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writing-for-marvel · 1 year

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Heartburn

[He’s Hazardous To My Health Series]

Paramedic!Bucky Barnes x Resident!Fem!Reader

< < PART 4 | Series Masterlist | PART 6 > >

Summary: You hadn’t expected to meet Bucky’s family so soon, let alone in your hospital.

Warnings: strictly 18+, TRIGGER WARNING mention of a child dying from an epileptic seizure, mention of child abuse, mention of someone dying from alcoholism/liver cancer, minor character has a heart attack, CPR including chest compressions is depicted, mention of surgery, angst, fluff, implied smut, please note this is a medical AU which is set in a emergency room

Word count: 5.1k

A/N: sorry if the pacing is a little off in this one, I had a vision but I’m not sure it’s actually come together all that well. We finally learn about Bucky’s past in this one! Banners by @vase-of-lilies

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It’s the irritating beeping sound of a phone alarm that pulls you from your dreamland with a start.

For a minute you’re disoriented, even though you recognise the surroundings as your own bedroom. Only a second ago it seems you were cuddled up next to Bucky on your couch, head on his shoulder and fingers intertwined as reruns of The Office played in front of your tired eyelids.

Now, his large form reaches across to the bedside table to quickly shut off his alarm, the muscles in his bare back tensing with the stretch.

“Sorry darling, got an early shift and my uniform is back at my place.” The apology spoken in his hoarse morning voice is coupled with a soft kiss to your forehead which is sweet, but not quite enough recompense for the price of being woken up extra early.

Even though you’ve just woken up, probably looking puffy, bleary eyed and like a unshowered mess, Bucky’s gaze is still filled with wonder and tenderness, as if, even in this state, you’re still the most exquisite person he’s ever laid eyes on and he can’t quite believe he gets to wake up beside you.

He holds you into his warm, musky scented, hairy chest for a long minute, wherein you almost fall back to sleep listening to the steady beat of his heart, until he covertly attempts to remove his arms from around you, aiming to leave you to continue to rest alone in bed.

“No, don’t go.” You mumble in protest, reaching out to grab hold of his burly frame. Bucky’s strong enough to pull away from you if he really wanted, but it’s clear he doesn’t when even the drowsy grasp you have on him is adequate to prevent him from leaving your bed.

Bucky snuggles back into your embrace and a soft, loving smile spreads over your sleepy features which induces his heart to melt into warm honey in his chest. This is where he’s meant to be.

In a decades time, reflecting back he’s not going to remember everyday he turned up to work on time, but he will reminisce on these stolen moments with you.

For so long being a paramedic has been his purpose. That after everything he’s suffered through he poured his soul into helping other people to give him a reason to keep going.

But perhaps now he can instead be a little selfish. Open up his heart, which has been under lock and key, and indulge in the rapture and ardour that you seem to instinctively induce within him, even if there is a threat of eventual heartache.

After years of drifting lost at sea, he’s finally found a safe haven with you. And he doesn’t plan on doing anything to jeopardise that. He’d inflict life threatening pain on himself before allowing any hurt to come to you.

Bucky kisses you, pulling your pelvis flush with his as you swing your leg lazily over his thigh. It’s far from the perfect kiss, noses bumping, lips lethargic, unbrushed teeth and morning breath, but to Bucky it’s impeccable and unforgettable because it’s a kiss shared with you the first morning you’re waking up beside each other.

When your hands slip below the elastic of his sweatpants, Bucky knows he’s going to be late for his shift, but that hardly seems important when he gets to spend these extra moments with you.

Besides, he knows Steve will cover for him.

Right now, he’s just focused on satisfying his girl.

* * *

“Alright, I need to know everything about your date last night.” Typically this was a sentence Wanda spoke to you after a night spent with Bucky, but was now coming from your mouth directed at her.

It had been a relatively slow day in the ER. All patients were stable and you were caught up on paperwork, so you finally had the opportunity to interrogate Wanda about her first date with the anaesthesiologist she met last week - Vis, she had called him.

“A girl doesn’t kiss and tell.” She teases with a smirk, which tells you exactly how her night ended. You remember saying something of a similar vein after your first date with Bucky.

“Are you gonna see him again?” You prompt, wanting far more information about your friend’s love life than she was letting on.

“He’s already booked us in for Per Se this weekend.” You can see the excitement she’s failing to hide in her beaming smile which gets reciprocated on your own features.

“Oh, fancy! How did you manage to score that reservation after just one date?” You ask with raised brows and Wanda just smirks.

“I can do amazing things with my mouth.”

All of a sudden there’s a commotion over by the other side of the ER which pulls everyone’s attention. Bursting through the double doors from the ambulance bay is a gurney with a patient and a paramedic atop performing rhythmic chest compressions.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a strange sight to see in an ER, in fact, it’s a daily occurrence in your experience. However, what you do find peculiar is the sight of a familiar broad paramedic with long chestnut hair performing CPR even though you know for a fact his shift finished hours prior.

Something close to terror rises like steam from a burning hole in your stomach. You can see by the pure panic lining Bucky’s features as he screams instructions that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Time seems to stand still as you watch the scene play out in front of you - Bucky continues compressions as they wheel the gurney past you towards the surgical wing. From your position you get a glimpse of a middle aged woman with the same colour hair as Bucky unconscious on the stretcher.

One of the ER doctors you don’t know very well offers to take over CPR but Bucky glowers at him and proceeds anyway. It’s not until Dr Strange approaches with his surgical team that a helpless melancholy overcomes Bucky’s demeanour and you immediately want to wrap him in an endless hug.

They exchange some words before Bucky shouts despondently “she’s my mother!” Your already bruised heart crumbles into a million tiny pieces on the floor in front of you. Dr Carter takes over from Bucky’s role as he steps off the gurney, wanting to follow the team into the OR but Strange stops him with a hand to strapping chest.

“This is as far as you go Barnes.” You hear him command flatly, and when Bucky opens his mouth to argue like you knew he would, Strange cuts him off. “We’ll do the best we can.” Stephen remarks in his quintessential vague and unpromising statement before following his team into the surgical wing. Knowing how superior Stephen’s best is, this utterance generally makes you feel confident about a patient's outcome, but this time, when the patient is someone so close to a person you care deeply about, it provides no comfort.

The short paramedic who arrived with Bucky, perhaps driving the ambulance, observes him with sorrowful, sympathetic eyes. She reaches out to him, looking as if she’s trying to find the right comforting words, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice. He instead searches you out in the crowd of people who had gathered at the incident, finding you almost instantly, and with a few large strides has his arms wrapped tightly around your middle and his head tucks into the crook of your neck.

“I’m so sorry baby.” You whisper in his ear while on the tips of your toes, the ends of his long hair tickling your jawline. As you rub slow circles over his back a wretched sob bubbles up in his throat and his whole body starts heaving as he cries. “I’m right here, Buck.”

You feel his clutch on the back of your scrubs tighten as he continues to weep, your chest tightening knowing that as much as you may want to, there is nothing you can do to take the weight of this catastrophic misery from him.

“I can’t lose her too.” He cries in a barely intelligible stammer. Your heart cracks at the implication of too, instinctively pulling him closer in your embrace, tears welling in your own eyes at seeing your strong and cheeky Bucky face such overwhelming anguish. “Please, I can’t lose her too.” He repeats in a blubber with a hefty sniff, pulling back to gaze at you with imploring eyes, as if begging you to promise that she will live.

At this moment all you want is to ease his suffering, but you know as a physician you can't make that promise. Statistics are not in her favour. Your hand intuitively comes up to cup his face, thumb wiping the stream of tears flowing from the corner of his eye.

“I know, Buck. C’mere, let’s go to an on-call room where you can lie down.” The sea of people who had been silently staring at the scene of Bucky breaking down part for you to move through, though not before you throw incensed glares at those who were observing Bucky’s moment of grief.

You keep your arm steadily around Bucky’s muscular back as you both lead him through the maze of the hospital, towards where you know the nearest on-call room is due to your carnal activities weeks before, and keep him upright.

You shut the door behind you and lead Bucky to the small bed, his movements stemming from you prompting him - you suspect he’s too caught up in distraught thoughts to even recognise where he is.

Sitting with your back against the pillows, you gently pull Bucky up to your chest. His large frame is heavy and pushes you further into the mattress, but it’s a welcome, comforting embrace.

That morning, cuddled up in bed in a similar manner to now feels like a lifetime ago. You stay like that for a while, Bucky’s tears dampening your scrubs. It’s raw, observing someone you care for in such a vulnerable, impuissant state. You’re not entirely sure what Bucky needs right now, you’re still yet to learn so much about one another, but just being present seems to be sufficient for the moment.

With a sniffle Bucky clears his throat and finally speaks.

“She just collapsed, I stopped by her place after my shift. One second she was fine, talking and laughing, then the next unconscious on the floor.” He explained, slightly muffled into your chest as you stroked his hair in soothing motions.

“Thankfully you were with her.” You comment, dreading to think what would have happened if he had arrived too late, but realising that it probably isn’t any consolation to the person whose mother is currently fighting for her life.

You return to comfortable silence, your hand combing through strands of his hair, already having learnt that he enjoys having his hair played with. He shuffles so that your legs interlace, which helps you pull him closer.

“You’re probably wondering what I meant by her too.” Bucky gauges, and though you were intrigued by the insinuation of his phrasing, you also understand that it’s none of your business.

“Bucky, you don’t have to go into that now. You can tell me when you’re ready, or not at all if it makes you uncomfortable.” You utter softly into his hairline before peppering a few kisses along his forehead to his temple.

“I want you to know.” He urges, and though you’re not sure it’s the right time for him to detail any previous suffering or trauma he’s had to endure, you’re also not in a position to pick an argument with him. You’re all ears for whatever he wishes to share in such a vulnerable moment. “I trust you.” There’s a weight to these words that you enjoy bearing, that for Bucky there’s not many people who have the privilege of earning his trust and this heavy responsibility is an honour rather than a burden.

Bucky takes a deep breath, his bottom lip quivering. You stroke his hair again and when he gazes up at you it feels like you’re holding your entire world in your hands.

“Sorry, I haven’t had to explain this to someone in a long time.” He apologises needlessly.

“Take your time.”

He gulps down the lump forming in his throat before he starts.

“I had a baby sister.” He simply states. I can’t lose her too, echoing in your mind in Bucky’s distraught, desperate voice and every nerve in your body fires with despair.

He lost his baby sister.

Overcoming saying those five words aloud takes him a moment, but you remain patient. Even if that’s all the explanation he is to give, that wouldn’t matter to you, you already believe him to be the strongest person you know.

“She was five years younger than me, and besides Steve, was my best friend. You think I’m cheeky, well Becca was ten times worse.” He says with a reminiscent chuckle. You continue to rub steady circles over his sturdy back as his head rests on your chest. “She was only nine when it happened. She had epilepsy and one day when we were home alone she started having a seizure. I did everything I was taught to do in that situation, but she still didn’t make it. It took the ambulance over 30 minutes to get there. You’re a doctor, I’m sure you can put the pieces together.”

Sometimes being a physician and having intimate medical knowledge about what exactly was happening to a person felt like a punishment rather than a blessing. Being able to visualise precisely was happening in her body during her last moments and the medical reasons why she passed away even though a fourteen year old Bucky did everything he could to prevent it was knowledge you didn’t wish to have in this moment.

“I blamed myself for the longest time, I still do occasionally.” He comments and your chest constricts at the vision of a teenage Bucky thinking he was the reason his little sister died. You pull him even closer to you, your cheek brushing the top of his head.

“You would have done everything you could, James. I’m sure Becca knows that.” Bucky looks up at you with a combination of bewilderment and admiration, overly appreciative of the blind faith you’ve placed in him.

“My dad blamed me for it. Becca was always his favourite. Daddy’s little girl.” His voice is demure, so different to the brash, confident man you met in the ER. But part of you feels appreciative he can be vulnerable with you, that he can be truthful to his pain when you’re together instead of putting on a facade. “He took that grief and anger out on me and my mom after that. Told me he wished I was the child of his that died. She left him after that, and I barely saw him from then on. Didn’t fight her for custody, didn’t even want shared custody, he was completely fine with never seeing me again. He drank himself to death - got liver cancer and died just before my twenty-first birthday.”

Though it felt malevolent to wish harm on someone who had been through the horrendous pain of losing their daughter, you couldn’t help the sense of warm contentment filling your chest that Bucky’s father cannot hurt him anymore. What a vile thing to say to your own son.

“What happened is not your fault. It was devastating and so very unfortunate, but the blame does not lie with you. Don’t you ever believe for a moment that your fathers words are true.” He chokes out a sob and for a few long minutes you simply stay cuddled up to each other in the small on-call bed.

“You remember on our first date when you asked why I became a paramedic?” He finally breaks the silence with a raspy voice. You hum in affirmation. “This is why. I wanted to make sure no one else had to go through what my family did. That no one would lose a loved one because the help they needed didn’t arrive in time.”

You recall the day you met Bucky, carrying seven year old Sasha into the ER, a tear trickling down his cheek as she was wheeled off for her scan. You had always believed the tear was born from thinking she was in pain - but now, you contemplate that instead it was a happy tear, that against all odds he had successfully pulled a young girl from the train wreckage and she was getting the help she needed. Aid that never got to his sister.

“Ma and Steve are the only family I have left. I’m not ready to lose her.” You want to tell him that he will always have you too, but considering he’s known you for such a short time compared to his actual family and childhood best friend, it feels like an empty gesture.

“You want me to go check on her? I have surgical wing privileges, I could-”

“No, please, I need you here.” His embrace becomes suffocatingly tight to prevent you from leaving, and you reassure him with a kiss.

“Okay. I’m not going anywhere.” Bucky pulls the covers around the two of you, perhaps as an added layer you would have to fight to leave this room, so you repeat your statement, followed by placing a stream of kisses over his damp cheeks.

It becomes a warm cocoon as the two of you snuggle, Bucky’s large hands snaking under your shirt to rest on the expanse of your back, saying he just wants to feel close to you, the feel of your bare skin in a chaste circumstance seems to lower his previously pounding heart rate.

It’s not long until there is a knock on the door of the on-call room. You and Bucky exchange worried glances knowing this is it. You can sense Bucky’s apprehension in opening the door, so with a look asking for permission, and a slight nod from him, you twist the door handle.

It’s Dr Strange on the other side. You suspect Wanda had clued him into your whereabouts.

“She’s alive.” He states, knowing that key piece of information is all you care about, and you feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off your shoulders. You can’t imagine how Bucky must feel.

He pulls you into his chest in a bone crunching hug, happy tears now leaking from the corners of his eyes, relief buoyant in your chest at seeing your man with a smile on his face once again.

You don’t retain much more information after hearing this news. You note Stephen mentioning Winnifred had suffered a heart attack, and that they placed a couple of stents but you don’t absorb anything further.

You follow Dr Strange to her recovery room hand in hand. Bucky’s hold on your much smaller hand remains tight, though you can feel the trembling of his fingers. In response, you rub your thumb over the smooth skin of the back of his hand.

When you arrive, you observe an unconscious Mrs Barnes through the open cubicle curtain. Bucky breathes a sigh of relief next to you. Though still under the effects of anaesthesia, she is alive, and you have to be thankful for that much.

Stephen leaves you to wait for her to wake up, and glancing around, you recognise a few of the nurses who have done shifts in the ER give you sympathetic smiles.

Bucky takes a moment to observe and come to terms with his mother looking fragile in a hospital bed, wires connecting to machines attached to all parts of her body. He seems afraid to enter the room at the same time as looking grateful that she is still with him.

He takes a tentative step closer to the room, however you stay firmly where you are, the tension from your joined hands giving away your reluctance to invade his mothers privacy.

“Buck, I don’t think she’ll want a stranger in there with her at a time like this.” You comment, concerned about intruding into a personal, confidential space of a stranger. It wouldn’t be a good first impression if she kicked you out before you could even introduce yourself.

“But I need you.”

And that’s all it takes.

Bucky needs you, so nothing else matters.

Still somewhat grudgingly you follow Bucky into the private hospital room, but his beaming smile directed at you as you sit beside him, legs slung over his thick thighs, hands intertwined, is reward enough for facing that anxiety.

Besides, that is nothing compared to what Bucky faced today.

By the time Winnifred finally regains consciousness it’s been a long day - having been woken up early with Bucky and the carnal activities performed in your bedroom before either of you started your shifts, to the emotional rollercoaster since he entered your ER, but you’re still smiling and joking with each other until she awakens.

“Ma!” Bucky jumps up, worry filling his eyes as she groans, adjusting her position in bed. “Try not to move. You’ve just come out of surgery.”

“Surgery?” Winnifred takes in her clinical surroundings, surprise and dread brimming her eyes as she recognises the type of bed she’s in, pulse oximeter connected to her finger, blood pressure cuff strapped to her arm.

“The doctor will explain everything, but right now you just need your rest.” Bucky instructs, taking her hand in his and gently stroking her arm comfortingly. She gazes up at Bucky like he’s her entire world, and given everything she’s had to endure in her life, you can imagine that’s probably not far from the truth.

Her eyes land on you for the first time, and she tries to push herself up in bed but that only results in her grimacing, clearly in pain.

“Are you the doctor?”

“I am a doctor, but I’m not your doctor. I can get them for you though.” You offer but she immediately shakes her head, as if you haven’t properly interpreted her question.

“No, I mean James’ girlfriend, the doctor?”

You pause for a brief moment - the most you and Bucky had discussed your relationship was that you weren’t sleeping with other people, but had never confirmed that you are officially dating. You didn’t want to scare him off by putting a label on what you are. Hearing ‘Bucky’s girlfriend’ spoken out loud makes it very real all of a sudden, but it’s a title you want to possess.

“Yes, I’m James’ girlfriend.” You confirm, meeting Bucky’s tender gaze from beside you. He slings his arm around you, cheeks rosy from blushing, pulling you closer into his side, kissing the top of your head as Winnifred observes you both with a besotted smile.

You introduce yourself and Winnie, which she requests you call her, already has a million questions about where you grew up, your family, how you met her James, and why you got into medicine. You gladly answer them all, immediately seeing the joy it brings her that Bucky has a partner that cares about him as much as you do. You suspect it’s also a good diversion for her while nurses come in, poke and prod her and take vitals.

The sun sets outside the hospital but Winnie’s spirits are high when visiting hours come to an end. Bucky is adamant that he sleeps on the makeshift window bed in his moms room so that he can be there for her during the first days of her recovery. You offer to take care of Alpine, his mischievous snowy white cat, while he focuses on being with his mom.

Bucky insists he walks you out, even though you’re adamant he should stay with his mom. When you leave her room, Bucky all of a sudden looks nervous, and worry churns in your stomach.

“I know we said we weren’t putting labels on this-” He motions between you with an anxious look in his eye, as if he’s overstepped and is frantically trying to explain his rationale, “but ‘girlfriend’ was just the easiest way to explain it to her. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Bucky.” You say to stop his nervous ranting. You take both of his hands, intertwining fingers, and a shaky breath leaves his lips as he swallows the myriad of words on his tongue. “I want to be your girlfriend - I didn’t say it just to appease your mom. I kinda thought we were already there to be honest, but I don’t want to push you to take this quicker than you’re ready for.”

“I’m ready.” He whispers with a subliminal nod. “I’ve never been someone’s boyfriend before.” He admits sheepishly, but it’s honestly adorable. This tall, burly man, whose size would intimidate most, is nervous to admit he’s never had a girlfriend. Something of pride blooms in your chest that you get the honour of being Bucky’s first ever girlfriend.

Hopefully his only ever girlfriend.

“Aww, I’m your first?” You stand on the tips of your toes and place a delicate kiss to his chapped lips as you tease him. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Affection twinkles in his eyes. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to his deep, steel blues observing you like you hang the stars and the moon in the night sky. Bucky leans down, encircling your waist with his strong arms as he kisses you with ardour.

“You are far from my first…” He mumbles against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip and pulling it lightly, “but you’re the only one that matters.”

You kiss him again, arms around his neck pulling him down to you. You’re dangerously addicted to the taste of him, the way his lips move against yours and how his tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it.

Ensuring that you get safely to your car this late at night, Bucky walks you all the way there, giving you another kiss before making sure you lock your car door and promise to text him when you get to his place to pick up Alpine and when you finally get home.

He watches as you pull your car out of the lot, until you’re completely out of sight.

Warmth spreads through the pit of your stomach even though you’re driving away from him, remembering Wanda’s warning before going on your first date with him. No one gets a second date with Bucky Barnes.

No one except you. And now you’re officially his girlfriend.

* * *

Walking back into his mom’s hospital room, Bucky’s surprised to find her still sitting up in bed with a bright smile plastered on her face. If he didn’t know any better, he wouldn’t have known she was ill at all.

“James.” Winnie pats the edge of her bed, motioning for Bucky to sit beside her. “She makes you happy?”

Bucky perches himself where his mother suggested and takes her hand in both of his, overly grateful to have her still with him. He kisses the back of her hand as he thinks of his response - not because he’s uncertain of his answer, you make him astonishingly happy, more than he has been in living memory, but because the extent of that delight is difficult to put into words.

“Incredibly so.” Is what he comes up with, though it feels incomplete and deficient of the precise devotion his heart already feels for you.

His mother, however, seems content with the answer for she clasps her hands together and hums with excitement.

“My boy, I never thought I’d see the day where you would finally let yourself be happy.” She takes a delicate hand and cups his face. Her eyes are filled with overwhelming joy, and Bucky suspects as happy as she is for him, she is also using it as a distraction from her current circumstance.

He didn’t think he’d ever open his heart and allow someone to own it as he has done with you. His greatest fear is being hurt like that again - being crushed by grief like a car in a compactor until he’s a shell of the person he was.

You have this uncanny ability to bring out the true jocular and jovial personality his mother would recognise from before bereavement overtook his life.

He’s already decided that he cannot for the life of him lose you. That if this doesn’t work out with you, he will shut his heart off from the rest of the world for good this time. You’re the only person he’s interested in giving his heart to, if his life can’t be shared with you, then he’ll have to find a way to be content on his own.

“So, can I be expecting grandbabies anytime soon?” Winnie asks in a teasing voice which makes Bucky’s cheeks flush. There isn’t any doubt where Bucky and Becca got their cheeky nature from.

“Ma, we’re definitely not there yet.” He shakes his head urgently but his mom just chuckles.

“Do you love her?”

Bucky pauses. It’s a yes or no question, and yet the answer certainly isn’t that simple.

Can you love someone who you’ve barely known for a month?

Probably not. At least, not in the way his mom is most likely probing about. He’s not even sure if his heart will allow himself to feel that way about someone. But there’s a flutter in his chest and a warmth in the pit of his stomach every time he so much as thinks about you that suggests he’s already begun falling.

“I think I could - I think I will.” He amends which promotes a smile to blossom on his moms face.

“She’s good for you.” It fills Bucky’s stomach with butterflies that his mom has only observed the two of you together for such a short time, and yet still holds this view. “Makes you genuinely laugh like when you were a little boy. I haven’t heard that beautiful sound in such a long time.”

They both have tears in their eyes now, and after the emotional upheaval of the day, Bucky is barely holding on from breaking down again.

“I don’t plan on letting her go, Ma.”

Part 6 > >

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darkmaga-retard · 1 month

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Prominent doctors have been stripped of their medical certifications by the American Board of Internal Medicine (ABIM) after they questioned the safety and efficacy of Covid mRNA shots.

Drs. Pierre Kory and Paul Marik had their certifications revoked last week following a two-year investigation.

Aside from raising concerns about Covid mRNA injections, the doctors had openly supported the use of ivermectin and hydroxychloroquine as treatments for the virus.

In addition to Kory and Marik, another doctor also said her certification was revoked without her knowledge.

After their certifications were revoked, the corporate media used the ruling to attack the doctors, accusing them of spreading “misinformation.”

According to The Washington Post, the two physicians continued “to promote ivermectin, an anti-parasitic medication, as a treatment for Covid long after the medical community found it to be ineffective.”

However, despite the claims from the Post, multiple studies have found that the Nobel prize-winning “wonder drug” is effective in treating Covid and several other life-threatening diseases, including cancer.

Kory and Marik are co-founders of the Front Line COVID-19 Critical Care Alliance (FLCCC).

The FLCCC promotes alternative treatments for Covid.

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yaskie · 5 months

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This video is also uploaded on TIKTOK Ko-fi Website: Click Here

A continuous battle and I am scared(URGENT) - you can click on the image to direct you to the Ko-Fi Site.

Dear Friends, Right now I feel despair, and hopelessness. And I feel so tired. I deeply apologize for tagging you all again, please don't get mad. I just really needed help.😢😢 I just got my life back, and recently recovered from my debts from my previous battle in between 2021 and mid 2023. I really felt so ashamed in writing this, because I am avoiding as much as I can to ask help financially again.

You were there for me during my darkest hours, and for that, I will be eternally grateful. But now, I find myself in a situation more dire than ever before, and I am trembling with fear as I implore you to lend me your aid once again.

The video you see attached to this post is a painful reminder of the recent loss I've endured. Uncle Dindo joined our creator last March 24, 2024, after battling Stage 4 Lung Cancer for a month. His passing has left a void in our souls, and also drowned us in debts too. I am helping with expenses as much as I can, that it also drowned me. My Father died of the same illness as well. I made a post more than a month ago with the Title: FIGHTING AGAINST CANCER sadly we still have zero donation and sales from our Emotes and Digital Stickers sale.

I do not know how to approach all of you again, but I am so scared right now. The reason I made this new post is I've been doing my best to make ends meet, trying to loan to a bank to be able for me to start my Treatment again(but mostly got rejected). I am already back to work eversince the fourth quarter of 2023, but the income is not enough as I earn only $12-$15/day with 12 hours plus of work. I am really really scared right now as I am writing this. First, I need to settle my rent within 12-24 hours which cost $500(water & electricity is unstable). My landlord is threatening me that he will lock the house, kicking me out and leaving my pets behind. My cats and my dog are my life. Update(05/02/2024): I asked helped from a local council here to help me talk to my landlord. We have an agreement and I am given enough time until Saturday of this week - May 4, 2024. To settle the rent and for me and my pets to leave the apartment, we found a new one but we need a 2 month deposit. And payment for a rental truck. I need to pay my landlord too - so, I can be able to transfer to another home, and he will let me leave peacefully. Which will have another cost, as I need to rent a small truck because I have my pets with me. I have written this on my previous blogs before that I have been sexually harassed(this SCARES me so much too), and stalked by a former friend. He was jailed, but he is back again(already reported it to police). But for safety transferring home is needed. My trauma is still not yet recovered. We still need to prioritize as well my Aunt's treatment, as her health is rapidly deteriorating too(Stage 3 breast Cancer is advancing, her right breast has already been removed). And I need to start mine again, it spread in other parts of my body(I am holding on). I'm really scared right now. If you can spare anything—money, support, anything at all—it would mean the world to me. I hate asking, but I don't know what else to do. Any amount is appreciated, or you can purchase from my Small Shop as well. Thank you so much. Please take Care. Love, Jasky P.S. Sorry if my writing sounds scattered. I don't have proper sleep at the moment.

Sorry for tagging again, please do not get mad at me. I really help so badly. Reposting, or if you have any at least $5 or buy stickers it will really mean a lot to us, to me.

@boost-the-signal @measurelessdreamer @c1a1r3r3df1e1d @samblerambles @nearlybitches

#gofundme #donate if you can #send help #help needed #fundraising #mutual aid #cancer patients #important #prayers #share #tiktok

81 notes · View notes

rosedere · 30 days

Text

Murder Mountain

(Yandere Azul ashengrotto x Afab reader x Jade leech)

Modern Au

TW: Dark Content, Attempted Murder, Harassment, Non Con/Rape.

Cross Posted on AO3.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 (you are here) END

Want more?- - -> Our spring secret (sequel)

I thought I had a happy life

And the city lights

Didn't bother me

Before I met you

You're always on the go

Don't you love me anymore

Please stay

When you arrived to work that next day the usual busy, chattering, environment was missing. No one would look at each other in the elevators nor in the breakroom, some just dilligently typing on their computers or carrying on with their job.

All of a sudden Floyd burst in the cubicle row you were working in informing you to all meet downstairs for a emergency meeting.

Everyone at work was informed via Floyd and Jade in the office courtyard about Azul’s Absence.

Finally someone asked if Azul was still alive.

It was definitely their attempt at damage control, dispelling the rumors the media had spread about Azul being hunted by a bear on the trail or that he had been attacked because of his status as CEO being the few you had seen on TV.

Your ears perked up as you looked at Jade who hesitated before explaining he was in a comatose state and at present, was unsure when he'd awaken, but he was mostly out of any life-threatening harm.

After the slew of questions about the future of the company Jade declared Floyd and him would be temporary acting in Azul’s absence along with rescheduling the retreat indefinitely until Azul came back.

Floyd would be the temporary assistant of finance and assistant director of the company; Jade, however, was to become the acting CEO of Mostro Inc.

You were relieved. Learning you would never see Azul again as long as you got your transfer started before Azul woke up from his coma, you could finally leave. You knew Jade would certainly help transfer knowing he most likely already had certain people he wanted lined up to take up positions in the company. Plus, your lover had already offered you an open position as finance director of Sugar Horned Devil.

Why wouldn't you accept freedom? You would be a higher position than you had in your whole career in Monstro inc.

After the meeting was dismissed, you eagerly went home to submit your notice for transfer as soon as possible, quickly typing the form you got the bright confirmation page. In 3-2 business days, it would take for you to be freed from this corporate hell.

Just a little longer..

As the days went on peacefully, you felt yourself being able to be happy, even engaging more often with your co-workers in the break room and chatting with your desk neighbors at your computers.

You guessed it was because, without Azul's overwhelming influence in the office, people were able to relax.

Especially with Floyd being in charge of the floor, everyone enjoyed his impulsive mood swings and chill demeanor. It felt like you fit in for once, having people ask for your opinions on how to do certain tasks or just to talk as friends.

You were becoming yourself again.

It's been 10 days.

You took the week off from work after an on-and-off stomach bug you got one morning a while back, your stomach becoming bloated and a bit, irregular feeling.

Assuming it was bad food the first few times you tried to power through work only for you to have only taken three steps into the lobby before you ran to the restroom to vomit for half of the morning in the lobby restroom.

Nothing was really helping with your stomach so you went to the doctor to get blood work and figure out what was causing your flu-like symptoms after numerous failed flu tests and anti nausea medicine you recieved.

The fear of this being the way you found out you had something dire like Cancer or a Gastrointestinal disease was all you could think as you checked your phone every other hour for any news about it.

Currently, you were lying in bed with the worst cramps and nausea youd had from all the days you had been sick; it was so bad you couldn't even brush your teeth without feeling like you were going to throw up.

Rolling to your side, hoping it would relieve you of vomiting, you heard the familiar ring of your phone, immediately making you perk up out of your stupor.

Your lover had texted you: They had asked you why you declined the position.

“What happened (Name)?”

Frowning, assuming you read it wrong and fighting the urge to spit the rising stomach acid and the overwhelming sense of wanting to vomit that had begun right away during the usual evening hours.

In confusion, you checked if your request was approved.

Previously, when you checked at the beginning of the day it showed pending…

“Declined by manual review??” You whispered to yourself reading the automated letter.

Maybe it was a mistake… you could have gotten lazy and left something crucial out of your application.

Dragging yourself to your computer, ignoring the onslaught of your usual symptoms of overwhelming fatigue. You sent the best short professional email to your higher-ups about your request to transfer.

Sending the email with the small chirp you were about to roll back to your blanket cocoon you were forming ontop your mattress.

Chirp!

Not even 15 minutes later, you received an email saying they had no control over it and instead told you to talk to Jade.

The acting CEO.

Jade

Knowing Jade had everything Azul didn't was an indescribable joy. Sure, he was the former Director of Finance in the company, but that didnt come with the ultimate rewards he wanted…

Azul’s company, his friends, his status…

And the biggest treasure…

(Name)

He had to admit the former things were not as important as the latter, but nonetheless, he was waiting for you to look for him.

Just like old times…

Despite the rift in Azul and Jade's current relationship recently, Jade still dearly cared for Azul, just as he did back when he was in high school.

—

It was one Spring luncheon; it was unusual for Azul to invite Jade and pay for his lunch.

He should have known something bad was going to happen as he ordered his lunch that day…

“You might know her, Jade, She's a part of the company." Azul dreamily sighed as he began swirling the fruit infused sweet tea he had ordered with his straw.

Raising a brow Jade only smiled, Azul confiding in him was rare these days.

“Oh? Is she an employee? Or is she a client?” Jade mischievously added, sipping his lemonade.

Watching Azul’s lips twitch into a confident grin he uttered the worst response to the question he could think of.

It being two years ago, but he could still remember his response clear as a bell.

“Oh no, she's actually working in our finance department,” Azul’s face began to blush.

“She transferred from the lower floors a while ago, but she's the one; I just can't get a chance to talk to her,” Azul muttered raising his glass of tea taking a sip.

“I wonder who she might be.” Jade trailed off.

Jade felt the dread in his stomach.

Everyone knew that Jade had fallen for (Name), The office couple, ever since the moment she joined their company.

A small, quiet type, basically lost in the sea of many young professionals at the company, diligently working hard and taking only a few days off.

Jade met (Name) because he had to train them since Azul thought he was too good to talk to (Name) at the time.

Reminiscing to that moment when he helped you take your things to the 86th floor of the Finance department It would be the beginning of a friendship.

But that's all it was; mostly for a little while, Jade didn't know how to progress the relationship since he got promoted to work closer to Azul. Having to follow his tailcoats as he conducted buisness he only would see you maybe once or twice a month.

He couldnt figure out why he wanted to seize any opportunity that would arise to be with you, the one most would look over in favor of anyone else.

“If I tell you Jade you must not tell anyone” Azul looked around under the private dining veranda they were seated at.

“I'd rather not have PR about this— it could ruin the company if everyone knew I was going to pursue a date with someone” Azul’s voice dripping with a haughty tone, setting his glass down before flicking his gaze towards Jade, staring at him with excitement in his hues.

“Her name is (Name)” Azul’s grin never slipping off his face.

Jade only scowled in response, clearing his throat to mask his true emotions.

“Not to come off as rude, but why her?” Jade interjected.

“I mean let’s be honest here, the city’s most eligible bachelor wants to date a regular office worker? Not a super model or a celebrity...”

“She’s a super model to me Jade” Azul sighed, “besides I’d rather have someone Independent and a hard worker like them” he drank some more of his tea for a moment.

“I think she's dating someone anyway, and she’s like a little mouse— it’s hard to even get a hello out of her…” Jade quickly responded, “plus she’s a bit boring once you get to know her” Jade chuckled to himself.

Lies.

She's very much single and has so much personality to her.

“Ah well, I love that in a woman—She does not stir drama, diligently works, and asks question's when she needs help”

“I can just see her by my side,” Azul rambled on.

Jade was in his office, unboxing all of the items from his previous office. The large vast space that was once a reflection of Azul was looming over him as he began to silently place the ugly decor he had decorated his desk with into the same box he used to bring his items upstairs.

Diligently humming he unpacked his replica mushroom statue placing it besides his laptop. Reaching once more into the box however he reached something he had thought was his stapler.

But when he pulled it out of his desk items was when he saw what it truly was.

Smiling down at the crudely made picture frame, the hot glue beads and small candy canes decorating the boarder of the frame. Jade could already picture how adorable you looked assembling the gift you gave him last Christmas; the wobbly Polarbear with a scarf holding a mushroom in the bottom corner on your side of the picture.

Dressed in a long Santa clause themed dress, you had your hand placed on Jade’s much taller shoulder, A nice memory he had on his desk for the longest while he would fondly look at everytime he’s come to work.

And now he could finally place it overlooking his new desk.

With silent admiration he placed it at the center of his desk, hopefully camouflaged enough anyone that walks in wouldnt comment on it.

Especially his brother…

With a sigh he turned to look towards the bright tall windows in front of him.

He hoped today would be the day you would return from your sick leave.

Name

After another week off from work, you reached a breaking point.

You felt terribly tired, not as sick as you normally were in the morning, despite being warned to stay at home until your results came in you decided to return to the office.

In your casual clothes since your abdomen was uncomfortable in anything that wasnt stretchy or loose, you approached the door you had been eager to see the whole time of your absence.

Raising your fist to the hard oak doors, you made a small curteous knock against the door.

As you waited for a response, you casually glanced at the title placard on the door.

“Jade Leech, Acting CEO”

I guess he didn't waste any time taking over Azul's office.

Not that it was any of your business anyway.

“Come in,” you heard faintly on the otherside of the door.

Opening the door, you were shellshocked with the new scenery in Azul’s office.

The various glass knickknacks, photos from Azul's high school days, and his coin collection were gone from the tall walls of the office, now replaced with various terrariums filled with mushrooms, different pictures of Jade on top of mountains, and just pictures of mountains were also around the vast walls of Azul's walls.

“Did you redecorate in here, Jade?” You were looking in awe at the change of office space approaching where his desk was, the temptation to sit on it like you use to when Jade had his office downstairs.

“It looks wonderful; it reminds me of your old cubicle,” you laughed to yourself.

You glanced over to see Jade half turned towards the tall windows beside the desk in front of you.

"Well, it might be a while before Azul comes back to work, or even at all,” Jade wryly smiled with his signature hand over his heart gesture as he took his seat in Azul's huge dark leather swivel chair.

It felt unusual to see the normally passive man in a position of power Normally demure and quiet, but when he spoke up, he was actually an intelligent and sometimes silly man. Although, once he became Azul's assistant, you rarely if ever saw him, and when you did, he never talked to you, making you a bit sad at how he made it obvious he had chose Azul over your friendship.

“How so? I heard he might be able to go back to work in a few months," you watched Jade for a reaction.

Jade tight lipped as always eyed you from where you stood.

With a sigh you decided to listen to your intrusive thought to sit on his desk, covering your legs with your dress.

Jade smiled up at you, his sharp, needle-point teeth glinting dangerously at you.

“so why did you request to meet me today, (Name)?”

His hand creeped towards the front of the desk near his laptop, sitting close to where you were currently sitting.

“If I recall correctly, you aren't supposed to be out of bed and yet here you are," Jade spoke, eyeing you with his mismatched gaze.

His fingers tapping at the wood on the desk, anxiously.

Blinking, you remembered why you were here.

"Oh, yeah—sorry," you cleared your throat crossing your legs across the table.

“I submitted a request to transfer a while ago, but it got denied... I'm just curious if this is a mistake or not, '' you informed.

Jade narrowed his eyes, the screech of the chair moving back as the tall man began to stand up from his desk, walking over to, what you thought, him standing in front of your spot perched in front of his desk.

Only, he sat besides you on his desk. His expensive cologne extremely strong in your nostrils as he leaned into your person bubble.

Moving back a little bit only encouraged him to inch closer as he began to rest his hand on your shoulder.

"Well, you see, dear (Name) I can't let that happen." Jade whispered giving your shoulder a light squeeze, his one mismatched eye on you.

Like you were possesed you pushed his hand off of your shoulder, annoyance written all over your face as you felt your chest flutter once more.

"What? Why not?” you almost growled.

Jade only gave a chuckle, suddenly he grabbed you with a strong force watching you struggle as he held onto your bare shoulders with his mismatched eyes, Staring dead into your colored hues.

“Because I finally won, why would I give away the prize I earned, fair and square?” Jade sighed to himself.

He decided to take the opportunity to grab the loose strands of hair that was stubbornly not falling into place with the rest of the hair that was framing your scared face.

You felt yourself flinch away from him, but his grip was almost stronger than Azul’s grip he had on you.

“I dont get it, Jade?” you stuttered trying to hop off of his desk, only for his long leg to pin you into place ontop of the oak desk.

“You see, Azul has been acting as a roadblock for me as well name” Jade lowered his voice a few octaves, “He was catching onto my feelings for the one he also sought after," he clicked his tongue. “So I had to distract him with a rumor about this rival that was talking to the woman he was attracted to,” Jade said, looking deeply at your face.

He then shrugged, “I however didnt anticipate this woman was actually speaking to the Rival I lied about”

Realizing the weight of his words, you got up from your spot and backed away from him towards the skyline window.

“It was you? But why? Azul almost killed me for that incident” you were feeling tears blurring your lash line as you gasped your words out.

So many different emotions; you wanted to scream.

As suddenly as you backed away, Jade came to your side, swiftly holding your face into his chest, his head leaning over yours as he kept you stuck there.

Normally, you wouldn't have minded for Jade to give you a hug, but this wasnt a normal hug, his hands beginning to dip behind your back towards your dress.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you were my friend Jade” You shoved him in a rage you hadnt realized was festering inside you, pushing into his chest with the heel of your Palm as hard as you could.

As you pushed him, Jade grabbed your wrists with a bone-crushing grip, stopping you altogether, your face turning red from the exhaustion and anger.

"Please, (Name) don't make a scene—if anyone you should hate is Azul”

“Regardless of whether I told him or not, he was going to know when he’d see you two kissing each other at the company retreat,” Jade calmy explained.

“You dont know what I had to deal with that asshole” you angrily spat shoving him once more to make a point.

“Just stop talking to me; I don't want to hear this anymore”

Fixing your dress you began to walk around his desk past the gaudy decorations before stopping in front of the door.

“And If you don't approve my transfer request— I'll just leave this company with no pay. I don't care anymore." You screeched back at him.

Unfortunately, Jade followed close behind his hands reaching for your own, his mouth about to open and tell you something before you swatted at him, freeing your hands and dusting your dress almost about to open the door.

Jade didnt follow you, only staring calmly at your disgruntled figure.

Eventually, he closed his eyes, exhaling as he did so, placing his hand over his heart.

“(Name) I wouldn't try that if I were you,” he sternly warned with a cold smile.

You turned to look back at his eerie gaze.

“Why are you going to fire me or something? You and Azul already have tortured me enough,” you scrunched your eyebrows at him before scoffing.

Jade hesitated before he laughed.

You only stood watching him laugh and point at you.

"Well, (Name)”

He once again stood close to you grazing the back of your dress with his hands.

“I never told you to go get Azul Friday morning,” he gingerly whispered with a smile.

Eyes widen at the mention you felt your blood go cold.

“Now why would you quietly go behind me and Floyd's back and reach out to meet the man that’s been actively lusting after you?” Jade annunciated with his open needle like teeth.

“It seems like you wanted to meet him alone at the retreat and when he rejected you that morning you snapped and tried to kill him”

“What are you insinuating?” You shouted with venom over your shoulder.

“Just letting you know, I will find out the truth. And you better hope I don't figure it out soon,” Jade leaned his head down on your shoulder, letting his breath graze your neck.

A kiss was all he had time to plant on your bare neck before you shoved him off without another word: You paused for a brief moment turning to look at the still smiling tall man before abruptly leaving Jade's office.

Harshly you pressed the button to call the elevator impatiently waiting to be let down to the parking lot.

After getting out of the towering office you had grown familiar with, reaching the familiar employee car park, you briskly walked to the familiar baby blue color of your sedan.

Clicking open the door, you harshly threw the door open before slamming it hard against the frame.

Throwing your purse and things a into the passenger seat you threw your head ontop of your steering wheel.

The urge to cry overwhelming as you felt your composure fall.

A shaky exhale before you felt the tears began to fall down your cheeks in rivets.

but right before your pity party began it ended.

The little constant melody coming from your phone that was now thrown under the passenger seat.

Angrily, you shifted over to look under the seat, finally grabbing your phone. Normally when you were in a pitiful mood you’d just decline and forget about it, but the caller was someone you’d been waiting desperately for.

"Oh, thank God, it's the clinic; hopefully it's good news,” you muttered to yourself, grabbing a tissue from your middle console you wiped your face before clicking the green icon.

“Hello, this is (Name)”

“So… What's wrong with me? Is it bad or...”

“Oh yes, (name) we just got your blood results back since as we know we tested you for everything after your flu test came back negative..”

You kind of dreaded the answer, especially with the hesitation from the nurse who was calling you.

Well (name) at least you have a perfect mountain to end it all on if the worst news comes out of this sweet nurse’s mouth…

“Well, first off, congratulations (name)…”

“Congratulations for…” You winced.

“Congratulations on the little troublesome bloom causing all that ruckus in your body” the nurse chuckled.

Cancer…

“Your four weeks along, according to the bloodwork it's causing you to have a storm of hormones right now”

What.

“Since we found out the true reason for your vomiting and nausea, we'd like to see you come in around the 15th of January so you can have your specialist visit and get you prescribed some medicine so you can go to work soon”

"Alright”

“Works for me”

The tears were falling like a waterfall now.

“Thank you have a nice day (Name)”

The line cut off. You dropped your phone under the pedal this time barely registering it.

What.

But..

4 weeks pregnant.

You laughed— a loud maniac Laugh from you belly until it started to melt into a heartbroken wail eventually dying down in a messy sob.

Any people walking by would have probably thought you were insane. Your disheveled dress and running mascara as you wailed into the leather steering wheel.

You thought you'd puke.

What horrible irony was this?

The only person you've ever had sex with…

Was the man laying in a coma in the hospital right now, unknown to the true consequences of that morning four weeks ago.

He might not even make it, and this baby would be the cruel reminder that…

That.

Azul had gotten you pregnant with his child.

You felt like you wanted to die.

What were you going to say? How do you tell anyone about this?

Your lover would leave you.

And…

Worse, what would Azul think?

Would he even want to keep the baby? Or hell even you?

Would you have to marry Azul? He wouldn't want you at all as a wife.

You felt a headache coming on as you started to feel your tears building up again. As you were spiraling from your driver's seat, you heard your phone's delightful ping noise alerting you of its location below.

Azul woke up yesterday.

Your face flushed as hot as ever.

You knew what you had to do.

Or at least what you should do.

But why say anything? You calmly thought to yourself.

It's only been 4 weeks, and you're not even showing… apparently Most of the time, people don't tell anyone until about 5 months, so... at most there was 4 months to go to do the deed.

So Why don't you keep this as your little spring secret?

#yandere twst #yandere azul ashengrotto x reader #yandere jade leech x reader #Yandere Jade leech #reader insert #yandere x you #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere x reader #yandere content #Yandere twisted wonderland

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peggy-sue-reads-a-book · 2 years

Text

How To Be a Safe Person to Menstruate With

You can be private without expressing disgust. Just step away politely or be honest that you are embarrassed. Neither of these choices shames women.

The reverse is also true. Like I said, just because someone doesn’t want to talk doesn’t mean they’re lame and ashamed.

Compliment girls wearing on their self-expression like red jewelry or watering a Venus flytrap with their menstrual cups.

There are lots of sustainable products now but accessibility is not equal. Not everyone has the water resources to wash reusable products so don’t get preachy.

If you shit on someone else’s choice of birth control, by God I will come for you.

Vote to protect birth control

Do not tell someone they’re gross for using pads and cups that require washing.

If you have found a trustworthy gynecologist, spread the word

If a woman tells you she feels ill, in pain, or like something is wrong believe her

Do not tell her to lose weight or consider therapy. If you do, I will hit you with a fish.

Take hormonal diseases seriously

When someone tells you she has endometriosis, interstitial cystitis, cancer, or PCOS, do not come at her with medical expertise you suddenly think you have.

Offer to buy pads and tampons but make sure to ask what kind — some have allergens.

You can always get someone a glass of water.

If it’s a trans guy you’re talking with, validate his body without treating him like one of the girls. If you don’t know how, just ask.

Do not try to guess if someone is on their period. That’s rude.

I have an alpha period. If we hang out, you will sync to my period and we can all be unhappy together.

If you bleed monthly and are talking to a woman who doesn’t, you aren’t better than her. You define your period. She can define hers.

If someone is confused because she started her period and got a positive pregnancy test, take her to the hospital and defend her with your life. She is miscarrying and needs an ultrasound. If a doctor dismisses her as just having a difficult period, make ape noises and then threaten him with arson.

If after all this you are still angry, DM me his name and I will personally come for revenge. I am pregnant and very powerful.

For that matter, my husband will sort him out for you.

Take black women seriously. Respect that WOC face medical discrimination and gaslighting on the daily.

Advil is valid. Homeopathics are valid. Do not assail your friend with essential oils when she’s asked for a Midol.

If your friend shares some concerning symptoms with you, do not freak her out with an armchair diagnosis.

But you should definitely validate her pain and encourage her to get help. Or even help her get help. Throw her in the car and personally drive her to the doctor.

If your friend confides in you that she has an STI or you are able to guess that she has an STI, be nice to her because if you don’t I will find you and I will yeet you away into the night like Batman.

Educate yourself about periods. Learn the correct anatomical words.

And for God’s sake, you still have to wear a condom.

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technoalchemist · 2 months

Note

Hello,

My name is Mohammed from Gaza. I am not a robot or a scammer. Due to the war in Gaza, I lost my mother, father, and brothers, and I sustained severe injuries to my leg. I appeal to you to protect my children and take them out of Gaza and help me complete my treatment abroad because my leg is at risk of amputation due to the lack of necessary treatment 😭. My wife is suffering from uterine cancer and hasn't received a chemotherapy session since the beginning of the events in Gaza. I humbly request a donation of €5 or more to treat my leg, my wife, and my innocent children.

Every passing minute threatens me with losing my leg, my wife, or my children.

My campaign has been documented and my data verified, and you can verify my story by requesting any information you need. Please donate and share my story.

My wife, children, and I are waiting for your donations.

Thank you very much. 🙏🙏

Hello! Unfortunately, I cannot make a donation myself, but I'll still answer this ask publicly out of the hopes to spread the word.

For people wondering, here's his current Go Fund Me link!

#Gaza #free palestine #palestine #gaza strip #free gaza #donation #donations #gofundme #fundraising

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neuvilletteshusbandd · 2 months

Note

Hello,

Every passing minute threatens me with losing my leg, my wife, or my children.

My campaign has been documented and my data verified, and you can verify my story by requesting any information you need. Please donate and share my story.

My wife, children, and I are waiting for your donations.

Thank you very much. 🙏🙏

donate if you can reblog if you cant

spread the word !!!!

#free palestine #free gaza #palestine #gaza #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #gofundme #all eyes on palestine #donate to palestine #free palestine 🇵🇸

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coneedogawa · 2 months

Note

Hello,

Every passing minute threatens me with losing my leg, my wife, or my children.

My campaign has been documented and my data verified, and you can verify my story by requesting any information you need. Please donate and share my story.

My wife, children, and I are waiting for your donations.

Thank you very much. 🙏🙏

No problem! I may not be able to donate right away but I will do what I can to spread your message. Praying for the best for your family. I hope you reach your goal quickly.

Gofundme for donations: https://www.gofundme.com/f/evacuating-what-remains-of-my-family-from-gaza

#palestine #gaza #free palestine #free gaza

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haggishlyhagging · 9 months

Text

It would take Diane Joyce nearly ten years of battles to become the first female skilled crafts worker ever in Santa Clara County history. It would take another seven years of court litigation, pursued all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, before she could actually start work. And then, the real fight would begin.

For blue-collar women, there was no honeymoon period on the job; the backlash began the first day they reported to work—and only intensified as the Reagan economy put more than a million blue-collar men out of work, reduced wages, and spread mounting fear. While the white-collar world seemed capable of absorbing countless lawyers and bankers in the 80s, the trades and crafts had no room for expansion. "Women are far more economically threatening in blue-collar work, because there are a finite number of jobs from which to choose," Mary Ellen Boyd, executive director of Non-Traditional Employment for Women, observes. "An MBA can do anything. But a plumber is only a plumber." While women never represented more than a few percentage points of the blue-collar work force, in this powder-keg situation it only took a few female faces to trigger a violent explosion.

Diane Joyce arrived in California in 1970, a thirty-three-year-old widow with four children, born and raised in Chicago. Her father was a tool-and-die maker, her mother a returned-goods clerk at a Walgreen's warehouse. At eighteen, she married Donald Joyce, a tool-and-die maker's apprentice at her father's plant. Fifteen years later, after working knee-deep in PCBs for years, he died suddenly of a rare form of liver cancer.

After her husband's death, Joyce taught herself to drive, packed her children in a 1966 Chrysler station wagon and headed west to San Jose, California, where a lone relative lived. Joyce was an experienced bookkeeper and she soon found work as a clerk in the county Office of Education, at $506 a month. A year later, she heard that the county's transportation department had a senior account clerk job vacant that paid $50 more a month. She applied in March 1972.

"You know, we wanted a man," the interviewer told her as soon as she walked through the door. But the account clerk jobs had all taken a pay cut recently, and sixteen women and no men had applied for the job. So he sent her on to the second interview. "This guy was a little politer," Joyce recalls. "First, he said, 'Nice day, isn't it?' before he tells me, 'You know, we wanted a man.' I wanted to say, 'Yeah, and where's my man? I am the man in my house.' But I'm sitting there with four kids to feed and all I can see is dollar signs, so I kept my mouth shut."

She got the job. Three months later, Joyce saw a posting for a "road maintenance man." An eighth-grade education and one year's work experience was all that was required, and the pay was $723 a month. Her current job required a high-school education, bookkeeping skills, and four years' experience— and paid $150 less a month. "I saw that flier and I said, ‘Oh wow, I can do that.’ Everyone in the office laughed. They thought it was a riot. . . . I let it drop."

But later that same year, every county worker got a 2 to 5 percent raise except for the 70 female account clerks. "Oh now, what do you girls need a raise for?" the director of personnel told Joyce and some other women who went before the board of supervisors to object. "All you'd do is spend the money on trips to Europe." Joyce was shocked. "Every account clerk I knew was supporting a family through death or divorce. I'd never seen Mexico, let alone Europe." Joyce decided to apply for the next better-paying "male" job that opened. In the meantime, she became active in the union; a skillful writer and one of the best-educated representatives there, Joyce wound up composing the safety language in the master contract and negotiating what became the most powerful county agreement protecting seniority rights.

In 1974, a road dispatcher retired, and both Joyce and a man named Paul Johnson, a former oil-fields roustabout, applied for the post. The supervisors told Joyce she needed to work on the road crew first and handed back her application. Johnson didn't have any road crew experience either, but his application was accepted. In the end, the job went to another man.

Joyce set out to get road crew experience. As she was filling out her application for the next road crew job that opened, in 1975, her supervisor walked in, asked what she was doing, and turned red. "You're taking a man's job away!" he shouted. Joyce sat silently for a minute, thinking. Then she said, "No, I'm not. Because a man can sit right here where I'm sitting."

In the evenings, she took courses in road maintenance and truck and light equipment operation. She came in third out of 87 applicants on the job test; there were ten openings on the road crew, and she got one of them.

For the next four years, Joyce carried tar pots on her shoulder, pulled trash from the median strip, and maneuvered trucks up the mountains to clear mud slides. "Working outdoors was great," she says. "You know, women pay fifty dollars a month to join a health club, and here I was getting paid to get in shape." The road men didn't exactly welcome her arrival. When they trained her to drive the bobtail trucks, she says, they kept changing instructions; one gave her driving tips that nearly blew up the engine. Her supervisor wouldn't issue her a pair of coveralls; she had to file a formal grievance to get them. In the yard, the men kept the ladies' room locked, and on the road they wouldn't stop to let her use the bathroom. "You wanted a man's job, you learn to pee like a man," her supervisor told her.

Obscene graffiti about Joyce appeared on the sides of trucks. Men threw darts at union notices she posted on the bulletin board. One day, the stockroom storekeeper, Tony Laramie, who says later he liked to call her "the piglet," called a general meeting in the depot's Ready Room. "I hate the day you came here," Laramie started screaming at Joyce as the other men looked on, many nodding. "We don't want you here. You don't belong here. Why don't you go the hell away?"

Joyce's experience was typical of the forthright and often violent backlash within the blue-collar work force, an assault undisguised by decorous homages to women's "difference." At a construction site in New York, for example, where only a few female hard-hats had found work, the men took a woman's work boots and hacked them into bits. Another woman was injured by a male co-worker; he hit her on the head with a two-by-four. In Santa Clara County, where Joyce worked, the county's equal opportunity office files were stuffed with reports of ostracism, hazing, sexual harassment, threats, verbal and physical abuse. "It's pervasive in some of the shops," says John Longabaugh, the county's equal employment officer at the time. "They mess up their tools, leave pornography on their desks. Safety equipment is made difficult to get, or unavailable." A maintenance worker greeted the first woman in his department with these words: "I know someone who would break your arm or leg for a price." Another new woman was ordered to clean a transit bus by her supervisor—only to find when she climbed aboard that the men had left a little gift for her: feces smeared across the seats.

In 1980, another dispatcher job opened up. Joyce and Johnson both applied. They both got similarly high scores on the written exam. Joyce now had four years' experience on the road crew; Paul Johnson only had a year and a half. The three interviewers, one of whom later referred to Joyce in court as "rabble-rousing" and "not a lady," gave the job to Johnson. Joyce decided to complain to the county athrmative action office.

The decision fell to James Graebner, the new director of the transportation department, an engineer who believed that it was about time the county hired its first woman for its 238 skilled-crafts jobs. Graebner confronted the roads director, Ron Shields. "What's wrong with the woman?" Graebner asked. “I hate her," Shields said, according to other people in the room. "I just said I thought Johnson was more qualified," is how Shields remembers it. "She didn't have the proficiency with heavy equipment." Neither, of course, did Johnson. Not that it was relevant anyway: dispatch is an office job that doesn't require lifting anything heavier than a microphone.

Graebner told Shields he was being overruled; Joyce had the job. Later that day, Joyce recalls, her supervisor called her into the conference room. "Well, you got the job," he told her. "But you're not qualified." Johnson, meanwhile, sat by the phone, dialing up the chain of command. "I felt like tearing something up," he recalls later. He demanded a meeting with the affirmative action office. "The affirmative action man walks in," Johnson says, "and he's this big black guy. He can't tell me anything. He brings in this minority who can barely speak English . . . I told them, 'You haven't heard the last of me.'" Within days, he had hired a lawyer and set his reverse discrimination suit in motion, contending that the county had given the job to a "less qualified" woman.

In 1987, the Supreme Court ruled against Johnson. The decision was hailed by women's and civil rights groups. But victory in Washington was not the same as triumph in the transportation yard. For Joyce and the road men, the backlash was just warming up. "Something like this is going to hurt me one day," Gerald Pourroy, a foreman in Joyce's office, says of the court's ruling, his voice low and bitter. He stares at the concrete wall above his desk. "I look down the tracks and I see the train coming toward me."

The day after the Supreme Court decision, a woman in the county office sent Joyce a congratulatory bouquet, two dozen carnations. Joyce arranged the flowers in a vase on her desk. The next day they were gone. She found them finally, crushed in a garbage bin. A road foreman told her, "I drop-kicked them across the yard."

-Susan Faludi, Backlash: the Undeclared War Against American Women

#susan faludi #female oppression #male entitlement #male violence #blue collar #women’s work #pay gap #sexism #misogyny #womens history #us history #amerika

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cinnamonstroll · 2 years

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Astons comments under the lance is back post filled with hate

An F3 Driver commenting F (fail or loss for those not familiar) under the f1 lance is back post

People threatening harm and spreading hate towards lance

People wishing for his death, bad injuries and cancer

People being gleeful about the fact that he was injured

People saying he doesn't deserve to drive his own damn car

But sure lance is not overly hated and treated differently to other drivers. I'm sure treating a human like this is totally normal and I'm sure if it was another driver this would totally be the same and that no one would care just like with lance.

It's funny how people always point to mental health and drive it out and things but when it's a driver they don't like, someone that gets a lot of hate anyways, where the default for people seems to be to hate him for no good reason, then suddenly people are okay with it and it's all fine and dandy right? To treat a driver like this is okay as long as he's lance stroll...

People make me sick

#f1 #formula 1 #formula one #lance stroll #aston martin #aston martin racing #aston martin f1 #honestly fuck everyone #I don't want f1 back this is fucked up

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ereardon · 1 year

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Friends Don't || Chapter 11

Summary: Bob Floyd has been your best friend for almost a decade, ever since he quietly agreed to tutor you in college. The two of you have spent years chasing each other around the globe – Bob as a WSO, you as a travel blogger. You’ve always been the anywhere-but-here girl, and he’s been your rock. But when a surprise diagnosis threatens to crumble your picture-perfect life, you’re on the first flight back to San Diego, desperate to put down roots for the first time. Will Bob finally have it in him to admit that you could be the love of his life? What will he say when he finds out the secret you’ve been skillfully hiding from him? Or worse, what if he doesn’t find out until it’s too late?

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd x OC [Reid]

Tropes: Friends to lovers

Warnings: Cursing, angst, cancer, alcohol, mentions of death

WC: 3.3K

Series masterlist here; previous chapter here; next chapter here

Your skin was on fire.

Everything felt like it was melting and in slow motion. Like you were inside a raging tornado, just you and Bob staring at each other in the midst of the destruction. Nothing else but his blue eyes on yours, drowning in sorrow and pain and anguish.

A bottle shattered in the distance, ruining the illusion. And then you were yanked back to reality.

“Reid?” Bob’s voice was quiet. Shaky. Just your name on his lips, saturated in pain.

“You fucking asshole,” Phoenix hissed at Jake, shoving his arm and he tipped over into the railing of the deck in his drunken stupor.

He righted himself, half-lidded eyes finding yours. “Sorry.” It came out cheap and you stepped forward, slapping him clear across the face, the sound of your palm hitting his face echoing in the clear California night.

“Fuck you, Bagman!” you shouted, winding your hand back for another slap before you felt thick limbs grabbing you from behind, pulling you back.

“Stop it,” Bradley whispered, his hands hot on your arms as he physically held you back from striking Jake again. “He’s not worth it.”

The air was heavy. Desperate. You let out an angry sigh, looking over at Bob. His mouth was wide open. Your outburst at Jake confirmed his deepest fears.

It was true.

“Bobby,” you whispered, wiggling out of Bradley’s embrace, stepping toward him. He held out a hand, stopping you mid step, and you let out a guttural gasp.

He shook his head. “No. Don’t touch me.”

You crumpled to the ground, Bradley catching you before you almost smacked your head against the wooden flooring. Looking up at Bob from the ground you saw him turn, Phoenix’s hand light on his arm, her face drawn in concern. She looked down at you and Bradley before nodding her head, following Bob back into the bar.

It wasn’t until a thin breeze floated off of the ocean that you realized your cheeks were streaked with tears.

Bradley held you, cradled against his chest, as you sobbed on the dirty patio floor of the Hard Deck. After a few minutes, the crowd had thinned and he leaned in, whispering into your ear. “Come on,” he murmured softly. “Let’s get you up, OK?”

Slowly, Bradley pulled you to standing. You felt wobbly and he slipped one arm around your back, gripping your waist tight.

Phoenix and Bob were still gone. Jake sat in the corner, perched on top of a picnic table, Coyote at his side. Fanboy came up and whispered in Bradley’s ear, who nodded, a frown spread across his face. He turned to you. “Better take you to my place tonight,” he said. “I, uh, think you should give Floyd some space right now.”

You nodded silently, following his lead as he steered you toward the stairs near the side of the patio, out toward the parking lot. But you pivoted in his arms, stepping directly in front of the picnic table, Jake and Coyote looking up in shock. Your slap had sobered Jake up, at least a little bit, and his eyes looked less glazed as they locked onto yours.

“I hate you for doing that to him,” you whispered hotly, anger dripping out of every single one of your pores.

Bradley reattached his palm to the small of your back, guiding you away. But not before you saw Jake’s face fall with the realization of what he had done. Of what he had caused.

Back at the house, you showered in Bradley’s bathroom. When you emerged in a towel, he had an old Naval Academy t-shirt and a pair of boxers laying out on the bed for you. After slipping them on, you wandered down the hall where the back of his head was plainly visible over the edge of the couch.

He looked up as you rounded the corner of the couch, settling easily onto the other end, your bare feet landing in his lap. Bradley looked down at them before smiling. “Just like old times, huh?” he asked.

“Shit,” you muttered, pulling your legs to your chest, creating distance between the two of you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think.”

He shook his head. “Reid. It’s fine. I promise.”

You frowned. “I’m guessing you hate me, too.”

“What?” Bradley reached out, placing one hand on your ankle, gripping you tightly. “No. Not at all. If anything, I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell us.”

A tear slid down your cheek. You knew it was just the start. “I just wanted everything to be normal for as long as possible,” you whispered. “And then everything with Bob.” You sighed. “I knew the moment I told him, everything would change. And I didn’t want it to change. I wanted to stay like that forever.”

Bradley dropped his hand. “Why did you tell Jake?”

“I didn’t. He figured it out himself.”

“Fucking hell,” Bradley muttered to himself. “Well I spoke to Nat. She’s with Bob at the house. He, uh, he doesn’t want to see you right now.”

You hung your head.

“So you can stay here. As long as you need.” Bradley grinned. “Looks like we’re finally spending the night.”

You laughed, despite yourself. “Thank you, Bradley.”

He stood up, holding out a hand, pulling you to standing. “Are you going to be OK?” he whispered softly, never dropping your hand.

You felt his thumb stroke the backside of your hand. “I’ll be fine,” you replied quietly.

***

The next day, Bradley drove you back to Bob’s. You sat in the passenger seat of his old Bronco, tapping your foot nervously, as Bradley went to the door, ringing the bell. Phoenix opened it and they chatted for a few minutes before she looked over at you sadly, closing the door.

Bradley climbed into the driver’s seat. “Let’s give him one more day. Want to go grab breakfast?”

You laid back against the seat, dejected. “Sure,” you whispered.

You felt guilty. For a myriad of reasons. First, that you had hid the truth from Bob for so long. That he had to find out from Hangman of all people. Every time you thought of how broken and devastated he had looked that night on the patio you disintegrated into tears.

You also felt guilty for letting Bradley take care of you. After everything that the two of you had gone through, he stepped up. While Nat took care of Bob, Bradley took care of you. He coordinated with Natasha to get an overnight bag packed, he tried to entertain you all day and keep your mind off of Bob and the fight. But still, when you went to bed in Bradley’s guest room, you couldn’t sleep.

So you pulled out your phone to call Bob again. You had called him five times already and left him a dozen messages. All unanswered. The clock in the upper right hand corner of the screen said it was after midnight, but you didn’t care.

You hit his contact and waited. Just as you were about to hang up, you heard a voice. “Hello?”

You almost choked. “Bobby.”

There was a pause. And then, “Reid. I can’t do this right now.”

“Wait!” You cleared your throat, trying to will away the lump that had taken up residence there. “Honey please. I just, I needed to hear your voice.”

He sighed. “Well you heard it.”

A sob rose in your throat. “I know you hate me,” you whispered hoarsely, “and I don’t blame you. I’m sorry, Bobby. I hope you know that no matter what, I love you.”

“I don’t hate you,” Bob said quietly, his voice low and slow and it felt like in a dream when something you were chasing was just out of reach. “I just can’t believe you hid this from me. I thought after everything, that you’d at least be honest with me. I’ve always been honest with you.”

A tear slid down your cheek and you let it blaze a path toward your chin. “I’m sorry.”

“I have to go,” Bob said and your heart constricted in your chest. “I’ll let you know tomorrow if I want to talk.”

“Okay.” You didn’t hang up. “I miss you, Bobby.”

Bob let out another sigh. This one sounded dejected. “You’re at Bradley’s? You’re OK?”

You nodded. “I’m here. I’m alright, given the circumstances.”

A pause. “Goodnight, Sunny.”

You closed your eyes, letting the tears stream down your cheeks. “Goodnight, Bobby. I love you.”

And then the line went dead.

You laid there for a few minutes in tears, before sitting up. Bradley or Natasha or whoever had packed your overnight bag had included a rather skimpy pajama set that you were now wearing and you shivered.

Quietly, you tiptoed out of the guest room into the hallway. The light near the kitchen was on and you entered the kitchen toward the back of the house.

Bradley had his head in the fridge and when he closed it he jumped. “Fuck!”

You stood a foot away, nonplussed.

He leaned back, resting against the kitchen counter, shaking his head. “Reid, you scared the shit out of me.” Bradley looked at the clock on the microwave. “It’s late, what are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Bradley sighed. He was wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of gray boxers. You stepped closer until the two of you were only a foot apart. Maybe it was the emotions coursing through your veins. Or the fact that you had time on your mind. Or that you were seeking comfort.

Either way, you looked up at Bradley before slotting yourself between his legs, pressing your body against his, tilting your head up for a kiss. You felt him stir in his boxers against your stomach.

“Reid.” Bradley pressed his hands against the tops of your arms, pushing you away softly, air rushing between your bodies. “Don’t do this. I know you’re upset and sad and confused, but this isn’t going to help anything. It’ll only make things worse.”

He was right. You knew that he was right. It’s why you sagged against him as he pulled you into a hug, your tears soaking the front of his shirt, Bradley’s large embrace grounding you, absorbing your shakes and sobs.

Bradley held you in the kitchen as you cried. And once your well of tears was empty, he led you softly to the couch. “Reid,” he said quietly. “You gotta tell us what’s going on. All of it. So we can help you.”

You closed your eyes tightly. When you opened them, Bradley stared back at you expectantly. He should have hated you. He should have wanted you out of his life after you had toyed with him and then hung him out to dry. Instead, he had taken you in. They all had.

They deserved to know.

You opened your mouth and sighed. The truth came out. All of it. And you watched tears gather in Bradley’s eyes. He leaned forward, his hands clasped around your smaller ones. When you were finished, he wiped away the tears that had gathered on his lashes.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, pulling you into a hug.

You nodded against his chest. “So am I.”

***

Watching Bob grieve for Denver had been one of the hardest things you’d ever done. More difficult than leaving Bridgeport. More difficult than almost flunking out your first year of college because you hadn’t been able to properly balance work and play.

Watching as your best friend grieved the loss of a woman he spent every day with, a person he trusted with his life, almost broke you.

You held his hand in silence at her funeral, Bob’s eyes misting behind his glasses, his cap perched on his head. You stood next to him in a black shift dress as he wore his service dress uniform, his legs shaky, your heart dropped in your stomach.

It was Bob who stepped forward and presented Denver’s parents with a perfectly folded flag.

You watched as he nodded and spoke quietly with the other aviators at the memorial service. You watched carefully when he excused himself from a conversation with Omaha and Fritz, slipping out the back door. A few minutes later, you followed him, finding Bob sitting on a bench facing the hills, his head in his hands.

Instinctively, you sat down next to him, wrapping your hand around his arm. “I’m sorry,” you whispered quietly.

When he looked up at you, your heart snapped in half. His eyes were ringed with red, his face blotchy, his nose running. “It should have been me,” he whispered. “That should be me in there, in a casket. Not her.”

“You can’t say that.”

“But it’s true. She was the better aviator. She knew exactly what she was doing.” He hung his head. “She was protecting me.”

“You both did everything you could,” you replied softly, running one hand through the hair at the base of his neck. “She loved you. She wanted you to be safe.”

He raised his eyes to yours. “How can I keep going when she’s not here?” he asked softly. “How do you just keep living?”

“I don’t know,” you replied. “You just do. Because if you don’t, then everything she did to save you was wasted. Do you think that’s what she would want? Wouldn’t Denver want her death to mean something?”

He nodded, tears dripping down onto his slacks. You scratched your nails down his back in calming circles. “No, I guess not.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. In the distance, the sun was starting its descent toward the horizon, blurring the whole sky in orange. You closed your eyes, sinking in the feeling of Bob’s warmth under your cheek.

Thankful that he had been the one to come home.

“I love you, Bobby,” you whispered.

“I love you too, Sunny,” he replied quietly.

The two of you sat there, side-by-side, gazing out at the sunset. He was held together with tape and glue. And you were his rock.

***

On the third day after the incident, Bob reached out via Phoenix. Bradley grabbed his phone off the counter, answering it in a swift motion, nodding along. He turned around, catching your eye. “We’ll be there in ten.”

He hung up. You held your breath.

“He’s ready to talk.”

The fifteen steps from Bradley’s car to the front door felt like an eternity. Only a few weeks ago, the three of you had been arguing on the cement driveway and you had gone inside and slept with Bob for the first time.

So much had changed in such a little amount of time.

Everything was different.

You looked at the front door. It was a normal front door, but it felt like you were about to breach an impenetrable force field. Bradley looked at you from where he stood at your side. “Are you OK?” he asked.

You looked up at him. He had been so good to you. Too good, arguably. You nodded, leaning in and pressing your lips to his cheek softly, squeezing his hand at his side. “Thank you, Brad. For everything.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

You sucked in a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.

A moment later, the door swung open. Phoenix answered, wearing a pair of jeans and a simple white t-shirt, her face tight. Bob appeared behind her, his head slightly dipped. She opened the door wide and you slipped inside into the foyer.

“We’ll give you guys some space,” she said, grabbing her keys from the table by the door, nodding to Bob. “Talk to you later, Floyd.”

He nodded back at her and she walked through the doorway. Bradley lingered for a moment, his eyes on you. You smiled at him. “I’ll text you, OK?”

He looked at Bob, and then back at you before finally agreeing. “Alright. See you later.”

And then he was gone. Bob moved forward, shutting the door behind them.

You took a long look at him. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a soft olive green henley shirt, feet bare. His normally slicked hair was soft, falling a bit into his eyes. Your heart ached. All you wanted to do was throw yourself into his arms, feel him hold you tight, tell you it would be alright.

“Hi,” you said softly, putting your duffle bag down on the floor.

“I made coffee,” Bob said, heading for the kitchen. It wasn’t a request or a question. Just a statement. You followed him wordlessly and sat on a bar stool as he poured you a mugful of coffee, adding in heavy cream before you could even ask.

The silence was painful. Normally, silence with Bob was tolerable. Being with him was like an extension of yourself. But this was strained. Unnatural. There was tension.

You wrapped your fingers around the mug and took a sip, sputtering at how hot it was.

“Shit,” you whispered, setting it back down.

“Are you OK?”

You nodded. “I’ll be fine.” When you raised your eyes to his, he was pleading with you.

There was no more time. No more space. No more avoidance.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bob’s blue eyes flooded with tears. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Of course I was going to tell you,” you said softly, fingers trembling as you held onto the sides of the ceramic mug. “I just didn’t know how. We were good, we were happy. And I knew this would ruin everything.”

“But by not telling me, you ruined things.”

A fresh flood of tears pummeled out of your eyes and down your cheeks. You closed your eyes, trying to blink them away.

“Reid,” Bob whispered. “Honey, God, after everything that’s happened over the last few weeks, I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. Maybe before I could have understood. But I thought this, us,” he waved his hand between the two of you, “was serious.”

You lifted your gaze to him. “I wanted you to want me for me. Not because you thought I was dying.”

Bob froze. “Reid. Tell me exactly what’s wrong with you.”

You smiled at him softly. Broken. “I have cancer, Bobby. Uterine cancer. It's, well it's not good. The doctors aren't sure how much time I have.”

Bob bent in half, a sob falling from his mouth as he softly crumpled to the ground, his back against the cabinets beneath the sink. You pushed to standing from your bar stool, walking over and crouching down next to him, putting one hand gently on his knee.

“Honey,” you whispered softly. “Bobby, please don’t cry.”

He looked up at you, pushing away the tears from his face with his rough palms. “What does this mean, Sunny?” he asked.

You sank to the ground between his legs, your hands cupping his cheeks. “It means I’m sick, Bobby. And I’m probably not going to get any better.”

Bob pulled you into his arms until the two of you were a mass of tangled limbs and you weren’t sure if his tears were the ones soaking your shirt or if they were yours. He held you for so long that you almost forgot what it was like not to be wrapped in Bob’s embrace. You closed your eyes and waited.

Waited for a break from the grief. But you were waiting for something that simply would never come.

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cubestrahm · 6 months

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»{ Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm }« ✦ { ao3 }

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✦ Summary: This moment in time feels inevitable. It is as though Peter was always meant to wind up in the crushing dark with Mark Hoffman, tangled in a deadly situation that neither man can escape from unscathed. ✦ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ✦ Content/tags: Background Angelina Acomb/Lindsey Perez, Alternate Universe - Diners, Slow Burn, Canonical Character Death, Canon Typical Gore, Detailed Descriptions of Wounds, Improper Wound Care, Non-Sexual Nudity, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Mild Feeding Kink, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Divorced Peter Strahm ✦ Word count: 6,488 ✦ Status: Multi-chapter / Ongoing ✦ Author's note: Shout-out to @danime25/@hoffstrap-yuri. I wouldn't be chest deep in Saw hell if it weren't for her. ♥

Rhythmic passes of a damp cloth on a laminate counter, steady whooshes of breath as his body leans into each motion of his arm; this is as calm as Peter Strahm ever feels. Repetitive actions keep his mind occupied enough to not wander in search of some pressing issue to fixate on. Not that there is much to endlessly turn over in his brain at the diner, but he can always find something.

A loud clang of the metal bells bouncing off the front door and the scuff of shoes against the wood floor heralds the arrival of customers. The first ones of the day. Peter doesn’t bother to look up, choosing instead to let Lindsey be the face of the establishment. He is convinced that she’s the only reason this place stays afloat. He’d have run everyone off with his demeanor ages ago if he were the sole owner. As a supervisor had once said to him, Peter would cut off his own nose to spite his face.

Barely listening to his partner’s cheery banter and the responding pleasantries of the customers—two of them, he notes, a man and a woman—he tosses the rag in the sanitation bucket before making his way to the coffee machine. It’s finished brewing the pot he’d started just five minutes ago. He dumps the used grounds and resets the machine with a new filter of freshly ground beans. When they hit a rush, coffee is the first thing to go. Early on, he and Lindsey learned that lesson the hard way. Customers get downright vicious when they can't get their caffeine fix the instant they want it.

“Pete,” Lindsey says, sliding up alongside him behind the counter.

“Mm,” he responds as he takes the offered ticket from her hand. He looks over the order. Simple. Easy. No substitutions or alterations. He can appreciate that. “Need anything before I get this made?”

“No, I’ll try to not burn the place down while you’re in the back though.”

He snorts, amused. If anyone was going to be engaging in pyromania during work hours, it would be him.

Peter retreats to the kitchen. His shoulders relax in the privacy beyond the swinging door. He is used to eyes being on him, every moment analyzed and critiqued, but solace suits him better. He doesn’t have to put on the thin veneer of normalcy that he’s capable of.

Steady hands prepare the ingredients before laying them on the grill top. Cooking is immersive work, a different kind of toil than when he was in the FBI. The constant examination for guilt, the way he would dirty his hands with the worst humanity had to offer… it took a toll on him. He lost himself in his job. Back then, most days, he felt like he should be the one handcuffed to the table while an agent berated him with rapid-fire questions. He had gathered up parts of every criminal he ever investigated. Strahm had ingested those pieces like poison until they had become a part of him, lining his internal organs and threatening to spread like a cancer.

The only thing that had kept him from going into the restroom and closing his lips around the barrel of his own handgun at work had been Lindsey. There had been a day when he was uncharacteristically tidying his papers on his desk and she looked up from where her own desk butted right against his. She had taken in the sight of his drawn, exhausted face, the bags under his bloodshot eyes, and the faint tremor in his hands. She had known. She’d stood up, nearly sending her desk chair halfway across the room on its wobbly wheels. His partner had reached over their computer monitors and grabbed onto his forearm with determined desperation. She’d said, “Fuck this, we’re done.”

They had opened the diner five months later.

Conceptualizing the place had started off as a pipe dream between two friends. Strahm had cooked for Lindsey some nights, when there was a sliver of down time. He’d been the one to teach her how to make more than oven pizzas and the occasional grilled cheese. He had also been the one who taught her how to shoot a man in the chest without flinching.

Five years, they’d worked together as agents for the FBI. Lindsey had been fresh out of the academy, and he’d already begun his downward spiral when they were assigned one another. No one else had wanted the woman rookie or the wild-eyed man they swore must be doing drugs to be acting the way he did, no matter how many piss tests came back clean. Two misfits.

Their coworkers and supervisors thought that he would make her cry, that he would destroy her confidence. Hell, they’d hoped he would go so far as to convince her that a woman didn’t belong at the boys’ table. Instead, Strahm realized that there was someone he could be bothered to live for.

He plates the two meals, reminiscing over and set aside for now. Fingers long since desensitized to the feeling of hot ceramic against them, he carries one plate in each hand to the dining area. The man and the woman are still the only customers. It’s a small town. It’s far enough from the main city that they don’t get much traffic out here this early in the morning. Usually, their clientele starts trickling in a couple hours after they open. It’s a motley assortment of people. They get folks from all walks of life seeking a seat at their secondhand tables. Money had been tight when they opened the place. Now, they keep the mismatched furniture as part of the place’s charm. He leaves the decor up to Lindsey.

As Peter makes his way to the dark haired pair seated at a table by the windows that span the front of the diner, initial thoughts that they might be a couple are blown away by the way the two of them are interacting. She’s engaging in five finger fillet with the straw for her orange juice. The hand that she’s playing the game with belongs to her resigned companion rather than herself. They must be siblings in one way or another.

“Here you go,” he sets the plates in front of them. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Yeah,” the seated man says. He’s wearing a suit. There is a flash of something at his hip. A gun and a badge. Strahm realizes that the man is a cop. Great. “Some decent coffee would be nice.” Peter’s eyebrows shoot up at the brazen rudeness. Across the table, the woman hisses, “Mark! What the fuck!” and swats at the officer.

The man isn’t deterred, just continues to stare Peter down with a dumb look in his blue eyes and a faint curl to his overly large, fish-like lips. Strahm hates him immediately. His dislike is only furthered by the realization that the seated cop’s buttons are straining across his chest. Could he not afford better fitting shirts? Or is he just too stupid to know his own size? Peter isn’t completely sure, but he’s willing to hazard the guess it might be the latter.

He grits his teeth and puts on a smile that’s more similar to a snarl than a genuine stab at pleasantry. “And what’s wrong with it?”

“It tastes like it’s been sitting out for hours,” he says, wincing only a little when the woman manages to land a solid kick against his shin. Peter wishes he could also dig the tip of his shoe into that yielding body.

Snatching the mug off the counter, he barely avoids the impulse to dump it on the cop’s lap and give him something to actually complain about. He doesn’t quite storm off to the narrow space behind the counter but it’s a close thing. He still carries his anger around his throat like a noose. Leaving the FBI hadn’t changed that.

The expression on his face is thunderous enough that Lindsey looks alarmed. Rightfully so. “What’s wrong?”

“Jackass cop. They always think they can come in here and push everyone around. That one probably jerks off onto his badge every night.” He feels a muscle jump in his jaw.

“That was… descriptive.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, ditching the mug on the counter by the machine and picking up the glass coffeepot and a fresh mug.

Peter strides back over to the occupied table. He sets down the mug with a hard thud on the tablecloth-covered wood, enough so that the table rattles with the force of it. It’s a miracle the ceramic doesn’t shatter. Neither of the two men look away from each other as he slowly pours the dark liquid. Only rising steam blocks their view, faltering and diverting as though it were afraid to be in the middle of them.

He fills the mug as high as he can get it, surface tension being the only thing keeping the coffee contained. It will be impossible to pick up without spilling. The cop is going to have to drink from it like a dog if he wants it at all.

“Thank you, Peter.” His voice is low, throaty.

Strahm startles at the use of his first name. His fingers reflexively clench into a fist. He perpetually forgets about the name tags that Lindsey insists they both wear despite her being the only one he has ever grown accustomed to calling him anything but some variation of “Agent” and “Strahm.” Of course this bloated asshole would be presumptuous enough use his name.

Choosing not to respond, he leaves the table and retreats to the sanctuary behind the counter. Any satisfaction he might have felt at watching his customer debase himself is dashed when Mark seeks out his eyes once again with his own as he lowers his face to the table and presses those absurdly full lips against the rim of the coffee mug. Peter can’t look away as he watches Mark’s throat engage in gulping swallows to drain the mug to the point where he can pick it up and drink from it like a slightly more civilized ape. He doesn’t realize he’s trembling, nearly vibrating in place, until his partner taps him on the arm and takes the glass carafe from his hand.

Lindsey attends to the pair from that point on. He lets her. They both know things might escalate, with his fuse being an oil soaked scrap of already burning twine.

The cop is perfectly nice to her, even smiling and thanking her for another coffee refill. Strahm can still feel the other man’s eyes rest on him from time to time. There’s something about the weight of his stare that makes him want to scratch at a phantom itch under his collar until blood burrows its way beneath his nails.

He finds his relief when Lindsey brings out the bill. Mark leaves his sister behind to pay after he hands her his wallet. She approaches the register with the slip of paper, looking meeker, somehow smaller, without her brother around. He barely keeps the frown off his face at her body language. There’s a nervous look in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry about my brother. I don’t know what got into him. He’s never like that.”

She sounds so sincere that he feels his frustration ease off the gas a little. It wouldn’t be right of him to be pissed at her just because she has an asshole for a sibling. “Ah, don’t worry about it.”

“Please, keep the change,” she says, handing him a wad of bills.

He pauses, fingertips already on the smaller denominations in the cash drawer. “This is too much, really.”

“Call it a…” she raises her fingers in scare quotes, “‘Markup’.”

Strahm sighs. Both siblings are intolerable.

“Alright then…?”

“Angelina. Angie.”

“Have a nice day, Angelina.” He very politely does not tell her to inform her brother to go fuck himself. Preferably with his own loaded gun. Safety off.

The young woman gives a little wave to Lindsey on her way out the door. His partner cheerfully returns it, her other arm laden down with the pair’s used plates. Peter loops around the counter to help her with bussing the table. He snatches up a clean rag on the way.

He’s not quite sure why the other man got under his skin so badly. It chafes at him. They have had more than a couple blowhard cops in the diner before, but they’ve never invoked the same visceral reaction from Strahm as Mark had. At least he can find solace in knowing that he will probably never have to see them again. They hadn’t seemed like locals, and it’s unlikely they’ll return, especially given the cop’s behavior towards him.

Hours pass, evening finally settles in after a long day. Diner traffic had ebbed and flowed along the usual patterns after the two siblings had left. Strahm and Perez had had the their typical rush around eight, followed by another burst of customers around noon, and the final crowd at six. There had been nothing else out of the ordinary to get Peter’s hackles up.

“Go on home, Linds,” he says to his partner as he flips the last chair onto one of the tables. He doesn’t want her to be stuck here all night while he meticulously combs over the diner in preparation for opening in the morning.

She stops, looks over at him with raised eyebrows. She’s got one hand on the dustpan and the other wrapped around the broom. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I could use the time to—“

“Get your homicidal urges under control?” she suggests with a grin.

He doesn’t dignify Lindsey with a response, just takes the broom from her before gently pressing his knuckles to her back to nudge her in the direction of the counter. “I’ll see you in the morning. Shoot me a message when you get home.”

“Oh, I’ll shoot you alright,” the woman mutters as she goes and gets her coat and purse.

“I wish you would. It would save me the trouble of doing it myself,” he calls after her.

The look he gets in return, all scrunched eyes and pursed lips, makes him smile. Lindsey’s “agent special”, as they jokingly call the expression they both slip into when agitated, would be enough to sour milk. He and his partner aren’t all that different. Their mannerisms have blurred together over the years. Lindsey is still his better half, though. She always will be.

“’Night, Pete.” She pauses with her hand on the front door’s handle. “You let me know too. When you get back to your place.”

“Goodnight,” he says, grudgingly tacking on “I will.” when she clears her throat in a pointed demand.

He finishes sweeping and is in the middle of mopping when his phone vibrates in the front pocket of his jeans. Without looking, he knows it’s the message from Lindsey. Still, he pulls the device out anyway and flips it open.

The text illuminated on the screen reads Im home :) Dont forget 2 eat

Satisfied that she’s safe, he doesn’t pick at the number pad and work up a reply. Peter merely closes the phone and returns it to his pocket. He’ll be messaging Lindsey about his return to his shitty rental soon enough. He’s almost done here, will be once he’s combed over every final detail down to the level the salt shakers are filled to. Strahm can’t help but treat every night at the diner like a case. All the parts have to be arranged in just the right order to construct the whole picture.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Early riser, is the first thing Strahm thinks the next morning when he hears the bells clatter against the glass of the front door. It is barely five minutes past six. Lindsey is in the back wrangling the day’s special; muffins. Much to his mixture of pride and chagrin, she’s become a substantially better baker than he. She has the patience for it.

“Welcome in,” he says, not looking up from the inventory list he’s in the middle of putting together.

He is going to have to call in an order to their supplier before noon today if they want it by Friday, which they do. Business is going to be elevated above average due to a local softball game on Saturday. One of them will be tasked with catering the event while the other stays behind to run the diner. He and Lindsey are going to have to draw straws for who gets what job. Peter is sure that she’s going to rig the game by changing the rules once the results are in so that she has be the person to go. His customer skills are better left unpracticed.

“Thanks, Peter,” comes a familiar voice.

Nearly snapping his own damn neck when he jerks his head up, he looks at the speaker. It’s Mark. He is holding the door open with a glove-clad hand for his presumed saint of a sister.

Anger sparks along his spine. He had bet wrong on never seeing the cop again, and with an aggressive motion, he snatches up only one menu. It’s only when he’s halfway to their table that he realizes he is rapidly clicking the pen he was using to write down notes for the order. He forces himself to stop.

Strahm can’t help but notice the other man is dressed the same as he was yesterday. He’s wearing the black blazer again, silk shirt is straining over his—what Peter can only call—breasts. He catches the sight of a thick suspender strap pressing into the softness of his chest, and finds that he has to look away and focus carefully on the menu he’s setting on the table in front of Angelina. He can tell that the other man is eyeing him questioningly.

“Where’s mine?” the cop asks, falling right into the trap Peter had impulsively set for him.

Turning to him with a fake as shit, winning smile, he says, “I thought your sister would be reading it to you. On account of you being a brain-damaged neanderthal.”

While Mark looks at him unblinkingly for a long moment and Angelina tries to smother her shocked laugh, Peter doesn’t let go of the smile. He rubs this thumb over the pen as he waits patiently for the cop to speak.

“Hm,” Mark finally says, considering, “Mother always did love dropping me on my head.”

Peter’s grin wavers, thinking the man might not be joking. His tone had been too serious. The amused expression falls off his face completely.

Fuck, he thinks, feeling a tinge of horror. Lindsey is going to kill him if he doesn’t kill himself first. Mark’s sister has her face buried in her hands. He’s royally cocked this up. He’s on the verge of apologizing when—

“I’m joking, Pete. I thought we were all friends here.”

Strahm relaxes, just marginally, but then Mark speaks again “Besides, I didn’t have a mother. In fact, you might be onto som—”

Peter interrupts him, turning to Angie, “What can I get you started with?”

“Orange juice, and some coffee for Oliver Twist over there.”

“Did you take him to the vet to get his taste buds looked at?” He’s still reflexively tapping his thumb against the clicker of the pen, not hard enough to trigger the mechanism.

She snaps her fingers, a smile playing at her mouth. “Damn, I forgot. I’m sure he’ll be nice this time,” she emphasizes with a pointed look at her brother.

Unable to help himself, he hazards a glance at the cop as well. Mark, upon realizing he’s being observed, darts his eyes from Peter’s right hand to his face. There’s something off about his expression, only furthered by a hard swallow. He looks almost… No. The idiot is probably just creaming himself over the thought of breakfast.

“I’ll be right out with that.”

When he pushes through the swinging door into the kitchen, he finds Lindsey pulling out another tray of muffins. She slides them onto the wheeled cooling rack and hums along to the radio blasting dad rock. His partner looks over at him with a smile. “Got a customer already?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles, snagging a glass serving decanter off a shelf, “jerkoff cop and his sister from yesterday.”

Peter can hear the frown in her voice as she speaks. “Want me to handle them?”

“No. I got it,” he calls on his way to the walk-in, decanter in hand. He fills it with orange juice from the dispenser before slipping out of the cooler and back into the main room of the kitchen to find and wrangle the lid onto the glass vessel.

Perez speaks like he hadn’t walked off, used to his comings and goings, “I’ll take the softball game then.”

“Not your call,” he says, thumbs bleaching white as he presses the sloped, metal lid down into the decanter until the rubber seal catches.

“Sure is, buddy. You’ll be using up all your goodwill today. I don’t want you terrorizing entire families this weekend. It’s bad for business.”

The retired agent lets out a ragged sigh on his way through the swinging door, finding himself unable to disagree. He knows his own limits, as much as he resents them, and so does Lindsey. Unlike her, he is willing to ignore them if it means getting the job done. It’s a miracle how she’s managed to stick around all these years. No one else has managed to tolerate his unwavering dedication. His first wife had left him for turning a blind eye to everything other than work, and the second had done the same for his devotion to Lindsey. Strahm is ever the dog with a bone, gnawing until he has reached the marrow and licked away every last trace of it.

He loves Perez like the sister he never got to have. Peter has both put his life on the line for her and taken the lives of other people for her continued survival. He has the unfortunate affliction of being willing to do anything for her, even going so far as to let her take some of the burden of this job off his shoulders. Atlas gets to have a partner.

Fetching a glass from under the counter, he tops it off with orange juice before stashing the serving jug in the mini-fridge where they keep the other cold items they need close at hand throughout the day—beverage pitchers, whipped cream, sliced lemons, the works.

Laughter travels across the diner, quick-footed and noisy. Strahm looks up at the interruption. The cop is holding the menu upside down and attempting to read the inverted text as he trails a thick finger over the print. He clearly cares about his sister. The love is written all over his stupid face, so thick that it’s enough to choke on.

Tamping down any lingering irritation as best as he can, Peter makes his way over to the siblings’ table. He is careful when he sets Angelina’s glass of orange juice down but doesn’t take the same care in the dismissive way he thunks Mark’s empty mug on the surface.

“Decided what you want yet?” he asks, pouring too much coffee into the mug in a repetition of yesterday. It laps the rim, begging to escape over the side.

At Angelina’s affirmative, Strahm sets the coffee carafe on the table and withdraws the notepad from his belt. While he jots down their order, he can’t help but be unsure if Mark is actually stupid or if he is just pretending. Either way, the man grates at him in such a way that he’d like to sink his fist into his face. It might relieve the inexplicable feeling crawling around under his skin like its trying to make a home. If he doesn’t act, it might buy real estate nestled away somewhere under his ribs.

Once he has everything marked down, he trades places with Lindsey after passing her the coffeepot and cooks the meal up in the back while she mans the front. They swap again as soon as he serves the places.

Behind the counter, he works at finishing up the restock order. Peter keeps finding his eyes wandering to the eating man rather than the task at hand. The solitude of the front only serves to allow him all the free rein he could possibly want to watch the man consume the meal Strahm had put in front of him. Each mouthful, each bob of that thick neck as he swallows, the tines of the fork disappearing between those overfilled lips; there’s something about it that he cannot look away from.

For now, he tells himself that the rapt attention is borne of disgust, that he’s watching for a complaint so he has cause to let out the aggression boiling inside of him. Later, once he has closed the diner for the night, he tries to convince himself that the tinge of satisfaction he’s feeling in this moment is because he is looking at proof of a job well done. The cop is clearly enjoying his food, and Strahm takes pride in his work.

Either way, he ignores the stirring that he feels in his jeans. He curses himself under his breath and puts all his focus into finishing the list he should have been locked into all along. He barely marks down the last item on the sheet before Lindsey pops through the swinging door, flushed from having completed her baking.

She ducks right under his arm and pulls the paper out from under his hand. Lindsey ignores his outraged noise. “Is this everything?”

“Yeah. Business has been picking up.”

“Mmm… Go water the plants for me? I’ll take over here.”

His partner makes a shooing gesture at him. She had been the one who insisted they have flowers in front of the diner and around the lot’s tree. Of course, the task of caring for them has fallen to Peter. He’d seen the state of her houseplants time and time again. Each of them inevitably finds a place at his rental home, handed over by a sheepish Lindsey. He all but has a jungle tucked away in his living room. Perez has many qualities. Unfortunately, a green thumb is not among them.

Casting a quick glance over at the table, he sees that the siblings are nearly done. They will be needing the check soon.

“Fine,” he says, giving in. It’s probably better for everyone is he’s not looking at the cop.

The bell chimes as he ducks out the front door. He checks the soil before he bothers to get the hose. In doing so, he finds out that Lindsey was right, the plants do need watered.

Peter is in the middle of watering the bed under the window when a shadow falls over the box. It consumes his, merges with it to create a twisted creature. There is something familiar in that figure, something deep in the core of his body groans in approval. Everything else fades away for a moment as he quietly observes it.

“Angie told me to apologize.”

Peter jerks, surprised by the rolling voice behind him. His finger slips off the sprayer. The water cuts off abruptly. He narrowly avoids clutching at his chest with his free hand like a stereotypical old man having a heart attack. With his heart pounding in his ears, he turns around to face Mark. Strahm doesn’t spay the cop with the hose. He wants to.

“So are you?” he asks with forced nonchalance.

Mark considers him. Those pale eyes survey the damp patches on Strahm’s jeans where the water had blown back. His stare seems to catch on the wet patch of t-shirt clinging to his stomach. “I don’t know. Is there something in it for me if I do?”

Strahm feels his neck go hot. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the other man is flirting.

“Depends on how good the apology is.” The words are out of his mouth before his brain catches up. Damn it, Strahm, damn it, he thinks. His tendency to spout out whatever leapt to his tongue was a barely leashed thing that often broke free of its tether at the most inopportune of moments.

A smile curves the edges of Mark’s over-sized lips and the shorter man leans his bulk in just enough to make him feel cornered. Strahm has to fight not to react in any direction; either to shove him away or to pull him in. Disgust is warring with interest. He frowns. He barely knows this man. The retired agent would like to know what the fuck is wrong with him.

Sudden surprise flairs in those eyes and Mark withdraws, saying, “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”

Peter is left standing alone on the pavement, hose in hand, as the other man lumbers away to the navy Crown Victoria parked at the meter. He’s wet and confused. His jeans feel as tight as the scar cutting across his cheek.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Wednesday passes without further incident. Thursday’s only outstanding feature is the arrival of the order they had placed on Tuesday. Friday night sees Strahm helping to prepare everything for Lindsey’s catering on Saturday. There is no sign of Mark during the three day span. Only his sister stops by the diner. She gives no explanation for her brother’s absence and Peter does not ask.

Over the days, Strahm and Perez get to know Angelina. They learn that she loves her brother just as much as he loves her. She reveals that she and Mark were system kids. He has taken care of her like his own family since the moment they met at the home of shared foster parents. The adults had ended up not wanting Mark and despite only intending to send him back, they’d had to send both children away. Hoffman and Acomb had been stamped with a “do-not-separate” notice when Mark had later broken the nose of one of the staff members in response to being told they were going to be split up. Another family had wanted to foster just her.

Hoffman had filed for custody of her as soon as he aged out of the system and the means to show he could provide for her. He had been the youngest cop the precinct had assigned the role of detective to. Angie wishes her brother would hover less and worry about himself more. She thinks that he is burning the candle at both ends.

Over those days, Strahm’s worldview around the man shifts. The flames of disdain that had been raging inside of him peter out and turn into a charred bed of ash. He still wants to punch the man in the face, still wants to rough him up until he’s marked with the proof of Strahm’s fists—of his mouth—but he might soothe the man’s wounds afterwards with careful passes of his tongue.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Lindsey has just barely left for the softball field with her small truck laden down with the necessary food and supplies for the catering ordeal when the bell above the door jangles. Strahm looks up from the coffee filters he’s separating to see that it’s Mark. He is the first customer of the morning.

The detective doesn’t take a seat at the table, instead, he settles himself onto a stool at the counter. Strahm can’t help but notice that the seat Mark chooses is the one beside the stool that his sister has been occupying for the past few days. It’s as though his body instinctively knows where Angie resides and always keeps that space carved out for her. Peter is sure that if something were to ever happen to her, there would be a gaping hole in the detective’s life, a place where his sister should fill.

Something gives way in his chest at the sight of him. He’d never admit it, but he’s irrationally missed him.

“Morning,” he says, putting a mug down in front of him. He leaves enough room for Mark’s sugar this time as he pours the coffee in, unprompted. He’s being uncharacteristically nice. It could be that he’s making up for the lack of his partner. His rough edges can’t be too sharp when she’s not around to patch up the cuts he might make.

Any positive feelings at the other man being back at the diner are dashed when the first words out of his mouth aren’t a good morning in return, or even a thanks, but a “You wife has been getting real close with my sister. You guys a pineapple couple or what?”

Mark’s eyes are flat, deceptively calm. Uncomfortably, Peter feels as though he’s looking into the eyes of an attacking shark. He barely keeps the coffeepot he’s holding from slipping from his grasp. He’s suddenly all too aware of the wedding band weighing down his ring finger. It had been the same one from both his previous marriages. The retired FBI agent should have known the second marriage was doomed to fall apart from the moment he decided to not pick out new wedding rings with his fiancée. It probably hadn’t helped, that unbeknownst to ex-wife number two, he had proposed to her with the engagement ring he’d gotten back after the divorce of his first wife. Both women had been right to end their marriages to him. He’d been a shitty husband. His heart hadn’t been in it. Neither woman had been what he was really looking for.

On the Lindsey’s behalf, he’s offended for Mark even thinking she would stoop so low as to be married to him. She deserves better than his negligence and repression. He knows it and she knows it. In all the years that they’ve been partners, they have never done anything more than share a few awkward hugs.

“Lindsey and I aren’t married,” he says firmly.

“Just you then?”

“I’m not married. Neither of us are married.”

“You wear a ring. Seems awful married to me.”

“It keeps some of the old ladies from trying to mount me in the stock room,” he answers, dry.

They sit on that in silence. Strahm places the carafe back on the hotplate. Something nags at him. He turns to Mark only to find that he’s still staring at him. “What the fuck is a pineapple couple?”

“Swingers, Pete. I asked if you were a swinger.”

“What? No. Mark. No. No.”

The seated man looks strangely smug. “Good. I don’t share,” he says as if it were the most casual thing in the world and flips open a menu.

For a moment, Strahm thinks his brain shuts off. He reaches blindly for a rag out of the sanitizer bucket and starts scrubbing the counter with it. Mark’s voice comes to him like Peter is under water, distorted and faint.

“Eggs and bacon for me today. Some multigrain if you’ve got it.”

Pulling his notepad from his belt, Strahm scribbles down the order. He doesn’t need to but he needs to fight for a finger hold of normality here.

“Small breakfast. Sure you don’t want to stuff your mouth with anything else?” As soon as the words hit the air, Strahm wishes he could somehow suck them back in. Why is he forever incapable of thinking before he speaks?

Hoffman shrugs. “Nah, Angie’s not here to steal half the food off my plate. Besides, what I want isn't on the menu anyway.” His eyes feel like a physical caress as they map over Peter’s body. The meaning is blatant, not remotely subtle.

Peter opens his mouth, closes it.

“I’ll be back with that,” he says. On his way to the kitchen’s swinging door, he tries to keep his pace measured as he escapes Mark’s all too interested eyes. He doesn't want the detective to see how much their interaction has rattled him.

Once in the kitchen, he realizes that he needs to get ingredients out of the walk-in and pops the latch to step inside the small space. Instead of gathering what he had come for, Peter finds himself sitting on a tomato box. He leans back, pressing the sides of his clenched hands to his brow bone. Letting out a loud sigh that’s more of a growl, the diner owner sags into the cold metal of the wall behind it. The change in temperature is enough of a difference to shock his system back into some sense of reality.

What the fuck? he thinks, irritation creeping into his thoughts like an old friend. The detective had acted like he would gladly engage him in a physical fight over coffee and now he’s making overt passes at him. It’s enough to send his head spinning. Going over their interactions, he’s drawing the conclusion that perhaps the other man had been flirting with him since the start, trying different tactics to get his attention like a snot-nosed brat pulling a girl’s hair on the playground before realizing that honey catches more flies.

Being in the cooler finally catches up with him and he wastes no time in getting to his feet. He hates tight spaces, always has. Eventually, they make him feel like the walls are closing in inch by anxiety-inducing inch. A nonsensical section of his hind brain fears he will get crushed between them, rendered into a pool of fat floating atop pulpy innards and shattered bones.

Once free of the walk-in, he fries up the bacon and the eggs. He slips some toast onto the plate before carrying it out to the front. It’s hot against his fingers, the heat soaking through his callouses.

Peter has a moment to observe Mark when he pauses in the doorway. The swinging door is propped open against his elbow. The detective is sitting quietly, sketching something out on a napkin with the pen that Strahm must have unintentionally left behind after he took down the order. Once Mark catches sight of him, he flips the napkin over. As he does, Peter gets a glimpse of the drawing. It’s depicting something mechanical, like a medieval torture device made modern. An alarm bell clangs in the back of his head.

Neither of them bring up the drawing. Mark steadily tucks into his breakfast. Peter pretends not to be watching him. He thinks part of his brain dies when Mark has to lick away a smear of ketchup off his own lip. For a moment, Peter has the thought of his own tongue doing the work for the detective instead.

The retired agent ends up nearly snarling at him when he asks for a coffee refill.

next chapter -»

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