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dinosaurtsukki · 3 years

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BSD x university au hc’s | pt. 2

part 2 of the university au hc’s !! i am obviously a slut for chuuya and fyodor so don’t mind me. i hope you guys like this !!

check out pt. 1 here

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Akutagawa Ryuunosuke:

i love akutagawa ryuunosuke my angst child but i’m just like ‘hmmmmmmm’ when it comes to what his course would probably be

after extensive research aka reading his character page on wiki i feel like maybe he’d be a history major because,,,, he likes antiques?

well his clothes do seem very dark academia-esque and i can see him liking something as cool as history

akutagawa’s probably into something like war history but he’s not weird about it he just finds it really cool how different strategies work or analyzing what exactly makes the winners win

he absolutely HATES the fact that he keeps having to read the Iliad for class

he’s also that classmate who INTENSIVELY DEFENDS achilles for being a bit of a little bitch (but he fully agrees that patroclus and achilles were gay af ok this was random moving on)

akutagawa has practically no social life. he doesn’t go to parties, he doesn’t talk to his roommate, he doesn’t even like to eat in the dining hall

BUT he absolutely loves being in debate team because WINNING

he’s such a nightmare to work with though but he just delivers so well when it’s time for him to speak. like, if he’s on a negative and it’s time to hash out rebuttals, just prepare to get MURDERED

other debaters: “esteemed scholars and adjudicators...”

akutagawa: “you, sir, have no idea how wrong you are.”

that is until dazai decided to randomly show up at a debate tournament all ‘la di da da’ like and completely crushed akutagawa along with his ego

from then on he started stalking dazai and just SOMEHOW managed to end up in his circle of friends

even though he’s antisocial in real life, akutagawa 100% runs a dark academia aesthetic blog on tumblr i’m right and i don’t accept criticism

it’s actually really good he has a ton of followers and even does requests for moodboards if someone asks nicely

atsushi was the one who actually found out about it but he’s nice so he didn’t tell akutagawa about it

kunikida probably follows that blog

Chuuya Nakahara:

if this part sounds like i’m just thirsting for chuuya then you’re absolutely right i love wine man

don’t get mad at me but i can ABSOLUTELY SEE HIM MAJORING IN FASHION DESIGN I MEAN LOOK AT HIM

he’s just always had such a good eye for fashion and he’s veryyy meticulous when it comes to snipping and putting together clothes

chuuya also carries a sketchbook full of designs and his drawings look amazing and he isn’t afraid to just show them off

that said he doesn’t dress like a tired uni student at all, like he just always looks so on-point and unbothered by his five million deadlines

dazai: chuuya, i said this was a CASUAL LUNCH

chuuya, dressed in what looks like silk pajamas: THIS IS CASUAL

tbh if he just wore a white t-shirt and jeans i would die maybe he’s actually saving us from this ordeal

he has so much talent though as a designer he’s probably had several internships with design companies all throughout his years at uni

i feel like chuuya’s also really active in extracurriculars and has been in leadership positions in some of them (he probably runs the student org for fashion design)

chuuya in a student band though oh my gosh i can’t breathe i can’t breathe him as a VOCALIST?? and wearing torn jeans and eyeliner and that same hat in concerts ican’t brEATHE

okay in all honesty he would thrive being in a band chuuya loves the attention and the creativity of being able to design their whole look and write songs

tbh i don’t know if he’d have a roommate chuuya’s probably the type who’d rather have one of those single rooms or just rent a flat for him to stay in even after graduation

because his social life is super vibrant, he does have a lot of friends and he does make an effort to get to know all of them individually

but he’s more open around those who he’s been friends with for a really long time and as much as he’d like to say dazai isn’t one of them, he is

also chuuya is definitely the type to party hard during the weekends and has more than once crashed in someone’s house after drinking too much (dazai drew on his face on more than one occasion)

Oda Sakunosuke:

i love this man SO MUCH you guys have no idea i would literally die for him

100% this guy majors in creative writing because this is supported by FACTS and not just me wanting to be coursemates with him in this fictional world

super serious and diligent with his work especially since he’s passionate about writing. he loves to read in his spare time and is such a fan of classic novels about social realism or philosophy

oda spends 99% of his time in second-hand bookshops that the owner probably knows him by name at this point

he’s super old school when it comes to writing though, like he still keeps and writes in a notebook before typing it up on a laptop and no matter how many times dazai tells him its impractical, oda just keeps doing it

lmao whenever workshops come around he’s super nice with his critique. i bet a lot of his fellow classmates like sending their writing drafts to him

he draws smiley faces and always adds ‘nice work’ on people’s drafts omg i love odasaku

he’s such an old soul, he probably doesn’t do a whole lot of partying but he likes more quiet, private social events like drinking with close friends or just hanging out and talking at other people’s houses

he and dazai probably met when dazai decided to take an intro to creative writing class and wrote a long poem about double suicide on his first day that kind of put off everyone in the class from wanting to sit with him

odasaku was the only one who wasn’t exactly bothered but he did give dazai some comments to help him with his poetry and dazai instantly wanted to be his friend

in terms of extracurricular life, i can definitely see odasaku joining a writing organization and even the campus newspaper. he does find joy in interviewing students for newspaper articles

he’s also pretty into photography and uses a really old, second-hand camera that he bought at an antique store and fixed himself. at one point he won a prize in a contest

odasaku would be the best roommate. he’s super sensitive to when you have a bad day and will invite you to sit on his bed and hug his pillow and talk about your problems

scratch that, everyone talks to odasaku about their problems and now your room is like a therapist’s office

Edgar Allan Poe:

i swear this was the only gif i could find other than actual edgar allan poe

ANOTHER CREATIVE WRITING BUDDY AHHH I WOULD LOVE TO BE BESTIES WITH HIM AHHH

well actually i feel like since he’s super ambitious and already has a fixed idea on the stuff he likes to write, he’d probably double major in something like forensic science because he’d use it to write his mystery novels

omg that’s where he meets ranpo and now pretty much every main character poe writes is slightly based on on ranpo

it’s a problem. his professor brings it up more than once during his classes but it’s poe’s Thing now

he also has such an unending passion for gothic literature and he wears those white, long-sleeved blouses and waistcoats on a REGULAR BASIS

chuuya probably saw him once and was like ‘hmm, i could pull that off’

poe’s daily route is just going to the library and to class and then go home and that’s about it

he ended up working as a student assistant at the library because he’s just super familiar with the book collections and it’s a job that’s peaceful and quiet

more than once though, he’d just be really in-deep with his writing to the point that he doesn’t even notice that the library has closed or that he hasn’t eaten the entire day

that’s alright though because ranpo always passes by the library at night to check on his friend and (reluctantly) give him some snacks

also since poe’s pretty much a recluse, he doesn’t go to any social event UNLESS it’s a halloween-themed one

he loves going all out with his costumes because he’s a Drama Queen like that but the problem is he keeps dressing up as gothic novel characters and nobody gets it

dazai, trying to guess his costume: umm,, Two-Face from Batman?

poe: IT’S DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

there was this one time when poe took it upon himself to host the halloween party and it was EPIC

he basically designed it as a murder mystery night wherein everyone who came pretended to be guests at a house and then a murder happened

the only problem was that ranpo was conspiring with poe and it was pretty much unfair

except for the fact that ranpo was frustrated at how bad everyone was at deducing that he ended up solving the mystery for them

Fyodor Dostoevsky:

one of my favorite scenes of him in s3 was of fyodor playing the cello because god damn that is beautiful and therefore i am hc-ing him as a music major and you can’t tell me otherwise

fyodor is an absolute music genius and he was definitely scouted by the university’s music program and then he was granted a scholarship (because in this ideal university, the arts are valued)

he purposely decided to go to a university rather than a music conservatory because he’s also interested in learning a bunch of other things

aside from his music classes, he ventures into comparative literature and philosophy, even a bit of computer science at some point

people always assume that since he’s a music major he probably wouldn’t do well in other subjects but SURPRISE BITCH

anyway, fyodor’s a genius because god clearly has favorites

aside from attending class, he’s even part of an official orchestra and has even landed a few solos

that said, he’s quite busy and very preoccupied in his own work to actually have a social life either

you’ll often find him rehearsing by himself in an empty classroom for hours and hours on end (someone pls bring him food he’s also the type to forget to eat or even drink water)

if you are able to catch him perform at an orchestra or just practice by himself, it’s quite a mesmerizing sight. his eyes are often closed so he could focus on the sound alone and his fingers move so elegantly along the neck of the cello

(sorry i just love people who play any form of stringed instrument)

fyodor also takes such good care of his cello. also he would probably kill you on the spot if you touched his bow

he has a fairly small group of friends and they like playing chess together (even though fyodor is better than all of them) and just talk about um,, idk philosophy and stuff (whatever it is smart people do idk i’m not one of them)

i have a feeling he actually follows akutagawa’s dark academia blog and loves his content, even to the point of requesting ‘cello player moodboards’

also because he’s a cello player he needs to take care of his fingers so he wears gloves a lot (idk why i find this hot)

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taglist (check out my post for details on being part of my taglist): @waitforitillwritemywayout @tpwkatsumu @laure-chan

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd writing #bsd headcanons #bungou stray dogs writing #bungou stray dogs headcanons #akutagawa ryuunosuke #chuuya nakahara #oda sakunosuke #edgar allan poe #fyodor dostoevsky #bungou stray dogs university au #bsd uni au #bungou stray dogs scenarios #bsd scenarios

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dorminchu · 3 years

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Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 01

Note: All right, it's been a hot minute since I uploaded anything substantial in regard to this fic. So I'm going to try something a bit risky! I've archived Insult to Injury as you all know it, with the exception of a few errant reblogs outside of my control. But that's neither here nor there; I am very excited to present to all of you all the definitive version of this fic — the Director's Cut, if you will. ;)

Fandom: James Bond Characters: Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin, various OC(s) Relationships: Madeleine & OC(s) Warnings: Strong language, intense scenes of violence, general cynicism. Rating: M Genre: Crime/Drama Summary: A troubled psychologist desperate to escape her past criminal ties finds herself drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall]

[Ao3 | FFNet]

— ACT I —

“Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption.” — Paulo Coelho

— Episode I: A THOUSAND DETAILS —

In the sterile comfort of her office, Dr Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The notification that her application as a psychologist consultant with the Médecins Sans Frontières had been sent six days prior blurred with lack of focus. The location of the mission in question was Conakry, Guinea. Her contract duration would last from the start of May to the end of August; just shy of two months away from now. There was an additional caveat:

All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia.

Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance. And it would be at least four weeks until she heard back from the Human Resources Office—up to six if she were unlucky. She sat erect and the movement alone was enough to incite a sharp stab of pain into the back of her head. Through the window the sun cast a reddish glare, obfuscating the monitor and warming the nape of her neck. She shoved her face into the heels of her palms while the pressure in her skull abated to a dull throbbing.

Usually she made a habit of drawing the blinds. There were already enough odd complaints about her office being too cold and sterile passed along by the secretary. It had been a stressful enough week that Madeleine saw no reason to keep the shutters closed, so her clients might have something else to focus on besides four polished wooden walls and the analog clock.

What came off to most outsiders as a cool and direct manner of conduct was simply pragmatism. She had a laptop computer used primarily for sending emails. She recorded the bulk of her notes on patients by-hand and revised by means of portable recorder. She kept no photographs in her home nor office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her colleagues were ostensibly as droll as her taste in décor; though her efforts to blend in had largely gone unappreciated.

There wasn’t anything else immediate to review for tonight. She wished a curt good-night to the secretary before donning her coat and exiting into the crisp evening air.

⁂

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clinic to the flat. Above her head the clouds hung grey and pregnant with snow. By the time she had ascended the staircase and opened the door to her apartment her fingers prickled. Numbness seeped into her skin. She’d never much cared for the colder seasons.

“You’re back early,” said Arnaud—a fellow Sociology major from her college days. After graduating from Oxford, Madeleine had taken his offer to return to Paris and transfer over to the 8tharrondissement with the understanding that they would be rooming together. Her colleagues back then often referred to them as friends-with-benefits as Madeleine had showed little interest in dating before. After three years of cohabitation, her co-workers at the office wondered how she and Arnaud remained so cordial while balancing their careers and relationship.

“Yes.” Madeleine hung up her coat, noting that he had not yet changed out of his own. “I submitted my request with the MSF a week ago. If I am accepted I’ll be working as a psychologist consultant. In that case, I’ll be out of the country until August at least.”

“Well, you’ve never landed a position that didn’t suit you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She looked away from him towards the window. “You could open the blinds. It's very bright in here with the lights on.”

“There’s hardly much to look at when the sun is in your eyes. Isn’t that what you say?”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Neither of them required financial support and he was of equitable social standing. Her relentless volunteer work did not always lend much time to get to know his inner mind. “It’s late. Are you going out again?”

“No, I got back first. And it’s fortunate. You looked awfully cold when you came in.”

“I can hardly control the weather. And you needn’t worry, I always carry a key on me.”

“Madeleine, we live together. It wouldn’t be right to avoid you. But you know, if I were going out to an unscrupulous club it would make for a pretty good story.”

“Hm.”

“And knowing you,” Arnaud continued, “you probably won’t be going out drinking. The sunrise disturbs you in the mornings, and you woke up before I did, at seven. I assume you’ve been busy all day. In just a few weeks you’ll be working that much harder. You ought to get some rest while you can.”

“So,” a little cooler, “you’ll be another mission?”

“Most likely.”

“All these countries must seem the same after a while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. When was the last time you volunteered out of the country? 2011?”

Arnaud laughed. “Jesus, this isn’t a competition.”

“But it’ll give you something to talk about to your friends while I am away.”

Arnaud said nothing. Madeleine frowned. She went into the other room and began to change. He could not approach her in the same casual manner as his peers, nor dissect her outright. His life was one of prestige as well as privilege, and Madeleine could not foster any underlying resentment towards him for acting in his nature. The silence held, strained. Then Arnaud said:

“It’s always been important to you. That’s what should matter.”

⁂

In two weeks’ time she got a response from the HRO; the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the middle of April she was making preparations to depart. Thanks to Arnaud’s tactic of avoidance she had little reason to tell him the details. No one would know where she was headed unless they broke inside her laptop and hunted through her mail. The situation in Guinea had kicked into mainstream awareness back in February for a week or so before gradually sinking back into obscurity.

Reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting South Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

The situation had not improved in the last two months so much as stabilised. Madeleine had been assured several times over email and electronic conference that those working in the field had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was issued a few pamphlets and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Which she had done, but it was very kind of them to remind her.

In spite of Arnaud’s apparent disinterest, his last words to her before she departed had been: “Last year it was four missions. I'd never seen you so tired. I wish I knew what you’re trying to prove.”

After managing to get some sleep on the plane she touched down Conakry International Airport around mid-morning and contacted the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you've made it, Doctor. We need you on-site in twenty minutes. Make sure you are ready.” Her luggage was dropped off on the second floor of the Grand Hotel de L’independence, where she and the other MSF members would be rooming. The staff were polite enough, though their attention was fixed on the Project Coordinator.

Her room was spare and a little dingy, and the only means of fresh air came from opening the window and polluting the room with outside noise, but it was at least reasonably clean. A fine sheen of sweat was building on her skin. No reason to delay the inevitable.

Upon reaching Donka Hospital she met up with the rest of the team, most notably the Medical Coordinator, and the Psychosocial Unit. It soon became apparent that there were still not enough medical doctors to handle the influx of infected. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were reportedly at full capacity; the workers in there were clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner’s accommodations. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

She was paired off with another psychologist by the name of John Herrmann; American, around her age. He was of a friendlier disposition than she was used to, introducing her semi-formally to the rest of the group before adding:

“So, one thing you should know now, we’ve been having problems with the electricity on site as well as the hotel. There’s no running water either.”

“This isn’t my first mission with MSF. And I lived out in the countryside when I was small. I know how to look after myself.”

Herrmann smiled. “That’s fair.” He scratched his neck. “The mosquitoes are worse. Bug nets won’t help worth a damn. Make sure you close your windows at night, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I see.” The humidity combined with the smell off-road were already becoming intolerable. But she did not want to appear so snobbish or weak in front of someone she would be monitoring for the next three months. “I won’t go any easier on you just because you are unaccustomed to the environment.”

“See ,that’s the kind of attitude we need around here!” He clapped a hand on her back; Madeleine regarded him levelly until he relented. “Good to have you on the team.”

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable with Madeleine as the situation permitted. None of them got on her nerves as much as Herrmann. His enthusiasm was never to the point of seeming false or obsequious, but he remained just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. After a week of monitoring them she came away with the impression that Herrmann was genuine. He had been consistently genial with the clientele and hospital staff alike, no matter the severity of their condition. She saw no reason to socialise with him outright. The most he ever noted about her mood was: “You’re pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant.”

“I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

Herrmann shrugged. “I can respect that. We all deal with the situation in our own ways.” He paused. “I can see why the Project Coordinator wanted you. You’re handling this situation a lot better than I would have.”

“Thank you.”

“The workload must be insane compared to what you’re normally used to. I know it took me time to adjust—" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion “—what is it?”

“Back home, I am usually referred to as what one would call a workaholic. Or didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken.”

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside—according to the forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. There was no manner of ventilation or air-conditioning in the hotel so often times she had to draw the curtains and keep her hair back. She resigned herself by reminding herself that it was better than sleeping in a tent.

There wasn’t much time to be hung-up on much else besides her assignment. The members of the Psychosocial Unit all looked good on paper, but they betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism towards the mission that Madeleine deemed ill-fated. She did not blame them. Young, perhaps fresh out of school, looking to make a difference in the world without truly anticipating the gravity of the situation. Their time spent observing the crises of the rest of the world through the lens of journalism and outside empathy could not compare with the experience of actually sitting down and listening to the stuff their patients talked of with prosaic seriousness.

It often sounded outrageous when Madeleine played back the recordings, taking down notes in the quiet, stuffy hotel room. Mortality was an expected outcome, and the implication of negligence by their government a common topic of discussion among patients. Most conversations were conducted in French or else by way of an interpreter, though the antagonism in the voices of these patients needed no translation.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media blew the problem out of proportion. The people whose condition had kicked off the “Red Death” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through were not in that same condition, but it created an illusion of immediacy that incited concern in the public eye and a need for donations. Government officials wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

This latter revelation had shaken up the Psychosocial Unit considerably; Dr Herrmann had lost his patience with the Medical Coordinator. To this end, he’d apologised profusely to Madeleine afterwards though she would hear none of it. Whatever he felt about the situation was not necessarily invalid, but out of consideration for their patients, he would not bring it up again.

Herrmann never held it against her. So Madeleine busied herself in her own work. Whatever quiet camaraderie forged between the other MSF members was not her business. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with the rest of the team about what would be optimal but never overreach. In the sweltering nights and throughout the early morning, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation carried over by civilians.

⁂

June crawled by. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a new influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs) from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with disease. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

The atmosphere within the hospital was not improving. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients. Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of Kerberos, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

Their Project Coordinator called them all in for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of the government’s method in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, she presumed they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The only exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Francis Kessler; a stoic older man with thinning hair and glasses. He and Madeleine had cooperated a handful of times beforehand, at the discreet behest of the Medical Coordinator. Madeleine had found nothing wrong with his conduct. A diligent worker, he acknowledged her judgement fairly but did not overextend his gratitude. Outside of his work he was straight-laced and reserved and wouldn’t be seen socialising with any of the younger MSF who all talked about him as though he were some out-of-touch stick-in-the-mud. As the situation in the hospital became more dire he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. Once he came back late by only a few minutes and apologised to Madeleine.

“I was supposed to be sent home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “It’s madness. We’ve already waited until things are too severe to think of bringing in a proper security detail—who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while.”

“Five years, as of March.”

“Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I’m flattered. But it’s fortunate that I was not selected for my personal opinion.”

Kessler chuckled. “You’ll go far.”

Madeleine had no interest in pursuing this topic any further. “Who were you speaking to?” He froze up, didn’t answer immediately. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you.”

Comprehension dawned on his face, his shoulders relaxed. “Just my wife. This past month has been no easier on her. But I find that it can help somewhat, just talking to someone outside of this element.” Madeleine nodded stoically. “I’ve never seen you contact anyone outside of your unit.” Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she wish to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect as she could in the clinic back home, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response.

“I’m living with a friend. We graduated from college together.”

“And you keep in touch while you are abroad?”

“He tends to lead his own life while I am away.”

“That’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. This was not a man that emoted often; now the thin mouth was set, and the eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few women your age would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this. Not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you want to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. She hadn’t even mentioned the nature of her relationship to Arnaud. “We have an understanding, that’s all. Besides, I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work as usual. By the end of the day, Madeleine resolved to let him dig his own social grave without further interference.

By the time July rolled around Madeleine found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a total lack of progress.

She left the window to her hotel room cracked most nights, afraid to open it completely. Alone with her own mind and the recorder. The conversations now circled back readily to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from looming insurrection.

Madeleine stopped the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. A month and a half from now she would be on a flight back to Paris. Her mind wouldn't settle on either direction.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Francis Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, but as Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…I’ve been saying it for weeks, and they dismiss me every time. These wounds are the result of prolonged exposure from chemicals. We’ve seen evidence of IDPs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the PMCs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another week. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on family matters.

⁂

When Madeleine exited her room the next morning, she found the Project Coordinator waiting for her in the hallway, along with the head of security from Kerberos and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

The vaccines had arrived earlier than anticipated, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if all had been accounted for and subsequently realised it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of Kerberos the losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Drs Kessler and Herrmann, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining vaccines would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as a failed interception of an attack by local terrorists, stopped by the FSPs.

“Dr Swann.” The head of security, Lucifer Safin, gave Madeleine pause. His accent would presume a Czech or Russian background but his complexion and eye colour invited room for ambiguity. The MSF on staff commonly referred to him by surname; perhaps Lucifer was simply an alias. What set him apart was his face. Gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. In spite of the weather, Madeleine had never seen him without gloves. “I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr Kessler?”

His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

“You were instructed to monitor him during that period by the Medical Coordinator?”

“That’s correct.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

Safin nodded. They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct. He had a rifle strapped to his side. Madeleine tried to avoid concentrating on it. Her attention went to the window. She'd forgotten to lock it.

“Dr Swann.” The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his very face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again. “What was the extent of your relationship to Dr Kessler?”

“I did not work with him often. We talked once or twice but that was all. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit. From what I could tell, he never made an effort to befriend anyone.”

“But you were asked to monitor Dr Kessler.”

“I was requested to do so on behalf of the Medical Coordinator. There were concerns that Dr Kessler was somehow unqualified to continue his work. In observing him, I had no reason to suspect he was unfit for the position psychologically.” Safin said nothing. “The only issue I could see worth disqualifying him for, was that Kessler and the Project Coordinator had very differing views on protocol.”

“He spoke to you about his views?”

“He expressed to me once, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail.” Safin’s attention on her became sharper. “He also told me he’d elected to continue volunteering here past his contract duration, just to ensure the operation was successful. That was my only conversation with him outside of a work-related context. You would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. Then, a minute later, you were at your window.”

“Oh, yes. I have been forgetting to close it. With so many longer days, it can be difficult to remember these things.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me from my work, so I got up and closed the window.”

“Do you commonly review your notes in the early hours of the morning with an unlocked window?”

“I just wanted some quiet. I leave the windows open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh as well as humidity.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. This was not a man you wanted to be on opposing sides with. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Look. Without information about Dr Kessler’s lifestyle outside of the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. I was assigned to survey him. He showed no signs of dereliction in his work, and to my knowledge kept his personal views separate from his work. Whatever he said to me during outside hours was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze. She did not dare avert her face. Then he said: “Thank you for your cooperation. The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to three. Another inconsequential day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That night Madeleine laid back on her bed and watched the shadows on the ceiling stretch over peeling paint until daybreak.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. As long as you are here, you are just Dr Swann the psychologist consultant. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this.

With a guy like Safin around she was undoubtedly safer than she would have been with the FSPs alone.

Safer, but no longer invisible.

⁂

July brought hotter weather and brittle peace—the vaccines had finally arrived. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the terrorist attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members wounded in the initial attack. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

It couldn't last forever.

A week away from August. Just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. Stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working overtime in the hospital. She was overwhelmed with keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion.

There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside as she got dressed and left the room. She put it out of her mind.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The streets were usually empty this time of day.

An unremarkable black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator opened the door and was about to step into the car when it happened. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the interior of the vehicle and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and found herself facing down the barrel of a rifle.

Around a dozen men with guns, sans insignia, circled them. The man who had fired addressed her harshly in French: “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine could see another group of men approaching from the rear. A massacre, onset.

“We’ve been waiting for months for a solution, and you have been injecting us with a useless vaccine.” He aimed right at her sternum. “Your doctors gave them all false hope for months. Now the MSF have abandoned you.”

“You have been protecting them!” the insurgent roared, levelling his weapon. “All this time! You knew why they were here, and you allowed them to experiment on our families like dogs!”

The man at his left turned and fired. The insurgent fell dead. “That’s enough.” One of the men from Kerberos in plainclothes. A dozen more in military gear materialised as if from nowhere. “There is no need for additional bloodshed,” said the plainclothes. “Release them now or you will be shot.”

All around her at once, gunfire. Madeleine didn't wait to see who had fired first. She prostrated herself, hands clasped over her neck, breath clogged in her throat.

All sound ceased. Her head continued to ring. Her eyes were open but she did not process the colour staining her skin, on her clothes, the smell of it. She hadn’t been shot. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Heavy footsteps approaching. She closed her eyes awaiting the kiss of metal at her temple.

“Dr Swann.” Madeleine shrunk away instinctively from the gloved hand upon her forearm. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another soldier pulled her upright. Sight of blood on dry earth briefly mixed up with blood spattered across wooden floorboards. Madeleine went limp. Ushered into the backseat of an unmarked Jeep, she could not stop trembling. Shoulder-to-shoulder with another man she recognised as head of Logistics, Peter Miller. The door slammed shut, jolting her back into her own body. Sound of the ignition set her into trembling. Miller’s naked hand materialised on her shoulder. His voice overtaken by the roaring in her ears. Madeleine bowed her head into her hands like a child, whispering: “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

#no time to die #madeleine swann #lyutsifer safin #several ocs #crime drama #fanfic #fanfiction #multichapter #canon is gonna joss this into the sun probably #haha... unless?#slow build

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zalrb · 3 years

Text

OKAY. SINCE ANONS SEEM TO BE INTERESTED. HERE IS MY DAWSON’S CREEK 1X01 REVIEW.

@jayciethings IF YOU ARE INTERESTED.

1. I think the opening scene does a good job in establishing the central struggle of the season and it does it in 3 minutes: 1) things need to change and Joey wants them to 2) Dawson doesn’t see why anything has to change and doesn’t see what Joey is trying to say 3) burgeoning sexuality 4) Joey-Dawson friendship.

2. I also think the Joey-Dawson friendship is also established really well and it’s actually a time where dialogue and action work in tandem. They give a brief history/overview of their friendship: “you’ve been sleeping over since you were 7″ “i’ve seen you pick your nose, scratch your butt” while also showing them watch tv, playfight and ultimately end up sleeping in the same bed, like they did when they were 7.

3. I actually don’t find the dialogue as annoying right now.

4. I will forever be angry that they didn’t pay to have the original music with their scenes because Dawson’s Creek is not Dawson’s Creek without “I Don’t Wanna Wait”.

5. “He did it again, he grabbed my ass.” “Like you even have one.” Joshua’s delivery is perfect because it’s resigned and un-offended.

6. “I’m Jen.” “Oh right, the granddaughter from New York.” That actually isn’t clunky. It’s a good way to do exposition.

7. “You look different.” “Puberty.” LOL Joey Whitter sass.

8. Honestly, at least so far, Joey’s behaviour makes sense for a 15 year old girl who is in love with her best friend who doesn’t see her as a sexual being and then has to watch him salivate over The New Girl. No, that isn’t Jen’s fault but sometimes people on this site act like teenagers or adults for that matter don’t have messy and not-so-great emotions/reactions to things. Unless, apparently, they’re men who are rapists and serial killers, then the understanding is boundless.

9. It’s actually refreshing to hear “Mr. Leery” “Mrs. Leery” since teens in shows now just call adults by their first names, which I would NEVER do. I still can’t do that. If I had to address initiumseries’ dad it would be Mr...

10. I also think it’s funny that this dialogue is being made fun of but this kind of cadence and irony is the kind of thing shows go for now -- Riverdale tries to emulate this and I would argue Euphoria tries to do an edgier version of this. Like Nellie insulting Pacey, that kind of tone is what they’re trying to go for with Cheryl.

11. I’ll admit this is more fun than I thought it would be so far.

12. I LOVE WHAT’S EDGY FOR THE NINETIES. SHE IS IN A SUNDRESS. SETTLE DOWN.

13. “I have it on pretty good authority that mothers have excellent sex.” LOL Pacey, dick move.

14. Renting The Graduate, how on the nose.

15. THEIR CLOTHES ARE SO 90s.

16. The soundtrack pisses me off so much.

17. Oh Dawson. I knew so many self-important, I’m-so-deep-I-like-these-kinds-of-movies or -this-kind-of-music boys in high school. Like I find it so typical that he thinks his obsession with Spielberg would interest Jen.

18. Dawson taking Jen to his studio is like Klaus taking Caroline to sees his drawings.

19. Oh man, I remember being a kid and watching these teen shows with my cousin and seeing how Capeside High School was with everyone on a quad and throwing footballs and being like HIGH SCHOOL IS GOING TO BE LIKE THAT and my cousin just being like

20. I like how Dawson’s Creek is the whitest show and they still managed to have more Black extras than Gilmore Girls.

21. Dawson and Jen actually have a nice chemistry. But everyone is coming on super strong with Jen and she’s just kind of like, this seems normal.

22. The film teacher is a dick for no reason. I’ve had my fair share of dickish teachers but this is excessive right off the bat.

23. Lol poor Jen, she really is trying with Joey.

24. I like how a status of Joey’s class is the fact that her sister is engaged to a Black man *eye roll*

25. I don’t know of any school where teachers ate in the cafeteria with the students. In my school there were teachers who supervised the cafeteria but that’s it. Wow, I spent like no time in my high school cafeteria.

26. “I’m having a climax issue”

27. Tamara, Ms. Jacobs, you should be in jail.

28. I like how this school LOOKS like a school.

29. Ugh, a trans jokes. Ugh, there was so much of that in the 90s.

30. “Nothing has to change. We can talk about anything.” Honestly, from a screenwriting point of view, this is a solid pilot. I remember in a screenwriting class I took, we studied The Social Network and every 10 pages someone calls Zuckerberg either an asshole or a jerk or something in that vein as a way to reiterate a key part of the theme of the movie and while I don’t have the pilot script in front of me, DC does reiterate the theme of the season frequently without it being repetitive.

31. The dialogue isn’t as hyperbolic as I remember tbh. And I’m going to say it again, shows are aiming for this, even the one episode I saw of the Winx Saga, when they try to flirt about mansplaining, when she’s fighting with her mom about how she’s not a feminist, they’re trying for this. But DC manages to make it more natural and it’s because the Core 4 have a charm. Even if you hate Dawson.

32. Who is Dawson’s dad. Is he in something else?

33. No, I just think he looks like Dr. Cox.

34. Dawson’s rant about sex not being important is hilarious. Yes, Dawson, you’re just pursuing Jen out of intellectual and philosophical desire.

35. I like how Joey is supposed to be a tomboy just because she’s the only girl/woman in Capeside who doesn’t wear a sundress.

36. Poor Jen.

37. Joey is super dramatic, I get that, but I kind of love it because I’m going RELAX but the way I would to a teenager. Like CALM. DOWN. Also “all I do is understand” is something that we needed to see more of before that argument.

38. Dawson, you never ask anyone else any questions about themselves, lol.

39. “How can you say you were just renting a movie??” Pacey is such a fifteen year old and I do wish the show would just ... let him be one? And what I mean by that is Pacey is supposed to be the friend with the edge, the fact that he “pursues” Ms Jacobs is supposed to attest to that fact, it’s framed as taboo and yet they’re presented as being on equal footing, even the way her date moves to grab him out of his seat when the fact of the matter is, he’s a kid, and if the show didn’t actually make the Tamara/Pacey relationship a storyline and made it about another way teenagers have certain idealized perceptions of relationships or apply kid knowledge to adult situations which still makes them kids, it would’ve been interesting too.

40. Dawson is literally dressed in different shades of beige. If that doesn’t say everything you need to know about his character --- which is intentional. But like jfc man.

41. I love that they can’t say “masturbate” so she has to say “walk your dog” I LOVE THE NINETIES.

42. And you know what, after that question was asked, the sheer heartbreak on Joey’s face and the sadness in Dawson’s eyes is done really well.

43. LMAO SO ANGSTY. No one does angst like the 90s.

44. And legitimately, the ending of this pilot is great screenwriting because a change is noted, the beginning of the episode, Joey does end up staying the night, the end of the episode she leaves because they both realize it’s true that things are changing and yet Dawson answers her question about what time of day he masturbates and to who because they’re still Dawson and Joey. And that’s the way a pilot should be written.

OK. I’ve done it.

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hazza-bear-care · 4 years

Text

Stay Safe (1/3)

A/N: I FINALLY STARTED WATCHING CRIMINAL MINDS!!! Granted I am still on season 1, I feel a little more comfortable writing about the BAU crew. Dr. Reid is definitely my favorite so far, but there’s always room for improvement lol. Anyway, enjoy. PS my timeframe is all over the place. I described Spencer’s looks from the later seasons, but kept the season 1 characters because they’re the only ones I know right now lol. Sorry for the confusion, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway!

Pairings: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (oc)

Warnings: THREE CHAPTERS WORTH OF SMUT!!!! This one is light (fingering mostly, kinda public, dirty talk from Dr. Spencer Reid himself)

~~~~~~

Nova Calderon is a child psychotherapist born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. After graduating from Towson University with her bachelor’s in criminal psychology and receiving her master’s from John’s Hopkins, she finally felt ready to start a job with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.

Shouldering her black leather satchel, File-O-Fax clutched tightly the grip of her left elbow, a blistering cup of coffee in her right hand, she nudged her way through swarms of people. Silently praying that she wasn’t late, Nova took a seat on the Metro and decided to flip through her portfolio: three years interning under the best of the best in the Pentagon, a permanent position following not long after. But, the Pentagon couldn’t sustain her for too long: by the time she finished a pile of reports, fifteen more showed up on her desk. She longed to do more than just basic homeland security. Nova always knew she wanted to work in the government, but she didn’t spend all that money and energy in school to be someone’s assistant. After those three years and six months, Nova had the opportunity to join the BAU after her boss had put in a good word with Jason Gideon about her work ethic as well as her interactions with the children that often passed through the halls whenever a higher-up decided to bring one in for fun or even school field trips.

The train screeched to a halt and she assumed, quite correctly, that the current stop was hers. Jumping up from her seat and startling the creep sitting next to her and almost breaking his nose with her shoulder, she scrambled off the train and scurried through the streets of Quantico. Finally locating the right building, she entered and was immediately intimidated by the hustle and bustle happening around her.

“Hi. I’m Nova Calderon. I have a meeting with a Jason Gideon?”

“Agent Gideon is out for today, but his associate Aaron Hotchner will be conducting your interview.” After listening to the instructions the receptionist gave her on how to find Aaron Hotchner, Nova straightened herself up and mentally prepared herself for how this interview would go. She walked through the double glass doors with a deep breath, and the people in the room went quiet.

“Well, hello. How can I help you?” An attractive black man said from his desk, his jaw on the floor.

“Um, I don’t think I’m in the right place. I’m looking for an Aaron Hotchner?”

“You’re in the right place, sweet cheeks. I’ll show you to his office.” The same man responded, his flirting skills leaving something to be desired.

“I was told to wait for a Jennifer Jareau?” Nova replied, trying very hard not to roll her eyes at the man attempting to approach her.

“That’s me. I will show you to Agent Hotchner’s office. Follow me, please.” A cute blonde instructed, leading Nova up a ramp and to an office with a closed door. Jareau held a finger up, signaling for Nova to wait until the coast was clear. The brief pause allowed Nova to glance around at who she hoped would be her new coworkers: A dark haired woman who looked like she couldn’t be bothered with Nova, the same man that flirted with her just a few seconds ago, his nose now buried in a manila envelope as a way to hide his staring, another blonde girl who had a big smile on her face and shot Nova a thumbs up for luck, and a skinny man with curly hair and a little scruff not bothering to hide his wandering eyes. His gaze was almost scrutinizing, scraping up and down Nova’s body repeatedly. Their eyes met and immediately the two both felt a fire erupt on their cheeks as Hotchner’s door opened and Nova got roped in.

~~~~~~

Three days later was Nova’s first official day. Agent Hotchner was incredibly impressed with Nova’s portfolio and resume. While working with children wasn’t something the BAU did regularly, it was still a good choice to have a child psychotherapist on the team. Just because the typical profiles include men in their 20′s and higher, doesn’t mean a child still can’t be involved.

“Morning, Nova. Are you ready for your first day?” Elle asked from her desk, legs propped up on the flat surface as the team awaited further instruction.

“I’m nervous, but yes, I’m ready.” Nova had gone through a sort of orientation, meaning she already had a gun strapped to her waist, which she wasn’t comfortable with just yet. Nova didn’t like guns, but in her line of work it was hard to do anything without a gun. She took a seat at her desk, which happened to be across from Spencer’s, and attempted to get comfortable.

“You’re not used to your gun yet,” Spencer noticed as Nova shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Wow, Reid, you are some profiler. I, uh, don’t like guns. Never have.” Nova remarked back.

“You don’t like guns? How the hell did you last so long at the Pentagon?” Derek asked.

“I was a secretary. I was never required to carry one. I did have one issued to me, but it was never loaded. The ability to fire a gun wasn’t a requirement for desk jobs.” The slight hint of annoyance in Nova’s voice was only caught by Spencer, but he didn’t say anything about it. Nova rubbed her eyes and tried to stifle a yawn.

“Long night?” Elle asked.

“I couldn’t sleep because I was so excited. Ugh I sound like I’m 12 years old and waiting to go on my first field trip.” Everyone around her chuckled, but Nova didn’t notice that Spencer was no longer sitting across from her. A cup of coffee appeared on her desk along with a bottle of sugar and some creamer cups.

“I didn’t know how you take it.” Spencer muttered as he sipped his own coffee and sat on his desk, rather than in his chair.

“Wow. Um, thanks, Dr. Reid.” Nova whispered as she reached for the coffee and the supplies Spencer had gotten for her.

“You can call me Spencer.”

“How come she and JJ get to call you by your first name, but we have to call you Reid?” Derek muttered, crossing his arms, almost like he was pouting.

“Let me ask you something, Morgan: Are you a pretty girl?” Spencer asked, a serious look covering his face. Nova blushed and tried to discreetly cover her face.

“No, Reid, I’m not. But are you saying that Elle isn’t pretty? Or Garcia?”

“No. They’re pretty. But they prefer to call me ‘Reid’. Right, Elle?” Elle nodded.

“Thanks for calling me pretty, Reid.” Spencer shot Elle a small smile and nodded, further proving his point to Derek.

“Yeah, I think Nova enjoyed it too. She’s as red as a stop sign.” Derek laughed as he teased the newest member of the BAU team. Nova covered her face even more by slamming her face down on her desk and wrapping her arms around her head. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the light teasing, but she knew she could never look at Spencer with a straight face again. Nova felt someone rub her back in comfort, but she didn’t care to find out who it was. Then to everyone’s rescue, JJ walks in with a case.

~~~~~

The case went smoothly, and Nova couldn’t have been more exhilarated. She had rescued three children from a serial sex offender who got off by murdering the people he raped. The gruesome pictures and the events leading to find the missing children exhausted Nova, yet she couldn’t fall asleep on the jet flying from Colorado to D.C.

“Great work, Nova. I honestly didn’t think you’d be able to keep up with us.” Hotch commented, a slight smile gracing his lips. The older man adjusted himself in his seat as he quickly prepared to catch a few winks on the flight home.

“Yeah, Nova. You did an amazing job,” JJ gushed, making herself comfortable. She was asleep in five minutes, leaving Spencer and Nova the only two awake. Stifling a yawn yet again, Nova tried to make herself comfortable on the stiff plane seats without drawing too much attention to herself, but evidently failed as she had caught the gaze of a certain doctor. Spencer snapped his fingers, effectively getting Nova’s attention. Quirking his fingers, he gestured for her to join him in his seat. Nova blushed, scooting across the aisle and standing awkwardly in front of Spencer. With a smirk, the doctor hooked his arms around Nova’s waist and pulled her into his lap, securing a blanket around them.

“What are you doing, Spencer?” Nova whispered, making herself comfortable on Spencer’s lap.

“Shh. You don’t want everyone to wake up, do you?” Spencer whispered back, a slight smirk on his face as a response to Nova’s confused look.

“Spencer, what are you--” Nova froze in her place as she felt Spencer’s hand creep up between her legs and find it’s home just a few inches away from her core. With wide eyes, she quickly looked around the jet, silently praying that everyone truly was asleep.

“Don’t worry. As long as you’re quiet, no one will know what’s happening. Are you gonna be quiet for me, little girl?” Nova’s breath hitched in the back of her throat, the dirty words coming from the usually shy doctor quickly dampening her panties. Not trusting her voice, Nova nodded, not confident enough to make even a little bit of eye contact with the man holding her firmly on his lap. Spencer chuckled and placed a few sparse kisses around Nova’s face, avoiding her lips entirely. She let out a small whine when Spencer avoided her mouth for the fifth time, a rumbling in the man’s chest. Finally giving in, Spencer lightly placed his mouth on Nova’s, breath’s mingling just enough to make the girl wiggle on his lap.

“Sit still,” Spencer growled, his erection becoming more prominent every time Nova moved.

“Then kiss me, Reid.” Without further prompting, Spencer slammed his lips to Nova’s, tongues immediately dancing together. While still fully immersed in the kiss, Spencer took the opportunity to once again slide his hand up until his long fingers met the area Nova needed them most. A gasp radiated from her mouth into Spencer’s as she silently thanked whichever deity she believed in that her pantyhose stopped just before her knees, allowing the doctor to simply push her panties to the side and run his fingers along her slit.

“You’re so wet, little girl. Is all this for me?” Spencer whispered, the teasing tone in his voice thick with desire. Once again trying to keep quiet, Nova nodded and brought her lips back to Spencer’s. He chose to roll her clit between two fingers for just a few tantalizingly long seconds, his mouth snuffing out the sounds of her soft moans. In a flash of surprise, Spencer jammed two fingers inside Nova’s wet heat, the pair groaning simultaneously into their kiss. They quickly pulled apart as Nova choked out a breath, gluing her lips shut to prevent any noises from coming out.

“Fuck, Spence. Go faster, please.” Burying her face in Spencer’s neck, he did as she asked, quickly speeding up his fingers and marveling at the squelching sounds her pussy was making around his fingers. He curled his fingers up and Nova gasped, melting into Spencer’s grasp as his fingers brushed against the soft spot that was buried so deep inside her tight heat. Nova clamped her hand over her mouth, smothering her moans, the sounds ever increasing in volume involuntarily. The hand that wasn’t buried in her pussy came up to her her mouth and smacked on top of hers, preventing more moans from slipping between her fingers. Spencer went impossibly faster, the sounds becoming more lewd the harder he buried his fingers in Nova. Her legs started shaking and her walls were clenching around Spencer’s fingers, signaling that she was close to the edge.

“You’re close, aren’t you baby?” Spencer whispered in her ear, slamming his fingers ever deeper in Nova’s pussy, the girl trying very hard not to scream or thrash in his grasp. “Yeah, I can feel that your close. Come on, baby. I know you can do it. Go ahead, make a mess for me, Nova.” With that, she squeezed her eyes shut, dropping her jaw in a silent scream, both her hand and Spencer’s still covering her mouth as a precaution. Her legs shook furiously as Spencer kept moving his hand, helping her through her high and removing his hand from under the blanket, putting his fingers in his mouth. Nova watched with hooded eyes as her new coworker of a week sucked her climax off his long fingers. When he was finished, he planted his lips on Nova’s again in a heated kiss. Spencer pulled away and kissed the girl’s forehead, pressing his hand to her head and leading it to his shoulder, a silent prompt to sleep.

“Spencer?” Nova whispered, still trying not to draw too much attention to the pair.

“Hmm?” She could feel his throat vibrate as he hummed in response.

“What was that for? What does this mean?” Spencer smirked at her questions, his mind running equally as fast.

“I’ll tell you some other time, love. Just go to sleep.” Nova nodded and closed her eyes, mind running with images of a happy future with Spencer. She was asleep in 5 minutes, similarly to JJ.

“Hey, lover boy. I’m glad you’re making a move and all, but how about making absolutely sure everyone is asleep before you finger a girl so good she’s practically screaming, okay?”

“Shut up and go to sleep, Morgan.” Spencer muttered angrily, blushing as Morgan ruffled his hair, chuckling.

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid smut #criminal minds smut #jennifer jareau #aaron hotchner #spencer x reader #jason gideon #derek morgan #derek morgan smut

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Note

Out of curiosity, do Callie and chris ever run into each other/ confront each other after

CW: Referenced head-banging and resulting injury, brief ableism references, gaslighting, vaguely referenced institutional pet whump

(for context, see This Isn’t Hypothetical For Chris, “Can You Come Get Me?”, No Words, and Drop)

“Um. Hey.”

Chris, in the midst of a careful, incredibly precise drawing of a tiny Easter Island moai while studying for the Non-Western Art History test, looks up, only to freeze, his fingers tensing around his pencil until he presses so hard the lead snaps off, rolling down the notebook.

His hair is pulled back, caught at his nape with a clip Mari let him borrow, but he wishes all at once that it weren’t, so he could shake it over his face, hide behind it. That it wasn’t blue but some color no one saw in a crowd, so she wouldn’t have seen him and known it was him.

He hesitates too long, and she shifts, moving herself into his field of vision again. “Chris, are you-... are you busy?”

“Hey, um, hi... hi, Callie,” Chris mumbles, looking back down again, clicking the end of the mechanical pencil to get more lead, enjoying the sound and the very slight press of the eraser against his thumb. “I’m just, just studying. What, um, what do, do, do-do you... what do you want?”

She seems to take it as an invitation, which it isn’t. When she pulls out the chair across the table, the legs scrape along the floor impossibly loudly, but only Chris seems bothered by it. The sound makes his teeth itch, a feeling he can’t possibly describe in any other way. When he moves the chair, he picks it up, carefully placing it back down, avoiding the sound that shudders through him and digs into the tiniest bones.

Everyone else just scrapes.

She tucks some of her own bouncy, wavy brown hair behind one ear. It’s chilly today, it was so foggy this morning Chris could barely see from one side of the bridge to the other when he crossed over the highway to the other side of campus to get some coffee to help him cram before the test. Callie is wearing a heavy cable-knit sweater that drapes just so off one shoulder, showing the silken strap there, and skintight dark jeans. She looks really pretty, but Chris mostly thinks everyone looks pretty.

Even Dylan in the morning looks pretty, with his hair all messed up. Even though Chris is still kind of mad at him and probably always will be.

Chris is in his usual thick black compression shirt, helping him hold off the weight of the lights, keeping the prickle of the Student Center from digging too deeply into his skin. Over that, a t-shirt from the Lion King musical that Mari brought back from her last trip home - (”I have like five, now, Chris, I’ve seen it in like six different places you can have this one, if you want? It’s from when I saw it in Chicago.” And of course he did, he is starting a small collection of shirts he had gotten from nearly everyone he knows), and one of Jake’s heavy sweater-coats, borrowed - but really stolen - from the house last weekend. Jake pretends not to know. Chris brings them back eventually.

Between Chris and Kauri, it’s a miracle Jake ever has anything warm to wear at all.

“So, I just-... I wanted to, um. I haven’t seen you around-... oh, did you get hurt?” She cocks her head to the side, and Chris looks away from her, spinning the pencil in his fingers, his foot tapping on the ground now, nervous energy bubbling inside him.

There’s a bandage, still, on his forehead. He wishes he could say it was from the day in class, but it’s not. It’s from a few days ago, after meeting with the grad student to sign stuff to drop the class. It’s from coming home with all his hurt and fear a spinning top that he could only calm by breaking its rhythm, and he’s, it’s regression, but it’s okay, sometimes you go back and you get back up and go forward again, Dr. Berger says it’s okay sometimes to backslide as long as you know you have people to help you get up-

“I’m fine,” He says, flat and smooth words, barely his own voice at all. “Hit my head on, on, on a cabinet.”

Technically true.

She nods, folding her hands in her lap, watching him with those sort of big sad eyes people get sometimes, when they’re working up to something and want you to know they’re not the bad guy. Her drink has a cloth sleeve on it with tiny little bow ties. He wonders if she made it herself.

She clears her throat. “Okay, um. Good to hear it. So... I just... I heard you dropped.”

“Yep.” Chris keeps his eyes down now, on his pencil. The gentle weight of his feather necklace reminds him that he has other options, too. For now, though, he spins his pencil on top of his open notebook, the drawing of the moai. “Who told you that, um, that-... that I, I dropped?”

“I mean, when you weren’t in class for a couple weeks-... you know at first I thought you just, like, you know... the teacher told you not to come by, but then you kept not coming, and...” She kind of throws her hands up. Hers are painted a cheerful blue-toned red. Chris’s are black, but they’re heavily chipped. He’s been picking at them again. “I asked Esh, finally, and he said-”

“Eshiram.”

“What?” She blinks, confused.

“Not Esh. His, his, his name’s Eshiram.”

“No, I know, I just-... whatever. Look, so, I get that you’re probably still pretty mad, and... I’ve kind of been trying to hunt you down to say I’m sorry.”

Chris, caught off guard, pauses in spinning his pencil and turns to look at her again. “What?”

“About... I would never, ever have wanted you to feel you had to drop the class, Chris, I swear.” She leans forward, all earnest sincerity, and there’s a look of guilt on her that makes him think she means it. It wasn’t her idea, after all - if she’s even fucking talking to him, she doesn’t know what he is, she didn’t catch it like the grad student did.

After the drawn out moment, his foot starts to tap on the floor again. “It’s, um, it’s, it’s, it’s okay,” He says, wishing he had his own drink, something to hold in his hands and sip. The nerves start to wind up inside him, and he drops one hand down where she can’t see it, starts to tap on the side of his thigh.

“No, it’s not.” Callie sighs, shaking her head. Her hair moves with the motion and he catches a hint of her shampoo, it smells like fruit and honey. “It’s not, Chris. Look, I just-... I took everything you said super personally, and that wasn’t okay. I get that you, you know, you weren’t really talking about me.”

Chris turns to look at her, blinking wide green eyes, thinking, Yes, I was.

He opens his mouth to maybe tell her, but the pause goes on too long and she’s already talking again before he can. “There’s all these reports about abuse, and everything, I swear more than ever, and it just-... puts me on edge, you know? So I heard you saying-... well, you know. You don’t know that things are better at our house. All you know is what you’ve, you know, seen on the news.”

Chris takes in a breath and holds it, tapping hard against the seam of his jeans. He isn’t going to get angry. Getting angry made him have to drop and lose points off his GPA, getting angry gets him noticed by too many people all at once, angry feels heavy and hurting, angry draws attention, attention mean eyes and hands and-

Let the breath out. Exhale. He has to purposefully remind himself to do it.

“I, I, I know more than, um, than that,” He manages to say, but his voice is small. He’s no good at being angry, when it’s not in the moment, when there’s nothing to draw him out of himself. “I don’t, don’t just... build sets all day, Callie, I’m, I’m, I know other, um, other things.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Like, I’m surprised you’re not, like, a math major or something, like in that movie-”

Chris sits back and snorts out bitter laughter. “You, you, you mean, um, The Gift?”

“Yeah! Vincent Shield did such a good job, they said he did a bunch of like, work to really get into character which is so cool since he was only, like, sixteen when he did that one with that, you know, the other guy he did movies with all the time-”

“Owen-... Owen Grant.”

“Yeah! I wonder what happened to him. Anyway-”

“Do you, do... do, do, do you think-... Callie, I suck at, um, at math.” Chris can’t help himself. He starts to laugh at the absurdity, and Callie looks like he’s hit her across the face, wide-eyed, shocked. “This is, um, this, this is, this-... this is a really, really-... really bad apology.”

“Yeah, I know.” Callie kind of laughs along with him, then, but there’s something fake and brittle to her laughter. “But I swear, I just came to say I’m sorry. It was just a misunderstanding, I really didn’t mean for you to have to drop. I swear, Chris, I don’t, like, hate you or think anything bad about you-”

You called me a fucking spastic.

“-or anything like that. I just... can you forgive me for losing my temper? I’m sorry, it’s just, when my family is attacked by people who don’t even know us, I get super defensive, and-... and I should have realized you weren’t really attacking us, just, you know, the system.”

Chris stares down at his shoes. He thinks, you are the system, it doesn’t exist without people like you who buy us, but he doesn’t say anything.

She seems to take this as agreement.

It isn’t.

“So, yeah. I’m just... I’m really sorry, Chris. Will this throw your whole, you know, graduation and everything off, or do you think you’ll still be good?”

Does she even really care? Chris swallows and raises his head, to look at her again, fixing his eyes just slightly to the left of her face, where it won’t be obvious he isn’t focused on her. An old trick, one he used to do to stay safe in training, maybe... maybe before that.

Even though he can’t remember a before that anymore.

Because of people who buy people like him.

“I’ll, um, I’ll be good,” He says, and the words taste like dust and feel like gravel on his tongue. “I worked out a, a, a-a plan with, with my, um advisor. So I’ll... I’ll be-”

so good for you

“Fine.”

“Great.” She relaxes, all smiles again, and reaches over putting her hand over his left arm, gripping a little. Chris feels the weight of it like the clap of restraints forcing him down on a table and stiffens, looking right at her the way he’s supposed to.

Years go by, but the training isn’t gone. Not all the way.

“Listen,” She says, voice low. “I really am sorry. But you just-... can’t go around thinking everybody who does something you don’t like is bad, you know?”

His heart races in his throat, he can barely swallow around it. “Yes,” He says, softly. She doesn’t hear the first stirrings of panic. But he feels them. “I... know.”

Good boy.

“I’ll see you around, Chris, okay? I’m glad we talked about this.” She pats his arm, like a handler almost, and then pushes herself to her feet. The chair scrapes back and Chris’s teeth grind together as the sound ricochets around inside him. The dim warm lights overhead lay heavily over the fabric he wears to protect himself from touch like that.

It’s not enough.

He can still feel the hand on his arm as she walks away, heads out the double-doors and is gone.

Chris’s hand slides to the feather and he pushes the silicone plastic between his teeth, letting his tongue press up against the carved vanes, sinking into the familiar sensation, letting it wrap around him, calm his pulse, help him rebuild the thin wall he needs between himself and the world.

He stares blankly off into space, chewing the feather, unnoticed by the few other people in the Student Center this early in the morning.

She probably feels so much better.

Like so many other people in his life, she made herself feel better by making Chris feel so much worse.

After a while, still chewing on the feather, he picks his pencil back up and starts to draw another moai.

He’s probably going to fail this test.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @slaintetowhump , @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth , @cubeswhump , @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary

#chris the strawberry blond romantic #trauma recovery #caledonia and her family #box boy #box boy universe #ableism tw #stimming #neurodivergent whumpee #recovering whumpee #gaslighting tw #bbu capitalism #honestly I suppose it kind of hits on that #trauma response #conditioning

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lovemesomesurveys · 3 years

Text

Do you have a dog? I do. Are you single or taken? Very much single. How many pillows do you sleep with? I only use 1-2, but I have 4 on my bed. I had more, but it got to be too much lol. What do you think is the worst food? Seafood is pretty gross. Does it snow where you live? No. :(

Can you play an instrument? Nope. Is a zebra black with white stripes or white with black stripes? White with black stripes. What shoes are you wearing? I’m not wearing any currently. Are you wearing socks? Yes. Did you graduate? Yeah, I graduated with my BA back in 2015.

How many siblings do you have? I have two brothers. Are your nails painted? Nope. Have you ever been married? Noo. Did you go to prom? I did. Do you have you nose pierced? No. What is your favorite soda? Coke, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, and the cherry versions of all 3. Can you rollerskate? Nope. Have you ever broken a bone? Yes. Shorts or Jeans? Lounge shorts around the house. Dresses or skirts? Dresses. Makeup or no makeup? No makeup. What is your favorite condiment? Ranch. Do you like cheese? I love cheese. Apple or Android? Apple. Do you have a twitch account? Nope. What about instagram? Yes. Tiktok? Yes. I don’t make them, though. Snapchat? Yeah. How old are you turning this year? I turned 32 last month. What month were you born in? Well, it’s August and I said I turned 32 last month so take a guess. Do you like summer? Noooooooo. Hoodies or Tank tops? Hoodies. Would you shave your head for $1,000? No.

What time is it now? 10:11AM. Do you like to draw? No. I don’t have any artistic abilities. What is your favorite tv show at the moment? I have several. Do you have a nickname? Just Steph and Sis. Video games or board games? Board games. How do you like your pizza? I like pan crust and extra sauce and cheese. The toppings depend on where I get the pizza from, but my ideal pizza has crumbled meatballs, garlic, spinach, and pesto. Cilantro and green onions are good, too. Beer or wine? Neither. Are you scared of tarantulas? Uh, HELL YEAH. Have you ever been hunting? No. What about fishing? Once. Not my thing. Do you like going camping? No. What is the last fast food place you ate at? I didn’t eat there, but the last fast food place I had was Jack in the Box. During covid, do you wear a mask or no mask? I definitely wear a mask. What color is the shirt youre wearing? I’m wearing a black, blue, and gray tie-dye t-shirt dress. Netflix or Hulu? Netflix. Parrots or Owls? Uhh, owls. Do you have children? Nooo. What is your favorite movie genre? I like various genres. Do you like 90s music? Yesss. 80s music? Yes. Do you have a playstation 4? It’s my brother’s, but I use it sometimes. Have you ever played Fortnite? Nope. What is your best friends name? Yolanda. Love or lust? Love. What is in your pockets? I don’t have any pockets. I never use ‘em anyway. Do you prefer texting or calling? Texting. What time do you like to go to bed? I don’t particularly like to, but my sleep schedule is so out of whack, especially over the past year, that I’m up until the early morning hours. Do you like anime? No. Who was the last person you visited/saw? My aunt. Do you have tattoos? Nope. Pie or Cake? Cake. Do you like to bake/cook? No. Do you like sports? Nope. Have you ever been on a boat? I have. Name a state that starts with M. Michigan. Pick two words that ryhme with the word Blue. Glue and flu. Have you ever played Kingdom Hearts? I played a little back when the first one came out. Have you seen the movie The Breakfast Club? Yeah, many times. If so, who is your favorite character? I don’t have one. What day is it today? Friday. On a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you like mayonaise? 10. I love mayo, I always get extra on something that comes with it.

What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Strawberry, mint chocolate chip, cookies and cream, cake batter. Can you type fast? Yes. What year is it? 2021. Have you ever built a snowman? No. What did you have for dinner? I haven’t had dinner, yet, it’s only 10:30AM. I’m barely about to have breakfast. Do you like spaghetti? Yes, especially with meatballs. Mail or email? Email. Do you like to read? I love to read. Have you read any Stephen King books? No. Do you like skittles? Nah. What about starburst? Eh, I liked the pink ones as a kid. I couldn’t even tell you the last time I had Starburst. Fast food or home cooked meals? Both. DC or Marvel? I like both, but Marvel is my favorite. Did you vacuum today? No.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

Note

Prompt: “A bold move to show your face here in the shadows of night.” With any of the DR characters :3 (or maybe Caesar and Johann :3)

The Day of Liberty was always high stakes. Caesar Gattuso looked forward to it every year. It was his day to reassert his greatness by defeating his one and only serious rival, Chu Zihang by demolishing his club, Lionheart.

For years, Caesar’s Student Union had won the favor of the other student societies on the campus with the promise of luxury, prestige, and funding as well as an established position after graduation. It seemed to be an easy choice. Lionheart’s leader was reclusive, soft spoken and solitary. He wasn’t entirely concerned with making a name for himself other than adhering to his own personal set of ethics. When comparing the two, Student Union seemed to be an easy choice.

As few as they were, however, those who chose Lionheart were usually the ones who had met Chu Zihang personally. Even Caesar had to admit that the man was unconsciously charismatic. Once someone joined Lionheart, they wouldn’t so much as look at a Student Union application.

It didn’t matter to him that it was the original club that was founded by Cassell. As far as he was concerned, if it wasn’t strong enough to stand, it didn’t deserve to exist at all.

With that in mind, this year, he sent a message by one of his club members to the Lionheart club. It was an open letter challenge. This time, he would bet the entirety of his club on his win. The losing club would be forced to disband.

The message shook the ranks of Lionheart. Caesar, who had always been charitable to rivals, had finally decided to crush Lionheart once and for all.

Caesar penned his final challenge to Lionheart, and it was accepted immediately. Caesar understood that this enemy would fight to the bitter end. And he preferred it that way.

At Amber Hall, spotlights shown high into the night sky and music blared from a DJ booth. Student Union members gathered in gowns and their best tuxedos, champagne flowed freely. Caesar stood among it all, Nono yawning on his arm and looking bored.

“President! Sir!” A drunk and swaying member of the cartography guild staggered up to him. “I just want to congratulate you on your win! This is historic! You’ll be the only club on campus.”

Caesar grinned and threw a steadying arm around him. “Thank you for being a supporter. Without you I couldn’t have gotten this far.”

The man blushed. “I can’t really accept that sir. All I do is make maps…”

“And those maps were key in plotting our strategy these past three years. Don’t sell yourself short.” Caesar’s eyes twinkled like sapphires. “You deserve congratulations. And so does everyone else here!”

A few people in earshot raised their glasses to the ceiling. “To Caesar! To the Gattusos! To Student Union!” They shouted.

Caesar lightly shoved the cartography leader back into the crowd with a low chuckled.

Nono filled her lungs and sighed. “Well, you finally did it. Are you happy?”

“Not really,” he murmured. “To be honest… I thought it was going to be a lot harder. At least, I have only one more year after this. It’s a shame it will be the most boring year of my life. Cassell College was to be this great institution but…” He looked around before his eyes fell on her. “Other than you? There’s too much room for improvement.”

“My last challenge will be assimilating Lionheart into the Student Union.”

Nono chuckled. “Good luck with that.”

She tilted her head up to look at him. “You know how loyal Lionheart members are to Chu Zihang. They would sooner leave the College entirely than leave him.”

Caesar sipped from his glass, staring out over the crowd.

“Are you going to attempt to recruit him?” He didn’t laugh with her. “Caesar?”

Caesar continued to look out over the crowd, his eyes far away, gazing out the window towards the Lionheart headquarters. Inside his heart, he had given Chu Zihang one last chance and he wanted him to take it, more than he cared to admit.

Within the Lionheart Hall, Susie and Lancelot leaned over their inventory of supplies and ammunition. “We have more than enough Frigga bullets for everyone. They’ll be stacked five high at our gate.”

Lancelot took the phone from his ear. “Moreland isn’t responding. My guess is he’s going to surrender to Student Union. Not that I blame him. I wonder if Caesar’s even going to bother leaving Amber Hall. He’s got enough people to swarm this place. All we can do is try to hold them off as long as possible. They outnumber us ten to one.”

Lancelot joined Susie at the table. “Lionheart had a good run. I for one am going to take down as many as I can.”

Footsteps were heard approaching the central room and both turned to look. Chu Zihang was like a shadow in the doorway, his amber eyes like lamps in the dark. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes sir.” Lancelot stepped to one side to let Zihang examine the plans.

The man’s eyes lowered, taking in everything in a glance. “We’re staying here?”

“We’d fall in a hail of bullets out there. We ran every scenario. They’ll have us surrounded, flanked, cut off from each other. There’s just too many of them.” Lancelot replied.

“We’ll win by staying here?”

Lancelot and Susie exchanged glances. Lancelot gently continued, “Sir… with all due respect, winning… isn’t exactly in the cards.”

“Then your goal is to extend the life of Lionheart for a few more hours.”

Lancelot sighed, clenched his teeth and slammed his fist against the table. “I feel so bad that it's come to this. I understand why you took Caesar’s bet but… Why did he have to make it? I love this club! I don’t want to give it up. I hate thinking that we’re going to lose before we even fight but what else am I supposed to think?”

“That’s a yes then…” Chu Zihang watched as his loyal second in command nodded slowly. He placed one hand on his shoulder and squeezed it in a tight grip. “This is a fine plan Lancelot. You did your best.”

Lancelot’s throat closed and his eyes teared up. He just shook his head, unable to speak.

“That’s why I regret to tell you that I will not be accepting it. We can’t win this way.”

Lancelot gave a short laugh and Zihang returned his smile. “Longevity has never been a goal of mine.”

“I understand that I have almost no chance of winning. If anyone doesn’t wish to join me in this fight, they’re free to stay behind. However, whoever wants to join me. Have them meet with me in the entry hall in 20 minutes. Susie… let everyone know.”

Chu Zihang walked towards the entry, leaving Lancelot and Susie staring wide eyed at each other.

20 minutes later, every Lionheart member had shown up at the entry with even the previously AWOL Moreland making it.

“I’ll need twenty five of you to cross the plaza at ten minutes to the stroke of midnight and take a position near the Hall of Valor. Stay there and wait for my instructions. Susie, you take one half of the remainder, Lancelot take the other half and position yourselves on either side of Amber Hall.”

“The Day of Liberty begins on the stroke of midnight. As soon as the last bell tolls…” Zihang spoke quietly and so the crowd surrounding him were completely hushed, hanging on his every last word.

Zihang opened the map that Lancelot and Susie had been working with.

“Don’t they have scouts everywhere?”

“Presumably.” Chu Zihang replied. “The twenty five will be enough to draw their attention. Make sure they are wearing their uniforms. Hm…” he thought a moment.

“Taunt them?” Another piped up.

“Don’t be too obvious.”

A gentle chuckle rumbled through the group as they realized what Chu Zihang might be up to.

“Susie, Lancelot, you two leave out the back entrance, go in opposite directions, take the long route around campus. Don’t let yourselves be seen. Gather on opposite sides of the building. Lancelot, you enter first take out everyone you can, set up positions facing out. Susie, stay outside and keep a group with you to keep others from getting in.”

“And you sir?” Susie asked.

“Don’t worry about me.” He turned to her. “No matter what, when you see me lower my sword, open fire with everything you have.”

-------

As the clock ticked closer to midnight, it began to rain. The outdoor pavilion emptied into the building and people were now milling about on the dance floor. Caesar’s mood dipped lower and lower. Caesar was a warrior. There was nothing quite as good as the fiery battlefield to him, and nothing quite as boring and anticlimactic as a siege.

All night, there had been little movement out of the Lionheart club.

He sat at the head of a banquet table, swirling his wine but not drinking it. Nono was silent at his side, valiantly trying and failing to keep him from noticing that she was nodding off.

Then someone shouted. “Hey! Something’s happening at Lionheart!”

A series of windows had a great view of the campus, including the rival club. The Student Union members crowded them, eager to get a look at what their rivals could be getting up to.

“There’s so few of them?”

“Are they giving up?”

They moved aside as Caesar Gattuso approached the window with his wine. It had started to rain steadily but the Lionheart members were identifiable even at this distance. They were all dressed in tactical gear in Lionheart uniforms.

.His phone rang.

“They’re headed to the church.” Came the voice over the receiver.

“We have enough positions there, they’re not a threat. Keep me posted on their movements.”

A loud commotion erupted near the entrance of the banquet hall.

“Hey! What are you doing here? You’re not allowed in here!”

Caesar turned. His phalanx of body guards had surrounded a familiar figure dressed in a dark trench coat, a sword sheathed at his side. Caesar’s heart raced when their eyes locked. He felt an overwhelming thrill, his mood lifting from the depths and soaring high!

“A bold move to show your face here in the shadows of night. Did you come here to give up before the fight’s even started?” He bellowed, standing up.

The other Student Union members were confused at Caesar’s enthusiastic greeting and fell silent. In the lull of noise, Chu Zihang got right to the point. “No. I’ve come here to say that I won’t make you disband your club even though that is in the terms of our agreement..”

Disbelief and shock at those words silenced the entire hall. But in another moment, the banquet hall erupted into roars of uncontrollable mocking laughter. Some could barely stand up, leaning over and banging on tables, tears coming to their eyes. Even the bodyguards squinted and smirked, wondering if the Lionheart Leader had lost his mind in his defeat. Meanwhile, Chu Zihang never took his eyes off his rival.

Nono looked up at Caesar, covered one mouth with her hand and backed away a bit, crossing her arms.

It took a few moments as people glanced over at Gattuso and realized he wasn’t laughing. A cold, icy stillness had come over him as he stared down his rival. His eyes snapped with such a fearsome anger that the minute he glanced at someone, their mouth shut and the color drained from their face and ladies stepped quietly behind their men.

Out of any other person, those words would seem like a joke.

But Chu Zihang didn’t joke.

Once his club mates were subdued, Caesar opened his arms in a magnanimous gesture of welcome. “There’s still a few more minutes before the fight begins. Until then, Chu Zihang, you’re free to drink at my table.”

A strange, wild light flared in Caesar’s eyes. Some wondered if he was drunk by the way he approached Chu Zihang openly while the others started to reach for their weapons. Some wondered if the wine given Chu Zihang would be poisoned.

All eyes were on Chu Zihang as he made his way to the table and on the small group of students setting up under the church tower.

The clock struck twelve. The sound of the bells, the rain and the wind whipping through the campus, masked the approach of Lionheart from the east and west entrances of Amber Hall.

Chu Zihang and Caesar Gattuso watched the wine fill up the wine glass between them, neither willing to take their eyes off the other. At the final toll of the bells, Caesar drew his weapons in an instant, but Chu Zihang was quicker, drawing his blade in an arc of light and slashing the bottle in half, sending the wine spraying into his face.

The other guests drew their weapons to defend their leader just as the Lionheart Club burst into the banquet hall from two sides.

Crowded and barely able to maneuver, more Student Union members were cut down by friendly fire than by Lionheart members. Not all of the Student Union had bothered to even arm themselves and were taken out without a fight. From outside the hall, there was nothing but the sound of the screams and gunfire, something out of the assassination of a royal family. It was mayhem.

A slaughter.

Outside of Amber Hall, the attack was so sudden that the waiting outside scout groups wondered if the party had just intensified. Instructed to keep their eyes on the Lionheart members at the church, they stayed watching, not even bothering to call in. Assured of victory, most of the Student Union had gone to the party. Those stuck watching the outside were a much smaller group.

Finally, word got out that Lionheart had struck at the headquarters of Student Union and the scattered club members poured out to the fight.

But their hesitancy had lost valuable time. By then Lionheart was already entrenched in Amber Hall. Lancelot sent his group to the windows. The rushed and disorganized approach to the building was met by a wall of fearsome gunfire.

The twenty five members waiting next to the church, rallied and attacked the bedraggled group from behind, scattering them.

But the Student Union wasn’t done.

Nono rushed away, followed by a trail of bullet holes in the century old plaster. She dove and rolled behind a bus table, grabbed a fallen member’s gun and fired from behind it, felling three Lionheart in three shots, before being forced to duck behind cover again.

Pinned, she looked around and then looked up. The large banquet Chandlier shined like a sun above her. She shook her head as she imagined the look on Manstein’s face before aiming her gun at the supporting golden chains.

She fired once and it rocked, twice and it jerked lower.

One the third try, her gun clicked empty. Hissing curses she tossed it aside. A serving platter would serve nicely as a shield. She grabbed it from the bus table and dashed out of cover, the Frigga bullets leaving a trail of crimson liquid running down it.

She dashed up the stairs towards the mezzanine.

From her vantage point, she could see Caesar and Chu Zihang locked in combat. A few Lionheart members were aiming at them, but it was impossible to get a clean shot. They were a blur of motion. Caesar pressed the offensive, cutting his blade at his nimble opponent’s neck with a power that stopped her short.

The Day of Liberty was not meant to be a lethal contest.

Zihang’s eyes kept their practiced detachment. He was not counter attacking, content to dodge and occasionally parry. He leaped behind a table to evade a thrust, knocking it over with a powerful kick, the crash of thousands of dollars worth of food seemed to wake him up. He paused, and realized he was surrounded, a dozen guns pointed straight at him.

Nono took her chance, and took a flying leap off the mezzanine and grasped the massive chandelier. Her weight was the last straw needed to send the metal structure, weighing hundreds of pounds, down onto the Lionheart members. In a second of descent it smashed into the ground sending crystal shards in all directions. Lionheart scrambled to get out of the way.

The banquet hall went dark and in the confusion, she dove on them like a lioness, knocking the Lionheart members out of the fight with a vengeance. Caesar and Zihang circled each other, taking a moment to regain their stamina.

“You don’t disappoint. I’m going to really miss this.” Caesar murmured.

Zihang was unmoved. “This was only possible thanks to your carelessness.”

Caesar snorted. “Even at my most careless, you barely stand a chance. For the past three years, you couldn’t eke out a single win. I wanted to give you every chance. I would have been disappointed if you didn’t take it.”

“It’s clear that Lionheart doesn’t deserve to exist. Any last words, Chu Zihang?” He asked, leveling his Desert Eagles at him.

Chu Zihang lowered his sword.

The glass next him shattered. Susie’s wing of fighters were still outside, fresh and ready, waiting for that one signal. Caesar hadn’t counted on the outside force on the opposite side of the building that were waiting just for him.

With that, taken off guard, panicked and with the complete loss of their leadership the Student Union forces evaporated. The weakened forces were like carrion for the galvanized Lionheart members who fell on their scattered ranks with the same mercilessness that they’d been dealt over the years.

And yet no one touched Nono, who wearily walked over to Caesar’s prone body and tipped him face up with the toe of her heeled shoe.

Then she looked at Chu Zihang. He was staggered, leaning against the wall, the red blood-like marks of Frigga bullets dotting his clothing. His breathing was labored.

Despite the powerful drugs coursing through his system, he was upright, eyes open, fighting the unconsciousness by raising his dragonblood purity through blood rage. Even then, he was visibly shaking.

He looked at her, one hand still on his sword despite everything.

“Don’t make me shoot you again, Nono.” Susie’s voice came from outside. “There’s enough of us to take you out easily.”

Nono casually tossed her pistol aside and laughed. “Far be it from me to get between my boyfriend and his one true love.”

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manga-and-stuff · 4 years

Text

Interview with Makoto Yukimura, the Mangaka behind Vinland Saga

REALQ: What kind of child were you? Yukimura: I was a laid back kid, who took a very, very long time to come to a decision. I'd be late to dinner because I was thinking about something or other. Once, while I was alternately touching the right and left eyes of a snail, I became aware that night had fallen. I wondered why my group of friends were always in such a hurry. I would focus on something and lose the ability to tell if time was passing quickly or slowly.

REALQ: When did you first encounter manga? Yukimura: I was five-years-old and the manga was Akira Toriyama's Dr. Slump. I remember thinking the cover art was cool. When I was little, I used to think that the cover art and the story inside were drawn by different people. [Laughs] But I watched the Dr. Slump anime before I read the manga. Later, someone told me that there was a manga that the anime was based on and I found the weekly magazine where it was serialized. In the beginning, I was dubious. I didn't see why there needed to be both a manga and an anime. Like, why do the same thing twice? How-ever, after I saw them both it made sense because each had its own idiosyncracies. REALQ: Did your parents say anything to you about reading manga? Yukimura: No, they never said anything. They came from a generation who said reading manga made you an idiot, but they didn't say any-thing. They didn't say anything when I told them at 16 that I wanted to draw manga, either.

REALQ: Was there anything that your parents, siblings, or people around you would say to you often?

Yukimura: There certainly must have been various things, but I don't remember because I was probably concentrating on something else at the time and didn't hear them. However, one thing I do remember is being told to watch out for cars. Like, at the very least, try not to die. [Laughs] Nevertheless, I really did get into a traffic accident. Once, on my way to the park to play with my friends, I ran out into the street and got hit on the side by a sedan. I rolled over the top of the car—the hood, wind-shield, top, rear window, then the trunk. Strangely, I wasn't seriously injured and played in the park afterwards. Actually, there was also another incident. My sister and I were riding together in a car. It was just the two of us and as we were going down a hill, a car suddenly appeared and we hit its side. I was sitting in the backseat and was launched forward like a catapult. My sister was so surprised she called out, "Mako, you're flying!" Strangely, I wasn't injured that time either, and we decided not to tell our mother. [Laughs] REALQ: Did your way of thinking change after the accident? Yukimura: I think that if it did change, I wasn't conscious of it. Despite being a near-death experience, it was a miracle I wasn't injured. My mother getting angry at me afterward was more frightening. [Laughs] In terms of my "way of thinking," I'm a little different. Like something in me is lacking. It's often the case that for some reason I don't fully comprehend a conversation even if I'm really trying to concentrate on what the other person is saying. What's the reason? If I'm honest about it, it's because I'll start thinking about something else, even if it's just for a moment. REALQ: Did you also have trouble paying attention during class at school? Yukimura: Yeah. Especially classes that didn't interest me. I continued to have this problem in high school, where I'd often be sitting in class and before I realized it, the bell would ring. However, my notebook would have stuff drawn in it...manga. REALQ: Didn't teachers or friends say anything?

Yukimura: In high school, I didn't have much of a social life, so nobody said anything. I went to reasonably academic schools [REALQ Editor's note: Yukimura graduated from Chuo University and Suginami High School] and my peers studied quite hard. The feeling that I was so different from most of the people around me had a big effect on me. I didn't fit in. I lived in my own world.

REALQ: Did student life give you anxiety? Yukimura: Anxiety was the only thing I really felt. In a way, isn't school a microcosm for society? Despite it being a microcosm, there's this feeling of being left behind. That made me really anxious and sad. But as a result of suffering in this way, I realized that society existed out-side of this microcosm—a kind of society that I had never experienced inside the microcosm of school.

REALQ :What lead you to have this epiphany? Yukimura: It occurred to me out of the blue one day when I was feeling totally devastated. I was 16. One autumn day after school I thought to myself, "I'll finish high school because if I don't, it will make my parents sad. But participating in a society reflected in this kind of microcosm will be impossible." It was just like that moment when a cup is filled to the brim with water and suddenly the surface tension breaks and it overflows. However, thinking this made me feel better. Until that point, the "ruler" for determining success since the first year of high school had been getting good grades, getting into a good college, and then finding a job with a good company. This ruler contained within it a system of values for how one should live their life. When I decided that this was not the ruler I wanted to use to measure my own life, things became a lot easier for me. I used to get burnt out worrying so much about getting decent enough grades that would allow me to get into university. Like, "please let me just graduate!" Realizing that there was another way to live was a lifesaver.

Of course, I think it made my parents nervous. In that era, there was still a deeply rooted notion that one's academic background was im-portant and working for a good company made you a good person. Back then, this was like saying, "Your child is the type of kid who won't find their way in the world." It was like throwing away the most important ruler and replacing it with a new ruler that was a little bent and covered with indecipherable markings. [Laughs] REALQ: Was there anyone from your high school days who had an influence on you? Yukimura: A teacher who taught classical literature. He was apparently a teacher with quite bizarre interpretations of the material. More than anything else, what left the greatest impression on me was when he used class time to talk about how wonderful Michael Ende was [REALQ Editor's note: a German writer of children's fiction]. He introduced me to The Never Ending Story. Once I knew about Michael Ende, he became an influence on me. It was the first book I knew of in which someone wrote a book because he had a sense of obligation and a goal in relation to society and the world. I thought that someone who wrote a book because he felt that it was something he had to do was a rather beautiful thing to wish for. REALQ: Next up... Yukimura discusses the connection between himself and Thorfinn Karlsefni, the protagonist of his Vinland Saga. Is there anything that makes you hesitate when you draw your manuscripts?

Yukimura: For characters, it's probably the hands. Hands take time to do well. The strength of a character's grip on a sword, for example. Male and female hands are hard to differentiate, too. Hands are the most expressive part of a character, after the face.

I've heard that you can tell a person's personality from their hands, so I always look at them. [Laughs] You can fake a facial expression, but your hands will show how hard you work or how hard you don't. If you show the character's life in their hands, you'll get a good result. REALQ: When did you start paying attention to how you drew hands? Yukimura: Since I was young. But I still find it difficult now. When I look at the work of other manga artists, sometimes the faces are well drawn, but the hands are not. To put it bluntly, if I were to choose among artists, I would choose them by how they draw their hands. REALQ: Is there anyone whose work you reference? Yukimura: I'm especially influenced by artists with high amounts of realism. When it comes to hands, it's gotta be Katsuhiro Otomo.

It's not just his hands, though. It's everything. [Laughs]

Also, the young, up-and-coming artists are all quite good. Their hands are pretty, but you can see the structure clearly as well. REALQ: Any thoughts on these hands? [While looking at Sigurd's hands in the manuscript] Yukimura: Yes. These hands are drawn fairly well. In Sigurd's case, de-spite the muscularity, his hands are not rough. That's because he has his underlings do the tough work. In Thorfinn's case, he has many small cuts, and there is more cracked and peeling skin.

REALQ: Are there any scenes in Vinland Saga strongly influenced by your own experience? Yukimura: When Thorfinn is on his knees, apologizing. [Laughs] The part where he says, "Please. I won't ask you to forgive me, but allow me to live a bit longer." I've been drawing manga for 20 years. There's always a shadow of guilt that hangs over me. I'm sorry for being so selfish. So, I feel I have to, at the very least, draw something that readers will love... I'm nothing without that. Thorfinn is a young viking from medieval Europe. Since his teens, he's pillaged, fought in wars, and done many other terrible things. His feelings change as he grows, and he starts to feel guilt for his past actions. The ghosts of those he killed appears in his dreams, and he is ravaged by nightmares. I am only here today because of the care of those around me. I am truly thankful. If anything about Thorfinn comes from my experiences, it has to be this. In his current state, the protagonist has no right to convict anyone else. No matter what kind of scoundrel he meets, Thorfinn always feels that he has done something worse in the past. I think it's good this way.

REALQ: Did you know from the beginning that Thorfinn would become the way he did? Yukimura: Yeah. The story began with the premise that the protagonist is fated to have done many terrible things. He goes from being the oppressor to being the oppressed, and in doing so, he learns many things and becomes an adult. He then departs, saying, "I will go to a new land beyond the sea and build a peaceful country." That is an escape from the values that dominated European society. They do not feel that it is bad to wage war and plunder other countries. And, although their opponents are human beings, they believe they have the right to make the weak into slaves and kill them if they need be. In the society of that time, such things were seen as good things. Thorfinn experiences—and hates—both. But he is powerless to change the system... So he decides to leave. There will be terrible bloodshed if he decides to change the world. So he leaves it to Canute. Because Canute has the power and the shorter path. "I am different," he says. "I will live in a different way." When I put it into words, it seems like a lot of what I think is reflected in my work. [Laughs]

REALQ: From your childhood experiences and your writing process, I get the feeling you are a perfectionist who doesn't com-promise when it comes to goals or ideals. Do the people around you feel the same way?

Yukimura: I think I am a perfectionist. In the past, my seniors and teachers would say, "If 100 points is amazing work and 0 points is nothing, it's easy to get to 80 points. However, each point beyond that is incredibly difficult. Past 90, it's so rough that you'll start spitting blood. And nobody gets to 100." I don't know if, by absolute standards, my work is at 80 points. But, for my own standards, I care a lot about each of those 1 or 2 points beyond 80. I care so much that others see the changes I make and say, "He pushed back the deadline for this? What's changed?" [Laughs] I've even rewritten an entire manuscript before. REALQ: Is it really rough when you have to throw out a whole manuscript? Yukimura: It's sad that to know the work won't produce results, but the worst possible thing for me is to feel regret afterwards. If I can choose to suffer for a brief moment as I draw, then I'll do it. The regrets afterward stay around much longer... REALQ: Are you happy about the reactions of your overseas readers? Yukimura: Yeah. It's encouraging to know they like my work. Especially when I heard some of them were reading Vinland Saga side-by-side with a dictionary. I forgot which language they were translating from and into, though. [Laughs]

REALQ: Let me change the subject: Advice from adults to children... Do you think it's important to emphasize the importance of having dreams? Should we tell kids to have dreams and tell them their dreams will come true? Yukimura: I used to think dreams were just desires. However, I was a good-for-nothing back then, so I think I was being resentful. [Laughs] At the very least, I don't think doing whatever you want to do is a beautiful thing. That's just you doing what you want to do. The truly beautiful things are helping others, volunteering, things like that... Finding a home for a stray dog, or doing things that no other person wants to do—that's beautiful. This includes me, but to do what you want to do is simply selfishness. I received my role in society, but I couldn't carry it out. I wasn't a modest enough person for that. I said such things because I thought I would do what I wanted to do no matter what other people said to me. It's the same for everyone, I think. Those who do what they want and succeed are simply the ones who ended up with a place in society. It's a miracle. After all, what some people want is to carry out meaningless terrorism... But it's the same thing. Both are "dreams." REALQ: If you could give an hour of advice to your younger self, what would you say? Yukimura: I'd say, reflexively, to be 3 times as careful of oncoming traffic. [Laughs] More seriously, I'd say, "You're worried that you're inferior to others. But don't worry." I'd tell myself that there isn't only one ruler to mea-sure yourself by. "Humans come in all sorts," I'd say. "There's not a single number line that we all stand on." Text by Shuta Miura

#Vinland Saga #Makoto Yukimura #behind the scenes #Interview #Manga and Stuff #Manga Cap #Manga #Art

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skinks · 4 years

Note

mr wentworth yes i help my son with his goofy voices yes i am a dilf tozier has the salt n pepper hair of god (oscar isaac) and the sexy librarian glasses to match

god I had never even considered that... the range of this...

Went starts going gray at 32 when Richie is 5 and it’s all the church women’s group can talk about... indirectly, of course. Oh, but he’s so young. Oh, he’ll be balding next. Oh I don’t know, doesn’t he look... distinguished? Mrs Nash from just down their street sees him doing rock-paper-scissors with his son Richard in the grocery store to determine whether or not Richard is allowed ice cream, and Dr Tozier is laughing because he’s winning, and he’s winning because Richard doesn’t know his father can see his little hidden hand reflected in the freezer cabinet, tucked behind his back. Richard’s laughing too, even though he’s losing, and bleats, “Again! Dad again,” eyes shining big as planets with coke-bottle rings.

“Don’t you know what best two out of three means? That was four draws ago.”

“No! No, I’ll win!” The boy shakes his head so hard his whole body rocks from side to side, then clings up at Dr Tozier’s middle with sticky hands. His very... trim middle. Helen’s own Rory, God love him, he enjoys a sudsy six-pack too much these days to keep a middle like that. “Two outta three! Three ice creams please Dad please please Dad please watch I can count to a hundred—”

“Well, we’re not playing hide-and-go-seek right now, Rich. And I beat you, didnt I?”

“Yeah!”

“Right. So why don’t you go get Dad six apples instead, alright? If you can do a hundred, six’ll be pie.” Dr Tozier claps his big hands gentle to the boy’s round cheeks, until they goldfish.

“Easy as,” they chant together. Helen props herself up with the handles of her own cart, the can of little hotdogs going slack in her hand.

“Six apples, then come right back. You got that, doc? You pick the color.”

Richard nods like he’s trying to detach his own head. Dr Tozier puts one hand just briefly on Richard’s dark mophead hair, like he’s giving the boy a blessing for his apple adventure. His hand is really quite broad, thinks Helen, popped out square at the thumb-joint. Matches that jawline of his, something whispers darkly in her stomach. Then the boy’s off, tearing down the aisle on a squeaking chariot of scuffed-gray sneakers and babbling what sounds like a Bugs Bunny impression, repeated on a loop. What’s up doc what’s up doc what’s up doc, fading around the corner to the fruit. Peculiar. Helen once saw the Tozier boy eat a worm at the park while pushing her youngest on the swings, after another solemn-eyed little boy with a faceful of freckles had carefully presented it to him in the sand box. Most peculiar.

Dr Tozier watches him go, then turns back to the freezer cabinet, and sticks two cartons of ice cream into his shopping cart—the very sugary kind. And the man is a dentist!

Helen puts her hand on her chest to calm the trilling schoolgirl rush of her heart, and then stops herself at the sight of her own wedding ring. Get a hold of yourself, Mrs Nash! For Pete’s sake! She trundles her cart over for some chit-chat. Afternoon, Doctor, she says, lovely weather. A perfect neighbourly opener. It is lovely; bright and warm and clear and golden, like honey outside. She’s quietly smug about her new blowout. Dr Tozier is wearing a crisp shirt with buttons like neat soldiers and short sleeves, exposing lean forearms. Yes, a lovely day. Helen swallows.

“Yes, good for the lawn,” replies Dr Tozier.

“We missed Margaret at book club this week,” Helen hedges.

“Oh, that’s right,” says Dr Tozier, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he grins are even more distracting without the facemask he’s usually wearing, when Helen drops in for her check-ups. He pushes his spectacles up the strong slope of his nose. They’re wiry like him, steely gray to match his eyes. “She meant for me to tell you, or Diana. Maggie’s been in Skowhegan for the week at her mother’s. My mother-in-law is a woman of... nervous disposition, shall we say. Maggie didn’t think she’d cope with two Tozier men at once, now that Richie’s started losing his teeth.”

“Ohhh,” Helen coos. That must explain the ice cream. She puts her hand near to Dr Tozier’s arm, then away, then near, then away again for good. A neighbourly distance. Margaret is a lovely, lucky woman, even if she does wear flared pants. Hippie to yuppie pipeline’s alive ‘n’ flowin’, Rory always grunts whenever the Toziers come up in conversation. Helen imagines a picket fence between their bodies, and calms. “My Wendy was the same, I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes,” says Dr Tozier mildly. “You brought her in six times as I recall it, Mrs Nash.”

Mrs Nash. Honestly, like she’s his schoolteacher. It’s a little rude. Admittedly he does look quite, quite young with his faintly curling weekend-hair, if not for the new gray blazing a trail back from his temples like virgin snow. Helen is undeterred, even if something quivers inside at the thought of the word virgin in conversation with Dr Tozier. Music tinkles tinny through the ceiling speakers, and it puts Helen in mind of potted plants, or elevators. This is a lovely chat. “Well, you hate to see them suffer, don’t you? I’m sure Richard’s the same, lots of tears—”

“No, actually, Richie keeps on finding things to hit himself in the face with and knock out more teeth,” Dr Tozier interjects. He raises his eyebrows and speaks hushed, as if this is a secret for Helen’s ears alone. The thought makes her dizzy. “It’s my fault, I made the mistake of giving him a quarter for the first one. That’s why he’s not invited to Grandma’s. Lot of antiques.”

“Oh,” says Helen, taken aback. She has three girls; little boy behavior is as yet mystifying. “Well.”

“I’m joking, Helen,” Dr Tozier says cheerfully.

“Oh. I—I see. What a relief.”

He opens a freezer chest to examine a bag of frozen peas. “Maggie’s mom is deaf as white cat, she’d never notice.”

Helen tries to wipe her clammy hands on her dress without being obvious. Her face is hot, but she hopes her cardigan conceals the effect that the chill of the freezer aisle is having under her bra. She also hopes that it doesn’t.

He really does have such a slender, pleasant face, always with an air of casual, amused expectancy hanging around him. Haloing him, like that bright yellow light above the chair in his practice, blocked out when he leans over and slips his fingers inside. Helen supposes that’s what graduating medical school must do to a man, what marrying and fathering young and having one’s own practice by the end of such a turbulent decade as the nineteen-seventies must elicit. The ability to put people at ease, to—to say open wide and know the people of Derry trust him enough to comply. To open themselves. Helen’s breathing catches. Dr Tozier idly checks his sensible watch, still smiling the unhurried smile of a man who very rarely does his own grocery shopping anymore. Everyone knows you pick up the ice-cream last.

Helen gathers herself. This is the longest conversation she has entertained with Dr Tozier without children or the squeaking of latex gloves between them, and she’s gripped by the terribly silly need to be interesting. “Speaking of white cats, I couldn’t help noticing your hair, Wentworth—”

“DADDY!”

Dr Tozier blanches, whipping around to scan the end of the aisle. He is a long line of tense instinct tuned to thrum into action at one specific frequency, knuckles white on the cart handle. His cart bumps into Helen’s. It is thrilling.

“Fuck,” Dr Tozier mutters, and that’s thrilling too, he swore, oh, the boy’s probably fine Wentworth, don’t go, why don’t we just stay right here with the frozen goods and—

Then Richard comes barrelling back down the aisle like a colt on new legs covered in old Band-aids, with his arms full. The fluorescent strip-lights gleam white on Dr Tozier’s broad shoulders and he sags, like snow dropping from a branch, with relief.

“Hey, lunkhead,” he says, sounding shaky, but Richard is only five and would never know it. He’s babbling again. Seems to Helen like the boy’s as a hydrant overflowing on a hot day; entertaining and welcomed at first, until it becomes a nuisance when you begin to understand it won’t shut off, and have to call the firemen.

“Nyyeeeeeah,” Richard greets his father, tousled and bug-eyed with clear adoration, breathing hard from his Supermarket Sweep. Then he makes the carrot-noise. Looks like Bugs, Helen thinks of the boy’s new adult front teeth, the beaverish jut of them exacerbated by his missing canines on either side. Then she feels abruptly un-neighbourlike for being jealous of a child for his father’s attention, good grief.

Dr Tozier regards his son for a long moment. Then says, “What’s up, doc?” in a spot-on Mel Blanc whine. Richard giggles so hard his too-big glasses start slipping. “How many apples is that?”

“Gotta apples and I was gonna put ‘em in a bag but I forgot and Dad, Daddy look, s’a dinosaur on the box for my dinner when Mommy’s at Grandma’s—”

Dr Tozier sighs, putting one hand on his hip and dragging the other over his clean-shaven mouth, watching Richard drop his armfuls everywhere, scattering the linoleum. He has two apples, four boxes of brightly colored cereal, a handful of pencils topped with cartoon-character erasers, and a kiwi fruit. For a moment, Helen sees the shining enamel of Dr Tozier’s everything-will-work-out-with-another-cup-of-coffee amusement slip, wear away to worry underneath.

“Rich,” he says, interrupting Richard’s blabbermouth, firm and patient. Helen’s thighs burn suddenly under her skirts at the tone of his voice, and she looks down, rearranging her own groceries. She should leave them to get on. She could offer to help. Margaret’s out of town, poor things, they probably haven’t eaten a cooked meal all week!

“Richie,” Dr Tozier says again. “Listen and pay attention when Mom or me ask you to do something, remember? How many apples did I ask you to get?”

Richard has to crane his neck to meet his father’s eyes. Dr Tozier is one of the tallest fathers in the Derry Elementary catchment zone, Helen has checked. “Six!”

“And how many’ve you got, Elmer Fudd?”

“Um.” Richard’s pale little face creases in thought, then brightens. When he speaks again his voice is strange, accented. “Twooo.”

“Some apple hunter you are, huh.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“That’s fine.” Dr Tozier stoops to gather Richard’s detritus, and Helen knows she has something to contribute, watching the boy stick one of the pencils up his nose.

“You know, apples are very good for you,” she says. Richard turns to her, slack-jawed, as if seeing her for the first time. “You should listen to your Daddy, Richard, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Richard stares for another few seconds. Then he bites down on his boogery pencil so that it threads through the gaps in his teeth, and hollers, “MY FRIEND BILL SAID THAT’S A PILE OF BULLSHIT.”

“No shouting indoors, Rich,” says Dr Tozier, still gathering. Helen rocks a step backwards, clinging to her cart like a life-preserver.

“Bill and my’s friend Eddie eats a thousand apples and sees the doctor all the time though Dad, and Miss Spiegel said if we eat apples we don’t have to see the doctors but Eddie eats them and—Bill said—”

“Pile of bullshit, yeah, I liked it. Bill’s an eloquent guy,” says Dr Tozier. This is the second time Helen has ever heard him curse in as many minutes. It comes out easy and amused as everything else does in his pleasant tenor. His legs and his jaw are so lean and angular that Helen can see the suggestion, the shadow of the shape of his perfect, swearing teeth through his cheek as he grins helplessly at his son, the fruit of his loins and someone else’s loins who isn’t Helen, and all of a sudden she feels a slick pulse of wet heat, up between her thighs.

She squeaks. Flutters her hand to her face without knowing why, perhaps to catch the noise before Dr Tozier notices, just another quivering Derry leaf tossed along by his breezy manner. He looks up anyway, with a frown.

“Everything alright, Helen?”

“Just—fine, yes,” she manages. Dr Tozier is still down on one knee, kindly face level with her skirts. She can see right down under his starched collar from this angle, a slivering glimpse of smooth, dark hair. No undershirt. Helen has lain naked against Rory’s nakedness before without feeling this alive, in every part of her body. She feels like a heart, beating.

“Oh, hang on.” Dr Tozier says, eyes widening, and turns Richard by the shoulders to face her. One pencil for each nostril, now. “Apologize to Mrs Nash for cussing, Richie.”

“Sorry!” Richard shouts, sounding less like he’s apologizing and more like he’s just deemed Helen it during a game of tag.

Helen is still floating in a dazed state of mild panic. Like a prey-mouse, bewitched into slack compliance by her own body’s snaking desires. “That’s alright, dear.”

F-word, Dr Tozier had said. Maybe cussing could be quite neighbourly when applied in the right context, thinks Helen.

“You mentioned my hair, earlier,” says Dr Tozier, straightening back up with a knowing sort of arch to his eyebrow as he smiles genially at Helen. He tilts his head down at Richard. “There’s the reason. Every last one, sprinkled onto my head at the tender age of thirty-two by the great salt-and-pepper shaker of fatherhood. Especially this week, with Maggie on sabbatical. Had to bring you to work with me, didn’t I, buckaroo?”

Richard bites and swings and tugs on his father’s long arm, a tearaway kitten with a much obliging scratching post. Dr Tozier hardly seems to notice. “Yeah! Daddy’s got fishes at work!”

Dr Tozier grimaces slightly at Helen, but also as if he’s seeing right through her to some past unnamable horror. “I liked those fish. Calmed down the nervy patients.” He sighs again.

Helen wonders briefly whether or not the residents of Dr Tozier’s waiting-room fish tank suffered the same fate as that worm in the park, and decides she’d rather not know.

“Well, you needn’t worry about it,” she says, gamely. She watches her hand reach towards Dr Tozier’s silver-black brindle, then snatches it back from his bland expression to brush the tips of her own feathered-out hair. “The gray, I mean.”

Dr Tozier blinks.

“It’s very—that is to say, you look, it makes you look, I mean, I think it’s—”

Dr Tozier’s left eyebrow joins his right, raised up high.

A tidy little jet of hysteria shoots up from Helen’s knotting stomach to spin like a top in her chest. She hears herself stutter out the word, “Dashing,” and immediately wishes to flee the store, leaving her cart abandoned like so much collateral damage.

But Dr Tozier only barks a laugh, a short, smooth hah like everything else he says. Entirely unperturbed. “Well, thank you.”

Too unperturbed. Helen is struck by a sudden bolt of terror, at the thought of the things Dr Tozier must surely hear every day, when people are lulled by the hypnotically intimate environment of a dentist’s chair and a touch of the laughing gas. Oh, this is terrible. Her face is on fire.

“But they—they make products for men now,” she says, and why, oh why can’t she stop talking? “Hair dyes, I mean, if it really does bother you? I’ve seen them in Keene’s.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” says Dr Tozier, looking down at Richard then with a soft edge, at his bouncing noise and scabbed knees and gently curling hair like a black spaniel’s. Like his father’s. “I find I’m rather grateful for it, truth be told.”

“Plus,” he continues, as if Helen wasn’t already melting harder than the Tozier’s ice-cream, as if Johnny Kitchener the shop-boy isn’t going to have to come along with a mop and bucket to clean up on aisle seven, “Maggie’d kill me if I got rid of it.”

Then Dr Tozier winks.

Oh Lord, oh Lord, Helen’s whole ribcage is so tight she can’t squeeze out a reply, because who could blame dear, pretty, annoyingly friendly, lucky, lucky, lucky Margaret for that when Dr Wentworth Tozier DMD is so—

So f—

So fffffff—

So fiddlesticksing handsome!

“Well, we’d best not keep you, Helen. This one is in dire need of a bath before his mother sees him, and hands me a divorce on the spot,” Dr Tozier says, when another few moments have passed and all Helen can do is try to desperately smooth the creases from her breathing. He’s humming mild interest at something Richard is saying, knelt back down to the linoleum to tie the boy’s loose-worm laces presumably before he gives himself any more skinned knees, and they’re leaving. Dr Tozier is leaving, and Helen hasn’t done anything but act like a ninny this entire time. She doesn’t want him to think her a ninny, a simpleton. She wants him to leave this bright, liminal church of bold colors and jazzy waiting-room music and return to his lemon-yellow two-storey house thinking my, what a lovely chat I had with Helen Nash.

She wants to linger, as he lingers. Like an amiable spirit hanging over the women’s group at church, waiting to be summoned at a moment’s eager notice. I bumped into Dr Tozier at Palmer’s on Saturday, she’ll say to the other jealous ladies, with triumph, and we had such a nice talk. He called me Helen.

“And when—when does Margaret get home?” she blurts. A very secret part of Helen wants Dr Tozier to leave this conversation with Helen and his wife both, entwined by association in his mind. She tries very hard not to think about the Toziers divorcing, because that is un-neighbourly, and feels least neighbourly of all when a dopey, dreamy look crosses Dr Tozier’s face like a brief sunbeam at her question.

“Ah. Tonight. Not too late, hopefully.” He jerks one of his knuckley thumbs at his shopping cart, licking the other to wipe something unidentifiable from Richard’s grubby face. “That’s why we’re here, stocking up for her miraculous return. Like a couple of noble emperor penguins in Antarctica, eh Rich?”

“Penguins like from Batman! Ka-pow.”

Helen takes a peek into their cart, curiosity getting the better of her now that permission is granted. Dr Tozier might not know it, but looking into another person’s cart is bad grocery etiquette, especially in a town like Derry, where gossip grows like a fungus in every sweaty and close little huddle of people. Not that Helen would know about that. Anyway, there isn’t much to gossip about besides the unfortunately liquefied ice-cream, the severe lack of crunchy vegetables characteristic of a young man in 1981 trying to provide for a tooth-shedding son, and—

A little cardboard box. Tossed unashamedly between the Wonderbread and a magazine about sports. Prophylactics. Rubbers.

36-pack. XL

Helen knows her jaw is hanging open and strains to close it, the back of her neck and her shoulders feeling hot and tight and shuddery. She kneads a fist into her skirts. Crosses her legs at the ankles as demurely as she knows how, because the very last thing she needs is for frank, sensible Dr Tozier to see right through her with that easy doctor-patient-confidentiality smile, and know she’s soaking through her underwear at the sight of his Saturday grocery run, and all it implies.

Dr Tozier is laughing, nudging Richard in the direction of the register, or perhaps the apples. “Ka-pow is right. I’ll make sure to use that on Mom, thanks. Say hello to Rory for us, Helen. Have a nice day,” he says from over his shoulder, startling her. Holds up one long hand in a wave with a grin, and is gone, shadowing the boy’s haphazard attempts to push the cart despite not being able to see where he’s going.

Helen stands amongst the humming freezers, trembling. “You too,” she rasps, but Dr Tozier has rounded the corner, and is evidently going to have a nice day and a much nicer night, regardless of whether Helen wishes it for him or not.

All the bright little branded characters are watching her from their shelves, a silent jury. Helen Nash opens a freezer cabinet with a weak arm, and stands there for a while, staring at a leg of ham and thinking cooling, neighbourly thoughts.

#long post #idk how to do readmores on mobile soz not soz #wentworth tozier #richie tozier #poor sexually unsatisfied helen nash #sometimes you just have to write the DILF went tozier fic you want to see in the world #stephen king: he was a pleasant looking man with a rather thin face #me cracking my knuckles: a l r i g h t #but what if... big dick richie was hereditary... what then 😳🤔👀🤔👀😳😳👀#ficlet

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hookedonapirate · 4 years

Text

Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

Summary: Detective Killian Jones took an indefinite leave of absence from SBPD after his brother was murdered in the Line of Duty. Bitter and broken, he resides in a cabin on the beach when his brother's former partner, David Nolan brings him a case he knows the vengeful detective won’t be able to resist. A case involving Liam's killer.

Dr. Emma Swan makes all of her decisions like she operates on her patients—with care, competence and compassion. But when her colleague, Graham Humbert, is murdered in cold blood by the man who was freed because of a decision she made as a juror, she starts second-guessing herself. To make matters worse, her squeaky clean reputation is being questioned when she becomes a suspect for Graham’s murder.

There is one detective who believes she’s innocent, and he has a plan to protect Emma and find his brother's killer at the same time. When Killian finds himself caught between his duties to the SBPD and his need for vengeance, matters are only complicated by the feelings he develops for the woman he's supposed to protect.

He's impulsive and hot-tempered, and she's methodical and cool under pressure. Despite their differences, can they work together to bring the murderer to justice, or will the murderer get to them first?

A/N: Many thanks go to @ultraluckycatnd for her wonderful beta-ing skills and @onceuponaprincessworld as always for her encouragement and letting me bounce ideas off of her.

So a few things before we get started with this chapter.

You've probably noticed, I made Emma older than she is usually portrayed in fanfics since being chief of surgery requires an extensive medical background, education, training, experience, etc. Basically this is how old she would be ten years later from the OUAT pilot. With that said, I've made the other main and supporting characters older as well. Emma and David are 38-39, and Killian, Elsa, Anna and MM are 32-35. Just wanted to clarify that to avoid confusion, though I do mention some of their ages in the story. I'm doing my best to keep the timeline consistent but if anything doesn't make sense with the timeline, or in general, please don't hesitate to ask me about it either on here or Tumblr.

Secondly, I know some of you, or maybe all of you are hoping Emma will contact the police about Neal, but keep in mind, Emma's a suspect and yes, contacting the police would be in her best interest, but Emma's going to be paranoid about every move she makes because she overanalyzes and thinks everything through. And any move that could potentially bring more attention to herself regarding graham's murder could effect her career she has worked so hard to obtain. So please keep these things in mind before you get too upset with her.

Also, this chapter is in Killian's pov, so we will see the video footage of Emma's interview. To avoid a bunch of repetition this chapter shows different points of the interview so that's why different questions are shown in this one, except for a few that I included in both chapters..

You will find that Killian has to iron out some wrinkles in his relationships with David and Elsa, so this chapter and the next will include some angst, but I think all of you lovelies are going to like what I have planned for chapter 5, so please bear with me until then :)

Okay enough of my rambling and on with the story. Thanks for reading!

Rated: Explicit due to mature language, character death, violence, murder and smut. The scenes won’t be too graphic, but I’d rather overrate than underrate it.

Catch up: Pro I Ch 1 I Ch 2

Chapter 3

“Uncle Killian!”

With a big smile on his face, Killian watches his nephews charging toward him. He sets down his tackle box and fishing pole and wipes the sweat off his brow as he steps off the dock. “Oof,” he feigns a pained noise with a chuckle as Leo tackles him. Killian picks him up, drawing him into an enormous bear hug, noticing his nephew is heavier than the last time Killian picked him up. “You’re growing too fast. Soon you'll be taller than me.”

“Nah-ah,” Leo laughs, shaking his head.

“Uncle Ki-wi!” Liam wobbles toward him and wraps his arms around Killian’s legs.

“Can you tell they missed you?” Mary Margaret asks as she catches up with her children, David hot on her heels, their hair rustled by the wind.

“No, not at all,” Killian chuckles, setting Leo down to pick up Liam. “It’s been too long. Far too long.” The two brothers are four years apart, and though Killian is not related to them by blood, he’s like a brother to David, thus Uncle Killian to David’s sons. “I missed you too,” Killian says, dropping a kiss to the crown of Liam’s head.

The little lad will be three years old soon, but it feels like only yesterday when Killian cradled the newborn in his arms as the parents announced they were naming him after a man who died a hero—David’s best friend and partner, and Killian’s brother.

He sets little Liam on his feet and looks up at David, noting the laptop satchel strapped around his shoulder. He fooled Killian into thinking this was only a social visit by wearing his casual clothes—khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. And Mary Margaret is carrying a tote bag of beach supplies, ready to lounge on the beach.

“Did you catch anything?” David asks.

“Fishing is not about the catch, mate.”

David grins. “I know. It’s an excuse to drink during the day, right?”

Killian scoffs playfully and waves his words. “Like I need an excuse.”

They share a laugh as they draw each other into a hug and pat one another on the back. They’ve been friends long before Killian joined the Storybrooke Police Department. David’s four years older than him and the same age as Liam would've been—thirty-nine—but the three of them were pretty much inseparable. And after Liam passed, Killian and David shared a heartache neither would ever fully recover from. “I’ve missed you, Jones.”

“Missed you too.” After they break the hug, Killian turns to Mary Margaret, smiling warmly at her. “Thanks for bringing the boys.”

“Of course,” she says, throwing her arms around him. She’s six years younger than David and has been married to him for ten years. They met right after she graduated from college and moved to Storybrooke to take a teaching job. She is now the vice principal at Forest Grove Elementary.

“Sorry if I smell like fish and sweat,” Killian apologizes as he wraps his arms around her.

“Oh wow, you do,” she laughs, pinching her nose but doesn’t pull away. “That’s okay. Wouldn’t expect anything less since you live in this fishing town.”

He chuckles. “You know, I could’ve just visited you all in Storybrooke if I had been given more notice. I could’ve saved you a trip.” He didn’t even know they were coming over until last night when David had called him out of the blue.

Mary Margaret waves off his words as they break the hug. “Nonsense. The boys were dying to see their Uncle Killian, and they've been begging us to take them to the beach, so we thought we'd kill two birds with one stone.”

“It’s nice to see all of you again.” He looks at David, narrowing his eyes. “Though I have a feeling this isn't just a pleasure trip for you, is it?”

David gives into a grin and pats Killian on the shoulder. “Is it ever just pleasure with me?”

Killian chuckles and shakes his head. “Never.” Outwardly he’s relaxed and cheerful, but inwardly, he has a bad feeling about whatever David wishes to discuss with him.

“Uncle Killian, will you make sandcastles with us?!” Leo asks as his mother hands him and Liam a big sand bucket packed with sandcastle molds and a shovel.

Killian opens his mouth to answer but David beats him to the punch. “Actually, we have some important things to discuss first. Then Killian can make sandcastles with you.”

The boys groan their disapproval, Leo gets over it quickly and wastes no time racing off toward the shoreline, Liam wobbling after him.

“Not so fast, you two! Sunblock, first, then floaties!” Mary Margaret calls out, following their trail of messy footprints in the sand.

When Leo halts in his tracks and turns around, going to his mother as she spreads out a blanket on the sand and retrieves a bottle of sunblock from her tote, Liam trails behind his brother.

“Anyone want something to drink?” Killian asks them.

“Sure, I’ll take some iced tea,” Mary Margaret replies.

“Do you have Capri Suns?” Leo asks.

“Of course I do. What kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t stock up on Capri Suns for when my nephews come to visit?”

“Yes!” Leo exclaims, fisting the air.

Mary Margaret pulls off Liam’s shirt and rubs lotion over his back and arms. “Thank you, Killian. And you don’t have to worry about Liam, he has his sippy cup with juice in it.”

“Okay.” Killian turns his head to look at David. “Want a beer?”

“Sure, you got Lone Star?”

Killian’s lips stretch into a wide grin. “Any other beer would be treason.” After he grabs his fishing gear and stores it in the garage, he and David head inside the house.

Killian goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher of sweet tea, a fruit punch Capri Sun and two bottles of beer, setting them on the island counter. He pops off the caps of the beers before handing a bottle to David. “What important things did you have in mind to discuss?”

David holds up his bag. “Take a wild guess.”

Killian sighs as he pours Mary Margaret a tall glass of tea. “And here I thought you just wanted to catch up on old times.”

“I do, but I also want to discuss a case with you,” David admits softly before taking a swig of his beer.

Killian’s jaw twitches as he glares at his old friend. “Then you’re wasting your time. I came here to Port Lavaca to get away from that stuff.”

“Which is exactly why I brought it to you.” David sets down his beer and places his laptop bag on the counter, unzipping it. “Just give me five minutes, okay?”

“And why should I?”

“Because you’ll want your hands on this case, trust me.” David pulls out his computer and sets it up on the counter.

“How are Elsa and Camila doing?” Killian asks, deliberately changing the subject. He’s not interested in whatever case David is about to present to him, nor is he pretending to be.

“Why don't you ask them yourself?”

“Because you see them and talk to them more often than I do. I didn’t even get invited to Anna’s wedding, which I’m positive the Maid of Honor had something to with.”

David looks up from his open laptop, furrowing his brows. “Doesn't the bride and groom normally choose the people on the guest list? Mary Margaret and I chose our own guests for our wedding.”

“True, but even if Anna and Kristoff wanted to invite me, you don’t think Elsa talked them out of it?”

David shrugs. “Maybe, but if she did, who’s fault is that?”

“David…” Killian mutters with a pained expression, his heart constricting. “You know my relationship with Elsa hasn’t been the best since Liam passed.”

David turns around and plants his hands on his hips, gaping at Killian. “Hasn’t been the best? It’s almost nonexistent.”

“Aye, because of what happened,” Killian states bitterly. “Since then, she’s only ever let me stop by so I can pick up my niece and spend time with her.” He desperately wants to change that though. He wants his sister-in-law back, he wants the friendship they once had, and he wants to spend time with both her and Camila again. He’s tired of missing out on important milestones in Camila's life all because her mother and uncle prefer not to be in the same room together. He’s just been too much of a coward to tell Elsa that. To apologize for letting his temper get the best of him.

“Do you blame her? You let her husband’s killer get away with murder,” David scolds.

Killian slams his beer on the counter, anger surging through him. “I loved him too, okay?! I was only trying to prove—no, you know what?” He raises his open palms in protest. “I’m not doing this with you. Not today, not ever.” He gathers the beverages and storms out, the backdoor squeaking on its corroded hinges as he strides onto the deck and rushes down the steps. He doesn’t need this shite. His nephews are here to visit with him and he’s not about to waste the opportunity.

“Killian, wait!” David calls out from the deck as Killian trudges through the sand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn't have said that! I know you loved him! We all did!”

Killian turns around, pinning him with a glare as David makes his way down the steps. “He was my brother. I’m the last person in the world who wanted that piece of scum to get away with ending his life.”

“I know.” David sighs as he inches closer. “Which is why I’m here.”

Killian narrows his eyes, his brows knitted in confusion. “I thought you were here to discuss a case?”

A pained expression etches David’s features. “I am. A case involving your brother’s killer.”

Killian’s fists clench around the drinks, his jaw tightening at the thought of another innocent victim falling at the hands of—

No, he can't do this. He’s not going down that path again; it only leads to anger, bitterness and vengeance. He shakes his head. “I told you, I’m done with detective work. I’m not interested.” He walks away again, heading toward Mary Margaret and his nephews.

“What if I said there's a good possibility you could catch him this time? Then would you be interested?”

Killian stops in his tracks, gazing out at the sea as David’s words slice through him. No, he shouldn’t care about catching Liam’s killer anymore. He gave up a long time ago. But somehow he finds himself turning around to face David again, curiosity clawing at his gut. “How?”

A triumphant grin crawls across David’s lips. “I knew that would gain your attention.”

“Just tell me,” Killian demands ardently.

David steps toward him. “I'll tell you when you agree to hear me out.” He holds up the five fingers of his right hand. “Five minutes.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Killian mumbles and turns around, walking away. This time, David doesn’t holler after him or follow him.

When Killian brings the drinks to Mary Margaret and Leo, she thanks him and lifts her sunglasses, perching them atop her head and squinting up at Killian. “What were you and David shouting about?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing important.”

Mary Margaret frowns, not believing him. “You should hear him out, Killian. He really misses working with you.”

Killian sighs and sips his beer as he watches Liam filling his bucket with sand and Leo walking along the shore, collecting seashells. “Will I really want my hands on the case?”

A solemn expression creases Mary Margaret’s features. “Would David drive three hours to ask you if he thought otherwise?”

“He would if it meant spending time with an old friend… or at least I would hope,” Killian grumbles.

“Of course he would, but if he didn’t think you’d be interested, he wouldn’t have brought it up.”

Killian takes another swig of his beer, pondering David’s offer.

Mary Margaret puts her tea in the beach cup holder she’d brought with her and gets up to walk toward her sons, giving Leo his drink and sitting across from Liam to help him make a sandcastle.

Killian misses spending time with them, but he doesn’t know if he’s ready to head back to Storybrooke. He’d moved here to this fishing town, Port Lavaca, almost two years ago and bought this cabin on Lighthouse Beach. After Cassidy got away with murdering Liam, Killian blamed himself—everyone blamed him—and he couldn’t stand to be in Storybrooke any longer. He couldn’t live in a town that reminded him of his brother, a town that couldn’t bring his brother’s murderer to justice and pointed their fingers at Killian for the reason Cassidy got away with his crime. David knows he has no interest in going back. Not to Storybrooke, not to the SBPD, and yet he made the trip with his family three hours away from home. Nolan wouldn’t have bothered bringing the case with him if he knew Killian wouldn’t take the bait.

When Killian heads inside and steps through the backdoor, David’s back is leaning against the counter, his arms crossed as he waits for a different answer. Or rather the answer he wants to hear.

Killian knows he’ll regret this, but he can’t deny his curiosity is piqued. The detective in him is itching to know more about the case, or so he tells himself. He assents with an exasperated sigh. “Five minutes. That’s all you get.”

David grins. “That’s all I need.” He brings his laptop to the table, and once Killian takes a seat next to him, David plays a video that’s ready to go on his laptop. “This was recorded yesterday.”

The video feed takes place in the interrogation room. David and Detective Jefferson are sitting at one side of the table and there’s a man in a suit sitting on the other side who David says is an attorney. But what really piques his interest—or rather who—is the blonde woman sitting next to the attorney. She’s beautiful, with long blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail and striking green eyes. She’s wearing a black blouse under a fire engine red, two-piece suit and red pumps on her feet. Bold color choice. She’s definitely not a woman who lacks confidence.

“Who is she?”

“This is Dr. Emma Swan. She’s a surgeon at Storybrooke General.”

“That name sounds familiar,” Killian comments, more to himself than to David.

“She’s Anna and Elsa’s cousin. But this conversation and what I’m showing you has to stay between us. I’m only here to visit with an old friend, got it? I haven’t even told Mary Margaret that Anna and Elsa’s cousin is involved in the case.”

Killian nods. “I understand, but what’s her crime? Dressing too nicely. Being too pretty?” he quips with a smirk.

David rolls his eyes. “This is serious, Jones.” He reverts his gaze to the computer screen. “Her colleague, Dr. Graham Humbert, was murdered seven days ago in the Storybrooke General parking lot. They were rival surgeons who bickered and teased each other all the time. Both were vying for the Chief of Surgery position he was appointed to just a week before he was murdered.”

“And you think she offed him for his job title?” Killian asks, unable to take his eyes off her. She doesn’t look like your typical suspect by any means. She’s calm and still, her arms and legs crossed casually, her face expressionless. Typically, people who were being questioned for a felony offense trembled, couldn’t sit still and would sweat profusely. But not this woman. He can't detect any sign of fear or worry in her eyes, her posture or her behavior.

“I think there’s more to it than that, but yes, I think she had something to do with his death. The night he was murdered, Dr. Swan was with Graham at the Rabbit Hole. According to other colleagues who were also there celebrating Graham’s promotion, the two surgeons were having an intimate discussion.”

Killian lifts a brow. “You think they were lovers?”

“According to Emma and everyone else, they weren’t. They often squabbled, but it was mostly friendly. They respected each other.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Dr. Swan said he walked her to her car that night, and before she left, she saw him head back inside. According to the bar owner and his employees who were on duty that night, Dr. Humbert left the bar an hour later, around eleven o’clock and went home. His phone records show he received a call at 2:20 in the morning, but it was from a restricted number.”

“And let me guess, the number was untraceable?”

“Yep. But whoever called him knew the safety code.”

“Safety code?”

“Anyone who calls in hospital staff is required to supply the safety code. You know, like when parents give their kids a safety word for emergencies so they don’t get abducted by strangers.”

“So, whoever called Humbert was someone who works at the hospital?”

“Possibly, and either that person had something to do with his murder or it’s a sheer coincidence the phone call preceded his death by only twenty minutes. But no one I spoke with at the hospital knew about the phone call or why he would've been called in. He wasn't on call that night.”

“Was Dr. Humbert married?”

“Nope, never was. A few people I interviewed mentioned he once had a fling with Dr. Regina Mills, head of Cardiology, but it ended four years ago. She’s now happily married.”

“Maybe they still had something together, but kept it secret so her husband didn’t find out? And if so, maybe her husband found out and is the one who murdered him?”

“The husband, Mr. Locksley owns the Rabbit Hole, and he was closing the bar at the time Dr. Humbert was murdered. One of his employees was there to corroborate that.”

“Dr. Mills didn’t take his last name when they got married?”

“No, I asked her about it during the interview, and she said she wanted to keep her maiden name to avoid confusing her regular patients.”

“And where was she that night?”

“She was tending to a patient with cardiac arrest.”

“What was the cause of Dr. Humbert's death?”

David clears his throat and retrieves a folder from his bag, pulls out some photos and spreads them over the table.

Killian swallows the sizable lump in his throat. The photos are of the murder victim with a knife lodged in beneath his left arm.

“Massive hemorrhaging from the stab wound.”

Killian picks up one of the photos, studying it. “And the knife’s untraceable as well?” he asks bitterly, though he doesn’t need to. He already knows the answer.

“Of course. The knife is an average filleting knife that could’ve come from any kitchen. The blade went through clean as a whistle and popped Dr. Humbert's heart like a balloon. And no fingerprints. Whoever did this knew what he was doing. Or she.”

“Like another doctor?”

David shrugs. “Possibly.”

“And you’re certain the cardiologist was with a patient? She would know exactly where to stab a person to make it fatal.”

“I checked the hospital security footage for verification. She went into her patient’s room at the time of the murder. Her alibi checks out.”

“Were there any witnesses?”

“A security guard saw Humbert pull into the parking lot but never saw him go inside. When he left his post to check on Dr. Humbert, he found Graham’s body near his car. The murderer was like a ghost. Never seen, never heard. He left without a fucking trace.”

The hairs on the back of Killian’s neck stand on end. “Cassidy...” He cringes from merely speaking his name.

David nods. “Question is, who hired him?”

“This Dr. Swan… is she married?” Killian doesn’t think Emma had anything to do with the murder, but perhaps a jealous lover who saw her with Graham that night hired Cassidy. He’s drawing straws though.

“No husband or boyfriend to speak of. She lives alone. No kids, not even birth parents. She was shuffled around from one foster home to another until she was adopted at the age of ten—by Anna and Elsa’s aunt. I’m sure you've heard the story?”

“Aye, after their parents died in a car accident, Anna and Elsa went to stay with their Aunt Ingrid and her adopted daughter.” Killian points at the computer screen. “That’s her?”

David nods. “Yep. The aloof cousin.”

“Huh.” Why has he never met this aloof cousin? Of course, if he’d known she was so gorgeous, he’d have made that happen a long time ago, but he'd never seen a picture of her, at least not one of her as an adult. If he had, he would have recognized her on the video. Killian shakes off the thoughts and studies the photos again. “I don’t get how a good-looking, successful doctor like this man stayed single?” Or a beautiful, successful doctor like Emma for that matter.

David shrugs. “He probably was by choice. Maybe he was too focused on his career and thought a romantic relationship would only distract him. Or maybe he was in love with Regina and knew he couldn’t have her, so he didn’t want anyone else.”

“Or maybe he was in love with someone else?” Killian poses. If he were Graham and had a female friend like Emma, he doubts he’d have only platonic feelings for her. “You said he walked Emma to her car that night?”

“That’s right.”

“Was there a kiss goodnight?”

“When I questioned Dr. Swan, she said they hugged, and he kissed her on the cheek. I asked her if that was normal and she said no. It surprised her. But I checked the video footage in front of the bar. Mr. Locksley set up a camera there after someone tried to throw a rock through the door window a couple of years ago.”

“To steal alcohol?”

“Or cash from the till,” David shrugs. “Whatever their reason was, they weren’t successful. Probably got spooked by someone who saw them. Anyway, the hug between the two surgeons lasted too long to be friendly.”

“How long?”

“Ten seconds.”

“How long is a normal hug?”

“A few seconds, maybe more, depending on the relationship of the person you’re hugging. But ten seconds is too long if you’re only friends. Or frenemies in this case. So maybe, Graham had feelings for her but she didn’t return them? Maybe Graham made her feel uncomfortable or said something to her when he hugged her, and that, topped with him getting the promotion she desired was enough to want him dead.”

Killian mulls it over for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, it’s too obvious. She’s smarter than that. She’s a doctor and has way more education than both of us combined. If she really wanted him dead, she wouldn’t have hired someone to murder him a week after his promotion. I don’t think she hired Cassidy.”

David cocks a brow, a sly smirk curving his lips. “So does that mean you’re in?”

“I didn’t say that,” Killian grumbles.

“But it’s been over five minutes. Which means I’ve intrigued you. Otherwise, we’d be outside with my wife and kids right now.”

Bloody hell.

David’s right. Killian is intrigued, and not solely by the case, but by the blonde woman on David’s computer screen. He wants to know more about her; he wants to find out more information. He has a gut feeling about her; he knows she didn’t murder Dr. Humbert. He doesn’t believe the whole rival surgeons scenario is a motive for murder. He and David also bicker and tease each other, but he would never murder David over a job promotion. “Okay, fine. I’m intrigued. But as I said, I don’t think she had anything to do with Dr. Humbert’s murder.”

David makes a noise of hesitance and appears to be unsure about Killian’s assessment. “There’s something else you should know that might change your mind.”

Killian cocks a brow. “What’s that?”

“Did you hear about Cassidy’s most recent trial?”

Killian shakes his head. “I stopped watching the news or following any media regarding that arsehole,” Killian mutters. “Not knowing there’s yet another victim left in his path of destruction is the only way I can sleep at night.”

“He was acquitted from another capital punishment.”

Killian scoffs. “So he got away with another murder? What else is new?”

David sighs and fast-forwards through the video. “Just listen.” He hits play.

“Dr. Swan, did you recently serve on a jury that recently acquitted an accused contract killer, Neal Gold?”

Killian’s eyebrow jumps, and he reclines in his chair, crossing his arms.

“What’s the relevance of the question, Detective?” Mr. Hopper asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

David raises his hand in defense. “I’ll get to that, I promise.”

“Please do very quickly,” Emma says curtly. “Some of us don’t have time for unnecessary interviews. I have patients waiting for me.”

David sighs. “The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can leave.”

She expels a tentative breath. “Yes, I served on the jury that acquitted Mr. Gold.”

“And were you or were you not the forewoman?”

Killian swallows the lump in his throat.

“I was. But you already knew that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have asked.”

“Feisty lass,” Killian remarks with a subtle smirk.

David nods. “That’s for sure. Feisty but polite.”

They revert their attention to the video.

“That’s correct. I’ve already interviewed the other eleven jurors.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe Dr. Humbert’s killer was hired. He wasn’t robbed, and he has no known adversaries… other than you, Dr. Swan.”

Emma narrows her eyes at the insinuation. “Dr. Humbert and I were not adversaries. We were friendly colleagues.”

“Yes, you were a colleague of his who wanted the promotion he got, and recently let a contract killer back on the streets.”

Her eyes widen as she lunges forward in her seat. “I didn’t free him. The judge made the final decision. My job was to determine the facts and reach a verdict based on all the facts and evidence. In that case, the evidence was lacking.”

Her attorney puts out his hand to stop her from continuing to speak any further. “Detective, Mr. Gold’s crime was alleged and has no relevance to this case.”

David pauses the video. “Some of the jurors said Cassidy and the doctor kept making eyes at each other.

Killian quirks a brow. He doesn't doubt any straight, red-blooded male would be attracted to Emma, but he highly doubts a woman of her class, beauty and intelligence would be interested in a scumbag like Cassidy. “Did you question her about it?”

“Yes, she claimed he kept staring at her, but that his attentions were very much unwanted. That’s as far as I got before Mr. Hopper stood and asked if there were any more unnecessary questions I wanted to ask her.”

“So, you think the doctor hired Cassidy to eliminate her competition?”

“The crime scene had his name written all over it.”

“I’m not arguing that. But I don’t think someone like her,” Killian says, pointing at the paused screen, “would get involved with someone like that piece of scum.” The thought makes him utterly sick to his stomach.

“He may be scum, but he’s clever scum. That’s why your brother coined his moniker, remember?”

“Aye.” He remembers very well when Liam began calling him Cassidy.

One time Killian asked his brother why he called him that, and he said Neal’s father, a convicted felon Liam successfully put behind bars, was referred to only as his surname, Gold. To avoid any confusion, he didn’t call Neal by his surname too, nor did he wish to call Neal by his first name—Liam never called perps by their first name—so initially, Neal was the clever killer because he seemed to be an exception to Locard's Exchange Principle, which asserts, “the perpetrator of a crime will bring something to the crime scene and leave with something from it,” and that “both can be used as forensic evidence.” Dr. Edmond Locard was the Sherlock Holmes of France who came up with the basic principle of forensic science, “every contact leaves a trace.”

While Cassidy always leaves a weapon at the scene, he never purchases the weapons, or at least there is never a trace of the purchase. He also never leaves fingerprints. There was only one single time when Cassidy was sloppy and accidentally left something of his behind and that was when he murdered Liam. But he never took anything from his victims.

The name Cassidy was brought up when Elsa became pregnant with Camila and they were deciding on names. Elsa had mentioned Cassidy as a possible name for their daughter, and when Liam looked up the name to see what it meant, he discovered the origins of the name and that it meant clever. So it became Neal’s nickname.

When Liam’s daughter was born, he suggested they call her Camila, which means perfect , and Elsa was immediately on board with it. Killian’s glad Liam and Elsa didn’t end up naming their child Cassidy. How ironic would it have been if Liam gave his daughter the same name he gave the man who eventually killed him?

Liam never mentioned Neal Gold to Elsa, he didn’t like bringing work home with him and he especially didn’t like to cause his wife any distress by talking about a notorious serial killer on the loose. He didn’t want Elsa to worry about her husband, and while she knew the risks that came with Liam’s job as a homicide detective, he made her believe he mostly reviewed old, unsolved cases.

After Liam died, Killian promised Elsa he’d find her husband’s killer. While no one was certain of who murdered Liam because there was no evidence, except for a single thread of fabric left behind at the crime scene, Killian and David knew. But Killian botched any chance they had of convicting Cassidy and failed Elsa and Camila in the process. Not only did he fail, but he’s the reason why Cassidy couldn’t be convicted. He acted on high emotions after Liam’s death. He was so angry and vengeful, he was willing to do whatever it took to put Cassidy behind bars. And that’s exactly why he failed. He didn’t think. He made a split decision, and several people have subsequently paid the price for that decision. Now a highly respected surgeon has been added to that list, along with who knows how many others.

“So, how will you proceed?” Killian asks skittishly, afraid of what David’s answer might be.

“Not me. Us,” David says. “I need your help.”

“Why me? Why not Scarlet or Jefferson?”

“Because I need someone with your instincts, someone good, and you're better than them or anyone else in our department. Besides, no one knows Cassidy like you do.”

Killian shakes his head. “I can’t. Any case involving Cassidy is personal for me. After he killed—” His voice cracks. He can’t even force the rest of the words out. “I can't.”

“Come on, Killian. I’m not asking you to come back permanently; just this one case, that's it,” David pleads. “If you won’t do this for me, do it for your brother.”

Damn it, Nolan. Why did he have to go and use that card?

Killian sighs and stands up, pacing the kitchen. When he reaches David again, he stops and places his hands on his hips. “Let’s say I said yes, what would you want me to do?”

“Search for any clues that will tell us if Emma and Cassidy are in alliance.”

Killian furrows his brows. “Since you need probable cause, I'm guessing you don't have a warrant for Dr. Swan, so how do you suppose I do that?”

David shakes his head. “Ah-ah, I’m not telling you until you say you’re in.”

Killian sighs dramatically as he drags his hand over his face. He has a feeling he’s not going to like whatever plan David has up his sleeve. But he misses working with him again, and he has to admit, he still doesn’t believe Emma had anything to do with her colleague’s murder. So perhaps he can go along with David’s plan to prove that. He looks at David again and with a curt nod, he makes it official. “I’m in.”

To that, David says nothing, just grins complacently.

Killian gulps. What the bloody hell did he just sign up for?

Tagging some people who have shown interest so far. If you would like to be tagged or untagged, please let me know.

@itsfabianadocarmo @snowbellewells @ilovemesomekillianjones @nikkiemms @teamhook @xhookswenchx @nikkiemms @xsajx @julesep3026 @hookedmom @biefaless @cluttermind @yasbio2015 @kmomof4 @lfh1226-linda @harshini01 @noensnaringnet @xarandomdreamx @onceuponaprincessworld @annastasiarinaldiva @royalswan @brustudyblog @officerrogers @gingerchangeling @melly326 @singersdd @mzbossyboots @unworried-corsair @iamemmaswanjones @authorarsinoe @kingofmyheart14 @nightskylover @jamif @resident-of-storybrooke @iam2307 @winterbaby89 @chinawoodfan @mormonkryptonite @ultraluckycatnd @captainswan-shipper88 @killianswanjones @bethdacattfm @andiirivera

#cs ff #captain swan #beyond a reasonable doubt #my fic recs

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curiousconch · 3 years

Text

Two Old Friends

Chapter 3 of Ricochet (An Open Heart AU).

Catch up here: Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter Synopsis: As Bryce takes Heather in, a facade that he has blocked out for several months begins to disintegrate.

Pairing: Rafael Aveiro x MC (Dr. Heather Song) | Bryce Lahela x MC (Dr. Heather Song)

Words: 2.3k+ | Genre: Crime, Mystery, Thriller, Romance

Rating/Warnings: None for this chapter, it's pure fluff! (Yay!)

Author’s Notes: Majority of the characters are owned by Pixelberry, except the main character Heather Song. I was listening to Maybe this Time on repeat when I wrote this chapter, I think that song encapsulates it perfectly.

8 months ago

Bryce Lahela was stoked to have been assigned the Ed Farrugia case. He dreamt up of an opportunity like this ever since he graduated top of class from Stanford Law School. It wasn't out of self-ambition, it was part of his grand plan - to go opposite the direction of his white-collar criminal parents.

At first, Bryce's parents was overjoyed when he told them he's pursuing a law degree. It never occurred to them that it was all part of his scheme.

He soldiered on through law school, bagging an internship in the San Francisco DA. When his efforts to build his network provided an opportunity in Boston, he didn't hesitate to pack up his bags and fly across the country, farther away from Hawaii than ever. It was a big risk, but it eventually paid off given how his career imploded once he got the job.

But perhaps the most memorable experience was when he told his parents that he was to become Boston's newest ADA. They were nothing but furious, there were no counting the amount of expletives he heard that day.

No turning back, mom and dad.

The timing to tell them couldn't be more perfect, because it was only a week after they turned over his trust fund, a "graduation gift". He knew it was just a bribe for him to do the dirty legal work to keep them away from prison for free.

After toiling for so many years, he was more than ready to abandon his past behind and start his life over. More than it was revenge, it was Bryce's sweet and merciful justice. No more crosses behind his back, marking him as his parents' criminal son.

That wasn't his reality anymore. So he focused on work and did his best to shine. And shine he did. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was no longer a criminal. In an ironic twist of fate, he was the one putting people behind bars. And he relished in every win.

However, being the Chief DA's golden boy wasn't providing him the opportunity to build new friendships. Although he tried to make friends with his colleagues, he began to be seen as a threat. So for the first year in the big city, he spent his free time partying hard. With his quick rise to fame, everyone wanted a taste of the majestic Bryce Lahela. He didn't hesitate to throw himself into the throng.

And in that fateful sunny morning, he felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. He built the foundations of the State versus Perry case over the weekend, not even taking a single drop of alcohol. With the help of Agent Aveiro, he collected mountains of evidence for his breakthrough day at court. He knew his case was airtight. Today, he plans to put the cherry on top.

Pulling off his sunglasses and tightening his slick striped blue tie, he grabbed his suitcase from the passenger seat and got out of his car.

He strode into Edenbrook Hospital with confidence, getting glances from several attendings and nurses as he walked the hallways. He smirked at each of them back, wondering which one he should make of a mission after he wraps up this case. God, these doctors are hot, he thought, as he slid into one of the elevators. He punched 7, and the button lighted up.

Once he arrived at the right floor, he followed the directions pasted on the walls and eventually found the diagnostics team's office. As he neared the sliding glass doors, he heard an exchange of voices in rapid succession, as if they were discussing something important. As he raised his gaze through the glass, he saw two female doctors and two males. His eyes automatically landed to the young brunette, whose hand is on her waist as she listened intently as the others debated.

His brow quirked a little, a fit of curiosity fleeted through him. She was prettier in personal. Television didn't do her justice.

Immediately shaking off the unnerving attraction, he tapped gently on the glass door. All doctors turned to him. One of the male doctors with piercing blue eyes let him in, he later found out that he was the world-renowned diagnostician, Dr. Ethan Ramsey, the head of the team.

"ADA Bryce Lahela, I'm here for Dr. Heather Song?" he walked into the room exuding confidence, burying the distracted innuendos he was currently having.

In response, she moved forward and offered her hand, smiling brightly at him. "Dr. Heather Song, at your service. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Oh, I bet you do.

He answered mentally, stepping closer to look at her soft features. He took her hand and shook it, returning the warm welcome with a smug look in his face. He couldn't stop thinking about her ever since.

He spent almost the whole day with her, going through her testimony in detail. She spoke in a very confident manner, ascertaining every small observation she made about Travis Perry, and how he raised her suspicions. She also walked him through how she confirmed her theories, and how she decided to report this to the hospital's chief. He was amazed with the way how she mapped out every step, and acknowledged how her actions made the case straightforward and uncomplicated. Certainly controversial and sensational, given that it was involving one of Massachusetts' senators. But getting up close and personal with her that day made him realize that like him, she was at the top of her game.

She was professional and insightful. Bryce was also impressed with how she carried herself. Graceful and poised, yet fierce and tenacious. There were a lot of times that he thought he was hearing himself in the way she talked. And for that reason, he like spending time with her.

Over the course of the next few months, he spent more time with her. It was the perfect opportunity to keep in touch, as she was the star witness after all.

Beyond work, it was easy for him to befriend her. She was warm and open, sensitive and caring. Eventually, she introduced him to her exclusive group of doctors, who readily welcome him.

But he admired her more when she made it her mission to help him with his runaway sister. She went out of her way to spend time with her, bridging the gap between the siblings.

That was when he irreversibly opened up to her, telling her about his past. Making her see through him, who he really was.

And the way that she embraced it without inhibitions was a breathe of fresh air. He never knew he needed someone like her in his life, the one thing to complete his do-over.

It didn't take much for him to he admit to himself that he adored Heather. He felt a deep connection to her, something he never felt for someone else.

But in a sudden turn of events, the hopefulness he had turned out to be just a mere figment of his imagination.

He learned about her relationship with Rafael. Once he saw the way she looked at him, he knew it was time to draw the line.

Ever since, that was all he thought it would be between them - an unexplored and faraway frontier.

Gradually, his presence in her life became nothing more but group hangouts in the form of brunches or night outs in Donahues. He learned to withdraw whenever she and Rafael was around, cautious to not let others know about the way he felt. He himself went back to his string of one night stands.

He kept her at arm's length, repeating to himself that he was contented with the friendship that they had. Yet when he was finally learning to ease her out of his mind, she came crashing back in.

***

Present Day

With warm bowls of noodles in front of them, they caught up with each other's life. Bryce poured them both a glass of white wine to chase down the saltiness off of their taste buds.

"Hm, this certainly is an upgrade from that cheap bottle you had the last time," her mocking voice freed him from his thoughts. He grinned at her, leaning towards her.

"Oooh, I'm not liking your arrogance. Being junior fellow got in your head already?" he teased her, sipping from his own glass. "Has all of your student loans been paid off so you have spare money to buy your own fancy wine?"

"Certainly not. I think you're the one getting ahead of yourself, hotshot. That plaque hit you in the head and made you forgot that you're a just a noob?" Heather quipped back, her index finger pointing to the square-shaped glass on one of the living room shelves.

"Psh. It's not like my colleagues skip a day to remind me of 'my place'," his one hand mimicked air quotes, feigning a look of disgust, invoking a genuine laughter from her, her skin illuminated by the late afternoon sun as she glowed in delight.

They went at it as they ate, exchanging insulting banters, trying to one up each other as they went. It was just the way they were, at ease. Two old friends who loved their careers first, always putting their self in second place.

It was the first time in months that they were together alone, Bryce realized now how much he missed spending time with her.

He didn't want to spoil the mood, but he couldn't shake off his interest on what went down between Rafael and her. He waited a few more moments as they settled into a comfortable silence, running out of casual jokes to throw at the other. He drew a deep breathe, taking up the courage he needed to raise the sore subject.

"So, you and Raf huh?"

He saw her flinch and his heart irked a little. Her hand shivered as she set down the empty glass and grabbed the bottle of wine to refill it.

"He wasn't what I thought he was," she swirled the contents of her glass once it was full, looking distracted. "Apparently, it only took him less than a month to reveal his true self." Bryce nodded opposite her, as she shrugged casually. He saw her bite her lower lip, and instantly felt the hurt she was going through.

Without second thoughts, he approached her and opened his arms, inviting her in.

After a few excruciating seconds of hesitation, she finally leaned in and received his embrace, tears falling. She didn't think there was any left, but Bryce's offer of solace was a comfort she didn't think she needed. Her dams of pain overflowed once again, and with the horrible scare that happened this morning, her resolve to put up a brave face in front of everyone crumbled.

"You know I'll always be here for you, Heath," he whispered to her, his senses being flooded by the familiar jasmine scent of her perfume.

"I know, thank you for that," she replied in a hushed voice. "I'm just... just tired of it all, Bryce, I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't be. I got you."

He just held her, wishing so hard that one embrace can take all of her fears away. He closed his eyes, letting his beating heart speak for the rest of his unspoken emotions.

He tried to soothe her as he brushed her hair, rubbing the palm of his hand on her shuddering back. His grip tightened with her every sigh, pulling her ever closer.

For the first time in months of keeping his distance, the feelings he had for her, those he tried to bury deep within his heart, started to resurface. He was feeling the way he felt way back then.

In between her deep sighs and sobs, a flood of regrets raced through his mind. His chest constricted, as his thoughts lingered on what could have been.

If I hadn't left her alone. If I just fought for her the first time. If I just have been brave enough to let her know...

But he knew he couldn't what already happened define what should be and what it will be. Just like he dealt with his past, Bryce knew that with enough willpower, he can turn it all around.

He focused forward. A rush of possibilities, a promise of a future, it overwhelmed him.

Maybe this time, it'll be more. She's free now. Maybe now is a better time than before. Maybe now, it won't have to end. Maybe this time, he wouldn't need to let her go.

His heart burned with a fiery resolve and determination.

That late afternoon, when the setting sun's light began to shine upon his face, he decided.

Even the smallest of maybes was more than enough for him. Bryce was willing to risk it for her.

TAGS: @choicesficwriterscreations @ramsey-lahela

@eleanorbloom - I hope I'm doing Bryce justice 😬

#open heart #open heart 2 #bryce lahela #bryce x mc #bryce lahela x mc #rafael aveiro #rafael aveiro x mc #choices fanfiction #open heart fanfiction #choices fic writers creations #choices

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thetierdslytherin · 4 years

Text

Its nice to have a friend Spencer Reid x reader

So this is a Spencer Reid song fic based on its nice to have a friend by Taylor swift. and I saw someone else to a songfic based on this song for another character and i felt inspired. there’s mention of bullying and divorce but other than that just a fluffy fic.

Mostly gender neutral reader x Spencer but at one point the reader wears a dress

School bell rings, walk me home

Sidewalk chalk covered in snow

Lost my gloves, you give me one

"Wanna hang out?"

School was finally over as the bell rang signaling the end of the day my teacher said something but I didn't hear her. No, I'm too excited to get home. It's the first day of winter break and I couldn't be more excited. I didn't really see the point of kindergarten and most of the kids are mean.

Anyways my mommy lets me walk home by myself alot of the bigger kids do and it's only a 10 minute walk to my house. I finally stop running just outside of the school yard where a lot of the kids color and draw on the sidewalk too icy to do it now which reminds me i'm not supposed to run because I could get hurt.

As I look up to continue my walk home I see a kinda frail looking boy with crooked teeth and glasses too big for his face, ah Spencer he's not in my class with me but I know him cause a lot of the kids tease him and hide his stuff. I don't really know why but my parents say if you don't have anything nice to say don't say anything at all. Besides, I don't know why they do it all he really does is sit by himself and read.

He doesn't have any gloves on or a hat and it's snowing and I'm cold with my gloves and coat so I know he is too, maybe he doesn't have any. It's not really common to snow in Las Vegas but it's probably because the kids hid them from him. I run up to catch up with him. It's not that hard, he's not exactly moving fast, he doesn't seem really excited to get home, maybe he doesn't have anything to do.

“Here take one of mine” I hold out one of my gloves to him so at least only one of his hands will be cold. He looks at me like he's expecting me to tease him or snatch the glove away at the last second but I guess he deems me trust worthy enough and takes it putting it on his furthest hand.

“t-thanks i’m s-spencer”

“I know i’m y/n you lost your gloves right?” I know the kids took them but I don't want him to feel any worse about it.

“Yeah I did thanks” he still looks really cold so I grab his hand closest to me and try to interlock our fingers so both his hands will be warm. He kinda flinches at first but then seems to accept that I'm not gonna hurt him.

“So you won't be cold Spencer”

We walk for maybe a minute in silence before I get another idea

“Wanna hang out?”

Video games, you pass me a note

Sleeping in tents

It's nice to have a friend

(Ooh)

It's nice to have a friend

(Ooh)

I'm now i'm second grade and Spencer is in third and ever since that day we've been best friends and do practically everything together and this is the first year without him in my grade and I miss him a lot but we still hang out everyday after school.

“C’mon Spencer it won't be bad I promise my parents are right inside and if you want to go you can but could you please try it”.

I'm referring to spending the night in a tent in my backyard.Sleepovers were a common thing for Spencer and I especially with his dad having left I think that's why he likes being over so much it lets him forget for a little while.Earlier this week I learned Spencer had never been camping due to his thing with germs but after a lot of begging and secret planning on my part he agreed “okay y/n but if I don't like it we can go in?”

I nod happily and lead him to the backyard where everyday after school I've been cleaning it and setting up a campsite in the cleanest way possible. “Did you know that 77 million american households contain a member that camps and 81% of households in America say they want to camp more?”

“No, I didn't Spence, do you have any more statistics about camping for me?’ this is one thing I love about him he can tell you something about any subject you ask him it's because of his Eidetic memory.He found out he had last year and its super cool he can remember and fact I wish I had his memory some times.

I open the tent to reveal an air mattress with a bunch of blankets and some comic books my mommy bought earlier. It's not the big books like he likes to read but it's Marvel comics that I introduced him to a few months ago and we've been reading them together ever since.

“w-wow y/n this is so cool, did you know the hulk was supposed to be grey in the original comics but was changed to green after a mess up with printer ink?”

“No but i'd love to hear more comic facts”

He deserves someone to listen to him after everything with his parents and all the kids at school bullying him. I don't want him to ever feel alone.

Light pink sky up on the roof

Sun sinks down, no curfew

Twenty questions, we tell the truth

You've been stressed out lately? Yeah, me too

Something gave you the nerve

To touch my hand

It's amazing how two people who are in such different places in their lives can still love each other so much while Spencer is the only 16 year old I know with 2 phds working on another i'm still in highschool. Not from lack of hard work though i’m graduating this year 2 years early so I can go to cal tech to be with Spencer. If i'm being perfectly honest if not for Spencer I wouldn't be graduating early but I miss him too much to stay any longer. I'm sick of highschool boyfriends and football games and dealing with the same kids who bullied Spencer for being a nerd acting like we’re best friends just because I made nice with them.

Right now were on the roof of my house after a lot of convincing on my part to get him out here

“Why are we out here y/n do you know how many roof related accidents happen a year?”

“No but I'm sure you do dr.” I think my favorite pastime of recent is teasing Spencer.

He's saying something to me as I nod along but I'm not paying attention to what he's saying. No, I'm too busy staring at him.

He's really grown into his features he still has a boyish look about him but now his jawline is very defined and his brown hair goes just past his hair curling at the ends after a long day of hanging out the gel has worn out making his hair as messy as ever and he’s traded his glasses for contacts but i still think he looks for lack of better word beautiful either way. I know I love him, I've loved him since the first day I met him and over the years at one point I guess the feelings went from platonic to romantic but I don’t tell him. I don't have to I know i'll spend the rest of my life with Spencer Reid

“y/n y/n hello”

“Hmm, what were you saying Spence?”

“I-i’m sorry am i boring you y/n?” the worst part is he's not mad about it he looks upset like he feels bad for boring me.

“No never, i'm sorry I was just thinking”

“About what?”

“You” why did I say that but it's fine it has to be Spencer won't care but I don't want to see his reaction to my words instead focusing on the pink orange sky

“You know I love you right that i'll always love you”

I feel him grasp my hand interlocking our fingers and I let out a quiet gasp-but he heard it. We've only held hands twice our whole lives the first day I met him and after the goal post incident so this is well, completely out of character for him and our friendship.

“I love you too y/n”

Church bells ring, carry me home

Rice on the ground looks like snow

Call my bluff, call you "babe"

Have my back, yeah, everyday

Feels like home, stay in bed

The whole weekend

They call us stupid-young and dumb-that well be divorced in 10 years but we love each other and known each other our whole lives hes just been accepted into the BAU at 20 he has to move to Quantico. I'm gonna go with him I can get a job i've finished my degree there's nothing keeping me here.

“Let's get married”

“What?” it's rare that I make him speechless but this seems to do the trick.

“Why don't I love you and you love me. We've been dating for how many years now 4? I want to spend the rest of my life with you i've known that I wanted you in my life since that first day on the sidewalk I want to grow old with you and have kids and grand kids so why wait let's get married” I look up at him silently pleading with him to just agree with me.

“y/n 45% of marriages end in divorce and 20% of couples under 24 get divorced in the first year of marriage”. He’s cautious I don't blame him not after what happened with his mom and dad.

“Well this is one time i'm going to ask you not to trust the statistics. I may not know all the facts about marriage and life but i know us and i'd like to think that's enough. I don't want anything big just us we can go down to the courthouse and make it official”

He moves over to the couch where i'm sitting and grabs my hand “yes”

It wasn't anything big, him in the only suit he owns and me in a dime store wedding dress. The rings we have are cheap and the diamond in my hand may have been small but it means everything to me.

We didn't even tell our parents why his mom is institutionalized, his dad left and my parents don't approve of me leaving for Quantico instead its Spencer and I with 5 of our college friends. We both walk out of the courthouse as they throw rice at us-unnecessary but sweet of them-and get into his car driving off to go home. We aren't having a honeymoon unless you count moving to Quantico.

He picks me up and carries me through the threshold of the apartment as he sets me down I ask “can we do our vows I know we both agreed not to prepare anything don't worry I didn’t I just want to tell you some things and you don't even have to say anything back I just need to say it. Spencer I just want you to know how incredibly proud I am of you and all you’ve acomplised and overcome even the first time I saw you I could tell we were gonna be friends.I am just so thankful to have you here right now and for sticking with me through all of the chess matches and late night adventure and stupid boyfriends and what I guess i’m trying to say is thank you for always being you I love you.”

I look at him with tears in my eyes and with tears in his eyes too and he clears his throat “ y/n I will never be able to express how you have helped me over the years from school yard bullies to cal tech and my mom.And I know i'm not the best with words i'm better with analysis and fact but there is no fact or statistic that will let me describe how i'm love with you I am” I put one hand on the side of his face and pull him in for a kiss.

It's nice to have a friend

(Ooh)

It's nice to have a friend

(Ooh)

It's nice to have a friend

(Ooh)

#spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #childhood friends #comfort

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