#post The Truth

[atths--twice]

Hadn’t had plans to write anything, but sometimes the muse decides for you. A little bit of on the run fluff for this Thanksgiving weekend. I hope you enjoy it. ❤️

Thanksgiving On The Run

Spending time on the run, sometimes the days blur together and holidays sneak up surprisingly. It’s what’s done with the day when it’s realized that matters.

November 2002

Scully’s soft breathing was all Mulder heard until the first raindrops began to hit the top of their car. He listened as he tried to pinpoint the exact spots where each one would fall next, smiling when he got it right.

“Hmm,” she hummed, before breathing deeply. He turned his head to watch her sleeping as thunder rumbled far in the distance.

It was still dark, too early to be awake really, but he had never been one with a normal sleep pattern. The mornings like these, when they were sleeping in the car and not a nondescript roadside motel, he tried his best to stay still and quiet, allowing her to sleep longer.

He mentally reviewed old cases, thought of baseball games, books he had read or was currently reading, movies he had seen… anything to keep him from rising and starting the day too soon.

“Hmm,” she hummed again, stirring slightly and then burrowing into her pillow. He smiled as he watched her, glad she could sleep well in the somewhat small space provided in the back of their suv.

Well, small for me anyway, he thought with a silent chuckle, knowing her petite frame fit just fine.

They traveled light and precise. Everything in the car served a function and transferring from daily driving to nighttime sleeping had been done so often, it was like a well rehearsed dance at this point. It was not the best night's sleep, but they did what they could to make it comfortable with soft pads, blankets, and pillows.

The sky lit up and thunder rumbled seconds later, rain now falling faster and heavier.

“Hmm, it’s… hmm,” she said in her sleep, turning over and moving closer to him, a leg hooking over his before she sighed and let out a long breath.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head towards hers, attempting to fall back to sleep.

Loud thunder startled him and he opened his eyes to find that he had been successful in sleeping again, as the sky was now beginning to lighten.

Scully moaned and hummed, moving more and reaching out to wrap an arm around him.

“It’s raining,” she breathed and he smiled softly.

“It is,” he answered and she whined.

“I don’t want it to be raining,” she whined and he laughed quietly.

“It’s not like we have any place to be,” he said and she made a disapproving noise.

“I have to pee so bad,” she whined again and he laughed, rubbing her arm to remove any possible sting from his laughter.

“We have the umbrellas,” he stated. “I can hold one for you.”

“It won’t matter. Listen to how hard it’s raining. I’ll be wet with or without it.”

“We both will if you don’t go outside,” he teased and she groaned, pushing even closer to him.

“It’s gonna be so cold,” she said. “And wet. Mulllllderrrr…”

He laughed and kissed the top of her head, rubbing her back and nodding.

“You can stay back here and keep warm. It’s not far to town and the windows are tinted enough to hide that you’re disobeying the seatbelt law.”

“I like the way you think,” she said, nuzzling closer to him and kissing his chest.

“I’m sure you do,” he said, laughing softly again and closing his eyes, thunder cracking close by.

“I thought we were going,” she said and he opened his eyes.

“Oh! Right now?”

“Yes. I really need to pee,” she said and he nodded, pulling the blankets off of himself and covering her back up as he grabbed his sweatshirt, then maneuvered around to get to the front seat.

“McDonald’s okay?” he asked, yawning and stretching before starting the car with a shiver as he pulled his sweatshirt over his head.

“Yeah, that will be fine.”

He yawned and nodded, driving from their secluded spot off the road and back toward the little town they had passed through last night.

Pulling into the parking lot of McDonald’s, he shut off the car and looked back at her in the rearview mirror. She blinked as she sat up and looked around, her hair tousled. He smiled as she turned and met his eyes in the mirror.

“My shoes are on the front seat.”

“I know.”

“Can you bring them to me?”

“I can.”

“Will you please?”

“Of course, babe,” he teased and she grumbled.

“Still not sure about that nickname,” she said, moving out of the blankets and yawning, as she put on her zip up jacket.

“Why I keep trying,” he said, reaching behind the passenger seat for the large umbrella. “One day you’ll accept it without a grumble.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, smoothing her hair into a messy ponytail. “We’ll see about that. Shoes please, Mulder. I really need to go.”

“On my way, dear,” he said, grabbing her shoes and his own.

“Pushing your luck there, Fox,” she said and he laughed as he opened the car door and then the umbrella.

Sliding his shoes on, he closed the door and walked to the back of the car, the rain falling hard against the umbrella. Opening the back door, she frowned and shivered as it lifted and he handed her her shoes.

When she was ready, they locked the car and walked close together under the umbrella, avoiding the puddles whenever possible.

Using the bathroom, he came out first and got in line to get them coffee and some breakfast. She came out soon after, still looking sleepy.

“Got some food coming. And coffee.”

“Good.”

They sat down to wait and he watched her rolling her neck and rubbing at her shoulders.

“You okay?”

“Hmm, yeah,” she hummed with a nod. “Though I think I would like to find a motel tonight. With a real bed? And a toilet we don’t have to drive to?”

“Yeah. I think we could do that,” he said with a smile, looking around and noticing the decorations adorning the walls. “Hey, Scully, is it… I think it might be Thanksgiving.”

She too looked around and then let out a deep sigh.

“I think you might be right,” she said quietly and he looked at her as their food was set down, the woman smiling at them.

“Excuse me? Is it Thanksgiving today?”

“Yes, it is. Happy Thanksgiving to both of you.” She nodded and walked away, leaving them staring at each other.

“Let’s get that motel room,” he said, smiling softly at her and she nodded, but did not smile back. “For a couple of days.”

“I’d like that,” she said, grasping his hand and nodding.

The rain was falling even harder when they left and drove to a small motel, checking in under an alias. They brought in only what was vital, planning to get the rest later, and then she announced she was going to take a shower. He watched her face as she walked past him and he saw the sadness etched upon it.

Once she was in the shower, he left to ask the young woman at the reservation desk if there were any restaurants in the area that were open and offering Thanksgiving meals. She smiled and told him of a couple, finding the numbers for him and writing them down.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”

“Your wife likes Thanksgiving?”

“She… she does,” he said, not correcting her. He nodded as he thought of Scully, knowing that she missed her family, and would be especially now as she knew today was a holiday. “Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.”

He hurried through the rain and came back into the room, thankfully finding that Scully was still in the shower. He called the two restaurants and the second told him they had one reservation available at three.

“Perfect. The name’s Byers. See you then.”

Hanging up, he smiled.

_________

The torrential rain stopped midday, and when it had, he suggested they take a drive through town for something to do instead of staring at the motel walls.

Discovering there was a botanical garden, he looked at her and she smiled with a nod.

Taking their time, walking through the garden and admiring the flowers, they learned there was also a butterfly enclosure.

Almost as soon as they entered, a blue butterfly landed on Scully’s shoulder much to her surprise. Her eyes were shining when she looked at him.

“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered and he nodded in agreement, wishing he had a camera to take a picture of her, as its wings opened and closed slowly. “I don’t want to move in case it decides to fly away.”

But it did not fly away, despite her eventually walking around the rest of the enclosure. It stayed on her shoulder until just before they left, flying away as if it knew it was time to go.

“Blue butterflies represent love, happiness, and often new beginnings,” a patron of the garden said at the door of the enclosure. “I saw that one stayed on you for quite awhile. I’d say it means you were due for all three, if you're not already experiencing them.”

She smiled and Scully nodded, biting her lip as she glanced at Mulder. He smiled gently at her and then thanked the woman as they walked through the door. Scully threaded her arm through his and let out a shaky breath.

“New beginnings,” she said quietly. “Love and happiness.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, kissing the top of her head.

“I love you,” she whispered and he stopped walking to look at her, cupping her cheek in his hand.

“I love you too,” he said, searching her eyes. “And… you’re happy?”

“What?” she asked, frowning as she reached for his other hand.

“Are you happy here? With me?”

“Mulder…”

“Sleeping in cars and rundown motel rooms? You’re happy?” he asked, hating himself for the way they were now forced to live.

“Mulder,” she breathed, stepping closer to him, his hand dropping from her face. “Of course I am. There’s nowhere else I would want to be.”

“Even on days like today? Away from your family and traditions you’ve always celebrated?” he asked, unable to meet her eyes as he shook his head.

“Yes,” she said forcefully.

He raised his head and she placed her hands on his face, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.

“Even on days like today,” she whispered.

“You’re sure?” he whispered back, holding her wrists, his thumbs brushing softly as he leaned into her touch.

“Without a doubt,” she said. “There was never another option, Mulder. Not for a very long time.”

“I love you so much,” he whispered, kissing her softly, her hands moving from his face to his neck, her fingernails scratching gently.

“I love you too,” she said, pulling back and resting her forehead against his, her nails still scratching softly. “Especially on days like this.”

“Scully,” he breathed and pulled her to him, holding her tightly.

“I’m serious,” she whispered. “Yes, I miss my family. My mother. But you, Mulder… If I was home, knowing you were out in the world alone… that ache would not be able to be healed. If my day’s worries revolved around what I would be bringing as a side dish to dinner, and if you were okay… Mulder…” She exhaled and shook her head against his shoulder. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“Scully,” he said again, fighting back sudden tears.

“You are my family. Just as much, if not more, than my own… no, it’s definitely more. Cars, rundown motels, wherever we are, my place is here with you.”

He could not speak, so he simply held her, closing his eyes and breathing in her comforting scent.

Attention please- the gardens will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please make your way to the exits. Thank you for visiting us today and please come back soon.

“We better get going,” she said and he nodded.

Pulling back, he kissed her again. Taking her hand and smiling softly, she nodded and they headed toward the exit.

“Wait. Gift shop,” she said, tugging on his hand and pulling him inside.

Not many people were in the small room, affording them a chance to look around without feeling too crowded. He picked up a couple of postcards and a magnet, something they had been doing lately to keep track of where they had been.

Looking to his left, he saw Scully coming toward him and he smiled at the item she held in her hands: a small, stuffed blue butterfly that looked exactly like the one that had landed on her shoulder. She raised her eyebrows in a silent question and he nodded.

Their items paid for, they left the gardens. He put the ones he had chosen into a backpack and she laid her butterfly on the dashboard.

“Love, happiness, and new beginnings,” she said softly and then let out a sigh. Catching his eye, she gave him a small smile and a nod and he nodded back.

Passing the motel and pulling into the parking lot of the restaurant a few minutes later, she looked at him quizzically. He grinned as he got out of the car and hurried around to open her door.

“We may no longer have the means to create our own meal, but thankfully there are restaurants out there, catering to people like us- wayward travelers or folks who don’t want the hassle of cooking.”

“I’m sure we’d need to have a reservation or something, Mulder,” she said, not getting out of the car. “We can’t just show up and expect to partake in their thought out cooking plans.”

“We have one.”

“What?”

“While you were in the shower, I called around and found a place offering thanksgiving meals.” He smiled and she stared at him.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She hurriedly unbuckled her seatbelt and got out, wrapping her arms around his waist. He hugged her back, kissing the top of her head.

“Thank you,” she whispered and he hummed.

“Come along, Mrs. Byers,” he said, smiling at her as he pulled back and closed the door. “Let’s go eat.”

“Byers is it?” she asked, smiling as she took his offered hand and they began to walk towards the entrance of the restaurant.

“For this afternoon,” he replied, nodding as he squeezed her hand gently.

“Do you suppose they have homemade cranberry sauce?”

“Oh, are you too good for the stuff that comes from the can?” he teased and she simply raised her eyebrows in response. “Well, I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

He opened the door and the smell of roasted turkey and stuffing made his mouth water.

“Homemade or in a can, I don’t care anymore,” she said, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes briefly as she let out a soft moan. “I just need some of that turkey.”

“Could not agree with you more,” he said, chuckling and squeezing her hand as he led them to the hostess stand, his stomach growling at the thought of the food they were about to enjoy.

[slippinmickeys]

Three Part Harmony (6/?)

Rhonda Fitzsimmons had lived north of the Mason-Dixon Line for nigh on forty years and she still wasn’t used to the cold. It was early, but the stars were just winking on, and a wet chill clung to everything. She parked three spots away from the dumpster and gave two rubs of her thumb over the cross that hung from her rear view mirror before hefting herself out of the Datsun hatchback and into the indigo evening. Beyond the rise of the mountains to the west, a cloud rolled over the moon.

Fred gave her a long wordless look when she shuffled in through the back door and into the steamy warmth of the kitchen, his meaty hands sunk into the thick foam of the dish sink. She nodded at him before clocking in and then ducked into the hallway toward the Ladies’ just to get out from under his scrutiny. Fred never said much except curse words, and then only when it got busy, and there had been a long-standing rumor amongst the diner’s staff that his parents were closely related. Rhonda didn’t give rumors much credence, but there was obviously some kind of intellectual disability at play, and while she was always kind to him even when he wasn’t kind to her, she tended to avoid him when she could.

She shrugged off her coat and grabbed her lipstick and her apron from her purse and headed into the bathroom, checking the stalls for feet before flipping the door’s sticky lock. Behind a false wall that was more clever than every other feature of the old diner, sat the shallow employee lockers where she stashed her purse and coat. Only she and Shandrika kept locks on their spaces, and she flipped the numbers round with practiced ease and pulled open her locker. Rhonda’s was closest to the cubbies where the men kept an industrial sized can of cornstarch to protect their ballsacks from chafing and there was usually a powdery mess on the floor in front of the lockers. All the waitresses complained when they had to sweep it up, but Mikey would snark back “Taint my problem,” before launching into a fit of hysterics, and sometimes it was just less hassle to sweep it up without a word. Tonight the floor was clean. She breathed in and slid the wall shut, a moment of peace before she started her workday.

Rhonda generally preferred the breakfast shift to the dinner, being more chipper and less cynical early in the day, but tonight was her last shift before a few days off and she was looking forward to the break. She had plans to head into the mountains to stay in the sagging old cabin that had once belonged to her uncle, tucked into a valley between two granite hills and surrounded by a fragrant old-growth cedar grove. She’d done the cabin up nicely the last few years; put up frilly white curtains and hung drunkards path quilts from the walls, fought a decades long war against mildew in the bathroom, which she had finally, finally won. She had a thick romance novel in her purse and a bag of groceries staying cool in her trunk. She would head up as soon as her last table left.

Rhonda sighed as she shuffled up to the wet countertop, the bathroom smelling of reservoir water and industrial cleaner, the dry tang of cheap paper towels. Maybe piss. Five or so hours and a long weekend would be hers.

Tilting toward her reflection, she smeared a new layer of cherry red lipstick over her thin, somewhat chapped lips and pressed them together, giving herself a smile. The mirror was hazy with grease from the deep fryer and flecked with the chalky residue of dried water flung from the hand of someone in a hurry. She fingered a smudge of color from her eye tooth and squinted at her reflection.

Her hair looked nice; blonde and curled just so around her face, the roots starting to come in gray, which she could get away with for another week or two. She never left the house without her face on, and her green eyes popped from beneath thick lashes clumped darkly with mascara. Jimmy, the line cook that worked breakfasts, always called her Tammy Faye for the way she did her color, but he stole appreciative glances at her caboose more often than he didn’t, and at her age she forgave him the remarks just for making her feel attractive. Her bosom was high with a little help from the brassiere collection from down at the JC Penney in Hershel and her waist still nipped in nicely, helped by the extra cinch she gave her apron. She fluffed out her hair once and winked at herself, faking cheerfulness in hopes of overcoming life’s redundant malaise: fake it til you make it. Five more hours. It would do.

She toyed with the pens in her apron pocket as she pushed through the restroom door, the clink of cutlery on china increasing in volume along with the soft murmur of voices as she approached the dining room. Rhonda could hear Mikey giving Clarice a hard time about putting an empty coffee carafe on a hot burner, and exchanged a look with Shandrika, both of them rolling their eyes at the line cooks’s hot temper — she could see the coffee filter full of fresh ground beans Clarice had had ready to brew on the countertop beyond Mikey’s line of sight.

“Cram it, Mikey, she’s making a fresh pot!” Rhonda hollered through the window as she ducked behind the counter, and the cook gave her the finger but let the matter rest. Clarice, a tiny, young waif of a thing without a defensive bone in her body, gave Rhonda a look of thanks.

“You about to clock out, Clare?” Rhonda asked, making sure she had her own order pad in her pocket.

“Yep,” Clarice answered, flipping the coffee maker on and wiping her hands on her own apron, streaks of what looked like blueberry jelly all down the front. “Watch yourself today, Mikey’s on a tear.”

“Mikey’s always on a tear. What’ve we got?”

They turned to face the dining room in tandem. “Table six just finished up,” Clarice said, nodding toward the table’s lone diner. “He’s all paid.” She nodded to her left. “Jerry’s on his fourth cuppa and just waiting to hold court with you,” the young woman went on, gesturing at a regular sitting at the bar who loved to flirt with Rhonda but never tipped. “And,” she said, pointing toward the back corner, “a two and a half top just sat down at twelve.”

Rhonda followed her line of sight and watched as a tall man with a full beard attempted to lower a wriggling almost-toddler into one of the diner’s sticky high chairs, while his wife – small as Clarice, with dark hair, bright roots, and an ice-blue gaze, looked on tensely.

The trio appeared tired, stretched thin. Rhonda observed them for a long moment before turning back to Clarice.

“Okay,” she finally said, clapping her hands together. “I got it from here. Enjoy your night.”

Clarice wasted no more time and reached back to untie her apron, waving at Rhonda and Shandrika as she ducked into the kitchen to clock out.

“You’re lookin’ purty today, Rhonda,” Jerry piped up from the bar, immediately setting in on getting her attention.

“And you’re looking over caffeinated,” she drawled in his direction, her old southern accent tugging on the vowels. She picked up a couple of menus and a paper kids placemat, barely giving him a look.

“I got a hearty constitution is all,” he grinned at her. “I could prove it to you Saturday night.”

“My answer’s the same as always, Jerry.”

“Maybe next week?”

“Maybe next week.”

Rhonda stepped from under the counter and cleared table six before heading over to twelve.

She brightened her face as she approached, smiling at the baby who had finally condescended to sit in the high chair. The tray in front of the boy looked crumby, so she pulled out the towel she kept tucked into her apron strings and wiped it down. The boy’s mother looked up at her gratefully.

“Welcome,” Rhonda said with forced cheer, sliding menus in front of the two adults and the paper in front of the child, who grabbed at it before she could let go. “Something to drink?”

Out in the parking lot a truck peeled out onto the street with an obnoxiously loud rev of the engine, which was punctuated by the sharp crack of backfire. All three customers in front of her jumped.

She gave them a sympathetic look. “Chuckleheads think they’re so cool with their big ole trucks. But I always think the bigger the truck, the smaller the nuts,” she said, winking. The man gave her a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Anyways. Drinks?”

“Hot tea, please,” the man’s wife said, though on second inspection, Rhonda noticed that neither adult wore a ring. She nodded and looked at the man. He was good looking under all that hair, with eyes the color of a city utility box. He had big hands, long fingers, small bruises over several knuckles. Rhonda looked at the woman, who showed no signs of assault, her skin smooth and flawless in the way of old Hollywood starlets.

“Sprite, for me,” the man said.

“Slice okay?” she asked, and he nodded. Rhonda looked at the baby and then back at the two adults. Both of them appeared a little dazed, like they had suddenly found themselves at a restaurant with a baby and didn’t know what to do. It was a bit odd being that the boy was very obviously their child, with the same coloring and eyes as the woman and the same eye shape as the man. She took pity on them. “How about an apple juice for the little guy here?”

“Appa ju?” the little boy said, and Rhonda was instantly charmed by the apple-cheeked tot.

“Please,” said the woman.

“You got a sippy cup I can fill?”

The woman looked embarrassed by the question, and Rhonda bustled cheerfully right through it, endeavoring for some reason, to put them at ease. “Don’t you worry, I’ve got you covered.”

She winked at them and trundled off, tossing through the miscellaneous box of dishware under the counter for the sippy she’d seen there the week before. She filled it with apple juice and a splash of water and brought it back to the table.

“Here you go, little man,” she said, then looked at the mother. “You keep that cup,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get rid of it for months.” Some family had left it behind last spring and it had been through the sterilization wash two or three times since. She could see this little family was going through something, and it felt good to help.

In the window of the diner facing the parking lot hung a cardboard skeleton, joints held together by tiny brass brads, the diner’s sole concession to the upcoming holiday. Rhonda used to love Halloween, used to love dressing up and handing out candy, used to love celebrating, period, but she’d fallen out of practice. She felt galvanized as she walked back toward the counter to grab the other two drinks, eager to do what she could for them.

A six-top came in about a minute later, giving her just enough time to get the family’s order before she was running around getting coffees, sodas, a side of ranch for some chips brought in from outside. While she ran around, she watched the couple and their child, saw the overt glances everytime the bell above the door rang. When they weren’t looking over their shoulders, they were watching their son fondly, playing peek-a-boo, fetching things he dropped and wiping them off on their pants. As for the little boy, he seemed delighted by the attention, and began a game of dropping things on purpose — a spoon, a napkin, the plastic salt shaker — each one punctuated by an adorable little “Uh oh!” that happened so often he began saying uh-oh before he even dropped the object. Rhonda was both charmed and concerned.

Finally, when Mikey rang the bell and called out that the table twelve order was up, she grabbed their food and advanced slowly, overhearing them talking as she approached with the three hot plates — the tail end of a hushed conversation.

“We shouldn’t have come here,” the woman said.

“We need to eat. He needed to get out of the car.”

“What we need is a game plan. Where are we even going to sleep?”

“We can only solve one problem at a time, Scully.” A pause. “I’m just hoping the guys down at Abbott’s don’t look for me too hard when I don’t show up for my shift tonight.”

“I hadn’t even-“ the woman cut herself off when she noticed Rhonda get close and the table got uncomfortably quiet as she placed the plates of food in front of them.

“Tuna melt,” she said, setting down a plate in front of the woman. “Reuben,” for the man. “And pancakes for the little prince.” The two adults thanked her and she hovered at the table for a moment, about to offer to cut the little boy’s pancakes for him, or refill their waters or literally anything she could do to help. The man and woman exchanged a look. She could sense turmoil and something else bubbling under the surface.

Rhonda remembered that look from her own parents, now long dead.

It had been so long ago. John and Ruth Fitzsimmons stood up for integration at school board meetings, offered to escort black children safely home, and the bigots in their hometown didn’t like that, not one bit. Rhonda remembered the charred remains of a cross in their yard, the way her mother worried the pearls at her neck, the way her daddy closed the door to the kitchen on Rhonda’s sleepy inquiry. There were fierce whispers behind that door, phone calls that went click when you picked up, the same anxious look traded across a table.

These people were afraid.

“Anything else I can get you?” she asked a little aimlessly.

“I think we’re good,” the man said.

As she turned away, Rhonda watched as the woman reached across and ran her fingers through the baby’s wispy ducktail, her eyes softening with love. The man watched the woman, his gaze a mirror of hers.

Rhonda made a decision, right then.

She checked on her six-top and asked Shandrika to keep an eye on her tables for a minute and then ran out to her car. She pulled out a local map and circled the location of her uncle’s cabin on it. Next to the circle, she wrote the word SAFE , which she underlined three times. As she wrote, she knew she was escorting herself into a story already embroiled in a world of hurt. A long shot, she knew, but if the young family took her up on her offer of help, she could kiss the long weekend goodbye. She briefly lamented the loss; an hours-long soak in the cabin’s narrow claw-footed tub, two glasses of merlot in her belly and the ribald tale of a pretty young miss forced to share the last room of a country inn with a brooding but muscular marquess. And there’s only one bed! she thought ruefully. She nevertheless tucked the map into a worn American Express bill book in her apron pocket, making sure their check was nestled alongside it. She breezed determinedly back into the dining room a minute later, carrying the scent of the outdoors on her clothes.

Later, when the man motioned for the bill, she slid the book toward him with a significant look, tapping it twice before she walked away. The woman rose behind her, scooping up the boy to take him for a diaper change. As she and the boy disappeared into the back, the bell above the diner’s door dinged, and two men walked in, looking as out of place as anything. They were dressed in dark clothes and had slick haircuts, wore sunglasses. City folk, not that Rhonda particularly cared about that, but it was the sort of thing that stuck out around here.

Shandrika narrowed her eyes at the men the second the door was closed, and that’s when Rhonda really studied them. Shandrika was probably the best judge of character she’d ever met; she had a sixth sense about people, and even if they initially impressed, eventually their true colors would show, and Shandrika always knew – knew the minute she laid eyes on them. Shandrika kept her gaze on the men and then gruffed a quiet “huh,” under her breath, and that was it. Rhonda didn’t need to know more.

She chanced a look at the table where the father still sat, and he was leaning back casually in the booth, appearing as relaxed as you please, inspecting his fingernails as though he didn’t have a care in the world while simultaneously watching the duo up front like a hawk. Rhonda watched as his nostrils flared and a creeping, uncomfortable feeling slowly blossomed in her gut.

She made for the two men, grabbing two menus and plastering on her friendliest smile.

“Good evenin’ y’all,” she said cheerfully and loud, letting her accent drip into all the cracks of her speech like melted butter. “I got the perfect table right here.” She stopped abruptly at table three which was quite obviously the worst table in the house – a two-top bunched up against a pillar that held one of the building support beams. The benefit of the table – the only benefit really – was that it sat one of the men so that he was facing directly away from the small families’ table, and the other’s view was blocked by the aforementioned pillar. She couldn’t have told you why she felt it was absolutely imperative that these men not see the family of three at table twelve, but she felt it in her bones.

The men looked around the restaurant with interest, and when their eyes came to the father sitting solo at his table, the high chair hidden by the booth in front of him, the man yawned and cracked his neck like he was a night worker just getting off his shift and the two newcomers gazes floated right on by him.

“Get you fellas something to drink?”

The man with his back to table twelve ignored her, but the other gentleman looked up at her and smiled widely — too widely — and it transformed his face into something just this side of ghastly.

“Coffee for both of us,” he said without removing his sunglasses. “And uh,” here, he gestured toward the pie case on the countertop, “is the lemon meringue as good as it looks?”

“Best in the state,” she lied with a smile of her own.

“I’d love a slice,” he said, and leaned back, ending the conversation.

Rhonda nodded and headed for twelve, sweeping up the bill book to see if she needed to run a credit card. The map was no longer there, it had been replaced by three twenty dollar bills for a twenty-five dollar tab.

“Keep it,” the man said, and she slid it into her apron, pulling out her towel to wipe down the table. As she leaned forward to get at the back of the table, she whispered, “There’s a door out the back by the bathrooms.”

“Thank you,” the man said under his breath after a brief pause. He collected the family’s small assemblage of items and rose as Rhonda moved back behind the diner’s counter to get the pie and coffee for the two men. As the bushy haired father made his way toward the back of the diner, Rhonda watched as the two men became interested in him. When the quiet one leaned forward to get a better look, Rhonda saw a gun tucked into a holster as his coat bowed open and she instantly grabbed Shandrika’s arm as she walked by carrying a pot of coffee.

“Ricka,” she said, her tone of voice making the other waitress tense under her hand. “Table three needs two coffees. Jet black.”

Shandrika’s eyes sharpened and her nostrils flared – ‘jet black’ was a code they had all joked about that meant a table was a problem (usually poor tippers or rude customers) and the diner’s waitresses should feel free to use whatever rough justice she deemed Shandrika nodded and straightened her spine. “I gotchu, Ron,” she said, and made her way to the men. As Rhonda reached into the pie case and pulled out a piece of lemon meringue, three things happened simultaneously: one of the men at the table loudly asked Shandrika whether they’d seen anybody come into the diner with a young baby, which grabbed the attention of Jerry, who craned his neck around to look at the two men and then at the father who ducked into the back toward the bathrooms. And Shandrika, bless her, took the opportunity to ‘accidentally’ spill coffee into the lap of the man who had asked. The spill produced the desired effect and the darkly dressed men both jumped back a bit at their table and their attention was pulled from the father.

Jerry, however, glanced at the scene but then honed back in on the diner’s back hallway, watching it like a hunter gazing out of a tree stand. Rhonda was fairly certain the man had collected his family and opted to exit the diner through the back, but was sure Jerry had noticed too, and she could see the intrigue wash over his face. She looked at the pie in her hand, meringue piled atop it in great cloudy puffs and dropped it in front of Jerry with a clatter that made his head whip back around. He looked from the pie to Rhonda and back again, eventually saying “I didn’t order this.”

“‘S on the the house,” Rhonda said, leaning over the counter so her bosom was crowded up closer to her chin. Over at table three, Shandrika was fussing over the man she’d spilled on, handing him a towel and pulling a bunch of napkins from the table top dispenser, carrying on sweetly, and apologizing.

Rhonda looked back at Jerry, who was smiling now, his attention firmly back in front of him, probably figuring he was finally getting somewhere with Rhonda and had pie to boot.

“Hey, really?” he said. Behind him, Rhonda watched as the family from table twelve piled into a black Pontiac and pulled out of the lot unnoticed.

“Yeah, really,” she said, distracted, relieved.

Days later, when she saw their faces on the TV news and Jerry brought up that wasn’t that the table that ate at the diner a few nights ago? she convinced him it wasn’t and went on a date with him to distract him and she never said a word, not one word, even with everything that came after.

[soul-from-another-era]

Unconditional love isn't a free pass to hurt me.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

Of the 19 hijackers who carried out the Sept 11 attacks:

15 were from Saudi Arabia (a powerful/oil-rich country the U.S. works hard to maintain diplomatic relations with)

2 were from the United Arab Emirates (also a powerful/oil-rich country the U.S. works hard to maintain diplomatic relations with)

1 was from Egypt, 1 from Lebanon.

None of the hijackers were from Iraq.

None of the Sept 11 hijackers were Iraqi.

None of the 9/11 hijackers were from Iraq.

[loriache]

Puppy love

[frownyalfred]

I love that identity reveals between Jim Gordon and Bruce in fic almost always go the same way. Bruce goes "How did you know? Was it my acting?" and nine times out of ten Jim says something along the lines of "No, your acting was phenomenal. You gave yourself away by caring too much, Mr. Wayne."

Because the billionaire playboy cover was perfect and damn near airtight until one Bruce Wayne leapt in front of someone else during a holdup at a gala and "accidentally" got shot. No self-involved airhead with that much money riding on his life would ever -- ever -- let himself think of someone else in that moment.

[theyhitthepentagon]

post from my priv sorry i cooked

[fanaticalthings]

Jason Todd fans come get your daily dose of scrunkly Jason (ft. Damian)

+ Jason being a protective older brother

and them fighting (because obviously)

he's just a little guy here

look at them!! brothers!!

From The Boy Wonder #2 By Juni Ba

[demigods-posts]

i'm one hundred percent certain that after percy and annabeth made out underwater. and he wanted to make their relationship official. the question was not "will you be my girlfriend?" but "can i be your boyfriend?" i don't care what the canon says. percy gave annabeth the space to take the lead in the relationship. because after a lifetime of being abandoned by everyone she dared to care for. and then watching her on the brink of a panic attack at the thought of losing him the last four years. he wanted to honor a new beginning between them by follow her lead and moving at her pace.

[free-my-mindd]

Deep down you know exactly where you stand with someone. Hope blurs the lines a bit but, you know.

[syb-rooks]

The bad kids are an incredibly healthy and supportive friend group BUT OH MY GOD THEY SUCK AT COMMUNICATING!

Half of their problems would be solved if they talked to each other.

Fabian would GLADLY pay for Adaine's components and for Riz's tuition if they asked. He would even get his papa to change his trust fund conditions to include them. Or he would declare Riz and Adaine his nemesis.

They would figure out the reason for Fig's misfortune in a week max. They would march into hell, probably accompanied by both Gorthalax and Sandra Lynn, and demand to break whatever deal she made with whichever demon involved.

If Fabian even suggested he was lonely, the bad kids would organise sleepovers every night. He would circle between the Thistlesprings, the Gukgaks and the Mordred Manor. Lydia would pack him his own lunch.

Fig would immediately start promoting Cassandra's religion on all social media, and get her to thousand followers in a week. The rest of the bad kids would join without hesitation.

If Riz would finally admit the HUGE stress he is under, everyone, even Fig, would stop piling all the work on him and happily write their 10 page essays. They would convince him to see Jawbone, and enjoy his last years in high school. They would band together to find the rogue teacher within a day. They would make sure that Riz's resume is the most impressive CV that the universities have ever received.

They would all gather together to come up with music for Fig and Gorgug's new album. Fabian would choreograph their music videos, Adaine would come up with rhymes, Riz would bring a list of all their adventures, including motifs and connections made, to give her inspiration, Kristen would suggest to make parodies of classic camp songs from her old church.

Adaine would contact Aelwyn immediately to get dirt on Porter, to blackmail him. Gorgug would get permission for his MCAT exams by the end of the week.

And if she would stay on the phone a little longer and admitted how much she is struggling, Aelwyn would immediately return home along with her cats. Then she would drag her sister to Jawbone's door, and force her to give him the components list.

The problem is that even after all those years, after all those adventures, even after the forest of the nightmare king, they still each think of themselves as the weak link. As the person in the group that isn't allowed, doesnt deserve to take space, ask for help. Because they should be able to handle it on their own. Isn't that what adulthood is like?

They would abandon anything and everything to help someone else, as long as that person isn't themselves. As long as they dont have to show their amazing, incredible, powerful, and oh so compassionate friends how weak and imperfect they are in comparison.

[technically-human]

St. Hilarion's ghost story

[slippinmickeys]

Three Part Harmony (5/?)

They only found the place by chance, passing it on a county road about 40 minutes outside of Boise. The house on the property was a double-wide on maybe five acres, and it was fairly well taken care of — it had a graying brush pile and an old hoop house with a torn roof — but there were flower boxes in the windows with flourishing geraniums, and Mulder had made a good point about the cars.

“How do you know any of them even run?” Scully asked, warily eying three vehicles in the yard that had For Sale signs in the windows.

“Because there’s no grass growing under any of them,” Mulder pointed out, and he was right. Each of the three cars — a black late 80’s TransAm, a truck only few years younger than the one they were driving, and an early 90’s black Grand Prix — were parked on the lawn (lawn was a generous term, being made up of mainly field grasses and weeds) near the road and the grass under each one was the same length as the rest of the yard, freshly shorn in neat rows no more than a week ago.

“The Grand Prix, do you think?” Scully asked as they drove by a second time, this time slowing marginally to get a better look.

“That was my thought, yeah,” Mulder said, lowering his head to see out Scully’s window.

“It’s going to be a pain, getting him in and out of a car seat in a coupe,” Scully pointed out.

“It’ll also be a lot harder to see him,” Mulder answered, finally pressing the gas and rumbling further down the road.

A mile on, he pulled into a river access site with a small empty parking lot and a mint green porta potty. About forty feet from the lot, past some trampled down grass and a sign that marked a trailhead, was a graying picnic table set up under the lofty pine to which it was chained. Mulder nodded in its direction.

“I’m thinking I should probably go alone,” he said, throwing the truck into park, but letting the engine idle. “You guys can hang out here?”

Scully looked out the window of the truck. The rain had stopped, but the weather was still overcast, and it was nearing nightfall. She had changed William into a dry diaper and some of the clothes that Mulder had picked up, but it was October in the mountains.

“Looks chilly out there,” she said.

When they’d left for the Van De Kamp farm that morning, it had only been for the day. That quick drive-by and an hour or so of casing the place. They’d left everything they owned – an admittedly meager collection – back in the room they rented over the diner where Scully waited tables. She’d only worn a light jacket that morning and had no other clothes. Let alone warmer things for the baby.

“Stay in the truck then,” Mulder said, “I’ll walk.” He leaned forward to aim one of the air vents in the dash at her. The warmth it eked out was meager at best and tinged with the sharp scent of burning oil. In her lap, William was getting bored and trying to stand, his footing awkward on the springy vinyl seat.

“Okay,” she said, holding out a hand behind the baby as he pulled himself up by the seatback to look out the flat rear window.

Mulder gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be back with new wheels,” he said, and leaned forward to press a quick kiss to her cheek. Then, after a slight hesitation, he leaned toward the baby and pressed a kiss to the top of William’s felty head. The driver’s side door opened with a creak and he rolled out as a cool piney breeze rolled in. The door closed and he was gone, trotting down the small turnout before disappearing behind the trees that lined the road.

“Dah,” William said, watching him go.

Scully brightened somewhat.

“That’s right, William, that’s Dada.”

Several looks came over William’s face at the same moment. Confusion, perhaps a look of exhaustion, and then, dawning realization.

“Dada?” he said, looking around the cab of the truck. “Dada?” he said with increasing urgency.

Scully immediately realized her error. Though they’d entered a tenuous detente with their child, bringing up probably the only parents that the boy remembered made him remember them. And look for them. And cry for them with rising panic.

“Dada?” he called one last time before succumbing to snotty tears. “Mamaaaa!” The last word was said with a kind of depressed agony. The child had likely seen his adoptive mother killed before his eyes only that morning.

Scully began to make shushing noises, trying to calm him, but he only howled louder, squatting his little froggy legs and then rising up in a fit of agitation. The boy’s face was red and he was having none of the comfort Scully was offering, his crying screams echoing off the old windows of the truck.

She could feel tears prick her own eyes – the stress of the day surging back up, the agony of the last few months without him, her guilt at all he’d had to witness and endure in his brief life.

“Oh baby, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her words turning into a sharp sob.

If only she’d been able to protect him. If only they weren’t on the run from a myriad of sources all looming with dark intent.

William seemed to lose steam after a few minutes, not exactly calming, but his screams ratcheted down until they were more fussy whines and he dropped down onto his bottom on the bench seat and looked at her with beseeching eyes. She reached forward and brushed away a few of his tears.

If only he knew who she was.

At that moment, she felt a kind of desperation from deep in her chest. This child was hers now. Hers to protect. Hers to raise. Hers to comfort. She looked into his eyes, the feeling inside of her fit to burst. Please remember me , she thought, please . And then William stopped fussing, canted his head to the side and gave her a long look. Scully held her breath.

“Bah mah,” he said, his expression quite serious.

“Bah mah,” she whispered back, and the desperation she felt turned into a warmth that spread through her like a quick shot of whiskey. The little boy in front of her reached up and patted her cheek. She covered his hand with her own and then brought his little palm to her lips and pressed a kiss there. And made him a promise.

Never again.

Xx

Mulder knocked ineffectually at the flimsy screen door to the house. It was made of aluminum and had a screen on only the top half, the scalloped edges bordering the mesh beginning to rust. He was about to unlatch it to knock on the inside door when it was quickly pulled open.

A man stood in the doorway. He was wearing a red t-shirt, stained with any number of things over the belly and was a few inches taller than Mulder. Where Mulder was lean, the man was bulky, carrying most of his weight in his middle, which sagged over the waist of ill-fitting jeans. He looked either angry or mean and grumbled something that Mulder couldn’t make out.

Not one to shy away from a challenge, Mulder still had the urge to simply apologize and walk away, but he instead stood his ground and hooked a thumb at the cars that were marked for sale out by the road.

“I’m interested in buying one of your cars out there,” he said, standing his ground.

The man’s face softened a bit and he grunted, nodding at Mulder so that he stepped off the cement blocks that served as the house’s front steps.

“Which one?” the man asked, coming down the steps with a bit of a limp.

“I was thinking the Pontiac,” Mulder said.

“Which one ?” the man asked, a tinge of impatience in his tone.

“Sorry,” Mulder said. “The Grand Prix. Does it run okay?”

“Runs great,” the man said, and started making his way across the lawn toward the red car. Mulder followed in his wake.

The man said nothing else as he walked and opened the door when he got to the coupe, reaching down to pop the hood. From there he circled around to lift the hood the rest of the way, propping it open with the strut. Mulder joined him in front of the car, both of the men staring at the engine compartment.

The gentleman looked to Mulder expectantly.

Mulder cleared his throat. “I don’t know much about cars,” he admitted.

The man sighed and started pointing. “I rebuilt the engine and the transmission,” he explained. “Tranny didn’t need it yet, but this model’s famous for it conking out. She’ll do one-ten on the highway, easy. Got about sixty thousand miles on her, but her tires are new and so’s her battery. Oil life’s at about eighty percent right now. Driver’s side tail light can be hinky sometimes, but she’ll run for ya.”

“The tail light,” Mulder said, a bit of unease creeping into his voice. “I’m uh, not too keen to get pulled over.”

The man took half a step back to give Mulder a thorough once-over and then held out a hand. “Name’s Ken.”

Mulder reached forward tentatively and shook the man’s hand. His grip was strong and the skin of his palm was rough from years of working with his hands.

“Steve,” Mulder said. Ken pumped his hand once and then released it.

“You give that back fender a pop with your fist before you start her,” with this he made a punching motion with his hand, “and you got nothing to worry about.”

Mulder nodded, thoughtful and maybe a little skeptical.

“That said,” Ken went on, “the police,” he pronounced the word POE-lees, and at the word he spit on the ground with irritated fervor, “try’n pull you over, well… She can outrun ‘em.” He crossed his hands in front of his chest confidently.

Mulder wasn’t entirely sure about the prospect of punching a fender to get the tail light to turn on (or attempting to outrun the poe-lees), but they needed a car so that they could safely transport William. And, at the very least, he was somewhat confident that if any kind of authority tracked them this far and knocked on Ken’s door, the big man would keep his peace.

“How much you want?” Mulder asked.

“Five grand,” Ken said, tilting his head back like he was expecting Mulder to barter.

Mulder reached into his back pocket where he’d pushed seven thousand dollars worth of one hundred dollar bills. “Cash okay?”

“Better’n okay,” Ken said.

Mulder turned slightly away to count out the money. He handed it over, pressing it into Ken’s meaty palm, who rolled it up and shoved it into a front pocket without counting it.

“Keys are in it,” the man said. “Let me get you the pink slip.”

[soul-from-another-era]

[zoneofsmites]

Im of the full (possibly delusional) belief that Durge is not the species that they physically appear to be.

You’re telling me this being crafted from nothing but bhaal’s flesh and his blood - this demigod - is actually a dragonborn/tiefling/human/elf/etc.

No. This thing is bhaal’s flesh and it just happens to look like that. They’re an imitation of a species, they’re not truly a (full)mortal being, they have no heritage aside from bhaal.

As a result I’m sure there’s some…oddities.

For example, a demigod child, not fully mortal. I doubt they adhere to the lifespan of whatever species they look like. Looking younger than they should. (less so perhaps with long lived races like elfs and half-elves where that is par for the course).

A dragonborn durge that by all accounts looks like a blue dragonborn but their breathweapon is acid. A tiefling durge that seems to be a Mephistopheles tiefling but they cannot cast mage hand, instead smiting like a zariel bloodline tiefling.

An elf or tiefling durge that doesn’t read as fey or infernal trough identification spells. Because they aren’t either of those things. Perhaps they could read as divine but not quite.

Members of a race that durge is supposed to be looking at them and sometimes when making eye contact they read as wrong. And some kind of uncanny effect triggers in their brain.

Give me more freaky durge who isn’t really what they appear to be at all. Just a little murder demigod crafted from dead god flesh to be the shape of something else.

[wigglebox]

Destiel Pride - Day 11; Truth