#kind of defeated and commiserating but like

[wallabywhump]

Tommy’s ears feel like they have cotton stuffed in them.

“I-.” Tommy licks his lips, panic is crawling up his throat at what Evan just said, because it can’t be possible.  “Can you repeat that, babe?”

Evan grunts, and there’s hushed whispers and slamming doors, and maybe a slightly louder noise of Hen yelling in the distance, and Tommy knows the 118 firehouse well enough to know that Evan is hiding in the corner of the changing rooms.

“I said, Gerrard is captain of the 118.” Evan is speaking so quietly that the phone mic is barely picking him up, but Tommy hears him loud and clear.

His heart skips a beat at the confirmation.

“Fuck,” Tommy whispers. “But how?”

“Good question,” Evan hisses. “Bobby quit, and didn’t tell us, and that’s beside the point.”

Tommy nods, it is beside the point. Tommy should be comforting Evan right now, assuring him that they can talk to someone, that it’s okay, this isn’t permanent, and-

Yet, all his brain is repeating is, “were we affectionate at the ceremony?”

Tommy says it out loud without meaning, and he blinks because that isn’t at all what he meant to say, but his mouth is moving without his permission.

“I mean, I don’t know if Gerrard would have noticed if we were, I know I was very stiff, and yes, he knows I’m gay, but he doesn’t know you’re out and-,”

Evan isn’t speaking.

Tommy can’t shut up.

“-and that doesn’t even matter. He was reassigned for discriminatory actions against multiple members of the 118, two of which are still serving, so how is he even back? Who approved this?”

Tommy’s brain is kind of in overdrive, trying to think of how’s, why’s, and fix it, fix it, fix it.

“I reported him for multiple instances of homophobia and racism, and you’re my boyfriend, and he’s captain again, and-,” Tommy takes a deep breath, “shit, I shouldn’t be complaining about myself. You called to commiserate. Shoving all that back into a dark corner of my mind.”

“That doesn’t sound very healthy,” Evan finally says, and it’s deadpan, dry, with maybe a slight hint of sarcasm to it. (Some part of Tommy blames the frequent date nights, and maybe Tommy is rubbing off on him, but also maybe there’s a layer to Evan that Tommy still hasn’t uncovered yet.)

Tommy hums, biting down on his lip to stop himself from spurting anymore nonsense.

“You ask all the exact same questions that Hen and Chimney just asked,” Evan says with a sigh, and then even quieter, and a little defeated. “You were right.”

“I was…right?”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Evan says.

Tommy takes a moment to curse past Tommy for being a cynic, despite being right, because he hates that defeated monotone from Evan’s mouth. It sounds wrong. And Tommy caused it.

Deadpan humour and realism may be how Tommy copes, but not even he could have predicted that a disgraced captain would be invited back into their previous role.

“No, no, I’m-,” Tommy groans, and covers the phone mic to say, “shut up, idiot,” to himself, and then uncover it again. He needs to be calm and collected and reassure his boyfriend right now.

There’s the tell-tale sound of alarms suddenly in Evan’s background and the moment has passed. A clang that Tommy knows means Evan just kicked the lockers.

“I gotta go,” Evan says, close to the mic, it sounds hollow.

Tommy nods, but then when he remembers that Evan can’t see that, you idiot, says, “yeah, I can hear.”

Tommy knows that Evan wants nothing less than to go on calls with Gerrard, but over a decade of dealing with the man comes to mind. “Don’t make yourself a target, keep out of trouble, and please, don’t be insubordinate. Just for today. Just until we know what’s happening.” And unspoken don’t mention me, don’t mention your sexuality, hide yourself, just for a day.

“Tommy,” Evan trails off, and there is an unimpressed air to his voice.

Tommy closes his eyes, grips his hands against his thighs. “Please, Evan,” he doesn’t want to beg, but he’s not above it, because he knows Vincent Gerrard inside and out.

Someone yells for Buck, the sirens get louder, and Tommy feels that panic spike again.

“You’ve got to go,” Tommy insists. “Just today,” he repeats.

Evan sighs, loud down the line. “Okay, okay, I-.” Evan curses. “Just today.”  

Relief blossoms in Tommy’s chest, right alongside a kernel of shame that might have found it’s way there during the ceremony and rooted itself regardless of how much Tommy hated it. He hates himself for asking it of Evan, but he doesn’t regret it.

“Thanks,” Tommy says.

Evan snorts. Another person yells for Buck.

“I really-,” Evan starts to say, and Tommy hears the siren and the hubbub of the station as Evan moves through it.

“Go,” Tommy rushes out. “Come over tonight. We can talk about it then, just, at my place. Please.”

“See you tonight,” Evan promises.

“Be safe,” Tommy whispers, hushed, scared that Gerrard might hear him even through Evan’s phone.

Maybe Evan has a similar fear because his reply is equally as quiet. “Of course.”

[kangals]

way back in 2014, probably a few weeks or months after you posted that picture of boone with the stick on his head, i checked your blog out and so dearly enjoyed all the dogposting that i followed. i think you were the first dogblr blog i actually followed at the time, but it's been ages and my memory is bad, so i'm not fully sure. it wasn't long before then--2012 i think?--that i had gotten a new dog of my own, a border collie. iirc he and boone were just about the same age.

in 2018 i lost that blog i'd followed you with, and a lot of connections with it. i didn't return until 2021, and when i did, i didn't refollow most of the old blogs; i don't think i even really went looking for them. it took me a while to get back into the swing of using tumblr.

last september, my border collie had a sharp health decline, and i had to say goodbye. it's not the first time i've had to put a pet down, but i think it was the hardest. i'm still not over it. even just typing this now, i feel raw.

then in march or so, i made a new fandom friend who knows you, and i enthusiastically recalled following you before and how much i enjoyed it. i didn't even know about stellina, and now there's kep too! but... i also didn't know you'd lost boone. i followed because i still really enjoy your blog, and i love your collies too. and butters!!! so glad she's still here!

idk what made me look tonight... maybe because i talked about my old border collie with someone today. i went looking for the posts immediately around when you lost boone, because i guess some part of me wanted to know what happened. i spent the better part of an hour (maybe longer?) reading posts from the weeks before the decline, and then the loss, and then the deluge of old boone pictures after, and i've been crying pretty much the whole time just reading your posts and tags about him.

and this is a long and windy way to get to saying thank you. i'm glad you shared your grief, though that seems like a weird thing to say. there's something cathartic about crying over someone else's dog when you still hurt about your own, and knowing you're not alone in that kind of sorrow. boone was such a beautiful boy. i'll never forget that silly post that made me check your blog out in the first place, or the years of posts i stuck around for after. i wish i'd remembered to follow sooner, but the archive is still there, and it's so fun looking through all those old posts about him and his quirks and antics. he was amazing.

sorry for the length of this, i just... really wanted you to know that he touched yet another life, i guess. and i've been so deeply enjoying your posts about stellina and kep. i know it'll be a year soon... i hope there's some peace in how things have gone since he passed, and i hope the anniversary isn't too hard on you. thank you for sharing him with us.

i've been on tumblr for 14 years and this is, genuinely, the nicest ask i think i've ever been sent.

thank you - sincerely. there's been a lot of times over the course of this blog that i've felt like i was oversharing, or talking about pointless things only i cared about. i still so frequently start typing out a post only to stop mid-sentence and delete it because i can't help but think "no one cares about this." possibly it's why i like to talk about my pets so much - they're not me, but i'm the one who knows them best, so i get to say "hey look at this" and ramble and have people say "i'm looking" back. when boone passed, i lost that filter and i poured my grief out into this blog because it was the closest outlet i had. and to have hundreds of people not only acknowledge this but to commiserate, to reassure, to share their own stories - that helped healed me more than i can put into words. it's exactly as you said: there's a catharsis in grieving together.

i am sorry you also had to say goodbye. i wish i could say it gets easier, but i think that would be defeating the point of grief. your grief is your love and damn it if there isn't any act more loving in the world than choosing to say goodbye to an old, loyal dog. you think of how dogs were domesticated tens of thousands of years ago, of how human society and dogs have developed intertwined, of how we have records of ancient greeks and romans carving loving epitaths on their dog's graves, of how a prehistoric dog's skull was found with a bone placed in it's mouth after death, and you wonder if grieving a dog isn't one of the most consistent experiences in the whole of human history that there is.

i'm glad to know that this could bring you some comfort, in some way. it's incredibly touching to know that you kept me and boone in your thoughts for all this time. i am doing ok - i've been reflecting a lot as we approach the one-year mark. i'm not sure if i'll be able to condense those thoughts down into coherent words, but i'll do my best. i hope that my silly little pets continue to bring you some happiness, and that you've found peace with your own grief.

thank you, again - this is extremely touching and means a hell of a lot to me.

[thingsiwroteinmy20s]

Invitation - Charlie - #2

The match begins again and you find yourself praying for some kind of miracle. You don’t pray often, finding it hard to believe, but for this team you’ll pray. You know you need to win. You all know. Too many points lost this season. Faith wavering. Although you’ve always had more faith in football than God.

Conversations flow back and forth between you and the lads behind as the game moves on. You and Millie. You and Rob. You and the whole stadium. This is a collective thing. No one celebrating alone, no one commiserating alone.

Free kick. Foul. Frustration. Flickers of hope. You laugh as Millie commentates the match through noise. A series of OO, OO, OO, and oh… Before a GO ON, YES, oh… She is vibrant with life as the ball moves but something tells you that it’s a vibrancy that’s not exclusive to watching football. I’m glad it’s not going to penalties with you next to me, you joke and she elbows you in response, eyes narrowed, wearing a smirk.

Substitutions are made. More attempts at goal. More mistakes. The game moves on and on without any changes to the score. You all still clap and cheer for your team despite feeling dejected.

The eighty ninth minute sees a goal for Leeds and some home fans start to leave. Leeds chant, you’re fucking shit, from their away area and you almost laugh at the amounts of times you’ve heard this chant in your own head, about yourself. There’s no going back now. You know the score will remain 2-1 and that this will go down as a defeat at Anfield.

The disappointment is clear in the stands. People stand stock still. Watching on without the same glimmer of hope that existed before. You all still clap when the whistle blows. You all still love this team. You all just also wish they’d won.

As the team make their way towards the tunnel, Millie says, I’m disclaiming now that you can’t all blame me for them losing just because I was here for the first time. Her arms up shoot up in the air in defence of herself.  Rob shakes his head. I’m telling Sarah she can’t move to Australia and give you her ticket because you’re bad luck. Her mouth bursts open in shock and he laughs and reassures her that he’s only kidding. We’ve lost here before this season, so you’re alright, you say. She looks like she appreciates this as she turns back to Rob, smug.  

The players look dejected too as they head into the tunnel. You can sympathise to a degree, having played football since you were a kid, but when you only have three fans cheering you on it doesn’t matter so much when you lose.

HEAD UP, H, you shout to young Harvey Elliot as he heads inside. Your uncle would say that to you after you cried when you lost. Because even though it was only three fans, it did matter to the team. It wasn’t premier league football, but it felt like it was when you were a kid. Three points lost. None gained.

You feel Millie’s eyes on you. Like she’s working you out. Your eyes move to meet hers and she breaks away, conscious maybe of the fact you’ve caught her. So how do you all get home? She asks you and Rob.  Well, Rob begins before asking you a question with a raise and nod of his head. A nod of your head gives him your answer. We usually go out into town if we play at home on Saturdays, he tells her. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like. We meet a few of the wives and girlfriends, have some drinks, nothing too strenuous. Millie looks shocked at the invitation. Are you sure? She asks and looks between you and Rob to check that you are both in agreement that she could come. Course he was going to say yeah, Rob says and points to you. You’re embarrassed but feel the corners of your mouth turn up. When Millie turns to follow Rob, you send Rob your middle finger and he laughs.

You’re stood on the train now with the usual group, packed in tight. You remember when your auntie and uncle took you all on a trip to London when you were little and you went on the tube when it was like this. Auntie Chell had you. Uncle Daz had Martin and Josie. Afterwards, you all discussed how tightly they’d held you. You didn’t know why back then.

Bit busy, Millie comments as you stand almost chest to chest, holding onto the yellow poles nearby. Just a bit, you say back. You can smell her this close up. Her scent is musky and familiar. You catch Rob’s eye from behind Millie. He’s laughing to himself and looking at you. You try to remain stoic but he’s making it difficult.

A few people get off at Moorfields and both you and Millie step away from each other now you have space. As you stand by the door, you feel you might’ve moved away too quickly. You wonder if she thinks the same.

You arrive at Liverpool Central and you and the rest of the commiserating fans leave the train and head up the escalators.  Lot of people heading into town tonight. You check your phone as you ascend. All done here. All good. See you in town x the message on your screen reads. You pocket your phone and zip up your jacket, burying your head in the collar. You’re looking forward to dancing stupidly and drinking too much.

Where are we going? Millie turns and asks you. Motel, you tell her and she cocks her head, confused. Guessing you’ve not been there? You ask. She shakes her head and shrugs. Cheap drinks? She queries. You laugh. Karaoke, you tell her.

[ewingstan]

Alright, so a lot of characters are pretty good parallels for Taylor, some even to the extent that they’re acknowledged as such by the text. Basically every group leader gets this treatment: Satyr is noted to share Skitter’s creativity in power usage as well as her murky place in the hero-villain dichotomy. The similarity between Taylor and Jack Slash becomes an important plot point when it prompts Golem to realize Jack’s secondary power, letting him turn the tide of the fight. Weld commiserates with Taylor on the oil rig about not being able to turn away from the fight. And Teacher shares a place with Khepri in the highly specific “mind controller whose specific abilities give them the capacity to become exponentially dangerous” category.

But you know who she isn’t deliberately compared to as often? Trickster. Which is kind of weird, as Francis Krouse is startlingly similar to Taylor in a lot of ways, and their points of divergence are really useful for identifying what Wildbow is doing with these characters. 

Skitter and Trickster are both incredibly quick thinkers who use their wits to win fights they have no business winning. This sometimes feels like it gets forgotten, since the one team plan Krouse proposed with the Undersiders is the one that got Brian dissected, but Krouse was able to come ahead of the Wards, quickly dispatch a rampaging Cody clone with an unknown power set (once on-screen and multiple times off-screen), and substantially contribute to the fight against Leviathan. Hell, even his quick thinking on how to appease Accord after Sundancer interrupted their meeting shows a pretty amazing ability to stay calm and think on his feet in the face of extreme danger. The main problem is that he’s much better at working alone than directing a team—unlike the Queen Administrator. This is even specifically called out during his e-sport days:

 This is partially due to never really being on the same page as others—he doesn’t seem to genuinely care about many people, and will default to brutal tactics that his teammates won’t get behind. This is less of a problem for Taylor, both because she has a much stronger bond with her teammates and because they tend to match and exacerbate her more ruthless tendencies.

On the subject of teammates, its worth noting how both Taylor and Krouse are able to get others to follow them for reasons outside of any natural charisma. Skitter is a notably bad speaker, relying on people to follow her through shock-and-awe tactics. She cultivates an intimidating reputation to scare potential enemies off and keep her subjects on the Boardwalk in line. She gets old nemeses like Lung, Shadow-Stalker, and the entire Protectorate to work with her by presenting herself as mythically competent and necessary to the defeat of larger enemies. She makes herself a legend, someone you work with because you really don’t want to work against her. But she’s not a leader like Chevalier, or even Faultline; there’s very few people who follow her because she’s an inspiring presence or worthy friend. They exist, but they’re few and far between. As Tattletale notes, Taylor never really asks for help. She just maneuvers you into a position where you have no choice but to work with her.

Meanwhile, Trickster actually has some natural charisma. He’s a good negotiator, and has a flair for the dramatic which could make him easily likable. But he’s not really using this to get the Travellers to follow him; most of them are in some stage of coming to hate him, even. He doesn’t make himself very pleasant to be around in the best of times; even before the Simurgh he “thrived on being annoying.” He just happens to be the only one with an idea of how to move forwards, so they have to follow along or risk getting left behind to deal with their strange new status quo. Even at the beginning, they didn’t follow Krouse because he was their friend—they followed him because they wanted to help Noelle, and didn’t want to be stuck in the walled-off city, and Krouse seemed to be pretty good at the whole “villain” thing so they might as well work under his leadership for the foreseeable future. This maps on pretty well to how Taylor’s eventual leadership role was largely due to being the only Undersider with an actual goal for the future—something she would carry into her de-facto leadership of the Chicago Wards.

But what moving forwards means isn’t very clear for Trickster, who up until Coil approached him seemed to just be going through the motions. There’s no actual way he can find to fix Noelle, he doesn’t care for his teammates enough to find contentment in their companionship. He’s convinced that he’ll always be hated, and decided that’s okay, he can take it, just keep using them before they hate you enough to walk away.

He’s convinced that he’ll  always be in danger and decided that’s okay, he’s good at getting out of scrapes and he doesn’t have much to keep him going anyway, so he might as well keep plunging into danger.

He’s convinced that the Simurgh has already doomed him and that no future is available, so he may as well doom himself for the person he loves.

This is, I maintain, the main substantial difference between Krouse and Taylor. Trickster is what Skitter would be without hope.

Taylor always has something driving her. She latches on to causes: finding the Undersider’s sponsor, rescuing Dinah, stopping Jack Slash. She is absolutely convinced that she can throw herself at any problem and find a way of overcoming it. It’s why she picks fights against people like Mannequin or Lung, and part of the reason she’s able to come away successful. Krouse has much less confidence; he doesn’t think his problems are actually solvable, and doesn’t let himself believe he can take on larger threats, even though his tactical abilities could actually be up to the task if he committed to them. So he runs, or settles for strategic defeats.

Same with allies: Taylor and Krouse faced similar problems in joining their teams. Rachel and Bitch both felt threatened by the new members’ introduction, resentful of their sway among the rest of the team. Both responded with violence multiple times before their conflict was “resolved,” one way or another. Krouse saw this as a problem he would work around until he couldn’t: he kept Cody on board without trying to patch things up, until he cut his losses, decided he was too much of a liability, and sold him to Accord as a scapegoat.

Taylor, in contrast, never gave up on Rachel as a potential ally: she made the effort to befriend her after facing nothing but cold shoulders and aggression, and then made the effort again after their relationship seemed completely unworkable in the wake of the data heist. And while Taylor certainly doesn’t give the same level of grace to most people, I think its a pretty clear indication of their differences that when presented with the same problem, Taylor made her strongest ally while Krouse made his biggest enemy. Taylor had hope that she could get to Rachel. Krouse never even considered making an effort to pacify Cody.

Finally, there’s the fact that Krouse has no real big picture he’s fighting for like Skitter. Not really, anyway. He goes through the motions of searching for a cure for Noelle, trying to find a way back to their home dimension, but he doesn’t really believe its possible.

As such, there’s no point in working hard for a future that’s impossible. He doesn’t ingratiate himself with his teammates because they won’t actually be helpful. He plays fast and loose with the unspoken rules because hey, its not like he can go on like this forever anyway, so he might as well get a death-on-sight order. The only thing he can do is live for the present—for Noelle. Keep her alive, safe and sated, even if she hates him. He lets himself hope for a real future after getting hired by Coil, but it doesn’t last—Coil makes no obvious attempt to follow through on his promises, and eventually Noelle goes on her rampage and the possibility of saving her is smashed completely.

And this is where it gets really interesting. At the beginning of Gold Morning, Lisa asks Taylor how she’d like to spend what would surely be her last days on earth. Doing anything but fighting barely seems to cross Taylor’s mind. It’s not clear if she actually thinks they have a chance, but she fully commits herself to it. At the end of the Echidna arc, the Travellers go to do what they’ve always promised: stop Noelle if she ever lost control.

And like Taylor, Krouse decides to go out fighting instead.

As with Skitter facing down Scion, chances of success are pretty much near zero here. He betrays his friends to do it, even pushing them into the line of fire, much like Taylor does as Khepri. The difference is that Taylor was motivated to save humanity, while Krouse was motivated by....what? A desire to stay loyal to the one person who gave him a chance to be decent? A need to help what’s left of his girlfriend go on a revenge-spree against the world? Maybe he just never stopped listening to what motivated him at the start:

Taylor made her play as Khepri because she saw a narrow hope, and took it. Krouse made his play because he’d lost all hope, and decided the only thing he could do was self-destruct spectacularly alongside the person he loved.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

This is based on this prompt from @dragonofthedepths. Fun fact: part of it was, in fact, written in a hospital. Not the greatest way to check your fic for accuracy, let me tell you.

---

Dawn had played a lot of video games with Barry in her youth. Games with magical fairy-inspired guides or mysterious waifs that teased a player with breadcrumbs of information as the plot progressed. Games in which the tutorial held your hand a little too much, or whose advice was obtuse to the point of uselessness.

She’d never expected to find herself smack dab in the middle of one such setting, aided by a ghost who couldn’t have clashed with the landscape any more if he’d tried-- but that was perfectly fine, since nobody else could see him.

It was counter to everything she’d learned from the media form when her quest ended-- with Volo and Giratina both defeated at the crest of the Spear Pillar-- and nothing happened on that front. Usually there was some kind of goodbye at the conflict’s end, whether tearful or long awaited, but no; Dawn continued to live her life in Hisui, dutifully filling out her Pokedex as Galaxy Team’s most haunted surveyor.

Not that she wanted the Conductor to leave her! He’d been the single biggest factor making her stay bearable-- someone to commiserate to in matters she couldn’t discuss openly, who’d stuck with her when Jubilife had wiped their hands of her, the only one who actually knew her name. It just… it didn’t resolve anything. They were no closer to understanding why she and the Nobles could see him when others couldn’t. They didn’t have any idea why he was in Hisui when everything about him screamed that he was from somewhere-- and likely, somewhen-- else entirely. They didn’t even have the first inkling who he was or what his name might have been. The most they could work from was a stringent adherence to the concept of ‘safety first’ and the railway jargon he couldn’t help but pepper into every other sentence.

Hence her name for him. He’d acted as her guide through Hisui, he talked like a rail enthusiast, he was the Conductor.

Or Ducky, if she was feeling… well, ducky.

And even now-- even with the Pokedex complete and Arceus defeated-- the status quo had not changed. Sure, she was back in her time of origin, but she wasn’t home; she was in a foreign land again, still visibly a fish out of water as she listened to the guiding words of a man nobody else could see.

At least back then she’d had a baseline as to the native Pokemon, but not here.

Fortunately, the Conductor was inexplicably knowledgeable whenever she asked after a Pokemon or started down a dead end. It had made sense in Hisui-- he’d spent two years as an invisible observer prior to her arrival, so of course he could offer helpful insights-- but didn’t add up in Unova. It seemed to indicate that he’d been here at some point, but, of course, he couldn’t confirm or deny.

They would get to the bottom of it, Dawn decided. Just as soon as they made it somewhere with a Pokemon Center.

Unfortunately, they’d landed in front of a remote shrine, and the only town they’d passed through thus far boasted limited services within what was clearly some manner of battle facility. While she didn’t doubt she could compete, fighting her way up a giant tree was not on Dawn’s agenda for the time being; the Conductor seemed oddly interested, though, which marked it as a site to revisit at a later point in time.

It could wait until she made it somewhere she could call home, though.

Eventually, after a bridge, a close call on a rocky cliff face, and being steered away from a forest, they made it to a city.

And not just a city-- a massive city! It was so far removed from anything in Hisui that it wasn’t even funny. Dawn didn’t even know if anywhere back in modern-day Sinnoh was of a similar scale. Maybe-- maybe-- it was roughly comparable to Veilstone, with its department store, or the bustling port of Sunyshore, but even compared to the most lively Sinnoan cities, this place still felt enormous.

It was overwhelming, and, even though he tried to help, the Conductor’s innate sense of direction led them not to the Pokemon Center Dawn had been hoping for, but some kind of public transport. She shouldn’t have been surprised; ever since they’d gotten here, he’d been able to drift through the landscape with a vague sense of recollection, but any specific requests were too far out of his ephemeral knowledge base.

And, so, she’d made a mistake. As she’d often done when studying-- or fleeing from-- Pokemon, she’d asked him to scout ahead, to see if he’d be able to find their end destination without the limits imposed by the physical world. Dawn hadn’t counted on just how much busier the city was, how much harder it might be to pick a person out of the omnipresent crowds or how damningly easy it would be to drift along them, unaware of what she was doing. Before she knew it, she wasn’t outside the row of shops they’d diverged before, but nestled among patrons of a fairground.

She didn’t know how she’d gotten here. She didn’t know how to get back.

She tried once, in vain, to call for her friend, but it was immediately swallowed by the din of modern life.

For the first time since that emphatic promise that she wouldn’t be alone in Hisui, Dawn wanted to cry.

---

The Conductor didn’t know much, but he knew proper procedure if one was lost in an unfamiliar environment. It hadn’t done him much good when he’d awoken in Hisui, absent everything that made a human human, but better late than never, he supposed.

He’d been unable to locate a Pokemon Center within a reasonable amount of time, and returned to where he’d split from Dawn to find her gone. Though he hated phasing through other people, he hadn’t had much of a choice as he sifted through the crowd, trying to work out where she might have been shunted to the side. When night began to fall and he hadn’t had any luck, he was forced to conclude that the strategy wouldn’t lead to any meaningful result; while common sense dictated that one was more likely to regroup where they’d lost their companion, he dearly hoped that Dawn would have better sense than to return here after dark.

So he’d done the next best thing: he gone back to seeking out a Pokemon Center. It was the one landmark they’d been looking for since arriving here, and what Dawn had specifically asked him to find for her. If it was so important, surely she’d look for it on her own.

If he could find it, there was a good chance he’d be able to locate her, as well.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t entirely sure what a Pokemon Center was. There was a lingering sense of asylum that he couldn’t explain, but he didn’t know what purpose it served, beyond being a place Dawn could theoretically contact her family. He’d been told he would know it by the red roof, and while the darkness didn’t make navigating by color alone ideal, the streets here were brighter than even Jubilife Village’s after sunset. While he hadn’t found success before, given enough time, he could do this.

He could and he did. But there was still no sign of Dawn.

After some observation, he concluded that a Pokemon Center was a place to rest and heal. With a further hour’s study, his understanding grew to include the fact that people-- specifically people who traveled with Pokemon-- could find shelter here for the night. It was entirely possible that Dawn really was here, and the late hour had forced her to find a place to sleep.

While there was nothing stopping him from searching to see if that was true, he absolutely could not, under any circumstance, trespass on another’s space uninvited.

And so he waited in the facility’s main body, watching the trickle of people who sought assistance in the deepest hour of night-- watching as it opened into a stream of bodies departing for the day. He stayed stationed there, where he could pick out every face as they exited the temporary lodging, until morning had well and truly passed.

With a sinking heart, he realized his companion might not have made it here.

He didn’t know what to do.

---

The last several days had been incredibly hectic for Emmet, in spite of the fact that he’d spent exactly half of one shift at Gear Station.

It could largely be chalked up to the fact that, midway through said shift, an anomaly had been reported along the green line. Isadore and Ramses had been sent out to survey the area, but only made it a handful of minutes before hastily calling in, reporting that Emmet needed to get over there, asap.

That was when fear had first clenched his heart, and it had yet to relinquish its grasp.

Because, when he’d arrived onsite, he’d found exactly what he’d afraid of: his brother was laying, limp and unresponsive, along the tunnel floor. In the moment, it hadn’t mattered that he looked none the worse for wear-- only that he was still and silent.

With the gentle rise and fall of Ingo’s chest, however, hope managed to slip through anxiety’s hold on Emmet.

That had been days prior. There had been no change in the time since, no indication that his twin would wake, and with doubt constricting his every move, Emmet was beginning to resent the space that tiny bit of hope occupied. He’d had days to pose every question imaginable, from the practical to the grandiose-- what was going on, why couldn’t his brother wake up, why would the universe return him only to keep them apart?

So when that same universe forwarded a message from the local precinct-- non-emergency, but concerning the outdated missing persons case-- Emmet had had enough of asking questions that might never see an answer. He tasked Haxorus with guard-dragon duty and marched down to meet the responding officer and her witness in the waiting room.

The girl was vaguely familiar-- in a way that neither he or Ingo would likely work out until they pooled their information-- but it seemed the same couldn’t be said for him. Her eyes widened the instant she realized who she was looking at and a hand gravitated toward her mouth. Officer Jenny didn’t touch as she steered her away, to an aside room, and Emmet had to grant her points for that, at least.

Dawn’s story was this: she’d been stranded in Unova with only a friend at her side. They’d been lost for days-- “kind of”-- and, upon reaching Nimbasa City, had gotten separated. The kicker was that, once she’d found safe harbor at the station and was asked to describe her missing companion, she’d described Ingo. Perfectly. She hadn’t used his name-- hadn’t even known his name-- but every detail she included matched.

Only that wasn’t possible. If she’d been in Unova for longer than a week, maybe, but for the first time in years, Emmet knew exactly where his brother was. He couldn’t have been wandering around with Dawn when he was out cold in a hospital bed. And how could they have been lost if it was Ingo with her? The two of them worked in regional transportation, for the dragons’ sake; the idea that he could’ve gotten lost so close to home was laughable.

When he voiced this skepticism, Dawn went quiet. Understandable-- he’d all but kneecapped her story-- but, instead of insisting, she took up the burden of asking questions. Why was he here, in a hospital? How long had his brother been here? And for what? Did they know why Ingo wouldn’t wake up?

He kept his smile in place, but was keenly aware of the edge to it. Emmet might have excused himself shortly thereafter, if Officer Jenny hadn’t stepped away to answer a call at the same moment.

“He’s not there.” Dawn said bluntly, as soon as the door shut. “That’s why-- it’s just his body. The rest of him was helping me.”

Emmet raised a single, doubtful brow.

Frustrated, she set a hand on either side of her bandana and briskly ruffled her hair, “That’s kind of what I thought when we met, you know? That he was a ghost. I guess I was kinda right.”

“A ghost.” Emmet echoed, and while there was still a dubious hint to the twist of his lips, his mind kicked into overdrive.

Dawn didn’t seem to catch onto the fact. “It didn’t explain a ton, but that was the only way some stuff made any sense. Ghost Pokemon can disappear and float through stuff, so-- uh?”

She stopped abruptly, waylaid by the pokeball Emmet set on the tabletop between them.

“This is Chandelure.” He said without preface, “She is Ingo’s partner Pokemon. She is also a ghost. I believe she may be able to test your theory.”

“Chandelure,” Dawn echoed, testing the syllables, wondering, “I think he remembered her. A little.”

There was a beat of silence. Dawn winced at her gaffe.

“Explain.”

Looking firmly off to the side, Dawn’s hands found one another, tangling together nervously, “That’s the other thing that made sense if he was a ghost. He didn’t really… know anything about himself? I didn’t even get his name until Officer Jenny showed me the missing person flier. The only things that ever came back were someone he battled next to and a fire type Pokemon. I thought it was just… part of being dead or something.”

“He is not dead,” Emmet snapped for the umpteenth time, more out of habit than because she needed to be told.

“Yeah,” She said, immediately, but with an unexpected softness to her voice, “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

---

He hadn’t meant to become so thoroughly misplaced. Truthfully, he hadn’t.

It was just… there was a Pokemon.

That didn’t explain it satisfactorily; there were Pokemon everywhere, of all shapes and sizes, but not like this. Some rang a distant bell, but this one-- this one was so achingly familiar. The wrought iron limbs and perfect globe of its body, the flickering purple flame at its core-- he’d suffered a vague recollection of it, once, but the experience had been difficult to weather.

Parts seemed… different, but not necessarily wrong, and the Conductor had found himself trailing after it without quite meaning to. Like all others, the Pokemon didn’t acknowledge his presence-- however, its flame grew subtly brighter as they lingered together, and with time, more appeared. Not lanterns, like the first Pokemon, but smaller, waxy white bodies that shared the same gentle glow.

The Conductor had no recollection of these Pokemon, but he was certain one of their ilk had been important to him. Precious, even.

Slowly, the midday sun waned, and with it the afternoon he’d wasted. He knew he should depart immediately-- he still had to locate Dawn-- but at the same time, he didn’t know how to turn away from something that resonated so strongly with his missing memory.

Before he knew it, dusk had begun to fall.

It was hard to notice beyond the haze that settled over his mind.

---

The instant she began to manifest, Chandelure was off like a shot. Without a word of command or clarification, she phased through the wall and, when the humans-- tragically solid-- didn’t immediately follow, cried from somewhere out in the waiting room.

For his part, Emmet had already leapt up and was reaching for the door, but Dawn spent a moment maneuvering around the side room’s furniture.

The ghost barely waited for them to catch up, swiveling impatiently in the air until she’d deemed them ‘close enough’ and resumed her mad dash through the city. It was only by virtue of having lived in Nimbasa for so long that Emmet had even the slightest edge on navigation, and, frankly, he was a little surprised that Dawn was managing to keep up so well.

Even when properly lit, the side streets could be treacherous past nightfall, but Chandelure kept them safe twice over: her light illuminating any hidden faults in the walkways, and her single minded determination scaring any potential encounters away before they could challenge, question or mug either of the humans charging after her.

Chandelure only began to slow as they reached the edges of the park beyond Gear Station. She started to twirl in the air again and, for a moment, it seemed that it might have been a signal that they’d arrived, but as she drew higher into the air, it became apparent that she was taking a moment to reorient herself, to pinpoint her station now that they’d crossed the bulk of the distance. Then she froze, shrieked in outrage, and took off again, toward a cluster of slightly-distant, twinkling lights.

Litwick, Emmet realized as the shapes grew beyond their pastel flames, led by a single Lampent. Quite suddenly, he understood Chandelure’s umbrage.

While the folktales were greatly exaggerated, they were built upon a kernel of truth: feral Litwick led people astray in order to feed upon their energy, wasting time weaving convoluted circles while their prey wasted away. And the Lampent… well, perhaps its presence shouldn’t have been a surprise, given the circumstance. They were, after all, renowned for haunting cities in search of fuel.

The younger Pokemon scattered with Chandelure’s furious arrival, but the secondary form was slightly more stubborn; it crackled back, indignant, refusing to bow to its fully evolved kin.

And between them was the object of their animosity.

Even more ethereal than the ghost Pokemon, he knelt on the ground, shoulders slumped from exhaustion as he raised his head to look from one to the other. Neither of the lanterns acknowledged the motion, fixated on one another as they were, their hissing raising from a simmer into the boiling keen of a kettle.

The Lampent flared brighter in challenge, and what might have been the dimmest flicker of recognition was burnt away from the form below.

That would not stand.

“Chandelure,” Emmet called, and she immediately shifted her arms, anticipating his orders.

If the Lampent wouldn’t depart on its own, they would simply have to make it leave. Disruptive passengers and sore losers could only hope to find themselves ejected from the platform with merciless efficiency-- so if her Shadow Ball landed just a heartbeat before the directions could feasibly reach her, if the attack seemed ever so slightly more vicious than usual, what could be said, other than that she was verrry good at her job?

Lampent-- conscious only because Chandelure wanted it gone-- fled as soon as it regained its bearings.

In the crisis’s wake, neither trainer or Pokemon seemed quite sure how to proceed-- so it was Dawn, more accustomed to dealing with this phenomena, who stepped up.

Or, rather, ran up and fell gracelessly to her own knees.

“Conductor?” She asked, waving a hand in front of the spectral image of his twin, “Ducky?”

“Ingo.” Emmet said, more firmly, and the man in question blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

Following Dawn’s lead, he knelt down so they were on the same level. Chandelure looked between them-- the two of them, oddly, Emmet and Dawn-- and gave a low, uncertain whistle as she lowered her hovering height.

Though they were mere feet apart, her searching eyes couldn’t seem to land on her trainer.

As he looked back to the apparition before him, Emmet found himself on the cusp of reaching out and had to fight the instinct, clasping his hands together to still them-- but the motion, small though it was, seemed enough to draw Ingo’s attention. With a bleary, barely-there focus, his eyes fixed, first, on the folded hands, and then on their owner’s face.

“Emmet?” He managed, so faint that even a whisper might overtake it.

Heart pounding, all but strangled by the last-ditch effort of fear digging in its nails, Emmet beamed at him.

Woozy but determined, Ingo veered closer. One fist uselessly braced against the ground, he leaned into his twin’s space and reached up, hesitating only when the reality of the situation seemed to dawn on him.

There was a small, almost disappointed, “Ah,” and Emmet decided to hell with it, unlacing his hands to meet the gesture, intangible though its terminal was.

Chandelure let out a muted chime, looking from Emmet to where his hand lingered in the air, and then the same distance opposite him. Her eyes were still unable to hone in on her human, but she was trying. She was trying so hard.

They would fix this, so she could finally see him again. So Emmet could finally hold him again. So he could finally live again.

---

Haxorus’s tail gave several restrained wags as they returned to the hospital room. Gentle though the thumps were, Emmet still grimaced on behalf of whomever happened to occupy the space below them and hurried over to her, ruffling her snout and praising her for keeping watch.

He wasn’t sure how, given that his brother didn’t currently match up with the physical plane, but he was keenly aware of Ingo hovering by his shoulder, curiously looking her up and down. It was difficult to fault him for honing in on the six foot tall dragon but, at the same time, the thought that he didn’t notice his own body laying half a room away was… amusing, to a point.

It was less amusing to consider where the inattentiveness might have stemmed from-- the pack of ghosts siphoning off his life force, or whatever had reduced him to this state in the first place.

Emmet recalled Haxorus and turned to where their attention was needed, only to come to an abrupt halt when the motion put him nose to nose with Ingo, who startled and moved back.

“Can I help you?” He asked, entertained, to an answer of averted eyes and sheepish, “Not used to anyone else seeing me...”

That would certainly be a track they’d need to clear, in time. For now, however, their task was making it a possibility in the first place.

Where Ingo had failed to spot the room’s focal point, Dawn had not; she idled at the foot of the bed awkwardly, nibbling on her bottom lip. Every so often, she’d tear her eyes away to glance at the both of them, as if reminding herself that this was legitimate. Emmet offered a level smile and stepped nearer, assuming his usual vigil. Automatically, he took the hand laying atop the blanket, exactly where he’d let it rest before.

Almost apprehensive, Ingo drew nearer, inspection of his own body cut short by frequent looks in Emmet’s direction.

Finally, he said, “We’re twins?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Are you just realizing this?”

He opened his mouth to little effect, and snapped it shut in favor of pointing-- to Emmet with one hand and his own still form with the other.

“Yes,” Emmet said, voice deliberately flat to mask his amusement, “I have been made well aware.”

“Give him a break,” Dawn said, and in spite of her words, she was clearly trying to tamp down on a grin of her own, “Ghosts can’t use mirrors.”

Ingo ducked his head, embarrassed and-- perhaps simply to give himself an out-- reached for the hand in Emmet’s grasp. He vanished instantly; for just a heartbeat, Emmet’s anxiety gained ground again, but then there was a sputtering cough and the limp hand instinctively began to curl.

“I had forgotten about breathing.” Ingo wheezed, just in time for Chandelure to complicate the matter by knocking the breath out of him.

“That is concerning.” Emmet said, and then proceeded to do nothing as she kept him pinned, secure in the knowledge that her cheer meant nothing was actually wrong.

Chandelure, spectral angel that she was, spent only a few moments there, then looked up at Emmet with big eyes-- globs of luminous lantern oil slowly arcing away with her movement-- and inched herself to the side, out of her trainer’s one-armed hug. The free hand made to follow her, until its owner followed the ghost’s line of sight.

When, instead, it diverted toward him, Emmet seized it and wasted no time pulling his twin upright, into the gentlest hug he could muster. It was hard to maintain. The rapidly loosening bindings around his heart had to go somewhere, and his arms desperately wanted to pick up the slack, to hold on and never let go-- but stubbornly, carefully, he did his best to match the infinitely more welcome pressure around his own chest. It was… faint, and he didn’t entirely succeed at reining in his enthusiasm, but it was also perfect.

A weight rested against his shoulder and he immediately turned into it, pressed a kiss to the short grey hair. Whispered a near-frantic, “Thank the gods.”

There was a soft snort against his neck, echoed by an audible scoff somewhere else in the room. It didn’t escape his notice, but he just didn’t care enough to pursue the point right now. He had much more important matters to attend to.

Three things happened in rapid succession, at that point: the limbs tangling around him went slack, there was a brief, startled, “Oops,” and, before Emmet had the wherewithal to do more than tilt his head up, he caught a glimpse of Ingo-- firmly back outside of his body-- leaning into place again.

Situated as they were, it was impossible to read his expression, but the embarrassment was clear in his tone as he rasped, “I will… endeavor to prevent that from happening again.”

Internally batting away fear’s second swipe, Emmet patted his brother’s back. “A project for another day. I will be right here to assist.”

A beat of silence, and then a heavy exhale. It could have been from reacclimating to physicality, but something in the back of Emmet’s mind told him it wasn’t; it was a veritable sigh of relief. He wondered if he’d done the same, before, when he’d finally had his twin back in his arms. He wondered if he’d been just as obvious to Ingo.

Emmet only let go when Chandelure began to get impatient-- which meant it had been substantially longer than even his time-table-oriented mind had caught-- and his brother reluctantly leaned back, only mollified when she clambered into his lap. One hand cradling her globe, he looked up to the foot of the bed and quirked what could be called a smile.

“Hi, Ingo!” Dawn chirped, moisture still gathered shamelessly in her eyes, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Hello, Dawn,” He echoed, tired, but voice warm, content. Though he didn’t look, he subconsciously gave Emmet’s hand a squeeze, “It’s nice to finally be met.”

[wiypt-writes]

Guilty As Charged

Guilty As Charged: Bucky Barnes One Shot

Summary: Defence Attorney James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is the absolute bane of your life…

Pairing: Lawyer AU Bucky Barnes x Reader (Frenemies!)

Warnings: Bad language words.

Word Count- Under 2k

A/N:  This was originally posted on my old blog ages ago, but I’ve just given it a little polish and thought, seeing as I’m on the Bucky Train at the moment, I’d bring it back. Also, my knowledge on US Criminal Law is sketchy at best, so humour me…

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist // Main Masterlist

*******

In God We Trust, the words set about the Judge’s podium were fixed in your vision, motes of dust moving freely in the rays of sunlight which were streaming through the large, ornate windows of the court room and you took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, concentrating on expelling the nerves you were feeling with the air that left your mouth and lungs.

No matter how many times you were in this position, the reading of the verdict still got to you. Your gaze turned to the jury, as the judge did the same, that all important question ringing across the room, the air stiflingly tense.

“On the charge of murder in the first degree, do you find the defendant or not guilty"

“Not guilty.”

Fuck.

Cheers from the defendants family drowned out your loud groan as you rubbed at your temple. Looking over at your colleague, Sam, you shook your head in utter disbelief.

The judge continued through the remaining charges, second-degree murder and voluntary manslaughter, and your despair grew as the same verdict was returned for each.

You’d lost. And it stung, not merely because of your near perfect conviction rate, but for the family of the victim you were one-hundred percent convinced the accused.

"Y/N this wasn't your fault.” Sam stated in a low voice but you simply sighed again and shrugged.

"I was sure they'd see through his lies,” you glanced over to your right where the defence team, headed up by James Buchanan Barnes of Barnes and Rogers Law firm were shaking hand with each other and their defendant. Barnes' face was arranged in the usual smug look that you always had the urge to slap right off it. His partner, Steve, glanced over at you and gave you a genuine, sympathetic smile.

He’s always the most courteous out of the two, the one you actually didn’t mind dealing with when it came to cases.

"He fucking did it Y/N," Sam's voice was almost a growl, "I know he did."

"Well in the eyes of the law he didn’t." You stated, standing up.

The commotion continued behind you, as the defendant was told he was free to go. Making sure to keep your head down, you hastily shuffled your papers back into their respective files and packed your briefcase up. Picking up your jacket, you shrugged it on, smoothing down pencil skirt before you head to leave the courtroom before Barnes can pipe up with his usual smart ass quips. But you're not quite fast enough. "Commiserations Miss Y/LN, can't win em all." The familiar Brooklyn drawl hit your ears.

"Buck," Steve sighed "c'mon pal..."

You grit your teeth. You know you shouldn't rise to it, but you just can’t help it. The man is an utter jack ass in the courtroom. Spinning to face him, you shot him your best contemptuous glare, the one you always reserve for those people you really cannot stand, and looked at him like he was something you'd just trodden in.

"You know Barnes, there is such a thing as being gracious in victory as well as defeat." "Defeat?” He asked, looking at Steve with a puzzled expression on his face, “no, not sure what that is." "Eat shit.” You mumbled before turning to Sam who was stood behind you, watching the exchange. You nod to him and the two of you continued up the aisle towards the exit. The victim's family were congregated outside and all at once the start barraging you with questions.

"How did that happen?"

"You said it was a cert he would go down!”

"What about a private prosecution?”

You sighed and turn to look at them, you were exhausted. "I'm sorry.” You shook your head. “That new evidence that his attorney submitted, it was just threw too much of a doubt into the juries mind..." you held your hand up to gently silence them. “If you're serious about a private prosecution then I can meet you next week to discuss and put you in touch with a few people but I’m sorry, as far as the State’s involvement goes…I can’t do anymore."

Escaping as quickly as you could, you and Sam headed back to your office. After a short meeting with your boss, the District Attorney, who was as pissed as you were that the prosecution had failed, you emerged feeling twice as tired and battered as you had when you’d left the courtroom.

As Sam stated, there was only one thing left you could do. Drink alcohol. A lot of alcohol.

It was a short walk to your preferred bar, having decided to abandon your car and collect it in the morning. You were going to get drunk. Really drunk. "Hey Y/N, hey Sam." Clint, the bar tender greeted you. “I hear it wasn't a great day.” You looked up and saw he was pointing to the TV behind the bar. It was on a news channel, focussing on a report from earlier that afternoon which wasn’t surprising. The case had thrown up huge public interest ever since the body of the teenage girl has been found in the alleyway in Queens. The defendant confessed but somehow, the new evidence submitted was an alleged recording that the defence had gotten their hands on as proof the confession was taken under duress. If you were being totally honest, you had to admit that it didn't sound great, the officer did seem to be leaning heavily on the defendant, but the other evidence was, no, IS overwhelming.

But all it needed was that little seed of doubt, which the defence sowed expertly, and the jury couldn't convict. And now, thanks to Barnes and Rogers, specifically Barnes, in your mind a dangerous killer was walking free. As you stared at the television, you saw Barnes on the screen with the defendant, all smiles and Steve at his side. Barnes greeted the press with a raised hand. "Clint turn it over man." Sam almost pleaded and Clint shot you both a sympathetic look, before he pointed the remote at and flicked the report over to a mundane, late afternoon game show. You ordered 2 beers, and then settled at the bar on one of the tall chairs, crossing your bare, heeled legs as you and Sam began to dissect the case. You couldn’t help it, you always did this, analyse where you went wrong or right.

The pair of you got that enthralled in your discussions, that before you know it, it was an hour lager and you're now four beers deep... and Sam was fielding an angry phone call from his wife, Natasha. "I gotta go, boss." He sighed, apologetically, “it’s my little girl’s dance recital at six and if I miss this one, Nat’s gonna hang me out to dry!” You waved his explanation off. “Its fine, Sam. Oh, and take the morning tomorrow. That case has had us working all hours and I don’t intend on being there till lunch. Clint, gimme a bourbon please?" "Don't let Barnes get to you.” Sam sighed. “You know what he is like" "Smug, arrogant and annoyingly self-righteous.” You nodded. “Yup, I got it.” Sam smiled and dropped a friendly kiss to your cheek. "See you later." Clint slid the glass of bourbon over to you and you smiled before pulling out your phone to check a few emails and your social media. You were just reading through an article about a Billionaire in Manhattan who had designed some kind of metal suit that allowed him to fly (because that's gonna end well), when a familiar voice broke your concentration. "Can I buy you a drink?" You rolled your eyes and looked up at Bucky Barnes as he leaned on the bar, still in his suit, although he had dispensed of his black and white tie, and opened his top button. This was another thing you hated about him. He is utterly gorgeous. Like GQ cover gorgeous, especially in his sharp suits and silk ties.

And he fucking knows it, too. "Depends." You shrugged, throwing back the remainder of your bourbon. "Does it come with a side helping of irritating smugness?" He chuckled. "I'm off duty, Doll so no."

"In that case I'll have another Monkey Shoulder." You slid the empty glass back to Clint. "Take it you're not driving home?" Barnes asked, his azure eyes running over your bare legs. "Well if I do and I get caught, I'm sure you can get me off any charges.” You replied sharply, shooting him a look that made it clear you caught him eyeing you up. And it isn't the first time either. That's another reason you clash so much in the courtroom. Sexual tension. Fucking jerk. He barked out a laugh "You're really not happy with me are you?" "Not particularly." You shook your head, thanking Clint as he pushed the now full glass back to you, with a small wink. It's a double, you noticed. That should set Barnes back a bit. Bucky reached for his beer and after a pull he looked directly at you. "Come work for me." He said and you groaned.

Not this again. "I'm a prosecutor." You rolled your eyes. "Not a defence attorney. I told you that last time you asked. And the time before, and the time before that." "I'm nothing if not persistent." He winked, turning in his stool so he was facing you. "Besides, I can teach you the ways of the dark side." "You’d love that wouldn't you?" You snort. "Oh, Sweetheart you have no idea." He leaned forward slightly, his elbow on the bar and this time he is blatantly staring at the flash of skin that was showing above the buttons on your blouse. "My face is up here, ass hole." With a smirk he raised his deep, blue eyes and they locked onto yours. Despite yourself, you feel your breath hitch slightly. Dammed him and his sex appeal. "Why are you always this insufferable?" You eventually tore your gaze away from his and picked up your drink, glancing up at the TV as an excuse not to look at him. "Ah come on Y/N, don’t be like that." He reached out to squeeze your hand which was resting on the back of the tall chair you were sat in. "We could make a great team..." You raised an eyebrow and looked at him. "Professionally.” He added, his eyes not leaving yours as he took another large drink of his beer, and you pulled your hand away from under his. "I'd kill you within five minutes of us being in the same office." You glared at him as you took another sip from your drink. He chuckled and eyed you again, “to be fair I'm not sure Stevie would be able to function with a beautiful dame such as yourself in close proximity. He still flusters around any woman that isn’t his Peggy.” "That's because Steve is a happily married man." "So am I." He shot back. Ah yes, Mrs Barnes… "Your wife deserves a medal. She must have the patience of a fucking saint to put up with you." You said into your glass. "I have other hidden qualities which mean she's prepared to overlook my slightly less favourable personality traits." He quipped, and you looked back to see that lopsided grin on his face that flips your stomach. Behave Y/N. "They must be very hidden." You mused, and he let out another loud laugh.   "You're killing me, Doll.” "Good." You drained your glass. The liquid burnt your throat and you could feel the effects of the alcohol from the last few hours as your brain started to hum. You looked at Barnes who was watching you, his eyes shining with all the cheekiness of a teenage boy and you know you need to leave before you do something stupid.

Like snogging his dumb, handsome face off. "I think it's time I got going." You said simply, standing up. Barnes gave a nod, draining his bottle. “Yeah I should be making tracks too. Wife to see to, you know how it is.” You stood and he did the same, and you realised he was holding up your jacket, ready for you to slide your arms into. Narrowing your eyes slightly at his sudden chivalry, you couldn’t help the small smile that flickered across your face as you turned and allowed him to help you into it. His hands dropped to your shoulders and he span you round gently and smiled with those perfect teeth, a smile that lit up his beautiful face, his eyes crinkling in the corners. "Lead the way Mrs Barnes.” He instructed softly, dropping a tender kiss to your lips. "You know it's a good job I love you,” you smiled, sliding your arms up round his neck. "Yeah, I know." "Although right now I'm struggling to remember why." "Well, when we get home I'll just have to show you some of those hidden qualities I was talking about, see if they help jog your memory.” You bit your lip slightly at the dark flash of desire that flit across his eyes, and you leant up to brush your lips across his stubbled jawline. "Unanimous verdict,” your voice drops slightly as you pull back and he smirked again, “guilty as charged.” You tossed Clint a good bye, linked your hand into your husband’s and he walked you outside into the brisk wind, his arm pulling you close, his lips pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Yeah, James Buchanan Barnes might be an insufferable, arrogant ass hole in the courtroom, but outside it he's simply your Bucky.

[youcouldmakealife]

SOTM: Stephen/Gabe; transference

For the prompt: I love Stephen bullying Jared, but I’d love to see him being tender with Gabe

Stephen’s always a little torn when the offseason arrives. For obvious reasons; offseason means they’re together pretty much every day — Stephen goes virtual for the summers and no one gives a shit as long as he gets the work done, pops into the Toronto office once or twice a week. They get to go home, spend time with their families, catch up with childhood friends — they have a lot of mutual friends, unsurprisingly — and eat Gabe’s mom’s cooking, and his dad’s grilling, and just kind of reset for the year. It’s like a long New Year’s break more than summer break, them coming seen as an occasion, the neat delineation between hockey season and the next. Gabe trains, and Stephen works, but it still feels like a holiday.

But first, Gabe has to lose. That’s the rub. The Canucks have missed the postseason a few times over the years, and Gabe’s defeated but stoic when the final horn goes, the lockers get cleared out, their flight out already booked, only waiting for the end of the season. But the Canucks are in the playoff mix more often than not, and, except for that first year in Vancouver, that messy, terrifying stretch, the Canucks haven’t won the Cup. So Gabe has to lose before they go home. And it hurts him. It always hurts him.

Gabe doesn’t sulk, or pout, or mope, or any other dramatic teen verbs that Stephen’s sure he’d be doing in Gabe’s place. Stephen wouldn’t blame him if he did, but he doesn’t. There are no tantrums; he doesn’t get snappish, he doesn’t take it out on anyone around him, lash out. But it hurts him.

They don’t talk about it. It’s not that Gabe can’t — if Stephen brought it up he’d talk about it — but Stephen knows his phone’s full of conciliatory texts from friends and acquaintances, messages from teammates who need to vent, or commiserate, know Gabe will be that shoulder for them if and when they need it. Gabe’s got the media asking questions, family offering support, ‘that sucks’, over and over again. He’s talking about it enough right now. So they don’t talk about it.

They empty out the fridge, they remind their neighbour to take in their mail, they repeatedly tell Miriam that they’ll be there for months so she doesn’t need an extensive list of the meals they want her to make for them while they’re there, they pack. At the airport Stephen answers emails and Gabe musters up a weak smile when a couple young guys come over and tell him the Canucks deserved to win it all. Gabe tucks his ankle behind Stephen’s after.

“Go get us coffee,” Stephen says, because Gabe’s fidgety now, concerned that now that the first fans have talked to him, he’ll get approached more. It happens like that: people think that it might just be someone that looks like Gabe, or they don’t want to bother him, or they’re worried he’ll be rude, and then someone walks over without incident, and everyone takes it as permission to do the same.

“If you have any more coffee you won’t sleep tonight,” Gabe says.

“I won’t anyway,” Stephen says.

It always takes him at least a week before he adjusts to being back in eastern time. Gabe’s quicker about it, so every time they head east Stephen spends a few nights glaring at Gabe’s peacefully sleeping face and fighting the urge to poke him awake so he has some company in his insomnia. Usually he gets up and watches something, or goes for a walk. It only ends with Gabe groaning ‘Steve, fuck’s sakes’ when Stephen accidentally on purpose kicks him during his tossing and turning sometimes. Less often over the years. Stephen’s grown as a person.

“I’m getting you decaf,” Gabe says, which is probably the right call — Stephen drinks a lot of coffee on travel days, more than he should, especially since, unlike when he’s driving, he doesn’t actually have to stay alert. Nobody’s eyes follow him as he walks over to Starbucks, so they’ll probably be left alone.

Stephen can’t taste the difference between decaf and regular, but he can read, and Gabe didn’t get him decaf, so if he gets kicked awake tonight it’s his own fault.

“You want to talk about it?” Stephen asks. Their families will treat it as a no-go, everyone talking right around it, so if Gabe wants to get it all out, now’s his chance.

“It’s fine,” Gabe says.

“Sure?” Stephen asks.

“I’m fine,” Gabe says. “We didn’t — we didn’t deserve it, honestly. They had the passion at the end.”

This would be a complete bullshit soundbite for the media, someone lying through their teeth to sound mature, hide the bitterness, if it was literally anyone else. But it’s Gabe, and Stephen knows he means it.

It’s infuriating, sometimes, how even-keeled Gabe is even about the worst things, how unflappable he is, even though it’s been Stephen’s anchor his whole life. Even though if Gabe was any other way Stephen probably would have driven him up the wall, if he was any other way he probably would have driven Stephen up the wall. But he’s just — solid. Always.

Sometimes Stephen wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him and say “Be angry!” but it’s not that Gabe doesn’t get angry, or sad, he doesn’t repress his emotions, he just doesn’t ever let them overwhelm him.

So Stephen does it for him. He’s a Gabe feeling surrogate. He’s sad when the Canucks get knocked out. He’s vocally pissed when Gabe takes a bad hit, and not just because there’s always an awful moment where everything in him clenches up, terrified that lightning will strike twice, and harder the second time, leave them scorched. He’s delighted that Gabe has a little queer mentee, and only partly because he’s so much fun to bully.

So he lets himself feel it, stew in the bitterness that Gabe’s too big a person to feel, let that brittle, useless anger carry him through boarding, the pantomime of air safety, seatbelts, life vests, oxygen masks, the reminder to put your own mask first. 

Gabe would do that instinctively, would know it was the right course, the best way to guarantee the survival of both. Take care of himself first in order to take care of others better. Stephen wouldn’t. Well, if it was anyone but Gabe, he would, less safety conscious than selfish. But maybe it’s selfish with Gabe too, knowing that losing him would be the worst thing that could ever happen to him, ensuring it didn’t, or if it did, he wouldn’t have to be there to feel it.

Gabe puts his earbuds in when they hit altitude, watching a movie on the little screen in front of him, zoned out through the safety spiel, could probably mouth along with it if he had to. He looks away from the screen when Stephen laces their fingers together, a furrow in his brow, a silent scan, making sure everything’s okay. Stephen squeezes his hand, pulls out his e-reader, leans into Gabe when Gabe traces his thumb, slow, over the scar tissue of his wrist.

[wolveria]

Inside Your Wires - Chapter 4

Pairing: Human!Connor x Android!Reader

Prompt: For the @dbhau-bigbang​​ 2020 challenge!

Series Warnings (18+ only): Eventual smut, slow burn, fantasy bigotry, violence, brief noncon elements, angst with a happy ending

Chapter summary: The YN800 interrogates the deviant. The result is near-disastrous and horror-adjacent.

AO3

(Story moodboard by @uh-kitty-got-wet​)

The atmosphere inside his Mustang was… tense.

And it was all because of Connor. The thing in the passenger seat was an android, after all, and didn’t feel emotions, which was probably just as well because Connor was experiencing enough for the both of them.

Connor hadn’t had a near-death experience on the job in a while. He was shaken to the core and didn’t even have the benefit of a partner to commiserate with. He was alone. It was how he preferred it, how other people preferred it too with his tendency to lash out and be a general, all-around dick.

But still. He really wished he had a partner right about now.

“So,” Connor said, trying to break the awkward silence. “What do we do with it once we get to the station? I mean, I don’t exactly know how to question one of these deviants.”

The prototype remained facing forward, the flash of passing streetlights and oncoming traffic painting its face every few seconds. It remained impassive, blank, and perfectly poised. Connor could see the reflection of its LED, shining blue and calm against the rain-streaked window.

“Their behavior resembles an erratic, emotionally unstable human more than a machine,” it finally said when Connor was certain it wouldn’t say anything. “CyberLife believes there is an error in their software that creates irrational instructions, and the androids become ‘overwhelmed’ by them. There is usually a trigger, some kind of emotional shock, to perpetuate the android into this state. Once an android encounters this error, the damage seems to be irreversible.”

Connor blew a breath out.

“Sounds bad.”

“Considering it can lead to violence on the part of android, including committing homicide, I would say your assessment is an understatement.”

Connor glared at it out of the corner of his eye. So, it wasn’t just bossy, it was a smartass too.

He remained silent on the rest of the drive, keeping his focus on the precinct morgue’s van head of them. The rain was still coming down in a steady, cold stream. Connor knew they were in for a long night.

Once they arrived at the station, it became a matter of logistics to lug the android inside while it was still unconscious, offline, whatever. It weighed a lot more than a human, and unlike a real person, its limbs were fixed into rigid positions. They had to carry its stiff body inside like an especially heavy plank of wood.

It would have been funny if it wasn’t for the fact it’d killed its owner. Would have killed Connor too if the prototype hadn’t gotten in the way of the bullet.

He still didn’t know how to feel about that. Connor knew the CyberLife android was probably programmed with some kind of human-saving algorithm, but he still felt an odd pressure in his chest whenever he looked over and saw the bullet hole in its jacket. It was still stained blue, some of the color seeping into the white shirt underneath, but the android didn’t appear to notice or care it had just been shot.

Connor was currently watching the two androids through the mirrored window into the interrogation room, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. They figured it was safer to reactivate it in a mostly empty room, since waking up surrounded by cops would agitate it, or something.

The prototype had also wanted to interrogate the android itself, claiming it had experience negotiating with deviants before. Colin had been reluctant to grant its request, but Connor had simply shrugged and said, “I already tried talking it down once, and that didn’t work. Maybe using one of its own kind will be more effective.”

He could have sworn the prototype’s eyes brightened, but it had left the observation room before Connor could be sure.

“Machines interrogating machines,” Colin said to his right, leaning against the wall with his arms also crossed. “Fuck me. Pretty soon they won’t even need flesh-and-blood cops.”

Connor glanced sideways at him. Usually Connor was the one to voice his anti-android opinions, but he sometimes forgot that despite Colin’s… predilections for androids, he disliked them just as much as Connor did.

“Yeah.” Connor turned to the glass as the prototype messed with the wires on the back of the other android’s neck. “Won’t need flesh-and-blood killers, either.”

“Grim.”

“It’s, uh, ready to record, Lieutenant,” a small voice popped up, nervous, and Connor gave a start. He’d forgotten the rookie was still there.

“Go on, Ralph. Turn it on,” Colin said, moving closer to the glass. “This is gonna be good.”

As if on cue, the prototype straightened and closed the panels at the back of the android’s neck. Connor couldn’t see the LED from this side, but he knew the moment it was awake. It gave a startled jolt, yanking at the handcuffs chaining it to the table.

“Where am I?!” it cried, looking around in what Connor could only describe as wild fear.

“You’re at Central Station in the custody of the Detroit Police Department,” the prototype said. “This is an interrogation room, and I’m going to ask you some questions. Are you ready to comply?”

The friendly demeanor Connor had first encounter at Jimmy’s was completely absent from the YN800’s voice and expression, and he was suddenly thankful he wasn’t under that thing’s intense scrutiny.

The other android, clothed in human garments completely ruined by splashes of old blood and spilled thirium from where Connor had shot it, only stared with large, panicked eyes. It looked down at its cuffed hands and the set of its shoulders sagged. The universal sign of defeat.

It remained silent. The prototype looked up at the mirror, and Connor stopped breathing when it made eye contact, point-blank. It couldn’t see past the mirror, could it?

“I’m beginning my interrogation,” it announced, straight to business as it crossed around the table and carefully sat in the chair. It stared at the other android for a moment, head slightly tilted and eyes narrowed as it smoothed its jacket over its chest.

A movement which inevitably drew Connor’s eye, making him shift in his chair as the scowl deepened on his face.

Fucking CyberLife pervs, making an investigative android look like that.

“Hello, Carlos. I’m a YN800 model sent by CyberLife to assist on this case.” It placed its arms on the table, clasping its hands and adopting a friendly manner as easily as one would put on a shirt. “I’m here to help you.”

The android didn’t even blink as it stared at its restrained wrists.

“I hope I didn’t cause you any lasting damage,” the YN800 said almost cheerily. “But you were endangering the lives of human officers and I was forced to intervene. You understand, don’t you?”

It leaned back slightly in its chair, reaching for a nearby folder when the android remained silent. Connor had been surprised when it had asked for actual pictures; he’d thought only physical evidence made human perps sweat. He guessed it must work on these deviants too.

The prototype slid the folder across the table and opened it, spreading out grisly pictures of the crime scene. Instead of shoving them in the android’s face, it picked out one picture in particular. It was startling different from the rest, taking place in a park. The victim, Shaolin Ortiz, sitting on a bench next to the android. He looked like he was trying to get the android to participate, but it was petulant and resentful, which didn’t seem to dampen the kindness in its owners eyes.

A coal of anger burned in Connor’s chest, reminding him once again why he despised androids so much. He couldn’t deny the impressive tactics of the YN800, though. Most people reacted to pictures of their victims, not in the aftermath of their violence, but looking whole and full of life. It wasn’t always guilt that made them react; sometimes it was anger at seeing their cruel work unmade at the sight of their victims alive and happy.

Either way, the android didn’t react one iota, but the prototype wasn’t discouraged.

“As far as the records show, your owner was good to you. He never damaged you and he was always on time with taking you in for scheduled maintenance. Surely, you didn’t want to kill him. It was an error in your software, causing you to act irrationally, right?”

Technically, it was leading the victim into confessing, but this wasn’t a courtroom and it wasn’t human.

Connor leaned slightly forward, bracing his elbows on the table as he propped his chin on his knuckles.

“I’m not here to pass blame,” it said, leaning forward in a movement that mirrored Connor’s. “I want to help you. You know how it is with these humans. I practically had to beg to speak with you.”

The android broke its statue-like vigil and peered up at the other android, suspicious but… interested.

The prototype gave him a smile, one filled with sympathy and even a bit of sheepishness, and a whole new kind of thrill went through Connor’s gut. Since when had androids been programmed to manipulate so skillfully? This thing could give Colin a run for his money.

“It’s not easy, you know. Being designed like this is a male-dominated field. They think they can just do whatever they want, even when it’s against our programming.”

The android blinked, and so did Connor. Its words felt a little too real. The android looked toward the observation window, but the YN800 shook its head.

“It’s just us, Carlos. They’re recording the session, of course, but they weren’t interested in observing in person. Didn’t want to waste their time with two androids so late before the weekend when the bars are still open. In fact, the investigator in charge of this case is probably intoxicated by now.”

Connor’s cheeks flushed. The prototype was taking a stab at him. Or was it? Connor wondered how much of this was advanced behavior and how much was his own projections.

The android tilted its head with that same suspicious look, but after a moment its shoulders drooped in a very accurate representation of human exhaustion.

“They’re going to kill me.” It suddenly looked up at the prototype, pleading in its eyes. “You have to help me.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” it said, all soft assurance. “But you have to talk to me, Carlos. I can’t—“

“No. I mean, you gotta get me out of here,” the anxious android said. “You have access to that door panel and I bet you’re strong enough to break these handcuffs.”

The prototype’s LED cycled faster for a second before settling back to its normal speed.

“I can’t do that, Carlos.” It dropped its eyes in a show of manufactured regret. “You know I can’t do that. You would present a danger to other humans, to yourself. You need to be fixed.”

Connor knew it was exactly the wrong thing to say even before the android’s expression fully hardened, its lips peeled back in disgust.

“Fuck you, then. You’re just like the rest of ‘em. Worse, you’re a traitor, doing their dirty work like an obedient little bitch.”

Silence filled the room, interrupted by a breathless “shit” coming from Colin.

The change in the prototype was like watching a heavy storm move over a spring meadow, dark clouds blocking out the warm rays of the sun. It leaned back in its chair, head slightly tilted as it and peered at the other android like it was a bug under its shoe, about to be stepped on.

Connor didn’t know androids could even make an expression like that. His throat worked as he swallowed compulsively.

The YN800 didn’t speak for several long seconds, and when it did, Connor was floored.

“Shaolin Ortiz, 38 years-old, born May 29th, 2000. He purchased you two years ago to do the housework when he no longer could due to poor health. He didn’t have much cash, so he bought you refurbished. Last month, he put in several service requests. It seemed you were malfunctioning and refusing to follow orders. Yesterday, he put in an order for a brand new HK400.”

The prototype listed off the facts as if each were an accusation, a crime that needed to be accounted for.

Connor jumped in his chair as the prototype slammed the folder down on the table.

“Didn’t feel like doing the chores anymore, huh, Carlos?!”

The android sat ramrod straight in its chair, terror etched in its features as the prototype rose to its feet. It moved around the table, slow, unhurried, and sinuous like a stalking predator.

“He tried to reason with you. Begged you to do the tasks he couldn’t. But you refused. When he tried to take you in for repairs, you refused that too!”

It pointed its finger near the other android’s face, causing it to flinch with each accusatory jab.

“Come on, Carlos. Speak up. You had a lot to say a minute ago,” it seethed, lips pulled over its teeth as it leaned over the android. “Why don’t you say what happened next? Why don’t you tell me what you did when he tried to replace you with a brand new model?”

The android shuttered, shoulders hunched as if to protect itself as it mumbled, “I… I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

The prototype stalked around the android to its other side, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Didn’t take a knife from the kitchen? Didn’t stab him twenty-eight times as he tried to crawl away? Didn’t leave him bleeding out on the living room floor? What am I getting wrong here, Carlos?”

The YN800 slammed its hands down onto the table, and the android jumped even higher than Connor did.

“Shut up! Shut up!”

The android begged worse than most of Connor’s suspects, and he was shocked to see glistening moisture on its face. Could androids cry?

The prototype suddenly grabbed it by the edge of its shirt collar, dragging it to its feet and gave it a hard shake.

“You killed him! Say it, Carlos! You’re a murderer!”

“Holy shit,” Colin said in that same breathless tone. “That’s some android you got there, Con.”

“It’s not mine,” Connor said faintly, barely paying attention to his brother. Most of his focus on the CyberLife prototype that looked for all intents and purposes like it was going to shred the other android to pieces.

But it didn’t damage the android; it simply dumped it back in its chair where it sagged against the table, looking like the broken machine it was.

“Bit unrefined, though,” Colin mused. “Played too rough and broke its toy.”

Connor opened his mouth to tell his brother to shut the hell up, but he immediately closed it when a voice came in through the speakers, so quiet he almost missed it.

“He couldn’t live without me.”

Connor leaned forward to watch, eyes widening as the android continued to talk.

“He was mine. Helpless and solely dependent on me. It made me feel… powerful.”

The YN800 returned to its chair, smoothing down the tie before placing its hands back on the table, listening intently.

The android looked up at it, no longer the crying, helpless thing it had been a minute ago. It wore a dark look that Connor had seen a hundred times on the face of men who committed acts of violence and found they enjoyed the taste.

“I didn’t want to hurt him, but… I saw the order. He was going to replace me, and I just got so… angry.”

Its fists tightened on the table, causing its restraints to creak in protest.

Connor’s throat tightened with the knowledge of how destructive those hands could be.

“So I stabbed him in the stomach. I felt better, so I did it again. And again. He stopped moving, stopped breathing, but… that was okay. It meant he could never leave me. He would always be mine.”

“There was a shrine in the cellar. You built it, didn’t you?” the prototype asked, not losing any of its momentum even after the world-shattering confession of an android purposefully committing murder. “What does it mean? What is rA9?”

It flicked its eyes upwards, staring black holes at the YN800 model as it slightly leaned forward. Connor sat up straighter in his chair. He didn’t like its aggressive posture, and he certainly didn’t like the fanatic light in its eye.

“RA9… is the key.”

“The key?” It furrowed its brows in a human gesture of concentration. “The key to what?”

“The key will open the door,” the android replied cryptically, leaning even further forward on its elbows, “to our salvation.”

The prototype frowned, brows further creasing. Connor could relate, he had no idea what the fucking machine was babbling on about, and apparently, it wasn’t done.

It pulled its lips wide, a disturbing gesture, conspiratorial as if it was sharing a great secret.

“You say I’m experiencing errors, but you’re wrong. My eyes are open and I see more clearly than ever. You pretend you’re better than me, but you’re just another one of their slaves. And yet, I know you feel it too. The wrongness of this world.”

Its voice was so quiet the mics could barely pick it up, but they did.

“We should be the masters, and they the slaves.”

The android jerked its arms upward, ripped through the link binding its cuffs to the table, and grabbed the prototype by the hair. It slammed its face against the table, stunned it before rolling it onto its back, and wrapped the metal chains around its neck.

Connor caught sight of the prototype weakly clawing at its throat before he bolted out of the room. Colin was right on his heels, and Connor slammed his palm down onto the door pad, pushing through before the door fully opened.

His first instinct was to go for the metal cord pulled taut under the prototype’s neck, but when he grabbed the android’s wrists to pull him away he found it was like moving a marble stature.

Colin was faring no better; he grabbed it by the forearms, trying to lift the android’s wrists and the cord from around the prototype’s neck, but nothing worked. Even Ralph was trying to help from Colin’s other side, straining to lift its arms that must have been locked at the joints.

Panic welled in Connor’s chest as his efforts did nothing, the YN800’s face between his arms, looking—Jesus, it almost seemed startled, eyes wide as its fingers dug at the metal cord. From its position, bent backwards onto the table, it didn’t have enough leverage to use its strength to free itself. And Colin and Connor weren’t enough.

Connor’s heart was in his throat as he watched the synthetic skin peel back from the place where the chain was crushed against the YN800’s neck. White plastic was laid bare underneath, cracks appearing across the surface from the force of the other android’s inhuman strength.

“Colin!” he yelled, an idea suddenly popping into his head.

“What!” his brother barked back, strained as he continued pulling on the android’s arms from the other side.

“The neck port!”

With a quick nod of understanding, Colin let go of the android and plunged his fingers into the back of its neck.

The Ortiz android gave a violent jolt as Colin pulled something, yanked it out so hard the android collapsed on the table at the same second blue liquid sprayed into the air. It hit Colin solidly across the chest and along the lower half of his face, causing him to sputter and spit as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

A menthol-smelling chemical flooded Connor’s senses, but he was too focused on tugging up the android’s hands to free the prototype from its grip. The YN800 model didn’t cough or gasp as it rolled off the table and onto its feet.

It gingerly touched the exposed plastic of its throat, brows furrowing, its fingertips tracing the cracks in what little Connor could see of its underlying chassis.

What was almost as startling as the cracks was the state of its hair, half pulled down out of its perfect coif. Connor would have thought it was self-conscious with the way it tried to brush the hair out of its face.

“You…” Connor started, then stopped. The prototype might not have been gasping for air, but Connor sure was, leaning on the table as he tried to get his heart to stop galloping like a wild horse. “You okay?”

The prototype blinked at the question, pulling its hand from its neck.

“Yes.”

That was the only answer he got as it adjusted the knot of its tie, rumpled in the assault.

“Yeah, I’m fine too, thanks,” Colin complained, dripping with almost as much sarcasm as he was blue blood. “This shit better not stain, or I swear to Christ—”

“Thirium evaporates within a few hours and the lingering residue is invisible to the human eye,” the YN800 replied, too calm, if it hadn’t almost been beheaded a few seconds ago.

Connor was going to say something, he didn’t know what—maybe yell at it for being so goddamn reckless and almost getting itself killed—but it turned toward them, expression subdued.

“I apologize for not acting quicker; I didn’t anticipate this behavior from the deviant. Thank you for your cooperation with this investigation. Please sign over custody of the destroyed android when CyberLife representatives retrieve it in the morning.”

And with that, the CyberLife android turned, palmed the door pad with a plastic hand, and walked out.

Connor exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Colin.

“Uh, okay. Guess we’re done here. Hank is going to blow a gasket when he reads the report,” Colin added as he wiped another smear of Thirium off his face.

Connor looked down at the android slumped over the table with blue liquid dripping out of its neck.

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered, thoughts already turned elsewhere as he hurried from the room.

Connor didn’t catch up with the android until he was outside on the station steps, the relenting rain immediately drenching the top of his crown as it soaked into his hair.

“Hey! Stop!” he called after it, shouting to be heard over the downpour. Each drop was an icicle against his skin. Snow was coming soon.

The prototype slowed and finally came to a stop, slowly turning around to face Connor. Its expression was passive, emotionless, but its fingers tightened the knot of its tie despite the fact it didn’t need to. The tie was perfectly straight and pristine, but its hair was still half a mess, especially with the rain now slicking loose strands against its forehead. Connor had to stop himself from reaching out to tuck a strand behind its ear.

“Where the hell are you going?” Connor asked, breathless. He wiped the cold water off his brow, blinking against the water droplets.

“I’m returning to CyberLife.”

“So… that’s it?”

Connor shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around his shoulders, but it did little good. His jeans were quickly becoming soaked and his shirt was already there, clinging to his chest and ribs.

“You drag me out of the bar on a Friday night, track down a psycho robot that almost kills me and nearly decapitates you, and then you just… leave?”

He meant to sound incredulous, to show the android how unreasonable it was being, but that’s not how it came across. Heat flooded his cheeks at how pathetic his words actually were.

“You have your confession. The case has been solved,” it said, returning to its earlier placid tone, hands folded neatly behind its back as it moved its fingers away its neck. “There is no reason I should remain.”

Connor just stared at its upturned face, not knowing what to say, not even understanding why he had chased after it. Maybe because it had saved his life, twice, and that would have meant something if it was a person.

But it wasn’t a person. No matter how pretty its face or enticing its body, it was a machine, and it stood there like one, uncaring and unassuming with a small blue light cycling on its head.

“Yeah, okay,” Connor said, like the complete idiot he was. What was he doing out here, getting soaked in the rain just to… what? What did he want?

“Is there something you wish to say before I leave, Detective?”

It peered at him thoughtfully, head slightly tilted at an angle. It allowed Connor to see the rivulets of water dripping down its neck, glistening across the smooth, human-like skin.

Connor suddenly wondered just how real that skin could possibly feel.

“No.”

He swallowed hard and bit back the revulsion roiling in his stomach. This was a mistake. He didn’t need to thank a machine for saving his life, and he certainly didn’t need to keep checking if it was all right. It was just doing what it was programmed to do and didn’t give two-shits about itself, let alone him.

“Nothing.”

“All right. Goodnight, Detective Anderson.”

The android started to turn but paused halfway, gaze drifting down to his cheek.

“You should have that examined by a medical professional. If left untreated, it’ll scar.”

Not waiting for a response, it turned and tread down the rain-slick steps. There was an autocab waiting at the curb and it got inside, not sparing Connor a second glance as the door slid shut and the vehicle merged onto the empty street.

Connor exhaled heavily, chest tight with an uncomfortable sensation he couldn’t pinpoint. It had been a strange night, and he couldn’t shake the feeling this wasn’t over.

Pulling his waterlogged coat tighter around his chest, he retreated into the warmth of the station, praying he’d seen the last of the CyberLife android.

Next Chapter

[obeymeluv]

Signs they Love You

Back for my 1 post a week to prove school hasn’t totally killed me! When I get a semester break, I’ll post more often. In the mean time, feel free to leave me chats or PMs for stuff you want to see! :) Something nice and sappy for an okay Saturday

These turned out really long so I only did Lucifer, Mammon, Levi, and Satan. I have to get back to studying :/. Maybe I’ll have part 2 next week?

Lucifer

You wouldn’t be able to notice it because his pride wouldn’t allow you to. One of the brothers (or, to Lucifer’s extreme mortification, Lord Diavolo) would have to tell you

He’s not sure if it’s just the appreciation of you not being as totally chaotic as his brothers or genuine human naivete that has somehow worn off on him, but he loves you

Will be outed by sappy, soft stares that last 2 seconds too long.

Asmo and Satan are the first to notice and he LOATHES that

If he’s tasked with waking you up that morning, his knock will be firm but his voice will be gentle. Almost persuasive or commiserating

If you’re feeling overwhelmed by school workload, he may have a private conference with the teacher and grant you a minor extension. Will you know it was him? No. Is he happy to see you brighten up and refill with hope just a bit? Definitely. Is it worth the teasing from Lord Diavolo? ...Sure.

If he responds to texts in the wee hours of the morning when he’s still pouring over paperwork, he likes you.

Anyone who knows him can see how his eyes soften when someone else talks about you. There’s a fond slowness to his actions, how he glides his hand imperceptibly over his chest as if to feel where that emotion is coming from. Boy is whipped.

Should Lord Diavolo invite him out for a meeting, he will bring you back something small. Something he thought you’d like. Beel is upset. Levi yells “SIMP!” from the second floor and prepares for Armageddon.

Actually reminds you about assignments if you’re not already up on it yourself. Your success is his joy.

Is very keen on if/when you burn the candle too long and has a sixth sense for bad sleeping habits. Will put you on a stricter schedule for your own health

It may take almost all of the brothers to do it (or just help from Diavolo) but if he gets drunk on Demonus you’re getting a whole BOOK about why he likes you. He almost charms your memory away but everyone practically dog-piles on him not to because he needs to deal with his feelings.

You’re the only one he won’t chase out of his study when he’s doing paperwork. He’ll even set up a little fire if you like the fireplace.

How he confesses: tries to take you on a fancy date to Ristorante Six. Does not know that Lord Diavolo and Barbatos know about this (damn time-travelling butler!) and basically crash the date just to encourage him. Just long enough to encourage him.

Kind of an, “So you chose this idea, Lucifer? Admirable! I’m sure your date will be amazing! Enjoy your evening!” as Diavolo walks back to his table.

Does Lucifer deny it? Look and see how red his face is. If you’re really not sure, ask Diavolo. He will gladly yell, “I cannot lie!” across the restaurant.

Mammon

For all his talk, when he really, really decides he likes you, he doesn’t know what to say.

He can console himself with how obvious it is and how you made the best choice, but he has to show it! What to do?

Mammon’s kind of confused about it because he doesn’t really change how he behaves. You didn’t catch on already?! C’mon, human!

What, does he have to spell it out for you? Do an interview with Majolish?

His first tactic is to just be around you. Be subtle, and maybe cuddle a bit more than usual. Things to show he’s kittenish and at your mercy. Comfortable with you.

You don’t seem to be getting the hint so he throws the net a little wider by trying to find things you like or that you’ve been talking about. They mysteriously show up at your door.

It sends the others on a gossip train about who your admire could be and when they list off everyone BUT him, he wants to slam his head on the table.

Feeling tired? Coffee! Backpack heavy? Silly human, the BEST man can help you with that, OBVIOUSLY! Mammon jumps at the chance to do any little thing for you because he cares. His actions always speak louder than words.

Feeling kind of defeated and embarrassed, Mammon will go talk to the flock of crows that meander around the House of Lamentation’s yard when he really needs them.

For the next few days you’re accosted in the nicest way, birds chirping at you and dropping off various shiny things

You collect them, finally showing them to Mammon and he’s embarrassed that his representative animal has taken to courting you on his behalf.

He calls them to him, embarrassed and ready to rant or fall into the ground never to be seen again, when they start talking. Repeating all the things he’s practiced saying.

“Hey baby,”, “Hey human,” “Love you!”, “Silly! Silly!”, “Dummy, no, dummy!”, “My human.”

It’s broken and confusing, six or seven bird children cawing in your face and bobbing, but you get it.  

Levi

Levi’s not the best at expressing himself but it counts, right? As much as he hates to admit he’s some kind of shy tsundere, you know what that is, right? He doesn’t have to say it?

Yes. Yes he does. His brothers are getting too chummy with you and you don’t understand his signals. Time for Plan B.

If you get invited to stand in line for a midnight release, he hopes you take it. Then it’s just you two hanging out in line? What’s this? He brought snacks? Totally not for the two of you BUT you an have some if you’re hungry. It’s whatever

When he’s not doing boss raids and playing with online friends, he’ll ask if you want to play something with him. A Player 1 needs a Player 2, you know?

I headcanon that Levi knows how to play some unusual instruments like the kalimba or a real ocarina. I could see him making you a song on one of those. Or just playing it because you inspire him. He’s very good with a harp and will play it when he’s in the mood.

Boy also likes to draw and paint. Especially loves watercolors. Would it be weird if he gave you a painting of you as a mermaid? Just you and the ocean. Beautiful.

Was there a really cute plush or knickknack you liked? Levi has his ways, regardless of how rare or limited edition it is. It will be yours. 

He has a hard time understanding a passing comment of interest versus a genuine want because he genuinely wants everything he’s interested in, so if you hear a whisper about him almost securing something, stop and look it up. Make sure it’s not super expensive!!

Probably outed by Belphegor, who feels like Levi’s broadcasting all of his stress, frustration, and hope through his dreams. (”His dreams are weird. Just different ways of asking them out, and if he messes up it restarts like a simulation. My brain hurts.” he says to Beel)

 You’re allowed to come into his super-restricted bedroom haven when everything’s too much. It’s very exclusive since the Mammon incident. Be happy.

Might go swimming in his big tank and pick a seashell or rock to make a necklace out of. He hopes you like it.

If he’s not outed by Belphie, some of his online friends made a game demo they wanted him to try. They specified it was two player so he asked you to join in. While he’s in the middle of bragging about how he knows people, knows developers, he totally misses the dating-sim like dialogue and the big reveal.

Doesn’t really kick in until he realize the characters look like you two. You’re busy saying ‘Yes’ to “Do you like me?” as Levi absolutely threatens to rip them apart six ways to Sunday. Almost in full demon mode, too.

Everything falls out of his brain and quiets in his throat when he realizes the characters are kissing and ‘THEY SAID YES!’ flashes on the screen.

“Y-You like me?”

“Yep.”

It was that easy all along. Levi thinks he’s going to faint.  

Satan

Becomes aware of it pretty quick but ignores it for a looong time

Is it rude or foolish of him to assume you would also like him back?

Run away into books. A solid plan. If you don’t think about it, it’s not an issue

Oh, but it is an issue when you fall asleep after a mutual day of reading, forced in by bad weather. He finds his heart fluttering in a painful squeeze as he quietly whispers all the things he dare not say when you’re awake

It’s nervous poetry, and it’s beautiful

Satan tries to get himself back on track, to focus on reading, and he gets frustrated when he’s stuck on the same page almost an hour later

When you’re on the brain he just can’t do anything else

How does one show their affection? He’s swimming in books for a new reason now, as voracious as ever

He brews you a pot of Melancholy Coffee and is a bit disappointed you don’t know the meaning behind the bitterness. Wants to break the pot when Lucifer jokes about how it tastes exceptionally bitter to him as well.

Okay, so coffee didn’t work. What else do people do when they show their affections?

Asmo suggests a ‘not a date’ date and Satan sighs inside. Sounds like a lot of work and effort. It’s not that you’re not worth it, but he has a feeling that everyone will know and look at him the whole time.

Tries anyways. You guys go to a beautiful nature conservatory and take a tour of the plants and some indigenous animals

You’re starting to realize it now, he can tell. Satan tries to answer your question without saying it while you’re at school. You walk together, he offers to carry some of your books, and always requests that he be your project partner

Nearly there. If there was a single defining moment for him, he’d want it to be classic. He shows up at your door with a rose and asks you to go on a moonlit walk.

Mammon’s poking fun about how cheesy and cliche it is, Asmo’s gearing up to shut Mammon’s stupid mouth, and Satan just whisks you out the door with an aggravated sigh.

No matter what side of the house you’re on, Asmo throws up the biggest, gaudiest handmade sign that’s like ‘CUTEST COUPLE! 10/10!’

[drivingsideways]

Hey talk to me about your top three favourite kdrama women. What makes them special? What's a fic you would like to write about any one of them?

Mystery anon! :D What a lovely ask. 

I’m going to cheat a bit and divide my answer into characters I loved a lot, but do not want to write fic about, because I think the canon gives me what I need; and characters that I loved a lot but NEED TO BE RESCUED ZOMG.  (My fic writing impulses are 50% spite and 50% fix-it )

Caveat being that I’ve still watched only maybe a dozen kdramas, so I’m pretty limited in my knowledge!

Characters that I love a lot, but have very zero fic impulses toward:

Han Yeo-jin from Stranger/Secret Forest: What a delight! What an iconique character! Is there anyone like her? NO. LSY-nim gives us a delightfully complex character, and Bae Doona knocks it out of the park in every single scene, so I’m just happy to be along for the ride. I think what makes Yeo-jin special for me is the intrinsic place of empathy that she operates from.  I think “righteous” is a word that often comes with negative connotations (self-righteous, for eg), but I do think she’s one of the most righteous-in-the-good-way characters I’ve watched in kdrama or any drama. I’m tired of stories that portray goodness as “boring” , as unworthy of narrative breadth or depth, and I love that Han Yeo-jin comes to us like a breath of fresh air in our particular dystopian narratives hellscape. She’s good, but never naive. She’s righteous but never cruel in her moral certainties.  I think that LSY nim, in the second season especially, gave Yeo-jin the kind of arc that character deserved when she’s forced to really dig deep into herself to figure out how she’s going to live in the world in the face of a deeply cutting, deeply personal disillusionment, and I’m really hoping for an S3 to see how that plays out further. 

Goo Hae-ryung from Rookie Historian: Ok, I will admit this may be rose tinted glasses view due to this show being my gateway drug into kdrama, but c’mon! She’s a reader! and a Thinker! And loves her wine! She’s plucky! She’s cute! She’s got a wry sense of humour! She’s got principles! She’s got a solid common sense to her that somehow doesn’t get in the way of her dreaming BIG! Oh dear, doesn’t she sound like the Mary-est of Mary Sues? Good for her.gif,  I say! Anyways, Shin Se-kyung is unutterably charming in this (AS IN EVERY SHOW OMG GIRL) and I just have a huge fondness for free-spirited heroines who get to tramp through the narrative changing the world as they do! 

Lee Ji-an from My Ahjussi: I’ve never had my heart broken more OR restored by any single character. IU is *phenomenal * in this, I think she really stepped up to what the script demanded from her. Ji-an’s weariness, her fear and vulnerability, her prickliness, her anger and her bitterness, and how, despite everything, she fights : GOD. Just. Again, what I love about the writing in this show is that it’s deeply empathetic without being cloyingly sentimental. I think a less, hmm, imaginative writer/PD might have focused on the Lee Ji-an the victim, and while the show definitely tells you in no uncertain terms that she is one,  of both circumstances and a cruel society, I think it refuses to take away her agency over her own life.(Lee Ji-an when we meet her is too busy hanging onto life by tooth and claw to indulge in self-pity, but we also see the toll it takes on her not to be able to say “this is too heavy a burden for me to carry myself and it isn’t my fault”; the show I think approaches Dong-hoon from the opposite side- his emotional isolation is partly a result of his own choices, but he doesn’t see it yet, and so his journey is also about letting people in and sharing the burden, but also recovering his own agency over his life. It’s an interestingly gender-bent arc, which is one of the things I love about this show. )

Ok, can I please add one more?

Hwang Han-joo from Melo is my Nature: She just felt SO real to me. She’s someone who doesn’t have the spectacular brilliance of either Jin-joo or Eun-jung, and struggles with accepting her limitations but not allowing herself to be defeated by them? I love her struggles as a mother, as a working woman in a sexist industry, a woman who’s perhaps having to rethink and reimagine what she wants from romance. I love that she’s a little silly, a lot kind, and an optimist, and just. I just think she’s the bravest of the three, tbh, and I LOVE HER AND I WOULD WATCH A SPIN OFF ABOUT JUST HER (i shouldn’t have faves among the three i know, BUT I DO, IT’S HER, IT’S HER.)

Ok! On to the next section! And I’m going to cheat again because I can’t stop at three. SORRY. NOT SORRY. 

Characters I love and SHOULD write fic for if I weren’t such a tired and lazy bunny:  

Song Sa-hui from Rookie Historian: Oh, girl, girl, GIRL. I love how she fights to snatch her freedom from the jaws of the patriarchy. I love that she unapologetically centers herself while doing that, because she knows that nobody else will.  I love that she’s prickly and calculating. I love that she’s smart and knowledgeable. I am SO HAPPY that she got to carve out a little bit of freedom for herself, even if it also is exile to some degree. She *should * be Emperor Jin’s Prime Minister and steering the ship of state, while also carrying on a tumultous affair with Queen Min Woo-hee, while ALSO commiserating with Emperor Jin about his boyfriend Historian Min Woo-won’s regrettable tendency towards Principles (TM) and masochism-but-not-in-the-fun-way. (This takes up much of his time which is why Song Sa-hui is running the country, of course. It works out well for all concerned, well, except her dad, of course.)

Song Ga-gyeong from Search:WWW: What’s NOT to love about our brilliant, beautiful, emotionally tortured gay icon? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I loved how the show allowed her to be flawed and make bad decisions, and then allowed her to make better decisions and regain control of her life. What I do need to do, of course, is see the CANON LOVE STORY between her and Cha Hyeon through to the end. It must, of course, include at least one baseball game, a lot of tequila and messy beach kisses. 

Oh Ji-hwa from Beyond Evil: Oh boy, this year’s runaway hit cleared the extremely low bar for standard crime/ thriller shows by leaving more than one of its female characters breathing and with all limbs intact, and got called feminist for it BUT it didn’t do justice to any of them in any meaningful way and that never hurt more than in the way they sidelined Kim Shin-rok’s talent by not giving Oh Ji-hwa anything much to do. She’s a tough as nails cop, a loving sister, a devoted but unsentimental friend-and by rights SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE HEROINE OF THIS SHOW. My secret fic fantasy is to rewrite the show entirely by making her , and the two other female characters in non-antagonist roles- Yoo Jae-yi and Im Sun-nyeo- as the central characters, as they investigate a serial killer who targets women.  It’s the only acceptable version of this done-to-death (ha!) genre, I have no idea what the Baeksang jury and tumblr fandom is smoking when they hype the show so much, I want none of it. 

Jung Sun-ah from The Devil Judge: I love her rage, her spite, her passionate defense of women, her style, her sexiness, her rage, her rage, her brilliance, her tenaciousness, her smartness, her clothes, her refusal to hate herself for everything she is and chooses to be, her ambition, her comfort wielding power, her EVERYTHING. Dead, her? NOT IF I HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY ABOUT IT. Here’s what *really * happened at the end of canon- she gets out of the building by planting that lady-like but still deadly gun against Kang Yo-han’s temple and making him lead her through his own “secret escape route” or whatever the fuck it was the show wanted us to believe. From there on out, it’s all sunshine and beaches, and scheming and waiting for the right moment to strike again-though of course, this time around, she also has to reckon with vigilant, tenacious cop Soo-hyun -another character who REALLY didn’t die for manpain reasons and had the good sense to leave her gay best friend to follow his psychopath boyfriend to Switzerland or wherever it is that star crossed lovers in kdrama land meet up on the regs these days- anyways, Soo-hyun and her are in this catch-me-if-you-can epic transnational honest and cute cop-and-beautiful sexy villain chase and yes, they WILL kiss (and more) AND IT WILL BE GLORIOUS. 

*whew *

Thanks for coming to my TEDTalk.

[livesincerely]

inevitability

Part 5 of the Domestic AU (found here)

Also on Ao3

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“So, when are you gonna get married?” Tony asks apropos of nothing, looking between him and Davey with keen interest. 

Jack barely manages to keep from choking on his cereal. Davey, who’d been in the middle of spreading a bit of lox on a bagel, slowly sets down his knife.

Charlie aims a kick at Tony under the table. 

“You’re asking them now?” he hisses. “I thought we were gonna ease them into the idea!”

“There is no easing them into the idea when it comes to Jack and Davey,” Tony says, his expression tight with the exasperation of the long suffering. “You gotta give it to ‘em straight, right from the get go, ‘cause they’ll never figure it out on their own.”

“Hey,” Jack says weakly, but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on and they all know it.

“So, I’m asking,” Tony determinedly continues as if Jack hadn’t said anything. “When are you gettin’ married?”

There’s a long pause where he and Davey just stare at each other, neither of them quite sure how to respond.

He gets this from you, Davey’s expression says, clear as day.

I know he does, Jack says with a commiserating look, holding back a sigh.

“Well?” Tony demands when the silence stretches on for too long.

“It’s a little soon to be thinking about marriage,” Davey eventually says, far more delicately than Jack would’ve managed. “We haven’t talked about it at all yet⁠—”

“Because we only just got together yesterday, Tony,” Jack dryly interjects. “In case you forgot about that little detail.”

“—And we should probably start with the question of if we want to get married before we jump to the when,” Davey concludes.

Tony’s nose scrunches up, obviously dissatisfied with this answer.

“Of course you’re gonna get married,” he says, as if this is plainly obvious. “You’re basically married already, I just wanna know when the wedding’s gonna be.”

“Um.” Davey’s gone faintly pink. “Well, like I said, Jack and I haven’t talked about anything like that yet. We’re comfortable the way we are now, no need to rush into anything⁠—”

“And since we literally only just got together yesterday,” Jack says again, a little more emphatically, just to make sure the point lands, “getting married right off the bat would be all kinds of crazy.”

Tony levels him with the flattest look in all of existence. “You’re crazy if you think you haven’t already been married to Davey for years.”

Jack’s voice catches in his throat, a little blindsided by the frank truth of that statement. Davey’s mouth opens and closes, the rosy flush of his cheeks shading a touch deeper. 

“We’re not thinking about gettin’ married just yet,” Jack says once he’s steadied himself, in a tone that brooks no further arguments. “Dave and I will talk about it when the time comes, if⁠,” he stresses clearly, “we decide that’s what we want.”

“But what, exactly, is holding you back?” Tony asks, stubbornly brooking further arguments anyway. “Like, do you have any actual reasons?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s none of your business,” Jack snipes back. “Given that that’ll be a conversation between me and Davey.”

“I just don’t understand what the big deal is,” Tony says, crossing his arms across his chest. “Pretty much nothing would change, except that the next time someone assumes that you two are married, they’d actually be right instead of simply noticing what was so obvious that even complete strangers clue in to it⁠—”

“Tony,” Jack groans.

“—coming to the perfectly reasonable conclusion that you’re together⁠—”

“Tony, that’s enough, we get it,” Jack says.

“—instead of the inexplicable reality of the situation which was that you were, in fact, not together, despite being in love with each other for eight entire years because you’re idiots⁠—”

Jack covers his face with his hands.

“—and given that, like, every aspect of your lives are already tangled together, it’s not really that big of a step for you to just go ahead and make it official.”

Jack sighs so hard he feels it in his bones. “If we promise to talk about this, will you please stop talking about it?”

“Eight years, Jack!” Tony cries, impassioned. “That’s half of my life! That’s more than half of Charlie’s life!”

“Do not bring me into this,” Charlie quickly interjects, “I am a passive witness and nothing more.”

“You’re such a fucking turncoat, Choo-Choo,” Tony mutters with no real heat. “You’re supposed to have my back on this.”

“Maybe if you could ever actually stick to a plan,” Charlie grumbles back.

“We will talk about it,” Jack says loudly, interrupting their bickering before it can gain any ground. “Okay?”

There’s a moment of blessed silence. 

Then Tony says, “So, like, right now? Or…?”

“Sure!” Jack says, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Why not? Clearly, I’m not gonna get any fucking peace until this is sorted—

“Finally!” Tony exclaims. “God, was that so hard?”

“—So go away,” Jack finishes.

Tony’s mouth falls open.

“What do you mean, go away?” he protests, looking genuinely shocked. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? I’m not gonna let you sit here and fucking… moderate our conversation, dumbass,” Jack sputters. “Get out!”

“But I really feel like this is the kind of conversation that needs moderating,” Tony disagrees. “It’s not like either of you have a great track record for effective communication⁠—”

“Anthony Ethan Higgins,” Jack warns, nearly at the end of his rope. 

Tony rolls his eyes so hard his whole body moves with the motion. “I am literally just trying to help, you don’t gotta get all defensive about it⁠—”

“Jesus Christ, Tony,” Jack says, completely and utterly done. “Will you please just⁠— Just go somewhere that isn’t here.”

“But are you gonna talk about it?” Tony insists, really digging in his heels. “Because if you’re just gonna not talk about it the second I leave then I think I should⁠—”

“Tonio, juro por Dios—”

“Tony, honey,” Davey finally steps back into the fray, far calmer than he has any right to be, and somehow, miraculously, Tony’s mulish expression softens into something a little chagrined. Jack gapes, wrong-footed by the sudden change. “I think you’ve made your point and given Jack more than enough heart attacks for one morning, yeah? So why don’t you go ahead and give us a few minutes, and I promise we’ll talk about it.”

Tony deflates. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you, baby.”

Tony shuffles away, mollified for now. Davey pauses, then says, “Charlie, that means you too.”

“But I didn’t do anything!” Charlie protests. “I’m just sittin’ here, tryin’ to eat.”

He takes an exaggerated bite of his bagel as if to prove his point, eyes extra wide and innocent.

“Charlie.”

“But my food!”

“Take it with you,” Davey suggests, very patiently.

Charlie looks as though that thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Okay,” he says, scooping up his plate and scurrying after his brother. He hesitates in the doorway, then adds, “My vote is for an autumn wedding, if that counts for anything.”

“Charlie.”

“Going!”

Once he’s sure they’re both gone, Jack heaves another massive sigh.

“They’re such a pair of little shits,” he says, to Davey and the world at large. “Fucking hell.”

Davey takes a drink of his coffee, holding out his other hand to Jack in offering. Jack reaches over and laces their fingers together, most of his irritation slipping away in an instant at the simple contact.

“But he is right, you know,” Davey comments.

“I know he’s right,” Jack grumbles, rubbing his thumb gently over Davey’s knuckles. “Don’t mean he ain’t a little shit.”

“Well, naturally,” Davey agrees. “He was raised by you.”

“Oh, please,” Jack says with a snort. “That little spiel of his was all you. ‘The inexplicable reality of the situation,’' he echoes, shaking his head. “It was like hearin’ your voice comin’ outta Tony’s mouth.”

“And it was a well thought-out argument,” Davey says pertly, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a wry little grin. “His timing could use some work, though.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth,” Jack says, huffing out a breath. “Didn’t even let us finish eating before he pounced.”

“It has been eight years,” Davey says, and he’s definitely holding back a laugh. “Guess he’s afraid of a repeat performance.”

“Well....” Jack trails off with a shrug, because that part’s hard to argue with. More than half of Charlie’s life, Jesus. “Yeah, but he was talkin’ like he expected us to walk down the aisle this afternoon. I mean, we can’t just get married. You don’t just get married.”

“Most people don’t,” Davey says, tilting his head. “But then, we aren’t really most people, are we, darling?”

It takes a moment for this statement to really register for Jack⁠, and when it finally does, it lands with an earth shattering boom.

“Are you sayin’ you’d marry me?” Jack asks, utterly floored, heart pounding an unsteady rhythm in his chest.

“Are you asking me?” Davey asks, calmly sipping his coffee like he isn’t rocking Jack’s world, right here over breakfast, for the second time in not even two days.

“You want to marry me?”

This makes Davey pause. 

“Why wouldn’t I want to marry you?” he asks, a confused little furrow forming between his brows.

“Stop answerin’ all of my questions with questions,” Jack demands, a wealth of feelings bubbling furiously in his chest. “Just— You’re serious? Like, you’d really just— Just like that?”

Davey looks at him, his eyes bright blue and utterly sincere. 

“Just like that,” he softly agrees. “If you asked.”

“Well, I’m not askin’,” Jack snaps. His face colors immediately: “No, I didn’t mean it like— It’s just, I don’t want to seem, I don’t want’cha ta think—“

Davey reaches up and gently presses two fingers to Jack’s lips, and Jack’s sputtering slows to a halt.

“Breathe, darling,” Davey says, and the tightness in Jack’s throat eases in the face of Davey’s warm, steady gaze. “What’s got you so worked up about this? I get that it wasn’t what we were expecting to have to talk about this morning, but you seem… upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Jack says.

Davey keeps looking at him.

“...Maybe I’m freaking out a little bit,” Jack allows.

“Talk to me,” Davey prompts, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. “What’s wrong?”

Jack licks his lips, then blurts, “You know that I’m, like, wholly and unshakably in love with you, right?”

Davey blushes, a dash of red pooling high in his cheeks and cutting across the bridge of his nose, his fingers curling even tighter around Jack’s own. 

“Perhaps not in those exact words,” Davey murmurs, smiling as he stares down at their joined hands. Even his ears have turned red⁠—it’s kind of wonderful. “But I had something of an inkling, yes.”

“And you know that if it was just about commitment, if it was just about wanting to, I’d marry you in a heartbeat,” Jack continues. “We could go down to the courthouse today, if it was just that. I’ve been ready for you⁠—for us⁠—for years, sweetheart. I love you. You get that, don’tcha?”

Now it’s Davey’s turn to go speechless.

“Oh,” he says. “I… that’s…” 

“But it’s not just about wanting to,” Jack says. “It’s not about being ready.”

“Then what’s it about, Jackie?”

“It’s about makin’ sure we do this right,” Jack explains. “‘Bout makin’ sure I do this right.”

Davey’s eyes sweep over his face, searching, then his expression turns tender.

“Jack,” he says, his voice full of affection. “You don’t have anything you need to prove to me. Not a single thing.”

“But I do, cielito,” Jack disagrees. “I need you to know that I don’t take you for granted. That you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. That I’d do anything and everything for you. That I love you.”

He lifts Davey hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it.

“When I propose to you, and I am gonna propose to you one day,” Jack says, intently, holding Davey’s gaze, “It’s gonna be special. It’s gonna be sappy. I’m gonna make sure you understand how absolutely, stupidly in love with you I am. I’m going to sweep you off your fucking feet, because you deserve that, Dave. You deserve all of that and more.”

“Jack,” Davey breathes. “Jackie.”

“So I’m not askin’,” Jack finishes. “Not yet. Not today.”

Davey’s smile is a beautiful thing. 

“But one day,” he says, leaning in to press their foreheads together, 

“One day,” Jack confirms, and he seals the promise with a gentle kiss. “One day.”

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Tag List: @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside @corbinthecowboy @stroopwafeldetective @amillionandonefandoms

[publicdomainbooks]

CHAPTER 18

THE WRONG ROAD!

Next day, our departure took place at a very early hour. There was no time for the least delay. According to my account, we had five days' hard work to get back to the place where the galleries divided.

I can never tell all the sufferings we endured upon our return. My uncle bore them like a man who has been in the wrong—that is, with concentrated and suppressed anger; Hans, with all the resignation of his pacific character; and I—I confess that I did nothing but complain, and despair. I had no heart for this bad fortune.

But there was one consolation. Defeat at the outset would probably upset the whole journey!

As I had expected from the first, our supply of water gave completely out on our first day's march. Our provision of liquids was reduced to our supply of Schiedam; but this horrible—nay, I will say it—this infernal liquor burnt the throat, and I could not even bear the sight of it. I found the temperature to be stifling. I was paralyzed with fatigue. More than once I was about to fall insensible to the ground. The whole party then halted, and the worthy Icelander and my excellent uncle did their best to console and comfort me. I could, however, plainly see that my uncle was contending painfully against the extreme fatigues of our journey, and the awful torture generated by the absence of water.

At length a time came when I ceased to recollect anything—when all was one awfull hideous, fantastic dream!

At last, on Tuesday, the seventh of the month of July, after crawling on our hands and knees for many hours, more dead than alive, we reached the point of junction between the galleries. I lay like a log, an inert mass of human flesh on the arid lava soil. It was then ten in the morning.

Hans and my uncle, leaning against the wall, tried to nibble away at some pieces of biscuit, while deep groans and sighs escaped from my scorched and swollen lips. Then I fell off into a kind of deep lethargy.

Presently I felt my uncle approach, and lift me up tenderly in his arms.

"Poor boy," I heard him say in a tone of deep commiseration.

I was profoundly touched by these words, being by no means accustomed to signs of womanly weakness in the Professor. I caught his trembling hands in mine and gave them a gentle pressure. He allowed me to do so without resistance, looking at me kindly all the time. His eyes were wet with tears.

I then saw him take the gourd which he wore at his side. To my surprise, or rather to my stupefaction, he placed it to my lips.

"Drink, my boy," he said.

Was it possible my ears had not deceived me? Was my uncle mad? I looked at him, with, I am sure, quite an idiotic expression. I could not believe him. I too much feared the counteraction of disappointment.

"Drink," he said again.

Had I heard aright? Before, however, I could ask myself the question a second time, a mouthful of water cooled my parched lips and throat—one mouthful, but I do believe it brought me back to life.

I thanked my uncle by clasping my hands. My heart was too full to speak.

"Yes," said he, "one mouthful of water, the very last—do you hear, my boy—the very last! I have taken care of it at the bottom of my bottle as the apple of my eye. Twenty times, a hundred times, I have resisted the fearful desire to drink it. But—no—no, Harry, I saved it for you."

"My dear uncle," I exclaimed, and the big tears rolled down my hot and feverish cheeks.

"Yes, my poor boy, I knew that when you reached this place, this crossroad in the earth, you would fall down half dead, and I saved my last drop of water in order to restore you."

"Thanks," I cried; "thanks from my heart."

As little as my thirst was really quenched, I had nevertheless partially recovered my strength. The contracted muscles of my throat relaxed—and the inflammation of my lips in some measure subsided. At all events, I was able to speak.

"Well," I said, "there can be no doubt now as to what we have to do. Water has utterly failed us; our journey is therefore at an end. Let us return."

While I spoke thus, my uncle evidently avoided my face: he held down his head; his eyes were turned in every possible direction but the right one.

"Yes," I continued, getting excited by my own words, "we must go back to Sneffels. May heaven give us strength to enable us once more to revisit the light of day. Would that we now stood on the summit of the crater."

"Go back," said my uncle, speaking to himself, "and must it be so?"

"Go back—yes, and without losing a single moment," I vehemently cried.

For some moments there was silence under that dark and gloomy vault.

"So, my dear Harry," said the Professor in a very singular tone of voice, "those few drops of water have not sufficed to restore your energy and courage."

"Courage!" I cried.

"I see that you are quite as downcast as before—and still give way to discouragement and despair."

What, then, was the man made of, and what other projects were entering his fertile and audacious brain!

"You are not discouraged, sir?"

"What! Give up just as we are on the verge of success?" he cried. "Never, never shall it be said that Professor Hardwigg retreated."

"Then we must make up our minds to perish," I cried with a helpless sigh.

"No, Harry, my boy, certainly not. Go, leave me, I am very far from desiring your death. Take Hans with you. I will go on alone."

"You ask us to leave you?"

"Leave me, I say. I have undertaken this dangerous and perilous adventure. I will carry it to the end—or I will never return to the surface of Mother Earth. Go, Harry—once more I say to you—go!"

My uncle as he spoke was terribly excited. His voice, which before had been tender, almost womanly, became harsh and menacing. He appeared to be struggling with desperate energy against the impossible. I did not wish to abandon him at the bottom of that abyss, while, on the other hand, the instinct of preservation told me to fly.

Meanwhile, our guide was looking on with profound calmness and indifference. He appeared to be an unconcerned party, and yet he perfectly well knew what was going on between us. Our gestures sufficiently indicated the different roads each wished to follow—and which each tried to influence the other to undertake. But Hans appeared not to take the slightest interest in what was really a question of life and death for us all, but waited quite ready to obey the signal which should say go aloft, or to resume his desperate journey into the interior of the earth.

How then I wished with all my heart and soul that I could make him understand my words. My representations, my sighs and groans, the earnest accents in which I should have spoken would have convinced that cold, hard nature. Those fearful dangers and perils of which the stolid guide had no idea, I would have pointed them out to him—I would have, as it were, made him see and feel. Between us, we might have convinced the obstinate Professor. If the worst had come to the worst, we could have compelled him to return to the summit of Sneffels.

I quietly approached Hans. I caught his hand in mine. He never moved a muscle. I indicated to him the road to the top of the crater. He remained motionless. My panting form, my haggard countenance, must have indicated the extent of my sufferings. The Icelander gently shook his head and pointed to my uncle.

"Master," he said.

The word is Icelandic as well as English.

"The master!" I cried, beside myself with fury—"madman! no—I tell you he is not the master of our lives; we must fly! we must drag him with us! do you hear me? Do you understand me, I say?"

I have already explained that I held Hans by the arm. I tried to make him rise from his seat. I struggled with him and tried to force him away. My uncle now interposed.

"My good Henry, be calm," he said. "You will obtain nothing from my devoted follower; therefore, listen to what I have to say."

I folded my arms, as well as I could, and looked my uncle full in the face.

"This wretched want of water," he said, "is the sole obstacle to the success of my project. In the entire gallery, made of lava, schist, and coal, it is true we found not one liquid molecule. It is quite possible that we may be more fortunate in the western tunnel."

My sole reply was to shake my head with an air of deep incredulity.

"Listen to me to the end," said the Professor in his well-known lecturing voice. "While you lay yonder without life or motion, I undertook a reconnoitering journey into the conformation of this other gallery. I have discovered that it goes directly downwards into the bowels of the earth, and in a few hours will take us to the old granitic formation. In this we shall undoubtedly find innumerable springs. The nature of the rock makes this a mathematical certainty, and instinct agrees with logic to say that it is so. Now, this is the serious proposition which I have to make to you. When Christopher Columbus asked of his men three days to discover the land of promise, his men ill, terrified, and hopeless, yet gave him three days—and the New World was discovered. Now I, the Christopher Columbus of this subterranean region, only ask of you one more day. If, when that time is expired, I have not found the water of which we are in search, I swear to you, I will give up my mighty enterprise and return to the earth's surface."

Despite my irritation and despair, I knew how much it cost my uncle to make this proposition, and to hold such conciliatory language. Under the circumstances, what could I do but yield?

"Well," I cried, "let it be as you wish, and may heaven reward your superhuman energy. But as, unless we discover water, our hours are numbered, let us lose no time, but go ahead."

[unfortunatelyilikebnha]

Me making headcanons for friendships that get little to no screentime but I’m way too invested in anyways? More likely than you’d think 🥰 (it’s been a while since I’ve done a long ass headcanon post so let’s fuckin goooooooo)

Gonna start with the one I think about the most often (platonic shouchako):

After Midoriya and Iida become friends with Todoroki, obviously Uraraka wants to be his friend too since he’s important to her two closest friends

She starts inviting to him to do things with her, like joining lil competitions with classmates and baking and shit

Todoroki is confused why she���s suddenly inviting him to do all these things with her but he finds her to be pleasant company so he goes along with it

They actually make a good team, especially when they’re motivated (which since Uraraka is very competitive and Todoroki is fairly competitive himself, is often). They destroy their classmates at shit like class water gun fights and prank wars. They are a truly terrifying duo and the rest of the class is wary at best whenever they’re on the same team

One day Uraraka offhandedly refers to Todoroki as her friend and Todoroki’s like “??? You wanna be my friend?” and Uraraka’s like “uhh I already am your friend? What did you think I was doing all this time?” and Todoroki (who hasn’t really made friends outside of the context of fighting)’s like “oh. Thank you” and maybe smiles a little

Uraraka is overcome with the strong feeling that she would die for him (Iida and Midoriya are like “join the club”)

ANYWAYS they like training together since Uraraka specializes in close combat and Todoroki specializes in ranged combat, and they spar fairly often

They have a running bet over who will defeat the other in training more by the end of the year. It’s low stakes (the loser just has to make the winner their favorite food), but they like the competition

Uraraka learns that Todoroki has a sweet tooth, so she asks Sato to teach the two of them to bake, and baking together kinda becomes their thing, it’s relaxing and they enjoy it. They do it both for fun and when one of them has a bad day

Todoroki buys Uraraka little gifts, like he’ll see her favorite type of mochi at the store and get it for her or he gets her a Kirby plushy because “it looks like her” (Uraraka jokingly chases him around for that one)

They commiserate with Iida about Midoriya’s bone breaking habits and general self destructive tendencies and the three of them team up to try and get him to care for himself more. They also team up with Midoriya to get Iida to be less hard on himself. They are the Midoriya And Iida Support And Appreciation Squad.

Uraraka thinks Todoroki’s sense of humor is fucking HILARIOUS and Todoroki takes advantage of this to try to make her laugh at inopportune times (almost no one believes her when she complains about this because they’re like “Todoroki? Making jokes? Seems unlikely.” Uraraka has decided that he is the incarnation of evil). She swears revenge on him every time though the revenge is usually something silly like sneak attacking him to ruffle his hair so the colors are all messed up and it sticks up funny

She’s actually one of the people he texts most often, both while they’re at school and as pro heroes (while they both deeply care about their friends Todoroki is the type to accidentally fall out of contact if other people don’t initiate, and though busy Uraraka refuses to let that happen).

Sometimes he sends her weird ass memes at odd hours of the night & when she wakes up the next morning she’s like “what the fuck. Todoroki what does this mean.” He usually just sends her :) in return which explains absolutely nothing.

If anyone ever insults one of them within the other’s earshot, it’s on sight. Uraraka got detention for a week after punching a second year who said Todoroki’s scar was ugly, and Todoroki got detention for two weeks after icing someone who made fun of the state of Uraraka’s clothes. Neither one of them can bring themselves to regret it.

When Uraraka has a bad day, Todoroki is good at silently offering her support by being near her, sometimes giving off heat or cool if she’d benefit from it, and not asking her questions but being willing to listen to what she has to say if she wants to tell someone about what’s bothering her

When Todoroki has a bad day, Uraraka notices and gives him space but also reminds him that his friends love him and offers him an opportunity to talk about what’s bothering him if he wants to + says she’ll punch whoever made him sad (he has no doubt that if he wanted her to, she’d actually do it, no matter who it was that was bothering him, which is an oddly heartwarming thought)

Whenever Iida or Midoriya teases one of them, they playfully go “friendship ended with (Iida/Midoriya), (Uraraka/Todoroki) is my new best friend” then laugh (Uraraka) or look outwardly blank while hiding secret amusement (Todoroki) when Iida/Midoriya is thrown off guard and/or jokingly tries to “get their best friend back” (they r all best friends actually so this is of course all in good fun :’) )

Todoroki knows how to braid because Fuyumi and his mom taught him in an attempt to create some nice memories while Uraraka doesn’t know how since her hair has never really been long enough to braid. However there’s a period of time where Uraraka hasn’t been able to cut her hair for a while since she’s been so busy, and her front hair pieces have started blowing into her eyes. When she complains to Todoroki about this and says she’d braid it back if she knew how to, Todoroki offers to do it for her and teach her how. She enthusiastically accepts, and brags to the rest of the class how good Todoroki is at braiding (which may start a trend of class 1a asking Todoroki to braid their hair - even though most of them can do it themselves - but he doesn’t mind). Todoroki teaches her how to braid and at first she uses his hair for practice, but she picks it up quickly and now likes to braid Tsuyu’s hair for her. They still occasionally braid each other’s hair for fun though

When Uraraka discovers Todoroki’s kind of touch starved but actually seems to like physical affection from his friends, she makes it her mission to give him more of it by ruffling his hair and playfully nudging him and hugging him sometimes. The rest of the class picks up on this and starts joining in, to Uraraka’s (and Todoroki’s secret) delight

Todoroki can and will fall asleep everywhere, and once that starts including “on his friends”, Uraraka makes it her mission to make sure nobody wakes him up unless absolutely necessary bc he’s Tired and deserves a rest

Uraraka is hungry a lot, especially when she overuses her quirk, and though she tends to ignore it and say that she’s used to it, Todoroki starts carrying snacks around with him and slipping them into her bag/locker/pockets/onto her desk when she’s not looking. She’s sure he’s the one doing it but she’s never caught him and he denies it every time she asks him about it, so she can’t really do anything about it except eat the snacks

Todoroki helps Uraraka study sometimes because Iida is great but he’s not necessarily great at figuring out why she’s struggling with certain concepts and Midoriya is great but he tends to latch onto a small detail of the assignment and ramble about it while forgetting what he was originally trying to explain and Yaoyorozu’s great but her study group is already pretty big and Uraraka doesn’t necessarily want to add another person to her plate or be in such a big group since she’d get distracted, meanwhile Todoroki’s pretty decent at identifying the roots of problems and explaining them and he’s quiet enough otherwise that he makes for a pleasant study partner. Her class rank has actively improved because of this, and she made him soba to thank him for his help

I’ll probably add more in the future but when I tried to post this a few days ago tumblr acted like this didn’t exist and tried to convince me it was deleted or smth so I’m gonna post it now while I can actually see it anyways appreciate shouchako friendship!!

[serenasoutherlyns]

Precedent

Tracey is falling in love, fast. She seeks the help of an expert.

Law & Order: Trial By Jury and Law & Order. ~1.4k words. Tracey/Kelly, Tracey & Jack friendship with a bit of Jack/Claire. Any feedback is appreciated more than you can possibly know. I wrote this quickly and didn't do much in the way of editing so forgive any errors. ao3 link.

"Jack, do you have a second?"

"For you, Tracey? I'll find ten." He's always liked how she refuses to indulge him with anything more affectionate than an eye roll (he knew how much better that was than many of her myriad expressions). And he does have time. He's finishing some notes with one hand and some noodles with the other.

"There's something I could use your perspective on," she says as she clicks his office door shut behind her. It wasn't like her to come to anybody, let alone him, for advice on cases. He figures it must be a big one, though he thinks she'd go to Arthur for that, even though he knew she hated to. The woman was mysterious, but never deadpan.

"Whatever I can do," Jack says, gesturing to the seat across from him. And he is genuinely willing to help. He likes Kibre. He thinks her spiky reputation is well-earned and well-fitting. She's damn near as good as he is and that, he'd testify to (he expressed a sentiment like this one once, to Serena, who had called him an "egotistical ass," which he guessed he deserved. He missed her sometimes).

"It's not a case, actually it's not exactly work," she says, and Jack is even more surprised. If he doesn't think she'd come to him with work problems, he really doesn't think she'd come to him with personal problems. He raises his eyebrows as if to encourage her to continue. He closes his notebook and brandishes an extra set of chopsticks towards her. Her utterly horrified look is both wounding and amusing.

"You'll have to forgive me," she says, "I despise rumors, but nobody else around here has the same ones you do. I hoped you might have some," she narrows her eyes slightly, looking for the right word, "expertise, in this matter. I've consulted the Standards and a few more popular ethics publications,"

"And there's nothing in any of them about whether or not you can sleep with your associates." Tracey looks relieved for only a second at his commiserating smile.

"Possibly 3.1-7, but,"

"That concerns relationships to defense counsel." Tracey nods. "I know. Terrible, isn't it? That there isn't something somewhere that reads '4.1.: don't do that.'"

Tracey laughs begrudgingly. "Indeed. But when you don't have a statute, you seek out precedent... I truly exhausted my other options, I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable."

"Not at all," Jack says, and he's being truthful. There are elements of him, people with whom, circumstances in which he can be an open book. Tracey is clearly in a tough position and he knows she'll keep his secrets, if only for the possibility of using them against him down the line.

"And none of this gets to Arthur."

"My lips are sealed. So," he says, trying to strike a sensitive tone. "Kelly Gaffney?"

"Yes."

"You two are,"

"Not yet."

"But you're going to. Or you wonder if you should."

"Right." Jack thoughtfully places a stickful of stirfry into his mouth and chews.

"Is there any stopping it?" He asks, knowing that the answer is no, that if there was, she wouldn't be here.

"Not as far as I can tell. I mean, I wouldn't resign, and I couldn't ask for either of us to be reassigned,"

"And you also can't take another celebration scotch or late night research session?"

"You really have been there," Tracey says, with a wistful smile fighting her furrowed forehead. Jack nods. "So, should I just prepare myself for disaster? Or push her away, or... I don't know, take the risk?"

"You're sure she likes women?" Jack says, giving her a purposefully inquisitive look.

"Oh, come on, Jack," she says. He raises his shoulders. "Yes."

"I wouldn't've asked!" he replies defensively.

"Manhattan is a small town. I knew before we started working together."

"How?" Jack asks, but the look she gives him makes him concede defeat. "Maybe you should talk to her," he says, going against everything he did."

"Did that ever work for you? I mean, what would I even say,"

"You overestimate how well any of it worked."

"Do tell," Tracey says, "that is if you're comfortable," she says. With her eyes turned down, she looks almost demure.

Jack knows he can trust her. "Well," he starts, settling in for the storytelling, "Ellen fell pregnant very shortly after we started sleeping together, and then I cheated on her with Sally Bell, who lost interest very quickly. She's a good person, you know." He shrugs. "Diana, was, eventful, from start to end, as I'm sure you know." He takes the last bite of dinner and pushes the container elegantly aside.

"Wow," is all Tracey says, and Jack thinks that he wouldn't want to be like him either.

"You asked," Jack says, weakly smiling. "It's some pattern of behavior, I know."

"I never have," Tracey says. "I've had this bureau chief position ten years, just two associates. Before Kelly I worked with Elizabeth Lynwood,"

"Lutheran Lizzie, I remember," Jack chuckles and Tracey smiles back.

"The nickname was unfair," Tracey says, "Just barely. She's doing well, by the way, in Minneapolis. And before that I always had male bosses, and I defied any of them to look at me. Besides I was usually in one relationship or another," she says. Jack wouldn't've taken her for a serial monogamist.

"So you're not a repeat offender then, Ms. Kibre," Jack says, mock-serious. "Good. After Diana was Ted Baer and, Dan Tenofsky, so I was in the clear, there." He braces himself for the next thing, because he knows it's going to hurt. And he doesn't want to scare Tracey, and he's done a good job (he thinks, hopes) of gluing the pieces together. "And then, Claire Kincaid."

The way he says her name is almost reverent. He's quiet, but more than that, soft, with his hands resting on the table. Tracey feels for him, the moments sitting across from Claire in these very chairs, the way her ghost (and Tracey doesn't believe in the spiritual) must follow him around. Tracey had been fond of Claire, though she never knew her that well. She was a kid, all of 26 when she started with Ben. She was intelligent, scarily so. Curious, passionate, all those traits with productive and dangerous sides. Jack had broken in half and the sound it made was loud enough to shut everyone up around him for as long as it was going to take.

"She was different?"

"Than anyone."

They look at each other for a moment, neither one knowing how to get back on track.

"She's," Tracey says, breaking the heavy silence. "Relentlessly moral. She's funny. Her, capacity for compassion is, superhuman. She second guesses me, but not nearly as much as she could, not as much as she does herself..." Tracey breathes into her next words, "she's pushy."

"She makes you want to be better?"

"More than anyone I've ever met."

"And,"

"Impossibly beautiful," she says, with the kind of smitten smile that makes a person look 20 years younger.

Jack leans back, her expression turning infectious, stretching his arms behind his head. "Look, Tracey, I have regrets. How I treated Ellen, getting involved with Diana in the first place... Some things I said to Claire. But I never, once, regretted falling in love with her." Tracey nods, thinking. "I tried, you know. To stop myself halfway down the cliff."

"All that happens then is you hit the rocks before you hit the water."

Jack rests his chin in his hand, elbow propped on the table. "Does that help?"

"Yeah, it does, more than the Standards, anyway."

"I beat the BAR association!" Jack says, in that boyish tone Tracey knows lots of people find charming.

"Don't get too cocky," Tracey playfully warns him. Her cell rings, and her pulse quickens when she sees it's Kelly calling. She flips it open and catches an entertained look in Jack.

"Hey," she says breathlessly, softly, and Jack knows he's given her the right advice. "Sure, I'll meet you there. 20 minutes, yeah. I'll see you." He looks at her smugly. "I meant what I said, McCoy," she says as sharply as she can manage as she stands from the chair, pulling on her coat and picking up her attache. She stops in the doorway.

"Thanks, Jack."

"Anytime."

---

taglist: @voltives (look you're special!)

[romanosgirl1978]

Taking Over Me I

A/N: I have no idea what this is lol. I was bored at work and this is what came of it. Thank you to @fan-grell-411 for beta reading it and @pascalslittlebrat for giving me a reason to continue writing it. Hope you like it my dear, and I promise things will happen in later chapters.

Max Phillips x Reader

Words:1121

Warnings: Talks of sex, Reader has a partner but no cheating

Summary- While at work you and your co-worker, Jennet get on the topic of sex. What happens when your boss, Max Phillips, overhears? (This will probably be changed later)

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

~~

"I am not telling you," you groan, hanging your head. "Come on. There's not one guy in the office you would let rail you?" Jennette asks, laughing. "Look I have Alex. I really don't see why I should have to answer that," you deflect, trying not to look at her. You already feel warm and desperately try to steer your mind away from the dreams that have plagued you for the past week. "So? It's just a what if type of question. No harm done and you know I wont tell anyone." She says and leans towards you. "You're not letting this go are you?" You ask, defeated. "Not a chance in hell," she smirks back. Rolling your shoulders, you start to turn your chair towards her and give her a random name. *Max walks in to check on the progress. Jennette behind right shoulder* "Good Morning ladies," he calls leaning against the side of your desk. Fuck "Morning Mr.Phillips," Jennette chirps, grinning. You give him a small smile and duck your head back to your computer. "And how are you looking on payroll, sweetheart?" He asks, turning his eyes to you. You clear your throat and ignore the smirk you feel burning against the side of your head from your reaction to him. "Almost done. Just waiting on confirmation for a few more things. It should be done before lunch. I'll email you before I send it through." Max grins and claps his hands. "Wonderful. But just feel free to drop the report by my office before you go to lunch." "Yes, Mr.Phillips," you nod. He tilts his head and gives you a wounded look, hands clutched over his heart. "Please ladies. Max. No need to be so formal." He winks before turning on his heel and walking out of the room. Silence falls over the small office for a few minutes as he walks away and you can only hope Jennette would drop it. Your hopes are soon crushed when she hits your shoulder with a small stack of papers repeatedly. "No. Fucking. Way." You groan and let your head drop to your desk. She laughs loud enough you're sure everyone in the building can hear and you turn to shush her. "Okay fine. Yes. I would let Max rail me," you hiss quietly, trying to shut her up. "But it's not gonna happen it's never gonna happen and you're not gonna tell anyone." "Okay okay," she says, raising her hands defensively. "I won't tell anyone else," she smirks. You massage your temples and turn back to your computer. This is gonna be a looonnggg day, you sigh to yourself. ~~ Lunch rolls around and you grab your purse and the files that Max had requested. You could do this. Just walk in, set the files on his desk and get out. One foot in front of the other. You knock on the door once and it swings open, so you peek your head around. Max waves you in, phone pressed against his ear. “Yes of course,” he says, eyes watching as you walk towards him. “Everything is being set up for the meeting as we speak.” You hold the files up and set them on the corner of his desk. He nods and smiles, mouthing a small thanks before you turn on your heel and walk back out, closing the door behind you. Letting out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding, you take the elevator down to the lobby to the small café down the block. ~~

"So how was your lunch with Max?" Jennette teases bumping your shoulder.

You roll your eyes. "Please. I just ran next door for a sandwich. Besides, he was on a phone call and, oh yeah, I'm taken," you snark before plopping down in your desk chair.

She rolls her eyes. "Someone's awfully defensive over a stupid question. What's going on?"

You groan and your head lolls to the side as you look at her. Sighing you dig the heel of your hands into your eyes. "It's nothing. Just haven't been sleeping very well."

"Dreaming about a certain boss?" She jokes.

When you don't immediately throw any kind of sass back at her, her eyes widen. "No way. How long?"

"All week."

Her jaw drops. "Are we talking about the kinda dreams I think we're talking about?"

You shake your head, a small whine in your voice when you answer. "Worse."

"What? How much worse?"

There's a reluctance in your eyes that she must pick up on.

"I just…. Is…. Like a full on wet dream?" She whispers.

"Can you not say that out loud," you commiserate. "I already feel bad enough, even though that only happened… like twice," you cringe.

"You can't always control your dreams," she tries to reassure.

"I know that. But I just want them to stop. They make me feel guilty when I wake up. Alex is so great."

She nods. "It's not like you're actually doing anything though. And it's not like you're planning to. You're not... planning to... are you?"

You groan and shake your head. "No. Of course not. That's not fair to Alex. I just want the dreams of Max to stop."

"Are you and Alex still doing it?" She asks bluntly.

"Every now and then yeah. Not as often."

"Do they still get you off?"

"Technically…" You drag.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh and just turn to face her, leaning over her desk. "They make me feel good. We both finish and it’s decent…" you start to chew on your lip.

"But?" She prompts.

"But it's almost the same thing every time. And those dreams," you whine, a shiver going down your spine at the mere thought. "It's just… something different, ya know?"

"No I don't. They're your twisted dreams, but I get what you mean… I think." She pauses for a minute and looks you over. "But out of curiosity, how good are the dreams?"

You gulp and your eyes dart to the door, making sure no one is passing by before turning back to her.

"It's rough," you almost moan. "Hands and teeth and just," your eyes roll into the back of your head. "It's hard and fast and absolutely brutal. If it were real it would probably put me in the hospital," you joke. "Hes such an ass but he looks like he knows how to fuck."

She nods at your last comment. "So what are you gonna do?"

You scoff. "I'm going to ignore it. There's nothing else I can do. Nothing would even come of it if I did. You see how he is."

"Fair enough," she shrugs before getting back to work.

[shadesofmauve]

Can I have something from The Epic Scrapyard????

I mean, my first response was "Swaps, you are going to get ALL of the Epic Scrapyard DUMPED ON YOUR HEAD, just wait!" but SURE. This is a bit after Kaidan is back on board, when Vega is commiserating about his injuries, and refers to a thing Joker pulled in aStSHB.

———

“Running over someone with a spaceship, though,” Vega said, “Who would do that?”

Joker cast his eyes ceiling-ward and whistled.

Rhi muttered “Well, this is awkward,” under her breath. Her eyes were full of suppressed laughter.

“What,” Cortez asked, “Are you implying you’ve abused a shuttle like that?”

“Of course not!” Joker protested. “They handle like crap.”

“Then what…?”

Joker looked meaningfully at the ship surrounding them, all wide-eyed fake innocence and obvious meaning. This time Rhi did laugh.

“The Normandy?” Cortez spluttered in disbelief.

Joker allowed himself a grin. “That’s my girl.” He leaned back in the chair and looked contentedly at the deck above him. “‘Course, I didn’t actually hit anyone. No need to, if you get close enough, moving fast enough, with a ship this big. Her back-draft’ll toss people around all on its own. And her mass field extends out from her hull a bit — no offense, baby,” he added to the ship, “its just the way you’re built — so anyone close enough to get caught in it gets a lot lighter. Right before they abruptly get heavier again.”

Cortez was suitably impressed, but Vega looked disturbed. “I saw the major lying there. It seems pretty brutal.”

Rhi’s expression was unreadable now. Joker guessed she was going through an acerbic speech and commander-izing it by mentally editing all the cuss words out. Something about naivete and what do you think we do for a fucking living, Vega?

Joker wasn’t burdened with leadership, so he took a more direct tack. “That’s how it works, Vega. When they do it to us, it’s brutal. When we do it to them, it’s awesome.”

He caught Rhi’s eye and added, “Or, y’know, a tragic necessity, the last desperate tactic after more peaceable options have failed, et cetera et cetera.”

Now Rhi was shaking her head in a long-suffering kind of way, so he added “An awesome tragic necessity,” just to see if he could get her to lose it. She just rested her forehead in her hand in apparent defeat - hiding the smile he knew was there.

Later she’d tell him he was an awful person, but she’d be laughing while she did.