#did i remember to put the frozen bagels in the oven before i started making coffee?

[robustcornhusk]

atrociously sticky adhesive, gone, due to the powers of a heat gun and goo-gone

[such-a-random-rambler]

Birthday Surprise

heeeeyyyyy @lenle-g

Happy Birthday!!!! - sorry that this is a bit late, but I didn’t intend it to be quite this long so had to finish it today.

(Prompt was John and Stabbed and boy did I have sooooo much fun with this. I might rewrite this one day into something much longer because I loved this idea so much. So thank you for the idea!)

Hope you enjoy.

“So, then I pulled her up off the floor - “ Gordon explained, getting into the swing of it now.

“Yeah, I know.”

“And I said ‘Hold on tight’.”

“I know.”

“And I fired a grapple hook off, getting the angle just right to wedge it into the top of the cliff face, not an easy shot I can assure you.” Gordon gestured upwards sharply, now with less than half his concentration on the selection of root vegetables in front of him. They would all need chopping to roughly equal sizes to roast evenly but they could wait a second while he recounted his latest feat of heroics.

“I know Gordon.” John said, reaching round behind him to get to the pots of fresh herbs for the basting of the turkey. “I was there.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Ok.” Gordon could hear that eyeroll. “Maybe not physically, but I was listening.”  

“Yeah, so let me tell it, because I say something really funny in a minute.”

John nipped back round him to the refrigerator for butter or something. “You’re not meant to be joking about on the job.”

“It’s not joking around, it’s lightening the atmosphere and putting the rescuee at ease in a tense situation.”  

“Fine.” John reached round for a mixing bowl. “Before you carry on and tell me everything I already know, have you preheated the oven yet?”  

“No.” Gordon turned back to his vegetables. It wasn’t often they got a house full but tomorrow was a special day at the end of a good week. They’d only had half a dozen dispatches, no fatalities, not even a broken bone. Virgil, Alan and Scott were on the way back and weren’t they going to be pleased to see that John had descended in their absence. Particularly Scott as it was his birthday tomorrow. If Gordon played it right he might even be able to play it off as Gordon’s present to the eldest: coaxing John out of the heavens and a full Thanksgiving-style roast even though it wasn’t the time of year for it.  

“I’m going to get so many brownie points for this. You here, Scott’s favourite food already in the oven: this was all my idea.” Gordon grinned, giving a particularly tough carrot a few enthusiastic chops. They went soft and sweet on a long slow roast – delicious.

“Do you need those brownie points for anything in particular?” John squeezed past him again, back to the refrigerator.  

“Well. There might have been a slight incident on Tuesday.” He paused. “No wait Monday.” Gordon counted back the days since the thing with the sock, conducting his thoughts. “Definitely Monday.” He whipped around, triumphant to have caught John out. “But I thought you knew anything anyway, so surely -”

The words died in his throat. John was close. Very close. Right behind him.  Eyes wide. Bowl in one hand, with the butter rub that would be pushed under the skin of the turkey to make it moist and flavorful. Too close. Gordon had frozen at the slight pull of resistance from the knife in his hand as he turned. The knife that he had sharpened to tackle the carrots and potatoes and parsnips and sweet potatoes. The one he had been gesturing with for the last fifteen minutes.  

Gordon’s gaze drifted downwards and for a moment thought he had imagined the soft gasp from his brother. He couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing. John. Too close. His knife. Where John was. Blood, creeping across the front of John’s shirt.  

John’s shirt was almost brand new. Not that new in fact, probably a few years at this point but it still had that soft new feeling of something that hadn’t been laundered too much. It was one of Johns favourites, but he wasn’t here enough to wear his civilian clothes a lot. Certainly not to wear them out, so they were always fresh and neat and clean. But now this one was covered in blood.

CRACK

Pottery dropped to the floor, the aroma of parsley and basil and rosemary and more blooming into the air.

Gordon was still gripping the knife. He moved, just a fraction of an inch, and John’s hand darted out to grab his wrist.

“Don’t move it.” he breathed.  

Gordon knew that. One of the basic tenants of first aid. Don’t go pulling objects out of wounds if you’re not prepared to deal with the bleeding that will follow. He wasn’t going to just rip the knife out. He wasn’t. He knew that. But. It had been instinct, just for a moment there to get it out.  

But John, who saw everything, who knew everything, knew what to do. Had stepped up even with a knife in his gut.

Slowly, forcing each finger carefully back Gordon released his grip on the knife handle, with John’s grip still firm around his wrist and red filling Gordon’s vision.  

Gordon locked shocked eyes with John, noting his normally suntan-free skin had lightened by several shades.

“I -” John started, swallowing heavily and continuing shakily. “I need you to help me sit down.”

“You need to lay down.” Gordon corrected, first responder instincts kicking in from somewhere in his subconscious while his conscious was still largely frozen.

Gordon stepped around to John’s back, where he could take most of his weight in a controlled descent to the floor, then pulling him back until he was horizontal. There was a med kit in the book case. But there were dish cloths here. Gordon grabbed the nearest clean one as a compress: laid carefully around the knife so as not to dislodge it put then pushed firmly to stem the bleeding.  

John gave a reflexive flinch, squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a low groan.

“Thunderbirds One and Two on final approach.” Scott’s voice boomed across the room. He sounded happy, relaxed: back from another successful mission after a pretty damn good week. “We’ll be landing in five.” He didn’t know.

“This was all my idea.”

Scott took the steps up to the gantry two at a time, heart light. He was already in a good mood when he had landed: yet another day where he barely got his uniform dirty. In and out, quick and easy, that’s the way he liked his peril. Virgil was taxiing Two back in and wouldn’t even need to do a medkit restock today. He was loath to say anything out loud, but Scott offered silent prayers that this was yet another day they had come back home with barely a scratch.  

Walking across the hangers he paused mid stride at the space elevator resting on it’s own pad, tucked neatly into the corner. Scott usually had to wrestle John down for his scheduled rest days, of which today was not one.  John always, without fail, notified him if an unscheduled visit was needed  for health and safety reasons and there had been not so much as a whisper of anything wrong on Five for weeks. Which meant this was a social visit.  

Scott broke out into a broad grin and lengthened his stride, making quick work of the several flights between the hanger and the house. With John down that would make a complete set for the first time in who-knows-how-long. Scott wasn’t big into birthdays, his own in particular. They were just a reminder of how long it had been since the holes had been ripped in his family, and there was usually some sort of incident to attend to anyway. But maybe, just maybe, he might get a couple of minutes of them all together for his birthday.

He tried not to storm into the kitchen – the first place to look for John was by the bagels – but he was keen, so at first he didn’t notice a ginger mop of hair on the floor as it was six foot below where he would usually be looking. Was this some sort of post-orbital stretching? Almost continual space duty was taxing on the body but surely they could come up with something other than being a human trip hazard asleep on the kitchen floor.

Gordon was leaning over John, back to Scott.  Typical for him to be involved in something inappropriate but he had picked up all sorts of weird things during his lengthy physiotherapeutic tour of the world after his accident.  Scott shook his head, but frowned as his noticed a bright red pool of paint, spreading across the plain while tiles. What the hell?

Gordon must have heard him come in, for he glanced over his shoulder. Scott had seen Gordon look that pale and shell shocked exactly twice before. Once for Mom and once for Dad, and it struck terror at Scotts core in an instant.  

Like an optical illusion his perspective changed and a brand new and much more terrifying scene resolved before his eyes. John wasn’t asleep, he was unconscious or close to it. That wasn’t paint. He was lying in a pool of blood.  

Scott didn’t remember covering the intervening distance but in a flash he was standing right next to his two brothers, where he could see the blood soaked cloth in Gordon’s hands. And the handle of the kitchen knife standing out from John’s side.

“Help me.” Gordon begged, looking up at him, face ashen.  

Gordon and Alan leapt up from where they had been waiting on the stairs just out the medbay. Scott straightened from leaning against the wall. Scott looked worried. Alan looked worried. Gordon looked damn near terrified.

“He’s going to be fine.” Virgil said, giving his final pronouncement now the bandaging was complete. “It nicked a blood vessel but we’ve got that sown up and it didn’t perforate any internals. Muscle damage mostly. He just needs a bit of rest now.”  

Alan immediately relaxed, shoulders lowering and a relieved grin spreading across his face. “See,” he nudged Gordon, “I told you he was going to be fine.”

“I.... I didn’t mean to.” Gordon stuttered, eyes on the floor.  

“Gordon.” Scott said sharply, bringing Gordon’s eyes up to his, and Virgil shot Scott a warning look to take it easy on him, even if he had spent the last hour holding John’s stomach together for Virgil to stich, then cleaning up his blood from the kitchen floor.

“Whatever you are about to say I don’t want to hear it.” Scott said a little more gently but with uncharacteristic lack of tact. “Whatever you need to say, you need to say to John.”

“I don’t think he’ll want to see me.”

“He does,” Virgil said “he’s been asking for you.” As soon as he had been stable enough to talk John had started to ask about Gordon, and it was only a promise that he would see him soon that kept John in the bed while Virgil was trying to god-damn stitch him up. Painkillers always made John stubborn.

Gordon made no move to go in and Virgil heaved a huge sigh at the difficulty of having younger brothers. “He’s awake right now, but he needs his rest so get a move on.”  Virgil grabbed Gordon by the shoulder and shoved him towards the door. “We’ll be having pizza when you’re done. Alan go and put the oven on would you, you can see John later, when he wakes up.”

Alan nodded and scampered along the corridor. He was a good kid. Virgil gave Gordon another push through the door, and closed it gently behind him.

Scott looked tired. He always looked tired, but more tired than usual.  

“Not what I expected to come home to.” Virgil said wryly.

“No.” Scott agreed. “I suppose it had all been going too well these last couple of weeks, we were due for a disaster. I thought someone had broken in or something at first.”

Virgil had heard Scott bellow for a medic from three floors away and as he had rushed in his first thought had been an attack from the Hood or the Chaos Crew as well. Amongst the application of a proper emergency compress and manouvering John down to the medical room Gordon had haltingly explained there was no intruder to pursue. Which stopped them putting the island into emergency lock down at least.

“Do we need to do anything?”

“With Gordon?” Scott raised a questioning eyebrow. “I doubt it. He’s had the fright of his life. So have I. I don’t know about one year, I think I’ve aged about ten years tonight!”

Virgil slung an arm around Scott’s shoulder as they followed in Alan’s wake to the kitchen. “At least he’ll definitely be down for your birthday.”

John was only half aware of the conversation going on outside the room, quite happy to let the wonderful drugs do their fine work, but the soft click of the door and tentative shuffling footsteps made him force his eyes fully open. Gordon stood by his bed, awkwardly swaying from side to side and not quite looking him in the eye.

“Hey.” John -  mustering himself to say something a little more intelligent -  sat a little more upright. Not much more upright though.

“Hey.” Gordon returned, eyes flicking to the almost empty blood bag. “Does it hurt?”

John was just going to reach round for a clove of garlic when Gordon turned, and at first it was like a punch. But after that initial impact the pain morphed from something blunt and bruising to sharp and breathtaking.

“No, I’m on the good stuff.”

Gordon nodded. Acknowledgement? Approval?

“Errrr..... Virgil said you wanted to see me, but, well I don’t know, if you want to rest, or whatever, I don’t mind - “

“I did.” John interrupted. “I wanted to make sure you were ok.”

Gordon met his eyes in surprise. “Me? I’m fine. I’m.... I’m not the one who got stabbed. I’m the one who....”

Deer in headlights. John knew what that meant now. John was aware of every second they were frozen in that awful tableau, the slow spread of warmth outside, the frozen spear stabbing inside. The look of shock and terror and disbelief written across Gordon’s face. The big brother in him wanted to do something about that. He wanted to make the fear go away and promise that it would all be ok. The little part of him that was always on Thunderbird Five snapped at him to prioritise so he’d left that comforting for later and focused on the bleeding.  

John reached out – being careful not to pull on the i.v. - to take one of Gordon’s hands in his. “I’m going to be ok Gordon. A bag of blood and a few stitches, a bit of bed rest and I’ll be right as rain.”

“I’m sorry.” Gordon whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have been running around right behind you like that.”

“I should have not been waving a knife around like that. I almost killed you.”

The kitchen floor was cold against his back, apart from where his own blood warmed him. It probably wasn’t even that much, but he’d lost enough to make him a little light headed and to be glad he wasn’t still trying to stand. He tried not to show how much it hurt when Gordon pressed down, but every breath jostled the metal protrusion. It might not even be that deep but his imagination was conjuring unhelpful images of being run through. John thought he had felt feint vibrations from the depths of the island and was hoping that wasn’t his imagination. His concentration was slipping and Gordon needed backup.

“You didn’t. And I’m going to be fine.” John peered into Gordon’s face to see if he was taking it all in.  

Gordon nodded, slightly teary. He might have to be told it a couple more times, but he would get it in the end.

John let his head drop back against the pillow: exhausted, fuzzy and ready for sleep. “Look on the bright side though, neither of us is going to be given kitchen duty for a while.”

[lokisgame]

A Generous Donation [8]

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7]

Mulder woke up to music and the scent of coffee, remembering last night and grinning like a madman. "I died and went to heaven," he said to the ceiling and got up. Though his neck and shoulder echoed a little, life still felt pretty good. He pulled a clean tee and jeans from the chest of drawers and headed for the shower. Pans and plates from in the kitchen told him she wasn't going anywhere.

Ten minutes later, he padded downstairs to see the living room straightened and Scully, by the stove in nothing but his yesterdays' t-shirt. Tips of her hair were wet and she swayed to Marley on the stereo. 'Is this love that I'm feeling' "From your mouth to God's ears, Bob," he thought.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, Mulder wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in, moving with her as he kissed her cheek. "Good morning." "Hey, you sleep like a deadman," she breathed, leaning into him as he moved to her neck. "Rarely." Scully chuckled, squirming but not pulling back. "Do you ever shave?" "First Monday after fool moon, otherwise no." "So I'm stuck with a lumberjack," she said then turned and saw his smile ready to land on her mouth. His lips were soft and his hand on her ass felt warm and she forgot the scratchy beard, bending backwards and holding on, because he was just so tall. "I'll shave, right now," he said, breaking the kiss, rocking her to the music. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back down. "On second thought, I like my man rugged sometimes." "Yeah? Then how about." Mulder bent his knees and grabbed her waist. "No, wait!" Floor vanished from under her feet and she grabbed his shoulders for balance, laughing, and a second later she was sitting on the counter, next to buttermilk and flour, trapped between his arms. "Pancakes will burn," she warned. "No they won't," he said giving the pan a little stir and cranking down the burner. Then hands framing her cheeks, he kissed her for real, slow and sweet but building as she drew him in.   "There's some frozen bagels in the freezer, if you want," he breathed finally, keeping his forehead pressed against hers. "Cream cheese?" "Obviously." "Didn't find any." "Has to be," he frowned and let go to rummage through the fridge, "I swear I bought it last time." Scully hopped off the table and turned the heat back up under the pan, while around her doors banged open and closed. "There you are! Fraternising with the mayo, huh?" She laughed and he was back, bumping her away from the stove. "These will need a minute," he said loading four bagels into the oven. "You're surprisingly apt in the kitchen." "Well, at some point, I told myself that it's time to stop living like a frat boy and start behaving like a man." He got up and pulled two mugs from the cupboard above the coffee machine. "What kind of man can't feed himself." "An average man." Mulder chuckled filling her mug then handed it to her. "Well, then I'm an alien." "You're a role model," she took the mug and watched him take a sip. "Damn, you make a fine cup of coffee," he grinned, pecked her cheek and went to get the paper.

"So this is what you do," she said looking at the book in her hands. "It's a hobby." "Nine hundred pages, quite an extensive hobby, "I Want To Believe. A Psychologist's Take." "Yeah, it's kind of hard, to put it all in one book and still do the subject justice." "What is it about?" "People's stories mostly, self-proclaimed alien abductees, cryptozoologists, conspiracy theorists, your average outcast." "And the psychologist's take?" "I wanted to give these people some background, explain why they need to believe what they believe in, why the world dismisses and ridicules them, how it affects their lives and why they keep doing it anyway. Some of them are dreamers, some are scared for their lives and some went through things so bizarre that it's almost impossible to imagine, unless you're Steven Spielberg, on crack." "This is the book Will was raving about all summer." "Must have found a copy at the library." "Can I borrow it?" "Keep it, I've got a box of them in the basement." "I bet you give a copy to every girlfriend." "No," he chuckled, "not really." She folded herself beside him on the couch and he took the book from her, opening it on the fist page and signing it with a flourish before giving it back. Scully glanced at the inscription. "Hey, it says William, I thought it was for me." "You get the author," he smiled and pulled her legs over his lap, toppling them over, mouth on hers again. "I really should be going," she said a good while later, flushed and warm, tangled with him in the cramped space, again. "Will needs his mom," he agreed, doing absolutely nothing to let go. "My mom," Scully whined and hid her face in his chest. "She always goes to see him after church, and she'll be there today and nag me about the foundation thing." "What foundation thing." "She wants me to look for a donor through a foundation, and what she means by it, is that we should pay someone off and get Will bumped up the waiting list." "Is that even legal?" "No, but that's my mom for you, lie, cheat and steal for those she loves." "You blame her?" "No, but I don't want to think about it, unless I have absolutely no other choice." "Let me know if I can help." "You already helped," he mumbled into his tee, pulling him closer and his arms tightened around her, solid and undemanding. "You're easy to please." Scully laughed and made herself let go. "Okay, time to face the day." "You go girl." He said and sat up with her. He watched her gather her things, pull on her boots and stash the book in her bag. "The dish, hold on." He went to the kitchen and met her at the door. "Thank you for dinner, and breakfast," he said leaning in to kiss her gently, "and everything in between." "We should do it again sometime." "I have these papers to grade," "And I have to face my mom and see my son," "But tonight," "Eight o'clock?" "Your place." "My place." "I'll bring food." "Good man." She smiled, climbing on tiptoes to kiss him one last time, at least for now.

She had a nice lunch with Will, who was thrilled about the book, stroking its' glossy sleeve and the UFO hovering above the trees on it. "It's sold out everywhere, how did you get it?" "Had to pull some strings." "I bet you did," Will grinned wickedly and pulled on the collar on her shirt, revealing a bright pink bruise on her skin. "You're too young to know about that." She said, feeling the blush creep in as she swatted his hand aside. "About what?" Will smiled and the smile changed before her eyes. She knew them all, grins and smirks and beams and pouts, but now, with that wicked glint in his eye. "It's signed!" He exclaimed, before she could pin the thought down. "C'mon, he's your professor." "I couldn't ask for an autograph, that's embarrassing." "Well, good thing your mother isn't as proud." "I have the best mom," he said in a sing-song voice, hugging her tight for a brief second. "Now leave me, I want to read this." "You're crazy," she laughed. "Yup," Will grinned and opened the book and began to read.

Mulder showed up at 8, with a bag of Thai takeout and a six-pack of Shiner. "Damn, you're hot," she said, pulling him inside and straight into her arms, feeling him fumble with the bags and not giving a damn. "And you shaved," she grinned a moment later. "Well, you asked so nicely," he said and pulled her back in. "Okay, food first," she laughed surfacing and pushing him away, uselessly. "Hmmm, I dunno," Mulder mused, hands starting to roam. "You trust me?" "Yeah," "Then food first." He sighed, keeping her in his arms. "Fine, how's Will?" "He's fine, loved the book." "Happy to hear that." He stole a kiss and only then let her go. "And he's totally onto us," she said, taking the bag from him. Mulder chuckled, shrugging out off his jacket and following her into the kitchen. "Smart kid."

"How did this happen?" Scully mused stretched out on Mulders' chest, stomach full and every fibre of her body relaxed. "What happened?" "I know that my life may fall apart, that my son is in a hospital, hooked up to an IV, fighting for his life," she said, laying down her head on his shoulder, "but you make it all bearable, for the first time in weeks, I don't feel like I'm drowning." "I live to serve," he whispered, stroking her hair. "You'll get through this, both of you." "Can you promise me that?" "No, but I can help you believe." He said, completely honest and it was exactly what she needed to hear. "Will you stay tonight?" "I've got class at 10." "And I need to be at the hospital around 9." "So, what are we going to do with all that time?" "We'll think of something," she said and puled herself up to reach his mouth. Her last thought was that, between him and Will, she might need a longer couch.

The next morning, Scully sat in her car, waving Mulder goodbye as he drove off, when her phone pinged with an email notification.

From: W.Skinner@transplantation.bostongen.com To: D.Scully@neurology.bostongen.com Subject: URGENT good news Dr. Scully We need to talk. Meet me ASAP. Walter

She pulled out from the parking spot and all but stomped on the gas pedal.

[galway-bae]

I mentioned I was writing some short horror, so here it is! I put it below the cut so as not to Destroy your dashboard. Read on for infrasound shenanigans. 

I work at a bookshop.

Yeah, I know, you’re probably backing out now. You’re assuming this is my grab at a book deal, writing a “totally true horror story” and waiting to go viral. But I promise you, I’ve never wanted to write a book. Hell, I didn’t particularly want to sell them. It’s my great-uncle’s store, really. Uncle George. He hired me straight out of college so I could make some cash, spent a year showing me the ropes, and promptly kicked the bucket. Nobody in the family wanted to take it over, but nobody wanted to sell it either. So now it’s mine.

It’s not a bad gig. I have a small apartment tucked into a corner of the attic, a bathroom and tiny kitchen behind the “Employees Only!” door in the back, and a washer and dryer crammed behind the stacked boxes of books sharing the basement.

I say my great-uncle kicked the bucket, but that’s not entirely true. He vanished. My family assumed he was dead, and knowing what I do now, I’m inclined to agree. The bookshop had always felt halfway out of reality, if only because of its status as a stereotypical cozy little store. It was the smell of new paper and the crowded maze of shelves. It was the fact that each of those shelves held a multitude of other universes sandwiched between layers of paper. Once my great-uncle disappeared, it was the unknown pressing over the entire building, a heavy blanket of “how” and “when” and “why.” I liked to imagine that other people could feel it too, despite not knowing about the mystery. I think people can feel that sort of thing. It seeps into a building and saturates the wood with its smell.

It first happened on a Thursday morning. I was trying to shave in the dingy bathroom mirror, silently cursing myself for putting off buying a new one. It was my everyday routine. Buying a new mirror couldn’t be more than a twenty minute errand but procrastination to the point of absurdity has always been a talent of mine.

As I dragged the razor across my face I felt suddenly dizzy. My head swam, ears muffled like they were stuffed with cotton, and grey spots appeared in my field of vision. It was gone just as quickly, the grey blotches fading away to be replaced with red ones. I’d cut my face, I realized. The blood dripped high-contrast spots against the white porcelain of the sink. I wiped it up with a wad of toilet paper and slapped a bandaid on the wound.

The dizziness didn’t concern me much. It was either too much caffeine or too little, and once I poured myself a cup of coffee I’d find out. I knew I’d missed patches on my face thanks to the grimy mirror but I didn’t feel like risking another cut. Bloodstains in the bathroom are bad for business. When I walked out, mug in hand, Leo was at the cash register.

“What’s up?”

I’d met Leo when I helped Uncle George run a Dungeons & Dragons event at the bookshop. Yeah, I know, I’m a walking geek cliche. Sue me. Anyway, George wanted to attract more customers who weren’t septuagenarians, so I ran a short campaign to lure in my fellow youths. Leo was a D&D first-timer who teased me mercilessly about calling myself a dungeon master and using words like “constitution” and “prestidigitation” outside the D&D table. I liked him immediately.

At that moment, he was sitting on the stool I kept behind the register, long legs kicked up on the counter. He’d come in through the back, most likely--friends got access to the store before and after hours. He eyed me over.

“Cut yourself shaving?” “Yes, actually”

“You missed a spot,” he gestured towards my patchy shave job. I flipped him off. He smiled back, swinging his legs off the counter.

He didn’t seem to notice, but I still felt queasy even with the spots long gone. I squashed the churning in my stomach down with a mouthful of coffee.

The rest of the day was normal. Leo left for his own job, and I sold books to older townsfolk, hipsters, high school students, the normal small stream of customers. My nausea faded along with the residual dizziness as the day passed. I’d have forgotten the incident altogether if not for the cut on my jaw, which served as a stinging reminder whenever I turned my head too far and tugged at the bandaid’s adhesive.

Long after closing time, I put a slapdash dinner together in the shop’s tiny kitchen. I sat on the counter and waited for the toaster oven to preheat. With the shop empty and quiet, a prickle of apprehension danced on my neck. I often got that feeling when I stood at the bottom of a dark staircase after closing time, my body insisting that I was being pursued by something just out of sight, and I would squash down the urge to bolt. This time, though, was different. I saw someone.

The kitchenette door sat at the periphery of my vision and through it, just for a second, I saw a figure in the shop. It stared at me from behind the nearest bookshelf, upper body slumped to the left at a broken angle, long neck holding a flat, pale face that leered eyelessly. I felt the cold jolt of adrenaline rush into my body, my chest heaving as I struggled to breathe.

And then it was gone.

My nausea was back with a vengeance and I felt dizzy again. The thing in my store had been the same staticky shade of grey I’d seen that morning, I realized, which meant one of two things: I was going crazy, or my missing uncle’s creepy bookstore was haunted. The cut on my face throbbed.

I breathed slowly through my nose and tried not to throw up. By the time I had enough control of my nausea and anxiety to stand, the toaster oven had long since preheated and the ice in my glass was water. The thought of staying in the kitchen filled me with dread. I ate my dinner half-frozen, hiding in my room with the door locked, then huddled under my blanket until I felt safe enough to sleep. I left the lights on.

With the next morning’s sunlight filtering into my room, the previous night’s breakdown seemed silly. I kicked off my covers. I was still in my jeans and button-down, both wrinkled from fitful sleep, and felt the unique groggy grossness that comes with sleeping in your clothes.

It had to have been a panic attack. It wouldn’t explain away a hallucination, but it did line up with the hyperventilation, nausea, and crushing fear. More importantly, I could understand a panic attack. That was a reality I could parse more easily than any haunted bookstore bullshit. Still, I couldn’t quite bring myself to cross the threshold of my kitchen, so I texted Leo to bring me some coffee.

He arrived minutes later with two cups and a paper bag, which he tossed at me from the door after knocking it open with one hip.

“You look terrible,” he said once he’d plopped onto a stool.

“Thanks.” I tore a chunk from the bagel he’d brought me and washed it down with a swig of coffee. Where my family business gave me free books and, apparently, the occasional incorporeal stalker, Leo’s provided free food. Figures.

“Rough night?” He winked over his paper to-go cup.

“Something like that,” I muttered, too exhausted to return the banter.

“Well now you have to tell me.” His voice remained conversational, teasing, but I saw the tell-tale knit of his eyebrows. He was worried. So I sighed, put my cup down, and started from the beginning.

By the time my explanation was finished, Leo’s whole face was tight with concern, his hands folded, pointy elbows resting on pointy knees as he leaned towards me.

“You should see a doctor,” he said, casual affectations completely stripped away, “What if it’s a brain tumor or something?”

“No.” My gut twisted. I hated doctors. They always looked at me strangely once they’d seen the sweeping scars on my chest and done a double take at my file. And whether I was there for a sore throat or a sprained ankle, they would always open with something about “the side effects of hormone therapy” or my “unique situation.” I met Leo’s eyes desperately.

“Fine. No doctor,” he relented, “but if this gets worse you’d better call me.”

It did.

That night, I found myself doubled over the toilet, coughing violently as I painted the porcelain bowl in vomit. I sat up, chest heaving and face coated in cold sweat, and tried to blink away the spots peppering my field of vision.

The thing was back.

Its impossibly tall form slumped in the bathroom’s doorway. Its head looked too heavy for the crooked neck that I realized now was bent to keep it from hitting the ceiling. A sob built behind my sternum, but my breathing was too ragged and uneven for it to escape. Instead, the tension built until I was sure my rib cage would burst open, until I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed into the tiny space between the toilet and the wall, until my nose started bleeding, until I clapped my hands over my ears in a vain attempt to keep out the buzzing tinnitus that cut through my brain.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, vomit on my shirt and tears on my face drying to a crust. I remained squeezed into the corner long after the sensations faded. Even once I managed to open my eyes and see the thing was gone, I stayed, curled into a tight ball.

Have you ever had a word stuck in your head? Like a song stuck in your head, but instead it’s just a word repeating in your mind? When I finally pulled my stiff body from its hiding place there was something rolling around inside my skull:

The basement.

I couldn’t push away the thought. Something about it was important but the memory was just out of reach. I shook my head and it throbbed.

The basement.

I remembered something Uncle George once told me over dinner. It had been cryptic and vague, so whatever sorted the files of my memory had pushed it into a corner.

“Coda,” he’d said, his fork clinking against the plate, “be careful when you’re underground.”

The light burned my eyes when I stepped out of the bathroom. I shut them, pressing my eyelids tight until tiny spots of light exploded behind them and drowned out the pain in my head.

“You’ll understand when you need to, I think,” Uncle George had continued. He was leaning back in his chair now, away from the table. “Our family has a strange history. I’ll teach you about it someday, when you need it, but for now your safety is my priority.”

Underground.

The basement.

I wished Uncle George could come back and explain, because it seemed like “when I need it” was right fucking now. Something warm dripped down my face to the corner of my mouth and I spat onto the floor. The cut on my face was bleeding again. I pulled my phone from my pocket, hands shaking, and typed a message to Leo.

“The basement”

I stumbled downstairs. My legs still shook, my head still throbbed, but I was steadier now. The stairs creaked as I descended to the basement. I hadn’t been down there in a couple weeks and it showed in the thin veil of dust over the stock boxes. I swallowed, my mouth foul and acidic, and pushed past them.

There was a tunnel. The flimsy basement wall had a gaping hole in it, wet and rough around the edges, that opened into a broad channel. The tunnel walls were packed dirt, the hole easily six feet across, and cold, stale air flowed from the opening. I stood silently for a moment, and in the quiet could hear something like open-mouthed chewing from deep in the earth. It filled me with dread.

Feet pounding down the basement steps snapped me back to awareness. I whirled, expecting to see the tall, broken figure again, and nearly collapsed in relief when I saw Leo’s gangly form instead. As soon as he saw me, he sprinted across the room and pulled me into a crushing hug.

“I’m sorry,” I said into his chest, though I wasn’t sure for what.

“It’s okay,” he replied. I pressed my cheek against his shirt. He boxed me in between his shoulders, squeezed a comforting pressure around my own.

“Don’t hug me,” I finally said as I untangled myself from him, newly conscious of the blood and vomit on my shirt, “I’m kind of gross.”

“Coda, what the fuck is goi-”

Something shook the basement walls. Leo, I realized, was clutching my hand so hard I could feel my fingers grinding together in his grip. I felt a thud in my chest, felt it vibrate through my bones and organs like I was standing next to a concert amp. It was all the resonant impact of music without the song itself to package it. Like a song turned inside-out, I thought.  

The not-noise redoubled and Leo’s grasp went slack, his body collapsing to the floor. My nose tickled and began bleeding again, my stomach churning. I was sure my insides were being twisted and liquefied by whatever invisible force shook the room. My whole body shook, but I remained standing.

Through the growing haze of grey static, I saw something pale and fleshy squirm through the tunnel. The sound without sound stopped for a moment and I watched the strange peristaltic motions of its advance.

It was massive, the tunnel’s diameter barely accommodating its segmented body. The skin, pink and fragile-looking, glistened in the dim basement lighting and made a wet sucking noise as it moved. The head was more mouth than anything else, hanging open to display wet rings of muscle and concentric rows of teeth. Tiny eyes, apparently blind, sat uselessly on either side. It sat there silently for a moment, head hanging out of its tunnel and swaying slowly back and forth.

Then I saw the muscles in its mouth ripple and flex, and a moment later felt the thump of noiseless bass in my chest. I doubled over, retching, and heard Leo move behind me. He’d gone still after collapsing but now writhed on the floor, face contorted in agony. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and stood up.

When I opened them, my vision was half static. Through the clear patches I saw copy after copy of my faceless stalker standing around us in a circle. The worm was moving, its body pouring out of the hole in the wall as it made its way towards Leo. I clenched my jaw and tried to push down the fear squirming in my gut.

This thing had killed my great-uncle. It was going to kill Leo. And then it was going to kill me.

I would not let that happen.

My thoughts were unstructured, nothing but rage, fear, and that single conviction. I would not let it take us. I wrenched a scream from deep in my gut, pushing the worm’s silent noise out of my body and mixing with it in the air. They made a buzzing harmony together that pierced cold and sharp through my head. The worm thrashed and gaped its mouth, screaming noiselessly back at me. I kept going, longer than I’d ever held my breath, louder and louder, and it felt like something popped in my throat but I kept going until my world finally went black and silent.

I came to on the basement floor. Everything in the room was covered in a layer of slime with the exception of a clean silhouette where the worm had been. Leo was leaning over me, gently slapping my cheek. I sat up and wiped goop out of my eyes.

“You’re awake,” he said. I coughed.

“I’m aware,” I rasped, “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but you did something. I think you killed it.”

“Huh.” I tried to stand up, but my legs collapsed jelly-like under me and I fell back to a seated position. Leo snagged me under each arm and hauled me up.

“Careful, whatever you did really fucked you up. I-” he paused. I couldn’t read his expression--he’d turned away, and my eyelids were already drooping shut again. “I wasn’t sure if you were breathing at first. I thought you were dead.”

“Don’t worry, ‘m okay,” is the last thing I remember saying, voice slurred and hoarse, before I lost my grip on consciousness again.

It took me a week to recover. I found out later that most of the town reported mysterious headaches and nausea on the day I fought the worm. Some remembered sudden, inexplicable anxiety. Others complained of a ringing in their ears that faded as the week wore on. I never told anyone what happened. I wrote up some bullshit about being away on vacation and Leo hung it above the “Sorry, we’re closed!” sign for me.

I haven’t forgotten what Uncle George said about our family history. And while I’m certain he’s dead, I’m equally sure he would’ve recorded that information for me somewhere just in case. We’ve been looking through his old books, the ones I packed away after his disappearance, trying to confirm my hunch.

I think I inherited two jobs with this bookstore. I think I know why everyone wanted to keep it in the family. I think there are more of those creatures out there, chewing through the dirt and killing people with their song.

I think maybe I’m supposed to stop them.

[of-another-broken-heart]

Today was: 

sleep 

so much sleep

too much sleep probably

Then: ouch my teeth hurt omg they shifted because I slept so much ugh. 

I tend to have my jaw lightly clenched, or to cyclically grind my teeth periodically throughout the day [it feels like a tooth/gum massage] so long periods of no-pressure make my teeth shift. Which means as soon as I need to do anything, like shut my mouth or chew food, I get PAIN as my teeth collide in ways they don’t normally. As always, that wore off as I “massaged” them back into normal place. 

I didn’t sleep through the whole day. I woke up and rolled over more times than I could count. I knew lil sis had a friend over. Which was part of why I tried to stay in bed so much. By the time I got up, it was quiet. I assumed the diabolical duo had invaded the friend’s house. I was wrong, though. I got up just in time to be debriefed by mom that the kids had asked to go visit a neighborhood kid’s house, to invite them out/over to play - but then decided they wanted to keep roaming the neighborhood with or without said kid, instead of coming back to our house. Mom had told them “No - your friend has permission from her parent to be HERE, not ‘in the neighborhood’,” but they made a fuss to the point where mom was sure she was going to have to go drive around, find them, and escort them back to the house herself. 

That got me pissed off, because mom is sick and lil sis KNOWS she’s sick, and giving mom a hard time should be the LAST fucking thing she’s up to... 

I had promised to go visit my grandparents, at the very least to pick up that piece of mail PopPop told me was there for mom. So mom asked me to swing through the neighborhood dirt roads to corral the kids back to the house. I agreed, but thankfully didn’t have to worry about it. The kids were gliding into the yard right as I was climbing into my driver’s seat. 

Mom’s sick still, so she definitely didn’t want to risk spreading it to her parents. She tried to go to work today, but the coughing and pain landed her right back home pretty quickly. She should have been staying in bed and resting, but with lil sis and friend doing their thing, idk how much rest she actually got. 

I updated my grandparents about mom’s state when I got there. Nana mentioned something about how my mom is pretty susceptible to brochitis, and mentioned that mucinex might help. I stuck around and chatted with them a bit (I was glad to stay away from the kid circus, and it makes them happy to have little social visits like that) then decided to visit a few stores.  

So I stopped by the drug store and picked up some generic medicines that were similar to mucinex (I don’t have $16 for one box of cold medicine holy hell). I also looked to see if they had replaced the out-of-stock pressed powder color that I had meant to buy. It was still out. Worst case scenario, I bought makeup that’s one shade too dark - but that’ll work out for spring/summer when lil sis spends more time outside probably, and her skin tone will shift to be a little darker. Hooray! I never thought about having seasonal makeup for practical reasons like that. I usually scoffed at the idea, like “Well sure there are different seasonal ~aesthetics~ but you don’t NEED different colors for different seasons!” but then the whole sunlight/skin tone reality snuck its way into one single makeup tutorial and BLAM sense was made. 

Next I swung by the grocery store because I was pretty damn sure we were out of american cheese and I had a half-baked plan of maybe doing grilled cheese and soup for dinner. Easy, filling comfort food. Half of it is soup, good for sick momma. That was my thought process, anyway. I checked the clearance shelves, as I always do, and found some good deals. The chocolate lucky charms cereal that my mom had found, and my brother really liked - two boxes, each marked down to eighty-two cents. A whole bag of onion bagels - at least a dozen - for three bucks. There were some good sales, too. I got myself two full bags of chips for less than four dollars. And two boxes of cheddar shell pasta for a buck seventy. My chocolate-hunting eagle eyes also spotted a thirty-cent clearance tag on the gift chocolate shelves next to the floral desk. Little caramel-filled chocolate squares. I swiped them off the shelf. The whole reason I stopped in was to get american cheese, so I picked up what seemed to be the best deal available (and the only american cheese on sale at all, jeez), and I grabbed some blocks of cream cheese to go along with my onion bagel loot bag. 

I got home to find mom was out. It was pretty easy to deduce where she’d gone. I brought my bag of groceries and drugstore medicine in, and the only obnoxious sounds were the slightly-too-loud living room television and the squawking of the bird and kids’ father. Mom had taken sis’s friend home and lil sis had gone along for the ride. 

I put some things away, then spotted a letter that needed to go into the mail. I decided I’d do that for mom, so she wouldn’t have to do it tonight in the cold, or try to do it tomorrow morning before the mail was collected. She pulled in the driveway as I was halfway to the mailbox. I waved the letter and said “So you can sleep in in the morning!” because there’s no school so she doesn’t have to be the kids’ alarm clock. I’d only remembered that at my grandparents’ house, and sure enough mom had forgotten, too. 

I put the letter in the mailbox with the flag up. (It didn’t strike me then, but... does the mail even come on MLKJr day? Shit.)

I chatted with mom inside, and asked about dinner. We’ve had some ground beef thawed and ready to go for a few nights now, but I asked about doing soup and grilled cheese anyway. She wasn’t really into it. Bummer for me, but not a big deal. My main point was “I’ll make a simple sick-friendly dinner tonight.” So she half thought out loud, half explained to me that she had planned to heat up some frozen fries to go along with sloppy joe sandwiches, and I was like “Okay, I’ll get started. Is there a specific pan you want me to use, or does it not matter?” 

And she was relieved and pleasantly surprised and got to go rest in bed, and I cooked dinner. I tried to get the fries to have a pseudo-fried texture to them, by coating the baking sheet with some EV olive oil, but the bottle we have doesn’t have a dribble spout, it has a POUR spout, so there ended up being a bit more oil on the sheet than I would have liked. And mom thinks she set the oven temperature a bit too low. Regardless of our reliable human error, the fries got good and warm and lightly toasted - but not enough to crisp. The oil coating helped the salt stick nicely, and it wasn’t so much that it actually made the food greasy or oily. Just a smidge heavier than planned. 

I doctored up the meat a teeny tiny itty bitty bit, too. (Can’t do too much or everyone will swear it’s spoiled or something) Some salt, ground black pepper, and garlic powder went in while it was browning. And even though I was supposed to drain off the grease, there really wasn’t much to drain, so I just left it in there. Mom tends to buy leaner cuts, so there’s not much fat that cooks off in the first place, and I was trying to slow-cook the meat to get it to tenderize and soak in some of the seasonings - which gives the little bit of grease time to cook off and out of the pan/onto the oven hood. I desperately wanted to chop up some onion or peppers to put in with the sloppy joe sauce, but even if we had any to add, I would have ruined the meal for mom and lil sis. So just the sauce went in, and I let it bubble and simmer until the fries were done. 

I heated up some canned corn and put a pat of butter, some salt, and some pepper on it, too. Not super fancy by any stretch, but a bit tastier than fresh-from-the-can flavor. 

Everybody ate and there were no leftovers! Except a little corn, because goddamn this family just doesn’t like vegetables =/ even may-as-well-be-bread corn. The kernels I couldn’t eat went into the compost bin. I washed the dishes after dinner, too. That’s normally bro’s daily chore, but he’s off at a friend’s house this whole weekend, and lil sis did it last night (and made a point of expressing how tired she was while she ate dinner), so I figured I’d just jump in and take care of it so mom wouldn’t have to worry about it at all. 

Then I made myself a cup of coffee. Because that’s a good idea at 7:30 at night. But it’s warm and delicious so whatever. 

I’ve been streaming some Legend of Dragoon the past few nights, and I’m gonna do some more tonight, too! Because I don’t have to compete for quiet in my immediate space tonight thanks to bro staying at his friend’s place an extra day wooo!