#she was actually dressed in her field medic gear

[empress-hancock]

Okay actually in reference to that Leon post w/ Lara Croft’s outfit someone should also do him in Jill’s outfit from the original RE3 to point out how ridiculous that is too. They actually improved it in the remake, fortunately she’s got jeans and two layers of tank top now. I get that she just rolled out of bed and immediately got chased out of her apartment by a monster, but who wears jean shorts to bed anyway? That’s already unrealistic on its own they could’ve just made it pants! Who wants to be running around a city filled with zombies, running from a massive monster targeting you specifically, falling off of buildings, and trudging through sewers in shorts and a tube top?

Also while I’m on it, Ada, I love you, but a short tank dress & heels (RE2 OG & R), a cheongsam & heels (RE4 OG), thigh high heeled boots (RE4R), business suit with heels (RE6), and a pencil skirt with heels (RE film: Damnation) are all ridiculous. SHE is the one character that goes in fully prepared for everything she does. She’s a mercenary. She wouldn’t be dressing in a way that would hinder her. They’re trying too hard to go for “sneaky double crossing seductress” with her. She’s smarter and more practical than that she would not dress that way

[uncpanda]

hello! if your head cannons are still open, how about “being spencer reid’s older sibling” 🧐 thanks for your wonderful writing! 💖

I actually, really love this idea, and part of me wants to turn it into a fic? Not sure if I will, but the gears are turning. 

Warning: Parentification, references to episodes, and hospital stuff, divorce. 

You are around five years old when Spencer is born. Your mom hadn’t had her schizophrenic break yet. She has it shortly after you’re born. Spencer is an accident, a blessing, but an accident. You love him from the moment you see him; he’s your baby. That’s what you say. William tries to correct you. 

As things get worse with your mom and dad it becomes more and more true though. By the time he’s five and you’re ten you handle a lot of things for him. Even on her medication, your mom is a little scatterbrained, and your dad is absent. 

You cry for several days when your dad leaves, and Spencer doesn’t let you out of his sight. You tend to most of Spencer’s emotional needs after that; hugs and cuddles and tucking him in at night. 

Your brother is a boy genius. That means you get into some fights defending him. You’re smart yourself, but you’re not a child prodigy. You protest when your mom sends Spence to high school mainly because you know kids are going to be mean. 

You walk him to most of his classes and you even share a few with him. He eats lunch with you and your friends, and he becomes their adopted baby brother too. It provides him with a little extra protection. 

When someone tells him that he’s ruining your life by being there. He goes silent and avoids you for several days. When you find out, you yell at the person and dress them down in front of the entire school. You get detention. It was worth it. 

You graduate together. He goes off to Cal-tech, and you go to a school nearby. His school puts you in an apartment together. Your college years are spent studying and making sure Spencer doesn’t burn out. He has a PHD by the time your first four years are done. He gets several more as you move into your chosen work field. 

When he tells you he’s joining the FBI you freeze a little bit. Because Spence is your kid. You’ve protected him for this long, and you can’t protect him there. Plus your job is here . . .and Spence sees it. the war in your eyes as you quickly move into planning out where to go. He takes your hand and reassures you, “I’ll be okay. It’s time . . . it’s time for you to have a life of your own.” You cry at that and reassure him you don’t mind. He tells you, you’ve sacrificed enough.

You enjoy having a life. You’re able to go out with friends, and date and just kind of enjoy things. Then you get a call from the FBI letting you know that Spencer had been kidnapped and tortured by someone name Tobias Hankle. It’s bad. 

When you see him in that hospital room, your blood turns cold. He’s broken, and he actually let’s out a few tears at the sight of you. You brush his hair back from his face, and realize there are two other people in the room. With a hoarse voice Spence says, “This is my sister/brother/ sibling Y/N.” 

You know who these people are: Aaron Hotchner and Jason Gideon. Spencer has sent you numerous photos and letters. Agent Hotchner is the one to pull you out of the room. You understand Spencer’s letters immediately. He cares, a lot, but he tries to protect himself behind an indifferent facade. He tells you a few of the details, including the drugs. And you know that’s not good. Addiction runs in the family. 

“Is there a program we can put him in, to detox? To monitor this?” 

He hesitates, “I can arrange something. Keep it off the books.” 

“Thank you.” 

You go back into his room, and he gives you that look. You settle on the side of the bed, and he just cuddles in. He’s out in a minute. You stroke his hair, like you did when he was a kid, and Agent Gideon, the only other person in the room says, “You raise him?” 

You nod, “Yep.” 

“Couldn’t have been easy.” 

Your lips twitch, “No, but it was worth it.” 

He smiles, “He’s a good kid. He’s brilliant, and unashamed about it. You did a good job.” the unspoken, he’s going to need you now, hangs in the air. 

“I’ll start making calls tomorrow.” 

He nods, “What do you do? I can make some calls.” 

You whisper your profession, and you detail the plan to Spencer when he wakes up. You can see the urge to argue in his eyes, and he does. He lays out the obvious that he’s an adult, with several degrees, and a bunch of other things. You lay out the fact that you both have addictive personalities, and you put in too much work to watch throw everything away. Eventually, you beg. You beg him to stop things now before they can get bad. He reluctantly agrees. 

You stay in his apartment for a few weeks. Apparently, knowing people in the FBI can get you out of your lease and into a good paying job fairly quickly. You monitor Spencer from a distance, and you let out a little sigh of relief when he seems to return to normal. 

You find out from Gideon that isn’t true. He flies you down to New Orleans after they finish a case. And you meet him in a Jazz bar, where you see him and Spencer. Your brother has tears running down his face, and the moment he sees you, he apologizes. You assure him he has nothing to apologize for. 

That night, you meet the rest of the team. They’re nice people, kind people, and it��s good to know Spence has a support system. Withdrawal and detox is a bitch. Spencer is nothing short of grumpy. And eventually you have to tap out. You text Gideon, who comes over with Hotch and Morgan in tow. 

They take one look at you and Gideon orders Morgan to take you home. You give Spence, who’s pacing one last look, and head out. You don’t know agent Morgan too well, but you know Spencer is fond of him. You tell him so. He grins. 

“Did you really raise pretty boy?” 

“For the most part. Mom was able to take care of earning the money. Spencer did the bills, he was better at it, I handled everything else.” 

“I don’t think I could have done it.” 

“You’d be surprised by the things you can do for those you love. Plus Spence was a fairly easy kid.” 

“I doubt that.” 

Morgan walks you up and gives you his number. You add him to the list of FBI members you’re getting to know. After that, you find yourself being drawn into more and more team activities. You mainly find yourself texting with Hotch, Morgan, and Gideon. 

And then things happen, and you just know. 

You wait outside the cabin for him, and you can tell he surprised to see you there. He smiles, “You should have been a profiler.” 

“I don’t have the stomach for it.” 

Gideon nods, “I have to. . . “

“I’m not stopping you, and neither will he. But doing it this way, leaving a letter. It will kill him Gideon. It’s the same way our dad left.” 

“I have to cut contact otherwise . . .” 

“You’ll get pulled back in. The thing about Spence though? I raised him to respect boundaries. You tell him not to talk about cases, he’ll talk to you about numerous other books he’s read.” 

There’s a moment of silence before he asks, “Give me a ride?” 

“Sure.” 

You wait outside while he explains things to Spencer. When he comes back down, he says, “Thanks for making me do this.” 

You pull away from the curb, ready to drive him home, “No problem.” 

“I always wanted a daughter. My wife. . . I was gone too much and we already had Stephen.” Your lips twitch, and when he adds, “He’s single by the way. You two would get along well.” You laugh. 

You drop him off and say, “Keep in touch.” 

“I’ll send post cards.” and then he’s gone. 

When you get back to your apartment, you have a text waiting from Spencer, “Thank you.” 

You send back a heart. 

The day Spencer tells you about the interview with the serial killer, your blood boils. He tries to stop you, he really does, but you shrug him off. You’re on a mission. Just like in high school when those jocks tied Spencer to a pole. 

You burst into Aaron Hotchner’s office with a vengeance. You, do at least close the door behind you, and then you yell, and fuss, and scream, and he takes it. He takes it all, and chest heaving you ask, “Why the hell aren’t you fighting back?” 

“Because I deserve it.” 

You blink, once twice, three times and settle in the chair, “What happened?” 

He hesitates, and you pull the card, “You put my brother in danger, tell me what happened.” 

His eyes go dark, “You’re blackmailing an FBI agent?” 

“When he’s being emotionally stupid? Yeah. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been keeping Spencer’s secrets for a while. Mom still doesn’t know it was him who broke grandma’s vase.” 

His lips twitch, and slowly, very slowly, he tells you about Haley. You listen, and when he’s done he looks at you expectantly. 

“You’re not in love with her anymore?” His eyes go wide and before he can chastise you, you say, “You love her, but you’re not IN love with her. If you were, you would have chosen her over the job. But for you . . . this job drives you. . . doing what’s right. . . trying to save everyone. . . you take it all on your shoulders. Something tells me, that if it was Jack asking you to step back, you would, but I think deep down, you’re scared of who you would be and what you would do without this job.

“And on the other end of the spectrum, Haley is doing what’s right for her. She married a prosecutor, which comes with some danger and late hours, but not like this. She’s doing what’s best for her, and you’re doing what’s best for you, and in the process I think Jack will be happier for it.”  

He hesitates before asking, “So, I’m not like your dad?” 

You cock your head a bit, “You planning to leave his life, without any warning?”

“No.” 

 “You going to stop contributing to the household?”

“No.” 

“If Haley decided to run away to the circus tomorrow, and leave Jack with you, forcing you to quit the FBI, would you do it?” 

“Yes.” 

You shrug, “You said all of that, with no hesitation,” you smile, “You’re nothing like my dad. The man was only a few miles away, and he never reached out. I never told Spencer that.” 

“He won’t hear it from me.” 

You stand up, and stare at him for a second, he stares back. You move slowly around the desk, and wrap your arms around him. He hesitates before returning the hug. When you pull back you say, “You just looked like you needed a hug.” 

“Thank you.” 

You come out of his office and find Morgan waiting for you, “Everything okay?” 

“Sometimes people just need hugs. Want one?” 

He grins, “I’ll never turn down a good hug.” 

You find your own life in DC eventually. Most of the time you’re also fielding texts from Hotch and Morgan. Spencer sends you some sort of quote every morning. But it’s nice to have a support system. 

You’re somewhat surprised when one evening Morgan stops by your place. You’re dressed for bed, but usher him inside. He hesitates before he says, “Hotch said you’re a good person to talk to.” 

“I’ve been told I’m alright.”  

You sit in silence for several hours before he alludes to his past trauma. You move to the couch then, and pull him into your arms. He just snuggles in, and when he cries, you don’t say anything. You’re just there. 

You’re invited out with Penelope, JJ, and Emily, they claim they don’t know you well enough. You’d agree. It’s fun getting out of the house, and letting loose. For once, you don’t have to be the responsible party. You wake up on a couch, hungover with Spencer smiling down at you. 

“What?” 

“It’s just nice to be the responsible sibling for once.” You squint, and a second later Hotch, Morgan, and Rossi come out too. 

“Why are they here?” 

Hotch snorts, “I was called when the four of you ended up drunk. I needed reinforcements, when it became clear that we weren’t going to be able to get you home individually.” 

You groan when Morgan opens the curtains, “MEAN!” 

Hotch passes you a water bottle, “Drink that while we go wake the others up.” 

You take a few swallows, “Where are we?” 

“Rossi’s house. Only place big enough to fit all of us.” 

As if called, Dave appears with a plate of eggs.” 

You deadpan, “I hate everyone.” 

Morgan laughs, “Didn’t you party in college?” 

Spencer shakes his head, “She was home with me. She couldn’t check my homework, the math was too advanced, but she would watch movies with me and play video games.” 

Your lips twitch, “And who still has the highest score on Mario Cart.” 

Spencer’s eyes narrow, “You cheat. I don’t know how, but you cheat!” He stomps off a second later, and Morgan stares at you. 

You shrug, “I do cheat.” 

He just laughs, and you can’t help but feel, you’ve found a home. 

AN: Part of me really wants to like continue this as a fic from here? Thoughts? I’m tempted to have reader end up with Hotch or Morgan? Additional thoughts? 

[checkingoutforheroes]

B.A.B.Y PROTOCOL.

Part 2.

Avengers x fem!reader 

Pt.1

Words: 1892

Synopsis: This takes place in Avengers: Age of Ultron. When The Avengers were at the rock bottom, Nick Fury and advised by Maria Hill, to initiate the B.A.B.Y Protocol. Will a young, damaged and broke girl agree to this initiative and help a team to save this planet earth?

Main Masterlist 

Maria and Fury bring you to The Avengers tower for mission briefing and meet the rest of the team. To be honest, you are beyond excited you see the building. You move from your seat to another, looking out of the window, facing the tower. Maria looks at you at the rear view mirror, seeing your awe face and smile. “If you open that window, I might’ve mistaken you with a dog.” You ignore her comment and ask them “Is this S.H.I.E.L.D? You guys work here? You build this place papa Bear? This is taller than I thought it would be!”

Fury look at you and then Maria “Now she’s excited.” Maria answer your question. “That is Avengers tower. S.H.I.E.L.D no longer exist. Burn to the ground.” You didn’t keep up about them after left the agency so you don’t know what happened. “What happened? Did this moody papa Bear show his emotion through action?” You let out a small laugh until Fury annoyed “Once again you call my name other than Fury, I’ll burn you too.” “Nahh, you’re not going to burn me. You need me. Otherwise, I’m not in this car right now. I said to him and Maria drive through the parking basement. “She got you, boss.”

Fury walk ahead to their meeting room. You stop your track when you see an aquarium placed at the wall. You never see something like that before in your life. When Maria realize that you are not walking behind her, she turns back to get you. “What are you doing?” “Looking at these fish in an aquarium stuck on the wall. How they do that? How they going to feed the fish? Rich people shit, quite awesome.” You said and Maria just shake her head. “We have a world crisis and the first thing you did is watch the fish?! Are you kidding me? Let’s go meat the team.”

 Meanwhile Fury already told the team about a new protocol or whatever. You didn’t hear that clearly until you are inside the room. Fury talk to them. “Since all of you are here, including Maximoff, I have a new protocol that you can use.” Steve looking confusing at Fury. “We already made a plan.” Tony interrupt to teasing Steve “Yeah and a good ted talk by the captain too.” Natasha asking about the protocol. “Do we know about the protocol?” Fury take a seat “No, Romanoff. No one knows about this protocol except Agent Hill. This protocol was created to help the team when in need, and this team clearly need it right now.” Steve ask him. “What protocol is that?” Natasha looking at Clint and he shrug. “B.A.B.Y PROTOCOL.” Tony just laugh while Steve have a serious face looking at him. “I’m sorry. That’s kinda funny name for a protocol.” Maria open the door and you both going in. All eyes on you and you feeling slightly nervous. How can you not, they are The Avengers! You recognize all of their face except one person wearing black dress and red cardigan.  

Fury introduce you to the team. “Right on time. Avengers, I introduce you B.A.B.Y PROTOCOL, as in Best Associate By Yours truly.” Maria added “Also, we call her Baby.” They are quiet and shock appear in their faces except two people. Natasha and Clint. They go greet you. “Baby!” Natasha walks to hug you while Tony look at you two weird. “Nat! Omg, I miss you. Clint! Miss you too!” You hug Clint and he hold your head. “Well, she grows up.” “Yeah, with some food and water, I did. Man, you’re old.” You said to him and Natasha smile “Kids growing, Barton.” “Natasha, beautiful as always. You have to drop your skin care routine, sis.” Tony interrupt the moment “You both knew her? Fury, you said no one know about this protocol.” Fury nods. “I said no one know about this protocol not that Romanoff and Barton didn’t know her.”

Steve starts asking question. “How old are you?” Tony interject again. “Yeah. You don’t look like a baby to me.”

             You looking back at Steve, smirk on your face. “How old are you?” Maria sign you to behave. “Baby.” Tony sit down at one of the chair. “I like this kid already!” He earns a glare from Steve and you apologizing “I’m sorry. That’s not a good first impression. I’m 22.”

“What is your name?” Damn he is a serious one.

             “People call me Baby.”

“What people didn’t call you?”

             “If they didn’t call me? Silence, I guess.” You whisper at Natasha left ear “Can I not tell them my name?” She crooks a little smile. “It’s up to you.” “I prefer being call by that name that Maria & Fury has told you or anything you want except my real name due to personal reason.” You nod and smile at them.

“Why? Dark past? Major criminal? Wanted by CIA? Interpol? MI6? Ugly name? Kicked out of family or something?” Seriously, how can they work as a team with a guy name Tony Stark? Maria, Natasha and Clint have your back.

“She’s here to help us. Nothing else, Stark.” Maria said to him.

Natasha glare at him. “I suggest you stop right there or you’re not going to see any sunlight.”

Clint agree with them. “Leave her alone man.” Tony look guilty. “Everybody in this room has dark past. I’m just curious, not judging. She’s not alone.” Wanda tell them that he told the truth. “He’s not lying.” “Thank you Wendy. Peace?” You walking toward him “No heart feeling.” You guys fist bump each other.

Steve ask again. “How do you know Barton and Romanoff?”

             “While I was in S.H.I.E.L.D Academy, which I thought a Juvenile school at first, they trained me combat espionage. Since that’s the only thing on my expertise. I wish to have Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz brain though. They’re genius in bio-chem and engerneering.”

“Why you thought it was juvenile at first? You commit crime?”

             “Duh.” Both you and Tony said it at the same time and again “JINX!” Natasha look at Steve. “Relax captain, all of us commit crime back then.” “I didn’t” Tony look at him. “Are you sure about that?” “What do you mean Stark?” Steve ask and he say “You literally cheated your medical checkup to join the army.” “I did it to protect our country.” Steve said and Clint chuckle “Still crime.” Fury tell Maria to handle the briefing and he’s out. You ask where is he going? “Where is he going?” “He have another thing to do Baby.”

             “I know most of you but I don’t think I know or seen you, Mr. ?” You ask and Natasha introduce him. “That is Dr. Bruce Banner.”

             You shake his hand. “Nice to meet you. What did you do?”

Bruce seems like to hesitate to answer that. “You didn’t know? New York?”

             “Alien? Chitauri?” You ask him back innocently.

“Um. I’m, the big green guy.” He anxiously answers that.

             “An ogre! Wow, that is so cool!” Clint hold my shoulder. “The other green, buddy.” “Oh, I know. I’m sorry, I forgot your ogre name is Shrek. Still cool though. I watch all of his movies when I was a kid. Maybe we can watch it again sometimes.”

Bruce look at Natasha and then back at you. “That’s, not me either, but yeah, we can watch that, big green cartoon sometimes.” Tony finally tell you who he is. “You seriously don’t remember who broke New York kid? He’s The Hulk!” Bruce looks down and tilt his head to look at Tony. “Yes. I’m that! Thank you for bringing back memory, Tony!”

             You feel guilty for not remember that. “Gosh, I’m so sorry. But hey, New York already broken before you broke it. Can I have a selfie? You’re incredible.” You snap the picture before he even answers. Tony said something “I’m literally right here. The coolest guy in the group.” You turn your head to the girl in black dress, red cardigan. “And you are?”

She answers with a thick accent “Wanda Maximoff.”

             “You’re not from here? You have an accent just like Nat. Well, once she’s mad at me during training years ago.” You remember the detail and Natasha rolls her eyes at you. “That is one time. I slipped.” “Human make mistakes sis. You aren’t machine.”

“I just got here yesterday. I made a mistake. Wrong judgement, I want to make it right. I join them.” She explains and you currently melting, just to hear he talk. You want her to talk more so you can hear her talk. Thing is, you didn’t know that she can read mind. Where is that accent came from? Russian? You ask those questions in your head. “From Sokovia.”

             “Where are you from? What? I just ask-“

Maria answer my question. “She’s a telekinesis, energy manipulation and some kind of neuroelectric interfacing.” “Huh?” You don’t even know what that is and Maria make it simple for you. “Telepathic.” You turn to look back at her. “That is so awesome!” Tony huff at your statement. “Yeah, until she’s in your head.” She just looking down “I’m sorry.”

 Right after she said that, Thor, God of Thunder walk into the room and tell about the scepter. You are amazed and suddenly you bend the knee. “Oh. My. God. You’re Thor!” He looks back at you. “and you tiny female human.” “You. Are. the God of Lightning! I am a fan! No. I’m an air-conditioner.” He smiling, feeling proud. “Thank you, tiny human lady. It’s God of Thunder, actually. What’s an air-conditioner?”

Maria gives us final brief. “You guys might want to prepare something for tomorrow. We’re flying to Korea and find Dr. Chow tomorrow morning. Get some rest, sleep early, you guys need it.”

             You ask them a question. “Can I go back to my place, then come back? Clint can you take me?” “Yeah, I can.” Steve kind of not agree with you. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Why? I need to take my stuff.” “I can pick her up tomorrow.” You and Clint said and Steve ask you again. “Do you have a suit? or uniform?” You unzip your sweater and show your Donut Do It uniform. “Will, this do? Because someone decided that it was okay to give a surprise visit when I’m on my way to work.” Maria just smirking at you and Natasha smile “I don’t think that appropriate gear for the field.”

Tony offers you to stay with them at the tower. “Captain’s right. Don’t want to risk anything on the team member night before fight. Stay here, I’ve got plenty of room. Natasha can show you. They basically live here. We have spare shirts too.” You look at Wanda “You live here too?” She’s thinking about the answer. “I spend the night here.” Natasha turn you to look at her. “That’s a good idea. Just stay here tonight. Wanda’s here too.” “Natasha can show you your room, take a shower and dinner later.” Tony said. You look at Maria by the mention of dinner. She sighs “Okay, spaghetti and chicken wings.” Natasha add “And caramel pudding?” You smile at her “You remember?!” “Of course I do.” Clint jokingly say “How can she not, you guys practically sisters.”

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Thank you for spending your time reading this. Feel free to reblog or ask me anything, thank you in advance!

Part 3 is coming!

[extasiswings]

Hopping on this train of writing to cope with promo image-induced feelings.  No thoughts, just vibes.  Also on ao3. 

The air inside the warehouse is thick with smoke and blisteringly hot.  A snapping sound splits through the crackle of flame and Eddie is abruptly yanked off balance as Buck grabs his arm and pulls hard just as a beam from above comes crashing down. It doesn’t miss him completely—catches the side of his helmet and knocks it off, making his ears ring with the impact. 

He sees Buck’s mouth moving and shakes his head. 

“What?” 

“Are you okay?” Buck repeats, nearly shouting to be heard over the din of the fire. 

A light fixture groans above them before dropping down as well and it’s Eddie’s turn to push Buck out of the way, even if it means a bit of flying glass catches him in the face. 

“We need to get out of here,” he shouts, and it quickly turns into a coughing fit as he chokes on smoke, his throat and lungs burning. 

Buck nods. “Go! I’m right behind!”

Eddie turns and manages to work out a path to the closest exit with a single-minded focus. His head is aching and he’s dizzy, can feel blood dripping down his cheek as well, and when he stumbles out into somewhat fresher air he nearly collapses into Bobby before he’s passed off to the paramedics. 

Hen had been one of the first ones in and out and has since stripped off her turnout coat and is helping the other medics. Eddie doesn’t argue when she checks his throat and pupil responses before pressing an oxygen mask into his hand. 

“Where’s Buck?” Hen asks as she swipes an alcohol pad over the cut on his cheek and secures it with two butterfly strips. 

Eddie lowers the mask and coughs. “He was right—“

Behind me. 

The words fade on his tongue as he scans the area only to come up empty. And then his eyes light on the door he’d come out of, nothing clear beyond the frame but black smoke and the red and orange glare of flickering flames. 

His world tips on its axis.  His vision swims.   And the feeling—

It reminds him a little of the tsunami, when he’d noticed Christopher’s glasses around Buck’s neck and had felt himself fracturing at such a rapid pace that even now he’s sure he wouldn’t have remained standing if he hadn’t caught sight of his son over Buck’s shoulder. He can feel the same sort of cracks spidering up the foundation of his walls—the ones that he throws up when he needs to be Eddie Diaz, firefighter, medic, soldier, competent professional, any version of himself that has to play at having his life together—and he scrambles internally to shut down the panic, to plaster over the cracks before they can spread too far, because if he lets himself think—

“I need to talk to Bobby,” he says, trying to push himself up to standing. Hen shoves him back down with hands firmly on his shoulders. 

“You need to sit and keep breathing into that mask,” she says, her voice sharp with authority before it gentles. “I’ll get him, but only if you stay here.”

Eddie’s jaw tics, but he lifts the mask back up to his face and takes a few pointed breaths while she watches. Finally, she nods. 

“I’ll be right back,” she promises. 

There’s an itch between his shoulder blades that desperately wants an outlet. Something to do, something to control so he doesn’t feel so much like he’s on the edge of a cliff. So that he can work on a solution instead of his mind unhelpfully focusing on Buck’s still in there.  He’s not an idiot, he knows he’s in no shape to go back in himself, but he needs something. 

“We were in the southwest quadrant,” Eddie reports when Hen returns with Bobby, keeping his words short and clipped.  “It wasn’t overrun but there were a lot of things falling from the upper levels. He said he was coming right after me, but he could have gotten stuck.”

This is easier. Staying mechanical. Sticking to facts. There’s no room for getting overly emotional, no allowance for breaking down.  He has a commanding officer in front of him who needs information, and that is something Eddie can handle. 

“We tried him on the radio but there was no answer,” Bobby says. 

“He may have dropped it.”  When he pulled me to safety. Eddie shuts that thought down. 

“There are windows on that side,” he adds. “If the exits are blocked—“

“We’ll look at all possible options,” Bobby replies.  His face is drawn and tired, face streaked with sweat and soot. 

For some reason it’s the flicker of doubt Eddie catches in his eyes that makes him say—

“He wasn’t being reckless. I know—we all know he can be sometimes, but he wasn’t. If he’s not out, it’s because he needs help, not because he’s trying to be a hero.”

Bobby looks at Eddie for a moment, something passing across his eyes like recognition before it fades and he’s left looking more tired than before. 

“We’ll look at all the options,” he repeats finally. He doesn’t make promises. Eddie’s not sure whether or not he appreciates that. 

It takes another several minutes for anything to happen, and Eddie’s shoulders get tighter, his mood blacker. His head aches and he snaps at another paramedic, some clearly new young kid, when he notices him dressing a burn improperly. 

It doesn’t make him feel better. 

Finally though, finally, after a heart-stopping moment when the warehouse windows blow out on the side where they’d last been, Eddie hears shouts. And a figure comes stumbling around from the back of the building, knees giving out just in time for someone to catch him. 

“What happened to I’m right behind?” Eddie asks roughly when Buck is helped over, looking worse for wear but alive. 

Buck coughs and closes his eyes. “Part of the catwalk came down,” he says. “Blocked me in. Couldn’t see you. Couldn’t see anything hardly through all the...everything.”

“I didn’t know.”

Buck shakes his head and dutifully brings his own oxygen mask to his face when one is pressed into his hand. 

“Wouldn’t have wanted you to stay even if you had,” he replies. “At least I had all my gear.” 

Eddie wants to keep talking, keep asking questions, keep reminding himself that Buck is sitting next to him and going to be fine, but that irrational impulse wars with the rational thought that Buck needs oxygen not an interrogation. So he drops it.  And they both withdraw into their own heads. 

Eddie watches though. As Buck flickers between present and vacant, numb. The haunted, hunted look that passes over his face every so often a clear indication that whatever ghosts are whispering in his mind, they’re saying nothing good. When the shift ends and they’re cleaned up, Buck still looks half-dead, so Eddie snatches his keys. 

“I’m taking you home,” he says, tone booking no argument. “I don’t want you driving like this.”

Buck sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay.”

The drive is silent, but there’s a tension in the air, the weight of things unspoken. Eddie’s not entirely sure what exactly would roll off his own tongue if he opened his mouth, his head a mess, but when he parks his truck in front of Buck’s apartment, Buck finally speaks. 

“You know what I was thinking while I stuck in that building? Besides that I was going to die.”  He swallows hard. “That if it had to be someone it was good it was me.”

Eddie’s heart stops, his stomach rebelling violently at sheer wrongness of the thought. 

“That’s not true.”

Buck nods and lets out a small, bitter laugh. 

“See, I do know that actually,” he admits. “It’s one of the things I’ve been working on in therapy. Except then my parents rolled into town and it was like none of that work mattered, I was right back to square one assuming I’m not wanted, that no one would miss me—and I hate, I hate that they have that kind of power, that they can make me feel so fucking worthless.”

“You’re not though.” Eddie reaches over before he can stop himself, his hand curling around the side of Buck’s neck, thumb settling over his pulse to feel that steady thrum of alive alive alive. “God, when I thought—you’re worth everything. You have to know—“

You have to know how much you mean to me. You have to know how much I love you. You have to know I can’t lose you.

You have to know. 

Buck makes a small sound of disbelief, his gaze turning searching as Eddie bites his tongue to keep from saying too much he can’t take back. He feels somehow even more precariously positioned on the edge of a cliff than he had in the field, but that cliff was positioned above an ocean of grief. He doesn’t know what’s at the bottom of this one should he fall. 

Somehow that’s almost more terrifying. 

Eddie sways forward unconsciously and Buck presses his forehead to his. Neither of them are breathing steadily. And they stay like that for a long moment until Buck shivers and pulls back. 

“I want to kiss you,” he says quietly, and Eddie can’t quite help the frisson of want that sparks through him, the whisper of yes, please, do it then that threads through his mind. 

“But,” Buck continues, his tongue sweeping out to wet his lips as Eddie watches. “But it’s been a long and really fucking difficult day and I’m not—I don’t want to fuck this up before it even starts. If—if there’s anything to start at all, I don’t want to assume—“

“There is,” Eddie assures. I love you. I’m in love with you. 

That gets him the faintest smile as Buck reaches up to squeeze his hand. 

“Thanks for the ride home.”

“Of course. Anytime.”  

When Eddie gets home, he pauses long enough to check on Christopher before falling into bed. And only then does he think back over the day and finally, finally let himself shatter. 

[bitchapalooza]

More hetalia highschool AU, 🌟magic team🌟 edition :)

Under the cut bc it is long ❤️

Vladimir is that one kid obsessed with Twilight but only for the vampires; it was his first ever exposure to vampires thanks to his dad thinking Twilight was an appropriate book for a 11 year old. Team Edward going strong for five years, he'd proudly declare like it actually mattered. He tries his best to dress goth at school even though his uniform gets in the way. Fake ear piercings(his parents won't let him pierce them yet), over the top makeup, he's dyed the top half of his shoes black because his parents were concerned about his obsession with black and wouldn't buy him the black tennies he wanted— "mom look, these are marked down for back to school! Can I pleeeease get them???" "....may I know why the black ones specifically?" "They match the ever nothingness of my soul." "Yep! The white ones it is then!" "Mooooooooooom!"— Vladimir has been dubbed the cringy vampire kid of course.

Lukas is into pretty much anything concerning cryptids and magical creatures because they can't be proven to be fake or real, which intrigues him. He carries a book about mushrooms at all times and info dumps on pretty much anyone about identifying poisonous mushrooms and which mushrooms are safe to eat. His backpack is covered in buttons and pins to show off his interests. He keeps an amethyst in the front pocket of his backpack, reason unknown other than to just randomly pull it out and let Mikkel look at it. He's that kid that always wears his hoodie no matter the season, he never takes it off. Under his hoodie is always a crude worded t-shirt that the school would not approve of, much less his parents. He's relatively quiet and because he's quiet he's considered a weird kid.

Arthur can't decide if punk is his style or if goth is. Either way, his way of self expression at school in addition to the uniform is horrible. Checkered black/red shoes his grandma got him with his older brother's hand me down worn out greying socks—"can I PLEASE just have my own clothes???" "we have perfectly good clothes for you in the garage! I can fix them up to fit you better and everything!" "but I want cool NEW clothes!" "those are cool clothes and as far as the other kids know, they're also new. Now get your transformer backpack and get to the car. I put a new patch on it last night so that should hold it for the rest of the year."— Old Pierce the veil shirt, with holes chewed into the collar from his older brother Dillan, peeking out from under his white polo. A black and red choker to match his black and red slowly tearing apart too big flannel on top of a black pull over. A deep blue beanie, the hoodie of his pull over almost constantly on top when outside the school. He dyes a part of his hair a different color every month. He spikes his hair using too much gel and is convinced he looks good. He talks too much about bands and always gets Vlad and Lukas going on and on about fictional creatures he does not FULLY believe in himself. He does, however, believe in magic and loves Harry Potter, more specifically the Weaselys, to bits.

Natalya is a sophomore, a year behind the boys, and she just kinda pushed her way into the friend group until they eventually accepted her into it. They were the only three she knew who liked occult related topics. She's on the baseball team because she wanted an excuse to hit things with another thing and NOT get detention because of it. She wears the khaki uniform skirt and takes full advantage over being able to wear any kind of tights underneath; skull pattern, plain black, blood splatter pattern, fire pattern. Anything that makes her feel like a badass. She's always talking about antiques and forging weapons, more specifically knives. She has a whole collection of fidget toys but her favorite is this pea pod keychain her father gave her. She's always talking about how she'd like to be a medical examiner and to just prove that she's serious, she'll bring up a picture of a human model and point out the difference between a self inflicted fatal wound and a homicide. She puts up a charade of being able to see and talk to ghosts to freak out Alfred, her extended friend first met through Tolys.

They collectively believe they're cool and that other people know this. They're genuinely blind to the obvious snickers sent their way, being called losers and nerds. They're really knowm for like really pathetic things like; Natalya is Ivan's, tallest and most intimidating member of the wrestling team, weird younger sister by a year. Lukas is just the weird quiet kid that reads by the courtyard garden during lunch. Vladimir is not only the vampire goth kid but the kid who's parents believe the teachers are giving his son low grades on purpose and will yell at them for it. And Arthur is just. He's another Kirkland, immediately assumed to be a massive trouble maker because of his now graduated brother Alistair and one grade above him brother Dillan. Everyone loved his eldest brother Darick and sometimes compare him to Darick.

Compared to what others THINK they do, such as witch craft for some odd reason, the four of them do pretty typical teen activities. Like hang out at the mall. Do their honework together. Play video games and D&D when they have the chance. The boys do have sleepovers still as they have since meeting each other in middle school, Nat not really being a fan of sleeping where she doesn't live but comfortable enough to go to their houses and just chill for the day. They have become friends because of their related interests but thats not what they're ALL ABOUT.

Fun facts/stories about these losers I thought about while bored as fuck:

• Lukas, in his freshman year, went on a nature hike field trip with his lit class after reading Into The Wild. And he brought his mushroom book of course. They walked around, looking at the sights, talked about the book. Lukas just stops at one point, falling behind the class. He picks up a mushroom, goes to the teacher and is like "You see this? Its not poisonous." And straight up fucking eats it without warning. The teacher called an ambulance even though Lukas kept telling him he was fine and that that mushroom was 100% okay to eat raw, but for sure better off cooked. Lukas calmly shows the paramedics his book and they're like "yeah that actually was safe to eat, we don't need the book to confirm that, but um. Please don't ever pick something off the ground and eat it again. Just. Please don't do that, son." .....he did it again before leaving to go back to school but this time he didn't tell anyone.

• In elementary school, Natalya brought in a model of the human brain she asked her dad to borrow. He had to say yes because she was his only child genuinely interested, not bored of, his medical profession and he found it very cute and honoring. So she's at show and tell, its her turn right, and she silently goes up to the front of the class and pulls out the model brain. Teacher tries to step in because, hey, these are 6 year olds—AND WHY DOES THIS 6 YEAR OLD HAVE A PLASTIC BRAIN??? But Nat just shooshes her. In surprised shock, the teacher is just quiet as Nat begins to explain parts of the brain and their function— which was all wrong actually. She knew the words and everything but she didn't get the locations right. She sounded confident and smart and she was telling this to a bunch of 6 year olds so they believed her of course. End of the school day, her dad is having a hilarious conference with his youngest's teacher about the brain incident.

• Vladimir loves reading. He's loved it since he began to learn how, even if his dyslexia gives him grief along the way. So since he loves to read he'll always get excited and read ahead in class or in the public library reading club. One summer, the reading club was reading The Giver and it was getting really good. Vlad was loving the story, so much so that Vlad began to read ahead in his own time when he really wasn't supposed to be, the club was reading it together out loud and discussing it. Now he's read enough and worked hard enough to figure out how to help himself focus better and understand each word and sentence without having to reread it all multiple times over or get stuck. But sometimes the meaning and context to what he's reading doesn't ALWAYS process with the words as he's too focused on reading the words right and it passes right over his head. So Vlad is reading ahead and he's getting to the part where The Giver has given Jonas the memory of the sled again. And Vlad just sits there after reading that paragraph. He rereads it. And rereads it again. And then he leaves his book on his bed, goes to the the hall closet and takes out the ironing board. He grabs a plastic container to use as an ill attempt of a helmet and he just. Rockets down the staircase and hits the wall. He screams and cries and his parents rush in from the livingroom. When asked what happened he just says "I wanted to understand the sled scene better! Now I do and I feel really bad for Jonas!" He just couldn't quite grasp WHY the sled accident hurt, never had a broken bone nor sled afterall, and needed to find out. And that's how Vlad got his first broken arm at the age of 12.

• When Alfred and Matthew moved in with Arthur's family, Arthur didn't like it. He was a moody young teen but he was also just tired of the full house. His cousins were loud and nosey. He had to share a room with his four older brothers already and now with Matthew while Kathleen and Alfred got a room to themselves. Arthur thought this was so unfair. So his solution was to run away. He was 13, he needed a place to have some peace and quiet for once. So he texts Francis and Lukas, the only two of his friends living in his neighnorhood. Francis is not on board with helping him run away at first but then Lukas brings literally all his camping gear for Arthur's use and then Francis is on board because he had the feeling Arthur was going to get himself killed somehow. So as the elder one of the group he accompanied Arthur and Lukas out to the short stretch of woods behind the last street of their neighborhood, intending to go to the big clearing before hitting the roads leading to the airport and whatever else buildings. They're out there setting everything up together and they're done by like 4 pm. They sit down and talk, munch on oreos and other snacks Arthur deemed as essential survival foods. Then Francis looks at his cell and remarks "wow its already 6! Ah, Lukas, we should get home. Afterall, neither of us ran away so we still have supper to eat. Come on Lukas, let's go before our parents come looking for us." They exchange goodbyes, Francis trying his best to hide his cocky smirk. So Lukas and Francis start walking off, Arthur crawls into the tent and eats half a cookie before frowning and feeling too alone. He didn't expect to feel alone because all he wanted was to BE ALONE. Before he knows it, he's running out of the tent yelling after his friends to stop and wait up. "Oh whats wrong, Arthur? I thought you wanted to run away." "I— I forgot I hadn't fed my rabbit is all! I'll run away tomorrow! I'm not... Feeling lonely if.. If that's what you think...." Arthur did not run away the next day. Buuuuuut the three plus Vlad made a tree house together in the Kirkland backyard that they still use today!

[mrsalwayswrite]

Say You’ll Stay- Chapter 1

Fury/ Band of Brothers Crossover Fic

Summary: Don "Wardaddy" Collier just wanted his crew to make it through the war. He carried no expectations for himself. But as each day passed, he worried he would be unable to keep his promise. When fate (or more accurately- Boyd Swan) places a woman in his path with a soft touch and softer heart...perhaps he has more of a motivation to see the end of the war after all.

Hey so I’m back with this series! I posted the first chapter awhile ago and then realized I did not have my plot and characters as “polished” as I wanted. So if you read the first chapter already, I would recommend rereading it. 

The first chapter is shorter compared to the others so to make up for it, I will also be posting the next chapter! Two in one! 

Our beloved Easy Company will come into play in a couple chapters. Patience, my friends. I have a plan...

Warnings: Swearing, some mentions of wounds/blood

Tag List: @happyveday​ @evelynshelby​ @god-of-dramatic-death-scenes​ @alwaysindecemberfeels​ 

Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

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Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Dirt and grime covered his skin and clothing. The sound of the Sherman's tracks rolling over the muddy ground encompassed them. Patches of ice and snow still lined the feeble road. He stared ahead blindly, trusting Gordo to get them to the camp safely. The looks on those around him mirrored his own feelings. Everyone was exhausted. Everyone wanted real food. Everyone was tired of watching allies killed by fucking Tigers. 

 Everyone was sick of this shit. 

 They approached the camp. The cesspool that it looked like from far away became even more evident the closer they got. Half-demolished buildings with a dusting of snow were the only standing structures left of what used to be a quaint little town. Soldiers in grubby gear, rifle over their shoulders, ran around. From far away the sounds of artillery fire echoed. Don wondered who was dying now. 

"Boyd." He looked over at his gunner. "When we get parked, you go find an aid station. Get that hand looked at."

 "Yes, sir." The gunner held his injured hand against his chest, wrapped in a makeshift bandage. 

 After getting directions from a lieutenant, they found the tank squad on the other side of the town. Seeing the three other tanks gave the staff sergeant some hope. 

 "Boyd, medic. Gordo, fill 'er up. Grady, check that suspension. I don't like the way it sounds. Norman, find us some ammunition and where the hot chow is." Don barked out orders as everyone jumped off the tank. Replies of "yes, sir" made him nod, silently proud of his crew, before stalking towards where he assumed HQ was. 

 Soon enough he found the building, soldiers scurrying in and out, making the place look like an overturned ant hill. The glass on the store-front was still intact surprisingly, but the door was busted down leaving a gaping hole to walk through. Sliding past a private who looked barely eighteen coming out, he entered the HQ to see a table set out in the middle with maps laid out, paper weights and bullets strewn about. 

 "Who you?" 

 The gravelly voice made him turn to his right, eyeing up the man sitting on a wingback chair. "Staff Sergeant Don Collier, commander of Fury, 66th Armored Regiment, 2nd Armored Division."

 The man exhaled, smoke slipping between his thin lips, cigarette hanging precariously. "Ah, Wardaddy, eh? Right, come on." He stood up and waved Don over to the table. "Captain Evans. What's your status?"

 Don eyed the man, he seemed far too relaxed for being in a war zone. Then again, his greying hair and beard and those sharp eyes made him briefly wonder if this Captain Evans had been in the Great War. Maybe this was easier compared to trenches? Either way, it was nice to see someone in charge for once that looked like they were actually old enough to shave. Fuck knew too many kids were running around with rifles now, having just gotten out of bootcamp. Don wanted nothing to do with them. 

 "We secured the town here," he pointed at the map, "left 86th Infantry to hold. Then my guys and two other tanks were sent here."

 Captain Evans stared at the maps, mind clearly seeing how best to utilize them. "You and two tanks, eh?"

 "Yeah. Ran into a tiger though. Now it's just my guys."

 His bushy eyebrows shot up, even those around the table quieted down with the news. "Just you?" At Don's nod, the Captain tapped his fist on the table. "Damn those tigers. Alright, good to have you here, Don. We're waiting on some intel before sending you out. You and your guys get some chow and rest. Come back and see me in the morning."

 "Yes, sir." Don nodded and walked out of the building, relieved they were not being sent out right away. 

 As he walked down the filthy, cobbled street, he could feel the shakes beginning in his hands. Quickly, he stepped onto a side street, hoping no one would notice him. Leaning back against the brick wall of the building, he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets before anyone could see them shaking. Memories of the fight from yesterday replayed in his mind without permission. The tiger easily destroyed the rest of his platoon. In a matter of minutes, him and his crew were alone. Ten men. They had lost ten men. Good men...well mostly good. There was that one asshole in Edward's squad no one would miss.

 War took the best and worst; death it’s equally possessive lover.  

 Hands slightly fumbling, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The lighter took a few clicks before catching. With the inhale, the nicotine and smoke settled in his lungs beautifully. He closed his eyes, letting the cigarette help calm his nerves and try to erase the memories of his platoon. They were dead now. It did no good to dwell on it. 

 After several minutes his hands finally stilled. Running a hand through his hair, he pushed off the building and headed out to find his crew. He glanced around wondering the likelihood of finding a roof and real beds for his guys tonight. They deserved it. Especially after all this shit. His own back cried out for a reprieve from sleeping on the hard ground. 

 Yeah, he would figure out something. Even if he had to toss some goddamn young Privates out into the stained snow. 

 *****

 "Nurse Cooper! You can handle this!" 

 She pushed the flyaway strands of auburn hair out of her face as she walked past the injured, following the voice of Doctor Erickson. The cries, screams and whimpers of the injured and dying no longer affected her. Or at least that was what she told herself. At least this field hospital had separate areas based on severity and a roof over the top.

 She had worked in far worse conditions before. 

 She nodded to the tall, blond doctor who barely gave her a passing glance as he shoved past her, away from injuries he deemed lesser than what he should be focusing his attention on. 

 A man sat on the edge of a cot, cradling his hand in his lap, which was wrapped up like a mummy. He was not screaming or swearing, so she took that as a good sign. His eyes were closed, lips moving silently like he was praying, a thick mustache twitching with every movement. He looked like he could only be a couple years older than her own twenty-three years.

 "What's your name, soldier?" She stood in front of him, wiping her hands on the stained apron she wore over her equally stained dress. Once they had both been white; now, the apron and dress were a patchwork of stains from blood, dirt and other questionable fluids she chose not to think of. 

 He looked up, his brown eyes meeting her blue in surprise. "Boyd Swan, ma'am. Those in my crew call me Bible though. " 

 "Well, Boyd, mind if I take a look at your hand?" She perched on a stool as he offered up his hand. Quickly, she unwrapped it to see the damage with a gentle but methodical touch. A long laceration bled across the palm and past the wrist, thankfully not deep. Honestly, looking it over, it was kind of a miracle it was not worse. 

 "Well, you're lucky, Boyd. Any deeper and you might have lost use of your hand. You might have some nerve damage; I do not think immobility is a concern at this point. I think we can get away without stitches if you can promise me you'll keep your hand bandaged and try not to use it."

 "It's not luck, He's looking out for me and my crew." He pointed a finger on his other hand skyward. 

 "Yes, He certainly was. Let me grab some new bandages." She grabbed some cleaning solution and bandages for the man. The sooner she finished with him, the less likely there would be concern for infection. If she guessed, it would appear the injury happened at the earliest maybe yesterday. More than enough time for it to become infected. Though her training had taught her to ask and determine when the injury occurred, lately she found herself hating that question. It always led into a story and hearing even more of the horrors these men faced. Her mind had enough memories of blood and guts to fuel nightmares for a hundred years. If she could refrain from hearing others’ memories, she found herself choosing too.

 The other reason she wanted to finish with him soon was to open up the bed he currently sat on, in case a worse injury came in. Luckily there had not been a large-scale fight in a week so they only had trickles of men coming in instead of waves of dying men. 

 "You a religious woman?" 

 She looked up from cleaning his hand to meet his earnest eyes. "I guess. I don't pray like I used to."

 He hummed. "I can respect that. I suspect you've seen plenty of death."

 Not wanting to remember all the faces of young men she had slaved over, only for them to die under her care, she changed the subject. "Why do they call you Bible?"

 "I'm always reading the Bible... I reckon that's where it started. I stopped trying to convert those heathens in my tank. I pray for their souls though. Always will." His voice trailed off quietly, but the fondness in it was unmistakable. 

 "You're a good man, Boyd."

 He nervously chuckled, looking away for a moment with the sound of his foot tapping repeatedly on the ground. "No, I'm just doing the Lord's work. That's all."

 "Well, I'm done." Smiling at him, she pushed back slightly. It was nice to have a patient not screaming at her or leering. There were too many of those men as of late. "Do you know your orders yet?"

 "No, ma'am. We just rolled in an hour ago."

 "Alright, if you're still here tomorrow I'd like to take a look at your hand again in the morning."

 "I can do that." 

 "Good. Go rest up now, find some food. You earned it." She stood up, holding the soiled cloths, ready to move on to the next patient or task. 

 "I will.” He rose along with her, clearly understanding the dismissal. "Oh ma'am, what's your name?" 

 For a moment she hesitated to share her name. Normally she preferred the men to call her Nurse Cooper. From past experience, if she told them her name, they seemed to think she was interested in them. Yet with this man, she found herself wanting to share her name. He was kind and respectful. There were no gut feelings scaring her away from him. "Anna. I'm Anna Cooper."

 "Pleasure to meet you, Anna Cooper. You need anything, you let me know, right?"

 She was unsure how he could help her. Depending on his orders she might never see him again, but she nodded to humor him. "Sure. It was lovely to meet you too, Boyd."

 With a parting smile from both, she hurried to the back of the building where they kept the large tub for boiling cloths. She grimaced when she noticed how low the water was. That meant she would have to go to the river soon. A shiver shot through her at the anticipated cold awaiting her outside. Thankfully most of the snow had melted already but winter’s chill still clung possessively to the air. Plus, it did not help how easily cold sunk into her bones. Back home her family would tease her about that fact. Here, on the edge of the front lines, it only made her life more difficult.

 Before Doctor Erickson found a reason to yell at her, she headed back out to assist in whatever way possible. Her conversing with Boyd was her first positive interaction in a few days besides with the few others nurses stationed at the field hospital. She hoped he was not sent away too soon. 

[cha-melodius]

The Definition of Madness Chapter 1

Whumptober No. 22: Drugged

Fandom: The Man from UNCLE (2015)

Pairings: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo & Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller

Summary: They say the definition of madness is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

Or, Illya gets stuck in a very whumpy time loop.

Ao3 Link

*****

You're ready for a new round Don't it look like it's gonna be fun, be fun Up from the floor on the count of ten Oh you get up, you get down and you try it again

“Fuck!”

Illya sits bolt-upright in his bed at the safehouse, and it’s barely another heartbeat before he has his gun in his hand and is ripping open the door to his bedroom. Have they been discovered? Is the safehouse compromised? Are they being attacked?

Instead he finds Napoleon in the kitchen muttering a litany of colorful swears under his breath as he holds his left hand under the tap. Gaby joins Illya in the doorway only moments later, the expression on her face a somewhat odd mix of concern and irritation.

“I take it we’re not being attacked?” she asks through a yawn, pushing errant strands of hair out of her face.

Napoleon looks up at them and winces, looking almost sheepish. “Ah, no. I didn’t expect the handle of that pan to be that hot.”

“Hmph,” Gaby huffs, then immediately turns around to return to her room.

“You had to be up anyway!” Napoleon calls after her, but whatever she grumbles back is unintelligible.

Illya steps closer to the sink and sees an angry red welt on Napoleon’s palm. His partner hisses softly as the cool water splashes over the burn, and Illya moves past him to the freezer, which has thankfully been stocked.

“You don’t make a very good alarm clock, Cowboy,” Illya says as he hands him a bag of frozen vegetables.

“So very sorry about that, Peril,” Napoleon bites out sarcastically. He squeezes his eyes shut, mumbling under his breath when he presses the makeshift ice pack to his hand. “God damn cheap pans without properly insulated handles.”

Humming softly at Napoleon’s grumbling, Illya goes to get the medical supplies that typically only come out after a job, thank you very much. There’s some burn cream inside, he knows, and he tosses the whole thing at Napoleon, who just manages to catch it with his uninjured hand.

“Better not have to save your ass today because of that,” Illya mutters at him before he goes to get himself ready. He’s already dressed, because he tends to sleep fully clothed before missions, but he still needs to gather the rest of his tactical gear and weapons. Plus, he really doesn’t want to listen to Napoleon complain, which is currently what he’s doing based on the curses drifting in from the next room.

By the time he reemerges Napoleon is still fumbling with gauze as he tries to bandage the wound one-handed. For a moment Illya considers going over to assist him, but then he seems to have actually gotten it anyway as he rips the medical tape with his teeth and shoves everything else back into the bag.

“Wouldn’t want you to actually help,” Napoleon accuses, glaring at him.

Illya just shrugs. “You seem to have done fine.”

Napoleon narrows his eyes at Illya and huffs, but he’s caught: either he protests this statement and admits that no, he did need Illya’s help, or he accepts the backhanded compliment and tacitly admits that Illya was right. Illya just manages to suppress a smug smirk, but only because he’d actually like to eat some of the omlet that Napoleon put together that morning.

Sure enough, Napoleon grabs the offending pan (with an oven mitt this time, Illya notes) and divides the eggs inside into three portions, then wordlessly pushes one of the plates across the counter toward Illya. They eat in silence, standing at the counter, while Gaby bangs around in the other part of the safehouse. Illya watches out of the corner of his eye as Napoleon flexes his hand experimentally, wincing as he does.

It’s definitely not a good development. Illya considers suggesting that they put the mission off for a few days, or that Napoleon hang behind, but he knows that neither will go over well. Napoleon is as stubborn as anyone Illya has ever known—the way he pushed himself to the limit almost immediately after coming out of Rudy’s chair had driven that home early in their working relationship—and he will certainly dismiss a small burn on his non-dominant hand as trivial.

Besides, he doesn’t need to say anything. When Gaby finally reappears she’s wearing her own tactical gear and a surly frown. “Don’t you think you should probably stay back today?” she asks Napoleon.

“What?” he answers, looking confused, like he’s already forgotten about the injury. She looks pointedly at his bandaged hand, and he waves her off. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. I’ve worked through much worse.”

Gaby looks skeptical, but she, too, knows that it’s not worth arguing with him about. Instead she eats her portion of the eggs, still frowning as Napoleon leaves the kitchen to finalize his own preparations for the mission.

“You’re ok with this?” she asks Illya.

“Not really,” he shrugs. “But he’s not going to listen to me.”

Gaby tilts her head, giving him a shrewd look he doesn’t really understand. “He might.”

“He won’t,” Illya insists. They stare at each other for a moment, and Illya has the uncomfortable feeling that she is evaluating him in some way. “If he says he can work through it, I trust him. I trust him not to endanger the mission or our lives.”

These are words he could not have imagined speaking only a year ago, but spending that much time with someone, and trusting them with your life as many times as he has, certainly changes your perspective.

“What about his own?” Gaby asks, arcing a brow at him quizzically.

Illya doesn’t have an answer to that question

The compound they’re infiltrating is halfway up a mountain with only a single, narrow road leading to it, so they have no choice but to approach overground. The climb takes all day, and Illya would find it all surprisingly pleasant—it’s a beautiful day, and the views are stunning—if it weren’t for the fact that he knows at the end of it they’ll be walking into a highly dangerous situation. Dusk is just beginning to fall when they approach the fencing around the sector they’ve identified as the best access point. Illya’s CO2 laser makes short work of the chain link, and they slip inside without tripping any alarms.

It’s far more deserted than they expected, which should be a good thing but instead just makes a sense of unease settle into Illya’s bones. But there’s no way their targets could know that UNCLE was coming, no way they could have seen the team’s approach. It is more likely that they’re just overly confident in their mountain fortress, such as it were, and not expecting the infiltration.

At least, this is what Illya keeps telling himself as they make their way deeper into the compound, and his feelings of disquiet only grow.

The plan was to split up—the compound is huge, and they have only a vague idea of where the data they are looking for might be kept—and there’s no way to change that now. They pause at the chosen rally point and nod silently to each other, and then Illya’s partners fade into the darkness surrounding them.

Right. Search his sector, back to the rally point in 30 minutes. 

He should have turned around the minute he found a buildng inexplicably sitting where none had been marked on the map. He should have turned around when his nose had been assulted by harsh chemical odors the moment he slipped inside. He should definitely have turned around when his vision started going just a bit fuzzy and his hearing dulled like there was cotton in his ears.

But the building seems empty, and if their targets are working on chemical weapons UNCLE needs to know, and so he does not turn around until he hears a soft tread behind him.

The man standing there regards him curiously, like he’s not alarmed at all to find a giant, heavily armed, Russian spy in his facility. Dimly, Illya thinks he knows why. He can feel his grip loosening on his rifle, can feel himself slowing until it feels unmistakably like he’s moving through some kind of thick porridge.

“Intriguing,” the man says, and his voice sounds like it is coming from a great distance.

Illya wonders how he’s not affected by whatever is hanging in the air, clogging Illya’s lungs and making it increasingly difficult to breathe. He knows he needs to move, to get out of here, to get back to the rally point and try to warn his team, but it is becoming obvious that it’s going to be impossible. At least he can hope that by distracting them here, Napoleon and Gaby can get out.

“Go collect the others,” the man tells someone that seems to be just outside of Illya’s field of view. “We may need them for leverage.”

Someone tugs the rifle out of Illya’s hands, then pulls his wrists together and binds them roughly behind his back. A moment later his legs are kicked savagely from behind and he lands hard on his knees on the concrete floor, but the pain only manages to be a dull throb through the fog in his mind. His vision continues to narrow until all he can see is the man standing in front of him, silhouetted by a blinding white light pouring through an open door. Then the light is blocked in part by more figures coming through it, and oh, no, it cannot be.

Surely they did not get the drop on both of his partners. Surely this is some kind of hallucination.

With one, final burst of strength, Illya struggles futiliy against the bindings and feels the rope dig sharply into his wrists. It’s no good. He bends forward, gasping for breath in air that feels as thick as pea soup, and blacks out.

Next Chapter

[doof-doofblog]

"Do You Really Think You Can Live With That? Do You?!"

Tuesday 16th February 2021

Hello again everyone! Hope you're all having a good week! As promised, I'm making sure I catch up completely so by the time tonight's episode (Thursday) is aired, I'll be able to review that tomorrow morning! That way I'm all up to date along with the rest of you! There's quite a lot going on in the soap at the minute, I'm really looking forward to seeing which direction the storylines will go! Monday's episode ended with a bit of a surprise - Phil and Kat?! Let's see if things follow up from that! Anyway let's jump straight into Tuesday's episode.

The first thing I'm going to focus on is Ash and Peter! So the episode begins with them returning from a night out, it looks as if they've been out all night drinking, as much as Peter is eager to keep fun going, Ash is adamant that she wants to go home as she's beginning to feel really rough. However, once again Peter still attempts to hit on her, I don't know about you guys, but is anyone else finding Peter, I don't know a bit, desperate? She jokes that even if he was to run around the Square naked, she still wouldn't be interested in him, but then her innocent joke turns out to be a bet, something which Peter decides to go through with. Later on when Ash is home sobering up, she receives a knock on the door. to her shock Peter is stood on her front door step, wearing a cape and joking gear, however, taking her up on her bet he decides to strip down to nothing, wearing only the cape and jog around the Square. Of course the locals, including Ash and Stacey enjoy watching the show Peter puts on for them, personally - I found it cringeworthy - I don't know, some people might've found it funny, I mean as respectable as the way it was filmed, I just found it cringey! But the one part I did find hilarious was when Peter got so far and actually ended up falling flat on his face! I have to admit, I did laugh out loud when that happened, not meaning to be harsh! It eventually becomes clear that Peter has really injured his head, so Ash takes it upon himself to rush him to the hospital, however this decision soon becomes her biggest mistake.

Whilst Peter is getting seen too, the nurse is constantly getting interrupted to handle other situations, Peter notifies that he's in agony and begs Ash to give him the morphine he's been prescribed. However, Ash knows full well she's not supposed to as she's not on duty, but seeing her friend pleading for the pain relief, she actually gives him the dose of morphine. Unfortunately, she should've stuck to her guns and not given him the dose, a nurse returns and sees the medication has been used, clearly someone has tampered with it or giving it to Peter without their knowledge. Peter claims to have done it to himself, but the nurse isn't convinced, Ash was the only one there who knew how to prescribe the morphine. Ash is in very very deep water right now, giving a patient medication, whilst not on duty, dressed in her pyjamas and also smelling of alcohol, this is not going to look good on her records. She ends up being suspended and under investigation! Peter has now caused his friend to be in deep trouble. I really don't know about you guys, but I really hope that Peter and Ash do not become a couple, I think Ask could do so much better than him! What do you guys think? Am I being unfair or do you maybe think the same thing? I've love to hear your thoughts!

--

The second thing I need to talk about is Iqra! I really do feel for her going through all this, knowing that her girlfriend lied to her and that her sister has now moved away and is pregnant with someone who is stuck in prison for something he didn't do! But since finding out the truth, knowing that Ruby was also involved with the attack against Martin, Iqra is finding it really difficult to keep quiet. Whilst in the Cafe, she happens to notice Martin walk in and attempting to be the polite neighbour she asks how is wife is, acknowledging that she hasn't seen his wife for a while, but when Martin mentions that Ruby isn't drinking at the moment, Iqra makes a joke asking whether or not she's pregnant, of course the look on Martin's face says it all and Iqra is surprised to hear the news, she congratulates him regardless. Martin begs her not to say anything as it's early days in the pregnancy and no one else knows, as Martin makes a quick exit, Vinny appears and approaches Iqra as she's sat alone, she tries to appeal to her good nature, trying to persuade her not to give up on Ash, he understands her disappointment for being lied to, but pleads her not to punish Ash for standing by her family and for something that actually he did instead of her. As much as it hurts her, there's a brief look she gives that looks as if that she's think that what Vinny is saying is true, all Ash was doing was really looking out for her family, regardless of the horrendous outcome. Later on as she's leaving the Cafe, she happens to witness the events taking place in the Square, (Peter running around naked), as she watches on she notices Ash from across the Square cheering Peter on. Iqra knows that she can't see herself getting back with Ash, there's too much water under the bridge and she appears to be moving on anyway, it's blatantly obvious that Ash and Peter have been flirting and Ash has done nothing to stop Peter's advances towards her. Iqra decides to escape the scene in front of her and head to the Vic.

Later she happens to spot both Ruby and Martin. It looks as if enough is enough for Iqra, why should Ruby enjoy what she's got while she knows her loved ones are having to suffer, especially considering that Ruby is to blame for everything. She discreetly congratulates Ruby on her pregnancy news, however Ruby looks mortified. Martin informs her that Iqra guessed, it's then that Iqra drops quite few hints regarding that fact that Habiba is pregnant and alone whilst Jags in prison. Ruby doesn't even bat an eyelid, informing her that her family issues has nothing to do with her. Interestingly, Martin mentions that he's glad that Jags is prison, of course from his point of view his children could've lost their Dad becomes of what he did - ONLY JAGS DIDN'T DO IT!!! As Martin leaves the Vic, Ruby warns Iqra to stay out of her marriage, but Iqra knows that Ruby has gone way too far, eventually she gets the courage to confront Martin, visiting him at home, knocking on his door and revealing the truth, Ruby was to blame for his attack as she was the one who paid Vinny to rob the shop! It wasn't Jags who attacked him, it was Vinny, but Ruby is to blame just as much as he is! Will Martin believe Iqra? As far as I know, things aren't going to be looking good for Ruby, I believe her world is going to crumble around her. Do you think she'll deserve it? Will Martin confront his wife?! I'm really eager to see where things go from here!

--

The final thing I need to mention is Phil! So during the previous episode, we saw Max searching high for low for type of documents of some kind, eventually he found a memory stick which hold all the criminal past of Phil! In this episode, it becomes perfectly clear why Max is looking for information on Phil, he takes it upon himself to give him a visit. He warns him that he has ever piece of criminal history on him on that memory stick, blackmailing him, teasing him that the police would have a field day if they got their hands on it. Phil knows he has to act fast in order for him not to pass it on to the police, he questions what Max is after, asking him how much money he is wanting in exchange for the memory stick. But Max isn't interested in money, instead he drops the bombshell that he wants him to sign the papers of the Queen Vic over to Mick Carter. Of course, in Max's mind, he's doing this for Linda - if he can get Mick his pub back, then Linda will be free to leave her husband and have a life with him. Unfortunately, I can't see it going that way. Phil is stunned and claims that it's not that easy as it's Sharon's home, but Max also states that the police will also be interested in learning what they both did to Ian. It comes to Phil's realisation that Max isn't messing around, he could ruin them if he didn't follow his instructions. Max announces that he'll give him 24 hours to get the papers signed over to Mick, otherwise the police will come knocking. Phil, at this moment, is kind of stuck in a corner. As much as it hurts him, he knows he has to inform Sharon.

Poor Sharon has absolutely no idea what's been going on. I find it funny yet awkward and cute that Sharon is hopeful in getting back with Phil. As she's chatting away with Jean, Jean acknowledges that she and Phil belong together - obviously, both of them are completely unaware that Kat had slept with him the previous evening. As Kat thinks on her feet, unless it's the guilt that's starting to eat away at her, she attempts to be nice to Sharon, mentioning that she could do so much better than Phil, she's a good looking woman and could have any young stud man she wanted. However, Sharon seems to take her compliment completely the wrong way, suggesting that Kat is mentioning someone like Keanu, who we all know she had an affair with. Kat tries to apologise but Sharon is having none of it, the two powerful women clash and Kat storms out. As she does so, she notices Phil waiting at the bar, it's then she mentions to him that she'll be ready for round two whenever he will be. Do you think Phil and Kat could become a new couple? Will this be more than just a romp? Who knows? Eventually Sharon notices Phil waiting at the bar, as she approaches him he asks whether they can talk privately. Jean eyes Sharon in a hopeful sort of way, getting poor Sharon's hopes up, but unfortunately Phil has only arrived to deliver the bad news. She's furious to learn about Max's threats and voices her fears about losing the place she loves most. However, Phil tries his absolute best to make her understand that having the Vic will not replace Dennis, plus the pub was bought with bloody money, how will she be able to live with herself knowing that? At least if they sign over to Mick Carter, everything would be legal and completely above board.

Will Sharon agree to giving the pub back to the Carter's? She's already been threatened by Linda, now Max is also threatening to go to the police, it looks almost as if they have no choice. I'm sure Phil won't see Sharon out onto the streets, but it looks as if if they want to keep the police away, they're going to have to do what they're being asked. How else can they make this problem go away? Overall, a really good episode I thought! I'm really looking forward to seeing what happens next! I apologise for this post being late but I'll be back again tomorrow following Thursday's episode! Please feel free to leave me a comment or message, I'd love to hear your thoughts on any of the current storylines! Enjoy the rest of your day folks! Love you all xXx

[johannstutt413]

(requested by gamerwolf29)

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages!” The Doctor was standing in the middle of the dojo, cupping his hands to spread the sound better. “We have a very special demonstration for you today! In the red corner, the battlin’ boxer who’ll knock your lights out UNLESS you’ve got the goods. It’s our fish-snatching honeysucker come down from the Underground, BEEEEEEEHUNTER!”

“Alright, let’s do this!” Beehunter was in her usual gear, minus the brass knuckles.

The Announcer (a new role of his) directed the crowd of enthused Operators to her opponent. “And in the blue corner, the grandmaster and heir of an ancient style who’s renowned for her work both on and off the battlefield; normally, she’s packing a pair of metal gauntlets, but tonight, the gloves are coming off! It’s the powerhouse panda who’ll leave you black and white all over, FEEEEEEEEAAAAAter!”

“Thanks for the invite!” She was bouncing on her toes, at least as excited about this matchup as Beehunter was, although she’d decided to wear a more traditional outfit. “This is gonna be exciting!”

“I don’t doubt that one bit. Alright, we’re closing off betting, so once Swire’s given me the thumbs-up...Let’s get this show on the road! One round, fight until your opponent either gives out or gives up. 3...2...1...LET’S RUMBLEEEEEEEE!!!!”

The reason the Doctor called this a special demonstration was obvious from the moment their fists met the first time; Beehunter was a master of the tavern-brawler’s style, using whatever tricks were available to leave her opponents knocked senseless, while FEater, despite her reputation, had not only received classical training, but real combat experience had honed her into a precise weapon with an encyclopedic knowledge of the ways the Universal Fist could bring her opponent to their knees. In theory, this was the ultimate battle of nature versus nurture, instinct versus intellect, and some of the crowd had shown up just to see which would win out.

Most, however, had simply seen the posters Deepcolor had drawn about a no-holds-beared fistfight between the two Operators best known for exercising their right to bear arms while refusing to bear arms, and the number of puns the Doctor had crammed into his marketing pitch had impressed enough people that word had spread like wildfire. If they’d had a proper ring, they could have gotten Siege to dress up and hold the round cards and made this a proper MMA match, but for their purposes? It was probably better this way.

All-in-all, it took Beehunter five minutes of brutal hand-to-hand to finally win the fight, much to the surprise and delight of the audience. Both of them were bruised to hell and back, but Gavial was there to fix them up after the fight (not intentionally, just because she was the Medic most interested with events like this), and once they could both walk off the field of battle, the Doctor and a couple volunteers worked on cleaning things up for the next event (a sparring match between Ch’en and Texas) while the bear-knuckled brawlers went to the locker room.

“Man, that was something!” Beehunter was floating on air after her victory, but she knew how close it’d been. “I mean, I knew from your movies you could fight, but getting to actually feel it was amazing! And some of those takedowns - if you had those gloves on, I would’ve totally died!”

“I’m really impressed you took that fight, Bee. I knew you were good, too, but you totally outdid your reputation out there. Aaaah, I just wished we could’ve done a full three rounds!” FEater was pumped up, too - it didn’t matter who won the fight in the end, what mattered was how incredible the journey had been all the way to the end.

The grizzled veteran nodded. “Yeah, that would’ve- hey, we could, though, couldn’t we?”

“Oh, I wish,” FEater sighed. “I can’t do it today, but maybe later this week?”

“Aww, you’re not up for one now?”

She smirked. “Right now?”

“Yeah, why not?” Bee grinned; they’d both changed out of their clothes and were heading to the showers. “We did it back in the Underground all the time! Some of my best fights happened in baths.”

“Alright, let’s do this, then.” FEater and Beehunter went to the back, where a wall of showerheads were set up, and turned on every other head.

Once everything was set up, the grizzly counted off. “Alright, three, two, one, go!”

“Hyah!” The panda charged forward, only to trip in the middle of the attack; she landed her shot, but instead of a punch, she accidentally tackled Bee to the ground. Neither of them were hurt that much, but FEater’s head was firmly lodged in her opponent’s chest for a few moments. She sat up once she came to her senses, breathing heavily. “Is that going to happen a lot?”

“Yeah, probably. Still wanna do it?” Beehunter was no longer focused on the fight.

FEater followed her eyes and chuckled. “Eyes up here, Bee.”

“I’ve made my choice,” she smiled back. “Which of us is bigger, though...”

“I think I have a better idea for what we can do while we’re here,” the panda announced, crawling hand-and-knee back to Beehunter.

Her target sat up, arching her back. “Oh do you now?”

“Yep!” FEater went straight from her crawl to wrapping her arms around Bee’s neck, pulling her head into her chest with a giggle. “I may not be able to top you in a fight, but I bet I can have you screaming ‘Uncle.’”

“You’re on, starlet!” Beehunter pushed her back, and the rest...is probably a bit too steamy for this Tumblr blog.

[imzadi-caskett-huddy]

House, M.D. Fanfic (6/?)

Thank you to everyone who has taken time to leave a note on my story. I hope you continue to enjoy my kind of rewrite and/or additions to certain episodes! As always, I don't own House. If I did, Lisa Edelstein would have gotten the respect she deserved contact wise for a season 8.

As stated in previous chapters, the story follows the big picture laid out on the show, but with my own take on things. This chapter has Cuddy getting House to come back to work.

Thanks to @love-hope-faith-feels-like-a-lie for reading my ideas and providing positive feedback! Anything in the way of feedback is always appreciated! Enjoy!

"Wake up and come run with me," she murmured, gently nudging his chest.

He grumbled and simply tried to pull the covers back over his head as he snuggled back into her bed. Since the shooting, less and less nights had been spent alone, and more nights had been spent together. He discovered that he really liked sleeping in her bed. It was softer than his... and it smelled like her.

"House, get up. The therapist said you're ready."

He cracked an eye open. "It's still dark outside, woman. You kept me up all night giving you orgasms... let me sleep..." he mumbled.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "And if you want to keep giving me orgasms, you better get your ass out of my bed and into some running shoes so you can accompany me on my morning run."

Growling lowly, he pushed himself up slightly. "Anyone ever told you that you would make an excellent dominatrix?"

She flipped the light on then, causing him to cover his eyes and growl again, which only elicited a laugh from her. "Not as often as they call you an ass."

He very begrudgingly got dressed and stretched... well, mostly watched her stretch. He was content running a bit behind her. It meant he got a great view of her ass in tight pants to keep him focused.

She was even okay with him running behind because it meant she could set the pace and push him a little. She would take it slow at first, but the therapist had assured her that he was more than ready for this, that he actually needed to do it to prove to himself that he could. And she was just the person to kick his ass into gear to achieve it.

Every few blocks and each time before she would increase the pace, she would look back to make sure he was still doing ok. The last time when it looked like he was slowing down, she turned to run backward. "Come on, House. I know you can keep up with me. Stop being a wimp, we're almost back to my house."

He wasn't a quitter by any means, but this was the furthest he'd run in years. "Give me a break... this is further than I've gone in therapy. I'm just going to walk back."

She shook her head. "If you beat me back to the house, I'll let you shower with me," she offered her prize before turning back around and taking off. That should motivate him.

Damn that woman. She knew exactly how to get what she wanted from him. He took a deep breath and had to push himself to catch up to her. He did manage to beat her back to her front door, a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he caught his breath. "Looks like you're sharing your shower."

She laughed softly, leaning against the door for a moment as she caught her breath. "Looks like I am." Even though she had slowed down a bit to allow him to pass her. He needed the win, and it wasn't like she was really losing even if he beat her.

He knew she'd slowed down on purpose. He knew she was trying to push him, trying to show him that he was better. He loved that about her. What she did wasn't out of pity; there wasn't a moment in her life that she pitied him. She made him better, made him stronger, was constantly pushing him to be better than he was. She didn't allow him to just be satisfied with the status quo. She made him put in the work. And he respected that... respected the hell out of her, despite what his actions at the hospital would lead people to believe.

She arched an eyebrow as he kept staring at her. "You know, if you move so we can go shower, you won't have to keep trying to see through my sweaty top... because it will be gone," she pointed out, opening her door then so they could go inside.

He chuckled softly. "You let me win."

"I did not."

"Come on, you've been kicking my ass all morning. And you're the most competitive person I know aside from myself. You're going to suddenly just slow down and let me take the win without putting up a fight?"

She studied him for a moment. "You're right. I did let you win," she admitted with a shrug as she headed toward her bedroom. "Are you going to collect your prize, or not?"

"Hell yeah I am. I still won," he followed her. He wasn't above cheating to win, and she knew that. He wasn't stupid enough to turn down a shower with her either.

She laughed at that. "Then hurry up. Unlike some people on medical leave, I actually have to be at work." With that she disappeared into the bathroom.

Almost an hour later she was standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a towel wrapped around her, wiping steam off the glass. She couldn't help but smile as he moved behind her, not bothering with a towel to dry off, his lips moving along her bare shoulder as he pulled her back against him.

"House, you're getting me all wet," she complained, but she didn't put up much of a fight to stop him.

He smirked at her words. "I'm good at getting you wet," he murmured lowly in her ear.

She rolled her eyes at that. "Not what I meant," she moved to grab a towel and handed it to him with a smile. "Dry off. Get dressed. And come back to work."

He just stared at her for a moment. That had come out of left field completely. "I haven't been medically released yet."

She grinned slowly. "Your doctor just gave you a very thorough exam. She clears you for full duty."

He narrowed his eyes. "I'm still healing," he tried to insist.

"House, it's been 8 weeks. You just had sex in the shower after running almost 8 miles. Your wounds have healed, your leg is fine. You're coming back to work," she stated simply, patting his chest lightly before heading into her bedroom to get dressed.

His eyes followed her, and he slowly smiled after a moment. She had played him perfectly, and not once had he seen it coming. He was impressed.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Emily's Awakening, Part Two

The memory of Julian tore Emily out of the here and now. Time stood still as their shared past flashed back to her.

Julian was the once in a lifetime kind of blend of genius, compassion, and peak physical perfection, all rolled into one incredible package.

Emily had known him from high school, though they were only loosely acquainted in those more innocent years. It wasn’t until much later, right when she had graduated from Berkeley, that she bumped into him again. Similar to how she remembered him from high school years—when he was basically the football jock who also happened to have his head screwed on right and was writing good grades as well—he was now a successful plastic surgeon in L.A. and had stayed in shape.

She was in the middle of getting her feet wet in the journalistic field, and drinking in a hotel bar to get over the rejection letter she had received from the Los Angeles Times. He exited from a doctor’s convention that he was attending there and instantly recognized her, even after all those years. They chatted, hit it off big time, and kicked off a turbulent phase of dating each other, filled with a lot of laughter and fiery passion.

Now he was dead. A ghost in her mind.

Julian was a generous guy, affluent due to both his work and his wealthy parents, well-connected—he had it all. His family didn’t like Emily, but it didn’t matter to either of them. He was a gentleman, vowed to have her back, and always lived up to his word.

Four months in, she decided that she wanted to surprise him by asking him to get engaged. But he didn’t show up for dinner. Or come home that night. Or arrive at work the next day. He had just vanished from the face of the earth. Nobody knew why, though worries grew amongst everybody close to Julian.

Even while she was worried sick, Emily was one of the prime suspects once enough time had passed and cops had gotten in on the case. She did her own part to find him, flexing her reporter muscles, but to no avail. Nothing added up and not a single clue pointed to his whereabouts.

Eventually, Julian’s body showed up. His parents and Emily identified his remains. Cops found the right culprit, too. A real whackjob D-list celebrity whom Julian had refused to operate any more on—she freaked out, murdered him, and kept him in her trunk for the whole week.

Even though the circumstances of his death were a major cogwheel in the chaos machine of what jaded Emily over the course of her life, she refused to let Julian’s horrible death ever overshadow the time they had shared together. She really loved Julian, because he was the only person who ever appreciated her—all edges and flaws and everything. He really got her—her strange sense of humor, how she only acted mean to keep people at an arm’s length—and they would laugh about inside jokes that nobody else in the world could ever even hope to understand.

She quit smoking for him. He always said that he didn’t like seeing her smoke because he thought the vice would make her leave this world sooner, and he couldn’t bear that thought. She started smoking again soon after he died, but she always refused to think about the why.

Julian was one of several people who shaped who she became—a driven woman, an unstoppable force of nature. One of the many undeserving, innocent victims mangled in the meat-grinder of a shitty, merciless world. But he was the one she cherished the most.

No partner before Julian was ever comparable, and she hadn’t been on the lookout ever since. Emily was convinced that it was the once in a lifetime thing. That she would never find such love ever again.

That bubble of time burst. Just popped back out of existence.

Here she was, still in front of that security guard whose frame reminded her of Julian.

Tall, broad-shouldered, probably worked out every day. Jawline that could cut glass. Definitely some eerily reminiscent facial features, too.

Part of it made her feel soft. It helped fuel that smile she flashed at the guard to the back entrance of the Estoria Pacific; helped conceal the things lurking underneath her facade—the darkness she harbored in her soul. Then she remembered what she was here to do.

The gears went off, grinding furiously behind her head, and she was grounded in reality once more. She pushed the memories back—both the pleasant and the unpleasant ones.

No more Julian. No more Vicky, Hal, Gloria. No more Tran—the hazy, drunken memory from the previous night returned to her in a flash. How many more times did she have to visit a morgue and ID a corpse? No more.

No more.

The guard gave no response to Emily’s query. He simply opened the door, stepped aside, and let her in. Another guard awaited her inside. Latino fellow; dressed similarly but shorter and much less handsome, equally silently—he nodded to her and motioned to follow him.

She caught a glimpse of a beautiful hall through kitchen corridors, being prepared for a party to come some time later. Exquisite meals were being prepared, crates loaded, waffles and cream made from scratch for cakes. Nobody here spat in the food, everyone wore a hair net and gloves. People paid well for the grub, and the patrons received quality service.

Who owned this place? That was one thing that eluded Emily’s investigation. Estoria Pacific never published any articles that would interview the club owners. It was common knowledge that there was a board of directors, a sort of a group of elite founders—likely wealthy investors. But they stayed out of newspapers and issued statements through the Club’s spokesman; some PR monkey who wasn’t in the savvy of anything.

Emily tensed up, and remembered one of her most valuable lessons: breathe. She let her eyes do the sweeping, not the head. The reporter found her steady rhythm in breathing, in a swaying stride filled with swagger.

She followed the second guard down corridor after corridor. She knew she was out of place. But she belonged here, now; more than anybody else.

She held her chin up high, burning inside—a cocktail of a hangover countered with pain medications and cheap booze, blending with excitement over the case finally going somewhere, anywhere—and the sweet, sweet cherry of impending victory sitting on top.

But something else, too. Something familiar, something she had to fight back. Something she hadn’t felt since the trafficking story. Something that made her think of Tran again. The pale corpse of Tran on the cold slab in the morgue.

That something she felt was fear.

The guard led Emily all the way down to storage warehouses, where she was handed off to yet another guard. This one took her under the mezzanine down into the freezers. Things looked less and less like a club and more and more like a cold and unforgiving facility. The doors started looking less polished, more metal, rustic, bulletproof—until eventually things became seedy enough to send a chill down her spine.

The guard was joined by another guard, deeper in the underbelly of the facility—a big bald giant of a man, this one without a club uniform suit, looking more like an actual gangster. His gun’s grip stood out from a chest holster in plain view. Just like the previous guys, he didn’t spare a single word for Emily, nor did he react to her in any way, merely doing his job of showing her to where she belonged.

They led her down another flight of stairs, and the gangster-looking fellow opened a double-lock and then removed a chain off of a steel cage door. This portal separated whatever this was where she was, from whatever lay hidden within. Likely an increased security facility.

A sinking suspicion filled Emily’s mind, giving her the impression that she had wound up somewhere completely different in the city—somewhere not even under the club anymore.

At one point, she registered a little sting of pain and found that she had dug her own fingernails deep enough into her palms to leave visible pink impressions.

She flashed a smile at the next guard as well. It was only honest—timid, clipped, and fading quickly from her lips—because she needed it more for herself. She needed it more to support her own confidence than she did to keep up any veneer of belonging.

Cages, cages, and cages of various sizes. Some were large enough to stand in, while others were obviously dog cages in which an adult human being could only be inside of them on all fours. Leashes with collars hung inside the cages. Dog bowls for food and water were set into every one of them. However, all cages were empty.

The whole place smelled of sweat and waste. A black man in a white wife beater was washing the floor, pushing murky mucky fluid down the many floor drains. There were hints of yellow and pink slop on the mop.

This was it.

The razor’s edge.

Just like when Emily walked into the trafficker dungeons. An icy cold gauntlet gripped her heart.

Like then, just like with the hit man in the Mancini mansion, she realized how she straddled the razor’s edge, balancing along that dangerously thin line between life and death.

Was the camera working? Would the government spooks be here in time to help her if and when anything went south? There was no telling and Emily felt more alone than ever before.

The lifeless body of Tran returned, creeping up on her in the back in her mind, haunting her through her inner eye. This time, however, it ignited something unfamiliar.

This was for her. This was for them. This was for all the victims, both the ones she knew and the ones she’d never know. This was bigger than herself. This was what she was meant to do; where she was meant to be.

Emily inhaled sharply but quietly and her nostrils flared.

A door on the other end of the room of cages was so thick that it could be rightfully called a vault door. It bore the makings of something made up to submarine standards. At least six inches thick, and looking heavy by the body language of another guard opening it with a grunt. He struggled to release the locks, and a familiar hiss of military grade machinery released the hydraulics.

The door was insulated, possibly pressurized. Small round window set into it, nautical in appearance. Through it, Emily perceived the silhouettes of people standing in near darkness. The door opened fully, and the big bald guard admitted her inside with a sweeping hand gesture.

She discovered a well decorated room, more in line with the poker rooms up in the club; centered around a wooden stage. Carpet floors, curtains, candles, tables. No foul smell here, which helped explain the unusual door.

This was an auction stage, clear as day. Around it, men in tuxedos and women in evening dresses were assembled in the dark. Everybody wore masks befitting a crowd at a Venetian carnival party or a certain movie by Stanley Kubrick.

A live classical band performed in the auction hall, humming away with their cello, bass, and two violins; orchestrating this odd event with quiet and non-intrusive live music. A few of the masked figures nearby looked back at Emily and the guards with her—more reactively, because the sound of the door’s hiss had distracted them from their subdued conversations.

The auctioneer, dressed in a red tux with a grinning devil’s mask on his face, addressed the crowd in a ceremonial festive voice.

Emily knew the type: this one sure mowed his lawn and had three kids, a dog, and a trophy wife. Probably donated often to charity.

“That certainly was an entertaining bid,” he almost sung. “Now, for our next prize. A beautiful exotic—I would say, extravagant item. Ladies and gentlemen, I guarantee it, whatever your taste, whatever your preference—this is not one to pass up. It will force you to fall in love. Coming to us from far away across the seas is—oh, welcome, we have newcomers. Welcome, welcome. Step right in, you’re right on time for the show.”

Regardless, Emily walked deeper inside. Her digits tingled; her nerves turned into iron strings so taut that you could play tense music on them, rising to a crescendo. Her mouth ran dry with a cottony feeling and she heard the blood rushing in her ears.

She hoped the camera was working. This was one of those things that nobody would believe if they only heard about it. You had to see it with your own eyes, and even then people would dispute the grainy recordings that accompany such scandalous discoveries.

She observed some of the masked guests, looking out for clues that might let her recognize familiar features and famous faces.

This was also the kind of crowd who had ways to silence you if you wanted to testify in court.

Accordingly, Emily knew she needed something concrete.

A waiter served her a mask on a platter with a glass of sparkling white wine. The mask depicted the stylized face of a gray rat, complete with long whiskers—Emily felt a pang of guilt when she got the sense that its mean expression and a crooked smile matched her common demeanor towards the world.

Slipping the mask on to shrug off that sinking feeling, she looked through the crowd some more and finally recognized a woman standing among the high society bidders, near the higher elevated seats, VIP row. This lady wore a black mask in the shape of a happy theatrical face, dressed the same way as Agent Laura Davidson, from the meeting on the bench in the plaza before.

Out of earshot of anybody, all the while glaring at “Agent Davidson,” Emily hissed under her breath, “Motherfucker.”

Every fiber in her body screamed at once—she knew things were about to end badly. But she had to see this through. She always had to.

She fought the urge to curse more and pretended to mingle, blending her way through the small crowd and raising her glass to her lips. But she didn’t take a sip, only tipping it lightly, feigning to drink from her glass.

The scent hit her nostrils with tantalizing sweetness, but she knew better. She was not drinking any of this shit.

The crowd parted around her and a spotlight transfixed itself on Emily.

“As I said gentlemen, a rat,” said the black-masked woman.

The crowd started chanting, “Rat, rat, rat, rat.”

“No matter your taste, no matter your preference, it is hard to pass up a good rat. Bring her up!”

The rat-masked Emily struggled against the plethora of strong hands and arms that suddenly seized her. She quickly found herself more easily shoved and carried onto the auction stage than she could kick and buck against them to stop this from happening.

The mountains of meat that were the guards holding her then bent her arms behind her back and forced her down onto her knees. With the flash of light bouncing off a knife, followed by the cutting sound of fabric, one of the goons harshly cut the front of her clothing open to expose her breasts.

Despite the chaos engulfing her, Emily spotted him in the crowd. He hadn’t been there all this time, but now he was. In the shadow, escaping the flood light. Invisible to the world around him.

The mysterious old homeless man from the night before.

His lips did not move but his words entered her mind, “When the world is a prison, there are those who are the prisoners, cursed with unknowing; and the jailers who hold the keys to their unseen cells. But what the jailers don’t know is that they themselves are also inmates. A prison built by inmates for inmates, happy to stay within the prison as they build it around themselves and cherish it. And they will do anything they can to maintain and stay on their thrones of shit within it.”

The old Wise Man watched Emily from the crowd. His presence and the voluminous words in her mind drowned out the auctioneer’s festive descriptions of her hair, face, body, and temper.

Bid flags flew up—almost everyone bid on Emily like she was some piece of meat.

From behind the two muscle-packed men forcing Emily into her kneeling position, a third one approached. He brought a glass of champagne to her lips and roughly forced it under the mask. He breathed into her left ear, “Drink.”

“The inmates and the wardens are the same—they know each other only by the rules they accept, out of fear of losing the prison and the illusion of power they hold within its confines,” the Wise Man’s words cut like knives through the void, reaching only Emily’s mind.

The blood rushing in her ears turned into the pounding of drums. It was the first time she had ever sensed what embers lay beneath, blistering with malicious heat. What slept there, crackling like a dying fire, hidden underneath the canvas of fear, was what lay deep at the heart of her deepest self.

A burning rage.

The fire roared into flames within, and it was not fear that paralyzed her, but the power of those forcing her down. Those who forced everybody down, making them small, treating them like objects.

Emily took a sip, then spat it right out; right into the face of the nearest goon who had forced her to drink. She thrashed and flailed and tried to wrestle free in the ensuing split seconds of confusion, but to no avail.

If she was to die here, what would become of her cats?

Is she was to die here, then everything here would burn with her. It was the oath she swore unspoken. Instead, through a string of profanities she spewed out, she sneered at her captors through gritted teeth, clenching her jaws until her gums bled, “You shit-heads are going to pay.”

A hard slap on the face made her ears and head ring—an indicator that her spitting the drink into someone’s face was successful and had gotten to that sack of shit. It was hard to see because the damned mask had slid up into a crooked position with the eye holes somewhere over her forehead. Who did she get?

Didn’t matter. Fuck him. Fuck ‘em all.

The rage inside of her drowned out whatever the announcer was saying and the crowd of this sick perverts murmured in response.

Then the crowd whistled and applauded, in what almost sounded like a polite and timid manner. Not like a football crowd—not a roar—but a calm, timid, amused applause. Bearing the gentlest “ooohs” and “aaahs,” as if her painful outburst was a nice touch of surprise to this whole deranged show.

“Ten thousand! Eleven! Eleven and a half! Twelve—thirteen thousand—fourteen anyone? Fourteen! I see fifteen, sixteen—really? Alright alright, let’s go straight to twenty? Twenty anyone? Twenty! Twenty one—twenty two,” the bids kept rising.

“Quell the rage. Its fire will consume you. Stay calm and you will not die,” Wise Man recited in her head, mirroring ancient mantras, blending them with her current situation.

With her nostrils flaring and her whole body trembling—with liquid fury pulsing through her veins—she listened to Wise Man. Emily focused. Wild thrashing wouldn’t cut it. It was all about the timing now. Finding the right opportunity and seizing it.

She refused to end up as the next pale lifeless body on the metal slab in some dark morgue. She owed it to everybody she had lost, and everybody who might be saved, no matter how little she may accomplish in this life.

Emily whispered to herself, finding an uncanny and almost foreign clarity deep within. It became a mantra as she repeated it, “Rat finds the way off the sinking ship.”

The men continued to strip her and then strap her hands together behind her back with cable ties. People came up on stage to enjoy her various aspects—in the way only psychopaths torturing animals would regard the creatures with a fascination detached from any semblance of empathy.

Focusing on Wise Man and her mantra, she tuned it all out. She detached from this reality. Her meditative mind—a mind steeled in cigarette smoke, drowned in bottomless whiskey glasses, subdued by numerous nightly joints—that jaded mind, that lack of innocence. This mental state protected her and kept her sane now.

She was okay with this. She was surviving.

Mirroring the immovable object that she had become, the Wise Man stood motionless, like a mirage in the crowd, the singular only figure standing still in the midst of a hurricane of animated beasts, in the middle of a pile of demented animals passing as humans.

He heard her whispers, her mantra. Only he.

Someone ripped her mask off. It tore her from the bubble, peeled away a layer of protection, but instead of the grim reality outside, Emily glimpsed something else.

She found herself entirely elsewhere: on a burning pentagram, in the depths of an ancient, evil cave. The audience and her captors—her tormentors—not human, but all devils of various shapes and sizes. Their tongues twisted and split as they drowned out each other’s cacophony of blasphemies in hideous laughter. They lashed each other and themselves with barbed whips, rent their own flesh with horrifically jagged blades. They ate human body parts from trays made of bleached bone.

In a bright flash of orange flame, Emily landed naked. And free from her captors, unbound.

In the middle of her own apartment? Had she done this somehow? Winked her way out of that impossible situation, just by willing it so?

The scope of things threw her off and made her stomach knot. Everything around her was far too big. The couch and coffee table were huge, like dark towers supporting a glass sky. Behind her loomed something the size of a building, of black shiny substance with a soothing green window up on top, ocean blue numbers projecting inside of it. They displayed time, but that clock was frozen solid. Time stood still.

The craziest part of it—Emily wasn’t freaking out.

This was not real in the common sense, but also not unreal. A more apt description would be to explain it as a different reality intersecting with the one she had grown accustomed to.

Everything made perfect sense, which also meant that the current situation caught back up to her in a bright white flash, of cold and unforgiving colors like that of fluorescent lamps in a hospital flickering on. Or the lights in a morgue.

The savagery of nearly being turned into a sex slave by some crazy rich assholes, and the gruesome images of the devils in the dark cave washed over Emily, and she wept. Tears of release, tears of despair, acting out their passion play to go with a whole chorus of emotions bubbling up. Every other little thing she had pushed deep down in her life to function, every last ounce of dust from the edges that had been sanded down by the darkness of this world—it all boiled over and spilled out, streaming forth through rivers of tears.

Through the blurry haze of it all, she took in her surroundings, hugging herself while remaining on her knees, just seconds of despair away from giving up and curling up into a fetal position. She wondered if this was just some elaborate fantasy to detach herself from the horrible reality of people doing things to her while she was helpless.

Maybe none of this freaked her out because nothing ever made any sense to begin with.

As she rose to her feet—wobbly, trembling, and wiping away the tears—the clarity returned.

No guilt. No regret.

No worries came from a world made of glass and shadows.

“Oh no, you don’t. Get back in here. You’ve always been a rat on the inside and now you’re one on the outside,” Jones spoke in his raspy voice. His words did not arrive through the tinny speakers of a phone. They droned like the deep bass of a colossus.

His titanic form towered above the monolith that was the suitcase, a man in a black business suit, garbed in a fancy white overcoat. A cruel grin marked his stubbled face while he attempted to step on Emily. Before he could bring that giant shoe crashing down, three gargantuan tigers leapt in front of her to shield her. With growls and snarls, they clawed at him and got in his way, causing him to recoil and topple backwards.

Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte—unmistakably, Emily knew it was them—now saber-toothed tigers, hailing from another era. From another world.

He kicked them away as they rent and ripped at the ends of his trousers. Giants fighting giants.

“Oh no—no! Don’t try to fight this with your compassion. With your little friends. You were warned. You’re all in now. Shoulda taken the deal, silly girl,” Jones droned on as he swung at the tigers to keep them at bay.

The black building—the doomed suitcase—exploded. Jones, the world, Emily herself—flames engulfed everything.

“What?” Jones cried out, his tone rising into the fever pitch of surprise. “No!”

The three tigers, with manes of fire, jumped to Emily. Miranda snatched her in her mouth and they took off. The beasts ran through a hellish landscape where fire consumed all; where everything solid flaked into the ashes of oblivion.

No—Emily knew better—the realities crossed again—these were the industrial underworld hidden underneath the Estoria Pacific. The tigers had crossed over as well and carried her off the auction stage.

The devilish audience stared in shock, stunned and incapable of reacting. Their masks had become their faces: pigs, lizards, devils, hounds. Those masks had turned flesh, gaining a full facial reality. Masks no more, the onlookers were these abominations now.

Emily looked around, struggling to regain her bearings. Just like none of it freaked her out before, finding that calm center in the eye of the storm, her eyes now darted back and forth, weighing every option within the window of a split-second.

What could she grab hold of? Where could she go?

How could she make these fuck-pigs pay?

As soon as she asked herself these things without uttering them loud, a deafening cacophony flooded into her head, drowning out all her own thoughts.

“I need to pay my mortgage today.”

“Should mow the lawn this Tuesday.”

“I hope Theresa is okay with this when she finds out. Maybe I can get her into it. Maybe get her a nice Vietnamese boy.”

“What if Mark knows? Jesus, what if Mark knows?”

“Okay, two hours tops, gonna cum real quick, fly over to Boston, change tickets, check the stock market, meet with the execs tomorrow morning, be ready for dinner with Ehnske, and still make my way back for the merger talks. Get a nice hooker in between.”

“Tonight—I’ll do it tonight. Everything’s written off. Gonna do it with my .38, the .22 might not do it and leave me crippled. Put tarp in the garage, put my head in the bucket, so the blood pools, I don’t want Ellie to have to clean up, to call the police.”

“Damn, she has nice tits. I love a redhead with nice tits. I wanna eat that ass.”

“They let us kill the last rat at the end of the session, I’m seriously going to outbid Lanston this time. That motherfucker got to drug the Chinese chick to death. My god, it was so hot—he kept fucking her as he kept the injection going until she passed out.”

“Man, what am I doing here? I’ll quit, next week, I promise. God, forgive me. I’ll turn in my VIP card this Sunday. Please, God forgive me.”

“God, if this is wrong, why don’t you strike me down? Strike us all down?”

“God, is this wrong?”

“I’m scared.”

“This is kind of scary.”

“What if someone finds out?”

“What if the kids find out?”

“What if this was my kid?”

Voices. The voices of the audience flowed into Emily’s consciousness, like searing red-hot lava.

The rage swelled again; a candlelight flickering and then flaring into a flame with a sinister roar. But this time, it was not all-consuming, devouring, or controlling. It was a ghostly blue fire. Burning with dark purpose, and cold as the iciest circles of hell that Emily could imagine.

Oblivious and uncaring about her torn attire, she looked down and cupped her hand in front of her breasts, as if to cradle something invisible. Something like that blue flame, encroaching from the edges of her thoughts, eating away at the fringe of the alien minds that hers was touching, keeping those foreign thoughts distinct.

She stared into her empty palm. That fury was something she could grasp.

Something she wanted to grasp.

She felt an aspect of her will manifest in her head. That icy gauntlet that gripped her earlier. The will itself became a gauntlet. But the ice cracked and melted in the flames. As it sloughed off, the gauntlet revealed itself to be forged of iron.

Her will was not made of ice, fickle and prone to hysteria when the flame of anger torches it. Her will was of iron—it could take the heat.

As soon as that aspect took shape in her mind, she comprehended it. And as soon as she comprehended it, her rat paws become human hands again.

Miranda threw her over herself somehow, allowing Emily to land on the mighty tiger’s back. Emily rode, a nude Valkyrie wreathed in furious fire, holding onto the giant beast’s fur, in control of her deadly mount.

She wanted to make the fuck-pigs pay. So much so that their heads burst into flames and exploded. Samantha and Charlotte ripped people’s bodies apart with claw and fang, but there wasn’t enough time. Miranda led the charge and wordlessly urged them to escape. Time was short and Emily felt it, too. All-engulfing flames raged behind them, consuming the stage.

The ancient cave retained the vault door. The tigers approached it.

Emily only blinked and they had teleported beyond it by merit of mere thought, then the tigers raced on. No question as to why, or how that made sense. It happened, therefore it became reality.

Cages, cages, cages—now filled with tormented victims, packed like sardines. Grasping hands that reached out from between the bars, desperate for rescue. The captives cried out. But it was not their cries that Emily heard.

“I want to go home.”

“My baby!”

“I want to die.”

“Save me.”

“My babies.”

“I want to go home.”

“What will happen to me?”

“This is the end.”

“I want to go home.”

“My poor boy.”

“I want to die.”

“Save me.”

“My baby.”

“I want to go back.”

“What will happen to us now?”

“This is the end.”

“I want to go home.”

“Where are my children?”

“I want to die.”

“Save me!”

“What did they do to my sisters?”

“I want to go back home.”

“What will happen to me?”

“This is the end.”

How oddly similar all these internal pleas were, though they coalesced and clashed through different minds, different voices. All different. All the same. All at the same time.

It was time to open those cages. To rip them open. The liberation would hurt. Ripping the band-aid off always did.

Emily blinked again to clear her vision, sensing how different realities intersected and clashed. The voices in her head echoed and screamed, to the point of becoming unbearable. The rage turned righteous. The gauntlet gripped those bars and wrenched them apart with that furious wrath.

The gauntlet transcended the existence of mere imagination and fantasy—it covered her hand. Bleeding into one reality from the next, she wore it like a second skin. Its iron thrummed with unspeakable might.

All the cages flew open at once and a firestorm swept through the world, swallowing everything in a cleansing heat. The whole damned place turned into an inferno.

The three monstrous tigers charged forth and Emily clung to Miranda’s back. All around them, the dimensions changed and twisted and distorted. They escaped through clusters of winding corridors tangled into a labyrinthine, hellish knot.

Furious shouts followed them from the inferno behind them—Jones’ voice overshadowing the bedlam, “No! Kill her! Kill her now! Don’t let it happen! Don’t let her go! Mine, she’s mine! This worthless sack of shit belongs to us!”

Emily raised her hand and splayed her fingers. The gauntlet forced the maze to unfold. She rode Miranda onto cages, jumped from one set of bars to another, inside and through two ends of cages, dashing down a tunnel of narrow cells, up a spiral of bars—these catacombs ever-changing around them whenever she blinked away the tears that the sheer velocity drove into her eyes.

She rode upward against gravity. Right became left, up turned into down. Then they fell, going backwards upon these iron bars, until the world consisted of nothing but iron and fire.

A tremendous invisible force knocked Miranda over, sending her and her dauntless rider into a spiraling fall.

“I can’t take you further. Only you can go there, mom,” said a voice in Emily’s head. Was it her cat? Or Tran’s daughter? Why did they sound the same now?

—Submitted by Wratts

[soldiermom1973]

N7 Month, Day 13 - Medic

I think at this point I no longer need to announce I’m writing about Allie & Kaidan.  This is also over on AO3, if you’d rather read it there. . . . . . . Allie was getting her usual post-mission exam in the med bay when Kaidan sauntered in, his medic kit slung over his shoulder.  “You mind if I take care of this, doc?” he asked. “Not at all,” Dr. Chakwas answered, still running her omnitool over Allie's torso.  “Commander, do you mind?” “Nope,”  Allie answered.  “Have at it, LT.” Kaidan smiled and nodded, carefully putting the small kit on one of the empty cots.  Allie watched with rapt interest as he checked the bag's contents and restocked it.  She knew it was something he did after every mission he went on.  Even if he didn't open it, he still checked its inventory religiously and he was as methodical about it as he was with everything he did.  First, he removed everything from the bag, making sure each piece was sealed, not expired or damaged, then set it off to the side. Everything was placed on the cot in a neat, orderly manner.  Once he was done, he pulled up his omnitool and compared what he had against the current Alliance regs and standards.  Then he restocked the bag, leaving out what he no longer needed and replacing things that weren't serviceable. “What made you decide to do this?” Allie finally asked as he carefully repacked his gear. “What's that, ma'am?” “This combat medic thing.” Kaidan chuckled when he answered.  “It kind of fell in my lap.  My mom was a nurse, so whenever I got hurt, she was always the one to patch me up.  When I went to BAaT, those instincts just sort of kicked in.  A lot of us got hurt a lot more often than we should have, so I was busy giving stitches and cleaning lacerations.” “Didn't they have a med bay for you guys?” Allie frowned. “Yeah,” Kaidan shrugged, “but if we went, the instructors worked us even harder, like they were trying to toughen us up or something.  So everyone learned pretty quick to come to me if they got hurt.  I knew my limits, though, and I made them to go sick call if it was something really serious.  When I enlisted, I had the chance to go to a combat medic school and I jumped at it.” Allie hummed in response and nodded her head, hopping off the cot when Dr. Chakwas said she was done.  She walked to where Kaidan was checking the bag one last time before he zipped it shut.  “I can't imagine anyone else I'd rather have in the field patching me up when I forget to duck.  I'm sure it helps Dr. Chakwas out, too,” she said. Kaidan paused and Allie realized she probably sounded like she was flirting.  She cleared her throat and pressed her lips together, knowing she was about three shades of red. “So, um, why do you check the regs?” she asked, hoping to change the subject a bit.  “You seem like the kind of guy who'd be up on what you need in there.  I figured you'd be doing this from memory at this point.” “I am up on the regs and I do have most of this stuff memorized,” he agreed, “but if I check each time I restock my kit, there's no chance of me making a mistake.  You know how often they change and update things.  The gear I had in there yesterday might outdated tomorrow.” Allie lost count of the number of times she or someone one the team got hurt and Kaidan was there in a heartbeat, knowing exactly where in his bag everything was as he directed someone to grab a bandage or a pair of scissors.  “Mind if I take a peek?” she asked. Kaidan nodded and gestured at the bag. “Just don't move anything around too much, please,” he requested. “I've got it packed like that for a reason.” Allie nodded and started to carefully rummage through the kit.  She only had the same basic first aid training all Alliance soldiers got – applying field dressings and pressure bandages, when and how to use a tourniquet, keeping track of how much medigel you give someone – but Kaidan was an actual medic. He could run an IV line, stitch someone up, even perform minor surgery in the field. “So why not become a doctor?” she asked, still examining the kit's contents. “I'm a biotic, Shepard,” he said, “I can do more good with that than my medical skills.  Right now, it's the best of both worlds.  I've got no complaints.” Allie hummed in response and pulled out an odd looking package with turian writing on it.  “Dextro stuff?” she asked. “Well, we've got a turian and a quarian on board now.  If something happens to them, I can't just use our antibiotics.  Krogan physiology is different, too.”  He stepped around her and pulled a chart out of one of the side pockets detailing the different krogan organs and how to treat different injuries.  “And don't get me started on the quarians.” “So having this stuff ready is in the regs, too?” Allie asked. “Kind of,” Kaidan shrugged and replaced the chart.  “I mean there is a section for Alliance medics that are part of mixed units, but there aren't many of those and the people you've got on board aren't really here with Alliance blessing, so technically we aren't considered a mixed unit by Alliance standards.  I figured it was better to be prepared than to watch Wrex or Liara die because I didn't have the gear with me to help them.” “Ever the boy scout, Kaidan, always prepared.”  She zipped the bag back up and turned to face him.  “I like it.  I mean, I like that you're taking that initiative to look after your crewmates.” Allie wasn't sure who was blushing harder – her or Kaidan, but if her face was a red as it felt, it was probably a tie.  They each rubbed the back of their necks while Dr. Chakwas cleared her throat.  “Commander, if you're done, I need to confirm what Kaidan took so I can resupply the medbay.” Allie nodded and walked toward the door, her heart hammering in her chest as she wondered if people would notice if she started to forget to duck a little more often.

[malcompliance]

Aella

[NAME]  Isabella Daystrom [NICKNAME / CALLSIGN] Aella Eldritch  [AFFILIATIONS] Everyone non-hostile towards her.  [EQUIPMENT / WEAPONS] - Her mind - Bugbait - ‘Pet’ City Scanner “Gabby” - Combat Knife - Crossbow

[PERSONALITY] Considering the world around her, as well as her very own life so far, Aella is a surprisingly cheerful and warm personality. She openly welcomes everyone around, will gladly help if possible, and is a curious nature who - to an extent - managed to keep up an almost childlike innocence. If teamed up with others, she will usually assume the position of a repairman and/or overall sidekick. While she is neither focused on, nor outstandingly experienced with combat, she does have her fair share of expertise in other fields. So does she know her way through the sector without stirring up CCA or Overwatch, and has plenty of acquaintances and allies in most pocket hideouts in the outlands. Furthermore is she a somewhat skilled enough technician to make use of whatever she finds alongside her way. In short: She is a decent survalist who can look after herself. She nevertheless prefers company though, and is on good terms with pretty much any resistence member and refugee in the outlands. Aella grows fond of others quickly, and even develops a caring and protective side when getting to know someone a little better. While this can easily be considered one of her greatest strengths, it ironically is her greatest weakness as well:  Her fondness and protective attitude towards her friends make her an easy target for any sort of maniplulation…

[APPEARANCE] Aella is a slender, somewhat boy-ish-ly looking person. She is of small to medium height, yet her built tends to make her look far more small an frail than she is. It does not help that her entire appearance is noticeably unhealthy: So is she outstandingly pale, has dark shadows around her eyes, her hair is a mostly discoloured ash-blonde, and her eye colour is a sickly, almost even unnaturally looking radioactive green. She is certainly not what would be considered beautiful in the traditional sense, yet she is not to be considered entirely creepy either. Her dress sense implies function and comfort over aesthetics. She wears old green military style attire, black combat boots and a CP vest, as well as her signature red beanie. Her neck and lower arms are usually covered and/or in bandages, and Equipment-wise, her most outstanding features are her bugbait which she wears attached to a necklace, as well her companion/pet Gabby, a re purposed City Scanner which acts as Aella’s eyes and ears, and is covered in plenty of colourful paintings and symbols. 

[MISC] Life Form : Transhuman Alignment : Lawful Neutral Pronouns : She/Her, They/them Combat Style : If possible ‘none’, if necessary ranged Skills: Any tech job. operating (old) bio-locked Combine gear Orientation : Panromantic, demisexual Faceclaim : Saoirse Ronan [BACKGROUND] Aella is one of the very last children being born shortly after the Seven Hour War and before the installation of the suppression field. Her original family is not documented, yet the first few years she was taken care of by multiple refugees (later to be known as the first members of the resistance), until their home sector was to be sterilized and Aella ended up in CCA custody. As one of the ‘last-gen-offsprings’ she was assigned to a labour unit and more or less grew up as a child worker assembling Cremators. And for a while, Aella was subjectively alright with her role, and even appreciated bieng around the Cremators, whom she considered her first childhood friends. Eventually though, someone came to relocate her, stating that ‘it was her time to come to the city’. Arriving in said new place - City 18 - though, was not an improvement of her situation - rather the opposite. Along with many other stray children here, she was captured by Combine scouts, and used for human subject research with the goal of finding the optimal ways to assimilate humans into Combine forces. She was one of the first attempts at what later would become the OTA. As many of those Alpha series, Aella and her fellow subjects however were considered a failure and to be terminated due to the - at that point - not yet perfect methods of mental conditioning. Luckily though, one of the associated civil workers felt sympathy for the children, and secretly managed to save four of them. Equipped with new citizen ID he sent those children to various surrounding cities. Aella for her part was assigned to a CWU medic in a large city in the east. Here she began to work as maintenance personnel at the local hospital, taking care of the equipment, machinery and computers. Due to her previous treatments, Aella by now had grown weary and confused; often not entirely grasping her very situation, past or present. The conditioning had turned her into an observant and intelligent, yet lethargic drone of a person, who had a noticeably had time at interacting with other citizens. Machines on the other hand were an entirely different subject. Noticeably easy to understand and interact with, Aella would often prefer tinkering over siocialising, and eventually she began to branch out and find company in the only way she (at least back then) understood: She built herself a friend. Gathered from the parts of destroyed city scanners and manhacks, she assembled her companion “Gabby“. At first – for her time living in a city – in secrecy of course. The more time went by, and the more she started to become her own person, her curious and innocent personality began to surface: Soon her will to lean and test her boundaries would win over her lack of social experience, and eventually she found herself trying to get to know not just the people around but also her surroundings at large. She began to skip on her special water, sneak out of the city’s boundaries more and more often, learn to make her way in the outlands and eventually, she made her first contact to people associated with the resistance. She agreed to work with them as part of the city’s railroad; helping people escape, and slowly but surely she found herself within a wide network of new friends and allies. This is, where she also met Erik Walters, a disenchanted Metrocop intending to turn his life around and actually join the resistance. Both of them quickly became friends and travel companions, and Aella even developed a somewhat protective nature towards him. To that day they still stick together, trying to make themself useful, in their very own, often strange, goofy but nonetheless working dynamic of contrary personalities.

[MISC. INFORMATION] - IF a success, her task within the Overwatch army would have been coordinating Gunships. - Despite possessing only the most basic AI, her Scanner ‘Gabby’ is not just Aella’s eyes and ears, but also the closest to what she would call her family. She will often affectionately tweak it, decorate it and almost even treat it like a person. - Her biggest fear are Zombies. More specific: Becoming one of them. She would rather die than being - once again - converted against her will.  

[dei-lab-assistant]

Fake Marriage part 17

You have escaped from the bonds placed on you by Shelly de Killer and informed the resort staff of what happened to Edgeworth, who is dying of poison. The good news is that a police helicopter is approaching the resort. Help is on the way.

Word count: 1209

On your way down to the ground floor, you and your security guard sidekick stopped to talk to some of the employees who had seen de Killer. After assuring them of their safety, you asked them to cooperate with the police and please keep what had happened quiet until the authorities gave them permission to share today’s events. You were relieved when the conversation ended, as your adrenaline rush was quickly dying—leaving you tired, in pain, and uninterested in talking to strangers.

Soon enough, you were standing at the edge of the large front lawn as a helicopter slowly descended from the sky. An artificial wind flattened the grass, tossing bits of leaves and bugs up off of the ground and into the air. It was deafening. When the engine finally shut off, the sudden silence was a relief, although it took a while before your ears recovered enough to hear the evening sounds around you. The croaking of frogs, chirping of crickets, and rasping of cicadas was a welcome replacement.

Before the rotors came to a complete stop, the helicopter door facing and your security guard companion opened. A pair of paramedics jumped out and began to pull their equipment out after them. Before they had finished, a man in a police uniform joined them. As they approached, another man confidently stepped down from the helicopter. Even in the dim light you could recognize prosecutor Klavier Gavin. The helicopter’s ceiling lights switched on, reducing your view of the prosecutor to a silhouette, but illuminating a woman in a lab coat busy trying to unfasten her seatbelt.

As the paramedics reached you, they began asking questions about a highly contagious pathogen. You shook your head, “There’s nothing like that, only a bunch of misinformation. So you won’t need to suit up in hazmat gear or anything.”

One of them noticeably relaxed, “What a relief, I hate those suits.”

Before they could become too complacent you added, “Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth is in the employee’s locker room off the restaurant on the top floor. He’s been poisoned.” Turning to the security guard at your side you asked, “Can you take them to the right place?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” You turned to watch as he bounded back towards the main hotel building, “This way, please!”

“Guten Abend, Fräulein.” Turning back, you saw prosecutor Gavin standing with one hand tucked into his pants pocket, his face unusually serious.

“Klavier!” Relief flooded your brain, as you finally realized his presence here meant Franziska was not the prosecutor for this case—and you dreaded having to explain to her how you failed to keep Edgeworth safe.

“I’ve never seen you wear a dress before.” Klavier leaned in towards you as he spoke, and his serious expression gave way to a bit of a smile.

You were not in the mood to deal with anyone telling you to dress in a more conventionally feminine way in your everyday life. You raised your left hand and aggressively pointed at him as you searched for an angry reply.

Before you could come up with anything, Klavier straightened up and ran his fingers through his hair, “It doesn’t suit your image at all.”

“Thank you! I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear someone say that.” You gestured emphatically with your already extended hand as you spoke.

His concerned expression returned as he gently grabbed your left hand, “You’re shaking.”

He was right. Careless of you to let that show when you had been trying so hard to project competence for the security guards and hotel staff.

“Danny!” Klavier shouted past you at the pair of paramedics, “She’s hurt. Come over here and take care of her. Schnell!”

“Uh, my name’s not Schnell!” shouted the security guard. “Do you want me to come over there too? Or should I just—You know what? I don’t think you were talking to me. So I’m gonna just go back to leading this other medic to—“ his rambling yelling cut off as you heard one of the paramedics tell him to stay focused and do his job. At this point you were so accustomed to Klavier’s fake German accent it was easy to forget how unusual or confusing it might be for those first meeting him. You no longer registered his attire as odd either, even though his purple suit jacket and metal chain belt were hardly standard—and his popped collar, chunky jewelry, and improperly buttoned black shirt did nothing to help him look conventional.

“Can you tell me what happened?” asked Klavier.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’ve clearly been through a traumatic experience.”

You reached up and gingerly fingered your right shoulder, “I’ll be fine. It’s just a dislocated shoulder. And probably a sprained wrist...And my elbow doesn’t feel great. But nothing permanent.” It actually hurt like crazy, but you were impressed by your ability to keep your voice steady while talking about it.

“In that case—“

“Excuse me,” the paramedic pushed Klavier aside to talk to you. He began asking you to attempt various motions as you continued taking to Klavier.

“Should I wait for Ema, or…?” Your sentence trailed off as you looked around the paramedic and into the helicopter, where Ema appeared to have just dropped a plastic case, spilling various components across the metal floor. When the pilot began to gather them up for her, Ema pulled a bag of Snackoos out of her lab coat pocket and began furiously munching. “Is she okay?” You knew she admired Edgeworth, but usually she only started violently chomping through Snackoos when she was stressed or irritated rather than worried. “Ow!” You went back to watching the paramedic as he quietly asked you to move your arm in various ways.

“Detective Skye is nervous about helicopter rides,” explained Klavier, “They make her nauseous. Which makes her stressed.”

“And then she starts eating Snackoos?”

“Which increases her nausea.”

You held back a yelp of pain as the paramedic manipulated your wrist. “Quite the vicious cycle.”

“Ja. So I think it might be best if you—“

“Is this glimmerous fop bothering you? Ema asked, unexpectedly walking into your field of vision from behind the paramedic. “Scientifically speaking, irritation can be worse than pain.” She looked ready to bite someone’s head off, assuming that someone happened to be Klavier. You wished you knew why she disliked him so much, he was friendly, good at his job, and refrained from telling the police how to do their work. In fact, he usually let his detective partner take the lead on their investigations. Klavier even managed to befriend you, and you were quite biased against him after his role in Phoenix’s disbarment.

Your brain chose this moment to remind you it was Edgeworth who forced you to work together with Klavier a few years ago, which enabled your friendship to develop. An unexpected wave of sadness rolled over you as the paramedic began telling you basic facts about your physical condition, facts you had already figured out. When he finished speaking, you looked up from the tuft of grass you had been staring at and said, “We can deal with my injuries as soon as I brief these two on what happened, okay?”

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

Au Cafe Pequod, Chapter Five

Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE EARLY JANUARY 1944

Mulder stands frozen in the parlor doorway, the arm holding the knife hanging limp at his side, horror-struck and heartbroken at the scene before him. He feels like a complete and utter fool. He had been certain, completely certain, that Scully cared for him, that it was possible she was even in love with him... but he should have known, he should have realized that there was nothing a woman like Dana Scully could possibly see in a man like him. He feels no anger, only a familiar sense of shame and self-loathing, a sudden remembering that he is not now and never has been deserving of love and kindness. The rug has been pulled out from under him, but he should have seen it coming: all happiness is, for him, fleeting.

He thinks it would probably be best if he were to back out quietly and try to leave without her seeing him, rather than interrupting and creating a scene. But just as he reaches this conclusion, the man on the sofa shifts his gaze to Scully's right, and he catches sight of Mulder. The man's eyes fly wide open in panic, and he tries to sit up. Startled, Scully turns, following the man's gaze, and when she sees Mulder, all color leaves her face, and her eyes fill with terror. Even in his state of absolute and total dejection, Mulder finds the fear radiating off of Scully painful. Could she really think so little of him that she believes herself in danger from him?

"Mulder!" she gasps. "What are you doing back here?" She's speaking English, which seems strange to him under the circumstances. They occasionally speak English together because Scully says she misses speaking it with her childhood friends, but right now hardly seems the time for nostalgia. He supposes she might be trying to keep the man, who is trying valiantly to rise from the sofa in spite of Scully's best efforts to stop him, from understanding them. He doesn't want to make things more difficult for her, and he obliges.

"I forgot my hat," he says, also in English. "I used my key to let myself back in to get it because I didn't want to wake you. I heard a noise... I wanted to make sure you were all right...."

"What's a German officer doing with a key to your flat?" demands the man on the sofa suddenly, having given up trying to stand. He is speaking English, is clearly British, and Mulder realizes he had it backwards: Scully wants the man to understand them. That's why she's not speaking French or German. "What are you trying to pull?" The man looks terrified. "Are you turning me in?" Scully turns back to him.

"No, Mr. Nelson, of course not," she says. "This man is no threat to you. Now will you please sit still before you tear your stitches?" The man obliges, but he continues to look at Mulder with wary distrust. And now, Mulder begins to notice things he overlooked before, in his shock: the needle and thread in a dish on the end table, the basin of bloody water on the floor, the damp cloth in Scully's hand. This man, disguised in ill-fitting civilian clothing, is clearly a British soldier.

The wheels in Mulder's head are turning, gears shifting, puzzle pieces falling slowly into place. The reason Scully pretends, to all but Mulder, that she only speaks limited German. The strange orders placed and picked up at the cafe daily, no money ever changing hands.

"You're with the Resistance," he says. Scully closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Mr. Nelson," she says to the man on the sofa, "I want you to rest here for a bit. Close your eyes and try to sleep, all right? I need to speak with my friend for a moment." She takes Mulder by the elbow and leads him across the parlor, down a short hallway, and into her bedroom. She closes the door and turns to him. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The horror Mulder felt earlier, when he thought that the man out in the parlor was Scully's lover, is nothing compared to what he's feeling now.

"What group are you with?" he asks, finally. "The Gaullists? The SFIO? French Forces of the Interior?" Scully looks ready to argue with him, to refuse to answer, but after a moment, she sighs deeply, all the fight going out of her. She looks down.

"I'm not with any particular group," she says. "I help whichever group comes to me... I assist them in moving people, arranging their transportation and their hiding places. The man out there is a pilot who was sent to me by Dutch-Paris."

"How have I not noticed you've been hiding people in your apartment until now?" asks Mulder. "I'm here every night. Late."

"They only actually come to my apartment if they need medical attention," says Scully. "Most of the time I only make the arrangements and provide information." Another piece of the puzzle slides into place in Mulder's head.

"The pies," he says. "That's how you communicate, isn't it?" She nods.

"The flavor of the pie tells me who needs to be moved- if it's Jews, Allied soldiers, or political refugees. The number of people the pie is for tells me how many people are in the group, and the date the order is due is when they need to be moved by. I make the arrangements and put their instructions inside the box with the pie when the person helping them picks it up." It's an ingenious system, but Mulder is not in the mood to be admiring just now.

"Scully," he says quietly, "what will you do if they catch you?" She says nothing, but really, she doesn't need to. Mulder knows full well what will happen, because he's seen it happen many, many times over the past three years.

If she is caught... they will kill her.

"You can't do this, Scully," he pleads with her. "It's too dangerous. If they find out... if they catch you... I can't protect you then, Scully, I'd never be able to get to you in time. You'll be put to death before I even know you've been arrested."

"I know that, Mulder. I'm not asking you to protect me."

"But why, Scully?" he asks. "Why are you risking this much?"

"I have to. I have no choice."

"Yes, you do," he insists. "You can survive this. If you keep your head down, if you keep yourself safe-"

"At what cost, Mulder?" she asks. "How many people can I help to save who would die if I just kept my head down? People keeping their heads down, minding their own business and keeping themselves safe, that's how men like Hitler win, Mulder. Evil things can only happen if good men- and women- stand by and allow them to happen, and I refuse to do that."

"But why you, Scully?" he asks. "Why do you have to be the one to do it?"

"Because I'm here, and because I can," she says. "I can't stand by and allow innocent people to suffer when I have the power to help them, Mulder. I don't know how to do that. It's just not who I am." She fixes him with a steely blue gaze. "And I don't think it's who you are, either."

-----------

Mulder does not sleep at all that night. Lying on his cot in his tent amidst the untroubled snores of his tent mates, he replays his argument with Scully in his head over and over. She had told him, at the end of it, that she needed him to leave, that someone would be there early in the morning to escort the British pilot to his next hiding place. She needed the man to relax and sleep, to regain his strength for the coming journey, and he couldn't do that with a German officer a room away.

"If I don't see you here tomorrow, Mulder," she had said as they stood at her door, her voice soft and sad, "I'll understand. But..." She had taken his hand, squeezed it briefly, and let go. "I hope you'll be here."

He didn't know if he would. Not yet.

It wasn't a question of whether he approved of what she was doing or not. He understood- God, he understood- the anger at the injustice, the desire to change it, to fight back. It was her suggestion that perhaps he should be fighting back, possibly at her side, that unnerved him.

Shortly after dawn, when Mulder is thinking to himself that he should really just give up on sleeping and prepare for morning roll call, he hears the sound of boots, many boots, rushing by outside. He sits up and begins to dress. As he's buttoning up his uniform jacket, another soldier from his company rips back the flap of his tent and sticks his head inside. He sees that Mulder is awake, and bellows at the other two men until they, too, are sitting up, rubbing sleep out of their eyes.

"The night patrol caught a family of Jews on the western edge of town," says the man, excited. "It's too long before the next transport train to send them to a camp, so Oberst Spender is assembling a firing squad. We're all to assemble immediately." Mulder and his tent mates exchange nervous glances as the soldier lets the tent flap fall back into place and departs. The three men splash water on their faces, dress, and lace up their boots, all the while saying nothing. Mulder has met many soldiers who take delight in executions, who clamor for the "honor" of taking part in them... but he has also met many soldiers who are troubled by them.

He has yet to meet any willing to try to put a stop to one.

They receive word that they are to muster outside of the encampment, instead of next to the mess tent, the way they normally would. The men line up by company, and when Mulder has found his place, in the front row of his company, just behind where Hauptmann Skinner stands at attention, counting his men as they assemble, he looks beyond Skinner's shoulder, to the open patch of ground the unit is facing. Three rough graves have been dug at the edge of a field where this farm's previous owner once grew wheat. Mulder is familiar enough with the proceedings: the prisoners will have been made to dig their own graves, and when the firing squad is ready, the condemned will stand facing their executioners, the guns will fire, and the prisoners will fall neatly into the graves they themselves have prepared.

It's all very efficient.

Mulder has time to wonder whether Scully knows the prisoners who are about to be executed, whether or not she has tried and failed to arrange for their safe passage, whether she knows they've been caught. And then they're brought out, clothing torn, hands bound, shivering in the bitter cold, and he doesn't have to wonder anymore. It would appear that Marguerite Scully's Sunday dinner guests were perfectly within their rights to be terrified of Mulder.

Before him stand Albert, Sophie, and Helene Marchand. Only little Christine is missing.

The horrified gasp is half out of Mulder's mouth before he can stifle it, and Skinner turns to look at him, frowning. He stares hard at Mulder with something like warning in his eyes, before turning to face front again. Oberst Spender is standing in front of them now, his son at his side. He congratulates the night watch on their capture, recites the dangers the Jewish people pose to the Fatherland and to good, upstanding people everywhere, and quotes extensively from Hitler. Or, at least, Mulder thinks that's what he does, because that's what he's done at every execution Mulder has seen since the war began. He's not listening, though, because Helene Marchand, whose eyes have been roving over the crowd before her in absolute terror, has recognized him.

Her frightened blue eyes lock on his, beseeching, pleading with him, begging him wordlessly to do something, to stop this, to spirit her away to safety... but he does nothing. There is nothing he can do. The girl sobs, once, a horrible, tearing sound that claws its way deep into him, so that Mulder knows he'll be hearing it in his nightmares for the rest of his life. Then Spender steps back, his son barks out an order, the guns fire, and as the girl's eyes go wide, it's as though ten years haven't passed at all, and it's Samantha's blue eyes he's looking into, Samantha's eyes that are glazing over, closing, closing, as the girl and her parents fall.

There's a silence throughout the assembled men; then, someone whoops, and there's a smattering of nervous laughter. Mulder suddenly feels a hot swoop of nausea in the pit of his stomach, and he knows he needs to get away, immediately, but his feet are frozen in place. Just as he thinks he's going to be sick right here, now, in front of the entire company, he feels a hand at his elbow, forcefully guiding him away.

"Let's go, Mulder," says Skinner's voice in his ear.

"Where?" asks Mulder, moving his mouth as little as possible, not trusting himself to keep from vomiting.

"You know where," says Skinner shortly.

----------

Scully answers Skinner's knock before Mulder thinks to mention that he has a key. She takes one look at Mulder, whose face is an alarming shade of green, and steps back, granting them entrance.

"It's over?" she asks Skinner, and he nods shortly. A look of terrible sadness passes over her face, and she closes her eyes for a moment. Then she takes Mulder's arm, her eyes full of compassion, and leads him back towards the kitchen. "Come on, Mulder," she says. "Let's go upstairs." Mulder nods numbly and follows her up to her apartment, Skinner behind them. She brings him to the sofa, and he sits next to her, just like he has every night for a week. Skinner takes an armchair next to them. The three sit in silence, not looking at one another. Scully holds Mulder's hand, rubbing her thumb gently across his knuckles.

"I thought you said he was your mother's hired hand," Mulder says finally.

"He was," says Scully. "We obtained forged identity papers for the entire family and arranged for them to live on the farm. We don't know how their true identity was discovered."

"Where's the youngest daughter? Christine?" asks Mulder, not sure he wants to know the answer.

"We were able to hide her," says Skinner. "We had very little warning, but we managed that much. She's on her way to safety now." Mulder feels his stomach unclench very slightly, but then the full meaning of Skinner's words settles on him.

"We, Sir?" Skinner nods. And then Mulder remembers something from the very first time he and Scully spoke: Skinner had already known that Scully spoke German, had addressed her as though they had spoken many times before. Which, it turns out, they had. "You're with them." It's a statement, not a question, but Skinner still answers.

"I am."

"Why didn't you stop it today, then?" Mulder asks.

"By that point, Mulder, there was nothing I could do, not without giving myself away. And there are people still in hiding who are counting on me to help them. All I can do is try to keep things from getting as far as they did this morning... but once it gets to that point, it's out of my hands." He looks hard at Mulder. "And out of yours, too. If you and I tried to intervene today, they would have shot us, and then shot that family anyway."

"You don't know that," says Mulder weakly.

"I do," says Skinner, "because I've seen it happen before. It doesn't sound gallant or honorable, I know, but that's how it is. If you want to help, there are ways, but an ill-conceived one-man suicide charge is not one of them." He stands. "I need to get back. Mulder, you're sick and excused from duties today, understand?" Mulder nods, unwilling to fight Skinner on this. The last thing he wants is to spend the day shoulder-to-shoulder with the men that watched that little girl die and then laughed about it.

"I'll see you out," says Scully, standing. She puts a comforting hand on Mulder's shoulder. "I'll be right back, all right?" He nods, and she strokes his cheek and goes downstairs. When she returns, she takes Mulder's hand and pulls him up from the sofa. "I want you to lie down for a bit," she says, leading him to her bedroom and settling him on her bed. He expects her to leave him to rest, but instead, she lies down beside him, cradling his head to her chest. He wraps his arms around her and closes his eyes, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

"Mulder," she says finally, stroking his hair, "I know you've seen more than a few executions. Skinner says you've always been stoic before. What happened this time?" He says nothing, but the words are climbing up his throat, constricting it, threatening to choke him. "Is it because you'd met them before? Had dinner with them?" He tries to take a deep breath and discovers he cannot. "Mulder?" He has to speak or he'll drown.

"It was the girl," he says. "Helene. She saw me. She-" His arms around her tighten. "She recognized me. She was looking at me like she was begging me to save her... and I didn't. I just stood there." She holds him tighter. "And... she looked so much like Samantha, Scully. Her eyes... it was like I was looking at Samantha, the moment before-" He cuts himself off. This, he cannot speak of, has never spoken of, but he wants desperately to speak of it to her, to release the horror from where it's been poisoning him for ten years.

"Mulder," says Scully gently, "how did your sister die?" The part of Mulder's mind that has fought to keep this under lock and key for so long is tired, and Scully's presence is so soothing.... She loves him, he is sure of it, it shows through her eyes every time she looks at him, bleeds through her fingers every time she touches him. He is safe in her arms. He doesn't need to have any secrets from her.

He opens his mouth and begins the story.

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

It was February 1934, and the sky was clear after three days of snow. Mulder and Samantha had walked to a park down the street from their house to meet Mulder's friend Rolf. He and Mulder had met at school the previous year, when Rolf's family had moved to Berlin, and the two young men had become fast friends. Rolf had also recently, unbeknownst to Mulder's parents, become Samantha's boyfriend, a fact that both annoyed and amused Mulder, depending on the day (and on how disgustingly the two of them were behaving).

Samantha Mulder at fifteen was headstrong and opinionated, passionate about her beliefs, and vocally critical of Hitler and his policies in a way that both embarrassed and frightened their parents. Mulder, ever the rebellious pot-stirrer, had encouraged her endlessly, enjoying his parents' shock whenever Samantha eloquently expressed her views during one of their many dinner parties.

A casual onlooker would have assumed that Samantha said these things just to be contrary, to defy her parents like any normal teenager, but Mulder knew her better than that. Samantha was a deeply empathetic person who could not stand to see people wronged, and was driven to real fury whenever she witnessed any act of deliberate cruelty. She did not buy for one moment that any single ethnic or political group could be blamed for all of Germany's woes, and she was not at all afraid to engage those who did in heated debate. Mulder introduced her to Rolf, who was of like mind and was also frightening his own parents out of their minds with his political ranting. He often joked that if Samantha and Rolf got arrested, at least they'd be together.

The three teenagers walked along the freshly-shoveled paths of the park, occasionally throwing snowballs, but mostly talking. Rolf and Mulder were both deciding where to go to school the following year, and Mulder was leaning towards Oxford, but Samantha hated the idea of him living so far away. She was just launching, for the third time that week, into her well-rehearsed list of reasons why her big brother should go to school closer to home, when a sudden loud crack rent the air, and Rolf crumpled to the ground. Samantha screamed and Mulder's head snapped around, looking for the source, when there was a second crack, and when he turned back, a red flower was blooming across Samantha's chest, and she was falling, her blue eyes locked on her brother's, begging him mutely to do something, anything, to save her.

She was dead before she hit the ground.

Mulder's mother found them there shortly after. When her children did not show up for lunch, she followed the sound of approaching sirens to the park, where she discovered her son holding his sister's dead body in his arms, sobbing wildly, while a policeman struggled to pull him away.

Mulder's mother crawled inside a bottle that day and never came out.

Mulder, by contrast, crawled inside himself. He shut out everyone, refusing to so much as say his sister's name, much less discuss her death. He was too much in shock to give a statement to the police that day... not, as it turned out, that they would have done anything anyway.

In the weeks following Samantha's death, it came to light that Rolf had been involved in an underground network of propagandists who were working to discredit Hitler. Rolf had been writing articles for a subversive newspaper, and Samantha, eager to help in any way she could, had been delivering them to secret drop-off points all over town. The double murder was never investigated; it was merely forgotten about, but Mulder was certain, beyond any doubt, that Rolf and his sister had been killed as punishment for speaking out.

Whether because Mulder had always encouraged Samantha's rebellious nature, or because he had introduced her to Rolf, or even simply because the walk in the park that day had been his idea, Mulder's parents, though they never came right out and said it, blamed him for his sister's death. To confirm it would have been to talk about it, which they certainly did not do, but the mute reproach in his mother's eyes, his father's determined avoidance of him, made it perfectly clear that they held him responsible. Mulder still does not understand why his mother wanted him to come home so badly when he finished at Oxford. The best hypothesis he's been able to form, six years later, is that if she could not escape the house of misery in which she was trapped by marriage, then she didn't want him to escape, either. She would rather make sure he was under her thumb, suffering as she felt he should.

And he has suffered. There is no doubt about that.

-----------

When Mulder finishes speaking, Scully is silent. Tears are running down his face, and she must be able to feel them soaking into her shirt, but she says nothing, only holds him. After awhile, she moves down a bit, shifting so that they're lying face to face. She draws his chin up gently with her fingers, making him look her in the eye, and she wipes the tears from his cheeks.

"Mulder," she whispers, "it wasn't your fault. Not today, and not ten years ago. The fault lies with the men who pulled the trigger, with the men who ordered them to do it, with the men who put the idea in their heads."

"I encouraged her, Scully," he argues. "I pushed her to say what she thought. I should have known it was dangerous."

"That's what big brothers do, Mulder," she says. "They push their sister's buttons. They try to get them in trouble with their parents. Believe me, I have an older brother, I know. You never meant to put her in any danger. You introduced her to your friend out of kindness, because you thought they would like each other." She strokes his cheek with infinite tenderness, and the love in her eyes makes him want to cry all over again. "Nothing you did was meant to hurt your sister. Nothing you did should have hurt her, if the men in charge of your country were anything resembling reasonable. It wasn't your fault, Mulder. You couldn't have known." She kisses him, holds him close, strokes his hair. And as he realizes that she means it, that she truly believes what she's saying, that she doesn't think any less of him, he is filled with such a depth of love for her that he can't help but hold her as close as possible. She buries her face in his neck, and he can feel her smiling against him.

"You know, I've been dreaming of having you in my bed for weeks," she says, chuckling. "Just... not quite like this." He can't help but smile at that.

"For weeks, huh?" he says. "I'm that irresistible?"

"You have no idea," she says, and she kisses him again. But after a moment, she grows serious. "I'm going to need to go downstairs and open the cafe soon. I want you to stay up here and rest, all right?"

"I'll be fine," he protests, but she shakes her head.

"You didn't sleep at all last night, I can tell. You look completely exhausted. Stay up here, sleep if you can, and just try and relax if you can't. And... Mulder?"

"Yes, Scully?"

"I want you to think about what Skinner told you, all right?"

"Which part?"

"That if you want to help, there are ways. There are things you could do, Mulder, that could help stop what happened this morning from happening again. I want you to think about it and decide if that's something you're interested in." He flashes back to the conversation with Skinner, the revelation that his captain has been going behind Spender's back, trying to subvert his will at every turn. He thinks of how proud this makes him to know the man, to count him as a friend. And he thinks further back, to what Scully said to him last night.

"I can't stand by and allow innocent people to suffer when I have the power to help them, Mulder. I don't know how to do that. It's just not who I am. And I don't think it's who you are, either."

He's not sure that he really is the man Scully thinks he is, but he does know he'd like very much to be. He has to try. He meets Scully's eye... and at last, he nods.

"Tell me what to do."

Next Chapter  >

[rapperkookz]

Paralleled Love - 1

Descendants of the Sun-like AU with special agent!female reader and doctor!jungkook

Song Y/N worked as a special agent for the Korean government, much like a Kingsman or James Bond film. To the outside world, she worked part-time at a dog cafe, but when her skills are needed, she lives a double life stopping notorious murderers, infamous gangs, illegal drug dealers and arms traders.

Jeon Jungkook worked at Haesung Hospital as a member of BTS - the VVIP medical team. He is the youngest surgeon, but one of the most skilled doctors in the hospital.

What starts off as a simple stitch, turns into a love story as memorable as Romeo and Juliet. Fate has a cruel plan for Y/N and Jungkook which marks similarly to her military soldier brother and his doctor wife: full of laughs, tears, love, and blood.

A/N I have never written a fic on tumblr so this will be a first for me rip. I just rewatched DOTS so I figured why not? Hopefully you guys will give me lots of love :) All rights go to the directors and producers and actual real life people being mentioned in this fic, it will be similar but also not really to the drama, I am not stealing plot, not to worry :)

Song Y/N

Jeon Jungkook

BTS - VVIP Medical Team

NCT - Special Agents

ch. 2

ch. 1 - Your POV

It happened to your brother and now it’s happening to you. Rarely do you ever speak with your older brother, solely due to the nature of both of your jobs, but after attending his wedding with your now-sister-in-law, you and him bonded over his love story. Being on break, encountering a gang of hoodlums, and meeting the doctor that eventually became the love of his life. They broke up and after 8 months were reunited by fate in a third world country far away from home for volunteer work. 

You, too, were on break after half a year of harsh winter training in Siberia. Seeing that your brother was spending time with his family, and not deployed somewhere for the military, you spent some time catching up with him. There were differences between both of your jobs, but essentially were more than likely the same. He took the role of a special forces major, doing top secret work for the Korean military. You were a special agent, also doing top secret work, but for the Korean government.

“Doesn’t it worry you? leaving your family?” you asked as he rocked his son to sleep.

He gave you a smile, “Always, but I’m good at my job, and that includes-”

“Not dying” you answered, “I know that all too well, Joongki oppa.”

“your work is more dangerous than mine” Joongki answered, “I’m at least protected by the military, the government doesn’t protect you that much, y/n.”

“It’s a risk I take,” you said clinking your glasses together before taking a shot. You winced as you leaned against the couch. He noticed your discomfort and motioned for you to turn around, “Shit, did my stitches open?”

“Yeah, your back is bleeding.” He said, “let’s go to the hospital, you need professional care.”

“You’re only using this as an excuse to see Hyekyo unnie, aren’t you?” you chuckled getting up, holding your nephew as Joongki grabbed his coat. The two - technically three - of you drove to Haesung Hospital, acting careful as to not stain your brother’s car with blood. Walking inside, you let your brother deal with the receptionist, coincidentally timing your arrival so that Hyekyo was eating dinner.

“Oh? what are you doing here?” she asked, a smile automatically on her face upon the sight of her son and husband.

“y/n needs stitches,” Joongki answered, giving her a kiss on the forehead, before you handed the sleeping boy to her.

“You don’t have to do it unnie, I don’t want to take your free time giving me stitches,” you said.

She touched your arm affectionately, “I’ll make sure you’re in good hands, y/n. Is your wound from work?”

You nodded, knowing that she already knew the kind of work you did since it was similar to your brother’s. She called to her colleagues, asking if any of them were free to stitch you back up.

“I have to do my rounds, but Jungkook can do it,” Jinki answered.

“Perfect, can you take y/n to where he is?” Hyekyo asked and he nodded, “just come back here when you’re done y/n”

“We won’t be going anywhere,” Joongki agreed. You diligently followed the doctor around the hospital, stopping in an empty ER room, where he paged his co-worker.

“You need me, hyung?” a boy said walking in the room, he looked youthful enough to be around your age.

Jinki nodded, “this is Hyekyo’s sister-in-law, she needs someone to restitch her up, can you do it?”

“Of course,” he said grabbing a new pair of latex gloves from the box on the table. Jinki bid you goodbye before going to do his rounds. “Your shirt is all stained miss-?”

“y/n, Song y/n,” you answered taking off your shirt, leaving you in only a bra. The doctor coughed, unprepared for you bold action, “I don’t know your name, doctor?”

“Jeon Jungkook,” he answered kindly as you laid face down on the operating table. He blew a raspberry at the sight of your wound, a large gash painted your back diagonally, the stitches that held it together previously now stained with fresh blood. You winced at the sting of the disinfectant that he used for cleaning your back. “May I ask what happened for you to get hurt this badly?”

“I was on a run and I fell down some stairs and my back hit against a pole,” you said calmly, the lie slipping off your tongue easily. You didn’t get this gash from a run, you were on a mission trying to stop arms traders and during a face-off with them, you were pushed against the brick wall. “Is it that bad?”

“It’s not pretty” he chuckled, “I’ve seen a patient come in, once, being impaled by a tree,”

You scoffed in disbelief, “That has gotta hurt.”

The both of you engaged in simple conversation as he stitched you up, the atmosphere comfortable and easy to be in. Jungkook was a surgeon. There were 7 in his ‘skilled’ group: 4 surgeons (trauma, cardio, neuro, and ortho), a psychiatrist, an anesthesiologist, and a pediatrician. He was also, indeed, your age: 27 years old. “When are you free next?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” You teased folding up your blood-stained shirt and wearing your sweater. You didn’t miss the blush that formed on his cheeks as he coughed and put his glove-free hands in his coat pockets, “I’m kidding, what for though?”

“To uh-to um check in your wound, make sure the stitches hold,” he said, trying to act composed, “but um I mean, if you’re free to get lunch afterwards, I would be up for that too.”

You smiled, “I’m looking forward to it, I can come next week.”

“Perfect, around noon.” He agreed and the two of you exchanged numbers. He walked you back to the cafeteria, where Joongki and Hyekyo were waiting for you, “I’ll see you next week.”

“For my appointment,” you grinned and he nodded before going back to his work. Your brother gave you a smirk, “Oh don’t start, he did my stitches.”

“That’s how our story began,” he said nudging his wife. You rolled your eyes, sitting across from them.

“He’s one of our best new doctors, Jeon Jungkook,” Hyekyo commented, “top of his class, he’s totally your style y/n.”

“Unnie, I don’t have time for a relationship” you whined.

“You say that now, but then it happens,” she said, “Look at your brother and I.”

“And now we’re married and have a son.” Joongki agreed pinching the boy’s cheek lightly. As you were about to argue against them, your phone rang.

“717, report to HQ, immediately.”

“Copy that,” you answered hanging up. You looked at your brother and sister-in-law, familiar but worried expressions on their faces. “I will see you, hopefully soon.”

“You have to come back for your appointment next week,” Joongki reminded, to which you responded with a playful punch to the shoulder. After saying goodbye, you drove your car to the government building. Passing by the regular office workers, you stood in front of the elevator and pressed the up arrow 5 times, placing your watch in front of the well-hid scanner so it would know your destination was under the basement level.

Exiting the elevator, the black and white interior of the “top secret cove” - as you like to call it - came into view. You bowed to your colleagues, walking into one of the meeting rooms.

“717, what do you know of a Lee Junmo?” your superior asked, eyes trained on the monitor framing the side wall.

You bowed your head, “Lee Junmo, head of Power Alcohol. He’s a very well-known public figure,”

“Power Alcohol is lacing some of its cheap beer products with poison, in order to target the poor and addicts,” she said looking at you, “it makes consumers sick to death unless they buy an expensive medicinal cure.”

“Ma’am, that makes no sense,” you scoffed, suddenly feeling self conscious with the alcohol you drank previously.

“From the look on your face, I’m assuming you were drinking before coming here.” She said with a chuckle, “lucky for you, the poisoned beer hasn’t sold yet, nor should it ever be placed on the markets. You need to stop its production.”

“Why, may I ask, is this happening?” You said in disbelief.

She cracked her neck, sharp eyes noticing the blood-stained shirt in your pocket, “Lee Junmo has a superiority complex and genius idea that putting poison in alcohol will help the population problem. Completely stupid. What happened to you?”

“My, um, my stitches reopened from the Chinese arms incident.” You said.

“Well certainly, you’re not doing this alcohol spree on your own. I was gonna send in 205 so he could have more time in the field, but you’ll need more experienced hands since you’re injured. Call 802 to accompany you. After that, you’re off for a month, until you fully heal.” She said dismissing you. You bowed and dialed your fellow agent’s number, informing him of your new mission.

“Crazy Alcohol guy? I’m so in.” He said nonchalantly, “I’ll meet you at HQ, y/n.”

Not even 10 minutes later did 802 show up, the two of you getting dressed and geared up for your trip, “Minhyung, you might need to be doing most of the action stuff. I can barely fight as it is,”

He nodded and went over the plan with you. Sneak in the production building, delete the files of the ingredients of the beer, and burn any current alcohol. “So basically, we’re setting the place on fire,”

“And making it seem like a fuse accident,” You answered getting the keys to the government vehicle. “As protocol goes, no more using our names from this point on, in case we get infiltrated.”

“You got it 717,” he nodded as the two of you entered the car. You connected your watches so to have each other’s gps at all times and to communicate through ear piece, not only with yourselves, but also with the government. The building was about a two hour drive from the city, in a rural area towards the southernmost tip of the country. The place was bordered by lights, a huge POWER on the front of the building.

You parked a good half a mile away from the place, “Alright 802, I’ll shut down all the cameras so you’ll be good to go. There’s an emergency side door on the west side, a complete blind spot to any cameras, you can get in through there. You have exactly 30 minutes to find the blueprint, delete it, and get back out here before I set fire to the building. We need a good distance as to not get any trace, there’s no people here for at least 10 miles of this place.”

Minhyung nodded, giving you a fist bump of good luck, “don’t tear your stitches out.”

“That’s the least of my worries, if you need help, I’ll run to you in a heartbeat,” you said, “now go, We’ll be monitoring you the whole time.”

“802 starting mission,” he said exiting the car and disappearing to the side. You followed him through the computer screen attached to the car, your heart beating in adrenaline. 802 otherwise known as Minhyung or Mark Lee was a fairly trained agent in the NCT unit. You often worked with several of their members, since most of your missions can’t be done as a solo operation, unless you’re calling for a death wish. 10 minutes gone by smoothly, Minhyung made his way in the building undetected and was now currently looking for the alcohol information.

“You have some company, to your left,” you said, “after you’re done with them, keep heading straight, there should be a heavily guarded room, I’m assuming it’s in there.”

“I see it.” he said taking down three more guards. You waited for him, bouncing your knee up and down, itching to go out and get some part of the action, “I’m on my way back, get the explosive ready.”

“802 wait! Vehicle approaching the entrance, you have to find a back exit, I’m heading south.” You said stepping on the pedal, “HQ, we need to leave as soon as 802 is back in the vehicle, send fire to my coordinates as soon as I say the word.”

“717 you better hurry,” they said from your ear-piece, “The bomb in your car is detached, the one set for your coordinate is ready.”

“Where are you? I’m out of the building!” Minhyung said

“I see you, right in front of you,” you said stopping the car in front of him. He got in quickly and you sped off, “alright fire.”

“What happened to a good distance away?” he asked catching his breath.

Your foot pressed on the pedal to go faster, heading straight with no clue how to get back to the city. Minhyung set the gps back to headquarters, getting ready to press the autopilot button as soon as the place was on fire. “Bingo, press it.”

You relaxed and leaned back in the seat, giving him a pat on the shoulder, “Piece of cake.”

“Mission complete, files and evidence destroyed, 802 and 717 are heading back to HQ.” You said.

Minhyung cracked his knuckles, looking outside comfortably, “When I get home, I’m gonna go to the bathroom and take a nice warm bubble bath,”

“Usually girls say that,” You commented.

“Boys can treat themselves too, y/n, don’t be so old-fashioned,” he said hitting your arm, “I’m gonna take a nap. Tell me when we’re back.”

Narrator’s POV

“-everyone out of the way! Patient coming through!” A doctor yelled running through the hospital and towards the OR, grasping the gurney that was being rolled along with him.

“Vitals are unstable, he’s in v-fib!” A nurse yelled putting her hands on the patient’s chest to try and get his heart to start beating again. Grabbing the two paddles, the doctor told the nurse to page the cardiac surgeon, stopping the way to the OR momentarily.

“Clear!”

“Pulse is back.” The nurse said.

The doctor paused for a brief moment of relief, pushing the gurney forward once more. They reached the room in a matter of minutes, the doctor scrubbing in quickly to meet his co-surgeon who was already inside and examining the patient. “Doctor Jeon, what’s your course of action?”

“The patient has multiple gun shots to the abdomen with no exit points, only entry. The heart is barely under control, I’m afraid a bullet might have scathed one of the ventricles,” Jungkook said, “Doctor Kim, you fix the heart while I get the bullets out.”

Taehyung nodded using a scalpel to open up the patient’s chest, immediately did blood start oozing, “I need some fresh blood, quick before he bleeds out.”

The two young surgeons worked diligently, fixing any complications before it escalated to something fatal. Jungkook put down his instruments at the extraction of the last bullet, cracking his neck with a relieved sigh, “Everything looks good, can you close Doctor?”

“I can finish by myself, yes. The rest are looking for you in Yoongi hyung’s office. I’ll come by once I’m done here.” Taehyung said without looking up. Jungkook exited the OR and removed his gown and gloves, washing his hands thoroughly before heading up to the Psychiatry Wing. Opening the door to Yoongi’s office, his nose was flooded with the scent of noodles.

“We ordered you some black bean noodles,” Namjoon said handing the youngest an unopened bowl. Jungkook thanked him and immediately began devouring the bowl.

Jimin smirked, “Slow down there, Jungkook. You don’t wanna choke and die before your date next week.”

“How do you know about that?” Jungkook asked taking a sip of Yoongi’s water.

The boys started clapping his shoulder, teasingly. “I was doing my rounds and I talked to Doctor Song and she mentioned something about her sister-in-law and Doctor Jeon scheduling an appointment next Friday for a checkup and lunch.”

“I need to make sure her stitches are healed,” Jungkook said innocently, shrugging his shoulders.

Jin laughed, “Please, you haven’t had a date since the nurse from dermatology stalked you after dinner and a movie.”

“She did seem a bit off, you know?” Namjoon commented, “When is Taehyung coming?”

“I’ll eat his noodles if he doesn’t show up soon.” Hoseok agreed.

Jungkook chuckled, “We just finished a surgery, gun shot victim. His name is Na Jaemin if I’m correct, I wonder what idiot gets himself shot here in this area. There were 6 bullets in his body, one barely missed the heart.”

“He’s lucky to be alive,” Taehyung confirmed walking in and taking a seat next to Jimin.

“Tell us more about your date, Jungkook,” Yoongi said getting the attention of the group again.

“Hyung,” Jungkook complained for a moment, “Her name is Song y/n, she’s absolutely beautiful, wow. I thought my heart was going to explode when I saw her for the first time-”

“Disgusting,” Jin said hitting his head with a folder, “If you give her that line, I hope she throws up in your face.”

“Now that’s disgusting,” Yoongi said, “just eat your food.”

A/N and that’s the end of ch. 1! Pls give me feedback it’s greatly appreciated :)