#and so when soap speaks scots and he says the same thing for the first time he has a huge internal breakdown

[maxisawell]

Review & Rant Concerning MW3 Reboot

**This has Spoilers for MW3. If you have not played the full game and care about spoilers, please do not read.**

To preface this, hi!! I'm Max is a Well, and I am a writer. I have not published any novels, but I do have one in the works. I have written for plenty of people, including some pretty big fanfiction authors [past tense] (not as impressive as most, but I quite enjoyed it), and I have written my fair share of fan artworks, and then a few half published WIPs are floating around the internet somewhere. I've been writing since I was like, 12 years old. I've done it for the better part of my life now, and I've turned some heads with my writing. If circumstances were better where I could pursue this passion for full-time, I'd probably be really well off by now. All this to say, I'm very much someone who knows a lot about writing, story pacing, emotions dramatics and the whole 9 yards.

I love playing games and immersing myself within what's happening in game, and I got that feeling from MW1 & 2, but 3 was just, a little rough feeling. I can't quite explain it, but it just didn't have the same vibe as the first or second. I enjoyed the narrative although, again really rough story telling. (You're gonna get that in games like this that are essentially propaganda for a certain cause or organization, so I disregard most of it. It's the "look this is cool guys! You wanna do this," kind of thing.)

Then, Price didn't let Soap kill Makarov. Standing from a narrative point of view, we were told this guy 1, is extremely dangerous extremist, and threatening to bring WW3 onto humanity. 2, Brass is worried about this, and if they're worried about it, than we need to be too. (This solidifies that the man is a genuine threat, and that he needs to be treated as such. Often this means, a straight up get rid of this guy.) 3, Price and the 141 have some history with Makarov. Then, to build off this, in the previous game, MW2, we literally were on a to-kill mission for Hassan. So if Makarov is an even bigger threat than Hassan, (and Hassan had MISSILES), then, shouldn't we have killed Makarov when given the chance?

Also to build off this, they are all within the SAS, or have passed SAS selection. They are, narratively speaking, the best of the best within their specific branch. They are more than well trained and specialists when it comes to Counter-Terrorism, which with that would come with knowing things like how to properly debilitate your enemy, knock them out, etc. They would have had done interrogations to get specific information and you can't just bring someone awake to a location to be interrogated. You would have to knock them out or debilitate them prior before moving. Yet, they didn't do any of that. Just, knocked his ass to the ground after a stab to the shoulder.

None of it past a certain point makes any sense narratively, and me as a writer is so fucking pissed. They made Makarov a fucking badass and BBEG for the century, yet they kill off arguably one of the best liked characters? Especially after Neil did so much advertising for the fans and even doing the corny Christmas thing that was all over COD TikTok for a few good weeks afterwards. People were going WILD over the Scot, and Ghost.

One thing you learn pretty quickly when creating content, whether it be games, art, comics, novels, etc... is that you got to feed your fanbase from time to time. You give them an inch, and you'll get a mile. No one needed to die within the third game, especially when it felt so rushed. If they really needed the suspense, then they could have easily injured Soap, and kept us wondering if he was alive, and then revealed him okay within the fourth installment. That would have made people buy the game just to see if their favorite was still around, and who knows, maybe they'd actually enjoy the story and decide to play the rest of the game.

What really pissed me off other than the weird pacing of the stretch of the game is the way they reacted to Soap's death. Now, they didn't have to be horribly torn up at it like Price in the original series, in fact, that would be horribly unrealistic. My mother is a hospice nurse, so she's gotten close to a lot of patients that have passed. Some being really traumatic and saddening ways. She can't cry anymore, but she does grieve, and she grieves hard when it's a patient she's had for a while and gotten close to. You can't look me in the eyes, and tell me these three men who have just spent a year and some change chasing down Hassan, and now Makarov, wouldn't show no emotion when it came to one of their own dying?

Soldiers are friends but more. There's a whole reason there's the saying "brothers in arms" exists. They go through hell and back together, they definitely did in Las Almas, and during Chicago in the second game. So to have barely 2 minutes worth of a cutscene to pay homage to a character that they all bonded so deeply with? I genuinely thought people were seriously joking about it, and then I saw it with my own two eyes and I'm appalled on how they thought that was a good send off both emotionally and narratively. It did nothing. It didn't comfort you, it didn't sound like they were grieving too terribly, it was just, flat. Monotonous. There was hardly any emotion in the lines, and the guys didn't have to be crying, but at least put some emotion in it.

Ghost and Gaz arguably in the reboot are the closest to Soap, so some sort of emotion, like Ghost being just a little choked up on his "Rest in Peace, Johnny" would have been just top tier. You would have been able to gauge so much off of that, and it would have fed the Ghost and Soap fangirls so much. (I know some COD players don't like to hear that, but the fandom shifting is a normal thing to happen, and the new people within the fandom are buying the games to play them just to understand the story and that is absolutely helping the studio and the games preform better. To put it simply, they are now also apart of the integral part of keeping COD alive and well.) Or, Gaz instead of just saying the most generic army farewell thing in the world, instead make a personal promise to bring Makarov to his knees himself. Again, it would gauge so much with his character, how he's feeling, what this death is doing to him, and what his personal goals are moving forwards.

They absolutely, from a narrative position could have done so much better. There are always going to be bugs and glitches in games, especially shooters, but the thing that draws people in and keeps them coming back, is the story and the characters. At the end of the day, this was not only a horrible story decision, but also is probably going to hurt them a lot when concerning the next game release. The newer crowd hardly has a reason to come back to see the new game. If Soap, a beloved character was treated this way, how are they going to treat Price, Gaz or Ghost if they die? I'm incredibly disappointed, they had an amazing story, amazing VA's, amazing graphics and design. The COD fandom was seriously getting a much needed breath of fresh air, new life was coming in, and they just tossed everything out the window.

TL;DR:: As a writer, the decision to kill off Soap was extremely horrible from both a monetary and narrative standpoint. It didn't move the story forwards, create any friction, and he didn't even have a decent send off. This is probably going to kill the new growth the COD fandom was experiencing, which in turn is definitely going to hit the studio's pockets. How much is yet to be seen, but I've seen a lot of new-blood say they weren't satisfied and aren't looking at purchasing the next game. Me included.

[natelia-aldelliz]

more ghost!Roach with accidental necromancer Soap, their first interaction !

(please ignore the fact that i can't draw the same character twice lmao)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

I've never asked anyone in my entire tumblr presence, I'm excited you'll be the first, even if it doesn't get done 🙏☆♡🥬

Anyways, I feel like there is a very sad amount of Soap content on here so like..idk maybe pining Soap fluff??

He's totally the type of guy to follow someone around like a lovesick puppy and everyone notices except the person of interest LOL

Congrats on the milestone btw!! You deserve it 😼😼

—Oblivious Pining

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Johnny hangs off you like a silent beast. Not that you would notice, of course.] ❞

Everyone had seen it, and at this point, it had just become painful. The soft, gentle eyes—the instantaneous smile whenever your unit showed up, your form not for a second missed to those cobalt blues. The deepening color of his cheeks was another tell, along with how he would clear his throat whenever your eye caught his, quickly looking away as if a teenager sneaking glances at his crush.

Which was what precisely was happening, actually—minus the teenager part.

But the worst of it was that you had absolutely no clue.

Perhaps it was because you’d grown so used to his teasing attitude, or even his touches or his open expressions, but you, truly, hadn’t the faintest clue that those actions were Johnny’s way of saying he was interested in you. You went about your joint missions together, touching shoulders and smiling widely, and everyone was about ready to go right back to war just so the two of you could stop it with the puppy eyes already. 

“I’m losing my mind,” Gaz utters, blinking in rapid succession at the two forms as they walk side by side across the tarmac. “I am absolutely losing my damn mind.” The exasperation can be taken and scooped with a spoon. The Sergeant gestures with his hand. “Are they bloody blind? Both of them?”

“Seems like it,” the Captain grunts, eyes narrowed and arms crossed as Soap’s hand comes up and ruffles your hair, you swat him away and playfully punch his shoulder. The Scot fake balks back in imaginary pain. 

Price rubs a hand over his beard with a sigh as Ghost blankly stares from behind them, leaning back against the base’s walls. The Lieutenant breathes out, “Fuckin’ hell. Gonna be dead ‘fore these bastards figure it out.”

Your unit was sharing most of the same looks, rolling their eyes and placing bets once more on whether one of you would make a move. Across the way your face is comfortably heated, heart hammering and yearning for something more. Johnny thinks the same as he chuckles, one hand going to itch at the side of his head.

“Well, it was more than good to see you again, Dearie.” He says, and you huff a laugh. “There’s nothing better than watchin’ you work, eh?” 

It’s a tease laced with truth, and you shift your feet, trying to hide the sudden flip of your intestines.

“Quit it, MacTavish,” your smile is infectious, and you send a glance at the setting sun before your smirk gradually grows. “In my opinion, you all hot and sweaty beats that out of the park.”

“Oh, aye,” the Scot cockily tilts his head, raising a brow as his stubble moves back. “Know it does.” 

You chuff, head looking away in childish glee. “You’re impossible.” 

“Ah,” he licks his lips, leaning back on his heels. “Don’t worry now, Little Lady, I’m all yours to figure out—I promise.” The flirting was a constant from both parties, and neither of you tired of it. 

A small silence grew, and over the course of the last month or so, the pauses had become more and more frequent when the want to speak prevailed, but no one knew what exactly to say. You both blink at one another, noticing that you’ve both been staring heavily. 

Johnny’s throat clears, and he licks his lips before quickly looking away; you awkwardly chuckle and decide that his vest is the most interesting thing in the world.

Both small teams want to bash their heads into a wall. 

“I’ll be seeing you?” Johnny sighs softly, speaking as his accent grows deeper with thought. He wanted to scold himself for his cowardness but had no idea that you were doing the same. 

“Of course,” you nod firmly. “I’m not as big of a fool to ignore my favorite Demolitions Expert.”

“You’re makin’ go all shy now, ya little beast,” Johnny levels, his cheeks gaining a reddish hue. 

You spare a laugh, and that silence once more returns. He wants to tell you, but he’s not sure how, and that itself makes his body tense with indecision—tell you the truth, or live with his own hesitation on your answer. Spare the man, he was too blind to see how much you already adored him.

Blinking away, you clench your jaw and hold out your hand. “Until next time, Sergeant.”

Johnny smiles lightly, eyes going soft. There were so many things he’d accomplished in his life by running head-long into them; by barging down doors and thinking of an exit while his foot was already halfway outside. But this…this he didn’t mind taking his time with. 

You were worth every second. 

Johnny gently grasps your hand, squeezing it as he hums, lips twitching. The teams would have to wait in their annoyance for another day. 

“Until next time, Dearie. Don’t be a stranger.”

[i-thewriter]

How to meet your lieutenant's roommate, with whom he is secretly in love

Summary:

Soap meets Ghost's roommate. She seems a little strange, but that's apparently what made Simon fall for her so hard.

Words: 1,369

Their vacations are short. It's just week to gather strength and lick wounds. Though even then, Soap knows that if Kate finds some trace of new threats to humanity, their vacation may be over before they start.

That’s why he decided it wasn’t worth coming back to the family house. Moreover, he won’t be able to rest if his mom notices the new bruises he got on his last mission. It’s also possible that his mother will call Price again to tell him how to properly take care of her boy. After she did this, he couldn’t look into his capitan’s eyes for a week, while Price couldn’t stop laughing at him.

And although Soap loves his mom, he will not survive this same thing again.

That’s why he decided it was worth complaining to Ghost about it. Over and over again, like an annoying mosquito in a room.

But hey, in his defense, he thought Ghost would understand his problem. Soap seriously doubted that he would have a charming house in the countryside to return to after a long mission. It suits him better to hide in a cemetery with other ghosts as company. He probably has his own comfortable coffin, from which he gets up only at midnight to drink the blood of virgins.

He got an extra bruise on his arm for this joke.

That’s why he is only partially surprised when Ghost says he knows the place. At first, he thinks about a hideout or a motel for hours.

That's why he’s so surprised when Ghost asks him (which sounds more like an order) to join. Soap, being Soap, immediately agrees. He doesn’t even think about how awkward it might be to be locked together in one dingy motel room for a week.

But as they say (no one says that), it’s better to make decisions right away and regret them later.

Making stupid decisions, is not stopping the warmth blooming in Soap’s chest at such a sign of trust from the cold-hearted lieutenant. It’s a transition to the next level of their growing friendship.

(He wonders at what level of friendship he will unlock Ghost’s tragic backstory.)

To say he’s just shocked is to say nothing.

He really expected some kind of dungeon without running water, but not this. The apartment is nice. Flat with three doors, a small kitchen with an island, and a charming living room.

At the entrance, Ghost tells him to take off his shoes and put them by the doormat. He goes deeper inside and sees more things that don’t make any sense. A thick chemistry textbook is next to the sink, along with a Star Wars mug and one pink sock on the couch.

Pink what?

When the rest can be explained as Ghost’s twisted hobbys, it can’t be. Maybe in his free time, the lieutenant reads collage textbooks or blushes while watching Kylo Ren take off his helmet (don’t ask him how he knows who Kylo Ren is), but the sock?

Hell will freeze over before Ghost wears something pink.

But before he can start racking his brain trying to connect all the facts, Ghost asks him if he wants some tea. Like a good host, which of course he isn’t based on how forced it sounds.

And Soap wants fucking answers to questions he will never ask because he wants to live. He doesn’t want a fucking tea made by this speaking Mount Everest. But like a polite Scot who they both know he isn’t, he opens his mouth and says:

- umm.. Yes, please.

Ghost nods once and starts the horrifying process of making tea. He takes three mugs, including the Star Wars one. When Soap stupidly starts to wonder if Ghost will drink from two cups, the front door opens. He almost throws his bag on the floor and reaches for his gun, only to remind himself that he’s in civilian clothes.

- Easy, sergeant - Ghost’s voice makes him relax and he hates how he reacts like a damn Pavlov’s dog to the bell. But at the same time he’s happy that whoever opened the door is not a threat.

- If it’s your other PTSD bullshit- soap does a double take at a woman’s voice coming from the door. Woman visits Ghost?!- I swear to God I’m calling...- she stops as she notices him.

She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, and... she is pretty (and younger than he expected but will never say this loudly). Even though her hair is disheveled, she has dark circles under her eyes, and the crooked collar of her shirt... she looks beautiful. As if she had just rolled out of bed after a long night of... No..NO! He’s not going there. He’s not thinking about her long l..

Soap almost jumps out of his skin when Ghost puts the mugs on the island with a bang.

Fuck, he forgot Ghost was there.

And he stared at his friend/ girlfriend? Like a creep. In his defense, his tired brain just lagged after seeing first pretty girl after that long time. But his mom raised gentlemen, he will apologize later. Her and Ghost to make sure he survive that night.

The girl recovers from shock faster than him (which is humiliating for him and all the military training he has undergone).

For a moment, the three of them stand in an awkward silence that only he seems to be only one who feels nervous. Ghost looks at him as usual, that is, in a terrifying stillness. She, on the on other hand, looks him over from head to toe without any signs of shame. Finally, after what the animals in the zoo must feel like, her eyes meet his and recognition shines in them. Which shouldn’t be because he’s sure as hell he’s never seen her before. Maybe Ghost told her about him?

And then she steps forward, smiles wider than the devil himself, and holds out her hand to him. He carefully takes her hand in his own and doesn’t even marvel at how soft it is. He’s more worried about Ghost’s gaze burning holes in his head.

-Simon didn’t say he will bring a friend from the team - when she talks, her eyes never stop exploring his features—and never said he had friends.

- I have friends- Simon grumbles.

- Soap remembers to take his hand out of her grip before Ghost decides he don’t need friends any more.

- Now I see it. - she says and then introduces herself- I’m his roommate.- she adds at the end.

...they are not together?

But before he has time to ask this question and probably get himself a death sentence, she passes him and goes to Simon. - I started to think you were dead - she says when he takes the bag off her shoulder and puts it on the table.

- Would you cry for me? - there must be something wrong with Ghost’s voice, it should never be so soft.

- I would if you bought me this lucky cat I showed you.

- NO.- Normally, cadets faint under this look. Why not her?

- Then you lost your chance to have me as a weeping widow.

- I think I will survive that.

Then you just stand on your tiptoes, grab Simon by the lopels of his jacket, and kiss him on the check (he’s wearing that creepy mask). Soap’s jaw didn’t have time to hit the floor when it was all over, and you turned around, sat down on the stool, and took a long sip of tea.

It’s hits him like a brick that all these things that don’t fit Ghost are yours. And it hits him like a truck that he hasn’t introduced himself yet.

- I’m John MacThavis, you can call me Soap. -he says this with a slight blush on his cheeks. The twinkle in your eyes at his code name makes him blush so hard he has to hide behind his steaming mug.

Then Simon’s hand brushes against your back as he takes the seat next to you. At this moment, John recognizes a glint of softness in Ghost’s eyes and knows that you are more unavailable than Pentagon.

[ff7-has-taken-me-over]

Soap and ghost had been drinking for a while. Celebrations of some sort for the day they got out of Las Almas together. That’s what they pass it off as at least, in reality it’s just a chance to be emotionally vulnerable with one another. Using the alcohol to loosen tongues and maybe forget any pain that might come with it.

Johnny had been ranting again, going on about some kid from his childhood that was a toss and that he’d wished he’d punched when he had the chance. Ghost didn’t know, he was a little past tipsy and things were beginning to fuzz.

Johnny falls quiet for a bit, staring up at the ceiling in contemplation, “I love you…”

It’s not the first time he’s said it. No, the first time he had been so sure that he was gonna die. Bullet wound in the stomach that wouldn’t stop bleeding. He was positive that that was the end of him and he wanted Simon to know. But then he didn’t die, and Simon hadn’t shot or stabbed him for the words so he kept saying them.

Before missions, when one of them had a close call even while they were both coming down from their highs and the silence is just tender enough that he thinks, maybe this time.

But Ghost never returns the sentiment. He doesn’t hate him, that’s for sure. But Johnny isn’t quite sure he loves him either. The man always just nods, maybe occasionally smile which gives Soap a bit of hope that maybe, maybe he might feel the same way and isn’t ready to commit to it. Which is fine. Johnny would wait forever for Ghost to be comfortable.

He’s still staring at the ceiling, not really expecting a response because that’s how it always is. He closes his eyes when it starts spinning though, startling slightly when Ghost speaks in a quietly desperate voice, “Johnny… I- can’t feel the same. I love Roach too much.”

And isn’t that a kick in the teeth. Soap slowly opens his eyes again, that pleasant buzz now dying down to an annoying ache in the head far too soon.

He knew Ghost loved Roach, knew the relationship they held since Ghost had told him after the first time he said it. But he also thought that maybe Ghost could learn to love him too. Because never in a million years would Soap be able to compare against Roach, not in Ghost’s eyes at least.

Apparently he had been a fool for hoping though, and an even bigger one for letting all of Ghost’s tiny little tells fall to the wayside.

Soap let out a small laugh, the sound coming out far too broken and hurt for his liking but he’s hoping Ghost is drunk enough to forget. He brings his hands up, covering his face in the hopes to hide the tears and anguish.

“What a fool I must’ve looked aye sir? Hoping for a taken man to love me back.”

“Johnny-” Said sergeant bit back on his sob, standing from the couch and quickly turning to try and save some face at least.

“Give me a bit yeah? I’ll be over it before y’know it.” He doesn’t wait for the response, doesn’t even look back at him before he’s making his way from the room.

They’re in the rec room, which is so conveniently close to Price’s room and he really can’t make it all the way back to his own room. Before he can think on it more he’s standing in front of Price’s door, knocking gently in the hopes to not disturb the man too much.

The door swings open and there is his captain, looking irritated and fresh from sleep. Soap only has a moment to feel guilty before those eyes soften, worry painting his features as he takes in the Scots slumped posture and still crying eyes.

“What’s happened Johnny?” The man doesn’t know what to do for a long moment, mouth opening and closing uselessly as he tries to find the words.

Price takes that as answer enough though, pulling the other man in before leading him into the room. He has an idea of what it could be that’s set Soap off, since there’s very little in the world that could reduce him to such.

He just hopes he’ll only be losing one good soldier out of this.

[turtlesoupstories]

A Medical Emergency Pt.2

Howdy friends! It’s wee bairn Marlo, coming to you live from a family holiday to Montreal. So many of you asked for a second part to my prompt surrounding doctor Claire and patient Jamie, which I have since dubbed A Medical Emergency (which you can read here). And, considering how angsty the last few TSS fics have been (blame Kaitlyn and Mikayla), I figured it was time to deliver some fluff for your amusement!

As always, a major thank you to my Kilt Kult buddies and fellow TSS mods for keeping me on track and reassuring me that my writing isn’t trash. Also, I owe all of you a major shout out as well, as I would never have written this fic without your overwhelming positive response. So, thank you thank you thank you from the very bottom of my heart!

Enjoy!

It was two weeks before Claire could stomach facing Jamie again. The surgery had been a success, and Claire had meticulously mended the shattered bones of Jamie’s hand. She hadn’t counted on the infection that set in, keeping him bedridden and feverish for nearly a week. Claire couldn’t help but feel responsible.

“It happens all the time LJ. I wouldn’t worry about it.” said Joe Abernathy, Claire’s fellow doctor and hospital confidante. She knew that there was nothing she could have done, that infections happen and it was out of her control, but the thought of seeing Jamie in more pain, with even the smallest chance of it being by her hand, was too much to bear. She didn’t know what is was about this Scot: his bull-headedness, the way his nose crinkled when he smiled at her as she was wheeling him into surgery, or how peaceful and innocent he looked under anesthesia, the softness of his face making him look like a child. Whatever it was, Claire found herself experiencing feelings she had never felt before, and it left her simultaneously terrified and exhilarated.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Claire had just finished a run of the mill appendectomy. Granted with a brief reprieve, she quickly cleaned herself off before heading to the on-call room, eager to take a quick rest before her pager summoned her again. Unfortunately, she found herself having to cross through the recovery wing, where Jamie lay behind the closed door of room 263. Claire had continued to follow his case, coercing nurses into providing valuable intel on his condition and moral.

“Yes, he is eating.”

“No. He doesn’t have a fever.”

“If you’re so interested Doctor, why don’t you go ask him yourself?”

Still, Claire refused to step foot in that room. The nagging guilt in her stomach surrounding his prolonged hospitalization, coupled with the more puzzling stirrings deep in the pit of her stomach, wouldn’t allow her to walk down the white tile hall leading up to his room. Unfortunately, she currently had no other option.

She went by as quickly as she could, keeping her head down and praying that no one would stop her.

“Doctor Beauchamp!”

Claire grimaced as she heard her name and reluctantly turned around to face her summoner.

“Ah, Mrs. Murray. I hope all is well?”

“Aye. Things have been goin’ on well enough for me, though I canna say the same about my brother.”

Claire felt her heart drop. Had something happened to Jamie? Was the infection back? The cold white walls of the hall seemed to stretch out before her, and her head began to spin. She wanted to respond, to ask Jamie’s sister, Jenny, what was wrong. But for the first time, Claire couldn’t find the words.

Jenny saw the distress in Claire’s eyes. “He’s been askin’ for you.” she said, “Said that you owed him a date.”

He remembered that? Claire thought, shocked that after weeks, a major operation, and a bout of illness, Jamie still remembered the date she had promised.

Claire felt her cheeks go hot. “I guess I do… I just wasn’t sure if-”

“If he was being serious? Doctor Beauchamp, ye may not have known my brother long, but you oughta be able to tell that it wasna the pain speaking when he asked to see you again. I canna tell you why, but ye seem to have him wrapped around your dainty English finger.”

Claire was left dumbfounded. Maybe whatever nagging feeling in her gut that had been plaguing her since her first meeting with Jamie Fraser was mutual. Or, maybe he wanted to see her to ask what she did wrong, how horribly she had failed to keep him in hospital for an extra week, at least.

“I'll try and see him as soon as I can; I promise. But I really have to get going now, a doctor’s work never ends.” She slowly backed away. “It really was nice to speak with you again, Mrs. Murray, and I’m happy to hear that Mr. Fraser is recovering well. Give him my best.” And with that, Claire practically sprinted down the hall, feeling Jenny’s eyes burning into her back until she turned the corner.

Forgetting about her intent to rest, she pushed open the door to the women’s room, pushing into a stall, unsure whether she was about to throw up, burst into tears, or some combination of the two. She sat, chest heaving, her head in her hands, breathing in the sanitary scent of her post-surgery, anti-bacterial soap.

Pull yourself together Beauchamp. You’re a bloody doctor for Christ’s sake!

Slowly, Claire felt herself begin to calm, her hands stopped shaking and her heart no longer felt like it was going to burst from her chest. She left the stall, and stared at herself in the warped mirror over the sink, splashing water on her face and running a hand through her knotted curls. She thought about what Jenny had said; Jamie wanted to see her.

She knew she couldn’t hide any longer, and it was time to face the music. Taking a steely breath, and making one final adjustment to her hair, Claire escaped the rest-room and made her way to the cafe.

Arms laden with all of the delicacies the hospital had to offer, Claire stood outside of Jamie’s room, unsure what was awaiting her inside. Was she about to face the angry wrath of a man betrayed by his doctor, or was she going to find the same stubborn, exuberant face she had met in the A&E? Regardless, she had no other choice than to face him. Shifting the food in her arms, Claire quickly rapped at the door, her heart racing as she heard his Scottish lilt.

“Come in.”

Claire fumbled with the door handle with sweaty palms, hardly the dexterous fingers used just hours ago as she sutured the abdomen of her patient. She entered the room frazzled, taken aback by how utterly bare it was. Jamie lay in his bed against the wall, an IV slowly dripping antibiotics into his arm. Where patients normally had the walls decorated with well-wishes from loved ones or the doodles of a young relative, the walls of Jamie’s room remained starkly white. There were no cards on the table, nor flowers, save for the traditional bundle of forget-me-nots left by nurses wilting in a hideous ceramic vase. Jamie was reading a book, but she couldn’t make out the title from where she was stood. It didn't matter, he set the book aside as soon as she entered the room.

When he saw her, his face lit up like the sun.

“Ach! Doctor Beauchamp, I wasna expectin’ you. If I had known you would be payin’ me a visit, I would have made myself look a bit more presentable.”

In all honesty, Claire couldn't complain about his appearance. The whiteness of the room made the red of his hair glow like flames, and the periwinkle of his hospital gown made his blue irises shine. It made her feel self-conscious, the horrid green of her scrubs making her look ill, and her hair hastily gathered into a bun on the top of her head.  But his warm reception eased her trepidations and made the corners of her mouth lift into a smile.

“Well, I had promised you a date, and I felt it was about time I followed through.”

She pulled up a chair next the the bed, and lay out the assortment of snacks she had brought.

“I would have brought some actual food, but I didn’t want to poison you. So, pre-packaged it is.” She waved her hands over the assembled pile of crisps, muffins, sandwiches, and bottles of juice.

Jamie gave the food a skeptical look, before turning to Claire and grinning.

“‘Tis a feast worthy of God himself!”

And so they settled in, Claire’s fears quickly forgotten as she and Jamie slipped back into the quick rappeur they had shared during their initial meeting. The conversation started playfully enough, Claire inquiring about how he was feeling, and whether he was finally going to admit to the extent of damage he had taken during the brawl.

“I didna want to start anything, but the way I saw him treating the lass had me boiling.”

Claire snickered, “Chivalry isn't dead after all. You’re a modern knight in shining armour.”

Jamie, as gallantly as he could confined to a bed, bowed with a flourish, kissing Claire’s hand without ever taking his eyes off of hers.

The electricity in the room was palpable. Time seemed to slow significantly as Claire and Jamie conversed, toasting their bottled grape juice and exchanging tales about their childhood. He recounted the chaos of Lallybroch, where he was able to run wild through the highlands, causing all sorts of mischief. She told tales of her worldly adventures with her Uncle Lamb, traveling the world on archeological digs.

“But why did you go with your uncle?” Jamie asked, “Wouldn’t it have been simpler to have gotten a traditional education with your parents in England?”

She sobered, putting down the blueberry muffin she had been picking at. “My parents died in a car accident when I was young. My uncle was the only family I had left…”

He placed a comforting palm on Claire’s hand, his thumb making soothing circles over her porcelain skin.

“I ken how ye feel... my mam passed when I was a lad; Da followed her shortly thereafter. Most people say he died of a broken heart.”

It was Claire’s turn to comfort, leaning forward and brushing a stray auburn curl out of his face. Their noses were nearly touching, and she breathed in Jamie’s rugged highland scent. Despite the overwhelming sanitary odor that permeated the air, Jamie radiated the scent of the  outdoors: a mixture of pine and musk, leather and whisky. It made her dizzy. The pair sat in silence for a moment, taking each other in as if the other would disappear at any moment. She could feel his eyes boring into her, memorizing every last angle of her face, and she found herself floating away in the azure of his eyes.

“You were the first thing I thought about,” Jamie said suddenly, breaking the spell that had rendered them silent. “I ken it sounds daft, but when I woke up after the surgery, the only thought in my mind was your name. Claire.”

“Well...” She murmured, a smile at the corner of her mouth. “That would imply that I was the last thing you were thinking about before you went under anaesthesia.”

“Aye. I guess that you were.”

The pair slid into a state of tranquil silence, content just to be in each other's company. Claire wanted to ask Jamie if he blamed her for the infection, but she knew just what his answer would be. It seemed utterly impossible for Jamie to find a fault in his former doctor; she could tell just from observing the adoration in his eyes. It made her heart swell knowing that she could spend just a few hours with someone and have this coursing stream of affection serving as a tether between the two of them. It was something she didn’t want to lose.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why me?” Claire asked hesitantly, her fingers tracing up and down the thin cotton bedspread, leaving soft indentations in their wake. “You didn’t know me. I could have been a bloody monster for all you knew, yet you still asked me on this ‘date’; I just... don’t understand.”

“I dinna ken it either, Sassenach, but the moment I saw you in the ambulance bay, I needed to know you. There are no words to explain the way I feel about you. It sounds daft, but I think I may be falling in love with you, Dr. Claire Beauchamp.”

In the past, a similar declaration would have sent Claire running for the hills. The very notion of being in love terrified her. It was a completely foreign feeling that she had yet to experience. Yet, sitting beside Jamie in his hospital bed, surrounded by crumpled food wrappers and crumbs, Claire she knew that whatever feeling Jamie was describing- regardless of whether it was love- she felt it, too. She struggled in vain to come up with a response, but her head was addled with thousands of thoughts.

Am I losing my mind?

Is it morally wrong to see a patient?

What if we’re both wrong?

She opened her mouth to speak, Jamie’s eyes tuned to her in anticipation for her response. The door flew open, revealing a very flustered Joe Abernathy.

“Jesus, LJ, where have you been? It’s all hands on deck, multi-car collision, multiple code blues. We need you down in the A&E!”

“I’ll be right down.” Claire responded curtly, giving Jamie an apologetic look.

“It’s alright, Doctor. Duty calls. I’ll still be waiting here when ye’re done.” Jamie smiled softly, and before she knew what she was doing, Claire found herself leaning across the bed and kissing him. He made a surprised noise in the back of his throat, but didn’t pull away. Her hands found their way around his neck and she could hear the heart monitors rapid beeping, giving away Jamie’s racing heart.  It wasn’t until Joe cleared his throat that Claire snapped back to reality and pulled away sheepishly.

She jumped off the bed, straightened her scrubs and raced out of the room, leaving a stunned Joe Abernathy and a stupefied Jamie in her wake.

A sharp British shout echoed from down the hall, “Joe, are you coming?”

He looked out the door, then back at the red-headed patient sitting in the hospital bed in front of him, struggling to piece together what he had just witnessed.

“Hell of a first date!” He joked before escaping the room in search of Claire, leaving Jamie alone with the feeling of Claire’s lips pressed against his own.

Hell of a first date, indeed!

[ice-creamforbreakfast]

I was tagged by @questforsims​ to do this ages ago, but I finally have time :D

DO YOU SLEEP WITH YOUR CLOSET DOORS OPEN OR CLOSED? Closed...unless it’s filled with so much crap that I can’t close it.

DO YOU TAKE THE SHAMPOOS AND CONDITIONER BOTTLES FROM HOTELS? The shampoo bottles in a hotel would do like 1/4 of my hair, so no lol.

DO YOU SLEEP WITH YOUR SHEETS TUCKED IN OR OUT? I burrito myself..

HAVE YOU STOLEN A STREET SIGN BEFORE? No, but I did steal an exit sign on my way out of highschool for the last time lol.

DO YOU LIKE TO USE POST-IT NOTES? I like stationary but don’t use as much of it as I hoard.

DO YOU CUT OUT COUPONS BUT THEN NEVER USE THEM? Nope.

WOULD YOU RATHER BE ATTACKED BY A BIG BEAR OR A SWARM OF BEES? Bees. Less disfiguring.

DO YOU HAVE FRECKLES? Very few. I think that they look adorable on other people, but I don’t like them on me, so I got rid and wear spf50 on a regular basis.

DO YOU ALWAYS SMILE FOR PICTURES? It depends on the photo and whether I want it to be taken.

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST PET PEEVE? People who believe anything they see on a Facebook or internet post.

DO YOU EVER COUNT YOUR STEPS WHEN YOU WALK? My phone does it for me.

HAVE YOU PEED IN THE WOODS? Probably when I was younger and my dad decided that he was outdoorsy for a week. This phase died.

HAVE YOU EVER POOPED IN THE WOODS? I don’t poop ;) .

DO YOU EVER DANCE EVEN IF THERE’S NO MUSIC PLAYING? Only to the music in my head.

DO YOU CHEW YOUR PENS AND PENCILS? Nope.

HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE YOU SLEPT WITH THIS WEEK? Don’t be silly, I’ve been married for almost five years. None :P .

WHAT SIZE IS YOUR BED? A queen sized with a king sized duvet :)

WHAT IS YOUR SONG OF THE WEEK? Marina and the Diamonds - True Colours (cover)

IS IT OK FOR GUYS TO WEAR PINK? Wear what you want.

DO YOU STILL WATCH CARTOONS? Of course :D

WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE MOVIE? Fall of the Titans was pretty shit.

WHERE WOULD YOU BURY HIDDEN TREASURE IF YOU HAD SOME? In my giant handbag.

WHAT DO YOU DRINK WITH DINNER? Sparkling water.

WHAT DO YOU DIP A CHICKEN NUGGET IN? Honey Mustard.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FOOD? I like most foods as long as they don’t contain mushrooms or are super eggy (exception for French toast though).

WHAT MOVIES COULD YOU WATCH OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND STILL LOVE? Romy and Michele’s Highschool Reunion

LAST PERSON YOU KISSED/KISSED YOU? My dog. I’m that type of old lady.

WERE YOU EVER A BOY/GIRL SCOUT? Nope.

WOULD YOU EVER STRIP OR POSE NUDE IN A MAGAZINE? If I had the same body that I had just before I got married then hell yes. Funnily enough, I was too self conscious at the time though.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WROTE A LETTER TO SOMEONE ON PAPER? I write thank you cards for Christmas presents to send to my in-laws who live in England :)

CAN YOU CHANGE THE OIL ON A CAR? Lol.

EVER GOTTEN A SPEEDING TICKET? Nope.

EVER RAN OUT OF GAS? Nope.

WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE KIND OF SANDWICH? Oh god I love sandwiches! I eat a lot of peanut butter and jam sandwiches, but I also love grilled cheese sandwiches.

BEST THING TO EAT FOR BREAKFAST? I don’t often eat breakfast. I love French Toast though and always have Coco Pops in my house.

WHAT IS YOUR USUAL BEDTIME? Between 11pm and 2am.

ARE YOU LAZY? Of course!

WHEN YOU WERE A KID, WHAT DID YOU DRESS UP AS FOR HALLOWEEN? Werewolf, witch, wizard, Scream (it was the 90s...sue me), an alien, a viking, a pirate...probably some other things.

WHAT IS YOUR CHINESE ASTROLOGICAL SIGN? I’m a dragon, but my p4 teacher couldn’t count and had an argument with me because she was adamant that my sign was a snake...I mean I see her point and all, but no.

HOW MANY LANGUAGES CAN YOU SPEAK? English, Scots (shaky ground on the language definition haha!), conversational French, apparently I have a qualification in Spanish (and remember nothing) and hello, thank you, yes, no, goodbye and the JobCentre enquiry line in Polish.

DO YOU HAVE ANY MAGAZINE SUBSCRIPTIONS? I had a Graze subscription, but I had to cancel it because they arrived on the same day as Weight Watchers and I would eat them all when I got home. I used to have a Vogue subscription.

WHICH ARE BETTER: LEGOS OR LINCOLN LOGS? I had never heard of Lincoln Logs, but I grew up with Lego, so I’ll have to be pedantic and say Duplo.

ARE YOU STUBBORN? Yes.

WHO IS BETTER: LENO OR LETTERMAN? Who cares?

EVER WATCH SOAP OPERAS? I don’t need to, I have The Sims and I can see Tumblr drama every day if I want to lol.

ARE YOU AFRAID OF HEIGHTS? No more than average.

DO YOU SING IN THE CAR? No.

DO YOU SING IN THE SHOWER? No.

DO YOU DANCE IN THE CAR? No.

EVER USED A GUN? Yes, but only at a shooting range.

LAST TIME YOU GOT A PORTRAIT TAKEN BY A PHOTOGRAPHER? 2009

DO YOU THINK MUSICALS ARE CHEESY? Sometimes, marvelously so!

IS CHRISTMAS STRESSFUL? Only for my mum lol.

EVER EAT A PIEROGI? Oh god I love pierogi. I need to go buy some now.

FAVORITE TYPE OF FRUIT PIE? All fruit pies.

OCCUPATIONS YOU WANTED TO BE WHEN YOU WERE A KID? An artist.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN GHOSTS? I think so.

EVER HAVE A DEJA-VU FEELING? Yeah.

DO YOU TAKE A VITAMIN DAILY? Sometimes. Mostly hair vitamins when I regret getting a fringe.

DO YOU WEAR SLIPPERS? No, my socks are messed up.

DO YOU WEAR A BATHROBE? Nope.

WHAT DO YOU WEAR TO BED? Fleecy frigid old lady pyjamas.

WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CONCERT? Lana Del Rey when I was like twenty four lol. I refuse to acknowledge that time that Skooch played a gig at my primary school and everything was awful.

WALMART, TARGET, OR KMART? I’m in the UK, but I’ll say Target because they’re very pro LGBT rights from what I gather.

NIKE OR ADIDAS? Céline.

CHEETOS OR FRITOS? Fritos.

PEANUTS OR SUNFLOWER SEEDS? Preferably neither, but peanuts I guess.

EVER HEAR OF THE GROUP TRES BIEN? Nope.

EVER TAKE DANCE LESSONS? No.

IS THERE A PROFESSION YOU PICTURE YOUR FUTURE SPOUSE DOING? He’s a bar manager and I’ve been married to him for almost five years. Am tumblr old.

CAN YOU CURL YOUR TONGUE? Yes.

EVER WON A SPELLING BEE? No.

HAVE YOU EVER CRIED BECAUSE YOU WERE SO HAPPY? Yes, but not saying when.

OWN ANY RECORD ALBUMS? No.

OWN A RECORD PLAYER? No.

DO YOU REGULARLY BURN INCENSE? Sometimes.

EVER BEEN IN LOVE? Yes, twice for certain, possibly four times.

WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE IN CONCERT? I think that Kate Bush would be amazing, also t.A.T.u..

WHAT WAS THE LAST CONCERT YOU SAW? Some awful Boyband mega reunion shit that I sat through because I’m a good friend :P

HOT TEA OR COLD TEA? No tea, all shade.

TEA OR COFFEE? I like fancy teas.

SUGAR COOKIES OR SNICKERDOODLES? Both in large quantities.

CAN YOU SWIM WELL? Yes and now that I’m older, fat floats ;)

CAN YOU HOLD YOUR BREATH WITHOUT HOLDING YOUR NOSE? Yes.

ARE YOU PATIENT? Maybe not so much.

DJ OR BAND AT A WEDDING? I had a DJ at mine and I told him not to play the Proclaimers. He played the Proclaimers and I wasn’t pleased. I did tip him though, he was good otherwise.

EVER WON A CONTEST? I had a poem published when I was at primary school.

HAVE YOU EVER HAD PLASTIC SURGERY? Mole removal, botox to narrow my jawline, temporary lip injections, orthodontics, laser hair removal and GRS to resolve an intersex condition (not technically cosmetic I guess).

WHICH ARE BETTER: BLACK OR GREEN OLIVES? I like both.

CAN YOU KNIT OR CROCHET? Nope.

BEST ROOM FOR A FIREPLACE? Livingroom.

DO YOU WANT TO GET MARRIED? I am married and I’m happy :)

IF MARRIED, HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN MARRIED? Almost five years.

WHO WAS YOUR HIGHSCHOOL CRUSH? So I had the biggest crush on my best friend. When we left school, things happened, we didn’t treat each other well and didn’t talk for five years. It was really hard. Looking back, it was closer to Stockholm Syndrome than love lol.

DO YOU CRY AND THROW A FIT UNTIL YOU GET YOUR OWN WAY? No.

DO YOU HAVE KIDS? Dogs.

DO YOU WANT KIDS? Infertility is a bit of an issue for me at the moment. I would love kids (that doesn’t mean I like other people’s haha!), but perhaps when I’m better off financially.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR? I like lots of colours. I wear a lot of black, also like purple, emerald green and yellow.

DO YOU MISS ANYONE RIGHT NOW? I miss my work friend who left in January, but we’re due a catch-up on Sunday :)

WHO ARE YOU GOING TO TAG TO DO THIS TAG NEXT?

I’m going to tag everyone, because I can.

[khemi]

Fishbowl Punch

So this is a story I wrote for a Discord Secret Santa, and I’m going to finally post it here! It’s kind of... a mix, but I had a lot of fun writing it.

Slickpaint, and a Solfef/Eriara mash. Cw for alcohol.

You realise you’re boned the moment she slaps some shine on your shoes and hands you a brand new tie like it’s a pleasant surprise instead of a portent of coming doom, all bright pink and the sort of thing you’d laugh off the face of the earth before putting on if it was being presented in any hands other than those soft round ones of hers that could hand you your best friend’s head on a stick and still get an earnest, aw, thanks doll in reply.

Either she knows that and is playing you like a fiddle or she doesn’t and is sincere in everything she does, and one is hot and one is cute and both just make your traitorous heart beat a little faster as you take the tie and loop it under your shirt collar and lean forward just enough she can reach up to you and do it up in a neat knot you absolutely couldn’t have managed with two hands, let alone one. Lousy knots. The woman’s a wizard at them, weaving ties and bows in shapes you’re pretty sure are non-Euclidean in nature, but if an Elder God ever comes knocking looking for some help dolling up for their prom they can take a hike because those magical hands and the bustling body of joy they’re attached to are taken, and adored right the fuck where they already are.

Dolling up is something best left to her, anyway, and she paints her face pretty as she paints a canvas, all subtle colours in the right places that are barely noticeable but could make a sculptor weep jealousy over the perfect shapes they come together to form. You call up into the bathroom if she’s going to wear that one dress, she knows, the sparkly one with the green. She asks you if you’re going to wear your nice eyepatch if she does.

You do not want to wear an eyepatch that makes you look like you’re some anime-obsessed twelve year old’s character on some shitty online collection of art that you have too much pride in yourself to know the name of. There’s a silence while you consider how best to let her down.

She’ll wear the headscarf you like with all the pastels, she calls down into the pause.

Well then.

It’s time to find your nice eyepatch.

You know you’ll find it right where you left it, shoved underneath everything else you never wanted to see again, like the full ream of love notes Clover kept posting through your door before he caught sight of that new guy with all the shouting and the hair that defies at least three laws of physics. The collection of letters seeking your wife’s affection- and also, to your continued distaste, your own- are pushed to one side and reveal a poster with your own face on it, like a further descent through the circles of hell that will end with an eyepatch or with eternal damnation, both of which would suit you about the same. The reward above your leering mug is severely out of date. There’s been at least four major incidents since then, and at least two extra zeroes slapped on the end by the powers that be.

What will be the third level of hell? You lift the poster and- oh. Er. You lift a hand to shove the lens of some imaginary viewing device aside, leaving the purely hypothetical viewer staring at a picture of the finest breed of dog ever bred, sitting on a cushion with a little tartan hat at a jaunty angle upon its noble head. If said viewer were to have briefly caught glimpse of any pictures of you in any kind of canine-based outfit, say the kind used by platonic connoisseurs of all things furred, you would tell them that first of all, they’re seeing things and no such pictures have ever existed, kid, shut your dirty lying mouth.

Secondly you would tell them that mouth better stay shut, or else.

No one can know.

Especially Droog.

And- Look, it’s not your fault that that gal at the store with the fuzzy ears was so persuasive when she started talking about that convention thing and the need for extra guests and discount rates and getting to experience the carefree life of a perfect Scottie-

Oh thank fuck there’s your eyepatch you’ve never been so happy to see it in your life.

After a little business, you return to the stairs just in time to find the missus slipping down it with all the grace her stout body can pack, dress clasped gently in one hand to lift it high enough it doesn’t get in the way of each of her steady steps. She smiles at you, cheeks dark and eyes surrounded with a pastel rainbow that sets off the dark colour in them nicely, and you’re halfway to a goofy smile back before she stops and sniffs once, then again, her eyebrows dropping with her dress and her arms coming into a tight fold over her chest.

What’s that smell, she asks you.

What smell, you say.

The smell of burning, she replies without a minute of time for your shit. And why is there ash on your fingers?

Spring cleaning, you tell her with a very serious nod.

What did you do.

You didn’t do a damn thing.

She said, what did you do.

You squeak. Damn, she’s got that look in her eye that says if you want to make it to the diner in one piece you better buck that shit right the fuck now or she’ll be packing what’s left of you in her handbag. She’s a feisty little thing, really.

You adore her.

Alright, alright, maybe you burned something, obviously accidentally, like some kind of incriminating photo that definitely, one hundred percent does not exist any longer, if it ever did. A tragedy! A disaster. How will you live without that unproven photograph haunting your every-

Was it the dog photo, she asks.

What dog photo? There is no dog photo. Was there ever a dog photo? You doubt it.

She smiles and finishes her descent, bustling past you with a very gentle pat to your arm.

Don’t worry, she says, she has copies.

Your wife is the single worst thing to ever happen to you. You set your jaw and roll your eye into the patch as you turn and sulk your way out behind her, pouting as she settles in the driver’s seat and reminds you that if she’d been looking for a child to take care of, she’d have gone looking for an adoption, not a wedding.

The place is basically empty when you show up, except for two assholes in the corner who both look like the only reason they’re even here is to hide from the fashion police and the laws of decency that forbid the wearing of stupid shades everywhere but mostly indoors- oh, and a group of kids who apparently haven’t heard dress codes have updated a little since the middle ages, given there’s one more cape involved than is acceptable in a modern public place, meaning there’s exactly one cape.

Of fucking course the waiter takes you to the table right next to them, ignoring the many, many empty tables that are literally everywhere else.

“-I’m not saying you can’t wear a cape in your own space,” one of the guys behind you is saying, slow and steady but not escaping the flat hiss the attempt at each s makes when it hits his teeth, “but that’s in your own space, where no one else has to experience its- what did he say?”

“Majesty,” a girl replies, tone so dead you’d think she was if she wasn’t speaking.

“Right, right, its majesty, because that’s totally a thing it’s got in droves.”

“My cape is fine,” hisses back becaped asshole, showing a staggering lack of self-awareness you thought only Deuce was capable of. “In fact it’s more than fine. They asked us to dress smartly and you’re all fuckin’ underdressed and jealous, that’s what you are.”

“Oh yeah. That’s exactly what’s happening here. I’m not embarrassed, I’m devastated by my stupid clothing choices that led to me being caught in this part of town without a cape. I must look like a beggar, barely able to afford a napkin for a makeshift cloak-”

“Put that down,” Cape hisses, informing you along with the chorus of giggles that a napkin had in fact probably made its way across Lisp’s shoulders. “God you wanna talk about embarrassments? You’re an embarrassment.”

“How can I argue with that? You are a professional in the field of huge fuck-ups.”

“You little piece of-”

“Can I get you a drink?” The waiter interrupts, and you’re almost annoyed at him for distracting you from the possible soap-opera in the making over your shoulder until you see your doll giving you a look and hastily sweep up the menu so you can jab at something without looking at what it is. “Oh- An excellent choice, sir. And for the lady?”

“Scotch,” she hums, and you stare at her as she adds that she’d like it on the rocks, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time as your brain filters Scotch to Scot to Scottie and you get the joke being made at your expense. Absolutely hilarious, you mutter at her once the waiter is gone. Her wink tells you she agrees.

You give it a reasonable pause before you filter back into the conversation playing out behind you, irritated to have missed some of what might actually be passable entertainment.

“-not my fault Kanaya enables him,” the girl who didn’t speak before is protesting in the kind of voice that’s bright and loud even when it’s cramped into a whisper. “She says he’s very persuasive when he wants to be!”

“Yeesh, there’s a whole thing I don’t want to know about,” Lisp answers, and you know the affronted sniffle is Cape before he starts complaining.

“There is nothing between Kanaya and I and I don’t much appreciate you implyin’ anythin’ to the opposite effect! Ain’t my fault she’s got a sense of style you’re lacking, or that she’s the only one around who listens to my voice of reason- except you, Ara, obviously, you do plenty of listenin’ to me and I appreciate it constantly, sweetheart.”

“A noble sacrifice that won’t be forgotten by those of us getting our poor ears spared.” It sounds like Lisp just reached and pat her hand in sympathy, and as your glazed eyes roam the menu you gotta say you don’t think you blame him. “A terrible burden, the path you’re walking down…”

“Eridan is more interesting than you think,” Ara replies, revealing herself as the voice of death and still sounding just as excited as the crayfish you’re considering for a starter. “He has a lot of interesting stories about the socio-political imbalances that led to historical conflicts, and also wizards.”

“And also wizards. Fuck, I’m pissing over here.” Yeah, you too, Lisp. You too.

“Wizards are cool,” Cape protests, pout audible in his voice. “Better than fucking bees.”

“Hey the only thing fucking bees right now is other bees and also humanity’s disregard for the most important species on the planet.”

“There I was thinking humans were pretty fuckin’ important.”

“Get back to me when humans can function in perfect harmony with nature to keep the whole world alive and I’ll reconsider.”

This is sounding dangerously like a synopsis of that fucking film Deuce keeps sending you sped up versions of, and this time you’re grateful for the waiter interrupting it right up until you see the monstrosity of a drink sitting beside a small, sensible glass of ice and whiskey.

“One scotch on the rocks,” he explains, placing the glass down in front of your wife even as she continues to stare at the new focus of all your barely contained hatred, “and one fishbowl punch.”

Well you can’t pin them for false advertising because that is a fucking fishbowl in front of you, filled with punch, umbrellas and straws, turned luminescent pink by the flashing ice cubes inside that are pulsing to the beat of a rave being held all over the corpse of your dignity. You stare at it, the waiter stares at you, your missus stares at the waiter and he holds up his little pad like a shield and taps frantically at the scrawled note on it you couldn’t read if you were a code breaker.

“It’s what you ordered, sir!”

Of course it is.

Before you can get out a protest he’s absconded and you’re left gazing at the mesmerising jacuzzi of poor taste that only the sort of person who wears a cape unironically would find appealing, opening and closing your mouth a few times before your dear, darling wife takes pity on you and pushes her scotch into your hand.

You could both share it, she suggests as you down her drink in one, although that would involve consuming it, and you’re not sure what shit the colour of potpourri windex would do to your insides. Come on, she prompts. You can both have a straw each and drink together and it’ll be romantic.

And then you can both get food poisoning or- if it’s a drink it’s just straight-up poisoning, right? And you can have a romantic hospital stay together!

Exactly, your missus smiles, and waits patiently until you cave in and lean forward to take a tentative sip of what you can only assume is the milk of a mutant hybrid between a cow and a stick of fruity bubblegum. Ugh. You make a face that’s probably just a redraw of the same disgusted face everyone seems to make in this godforsaken town, but your doll looks happy and you guess in some deep-down secret part of the withered thing your doctor would hesitantly refer to as your heart, that’s what really matters.

“Oh man, that looks delicious, you think I can order that?” Cape is whispering on the table behind you, and look at that, who would’ve guessed it, who could possibly have foreseen he’d want to drink the atrocious insult to cocktail menus everywhere that is glittering obnoxiously between you and your lady.

A chair creaks, once as someone turns towards you and once again as they turn away.

“We could share,” Ara monotones, “but I want the umbrellas.”

“Of course, love, you can have every umbrella that you want.”

“Ugh,” Lisp starts, “you guys are-”

“I want one.” Bubbly interrupts him, and all of a sudden her sugary voice is like a candy-cane made of cyanide. “Please, Sollux? You said it was my treat today!”

“Fef, I said my willing participation in an event involving sitting next to Eridan for an hour was your treat.”

“No, you said dinner was my treat, and that I could’ve have whatever I wanted!” She’s whining like a kicked puppy and you can perfectly picture the sort of satisfied smirk that must be lighting up Cape’s- Eridan’s? Why do you even care what their names are- face right now. “I want one of those! It’s in a fishbowl, Sollux! It’s so cute!”

“It looks like poison.” A man after your own heart.

“It looks great! Stop being a wet fish and drink it with me! Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Pretty please with a cherry on top and-”

“Fine! Oh my God, fine. You can have that, I’m not going to stop you.”

“And you’ll drink it with me?” Her smile is so bright it’s making you cast a grouchy shadow.

“...I- guess. Sure.”

Fef squeals, and it’s the delighted nail in Sollux’s coffin. Maybe you’ll see him in the emergency room later, and you can both share a knowing nod about the dangers of flashing cocktails served in pet housing.

Another sip confirms it still tastes like bubblegum.

Sollux manages to bargain his way into ordering the food before the fancy drinks, which is a valiant attempt at escaping the pink-tinted death you’re currently bearing half the brunt of. Maybe he hoped they’d forget or fill up and no longer brave the sugary terror, but his zero hour arrives and you shake your head sadly as you listen to the now fully identified Aradia order two fishbowl punches, and on purpose, which is a whole new level of shame.

The waiter asks her to repeat the order, to make absolutely sure of what she wants. You can’t imagine why.

He passes you shortly after with a tray laden with not one, but two bowls of fuschia piss, and you hear an enthusiastic thank you from Eridan and Feferi and flat ones from Sollux and Aradia, although in the latter case God only knows, that’s probably cheerful for her. You watch the waiter’s reflection turn back towards you in your own fishbowl of death, and as he hurries past you pause and wonder… Maybe if you just.

Your wife quietly enquires after what you’re doing as you reach and start slowly adjusting the bowl sideways.

Upgrading your radio to a television, you explain patiently.

You aren’t spying on anyone, are you? She told you to stop doing that.

It’s not spying if it’s in a public place, you told her that before.

And she told you that as soon as it involves a reflective surface, it’s spying.

You wore the eyepatch, you plead in a muted hiss.

Her fingers tap against the side of the glass and she inclines her hand, her other hand lifting to gently adjust her scarf. Alright, she agrees, and you continue moving the bowl until she adds an ominous but-

But what?

But she gets to take one of the pictures of you in that adorable outfit, blow it up nice and big, and make a painting out of it for her gallery.

Your eyes narrow. She drives a hard bargain.

You know what, maybe you can live without-

“What do you mean it’s stuck?”

On second thought, that sounds lovely, you hope it brings in lots of discerning patrons.

The bowl slides the rest of the way and you finally get a view past yourself, back to the table you’ve been entertaining yourself with on-and-off all night. It isn’t perfect, and you can only see the thick tresses of the two girls, but you have a fair angle on the faces of their dates as Eridan attempts to reach past Sollux’s swatting hands and grab the umbrella that is somehow jammed between his two front teeth.

“‘O! ‘Eth ‘ethethi oo ih-!” Those are probably words but between the teeth and the blockage you’ve stopped being able to pick out much more than what you’re guessing is Feferi, though you’re more amused by how the umbrella is wiggling every time Sollux’s mouth opens and closes. Sollux continues to force Eridan back, turning and leaning across the table. “‘Ethehti!”

“Oh gosh oh goodness-” Feferi is on her feet and leaning over the table, as though walking around it isn’t the option. She leans forward, over the bowl that caused this misery, planting a hand on Sollux’s cheek and bracing the other against the table that they’d been sitting at, one of two pushed together to make a four. Her fingers are spread just in front of the drink, the whole thing tipping forward under her weight. “Okay, I’ve got this! You just hold still and I’ll get this right out-”

“Wait-” Eridan starts but Feferi has got her hand off the table and on the umbrella, and you see her realise her mistake just as the umbrella pops free and takes her balance with it, feet sliding on the ground looking for a purchase they don’t find. She yelps and drops, Aradia moving to catch her but not before Feferi’s legs have flung up and kicked the table hard enough the whole unbalanced thing is flying forward and the bowl of pink murder juice is gracefully arcing up through the air.

Sollux had fallen back into Eridan’s arms and jerked back up just as fast but you know he’s regretting it as his eyes widen behind his glasses the smallest fraction before the wall of pink that’s spraying from the soaring bowl has splashed into him, splattering him and the floor behind him with the punch it also packs. You cover your mouth as Sollux opens his and lets out a pained sound, and Eridan swoops to grab some serviettes for his face but his foot hits the punch dripping onto the floor from the still shaking table and there’s an instant between him being there and him being gone, sneakers up in the air.

One knocks that table, and the punch starts to slide but Aradia catches it and lifts it above her head, sighing and handing it to a frantic Feferi as Sollux gropes blindly forward to try to find the serviettes now accompanying Eridan all over the ground. What he manages to find instead is the punch bowl, which he shoves his hand into just as it’s finished rattling around and then flings his fingers back out of in disgust, the bowl ricocheting away towards Feferi and ending up barely caught in her hand as she balances the first against her shoulder before- in an astounding show of idiocy- lifting her knee to try to steady the table she isn’t even standing in front of.

For a moment, she looks like she’ll pull it off.

She does not.

Aradia has just grabbed Sollux’s glasses and started wiping them as Feferi’s balance gives way for the second time, and you see the glass go sailing up before it comes hurtling down. Feferi barely manages to tuck and roll out of the way in time to avoid the glass or the fresh torrent of punch but her skillful youth roll takes her straight into the path of the waiter rushing to help, knocking him off his feet and sending him crashing down on her as his glasses bounce off in what promises to be a further level of hilarity.

“Fuck!” There he goes, scrambling for them, as Feferi squawks under him and Sollux finally regains vision in time to let out his assumed girlfriend’s name in indignation. The waiter gets shoved off, the dame rescued, and the glasses sit in pooling punch and await their retrieval with growing, sticky impatience.

Eridan’s hand has regained ground on the table, and Aradia is attempting to help him up but from the choked wheezes about fucking cape fucking stuck fucking hell you’re guessing he’s a little wrapped up with a fashion disaster that you’re sure is soaking up its lovely new pink ombre wonderfully as he wiggles around on the ground trying to escape his own poor taste.

Your missus moves and you think she’s going to call you off until you glance her way and see her leaning to see over your shoulder, eyes wide and lips pursed. Hah! Even she can’t fault quality entertainment like this, and you know this is the best date both of you have had in years, not including that one time in France with the accidental diamond heist. You grin at her and she rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are tinted darker as she looks back to the action and so do you.

Eridan is up, but the cape has become the second tragic casualty of the punch war after the waiter’s nose, going by the way the kid’s clutching at it and cursing up a storm with words you don’t even recognise. The cape collar, however, has remained as a delightful reminder of what was, turning Eridan into a smart casual dracula who is clinging to Aradia like she’s the only stable thing nearby- which honestly, yeah, you can believe it. She pats his back gently, before picking him up bodily and tossing him into a chair outside of the punch disaster zone, ignoring his confused wheeze as she hops over the table with perfect balance and sweeps the second pair of glasses she cleaned recently up off the ground to wipe them on her dirtied skirt before dropping them onto the chest of the bemused but thankful waiter.

Feferi is still a little unsteady and Sollux appears to be figuring out how to help while also not touching her in anyway lest he dirty her pink-splattered body with the punch that covers his own, but Aradia sweeps her up instead, up onto her arm as she thrusts the serviettes she collected during her sumersault at Sollux and then hooks her second arm under Feferi’s legs.

With that she walks over to the waiter, who has barely sat up and clearly isn’t expecting the looming figure of Aradia with all her curls cascading down her back and a fish-out-of-water hugging her tightly with legs dangling over her arms and punch dripping down the both of them.

He stares up at them both, full of the stupid kind of awe that only shows its face during spectacular shit like this, and then carefully unbuttons his apron and draws out a little notepad, with a little printed label stuck to it, which he offers up with a few dazed blinks.

“Cash or check?”

You’re going to die laughing if you start so you shut yourself up by shoving a straw in your mouth and slurping down glorious, wonderful, life-saving fishbowl punch with the sort of gusto that might get an umbrella stuck between a distracted idiot’s teeth.

Your wife joins you, your eyes meet, and she finally lets her face crack into the sort of gorgeous smile that reminds you why you married her.

You’ll have to come here again, she tells you. She’s a big fan of the drinks.

Yeah, you agree. Yeah.

Turns out, so are you.

[natg1rl-blog]

Bad Influence

It’s been a while since I shared a piece of ‘Little Black Book’ so this is a look into Chapter 3. Hopefully one day I can publish this bad boy and you’ll all be reading it on paperback! x

**

I’ve discovered that the anticipation of something bad happening is actually worse than the bad thing that’s actually happening, and I got to learn that first hand when waiting for mum to be tried in court. I was so thankful when I heard that the Judge was lenient toward the case seeing as though what she had done, she had done to protect her child. Even though she had broken the law and done a bad thing, the Judge and Jury could see that she was trying to stick up for her son when her temper unfortunately got the better of her. Of course a restraining order was placed against mum’s name, which made things hard considering we lived down the street from the victim. Mum also had to complete one hundred hours of community service for her crime, she didn’t get off completely Scot-free by any means.

     With my home-life turning into a gigantic soap opera, school wasn’t really the biggest issue for me anymore. Time was passing by quite fast and I had grown accustomed to my group of friends. So much so that I had almost become comfortable with my social status. That’s not to say I wouldn’t have given anything to change it back into the familiarity that was being popular, but things were different now and I was starting to accept that. As the second term came to a close I was excited to have the break from school work more than anything else. I was a good student, always had been. Even though I didn’t care too much about what I was learning I had always been a fast learner and I guess somewhat of a teacher’s pet. I always did what I was told and would never argue back, confrontation was not a part of my nature. It was very rare for me to even see a grade C or below on my report card. If there was a C it was generally given to me for Woodwork or P.E. I had gotten to a point where I felt as though I needed a break from being the best at everything. I had this urge to do something naughty, to revel in my bad side if such a side existed. Have you ever heard of the expression, be careful what you wish for? It was only a couple of days into the school break when I received an interesting letter in the mail....

     Back in primary school I had another friend whom I neglected to mention for a few different reasons. Her name was Sally and she had started at Xamill Primary a year after I did. Sally was really quite pretty but then again I had never seen her without a thick film of make up on her face. She wasn’t entirely thin but she had a certain curvature about her that drove the boys crazy. Let’s just say her ‘milkshake’s’ brought the boys to the yard. She wore her hair short, straight and black and she had really enchanting deep brown eyes which were illuminated even more by her dark eyeliner. Having that Queen Bee status in Primary School meant I was the first person to take Sally under my wing. I’m generally a good judge of character and there was something about her that drew me in. I learnt a lot from Sally during our friendship, more than I had ever learnt from my mum during our awkward birds and bee’s chats, or Sex-ed at school. Sally knew things. Oh, I mentioned my primary school crush dating two of my friends, Sally was one of them. It pained me to see the two of them together but I was never in a position to speak up about it. Randie was the most popular guy in our grade so stereo-typically he should have been with me, only I knew that if I caused any kind of confrontation, I was at risk of losing my popular status to Sally, and I would have died before I let that happen.

     Around the time the two of them were a couple, my sister and I were hanging out a bit more so she was often around at mum’s house. My sister is two years older than me and for some reason older women tend to appeal to younger boys. Mila was beautiful. I had always been jealous of Mila because she was born prettier. She was thin, tan and had gorgeous long brown hair. Sometimes I didn’t even believe that she was my sister because the two of us looked nothing alike. I was her polar opposite. She had tan skin, I was pale. She had dark brown eyes, I had crystal blue. She had beautiful long thick hair and mine would never grow past my shoulders. I remember the day I caught Randie cheating on Sally with Mila. I was put in an awkward situation because Sally was my best friend and I owed it to her to tell her what I knew, but then Mila was my sister and I knew it would cause complications. It just so happened that Randie decided he didn’t want to be tied down to a relationship anyway, so he broke up with Sally and unfortunately for Mila and me, he decided to be honest about why. In any event that ruined our friendship. It wasn’t me who had betrayed Sally personally, but she couldn’t be around me knowing what my sister had done so she left the school before our final year.

I hadn’t heard from her since that day, which is why I was surprised to find that she had written me a letter. The letter read:

‘Dear Bella. I wanted to write to you so that I could apologise for not speaking to you over these past two years. I want you to know that I don’t blame you for what happened with Randie, I don’t even blame your sister anymore. The two of us had an amazing friendship and I really miss your company. I hope that you can forgive me and that we can be friends again someday. If you feel the same way, you know where I live. Luv, Sal.’

I knew before even finishing the letter that I was going to forgive my old friend. I had wished for a little bit of excitement in my life and this was most definitely a sign from the big man upstairs.

     For the duration of the School holidays there wasn’t one moment that Sally and I spent apart. If I wasn’t at her place, she was at mine and it felt good to have her back in my life. After two weeks of rehashing the past, Sally began to flirt with the idea of transferring to Varlem Tophett High. I felt as though if she came to my school it was bound to be the answer to all of my problems. Sally was popular in her own right and whilst I wasn’t a confrontational person, she was, so I knew that Millee and her bitch friends wouldn’t be bothering me again anytime soon.

    The transfer ended up happening much faster than I anticipated and Sally was at my school before week two commenced. She and Renee picked up where they left off too and Sally also wasted no time making friends with the others. I felt unstoppable. I could see the looks and secret conversations Millee had with her friends whenever Sally and I would walk past. It rattled them and I enjoyed that immensely. They were now the one’s who were jealous. We had maybe gotten mid way through term three before Sally started to become a bad influence on me. Every now and again us girls would organize to have sleep over’s at each other’s houses. It just so happened that on this particular weekend the sleepover was to be at mine. I had invited Sally, Renee, Marley, Sarah and Becca. You may have noticed one name missing off the guest list. Pamela. I’m still not exactly sure what happened there, but somewhere along the line we drifted apart. We were all still friendly with her but she didn’t hang around with us as much, and we rarely ever saw her outside of school. Things were a lot more harmonious when she wasn’t around so I wasn’t exactly missing her friendship.

     It was a Saturday night and the six of us girls decided to walk down to the video store and hire a couple of movies to watch. A little bit of junk food, Coyote Ugly on replay and some good girl company was the only ingredients needed for a successful girl’s night in. On our way back from the store we were interrupted by a car full of teenage boys. The guys were yelling out derogatory things to me and my friends as we walked down a quiet back-street from my house, but I chose to ignore them. The other girls seemed to follow suit except for one in particular… Sally had a different approach.

‘Hi boys!’ She yelled out after them, seductively.

Of course receiving the attention they were after caused the driver to reverse in a reckless manner and push down hard on the brakes once they were level with us for the dramatic effect. The girls and I walked a little faster while Sally played into their hands some more. One of the passengers jumped out of the car and began walking with her whilst the driver sped away with the rest of them. There was no way in hell we were walking back to my house with a random.

‘Is she always so reckless?’ Marley whispered.

The five of us girls made some ground by speed-walking and we were now pretty far ahead of Sally and her new friend. I made sure to keep glancing back so that I knew she was okay, but she wasn’t afraid of being with the guy, nothing scared her.

‘Yeah she is.’ I answered.

Moments later the car came speeding back up the street again, and the guy with Sally jumped back into the car through the open window before the driver put his foot back on the gas and sped away once more. The girls and I slowed down so that Sally could catch up. I was still trying to process what had just happened.

‘What the hell?’ I couldn’t help myself.

‘What?’ She asked, grinning from ear to ear.

She had no shame.

‘Who was that, do you even know him?’ I pressed.

Sally laughed off my paranoia.

‘No, he was just some guy.’ She told us.

‘How old is he, do you know his name?’ I went on.

‘God Bella, what’s with the third degree? I don’t remember you ever being this uptight.’ She accused, embarrassing me in front of my friends.

‘Don’t you think that was a little reckless?’ I asked.

Sally didn’t answer this time but the smirk was still across her face.

‘How old is he?’ I asked again while the other girls remained suspiciously quiet.

‘He’s eighteen.’ She admitted.

My mouth dropped.

‘Eighteen? Does he know how old you are?’ I wondered.

‘I told him we were sixteen.’

She only effortlessly added three years to our real age. I shook my head and couldn’t help but laugh at her.

‘You are something else.’ I said.

‘Stop worrying. You’re going to have to get over it because I told him we’d go to his place tomorrow and have a few drinks.’

Going back to the, ‘my mum is a cool mum’ thing, she did let me drink. I wasn’t one to ever get absolutely plastered, I was thirteen, but from time to time she would let me finish off a beer, or maybe have a glass of champagne at a special occasion. I had never kicked back with a bunch of dudes and gotten completely wasted before though.

‘I’m sorry what?’ I asked, hearing her perfectly.

‘He only lives down the road and he seems like a really nice guy.’ She defended.

He didn’t look like a nice guy. He looked like a dero! From the glimpse I saw of him he had dirty un-brushed hair, was not clean-shaven, wore barely any clothes and apparently didn’t know what a pair of shoes was. The conversation didn’t escalate much from there once we reached my place again. I knew that the girls must have been thinking awful things about Sally and I really hoped they weren’t about to change their minds were our friendship was concerned.

The following morning after everyone had left; Sally pushed the idea of going to see this guy Joe.

‘Come on Bella, what’s the worst that can happen?’ She joked.

‘Don’t ginx us!’ I warned.

I do admit I often gave into her. I didn’t like being a spoil-sport and I think she knew it which is why she always got her way in the end. She remembered where Joe lived based on the instructions he gave her the day before. As we walked up the porch toward the front door I became really nervous. I had no idea what we were about to walk into. What if these guys were serial killers? Or rapists? I tried to shake off my nasty thoughts and give Joe the benefit of the doubt. Sally knocked softly on the front door and I stood slightly behind her, ready to leg it if need be. After the second knock we came to realize that no one was actually home. I breathed a sigh of relief and hoped that before we would get another opportunity to re-visit Joe, Sally would be over it. 

I was wrong.

[ff7-has-taken-me-over]

Omfg what about a Soap who gets rejected/slash hurt by Ghost, asks for a transfer (only for a bit) and then comes back with König???

Like Soap reckons if he just got some time away from Ghost, some time around some other people that aren’t constantly reminding him of the man that so ruthlessly crushed his heart, that he’ll be ok.

So he asks Price for a transfer, just a temporary one for a few months while he and lieutenant sort themselves out. Price is reluctant to do so, not wanting to split up his boys and worried about Soap and the dark rings sitting under red rimmed eyes. But it’s also that worry that let’s Soap transfer, cause the last thing he wants is for his boys to destroy each other from the inside out.

So Soap transfers to another unit for a while without notice. Well, without notice for Ghost because he thought the man wouldn’t give two shits if he disappeared. Everyone else knew though and they were all sad to see the man go, even if he was promised to come back eventually.

Ghost doesn’t realise the change at first since Johnny had been avoiding him for the last few weeks already. He didn’t blame the man, he had been a cunt to him on purpose after all cause he couldn’t deal with the thought of losing Johnny if he let himself fall in love with the man.

But then they got sent on a mission and it was the all hands on deck sort of thing. When Ghost takes a look around the plane and doesn’t see Soap he gets slightly worried, the man is always the first on board, chattering away to whoever will listen. Then the pilots are making final preps and Ghost panics just a little cause where the fuck is Soap?

It’s when the doors close that he makes his way to Price, eyes just a tad too wide under the mask as he glances around, “What about Johnny?”

Price gets this look in his face and Simon’s stomach drops. He’s seen the look only once and he doesn’t know if he can handle being told the same thing again. When did it even happen? Why did it happen? Why had nobody told him when they knew he was close to Johnny?

“He’s been transferred Lieutenant.” Ghost doesn’t know if he feels better or worse from hearing the words. There’s sharp relief that the man isn’t dead but then it’s overwhelmed by the fact that the Scot had been transferred and nobody bothered to tell him.

Price must see it in his face cause the man heaves a sigh, rubbing at his forehead before nodding at the seat next to him, “This isn’t the greatest time for this conversation but I know you won’t be able to focus proper until you know why.”

Simon feels small under the analysis, something about being so well known by someone always sitting weird in his gut when he put too much thought into it.

“Sergeant Mctavish has been transferred to KorTac for the next four months under his own request. He’ll be back by the end of that time period but until then there will be no comms between us. They’ve got their own missions to run.”

Price didn’t say it but Simon knows he’s the reason behind Johnny’s transfer. Knows that the only reason the Scot isn’t with them is because Ghost got fucking scared and decided it’d be easier to hurt the other man now rather than let himself get hurt in the long run. And Ghost hates himself for it.

“Bring him back Price.” The captain shook his head, regret and a slight bit of disappointment in his face as he spoke.

“Can’t do that lieutenant. The paperwork’s been done and the sergeants been gone for a week now. If I pulled him now it’d look bad for all of us, not to mention KorTac’s mission could go sideways if they were suddenly down a man.”

Ghost wants to scream. Wants to yell and rage and demand the captain bring Johnny back to where he belongs but he knows that’s not going to fix anything. Knows that it was all his fault anyway and the last thing he wants is for the entire plane to know just how much he fucked up.

Price sighs quietly, hand coming to briefly rest on his shoulder before he speaks, “Simon. I know you feel bad about what happened but there’s nothing to be done now. You just… wait it out.”

Ghost can do nothing but grit his teeth and nod cause it’s not like there’s any other choice.

*4 months later*

Ghost had been going out of his mind waiting for the time to pass. Without Johnny’s constant noise and seeking him out it felt like a Millenia just for a single day to pass by. But now the 4 months are up and everything can go back to normal.

Was it naïve and way too hopeful to wish for things to just return to how it was? Definitely. But Ghost couldn’t help himself, he desperately wanted things to go to before then. Before he had fucked up and hurt Johnny so badly. He just wanted his sergeant to smile at him and share thoughtless affection like he always had.

He’s out on the tarmac with Price, the both of them waiting for Soap’s heli to land. Ghost is practically vibrating out of his skin with how much he’s resisting to immediately run toward the aircraft. All desire to do so stops when some tall as fuck soldier gets out of the heli first, sniper’s hood obscuring his face from view and causing Ghost to wonder at who the hell that is.

But then Johnny’s getting out and Simon forgets all about the other man, eyes fixated on the smile the Scot wears and the way his mouth parts in what Simon knows to be a laugh.

Then he’s turning toward him and his smile gets wider, arm coming up to wave at them briefly before he starts making his way over, the tall guy following a step behind.

When Soap makes it to them he pulls Price into a firm hug, patting at his back as he greets the man with short jabs and a friendly smile. When Johnny pulls back he smiles at Ghost but somethings not quite right about it, “Nice seeing you Ghost.”

The lieutenant frowns beneath the mask, giving his own short greeting as Johnny turns slightly to introduce the other man with him. Ghost doesn’t notice though cause he’s too fixated on why this whole interaction felt so wrong.

There’s something different about how Johnny’s acting, something missing when he looks at Ghost and he can’t put his finger on it.

“This is König. He looked after me during my transfer and was suggested to transfer here as a way of… building, relations.” Soap shot Price a rather pointed look, the two of them having a silent conversation that Simon couldn’t quite figure out.

Eventually their captain sighed and the smile that broke out across Soap’s face was blinding, “Welcome to the team then König. Our boy here will show you around.”

König nodded, saying something that Ghost couldn’t quite make out with the static running through his ears cause Johnny wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the new guy with a look he was all to familiar with.

[scotianostra]

Today in Scottish history, 13th August 1888, John Logie Baird, inventor of the first television, was born in Helensburgh.

On a day that looks quiet for anniversaries, thank god for John Logie Baird, a post I could get my teeth into!

We all know what he is famous for so I thought I would give more details about his life and other inventions from this very influential Scot. I will delve into his memoirs as he describes his ventures himself.......

When World War I began in 1914 Baird tried to join the Army, but was unfit. So he worked in a factory. He did not like it, and felt sorry for factory workers. He went into business on his own, hoping to get rich.Baird sold medicines. He invented a shaving razor made of glass (so it would not rust).

He also knew that the trenches of WW1 meant soldiers were constantly in muddy and wet conditions. They could not change their socks as often as they would like and this led to an infection known as "trench foot". If it was left untreated it could result in amputation. So he "invented" the Baird Undersock, which promised to keep the feet of soldiers in perfect health.

His marketing of the product contained what he claimed to be "testimonials" from soldiers serving on the western front. One from Corporal H.G. Roberts said: "I find the Baird Undersocks keep my feet in splendid condition out here in France. Foot trouble is one of our worst enemies, but, thanks to the Baird Undersock, mine are in the 'pink', and I think they should be supplied to all soldiers." The product was so successful that it allowed him to give up his job as assistant mains engineer, supervising the repair of electrical breakdowns for the Clyde Valley Electric Power Company.

It was a job he described in his memoirs as "sordid miserable work, punctuated by repeated colds and influenza". He was also dabbling in electronics, he once  he attempted to produce artificial diamonds by passing an enormous current through a stick of graphite!

In his memoirs he wrote

"Diamonds are created in nature by subjecting carbon to a very high pressure and a very high temperature. I thought I might get these conditions artificially by electrically exploding a rod of carbon embedded in concrete. I got a thick carbon bar and filed it down into a thin rod in the centre, then I attached a wire to each end and embedded the whole thing in a large iron pot. I connected the wires to a switch which, when closed, put them straight across the power station bus bars. My idea was to pass a stupendous sudden current through the carbon so as to generate enormous heat and pressure. I chose a good time and then, when no-one was about, closed the switch. There was a dull thud from the pot, a cloud of smoke, and then the main current breaker tripped and the whole of the power supply went off. I had anticipated this and soon got it going again, but I did not get my wires away quickly enough and unpleasant explanations followed. Thereafter I was regarded as a dangerous character and, in the general unpleasantness, I forgot about the pot and it disappeared. Perhaps it is today lying in some forgotten rubbish heap, a pot of cement with priceless diamonds embedded in it."

His sock business was doing very well. It was booming but it was a one-man business and when he disappeared for six weeks the business disappeared too. The reason was he was once again hit with one of his very bad colds so he just closed it down at that point and discovered that at the end of the day he had got something like £1,600 in the bank.

He was not a fit man and his doctor told him he needed sunshine. So Baird went to the island of Trinidad in the Caribbean. He started a factory making jam and pickles! People passing Baird’s house were puzzled. What were those strange flashing lights? Baird was busy with experiments. He was trying to send pictures through the air!

In 1923, he moved back to the UK, he still had all these ideas in his head and a work ethic that made him want to succeed in business, his next venture was making soap, I say soap, but it was a very cheap version of it and wasn't very good, with the soap came other cleaning solutions for around the home, again I delve into his memoirs where he write.....

"One day a very vulgar and ferociously angry woman banged her way into the office. She carried a small infant, pulled its clothes over its head and thrust a raw and inflamed posterior into my face. The poor child looked like a boiled lobster. The wretched woman had washed the infant in a strong solution of "Baird's Speedy Cleaner". I calmed her down and pointed out that the Speedy Cleaner was a powerful scouring soap for floors and ship decks, and not a toilet soap for infants."

Again came  ill-health, he sold businesses and moved to Hastings coughing, choking and spluttering, and so thin as to be almost transparent [Ref 2, page 44]. He concluded that he needed to invent something. Glass razor blades were a possibility, but his experiments resulted in a badly cut face. He also considered pneumatic-soled shoes.

"I got a pair of very large boots, and put inside them two partially inflated balloons, and then very carefully inserted my feet, laced up the boots and set off on a short trial run. I walked a hundred yards in a succession of drunken and uncontrollable lurches followed by a few delighted urchins, till the demonstration was brought to an end by one of my tyres bursting"

One day he wrote to a friend, ‘I have invented a means of seeing by wireless [radio]’. His friend said, 'stick to soap’! But Baird had always dreamed of creating a television, this was no easy feat as he didn't have any sponsors and so had little cash to try and invent one. So, he scrounged whatever material he could find. Everything from glue to string to cardboard to even a bicycle lamp to create the very first TV. It wasn't without its failures though, as you would expect, to succeed with television he realised that more light was essential. He tried to produce this by wiring up a network of batteries. This led to a 2000 volt electrocution and explosion, which could have cost him his life, he wrote......

"The next day I bought several hundred flash lamp batteries and began to realise my dream of a 2000 volt power supply, by joining sufficient dry batteries end to end - a formidable task. Some days later I had finished this and was connecting the supply to some part of the cobweb of wiring when my attention wandered and I received the full force of the 2000 volts through my hands. It was amply sufficient to cause death, but I was lucky, for a few seconds I was twisted into a knot in helpless agony and then fortunately fell over backwards, breaking the circuit and saving my life. But I shall never forget the agony of those few seconds. Electrocution must be a terrible death."

Not surprisingly, this led to eviction by his landlord and a return to London to 22 Frith Street, Soho in November that year he tried to drum up some publicity for his idea of the Television, he managed to get a meeting with the Daily Express newspaper.......

"After a short delay I was ushered into a small room and the editor (at least I thought it was the editor) came hurrying to see me. "Are you interested in a machine for television - seeing by wireless?" I said. "Seeing by wireless?" said the "editor", a little taken aback. "Oh yes," said I, "an apparatus that will let you see the people who are being broadcast by the BBC or speaking on the telephone." "Astounding," said the gentleman, "I am very busy at a meeting, but I'll get one of my colleagues to take the story, very interesting," and he vanished out of the door.

In a few minutes a large brawny individual came in, listened sympathetically and with great interest to my tale, assured me that it was a first call story and advised me to be sure to get a copy of next day's Express, where I would get a first class show on the front page. And so with a cordial handshake he saw me off the premises.

Nothing whatever appeared in the Express and it was only some years after that I got the inside story from the brawny individual himself. The day I called he was sitting in the press room when one of the assistant editors came running in. "For God's sake, Jackson, go down to the reception room and get rid of a lunatic who is there. He says he's got a machine for seeing by wireless. Watch him carefully, he may have a razor hidden."

In 1924, Baird successfully transmitted flickering images of a Maltese cross for a distance of about 10 feet. He now knew his idea would work and on 2nd October, 1925 - success!

"Funds were going down, the situation was becoming desperate and we were down to our last £30 when at last, one Friday in the first week of October 1925, everything functioned properly. The image of the dummy's head [Stooky Bill] formed itself on the screen with what appeared to me almost unbelievable clarity. I had got it! I could scarcely believe my eyes and felt myself shaking with excitement.

I ran down the little flight of stairs to Mr Cross's office and seized by the arm his office boy William Taynton, hauled him upstairs and put him in front of the transmitter. I then went to the receiver only to find the screen a blank. William did not like the lights and the whirring discs and had withdrawn out of range. I gave him half a crown and pushed his head into position. This time he came through and on the screen I saw the flickering but clearly recognisable image of William's face - the first face seen by television - and he had to be bribed with half a crown for the privilege of achieving this distinction"

The world's first television broadcast!

The next year, Baird transmitted sound and images over 400 miles, from Glasgow to London, a remarkable feat! In 1928 the pictures were sent all the way to the USA, a feat many believe only became possible when satellites started being sent above the Earth 30 years later, the same year Baird gave us the world's first colour television pictures, again, many think this was a more modern innovation.

He looked west and in 1931 sailed to the USA, writing as the ship neared its destination...

"As the boat approached New York harbour I was surprised to see on the Pier a body of Highland pipers marching up and down with great elan to the skirl of the pipes. These wretched men proved to be a gang of comic opera pipers from the Ziegfield Follies. A misguided but enthusiastic American publicity agent had arranged to give me a real Scottish reception."

His many other inventions were in fields such as radar, fibre optics, and infrared night viewing.

Today Australian TV awards are called Logies in his honour.  

He was, simply,  one of Scotland’s greatest engineers.

You can read the whole timeline on this PDF with more snippets from Bairds own memoirs http://www.helensburgh-heritage.co.uk/pdfs/John_Logie_Baird_A_Life.pdf