#i felt like i was being jackhammered into the table and not in a pleasant way

[fingertipsmp3]

Everybody: physical therapy hurts! You’re going to feel like you’ve been beaten up after you get out

Me: yep okay

Me when the physical therapy hurts:

[saxxxology]

Celebrate Survival

After being rescued from the Other World, you take the opportunity of your newfound freedom—and your knight in shining armor—to celebrate. 

PAIRING: Sam Winchester x Native American!Reader

WORD COUNT: 1,600

WARNINGS: minor mentions of blood, lust, smut,

NOTE: Edited by me - please heed the warnings and enjoy!

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THIS WORK IS 18+ ONLY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITES.

The Bunker’s crowded and loud. Survivors from your world gather around, chatting excitedly and downing beer bottles one after the other. You hang back, cradling your own barely-touched bottle in one hand.

You’re focusing on something else. Sam Winchester’s a good-lookin’ dude and you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from his broad shoulders, narrow waist… everything about him is tantalizing.

It’s totally inappropriate; the guy just saved your ass from an archangel battle, banging him should be the last thing on your mind. But you can’t lie to yourself, you’ve been thinking about jumping on his dick from the second you set eyes on him.

You spot him talking to the redheaded witch, smiling kindly at her and conversing somewhat jovially. He raises his glass to her, smiles, takes a sip, and then his eyes catch you. He inhales sharply, casting his eyes up and down.

Oh golly.

Heat fills your cheeks as you take a quick swallow from your bottle, somehow finding the courage to look back up and meet his gaze. It’s strange; warm and inviting, but there’s a hint of a smirk that flat out says “I want to fuck you.”

You set your bottle down on the table behind you and saunter over, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket. Sam meets you halfway, leaning on one of the tables.

“Thank you,” you say, opening the conversation in the least awkward way. “Thanks for… y’know, helping us outta there. I think another couple days and we all would’ve been dead.”

He nods. “You’re welcome.” He holds one of his giant hands out. “I’m Sam.”

“Y/N.” You shake his hand firmly, noticing the way he holds on a little longer than seems normal. “So… I hate to be a bother this early on, but I was wonderin’ if you have a place to wash up.” You hold up a bloodstained sleeve of your jacket. “Been a while since I cleaned up proper.”

Sam’s eyebrows raise. No doubt his mind’s starting to wander. “Yeah, there’s a shower room. Follow me.”

He leads you past a loud group of survivors and through a room that looks like a library, down a hall, and opens a door to a large, white-tiled room. Shower stalls line the walls, and a metal bench sits in the center of the room.

“I may need an extra shirt,” you chew on your lower lip, “think I can snag a spare until I can wash what I got?”

Sam’s throat bobs as he looks down at you. “Yeah… I’ll get you somethin’.”

He ducks out of the room, closing the door behind him. You promptly strip out of your clothes and duck under the steady spray of warm water. It’s been a long time since you’ve been able to shower. A pack of spare razors sits half-open in the shower rack, and you lift one free, sliding the plastic cap off and cleaning your entire body with a loofah full of some Dove Men’s body wash before taking the time to shave. Everything.

When you finally step out of the shower and dry off, you spot a large blue flannel draped over the bench. Obviously, Sam had come back and left it there. You forego panties in lieu of what your next plan is; pointless to have ‘em on if they’re just gonna come off, right?

There’s a note too, scribbled on a yellow sticky note.

Make a left. Room 21.

Sam

You pad quietly down the hall, listening to the celebration going on in the library, counting down numbers on the doors as you pass, 25… 24… 23… 22… there.

You knock twice and wait. It only takes a second for the door to swing open, and then Sam’s pulling you inside, slamming the heavy wood closed again, and pinning you against it. He’s only wearing a pair of jeans, and you don’t have time to marvel at the build of him before his lips are immediately on yours, drawing a surprised but satisfied gasp from your throat. He cages you in, his hands ripping the flannel he gave you open. He groans when he sees you’re not wearing anything else.

“Bed,” he mutters, and then you’re off the floor, in his arms, and he’s dropping you on the mattress, watching your naked body bounce on the still-made sheets. He’s on top of you before you can do anything else, kissing you deep before lowering his head to suck on a pebbled nipple.

“Oh, fuck.” You clench your teeth against the onslaught of pleasure and grip his hair, holding his head to your chest.

He doesn’t stop, just shifts his body so he can reach down and pop the button and zipper of his jeans. He does this little shimmy as he gets them down his thighs, and the second his cock springs free you’re lost. It’s long and thick, tinted light red and dripping precum from the tip.

“Shit,” you breathe.

“It’ll fit,” he states firmly, leaning back over to kiss down your body until his head is between your legs. His thumbs split your folds, exposing that firm little nub that’s aching for attention it hasn’t gotten in months.

The moment his tongue scoops over your clit you let out a soft moan of his name, dropping your head back onto the mattress. He groans and slides his hands up over your thighs, keeping you spread open for him. He’s barely down there a minute before you feel yourself getting close. You push his head away, legs shaking as he crawls over you. As glorious as his tongue might feel, you want to cum split open on his cock.

“Condom,” he breathes, reaching over to the bedside table and rummaging in a drawer. He pulls out a gold foil wrapper and kneels back between your legs, sheathing himself in the thin latex. You let out a long whine as he lines himself up at your entrance and slides in, his entire body curling over to rest on top of yours. He keeps going until his balls press against your ass and he can feel your cervix kissing the tip of his dick. 

“Fuck,” he breathes,” kissing the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “You okay?”

You nod and tilt your head to the side. “Yeah, just… it’s been a while.”

Sam hums shakily against your skin and reaches up to touch your cheek. “Sorry.”

“Shh,” you hiss, reaching down to grab hold of the firm ass you’ve been checking out all evening, “just fuck me.”

He obliges.

A loud grunt leaves his lips as he plants his knees on the mattress, hips rolling forward to press against yours. He doesn’t stop there, just keeps sinking deeper and deeper until you can’t take any more. You gasp, open-mouthed as he draws back, the slide of him hot and thick inside you. He pushes back in, keeping his eyes locked with yours as he moves. He goes deep on every thrust, taking his time with slow grinds that turn your legs into jelly, but it’s not enough.

“Sam…” you pause him with a hand on his shoulder, “either you’re a virgin or you’re holding back… I need you to really fuck me.”

He grins, dipping his head to kiss you. “Hold on tight, then.”

Grabbing the headboard, he uses it as leverage to pull himself forward. Your mouth falls open, a choked cry echoing through the room as he starts moving in earnest. The bed rocks on its legs and Sam grunts ferociously against your mouth as he feels your body arch up against his. He fucks like an animal, and you don’t have the strength to help out as he pounds his dick relentlessly in and out of you. All you can do is lie there and take what he has to give.

It happens almost too fast, but the sensations Sam’s driving into you are more than worth it.

“Right there,” you whisper as he starts jackhammering into your sweet spot, one arm hooked under your knee to keep you spread open, “right there… oh God, Sam, I’m gonna cum…”

You tense up around him, walls pulsing and fluttering as your orgasm swells, peaks, and comes crashing down. The burn of it rushes over you, and you can’t stop yourself from crying out his name. Sam silences the sounds with a brutal kiss and works you through your climax until his own comes out of nowhere, catching him off guard and raging through his body like an electric storm. He groans your name and breathes hard against your throat, feeling your body twist and shake under his.

Finally, when you come to your senses, he kisses you breathlessly, feeling your thighs slide along his hips as you try to keep your aftershocks going. He’s practically crushing you, but you don’t mind. The weight of his body is the most comforting thing you’ve felt in a long, long time.

He waits until he’s gone soft to pull away and ditch the condom. He comes back to you, sliding his arms around you and holding your naked body close. The party’s still going on, and the loud cheering and clanking of beer bottles is a pleasant background noise as your heartbeat slowly flutters back to its normal rhythm.

It’s a long time before you speak.

“Thank you.”

He looks down at you. “You’re welcome?”

“For saving me,” you roll your eyes, “and everyone else in there.”

“Oh.” He hums quietly and tucks his chin on the top of your head.

“The sex was good too,” you cover, smiling against warm skin. “Good stress relief.”

He chuckles and slides a palm down your side. Your skin is soft and smooth from your shower, and he takes his time gathering a soft, supple handful of your ass. He could stay there for hours, the feeling of your warm body nestled against his.

After your soft snores fill the room, that’s just what he ends up doing.

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[edales-drabbles]

Green Thumb 2

Previous

He wasn’t going to have to pretend to be ill that day. Walter hadn’t even opened his good eye before it felt like someone was slamming his head with a jackhammer. He groaned, pressing his face against Alec’s side. His face pressed into flesh so Alec had clearly made himself comfortable. Unless Barrow had taken him somewhere else? All he could smell at the moment was Alec’s aftershave and scent.

Alec chuckled and fingers combed through his hair gently. “Awake bae?”

“Fuck you,” Walter muttered, batting Alec half-heartedly with a hand before pulling back and letting himself take in the situation. Alec only laughed, finger tracing something on Walter’s shoulder. He wasn’t together enough to read what had been drawn.  Still, more importantly, he was at home. Alec was tangled up with him in his single bed, a laptop over Alec’s lap as he tapped idly. His laptop to be exact. Walter tried not to groan again, closing his eyes and counting backwards again. 

“I’ll let uncle know you are back to the real world again,”

There was nothing Walter could argue about with that statement. Alec wasn’t Barrow’s blood nephew but any of his side who he sponsored or employed were under strict rules to refer to him as uncle.  “My head kills,” Walter twisted and stretched out before collapsing back down and burying his face in a pillow. “Will you stop breaking into my laptop?”

“No,” Alec singsonged before humming. “You’re probably dehydrated now more than unwell. Here.” 

Walter cracked open his eye again and found a glass water bottle being offered to him. He took it and frowned at Alec as something about Alec’s appearance hit him. “Were you performing last night?” He sniffed the water before drinking. Barrow had left Alec to look after him but the exacts of that had a habit of being a touch vague at times.  

“Yes,” Alec nodded. The man had midnight green eyeliner and lipstick on, not to mention specks of golden glitter were dotted on him. Alex had showered but it hadn’t completely come off. The eye and lip makeup had clearly been topped up though. His nails were painted black too. If Walter ignored the fact he was only wearing boxers, it was clear Alec had been partying. “I was hoping you would be there. You always enjoy it when I perform.” He snapped the laptop shut and gave Walter a look. 

“Next time,” Walter offered, his voice was weak. It was a bad sign when Alec was annoyed at him. “Alec…”

“You had better,” Alec crossed his arms before clambering over Walter to dump the laptop on top of the chest of drawers. “Swallow these,” he ordered, passing some painkillers over. “And shift. The wall is cold. I want to sleep.”

Walter obeyed. Not much point arguing with him. Lord Barrow favoured Alec greatly. What Alec wanted, he got. Which included Walter’s time and attention. It was early if Walter could guess right. When the light off switched off there was no light drifting in through the window. Alec cuddled into Walter’s chest. His skin was cold. Walter shifted around him, pulling him closer to warm him up. The shorter man fit well in his arms. It was just a shame they disagreed on too many things for Walter to pretend this was anything more than Alec’s current fancy. A little longer than most of them but… Walter exhaled and kissed curls under his chin. 

“Wearing makeup to bed is bad for your skin,” Walter yawned, surprised to find most of his headache fleeing. Drugs didn’t work that fast normally. Maybe the light had been making it worse. 

“How would you know?”

“I have sisters,” Walter smiled. “Lots of sisters and female cousins who were taught to be pristine little dolls. I know about makeup.”

Alec scowled at him, Walter feeling it more than seeing it. There was a bubble of magic and Walter knew the makeup was gone now. Alec’s arms wormed around him and held tight. “You have a secret.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Uncle was looking at you strangely.”

Walter hadn’t quite got away with claiming illness then. Or possibly the potless bonsai or the new pattern of bending roots on his table, or the sheer wildness of the flowers in the apartment had clued the fae that something had occurred. “I appreciate the warning.”

“Walter…”

“Alec, sleep. I got unlucky. Lord Barrow hasn’t asked any questions yet. If he asks, I’ll tell the truth. Don’t worry. I’ve got no plans to go like Rick,” Walter stated firmly. Rick had told too many lies for Barrow to stand. Maybe if Rick had been more honest some mercy would have been given. As it was, Barrow had made sure anyone who wasn’t being wholly open with him knew the consequences. Secrets were one thing but when they got too close and you didn’t come clean? That was when Barrow went from being an eccentric uncle to the monster in your nightmares. 

“Can’t you just tell him?” Or me.

“Not yet. When the term is over. Or danger comes, whichever happens first.”

“Please,” Alec begged. 

“Do you have a secret to trade?” Something Walter would be able to use to protect himself if Alec betrayed him. It was unlikely. If Barrow didn’t like his wards lying to him, the ones he named as family were under much closer watch. Some whispers spoke of interviews consisting of questions like ‘what is the thing you least want me to know’ or ‘what have you done recently that would make me angry with you?’ If he was that invasive with his human charges, most likely he’d lose the ability to gain new souls. As it was, Barrow was very careful. 

Alec’s muscles slumped. “That’s … Not what you want it for. Uncle inspected my conscience today after I was unhappy with your lack of appearance. He was concerned I’d done something to endanger you.”

“Can’t think why.” Walter smiled as Alec elbowed him. “You can be dramatic sometimes. Was it Charles? Or Peter? You threw someone to the lions before,”

“I’d never get you in danger,” Alec muttered. “And Peter was a cheating skank,”

“If you never make it official Alec, you can’t be that surprised when your fancies step out on you.” Or flat out leave the city to a fresh start. “How many do you have running at the moment? Tris, Reggie, Charles and …” Well, me, went unsaid.

The fae’s grip on him tightened. “Reggie asked to leave. Tris is making eyes at someone so he will soon,” 

“And I didn’t show up,” No wonder Barrow had come personally. Alec was bound to be panicking about how many people were leaving again. Walter had been through this before. He’d find new ones. Just in the interim, he was going to be more clingy to the ones he had left. “Let Reggie leave. Tris… Do you want to let him go?” Alec shook his head. “Then spend more time with him. I’m not going anywhere. I barely have enough time for you. Forget someone new.”

“Something happened and Uncle is looking at you,”

“Something he will be pleased with provided I take the right steps and he keeps me claimed and safe. It’s a pleasant surprise for him, not so much for me,” Walter half-revealed, half-reassured. Walter was almost entirely sure that Barrow was going to be over the moon if not a little miffed that Walter hadn’t warned him this could happen. Secrets were respected. Danger was not.  

“One of those,” 

“Exactly,”

“If I said I loved you, would you believe me?”

“Of course. In your own way.”

“I love you.”

Walter kissed Alec’s hair. He really was a troublesome, spoilt brat. “Spend more time with Tris before you panic that he is leaving too. And Charles for that matter. Lord Barrow has my door always open to you. It's safe here.”

Next

a/n So... to make this polygamous or not. Decisions, decisions.

[shirosquared-old]

congrats on your milestone!! Could you write a Keith sick fic (gen)?

I meant to write these a long long time ago, but now that school’s over and I’m nearly to 700 followers I figured I’d finish these up!

This one kind of had a mind of its own… not as much Keith being sick as I necessarily would’ve liked but here’s my attempt at writing a sick fic feat. Black Paladin Keith + finding Shiro!

Small fun fact: I started writing this fic back in January.

[Read it on AO3]

Being the Black Paladin was exhausting.

Black didn’t listen to Keith in the way that Red did, Black only allowed him what was necessary. And in some ways, it was a relief. He felt that if he ever unlocked those powers, it’d mean that Shiro was really gone. That he’d be somewhere beyond their reach, and they’d have to stumble on without him leading them.

Keith needed to fit the role of a Black Paladin. It required patience he didn’t have, conversational skills he didn’t have, and the ability to direct the others in battle, which tended to be on a case-by-case basis.

It’d helped him realize a lot, though it hadn’t helped him improve any. So maybe he spent some extra time fighting the gladiator, maybe he spent time trying to look into diplomacy when Allura wasn’t looking over his shoulder. Maybe he slept less than he should.

It wasn’t much of a surprise when he woke up with a headache after a terrible dream the previous night that left him reeling for the better part of an hour. But it was just a headache, he’d fought through much worse before. Keith got to his feet and stretched, relieving some of the tension in his muscles before heading to the kitchen.

Everyone else was already there, though it didn’t look like they’d been there for long. Keith headed to his usual seat, leaving the one at the end empty. It had gone unspoken between them that that seat was Shiro’s, despite the varying degrees of hope for his return.

“Good morning,” Allura greeted, her tone pleasant. It was impossible to like mornings. Well, no, that was a lie—Keith liked the quiet of the mornings, and being able to watch everything come to life under the sun’s rays back home, but he hated waking up. Either way, he nodded in response and took his seat, glancing around at the others.

Pidge looked up from her computer to nod at him before turning back to her work. Ever since Shiro disappeared, Pidge had thrown herself completely into her work as if a solution or clue would vanish if she didn’t constantly monitor it.

There had been clues. Brief leads that led to nothing, or that horrifying moment when Keith realized they’d been led directly into an ambush. They all nearly died several times, and Pidge nearly ended up in Galra custody after a shot took out the Green Lion.

Needless to say, they didn’t follow those clues anymore. They searched for other evidence instead, a reason to believe that it wasn’t just another trap.

It killed Keith inside. He hated the idea that they might let go of a trail that would’ve actually led to finding Shiro, he hated the idea of not acting. They needed to do something or else Keith would go insane. He was horrible at plans and strategy—he often left that to Allura and Lance, pitching in whenever necessary but otherwise letting them direct the planning.

When everything inevitably fell apart, however, Keith knew exactly what to do. And maybe it was strange, but he grew to look forward to those moments. The times when he actually knew what he was doing, when he was so hyperfocused on his surroundings that he didn’t have time to think about anything else. His mind would remain blissfully blank until he came down from the post-victory adrenaline high, and then everything came crashing down, leaving him scrambling again.

So maybe he was stressed. Maybe he should’ve slept more, but after a particularly harsh battle sleep never came easy. His dreams had been plagued with the idea of what might’ve happened if Keith hadn’t been able to cover Lance when his shield shattered and he fell—down and down and Keith could almost—

“Keith,” a voice said quietly. Keith started, staring wide-eyed at the speaker. Hunk, it was just Hunk. “You feeling okay?” Hunk asked. “You’re kinda bending the spoon a bit.”

Spoon? Keith looked down at the table, a bent spoon gripped tightly in lightly trembling hands. Oh. “Oh,” he murmured. “I’m… just a nightmare. I’m fine.”

Hunk nodded, not pressing any further, and Keith was grateful for that. “Take it easy,” he warned. In hindsight, Keith probably should’ve listened. But they’d barely finished their breakfast when the alarm went off, highlighting everything in red as the siren blared. The paladins ran out of the hall, quickly changing into their armor and taking the ziplines down to their lions.

They’d been found, despite Allura’s best efforts to find them a safe place to hide out for a few days. The Galra were relentless. They fought dirty, using anything and everything at their disposal no matter who they hurt. Victory or death was their motto, after all, and it seemed even the Galra that fought against Zarkon still employed that mentality. Victory or death. Knowledge or death. What did it matter? They usually ended up dead either way.

When had Keith started thinking like that? He had no idea, and that scared him more than anything else.

One by one the lions exited their hangars, quickly shifting into formation as each paladin surveyed their field of vision.

“Pidge, Hunk, you two take the left side,” Allura said. “Lance and I are on the right. Keith, you’re to provide support where necessary. There’s too many of them for us to form Voltron.” As everyone split, Keith couldn’t help but feel that he’d been taken out of the fight for a reason. Logically, he knew he wasn’t out of the fight. Support was just as important as the front lines, but he hated sitting on the sidelines while others fought at the front—especially those close to him.

Regardless, he kept up his role. He fired from the sky, but the Black Lion sapped at his energy like a black void, sucking and pulling everything until nothing was left. Keith grimaced, breathing in harsh pants even though he hadn’t done much. Why was he so exhausted? He’d been fine on less sleep before. His head pounded, another effect of the late night.

“Keith, your nine!” The Black Lion swerved to avoid a stray laser shot, and Keith narrowed his eyes before diving into the fray with renewed vigor. Shiro wouldn’t want him to give up, so he couldn’t. Not in the heat of battle, when everyone was depending on him to have his shit together.

“Thanks, Lance!” He shot past the Red Lion, jaw blade already forming as he sliced through a crowd of fighters.

“Keith, what are you doing?” Pidge snapped, irritation clear in her tone. Keith didn’t answer her, pushing forward more on the levers to gain more speed. The Black Lion growled, tearing through the battlecruiser and watching it explode. He moved onto the next, gripping the controls like a lifeline.

“Keith, you’re splitting up the team!”

And then, quietly…

“…hello?”

The line went silent, before everyone was shouting all at once.

“Shiro!”

“Oh my god, Shiro, where are you?”

“Was that Shiro?”

“Shiro, please answer us!”

“I… yes. I’m here. What’s going on?”

Keith breathed, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Shiro. Do you know where you are?”

“Um… I can see Black.”

Keith shuddered as a chill ran down his spine. He didn’t think that was from Shiro. “Tell me more. Where are you?”

“To your right. There’s like… a window, or something. Near a big hole.”

“I see the hole. I’m heading over to you. Lance, cover me!”

“You got it,” Lance responded.

Keith exited the Black Lion and propelled himself the remaining few feet into the hole, looking around. “Shiro!”

Shiro himself stood at the end of the hall, turning and smiling when he saw Keith. He had his helmet on, but it was the only piece of armor he had. Keith started to run towards Shiro, but a wave of dizziness overtook him. His stomach rebelled, threatening to expel its contents as the world spun around him. He gasped, unable to stay upright. He collapsed, Shiro yelling something as his senses bled away into darkness.

When Keith woke up, the first thing he recognized was the pain. His skull pounded, as if someone were using a jackhammer on his head. He was freezing cold, despite the multiple blankets piled on top of him.

“Hey.”

Keith did a double-take, because that couldn’t be real—

“You really scared us, you know.” And Keith’s heart skipped a beat, because this was Shiro, he was here and alive. He tried to sit up, but Shiro put a hand on his shoulder. And that was that, because Keith felt kitten weak and couldn’t beat Shiro in strength on a good day. Which this definitely was not.

He let his head fall against the pillow again and closed his eyes, sighing.

“How are you feeling?” Shiro asked.

“Like I got hit by a bus,” Keith muttered.

“That’s what you get for going on a mission while you’re feverish,” Shiro said mildly, putting a hand on his forehead.

“I’m not—” Shiro’s hand felt ice cold, and it gave so much relief to the ache in his head. He leaned into the touch, groaning softly. So maybe he was a little feverish.

“Easy. Coran said you’ve got the flu. Well… not really the flu, but I can’t pronounce what he actually said and it’s basically the flu for humans.”

Keith sniffled. “‘M not sick.”

“Right, and my name isn’t Shirogane Takashi.”

“Depends on which way you write it,” he retorted.

Shiro just raised an eyebrow in response.

Keith huffed. “Fine.”

“We’re trying to find something that’ll help you out, but in the meantime you’ll be stuck here.”

“Great.” Keith pressed his face into Shiro’s hand again, which still lingered nearby. He might be sick, but things could be worse. He had Shiro back, and the rest of the team would likely be by soon. He may have overworked himself a bit in his search for Shiro, but in the end he’d succeeded, hadn’t he?

Keith thought he could get used to this.

[linssikeittomies]

The Place Between Here An There - Chapter 2: Ship Of Fools

Masterpost     AO3

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8   Chapter 9  Chapter 9(cont’d)

Ugh, Alfred is so hard to write! His POVs are all Thing happens, thing happens, thing happens, he has a thought, thing happens… Ivan’s POV is more like Thing happens, he has a thought about the thing, that reminds him of past thing, thing happens… And Alfred has too many non-plot-important friends, but leaving them out feels even more wrong because he’s a people person first and foremost. He does get more thinkey later, but at this point of the story he doesn’t really worry about anything so he doesn’t have too many thoughts floating around his brain. His parts feel like such filler orz Try and bear with me orz I got so sick of looking at this mess and not being able to write it the way I wanted to so I decided to screw it and let it be, filler-y and bad and all.

–

“Morning, sunshine!” a happy voice greeted Ivan right as he stirred. The grating cheeriness revealed the identity of the perpetrator before Ivan even opened his eyes. The act only confirmed that the annoying idiot was grinning from ear to ear. Seeing that his bedmate was somewhat awake encouraged the American to rise up on his elbows to peer down with an excited look. So he was near-sighted, since he hadn’t put on his glasses.

“Dobroye utro”, Ivan muttered, not sure if he was glad to see Alfred or not. The novelty of being treated like a normal human being was fading quickly now that he wasn’t allowed to wake up at his own pace. “Are you really a cop?” Alfred queried with badly contained glee, leaning in closer with his morning breath. With a grimace Ivan turned his head slightly, and Alfred seemed to get the hint. “Yes, a detective.” “Man, that’s so cool! I applied to the academy a few years back, but I had speeding tickets, and the air force didn’t want me for some reason so I’m still-“ Probably a store clerk. Maybe a cleaner. Likely living on his parents’ money. “- a fireman and it’s great ‘cause I’m saving lives and all, but man, cops! I love cops!” Yeah, right. This infuriating loser seemed barely literate. Pro wrestling would suit him much better: prancing around in embarrassing clothes yelling cringey lines, and no one would notice if he got brain damage. Claiming he actually did important work was the most bold-faced lie Ivan had heard in his life. “But how in the hell did you get in? Did you kill all the other applicants?” “How rude. I was never linked to those cases.” Alfred pretended to be struck dumb, and clutched his pearls like a scandalized granny. “I was hoping you’d claim to be the paragon of justice, but you just ran with it! How am I supposed to make fun of you with that attitude?” he laughed as he sat up, dragging the covers up with him and then letting them fall off his shoulders. The move revealed his toned chest and subtle six-pack again. Ivan contemplated taking a spied look between his legs, but decided against it. His senses were returning slowly, but the insecurity had already creeped in almost full swing. He pretended to be cold and wrapped the covers more tightly around him. “It’s not an attitude. It’s the truth.” Alfred laughed and told Ivan to dress his ugly ass, he was making pancakes. Ivan was not one to say no to a free meal, and the company only left something to desire.

Even if waking up next to someone was a questionable joy, having someone to eat breakfast with was undoubtedly pleasant. Much time had passed since the last time Ivan had a discussion at the table. They used to be common in the old days, and the siblings especially had been practically glued together, but then the thing happened and everything went to hell. Their family dynamics never got back to normal, even after 19 years of stability and moving halfway across the globe. It had no longer felt natural – one was missing and one became an outsider. It was almost more distracting to have his sisters in the same table than eating alone. But with Alfred there was no history so he couldn’t be reminded of anything, and as a result he found himself genuinely enjoying the moment. “Well, ya just don’t look the part, yannow? Think Magnum PI! Ya need a square jaw and a cool baritone voice and a great mustache.” “So what kind of cop do I look like?” “Hmmmm…” Alfred hummed and held an exaggeratedly long pause, took a bite off his pancakes, chewed and then shrugged. “I dunno, the kind who negs decent people and takes advantage of drunk guys?” Ivan shrugged nonchalantly.  “Guilty as charged”, he agreed. He doubted Alfred had actually been all that drunk by the time they left the restaurant, and the stumble had been a conspiracy to make Ivan take him home. He still had trouble imagining Katyushka scheming like this, because she had always been the most honest and straightforward of the family. Her saintly nature must have come from a distant ancestor. “So are you gonna go and brag to all your friends about how you finally scored with a conscious person?” “I hesitate to call someone with your level of brain activity conscious.” “But you will brag to all your friends?” “I don’t have friends”, Ivan’s mouth said with brutal honesty before his brain could shut it up. His breath got stuck in his throat as he waited for inevitable pitying look. It always happened. He could be as terrifying as he wanted, the second anyone learned about his sorry excuse of a social life they suddenly saw him a charity case, defective, helpless… Nothing could be further from the truth, but nothing would convince the hypocrites  that Ivan didn’t need anyone, people were only in the way, and he didn’t care for backstabbing gold diggers or emotional leeches. Jones was a person, Ivan had no use for him. God spared him just this once. Alfred, oblivious to anything but a jackhammer to the skull, missed his slip completely and continued with the friendly hostility. “Small wonder, with your personality.” Ivan was well aware of his flaws, but could do nothing to change them. His path had formed in front him on its own on that day and there were no side roads. He wasn’t like Jones, who had a say in what happened to him. He had no business commenting on what he knew nothing about, but spoken like a true American, he felt the need to police everyone else and just flap his mouth hole to make noise for the sake of it. And he had such a grating voice, too. Ivan wanted to get out of this apartment yesterday. “More coffee?” “Yes, please.” Watching Jones stuff his face with pancakes made Ivan wonder what he even found appealing about the glutton at this point. He was a slob with terrible table manners who loved putting people down. That answered the question of why he hadn’t gotten laid in ages, at least. He should get drunk more often, it seemed to better his odds. “Do you have the day off?” Ivan asked. He almost regretted it, since Jones didn’t bother swallowing his half-eaten pancakes, choosing instead to spit soggy crumbs all over the table. Ivan quickly lifted his coffee off it. Jones failed to take the hint, as expected. “Yeah, but my cousin’s coming over. I’ll have to kick you out by noon.” Ivan hadn’t been planning to stay after breakfast. He hadn’t planned to stay the night. Having to leave in a few hours was no problem for him. And even if he had been free to stay as long as he wanted, which was not a single minute by the way, he was a busy man. He had things to do. Plans to review. He wouldn’t stay even if Jones begged to blow him. “I’ll be gone before that.” Jones smirked coyly, for reasons unknown to Ivan. “Do you wear the uniform?” Ah, he was one who loved a man in uniform. Ivan could hardly blame him, he himself couldn’t resist a suit with a tie. Wonderful toys they were, so versatile, never failed to make him want to pull. He’d like to put one on Jones, for so many reasons. “Only for special occasions.” Ivan would have liked to have a newspaper at the table. The absence of one didn’t exactly surprise Ivan, Jones didn’t strike him as the type to read, even magazines. It was excusable – in his line of work it wasn’t important to know what had went on during the night. For Ivan, it was both a necessary evil and a questionable joy. Not knowing the latest updates when he walked into the office was considered bad work morale, and that’s where news apps really came in handy. A newspaper, after all, first had to go into print, and then be delivered. While all that happened, ten new things had unfolded. It was still nice to have a physical page in his hands, feel the crinkle. They were easily stored. Ivan had a whole bookcase dedicated to newspaper and magazine clippings: cold cases, cases he’d worked on, PD bashings, survival stories, true crime articles… Lately he had taken to throwing out some of the older things to make room for all the Baton killer related articles. 7 confirmed victims, 5 suspected, and that was only after a year and half of activity. Despite what you heard in popular media, it was actually quite rare for a serial killer to have more than 4 victims per year. Reporters liked to play up the numbers, speculating at least a dozen victims, but even more than that they liked blaming the police department for not catching the raving lunatic. Their words, not his – from the evidence and bodies it was clear as day the Baton killer was not crazy. Yes, he never bothered hiding the bodies well, but there was never any evidence left. Every body was cleaned thoroughly after the act to dispose of any DNA evidence, there was never a glimpse of him in security footage, no one ever reported seeing someone who didn’t belong… It takes meticulous planning and a clear mind to do something that carefully. The police weren’t even completely sure they were dealing with a male killer – the only reason to suspect that was that among the victims were two large men who had last been seen in gay bars, and an unopened condom left on the body of one female who had been reported to be fiercely faithful to her clean husband. Ivan didn’t like not knowing things. He got anxious when he couldn’t be sure. It should have been common courtesy to have one paper at the table. “A suit, then?” Ivan shook his head. He preferred wearing his everyday clothes to work, because they made him look just a bit less intimidating. A suit was a double-edged sword: on one hand, it tended to make people more nervous and slip up, but on the other, it isolated him further. Normal human interactions were few and far between for Ivan, so he cherished every single one. This was why he liked dealing with the the deaf: they couldn’t tell the disparity between his voice and stature, so they assumed he was just a normal, large man. In this Alfred resembled them. The bad thing about Jones was that he was insufferable. Ivan had a hunch Jones would be difficult with the authorities, just for the sake of being difficult. “Betcha you’d look hot in one”, Alfred said, winking. Ivan didn’t agree. He didn’t think he looked hot in most clothes. He still muttered a thank you because he wasn’t on the mood to argue.

~¨:.:¨~

Jeez, this guy was just too cute! No adult man should be allowed to have such an adorable face! The way he shyly blushed and averted his eyes to the side combined with his huge stature did something incredibly pleasant to Al. It was getting the best of two worlds. He tended to go for the big, tough guys, but enjoyed the odd twink every now and then, and here he had two for the price of one! Moving to the big city really was the best damn decision he had made in his life. Rural Kentucky just didn’t have these types. “Unlike you, no doubt”, Ivan answered weakly, and Al grinned again. He couldn’t explain why he liked exchanging insults so much. He did it all the time with Arthur, too, but the Brit always got pissed too quickly. Mattie’s game was too strong, so Al no longer did it with him. But now he had a new playmate! One that liked the game just as much! He hadn’t had this much fun since last night, and with any luck he might be able to convince the Russian babe for round two of that, as well! Maybe one day he could bring the insult game to bed? “Yeah, but I look good naked”, Al shot back. Ivan rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee again. “You get cross-eyed when you take off your glasses.” “Do not! Take that back, fatso!” With a teasing smile Ivan raised his gun again. “And you smell terrible. Have you showered in the last three days?” “Didn’t bother you last night.” “I had a momentary lapse of standards. The culture must be damaging my brain.” Aaahhh, that accent! That was paradise, right there! Ivan really had everything: looks, personality, huge body, huge dick… He should marry the guy before he wriggled away. The way to a man’s heart goes through his stomach, right? “Sure you don’t want pancakes?” Alfred confirmed. He was almost offended Ivan had refused them the first time. While his weren’t as divine as Mattie’s, they could still make a man moan in pleasure. Pancakes were the one food he never made from instant mix or in a microwave. “I am sure.” Al pouted and poured some more syrup on his stack. Fine, be that way!Vodka had probably ruined his tastebuds anyway, so he couldn’t appreciate the pancakes if he wanted to. Ivan gulped down the last of his coffee and got up. “Leaving already?” “I have work. Thank you for the coffee.” Work on Sunday? What kind of breakthrough had they had in whatever case Ivan was working on? Detectives usually only worked weekdays 9 to 5. “No prob. See ya ‘round!” Ivan scoffed as he put on his coat. He was wearing three layers, and it wasn’t even that cold yet. Guess he was just always cold, if he needed two sweaters even indoors. “No one would want to see you again. You are a headache on feet.” Al laughed. A lot of people commented on his loud voice, usually telling him to turn it down a notch. He just didn’t have an indoor voice and he got excited so easily. “And my ears are ringing from listening to you squeaking”, he joked back. He wondered why Ivan decided to use such a weird voice. Obviously he had a much deeper natural pitch, but it hadn’t come out much even last night. He sounded like a prepubescent boy. It added to his cute image, but couldn’t have been easy to produce. Maybe it was an effect of growing up with two high-pitched sisters? “Are you the youngest?” “The youngest what?” Ivan asked, voice muffled from the pale pink scarf. Another cute quirk, didn’t fit his towering height and wide shoulders at all. “Sibling. Katie’s the oldest, right?” “Yes. Katyusha is four years older and Natasha is five years younger.” “Really? You and Natalie look the same age. Do you look young or does she look old?” “It could be a little bit of both.” Ivan had his hand on the knob, but hesitated. Al tilted his head questioningly, and Ivan reached a decision. He dug out a pen from his pocket, but couldn’t find paper, so he wrote his number on the wall instead. “Call me if you want to go drinking sometime.” “After you ruin my fucking wall?! In your dreams!” Ivan gave an infuriating little smirk and closed the door after him. Damn that Russki and his adorable ways. How long should Al wait before he called?  The same day would be needy and a little creepy, but he didn’t want to wait two days! Agh, this was just like that one time in Montana! Or, Christ, Tex! He couldn’t handle another bi-curious cutie deciding he wanted to stick to women! The guy was just too much fun, Al really liked just hanging out with him, not that he minded the afterhours, either… After wolfing down his seventh pancake Al did his morning pushups and jog. Artie had been right in that age would eventually catch up with him and he’d need to work harder to stay in shape. With his steady diet of junk food it was really a miracle he was so fit. Musta been good genes. Pissed Artie off to no end. Speaking of, he should clean up the place. Neither of them was looking forward to Mister Cleanliness nagging about Al’s housekeeping skills. It didn’t really even matter, no one in the history in the world had died of a few shirts on the floor, or a few weeks’ dust, or a messy closet, and penicillin had been discovered in dirty dishes. And so what if there was some food gone bad in the fridge, they were in closed containers, the bugs weren’t about to strongarm open the lids. Ehh, Artie was still three hours away, he had time. He could play some Mortal Kombat first. He needed to practice Kenshi’s fatalities anyway. And while he was on the sofa anyway, he might as well try out that GTA swing glitch! Oldie but goodie.

Knock knock. “Who’s there?” Just kidding, Al already knew it was Artie. His British cousin was the only person in the world who knocked when there was a perfectly good doorbell. “It’s me.” “Me who?” “Arthur, you bloody twat! Open up!” Sigh, ol’ Artie never played along. All he laughed at was that Monty Python show. Poor guy, he’d die an early death thanks to never laughing. Al threw the controller on the couch and got up to get the door. Yikes, those eyebrows were still a shock every time. “I swear you grow like twenty new hairs every time I see you!” Al commented, earning an irritated sigh from his cousin. After 17 years he didn’t need to ask what Al meant by that. “And you accumulate more and trash in your place. Three copies of Die Hard 2?” Artie whined looking at the living room table. Well, at least he wasn’t bitching about the dirty coffee cups and plates on the kitchen table. He should be a maid, he was so great at whining about pointless stuff. After setting his luggage in a corner, Artie made a show of placing the Xbox controller on the coffee table and making himself at home on the couch, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. “Never again!” he announced. “This baby screamed the whole flight and my neighbour spilled his orange juice all over my trousers.” Seeing Al eyeing his perfectly dry pants, he explained. “I changed in the airport toilet.” “Wanna throw them in the washing machine?” “Go ahead.” Artie’s suitcases were works of art. He knew just the way to tightroll everything and exactly how much of any given thing was needed, then filled every square inch so perfectly it looked like a Tetris high score. Speaking of Tetris! “Hey, Artie! Guess who scored with a cop last night?” “Alfred, please! I don’t want to hear about your sex life!” “But he was so great! So tall and cool and burly and cute! And I got his number!” Artie gave him a confused look from under his arm. “Burly and cute? That’s a combination you don’t hear often.” “I know! But it was awesome! God, I wish I had a photo to show you, he was just perfect! He’s a detective!” Artie lifted his feet off the couch to let Al plop down next to him. “He acted all cool and aloof and then blushed when I said he’d look hot in a suit! It was adorable!” Al knew he was gushing like a teenage girl about her latest celebrity crush but he couldn’t help it! This was the single greatest thing that had happened to him since… since he first got laid, basically! “And he’s a cop! I’ve never seen a cop like him! He wrote his number on the wall”, Al helpfully pointed at the number scratched on the wall paper. The wince on Artie’s face was great. “You two seem like you would get along swell”, he muttered. “I know! He’s not at all uptight like you are!” “It’s called being a functioning adult! You git!” “A functioning adult would have brought me Cadbury creme eggs!” “The last time I did you thought I was flirting with you!” Oh right, it had been the day before Valentine’s and Artie had been blushing for some reason.

They cleaned up the place together. Artie tried to cook “as a reward”, which would have been about as much of a reward as a death penalty. Al insisted he wouldn’t make a guest cook, so they went out for dinner, even though Artie hardly counted as a guest. He was rarely over, thanks to the ocean between them, but the guy was as much family as Mattie. Every time he stayed at Al’s place it was like a roommate coming home. Artie didn’t buy the excuse, as he never did, and claimed Al needed a good English dinner in him just once and would never go back, as he always did. This was routine for them. Everything about Artie was familiar. He had gone through a few phases in his teens and early twenties, but ever since becoming a premature grandpa the only thing that changed were his clothes. He was as stagnant as Mattie. “You gonna go see Mattie after dropping by our folks?” “I don’t have time”, Artie said. “I only have three days left and I couldn’t get a ticket. I’ll see him on Christmas.” It was something of a tradition for the whole extended family to gather at Mattie’s place on Christmas, since he was one of the few who didn’t switch apartments every year. Not everyone could make it at the same time, some stayed for a few days before Christmas and some dropped in to say hi on Christmas Day. Al always stayed in the guest room, but the sheer number of relatives forced the large majority to stay in hotels. Artie got a mattress on the floor the years his pervert husband stayed home. They had learned from the first time. “Francis is still working out his schedule so I’m not sure if he can make it.” “Good! He’s already got a hubby, he shouldn’t hit on Mattie!” Francis was an okay guy most of the time, but you better not let your guard down or you’d find his hands down your pants. How Artie hadn’t dumped his cheating ass was something Al would never understand. If he ever started going steady, he wouldn’t forgive a single stray ogle. Luckily Ivan didn’t seem like the type to cheat, since it had taken him so long to even realize Al had been hitting on him from the first sentence he had said to him. It didn’t look like the guy had much of a sex drive. “And he better stay the hell away from my date, too!” “Your date? Weren’t you single just a few hours ago?” “I’m talking about that cop!” Artie made a face, but Al couldn’t figure out what he had said wrong this time. “Al, you only met the guy yesterday, and now you’re bringing him to Canada for Christmas?” “No! I mean, I could, I think we really clicked and I’m of course awesome so he totally wouldn’t say no.” Another face, more concerned than exasperated this time. “Oh come on Artie, be a little more happy for me wontcha?” “I am, it’s just that – you’ve been hurt before, because you get so into it far too early.” Right, Tex. But this was different from Tex! Ivan was completely comfortable being with men! He wouldn’t pull the same “incompatible” stunt he had! Ivan and Al went so well together, they liked the same things, they understood each other, and talking was so easy between them. Talking with Tex had sometimes been like pulling teeth. “I’ll be fine! I’m a grown man! And it’s just for fun – I just meant I wouldn’t object to getting serious if he wants to.” “Well – good luck”, Artie muttered. “Thanks!”

The next morning Al woke up to a horrible smell drifting from the kitchen. Not the worst Artie had ever caused, but it still made his eyes water. The sentiment was nice, but Artie just didn’t get that his breakfast would be put to better use in torture chambers. They did the usual song and dance – Artie claiming his cooking was great and Al just didn’t understand the fine undertones of British cuisine, and Al dumping his portion in the garbage and frying a healthy dose of bacon. Then they went sightseeing, since this was Artie’s first time in this city – the last time he had been living in Waynesburg. He’d leave tomorrow while Al was at work, so they had to make the day nice, since they would next see each other on Christmas. Granted, they talked daily but it still felt important to part on friendly terms. The one time they hadn’t, Artie had cut all contact with Al for 5 years. It didn’t matter that it had been over a decade ago, that before and after they were thick as thieves. So the next morning Al let his cousin make breakfast, bravely swallowed one bite and washed it down with half a gallon of Coke, and finished with three sunny side ups. Artie insisted his “baked beans”, that is, a sad, dry heap of something bumpy, and black pudding were delicious and nutritious. That might have been the case with store-bought “pudding” that had no business being called pudding, if the ingredient’s weren’t so god damn gross to begin with. “It’s an acquired taste, that’s for sure”, Al muttered in response. How Artie was capable of swallowing his own hellish productions was a mystery for the ages. He was married to a master chef and still lived in a delusional world where his own cooking wouldn’t be censored in daytime TV. Al left the Brit to shovel his indescribable “consumables” alone, and 15 minutes later arrived at the station. “Morning, guys!” “Morning”, greeted a chorus. A slow night, then, if so many were at the station. José made space for Al at the table and they went over the incidents of the last shift. A couple car crashes, two kitchen fires, one false alarm. Such a big city and so few incidents, that couldn’t last. Today would have to be busy. Stu dug out the playing cards after the last shift went home. They were starting the second round of poker when duty called the first time – a false alarm from an old folks’ home, something had spilled on the stove and triggered the alarm. One of the nurses made eyes at Stu, who never wasted a chance to flirt with a pretty face. “Way to keep it professional, Stu”, Jack sighed back in the truck. Jack was a forty-year old virgin. Word on the street was he’d never had a single girlfriend, or boyfriend, and that was why he was so frustrated. He spent most of his free time exercising and fishing. “I just made her day”, Stu argued proudly. He never went beyond flirting, as far as Al knew – the man worshiped his wife. His phone memory was 90% pictures of her. That reminded Al - should he have called Ivan yesterday? Al knew he wouldn’t mind being contacted the next morning, but Artie did keep telling him he was the most socially clueless bloke in the world, so maybe he shouldn’t trust his own judgment? Why hadn’t he asked Artie yesterday? The old man might not have been in the game for a decade, but he had to still have some memories from his single days! “Hey Jack, suppose you gave your number to a girl. Wouldja think she was desperate if she called you the next day?” Jack sighed exasperatedly, like he always did when Al asked him for relationship advice. “I don’t know. I never know anything you ask! Think whatever you think.” “I just wanna make sure! ‘Cause I don’t wanna drive away a good guy by being creepy.” “You’ll drive him away by being obnoxious”, Jack snapped. “Can we please concentrate on work instead of your sex life?” “I’d rather not think about all the dick my coworker is sucking, either”, Stu commented from behind the wheel. Had it been anyone else, Al would have punched them. Stu was chill, he just had a crass sense of humor and no brain-to-mouth filter. “Honestly though, wait until next evening but not longer. You’ll want to seem interested.” Shit, so was it already too late?! A day and a half had already passed! And the station was still ten minutes away! Had he already screwed up his chance? Jeez, stay cool, man! Ivan was totally into him, if anything he’d be overjoyed Al had remembered him! Yeah, that sounded much better. Al could salvage this. Right when they got to the station he’d call. Riiiiight… nnnnnnnnnoooooooooow! “I need to make a call!” he yelled and sprinted for the relative peace of the locker room.

~¨:.:¨~

Ivan was in no mood for solicitors right now. Staring at files and security footage for hours on end was soul-sucking work enough without some young hopeful desperately begging him to buy just this one amazing supplement that comes free with this subscription of these seven home improvement magazines only for 19.99 per month! Ivan never had problems hanging up on them immediately but that didn’t take away the reminder of outside life. For now, the only place that was supposed to exist was this sleazy alley with dismal lighting where one frame in a week’s worth might or might not reveal that Richard Boyarin had walked by it at some point during his vacation. Incredibly important work. Ivan frowned at the screen. It was a number he didn’t have saved on his phone. That was no news, he had a total of eight numbers in there. Two were his sisters’, one his boss’, one his partner’s, one for the station front desk, three for delivery food. He suddenly had the irrationally hopeful thought that it might be Alfred. Absurd as the notion was, it was tempting. And Toris clearly wanted him to silence the ringing, so why not try his luck? Anything would be better than trying to distinguish the black pixels from the other, slightly less black pixels. Fully prepared to be disappointed, Ivan answered as harshly as he could. “Alyo?” ”Hey Vanya, it’s Alfred!” Thoroughly shocked, but altogether pleased, Ivan felt an unexpectedly honest smile forming on his face, and casually insulted Alfred’s pronunciation. “Oh screw you, I did fine. You free tomorrow night?” Alfred’s nasal voice asked, completely carefree and smiling widely. Typical American, but at least Alfred’s smile wasn’t deceitful. He smiled because he was happy, not because he needed a good tip to pay his bills. Ivan was free, and had the feeling he would even make himself free if he hadn’t been. But the idiot didn’t need to know that, his ego was bloated enough already. “Hmm…” Pausing as if to check his calendar, Ivan lifted a finger to his lips at the nervously disapproving Toris. There was never any evidence in the Baton killer’s cases anyway. Of course not a single hair, spit drop or footprint had been found in this one either, which was the whole reason they had been forced to turn to these good as useless security tapes. The only thing ever found were the bodies, and that they had already analyzed to Hell and back, and of course it had revealed nothing new. Why pour over the same old evidence, hour after countless hour without any breaks? There would be a new victim, perhaps soon, even, there had been a long break between the last two. Then they could actually work. “Yes, I have a few hours after seven.” It wouldn’t do to look too eager. Ivan Braginski did not chase after men. “Great! Wanna go out? Rocker’s has a party celebrating the owner’s daughter’s birthday so they’ll have free booze! See you there at eight!” It better not be punch. “I suppose. What’s the address?” “It’s right next to orthodox church, you’ll find it!” If he found the church. Ivan rarely paid attention to places of worship, and then only to avoid them. Well, he would just Google the place later. Couldn’t be too many Orthodox churches in a city like this. He wondered if Alfred suggested the place because he thought Ivan had an inclination towards the Eastern church. “And hey, you never showed me your badge”, Alfred whined. An adult man, so fixated on badges, how cute. “You didn’t ask.” “Well show it to me tomorrow! You’ll love it”, Alfred said, wiggling his eyebrows so hard they almost rode the electronic waves to Ivan’s desk. He truly did like cops. Alfred was delightfully childish in a way that was funny for a few hours, but no one could take for more than a day at a time. One could only imagine how he had been as an actual child. Ten times as bad, or exactly the same? Maybe some boys never did grow up, as they say. “Only If you promise to stop whining.” “I promise nothing! Come onnnn, I’ll show ya my hose…” Again the eyebrows wiggled and Ivan almost snickered. Such a strange person. How old was he? He had looked a bit younger than Ivan, so maybe thirty or late twenties? A good age, young enough to enjoy fun but not young enough go overboard, old enough to understand life but not old enough to be weary of it. “Well in that case. Will you show me how it works?” “Oh, I’ll show you all right, and let you try…” This time Ivan did snort. “Tone down the eyebrows and I might take up your offer”, he chuckled, making Toris tilt his head in confusion. It couldn’t be that odd to hear Ivan laugh, could it? Surely he had done it in his partner’s presence before. “Eyebrows?” Alfred asked and the eyebrows stopped wiggling. He must have done it instinctively so he didn’t even pick up on it. Ivan wouldn’t be surprised – Alfred hardly seemed the perceptive type. The only things he could think about were probably sex, cheetos and beer. “You want me to pluck ‘em? They’re kinda thin already…” “Nevermind. Just make sure to impress me and you’ll get something good in return”, Ivan smirked, whirling around on his office chair. “Ivan –“ Toris attempted, but a quick hushing from Ivan silenced him and made him go back to studying the badly pixellated security footage. “Oh, do you have company?” “Just my partner. We’re going through some evidence.” Thank you, Toris. Live a little, nerd. “Jeez, you should have said you were at work. Tell me all about it later! Seven at Rocker’s! Bye!” “Bye.” With a heavy sigh Ivan put his phone back in his pocket. Security footage was easily the most mind-numbing part of police work, even worse than paper work, and in homicide investigation it contrasted so badly with the actual interesting part it felt ten times more tedious than in any other department. “Toris, you wouldn’t mind getting me a coffee?” Toris silently nodded and scurried off. The diminutive Lithuanian was an interesting mix of courage and nerves: on the job he wouldn’t flinch even when a gun was pointed at him, but whenever he was alone with his partner, he became a fidgety mess. Brilliant man, great at his job, but very meek. He had joined the force three years before Ivan, and was also that same three years older. They had been partnered seven months ago, after Ivan’s then-partner had been crippled on duty when they had been chasing a suspect. Tragic story, really. She would have survived the car crash with minor injuries, had a freak malfunction not made her gun fire inside the car and lodge the bullet in her spine. One of the finest of the force, she had been. Dedicated, smart.

--

You might have noticed that Ivan goes back and forth with Alfred and Jones – that’s on purpose. He uses Jones whenever he wants to maintain some distance, and Alfred when he forgets to despise all of humanity. Oh Ivan, you’re not nearly as misanthropic as you tell yourself!

Dobroye utro(Дoбрoе утрo): Good morning Alyo( Алё): Hello

Chapter name comes from Ship of Fools by World party. I should probably mention that the song lyrics have nothing to do with the chapter contents, I choose them purely by title. Also the symbolism mostly only makes sense to me:D Don’t mind if you don’t get what I’m going for.

[fandomsallaroundme]

Cure for the Common Cold

Author:  QueenPersephoneofHades Fandom: Ducktales 2017 Characters: Scrooge McDuck, Huey Duck, Louie Duck, Dewey Duck, Webby Vanderquack, Mrs. Beakley Word Count: 4,235 Summary: Waking up with a splitting headache and a burning forehead is never a good sign.

on FFN and AO3

Rising with the sun is a habit gained from over half a lifetime spent sleeping under the open sky, face turned toward the opposite horizon but ultimately left unable to ignore the stinging brightness of a new day, soon to be filled with hard work and aching bones.

Scrooge hasn’t beaten that habit yet, not in the fifty and some years since he’s consistently had to sleep outside.

Most days he snaps awake instantly at even a hint of light shining through his bedrooms’ curtains, the distant memory of a brisk winter chill in the air bringing him around within seconds. Sometimes, if he’s feeling particularly selfish, he can hold out for a bit, doze for nearly twenty minutes before long engrained routine compels him to get up, get moving, get on with it all.

By Selene, he hates routine. Some days, the thought of going through the motions for the thousandth time in a row had been nearly more than he could bear.

A month ago, there’d been far too many of those days to count. Mornings where routine had become something to slowly despair in, rather than take comfort and pride in. He had built himself an empire to withstand the ages, yet it had seemed he would crumble in the face of the mundane far sooner than he ever thought possible.

But recently, that had changed.

The glowing dawn and steady awakening of the world was no longer something to dread, the terrible dullness of the last ten years abruptly filling with unexpected noise and color at a truly alarming rate. It was all new, a bit strange and anything but routine, so Scrooge can awaken and look forward to a new day of ridiculous shenanigans brought about by his family for the first time in a decade.

The sunrise was easier to wake up to, now.

So, when he woke up nearly an entire hour after it had risen, that was the first clue that something was wrong.

It’s the quiet creak of the door opening that finally starts to rouse him from slumber, the scent of freshly brewed tea and the measured shuffle of Beakley’s footsteps across the floor slowly bringing him closer to the living world.

Awareness, no matter how muted, brought with it a steady drumbeat to the inside of his skull in time with his heart. The dull pain only made consciousness even less pleasant than it usually was, and the groan Scrooge muffled into his pillow as he feebly turned his head and tried to chase oblivion was entirely juvenile.

“Sir?” In her thirty and some years working in the Manor, Beakley had only seen her employer still asleep so long after dawn a handful of times, and all of those times had been after he’d been bashed into unconsciousness by some monster the night before.

Beakley approached the bed a tad cautiously, trying not to be too concerned when the only response she received was another stubborn grumble. Honestly, Scrooge McDuck was ten years her senior and yet he could be more immature than the actual children in the mansion. It would be amusing if it weren’t so irritating, or in this case, worrying. “Sir? Are you feeling alright?”

Grumbling in protest of being woken had long proven to be ineffectual in warding off anyone who wanted your attention, so Scrooge reluctantly decided to count his losses and blink himself into wakefulness.

The pounding in his head intensified when he opened his eyes and moved to sit up. He quickly halted his ascent, wincing as the pain dimmed back into a somewhat manageable ache. Grumbling a few choice words under his breath, Scrooge looked up and did a doubletake at his expectant housekeeper. “Beakley? You’re certainly up early this morning.”

The mild concern wrinkling Beakley’s face only grew more pronounced as she set her tea tray onto a table. “Sir, it’s nearly 7:30 in the morning. You’ve slept in for an hour and a half.”

“What?!” Scrooge is halfway out of bed the second the words process, one hand pressed to his temple as the pain in his skull jackhammers along with his pulse. Only a steadying hand from his housekeeper kept him from falling over completely as he snatched desperately for both his phone on the nightstand and his robe hanging just out of reach.

Beakley drew her hand back from the unexpected dampness coating Scrooge’s back as he fell back onto the bed, phone clutched in one hand and the other keeping him from sprawling backwards completely. As he heaved for breath over such a simple task, clumsily flipped open his phone and began typing madly on the keypad, Beakley grimaced and wiped the sweat off on her apron, appraising his state of exhausted disarray with new eyes.

“Sir-”

“Not now, Beakley. I need to make sure the trade meeting doesn’t start without me; it’s happening in thirty minutes, if I can just get Launchpad here fast enough I might only be a few minutes late-”

“Sir-”

“-he’s always driven like a lunatic, he won’t mind having to come in a rush-”

“Sir-”

“-what I was thinking, not setting an alarm for today of all days is beyond-!”

“SIR!”

Scrooge startles sharply, not only at the volume of Beakley’s voice, but also at the firm hand suddenly pressed firmly to his forehead, keeping him from attempting to rise and rush about his room like the frantic teenager he no longer is.

He would have something to say about this rather abrupt intrusion of his personal space – several very loud things, in fact – if the pain in his head hadn’t spiked so hard he felt lightheaded, making him lean a little more into Beakley’s palm if only to keep him from falling over himself.

He squinted through the pain to see his housekeeper’s face go stubborn in that way that reminded him quite a bit of the woman’s granddaughter right before something disastrous happened. “Beakley-” he started, but she’s quick to cut him off before he can get going.

“You can’t go in today, sir.”

The interruption only makes his eyes fly open, any pain quickly pushed to the side when the McDuck temper flared high whenever anyone attempted to give him orders. “And why in God’s name would I-?!”

“Sir, you have a fever-!”

“A fever?” Scrooge bats the restraining hand from his forehead, making a great show of rolling his eyes dramatically. “You think I’ve never gone in to work with a blasted fever before? I’ve slogged through freezing rain and rivers of mud, a little fever never stopped me then!”

Even in the middle of his rant, he could feel a familiar feeling settling over him; he barely has enough to raise his arm to muffle the sneeze into his elbow, once, twice, three times, all aggravating the ache in his head into a splitting pain that actually laid him out flat on his back. When the fit passed, he pried his eyes open to give Beakley’s anxious ‘I told you so’ expression a feeble glare. “This proves nothing.”

Beakley sighed softly through her nose, shaking her head as she stiffly turned to the tea tray she’d set aside to pour out a cup, casting a stern look over her shoulder at her still floored employer.

“I can go out and purchase some cold medicine later, but for now we have some basic aspirin that can at least make you a bit more comfortable. I’m going to get you some, you are going to drink this,” she said, firmly setting the tea cup and saucer down within easy reach on the nightstand, “And you’re going to lay down and rest. You’re not a young man anymore, sir. You can’t go running about while you’re ill and expect everything to be fine.”

It’s sound logic, and all completely true, but no McDuck had ever laid claim to good sense when obstinate refusal was always an option.

Scrooge starts levering himself up again before Beakley’s made it five steps away, and when she turns back to glare at him he glares right back with only the sideways slant of his mouth to suggest the headache is still making it hard to focus on anything.

“The negotiations for a huge deal in Cape Suzette are happening today, Beakley. I can’t miss this meeting; three whole months will have been for nothing if I don’t go in.” He will not plead with her. He doesn’t need to. She is his employee when all is said and done; she cannot stop him from doing something he feels must be done. He doesn’t even need to argue with her, he could simply order her to have Launchpad bring the car around.

But even McDuck stubbornness will waver when it feels like the top of his skull is splitting open, leaving him squinting through one eye as he focuses on not falling over again.

Beakley is completely stern and unsympathetic in the face of his explanation, which is exactly what he hired her for in the first place. “I’ll let your executives know you won’t be coming in today. I’m sure they can figure everything else out for themselves, and if things go too poorly, I’m sure you can find a way to reschedule next week.”

All completely, maddeningly true, and even as more protests rise to the tip of his tongue, another pulse of pain through his head has him accepting defeat before the words can leave his mouth.

Scrooge slowly lowers himself back to laying down as Beakley left the room, doing his best to breathe evenly and think about the softness of the comforter, the warmth of the sun peeking through the still drawn curtains, the smell of freshly made tea; anything to keep his mind off the potential business disaster he isn’t able to prevent right now. He hasn’t felt this helpless in quite a long while. He doesn’t appreciate the feeling one bit.

Eventually, when his heartbeat is calmer and the ache subsequently a bit more bearable, Scrooge manages to sit up enough to sip the tea Beakley left. It’s a bit cooler than he prefers, but it helps, even if only a little.

The meeting will go fine, he’s sure – none of his executives were hired for their looks or their charming personalities. All three of them are savvy businessmen who know what they’re doing, and have worked with Scrooge long enough to know exactly what he’d want out of the Cape Suzette deal, but…

Priorities. Right.

No sense in suffering through a business meeting when his head already feels like it’s met with a brick wall several times. Scrooge reminds himself of that every time he chances a glance at his phone and watches time tick by in silence, the lack of any phone calls as the meeting starts only serving to make him more anxious.

God, how did people even survive days off?

He’s just managed to find a comfortable position where the light from the window isn’t falling across his eyes and making stabbing pains run through his head when the muffled patter of multiple webbed feet running past his bedroom door becomes audible.

Scrooge stifles an amused grin at the thought of the kids’ antics – their ridiculous and often excessive games had been strangely entertaining in the weeks since his nephews had moved in, despite Beakley’s loud insistence on the contrary.

Normally, he’d go out and offer some tips on how they could ambush each other during one of their games, but the throbbing in his skull keeps him rooted in place.

And normally, their tomfoolery doesn’t bother him no matter how out of hand it gets – unless something gets broken, of course – but the sudden loud thud outside along with the rising volume of four childish voices makes his eye twitch. They’re not being any louder than usual, but his migraine seems to think otherwise. The stabbing pains intensify as one voice cries out, “That’s not fair!” and when a subsequent scuffle seems to break out, Scrooge has to grit his teeth to keep several loud curses from escaping. Experience had taught him long ago that shouting when his head hurts this much would do no one any favors.

“Webby!” Beakley’s call, sharp but much quieter than it normally would be, brings the muffled fight to a standstill, and Scrooge has never been so grateful to hear her so infuriated.

Hurried footsteps signal his housekeeper rounding up the children, and whatever tirade she bestows upon them is blessedly muffled enough to be virtually inaudible, leaving Scrooge to focus on stifling the sneeze he can feel slowly creeping up on him.

He succeeds (barely) just in time to hear the highly dramatic shout of “Is he dying?!” be immediately deafened by several exaggerated shushes, a light thump and a yelp that suggested that the triplet who had cried out had been summarily silenced by the ever-enthusiastic Webby. A good egg, that one. When he wasn’t sniffling pathetically through a terribly stuffed nose and desperately ignoring what felt like his skull caving in, he’d have to remember to raise her allowance.

Scrooge squints one eye open (when had he closed them? It was getting hard to tell) at the sound of the door opening. Beakley enters, carrying a glass of water and some aspirin. Behind her, four tiny heads peek around the open door, several varying levels of concern and sheepishness on their faces.

“Any better?” Beakley asks, setting the water glass beside his room temperature tea to help him sit up.

Moving his face too much only makes the pain worse, so the best Scrooge can offer is a tired deadpan stare. “Aye, as long as I don’t move, or blink, or breathe, or think, it almost feels like my brain isn’t leaking out of my ears.”

Beakley, while clearly unamused by his observation, is at least sympathetic enough to wince as she hands over the aspirin. “I’ll be sure to get the heavy-duty medicine while I’m out, then.” She tries to help him wash the pills down, but he snatches the water from her before she can do anything more than hold it; he isn’t a toddler, he can manage a sip of water without dribbling all over himself. He pointedly ignores her reproachful look, though he at least hands the glass back without prompting once finished.

He also pretends not to notice her rolling her eyes before she asks, “Is there anything else I can get for you from the store, sir?”

He doesn’t like the idea of wasting so much money on disposable items, but the thought of using his elbow every time he has to sneeze is not pleasant. “Handkerchiefs, perhaps. And cough drops, if there are any cheap ones.” He hasn’t coughed yet, but swallowing has been distinctly uncomfortable for his throat, and dealing with that on top of a migraine is just ridiculous.

Beakley nods, mentally preparing a shopping list before his eyes, before collecting the tray of now cold tea from his nightstand, leaving the half-full glass of water in its place and turning back to the door. Scrooge can see all four of the kids are still there, appearing far too anxious over a case of the common cold.

“Granny?” Webby asks timidly, shrinking a bit more behind the doorway now that she is the center of attention.

Scrooge has never seen her so nervous, not since she first moved into the manor seven years ago.

He doesn’t like that expression on her face.

He also doesn’t like the worried looks shared between his three nephews. Honestly, what had Beakley told them? He’d been in states worse than this plenty of times before.

Scrooge tries to muster a smile, or at least an expression that isn’t a grimace. “It’s nothing to worry about, Webby darlin’. Beakley’s just being a bit paranoid about a headache is all,” he reassures them, trying not to twitch as Beakley snorted beside him.

“A headache that laid you out flat on your back,” she muttered to herself, luckily closer to Scrooge than the kids rather than vice versa, so hopefully they didn’t hear that. Hopefully. It was hard to tell how loud voices were when his ears started ringing like that.

Luckily, Beakley seems to sense his distress before he can say anything, because she marches to the door, tea tray balanced on one hip as she waves the kids out with her free hand. “You can play on the other side of the manor for today, children. Let Mr. McDuck have his rest. Sir,” she says over her shoulder, casting him a knowing look that reminds him very much of his late mother, “I expect you to stay in bed and sleep if possible. I’ll be back in a few hours with something light for lunch. If you’re not here when I arrive…”

She leaves the threat hanging. He hates it when she does that.

Then the kids and Beakley are gone, the door gently thumps shut, and he is left with sunlight shining cheerfully through the curtains and cloud soft blankets that certainly didn’t feel this uncomfortably warm yesterday.

He dozes in fits and starts, always pulled away from the sweet relief of oblivion by even the slightest hint of discomfort: the blankets are kicked off in a fit of frustration, but in less than ten minutes they’re back on when he figures slowly baking is preferable to freezing to death. A sneeze is muffled into his elbow. His throat finally becomes so parched that he drains everything left in his water glass and is still left wanting more. The sun’s path across the sky finally brings its light directly into his eyes, and he’s forced to turn on his side. Another sneeze hits him just as he was on the edge of complete unconsciousness, and the curses that escape his mouth would have made even foul-tempered Hortense blush.

Eventually, Scrooge simply lays in agony, staring at the canopy above his head and contemplating everything awful in the world because even though thinking hurts there’s literally nothing left for him to do with sleep evading him like this.

To think, in his youth, he might’ve once been able to keep working in this condition, keep facing forward through such torment. He can scarcely imagine it now.

Amidst the haze of fever and exhaustion, the click of the door opening again is an abrupt reminder that the outside world exists and isn’t completely full of suffering.

Scrooge has to blink several times before he can muster up the energy to lift his head and see who his latest visitor is, and by then a rather loudly whispered argument is already reaching him.

“-said to let him rest!” says a voice he dimly recognizes as Webby. She sounds absolutely furious, which is both gratifying and amusing. “He doesn’t like people going into his room-!”

“Yeah, but he’s supposed to be sleeping, right?” Louie reasons, ever the negotiator.

“We just want to make sure he’s okay!” Huey says brightly, seemingly unaware of the worry shadowing his tone. “We told you; a quick peek, in and out, and he’ll never know! It’s no problem!”

“Except if he wakes up,” Dewey points out, ever helpful.

The opening is too good to pass up; Scrooge levers himself upright, smirking at the four petrified faces that greet him.

“Too late, I’ve been awake the whole time.” He looks between Webby and his nephews, finally managing to raise both eyebrows without grimacing for the first time this morning. “How long have all of you been standing out there daring each other to open the door?”

All four of them flush brilliant shades of red, and by some small mercy his laughter only causes a dull pain instead of stabbing torment.

Huey, always far braver than he first appears, is the first to enter his bedroom properly, walking all the way up to the foot of the bed, wringing his hands and smiling a bit too widely. “How are ya feeling, Uncle Scrooge? Better after your nap?”

“Haven’t slept a wink since you left,” Scrooge admits flatly. Honesty was always the best policy.

Except when it makes his nephew’s face fall like that. Perhaps he could’ve said that a bit better.

From the doorway, Louie looks completely scandalized. “What?! It’s been, like, three hours!” He, Dewey and Webby edge into the room, clustering around the crestfallen Huey like responsible little bookends.

Scrooge honestly can’t help the look of utter disbelief on his face, because what.

“Have you been standing around out there this whole time?! Beakley said it was alright for you to play in other parts of the manor, didn’t she? Kids your age shouldn’t be inside on a day like this!” He actually had no idea what the weather was like outside aside from ‘ten times brighter than Flintheart Glomgold’, but that was beside the point.

The awkward shuffling at the foot of his bed only becomes more pronounced.

“Not the whole time,” Dewey mutters, crossing his arms petulantly. Della’s son, for sure.

Scrooge regards the quartet in complete flabbergasted silence for a solid minute. He hasn’t seen any of them hold still and stay silent for longer than twenty seconds at a time, and they’d been quiet outside his door for nearly three hours? Were they really that jumpy?

“I’m not about to collapse, kids. Why would y-?”

“We were worried about you, Uncle Scrooge. You looked like crap this morning. Still do.” Only Louie was ever so blunt. He shrugs his shoulders, unrepentant in the face of Scrooge’s scowl. “Just because no one else is saying it doesn’t make it not true.”

Webbigail, always so quick to please, grins sheepishly at him as she clamps a hand on Louie and Dewey’s shoulders and begins bodily dragging them backwards. “We’re so sorry, Uncle Scrooge! We just wanted to see how you were doing before leaving you to your nap! We won’t bother you again, I swear!”

Going back to staring blankly at the walls and ceiling in absolute silence sounds absolutely awful, actually.

“Ah, wait dear!” It comes out a bit louder than he means it to and he clamps his beak shut, but not before it makes Webby freeze in her tracks and the boys all turn back to him, nervous for a completely different reason now.

They all stare at each other for a moment, at a loss for words.

Then Huey, with all the empathy and understanding Matilda had once had, smiles wide and asks, “Do you like to read, Uncle Scrooge?”

The question is so out of left field it throws him for a loop. “Sorry?”

“Do you have any favorite books?” Huey clarifies, twiddling his fingers as his brothers and Webby watch him, wide-eyed. “If you’re having trouble sleeping and your headache makes it hard to read, I could read a few chapters of your favorite book with you, if you want.”

Now that is unexpected. “That’s quite kind of you, lad, but you don’t have to-”

“It’s just-” here Huey flushes again, gaze darting to the ground and finger-twiddling picking up speed, “I usually do that when we’re sick and Uncle Donald is working late, to help us sleep, you know? I know it’d be kind of weird for me to do that for you, but I figured, you know, since you can’t sleep and all-” here his voice drops into embarrassed mumbling, and Dewey and Louie both look seconds away from either laughing or hugging their ridiculous brother. Webby beats them to the punch, wrapping her arms around him with a giggle.

(Scrooge is struck hard with a memory, faded and indistinct, of Matilda tugging on his sleeve, clutching their sleepy little sister to her side, “One more chapter, Scroogey, she’s almost asleep!)

Scrooge rolls his eyes at their blatant display of affection, leans back against his pillows with a groan. “There are plenty of more valuable things you could be doing with your time than wasting it with me,” he can’t help but point out, but before he’s even finished he knows it’s a futile effort. These are McDuck kids, through and through; their stubbornness would win out on principle.

And then Louie has to go and say, “How could time spent with you ever be a waste, Uncle Scrooge?”

And suddenly Scrooge has to start blinking rapidly, lest the rest of his dignity be stripped away by a group of children.

There’s not much more to say, after that.

The children clamber up onto his bed as Huey sneaks over to the bookshelf to make the selection, Dewey and Louie still seated near the foot while Webby inches a bit closer, sitting crisscross next to Scrooge’s knees, eyes absolutely sparkling.

When Huey returns with a mischievous grin and plops down right next to Scrooge, he takes one look at the cover of the book the boy selected, and gives him the most deadpan stare he’s ever given anyone. “Really.”

Huey shrugs, grin twisting with amusement. “What? It was up there!”

A joke from Mrs. Beakley, no doubt. He can’t say he disapproves when the other kids’ faces light up as Huey opens to the first page and starts to read the time-honored words,

“Marley was dead, to begin with.”

A/N: AND BEHOLD, IT IS DONE! Sweet Lord, that took far longer than it should have! I started this story last week when I got sick and had to stay home from work for a day. I gave poor Scrooge all my symptoms, then felt bad and let him have family bonding time instead of constant unending suffering like me. I only had the time and energy to finish this now, an entire week later. Yikes. Well, that is one way to end an eight-month writing hiatus, I suppose. Hope you liked it! See ya later! ~Persephone P.S. the opening line of the book Huey’s reading is from Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”