe in love at first sight ➔ ‘No’, he says, running his tongue back and forth over one of his canines.

who ended your last relationship ➔ ‘Me.’

have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔ ‘Maybe. I did not ask.’ The constant pressure of his glare is starting to make you sweat—you’re not even sure if he’s blinking.

are you afraid of commitments ➔ ‘No, but I have no free time for them.’

have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔ ‘See previous statement.’

have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ ‘If it is a secret then I wouldn’t know, by definition.’

have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ He actually breaks eye contact for a moment but doubles back with the same reserved front. ‘No. And I am done with these “love life” questions.’

SIX CHOICES

love or lust ➔ ‘Who wouldn’t pick love? Romantic, platonic, familial—all are important.’

lemonade or iced tea ➔ ‘Lemonade, if it’s made with real lemons.’

cats or dogs ➔ ‘Always been a cat person. They’re quieter, self-sufficient. It suits me.’ He smirks to himself, but doesn’t elaborate on the joke.

a few best friends or many regular friends ➔ ‘I don’t have time for “best friends”. Like I said, I’m busy. Also, I am not twelve.’

wild night out or romantic night in ➔ For the first time, you watch him as he genuinely mulls over the question. ‘Hm. I’d prefer the romance, but I spend most of my time at home so it’d be nice to get out. I am not sure. К черту, night out, why not.’

day or night ➔ ‘Night, definitely. At night I can sleep.’


FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

been caught sneaking out ➔ ‘Once, yes, but it was not my own house.’

fallen down/up the stairs ➔ ‘I have excellent balance.’

wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ The faint smile fades, ‘I thought we were done with these “love life” questions.’ You’re about to move on when he grunts and mutters, ‘Whatever. Yes.’

wanted to disappear ➔ ‘I am needed here. To disappear would be selfish.’


FOUR PREFERENCES

smile or eyes ➔ He grins, bearing sharp, fang-like canines, but there’s no mirth in it. ‘Pick one’.

shorter or taller ➔ ‘Eh, taller. I am more used to it.’

intelligence or attraction ➔ ‘I like one to lead into the other.’

hook-up or relationship ➔ ‘Tsk. Who has the time for either?’


FAMILY

do you and your family get along ➔ ‘Yes.’

would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ He leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees as his fingers lace together. ‘Trust me, we literally don’t have the time to get into it. Just put down “yes”.’

have you ever run away from home ➔ He frowns for a moment, then shrugs, ‘Eh.’

have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ ‘If I had, I would not “get along” with my family.’


FRIENDS

do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ ‘That is…not how “friends” works. To befriend someone you hate—what a waste of time.’

who is your best friend ➔ ‘Didn’t you already ask this question? I do not do “friends”, I am busy.’

who knows everything about you ➔ He sighs, settling back into his slouch with his arms behind his head as he closes his. ‘Maybe no one. Definitely not you.’

[artificialqueens]

Chronicles of the Impossible (Miz Cracker x Brooke Lynn Hytes [Miz Crooke?]) - fandomfeministe

A/N: Well, courtesy of Saiph I had enough ideas for my rare pair that they said I might as well keep going. So I did. XD

Chronicles of the impossible; or, five small realisations (Part 1 - Cracker)

Realisation the first - Brooke’s domesticity

Cracker had never anticipated being here. Not the literal here - in the small apartment in Nashville that Brooke called home - although that was kind of a mindfuck, considering they were now here together, alone. No, the strangeness he was contemplating was instead more about how they were here.

The last guy Brooke had brought home, he knew, was a one night stand - one of the quick hookups he’d had post-Vanjie - and their time here had started in a similar way. Invited to Brooke’s homecoming gig back at Play, the first time he’d been on stage there in months, Cracker had been able to truly relax and just enjoy watching his lover perform. And oh, could Brooke Lynn Hytes perform.

They’d barely made it inside the door, pulling at each other’s clothes the second it shut, and would have ended up with Brooke attempting to fuck Cracker up against the wall were it not for a pair of inquisitive cats appearing and nearly tripping up the pair of them.

“Shit,” Brooke cursed, pulling up his loose jogging pants and trying to shoo Henry and Apollo towards the living room, ignoring Cracker’s giggling fit as he talked to the felines like they were his babies. “No, you’re staying out of the bedroom… you can meet him tomorrow, but right now, he’s busy…”

By the time he’d turned back, there’d been a trail of clothes leading towards the bedroom, and Brooke followed it with anticipation. The night that came after? Well, the triumphant feeling Brooke had on stage had followed him home, and the energy he still had made Cracker wonder if his wobbling knees were going to let him walk in the morning. Worth it, though, he thought. This man gave him everything - hands down the best sex he’d ever had - and the energy it took from him left him with the distinct need to sleep late the day after.

When Cracker eventually awoke, it was to the sound of a cheerful, laughing Brooke clearly in conversation with someone. The voice sounded female, but wasn’t one he recognised, so he decided to pull a change of clothes from his bag and slipped into something fresh, leaving the Canadian to his conversation while he went in search of coffee. He smiled at Brooke on his way to the kitchen, and Brooke smiled back, wishing him good morning before returning to his FaceTime. He’d taken no more than a few steps towards the coffee pot before the woman spoke again, and Cracker’s jaw dropped as he realised who he’d just been kind-of introduced to.

Brooke’s mom.

Oh shit.

“Who was that, honey?” he heard her voice ask, so sweet and genuine he could tell from the other room. “A… a friend? A boyfriend?” she asked, an undeniable note of curiosity and, dare he say it, hope creeping into her voice.

Oh, shit.

Padding silently to the doorway in his bare feet, he watched his lover respond as he wrapped his hands around the freshly poured cup.

Brooke’s face, mostly its usual self, still had one or two of its tells that all was not quite what it seemed. His nose wrinkled slightly as he flinched, almost as if trying to shrink back from the question, and his hand reached up towards his throat, subconsciously trying to cover the flush to his skin that was slowly creeping up his neck. “Aww, mom, no,” he replied, determinedly trying to avoid looking at Cracker before he went to pieces. “He’s a friend. A good friend,” he added, a little too quickly to be truthful. His mother, however, didn’t seem to buy it.

“Really? One who’s at your place at this time in the morning?” she asked more pointedly, causing Brooke to lower his head to hide the smile that was beginning to grow on his face, lest it give the game away. The game being, Cracker thought, that things this was still just sex between them. That all they were was a pair of fuck buddies. “I know you better than that, baby.”

Cracker grinned. Mama Hytes was just too cute. She reminded him of his own mom, actually. And the fact that Brooke clearly cared about her and her opinion so much? He loved that - loved the fact that he was starting to see what the softer side of the Ice Queen looked like when he melted, as it were. And the look still on Brooke’s face when he turned to smile back at him? He was glowing with affection, for both people he was around right now. Indeed, the bitch was fucking radiant.

He was absolutely done for.

Realisation the second - Brooke’s smile

Cracker had touched down in LA a mere hour and a half ago, and already he was in a cab heading for a hotel with a suitcase at his side and a growing desire to retch burning at his throat. Was this the stupidest idea he’d ever had? Probably not, but it certainly ranked somewhere in the top ten. Its position in the chart depended on one thing - the reaction his lover had when he turned up to surprise him after his gig. Oh, fuck. That wasn’t something you did for somebody who was just a friend, was it? Letting that thought run in circles around his mind as the LA landscape flew by in the cab window, Cracker’s mind turned to the last time they’d been together - both making an appearance at a charity event somewhere out in the midwest, the pair of them so busy that the cities had begun to merge together. It wasn’t like London, Paris, or any of the gigs on their earlier tour where their contact was limited to the few minutes they could grab together - rushed blowjobs in the dressing room; quick, breathy fucks in whatever space they could manage, even once exchanging handjobs immediately after coming off stage, literally unable to keep their hands off each other.

No, their last time had been very different.

It had been slow. Soft.

They’d made more of an effort to control their longing, carefully de-dragging and heading back to their hotel in separate cabs, affording them the opportunity to shower and shed the fog around their minds as well as the grime from their bodies. When Brooke had finally knocked on Cracker’s door, they hadn’t immediately torn at each other’s clothes or gone straight for a release. Instead, they’d lain together on the slightly too-small bed, arms wrapped around each other, the warm kisses making both men feel like they were blushing teenagers again and not grown men in their thirties.

When the intimacies had finally become more intense, and the clothing began to come off, it wasn’t the pressured, driven act of frantic lust that it had usually been. Rather, as soon as one of them had removed something, the other took their own sweet time, exploring the exposed skin with alternating touches from lips and hands. Taking it in turns, both men had found themselves under the covers as naked in their emotions as with their bodies, unashamedly enjoying the slow burn and the build up to the crescendo that they’d never yet allowed themselves to develop.

It had been a night to fuel his fantasies and imagination ever since.

A few hours later, and still thinking he must have been nuts to do this, Cracker had arrived back at the hotel, showered and changed, and was on his way into WeHo. Mickey’s was not a venue he’d frequented as often as some of his friends, being very much an NYC queen as well as a regular touring girl. However, he was still recognised enough by the staff and performing queens - as relatively anonymous as he was in his casual boy clothes - that he was allowed into the backstage area to go hang out with the girls who’d already been on, and those who hadn’t yet. A PA knocked on the dressing room door for him, and a wonderfully familiar voice told his visitor to enter. His lover’s back was turned to him, and their eyes met when the younger queen looked up in the mirror, in the middle of putting on an earring.

“Cracker?!”

Brooke’s face, fully done already, had stilled. Coral painted lips gaped and eyes that opened wide were framed by their usual lashes, the man who owned them touching his mouth, a picture of serenity.

The object of his affection watched him fondly, waiting, and mere moments later was rewarded with what he’d been looking for as Brooke turned around, almost painfully slowly. His eyes trailed over him, climbing up his small but muscular form - still tired from the long flight, with bags under the eyes and skin dull from lack of rest, when the blonde’s eyes found his, a smile spread across his face that seemingly put him at the centre of his universe.

Deliberately, measuredly, Brooke rose from his chair, the long yellow dress he wore making him look like a gorgeous statue made from sunshine. That statuesque figure drifted towards him, the enamoured expression reaching all the way to his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he whispered, putting his hands on either side of Cracker’s face. “You came all the way to LA?”

“From New York,” Cracker confirmed, his voice cracking a little in disbelief that this was going well, and that his plan hadn’t been a total disaster. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, that definitely worked,” Brooke replied dryly, leaning down. If he’d been shorter, or Cracker had been taller, this would have been the moment for an embrace. Another moment of intimacy, perhaps, touching foreheads or noses for a moment as each contemplated the fact that the other was finally there, somewhere he could touch.

When their lips met, Cracker could have sworn he’d felt the fireworks enough for both of them.

Realisation the third - Brooke’s performance

They’d had to tear themselves apart after that, given that it was time for Brooke to go onstage. Allowed to watch from close by, but not so close that he’d be a distraction, Cracker slid into a booth and watched the next queen perform, before it was time for his own guy to come on.

It was definitely worth the wait.

He was lipsyncing to a mashup of Ariana Grande songs tonight - right in his wheelhouse - and it was clear from his body language how much he was enjoying it. The first number, a slow and sensual buildup, saw his body move languidly around the stage as his legs and dress flowed like water. Then, as the music changed to something more fast-paced, the fabric was torn away to reveal a bandage-style costume that glowed under the club’s lights, and if Cracker was honest, barely covered all of the important parts. He crossed his legs without thinking.

Watching Brooke Lynn perform was always revelatory, but tonight, there was an energy to his presentation that was nothing short of glorious. From the moment he’d walked out there playing a naive young woman in love, to the highly-sexed writhing around the stage he was doing after dropping into the splits right into his line of vision, the whole thing was mesmerising. And to tell the truth, when he looked right at him, trailing a finger seductively over his lips and right down over his chest, he couldn’t help but return a wry smile. Brooke was clearly returning the favour he’d been paid all those months ago in London, and the reference did not escape him.

The smile on Brooke’s face as he circled the stage was infectious and beautiful - it was as if he was sharing a particular secret moment of laughter with whoever he made eye contact with. The sheer joy of the performance, its exuberant display of his talent, made Cracker lean forward, unable to take his eyes from Brooke and his spirit. The silent sigh that escaped him then was a signal - a signal that the game the two of them were playing was changing, even though neither of them had noticed.

The desire he felt wasn’t purely carnal anymore.

Realisation the fourth - Brooke’s friends

It occurred to Cracker, as he arrived at the party, that for someone with such a very particular reputation, Brooke had one of the widest variety of friend types of anyone he’d ever met.

There were your Nina West types - the old friends from way back, the ones who provided the emotional support and the kick up the ass that his lover so sorely needed from time to time, without getting too much of a rise out of him. The queens who were the campy, mama bear types, loved by everybody, who you’d never peg as picking out people like Brooke to be their best friend.

There were your Gia Gunn types. The young, stunningly gorgeous queens who had the sharp tongues and sharper reputations - almost the complete antithesis of the Ninas of this world. The types that would have driven Cracker absolutely bat shit crazy and want to slap somebody if there had been too many of them on his season of Drag Race (and the types that made him respect Bianca del Rio all the more for not doing so). Still, Brooke liked her, and that had to be good enough for him.

There were your Vanjies, too, of course. That one Cracker had to be able to understand, because he himself was a friend of the outgoing Puerto Rican queen. It was, of course, a weird subject between the two of them now, what with Vanjie being Brooke’s ex and Cracker still feeling guilty about messing around with Brooke in the first place. And while it was true that Vanjie hadn’t given them his blessing, so to speak (there was nothing between them yet that needed it, nope), at least he wasn’t hostile. As long as the two of them didn’t rub things in his face, they were at a stage where things would be OK. And to have Vanjie’s loyal, boisterous energy in their lives was certainly better than not having it at all.

Cracker entered the apartment - waving happily at a passing Kameron in greeting - and reflected on what all of this said about the man he’d chosen to spend so much of his time with. Each one of the people here thought Brooke was a likeable, fun person and above all, a loyal friend, hence the crowd of invitees in this little place he called home. It showed a kindness that belied his Ice Queen image, open-mindedness that did him credit and a generosity of spirit that made his heart swell three sizes whenever he looked at the younger man.

“Hey, boo,” he heard behind him, the familiar Torontonian twang making Cracker smile before he even turned around. Brooke’s hug - full of warmth, that smelled of his shirt’s fabric softener and the cigarette he’d smoked earlier - was a heartfelt embrace. It was a simple, everyday gesture that still, somehow, felt reckless, new and brilliant. It was quite the step for two overthinkers such as themselves.

Realisation the fifth - Brooke’s panic attack

One in another series of firsts, this definitely unwelcome event was one that had completely sideswiped Cracker. He hadn’t seen it coming.

Their evening in NYC had been coming to a close in perfectly lovely fashion; for once, an evening that had absolutely nothing to do with drag or either of their circles of friends. Cracker had been reflecting on just how good for them it was to just spend an evening at dinner, not just shooting the breeze but really talking - although it was suspiciously like an actual date - when they’d decided to call it a night and get an Uber back to Cracker’s place.

Waiting outside for the car had given them a bit of time, and a slightly tipsy Cracker wanted to use it for all it was worth. He’d stood up on tiptoes to kiss his guy senseless, and there they were, making out in the streets like horny teenagers, when he was shaken out of his reverie by the man in his arms suddenly tensing, and talking over the top of his head.

“Fuck…”

“What?”

Cracker turned his head to follow Brooke’s line of vision when he saw what the taller man was worried about - a couple of guys exiting the bar down the street, one of whom who was definitely using their drag names in excited conversation, flailing arms gesticulating in a drunken manner, pointing towards them both.

“Oh, fuck…”

Letting go of each other and separating before either of the other men could get out their phones in the manner of amateur paparazzi, Cracker could practically sense his lover getting twitchy. Thank heaven that, in what was a blessed coincidence, their car pulled up at that point and the pair of them were whisked away before the accidental voyeurs had too much time to process. It was more of a relief, Cracker realised, when he saw the look on Brooke’s face as the car whisked them through the NYC streets.

Back at his tiny apartment in Harlem, Cracker was practically carrying the Canadian through the door, supporting him as his breathing became more erratic and his body less stable. Cracker knew that Brooke had his difficulties - just like him, had a tendency to get in his head and let the negativity take over - but they’d never yet really been close enough for long enough to experience it in each other. He just about managed to lead him towards the couch, sitting him down and taking his face in his hands.

“Stay with me, OK?”

Brooke nodded, but could do little else.

“I’m going to help you breathe through it.” He took one of Brooke’s strong hands, holding it gently between his own. “First, five things you can see, OK?”

It was an old technique, hardly innovative, but it almost literally brought a sufferer back down to earth in the middle of an attack - something Cracker had to use on himself more than once. Brooke, however, definitely seemed like he’d needed the help, if his heavy breathing and partially closed eyes were anything to go by. Cracker didn’t push it, though. He knew time was not a luxury, but a necessity, in this case.

“Um… OK… the blue of your shirt. The brown of your eyes, and hair,” Brooke began, apparently one to go by colours. Funny, Cracker thought. So was he. “Um, the grey of the couch. The red of that painting on the wall… and your lips, they’re pink, I guess…”

Not too far there, yet, but better than nothing, he supposed. Brooke was talking, now, and able to look at him if he mentioned his face. Cracker reached up, slid off Brooke’s jacket and his own, so they could both get more comfortable, and continued. “Four things you can touch… go on…”

Brooke’s breathing, still heavy, was at least a little slower now, and he took fewer pauses. “Your shirt… it’s soft. The couch… we’re sinking in… your jeans… they’re rougher… and your skin… you’ve gone cold…”

It was no surprise, really, Cracker told himself. He’d felt like his blood was running colder as soon as he’d realised Brooke’s predicament… but there they were. “OK, good, you’re doing well,” he said soothingly, reaching over to rub Brooke’s back. “When you’re ready, three things you can hear.”

Brooke’s breathing was longer and slower now, and Cracker instinctively reached up to cradle the back of his head as his lover clutched the back of his shirt in his fist, head resting on his shoulder. “The traffic outside. There’s a lot of car horns,” he said, the feeling of his breath tickling Cracker’s neck. “The sound of your breathing. And your heartbeat.” Cracker wasn’t sure that the last one counted, but he didn’t have the heart to point that out.

“Two things you can smell, then. Go on.”

“Your cologne. And your sweat.”

Cracker couldn’t help but chuckle then, cradling the taller man in his arms. The bluntness of the reply was pretty funny, and he couldn’t hold it against him… especially as he’d definitely felt the cool sweat running down the back of his neck as he’d wrestled Brooke to the couch. Poor thing.

“And the last one, babe. C’mon…”

“Taste…” Brooke paused, tilting his face down a little, licking his tongue across Cracker’s bottom lip, ever so gently, as the smaller queen held his wrist to feel the heartbeat coming in at a more normal pace. A smile drew itself across Cracker’s face as he stayed there, letting Brooke use him for his own comfort, which was good for both of them, really.

They stayed with limbs entwined on the couch for god knows how long after that, Cracker lying back on the couch with Brooke curled into him. It was peaceful, being like this, and it gave both men time to think. If tonight had proved anything, it was that they understood each other on a level that even they didn’t quite understand. He’d been willing to take the relationship a little further than they’d been enjoying for a while now, but tonight had meant that the pair of them were forced to reflect on how much they trusted each other. Cracker thought back to how they’d started, out of something stupid at first, then been drawn to each other regardless. Now, he knew that they saw the true beauty of each other, far beyond the surface he could see.

He was in love.