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lykegenia · 3 years

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Trust, But Verify

Convinced that Unit Bravo isn't everything they seem to be, Detective Leah Kingston decides to return to the warehouse that she knows plays some part in the mystery of Wayhaven's first murder in years, this time with Tina as backup. But sometimes, what is said on patrol doesn't stay on patrol, which isn't great when the subject of conversation is a certain new arrival with a dazzling smile and warm brown eyes.

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The air in the office holds a studied silence, from the members of Unit Bravo who have arranged themselves around the room like they’re on a photoshoot, and from me ignoring them so I can finish updating the board with information about the case. There’s precious little to go on so far. Adam called it a waste of time, but working as a teammeans everybody needs to be on the same page, and now I can feel a certain amount of spite creeping into the thoroughness of my notes.

I can’t afford to let it. Getting bull-headed means things get missed.

“What information can you give me about the other victims?” I ask.

“Nothing that will help us here.”

Nate passes a guilty glance between me and his glowering leader, but all it does is get me even angrier. Folding my arms, I turn to Adam, temper finally frayed enough to let my professional veneer slip.

“Did my mother send you to sabotage my case?” I demand. I shouldn’t, but today has not been a good day.

Adam glares. Somehow, the silence in the room deepens.

“I’m only asking because so far you seem to be trying your hardest to seem incompetent and uncaring about the fact that a woman has been murdered. If you can’t show even basic respect for that then you can get the hell out of my office and not come back.”

“Detective…”

“Are you here to help or not?” I’ve dealt with Saturday night drunks and middle managers angry at getting parking tickets – hell, I’ve had to face the mayor’s bluster more than once – and though Adam looks like he knows more ways to break someone’s bones than any of those guys, I’m willing to bet he’s on a much shorter leash.

Finally, the muscles working in that square jaw unclench just enough for him to loose a strained breath through his teeth. “We’re at your disposal.”

“Glad to hear it.” My shoulders relax a little. “The better we work together, the faster we’ll solve this, and unfortunately all the legwork has to come first.”

Nate steps forward, visibly relieved that we haven’t come to blows. “What do you want us to do?”

“We need to trace the victim’s last steps,” I say. Coming up with a plan gives me something to focus on. “Bank records, phone records, CCTV. If we can find out where and when she met the killer, hopefully we can follow the thread back to them. Someone should ask Verda if there’s any way to track down the equipment the killer needed for the transfusion, too,” I add.

“Anything else?” Mason drawls from his corner. He’s started on another cigarette.

“Nate very kindly said you’d all go and check out the Farris warehouse later. We think it might be the murder site.” I don’t miss the look Adam shoots across the room, but it’s not important. “Be careful when you do, when I was there yesterday I ran into some unsavoury characters.”

“Really?” Felix asks, grinning. “If we see them I’m sure we could take them.”

Nate rolls his eyes and Adam grinds his teeth again, and neither of them are doing anything to soothe the off vibes I’ve been getting all morning.

“Glad to hear it,” I reply, turning to grab my coat off the peg. “While you’re on that, there’s something else I want to chase up.”

“What something else?” Adam asks, his eyes narrowing as if he can hear the uneasy tick of my pulse.

I shrug, already half out the door. “I’ll let you know if it pans out.”

“One of us should go with you.”

“Thanks for the offer, but Tina and I will be fine – Tina! Fieldtrip!”

She looks up from the papers on her desk and gestures to the steaming mug in her hand. “But I just –”

“Now. We can stop off at Haley’s later.”

There’s a pause as she glances behind me, assessing, no doubt lining up a bunch of questions to ask me as soon as we’re out of earshot. “Sure thing, Detective.” She pulls on coat and scarf and sidles closer. “Day one and the power’s already gone to your head, I see.”

I stifle a smile and turn back to Unit Bravo, who are all leaning around the door of my office in various attitudes of surprise. “I almost forgot, while I’m out I’d be grateful if you could add the information on the other victims to the board. It should help.”

“We’ll see to it,” Nate promises when his colleague only flexes his biceps in response.

“I appreciate it.”

I’m almost to the door when I catch Felix sigh and mutter I don’t think she likes us very much, but I straighten my shoulders and step into the already darkening winter day, not allowing the prickle of guilt to take hold. They’re not here for me to like them, they’re here for a job – and I need to figure out what that job really is.

Tina shoots me a dubious look as I pull up outside the Farris warehouse and cut the engine. There’s still some light left, though the thick growth of trees crowds most of it out, and aside from a few harsh alarm calls from birds flitting between the trunks, the place is lifeless. Silent. The moon watches us from just above the top branches, hanging in the sky like a spider in the corner of its web.

“You changed your mind about letting Unit Boyband have this one?” she asks.

I reach behind me for my flashlight and check the safety on my gun is locked before kicking open the door. “There’s something not adding up about them, and I want to know what it is. Nate practically contorted himself trying to think of reasons for me to stay away.”

“And so here we are.” She sighs and follows. “Just like the good old days. As your friend, I think you’re being a bit paranoid.”

“Shady government agencies bring that out in me.”

“Just as long as you’re not expecting to split up in there.”

I toss her a grin. “Not even for a Scooby Snack?” I chuckle at her flat look. “Don’t worry, after those guys put that dent in Nessie last night, I’m not taking chances.”

With a wary look around, she unholsters her own gun and takes position on my left. “That dent looks like it was made with a sledgehammer.”

“Yup.”

We fall silent as we cross the threshold, crumbs of rubble cracking under our boots. The wind blows in from behind us, rustling the ivy reclaiming the walls, distorting sound, but unless someone is keeping very still, there’s nobody else here.

“Sooooo… it’s ‘Nate’ is it?” Tina ventures as we climb the stairs to the first floor. The artistic endeavours of Wayhaven’s teenagers scroll the walls, the empty cans and bottles from last summer’s illicit parties still scattered in the far corners.

“That’s what he asked me to call him,” I reply carefully. “It’s what the rest of them call him too.”

“Uh-huh.” She peers down at something. “Cigarette butt.”

“Recent?” I catch a shadow to my left, but when I chase it with my flashlight, it turns out just to be pigeons again, scattering for some reason of their own.

“There’s still ash on it, so I’d say so.”

“Bag it.”

While she kneels and starts the usual procedure for getting evidence into one of the bags we both carry with us, I pace the rest of the floor, peering around rusted heavy machinery and into the dustier corners in case of footprints. With so many people passing through, though, it’s unlikely we’ll find enough to connect anything to the murder – at least not anything that would stick in court.

“You have seen him eyeing you up though, right?”

“What?” I glance over, startled by the suddenness of Tina’s voice. “Who?”

Her tut would have made any disapproving grandma proud. “Nate.”

“Tina, I met him this morning.” One last glance around. “This floor’s clear.”

“So?”

“So when has he even had an opportunity to ‘eye me up’?”

“Oh, that’s right,” she sing-songs, “you were too busy doing your best to make the grumpy one quake in his combat boots, but I see everything. His mouth was hanging open and everything. And that was after your cosy little trip down to the morgue. I’m telling you, babe, you have a shot.”

We go one at a time down the stairs, which means she can’t see me roll my eyes, but as we turn to take our first proper look at the ground floor, the idea wiggles in to distract my better judgement. Nate has certainly made a better first impression than most of his team, but that’s not exactly hard, and his face looks like one that’s used to smiling, to smoothing ruffled feathers. If I maybe noticed the warmth of his hand when I shook it earlier, or caught the faint scent of whatever aftershave he uses when we were walking down to see Verda, then it’s still not something to lose my head over. It’s not something that matters.

“As your friend, I’m duty-bound to say that I think you’re delusional,” I say, deliberately light.

“Over here.”

Tina’s flashlight rounds on the transient’s camp I found yesterday, a loose pile of tattered blankets and a few rusted oil drums converted into fire barrels, only now with more light, there seems to be little evidence of recent occupation. No trash, no scuff marks beyond what could be explained by the passage of my own feet and the strangers who ran into me, and no odour of an unwashed body.

And yet…

Still crouched, I glance at the walls, try to imagine them blurred as I hold up my phone screen with the photos copied from Janet Greenland’s. She had known she was going to die, with enough advance warning to try and leave some kind of message, and then hidden them where her killer would be unlikely to look.

Tina breaks the concentrated silence. “What’s so delusional about someone finding you attractive?” It helps, the distraction from the grisly reason we’re here.

“Nothing in particular,” I reply. “People have wanted to sleep with me before. It’s just not something that would work.”

“Why not?”

I stand and walk slowly, still with my phone up in front of me. “One, this is a temporary assignment. Once we catch the killer, Unit Bravo will be whisked away to somewhere far more exotic than Wayhaven with far more interesting people.” I stop. “Two, he’s technically a colleague, which is never something that ends well. And three…”

The last of Janet Greenland’s photos line up with the view ahead of me, minus the difference in our height.

“Three?” Tina presses.

“I’m not interested.” It’s a ready answer, but she scoffs all the same.

“Oh come on, you mean you don’t think he’s sexy as hell?”

From somewhere behind us, there’s a loud crash as a piece of masonry collapses. We wheel, ready for something to come at us, but after a long moment, nothing else moves. Probably a rat, or a piece of the ceiling that was ready to go anyway. Even so, Tina keeps her back to mine as I return to my snooping.

“That’s not a no,” she wheedles after a few more minutes of silence.

“He’s –” The right description eludes me for a moment. “He’s good-looking. He seems nice, for what it’s worth. But that doesn’t mean he’d stay, and it doesn’t mean he’d be interested in anything… beyond casual. I have more worthwhile uses for my time than trying to guess a stranger’s motives for noticing me.” The bitterness isn’t something I meant to slip out, but thankfully there’s no comment on it. Tina knows enough about the fiasco with Bobby to leave that particular sleeping Rottweiler lie.

Besides, I’ve found where Janet stumbled into the warehouse – or tried to get out. By one of the broken windows some of the stones have tumbled and turned the mossy sides underneath, and a few threads of material are snagged on the jagged edge of the glass that are the same colour as the jacket she was wearing. There’s just enough light left to photograph it, but without any evidence of the killer or any kind of struggle, there isn’t much else to be done. Wayhaven doesn’t have the resources to dust an entire warehouse for prints.

“I remember being told at the academy that we should try to collect all the evidence we can,” Tina says, when I make no move to reach for a bag.

“That’s what I’m doing,” I reply. “Sometimes it doesn’t all look the same, that’s all.”

She eyes me with a frown, though the corner of her mouth is fighting a smile. “What did I tell you? Paranoid.”

Sitting in the Facility cafeteria barely a week later, a plate of unappetising mince and mashed potato in front of me, it’s hard to believe how much a life can change. Hunting for petty clues, looking through bank records and phone calls as if any of it would have turned up anything useful – not even the vindication of knowing I was right about my mother’s team does much to lessen the lurch the world has taken since learning that the man I was hunting is not only a vampire, but that he’s hunting me, too. The thought puts me off eating. Or maybe it’s the tests, or just that the food itself isn’t very good.

I’m in the middle of drawing a passable mixed media landscape with my fork when a shadow falls across my plate. Nate smiles at me, genuine if somewhat nervous, one hand holding a mug of tea and the other on the back of the chair opposite mine.

“May I sit?” he asks.

I’ve barely seen him since the first night I was here, between all the debriefings and the sessions with the scientists, and even those brief glimpses have been accidental, moments of stumbling into each other in the corridors of Unit Bravo’s section of the Facility. To have him seek me out, in a place that reeks of leftovers, stirs an unfamiliar flutter behind my ribs that turns into a smile to answer his.

“Please do.” I gesture, and his smile grows wider, and I cast about for something that will avoid me floundering in awkward silence. “I didn’t think I’d see you here – not because you don’t need to eat!” I add hastily. “The smell of stale coffee is almost too much for me with just human senses.”

He doesn’t seem too offended, and just shrugs. “I like the ambience. People here are just being people, no matter what species.” As he speaks his eyes cast over the nearly empty room, and the pockets of agents and supernaturals at other tables buried in conversation. A person could visit a thousand parallel universes and a cafeteria would look the same in every one.

“The more things change…” I mutter, following the line of his gaze.

A smile touches his lips. “You have no idea.”

I really don’t. Not compared with someone who’s lived so long and seen so much. In the pause that follows, I turn my attention back to my plate, and the interrupted tree I was trying to capture in the foreground with an overcooked slice of carrot.

“You’re quite the artist – I mean it!” he adds, holding up his hands at the sharp glance I throw his way.

“This is the part where you say you met some famous painter or other, isn’t it?” I grumble, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Van Gogh did sell me a painting once – not one of his own, I’m afraid.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say the statement was meant to impress me, and that the sip he takes of his tea is more to hide a smirk than because he’s thirsty. Still, his eyes grow serious as he taps the mug back on the table, and the measured way he looks me over makes me want to twist my fingers in my lap.

“What?”

“You seem to be handling the revelation of all this rather well,” he replies, muted, with a flicker of a softer smile. “We should have trusted you with it sooner.”

For a moment I don’t answer, both startled by the admission and caught up in an echo of the resentment that’s characterised so much of my time with Unit Bravo so far. It’s not a comfortable feeling, not now I know the reason behind the secrecy, but the morning after my second visit to the warehouse is still fresh in my mind, Adam’s flat ‘no’ when I asked if they’d found anything, and the way Nate glared at the floor, arms folded and shaking his head in tacit disagreement as the others waited for my reaction, as if they knew I wouldn’t believe them.

“I’ll admit, ‘new co-workers are secretly vampires hunting down a vampire serial killer who’s picked me as his next target’ wouldn’t have been my first guess for what was going on,” I try with a shrug. “I assume it’s not something everyone responds well to.”

“Most people who find out don’t have to deal with the serial killer part.”

Sometimes, in the face of such absurdity, you just have to laugh. Nate seems pleased that I haven’t run screaming, amusement warming the sympathetic way his gaze lingers.

“Actually, I wanted to thank you,” I say, after another moment of silence.

“For what?”

I shrug. “For wanting to tell me – trying to tell me, even though you had orders. Not everyone would do that.” My mother springs to mind as a prime example.

“It was clear you were going to find out anyway. You’re pretty incredible that way.” His gaze on mine is heavy, soft and intense but tinged with regret as well, and he looks away. “But after you went to the warehouse, it was also clear you didn’t trust us. It’s not a great combination for trying to keep someone safe.”

“How did you know I was at the warehouse?”

“I, uh…” He clears his throat, not meeting my eye. “I followed you. One of us had to, just in case Murphy came back.”

He seems… embarrassed more than anything, as if following me was somehow something more shameful than lying to my face, and it’s not what I expect. And then I remember my conversation with Tina while we hunted through the ruined building. Damn. My fork sets against the edge of my plate with a faint clink.

“You were in the warehouse – when I was in the warehouse,” I check, just in case there’s no real reason for the sudden flood of heat into my face.

“I was.”

“And you heard everything me and Tina were saying with your hypersenses, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t exactly need –” He stops, smiles an apology. “Yes, I heard everything.”

I roll my lips together, chasing something to say. My fingertips drum on the table. “There’s no chance you could just… forget all of that, is there?”

And now the smile curls into something smoother, sleek like a cat. And guess who’s the canary.

“I would rather not.” He purrs it, and my insides squirm. “But since we’re on the subject of… things you said, I feel the same way. About matters of the heart. They’re too precious to be treated casually.”

I stare. There’s more in the words than I really want to acknowledge, certainly more than I can respond to in the middle of a public place full of creatures I thought were myths for most of my life. His brown eyes search my face, patient, until I can’t stand it anymore and drop my gaze to the table, and he covers by taking another sip of his tea.

“That’s an elegant way to put it,” I manage, after what feels like an eternity. He’ll still be leaving once we’ve caught Murphy, and now that we’ve got a solid set of leads on him, that won’t be long at all.

“I hoped you would think so.”

“It must be hard to have any kind of relationship with… all of this.” I wave my hand around the room. “The secrecy and the travelling, I mean.”

His head tilts, the smile returns. “You don’t think it’s the vampire thing that would put people off?”

“No.” I don’t miss the way his mouth twitches upwards at that. “Vampires have become fashionable in the last few years, so I hear. Even if you don’t sparkle.”

“I’d hope my wit does, at least.”

I can’t help it, I break into a laugh at that. It’s so easy to feel comfortable around him, to want to be closer and spend hours just talking. When I knew he was lying, it was an easier feeling to ignore.

“You could always find another vampire,” I point out. “That would solve it if you thought it was a problem.”

It confuses him. His brows furrow as if it was something he hadn’t considered, as if the conversation has taken a turn he didn’t expect, and I use the distraction to look at the clock, high on the wall where clocks always are in cafeterias.

“I need to go. It’s stab-Leah-with-needles o’clock.”

“So soon?” he asks.

It’s not entirely untrue, but I’ll have to walk slowly not to be early, because god forbid they think I’m eager for more tests. My heart skips a little, and he can probably tell, but this whole conversation has veered far too close to gates I locked a long time ago, and do not want open again. I shrug.

“The sooner I get through everything they can think up, the sooner I can go back to catching Murphy.”

“The sooner this whole case is finished.” He watches me, the unspoken half of the sentence left hanging.

“The sooner Wayhaven is safe again.”

In the end, that’s what matters. I can’t lose sight of it.

#in this house we talk about our feelings #but only if we're not talking about *our* feelings #and only if our bff bullies us into it #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #n sewell #nate sewell #nate sewell x detective #leah kingston #tina poname

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brave-clarice · 4 years

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“Clarice” Liveblog: Episode 2

Again, some extremely unfashionably late hot takes.

(Special thanks to @kathrynethegreat and @special-agent-pendragon for encouraging another liveblog!)

Clarice is working out! And eating junk food! I love it.

and cleaning her gun!

hey, Ardelia is drinking what I’m going to assume is her grandmother’s “smart people tea”.

Krendler disciplining Clarice already is infuriating but appropriate.

“I lost control.” Oh no, I don’t like that. Don’t make Clarice unstable. Her mental and emotional state never had anything to do with her failing career.

getting weird mixed signals from Ardelia. Last week, she obviously didn’t want Clarice to lie/stick to the script Krendler gave her, but now she’s telling Clarice she messed up by not doing so...?

“I better know you if you’re calling this early.” Amen, Ardelia.

I’m in love: this cinematography is straight out of the film (when she’s flying to WV with Crawford)!

“When’s the last time you went back to Appalachia?” “It’s been years.” What??? It has NOT been years--Clarice was JUST in West Virginia last week as well as in Silence, and she arguably attended college there as well. (UVA is at least nestled in the mountains, and you don’t have to drive far outside the Albemarle Valley to hit Appalachia proper.) After all the details about her character they’ve been nailing, they miss this glaring error?

I like the tiny details she’s noticing (like the guy biting his nails). Not only because she’s an investigator, but because it’s reminiscent of Hannibal’s influence (imo).

Clarice Is Short: The Saga continues

still not getting any creepy vibes off Krendler. He’s going to be much less effective as an antagonist if he isn’t lewd as well as a dick.

I really don’t care for the way the opening “credits” fade out from the death’s-head moth to Clarice’s face. There are MANY animals that represent her, or parts of her, in the books--lions, lambs, horses, and of course birds--so this choice feels empty and lazy to me.

also lazy: having a fellow agent straight-up tell her in episode 2 “you shouldn’t be in the Bureau.” Maybe in two or three years, after some further “Death Angel”-type incidents, I could see this blatant rudeness, but not yet.

“Reesey”? Thanks, I hate it.

this flashback must be of Clarice’s little brother. That answers one question I had last week. That said...Clarice’s brother doesn’t play the same role in her story that Mischa does in Hannibal’s--but this sure feels like a Mischa-esque flashback.

good: they’re finally getting to the source of Clarice’s actual trauma!

bad: this is NOT how Clarice found out about her father. In fact, that whole incident is laid out in detail in the novels, and there’s nothing overly literary/un-cinematic about it, so this feels unnecessary. “The police are here! Something happened to Daddy!” No, bad! Show, don’t tell!

she would’ve known better than to introduce herself to that kid as “Clarice Starling, FBI,” come on now.

were they regularly able to wire tap hair clips in 1993?

actually, nothing in this show looks very 90s to me so far. I’m sad about it.

so in eighteen months, Ruth Martin has gone from a junior Senator to the Attorney freakin’ General, and now she might run for governor?? At least let her get settled in one position of power first, why don’t you!

yet more Buffalo Bill flashbacks...alas.

are they trying to make this guy another surrogate Hannibal character? He’s commenting on Clarice’s accent and the dryness of her skin, asking about who she “left behind”...it all feels very Hannibal. (I know he’s a Charismatic Cult Leader trope, too--but when played off of Clarice...)

“Ew.” “I hate this guy.” I laughed.

I understand that Clarice probably feels conflicted re: her siblings in the book, but I’m really not digging the flashbacks of this Tim Burton character her brother.

@ the writers: Clarice already has the lamb backstory/symbolism, too. We don’t need this Little Brother stuff.

*shrieking* Mrs. Starling! At the sink washing the blood out of his hat!!!

...aaand they had to ruin it with the brother’s painfully bad dialogue. Will still be good for gif-making, though.

are we supposed to interpret all these flashbacks as Clarice being incapable of controlling her emotions/state of mind? She keeps losing herself in memories and emerging all doe-eyed and panicky. I don’t like it.

not to be a broken record but...Clarice should be TOUGH. Again, Ardelia only saw her cry once in seven years. But she’s more worked up in this scene than Jodie was in Memphis!

when Mr. Cult Leader shouts “Agent Starling! Agent Starling!” he sounds exactly like Hannibal calling her back to his cell in the asylum. That has to be intentional.

damn, wish that I could look as good five minutes after I’ve been crying as Clarice does.

I LOVE that Ardelia gets to be the crucial behind-the-scenes book-smart partner to Clarice’s action heroine.

AG Martin’s just playing politics by turning a blind eye to the crooked sheriff. But when her own daughter was just kidnapped and almost killed, she looks like a real hypocrite.

gosh, Rebecca Breeds is great. I already hope she gets nominated for an Emmy.

so Krendler is...doing the right thing???

Clarice’s father was definitely not a sheriff. I hope she’s just exaggerating for dramatic effect. (Maybe this will be clarified later.)

she couldn’t just sit with a manipulative guy without getting emotional, but she’s cool as a cucumber while telling an extended story about her father? HmmMM.

sometimes her mannerisms and facial expressions are so much like Jodie’s that it’s uncanny, like here when she leans forward to confront the Cult Leader.

“She did it.” Damn straight!

another great callback to Silence. this show’s camera crew knows its stuff!

“He’s concerned I have some residual trauma from Bill.” I. Hate. This. Subplot--and all its OOC implications.

“Catherine was close to her father, too.” Ooh, a nice allusion to the novel! Clarice makes note of their “common wound,” the loss of a father, when she’s in Catherine’s apartment in Silence.

she is just SO pretty.

little Clarice looks a LOT like Rebecca Breeds. I hope we see some more of her.

The Good:

the continuing visual nods to the Silence film via cinematography

Mama Starling!!!

Clarice’s “The World Will Not Be This Way Within the Reach of my Arm” attitude, refusing to leave without helping the victims.

Ardelia Mapp coming in clutch!

Clarice being, generally, a badass

and using psychological tricks/mind games to pin the antagonist...that’s the woman who disarmed a monster with just a few words.

Rebecca Breed’s acting has been phenomenal so far.

I like Clarice’s haircut a lot better when worn down (though it’s not very practical for fieldwork, so we probably won’t see it much).

The Bad:

the continuing Buffalo Bill-related Trauma Subplot. Ugh.

all the flashbacks to Clarice’s brother (and the not-so-subtle suggestion that her brother is, symbolically, another lamb).

will the real Paul Krendler please come forward? this guy is so TAME.

the other agents’ hostility towards Clarice needs to be toned down slightly so that it can escalate. Otherwise, where’s the tension?

is this actually 1993? I’m not feeling it. Shouldn’t it have a little of that Season 1/2 X-Files aesthetic? Please give me more than once-an-episode references to pagers and fax machines!

that glaring Appalachia continuity error...it’s still bugging me.

I missed the overt Hannibal references, even though they’re not necessary to any part of this episode. A lady can dream!

Overall, I really liked this one despite my various issues with it. It started shakily but built to a great finish. The emphasis across both episodes on Clarice being in the FBI not just to “get out, get anywhere,” but out of a genuine desire to help victims has been wonderful. I just hope they don’t swerve too far into the “too traumatized and emotionally compromised to function” lane. It would be a disservice to Clarice’s character and to her journey (and would smack too much of “Hannibal really did prey on her weak mind/brainwash her”.

Things I’d still like to see: More of her personality. Her hobbies and interests. That she’s cleaning her gun is great! Now let’s see “Poison Oakley” practicing her sharpshooting skills. Or car shopping. Or clothes shopping to show off her “developing taste.” (Ardelia can come!) I’ll take literally anything. Give us more of Clarice’s sense of humor as well. She had some subtle funny moments in the pilot, and it’s nice to see Rebecca smile for a change.

And Krendler? Smear that man in grease! I appreciated a happy ending even though Clarice’s career is, as we know, already in a downward spiral--the last thing we want is for every episode to be a slog, especially when a good chunk of the audience hasn’t read the book and doesn’t know Clarice is doomed to fail in the Bureau.

However... Krendler’s not a “redemption arc” kind of character. Or even a “run-of-the-mill sexist asshole” character. This is a man who spent seven years systematically sabotaging a young woman’s career because a) he was jealous that she solved the Gumb case before him, and b) she wouldn’t fuck him. He was a Justice Department official working fist-in-glove with a serial child molester who was planning some of the heinous vigilante justice imaginable. THAT’S why his very gruesome end at Hannibal’s hands felt deserved--even Clarice thought so! In short, he needs to get nasty.

Anyway, thanks for coming to another long-overdue TedTalk. Fingers crossed that the next one will be more timely (aiming for Sunday night)!

#Clarice Starling #clarice #cbs clarice #rebecca breeds #once again I apologize for how late this is #and how long and somewhat ranty lol #please let me know if you want more ♥♥♥#media [cbs show]#char [clarice starling]

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heloisedaphnebrightmore · 4 years

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Unspoken arrangements [Dean Winchester x Reader]

Title: Unspoken arrangements Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word count: 5k Published: 26 June, 2020 Author: Heloise Daphne Brightmore Notes: My first ever Supernatural story, even though I have been watching the show since it first aired. I guess, I just couldn't get myself to write about them before, but here we go now. Summary: Dean and you have been in a friends with benefits kind of relationship, but your feelings complicate things and it all turns upside down when an injury comes into the picture.

Supernatural Masterlist | Masterlists

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You were laying under your duvet, your eyes fixed on the wooden nightstand by the bed. A heavy arm laid across your waist, holding you strongly. You heaved a deep sigh as your messy thoughts ran through your mind.

You and Dean have known each other for years. At first you looked up to him as a mentor, he taught you more than anyone else. Soon however it took a different direction. Your palms started sweating whenever you were around him, your heartbeat quickened when he leaned closer to you to tell you something, causing a shiver to run through your body, goosebumps to appear whenever he touched you.

You hid it. Hid it well and carefully. You never wanted him to know about your feelings for him. It was certainly hard to hide, but you tried your best. Up until you didn't. You were out in a bar, after an exhausting hunt, both of you too drunk to care about anything at all. Not even consequences to your actions. You flirted with each other just like always. Nothing unusual. Or so you thought, until you felt his lips against yours, his body pushing you against the Impala. You didn't even hesitate, alcohol getting the best of you, you locked your arms behind his neck and pulled him closer, making sure no space left between the two of you.

The next morning you woke up with a throbbing headache and a dry throat. You tried to turn, but something was holding you down. You looked behind you and your eyes widened at the sight of the older Winchester's sleeping face. You adored the way his long lashes laid down on his cheekbones, his lips parted as he took deep breaths, sometimes snorting, making you slightly smile.

But then you returned to reality. You remembered each and every part of the evening, from drinking too much, to making out with Dean in the impala and finally ending up in his room, desperately ripping off each other's cloths, before you finally gave each other the pleasure you both were craving for.

But that was then. It soon became a regular thing. You didn't speak about it, you didn't agree to only have sex with each other. It just came naturally like an unspoken arrangement. However it was hurting you. You were waiting for the moment he decided to take another woman from the bar, instead of you and it made your stomach turn. You hoped it would never come, but deep down you knew it was nothing serious. You just enjoyed each other, physically.

You looked at the clock on the wall, showing 7am and you stopped your self-pity, before you could have dwelled on it any longer. It was so easy to get lost in Dean's arms, but waking up next to him, knowing that he would want you out of his bed as soon as he was awake, hurt you. You wanted his morning kisses, his nightly cuddles, his cheeky winks all to yourself. Even though you knew it was a far fetched wish.

You knew that you couldn't do it any longer and tried to stop it, tried to tell yourself that you shouldn't give in anymore, but as soon as he appeared with that intoxicating aura of his, you were powerless and wanted nothing but his touches against your body, his lips against your own.

You lifted his arm off your body and pulled back the cover to get yourself out of his bed. You picked up your wrinkled t-shirt from the floor and pulled it over your head and put on the underwear and trouser you were wearing the night before. Tiptoeing around the room, you quickly picked up the rest of your clothings and left his room, quietly closing the door behind yourself.

You rushed to your room as you always did, feeling as if you were doing the walk of shame, even though Sam knew about your intimate relationship with his brother. You threw your cloths in your laundry basket and hurried over to the shower. You didn't take long, you were more focused on getting water and some pills to get your headache to subside. You quickly put on your bra, pants and a black tank top with a pair of black shorts.

You left your room slightly refreshed and headed to the kitchen to get your morning tea. You boiled some water and prepared your tea as you gulped down a glass of water with some aspirin you found in one of the cupboards.

"Morning." Sam walked into the kitchen, his hair perfectly styled, his cloths neat as if he was about to go out.

"Are you going somewhere?" You asked looking him up and down.

"You mean we." He said as he opened his laptop, which you didn't even realise he had in his hands. "I found a new case. Assumingly vampire attacks. People have been disappearing and after days of being gone, their corpses are drained." He explained.

"And you want to go today?" You asked with a sheepish smile.

"Why?" He asked suspiciously.

"Good luck for getting your brother out of bed. He got wasted yesterday." You explained as you turned back to your cup of tea to put some milk and sugar in it. You didn't even realise as Sam appeared by your side.

"Would you like to do the honour?" He asked as he was holding a jug of water in his hand with a mischievous smile across his face.

"How could I refuse such a generous offer?" You giggled and quickly walked to Dean's room, Sam right behind you, wanting to see his brother's face. As you stepped into the room, Dean was still laying in the same position, laying on his side, his arm on the empty side of the bed. You stopped at the end of the furniture and called out for him. "Dean." You whispered, hoping he wouldn't hear you. "Dean." You tried a bit louder, to have an excuse why you decided to give him such a dramatic wakening.

"I think it will be enough." Sam tried to hold back his laughter as you looked back at him with a cheeky smile. You shrugged nonchalantly and walked beside Dean's sleeping form. You didn't waste time, you poured the jug of water over his head and torso, causing him to jump out of bed, forcing you to step aside from his frantic moves.

"What's happening?" He shouted, his wide eyes running between you and Sam, waiting for an explanation.

"You didn't hear us." Sam spoke, shrugging his shoulders.

"We had to wake you up, somehow." You smiled innocently. His gaze became suspicious, before he quickly grabbed for you and caught you by your waist. Your back was pulled against his torso as he tried to pull you into the shower. You were kicking, screaming, anything not to let him get to the bathroom. "It was Sam's idea." You shouted as he was about to open the tap. Dean stopped his movements and turned to his brother letting go of your struggling body.

"You traitor." Sam shouted at you as he ran out of Dean's room, his brother hot in his trail. You chuckled at the sight, feeling relieved that you were safe. You walked back into your room, to put on your black jeans and black leather jacket, while placing your gun and machete in your bag, before stepping outside to finish your already lukewarm tea.

It didn't take long for the brothers to stop running around like children as Dean promised Sam to get him back in the least expected moment. You were sitting on the stairs waiting for the brothers, your gears all packed for a vampire hunt. As the boys got ready and you started walking up the stairs, you saw Dean playing with the car key, throwing it up and letting it fall back into his hand.

"Are you sure you should drive? You got pretty wasted last night." You looked at him curiously.

"I think, I proved you already that I can perform just fine even under the influence." He chuckled, making you turn crimson red. You felt your cheeks heat up, your ears burning at his comment.

"Shut up." You mumbled as you took your seat behind the driver's seat. You could see Dean's cheeky wink from the rear view mirror, which made your eye roll, but you couldn't hide the playful smile in the corner of your lips.

"I saw it." He chuckled, but you just leaned against the window, out of his view, not to give him any more satisfactory reactions.

You were travelling for about 18 hours to get to Harrisville, Michigan, on occasions stopping for toilet or snacks, as Dean was complaining about being hungry almost every hour. As you finally arrived to a run down, crumbling motel, you got out of the car in the parking lot and stretched your stiff body parts. If there was one thing you hated about hunting, than it had to be the long hours of travelling between states.

"Is this supposed to be an invitation?" Dean stood in front of you with a cheeky smile across his handsome face as he rested his hands on your hips. You tried not to look into his emerald green eyes, knowing that would sabotage any coherent sentences to leave your mouth.

"You wish." You chuckled as you removed his hands from your hips and walked to the reception, where Sam was already getting the key for your room.

"Oh I do." You heard his deep, gruff voice, making you heave a deep sigh.

You shook his presence off and walked to Sam who opened the room, three doors down the reception area. As you stepped inside you threw your bag on the floor by the door and laid down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. You always chose the sofa, instead of the two double beds, not wanting to fight about it or complicate things.

It was already dawn, the sun was coming up and you barely slept anything in the car. Somehow you were never able to get more than one or two hours of sleep when travelling. You were exhausted, your limbs were all over the couch, shaming even a gymnast.

You heard Dean enter, throwing his bag on the ground and Sam closing the door behind himself as he walked into the bathroom.

"You know you can sleep in the bed, right?" He asked with a mischievous glint in his green orbs. You pushed yourself up, putting your weight on your elbows as you looked at him suspiciously.

"Which one?" You asked with a smirk, but he just groaned, knowing exactly what you meant. You liked to play with him.

"Mine, obviously." He stated.

"What's the catch?" You asked, knowing him too well.

"There isn't one." He replied, his smiling returning, which made you feel alarmed.

"Yeah, I'll pass." You scoffed. However Dean didn't like your reply. He pushed one of his hands under your back, while he placed the other one under your knees, pulling you up into his chest in a swift movement. "What are you doing?" You asked, but you didn't even have time to get hold of his neck for support, he threw you on the bed he claimed to be his.

"You are going to sleep here." He shrugged with a smug grin across his lips.

"I think I do have a say in it too." You scoffed, but couldn't stop a light laugh to escape your lungs.

"We can play this game as long as you want." He smirked, knowing that you would give in soon anyway.

"Fine. No touching tough." You warned him, pointing your index finger towards him.

"Yep." He replied nonchalantly.

"Sam is in the room too." You tried to reason with him, but you had no effect on him.

"He is a deep sleeper." He chuckled at your serious expression.

"You are unbelievable, Dean Winchester." You rolled your eyes, annoyed at his behaviour.

"I love it when you say my name." He kneeled down on the bed, getting closer to you with a playful smile. You moved backwards, attempting to get away, but soon the pillows stopped your movements. "And I love it even more when you scream it." He whispered into your ear, making you shiver at his lustful, husky voice. You quickly jumped up as you heard Sam exit the bathroom and picked up your bag, before heading to the shower, closing the door behind yourself.

You didn't waste time, you quickly got under the cold water, trying to calm your body and thoughts as if they were both against you trying to hide your feelings. Your attempts to stay calm and collected around Dean have been demolished long ago, but you still tried.

You got out of the shower and put on your black over-sized shirt, which you were sure belonged to Dean. You also wore a black, baggy short as a pyjama and after brushing your teeth, you walked out of the room to head to your bed. Dean headed towards the bathroom as you walked towards him, but before he walked in, he quickly slapped your bottom with a cheeky grin as your eyes widened at his actions. You couldn't do any thing, but huff at his annoying behaviour as Sam was already fast asleep.

You laid down on Dean's bed, knowing he would indeed pick you up and put you back into his bed whether you liked it or not. You were exhausted, you barely had energy to keep your eyes open. You tried to stay awake until Dean finished, but you couldn't as you were slipping in and out of your dreams. You could feel Dean's heavy arm placed across your torso as it pulled you closer to his chest, snuggling his head against the back of your neck. Soon, you completely gave yourself to your dreams.

When you woke up, Dean was already gone beside you and Sam was sitting in front of his laptop, reading an article about the attacks in the town.

"Morning." You spoke with a hoarse voice, trying to keep your eyes open. He turned to you with a smirk across his face . "What?" You asked, feeling grumpy.

"Nothing." He said innocently, turning back to the screen of his laptop.

"I know you." You stated simply as you sat up, leaning against the bed frame.

"You were cuddled up with Dean on the morning when I went out to get coffee." He said with a sheepish smile.

"So?" You asked. Although it was unusual for you to just sleep next to each other without getting freaky in the sheets, but it was certainly not the first time. Sam heaved a deep sigh and rolled his eyes at your reaction.

"When are you planning to tell him?" He asked with a knowing look on his face.

"Never." You stated simply and you got out of bed and headed to the bathroom to get your morning routine done.

"Come on! You can't keep doing this. I saw you yesterday morning. How long are you going to pretend that it's okay for you?" He asked almost angered, but you knew he was worried. It was hard, but your friendship or whatever you and Dean had was more important.

"I'm going to the bathroom." You said completely ignoring him, which earned an annoyed scoff from the younger Winchester.

Time flew by quickly as you and Sam searched for information, while Dean went to talk to the police by himself. By the time he came back, he was already sure of the location of the vampire nest, surprising both you and Sam. You kind of felt useless as if Dean was solving the whole case by himself.

You got ready, placing your machete on your belt, while the boys were already waiting for you by the the Impala. You closed the door behind you, putting the key in your pocket, heading towards the car.

The trip wasn't long, maybe fifteen minutes tops. You watched the scenario as Dean was driving you deep into the woods, only source of light coming through from the moon and the headlights of the Impala. A dark, old house appeared in your vision as Dean slowed down the car. Its windows were broken, the door was held together by wooden planks across its rotten base.

You got out of the car, following the two men, puling your machete out of your belt, readying yourself. Dean went ahead, standing next to the door, motioning towards Sam to open it from the other side. You stood beside Dean, waiting for his signal to go in. As Sam opened the door, Dean walked in first, heading down the hall, while you turned right. Sam headed towards the living room on the left, following a squeaky sound you both heard.

You walked around the dining table, which led you to the kitchen, where you saw a door half opened, going down to the basement. You were thinking of waiting for Sam or Dean to come around, but decided to head down after all, not wanting to waste time. You walked down the stairs into the dark room, trying to stay as silent as possible, although you knew they probably already smelled your blood. As you stepped off the last stair, the door closed behind you with a loud thud, the moon giving you just a small amount of light through a broken window. You could make out someone's silhouette, but you didn't attack yet, not knowing if the form was a vampire or one of their victims.

You started walking towards the person in a slow pace, preparing yourself if you needed to attack, but before you could have, you heard a crunching sound behind you. You didn't even have time to turn around completely, you were captured by two strong arms. Fighting against their hold, you quickly jumped, pushing your legs against the wall across you, forcing your attacker to hit their back against the staircase, loosening their hold on you. You abruptly turned around, swinging your machete to cut the vampires head off, blood spattering all over you and the walls. You heard a deep growl coming from your side where you previously saw the silhouette, watching its sharp teeth reflecting in the moonlight. You kicked it on the stomach, swinging your machete once again, decapitating the vampire.

Hearing a loud crashing sound from upstairs, made you want to go and help Dean and Sam, not knowing if they were okay. Before you could have even reached half the stairs, an arm pulled you back by your waist, pushing you down the stairs. You could feel the wooden planks hitting against your ribs and skull as you rolled down, before you landed on the ground with your head hitting hard against the concrete. You were struggling to get up as you felt the room shake under you. You felt dizzy, confirming the concussion you were sure to have. You looked around, but your attacker was nowhere to be found.

"Hmmm." You heard a muffling sound and as you cautiously stepped closer, you saw a blonde teenage girl tied to the metal bed with a bandana covering her mouth, her blood being drained into numerous tubes. You wanted to help her, but you knew you had to get rid of the other vampire who was now in hiding. You heard another loud banging sound from upstairs, forcing your eyes to turn towards the ceiling. You didn't want to get distracted, but it wasn't easy. You were worried about Dean whenever you got separated from each other on a hunt.

You quickly shook off the thought wanting to concentrate on your situation, hoping for the boys to be just fine.

The girl behind you tried to scream and you caught the remaining vampire trying to jump at you from the wooden rail of the stairs. You didn't have enough time to get out of his way and you landed hard against the concrete as his heavy weight pressed you further into the ground. He growled at you, showing his sharp teeth as he tried to get closer to you, biting into you. You tried to fight it, but seeing two of him made it rather hard. You vision seemed to want to give up on you from the numerous blows your head have gotten already, but you fought hard against it. You kicked the vampire off your body, straddling it as he tried to crawl away from you, before you cut off his head with a straight blow.

Standing up was harder than you thought, but you knew you had to get yourself together. You pulled out the tubes from the girl's arms as gently as you could manage and helped her standing up. Her weight on your already weakened body made you stumble, but you tried to stand up as straight as you could, while searching for the rail by the staircase to guide your own movements.

As you opened the door to the kitchen, you saw Sam leaning above another vampire, his knife cutting though his neck as the vampire’s head rolled away, hitting the side of a cupboard. Sam looked up at you and quickly took the girl off your shoulder.

As if you have lost all the weight, including yours, your knees gave up and you fell on them. You lifted your hand, touching the back of your head, hissing through the process. Looking at your hands covered in blood, you were certain that it wasn't a minor concussion. Before you could have said anything or called for Sam you fell onto the ground, your body going limp.

"Y/N." You heard your name, but your eyes were already closed. You couldn't even make out who called you, but you didn't even want to. You just wanted to give yourself to the darkness, willingly and so you did.

Waking up, your head was aching, throbbing against the back of your skull, making you wince. You tried to open your eyes, but your first attempt miserably failed. You tried again a couple of times, not wanting to give up and finally you were able to look around. You were in a dark room, the only light coming from under a door and from behind the curtains. As you let your eyes wonder, you realised you were in the old, shabby motel room you have been renting with the Winchesters. You tried to move around, but your head was in way more pain then you initially thought.

You heard a door unlock and a bright light flashed into your eyes as the bathroom opened with Dean standing in the centre. He turned off the light, but you could still make out that he was only wearing a pair of baggy trousers, leaving his upper body completely exposed for the curious eyes. You swallowed quickly, forcing yourself to realise the situation you were in. You tried to turn, but the pain once again stopped you, making you whine from the pulsing sensation.

"Y/N?" Dean called your name and immediately appeared next to the bed, sitting on the edge. "Are you awake?" He asked in a soft tone before realising your open eyes.

"Hmm..." You hummed in response, not feeling the need to talk.

"Do you need some meds?" He asked as he stood up, walking to the table and bringing over a glass of water and two pills in his hand. You tried to push yourself up, but it seemed to be a harder task than you imagined. You groaned in frustration before trying again. Dean seeing your struggling form, placed the medicine and glass of water on the top of the nightstand and helped you sit up, leaning your back against the headboard. He gave you the water and the pills and you quickly swallowed them. "How are you?"

"Fine... I guess." You said as you closed your eyes for a second as if it helped to reduce your headache.

"Didn't sound reassuring." He grimaced when you opened your eyes. You weakly chuckled at his reply.

"I'm fine." You repeated once again, trying to convince him. He heaved a deep sigh before he spoke again.

"Don't dare to scare us like that again." His tone more serious than ever.

"It was just a little bump." You tried to convince him, but he wasn't having it.

"You were out for 4 days. Little bump my ass." He scoffed and your eyes widened.

"4 days?" You asked back. You didn't expect it to be that severe.

"And I couldn't even call Cas. He didn't respond." He shook his head, looking down on the floor.

"Well, I'm fine now. I guess I have a hard head." You chuckled at your words, but he didn't return your cheerful mood. He seemed rather upset. "Hey!" You nudged his shoulder to get his attention.

"Next time wait for us, or let us know where you are." He lifted his head, forcing you to look into his green orbs, but you had to protest.

"You can't expect me to give you a heads up each and every time I enter a room. Dean, we are hunters. When we go after a monster, we don't have time to make smart little plans. We have to make decisions on the spot." You explained to him, trying to convince him and you knew you got through to him as a deep sigh left his lungs.

"I know. I was just worried." He spoke in a soft tone, taking your hands into his.

"I am perfectly fine. A little headache, but nothing that an aspirin can't solve." You smiled gently which he returned. He walked around the bed and sat down on the empty spot next to you, putting his arm around your shoulder as gently as he could, not to hurt you. You scooted closer to lay your head against his chest, feeling braver than usual, which you thought were due to your head injury. You looked up at him with curiosity in your eyes at his gentle touches as he started caressing your shoulder, looking down at you. "What is it?" You asked, feeling a bit taken aback by his soft manners.

"I was worried." He stated seriously.

"I know. You told me. But we established that I am feeling okay." You giggled lightly at his seriousness. It was something that you were not used to.

"No, you don't understand. I was really worried." He spoke again in a low tone. You frowned at his words, not understanding where he was going with it. You didn't have to think twice before he pulled you closer, attaching his lips to yours. It's not like you haven't kissed before, but it was different. It wasn't lustful and passionate. It was gentle, soft, almost loving in a way.

You melted into his embrace, wanting to feel more of his soft lips. But then he pulled away, placing his forehead against yours.

"Why did I get that?" You let out a soft laugh at his caring behaviour.

"Because I love you." He stated, staring straight into your eyes. You frowned at his confession, waiting for him to take it back. To tell you that he meant it only as a friend or a brother.

"You mean..." You started after a silence fell upon you, but you weren't sure what you wanted to say.

"I love you like a man loves a woman." He said, placing a kiss on your forehead. You didn't know if you believed him, your brain couldn't process his words. But your body already knew it, your heart was the first one to catch on. A small smile appeared on your face as you pulled him back for another kiss, this time making it more aggressive, putting all your emotions into it. As you pulled away, you felt him laugh happily.

"I love you too." You confessed finally and you felt a heavy weight leaving your chest, giving yourself into the blissful moment.

"I know." He chuckled, making your eyes widen as you furrowed your brows. "Sammy..." He stated with a shrug.

"That little shit." You groaned, but you couldn't hide that happy smile across you face. "I guess I can forgive him this time." You shook your head as you leaned back against Dean's chest, feeling his heart beat heavily against his ribcage. He hinted a soft kiss on top of your head and intertwined his fingers with yours, holding you as close to him as possible, to make sure you were safe in his arms.

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henrikvanderswoon · 4 years

Text

MURDER AT TURQUOISE INN: A Nancy Drew Story Written by 10-year-old Yours Truly Readthrough

Alright, guys, you asked for it! It’s pouring down rain outside, I’ve grabbed some tea, I have my entire Nancy Drew game music track playlist going, and I’m ready to crack this s nutcase wide open.

Absolute ridiculousness below:

The fact that this story is titled “Murder at Turquoise Inn” is already sending me, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I spelled it terquoice on the cover page.

I also started this story out with a letter to Ned. God bless.

Dear Ned, Beth Robertson was murdered!

As if Ned (or anyone else) even knows who the fuck Beth Robertson is, Nancy.

I named the owner of the inn Tina Mulberry, and I think that was very sexy of me.

“I turned to do something, and when I came back, she was dead on the floor! I could tell because her heart wasn’t beating and she wasn’t breathing!”

I mean… that’ll do it, Tina. That’ll do it.

Oh, but she can’t prove anything now because she ran to get help and when she returned the body was fucking MISSING.

Bess throws a conniption fit every time someone says “Beth.”

“Oh, hello, Nancy,” she greeted.

“Hello,” Nancy greeted back.

That is some…some god-tier writing right there.

I really had no concept of space and time in fifth grade.

It was a huge room. Bigger than the cafeteria in Ned’s college.

Oh, was it?

A message from the author: Hey kiddos, if you’re snooping around in someone’s closet and you come across a completely conspicuous button just chilling on the wall, don’t press it.

The three girls came out of the closet.

Well, there you have it, folks. Nancy, Bess, and George are gay. Everyone’s gay. Even your cat is gay.

Tina has a niece named Lily who calls her Mrs. Mulberry. Also, Tina consistently neglects her work duties in favor of writing a screenplay at the front desk computer and I have no idea why.

The murderer is walking around leaving stupid messages with the drawing of a knife on them trying to curse everyone and I’m so confused. Where the hell was I going with this?

“I KNOW YOU SAW BETH DEAD, BUT IF YOU TELL ANYONE, A DEADLY CURSE WILL FALL UPON YOU.”

WHAT DOES THIS EVEN FUCKING MEAN?

The lines in this thing are really just peak writing:

George took off after him at a safe distance to avoid being seen. But BAD LUCK FOR HER, the man jumped into a car and drove off.

Someone sabotaged the girls’ rental car while they were away from the hotel, and this couple they literally just met are like: “I just remembered, we have an extra car that we don’t use. You could use that.” Who the fuck–?

Uh, oh. They got back to the hotel and found their own curse lying in Bess’ suitcase:

LAY OFF THE CASE, NANCY DREW. YOU MADE MRS. MULBERRY TELL YOU THE MURDER STORY. NOW THE CURSE IS UPON YOU TOO.”

This sounds like a ten-year-old wrote it… wAiT A MiNutE–

Literally nothing in this story explains what the curse would even do to them. I love myself.

The culprit: *leaves threatening messages warning people not to speak about the murder or they’ll be cursed*

Nancy:

“Oh, hello,” Jackson greeted.

“Hi,” Nancy said. “Say! Have you heard about the murder?”

I ALMOST SPAT OUT MY TEA.

Also:

“I’m going to the store to, um, get some stuff. Like food.”

“But there’s foot here.”

“I just want to BUY things, okay? You’re so NOSEY!”

Jackson stormed off, leaving Nancy astonished. That put him on her suspect list FOR SURE.

This is a literary gem.

The way the dialogue sounds in this thing…I mean you can just tell the only written media I had been consuming at that time was the 1930′s books.

“I think,” Nancy replied. “That tomorrow we should go to the place where I followed Jackson.”

Giving me Scooby-Doo vibes too.

The number of times Bess says something like, “Why, Nancy!” or “This is horrid!” really makes me want to turn this into a drinking game. Take a shot every time Bess speaks like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Bess exclaimed.

…

No comment.

Also, Nancy’s unadulterated sass my fifth-grade self gave her is both the worst and the best thing I’ve ever seen:

“But what if the house isn’t empty?” Bess asked.

“Bess, please. Ever heard of the word: S-N-E-A-K?”

I want to harpoon myself.

There’s an elaborate maze of tunnels running underground that connects the hotel to this sketchy house miles away. The characters consistently find themselves back there several times throughout the story and literally nothing about it makes any sense at all, nor is it ever explained.

“Man, that passageway confuses me,” said George.

Thank you, George, it confuses all of us.

I’m actually embarrassed about how many times I refer to the group of characters as a “threesome” or a “foursome” in this thing. It’s really just the worst.

The culprit purposefully leaves behind their real initials multiple times in this story and has the audacity to be surprised when they get caught at the end? Iconique™.

“I’m just a weird ol’ guy, Sweety-Cakes.”

Ned, are you okay? Was I okay when I wrote this?

Ned’s coming to visit, and he brings Burt and Dave with him and boy howdy did I forget about those two.

“This mystery sounds dangerous,” Burt remarked. “Shouldn’t you leave this case to the men?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Nancy fired back.

Yaaaassss, Queen. Get his ass.

Also the murderer has now resorted to hitting people with a driverless vehicle and I’m honestly convinced ten-year-old me was on drugs.

“Good! We were starting to get worried about you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I…wait…wait, actually, worry about me!”

The line goes dead here because Lily’s car was uhhhh T-boned.

My only regret in this story is that the Hardy Boy’s are not here. Although, in hindsight, they’re probably lucky they didn’t get subjected to this shitshow.

Meanwhile, George thought maybe Bess had made a mistake and walk’s into the men’s bathroom. She walked in but found no one–well, except a bunch of screaming men.

I don’t even know what to say.

They went to see Lily in the hospital and Bess got hit by a driverless car in the fucking parking lot. WHAT KIND OF MADWOMAN WOULD WRITE THIS I CAN’T BREATHE.

That night, back at the hotel, Nancy gets lured out of the hotel and into the back forest behind it because someone’ s playing weird music and I’m just now realizing my child self had no idea what kind of theme to run with here (murder, hauntings, curses, GTA) so I just went with all of them at once.

“I could just destroy it,” Ned said as he studied the lock. “Stand back.” Backing up a few yards, he bolted for the cabin door and broke it down with a strong kick. “For Nancy!” he shouted.

HeR Interactive’s Ned could never.

So they find Nancy tied up in a cabin in the woods and, lo and behold there’s a trap door that LeADs InTo tHE UnDeRGroUnD TuNnEls. Who’da thunk?

And of course they find a journal written in code, and the code key just happens to have been left in the cabin.

“I’ve written this journal in code so if anyone finds it, they will not discover my secret. Okay, now that I’ve said that, here is my secret.”

This is the first line Nancy decodes. I’m…

Naturally, we find out that Beth Robertson was not dead, but just kidnapped (don’t even ask me how the fuck they got her body to appear dead…drugs?) and being held in the underground tunnels.

Because this makes perfect sense.

“You seem different. Your voice doesn’t sound the same and you’re a little shorter than you usually…” Tiffany trailed off. “You are Jackson, aren’t you?”

“No,” Ned said. “Thanks for asking.”

This is 100 times funnier without context so I’m not giving you any.

I don’t know about you guys, but if I was arranging a meeting with a colleague and they showed up in a ski mask and a hooded cloak, I’d be a little suspicious.

“But you’ re supposed to be delivering Nancy Drew poisonous flowers from her ‘boyfriend.’”

Oh my god this bitch pulls a gun on Ned and together the rest of the group (you know, the ones who haven’t been hit by a car) fucking go APESHIT on this woman’s ass. I CAN’T BREATHE.

And of course they find Beth tied up somewhere in the tunnels and get her to safety, and they learn that Bess and Lily are recovering well in the hospital and go to visit them and everything’s all bright and happy.

THE LAST LINE OF THE STORY HAS ME SCREAMING, THOUGH. To the point where I’m just gonna sign off here and leave you all with it.

“Man.” Lily looked sad. “I wish I hadn’t missed almost the whole thing.”

Bess spoke up. “I, on the other hand, am glad.”

#I just spend over two hours doing this and i have never felt more accomplished (how tf am i supposed to tag this??)#nancy drew #nd humor #the clue crew #i'm not even putting this in a 'my writing' tag fbsfnadnsdk #have fun guys #txt post #long post #like theres so much more i could have written but this is ridiculous enough haha

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leviiackrman · 4 years

Text

The Encyclopaedia of a Design Students Imagination

Part 5: Jess Carter-Drake (Uncharted)

Part 1: Ophelia | Part 2: Spectre | Part 3: Una | Part 4: Isaac

Notes: there was wayyyy too much to include in her bio, so if anyone is ever interested in a longer writing of her story I can look into it!! anyway this one is long haha (she has been 4 years in the making...)

Words: 1,774

Tags: @chuckhansen @simonxriley @ciriofcintras @noonvvraith @ginadotjpg @ayrennaranaaldmeri @missdictatorme @callumtvrner @emuzeek @tommymillers

Having been born to a family of adventure, Jess was raised in Britain with the knowledge of treasure hunting; the lifelong profession of her father. With her sister Molly and Brother Aaron, the siblings had an average childhood – but with their fathers interest in history and travel, it soon became apparent where Jess’ attention really was focussed.

Over the coming years, she had followed her mother’s advice of keeping safe as best she could by choosing to study History at university; rather than pursuing her dream career alongside her father. At the age of 19 – while travelling home at night with her father – the two were struck by a truck, resulting in a terrible crash that unfortunately took the life of her father. Out of fear of being his distraction, Jess was terrified to go home, and so fled the UK where she lived on the run for a year or so.

---

Before long, she had made her way to Panama with the little money she had earnt from ‘trading’ goods – a thief’s term for stealing and selling on. Upon finding a decent venue to next smuggle from, Jess planned her approach carefully, but was caught by another shady figure attempting to rob the same Museum. Caught off guard by his presence, she failed to notice his gun before he shot the approaching night guard; fleeing out the window and creating the perfect sabotage for the young girl.

She was arrested shortly after and was thrown into the local prison. Surrounded by crooked smiles and wandering eyes, Jess found herself alone in her prison cell, the only place available being in the male quarters. But after all she was a murderer, so why shouldn’t she be with the worst of the worst – right?

With her new reputation on her belt and the guards not wanting another incident, they kept her separate for a while, until one day she overheard the guards complaining of a broken radio and offered her assistance. It took little persuading to be allowed inside their office – much to her disliking – before showing how the device could be fixed. Deciding she had more use than a treat for the eyes, the guards ordered her to work more around the prison, fixing light switches and other devices.

Within a year she had found herself comfortably wandering around the prison, tool kit in hand onto her next job. A set of lights in B wing had blown during the night, and while fixing one set, the guards ordered a search and sweep of the cell block. Those who refused to move were beaten – horrifically. When the man to her side refused to move, she made her best effort to avoid watching what was about to transpire. Seeing he was clearly in pain rather than being stubborn, she jumped down from her ladder as the guards left to get the man in charge, pulling him to his feet and returning to her station before they returned.

It didn’t take long for this mysterious man to find her, questioning her relentlessly on why she was even there. With the agreement to keep their personal lives and motives to themselves, the pair formed a close bond within the next year, sneaking many moments together without raising the guards suspicions.

---

2 years into her encapsulation, Jess was discovered within the prison and bailed out by none other than Rob; her father’s best friend and professional partner. Concerned for where she had disappeared to, he tracked her down, releasing her from prison and taking her back to the UK. Although relived to be free once more, Jess was adamant she didn’t wish to return home; begging Rob to take her elsewhere so she didn’t have to face the grief of her mourning family.

He agreed to take her somewhere private – somewhere she could be trained to fulfil the career laid out before her. Not knowing where she was going, Jess arrived at Croft Manor where she was introduced to the one and only Lara Croft. With their fathers having been close affiliates in earlier years, Rob was keen to see the 2 work together and learn from one another. Within the next several years – when Jess was now 24 – she had learnt a lot from her new friend (and lover, for a time), but wished to begin travelling again, missing the thrill of causing trouble.

With some solid contacts up her sleeve, Jess was able to make a name for herself within the business, becoming noteworthy to those around her. Aspiring to complete the works her father could not, she was approached by Elena Fisher – and inquisitive reporter keen to learn more of her travels. Over time the two became extremely close, their friendship lasting for years after. Introduced to other notable faces in Elena’s circle, Jess continued to work independently until she was unexpectedly recruited to help discover the location of one Henry Avery’s forgotten treasure.

With a hefty price laid out in front of her by her new employer Rafe Adler, she successfully acquired an old St. Dismas Cross, only to later discover it was worth a lot more than he was paying. Determined to earn a fair wage for her efforts, she donated the artifact to the Rossi estate, where she could witness the auction herself. While searching the venue as any good pick pocket would, she ran into Victor Sullivan – another acquaintance of her father’s she had met many years prior. Knowing of his shady business, his appearance piqued her interest and she soon discovered his plan alongside the infamous Drake Brothers.

---

Locking herself in an office to capture the thief who stole her cross, she could hear the commotion in the main hall of all the attendants being escorted out. Thankfully, she wasn’t the only one who chose this hiding place. Appearing from the shadows was a taller gentleman, almost definitely in communication with Sullivan, but didn’t resemble that of Nathan. Not wishing to waste time, she carefully staged the scene – a frightened guest wishing to escape the havoc outside and was graciously saved by the incredibly handsome stranger, blah blah blah.

With his interest now focussed on her, she swiped the cross and began to run; only to end up having a full blown brawl with this stranger to win the cross. The playful flirtation expired and her patience diminishing, she instinctively threw them both through the office doors and out into the hall where the rest of the shooting was taking place. Not wishing to die for nothing, she took her chance to run; leaving the cross behind but carefully watching the exterior so she could follow the boys on their way out.

---

It took a lot of persuasion, but as she explained her situation when approaching them at their hotel, her connection to Elena soon had her welcomed into the group. Sam on the other hand, not so much. Not knowing one another’s names, the years since they had met had faded their memories of one another without them knowing, and in doing so created a tension that lasted a good while into their adventure. Through-out their countless travels and endeavours, the group grew closer, taking each hit in stride and instinctively defending one another. The tension between the eldest Drake and the young explorer soon faded, this forgotten connection arising once more the longer they worked together.

With countless lies revealed along the way, Jess and Sam’s past was soon revealed to them when Rafe held them captive – finding humour in the fact the pair had no clue. Determined to leave Libertalia alive, Jess tried hard to persuade Sam to leave with them, promising more fruitful adventures in the future. Although sustaining a good few new scars along the way, the events of the past few months drove Sam and Jess increasingly closer to one another, keeping in close contact thereafter.

Aware of their past and the position Sam was now in, Jess helped him as much as she could to rebuild his life outside of prison. Over time they spent more time together, soon developing a secret relationship they thought would be fun to keep from the others, until eventually all their close friends knew. Within the first year of being together, a rift surfaced between them in the form of Jess’ ex colleague – Abigail. Successfully snatching Sam away, Jess left sam when she heard of him cheating, feeling empty for months after. Despite this, the two of them were able to work past it, her heart always slightly fragile around him even years into their relationship.

When things became more stable again, the mysterious stranger from Jess’ past in Panama returned, unveiling himself when he kidnapped both of them. Oscar – the man then revealed as the one who murdered her father – wanted to finish his business with the Carter family for good by employing Jess and Sam to find the missing relics of The Fountain of Youth – her father’s most precious job he could never complete. While not wanting to cause more troubles, they followed their orders while held captive, until at the last minute they saw an opening to escape, fighting off their attackers and trying to flee the area. In doing so, Jess was stabbed in the lower abdomen with her own blade, slowly dying in Sam’s arms as he struggled to get her back to a hospital.

---

Recovering from her injuries, they both returned home to live out their lives together, settled in their own apartment together close to Nathan and Elena. Although not certain that marriage was for them, when a sudden job was presented to Sam that he just couldn’t turn down, the 2 committed to marrying, having a small gathering with their closest friends and family.

With many obstacles in their lives, their individual lives work completed and having been successful enough to worry no more, the couple settled further into their lives together when surprisingly Jess became pregnant. Unsure of how to handle the situation and both nervous of what was to come next, they worked to have the birth of their son Tobin not upset the comfortable lifestyle they had built for themselves. As her grew older, they became more comfortable in their new world of parenting, leading to them having another but this time a little girl by the name of Natalie.

Suspense, danger, and tragedy; all ending in a fulfilled and peaceful life spent by the coast as their children grew older, their fears behind them and the comfort of each other guiding them through the final chapters of their lives together.

#my ocs #my writing #oc: jess drake #uncharted #character description #sorry if it doesnt make sense #in my head it does but then again i know all the things not mentioned..#oops

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waypathfinder · 5 years

Text

Crimson Lane - Chapter 13 - The Long Dark Night (Part 2)

Moodboard by @ashtyntaytertot

Beta’d by @kathknight and @ashtyntaytertot

Links

Tumblr Master Post

Archive of our Own (from the start)

Archive of our Own (chapter)

Fanfiction.net

Chapter Text

Rain trickled down the tinted windows of the black Mercedes Vito. Within, Kylo rested his head against the back seat, listening to the gentle roar of rubber tyres on wet bitumen. Gloved fingers threaded and eyes closed. Head bobbing as though he were sleeping.

The van sped from the red-light district of Mustafar. Streetlights beamed onto Kylo’s face, the shadow of rain dancing across his features. The van weaved through the darkness until the lights became sparser and the road rough. Telltale signs they were coming into the rundown region of Jakku.

They came to a stop and Kylo opened his eyes. The door of the van slid open and the smell of musty rain pitted against dry streets flooded the interior.

“Ren,” Dom said, voice quiet. “We’re here. The guys are waiting for you inside.”

Kylo nodded. Dom wasn’t like the others. At five foot seven, he was the smallest of the knights, contracted by Snoke for tech work and driving. He was a gentle soul with a crooked smile and a love of small wonders, bugs mainly. Snoke had busted him hacking into his archives four years ago. Then, he’d been given the same sentence as Kylo: Freedom, at a cost. Now Dom had a string of offences that were far worse: fraud, embezzlement, hacking and sabotage. He couldn’t walk away now, even if he wanted to.

Kylo stepped out into the gutterless street, pulling the collar of his jacket up around his neck as he dashed across the pavement. The road was unnaturally dark and eerily quiet, with wisps of steam rising from the surface.

That familiar blue door was as dark as the ocean floor now, the edges of it cracked and splintered, where Hux and the knights had kicked through the lock.

Kylo reached out, ready to push it open.

“Wait!” Dom held the barrel of the gun, handle outward for Kylo to grasp. “You’ll need this.”

Kylo furrowed his brow, taking it slowly. “Don’t ever hold a gun like that.”

“I trust you, Kylo.”

“You shouldn’t trust anyone here, least of all me.” He took the gun carefully, checking the safety was in place, and slipping it beneath the waistband of his trousers.

He pushed the door again and this time the hinges creaked loudly and with a strained breath, he stepped inside.

Blood.

It was everywhere.

On the floor, on the walls, the stench of it acrid and sweet in the air.

“Holy shit,” Dom whispered behind him.

“You don’t need to come in.”

Dom nodded, backing away, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll wait outside.”

Kylo kept his head straight, staring ahead with half-closed lids.

Drip, drip, drip . The rain was leaking through the hallway light, creating a pool of water on the hall rug. Kylo stepped over it. A gust of wind pushed the door open from behind him, as a draft crept down his back in an icy chill. He turned around.

He was alone. But still, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling something or someone was walking with him.

Ahead, there was a light in the living room, with the shapes of Hux, Kane and Seth, hovering around a central figure.

He froze in place at the sound of Lor’s weary words spilling out.

“I already told you, I’m not working with anyone. It's only ever been me. I used old access codes and--”

“That’s not really true though, is it?” Hux’s weaselling words followed. He turned to his knights. “Gentleman, help him remember.”

LIke a cackle of hyenas, Hux and two of the knights circled around Lor, who was tied up in his dining chair. Kylo set his jaw in place, resolving to show no emotion at the sight of his Godfather bruised and bloodied, the hair of his beard burnt and the skin beneath it raw and glistening. Kylo looked through him, to the wall behind, forcing out the sight of the broken man.

“Well, well, well. So good of you to join us, Ren.” Hux marched to him. The son-of-a-bitch didn’t have a single hair out of place. Meanwhile, the rest of the knights were puffing, knuckles red and splattered with dried blood.

There was an emptiness in the air and inside him. From some far-off place in his consciousness, Kylo could hear the stoic guard of the grandfather clock, bearing witness. Each tick, counting down the seconds San Tekka had to live.

It was too much, and the old man’s head dropped to the side, staring at the floor, pink saliva dripping from his cracked lip.

“Did you get anything?” Kylo asked, trying not to flinch at the sight of Lor's pathetic form.

“Actually, yes.” Hux walked over to the dining table. The one Kylo had sat at mere hours ago. His glass of water, still there, untouched.

“Here.” Hux handed him a small cylinder-shaped USB drive.

Kylo stared at it for far too long. There was no mistaking it. He had hidden and protected that piece of hardware for the last four months, using every moment Snoke had left his laptop unlocked to carefully steal information from it and on to the drive. It had everything he needed to bring Snoke and the First Order to justice once and for all. It was the only way he could make Snoke pay and release everyone else he had trapped in his vicious cycle of crime.

And there Hux held it in the palm of his hand like it was nothing. Without the drive there was no escape, Snoke would always find him and hunt him down. Kylo had tried to run away once, as a teenager… it had not ended well. He still had the scars to prove it. There was no choice but to stay now and continue playing the game, waiting to be caught or killed.

Kylo’s world was crumbling around him; everything he had hoped to put into place was now crashing down like a landslide. He cleared his throat, blinking back the hint of tears.

“What’s on it then?”

“Everything. You, me, Snoke. Every underhanded job the First Order has ever done.”

Kylo nodded, slowly, eyes transfixed on the drive. “It’s a good thing we found it then.” He pocketed the drive but Hux reached out.

“It’s a good thing I found it.” Hux reached out with an open palm, waiting.

“Come now, Kylo. Finders keepers.”

“I’ll take it back to Snoke myself. He’s expecting it”

“You’re right, he is expecting it, which is why he asked me to deliver it personally .”

Kylo pursed his lips, reluctantly placing the drive back in Hux’s waiting palm.

Hux’s fingers closed around it quickly, sliding it into his own trouser pocket.

“You know, there was an awful lot of dirt on you. You should be thankful it didn’t find its way to the press.”

“We all are, I imagine.”

Hux chortled. “Yes, I suppose so.” And then he looked around the room, pulling Kylo aside. “There’s no way San Tekka would have had access to this kind of information. You know what this means?”

“There’s someone else on the inside.”

“One of the girls, perhaps?”

“It’s possible.”

“I’ve been working on him for hours, but the son-of-bitch won’t talk. Maybe you can be more convincing.”

Kylo looked over at Lor thoughtfully. His godfather. The man who had cleaned him up after his first school fight so his mother wouldn’t scold him, the man who was there for them when his father couldn’t be, the man protecting him, even now.

“He’s weak. If he knew anything he would have talked. Anyway, Snoke wants him dead.”

“Hmm,” Hux mused to himself. “It seems like a waste.”

There was a flicker of movement from the dining chair, as Lor coughed himself awake. Kylo nodded his head towards him, indicating that they should be quiet.

“What do I care if he listens to any of it? He’s a dead man anyway.” He turned to Lor, pointing his finger in the shape of a gun. “You hear that, old man? We’re going to blow your fucking brains out. That’s what happens when you cross the First Order.”

“But first--” Hux squatted in front of the man – “you’re going to tell us who you're working for?”

Lor’s mouth opened and closed.

“No one,” he answered hoarsely.

Hux stood, wringing his hands with impatience. “I’m growing tired of your lies!” He nodded to the right and from out of the shadows, one of the knights stepped forward and punched him on the side of the skull.

Lor’s head dropped forward, as a cry of pain escaped lips. Seemingly grasping onto the last threads of strength, Lor turned to Kylo and peered at him with those old blue eyes, with understanding and resolve.

“Tell us!” Hux screeched.

Another blow to the head, this time from Seth Ren. He was a newer member of the fold, one of the few whose lusts for violence and money had lead him to seek a job from Snoke directly. Once the sound of knuckles cracking against bone had subsided, Seth readjusted a bloody ring on his finger and stepped back into the darkness.

Kylo gnawed at the thumb of his glove. A habit he hadn’t done since he was a kid. The

other hand, reached behind his back, feeling the cool, matte handle of the pistol.

“We can do this all night, old man.” Hux gestured for another one of his men to step forward.

“No one.” Lor’s lips mouthed the words. And then he shook his head, raising tear-stained eyes to Kylo.

He had nothing left.

And he would never break.

”Please.” The words came out empty, a breath of air, gasping. But Kylo heard it, deep in his heart, in the dark places of his mind where his nightmares lived and breathed. He would hear that word for the rest of his life.

Kylo shook his head, the motion was barely there, a silent message. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t—

“ Please! ” This time Lor found his voice, desperate and broken.

Kylo squeezed his eyes shut for a pause and when he opened them, Lor’s gaze was reaching out to him. Begging.

Kylo pulled the gun from behind him, levelling the barrel so it was aimed between Lor’s eyes. “Time’s up, traitor.”

“Wait!” Hux jumped out in front of him, gleefully pulling out his phone and setting it to record. “Smile at the camera, maggot.”

“Stop it,” Kylo said between gritted teeth.

“Come on, San Tekka. I want to see a big smile while we put a bullet in your head.”

Kylo’s hands shook; he was so close to grabbing Hux and slamming his face into the window. He breathed again. Centre. Control . He needed to stay in control.

Lor whimpered, forcing a weak smile onto his lips.

“There now,” Hux beamed at him, holding the camera steady.

Kylo pulled the trigger, slowly, inwards…

I’m sorry.

The grandfather clock counted down: Three, two, one.

“No, wait!” Hux shouted, reaching out, but Kylo fired the shot.

And it was over.

Kylo would come to remember two things from that moment. One was the way the bullet drilled so neatly into the front of Lor’s head, ripping through skin, skull and tissue until the back of his head exploded on the floral and lace curtains behind. And second, was the way Lor welcomed death. Not in fear or regret, but like an old friend. His eyes genuinely smiled and there was light in them.

In the end, it wasn’t Kylo he was looking at, but behind him, to something that gave him a purpose to die. And for a long time after it happened, Kylo wondered whether he saw the woman he loved. Whether the prospect of an eternity with her made his death feel like a homecoming.

The gun released a shallow breath of smoke and the room fell silent, filled with the acrid tang of gunpowder. Kylo pocketed the weapon behind him once more, struggling to push it beneath his belt with quaking fingers. The moments, after all, played out like the blur of a nightmare. Hux and the knights spoke enthusiastically, raiding the fridge, emptying Lor’s liquor cabinet and sharing the contents.

“Well done, Ren. I didn’t think you had it in you,” Hux said, an edge of a surprise to his voice. “Snoke will be pleased.”

Kylo nodded, like a puppet on a string.

“Here.” Another knight, he didn’t even see who it was, slapped a bottle of vodka in his hand. “Drink up.”

The next few minutes played out at mixed speed. In some ways the entire world had slowed, the sounds around him pushed into the background, his own thoughts loud and demanding, and the next minute his mind was empty and then there were other people talking, their voices rising and falling, their drinks filling and emptying, laughing as they cleared out any valuables and smashed photos and threw teacups against the brown wallpaper. They were drunk.

Drunk . Kylo opened the bottle, pouring the contents into his mouth, enough that his cheeks were filled and the sharp alcohol dribbled down his chin.

Hux slapped him on the back. Snoke wanted to speak to him, congratulate him on the job. Kylo nodded, answering in monosyllables.

Hux sidled up to him, lips curled in a devious smile. “You know the rules, the one who spills the most blood, cleans it up.”

Kylo swayed, he hadn’t drunk enough to sway, but something in his body was struggling to stay upright. “Fuck off. Do that yourself.”

“No can do.” Hux tapped on his pocket. “I need to get this back to Snoke.”

“This is not your victory,” he hissed a Hux, gripping his fingers into the man’s forearm, aiming to bruise. Hux’s phone beeped with a message and he pulled the phone out, holding it in front of him like some peace offering.

“That’s him now.” Hux checked the message, smiling coyly before turning the screen to show Kylo.

Kylo can clear the evidence. I expect you back here in 20.

“Tough break, Kylo.” Hux beamed at him. “I’ll see you back at the whore house.”

One by one they left, even Dom, who had come sometime after the gun went off, decided to wait outside, saying he was going to hurt if he had to look at the splatter of brains on the window any longer.

Once they were gone, Kylo sunk down on his knees. Head raised, eyes lowered, forcing himself to see the body, to memorise the way the blood flooded out of his head. He tried to breathe, but his chest caved in on itself and his eyes stung with tears.

There it was. He was a murderer. Whatever the reason, whatever excuses he would tell himself in the dark of night, that much was true and nothing he could do would ever take that away.

He was about to let it all go, to stop fighting the bleeding tears that wanted to stream from his eyes, to roar, and beat his chest, and rip this place apart. He was at the gates, about to let it all spill out when the phone in his pocket began to vibrate on silent.

He pulled it out. Unknown number.

He pressed answer, and waited.

Rey leaned against the window of her room, watching the rain fall softly against the street lights. Had it really only been four days since she’d waited in this very spot for her first client? The mysterious Kylo Ren, who didn’t want her to look, touch or ask questions.

Four days and everything she’d felt about him had changed. Into what, she wasn’t sure. Her world had been shaken and broken, everything falling back into different places, feelings shifted, beliefs challenged. Her own personal earthquake.

She closed her eyes, squeezing them until they blanched with dissipating colours. The creeping fingers of dread taking hold the longer she waited...

Where are you, Kylo?

She shook her head, staring out into the black expanse, studying every shape and movement in the street below. Mindlessly reaching into her pockets and twisting the lining of them until her fingers brushed against the small folded note Kylo had given her.

She pulled it out, unfolding it. There was no name, or note, just a number.

Should she?

She didn’t have much battery left, but there was enough, at least, for this.

She dialled the keypad quickly, in case she changed her mind.

It rang. Twice.

The phone on the other end of the line answered. Silence.

“Kylo?” she asked, cringing at the way her own voice was so weak and uncertain.

There was a beat, and then a rushed, “Rey, are you safe?”

“I’m fine, but I—” She rolled her eyes at her own words. But what, Rey? What exactly is the reason you’re calling?

“Look, It’s not a good time.”

“Kylo,” she whispered into the phone, holding it close. “Please tell me what Snoke is making you do tonight.”

“Rey…” he began cautiously.

“Or just come back. Please, come back.”

“Rey…”

“We can do whatever you want. Anything. Hey, I’ll let you beat me at Risk if you want.”

A laugh, muffled, strained and not altogether genuine, filled with emotion that shouldn’t be there and then silence, again.

Pained, heavy silence.

“Don’t do it,” she pleaded.

Her phone beeped, warning her that she was about to run out of battery. It wasn’t enough time.

“I don’t understand what this thing is between us, Kylo, but it’s more—”

It’s more than professional, than friends, unfettered raw attraction underlying something deep and rich. A connection and longing that was slowly filling the empty places in her heart. She didn’t know how to say it. It was too soon. She didn’t know enough about him, and what she didn’t know certainly shouldn’t make her feel like this.

“It’s more than—” her words failed her.

“I know,” he almost whispered.

Rey closed her eyes and smiled, eyes filling with tears.

“Come back,” she said through a muffled sob. “Please come back to me.”

The sound on the other end dimmed into quiet, in the background she could hear the light tapping of a clock, it’s regular rhythm contrasting against the random pitter-patter of the rain.

“I have to go.” That voice, stronger now, resolved.

“Oh, okay.”

“Bye, Rey.”

“By—” The phone went dead, even as her answer hung in the air.

She stared at the blank screen and saved the contact, “B”.

And then she waited.

On the woolskin rug by the fire, leaning against the window, in the shower, lying in bed, body naked beneath the smooth silk sheets.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

And then she finally heard a knock at the door.

She leapt out of bed, the sheet draped around her body, bare feet sliding across the cool

wooden slats.

The knock sounded again and she walked faster, heart pounding, hand outstretched to the door handle.

She reached forward, curling her fingers around the cold metal handle and then—

She stopped dead.

Kylo had the keys.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The silence was louder than ever, only broken by the sound of rain, lashing against the window on whips of wind.

A knock, again. Harder. It made the door rattle, and Rey took a step back, eyes wide.

Again, and then a voice, low and guttural.

“Open the door, Rey.”

She froze. How could she be so stupid? Had he heard her coming to the door?

“Rey,” the voice sterner now, but still laced with the overtone of deceptive kindness. “Open the door now, it’s your boss, Alistair.”

She took another step back. Eyes darting from the window to the door, to the bathroom. Searching for an escape...

“I know you’re in there, little minx,” he crooned. “Open the door, and we can have a chat. Just a talk, nothing else.”

The door handle rattled again, but this time she could hear the sound of keys scratching against the lock.

She stepped backwards, fist to her mouth, heart racing. The door handle shook, being tugged this way and that. Pushed, pulled, and then more keys, scratching against the handle, and low, hissing curses.

She held her breath, eyes closed, listening to the sound. Waiting for the familiar click...

“Open the door your little bitch,” he growled. And this time he kicked at it, the base of the door giving in slightly with every blow.

Rey backed against the far wall, chest heaving with every breath, eyes darting around the room for anything she might use as a weapon.

“Rey,” Snoke sang to her.

“Rey.” His fingers, pawing at the door.

“Do you think you can turn him, pathetic child?”

She closed her eyes, not daring to move.

“I cannot be betrayed.” His voice coiled around her. “I cannot be beaten. I know his mind. I know the darkness in his soul.”

Those words, like poison, how long had he been destroying him, ripping away his humanity, turning him into a weapon for Snoke’s own causes?

She hated him. Hated Snoke more than she had ever hated any man.

And she was not scared of him.

She came closer to the door, head raised, shoulders back.

“You underestimate Ben Solo,” she said firmly. “And me.”

He chuckled, cruel and callous. Rey fought the urge to open it, to face him herself. Skywalker had taught her well. She knew her own strength and Snoke was alone.

“The sad thing is Rey, you don’t even know the half of it. What he’s already done to you.” Lies. He was lying to her. He had to be. “What he’s doing tonight.”

She covered her ears, not wanting to hear.

“He’s a murderer, Rey.”

“You’re a liar.”

“You will see, when he comes home dripping in blood, wanting to fuck you like the whore you are,” he laughed. “You will see.”

Once he was alone, Kylo vomited into the kitchen sink, the sting of vodka burning his throat. Hands shaking, he looked back at Lor, laying on the floor, body relaxed, jaw open, staring at him.

He wanted this.

Murderer, his mind whispered, and an unsettling cold seeped through him.

He begged you to do it.

Kylo took another drink of vodka, heat rising in his lungs as it went down.

He was so sorry. So fucking sorry for all of it. He dropped to his knees, breath heaving, ignoring the way the blood pooled around his legs, the way Lor just stared at him with an empty expression.

There was only one thing left to do now.

He pulled out his phone number and dialled.

After a moment’s pause, a muffled vibration began to sound from within the clock. He trudged over to it, rivulets of blood clinging to his boots, the reek of it clinging to his clothes. Opening the case cabinet, he reached inside and pulled Lor’s phone out.

At least he had time to hide this.

He hung up the call and searched through the message threads until he found one from Poe. They were supposed to meet later tonight, in twenty minutes to be exact.

He had to leave. But first—

He typed a message.

The First Order has taken the USB drive. It had everything on it. Kylo Ren’s here. Not much time. He knows about Rey, he’s going after her. Tell her to run for her own good, she needs to get away from him.

His thumb hovered over the send button. He had to make her run. His plan had failed and she wasn’t safe there, not without him. Not even with him.

She deserved better.

He hit send and almost instantly three little dots started dancing at the bottom of the screen, indicating that a message was being written in response.

Poe : What’s happening? Are you okay?

He didn’t reply, dropping the phone to the side and walking away.

“Hey, Kylo.” Dom was standing in the hall.

Had he seen what he’d just done?

Their eyes met, analytical and silent.

“We should go.”

Kylo nodded, directing one last look back at Lor.

“Stop at the bar on the way home. I need a drink.”

“You and me both,” Dom said, but there was something unsettled behind his smile and Kylo wondered if, despite everything he had done, this final act had blown his entire cover.

Rey waited with her feet planted on the floor as Snoke’s laughter had followed him down the hall. Once she was sure he was truly gone she ran into the bathroom, splashing water on her neck and head, staring back at the colourless face in front of her. The face that was tired of hiding, of being scared. The face of someone who was ready to fight.

She retrieved her phone from beside the bed and dialled Poe’s number.

The phone rang once.

“Poe Dameron.”

“Poe, it’s Rey.”

“Oh my God, Rey, are you—”

“I don’t have any time, my battery is down to 1 percent and I can’t charge it here.”

“Wait, Rey, this is important you need to listen to me—”

“No,” she snapped. “ You listen to me! They’ve gone after San Tekka.”

“I know, I’m going there right away, but Rey—”

“I’ll do it, Poe. I’ll help you bring down Snoke,” she said in a rush.

The phone went dead and she smiled, satisfied that if nothing else, she had gotten this message out safely.

The rain was falling in lashing sheets by the time Kylo returned to number 12. He collapsed out of the van, and would almost have fallen flat on his face, had Dom not steadied him at the last minute. The red lamp above splashed his face with red shadows as he pounded on the door.

“Kylo Ren.” Phasma opened the door with a surly stare. “What’s the emergency?”

He pushed past her and through to the booking diary, scanning the evening’s vacancies.

“Do you mind?”

He grunted in response and she snapped the diary closed.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Are any of the girls available now?”

Phasma looked disdainfully at the blood now smeared on her desk. She pulled a cloth from under the desk and cleaned it up, glaring at him as she did so. “Don’t get fucking blood on the desk. It’s bad for business.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

Phasma raised a solitary eyebrow at him. “You’re pissed.”

“No shit, Sherlock. A girl. Tessa. I don’t care. Any one of them. Someone who knows the rules.”

“Sure,” she said slowly, as if the concept was too difficult for him to understand. “Are you looking to double up?”

Kylo’s entire face furrowed. “No, I just need one.”

“Well, go and fuck Rey, then. That’s what you’re paying her for.”

“Rey?” he asked. She shouldn’t be here. Poe would have warned her by now . “Rey’s gone.”

“What on earth have you taken, Kylo? She’s upstairs, waiting for you.”

Why was she still here? The question carried him up the stairs. Had she not gotten the message? He was going faster now, leaping up the steps in twos, using the railing to propel his body faster. And if she had, and she was still here, then what did that mean?

He pulled out the keys, dropping them on the floor until he found the right one and shakily put it in the lock. With his heart hammering in his chest, he sneaked in and closed it quietly, careful to lock it again.

The room was dark, apart from the soft glow of street lights shining in through the wide windows. She had left the curtains open, and as the light reflected through the glass he could make out her handprint smeared on the window.

A small puff of air leapt from his lungs, something between a laugh and a cry. He followed the path from the window to the bed, where there was a trail of clothes on the floor.

Kylo tilted his head to the side as he stared at Rey’s dark hair flowing freely over the pillow, the white sheets framing the outlines of her body, curving over her waist and hips, stretching out over her left leg, the other peeking out from beneath the sheet, silken smooth. Bare.

There was a sensation of light in his chest, weightless and warm. He stepped forward and her right arm curled over the pillow, hugging it close to her, at the same time the sheet dropped exposing the side of her breast.

Naked.

She was naked.

Blood throbbed at his core and he came closer. This time, the floorboard creaked and she sat upright, clutching the sheet around her body and darting her eyes through the darkness.

“Kylo!” she hissed. “You scared the shit out of—”

He was standing in the streetlight, austere lines of it mixing veins of light and darkness across his body and she bent her knees up to her chest, shuffling back. The whites of her eyes wide and unnerving.

“You’re--you’re covered in blood.”

He looked down at the burgundy stains on his clothes, damply sticking to the hard lines of his body.

“Why are you here?” he sneered, reaching behind his back and pulling out the gun. Without a care, he threw it to the ground and Rey jumped as it slid across the floorboards.

She gasped as it hit the wall. “What are you thinking?” She turned the bed lamp on and glared at him. Her face told him everything he needed to know, that and the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

“Why do you have a gun?”

He walked away, ripping the clothes off his body like they were on fire. In the bathroom, he let the water wash over him, watching the way it was stained with bright pools of red. Crimson droplets ran down his body, catching on the hairs of his leg. His breaths became heavy, shaking and constrained, as his hands scratched violently through his hair. He couldn’t stop shaking, even though the water was so hot that it scolded him, even though his chest was flaming with red lashes from the heat. All he could see was the rivers of blood, flooding around his feet, running eddies of swirling pink spirals.

Tears streamed down his face, silently, and he gasped for air. His mind was exploding, eruptions of pain and regret and hate, the emotions overcame everything else. He needed to explode, to pound it all away. To force the reality back into the locked vault, where he kept all the hateful and cruel things he had inflicted on others. But the door was opening and the demons were escaping. And there was only one way he knew to lock them away again.

He turned the shower off, grabbing a towel that hung on the wall and wiped his face and hair with it. All the while, he advanced on her. She must have seen it in his eyes, in the manner in which he stalked, quiet and purposeful, more like a hunter than a lover.

She edged back, shaking her head.

“You spoke to Poe tonight.”

She refused to meet his eye, looking to the left and onto the door.

“And you’re still here?”

“You practically locked me in here, remember?” she snapped.

“You were always a fighter,” Kylo gave her a half-smile, but it was cold and empty. He reached the edge of the bed and kneeled up on it. “That’s what I love most about you. You never take anything lying down.”

The bed creaked with the weight of his body and his towel dropped. Rey’s lips parted, and her eyes fleetingly dropped below his navel. Her face flushed at the sight, realising how much he must have wanted her.

The weight of her gaze made him jolt and grow, but when she met his gaze again, there was fear there.

She feared the monster, and well she should, for he was a murderer, a violent, black-hearted ghost.

He remembered the sound of his old name on her lips, how his heart flipped and jumped at the way it came so natural and right.

But it was all a lie.

“Turn the light off,” he said quietly.

He had merely forgotten who he was.

“Do it,” Kylo pressed her

She didn’t move.

But tonight had made it all rush back to him.

Ben Solo was dead.

He reached his hand toward the light. The room plunged into darkness.

And Kylo Ren was the villain.

#crimson lane #reylo #reylo au #reylo fan fic #reylo fan fiction #reylo fan fic rec

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hopebliss · 6 years

Text

A DRUMMING OF ASPHALT

SUMMARY: It’s routine - a short walk for a Ventrue bureaucrat and the Anarch leader. (hinted!gretel x nines rodriguez, 1.6k words)

“You won’t compromise.”

A statement, not framed as a question. A statement strung out, vowel and consonants clicking, in a manner that suggested Gretel had said this before, time and time again.

Defeated repetition. Nines Rodriguez supplied his usual answer, as expected. “No.”

They had found - through a similar kind of repetition - the quiet routes in L.A, the streets that were easy for two Kindred to meander through, lined with empty warehouses and the occasional rumble of midnight traffic. Pavements well-mapped by a pair of clicking Ventrue heels and well-worn Brujah boots under hazy city lights.

“That makes life difficult, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Difficult for you and the LaCroix. The Camarilla.”

“For the city, too.” Her side-glances during these nights were sparing, still, she used up one of her quota then, slate grey hewn sharp behind dark-rimmed glasses. “It cannot carry on like this.”

Familiar sentences; as if they hadn’t already circled around this topic, night after night, long after she had first entered the Last Round bar, spine rim-rod straight and refusing to move five feet away from her Toreador friend. As if their hissed arguments hadn’t eventually dragged them onto the street, pacing around L.A like tempestuous animals in a cage.

“It doesn’t have to be.” Nines voice, caught between a drawl and a snap. Impatience coupled with resignation. They would be here again, in a couple of nights, when Gretel would return with another set of negotiations - the same as ever before, but glossy-laminated and presented with slick new titles, a new barbed wire cage around old stories. “Listen, Rushforth, you’re the ones who chose to stampede back here as if nothing ever happened. You’re the ones trying to push against us and failing.”

“Failing? Your Anarchs aren’t exactly standing steady on two feet.”

“They’re not mine. They don’t belong to anyone. That’s the whole point.”

Tremere theorists and scholars often talked around the houses when it came to a Kindred’s state of unlife. Kindred biology was a point of fascination, a series of contradictions within itself: they were alive and yet they weren’t. Not exactly changed but transformed into something else entirely, human and monster coalescent in the same form.

Breathing was one of those funny things: lungs that should be dormant twitched. A mimic of a sigh and Nines reached inside his shirt pocket.

It was mildly concerning when Gretel realised her first instinct wasn’t to think gun. Either the past few weeks had dulled her, or she had learned to recognise when Nines was reaching for his cigarettes.

Oh.

“Don’t pretend to care for the city either.” He continued, splintering the two-second silence with a flick of the cardboard carton lid. “Can’t be here two seconds and pretend to give a shit.” And, absurdly, he gestured the carton in an offering.

“No thank you, I’m trying to quit.” She caught his look. “It’s a bad habit.”

“I’m pretty sure there are worse things in your line of work, Cammy.”

“Still bad.” She reached over and took one. “Just because I haven’t lived here all my life does not mean I’m not invested.”

A lighter was soon procured and the two naturally slowed down on the sidewalk. The sharp lines of Nines’ face grew deeper in the darkness. “Invested. Provin’ my point there Rushforth - you Ventrue putting all your stock into who you think is useful and when they’re not? You don’t want to know anymore. Cut your losses and head to the next big thing. L.A is just another kind of Camarilla project to you all. A conquest we’re paying for.”

“And it’s not to you?” She shouldn’t have bristled. Shouldn’t have let the hound dig his claws under her skin. Flint to the flame, like the one she balanced between her fingers. Ironic, considering the danger of fire to the Kindred. Since when had she been so drawn to self-sabotage? “The great last ‘free’ state. The Anarch playground. It’s chaos, it’s not sustainable, you’ll burn out before the year is over.”

His answer arrived after a plume of smoke. “We won’t. Even if we do, ‘least we keep our pride. ‘Least we don’t treat everyone around us as expendable.”

“They’re not-” Too quick, too hasty, she wanted to curse it, “- expendable.”

“No?” Nines looked at her, then. Gretel wondered how many could stand that gaze: Nines Rodriguez did nothing in halves, nothing without the fullest push of intensity. It was different than the Prince she served, having long weathered the shifting of clinical disinterest to scathing hyperfocus of Sebastian LaCroix. It made her feel too solid. Too heavy. Too present.

But the Ventrue can take the heat. And she did. She met him, eye-for-eye, grey-for-bright-blue. “No.”

They had stopped again: another empty side-street caught in a gasp of forgotten industry, grey brick and glass interrupted by the slick outlines of graffiti. Modernism claiming old ground, just as it had every decade, looking different every time. The twenty-first century was colour and nihilism in one unholy package.

His cigarette was fading out, fingers curling tight.

It had been part of Gretel’s training - as a Kindred, as a Ventrue, most importantly as the childe of the new Camarilla protege - to predict the question before it arrived. To be clever and duck against the verbal blade of politicians, the simpering placating of diplomats. To read the weighted curve of a mouth, the flick of a tongue against fangs.

She knew, with certainty, what Nines was going to say.

“Who?”

There was a stone lodged in her throat, in her chest, in her stomach. An inevitability in the sudden knowledge that Nines knew.

That he knew about capricious Cassandra and how close Gretel followed her into the Last Round, echoing a familiarity with every movement.

That he knew about the rainbow reflections of Becca, neon lights glinting off the edge of the pier as they sat, shoulder-to-shoulder.

That he knew about Hester, drawing in Gretel’s pride with her talent and obstinance towards conformity.

That he knew about Katya and her blood-soaked, ichor-lined brilliance and Gretel’s worry for her, and her awe for how far she could reach - if she wanted.

She couldn’t give them to him. To anyone. Not yet.

“It doesn’t matter.” It does, they both agreed silently, but Nines didn’t push. Thankfully. “The Camarilla will not stop, will not cease. The Prince has never strayed from his goals. I’ll keep coming back, and if nothing changes then it doesn’t matter who’s expendable or not, the whole city will burn.”

“You’re the ones rolling in, pushing for war-”

“It wouldn’t be war.” A room exploded outward, her Sire blackened and charred, melting into the wind. Her scalp bleeding, hands slick and slippery, ducking her body against a hail of bullets.

Gretel knew war.

Had he ever served, or had he been tucked away in L.A, ducking from the jaws of gangs and cops alike? “It would be a slaughter. It would be needless.”

“Is that a threat?” His voice was quiet, pulled tight. The wolf prince raising his hackles.

“No.” The edging night was draining something out of her. A blanket of darkness, unperturbed by the absence of street lines ringing the roads from the Last Round. A smear of grey against a broad shoulder and Gretel was automatically reaching out. “Yes, perhaps. You have ash on-”

A hand grabbed her wrist just as her fingertips brushed the indent of bone and muscle. Nines was suddenly there, cold as all Kindred tended to be, but her arm burned all the same.

For a moment, there was nothing but the pressure of his thumb pressing the dip of her palm. Her elbow locked, the flat of the arm pressed against the inward curve of his chest

It didn’t hurt. Her sensibilities dictated that somehow, somewhere, that must be wrong. Enough space for her fingers to uncurl, for nails to scrape against the thread of a worn shirt, to collect and fix the irregularity how she wanted.

“Doesn’t matter.” He parroted back. She could almost feel the sound - the deepness - coming from inside of him. “You’re not gonna protect them like this, you know that. LaCroix’s got you playing for the wrong side. For the one that’ll get them killed.”

“What side is the right one then?” Her shoe slid closer despite herself. “Yours? A revolution clinging on? Rebels without a plan?”

“The side that doesn’t treat its people like playthings. The side that looks after their own.”

“Is that what you want, Rodriguez?” Words that weren’t laden in spite, words that ran away from her, tempered down by the gravity emanating from him. This is how you get caught in his orbit, his momentum. It’d be easy, too easy- “To look after me?”

She had meant it as a joke, deprecation - to him, to her, either way, she expected him to reel back.

He tightened his grip instead, looked like he didn’t even realise he was doing it.

“I could. Them too.”

A beat.

Somewhere, a broken exhaust pepper the air like a gunshot. Gretel’s arm was suddenly at her own side - when had she torn it away? - and she was turning and she was walking, quickly, a jaw slack, slamming shut. Cold air burned the arch of her cheeks, seared her eyes hidden by her glasses.

Ash, still collected under her nails. She wiped them against her coat, but it was resolute in clinging to her cuticles. Stubborn. Damn him -

“I’ll tell the Prince that you don’t accept.” Sentences, hewn, meticulous once again. She felt the weight of him, his stare, even when he was behind her, even when she was walking away so quickly. That’s what it was - the peturbing nature of it - of being flayed open so nonchalantly. It wasn’t the meticulous unravelling of a Ventrue Prince, it was the Brujah who could burn you open immediately.

“I’ll see you in a couple of days then.” Nines called after her.

To her utter fury, he sounded like he was smiling.

A grin stitched into the night.

#bats writing #vampire the masquerade: bloodlines #what is this bats?? writing????#ok so i wrote this awhile ago don't @ me #its rusty as heck and i'm still figuring out nines because what a Tough Mother to write dialogue for #sh: dogs of war #ch: gretel

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qqueenofhades · 6 years

Text

the tangled web of fate we weave: xx

welcome to what is absolutely gonna me losing my goddamn mind over these two all week and double hard after the finale. so, the ush.

part xix/AO3

Lucy wakes up the next morning (well, she’s already been up twice, at one AM and then at four, and by the time she is summoned again at seven, figures there’s no point in going back to bed) and shuffles downstairs to find that Amy, wonderful soul that she is, already has the coffee going. Lucy sits down with a groan, shifts Lily to her other shoulder, and lets the life-giving fumes waft up her nose. This will be her first proper hit of caffeine in months, and she is ready to feel good, dammit. As she sits there basking, she says, “Did you talk to Garcia before he left this morning? He was gone pretty early.”

“I woke up as he was coming downstairs, but we didn’t talk.” Amy pulls the pot off, pours it into two mugs, adds cream and sugar to hers, and gives Lucy hers black. “I figured he was off to grab his evidence backups, or wherever he was going. Or that you were both awake because of the munchkin.”

“I was. Briefly.” Lucy has a vague memory of Flynn getting up around the same time she was returning from the four o’clock feeding, but she was already falling asleep on her feet and was out by the time she hit the bed again. “Very briefly.”

Amy snorts, raising her mug. “In that case, here’s to caffeine. Sláinte.”

Lucy picks it up, takes a sip, and moans in ecstasy, unable to gulp it in embarrassing amounts because it’s still too hot. She blows on it a few times, then sips again, performing a delighted little wiggle from head to toe and scoffing at her sister’s smirk. “What? You try it!”

“I’m good, thanks,” Amy says. “But that was adorable. How are you feeling today?”

“A little better.” At least physically, Lucy thinks, though she’s still not up for any triathlons. The argument with Flynn yesterday rocked her, and she has the distinct sense that it has not been resolved or released, even if they did try to silently make it up last night. She starts to get up to make herself breakfast awkwardly one-handed, but Amy waves at her to sit and goes to put in some toast. “Amy, about this – this time travel stuff. Do you really buy it?”

“Everyone else seems to be serious about it, so…” Amy opens the fridge to get butter and jam. “I guess? I like to keep an open mind about things. You know me, I’ve always been into the idea of ghosts and aliens and parallel worlds and stuff beyond what we can see. That was what drove Mom crazy. You two being the sensible solid historians, the ones who worked with facts and logic and empirical evidence, and I was out there being all New Agey and woo-woo. Now, I guess – ” Amy stops, then continues in the determinedly casual voice that means she doesn’t want to be heaping too much of her own pain on Lucy, a shared trait of the Preston sisters. Wherever that compassion came from, it clearly wasn’t Carol. “Now I guess it doesn’t matter what she thought, huh?”

There’s a brief silence. Then Lucy says quietly, “I can’t believe she did that to us.”

“I can.” Amy unscrews the raspberry jam with more than the necessary force and digs her knife in. “I loved Mom – I still do, that’s not gonna stop, even if it’s complicated – but I could never understand how you couldn’t see her manipulating you. Her love always came at a price, her approval was always conditional, she never let you make mistakes, or at least live with them. She pushed and pushed and pushed, and you kept giving it to her and thinking it was your fault that you hadn’t been good enough before. That was why I wanted to move out, even if it meant I was living in a crappy apartment and struggling to pay my bills, rather than let her do to me what she did to you. And I could have spoken up more, I could have done something, rather than just assuming you were smart and you’d figure it out and it wasn’t my business to get into the middle of that. So. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. God, it’s not your fault.” Lucy gets up and hugs Amy fiercely, one-armed, Lily still snoozing in the other one. “You’re just my kid sister, you should never have had to do that. That shouldn’t have been on you.”

“Yeah,” Amy says, low-voiced. “Maybe. But it was, and I blew it.”

“No, you didn’t. Okay, Ames? You didn’t. You didn’t.” Lucy grips her shoulder hard. “We still have each other, and I have Garcia and Lily, and we’ll – we’ll make our own family. Family isn’t just blood. If this is going to be how it is, with us and Wyatt and Rufus, well – we’ll get used to it. It’ll be better.”

“I guess,” Amy says. She gathers herself together, and musters a smile. “But with all of this going on, it doesn’t seem like we’re about to have any cookouts or whatever soon, does it?”

“Maybe not, but we can do that later.” Even as she speaks it, the usual, casual reassurance – we can do that later, the assumption that’s always been the case for everyone everywhere – Lucy feels a pang. What if there is no later? What if all of earlier gets upended as well? She hesitates, then sits down with her toast, passing Lily over to Amy so she can properly eat. “I – look. Amy. I have something to tell you. It’s going to sound a little weird, but I guess you just reminded me that you can deal with it.”

Thus, not letting herself have time to change her mind, she tells Amy the full story of her future self coming to visit Flynn three years ago, the effect it had on him deciding to go great guns after Rittenhouse, insisting that it was time travel at stake, and the argument they had yesterday about it. Flynn thinking that the logical next step is to escalate the war before Rittenhouse can do it to them, that he has this insane plan of tracking and killing them through history, no matter the damage it could do to God knows what fiber of reality. That he scares her when he talks like that, she doesn’t know how she ends up as this other version of herself or if she wants to, and that he thinks Rittenhouse is trying to prevent them from ever meeting on the night of the car accident. That if they somehow pull it off, Lucy and Flynn will never meet, none of this will ever happen, and Lily won’t be born. A wrinkle in time, rather literally, but not one that can be fixed or unbent. They might not even know.

“Wait. Okay.” Amy has hung in there through most of this crazy shit, but she blinks hard at that. “How could someone just… vanish from history? Lily’s already born. She can’t just… not be born, right? How would that even work?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy sits back. “This is a situation that only comes up in those sci-fi movies, or Back to the Future, when Marty McFly has to make sure his parents get together so he exists. But I suppose that yes, theoretically, if they had the ability to change the timeline and stop us from meeting, she’d just… not be there.”

Amy clutches her niece protectively. “That is messed up.”

“Yeah.” Lucy finishes the last swig of her now lukewarm coffee, and pushes her empty plate away. “Not to mention all the other stuff that would change. I might never know about Benjamin Cahill, I wouldn’t know about Mom, or Rittenhouse, or Wyatt and Rufus. I would never have met Garcia. I’d just be – I don’t know. I don’t know who I’d be. Probably still at Stanford anyway, living the life Mom wanted for me. Still dating Noah.”

“Oh, honey, no,” Amy says. “In any timeline, you can do better than him.”

Lucy laughs weakly, despite herself. “He wasn’t that bad. He was a good guy.”

“Sure,” Amy says. “For someone else. Anyway. This is – this is definitely a lot, but thanks for telling me. We’ll figure it out, okay? We won’t let Wicked Witch Whitmore take this away from you. Did you say she works at Mason Industries? Can we ask Rufus?”

“Ask Rufus what? If he can fetch his evil coworker in for a chat, after she almost killed Flynn the last time she saw him, and destroyed all of his evidence on Rittenhouse? He’s probably in all kinds of danger if he does that, he might not even know who she really is.”

“Maybe not. Should we warn him, though? We don’t want him accidentally letting something slip, if he doesn’t know that she isn’t to be trusted.”

“Maybe, but then he has to see her every day and know she’s dangerous and…” Lucy stops. “No, you’re right. He deserves to know the truth. Mason Industries seems neck-deep with Rittenhouse anyway, they’re the ones paying for the time machine. It’s not fair to Rufus to just dangle him out in that sea of sharks.”

“He might know about it,” Amy points out. “He’s worked there for a while. There might be more he could tell us. Like how close it is to being operational, and – ”

Lucy shudders. “I don’t want it to be.”

“Because you’re afraid Garcia’s going to do – what?” Amy considers her closely. “Steal it, and go hog-wild screwing up history in the name of eradicating Rittenhouse?”

“Yeah.” Lucy hates admitting it, feels disloyal, but she doesn’t entirely trust what Flynn would do if that was an option right now. “Basically.”

“Maybe Rufus can sabotage it.” Amy gets up to clear the dishes from the table. “If he knows the truth about these people and what they’re going to do with it, then – ”

“That would put him in terrible danger,” Lucy objects. “It could cost him his job, his professional reputation. We definitely have no right to ask that of him.”

“Okay, true.” There’s a slight edge in Amy’s voice. “But if we are really going to stop these Rittenhouse maniacs, if everything you say is true and they are completely evil and willing to do whatever it takes to preserve that, maybe we have to figure out what we can ask, and of who.”

Lucy looks at her, startled and unsettled. “Don’t tell me you agree with Garcia.”

“I don’t know, frankly. And obviously I see where you’re coming from too. But at this point…” Amy trails off. “I’m not sure that I don’t not agree with him.”

Lucy doesn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps it’s significant that the two people she loves and trusts the most in the world have now had the same response to the situation, and she – just like her years-long pattern of making excuses for her mother, refusing to see what Amy is now telling her was obvious – is once more dragging her feet, reluctant to upset the apple cart as usual. But if this apple cart is all of time and space and known history, Lucy thinks she’s at least a little justified in keeping it upright. She’s a historian, she loves the past, she’s worked to understand it, to make it relevant to the present, to teach it in meaningful and engaging ways. That gives her some sort of mandate to be its champion, to protect it – whether from Rittenhouse, or from the man she loves. It twists and twists in her gut, it hurts almost physically, but she’s certain. She can’t let Flynn do this.

When she doesn’t answer, Amy seems to sense that she probably shouldn’t push. They clean up the kitchen, as Lucy puts Lily in the baby-sling and tries to think what to do. It’s almost nine o’clock, so she’d usually be at campus by now, unlocking her office and picking up papers and answering emails. She’s not used to sitting around the house and doing nothing, especially when there’s so much that needs to be figured out. Yes, being a mother is important work and all that, and Lucy’s not going to diss stay-at-home moms in the least (especially since she’s getting a sense of just how hard it must be), but she does other things with her time and her talents. She can’t just serve as a dispenser of food and clean diapers and naptime to an occasionally irascible small human, much as she loves her. She should do some research. See what she can find. Not that any of what she needs is likely to be online, or anything that she can get into (Flynn is another story) but still.

Lucy goes upstairs to get her laptop, and when she comes down, glances at her phone, thinking that there should be a text from him by now. They’re far from the kind of couple that constantly has to monitor the other’s whereabouts – they are both adults and can come and go as they please, without signing a register every time. But given everything that’s going on, and the fact of what happened the last time he rushed out without telling her what he was doing, Lucy doesn’t think she’s being unreasonable to expect at least some kind of touching base. He wouldn’t intentionally make her worry, or withhold contact just to be petty. Maybe he just forgot or didn’t want to bother her. She opens their chat and types, Hey, where are you? Left pretty early this am. Lmk when you have a minute. Xo.

Hopefully that doesn’t sound too worried or accusing, and Lucy puts her phone aside. She has just been trying to find the best way to position both Lily and her laptop when she hears a car in the driveway, and looks up. “Amy, is that Garcia?”

Amy peers out the front window. “Nope. It’s Wyatt. He has some lady with him, actually. Looks important.”

“Oh no, that must be the woman from Homeland Security.” Lucy jumps up, acutely aware that she has not yet showered and is still in her pajamas, as well as not wearing any makeup. “Is it rude if I run upstairs for five minutes to make myself presentable?”

“Honestly, this is your house,” Amy says. “And you just had a baby. You can look however you want.”

Lucy supposes this is true, even if she still feels self-conscious, as footsteps click on the walk and the doorbell rings. Amy gets it, admitting Wyatt (who looks as if he’s had at least a little sleep) and his companion, a trim, dark-eyed older woman with black hair cut neatly to her shoulders, a crisp pantsuit, and a folder under one arm, which she shifts so that she and Lucy can shake hands. “I’m Denise Christopher,” she says. “Department of Homeland Security. Sergeant Logan asked if I could stop by and hear something that you had to say?”

“It’s – it’s complicated.” Lucy nods gratefully at Wyatt, then tries to jiggle Lily with one arm as she wakes up and starts to fret. “My partner, Garcia, he’s the one who has most of it, and he’s out right now, but I’ll be happy to give you what I know. Just let me have a couple minutes to run upstairs, I’m sorry, I’m not very – ”

“I’ll be happy to take your baby for a minute.” Denise holds out her arms. “Don’t worry about apologizing. Go upstairs and freshen up if you want to, but certainly don’t feel obliged to dress up on my account.”

Lucy considers Denise for a long moment, and decides to trust her. She undoes the sling and hands Lily over to Denise, who boosts her expertly up onto her shoulder, pats her back with an air of firm authority, and gets her to calm down. It’s the reassuring older-woman motherly-competence thing that Lucy was wishing she could still lean on Carol for, and it briefly chokes her up. “I – ah, I’m sorry, I’m guessing you have kids?”

“My wife and I have two in grade school,” Denise says. “The early days can be hard. Do you mind if we have a seat in your kitchen?”

“That’s fine. I’ll be right back.”

With that, Lucy goes upstairs, jumps quickly in the shower, dresses, puts on a little makeup and brushes her hair, then checks her phone again. No response from Flynn; the message hasn’t been read. Renewed agitation prickles at her heart like thorns. God, he’s just been gone, he’s just been hurt. Please don’t say he’s off on another crusade already. Please.

She tells herself she can’t send another message yet, but she calls him anyway, and it goes over to voicemail without ringing. There’s too much of a lump in her throat for her to form words, so she hangs up, smiles bright and falsely at herself in the mirror, and walks back downstairs. Amy has taken care of supplying Wyatt and Denise with coffee, and they’re sitting at the kitchen table; Denise has a notepad open and is uncapping a pen. “All right,” she says. “Please tell me whatever you know about this organization called Rittenhouse.”

Lucy and Wyatt exchange a look, he nods at her to go first, and she takes a deep breath. Starts at the beginning, tells Denise about Cahill and the event in Marin County and Flynn rescuing her, then getting shot in Windsor the next morning. The trip to the University of Pennsylvania, Emma, the excursion to the house of horrors in West Point, escaping that and going back to some semblance of a normal life, but sending Flynn off for two years to hunt them around the world. The reveal that her mother was in on it, and that Flynn’s painstakingly collected evidence has been destroyed. Tells Denise everything, in fact, except about the time travel. She doesn’t want to sound completely off the ranch first thing.

A faint line gathers between Denise’s brows as Lucy speaks, and remains there when she’s finished. Denise taps her pen, clearly considering what to say, then looks at Wyatt. “And you’ve said that the Black Eagles case we both worked on had something to do with that, didn’t you? That they were funneling the drug profits to Rittenhouse somehow, and that they may have had something to do with the disappearance of your wife?”

“I think so.” Wyatt’s jaw sets hard. “Flynn does, at any rate, and he’s the expert on this. Though I notice he’s not here, again. But yeah. Thought that because I messed around with one of their golden gooses, they came after Jess in revenge. She’s alive, I swear she’s still alive. If it was just killing her, wouldn’t her body have turned up by now, a warning to stay in my lane or whatever? If she’s just gone, she has to still be out there. If we can save her.”

“I’m not unsympathetic to what both of you have gone through,” Denise says crisply. “This does fit with several other unexplained cases that have passed over my desk recently, and obviously you have encountered someone. But right now, all I have to back it up is your word, and that’s not something I can take to my superiors. It sounds like a paranoid conspiracy theory, and the government spends enough time with those. You said there was evidence that was destroyed. Where?”

“I…” Lucy hesitates. “I don’t know exactly. Garcia never told me where his safe house was, he didn’t want me liable. It’s somewhere up in the foothills outside San Francisco, but now it’s been blown up. So that’s not very – ”

“And why does your partner have an off-the-grid safe house that’s rigged with enough explosives to detonate at the drop of a hat?” Denise cocks her head and surveys Lucy critically. “You said he’s ex-special forces. For us?”

“He worked for the NSA for several years, it’s where he picked up the investigation on Benjamin Cahill in the first place. He’s been a – a freelancer for a while, though.”

“Hmmm.” Denise is clearly thinking that there are a lot more threads she could pull at this, given that the vast majority of Flynn’s activities since Lucy met him have been skirting the very edges of legality. “And where is he from again, exactly?”

“He was born and raised in Croatia, but his mother was American, he’s a dual citizen. He’s not a security risk.” Even as she speaks, Lucy can hear Flynn last night, saying that if America couldn’t survive losing Rittenhouse, maybe it doesn’t deserve to exist. “He’s a little… idiosyncratic, but his heart is in the right place. He’s just very opinionated, he’s done this for a long time, and he’s used to working alone.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” Denise says. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Soon, I’m sure.” Lucy damn well hopes so, at any rate. “Can I offer you any more coffee?”

Denise assures her that she’s fine, and starts asking them some more questions about Rittenhouse – any other names or dates or details they can remember. Lucy and Wyatt exchange a glance, as they’re not sure they should bring Mason Industries into the fray without Rufus here. Low-voiced, Lucy asks, “Should we call him? Is he at work?”

“Yeah, he’s at work,” Wyatt says. “He was acting a little weird this morning, though. Maybe we should give him a day off from the insanity.”

“Maybe.” Lucy has a brief unsettled feeling, though she can’t say why. “But this is something we need to tell her about.”

Wyatt looks back at the kitchen table where Denise is writing; they have stepped off around the corner to have a private word. Then he says, even more quietly, “Tell the government that Connor Mason’s invented a time machine and hasn’t bothered to apply for so much as a parking permit? Yeah, I can see that going really well. The place would be covered in red tape and federal agents tomorrow. There’s not any guarantee that that would go any better than Rittenhouse getting their hands on it. I vote no.”

This is essentially what Flynn said earlier, but Lucy can sense another resistance behind it. She tips her chin back to look at him. “You want to use that machine yourself, don’t you?”

Wyatt grimaces, but more as an unspoken admission that he’s been caught, rather than really denying it. He glances at Denise, then moves them a little further out of earshot into the hall. “Come on,” he says. “A time machine? A time machine? Who gets that chance, ever? We’re supposed to – what, hand it over to a bunch of cubicle-farm, pen-pusher bureaucrats who’d keep it in mothballs for eighty rounds of paperwork? No way. Rufus says they’re running advanced tests now, it’s pretty much going to be up and ready to go in a matter of months. If that’s the case, then – I can go back, I can fix my mistake, I can save Jess. Whether or not Rittenhouse ever coughs her up, it wouldn’t matter. I have to.”

“It’s – ” Lucy hesitates. “Wyatt, it’s not that easy. You can’t travel on your own timeline, you can’t go back to 2012, you wouldn’t be able to just pop in and have a re-do with her. You could only go back to somewhere before you were born.”

By the look on Wyatt’s face, that is something he does not like hearing. He whirls on his heel, stares at the wall, then whirls back. “There has to be a loophole. Someone has to have tried it. I don’t care if it’s risky, I’d only have to do it once. Or – what?”

Lucy winces. She doesn’t want to tell him about the whole future-version-of-her visiting Flynn, as that seems like it will get his hopes up in a way that will not necessarily be borne out. “I… heard about a case in which it might be possible,” she says evasively. “But I really don’t know the details.”

“Well, who does?” Wyatt glances at her, picks it up. “Flynn?”

“He – he knows something, but – ”

“Make him tell you, then. You’re married, or close enough. I’d tell my wife, I’d tell her everything, I wouldn’t keep it back. He’s MIA right now again, apparently, but whenever he gets back – he still owes me that information, remember? For what I did?”

“I know, I know.” Lucy can sense his barely restrained frustration and anger and grief, and she doesn’t blame him. Wyatt has been living in a stalemate, using up all his accumulated leave from the Army, where – frankly speaking – he would probably be happier, because at least another mission would keep him out of the squalid attic of his head. He and Rufus have become good friends, it’s better that they’re roommates than it would be if Wyatt was alone, but he still knows no more about Jessica’s fate than he did on the day she vanished. That’s a horrible way to live, one that Lucy would not wish on her worst enemy, and he deserves a breakthrough, to do something with all this. “I’m sure he’ll find it.”

Wyatt makes a noise in his throat that says he isn’t sure. His fingers tap neurotically against his thigh, a muscle works in his cheek. He looks like a man on the hair-trigger of an explosion, and Lucy, who is somewhat familiar with the sight, reaches out to put a hand on his arm. “Hey. Thanks for bringing Denise by, all right? Thank you.”

Wyatt’s blue eyes flick to her, startled, and they hold each other’s gazes for a moment. He coughs. Then he says gruffly, “Yeah. No problem.”

Lucy looks back at him, not sure what she’s about to say, when they’re distracted by the sound of the front door banging open. There’s only one person who would be entering the house like that, and she hurries down the hallway in abject relief. “Garcia?”

Sure enough, it’s him, looking windswept and grumpy, but at least no more banged up than when he went out. He looks at her in some surprise as she throws her arms around his neck, and allows her to pull his head down for a kiss. “Lucy, what – ?”

“I was just…” Lucy bites her lip. “I woke up, and you were gone again. I – I was worried.”

“I’m here now,” Flynn says, more than a little unhelpfully. “Is that Wyatt’s car out front?”

“Yes, he’s here. With Denise Christopher from Homeland Security, he brought her by. She’s in the kitchen, she wants to talk to you. She wants whatever evidence you have on Rittenhouse – is that what you were doing this morning? Getting the backups?”

Flynn shakes his head. “No, I didn’t get those.”

“What were you doing, then?”

“Later.” Flynn kicks off his shoes and strides into the kitchen like a Panzer brigade. He has clearly dialed the imposing factor up to eleven, and Lucy isn’t sure this is the best way to approach a federal agent who has already been asking a few pointed questions about his recent activities. She trots after him, feeling that a sudden need to play mediator might be called for, and steps in just as Flynn is staring at Denise, who in turn is staring back at him. There’s a pause. Then Flynn barks, “So you’re her?”

“Yes.” Denise gets to her feet and offers a coolly professional hand. “Agent Denise Christopher, from Homeland Security. You must be Garcia Flynn.”

Flynn grunts, as if to say that he is exercising his constitutional right not to answer stupid questions. Then he glances at Wyatt, who has stepped back into the kitchen, and something flickers across his face. Lucy can’t tell exactly what, but it unsettles her, somehow. Then Flynn says, equally ungraciously, “You’re here, I see.”

“Yeah. I brought her.” Wyatt stares back at him challengingly. “Because at least one of us follows through with what we said we were going to do.”

Flynn’s mouth twists. He moves to the coffee pot, discovers it’s empty, makes a noise of aggravation, and starts a fresh round. The silence remains tense and awkward as it brews, until Amy sticks her head in. “Hey, Garcia.”

Flynn makes a brief acknowledgment. “Where’s Lily?”

“In her bassinet thingy, in the living room. After Lucy and I looked after her this morning.” Amy’s tone is gentle, but pointed. “Feel like filling us in on where you were?”

“Apparently I have a lot of filling in I’m expected to do.” Flynn jabs the percolator, as if this is going to make it brew faster. “One at a time, eh?”

Amy raises both eyebrows at Lucy, who decides that for now, she’ll pretend she didn’t see that, and withdraws. Once the coffee is finished, Flynn splashes it into a cup and practically kicks out the chair across from Denise, sitting down with a jerk. “Well?”

“I have a few questions for you, yes.” Denise has managed to remain completely unfazed by the sight of a large man in a clearly foul temper, snorting and rampaging like a rhino stung by a wasp, since she is probably no stranger to it in her line of work. “If this is a bad time, I’d be happy to return later.”

“No. We’ll do it now.” Flynn swivels to face her with a wide, snarky smile. “Fire away!”

Denise utters a small sigh in the back of her throat, but commences going down the list. Flynn gives her a few answers, but when he remains utterly unforthcoming on the subject of his two years abroad, how exactly he tracked Rittenhouse, got money to do that, or basically anything whatsoever, she makes another, far more frustrated sound. “You know I can’t do my job with this if you don’t tell me anything, don’t you?”

“What do I have to tell you?” Flynn counters. “You asked me about Rittenhouse. That’s what I’m giving you.”

“You haven’t answered half my questions.”

“Maybe you should stop trying to get me to incriminate myself, then.”

“Is that an admission that you have something that might?”

“How did I know you were going to say that?” Flynn stands up fast enough to almost knock over his chair. “Still sitting there thinking that Rittenhouse is just some paranoid delusion and the real problem here is me, aren’t you? Asking all these clever questions about, let’s be frank, things that are not relevant to the investigation, so you can finger me as the culprit. Either act like you really have come here to help, or get out of my house.”

��Garcia – ” Lucy starts. “Garcia, don’t – ”

Flynn completely ignores her, still staring evilly at Agent Christopher, who stares right back. Then Denise says, “I came here as a favor to Sergeant Logan, to hear about some evil secret society that’s supposedly implanted in all levels of American government, that’s been responsible for a long-term private terror campaign, is partially funded by drug cartels, and has unknown operational capabilities, and whatever else. Don’t insult me by acting like I wouldn’t care about that, if it was real. But if all you’re going to do is rant and rave at me and offer not a single scrap of concrete proof, there isn’t much that I can, or frankly want, to do for you. Now, are we going to keep talking or not?”

“As long as you don’t – ”

At that, Lucy clears her throat. Steps forward, and says, in the dangerously sweet voice that every man recognizes if he knows what’s good for him, “Honey? A word?”

Flynn glances at her almost guiltily, but Lucy doesn’t bother to wait and see if the realization has struck on its own. She jerks her head at him, and he hesitates, then gets up and follows her. She leads them down the hall, away from both the kitchen and the living room, shuts the door, then turns on him. “You stop it right now. Right now.”

Flynn blinks. “I – ”

“Be quiet, I’m talking. I’m not even going to ask you what you were doing this morning, though frankly I would be entirely within my rights to do so, but if you keep bellowing and stamping and posing like a bull in the ring, I might change my mind. Denise is here as a favor to Wyatt. She doesn’t have to be here, she didn’t have to spend most of the morning listening to us, and she definitely doesn’t have to sit there and swallow you acting like a jackass. We barely have any allies in this as it is. Are you going to drive them off because they’re not you? Or maybe you have some better idea about who we should be talking to, some other contact who’s willing to come out here and work this through? Or are you just acting like this because Wyatt brought her, and you have some kind of hangup about Wyatt right now? More than usual, that is?”

Flynn flinches. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. Finally, he says, “I – I didn’t – ”

“Just don’t.” Lucy feels incredibly tired, in a way far deeper even than the first-night fatigue of dealing with a baby. “Either answer her questions like a human being, or tell her to go, if you’re somehow so sure we can do this without any outside help at all. For the record, I don’t think we can. But you’re the expert here, aren’t you?”

Flynn flinches again. A dawning awareness crosses his face that yes, he done fucked up, and he looks at the floor. Finally he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Lucy isn’t going to hold out to punish him more, tempting as it might be, because that would go against what she just told him to do. “These people are on our side. Don’t lash out at them just because our enemies aren’t yet in reach.”

She sees a sigh shudder through him from head to heel. Again, quietly, he says, “I’m sorry, Lucy. I didn’t – I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.” Lucy steps closer and rests her hands on his chest, as his arms come around her waist. The usual way they find themselves standing when they’re close, tucked up in two neat halves. “I’m just – I’m worried sick, my mother just betrayed me, we have a newborn, and we’re trying to launch an investigation into these evil people, and those are only our somewhat ordinary problems. I need you to be there for me, Garcia. I need you. If any one man in the world could fight Rittenhouse, it’s you, but…” She stops. “Lily and I need you to be more than the soldier, all right? We need you. Just remember that. With what we’re doing, there can be secrets, but there can’t be lies. Not between us. All right?”

Flynn hesitates, then nods. Reaches up with one hand, takes hers, and raises it to his mouth to kiss her fingers. “I don’t think either of us want a fancy wedding,” he says gruffly. “Though if you do, we can work it out. Still, even if it’s just at the courthouse, I want to properly marry you. That is, if you – ”

“Me too.” It’s not a very traditional proposal, though they’re far from a traditional couple, but Lucy feels a smile wide enough to hurt her face starting to spread across it. “I – I want it. Very much. Now can we go back and finish talking to Denise properly?”

Flynn nods, bends down to kiss her quickly, and that’s it, that’s all the discussion they need. They walk back to the kitchen, where everyone looks slightly thrown by the delighted grins – they definitely were not expecting for Lucy to drag Flynn off in trouble and them to then return engaged – but decides not to ask. Flynn sits down and answers (most of) Denise’s further questions in a markedly more conciliatory tone, as Wyatt catches Lucy’s eye and is clearly very curious to know what happened there. Lucy mouths later, goes to the living room to check on Lily and Amy, and glances occasionally at the kitchen to see if she needs to run interference. Amy, spotting her face, says, “That’s not exactly the expression I thought you were going to have, to be honest.”

“I… told him off. It felt good.” Lucy shrugs awkwardly. “And we decided to actually get married, so there was that.”

Amy snorts. “Deciding to get married in between an argument about the best way to take down Rittenhouse? Sounds like you two.”

“I guess.” Lucy thinks of Noah’s first proposal, which checked all the romantic boxes: sunset on the beach, champagne, rose petals in the picnic basket and a ring tied with a tulle ribbon. Sweet speech that started off with how some author or poet had once defined love, and explaining how she fit that for him. It was nice and he had clearly put thought into it, and she felt very bad about turning him down. Saying that she really liked him, but they were still young, and it felt early. He took it as best as he could, and they sat awkwardly side by side without talking much for the rest of the night. Tried to stay in the relationship for a few more weeks after that, but a failed marriage proposal is kind of a sign that you aren’t on the same page, and they decided to go their separate ways. God, that feels like forever ago. Looking back on herself, trying to get back together just because she didn’t want to be lonely, makes Lucy feel vaguely embarrassed. And yet, a little frightened. Her relationship with Flynn is nothing like her relationship with Noah; she knows beyond a doubt that whatever time she has, she wants to be with him. But what if she ends up alone anyway? Or worse.

Fine, Lucy tells herself. She’s a big girl, an independent woman, she can live without a man. She’s certainly not wishing she picked Noah just because he might have a longer shelf life, and she doesn’t have any regrets. Anything she can do to tie herself and Flynn more concretely together, another reminder to the universe that they’re supposed to be this way, they chose it and they’ll keep it, also seems appealing. As he said, they don’t need fuss. Her mother was the one who envisioned a big white wedding. A courthouse ceremony is fine.

Hearing the interview winding down, Lucy gets up and goes back into the kitchen, as Denise is shutting her notepad and thanking Flynn for his cooperation in a still slightly pointed tone. As she’s reaching for her bag, she thinks of something, and glances at Lucy. “Your mother is Carol Preston? Former Stanford professor of women’s history, Carol Preston?”

“Yes.” Lucy grimaces. “As I said, she… can’t be trusted.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Denise unzips her purse and puts her things in. “I’ve read all your mother’s books, I very much enjoyed them. She shaped a lot of my thinking. I know it’s nothing to compare to what you must feel, but it’s disillusioning for me as well.”

“She… shaped a lot of my thinking too.” Lucy’s throat feels raw. So much of who she is, for better or for worse, as a woman, a scholar, an academic, is filtered through Carol’s lenses. They’ve been things Lucy has liked about herself for a long time. Even when her leave ends, can she just go back to Stanford and continue in that legacy? It feels like it would be very difficult to set foot in those hallowed halls again, much as she loves them, and keep pretending that she doesn’t know what she now knows. As if she already knows that she can’t go back. To that life, or that job, or that person, or that home.

Denise shakes their hands, tells them that she’ll try to see if she can pull anything solid out of it, and she and Wyatt leave. Once they’re gone, Lucy checks that Lily doesn’t need anything, then shuts the kitchen door and turns to Flynn. “Okay. Where did you go this morning?”

Flynn grimaces. “I thought you said you weren’t going to ask?”

“Yes,” Lucy says. “I know. And if there’s some very good reason you can’t tell me, I won’t ask again. But if it wasn’t getting the backup Rittenhouse evidence, then… where?”

There’s a long pause as Flynn leans against the counter, arms crossed. As usual, he looks too big for the room. Finally he says, “I was testing information.”

“What information?”

“Last night.” Flynn sounds reluctant, but he is keeping his promise not to lie to her. “I got a strange call, that’s why I got up. I don’t know who it was on the other end, it was scrambled, but it told me that the name I was looking for was Wes Gilliam. Repeated it several times to make sure I had it, then cut off. I don’t even know if it was a real person, it didn’t sound like one. I assume that the name is the one I promised Wyatt. About who is responsible for his wife’s disappearance.”

“Wes Gilliam?” Lucy blinks. “Is that who you were looking into?”

“Yes,” Flynn says. “I’m not some local cop. I still have my sources, my strings to pull, even without the safe house. Wes Gilliam is currently in jail in San Diego, he’s responsible for killing at least two other women. The blood at the crime scene that wasn’t Jessica’s, it was his. He wasn’t in prison when she went missing, so at least theoretically, he could have killed her. But they found the bodies of Gilliam’s other two victims, partially dressed and – ” He pauses briefly. “Sexually abused. They still haven’t found any trace of Jessica. It’s not quite his modus operandi. So I’m still not entirely sure.”

“But it’s a name,” Lucy says. Thinks of Wyatt’s anger earlier, that he’s been boxed in like this and is desperate to do something, anything, to put an end to the hellish limbo. Even possibly stealing a time machine, at which he might well agree with Flynn that that is the only way. “We promised him some kind of lead, any lead. We’re using too many people, Garcia. We can’t just take what we want and give nothing back.”

“If we do give this to him, though.” Flynn restlessly pushes off the counter. “What does he do, huh? What does he do? Probably quits the Rittenhouse investigation on the spot and goes AWOL. He knows about the time travel now, knows that just killing Gilliam won’t solve the Jessica mystery. I don’t think he’ll stop there.”

“You’re not really one to talk about going AWOL,” Lucy points out. “Or quitting investigations to take up others.”

Flynn shrugs. “I’ve been going back and forth,” he says, after a long moment. “Whether we need Wyatt or not. But for now, unavoidably, we do. I can’t give him this information and tell him to sit peaceably and not do anything with it. It’s sure as hell not what I would do, and I’m not a hypocrite. I promised it, I intended to follow through. I still do. But if we give it to him now, and he runs off and fucks everything up, then – ”

“It’s his wife.” Lucy feels obligated to emphasize the fact that Wyatt wouldn’t exactly be ditching them to run off and hit the Strip in Vegas. “And he did hold up his end of the bargain. If he hadn’t – ”

“Rittenhouse might have scrubbed my records anyway,” Flynn counters. “It’s what they wanted, for me to stay here and in sight. So no matter what he did, they might not have come us for the sake of – ”

“We can’t do that.” Lucy puts her hands on the counter and turns to him. “We can’t play the what-if game. That’s exactly what they’re doing, that’s what is going to get us into trouble. I don’t care if things could have turned out differently or Wyatt could have done more or literally anything else. He did do that. We owe him what we promised.”

There’s a brief silence as they stare at each other. Then Flynn says, “Fine. You’re right. We should tell him. But not over the phone, and not for him to go off and do something stupid. I’ll drive over to his and Rufus’ apartment and tell him in person, try to get ahead of it as much as I can. I don’t think he knows the first damn thing about the details of the time travel part, but it won’t surprise me if that’s what he wants to try. He might also want to go to San Diego and interrogate Gilliam first. Could be I can work that angle for some kind of clue as to whether Gilliam himself is Rittenhouse, or just a useful fall guy.”

“So you’re only agreeing to tell Wyatt because you think you can mine the situation for intel?” Lucy isn’t sure she should be surprised. “Never just about altruism for you, is it? About doing the right thing?”

Flynn shrugs. “Altruism without pragmatism is always what gets the heroes fucked. I don’t care about playing by anyone’s milquetoast rules, especially right now. I’m going to tell him, but I need to keep an eye on him and see if I can work out why Rittenhouse gave us that name now. It had to have been them somehow, it’s not an accident. They’re pulling something with it, whether to separate Wyatt from the investigation or otherwise trip us up. Will you and Amy be all right for a few days?”

Lucy bites her lip. “I’m sure we can manage taking care of Lily, yes. But anything else. . .”

“Do you still have the gun I bought for you?”

Chest tight, she nods.

“Get it. Keep it somewhere you can access it easily, just in case. I don’t think Rittenhouse is coming after you here, not if they’re occupied with getting the time machine ready to hurt us more permanently, but I won’t take any chances. I’ll try to keep Wyatt from botching this too badly, but if he does – ”

“What?” Lucy raises both eyebrows. “Knock him over the head and stuff him into a broom cupboard?”

“Something like that.” Flynn is unfazed. “I feel like Rittenhouse is counting on him turning against us, or just dropping out of the hunt, but we’ll see. I also need to ask Rufus more about the technical capabilities of the machines. But when I get home, let’s go and get married, eh? Run down to the courthouse. Whatever else happens, I want you to be my wife. Rittenhouse may very well try, but I don’t think they can truly take that away from us.”

Lucy looks at him, as ever struck by how he can move from coldly talking tactics and strategy, the best way to work through what is undoubtedly a Rittenhouse manipulation of some sort, and with very little regard for Wyatt’s feelings on the matter, to telling her that she is the most important thing in the world to him, and literally all of time and space cannot take that away. She pauses, then steps forward, raises herself on her tiptoes, and kisses him. “I want to be your wife too,” she says, when she pulls away. “I love you, Garcia. So just – whatever you’re going to do, whatever you have in mind, whatever you think is necessary – remember that, all right? Remember that.”

He looks down at her with all the tenderness in the world, overflowing from his eyes and face and soul. “I love you too, Lucy,” he says. “And I believe that we can defeat Rittenhouse, we can save each other, and our daughter, and our family. Get the gun, eh? Get the gun. Then I’ll see you soon.”

Lucy doesn’t want to. As if she holds back on this one thing, she can stop the planet from turning, hold it in place with her bare hands, make time stand still, and nothing else would ever have to happen. The future would not rush at them like a freight train, the past would never seem so terribly unsteady, and the present would stay as it was, just this, just them. But she has to and she gets it, and Flynn kisses her one more time, ferociously. Then he picks up Lily and kisses her too, and closes his eyes as if to wish the tears out of existence, because his gaze is cool and focused when he opens them. And he says goodbye, and he goes.

It's mostly a quiet afternoon after that. Amy and Lucy sit on the couch watching more nineties movies again, Lily snoozing on Lucy’s chest (she seems to mostly be willing to go back to sleep once the immediate needs have been attended to, which is all you can really ask for in a baby). Her tiny hand is curled on Lucy’s shirt collar, her little body molded soft and boneless into Lucy’s as if she’s still part of it, and Lucy kisses her fuzzy dark head and strokes her back, joggling her absently. They finish up with Hook and to continue the Spielberg theme, are about to start E.T., when Lucy’s phone rings.

Startled, Lucy pushes herself upright with one hand and reaches for it. It’s Rufus, which surprises her for some reason. No reason it should, though. “Hello? Rufus?”

“Hey.” He sounds terse and abstracted. “Lucy, do you have a minute? I need – I need to tell you something.”

She frowns. “Is everything all right? Are you at work?”

“I – yeah, I’m at work, but…” Rufus hesitates, as if trying to gin himself up for something, and then it spills out in a rush. “Lucy, Connor made me spy on you for Rittenhouse. I didn’t want to do it, I’m not sure I even realized what it was for, but – I did. I did it. I’ve had a recorder in my pocket, it’s been picking up all our conversations through until the last time I was at your house. I had to turn it over to Connor last night, he said that if I didn’t, the consequences would be. . . it’s not an excuse, I did it anyway, but. . .”

“What?” Lucy’s chest clenches into a cold fist. “Rufus – what are you – what are you saying?”

“I spied on you,” Rufus repeats, agonized. “For Rittenhouse. Everything I was around for when we talked about it, they know it now. Lucy, I am so sorry. I can’t begin to make it right. You invited me into your hospital room, to your house, and I. . .”

Lucy can’t answer. Her throat has closed as well, and she can hear ringing in her ears, as she slides Lily off her chest and hands her to Amy, then gets up and walks into the kitchen hallway. “I trusted you,” she says, half wonderingly, half because nothing else seems to come to mind, nothing that she can get her tongue around. Extended Rufus access on Wyatt’s account, knows in the back of her head that he would not have had a choice, if Rittenhouse (whether via Connor Mason or otherwise) knew that these meetings were happening and needed to insert a mole on them. She half-wonders if Rufus is recording her right now, waiting for her to blurt out something he might not know – does he know about the Gilliam thing? That was after he left, and as far as she knows, she’s the only person Flynn told. And yet. Logical considerations, the rule and reason of her life, have flown directly out the window. In a croak, she repeats, “I trusted you.”

“I’m sorry.” Rufus sounds even more anguished. “I – I couldn’t live with not telling you, and I – Lucy, I needed to warn you. If Rittenhouse knows about what Flynn was – is – planning to do, then – ”

“I need to call him.” All at once, Lucy realizes sickeningly, if Rittenhouse already knew what Flynn was planning when they called to give him Wes Gilliam’s name last night, that could have been the final piece in their puzzle. However they were expecting him to react, whatever they wanted – she wants to shout at Rufus, even though she knows he’s much a victim here as the rest of them, but there is not time for that. “I’ll – talk to you in – later.”

With that, she hangs up and dials with shaking fingers, praying to every higher power she knows for Flynn to pick up. As she does, she unlocks the drawer and pulls out her gun, wondering if the time is about to come to use it in earnest. The phone’s still ringing, but he’s not answering, it’s like a nightmare where everything has stretched out and turned slow. She doesn’t even know if it’s only been a few rings, because every gap between her heartbeats is taking a thousand years. Jesus, Jesus –

And then, there’s a crash from the living room. Sounds like breaking glass from the patio door, as Lucy has to make a choice: gun or phone? Right now, with her sister and her daughter in danger while she can’t see them, and the knowledge that the trap is sprung, the culmination is complete, she doesn’t have time to think. Drops the phone, still spitting tinny echoes of its rings into the air, and runs back in, pointing the gun, as –

“Hello, princess.” Emma Whitmore looks almost amused to see her, standing in the rubble of the broken door. She’s holding Amy by the hair with one hand, as Amy is frantically clutching a screaming Lily, and twisting a heavy gun into her temple with the other. “Caught up with hubby dearest the other day, but I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. First, you’ll want to put that down, unless you want both of them to die. And then – well. We have a lot of unfinished business. I think it’s time to take a ride.”

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #timeless ff #the tangled web of fate we weave

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 7 Review: Three Dreams Denied

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This The Simpsons review contains spoilers.

The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 7

The Simpsons season 32, episode 7 carves the turkey a little thin for a pre-Thanksgiving offering. “Three Dreams Denied” has all the makings of a full and funny meal for the whole family. But a half hour later, you wish there was more stuffing. The ballooning game hunters even miss the flying turkey in the opening gag, which ends with the couch so exasperated she tells the family to sleep on the bed.

Comic Book Guy’s “Comicalusa” experience is a wild ride from the moment the patronizing pilot taunts his passengers with Superman sightings. The owner of Springfield’s only comic book store then sets about doing what he was born to do, paying the mockery forward on every aspect of the things he loves most. Who was the Joker, he asks, before dismissively concluding none of them.

If only someday people like him could make fun of people like him for working at a real comic book organization — not DC, but a real one — he would be transported to a superheroic fate. This week’s featured Springfield resident’s question, the best question ever asked at a comic book convention, is quite good — Superman-origin-story good: Are comic book mythologies the new religion, and if so, shouldn’t comic books be tax-free? He earns a celebratory pretzel for that.

Comic Book Guy’s dream costume should be standard issue at any convention, it allows him to alternate bites between a choice of beverages, fries, hot dogs, and tacos, which loom large in his legend. A Krustyburger 100-taco-for-$100-weekend is the stuff of Doctor Who marathons, and here he is riding escalators with the Who’s Who of Doctor Who. But Comic Book Guy’s real dream is to work at Marvel — to be plucked out of a crowd of complaining fanboys and lord over the fate of the Avengers.

“Comicalusa” is Burning Man for nerds, twice removed because Burning Man is also really just for nerds. Here he is with his idols, creative geniuses who have all blocked him on Twitter. And Comic Book Guy freezes up. It really is unlike him not to at least give an impromptu ultimate nerd variation. He had two steps to get it together when he stepped into third position. It feels, though it’s not said, like self-sabotage. It is sad that Comic Book Guy is ultimately saddled with the “worst question ever” title, but it is a worthy comeuppance for the man’s whole back-storied attitude.

This isn’t Comic Book Guy’s first humiliation at the hands of his, for lack of a better word, peers. He’s been outclassed by competitors, guest panelists, wise-ass kids and people he’s actually trained. He ultimately is redeemed by the only person who could never outclass him because he barely knows the meaning of class, or homework or the difference between arts ‘n crafts glue and oatmeal.

Ralph Wiggum, coming off a loss for first triangle to an empty chair, is like a sticky-fingered Baby Yoda, offering inscrutable answers to Comic Book Guy’s universe. It is really a very subversively touching scene because what Ralph brings back up in Comic Book Guy is the bile which he malevolently bestows on kids just like Ralph on tap.

Lisa’s crush is presented quite musically. She gushes in the key of Eeee. But the fight for first chair is best played in a minor key, regardless of the seemingly meat-free-sweetness of her blue-eyed boy. But Blake’s (Ben Platt) adorable blue contact lenses are as fake as the vegan BLT he was bragging about.

For a final insult, his four-note honk in competition for the first chair saxophone part is a deliberately humiliating bad run which is only marginally better than Lisa’s. We don’t actually even know if he can play. He seems like he might be such an evil little boy that he will continue to throw hot dog water on anyone who dares to out-reed him, whether he can play or not. Lisa, whose love of the music can inspire mall stores to close for jazz appreciation, is addicted to playing for free.

Surprisingly this subplot has the most satisfying payoff, even though it’s the only one Lisa estimates cannot be fixed. The song that plays during the closing coda is an inspired variation on the song “Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)” from Annie Get Your Gun. It says so much more and ends with a big whoop. It is a highlight.

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We all know how much trouble the voice actors have been to the networks when it comes to The Simpsons, and the writers have some fun with it through Bart’s introduction to the game. “Who knew it was so easy to become a working actor?” the young vocalist says admiringly as he rakes in more money in one day than Homer does in a year. This isn’t the first time the boy has out-earned his father; it happens at least once a season.

While Comic Book Guy is away at the convention, he leaves the store in the hands of a veteran voice actor. The guy’s got a great repertoire from Christopher Lloyd in Back to the Future to Scratchy from the “Itchy and Scratchy” cartoons. When he seals the deal with a classic, the rules of Cider House, Bart is floored enough to admit if he knew what that was he’d be even more impressed.

This is such a perfectly Bart line that it cements the character and leads to the chance to mock the network’s treatment of The Simpsons. Homer doesn’t believe a check from Warner Bros. Animation is any good. Bart is still getting his head around how any show which takes longer than a day to do a cartoon is trying to milk their studio dry.

Bart’s gender neutrality could have been mined for more comic possibilities. The mini-arc of him getting beaten up for playing a girl to proving how rad it is to be a unicorn-riding action figure who kills every adult on his show hits all the proper notes, but will it get him on a float on Pride Day? His accent is inconsistent, and his hetero normative tendencies freak out the bullies.

Fight as they often do, Lisa and Bart share some of the warmest moments of the series. Whether hugging as co-losers in hockey games or gaping in awe as Homer gets something right, they work best as a unit. When Lisa tells Bart he’s brave and should be proud of what he’s doing, it registers, but it feels more like he appreciated the dangerous aspects of playing a badass Queen.

The episode has its share of quick sight gags. It opens with Bart stuffing a chocolate bar into the cryogenic-plastic covering of a priceless comic. Martin Prince can be found shoved in the Springfield Elementary trophy case towards the beginning, and again hanging on a clothesline. When Comic Book Guy sees the opportunity to snatch and sell the rare, unopened, Radioactive Man toy he covers up his shrieks of pleasure by chortling into unsold Hulk hands. Good thing his girlfriend isn’t there to see that. The music teacher has to drown out the discordant cacophony of his band with noise canceling headphones and fistfuls of CBD gummies. The bum-not bug zapper is also an inspired visual.

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The Simpsons are always self-referential, but it gets very subliminal in “Three Dreams Denied.” Yeardley Smith, who voices Lisa, made a guest appearance on last week’s episode, “Podcast News.” She was very adamant about not mentioning the voice she’s most known for. This week, Bart is playing a voiceover actor. I’m sure Professor Frink could come up with some reason this somehow flays the laws of animation physics. This is probably why the episode falls short. No one episode of The Simpsons can handle the voiceover click-track continuum, smooth jazz and the ultimate question to ask at Comicalusa. It’s just too much.

In the past, The Simpsons could have borne the extra weight. They’ve always had cross plots, subplots and occasional mini-arcs which play out under the radar. Each of the three stories are strong, funny and have the pathos or peril needed to make them great. In that sense, “Three Dreams Denied” is very much operating in The Simpsons early mode. While the journey flies by without too many bumps, the episode lives up to its title.

The post The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 7 Review: Three Dreams Denied appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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fan-fic-fix · 7 years

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Lives to Tell his Story. (Poly!Hamilsquad x Reader)

Pairing: Hamilsquad x Reader

Word Count: 1330

Warnings: Poly relationship, violence

Summary: Class gets canceled and a good day goes south quick when there is an unwanted guest who tries to sabotage someone’s career.

The house was so empty with your boys all at work. You were supposed to have class today, but the professor canceled. Since you had the day off you took a little longer in the shower, made a real breakfast instead of grabbing a protein bar, and walked to the cafe down the road for lunch. After lunch you decided to go to the market to make dinner, you were going to surprise the boys. Once you got home you put away what you purchased and walked into the living room and turned the tv to the music channels. You sat on the couch as you clicked through the possibilities you dozed off. Recently you had been the last person to go to sleep because you were doing research for your classes, you were spending more time typing on your laptop than Alexander did.

A few hours later you woke up sweating and panting. You sat up and looked around nervously. A quick glance at the clock confirmed you still had time to get dinner finished before anyone got home. You stretched then headed towards the bedroom to change into something more comfortable when you heard something in Alexander’s office. You froze for a moment, but continued when you thought he just left his music playing again. Then you heard something fall on the ground. You pulled out your phone and texted in the group chat.

You: Is everyone still at work?

JLau: Yep :/

Gilbert: Oui, mon chéri

HERCULES MULLIGAN: Yep, I am finishing a few hems then I will be on the way!

A.Ham: If Jefferson would just ended his rant 30 mins ago, I would have been home

already.

Gilbert: Do you need something?

You: I thought I heard something in Alex’s office, but it’s probably nothing.

JLau: Should someone come home?

You: No, I am probably just hearing things.

A.Ham: If it is something, call me so I can stop listening to Jefferson go on and on

about France.

Gilbert: Watch it mon amour, you will be sleeping in your office if you say one thing bad

about France.

A.Ham: It’s cute when you do it, he just likes to hear himself talk.

Suddenly the office door opens and you quickly tiptoe to the bathroom and crack the door. Your heart is racing and you immediately wish you asked the boys to come home.

You: Actually, guys, I think someone should come home.

You: ITS AN EMERGENCY!!!!

A.Ham: It’s* and I am on my way.

HERCULES MULLIGAN: What happened?! I thought you were just hearing things.

You: Unless I’m seeing things too the office door started opening so I’m hiding.

A.Ham: Don’t leave the bathroom. God if anything happens I may not have a job when

all of it is over. Jefferson live the rest of his life in guilt, I’ll be sure of it.

You: Drop it Alex just get home. Please.

JLau: Get in the tub and close the curtain.

You do what John said being sure not to make a sound. You sat and pulled your knees to your chest hoping Alexander would walk through the door any minute.

HERCULES MULLIGAN: I am on the way lovebug. Don’t worry, just stay put.

Gilbert: Moi aussi

JLau: Did you think about calling the police?

You: No…

JLau: I’m calling now. I’m also running home as fast as I can, screw this New York rush

hour traffic.

The bathroom doorknob starts to shake. You cover your mouth and someone walks in. They look around opening all of the cabinets. You see their silhouette growing on the shower curtain. They pull it back and you sit there motionless staring back at them. They reach down and grab you. You flail around hoping that they would let you go or drop you, but they were strong. There was nothing you could do except hope the boys or the cops came bursting through the door at any moment. They pinned you to the chair in the living room and tied you to it.

“I would have gotten away with this you went to class today,” the intruder said.

“What? How do you know what days I have class? Wait, and gotten away with what?” you asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Well you have me tied up, my boyfriends will be here any minute and so will the cops. You should go ahead and start explaining.”

The front door swung open and Alexander came running in. As soon as he did the intruder pulled out a gun and held it to your head.

“You shouldn’t have told them to come home. I would have gotten away with this.”

“What are you doing? Don’t hurt her!” you look away from the gun and at John standing next to Alex.

“John! Where are the cops? I thought you called them!”

“I did, they should be here.”

“Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?” Alexander interrupted.

The intruder pulled off his mask with his free hand to reveal his face.

“Yeah man I still don’t know who you are,” Alex snapped.

“You’re working on my brother’s case.”

The next moment the police came in with the Laf and Herc behind them.

“Drop the weapon, drop it now sir,” a policeman said.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? I’m soooo scared,” the intruder teased.

“Only if you pose a threat.”

“Okay man I am going to ask again who are you and what are you doing in my house,” Alex said this time more demanding and taking a step closer.

When he stepped closer he took the gun from your head and pointed it at Alex. you heard two gunshots. Alex fell to the ground holding his side. You screamed and the boys rushed to Alex’s side. The second shot came from the police, the intruder fell to the ground. The police untied you and you joined the rest of the boys surrounding Alex. You pushed away Hercules to get to him. You grabbed his hand, but was pulled away just as quick as you got to his side. The EMTs were putting him on a stretcher and taking him away. Lafayette held you back as you tried to cling to him.

“Go get the car, chéri,” Laf asked Herc.

“Sure thing,” he pulled John and they went to get the car.

They got the car from the parking garage and out the street. Laf carried you to the car and y’all followed the ambulance to the Hospital. You sat in the waiting room for what felt like an eternity while Alexander was in surgery. A detective came to the hospital to question you. He said the guy that broke in was the brother of the guy that Alexander was prosecuting and he was trying to sabotage it.

Finally a doctor came in and told y’all that he was out of surgery. You beat everyone to his room, even Laf who did track in high school. He was still knocked out from the drug so you and the boys slept in the room on two beds that were pushed together. It felt so empty, and quiet, without Alexander. you hoped that he would wake up soon so you could hear his voice. The boys did too.

A few hours later you woke up to machines going off. You and the boys immediately feared the worst until you heard a voice.

“Get these fucking wire off of me. I can’t fucking believe this shit, you are all cuddling over there without me. How dare you, scoot over.” Alexander huff and groaned as he tried to move.

“Stay there, love, we will come to you,” Herc insisted.

He stood up and pushed the two beds over to Alex’s and climbed back in. There was your Alexander Hamilton you and your boys loved. Peacefully everyone fell back asleep snuggling close to you and Alex happy both of you were alive.

#hamilsquad x reader #alexander hamilton #john laurens #hercules mulligan #marquis de lafayette #hamilton #laurens #herc #lafayette #poly #hamilton imagine #hamilton the musical

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michaelgnomes · 8 years

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Allow the Unexpected (AHOT6)

All it took was Gavin not shutting up for Michael to become part of the crew.

Well, that and some mini golf, a bar fight, a little torture, bevs on the Maze Bank roof, and a gas station explosion, but who’s counting?

Blood, Language, Violence, Kidnapping, Shooting, Torture, Major Character Kind-of Death(the Fake AH Crew doesn’t have time for that shit).

Inspired by a Vine involving a broke dude, a burglar, and a gun.

Word Count: 13,912 AO3

He wakes up to the sound of someone busting down his front door.

He isn’t scared – his first instinct is to get up and fight, actually, but he decides he would rather stay under his blanket, where he won’t freeze to death. He’s more irritated about the fact that he’s been woken up than anything else, really.

It sounds like a lot of feet, and when they come around the corner and enter his line of sight in his bedroom doorway, he can definitely confirm that. Who travels in groups of five wearing ski masks and casually breaks into random apartment buildings?

One of them - tall, and he’s got biceps from hell - steps toward him, but another at the front of the group lays a hand on Buff and Burly’s arm. He takes offense. “Geoff-”

“Not necessary,” the apparent leader (Jeff? Weirdly average name for a guy in a ski mask.) says, then turns his gaze to Michael. “We’re only here for a little while, to hide from the police. Either you can let us stay, or we can stay anyways.”

“Fine, but leave me alone. I was fucking sleeping when you barged in,” Michael says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and regarding the group sternly. “And stay out of my kitchen.”

One of them seems very disappointed. He’s lanky as fuck, and a moderate height. The only one shorter than him is obviously more dark-skinned, or maybe that’s because the sulking one looks disgustingly pale in the low lighting. Not very intimidating, especially when he’s slouching like that.

“Just because I’m harbouring five criminals doesn’t mean I’m going to let them raid my fridge,” Michael says, looking Pouty in what he assumes is an eye past the mask. “I’m going back to sleep.”

They all stare at him until Geoff leads them away, presumably into the living room.

“This is new,” one of them says. Michael can hear it a bit better than he should be able to, but with almost zero furniture, he isn’t really surprised. It sounds like Buff and Burly. “They’re usually afraid.”

“What, you mean all two times we’ve come into contact with someone like this?” A new voice. Higher. The short one, maybe?

“I want to know where all his furniture’s gone,” one says with a thick accent, and it could be the one with the beard or the pouty one with the nose, but it’s probably the one with the nose, judging by the pitch.

“That’s…a good question,” someone(Shorty?) replies, seemingly surprised, and Michael almost braces for impact.

“It’s cold as dicks in here,” Geoff comments, quieting. “Do you think we just kicked some broke kid’s door in?”

“Probably,” Big Buff Cheeto Puff concurs.

“Wow, what arseholes you guys are,” Accent With a Nose pipes up cheerfully.

“So are you, dickhead,” Geoff replies. “Do we want to stay here until they’re done looking, or go fuck someone else over?”

“Geoff…” Nose says, and it’s silent for a moment. Michael can almost feel the puppy eyes from here.

He takes a moment to consider the situation at hand. Five assholes – obviously criminals – decided to infiltrate his used-to-be-a-bomb-shelter apartment, maybe thinking it was the building’s basement. They are now casually lounging in what is supposed to be his living room. Maybe if he had money for anything but rent, it would look like a living room, too. To make the situation just a little bit worse, they’re talking about how poor he is as if he can’t hear them, and even pitying him for it. He can deal with the rest of it, but this is not what he needs living in the middle of the city with a part-time, minimum-wage job. He makes enough for rent, utilities, and eating when he needs to. Occasionally he can afford his ancient phone. There’s no room for anything else.

“Is he asleep?”

Big Nose pops into the sliver of vision Michael has past the edge of the blanket. “No, and he’s glaring at me.”

"Hey, asshole,” Geoff says from the living room with some exaggerated grumbling(he’s obviously standing), then from the bedroom doorway. “Don’t eavesdrop on people’s conversations.”

“Are you kidding me?” Michael is suddenly very animated. “You come into my house-”

“How broke are you?”

“Gavin-”

“What’s it to you?” Michael asks, eyes narrowed.

Geoff sighs. “You don’t have anything, kid, and Gavin is a curious piece of shit.” No way in hell he’s admitting that he is also a curious piece of shit.

“I have a job,” Michael replies casually as he temporarily pushes the blanket away from his face, hoping they won’t take the avoidance as “I’m dirt poor and I eat ramen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“What’s minimum wage now?” Nose - er, Gavin asks in wonderment.

“Does it matter?”

“What he’s trying to say is that you’re fucking poor, dude,” a voice that must be Shorty’s calls from the living room.

“I’m obviously doing fine,” Michael retorts. “I thought I told you to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Touchy subject, then,” Gavin mumbles as he and Geoff move back into the living room. Michael would give him shit for it, but they’re too far away. He doesn’t have the energy to yell or the heat to get out of bed.

Contrary to his plans to stay awake so they don’t kill him when he isn’t looking, he falls asleep to the sound of them talking in the living room. They aren’t around in the morning, but his door has been mysteriously repaired.

They appear again a few weeks after that. Michael doesn’t see them, but in the morning there is a note left on the kitchen counter stating there are pancakes in the fridge(they’d sent Gavin out to buy mix), and a twenty-dollar bill next to a winky-face. He doesn’t want to think about them going through his almost-empty cabinets. Opening the one above the microwave to pull out a box of cornflakes reveals that they have dumped a few bags of food into them. He tells himself they aren’t coming back just because they pity him. This is fine.

A few weeks later, he comes home from work to find they’ve come and gone again. A lengthier note is left behind mentioning lunch leftovers in the fridge and that they’ve made a key for themselves so they don’t have to keep picking the lock. Michael should be offended, but he’s more relieved they don’t plan on breaking down his door again than pissed they keep welcoming themselves in. They probably would have murdered him by now if that was their plan, and they keep bringing him food.

Besides, there’s something about this group he hasn’t seen before. Maybe it’s the fear they don’t possess – brash and unhesitating, they get to the point. It intrigues him just enough to hope they come back.

He’s stupid, he knows, but he also has nothing to lose.

The next time he sees them, it’s been long enough he’s convinced himself they don’t actually exist. At least they knock this time, and they aren’t wearing masks, which is probably a good sign.

“Why are you here?” He hasn’t even had dinner yet, and he’s still in his work uniform.

“Police,” Shorty says, as if that explains everything, and it’s disappointing because it does.

“Whatever,” he almost sighs as he turns away from the door. “I’m having ramen.”

“We brought food,” Guy With a Beard says, and Michael notices the bags in Buff and Burly’s hands, now. Beard Guy sounds almost exactly like him, in fact. Michael has probably been mixing up stuff they say. Shit.

Jack, as he learns Beard Guy’s name is, helps him cook, which is good, because Michael isn’t sure he even remembers how to make macaroni and cheese, let alone stuff perogies. Most of them end up hanging out in the kitchen-ish area, though eventually Jack banishes Gavin to the living room. He leans against the wall next to the kitchen doorway and occasionally pipes up in conversation instead.

As Michael and Jack are finishing dinner, Ryan(seriously, way too normal a name) and Ray(okay, this one is reasonable) begin to talk about a heist the crew pulled a while back.

“Who made the explosives?“ Michael interrupts Ray when he gets to the blowing-out-the-door part. "That sounds like either faulty wiring or shitty storage to me.”

“You know how to wire explosives?” Ryan sounds a mixture of pleasantly surprised and amused.

“I work for an electrician. I can tell you what a switch plate is and that you shouldn’t stick a fork in a socket, and apparently that explosives have a better shelf life if you don’t store them like a fucking idiot.”

“We had it shipped in by one of our contacts on the west coast,” Ryan supplies, seeming content with Michael’s answer. “It seemed unlikely that it could be sabotage, so we didn’t bother killing anyone over it.”

Michael looks to Jack, pulling the last perogie out of the water. He feels like a child seeking approval. “That’s done,” Jack says with a grin, picking up the bowl of broccoli from the other end of the counter.

“Come get your dinner, asshole,” Geoff says, and Gavin practically bounds into the room, stopping only when he’s nearly flattened Ray.

“This kitchen was not made to hold six people,” Jack says, laughing. “Get your vegetables and get out.”

It is in that moment, as Gavin attempts to push Ryan out of the way and Geoff yells something about plates, that Michael realises he had forgotten what good company felt like. He also wonders for a moment how the fuck he found himself in this situation, but decides not to dwell on it.

“Here you go, Michael,” Ray suddenly appears, waving a full plate under his nose. Michael doesn’t know if he can eat that much food, but he can damn well try. “How do you know my name?”

“Uh,” Ray says, jabbing a finger over his shoulder at Gavin and Geoff, who are still bickering. “Oops.”

"Gavin is our data-analyst-slash-hacker guy,” Ryan says. “We’ve established he’s a curious piece of shit.”

Geoff pushes between Michael and Jack to get to the food, holding Gavin at bay with one hand. Gavin is doing a weird flail-and-make-weird-noises thing, but, considering everyone is acting like it’s normal, Michael thinks it’s safe to ignore.

It’s a hell of a time trying to get everyone their dinner in Michael’s tinyass kitchen, but they make it work. They’re finally sitting around Michael’s found-for-free-on-the-side-of-the-road coffee table when Michael says, “Why my apartment?”

“It was the closest building, and we thought this was a utility room,” Ray replies, confirming Michael’s theory. “None of our safehouses were in not-get-shot-by-the-cops distance.”

Michael takes a moment to consider the motley crew seated around his coffee table. He isn’t going to think about how much jail time he could get for letting these guys into his apartment. Or that they could definitely kill him right now. “You guys are big time, huh?”

“Fake AH Crew, baby,” Geoff replies with a grin.

“I think I heard about you once,” Michael replies with a furrowed brow, something akin to recognition in his eyes. “Somebody was talking about you at work.”

“Only once?” Gavin squawks in a very offended manner. “What, do you live under a rock?”

Michael arches an eyebrow in Gavin’s direction, waving a hand at the room at large, including his nonexistent TV. “It’s not like I sit down and watch the news.”

“Great, Gavin,” Ray deadpans after a beat of Gavin frowning. “You made it awkward.”

“Ray,” Gavin whines and starts babbling about something else, but Michael’s attention is caught by Jack brushing a hand against his arm.

“Don’t worry about him,” Jack says quietly enough not to interrupt Gavin’s…whatever he’s doing. “He’s kind of an asshole.”

“I noticed,” Michael replies easily. Jack grins at his response, then looks confused as Michael’s smile falls into a grimace.

“What’s up?”

“I need to get this out of the way,” Michael says, regarding the group at large. Gavin stops talking for once. “Am I some shitty poor-kid-charity-case you guys decided was convenient to make yourselves feel better?”

“The million-dollar question,” Geoff grins, Ray mumbles “pun intended” and Geoff shoots him a tired glare. “We don’t do charity cases, kid. Gavin never shut the fuck up about you, so we ended up coming here if we were looking for a place to hide out, but now you’ve gone and made us like you.”

“My bad,” Michael replies. “And, for the record, you’re all a bag of dicks. Stop breaking into my house.”

Jack grins. “You’ll fit right in.”

There it is. A promise of something more. Future visits, at least. Michael isn’t sure how to feel about it. By the time he’s kicked them out late that night with the excuse of work in the morning, he isn’t sure he wants to know.

The next time he sees any of them, Geoff is pulling up to the sidewalk next to Michael in a ridiculously pink sports car and leaning over the passenger seat to yell at him. “You want me to drive you somewhere?”

“I have legs, Geoff, I can walk,” Michael replies with a grin, gesturing vaguely up the street as he continues moving, albeit a little more slowly. “My apartment’s right here.”

“Let me take you out for lunch, then,” Geoff counters, keeping pace with Michael despite the car stuck behind him that is loudly honking, and the few quickly approaching. Michael would stop to consider the offer, but he’s sure the accumulating traffic would band together to murder him. “I don’t have anywhere to be, kid.”

Michael realises that for the poorly-veiled threat it is – either go with Geoff or have him follow at a snail’s pace all the way down the street – and throws a glance over his shoulder before sprinting over to Geoff’s car and climbing into the front passenger seat. He probably won’t get cornered in a dark alley and axe murdered. “You didn’t have to throw threats around, Geoff, Christ.”

“Yes I did,” he replies cheerfully, picking up speed to drive at a clip somewhere within the vague vicinity of the speed limit. “What do you want for lunch?”

“Well, since I’m still in my grease monkey uniform, burgers sound fine,” Michael says, only a little sarcastically. Geoff could hand him a lukewarm, half-eaten takeout pizza and he would be fucking delighted.

“Burgers it is,” Geoff replies, whistling a familiar tune for a moment and pausing to ask, “Aren’t grease monkeys mechanics?”

“I’m close enough,” Michael scoffs as Geoff takes a turn wider than the turning lane, but doesn’t hit anybody. He seems to at least halfway know what he’s doing. “I might as well be an electrician’s slave instead of a guy with a shitload of stuff in his brain about electrical currents.”

“How much is in your brain about electrical currents, exactly?” Geoff asks innocuously enough, pulling up to a Lucky Plucker and turning (more gently, this time) into the parking lot. The building emits Chinese restaurant vibes, but the giant sign says “chicken.”

“You work with that shit long enough and you get a bunch of useless shit in your head,” Michael replies as Geoff presses a button or two and both of the car’s front doors open themselves. They both climb out, and the doors magically close and lock themselves without prompting. “I could reroute a house to turn on the sprinklers every time someone flips a switch if I had the time and convinced myself I had the energy.”

Michael chooses the cheapest combo on the menu(Geoff won’t let him get anything less) and the second they’ve placed their food on the table, Geoff’s phone vibrates. He pulls it out, looks at it for a second, then looks back up and says, “Hey, Michael, have you ever been mini golfing?”

“Dude,” Michael says as he unwraps a chicken sandwich. “I live for that shit. My friends and I used to play all the time in high school. I smoked everybody.”

Geoff chuckles, typing something. “Maybe someone will give Jack a run for his money.

"Am I going mini golfing?” Michael asks, suspicious. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“Okay, buddy,” Geoff’s gaze moves back to meet Michael’s as he slides his phone back into his pocket, clearly amused. “Do you want to go mini golfing with the Fake AH Crew?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s what I thought.”

They pull up to the mini golfing venue - an old arcade with a giant moose statue on the roof - only for Gavin to pull him out of his seat as soon as the door is halfway open. He’s smiling as he drags Michael over to the remaining three crew members, who are lounging on a bench in the shade of the building’s awning. Ray is dozing, practically in Ryan’s lap. Michael saves the image to tease them later.

“Geoff tells me you’re a pro at mini golf,” Jack says with a grin as they come to a stop in front of the bench. Gavin hasn’t released his hand.

“I haven’t played in a few years,” Michael replies with mock humility. Geoff appears from behind him and leans against the bench at Jack’s side. “But I think I can manage.”

Ryan reaches into his pocket and pulls out six tickets. Ray grumbles and moves his legs from atop Ryan’s, but remains leaning into his arm as Ryan offers them to Gavin.

“Thanks, Rye-bread,” Gavin coos with a grin and shoots off toward the beginning of the golf course, Michael in-tow. Geoff and Jack follow more slowly as Michael chooses a putter.

“Gavin, please,” Michael says, taking the putter Gavin’s just chosen, regarding it calculatingly for a moment, and trading it for a much longer one. “You make it look like you’ve never been golfing before in your life.”

“He uses trial-and-error instead of his brain,” Ryan says, pulling a half-awake Ray with him. Gavin sticks his tongue out at him and turns to place a bright yellow ball on the green.

Michael’s a little rusty, but he closely trails Jack in points. By the time the game’s over, Ray and Ryan are tied for third, only a few points behind Michael, and Geoff and Gavin are bickering over who’s in last place.

“What do you say to going out with us?” Jack asks Michael over Geoff’s yelling in the background. The summer sun is setting in the distance - it must be later than it feels. “It’s kind of a tradition of ours.”

“Yeah, we’ll get some bevs,” Gavin is suddenly hanging from Michael’s arm, and Geoff appears soon afterward. “Come on, Michael!”

Maybe it’s the way Gavin puts emphasis on the way he says his name, or Jack’s hopeful smile, but Michael finds himself agreeing. It’s not as if he has anything waiting for him at home.

Soon enough they’ve claimed a corner booth in some low-lit bar he’s seen a few times but never entered. Eventually, everyone has their drinks (alcoholic or not) except for Michael.

“I’ll just go up to the bar and get it myself,” Michael finally sighs, sliding out of the booth. The waitress must have missed his order.

“I’ll go with you,” Jack says, sharing a glance with Geoff, but Michael shakes his head. Maybe he can get out of putting it on Geoff’s tab while he’s at it.

“Nah, I’ll just go myself. I’ll be right back.”

He’s standing at the end of the bar waiting for the bartender to finish mixing his drink when a really drunk dude bumps into him, turns slowly toward him with a furrowed brow, and takes a sloppy swipe at the collar of Michael’s shirt.

“Dude, it’s not even eight and you’re wasted,” Michael sneers, using a hand to hold the guy at a distance by the arm. He thinks it’s probably useless to scold a guy who’s already slam-drunk, but maybe he’ll get confused and wander off if Michael’s lucky. “You don’t want to get in a fight with me.”

The guy punches him in a surprising show of strength - not enough to really hurt him, but it definitely throws him for enough of a loop for the guy to fumble another punch in his direction. He grabs the guy’s wrist and spins him around to pin both hands at his back, slamming his face sideways against the bar counter. The bartender definitely notices that one, but seems to think the situation is under control, looking back down to his work quickly enough.

“You’re a real fucking idiot, aren’t you?” Michael says as his captive struggles weakly. He doesn’t really know what to do with this guy, now. He’ll just get himself run over if Michael takes him outside, and he sure as hell isn’t going to babysit.

“What’s up, Sean?” some guy asks behind Michael and steps around them to stand next to the drunk guy, bending down a little to frown at him. “This kid bothering you?”

A sharp burst of air escapes Michael. Now is not a good time to get aggravated, he thinks, and replies in Drunk Guy’s stead. “He wanted to fight me, man.”

“So you beat him up, instead?” The new guy scoffs, frowning some more, then turns to Michael, already pushing up his sleeves. He’s got some muscle. “Alright, I’ll bite. I haven’t had a good fight in a while.”

Michael glances over his shoulder to see if the booth is in sight, but he must be losing his touch, because that gives the guy enough of an opening to land a solid one on his eye. He reels back, his grip on the guy’s drunk friend loosening enough for Muscle Guy to pull drunk friend behind him, away from the fight. Michael takes that opportunity to recover and return the favour, landing a nice punch to the side of Muscle Guy’s head.

Muscle Guy stands his ground, unfortunately, and his arms lash out, probably to grab Michael, but with a quick dodge and some strategic footwork, one of the guy’s legs collapses and he’s sent crashing to the right, landing on a waitress who is balancing a tray of drinks until they crash to the floor amidst the two people on their way down. The sound of shattering glass fills the bar, and anyone who hadn’t been watching is now.

“Matt?” The guy’s drunk friend watches with mild concern and something akin to confusion as Muscle Guy scrambles somewhat dazedly back to his feet.

Michael’s got him against the bar when he’s pulled practically up and away from the guy by the waist. He doesn’t struggle, quickly realising Ryan is the culprit. He’s put down quickly enough, anyways. The bartender has a phone to his ear, but when he makes eye contact with a very calm Michael, he says something with a shake of his head and hangs up.

“A bar fight wasn’t really in the plans,” Ryan chides with a grin, a hand still on Michael’s waist. “But it looks like you fucked him up pretty good.”

“I’ve had my fair share of fights,” Michael says, then startles as someone grabs his arm and spins him around.

“Michael, you’re beautiful,” Geoff is laughing, and Michael’s heard the guy chuckle before, but this is something new.

“No jostling,” Jack calls from farther back as Gavin sprints toward them. “There’s glass everywhere.”

“You right,” Ray says, picking a shard out of Michael’s hair from where he’s appeared on his other side. “Good job, dude.”

Michael can’t tell if that’s sarcasm or not, but says “thanks” anyways as Gavin bounds up to stand beside Geoff.

“Michael, that was amazing!” he says, a little too excited, then turns to Geoff. “We should bring him to Singleton’s.”

“Not right now,” Jack chides, pushing between Geoff and Gavin to pat Michael down for injuries. “That’s going to be a nasty black eye. Did you not notice the glass in your arm?”

Michael moves his arm to take a look and feels it before he gets that far, wincing as he tries to move it back to his side without jostling anything. “No, but I definitely do now.”

“Cool, adrenaline’s wearing off,” Ray comments, picking another shard of glass out of Michael’s hair and dropping it on the floor, where a different waitress is cleaning up the mess. “You’re bleeding on the floor.”

“Great,” Michael replies grimly. “Just what I’ve always wanted.”

“Let’s get you to your apartment,” Jack says, but it’s more of a command than a request. “Ride with me this time.”

“I’m going to bleed all over your car.”

“Who gives a shit?” Geoff waves him off.

Ryan shrugs. “Hydrogen peroxide exists for a reason.”

He does bleed on the polyester of the car’s seat, but Gavin assures him it isn’t a big deal, and even if it is, Michael’s half-sure Gavin could convince the rest of the crew anyways.

They make it back to his apartment in record time, but considering Jack’s a hell of a driver and they were only in Vespucci to begin with, Michael isn’t really surprised.

“First-aid kit’s in the cabinet under the sink,” Michael says, waving a hand at a door as he sits down on the living room floor. He doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about his empty apartment this time. “Bathroom.”

By the time Jack’s emerged from digging through the cabinet in the bathroom, Ray is seated knee-to-knee with Michael on the living room floor, Gavin leaning against his other side.

“Shoo,” Jack motions Gavin away. “That’s the arm I need.” He gives Jack just enough space to do what he needs, and Jack sighs at him, but sits down to start his work anyways.

“So you’re a fighter?” Ryan asks, sitting across from him on the carpet as Geoff emerges from the bathroom. Jack’s finished his prep and is about to pull the glass from Michael’s arm with a pair of newly-disinfected tweezers. This is clearly an attempt to distract him, and it might be working.

“I wasn’t exactly a model student,” Michael admits, wincing as Jack quickly pulls a small shard. Geoff takes a seat next to Ryan. “I got my start in high school. For a few years after graduation I lived with a few friends and we went out to drink sometimes. The fights usually find me.”

“What happened to your friends?” Gavin asks as Ray mumbles something about what the fuck, man, more of this shit and pulls a few tiny bits of glass from Michael’s hair.

Michael almost shrugs, but decides that’s a bad idea as Jack moves back in with the tweezers. “One of them died. I had a falling out with the other one.”

“Shit, man,” Ray says, and takes his hand when it clenches into a fist as Jack pulls out the second, slightly bigger piece. Gavin leans against Michael’s back, and it’s both a comforting gesture and something of a distraction.

“Last one,” Jack says apologetically, taking a moment to preemptively pull out a few bandages. “On three…one, two-”

It’s the oldest fucking trick in the book, but it works. Michael expresses a quick, deep stab of pain with a sharp intake of breath, and it’s over before he realises he’s been duped.

“Jack, you sneaky bastard,” Michael almost grins as Jack produces another alcohol swab. The sizzle pales in comparison to pulling an inch of glass.

“Works on Gavin every time,” Jack does grin. “Of course, he gets much more offended than you.”

“I do not,” Gavin squawks as Jack applies the first bandage. “You’re a bloody minge, Jack.”

Jack checks out Michael’s eye and instructs him on ice pack application. The crew departs with much celebration despite the circumstances, and Michael goes to bed that night feeling like he’s passed some sort of test.

“Michael,” He has just opened his door to find Gavin, bloodied and on his doorstep, though his tone is pleasant enough. “Can I come in?”

“Sure thing,” Michael replies, stepping back to let the new arrival into his apartment, closing the door behind him. He is still attempting to take stock of the situation. It’s not every day a guy shows up at your door whistling a jaunty tune and covered in blood. “Do you need the first-aid kit?”

“Would be nice,” Gavin replies, stepping into the kitchen where the tiles will be easily cleanable if he drips blood on the floor.

Michael leaves Gavin’s sight for a moment to dig through the under-the-sink cabinet in the bathroom and emerges not long after that, first-aid kit in hand. “Where’s everyone else?”

“I went out to get some bevs,” Gavin says with a grin. “Guy jumped me. I put up a good fight, though.”

“Do you get mugged a lot?” Michael asks with some definite concern as he places the kit on the counter and unzips the cover. He might as well just do it himself – knowing Gavin, something will go wrong. “Where are you hurt?”

“Oh, loads,” Gavin replies, offering a nice slice in his upper arm and pointing out a slight graze on his cheek as Michael produces some alcohol swabs. “We have a betting pool on how long it’ll be. Ray won this time.”

“They just don’t care that you get attacked all the time?” Michael begins wiping away the blood surrounding Gavin’s wounds with a frown. Gavin doesn’t seem to notice the sting of the alcohol. “That’s pretty fuckin’ nice of them.”

Gavin shrugs. “We used to. It’s different, now.”

Michael works in silence for a moment. “Was I closer than a safehouse, again?”

“I would have gone to the house in Little Seoul,” Gavin says as Michael pulls out another alcohol swab and stands up straight so he can work on the superficial wound on Gavin’s face with a sympathetic wince. “But you were closer, and we haven’t seen you in a while. Figured I’d stop by, make sure you weren’t dead.”

Michael pauses for a moment with his hands holding Gavin’s face in place, his gaze moving to meet Gavin’s sternly, then decides to think about it later. Now isn’t a great time to talk about him being a pity case. He is just finishing up with Gavin’s cheek when a phone rings.

Gavin takes a moment to fumble his cell phone out of his pocket with his left hand and answers it without looking. He’s making a valiant attempt to stay as still as he can for Michael, and it isn’t really working, but he appreciates the effort.

“Where are you?” Geoff’s voice, pretty clearly. Gavin must have put the call on speakerphone. “And where’s my beer?”

“Got mugged again,” Gavin replies, and a chuckle sounds from Geoff’s side. Probably Jack - they must be on speakerphone, too. What a fucking party. “I’m with Michael. Say hi.”

“How’re you doing, kid?” Geoff asks.

“Well, I was doing great until Gavin showed up and bled all over my floor,” Michael replies, voice carefully even as he turns to the counter to sift through bandages. He’s keeping his cool about this. “He says you let him get jumped all the time.”

“Yeah, it’s funny as hell,” Ray says from rather far away from the phone. Michael can’t read his tone.

“It’d be just hilarious if he died, right?” Michael is not keeping his cool about this.

“Michael, buddy, it happens all the time.”

“Doesn’t seem funny to me.”

“We’ll explain later,” Geoff says, and he sounds almost pleading. It’s strange, coming from him, and that’s enough to convince Michael to let it go for now.

“Fine,” Michael replies, pulling out a butterfly bandage that was hidden beneath the first-aid guide, placing the gauze and the waterproof tape on the counter and turning back to Gavin. “But don’t think I’m letting you get away with being assholes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack says. “Also, hey, do you want to go out for dinner on Thursday?”

Michael pauses in his application of the butterfly bandage over the slice in Gavin’s arm to frown. “I don’t get my paycheck until Friday.”

Geoff doesn’t miss a beat, offering what is definitely a newly made-up excuse. “On our dime, kid. As thanks for patching Gavin up.”

Michael sighs. He isn’t interested in letting other people pay for his shit, but he also isn’t in a position to refuse. The way he eats, he’ll get leftovers out of it, too. “Sure. It’s a date.”

“Heyo,” Ray pipes up, and what might be a door opening and closing sounds as Michael places the bandage precisely on Gavin’s arm and picks up the gauze and tape to start working on his face again.

“Anything new?” Ryan says, voice slightly muffled. He must be far away from the phone.

“Gavin got mugged again,” Ray says. “Pay up, bitch.”

“Also, we’re going out for dinner with Michael on Thursday,” Jack talks over Ryan’s resigned complaint.

“He patched me up nice and quick,” Gavin supplies as clearly as he can without moving his mouth too much. Michael fixes him with a half-hearted glare.

“I’ll stop here if you keep talking.”

Ryan laughs, voice clearer through the speaker now. “He found his way to your place, huh?”

“Bled on my carpet and everything,” Michael replies, taking the phone from Gavin’s hand and placing it on the counter, then pressing a square of gauze gently against Gavin’s cheek. “Hold this.” Gavin does as told as Michael begins medical-taping the gauze in place.

“I’m impressed,” Ryan says in a tone of appraisal. “First you know how to wire explosives, then you can fight, now you know first-aid. What’s next, archery?”

“I didn’t say I could wire explosives,” Michael replies, placing the last piece of tape carefully and stepping back to view his work. “And I prefer things with a bang. Archery is for babies.”

Geoff laughs, and Jack asks with some curiosity, “How much do you know about first-aid?”

“Enough. You’re good,” Michael nods at Gavin, who takes back his phone, and moves to put everything back in the kit. It’s going to need refilling soon at this rate. “I’m a little rusty, but I got in enough fights back in the day that I learned how to take care of some shit.”

“Well, it sounds like you’re done, so we’ll let you go,” Geoff says, interrupting whatever Jack is about to ask next. “This Thursday, Haute in Del Perro. We’ll text you the time of the reservation.”

“I don’t…” Geoff has hung up before Michael can finish his sentence.

“Do you have a phone?” Gavin asks as he shoves his own into his pocket.

Michael frowns, says “not really” and produces the ancient flip-phone from his jeans. Gavin pockets it and pulls out a smartphone from his own back pocket, placing it in Michael’s still-outstretched hand with a flourish.

“Gavin…”

“It’s encrypted so people can’t hack you, but you can do whatever you want with it – make sure you set a good password or two in case someone gets their hands on it. It’s got unlimited everything,” Gavin supplies with a grin.

Michael finally looks from the phone in his hand to Gavin’s face. “Why are you giving me a phone?”

Gavin shrugs, but his smile does not leave him. “The crew might need to contact you. It was Geoff’s idea, I just did all the dirty work. Our numbers are already in there.”

“No, like, why are you giving me a phone?” Michael might be having a little bit of a moment. “Why did all of this happen to me?”

Gavin’s grin turns into something much more meaningful. “Maybe it was always supposed to be you, Michael.”

Michael steps out of the cab and takes a moment to consider the restaurant in front of him. Reservation’s at seven, they’d said. Dress casual.

Of course they had said this assuming Michael doesn’t own much in way of fancy clothing, and they had been right. This is not a casual-dress restaurant, but Michael also had no doubt they’re more powerful in this city than he knows.

This should scare him. Unfortunately, it does not.

The hostess takes one look at him and brings him past the small crowd waiting to be seated to the back of the restaurant, where five men he now knows quite well are waiting for him in a corner booth, laughing at something. Gavin crows when he notices the hostess leading Michael over, and the rest of the table turns their attention to him with wide smiles and animated gestures. They are in various versions of fancy dress, it seems.

Geoff has gone all out, bowtie and all. Ryan’s cleaned up nice, in some form of badass business casual. Jack is also business casual, but a little less I-steal-shit-for-a-living. Gavin is wearing pink shorts and a dress shirt, a rather strange combination, but he’s forgone his sunglasses in the low lighting. Ray is chilling in a hoodie and jeans. Respectable compared to Michael, but at least he doesn’t look homeless next to them. This is fine.

As he nears them, Gavin springs up to pull Michael into the booth. He only loses his balance a little bit, nearly falling over into Gavin’s lap and by extension Ryan’s, but he catches himself with a hand on the table.

A waitress makes her way over within a minute to take their drink orders, and upon hearing almost all of them order some kind of alcohol, he asks for a beer of his own. Geoff’s smile is approving for just a moment until the waitress leaves and his gaze moves to Gavin, who is leaning into Ryan’s shoulder.

“Watch out for that one,” he warns, waving a hand in Gavin’s direction. “He’s a lightweight.”

“Don’t let him grab you when he’s drunk,” Ray offers lightly. “He clings.”

“Alright,” Michael replies, nothing but amused. “As long as he doesn’t follow me home.”

“No promises,” Ryan says, and Gavin squawks in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t!” he protests. “You’re a right prick, Rye.”

It becomes easier to settle in when the drinks arrive, maybe because he can keep his hands busy with the bottle, or maybe because he’s almost finished his beer by the time the food arrives. He’d ordered one of the cheapest things on the menu, not really looking at the description. Something about pasta. He’d made a good choice, he realises as his plate arrives. Then again, he could probably order anything on the menu and it would be a good choice.

By the time he’s eaten what he can of his dinner, Geoff has ordered him another beer and it’s halfway gone. Michael is feeling a little buzzed. He should stop drinking before he makes a fool of himself, probably, but Gavin is clearly tipsy, and he’s only had one. Would be hard to make more of a fool of himself than Gavin does sober, he figures.

He leaves dinner that night a little tipsy and maybe too content, but his stomach is full and he has leftovers for tomorrow. If that was a date, it was a very silly date, but it had gone well enough that they promised to visit him soon, probably without being on the run from the police this time. That is enough to assure him he hasn’t somehow ruined everything. He exits his taxi in front of his apartment building, sleepily pays the driver, somehow doesn’t fall down the stairs to his apartment door, fumbles his leftovers into the fridge, and falls asleep with his shoes on.

He wakes up to the sound of someone busting down his front door. Again.

“You guys know you can just fucking come in,” Michael says, sliding out of bed. These assholes wake him up one more time and he’ll have to start investing in earplugs. “You’d better fix that shit.”

He steps out into the hallway, is met with something hitting him very hard, and barely feels it when his back meets the carpet.

He wakes again in a large, almost cavernous room, tied to a chair. His first thought is that this seems a little too much like cliché bullshit for him. His second thought is that, based on the light coming through the many windows near the ceiling, he’s been out for a long time.

It doesn’t take long for him to realise he’s in a warehouse, and it takes even less time for him to realise whoever brought him here has plans, and unfortunately they’re probably for him. The way the ropes tying him to his seat are just a little too tight says as much, as well as the absence of his phone, which he is almost certain had been in his pocket last night.

As if on cue, a door on the wall across from him opens and someone enters the warehouse. A really tall guy with really big muscles leads them in, unfortunately. A shorter, far less intimidating man follows him, and a woman (who is wearing some highly unpractical but fashion-conscious heels) brings up the rear.

“We understand you are connected to the Fake AH Crew,” the shorter man begins, producing a clipboard and pen. “What is your relationship with them, exactly?”

“What the fuck?” Michael is going to keep his cool this time. He has a feeling they will not take too kindly to threats of violence. Nonetheless, he would like some idea of what’s going on. “Why am I here?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“Me first,” He sneers.

“Answer the question,” the tall man says, his voice booming – unnecessarily, really – and Michael suddenly feels the need to comply. He also feels the need to lie. If he gives them the wrong idea, they’ll think he isn’t important enough to bother with, and at the very least they won’t get anything out of him regarding the crew. It’ll be fine.

“We barely know each other,” he says, and immediately knows that was the wrong answer when the woman and the tall man share a glance.

“Yet you’ve been out with them twice and they’ve visited you multiple times,” the short man says, unconcerned. Shit. They’d been watching him longer than just last night. Of course. “Would you like to try that again?”

“We’re friends,” Michael says this time. Half-truths might work. “I don’t know much about them.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” the man with the clipboard replies. “They seem to like you quite a bit. Juna?”

The other two step forward. The woman pulls out a Taser. Michael had been Tased on a dare, once. Doing it again is not exactly his idea of a good time.

It’s too late for that thought, really, because for a few seconds the world burns, and Michael finds himself what seems freshly electrocuted, having tipped himself and his chair over in his convulsions. He feels impossibly sore, he realises as the large man pulls his chair back to its feet with a beefy hand. He might want to cry a little bit.

“First we Tase you,” the woman says, smiling as if Michael hadn’t probably just foamed at the mouth a little too close to her shoes. “Then we start shooting toes off. After that go your fingers.”

“Try me,” Michael spits at her feet. Being Tased does wonders for one’s mood.

He’s met almost immediately with a sidewinder from the tall guy, and for a moment, he’s so dazed he hears gunshots. He realises that’s exactly what they are when the group in front of him shares a glance and the two guys trot off toward the door. The woman directs her attention back to him, producing a pistol and leveling it at his feet.

“Seems like we didn’t get to have as much time together as we wanted,” she says. “A real shame.”

She looks him in the eye as she pulls the trigger, and Michael decides he never wants to get shot again, either, which is a massive understatement. Being Tased hurt a fucking lot, but getting shot is a raw, intense pain he is not prepared for. He feels something that’s either snot or tears run down his face. Maybe both.

She has the gun leveled at his chest when the door bangs open and Geoff enters the warehouse, purpose in every step.

“Pull the trigger and you die,” he says, she lowers the gun, and he shoots the bitch anyways. She falls fast.

Jack isn’t far behind him, and as Geoff is behind Michael cutting the rope that binds him to the chair and telling Gavin “we have him,” Jack is in front of him, hands on him to assess the damage. Michael can’t help but let out an anguished noise when Jack’s foot bumps his. Jack looks down, sees what the kid in the chair hasn’t yet, and says, “Oh, Michael.”

Ryan walks through the door next with a, “Ray is still on the roof,” but his pace quickens when he sees them all huddled together. Michael is leaning forward to spit blood on the floor when Ryan reaches them.

“Michael, I-“

“If one more person tells me they’re sorry, I’ll fucking murder all of you,” Michael interrupts hoarsely as Ray appears in the doorway. “And if you say you regret bringing me into this or whatever, I’ll run you over with a golf cart - it’s not your fault, got it? I’m too tired for that shit.”

“Let’s get you home, Michael,” Jack says, bending down to pick Michael up.

“You are not picking me up like a princess.”

“You’re not walking like that.”

“I have an idea,” Ray says, having joined the group. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Geoff is about to say something, probably to scold Ray, but Michael just sighs and says, “Yeah, that’s reasonable,” and allows Jack to pick him up. He feels unreasonably sleepy on the walk to their car, and no sooner has he been buckled in than he is out like a light.

This time, he does not wake to someone busting down his front door, and for that, he is thankful. Instead, he wakes to find himself in a rather comfortable (and warm, at that) bed, Ray seated at his bedside and fiddling with his phone.

He frowns as a headache becomes very apparent, and shifts to sit up against his pillows, which are numerous and very comfortable. The only explanation he has for this is being either in one of the crew’s safehouses or in their home base itself. Either way, that’s some serious trust they’re showing.

Maybe getting Tased was a good way to prove himself.

“Dude, you good?” Ray says, attention pulled away from his phone by Michael’s movements. Despite his tone, there is something akin to concern in his expression as Michael winces.

“I’ve just got a headache,” Michael replies, voice rough. “Can I get some water?”

Ray departs with a nod, but it isn’t long before Gavin practically barrels through the doorway, talking at warp-speed.

“Michael, boi, they brought you in all bloody, and Jack took you into the room and they wouldn’t let me see you –“

“Gavin, please,” Michael demands hoarsely. “I’ve got a headache.”

“Sorry, boi,” Gavin whispers, his voice returning to a normal volume as he sits on the end of Michael’s bed, carefully avoiding Michael’s feet, one of which is obviously heavily bandaged even through the blanket. “What happened last night?”

“I fell asleep after I came home from the restaurant, and they woke me up banging on my door. I thought it was you guys being idiots, so I got up to open the door, and they knocked me out with something,” Michael explains, picking lint from the hem of his shirt. Well, not his shirt. He suspects it’s Ryan’s. It’s a little too big on him and definitely not the one he went to dinner in. “I should have been more on guard.”

“First you’re telling us you’ll run us over if we say it’s our fault, now you’re taking blame,” Jack says good-naturedly as he enters the room, Ray at his heels with a glass of water and some pills, which he hands to Michael. They are quickly downed. “It’s not your fault either, Michael.”

“You didn’t even know what we do,” Ray shrugs. “That’s not on you, man.”

“I kind of knew,” Michael protests. “You’d told me who you were and mentioned shit before. I had an idea.”

“You didn’t know who we were,” Jack shakes his head. “You knew our name, but that doesn’t mean anything unless you’ve heard it before.”

“We can talk about this later,” Ryan says, automatically matching the volume of the rest of the room much to Michael’s relief as he appears to lean in the doorway. “What’s the prognosis?”

“He hasn’t actually told us what happened,” Gavin supplies. “Says they found him at his apartment, though.”

“Fine, whatever,” Michael says. “I woke up tied to that chair. The guy asked me how I knew you guys. I told him to fuck off. The chick Tasered me, the other guy punched me, the two guys ran off because they heard you guys murdering everyone, and the chick shot me in the foot.”

“She was about to shoot him again when I showed up,” Geoff speaks up from the hallway. The room is filled with frowns.

“Damn, dude,” Ray says. “That’s pretty metal.”

“Thanks,” Michael scoffs. “I live to please.”

“You don’t have to worry about them, Michael,” Geoff says, and Ryan moves back a little so everyone can be seen from the bed, including Geoff. “We took care of it.”

“Fuckin’ merked,” Ray mumbles.

“That should probably scare me,” Michael says casually. “But I think I’m okay with it.”

“Fuckin’ great,” Geoff says, smiling now as he reaches for his back pocket and tosses something onto the bed. “Here’s your phone. When you didn’t answer anything for a long fuckin’ time and your activity logs were nothing but thousands of incorrect passwords, we tracked it to where they had you. The encryption kept them out of your phone, luckily, but it took us a while to get to you because we were busy sending B-Team off in every other direction. We’re lucky they had you and your phone in the same place. If we’d been just a little earlier, we could have spared you a lot, and I’m sorry for that.”

“What would the fun in that be?” Michael replies, and when no one appreciates his morbid joke, waves them off. “It’s not your fault, but apology accepted because that one makes sense, I guess.”

“Great, and even better,” Geoff says. “Tonight is movie night, and you can’t escape us.”

They had told him he shouldn’t be afraid of movie night. He’s starting to think they were wrong.

First it’s Twister, which is fine, but then they put on Birdemic because he’s never seen it, and that one is enough to make him lose faith. It only gets worse from there. He’s starting to think they’re going down a list of Worst Movies Ever Made when they put on Howling II.

“This is the actual worst,” Michael says, stealing another handful of popcorn from the bowl on Gavin’s lap as a bunch of people covered in fur do their thing onscreen.

“No, the worst part is that people thought this was a good idea,” Jack replies with a chuckle.

“Is this movie night every time?”

“Every month,” Geoff grins mischievously. “We’ve watched a lot of shitty movies.”

“I don’t know why you would put yourselves through this,” Michael mumbles and shoves some popcorn in his face.

“For the popcorn, clearly,” Ray says, doing the same with the popcorn in the bowl in his own lap.

“Both of you shut up,” Ryan admonishes jokingly. “I’m trying to watch the movie.”

“You’re trying to watch this movie?” Gavin is incredulous. “You were talking during Twister!”

Ryan turns to look at Gavin over Michael’s head. The three of them and Ray are sprawled on the sectional sofa, Ryan’s arms on the back of the couch behind Ray and Michael. Gavin is more perched on the arm of the couch leaning on Michael than anything, since Jack had scolded him for trying to cuddle earlier. They’d stuck him on the long portion of the sofa to elevate his leg, not so Gavin could smother him, much to the disbelief of Gavin himself.

“I bet I can be quiet for ten minutes,” Gavin says, and there’s a certain tone of seriousness to it Michael doesn’t understand yet.

“Make it half an hour and I’ll go three thousand,” Ryan replies easily.

“You’ve got it,” Gavin says. “Michael, you’re the scorekeeper, starting now.”

Gavin does not make it half an hour. Gavin makes it about seven minutes before he squawks at something that’s happened in the movie, and he reluctantly pulls out his wallet to fork over a wad of hundred-dollar bills once Ryan’s done gloating. Michael realises two things – one, holy shit they were serious, and two, these guys are fucking rich what the fuck.

He’s known they’re wealthy, and that they’re an important crew or whatever, but to be throwing around a few thousand dollars like it’s nothing is a holy shit moment. That’s more than he makes in a month. For a brief moment he’s angry at the system for being shitty and at himself for letting himself be so monetarily in-the-hole, but Gavin must have felt him tense because he asks if he’s alright, and he lets it go. It isn’t worth giving a fuck about, he decides, and takes another handful of popcorn.

A few days after that, while they’re eating lunch, sitting at the bar counter in the kitchen, Michael asks when he’ll be heading home. He’d called in a few days at work after that first day (which, luckily, had already been a day off), which would fuck him a little financially, but he hadn’t been fit to do much of anything. He’d rather take a few days off and suffer a little bit than go in, make it worse, and royally fuck himself later on.

“Actually, we wanted to talk to you about that,” Geoff says with an I-guess-I’m-not-getting-out-of-this-now sigh. Michael panics a little, thinking he’s overstayed his welcome, and Geoff must see his eyes widen because he continues quickly. “We were hoping we could convince you to move in with us.”

“What the fuck?” Michael says in surprise. His gaze moves between everyone at the counter, looking for some explanation. “I mean, why?”

“Well, lots of reasons,” Jack offers with a smile. “You’ve already lived here a while, and it worked out just fine.”

“We happen to like you a lot,” Geoff says. “It would be pretty shitty if you died when we weren’t paying attention.”

“We do like you a lot, boi,” Gavin says, leaning toward Michael slightly in his barstool.

“No homo,” Ray adds.

“And it’s a lot easier to keep track of you if you’re here,” Ryan says. “Like Geoff said, it would suck if you disappeared, and tracking you down when we actually know where you were in the first place is a lot easier than waiting for you to miss a phone call and being too late.”

“Alright, that’s fair,” Michael says, frowning. He’s trying to think of more questions and failing. There should be more to this, shouldn’t there? “What about my job?”

“You won’t need it,” Geoff says with a shake of his head and a slight smile. “Especially not if you become our new demolitions specialist.”

“Your what?”

“The guy who makes the bombs,” Ray supplies half-sarcastically, with hand movements for emphasis.

“You already know some stuff about wiring,” Ryan says. “And storage, apparently. A little practice and you’ll be making your own stuff in no time.”

Michael regards everyone at the bar one more time. “You’re…serious about this, right?”

“We may be assholes, Michael, but we’re not cruel,” Geoff fixes him with a stern gaze. “I expect a lot out of my crew members, but, hell, you’ve already gotten yourself through a lot of shit for us. I don’t know what more I could ask for.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Michael agrees after another moment of consideration. “I don’t have experience with this stuff, but…”

“You have plenty of fighting experience, you like guns, your knowledge of explode-y things – not to mention your stellar fucking attitude,” Geoff grins. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

“When can we go get his stuff?”

“Calm down, Gavin, he only agreed like ten seconds ago.”

“But he’s moving in today, right?”

Michael had quit his job and gotten what little shit he had out of his apartment that same day. Gavin wasn’t the only one eager to get him moved in, apparently. He’d had a little apprehension regarding quitting without giving his two-weeks notice until he realised where he was going, he wouldn’t need references. The criminal business is ride-or-die, he had realised, and that’s also when he realised how nervous he was.

“So I’m getting myself in deep now, and the only way to get out is to go to jail or die,” Michael had confided in Ray that same night, after everyone else had gone to sleep and they were still up playing some old Mario game, much to Jack’s chagrin. Ray had sworn he would make Michael play all the good games he’d missed out on as a poor adult, and he was getting an early start.

“Pretty much,” Ray had replied. “It’s easier if you get into it when you don’t have any other options.”

Michael had frowned, but accepted it as truth, because it sounded unfortunately accurate. Now he is realising it is very true, because then the blame is on something else – like the system – for ruining your life, instead of you.

He is very frustrated.

“Fuck!” Kicking (with his good foot) the leg of his worktable, which is fortunately much sturdier than he wants it to be, he turns away from the mess of wires and vials of powder on its surface. He’s been working on his own explosives since he moved in two weeks ago, and has had nothing in way of results so far. He’d carefully dismantled some explosive products, sure, and deciphered a few hints from that mess, but it wasn’t enough to give him any real progress. He still wasn’t producing anything more effective than a standard grenade, and he still wasn’t confident enough to take any chances with the odds weighed too heavily against him.

“Michael, lunch is almost ready,” Jack knocks on the door a little belatedly. “Should we wait for you?”

Michael runs a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. It almost works. “No, I’ll be out in a minute.”

When he does emerge from the workspace he had been given when he moved in, as he was one of the few that needed a professional space, they have waited for him anyways and are sitting around the dining room table, laughing at something together. He takes a moment to remember the dinner date that had almost gotten him killed with a fond smile.

"If you aren’t making any progress right now,” Geoff says once Michael’s sat down, clearly making an attempt to satiate his frustration. “That’s fine, dude. We weren’t expecting you to even start working on anything for a while.”

“I’m here,” Michael almost sighs, eyes on his plate as he pretends to examine a stray piece of cheese. “I should make myself useful.”

“That’s not why you’re here,” Ryan says sternly.

“I know, but-”

“If we didn’t want you around, we wouldn’t have taken you back here in the first place,” Geoff chides. “I don’t make a business of letting people into my home unless I actually like them.”

“But I’m not helping.”

“We all have times when we can’t do shit. You’ll have them later, too – sometimes one of us is too sick to help out, or shit just isn’t working,” Geoff offers. “Don’t worry about it. We take care of our own.”

“Originally…we were going to ask you to stay here just to keep you safe,” Jack adds with a somewhat wry smile. “But we knew you wouldn’t want to if you thought you were a charity case, so we decided to ask you to join the crew now instead of waiting like we were going to. We sprung it on you. We don’t expect everything to suddenly start working for you.”

“You were going to ask me to join anyways,” Michael repeats, trying to process this new information. “You thought I was that good, huh?”

“Most of us started out not knowing shite,” Gavin grins. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

Michael leaves the table after lunch that day feeling a little more confident. Like they won’t kick him out if he accidentally blows something up. A little more willing to take the risk he needs.

He sits down at his workbench, briefly thinks he needs a haircut as he runs his fingers through his hair again, and looks to the mess of materials on its surface. Everyone has to start somewhere.

Wherever he started is long gone, he thinks as they take the first batch of explosives he’s comfortable with for a field test a month later.

Well, less of a field test and more of a let’s-blow-things-up-to-see-how-these-new-toys-work test. They perform better than he had been dreading, and the rest of the crew decides to have “bevs on the roof of the Maze Bank to celebrate,” which sounds dangerous. Michael doesn’t realize what they’re doing until they’ve got a cooler full of drinks and they’re climbing into a Cargobob.

They assign Michael to the copilot’s seat, since he’s never ridden in a Cargobob before. He’s admittedly a little nervous about four dudes just kind of hanging out in the back, but they have experience, he supposes. He’ll be doing it himself soon enough.

Gavin has a major idiot moment (not like there is ever a shortage of those) and jumps out of the Cargobob before they touch down. Michael is fucking terrified until Gavin rolls easily out of the way of the Cargobob and successfully not over the edge of the building, then fucking angry at everyone in the Cargobob for laughing at Gavin, who could have died, but this is fine.

This is not fine. This is an issue.

“What the fuck?” Michael ignores the rest of them momentarily as he hastily climbs out of the Cargobob, not bothering to close the door behind him, and steps toward Gavin. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Gavin’s hands move to splay defensively in front of him. He shares a glance with someone behind Michael. “Michael, it’s not -”

“It is,” he interrupts, turning around to face Geoff, who is surprisingly close, but he doesn’t back off at the hardness of Geoff’s gaze. Maybe it’s worry that pushes him on, or maybe it’s desperation hot on the heels of almost losing one of the five men he actually finds himself caring for, frustratingly enough. “Would you guys laugh if he got his throat slit? He gets attacked all the fucking time and you laugh it off - maybe that’s some fucked-up coping mechanism or something, I don’t know. What if he -”

“Michael,” Geoff says, voice suspiciously calm for how worked up Michael is getting.

“- he could fucking…what, Geoff?” Michael is suddenly very tired. He isn’t sure he wants to hear an excuse, but he also isn’t sure that’s what is being offered.

“We didn’t want to tell you yet, but…” Gavin is speaking again as Geoff’s arms fold around Michael.

“I’m sorry,” Geoff says. “I don’t know how to explain this.”

“Are you guys dying, or something?” Michael mumbles half-frantically into Geoff’s chest. He’s only a little confused. He’s even more confused when Geoff chuckles.

“The opposite, actually,” Ryan says from somewhere beside the now-silent Cargobob. They’re all way too calm about this. “We can’t die.”

Michael wiggles until Geoff’s hold loosens, and he takes a step back, eyes wide. Geoff’s hands remain on Michael’s arms, a warm presence. “You have got to be shitting me.” “Nah, man,” Ray says, popping the tab on a soda.

“No, this is too weird,” Michael shakes his head as Geoff’s thumb runs circles on his arm. “Whose bet was this? I’ll pay up.”

“No one,” Geoff says, catching Michael’s gaze again and holding it. “I would say we would prove it to you, but…Michael, you’ll just have to trust us for now.”

Michael searches Geoff’s eyes for a moment, for something hidden from him, and comes to a consensus.

“Okay. I still don’t really believe you, but…if any of you assholes actually die, I’ll shoot you.”

“Deal,” Gavin says, tugging Michael away from Geoff to pull him into a hug of his own.

“All this touchy-feely shit,” Michael half-complains, not really trying to escape. “Yeesh.”

“You can die, Michael,” Jack says with some definitiveness, stepping around to their side of the Cargobob. “Because we can’t, we’re a little more afraid you’ll leave us.”

“No homo, though,” Ray pipes up from the Cargobob.

“Nah,” Gavin says, swinging Michael around a little bit. “I love my boi.”

They settle in on the roof in various stages of laze. Gavin and Ray sprawl out on one side of the helipad to watch the sunset and talk about some shitty NES game. Geoff and Jack descend the stairs after dragging two folding chairs out of the Cargobob with drinks in hand to give themselves a bit of distance. Michael finds himself joining Ryan in the back of the Cargobob, one leg dangling out the open side as he watches Gavin pop a beer open. Ray slides away from him for a moment as beer foam hits the concrete of the helipad.

“Gavin was the first one to decide he really liked you,” Ryan says. His gaze must have followed Michael’s to the two pointing out stars that are already appearing amidst the orange glow of the sunset. “I’m pretty sure he was just excited to find someone that would bother getting angry at him.”

“That bad, huh?” Michael replies, smiling behind his beer.

“I figured out he shuts up faster if you ignore him a long time ago,” Ryan says, a fond grin on his lips as he watches Ray point out what Michael is pretty sure is a penis constellation. “No one else gave him the time of day in the first place.”

“How long have you guys known each other?” Michael asks, a little more quietly than he had intended.

“A long time,” Ryan says, his gaze turning back to Michael. “This whole immortality thing is…complicated.”

“I can see that,” he replies with a slight nod. “I’m still trying to make sense of it, honestly.”

“Sometimes I think we still are, too,” Ryan lets out a breath that is almost a sigh. “It gets bad.”

“I’m…” Michael can’t quite find the words he wants, and he hasn’t even had half a beer yet. He shifts to lean against Ryan for a second. “I’m sorry.”

Ryan shrugs. “No one to blame.”

Eventually Gavin and Ray make their way over to pull out two more folding chairs and sit on the helipad beside the Carbobob, facing Ryan and Michael.

“We saw at least three dicks,” Gavin proclaims, pointing at a few stars as Michael spots Geoff and Jack climbing the stairs across the helipad. “The scrote of the big one’s right there.”

“What’s that about dicks, Gavin?” Jack asks, half-laughing already as he opens the cooler and Geoff sets up their seats.

“You assholes are causing a commotion over here,” Geoff says, voice cracking as Jack tosses him a new beer and he fumbles it, nearly tripping over his chair.

“Absolutely,” Ray replies. “It’s a party up here.”

“Good,” Geoff grins as Jack hands Ray another soda and begins passing beers around. Michael passes one to Ryan, first, then takes the one offered to him. “It’s time for the toast.”

“Fuckin’ finally,” Gavin says, protesting as Geoff takes his beer and opens it for him. This one doesn’t spill everywhere.

“To Michael,” Geoff says once Jack’s seated and everyone’s opened their beer in one way or another. “For bar fights, almost beating Jack at mini golf, and taking one for the team.”

Michael meets the B-Team one sunny afternoon when they show up at the penthouse for heist planning. Lindsay is the first one through the door, pushing him aside with an “out of my way, asshole, where’s that piece of shit” and an apology from Trevor. Apparently Lindsay’s had a bounty out on Gavin’s head for two months, something about a bet, a lot of shit Michael should probably be concerned by but doesn’t care about.

He starts to care the second Andy walks through the door.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers almost unintentionally. Ryan looks over from the couch, managing to seem unconcerned. “How?”

“How are you here?” Andy asks, regarding him with apprehension and a wry smile. “You try to fight the wrong guy?”

“Not this time,” Michael grins, waving a hand around to indicate the penthouse. “We…ran into each other a few too many times, and here I am.”

Andy steps closer, holding out his hand. “You know, I never thought I’d get to say this, but it’s good to see you again, man.”

Michael shakes it as Ray says “Great, now kiss.”

“Fuck off, man,” Michael says, grinning. “Andy’s one of my old roommates.”

“The one that didn’t die?” Gavin inquires, and Ryan jabs a finger into his side, muttering something about insensitive assholes.

Michael gets along with B-Team well enough. He catches up with Andy until Geoff appears, and he’s halfway through making up a secret handshake with Matt when Geoff shoos them all out the door.

“Good riddance,” Ray deadpans from his seat at the bar, eyes firmly on his phone.

“Are those guys…immortal, too?” Michael asks, curling into the armrest of the sofa. The question comes out sounding much simpler than it had in his head.

“Nah,” Geoff replies from the couch opposite him. Gavin, having fallen asleep about three beers in, is sprawled across his lap. Not much hope for Geoff getting up any time soon. “I used to work with their boss. He’s a pretty cool guy, but when I found out Jack was like me I split from them to work with him. The rest of the crew kind of just showed up.”

“Ryan said you guys have known each other for a long time,” Michael almost grins. “Am I dealing with a bunch of old dudes?”

“Maybe,” Geoff replies thoughtfully. “We found out we all stopped aging a long time ago and stopped counting. Something about meeting each other, a hormonal thing or something. I don’t know.”

“…How can you tell?” Michael finds himself holding Geoff’s gaze, head tilted in curiosity.

“When someone is immortal?” Geoff asks, but continues before Michael can confirm. “You don’t really know until they die, but by then it’s too late, so we try not to do that. Once you die the first time, though, you start doing shit you wouldn’t have five minutes ago. It would be bad if we didn’t have so much fun making Gavin to do stupid shit.” Michael frowns, but doesn’t object. They seem very convinced.

He doesn’t want to admit he’s starting to hope a little bit, too.

It’s a shame the first time the immortality theory is tested is during Michael’s first heist. It’s been a few months since that night on the Maze Bank roof – Michael might have been able to forget about the whole thing if it hadn’t been brought back to his attention quite so violently.

Despite (or perhaps because of) the heist’s simplification in an effort to ease Michael into the action, it’s gone well, they’re high on crime, and they’re laughing about their successful getaway until, just their luck, the front driver’s-side tire blows and they skid to a stop in the middle of the freeway.

“Gavin…shit, we’re out of range. Jack, find another vehicle,” Geoff immediately commands and Jack obeys, pulling out his phone. “Everyone else, out. We’re making a stand.” He seems to have forgotten Michael could totally die right now, for which he is glad. They aren’t treating him like porcelain anymore, which in the first place could be because this is his first heist, but he knows it’s more out of fear than anything. He enjoys the adrenaline rush as they pile out of the car and begin mowing down police. He thinks he hears the sound of an RPG being fired, but whoever it is isn’t on this side of the car. Definitely an RPG, he realises as a police helicopter explodes overhead.

He’s hit with some shrapnel as a previously-on-fire police cruiser explodes a few yards away, but he doesn’t notice if he’s bleeding or his aim falters. Michael shoots another cop full of lead and turns slightly to take aim at yet another police officer when Geoff steps toward Michael and is promptly shot in the chest.

Michael doesn’t think much as Geoff’s stance falters with the impact. He’d stepped in front of a bullet meant for Michael, after all. Vision a little blurred, maybe by tears or sweat or rage, he shoots one cop in the head, the one that’s shot Geoff, then that one’s partner, and maybe one more before he’s watching Geoff hit the asphalt. He takes down another officer or two, just to give them a moment’s reprieve, before kneeling next to Geoff, dropping his gun, and waving his hands around as if he has any idea what he should be doing in this situation. This is a little strange, he thinks, I never quite imagined myself kneeling over a dying man in a three-piece suit.

“Fuck, Michael,” Geoff’s mouth is twisted in a strange mixture of a grin and a wince. He sounds tired. Michael can barely hear him over the noise of the firefight surrounding them. “You really got me there.”

“No, no, no, Geoff,” Michael’s hands finally settle on Geoff’s face. Is he supposed to keep him awake or something? “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Hold on, kid,” Geoff replies, somehow managing to sound reassuring though his voice is cloudy. Michael might be hyperventilating a little. “Only takes a minute.”

“Fuck, Geoff!” Michael isn’t equipped to deal with this shit. A few bullets glance off the car next to his head. He growls, “You aren’t allowed to die.”

Geoff closes his eyes, and he is gone, but Michael thinks for a moment there has to be more. Something poetic about the light in his eyes, or some shit, or a proclamation of undying love.

So he picks up his gun, picks off a few more police officers, and waits.

He counts forty-two seconds until Geoff is up again, guns blazing as Jack exits the SUV to take up arms with them.

“I can’t believe you didn’t believe me,” Geoff laughs, firing again. A cop falls back against his cruiser’s open door and slides to slump over the hood of his cruiser.

“Yeah, immortality is a little much,” Michael replies a little hoarsely. Apparently he had cried when he wasn’t looking. “You’ll be explaining that shit later.”

“There’s our ride,” Ryan calls, his voice echoing in their earpieces as a Cargobob appears farther inland, approaching at a fast clip. He shoots off a few RPGs in quick succession, demolishing a police chopper and clearing the road of a few burned-out cruisers as disruptively as he possibly can. “Clear the runway.”

“It doesn’t need a runway, asshole,” Geoff scolds as the Cargobob nears. “Stop blowing shit up. You’ll murder our pilot.”

Trevor lands the Cargobob in the middle of the road and the crew piles in quickly so he can take off again. Michael finds himself sandwiched between Ray and Geoff in a lineup of most-obviously-injured-to-least as Jack pulls a questionably large first-aid kit out of his bag and does his rounds.

“Geoff, again?” Jack admonishes, regarding the bullet-shaped hole and blood on Geoff’s suit jacket with a stern glare.

“Bullet for Michael,” he replies simply, and after a moment Jack seems to accept that as an excuse, because he waves Geoff off and moves down the line.

“What did you get hit by?” Jack asks, waving at the dried blood on Michael’s cheek and arm and digging into the first aid kit, and Michael has to think about it for a moment.

“Car exploded,” he finally says. He’d had to sift past Geoff dying, first.

When Jack’s done with the scolding and the bandaging, he waves Michael off, too, and Michael moves to sit next to Geoff. He’s almost accepted that he died in the first place, sure, but he also isn’t ready to accept that he’s come back quite yet. It’s a dream, he decides until Geoff pulls him in closer and throws an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry about, kid,” he says. “Happens all the time.”

Michael isn’t sure how he feels about that, but, he supposes as he leans into Geoff’s side, maybe he’ll get used to it.

He does not get used to it.

It gets worse, maybe, and that’s probably because at this point he’s waiting for it to be his turn to die. First Geoff, then Ryan in an “accident,” Gavin in an extreme display of idiocy involving some new explosives Michael develops, Ray as a victim of a police chopper’s gunman. Gavin dying again does little to comfort him when Jack dies not long after that trying to keep Michael safe. Jack’s is the hardest death to deal with – he hadn’t wanted to believe Jack could.

The rest of the crew is feeling it, too, he senses. Occasionally one will look up at him to make sure he’s not trying to stick a fork in a light socket or his head in the oven. The first time one of them invites themself into his workshop to sit with him while he works, he wants to be offended, but he doesn’t want to die, either, so he chooses not to say anything. They casually don’t bring him on a few outings, spouting excuses like “this is just a hit and run,” or “B-Team’s plans only call for four of us, stay here with Gavin.” Eventually, Michael is tired of it.

“I’m not a child, Geoff,” he says, arms crossed and gaze hard. “You would do this shit anyways if you weren’t immortal, so you’re being a real fucking hypocrite not letting me go anywhere.”

“I know, Michael,” He scrubs a hand over his face, sighs, and meets Michael’s gaze. “I’m just scared you’ll…we’re scared.”

“Get over it,” Michael replies, but his scowl eases a bit. “I made the decision to join the crew. If I wanted to be safe, I would be sleeping in a freezing apartment right now, not handing you explosives before every heist and definitely not volunteering to ride shotgun. I chose to do this shit, and it’s on me if shit goes wrong. Worry about yourself.”

“Alright,” Geoff says, nodding. He knows he shouldn’t have offered in the first place if he wasn’t willing to take the risk. He’s done being a shithead. “Next heist is yours.”

A few weeks and multiple heists later, they all decide to go out and hit a few convenience stores, Gavin included – they won’t need surveillance to shoot one or two guys in the head and take cash out of the register. A harmless enough plan until a woman decides she’s done filling her gas tank as they near the store’s entrance with guns in hand, drips gasoline all over the asphalt in her panic, and somehow blows everything up. Ryan, being the only one behind Michael, reaches for him, probably to protect him in some way, and Michael is very mildly aware of a little of everything, then a lot of darkness, then way too much light.

“Fuck,” he tries to say, squeezing his eyes shut before they even open, but it comes out as more of a groan.

“Holy fuck,” Jack says very close to him, and he becomes aware of a weight straddling him. Judging by the boniness of the ass, it’s Gavin, and that’s only confirmed when he speaks.

“Michael,” Gavin leans over him to pepper his face with tiny kisses, hands on his cheeks. “Bloody hell, Michael.”

“Fuck, man,” that one is Ray. For once in his life, he seems awestruck.

“That was…very lucky,” Ryan says carefully, and Michael makes an attempt to open his eyes, squinting a bit and pulling a hand up to shield himself from the light. The lights are very white and the floor is very hard.

“Gavin, I know you’re having a grand old fucking time,” Michael complains half-heartedly, poking him in the side. “But this is a super fucking uncomfortable floor.”

Gavin leans back for a moment, smile contagiously genuine, then practically leaps to his feet, pulling Michael mostly-gently up with him. A moment of taking stock of his surroundings reveals that they are inside the now very wrecked convenience store. Shelves are knocked over and the clerk is very dead, but the Fake AH Crew seem absolutely fine. Geoff has him under a hard stare, arms crossed. Something in the group seems to shift a moment later as Michael’s eyes alight with recognition.

“Did I just –"

“Michael, you beautiful bastard,” Geoff proclaims, pulling him in to plant a wet one on his lips. Everyone laughs raucously at his expense. “Why didn’t you tell us you were immortal as dicks?”

“Fuck you, Geoff,” Michael almost grins, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “If I’d known about this shit I would have been taking so many more bets.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll have time to catch up,” Jack says, stepping toward the door. “For now, let’s get you home. The police will be here soon and the first death is never nice.”

“Why am I so sore?” Michael half-complains as he follows Ray out the door. Gavin has claimed his hand and is half-dragging, half-walking him toward the vehicle Jack had apparently called in.

“No homo,” Ray says.

“Regen sleep is what we call it,” Ryan knocks Michael’s shoulder with his own, perhaps unintentionally, or perhaps the newfound high spirits of the group are getting to him. “You just grew back a whole lot of stuff.”

“Yeah, scrubs call it dying,” Ray adds. “But we’re cool.”

“Who dies?” Geoff asks from the front of the group. It sounds like a serious question.

“Babies,” Gavin and Ray chorus, and Michael can’t help but laugh.

Maybe this is actually fine, he thinks. He’s about to live for a long fucking time with these boys. He still doesn’t know what he’s doing in this crew, but now that he knows he has a while to figure it out, learning doesn’t seem like such a daunting task.

“Michael, I will give you five thousand dollars if you wet-willy Geoff,” Gavin whispers, and Michael smiles.

“You’re on, Gavvers.”

#ahot6 #original content where the fuck did that come from #long as shit #achievement hunter #fahc michael #fake ah crew #ooc #fahc #mavin

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