#agent: ...excusez-moi

[egophiliac]

Ngl I keep thinking about your Ride Kamens comic where the green haired guy is brought back to reality when MC reminds him it's a front and he's all sad after he did all that work. And the only thing coming to mind is how the special name should be "Trois for Moi" to keep in with the French name game and the rhyming. I don't even play this game but I've been thinking about this all week

I. did think of "Trois for Toi" after I posted it. :') but uhhhhh leave Leon alone HE'S DOING HIS BEST OKAY

[kimwexlers-brownhair]

I actually love writing Raoul (mostly musical Raoul) as almost impossibly perfect. Why? Because it annoys the ever living hell out of Erik.

He stalks Raoul for proof he's a Gaston from Beauty and the Beast but finds at every turn that he's an aristocratic French Special Agent Dale Cooper.

Incognito, Erik sits near the vicomte in a café hoping to catch him giving wait staff a hard time.

Instead, Raoul takes a sip of coffee and tells his server, <<Vous savez, excusez-moi, ce café est parfait.>>

[blurredcolour]

You Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under | Part One

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Dick Winters x Female SOE Agent!Reader

The 101st Airborne's jump into Normandy is filled with unexpected surprises for all parties involved.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Weapons, Death, Blood, Gore, Injuries, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Language, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal of Dick Winters by Damian Lewis. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within. Shout out to my bilingual friend who double checked my French lines for me. Non-English is denoted in italics.

Word Count: 4809

--------------------------

Paris – December 10, 1944

The sea of humanity in Gare du Nord was overwhelming as Dick Winters stepped off the train from Mourmelon-le-Grand. Though it was mid-morning on a Sunday, it seemed like everyone was on the move. His height had him standing head and shoulders above most of the crowd as he made his way down the platform toward the exit, nearly bumping into a woman dressed in an olive drab uniform.

“Sorry –” He reflexively apologized in English before correcting it to the local French, though his pronunciation left a lot to be desired. “Excusez-moi.”

You turned back to him, eyes widening with recognition as they flicked over his face. “A captain now.” You smiled as your gaze eventually settled onto the two bars shining on the garrison cap of his Class-A uniform.

“A Canadian now.” He replied as his own eyes settled on the patch embroidered on your shoulder. The hip length jacket, A-line skirt, and peaked cap of the uniform suited you. “Or were you always, Charlotte?” The hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as his green eyes met yours.

He did not miss your visible swallow before you recovered with an even warmer smile than before. “I’m sorry you’ve got me confused with my good friend Charlotte Roussel. She’s told me all about you.” You offered your gloved hand to shake as you introduced yourself properly, though he wondered if it was just another cover identity.

Taking your hand in his, he shook it firmly with a bemused expression playing on his face. “Dick Winters. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Captain. If you are in need of a place to stay, I happen to have a recently vacated room in my apartment I would be happy to loan to you, free of charge. The hotels in Paris would love nothing more than to liberate you of your American dollars.”

Dick eyed you curiously, still as full of questions as the last time he had seen you in early June, yet you continued to obfuscate. “I wouldn’t want to impose…” He replied in the time-honored tradition of the polite refusal that preceded acceptance.

“Not at all. Besides, Charlotte would not forgive me if I did not repay you for saving her life.” You insisted with a nod, and he swallowed, noticing the way you now wore your hair to carefully cover your forehead beneath your uniform cap.

“If I remember it correctly, she saved mine first.”

------------

Normandy – June 6, 1944

After the rattling and jostling of the plane as it flew through clouds and flak, the drop onto French soil had felt peaceful in comparison. Granted of course, there was the constant awareness that enemy fire could find him on his way to the ground, but by some miracle he made it in one piece. The same could not be said of his leg bag.

After linking up with Hall from Able company, the pair had set off into the woods with only one M1 Garand between them. Dick had done his best to remain calm and reassuring despite how poorly the night seemed to be unfolding already. Small touches of humor appeared to calm the young man’s nerves but they both remained hyper vigilant to all sounds around them. Roughly ten minutes from their rendezvous they heard a noise to their right and Dick signalled for them both to halt and get low, but before Hall could level his weapon, they were face-to-face with the muzzle of German K-98 rifle.

Preparing to lunge at the soldier’s legs, Dick was brought up short when a figure in dark clothing jumped onto the man’s back, clamping a gloved hand over his mouth before burying a knife into the side of his neck. The unexpected weight thankfully pulled the weapon toward the sky before the soldier squeezed off a few rounds in the struggle, but the brutally efficient downward stroke of their blade had the soldier quickly collapsing to the ground, neutralized. Left standing was a woman clad in what first looked like a skirt but was in fact very wide-legged slacks and a wool sweater with a cap over her hair and a scarf covering her neck and face up to her eyes.

“Parlez-vous Francais?” You asked in an elevated whisper as you crouched down to wipe the blade of your knife clean on a corner of the dead man’s uniform jacket.

Dick and Hall both shook their heads in silence, dumbfounded.

“Welcome to France.” You smiled a little as you pulled down your scarf to reveal the rest of your face.

Dick was struck by many things in that moment, first and foremost being how beautiful you were, which he quickly compartmentalized as he’d been well trained to do. The second was the lack of a French accent, of any accent to your English. You almost sounded American and yet…

The stirring of brush to the left had them tensing once more before a young man of no more than sixteen, tall but obviously underfed and in clothes that had fit him several inches ago, emerged to pick up the German rifle from the forest floor. The function returned to Dick’s brain all at once and he looked back to you quickly.

“Resistance?”

You nodded in confirmation, glancing between the pair of them before turning to the young man. “Emile, donne le fusil au lieutenant.”

“Mais Charlotte…” He protested, gesturing at the older rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Maitenant, Ils auront une nuit pire que la notre.” You replied in a firm tone that brooked no argument and he handed it over to Dick who thanked him with a nod.

Hall immediately began to dig through the fallen soldier’s pockets to find him some more ammo.

“You’re a lot further inland than we were expecting you.” Your comment brought Dick’s attention back to you and he did his best not to let his annoyance at the situation show.

“Any idea where we’ve ended up?” He asked as he took what Hall was able to scrounge with a nod of thanks, tucking it into the pocket of his ODs.

“Half a kilometre outside St. Mere Eglise. You have a map?” You asked with a tilt of your head, and he hesitated a moment, knowing that while he did, it was covered in confidential material. He watched as a knowing smirk stretched your lips. “I have one without your top-secret information, one moment.”

You raised up on your knees to tuck your knife into the sheath at your hip before reaching up the back of your sweater, the motion inadvertently pulling the fabric higher to reveal the skin of your midriff. He quickly averted his eyes to the tree canopy above, wondering when the training on attractive female Resistance fighters was supposed to have been delivered.

The sound of rustling paper had him glancing carefully toward the ground and he relaxed to see you unfolding a map across the leaves and pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. The four of you gathered around as you took out a lighter, using the weak light from the flame to point out your rough position.

“Easiest way to the coast is the railroad tracks – keep off the roads. There is a squad of about ten Nazis with two officers on a horse-drawn wagon. They are making their way to their favourite spot here.” You tapped the map further into the woods.

“Favorite spot?” He prompted quietly.

“To make members of the Resistance disappear.” You replied grimly, glancing at the simple watch on your wrist. “We set explosives here,” you tapped a spot along the rail line further inland, “to detonate about now. That should help you find your way?” You looked up to him just as the explosion sounded in the distance, a column of orange lighting the sky.

“Bravo, Charlotte. À l’heure juste.” Emile beamed at you, and you nodded in reply with a grin of satisfaction.

“Merci. Any questions, gentlemen?” You asked turning back to the two Americans.

“None. Thank you, Charlotte. Be careful out here.” Dick replied earnestly, hoping you were not headed to the German’s so-called favorite spot, but he held his suspicions.

“Same to you.” You nodded firmly folding up the map as he tapped Hall on the shoulder and the pair began to make their way towards the rail line.

You had been right, the explosion made an excellent beacon. The situation continued to improve when he reconnected with Lipton, Guarnere, Malarkey, Wynn, Toye, and two boys from the 82nd. When he heard the whinny of a horse, he realized you had also given him an accurate warning about the group of Germans.  While Dick presumed it was usually preferable for Resistance to avoid confrontation, with the numbers he had gathered, he preferred to eliminate the threat and arranged an ambush. Mercifully Guarnere’s premature action did not result in the failure of their attack and the men went about cleaning up the mess while Dick took a moment to reprimand him.

They were about to depart down the road when a rustling in the trees caught the hot-headed Sergeant’s ear. “Flash!” He barked out the password challenge in his brash Philly accent, sending everyone’s eyes towards the edge of the road where you stood, flanked by Emile and two other men Dick didn’t recognize.

“Thunder.” He rapidly replied on your behalf. “Don’t shoot, they’re Resistance.” He elaborated, coming to stand beside Guarnere.

“Merci, Lieutenant.” You exhaled. Your reply was muffled behind your scarf, but the relief was still audible.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a dame!” Guarnere hissed, pouring his excess adrenaline into his outburst.

Your barely smothered laugh reached Dick’s ears, making him swallow reflexively as the group watched you make your way to the back of the wagon. One of the older men, his clothes gone baggy under German occupation, carrying a weapon from the last war, grasped a corner of the tarp laying across some hidden cargo. Together you pulled it back to reveal the bodies of two more of your comrades.

“Merde.” Emile choked out and turned to take out his frustrations by kicking one of the fallen Germans at his feet.

Dick could not help the frown as he walked to the back of the wagon, his eyes falling on the form of a young boy no older than twelve.

“Goddamn he’s just a kid…” Malarkey uttered in dismay.

“They’ve got women and kids fighting out here for fuck’s sake.” Toye growled, slamming his helmet onto his head as he wrenched his eyes away from the scene, moving to take watch to the head of the wagon, obviously impatient to get moving.

“I’m sorry it’s not the outcome you were hoping for.” He looked to your eyes, wishing that scarf wasn’t hiding your face.

“But not unexpected.” You muttered back, straightening your sweater before leaning forward over the boy’s body.

“What will you do?” Dick asked as you grasped the boy’s lifeless arm and slung his torso across your shoulders, hugging his legs close to your body beneath your other arm.

“The only thing we can do - take him home to his mother, so she can bury him.” You replied as the fourth man with you, mid-forties with a build not unlike Randleman’s though still wasted away some, stepped forward to gather the remains of the twenty-something still on the wagon. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Good luck.” You met his eyes briefly, revealing your own glistening with unshed tears, before disappearing through the trees the way you had come.

The next twenty hours passed in a blur – finally reaching the assembly point, destroying the 105mm guns at Brécourt, losing Hall. Would that he could return the boy to his mother as you had been able to do with your fallen. As Dick watched Nixon open the can of food he’d been struggling with, he sighed deeply.

“Met a Resistance fighter in the woods after I landed – she spoke perfect English, Nix. No trace of any accent, at all. The men were all looking to her for direction.”

Nixon raised his eyes to meet his meaningfully. “No shit…” He blinked and handed him the successfully opened food. “Sounds to me like you met a genuine SOE agent assigned to ‘set Europe ablaze.’” His tone was dripping with envy. “Division wasn’t entirely convinced by Churchill’s boasts. She must be one tough broad.”

“She seemed pretty proficient, Lew.” Dick replied with poorly concealed admiration, eyeing the contents of the can reluctantly.

“We ought to send Churchill a thank you card, then.” He smirked knowingly.

Dick let out a half-hearted laugh before his face fell serious once more. He looked to his boots before confessing to the loss of Hall, which Nixon tried to make up for by reassuring him the map he’d retrieved would be useful. Surrendering the food with the excuse of lack of appetite, Dick wandered off lost in thought.

Honestly never expecting to lay eyes upon you again, he was stunned to see you in a hamlet somewhere between Culoville and Vierville the next day. It was no more than a tiny cluster of buildings on both sides of the road, too small to earn a name on the map. The road was clogged with refugees, fleeing the conflict, slowing the progress of the armored division they were meant to be traveling with.

Dick had diverted Easy across a nearby field behind the hedgerow, bringing them to a halt to plan their final approach, his officers naturally gathering around him.

“Christ there’s civilians everywhere.” Welsh hissed under his breath as they peered through the foliage.

“So, who’s going to knock on the door?” Compton grinned, his bulk barely concealed by the late spring greenery.

Dick paused, squinting through his binoculars as he watched you carefully set your wagon, filled with suitcases and other belongings like any other refugee, beneath the window of a café. Your gaze was fixed on the boulangerie across the lane, seeming of a mind to purchase some food for your travels. His eyes followed as you wended your way through the dwindling stream of people, clad in a spring jacket with a worn brown dress beneath, a pair of dusty boots on your feet. You stood out to no one but him.

“Dick?” Nixon prompted in a hushed whisper.

“Hold. The Resistance is here. Which means we most likely have Germans lurking nearby.”

“Resistance?” Nixon’s eyes widened as he fumbled with his jacket to retrieve his own binoculars. “You mean she’s here?!” He whirled to face the road, his movements made less than graceful by his excitement, and Dick barely contained his amused grin as you had already vanished inside the bakery.

His amusement did not last long, unfortunately, as a red-faced German solider came charging out of the café.

“Bingo.” Nixon breathed quietly.

Dick’s lips pressed into a grimace as the man re-emerged shortly thereafter dragging you by a fistful of your hair, shouting and pointing at your wagon. Any remaining civilians on the road quickly scattered into the other buildings or the fields beyond.

“He’s upset about the wagon.”

“You don’t say, Nixon” Compton replied sarcastically, a furrow forming between his brows.

Your voice carried to them, the pleading tone laced with fear making Dick tighten his grip on his binoculars. He could tell you were speaking a mixture of French and German, but not much more than that. “Lew?”

“Please in German…Please in French. I was just getting food. I’m sorry in German. I’m trying to get away from the Americans in French. The death in German. Please.”

Dick could hear the men shifting restlessly around him and lifted his head. “Tell them to hold, not yet. That café has got to be full of Germans. Plan on snipers in the fourth and fifth buildings as well.” He described the assault plan for each of the squads as your pleas continued to ring out parried by barked commands from the increasingly perturbed soldier. “But wait for my signal.” He nodded firmly to dismiss them, and they hurried off to their respective platoons.

Dick wanted to trust that you had the situation in hand, but this surely could not be unfolding according to your plan. He raised his binoculars once more to see you desperately plant your hands on the soldier’s chest, several men drawing a collective breath. Dick narrowed his eyes as your gaze shifted to the left, toward the face of your watch glinting in the afternoon sunlight. He tensed noting your proximity to that wagon, convinced now more than ever that it was filled with explosives.

The sharp ‘smack’ of the German’s glove impacting your cheek had your head snapping to the side in a way that had Dick seeing red.

“I’m going to kill him myself.” Nixon hissed under his breath, but Dick didn’t have time to respond as, surging forward, you slammed your forehead into the soldier’s nose, a bloom of red flooding down his face and yours.

He held his breath as you seemed to stumble back, a bit dazed as a commotion sounded from within the café, but he was able to exhale as you regained your feet and used your ankle to sweep the man’s jackboots right out from beneath him. Dick glanced to the wagon once more with apprehension as you yourself dove to the ground before grabbing the back of the dazed soldier’s coat and hauled his body over yours. He had barely shifted his gaze to the collection of five Germans in the doorway when the wagon exploded violently.

“Right on time…” He muttered to himself, tucking his binoculars away and preparing to advance.

Nixon turned to stare at him, speechless.

“Don’t.” He replied warningly, still unsure if you had survived the blast, giving the debris a moment to settle before he gave the signal, heading straight up the road to you.

Much to everyone’s annoyance, the telltale sound of Shermans approached from further up the road – just in time to get all the glory without really having to do any of the work. As planned, the men peeled off to clear each of the buildings as Dick rolled the dead German off your body. He watched with bated breath as Roe appeared at his side to check your pulse, nodding up to him.

“She’s alive, sir.”

The road was filled with broken glass from the explosion, and fearing for the bare skin of your legs, Dick had Roe help carry you into the bakery as Malarkey reported it clear, the medic sliding his arms beneath your shoulders. Dick did his best to ignore how soft the backs of your knees felt against his fingertips as he managed your legs. They laid you down on the floor in the back room amongst abandoned baking supplies and he swallowed as your eyes fluttered open.

“Charlotte, you’re alright, Doc’s just going to look you over, ok?”

You furrowed your brows and glanced down at Roe as he undid your coat, looking you over for injuries aside from the obvious scrapes as Dick quickly pressed a bandage to the split in your forehead from where you had broken the German’s nose.

“You’re in good hands, I need to go back out there alright?”

You sighed heavily and he looked to your eyes quickly.

“I’m sure you’re speaking in that fucking wonderful American accent of yours, Lieutenant but I cannot hear a fucking thing. I’m sorry.” You spoke, seemingly unaware that your voice was obnoxiously loud.

Dick grimaced at your language as Roe barely contained his scoff of laughter before Dick nodded to you to show that he understood. Eyes pinning yours, he pointed at you firmly before forcefully pointing at the floor.

“Stay here. Understood.” You replied with a nod, a loud groan quickly overtaking your voice.

Dick hesitated a moment, but Roe was already looking over your face and into your eyes. There was really nothing for him to do here and his men needed him outside. Securing his helmet on his head, he dashed back out into the afternoon sunshine. Aside from one sniper’s nest three buildings down the road, which was easily managed with the help of the armored division, the hamlet was secured with only one minor incident involving Muck and some broken glass.

At Nixon’s urging, which Dick allowed to play out much longer than was needed to convince him, he ordered two stretcher bearers to accompany him back to the bakery to fetch you. He was encouraged to find you sitting with your back propped up against the wall, looking more alert with your knife grasped with one hand, though you had not seemed to have had the wherewithal to unsheathe it. He crouched down in front of you carefully, sliding his helmet from his head.

“I’m just going to take that from you, there Charlotte.” He wasn’t sure why he was speaking, fully aware that you could not hear him, but your grip loosened on the weapon as he reached for it.

“Alright.” You murmured softly in response and his eyes snapped to yours.

“You can hear again?” He asked as he tucked the knife into the pocket of his ODs.

You began to nod before halting the movement abruptly. “Mostly…”

“Good. That’s good.” He smiled briefly. “Do you have any other weapons on you?”

“No.” You replied after a thoughtful pause and patting of your coat pockets.

He nodded before standing, addressing the men lingering in the doorway. “Take her to the aid station, Lieutenant Nixon and I will be there as soon as we can.”

They responded with a chorus of ‘yes sirs!’ before he stepped back out to deliver orders for the company to take a rest while they awaited their next set of instructions. It was not long before they were told to proceed to Vierville where Colonel Sink had set up the battalion command post. It was also, conveniently, where the aid station was located. Once the men were situated for the night, Dick and Nixon quickly made their way to hotel that had been taken over as a medical facility.

They had barely walked in the door, the copper tang of blood just meeting their noses, before the battalion surgeon was calling out to him.

“Winters! Why in the hell did you send me a civilian?!”

“Strategic intelligence asset, sir.” Nixon replied smoothly, stepping in front of Dick to take the heat. “Where might we find her?”

“In one of the back offices. She cannot stay here. She needs to go a hospital whenever you’re done…whatever you’re doing.” He narrowed his eyes skeptically, hands on his hips as made his way over to them between the rows of cots set up in the lobby.

“She going to be alright, sir?” Dick asked, tone carefully neutral.

“Concussion, lacerations, bruising, three stitches to the forehead, hearing gradually returning. Overall malnourishment like all the French civilians. She’ll be fine after a week or two.” He muttered. “In a civilian hospital.”

“Yes sir.” Nixon replied quickly with a grin, grabbing Dick’s arm and pulling him towards the aforementioned office.

For all his bluster, the pair were amused to find the surgeon had set you up in a rather nice space, a blanket draped over your legs and a mug of hot coffee in your hands. Though judging by the grimace you made after taking a sip, it wasn’t to your taste. Your hair pins must have fallen out during the struggle and subsequent transport as the style you’d been wearing that afternoon was lost, and a few swathes of gauze now encircled your head to hold a bandage in place over your stitches.

He knocked on the door frame quietly and you looked up, smiling at little, your eyes shifting to look at Nixon.

“Charlotte, this is Lieutenant Nixon.” Dick introduced his friend who quickly stepped forward to offer his hand.

“Lewis, please.” You took it carefully, shaking it in return.

“Charlotte Roussel.” You replied.

“Would it be alright if we asked you some questions?” Dick tilted his head, and you raised an eyebrow.

“Of course.” You almost nodded again but caught yourself more quickly this time.

Dick stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and perching on the edge of the desk as Nixon took the only chair. He tried not to grin as you sipped the coffee and grimaced once more, obviously failing to conceal his reaction as you apologized.

“It’s very bitter, but very appreciated.”

“I won’t tell the surgeon.” He nodded with a conspiratorial look.

“So, Dick tells me you’re with the Resistance?” Nixon spoke after a moment of watching your exchange.

Your eyes slid over to Dick, and he tensed, briefly concerned you might be upset with him, before you looked back to Nixon. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Any information you might be able to share with us would be of great assistance.” Nixon nodded encouragingly.

“Well, all of my documents were quite recently destroyed but I’d be happy to share what I remember with you. Do you have a map?” Your question echoed one of the first you’d asked him and pulled a small smile from Dick’s lips.

He watched quietly as Nixon produced as clean map of the area and you easily provided all the information you had on which German troops were stationed where, between wincing sips of the hot drink cupped between your hands. The intelligence officer thrust out his palm about halfway through and Dick patted down his ODs until he produced a pencil for his friend, passing it to him so he might jot down the volume of information you were able to impart.

“And what about yourself, Miss Roussel?” Nixon looked up to you once he’d acquired all your knowledge of military use.

“Me?” You blinked innocently.

“Tell us about yourself.” Nixon nodded encouragingly, leaning back in his chair.

Dick noted the way your fingers tightened slightly on the mug, and he realized it bore the logo of the requisitioned hotel, but otherwise your demeanor remained calm and collected. “I was born just outside Paris in 1920. My aunt and uncle have a farm near St. Mere Eglise. They have no children of their own and when my Uncle Phillipe was killed during the invasion my Aunt Sophie asked if I could come help her. There is more to eat out here than Paris anyway, where you can grow it.”

“Why do you speak such good English?” Dick asked, unable to help himself.

Your eyes turned to meet his curiously. “I was a university student before the war, I had an excellent teacher from America. Ms. Jones. She was able to go home before the Nazis arrived.”

There was a touch of envy there, and though Dick was convinced you were selling them a very good story, the desire for ‘home’ struck him as true. He watched as you leaned back against the wall wearily, your eyelids growing heavier.

“You’ve never been to England?” Nixon prodded.

“No, Lieutenant Nixon. I’ve never left France.”

“Your experience with explosives? Who taught you that?”

“Antoine. He fought in the last war, he was a sapper. He was there after you took out the Germans who had captured our comrades.” You looked to Dick who nodded in reply, recalling the elderly man who easily could have fit that description.

He heard his friend sigh a little in frustration as you seemed to have a perfectly reasonable answer for everything – answers that were not what he was wanting to hear. A sharp knock on the door drew the attention of the group and Dick raised his head.

“Enter.”

A runner from Colonel Sink popped his head in the door and Dick sighed internally knowing they had run out of time. “Lieutenants, Colonel Sink has requested the pair of you at battalion CP immediately.”

“Right, thank you Sergeant. We’re on our way.” He looked to Nixon who sighed audibly in defeat before the pair looked to you.

You were barely keeping your eyes open, the mug in your hand tilting precariously. Dick carefully took it from your hold and set it on the desk.

“Thank you very much for your assistance, Miss Roussel. Do take care.” He stood, wishing there was something better to say, but there was too much to do. The landing had barely taken place and was by no means a sure success yet. The best thing he could do for you was to get out there and liberate France entirely.

“I’ll see to it that you’re transferred to a hospital as soon as we can.” Nixon added.

“You’re welcome, Lieutenants. And thank you.” You replied, Dick swallowing as he could feel your gaze following him out of the room.

-------------------------

Read Part Two

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

[manue-ringo]

Chapitre 27 : Coup de fil

Quelques minutes plus tard, au Blue Bridge Motel, l'atmosphère était tendue. Mulder et Scully, à bout de patience, s'approchèrent du comptoir de la réception. L'angoisse les rongeait alors qu'ils tentaient de rassembler les morceaux de ce puzzle désordonné.

- Bonjour, excusez-moi. Commença Mulder en essayant de garder son calme. - Nous cherchons une jeune femme brune. Elle était avec nous hier soir. Vous l'avez peut-être croisée ce matin ?

Le réceptionniste leva les yeux de son registre, ses traits s'illuminant à la mention de la jeune femme.

- Ah oui, une superbe nana avec de beaux yeux bleus ? Répondit-il, un sourire rêveur flottant sur ses lèvres.

Mulder serra les dents, l'agacement montant en lui.

- Si vous le dites... Mais vous l'avez vue, oui ou non ? Demanda-t-il, une pointe d'impatience perçant sa voix.

Le réceptionniste sembla redescendre sur terre, son sourire s'effaçant.

- Non, désolé. Je ne l'ai pas revue depuis hier soir.

Ils quittèrent le motel, Mulder jetant des coups d'œil autour de lui, comme si Parker pouvait réapparaître d'un moment à l'autre. Leurs regards se croisèrent, chacun comprenant ce que cela signifiait : Parker avait effectivement disparu sans laisser de trace, et leur pire crainte se confirmait. Ils échangèrent un bref coup d'œil, l'inquiétude se lisant sur leurs visages. Scully, en particulier, sentit une boule d'angoisse se former dans son estomac.

De retour à la voiture, le silence était lourd, les pensées tourbillonnant dans leurs esprits. Finalement, Scully ne put contenir son inquiétude.

- Très bien, et maintenant, qu'est-ce qu'on fait, Mulder ? Demanda-t-elle, sa voix trahissant son exaspération.

Mulder, les yeux rivés sur la route devant lui, semblait absent.

- Tu peux essayer de l'appeler, mais je doute qu'elle réponde. Dit-il sans grand espoir, son ton révélant un découragement profond.

Scully soupira, se sentant de plus en plus perdue dans cette situation.

- C'est comme chercher une aiguille dans une botte de foin. Comment retrouver une femme capable de disparaître sans laisser de trace ? Ironisa-t-elle, une frustration palpable dans sa voix.

Mulder, lui aussi désemparé, se tourna vers elle, cherchant des réponses qu'il ne trouvait pas.

- Ah, je vois... Elle ne t'a donc pas mis au courant. Murmura Scully, une lueur de compréhension traversant ses yeux.

- Au courant de quoi ? S'impatienta Mulder, sentant que quelque chose lui échappait.

Scully soupira avant de lui révéler ce que Parker lui avait confié la veille. Chaque mot l'enfonçait un peu plus dans sa confusion. Il se demandait comment une personne pouvait autant le fasciner et l’exaspérer à la fois.

- C'est une histoire de dingue. Murmura-t-il, presque pour lui-même. - Cette fille est vraiment surprenante... insupportable, mais... Il marqua une pause, cherchant le mot juste. - Déconcertante.

Scully hocha la tête, consciente du tourment intérieur de son partenaire. Ils étaient tous les deux confrontés à une situation qui dépassait de loin ce qu'ils avaient imaginé.

- Le seul recours qu'il nous reste est de contacter l'agent Pendrell. Il pourrait nous donner des informations utiles. Proposa Scully.

Mulder acquiesça, reconnaissant qu'ils n'avaient plus d'autres options. Ils quittèrent le motel, leurs pas les menant dans une petite ruelle déserte où se trouvait une vieille cabine téléphonique. L'endroit était parfait pour passer un appel discret, loin des regards indiscrets. Une fois dans la cabine, Scully composa le numéro, espérant que Pendrell pourrait les aider.

- Agent Pendrell, j'écoute. Répondit une voix au bout du fil.

- Sean ? C'est Dana Scully. Désolée de te déranger, mais nous sommes à la recherche de quelqu'un et nous n'avons pas beaucoup de temps. Dit-elle, un soupir de soulagement s'échappant de ses lèvres à l'idée d'avoir enfin une chance de faire avancer les choses.

- Dana ? Est-ce que tout va bien ? Où es-tu ? Il est arrivé quelque chose ? S'inquiéta Pendrell, sa voix trahissant une nervosité croissante.

- Je ne peux pas te dire où je suis, Sean. Mais je dois savoir si tu sais où se trouve l'agent Parker en ce moment. Insista Scully, son ton devenant plus pressant.

Un silence pesant s'installa, comme si Pendrell hésitait à répondre. Puis, d'une voix hésitante, il finit par dire :

- Euh... je... Pourquoi je le saurais ? Répondit-il, clairement mal à l'aise.

Scully sentit son cœur s'accélérer. Il y avait quelque chose qu'il ne disait pas.

- Sean, je t'en prie. Nous sommes au courant. Nous savons que Parker et toi travaillez ensemble. Elle a disparu hier soir, et nous n'avons aucune piste pour la retrouver. Si tu as la moindre information, dis-le-nous. Implora-t-elle.

Soudain, le téléphone se coupa, ne laissant qu'un bip monotone dans l'air. Scully resta figée, son cœur battant la chamade.

- Allô ? Sean, tu m'entends ? Dit-elle, sa voix tremblante, mais en vain. Le silence était total. Elle sortit précipitamment de la cabine.

- Mulder, nous avons été coupés. Je ne sais pas ce qui s'est passé, mais ça m'inquiète beaucoup. Tu crois qu'on est suivis ? J'espère qu'il ne lui est rien arrivé. Dit-elle, son visage trahissant une profonde inquiétude.

Mulder serra les dents, sentant la situation leur échapper de plus en plus.

- Nous voilà dans de beaux draps. Il va falloir être bien plus prudents à partir de maintenant et éviter de contacter qui que ce soit. On va devoir se débrouiller seuls. Commençons par la maison de Parker. Peut-être y trouverons-nous des indices. Proposa-t-il, son ton ferme malgré l'incertitude qui le rongeait.

Scully le regarda avec une lueur d'incrédulité dans les yeux.

- Tu es sérieux ? Nous n'avons aucun mandat pour entrer chez elle, Mulder. On ne va quand même pas forcer l'entrée. Dit-elle, stupéfaite.

Mulder haussa les épaules, un sourire sarcastique étirant ses lèvres.

- Ce n'est pas comme si on avait le choix. Si tu penses que Parker nous attend gentiment chez elle pour boire le thé, tu te mets le doigt dans l'œil. Répliqua Mulder, essayant de cacher son agitation derrière un masque de sarcasme

Scully roula des yeux, exaspérée, mais elle savait qu'il avait raison. La situation échappait à tout contrôle, et ils devaient agir vite.

- Très drôle, Mulder. Mais je n'aime vraiment pas la tournure que prennent les choses. Imagine qu'il lui soit arrivé quelque chose à cause de notre imprudence. Réfléchit-elle à voix haute, son esprit torturé par des scénarios inquiétants.

- Je pense que Sean a juste paniqué, répondit Mulder en essayant de la rassurer. Retournons à la voiture et allons jeter un œil chez elle. Si quelque chose ne va pas, nous le saurons rapidement.

Avec un dernier regard échangé, ils remontèrent dans le véhicule, chacun perdu dans ses pensées. L'angoisse grandissait en eux, mais ils savaient qu'ils ne pouvaient pas se permettre de baisser les bras maintenant. Le mystère entourant Parker devenait de plus en plus épais, et ils étaient déterminés à le percer, coûte que coûte.

[leseffrontesfr]

— Bonjour Mademoiselle. Souffrez que je vous importune inopinément durant votre labeur. Je me présente : Jean-Pierre Greluchon, agent général, Cupidon S.A.. Nos services ont constaté que vous ne possédez pas encore l’assurance d’une vie heureuse. Votre bilan personnalisé fait cependant ressortir des actifs de tout premier choix : charmant visage, ravissante chevelure blonde cuivrée, peau exempte de défauts, rapport taille-hanches idéal…

— Que me voulez-vous ?

— Et bien, la mission que je m’honore d’exercer quotidiennement consiste à faire naître dans les cœurs esseulés le sentiment d’amour préludant à la formation d’un couple fidèle, lequel constitue la première étape et l’armature indispensable à la fondation d’une famille qui…

— Une famille ? Beurk.

— Oh, Mademoiselle, heu… Mademoiselle… Attendez, je retrouve ma fiche…

— Chloé.

— C’est cela. Mademoiselle Chloé, la fondation d’une famille vous assure le plus grand rendement de bonheur possible en ce monde, sous réserve de guerre, épidémie, tremblement de terre, incendie, noyade, empalement, lèpre ou tout autre impondérable de force majeure. Votre capital de fertilité est à son maximum et il convient de le faire fructifier dès aujourd’hui pour jouir de l’existence terrestre qui vous est accordée temporairement. Nos statistiques sont formelles : la constitution d’une joyeuse descendance de bambins en bonne santé est la meilleure stratégie pour contrer les inquiétudes métaphysiques afférentes à l’état de simple mortelle.

— J’ai rien compris.

— Il faut faire des enfants Mademoiselle. C’est le destin qui vous est donné, suivez-le avec joie.

— Ah non ! Ça non ! La maternité pour moi, ce n'est pas une question. Je n'ai pas envie d'être mère tout simplement. D'ailleurs je ne pourrais pas en avoir, ça ne peut pas arriver.

— Mais si, voyons ! Vous êtes jeune et de parfaite constitution…

— J'avorterai. Je n'irai pas jusqu'à terme, c'est sûr. Je me ferai renverser. Je tomberai dans les escaliers. Je ferai une fausse couche. Je tenterai de me suicider.

— Mais quelles drôles d’idées ! Quelles affreuses idées ! Vous éprouvez de l’anxiété devant l’inconnu de ce grand changement de vie, mais dès que votre enfant sera là…

— Je le maltraiterai.

— Oh !

— Je l'abandonnerai.

— Non !

— Je ne le regretterai pas, je ne le regretterai jamais. Et toi, si tu continues de m'emmerder, je te ligature les coucougnettes avec de la ficelle à rôti.

— Aaaeuh… Je crois qu’il manque certains éléments au dossier. Je… Je dois consulter le siège. Excusez-moi du dérangement. Je ne suis plus là !

— C’était qui ce naze ? Je me suis mise au bord de la viae publicae pour être importunée par un Ægyptien, un Tripolitain ou un Cyrénaïque. Pas par un mominet à peau de bébé. Je hais les enfants. Je hais les parents. Je ne m’aime pas. Il faut qu’on m’aime, sinon je meurs. https://leseffrontes.fr/index.php/2023/05/31/leffrontee-du-mois-de-mai-2023-chloe/

[plumedepoete]

Départs et arrivées - David Frenkel

Cette nuit là, Damien sursauta plusieurs fois dans son sommeil, tant il était angoissé à l’idée de ne pas entendre la sonnerie du réveil. Son avion à destination de Londres décollait à 7 heures dix du matin de l’aéroport de Cointrin. Ce voyage était traditionnel. Le 13 avril de chaque année, il se rendait dans cette ville pour se recueillir sur la tombe de son père, mort depuis dix-neuf ans maintenant. Quand le son strident du réveil se déclencha, il sauta du lit, fit sa toilette, puis enfila un jersey de sport flottant, un jean, et chaussa pieds nus ses vieux derbys. Désirant s’éviter les affres d’un parking bien souvent plein, il laissa sa voiture au garage et commanda un taxi. Sac en bandoulière contenant sa subsistance du jour et un petit roman de gare, Damien s’engouffra dans le temple des départs et des arrivées, là où les adieux et les retrouvailles se confondaient en une rumeur joyeuse et éplorée à la fois. Slalomant entre une forêt d’individus tout en évitant la procession des valises à roulettes, il finit par s’agglutiner à la file des gens qui attendaient d’être balayés par les rayons de la défiance. Les yeux rivés sur l’avancement de la colonne, il maudissait les préposés aux contrôles de sécurité dont le rythme de travail était trop lent à son goût. Pour passer le temps, il observa ceux qui peinaient à se séparer avant de se noyer dans la sinueuse file d’attente. Il contempla la nymphette qui ne décollait pas ses lèvres de celles de l’adonis. Les effusions pathétiques d’une femme d’âge mûr l’attendrirent jusqu’aux larmes. Mais ce n’était rien à côté de ces deux personnes chenues qui s’accolaient l’un à l’autre. Les sourires de tristesse et les caresses sur le visage de l’autre le clouèrent sur place d’émotion. Une voix impatiente se fit alors entendre��: « Monsieur, avancez s’il vous plaît, ne voyez-vous donc pas que vous freinez la file ?  » Il se retourna. C’était un homme qui avait fière allure. Les cheveux soigneusement peignés et laqués, le col d’une chemise blanche orné d’un nœud papillon coloré, un costume qui habillait une silhouette ectomorphe et des chaussures derniers cri lui donnaient une belle élégance. « Oh excusez-moi, j’étais perdu dans mes pensées. – Pensées, vous dites ça, mais je vous ai observé, vos yeux étaient rivés sur les deux vioques, dit-il avec une lueur d’étonnement dans ses yeux marron. – Effectivement, pour m’occuper en attendant de passer la fouille, j’ai dévisagé les gens qui se séparaient avant d’aller vers d’autres cieux. Je n’avais jamais pensé que les émois des séparations pourraient autant me bouleverser. – Bof, dit-il dédaigneux, c’est la vie ! – Oui, mais cela nous interpelle, lorsque l’on sait qu’à l’étage inférieur c’est tout le contraire : on se réjouit de se retrouver sous le même ciel. – Vous savez, je suis médecin. Et croyez-moi lorsque j’étais de garde dans un hôpital de fortune en Afrique, au début, je n’en menais pas large. Devoir prononcer la sentence d’un diagnostic incurable à ceux qui gisent dans des lits alignés en fil d’attente était psychologiquement dur. Il ne s’agissait pas de s’envoler ou d’atterrir mais de la vie ici-bas, peu importait le ciel. Vos sentiments m’indiffèrent donc. – Ah bon, vous êtes médecin ! Vous pratiquez où ? s’intéressa Damien. – Ici même à l’aéroport, je suis de permanence au service de l’infirmerie. – Je comprends alors. En plus, de votre expérience africaine, être quotidiennement confronté aux drames qui se croisent à l’orée des arrivées et des départs, vous rend blindé pour être touché par les états d’âmes de ceux qui se disent au revoir ou qui se retrouvent. Mais ma parole, qu’ils engagent des agents supplémentaires, regardez-moi ça, il y a six postes de contrôle mais seulement trois qui fonctionnent. – Moi, j’ai tout mon temps, remarqua froidement l’homme. Je me suis offert une fin de semaine de détente à Venise. Et pour que le départ se passe dans la décontraction, je suis venu en avance. Mon avion part dans trois heures seulement. J’aurai le temps de flâner et de fixer les individus assaillis par l’angoisse de rater l’avion. – Ne seriez-vous pas un peu sadique sur les bords ? – Quand j’exerce, je ne peux l’être. Mais durant mes loisirs, oui. Étant souvent confronté aux tensions inhérents à ma profession, j’ai un malin plaisir à observer avec détachement le stress des autres. Et vous, vous allez où ? Damien ne put lui répondre, car il fut heurté dans le dos par son interlocuteur, qui lui-même fut violemment poussé par derrière. En se retournant rageusement, celui-ci vit une jeune et grande dame gisant évanouie sur le sol sous la corde de la file d’attente, bouche semi-ouverte. « Oh mon dieu, elle est tombée contre vous, s’entend-il dire.» Il se précipita sur elle, la plaça en position latérale de sécurité, prit son pouls et lui parla  : "Madame, madame, vous m’entendez ? " N’obtenant aucune réponse, il lui fit un bouche à bouche, et elle reprit conscience en portant la main sur le côté gauche de la poitrine. L’homme sortit alors son portable, appuya sur une touche et décrivit la situation à quelqu’un. Damien ne s’attarda pas, emporté qu’il fut par le flot humain ; entre temps, deux préposés aux contrôles étaient venus renforcer l’effectif. Quittant à regret l’inconnu, il se dit que l’aéroport était aussi le carrefour des vicissitudes du destin. Arrivé au contrôle de sécurité, il s’empressa de placer les vêtements d’extérieurs ainsi que le contenu de ses poches dans les bacs. Puis, tâtant la poche arrière de son jean, il fut tout retourné de ne pas y trouver son portefeuille. Soudain, il se rappela qu’avant de quitter l’appartement il était allé au salon pour sortir d’une enveloppe cinq mille francs qu’il devait emporter avec lui. J’ai dû le laisser dans cette pièce, espéra-t-il. Il prit donc ses jambes à son cou et se dirigea vers une borne interactive. Il comptait s’y procurer, en naviguant sur le site d’ une quelconque compagnie aérienne, un départ différé dans la journée. Trouvant rapidement un vol en fin de matinée et un retour tard en soirée, il contacta sa belle-sœur pour lui faire part du contretemps. Celle-ci habitait dans la capitale britannique. Le mois dernier, Damien était parti en vacances à Bilbao. Les deux s’étaient rencontrés par hasard dans l’hôtel où elle avait aussi pris ses quartiers. La Providence avait bien fait les choses. En effet, quelques heures avant son retour à la maison, il s’était fait voler ses cartes bancaires et de crédit. Elle lui avait alors avancé la somme cinq mille franc dont il avait besoin pour régler ses frais de séjour. Il comptait les lui rendre en arrivant à Londres. Alors que Damien se rendait vers la sortie, il passa devant une enseigne de bar jouxtant les Arrivées. Un esclaffement de rire attira son attention. Quelle ne fut pas sa surprise de voir attablées au comptoir les deux personnes de tout à l’heure, et deux questions le cinglèrent : la personne qui s’était évanouie comment se faisait-il qu’elle avait déjà l’air si épanouie ? Ce médecin qui devait se rendre à Venise en toute décontraction pourquoi s’attardait-il ? Avant qu’il n’eût le temps de les questionner, l’homme s’adressa à lui et s’exclama, tout étonné : «  Vous ne partez plus ?  Puis, la femme renchérit : – Mais ne nous regardez pas avec cet air ahuri. Voilà trois mois que j’ai été soignée par mon ami Jacques. Je suis tout de suite tombée amoureuse de lui. Mais lui, malgré mes déclarations répétées, ne m’a témoigné que de l’indifférence. Devant mon insistance, il a fini par me proposer que l’on déjeune ensemble, mais, m’a-t-il avertit, n’y voyez pas autre chose qu’un repas entre amis. Hier, durant le déjeuner, j’ai appris qu’il partait aujourd’hui seul à Venise. Cela n’a fait qu’augmenter mon désir de briser sa résistance amoureuse face à moi. Alors, jouant le tout pour le tout, je l’ai guetté ici, à l’aéroport, et je l’ai suivi. Car, me suis-je dit, cet endroit est si propice aux revirements sentimentaux et aux amours naissants. Certains couples y retrouvent leur passion de jeunesse à l’heure de se séparer ou de se retrouver. Et bien des amours voient le jour dans ce carrefour où tant de vécus s’entrecroisent. Alors, l’idée m’est venue de simuler devant lui un événement dramatique genre malaise, dans l’espoir de l’attendrir et, qui sait, lui insuffler un sentiment pour moi. Bien m’en a pris, car j’ai au moins goûté à son bouche à bouche. » Jacques tourna son regard vers l’énamourée et dit sur un ton entouré de mystère : «J’ai profondément été touché par le stratagème de Martine,  je ne sais ce qui en adviendra. Peut-être que comme Venise, elle m’inspirera l’amour ; elle aura tout un week-end pour le faire. Puis, fixant les yeux de Damien, il insista : Mais enfin vous, monsieur, vous n’êtes donc pas parti ?  – Je vous répondrai après que vous m’aurez laissé prendre une photo de vous deux, car votre histoire est diablement touchante.  –  M...m..ais p… p… ourquoi ? Bégayèrent-ils. – Allez, s’il vous plaît, une petite photo, insista-t-il. – D’accord, notre histoire est touchante, mais pourquoi nous prendre en photo ? s’énerva Martine. – Je suis journaliste et je pourrais faire un article sur ce qui s’est passé. Je l’intitulerai :  "Comment séduire dans un aéroport ? " Et je le sous-titrerai ainsi : Prendre la queue et tomber dans les pommes, en espérant que l’autre en cueillera une ". –  Oh non, nous avons horreur d’être mis en avant, déclarèrent-ils presque en chœur. – Qu’à cela ne tienne, j’écris uniquement pour Le Nouvelliste publié à Port-Au-Prince en Haïti. Se faire connaître là-bas, une ville distante de 4700 kilomètres d’ici, ne portera aucunement atteinte à votre anonymat. » Jacques et Martine se regardèrent quelques instants avec connivence. Finalement, ils acceptèrent de se faire photographier. Puis, la femme, désirant être seule avec son homme, ne voulut pas que Damien s’attardât à raconter les raisons de son non départ. C’est pourquoi, dés la photo prise, elle lança : « Bon ! On nous attend, tu viens ? Avant qu’il n’eût le temps de réagir, elle le prit par le bras et l’entraîna dans le hall de l’aéroport non sans souhaiter bonne chance à Damien. « Mais mon article sur vous ne vous intéresserait-il pas? » leur cria ce dernier. Alors, revenant sur leurs pas, ils lui donnèrent leurs adresses et s’éclipsèrent. Inquiet pour son portefeuille, Damien courut vers la station de taxi et demanda qu’on le conduisit à son domicile. Arrivé chez lui, il ne le retrouva pas. Il téléphona à l’infirmerie de l’aéroport et demanda à parler au médecin dont il donna le nom, on lui répondit que l’on ne le connaissait pas. Ses soupçons se manifestèrent donc avec acuité. Ni une, ni deux, il se précipita au poste de police le plus proche. Il brandit sous les yeux d’un policier la photo et les adresses des deux spécimens qu’il suspectait être des voleurs à la tire. Deux inspecteurs se rendirent séparément chez l’homme et la femme. La moitié du butin fut retrouvé chez chacun d’eux. Les deux, chômeurs de longue durée, avouèrent de suite leurs méfaits. Damien lorsqu’il fut devant les deux malfrats leur dit : Read the full article

[tournevole]

Odeur nauséabonde

ce midi, par le hasard des tables de picnic qui sont devant mon lieu de travail, j'ai mangé en compagnie des filles de la compta ( Nadine, la chef et ses 2 agents Xiao Jin et aline). Ce ne sont pas du tout des collegues que je fréquente, chacun sa paroisse, la mienne c'est la ,scolarité, le contact en direct avec prof et etudiants, elles les commandes /factures...

Nadine est une nana de mon age, qui a eu son premier enfant a 16 ans qui bosse dans la fonction publique depuis l'age de 18 ans , son mari est tout juste retraité de la RATP, ancien syndicaliste de sud rail. Lors des manifs loi travail, elle defendait les gens qui battait le pavé. Je me suis dit qu'elle avait plutot une bonne reflexion.

Mais c'est une femme qui a commençé au bas de l'echelle, qui sait etre efficace et a su manger son pain noir avant d'acceder au poste de chef de service financier, certes des dents a railler les parquets, a faire des minauderies, à placer chacun de ses 3 enfants dans la fac.

Aline, la bonne 50 aine, elle bosse a la fac, ne connais pas son environnement de travail, mais passer les factures, elle sait faire.Elle n'a pas eu la chance de faire des etudes, d'etre plus de ceux qui ronchonnent en silence et qui vote ce que dit BFMCNEWS de faire.

La conversation s'oriente sur la vacccination, et là nadine et aline commencent raler en disant : "Ouais, nous français on a du mal a avoir des creneaux de vaccination et ces putains de macaques et de bougnouls, ils sont les premiers a avoir des places" " oui c'est comme mon voisin un ivoirien ou sénégalais, il est parti au bled depuis 3 mois...Ah ils savent profiter des aides, et safilles ont dirait un singe, elle a 1an , elle pousse des cris de singe".......

Je me suis retrouvée meurtrie, sans pouvoir dire quoique ce soit, juste. " Excusez moi, mais face a des propos racistes je ne peux pas rester une minute de plus à vos cotés" très calme mais determinée.

Et Nadine qui me lance, non mais ils sont pas tous comme ça. Heu trop tard, tu a choisi ton camp qui pu.

Je suis vrziment trop naive de croire que les droits et devoirs du fonctionnaires lui servait de rempart face à ces immondes pensées, IELES ne cache vraiment plus...

#jenevoteraipasRN

#racismepartout

[simba-gano]

WHERE: Outside of  better off dud thrift WITH @delafucnte​

Simba re-arranged the books on the bottom of the bag, three scarfs in vibrant colors hanging over his shoulder, as he moved the kid’s book around together with some thrillers that he enjoyed - and often gave to Riri to try out, or he would read them to her. He loved the ones about thieves solving crimes the most, or about secret agents. He also had a small collection of French novels, whomever had brought them there now had his love. 

He looked up to find someone staring. “Excusez-moi, could you lend me a hand? I feel this bag might fall apart if I don’t get the contents under control. I promise you I’m just a parent who bought way too many post-Christmas gifts for no other reason than to smother them with love.” 

[hopeaterart]

The shittiest family reunion in the history of ever: chapter 6

This was supposed to be the chapter where Holly kicks Polnareff’s ass, but I changed plans at the last second. I also sprinkled in some soft Jotaro/Kakyoin content because this fic is nothing if not self-indulgent. And including Bandanaboi’s ‘Jotaro is accidentally a banchou’ idea.

Jotaro quickly made his way out of the classroom, making his way through the sea of students with Kakyoin not far behind him, holding hands and making sure that he wouldn’t lose the redhead. Kakyoin simply followed him, visibly uncomfortable with all the attention he had gained as ‘the new transfer student with red hair’.

Jotaro slowed down as they came outside, slowing down so Kakyoin could stand next to him and getting his phone out. The redhead stood close, reading the text messages between the taller boy and his mother. “What’s Kitahara?” He asked, turning his head toward Jotaro.

He shrugged, putting his phone back in his back pocket. “She’s talking about a family sushi restaurant. It’s not right next to our street, but you can easily walk there. And beside their sushi, they also make ramen, kaisendon, udon, and kare raisu. I don’t eat the kare raisu I think it tastes like shit, but the sushis are good, the rest is okay, and apparently I have a ‘difficult palate’.” He then did air quotes to emphasize his point, and Kakyoin snorted.

“Oi, Kujo!” The two boys turned toward the voice, seeing a bunch of other students come toward them, all looking like delinquents.

Jotaro groaned, and Kakyoin turned toward him. “You know them?”

“Yeah. They’re a bunch of punks I helped win a fight once, and now they won’t leave me alone. Come on, let’s go-” Jotaro had the time to grab Kakyoin’s hand and turn away, the redhead in tow, before a guy with way two many ear piercings was next to Kakyoin with a hand on Jotaro’s shoulder.

“How ya doin’, Kujo?” He asked. Kakyoin heard Jotaro take a deep breath, his shoulders rising with it, followed by a hiss of ‘five-foot rule, Sugawara’, and the boy’s hand shot off his shoulder, taking a few steps back as Jotaro turned his head toward the group.

“What.” He finally said, and a small girl with bleach blond walked up. The face-mask covering the lower part of her face, the dark eyeshadow around her eyes and the very long-skirt reminded Kakyoin of old-style sukebans. “The punks from Karasuno are starting to act up again. What do we do?”

Jotaro narrowed his eyes. “Are they harassing anyone from school? And is Noguchi back on his bullshit?”

“No, and no.” The small girl answered.

“Then don’t do anything. If they come anywhere near the school, you guys can handle it. If Noguchi comes back with re-enforcement, don’t try anything and come get me as fast as possible. Got it, Sakurai?”

The girl groaned. “It’d be easier to ‘get you’ if you actually gave one of us your phone number!”

“Fuck off!”

“Hum, excuse me?” Kakyoin suddenly said, gaining the attention of the small group. “I’m currently living with Jotaro-san. If you have a message you want to relay to him, I could probably help.” He then got out his own phone, pointing at it as if to emphasize his point.

The group looked at him as if he had grown a second head. “And who are you supposed to be?” A guy with a pompadour and bandage over one of his eyes asked, and Kakyoin nearly dropped his phone in surprise.

It was the guy he had puppeted the nurse to stab in the eye on his first day, back when he was being mind-controlled.

“... Kakyoin Noriaki. I’m new.” He finally answered in a small voice, looking to the ground as he felt shame well up. He looked up at Jotaro as he felt the taller boy squeeze his hand.

“If any of you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave Kakyoin-kun out of this shit.” He hissed, looming over the group of teenagers. The only one who didn’t back down was the diminutive blond (Sakurai, her name was Sakurai), who simply nodded and got her notebook out, turning toward the redhead.

“Alright, but I still need to be able to contact you fast. Kakyoin?” The redhead raised his head, and after exchanging numbers with Sakurai, the two boys parted way with the group of thugs.

Jotaro pulled his hat over his face. “Yare yare daze...” 

Kakyoin looked up at him, lifting an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were in a gang.”

“I’m not.”

“They seemed pretty convinced you were in charge.”

“If I don’t help them beat up the delinquents from the other schools, they always end up coming after me. If I help them, they both leave me alone, and I get to punch out assholes.” Jotaro explained, Kakyoin nodding slowly.

“What’s the deal with this Noguchi person?” He asked, tilting his head. Jotaro groaned.

“My bully until I snapped in 2nd grade and started beating up people. We regularly had fist fights until 9th grade, and then he asked his parents to put him in a different school because I ended up putting a teacher in the hospital for being a creep. He still tries to harass me sometimes, and ” Kakyoin blinked in surprise.

“You put a teacher in the hospital?”

“I put several teachers in the hospital. Some of them are still recovering.” Jotaro told him, shrugging nonchalantly. “I hate people who try to use the weak for their own gain. My dad made sure to teach me that.”

-

“Alright, so we’ll have the usual family-size plate of sushi, with a bowl of ramen on the side for my brother.” Holly told the waitress, who nodded before walking off. Holly turned toward Jotaro. “Maybe you could-”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“I’m not going to pay for that one time I ordered kare raisu. It tasted like shit anyway.”

“It’s basic decency and not going against the law!”

“It was bad and they should feel bad for serving it!”

“So... uh... Kujo-san.” Kakyoin started, turning toward Sadao and trying to avoid the argument. “You’re a musician?”

Sadao blinked. “Uh... yeah. Pianist and song writer, but I can also play the guitar and drums.”

“Are you a solo artist?”

“No, me and my group have been together for... over twenty years, now that I think about it.”

“Uh.” Joey noted, joining the conversation. “You’ve been with your group for longer than you’ve been married to my sister.”

“Your group has also stayed together for longer than the Beatles.” Kakyoin noted, and Sadao laughed nervously.

“Yes, well... we’re practically partners in crime at this point. And we take breaks when we need to.” He noted. “We... used to be pretty infamous in our first few years. Shoko’s change from teen idol to jazz singer did ripples, and Yuichi and Kaede did not know how to stay out of trouble. Add to that our difficulties with agents...”

“What difficulties with agents?” Jotaro asked his father, turning toward him with a confused expression. “They all- all three of them- you guys always end up with cocaine addicts for agents, somehow!”

“Jotaro, being addicted to drugs isn’t a moral failing on their part.” Holly told her son, and Sadao nodded in agreement.

“No, but treating us like producing music is the only thing we’re good at is.” Sadao hissed. “Personally, I couldn’t be happier to never see these fuckers ever again.”

“You’re... surprisingly amoral.” Kakyoin noted, and the shorter man shrugged.

“I’ve been told that.” The discussion ended as their sushi and ramen was brought to the table, everyone thanking the waiter (Joey slightly behind the other four) before they started digging in.

“Anyway, Jotaro.” Holly piped up, turning toward her son. “Anything new happening at school?” The teenager shook his head between stuffing two sushis in his mouth.

“Any girlfriend?” Joey asked teasingly. Jotaro rolled his eyes. “A boyfriend, then?”

Jotaro shook his head, swallowing his bite. “I don’t. I’m not...”

“Jotaro, I’m sure we told you before, but your father and I don’t care whether or not you like boys instead of girls-”

“It’s not that.” The teen cut his mother off, shaking his head. “Can we talk about it at home? When we’re not in public?”

“Of course.” Holly reassured him, and the group resumed with eating their food, this time in silence.

About half-way through the dinner, a man with tall with hair and blue eyes approached them. “Excusez-moi,” He started, “j’ai besoin d’aide avec le menu, et je me demandais si vous pouviez m’aider?” Everyone looked at each other with confusion in their eyes, trying to decipher what the strange man had just said.

Holly finally took the reins. “Sorry, I didn’t understand... do you speak English?”

“Right! My apologies, mademoiselle, I didn’t realize.” The man excused himself with a smile that was just forced enough to put Kakyoin on edge. “I was asking if you could help me with the menu?”

“Literally the only good thing this restaurant serves is sushi, how difficult can it be read the menu- what?” Jotaro turned toward Kakyoin, who had put a hand on his shoulder. The redhead shook his head, a frown on his face.

“I have a bad feeling about this guy, like I saw him back when I... wasn’t myself. Just stay back, and be ready to call out your Stand.” The redhead muttered to him. Jotaro’s eyes widened, before nodding gravely as his mother invented the stranger to sit down at their table.

“My my, what a lovely little group we have here!” The man started. “Family, I suppose?”

“Why, yes! Well, beside Kakyoin-kun, he’s my son’s friend.” Holly declared cheerfully as said friend grabbed a napkin, cutting a strip of it with a knife he got out from his pocket. She blinked. “Kakyoin-kun, what are you doing?”

The redhead blinked, before smiling awkwardly. “Don’t worry, Ho- Seiko-san,” he remembered in the nick of time she liked to be called a different name in public. “Just making some origami.”

“Alright! Tell me when you’re finished, please?” Holly asked, and Kakyoin nodded. He quickly folded the paper, the discussions between the rst of the table’s occupants fading to background noises. If this guy really is on Dio’s side, then he won’t resist...

“Aaaaand ta-da~” Kakyoin exclaimed, showing off the small origami star to everyone at the table. Impressed sounds came up for everyone, Holly taking the star and passing it around.

“You did this with a napkin?” Sadao asked as the star ended up in his hand, an inquisitive expression on his face. Kakyoin nodded, and the older man flashed him a surprisingly cute smile. “You’ve got some talent, then.” The teenager blushed at the praise, but quickly snapped out of it as the paper was passed to the stranger. Moment of truth.

“Indeed, this is impressive!” He started, slowly lifting the little paper star to his neck. “You know... I know someone with a mark shaped just like that on the back of his neck...”

Called it. 

“STAND BACK, HE’S AN ENEMY STAND USER!” Kakyoin yelled, summoning Hierophant in a shower of watery green sparkles. Jotaro and Joey followed suit, the purple warrior appearing in a burst of stardust and a being with multiple fanged mouth in what looked like a sound’s wavelength.

At the same time, a strange knight-like being shimmered into existence next to the stranger, who clapped as if he was congratulating Kakyoin. “Bravo! How did you guess I was after them?”

The redhead’s mouth turned into a snarl, a watery hiss coming from Hierophant. “With DIO parading around naked every chances he gets, it’s kind of hard not to notice the literal tattoo on his ne-”

“Birth mark.” Joey suddenly said, his head turned toward Kakyoin with his eyes round like saucers. “It’s a birthmark, it’s not his, and we’re gonna have to talk about that later.”

“Oh? Awfully bold of you to assume there’s gonna be a later, Monsieur Joestar.” The stranger mocked Joey. A growl built up in the taller man’s throat, echoed and amplified by his Stand’s.

“Alright, alright, everyone calm down.” Holly called out, getting up and gesturing with her hands. “Let’s not fight inside of the restaurant. Causing a scene is the last thing we want. Kakyoin-kun?” She turned toward the redhead with an unusual harsh expression. When she saw the redhead flinch back in surprise, it softened. “We’ll talk about this... Dio person later, alright?”

“... Alright.”

“As for you,” the only woman in their group turned backtoward the stranger, glaring.”What is your name?”

“Why, it’s Jean-Pierre Polnareff!” He answered. 

Holly nodded, a forced smile appearing on her face as she folded her hands, slowly making her way to Polnareff. “Well then, Polnareff-san, I am Holly Kujo. And I-” She suddenly cracked her knuckles, yellow light and darks vines wrapping around her hands and forearms. “Will be your opponent.”

[alexar60]

Il ne doit pas nous attraper

La chaleur imprégnait ma chambre d’hôtel au point de devenir irrespirable. Dehors, je remarquai un temps radieux. Après avoir visité quelques blogs sur la région, je décidai de sortir me promener, sac à dos et casquette prêts ; c’était ça ou la télé qui diffusait des séries allemandes. Je pris le bus, partant pour un coin sympa au frais, j’avais repéré un bois intéressant à côté d’un petit village dont j’avais lu une légende étrange durant mes recherches historiques de la matinée. D’après un vieux texte du milieu du XIXe siècle, la commune serait maudite. Le bus traversa la campagne marquée par les champs et quelques bois privés. Je devinai l’atmosphère insupportable sous un soleil de plomb. Je regrettai de ne pas avoir pris de bouteilles d’eau. Enfin, le car s’arrêta près de la place principale. Je descendis devant l’église qui dominait les autres bâtiments par sa hauteur et sa longueur. L’épicerie en face était ouverte, j’entrai et achetai deux bouteilles de flotte d’un litre et demi au prix fort. Puis, je pris la direction de la forêt, espérant ne pas trop bruler mes bras avec ce soleil qui tapait.

En sortant du village, ne sachant pas si j’étais sur le bon chemin, j’aperçus un groupe d’enfants et décidai de les approcher afin d’obtenir des renseignements judicieux. Parmi eux, une jeune femme se leva en me voyant approcher. Elle était en train de leur parler. Ses cheveux bruns, sa robe rouge contrastaient avec la blondeur de la majorité des gamins. Nous étions loin du village dont je ne voyais plus le panneau d’entrée. J’avançai lentement et dis à peine : « excusez-moi » que le tocsin résonna tout à coup mettant le petit groupe dans un état de panique générale. Derrière moi, je fus surpris de découvrir le ciel subitement gris, un vent glacial venait d’apparaitre faisant frémir mes bras nus. Ce n’était pas prévu d’après la météo ! J’eus à peine le temps de tourner la tête que les enfants partaient en courant dans tous les sens, la femme ordonna de ne pas rester et de me cacher car il ne devait pas nous attraper. Je restai sur place, regardant les épis de maïs se balancer. Je devinai les marmots en train de courir dans le champ. Toutefois, je continuai ma marche sur la route, cherchant l’entrée de la forêt.

Il faisait si froid que je regrettai ne pas avoir de polaire dans mon sac, seulement un coupe-vent qui  faisait office de K-way. La température avait tellement baissée, de plus, la vision des nuages noirs brusquement apparus, me décidèrent à rebrousser chemin. Je retournai donc vers le village quand j’entendis une petite voix provenir d’un champ de blés : « Tu dois te cacher, il ne doit pas nous attraper ! ». L’enfant demeurait invisible, alors, j’entrai dans le champ et demandai qui pouvait faire autant peur. Etait-ce un jeu ? Il ne répondit pas, pointant du doigt le champ de coquelicots voisin. Je marchai entre les tiges de céréales et pénétrai dans la prairie de fleurs rouges qui étaient étonnamment hautes lorsque je surpris la jeune femme brune  avec une jolie robe, allongée telle une fleur parmi tant d’autres. A ma présence, elle se recroquevilla, exigeant un silence parfait. Je n’eus pas le temps de prononcer un mot qu’elle posa son doigt sur ma bouche. A ce moment, des corbeaux croassèrent au loin, annonçant l’arrivée d’un terrible danger. Dans la mythologie celtique, les corbeaux annoncent toujours la mort. Elle ne bougeait pas, moi non plus ! Je pouvais entendre les battements de mon cœur à moins que ce fussent les siens ; je sentais la peur couler sur mon front. Elle épiait du mieux possible sans être vue. Elle marmonna quelque chose, je compris qu’elle s’en voulait ou en voulait aux enfants. Je compris : « ils n’auraient pas dû sortir ». Je commençai à me poser de nombreuses questions me demandant si c’était une farce. Nous restâmes deux, trois minutes, l’un à côté de l’autre, cachés entre les coquelicots, puis, lassé de ne rien comprendre. Je me levai soudainement et demandai due voix forte des explications. Alors, je l’ai vu. Il était à cinq mètres de moi.

L’épouvantail s’était arrêté de marcher, il m’avait vu aussi ! Son visage en toile de jute affichait un sourire extraordinairement terrifiant. Les plis trop grands de la toile amplifiaient cette vision d’horreur. De la paille débordaient de son vieux chapeau donnant une impression de chevelure raide. Quelques pailles sortaient aussi hors du tissu composant son ventre. Ses doigts faits de branchages se levèrent tout à coup pointant dans ma direction. Je crus qu’il criait faisant envoler une nuée de corbeaux plus loin. Soudain, il se mit à courir pliant incroyablement les bouts de bois qui composaient l’essentiel de ses jambes et visibles sous l’usure de son pantalon. Il courait vite ! Dès lors, je ne l’ai pas attendu ni la jeune femme d’ailleurs qui eut le temps de dire : « Mais quel con ! » avant de fuir dans le sens opposé au mien. Je courus le plus vite possible, risquant de me casser la figure. Je courus me réfugier dans le champ de blé, espérant que l’épouvantail ne me suive plus. Je courus sans voir le monstre décidé à pourchasser la charmante demoiselle. Sa robe la gêna, il allait la rattraper. Cela se passa dans mon dos, alors je ne vis rien. Je courus jusqu’à voir la tête d’un autre enfant, la main sur la bouche, les larmes remplissant ses yeux. Je plongeai à côté de lui. Je repris mon souffle, le gamin fixait toujours la même direction. Je voulus le cacher, mais il regardait, les yeux devenus livides. Le ciel était maintenant dégagé, les nuages gris disparurent tout à coup éloignés par le son du tocsin qui semblait plus calme comme rassurant. Je me relevai et par instinct, je cachai les yeux du garçon avant de le coller contre moi pour le consoler.

Même si l’épouvantail avait disparu, sa proie restait visible. Je m’approchai, j’envisageai l’aider mais fus saisi de terreur en découvrant son état. Un pieu transperçait son fondement jusqu’à la nuque remplaçant la colonne vertébrale. Ses bras reposaient bizarrement sur deux fortes branches donnant une impression de crucifixion. Un sac en toile de jute sur la tête et tenu par un chapeau de pailles cachait son visage. Trois coupures sur le sac lui faisaient une figure grimaçante. Elle était nue, le ventre ouvert, les tripes pendouillaient sur le sol, à la place, du foin placé comme un nid à oiseaux. Quelques pas plus loin, je reconnus sa belle robe rouge déchirée. Je m’éloignai, réalisant que je ne pouvais plus rien faire pour elle, et vomis entre les deux champs. Sans réseau, je retournai dans le village signaler l’horrible crime dont je fus témoin. Les enfants couraient sur la route, l’un d’eux criait qu’il avait eu Sarah.

En entrant dans le café, je sentis soudain les yeux des clients et du patron me déshabiller. Une petite fille m’avait précédé. Elle était à côté de son papy qui jouait aux dominos avec deux autres anciens. Je demandais un alcool fort et un téléphone avant de raconter ce que je venais de vivre. Le patron appela lui-même la gendarmerie pendant que la serveuse me servait une vodka. Puis elle dit avec un air compatissant : « offert par la maison ». Les quelques clients, des habitués continuaient de me regarder. Il régnait une empathie surprenante à l’image d’une fatalité. Les joueurs de dominos reprirent leur partie, les autres discutèrent entre eux. Je bus ma vodka cul sec, la serveuse reversa de l’alcool dans mon verre après avoir vu le patron lui faire un signe de tête. Une voiture de gendarmerie s’arrêta quinze minutes plus tard.

Ils entrèrent en saluant tristement ; le plus vieux s’approcha de moi me demandant de les accompagner. Lui et son collègue avaient une mine dépitée. Dehors, les habitants du village s’étaient rassemblés pour discuter et se turent soudainement en me voyant. J’entrai dans la voiture, nous passâmes à côté du champ. Deux autres voitures de gendarmes et une ambulance étaient garés le long de la route. Je vis le brancard recouvert d’un drap encore sur le champ. Des policiers s’étaient dispersés. Le commandant qui était avec moi m’avoua être désolé de ma présence ici avant de murmurer au conducteur que la sècheresse était la vraie origine de son retour ; « il avait soif ». Une fois à la gendarmerie, je racontai mon témoignage, puis on m’accompagna jusqu’à mon hôtel. Devant la porte, le même agent posa sa main sur mon épaule. « Oubliez tout ça, dit-il, il y a des choses qu’on ne maitrise pas ! ». Puis il partit. Je passai la nuit à chercher des infos parlant de ce crime odieux mais ne trouvai rien. Je restai dans mon lit à cogiter et m’endormis bien plus tard.

Le lendemain, un cauchemar me réveilla. Je partis  continuer mes recherches au centre durant toute la matinée. Et vers midi, je décidai de rentrer chez moi. De toute façon j’avais fini mon job. Sur la route, en sortant de la ville, j’aperçus un étrange épouvantail. Il semblait me fixer du regard et j’eus même l’impression qu’il fit un signe de la main pour me dire au revoir.

Alex@r60 – octobre 2019

[beesimsfour]

Malcolm: I need a few hours to get things settled then I’ll be on the first plane out. Understood. *hangs up*

Prue: *sneers* Where are they sending you now?

Malcolm: ...

*Ian fussing in the background*

Prue: You do remember you are suppose to be a double agent, right? You’ve been putting a lot of our guys behind bars lately, I don’t know what to tell your mother anymore.

Malcolm: Tell her she can eat sh*t and die for all I care. *smiles meanly* I have to pretend to be the good guy a while longer, it’s just part of the plan to overthrow my mother’s reign here in San Myshuno.

Prue: *scoffs* You mean Lily’s plan. I don’t trust her, Malcolm.

Robyn: Excusez-moi, le bébé te veut. 

Prue: What?!

Malcolm: Ian is calling for you, Prue.

[feathery-dreamer]

Bad Cop

Il y a deux semaines, lors d'un atelier d'initiation au théâtre, la comédienne qui nous encadre a fait improviser une scène. Le concept était un agent de la circulation qui ne parle pas français et un touriste qui ne parle pas anglais. Le résultat était pas mal, mais j'ai trouvé que l'exécution manquait un peu d'épice, alors je l'ai développé à ma façon.

Décor : un carrefour à l'intersection de deux rues, Etats-Unis (lieu non spécifié) Personnages : Le Touriste français (T), Le Policier américain (P), L'Interprète (I)

(Le Policier est en train de réguler le traffic. Le Touriste entre en scène, l'approche et lui touche l'épaule.) P (se retournant) : "Yeah." T : "Excusez-moi." P : "Yes sir?" T : "Vous parlez français?" P : "What?" T : "J'ai besoin de directions." P : "Sorry, I don't speak fancy." (Il arrête les voitures, tourne de côté et fait circuler l'autre rue, ignorant le Touriste.) T : "Alors vous parlez pas français?" P : "Sir, please go back to the sidewalk." (Il pointe vers le trottoir.) T : "Hein? (Il suit du regard.) Ah oui, oui bien sûr! (Il essaye de regagner l'attention du Policier.) Mais d'abord j'ai besoin de directions." P (roulant des yeux au ciel) : "Look - I don't know any 'je mappel' or 'sacrebleu' bullshit, okay? I just saw the Eiffel Tower once, and I can say 'mercy beaucoup'. That's all!" T: "Ah, vous parlez un peu?" P : "I said go away! I can't help you." T : "Je voulais juste-" P (râlant) : "Told you, I don't fucking speak croissant! Go eat a snail or something." (Il arrête la circulation, tourne le dos au Touriste et fait suivre le traffic sur la première rue.) T (après un temps) : "S'vous plaît..." P : "Dude, you're a lost cause. You're in America, and don't know a word of English?" T : "J'ai demandé partout, personne ne veut m'aider!" (Le Policier se tient les tempes. Entre l'Interprète.) I (au Policier) : "Hello officer! Sorry to interrupt." T : "Hé, j'étais là avant!" P : "Sir, you are in the middle of the street." I : "I couldn't help but notice your trouble with this tourist. I speak French. (Au Touriste:) Je peux traduire pour vous?" T : "Oh oui! Merci, merci tellement!" (Il lui tient la main, l'embrasse et la secoue passionément.) P (marmonne) : "Mercy would be leaving me alone to do my job." (De nouveau il change le sens du traffic.) T : "Enfin quelqu'un avec un peu d'empathie." I (retirant sa main) : "Mais, il y a pas de quoi, monsieur." T : "Vous pouvez dire à ce policier que je souhaite aller au château, mais je sais pas comment?" I : "Bien sûr. (Au Policier:) He says your country is shit and your president should burn in Hell." P : "Oh really now? (Il met les mains sur ses hanches et se penche vers le Touriste:) You think your dumbass country is better than America?" T (un peu inquiet) : "Il a dit quoi, là?" I : "Il dit qu'il connaît pas très bien les environs, mais il pourrait vous montrer le château sur une carte." T : "Chouette ! (Un temps. Mal à l'aise:) Alors euh... cette carte?" I (au Policier) : "He says you're the dumbest nation ever." P (ricanant) : "Yeah, well. Yours is only good for wine and cheese, and even that sucks. Ha!" (Il tourne le dos au Touriste, changeant le sens du traffic.) I (au Touriste) : "Il en a pas, mais il pourrait vous guider vers l'office de tourisme le plus proche pour qu'on vous en donne une." T (dubitatif) : "Ah, euh. Très bien! J'espère. (Il s'éclaircit la gorge, cherche le regard du Policier et lui sourit:) Ce serait très gentil à vous. Je vous en serais très reconnaissant." I (au Policier qui le regarde) : "He says you can suck his dick. (Il imite le sourire du Touriste.) And, I think he knows your mother very intimately." P : "Alright, that's enough!" (Il marche vers le Touriste et lui saisit le col.) T (surpris) : "Aïe! Attendez, je-" P (grognant) : "Say you're sorry, right now! Or I'll demolish your stupid tourist face!" T : "Ah... nononon! Non, attendez! Y-y a un malentendu, là! (Paniqué, il regarde l'Interprète:) V-vous pensez pas?" I : "Mais pas du tout! Il dit qu'il aime beaucoup votre veste. Il veut savoir où vous l'avez acheté?" T : "Ah? Eh ben, euh- (Il s'éclaircit la gorge encore.) C'était euh, un cadeau de mémé! Pour mon anniversaire, voyez?" I (au Policier) : "He says go ahead, it won't be his first nose job." (Le Policier balance son poing dans la face du Touriste, qui s'écroule. Noir, rideau.)

[blurredcolour]

You Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under | Part Two

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Dick Winters x Female SOE Agent!Reader

Dick's mandated dose of civilization puts him, quite literally, on a collision course with someone he had not expected to see again.

Warnings: Discussion of Injuries and Death, Hints of PTSD, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Language, Mature/Explicit Themes [handjob, fingering, vaginal sex, condoms] - 18+ ONLY.

Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal of Dick Winters by Damian Lewis. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within. Non-English is denoted in italics.

Word Count: 6723

--------------------------

Paris – December 10, 1944

Seeing your roommate off on her train to Arnhem was not exactly how you’d pictured spending your first day off in months. But Lucy had become a close friend to you over the past several weeks you’d shared the relatively luxurious accommodations, and she was all nerves as she headed even closer to the German border. Dressed in your Canadian Women’s Army Corp uniform with Lucy, or Luus in her native Dutch, in her Women’s Royal Navy Service uniform, you had helped her cart her belongings to Gare du Nord to catch her train.

Neither of you had technically trained in the respective uniforms you wore, instead coming to the service by way of the Strategic Operations Executive, due to your language abilities and other skills. Lucy’s family had only very recently moved to England from the Netherlands and her mastery of the Dutch language would be an asset to the Allied headquarters being established in Arnhem. Similarly, you were expecting to spend the rest of the war working in Paris. Exchanging knives and explosives for typewriter ribbon and file folders. Your feelings on the matter oscillated between relief and impotence on a daily basis, but you had little say in the matter.

Waiting until her train was pulling its way out of the station, you began making your way through the flood of passengers disembarking from another train that had pulled in across the platform. Several people bumped into you but only one apologized.

“Sorry –” Spoke a voice you’d probably recognize just about anywhere before he repeated. “Excusez-moi.”

You spun around quickly, eyes going wide as the Lieutenant from Normandy stood before you, sending your thoughts hurtling back to early June. You had been gasping for breath – the proximity of the detonation had driven the air from your lungs, compounded by the now dead weight of the German solider on top of you. An obnoxious ringing had taken up residence in your ears, obscuring any and all other sound as you had futilely pushed at the burden above you, shock weakening your muscles. The ground had begun to tremble then, an immediately recognizable sign that tanks were approaching, increasing the beat of your heart to a frantic rate as you lay essentially incapacitated in the road.

Suddenly the pressure above you had eased and you had frozen, holding your breath and closing your eyes, unable to determine just who exactly was intervening in your situation. When a pair of fingers found the pulse in your neck and two sets of hands lifted you from the road, you had risked cracking your eyelids only to be greeted by the sight of the Lieutenant carrying you by your knees. His face had been wreathed in sunlight, sea-glass green eyes striking in the shadow cast beneath his helmet, looking practically ethereal as he had moved you to safety.

Brought back to the present by the realization that you were gaping at him like a startled rabbit, lost in your memories, your eyes flicked to the cap on his head and confidently noted his promotion. “A captain now.”

“A Canadian now.” He replied as his own eyes settled on the patch embroidered on your shoulder. “Or were you always, Charlotte?” The hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as his green eyes met yours.

Your throat clenched at the name, and you swallowed hard to clear it before smiling even wider than before. “I’m sorry you’ve got me confused with my good friend Charlotte Roussel. She’s told me all about you.” You offered your hand to shake as you introduced yourself properly, no pseudonym this time, only your real name.

Taking your gloved hand in his, he shook it firmly with a bemused expression playing on his face. “Dick Winters. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Captain. If you are in need of a place to stay, I happen to have a recently vacated room in my apartment I would be happy to loan to you, free of charge. The hotels in Paris would love nothing more than to liberate you of your American dollars.” You hazarded a guess that he was on a short leave based on the small bag he carried at his side.

“I wouldn’t want to impose…” His denial was half-hearted, leaving you with an opening to convince him.

“Not at all. Besides, Charlotte would not forgive me if I did not repay you for saving her life.” You insisted with a nod, not missing the way his eyes slid to your forehead. You flexed your fingers at your sides, willing them to remain there rather than nervously checking that your hair was covering the still-healing scar.

“If I remember it correctly, she saved mine first.”

“Please it’s just a short subway ride.” You gestured down the significantly emptier platform and he nodded his assent, turning to follow you.

You helped him purchase his fare, his unfamiliarity with the local currency somehow charming, before guiding him underground. Securing a pair of seats by the door, he had barely slid into place before someone was calling your name from further down the carriage.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back.” You apologized before hurrying over to greet one of your colleagues, a staff assistant to one of the officers at headquarters.

He asked you all about your plans for your days off while not-so-subtly trying to find out more about the American soldier you had boarded the subway with. It was an easy topic to skirt around by encouraging him to talk about his recent promotion and his new French girlfriend, but you found your eyes glancing at Captain Winters as his posture seemed to grow more and more rigid.

“Sorry to cut you off, First Sergeant Danvers, but I’ll see you in the office on Tuesday.” You excused yourself as politely but as firmly as possible before returning to stand beside the Captain, very carefully setting your hand on his shoulder.

“Captain?” You asked softly, swallowing as he looked to you sharply before slowly exhaling. “Next stop is ours.”

He nodded and gathered his things, following you off the train at the station and up the stairs back into the light of day. Your apartment lay in a building that had been requestioned by the British army, not two blocks from the station, on the second floor. The previous owners had fled in the face of German occupation and left some furnishings which you were using, though more beds were slated for delivery in January with the arrival of further CWACs. Unlocking the door, you led Captain Winters into the foyer, carefully removing your uniform cap to hang by the door.

“Kitchen is on the left, living room overlooks the street, bedrooms and the bathroom are this way.” You led him down a corridor to the room that Lucy had just vacated, retrieving her apartment key from the nightstand. “So you can come-and-go as you please.”

He took it carefully after tucking his garrison cap into his belt, setting his bag on the freshly made bed. “This is extremely kind of you, thank you again.”

Now that you were no longer in public, you licked your lips, feeling as though you owed him a proper explanation. “I considered our accounts balance, Captain, once you helped me retrieve my men. Therefore, I owe you for saving my life.”

Captain Winters eyed you intensely as he registered your use of ‘I’ and ‘my.’

“I’ve seen you wear many different costumes…how close to your real persona is this one?” He asked, looking over your CWAC uniform curiously.

“The closest, honestly, though I don’t feel like I’ve really earned the Sergeant’s stripes, they are necessary to explain my presence so far forward. The war is over for Charlotte, France all-but liberated, yet I still have skills to contribute. And my British accent is sh – shameful.” You corrected yourself with a smirk, recalling his distaste for coarse language, enjoying the twitch of his lips in response. “I’m assisting with translation in the Allied offices here. The delay in relaying them to England is no longer necessary.”

“So, really a Canadian.” He confirmed.

“Yes, and you know my real name, too.” You nodded reassuringly. “But I’m assuming you’d like to see more of Paris than just this apartment?” You laughed and he nodded quickly. “Would you like a guide or –”

The ‘yes’ was out of his mouth before you even had the chance to give him an out and you bowed your head lest he see the smile that pulled from you.

“That is, if you’re free and willing…��� He amended, tone sheepish.

“It’s the least I can do for the man who saved me from being crushed by a tank.” You smirked and he chuckled before his eyes widened.

“I still have your knife, back at the base.” He frowned.

You grinned a little, shaking your head. “Good. That’s good.” Echoing his words to you when he realized your hearing had returned. “Keep it. It saw me through a lot of things. I hope it does the same for you.”

He eyed you a moment. “Thank you…for your honesty, and the knife.” He clarified.

“I apologize that I cannot always be honest with you, but I will endeavour to do so as circumstances permit. Now, I’m assuming you haven’t had lunch?”

“Not yet, no.”

“There’s an excellent café not far from here, shall we?” You led him back out through the foyer, snagging your cap on the way by, the pair of you taking a moment on the threshold to secure your uniform cover before you locked the door and headed back outside.

The streets were filled with soldiers on leave, but with his height and bright red hair, it was difficult to lose him in the crowd. Securing a table outside, you walked him through the menu before ordering on his behalf in French.

“Where did you learn to speak it so well?” He asked, tilting his head.

“Oxford.” You swallowed hesitantly as not many men appreciated the fact that you had studied at university, let alone a prestigious school in England. To your great relief he titled his head back and simply laughed.

“Nix would be so jealous to hear you say that…” He shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee as it was delivered.

“Lieutenant Nixon?” You clarified, taking the time to add the packet of Saccharin that you had requested to sweeten the bitter liquid.

“He’s a captain now, but yes. A Yale man, but not an Oxford man.”

You laughed in relief, sipping your own beverage once it was slightly more palatable.

“What took you there?”

“Scholarship, and my uncle, my mother’s brother, lived there. The opportunity to go to Europe was difficult to pass up. I began my undergraduate degree in 1938.”

He shook his head, presumably at the timing. “Did you manage to finish?”

You nodded quickly. “Graduated with a major in French, minor in German in the spring of 1942.”

He hummed thoughtfully, the strategic value of those two languages going unspoken in such a crowded space.

“How about yourself?” You prompted as your food arrived, laying your napkin across your lap.

“I went to Franklin & Marshall College in Pennsylvania – definitely not Oxford or Yale. Graduated with an Economics degree in ’41. Tried to get my military service out of the way early but then Pearl Harbor happened and well, here I am…” He shrugged, tucking into his food.

The pair of you spent a good hour, trading questions back and forth between bites of your food, learning about your families, where you had grown up, why you had joined the war effort.

“My uncle was killed during an air raid in London in May of 1941. He’d gone to visit a friend and stayed the night – apparently, they had tried to drink the pub dry.” You shook your head fondly in memory. “The Luftwaffe decided to bomb the neighborhood that night, neither of them even made it into the shelter. I almost quit my studies the next day to join FANY or become a Land Girl or just…do something useful.” You sighed leaning back in your chair as the waitstaff came to collect your empty plates, avoiding Captain Winters’ gaze, though you could feel his eyes on your cheek. “Friend of mine convinced me I could do more good if I finished what I started – that my language skills would be put to good use once I honed them.”

“Sounds like a wise friend.” He replied softly and you turned to him.

“They are. Helped me get where I am today.” You nodded meaningfully, a movement which he mirrored in unspoken understanding. “Anyway, I’m meant to be showing you around.” You forced a smile and summoned the bill, though Captain Winters beat you to punch by laying a large number of francs on the table, not allowing you to pay for your own meal. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He replied, pulling out your chair once he’d received his change.

Leading him along the historic streets you showed him some of the more famous sites, waiting patiently as he picked up a pack of postcards to send home as the sun began to set.

“There’s a popular restaurant just up the street, did you want to try and get a table for dinner?” You offered once he rejoined you, tucking his purchase into his pocket.

“That would be nice, yes.” He nodded, his hand hovering just above your lower back as you navigated your way along the crowded sidewalk to the restaurant.

Placing your name on the waitlist, the pair of you were idling patiently in the foyer when your direct report Major Wilkes stepped out of the dining room, making you stand up straighter. “Good evening, sir.”

He looked over to you and the American Captain standing tall at your side, greeting you in kind. “Enjoying your well-earned rest, Sergeant?” He asked warmly.

“Yes sir, thank you again.”

“You’ve earned it.” He reminded you with a laugh.

“Major Wilkes, may I present Captain Winters of the 101st Airborne.” You introduced the men to one another properly as you recalled your manners.

The two shook hands and exchanged pleasantries before Major Wilkes turned back to the maître d,’ murmuring something neither of you could hear. “See you on Tuesday, Sergeant. Enjoy your time in Paris, Captain.”

“Good night, sir.” You smiled, glancing at the Captain before the maître d’ was calling your name to seat you, ahead of several other groups who had been waiting longer.

“Your CO seems to like you.” Captain Winters murmured once you were settled at a table a few rows back from the dancefloor, not too close to the bandstand.

“Major Wilkes is a good man, easy to work for.” You nodded, setting your cap on the empty chair beside you.

“I’m glad. And grateful.” He lifted the menu, and you leaned in once more to walk him through the options, swallowing as he smelled of Brylcreem and aftershave.

Conversation didn’t flow as easily once the band started playing, couples crowding the dancefloor as you enjoyed some delicious yet overpriced food. The Captain seemed to be watching you closely, glancing between you and the dancefloor, until a slow song began to play, and he leaned in. “Would you like to dance?”

Dabbing at the corner of your mouth with your napkin you nodded quickly, heart leaping into your throat as he pulled out your chair to help you stand. You set your hand in his, following him onto the crowded dancefloor as he set one hand on your waist, the other held out to the side in his as he swayed with you to the music. Neither of you were particularly talented dancers, but you could not deny how lovely it felt to be held this close by him. You glanced at him with a shy smile, certain the tips of his ears were pink, though it may have been the dim lighting, before you looked to the side as you nibbled your lip, trying to even out your breathing.

Belatedly you realized that Captain Winters was speaking to you, into your right ear, which had never fully recovered from your roadside escapade in Normandy. It had a habit of being particularly uncooperative in crowded, noisy places such as this. Registering the vibrations of his voice you turned your head quickly to look up at him. “I’m so sorry could you repeat that please?” You asked before offering him your left ear.

After a moment or two of nothing but music you turned back to see him frowning deeply.

“Oh, Captain, please, it’s the only thing, and then only sometimes, not always.” You tried to reassure him, reaching out to smooth the furrow of his brow with your fingertips.

“Please call me Dick.” He replied, leaning towards your left ear as he spoke.

“Alright, Dick.” You exhaled, your heart fluttering erratically as you turned your head to press your lips against his softy.

His feet stopped moving altogether, hand clasping yours tighter as you felt the fingers of his other hand curling into the back of your uniform jacket. His lips pressed closer to yours, drawing a barely audible sigh through your nose, until another couple carelessly bumped into you, jolting you apart. Dick carefully steadied you and you squeezed his hand, leading him back to the table to grab you cap. He flagged down a waiter and, infuriatingly, paid yet again before leading you out in the dim streets out black-out Paris.

“I was trying to save you money, not make you spend it all.” You gently chastised him, almost stepping off the curb in front of a cyclist you did not hear approaching from the right.

His arm quickly slid around your shoulders, pulling you close into his chest just before they zoomed by spewing curses in their wake. “Careful. I already told you it’s my pleasure.” He assured you before offering his arm.

“Thanks, Dick.” You took it slowly, trying not to let your frustration show. You had previously excelled at navigating dark places and now you were forced to rely on the guidance of others. Taking a fortifying breath, you began leading him along the sidewalk. “I thought we’d walk home, the subway didn’t seem to agree with you?” You asked carefully.

“I’d appreciate that.” He replied, keeping an eye out for further obstacles hidden by the shadows of the black out as the pair of you made your way back to the apartment in companionable silence.

“I just need to close the curtains before we turn on the lights, one moment.” You left Dick in the foyer, setting your cap on the hook by the door before tugging the black out curtains closed in each room, turning the lights on as you made your way back to him. “Sorry about that I wasn’t thinking when we left.”

He shook his head softly, watching you quietly from right where you’d asked him to wait. “Do you think it would be all right if I were to take a hot bath tonight?"

You smiled warmly and nodded. “Absolutely alright, I’ll get you set up.”

Leading him to the bathroom you set out some towels and the bar of soap, turning to him. “There should be plenty of hot water at this time of night, the boiler will have had time to refill. Anything else you need before I leave you to it?”

His lips quirked into a tentative smile. “Yes, might I kiss you goodnight?”

Your pulse quickened as you tried not to smile like a buffoon. “Please.” Your voice waivered slightly, much to your annoyance, but mercifully it did not seem to deter Dick.

He stepped forward, hands cupping the sides of your face tenderly as he angled your lips to meet his. Gripping his forearms to steady yourself, you came to realize that Dick was a different man when he set his mind to something. You had simply taken him by surprise on the dancefloor. This kiss was altogether more assertive and left you breathless as he pulled back.

“Goodnight.” He smiled gently, nose brushing the hair from your forehead to press his lips to the scar there softly.

“Night.” You exhaled, eyes fluttering shut briefly at the surge of emotions that unleashed within you, taking a steady breath before you were able to smile dreamily and slip out.

Retiring to your room, you unpinned your hair carefully before sliding into your cotton nightgown, pulling your quilted housecoat overtop and settling onto the double bed left by the apartments previous owners to do some reading while you waited your turn to use the washroom. Fully absorbed in the novel that Lucy had left for you, you were surprised when you noted that over an hour had passed since you had opened your book. Frowning, you slid your bookmark into place before cracking the door open slightly and peering down the hall, startled to see the bathroom door still closed while the door to the other bedroom remained open.

Gnawing on your lower lip you walked to the end of hall, knocking gently on the door. “Dick?” You waited, frown deepening as there was no response. Your main concern that he had fallen asleep in the deep claw-footed tub, at great risk of drowning. Knocking more firmly, you called his name again. “I’m coming in if you don’t answer.” You warned, giving it a slow count to ten before stepping into the humid washroom, careful to keep your eyes well above the waterline.

True to your concern, the man was sound asleep, thankfully with his head bent back over the edge of the tub, a washcloth cushioning his neck. Impressed by the level of comfort he must be feeling to sleep through all the noise you were making, you took a step closer, calling his name yet again. Kneeling beside the tub with your back to his lower body, you focused on his peacefully sleeping face, shaking your head in awe before reaching out to touch his shoulder.

He jolted awake, sending now-tepid water sloshing over the side of the tub and down your housecoat onto the backs of your calves. You let out an involuntary gasp at the temperature shock.

“Aw heck, I’m so sorry I…” His hands quickly dove under the water to cover himself.

“It’s alright, I’m glad you’re ok.” You smiled, waving off his concern and leaned in to kiss his cheek before moving to stand.

“Before you leave uh, could you uh pass the soap?” He’d gone red to the tips of his ears.

You bit the inside of your cheek to smother your grin and fetched it from atop the towel behind you. As you turned back to him, your eyes accidentally fell on the length of his body beneath the water, hands still firmly cupping between his legs. Unable to look away, to think, to move, Dick’s voice brought you back to reality.

“You alright, honey?” He asked softly and your eyes snapped to his face as the term of endearment dripped from his lips.

“More than alright.” You breathed in reply, seized by the need to lay your hands on his pearly white skin smattered in a constellation of freckles. Shrugging out of your housecoat you were left in your ankle-length nightgown with frills of lace at the shoulders. “May I help?” You tilted your head, kneeling at the edge of the tub once more.

He watched you with wide eyes, seeming unable to avert his gaze this time before his adam’s apple bobbed violently at your question. You waited patiently until he gave you one sharp nod, dipping the bar of soap into the water before you began to drag it along his neck and chest, sliding it beneath his dog tags. Their metallic jangle was the loudest sound in the washroom. You took a moment to rinse his skin clean with your other hand before repeating the pattern with his upper arms and abdomen, shifting to the bottom of the tub to do the same with his calves and feet. You did not miss the way his breaths grew heavier, lips parting slightly, his eyes never once leaving your face.

“Can I wash your hands?” You ask, biting your lip as he only offered one as the other tried and failed to hide his erection.

Swallowing thickly, you focused on washing it thoroughly – between each finger and up to his elbow, rinsing the suds from his skin before holding your hand out for the other.  He set it in yours boldly, meeting your eyes, no longer feeling the need to hide from you as his clean hand gripped the edge of the tub. Once his second hand was clean you leaned in to press your lips to his, trailing the soap down his abdomen once more before dipping it to his left hip then sweeping it back up to before repeating the motion to his right. His breath shuddered against your lips, and you pulled back to look over his face.

“Ok?” You breathed, throat constricting at his blown pupils, and he nodded violently before sliding a hand to the back of your neck to pull you closer, kissing you hungrily. You traced your fingers along the length of him, reveling in the shiver that wracked his body. Abandoning the bar of soap, you wrapped your hand around him fully, running your tongue along his bottom lip as his mouth fell open with a soft gasp.

It was a noise you soon echoed as his tongue slid forward to meet yours, licking into your mouth teasingly at first before he was confidently dominating the kiss. Bracing your free hand against his shoulder, you began to move your first along his length in earnest, lips curling against his as his knees bent before falling open, sloshing still more water from the tub. You could feel the cotton of your nightgown wicking the water higher along the material, surely become more and more translucent with each bit of moisture, yet you remained undeterred.

Forced to part from his lips to suck in a greedy breath to soothe the ache in your lungs, you experimentally swiped your thumb across the tip of his cock, sinking your teeth into your lower lip as his head fell back with a moan, hips nudging towards your hand needily. Encouraged, you made a point of repeating that motion, paying special attention to the head as you reached the apex of each pull. You watched the way his eyebrows knit together, listened to the pants and breathy grunts, felt further onslaughts of water as his hips bucked to your touch. Your thighs pressed together as you felt your panties grow damp in response, desperate for some friction of your own, but nonetheless thoroughly enjoying the act of pleasuring him.

“Honey, I’m…” He lifted his head to look at you quickly, voice tense, jaw muscles ticking.

You nodded eagerly and his fingers, which had been clinging to the back of your neck this entire time, hauled you in to plant his lips against yours fiercely. You happily swallowed his hoarse shout as his hips surged up into your grip, cock twitching as you felt him release into the now-cold bathwater. Stroking him through his release, you placed gentle kisses across his cheeks before shifting your hand to stroke his side.

“That was…” He sighed, speechless before brushing his lips against yours gratefully, cheeks still flushed.

“I’m glad.” You smiled shyly, brushing your nose against his. “Now come on that water is cold.” You murmured, standing and holding open a towel for him.

He gave you a crooked grin before pulling the plug from the drain and leveraging himself to his feet, stepping onto the rather wet bathmat and taking the towel to wrap around his waist. It was only then he properly noticed how much of your skin he could see through the damp patches of your nightgown. “I splashed you quite a bit, didn’t I. Sorry about that.” He murmured.

“I have another nightgown I can change into, don’t worry about it.” You assured him, reaching for your housecoat, but his arms slid around your waist, pulling you against his still-wet torso, drawing a gasp from your chest.

“Don’t bother.” He muttered before kissing you deeply.

Fingers digging into his biceps you squeaked against his lips as he began to shuffle you backwards, shocked that he was confidently leading you through your own apartment nearly blind. Reaching your bedroom, he looked to you softly, gathering the fabric of your nightgown in his hands. “May I?”

You nodded, licking your kiss-swollen lips, before the flurry of sodden cotton obscured your view. He lay it over your desk chair, turning back to you and exhaling reverently.

“You are so beautiful, honey.”

“Dick…” You whispered shyly in protest, but he shook his head, long fingers cradling your face tenderly to force your eyes to meet his.

“So beautiful.” He repeated, guiding you to lay on the bed.

Sliding on the mattress next to you, his lips began to map the skin on your jaw, body braced on his left arm while his right slid along your collarbone. Delving your fingers into his short ginger locks, you sighed warmly, tilting your head to offer more skin to his exploring mouth. Touch featherlight, his fingertips traced down the swell of your breast, making you arch towards his hand in invitation as he trailed open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. You rewarded him with a soft moan as he cupped your tender flesh fully, gently kneading the weight of it in his warm palm, your nails brushing against his scalp.

As he reached the hollow of your throat, he darted his tongue out to lap at the skin there, making you writhe sightly beneath him. The contrast of his warm skin and the rough metal of his dog tags pressing against you was making your head swim. The addition of his tongue as he lapped at the supple flesh of your breast had you mewling breathlessly, once again pressing your thighs together to try and assuage the sheer need you felt. His hand slid along your side, progress slowing as his fingertips encountered the long, jagged scar there. It was well-healed by now, but still raised to the touch. He swiped his thumb along it tenderly before his hand moved to your hip, giving a gentle squeeze before skirting down your thigh. Exhaling shakily, you parted your legs for him, the pair of you gasping as his fingers cupped between your thighs.

“Dick.” You whimpered.

“Ok?” He looked to your face quickly and you nodded rapidly, lifting your hips to help him slid your panties down and off your legs.

 Your eyes fluttered shut as his fingers returned to trace your folds before carefully parting them. His thumb came to circle your clit, the callous on the edge of his digit working wonders as his index finger dipped into the entrance to your warmth, teasing you.

“Oh my god..sh…” You belatedly caught your curse, not missing the way he chuckled against your shoulder before pressing his lips to your skin fondly. You forced your eyes open to look at him, if a bit blearily, but the smug bastard only replied by sinking his finger fully into you. “Christ!” You moaned richly, completely losing control of your manners, and your volume, as he stroked it along your silken walls before adding another.

Graciously, he pressed his lips to yours to smother any further curses his actions might have drawn from you, and you moaned richly against his tongue as you clung to his shoulders. You barely even noticed the way his dog tags were knocking into your chin, but he insisted on pulling back for a moment to swing them behind his neck before sliding a second finger into you. Your thighs began to tremble as you bucked wildly towards his hand, panting against his lips.

“P..please…” You pleaded, so very close, not wanting him to lose interest in your pleasure as your only other partner had seemed want to do.

“I’ve got you, honey, I’ve got you.” He reassured you, the pace of his fingers increasing until your thighs clamped down around his hand. Hastily, he covered your mouth with his as he felt your walls begin to flutter, smothering your wail as your nails dug into his skin slightly.

Chest heaving, you pulled back from his lips to try and catch your breath, body still trembling with small aftershocks of pleasure. Dick gently slid his fingers from your body, your breath hitching in your throat before you smiled at him fondly.

“Good?” He asked softly, smoothing the hair from your face tenderly.

“Very good.” You reassured him, pecking his lips warmly.

They curled against yours in a soft grin before he whispered your name as you tugged the very loose towel from his lips to find his cock fully erect once more.

“Are you sure?” He asked, looking to you.

“Do you have a condom?” You asked and he paused a moment before nodding.

“I’ll be right back.” He quickly secured the towel around his waist again, making you chew your lip fondly as he dashed out of the room. He was not gone a full minute before he returned with several individually wrapped paper packets, making you raise an eyebrow.

“Optimistic man.”

He laughed under his breath. “It’s cold tonight, I didn’t want to have to leave this room again.” He explained, shutting the door behind him before shedding the towel and climbing into bed with you.

Working together, you secured the latex sheath over his length before Dick settled between your thighs. He rested his weight on his right forearm beside your head, fingertips stroking your hair as he took his cock in hand. “Ok, honey?”

He checked one last time and your hearth clenched warmly as you reached out to cup his cheek. “Yes.” You reassured him, running your thumb along his lower lip.

He pressed a kiss to the pad of your thumb before rolling his hips forward, carefully sinking into your warmth, his fingers, now free of their burden, lacing with yours and pining your hand to the pillow. His jaw hung open as your body welcomed him inch by inch, stretching to envelope him completely until his pelvis nestled snuggly against yours.

“Mhmm!” You keened, rocking up against him eager for him to move as he brought a feeling of completion that you’d never felt before.

His fingers flexed in your grip before he began the push and pull to build another orgasm within you, his grunts and breathy moans blended with words of adoration, all directed into your left ear. The mixture of it all – the pleasure, the care, the emotions – brought tears to your eyes and praise tumbled from your own lips in return.

“So good, Dick.”

“Like an angel, honey.”

“Just like that, yes!”

“Only you can make me feel this good.”

“Oh, Dick I’m…I’m gonna…”

“Yes honey, let go.”

You pressed your face tightly to his neck, your knees hugging his hips tightly as your back bowed with the force your release, an anguished cry of pleasure wrenched from your throat as you clamped down tightly around him. His rich groan followed shortly after as he rocked tightly against you in the throes of his own climax. Pulling from you slowly, he carefully rolled to lay beside you, the pair of you grinning up at the ceiling stupidly for a moment before you rolled onto your side to kiss his cheek.

Collecting the used condom, despite his protests, you padded to the washroom to run through your night routine at last, gratefully sliding into the housecoat to turn out the lights before returning to find him waiting for you beneath the quilt. Dick immediately pulled you into his chest as you slid into the bed and kissed your forehead.

As his fingers pulled at the tie of your housecoat, however, you could not help but laugh. “Really?”

He chuckled in return, pressing a kiss to your jaw before his fingers darted beneath the warm fabric to find the scar on your side. “What happened?” He asked softly and your throat clenched at the concern in his voice.

“Bayonet.” You replied quietly, frowning as his eyes jerked up to meet yours in the low light of the bedside lamp you’d left on. “I was lucky, really.” You smiled fondly at his incredulous look. “He tried firing on me first, but his weapon jammed, and then he got so flustered he barely stuck me.” You ran your fingers through his hair soothingly as you spoke.

 “This looks like a little more than barely.” He countered flatly and you kissed him softly.

“I was furious. First mission and I made it all of four days before I got hurt.” You shook your head. “A sympathetic doctor stitched me up and then it was a long way back to England to heal.”

“So, I met you on your…” He prompted, thumb sweeping along your scarred flesh as though he might erase the mark with his touch.

“Second.” You nodded. “And last in a way. I’ll never be able to do those things again with my right ear the way it is…” You grimaced and it was his turn to kiss you reassuringly.

“You’ve done more than enough, honey, more than should have ever been asked of you. And yet you’re still here, in a uniform, helping all the same.”

Pressing your forehead to his you sighed fondly. “Thank you.”

“We should get some sleep.” He murmured, pulling you close into his chest so he could reach with a long arm to turn off the lamp behind you.

It proved difficult to leave his arms for the rest of his time in Paris, though you managed to see to it that you remained fed despite Dick’s efforts to tire you out completely. Not a single condom went to waste. As he lay sleeping in the late afternoon, you took the opportunity to write a letter for him to carry with him – not knowing where he would find himself next, nor when you’d have the chance to see him again. Seized by the radical idea to package it up with some small token, you pried the badge from your cap, hoping the three silver maple leaves would make him think of you. Folding the badge within the letter, you tucked it into the front pocket of his luggage, fully prepared to feign complete astonishment when its absence was noted by Major Wilkes, or whomever noticed first.

Early Tuesday morning, you delivered Dick to Gare du Nord to catch the first train back to Mourmelon-le-Grand, unable to ignore the way he crossed his arms against the chilly north wind that seemed to herald to arrival of winter. Glancing at the drab olive wool scarf dangling around your neck you bit your lip as you reached the platform before sliding it off. Grasping each end, as Dick turned to say goodbye, you carefully slung it over his shoulders.

“Keep warm, Dick.”

His eyes widened. “I can’t take this from you, you’ll freeze.”

“I can get a new one easily.” With your hands still on the ends of the scarf you pulled him in to kiss him softly. “Good luck out there.” You repeated your parting words from Normandy.

His hands rose to cup your cheeks one last time as his eyes traced over the features of your face as if to commit it to memory. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

You nodded quickly, all possible responses congealing into a lump in your throat that made it impossible to speak. The rumble of the approaching train shattered the intensity of the moment and he quickly pressed one final kiss to your forehead before reluctantly stepping back, turning only at the last moment to step into the carriage. You stood rooted to the spot, only able to inhale tiny sips of air lest you shatter into tears, until it disappeared out of sight.

-------------------------

Read Part Three

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Tag list: @allthingsimagines, @bcon24

[page-a-pages]

Le destin (presque) timbré d’Oren Ginzburg

Un livre par hasard. Reçu en service de presse parce que l’auteur paraît-il vit du côté de Genève. Je n’ai jamais travaillé avec Grasset jeunesse. Cette maison un peu à part produit peu mais bien. Parfois, on se demande si elle existe toujours. Pendant les Fêtes, on se souvient que Raymond Briggs y est publié – les rééditions du Bonhomme de neige ont parfois vu leur mise en page un peu maltraitée. Peter Sís est également au catalogue. Grasset nous a même offert une nouveauté fort réussie au printemps passé sous forme d’esquimau, annonciateur de l’été à venir, Un été crème glacée. Et puis il y a Shel Silverstein, Pierre Gripari et d’autres. Excusez du peu !

 Un jour, sur Facebook, une “professionnelle” du livre poste une photo de son fils dévorant Le destin (presque) timbré d’Etienne Durillon. Quant à La Revue des livres pour enfants, elle l’a intégré dans la sélection annuelle.

Mais qui peut bien être ce Oren Ginzburg dont on n’a jamais entendu parler ? Après quelques recherches sur internet, je lui écris parce que décidément son parcours n’est pas commun. Je vous livre sa réponse in extenso. Après tout, il n’y a pas de raison de maquiller son texte…

J’ai 46 ans, je suis franco-israélien, et je vis actuellement en Birmanie (Yangon) avec ma femme et nos trois enfants. Je travaille pour un projet de l’ONU qui vise à développer les systèmes de santé du pays, en particulier dans les zones de conflit(s) ethnique(s) (http://www.3mdg.org).

Jusqu’au début de cette année je travaillais pour le Fonds mondial de lutte contre le sida, la tuberculose, et le paludisme (à Genève) et avant j’ai passé dix ans en Asie – j’ai travaillé à Bangkok dans la lutte contre le trafic d’enfants, et au Vietnam dans le domaine de la protection de l’enfance.

J’ai écrit mon premier livre (en français) il y a vingt ans. J’étais étudiant, je savais que je voulais donner un sens à ma vie, mais je ne savais pas comment faire. « Le comptable et la fourmi » racontait l’histoire d’un garçon qui veut partir voyager dans le monde mais que ses parents poussent à faire des études puis à travailler… comme comptable. Moi je n’ai jamais été comptable mais la chose la plus incroyable c’est qu’Etienne Durillon, dans mon dernier livre, est comptable dans une entreprise de boîtes en carton – exactement comme le personnage principal de mon premier livre. Et je ne m’en étais pas aperçu : c’est ma sœur qui me l’a fait remarquer.

L’éditrice du premier livre m’avait demandé si je voulais essayer d’illustrer l’histoire. Je n’avais jamais rien illustré mais j’ai essayé – c’est comme ça que j’en suis venu au dessin.

Ensuite j’ai écrit et dessiné des livres à chaque fois que j’avais l’impression qu’une idée tournait en boucle dans ma tête sans trouver la porte de sortie. Je suis sûr que vous connaissez cette sensation d’avoir la même discussion encore et encore... Lorsque je ressentais cela j’écrivais un petit livre illustré sur la question et ça me permettait d’avoir moins besoin d’en parler. J’ai écrit un livre sur le manque d’efficacité de certaines Organisations Non Gouvernementales (ONG) : « The Hungry Man ». Puis un autre sur le sort des peuples/minorités ethniques à qui on veut imposer le « développement » (« There You Go ! », qui depuis est devenu un petit dessin animé : http://www.survivalinternational.org/thereyougo). Et quelques autres livres du même style.

L’idée du Destin d’Etienne Durillon m’est venue il y a longtemps, lorsque je vivais à Hanoi. Lorsque je parlais à des touristes ou à d’autres étrangers de leur expérience au Vietnam, les histoires variaient de manière incroyable. Les touristes ont de toute façon tendance à généraliser ; certains trouvaient que les vietnamiens étaient « incroyablement sympathiques », bons, gentils, accueillants. D’autres au contraire les trouvaient « terriblement froids », réservés, durs. Et très souvent, ce que les touristes ressentaient était directement en lien avec leur manière à eux d’aborder les gens : est-ce qu’ils souriaient ? Est-ce qu’ils avaient envie de faire des rencontres, de connaître, de partager, d’aimer ? Ou est-ce que le plus important était de ne pas se faire rouler, de se protéger, de rester sur ses gardes ?

Quand Etienne pense avoir rencontré une agente transformatrice de vie (la vieille dame à moto), il lui sourit. D’habitude il ne sourit à personne (et personne ne lui sourit). C’est de cette scène qu’est née l’idée du livre. 

Voilà – j’espère avoir répondu en partie à vos questions. Si vous avez besoin d’autres informations, n’hésitez pas ! 

Chers lecteurs, si vous avez des questions, n’hésitez donc pas ! Mais avant cela, revenons au livre…

La vie d’Etienne Durillon est « solitaire, triste et monotone ». Ses horaires sont réglés comme la cuisson d’un œuf coque. Engagé dans une entreprise, il contrôle des listes de chiffres sur un ordinateur. En dehors du travail, son quotidien consiste en un œuf, la télé – il est assidu à la série Mortelles Passions -, un œuf. Bref, il est transparent. Personne ne s’intéresse à lui et il ne regarde personne, par timidité, par absence de confiance en soi. Pauvre Etienne dont la vie n’est bousculée que par des crises de migraine qui le terrassent et le laissent au sol...

 Un jour, le facteur lui remet une lettre. Etienne est déçu. Pour une fois qu’il reçoit du courrier, il ne s’agit que d’une publicité.

Etienne retourne à sa série puis enchaîne avec Qui Nous sommes dont le thème est, ce soir-là, la solitude. La solitude… Notre drôle de héros hésite puis se décide à remplir le formulaire, faire un chèque de 3999 euros à l’ordre de la SARL Transformation de vie et poster le tout. Puis il attend.

Le lundi matin, il se passe une chose extraordinaire : En bas de chez Etienne, un Agent Transformateur de vie est assis sur le trottoir déguisé en clochard. A partir de là, tout s’accélère, les péripéties les plus folles se succèdent. Et avec, les quiproquos. Car vous l’aurez bien compris, Etienne est naïf ; ce qui lui arrive n’a rien à voir avec l’arnaque proposée par la publicité. Encore moins l’amour…

Voici donc là une première lecture très réjouissante où le jeune lecteur SAIT. Le livre est soigné, agrémenté d’illustrations d’Estelle Billon-Spagnol, la couverture cartonnée. L’idée de cette publicité m’a beaucoup plu, me rappelant les annonces de marabouts. Ma main au feu que Oren Ginzburg était parti de cette idée pour écrire son roman. C’était génial. Mais comment avait-t-il eu l’idée de cette annonce ? L’auteur allait pour sûr me donner la réponse. J’ai donc été amusée, désappointée, qu’il n’en parle pas. Comme quoi…

Pour aller plus loin: http://next.liberation.fr/culture-next/2016/11/25/les-extraordinaires-aventures-d-etienne-durillon-un-type-tres-sage_1530882 et le dessin animé satirique sous-titré en français http://www.survivalfrance.org/laissez-nous-faire

[plumedepoete]

Surtout ne pas décéder entre le 08 aout et le 20 aout. 21ème siècle : Nous réalisons des évènements extraordinaires, nous allons sur la lune, sur mars, nous pouvons nous parler, nous voir, alors que nous sommes à des mille les uns des autres. Un chirurgien en Amérique peut vous opérer, lui étant à UCLA Médical Center, Los Angeles et vous à l'hôpital Necker. Mais il y à une chose que vous ne pouvez pas faire, c'est de mourir à Paris entre le 08 aout et le 20 aout. Décès d'un proche survenu le 08 aout en soins palliatif à l'hôpital Charles Foix. Le plus grand hôpital de gérontologie de France, là ou j'ai passé mes stages il y a bien longtemps. Remplir les papiers au bureau d'état civil et allez voir les pompes funèbres dans la même journée, impératif... Bureau d'état civil. Il est marqué sur la porte : Prendre rendez-vous, manque de personnel. Vous ne pouvez venir voir vos proches décédés qu'à certaines heures. Le personnel passe d'un service à l'autre. L'infirmier des soins palliatif sera au bureau d'état civil et vice versa. Si vous décédez un vendredi soir, le service est fermé jusqu'au lundi.... Vous avez dit 577 députés. 326 sénéteurs, 177 Hauts fonctionnaires à Bercy et 138,000 agents à Bercy ?... De toute façon, en soins palliatifs ils vont tous mourir et après, ils ne sont plus pressés.... L'employé à la morgue de l'hôpital, nous dit faire les papiers pour nous, pas besoin de passer par l'état civil, moment d'humanité, de toute façon, nous n'aurions pas pu, car l'état civile est fermé. Merci aux soignants. Pompes-funèbres :Là, surtout garder son sang froid... L'employé nous averti que la cérémonie ne pourra pas se faire avant le lundi 19 aout... Cause... les employés qui creusent les caveaux sont en vacances jusqu'au 19 aout....Non ce n'est pas une blague. Décédé le 8 aout, enterré le 19 aout. Surtout respirer bien fort, garder son sang froid et jouer avec l'humour noir. -Excusez-moi, mais avez vous demandé à Dieu si ils pouvait suspendre momentanément les décès jusqu'au 19 aout ? Bon pour nous c'est trop tard, elle ne ressuscitera pas, quoi qu'ont peut toujours demander, regardez, Jésus ça a bien marché, mais j'ai quand même des doutes. Mais pour les prochains décès , si Dieu pouvait attendre le 19. Vous le remerciez quand même. L'homme regarde comme si il avait vu un extra-terrestre. Il s'excuse, désolé, patin, couffin.... -Bon pas le choix, cela sera le 19. L'homme confus répond. -Non madame, le 19 ce n'est pas possible, car c'est un lundi et Pour les cérémonies religieuses, les curés de la commune ne travaillent pas le lundi car ils travaillent le dimanche et passent d'église en église.... garder l'humour.. -Il se passera quoi si elle mourrait un 1 avril ? De mieux en mieux... Nous ne sommes pas sortis de l'auberge, d'ici le 20, je redoute le pire. Aujourd'hui, on me dit, pas de curé ni prêtre pour le 20 aout ce sera un moine...Sourire. Restons positif, le meilleur à été fait par le personnel soignant en soin palliatif. Etant soignante de métier, j'ai très souvent fait les derniers soins aux malades, j'ai pu juger et voir ce que les autres ne voient pas. Tout est fait. Bravo aux personnels des hôpitaux pour travailler dans des conditions épouvantables, de passer de services en services, de faire les trois 8, de travailler douze heures sans jamais récupérer leurs heures. Elles n'ont pas que le savoir faire, elles ont également le savoir être et ce n'est pas grâce au gouvernement. Merci à ce service des soins palliatifs de donne leurs temps pour parler aux malades en fin de vie, au lieu d'allez regarder les feux de l'amour ou demain nous appartient. Bien sur ce n'est pas toujours comme cela, mais en soin palliatif souvent. Alors, je vais oser envoyer cet écrit au ministre de la santé et à Monsieur Macron... Si j'avais une réponse ,elle sera assurément sur Ce site.   Anne Cailloux 2019

[alexar60]

Pour quelques croissants

J’avais trouvé un bon job en Autriche et n’avais pas trop le temps de m’intéresser aux actualités en France quand je débarquai à Roissy. Je voulais faire la surprise à mon père et lui souhaiter personnellement un bon anniversaire, personne n’était au courant. Je fus surpris de devoir passer la douane car la France et l’Autriche étaient dans l’Union Européenne. Je déposai ma valise devant un douanier qui me demanda sèchement en lisant mon passeport :

-          Français ? 

-          Oui, répondis-je.

-          Pain au chocolat ou chocolatine ?

-          Comment ? Exclamai-je, étonné d’entendre cette question. Vous comptez m’offrir le petit-déjeuner ?

-          Répondez à ma question et pas d’humour.

-          Excusez-moi mais  expliquez-moi l’intérêt, je vous prie, demandai-je.

-          Vous n’êtes pas au courant que la sécession du sud-ouest a été déclarée ? Les Chocos ont proclamé l’indépendance et des boulangeries vendant des pains au chocolat ont été attaquées. Actuellement des manifestations pro-PAC réclament une intervention punitive contre les Chocos.

J’étais atterré en écoutant la réponse du douanier. Je repensai au début de cette histoire. Quelques gars d’internet avaient lancé cette blague du pain au chocolat ou chocolatine, seulement les médias, les chaines d’infos en continu ont pris la blague au sérieux, organisant des débats passionnés entre politiciens. Ils avaient tué le clivage gauche-droite pour créer les pro-PAC contre les Choco.  Maintenant l’ampleur était telle que demander une chocolatine dans le nord était pire que se promener avec un maillot du PSG à Marseille. Je trouvai cette situation si aberrante que je murmurai en souriant :

-          A vous de choisir.

-          Non, ce n’est pas une réponse ! Si vous êtes pro-Pac, ça va, autrement si vous êtes choco, je dois vous faire protéger.

Je soufflai d’énervement parce que ça me gonflait et dis : « Je suis croissant au chocolat! ».

-          Vous vous foutez de moi ? Affirma-t’il en appuyant un regard noir. Non, parce que vous n’êtes pas belge ni suisse d’après votre passeport.

Il me laissa partir après m’avoir entendu avouer que j’étais pain au chocolat. Cependant, je ne le vis pas montrer mon dos avec son index. Deux agents en tenue me demandèrent immédiatement de les suivre. Je me trouvai ainsi interrogé dans une salle isolé puis incarcéré pendant quelques jours avant d’être condamné pour suspicion d’espionnage et banni de mon pays. Déclaré apatride, je fus donc obligé de retourner à Vienne. A mon retour, j’appris que la guerre était déclarée. Elle fut sanglante, des villes furent entièrement rasées. Des exécutions sommaires, des massacres de population eurent lieu… Bref tout ce qu’un voisin était capable de faire pour montrer qu’il avait raison. Par bonheur ma famille ne fut pas touchée, vu qu’elle habite bien au nord. Cependant j’appris la perte d’un cousin ainsi qu’un neveu mort au combat.

J’écris ces souvenirs de mon lit d’hôpital car je crains que cette escalade touche l’Autriche. J’ai été blessé à l’omoplate, touché par une balle de mitraillette alors que je buvais un café à une terrasse. D’autres n’ont pas eu ma chance d’être encore vivant car toute la terrasse y est passée. Tout ça parce que le salon de thé ou nous étions servait des chocolats viennois avec de la chantilly alors que les puristes exigent de la crème.

Alex@r60 – juin 2019