#it’s a miracle i didn’t accidentally kill myself or someone else and i spent most of my life being monitored by people

[oatmilkandvellichor]

ya i’m not like other girls. my therapist in high school use to tell me all the time how much better i was than her other teenage patients bc they were ‘just rich drunk kids’ and i had ✨poverty trauma✨ and was sober. of course, i went home and celebrated my metaphorical A+ in therapy by drinking lean and tequila alone in my bedroom, but obvs that’s just cos i’m quirky and different

[rebthom89]

Three Times Dodger Was Exactly What Dani Needed and Once That He Knew She Needed Someone Else

Pairing: Dani x Dodger Evans, Dani x Chris Evans

Word Count: 2,391

Summary: The title basically says it all. But Merry Christmas to my sweetest little lovebug, Dani @fallinforevans​! I hope you love it!!!

Warnings: Dodger Evans being the best boy ever, mentions of family issues and work stress

A/N: This is NOT the reader insert type story that I typically write. I wrote this as a very special gift for one of my dearest friends. I absolutely based it on her and her love for iced coffee, Dodger Evans, and (unfortunately) the way her. family can be. I don’t expect it to resonate with everyone. But I WILL be back to writing reader insert after this one. 

One

     As Dani left work that day, all she wanted to do was get an iced coffee and get home to crawl into bed and forget about the day. She'd been busting her ass to get all the work done she could during this busy fall season, but that didn't mean everyone else was working as hard as she was. Despite turning out some of her best results yet, she kept getting more and more work thrown at her and had never felt less appreciated. It didn't help that she had slept through her alarm this morning, forgotten her lunch, and then gotten back to work late because the restaurant took forever to pack up her take out order. She’d ended up having to eat at her desk while she worked, and managed to spill the last few sips of the iced coffee that was going to get her through the rest of the day.

     By the time her day had come to an end, she’d decided to take the shortcut through the park that would get her home about 10 minutes faster AND take her past her favorite coffee stand to make up for the tragedy of the spilled coffee. About half way through the park, though, it seemed as if fate had different plans. Something flew past her knees in a blur and before she knew it, she was on the ground, unable to stand back up and being assaulted by something wet directly to her face.

     It took a second to collect herself and process what happened, but when she did, it became a little easier to breathe. The pup currently licking her face in the most excited manner must have gotten away from his owner and accidentally knocked her over. She started to pet him, hoping it would calm him down, at least enough for her to stand back up, but the attention only brought more energy from his brown and white body. 

     “Woah, Bubs, where did you come from, huh? Someone out there must be looking for you. You’re too cute to be out here all by yourself.” She said to the dog. As soon as he’d heard her nickname for him, he settled enough for Dani to push herself back up, and find a seat on the bench nearby. He immediately came to sit directly in front her, being sure he wouldn’t miss any of the attention she was clearly going to be giving him.

     “Dodger, huh? You do like something straight out of a Disney movie” Dani chuckled, taking her phone from her purse to call the phone number on the tag. 

     “I’m impressed. Not many people get the reference right away,” came a voice from a few feet away, making her put her phone away. “Usually people think it’s got something to do with baseball. I’m sorry about him though. Are you ok?”

     “Yeah. Getting some love from an adorable furball is far from the worst thing that happened to me today. It might have been the best actually.” She said with a laugh.

     “Well then I’m glad he could help. He must have noticed you could use some puppy love. I’m Chris, by the way. You’ve clearly already met Dodger.”

     She scratched his head, smiling. “Dani. Thanks for the pick-me-up, Dodger, even if it literally knocked me over.”

     “How about I make that up to you? There’s a great little coffee stand right over here. Let me buy you a cup? Bubba here doesn’t look like he’s ready to say goodbye to you yet.” 

     Dani smiles, her eyes lighting up at the suggestion. “I was just headed there myself, actually. They make the best coffee. I would love the company.”

Two

     As the three of them walked off together, Dodger firmly planted between them so he could share his love with both of them, Dani couldn’t help but think that maybe Dodger had known what she’d needed after all.

     Since the fateful day in the park that Dodger knocked her over, Dani, Chris, and Dodger had been darn near inseparable. After several coffee and dog park dates, and few fancier and Dodger free dates as well, she and Chris became official. About eight months later, the two humans had realized they had gotten to the point where it was simply a waste for Dani to be paying rent anywhere else, seeing as she spent virtually every night with Chris and Dodger. 

     It had amazed Chris at first just how seamlessly Dani had fit into his life. He’d been a little worried that everything would change once she’d officially moved in, but life remained much of the same for them. If anything, it was easier, simply because there was no more of the awkwardness about where they stood. Having each other around, knowing this was home, everyone seemed happier and more at ease.

     This morning started the same way most every morning did - Chris had gotten up long before Dani had even considered getting out of bed, and had gone for this usual morning run. The first difference from their normal morning was noticeable as soon as Dani rolled over. The bed wasn’t empty. Dodger had nestled himself into Chris’ spot in bed, and was staring intently at her. It was fairly common for Dodger to accompany Chris on his runs, but every now and then the pup would stay behind, so Dani tried not to think too much of it. 

     The next difference, Dani felt as soon as she sat up to get out of bed. To be fair, she’d been expecting it, but that didn’t mean the cramps hurt any less. She’d only been awake for a matter of minutes and she could already tell it was going to be one of those days where it would take a miracle to even get her out of bed for any lengthy period of time. Thankfully, Chris had a few meetings today and would be in and out, even after his run, so she could take the day for herself, but knew he’d still be around to check on her too. 

     She got up with the plans to run through her normal morning routine, including grabbing the iced coffee Chris had undoubtedly left in the fridge for her after making his own coffee this morning. Dodger immediately followed her, almost as though he was keeping an eye on her while Chris was out of the house. On her way back to the bedroom, Dodger raced ahead of her, meeting her back at the bed with his stuffed lion in his mouth. As she crawled back into bed, the pup leaned down and pushed the lion over to her before gently laying his head in her lap.

     “Are you gonna share him with me, bubs? I know you love to snuggle him.”

     Dani couldn’t help but smile when Dodger sighed happily, relieved that she figured out his plan. She scratched at his favorite spot, right behind his ear. “We do a good job taking care of each other, huh, Bubs? You always seem to know what will make me feel better.”

     Chris had been away for nearly a month. He tried to get back home as often as he could, but with the announcement of a new movie he’d signed on for, he was suddenly being called in for interviews every free second he had. Dani was so proud of him and knew how hard he’d been working, but it didn’t make being apart any easier. She couldn’t wait until he got home this afternoon, so she could show him just how proud she was, but that wasn’t going to make the next few hours any easier. Just this morning alone, she’d already done a load of dishes, made a batch of Chris’ favorite cookies, picked up all the toys Dodger had left laying around and vacuumed every room in the house. The anticipation was killing her and she wasn’t sure how she would possibly manage to make it through the next few hours.

Three

     Dani thought that maybe finding a movie to focus on would have helped keep her distracted for a while, but even Nick Vaughn serenading her with the sweet sounds of his trumpet couldn’t take her mind from the fact that Chris was almost home. She was pulled from thoughts of Chris when she heard a loud bark coming from near the back door. Dodger was sitting right next to his leash, clearly expecting his walk to begin IMMEDIATELY. Always a sucker for whatever her bubba wanted, she found her tennis shoes, attached his leash and started outside. Expecting him to head to the right, the way they always went on their afternoon walk, she was almost pulled off her feet when Dodger suddenly turned and pulled her up the street to the left.

     “Ok, Bubba, I get it. We’ll go the long way. It can’t hurt. Maybe we can even stop at your favorite park for a while.”

     Dodger had the time of his life on their walk. He’d chased a squirrel up a tree, made 3 new human friends on the way to the park, and 4 new dog friends once they’d reach the fenced area in which he could run free. By the time he came back up to Dani and laid his head on her knee, silently asking to go back home and cuddle with his lion, even Dani was feeling worn out from all that Dodger had enjoyed on the walk. 

     The trip back took a little longer than the way there had, partly because Dodger didn’t have as much energy for this half of the walk, and partly because Dani still wasn’t looking forward to returning to an empty house. She figured there was about an hour left before Chris should be home, but was hoping that maybe Dodger had worn her out enough that she could sneak a nap in to keep her thoughts from wandering to Chris.

     As the house came into view, Dodger let out a happy bark and suddenly regained all the energy he’d used up earlier. Dani did a double take, because standing there on the porch, watching them walk up the road, was Chris.

The Time She Needed Someone Else

     “Dodge - you knew I just needed to keep busy, huh? Ok, that was such a good boy. Go ahead.” She reached down to let Dodger off his leash, and he stopped, looking back up at her, almost as if he was trying to make sure she would be ok. She rubbed his head and chuckled, “It’s ok, Bubba. Go get daddy.” And with that, Dodger took off towards his dad.

     “Woof! Woof woof!” 

     Dodger’s loud, clear barks rang through the house as Chris sat in his office, working. The last time Chris had been in their room, Dani was watching something on TV while Dodger was curled up at the end of the bed, snuggling with his lion. Chris guessed the barks meant that Dodger had grown bored with whatever Dani was watching and was ready to play. 

      Chris had only gotten through a couple more work emails before Dodger started barking again. This time he didn’t sound like he was looking to play, but more that he expected someone to immediately come find him. Chris wondered if maybe Dani had fallen asleep watching tv and Dodger had managed to get himself stuck in the bathroom or something, and decided it would just be easier for everyone if he were to go let the pup out.

     When he got to the hallway leading to their bedroom though, he noticed Dodger sitting in the doorway to their room. Dodger was looking back and forth between the bedroom and the hallway. The second he saw Chris coming, he ran to his dad, leading him straight back to Dani. As Chris came into the room, he found the love of his life sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands and her cellphone laying next to her.

     “Darlin’, what’s the matter?” he asked cautiously, stepping into the room and kneeling down in front of her. 

     “It’s just - everything. My work sucks, and you’ve been working so hard, and I’m so proud of you, I really am, but it doesn’t mean it’s easy on me, and then -” He could feel the tension in her shoulders, and he definitely saw her glance at her phone.

     “Your family?” 

     She could only nod as the tears started again. It killed Chris to see her this way, and if he could just snap his fingers and make everything ok, he would do it in a heartbeat. He took her hands in his, just as he felt her breath quicken. He cupped her cheek in his hand and wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb.

     “Dani, look at me. You are incredible. I don’t know how your family doesn’t see that. But you know what? We’re your family now. Me and you and Dodge. Really, we have been for a while. We’re the ones that will be in this together forever. We’re the ones that will get through anything together. Even Bubba knew you needed us today.”

     Dani sniffled, trying her hardest to get the tears under control. “That’s sweet, Chris. And yeah, Dodge could tell I was crying. But -”

     “No. No buts today. Just your cute one, putting on your softest pjs ” he teased with a sparkle in his eyes “and finding the sappiest movie you can find on tv. Even if it’s one of those vampire movies you love so much. You and Dodge and I are gonna stay right here all day, and we will supply you with endless love and cuddles and snacks. And then we’ll get that Italian place you love to deliver dinner, and by the time we’re done, you’ll remember just how much we love you. I know it won’t fix everything. But we need you to know that no matter what, you aren’t in this alone.”

     She smiled softly, “Thank you. You two always seem to know exactly what I need.” 

     As if on cue, Dodger hopped up on the bed and planted a sloppy kiss right on her cheek.

Because this isn’t the reader insert I normally write, I will reblog this in the morning with my tags. For now, I’m gonna let Dani enjoy it!

[caffeinefire]

What’s So Bad, Anyway?

Because I’ve recently become obsessed with Good Omens, Aziraphale, Crowley, and the week that he spent drunk because of the Spanish Inquisition.

He’d always wondered what all the fuss was. Couldn’t see what was so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway. For centuries he’d deluded himself, held onto the small, secret hope that maybe he’d done a good thing in giving these small, fragile beings greater awareness of the world around them, the ability to create their own destiny outside the garden’s walls. He was a demon, wasn’t supposed to want to do good, and as such had only ever spoken aloud of that hope to one person, but with every grand new invention they created and every step forward they took he felt a small amount of pride. 

Another drink. He was beginning to see a few downsides.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He supposed that, on some level, it really was his fault.

The idea that he deserved the commendation dragged the bottle to his lips again, leaving him feeling considerably worse than he ever really had after drinking. Crowley sat at the bar of a Spanish cantina that looked just like all of the other cantinas he’d visited recently. They had started to blur together after the fifth or sixth one. He had no idea how long he’d been drunk, duly noting that the man tending bar was a different one than he’d seen last time he remembered looking up from his bottle.

The realization that he should sober up flashed through Crowley’s mind as he found himself hissing menacingly at the man as he tried to pull the bottle away from him.

Been a long time since he’d done that.

Hadn’t really meant to just now.

At first the man looked annoyed, then afraid, and the look of fear in his eyes was suddenly too much for Crowley to handle.

He was at a different bar.

Huh. Hadn’t meant to do that either.

He finished off the bottle in his hand and ordered another from a rather surprised waitress. He felt sick to his stomach, and his head felt like it was on a different plane than the rest of him. It wasn’t a good feeling, but he popped the lid off the bottle that had appeared before him and drank from it anyway. He’d always been able to sober up when things started to become unpleasant, one of the many benefits of being able to perform miracles. He wasn’t going to now though. Couldn’t even begin to think of trying. Every time he lashed out, seeing himself reflected in the looks of fear and concern around him, he briefly considered it, but there were always a few things stopping him, things stronger than his current hate for himself.

He didn’t deserve to sober up.

He’d tempted them to the apple. Tempted them to knowledge. As the room spun around him and the drink filled him with the urge to regurgitate food he hadn’t eaten, he took it as his punishment, drinking more when his vision started to clear, when he began to remember his name.

He’d always wondered what all the fuss was. Couldn’t see what was so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway. For centuries he’d deluded himself, held onto the small, secret hope that maybe he’d done a good thing in giving these small, fragile beings greater awareness of the world around them, the ability to create their own destiny outside the garden’s walls. He was a demon, wasn’t supposed to want to do good, and as such had only ever spoken aloud of that hope to one person, but with every grand new invention they created and every step forward they took he felt a small amount of pride. 

Another drink. He was beginning to see a few downsides.

The second reason he didn’t sober was that he didn’t bloody well want to. After what he’d seen of the Spanish Inquisition he was quite sure he wanted to remain drunk until the entire thing was over and done with, and from what he’d seen of people recently he was willing to bet a good portion of the stars he’d created that it could go on for years. Fine with him. He lifted the bottle to his lips again, noticing that it was a different one. He had a passing curiosity, wondering how many bottles he’d gone through since the last one he’d noticed, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort of chasing the thought.

He looked up again to yet another change of scenery. It was a smaller bar this time, and only a few somber patrons wavered in the corner. He steadied himself on his chair, and noticed them glancing his way, their eyes wide and terrified. He let out a sharp laugh, and they all flinched. They were smart creatures. Delicate, and tiny, but smart. They knew danger when they saw it. Of course they were afraid.

They worked so hard to kill each other, using that precious knowledge to create new, imaginative, terrifying ways of hurting, and maiming, and destroying. But he could kill so many of them with barely a thought. A snap of his fingers.

He blinked. He was somewhere else. This is getting out of hand, he noted, accidental miracles. Not good. He ordered another bottle from another surprised bartender.

The third reason he didn’t sober up, not that he was really capable of counting to three at this point, was that he wasn’t entirely sure that he could. Miracles were second nature of course, but even simple, natural acts required some amount of focus. Some amount of will. He’d lost most of his will to do anything, and the miracles seemed to have taken on a life of their own.

He’d heard of humans drinking themselves to death before, consuming so much that they simply lost the ability to breathe, choking on themselves as they tried to expel the poison they’d consumed. He doubted that anything of the sort could happen to him, but he didn’t really want to try a miracle at this point anyway, it was too much effort.

The beginnings of a joke formed on his lips, but he couldn’t fit all the pieces together. He latched onto the sleeve of a passing waitress.

“Help… help me out here,” he slurred.

“Sir?” she looked concerned but stopped anyway, her eyes wide.

“God… She… She makes a heavy rock, right? It’s way… way too heavy. And I… I am supposed to make myself sso… sssoo… myself not drunk,” Crowley found that making his lips form words was more effort than he had anticipated.

“Sir, please,” the waitress tugged gently at her sleeve, looking around for help.

“No nonononono I’ve almost got it,” he gestured with his free hand, the motion putting him off balance. He took a moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning, and when it didn’t, he continued anyway. “But She can lift… can lift anything. And I… I am a demon that’s too drunk. Too drunk to… to be not drunk. So you see it’ss… it’s the sssame thing.” Crowley looked up proudly.

“Please let me go,” she was crying, and Crowley realized she hadn’t been tugging gently. She was trying frantically to break his grip on her sleeve. He let go, pulling his hand back with a snap, and watched miserably as she ran from the room.

“Sssssorry,” he slurred quietly, pulling his drink closer to him.

By the time he realized he was somewhere new, he wasn’t sure how or when he’d gotten there. At least he was alone this time. He was sitting on the edge of a bed, elbows on his knees, empty bottle of liquor dangling from his fingertips.

There hadn’t been any need to check it out, he berated himself. Commendations came. Memos were sent. Nobody checked up on anything. Life went on. He could have just stayed at home. The shattering of glass alerted him that he was standing, and that he had thrown the bottle against the wall.

There hadn’t been any need for him to see the torture, to hear the screaming for forgiveness that would never come, to speak with the Inquisitors, to ask why. 

And it would never end. Because there could be no forgiveness when there had never been a transgression. There would just be a continuous hunt for heretics and imagined evil, increasingly violent and imaginative attempts to separate themselves into good and bad; there would just be pain and hurt that would only grow to cause more anguish in turn.

There hadn’t been a need for him to go there at all. But his curiosity had always been his downfall.

The words he’d said to them still sat sour on his tongue, and he grimaced, as if tasting them anew. The nodding of his head, the “right… right, yes. All very good. Continue on,” as he backed out of the building. He was a coward. A vile, repulsive coward.

What would Aziraphale think.

He wasn’t sure where the bottle in his hand came from, but he drank from it. He kept drinking, even as his instincts told him to push the alcohol out of his system and he refused, afraid and angry and increasingly eager for the alcohol to make him even more miserable. He kept drinking until something new happened. He felt the scenery shift again, and then he passed out.

---------

Aziraphale was engrossed in his book, picking delicately at a warm bun with honey, careful not to get any of it on the pages. He regretted that it couldn’t wait until he’d finished the chapter, but it really must be consumed warm or it was no good at all, and the book had become too interesting to put down at the moment, so it couldn’t be helped.

He was just preparing himself to turn the page, wiping sticky fingers thoroughly and carefully on a handkerchief, when he heard a quick clap, and felt a gust of displaced air rush past him. He looked up, surprised, and was on his feet in an instant.

“Crowley, you can’t just…,” he rushed to the window that had been providing him his reading light, and slammed the shutters closed. “I mean you can’t just pop in without warning. Someone could see, someone-,” he turned, intending to check on the state of the door, in particular on the turn of its lock, just in time to see Crowley collapse on the ground in a heap, half full bottle of liquor spilling onto the wooden floor.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale dropped to his knees beside him, hands fluttering over him, unsure of how to help and even more unsure of how to avoid making the situation worse. “Crowley what happened, why… Why?”

He couldn’t see any injuries, but Crowley’s form was wavering in what was a decidedly unhealthy manner, black scales crawling across his skin, sometimes there, sometimes not, and a dark hood flaring out occasionally from behind his head. While a human may have only noticed that much, Aziraphale could see the way his flesh faded in and out, sometimes snake, sometimes human, sometimes not there at all, and he could see the way his wings, unmanifested, writhed behind him, uncomfortable and pained.

He wasn’t entirely sure what was wrong, so he settled for patting him on the cheek, gently at first, then more firmly when he didn’t rouse.

“Crowley, dear, you have to tell me what’s wrong so I can- Well not help, obviously, wouldn’t do that of course, but, but,” he rambled helplessly. “But this is obviously a wile and I’m going to thwart it,” he reasoned to himself and to any prying ears. “Tell me how to thwart it,” he begged, suddenly aware that he was panicking as his only companion for the last 5000 plus years lay unmoving in front of him. There was no pulse and no breathing, but that really didn’t mean anything, Aziraphale reassured himself, even if Crowley had taken up the habit of doing both those things and had become quite skilled at keeping them consistent.

“Oh, you,” his concern reached its limit and he curled both his hands into fists, steeling himself for his next move. He gritted his teeth and slapped Crowley across the face, hard. “Wake up, Crowley.”

Aziraphale sighed in relief as Crowley groaned, and his eyes fluttered a little, though ultimately remained closed to Aziraphale’s growing frustration.

“CROWLEY,” Aziraphale shouted, voice deepening as he put more force behind it than he intended. The walls shook slightly, and he took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. It certainly helped that Crowley’s eyes pulled themselves open, though they remained unfocused, sliding across the room unseeing.

“M’fine, angel,” he murmured, pushing the words out with effort. “Jussssssst… drunk.” He pulled his arms closer to himself so that his hands were in front of his face and was pleased to find the liquor bottle was in one of them and still held some amount of liquid, even lying on its side.

“Drunk?” Aziraphale looked over Crowley again, chest heaving from his receding panic. It took quite a lot of alcohol for a demon (or an angel) to feel any effect, and that amount had only increased as they’d each slowly built tolerance over the years. The amount of alcohol it would take to reduce Crowley to such a state was-

Aziraphale snatched the bottle from Crowley’s hand and tossed it to the corner of the room as he noticed him pulling it closer to his lips. He was still more worried than angry, but the second emotion was slowly catching up.

“Well, stop it,” Aziraphale commanded. “Sober up and talk to me.”

“Can’t…” Crowley groaned, a small giggle escaping his lips as he rolled over to his back. Aziraphale could see the floor through his form.

“The rockssss… too heavy,” he giggled again.

“It’s,” Aziraphale furrowed his brow, trying to piece the nonsense together. “What?” He gave up and pulled himself to his feet. “Fine. The old fashioned way, then.”

He reached for a bucket of cool, clean water and it was there. And then the whole thing was on Crowley, who was suddenly awake enough to rise to his elbows, sputtering. He didn’t move though, just stared wide-eyed in front of him. Aziraphale was gratified to see his body solidify somewhat, though it still wavered, scales growing up from his chest, then receding in waves.

“Wh-,” Crowley stuttered, swaying.

The bucket was full of water again, colder this time, and then it was on Crowley again, who glared up at the angel in betrayal. Aziraphale felt the start of a haphazard miracle to pull Crowley someplace else, and countered it, quickly and easily, with his own.

“No,” he said sternly, meeting Crowley’s stubborn stare with his own. “You had the good- bad- common sense to come here. To me. And you’re not leaving until I know you’re all right.” Aziraphale knelt down again, feeling the cold water soak through the cloth to his knees, and he shivered. Crowley was drenched, but at least he was awake, and probably semi-coherent from the way his yellow eyes were able to focus on the angel’s own. 

Aziraphale reached up gently, running his fingers along Crowley’s cheek, telling himself that he was only confirming that the demon’s form no longer wavered. It was solid. And cold. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to dry him, but he reasoned that the sensation of cold did him more good than harm if he was still incapable of drying himself.

“What happened?” he asked again, gentle as he could manage. “Crowley…”

At the sound of his name, Crowley flinched away from the angel’s touch. He hesitated, finding his voice before speaking.

“It’s all my fault,” he looked down as he said it, unable to meet the angel’s gaze, but not for lack of focus. “They’re hurting each other. Could’ve ssstopped them. My fault,” the slurring wasn’t entirely gone from his words, but at least he was making sense. Aziraphale breathed more calmly and grabbed Crowley’s hand gently.

For medical, wile-thwarting reasons. Keeping him grounded and all that.

“It’s not your fault, dear,” Aziraphale whispered to him, and Crowley leaned into the words, leaned into Aziraphale. And Aziraphale caught him. “You can stay here tonight,” he murmured to him, lifting him gently, easily. Crowley didn’t protest as he was carried to the newly-appeared second bed. “We can talk about this in the morning.” By the time he reached the mattress, Crowley was dry, and Aziraphale was sure to pull the covers up over him, knowing how much he preferred warmth. He was just about to return to his book, wondering if he’d be able to focus on it at all, when he heard Crowley’s voice again.

“Are you… ‘fraid of me?” It almost sounded like he was sleep-talking, but Aziraphale knew better, and turned back to him, gently brushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Never, dear.” It sounded like a promise, and Crowley drifted to sleep with the words in his ears.

[annewithagee]

Let Anne Say (Part III)

Anne Shirley has never be one to throw swearwords around carelessly - but then again, we all slip sometimes.

She just really isn’t sure how to feel about the fact that whenever she does, Gilbert Blythe is there to listen.

Shirbert, Modern AU, dedicated to/blamed on @wilderwestqueen​

ff.net / AO3

"A fucking idiot, that's what I am!" she cried out with exasperation, tears still glistening in her grey-green eyes as she glared at her loyal friend, who had been trying so unsuccessfully to comfort her for the past quarter.

Gilbert could do little else than sigh wearily at the performance.

"You know this isn't true, Miss Highest-Score-On-The-Island-Last-Year," he said firmly, rubbing his temples, slowly losing hope that his reasoning could be of any help after all. "You made a mistake, and that's true; it could have been avoided and that is true as well. But for the last time, Anne, it doesn't make you a fool."

"Yes! Yes it does!" she objected instantly. "Oh, don't you understand anything?"

"I understand that you have accidentally put one customer's coffee on another customer's tray and then rushed towards their table with a speed of lighting as soon as you'd realised the mistake. You made it right long before either of those girls realised that there had been any mistake at all, not to mention that even if you hadn't, there would be next to no consequence – except maybe having to remake the order this once. Don't you think that maybe it's time to stop making it sound as if you'd killed someone in cold blood today?"

"You're impossible," Anne exclaimed again, burying her face in her hands, and nearly knocking her own tea with her elbow in the process. Gilbert reached out and moved the mug to a safer position, but said nothing. "And this whole situation is unbelievable. How can you not see that it was absolutely, entirely, doubtlessly my fault, all caused by my own cursed tendency to daydream? And that it shouldn't have been possible to even make such mistake, because the task was so silly, so simple. And goodness, Gil, consequences or not, can't you really see how stupid that makes me feel?"

For a few moments Gilbert did nothing but stared at her, carefully weighing his next words. His arsenal of good reasons was still quite well equipped, even with so many of them already presented to his miserable, slightly hysterical best friend. There were many things he could still tell her, remind her of: how she had been working in that shop for more than a month now and yet, it had been the first time when she'd made such a mistake; how the shop had been at its busiest, with students running in an out, ordering the strangest and most complicated drinks when she eventually had; how she herself had spent most of the preceding night studying, ending up with next to no sleep to keep her going through the day that followed after it.

And yet, knowing Anne Shirley as well as he did, Gilbert realised that none of those arguments would be of any meaning to her. She was too damn stubborn for them to be.

"Is that what you would say to me if the roles were reversed?" he asked suddenly, making her look up at him, surprised with this new approach. "Is that how you'd react if I had come here today and told you that I'd made such a mistake myself?"

Anne's eyes were round with shock when she said, "You know this isn't -"

"You know what, forget that," he interrupted her with a wave of his hand, taking her aback again. "You and I have argued enough times for me to imagine you actually saying something of the sort, so it doesn't really take us anywhere. But Diana? What about her? Would you treat her in the way you're treating yourself now?"

Anne took little time pondering over his question. As soon as she had comprehended the real meaning of it, she snorted impatiently, looking away with a scowl on her already wrinkled forehead.

"Well, first of all, Diana never would have made a mistake so dumb," she answered sharply, turning towards him once more to bestow another glare on his face. "The very notion is absurd, so I really don't think your example is a very good one."

"Alright then," Gilbert didn't give up. "What about Phil?"

"She might do something of this kind, I suppose; but I can hardly imagine her coming here to cry on my shoulder because of that. She's too strong – or too careless – to have a need for that."

"And you're not?"

"No!" Anne's voice was audibly higher this time, as she put down her mug with a clank, only narrowly avoiding spilling the beverage inside it on the table before her. "I'm not like her. I'm not used to people ignoring my mistakes thanks to a sweet smile I give them the next moment. I'm not having fun pretending I'm sillier than I am to appear more innocent or appealing. And I'm definitely not ready to take it calmly that my wit, my only good trait, turns out to be so much weaker that I thought it to be."

Silence fell on the room when she had finished her tirade, or at least this first, angry part of it. Gilbert, who had long ago learnt Anne's habits, knew that there was another part to come, probably even more serious than the one he'd just heard.

As impatient as he was growing, he knew he had to allow her to speak the rest whenever she choose to do so.

He watched her slump wearily and hide her face in her hands, his heart cracking with sorrow that mirrored the one that had so suddenly reflected on her. Careful not to startle her with his movement, he leaned forward and reached his hand to cover her wrist and hopefully drag it away from her face.

"I'm not Phil, Gilbert -" she said weakly a moment later, after she had eventually allowed him to do just that. "and I'm certainly not Diana, either. I'm me. Just me."

A sigh escaped Gilbert's lips, but he didn't let himself forget of the matter at hand. Easing his grasp on Anne's wrist, he slid his hand towards hers and covered it, giving her the little squeeze she undoubtedly needed. She looked up at him then; but it was clear she had no desire to speak anymore.

"Well, first of all, I really don't get that need to add the 'just' before talking about yourself," he said gently. "You're you, that's true; but it doesn't make you any worse than either of your unquestionably fantastic friends. And Anne, your wit really isn't any poorer than you think, as each of your tests and assignments confirms. Not to mention, there really is a lot more to you than your intelligence, you know."

She could hardly bring herself to do more than grumble at him. "Like what?"

"Like that incredible imagination of yours. No, Anne, you don't get to complain about it now, and even less so to blame that cursed coffee shop mistake on it. It is a gift; and like almost everything else, those also tend to be inconvenient at times." He fell silent for a moment, as if weighing his next words, even though he was perfectly sure of what he wanted to say. With a quick glance to her heavy bag that now lay in the corner of her room and the stacks of books that covered more than a few spots in it, he resumed, "You are hard-working and consequent, both in your studies and any other jobs you take upon yourself. You can be determined to the extend no one I know is -"

"I believe you meant to say stubborn, coach Blythe -"

"Even if, then it is in the utterly positive way," he refuted her argument easily, finally letting go of her hand and reaching out for her abandoned mug instead. "It made you catch up and outshine everyone at school and now it's pushing you to do the same here. And yet, even that isn't all. Because you know what else you are, Anne?"

"I can't wait to find out," she muttered under her breath.

"You are kind."

The look she gave him was full of disbelief at first, and was now starting to border with derisiveness as well. It was a look Gilbert had expected; he held it calmly, aware of how much depended on his own show of certainty, of his belief in what he was saying now.

"I'm under a strong impression you no longer know whom you're talking to, Gil," she grumbled eventually, taking her mug from him and resting her lips against its rim. "Either that, or you're just quoting some great motivational speeches without thinking; to be fair, I'd prefer the former to be the case. I would be severely disappointed to find you so utterly unprofessional."

"You can call me whatever you like, Carrots. You know that, unlike some people, I'm immune to name-calling, especially when done by you," he answered her lightly, before saying, "Now if you just let me do what I'm trying to do here, it would be greatly appreciated. Will you?"

"Will I what, exactly?"

"Will you humour me and answer the question I asked you before? About Diana?"

That request earned Gilbert another glare on Anne's part, but she did not protest this time. Swallowing the last of her tea she muttered a quiet "Fine," before she put the mug away and breathed in deeply.

"Okay," she spoke up eventually. "Assuming that by some great disturbance in the Force or another miracle Diana Barry actually managed to mix up her orders and serve the drinks to wrong consumers, and that she would care about such a mishap enough to come to me looking for comfort -"

"You know that she would -"

"In such case, I believe I would tell her to put it behind her and not to worry too much," Anne finished with a roll of her eyes. "I suppose I'd tell her that everyone can make a mistake and that it doesn't make her any less competent, especially as no real harm was done, and that, knowing how well-organised and skilled in the field she is – because honestly, I've never seen a barrister more talented than her – we really must agree that there was some external powers at work for her to make any mistake in the first place."

"Powers like a night spent with Shakespeare?" Gilbert suggested with a smile.

"I was thinking of witches and charms but I guess the Bard is closely enough related to those," Anne admitted with another roll of her big green-grey eyes.

"Good. Now pray tell me: why do those arguments are enough to justify Diana's error but not to justify yours?"

To that Anne had no ready response. She had expected the conversation to head that way, of course; she'd known what Gilbert's plan was all along and could not claim to be surprised by this final question of his.

And yet, she could not answer him, either.

Meanwhile, Gilbert went on. "Why can't you be kind to yourself in the same way you are to her? Why are you so unforgiving towards yourself when we both know how understanding you're always trying to be to everyone around you? They say you can't really go through life happy if you're not your own best friend – so why are you so determined not to be yours?"

For the first time that day Anne laughed quietly with a mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes once more.

"I suppose I'm too spoilt by having you and Diana occupy that post with such fervour," she admitted with a smile at last. "To be fair, I'm not even sure if I could beat you if I tried."

"Well, I dare say Di won't mind stepping down for such a noble cause," came Gilbert's ready answer. "And as much as I hate not coming in first, I certainly am used to you outrunning me by now. So? Do we have a deal, Miss Shirley, or should I really call Diana to support me in that final strive?"

"There's no need for that. At least, that's what my best friend thinks."

[tessxomarie]

Saving You - Part III

*Hello loves! This is Part III, we get to meet Kendra and read a little bit into more of Leah’s backstory. Bear with me here, I promise all of the details mentioned have meaning in future parts! For now, enjoy!*

A few hours pass by since I left the clubhouse. As soon as I got home, I showered and changed into a pair of old raggedy pajama shorts and an old Chicago Cubs t-shirt. Chicago is where I’m originally from, at least that’s where I was born and raised until I was 5.

I hear a knock at my door, and sure enough it’s my girl Kenz.

I open the door and let her in and give her a weird look as she has a key to my place.

“My hands are full, I couldn’t reach for my key.” She says laughing, and then I look down and see she has a million bags.

“What the hell did you bring?” I ask eagerly as she passes by me and into my home.

She plops one bag on the couch and takes everything else into the kitchen. “Well, my overnight bag for one because I plan on getting wine drunk and I ain’t going anywhere. Secondly, I had to stop and get our favorite men – Ben & Jerry, and I also picked up some stuff to make tacos, because you know I’m Mexican and I can make tacos in my sleep.” She explains as she places all of the items on my kitchen table.

I cannot stop laughing because Kendra always makes me laugh. It’s just her personality, she rarely takes anything seriously. She is the literal definition of zero fucks given, but the girl demands respect. She was one of my first friends I made in nursing school. Actually, she was my only friend I had made at that point, and by the grace of God we were able to come up through the ranks together. Kendra has been my side through a lot of shit. She’s had her fair share of family shit and guy drama, but she’s always been there for me – no questions asked.

“I was just going to order us a pizza.” I say, staring in awe at the groceries she has brought over.

“Well, think of it this way – you save some money on food tonight and you can repay me by holding my hair back when I hug the toilet later.”

“That’s fair.” I reply, and we shake on it.

Kendra takes over my kitchen as she preps the tacos, and I assist. We have our usual girl talk banter, because even at 26, we still act like teenagers.

“So, did you go to the club today?” She asks.

“Yup. They called before I was even walking out of the clinic.” I say as I dice up some onions.

“EZ and Angel?” She asks without missing a beat.

“EZ and Angel.” I repeat and nod.

Kendra, although she has no direct blood ties to the club, she is still clued in on myconnections – she knows everything, it was part of the deal Marcus and I worked out.

“Who started it this time?” She asks as she seasons the meat in the pan.

“I honestly don’t even know, EZ had a nasty cut on his face but Angel took a nasty beating as well.”

Kendra just rolls her eyes as she knows how immature this whole ordeal is.

“Did Angel thank you this time?” She asks even though she already knows the answer to that. I stop dicing the onions and stare at her with my “really?” face.

She puts her hands up and says “You know, I was kinda hoping for a miracle. You’d think after cleaning up his messes for the fourth time in a month, a ‘thank you’ would accidentally escape his lips as if he truly is thankful for someone who gives a damn.”

I let out a sarcastic laugh, “I’m just doing my job because it’s what I do for the club. They save my ass when I need them too, and I save theirs.” I say pouring all the veggies together in one big mixing bowl.

“When have they had to save your ass, Lee?” Kendra asks with a quirked brow.

Before I can even respond, she answers for me “exactly, they haven’t. You’ve held up your end of the deal, the least Angel can do is fucking say thank you – he’s such an asshole.”

One would think that after all of the disrespect Angel has thrown my way these last eight months, I wouldn’t give him a thought after I fix him up. It’s hard to explain, but he’s like a puzzle to me and I highly dislike how I cannot figure it out. He doesn’t go out of his way to bully me or anything, it’s nothing like that. It’s just, he doesn’t really care to acknowledge my existence whenever I’m around, and he’s the only member to do so.

Kendra lets out a chuckle, “Okay enough MC talk, let’s eat like the hangry fat girls we are.”

We end up laughing most of the night, stuffing our faces with tacos and wine, oh and catching up on some trash tv.

“How does someone let a so-called doctor inject cement into their face?!” I exclaim and look at Kendra with a major what the royal fuck face as we watch an episode of Botched on E!

“It’s like a nasty car wreck out on the 405, I don’t want to look but I can’t stop staring. Look at their cheeks, like legit cement is in there. How? Why? But like seriously why are we watching this? Isn’t there some cheesy romcom we can watch?” Kendra suggests as she snatches the remote from my hand.

“Bad Moms, perfect.” She says as she tosses the remote on the other side of my sectional.

I take another sip of my wine and tilt my head back, simply enjoying this moment – a quiet night in with my best friend.

“We’re going to be cool moms like these bitches. Right?” Kendra asks as she takes a bite out of a cookie that came out of nowhere.

“Cool moms are the only options, babe.” I answer, and we clink our glasses.

“I know you and I both got shit on in the mom department, but I really don’t want that to hang over our heads when we have kids. Like, if I see you slipping up, I will go full hoodrat Kendra on you.” She announces, and let me just say, hoodrat Kendra is a real thing.

“I promise, I’m not going to be like Briana. I can’t be. Also, if I see you being a shit mom, I’ll first smack you into next week, and if you don’t respond to that, I’ll just use my 1-800-MC card.” I say with a big smirk.

“You chicken shit, you rather call Marcus or Samcro than kick my ass?”

“Kenz, we all know you could kick my ass twice and your own ass at the same time.” I admit, and that’s the full on truth. I’ve seen Kendra scrap before, and I think everyone around Kenz should want her to be on their team.

“I’m so glad you know the true me, it will only continue to benefit you my young one.” Kendra tells me as she reaches out and touches my shoulder in a gentle way but it’s with full sarcasm.

“Okay real talk, what is the weekend plan Aleeah Starr?” Kendra asks while opening up her calendar app on her phone.

“Middle name? Really?” I say with a look, my look of ‘was that necessary?’

“Hoodrat Kenz can come out to play if you’d like.” She replies with a smile.

I laugh and eye roll, “Okay then, Kendra Sofia…” I say to her with an evil eye as I open up my calendar.

“Hmm, I’m off this weekend, all I have going on is Tessa’s birthday party on Sunday. Would you like to come?” I ask.

“Eva already called me and said she’ll see me Sunday.” Kendra says with a nervous expression on her face.

I give her a funny look, questioning why she looks like that.

“Aside from my Abuela Natalia, Eva fucking terrifies me – you just don’t say no to her.” She says deadpan.

I laugh, “A-freaking-men”.

Eva, she’s a true bad-ass. She and Marcus, I think they’re still married? They’ve spent more time apart than together in recent years, but they both love each other tremendously.

“Okay, so Sunday we can drive up together. Do you want to drive together tomorrow and go visit your dad?” Kendra asks.

I let out a big sigh, and I give her another look as Kendra knows my feelings about this subject.

“Why do you ask me this every weekend?” I plead.

“Lee, he’s still your dad. Prison jumpsuit and all, he’s still your dad and he still loves you.”

“I haven’t seen him in a while.” I confess.

Kendra nods, “I know, that’s why I asked if you want to go.”

“I don’t know Kenz, I just feel the older I get and the longer he’s in there, that Father/Daughter connection dies each day. He doesn’t even want to see me half the time.”

“He just hates the situation he’s in, babes. He got a shit deal, but we both know you’re still the light of his life.”

I rub my eyes, trying to keep it together yet again.

“I just don’t know how I would feel going up there now, especially when I’ve dealt with so much shit from the club. I don’t need anyone on the inside seeing me talk to my cop father turned inmate. That’s just asking for me to get someone killed or get myself killed.”

“Aleeah Starr Parker.” Kendra says with her eyes rolling, and I am deeply confused.

“What?”

“Are you so exhausted that you forgot who is even protecting your dad?” Kendra asks, and I palm my face.

“No, I didn’t forget…well maybe for a second.” I admit.

“Lorenzo has Jesse’s back, okay? Our dads are prison buds! How poetic is that?” She says as she pulls me in for a cheesy hug.

I give off a look of disgust, because Kendra is never this touchy feely. But my facial expression does not stop Kenz from continuing on.

“Oh, stop that, give your best friend a hug and smile. Hell, could you even bother to laugh? Come on, if we can’t laugh that our fathers are both in prison, our moms are both dead due to their stupid choices, we would be miserable unsuccessful sluts working on a pole for a living.”

Kendra has a big grin on her face, and she keeps giving me the famous Kendra look – the one where it always makes me smile because she knows how to make me smile; that’s what a best friend is for.

I do end up laughing, quite a bit.

“Thanks for making me laugh, I needed it.” I say looking at Kendra with a puppy dog face, because I am on the verge of tears – it’s been a chaotic week, ending it with the cherry on top that is the Mayans MC. And wine always has me feeling some type of way.

“My little Lee-Lee, come here, give me another hug.” Kendra says as she pulls me in for a hug.

“Okay, time to refill. We are finishing this second bottle and then we are going to sleep like precious babies.” She says as she stands up from the couch and heads to my kitchen.

As Kendra heads to the kitchen, I look down at my wrist and I start snapping my pony-tail holder. It takes me a moment to realize what I’ve even doing or why I’m doing it.

“Breathe, Leah. Just breathe.” I whisper to myself.

“I’ll be okay, just breathe.”

[spinach-productions]

Miami Vices (TF2), part 1/2

Wordcount: 12,726

Summary:

"Our contact in Miami wants to speak with someone from the organization.  Spy, that’s where you come in.”

“Naturally,” Spy says neutrally.

“Aaand,” Miss Pauling draws out the word, “He specifically asked to speak with a real person, not a mask.”

“Ah,” Spy says less neutrally.

“Which is where you come in.”  She beams at Scout, whose face is anything but neutral.  “Spy might need backup and you’re the only one who’s already seen him without a mask.”

In which Scout and Spy take an involuntary cross-country road trip.  Includes bad clothing and unexpected family bonding.

Warnings: cannon-typical violence, internalized homophobia, personal headcannon about ScoutMa.

part 2

NOTES:

Is this fandom still alive?  I love this fandom, whether it's alive or not.

This was based off of @sugarandmemories‘ comic about Spy and Scout having to go on a mission together in Miami (here) which I planned to make a short fic for and instead made this because I have apparently never done a thing half-way in my life.

Thanks to @tired-pinetree for being a fantastic beta-reader and editor, and for sitting me down and going "these parts aren't working".  Without you, I'd just have a mess of words on the page <3

Enjoy!

-

“Thank you for coming,” Miss Pauling says. She is cleanly dressed and holding one of her many clipboards in one hand. Scout waves at her when he enters the room; Spy rolls his eyes skyward and steps silently into the space just behind Scout’s shoulder.

“Hi,” Scout says, “What’s up?”

“I have an assignment for you,” she says brightly, “Now that you’re both here—”

“Both—?”

Scout actually jumps when he registers Spy in his peripheral vision. It’s very satisfying. Spy catches the elbow aimed at his throat before it can make contact.

“Bon matin,” he says smugly.

Scout shakes Spy’s hand away and growls something obscene under his breath.

Miss Pauling clears her throat. “Yes, hello.” She gestures to two chairs set up between a projector screen and a Kodak Carousel, “If you would?”

Spy takes a seat. Scout, still glaring, flops into the remaining seat.

Miss Pauling dims the lights and brings the carousel to life. A picture of the RED team logo appears on the screen. “As you know, I occasionally ask people to do a little ‘extracurricular’ projects for the company,” she says, her air quotes silhouetted in the light of the projector. “And today I’m tapping you two.”

Spy arches an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

The carousel clicks to its next slide, showing a loaf of bread. “As you know, one of our subsidiaries is Red Bread.”

“I thought that was a front,” Scout says.

“The Administrator doesn’t like to use words like ‘front’,” Miss Pauling says with more air quotes, “And besides, Red Bread is a real company servicing the real community of Miami, Florida. We’re bringing baked goods to other underprivileged ‘subsidiaries’ at affordable prices.” She clicks forward to a picture of a blond man ducking out of a suspicious-looking pizza parlor. “This is Mikhail Vasechkin, one of our local connections. Apparently there’s been some new development he can’t communicate through writing or phone and he’ll only speak with a RED agent in person. Spy, that’s where you come in.”

“Naturally,” Spy says neutrally.

“Aaand,” Miss Pauling draws out the word, “He specifically asked to speak with a real person, not a mask.”

“Ah,” Spy says less neutrally.

“Which is where you come in.” She beams at Scout, whose face is anything but neutral. “Spy might need backup and you’re the only one who’s already seen him without a mask.”

“He’s ugly,” Scout says. It comes out like a reflex, as though his mouth has fallen back on instinct while the hamster wheel in his head works on something else. “It’s just a there-and-back, ain’t it? If Spy’s so good he can do it alone.”

“We don’t want to risk it. This could be a new development about the subsidiary underbelly, or it could be an attempt to capture one of our best agents. The Administrator and I are in agreement that this is a two-man job.”

Scout looks sharply at Spy. “In a car, all the way to Miami. With Spy.”

Spy pointedly does not look away from the projector screen, even as he agrees with the sentiment. “Well summarized,” he says, “Details?”

“Estimated time: one week. We’ve already loaded a souped-up car with supplies, maps, and disguises. Your first destination is written down in an envelope in the glovebox, you’ll get further instructions from there. No weapons, and no contact until you get back to base. This should be a simple operation, but you’ll be way out of respawn range so make sure you don't die. You have an hour to pack any personal items before you leave. Then you’re off on a road trip vacation!” Miss Pauling sheepishly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m a little jealous.”

“You could come wi—”

“Thank you, Miss Pauling,” Spy interrupts. “We’ll be ready. Come along, Scout.”

“But—”

Spy grabs him by the back of the neck and forcibly steers him out of the room. “ Come along. ”

Miss Pauling either doesn’t notice or politely ignores the struggle. Scout starts shoving in earnest once they’re back out in the desert heat. “Let go , what the fuck?”

“She obviously cannot take a week off from work and asking would only make her feel worse,” Spy says.

Scout finally yanks himself free and rubs his reddened skin where Spy’s fingers dug in, mumbling, “You don’t have to be a dick about it,” which is as close to ‘thank you for not letting me make a bigger ass of myself than usual’ as he’ll ever get.

“It seems to be the only language you understand,” Spy replies, lighting a cigarette, “I’ll meet you at the car. I am driving.”

“Asshole’s the only language you understand,” Scout snaps, jogging ahead to the barracks to, presumably, fill a suitcase with dirty laundry and baseball cards. Spy exhales a nicotine cloud. His disguise kit can hold up to ten cigarettes, but he’s going to need at least double that to make it through the week.

-

“Minnesota!”

Spy grunts and almost drops his cigarette when Scout's fist connects with his shoulder. He’s certainly made up this ‘license plate game’ with the sole intent of punching Spy while he can’t retaliate, and while he’ll never admit it, Spy’s arm is getting sore. Luckily, the cars on the road are precious few; by the rules of his own game Scout has only been able to hit him six or seven times. Spy subtly rolls his shoulder. He can see Scout grinning in the corner of his eye.

He adjusts the cigarette in his mouth. “If I were not driving, I would kill you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Scout says as he begins to play with the radio. He’s wearing the red-tinted glasses they’d found in the glovebox next to their instructions, which turned out to be nothing more than an address several miles outside of Miami.

“I’m no school boy but I know what I like, you should have heard them just around midnight,” a singer croons.

“You cannot honestly think you could beat me in a fight.”

“You think you’ve lost your love, well I saw her yesterday-yi-yay. It’s you she’s thinking of and she told me what to say-yi-yay--”

“Oh man, I’m so scared right now.” Scout holds up his free hand and wiggles his fingers. “Look at them shakes. So scared.”

“Hope you’ve got your things together, hope you are quite prepared to die--”

“If you do not pick a station,” Spy says calmly, “I’m putting a knife through the speaker.”

“You said you didn’t care what we listened to.” Scout continues to flip through the jumble of radio waves. It’s a miracle he can hear anything over the noise of the car traveling at 150 mph (courtesy of Engineer’s tinkering and Spy’s impeccable driving), let alone identify the sounds coming through the speakers well enough to decide to look for something else. “And anyway, you don’t have a knife.”

“There are almost a dozen within reach,” Spy mutters.

“You brought a weapon on this mission? Spy, I’m hurt! Miss Pauling specifically said--”

“I saw you put your bat in the trunk.”

“For batting practice! Can’t afford to slack off.”

“I saw you put your gun in the trunk.”

“For shooting practice! Can’t afford to--”

“You know what,” Spy says abruptly, “There is something I’d like to listen to. Have you ever played the quiet game? ”

Scout’s incredulity is so strong, Spy can see the expression without turning his head. “Are you kidding. Are you kidding me right now? You’re seriously treating me like a kid?”

“If the shoe fits--”

“No freakin’ way. If you felt like being a parent, you missed the boat like twenty years ago.”

Spy sighs slowly through his nose. “Are we going to have a problem, Scout?”

“No problems from me.” Scout props his feet up on the dashboard and shoves a piece of gum into his mouth. He idly spins the radio dial with his toes. A million stations fill the cabin, accompanied by the sound of the most obnoxious open-mouthed chewing Spy has ever had the misfortune to experience. Scout’s toothy grin tells him none of this is accidental. “How’s about you, Spy? You got anything you’d like to air out?”

Spy takes a deep breath. His has worked in international espionage since the age of fourteen. He once spent three years undercover in a maximum security hair salon. He once escaped a Boxing Day party using nothing but his wits, a pen cartridge, and two sprigs of rosemary. Surely he can endure one cross-country road trip without killing his remarkably irritating son.

Scout sticks out his gum-covered tongue. He must have added three more pieces to the one he was chewing because dear god the resulting bubble is going to kill them both. Spy grabs one of the three knives taped behind the steering wheel and bursts the thing in self defence. He gets his quiet when the splatter engulfs Scout’s entire head, gluing his mouth shut for three blissful minutes until Spy’s conscience kicks in and he cuts Scout an air hole.

“If you say anything,” Spy says as Scout gasps and sputters back to life, “I will let you suffocate in your own idiocy.”

His gummy passenger probably glares, but the effect is lost under the bright pink candy. Scout spends the next half hour silently clawing gum off his face. Spy magnanimously doesn’t count his deeply disgusted noises as talking.

-

Scout, who doesn’t seem to handle idleness well at the best of times and began fidgeting in his seat several hours ago, throws himself out the passenger-side door as soon as Spy backs into their designated motel parking space.

“No, don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of our things,” Spy deadpans. He slings his suit jacket over his shoulder and walks around behind the car before it becomes apparent Scout isn’t coming back.

A quick glance at their room confirms it: the door is open. Perhaps they’ve chosen a poorly secured placed to stay, but Spy has been driving for ten hours and doesn’t care to search for another. He collects his case, locks the trunk, and enters their room.

Scout has already claimed the bed farthest from the door. He sits cross-legged with his attention fixed rapturously on the TV. Spy assumes there is some kind of baseball game going on.

“Did you at least check the room before you zoned out?” He asks, closing the door behind him.

“Bathroom’s clear, nothing under the beds,” Scout says.

“Perfunctory. You realize anyone could have come in here before us?”

“It’s fine.”

“You assume everything is fine,” Spy says, “You have no idea what kind of dangers there are in our line of work.”

“Uh, yeah I do, I get killed like twenty times a day. Besides, the door was locked and the window in the bathroom ain’t been picked, so.” He waves his hand in a shushing gesture without looking away from the game.

“Clearly it wasn’t if you could get in,” Spy says, but his finely-honed sense of misplacement is going off. “Did you steal keys from the manager?”

“Nah,” Scout says with a smirk.

Spy checks his pockets. He checks them again. He checks his jacket pockets. He even pats down the twin knife holsters under his shirt because there is no possibility that Scout picked his pocket.

“Check your gloves?” Scout asks sarcastically. Sure enough, he’s spinning their keys on his finger.

“You little brat,” Spy hisses.

“What about your fake molars? Maybe they’re in there.” When Spy storms towards him, Scout flicks the key ring away. It pings across the room with unerring accuracy and disappear down the floor vent. “Whoops, clumsy me.”

It takes several very long moments for Spy to master himself. When he can speak without grinding his teeth, he calmly crosses the room to the TV. “If you are going to act like a child.”

“Hey--”

“Then you are,” he snaps an antenna, “Grounded.”

The screen immediately flips to static. Scout lets out a cry of horror and shoves Spy aside, but the damage has already been done: reception is well and truly lost. He fruitlessly beats the side of the box with his palm. “Nonono no .”

“Do you know how to fix a broken receiver?” Spy twirls the severed metal between his fingers. “I do, but I seem to have forgotten. If only I could go for a walk to jog my memory without leaving the door unlocked.”

Scout scowls murderously.

“Alas, the keys are misplaced--”

“You're a bastard, you know that?” Scout says as he stomps into his shoes.

“Ah-ah, I believe 'grounded’ means you are to stay here.” Spy moves to lean his shoulders back against the door, “And I want those keys.”

“First, fuck you. Second, I got nothing to get them out, so get the fuck out of my way,” Scout says, roughly shoving Spy’s arm.

Spy continues to block the door. He wonders how long Scout’s tenuous sense of self-preservation will keep him from attacking. “Let me be more clear: get the keys, or I will call your mother.”

As it turns out, Scout is even less concerned with his own well being than predicted. He throws his full weight behind a forearm against Spy’s chest and, when Spy doesn’t yield, moves the arm to his neck. “Listen, asshole,” Scout growls, “I’m not even gonna pretend to get your relationship with my Ma, but for some reason you make her happy enough to forgive you for running off when she got pregnant. You and me got shit, sure, whatever, but you do anything to make her even remotely upset,” he grinds his arm into Spy’s throat, presumably for emphasis, “I will fuckin’ kill you.”

Spy grabs Scout’s opposite wrist and bends it the wrong way. To his surprise Scout rolls his arm with the motion and smashes his elbow into Spy’s side. Spy counters with a sharp knee to Scout’s gut. They stagger apart in opposite directions.

After a nice long string of curses, Spy uses a bed as leverage to get to his feet. He manages to grunt, “The feeling is mutual. ”

“Fuck,” Scout wheezes from where he’s clutching his stomach and swearing into the carpet. “I mean good. ”

Spy ignores his spasming diaphragm to straighten his tie. “It is truly a mystery how a woman as lovely as your mother raised a monster like you . I am going to take a shower,” he says, turning towards the bathroom where he can catch his breath away from Scout’s spiteful gaze.

Just as the door closes behind him, he hears Scout mutter, “Probably because she had to do it alone.”

After more than thirty years of intelligence work involving lies, betrayal, and the occasional murder, Spy thought there was nothing anyone could say to hurt him. He turns on the water and ignores everything he’s thinking.

-

When he exits the bathroom an hour later, Scout has already passed out on the bed by the defunct TV. Predictably, he tosses in his sleep, mumbling and kicking and shoving the bedclothes away only to frown and throw a searching hand onto the floor when he can’t find them. Spy watches him feel half-consciously across the carpet for his missing blankets.

“Snipes,” Scout mutters, “Can’tcha just...”

Even unconscious, he is too loud and too energetic. Spy is probably supposed to feel ‘fondness’ or perhaps ‘contentment’, but all he finds a muted version of his usual annoyance.

After finding Scout’s name just after his own on RED’s roster (and hadn’t that been a nasty shock), Spy had expected watching his deaths to be unpleasant. Braced himself for it, even. Instead he found the same irritation he’d feel towards any coworker’s incompetence; watching Scout meet his end in enemy fire felt the same as watching a receptionist load their typewriter backwards. Spy supposes he never was the sentimental type, but to feel nothing at the repeated deaths of his own child is… disappointing.

Spy removes his tie and shuts off the light. He listens to Scout shuffle across the mattress until sleep comes for him.

-

Spy is only a morning person through discipline. It took years of training to get himself out of bed before noon, so he’s surprised to see Scout awake only ten minutes after Spy has made is morning espresso.

“Where the hell did you get coffee?” He grumbles, hair sticking up in all directions.

“I brought it with me,” Spy says coolly.

Scout blearily smudges the heel of his hand across his eyes. “Lemme guess, you only brought enough for one.”

“I could be convinced to make another cup, if you--”

“Get the keys, yeah, I get it.” Scout yawns and shuffles across the room, leaving blankets trailed across the floor in his wake. “You're such a bastard.”

Spy eyes the blankets with distaste. “You are twenty-seven years old, not a teenager. Perhaps consider acting your age.”

Scout flips him off as he disappears into the bathroom. He even slams the door for effect. It reopens a moment later. “The fuck are you wearing?”

Spy sips his espresso and refuses to feel any embarrassment. “The disguise Miss Pauling chose for me. Yours is hanging in the shower.”

“Is that floral print? Why the fuck are you wearing sunglasses inside?”

“You know, I somehow thought your vulgar word choice was to appeal to our teammates.” Spy sets down his tiny cup. “How foolish of me to think of you as anything but an uncouth man child.”

Scout rolls his eyes and slams the bathroom door a second time.

The truth is that after years wearing a mask, Spy isn’t comfortable with his own uncovered face. He’d rather deaden his eyesight than be exposed.

By the time Scout emerges from the bathroom, Spy has washed his tiny cup and saucer and set them on the windowsill to dry. Scout is still wearing his pajamas, but has bent the clothes hanger into some approximation of a hook.

“You don’t really expect that to work,” Spy sneers.

“Chill, asshole.” Scout peers into the vent, “You’re lucky I’m doing this at all.”

Spy watches as he studies the grating. Scout looks at it from all angles, adjusts his makeshift fishing tool, and slowly lowers it into the vents. The wire taps against the metal duct a few times. Scout actually sticks his tongue out in concentration.

“It isn’t possible to—”

“Got it.” Scout carefully draws the wire back. Sure enough, the keys dangle off the end. “Time to put your coffee maker where your mouth is, jackass.”

Spy cocks an impassive eyebrow. “Can you handle espresso?”

“After the stuff Medic makes for me, I’m gonna need at least three of those before we hit the road,” Scout says dismissively.

“No wonder you’re so short.”

Scout chucks the keys at Spy’s head. “Asshole,” he grumbles, wandering back into the bathroom. The shower sputters to life a moment later.

Despite his best efforts, Spy is both mildly impressed at the boy’s dexterity and mildly concerned that Medic is feeding him questionable energy drinks. He shelves both thoughts and flips the coffeemaker on. It gurgles. The shower rattles. Spy looks out the window on the off-chance something interesting happens outside. On a whim he rummages through his suitcase for a tube of welding glue and uses it to reattach the TV antennae. It flickers to life when he turns the knob. He turns it to a local news station and attends the espresso.

The shower squeaks back off. Scout makes a terrible racket of thumping and swearing, finally emerging in the clothes Pauling picked for him. The hat is only slightly different from his uniform, but the enormous black and white tracksuit is quite the departure from his uniform. “What the fuck is wrong with Miami?”

Spy has similar feelings on the matter. If this clothing selection is accurate, Florida has done something terrible to these people.

“Hey, you fixed the TV. I figured you didn’t know how,” Scout says as he picks up his coffee. To Spy’s disgust, he tosses back the espresso like shot. “Ugh, this stuff tastes like shit.”

“And that is why I only brought cheap coffee.” He plucks the empty cup from Scout’s hands before he can do something stupid with it. “I will be leaving in ten minutes. Be in the car or I will leave you behind.”

Scout mutters something like “asshole” under his breath, but collects his things all the same.

-

“ Louisiana! ” Scout slams his fist into Spy’s arm. It’s the third poignantly forceful punch since they began driving this morning.

Spy takes a deep breath. “You said the plates only counted if they are from another state. We are still in Louisiana.”

“Whoops, my bad,” Scout says in a tone that convey zero apology. Another car drives by and he shouts, “ Louisiana!” again.

Spy catches his fist this time. “If you hit me one more time , I will drive this car back to Teufort and tell Miss Pauling it is because you failed. ”

He means to sound threatening. To his immense irritation, Scout bursts out laughing. “That’s such a freakin’ dad thing to say.”

“It is not,” Spy says through gritted teeth, “It’s something adults say to children who cannot behave.”

“You tried to play the ‘quiet game’,” he says, making air-quotes the way Miss Pauling might, “You ‘grounded’ me, and now you’ve pulled ‘don’t make me turn this car around’. Sure you don’t have kids running around somewhere? Oh, wait.”

Spy grits his teeth. They will be at their first destination in eight hours. Surely he can refrain from doing anything rash for that long.

“There’s another one! I think the license plate starts with an ‘L’--”

-

Thanks to Engineer's ridiculous turbo-boosters (as he calls them), they arrive in Tampa by nightfall. Spy finds an independent motel a few short miles from center city. The motel owner is a professional who offers a copy of the evening paper without asking why Spy is wearing sunglasses at night, or why his car is making repeated banging noises. Spy smiles politely, pulls up to their room, and smugly lets Scout out of the trunk.

“I fuckin’ hate you,” Scout grumbles, massaging bloodflow back into his limbs.

“The feeling is mutual,” Spy replies, shoving Scout’s suitcase into his arms. “Behave and you get to ride in the car tomorrow.”

Scout glares, but keeps his mouth shut and keeps the TV to a reasonable volume for this evening’s game. For a while, Spy pretends not to notice the furtive staring he does between pitches, but he’d be a poor intelligence agent if he couldn’t recognize someone psyching themselves up to speak. “Do you have something to say?” He asks without looking up from the paper.

Scout makes a face that suggests he’s thinking about something dangerous. “Nah,” he says, “But uh. Do you wanna watch?”

“I do not follow baseball,” Spy says.

Scout looks away. His face hardens and his shoulder hunch. “Right. Probably not a thing in Europe or wherever.”

Spy studies him in his peripheral vision. “No.”

Scout turns back to his program, but no longer seems to be paying attention. He doesn’t say anything through the evening continues to hold his peace after the lights go out.

-

They leave early the next morning. Scout, who has been quiet and, dare Spy say, polite , gets to sit in the passenger seat. He stares out the window and keeps the fidgeting to a minimum. Even the radio remains untouched. It’s heavenly, better than Spy could have hoped.

It’s also suspicious.

“Scout.”

“What?” Scout says, breathing on the window to doodle in the condensation.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You are always doing something, what is it?”

Scout throws his hands in the air. “I’m not doing anything! I’m not doing any of the shit you were complaining about: I’m not making noise, I’m not moving around, I don’t even have any gum.”

Spy’s eyes narrow. “You are always doing something.”

“For fuck’s sake, Spy, there’s nothing else for me to not do! Do you want me to stop breathing, is that it? Am I breathing too loud?”

“You are certainly complaining too loudly now,” Spy snaps.

Scout makes a frustrated noise and a strangling gesture, then dives headfirst over the center console into the back seat.

“What are you doing?!” Spy yells, holding the gearshift so Scout can’t kick it out of place.

“Fuck you,” Scout says as he squirms beneath their clothing and into the foot space, “Wake me up when we get wherever.”

“Oh yes very mature, hide in the backseat like a child. ”

Scout throws up a one-fingered salute in the rear view mirror.

“Good riddance,” Spy hisses, settling himself back into the driver’s seat.

The miles rack up in silence. The sun creeps up over the horizon ahead of him, chasing off the night with pink and orange ombre. It’s beautiful in a cliche sort of way, and as if he could not be more of a French stereotype, reminds him of the night he met Scout’s mother.

The second of Don Genarro’s five children, Minerva had wrenched the throne from her older brother who cited a sudden desire to become a painter in Canada and hasn’t been seen since, leaving her as mob boss of the greater New England area. Spy met her one night at a bar, long after her (mostly peaceful) takeover. She had recently performed a (mostly peaceful) restructuring of her nuclear family, and was taking a rare night on the town before rolling up her sleeves and diving into single motherhood; Spy was paid by a rival gang to watch her for weaknesses. She had seven (seven!) children, was six years his senior and wore her hair in a beehive and swore like it was going out of style and snorted when she laughed.

“Gonna stare all day,” she’d asked, “Or are you gonna buy me a drink?”

Her dress was a similar pink to today’s sky. Upon taking the seat next to her, he’d found himself on the business end of a stiletto blade that, to this day, she will not tell him where she hid. It hovered just over his femoral artery while the the bartender made her drink.

“Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to tell me what Donnie Mareto thinks he’s going to accomplish by ruining my fucking night off, then you’re going to pay my tab and just maybe I won’t have to ruin my new Ava Gardner dress with your arterial spray.”

He never had a chance.

“Are you going to sulk back there all day?” He asks the back seat.

Scout doesn’t reply. He seems intent on sleeping, or possibly on ignoring Spy.

Spy knows Scout’s mother wants him to get along with their son. It isn’t reasonable, there’s too much time and too many difficult emotions between them to ever be a ‘real family’ (her words, not his), but still he grits his teeth and asks, “What do you want for breakfast?”

The backseat yields no answer.

“I understand a traditional American breakfast involves pancakes.”

“Fuck off,” Scout mutters from under a sweater.

When Spy sees a diner advertised on the next exit board, he makes the executive decision to pull over for food. He enters the establishment alone and orders a breakfast special and coffee. Scout, who is always less stubborn than hungry, shuffles in ten minutes later to a plate of eggs and bacon.

They don’t talk, but they don’t argue either. Spy sips his coffee. The diner seems to be some kind of neutral ground between the arguing.

“You already eat yours?” Scout asks.

“I ate in the motel.”

“Was it one of those weird-ass tiny dinners you keep in your teeth?”

“If you must know, it was fruit. I managed to find some at a gas station yesterday.”

“Yeah, I didn’t see that part because I was locked in a trunk.”

“Hmm,” Spy says, pointedly not meeting Scout’s glare, “I remember you being insufferable and then much better behaved.”

Scout snorts, but doesn’t stop shoveling food into his mouth. Breakfast seems to have mollified him. “You can never call Ma on me now, y’know. I got the last word on everything because you locked me in a trunk. ”

Spy had considered this at the time, and ultimately decided a full eight hours of silence was worth the potential backlash. “It seems our problem must stay between us.”

“No shit.” Scout folds a pancake in half and starts loading eggs onto it like a tortilla. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Oh?” Spy asks, watching breakfast foods pile into the makeshift tortilla. It’s horrifying, yet fascinating to see what Scout will try to eat next.

“You like to keep your hands clean, I figured you’d be a wuss in an actual fight.”

“Just because I wash my hands--”

Scout makes a stop gesture with the hand holding his breakfast wrap, splashing a drop of syrup on the table. “Not like that, jackass. You always do things sneaky-like, all disappearing and backstabs and ‘right behind you’ . You never take a guy head-on. I didn’t think you’d be any good at it.”

Spy leans back in his seat and cocks an eyebrow. He’s actually curious to see where this conversation goes. “You have seen me kill enemies with my bare hands on multiple occasions. What on Earth made you think I wouldn’t be able to fight you?”

Scout shrugs and bites off half the pancake concoction. He mercifully does not try to talk around it until he’s finished. “Mick says you’re a wuss.”

That gives Spy pause. “I wasn’t aware you two were on first-name basis.”

“ Sniper says your a wuss,” Scout says with an eye-roll.

“That man lives in a car and engages enemies by running five miles away and looking at them through a tube. What does he know?”

“He’s got long arms,” Scout points out.

“That he uses to hold two tubes glued together.”

“Got a big knife.”

“Compensation,” Spy says.

Scout chokes on his food.

Spy studies Scout’s face to make sure the sunglasses aren’t distorting his vision. “Surely you are not--”

“No.” Scout bangs on his own chest to clear it, glaring at Spy through the endeavor. Given the short duration of the choking, his face is redder than it should be. “Fuck no, and fuck you. I don’t think of anyone like that.”

“Good god, you are prude. You are so American, you can’t stand even the thought of another man’s body.”

Scout grabs the remains of his breakfast off the plate. “And that’s it for me.”

“How have you survived in the locker room for this long? Everyone gets changed at the same time, surely you’ve seen--”

“Nope.” Scout crosses the diner toward the door, pancakes in hand. “Not talking about this.”

Spy sips his coffee as Scout makes his red-faced exit. He spares a moment to imagine the pairing (what would Scout and the busman even do? Go camping? The idea is laughable) and takes his time flagging down a waitress for the bill. He is… not amused, but not completely irritated either. He muses on this as he leaves change on the table.

-

The address leads them off the highway, down a small side alley, then onto a wide road running parallel to the Tampa’s main street. It clearly has no problems being less prestigious than the city center, with its more sedate traffic and fewer neon lights. It appeals to Spy’s sense of décor until they pull up to their destination.

“Non,” he says, helplessly staring up at the billboard.

“Hell yeah! ” Scout says, already vaulting out of the car and over the hood.

MATINEE DOUBLE FEATURE, the theater sign announces proudly, PSYCHO and BILLY THE KID V. DRACULA.

“Why would anyone put those things together,” Spy asks the empty car, as though it can save him.

The marquee is done up in dozens of lights. Large, well-lit letters over the billboard proclaim that this mockery of an theater is called The Danvers, and the front window is lined with tacky second-hand movie memorabilia. Spy reluctantly parks the car and approaches the ticket counter, where Scout is somehow already causing a commotion.

“And then it’s like eeek-eeek-eeek! And she’s like ‘ahhh!’ ,” he says, dramatically miming what appears to be a woman being murdered with a knife.

“Did you know they used chocolate sauce for the blood,” the ticket taker asks excitedly. She can’t be older than sixteen, which puts her mental age a few years ahead of Scout’s. No wonder they’re getting along.

“Psh, yeah, everybody knows that ,” Scout replies, sniffing in a way that communicates his complete lack of knowledge on the subject, “S’not like they could’ve used real blood or anything.”

“Two, please,” Spy interrupts unenthusiastically.

She takes his money (a complete waste of a dollar, they could have used that to buy so much coffee ) and stamps their tickets. “You’re in for a real treat, mister! It’s a double feature, Psycho and—”

“I saw the sign.”

His deadpan doesn’t seem to dampen her mood. “Real good, both of ‘em. Enjoy!”

“I will not,” he says, grabbing the back of Scout’s jacket to drag him away from the counter before he can re-engage with the ticket taker.

“Fuck off ,” Scout jabs an elbow into Spy’s ribs to make him let go. “What’s your problem now?”

“I have to spend the next four hours watching terrible American films,” Spy replies testily as they approach the gaudy front doors, “I will not spend one moment longer than necessary in this god forsaken excuse of an entertainment house.”

“Shoulda guessed you’d be a killjoy,” Scout says.

Spy is more than happy to have a target for his ire. “And I should have guessed you’d like this kind of tasteless drivel. Of course you would enjoy watching a deranged man kill naked women in showers, and whatever the second monstrosity is.”

“Billy the Kid fights Dracula the Vampire. It ain’t that deep, dumbass.”

Spy responds by shoving Scout into the doorframe. It makes him feel a little better, and better still when Scout retaliates by tackling him into the popcorn stand and starting a short brawl in the wreckage. Unfortunately they seem to have found the East Coast’s most tolerant theater, as the fight only earns them an escort to their seats and a stern warning that further destruction of property will earn them a fine.

“Fuck,” Scout gripes after the usher leaves, “I wanted a coffee, you asshole.”

“I was hoping we'd be thrown out,” Spy says gloomily.

“You were willing to throw the whole freakin’ mission just so you wouldn’t have to sit through a movie? ”

“Two movies,” Spy corrects, crossing his arms and sliding down in his chair. It sticks to the back of his jacket, as though to really, truly emphasize how badly his day has been ruined.

The lights dim, and Spy switches his sunglasses for the tinted pair provided by Miss Pauling. To his disgust, they’re still sticky from Scout’s gummy brush with death. He picks at the residue through the opening credits before sliding them on, bathing the black-and-white movie in shades of pink. Despite the color change, Psycho doesn’t deviate from its usual story: man and woman cannot be together due to financial problems so woman steals money from her employer in the name of love (or something, he doesn’t really care).

“The costuming in this movie is terrible,” Spy grumbles, “And why must we see every errant thought that runs through her head? It ruins the pacing.”

“Shut up,” Scout says without looking away from the screen.

The movie drags on. Spy watches half-heartedly.

“They could have cut half of this so-called plot and had the same film. This could have been a commercial between segments of a soap opera.”

“If you’re so freakin’ miserable, give me the glasses and go do something else,” Scout hisses.

It’s a tempting offer, but Spy has seen Scout become distracted by his own shoelaces while pinned down by enemy fire. There’s no guarantee he’ll be able to watch a movie and keep an eye for the film’s encoded messages at the same time. He explains this to Scout, who has some creative ideas about what Spy can do with his ‘shitty fuck-ass opinions on other people’s fuckin’ attention problems’.

“You do not have ‘attention problems’,” Spy says, disdainfully eyeing Scout’s bouncing leg, “You have a problem paying attention.”

Scout snorts. “Oh yeah, I’m gonna take your word for it.”

Something about the way Scout emphasizes ‘your’ in ‘your word’ sticks in Spy’s head. He picks at it until the thread unravels into clarity. “Medic has been focusing your attention with the energy drinks. That’s why the caffeine content is so high.”

“Duh,” Scout says.

It’s painfully obvious in hindsight. Spy watches him for another moment, reexamining all the fidgeting and chattering in this new light. He pulls a balisong from one of the many hidden pockets he’d sewn into his ridiculous disguise. “Give me your hand.”

This finally draws Scout’s eyes from the screen. “Uh,” he says, eyeing the knife, “No.”

Spy flips it open in the simple three-step clockwise rotation. He does this again more slowly, then puts the knife in Scout’s hand. “Do you understand?”

“What the fuck,” Scout says, which probably also means ‘no’.

Spy walks him through the steps again. Scout’s eyes keep darting between Spy’s face and the knife in his hands until he finally tries to open it himself. He immediately nicks his palm, but the cut is shallow and Spy trusts Scout to be undeterred by a little blood. With uncharacteristic patience, he guides Scout’s hands through the motions until he can replicate them on his own.

“Good.” Spy watches until he is satisfied Scout won’t cut off his fingers, then returns his attention to the movie. “Do that.”

“Why?” Scout asks as he continues flips the blade open and closed.

“Having your hands occupied will help you concentrate.” He glances to where Scout is playing with the knife. “It is something your mother used to do.”

Scout moves the balisong through open and closed a few more times. “I guess so. She messes with hair pins, though.” He curses when he misses a catch and has to close the handles manually.

Spy’s knife continues to click in Scout’s hands as the movie ponderously waddles on. He receives a few cuts, but his fingers remain firmly attached and his leg stops bouncing so Spy considers this a success.

Because Mikhail is a bastard, their secret message doesn’t turn up until the end of the movie. He’s somehow managed to highlight specific letters in the credits. Spy jots them down to spell out a second address and flees the theater. Surprisingly, Scout follows him with minimal complaints, still fiddling with the knife as they walk back to the parking lot. It would be satisfying to put him down for playing with a knife in public, you ridiculous child . The insult rises easily on Spy’s tongue, but he finds that he cares less about public opinion than Scout’s ability to focus. Besides, he’s gaining fluidity with the motions, and can now talk and flip at the same time.

“You owe me a movie,” Scout says as Spy pops the trunk.

“I taught you how to open a knife without killing yourself,” Spy replies, locating a map and shoving their luggage aside to spread it out, “Surely that’s time better spent than watching a movie about cowmen and vampires.”

“I bet Pyro can get the Billy the Kid movie when we get back to base.” Scout leans back against the car, spinning the knife around his finger in a trick Spy did not teach him, as Spy runs his finger across the roads. “So what’s the place?”

The address is a small dawn-to-dusk park in the heart of Miami. Spy memorizes the location and briefly considers slamming the trunk closed on Scout’s jacket. “Apparently we are going to walk in a park,” he says, shooing Scout away from the car to close the trunk instead.

“Now?”

“There was no time indicated, so I can only assume we are meant to attend now.”

-

part 2

[richonnefics]

Happy Summer Solstice lovely Richonners! We have about a little under a month (24 days to be exact) until San Diego Comic Con. May we be blessed with lots of Richonne but until then, beat the heat with another Richonne writer interview. Please take your time to get to know a bit more about @yellehughes!

Richonnefics (RF): Hi yellehughes! Thanks so much for taking the time out of your schedule for this interview.  Any tips for those that are going through writer’s block?

Yellehughes (YH): Well, this is what I do to help me get through writer’s block. Since I write Richonne fanfics, I immerse myself in Richonne (that’s not weird, is it?) I set up a playlist on YouTube and the videos consist of crack humor, TWD scenes and music fanvids. They all feature Rick and Michonne’s voice and it allows me to keep their characters in my mind as I’m writing. Reading other fanfics helps, but not too many because I don’t want to make the mistake and accidentally pilfer someone’s ideas. I go back and watch episodes that are specific to Richonne, or heck just watch them all anyway. I try and get feedback from my fellow Richonne fanfic writers when I get stuck and vice versa. One last little trick I perform for myself: I think of the scene that I’m working on as I’m going to sleep. I can dream up new things and when I wake up, I write it down. And, bam! I’ve broken my writer’s block.

RF: What is your favorite word and why?

YH: Epiphany, derived from the Ancient Greek word, epiphaneia. It means to experience a sudden and striking realization. My first understanding of the word was when I read, The Miracle Worker. A story about Helen Keller and how she finally understood that what Anne Sullivan was spelling in her hand had a meaning. It never clicked in her mind until, Anne stuck Helen’s hand in water and then signed WATER in her hand at the same time. That moment stood out to me and every time I learn something new or realize something, I get my HKM (Helen Keller Moment) and it’s a beautiful feeling.

RF: I think Epiphany is a beautiful word.  It sounds really nice when spoken.  Are you a plotter or a pantster?

YH: I’m a little bit of both. When I started writing my first fanfic, The TWD Chronicles, I outlined and wrote down the plot for each chapter. Once I have a starting point, it’s all flying by the seat of my pants from there.

RF: Have you always enjoyed writing?

YH: I’ve always wanted to write stories since I was in the 7th grade and that was a long time ago. I actually started writing my first work, Triton, in high school. I had the character’s names, what they would look like and how they would first meet (it’s a romance, by the way) Unfortunately, life got in the way and it was only until my kids were grown, and I took a trip to Greece, that I took my writing seriously. I brought out my old papers and reworked everything that I had written and self-published my first novel in 2014. I’ve been writing ever since. And, then I discovered the world of Fanfiction. I’ve never seen a tv show so good at building characters and it woke me up (epiphany) on what I was missing in my own writing. I didn’t understand this before I wrote my first two books. So, I will be going back over them later and do some tweaking.

RF: Fanfiction can really be an educational experience, especially with a helpful community of writers. What is your least favorite part of the writing process?

YH: Writing the ending. That means I say goodbye to the people I’ve spent a lot of time with.

RF: What is your most favorite part of the writing process?

YH: Coming up with witty dialogue. I laugh a lot and I laugh at my characters, a lot. So, I like to make them say crazy and funny things. Also, envisioning what my characters look like and creating them.

RF: A writer typically has me for life if they can make me laugh.  Have you learned anything from writing fan fiction?

YH: Yup, that sometimes my writing sucks, and even though it’s not perfect, it’s my story on how I see it. I don’t have to write it the way others say I should write it. It’s for my pleasure and hopefully to please the readers. Fan fiction has opened me up to a whole new world and I’m enjoying the hell out of it. It’s connected me to readers and writers and so many have made me feel welcomed. Nothing beats that.

RF: The one consistent thing I’ve heard over the years by Richonners and non-Richonners is how much hospitality there is within the Richonne writing community. When and why did you begin writing fan fiction?

YH: I’m late to the Richonne fandom because I was one of the ones who refused to watch the show because I thought it was all about killing zombies (oops, I said the dreaded word!) I was a super fan of Supernatural (at least watching it, never heard of fanfiction) until John Winchester was vilified. Then it was bye-bye SPN. JDM was the reason I started watching in the first place. Okay, that’s another story. I could go on and on why SPN pissed me off. Anyway, I heard he was joining TWD. Now remember, I had no clue as to what this show was about, besides killing zombies (oh no!) So, I went online and started watching some videos about Season 7’s last episode with the lineup. I saw all these people on their knees and I’m like, “Hmmm…. what’s up with this?” I didn’t know them and that scene made me WANT to know who they were. So, I went to Netflix and started from the beginning and I have been hooked from the pilot. Because I’m so nosey, I started looking up more and more info on the show. I happened to say to one of my author friends, what if someone expanded on the characters outside the show? Girl, she gave me a link to a Richonne fanfic, I’d about died! Was this real? Did people really do this? Yes, and yes! I went on a reading binge of several authors and I noticed that there wasn’t that many stories too focused on fantasy or the supernatural (that’s my thing) and I thought, what if I made Rick and Michonne, Greek gods? How would that go and the rest is history.

RF: Is there anything else about yourself that you would like to share with the readers?

YH: I talk a lot or type a lot, as you can see up above. I love helping fellow writers with showing off their work. I like compliments. I like giving compliments. Sometimes I say the wrong thing, but I eventually apologize. As a writer, I invite criticism of my work. I need that in order to improve. I have a busy mind, so sometimes I go off on tangents.

RF: Fun, semi-related question: Mints or Apples?

YH: Apples, because I can do so much more with them. I can slice them and put them in my oatmeal with cinnamon. I can eat them straight off the tree. I can make an apple pie with them. I can throw them at my brother and make it hurt (can’t do that with mints) I can eat them with peanut butter, salt, caramel. Make juice (well not make it, I can buy it) I will say though, if someone wants to give me mints, especially if he’s a smoking hot deputy sheriff from King’s County, I’ll take it!

RF: Thank you so much for your time.  We really enjoyed getting to know you better.  If you aren’t following @yellehughes on tumblr, exactly what are you waiting for? You can find all of yellehughes Richonne fanfiction here on fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/~yellehughes