#anything about naloxone i asked them about it and they said “what?” and i was like 😟 uhhhhhh

[inniave]

pharmacies should automatically give you (or at the very least offer) naloxone any time you get an opioid prescription

[superhaught]

Angel in the Snow

Pairing: Reneé Rapp & Reader (platonic)

Warnings: drug use, drug-induced unconsciousness, overdose, refers to sexual assault, mention of blood, emergency room examination, angst, hurt-comfort

Word Count: 2950, Part 1/?

Note from Author:

! This is an AU where reader finds Reneé before she loses 7 hours of her life that night. There is difficult subject matter here so please read at your own discretion. !

Big shoutout to @fanofthings20 who beta-read this piece for me, thank you so much!

If this is missing any necessary warnings or tags please let me know!

Finally, carry Narcan/Naloxone!

Reneé is reader's best friend. Reneé is partying a lot and one night, Reneé is unaccounted for. Reader looks for and helps her friend. Based on the events that "Snow Angel" is about.

No one knew where she was, and you were the only one who seemed to care. Everyone was annoyed that you were even asking. 

“You’re freaking out over nothing, I’m sure she just left.”

But you didn’t feel like it was nothing. There was a feeling in your gut that said otherwise. Reneé had disappeared from the group over an hour ago. Your best friend in the world was nowhere to be found and all of these assholes were more concerned about maintaining their buzz than her well-being. 

You sent her a third text asking if she was okay that got left on delivered.

You never felt that it was your place to stand in the way of Reneé having fun and enjoying herself, but you were worried about her. More than worried… you were scared for her. 

Lately, you had felt like she was pushing the limits of what she could handle, sustaining herself on parties and substances and hook ups. You knew that she was trying to escape something, you just didn’t know what. You would have given anything for her to just let you in. 

One week prior, you went out on a limb and tried to talk to her about it. She got mad. Madder than you’d ever seen her. 

“I’m done with this conversation,” she asserted.

“Reneé, please, I’m just trying to help…”

“Well, you’re not. You’re just being fucking annoying.”

She told you to leave her alone, but you couldn’t leave her alone. Especially not now. Not when she had her finger on the self-destruct button. 

You weren’t invited to this party but you knew she was going to be there with some guy and his friends and you just didn’t trust him. So you showed up and found the group she was supposed to be with, but Reneé and her date weren’t with them. 

“Fuck you all,” you said as you stormed off and started asking for help from the bartenders and bouncers. You showed a picture of her to various club staff and none of them really recognized her or knew where she might be.

No one was taking you seriously and you started to doubt yourself. Maybe you were being insane. Reneé is an adult and the fact that you were trying to track her down when she didn’t even want you here was pretty crazy of you. She probably did just leave with the guy to hook up.

But then you shook your head. No. You’d rather be anxious and find out that nothing was wrong after all than let something happen to her. If she was drunk or high, she could be taken advantage of and you couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t do everything you could.

You tried calling her. You let it ring until it went to voicemail, “Hey it’s Reneé, leave a message.” You felt sick to your stomach. Even if she was mad at you, Reneé would never not pick up a call from you if she could help it. 

You did another lap of the dancefloor and still didn’t see the blonde. You started to check the club bathrooms, shouting her name and getting a lot of weird looks but not getting any closer to finding her. So you started to get more creative. You left the club area in favor of searching the hotel that housed it. The main lobby was fairly empty and quiet. 

You rushed up to the worker at the front desk and showed Reneé’s picture to her, “please, I’m looking for my friend, I think she could be in trouble, have you seen her?”

The woman sighed and pulled her glasses down from the top of her head to examine your phone. She squinted her eyes as she took the phone from your hand to look at it closer. Your body trembled anxiously as you waited. 

“You know what,” the woman began, “she does look familiar. I think I saw a blonde girl like her go into the restroom here a while ago. She came from the club and there was a young man with her. She didn’t look well.”

“Oh my god, thank you so much.” You took your phone back and sprinted to the bathroom she pointed to. The bathroom door flew open at the push of your arm and your worst fears were confirmed at what you found in the bathroom. 

Reneé was unconscious on the bathroom floor, curled up in one of the stalls. 

“No… no no no!” You fell to your knees at her side and grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Reneé didn’t respond. You leaned down and felt that she was breathing, just really slowly. 

You shook her again and touched her face. She was cold and clammy. Her makeup had run down her cheeks. There was blood on her pants. You couldn’t think about what might have happened, yet, you just needed to help her. 

You knew she’d kill you if you called 911 but you didn’t fucking care so you did. You punched 911 into your phone with shaking hands and then put it on speaker and set it down on the floor.

“Nine one one what is the location of your emergency?”

You didn’t realize that you were sobbing until you spoke to give the operator the address of the hotel. 

“Okay hun, I’ve got your location, take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong.” 

“It’s my friend, she’s unresponsive. I think she might be overdosing or maybe she was roofied, I don’t know what to do! Should I give her Narcan?” 

“Yes, do you have Narcan available to you right now?” 

“Yes, I do.” You opened your bag and took your Narcan kit out. You thanked your lucky stars that you thought ahead to bring it with you.

“Great yes go ahead and administer the Narcan. Paramedics are on their way to you now. Have you ever administered Narcan before?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

The 911 operator started talking you through the steps and you ripped open the package and put the tip of the sprayer into one side of Reneé’s nose and depressed it to administer the medication. 

You waited for a few seconds, caressing Reneé’s cheek gently and saying her name out loud, waiting with baited breath for her to respond. Suddenly, Reneé inhaled a deep breath and her eyes flew open. 

“Oh my god! Nae!” 

Reneé looked all around her in a panic and then finally found your eyes. She gripped your arms with white knuckles. 

“It’s me, Nae. It’s me… you’re safe, I’ve got you… it’s okay…” you spoke to her through tears.

Reneé didn’t say anything in response, she just stared at you with wide eyes. 

The 911 operator spoke from the phone, “is she responsive, now?” 

“Yes, yes, she’s awake.” You sobbed. 

“Okay the ambulance is almost there, stay put for the paramedics okay? I’ll stay on the line with you. Can you get your friend in the recovery position, do you know that?” 

“Yes,” you replied, “Reneé, I need to roll you onto your side, okay?” 

Reneé was just terrified and slow to process anything but she let you adjust her onto her side with her arm under her head. 

You leaned over her and wrapped your arms around her. You whispered to her, “it’s okay, help is almost here. And I’ve got you… you’re gonna be okay, Reneé… I’ve got you…” 

Reneé coughed and started crying as she grasped onto your hand tightly, lacing her fingers with yours, “how… how… did you… know…?” 

“I just knew… I knew you needed me…” 

“I’m so… sorry…” 

“Shhhh… shhh… stop…” your own tears fell onto her shoulder and you rubbed your thumb over hers, “that doesn’t matter…” 

“I… I… I fucked up…” 

“It’s going to be okay…”

The next hour was a whirlwind. You stayed at Reneé’s side the entire time while the paramedics came and checked on her in the hotel bathroom. Then they got her onto a stretcher and brought her into the ambulance. You held her hand the whole time. 

You were there as Reneé got checked into the hospital ER. She was asked a million questions that she struggled to answer, not remembering much of anything from her night. Reneé kept looking over at you with panic in her eyes. 

“It’s okay, just do your best,” you whispered.

The ER nurse took her vitals, drew blood, gave her fluids through an IV, and had Reneé provide a urine sample. Then, she left the two of you alone in a sterile exam room to wait.

Reneé’s mind and body were exhausted. She had dark circles under her eyes. Her lips were dry. She shivered and trembled in the uncomfortable hospital bed. But she held on tightly to your hand like it was her lifeline.

You squeezed her hand back and smiled softly, “I’m here,” you’d say, “I’ve got you.” 

She nodded and tears escaped from the corners of her eyes. You reached out and wiped them away with the thumb of your free hand, “it’s gonna be alright.” 

Reneé leaned into your touch and closed her eyes.

“Reneé,” you whispered, “I want to leave the choice up to you, do you want me to call your parents?” 

She shook her head, “please, don’t… not yet… I don’t want them to freak out and get on a plane… I’ll tell them… when I’m ready… I promise…” 

You nod your head, “okay, Nae. If that’s what you want.” 

“Thank you…” she sniffled.

You leaned forward and lightly kissed the back of her hand.

“I wish you weren’t seeing me like this…” she mumbled.

“Don’t even worry about that, Nae.”

She frowned and went quiet for a moment, then whispered, “if you hadn’t found me…”

“Shh… don’t go there…”

 “I’ve been such an idiot. I should have listened to you…”

“You’re not an idiot, Reneé.” 

“I thought I could make it go away…” 

“I don’t understand… make what go away?” 

Reneé stared at you for a moment, debating whether or not to say what was on her mind. You squeezed her hand again and gave her a pleading expression.

But before Reneé could speak, there was a knock on the door and it began to open. Reneé closed her mouth, let go of your hand and directed her attention to the door. 

A doctor and a police officer came into the room together and shut the door. Reneé’s eyes widened. The doctor sat down on a rolling stool and explained what they knew so far. She had a high blood alcohol level, and an intense cocktail of drugs in her system, which included weed, cocaine and ketamine. 

The doctor continued and asked Reneé if she would be willing to undergo a sexual assault examination.

To your shock, Reneé adamantly shook her head. 

“No… no, I don’t want to do that,” she said. 

“Are you absolutely sure?” The doctor asked. 

“I’m sure… I just want this to be over.” 

The doctor nodded slowly, “it’s your choice. If you change your mind, just let someone know, but the sooner it’s done, the more likely it is we will find actionable results. For now, though, this officer has some questions for you and then I’ll have a nurse come back in to discuss some rehabilitation options with you, alright?”

Reneé nodded. The doctor stood up and left the room. You met Reneé’s eyes and repeated the doctor’s question, “Nae, are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she snapped. 

The officer then pulled out a notebook and began asking Reneé questions about her night. Who she was with, who had the drugs, where did they get them, what she remembered leading up to going to the hotel bathroom…

Reneé maintained that she didn’t remember much of the night. She didn’t know how anyone got the drugs. She didn’t know if she was alone when she went to the bathroom or not. She didn’t know what happened to the guy that she was with. 

You sat beside her and listened to the conversation. The more questions she was asked, the more emotional Reneé became. She started to cry and you just caressed her arm until the officer was finally satisfied and left. 

Over the next hour, a nurse came in and gave Reneé some brochures for drug rehabilitation programs and then took her vitals one last time before discharging her. 

You left the hospital and called an Uber. Reneé gently took your phone from you and added a stop to the ride and then handed your phone back to you. 

You looked at what she added, “a CVS? What for?”

“I have to get something.”

“Okay.”

The car pulled up and you got inside. You thought of asking her to finish what she was saying before the doctor interrupted but inside, you rode in silence. The driver parked at the pharmacy and Reneé moved to get out of the car.

“Want me to come with?”

“No, stay here,” she instructed. 

You waited in the car while Reneé ran into the pharmacy. She was back no more than five minutes later with a small bag. 

The driver continued on and finally dropped you both off at your apartment, which was Reneé’s request. You unlocked your apartment door and she went inside and went straight to your kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. 

She reached into her bag from the CVS and then looked at you with a serious expression, “I don’t want to talk about this, okay?”

You raised an eyebrow at her but didn’t say anything in response. 

Reneé pulled a Plan B package out of the pharmacy bag and your heart sunk. She opened it and briefly skimmed the instructions on the packaging and then took the pill and drank the whole glass of water. 

“Nae…”

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything… I’m just… sorry.”

She sighed, “you didn’t do anything worth apologizing for.”

“I’m sorry that this happened. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there.”

“You were there. You did everything you could’ve.” She stared for a long moment at her own hands planted on your kitchen counter, “I’m exhausted…”

“I’ll get you some clothes to wear to bed.” 

Reneé nodded her head.

Before going to your bedroom you slowly approached her and held your arms out. She looked at you out of the corner of her eye and then suddenly turned and collapsed into your offer of a hug. She grasped you tightly, squeezing the fabric of your shirt in her fists and she sobbed. The floodgates burst open and the woman bawled into the crook of your neck with unprecedented force. 

You must’ve held her like that for twenty minutes. Eventually, you dropped your hands from her back to her thighs and you lifted her up in your arms for her to koala around your front, wrapping her legs around your hips and keeping her face buried against your shoulder.

You carried her carefully down the hall to your bedroom and set her gently down on the edge of your bed. 

You went to step away to grab clothes for her to change into but she held onto you, “Wait…”

“Okay, alright… I’m here,” you assured. You sat down beside her on the bed and she leaned against you.

“D-don’t leave,” her voice cracked as she spoke, “I don’t want to be alone tonight…”

“I won’t leave, Nae. I’m right here.”

There was another long period of silence where she just leaned against you and closed her eyes while you rubbed her back. She finally let you get up to grab clothes for her and then she asked for your help to change. 

You gently helped her out of her party clothes which bore the evidence of whatever it was that she had gone through and she put on one of your oversized t-shirts and a pair of your plaid boxers that you often wore to bed. 

After that, you tucked her into bed and she reached for your hand, “please, stay with me.”

You held her hand, “I’ll stay. I promise.”

“Will you hold me?”

You nodded, “of course.”

You crawled into the bed behind her and wrapped yourself around her in a protective embrace. She held your hands tightly in hers and clutched them against her chest. You could tell that she was trying to match the pace of your breathing. 

“It’s okay…” you whispered, “I’ve got you…”

You didn’t want to be having the thoughts that you were having. You didn’t want to be thinking about how her hair smelled or how her skin felt or how much you’ve always wanted to cuddle her like this in your bed or how she looked wearing your clothes. It wasn’t right for you to be thinking about those things when she was having the hardest night of her life. You just needed to be a good friend right now.

Reneé shivered and whispered into the darkness, breathing your name gently. 

“Yeah?”

“I…” she began.

You waited for her to continue. You held your breath, not knowing, but hoping against all hope that she would finish that sentence.

“I…” she tried again, “... thank you.”

“Oh… yeah, you’re welcome… of course.” You squeezed her hand once more, unsure whether the squeeze was your way of saying it’s okay, I love you or goddammit please just say it or I’ll wait for as long as you need me to. Maybe it was all of the above. Maybe it was just goodnight. 

Either way, Reneé returned the squeeze with three pulses and then she fell asleep in your arms.

[betweenthings2]

4. "Please wake up" angst prompt would be so perfect

Thank you for the ask!! The prompt list is here if anyone else wants to see it =)

I've written you all something very sad. I fully meant to write a fluff prompt but I listened to "I Always Wanna Die (Sometimes)" and this happened. None of this is medically accurate, but it is sad. Content warnings for overdose and hospitals.

Angst prompt 4- "Please wake up."

The heart monitor makes a steady noise that's already begun to undercut everything in George's head. His thoughts, his fears, his wants, his catastrophizing all come in the same rhythm as Matty's pulse, steady and measured, unchanging. The doctors say that he's stable, that they're optimistic, that Matty should wake up soon, that Matty is lucky things happened as they did.

That's the word they keep using, lucky. George doesn't feel like anyone is particularly lucky. It's not lucky that George started stashing naloxone around their house and in his things when Matty started to get secretive and defensive. It's not lucky that George started waking up every few hours to check on Matty. It's not lucky that George had worried about this enough that he knew what to do. Still, the doctors keep saying lucky and Matty's nurse likes to make comments about 'most addicts' every time she comes into his room and sees George still there, the implication being, of course, that he should leave, that he should give up on Matty.

It makes George bristle--Matty can't be lumped in with 'most' anything. He's entirely individual, entirely himself, and she kind of spits the word 'addicts' out like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, like she thinks Matty is lesser for his struggles. Matty isn't lesser. Matty is more than anyone George has ever known and he would complain about the nurse, but it's about four in the morning and he's not going anywhere before Matty wakes up because giving up has never once crossed his mind as being a viable option. You don't give up on the people you love, not when you love them like George loves Matty. Instead, he just takes Matty's hand and holds in between his own, glaring every time the nurse tries to make a comment.

Matty looks lifeless like this, empty. The white sheets tucked around his body make him look pale and generally unwell. In all honest, he is unwell, but it's unsettling. This person laying in a bed in front of George isn't his Matty. Matty's features are there--the familiar line of his jaw, his tattoos, his chipped nail polish, the little scar on his left hand that has been there as long as George has known him, the dark curls that he takes so much care with. He's Matty, but the spark that makes him Matty isn't there and George would think him dead.

Time continues to pass and the heart monitor continues to beep steadily. The sky out the window is slowly beginning to lighten when a different nurse comes in. She offers George a kind smile and a hushed good morning before she takes Matty's vitals and adjusts his IV, then leaves, saying the same thing that everyone has said--that Matty should wake up soon. George wishes Matty would prove them right.

To be fair, Matty likes to prove people wrong, and he delights in being right, even if it's unlikely. Maybe he's just being stubborn now. The thought makes George laugh at how absurd it is. It sounds harsh and grating in the near silent room and he has to choke back a sob lest he actually break down. This isn't how it ends. This can't be how it ends. It can't.

"You have to wake up, Matty," George murmurs. He reaches out and takes Matty's hand, and continues, "I can't do it without you. Please."

Matty doesn't move.

"Please," George repeats. "I know. I know it's hard and I know you're struggling, but, fuck, I need you and I know that's selfish, but I can't do it without you. I don't, I don't get it, I don't get this, but I'm willing to try. I'm willing to listen, to do whatever you need from me, just please," a pause, "please wake up."

Matty doesn't move, doesn't wake, and the steady beep of the heart monitor is the only response George gets.

[anjuschiffer]

Coming In For A Diagnosis and Leaving With A Date

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @theatreandcomicfreak!!!! Sure, we’ve only known each other for a few months, but Mina! You’re so freaking amazing and I’m so glad to have met you!

So to celebrate, I wrote this for you! Enjoy it! And hope you have a wonderful day :D

------

He was here to help Damian on taking down a small-time criminal, so why were they having such a hard time taking him down?

“Damian, are you sure that-” Garfield started, only to get interrupted by his friend.

“I’m going to be fine. Go and rest. I’ll be sure to update you on-” Static filled their communication, Garfield already fearing the worst. 

“Damian.” No response. “Damian!” Garfield yelled out, quickly coming to a halt, bearing the slight burn he got from the roof asphalt. Who cares if he was bleeding from his arm. Who cares if he couldn’t retain his form for any longer than five minutes. He had to go back! Damian was in danger-

“Well, look what we have here. A lost kitten.” Garfield quickly whipped his head to see Catwoman. Or Selina as Damian called her. Despite Selina and Bruce being together for several years, the two still wouldn’t get together, much to Damian’s annoyance. If you asked Garfield, Damian probably wanted her to officially be part of the family already, not that Damian already considered her as such.

“Please don’t do that.” Garfield said, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. All the hairs on his body relaxed, but his heart still raced quickly against his chest. “Do you know what’s going on?” Garfield watched as Selina hummed, looking over to where Damian was last heard from.

“He’s going to be fine, kid. He can handle this. And if anything, he’s got Bat out there as well.” She assured, looking at the gash across his arm. “You, on the other hand, won’t if you don’t get that treated.”

“I’m fine.” Garfield protested, wincing when Selina placed pressure on his wound.

“I beg to differ.” Selina said, quickly taking out her phone, a corner of her lips curving as she typed something, pocketing it away once she was down. “See that apartment over there?”

“Yeah?” Garfield looked over to where she was pointing, an apartment building just a block over. If Garfield squinted just a tiny bit, he was able to see a few plants sitting by the window ledge. “What about that-”

“Go there and wait inside.” Selina instructed, ushering him to go. “Someone will be there shortly to help you treat that wound of yours.” Garfield turned to go, but remained seated where he was. “I’ll make sure to update you on Damian’s whereabouts.”

Seeing as Selina wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, Garfield made his way to the open apartment, carefully stepping over the plants, finding himself stepping onto a sofa. He promptly took off his shoes, not wanting to dirty the poor furniture anymore than what he had already done.

As he chose to sit, he took note of how organized -and white- the room was, the cabinets meticulously neat and labeled, his eyes widening when he saw the names on some of the glass jars. 

Naloxone, bacitracin, lidocaine… where did this person even get the first and last one?

As he tried to distract himself, Garfield thought it would be a good idea to look at the white board hung above one of the work stations, ignoring the various mortars filled with who-knows-what. 

He began to panic when he saw Damian’s medical records there, quickly running towards it to grab it, quickly turning page after page, panicking when he saw that this person also knew that Damian was Robin. 

Lifting his gaze from the papers, his eyes landed on the wall files, his eyes landing on the name Wayne. 

He began to rummage through, finding the rest of the Batfam’s identities, also finding other rogues' names in the other compartments. 

His heart stopped when he came across his own file, his name staring back at him in pink ink. 

Just as he was about to look at how much this person knew about him, the sound of keys jingling broke his determination. 

He quickly began to put the files back, making sure to place them in their proper slots, quickly hopping back into the sofa as he heard footsteps approach the room along with muffled talking. 

As soon as he managed to sit down and attempt to look normal, the door slid open. 

“-should have said no. Maybe I really am a pushover.” The person muttered, Garfield feeling his breath hitch. She was pretty. Very pretty.

The girl looked at him, gaping at his appearance before throwing her bag to the side and rushing out the room. 

Garfield felt hurt, wondering what she had thought when she saw him, only for it to all go away when she came back, gloves on and a first aid kit in hand. 

He thought she already looked pretty with her hair down, but she looked just as stunning with her hair tied into a loose bun. 

“How long have you been like this?” She asked, snapping Garfield from his trance.

“Half an hour?” Garfield tried to provide, watching as she cut off his sleeve, quick to start cleaning the outer rims of his wounds. 

“I’m guessing you were like this for a while before Miss Ky-Ca-” she started to fumble. 

“I know Miss Kyle is Catwoman. Don’t gotta worry about the whole ‘secret-identity’ thing with me.” Garfield said, watching the girl visibly relax, the girl going back to focusing on clearing the dry blood with a pair of tweezers and cotton swabs.

The two remained quiet, Garfield watching as she kept cleaning his wound, wincing when she started to add the stitches to his wound.

“Sorry.”

“You’re just doing your job.” Garfield had to bite his tongue to stop from hissing from the pain. “Actually, is this your job?”

“Kind of.” She replied, adding one last stitch. “I have experience on patching up small injuries and I used to study medicine under a mentor, but that was a while ago...” the girl trailed, Garfield picking up on how her mood quickly shifted. 

“Wow, these are the neatest stitches I’ve ever gotten! You have to be a pretty amazing sewer if they’re this neat. I bet you’d also be a pretty good designer!” Garfield praised, noticing a faint blush dust her face as she placed some ointment over the stitches. 

“Matter of fact, I am a designer.” The girl said, a soft smile now on her lips. “Miss Kyle commissioned me to make her a dress for the upcoming charity here in Gotham. Although, I ended up getting roped in some things I shouldn’t have.” 

“Accidentally found out her identity?” He watched the girl nod. 

“Yup. Well...that's a part of it.” She said, taking out some bandage. “And along the way I found out about her family’s, as you saw the files over there.”

“I-I didn’t see any files.“ He said, averting his eyes from her, feeling her gaze on him. “Okay. I did.” He admitted. “But why do you even have all of those medical records?”

“Curious, aren’t you?” Marinette purred, something inside of Garfield stirring. “Don’t blame you. It’s not everyday you find someone like me.”

“You mean a pretty girl like you?” Garfield teased, watching her almost drop the pair of scissors in her hand. “Which reminds me, what’s your name?”

“Wh-what? No!” Marinette squeaked out, trying her hardest to not wrap the bandage too tight. “I meant someone who helps vigilantes and heroes while being a civilian.” Garfield hummed at that, watching as she finished patching him up. “And Marinette. My name’s Marinette.” Marinette said, checking over her work. “And seems like you’re good to go.”

“That’s it?” Garfield said in a panic, not wanting to leave just yet. “Wow, didn’t think it’d be this fast.”

“Like I said,” Marinette said, pulling out Garfield’s file and jotting something down. “I have my share of experience when it comes to these types of things.” 

“Well then,” Garfield got up, one minute himself and the next as a cat on her desk, nudging her hand for some scratches. “Thank you very much.” 

He watched as red dusted her face again, giving him a few scritches under his chin, giggling when he let out a few purrs.

“Remember to come back tomorrow morning for the follow up.” Marinette reminded, watching as Garfield pounced to the window ledge, morphing back into his normal form. “Need to make sure it heals properly.”

“Will do doc!” Garfield said, stepping out into the fire escape, only to find Damian there. “Holy shi-” He was fine!

“What are you doing here?” Damian asked with a growl.

“Umm...getting my injuries checked?” Garfield defended, showing Damian his wrapped arm. “What about you?”

“Same thing.” Damian said as he motioned to his bruised face, quickly jumping into the window. Garfield quickly followed suit.

“Damian! Just look at you! What in kwami’s name were you up to?” Marinette scolded when she saw Damian, quickly going through her cabinets, grabbing different jars. “Oh! Hi Gar! Thought we agreed to see each other tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Damian asked, narrowing his eyes at Garfield, causing him to gulp. Why was he acting like this?

“A follow up Dami, no need to get so overprotective, geez.” Marinette clarified, making Damian face her. “If anything, I should be the overprotective one. I am older than you.” Garfield could only watch as the two bickered.

“By two years.” Damian stated, hissing when she placed an ice pack over his bruise. 

“Meaning I don’t need little brother dearest to be following me 24/7.” Marinette said with a hint of annoyance, lifting Damian’s face to get a better look at the cut under his chin. “Small scratch. Nothing too major, unlike the one on your torso.”

“Wait, brother? You guys are related?” Garfield asked, this question going ignored as the two siblings kept arguing. 

“It’s just a scratch.” 

Marinette was related to Damian… his sister...

“A scratch!? You’re still bleeding from it!”

Meaning she is a Wayne...and she had quite the overprotective family, and a large one at that… just look at Damian!

“Nothing that I can’t heal on my own.”

Just what is he getting himself into?

“That’s it.” Marinette huffed, pulling out her phone. “I’m calling Grandpere.” Garfield let out a laugh when he saw Damian stiffen.

“Mari, don’t you dare-”

“Alf? Yes, it's me. Listen, Damian doesn’t want to get himself checked, insisting that his injury-stop that!” Marinette yelled at Damian, who tried to grab the phone away from her, only for Garfield to get a hold of it.

“Hey!” “Logan, hand it over to me.” The siblings said simultaneously, only for Garfield to ignore the two.

“Hey Alfred, it’s me, Garfield. Yes, a cut on his torso that’s not too deep. Yes, I will tell him to let Mari to look at it or else there will be consequences.” He looked over at a betrayed Damian and a grinning Marinette who mouthed a thank you. “Yes, I’m fine as well Alfred. Oh! And if Miss Kyle is there, please tell her I said thank you. Right. Bye.” With that, Garfield hanged up, handing Marinette her phone back.

“I won’t forget this betrayal Logan.” Damian said, pouting as he sat back down on the sofa, Marinette already having her tool out to clean his wound.

“You’re very welcome.” Garfield said, grinning as he watched Damian fuss over his patch up.

------

“Thank you for having my back Garfield.” Marinette said as he followed Damian out the window.

Marinette was able to tend to Damian’s injuries with such grace that it left Garfield mesmerized, wondering how he didn’t feel the two hours pass by.

“It was nothing.” Garfield said, averting his gaze from her, scratching the back of his head as heat rose to his cheeks. That’s when he felt a peck on his cheek, turning to see Marinette smile at him.

“A token of my gratitude.” She reasoned, fiddling with her fingers as she watched Garfiled hover a hand over the place she kissed him. “Sorry if I made you uncom-”

“No, no, no!” Garfield started, finally touching the spot with his fingers. “I didn’t mind it.” He melted when she beamed, only for Damian to ruin their moment.

“Hurry up! I don’t have all night!” Damian yelled, causing Garfield to groan.

“So about tomorrow-” Mari started, only for Gar to cut her off.

“Come in the morning for the check up. Got it.” Garfield recited, lifting his right hand. “Promise to be here at 8 sharp.”

“Well, I was thinking if you’d like to join me for breakfast after the check up.” Gar broke into a smile. “Would you?”

“Definitely!” Gar said, “Consider it a date then.” Without giving her a chance to reply, he went to join Damian, looking forward to his breakfast date with Marinette.

Marinette watched as Garfield jumped away, going back to the file she had for him. Picking up her pink pen, she drew a small heart next to his name.

She can’t wait for tomorrow’s date, even if it meant that her stupid brothers might try to stop it.

[fidothefinch]

Jason's been working undercover to get into Gotham's shiny new human trafficking business. But things get complicated when it's revealed that Red Robin's been captured. 

Words: 5,688 Warnings: recreational drugs, canon-typical violence, cursing

The warehouse had been trashed since the last time Red Hood had been there. The wall-length locker unit was flipped on its side, and the office windows were shattered. “Someone did some redecorating recently, huh?”

The goons he was following didn’t acknowledge him past a warning glance tossed over their shoulders. He recognized them; they had been there when Jason was ‘recruited.’ But that meant they were smart enough to decide that, between Jason and their boss, Jason was the greater threat.

Jason stopped walking and crossed his arms. “I need an answer. You guys have a Bat problem?”

The goons looked at one another. The older and taller one was the first to turn around and actually look at him. Mirroring Jason’s stance, he said, “Not anymore. We took care of ‘em.”

“Good.” (Not good.) “I don’t work with anybody who attracts that kind of attention.”

The man nodded, and they continued through the building. Jason expected them to take him up the catwalk to the second-story office, where every other meeting with higher-ups had taken place. So he was surprised when they continued past it, instead heading straight for a blank wall. Goon A tapped a rhythm into the wall, and a rectangular wedge depressed and slid to the side to reveal a set of stairs leading down.

Jason took note and followed them mechanically, mind swirling. They hadn’t known about the secret entrance; hadn’t had a good opportunity to scope it out. But clearly someone had been investigating.

He was beginning to understand why Gretto had called for him.

The man known as ‘Gretto’ was in charge of Gotham’s new, flashy, human trafficking business. As far as Gretto knew, he had remained under the Bats’ radar for six months now. He also thought Red Hood was still completely independent, and obviously hadn’t done his homework on Jason’s morals. The guy was a good businessman but a poor criminal; it made it all the more easy for the Red Hood to slip into his forces on a mission for Batman.

Jason had made great headway, too. They were planning an assault on the building within the next month.

All that said, nobody else associated with the Bat should have been here.

The bottom of the stairs opened into a long hallway that stretched to the left and right. Heavy metal doors lined each side; many had blinking keypad locks next to them. More voices drifted from a door propped open with a cinderblock, off to the left. A man hurried out of a small alcove near them, an empty syringe in his hand.

For a secret lair, this place sure was poppin’.

Jason took note, even as the goons led him down the right hallway, straight up to the polished hardwood door at the end of the hall. The goons opened it and gestured for Jason to step inside.

It was almost like a small conference room. A long table was set up in the middle, but there were no chairs in sight. A tall man with a beer belly sat on one end of the table, pouring over a large book of figures. Jason’s hands itched to get that information.

“Gretto,” he greeted.

The man looked up, shutting the book and rising from his seat. “Red Hood.” Gretto’s long curls were pulled back in a low ponytail. He reached out a calloused hand to shake.

The best part about being Red Hood was that he could be an asshole. Jason waved off the hand flippantly, making himself comfortable against the wall next to the door. Gretto’s goons spread out to flank him. “I heard you had a Bat problem.”

Gretto’s smarmy smile fell instantly, and he shot a look at one of the goons. “Really?”

Jason shrugged. “Easy to spot, when you know their M.O.”

“One of them got upstairs a few days ago—"

“Which one?”

Gretto cocked his head to the side. “Shorter, used the big stick?”

Tim.

“Makes sense. Red Robin is usually the first to investigate a place like this.”

“Then we shouldn’t have any problems going forward. He’s been contained—”

Jason straightened abruptly. “You mean he’s still here?”

“It’s actually why I called you. I was wondering how much experience you had with hostages.”

Why the hell hadn’t Bruce contacted him?!

“You idiot.” Jason slammed a fist on the table. The goons looked a little more alert, now. “You want to blackmail Batman?!”

“I’m not going to be pestered by a man in a fur suit.”

“You think nobody’s tried this before?”

“I will be the first to pull it off. I already have the kid, after all.”

Jason’s hand thumped against his helmet before he realized, belatedly, he wouldn’t be able to massage away this headache. “I can’t believe you’ve dragged me into this mess.”

Gretto smirked. “You will be thankful, when the Batman of Gotham won’t dare touch you.”

Jason was only half-listening now. His thoughts swirled around in his head, caught in the current of worry for Tim and this entire operation. He could pull out the gun hidden beneath his jacket and end this whole thing right here, except it wouldn’t do any good for the past and present victims of the trafficking ring. But he couldn’t just let them hold on to Tim, either.

First thing first, he had to make sure his brother was okay.

He played up his annoyance for his audience, heaving a sigh that sounded much louder through the mechanization of his helmet. “Listen, if you want my help, I need to know what kind of condition he’s in. We want to scare Bats into doing what we want, not make him come after us.”

Gretto clapped his hands together. “So you’ll help us?”

Jason grit his teeth. “There’s not really a choice, is there?”

Gretto didn’t respond to his comment, instead walking past him back into the hallway of metal doors. He led Jason past the entrance where the steps were, around another corner. It was no more than a stub of a hallway, with a door on either side. Gretto waved to the one labeled “Mechanical Room – Employees Only.”

“Here we are!”

Jason shook his head. “You left him within reach of your electric supply. Big mistake.”

“Don’t worry about him; we’ve made sure to keep him busy.” He tossed Jason a skeleton key. “Here. You’ll see what I mean.”

Jason couldn’t get inside fast enough.

The inside of the room was dark, save for the blinking lights on various equipment inside. The square of light from the door illuminated a layer of pipes running up the wall and disappearing into the ceiling above. Some machine hissed in the back corner.

But that wasn’t what caught Jason’s eye.

Red Robin was curled up in the corner, and if Jason didn’t know better he would think he was sleeping. His breathing was light and even, but way too slow. When Jason stepped closer, he could see sweat dripping off his jaw.

His eyes were half-open under his lenses; Jason snapped his fingers in his face. Tim didn’t so much as twitch.

“What the hell did you give him?” Jason asked. The question did not come out as impressed as it probably should have. He needed to not sound so worried.

Gretto waved a hand in the air. “Same stuff we give the rest of them.” Meaning, Jason surmised, the victims. “Although, we have to give him a lot. And more often, too. Really pisses me off. That stuff is expensive.” When he saw Jason kneel next to the fallen vigilante, he cocked his head to the side again. “What are you doing?”

“Give me a few; I’ll finish disarming him for you dipshits.” Jason revealed one hidden, tiny throwing knife to prove his point. “Plus, I have a few bones to pick with him.”

One of the goons snickered. Gretto waved them off. “Okay. We’ll get ready for the video. Don’t have too much fun.”

The door shut.

Jason looked around for a light switch and found only a pull string. The bare bulb swung violently in the small room, casting dark shadows along the walls that moved in companion with the motion. He waited until he was sure Gretto and his men wouldn’t be back before kneeling next to Tim.

There was a rip in the flexible fabric of one of his sleeves, exposing the pale flesh of his inner elbow. It was pocked with tiny dots, and one of them was still oozing a little blood. His most recent dose had been recent.

Jason disabled the suit’s security and pushed the cowl back.

“Hey,” he said, tapping him in the face a few times. His glove came away wet with sweat.

Tim didn’t so much as twitch in reaction.

Jason flattened his palm against Tim’s chest and pat him harder. “Hey, wake up.” He repeated the phrase, shaking the kid’s whole body.

Nothing.

“Kid, come on.” Jason was getting worried. He pulled back Tim’s eyelids and shone a penlight into them. The pupils were tiny pinpricks. They didn’t respond to the light. Not good.

Jason put the penlight down and pressed his fingers against Tim’s jugular.

Too slow. Way too slow. How much had they given him?

As if in answer, Tim exhaled a short, hissing breath. And his chest fell still.

Jason panicked. He knew that sound.                                                  

“Hey, no. Gotta keep breathing.”

With shaky hands, he fumbled through his belt for his Naloxone and sprayed it up Tim’s nose.

He waited.

He had treated overdose often enough to know what to look for. He knew how quickly Narcan reversed the most lethal symptoms, and he had already worked through the trauma of realizing how easy it could have been to save his mom.

He rubbed Tim’s sternum hard. “Come on. Breathe.”

He used the repetitive motion to count the seconds. But after two minutes had passed, and Tim still didn’t move, Jason felt his stomach sink. He took Tim’s pulse again.

It was still weak; thready. Not enough improvement.

He reacted quickly, pulling his extra emergency dose of antinarcotic. As he pressed the needle into the smaller boy’s thigh, he reminded himself it sometimes took two doses. Easy math; more narcotics, more antinarcotics. The second dose would do the trick.

It had to. He didn’t have anything else.

He got an arm under Tim’s shoulders and hoisted him halfway up to help him breathe more easily.

Any second now. “Damn it Tim, wake up.”

He could feel the hitch when Tim inhaled sharply.

Jason let out a breath of his own, and resumed with rubbing Tim’s sternum. “That’s it. Keep breathing. Come on.”

The breathing continued. Thank god. After another minute, Tim’s head rolled to the side, toward Jason.

Jason looked down. Tim’s pupils were still pinprick, but he blinked slowly and Jason saw recognition in his eyes.

“Hey, man. Welcome back.”

Tim didn’t answer; Jason didn’t expect him to.

He had a new problem, now. Jason glanced to the door. Nobody had come back for him yet, but he guessed he only had another minute before people started getting suspicious. And if Gretto had been telling the truth, about Tim being high for the majority of the last three days, there was a significant risk of going into withdrawal.

He replaced Tim’s cowl and dragged his limp body backward so he was leaning against a clear section of wall.

He activated his comm. “Red Hood to B. Found your bird.”

There was just static, and Jason thought that maybe they were too far underground for the signal to get out, but then, “Batman to Red Hood. Status report.”

“I’m moving the operation forward. I need to get RR out of here.” Jason’s eyes landed on a pile of used syringes in the corner. He carefully picked one up and worked at putting it into an evidence bag and his puncture-proof pocket.

“Negative.”

Jason jumped at the word. “What—”

“It will take too long to gather the forces necessary—”

Jason’s voice dropped into a low hiss. “He could start going into withdrawal any second now. I’m pulling him out.”

There was silence.

“Standby. Wait for further instructions.”

“Wait for further instructions? Are you fucking—” Jason cut himself off when the door handle squeaked.

The goon took up most of the doorway, casting an imposing shadow across the floor. “You done yet?”

Jason didn’t look back at Tim. He slapped dirt off his knees and rose to his feet with feigned nonchalance. “You’re lucky I’m helping you; the fucker had a tracking device on him.”

“We checked for those.”

“Not well enough, obviously.” The goon didn’t look like he believed him. Jason pulled his own tiny GPS device out of his pocket and flipped it toward him. Batman was a detective; he could figure it out. “Don’t ask me where I found it. You don’t want to know.”

The goon frowned, but didn’t press any further. “Boss has a camera. You ready?”

Jason was glad his helmet hid his expression. “What, now?”

The goon just stared, so Jason took it as a ‘yes.’ Without being asked, he went back and threw Tim over his shoulder, wincing where the bandoliers dug into his collar bone. “Where to?”

He followed the goon back into the hallway. Jason sized up the guy. He could probably take the one by himself, but there was no way he could be subtle enough not to draw attention in this echoey underground hellhole. And it wasn’t like he could just run up the stairs with Tim on his back; they would risk losing the entire operation, and there were victims to be avenged.

Still, Jason glanced wistfully at the stairway as they passed.

Instead of the conference room, the goon stopped in front of one of the heavy metal doors in the hallway. Jason watched with growing unease as the goon typed a code into the keypad (K492) and swung the door open.

The room was small, the size of a bigger walk-in closet. Jason purposefully ignored the dirty twin-sized mattress propped against the far wall. A chair was placed by the wall cattycorner to the mattress, and Gretto and the other goon stood behind a camera and tripod opposite the chair.

Gretto nodded to the chair, not looking up from the camera he was busy adjusting. “Over there. Put his hands behind the chair.”

“I know the drill,” Jason murmured. He adjusted his grip on Tim again before stepping over the threshold. The door closed with an ominous click behind him.

He used his helmet to hide the way he scanned the room. Three guys, but Gretto wasn’t armed. One exit, probably locked. Not impossible. They could still get out of this alive.

When he lowered Tim into the chair, he did it more gently than he would have for someone he was serious about torturing. Tim’s eyes roamed, but locked on Jason as he leaned in. His mouth moved, like he was working up the saliva to talk.

“Don’t talk,” Jason risked whispering.

He caught one goon watching him, so had to be rougher when he bound Tim’s arms behind the chair. To keep up appearances, he stretched Tim’s finger back until the boy whined with pain, and the goon nodded, pleased, before shifting his attention to Gretto’s instructions. Jason immediately released the finger, and managed to keep the knot loose enough that, if Tim was as trained as the rest of the brood, he would be able to slip it even half-unconscious.

“Hood,” Gretto called.

“It’s Red Hood.”

Gretto smirked, unbothered by the correction. “Weapon of choice?”

Jason did not freeze. “Weapon?”

“You said it yourself, we want to scare the Bat. And that—” he gestured to the mostly-limp body in the chair “—isn’t scary.”

Jason, for the record, was plenty nervous. “Listen, I’ll coach you through some good dialogue, but I’m not getting any more involved than that.”

With a flick of Gretto’s hand, there were two guns pointed at Jason. “Come on,” the man cajoled. “We’re partners, aren’t we?”

Jason’s fingers twitched toward his hidden holster. But he couldn’t risk it; even if he were able to dodge a bullet, there was a decent chance it would hit Tim. He growled, letting his fingers relax. “I did not agree to being on camera, Gretto.”

“I can’t let the Bat see my face. You understand, don’t you?” Gretto easily drifted past Jason and stood next to Tim. He wrapped his fingers around Tim’s jaw and lifted his head. “Weapon of choice? I obviously won’t give you a gun, but we have a fine collection of more. . . traditional tools to choose from.”

Tim jerked his head to the side; an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge the hand.

Gretto nimbly overstepped the slow foot that kicked toward him. “Good, he’s waking up.” He leaned in close, eyes roving over Tim in a way that made Jason’s skin crawl. “More interesting, that way.”

Jason’s jaw was tight. “Keep in mind that you brought me here because I’m the expert. I think this is a stupid idea, and you’re going to pay for it.”

Gretto’s eyes narrowed in his direction. He released Tim’s jaw. “Was that a threat?”

Jason crossed his arms. Remained silent.

It worked; the slimy man lost interest in Tim. “You’re two stories underground, surrounded by people loyal to me. People with guns.” To emphasize his point, Gretto snapped his fingers, and the round hard barrel of a gun rested between Jason’s shoulders. “Frankly, I’m surprised you are not more excited to help.” His head cocked to the side. “Maybe you’re just not as ambitious as I thought.”

Jason grit his teeth. “You won’t kill me. You need me.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on it?”

Jason studied the man’s face. He looked no different than the rest of the scum that roamed Gotham’s streets, except for the arrogant set of his chin. He was serious. Stupid, but serious. Defeated, Jason dropped his arms. “What did you have in mind, then?”

“I was thinking we would rough him up a little, make sure the Batman knows we’re serious.”

Jason chewed over the words. “You got a bat?”

“Poetic irony. I like the way you think.”

One of the goons behind Jason left the room at some invisible signal, but Jason’s eyes were back on Tim. With a jerky motion, the boy in the chair lifted his head to see the world around him. Jason watched a shudder run down his spine, but it was unclear whether it was caused by the drugs or the environment. “Wha’ss habbening?” he slurred.

Gretto grinned wickedly. “You’ll find out soon enough, bat boy.” Turning to Jason, he asked, “Are these videos better when you do the talking before or after the beating? I can never decide.”

“Before,” Jason cut in quickly. (More time. He needed more time.) “It builds up the tension.”

The goon returned, bringing with him a metal baseball bat with the Gotham Knights logo printed across the barrel. He dropped it in Jason’s hands, and Jason mentally cringed at the weight of the thing. Not regulation, for sure. Feeling Gretto’s eyes on him, he stepped out of the way and gave it a few test swings.

Even intentionally holding back, the bat sliced through the air with a whistle.

A weak voice broke the quiet. “Gretto,” it growled.

Jason swung around to see Tim glaring daggers at the ponytailed-man with watery eyes.

Shit.

A smile stretched across Gretto’s face. “Ah, so you do remember me. How are you feeling?”

While Gretto was distracted, Jason scanned Tim. He definitely looked more alert, but far from well. What was exposed of his skin was flushed pink, and a light tremor ran down his arms and legs. He didn’t look back at Jason.

Tim’s weight shifted sluggishly. He shook his head hard and stopped, probably regretting it. “You drugged me.”

“Yes, quite a bit. I am honestly surprised you’re conscious,” Gretto quipped. He moved behind the camera and fiddled with the controls.

“How long have I been here?” Tim’s words came out slow and precise, but Jason’s practiced ears picked up the way his ‘l’ carried on too long, like his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. His shoulders moved in an obvious tell he was testing his restraints.

“Long enough to make the Batman nervous.” There was a soft click as he started to film. “Smile for the camera. Hood?”

When Jason didn’t move, Gretto gave one of his goons a pointed look, and the goon in turned raised a gun in Jason’s direction. Jason flipped them both the bird before stepping behind Tim’s chair, putting the metal bat in his hands within view of the camera.

“Batman,” Gretto laughed. “I believe we have something of yours.”

Jason looked down at Tim. This close, he could hear his breath speeding up, and see every small twitch as he began to withdrawal.

“They call you the world’s greatest detective, but I have been surprised by your lack of response to my operation. I can only assume you underestimated me, sending this sidekick of yours. After all, don’t you know what I specialize in?”

The face Gretto made, out of sight of the camera, made Jason clench his jaw hard enough he heard something pop.

“You’re not as sneaky as you think,” Tim muttered. All eyes zeroed in on him, and Jason could tell Tim was fighting to remain still. He wasn’t successful.

“Or maybe,” Gretto continued. “He was sent as a gift?”

Tim flinched back into his seat.

“Keep to the point,” Jason reminded Gretto. “The longer the video, the more likely he’ll find something to track.”

Gretto waved a hand dismissively. “I was just having a little fun.”

Jason didn’t reply.

Gretto sighed. “You’re the expert.” His posture improved by a margin as he continued. “My business has quite the following; I have buyers from all around the world. And I have several upcoming auctions for my product. I’m sure many of my clients would be willing to pay a hefty price for the chance to own one of the bats.”

Jason remained calm. He took mental notes; they hadn’t realized he sold internationally. When Tim started to wiggle out of the rope around his wrists, Jason looped his metal bat in front of his neck, not applying any pressure, in a gesture that looked intimidating and hid the movement of Tim’s shoulders as he worked.

Jason still heard a hitch in his breath.

Gretto sneered at the sight. “Of course, that’s all up to you. Stay out of my business, and it won’t become an issue.”

Tim’s hands were free. He tapped twice against Jason’s thigh and laced his fingers together.

Jason knew the signal. ‘Your call.’

He was pretty confident Tim was not currently capable of fighting. Unfortunately, there were not many good ways remind Tim of that while they were both being watched.

“And if you try to come for us, directly? There will be consequences.” Gretto nodded to Jason, who stiffened his posture in preparation. “We have a little. . . demonstration, in case you didn’t believe me.”

Jason adjusted his grip on the bat in his hands. It was still around Tim’s neck. “What, now?”

At Gretto’s flat look, Jason shrugged. “Okay.”

He dropped the bat into Tim’s lap. Tim, catching on, began struggling again.

“Hey, Goon Numero Uno, could you give me a hand? If he moves around too much I might kill him.”

Gretto pushed one of his henchpeople forward, and at Jason’s instruction, the man holstered his gun and braced Tim’s shoulders back against the chair. Tim continued to fight against the hold, even managing to head-butt the guy once before the man was able to change his grip to hold Tim’s head back over the back of the chair.

“Give him a good beating,” Gretto ordered. “The drugs are too expensive to keep using on him.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jason answered. He flipped the bat in one hand, testing his grip again.

“And put on a good show!”

“Shut up and let me work.” Jason rested the butt of the barrel against Tim’s sternum. “You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you? You’re going to stay still and let me do my job?”

Tim’s glare was palpable, even through the mask, even with his neck craned back at an awkward angle. But his breath was racing in and out faster, his chest moving with the force of it, and Jason felt justified in telling Tim to sit this one out. It would be even harder to get him out if he fell unconscious again.

“That’s good enough answer for me.” Jason hoisted the bat over his shoulder.

Tim’s throat bobbed.

Jason did make it showy, swinging his weight back before thrusting it forward and around. The bat sliced through the air, making a low whistling noise that bounced around the small concrete room. The bat made contact with its target with a sickening, ringing, crunch, sinking into flesh and bone alike.

The man holding Tim down only grunted before crumpling to the floor.

Jason didn’t stop, using his momentum to hurl the bat at the goon lazily aiming a gun in his direction. The room hadn’t caught up to what was happening yet, and the bat hit the man square in the chest. He flew backward into the wall, and his gun fired, sending a bullet into the ceiling.

A piece of the ricochet sliced through Jason’s left bicep. He grunted, but otherwise ignored it. Instead, he hooked the bat behind the goon’s head to pull him down into his knee, and the man instantly fell unconscious.

Jason dropped the bat. It rang hollowly in the suddenly silent room.

Gretto picked up the camera and held it in front of him like it would protect him. “Hood? I thought we were partners?”

“You didn’t do your homework,” Jason growled. He took his time pulling out his handgun, releasing the safety. “I’m not a fan of human traffickers.”

“I’ll give you money! I have lots – and drugs! I can give you drugs!”

Jason aimed the gun at the skeevy rat of a man. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Hood. Don’t.”

Jason turned in time to see Tim trying to push himself out of the chair. He got an entire step away before his legs collapsed, sending him into a heap on the floor.

“Red Robin!”

Images of his mom, lying too still on the floor, flashed through his mind. He stubbornly pushed them away. He raced to Tim’s side and rolled him over to see his face.

He was still breathing; Jason could hear it.

“Don’t turn your back on me,” Gretto snarled. It was all the warning Jason got before something smashed into the back of his head. Jason’s helmet took most of the damage, but the force of it still sent him sprawling forward over Tim’s body. His helmet display winked out.

“You don’t know what I’ve built! The bats can’t touch me!”

The metal bat came down again, across the back of his shoulder. Jason wheezed.

That one was going to leave a mark.

Jason fumbled in the darkness for his helmet release catch, and flung it backward before Gretto could get another hit in. (He thanked his dramatic ass for wearing the domino under the helmet for exactly this reason.) Judging by the satisfying thunk, the helmet hit its target.

“Jason,” Tim mumbled beneath him. He was shivering. “Don’t kill him.”

“Names,” Jason chastised, even as he retrieved his gun and rolled over. He barely did it in time; Gretto flung the bat down over his head with both hands, and the metal bounced on the concrete floor where his helmet-less head had been a split second before.

But Jason’s split-second of relief came to an abrupt end when Gretto pressed the bat against Tim’s neck and started pushing down.

“I’m going to kill both of you!” Gretto howled.

Tim immediately began to splutter. He shoved against the metal blocking his airway, but he didn’t have the strength to push the larger man off of him. His struggles rapidly weakened.

Jason couldn’t shoot; the odds of hitting Tim were too high.

He kicked Gretto in the face once, twice. The man’s grip on the baseball bat finally wavered when Jason aimed his combat boot at his fingers.

Tim gasped a breath.

Gretto hissed, shaking out his left hand and raising the bat with his right, his intentions clear. Before he could follow through, Jason shot through the hand holding the bat.

The man shrieked. The bat fell to the floor and rolled away. Gretto curled up around his hand.

Jason loomed over him.

“Please don’t kill me,” Gretto begged. “I’ll do anything.”

Jason was sure he would. He sneered. “You’re not worth the bullets,” and hit him with the butt of his gun. Gretto fell unconscious.

“Come on, Red. We’re getting out of here,” Jason murmured.

“Sounds good.” Tim had to squeeze the words out between gasps. Jason couldn’t tell whether it was because of nearly beings strangled or another symptom of withdrawal.

“Can you walk?”

Tim made a valiant effort. But even sitting upright made him sway.

“Executive decision. Up you go.” Jason tried not to worry, even when hoisting the smaller boy onto his back meant he could feel his shuddering. He double-checked his handgun was loaded and made for the door.

“Proud of you,” Tim said. Heat radiated off his body onto Jason’s back.

“Shut up.” Jason’s words had no heat behind them. “You’re delirious.”

Tim hummed in a tone that neither agreed or disagreed.

Jason wanted to put him down. Check his pulse, check his breathing, check his pupils. Make sure his motor reflexes were intact, make sure he wasn’t running a fever. But he didn’t have the luxury; the noise of the fight was sure to have drawn attention. “Red Robin, you with me?”

Tim’s arms, looped over Jason’s shoulders, gripped marginally harder. “Yeah.” His breath came in fast puffs against Jason’s neck.

Jason bounced him, shifting his weight higher onto his back. “Just. Hold on.”

He approached the door cautiously. Typing the code into the keypad elicited a quiet click as the door unlocked from the inside. Jason pulled the door open barely a crack and strained his ears for any noise coming from the hallway.

He was surprised to hear almost nothing. A single pair of footsteps shuffled down the hallway, away from them. A door opened, letting loose a barrage of sound – voices and tinny music from a radio – and then the door shut, swallowing the sound with it.

Good enough for him. Jason crept out the door.

The hallway was empty. Jason should have thanked his lucky stars and bolted straight for the stairs.

But he took a split second to make sure he wasn’t imagining his luck, and his eyes landed on the office door, just barely cracked open.

Gretto’s files were in there. His fat book full of documentation. Evidence.

Jason cursed under his breath. He couldn’t leave it behind. It would be gone before they ever made it back.

Tim’s grip was loosening by the second.

Jason didn’t have a choice.

He bolted up the stairs.

 - - -

Jason wasn’t the type to sit around the med bay and watch people sleep.

Regardless, he found himself sitting in a folding chair next to a gurney. At least he was pretending to read his worn copy of Pride and Prejudice instead of staring.

Tim had not been okay, by the time they had reached the Cave. Jason had had to flag down the Batmobile on its way to the warehouse because Tim nearly slid off Jason’s bike.

He had started vomiting in the car.

Jason looked up from the sentence he had read twelve times already to check Tim’s vitals again. They weren’t normal yet, but it was a far cry from where he had been. The electrolyte-saline drip in his hand – the antibiotics were connected to his not-infected elbow – was nearing empty. Jason sighed, and stood to replace the bag.

Something about moving must have disturbed Tim, because his face puckered and relaxed, and his eyes blinked opened. “Bruce?”

“Sorry, no. You’re stuck with me.” Jason scratched the back of his neck. “Batman’s busy cleaning up my mess.”

When it was clear Tim would survive, and that Jason wasn’t in danger of bleeding out, Bruce had been pretty clear about that.

Tim studied him with sleepy eyes. He didn’t say anything.

Jason had half a mind to leave. But a lingering question bothered him. “Why were you there, in the first place?”

Tim’s eyes shut. “I was following a lead for a different case. A big drug deal. They caught me at the docks.” He looked down at his bandaged elbow, slathered in triple antibiotic. “I think I woke up in the warehouse, but I don’t remember anything after that.”

Jason gave a low whistle. “They weren’t kidding, then. That must be some powerful stuff.”

Tim’s mouth fell into a frown. “I should apologize.”

Well, that caught Jason off-guard. “For what?”

“Ruining your mission.”

“Don’t be a dipshit. You couldn’t have known. Besides,” Jason shifted. “It was my fault. I should have waited for backup.”

“For the record,” Tim started, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Jason tried to smile, but there wasn’t enough levity in his voice when he answered, “Yeah. Me, too.”

He could still the ghost of Tim lying on the ground, OD’d.

Jason stretched his back, getting several satisfying cracks out of it. (He knew Tim hated the sound.) “Well, tell Alfred I’m sorry I had to leave before the tea was ready.”

“Where are you going?”

Jason smirked darkly. “I have some business to finish.” He paused by the door before leaving. “Take care of yourself, Tim.”

Tim nodded. “Only if you promise to change those bandages on your arm.”

“I’ll do my best.”

[heroofpenamstan]

RELATIONSHIP ASK MEME: JACOB SEED + JOANNE BURTON

( Tagged by @f0xyboxes​ and @mackie-hattwie​ (was just about to tag you in this, as well!); thank you so much! x gonna tag anyone that wants to do it, but still going to throw out some blogs because I know they may or may not have some amazing OCs: @shallow-gravy​, @ariestals, @jacobseeds-mainhoe, @hawkfurze, @sammystark, @iamnotyourmusebitch, @shellibisshe, @foofygoldfish

Full template here because I skipped a section whoops;

Warning: crossed out text contains sensitive content! Also, very lengthy and quite smutty at times! Too long for my own good, tbh. )

DISAGREEMENTS:

Who is more likely to raise their voice? Joanne; her bark is sharp and loud, uncontainable when irked. Jacob’s grave tone is enough to make anyone wary without him having to raise his volume.

Who threatens to leave but never actually does? Jo. Always Jo. Jacob’s smile always promises to bring her back to him, regardless if she does go or not.

Who actually keeps their word and leaves? Unsurprisingly, Jacob. Some slights against his siblings are just too large to be buried in the shallows, so he steps down periodically. Joanne feels his absence like a bucket of freezing water, leaving her cold for days.

Who trashes the house? You’d think it’s Jo with her tendency to pop off and shatter a glass or five, but the shelf barely hanging on a bent hinge is all Jacob.

Do either of them get physical? They get into brawls, but only when severely wronged by one another. Being who they are—dysfunctional assholes to the core, but equal in their prowess—the scraps and bruises blooming on their skin prove to be sufficient payback, enabling them to carry on with whatever the fuck is brewing between them.

How often do they argue/disagree? Initially, their differing worldviews and methods and everything they stood for caused uncontrollable rifts. Now? They know better than to spend their restricted time together conflicting about unchangeable facts that would get them riled.

Who is the first to apologize? Most often Joanne; she always gets at Jacob for his operation and tactics. Yet, when Jacob points out her mirrored misconduct, she concedes, albeit reluctantly. Jacob, on the other hand, is unapologetic for his actions; means to achieve an end—stop fucking glaring at me, Jo—

SEX

Who is on top/bottom? It’s a tumble down the hill for these two. Sometimes Jacob relishes in her heat and her weight sinking down on him, other times it’s Jo clutching at his scarred shoulders and wrapping her bruised legs about his waist. They switch and adapt most often than pick a preference.

Any kinks? Choking and spanking; nothing too severe, though they do get pretty hot and heavy and rough.

Who has the strangest desires? Not really odd, but Jacob craves Jo’s caresses and kisses at his scars at his most vulnerable sometimes. Joanne never holds it against him, nor comments. 

Who’s dominant in bed? Both of them are clashing alphas, and it’s a constant battle to get the other to submit. However, because they do regard one another as equals, neither has a single qualm with being pinned down and ravished.

Is head ever in the equation? Most often.

If so, who is better at performing it? Surprisingly, (or not) Jacob. Jo always praises his fingers and his tongue and ravels at the scrap of his beard against her sensitive flesh.

Ever had sex in public? For them, public sex is usually safer than in Jo’s abode on Dutch’s (camera-filled) Island, or the Peggie-infested walls of Jacob’s holds that may or may not whisper back to the Father. Although, there once was an incident in a cage and a recruit walking in on something particularly gnarly that made both of them reconsider—Jo still hasn’t found out what had happened to the young trooper after that. 

Who moans the most? Joanne doesn’t know how to sock it during a fight, a spat, or when Jacob traces her neck with an eager mouth.

Who leaves the most marks? Jacob. He likes seeing her pretty skin marked up by his teeth and his tongue; Jo, admittedly, can’t recognize her own claim that doesn’t involve sharp nails running along the expanse of his back.

Who is the more experienced of the two? They’re on the same page, give or take. Jacob has numerous years over her. However, Joanne’s troubled past of drug-fueled mistakes stemming from a young age quickly catches up on him.

Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’? Jo can count on a single hand the amount of times her and Jacob made love. It has always been their primal urges that meshed them together, or the hate burning at her chest, the desire brewing in his eyes. Yet, sometimes, he’s soft and she glows; Jo might even mumble something she isn’t supposed to, and that would spur Jacob on further.

How long do they usually last? It depends on where they are and how long someone would note their absence. When he is able, Jacob drags it out for as long as he can, wanting to see his little soldier crumble and cry for him. But, more often than not, it’s a rough, quick spur that leaves them both snarling and kneading.

Rough or soft? Rough; nearly always rough.

Is protection used? Joanne thanks the day implants came into play. (In the past, there was always a possibility of her hurling the pill back up her esophagus once the withdrawals set in, but now, with the Collapse right around the corner, she’ll be safe for the next years to come, much to Jacob’s delight.)

Does it ever get boring? No. They always have an ever-burning drive for one another, albeit not the most healthy—but it’s always there.

Where is the strangest place they’d have sex? The aforementioned cage can’t be topped; nothing will change Jo’s mind.

FAMILY

Do they plan on having children/or have children? Jacob thinks himself too old and too unsuitable for children of his own. Y’know, you remind me of the Old Man sometimes, John had said, only once—in a light manner, at that—but Jacob had shut the thought of his own kids at that exact moment, if he hadn’t before. He has his Judges and he has John, and that’s enough. Joanne herself thinks herself too irresponsible in that regard. She doesn’t fancy bringing another life into a fallen world once the Collapse hits, focusing on the Ryes if she ever gets a longing for children, only to be reminded just why it would be a bad idea in the first place. 

If so, how many children do they want/have? —

AFFECTION

Who likes to cuddle? Joanne. On the rare occasions her and Jacob share a bed, she cuddles up against him subconsciously. She wakes up with her head tucked at his neck.

Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places? Jacob, usually. He’s not exactly subtle, but he’s no fool, either. He knows how to time his touches as to not get caught out in the open.

Who struggles to keep their hands to themselves? Jo would say it’s Jacob, but he would argue. (He has receipts in the form of crescent moons perched on his shoulders, after all.)

How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? Jacob isn’t one to cuddle, but when it comes down to it, he doesn’t mind losing circulation in his shoulder if Jo curls into him like that.

What is their favourite non-sexual activity? As simple as it sounds, talking is their favorite past time. Just connecting with another person who’s been chewed up by the world is therapeutic for both of them, especially with them having to sneak about and not getting to do much of anything else. Also, sparring with each other, once Jacob changes tactics.

Where is their favourite place to cuddle? Jacob’s cot, against a sturdy tree trunk, a boat once or twice.

How often do they get time to themselves? Never. Never, ever; especially Jacob, having to train his flock vigorously for the Collapse.

SLEEPING

Who snores? Joanne; she tends to sleep on her side for it, paranoia of choking and suffocating clouding her brain yet, from the time her nostrils were clogged with Naloxone and and her lungs constricting and her heart stopping— Jacob bumps her if he hears her snore, pulling her to his chest, turning her on her shoulder if needs be.

If both do, who snores the loudest? —

Do they share a bed or sleep separately? If they get to spend the night with one another, they share.

If they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart? They start off a bit further off, but cozy up to each other if one or both get nightmares of times still fresh in mind.

What do they wear to bed? Usually, they simply wear the clothes they had on during the day in various states of undress, for if they are sleeping outside of Jacob’s private lodgings, either or both may need to scramble out in a haste.

Are either of them insomniacs? Jacob; Jo is an actual log. ( “I don’t think you sleeping in for that long is good for ya’, pup.” Joanne can only snort: “So is napping for three hours a night, but I’m not gonna start.” )

Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside? Joanne has pledged to never take any kind of drug if she wasn’t in mortal peril or doesn’t have her hands tied, resorting to herbal remedies to lessen the weariness. Jacob, too, shares this sentiment, but refuses Jo’s minty shit, fuck.

Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? Joanne hooks her leg across Jacob like a lifeline. He doesn’t complain.

Who wakes up with bed hair? Jacob; the Herald has a face-full of braids, too.

Who wakes up first? Jacob. Joanne hates the early morning shift when he rises from bed.

Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? Not prepares, per se, but Jacob does drop something pre-made or snack-y on her lap when she starts to stir.

What is their favourite sleeping position? They definitely tend to spoon ( Jo likes being the big spoon, tracing the scars littering Jacob’s torso. ) Joanne sometimes snuggles into Jacob while he’s laying on his back, too.

Do they set an alarm each night? Jacob has a strong internal clock, waking himself up at the slightest creak, so he doesn’t usually have a need for an alarm. To Jo, Jacob is the alarm clock; be it him pulling the curtains, pulling the sheets, or pulling her closer to him in the morning when their time is running out and they have to part ways.

Who has nightmares? Both of them. Jacob dreams of a raised hand and a child's wail, of a flaming barn and violent shouts. Most times, he hears Miller’s laugh, and that haunts him more than the carcass he reduced him to. Phantom gun shots make him jolt in bed as if shot, and Jo reminds him that you’re dreaming and it’s okay; I got you. On the flip side, Jacob sometimes wakes to the sound of Joanne nearly death rattling. It unsettles him, makes him wonder how she must feel when he is the one trying to spring to life as she does when he shakes at her, telling her to breathe. She always does, in the end, but it leaves her shaking and clutching at him for support.

Can a television be found in their bedroom? “Can you please turn off the monitor, at least for now?” Jacob pushes her swatting hands away with a huff. “No can do, Jo.” ( He has six more hanging in his room, besides the aforementioned. )

Who has ridiculous dreams? Joanne had once shared one of her dreams with Jacob, and the ingrained look he gave her prevented her from sharing any more of them.

Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed? Joanne may as well be making snow-angels if it wasn’t for Jacob caging her in.

Who makes the bed? Jacob, with a deep, resigned sigh fixes the bundled up sheets once Jo decides to finally step—fall—out of his bed.

What time is bed time? In the early AMs.

Any routines/rituals before bed? Joanne tries to take care of her hair as much as she can, what with the mud and grime and blood Hope County rubs into her scalp and her braids on the daily. Jacob double-checks everything before going to sleep, from looking at security footage to radioing his Chosen to confirm one thing or another.

Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? Joanne by far; Jacob actually smiles when she throws a pillow at him.

WORK

Who is the busiest? On average: Jacob. Yet, oftentimes, Joanne gets sent on lengthy errands that take up half of her week.

Who rakes in the highest income? Jacob can dip his hand into the Cult’s fund, if he so wished, without much complain from John.

Are any of them unemployed? Technically speaking—both of them.

Who takes the most sick days? Jacob and Joanne don’t really know what it means to slow down if they have duties they must uphold, cold or flu be damned.

What are their jobs? Jacob runs the cult’s security, whilst Joanne is waiting for the second to leave the County and turn in her badge for good; helping out a Resistance by doing unlawful things is too much of an anchor for her mental health.

Who sucks up to their boss? Joanne, at first, when she finally lands the job she never thought she’d get, what with her history of drug abuse ( that had been painted way prettier than it actually was for the sake of entering the Academy. ) But once the Reaping began, Joanne felt less and less inclined to participate in all the bloodshed while still having her badge, oftentimes even ignoring direct orders from the Sheriff himself. And, Jacob—well. He doesn’t suck up to Joseph, but he does follow his orders obediently—unless they involve Joanne; he likes to detour.

Who is more likely to turn up late to work? Joanne; she doesn’t comprehend how Jacob, preoccupied as he always seems to be, is able to be where he needs to be as punctually as he is.

Who stresses the most? Jo is easily aggravated, and some minor inconveniences makes her loose it. Jacob just tuts at her nature, finding it more amusing than irritating most of the time.

Do they enjoy or despise their careers/occupations? Jacob doesn’t enjoy it as much as he sees it as a necessary sacrifices to perform his duties, while Jo grows to despise her job, for the people of Hope County expect her to gun down and demolish Peggies at the drop of a hat unprovoked, just because she’s the Junior Deputy. ( Apparently, that means she is in her right to snap a neck of an unsuspecting Peggie, according to some members of the Resistance. Jo would argue with that fiercely. )

Are they financially stable? Yes.

HOME

( Going to skip since they don’t live together. )

MISCELLANEOUS

Is money a problem? For Jacob, money hasn’t been a problem since his brothers resurfaced. For Jo, however, money has never stopped being an issue, not after her funds have been drained by her addiction for so many years.

How many cars do they own? Jacob can have a pick of any of the vehicles the cult has to offer. Joanne, running along the same lines, but with more stealing and hijacking involved, owns an ATV she has had to  fix up more times than she could count, an RHIB she stole from one of the coastal guards and keeps in the Silver Lake Boathouse, and a car Dutch had provided her with that she uses to blare all her top hits from.

What’s their song? NFWMB by Hozier (lmao)

Do they live in the city or in the country? County.

Do they own their home or do they rent? Jacob owns several properties to his name ( Thanks, John ) and Jo has made Johnson’s Lookout Tower her home—with a lot of cleaning and refurbishing involved.

Do they enjoy their surroundings? Both of them love the outdoors, and Hope County has a lot to offer in that regard.

What do they do when they’re away from each other? Joanne assists people in need most of the time. Otherwise, she indulges herself in the freedom she has to roam about however she likes, be it cruising through the Henbane or chilling about Dutch’s Island, scouring the patch of land for supplies. Jacob performs his role as one of Joseph’s Heralds, training his soldiers, sniffing out the Whitetails, attending his brother’s sermons in order to keep an eye on him, planning and mapping out how to go about when Joseph’s supposed prophecy will come into fruition.

Where did they first meet? The catastrophic Church arrest wasn’t the first time they’ve laid eyes on one another, interestingly enough. Joanne has had a run-in with John Seed near his barely-finished ranch at the beginning of the summer, an affair of a volatile Peggie disrupting the peace in Holland Valley, and the lawyer having to jump in to save the nervous man’s hide. In the driver’s seat of John’s white pick-up, blue eyes stared intently at the interaction between his brother and the new Deputy, cataloging her features and her manner, the way her jaw seldom relaxes when John places a friendly tattooed hand upon her shoulder, the teasing roll of her title evoking nothing but an irritated brow to rise. Seeing as how the situation has been defused and dragged out, Jacob Seed had leaned his head out the rolled-down window, barking at John to get a move on since Joseph is waiting. The heavy gaze of the Junior Deputy still sears at his skin as he shifts back into drive.

Who spends the most money when out shopping? Both of them don’t tend to burn money, only focusing on necessities and some odd trinkets here and there.

Who’s more likely to flash their assets? Jo had flashed her ( stolen ) helicopter in front of one of Jacob’s outpost, and it took everything in him to cease fire on the chopper.

Any mental issues? Jacob has PTSD, including some other disorders here and there, laying just beneath the surface. Jo has unresolved trauma of her own, among other things caused by long-term drug use.

Who finds it amusing when the other trips over? Joanne will crack up every single time the composed soldier loses his footing. Every. Single. Time. And get payback for it.

Who’s terrified of bugs? Neither.

Who kills the spiders around the house? The spiders and these two live in harmony; it just can’t be helped when you live on the countryside.

Do they have any fears for their future? Loads, although Jacob is more at peace with the inevitable. Jo, on the other hand, frets about her future outside the county, about the off-chance Joseph is right, about whether or not her and Jacob could last, will last. About what would happen if people from both sides find out about their affair. 

Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? Joanne; she can cook up a storm when she’s in the mood. 

Who pays the bills? None of them, at the moment, do.

Who’s the tallest? Jacob, by nearly a whole foot.

Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? After some time, Jo finds that Jacob has no shame whatsoever; and for good reason,

Who wanders around in their underwear? Both of them do, Joanne more often than not.

Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? Up Where We Belong by Joe Cocker is simply belted out as Joanne rows through her shooting assailants, trying to ignore the sickening squelches of the run-over bodies by positively screaming where the eagLES CRY— 

What do they tease each other about? These two assholes hold nothing back, their teasing coming out as pure, unadulterated jabs. About Jacob’s scars or Joanne’s anger issues and impulses. His hair and her fevered face. His demeanor and her short height.

Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times? Jacob knows that Joanne doesn’t really have many insecurities about her appearance, but sometimes, he just can’t help but wonder about what sort of thought process occurred in that head of hers to wear that.

Who crushed first? Jacob. It took Jo a little while, but it wasn’t long until she was positively consumed by him.

Any alcohol or substance related problems? Joanne has had a severe drug addiction since she was fifteen; joining the police force seemed like an ideal way to go straight and help rehabilitate people suffering from the same things she has. Currently, she’s been clean for two years, excluding a few times with Sharky that involved Oregano here and there. Jacob, on the other hand, had tipped into the bottle a few times after his discharge, but has since forsaken drinking himself into oblivion since his rough period.

Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am? Joanne—there’s no doubt about it.

Who swears the most? They both swear equally as much, but Jacob makes it sound classy, somehow.

( I am so, so sorry if someone actually read through this ugly monstrosity. I just wanted to establish some of their details for myself, hence, this fucking fanfic-sized ask. )

[lokimostly]

Home from War (Ch.7/8)

James Conrad x Reader Word Count: 4,521 Warnings: descriptions of injury/blood, needles, character death, angst Fic Summary: One year after you lost the love of your life, a last-minute decision changes everything you thought you knew. Now only one question remains: how to make it out alive, and return home from war?

A/N: None, and that should scare you. Enjoy! <3 

Prequel Series | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Eight (Epilogue)

Without Conrad, trekking through the jungle was even harder than you’d anticipated. Finding someone to support your physical weight was easy enough. The emotional weight of being apart from him was something different entirely. Your heart was aching at the thought of him: the soft accent of his voice, his sharp jaw and blue-green eyes. The tenderness in his touch despite the calluses of his hands. The curve of his lips when he gave you that small, secret smile only you were allowed to see.

So much lost time to make up for between you two. You silently resolved that if you ever got off this island, you’d kiss those lips for days.

The group stopped to rest. Slivko and Mills to make a splint for your leg, so that you could walk on your own – albeit at a limp. Your mobility wouldn’t be possible without the morphine, either, and you were down to your last dose.

Just one more thing to worry about, you thought.

The sunlight was growing dim as you hiked further uphill. As the sun set, the trees around you turned red and orange. The morphine was beginning to wear off, too, and faster than you desired. Every step became more and more difficult, more painful. Quite frankly, you were sick and tired of pain. 

The distorted warbling of the Sea Stallion’s broken speakers echoed through the forest like the voice of a ghost. The closer you came, the louder it got, until finally you spotted the green and orange helicopter through the foliage. 

“Gather up everything you can, including those seismic charges,” Colonel Packard ordered. “They got his attention the first time.”

The soldiers got to work. Slivko helped you sit down inside the helicopter, which seemed mostly intact. It was full of crates and barrels of seismic charges and napalm, secured in place by a frayed net. Slivko jumped up onto the platform, stepping through the boxes and looking around. 

Mills stood outside and stared at the contents of the Sea Stallion, unenthused. “This is a bad idea,” He muttered.

“Let’s just get on with it,” Cole replied, ducking his head and climbing inside.

Slivko came back with your medical bag– a small, camo duffle with a red cross on the side. You unzipped it and gasped in relief, finding everything exactly where you’d put it: in particular, more morphine. You found the bag of painkillers, acquired a needle, and administered another shot to your thigh with practiced efficiency. 

Slivko watched on, pushing up his red headband. “How often do you take the injections?” He asked. His voice held a notable tone of worry.

You glanced up at him. “Every four hours.”

His brow furrowed.“But it’s only been… two and a half since the last time. Maybe three.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sliv,” you said casually, returning the needle to its case and examining the rest of the bag’s contents. There was gauze, antiseptic, bandages, atabrine, and more than enough morphine to see you through until you got off the island. It was an enormous relief.

Slivko put his hands on his hips and watched the soldiers roll the barrels of napalm down the platform, carrying them down the hill. He turned back to you. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the atabrine.

“It’s for malaria. I gave you your shot before we left,” you replied easily. Slivko had always felt like a little brother, for whom you had a good deal of patience and affection, so you didn’t mind his questions. 

“And that?” he asked, gesturing to a bottle of clear fluid with an orange cap.

“That’s naloxone. It’s in case of opioid overdose,” you said. You paused, pressing your lips together and thinking for a moment before beckoning for Slivko to sit down. “C’mere. I’ll show you.”

He sat down. You pulled out an empty needle and twisted the naloxone open, handing it to him. “Have you used a needle before?”

“Yeah, but not in my arm, or anything.”

“That’s fine. Naloxone works intramuscularly, so you can inject it into other places. It just doesn’t take effect as quickly as it would through a vein.” You pointed to the side of your leg, where you’d been self-administering morphine, to your shoulder, and other common points of injection.

“Besides,” you added, “I don’t think I want you messing with my veins. You might punch through one. No offense.” 

“None taken,” he smiled, before his expression turned more serious. “But…. you’re not gonna overdose, are you?”

You shook your head. “Don’t worry,” You began putting the contents back into your bag. “It’s just good for you to know. I can’t be the only one who knows all this.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. You were cutting it close with the morphine and you knew it. 

There were several factors that determined your wellbeing, and very few of them within your control. Pain would only slow you down, and if you were slow, you wouldn’t survive – even more than that, the makeshift splint needed to hold. Any wrong move, bad fall, or general upset could shift the bone out of place and cut off your femoral artery. If that happened, it would only be a matter of minutes before you bled to death.

Even by mediating the pain and treading carefully, you had to face facts. Your chances of survival were at a record low.

~

Conrad and Weaver stood on the precipice of a cliff, looking down at the river below. Night had fallen some hours ago. The moonlight, bright and cold, illuminated the water through the fog, casting everything in a misty blue glow.

Conrad exhaled softly and forced himself to focus. He was having a hard time distracting himself from thoughts of you, and it showed – he’d taken more wrong turns than he could count, missed and misread signs that led the group in wrong directions. Finally he snapped out of it long enough to find the river, and now tried once more to force his thoughts away from you. 

“The boat must be around that bend,” he said, pointing. Weaver nodded, raising her camera. The shutter clicked.

Conrad heard Weaver’s breath snag in her throat and looked over. She lowered her camera slowly and the two of them watched, wordless, as Kong tread slowly past, almost close enough to touch. He paid them no mind. The creature really was a giant – standing as tall as the mountains around him, every step shaking the earth. But unlike Colonel Packard’s thinking, they both knew the truth: that the giant was by no means evil, merely a king in his own domain, in which you were all trespassers.

Breathing quietly, Conrad’s eyes followed the direction of Kong’s path. With a sudden feeling of dread, he knew exactly where Kong was headed: to the bursts of explosions in the distance, lighting up the blue night with fiery clouds of orange and red.

Kong let out a roar of anger, his giant teeth bared. Conrad’s throat tightened in fear. Colonel Packard was trying to draw Kong out, and you were there with him– which meant you were in mortal danger.

Conrad turned and began heading down the mountain. Weaver spun, following him as fast as she could. 

“What are you doing?” She shouted, leaping precariously from boulder to boulder, struggling to keep up.

“We have to go– now!” He responded, landing on flat ground and sprinting through the trees. He couldn’t keep himself from you any longer – not when he might be the only one who could save you.

~

You stood in the grass behind a wall of fire, watching the seismic charges go off in clouds of orange and red. Packard was adamant about drawing Kong out, despite everyone else’s inhibitions. Were you in better shape, you might’ve considered a coup de tat. Now, however, you were in no condition to do anything of the sort. 

Despite how anxious you felt, your heartbeat was unnaturally slow. The constant injections were beginning to show their uglier side effects: fatigue, blurred vision, nausea. At the moment, you had no time to worry about it. 

Beside you, Mills practically vibrated with fear as Kong came into sight. He roared again once he spotted your group, and stormed through the water just like Colonel Packard had planned. Your hands adjusted their grip on your gun and you resisted the strong urge to flee. 

For what wasn’t the first time, you wished Conrad were here with you.

~

Conrad and Weaver came running down the mountain so fast that they almost tumbled when they reached the rest of the group.

“Don’t shoot!” Conrad shouted to Brooks.

Brooks lowered his with an exasperated expression. “Conrad, where are we going?”

“You three need to go back to the boat,” Conrad said, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. He pointed with one hand. “It’s that way. Wait for us till dawn. If we’re not back by then …” he shook his head, swallowing. “Just go.”

Brooks scoffed. “You ain’t gotta twist my arm.” He picked up his bag and headed down the mountain, followed by the geologist San. 

“Wait, where are you two going?” Marlow asked, rising to his feet.

Conrad and Weaver exchanged a glance.

“We’re going to save Kong,” she replied, nodding resolutely.

And Y/N, Conrad thought grimly. 

Marlow smiled. “Not without me, pal.”

~

You watched as trees fell like windblown grass beneath Kong’s feet. He stopped a hundred yards from your company, staring intently at Packard, who stood in front of you with a fiery torch in hand. The air was charged with electricity, waiting for a lightning strike.

Then he charged.

You and the other soldiers faltered backwards as he came closer, stumbling over your feet. Colonel Packard, however, stood still as stone. He watched Kong storm through the water, shaking the earth with his roar, and he waited. And waited.

And then he through his torch into the water.

The napalm that had been poured onto the surface of the water by Slivko and the other soldiers lit up, engulfing the giant monster in flames. 

You watched, horrified, as Kong let out a roar of pain. He struggled to fight through the flames before their heat engulfed him and he disappeared from view. Your fellow soldiers had similar expressions on their faces – terror mixed with sympathy. He didn’t deserve this.

Packard was completely enthralled by the Kong’s roars of pain. A mad grin was stuck to his face, stretched from ear to ear and completely manic.

He’d lost it.

Suddenly, Kong came through the fire again with renewed anger, and flung the boiling water at the riverbank. You shrieked and tried to duck away from the flames, falling backwards. You fell hard against the ground as your surroundings lit up in flames. A few of the soldiers immediately succumbed to fiery deaths. Their screams of agony filled your ears as a different fire burned in your leg, burning with renewed pain. 

Then Kong fell. 

Overcome by the fumes and the fire, his body came crashing down on the shore and the ground shuddered beneath his weight.

You tried to stand and gasped at the fresh wave of throbbing pain as it hit your body. Your bone had obviously shifted. You strained forward and peeled away the bandage with shaking hands, fearing the worst– that your artery had been cut off.

The world didn’t stop for you, and neither did Colonel Packard. “Men! Place your charges!” he shouted. “It’s time to show Kong that man is king!” 

“Armed one,” Mills said, as he turned on the charges.

“Armed two,” came another.

You grimaced at the sight of fresh blood on your skin, swallowing another wave of discomfort mixed with relief. Your wound had reopened, but it didn’t look like the artery had burst.

“Armed three,” Slivko said, looking at you with an expression of are you okay?

You didn’t see it. You were entirely focused on unzipping your bag as quickly as possible, finding a roll of gauze and wrapping your leg. Your hands found the fresh gauze when Conrad and Weaver charged through the trees and into the clearing.

“Packard!” Conrad shouted. Your eyes snapped up, and you froze. 

Packard looked up slowly, detonator in hand. Conrad raised his rifle, chest heaving, and pointed it at Packard.

The other soldiers raised their guns at him automatically. The sound of several firearms cocking at once made your heart jump into your throat. Your hands stilled, half-finished with their work, as you watched the scene unfold: the man you loved held at gunpoint by half a dozen soldiers.

Slivko stood next to you, his eyes darting back and forth as he struggled to stay composed. Seeing the hesitance in his face and the fumbling of his fingers put him in a different light: he was no soldier. Only a kid. 

Marlow appeared out of nowhere, catching Reles and Slivko by surprise. He pointed his pistol at Slivko, raising his eyebrows when Slivko’s aim left Conrad for Marlow instead. “I asked you fellas nice the first time,” he pointed out. 

“We don’t want to fight here, Packard,” Conrad said. His eyes flickered momentarily to you before he focused on the Colonel again.

“This thing brought us down!” Colonel Packard argued, pointing the detonator at the lifeless body of Kong strewn halfway up the bank. “It killed my men!” 

“Kong was just defending his territory!” Conrad snapped, exasperated and desperate. 

“We are soldiers!” Packard’s eyes twitched and his lips curled as the last threads of his sanity unravelled. “We do the dirty work, so our families and our countrymen don’t have to be afraid! They shouldn’t even know a thing like this exists!” 

“You’ve lost your mind,” Conrad said, shaking his head and breathing heavily. He took one hand off his rifle, holding it out. “Put that detonator down.”

Time stood still. Slivko sniffed audibly as he struggled to keep his aim straight, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. The moon hung in the sky while the fire burned in patches of grass, setting everyone’s silhouettes in blue and orange light. Nobody moved.

Packard’s face contorted in a snarl and he pressed the button on the detonator. It whined, rising in pitch as the countdown ticked.

“Stop!” Weaver shouted, breaking the terrible silence. “The world is bigger than this.”

“Bitch, please!” Packard scoffed indignantly. “Slivko, get her out of here!” 

But Slivko didn’t move. His hands were shaking violently as his eyes darted from face to face, the scales weighing heavy in his mind. He glanced at you in confusion and fear. You nodded, giving him a pointed look: Trust yourself.

“You know it’s the wrong thing to do, son,” Marlow encouraged gently.

Slivko stared at him for a beat of silence. You saw the moment when his eyes solidified, and he reached a decision.

Slivko turned his rifle on Packard. “P-put it down, sir,” he stammered, as bravely as he could.

Packard automatically reached for his gun.

“Packard!” Conrad urged. The Colonel froze, like he’d been knocked out of a stupor, and slowly let go of his pistol. 

Everyone lowered their guns, save for Conrad, who kept it pointed at Packard. You allowed yourself to relax by a fraction, gathering up the gauze in your hands. 

At that moment, the water in front of you began to bubble and smoke. There was a giant surge from beneath the river. A geiser of water shot up into the air. It evaporated into clouds of mist, moving away with the wind, and revealing the cause of the eruption: a Skull Crawler like you’d never seen, three times larger than the others.

“That’s the big one,” Marlow choked.

So much for a moment of safety.

“Fall back,” Conrad ordered. Nobody moved. “GO!” He shouted. This time, Slivko and the others obeyed, taking off into the trees. Only you, Packard, and Conrad remained.

The giant Skull Crawler’s throat clicked and warbled as its raised its head to look at the night sky, which was turning from blue to rosy with the dawn. It howled.

Conrad’s heart stalled in his chest. He turned to Packard and held out his hand, beckoning for him to run. “Colonel,” he urged desperately. The Skull Crawler howled again, loud enough to burst your eardrums. 

“Sir!” He shouted.

Packard didn’t move.

Conrad waited until he couldn’t anymore, his eyes darting between you and Packard until finally he shook his head and left him where he stood. He ran, scooping you up with one arm and grabbing your bag with the other. You shrieked at the sudden movement, clinging to him for dear life.

“Kong’s down, let’s go!”

You broke through the trees and Conrad set you down, chest heaving. You stumbled, holding onto him and blinking hard. There were white specks floating around your eyes, blurring your vision.

Conrad glanced down at your leg: the bandage was half-wrapped and reddening, hanging in tatters. He dropped to his knees, letting you lean against him while he tied it secure. His large hands shook with adrenaline, but they moved carefully so that he wouldn’t hurt you by mistake; Even in the most dire moment, he was tender in his care and conscious of your pain.

He tied the bandage off and lifted you up again, more carefully this time, and nodded to one of the nearby hills. “This is the edge of the island,” he said. “Weaver, get up on those rocks and fire a flare. With any luck, Brooks’ll see it.” 

There was the sound of something big coming through the forest behind you, and everyone jumped. Your breath shuddered and you tightened your grip around his shoulders. 

“We’ll buy you time,” Conrad promised. Weaver nodded and took off. Conrad adjusted his grip on you and beckoned for the others to follow him, heading into the wetland. “This way.”

You locked your arms around his neck as he ran alongside the bank, swallowing the pain of every jolting step. Behind you, you could hear the roars and crashes of the two monsters coming together in epic battle – but honestly, you didn’t care. All you were focused on was staying awake and hanging onto Conrad as he plunged into the water, wading towards the edge of the island.

You closed your eyes and buried your face in the crook of Conrad’s neck, wishing yourself away from it all. You were so tired: tired of pain, tired of running from things that wanted to eat you, and very tired of hiding your affection for the man you loved. Your heart beat slow and steady in your chest, and you breathed in deep. He smelled like home. 

You heard a sudden burst of gunfire and raised your head. Marlow’s boat come into sight around the bend: Brooks was at the helm, firing away at the machine gun anchored to the front of the boat.

“Come on! Let’s go!” Conrad urged, directing everyone towards the boat. The two monsters were fighting too close for comfort, sending shockwaves through the water that made it difficult to board.

Conrad lifted you up onto the deck and you pulled yourself into a sitting position, your legs hanging off the side. You grabbed Slivko’s hand and pulled him up, reaching for Mills. Your bandage was looking worse now – deep red and caked with dirt. The pain was beginning to sharpen like a blade, growing less dull with every stroke against the whetstone. 

You had no tolerance for it. Opening up your backpack, you pulled a syringe from its case and injected another dose of morphine without thinking.  

Conrad was lifting himself onto the boat, his muscular arms flexed, when the gun stalled and stopped firing. Brooks fumbled with the controls, trying to start it up again. 

Marlow pushed him aside. “I got it! She’s temperamental- watch out!” 

Suddenly, the Skull Crawler was coming towards the boat, undeterred by the ship now that the gun wasn’t working. You face paled and you grabbed Conrad’s hand automatically as anxiety rose in your chest and your throat constricted in fear. You noticed the absence of Kong to distract the monster from you.

You scanned the wetlands, finding Kong struggling to break free from the wreckage of several freight ships. Their anchoring chains were wrapped around him, holding him down in the water. He roared. Step by step, the Skull Crawler came closer. One by one, the chain links snapped.

Just before the Skull Crawler was within tail-swinging distance you heard Weaver’s flare gun fire again. The flare landed right in the Skull Crawler’s eye socket, exploding on impact. It screamed, raking its own claws across its face to try and dislodge the burning flare.

“Clear!” Marlow shouted, finally unjamming the gun. The rapid fire resumed, and you relaxed slightly.

The Skull Crawler howled in anger and snarled at you, coming towards the boat despite the array of bullets.

You felt Conrad’s hand leave yours. He pushed away from the boat without a word of warning, sprinting through the water.

“James!” You screamed, ripping at your own throat. The Skull Crawler’s massive head turned, and it followed him, leaving you and the boat behind.

Before you could move, Kong freed himself from the chains and threw something – a rusted freight propeller – lodging it in the Skull Crawler’s side. It fell with a deafening screech.

Conrad stopped running, gasping for breath and watching the two monsters resume their fight. They wrestled across the wetlands, dealing blow after blow with deadly intent, but neither could bring down the other. 

Your head was swimming. The cacophony of noise constantly vibrating through your body was making you sick to your stomach. Despite the humidity, your skin was covered in a thin, cold sweat.

Kong threw the Skull Crawler against one of the mountains and sent an avalanche of rocks into the water. You heard Weaver scream across the valley and turned, watching her fall through the air before she hit the water.

Your nurse’s instincts kicked in and you felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. “Head for shore!” You shouted frantically, snatching up your bag and bracing yourself as the boat sped up and turned. When it was a few yards away from solid ground, you dropped into the water, moving as fast as you could. The monsters kept fighting, sending huge waves across the wetlands that helped push you forward.

Conrad shouted across the water, catching up to you as you fought towards dry ground. “What are you doing?”

“Helping!” You responded, dragging your bad leg and coming up onto the shore unsteadily, duffle bag in hand. Conrad came up behind you and lifted you up, surging out of the water. 

You pulled away from his grasp and dropped to the ground in front of Weaver, who laid unconscious halfway on the shore. You pushed her hair away from her face and checked for vitals. 

She wasn’t breathing.

You took a pulse check with shaking hands and began CPR, pumping on her chest. As you tried to restart her heart, your own heartbeat felt dangerously slow. You were seeing double, but it was inconsequential– what mattered now was keeping Weaver alive.

Somewhere in the moment, the fighting had stopped. Everything around you was far too quiet– there was only the sound of your shallow breathing, and Conrad’s footsteps as he returned with Weaver’s camera in hand. 

Suddenly Weaver lurched upwards and you caught her, helping her onto her side as she coughed up water and choked on air. 

“Easy, just breathe,” you heard yourself murmuring, but it didn’t sound like you – your own voice was distorted and far away in your ears.

Weaver coughed. Her brown eyes blinked and came into focus, looking up at your face. When they did, her eyebrows pulled together. 

“L/N?” She asked, her voice laced with worry.

You opened your mouth to respond, but couldn’t find your words. It was like your tongue had turned to lead. You began to lose your grip.

Too little blood, too many injections – and the thought occurred to you too late.

“L/N?” Weaver repeated urgently. Her eyes darted from your face to your leg– the bandage was drenched with crimson. She looked up at Conrad desperately. “She’s falling–”

He caught you in his arms. “Y/N, Y/N, stay with us,” he urged, pushing your hair from your face. Weaver’s eyes filled with panicked tears and she stood up on wobbly legs, waving to the boat. “Help! Over here!”

Conrad lifted you up and ran towards the water. Slivko helped pull you onto the deck and lay you down on the surface. Your breathing was shallow. You could barely feel your heart pumping away in your chest. Your grasp on consciousness hung by a thread.

“What happened?” someone asked. 

“I don’t know,” Weaver’s voice came, sounding muffled and distorted. “She ... and then–” 

“–lost too much blood–”

“–find the bag–” 

“–nalo-something, there–” 

“Hang on,” Conrad’s voice came, like a gentle wave over the sand, pulling you back to reality. You could feel him holding you in his lap, the panicked rising and falling of his chest, the tender touch of his hands on your arms. The smell of sandalwood and smoke. Everything about him felt like home. 

Conrad watched your beautiful eyes unfocus and come back as you tried to stay awake. You were still fighting, bless your heart. Conrad’s chest tightened and he swallowed thickly, pushing down a wave of emotion. He tightened his grip around you, whispering assurances as Slivko shuffled through your bag. Your head fell back against his shoulder and you let out a shaky, jagged breath.

Conrad slid one hand down your arm and wrapped his hand around your wrist, feeling your pulse. He prayed silently to anyone who was listening: not her. Please. 

Slivko worked fast as his hands would allow, uncapping the orange bottle from your bag. Weaver helped, pulling away the splint and unwrapping your bloody bandage.

Conrad stroked your hand, feeling the coldness of your skin, the almost-indiscernible slowness of your pulse. Tears filled his eyes and he inhaled quickly, willing them away.

“You remember my promise?” He said, loud enough for you alone to hear. His normally steady, accented voice trembled with emotion. “We’re going home. You and I. Wherever you want to go, I’ll follow.” His lips trembled and he raised your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against your palm. 

“It’ll be alright,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head and fighting against his tears. His heart felt wrenched and pulled apart. “We’re going home.” 

You didn’t respond. Your eyes had closed, your breath scarce and fading fast. You were somewhere far away: somewhere deep and dark and painless, dreaming of the man you’d lost and found again, the man holding you in his arms while you faded, whose voice you could hardly hear. Dreaming of coming home. 

But they say no man comes home from war. Not really. 

--

Tag List (OPEN): @tarynkauai, @jessiejunebug, @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi, @fire-in-her-veinz, @daylight-swiftie, @un-consider-it, @torntaltos, @majahu, @et-puto, @kinghiddlestonanddixon, @awesomefandomsunited, @damalseer, @uinen-ulmiel, @fire-in-her-veinz, @naspter1129, @fandomdarlings, @embracingtom, @alina-margaret, @bthtallmadge2, @larryspantaloons, @lady-loki-ren, @captainsherlockwinchester110283, @holacherrycola90, @indelwen-of-mirkwood, @marveloushiddleston, @ladybugsfanfics, @egos-r-life

[therealfluke]

hello hello ! wld j like to say that if ur already following me and ur like “why” it is because. this is may. i j reserved from my rph so the alias it went under was lucky. which actually,, so fitting w this theme (goes by a name that means an unlikely coincidence, last name is associated with luck, etc.). in addition, if “lucky” by britney spears immediately got stuck in ur head... that was the ultimate goal. also listen,,,, u r not the only one who hates my url. and finally! i saved the old posts on here and j made them private for posterity (obviously) and also,, my sanity.

‹ OLIVER JACKSON-COHEN, HE/HIM, CIS MAN, BISEXUAL. › levi “fluke” fisher is the twenty-seven year old from salem, massachussets / new york city, new york. when a friend asked them what they thought of the manor they said, ❝ IT FEELS LIKE I’VE BEEN HERE BEFORE. ❞ they claim final destination is their favorite scary movie, and if they were to die in a horror film they would form an alliance with the murderer, then annoy the murderer into killing him by asking too many questions. their fears include rats, isolation and living the rest of his life without muse d, and they don’t know we know, but… in spite of a promise he made to his family, friends and self, he has a baggie of heroin on him at all times so he can prove to himself he’s strong (which is a lie – it’s really for a ‘just in case’ situation) . hope they enjoy their stay. ‹ MUSE C from OTHERSIDE penned by, LUCKY, 20, EST. ›

QUICK FACTS:

full name: levi “fluke” james fisher

hometown: salem, ma // moved to new york city, new york at twenty-two

date of birth: march 10, 1992*

*does not perfectly reflect the below Big Three Zodiac Chart™ because that’s so much math

zodiac big three: pisces sun, scorpio moon, pisces rising (he is!! so ruled by his emotions!!)

gender & pronouns: cis man & he/him

sexual orientation: bisexual

occupation: museum night guard ( fired ) / leech off of his older siblings

mbti: infp

enneagram: 4w5

the song i listen to on repeat while i write the intro: “stars” - nina simone ( cover )

BACKGROUND INFO:

triggers: death (under mysterious circumstances, but officially dubbed murder), night terrors / hallucinations?, drug abuse / addiction ( oxy, heroin ), accidental overdose, death by overdose

it began with josephine (“jo”), levi, charlotte (“lottie”), and christopher (“chris”) – in that order. or, perhaps, that reverse order – see: chris was the oldest.

they were all born to very kind and lovely parents. the majority of levi’s memories with his parents take place in a large house they were intending to flip. given its size and the price it would sell for, they spent more than their fair share of time in there. that being said, because their parents were often busy flipping and marketing the house, they all relied on each other for fun, even in spite of the sizable age difference between himself (and jo, who i have forgotten to mention is his “younger” twin) and christopher.

the longer they spent there, however, the more uneasy they grew. i mean, it was basically its own version of the manor – it was also guillermo del toro’s wet dream. levi could’ve sworn he’d had some run-ins with spooks, but no confirmation was ever, nor could ever be, offered. so the manor feels... very normal.

anyway, when levi was eight, his mother and father met an untimely demise. a break-in gone wrong while the kids were with their grandparents, they were told. at the time, levi... was eight and, therefore, had no doubts. now, however, he mulls over the many possibilities – it was a big house, the likelihood that they really could’ve been in that wrong of a place at that wrong of a time felt very unlikely. some form of suicide? something otherworldly? they seemed about as likely. he’s pretty sure lottie and chris know the truth, but...

after that, they were sent to live with their grandparents. while not particularly ideal, they recognized that it was far better than the foster care system. however, these recurring spooks didn’t just stop when he moved. his grandparents and older siblings blamed it on childhood night terrors, jo believed him. 

as they continued into his teen years, they claimed it was sleep paralysis. he confided in jo, in secret, that they weren’t strictly at night. he knew very well that, if he shared that with his grandparents or older siblings, they would think he really needed help. maybe he did, he never truly learned.

when chris moved out to go to college, and when lottie followed just a few years after, levi found it was just jo and himself. their grandparents were beginning to go past old age and reach senility. they had bouts of forgetting. 

levi chose not to go to college, but insisted jo, who’d always wanted to go, go without him. she went to new york city, he stayed behind with his grandparents in salem up until their death when he was twenty-two. it was early in his eyes, but for, say, his brother, it was pretty record-breaking. 

when he was twenty-one, after the death of his grandparents, he left salem and all of its reminders of childhood terrors and lies. he found jo in new york and began living with her and working as a night guard at one of the many museums.

but a mere one (1) year later, jo, usually straight-edge, decided she would finally go to her first college party in celebration of being so close to graduating. yeehaw. levi was invited to go with her, but had been warned far too recently that, if he missed one more shift, he’d be fired.

on the topic of his night shifts, his terrors seemed to go away when he moved to new york. it seemed as though he’d left them all in salem, but there were definitely moments in a huge and empty museum that he could’ve sworn he’d seen something. anyway, back to the main point:

jo didn’t return until the next morning and, when she did, she expressed the excellency she had experienced the night before. she wasn’t afraid of telling him she’d tried drugs for the first time – no, that night, it’d just been weed. he’d tried weed in high school, trying to figure out if it would help with his terrors. for a hot second, it did... which is what led to his own demise.

(OK! so from here on out, i’ll be talking about the other muses in the subplot. i’m gonna do my best to leave their story and keep their drug of choice vague! anyway!)

jo began falling deeper into the drug world after meeting and beginning to date muse b and eventually fell into harder tingz™. she never tried to pressure fluke into trying anything, but he witnessed the reaction to it. between that and having looked up to his younger sister ( by, like, two minutes ) for nearly the entirety of his life, he decided to try whatever she did. 

however, unlike her, he quickly escalated to heroin.

he started out smoking it... then snorting it... then began shooting it. he liked shooting it the best – not only because he reached the high quicker, but also because it required more of a ritual. as a fan of ritualistic behavior, the lead-up was almost as enjoyable as the high itself. unfortunately, it did leave him with many trackmarks and an even higher risk of reliance and overdose.

he didn’t go out to many parties after that. he preferred shooting in the company of the few, not the many. if his sister and friends did, that was their prerogative, but it was just... more peaceful...

suddenly, he didn’t ever think about the terrors or the lies or the shadows in the museum. he was eventually fired, yes, and had to start ‘earning’ money via asking his other siblings. 

when the topic came up between himself and his little group of friends on whether or not they should quit, he had no answer. 

in 2018, at twenty-six, his usual dealer had cut him off due to the money he was no longer good for. finding a much cheaper one, he took the same dose, but the amount of other chemicals it was cut with sent him to the hospital. given plenty of naloxone, he came out of it alive and clean and, due to the nature of it all, was deemed a fluke.

he didn’t take to that at first. he was lucky, yes, but a fluke ? it couldn’t have been that unlikely... especially when he fell back into it after finding another dealer and being totally fine. however, when he heard jo had overdosed and actually died ?

yes, he was a fluke.

he was so blinded with rage at muse a at first for leading his absolute crutch to her death, he was so blinded with rage at muse b for first introducing her to a world of harder drugs, he was so blinded with rage at himself for being the one who survived when she was the one who actually could’ve done something with her life.

so he embraced the word ‘fluke’ – he acknowledged that he was one during her eulogy, he told his other siblings he’d been the fluke at her wake. when he began saying it enough times, it caught on, whether he meant for it to or not.

he’s no longer so angry at muse a  and muse b for what they did. muse b wanted to get sober, after all, and muse a , much like himself, was simply an addict. they couldn’t help not being prepared to give it up. he’s still furious at himself.

now that they've all gone clean, however, fluke is somewhat more pleased. he’s fairly certain he’ll never not be in mourning. quite frankly, he’s fairly certain he’ll eventually relapse. even worse, in spite of the group promise, he’s brought contraband with him to “prove his strength” ( see: that’s what he tells himself ).

riffing off of that, in the manor, his terrors have begun returning and he’s unable to nail if it’s because of the similarities between it and the home he remembers so well or if it’s because he’s now sober of it it’s because... it’s just the manor itself. 

he’s still certain it’s all real.

TL;DR:

basically lived in a replica of the manor when he was a kid with his loving parents and three other siblings. is pretty sure he saw some paranormal stuff goin on. parents were “murdered” but he suspects something else. moved in with grandparents and continued seeing some paranormal stuff. only his twin sister, muse d (jo), believed that it wasn’t just night terrors. jo went to college, he stayed behind. grandparents died rip. he went to nyc where jo was and eventually met muse a and muse b when they all fell into hard drug use. almost died because of poorly cut heroin. jo died some months later. hates himself. rip. alexa, play “my heart will go on” but the recorder version.

PERSONALITY INFO:

sad boi energy

if u read thru this and didn’t think “why does she keep basing her characters off of characters from thohh” then,,, u should go watch thohh bc,,, it’s so obvious (we even over here picturing victoria pedretti as jo unless someone applies for her at some point afhsljk) hlfajdsa

has a terrible tendency to find someone to feed off of – someone to be codependent off of. without jo, he’s floundering.

is very * eyes emoji * at,,, many things. the explanation for his parents’ death? * eyes emoji * the spooks that almost everyone came up with excuses for? * eyes emoji * staying sober? * eyes emoji *

didn’t mean to start going by fluke, but started using the word to describe himself so much, it just happened organically.

i have stated before. that im bad at these sections. so feel free to j consult the zodiac / mbti / enneagram above haofuwdlijk

not rly personality but lil hc is that he goes back to that huge victorian house all the time and uses a ouija board to see if he can contact ANYONE :\ the ultimate eeyore :\

another lil hc is that he’s actually a v talented pianist. his mother sort of taught him the basics and he went on to learn classical through sheet music and schooling, then songs from rock bands/artists who incorporated keys in their music. brought the 7-octave keyboard his grandparents bought him... apparently doesn’t need it because there’s a huge piano hajfdkls

if u want 2 hear abt some of my paranormal hcs lmk i wld put them here but?? some r actually creepy (and/or involve blood) which we luv for me!!

FEARS:

rats: when he was living in that big house™, there were plenty of rat infestations. he often got those mixed up with his spooks™. there were also a lot of rats at his grandparents’ house and at his and jo’s apartment. it’s more of a general fear, but. (also... rat poison? drug abuse? symbolism.)

isolation: for an introvert, he’s really bad at being alone. for one things, he gets lonely which is very detrimental to his already fragile mental state, especially considering he’s pretty sure he’ll relapse. in addition, he’s much worse at dealing with any spooks™ that come his way when he’s completely alone. when someone else is in the room, even if he isn’t actively talking to them, at least there’s the comfort of not being alone in it all. 

living the rest of his life without muse d: even if she was the one who began their drug journey, she was the only person who ever believed anything fluke said – she was the only person he ever felt actually listened to him and cared about him with no ‘if’ or ‘but’ attached. he also always found her much wiser than himself and could’ve sworn she would’ve gone to rehab after getting well with muse a one last time. she was the one who was going somewhere and she was the one who loved him unconditionally. no wonder he’s got sad boi energy :\

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

his other brother and sister! i’ll probs send in wcs for them to the main, but if you think they wld sound cool, lmk. luv that. (update!! take one of them you cowards.)

the dealer who actually dealt him quality heroin

the dealer who dealt him heroin cut with god-knows-what

someone he accidentally starts to sink with himself

exes

fwb

ons

enemies (not super great at making them, but is still able to)

the new person he’s decided to latch onto

childhood friends (if there are other salem (or at least massachussetts) characters!)

idk!! we can also look at urs and/or brainstorm!!

ok ! like this or hmu if you’d like to plot !

[whiteoutgotu]

My Brother’s ABSOLUTELY INSANE Canadian Fishing Trip (Ontario, May, 2015)

I totally forgot about this. Gotta be the craziest (true) story I ever heard:

“Canada was a crazy experience. We worked on getting water running into the cabin for 6 days and had no luck. I didn’t take a shower until we got back to grandma and grandpa’s house in Victoria. During that time period, I went fishing on Thursday with Uncle Bob (who had a stroke a couple years ago and isn’t doing so well anymore) and his brother-in-law, Jake. We had motor problems and didn’t know our way around Flood Waters (unofficial name, by the way), so we were stranded there. Jake and I paddled about a mile to a dock that he remembered seeing in hopes of finding somebody who could help. I walked around to the only two cabins I saw and nobody was there. They hadn’t yet opened for the summer. I found some firewood just in case we didn’t see another boat (which we didn’t for over 6 hours) and had to sleep outside. It was 26º that morning, so hypothermia was definitely a risk. Then I realized that breaking in was definitely an option. Bob wanted to try to pick the lock with a pocket knife, but I found a way in through a window without breaking anything. We got inside and found a bunch of food that we could eat if we needed it. I wrote a note in their journal letting them know that we had to force our way in and left my contact info. I went searching around more and found a motor under an overturned boat that had been set aside for the winter. I hooked up the motor to the boat, we got it running, and Jake drove us right over a big rock and sheered a pin on the motor so the propeller wouldn’t spin anymore. We had to paddled back to the dock again. I had one bar of service when we were out on the water, but not on land. I tied the boat with a lot of slack in the line so I could push myself out to call 911. I couldn’t give them hardly any details other than that we were in Atikokan and the directions getting to the landing we entered Flood Waters at – again, not the official name for the lake, so there wasn’t anybody who wasn’t a local who knew where we were. I got connected to the Ontario Provincial Police and got disconnected almost immediately. I gave up with that approach and walked around land. Found a high place and got 3 bars, called 911 again and was able to take a screenshot of the location on Apple Maps and texted it to the Conservation Officer’s (Joe Burroughs) cell phone along with a couple pictures of the cabins. He knew how to get there and they showed up by boat about an hour later at 8:20pm. They towed us back and we pulled up to the landing and got the boat loaded just as we lost light. Grandpa pays for Verizon’s Canadian service, but this is the first year the service didn’t work at the cabin, so we weren’t able to get a hold of him. He was worried until Wayne Miller (from the Braun’s house) drove up from downtown Atikokan at about 8:30 to tell him that we were okay so he didn’t have a heart attack. I had texted mom and dad earlier to let them know that we were all in good health, just stranded. When we pulled up, he was already a couple Manhattan’s deep and feeling much more relaxed. I asked Bob and Jake what they would’ve done if I hadn’t been there and Jake said, “probably killed each other.” Definitely not the trip to Canada that I was expecting, but it was amazing and I love Canada even more now. Had a great time with you, too. I hope to do it again soon.”

I’ve got some crazy stories myself - most of which I can’t remember. So many “impossible” events have happened in my life that I don’t really believe in the impossible. But, this gotta be the absolute craziest story I ever heard. My lil’ bro should be dead, but, dude is a survivor. I don’t know if I woulda made it in this scenario. I’ve had a loaded .380 aimed at my chest, the trigger pulled and the only reason it didn’t fire is ‘cause my boy didn’t know the safety was on. I’ve been SURROUNDED by gangstas with guns, completely blocked in at a red light on the South Side of Chicago - I’m talking like twenty dudes. Only reason we survived that is ‘cause Jose drove into oncoming traffic and the wrong way on a one-way road. I crashed a car into someone’s house, missing palm trees by six inches on each side - hitting either would have surely killed me. I’ve overdosed on heroin, Klonopin and alcohol and woke up in the hospital after paramedics injected me with naloxone, “probably saving my life.” I tore my stomach lining to shreds (creating “several” duodenal ulcers) accidentally overdosing on Aleve. Shit, I was sniffing 240mg-300mg oxycodone (three OC 80s or ten 30mg roxis), along with taking 2-4mg Xanax AND drinking at least a six-pack of beer on an everyday basis. My doctor couldn’t continue to refill my Xanax (8mg/day) and Klonopin (4mg/day) prescriptions, because I moved out of state, causing me to go into withdrawal, remain sleepless for TEN DAYS and have a seizure that caused my jaw to lock up, breaking five of my teeth. There’s a lotta reasons I shouldn’t be here any more. Like I’ve told so many people, I gotta believe the only reason I’m still here is ‘cause GOD still needs me to do something. This shit, though...Wow. I gotta remember to bring this up next time we chill. I gotta hear this story face-to-face.

He was 26 when this happened, by the way.

[captain-kingliamsqueen]

I Can’t Let Myself Be Hurt Again

Part 3 of Life Before Him

This part was so difficult to write, I basically cried the whole time!

READ WITH CAUTION!!! THIS PART HAS SOME STRONG ANGST AND MENTIONS SELF HARM AND SUICIDE!! 

Self-harm is a very serious issue caused by many different factors, most people find it hard to talk about, I just want to say that if anyone ever needs help…please ask…please, please ask! Whether it be a stranger or someone you know! Help is there for you, there are lots of different ways you can receive help, call centres, friends and family, strangers.

I’m always just a message away if anyone needs an ear to listen or a shoulder to lean on!

Don’t listen to what anyone else tells you...YOU MATTER...YOU ARE LOVED!

CATCH UP!

Part 1

Part 2

Pairing: Liam x Riley  

 Summary: Riley's makes a decision that effects both her and the people around her?

 Word Count: 2088

 Tagged : @starstruckzonkoperatorbat @drakelover78 @queencatherynerhys @devineinterventions2 @jayjay879 @pens-girl-87 @kawairinrin @hopefulmoonobject @flyawayblue56 @gardeningourmet @blackcatkita @syltti78 @decisso @theroyalweisme @hhiggs @mfackenthal @bruteforcebears

  ASK IF YOU WANT TAGGED! SORRY IF I MISSED ANYONE! (USED THE TAGS FROM MY “ALWAYS” SERIES LET ME KNOW IF ANYONE WANTS UNTAGGED!!!)

 Liam was down in his study which was just two doors down from his and Riley's apartment in the palace. He was startled when he heard a scream then something smashing. He quickly stood from his desk rushing out of the room and down the corridor. He made his way into the apartment and along to their bedroom…He tried to twist the handle but the door wouldn’t budge.

“Riley?!” he called banging his fists on the door. As soon as Bastian heard the noise he came running down the hall

“your Majesty! Is everything alright?!” he panicked

“don’t worry Bastian…I’ve got it” Liam sighed

“of course,” he nodded understandingly then headed back the way he came. Liam turned back to the door and started banging on it again.

“Riley!” he shouted, “Riley please open the door!”

“why” she cried “why would they do that!? W-why would they leave me like that!?” she sobbed

“Riley…sweetheart” he said just loud enough for her to hear “I know…I don’t know mentally what you’re going through but if you let me in, we can talk, let me help you riley”

“no…wh-why would anyone want to help me…I’m worthless…my own parents didn’t even want me…why would anyone else” she blubbered, he felt his heart breaking a little, hearing how she spoke about herself

“hey…you are worth so much more than you give yourself credit for Riley, your friends love you, I love you, we all love you so much”

“stop! Stop saying that!! You’re all just going to do the same as they did…you’re going to get m-my hopes up…then you’re going to l-leave me…b-but I c-can’t let m-myself…b-be hurt again…I-I’m so sorry L-Liam” she started to hyperventilate.

“Riley!!!” Liam shouted panicking when he heard her moving, all her could hear was her crying and throwing things around…he banged his fists on the door, then he heard a scattering on the floor as if she had dropped beads or something of that size then the tap started running.

“Riley!!! RILEY!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!”

“I-I love you Liam” she cried as she moved from their bathroom to the bedroom.

“Riley move away from the door I’m coming in!!”

“y-you can t-try but…you’ll be too late” Liam stood back, lifting his leg and forcing his foot into the door with all of his might. The door flew open, banging against the chest of draws just beside it. When he got the door open he ran straight for Riley who was balled up next to the bed with her back to him, he fell to his knees pulling her into his hold with his arms wrapped around her and her back against his chest her hands covered her face. Her hands were bleeding from her nails digging into her palms so much when she was clenching her fists. Liam sat holding her as tight as he could when he looked up he got a straight line of sight to the bathroom…thats when he panicked…painkillers…all over the floor.

“Riley? how many did you take?”

“enough t-to take the p-pain away” she cried “how could they leave me?” he held her back to his chest. Riley started to become hazy…not responding as fast as she normally would

“Riley…Riley talk to me!!! How many did you take?” the tears started to fall from Liam's eyes…overwhelmed with everything happening before him. “BASTIAN!! BASTIAN! GET THE PHYSICIAN!!” Liam shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Riley sweetheart, I love you so much, I need you to stay awake for me honey…” he whispered then she closed her eyes and stopped responding.

“BASTIAN!!”

Just a few minutes later Bastian entered with the physician on his tail, the two instantly fell to their knees beside the couple.

“what happened?” the physician asked as he lay Riley down on the floor

“I think she took pain killers…a lot of them…I-I don’t know how many…she wouldn’t tell me!”

“alright, we have to get her to the medical room now!” Bastian listed Riley enabling Liam to stand then they all rushed down to the medical room in the palace. Bastian placed Riley on the bed, where the doctor instantly connected a drip to her, to flood out any pills she had taken, he started taking blood tests and all sorts.

just a few minutes later the doctor had finished what he was  doing

“is she going to be alright?” Liam panicked

“I believe we got her help in time your Majesty…the painkillers didn’t have time to dissolve in her stomach yet meaning they haven’t reached her bloodstream…I have administered Naloxone which will stop the pills from dissolving and making their way into her bloodstream”

“when will she wake?”

“that’s entirely up to her, I would guess a few hours at least”

“okay…I have something I have to do…you call me…the second anything changes…no buts no ifs you call me no matter what!” he demanded

“of course,” the physician nodded

“Bastian…find her parents!” Bastian nodded then took his leave. Liam sat down in the seat next to the bed, he took her hand in his.

“I’ll just be along the hall if you need me” the physician stated then he left the room.

“Riley…” Liam sniffled as his tears ran down his face. “don’t you dare scare me like that again! I’ve never been so scared in my life…you are loved…you are so loved…and I’m going to spend the rest of my life…showing you how much I love you” he whispered before lifting her hand and kissing the back of it.

It was about forty-five minutes later that Bastian returned, he gently knocked on the door then entered.

“your Majesty…I found them…” Liam sat up straight, standing from his seat.

“have them taken to the safe house...”

“but y-”

“Bastian, I don’t care…get one of security to take them to the safe house. Get the car ready because you’re taking me there” Bastian looked at the king suspiciously then nodded

“of course, your majesty”

Liam followed Bastian from the room after kissing Riley's head, the two men headed outside to the car. Liam climbed into the passenger seat whilst Bastian climbed behind the wheel. They headed off towards the safehouse where they waited for about an hour for Riley's parents to turn up.

Once the car pulled up outside, Liam watched from the window as the couple climbed from the car then security brought them inside, locking the door behind him.

“where’s riley”

“what…no hi…no hey you must be our future son in law?” Liam asserted

“I’m sorry…what’s your name?”

“Liam…King Liam!”

“well it’s nice to meet you Liam…now where is Riley?”

“lovely…just lovely, where’s Riley? Let me tell you where Riley…your daughter…your flesh and blood is…she’s lying in a hospital…with a drip hanging out her flushing out the painkillers…she tried to overdose on! how dare you! HOW FUCKIN DARE YOU…COME INTO MY COUNTRY…OUR COUNTRY…OUR HOME! AND MAKE HER FEEL LIKE THAT…MAKE HER FEEL LIKE SHE ISNT WORTH SHIT! WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO MAKE ANYONE! …NEVERMIND YOUR OWN DAUGHTER FEEL LIKE THEY ARENT WORTH ANYTHING! NO ONE GAVE YOU THAT RIGHT! SHES YOUR DAUGHTER…AND YOU THREW HER TO THE WIND…IF YOU KNEW RILEY…YOU WOULD KNOW THAT SHE IS THE MOST AMAZING HUMAN BEING! SHE DESERVES THE WORLD, AND IM GOING TO MAKE SURE SHE GETS IT! DO YOU KNOW HOW DISGUSTING OF A PERSON THAT MAKES YOU TWO OF YOU…YOU HURT SOMEONE SO BAD…THEY TRIED TO HURT THEMSELVES…YOU ARE LUCKY WE GOT TO HER BEFORE ANY DAMAGE COULD BE DONE TO HER INSIDES! SHE COULD HAVE DIED! IF I HADNT HEARD HER CRYING…SHE MIGHT HAVE TAKEN MORE THAN SHE ALREADY DID…DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT IM SAYING? …DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE REPURCUTIONS OF YOUR ACTIONS…IT DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU DIDN’T SET OUT TO HURT HER THAT WAY…BUT YOU DID! IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO HER BECAUSE OF IT…HER BLOOD WOULD BE ON YOUR HANDS! …YOUR ACTIONS CAUSED HER A LOT OF PAIN…PAIN THAT SHE COULDN’T HANDLE!! YOU ARE DISGUSTING PEOPLE TO EVEN THINK THAT LEAVING YOUR DAUGHTER LIKE THAT WAS ANYWHERE NEAR ACCEPTABLE! SHE NEEDED YOU AND YOU WERENT THERE…YOU BETTER HOPE FOR YOUR OWN SAKE THAT SHE COMES OUT OF THIS ALRIGHT…BECAUSE IF ANYTHING ELSE HAPPENS TO HER…I WILL HUNT THE BOTH OF YOU DOWN…AND YOU’LL REGRET THE DAY YOU LEFT HER…THE DAY YOU CAME BACK AND EVERY FUCKIN DAY INBETWEEN!”

“who are you, to talk to us like that!”

“WHO AM I!? I AM THE FUCKIN KING…I AM YOUR DAUGHTERS FUTURE HUSBAND! YOU ARE IN MY COUNTRY…ON MY LAND! I WILL TALK YOU WHAT EVER WAY I DAMN PLEASE! WHAT ARE YOUR NAMES?”

“Lillian and Stewart Robertson”

“WELL MR AND MRS ROBERTSON! YOU ARE HERE BY EXCILED FROM STEPPING FOOT IN CORDONIA AGAIN…NOT UNTIL RILEY ALLOWS IT! IF SHE ONE DAY WANTS TO TALK WITH YOU THEN ON HER ORDERS, YOU MAY BE ALLOWED BACK BUT UNTIL THEN…YOU WILL PACK YOUR BAGS…AND YOU WILL BE ESCORTED TO THE AIRPORT WHERE YOU WILL BE PLACED ON A PLANE NEVER TO RETURN AGAIN!” Liam raged “Joseph” he addressed the guard that brought them to the safe house “take them back to their hotel…have them pack their things then get them to the airport…they have an hour to get their shit and get out!” Liam commanded. The guard nodded then escorted the couple out and into the car, Liam and Bastian watched as they drove away.

“Liam…are you alright?” Bastian asked as Liam's friend

“I will be, could you take me back to the palace please” he whispered trying to steady his breathing. The two headed back to the palace, after a 30 minute journey they arrived home. Liam climbed out of the car with Bastian on his tail, heading straight for the medical room. when he stepped into the room, he seen that Riley hadn’t woken yet. He stepped out of the room, calling for one of the maids.

“yes, your Majesty?” she bowed

“I need you to do something for me discreetly”

“anything” she assured

“I need you to go to my bedroom, in the apartment, and clean up, the en suite bathroom aswell…I know no one is permitted to go into the apartment other than myself and riley of course but there was an issue, some things got broken, now when I say discreet…I mean not a word is to be spoke…you are the only person permitted to enter the apartment, and anything seen In there must not be told to a soul, am I clear?”

“of course, not a word” the woman assured

“there is a photo on the floor, the frame was broken, please have it placed in a new one, and put on Riley's bedside table along with a bouquet of pink blooms, white lilies, pale pink gerberas and purple September flowers, those are her favourites”

“I will make sure everything is back to the way it was, if you need anything else, you know where ill be” she smiled sympathetically then headed off towards the apartment. Liam heard a noise coming from the medical room, he rushed in to see Riley waking up. He ran to her side taking her hand in his.

“hey sweetie” he whispered as he pulled the chair closer to the bed, he sat down never letting go on her hand.

“Liam” She croaked

“you scared the life out of me...I thought I was going to lose you…I thought…”

“I’m sorry” she whispered

“no! don’t you dare apologise…Riley, what matters is that the doctor said you’re going to be alright, that’s all that matters, I love you so much…I need you to know that, you are everything to me, you make me happier than…anything I’ve ever known and if I can have a part in making you happy again…that’s all I wanna do…for the rest of my life” he sniffled not bothering to wipe his eyes.

“I love you Liam…I’m sorry I scared you…I-I just…it hurts so much, all I could think about was stopping the pain”

“I know sweetie, I know…but I’m here for you, I will always be here for you I am not going anywhere, I will help you through this, I don’t care what I have to do, I’ll do it, we’ll do it…together.” He gently wiped her tears from her cheeks before pecking her lips. “just promise me… promise me that when you feel hurt and pain you will come and talk to me, I am here for you, I need you to know that no matter what, you come before everything…you are my priority. Let me try and help you through it. you may not realise it right now riley, but you are surrounded by people who love you dearly”

“I promise” she whispered

If you like it...Reblog it!

[redditnosleep]

She Catches Demons In Her Teeth

by Middlenameredundant

Everyone in town knew what Missy Mulroney was. She didn’t try to hide it. She walked around town teetering unsteadily on a pair of black patent heels, makeup smeared across her face and eyes unfocused. She was a caricature of a woman with “self-esteem issues.” She never even tried to cover up the track marks that laced the insides of her arms.

I don’t know if any of us ever knew where she came from. She just sort of showed up one day, a rare thing in our little town. The common assumption was that she’d taken up with some trucker and been dropped off in town when he’d gotten tired of her. Made as much sense as anything else. She lived and “worked” out of one of the only hotels in town, the Victorian Inn on Washington Street. Nobody quite understood why old Mrs. Jenkins let her live there, what with her reputation and all. Mrs. Jenkins was a nice old lady, and it was a shame to see her tarnished by association.

I got to know Missy pretty well over the months that she lived in our town. Or, at least, I got to know her unconscious body. I was an EMT then and got called in every time Missy managed to overdose.

It was the same thing every time, more or less. I’d walk into her open hotel room and find her sprawled out in some state of undress. I’d pull the needle from her arm, give her a shot of Naloxone, and wait for those pinpoint pupils to start widening back to life. I never knew who called about her. Probably some john who panicked and lit out as soon as he put down the phone. To their credit, none of them ever seemed to leave without calling 911 first.

Missy was something of an oddity in our town: she was the lone source of crime and degeneration in an otherwise safe and clean little city. My job was an easy one. Never did I get calls about murder or domestic disputes, and only the occasional car accident. If it weren’t for Missy and the vagrants she attracted, I might not have had a job at all. You can see, then, why we all treated her with such disdain.

It was a Friday night when I got a now-routine call about Missy. She’d overdosed, a male voice told the dispatcher. I sighed and headed toward the Victorian Inn.

I expected the normal scene: Missy draped over a piece of hotel furniture and the good Samaritan caller nowhere to be found.

Instead, I walked into the opposite. The hotel room was empty except for a rheumy-eyed junkie wearing two coats and rocking back and forth on the floor. The floral bedspread was balled-up near the foot of the bed and dark stains peppered the fading green carpet.

“We got a call about Missy,” I said, trying to get the junkie to focus on me. “Missy Mulroney. Do you know where she is?”

“She catches demons in her teeth,” the old man said, chattering the remains of his own few teeth and laughing.

I sighed. I’d have to look elsewhere for information.

I turned back to the bed, thinking I’d double-check to make sure she wasn’t passed out underneath. That’s when the old man reached out to me. He grasped my elbow with surprising strength and spun me back around. This time, his eyes were focused and intense. I know, because he was inches from my face before he spoke. I could smell the rot of infection and the sweetness of stale alcohol on his breath.

“She does us all a service, Missy does.”

I nodded and rolled my eyes. I was quite familiar with the services Missy offered.

“You’ll find her, right?” the junkie asked, a gleam hunger in his eyes. I shuddered.

“She’s a grown woman,” I said, prying my elbow from the man’s grasp. “You’re free to report her missing to the police if you want.”

The man gulped and turned away. We both knew he wouldn’t be going to the police. I’m not proud to say it, but in that moment I was glad that Missy was gone. The element she attracted had no place in a town like ours.

I didn’t say anything to the junkie when I left. There was nothing that needed saying. He’d either move on like vagrants do or die with a needle in his arm. It wasn’t that I didn’t have compassion for the old man, it was just that I’d seen this story play out too many times to count and the ending was pretty much always the same.

I assumed that ending had come for Missy.

It was old Mrs. Jenkins herself who called me. Missy had set up in the Victorian once again, with no indication of where she’d gone or why.

I wasn’t on duty, so it was strange that I would get such a call. She said that I had to come see Missy. She said that someone else needed to know.

I refused at first. I told her to call dispatch if Missy needed medical attention. I told her that I was off duty and that the last thing I wanted to do was spend my personal time thinking about Missy Mulroney.

Mrs. Jenkins insisted and I folded like the eggs in her famous meringue.

I knocked tentatively at Missy’s door when I arrived at the hotel. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the back of my neck, making the skin there prickle with sweat. I thought about leaving when she didn’t come to the door. It was too hot and I was too irritated at the intrusion of this woman into my personal life. I couldn’t fathom why Mrs. Jenkins was so insistent that I come. What did she need me to know?

I was about to leave when I heard a crash from inside Missy’s room. Without thinking, I pounded on the door. Between the reverberations of my fist, I heard muffled screams and thuds from inside. I tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, and before I knew what I was doing, I was in Missy’s room.

An unconscious man was slumped in the corner, his hand covering a dark red stain on his stomach. I started to walk toward him when my attention was directed to Missy.

She knelt on the bed clawing at her clothing and thrashing like a fish on a line. She screamed, deep and guttural, not any sound I’d ever heard a woman make. Between screams, she clenched her teeth together and scratched at her skin, leaving marks across the areas where the clothes had already been ripped away.

I stood back. This was something I hadn’t been expecting, and I cursed myself for not telling anyone where I was. I didn’t know what drugs Missy was on, but I could see that she was beyond what I could do for her.

As suddenly as the screaming had started, it stopped. Missy stood and stretched her body to its fullest height, nearly scraping the ceiling with her fingers. Slowly at first, then more clearly, a light seemed to pulse within her. It grew brighter and brighter, turning her body into a transit map of blue veins.

Behind me the junkie woke from his stupor. I barely registered it as he pushed past me and ran out the door.

I was too transfixed by the light pouring from Missy.

Missy screamed again. It was different this time, high and bright, as if her body were being torn apart by the force of it.

Her face went slack and the rest of her body followed, crumpling in a heap onto the bed.

I cautiously approached her. Sweat beaded her nearly naked body and her pupils were pinpoints in her eyes. She looked up at me with unfocused eyes and blinked. The skin of her face was clammy and pale and it felt cold to the touch as I brushed past it to reach her neck. Her pulse raced beneath her normal, unlit skin and her mouth was smeared with red.

“This is not an overdose,” I said quietly, feeling immediately stupid.

Missy smiled, revealing bloody gums. “So nice of you to notice.”

I helped her pull her shaking body to a sitting position.

“What happened here? What did I see?”

Missy shook her head in response. “It doesn’t matter. You should go now, but I do appreciate your help.”

I pointed to her mouth. “Did you bite your tongue? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head again and stuck out her blood-slicked tongue. “I’m just fine. It’s all fine.”

I looked down at the floor, where a trail of blood drops led from where the junkie was sitting to the door.

“That man, what happened to him?”

“He’s all better now,” Missy said, her eyes rolling back into her head. “Mrs. Jenkins will be along shortly to take care of the mess. If you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired.”

I didn’t want to leave Missy there, but I couldn’t find any sign that she was in need of help. She shooed me away and I stumbled to the office of the Victorian Inn.

Mrs. Jenkins was waiting for me inside.

“So, you’ve seen it, then?” She asked.

“I don’t have a clue what I’ve seen,” I said, steadying myself against the counter.

“Sit down,” said Mrs. Jenkins, gesturing to a small doily-covered table. She turned the sign in the window to ‘Closed’ and looked back at me. “Would you like some tea?”

I shook my head mutely, staring at my hands. Mrs. Jenkins took a steaming kettle off the hotplate in the office and poured herself a cup of tea. All the while, she never said a word, leaving me to ruminate on what I had seen in the hotel room. It wasn’t natural, that much I knew. Whatever was going on with Missy, it was more than anything I had ever thought. Mrs. Jenkins took the seat across from me and sat her teacup in front of her.

“Now, you’ll have questions I’m sure,” she said.

I licked my bottom lip and opened my mouth to speak. I didn’t know where to start, so I opted for the big question first.

“What is she?”

Mrs. Jenkins laughed. “Well, she’s a young lady.”

“Yeah, but what I saw…”

Mrs. Jenkins cut me off. “Let’s think it through, hmm?”

I nodded, confused.

“You ever see any junkies around town? Any thieves? Any rapists?” Mrs. Jenkins asked. She pursed her lips over her teacup and blew, not bothering to make eye-contact with me.

“Well, not as such. It’s not a big town, though. And I’ve seen plenty in your own hotel.”

Mrs. Jenkins shot me a look that made me blush. It was unkind of me to mention the element her hotel had attracted as of late.

“What about outside of my hotel? Do you feel safe walking through the park at night?”

“I guess there’s not much crime in town, no,” I said. I was unsure where Mrs. Jenkins was going with this.

“And does that strike you as unusual?”

“Not really. It’s the way things should be.”

“The way things should be,” said Mrs. Jenkins, twisting my words back at me with a hard laugh. “I don’t think you’re following me here, so let me be more direct. Those junkies that hang out in my hotel parking lot--you ever see them again?”

I thought hard. I tried to conjure up the dirty faces of the men I had seen over the last few months. Some were distinctive, most were not. None could I remember ever having seen again.

“Well, no,” I said, “but they’re vagrants. It’s to be expected that they’d move on.”

“What if I told you that you did see them again? You know Mr. Lawrence, the new librarian?”

The question caught me off-guard. Thomas Lawrence, the straight-laced librarian who just relocated to our town could not have been a former junkie. I furrowed my brow at Mrs. Jenkins and waited for her to continue. I was tired of her games.

“And of course that sweet young man who bags groceries now at the Price Cutter--the redhead?”

“There are new people in town, true. Where are you going with this?”

“Only that those people aren’t new at all. They’ve been here a while, unnoticed and avoided by the good people like yourself. Only Missy ever cared enough to see the humanity in them.”

“Are you telling me she’s been rehabilitating them?”

Mrs. Jenkins smiled. “No, my dear. She’s been curing them. She’s been taking their demons as her own.”

“Taking their demons as her own?”

“They walk into that hotel room broken, forgotten. Missy takes of their flesh, and they walk out again whole. They leave better, you understand, and Missy leaves worse. Oh, pardon me, dear. We’ve got a guest outside.”

Mrs. Jenkins scooped up her teacup and walked toward the door, greeting the young couple there with a smile. I sat dazed at the table, wanting nothing more than to stay and ask more and more questions of Mrs. Jenkins, but I knew she wouldn’t give me anything else.

I left the Victorian Inn and walked toward downtown. It was getting dark and a chill had settled into the concrete and brick around me. Everywhere I looked, happy families were walking down the streets, carelessly chattering away about sports scores and shopping hauls. There was nothing to threaten them, nothing to take their attention away from one another. I thought about all that Mrs. Jenkins had implied, and shuddered.

I got the call the night Missy died. Why they called me and not the coroner directly, I’ll never know. There was no way anyone could have mistaken her for someone in need of medical help.

Her body was spread-eagle across the bed, which had turned red beneath her. Chunks of flesh were missing from her body at regular intervals and claw marks raked her naked torso and face. Blood spilled from her mouth like a cup overflowing with wine. I turned away from her to focus on the pattern of the carpet.

The investigators were perplexed. Ultimately they said it was the first case of autocannibalism in our state’s history. They blamed it on the PCP in Missy’s system. They didn’t know why shock didn’t stop her. They didn’t really care. As far as they were concerned, she was another drug-addled whore who just happened to go out in the most flamboyant way she could think of.

I have a theory about it.

I have a theory about the woman who caught demons in her teeth, who wrenched them free and caged them within herself. I have a theory about a woman who saw that cage crumbling and destroyed it in the only way she knew how.

There was no funeral for Missy. I was alone in paying my respects over a box of ashes in the coroner’s office.

“What happens to the ashes?” I asked the gray coroner when I was finished.

He looked at me curiously. “Nothing, for a while. If no one comes to claim them, then we’ll hold them for the minimum allowed by law. After that, we’ll toss ‘em.”

“Let me know if they stay unclaimed,” I said. “I’d like to give them a proper burial.”

And I did. It was four years later when I got the call. That time flew by in a blur of calls about homicides, overdoses and domestic disputes. It was almost overnight that our sweet, safe little city fell apart. The higher-ups and politicians blamed the opioid epidemic and alluded obliquely to “shifting demographics,” but I knew the real cause.

I had a stone prepared for Missy in the local cemetery. It was a nice one, with a weeping angel on the top. The epitaph was simple:

“Here lies Missy Mulroney, who caught demons in her teeth.”

[yournewapartment]

First Aid Basics

I just got certified in CPR and First Aid last month with the American Heart Association. I wanted to share this information with you, because a lot of what we see on TV is not at all accurate as to what you’re supposed to do to actually help someone. Here are some of the topics that were covered:

First Aid Basics

Here are the steps you should follow when addressing a situation where a person may be injured/unconscious: 

Check to make sure the scene is safe- you are no help to anybody if you also get hurt

If the person is responsive: “Are you okay?”

If they are unresponsive, hit their shoulders hard and yell: “Are you okay?” to see if you can rouse them

Phone 911 and put the phone on speaker (you can delegate this task to somebody else if you’re not alone)

Have somebody get a First Aid kit (don’t leave the person if you’re by yourself unless the 911 operator tells you to)

Is the person conscious? Unconscious?

Check them for any obvious signs of injury

Check them for medical jewelry

Remember

Time is of the essence! Be decisive and confident. 

Don’t be afraid to call for help and assign people tasks

You can only perform CPR on a flat service. If a person needs CPR and is on a bed or in a chair, move them to the floor immediately. Don’t worry about hurting their head or anything, if they don’t get CPR immediately, their life expectancy is significantly less. (See my CPR post for full details)

Do not move the person unless the area they’re in is unsafe. If you have to move the person, drag them by their clothes and pull them to safety.

Adult Choking

There are both mild and severe cases of adult choking. In a mild case, the person choking will be able to make a sound or cough loudly. Typically these cases resolve themselves. 

Ask: “Are you choking? Can I help you?”

If the person cannot make a sound or cough in response, they are suffering from severe choking.

Walk around back of the person and put your arms around them

Make a fist with your dominant hand

Place your fist slightly above the belly button and below the chest bone.

Grasp the fist with your other hand

Give quick upward thrusts

If the person is overweight or pregnant, put your arms around the person’s armpits.

If you are unsuccessful in removing the blockage, the person will quickly become unresponsive. You will need to perform adult CPR and call 911.

After chest compressions (see above link) check person’s mouth to see if the thing they choked on is visible. If it is visible, remove it. Never going digging around in someone’s mouth. 

Amputation

Call 911 and put the phone on speaker

Get a First Aid kit

Both these steps can be delegated to someone else if they’re around

Put gauze on the wound and apply pressure until the bleeding stops

Do not remove the gauze if it’s bled through- this will remove any blood clots that have formed. 

If the gauze is bled through, add more gauze on top and keep applying pressure until the bleeding stops

Clean the amputated part with water

Warp the amputated part with dressing 

Put the amputated part in a small plastic bag

Get a larger plastic bag and fill it with equal parts ice and water

Put the small plastic bag inside the large plastic bag

Label the bag with person’s name and time of the injury

Asthma (How to Operate an Inhaler)

People diagnosed with asthma will typically be aware of it and may have an inhaler on them. If someone has an asthma attack:

Ask them: “Are you okay? Do you need your inhaler?” 

The person will probably be able to give some sort of indication in response

If they need their inhaler: 

Locate the inhaler

Put the medicine (metallic capsule pictured below) in the inhaler if it is not already in there, it will click into place

Shake the inhaler to activate the medicine

Attach the mouth piece if it’s unattached (not all inhalers have one, it is not pictured below)

Remove the cap (cap is darker blue piece pictured below)

Have the person put their head back

Put the inhaler in the person’s mouth

Push down on the canister and have them breathe out slowly

They should begin to feel relief immediately, but you should still have them sit down and take it easy for a while

Call 911 if they are still having difficulty breathing after the inhaler has been administered

Bee Sting

Usually bee stings present only mild irritation and pain. If the person stung has a severe allergic reaction, you will need to call 911.

Get a first aid kit

Scrape away the bee stinger and venom sack using a credit card or something similar in nature

Wash the affected area with lots of soap and running water

Wrap a bag of ice in a towel and place it over the affected area for 20 minutes or until the pain is gone

Watch the person for up to 30 minutes for signs of an allergic reaction

Call 911 if they present any classic allergy symptoms

Bleeding from Nose

Have the person lean their head forward

Get a First Aid kit

Or have someone else get one

Have the bleeding person apply pressure to the bridge of their nose using gauze from the First Aid kit

Do not remove the gauze if it’s bled through- this will remove any blood clots that have formed. 

If the gauze is bled through, add more gauze on top until the bleeding stops

Call 911 if the bleeding lasts longer than 15 minutes

Heat Cramps/Dehydration

Can lead to heat exhaustion! These typically happen when someone is dehydrated and tries to do lots of physical activity.

Have the person sit down and cool off

Have them drink something with sugar and electrolytes

Water will work in a pinch but sugary drinks and gatorade are preferred

Heat Exhaustion

Call 911 and put the phone on speaker

Have the person lie down

Cool the person by pouring water on them or wetting them with wet cloths until they begin to act normally

Have them drink something with sugar and electrolytes

Water will work in a pinch but sugary drinks and gatorade are preferred

Wait with them until help arrives

Opioid Overdose

My instructor said that these will often happen in an unsafe or an isolated environment. Always check to make sure that the scene is safe- look out for needles. 

Naloxone is used to revive people who have overdosed on opioids. If you find someone who has overdosed on opioids you happen to have naloxone on you and know how to administer it, the American Heart Association recommends that you use it instead of waiting for help to arrive.

Responsive:

Yell for help

Call 911 and put the phone on speaker

Wait with the person until help arrives

Unresponsive

Yell for help

Call 911 and put the phone on speaker

Perform five cycles of adult CPR

Wait for help

Seizure

Seizures are abnormal electrical activity in the brain. Typical seizure symptoms: spasms, muscle rigidity, and unconsciousness. Seizures typically last between 60-90 seconds before the person gains consciousness. 

Do NOT touch the person who is having a seizure

Do NOT put anything in their mouth

Call 911 and put the phone on speaker

If there are people around, ask them to get a First Aid kit while you wait with the person having the seizure

Don’t leave the person having a seizure if you are alone

Move objects away from the person having the seizure so that they don’t knock into them

If possible, place a small towel/pad underneath the person’s head

If the person starts vomiting, turn them over on their side so that they don’t choke

If possible use gloves and an eye mask from a First Aid kit to avoid exposure to bodily fluids

After they come to, they may be bleeding from the mouth. 

Use gauze from a First Aid kit to stop the bleeding

Have them apply pressure with the gauze until the bleeding stops

Stay with the person until help arrives

Splints

Splints should be significantly longer than the injured area. They’re used to constrict movement, so the person is injured should not be able to move freely once the splint is applied. Splints are use to treat broken/dislocated bones. It’s very difficult to tell if a bone is actually broken or just dislocated, so don’t worry about it and just splint the thing.

Call 911 and put the phone on speaker

Get a First Aid kit

Both these steps can be delegated to someone else if they’re around

Put on gloves/eye glasses from the First Aid kit to avoid contamination from bodily fluids

Cover exposed wound area with gauze

Do not remove the gauze if it’s bled through- this will remove any blood clots that have formed. 

If the gauze is bled through, add more gauze on top until the bleeding stops.

Place a strip of rigid material underneath the injured area

Use gauze/dressing from the First Aid kit to secure the splint by wrapping material above and below the injured area

Never tie material directly over the injury

Have the person stay as still as possible until help arrives

Stroke

Strokes are caused from blockage/bleeding from things like blood clots. Typical signs of a stroke: face drooping (or numbness), arm weakness (or numbness), and speech difficulty. There is nothing much you can do except wait with the person and try to make them comfortable until help arrives.

Call 911 and put the phone on speaker

Note the time that the stroke symptoms began (this will help hospital technicians)

Stay with the person until help arrives

Tourniquets

Some First Aid kits will come with a pre-made tourniquet. If your kit does not have a tourniquet you can make one fairly easily. Tourniquets should only be used for injuries where the person is squirting blood. No squirting blood? Use a splint.

Call 911 and put the phone on speaker

Get a First Aid kit

Both these steps can be delegated to someone else if they’re around

Put on gloves/eye glasses from the First Aid kit to avoid contamination from bodily fluids

Fold cloth or a bandage so that it’s long and an inch wide

Wrap the the bandage/cloth two inches above the wound

Never apply a tourniquet bandage/cloth on a joint (like elbows or knees). 

Find a small stick

Place the small stick atop the cloth/bandage and tie it there

You can now turn the small stick to tighten the cloth/bandage

Have the injured person lay down and try to move as little as possible

Do not remove the tourniquet- even if the bleeding stops.

Wait until help arrives.

[miss-marvel95]

Too Good at Goodbyes

A/N: Hey guys! This is my first ever CM fic! This is a Spencer x Reader and it’s full of angst. This was based in Season three, and if you’ve seen Season three, you’ll know after which episode this takes place. I used “Too Good at Goodbyes” by Sam Smith because I love him and I think it worked pretty well with the story line? Anyways, please let me know what you think and if I should write more! This is totally new to me haha! Enjoy?

You must think that I'm stupid

You must think that I'm a fool

You must think that I'm new to this

But I have seen this all before

“Spencer? What are you doing?” I watched, horrified, as a needle and bottle clattered to the tile floor.  

“Nothing just. . . just leave me alone.” I stared at him, trying not to let those words hurt me. He couldn’t have meant it, but it felt like he did. So I let out a breath, backed up, and then left him there. I hadn’t met his gaze the entire time, afraid of what I would see there. 

I knew that leaving him alone wasn’t what I wanted, but maybe that was what he wanted. He just didn’t understand that I knew what he was going through, and that I’d seen it happen to other agents. Hell, it had even happened to me. 

Maybe I would try to confront him about it later. . . That is, if he was ever going to talk to me again. . .

I'm never gonna let you close to me Even though you mean the most to me 'Cause every time I open up, it hurts So I'm never gonna get too close to you Even when I mean the most to you In case you go and leave me in the dirt

I closed my eyes, realizing what I’d done much too late. I’d told (Y/N) to leave and I’d seen the hurt on her face before I’d even processed my own words. I let out a shaky breath, staring at the forgotten needle and bottle. MY forgotten needle and bottle, because I’d gained more of it after. . . after THAT case. . .

I slid to the floor, heart aching, head throbbing. I’d done this to myself. I couldn’t let (Y/N) get hurt because I was being reckless. I had to push her away now, before it was too late for her. Too late for me. 

And if I did let her in, if I did let her see this side of me, I knew. . . I just knew she would leave me for good. It was better this way. I stared at the bottle again, hands shaking, heart pounding in my chest.

One.

Two.

Three.

Gone were the thoughts of hurting (Y/N) and the feelings of despair, replaced with sweet, sweet relief. . . 

But every time you hurt me, the less that I cry And every time you leave me, the quicker these tears dry And every time you walk out, the less I love you Baby, we don't stand a chance, it's sad but it's true

I watched, for what felt like the 5th time in the last hour, as Spence excused himself to go to the bathroom. The first time had been a real need. The second time had been his temptation creeping back in. 

Now he was battling it, but this time, I knew that the need for drugs had finally won. I closed my eyes, forcing my tears to stay behind my eyelids, hidden from the rest of the team. I would not cry this time. I WOULD NOT CRY THIS TIME!

“(Y/N)? Are you alright?” JJ asked, and I smiled, opening my eyes. 

“Yeah just a bit tired. The last case we had took a lot out of me.” He would not make me cry in front of these wonderful people. I wouldn't have believed that he could give up on us this easily, but the more he walked out that door, the more my hope crumbled. 

This couldn’t be it. 

This couldn’t be. . .

I'm way too good at goodbyes (I'm way too good at goodbyes) I'm way too good at goodbyes (I'm way too good at goodbyes)

I’d done this so many times but this time. . . this time it was starting to hurt. I could feel the nerves in my body, screaming at me to stop stop STOP before I killed myself. 

But the other part of me was egging me on, telling me that all of the pain would go away. All of the suffering would just end.

“Spencer you know that isn’t true. . .” A tiny voice whispered in my head, and I realized with a shock that it sounded exactly like (Y/N’s) voice. 

“What else am I going to do? My thoughts are too much and I feel like I’m about to explode!” I yelled, my voice bouncing off of the walls. I was going insane. I was talking to myself.

“Come talk to me Spence. . . I want to help you. . .” The little voice whispered, and I shivered, curling in on myself.

“God it’s. . . it’s too late for that. I’m already this far gone. . . The hallucinations are already getting out of hand. I’m surprised I’m only hearing your voice in my head. . .” I mumbled, fumbling with the latch on my bag. I needed more. 

I needed to make (Y/N’s) voice go away. I needed everything to go away. . . 

I know you're thinking I'm heartless I know you're thinking I'm cold I'm just protecting my innocence I'm just protecting my soul

I stared at the ceiling above me, my heart hurting more than I had ever thought possible. I’d taken a leave, because I was losing sleep, and I couldn’t watch Spencer do this to himself.

I’d tried talking to him. God help me, but I loved this man, and I wanted him to stop this before it was too late. He’d ignored me. He’d turned away from me and flat out ignored me. 

So I’d gone to Hotch. He’d taken one look at me and told me to take as much time as I needed. I needed a lot more time than two weeks, but that was all I could take before I felt even more guilty. 

I’d been away for a week, away from him, but the hurt that had faded after three days of being home was back full force, and the hurt was pulling me back toward him. 

I’d locked myself in the bathroom to stop myself from going to check on him. . . 

I'm never gonna let you close to me Even though you mean the most to me 'Cause every time I open up, it hurts So I'm never gonna get too close to you Even when I mean the most to you In case you go and leave me in the dirt

“Spence? God I just want you to pick up. . . Please just pick up your damn phone Spencer I can’t . . . I can’t do this oh my god please talk to me! I understand what you’re going through th-the addiction, the withdrawal? Spencer I won’t leave you I. . .I can’t l-live without y-you. . . Just. . . Just call me back please? Oh god. . .” 

The phone wouldn't stop ringing and I just let it go to the answering machine, over and over and over. She kept calling. The first phone call was calm and composed. The second one, I heard the concern seeping into her tone.

By the eighth, she was sobbing. 

The door was locked, and I’d stumbled around, pulling the curtains closed. I wasn’t feeling the affects of the drugs anymore and my brain was starting to function and it was trying to process all of the pain and sorrow.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t face her and I couldn’t face the team and I couldn’t face the pain.

Everything HURT.

I pushed myself up, away from the phone, away from her voice. I was the one causing her tears. It was MY fault. I groaned, hands going up to clutch my head. 

I needed more.

But every time you hurt me, the less that I cry And every time you leave me, the quicker these tears dry And every time you walk out, the less I love you Baby, we don't stand a chance, it's sad but it's true

I didn't want this to be the end but he wasn't answering my phone calls. Morgan had told me that he’d left after my first week being at home. He said that Spence had needed to take care of some business that involved his mother, but I knew better. 

That’s when I’d started leaving messages for him, and I knew he was listening to them, which hurt more than anything. I broke down during the 8th call, not able to stop the tears from streaming down my face any longer. 

I wanted to believe that I could just leave him alone and that I could make it but I just couldn't. He meant too much to me. 

I’d been in my pajama’s for too long. The damn car keys were right there on the table, mocking me. I had to see him. If I was right, the affects of the drugs were wearing off, and he was going to start upping the dose. 

If he took too much. . . I didn't want to think of that. I threw some clothes on, grabbing my purse and coat. 

I snatched the keys off of the table and slammed the door behind me. . .

I'm way too good at goodbyes (I'm way too good at goodbyes) I'm way too good at goodbyes (I'm way too good at goodbyes) No way that you'll see me cry (No way that you'll see me cry) I'm way too good at goodbyes (I'm way too good at goodbyes) No No, no, no, no, no (I'm way too good at goodbyes) No, no, no, no No, no, no (I'm way too good at goodbyes) (No way that you'll see me cry) (I'm way too good at goodbyes)

I’d taken too much. My body knew this, my legs giving out from under me, the numb feeling spreading. Too fast. Too soon. I groaned, staring at the bathroom ceiling, the needle rolling to a stop near the tub. 

Oh god. I didn’t want to die. I wasn’t done living. This couldn’t be the way I went. This was too soon. This couldn’t be goodbye. I’d never told them I loved them. 

I hadn’t told Morgan that he was the only one that I could ever consider my brother.

I hadn’t told Garcia that she was the reason I stopped by the coffee shop every morning, just so I could buy her those croissants she liked. 

I hadn’t told Emily that she was the closest to a sister I would ever get. 

I hadn’t told Rossi that he made the best spaghetti I’d had, and I didn’t even really like it. 

I hadn’t told JJ that she was my best friend. 

I hadn’t told Hotch how much I needed his office counselling sessions. 

I hadn’t beat Gideon at chess yet. 

And (Y/N) she. . . I hadn’t told her how I was crazy for her. How I loved her more than I loved myself, more than I’d thought I could love anyone.

She was why I couldn’t let this be the end. I needed to tell her. I groaned again, struggling to get up, struggling to get to the living room, where I could take the Naloxone that I’d once used in an experiment. 

I heard the banging on the front door, and (Y/N)’s voice on the other side, threating to knock the door down. Oh god. I couldn’t let this be the end. I managed to push myself halfway through the door before my arms gave out.

“SPENCER!!!” (Y/N) was beside me in an instant, and I groaned. 

“Th. . . table. . .” She jumped up again, rushing to the table. My eyes felt heavy and I wanted to tell her before it was too late.

“I. . .”

“No no Spence god please don’t talk it’s going to be okay it’s okay!”

“Lo. . . love you (Y/N).” 

'Cause every time you hurt me, the less that I cry And every time you leave me, the quicker these tears dry And every time you walk out, the less I love you Baby, we don't stand a chance, it's sad but it's true I'm way too good at goodbyes

Tagging people I think might read? @emllyprentiss @teatimewithtiya @ssa-aaronhotchner @spencerthepipecleaner  @theofficeofsupremegenius @fl0werb0nes18 @semitallmuffin @badasprentiss @spencer-puppies-and-stuff

[kootenaygoon]

So,

Paul Burkart couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

I had charged into his office on the pretense of interviewing him for a different story, but instead I was grilling him about work-place bullying in the cop shop. I repeated something Pat Severyn had said in public, comparing the three cops who testified against Turnbull to The Three Stooges. He said the force was violently split over what happened, and had broken into factions. His words had sent me into a maniacal rage, something that seemed to be happening more and more often these days.

“He was in a fucking doctor’s office and he said the three of them put together weren’t as good of a cop as Turnbull. He said that, for everyone to hear,” I said, stabbing my finger in his direction. “He’s leading this, isn’t he? He’s the one leading all this bullying.”

“Now, hold on.”

“Those three stood up against that woman-puncher, and now they’re getting crucified for it? For doing the right thing?”

“Nobody is getting crucified here, Will.”

“That’s what it seems like. They’re talking like these guys are total exiles now, everyone hates them.”

Paul was appalled. I couldn’t tell who he was more appalled with, me or Pat Severyn. I was extraordinarily far out of line. Who was I exactly, to be wagging my finger at the Chief? He opened his mouth and closed it a few times before saying anything else. He could see me trembling. 

“You said it yourself earlier, Will. Since the mayoral election Pat has had no credibility. Absolutely none. And if there was even the faintest whiff of bullying in my department, it would be dealt with swiftly and immediately. You have my word on that. Do I make myself clear?”

I let out a big breath, and sank back into my chair. “I was so pissed he said that, Paul. What those guys did, testifying?...”

“I understand. It’s an emotional issue. It’s been hard for everyone.”

Paul and I had established a rapport over the heated racism story, when he was asked to leave by the organizers of the race summit. Essentially I’d helped him do some PR, articulating his support for the racialized members of the community and vowing to serve them better. I thought that was awesome, and in general he was doing a much better job of community relations than Wayne Holland. He was going to be a big part of my story on Andrew Stevenson, because he was one of the cops there that day, and my relationship with him was integral to that story’s success. 

Technically I was there to interview him about an entirely different subject, and one that I was passionate about: fentanyl. The opioid crisis was gathering steam, and I was trying to get a sense of how to wrangle this particular subject in the newspaper. There was so much secrecy, so much shame, it was hard to put faces to the numbers. But now he was championing a new multi-sectoral task force to address the issue. Because the numbers were terrifying.

“It certainly does scare me,” he said, once I turned on the recorder. He’d settled down after my initial confrontation.

“We see the numbers across the province and across Canada, and it’s here. It’s caused overdoses, it’s caused deaths and it needs to be dealt with.”

I asked him how bad it was, and he referred to his piece of paper. “We’re on the low end here, but we’re still sitting at about 12.9 overdose deaths per 100,000. If you look at Vancouver it’s 31.9 and Central Vancouver Island is 21, and Thompson-Caribou is 27.4, so we’re not up to those numbers yet. But we see these statistics and we know something has to be done.”

He told me the policing approach would have to change. They had to pivot from a punitive way of doing things and embrace a harm reduction stance.

“I don’t have to be a police officer to say this: these are human beings. They are family members, they are sons and daughters, and the bottom line is we have to be taking care of the weakest people in our community. As police we’re not medically trained, but if we can assist with naloxone we can do that.” I decided to press him on the harm reduction angle, because I wanted to know exactly what he meant. They were still going to punish the bad guys, right? They were still going to go after the shit-heads responsible, yes? These fuckers weren’t going to get off scott-free. What did he have to say about that? I asked him if a drug dealer was in front of him saying that he wanted to sell fentanyl, what would he say to him?

A short flicker of hate came across Paul’s face. He scoffed.

“You know what I would tell them? I’d tell them, what you’re selling might kill somebody. Get a real job.”

The Kootenay Goon

[onceuponamirror]

the winged beast [6/12]

Fandom: Riverdale

Ships: Betty x Jughead, Archie x Veronica (background)

Chapters: 6/12

Summary:

This is how the world ends, she thinks. Not with a bang but with a motorcycle.

[serpent!au] [read on Ao3 from the beginning] [2] [3] [4] [5] [character design]

Betty, at least, was able to rule out Jason on Saturday morning, when she, without much delicacy, had asked Polly if she’d heard from Jason. Polly said she had; apparently he’d been drunk texting her all night and by breakfast, he’d sent an equal amount of flustered apologies. Her sister had said this all with pursed lips, and Betty filed away the reaction for later.

It’d been a huge relief; if it wasn’t Jason, it wasn’t her fault. Still, it was a reassurance she felt at odds with, given that just because Jason was okay, didn’t mean someone else was.

But she doesn’t have to wait long to find out; the news breaks on Saturday night.

When no one had heard from Moose Mason for 24 hours, Reggie Mantle had apparently confirmed it with the football team; he himself had tried resuscitating Moose until the paramedics arrived. Betty found out through Kevin, who already knew, but waited until it was publicly on twitter that Moose had been hurt before passing the news.

“I mean, I saw him like half an hour before,” Kevin says on the phone that night, his voice shaky. “I think he might’ve been trying to get me to have a threesome? Like? He was being so weird and out of it. I should’ve known something was up. I was so shocked that I just walked away but what if that was the last…” Kevin sucks in a gulp of air and trails off.

“It’s definitely not your fault, Kev,” Betty says softly, though she thinks about how stressed she’d been about Jason a few hours before and knows words probably mean nothing to Kevin right now. “There was no way you could’ve known.”

“Speaking of…none of us are supposed to know about this, by the way,” he adds, after a minute. His voice is stiff, and Betty can tell he’s probably still beating himself up. “My dad wants to wait for an official press conference. But he told me this morning. It’s…really bad, Betty.”

“Bad how?” Betty rolls over on her bed to grab her diary. She feels a sting of guilt with herself for jumping into journalist mode, but decides the truth is more important than tact. She raises her pencil to the paper.

Kevin pauses, choosing his words. When he speaks, his voice is very small. “He died, Betty. On the way to the hospital.”

She feels all the air leave her lungs and drops her pencil. “He…what? Died? I thought he was just…sick, or something. What happened? How?”

“My dad wouldn’t tell me, but I don’t think it was…uh, natural causes,” Kevin says. “Crap, I hear him coming. I gotta go, Betty. I’ll see you Monday. And don’t tell anyone,” he adds, and then the line is dead.

He died. Kevin’s words echo, almost mockingly. Moose Mason? Dead? It wasn’t as if she knew Moose particularly well, but she’s also known him her entire life. His entire life, she thinks with a sickening crunch to her stomach.

Betty closes her eyes and tries to retrace the moments at the base of the stairs. Joaquin running down the hall, someone yelling that Moose wasn’t breathing, Veronica and Archie arriving, the paramedics upstairs and shouting symptoms…they’d said something, a word she’d heard before. Some kind of medical term, maybe?

She exhales slowly, and when it finally feels like her lungs have nothing left in them, she blinks up at the ceiling. It doesn’t seem real. She saw him in class yesterday; she’d helped him spell the word scholastic. She feels sick; it’s one thing to abstractly investigate accidents and deaths on the other side of town, and it’s another to know someone taken by it.

Nibbling on her lip, she reaches over for her phone. She pulls Jughead up in her contacts and stares at the last conversation they’d had on Friday before the party.

Alright, I just watched 10 Things I Hate About You. It was so predictable!

That means you liked it :)

Does not

You like predictable

Can we keep the psychoanalysis off the table for once thank you very much

But then, a few minutes later, he’d sent:

I guess I see the appeal though

Betty stares at the exchange. Jughead does like predictability, despite whatever devil-may-care image he’s spent however long finely crafting. He may claim to be a cinema buff and a lover of creative integrity, but almost all of his favorite films have the exact same plot trajectory:

Character enters the mystery, then a reluctant partnership, a death or two halfway through to raise the stakes, followed by a big twist, followed by an ending that is somehow as satisfying as it is bittersweet.

She blinks back to the ceiling. If her life were a film, would last night have been the twist, or was the arc so obvious it couldn’t have been? Was this all foreshadowed by her obsession with finding the truth about the south side? Was this the moment that raised the stakes?

Or was a boy just dead?

The thought brings her soundly back into the moment. Her fingers hover over the keyboard of her phone, reading and rereading Jughead’s last text.

What she really wants to say is Hey, so what the fuck but that feels both too heavy and too joking somehow. Plus she’s not sure he’s ever heard her swear in the first place and the shock alone might distract him from the fact that she’s being serious.

But what would she say? Ask him what the hell Joaquin was doing fleeing the scene of what ended up being a death? That would feel accusatory and she doesn’t want to indict Jughead or even Joaquin of anything. After all Jughead opened up about people from the south side being stereotyped, and she just drops the blame on him or his friends without waiting for the full story?

No, she won’t insult Jughead by insinuating that.

So she settles on I have your leather jacket. She’s never seen him without it; she likes to imagine he has a closet full of them, like some cartoon character with only one outfit, but given the well-loved scuffing on this one, she doubts it. Anyway, she figures it’ll be easier to talk about this in person than try to navigate via text.

Do you want me to bring it to you? Meet at Pop’s?

About an hour later, and she still hadn’t gotten a response.

Or I’ll just bring it to school on Monday, whatever’s easiest.

Still nothing, and reluctantly Betty puts her phone aside to get ready for bed. Is he mad at her? Did she do something wrong? After her panic attack in the bushes of the Mantle mansion, the rest of the night had continued in such a haze that she barely remembers driving everyone home, but she tries to rack her brain for something she might’ve said to Jughead to upset him.

He’d tried to tell her something and she had shut him down, expecting it’d been the long-time-coming talk about boundaries and feelings. But Jughead doesn't seem like a guy who enjoys confrontation, and Betty would think he’d be relieved at dodging the “I have a girlfriend” talk.

Betty wonders if she should just be direct and ask him point blank if he knows anything. She remembers the terror on Joaquin’s face and Sabrina cursing madly down the stairs, but Jughead had seemed just as confused as she had been.

So why was he ignoring her?

She gets under the covers and pulls them tight up against her chin. There’s murmuring downstairs and the creak of her parents moving around, and Betty stares at the stick-on-stars on her ceiling and remembers tracing the constellations in the stars outside the party. She’d felt so happy then, if just for a fleeting moment.

She closes her eyes and thinks about Moose Mason.

.

.

.

Sunday drags on with glacial pace; this means two things. One, that no one else yet knows that Moose Mason, lovable high school linebacker, everyone’s All-American buddy, is dead.

Two, that her mother doesn’t know.

Part of her appreciates the day as the quiet before the storm, because once word reaches her classmates and especially once it reaches her mother and the town paper, it’s going to be hell. The north side of Riverdale has thus far happily kept horse-blinders on, but to lose one of their own is surely going to break the dam, especially if Moose didn't die naturally. 

Naloxone.

She sits upright in bed. The word comes to her in a flash, in a blinding memory of chaos and screams. “He’s hypoxic! Pupils dilated! Ready the naloxone!” The paramedic shouted, and Betty blinks. She hasn’t heard that word before, she’s read it.

She picks up her laptop and types it into the search bar. Naloxone, she reads, is the drug administered to people who have overdosed; it’s especially useful for those who OD on fentanyl because it’s so easy to over do.

Moose overdosed, she thinks, her mouth falling open. She clam shells her laptop shut and lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. On fentanyl? Moose Mason?

Fentanyl is not a drug typically found at the keggers of rich kids; it’s rough, and gritty. Cocaine, she could see. Prescription drugs, definitely. But her research has taught her fentanyl is typically cut into heroin, if anything, and that gives Betty pause, but she's not sure if it's her own unconscious prejudice about what an overdose should “look like” or if is this genuinely suspicious. 

She picks up her pencil and diary, her thoughts swirling. But after about ten minutes, Betty realizes she has just been staring at a blank page the whole time, and decides she’s not going to get anywhere with writing out her thoughts today, so she puts it aside and crawls over to her window perch.

Archie is sitting in his chair at his own window, spinning left and right as he juggles a worn-looking football between his hands. He looks up when Betty settles into her own seat, and moves to open his window. She does the same.

“How are you doing?” He asks, settling on his elbows.

With a pang of guilt, Betty realizes she’s been kind of neglectful of her friendship with Archie lately in lieu of time with the newspaper and, if she’s being honest with herself, with Jughead. But Archie has been equally busy with football and music and neither of them have made much of an effort lately. Betty makes a mental note to set aside some time for him.

“I’m okay,” Betty lies, forcing a light smile. “Thinking about Friday night though.”

“Me too,” Archie says, looking forlorn. “I keep trying to go through the people I saw at the party and the last time I saw them.” He pauses. “Who do you think it was?”

Betty bites her lip. Kevin had told her not to say anything and given the radio silence from Veronica too, she assumes he hasn’t told anyone but her. And she loves Archie, and while he’s decent at keeping secrets on his own, the minute someone presses him on it, he caves. He can’t lie to save his skin and telling him is too risky.

“I don’t know,” she says quietly, deciding not to pass the buck, “but I have a really bad feeling about this, Archie. Like it’s only going to get worse.”

Archie nods. “I feel it too. But I don’t…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just…this weird heaviness, like it’s in the air or something. Does that make sense?”

It makes more sense than Archie probably realizes. Betty tucks her chin down and nods, glancing across the room to her wardrobe, where Jughead’s jacket is currently hidden, tucked away like some dark, living, breathing secret. She exhales, long and slow, and meets Archie’s gaze one last time. 

These violent delights have violent ends, she thinks.

.

.

.

Betty wakes earlier than normal on Monday morning; truthfully, her sleep was fitful and tossing, so it’s not too difficult to roll out of bed at 5 A.M. and dress for an early run. She slips out of the house and heads out into a jog around the block. She’s exhausted, but her heart hasn’t stopped hammering since Friday, and the anxiety masquerading as adrenaline pushes her steps into long, lean strides.

She pounds into the cement, hoping to chase a burn that will soothe her churning thoughts, but after about 40 minutes, she realizes she can’t literally outrun her feelings, and she heads back home.

Her mother is bustling about in the kitchen when she returns. Alice looks up when she hears Betty approaching. “You’re up early,” she says, in the pleased voice she always uses when she’s impressed with Betty pushing herself. “Get a good run in?”

“Yeah,” Betty says, still breathing heavily. “I’m gonna go shower.”

Her mother nods and returns to her morning mantra of preparing pancakes and coffee. Betty watches her mother work for a moment, almost robotically, like some kind of pre-Feminine Mystique housewife going through the motions.

As she's heading up the stairs, Betty hears the phone ring, followed by her mother answering it quietly. It's a little early for a phone call, Betty thinks, but dismisses it once she's out of earshot. 

After her shower, Betty forgoes breakfast and heads straight to school; she wants to get there early, before anyone else, to get some work done on the paper, because she has a feeling that the day is going to be nothing short of a tempest once school starts. The police won’t be able to contain this secret much longer.

When she arrives at the Blue & Gold, she checks her phone again, but there’s still nothing from Jughead. Sighing, she hangs his leather jacket on the coat rack. It’d barely fit in her backpack this morning, and practically weighed as much as her old cat, but there was no way she was gonna let her mother see her sneaking out the door with a big black leather jacket in hand.

Betty sighs and settles down in front of her laptop. She doesn’t really know what she’s looking for, and technically this is just her own theory, but something still feels very suspicious about the combination of an all-star football player and a dangerous drug like fentanyl. She spends the next hour or two reading up about rise in overdoses across the country—there apparently is no shortage of small town horror stories much like their own.

Riverdale isn’t special, she realizes, and then feels naïve for not looking at this as indicative of a larger, national problem. Still, there's not much that reassures her about the conflicting depictions of fentanyl use and the image of Moose Mason. 

After she’s read so many articles that her eyes start to cross, she slams her laptop shut and puts her forehead in her hands. She hears people mulling about outside the room; students have started arriving like a gathering flock of scavenging birds, circling ominously over a wounded animal.

Betty sighs, and decides to use the remaining minutes before the first bell to get a few things out of her locker. When she returns, there’s someone standing in front of the corkboard, and she has a brief moment of relief where she thinks it might be Jughead.

It’s not.

Agent Drew looks over his shoulder at her, his face serious, before glancing once more to the wall of clippings and index cards with theories. His eyes linger on the center card for FENTANYL.

He traces his eyes around the room, moving slowly, and reaches the collection of Nancy Drew novels stacked on a shelf. He runs his fingers over them contemplatively.

“You like Nancy Drew?” He asks with a small smile. Betty returns it awkwardly and nods, her mind still playing catch up with the fact that there’s an FBI agent in her newspaper office. “Me too. I always used to get teased for reading the Nancy books instead of the Hardy Boys, but, well, I liked her best.”

“Because of your last name?” Betty asks, without really thinking first.

“Sort of the other way around,” he says evasively, clearing his throat and straightening. “Anyway. Miss Cooper, when we last spoke, you mentioned a few things I would like to follow up on. Would you mind answering a few more questions for me? We don’t have to go to the station; we can do this right here.”

The first bell tolls between them, but neither move.

“I know my rights, sir,” she says, raising her chin in the air, in an act that looks more defiant than she feels. “You can’t question me without a parent.”

He smiles, and runs a smoothing hand over his already crisp suit jacket. In the warm yellow light of the Blue & Gold office, Agent Drew looks a lot younger and friendlier than he had on Friday night. “Miss Cooper—may I call you Elizabeth?”

“I go by Betty,” she says, in a shaky exhale.

“Betty, then. You’re not under arrest, or even in any trouble. This isn’t a custodial setting and we can stop at any time. If there were charges being laid, of course we would have a parent or a guardian present, but I just have a few qualifying questions.”

She shifts from one foot to another. He looks at her, eyebrows creasing. “Gauging from the generous collection of mystery novels and the set up on that corkboard, I get the sense that you’re someone looking for the truth. Well, I am too. That’s why I’m here.”

She considers him. She thinks about what Jughead would say if he were here; probably warn her about not trusting authority figures or something with a casual conspiracy theory about capitalist police states.

But Jughead isn’t here, and has been ignoring her for days now. Why should she care what he’d say? She stares at the coat rack where she’d hung his leather jacket this morning, thinking he’d want it back today.

“If you would like anyone here with you, you are more than welcome to it, and I’ll happily wait,” he adds, with a small smile.

“No, it’s okay,” she says hesitantly. Despite a growing wariness of law enforcement ever since Jughead entered her life, there is something trustworthy about Agent Drew. He doesn’t seem any less business-like, but in the light of day, he has almost a paternal air to him, despite the fact that he can’t be more than in his late 20s.

Agent Drew crosses the room to the door, which he closes gently. Betty takes her usual seat, and he slips into the one across from her; the place where Jughead usually sits. She’d been upset that he’d skipped school again today, but now she’s desperately hoping he doesn’t change his mind and stays away.

He hauls a heavy-looking briefcase onto the desk, and begins sorting through it. He pulls out a manila folder and that familiar little black notebook, and aligns them together so that they’re perfectly straight and parallel.

He opens up the folder and clears his throat. “As this information will be released to the public shortly, if not already, I should tell you that Mr. Marmaduke Mason, otherwise known as Moose, passed away in the early hours of Saturday morning.”

He glances up at Betty, watching her carefully for her reaction, so Betty feigns shock, her mouth falling open. She’s not sure she convinces him, because he narrows his eyes before moving on.

“This morning I received the toxicology report from the autopsy of Mr. Mason,” he says, and Betty feels a shiver at the word autopsy. “And, along with a few other things, there was a fair amount of the opioid known as fentanyl in his system. Now that I’m seeing your…er, corkboard, I’m wondering if you have anything you’d like to share with me in that regard. What made you suspect the overdoses on the south side were linked to fentanyl? As far as I know, that wasn’t published anywhere.”

“My friend Jughead suggested it,” Betty says cautiously. “He works with me on the school paper.”

“Ah,” Agent Drew sighs, opening up his little notebook and flipping through it. “Right, right. Mr. Jones. I ran the names that you gave me, and unfortunately, it poses a bit of a dilemma.”

Betty bristles. He reaches back into his briefcase and withdraws an identical envelope. He scans his eyes over the papers briefly and begins to read.

“Joaquin DeSantos, the one who you said placed the first 911 call, has been arrested on multiple accounts of vandalism over the years. Sabrina Spellman has been in so many fights it’s amazing she’s still upright. And your friend Jughead Jones was once held in juvenile court for trying to burn down his elementary school.”

He puts the folder down and crosses his arms over it. “All three are known Southside Serpents. I’m afraid that doesn’t bode well, given I’ve learned they fled the scene shortly after Mr. Mason was found and that Mr. DeSantos was seen leaning over Mr. Mason by a witness.”

He looks up at Betty, and she’s surprised to see he looks more resigned than anything.

Known Serpent, she thinks. All three are known Southside Serpents, she hears Agent Drew’s voice echoing. Trying to burn down his elementary school.

That couldn’t be right. Why hadn’t Jughead told her? How could he have kept that from her? Did he think she’d care? Judge him?

She feels hurt—beyond hurt, maybe—but she doesn't have time to unpack that. She tries to keep her attention on Agent Drew. Her nails breach the skin of her palms in an attempt at focusing.

“That might all be true, sir, but I don’t think it’s them or the Serpents who are selling the fentanyl. I think they’ve been getting targeted for refusing to. There have been a lot of motorcycle accidents and people being run off the road, and bricks going through windows, and—”

“Betty, please,” Agent Drew says calmly. “I’m not accusing the Southside Serpents of anything. To be frank with you, I know that the local police department here would very much like it to be that simple. It’d be a neat little bow to tie everything together and would get the mayor’s office off their backs. I’m a bit of an unpopular guy right now for suggesting otherwise, but I agree with you in that there seems to be a pattern here.”

He sighs, and busies himself with readjusting his files. “But I’ve gotten very off topic. Betty, the reason I actually wanted to speak with you today is because of your friend Veronica Lodge.”

Betty blinks. She pauses, not sure she’s heard him right. “What?”

“Betty, are you aware that Veronica’s father is currently awaiting trial in a federal penitentiary?” He asks, pen poised over the notebook once more.

“I mean…yeah, but for like, tax evasion, right? It’s not like he was arrested for murder.”

Agent Drew smiles, but it’s more of a grimace than anything. “That would be Al Capone. Though that’s not too far off base,” he adds, more to himself. He immediately looks frustrated with himself, and sighs, straightening. “Betty, has Veronica ever mentioned anything about her father to you?”

It’s one thing to help Agent Drew with the investigation into Moose’s death, and it’s another to start pointing fingers at her friends. She opens her mouth to tell him just that, but doesn’t get a chance to, because the door flies open with such a force that both of them jump in their seats.

“Elizabeth, stop talking,” someone says, and Betty looks up to see her mother storming across the room. She throws her purse down on a desk, her face red with rage. “Who the hell do you think you are, questioning my daughter without a parent or a lawyer in the room?”

“Mom, what the hell?”

Agent Drew bolts upright from his chair. “Ma’am, please, I just had a few questions for your daughter regarding my investigation. It’s perfectly within legal realms. I assure you she is in no trouble; I informed her that she had the option of awaiting guardianship—”

“I’d like to see some credentials,” Alice snaps. “And get your name, so that I can report it to your supervisor immediately.”

“Of course,” Agent Drew says, and quickly retrieves his identification badge. “Special Agent Charles Drew with the FBI.”

Alice stares at Agent Drew for a long, hard moment, her expression odd and pinched.

“Mom, how did you even know he was here?” Betty asks, and it’s as if a spell was broken. Alice inhales and turns to her daughter.

“I happened to have a meeting with Principal Weatherbee today regarding Homecoming. He mentioned to me that the FBI were on the grounds conducting interviews and, well, I saw you two through the door window.”

Betty knows her mother well enough to read between the lines; that means her mother pressed Weatherbee into a corner for information and then she immediately went stalking off for a scoop.

Alice turns to Agent Drew with appraising eyes. “What exactly is the nature of your investigation?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Cooper, I’m afraid I can’t speak to the details of an ongoing case, however, beyond the fact that I’m now the primary investigator into Mr. Mason’s death this weekend.”

The revelation that a student died doesn't seem to shock Alice particularly, which means she must've learned about it this morning.

Betty looks at her. Her mother seems stuck between a rock and a hard place, perhaps warring with her instinct to needle for information and her desire to shelter her daughter from it. “And just how long has the FBI been involved here?” She asks, squinting at him.

“Details of the case will be made public after it’s closed, or until otherwise seen fit,” Agent Drew says, almost robotically. “Mrs. Cooper, I’ve done my research into this town, and I am aware that you and your husband run the town’s local newspaper, so unfortunately, you’ll have to wait for an official press conference to get your questions in.”

His lips twitch, just barely, and Betty realizes that actually might’ve been a joke.

“Fine,” Alice sniffs. “Now, if you have any more questions for my daughter, you can contact our lawyer. You’re done here.”

Agent Drew doesn’t seem particularly surprised that this is the conclusion of a helicopter parent storming into his interview. He gives her one last studying look before packing up his briefcase. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, and slips away.

Alice turns her eyes on Betty. “What was he asking you about?” She asks sharply. “I heard him mention Veronica Lodge’s name. I told you what I think of that girl. She’s not your friend.”

“Stop it!” Betty shouts. “You don’t even know her! Why are you so obsessed with this…witch-hunt with her and her family, when you should be talking about what’s really going on in this town?”

Alice crosses her arms and looks over at the corkboard. “What’s really going on in this town? You mean your flirtation with the high school newspaper? Elizabeth, please. Those gangbangers don’t care about you or any of us; why would you care about them? They made their bed and they’ll sleep in it as far as I’m concerned.”

Betty stares at her mother with horror. “Why are you like this?” She asks after a moment. “I mean, god Mom, what did they ever do to you?”

Alice just presses her lips together and looks back at the corkboard, her eyebrows creasing.

“People like you treat them like second-class citizens but they’re just as much part of Riverdale as we are. Just because they don’t fit into your Stepford fantasy doesn’t mean they aren’t,” Betty says, raising her chin into the air.

Her mother scoffs, though she looks noticeably ruffled. “Betty, this is hardly so Shakespearean. We’re not Capulets and Montagues. I’m perfectly sure there are some good people on the south side, but the fact of the matter is, I can say with certainty that a lot of them are gangbanging drug dealers. You of all people should know that by now, after what happened on Friday night, but you’ll see tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Betty repeats. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“Your father and I are running a story about this boy’s death and the little Serpent that was seen standing over his body,” Alice says, staring out the window. She glances back at Betty sharply. “Or is that not what happened?”

“That—that’s you twisting it!” Betty sputters. “We don’t have all the facts, we have no idea what happened or how Moose got the drugs. You know, Jughead said—”

“Jug-head? Who is Jug-head?”

Betty realizes her mistake immediately. “He’s…he works with me on the school paper.”

“What an unusual name,” her mother muses suspiciously. “Hard to think there’s more than one Jughead in this town. Would he be the same Jughead Jones of south-side-proper that Reggie Mantle listed as being at the party?”

“He had nothing to do with what happened to Moose,” Betty says quickly. “He was with me all night.”

Alice hums; she has the same expression that Betty makes when she’s filing something away for later. Then she sighs, her whole posture deflating a little.

“Betty, you do remember that Reggie Mantle’s father owns half the share of the Register, correct? And then there’s party thrown by his son, apparently unbeknownst to them, and it ends in a boy’s death. Needless to say, it doesn’t look good for an upstanding family to have an overdose under their roof.”

“But...”

“Do you realize the kind of pressure Mr. Mantle is putting on us to write about the culprits who dealt the drugs or brought them onto his property?” Alice snaps, looking suddenly very tired. 

“But that doesn’t mean you should just start scapegoating the easiest target—”

Her mother turns to her, arms crossed. Her icy resolve seems to be melting a bit as she straightens.

“Betty, you wanted us to start talking about overdoses and drugs, and now we are. You wanted us to talk about the south side, and now we are. You don’t always get what you want the way you want it,” she says, and Betty is surprised to find the softness there, nestled in between a thoughtful frown.

Alice turns her attention back to the window. She almost looks sad now. “There are things I never wanted for you, honey, but I had to learn my lesson about Pandora’s box the hard way. And it seems you do too.”

.

.

.

[jessicakehoe]

Ian Williams’s “I Want It All. I Want It Now.” Chapter 3: Broke Up, Broken Up

Below you’ll find the third chapter of Ian Williams’s fictional story, “I Want It All. I Want It Now,” from our Summer 2019 issue. To read from the beginning, click here.

Toronto, Montreal

Vein

Late summer, Ella took me to the airport. Together we lifted my bags onto the scale to be weighed. I’d been booked for a lot of work that summer: an ad campaign for a beauty brand in Toronto, a fitness spot on TV in Montreal and a fashion shoot in Mexico.

Ella said, I’ll keep an eye on your druggie boyfriend.

She still called Hudson my boyfriend, even though we’d had a conscious uncoupling after the music festival. No one’s taking minutes, but, for the record, I’d consciously uncoupled him and not the other way around.

He’s not a druggie. I felt the need to defend him. I had bought him a Sackville & Co. gold grinder for his weed. I said, A little pot does not a druggie make.

We’d had this conversation before. I had never seen Hudson use anything more than a little pot, and, even so, there was a difference between trying a drug and being an addict. He might have tried something. I tried cocaine in high school. I wasn’t an addict.

Ella tilted her head. Just high school?

Don’t look at me like that.

She shook her head. I caught a whiff of Daisy.

I should be worried about you, I said. You’re the one who was on friggin’ methadone.

Naloxone.

Naloxone, I repeated. She had projected her problem on him. I needed a break from them both.

I have something for you, Ella said.

She rooted around in her Gucci bag until she found a row of condoms.

I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he cheated on you with more than one woman. Ella made a tourniquet around my arm by tying two condoms together. As she was working, she listed names: Molly, Roxie, Aunt Hazel, Mandy, Kitty.

Ella drummed the inside of my elbow as if searching for a vein. Then she pushed me toward the security area with the condoms tied around my arm.

Tat

According to Instagram, Hudson got a tattoo. It was on his ribs—about the size of a passport photo. Very discreet. If he squeezed his arm against his torso, he’d cover it up. It was still red in the image. Caps. Serif font.

Seeing it on his body, I felt like he had communed with my mother and she had given me over to him. Or he had taken me over. I was on his body forever. The words weren’t beads I borrowed from Ella’s closet.

Ice

Hudson used to describe Sephora as the makeup version of the Apple store: brightly lit, clerks everywhere, an air of sterility, futuristic, clean to the point of being antiseptic.

I was sitting on a stool in the Bite Beauty section wearing all black, knees together, hair pulled back. I was one of 15 models hired for a one-day social media campaign. Women had been invited into the store to get their makeup done and have the chance to win a modelling contract. Each woman would sit next to a model while a clerk did her makeup similar to that model’s; then Sephora would snap some photos, post them on Instagram and ask people to guess who the model was. It was a Dove kind of idea—celebrating the beauty of ordinary women.

The woman on the stool in front of me was more than 10 years older than me. I’d say she was 37. We sat facing each other like reflections. My future self. Her past. Pale. Blunt nose. Faint eyebrows, like a Dutch portrait. Overall, she was austere and well maintained but starting to finely crack.

Her manners were European. She said, You are one of those challenging models.

Is that good? I asked.

Unconventional. She had three stripes of tester lipstick on her hand. The middle one looked the best on her.

I was starting to get offended.

Where you’re pretty if you have one ugly feature.

Oh. I said nothing about her nose. Just, Oh.

I guess that’s what sells, she said, looking into my eyes. She was feeling the boldness of becoming beautiful. Ella would describe her face as aristocratic.

Are you a student? she asked.

In Vancouver, I said. I wanted to impress her. Grad student. M.B.A.

Which is your primary identity?

Excuse me?

Slowly. Are you a student or are you a model?

Both. (I want it all, and I want it now.)

Or are you someone’s girlfriend?

I looked at her left hand. She had a diamond. She was one of those women who would be cruel to other aspiring women in her company. Worse to women than to men.

I don’t often feel teary, but my mother’s birthday was coming up (always a difficult day), and Hudson had posted that IG photo a few days ago; plus I was worried about whether or not I was toned enough for Montreal in a few days, plus it was high summer and I was—I’ll admit—lonely under my sunglasses, and now this ice queen was stabbing her pick into my heart.

I couldn’t wet my makeup. I said, You look like a lawyer.

Young love, she said. Caustic. She smiled a little. Squinted. You’re not going to be a challenging model forever.

I’m going to need you to stop talking now, the clerk said to the woman to save me.

Lawyer, she mouthed and touched her large nose.

Muldoon, the Beagle

But things got worse. A few days after Sephora, I had just slathered on sunscreen and was biking sprints through The 6, along Lake Ontario, when my father called.

He was putting down Muldoon, a black and white beagle with a coat so shiny it appeared metallic.

He just wanted to say goodbye, my dad said.

I had known Muldoon his whole life. His owners—the coolest, sweetest people—were hardcore punk rockers who had paid me to dog-sit as a kid.

My dad turned on the video. There was Muldoon. His ears were flopped forward like two leaves at the side of his head. When he heard my voice, he sniffed the screen. His eyes were noble.

I told Muldoon about Doggy Heaven. About my mom. He blinked slowly.

My dad said his girlfriend was spending the week with him. Then he hung up. Or, he thought he did. I watched my screen go black as he put his phone face down on the counter. Our phones were still connected.

I could hear the moment Muldoon died. I heard shuffling, then muffled voices, then silence, then a shift in the silence—like the hum of the AC going off.

FT

Mom would have been 60 today. Happy B-day, Ma! On her last birthday before she died of breast cancer, I got out all of her Fashion Television tapes and we curled up on my parents’ bed and watched hours and hours of Jeanne Beker, the synth-pop theme song, fashion weeks, Naomi Campbell and Linda Evangelista, Milan, haute couture.

It was my present to her—even if she slept through many of them with a silk scarf on her head.

Backup

In Montreal, I was a fitness model for a morning lifestyle show. Pretty much, I was the equivalent of a backup dancer (that’s what Hudson would call me) for the demo of an Instagram workout video.

I powered through some sit-ups backstage and planked. Club pump. The male model did some push-ups and sprints up and down the hallway; then he patted himself dry and squeezed Gatorade into his mouth. Good energy, this guy Denis. He double high-fived me, low and high.

You got this, he said. Cute little French accent.

Cute little everything.

I unzipped my hoodie. Denis the hottie did some lunges to show off his quads. I did some cat-cow stretches. The audience applauded. We jogged onstage.

Denis adjusted his shorts partway through the segment. He was trying to manage his boner.

At the end of the segment, he ran up to me from behind and lifted me off the ground.

You were amazing, he said.

We followed each other on Instagram.

We had lunch after the segment, and lunch turned into a walk, which turned into dinner. Denis was a big talker. A happy, friendly spaniel. A simple man who needed simple adjectives. So transparent I could see through his face into his brain. He went to bed early, woke up early, went for a morning run, peeled his clothes off at the door and showered, made himself a paleo or keto breakfast, juiced kale and ginger for a midday boost.

So, after dinner, we went to bed early together, woke up early together, went for a morning run together, peeled our clothes off at the door and showered together, made ourselves a paleo or keto breakfast together, juiced kale and ginger for a midday boost together. Times eight days.

I imagined this was what marriage would feel like: Denis parting the curtains in the morning. Denis parting his hair. Denis high-fiving me over laundry. Denis planning ski trips. Denis cuddling with the dog. Olympic sex. Denis to the death. As he was loading my luggage into the trunk of the cab, he said, You are the most—

Compatible person I have ever met, I finished.

We had been finishing each other’s sentences all week.

I saw, of course, this tweet. I slid, platonically, into his DMs. I don’t know why I had reached out to Hudson in the first place.

Sorry about the band, Hudson, I wrote, and removed the heart emoji before sending. The response came quickly.

Any chance you’re in L.A.? I could use your face.

But I know you’re always the one following me. In brackets he let me know that my face is better than the smiley emoji he uses to sign off. I left him with three dots, as if I’d be writing him during my whole flight.

It was late—my flight was delayed—and my loneliness was so astringent it was drying out my skin.

Airplane mode

Waiting for the flight to take off for Mexico, I smelled Santal 33 on the man next to me. I missed how Hudson touched me. Lots of men touched me, styled me, posed me, cinched me, adjusted my hair and jaw as necessary, but Hudson had a range of fabric in his fingers. Most men were cotton.

I looked at my phone.

I imagined him staring at his phone.

I switched my phone to airplane mode and stowed it so I wouldn’t be tempted to reread all our messages.

About three hours into the flight, the Santal 33 smell was so bad that it drove me to join the mile-high club. Not with the dude next to me, no. The half-mile-high club, then, alone, in the bathroom at the back of the aircraft, when the flight attendants turned off all the lights.

You may use your cellular devices at this time.

Odile’s story isn’t finished yet. She clearly isn’t over Hudson, but will he fight harder than Denis? See how it all pans out in Chapter Four and follow @the.real.odile on Instagram for real-time updates.

The post Ian Williams’s “I Want It All. I Want It Now.” Chapter 3: Broke Up, Broken Up appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

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