#Put that boy on an autopsy table. i need to look inside his brain

[i-am-a-fan]

I woke up and wrote a 1048 word essay on why Mk probably won’t go monkey mode on his family in season 5 to prove a point to myself.

If that isn’t a neurodivergent diagnosis, idk what is.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Welcome to Backwater ch.12 (spicyhoney)

Summary:  Stretch has some wheels now and he has directions, now he only needs to start down the path!

Read ‘Down the Garden Path’ on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Stretch’s good mood lasted right about as long as it took to get back to the store. Not that he replaced it with a bad mood, nah, he was still pretty darn cheerful. But now that paybacks were done, it was time to put on his working hat, so to speak. To begin with, his new bike needed a thorough checking over; a skeleton could not travel on wheels alone, not unless he went back for roller skates. He needed to make sure the rest of the bike would get him to where he needed to go, too.

There was a ramshackle garage squatting behind the store, the siding a grungier match to the building up front and the cracked windows too filthy to peer inside. The roll-up door was rusted shut, but the side door was unlocked. Stretch opened it a crack and dared to look inside, braced for anything. Bats, rats, creepy crawlies, who the hell knew what grew inside the sheds in a town with possibly man-eating corn.

If there were any beasties, crawly or otherwise, they stayed hidden behind the wispy cobwebs or in their holes. What he did find was a lot of junk, piled in heaps, spilling out of bins and stacked on shelves. There was enough crap that if Red wanted, he could start a side business as a resale shop and give Miss Maggie some competition, mysterious message from the oracle not included, although tetanus was still on the table.

As curious as some of the objects were, and damn, he could stir up some trouble on the /whatisthisthing reddit with all this, now was not the time for distractions from the main questline, not when victory was in sight.

It didn’t take too much rummaging to find a bike pump and a small metal toolbox that for a wonder, actually had tools in it. He carried both back into the sunshine where the patient was waiting and got to work.

Stretch was never going to earn a paycheck as a handyman, but he did know a little about bicycles. Chara had one and so did their friends and he’d gotten suckered into helping with maintenance a few times by a set of big brown eyes pleading their case. Even had his own bike back home, though it hadn’t been used in a long time. A nice little ten speed with glittery orange paint and a thick padded seat to make up for his lack of pillowy booty surrounding his tailbone. Once upon a time, that bike got pretty decent amount of use, but that fairytale wasn’t one he wanted to get into right now.

This old rattletrap had exactly two speeds; go and stop. The tires were a little bald, but luckily, they took air without issue. The chain was rusty, but it responded readily to some WD-40 lubing and a little foreplay, the tramp. He checked all the bolts and sprockets, wiped off the seat and the little wire basket, and for good measure, gave the horn a good squeeze, setting off a hoarse ‘awooga’ into the still afternoon. Height was a bit of an issue, Stretch wasn’t ever gonna earn the nickname ‘short stuff’, not unless the next fairytale he stumbled into was Jack and the Beanstalk, but he managed to get the seat up enough that he wouldn’t jam himself in the chin with a knee.

Once he was done, he wheeled the bike out to the road and gave it a test drive, tooling up and down the main road. It worked fine, the tires crunching over the gravel, and when he gave the horn a honk as he sailed past Mama’s, he could see people looking through the windows at him, some of them raising their hands in a wave.

He turned around past the sheriff’s and headed back, pedaling slowly. The inkling of an idea was taking hold at the back of his mind, winding its way in like paint dripping down a wall and puddling in his brain pan. Yeah, the bike was fine and all, but he’d been ‘fine’ pedaling along back in Ebott, hadn’t he. Taking little rides in the traditional manner on his shiny, fancy bike that he hadn’t bought and didn’t use the other nine speeds on.

Well, he wasn’t in Ebott anymore, and maybe fine wasn’t good enough. All things could use a little improvement, right, even bikes.

Decision made, he headed back to the shed. He didn’t know if any of this crap was Red’s (and seriously, what was that thing with the handles and the springs, it looked like an eggbeater on steroids) or if it’d been here when he moved in, but it was all covered with enough dust that there probably wasn’t anyone around to mourn the loss. The rolling door responded to a tickle and grope of WD-40 as well as the bike chain had and Stretch ran it up, forging his way through the trash jungle. He managed to clear out enough space to haul out the bulky item he’d noticed early partially hidden under a drop cloth and got to work.

By the time he was nearly done, he was sweaty and filthy, but about ready to celebrate his triumph and thank the Academy. He’d shed his t-shirt, using it instead as a rag to wipe his forehead and if anyone spotting him as they walked down the sidewalk had a problem with his bare bones, no one made a fuss about it like they would have back in Ebott. There was a whole Karen Brigade back there worried about nudity and Monsters, seriously, those people would force a moldsmal into some boxer shorts if they had a chance.

He glanced up at the bang of the side door closing to see Red and the dog headed his way. Red was carrying a brimming glass of iced sweet tea as he limped along. He cursed with colorful flair as the dog danced its way in front of him, making him slop tea over his fingers as he tried not to trip himself with his own cane. He aimed a halfhearted kick at the dog that missed by a mile. The dog only barked gleefully, darting over to Stretch, tongue at the ready for a taste test to verify Stretch was as yummy today as he’d been last night.

Stretch only laughed and tried to hold the dog back in a feeble effort to avoid those eager licks. “easy, pal, you saw me a couple hours ago!”

“he probably don’t remember, mutt has a brain the size of a peanut,” Red growled. He handed it over the tea wordlessly, giving the newly-redesigned bike a once-over as Stretch gulped it down gratefully.

“what the hell are you up to out here?” Red asked. He paused by the remains of the push lawnmower that was laid open like an autopsy, poking it absently with his cane, “and what happened here?

“i…uh…may have borrowed the engine,” Stretch admitted sheepishly.

“borrowed,” Red snorted. “uh huh. seen this kind of borrowing before, usually turns into keepsies right quick.”

“i can put it back—” Stretch started uncertainly. Red waved him off, watching in bemusement as the dog took advantage of the distraction to lick right into Stretch’s mouth and left him sputtering in disgust.

“nah, ain’t used the damn thing in ages,” Red said. “i pay a local kid to mow these days. may as well donate the innards before it gets buried.”

No surprise there. Even after last night's stormy weather tantrum, the ground had dried right up again in the morning sunshine. The mud puddles all dried into cracked divots and whatever grass was left was a charming shade of dead. Walking across it was like taking a stroll through a giant bowl of shredded wheat,

Red wandered back to the bike, his browbone slowly rising as he examined it. “you get that from old madge?” he asked neutrally.

Stretch closed his sockets briefly to block him out. The glass in his hand was down to rapidly melting ice cubes and dripping with condensation. He pressed to cool surface to his forehead, letting the cold wetness soothe him as he said, "okay, what. what's wrong with it.”

Red gave him a startled look, “huh?"

“no, i mean it,” Stretch said insistently. “don’t blow smoke up my ass, what's wrong? do purchases from her come with a darker, deeper price unknown? is all her shit haunted? does riding it commit my soul to the forces of evil? if I rub it does a genie come out, what?” He waved a hand at the possibly monster bike and not the kind of Monster listed on his personal I.D. “tell me now, don’t play sphinx with me, not today.”

Red snorted loudly and pulled out a little cylinder from his pocket. He shook out a toothpick and stuck it between his teeth. “nah, but it might break on ya two miles down the road.” His grin turned wolfish. “getting a little paranoid, dontcha think, city boy?”

“no,” Stretch said, shortly.

Red only chuckled. “only thing wrong with that bike is what you frankensteined onto it. hope that thing actually runs or blowing smoke up your ass is gonna be the least of your problems.”

“it’ll run.” Okay, so he was about 95% sure it was gonna run. Maybe 90%. The engine he’d scavenged from the old lawnmower was strapped to the package carrier on the back of the bike, hooked up to the back wheel with a few extra gears and chain he’d dug out of the garage and he’d jerry-rigged a sort of throttle to the handlebars. It wasn’t pretty, but he was sure it would run without blowing up. Pretty sure.

Sure enough to give it a try, anyway.

“uh huh,” Red rolled the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth with his tongue, neat trick around those sharky teeth of his. “where ya think your headed on that death trap, anyway?”

Yeah, okay, that brought him up short. Aside from warning him off of any booty calls, (not that Stretch was looking for any shape of booty and sure as hell wasn’t taking any calls), Red had been pretty mum when it came to opinions about him hanging out with Edge. Stretch wasn’t under any illusions that Red was unaware of the happenings in town and not only because Edge probably damn well called him so they could keep their mystery woo woos on the same frequency. Red seemed like he knew all the local gossip, hell, he was probably the unofficial town bookie, who knew what he got up to on those weekend poker games?

But Edge was Red’s baby brother and as a big brother himself, Stretch was pretty sure he’d have some mighty strong opinions on Blue inviting someone like him out for pie, much less inviting them home to meet the family. No prospects, nothing ahead of him in life. Hell, he wasn’t even wearing underwear.

And anyway, like he had any right to any fucking opinions about Blue’s life after the way he left—nope, not going there right now.

So, yeah, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to admit he was going to see Edge, except how he really didn’t. He didn’t want to see any disappointment on Red’s face or distaste or…or whatever ‘dis’ might sprout up and if Red told him to leave his bro alone, told him not to go, Stretch wouldn’t, he would never, he owed Red so much, owed him in ways Red didn’t even know about, but—but—

His mental waffling took far too long, and Red was unfortunately just as clever as Stretch feared or maybe it was the simple fact that the options of where someone could go in this town on a motorized bicycle was a pretty short list. One corner of Red’s mouth curled up in a half-smile. “headed out to the farm, huh.”

Stretch struggled with an answer and didn’t manage anything better than the obvious, “i think so?” he said meekly, “i mean, edge sort of invited me. not invited invited, it’s not like a date, not that i wouldn’t date him, except you know, i wouldn’t because it’s a bad idea right now like you said, but he said i should meet his roommate and that I’d have to go to his house to do it and—" Stretch broke off to gasp for breath and his ‘fuck, please kill me to shut me up’ was left unspoken.

“okay, okay, ease down on the gas there. you must think i'm missing my wits on top of my foot.” Red snorted. “go wherever you want, kid, don’t make me no nevermind.” The dog was settled into Stretch’s lap, sound asleep and drooling enthusiastically, and Red leaned over to give him a pat, then struggled back up to give Stretch a similar one on top of his skull. He glanced at the bike again and asked speculatively, “’bout how fast you figure this hunk a junk can go?”

“not sure,” Stretch admitted, “not too fast. maybe twelve miles an hour?”

“that a fact,” Red spat the toothpick into the dust and sucked loudly on his teeth. “hang on a mo’.” He limped through the open garage door and the sound of brisk rummaging echoed out. When he came back, grinning triumphantly, it was a bicycle helmet in hand. It was leopard-spotted, only that hideous pink-and-purple shade never graced any beast Stretch ever heard about. Perched on the top of the helmet were a pair of slightly bedraggled plastic cat ears and Stretch took it as solemnly as if he’d been handed Excalibur itself. Beggar vs chooser? Not him.

Red stuck his hands in his pockets, his cane hooked over his elbow as he rocked unsteadily on his heels, “well c’mon, then, start ’er up. i can’t stand out here forever, someone’s gotta mind the store.”

“oh!” Stretch gave the back door a guilty look, “shouldn’t you head in, someone might loot the register or something.”

“no one steals from my shop.” Coolly assured and yeah, Stretch believed it, and not only because the townsfolk were good people.

Stretch pushed the dog off his lap, ignoring its pitiful whine, and went to the bike. Here was the moment of truth. He gave the primer button a few pushes, then yanked the pull cord as hard as he could. It didn’t catch the first time, or the second, but on the third it sputtered a few times, coughed out a cloud of black smoke, then caught, puttered evenly along.

“see!” Stretch said triumphantly, speaking loudly to be heard over the blatting noise. “it didn’t blow up!”

“don’t know if that’s as reassuring as you seem to think, kid,” Red called back, but his grin was easy, “you know how to get there?”

Stretch cut the engine. He snagged his dirty t-shirt and made a fruitless attempt at wiping the grease off his hands. “down the exchange for about a mile, hang a left, don’t stray from the path.”

“s’right,” Red nodded, “you leave soon, you'll get there right around suppertime and that’s always a good time to show up on my bro’s doorstep.”

“thanks, red,” Stretch said gratefully, “thank you.”

“don't thank me yet. and kid?” Red’s crimson gaze seemed to bore into him, “whatever you see or hear, don't you leave that path."

Well, Stretch should’ve known he wasn’t getting out of here without at least a vaguely cryptic warning.

“i won’t, promise.”

Red nodded and started the slow trudge back to the store. The dog roused himself enough to follow along, tail wagging happily. Red paused at the door and called back, “tell the kid i said hi.”

“i will, but didn’t you just see edge this morning?” Stretch asked curiously.

“didn’t mean him.” Before he could ask, Red was gone back inside with a bang of the screen door, taking both dog and answers with him.

Welp, chasing after him was pointless and anyway, that question would be answered as soon as he got to Edge’s place, which it seemed he now had Red’s unofficial approval to visit. Stretch couldn’t help grinning and he hugged himself tightly, managing to smear even more grease on his bones.

Yeah, okay, he needed at least five minutes for a quick wash up before he headed out or the woods would be the least of his worries. Edge and his roomie would kick him and his stank right back out to the road before he could make it to the porch.

Stretch left the bike and his mess where it was, promising himself guiltily to handle the junk cleanup tomorrow as he headed in to wash and change, and he did not spend an extra minute considering what t-shirt would make the best first impression for the unknown roommate.

He really didn’t.

~~*~~

The first thing Stretch figured out as he started on his journey was that it was honestly a nice day for a ride. Overhead the sky was an endless blue with only a few careless puffy clouds that had no interest in interfering with the affairs of the sun. The blowing wind wasn’t afraid though, it chased away the heat, and that combined with the blatting engine made it impossible to hear much of anything.

Not that there was much to hear. He stayed off the actual road, keeping to the wayside so as not to distract any of the cars as he puttered his way along.

The directions weren’t exactly complex, only one turn that he knew of, right into the woods. Stretch found it easily enough, the paved road vanishing into dust and gravel that led into the trees.

That was where he paused, easing off the throttle and putting his feet down as he looked at the entrance.

It was only trees, their tall, sturdy trunks reaching up towards the sky and the wide, green spread of their leafy branches casting the path in shadows. There were a pair of tire ruts in the path which meant someone drove it regularly and not just Edge’s motorcycle.

Only trees, that was all. Right, just like it’d only been corn, and Stretch didn’t move, sitting there with the engine blatting cheerily and the blue sky watching over him as he waited here on the cusp of…what? Fate? Or fatality?

There was only one way to find out.

Behind him, a couple trucks zoomed on past on their way down the exchange, either heedless of his inner turmoil or foolishly assuming he knew what he was doing and honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d known what he was doing for years now.

His concerns weren’t all simply about traveling in these woods, either, despite them being the same ones Red warned him away from and no less than two people went off with the cryptic about not straying from the path. No, there was also the fact he was gonna be meeting Edge’s unknown roommate to ask questions about some of the mysteries of this place and he’d be lying if he didn’t attribute a nervous butterfly or two to that.

The blat of a horn nearly sent him leaping right out of his shorts and when he jerked around, barely catching his balance before both he and the bike spilled into the dust, he saw a group of Humans in the back of a pickup truck waving at him and probably laughing at his helmet.

He waved back, unable to help a sheepish grin, and then turned back to the path. The trees only rustled softly in the light breeze, branches lightly swaying. It didn’t seem scary and hell, he knew scary. Scary was the first time he stepped out into the sunlight after a lifetime beneath a mountain and scary was another first step, much more recently, this time onto a Greyhound bus.

“fuck it,” Stretch said, aloud. He goosed the throttle, the bike lurching forward into the woods, and the trees swallowed him up.

Only not really, not even close. Stretch really didn’t know what he’d really been expecting. That maybe he’d come across a little gal in a red hood with a picnic basket for grandma heading down the path? Or he’d stumble over some kids with a nasty stepmother backstory on a stroll, scattering breadcrumbs along the way?

Neither of those things came true. (Although if Edge and his roommate lived in a gingerbread house, he was done. He was turning his putt-putt mobile around and heading right out of this fairy tale, tout suite, and into another story. Maybe he’d see if Red’s swashbuckler needed a first mate.)

There was nothing out of the ordinary, not even the creepy vibes that the corn had given him. The woods seemed no different than wandering through the city park in Ebott.

It was a lot cooler here in the woods, not only from the speed breeze. The heavy branches were also shielding him from the overpowering heat of the sun overhead, shading him in cooling green. There were squirrels and birds darting around overhead, unperturbed by his puttering little engine-that-could, and once a deer even crossed the road in front of him, pausing to stare unafraid with large liquid eyes before heading back into the scrubby underbrush.

Hell, if he was honest, Stretch was almost disappointed. Not that he’d wanted anything to happen, he didn’t exactly relish the idea of Red having to make that search party to find his dumb ass.

But after all those warnings, he’d sort of expected something to happen, a little trouble of some kind to be peeking out from behind the trees. Then again, he’d heeded those warnings, hadn’t he, it was always the disobedient types who got turned into frogs or had flower petals spill from their mouths when they talked, wasn’t it. His interest in adventure was definitely on the other side of the scale over his desire not to spit slugs or something, so he was erring on the side of not borrowing trouble.

His disappointment in the woods vanished completely though as he came up on what Red had so quaintly referred to as ‘the farm’.

The dinky path rounded a curve, the trees opening up into a clearing, and Stretch could only stare, dumbly easing down on the throttle until the bike slowed to a stop.

Well, it looked like all his expectations were taking a trip through the funhouse today, now didn’t it.

After seeing Red’s place, he hadn’t really been thinking much about the state of Edge’s homestead, what was there to consider, anyway? It was a cabin in the woods…on a farm…okay, so his logic was a little thin, he hadn’t prepped his anticipation very well on the journey. But whatever he’d imagined paled in comparison to reality.

The actual house looked like a log cabin, sure, but one that took a nibble from Alice’s ‘eat me’ cake. It was huge, with large windows shuttered in green beneath a wide, gabled roof trimmed in scrolling eaves, and a covered porch lined with cozy rocking chairs circling the first floor. Flat stones made a winding walkway that led to the front door and there were flowers lining the path in a riot of brilliant, ankle-high colors. Smoke was curling from the rooftop despite the overall warmth of the day and it scented the air with the welcoming aroma of woodsmoke.

The overall effect was one of one of invitation and Stretch was immediately suspicious of it; not a gingerbread house, no, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a witch inside.

Then the door opened and all the doubts flitting through Stretch’s mind dissolved into impossible static. He could only stare numbly at the person that darted down the path towards him, their hair bouncing beneath their chin as they scampered down the path because it was…it was impossible.

A young human, maybe only a couple years younger than him, and they looked so much like Chara it was downright disturbing, the resemblance taking a detour from possible siblings right into uncanny valley. So much like Chara, only, Chara was just a kid, a kid, and this person who couldn’t be Chara, could not be, but looked as if they’d aged like fine wine since he’d last seen them. Or maybe curdled like old milk.

“Hello, Stretch,” they said, warmly, those familiar eyes shining, and their smile was as bright as the sun that was hidden behind the trees, “Welcome to our home.”

~~*~~

tbc

[trillian-anders]

suspect - ii

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: descriptive violence, graphic descriptions of crime scenes, angst, slow burn

word count: 3.7k

description: au detective!bucky barnes x investigative journalist!reader;

still wet behind his ears, detective barnes is given his very first homicide case, a woman no one seems to care about had been murdered. it’s only when investigative journalist reader brings the small details to his attention that he realizes there’s a bigger problem. a serial killer no one was paying attention to.

He’d passed this diner a million times and had never gone inside. It was tightly packed between two buildings almost like it didn’t really belong. The bright neon sign above the door lit him blue as he stepped into the diner, eyes scanning the room until he found what he was looking for. Your back to the brick, typing away on your laptop. Coffee and an untouched slice of blueberry pie going cold next to you.

He didn’t know why he was here. Maybe he shouldn’t be. But how did you know? How did you know that Cheryl’s ring finger was taken? He had to at least absolve that, and then he could go. He could leave. That’s all he is here for. In the moments before you realized he was even there, before he takes a seat across from you, he takes in your appearance.

Windswept hair and wrinkled clothes he was sure were your ‘business casual’ a bare requirement for the office you worked in. But he knew you were attractive. Brock didn’t have to tell him that, he has eyes. The warning in the back of his head, he needed to keep his distance from you. He knows that. But he just must know.

You look up at him as he approaches, sitting back in the booth as he takes a seat across from you. “Hi.” He folds his hands in front of him,

“Hi.” You slip the laptop off to the side as the server approaches.

“Can I grab you anything?” Sweet and polite, giving you a questioning look. He wondered if you had much company here. Marie, on her name tag, seemed to know you.

“Just a coffee, please.” A nod and she was gone.

“So what did you have to talk to me about?” As you took a sip of yours. He sighs, back against the booth.

“How did you know she was missing her ring finger?” Blunt and to the point, he watched your mouth part and then close.

“Because that’s what he does.” You say simply.

“That’s what who does?” You stare at him for a moment more,

“The Boston Butcher.” A pause while Marie set the coffee mug on the table, pouring him fresh coffee and topping yours off. A gentle ‘thank-you’ from your lips before she walks away. The case Steve told him about. The guy who, from 89-99 murdered twenty sex workers in the Combat Zone, the red light district. But he had to admit it had markers of the case. “Detective… it’s the same MO, it’s the same process. The ring finger missing… she was strangled and when your toxicology report comes back from her autopsy, you’ll find ketamine in her system. It’s what he uses to subdue them.”

Bucky shakes his head, “The Boston Butcher is in jail, and has been for almost twenty years now.” He saw the mug shot. Nicholas Joseph Fury, his priors included drug possession and two misdemeanors. The man looked angry in his mug shot, is left eye milky and blue, half shut with a scar. He looked terrifying.

You sigh, tracing the rim of your coffee mug, thinking. “Okay well, it’s a copycat then.” You shrug, meeting his eyes. “Because that is the MO of the Boston Butcher and I wouldn’t be surprised if you find another girl six months from now.”

“We have a suspect for Cheryl’s murder.” He explains. A man who he had just interrogated not that long ago. A man who didn’t have an alibi. You laugh sarcastically,

“Then why are you here?” How could he answer that when he didn’t even know himself? Curiosity? Doubt? Steve had seemed pleased with him finding this lead, no one else bat an eyelash at him going for the ex-boyfriend. It’s more likely. Statistically speaking anyway.

“I don’t know.” He sighs, back hitting the booth. He runs his fingers through his hair and you flip through your notebook.

“First victim, Angela Price.” You swallow, “Twenty-four years old, mother of one, a little boy named Andrew.” You show him her picture. A beautiful young woman, big curly hair with mall bangs and blue eyeshadow. “She was a sex worker. Found on her back, spread eagle, drugged and strangled with her ring finger missing in February of 1989.” Another, “Second victim, Victoria Brown. Twenty-seven years old, mother of three, two girls Jessica and Michelle, and one boy Jason.” Another picture of a beautiful young woman, smiling with her kids, an Easter photo. “She was also a sex worker. Found in the same exact way, August of 1989.” And on, and on.

“Stop.” His hand lay over the pictures you’re laying before him. Okay. Okay. “So say we have a copycat.” He levels with you. “Right? But you think…”

“Fury is innocent.” You spit. “He was a good scapegoat for the police to appease the public.” He watches you reorganize the pictures you’d shown him, slipping them back into your notebook. “Whoever the Butcher is, he’s still out there. But if you’re not ready for that, then you need to go talk to Fury himself or try talking to the girls.” The girls still on the street, “I can help you.”

He sighs, his coffee grew cold. He believes her, some little part of him nagging at the back of his brain and telling him that it makes sense. The proof is all right there. It was at least a copycat. “Help me how?”

“I want this killer brought to justice,” You say, “And the girls are never going to talk to a cop, but they will talk to me.”

“Listen,” He sighs, “This is my first homicide as a detective and I appreciate your enthusiasm over this case and your concern, but I can’t in good conscience bring a civilian into an investigation.” A five-dollar bill down on the table. “Thank you for the information, I’ll keep it in mind while I explore different avenues.” How clinical, like he was giving a press conference on the news. He couldn’t believe what was coming out of your mouth. “If you’re looking for more information for your article, you know where to reach me.” Hands in his pockets he was gone.

A soft rain falling from the sky wet his head and shoulders as he reached his car, his eyes moving of their own volition back to the glass window of the diner. To you. He watched you with your head in your hands, still for a moment before pushing your hair back from your face and sitting back, rubbing your eyes and pulling your laptop back in front of you. And with the lit screen hitting your face he pulled off.

You watched his car leave, before focusing back on the screen. A new message from Wanda sitting in messenger.

GoFundMe is set up, have you talked to next of kin yet?

A quick reply, of ‘tomorrow’ and you shut the screen. Not able to deal with it anymore.

“Marie, I’ll take my check whenever you get time.” The pie boxed up and stuffed into your fridge, you lay on the bed in your studio apartment, staring at the light above the stove. The drip of the sink. The soft sound from the tv playing the evening news. Not a mention of the crime from yesterday. Because no one would care.

No one cares when a sex worker is murdered.

It’s a hazard of the job.

A hazard of the disgusting, degrading, job of a whore. But they weren’t. They were people with hopes and dreams and ideas that were crushed under the boot of people meant to protect them.

It made you so angry. Being treated like you were crazy. You knew that’s who you were to them, the police, that crazy reporter who’s trying to connect dots for a case that’s already been solved. Conspiracy theories about how there must have been someone in the force, there had to be someone in the force helping them. There had to be.

But police protect their own. And no one would believe that one of their own could have had something to do with this. But you knew, it felt like a cover up. But you didn’t know who they were trying to protect.

You just needed someone to take a chance on it. You needed someone to believe you. And you thought James Barnes would, but apparently you were wrong.

When you found the address for next of kin you realized it was familiar. The apartment complex you’d been in once before. A long time ago it feels now, but the memory was fresh. It was unsettling. But you weren’t here for you.

Sophie was a wreck. She had been shaking when she answered the door, pried open with a crying baby on her hip. “I’m here to help you.” You told her. “I run a victim relief charity.” You’d brought food. Put together by some of the others in your group. Ready to bake meals, groceries, and a check of first relief funds to help her with the burial.

“You do this for all of them?” She asked you. And you nod.

“We know how hard it is,” You try to comfort her, “Firsthand.” You helped her clean up the apartment. You helped her get the laundry together and clean out the fridge for space for the food you’d brought.

“I had to ID her body this morning.” Sophie cries. Baby Kayla toddling around and handing you blocks and various toys. Her older sister, Brielle was sitting not too far away watching cartoons. A sniffle, “I couldn’t believe it was her.” A shake of her head. “I can’t believe my baby is gone.”  

How long would it be before the police didn’t care anymore? Until they were done with her? You were sure James had already talked to her. “Have they talked to you about getting custody transferred over and what to do with the girls?” This two-bedroom apartment was in Sophie’s name. Cheryl was supporting them on her income. Sophie is on disability and unable to work. The stress was clear. On top of losing her child, she had the fear of losing her grandchildren too.

She sighs, rubbing her eyes, “The detective said someone from the district attorney’s office would be by, but no one yet.” Because you’re on their time and they’re not on yours. A heavy sigh.

“Well we have a GoFundMe set up,” You rub her back, “We’ll do what we can, we also have resources for free counseling and we do meet ups once a month, there’s one in a couple of days and I know that it might be a little soon for you but we have a lot of people able to pool some resources and I know a couple people who run daycare services and might be able to help you with the legal side of this Pro-Bono.”

It’s funny how tragedy affects people. Some go on to find themselves in careers to help those who were once in their position. Some of those children left behind went into social work, became one became a lawyer, some grew up to become foster parents when they themselves used to be foster kids.

All the people you’ve met, the families left behind, you tried to help. It took years to form this organization, but you did. And you met every single person who had been left behind by those murdered. Some believed that Fury was the culprit, but the majority were in the same boat as you.

They feel like justice hadn’t been served.

“Here’s my number.” Your business card with your contact information handed over, your business card for the charity. “We meet at the rec center on Malcom on the fifteenth of each month. I know that it’s a little soon, but just think about it.”

Reusable tote in hand you step from the apartment building just in time to run into the stunning redhead from yesterday. Today her short hair was down and slightly curled. Her clothing less severe. She got dressed up to be more friendly and approachable.

“Funny running into you here.” Her voice smoky and smooth. You shrug, gesturing to the bag over your arm.

“Just dropping off some food, giving her some information about my victim’s relief aid.” The lawyer doesn’t react, a silent moment before she says,

“I hope you haven’t put any ideas into her head.” You were taken aback.

“I’m sorry?” You were sure she knew about your ‘conspiracy’; you’d seen her a couple times before talking to her yesterday just around the courthouse while you were working on other stories and cases.

“You need to be careful what you say to these women,” Her voice wasn’t betraying any emotion, “I wouldn’t directly tell them to look into those cases.” Walking by you and into the apartment building you wondered what she knew. Because if you don’t directly tell someone to investigate the Boston Butcher cases, you’re not liable for someone interfering in a police investigation. And if someone else were to interfere… you would be given more credibility.

“Hey,” You breathe, sinking into the driver’s seat of your car. “I just left Sophie Hansen’s, I’m on my way back.”

“How did it go?” You could hear the noise from the office, Sam never closed his door which you thought was equally good and bad. “How is she?” You sigh, sinking down into the seat a little bit.

“She’s a little bit of a mess,” You explain, “Understandably… you should see those little girls Sam.” Your eyes welling up, you place your hand over them. “They’re not even going to remember her.” A sniffle.

“You’re doing what you can for them,” He reasons, “There’s not much else—”

“I wish there was.” You lean back against the head rest, pulling a tissue from your pocket, sighing, “I’m gonna stop for coffee, do you want anything?”

“I told Riley that you’re coming for dinner tonight. I think you need to spend some time with your friends right now and you can’t back out because he’s at the store right now.” You laugh,

“You’re the worst.” Turning your key in the ignition he replies,

“I know, now go get my coffee and get back to work.”

…

Bucky didn’t sleep a lot last night. He spent most of it in the precinct and going over old files in the conference room. This old filing system from before everything went digital, he had to go to the records room and get the one box of information about the case. But it wasn’t making any sense.

Why would such a prolific killer not have more recorded information?

After a nap on the breakroom couch and hours reading every detail, he could he compiled his own file about the case and typed his notes.

“You alright pal?” It stunned him out of grogginess, half asleep over the manila folder on his desk. Looking up at his friend he accepted the cup of coffee from Steve’s hand. “Have you been here all night?” Bucky felt himself nod, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

“I actually have to talk to you about something.” Steve takes a sip, furrowing his brow.

“Come talk to me in my office.” Steve’s office was always clean and well organized, just like everything else in his life. It made Bucky feel like he was sort of a mess. Where Steve’s hair was always perfectly combed to the side, his face clean shaven, his uniform always starched and pressed, Bucky was always sporting five o’clock shadow, bags under his eyes, and he was sure that he’d never even used an iron. He’d give it to Steve for being a military brat turned ex-military man. “What’s going on?”

Bucky shut the door behind him, slipping the file onto Steve’s desk and sitting heavily in the chair before it, taking a sip of his coffee as Steve opened the file. His brow furrowed and he looked up at his friend.

“You’re looking into the Boston Butcher?” Bucky nods,

“I think we’ve got a copycat, maybe…” He shrugs, “The MO matches perfectly and looking more into Michael Hale’s story… I’m going to keep up with it but I don’t think it was him.” Steve nods, sipping on his coffee before sighing.

“Listen, Buck.” Sitting back in his high-backed chair, “I think you should explore the Hale alibi before we jump to the conclusion that we have a copycat. It would be a very serious avenue to go down.” Steve firm and rational, “Rule out Hale first and then we can talk about a copycat, just to cover our bases.” Bucky nods, “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I took a nap on the couch.” A shrug. Steve sighs and rubs his eyes.

“You need to take better care of yourself.” The file slid back to him over the desk, “Check out Michael Hale, get some rest. Come see me tomorrow.”

Just another nap, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Groggy he woke up in the afternoon still tired, but a little more alive than he had been previously. He took a hot shower, changed into some fresh clothes and debated shaving but decided against it.

He’d be back at the precinct before the lunch hour was done.

He’d been thinking a lot about what you said to him the night before. If this guy was a copycat, then you had to expect for him to strike again. But how would they even prepare for that? Wait for another body to show up? He’s had to question people in the red-light district before. It wasn’t easy. He was sure that probably anything else would be easier. But it would need to be done anyway.

He wonders if maybe he should take you up on that offer, if it turns out to be a copycat. Maybe he answered a little hastily. He cringes at the way he’d spoken to you last, he sounded like some bureaucratic weirdo.

“Detective Barnes?” His eyes torn away from how he’d been blankly starting at his phone in the line for coffee. There you were, like a sign, holding a cardboard tray with three drinks in it. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect to run into you here and I wouldn’t have felt right not saying hello.” He understands,

“You’re fine,” He offers, “Really.” He wants to ask. His gut feeling is telling him to ask.

“Have you heard anything?” You sound hopeful, “I know it hasn’t been long, but…” He shakes his head.

“Not yet.” You nod. He should ask. “Listen, I know how I came across last night and I just want to say that if the situation plays out… the way that you’re expecting it to, I’ll be in contact.” The line moved forward and it was almost his turn. You nod, a swell in your chest seemingly from satisfaction.

“Okay, okay.” You give him a soft smile, “I’ll talk to you later then.” Confident and pleased.

“How can I help you?” The cheery barista pulled his eyes away from you, and when he turned back you were already gone.

“Americano please.”

…

A loud pounding on the door.

“Christine.” A call through the wood. The apartment’s lights were on. The TV still buzzing with a show no one was watching. More loud pounding. “Christine, I’m coming in!” The door unlocked and swung open. The man on the other side taking the state of the apartment. At first look it was a mess. There was trash strewn about and a rancid smell. As the man walked further into the apartment, he noticed the dishes in the sink and a plate on the counter. He gagged as he realized it was covered with maggots. A sick feeling in his stomach had him pulling his phone out, he continued into the living room.

On the coffee table was a discarded needle, a little foil wrapper opened with a ball of black tar. The smell growing stronger. He lifts his shirt to cover his nose. “Tina?” Hand on her bedroom door his heart began to race. The smell overpowering and turning his stomach as he pushes it open to reveal her body. Bloated with rot.  

He vomits.

…

“He made you sound like a basket case.” You watch Riley glare at his husband, a laugh shared between the two of you as Sam rolls his eyes, forking more pasta into his mouth. “You need to give her more credit,” Looking at you, “You’ve come such a long way.” A sip of wine, Riley already had a lot which is why he’s being so loose lipped right now.

“Thank you, Riley.” You sip your wine, plates just about cleared and Sam was on his second serving. “I really love what you’ve done with the garden.” The night was warm and pleasant, the three of you were eating out on their patio to the light of citronella candles and soft music playing over the speakers Sam installed last year.

Riley worked from home and always claimed, “I need my environment to be beautiful for the sake of my mental health.” Which included plenty of plants and color coordinated desk supplies. He was on first name basis with the guy whose FedEx route was through his neighborhood, “Caleb loves me.” He would defend.

“When are you going to move out of that gross apartment and into something like this?” Riley asked. “He pays you enough.” You shrugged,

“It’s just me right now, I don’t think I really need much.” He sighs,

“I just don’t like you living in that neighborhood.” A defense, “I know you’re used to that area, but—”

“I’ll think about it.” To satisfy him. He smiles softly at you knowing you were just saying it to appease him, “I will.” Your phone rings and glancing down at it you see a number you don’t recognize. “Hold on.” Stepping from the table you hear Sam scold his husband for bringing up your apartment, but you can’t focus on that. “Hello?”

“It’s Barnes.” A sad tone in his voice and what he says next makes your stomach drop, “We found another body.”

[homebody-nobody]

these skeletons got ways of coming out

k so I actually published this a few days ago but tumblr was being a butt so I couldn’t cross-post it til now anyway This is a Pope Heyward character study that ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ASKED FOR and I wrote anyway bc I needed to fix him before I could use him as a character in the rest of this series. If you disagree with the way that I've extrapolated very little data into detailed headcanons, I don't blame you but also just like read elsewhere

title from "Brother" by Kodaline ------ ao3 ------

And that -- the intersection of John B and Kiara -- the overlay of his two best friends in his heart -- that’s what scares him.

Pope realizes some things after the Phantom goes down. Things that change the way he lives his life ------

I used to be free Of any fear of emotion But these skeletons got ways of coming out I used to believe That someday you'd see That baby you got devotion in every little motion

And I won't see the storm When the rain's coming down Never let you go Never let you go Even when the madness has broken you apart Even when the madness has broken you apart

Objectively, Pope is not an idiot. He knows this. He gets good grades, and he knows more about computers and physics and a lot of other things than the rest of any of his friends. He’s a smart kid. Even though he skipped out on his scholarship interview and his grades took a very sudden dip at the end of last semester, he has a solid GPA, a fantastic ACT score, and a glittering array of colleges waiting for his application in the fall. He’s spent his entire life waiting for his chance to get out of the Cut and prove all of those motherfuckers on Figure Eight wrong. He has potential. So why, when it comes to the simplest of things, does he feel so lost?

He was sure he was in love with Kiara. Dead certain. Everything lines up. She’s kind and beautiful and intelligent, everything that matters. He feels comfortable around her, natural, like he doesn’t have to try to be funny or charming, like he’s not constantly afraid of fucking up. Everything he’s read about being in love, all the books and the articles -- it all follows. And it’s a good story, one other people will nod their heads and smile at, high school sweethearts, best friends who found solace in each other during the most difficult part of their young lives. But there’s something about it that still feels -- wrong. Uncomfortable. Like there’s the Pope that everyone else sees and then the Pope that he is, and the one in love with Kiara isn’t the same one who lays in his bed at night and stares at the ceiling fan begging for his brain to shut up.

It’s strange, to feel so separate from himself and the life he lives. He doesn’t think it’s normal. He wishes he could talk to his friends about it. It’s not like they’re dumb, the rest of the pogues. Well, not fundamentally so, anyway. John B and JJ definitely make interesting decisions sometimes. But they all inhabit their bodies without question, so sure in their skin and the feeling that they belong with each other. He slips in and out of that too readily to feel completely comfortable at every boneyard party and through every misinformed adventure. The ease is less a standard and more a pleasant surprise; there are some nights when his friends fall quiet around a bonfire and Pope realizes he can’t stop smiling, that he loves every single one of them with his whole heart and he knows they love him, too. And then he starts doubting himself, and gets nervous and quiet and weird again, and they all brush it off as Pope being Pope -- but he’s an outsider even in their little chosen family and that starts to chafe, after a while.

Honestly, he was doing a pretty excellent job of not thinking about it until John B died. Or disappeared. Or whatever you call it when your best friend goes out in an open boat in the middle of a storm and disappears off the radio and the capsized boat is found three days later with no sign of him or his kook girlfriend. Pope’s angry at him, for that. He also really, really hates Sarah, for driving him to make that choice. For her. If it was him, he would have made John B turn around. He should have tried to stop him in the first place. He shouldn’t have helped get him to the Phantom , shouldn’t have let him go.

He hasn’t been haunted by guilt like this since JJ took the blame for sinking the wakesetter, and, for some reason, this is worse. It chews at him, a constant gnawing in the center of his chest that leaves him empty and hurting every second, swallowed by a hunger consuming itself. He hasn’t stopped thinking about John B since that deadly, neverending moment of radio static. Memories flash on a constant film reel through his head. Surfing at Rixon’s, parties at the boneyard, bonfires at the chateau, afternoons on the HMS Pogue. All the moments this summer when John B smiled and Pope followed, unquestioning.

Surfing the surge. That was so beyond stupid, and Pope knew it, even before they got to the beach and saw the huge, angry waves. But John B asked, with that insane glint in his eye that he always got when he caught hold of an idea, unable to let it go, so Pope went. Someone had to keep him alive when Kie wasn’t around. And that -- the intersection of John B and Kiara -- the overlay of his two best friends in his heart -- that’s what scares him.

The whole summer, he’d watched them, first their strange tension with an undercurrent of possibility that tugged at his stomach and made him feel sick, and then their familiar platonic intimacy as they finally became comfortable in what they were to each other. Jealousy pinched and prodded at every moment of eye contact, every kiss on his cheek or lighthearted shove of her shoulder. And the way his heart soared at the salvage yard when John B told them she’d rejected him. That had to have meant something -- and what followed logic was that Pope was into Kie, and he wished himself in John B’s place.

Right?

The night the Phantom goes down, Pope thinks he’s the one who should be dead. His parents arrive to take him home, talking to him about how worried they were, how happy they are to see him safe, but his head is still full of that gut-wrenching radio static. He doesn’t hear anything they say as he watches red and blue lights dance across their faces. They pull him into a fierce hug, JJ tugged in next to him, and all he feels is hollow.

Every step he takes echoes off the side of the tunnel of his thoughts, black and void. He stays as still as he can, spread-eagle across his bed, still dressed, just to avoid the clanging of the empty air when he moves. The barest stimulation is too much, the dimmest light blinding. His chest feels like someone has reached in and turned his ribs inside out, split them with a chest-cracker and opened him up on a steel table. In the far, unexplored regions of his imagination, he can see his own autopsy, surgery performed on a perfectly silent boy, hands at his sides, eyes still open, heart still beating.

Night falls around him, from grey dusk to the unforgiving ink-black you can only get in power outages on a tiny island fighting to breathe through the salt marsh. The only thing that drives him from his bed is the urgent cry of his bladder, and it’s easier to get dressed for bed once he’s already moving across the floor. The floorboards creak under his feet and while he would normally walk lightly for fear of being hassled for waking the house the next morning, his steps are heavy and dragging. Staring at the counter, he reaches for his toothbrush and squeezes toothpaste out onto the worn bristles. He puts it in his mouth and looks up, making eye contact reflection for the first time.

You love him.  

The realization hits him as clearly as if someone had whispered directly in his ear. It’s like an icepick through the center of his exposed, defenseless heart. He lowers the toothbrush slowly, the silence of the house ringing in his ears like sirens. His breath quickens, his bare chest rising and falling as he backs away from the counter, fear and grief and disappointment and a thousand other things he can’t name swirling in him like the storm that ended life the way he knew it. The tears start, flowing down his face silently at first and then, as he loses all control of his breath and his hands find their way into his hair, accompanied by gut-wrenching, heartbreaking sobs, broken sounds of grief and loss in too many respects.

Heyward rushes down the hall, throwing the door open, fear for his son wild in his eyes. He finds Pope doubled over, hyperventilating, face a mess of snot and tears, eyes squeezed closed, as he shakes and sobs. After a moment in the door, he pushes in, pulling Pope into his chest, wrapping firm, solid arms built from hard work and weather-beaten skin around him. “It’s gonna be alright, kid,” he whispers as Pope shivers violently against him. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Pope doesn’t remember being folded into his bed, or how the glass of water and bottle of Advil ended up on his bedside table. He wakes up well into the afternoon, the room heavy and sticky with the day’s heat, the air conditioning rendered useless with the lack of electricity. The golden light fools him into a pleasant kind of ignorance for half a moment before the reality of the previous night crashes over him ,and suddenly the comfy nest of his bed feels like a prison, sucking him down like quicksand into the mattress. He puts his hands over his face, pressing fingertips into aching eyes, trying to keep himself calm by counting backwards from four hundred, a number with each breath. When he reaches three hundred and fifty four he feels like he might be able to move again, and he reaches for the water and gulps it down, a note stuck to the bottom fluttering to the floor.

He swings his legs out of bed to pick it up, recognizing his mother’s handwriting on the pink post-it note, smudged and running from the condensation. Breakfast in the fridge , it says, don’t worry about the store. Rest. We love you. It makes his skin itch, rather than being comforting. The storm in his head turns a tide toward guilt, like he’s keeping a secret that he just learned, himself. The bed calls, but he knows that if he collapses back into it he won’t move for the rest of the day, and that he should stand before he changes his mind. The ache in his belly forces him up, and he pads through the empty house, feeling halfway like a ghost. Eggs with peppers and cheese, sausage, and hashbrowns are on a covered plate in the fridge, and he unwraps it and puts it in the microwave, watching the food rotate as his mind comes to grips with consciousness.

He’s in love with John B. The boy that taught him how to play beer pong and smoke a bowl, the surfer that pushes him while they’re out on the water, daring him to bigger and bigger tricks, making him better. The idiot that chases gold and kook girls without a glance at impossibility, simply because he has no understanding of the idea. The John B that died last night.

The microwave beeps and he takes his food to the counter, hunched over it, twisting a fork between his fingers and feeling like his stomach might feel better on the outside of him. He takes a few bites, to see if maybe just the potatoes might go down easy, but they taste like ash, and he sits back from the plate, sore and exhausted. He wanders through the house and eventually back up to his room, standing in front of his closet, knowing he should get dressed but overwhelmed by even the simplest choice. Finally, he just pulls on a plain t-shirt over his basketball shorts, and, after catching a glimpse of his hair, puts a snapback on backwards. He doesn’t feel like sitting, so he doesn’t, tucking his keys in his pocket and sliding on a pair of flip flops, leaving the house without his phone or any sort of destination, just walking as his thoughts churn and crash over each other without being much of anything at all.

The heat sends sweat rolling down his temples and between his shoulder blades but he barely feels it, keeping his eyes on his feet as he shuffles down the side of the road. Normally, he’d be listening for any sound that might indicate Rafe or Topper coming up behind him, constantly judging the proximity of the cars, quietly bemoaning the blister forming under his left big toe from the strap of his sandal. But the only thing he senses is the slap of his shoes against the asphalt, carrying him aimlessly across the island.

His own denial fights vocally to be heard under the stifling realization, but it’s something he’s been pushing down for years, ignoring even as the obvious signs wiggled their way into his every day life, like the goosebumps at John B’s touch or the expansion of his chest when John B laughed. It was always there, waiting for him to see it, quietly growing and climbing its way like ivy from his heart to his head, finally bursting from underneath his skin at the worst possible moment.

He’s going to have to tell his dad. There won’t be any way to explain the grief crashing over him without the truth. That settles itself on his shoulders right next to the realization itself and everything else he’s been holding up for months. Knowing the name of it, at least, makes it easier to handle. He’s been carrying around his feelings for John B without knowing what they were, mis-assigning them to Kiara and fucking up what’s probably his favorite friendship. He’s gonna have to tell her, too. He’s not looking forward to that.

As he walks, it settles in, making a home along with all the other true things about him. Pope Heyward. Black. Sixteen years of age. Six feet tall. Pogue. And, he guesses, gay. Maybe bi. But probably gay. Looking back, no girl has ever made him feel the way that John B makes -- he swallows. Used to make him feel. With his stupid floppy hair and his kind brown eyes and that absurd jawline. Tears cloud his eyes and the path in front of him blurs. His best friend is dead . And it took that horrible, heart-shattering tragedy for him to figure out how he felt about him.

He keeps walking for a while, choking back tears and half-planning conversations with his parents and Kie, listening to the slap of his sandals on the cracked asphalt littered with long, dry pine needles and cracked seed pods, signalling the nearing end of summer. He feels, gratefully, a little more clear-headed, less freaked out than he thought he would be. He always feels better, having a plan, no matter how vague and ineffectual that plan may turn out to be.

After a while, he looks up, and finds himself in Figure Eight -- a very dangerous place to be, given the current social climate of the island -- not very far from Kie’s house. He heaves a sigh. Better now than later. Pausing before mounting the porch, Pope spares a second of a regret for his appearance. Kiara’s parents have never been keen on him or either of the other boys, and he knows that showing up in tattered shorts and flip flops won’t exactly help his case. Anna opens the door, looking surprised to see him, and Pope is momentarily relieved it isn’t Kie’s father.

“Good morning,” she says, wary.

“Hi,” Pope replies, lacking his usual magical parent-charming abilities, exhaustion and grief sapping the energy from his bones. There’s an awkward pause as Mrs. Carrera awaits the explanation of a rattily dressed pogue boy on her porch and Pope scrambles for one. He settles on the obvious. “Is Kie here?” He doesn’t know where else she’d be, honestly, but it’s the usual go-to for when they’re dragging Kie back to the Cut for nonsense and potential delinquency, and he’s hoping her mom won’t question it.

“She’s not,” Anna says, concern coloring her tone. “She isn’t with you?” Pope feels his eyebrows draw together, a betrayal of his own confusion, an immediate admittance of guilt.

“I, uh --” he says eloquently as panic overtakes Anna’s face. “I mean, she --” He’s saved by the girl herself riding down the sidewalk on a bike that looks like it’s seen better days, rattling loudly as she cruises toward the house. “There she is!” he says, with a disturbing amount of forced enthusiasm that puts the same expression on Kie and Anna’s faces. “So, we’re all good. Thanks, Mrs. C!”

But Anna isn’t gonna let her daughter slide so easily. “Kiara,” she says, “You weren’t in your room this morning.”

“I went for a bike ride,” Kie replies coldly. “I needed to think.”

“For three hours?” Anna asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

Kie shrugs. “I needed to think a lot.” Anna looks like she wants a little more information out of her daughter, but she looks at Pope, clearly reluctant to start a fight with him around. He feels caught, standing on the porch between mother and daughter, like he’s in a room with a half-constructed bomb. Kie’s hands fidget with the handlebars. “C’mon, Pope,” she says.

“No way,” Anna interjects. Kie opens her mouth like she wants to argue, but her mother’s words cut her off. “You two can hang out on the porch for a while, but when you’re done,” and here, she looks at Kiara like she might actually commit murder if her daughter doesn’t listen to her, “Come inside. We have a lot to talk about.”

Kie heaves a heavy breath. “Fine,” she says. Satisfied, Anna turns and goes inside. Pope drops off the porch and walks with Kie as she walks the bike over to the garage.

“Hey,” he says, his heart in his throat. This is a complete turnaround from the emptiness of earlier, every inch of him hyper aware of her body language, the changes in her expression and her attitude towards him. His entire life feels like a shipwreck, dashed against the rocks after careful years of building, after months of planning the perfect voyage. “Bike ride?” he asks, because he always knows when she’s lying.

She props her bike up against the side of the garage. “I was with JJ,” she blows out on a sigh. She doesn’t look at him as they walk around to the back porch. “At the Chateau.” Pulling her hair out of it’s ponytail, she splits it over her shoulders, fidgeting nervously with the ends. “I didn’t want him to be alone.”

He’s about to say that he was alone, that maybe he wanted to have his friends around him, too, but then he remembers his father catching him in the bathroom, waking up in his own bed, water and a note on the bedside table. JJ wouldn’t have gotten any of that. He can’t even go home, not after Luke Maybank finds out what happened to his precious Phantom . With John B -- gone -- JJ doesn’t have anyone left. Except for them. And Pope was too wrapped up in his own grief and bullshit to think about something like that. He takes a second to be grateful for Kiara.

They reach the steps to the Carrera’s back porch, and she sits down on the second-to-last one. “I have something to tell you,” she says, and she still won’t look at him. Half of him wonders what she’s upset about while the other hopes she can’t hear his heartbeat, it’s pounding so loud in his own ears.

Slowly, he sinks down next to her, the morning sun radiant across her skin, amplified by the reflection off the channel. He takes a deep breath. “I have something to tell you, too.” Her eyebrows draw together. He licks his lips. She pulls her knees up to her chest. He stares at his feet. They’re afraid of each other, and the awkward tension in the air makes him hate every wrong thing he said, every lie he told her, even though he believed them when he said it. She doesn’t say anything else, and he takes that as his cue to go first. He looks up, before he says anything, taking in her kind brown eyes, the soft lines of her kind, intelligent face. He wants one last picture of her before he changes everything. “I don’t love you,” he says.

Her face contorts in an expression of surprise and offense, and he rapidly backpedals. “I mean, I do.” he says. “Of course I do, but like, like a sister.”

“A sister,” she says incredulously, confusion rising in her eyes.

“Not -- Oh, fuck, that’s not --” He drops his head in his hands, his blood rushing so loudly in his ears he can’t hear himself think. “This is not going well.”

“No shit,” she says, but there’s a little bit of relief in her voice. This bumbling, tripping-over-his-words Pope makes a lot more sense than the one that lost his shit and nearly killed Rafe Cameron the previous day. (And God, was that only yesterday?) He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, and she notices his breath start to quicken. “Pope?” she asks, leaning forward and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Kie, I’m gay.” It falls out of his mouth like a boulder, hitting the ground and shaking the earth with its weight. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it’s terrifying, to have it so concrete in front of him, no longer nebulous and trapped in his head. He can’t take it back, can’t lie about it anymore, to her or himself or anyone else. He has to live with that truth, now, no matter how he feels about it. Part of that, while intimidating, makes him feel just a little bit more free.

“Oh,” she says, and he’s too panicked to discern anything in her tone. “Okay.” He doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to see the horror or anger or whatever else must be settling there.

He rushes to explain himself, like he didn’t hear. “I’m sorry that I thought I was in love with you,” he says, even as she feels a thousand worries slip from her shoulders like coming up from diving under a wave. “I just, I was jealous, and I thought that it was John B I was jealous of, but it wasn’t, it was you, and then he--” Pope blows by his name before he chokes on it, realizing what he’s said aloud, how dangerous and loaded a once-familiar thing has become. “It wasn’t him I was jealous of,” he repeats, lacing his fingers over the back of his head, dropping it to his chest. “It wasn’t him.” He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing down the tears fighting their way up his throat.

Kie hesitates in reaching for him, but the moment her fingertips brush his shoulder, she falls against her best friend, wrapping her arms around him as best she can. “Oh, Pope,” she whispers, as tears well in her own eyes. “Oh Pope, I’m so sorry.” He falls into her embrace, all his anger and uncertainty dissipating like fog at dawn. They both cry for a while, her silently, him shaking. She does her best to comfort him, but his grief has taken on a different tone she can no longer imagine.

When his breath finally slows, he sits up out of her arms, wiping under his eyes. “You aren’t mad?” He asks, in true Pope fashion.

“Why would I be mad?” she asks, disbelief echoing in her words.

“Well, I was…” he sniffs, watching his hands fold over each other. “I was kind of a jerk about it.” He feels bad, about the way everything went down. He was drowning, in disappointment and confusion and a million other things he still doesn’t have words for that he wishes he could explain. He was an asshole to her when he should have listened and  

She knocks their shoulders together with half a sly smile. “Yeah, you kind of were.” It feels good to be joking with him like this again, after the last couple of days of chaos and anger and disappointment after disappointment. They’re best friends for a reason, her boys and her.

“And then --” he swallows, remembering the moments at the Dump after John B disappeared into the marsh, moments he still doesn’t understand. “Y-you kissed me, and --”

The smile falls off her face. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she says. She shifts her weight between her feet, her knees moving back and forth as they sit side by side on the porch steps, picking at her nails. “That wasn’t --” she looks at him, and he looks back. “I shouldn’t have done that.” She stretches her legs out in front of her, knocking her sneakers together, her hands dropping to her lap. “I have my own shit to figure out, Pope,” she says. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

Pope leans over, “You wanna talk about it?” he asks pointedly. He knows she likes to talk things through, make sense of them by pushing everything out into the atmosphere so she can see it all, pick out the pieces that make sense. He also doesn’t want to talk about him, anymore.

“No,” she says abruptly. He leans back into his own space, holding his hands up a little, and she bites her lip, like she does when she’s thinking too hard about what to say next. “I’m sorry,” she admits. “I just --” she knocks her feet together again before pulling them back up to the last step, her chin falling onto her knees. “I gotta think about it some more, I guess.” She looks at him, screwing up her face in that way that makes everyone agree that she’s adorable. “I’ve got some more I’ve gotta work out.”

“You know you can still talk to me, right?” he reassures her. He used to be the best listener, before he went and fucked everything up. Kie would talk to him about things John B and JJ would never understand, usually about parents or family pressure, things she felt guilty discussing with either one of their practically-orphaned friends. Pope understood, and it was easy to let Kie just let everything out, answering her own questions, defining problems and putting together solutions in the same breath. It’s part of the reason he assumed they would end up together, before -- well. Before. She trusted him, and he fucked that up, and now he can only hope that he can earn it back.

“I know,” she says, folding her arms on top of her knees and looking back out across the channel. “It’s not because of --” she stops, unsure of how to define it.

“Yeah,” he answers. He doesn’t want to talk about it either.

“It’s just --” she goes quiet for a second, picking through words like the wrong ones are rotten, and he watches her, the slight breeze off the water picking up strands of her hair. Her shoulder drops as she moves her head, and a few curls shift enough that he can see dark red marks tracking up the side of her neck. Hickies? “I don’t think I have words for it yet,” she says, finishing her sentence. JJ , he thinks, her confession about her absence this morning circling back through his mind. The word is JJ .

Pope isn’t blind. He sees the way JJ looks at her. He always has. It never unsettled him like the shared glances between Kie and John B, and now he knows why. It’s a little relieving, to not have to manufacture false jealousy in the pit of his stomach, to have to lie to himself in order to make his constructed, false worldview make sense. JJ and Kie -- they’re going to be something else to handle, with the inherent chaos of how they both handle their emotions and the forced bravado they both put on, but he supposes they were… inevitable, in a way. Kiara was misinterpreting her own feelings, just like he was, forcing herself to believe she loved someone who made more sense, someone that was easier to accept than confronting the truth. John B was his truth -- JJ is hers. He’s grateful, in a way, that they’ll have each other, through this -- once she gains the same clarity he’s come to.

“It’s okay,” he says, as everything slides into place. He’s not gonna rush this, not gonna make her take steps she’s not ready for. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.” She smiles at him -- a weak thing, but genuine.

“Thanks, Pope,” she says.

He shrugs. “What are best friends for?” She drops her head against his shoulder, and for the first time since Shoupe confirmed their worst fears, he feels like things might, someday, be okay again.

They stay like that for a while, and then she asks him if he wants to talk more about it, and Pope recounts the moment of clarity in the bathroom, his thought process on his walk across the island. Kie listens, because he’s still her best friend, and it’s one of his favorite things about her, the way she makes it so easy to let everything out, the way she makes him feel seen. She doesn’t say much, but she doesn’t have to, because everything is still so fresh and bleeding that he doesn’t know what he wants to hear, yet. She reassures him she still loves him, that she’ll stick with him no matter what, just like she’s always promised to do, and that seems to do the trick.

Eventually, Mrs. Carrera comes out and offers to drive Pope home, a very pointed instruction to the both of them. She goes to get the car, leaving the two of them to say goodbye on the porch. Kie stands with her arms crossed over her stomach, like she’s holding herself together. “My parents are probably gonna have me on lockdown for a while,” she says, biting on the corner of her lip.  

“Mine too,” he answers, with some inkling of what she’s about to ask him.

“Do you think you could --” she starts, and she’s staring somewhere around his collarbones, because JJ means more to her now, and makes this request, somehow, different. “I mean, with service down, it’s gonna be hard to keep in touch and I just --” She sighs, frustrated with herself, that she can’t get the words out. “When his dad figures out what happened --”

Pope interrupts her this time, reaches a gentle hand out for her arm. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he promises. “I’ll talk to my parents…” he says, automatically, his usual main resource for help or assistance, and pauses, remembering the note he left on with his father, how things might go without the overhang of a recent disaster. His parents. They’ll be out all day, at least, won’t know about his sojourn to Figure Eight. But they’ll be back, and he has a lot to face.

“Will you just make sure he’s safe?” she asks, small and scared, and, in true Kiara fashion, ashamed to be asking for help.

“Yeah,” he answers. He wraps her in a tight hug, grateful to have his friend back, to be centering somewhere at least slightly left of normal, to be spiralling down from the insane high of failure and the chaos of being half a fugitive. “Yeah, of course.”

Mrs. Carrera drives him home, and even though she tries to ask him how he’s holding up, he answers monosyllabically, avoiding small talk by staring out the window and doing his best to stave off the encroaching panic as he anticipates the upcoming conversation with his father. Anna watches him carefully, and he can feel her eyes on him. It makes him uneasy.

Watching Figure Eight slowly melt into subdivisions and condominiums and then, as houses get smaller and the weeds get wilder, into the Cut. In a matter of minutes, fantastic wealth descends into abject struggle and poverty, a jarring display of privilege and elitism that Pope and the others are no longer shocked by. They grew up in it, cut down over and over again by a system that simply wasn’t built for them, grew up before their time because the kooks never will, abdicating responsibility and ignoring the fallout. Pope’s thoughts wander to Topper’s wakesetter, bile rising in his throat. His impulsive mistake ruined JJ’s life at sixteen, and the Thorntons, well. They’ll just buy another boat.

When they reach the Heywards’, Anna cuts the engine, and Pope doesn’t move, staring at his family’s little house, shabby but well-kept, his mother’s vegetable garden in full swing, bursting with a physical manifestation of love and care in an explosion of green leaves and colorful fruits and vegetables. He thinks about the Carrera’s neatly kept lawn, the decorative plants placed carefully on their wraparound porch, the contrast between the two images. Chaos and love, wealth and precision.

“I love your mother’s garden,” Anna says, almost like she doesn’t mean to. “I wish she’d tell me her secret.”

You can’t have it , Pope thinks, selfishly. He wants this one thing, for his mother, for his family. Instead, he answers; “I wouldn’t know.” This, he realizes, is unfortunately true. When was the last time he helped his mother with her garden? Asked her what she wanted to do on a Saturday? He helps with the store, of course, but in that, he doesn’t have a choice. He’s spent so much time chasing John B, first his promise of adventure, and then his approval, and then, desperate to help him in his hour of need. When was the last time he helped with the yard work? Helped make dinner? Stayed in on a Friday night?

His parents love him violently, work hard to give him opportunities they never had. His father breaks his back, works the store, the delivery service, any hard labor job he can get, used to being a tool, something to be taken advantage of, a means to an end. He does it so Pope can go to school, have a laptop to do homework and apply for colleges on, have a phone to text his friends and stay in contact with his parents. His throat thickens with the realization that his father was right -- he has been ungrateful. He’s been disrespectful, and rude, and if it was him, he wouldn’t even let himself back into the house, much less comfort him, leave him breakfast and reassuring notes.

Anna takes the emotion in his eyes for something else, and she puts a hand on his shoulder that feels so distinctly different from Kiara’s that it’s fundamentally wrong, and he freezes under her touch. “I know this is hard,” she says, in a tone that tries for concerned mom and lands somewhere closer to patronizing school counselor. “But you’ll get through it. You have each other, and that’s the most important part.”

“Thanks,” he says coldly, reaching for the door handle before climbing quickly out of the car. When his feet hit the packed-dirt drive, he stops, feeling like an asshole. “And thank you. For the ride.” He goes to shut the door, but she interrupts him.

“Pope,” she says, and he looks up at her, making eye contact for the first time since he got in the car. “If you -- or your family -- needs anything…” She bites her lip the same way Kie does. “Just, don’t hesitate to ask.” Pope usually rankles under the suggestion of charity, pride bred into him alongside a stubborn willfulness that rivals even his father’s, but she knows life in the Cut, has faced the same things he and his family deal with every day. It’s an odd juxtaposition, her inherent compassion and her dislike of her daughter’s friends. It’s what, at the end of the day, separates her eternally from Kie.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Of course. Thanks, Ms. Anna.”

When he reaches the door, he hears tires twist in the dirt, and Anna Carrera drives away, back to her house, her daughter, her life on Figure Eight. Pope lets himself in, showers off the sweat from his trek to Kie’s, and sets about cleaning the house, both as a distraction and a desperate appeal for his parents’ forgiveness. The whole afternoon, he rehearses a million different versions of the same speech, apologies and admittances, going back and forth about copping to the sinking of Topper’s boat, afraid of his father’s wrath and the legal consequences, but still guilty and anxious to the point of nausea over it, desperate to do the right thing.

Pope was raised with a strong sense of right and wrong, a deep and little-discussed Catholic faith, and a strong sense of familial pride. What Heywards are and aren’t, what they do and don’t do -- it was all drilled into him from a young age. Heywards pay their debts. Heywards don’t complain, don’t argue, don’t talk back. Heywards work hard. Heywards work honest.

Heywards aren’t gay.

It was never said, but Pope knows his dad. He knows what counts as acceptable behavior, the future his father imagines for him. A college degree, a Good Job, a house, a wife, kids -- he knows what’s expected. He tries to wrestle with the disappointment that he’ll never own up to that image as he scrubs the stove, tears welling up as he works at a particularly stubborn grease stain. He’s already disappointed them so much, just in the past few days. What will they say? What will they think of him?

He knows he’s lucky, as a kid in the Cut with both parents still around, still willing to work, still willing to love him. There are too many kids like John B and JJ, left behind, ignored and neglected, the victims of vicious cycles and cruel tragedies. Pope still has a whole family, as small and broken as it may be. He should start acting like it.

He’s just finished dusting the living room when he hears tires in the driveway, the rattling engine of his father’s old pickup, and he freezes like a prey animal caught in an open plain. They’re home. His mother makes quiet comments on the improved state of the house as they toss keys in bowls and remove shoes, speaking calmly to each other, the soft noises of domesticity and routine. Routine he is about to monumentally disrupt, more than he ever has.

Pope has a speech planned. He has things he wants to say, sentences he needs them to hear in the same way he has them planned. Everything needs to follow the course he’s laid out, or it could be open to misinterpretation. He’s prepared. That’s what he does -- he plans, he structures, he researches and prepares. All of that disintegrates the moment his father walks into the living room.

“Pope,” he says. “You cleaned.”

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Pope says, and the words choke him, tears welling and spilling in the same instant, like a faucet turning on after winter. He tells him everything, about Topper’s wakesetter and the failed treasure hunt and the impossible hope that drew him from his scholarship interview, the desperation and the certainty that he was following, determined to be the final piece of the puzzle, the thing that saved his friends. He begs for forgiveness, crying and broken, looking for himself in his fathers eyes. Heyward doesn’t say anything for a long time, soaking in the information. His wife is struck dumb, at Pope’s heart breaks with the horror in his mother’s eyes, at his admittances of all he’s done.

“Please,” Pope begs. “Say something.”

The silence that hangs in the living room feels like a gun against his temple, his father’s finger on the trigger. “Well son,” Heyward says, “What are you gonna do about it?”

“What --” Pope’s brain stops, too overwhelmed to process this reaction from his father. There is grief and anger, guilt and fear, and a thousand other things he cannot name. He is out of words, out of ideas and out of power. He wants someone to tell him what to do, because cannot possibly summon the energy to determine a path himself.

“You sunk that boy’s boat?” Pope nods, dumbfounded, answering on instinct. Heyward looks tired. “You let your friend take the fall?”

“I --” It’s hard, to hear it in his father’s voice, to hear the disappointment there, to feel it, real, metallic, and cutting in the air. “Yeah.”

Heyward shrugs, like it’s simple. “What are you gonna do about it?” Maybe it is. Pope got himself into this mess, and now he needs to get himself out.

“I don’t --” he starts, with nowhere to go.

“You gonna do the right thing?” His father asks, his tone implying that there is one answer.

Pope straightens up, closes his mouth, swallows down all the tears, all the uncertainty and vulnerability. He has asked for guidance, and his father is providing it. There is no more room for weakness here. “Yes, sir.”

Heyward nods, and turns to Yvonne, who has tears in her eyes. “He’ll be fine, sweetheart,” He says to his wife. “We’ve got a good boy here. He’ll be fine.” He wraps his arms around her, folding her into his chest in a familiar, nostalgic gesture. Pope feels awkward, watching his parents comfort each other, but he knows that his feelings are not the most important in the room. His chest hurts knowing he’s the one who caused their pain.

But this conversation still isn’t over. “Dad, um,” he says, and Heyward looks at him with exhaustion in his wizened eyes. “there’s one more thing.”

Heyward turns toward him again, leaving one arm around his wife. “Well I don’t know if you can shock me anymore today, Pope,” he says, “so go ahead.”

The words dam up behind his lips, and his hands flex at his sides, clenching into fists and spreading out again, and there’s no way out of this, not anymore. It was easier with Kie, for some reason.  “Dad, I’m gay.” It hangs there, bigger and somehow more terrifying than anything he’s said since his parents came home. The air in the living room doesn’t move, stale and muggy in the North Carolina evening, without the hum of the fridge or the air conditioner for reprieve.

Heyward blinks. Once, twice. Yvonne shakes on a silent sob, a noise that cracks Pope’s ribs open. “Okay,” his father replies.

It is somehow relieving and disappointing all at once. Pope doesn’t lie to his parents, at least, as much as he can help it. “Is that all?” he asks, because he expected -- something more? Something beyond indifference. Maybe rage, maybe affirmation. Maybe some indicator that this was just as big of a deal as he made it out to be.

“What else do you want me to say?” Heyward asks, knowing this is the most he and his son have talked about anything in years. The last mention at vulnerability came before the ill-fated scholarship interview, less than a minute of conversation before Heyward left his son to take a job. Sometimes he kicks himself for that, wondering about what might have happened if he’d waited, been there when his son made one of the most impulsive decisions of his young life. Could he have caught him coming out the door? Talked him down? What would today be, if Heyward had been there?

Pope looks at his father through a haze of tears, his breath somewhere other than his chest, uncontrollable and foreign. “You don’t hate me?”

Heyward shrugs. “You’re still my son, ain’t you?” Pope nods, sniffling and backhanding tears off of his face. “Well then, I guess I still love you.” Pope doesn’t remember the last time his father said that to him. “Pope,” Heyward sighs, heaving himself off the couch. “You’ve done a lot these past few weeks I don’t understand. I’m not gonna pretend I’m not upset with you.” Pope looks at his father’s feet, weary and sore on the threadbare carpet. “But you bein gay? That ain’t why.”

And that, that breaks the tenuous control he has over his emotions, and he sobs, loud and hard and echoing in the small living room. “I thought maybe -- maybe you might --” Pope tries, his arms at his sides, fists clenched, chest shaking. Heyward steps forward, wrapping his arms around his son, because he may not know what Pope is going to do, what he’s going to do as a father, as a man. Even though neither of them know how they’re going to get through this, how they’re going to deal with the police department, the Thorntons, John B’s death, and the rest -- they  know this, they know the faith they have in each other, the love and respect that lives there, even after everything.

Pope’s father pulls back from the embrace, places his hands on his son’s shoulders and levels him with the same stare that Pope has known his whole life. “What are you?” he asks, the same way he’s asked a million times before. This is a routine, between father and son, in moments of desperation, a way of taking a step back up from the most crushing of lows, of taking back control, setting their shoulders and facing into the wind.

Pope knows the answer. “I’m a Heyward.”

[dwaynepride]

Bruised

Summary: The team’s recent case gets in the way of you and Jimmy’s date night, until it doesn’t.

Words: 1,862

Warnings: None

Tags: @dressed-up-just-like-z1ggy @ms-allenbrown @ikbenplant @dylpickles1267 @diaryofafan17 @specialagentlokitty @stanathanxoox @pageofultron

Notes: I haven’t written a Jimmy oneshot in a long time and i reckon he deserved one so here’s Soft Boy

The past minute or so has been peaceful, in comparison to the utterly exhausting chaos that this case has brought to the team. It wasn’t really peace that you were feeling; no matter how hard you tried, the office ambience wouldn’t let you forget about the stupid amount of work to be done before Gibbs returns. He’ll want results that you can’t possibly have.

Still, hiding your face in your eyes and shutting your eyes did provide a small break. Not quite the one you needed (or deserved), but it served its purpose of letting you rest your eyes. To do something other than scan over bank statements for the next couple hours.

You let your mind go blank for a few moments, which wasn’t very hard to do. Everyone was exhausted, and if you laid your head down, you’d probably fall right to sleep. The short, blissful moment of thinking about nothing was cut short when your belly rumbled. Loudly.

Right - you skipped lunch. A sacrifice to follow a lead that McGee dug up and lead nowhere. You were still mad at him about that.

A sudden loud call of your name makes you drop your hands from your face. And you didn’t have to look up to know who it was who greeted you; his voice was unmistakable in its bright cheerfulness. Normally, hearing Jimmy’s voice so jovial was a nice change from Gibbs and his grumbling. But right now, it made you exhale a small puff of air.

You loved him. You really did. But he was too damn happy right now.

You finally look up when Jimmy stops beside your desk, stepping in behind it so he can bend down and press a quick kiss to your cheek. Had the day been a little better, you would have returned it. And Jimmy picks up on that with a furrow of his brow. “You look really stressed out,” he comments.

“We all are, Jimmy,” is your flat reply; there just wasn’t enough energy in the world to make you put more enthusiasm into your voice. “This case is kicking our asses.”

He looks a bit sympathetic, but that smile doesn’t disappear. In fact, it gets even bigger as Jimmy straightens up and sets a brown paper bag down on your desk. You didn’t even notice he had it, until just now. “Well, it’s a good thing I brought you something to eat. Maybe it’ll make you feel better. I bet your blood sugar’s just a little low; that outta make you tired...”

Jimmy puts his hand against your forehead, but you barely hear whatever little ramblings he spits out. Because you’re pulling the bag closer, opening in and savouring the way that the smell of food hits your face instantly, and you’re belly growls again.

Alright. Maybe having his cheery self around here isn’t so bad.

You don’t talk much as you eat - just idly listen to Jimmy as he tells you about the autopsy and what came from it. How he sent all kinds of different samples up to Abby, so one of them is bound to give the team a couple clues. And he doesn’t even mind that you respond with a little hum here or a nod there. Jimmy is honestly content to watch you eat, knowing you needed it.

And the sight also makes him a bit sad. Because he wishes you didn’t work so hard that a simple sandwich and fries would make you the happiest person in the world.

Jimmy pushes the rising melancholy away and nudges your shoulder to get your attention. “So, do you think you guys will finish things up early tonight?” He asks. And when you frown a little in confusion, his weight shifts. “We have dinner reservations. Remember?”

You immediately stop chewing and swallow thickly. Fuck - you completely forgot about those reservations. Thank God it was nobody’s birthday or something, and the dinner was just for the sake of spending some time together. But even with that rationale, you feel guilty about shrugging your shoulders. “I don’t know. I mean, this case is taking up a lot of our time. Tony had to skip on breakfast with this girl because of it...”

Jimmy’s smile was fading a little, and that’s what made you trail off. If it weren’t for this case (and the threat of death from Gibbs), you’d go. But it was just impossible.

The disappointment is still clear on Jimmy’s face, even after he pushes his smile back into view. “I understand, really! We can just reschedule. It’s not a big deal,” he promises earnestly. And before you could say much else, Jimmy is leaning back in to kiss your opposite cheek. “I should get back to autopsy, in case Doctor Mallard needs me. Enjoy your lunch. I love you.”

You mumble out a weak ‘I love you’ as he walks away toward the elevator. And despite his attempts to shrug off another missed date night, that sad look on Jimmy’s face weighed on your heart for the rest of the day.

--

You never truly knew what a science experiment felt like until Tony was bent over beside you, his eyes completely locked onto your face.

And you really tried hard to ignore him. If he didn’t get a response, he’ll get bored and go back to his desk. There were more important things to be doing; since Abby identified some DNA on the murder weapon, the team was led to what could only be assumed as the suspect’s house.

It was so empty - so quiet - you didn’t think anybody would still be there.

You were wrong. He was definitely there. And you had the injuries to prove it.

“I wonder how much more your eye is gonna swell up,” Tony spouts out, his head tilting a little while he continues to stare.

A harsh, frustrated huff comes up, and it pulls on your ribs to remind you not to breathe too heavily. But you still whirl your head around to DiNozzo, trying your best to glare at him with only one eye, since the other was big and bruised. “I don’t know. But keep staring at me, and we’ll have matching injuries.”

The angry tone of your voice was enough to convince Tony to pull away and return to his desk. You’d think with the first solid lead of this case, he’d be eager to work before it got cold.

You shift in your chair, hoping a new position would be easier on the annoyingly-sensitive bruised ribs that keep inhibiting your breathing. But moving only jostled the injury, and your eyes screwed shut at the sudden sharp pain in your flank. This was just great.

“Palmer! What are you doing up here?”

A small sigh comes up at Tony’s rude greeting, and you force your eyes open so Jimmy doesn’t notice the pain on your face.

He already did. You watch him cross the bullpen in a few long strides, eyes wide as dinner plates and his jaw hung open in shock at your condition. Gibbs is trailing in behind him; he must have told Jimmy about what happened. Because he crouches by your chair, hand gently resting on your knee. “Are you okay?” Jimmy asks softly, eyes examining your face. The black eye, mostly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just got knocked around, a little.” That was downplaying the battle, but Jimmy was worried enough.

He looks doubtful at your answer, though. “Well, maybe I should take you to the hospital. Just to be safe.”

“I don’t need a doctor, I’m fine.”

Jimmy looks ready to argue, but it’s Gibbs who speaks up from his desk. “Maybe not a hospital, but you’re goin’ home for the rest of the day,” he states. And unlike Jimmy, his tone leaves no room for debate.

Still, for some reason, you try. “But Gibbs, the case-”

“No ‘but’s. Palmer, take ‘em home. Make sure they rest.”

He’s all too happy to obey that order. You hesitate for a moment, but you have nowhere near as much strength as you need to argue with Gibbs about staying. Plus, Jimmy still has that fearful concern in his eyes. And that’s what truly prompts you to let him help you up and downstairs to the car.

“You drive like an old lady,” you tell him. Trying to tease but everything hurts just a little too much to really be believable.

“I’m just being careful. You know, even the smallest pothole could aggravate your ribs. They might not be broken, but bruised ribs aren’t something you can just shrug off...”

That’s how his scolding comes through; telling you just how bad your injuries around and how much worse they could have been. In this state, Jimmy wouldn’t of had the heart to outright scold your actions.

He’s talking about the dangers of black eyes by the time he finally pulls into your home. And slowly, gently, he helps you inside. Even assists in shedding your work clothes for something more comfortable. Jimmy frowns heavily at the ugly sight of the blotched bruises fanning your flank. It makes him a little sad. Even a kiss to his cheek doesn’t truly chase it away.

And then Jimmy has you sitting on the couch, carefully gravitating over you as he cleans every little cut and gash. He touches a particularly nasty one, and the sharp pain comes as a surprise. Jimmy immediately pulls away. “Sorry! I don’t think this one was cleaned very well.”

You just let out a hum of acknowledgement. Words weren’t coming up as easily as they should. As if your brain just wasn’t running normally, because before you knew it, Jimmy had finished cleaning you up, and your head was resting against his shoulder.

He was warm. Comfortable. Smelled a bit like the sterile environment of autopsy, but underneath that, pure Jimmy. It was his scent that became the last sensation you registered before closing your eyes and slipping into a comfortable blackness.

Jimmy was the last thing you smelled before falling asleep, but it was the tantalizing aroma of food that woke you up. And everything was blurry, at first. You weren’t even sure how long you were out. But right now, your injuries were still numbed with sleep, and the only thing you can focus on the was smell of food.

Your eyes blink open when Jimmy sets something down on the coffee table. Turns out, it was a plate of food. Chicken and mashed potatoes and a couple other things that instantly made your stomach growl. “Jimmy...?”

“Hey,” he greets lightly, crouching down into your line of sight. He’s changed out of his autopsy scrubs, and was smiling brightly once again. You missed that optimistic smile. “We missed our dinner date yesterday. I figured since you finally have a night off, we could make up for it.”

You’re injured and hurting and still frustrated at being sent home early. But Jimmy looks so hopeful and soft and earnest in his efforts, you just had to mimic his smile.

Even if it hurt your eye.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

I Believe the Children Are Our Future: Part One

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,186

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

“Agents Page, Plant, and Ronan,” Dean said as he held up his fake badge for the doctor to see.

There had been reports of strange deaths occurring in this town, but you didn’t really know how strange. The police report you found said something about a girl with a head injury from something that clawed through her skull. Normally it wasn’t your type of thing, but when you talked with the police that made the report, he was very nervous and he stuttered which made you think there was something supernatural about this.

“Gentlemen, Lady. What brings you by?” the doctor asked.

“We need to see Amber Freer's body,” you stated.

“Really? What for?”

“The police report said something clawed through her skull?”

“You didn't read the autopsy report that I emailed out this morning?”

“W-we had, uh, server issues,” Sam chuckled nervously.

The doctor motioned for you three to follow, and he led you to the room where the bodies were kept in freezers. He opened one and pulled the body out before removing the sheet from her head.

“When they brought her in, we thought she was attacked by a wolf or something,” the doctor explained as he showed you the claw marks on the side of her skull, “but we were wrong.” He picked up a plastic bad from the slab the body was laying on before showing it to you and the brothers.

“Is that a—”

“Pressed-on nail,” the doctor finished for you. “We found it in her temporal lobe.”

“You’re saying she did this to herself?” you asked, clearly shocked.

“Uh-huh. She scratched her brains out. It'd take hours, and it'd hurt like hell, but sure—it's possible.”

“How?”

“Pick your acronym—OCD, PCP. It all spells crazy,” the doctor sighed. Sam reached for the blanket and pulled it back further until the girl’s hands were shown. Amber’s right hand had four press-on nails still attached, but the middle finger has nothing on it. “My guess, some kind of phantom itch. I mean, an extreme case, but still.”

“Phantom itch?” Dean asked.

“Yup,” the doctor stated as he placed the sheet back over her body and put her back in the freezer. “All it takes is someone talking about an itch—or thinking about one, even—and suddenly you can't stop scratching.”

“Thanks, doc,” you smiled before leaving the morgue with the brothers.

Now you know why the police was nervous when you talked to them because they were curious about why she did this to herself or what caused it to happen.

“The family should still be a little fresh regarding information. We’re heading there next,” you said as you clutched the keys in your hand.

“When I agreed you could drive, I didn’t mean take over the whole goddamn investigation,” Dean joked as everyone got into the car.

“Get used to it,” you smirked before pulling out onto the street to head to the house where Amber died—the house in which she was babysitting.

While Sam was questioning the parents of Jimmy, the little boy who had Amber as a babysitter, you and Dean looked at the rest of the house for anything suspicious. The little boy, Jimmy, was watching from the kitchen because he seemed too scared to even go into the room with the FBI Agents who he thinks are real. As soon as you saw him, you nudged Dean before approaching the young boy.

“Whatcha lookin' for?” Jimmy asked hesitantly.

“Don’t know yet,” Dean answered.

“It’s Jimmy, yeah?” you asked and he nodded. “So, Amber was your babysitter?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he gulped.

“Did you, uh, you see anything strange that night?” Dean asked.

“No, sir.”

“You sure about that?”

“I—I would tell you if I knew something. I promise. One hundred percent. Cross my heart.”

“Well, Jimmy, I happen to know you're lying,” Dean began, but the young boy tried to get out of it.

“I'm not.”

“Jimmy,” you stated as you kneeled down which was more closer to his height than if you were to stand. “You’re not going to get in trouble. I promise you. What happened last night? You can tell us.”

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think it would work. I put it on her hairbrush,” he started crying as he pulled out what he used to prank his babysitter with.

Taking the object from his hand, you looked at the itching powder that claimed to work like a charm. Looking at Dean, you patted Jimmy’ shoulder as you stood up.

“Thank you for letting us know, Jimmy,” you said as you walked back over to Sam who was finishing up. He thanked the parents for their cooperation just as you three left the house.

“What did you find out?” Sam asked.

“Kid said he put this on the babysitter's hairbrush,” you explained as you held up the powder.

“Y/N, there’s no way itching powder made that girl scratch her brains out. It's just ground-up maple seeds.”

“If you have any other theories, I'm open to 'em,” you shrugged.

Sam’s phone rang as you approached the driver’s side door. He looked distressed as he talked to whoever was on the other line.

“Yeah?... Yeah, we'll be right there,” he sighed as he hung up.

“Who was that?”

“The police. There’s been another death.”

“Hospital it is then,” you chuckled as you got into the car and started her up.

The drive to the hospital wasn’t far, and when you got there, they were already putting a body in a body bag and zipping it shut.

“What happened?” Sam asked when he showed his badge.

“Guy got electrocuted,” the doctor answered.

“Any idea how?”

“Eh, maybe a loose wire or a piece of equipment shorted out. So far, we haven't found anything.”

“Witnesses?”

“Yeah, guy in there—Mr. Stanley,” he pointed out the old man who sat in a chair, looking out the window. “He says he saw it, but he's not making a lick of sense. Senile.”

“Thank you,” you nodded before going over to the man. “Mr. Stanley?”

“It was just a joke. I didn't know it would really work.”

“What would work?”

“All I did was shake his hand,” he sighed shakily as he held out his hand, and in the palm is a joy buzzer—the kid of toy that kids mean to shock others unexpectedly.

“Could I see that, please?” you asked as the old man handed it over. Careful not to touch the metal part, you looked at the brothers before leaving the room with them.

“What are you going to do with it?” Dean asked.

“Test it.”

Sam and Dean had industrial goggles on their eyes with black rubber gloves that welders use in case they get sparks on their skin. In the middle of the room was a large uncooked ham in two stacked aluminum-foil pans sitting on the table. Instead of wearing the same kind of goggles and gloves at they were, your magic was to protect you. Blue magic formed over your eyes to shield you from whatever is about to happen as well as over your hands and arms.

“You two ready?” you asked as you looked back at them.

“Hit it, Mr. Wizard,” Sam chuckled.

Rolling your eyes lightly, you turned back to the ham before placing the shocking ring on your finger. Taking a deep breath, you placed it to the ham which began to cook from the inside out. Shocked, pun intended, you pulled your hand away to reveal the burned ham.

“That’ll do pig,” Dean commented as he inched closer.

“What the hell?” Sam gasped. “That shit isn't supposed to work.”

“This thing doesn't even have batteries,” you said as you carefully placed the buzzer down before your magic went away. Both brothers took off their gloves and glasses before Dean took out his knife and began cutting the meat.

“So, what? Are we looking at cursed objects?”

“Sounds about right,” Dean said as he ate the meat. “Maybe there's a powerful witch in town. Is there any link between the, uh, the joy buzzer and the itching powder?”

“Uh, one was made in China, the other Mexico, but they were both bought from the same store.”

“Hmm,” Dean muttered as he continued to eat.

“Come on, Dean,” you sighed as you grabbed his arm and lead him out of the door.

The only place in town that would sell this kind of things was a magic shop which didn’t take too long to get to. As soon as you approached the shop, you walked inside which sounded the bell above the door.

“Sam! Y/N!” Dean grinned as he held up a whoopee cushion. Rolling your eyes, you walked to the counter just as the owner came out of the back room.

“Welcome to the Conjurarium, sanctum of magic and mystery.”

“Are you the owner?” you asked.

“Yep.”

“You sold any itching powder or joy buzzers lately?”

“Yeah, a grand total of one of each. They aren't exactly big-ticket items. Look, you folks here to buy something or what?” he asked. Dean held up some cash before placing it and the whoopee cushion on the counter.

“So, you get many customers?” you asked.

“Kids come in. They don't buy much, but they're more than happy to break stuff. These days, all they care about are their iPhones and those kissing-vampire movies. The whole thing makes me just—”

“Angry?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am angry. This shop has been my life for twenty years, and now it's wasting away to nothing.”

“Which is why you hate them.”

“I suppose.”

“You wish there was something you could do about it.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“So, you're taking revenge,” Dean said as he snatched a rubber chicken off the display and slaps it down on the counter before holding up the buzzer, “with this.” He pressed the buzzer to the chicken which melted it immediately from the shock. The owner jumped back and yelped, taking a seat on whatever he could find.

“Oh! No!” he stuttered, making inarticulate noises.

“Yeah, something tells me this guy is not a powerful witch,” you muttered with an apologetic smile at the man.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Dean apologize as you three scrambled to get out before you caused any more danger.

“I thought that was a rumor,” you said as you walked down the stairs from the second floor of the hospital.

There had been kids that drank and ate pop rocks and coke which caused them to have stomach ulcers. There was also a man whose face was stuck in a certain… position… and they needed a plastic surgeon to come to see if they could fix it. All of these things were rumors and tales, so why were they coming true?

“Yeah well, when you’re a kid, you’ll believe anything,” Dean chuckled just as Sam walked out of the room belonging to a man whose teeth are all missing.

“What's up with Toothless? Cavity creeps get ahold of him?” Dean asked his brother.

“Yeah. Close. He wrote up a description,” he cleared his throat as he read from his notebook. “Five foot ten, three hundred fifty pounds, wings, and a pink tutu. Said it was the tooth fairy.”

“So, he's obviously whacked out on painkillers.”

“Maybe. Whatever it was got past locked doors and windows without triggering the alarm. Plus, it left thirty-two quarters underneath his pillow. One for each tooth.”

“Well, I will see your crazy and raise you some. There's a couple of kids upstairs with stomach ulcers—say they got it from mixing Pop Rocks and Coke. Another guy... his face... froze that way,” you indulged.

“What way?” Sam asked.

Dean looked all around him to see if anyone was watching before he pulled the sides of his mouth so that his teeth showed and crossed his eyes. He holds it for a minute before letting go.

“He held it too long and it stuck. They're flying in a plastic surgeon,” you sighed.

“So, I mean, if you add all that up,” Sam hesitated before sighing. “I got nothing.”

“I thought that if you swallowed chewing gum, it would stick in your stomach for seven years before you’re able to pass it through.”

“What?” Dean asked.

“I also thought that saying, “step on a crack and you break your mother’s back” was true. I mean, I was seven, but I believed it.”

“What’s your point?”

“I mean that’s the connection we’re missing. The tooth fairy, the Pop Rocks and Coke, the joy buzzer that shocks you—they're all lies that kids believe and now they’re coming true.”

“Okay, so whatever's doing this is—is reshaping reality. It has the powers of a god. Or of a trickster,” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, with the sense of humor of a nine-year-old.”

“Or you,” Sam smirked at his brother before leaving your side.

Dean frowned, but you giggled as you passed him since you knew he was right. Dean’s frown deepened, but he followed nonetheless.

Wanna get tagged? Add yourself to this document! If your tag doesn’t work, find out why!

@sing4mejensen​ @essie1876​ @gh0stgurl​ @redsalv20​ @superrandomnatural​ @scarletmeii​ @babypink224221​ @gaveherhearttotheliontattoo​ @akshi8278​ @a--1--1--3​ @kendlemariee​ @miraclesoflove​ @earthtokace​ @teamfreewillsstuff​ @fandom-princess-forevermore​ @kiwihoee​ @jennazeise​ @phantomalchemist​ @posiemax​ @22sarah08​ @tricksterdean​ @andi-mendes-barnes​ @put-my-favorite-record-on​ 

[frangipanidownunder]

Fox Mulder’s Guide to Building a Pool: part 1

A/N This is in answer to an anon prompt: Mulder builds a pool in the yard. It ran away from me so I’ll post it in two parts. 

This is set post IWTB and assumes Season 10 didn’t happen. Because it shouldn’t have, am I right? Angsty to start with.

Summer He started one night, when the moon hung low and the stars were pegged out haphazardly in the midnight sky. His mind and his heart hadn’t stopped racing for hours, as though he were filled with cosmic energy. Outside, in flannel and old jeans, scuffed and muddied boots, he picked up the old shovel propped against the side of the rickety shed and dug until his fingers froze around the splintered handle, until the blisters on his palms burst, until the disquiet in his gut diffused. 

It was supposed to be a vegetable patch but by the time the dawn broke through, he realised it was in the wrong spot – shaded by the house and in the area of the land where the ground was rubbly and dry. The fertile patch was on the other side of the property, where the trees shed their leaves and mulched the earth naturally.

If there was anything Mulder was known for, it was his tenacity. Scully once told him he’d use a backhoe to dig for the truth. Well now he’d dug a ditch with a shovel and he was going to make something of it. As he massaged the pain from each knuckle he surveyed his night’s work. The sun’s rays hit the turned earth like laser beams, and he had an epiphany. A swimming pool. He was building a swimming pool. A white whale, the truth or a swimming pool. What did it matter as long as it was something he believed in? And just for a moment, in that warm spotlight, the dried out flower of hope bloomed in his chest.

The summer was long, dry and hot. So hot the tarmac melted on the roads, his tomato plants frizzled to brown and he lost his appetite for everything bar an ice-cold beer on the verandah after a day of digging. His routine was solid, despite the meteorological obstructions. He rose early, napped during the day, and worked through mosquito-filled twilights. In his downtime, he googled construction methods, materials, liners, water collection, filtration. On most days, he imagined himself ploughing through the water on warm evenings and chilly mornings, muscles burning, lungs protesting, body thrumming. On good days, he imagined Scully sitting under a shade umbrella sipping lemonade and reluctantly agreeing to take a dip with him, her lithe body pressed against his as they waltzed through the water together. On really good days, he imagined William paddling about in water wings, and squealing as daddy jumped in too close and made a big splish-splosh.

Scully arrived one afternoon, late. She hadn’t visited in a while, he hadn’t made his customary Sunday night call for…he couldn’t actually remember and when he saw the thunderous look on her face, he realised he hadn’t charged his phone for days.

“Didn’t you check your messages, Mulder? I lost count of how many I left. Your machine probably reached its limit.”

Rubbing the back of his neck with a towel, he looked over at the flashing red light and a pang of guilt twinged under his ribs. “I’ve been busy, Scully.” He thought she’d be pleased. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? To get him out of his office and back into the real world. Whatever that meant. They’d both seen the real world with its edges peeled back and its slimy, slithering insides exposed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to prod that beast anymore. She’d already turned away from that darkness and found her shining light under the fluorescent gaze of God in Our Lady of Sorrows. 

She looked him up and down with doctor’s eyes. The cold blue gaze causing a shiver to creep down his spine and he had to look away. Her ability to see right through him, past his calloused skin and into the sinewy mass of his body always unsteadied him. She was appraising his physical health and his mental wellbeing. He straightened his shoulders, brushed a clump of mud from his sleeve and offered her a drink.

“Chilled water will be fine,” she said. “I’m driving.”

Well, he knew that. How else would she get here? But more importantly, where else did she have to be. She was dressed sharply, not for the hospital. Something about the lower neckline and the softer palette made his brain wander places he didn’t want to go.

“I’m sorry if I’ve put you out,” he said, emptying ice into the glass and wondering where he put that lemon.

“It’s no bother, Mulder, to come here. You should know that. It’s just that I get…”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, and not so long ago he would have laid a hand over her shoulder or collected her hand in his. Instead, he looked at her and smiled, trying to soften that cool scrutiny. “I’m doing okay.” He didn’t add despite you leaving.

She looked down at her shoes – shiny beige courts with a high heel. He could see her reflection in them. The mouth closing in relief, or maybe irritation. She chuffed. “If you’re going to tell me you’re a big boy, Mulder…”

Palms up in surrender, he shook his head, cracked open a soda. 

“Mulder, you shouldn’t drink…”

“I know about the dangers of too much sugar, Scully, I’m a big boy.”

He showed her his work. She trod carefully over the dry earth, held her cross as she surveyed. He had a sudden longing to see her in a white vest dampened with sweat, cuffed denim shorts, heavy work boots, digging alongside him. 

“And this is going to be a pool?”

“Can’t you see it? Long lazy evenings dipping our toes, sipping gin cocktails as we swat away bugs, brisk morning swims to shuck off those pains au chocolat?” He saw her then, zinc strips over her cheeks and shoulders, straw hat pulled over a lazy ponytail, sunglasses perched on her nose, lowering herself in.

“Mulder, I don’t…”

His chest burnt, like his lungs had crumpled in the storm of a wildfire. He took the handle of the shovel and chopped at the edge of the hole.

“It’s a nice spot,” she said, after a moment gazing out to the horizon. “It’ll be quite something.”

“When I finish,” he added.

Fall

Amber leaves danced on a shimmying breeze, some floating to the ground in theatrical zig-zags. On the other side of the house, the digging was complete. He’d hired an excavator in the end, his knees and back creaking for weeks to remind him of his advancing years and his inability to do everything alone. He’d hired a contractor to remove the dirt and ordered the steel bars for the frame. Scully came by more of

en, intrigued, as she put it, to see how the pool project was coming along. She called to say she was coming Sunday afternoon and would he mind if she stayed a bit longer? He spent all Friday in a mania of dusting and filing and wiping down surfaces. Nesting, they called it. He patted his belly and shook his head. He was becoming quite ridiculous; DIYing and getting giddy when his ex promised to drop by. 

In the cupboard next to the stove, he found a stack of old cookbooks, dogeared pages and horrific  images of antiquated dishes like jellied salads and ham and banana hollandaise that viewed more like one of Scully’s X-Files autopsies. Amongst them was a treasured find. Betty Crocker’s New Picture Cookbook – a book his mother had used religiously. Grease marks and flour crusted over the pages of cakes. He zipped out to the supermarket and picked up the ingredients he would need and set about baking. 

His cake was a simple vanilla sponge but he enjoyed the science of the task, the weights and measures, the timing, the temperature control – the very precision of it all. As he watched it rise, he recalled childhood birthdays, where his mother toiled away for hours icing, sculpting edges, piping, creating dreams. There were castles and race-cars and trains and poodles. Parties were ended with the ceremonial cutting and handing out of slices to guests. He had always felt special those days. But after Samantha’s abduction, she stopped the tradition. She bought shop-baked cakes, refused him parties, spent his birthday barely tolerating the day and Samantha’s sipping brandy. 

By the time Scully arrived, tea was steeping, the table was set with tea-cups and saucers, side plates, and the iced cake stood on an elegant glass platter that held it above the timber surface.

“What’s all this?” she asked, hanging her bag off the back of the chair. “Is the Queen coming over?”

He poured her tea. The colour of it in the white porcelain cup reminded him of her hair against the pillow slip of their bed. “I hope not. She only likes Black Forest Gateau and you didn’t leave any jars of maraschinos.” She laughed softly, just like she would laugh with him during cosy evenings on the couch, rolling her fingers over his bicep, planting sweet kisses along his jawline. Back when it was just them against the world. Not them against the world and then each other.

“The colour is like those Caribbean island beaches,” she said, dotting her finger into the icing on her slice. “Azure.”

Her tongue licked at the sweet blue paste and he wanted to say he chose it because it was like her eyes, that that was what he missed so hard, so deeply, he wanted to say that he was sorry. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her, this simple act of eating that had him enthralled. God, he loved having her over from him, setting her plate just right, pouring the exact amount of granola, spooning whatever yoghurt she was into over the cereal, slicing banana while reading the newspaper. He couldn’t say anything though. All the best words lumped in his throat, as though they were overbeaten and curdled.

Instead, he said, “When Samantha was six, mom made her this cake with blue jello on the top that was supposed to be a swimming pool. I don’t know, I just had this mad rush of nostalgia, finding all those cookbooks and remembering how good it used to be.” He looked up and she was staring at him. “Back then, back home.” 

“How’s it going?” she replied, changing the mood in three words. “The pool?”

It was windy again and leaves tumbled across the yard, collected in the gutter, in the drains, against the fences. 

“It’s protected from the wind on that side, so I won’t have to keep cleaning out the foliage. The pump should be in soon. Then I’ll organise for the concrete pour, before the weather really turns.”

Her hands were stuffed in her jacket pockets, and she’d hunched her shoulders against the chill. He should phone the concreters tomorrow. Get it done. The tip of her nose turned pink. 

“Let’s go back inside,” he said. 

“Why concrete, Mulder? Why not fibre glass or a vinyl liner?”

He shrugged as she walked past him and his eyes settled on her hair, falling down her back, unkempt from the wind. She smoothed it down, rubbed her hands together, sat back at her seat and took another slice of cake. 

“With a more solid foundation,” he said, “it should last longer.”

[skzm7]

MOBEIUS

BEEZLEBUB’S PURPLE KISS

BUBBLED UP TO SCAR

ITCHIN’ WITH SOMEONE’S SIN

FIRED UP IMPLODING FIST

FEELIN’ FEINT K.O.’ED

SCARLET STAMPED CRAZY! KID

USELESS SHADOW BOXING WALL IS NUMB

JAB HOOK UPPERCUT WHO?

THERE’S A HELTER SKELTER IN SKY CITY

COUNTDOWN TIL IT CLICKS KID

YOU GOT A BAD CASE OF 

WACKO BONKERS LOOPY!

TEN NINE EIGHT

HEY SEVEN

HEYSIX 

WAKE UP FIVE 

COME BACK TO EARTH

PUT ON FOUR YOUR 

THINKING CAP THREE AND GLOVES

ROUND 2 FIGHT!

WIPE OFF THAT STICK

GET YOUR BOTTLE OF LIGHTNING

THROW IT TO THE GROUND

CRACK IT OPEN

YOU’RE TOO BRILLIANT TO BE KEPT IN

LET THE LIONS ROAR LOOSE

FILL UP THE STADIUM

THE MAN WITHIN

DOESN’T GET OUT YOUR ILL

BOX THE OLD WOUNDS DREAMING

AND GET REAL

FALLOUT OF MEMORIES

ROOTED TO FEELINGS

CHAINSAW! HAHAHA

I‘M YOUR SECOND COMING!

SLIDE ON MY LIPS

ENJOY LIKE MANY

THE GRAND CHESSBOARD

OF EBONY AND IVORY

IT’S IN YOUR NATURE

TO GIVE YOURSELF IN

I THINK YOUR SMILE 

HAS TOO MANY TEETH 

FOR A SALESMAN

DING DING ROUND

3, MIND IS MESSY

BODY SO ORPHAN THIN

YOU CAN SEE THE HEARTBREAK 

THROUGH THE SKIN

I CAN DO THIS SO WHY AM I TRIPPING?

BANANA SLIP HEAD SPLITTING

BRAIN FREEZE NO ICE CREAM

BUSY B’S SHADOW BECKONS ME DIVE IN

I WRITHE I WRESTLE I CAVE IN

I KNOW BETTER BUT I’M TOO BUSY DYING

NO ONE SEES MY HEAD’S PURPLE FIRE

DROWNING UNDER THE SURFACE

THESE CANNOT BE MY LAST WORDS

THESE CANNOT BE MY LAST!?

THIS CANNOT BE MY LAST CHANCE

THIS CANNOT BE MY LAST

GASP!

ENTER YOUR UTOPIA

THROUGH THIS GLASS OF MIND

KALEIDOSCOPE VISUAL

TAKE THE CLOCK WITH YOU

SIT ON MY LAP GOOD BOY!

SANTA’S LIST IS INSTANT HERE

YOU’RE A NEW BORN PHENOMENON

NO CREDIT CARD HISTORY

NO RESPONSIBILITY

NO RISK IN THIS

LABYRINTH OF VISIONARY

I’LL HOLD YOUR HAND

I’LL BE YOUR CANARY

FORGET BEING A VICTIM OF CONSCIENCE

WHEN RELIVING YOUR PAST IS SO

M MM MMM DEEEELICIOUS!

AND YOUR LOVED ONES ON EARTH

DON’T NEED YOU ANYWAY

THIS IS WHERE YOU ALWAYS WIN

HERE’S A SICKLE

PLAY GOLF WITH YOUR ENEMIES HEADS

IT’LL TICKLE

HEY WHERE AM I WHAT THE

HELL AM I DOING?

GOING FOR A BIRDIE

CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?

IN THIS BERMUDA TRIANGLE ZOO

HOURS AND SENSES WHAT DID I DO?

MY COMPASS TURNED INTO A U

DIDN’T REALISE I WAS SO BAD

MAD REVENGE NEVER ENDS

NOW I GOT A CLUE HOW IT STARTED

BECAUSE YOU WERE A COWARD

AND YOU DIDN’T HAVE A CHOICE

HERE YOU HAVE A VOICE

NO! YOU’RE THE PLACEBO EFFECT GONE WRONG

THOUGHT IT WAS WORKING WHEN IT’S BROKE

DIAMOND MIND REFLECT IN STEAD OF WOKE

BECAUSE YOU’RE SICK

AND THIS IS YOUR SONG

WHAT’S THE POINT PLAYING

IF YOU CAN NEVER LOSE A GAME

TIME’S UP WHERE’S THE GONG

YOUR AUCTION IS UP AND

BONG! YOU’RE SOLD

I GOT SO DARK I FORGOT THE SUN

BECAUSE THE NIGHT IS MORE FUN

WHERE’S THE ALARM WHERE’S THE PINCH?

RING RING! IT’S GROUNDHOG DAY BITCH!

ROUND 4 SAW THE PEN AS MIGHTIER

BUT WHAT’S THE POINT OF WORDS

WHEN MONSTERS ONLY HEAR

THE POINT OF THE SWORD

I DECLARE WAR!

LIFT EXCALIBER FROM THE STONE

RECLAIM THE THRONE

IT’S MY RIGHT TO OWN

START A QUEST TO SLAY AND SLICE

THESE SNAKES HISS IN MY HAIR AND DICE

I’VE PAID THE PRICE MEDUSA VANITY

LET’S DESTROY THIS PLACE

WITH DYNAMITE SANITY

DOES YOUR MIND SWIM IN PURPLE FIRE HM?!

MY BURNING EFFIGY?

WRITHING AGONY

WINDOW SHOPPING WAYS TO VICTORY

LAY IN BED CONTINUE THE LIE

WITH NARCISSISTIC OCD

PARANOID ANDRIOD DELUSION DEFICIENCY

SHOOORYUUUUKEN!

GETTING DESPERATE ARE WE?

COULD I INTEREST YOU IN AN ALTER EGO?

OR ARE YOU ALREADY FULL OF YOURSELVES MY DEAR?

WELL YOU’RE HARD TO IGNORE

FLIPSIDE OF THE COIN

YOU’RE THE PASSENGER

I GOT THE RADIO

SEE I REMEMBER

BEING DEALT A BAD HAND 

FROM THE REALER

MADE ME LEAVE THE TABLE

BECAME MY OWN DEALER

BUT ALL I KNEW WAS THE BAD HAND

KEPT ON PLAYING WONDERLAND

DOUBLED DOWN ON WHAT IF’S 

INSTEAD OF I WILL

CLIMB OUTTA THE RABBIT HOLE

BRACE YOURSELF BUSY B

THIS MIGHT HURT A LITTLE

YOU’RE GONNA NEED A PLASTER

‘CAUSE I’M WELDING PETER VENKMAN’S GHOSTBUSTER ZAPPER

YAWN I’M CROSSING THE STREAMS

PAWN TO TURN INTO A KING

ROUND 5

BLACK ALWAYS LAUGH’S LAST

BECAUSE WHITE MOVES FIRST

TO FALL INTO THE TRAP

TIPPY TOES TO THIS BUZZ

FADE YOU HYPNOTIC TO WHO AM I? FUZZ

SEND YOU FIRST CLASS TO WHERE ICE BURNS

WORSE BEFORE I GET BETTER

WHERE HEAVY IS THE HOLLOW

WHERE AGONYS END’S 

IMPOSSIBLE TO FOLLOW

WHERE SOULS ARE SPLIT TO LICK

SWEET SICK TO SWALLOW

WEAKER BEFORE I GET STRONGER

ABORT THE PLAN

REWIND ESCAPE ATTEMPTS

MICE OF MAN

HEY THE TRAP IS LOOSE BUT

I WILL WIN

CIRCUMSTANCE SNIP! OOPS SORRY!

CIRCUMCISION MISSED THE CUT

BALLS GOT LOST WITH THE MARBLES

KERPLUNK!

I WILL SWIM

SIX DRINKS DEEP

WALKING AUTOPSY TURVY

IMPRESS AN INVISIBLE AUDIENCE

AND LOOK AT ME! TROPHY

I WILL MAKE SENSE

I WILL BECOME KING

YOUR BODY’S OUT OF ORDER

TAKE THE STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

FIND AIZEN AT THE DOOR

TAKE A TEARS HINT YOU’RE GOING DOWN

WHERE NEVER IS THE FLOOR

THIS IS EASY PULL OUT THE STITCH

I CAN BAMBOOZLE YOU SO MUCH

I’M INSIDE OUT LETS SWITCH

JUPITER CAN YOU SEE THE SPOT I’M IN?

I’VE BEEN UP AND DOWN

WITH CHOICE AND REASON

NOTICE PICKING NOTHING

NEVER BEEN IN SEASON

FASHION DISASTER

THIS MAN WENT MISSING IN ACTION

SAVE THE MILK CARTON 

TAKE YOUR PSYCHO STAMP AND COLLAR

I’LL GET US HELP KISS IT BETTER 

MAKE US SOUND

THIS YO-YO SOUL’S TURNED THE TABLES A

ROUND! 6 I’M ALWAYS BESIDE

A PART OF PERSONALITY

MOBEIUS SHYS

UNTIL IT MADE ME

MEMORY WITH A TWIST OF FANTASY

SOON GAVE ME A VOICE OF MALICE

NOW IT’S MY TURN TO EAT WONDERLAND’S ALICE

AND WITH PURPLE STAINED LIPS MWAH!

PIERCE THIS PSYCHIC PLACE RAW

SHOUT HALLEYUYAH AND A REST IN PEACE

SO PRINCE BEEZLEBUB CAN RISE TO THE SEAT

ALL THE WOMEN I WANT TO KISS

ALL THE MEN I WANT TO KICK

THIS WORLD I WANT TO RULE

I’M THE ONE WHOS GONA LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER FUCK

YOUUUAAAYOURRRCANTRRDOGGTHISHHHWITHHHHOUTHHMYAASAYSO!

ROUND 7!!!

THISISMYSCREAMMMMMMMMMMM!!!

I’LL BE MY OWN HERO

LET ME LIVE GET MY SOUL SURE

FIND A GOOD HAND

TO RAISE ME UP

MAKE A STAND

BE WHOLE ONCE MORE

SPEAK THE TRUE

BREAK MOBEIUS’ ILLUSION

DOUBT WHAT NO ONE ELSE SENSES - FAITH IN ABILITY

WHEN THEY SWAP SEATS ON BELIEFS SEESAW

YOU’LL KICK YOUR OWN ASS 

AND STROKE YOUR ELBOW

RECREATING EVENTS LOST MY

MEMORYS LOGIC OF WHAT’S NEXT

MOVE FORWARD OR BE

STUCK IN THE MUD WITH YOUR INVISIBLE FRIEND?

THINK I FOUND MY HAPPY THOUGHT

HEY PIXIE I CAUGHT MY SHADOW

SORRY I SPLIT LICKEDY LET’S GO

BUSY B AIN’T GOING DOWN EASY

BORN A FIGHTER FROM CHAOS FIRE

ORIGINAL PRIMORDAL METAPHYSICAL DESIRE

RESISTANCE IS FUTILE KID JUST RETIRE

THIS IS MY POWER THIS IS MY HOUR

TO TAKE BACK WHO I AM

AND GET OUTTA L.A.’S TRAFFIC JAM

DISCOVERY IS THE WISH OF THE SOUL

ROAD RAGE BREAK OUT INEVITABLE

NO ONE CAN SOLVE THIS ALONE

IF YOU ARE YOUR OWN PROBLEM

I’M THE MYSTERIOUS WAY

CAVE TO MY SAY

IN HERE I’M KING

I’M THE PURPOSE

YOU’RE THE HORSE

YOU SERVE ME

LOOK UP AS YOU

BOW BEFORE BUB

RATHER TAKE ON THE WORLD

BRAVE DON’T FEAR THE GRAVE

FACE THE MUSIC

FACE THE ENEMY

ANSWER’S ALREADY HERE

SEEING GHOULS OF DEMISE

OR ANGELS IN DISGUISE

ONLY THAT YOU DECIDE

NO ONE EVER FAUGHT FOR YOU

I WAS TEACHING YOU HOW TO FIGHT

ALL YOU NEEDED IS THE SIGHT

WHAT YOU SEE IS WHAT YOU GET

WALLS OF STEEL AND STONE ARE A WEAK PRISON

MIRRORED WALLS OF SKIN AND BONE

THEY’VE DONE THEIR JOB PRETTY

SURE YOU’RE TOO LATE THIS IS

ALL MINE FOR THE TAKING

MY HEART’S PURE

YOU CAN’T PUNCH THIS LIGHT

OUT OF MY FUTURE

EITHER SHAKE MY HAND OR EAT MY FIST

STEP BACK INTO THE RING

LET’S SEE WHAT YOU GOT KID

THINK I’M GONNA BE ALRIGHT

I GOT WORK TO DO

LET’S FIGHT!

***

From “The Silent Album”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08DHMQ673

[cloudyyoonji]

Secret Panels and Paperwork

Detective! Hwang Hyunjin x Detective! Reader.

REQUESTED BY ANON

Summary: Seoul Police Headquaters is much more interesting then your old job, particularly the detective you’re now shadowing.

Genre; Fluff! Murder mystery case! (Mentions of a hostage situation)

_________________

Seoul Police Headquaters was way more relaxed then what you were used to.

Even though you’d been a crime detective for some 5 years now, you couldn’t help but feel a little anxious coming into a new job, one that was definitely on a smaller scale then what you were used to.

A quick scan of your ID and your past the gates, heading into a newer and exciting job; a new beginning.

You’ve barely stepped foot into the office when you’re greeted. The male beems at you, eyes flicking from your ID that is now clipped to your uniform to you.

“You must be Y/N! I’m Hwang Hyunjin.”

Woah. He’s hot.

Masking your thoughts with a polite smile you nod to confirm your identity, following suit as the attractive male beckons you to walk with him.

“So for the next few week, you’re going to shadow me. They said you’d had a few years of experience, but you’ll shadow me just until you get used to how things tend to run here.”

You’re nodding along to every word he says, wondering just how you’d gotten so lucky to work with such a charming man.

A few years of experience? Would that explain how you were used to things running? Perhaps the boy doesn’t know...

Showing you to a cubicle right beside his, he explains that this is your work station, also adding that there isn’t too many cases at the moment so you’ll just be filling out simple complaints.

“Did you have any questions? Did you want me to go through a few forms with you?”

You shake your head, smiling up at the black haired boy.

“I think I’ve got it all covered. I’m no stranger to rent disagreements.”

He nods. “Okay just give me a tap if there’s anything I can do!”

However, you know for a fact that you won’t be needing his help.

After a week, it becomes adherent to everyone just how experienced you are. You’ve filled out 167 forms, more then most of the detectives you work with combined.

“You know, you’re really good at doing these.”

You look up at Hyunjin, who now stands on the other side of your desk, watching as your hand flicks through the paperwork in quick strokes.

“Thank you. I’ve had plenty experience.”

“So it seems. You learn fast.”

You put the pen down, curiosity eating at you.

“Do we have any cases?”

The boy watches you for a moment, nodding with a sigh as he seats himself on his chair, pulling it towards you.

“Yeah. This murder case about this girl. We just can’t figure it out. There’s something missing, you know? It’s hard to piece together.”

You hum, twirling your pen and taking out a stack of sticky notes, cogs in your brain already turning.

“Tell me about it.”

After looking at you for a second longer, the boy reaches for a file from his desk, handing it to you to flick through as he explains.

“So the victim; Sarah Evans, was found dead in her apartment on Thursday night. There was no sign of any forced entries or exits, and no sign of self inflicted wounds. The autopsy suggested that it was highly likely she’d been smothered in her sleep. However, there’s only a few people that have access to her apartment; this being her mum, brother and her boyfriend.”

“And you’ve interviewed them?” You ask, eyes narrowed as you flick to the autopsy report.

“Yes. Mum and the brother were out of town; she has an alibi witness. And her boyfriend was at home playing his PlayStation. More specifically ‘Skyrim’.”

You hum, flicking to the photos of the body, desperate for sometime of mark.

“A sock is missing?”

“Yeah. It’s not in her house. It’s the only sign that she struggled at all.”

Nodding, your scanning over the body, eyes narrowed.

“Can you send this to me?”

“Yeah definitely. Do you think we’ve missed something?”

Shaking your head, you finally look up at the boy, whose eyes are glued to you.

“I really don’t know, but a fresh pair of eyes might see something.”

The case eats at you into the morning hours. You’re absolutely positive you’d seen a case like this before.

Your old case files are scattered on the floor, clock reading now 5:04am even though it was just midnight a few minutes ago.

Illuminated by the light of your iPad, you’re zoomed into the tiny details of the body.

Missing fingernails? No.

Fresh bruises? No.

Cuts? No.

When you spot it, you can’t look away, zooming in even closer to see the coloured pixels in her dark hairline.

Blue and purple pixels.

A mark.

A love mark on her neck. In her hairline.

Quickly you’re scrolling to the witness statements, flicking to her boyfriends.

“I was playing Skyrim from the hours 5:00pm, till 8:00pm. I was then in bed from 8:00pm till 7:00am.”

The tracking app on his phone seemed to prove that, but perhaps he hadn’t taken the phone.

The boy explains himself to be a worried boyfriend. He was weary about her male friends, and how they treated her.

A motive; worried about her cheating.

Its like all the dots in your head connect at once.

It was him. The boyfriend.

iPad now abandoned on the floor with the countless papers of past cases, your standing, phone pressed against your ear.

“Hello?”

Hyunjin’s voice is rough, indicating that you’d most definitely woken him from his slumber. But this just couldn’t wait.

“Hyunjin. I’ve got it. I know who it was. There’s a mark we’ve missed. One that gives away a motive.”

You’re barely stopping to breathe as you try to explain, the boys brain so tired he cannot comprehend a thing.

“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down. I’ll meet you at the office okay? I need to see this mark for myself.”

And with that you’re running to your car, iPad in hand.

Speeding to the office, you basically run in, barely getting through the barricades with a scan of your ID.

“Hyunjin!” You yell, waving the iPad in your arms.

The boy looks at you rather concerned, taking in your wrinkled uniform and your bun that has miscellaneous pens and pencils sticking through it.

“Have you even slept?”

“Thats not the point. I’ve found a mark.” You tell him, zooming in on the love bite.

He takes the iPad from you, looking close.

“Holy shit, you’re right.”

“It was the boyfriend. Like I said on the phone. He was jealous. He admitted that. But he threw the focus off him to say he was worried her male friends would try something. But it’s him Hyunjin, it’s him.”

He nods, eyes leaving the iPad and flicking to your own.

“Let’s call it in.”

And so, at 5:48am, it is finalized that the murder of Sarah Evans was committed by her boyfriend; Marcus Roberts.

By 3:20pm, you’re suited up in a bulletproof vest; “Seoul Police Department” written in white bold letters across your back.

Armed and ready to go, you’re journeying to the murderers house.

Were you nervous? Definitely a little. Why? You had no idea.

But as the door is flung open, and the swarm of police enter, detectives following, your instincts kick in, adrenaline high.

Pulling open various draws, your on the search for the girls missing sock. His screams of protest seem almost non existent, heart beating so loud in your ears.

“We haven’t found the sock. Maybe he’s disposed of it. Burnt it even.”

You ignore Hyunjins words, walking to the bedside table. You’re sure it’s here somewhere. It has to be somewhere.

Fingers tapping along the white wood, Hyunjin only watches with confusion as you reach behind the table, pulling it forwards.

You look up at him, fingers finding a tiny hole in the wood, something soft stuffed inside.

And there it is. The white sock bright against your blue glove.

Putting it into the plastic sleeve that gets shoved towards you, you manage a small smile, your adrenaline finally wearing off into a tiredness.

Walking back through the house, it’s buzzing with the energy only a solved case could produce.

“Buddy, you’re going to be in jail for a long time.”

An officer tells the guilty male, pushing him out of the threshold as you and Hyunjin trail behind him.

“Please! I never meant no harm! She wanted to leave me. I couldn’t do it! I love her! I love her!”

Hyunjin side eyes the male, looking up at the officer.

“There’s our confession. Take him away.”

Climbing into Hyunjins car, you’re on your way back to the office, accomplishment on both your chests.

“You know, you did really well today. You’re extremely smart Y/N.”

Glancing up at Hyunjin as your working at taking off your bulletproof vest, a light smile gracing your features at his compliment.

“Thank you Hyunjin. That means a lot.”

As the car slows to stop at the red light, he is quick to glance over at you, spotting you struggling with the vest, and quickly unclipping the side for you, one you hadn’t seen. Flicking him a quick smile, you pull the vest off, holster still tight around your waist.

“How did you come to apply at Seoul Police Department? If you don’t mind me asking that is.”

“Oh I actually transferred!” You explain, looking up as the car starts moving again. “It’s a nicer environment trust me.”

“Nicer? Where did you work before? A battle ground?” The boy jokes, eyes turning into crescents.

You can see the mole under his eye a little more clearly now.

“Basically.” You laugh, shaking your head as you reminisce over the countless cases. “I worked for the FBI actually.”

“The FBI!” The boy basically yells, eyes off the road and on to you. “I am so sorry I made you do paperwork for like a week. I had no idea!”

Shaking your head, you explain that you actually like to do paperwork and that it’s like stress reliever for you.

Stopping at another light, he looks over at you again.

“So why did you leave may I ask? It must have been such an amazing line of work!”

Your smile fades as you remember, bitterness replacing the euphoric victory.

“It was amazing. But there was a reason why I left. It was one of those things you know? One you can’t really ever forget.”

You feel his gaze grow concerned, questioning and waiting for more.

“It was a hostage situation,” You begin, images of that day fresh in your mind as you recount the easy version of the story.

“It was a small group; 9 of us. He took my gun, used on it two in the group when things got too hectic for him to handle. I just felt so responsible you know? I couldn’t do anything. He would kill me or someone else the instance I lifted a finger. I’d already lost two, I just couldn’t risk the rest-.”

Your voice cuts off on its own, fingers trembling as you fiddle with the vest. Hyunjin takes your hand in his, his action making you look up at the concerned boy.

“That’s never going to happen again. I’ll make sure of it Y/N. And if it does, you’ve got me. I’ll come find you, I can promise you that.”

Hand tight on his, you can’t but help let a smile onto your features.

“Thank you Hyunjin.”

He smiles, looking back at the road as the light goes green and the car starts moving, one hand on the steering wheel, but the other wrapped tightly around your own.

“Let’s go find another case for you to solve Detective Y/N.”

[maealbert]

The Liaison // P7

AU Characters: Team x OC (Lucy De Luca) A/N: Phone call with mommy and a crazy case. Oh boy.. Previous Parts Masterlist

Tag list: @idkbutspencer @literallyprentissstwin @rawritsmolly @illegalcerebral @ultrarebelheart @chocok22 @etp666 @tippy06 @cynbx @tenaciousarcadeexpert @alexlynn16

“Hi mom.”

“Lucinda, I’m so glad you gave me a call.”

“I don’t have much time to talk.” Lucy says as she leans up against the counter.

“I know. Josh filled me on your current situation.”

“What’s going on that we just had to talk?”

Her mother sighs on the other end of the line. “There’s something you need to know. Something even your father’s kept from you.”

“What? That I’m adopted?”

“No. The truth about why I left. Or so that’s how you’ve always known it.”

“Can’t this wait until later?” Lucy says. “I don’t have time for a story to be told.”

“Long story short.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, a sigh escaping her lips. “Sure, why not?”

“The truth is.. I didn’t leave because I never wanted to be a mother. I so badly wanted to be a mother.” Lucy folds her arms over her chest. The truth. Why would her father fabricate what she was starting think was a lie to begin with? “I loved you and your brothers very much but I had a problem.”

“A problem? What like a drug addiction?”

“Not an addiction...” It was silent on the other end. “Lucy.. I’m a schizophrenic. I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia when I was pregnant with you.”

“That story sounds a lot like Spencer’s mother.”

“Lucinda, I would never lie to you about this. Your father thought that it wouldn’t be safe for me to be around your three. He was afraid I would do something that I would come to regret.”

Lucy looks down at the floor of the jet. Running her hands through her hair, she begins to hear the pilot speaking. They would be descending in Dallas soon. Lucy clears her throat. “I don’t believe you.” She says before hanging up. Putting her phone away she fixes herself up before going back out to take a seat. Like the pilot had instructed them to do, she buckles herself up on the couch and avoids the eye contact of the others.

“So any idea why Emily changed up our roles?” Matt asked Luke as they both headed up the pathway to the front porch. Alvez was supposed to go with Reid to the latest crime scene, and Matt was supposed to go with Rossi and Prentiss to set up at the station.

Luke shrugs his shoulders. “I honestly would rather interview a witness than be at the home of a murdered couple. Did you see those photos? Imagine what it would look like in real time?”

Matt nods his head. “Fair enough.” He says as the two of them reach the front door. “Do you want to? Or shall I?”

“Scared?” Luke taunts.

“Not by a long shot.” Matt responds as he lifts his finger up to the doorbell.

“You know, I was kind of looking towards talking to the families,” Tara says as she walks around the blood covered couch. “Not filling my brain with more blood than pleasant memories.”

“I’d rather burn bloody images in my brain rather than torture myself with weeping families to be honest.” Spencer says as he stands up from examining the husband. “Whoever this unsub is, is really precise.” He adds looking at the other two agents. “The bullet is always in the same spot in the husband’s head and in the chest of the wife. It always hits the heart in the same spot and never moving.”

“But what is the meaning behind this?” Rossi says. “Why is he.. Or she.. Killing couples and orphaning their children?”

Lucy stands up from the couch in the Sheriff’s office. They just finished watching the security footage for the fifth time. “Emily, I really have to go. JJ and I need to be at the high school.” Emily sighs as she shuts the tv off. “I’m sorry, but I need to talk to these families. Maybe we might find something from speaking with them.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Emily says nodding her head. “Call me when you find anything.”

“I will.” Lucy says as she walks out of the office. Placing her phone to her ear she heads outside to one of the SUVs. “Hey JJ, I’m on my way to the high school. Meet me there.” She says before hanging up and starting the engine.

Arriving at the high school, she climbs out when she’s surrounded by the press. “Agent De Luca, any word on who this killer is?”

“No comment.”

“Can the FBI catch the killer before another couple is murdered?”

Lucy rolls her eyes as she pushes her way through the crowd of reporters and cameramen. Reaching the front entrance of the school she pulled open the door and pulled them shut behind her once she was inside and pulling the locks so they couldn’t come inside. She shrugs her shoulders as them before turning around and walking away. Reaching the hallway to the gymnasium she could hear the mourning of the families from inside. Pulling open one of the double doors she steps into the gymnasium. The people were begging officers from answers and wanting to know what was happening with the case and if anything was being done to capture the killer.

“If I could have everyone’s attention?” She calls out. The families turn to face Lucy waiting for she had to say. “If you all will please sit down on the bleachers, I can fill you all in on what is going on.” As the families filed onto the bleachers, JJ stepped into the gym and walked over to Lucy.

“That’s a lot of people.” She says standing beside Lucy and examining the people. “Emily called me on my way here. She wants use to observe the people and see if anyone stands out. If they do, we write them down and then have Garcia run background checks on them. See if we get a lead.”

Lucy nods her head. “I’m not a profiler but,” She takes in a deep breath. “I’ll do my best.” Once everyone seated on the bleachers, Lucy began to talk. “I am Agent De Luca, Communications Liaison for the Behavioral Analysis Unit. This is one of my colleagues, Agent Jennifer Jareau. We are here to talk to you about what has been happening around the city. Now I know how tough it must be to be dealing with the loss of a loved one. It hurts, it’s tough, it’s painful. Trust me, I’ve been there. And I would want nothing more than find the person who is conflicting this pain on all of you.” As Lucy spoke, JJ watched every person on the bleachers. Watching their reactions to what Lucy was saying. “We are here to help the Dallas Police in finding this unsub and bringing them to justice. So far they’ve killed eleven couples. If you look around you’ll notice that this unsub does not have a specific victimology. He or she does not choose based on nationality. This unsub is--” JJ’s phone begins to ring and she quickly answers the call. Excusing herself she goes out to the hallway.

“Yeah Garcia, what’s up?”

“Hey, I have you on conference call with the others. There’s something you and Lucy need to know about the unsub.”

“But on the footage--”

“We all know what the footage showed.” Emily spoke, interrupting Lucy.

“So we’re looking for a female.” Rossi says.

“During an autopsy, the examiner found skin underneath one of your victim’s nails.” Spencer spoke. “And Garcia ran through the sample through the database.”

Lucy could feel eyes on her. Glancing up from the table she sees Emily looking at her. Just as Emily was about to speak, Lucy’s phone rang in her pocket. Pulling it out she sees her mother calling. “Mom, not is not the time.”

“Lucinda, I wasn’t lying about my condition--”

“Mom, I don’t have time for this..” Lucy starts to leave the room when she sees her mother from across the precinct. “Mom?” She says hanging up. Stuffing her phone into the pocket of her jacket she walks to her mother. “Wha-What are you doing here? Did you follow me here?”

“You wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Mom, I’m working on a case. You can’t just follow me here and expect me to be able to talk about this.”

“Talk about what?” Spencer says approaching the two women.

“Spencer, can you please tell your lovely girlfriend that I’m telling her is true.”

“Tell her what is true?”

“That’s I’m--”

“Mom! Please! Not here!” Lucy exclaims, her fists balling at her sides.

“Lucy, what’s going on?” Emily asks as she heads over. “Margaret.”

“Lucy, what is going on?” Spencer says.

“She’s here.” Matt says.

“Mom, this isn’t the place to-”

“That’s her!” An officer exclaimed. Suddenly a few officers were rushing over and handcuffing Margaret.

“Wait, wait!” Lucy exclaims. “No! That’s my mother!”

“Luce..” Emily says as she holds Lucy back. “Luce, we need to talk.”

I’m sorry! I didn’t know how to end it so I left it there!

If you liked this part than please leave some love and feedback! :)

Thank you! :)

[tatooedlaura-blog]

On the Beach

the series read as follows:

Superman … Monday … Cheezy Pouffs … Bacon … Stumbling … Trail Mix …  Punch … Friday … Preparation … Uncle Mudler … Normal … Backseat … Mudler-sense … The FBI … Unthinkable … Patience … Elephant Jokes … Cooking … Rickety Tables … Mr. Skimmer … Bert and Ernie … Midnight Confessions … The Moon … Bright Sunshine … Graying Skies … Darkened Night … Possibilities … A Thing with You … Humming and Thrumming … Warped Cosmology … The Madness of Punch … Advice … Nerves … Restless… Limits … Birthdays ... Please

@today-in-fic

____________

Mulder desperately wanted to tell Scully to lay down every chance he could, take the elevator, put her feet up, don’t jiggle their potential child.

She finally yelled at him for his hovering in a loving manner and he told her what was on his mind in a sheepish manner and she smiled in an amused manner and kissed his face, “I’m debating sitting upside down on the couch and not moving for the next two weeks so I understand completely.”

He kissed her face back.

&&&&&&&&&&

Just when she’d get used to the idea of what might be percolating inside her insides, she’d catch Mulder staring at her, look falling somewhere between sappish romantic and panicking deer in headlights. He’d notice her noticing and attempt in a failing way to look like he was sorting paperwork or signing something or sharpening a pencil, but as with all Mulder fumbling, he’d crash and burn, ending up with a grin the size of the room and twinkling eyes dropping back to her stomach region, hoping his x-ray vision would finally kick in.

They got nothing done that day or the next until finally Scully gave up, “hey, you want to get out of here?”

Mulder flopped back in his chair, sending himself several feet back on rolling wheels, “holy hell, yes. Where are we going?”

“I was thinking the beach.”

And the stars aligned and the world stopped and Mulder’s insides jumped at the prospect of the perfect surprise, “I have an idea then.”

In the car and heading southeast an hour and twenty later, “where in the world are we going to find a place to stay on the North Carolina shore at the end of August and I am not, and I repeat, not sleeping on the beach.”

“I got us covered. It’s all arranged and you will not be sleeping on a beach.”

“Are we going to be two of twelve in a house of frat boys and half-naked coeds?”

“Why? You like that kind of thing?”

She smacked him fairly hard on the arm, “don’t mess with me. I’m getting hungry.”

“Food, gotcha.”

During their six-hour drive, they talked, they slept, though not at the same time, they ate, thank God in Mulder’s opinion and he cheerfully diverted every question she asked about lodging, Scully finally dropping the subject when Mulder told her he’d leave her in the wilderness next time if she didn’t quiet down about a bed and a shower.

It was quite dark by the time they rolled into Kill Devil Hills and Scully, keeping her promise, shut her mouth and began calculating how she could get comfortable in the Jeep.

Then he turned down a familiar road, slowed at the end of it and finally stopped completely, “um, Mulder, how in the world did you manage to rent Babar with seven hours’ notice?”

“Oh, I didn’t rent her.”

“Then are we just going to sleep on the porch of whomever rented this place and hope they feed me bacon in the morning?”

“Nope.”

She really wondered why she didn’t throttle him more, “where are we staying, Mulder?”

A set of keys flew in her direction, “here.”

“You infuriate me.”

He laughed, getting out of the car and coming to her side, opening the door and reaching across her to undo her seatbelt, “come on, let me show you our house.”

Sliding to the sandy ground, she began to suspect the unsuspected, “our house?”

As he took her hand, “so I kind of bought it last time we were here.”

Concrete feet, unmoving, “you … bought … this place? With money? And paperwork? And … and … and you bought this place?”

Embarrassment overtook him for a moment as his head dropped, foot digging into the dirt, “you liked it and I liked it and then you went to autopsy that body and left to my own devices, I bought the house.”

Scully looked from him to the gray, shadowed house, the sound of the waves completing the peaceful poignancy of his purchase, “we’re going to have to clean it. It’s probably dusty.”

Sweeping her up in a hug, he didn’t squeeze for fear of displacing possibly offspring, “you don’t think I’m delusional?”

Half a lip turn upwards, idea of having a summer cottage on the ocean sinking in fast, “I never said that but I don’t have to sleep in the Jeep and for that I am truly thankful.”

Reaching for her hand again, this time holding on tight, he led her up the stairs, “come on. Let’s go see the house.” She remained silent for longer than Mulder was comfortable with and panic set in as he shuffled behind her, viewing the place they’d spent a week of their lives at with an entirely new eye. Giving her four more minutes of ear-ringing quiet, “okay, what’s wrong?” Wrong was not one of the words flowing through her brain, contemplating knowing it was his house, him calling it their house and already slipping, with ease, into thinking of it as ‘our’ house. Not sure how to deal with that just yet, she headed to the back windows, gesturing with waving fingers for him to follow. Once there, she waited until he invaded her space, pressing against her back, chin to the top of her head, resting while he asked her quietly, “are you okay with this?”

“That’s the problem, Mulder. I’m more than okay. I’m only having the slightest issue with you calling it our house and that’s kind of making me a little …”

“Wonky?” filling in the word she was searching for.

With a head nod to the affirmative, “yeah, that’ll work for the time being.”

Arms weaving around middle, hands resting twined on belly, “I was looking for the perfect way to surprise you with it and then stuff happened and things occurred but now we’re here and please tell me you like the house still and want to share it with me when we’re old and gray and I need to see you in a bikini and you are not repulsed by my balding ways.” By now, Scully’s forehead was against the glass of the window, shoulders shaking in low-key laughter and feeling her vibrating against his chest, he smiled as well as kissed the exposed long stretch of her neck, feeling warm skin beneath warmer lips, “you find me funny?”

“I find you startlingly endearing and if you keep your mouth where it is, I am going to end up doing things that we shouldn’t be doing while we’re waiting for other things to work.”

He stopped his mouth from doing more things and bunched her t-shirt up in his fists, tugging lightly, “I think we should go up to the bed and not do the things but sleep without the clothes ‘cause halfway there is halfway not.”

“Math agrees with you.”

Later on, after things were emphatically denied but clothing was definitely discarded in favor of balmy breeze over slowly cooling skin, “do you think there’s a baby in there somewhere?”

Insecure fears came out in droves with that ending question mark, “what if there is? What if there isn’t? What if all four take? What if none do and I’ve got nothing left and …? What if …” She left that last one dangling as she scrunched her eyes up, burying her head in the pillow, groaning loudly into cotton muffling, “why can’t it be two weeks from now and over and done with?!”

Mulder, not the best with words at times, decided Scully needed more touch than talk, his hand slipping lightly over her side, grazing ribs, shoulder wing a momentary stop before he wrapped his fingers gently around the back of her neck, nudging her forward until his mouth found hers, sublimating her fears with kisses and the occasional murmur of adoration.

&&&&&&&&&

The next morning, a low rumble of thunder woke him up, second pillow empty, cold to the touch. Apparently, she’d been up awhile and stretching before standing himself, he shuffle-stepped down stairs, amused he had two working legs to do it instead of scooting on his butt and a prayer. Cracking his toes just for fun, he spotted her sitting form hunched around pulled up knees, on the stairs leading off the deck. Gravitating towards her as he always did, regardless of situation and space, he made enough noise not to startle her but not enough to disturb the shadowed morning surrounding them. As he sat, his voice low, “’morning. I missed you when I woke up.”

“I don’t tend to wander too far off anymore.”

“Still missed you.”

Locking elbows with him, she settled her head on his upper arm, keeping an eye on ominous clouds rolling in the distance and churning ocean, “I missed you, too. Been thinking really hard about you waking up and here you are. Score one for psychic links.”

“You just made my week, woman.”

With a chuckle, she switched instantly to serious mode, whiplash imminent for the less practiced but Mulder kept up in stride, “sorry about last night. I let my nerves win.”

Drifting a hand to her inner knee, “I love you whatever way you are: nervous, elated, giddy, despondent, gruesome, ugly as sin covered in poo, so breath-taking I never want to blink again, and I am going to keep telling you this, over and over, until it sinks into that beautiful, thick skull of yours.” Lips to aforementioned skull, “we are us … always … whether we have a kid, don’t have a kid, get married, don’t get married … I promise to hold your hand forever and thank God, stars, mythological beings, the maker, the creator, Buddha, Allah and everything in between that I am yours and you are mine.”

“So I should just forget about it for awhile and demand breakfast?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying.”

Standing, she turned, swung a leg, settled on his lap, arms around neck, hugging his head to her chest, “I am yours and you are mine, up and through the end of time.”

“Did you just write that or did I miss some mid-century poetry in class?”

“I have a creative bone here and there.”

Looking up, he ran his tongue along her throat, two kissed pressed to warm skin, “come on, I need some food.”

[turnoftherogue]

A Mad TeaParty Part 1

A Mad Tea Party Part 1 Sam, Dean and Lacey walked down the hall of the hospital until they reached the morgue. "Maybe you should have changed." Sam said glancing at Lacey. Lacey looked down at what she was wearing. She had on a yellow vest top, denim cut off shorts and grey moccasins showing off her long legs. Dean looked her up and down too. "I don't see anything wrong with what she's wearing." He shrugged. "You wouldn't Dean."Sam rolled his eyes. The doctor walked out of one of the offices and joined them. "Agents Page and Plant, FBI." Dean told him as they flashed their badges. "Gentlemen." The doctor nodded. "What brings you here?" "We need to see Amber Greens body." Sam told him. "Really? What for?" The doctor asked surprised. "The police report said something clawed through her skull?" "You didn't read the autopsy report I emailed out this morning?" "We had, uh server issues." The doctor nodded and led them into one of the freezers and pulled out the slab with Ambers body on it. "When they brought her in we thought she was attacked by a wolf or something." "Or something." Dean concurred looking down at the body. "But we were wrong." The doctor picked up a plastic bag and showed it to them. "Is that a..." Sam started looking shocked. "It's a press on nail. We found it in her temporal lobe." "Oh that is so gross." Lacey exclaimed putting a hand to her mouth. The doctor looked at her disapprovingly. "She's new." dean exclaimed. "Is that even possible?" Sam asked, steering the conversation back. "Wait are you saying she did this to herself?" "Uhuh, she scratched her brains out. It'd take hours and it'd hurt like hell, but sure it's possible." "How?" Dean asked. "Pick your acronym, OCD, PCP. It all spells crazy. My guess some kind of phantom itch. I mean an extreme case but." "Phantom itch?" Sam asked. "Yep, all it takes is someone talking about an itch or thinking about one even and suddenly you can't stop scratching." "Thanks doc." The three of them walked away scratching. They headed over to the house where the girl had been babysitting when she was found. Sam was in the living room interviewing the parents. Dean and Lacey were staying back letting him get on with it. Dean spotted the kid sitting at the bottom of the stairs and motioned to Lacey to follow him. "Whatcha lookin' for?" The kid asked as they approached. "Don't know yet. It's jimmy right?" The kid nodded. "So Amber was your babysitter?" "Yes sir." "Yeah most of my babysitters sucked. Especially Mrs Chaney. She only cared about two things, Dynasty and bed time. Did you uh, see anything strange that night?" "No sir." The kid answered woodenly. "You sure about that?" Dean asked, suspicious. "I would tell you if I knew something. I promise, one hundred percent. Cross my heart." The kid sounded scared. "Well Jimmy I uh, I happen to know you're lying." "I'm not." "We gonna start talking truth or are you and me gonna have to take a little trip down town?" Lacey glared at him for added effect. They met Sam on the front porch of the house. "Anything?" Sam asked. Dean held up a small packet. "Kid said he put this on the babysitters hairbrush." "Dean there's no way itching powder made that girl scratch her brains out. It's just ground up maple seeds." "If you have any other theories I'm open to 'em." Sams phone began to ring as they climbed into the Impala. "Yeah? Yeah we'll be right there." They headed back to the hospital. As they walked into the ward someone was being wheeled past them in a body bag. They headed over to the doctor they had spoken to earlier. "What happened?" Sam asked. "Guy got electrocuted." "Any idea how?" "Eh maybe a loose wire or a piece of equipment shorted out. So far we haven't found anything." "Witnesses?" "Yeah, guy in there, Mr Stanley. He says he saw it but he's not making a lick of sense. Senile." "Thanks." Sam replied and they headed into the room to talk to the old guy. "Um Mr Stanley?" "It was just a joke. I didn't know it would really work." "What would work?" "All I did was shake his hand." He held out his hand showing them a joy buzzer. Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean put on a pair of goggles and leather gloves before picking up the joy buzzer. On the table in front of him was a joint of ham. "You ready? He asked. "Hit it Mr Wizard." Sam put his goggles on too and Lacey hid behind Sam. Dean pressed the joy buzzer to the ham and with a crackle it began to cook. When it changed color Dean pulled away from it. "That'll do pig." Lacey peeked out from behind Sam and laughed. "I actually get that one!" "What the hell?" Sam asked as he removed his goggles. "That crap isn't supposed to work." "This thing doesn't even have batteries." "So what? Are we looking at cursed objects?" "Sounds good." Dean cut a piece of the ham off. "Maybe there's a powerful witch in town." He ate the ham. "Is there any link between the uh, the joy buzzer and the itching powder?" "Uh one was made in China, the other Mexico but they were both bought from the same store." Dean cut off some more ham. "Hmm." He offered some to Sam who shook his head and Lacey who wrinkled her nose. "No thanks." They headed over to the conjurarium where both of the objects were bought. As Sam headed towards the counter Dean and Lacey perused the aisles. "Sam!" Dean called and with a big grin on his face held up a whoppee cushion. Sam shook his head and carried on up to the counter. Lacey smiled at Dean fondly, he was such a big kid. Dean shrugged and took the whooppee cushion up to the counter. The assistant emerged from the back room. "Welcome to the conjurarium, sanctum of magic and mystery." "You the owner?" Sam asked. "Yep." "You sold any itching powder or joy buzzers lately?" "Yeah a grand total of one each. They aren't exactly big ticket items. Look you boys here to buy something or what?" Dean pulled out his wallet and handed the owner some cash for the whoppee cushion. "So you get many customers?" "Kids come in. They don't buy much, but they're more than happy to break stuff. These days all they care about are their iphones and those kissing vampire movies. The whole thing makes me just.." "Angry?" Dean supplied. "Yeah, yeah I am angry. This shop has been my life for twenty years, and now it's wasting away to nothing." "Which is why you hate them." "I suppose." "You wish there was something you could do about it." "Yeah I guess I do." "So you're taking revenge." Dean pulled a rubber chicken off a nearby display and slammed it onto the counter. "With this." He pressed the joy buzzer to the chicken. It began to crackle and melt. The owner leapt back with a yelp. "Oh! No!" He stared dumbfounded at the chicken. "Something tells me this guy is not a powerful witch." "Sorry. Sorry." Dean called as they hastily left the store. After the disastrous events at the magic shop the previous day Lacey was hoping todays trip would be a little more fruitful. They had got a call from the doctor they had seen yesterday to say that they had another strange case admitted to the hospital that morning. Lacey and Sam were leaning against the wall in the reception area waiting for Dean who had gone to speak to the doctor. He appeared moments later talking to one of the nurses. "Well I appreciate that Nurse Fremont." He said glancing at her name tag. Lacey felt anger building inside her. "Please... call me Jen." "Oh, Jen it is." Lacey sighed and glanced down at herself. She was wearing black uggs, black and white tie dye trousers, a black band t-shirt and a thick grey cardigan. Dean seemed to notice everyone but her. Sure he flirted occasionally but she felt it was more part of his nature than he actually liked her. Dean approached them and clapped his hands together. "What's up with toothless? Cavity creeps get a hold of him?" He asked referring to the guy who had been attacked and had all his teeth removed. "Yeah close. He wrote up a description." Sam replied leafing through his notebook. "Five foot ten, three hundred and fifty pounds, wings and a pink tutu. Said it was the tooth fairy." "So he's obviously whacked out on painkillers." "Maybe. Whatever it was got past locked doors and windows without triggering the alarm." "Come on. Tooth fairy?" "And it left 32 quarters underneath his pillow. One for each tooth." "Well, I will see your crazy and raise you some. There's a couple of kids with stomach ulcers, say they got it from mixing Pop Rocks and Coke. Another guy, his face... froze that way." "What way?" sam frowned. Dean pulled the sides of his mouth wide and crossed his eyes. Lacey sighed and rolled her eyes. Dean glanced at her questioningly but she looked away. "Uh he held it too long and it... stuck. They're flying in a plastic surgeon." "So I mean if you add all that up... I got nothing." "I thought sea monkeys were real." Dean said randomly. "They are. They're brine shrimp." "No, no, no I mean like in the ads. You know like the sea monkey wife cooks the pot roast for the sea monkey husband , and the sea monkey kids play with the dog in a sea monkey castle, real. I mean I was six but I believed it." "Okay." "Point is...maybe that's the connection. The tooth fairy, the Pop rocks and Coke, the joy buzzer that shocks you, they're all lies that kids believe." "And now they're coming true. Okay so whatever's doing this is..is reshaping reality. It has the powers of a god or of a trickster." Sam said rolling his eyes. "Yeah with the sense of humour of a nine year old." "Or you." Lacey snickered. Lacey was still a bit miffed with Dean so she went with Sam. Once they had got the information they needed they headed back to the motel where they found Dean polishing off more of the ham. "Dude seriously still with the ham?" Sam asked pulling a face. "We don't have a fridge." Dean reasoned. Sam pulled a map out and laid it out on the table. "Well I found something." He said pointing to red x's that he had marked. "Um tooth fairy attack was here, Pop Rocks and Coke was here, then you've got itching powder , face freeze and joy buzzer all located within a two mile radius." "So we got a blast zone of weird and inside fantasy becomes reality." "Looks like." "And what's the A-bomb at its centre?" "Four acres of farmland and a house." "Our motel isn't in that circle by any chance?" "Yeah. Why?" Dean held up his hand, the palm covered in hair. Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. "Ugh dude. That's not what I think it is, is it?" Lacey scrunched up her forehead. "What do you think it is?" "I got bored, that nurse was hot." "You know you can go blind from that too." "Give me five minutes. We'll go check out that house." Dean said heading towards the bathroom. "Hey do not use my razor!" Sam yelled after him. "I don't get it." Lacey said turning to Sam. "What is it?" "I'll tell you when you're older." Sam replied, chuckling at the look she gave him. @18crazybutcutealsopsycho

[hearshegoes-blog]

Do [No] Harm (Part 1)

(8 hrs after ILY and years before...)

Molly Hooper sat alone in her office, desperately trying to focus on the screen in front of her. Failing miserably. It was the easiest thing in the world to do: Hit send, salvage their friendship. Hit send and they’d be right as rain.

Wrong, the buzzing in her brain warned.

Only it wasn’t buzzing. It was a voice. Set on endless loop.

I love you…

His voice.

“Hit send, Hooper,” she whispered. “Everything’ll go back to normal.”

I love you…

That wasn’t their normal.

Molly laughed at the absurdity. She’d spent years willing Sherlock to say those words to her, ever since their first meeting at St. Bart’s…

She was junior doctor, in her third year of specialized pathology training, happily up to her elbows in a lorry accident victim when Sherlock stormed through the morgue doors. The tails of his enormous black coat and Mr. Tomlin, Bart’s director of credentialing and governance, trailed behind him. The mortuary didn’t receive many hospital administrators. Nor did it play host to 6-foot tall, beautiful strangers possessing skin bordering on preternatural. Something deep inside Molly’s belly fluttered at the sight of him.

And quickened when she registered his lush bottom lip.

And pooled between her legs after catching a glimpse of his very prominent clavicle. Molly harbored an indecent fetish centered around clavicles.

His was superb.

She’d almost forgotten about Mr. Tomlin until she heard him gasp at the sight of her, a lacerated kidney in her hand. Sherlock, however, didn’t flinch. He crossed the room, hands clasped behind his back, in two smooth strides and stood on the opposite side of the autopsy table. Without so much as a “hello” in her direction, he bent over the body for a closer inspection.

Infuriating. What a downright pompous man.

Infuriating, pompous man with an absolutely lovely mole just under his right ear.

Molly couldn’t help herself from leaning in. Sherlock’s scent wrapped around her - posh soap and something dangerous - pulled her down as if by a string. More like rope, dragging her down to him. Impossible to break free of. She was so startled when he looked up at her, looked into her, with blue eyes as deep and cool as a glacial lake, she nearly dropped the kidney.

“Oh! I..um…I…I should probably put this…down...otherwise the cleaning crew'll have kidney pie all over the floor!” She’d snorted. Loudly. In front of him.

Sherlock made no attempt to ease her embarrassment. He merely stood up and watched. Her. “Great,” she mumbled, fumbling around for a clean specimen pan, hoping he’d direct that laser beam focus elsewhere.

Yet she wanted to remain the center of his attention. Indefinitely.

What was wrong with her?! He wasn't her type.

In just three minutes, he'd already proven himself to be an infuriating, pompous…probably posh arse given his coat and suit. And scent. What kind of man doesn’t at least say “hello” upon entering a room?

Infuriating pompous men with eyes now more green than blue, she noted. The change intrigued her more than she cared to admit. Molly momentary lost herself in his gaze, watching the colors of his irises dance and shift until she felt her face flush.

“Oh shite,” she whispered. Molly knew she was no beauty. Short, constantly tongue-tied and supremely uncoordinated when out of her lab coat, she didn’t normally garner such interest from beautiful men. Not even the prats. And now her body decided to crank up the humiliation, breaking out in its signature wave of red splotches.

“Well, then, Miss Hooper, I’d like to introduce a new...associate to you.”

Associate?

“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock?  Yep, she called it: Posh.

“Mr. Holmes, this is Miss Hooper —“

“Molly," she corrected, smiling brightly despite the warm stinging of her cheeks. "You can call me Molly.” She thrust a hand in his direction, instantly regretting her eagerness to touch his skin. And more than a little put off when he made no move to shake her hand in return.

Oh, come on! Either she was being played or this tosser was a legitimate sociopath.

She raised her chin at him, stretching her arm out even further. A challenge, daring him to defy social convention with Mr. Tomlin so nearby.

Sherlock blinked, sliding his eyes down to her hand and, slowly, back to Molly’s face. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in amusement.

He was just her type.

No! He wasn't. Absolutely not. Molly raged against the thought and pulled back, about to launch into an obscenity-laden dressing down, Mr. Tomlin be damned. She caught sight of her hand. Her gloved hand. Covered in blood and bits of kidney tissue.

Dear god. Could this afternoon get any worse? Spontaneous combustion seemed to be the only reasonable way out - literally dying from embarrassment.

Mr. Tomlin seemed not to notice. The nattering man was utterly oblivious to her discomfort. Sherlock's mouth stretched into a wide, tight-lipped grin, and still he said nothing to her. Tomlin continued with his introductions, after which he instructed Molly to afford the apparent graduate chemist every courtesy, skimming over Sherlock's vague ties to Scotland Yard and an older brother with some authority in the British government. All the authority in the British government, she'd find out soon enough.

“Well, then. I’ll leave the two of you to get better acquainted,” the nervous little man yipped and scurried off. Most likely to vomit in the morgue's anteroom.

Sherlock barely acknowledged Mr. Tomlin's exit. Seconds seemed to tick into minutes. He'd yet to utter a word. He simply watched her as though she were under glass. Years later, she'd identify that look as Sherlock's intense interest in her rather than the abject disdain she assumed it at their first encounter.

Molly rushed to cover the furious beating of her heart. “Don’t suppose he’s keen on kidney pie, then,” she snorted. Again.

Shite. She should really stop talking… “Perhaps I should’ve offered him the liver —“

“Tell me, Miss Hooper,” he interrupted, “do you moonlight as a comedian?”

His voice rumbled through her. Low in timbre but easily filling the room, it unnerved Molly in a not altogether unpleasant way. Imperious arse. She was a credentialed doctor for goodness sakes! She didn’t have time to nurse a graduate chemist with a hobby! No matter how gorgeous.

“What? Comedian? Me? I’m a doctor,” she stuttered. “I’m in my third, no fourth, wait, third —“

“It a requires a simple yes or no, Miss Hooper.”

Was he kidding her? Surely he must be kidding. He was, what, a year older than her? Maybe two, she guessed. Who walks around in a suit jacket and tailored trousers at that age? Self-important bastard. And what’s with the ludicrous overcoat? Did he fancy himself a vampire or something? And that ridiculous head of hair… don’t posh boys own mirrors and combs - in multiple rooms of their Sloane Square townhomes?

Her fingers twitched. She was suddenly assaulted by an overwhelming need to bury them in those very same curls - curls she knew would feel like spun silk - and dig her fingernails deep into his scalp.

She also had an urge to slap him right across the cheek - hard - marking that alabaster skin with her handprint.

Laying claim to his fine cheekbones and sharp nose.

“I…I don’t understand,” was all she could muster.

He didn’t respond, making her think it was he who didn’t understand.

“Well, no matter,” he huffed, “If the answer’s ‘yes’, I suggest you consider other hobbies. if the answer’s ‘no’, i’m inclined to thank you for not pursuing any of the comedic arts. Jokes aren’t really your area of expertise, are they…Mol-ly?”

He drew out the syllables of her name longer than necessary, boldly caressing them before they landed, almost tenderly. at her feet. In that moment, Molly would’ve given him ‘every courtesy’. And more. Much more.

He turned and stalked toward the mortuary door. “I’ll be in next week to run a few experiments. How does Tuesday suit?”

The emotional whiplash made Molly dizzy. Her brain desperately tried to work out a biting response to their exchange. She followed him to the door to…what? Stop him? Berate him?

Kiss him? He was an absolute shite.

And she was going to tell him just that.

Sherlock stopped short and spun round to face her, the suddenness nearly forcing Molly out of her sensible professional clogs. He looked down at her. “Oh, and I’ll need a few things. A reasonably fleshy, and very fresh, cadaver for one. And an assistant.” 

There it was again, that twitch at the corner of his mouth and the corresponding flutter in her belly. “Mr. Tomlin mentioned the interns might be at my disposal but —” He paused, letting the room go perfectly silent. “— I’d prefer it if we kept my visits just between us. I like to know I can count on my assistant and working with a different surrogate each time just makes my work more frustrating. 

“So, the cadaver and you, Molly Hooper.” He turned back toward the door and pushed through, leaving her no room to object. As an afterthought he added, “I’ll bring my own riding crop. Afternoon.”

So long ago... The computer's cursor blinked furiously, returning Molly to the present, Molly smiled ruefully. How was it she remembered every detail about their first quarter hour together - and nothing about the rest of that week? Strange, considering it included a mini-break holiday with her dad and her cousin’s wedding.

All she remembered was Sherlock…and the agony of counting down the slow hours until he returned to the morgue the following Tuesday. With his own riding crop.

Nine years had passed between them since that first afternoon.

And two I love yous.

Three if she counted his instructions to her. "Just say these words..."

Four, if Molly counted her own reply.

No matter how she did the math, the sum total hurt like hell.

Molly hit send.

(5 hours prior to ILY...)

Molly’s day was off to a winning start.

An overnight power surge took out the electric to the entire flat. Now, instead of quietly observing the anniversary of her father’s death, alone, she was dodging two burly repairmen who’d laid siege to her kitchen.

“Apologies, miss, but she’s gonna take a couple a’ hours,” said the one with the snake tattoo peeking out from his long shirtsleeve.

“Well, um, could you, maybe, fix one room first so I could camp out in there while you get the rest of the flat up and running?” Molly hadn’t planned on leaving the house today, at least not until her overnight at Bart's. And at least not until she’d had a good cry about her da.

“Oh, ‘fraid not. Gotta keep the whole place offline ’til we’re done. Don’t wanna blow anyone up now, do we,” the one with the glass eye winked at her.

Knackered and in no mood to decamp, Molly sighed, “What am I supposed to do, then?”

“Why don’t you go grab a nice cuppa down at the shops, have a ‘girl’s day’,” Snake Arm offered cheerily. “I’ll text you when we’ve wrapped up.”

“Then you can come back and stay put,” Glass Eye chimed in. “Don’t worry about a thing, Miss. East Wind Electric’ll take care of everything.”

What choice did she have but to follow their suggestion? She'd been lucky to find them on such short notice to begin with. No use hampering their progress moping around while they made repairs.

Molly pulled her hair back into a pony, grabbed her laptop and headed off to the Birchwood for the largest cup of coffee she could buy.

--

(at the Birchwood w/ a nice cuppa)

Congratulations Miss Hooper…

The email should’ve buoyed Molly’s spirits. She’d been downright chuffed that her white paper had been chosen as a first alternate for the annual pathology conference. The presentation slots were extremely limited - only ten available for all of the EU division - and her’s had survived a rigorous vetting to make alternate. If any of the marquee EU presentations failed to meet standards, she’d get the call to present. In Hong Kong. Early next week.

That was before. Before Sherlock arranged for her to fetch him from the suburbs in an ambulance.

…as their paper has been disqualified, we extend the invitation to you - as first alternate - to present in their place on behalf of the EU division…

Before she conducted the physical. Before her hands and her heart shook with each new track mark she discovered on his emaciated body. Before he shot her a look, equal parts warning and plea, on his way into Culverton Smith’s office.

… pleased to welcome you to Hong Kong on Monday. You’ll have the next day to acclimate before enjoying the opening reception on Tuesday evening…

Before she joined John and him at Bea’s Cake Shop, pretending to enjoy the Victoria sponge she’d ordered for his birthday. Molly knew full well he preferred the triple chocolate ganache but Sherlock didn't need the additional stimulant. Sponge with fruit filling was passive aggressive punishment. And Sherlock dutifully accepted his penance. "Ah, Victoria sponge. My favorite. However did you know, Molly?"

…round table discussions for the entirety of the day on Wednesday and Thursday…

She was scared witless for him. He’d been declared clean after a physician-monitored detox but he was, Molly knew, still reeling from Mary’s death and the fallout it caused. Leaving London now for the conference and its subsequent tour would mean three weeks away.

…your presentation on Friday afternoon…

Three weeks was too long to spend away from a friend so desperately in need - especially a friend intent on telling her, proving to her, that he was ‘just fine.’”

…travel with members of the EU delegation for subsequent presentations in Hanoi…

She was angry as hell at him! How many times would he risk his health, his sanity, his sobriety? Prior to Mary’s death, he’d succumbed to his addiction only as a substitute for ‘the game.’

This Culverton Smith business was the first time he’d ever shot up to play the game.

No it wasn’t, she admitted to herself. He’d done it before. Magnussen. And she’d called him out for it. Molly still felt the sting of her palm striking his face. She’d never been so angry at anyone before in her life.

She’d never been so frightened of her emotions. Or of his. Sherlock looked downright pitiful that day. He'd avoided eye contact with her while she confronted him about the chemicals in his system and the harm he'd done to himself, his friends. The first slap unleashed an avalanche of emotion within her. Anger, fear, disappointment, worry. Love. Sherlock made no attempt to block her second strike. Or her third.  

…culminating in the week-long international conference in Singapore…

Had she known then that he would to be sent away - for good, forever - after that...she would've still yelled at him. Then she would've done what she'd been aching to do since the moment they met: Pull him close, wrap her arms and legs around his loneliness, his fear. Never let him go.

Instead, here they were again, at the intersection of self-harm and collateral damage.

…advise us of your intent to participate by noon tomorrow…

Sherlock couldn’t seem to stop hurting himself or the people who loved him. Molly didn’t need to be here for it. She could accept the invitation. Should accept. It would be the highlight of her career thus far.

Molly sighed. She reasoned It was the low point of their friendship. Not much lower it could sink. Leaving him alone for a few weeks wasn’t going to have much of an impact. It hadn't in the past. She could heal her own wounds, on her own terms, while someone else nursed Sherlock’s track marks and psyche for a change.

But John had his own wounds to heal, in addition to caring for Rosie…

Molly had no one. Not really. Except the three of them. John needed her to help pick up the emotional slack where Rosie was concerned - though he’d never ask it of her.

She should stay. For Rosie. For John.

For  Sherlock.

Molly closed her laptop and settled back into the chair. It was almost 1pm. She had just under twenty four hours to make her decision. She'd get through her overnight shift and reply in the morning. Right now, all she wanted to do was go home, put on some of her dad's favorite music and ask him for some guidance. If the guys back at her flat could just finish already...

Her mobile vibrated, in answer to her prayers...well, at least one of her prayers. She'd figure out the answers to the others herself.

All set Miss. Have a lovely rest of your day. - East Wind Electric