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shootwinterfest · 5 years

Text

Happy Hunting

Shoot Secret Santa Gift by @lizburnz!

The navigation system chimes, “You have reached your destination,” and Shaw mashes on the brakes, simultaneously as she cuts the wheel.

The car screeches to a halt, slanted in a parallel spot, ridden halfway up the curb in front of some apartment buildings and a few startled pedestrians. She slams the gear into park and bolts before the tire smoke even has a chance to settle. Anything else vehicular related is irrelevant now, as she leaves the door hanging wide open and the engine still running.

Root needs her- needs her help. With what? Specifically, Shaw doesn't know, but the short text with more exclamation points than words seemed pretty damn urgent. And since Root's phone has been going straight to voice mail ever since, she believes the threat to be serious, something that requires a second gun and Shaw's most preferred method of intervention. Shooting.

But the neighborhood is quiet. Well, not that it shouldn't be, this early on a Saturday morning, but when Root's involved in anything there's usually some degree of chaos. Oddly, nothing seems to be out of place. No smoke means no fire, no screaming means no gunshots have recently gone off. The only person running like their life depended on it, is Shaw, who's starting to wonder if she's even at the right place.

But it is the right place. 314 Avenue C. And Shaw knows this because it says so. Right there on the door. Behind Root.

The woman who cried wolf lounges casually at the foot of the stoop, without a scratch on her head or a single care in the world. And though Shaw is somewhat relieved by the sight of neither dead nor dying Root, it doesn't make her any less perturbed, being pulled out of bed at the brink of dawn because someone can't quite grasp what constitutes an emergency.

Shaw drags her feet the rest of the way, shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets so Root can't see how tightly they're balled into fists. She doesn't want to do anything she might regret, like punch a certain grin off a certain someone's face. Not until she has a valid reason at least.

“Good morning,” Root sing songs in her usual pleasant way.

“What is it this time?” Shaw asks, bypassing formalities completely. The faster she gets to the point, the faster she can turn down whatever it is and go home.

“Let's see...” Root glances to the imaginary watch on her wrist. “Fifty-eight city blocks in less than twelve minutes. Wow, Shaw! I think you broke your old record.”

Shaw's eyes flutter into the back of her head. “Why am I here, Root?”

“Isn't that the age old question?” Root ambles to her feet with a large cup of coffee in hand. “Whole milk. No sugar. Just the way you like it,” she says, extending it towards a wary Shaw.

Whether it's a hot cup-o-bribery or a peace offering, Shaw isn't sure, but she takes it anyway. “You know, this doesn't even begin to make up for-”

“Do you like hunting?” Root asks peculiarly and out of nowhere.

Shaw just blinks. There isn't enough caffeine in this coffee, or in the entire city of New York, to help prepare her for the roller coaster that is Root's cryptics.

The first thing that comes to mind is fugitive tracking of course, a literal man hunt. Now that, Shaw could get on on board with. But knowing Root, it's probably nothing so obvious and easy. It's two very different things, what Shaw thinks and what Root actually means.

“It depends,” Shaw says, reluctant to commit without details first. She's learned the hard way too many times before. “What the target is... if I can shoot them... but mostly, my mood.”

“And...” Root leans in on the tips of her toes, “What kind of mood do you currently find yourself in this lovely day?”

“The pistol whipping kind of mood if you don't cut the crap and tell me what you want.”

Root pouts half-heartedly, slipping a piece of paper from her coat pocket, to which Shaw snatches and unfolds. Written on it, in barely legible hacker scrawl, is a list of addresses that still do everything but answer Shaw's question.

“They're apartments,” Root clarifies. “I need your help finding one.”

A map could do a better job. Hell, Root's practically got a GPS system and then some squawking in her ear. But maybe it's more than that, Shaw thinks. Maybe there's a bomb planted in one, or a missing person tied to a radiator. Looking closer at the list, she finds a four digit number beside each address. Next to that, some kind of code... 2/1 1700SF W/D...

But it isn't until Shaw reads the part about “no pets” that she shoves the paper back at Root.

“This is why you 911'd me? To help you house hunt!” Shaw says, gaping in amazement. “Are you out of your damn mind?”

Root throws her an obvious look.

“I thought you were...” Hurt. Dying. Both. The potential of either could light a fire of apocalyptic proportions under Shaw's ass, and Root seems to relish the fact. “Do you know how many traffic laws I just broke?”

Root shrugs. “All of them, I imagine.”

Shaw deadpans her for a moment, mystified as she internally debates whether or not she should spoil her knuckles today with an all you can beat buffet of Root's face. Shaw nearly mowed down a group of tourists crossing the street, sideswiped about a dozen parked cars, ran every single red light while doing quadruple the speed limit. For christsake, she car jacked someone at gunpoint. And for what? For the exciting, once in a lifetime mission of finding analogue-interfull-of-shit a place to live?

“Happy hunting,” Shaw eventually says and turns heel in the opposite direction. And of course it isn't the last word. Root follows on her heals and whines in her wake, with things like please and wait and a few pet names she isn't allowed to call Shaw in public.

“You're bored, I get it,” Shaw tells her in stride. “The Machine gave you the day off, so instead of annoying relevant numbers, you've decided to annoy me instead. I get it.”

“No, that isn't-” Root groans in frustration. “Will you please just hear me out?” and she hooks an arm around Shaw's to stop her. “I called you because, one, I value your opinion. And two, I thought you'd like to be a part of a mutually beneficial decision.”

“How in the world does this benefit me?”

“Think of it like this. The sooner I get a key to my own place, the sooner you can have yours back,” Root says and places an encouraging hand on Shaw's shoulder, which is batted off not a second later when the information is really processed.

“You have a key to my apartment?”

“I made copies.”

“Wait. Copies, plural?” As in more than one? “Seriously, Root. What the fuck.”

“Look, we can stand here, arguing semantics for the next 45 seconds until your stolen vehicle is swarmed by cops, plural, or...” Root jingles a set of car keys like a carrot on a stick. “I'll even let you drive,” she adds, and Shaw doesn't have much time to mull it over, not with all the sirens wailing in the distance.

“Fine,” Shaw finally agrees, though it was a tough decision to make. The back seat of a squad car or Root's- where is her car?

She presses the clicker and follows the faint little beep across the street, to where the vintage muscle car sits. Not just any muscle car though, a cherry red, 1967 Mustang twin turbo V8 in pristine condition. And Shaw knows this, because it looks just like the car Harold has, locked in his garage. The one he brags about all the time, having spent years restoring it to near mint. The one he never drives or lets anyone else drive, for the matter.

“How'd you get Finch to lend you his car?” Shaw asks, quickly realizing how dumb her question sounds aloud. Especially to Root, who just throws her head back and laughs.

…

The first stop of the list is on the upper east side, to a twenty something story apartment building fitted with a starch press suited doorman and a security guard station, which Shaw deems is more for appearances sake. Armed with walkies, flashlights, and pens for the sign in sheet, they let Root and Shaw breeze right by with their fake ID's and concealed weapons.

It's no surprise when Root hits the “P” for penthouse button in the elevator. She's not exactly the humble type, or one to underplay any sort of small endeavor.

A well dressed blonde woman greets them right off the elevator, shining a permanent smile of all veneer that never lets up even while she speaks. Root gingerly accepts the pamphlet offered, glossing over it as she absently wanders about the main living area, which is two times bigger than Shaw's entire apartment. And white. All white. The carpets, the walls, even the staging furniture. Lord forbid anyone so much as whisper the words red wine or tomato sauce, or in Root's predictable case, blood.

“Seems nice,” Root says while Shaw shuffles alongside like a bored child.

“Then buy it.” The sooner Root signs the deal, the sooner she can get back to her regularly scheduled program of having absolutely nothing to do on her day off.

“The master bath apparently has a built in sauna...” Root gives her a little nudge, “Guess how many settings the smart shower has?”

“Enough to replace me.”

“Not likely,” but then Root lowers the pamphlet in introspect. “Unless I could program it to be mean to me...”

“Ha. Ha.”

“I'm gonna have a look around.”

“And I...” Shaw scans the room, searching for the oasis in this desert of white hell, “...will see you later,” and she branches off towards the refreshment table.

It's probably the best thing about an open house. Well, if you're Shaw and you have no intent on buying anything. The free food. And not just tired old finger sandwiches either. The last time Shaw's seen a spread like this, she was undercover at a political fundraiser for what's his name running for office of who cares.

Shaw sips a bellini from a flute as she grazes the table, helping herself to a little of this and that. At some point she does make threatening eye contact with the foolish person who tried reaching for the last salmon wrap, but all is pleasant and well for the most part. She get's to explore her pallet, Root gets to explore the apartment. A win-win so far in her book.

“God! You wont believe the offer that tacky-khaki couple just proposed.”

Inconspicuously, Shaw glances a little ways to her right. The fake toothed woman who greeted them earlier stands with another, conversing in whispers and hushed voices. Well they'd like to believe no one else can hear them.

“An open house... what was Harriet thinking? Letting anyone waltz in off the street?”

“We'll have to fumigate when this is over.”

“Would you look at all the riff-raff?”

Shaw follows the acrylic red finger nail as it not so discretely flicks across the room. Of all the people scattered about the living area, she decides to pick out Root.

“What do you think her net worth is?”

“If that ugly leather jacket's anything to go by. I saw holes in it.”

“And the hair...

“I like her boots though...”

“So did I- five seasons ago!”

Their annoying laughter eventually fades into the violin music, but Shaw's temper continues on it's high note. In her head, she's already plotted half the steps towards their accidental deaths, because no one – no one – is allowed to talk crap about Root. Except for Shaw, that is.

And under any other circumstance, she'd just go over there and confront the two women with a lesson in manners. Incidentally, fists are a great learning tool for most people.

Oh, but where would that get her? Wanted by the police, probably, if that little car jacking stunt didn't already land a warrant for her arrest. But it would be fun, well fun for Shaw, to give those rent-a-cops downstairs a run for their money.

No, she eventually decides. There are more subtle ways to exact revenge.

She sidles over to the group of young hipsters first, who have gathered by the fire place pretending to admire the brickwork.

“Did one heck of a clean up on this place, huh?” she says, cutting into their conversation at just the right moment.

They turn to her with mixed expressions. “What do you mean?” one of them asks.

Shaw leans in. “Oh, you don't know?” she says in a hushed voice, so secretive and curious, it demands the group's undivided attention. All but one.

The guy with thick rimmed glasses just scoffs at her. “What? Did some dude die here or something?”

“More like dudes. Plural,” Shaw replies and glasses guy stops laughing. “A few months back, this tech company was having their big launch party here. Well, during the party, one of the partners totally loses it and I mean loses it. I heard, it was because the other partners were trying to cut him out... guess he thought he'd beat them to it.” and she unfolds the rest of the scene, in graphic detail with complementary stabbing gestures. To the point, a few of them turn a sickly shade of pale.

But glasses guy, the apparent leader of the pack, needs more convincing.

“Come on! How do you not remember this?” Shaw says, and name drops a famous New York magazine that all the people like them claim to read but never do.

And suddenly, him and the rest of the group are singing a different tune, nodding their heads and collectively muttering things like: Oh yes, I remember that article and Such a tragedy and It's too bad, I heard they were really up and coming...

“Yeah.” Shaw gazes solemnly at the fireplace. “That's where they found the head... threw it like it was a bowling ball.”

Like before, they stare at the fireplace. Albeit, in utter silence and for new and morbid reasons now, but Shaw takes it as her cue to move on.

And move on she does, to the pleasant older couple standing by themselves in the kitchen, which is also bigger than Shaw's apartment as well. They look a bit out of place. Suburban, perhaps midwestern. Shaw isn't sure just yet, but they definitely aren't like the rest of the people who live here.

“Excuse me,” Shaw says, all smile and cheer. “I couldn't help but notice, you two aren't from around here, are you?”

“Oh, heavens no!” The woman replies. Her accent is unmistakably southern and thick as molasses. “We're visiting our daughter. She just graduated from NYU!”

“Edna, you don't gotta tell everyone we meet,” the husband grumbles. “Hell, half of New York City knows by now.”

“No, it's fine,” Shaw politely reassures them. “You two must be very proud. Are you looking to move here as well, or?”

The woman side eyes the man. “Well, I would like to... It'd be nice to live closer to our little girl. Not to mention the broadway... But Richard here's an old stick in the mud.” she leans in to whisper only to Shaw, “He doesn't take to change very well.” The man grumbles again.

“I totally understand. When I first moved here, it took me a while to get acclimated. I mean, the first time I was mugged-”

“You were mugged?” The woman clasps her chest. “Oh, you poor thing!”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, “You get used to it. After a dozen times or so it's just like muscle memory. Wallet, phone, jewelry, please don't kill me.” Shaw acts it out like a routine. The grand finale, pulling the bottom of her shirt. “I was stabbed a block away from here, wanna see the scar?”

Their southern manners come to a full stop and they leave without so much as a goodbye or a bless your heart. Filled with a sense of crudely gained accomplishment, Shaw blows the smoke from the imaginary barrel of her imaginary gun and sets her sights on other targets.

One by one, they're taken out. She tells the uptight newly weds the apartment had been used as a movie set for prestigious films such as Gang-Bangs of New York, and One Fuck Over the Cuckhold's Nest, and Forrest Hump.

The leader of the co-op board has a portrait of Hitler hanging in his foyer. The neighbor downstairs is prone to clanging pots and pans at odd hours of the night because the voices tell her to. The walls are coated with so much lead paint, the apartment could double as a fallout shelter from radiation. And the whole building is haunted by failed venture capitalists, Shaw said to another person, and when his back was turned, she flickered the light switches.

And alright, that last one was mediocre at best, she admits. But in her defense, the one too many bellinis were starting to kick in a that point and she was running out of material. Thankfully, Root had come full circle by then, finished with her browsing.

“What do you think?”

“I heard the foundation's crumbling-” Shaw covers her mouth, pushing back the bubbly. “Whole place is gonna level in like a year.”

Root flashes her a look of disbelief, “That's absurd,” and returns to the brochure in hand. “I think it's pretty nice,” she says, and goes on and on about all the nice features and the nice amenities and the nice view.

“You!”

They look up and see the teethy realtor clomping her heels in their direction. “Aw, shit,” Shaw whispers when the woman turns her pointed red nail to her this time.

“Just where the hell do you get off! I lost potential buyers because of you!”

Shaw blinks, unfazed by this woman practically yelling in her face. However, Root's rather confused, bordering the edge of worried.

“What is she talking about?” Root asks, one of her hands sliding to the taser tucked in the back of her pants. Hovering, like she's unsure whether or not it's going to be necessary in the next ten seconds.

“I don't know,” Shaw replies with an innocent shrug at first, until she completely abandons the concept of an inside voice. “Must be all the asbestos in the air!” she shouts and the rest of the room, the few people she hadn't managed to scare off, they all clam up and turn bug eyed in their direction.

For a moment, the realtor panics and her fake smile returns to settle the crowd. “You need to leave!” she says through gritted teeth. “Both of you need to leave, immediately!”

“Way ahead of ya, sister.” Shaw says and calls out over her shoulder, “Wouldn't want to get a stupid thing like lung cancer or anything!” At this point, Root looks like she's going to taser Shaw instead.

“Let's go, Sameen,” she says, perturbed and not in a mild way, judging from grip she has on Shaw's elbow.

And still... “Really, you think they'd shell out a few extra bucks to remove hazardous materials from the walls!” Shaw manages one last time before she's shoved into the elevator.

Root jabs the lobby button and the doors close. She turns to Shaw with a myriad of emotions, some embarrassment, a little confusion, but mostly anger in her eyes. Shaw can feel them boring into the side of her face.

“What?” Shaw eventually shrugs. “Something you wanna say, Root?”

Root crosses her arms, tightly over her chest. “Something you wanna say, Shaw?”

Shaw rolls her eyes to the top of the door, watching the floor numbers fall on the screen for moment before clearing her throat. “Your hair looks nice today.”

…

Miles later in Midtown...

Together, they loiter the sidewalk in front of the next apartment Root might potentially rent, if the realtor ever decides to make an appearance. They've been waiting over a half an hour now.

“What's taking so long?” Shaw asks, again.

“Traffic, probably.” Root shrugs. She doesn't seem to mind the waiting as much as Shaw does. Then again, she doesn't have anywhere else to be. And neither does Shaw, but that's besides the point. Tardiness is just unprofessional.

“Call them.”

“I've already called five times,” Root tells her. “No one's picking up.”

“When?” Shaw asks. She hadn't seen Root touch her phone at all.

Root just taps the shell of the cochlear implant hiding beneath her hair. Oh yes, how could have Shaw forgotten, the ethereal blue tooth connection to robot overlord.

“I still don't understand why the Machine couldn't help you with this,” Shaw says to her. “Seems it'd be a heck of a lot easier. Beep boop beep... an apartment appears.”

Root smirks at her sideways, “You know that's not how it works.”

“Why not? I mean, she can make up elaborate identities for you, reposition satellites in orbit for you-”

“She can also tell me how many times you've watched Eat, Pray, Love... this month.”

Shaw glares to the side of Root's face trying, and failing to keep the amusement all to herself. But she's distracted for a moment, there's a passerby who's taking too long to pass by Harold's car. “Keep moving! So her abilities fall just short of finding her favorite asset a place to live?”

“She wants me to be more...” Root chews the inside of her cheek, “Independent, was the word she used.”

For once, Shaw's in agreement with Root's girlfriend.

“I'm pretty sure this is the exact opposite of what she meant,” Shaw teases. That is unless, the definition of independence changed over night and no one bothered to say anything.

“She also thinks we don't spend enough quality time together,” Root quickly adds, casually with a flip of her hair.

“Yeah, right,” Shaw scoffs at that. She'd like to know what the Machine would have to say about being slandered and used as a pawn for Root's own projections. “We spend lots of time together. Too much if you ask me.”

“Numbers don't count.”

“You come over all the time,” Shaw argues. Root just lets herself right in, with all those keys she's made.

“Sex doesn't count either.”

“Then what- Hey buddy! You wanna lose that hand!” Shaw shouts at a particularly touchy admirer of Harold's car. “What does count?” she finally asks. Really, she wants to know, how she can possibly spread her time thinner than it already is. “Does this count?”

Root thinks about it for a moment. “I'm not sure yet. But I'll let you know.”

“Right.” Shaw shakes her head; Root can be impossible at times. The 'issue' can go on the back burner for now, Shaw decides. They've got to move forward with the day, which is no longer dependent on the no-show realtor.

The front door of the building is locked, go figure, but that doesn't repel Shaw. There's an intercom system right beside it with dozens of names, each having their own call button. Shaw mashes all of them and waits.

In no time does the speaker crackle with static and slews of voices, speaking all at once in a melody of Hello? Who is it? and What the fuck do you want?

“Time Warner Cable,” Shaw says into the box and almost immediately, a buzzer goes off and unlocks the door. Shaw opens it and turns to Root still waiting on the sidewalk. “You coming or what?”

Root leads her upstairs and down the short hallway. “This is the one,” she says, pointing to the lock for Shaw to pick, which she does so effortlessly.

The inside is just as bland as the outside. The walls are coated in a neutral beige color that matches the carpet in all the rooms. A single bedroom, an eat in kitchen, a reasonably sized living area with a few windows and an okay view of the coffee shop all these midtowners mill about. And that's pretty much it. Though, Shaw thinks that was Martha Stewart crossing the intersection.

“I don't hate it,” Root sums up, having toured the entire place in less than a minute.

“But you don't like it either.”

“Eh.” Root shrugs. “It's just hard to picture myself living here, without my things.”

An idea pops into Shaw's head. “Okay, how about...” she thinks aloud and surveys the area. “Your desk can be here, in the living room, since you don't watch TV anyways...” She moves to the kitchen next. “You can put a little cafe table here... coffee pot here... and hey look, extra cabinet space for things that aren't cooking related.”

“I know how to cook, Shaw.”

“Name one time you cooked anything,” Shaw asks, but immediately stops Root the second her mouth opens. “Let me rephrase. Cooked anything that wasn't eventually used as tear gas.”

“Okay, you've got me there,” Root concedes. “Please continue.”

Shaw leads her to the bedroom. “The bed can go here. Nightstand with the lava lamp right next to it. Dresser here. Bean bag- if you still want it, there. The closet's kinda small... you'll have to get rid of a few jackets, but-”

“Wait,” Root interrupts. “Go back to the part about the bed.”

Shaw back tracks a few steps. “The bed goes here and-”

“Right here?” Root asks, edging closer and closer.

And Shaw's so distracted with her fake floor plan, she thinks nothing of it. She doesn't realize Root's been methodically backing her into the wall until her back actually hits the wall.

“And, what do you imagine we'd be doing on this bed, Sameen?” Her voice drops an octave in Shaw's ear, tingling like those fingertips skirting the inside hem of her jeans.

“I can think of a few things...” Shaw whispers, tracing the heat radiating from Root's lips inches away from her own. “On this bed, and then, that bureau over there.”

Root flashes a grin and presses it to Shaw's, briefly though. The kiss was only a ruse to take Shaw's lip between her teeth and tease some more before letting go. “I want you to know...” Root sighs as her hands circle around Shaw's wrists, “I'm really sorry about this.”

What that means? Shaw doesn't know. She barely had time to process anything Root said, because as soon as Root said it, she was spun around and pinned to wall with her arms locked behind her back.

“Whatthafuck!”

“Just go with it sweetie,” Root tells her, and not a second later do they hear footsteps coming down the hall and a man's voice calling out shakily. “Hello? Is someone there?”

He double takes when he sees them, his face conveying a look of surprise and slight fear for his life. “What's going on here? Who are you?”

“Special Agent Augusta King,” Root announces. As swiftly as she got the jump on Shaw, her free hands whips out a black leather bound badge that says FBI. “We received an anonymous tip about a wanted criminal hiding out in the building.”

“Here? In this building?” the man stutters in shock.

“Are you the tipper, sir?” Root asks, meanwhile, zip tying Shaw's wrists together for the bonus effect. So tight, Shaw thinks she's actually in trouble with the federal government.

“No, I live next door, I was just going-”

“So you heard suspicious activity from the vacant apartment right next to you and didn't think to report it?” Root says, catching him off guard. “Sir, are you aware that harboring a fugitive of the law is a felony offense?”

Shaw grumbles, “Like impersonating a-”

Root silences her with a good shove.

“Woah, wait a minute,” the man backs away, hands up in defense. “I had no idea she was- I wouldn't harbor anything!”

“You'll be hearing from my offices.” Root begins escorting Shaw out into the hallway, pausing to glare at the man as she passes. “Don't leave town.”

By the time they exit the front door, Shaw is more than done with the whole charade. Immediately, she shirks out of Roots grip, fuming slightly as she strains for the folding knife in her back pocket. “I can't believe you- no wait, I can!” The zip tie snaps free after a bit of sawing.

“I'm not the one who left the door wide open.”

The few choice words bubbling in the back of Shaw's throat, simmer down. Root's right. She did leave the door open. Like some kind of fucking amateur. She rubs her sore wrists, bitter. “What are you still doing with that thing anyway?”

“I don't know.” Root jogs the badge in her hands. “It does come in handy though.”

Shaw shakes her head. From the corner of her eyes, she notices a suspicious group of hoodlums beginning to circle Harold's car like vultures on a carcass.

“Gimme that!” Shaw snatches the goddamn badge out of Root's hands and flips it out with an, “FBI! Freeze!” The little bastards bolt in all directions, and Shaw hums to herself. “How come I never got one of these?”

…

Later and lower on the east side...

Jerri, a fast talking woman from Queens who looks like Fusco's sister, hustles them up the stairs of a run down walk up. The bellinis Shaw guzzled earlier threaten to make a second appearance as they round the landing of floor number six. More so when she sidesteps a ragged baby doll lying in a questionable pool of something awful slicked on the floor.

“Not much further,” the woman tells them. “Just a few more floors!”

“She said that- three floors ago!” Shaw huffs in tow.

“Try to keep up, Shaw,” Root says, jogging the steps with ease, at a steady rhythm that's utterly baffling. Considering Shaw's never seen her so physically active at something that didn't involve

“Coming...” Shaw grumbles and picks up the pace. She reaches the top floor well behind them, out of breath. “I gotta start working out again.”

Jerri pulls out a ring of keys bigger than a steering wheel and starts sifting through them. “It's gotta be one of these,” she says and tries a few but to no avail. “Doh!” she smacks her forehead. “Silly me, we went too high! It's two floors down!”

Shaw deadpans. “Are you fu-” Root jabs her with an elbow, “Funny! Aren't you just funny!”

“Down we go!” Jerri cheers, waving at them to follow her once again. Shaw wouldn't follow this woman if she were the most relevant number of her career. But Root insists, so she has no choice but trudge back down the stairs.

The door, the right one this time, it looks like it was breached with a battering ram and glued back together. It sticks as Jerri tries to push it open. Shaw wishes she hadn't been able to unjar it from the frame, when they finally step foot inside.

Cramped is an understatement. Claustrophobia is an increasing possibility for Shaw as they stand shoulder to shoulder in what the realtor calls a studio apartment. More like a closet.

“Why don't I give you the grand tour!” Jerri says.

Shaw turns her head left, then right, then back again. “I think I've just had it.”

“Oh, she's hysterical! Does she do stand up?”

“Only when she can't sit down.” Shaw wriggles free of the pair for more space, but doesn't get much. The square footage of this place barely pushes the three digit realm.

The detail Jerri goes into as she tries to upsell this apartment gives Shaw the idea, she's either the most optimistic woman in the world or the biggest hustler in New York real estate. And if it's the latter, Root's the most patient mark, letting this con artist finish her entire spiel of blatant lies.

“Look Root, I'm in the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. At the same time.”

“I think what my friend is trying to say-”

“Her friend...” Shaw interrupts, until she realizes that Root didn't actually put the word girl in front of friend first. For once. “Never mind, carry on.”

“There just isn't a lot of space,” Root puts delicately.

“Space? There's plenty of space!” Jerri fires back, jazzed and sorts. “What this place lacks in size, it makes for in compartmentalization!” and she goes on to show them, the hidden cabinets in the in the walls, the drawers underneath the diagonal slant in the staircase frame. “And!” she claps her hands together before grabbing the the lonely painting from the wide wall. Underneath is a latch like rope, which she pulls. “Tada!”

A bed flops out of the wall and Shaw stares at it, unblinkingly. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“May we have a moment please?” Root says, and Jerri the realtor goes into the kitchen, two feet away.

Shaw whispers to Root. “This whole thing is one bad pullout joke. You can't actually be serious.”

“So what?” Root replies. “It's not like I'll be around to mind it so much.”

“Well, I mind it!”

Root smiles as she bats her lashes. “Planning sleepovers already?”

“Not if I have to unhinge the bed every time I wanna-”

“Want to what, exactly?” Root teases, for a moment, until Shaw's dead serious face hits home. “Okay, okay.” She clears her throat for Jerri to end her fake phone call. “Do you have anything else available?”

“Preferably not coffin-sized,” Shaw adds.

It's like a light bulb flickers over Jerri's head. She frantically searches through the mess of sordid papers in her haphazardly thrown together briefcase until she finds the one. The holy grail of documents, she holds it up. “Yes!” she exclaims at first, then presses it to her chest, distraught. “No, I don't! Technically, the application's still pending and I can't show you.”

“Come on, Jerri,” Root says, putting on half her charm. “We just wanna look. Where's the harm in that?”

She gives it some thought. Not much. “Oh, what the heck? You've convinced me. It's only three floors down, come on, I'll show you.”

“Let's hope she's got the right building at least,” Shaw says and Jerri bursts in laughter.

“Honey, if your job doesn't involve a stage and microphone, you gotta change careers because you are-”

“Hysterical?”

…

The other apartment is nothing like the previous. It's as if they've slipped into an alternate universe on the stairwell, because there's no possible way this is the same building. Root's in awe the moment she walks in, her eyes lighting up in a way Shaw's never seen before, well, when it comes to this sort of thing.

Crown molding lines the walls, coated in a scheme of rich blues soft whites. The long paneled windows that stretch from the living room all the way to the kitchen fill the spacious interior with honest light. And the view, Shaw's never considered Midtown to be a scenic place. Then again, she wasn't looking through this window.

“You've been holding out on us, Jerri,” Shaw tells her. For the first time today, she approves.

“About that other application,” Root says, “What if you accidentally misplaced it?”

“Say no more, sweetheart.” Jerri bats a hand. “My family's from Sicily. I know all about that sort of thing. We'll go to my office, lose some paperwork, sign some paperwork, have ya in here in no time,” she says, and starts ushering them towards the door. Quickly, adamantly. Suspiciously.

“Wait,” Shaw says. There's something missing, something she's not telling them. “What's the catch?”

“Catch? What catch? You two look like a nice couple, I wanna cut you a break, that's the catch.”

“We're not-” Shaw rubs the bridge of her nose. “Look, no offense, but this is all too good to be true.” There's got to be something wrong with it, Shaw can feel it in her bones. Shit plumbing, rats in the walls, a weird smell that only comes around during certain times of the day. Something.

“Listen, I got pristine records going back thirty years on this place. You can take a look for yourselves, but we gotta go down to my office fir-”

“Shh!” Shaw holds a finger up, silencing the room. “Did you hear that?” Her ears keen to the faint, muffled noises. “It's coming from the living room.”

“Yeah, you know what,” Jerri hastily explains in Shaw's wake. “I know what that is. The neighbors are redoing their kitchen. On a Saturday, can you believe it?”

Shaw ignores her and presses her ear to the wall, listening for the noise that seems to have gone away now.

“See? What'd I tell ya? Now if you don't mind, I-”

There's a loud crash suddenly. Something had smacked against the other side of the wall with such force, it rattled the hanging lights and shook the floor.

Shaw slowly backs away as more, lesser thumps follow. Steadily, like a beat from a drum. And not seconds later, the moaning starts. Unmistakably from a man and oddly, a very strict sounding woman who seems rather disappointed in him.

“And...” Shaw turns to Root with her I told you so face. “there's the catch.”

“Rent controlled nymphos...” Jerri hisses and then smacks the wall, “Hey! Some of us are trying to work over here! Not that you care! Can't go one minute without screwing each other's brains out! Literally!”

“Are they?” Curiosity in her eyes, Root steps closer to have a listen for herself, and it's completely unnecessary. With walls so thin and neighbors so loud, she could stand in any room and still hear all the graphic details of their sexcapades. So it's really a bit extra of Root to flatten the whole side of her face against the wall like that. “Oh, Jerri, you have been holding out on us.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, “Come on, we're leaving,” and takes Root by the arm.

“No, Shaw wait! It's getting better!” Root protests as she's literally dragged to the door. “Shaw, I heard a paddle!”

….

The end in East Village.

“I don't think I've ever heard the word charming used to describe so many not charming things in my life,” Shaw says. She fiddles with the butter knife at the table while she waits for her order. They decided- well, Shaw insisted they stop for a late lunch, and the Russian owned deli on 7th was the closest eatery that wasn't a letter grade away from being quarantined. “How is a giant water stain on the ceiling charming?”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Root replies, her head in the piece of paper lain on the table top. She's been scribbling on it since they sat down. The list from earlier today looks nothing like it did, crumpled up, torn at the edges and for some reason, wet. Nearly all of the address had been crossed out, angrily by the look of it.

Shaw twirls the utensil in her fingers. “I thought it looked like Margaret Thatcher.”

“I'm not getting sucked into this argument again.” Root draws another x over something and brings the pen to her lips, chewing at the end. “It was Barbara Bush anyway...”

Shaw snatches the paper from Root's unsuspecting hands.

“Hey I need that,” Root says. Her attempts of retrieving it are all in vain. “Shaw, I still haven't decided which one I- where did you get those glasses?”

“Glove box,” Shaw replies, lifting the shades from her eyes to squint at the paper. “Didn't think I could get a hangover before I fell asleep.”

“Can I have it back, please? It's important.”

Shaw throws the glasses aside. “Root, these are all crap. You know this.”

“But I need to pick one.”

“Seriously, have you never gone apartment shopping before?” Shaw asks. Judging from the look on Root's face, she hasn't. “Root. Just make a new list.”

She sinks into the booth, whining pitifully. “But I hate this so much, Shaw. Can't I just live with you? Please?”

Root smiles, full charm this time. And Shaw jumps when she feels something crawling up the length of her thigh. Luckily the waiter comes with the food, so Shaw has a valid excuse for evicting Root's foot from her crotch.

“Independence.” Shaw reminds her before grabbing the sandwich off of the plate. She's about to take a bite, but pauses midway. An odd feeling had struck her, a feeling like she's being watched and not by a secret system.

Leaned against the wall, slumped in her seat, is Root, staring at Shaw's sandwich with a weird lust in her eyes. If she was hungry, then she should have ordered something. So tough, Shaw thinks, bringing the sandwich to mouth again and goddamnit!

Shaw cuts the fucking thing in half and slides the plate across the table. Root smiles to herself and takes a nibble and then just- chomps down. Shaw can't believe what shes seeing right now.

“This is the best sandwich I've ever had,” Root says, at least that's what Shaw thinks she says. Root's mouth is so full, and yet, she keeps trying to fill it.

“As a person who's had a lot of sandwiches, I-”

“Shut up and eat it, Shaw!”

Without further protest, Shaw takes a bite. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. “Oh my fucking god.” It is the best sandwich she's ever had. Why is Root right all the time?

“So, tomorrow...” Root manages to swallow the rest without choking. “New day, new list, perhaps a new car even? I heard Harry's got a viper tucked away in cold storage.”

Shaw chews on it. As fun as it was gallivanting around this charming city with Root... she'll have to pass. “Sorry, you're on your own for round two. I'm busy.”

“I checked. You're not.”

What is this? Slow season for criminal activity? “I'm taking a personal day.”

“Fine,” Root says, dabbing with the napkin before it's surly tossed aside. “I'll be wandering Hell's Kitchen tomorrow if you change your mind.”

“Okay, Root.” Shaw snorts, almost choking on her food. “Give your taser a good charge before you do.” She'll definitely need it for that side of town- if she were actually going.

Shaw's not stupid, she recognized the pattern as soon as she saw the list. All the stops they've made so far today were along the 4 train, which lets off near Subway HQ and coincidentally, right by Shaw's apartment.

They step outside the deli and Shaw gives the place a nod as she slips the glasses back on. The sign is in Russian, and unfortunately, none of it involves the ten words she knows. “Goodbye restaurant I don't know the name of.”

“Actually,” Root says, glancing up at the sign. “It think it says sandwich, well, bread meat bread, but you get the picture.”

“Hmm.” Shaw shrugs. She's halfway to the car, that better not be stolen, when she notices Root isn't behind her. Doubling back, Shaw finds her standing at the deli's window, staring at a sign that says For Rent – Inquire Within.

…

They inquire within.

The owner of the deli; a burly, grey bearded and rather abrasive gentleman named Vlad, throws his dirty apron over his shoulder and yells something wild in Russian to the cooks behind the counter.

“Come! We go!” he then yells to Root and Shaw, and leads them out and around the building, through several locked doors and up a rickety old freight elevator, all while cursing in his native tongue. And Shaw's sure of this because most of those words he's using, are the same ones she's used to start bar fights overseas.

“You go, I wait,” Vlad says, and shoos them off the elevator.

It's was an industrious space converted to a loft by the previous owners. The concrete floors were replaced with dark hard wood for a more domestic feel, but the steel pillars remained. Carved out to one side, the obvious kitchen accustomed with marble counter tops, a range, and a classic style refrigerator. And in the far corner, the porcelain bathroom with the large clawfoot tub, partitioned by a wall of glass blocks.

Root turns circles, marveling the expanse of open floor plan. “I have no words, Shaw.”

“I'm shocked,” Shaw replies, but it has nothing to do with this rare real estate gem they've stumbled upon by sheer luck. Root's non-stop motormouth has suddenly run out of fuel and hell has actually frozen over.

But in the weird trend of today's events, Shaw checks and double checks everything. That the light switches turn on and the water runs from the faucets. She test the sturdiness of the steel beams and the thickness of the walls. She stomps around in her steel toed boots for weak spots in the floor. In the end, everything seems to be in working order. The radiator is blasting heat, the toilet is flushing, and yes, the refrigerator is also running.

The second Shaw mentions roof access, Root's falling over to make a deal.

Vlad may be limited in English, but he understands the universal language of money and the giant wad of cash Root suddenly pulls out of her pocket. He shoves a set of keys in her hand and goes off on Russian tangent as he counts the money.

“He says...” Root pauses to listen. “No checks, no cards, rent is cash only...”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

“I did some work for the Russian mob- long story,” Root tells her before she's back to translating. “I'm supposed to put the money in an envelope and slip under his door... on the first of the month, not the second, or... well that doesn't sound very pleasant.”

Shaw's eyes widen some. She tries to ask what the she means by that, but Root shushes her with a raised finger.

“There is one rule... don't bother me. If you do not bother me, I will not bother you and everything will be... cookies and cream?”

“What does that mean?”

“Sorry, I'm a bit rusty.” Root tunes back in, nodding profusely at the last part before he shakes her hand and leaves.

“What did he just say to you?”

Root turns to her. “He said, My name is Vladimir Baronov Petrovich, and I fix nothing.”

…

A week later...

Shaw picks up a bottle of wine on the way to Root's. A house warming gift of sorts, or a present depending on how you look at it, though Shaw prefers it as a celebration of mission completion and good things yet to come.

The days of Root living out of satchels and crashing on couches are finally over, and for some reason, Shaw takes comfort in that. It means things are changing, for the better, she believes. Having a safe, permanent place to lay your head, it means something.

Shaw can hear the faint music playing as she lifts the elevator gate. She expects Root sprung for a decent sound system, something to listen to while she cranes her neck over a computer for hours on end. And maybe she found a nice desk and a comfortable chair like Harold's to sit in while she does, Shaw wonders, as she rounds the corner, quietly.

Sneaking up on Root is a hit or miss, depending on the Machine's mood. But Shaw hopes she gets to catch Root doing something weird for once, even though she has no idea what that might entail.

Root's barefoot, sitting cross legged on the floor with a soldering iron, humming to herself. And Shaw thinks it's actually kind of cute- maybe, at least until she finds a better word for it. Which is never. The feeling becomes short lived, the nameless word is moot when she realizes why Root's sitting on the floor.

She has no goddamn furniture.

“Love what you haven't done with the place,” Shaw calls out, announcing her presence to Root, who flinches and then smiles bashfully to the wires in her lap. As it turns out, the Machine was in Shaw's favor this evening. It's a rare occurrence to find Root so off guard, with her hair pulled into a loose bun, with little smudges of soot on her shirt and holes in her blue jeans.

Her walk is still the same, smug saunter as it always is though. Root lets her hair down as she approaches, on purpose Shaw thinks.

“Welcome. May I take your coat?” Root offers, and Shaw does a bit of casing as she slips her arms free of the sleeves.

It was inaccurate to say Root didn't have any furniture; there's a mattress lying in the middle of the floor beside a steel column. Root had thrown some sheets and pillows on top and called it a bed. Next to that, her other Root things. A laptop, a bag, a few articles of clothing and a cell phone playing the music Shaw had heard earlier.

“Is that for me?” Root asks, nodding to the bottle of wine in Shaw's hand.

“Yeah, but uh,” Shaw rubs the back of her neck, glancing again at the great empty space. “I feel like I should have brought a plant or something, or a chair.”

“Busy week,” she says, internally debating where to hang Shaw's jacket, for a moment, until deciding to just throw it on the floor. “Haven't been home much lately-” and then Root laughs, lightly to herself. “It's strange isn't it?”

“What is?” Shaw asks, halfway to the kitchen for a pair of drinking glasses before she realizes, Root probably doesn't have any of those either.

“This place, my place... It is supposed to feel this weird?”

“Don't worry, the charm wears off pretty quick. Eventually, it'll be just another Tuesday night where you store all your things.” Shaw flops down on the edge of the mattress. “Correction, thing.”

“Awfully presumptuous of you.” Root teases.

“Awfully rude of you, not owning a couch.” There are worse problems than not having a proper place to sit. “I'd guess you don't have cork screw either, or is that me being presumptuous again?”

Grinning, Root ambles to the spot next to Shaw on the mattress. “You'll have to use your imagination, sorry. I didn't think you'd bring anything fancy.”

The label is the only fancy thing about this wine, an Italian sounding word, Shaw thinks it means something like hat. The price tag said twelve, but she got it for six.

Shaw flicks open her pocket knife and stabs it into the cork with a twisting motion.

Root leans back and lounges on her elbows. “I did buy something yesterday, now that I think about it.”

“What?” Shaw asks, straining with the knife and the cork that wont budge.

Root nods. “That.” and Shaw looks in the direction. Hanging on the opposite pillar is a crudely sketched portrait. Of Shaw.

“Um, where did you get that?”

“From the man in the park,” Root replies, like it's supposed to mean something to Shaw. “Fun fact, he used to be police sketch artist until he injured his hand in a tragic trout-fisting accident. Anyways, if you pay him twenty dollars, he'll draw anyone you describe.”

Thankfully, Shaw gets the bottle open by then. The horrible taste of it helps her forget she ever heard the words trout-fisting back to back. “Hope you like cork in your fancy wine,” Shaw says and passes it on. “My eyebrows are off, by the way.”

“Hmm...” Root cocks her head the side, “I still like it.” She takes a swig from the bottle and grimaces almost instantly.

“You know, you don't have to drink it,” Shaw says, laughing at the sour look on Root's face from the cheap wine. She has to run to the kitchen sink to wash her mouth out, it's so bad.

“Wanna see something cool?” Root asks when she returns and Shaw throws her a wary look. The last time Root tried to show her something cool, she ended up with stitches.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“No?”

“Then no.”

“Just close your eyes,” Root insists. “Please..”

“Fine.” and Shaw covers her eyes, however, she checks for any sharp objects in Root's hands and in the immediate vicinity first. Patiently, she waits on the bed, listening to Root as she scampers around in her bare feet, for a moment until there's a loud click and the main lights go off.

Shaw opens her eyes... winding up the steel columns and along the rafters high above the bed, Root's hung strings of lights. Of all shapes, sizes and colors, they're arranged in way that makes Shaw feel like she's sitting inside a Christmas tree.

“So this is what you've been doing?” Shaw smirks to herself. The order of Root's priorities are a mystery to her.

“Livens the place up,” Root says, looking up with a kind of awe in her eyes, or maybe it's the light glowing from the red bulbs.

Root joins her on the bed again. Their legs hang off the edge, their feet occasionally running into each other.

Shaw takes another swig of the wine, biting at the taste. “So um, does this count?” she asks, and when Root turns to her mixed, she has to awkwardly clarify. “Is this part of that quality the Machine says we don't have enough of?”

Root says nothing, she just grins.

“Why not?” Shaw goes on the defense. She showed up, she brought the wine, she looked at the pretty lights and they're talking. If that isn't quality time, then what is? “I really think you should reevaluate-” and suddenly, Shaw is rendered speechless by Root, who grabs her face and kisses her.

“That's why,” Root says, giving Shaw a quick peck on the lips before pushing her down on the bed and climbing on top.

And Shaw doesn't protest either, when Root starts unbuckling her belt, she's beginning to think this may fall under another made up category in Root's head. Something along the lines of fun time.

“But if your so worried about it, Sameen,” she says, leaning in as she pins Shaw's wrists above her head, “You can come by tomorrow. I'm going to Ikea.”

#shootsecretsanta2018 #shootsecretsanta #shoot #person of interest #lizburns

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slapshot-to-the-heart · 6 years

Text

Jungleland

Here’s the long-overdue second part for Springsteen Sessions! I’m sorry for the absolutely ridiculously long wait, college and midterms have gotten the best of me as of late, but things are easing up a bit so I should be able to update more regularly for a few weeks until finals. Here it is, and please don’t hesitate to pop into my inbox and talk to me about it, favorite bits, things you’d like to see, predictions, criticism, I value it all!

Part I: She’s the One

Jungleland

Together, they take a stab at romance and disappear down Flamingo Lane

Harry didn’t ever made decisions rashly. Not all of his decisions turned out to be good ones, granted, but he thought through everything, carefully considered his options, and then ultimately just went with whatever he wanted to. So it was unusual, incredibly unusual, for him to decide to throw caution to the wind, to break his rules for anyone. But he broke them for Rosie. It had been about a month, give or take, and Rosie had changed his mind in spectacular fashion. She wasn’t a distraction, she wasn’t an inconvenience like he had feared she might be. She was, bar music, pretty much the best thing to happen to him in recent memory. So why hadn’t he told anyone about her?

Rosie had her life pretty much planned out for her since she came out of the womb. She was going to go to a top school— which she was, major in a STEM field— which she was, and then go to med school and start a family. Nowhere in that plan was ‘date a rag-tag musician who also might end up being a teacher but doesn’t really know what to do with his life.’ But, for one reason or another, Rosie found herself not really caring about what other people thought she should do with her life, for once in her life. So why wasn’t she shouting it from the rooftops how happy he made her? Lara and Antonia knew she was vaguely ‘seeing’ somebody, but they didn’t seem to have any clue just how deep her feelings ran.

It wasn’t that Harry was ashamed of Rosie, or being in a relationship with her. Nothing could be further from the truth. As naive as it was, he wanted what they had— whatever they had— to be just theirs for a little while longer, away from the whispers and opinions of anyone who wasn’t them. His friends would like her, he was sure, but he had brought back girls before who they hadn’t been too crazy about, and he was so scared of Rosie being scared that he figured, stupidly, that the best thing for them would be to pretend like ‘they’ didn’t exist in the first place. But they did, and he wanted them to be open, he wanted them to be public so bad, but he was afraid. But he knew it was only a matter of time, before people caught on and their little secret wasn’t so much of a secret any longer.

As fate would have it, that time came sooner than either expected. Thursday evenings usually had Harry holed up in his shared apartment, trying to finish up a song for a show or perfect a cover he had been working on. And he was doing that, at least, to some degree. For the most part, however, he was constantly leaning over his guitar case to pick up his phone, anxious to see if Rosie had somehow replied to him in the two minutes since he last checked it.

“Harry, who do you keep texting?” His roommate, Oliver asked. Oliver was one of Harry’s best friends; they had met freshman year during a music seminar he was taking to fulfill a GE, and had been close ever since. They sometimes performed together, less often now that the two of them were busy with senior projects and Oliver had picked up a part-time internship with a local engineering firm.

“Uh, just a friend,” Harry said vaguely.

“Uh huh,” Oliver asked, giving a mischievous smile as he plucked Harry’s phone from where it lay on the ground, looking at his most recent texts. “And do you tell all of your ‘friends’ to ‘be ready at 5, I’m taking you to Giovanni’s before the set?’”

Harry’s face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet and he tried, to not avail, to wrestle his phone out of his friend’s hands. It took him a minute, but it eventually returned to his pocket, with Harry turning to sit on their dingy, half-broken couch, head in his hands. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out,” he said, exasperation lacing his tone.

Sensing something wasn’t quite right, Oliver took a seat on the couch next to him, setting one hand gently on his shoulder. “Hey, why not? I may never have met—” he paused, trying to remember the name at the top of the messaging screen, “—Rosie, but if she makes you happy, and I’m sure she does, there’s nothing else that I or anyone else could want for you.”

Harry shifted slightly. “And that’s the thing. I feel like I should know that, you and the guys aren’t assholes and I know you wouldn’t do anything deliberate to screw this up. You’re only ever thinking of what, and who’s best for me. I’m just scared, scared that once we tell people about our relationship and our perfect little bubble is popped that whatever we have going on now, as wonderful as it is, will just vanish.”

“I mean, I get that,” Oliver responded. “But you’re also being stupid.” Harry glared slightly. “If she’s as great as you make her sound, and I’m sure she is, then there’s really nothing anyone apart from you two can say that would damage your relationship. It’s just going to add to the tension and conflict if you keep holding her back from parts of your life. Compartmentalizing can be useful, but it’s meant for school and work, not for relationships.”

“You’re probably right.”

Oliver laughed. “When am I not?”

Kids flash guitars just like switchblades/Hustling for the record machine/The hungry and the hunted explode into rock n’ roll bands

A few weeks later, Rosie was sat with Oliver and a handful of Harry’s other friends, waiting for him to come up onstage at their college’s twice-yearly Coffeehouse Showcase. THe name was a bit of a misnomer— it was held in the student union, not the on-campus coffee shop, but the group was excited nonetheless. Harry knew about the event, obviously, but he wasn’t really planning on auditioning, just like he hadn’t for the previous three years. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t out of fear of rejection, but the truth is that there was really nothing else that it could have been. He wanted more than anything to get his music out there, his music was his baby and he had never been so proud of anything in his life. And though he wasn’t the arrogant type, not by a long shot, he knew that he had talent. Talent enough that Rosie had brought up the showcase time and time again until he at last agreed to audition, for no reason if not simply to get her to stop bringing it up. So it was much to his surprise when he got the email announcing that he had actually been one of ten acts selected.

Each act only had a ten minute slot, give or take, so Harry had been pulling his hair over the past two weeks trying to figure out what his set should look like. All originals, or a cover? Three shorter songs, to give a wider variety? Two longer ones, to give a better glimpse to his songwriting? Old ones? New ones? It had been causing him more than a fair amount of stress, until Rosie came across him scribbling once again on a spare piece of notebook paper, crossing out and re-writing dozens of song names.

“Just sing the ones that mean the most to you, H,” she said, rubbing his shoulders gently. “If you want people to get to know you, you as a songwriter and musician, they’re going to want to hear you at your most authentic and vulnerable.”

And as utterly terrified as that made him, Harry knew she was right. There was no way he’d be able to progress as a musician with any semblance of authenticity if he never went out of his comfort zone. So there he was, gripping the neck of his guitar like it was a lifeline, taking the few steps from the makeshift greenroom to the stage. He had been asked to close the show— why, he didn’t know. Rosie said it was because the organizing committee obviously “saw something in him,” and as much as he wanted to believe her, there was always an underlying sense of doubt that it happened from nothing more than a lucky draw.

As he took a moment to settle himself, Harry’s eyes scanned the crowd for Rosie. She told him she’d be sitting with his friends, most of whom she’d met at a party he had hosted a few weeks prior. Sure enough, he caught her eyes, sat next to Oliver, Devon, Michael, and a few others who had come along. She gave him a warm smile, and he perked up just enough that enough of his nerves dissipated and he was able to begin.

Rosie could never get enough of Harry when he was performing. It wasn’t even because they were dating, it was because he so clearly had a love for music, a love for the stage, and such an incredibly natural stage presence that your eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to him when he was singing. He was in his element, he was doing what he loved, and she felt incredibly honored to be able to share that with him. He hadn’t shared with her his setlist, telling her with a glint in his eye that he “wanted everything to be a surprise.” She respected that, but it also led to a fair bit of speculation on her heart, with every guess of hers being met by Harry saying that he could “neither confirm nor deny” any of her theories.

Beneath the city, two hearts beat/Soul engines running through a night so tender

So, needless to say, when she didn’t even recognize the first song, she was taken more than a little aback. But, as with most of the pieces he’d shared with her, the more she listened, the more she fell in love. Somehow, armed with only an acoustic guitar and an enraptured audience of caffeine-fueled college students, managed to weave together a heartbreakingly beautiful story of love and loss, and how caring too much about what other people think, about what other people are going to say, can kill your happiness, or confidence, or a relationship, before it even has a chance. And Rosie wasn’t vain, far from it, but there was something in the lyrics, the lilt and rhythm of how he sang, that made her wonder it if was about her. If it was about them.

Her daydreams were interrupted by a smattering of applause as the first song closed. Harry dipped his head in thanks, grabbing the capo from the neck of his guitar and placing it on the seat behind him. “That one was Hold On, just finished it a few days ago. ‘S one’s more upbeat, I promise,” he chuckled, the audience laughing alongside him. “Called Feel It, hope you enjoy it.”

And enjoy it she did. It was one of her favorites, and as Rosie looked around the room, she saw more than a fair few people tapping their feet to the upbeat song. Harry had an exhilarating smile on his face as he finished, giving a little bow and hustling offstage. Not wasting any time, Rosie stood up from her chair, weaving her way between the crowd to get to the backstage area, slipping behind a hastily-pulled-up curtain to see Harry kneeling on the ground, closing the last buckle on his guitar case. “Hey, superstar,” She said, a slight smile on her face.

Harry swiped a hand across his forehead, pushing back the hairs that had fallen during his performance. Wiping the sweat from his brow on his jeans, he looked at her. “You liked it then? I wasn’t sure how it would go, playing the new song was a risk and I know it’s a bit of a slow one so I wasn’t sure how the reaction would go, but—”

“Hey, calm down,” Rosie said, crouching down next to Harry and rubbing one hand over his shoulder. “They loved it, I’m sure. Did you see the reaction you got from the crowd? They didn’t cheer for anyone as loudly as they did for you. You’re a wonderful musician, Harry. I know it’s hard for you to see that sometimes, but I really wish you’d just trust your talent. It’s there.”

Harry leaned into her touch. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” he said wryly. “It’s just hard to believe when I keep trying so hard and nothing ever seems to come out of it. It’s not the effort or the talent that I’m lacking, it’s the fact that damn near no one seems to take notice. I’m not trying to talk down to myself,” Harry quickly added, seeing Rosie’s raised eyebrow, “it’s just the truth. And it sucks, but I feel like it almost makes me want to work that much harder, push a little extra just so I know that I’ve done everything I possibly could to get my name out there, get my music out there, really make something of myself.”

“I know, babe,” Rosie said, kissing his forehead. “And I want that for you too, more than anything I want people to be able to recognize how hard you’ve worked, how much you want this. But, Harry,” she paused for a moment, collecting her words, “you’ve already made something of yourself. You have people who you love and who love you. And even if tomorrow all of the music went away, and you could never play music again, you’d be okay. It would be devastating, but the measure of who you are and how impactful you are isn’t measured in how many people come to your shows or in how many records you might sell one day, it’s in how many lives you touch. Not my quote, I’m paraphrasing something I read on Google,” she added, making him smile. “But the sentiment stands. You’re deserving of all the success in the world, H, but it’s not the most important thing. Your sister loves you, your mom and dad love you. Oliver, Devon, Michael, and all of your friends love you.”

“What about you?” Harry asked, a corner of his mouth twitching, but he was only half-joking.

“We’re getting there.”

#Harry Styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles fluff #harry styles smu #one direction #one direction imagine #one direction fanfic #one direction fanfiction #one direction writing #one direction fluff #one direction smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles writing

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worryinglyinnocent · 6 years

Text

Fic: What Comes After (8/?)

Summary: Dead Like Me AU. After Belle French loses her life in an accident, she finds out that she has been recruited to join the ranks of the Grim Reapers, helping souls pass on. It’s a huge upheaval to deal with, but her fellow reapers are there to help her out, especially head reaper Gold.

Who says you can’t find love after life?

Rated: T

[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [Five] [Six] [Seven] [AO3]

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What Comes After

Eight

The animal shelter was short-staffed at the moment, so it wasn’t unusual for David to come to the daily post-it handover later or earlier than everyone else. Today, Gold was quite grateful for the delay as it meant everyone else, including Belle, had already gone, and Gold was alone in their booth for the rather delicate chain of inquiry that he was about to undertake.

As much as he loved Ella as a dear friend, this was probably something that would be best followed up with someone who was somewhat younger than both himself and Ella and therefore a lot more with the times. David was really the best person available to understand his predicament.

“Hi Gold, sorry I’m late. I can never seem to make the shifts work out right these days, especially trying to get reaps in around them.”

Gold waved David’s apologies away as the younger man slid into the booth opposite him. “It’s quite all right, David. My shop will wait for me. Your life can’t wait for you. Well, sort-of life.”

David snorted. “Yeah, it doesn’t sound quite as impressive when you put it like that.” He grabbed the post-it that Gold held out to him and checked his watch, relieved when he saw that there was plenty of time before he would have to go out and find his reap. Granny brought over coffee and Gold took a refill as David got his breath back.

“I’m actually quite glad to get you alone, David,” Gold began, really wishing that he knew exactly where he was going with the conversation and what all David’s answers would be before he said them, but then that sort of undermined the need for having a conversation in the first place.

David raised an eyebrow. “Am I in trouble?”

“What? No, of course not. Don’t trust anything that Ella tells you about getting in trouble.” Although he had been dead for four years and had been on Gold’s team for two years, David was still considered the sweet young newbie by the rest of the crew; or at least he had been up until Belle’s arrival. He was probably quite glad that a new recruit had joined in order to get the yoke of ‘youngest and most inexperienced’ off his shoulders once and for all. Ella in particular had taken great delight in teasing him when he had first transferred over to Storybrooke, in a way that she couldn’t really keep up with Belle.

“No,” Gold continued. “No, I just wanted to… ask your advice.”

Asking for help was not something that Gold had done lightly. Considering the start that he had got in life and how his own life had ended, he had spent the vast majority of his death viewing asking for help as a kind of weakness that he was determined not to fall prey to anymore. Accepting that he needed advice was a huge step, and actually asking for it was an even bigger one.

David grinned. “Are you finally going to ask Belle out and you’re looking for tips on modern courtship methods?”

Gold looked up, completely agape. That was exactly what he had been about to ask, but how had David managed to figure it out?

“What? Yes! No! Possibly! How did you...?”

David shrugged. “It’s pretty obvious that you like her, Gold, and that the feelings are reciprocated. We’re all surprised that you haven’t made a move sooner if I’m being honest with you. You spend a lot of time alone together in that shop. Had it honestly never occurred to you to just follow that up with asking her out to dinner? Or maybe just going for coffee if you’re not ready to commit to an entire meal with each other yet. Although considering the amount of time we all spend here eating together, maybe that’s not the best idea.”

Gold felt his shoulders sag. “I feel like everyone around the table has just as much of a stake in my romantic life as I do.”

“Of course.” David reached across and slapped Gold’s shoulder. “You’re our boss. We need you to be bright and chipper and full of the joys of spring or you can make our lives hell, and it’s a hell we’ll have to deal with for a long time.”

“I honestly don’t know where my reputation for being a vindictive head reaper has come from,” Gold muttered. “I’m going to have to have words with Ella. I can’t be doing with her spreading rumours about me to new recruits.”

“Well, I think that if she has been spreading rumours, they haven’t reached Belle yet. She certainly enjoys spending time with you, so I don’t think that she’d be averse to spending more time with you in a date scenario.”

Gold sighed. “I think I’m a bit too old to be going on dates.”

“Gold, please, you’re way too old to be doing anything. You’re over a hundred; by the law of averages you should be on a Zimmer frame having your waffles fed to you through a straw, so I think you’re doing very well. Come on. You like Belle and she obviously likes you even if you’re the only one around the table who can’t see it. I don’t think you’ve got anything to lose.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

“I don’t know how dating works.”

David spread his hands. “That’s why you wanted to speak to me, wasn’t it?”

Gold nodded. “Just so you know, I’m already feeling completely out of my depth here and I’m trying not to make it any more awkward than it already is.”

“This isn’t awkward,” David said. “I’m always happy to help a friend find love. You’ve waited long enough for it, I can tell you that and I’ve only known you for two years.”

“Thank you, David.” Gold drained his coffee and decided against getting another one for fear of being completely buzzed on caffeine when he did meet Belle in the shop later. Although he wouldn’t suffer the terrible crash later, he could still feel the effects whilst they were working, like with alcohol. “So… What do you advise?”

“Be honest with her,” David said simply. “Don’t try and be someone that you’re not. You two spend a lot of time together so she’s getting to know you as a person. Don’t try and pretend that you’re not the man in the antique shop. That’s the man she’s getting to know and to be attracted to. If you take her out and suddenly put on a different face, not only is she not going to buy it, but she’s going to think that there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

“But the person I am in the shop is…”

“Is…” David prompted.

“Boring,” Gold finished lamely.

David sighed and rolled his eyes. “Gold, do you seriously think that Belle would spend so much time in your shop if she found you boring.”

“Well, the shop’s not boring; it’s got lots of very interesting things to talk about in it. When you take me out of the shop, then it’s just me.”

“Gold, you’re not boring and when you’re a reaper age goes by the wayside, so you’re not old either. Belle is not going to suddenly stop finding you attractive or interesting if you take her out on a date.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I am right, there’s no supposing about it.”

Gold laughed at the vehemence in David’s tone. “You’ve been taking lessons in assertiveness from Ella.”

“You know what they say: you have to learn from the best.”

Gold pondered David’s advice for a while. Just to be himself. That was all very well and good, but there were some points where Gold didn’t really know who he was himself. He had been around for so long and had gone through so many fake identities that it was easy to lose sight of the Alistair Gold that he had been all those years before, back when he had still been alive.

It was when he was with Belle that he felt the most like himself, to the extent where he had given her his first name and she regularly called him by it. His real first name wasn’t something that he gave out to anyone with any degree of regularity, and yet he had given it to Belle having only known her for about a week.

Some might say that was a sign of trust, and Gold knew that it was, but the fact that he had been able to give that trust so freely and openly worried him. He had been hurt before by people whom he had placed so much trust in, and like anyone who had been hurt, he was scared of it happening again. Ella had commented in the past that he never liked to get too close to people even though it was obvious that he cared deeply about them.

“Gold, I honestly think that you might have a chance at real, lasting happiness here,” David said. “Believe me. I know what it’s like to have that and to see it slip through your fingers. Grab it with both hands whilst you can, don’t let go of it. If it turns out not to be, then it’s not to be, but don’t let the opportunity pass you by. I can speak from experience here; you don’t want to do that.”

Gold sat back and looked at the man in front of him.

“You’re such an inherently good person, David, that after everything you’ve been through, you still want the best for everyone else. I don’t think that I could ever be that strong.”

David shrugged and looked out of the window, not really meeting Gold’s eye as he spoke again.

“I’m past being bitter about it all,” he said. “I know what it’s like to be unhappy and it’s not something that I would wish on anybody. I’m not one of these people who say that if they can’t be happy then no-one can be happy. There’s not a lot of use in that and it wouldn’t make me feel any better. Negativity’s like a leech. It’s draining, and it multiplies, and it doesn’t get anywhere. Everyone deserves to find their own happiness and I like to think that I’ll find mine again one day. In the meantime, I’ll just help everyone else on their way.”

Gold would never fail to be amazed at David’s selflessness and willingness to help, especially after the circumstances that had led him to Storybrooke in the first place.

“Have you been in contact with any of the California teams recently?” Gold asked.

David shook his head. “No. I find it easier not to know what’s happening down there. I’d rather not know, so that I can pretend that everything’s all right and that nothing bad ever goes on. I’d rather believe that they were happy than know that they’ve got other issues going on and be unable to help.” He paused. “Emma turns sixteen in two months.”

Gold gave David a sad smile.

“You can’t go back,” he said. “You don’t want to get in trouble with the powers that be again. They’ll only reassign you again, and probably put you somewhere even further away.”

“I know. It’s just difficult. I mean, we all leave people behind when we die, but any parent just wants to watch their kids grow up.”

Gold nodded. “I know exactly how you feel.”

Despite the vast differences in their ages and the circumstances of their deaths, Gold had found a kindred spirit in David from the moment that the powers that be had sent word that he would be transferring from California to Storybrooke to prevent what they called ‘meddling’ and what Gold called ‘desperate self-preservation’.

Both Gold and David were fathers who had been separated from their children long before their time and would never get to see them grow up and start families of their own. The impulse to hang around and try to be a part of their lives after death was a strong one; one that David had failed to resist on more than one occasion. He had been lucky enough not to have been caught by the living authorities whilst hanging around his daughter’s school, but the reaping superiors out wherever they were had decided that it was too risky, and that physical separation was the only way to make sure that David did not get himself into trouble.

Gold knew how much David missed his family and could sympathise completely.

“I want to do something for her,” David said. “I know I can’t go and see her, but I want to send her something to let her know that I’m still thinking of her and I still love her. Some kind of sign to let her know that although I’ve gone, it’s not forever. People talk about receiving signs from beyond the grave from their loved ones all the time, and it’s only since I’ve become a reaper that I’ve realised that it was probably reapers trying to communicate with their families.”

Gold nodded. “I think that could probably be arranged and the powers that be would be none the wiser.”

David raised an eyebrow. “Gold, you’re the one who’s always reiterating the importance of not having any contact with your old life.”

“I know, but people rarely listen to me, and this isn’t the same as hanging around outside your old house like a creeper. There’s a difference between trying to get your old life back as if nothing’s changed and accepting that things have changed and working with it. That’s the problem that Belle had when she first joined us. She was trying to live her old life.” Gold’s voice was sage and knowing. “So were you.”

“I guess you’re right.” David paused and held his cup out for a refill as Granny came past again; Gold declined. “I found a great card the other day. It had ducklings on it. I always used to call her duckling. I was thinking about getting it and sending it to her. Not signed, just empty. But she’d know it was from me, because of the ducklings.”

Gold nodded. “I would say that’s harmless enough. Contrary to popular belief I’m not a grumpy curmudgeon wishing to suck the joy out of everyone’s afterlife all the time.”

David just laughed. “Gold, I have never thought that you want to suck the joy out of everyone’s afterlife all the time. Maybe fifty per cent of the time.”

“Only fifty per cent?” Gold shook his head, tutting. “I must try harder. I have a reputation to maintain here.”

“That reputation has long since been ruined. We all know that you’re a softie on the inside.” David tucked his post-it into his jeans pocket. “I’m going to stay here a while and get some breakfast. You’ll want to get on, Belle will be finishing her post round soon and three to one says she comes over to the shop.”

“Yes.” Gold wasn’t sure that this was a good thing or not. Whilst his conversation with David had helped him somewhat, he still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure that what he was doing was a good idea in the long run. Some experiences cast long shadows and Gold’s marriage was one of them. On his one hundredth wedding anniversary he was reaping a particularly nasty car accident and he realised with grim irony just how much the wreck reflected his life with Milah.

At least everyone in the car wreck had got to move on to a bright new afterlife together with their loved ones. Gold was stuck remembering everything that had gone wrong between him and Milah for what felt like the rest of time.

Naturally, he was somewhat sceptical of his success with Belle, being as she was from a completely different time period.

“Just be yourself,” David said as Gold slid out of the booth and made to leave the diner. “That’s what she wants.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure, now just get going and ask her out before the rest of us resort to middle school tactics and ask her out on your behalf.”

It couldn’t be spun out any longer, and Gold left David to his breakfast, going back in the direction of the pawn shop. It was a rare sunny day in Storybrooke, although still bitterly cold with the early spring weather. His reap wasn’t until the afternoon, so there would be plenty of time to overthink asking Belle out and make a complete mess of it before then.

Despite David’s words it was still too early for Belle to be arriving at the shop, and Gold was left alone with his thoughts as he opened up and began to wait for custom. The shop wasn’t the most lucrative of businesses and if Gold hadn’t had independent means from several lucrative investments that Ella had helped him set up back in the fifties, then he would probably have had to close down, but it provided a good front for reaping and the necessary forgery that went with the afterlife, and it helped him to keep abreast of what was happening in the world of the living. He wouldn’t call it eavesdropping per se, but he did hear a lot of interesting things when people were in the shop and had forgotten that he was there, standing quietly behind the counter, observing life as he did.

On darker days, he wondered how many of them he would reap before his time on the earth was done and how many of them would realise that it was him.

The bell above the shop door rang and Gold looked up from the candelabra that he was polishing to see Henry Mills coming in. Gold smiled; he liked Henry. The boy had been coming into the shop ever since he was old enough to be running around unsupervised, and he had just as much fascination for all of the antiques as Belle did, wanting to know all of the stories behind them. The difference was that Gold told Belle exactly how he had acquired the items personally throughout the years, whereas to Henry, the tales were always attributed to distant relatives.

“Hi Mr Gold,” Henry said brightly. “Have you got anything new in today?”

“Not since you were last here, I’m afraid. Shouldn’t you be in school, Henry?”

“It’s closed; apparently there was a sewage leak in the playground.” Henry wrinkled his nose. “Anyway, Mom’s working so I thought I’d come and hang out here for a while. If that’s ok with you, of course,” he added hastily.

“You’re always welcome here, Henry. You can help me with the dusting.”

Henry accepted the cleaning cloth with good grace and began work on the picture frames on one wall.

“So, are you seeing that pretty post lady again?” he asked, completely out of the blue, and Gold did a double take.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The post lady! I’ve seen her coming out just as I’m coming in, we say hi on the street outside. I know that she can’t just be delivering the mail because mail gets delivered in the morning and she’s sometimes here in an afternoon. And also I can’t believe that you get that much mail delivered here and not to your house.”

Gold sighed, leaning back heavily against the counter. If even Henry had noticed the frequency of Belle’s visits, then something was probably going to have to be done.

“I think she likes you,” Henry continued. “She’s always smiling whenever I see her so I reckon she must enjoy spending time with you.”

Gold nodded carefully. “That’s a reasonable assumption to make based on the evidence,” he said. “I enjoy spending time with her, too.”

“So, are you dating?”

“Henry, I think you’re taking far too much interest in this.”

“Well, you know. Mom always says that she thinks you must be kind of lonely, out here with only your antiques for company. It would be good if you had someone special. When I told her about the post lady she practically cheered.”

Gold took that statement with a pinch of salt. Whilst he and Regina Mills were cordial acquaintances as a result of Henry’s frequent visits to the shop, he really didn’t think that she could be that invested in his happiness. The extent of their interaction was limited to trusting that Gold had no ill intentions towards Henry and could be employed as a makeshift babysitter.

“I highly doubt that, Henry.”

“Ok, so she didn’t cheer, but she was definitely interested.”

Gold just narrowed his eyes. “Those picture frames won’t dust themselves, you know,” he muttered. “Once you’ve finished on them, you can start on the teapots over in that display cabinet.”

They worked in silence for a while, although Henry’s smile told Gold that the thought was still on his mind, but soon Gold was absorbed in his restoration work and he was startled when Belle walked in.

“Hi Alistair… Oh, hello.”

“Lacey, this is Henry, the mayor’s son and a friend of mine. Henry, this is Lacey.”

“Pleased to meet you, Henry.”

As Henry and Belle shook hands, Henry looked at Belle through narrowed eyes, as if he was trying to place her. There was the flicker of recognition, but if he was going to say something, then he thought better of it. Gold let out the breath that he didn’t know that he had been holding. It wasn’t the first time that he had thought there was something about Henry’s perception when it came to reapers, and Belle would be the first he had met whom he might possibly recognise from her previous life.

“Well, I should probably go,” Henry said, and the fact that he was grinning like the Cheshire Cat made it obvious that he was leaving them alone together. “I’ll see you around, Mr Gold.”

Belle watched him go and smiled. “He seems like a good kid.”

“He is. Too clever for his own good, I think. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes please. It’s freezing out there, not at all the weather for delivering post on a bike.”

Gold stepped back to allow her into the back of the shop, and once the tea was made, Belle accepted the mug gratefully. They drank in silence for a little while, but the expectation of something being said was screaming in the air between them.

“Belle, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Gold began, at the same time as Belle said “Alistair, can I ask you something.”

“You go on,” she said.

“Would you like to maybe go out some time?” Gold asked. God, he sounded terrible, this was definitely not the smooth process he’d hoped it would be. “For lunch, or dinner, or… something.”

To his immense surprise and immensurate relief, Belle just broke into a luminous smile.

“I was going to ask you exactly the same thing,” she said. “I would love to.”

“You would?”

“I really would.” Belle was beaming with excitement. “How about that new Thai place that’s opened up around the corner from Marco’s?”

“That sounds great.”

“Tonight?”

“Even better.”

Gold knew how much he must be grinning like a lunatic, but he didn’t care. In the end, taking a chance had paid off. He had a date with Belle.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #Belle French #Mr Gold #David Nolan #Fic: What Comes After

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bowman62abel-blog · 7 years

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Drinking Water To Raise Your Health.

Is it possible to improve your health by simply drinking more water? What are the health benefits of drinking water ? To many people, this may seem a simplistic answer to a complex question: How can doing something so simple produce such noticable & quick results? Surely there must be some deep scientific & comlex way to improving health. The body, after all, is a very complex organism and scientists and health professionals have, over the centuries, espoused numerous ways of improving health, from specially fomulated foods & diets to drugs designed to fight obesity and reduce fat etc. What seems to have been largely ignored, until recent times, is that by merely increasing our water intake, a noticeable improvement can be made to people's mental & physical well-being. A simple experiment at a school in the north of England has shown improved behaviour of its pupils by encouraging them to drink water instead of carbonated drinks full of sugar. They installed water fountains dispensing free chilled drinking water in the canteens and staffroom of the 700 pupil school. Below is an extract from the findings: " Remarkable Results from drinking Water Trial" In less than 2 weeks from installation the atmosphere changed Pupils were calmer in the corridors, and there was less "up the wall behaviour" at the end of the day. Concentration and the ability to learn improved Drinking water regularly keeps the brain active Drinking water re-hydrates the brain rather than dehydrating it like carbonated soft drinks & caffeine (tea/coffee) There was resistance at first, but now they happily drink water everyday and derive huge benefits. Dehydration. This word often conjours up an image of someone crawling in the desert, hovering vultures, with a shimmering mirage of an oasis on the distant horizon; but in reality, most of us are "dehydrated" to some degree. You don't have to live in desert conditions to feel the effects of dehydration. Medical opinion differs on what percentage of water loss constitutes dehydration but research has shown that the body loses water from different parts at different rates e.g. the body cells (the basic building block of the body and its powerhouse, the Mytochondrion) lose around 66% water, 26% from extracellular fluid and only 8% from blood tissue (see 1) below). As the internal cell structure loses the most water, this consequently has the most drastic effect on our health, causing reduced imunity to disease, lethargy, constipation, increased blood pressure as the body's drought management programs try to force more water into the cells. Other symptoms are increased likelyhood of kidney & urinary tract infections. The brain too, being 85% water, cannot tolerate even a 5% level of dehydration without impaired function. It is better to let the body get rid of a slight excess of water than to suffer the effects of a shortfall and have it ration and allocate water to vital organs of the body to the detriment of non-vital functions. Childrens' Health. Children are more suceptible to dehydration, having a lower body mass than adults and as they generally tend to exercise more in the school playgrounds etc. than adults, consequently, they lose more water. Enlightened teachers are increasingly concerned about the proliferation of soft drink vending machines in schools and are starting to have them replaced by water dispensers. Dr. Trevor Brocklebank of Leeds University medical school states that children who drank little or no water at school are likely to have kidney or urinary tract infections. He said, "I found that 50% of school children drank no water at school. It's desperately important that they start drinking more water." Schools that are aware of this problem now tend to encourage pupils to take a bottle of water into classes and to drink as often as they like. The BBC has information concerning the positive effects of encouraging children to drink more water, around 1.75 lt per day for a 10 year old. One study reported by the Mail (May 10th 2005) sites a week-long study involving 45 children, aged 11-14, who were split into two groups. Half drank only filtered water, while the other half drank their usual soft or caffeinated drinks. After a week, the water drinkers reported better than normal concentration levels, from 9% before the experiment to 82% at the end, a ninefold increase. They also reported feeling more energetic, alert and exhibited calmer behaviour. Of the other half, who drank their usual fizzy drinks, or nothing, half said they felt less alert than at the start of the study and only 5% said they felt alert at the end of the day. How much teaching time is wasted in our schools due to unresponsive or unattentive pupils? General Health. Not so long ago it was thought, and taught at medical schools, that water was merely a carrier of nutrients, and had no metabolic role in bodily functions. This has now been proved not to be the case. For those interested in further research I can recommend the excellent work done by Dr. F. Batmanghelidj (Batmanghelidj F. M.D. Your Body's Many Cries for Water; Global Health Solutions, Inc) See 1) at the bottom of the page. Bad breath is a classic sign that you need to boost your water intake. Saliva helps cleanse the teeth of bacteria and keeps the tongue hydrated. Lack of water dries the mouth, leads to furry tongue and prevents bacteria from being washed away, all of which can cause halitosis. When you have had a little too much alcohol the night before, you will have noticed a furry tongue the next day - a classic sign of dehydration. Alas, Hair-of-the-Dog will only delay the final reckoning! Alcohol depletes or prevents efficient absorbtion of just about every vitamin & mineral too so, if you must drink, it is highly recommended that you take a good quality organic vitamin & mineral supplement afterwards, along with plenty of filtered water. Be a Filter - or Buy a Filter! Our tap water is safe to drink....well, up to a point. The Daily Telegraph reported in Aug. 2004 that the Environment Agency had found Prozac in drinking water. At least it would have a soothing effect on us while we read our high water bills! Who likes the taste of chlorine with their tea or coffee? Have you also ever noticed a "TCP" taste with your cup of tea/coffee? This is probably due to the close proximity of a washing machine connected close to the kitchen sink and Phenol from the rubber hose being "sucked" back while the cold water tap is filling your kettle! In East Anglia, where I live, my cat would not drink tap water until I fitted an activated compressed carbon block filter unit, with UV light, to the cold tap. Animals seem to be more discerning than us humans! Chlorine depletes a very important anti-oxidant vitamin E from the body, increasing the risk of cell damage by free radicals. Chlorine also reacts with organic matter in water to produce Trihalomethanes, such a chloroform, which is a cancer causing chemical (see 5) below). The Environment Agency provide a water quality testing service that can check for organic/non-organic contaminents, minerals & metals and anything else that might find its way into our water; maybe the fact that they have these testing procedures shows just what can be found in our tap water! The Canadian Government has some interesting findings about the toxic effects of chlorine - see ref 6) Then there is the long running controversy concerning the benefits, or otherwise, of adding fluoride to our water. std test at home Some researchers say it does more harm than good. Further information concerning reports by Bassin, and Cohn and their findings of increased bone cancer in young boys (see references 2 & 3 below) can be found at the link below. CONCLUSIONS Most of the evidence on the body's requirements for water and how damaging just slight dehydration can be are pretty conclusive. If you are still not convinced that you need to drink about 2 lts of filtered water daily, then please examine all the evidence available on the Web; I have yet to see anyone extoling the virtues of drinking LESS water! You can replace a depleted filter but you can't replace yourself! References:- 1) Batmanghelidj F. M.D. Pain: A Need For Paradigm Change; Anticancer Research, Vol. 7, No. 5 B, PP. 971-990, Sept.- Oct. 1987; full article posted on www.watercure.com 2). Bassin EB. (2001). Association Between Fluoride in Drinking Water During Growth and Development and the Incidence of Ostosarcoma for Children and Adolescents. Doctoral Thesis, Harvard School of Dental Medicine 3). Cohn PD. (1992). A Brief Report On The Association Of Drinking Water Fluoridation And The Incidence of Osteosarcoma Among Young Males. New Jersey Department of Health Environ. Health Service: 1- 17. 4) http://www.health-report.co.uk/fluoriide_bone_cancer.htm 5) Drinking Water and Health, Vol. 2. National Academy of Sciences, Washington, DC. 1980. 6) http://www.hc-sc.gc.ca/hecs-sesc/water/chlorinated_water.htm About The Author: http://www.trekking-hiking-outdoors.co.uk/article-8-dehydration.html

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robertsmorgan · 7 years

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6 Healthy Lifestyle Changes to Make Today

Over the years, I’ve helped thousands of people make better choices for themselves and their health. People from all backgrounds say they feel sick, tired, and depressed. What’s truly scary is that people begin to accept that feeling as normal.

It doesn’t have to be that way. You don’t have to, nor should you, resign yourself to feeling perpetually run-down and exhausted. Some of the most effective ways to improve your health are simple and accessible to almost everyone. You don’t need a lot of money; you just need the drive to cultivate healthy habits.

When people ask me what the best medicine is, do you know what I tell them? The best medicine is a prevention-based lifestyle.

6 Tips for a Healthy Lifestyle

The six simplest things you can incorporate in your life are sunshine, clean air, fresh water, sleep, exercise, and most of all— a clean, healthy diet. That’s it. Improving these six things can improve anyone’s health. They require no fancy equipment, no special training, no 16-disc instructional DVD set, no payment plan. You can start improving your life yourself, today, right now.

1. Get Some Sunshine

Soaking up the sun has received a lot of bad press in recent years, and everyone now associates the sun’s UV rays with wrinkles and skin cancer. While it’s true that you shouldn’t spend all day in the sun, we’ve swung too far in the other direction, and people are quick to reach for chemically-suspect sunscreens or avoid the sun entirely. In reality, UV rays account for only about one-tenth of 1% of the total global burden of disease. You’re far more likely to get sick from too little sunlight.[1]

Moderate exposure to direct sunshine boosts the health of both your mind and body. In addition to enhancing your mental state, exposure to sunlight directly affects the body’s production of melatonin and can promote more restful sleep. Sunlight is also vital to the body’s ability to produce vitamin D, an incredibly important nutrient that supports cardiovascular health, bone health, and the immune system. In fact, sunlight is the best source of vitamin D, as the nutrient is relatively uncommon in food.

That’s not to say you should ignore the risk of UV-related cancer. As in all things health-related, you must find the right balance. Be smart about your level of sunshine exposure. Try to get at least 15-30 minutes of direct sunlight every day. Avoid sunscreens. At best, they prevent vitamin D production. Worse, many sunscreens contain harsh chemicals that can be absorbed through the skin and cause dozens of health problems. If you are out in the glaring sun all day, make use of shade and wear sunglasses, wide-brimmed hats, and loose-fitting, long-sleeved clothing to avoid sunburn. If you must use sunscreen, only buy organic, mineral and plant-based varieties.

2. Breathe Clean Air

As the old saying goes, you can survive weeks without food, days without water, but only a few minutes without air. Given its extreme importance, it almost goes without saying that the best air is fresh and clean.

Clean air helps prevent respiratory ailments like asthma or allergies and supplies your body with the oxygen that all living cells need. Breathing dirty air can cause big problems.

A lot of people associate poor air quality with smog or industrial pollution. You may be surprised to learn that, according to the EPA, indoor air quality is usually 2-5x worse than that outside. That may be a best-case scenario; in the worst cases, indoor air can be up to 100x more toxic.[2]

Oddly, efficient construction may be largely to blame. It’s energy efficient for a building to be sealed up tight, but it also allows for the accumulation and concentration of air pollutants. These pollutants include the VOCs and chemical fumes that off-gas from furniture, paint, flooring materials, and other indoor building materials.

Don’t think an air freshener is going to “clean” the air. Most air fresheners just release an equally toxic chemical fragrance to mask odors.[3] Instead, get an air purification device for your home, preferably one that uses both HEPA and UV filters. You can also open the windows and get a few houseplants; they’re excellent, natural air filters that release clean oxygen. Better yet, go outside in nature and enjoy the fresh air first hand.

3. Stay Hydrated

By some estimates, 75% of people suffer from chronic mild dehydration.[4] This affects your health in more ways than just feeling a bit thirsty. At a minimum, chronic dehydration causes a severe drop in your energy levels. Worse, since 70% of your body is water, dehydration can negatively affect every process in your body, including bone and tissue regeneration, natural detoxification abilities, immune function—all of it. Even blinking your eyes and the beating of your heart require water.

Madison Avenue marketing wizards spend millions of dollars trying to convince us that water is plain and boring. Instead, they say, we should quench our thirst with overpriced, carbonated liquid candy like soda and energy drinks. Don’t listen. You need fresh water to function; there is no substitute. Coffee, sodas, and energy drinks are not good hydrators. In fact, the caffeine and sugar are diuretics that cause your body to lose water. Avoid.

How much water do you need? Eight cups a day is the standard recommendation. That’s a fairly good rule of thumb, but it doesn’t account for body size or activity level. A better guideline is to drink half your bodyweight in ounces. For example, if you weigh 180 pounds, drink 90 ounces of water per day. Of course, people’s needs differ based on many factors. Body size, physical activity, external temperature, sweatiness, health, and dozens of other factors all affect how much water you need. Start with the half-your-weight rule as a base and add water as needed.

4. Get Enough Rest

Have you noticed that in some circles, missing several hours of sleep a night is considered a badge of honor while sleeping the full, recommended 8 hours is seen as a weakness? This thinking is completely backwards.

Adequate sleep—about 7-8 hours a night for most people—is absolutely necessary for a healthy body and mind. Rest promotes normal hormone levels and neurotransmitter responses. Skipping sleep can lead to poor work performance, car accidents, relationship problems, anger, and depression.[5]

Why are so many people walking around completely exhausted? For most people, the problem isn’t that they’re too busy, it’s that they just need to turn off the TV, put down the phone, and close their eyes. In fact, trying to fall asleep with the TV or other gadgets on will only derail your body’s natural circadian rhythm.[6]

Just put away the smartphone and go to bed. Make your sleeping space as dark as possible. If that’s not feasible, try wearing a sleep mask. It’s a great strategy for blocking out light. And, just as you’ve always heard, aim for about 8 hours of sleep every night.

5. Exercise Often

Exercise is vital to your health and mood. Unequivocally, research shows that your chances of living a long, healthy life are better if you exercise regularly. The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services advises that regular physical activity reduces mortality rates of many chronic diseases and helps improve or prevent many illnesses and conditions.[7]

You don’t need to have the physique of an Olympian to see health benefits. Even light to moderate exercise can offer tremendous health benefits. Although forty-five minutes to an hour is better for most people, just 30 minutes of moderate activity a few times a week can boost energy levels, help you sleep better, sharpen your mind, and strengthen your defense against illness.

To maximize the benefits, exercise outdoors. Studies have shown that exercising outside promotes endurance, enthusiasm, pleasure, and self-esteem. It also helps reduce depression and fatigue.[8] One study found that people who exercised outside exercised longer and more frequently.[9] Not to mention that exercising outdoors can also help you get your daily dose of sunshine.

6. Follow a Clean Diet

You may be familiar with the expression, “garbage in, garbage out.” Nowhere is that more true than in regard to the food you eat. Good nutrition is vital to your health. You can exercise and sleep twice as much as anyone else, but without a clean and balanced diet, you will feel down and fatigued.

There are many, many schools of thought on what type of diet is the best. Although there are a few unshakeable principles, it has to be an individual choice. Personally, I both follow and recommend a raw, vegan diet, but everyone has to decide what works for their life.

Most of the animals raised for mass production are raised in squalid conditions and treated inhumanely. Not only is this unnecessarily cruel, it promotes diseased animals that yield toxic animal products. A plant-based diet avoids these dangers, but if you do decide to consume meat and dairy, at least avoid the worst of it. Only consume animal products that are produced organically, in a free range environment, with ethical standards in place.

And, while it’s a contentious topic, I believe there’s more than sufficient evidence to avoid genetically modified food, AKA GMOs.[10] Italy, France, Germany, Greece, and dozens of other countries have limited or outright banned these foods. In the United States, however, they are everywhere. Buying organic food is the easiest way to avoid GMOs. According to both U.S. and Canadian law, a product with the ��100% Certified Organic” label, it cannot contain any genetically modified organisms.

Finally, get in the habit of making your own food and avoid the mass-produced food products that are largely found in the center of the grocery store—boxed, packaged, and loaded with junk, especially refined carbohydrates. A few years ago, researchers at Princeton even confirmed that sugar is more addictive than heroin. It’s no surprise Americans buy more soda than water.[11]

Most of your grocery shopping should consist of whole, raw foods. Vegetables, fruit, nuts, seeds, and whole grains. I won’t say all prepackaged food is terrible for you, but the vast majority of them contain a minefield of suspect ingredients.

There you have it. Six easy, cost-effective tips to transform your health. Have you put any of these into practice? How has it affected your life?

The post 6 Healthy Lifestyle Changes to Make Today appeared first on Dr. Group's Healthy Living Articles.

from Robert Morgan Blog http://www.globalhealingcenter.com/natural-health/healthy-lifestyle-changes-to-make-today/

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