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writingisbetterthandying · 4 years

Text

Regret - TS pt.1

Warnings: cursing, a lil bit of violence at a wall? also reader is christian

A/N: this is just a self indulgent lil thing I wrote on my phone, but it's not done yet? I have a good outline but idk is it a fic? sure why not! peaky content! enjoy :)

Edit: i’m gonna make this a series! this piece on its own is a bit too long I feel, but nonetheless i’m gonna add to it! I tried to keep this piece canon-ish but things will definitely diverge from here

Posted: 3.17.21

part 2 is up here! part 3 is here!

Word Count: 3.1k

- growing up next door to the shelby’s

- being ada’s best friend since the start, but closer in age to john

- always preferring the domestic tasks needed, but growing up with the shelby’s and three older brothers, knowing how to rough it up when needed

- even going to church with pol

- wanting to own a bakery one day or be a dressmaker, making beautiful gowns

- your brothers, arthur, and john laugh it off, but tommy believes in you

- polly always swore you two would end up together one day

- staying in school

- growing into yourself quite a bit

- catching the eyes of many (even john boy!)

- never paying them any mind, politely laughing them off

- eyes set on tommy since you were 8 years old

- oh how you had hoped

- but he had found greta

- and you were still the neighbor girl, taking care of finn, but taking no shit from the boys around birmingham

- then the war

- being older than ada and not giggling away the introductory nursing classes paid off

- more than willing to help in any way

- being sent out to france as a nurse

- saving lives, but also seeing so much death and loss, everyday

- with any given alone time, trying to write to your brothers and the shelby’s

- receiving a rare response, but keeping those letters safe, reading them on the nights where it just gets to be too much

- one rare and quiet day a high ranking officer, obviously not in the trenches as he was older, announced the death of your youngest brother, just two years older than you

- you cry hard that night

- but not harder than two months later, when tommy is brought to you, wounded, looking worse than death, but you sit with him every moment not spent with another patient, caring for him

- holding his hand, whispering words of encouragement though he might not even hear it, praying

- he’d wake up quite cockily, a slight hint of playful tommy, who had all the girls falling at his feet, not the soldier amidst war

- “no need for god when i’m right here love, aye?”

- tears falling at the sight

- forgoing any self control and wrapping yourself around his neck, whispering how you thought he’d gone, but not before managing through whimpers to get out a, "don't use the lord's name in vain, tom."

- his realization setting in, remembering that you had lost your brother not long ago

- “it’ll all be over soon, aye? we’ll be back home in no time, yeah? back with polly and finn and ada. we'll be safe.”

- you cling onto those words during the last months of war, bursting into tears in the train at the sight of your two brothers now, and the three shelby boys, safe.

- your brothers are the ones to hold you through your sobs, all feeling the loss of your brother

- crying even harder upon seeing finn, all grown up, and polly, who practically raised you

- working in the betting shop with the numbers

- helping patch up after bar brawls, or business meetings gone wrong

- aiding john when possible, absolutely adoring his children, having known martha closely before her passing

- attempting to keep finn out of trouble and teaching him to read

- being an older sister and confidant for ada, and knowing all about her fling with freddie

- post war, being a little less idealistic, settling with the business, but going head to head with tommy quite a bit

- he wrongfully dismisses your contributions as he deals with his feelings of grief but also the uncertainty of how he feels for you

- being very involved in the business, something he doesn’t necessarily like

- feeling crushed with every interaction between him and grace

- sympathetic gazes from even fuckin' arthur!

- lots of nights slipping away from the snug to get away from the loud thoughts, and the sight of them

- polly comforting you, then giving tom the death glare

- disagreeing about the whole predicament with kimber

- the row gets really bad as tommy starts throwing insults, the rest of those present at the betting shop scared to move, silent tears running down your face

- “what the fuck are you still doing here, aye? maybe want to pretend to play family? then want to go ‘round and try and tell me how to run my fuckin’ business, yeah? talk to me about the numbers as if you of all fuckin’ people would fucking understand? well you’re not family so stop acting like it! useless, just like in france”

- each jab making things worse, his face redder with anger, your face redder with tears

- before he slams the door to the betting shop closed, you manage to get out a “damn you thomas shelby. damn you to hell.”

- he feels that you wholeheartedly means those words, feeling the weight more so than if you had given him a ripe “fuck you”

- it hurts more than it should in his heart, but he heads to the garrison, for the company of the pretty barmaid

- the shelby’s all seething in anger, the boys already headed to the garrison to knock some sense into him

- polly just taking you from the floor, where your sobs had led you, to the kitchen table, rubbing your back softly

- ada cautiously approaching, glancing at polly for approval, with a nod, coming down to comfort you

- “my brother’s a right foul git ya know and i have half a mind to go and-”

- “that’s enough now ada.”

- a sheepish, “sorry aunt pol” murmured out in reply

- having calmer sobs now, but still red in the face

- “why did i have to love him? why does it hurt so much?” you barely get out between the cries

- they both murmur sweet nothings, rubbing your back in an attempt to calm you down

- polly makes some tea

- at the garrison

- turns out grace wasn’t even there

- john and arthur absolutely fuming at the sight of tommy calmly drinking alone in the snug

- they thought of you as their younger sister too, just less annoying than ada

- soon enough, everyone’s yelling and a bottle is thrown across the private room

- rather than a dramatic storm off, they all eventually sit down and just drink in silent anger, letting their emotions stew

- after a long pause, arthur speaks up, feeling the need to, as the oldest

- “what you did there tommy was wrong. you know that y/n’s very important- to the business, and to us.”

- john seemed to find his voice, too, just only after arthur had spoken up

- “it wasn’t right of you to bring up france like that either, man. even if she wasn’t a soldier, she still took home that soldier’s reward, she still has nightmares, and she was the one who saved your life not all that long ago.”

- silence filling the snug once again until tom lights up a cigarette

- a twinge of guilt hitting tommy as he remembers your face during your argument

- if you can even call it that

- it started calmly, you simply bringing up a concern, but with tommy’s doubts about grace and everything else he snapped

- it was his fault

- and he was being childish, choosing to yell, rather than listen

- he decided to head back to the betting shop and at least acknowledge your presence

- he wouldn’t apologize yet- he still was emotionally constipated, seeing any use of “i'm sorry" as weakness

- getting to the office and seeing your office empty, door open, but desk neatly made as always, your coat rack missing any sense of your hat and coat

- immediately going to the kitchen, with ada and polly wordlessly communicating, still no sign of you in sight, his heart dropping

- they start yelling at him upon recognizing his presence, all of the obscenities and more

- he just nodded, dismissing their cruel, but warranted words

- “where’d she go, yeah? her office is empty”

- “home. anywhere away from you. oh, maybe fuckin' london? cause it sounds like she’s leaving birmingham, tommy- leaving us.”

- “oh shit.” he never thought you’d leave.

- but, not too far away, you were writing letters, to each of the shelby’s, your suitcase steadily gaining more items, deciding to explain to your brothers when they came home that you would, in fact, be going to london.

- despite your involvement in the shelby business, your brothers chose, like freddie, to keep work separate, working in the factories and other jobs, but occasionally being used for blinder business

- you needed to state the events without incriminating tommy though, because as much as his words hurt, your brothers were scary, and tommy didn’t deserve it

- but it all just hurt too much, so you wrote.

- first, to arthur:

Dearest Arthur,

I know you have a tendency to drink a tad too much and go a bit overboard in trying to protect your honor afterwards. As much as I do enjoy our time spent as I patch you up at ghastly hours of the morning, just know, neither Ada nor Polly have the same hand or training as I do. Or patience! As much as I do care for them both, they can be quite rough. With them, you’ll get a firm talking too, while I tend to dismiss the cause or reason for fighting. They’re also quite harsh with your wounds, and you might end up with salt in them, or a scar from their sheer frustration if you need stitches. Please try to not need getting stitched up while I'm away. Not saying that they wouldn’t be able to help you, they would, but just think of these thing next time before you try to talk things out with your fists, for me, yeah? Or at least your poor knuckles at the very least.

With love,

Y/N

- then, to john

Dear John,

I know it’s been hard without Martha. I miss her too, but you must try for your children. Promise me to spend time with them, and remember, as scary as it is, you are their father, John Boy, and a great one at that. You just have to remind yourself every once in a while. I’ve included their favorite stew recipe, but I’m sure you could ask Pol (nicely, mind you) to help out with some of those domestic tasks I know you would find emasculating. You mustn’t let Tom get to you either, alright? Believe in yourself John, because I do, and you are smart and caring, you just tend to show anger and a tendency to not think with your upstairs brain. Remember to laugh when appropriate, and don’t forget me!

With love,

Y/N

- then ada:

To Ada,

My sweet, sweet Ada. I’m kidding of course, but you must remember to write me, alright! I can’t have my best friend forgetting of me all because of a certain Mr. Thorne! You’re sure to visit me in London, and we’ll live largely! It’ll be splendid, you’ll see. Until then, however, you must let your brothers breathe. I know you enjoy to rile them up, mainly just because you can, but their hearts are in the right place, they just don’t know how to express it. They love you Ada, they really do, they’re just quite the brutish bunch most days. Look out for Finn, too please, he needs to see some support, truly, and it certainly won’t be coming from some...

Have fun, but please do not bring your brothers to early graves! (I don’t include Polly in this because I know she is much above your foolishness.)

With love,

Y/N

- finally, to polly, with something for finn too.

Polly,

Words cannot describe how grateful I am for you. For your support, for taking in myself, teaching me what it is to be a woman, how to find faith in moments so dark, and for simply being you. I am forever indebted to you for your wisdom and teachings, and I am so deeply saddened I must go to where you won’t be next door, ready with open arms, sharp wit, and a calming cuppa waiting. I wish nothing more than happiness to you, so please do not let your excitable nephews disrupt that. I will be visiting you soon, so I’ve chosen to keep this brief.

With Love,

Y/N

P.S. I’ve included a second sheet with some lettering outlines for Finn, and have left a few books for him to read, as I don’t expect him to ignore our lessons! Additionally, one of those has his letter for him, but I was much too sad to have it come to him now, I hope you understand.

- you finished your letters just about when your brothers came home, and they obviously noticed the suitcase, now at the bottom of the stairs.

- the explanation and following discussion being very difficult, but your brothers understanding

- it wasn't like they hadn't seen you gaze at tommy for so long, and they had figured something had happened at the betting shop today

- they weren't blind, and while your feelings hadn't changed, despite the war, tommy had.

- so, in the morning you'd drop down to the shop, hand in a letter of resignation, and the more personal letters to polly, so she could distribute them

- when you got to the betting shop the next morning, it was early, and no one seemed to be there, so you simply placed all the letters on the kitchen table, and headed towards the train station

- it wasn't as empty as you thought, and a certain shelby came running up to you shortly after exiting, shouting down the lane

- "y/n, are you really going and moving to fuckin' london of all places?" tom called out, but you still walked ahead.

- he kept shouting, berating you at this point, until you turned around sharply, and he quieted down

- "not that it's any of your business, thomas, but yes, i have an aunt there. i didn't realize that i still owed tommy shelby an explanation about my every move, or that he has the right to shout up the lane at any hour he pleases," you whisper at him.

- tears were starting to form in your eyes, silently pleading for them to go away.

- tommy looked sad too

- "i mean, Jesus, y/n, you can't just leave us like this!"

- "do not use the lord's name in vain, tom. also, yesterday you made it very clear how you feel about my involvement in your business and your family, so i won't be staying much longer."

- he had to laugh, that you still mentioned the lord in such a high regard, despite baring witness to the horrors of france.

- but also realized that you were really going away.

- no more hearing you quietly teach finn to read while business was being attended to

- no more having you mend his hands after he does feel pent up enough to go into a bare knuckle fist fight, your touch soft as you attempt to scold him, but never truly succeeding

- no more of the sweet loaves and cakes that you always seemed to have time for

- no more, "do not use the lord's name in vain, tom," something you always seemed to find time to get in there, even in france. your tone was always soft, never menacing and sharp, like polly used to when you were children

- no more of his, "well he's not my god," in response (he really does try his best not to use it again with each of your reminders)

- no more of your ideas for the business- as much as he liked to argue, you undeniably had a deep understanding of what was needed for the advancement of it all, legally and with the more morally ambiguous things the shelby's tended to.

- the sound of your high heels clacking away made him snap out of his thoughts- you were really leaving.

- "wait!" he was running again, and surprisingly, despite his regular damage to lungs and liver, was quite fast

- "i'm not leaving because of you tom," yes you are, "it's just that i need a bit of independence, some time in the big city. i won't be gone long."

- he knew you were terrified of being away from your family, which had become his family, and who knows what a pretty young girl like yourself would face in london. he knew you didn't want to leave, but it was for the best.

- so he nodded, but with one condition

- "i'll walk you to the station," really leaving no room for argument or protest.

- the way to the station was quiet, the only sound being the factory workers getting ready to start their days

- it was tense, something relatively unfamiliar when it came to tommy and yourself

- the teasing was always there, but you both protected one another fiercely, making the consequences of his words yesterday much more apparent

- tommy attempting to slow his pace, trying to savor the last moments with you, even if they were silent

- not being as slick as he thought, and still making it to the station just before your train was to depart

- “tom-”

- “i just-”

- you both started at the same time, but you decided to give him a sad smile and a nod, a gesture for him to continue

- he cleared his throat

- “y/n, i just wanted to say- i” he faltered, running his fingers through his hair, making him look much younger, more relaxed, the soft hair not as dramatic as the look of the soldier you had come to know after the war

- you could tell he was trying his best to apologize, so you nodded. he didn’t have to say it for it to be heard, even if his prior words still lingered in the air

- “tom, i'm leaving. i'm getting on this train and going to camden town to stay with my aunt, because i know when i’m not wanted, tom, and no matter how i may feel about you- or how i have felt about you, i need to go.”

- he stared at you as if he were looking at a dainty sculpture in a museum

- the thought almost enough to make you smile

- tommy shelby would never take the time to go and smell the roses, or notice what was really wrong

- the development of his selfishness was heartbreaking, but also admirable with his ambition and dreams for his family

- family first, like he always said

- you just weren’t a part of that picture anymore

- so you got on the train without a second glance, and he headed back towards watery lane, feeling the weight of his actions roll onto him, each step more laborious than the last, until he eventually collapsed into his desk at the betting shop

- later that morning everyone opened their letters

- he couldn’t deny the drop of his heart upon not seeing one addressed to him in your delicate print

- but it was all his doing

- something he wouldn’t let himself forget- something his family wouldn’t let him forget, either.

#peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby #arthur shelby #john shelby #ada shelby #polly gray #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinder headcanon #peaky blinder fanfic

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venatorfemella · 3 years

Text

No Vacancy

Dean Winchester has had a full day of flying - which he hates - to get to a destination he’d rather ignore.

Castiel Novak has had a long week at a work conference and is just ready to fly back home.

Both men, exhausted, have an unpleasant first meeting that lasts longer than either of them wanted.

Also Here on Ao3

---

Dean downed the last few drinks of whiskey before rushing through the terminal to the gate. He was out of breath when he got there, but smiled and winked at the attendant scanning his boarding pass. The attendant smiled back, but not without rolling his eyes.

Dean shrugged at him and entered the jetway feeling pretty loose. As he got closer to the plane, though, his heart rate sped up and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He told himself to stop being such a sissy and get a grip.

He found his row in the middle of the plane, only a pretty little thing sitting in the aisle seat. He’d finally get to stretch out instead of being crammed into yet another middle seat - there really was a god.

“‘scuse me, miss.” The woman moved to let Dean into the row. Dean dropped into the window seat and pulled up the shade to look out. He’d absolutely close it once they started moving, but for now, it helped him feel less trapped. The airport workers on the tarmac were struggling to get all of the luggage into the next plane over, entertaining Dean more and more as his whiskey sunk in.

———

“Wait! Wait, I’m here!”

The flight attendant looked up to see a dark-haired man in a trench coat running toward him at the gate.

“Please tell me I can still board!”

“I don’t know, sir. They were just about to close the doors, but I’ll check.”

Castiel tried to catch his breath as the attendant picked up the phone to call the plane. He prayed to any god that would listen that he wouldn’t miss this flight - was there a saint of airplane travel?

“Well, sir, it’s your lucky day.”

Castiel gave the man the most grateful smile he could muster and handed him his boarding pass to scan.

He shuffled down the plane to his row, only to find his window seat taken. He looked at his ticket, then checked the seat number. Yes, there was a man sitting in his seat.

“Excuse me, you’re in my seat.” Castiel was polite, raising his voice only a little to make sure the man would hear him.

Dean looked up and saw pretty blue eyes staring at him. He grinned.

“You can still sit here, I don’t mind sharin.”

Castiel cocked his head, confused for a moment before rolling his eyes.

“Please move.”

“Aw come on, sunshine,” Dean stretched, “I’ve had a long day of middle seats - let me have this window.” Dean winked at him.

Castiel, feeling the opposite of charmed, frowned and furrowed his brow.

“Move.”

“Ugh,” Dean scowled and got up. The woman from the aisle seat was already impatiently waiting in the aisle. Dean shoved against Castiel’s shoulder with his own as he exited the row. “Oops. Sorry.”

Castiel glared at him, but said nothing while he slid in to take his seat and buckle up. Dean dropped down into the seat next to him, yanking his own seatbelt to get it fastened while grumbling under his breath. Castiel could smell the whiskey.

“Ah, that explains it.” Castiel quipped.

“Explains what?” Dean sneered back.

“Maybe you’d be less vile if you hadn’t drank a liquor store before getting on the plane.”

“What did you just say to-“ Dean started to say as he twisted toward the man.

“Ladies and Gentleman, thank you for choosing us as your airline today. Please be sure to have your seats in the upright position, and any of your belongings in the overhead bins or underneath your seat. Soon we’ll also ask you to shut off your electronic devices, or set them to airplane mode.”

Castiel sighed and closed his eyes, resting his temple against the wall.

“What did you just say to me, dick?”

Castiel opened his eyes, but didn’t move. “Nothing.”

Dean let out a humorless laugh. “You suit-and-tie assholes are all the same.”

“Yes, and drunks are all the same as well.”

Dean turned hot and twisted toward Castiel again.

“Ow!” The woman in the aisle seat squeaked. Dean turned back to see he’d bumped her elbow.

“Aw darlin, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just, can we all relax and get through this flight?”

“Well, sure thing, sweetheart. I’m already feelin more relaxed sittin next to you here.”

Castiel couldn’t contain his laugh.

“Okay fucker, that’s it.” Dean unclasped his seatbelt and started to stand.

“Ladies and gentleman, we are sorry to report that there are mechanical problems that must be fixed before this plane can fly. We will need to deplane and everyone will get put on new flights to your destination. Please be patient and listen for announcements in the terminal.”

“Son of bitch!” Dean yelled from his half-standing position. He sunk back down into his seat, defeated.

Castiel sighed and stared at the seatback in front of him. Both men sat in silence, waiting for their turn to exit the plane.

———

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Dean said again to the woman at the airline counter.

“Again, I’m very sorry, sir. Tomorrow is the soonest flight we can get you on.”

“What am I supposed to do tonight? You expect me to just sit here for 12 hours?”

“You are welcome to stay here in the terminal, or here is a list of nearby accommodations that may have availability.”

“Lady, I saw the line I just waited through, pretty sure there’s no vacancies at this point.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Maybe try the nearby hostels here at the bottom? Those usually don’t fill up as quick.”

Dean sighed and took the paper over to an empty spot against the wall. He looked around the terminal, weighing his options. He could try to stay in the terminal, but apparently bad weather in the Northeast grounded some flights and people were everywhere.

Dean shook his head and started making calls on his flip phone. After the first couple hotels were either full or way out of his price range, he finally went to the bottom of the list and called a couple hostels.

“We are actually mostly full, buttt…” Dean sat on the floor in the middle of the airport as he listened to what sounded like a teenage boy humm and tap on a keyboard.

“Yeah so no single rooms available, but looks like we have one spot in a double shared room. So if you’re okay with sharing…”

“Wait, like one bed for two people?” Dean had stayed in many crummy motels in his life, but never at a hostel so he had no idea how they worked.

“Ha, no dude. It’s two single beds in a room.”

Dean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. A toddler had been having a fit in the terminal for going on 30 minutes. Dean could feel a headache creeping up, especially with the last bit of alcohol leaving his system.

“Fine, yeah, I’ll take it.”

———

Dean checked in at the hostel front desk and got his room key. Music was blaring from a bar on the first level and several young people were milling around, making Dean feel ancient in comparison.

He went up the elevator and through a few halls before finally getting to his room. But his key wouldn’t work. Because of course his key wouldn’t work. He tried it several times, jiggling it this way and that to no avail. He leaned his forehead against the door, eyes closed, and whined out loud to himself.

Or so he thought.

The door opened and Dean fell forward into the man who opened it. The man held out his hands to help steady Dean as he stood up straight.

“Hey, sorry to wake ya man, my key just -“ Dean looked up into familiar blue eyes. “You gotta be shittin me.”

“Wonderful.” Castiel sighed as he walked back into the room, leaving Dean at the open door. “Close the door, please, it took forever for the room to get warm.”

Dean walked in, roughly shutting and locking the door. “Perfect end to a perfect day.”

“Listen, I’m exhausted, you’re exhausted. We’re here to sleep, so let’s just sleep and leave each other alone.”

“Fine by me.”

Castiel got back into his twin bed and turned away from Dean, facing the wall. Dean examined his bed and surroundings. Satisfied there weren’t any biohazards around - none he hadn’t survived before at least - he undressed down to his t-shirt and boxers and lay down. A groan escaped his lips as he was finally able to stretch out.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been laying there before he felt a drip. Then another drip, then faster drips. He finally woke up enough to connect that something wet - please god let it be water - was dripping on him in bed. He jumped out and turned the lights on.

“Unbelievable!”

“What are you doing?” Castiel grumbled.

“There’s a leak. Because of course there’s a leak.”

“A what?” Castiel sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, adjusting to the light before seeing the trickling stream of water dripping onto the middle of Dean’s bed.

“I’ll be back.” And with that, Dean left the room.

———

The slamming door woke Castiel. He’d tried to stay awake until Dean got back, but ended up falling asleep sitting up.

Dean sat down on the foot of his bed, away from the drip, and roughly raked his fingers through his hair.

“So?”

Dean jerked his head up, but instead of looking angry, he simply looked wrung out.

“So. There are no other rooms. They put a ticket in about the leak, but no one will be out til the morning to fix it. So. I’m fucked.”

Castiel couldn’t help but feel bad for the man. He didn’t know how much better he’d be holding up if it was his bed under the leak. That gave him an idea.

“Why don’t you move the bed?”

Dean looked at him like he was crazy. “Where? You see the size of this room right?”

Castiel stood up, and looked at the room, sizing things up. He paused and thought before presenting his suggestion.

“Just move it to the center.”

“The center?”

“Yeah it should get it out of the way of the leak.”

Dean stood up next to Castiel and looked at the room. He was right, but-

“Dude that puts the bed right up against yours.”

“I’m aware. Look, I’m not thrilled either, but it’s that or the floor. I’m going to bed.”

Castiel got back into his bed and faced the wall again. Dean looked at the floor, then his bed, then Castiel’s back.

There was no option. Dean was not going to sleep on this floor.

The frame scraped on the floor as Dean pushed and pulled it over to the center of the room. He laid down and looked over at his sleeping roommate. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, it wasn’t that many hours ago that he wanted to get up close and personal to him after looking into his baby blues. Felt like an eternity ago, though.

What a long day. Three flights, middle seats, layovers, drinking to ease his nerves, drinking to bury any thought of what he was journeying toward.

But the drinks were long gone and now he lay in a dark, musty room with the faint sounds of dance music coming up through the floor, and the soft breathing of a stranger sleeping next to him.

Bobby was gone. Dean would never see him again. Never be able to call him with a question about a car or for updates on family friends or stories about his long gone parents.

His second dad was gone.

Dean didn’t even realize he was crying until a sob escaped. He tried to stifle the rest.

“Are you okay?” The man next him asked, voice deep with sleep.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Dean quickly wiped the moisture from his cheeks, as if that would hide the sounds that already gave him away. He heard shuffling next to him.

“You’re not. What’s wrong?” The man’s voice was clearer and a little closer now that he wasn’t facing the wall.

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Why do you care? We’re strangers. It’s fine man, go to sleep.”

There was a brief moment of silence and Dean thought the man had taken his advice.

“I’m Castiel. Novak. What’s your name?”

Dean turned his head toward Castiel’s voice. “Uh, Dean. Dean Winchester? Why?”

Castiel shrugged in the dark. “We’re not strangers anymore. Will you tell me what’s wrong now?”

Dean smiled. He had to give it to the guy. Clever.

“Eh. Just life. And death, I guess.”

“Death?”

Dean didn’t know why he was still talking to this jackass, but he was tired and it felt a bit like confession. A dark room where he didn’t have to look anyone in the eyes while he talked.

“My Uncle. He died. It’s uh, why I’m flying. His funeral.”

“I’m so sorry. I take it you were close?”

“Yeah, you could say that. He was like a second dad, I guess. Especially after my dad died.”

“That’s so hard. I’m glad you had someone to spend time with after your dad.”

Dean fell quiet at that. Thinking of all the times he probably could have traveled back to spend more time with Bobby, but didn’t.

“I’m sorry, I’m prying. It’s in my nature, and I forget sometimes that it’s not always appropriate.”

“No, it’s. It’s fine. It’s been a bit since I’ve seen him is all. I hate flying, and you know, a ton of other bullshit excuses. It’s been awhile.”

“You hate flying?”

“It’s unnatural, man! A giant metal tube that weighs, I-don’t-even-know-how-much, shouldn’t be in the sky.”

“Oh, so you have a phobia.”

Dean sighed. He hated that he had a fear of anything. “Yeah. I guess.”

“You really loved him - you’re pushing through your fear to get to his funeral. He knew that you loved him too.”

Dean turned onto his side, mirroring Castiel’s position. “How would you know?”

“Parents know. It’s normal to feel like you didn’t see them enough when they die, Dean. But parents know their children love them.”

Dean swallowed to fight back more tears as he thought about Bobby as his parent. And hoped that what this man said was true, that Bobby knew how much he meant to him. He cleared his throat.

“So uh, what about you, what are you flyin the friendly skies for?”

“I’m heading home actually. Was at a conference for work.”

“And what does Catstiel - Casteel? Do for work?

Castiel chuckled, “it’s Cas-ti-el. And I’ll tell you, but don’t panic.”

“What? Are you a contract killer or somethin?”

Castiel smiled. “Mmm. Much worse. I’m a Psychiatrist.”

Dean lifted his head from the pillow, his mouth opened but no words came. A laugh burst out instead.

“So you been shrinkin my head this whole time? That’s slick, doc.”

“Thanks for the compliment? I think? But no, I haven’t been analyzing you. We’re just talking. I’m a normal person.”

“Well if your attitude on the plane earlier is any indicator then yes, you’re a normal person.”

“MY attitude? You’re the one that tried to charm me out of my seat and then turned aggressive when I didn’t acquiesce.”

Castiel’s calm, playful tone took Dean off guard, keeping this from turning into an actual argument.

“Well, you’re the one who resorted to name-calling.”

“I did not.”

“Dude, you basically called me a drunk.”

“Were you drunk?

“That’s besides the point.”

“Well, I apologize for calling you a drunk. I should have been more specific in my statement.”

Dean chuckled and sighed. He felt just a little lighter than a few minutes ago. It was a nice reprieve.

“So you thought I was charming, huh?”

Castiel rolled his eyes and a yawn overtook him unexpectedly.

Dean sighed. “Yeah we should get back to sleep.”

“You sure? We can talk more if you need, I don’t mind.” Castiel tried to stifle another yawn.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Um. Thanks for. Just. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Dean.” Castiel reached over and gently squeezed Dean’s shoulder before turning onto his back to sleep. “Good night.”

“Night, doc.”

———

Dean slowly stirred from sleep, feeling warm and safe. His face rested on a smooth shoulder as he breathed in the faint scent of cologne. The chin resting on the top of his head moved slightly, ruffling his hair and waking him fully.

His eyes opened wide as he remembered where he was - in a hostel with the good doctor. He was curled into the side of Castiel, who was laying on his back with his arm outstretched, serving as Dean’s pillow. Dean’s upper leg was slung over one of Castiel’s.

Dean slowly tipped his head up, hoping to find Castiel still asleep.

Those wide blue eyes were very much awake and looking back at him.

They both looked at each other in silence, neither moving a muscle. Dean swallowed and let out nervous laugh.

“Mornin, sunshine.”

“Good morning, Dean.”

Dean moved first to get off the poor man. “Sorry, man, didn’t mean to uh- yeah sorry.” He ran his fingers through his hair and walked over to put his clothes from yesterday back on.

Castiel shimmied across the second bed to get up and get dressed himself.

“No reason to apologize.”

“Alright, but uh, were you watching me sleep?”

Castiel’s cheeks turned pink. “What? No! I had just woken up like you, I swear!”

Dean chuckled. “Dude, I’m just messing with you.”

Both men startled when a loud knock came from the door. “Maintenance!”

“Guess it’s time to go - share a shuttle back to the airport?”

“I’d like that.” Castiel gave Dean the cutest smile that should not be allowed to come from a full grown man.

———

“Well, doc, guess this is it.” Dean stood up, hearing the announcement that his group was boarding now.

Castiel was put on a different flight, leaving an hour after Dean’s.

“Guess it is,” Castiel smiled. Dean thought he looked a little sad, but he was probably imagining that.

“Thanks for the, uh, chat. Have a good trip home.” Dean reached out and shook Castiel’s hand.

“Yes, you have a good trip as well. I mean.”

Dean smiled, “I know what you mean. Thank you.”

Dean turned away, and Castiel panicked, “Wait, Dean.”

Dean turned back, brow raised. “Yeah?”

Castiel pulled his wallet out and grabbed a business card, handing it to dean. Dean read it:

“Good things do happen.” Castiel Novak, MD Psychiatrist

“Damn, you must think I need a lot of help.” Dean half-joked with him.

Castiel’s eyes went wide. “No. Oh no no, um wait.” Castiel plucked the card from his hand. He looked around and then leaned over to a woman sitting nearby. “I’m sorry ma’am, do you have a pen I can borrow?” After digging in her purse for a moment, she handed a pen over to a very grateful Castiel.

Castiel wrote on the back of the card, hesitated, then wrote something else before handing the card back to Dean.

“That’s my personal number. Call me, I mean if you want. If you need someone to talk to about the funeral and everything. Not as a shrink. As a friend.” Castiel’s cheeks were pink once again.

Dean smiled and started to look down at the card when final boarding was called for his flight.

“Shit, Cas, I gotta go. I cannot miss this flight. Thanks again!” Dean ran for the gate.

Dean sat in his window seat - a seat he was sure to request as soon as he arrived at the airport that morning. The plane started to back away from the gate, so Dean searched his pocket for gum to chew during take-off. He felt Castiel’s business card and pulled it out.

He read the card again and then flipped it over to the back. A wide grin broke out on his face as he blushed at the scribbled numbers and note:

Call me XX

———

It’d been a long week. Lots of shed tears, laughter, hugs, and paperwork. No one talks about the paperwork. Dean was exhausted but he’d made it through. Sammy ended up being able to take time away from his law firm, so having his baby brother there with him helped a lot.

It was Saturday morning, and Dean sat on the porch at Bobby’s house - now Dean’s house according to the will - drinking coffee to keep warm. He pulled out the business card that he’d kept in his pocket all week and dialed the scribbled number on the back.

One ring. Two Rings. Three.

“This is Dr. Novak.”

Dean smiled at hearing that familiar deep voice.

“Mornin, sunshine.”

One beat. Two beats. Three.

“Hello, Dean.”

#suptober21 #day2 #no vacancy #destiel #first meeting #airplane #hostel #strangers #no smut #teen and up #mention of character death #grief #alcohol #alternative universe #room sharing #ao3 fanfic #did i do this right #tumblr noob #supernatural

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swaps55 · 3 years

Text

POV Case Study – Have Some Writing Meta

Point of View (POV) is an integral piece of the storytelling puzzle for Opus, my main body of fic, so I thought I’d do a meta post that walks through how I use it as a narrative tool. The intention is not to tell anyone how they should or shouldn’t use POV, but rather to demonstrate one way I used it very deliberately to create narrative tension, weave in characterization, and develop an overarching theme.

Your POV character is an enormous tool in your writing toolbox, whether you are using a single POV or multiple. How you use it depends on a lot of things: what person you’re writing in (first, second, third), the type POV you’re going with (omniscient, meaning the POV narrator can see into everyone’s heads, or limited, meaning you only have access into the head of a specific POV character).

My preferred writing style is 3rd person “in-your-face” limited POV, that puts the reader so solidly in the POV character’s head it’s almost like 1st person in a 3rd person trench coat. That coupled with present tense gives me some extra intensity that I love taking advantage of in emotional or climactic scenes. Again, this isn’t to state a right or a wrong way to use tense or POV – there are lots of great ways to use these tools – but for the purpose of this exercise, this is my chosen loadout.

I made the conscious decision early in Sonata that I did not want to use Sam Shepard’s POV, ever. Every story in his series would be told through the eyes of the people around him. Why? Because one of the key character traits of Sam is that he makes himself whatever someone needs him to be. He sees himself as a tool, so to be a useful tool, he has to have the right shape for the job. This raises the question: who is Sam, when he is free to just be himself? I’m not sure even Sam knows the answer to that question, so to reinforce it through storytelling, I never wanted to reader to see what goes on in his head. Everything you learn about Sam comes through the perceptions of others, and to show the reader how differently he is perceived by others, I write with multiple POVs rather than just Kaidan’s.

Below the cut, I’m going to walk you through a specific example where POV was an essential part of crafting the story I wanted to tell. The chapter in question comes from Fugue, a story I’m writing that explores the aftermath of Alchera. You don’t need to have read Fugue to follow the logic, but if you care to read the chapter, it functions well on its own separate from the rest of the story.

Fugue – This Hole You Left.

This was a very complicated chapter that lived and died by POV choices, and it was extremely difficult to put together. The approach I took was a gamble that (thankfully) worked after much fretting, gnashing of teeth, and help from @pigeontheoneandonly.

This Hole You Left takes place after Sam dies over Alchera. I wanted to paint a ‘kaleidoscope’ of grief, and explore how Sam’s death impacted the people around him in very different ways. Therefore, I needed a plethora of POVs to work with, each one giving me something different. The goals were this:

Find differing POVs that would offer demonstrably different perceptions of Sam and/or illustrate different stages of grief and shock.

Allow each of those POVs to mold to that character’s specific goals and motivations. i.e., I did not want the grief of other characters to be tied to the romantic relationship that had been lost – because that’s not the lens those characters would look through.

Each POV had to move the chronology along in a way that made sense and felt natural.

Kaidan’s POV was off limits. In the absence of Sam’s physical presence, I wanted to treat Kaidan like Sam – the character people could see, but not explore the headspace of. Everything the reader learns about Kaidan in the immediate aftermath of Alchera comes from other people.

That last piece was important. Arguably, Kaidan’s POV was the most valuable one of all, but I was going to have lots of time to explore it in meaningful ways elsewhere. I thought it might be more powerful to express his grief through the eyes of others, and use him as a central theme to weave in and out of the chapter. More about that later.

This constituted one hell of a puzzle to put together, especially when it came to the chronology. For instance, an early mistake I made was putting the most powerful POV (Anderson) too early in the sequence, which diminished what came after it. Moving that POV around meant re-framing other POVs to keep the chronology moving forward (for example, Garrus’ POV initially came after Anderson’s, by moving it before his, I had to change the context so that Anderson’s POV wasn’t a step backwards in time).

Each POV scene was also intended to essentially be its own self-contained short, creating a microcosm of grief, that when put together, would create a much larger and significant whole.

I could write forever about all the trial and error that went into finding the right formula, but it’s probably more valuable to look at where I wound up, and why:

1st POV: Lora Alenko (Kaidan’s mother)

Why: She gave me a window to set the clock in motion and make the loss of the Normandy feel real, because she had the advantage of having no idea anything was wrong. Plus, her perspective felt like a unique one I hadn’t seen in fic when it came to Alchera. I’d set her character up in Sonata, so readers of that fic would be familiar with her and understand what that phone call meant to her in a more meaningful way.

How I used it: I put her in the middle of a mundane, normal, event – lunch with a friend – and then shattered that normalcy with a phone call telling her the ship her son was on had been destroyed. That shift from normal to a state of dread gave me the tension I wanted to use for the rest of the chapter.

Excerpt:

But before she can answer, her omnitool flashes. She frowns and looks down at her arm. It’s a message from Marc. SOS. Call now.

A chill runs down her spine. SOS isn’t something Marc throws around lightly. She’d gotten an SOS from him when he’d found Apollo, the warmblood she’d ridden for years, with a leg stuck through the paddock fence, and the day they’d learned about Vyrnnus.

Kaidan.

“Melia,” she murmurs. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

2nd POV: Admiral Hackett

Why: Hackett gave me the chance to explore Shepard through the eyes of the Alliance. To them, and to Hackett, he’s a weapon rather than a person. He also gave me a chance to weave in a sense of anger, one of the stages of grief.

How I used it: This POV came about late in the revision process, but I’m thrilled it did, because I was missing that cold, calculated look at Shepard’s importance. Shepard dying fucks up Hackett’s plans and political machinations, and his immediate response is not to mourn someone who died, but to move on to plan B. This also gave me a shot to work in Shepard’s mother. By seeing her in Hackett’s POV, I could reinforce the ongoing theme that Captain Shepard sees her son as a legacy, rather than a person.

Excerpt:

There isn’t a list of people who can replace Shepard. Time to make one. Hackett exhales, gaze falling to the datapad on his desk, Shepard, Sam still displayed at the top of the casualty list.

He picks it up and hurls it at the wall. It cracks, screen flickering to black as it clatters to the floor.

What a goddamned waste.

3rd POV: Joker

Why: Joker was an easy one. I’d set up some rather terrible foreshadowing in Sonata with a scene in which he makes the comment “I’d go down with that ship,” and Sam replies, grinning, “Not while I’m around.” I wanted to spike the ball over the net in Fugue, so parking in Joker’s POV in the immediate aftermath was a no-brainer.

How I used it: Through Joker I could explore guilt and shock, so I went back to that memory from Sonata and used repetition to make Joker feel stuck in that moment. It was also my first chance to weave Kaidan in to reinforce the notion of guilt and lay some neat groundwork for narrative tension that would come to a head later.

Excerpt:

I’d go down with that ship.

Not while I’m around.

He should have abandoned ship. The escape pod was right there. He could have given up the Normandy at any time. All he had to do was step over the bodies of Pressly. Chase. All he had to do was leave them all behind.

Instead he’d stayed, and Shepard had made good on his word.

I’d go down with that ship.

Not while I’m around.

4th POV: Dr. Chakwas

Why: Through her, I could look at the adrenaline and denial that comes with managing trauma. To her, Shepard was a patient. Because she is overwhelmed with patients in the form of the Normandy’s wounded, she cannot stop to think about the one she cannot help: she has a job to do, and she has to do it. There will be time to grieve later.

How I used it: Again, I used Kaidan to emphasize her role as a caretaker. Kaidan, who is in command of the survivors, has a moment of weakness that she cannot afford to have, and he can only afford to have in front of her, because she overrides his authority in a medical emergency. Because we are in her POV, we see her outwardly refuse to crack, when internally she’s hanging by a thread. It made for a nice contrast.

Excerpt:

“There was no transponder signal,” she tells him, saying out loud everything she’s been repeating to herself. “We were in hostile territory, with over twenty injured crew. He was gone, Kaidan.”

His fingers curl, eyes still trained on the window.

She puts a hand to her forehead. Between Virmire, triage on the Citadel and this it’s too much. Before today she’s never felt old. Tears sting the corner of her eyes and she swears under her breath. Not here. Not today. Tears are something for tomorrow. Right now, she has a job to do.

5th POV: Garrus

Why: Garrus was a member of the crew who wasn’t on the ship, which is a completely unique perspective. But the question that took me forever to answer, was, how does he react to Sam’s death? What was Shepard to Garrus? I hadn’t written about them during ME1 yet, he was not part of Sonata, and ME1 Garrus is always a little tricky for me. I knew there was something important to gain from his POV, but I couldn’t figure out what it was to the point of tearing my hair out. Eventually, I settled on Garrus seeing Shepard as a mentor he couldn’t live up to, and made his POV about failure and regret.

How I used it: Shepard was everything Garrus aspired to be, but could never quite achieve. He left the Normandy because Shepard made him feel like he could make a difference, only he didn’t. And then, his friends needed him, and he wasn’t there, and now Shepard is dead. I wove a lot of doubt, regret and self-deprecation into his POV to drive that home.

Excerpt:

Dammit, why hadn’t he stayed on that ship?

He grabs another report from the top of the pile on his desk, which is getting tall enough to sway in the breeze.

This is why. Because Saren had obliterated the Citadel, and Shepard, damn him, had made him believe he could make a difference. He thought he could make it here. Crazy thing, having to fill out a form every time you find a corpse. He’s got three more to add to the list after today.

6th POV: Anderson

Why: Anderson was both a father figure and commanding officer to Sam. Because he’s known him for most of his life, he has a perspective no other POV character has. To him, Sam was more like a son he’d been tasked to protect, and in the end failed to protect him. He and Kaidan are the only people who know Shepard well enough to mourn Sam, and not just Commander Shepard. Anderson would really let me start to explore grief.

How I used it: This was my heavy hitter. Through Anderson’s POV, I could trace Sam the person as he grew into Commander Shepard, and explore the echoes of the kid that still lived in the adult. I was also able to use Kaidan in a really fascinating way. In Opus, Kaidan and Sam served together for four years before the Normandy. Therefore, Anderson is pretty familiar with him, but doesn’t know him the way he does Sam. He keeps looking at Kaidan expecting Sam. In a sense, trying to plug a puzzle piece into the wrong hole. It was a neat way to show Anderson’s grief.

Additionally, this was a great opportunity to demonstrate Kaidan’s sense of loss without being in his head. Anderson does not know there was a relationship between Sam and Kaidan, but the reader does. Thus, I could have my cake and eat it, too: The POV character wasn’t examining the relationship that had been lost between Sam and Kaidan because he didn’t know it existed, but the reader got to.

Excerpt:

He exhales through his nostrils. “The Normandy was attacked by an unknown vessel. Whoever they were, Joker says they came out of nowhere. Shepard got him into the escape pod, but the ship lost gravity. He…well.”

Alenko stares straight ahead, silent. Anderson looks for a tell, but he only knows Shepard’s.

Alenko isn’t Shepard.

7th POV: Tali

Why: Tali presented a similar problem to me that Garrus did. What was Shepard specifically to her, and what did his loss mean to her? As my closing POV, not only did she need to hit a home run, but she also needed to close out the chapter in a way that tied all the other POVs together and examined Shepard’s death through a much wider lens, without feeling like I was pulling the camera back from her POV to get there. That’s a lot to ask. Lucky for me, Tali never lets me down.

The answer I came to also called back to Sonata, in which exploring what home meant to each of the characters was an important theme. So I went back to this idea for Tali, as she and Sam had a very important thing in common that set them apart from everyone else: they were both born in space, and did not have the traditional fixed point of home that everyone around them had. Home was different to them than it was to everyone else.

How I used it: Tali was the only one left who understood how truly unique and special the home she’d found on the Normandy was. Therefore, when the crew starts to fragment and fall apart around her, she is forced to mourn the loss not only of Shepard, who gave her that home, but the home itself. I was able to use that grief to circle back to how much Shepard changed the people around him, and how deeply his loss will be felt in ways people haven’t even realized yet.

That conclusion was the magic final puzzle piece that made the whole thing work, and it was literally the last idea to take shape.

Excerpt:

Aliens don’t carry their ship names with them the way quarians do. Perhaps when you’re born with dirt under your feet you don’t need to. For them, home isn’t a vessel among the stars – it’s a fixed place in the universe, a way back no matter how far from it you venture.

But Shepard had been different. Like the quarians, he had no fixed point. Home was what – or who – he carried with him. He’d understood the power of a ship name, even if he hadn’t used one out loud. People who served with Shepard felt like they belonged, in ways they couldn’t anywhere else, because he said to hell with that fixed point in the galaxy and brought home to anyone who needed it. For Shepard, there wasn’t a way back. Just a way forward.

Shepard changed people.

They’ve lost so much more than a ship.

The primary objective of Opus is to examine the relationship between Sam and Kaidan, but to really understand the magnitude of Sam’s death, it was critical to explore it outside the confines of that relationship. Part of the struggle Sam and Kaidan have is that Sam doesn’t truly belong to himself or to Kaidan – he belongs to everyone else. That means his death doesn’t belong to either him or Kaidan. It’s shared with all the people he touched and shaped.

That’s what made this carousel of POVs a challenge I really wanted to make work. It required an absurd amount of juggling, but the diversity and uniqueness of each made Shepard’s loss feel real and devastating. But not only did each of those POVs tell us something about Sam, they provided some meaningful character development for the POV character. How they react to Sam’s death and what it means to them tells us a lot about that character, which in turn lends the entire story more depth.

If you read this far, I’m pretty sure you deserve a cookie.

I don’t know if any of that is helpful or meaningful other than to show an example of how POVs can be a really awesome tool to tell a story. There can be a lot of depths and layers to why you use a particular character to tell a story through, and those choices can greatly impact the story you end up telling.

#how writing is written #writing meta #POV meta #peak self-indulgence

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pinheadsboyfriend · 3 years

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“Were you ever in love?”

The question is asked over cold fries and flattening soda, late at night when Paris was as silent as it would ever be. Their pistols — both of them, were snugly fit into the inside pockets of their jackets, though only one of them was carrying legally. The both of them have killed today, Gash worshippers, but violence is so innate in their lifestyles at this point that it doesn’t even come up in conversation.

“In your past life, I mean. Or - well, the life you’re living now, just one hundred years ago.” Crawford specifies. They’re only just now verging into the territory of “being on good terms”, and Elliot continues to be startled by the other’s consistent lack of polite tact. They seem relatively unbothered, though, patiently awaiting an answer while chewing a handful of cold chips.

Had he ever been in love? It was a good question; he’d loved before, surely. He could say that his first love was his first kiss - his next door neighbor growing up, but there was no love there - only children doing what they’ve seen others do. And most memorably, he’d participated in some indulgences that, up until a few years ago, apparently, would have been marginally more condemned than they were today.

Regardless of external judgment, forging those sorts of bonds with each other in the trenches was as inevitable as it was necessary. It gave you something to live for, even if in the back of your mind you knew it was only fleeting. But does that form of love still hold some kind of validity, if born only from the traumas of war? Even if it was manufactured, it felt real. Tangible, even. It might have been devoid of depth, but the urgency felt right.

Elliot thinks of his field medic. His face is faded in his mind, and to some extent, his name, but he remembers the sound of his voice as if it had been whispering in his ear right at that second. He remembers their late night conversations and the implied promises they made to each other during coveted, yet always foreboding moments of silence. Additionally, Elliot also remembers the field medic’s body rendered unrecognizable. Shards of metal lodged in his abdomen, stripping most of his body of skin — nothing but meat swimming in a puddle of blood. The nausea comes as it always does when his mind drifts, and he isn’t feeling particularly hungry anymore.

“No,” and Elliot isn’t sure if he’s lying or not. “I never had the time.”

Crawford shrugs, and offers little more than that.

“Why, have you?”

Crawford laughs a little, takes another sip of his drink. “No — not for a lack of trying, though. I love my job just fine. Anything else is sort of overwhelming.” He scratched at the back of his head, approaching his next statement slowly. “You just - I don’t know. Never seemed like the married type.”

“Should I take offense to that?”

“If you want to. I didn’t mean for it to be offensive. I mean, I don’t really blame you. I can’t imagine the options were particularly enriching in the 1910s — from my perspective at least.”

Elliot adjusts in his chair a bit. A century, and they still haven’t come up with a consistently comfortable bench design. “Your perspective?”

Crawford emits a brief laugh, huffing through his nose. “I can’t imagine people way back when being all too happy about me dressing like a — what is it your folks say? Oh — dressing like a chap, kissing other blokes.”

“Oh,” and now Elliot is the one who adds little to the conversation.

“Could you imagine? Me as a domestic 1900s housewife? Five kids to take care of while I made the shittiest slop on the burner. Then I’d go to sleep ‘n do it all over again.” Crawford laughs again, and means it this time. “God, I would have blown my fucking brains out.”

His eyes widen a little, and he raises an acknowledging hand in Elliot’s direction.

“Sorry, I’m being insensitive. They call them the “good old days” for a reason — I’m sure there were some good things about them. ”

Elliot scoffs and crosses his legs, takes a puff of his cigarette. He feels guilty for not being homesick. His mind flickers to his field medic again, and remembers the pressures of needing to find a wife, because who wanted to grow old alone?

“None that I can remember.”

#theyre reading each other with their respective gaydars #im putting this in the main tags because i think it’s divorced from myself enough to be acceptable #pinhead #elliot spencer #hell priest / elliot #2022 is the year of caring less and thinking less. which is also why j didn’t beta read this

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spacetimewraithwrites-archive · 3 years

Text

Fictober ‘21 Prompt No. 2 — “You have no proof.”

Category: Original WIP: Misfortunate Sol Rating: T (I guess? idk. I usually put T to be safe) Timeline: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ CW: None Word Count: 1,111 Additional Notes: I was about four paragraphs in when I realized I wanted this in the first draft in some iteration lmao

***

As had been the case for a week and two days, at exactly seven fifteen in the morning, Sol rapped his knuckles on the door of room 205. On the occasion that he was early, he would stand to the side of the peephole and keep an eye on the minute hand of his watch until time. Should he stand within the line of sight of the peephole, the door would fling open at exactly seven fifteen in the morning and a shrieking elderly woman would fly at him, ranting and raving about how much of a disgusting deviant voyeur he may or may not have been. Getting a word in about how there was no feasible way to see inside the room from his vantage proved futile.

This time, he remembered.

The door opened, patiently, and a sweet older lady with a gentle smile and an unsightly fox wrapped around her neck held her hand out to him. “Good morning, Solomon.”

Sol inclined his head and placed the morning paper in her hand. “Mrs. Van Dorn. Front page, fashion, weather, and funnies.”

“Oh, punctuality! You are such a delight. I must tell Marabie to give you a raise.”

“She says every morning, and hasn’t followed through once.”

“Pardon?”

“Breakfast is being served downstairs,” Sol covered briskly. “The Keoghs are up and eating as well, now.”

Mrs. Van Dorn turned her nose up, holding the folded paper close to her chest. “I see. I’m surprised. What with them being young and fresh from the chapel, I would’ve expected them to be out and about somewhere in the flesh of the afternoon, dying of dehydration and overexertion.”

Sol pulled his face into a polite grimace. “...Madam?”

He made a swift exit upon being shooed away, and took long strides to the elevators. The leftmost one opened as soon as he pressed the button, and he ran headlong into a towering, bulky figure hunched in the very front and center of the car.

“Jeez, kid,” the solid object grunted, shifting out of the way.

Sol blinked at the trench coat and the loose tie. “Oh, I have to be in hell,” he blurted.

Detective Logan cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his rumpled coat, and though his mannerisms conveyed ambivalence, his tone conveyed obnoxious authority. “Mind if I tag along for a bit?”

Throwing his hands up and marching into the car behind Logan, Sol scoffed. “I suppose I could say no and have a lovely jail cell to sleep in tonight, couldn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Logan muttered, scratching his stubbled jaw as the doors shut in front of him. He tapped the uniformed operator on the shoulder and jabbed his thumb in Sol’s direction. “Wherever he wants.”

The operator turned an expectant look onto Sol, who had somehow forgotten she was there.

“Tenth floor, please, Amelia,” he sighed. “Detective, I am very busy this morning, I don’t have time for whatever it is you came here to bother me for.”

“Who says I’m here for you?” When Sol folded his hands in front of him and graciously provided a withering look, Logan nodded. “Alright, I’m here for you. There’s details about a certain bathtub incident that needs further clarification.”

The elevator shuddered as soon as Amelia tipped the lever, and the brief jolt of the car ascending garnered just as brief a pause.

Sol cast his eyes to the ceiling as if he could see where they were going. “There’s nothing further to clarify. I gave my statement three times already.”

“Some things just aren’t adding up.”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“See, I don’t think you have. There were wet footprints on the tile leading to and from the tub that match with yours, you know.”

“And I’ve mentioned in several ways to your surely competent officers that the footprints had in fact been left by me, as I had approached the tub to try to determine whether my next step was to make lunch for Carey or call the coroner for the fourth time in my life.”

Logan thinned his eyes. “Why would you make lunch for someone you didn’t know very well, Mr. Iron?”

“Why would I make breakfast that morning for someone I didn’t know very well, Detective Logan?”

Logan’s brows pinched together over wide eyes and his voice dropped an octave. “Why would you make breakfast for someone you didn’t know very well, Mr. Iron?”

“Why do birds sing and bees sting and trees get hit by lightning, Detective Logan?” Sol retorted with added aggression. “I am a grown man with grown feelings, and some things just really aren’t any of your business.”

“You had a romantic relationship with the victim?”

“Sure,” Sol shrugged dramatically, exasperated. “If by romantic, you mean we shared a cab and then a bed for a night, then yes, I confessed my undying love and proposed marriage and talked about raising a family with Carey Goddamn Whatshisname.”

Sol and Logan held eye contact for roughly four seconds before, at the same time, glancing sideways at Amelia, who kept her attention firmly on the floor indicator yet made a noise much like a mouse being strangled by a piano wire.

Clearing his throat, Logan rocked on his heels. “Right. Well. I still need to ask some questions—”

"Ten,” Amelia interrupted, and the elevator doors opened with a small chime.

Sol let out a breath of relief and stormed into the empty hallway. “Thank god.”

To his dismay, Logan followed close behind. “Look, kid, I’m gonna find out—”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Sol cut in, whipping around, “but I am exhausted. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve had to call in four deaths all very recently. I’ve been running around trying to forget what they all looked like. I’m trying to forget what their loved ones looked like when they arrived at our apartments, spotting their corpses covered with sheets, and I am desperate to keep this job so I can afford to never have to go through any of that ever again. Please leave me alone so I can do that.”

The expression on Logan’s face, angled down to Sol as he spoke could be described as solemn, but perhaps that was asking for too much. His jaw moved as if he’d wanted to say something he ended up not saying. “I’m just trying to find justice,” he said quietly.

“You have no proof,” Sol said with finality. “There is no proof.”

He knew the edge in his eyes came through when Logan frowned, but all he wanted was to get as far away from him as humanly possible.

#fictober21 #Misfortunate Sol #clearly this is somewhere toward the beginning #because I think the first murder happens not too long after this

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wwwafflewrites · 5 years

Text

The Not-So-French Mistake

Chapter 1: Angelic Abductions

Sydney woke to an unfamiliar ceiling. She stood, eyeing the room, hands outstretched in a protective circle. The setting sun beamed in through the yawning windows and their golden rays glared over her face. Feverish, sweltering heat crashed down and sweat trickled off her forehead. It was the occasional, rickety hotel room with thin, decorative curtains and typical furniture. Yet a threat lingered in the air.

Her apparent amnesia heightened her fear. However, with the lack of visible threats, she allowed her rigid shoulders to drop an inch. Nothing was off, per se, besides the apparent fact that she hadn’t recalled purchasing a hotel room; and for reasons unknown, her senses were warning her that she wasn’t alone: like a hidden, buzzing alarm somewhere in her conscience.

On cue, a gentle, cool draft blew in the room, and there a man stood at the foot of the doorway. He entered the room, his stare stoic and concentrated with a calm expression shaping his intense features. The khaki-colored trench coat embracing his shoulders fluttered with the breeze while his stark-blue tie politely waved.

Her eyes betrayed her. She dug her nails into the sweat of her palms, forming anxious fists that would dubiously protect her from whatever evil lay before her. An ocean of questions flooded her brain in a panicked moment, and she cowered fearfully. Her elbows tucked into her ribs, palms out in surrender like a frightened animal.

The man blinked benignly. Curiously, he took a step onto the lip of the carpet. He spoke honestly: “My name is Castiel.”

With a set jaw and a wary mind, she regarded the man. He appeared harmless: his ruffled dark hair and clear blue eyes dampened her nerves significantly. Continuing to gape like a fish, she struggled to form intelligible sentences. She finally demanded, “Where am I?”

Castiel neared cautiously to avoid alarming her. “A place you do not belong.“ He extended his arm toward her face, two fingers caressing her temple in a gentle profession.

A wave of bliss shot through her, blessing her muscles into a restful state. The darkest corners of her mind eased and folded under the grace’s fluid power, and she folded into unconsciousness as her eyes fluttered shut. She went limp and steady hands caught her before she descended onto the tile floor.

Castiel supported her deadweight and unfurled his wings. Then, with a confident rush of wind, the humid prison of a deserted hotel was behind them. The angel observed his new surroundings, while he gingerly assured the girl’s safety within his arms. Castiel pushed past a startled Bobby and grunted as he set her on the couch.

Bobby’s face wrinkled his brow in confusion and then raised them again, ready for a thorough explanation. “So, who’s the girl?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, although his expression remained passive. He revealed three gleaming angel blades hidden in his trench coat and displayed them on the table. “Angels had locked her within an abandoned hotel not far from here.” His tone was soft and concerned. Regretful.

Dean and Sam both looked exhausted: the bruised raccoon eyes from lack of sleep and the slouched mannerisms proved their late-night research and hunting.

They had chosen their stance throughout Bobby’s country home: Castiel stood with his hands in his trench coat pockets while watching over the girl, Sam and Dean were both inclined up against the antique table, and Bobby had situated himself in a wooden seat.

Dean raised an eyebrow at the girl splayed on the couch. Her auburn locks fell onto her shoulders in chocolate waves. A snugly fit jean jacket enveloped her, the sleeves’ ends frayed and torn with age and worriment, while a plain black tank top fit her middle. Black leggings clung to her knees in wrinkles, but, oddly enough, no shoes were present. Dean immediately remarked, “Can she even drive yet?” For someone associated with angels, she was awfully young.

Castiel paused, considering it literally, and before he could embarrass himself by answering, and Dean stopped the angel. The hunter chuckled and rephrased his question, “Cas, what I mean is: Why do the angels care so much about a teenager? Is she human?”

Castiel looked regretful when he replied, “Yes. She has a human soul. Whatever the angels are searching for, it is foolish.” The angel blades along the table clattered as he nudged their handles, recalling their owners apologetically. The angel huffed, reluctant to tell as they waited patiently for him to explain. He owed them one, however. After all the favors the Winchesters had given, they at least deserved answers. “They stole her from a… variance of our dimension.”

Dean pouted a lip. “So, what? They went all, Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe on her? Yanked her out of the professor’s magic wardrobe?”

The angel watched, lost as Dean made references, so he merely continued explaining without acknowledging them. “No, Dean. She doesn’t exist here. That’s what makes this extremely dangerous.”

“Like… Aslan kind of dangerous?” Dean smirked.

“Aslan? The Turkish word for… lion?” he said, looking bewildered until he had decoded Dean’s phrase as a casual joke. He huffed, “No- no, Dean. This level of interference could cause catastrophic damage to our universe. This could disrupt time itself if we don’t prevent it. This could alter fate.” Castiel sought to prove how world-altering this could become.

Dean shrugged. “Another chance that our world may be royally screwed. Why am I not surprised? You know, sometimes I feel like the world is just begging for attention.” He took a calm sip of his half-empty glass. “So how do we get her… back?”

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t know if we can. There are infinite realities out there, Dean. Finding the correct universe would be like searching for a specific atom in an entire galaxy. It’s… unrealistic. Even to our standards, ” he said.

The hunter sent a silent impressed look. It wasn’t like they were defying the laws of nature on a daily basis or anything, but he couldn’t argue.

Sam froze. “Hey, wait. Is this related to that alternate reality we were thrown into by Balthazar? The one with our lives as a television show with no mojo? I remember now. Our names were, eh, Jared and Jensen?” He remembered that day. A world where supernatural, demons, and angels didn’t exist. Nothing of the sort had ever walked among anyone. It was a blessing, really. Plus, Sam and Dean had been ridiculously rich. He didn’t have a bad memory of the place, besides the angel Virgil pouncing on their tails.

He remembered how Cas had been. Or mostly, how he hadn’t been. Misha Collins, he recalled vaguely, the sweater-wearing variant of their angel friend. His voice had been higher-pitched, too: less gravelly and low. Misha had been rather vulnerable as a human. From the homeless man’s descriptive details, Sam had pieced together that Misha had blubbered and squealed blatantly as the blade of Virgil’s knife had pinched threateningly at his neck. Nobody could blame the guy: he had been an innocent, inexperienced variant of their mid-war Castiel. Although, now that the angel was here in the flesh while Sam speculated, he couldn’t help contrast Castiel’s and Misha’s polarity.

Castiel nodded. “Yes. A similar one.”

Sam made an abundance of facial expressions when he was thinking. His eyebrows would draw crinkles along his forehead and his teeth would grind together in thought. His eyes remained steady and sure. “Then couldn’t we use that symbol we used the last time? The one that glowed red on the window we jumped through?”

“No.” The angel answered sadly. “Not that simple. We knew about your location.”

Sam leaned back further against the table at Cas’s response. It never was that easy, was it? “So that’s it? We… let her stay?”

Without hesitance, the angel replied, “No. That could altogether upset the natural order. I suggest we find the angel responsible.”

All three hunters eyed the angel in anticipation. When he didn’t respond, Bobby spoke up, “Who, then?”

Cas fidgeted. “I don’t know yet.”

It was quiet after that. A whistle of hot wind trickling in from a loose window and danced throughout the house, filling in the silence the group left. In all seasons, nature’s sounds were talkative at this end of the country. The cicadas chirped enthusiastically when the stars blinked above, and the mosquitoes nipped when summer sweat pooled in their shoes. It differed completely from the city. There was no whining of engines besides their own, and the air smelled of sweet ponderosa pine: a soft, blended aroma of vanilla and butterscotch. The Singer Salvage Yard was a rusty home for the hunters, but it was home.

Dean couldn’t shake the instinct within him that told him to question the scenario, so he spoke up, headstrong. “Okay, but is this even a bad thing?”

“Of course, it’s a bad thing-!” Bobby barked incredulously.

“Yeah, yeah, but Cas said it could alter fate. So what if this could improve things around here? I mean, if we recruited her, think of the hunter she would-”

“That was not meant to encourage you, Dean.” Castiel disagreed. “You know too well how this turns out. Becoming vain over ‘good intentions’ backfire. They always do. Of all people, you should have learned this lesson by now.” He pivoted to take a glance at the comatose teenager on the couch cushions. She seemed at peace now, but once she woke, it would be worse than at the hotel. “She was petrified when I retrieved her. Imagine if she learned what lurked in the darkness. It could break her, Dean.”

Castiel had a point.

Dean shifted uncomfortably, recollecting old memories that started with the phrase: ‘good intentions’. Sam’s par against demon blood and had spiraled into the upbringing of the devil himself and the apocalypse along with him. The time Castiel had been juiced up on souls and transformed into ‘God’ was also an example of ‘good intentions’ gone wrong.

Dean could additionally add the constant sacrifice of his life for Sam’s as another example of where he could officially state he had literally been forming deals with death. Wearing Death’s ring and impersonating him for an entire day just to bring Sam’s soul back from Lucifer’s cage was a rather personal issue of his. Protective was a light term.

Cas sensed the hunter’s change of attitude and figured it best to drop the topic while they were still civil and level-headed. “I suggest you all sleep. I’ll take watch.” The angel shuffled into a comfortable position, preparing to stand silently for the rest of the night as the chirrups and warbles of birds outside hushed.

So, the idle room roused, itching for its inhabitants to sleep as the stars sat above them.

Bobby was first to act, and he migrated from his seat to settle for the night. The stairs gave a distinct thwap thwap of socks against the wood to indicate he was heading off to bed and leaving the boys to their own business.

Sam rose from his corner of the table, stretching and lumbering off to the car to rest like a defeated moose. The couch was occupied, so he was making do.

Dean raised an eyebrow, trotting off to grab another drink. Nobody bothered to protest against his habits because, unfortunately, this was Dean’s way of coping with the obstacles life threw at him. Eventually, Dean would settle; however, the rattle of a fridge shutting proved it would not be for a while. He returned to the living room, glass now refilled with alcohol. He sat at the desk chair Bobby had abandoned and swayed pleasantly to the hum of crickets sounding through crevices in the walls.

Dean flashed an amused look towards Castiel. “You know, you don’t need to stand over her like a hawk. You carved the sigils into her ribs, right?”

Castiel was, indeed, hovering over the teenager. He blinked, realizing his mind had gone blank with fatigue. Faltering, he swapped his attention to the hunter. “Yes… I suppose I did,” he said, giving a weary, brief look to the couch once more before sitting on the floor with his hands rested on his knees.

“Then she should be fine.” Dean expressed his interest with an inquisitorial gaze. “What’s got you worried, Cas?”

His friend was unusually uptight. “If angels deliberately brought her here from another dimension, she must be valuable to them. If we lose her once…” he trailed off.

“We won’t,” Dean stated with confidence.

Castiel frowned pensively. “I know.” He looked to the floor, pulling at the sleeves of his trench coat. “I’m draining, Dean. My grace is fading, and by the day humanity is prodding at the floodgates for cracks and fissures. I fear one day I’ll wake up as a human.”

Dean paused at the words ‘wake up as a human’ and carefully said, “But… you don’t sleep.”

“Exactly,” Castiel muttered. He rested his forehead along his palm, finding it heavy. “I’m finding it difficult to avoid the temptation of sleep.” The angel exhaled, closing his eyes and succumbing to his exhaustion.

Dean ceased to stir his drink and instead planted it on the desk. He threw a blanket over Castiel’s resting form with a soft smile. Resting his elbows on his thighs, he absorbed the night. He browsed Sam’s laptop for data on dimensional travel, but results proved frustrating. In periods of boredom, he would rise from his seat and amble around, occasionally refilling his glass. This was what Dean accomplished when he was restless. It was just another night of nothing.

Eventually, after hours of repeating this process, the hunter drifted away as dawn illuminated the house with a tame gold. He sunk into the chair, his head lolling until it sagged against the wall.

Fortunately, it was a dreamless slumber.

#supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #gabriel #supernatural fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction

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achtung-attitude · 5 years

Photo

Upon her death, something emerges from the roof of the wagon. A small, hairy creature, fused with the vehicle, detaches itself and shakes its metallic limbs, looking around with bulging eyes. None of the approaching lookie-loos take any notice of it. After detaching fully, it flies away.

The instant it does, the vehicle seems to cave in on itself, in a single catastrophic crush. Metal twists and bends, one of the tires explodes. The crowd of onlookers grow, and panic rushes through as the scent of gasoline and fire fills the air.

In broad daylight, in the middle of an LA street, the police vehicle explodes. Shop windows shatter. Some bystanders are too slow in escaping, and are caught in the shock wave. All that’s Phantasma Juarez and the two police officers escorting her is burned away.

A dozen meters away, a woman sitting on the roof of a building puts down her binoculars, through which she watched this scene play out. She squints at the pillar of smoke rising from the wreck, then scratches the hook-shaped scar on her cheek.

“... Fuck,” she says. A milkshake rests on the roof next to her. She picks it up and drinks it. “That’s way too flashy. Going to attract way too much attention. Time to bail.”

She hops to her feet, taking her shake with her, opening door leading downstairs. The hairy creature, her Stand, flies towards her. Without turning around, she raises her arm and it lands on it, quite like a falcon. Unlike a falcon, it skitters excitedly around her forearm.

“Shame about the bystanders, but there’s no helping ‘em now,” she mutters, opening the door and stepping down. Her Stand stops moving and clings to her forearm, then fades into it, returning to her essence. “HOUSE OF PAIN leaves no survivors.” The door slams behind and she descends.

***

“You’re not well enough to move yet, sir!” cries the nurse. She chases after her patient, who strides down the hallway, brazenly tearing off bandages and discarding on the floor. “The doctor said you need at least two more days of bed rest--!”

“Tell him I’m checking out early,” the patient declares, reaching the lobby and making his way toward the exit, “Y’all can send the bill to Jerome Adetokunbo. That’s A-D-E--”

“Your wounds could re-open at any moment! Even if they closed over as quickly as they did, there’s still a lot of internal damage to deal with! If you move around too much, you could exacerbate them!”

“Get off my ass! I got shit to do. What’s it to you, anyway?”

“Your care is my responsibility!”

The patient pauses in front of the automatic doors and turns, the rings tied at the ends of his braided hair clinking over his muscular chest. He glowers at the nurse and pulls a cellphone out of his pocket. “I look like I need any care?” Kilo Staples says. The scars left behind by FEEL GOOD INC. are closed over, leaving only phantom marks across his torso.

He ignores her further protests, and focuses on dialing a number into the phone. After a minute of holding the device to his ear, he curses. “Shit! Typical! She made such a big deal out of exchanging numbers, but she never picks up the phone! Swear to God… Trish is probably gone by now, so they’re probably back at Jerome’s place. Guess I could just go over there… Fuck that, I ain’t waiting around! Pain in my ass…”

Just then, an ambulance stops right in front of the doors where Kilo is at. He mumbles to himself angrily as he ponders whether to call a taxi or an Uber, before paramedics pull two stretchers out of the ambulance and place them onto gurneys, before rushing into the hospital.

“Hi, Kilo!” calls out Shizuka, on the first gurney, her face discolored by many bruises.

“Oh, hey…” Kilo replies. He turns back to his phone, then another gurney rolls past, this one carrying Moya.

“Staples.”

“Bitch.” He opens his Home screen and hovers his thumb over the Uber app, pauses, stares down the hallway where the gurneys are pushed, then rushes down the hall to follow.

***

“Why the fuck didn’t you call me!!?” Kilo shouts, pacing between the door and the wall of the ward room.

“We didn’t have time! We literally just dropped Trish off at the airport, and Phantasma showed up right after!” Shizuka defends herself, sitting up in her bed. Her voice muffled by the wrappings covering her face. Her arms are also swathed in slings, yet she still gestures wildly.

“You were injured,” Moya goes on, far more subdued, lying on her back, “Even if we had an opportunity to summon you, you would have just got in our way.”

“Oh, and you did so much better? You talk a lotta shit for someone who can barely stand!”

“I did all I could… I could still kick your ass while lying on my ass…!”

“Oh you want a piece of this!? If you think I’ll go easy ‘cause you’re injured, I’ll show you--!”

“No fighting!! OW!!” Shizuka shouts over them, then clutches her forehead. “No shouting either, my head hurts. We’re a team now, so get along, ok?”

Kilo and Moya scowl at each other, then sigh. “Sorry,” Moya says.

Kilo shoves a hand into his pocket. “So you beat one of the Congregation’s bosses. Not bad. What happens now?”

“I’m not going to stop,” declares Moya, staring resolute at the ceiling, “I’m not quitting until I see Brother Dust and All-Kill behind bars, or dead. For the sake of all of L.A., I won’t stop. I know I can’t do it alone. Shizuka… You don’t have to help me. This isn’t your battle. But if you’re willing to see this through, I know that we can bring the Congregation down. And when we’re done, we’ll get our hands on T’onga Kim, and then you and her can have a long conversation.”

“T’onga? Who’s…? Oh,” Kilo says, seeing Shizuka’s face, a wan smile spreading across her bandaged face. “So ya finally got a name, huh? Well, shit… Then, I ain’t quitting either. I said I’d help until you found her, and I meant it. So I’m in, too.”

Shizuka beams at her friends. A moment of pleasant silence comes over them. The sun comes out from behind a cloud, and the room is suddenly illuminated. Dust motes dance in the yellow light.

“Kilo,” Shizuka breaks the silence, “I have something for you. Trish told me to give it to you.”

“Is it a kiss?”

“Ah!... N-no?”

“Yeah, it is,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“No it’s not, it’s something else!”

“No, it ain’t. I only knew her for like a week, but I know that’s the sorta dumb shit she’d pull.”

“It’s not! It’s a… a message! A message from her! But only you can hear it, so you have to lean in close to me!”

“I ain’t gonna do that.”

“But then you won’t hear the message!”

“Ugh…” Moya groans, “Just do what she says, man.”

“I don’t remember asking you. Whatever…” he assents, moving to Shizuka’s side and leaning in.

“Come closer, I can’t move much like this.”

He does so, leaning closer.

“Ugh, closer!”

“Alright, alright, damn…” Kilo groans, bending his legs to lean closer, so his face is level with hers.

Just as Shizuka puckers her lips to deliver the kiss, the door swings open and a young detective in a tan trench-coat and fedora bursts in, clutching his hat. “Pezzente! We have an update on…! Oh…” No-one speaks for several seconds. “... Hey, I can come back later, if you want.”

“Which costume party you come here from?” Kilo asks, scowling.

“I’m a real detective!”

“What’s the update, kid?” Moya says, sitting up painfully.

“Uh, right, yes! I-it’s about Juarez, sir… uh, ma’am,” he corrects himself, after a glare directed at him.

“Hm. Didn’t take long. Don’t tell me she gave up the gang’s political backer already. You need to make sure to triple-check and corroborate everything, she might try to send us on a goose chase-”

“Ma’am, she…! She’s not in a position to give up anything. The wagon escorting her crashed. It was a total wreck, there was an explosion. She’s dead.”

A cloud passes over the sun, and silence falls over the room. Shizuka’s eyes go wide, her mouth hangs open. Kilo stands up and scowls, turning away and glares out the window, leaning on the windowsill.

Moya swallows, then in a hoarse, choked whisper: “... What?”

END OF CHAPTER 27

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #achtung attitude #t'onga kim #house of pain #ch27

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creative-type · 6 years

Text

The Murder of Arthur Wright III

First

Last

AO3

AN: Some of the dialogue may have been inspired by @bludragongal‘s art. Fun fact, I don’t know or care about anything even remotely related to clothes and looking nice, and thus all my characters are fashion disasters by default.

Chapter Three: A Conversation in a Hospital

Margot didn’t know what to think of Dashiell Cain, but there was no doubting his sincerity. He shook Margot’s hand, thanked her again for hearing him out and turned to leave.

He nearly made it to the door when Margot let out a breath that was nearly a sigh. “Wait.”

Cain stopped.

“What are you going to do now?” Margot asked.

“Well…I hear that Wright junior’s still at the hospital convalescing,” Cain said slowly. “I thought I’d pay him a visit.”

“Not in those clothes you aren’t,” Margot said. Some small voice in the back of her mind was asking why she was doing this. It was a question Margot wasn’t sure she could answer. The story Cain presented was odd, but hardly compelling evidence that Master Wright had been murdered. Poking around where he wasn’t wanted would only upset a grieving family.

At the same time, Margot had doubts. Master Wright had gone out of his way to put every conceivable protection on his Teleportation device only for it to detonate minutes before it was to be displayed to the public. It would be foolish to rule out sabotage.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Cain asked.

“The Wright family are city elves, born and bred,” Margot said. “Do you want them to take you seriously or not?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“Do you have a suit?” Margot said. “Something with a waistcoat or jacket?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at her sidelong. “You really think I outta change?”

“Yes,” Margot said emphatically. “And leave behind the trench coat.”

Cain had the gall to look wounded. “But…pockets…”

“Master Wright might not have cared, but his son is a dandy if I ever saw one. If you want him to listen to what you have to say, you’ll ditch the coat.”

Cain stuffed a hand into his pockets, pulled out another piece of jerky, and began chewing furiously. An intent look of concentration came across his features. Then he nodded once, sharply, as if coming to a decision.

“All right, we’ll do it your way. But only if you come with me.”

“Oh, no,” Margot said. “You’re not dragging me into this. I’ve already told you, I’m not a detective.”

“Just hear me out. Me showing up dressed to the nines isn’t going to make me seem any more legitimate, trust me. But Wright knows you.”

“That’s a gross exaggeration, but even assuming it wasn’t, the fact remains I don’t know you,” Margot said. “I’m not going to vouch for your credibility as a detective when I haven’t even known you an hour.”

Cain jabbed what was left of his jerky in her direction. “Let me finish before going off making assumptions. You don’t have to do anything except be there. We don’t even have to come in together if you don’t want. The way I figure it, we could both show up saying we want to see how Mr. Wright is doing and let the conversation play out as it may. All you have to do is confirm I was there when the rig blew to smithereens and helped carry his sorry butt away from the blast site. A little goodwill can go a long way, but he’s gotta believe in that goodwill before I can do anything.”

“And what is it you’re trying to get out of visiting Mr. Wright in the hospital?” Margot asked.

Cain grinned a big, dopey grin. “That’s easy. All I’m asking is permission to investigate.”

Margot raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“As it turns out, people don’t like it when you go snooping around for no good reason,” Cain said. He scratched the back of his head ruefully. “So whaddya say, Professor? This case has been an itch I can’t scratch. Without Wright’s permission there’s nothing else I can do. You help me out here, and I’ll get out of your hair for good.”

Margot traced the edge of her coffee mug with her pointer finger, mulling over his proposition. She wasn’t sure how much stock she put in his story about the elven woman, but she did think that the authorities had been too quick to call Master Wright’s death an accident. What was the worst Mr. Wright could do, tell Cain no? What did Margot have to lose by agreeing?

Her gaze flickered to a pile of unfinished lesson plans before settling back on Cain. “How soon can you get ready?”

Cain was waiting for Margot when she arrived at the hospital, looking smart in a green waistcoat that complemented the tone of his skin and brown pants made of worsted wool. The hideous trench coat was nowhere to be found, and Margot noted approvingly that he had even taken the time to get his shoes shined. At the sight of her he gulped down the rest of a sandwich and dusted the crumbs off of his hands.

“How do I look?”

“Your tie’s crooked,” Margot said, reaching up to adjust the knot.

“You really think it’ll make that much of a difference?” Cain asked.

“I don’t know about difference, but it’ll at least give you a chance.” She gave the tie one, final tug. “Remember, I’m not vouching for you. We happened to meet in the lobby, that’s all.”

“That’s enough. Thanks for giving me a chance, Professor.”

They went to the reception desk and asked for directions. The woman looked from Margot’s burn to Cain’s hulking frame, unsure of what to make of them.

“We’re colleagues of Mr. Wright,” Cain said smoothly. “The professor and I were at the conference when it happened. We’ve come to see how he’s doing and offer our condolences.”

The receptionist’s demeanor shifted at the word ‘professor’, and Margot smiled politely. That was enough. While the receptionist scanned through the list of patient names Cain winked impishly at Margot, barely getting his expression under control before she looked up again.

“Just down the hall and to the left, past the general ward. You can’t miss it.”

Cain tipped his hat and strode in the direction she indicated, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Margot raised an eyebrow at him.

“Did you want me along so you could talk to Mr. Wright, or so you could get through the door?” she said under her breath.

The grin widened. “Yep.”

“You could have just asked,” Margot said.

“I did, and you said yes.”

They reached the door that the receptionist indicated. There was no name listed, and it was well away from the general ward, reserved for those who could afford the luxury of privacy. Cain knocked quietly and settled back to wait.

A moment later the door opened to the confused face of an elvish woman dressed from head to foot in mourning. She was young for an elf, not much older than thirty, with fine, delicate features that gave her the fragile appearance of a porcelain doll. Auburn hair was tied into an elaborate twist and pinned under a black veil that had been pushed away from dark brown eyes. Her black dress was made of paramatta silk and trimmed with black crepe, while a black-gloved hand nervously fingered the jet button at her throat.

Cain quickly removed his hat from his head. “I’m sorry to intrude. My name is Dashiell Cain, and this is Professor Margot…” He looked down at Margot with a small frown, realizing for the first time that he didn’t know her last name.

“Mr. Cain and I happened to meet in the lobby and thought we should come up together,” Margot interjected smoothly. “We were both at the mage’s conference and heard Mr. Wright hadn’t been released from the hospital yet. Is he doing well?”

The woman relaxed. “Oh yes, of course. Felix spoke of highly of your work. Come in, come in. The healers say that he should be able to discharge today.”

“Who is it, Isabella?” Felix Wright’s voice called from within the room.

“A lady and a gentleman from the mage’s conference. They’ve come to see how you’re doing.”

It wasn’t often Margot was called a lady by a member of the upper class and half-wondered if this was the woman was the one Cain had been trailing. She shot him a questioning look that he didn’t notice.

“Professor Margot, what a pleasant surprise,” Felix said. He wore dark spectacles over his eyes, and his face looked like it had been badly sunburned, but was otherwise no worse for wear. “And I see you’ve already met my wife, Isabella.”

Isabella smiled demurely while introductions were made. Cain had gone unusually quiet, so Margot took it upon herself to tell of his heroics after the explosion and their ‘coincidental’ meeting in the lobby. At the end of it Felix got up and shook Cain’s hand.

“My good man, I can’t thank you enough. While it’s true the professor’s quick thinking staved off further disaster, you had no way of knowing that and risked your life for my sake anyway. I am in your debt.”

“I did what anyone else would have done,” Cain said softly.

“Untrue,” Felix said. “I’m told you and Professor Margot here were the first to respond to the crisis. Tell me, are you a mage by trade? I don’t believe I’ve heard your name before.”

“I know some magic, but I wouldn’t call myself a mage,” Cain admitted. “I’m a private investigator out of the Pinkerton Agency, formally Westmacott Investigations.”

“Westmacott…wasn’t that the fellow who foiled the counterfeiting ring?” Felix asked.

“The very same,” Cain said. “And if I’m not mistaken, your father knew him as well. Wonderful man, Mr. Westmacott was. Never stumbled across a case he couldn’t crack.”

Felix’s face went very still. He turned to his wife. “Isabella, darling, why don’t you see how the children are doing. The boys have been particularly rambunctious of late, and I didn’t like the look of that nanny’s face.”

“Of course.”

Isabella hurried from the room, her hand drifting to a small swell of her belly not quite masked by the layers of clothing. Felix waited to speak even after the door latched closed. It was difficult to see where he was looking behind his glasses, but Margot got the impression that he was studying Cain intently, and wasn’t quite sure to make of what he found.

“Am I understanding you correctly if I say that my father was in need of Mr. Westmacott’s services?” he asked finally.

“Not recently, but yes,” Cain said. “I remember him coming in three years ago.”

“Three years? But that…? Never mind,” Felix said.

“You were under the impression Master Wright had made use of Mr. Westmacott’s services more recently?” Cain asked.

“That’s just it, I don’t know,” Felix said irritably. He gestured to some spare chairs before flopping onto his hospital bed. “You might as well sit down and forget I said anything. I was staring right at the thing when it blew, and the flash nearly burned my eyes out. Nearly going blind gives a fellow quite a bit of time to think. I don’t care what they say in schools these days, too much thinking isn’t good for you.”

Cain and Margot settled into the chairs and waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, Cain ventured, “I’m sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man.”

“So I’ve been told,” Felix said. He laced his hands across his stomach and stared at the ceiling. “I still can’t believe it. After all the work we put in, and it was all for nothing. No investor is going to want to touch his research now.”

“Investors?” Margot said.

“My dear Professor, more than anything else my father wanted to see mass Teleportation become a reality in his lifetime. Everything he did was to further his research, and that includes hiring me to help sell it to the public. He would scold me for being sentimental if I let something as trivial as his death stand in the way of that.”

He said the words evenly, the same way one would state a simple fact: Grass is green, the sky blue, and Felix Wright considered potential investors more important than mourning his father’s death. It took all of Margot’s will not to let the disgust show on her face.

“You saw him before it happened,” Felix continued. “It wasn’t like him to be that distracted.”

Cain leaned forward. “How long had he been distracted?”

“Who’s asking,” Felix said, “the detective, or the heroic bystander who happened to be in the right place at the right time?”

“I don’t know what you…”

“Let’s not be coy with one another, Mr. Cain,” Felix said coolly. “You saved my life at that conference. I respect you for that, truly I do, but I don’t believe for one moment that simple altruism brought you came here today. If it’s money you want, you can get out right now, but if you’ve come as a detective—a student of Conan Westmacott, no less—then we can talk.”

Cain leaned back in his chair, resting his hat on his knee. “Most detectives end up getting paid, Mr. Wright. Who’s to say I’m not here for both?”

The answer stunned Felix Wright, and for a moment Margot thought that he was going to throw them both out. Then a slow, oily smile spread across his face and he laughed a sharp, barking laugh.

“You got me there, sir. Yes, I suppose it’s true, most detectives do get paid for their work. I’ll grant you that much. So don’t think my father’s death was an accident?”

“I don’t think anything yet, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t worth investigating.”

“Fair enough.” Felix turned to Margot. “And what about you, Professor? Did you truly meet this man by accident today, or do you share his sentiments?”

Margot crossed her arms. “To be honest, I’m not sure what to think.”

Felix nodded. “I agree it sounds preposterous, but that makes it no less true. Mr. Cain, it is my belief that my father was murdered, and it was my sister who killed him. If you can prove this to be true I’ll make sure you’re handsomely rewarded for your efforts.”

“And if my investigation leads to a different conclusion?” Cain said, tilting his head thoughtfully.

“It won’t,” Felix said, “and I can prove it.”

#The Murder of Arthur Wright #daughter of the lilies fanfiction #daughter of the lilies #Margot #fanfiction #dotl fanfiction #creative-type writes

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yehet-me-up · 7 years

Text

Temptation

Pairing: Lay/Zhang Yixing x reader (female)

Rating: (M) for swearing and explicit sex

Word Count: 13,475

Summary: Cursing yourself for not majoring in something more practical, you struggle to find work after graduation. On the recommendation of a friend you finally take a temporary job working at Sinful, the chocolate store in the mall, for the Valentine’s Day season.

You think that the name is perfectly suited to the man who runs it, Yixing. Sensual, talented, and creative, you can’t wait to get to work everyday to see him. You chastise yourself for having these feelings about your boss, but don’t seem to be able to stop. When the season ends he surprises you both, deciding that he wants to keep you in his life, as more than just an employee.

Part two of the Exodus Mall series! (Can be read independently, but you’ll get some extra backstory if you read the other parts first!)

January 15th, 1997

You close the car door behind you with your back, trying to simultaneously wrap your coat around you to ward off the cold, hold the folder containing your resume under your arm, and put your keys into your purse. A cold wind whips past you, knocking you back against the car and you instinctively hold onto your coat and your purse, the folder falling out of your grip and into a puddle.

“Fuck,” you say to yourself with a laugh. You sling your purse over your shoulder and regard the folder as you try to figure out what to do next.

“Let me get that for you,” a melodic voice says across from you.

Looking up you see a man bend down and extract the folder, holding it out as it drips icy water. He stands up and you jolt when you take in just how gorgeous he is. White button-down shirt, black dress pants; a warm looking long black trench coat. Deep brown hair, blown across his forehead by the wind, wide dark eyes dancing with laughter. A dimple appears in his cheek as he smiles sympathetically at you.

“Maybe it’s a lost cause?” he asks and you break into a grin.

You shrug and laugh. “I guess you’re right. Thanks for trying though,” you say and he walks over to the nearby trash can and throws it away. He returns, running a hand through his hair to brush it out of his face. “Was it anything important?” he asks, humor still lighting his expression.

“It was a resume for a job I’m applying for this morning,” you say, glancing back at the mall before looking down at your watch. 8:57am. You’d wanted to get there nice and early so you’d have time to talk to your friend who owns the bookstore first. She’d recommended you for the job at Sinful, the chocolate shop inside Exodus Mall, and you wanted to ask for advice about what the owner is like and what he’s looking for before you head in.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Oh? Where at?”

“The chocolate shop. It’s called Sinful,” you answer, nodding toward the main mall entrance.

His eyes widen momentarily and then he gives you a lopsided smile. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I know the owner and he’s pretty easygoing,” he says with a wink.

“Really? That’s great to know, thank you,” you say, uncharacteristically flustered by his flirtation.

“No worries,” he says. “Well, I’ll see you around. I hope you get the job,” he says with a wry grin and moves past you to head into the mall.

“Thanks,” you say as he walks away. You can’t help but admire his profile as he approaches the entrance. He steps through the doors and a sharp wind blows past you. You shiver and fold your arms in your coat again, quickly gathering it about you and dashing into the mall, out of the wind.

Reassured by what the man said, you decide to skip going to see your friend. With your varied work experience and personality, not to mention her recommendation, you feel confident you’ll make a good impression.

Stepping inside, you head into the bathroom to double check your reflection, ensuring that your dress and leggings are still in place and that your make up stayed put. Satisfied, you head out into the mall. Things are just coming to life, most stores are open by now and jazz plays soothingly over the mall’s speakers. You turn toward the chocolate shop, gazing hungrily at the delectable looking creations on display.

You’re impressed at the varied selections, much more than the usual milk or dark chocolate. A platter of strawberries are dipped in chocolate and topped with what looks like honeycomb crumbles. 3D shapes created out of hardened chocolate adorn white chocolate truffles. Squares of fudge feature red sugar hearts that looks like glass. Small squares of chocolate are painted with what looks like watercolor patterns, the colors swirling together.

Even though it’s a month off, there’s a big Valentine’s display, a sign mentioning pre-orders. Hmm, that’s a smart idea you think appreciatively. The owner must be pretty savvy. You walk inside. The small shop is well laid out, with a long glass top counter forming an L-shape to the right. A floor to ceiling shelving system is on the left, each cubby filled with gift boxes in varying colors. Behind the glass counters you see a doorway leading to the kitchen, gleaming appliances visible, waiting to be used for the day.

You can hear someone moving things around in the back room. You brush your hair behind your left ear, smiling to yourself as you recognize your old nervous habit. It’s been a while since anything made you anxious and you welcome the feeling; you always did like fresh starts.

“Excuse me?” you call politely, leaning your head over to peek into the room.

A dark haired man has his back to you, tying a white apron over a white shirt and black pants. At your question he turns around, a knowing smile already on his face, a dimple appearing in his cheek. You click your tongue, laughing to yourself. It’s the man from the parking lot. Know the owner, my ass, you think. He walks out and gives you an ironic smile.

“Long time no see,” he says and you laugh. “Come on back and we can get started with the interview.”

He takes your coat and purse and sets them on the small desk in his tiny office off the back room. The interview goes quickly; it seems your friend already filled him in on your experience when she persuaded him to give you an interview. He goes over the job duties and asks you a few questions about whether or not you have experience with different things.

Twenty minutes later he says he’ll review some things and call you as soon as he decides. You walk straight over to the bookstore and drop your palms onto the counter, startling your friend as she sets a stack of books down. She turns around and takes in your shaken expression. “Don’t tell me the interview went that bad?” she asks, coming over to you.

You sputter. “No – the interview went just fine. But why didn’t you warn me that he’s absolutely gorgeous?” you demand. She blinks and her attention is immediately drawn across the mall to the record store. “Ah, right. Your attention is a little tied up these days,” you say, teasing. She’s been hopelessly in love with its owner for years but refuses to say anything, much to your chagrin.

She waves a hand at you dismissively. “Anyway, tell me how it went, did he offer you a job?”

“Not yet,” you say with a sigh. “He said he had to consider some things and that he’d call me soon to let me know.” You fill her in on the specifics of what was said and then head home, leaving her to the running of her fantastic bookstore.

You walk in the door to your apartment a short while later. The phone is ringing when you push it open. Dropping your bag on the floor, you dash over to answer it. “Hello?” you say into the receiver.

“Hi, is this Y/N?” a melodic voice asks. Ah, the dangerously good looking Yixing then.

“Yes it is,” you reply, fighting the urge to sass him that it’s obviously you.

“It’s Yixing. Well, if you’re up for it I’d love to offer you a job. Just through the first of March for certain, but we can revisit once that gets close to see where things stand. What do you say?” he asks and you wonder if he actually sounds flustered or if it’s just your imagination.

“Sounds great, I’m in,” you say, excitement leaking it your voice. Six weeks of solid employment, thank the gods. Scratch that, thank your friend from the bookstore for suggesting this.

“Perfect, let’s go over the details,” he says. Ten minutes later it’s all set - the pay rate, the hours, dress code, everything. It’s decided that you’ll start next Monday. As soon as you hang up you do a little happy dance, grinning from ear to ear, and pour yourself a glass of wine to celebrate.

January 19th, 1997

You sit in your car, patiently waiting for it to be 8:55, not wanting to awkwardly be too early on your first day. Drumming your fingers on the steering wheel you think of how easy it was to leave the temp agency. A quick phone call to let them know you got another job and that Friday would be your last day, apologizing for the short notice.

“No problem. Please report your hours as usual for tomorrow and we will mail out your final paycheck once the site verifies the hours. Reach out to us if you ever need employment again, have a nice day,” the almost robotic female voice of the dispatcher said before abruptly hanging up.

You’d shrugged, thankful for the lack of drama, and then proceeded to spend the weekend on your main passion in life: art. Painting, sketching with charcoal, messing around with Photoshop 4 on your secondhand desktop; you weren’t picky.

Y/N will take any chance to make the world more beautiful, that’s what your best friend always said about you, with a smile on her face. You’d met during your freshman year, her junior year, at a liberal arts mixer, bonding over a hilariously self-important English professor who taught a required class you were taking to fulfill your general education credits. A waste of time and a distraction from your art, you thought. Regardless, as an Art major and an English major specializing in the Romantic poets, you found kindred spirits in each other and you became inseparable.

While she worked her ass off through college to pay tuition, and later to save up money for what would become the bookstore, you’d taken a much more leisurely path. After winning several local and national art competitions for your mixed media creations and your paintings, you were a shoe-in for the local University’s art scholarship. You spent four years blissfully lost in the world of art, taking a wide variety of classes, gaining experience doing projects for a local independent magazine.

Other students worried about the “real world” and logical, normal people things like bills and careers. All you cared about was the colored pencil in your hand and the minutes left you had to capture your subject before the light changed. You sigh and rest your elbow against the door, leaning your head onto your hand. Those were the good days, you think nostalgically.

Now, all these years later, she was running a successful bookshop and you were spinning your wheels. You’d bounced around – six months interning in graphic design for an ad agency during your junior year, six months as a receptionist at an art museum owned by a friend of your father’s during senior year. And you’d spent most of the last year at a little café that served coffee and pastries, reluctantly turning to temp work after they closed down.

But nothing had stuck. The vague feeling that something was missing perpetually drove you to seek something else. And look where it had gotten you – a miserable few months of temping, being shuffled from assignment to assignment like cattle in the stockyard. But, as you remind yourself, for six glorious weeks you’ll have firm footing. You smile to yourself, excited to get started. Checking your watch you see it’s finally time to go in.

When you arrive an older woman with a graying bun of hair and a kind smile is waiting for you at the front door. She takes you through the gate into the store. She shows you where to put your stuff in the back. Her name is Peggy, she tells you in a cheerful tone, in between asking you a thousand questions about yourself before you can catch your breath.

Yixing walks in a minute before the clock hits nine, unlocking the gate and sliding it open. He gives you a warm hello before heading into the back room to hang up his coat, motioning for you to follow him. Peggy takes her place at the register, straightening things up as she waits for the first customers of the day.

The morning passes in a blur of paperwork and policies as Yixing shows you around. He says you’ll work the register and the counter until you feel comfortable and then he’ll start showing you the process of making and packing the chocolates.

Yixing goes to work making the day’s batches in the back and you train with Peggy for the rest of the afternoon. She chatters on happily, reminding you of your own grandmother with her affectionate pats on the arm and easy ability to draw you into conversation. She tells you how she came to work there after a miserably boring few months of retirement, wanting something to fill her days.

The other full time staff member, a young woman with a shock of neon blue hair and a spike through the top of one ear named Vera, comes in for the closing shift. Despite the studded jacket and shit-kicker boots she wears, you learn quickly that she’s basically a pocket-sized ball of energy.

She happily discusses the next tattoo she wants to get with you and Peggy while she restocks the cases. You love the designs she has so far, and she grins ear to ear when you compliment them.

The day flies by and you get into a groove. The register is simple enough, you used one just like during your year at the café. Your natural curiosity and openness lends itself perfectly to customer service and many happy customers smile genuinely as they leave the store.

After a busy, full day you head home satisfied.

January 26th, 1997

The mall is almost deserted this time of day – two in the afternoon on a Monday. You sit in a chair in the food court, feet propped up on an opposite chair, a sketchbook stretched out across your legs. You switch charcoals, hand moving rapidly as you try to capture the image in your mind. Warm eyes, elegant neck, perpetually ruffled hair, hands in motion as he mixes up a batch.

Taking a quick look around, you make sure there’s no one nearby to see what you’re drawing. You lasted exactly a week before you couldn’t take it anymore, and finally drew Yixing. Desperate to capture his expression, frustrated you can’t nail it just right, you flip to the next page to try again.

“Your technique is incredible,” a gentle female voice says from above you. Whipping your head up you see a girl dressed in a conservative black dress and heels, her purse slung over her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says nervously, waving her hands and backing up a step. “I’m just – I’m an artist too. Well, sort of, I make jewelry. I love your style and I wanted to tell you,” she finishes, red in the cheeks.

You drop your feet to the floor and put the sketchpad on the table next to you, your breath slowing from the shock. For a moment you’d thought it was Peggy, but they don’t sound anything alike in hindsight.

“Oh, no worries. I just thought you were someone else for a moment and I almost had a heart attack,” you say with a laugh. You motion to the seat opposite with you and she joins you with a sweet smile. “And what are you talking about? Of course, jewelry is art. Anything that adds to the beauty of the world counts as art in my book,” you continue insistently.

She laughs at your enthusiasm. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

You introduce yourselves to each other and you find out that she also just started at the mall, working at the jewelry store across the way. Lunch passes by quickly as you get lost in conversation, delighted to talk about art with a fellow creator. She keeps darting glances over your shoulder, in the direction of the food court.

You lean forward conspiratorially, raising an eyebrow. “What do you keep looking at?”

With a sly smile that seems wholly at odds with her professional appearance, she says, “I’ll tell you, if you’ll tell me who the gorgeous man is that you were drawing.”

You let out a laugh. “Fair is fair,” you sigh. “It’s my boss at Sinful, Yixing. He is handsome isn’t he? You should see him pouring chocolate, it’s downright pornographic,” you say and she giggles. “I thought you were one of my co-workers when you spoke to me.”

She casts another furtive glance behind you and sighs. “All right, one of the owners of the pizza parlor is my ex. I haven’t seen him in forever. I didn’t know he worked here when I took this job. I’ve been nervous about running into him,” she says, looking down at her hands.

“Well one thing’s for sure, there’s no shortage of drama here in this mall,” you say, blowing out a breath, and she nods in agreement. Soon you both finish your lunches and head to back work, happy that you made what’s sure to be another friend here.

February 10th, 1997

On his way through the mall to the bank to make a deposit and buy change, Yixing spots you in the food court. He’s been wondering what you do for lunch and he’s surprised to see you leaned back in a chair, your feet up on an adjacent chair, a sketchpad resting on your knees. He thinks about coming closer, seeing what you’re creating with the brightly colored pencils spread out on the table next to you, but he doesn’t want to disturb you.

While he can’t see what you’re drawing, he can see your face as he walks by. With a smile he thinks your face in and of itself is art. Your hair pulled out of your face, eyes racing across the page as you draw. You lean back for a moment, tilting your head to appraise what you’ve made, absently biting on your lip.

With his gaze fixated on you he isn’t watching where he’s going. With a thump he smacks into someone coming the opposite way, dropping the deposit bag.

“You all right man?” Jongin says with a laugh, dramatically rubbing his shoulder with an exaggerated wince.

Yixing shakes his head with a rueful laugh, reaching out briefly to pound fists with Jongin in greeting. “Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, I was uhh, distracted,” he says with a grin, glancing back to you.

Jongin looks over to you in the food court and lets out a whistle. “That sure is some distraction,” he says and jokingly pushes Yixing’s shoulder in retaliation.

Yixing bends down to pick up the bag, running his hand along his neck with a sigh. “Tell me about it,” he says. “See you around man.”

Jongin gives him a mock salute with a sardonic smile. “See you.”

When he returns from the bank you’re just finishing up lunch, hanging up your coat and putting your sketchbook and pencils back in your large tote bag. You look over and give him a warm smile.

“So any chance you’d be willing to show me what you were working on?” he says with a quirk of an eyebrow.

You jolt, fingers clenching protectively around the book. He laughs. “I saw you drawing on my way to the bank, I promise I haven’t been spying.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Good. If you were I’d have to kill you,” you joke. “Hmm, let me find something,” you say and he pretends to lean over. You give him a fierce look and he throws his hands up, taking a step back.

The piece you were finishing on lunch is part of a larger series you’ve been exploring. Lush, colorful floral designs overlaid with stark black geometric designs. You weren’t sure where you were going with it when you started, but after five finished designs, you’re pretty pleased with the results.

You find the first one, three brilliant photorealistic red roses overlaid with large and small overlapping circular patterns. Handing the sketchpad to him, his eyes run across the page, appraising.

He doesn’t immediately give praise and you like him even more for it. So often friends of yours clap and announce that they love it without really taking a look. It’s sweet, and you know they just want to support you, but from someone as talented in his own right as Yixing, you’re dying to know his true opinion.

After a beat he reaches out a hand and flips to the next page. A cluster of peonies in various shades of pink covered with interlocking triangles. Next comes a deep pink orchid with winding lines around the borders. A royal blue string of bluebells and a loose pattern of repeating dots and diamonds. Last is your favorite – sprigs of lavender wrapped in a pattern of star shapes.

He lifts his hand to turn the next page and before you can stop him he flips it over. Your eyes go wide and your heart feels like it’s stopped beating. Before starting on this series you’d finally finished a portrait of him that felt perfect, capturing him exactly as you like him best – sensual hands mixing a bowl of chocolate. His warm, expressive eyes observing his process, a contented smile on his face revealing his dimple. You react instinctively, grabbing the sketchpad to try and pry it out from underneath his stunned gaze.

“Wait,” he says, maintaining his grip. His eyes lift to meet yours, something stirring in the depths that you can’t name. “You drew me? Is this how you see me?” he asks in a low voice.

You know how it looks, know that he sees right through the piece. There are portraits you draw of friends, family – happy pieces alight with affection. There are the portraits you draw of strangers, at a street fair or for commission – technically and stylistically precise, but lacking the sense of feeling that comes from drawing someone you know well. And then there are other portraits, the kind you draw of lovers. Where your every emotion is sprawled across the page, desire radiating from every curve and line.

Unfortunately, you realize in a rush as you look at the drawing, this is clearly the latter.

You open your mouth to speak but close it immediately. What words can you offer that would explain this away? Instead you just nod silently, meeting his stare.

With a cough, he flips back to the last design, the one of the lavender. “I’ve been coming up with some early new recipes for our Mother’s Day collection this year. These designs would be perfect for the boxes, would you be open to discussing a collaboration? I’d love to see what they might look like with gold accents instead of black, if you’re open to it?”

“Really?” you ask, grateful that he didn’t pry into the drawing. “I mean – yes. Yes, that would be incredible,” you say.

He leads you back to the tiny office to discuss plans, a welcome break from the frantic Valentine’s Day preparations you both started on this morning.

February 12th, 1997

Strong hands slide along your waist, brushing up and under your shirt. Your skin feels heavy, aware, as if it’s desperately trying to hold onto his touch. His head bends, his lips trailing up your shoulder to your neck. You moan softly, arching your back as you push further into his skilled hands. You’ve watched them for weeks. Mixing chocolate, carefully adding decorations with precision.

For weeks you’d fantasized about having those skilled hands on your body, desperate to know the ways in which they could mold you beneath their meticulous attention. His finger traces the underside of your breast as his full lips tease your jaw. Desperate to feel those lips on yours, finally, you reach a hand around his neck and pull him close, leaning in to -

A shrill buzzing sound jolts you awake. You instinctively reach over to turn off your alarm clock. You throw your arm over your eyes to block out the sunlight. It feels as though you’re emerging from the depths, pulled from the world of your dream harshly into reality.

You gulp in big breaths of air, your body still desperately clinging to what had been about to happen, as if it could conjure Yixing just by sheer force of will. Skin buzzing with arousal, breasts heavy; a pool of wetness at your core.

When your breath slows, you shake your head and cover your face with your hands, laughing to yourself. For days, weeks if you were honest, you’d been fantasizing about what Yixing would be like as a lover, surreptitiously watching him as you worked together.

Would he be gentle, the type to steadily thrust in and out, building your orgasm slowly? Kissing down your body, teasing and tasting before getting down to business. Maybe he had a rough side, the type to set a brutal pace, holding your hips in place, slamming into you until you screamed his name.

You bite your lip, moaning softly to yourself at the images flashing through your mind. All that wondering and sexual frustration had seeped from your waking thoughts into your dreams. You huff out a laugh.

You glance over at the clock, mentally hugging yourself for always setting your alarm for at least ten minutes before you needed to get up. Stretching out, you slide your hands down your body, closing your eyes and trying to recall where your dream was headed before it was so rudely interrupted. It’s not quite as good as the real thing would have been, but you’ll happily make do with your own two hands for the time being.

February 13th, 1997

The day before Valentine’s Day is a full-blown strategic undertaking. Peggy shuts the gate at eight o’clock and works on the normal closing duties while you, Vera, and Yixing are working hard in the back. Mixing batches, laying out molds, popping the set chocolates from this afternoon’s batches out and neatly arranging them into gift boxes, waiting for Yixing to add the finishing touches.

The pre-orders that Yixing had been taking the past few weeks were stacked on neat slips on the counter; dozens and dozens of neatly written pieces of paper that were slowly being worked through.

After closing Yixing grabs a CD and pops it in the boom box on the counter; the upbeat sounds of Wham! start. The mood is light, energetic; the celebration before the onslaught tomorrow. You and Vera sing enthusiastically into wooden spoons, while Yixing shakes his hips as he moves, bobbing his head in time to the music. You can’t remember the last time you had this much fun at work.

At fifteen past the hour Peggy deposits the money into the safe and gathers her stuff, giving an amused smile to the scene in the back room before leaving. You finish just before ten. Vera goes home, yawning, saying she’ll see you both in the morning for “the onslaught.”

You cram the last paper slip onto the overstuffed spindle with a grin of triumph. Turning toward Yixing you sigh and lean against the counter, pleased with the day’s work. He’s drying his hands on a towel, watching you from across the room. He raises one of his eyebrows and gives you a conspiratorial smile.

“I saved a batch of your favorites,” he says, setting down the towel and pulling out a box from one of the back cabinets. “As a thank you for your fantastic work today, and this month.”

You clap your hands together and beam at him, walking over to his outstretched hands. Coming to a stop in front of him you slip off the lid. Inside are eight perfect dark chocolate mint truffles, warm from the heat of the room.

He watches intently as you carefully select a chocolate and pop it in your mouth, eyes closing as you savor the rich taste. An involuntary moan leaves your mouth as your tongue melts the chocolate. You swallow and open your eyes, realizing abruptly how close you’re standing, how warm the room has become - your skin flushed from the hours of busyness.

Yixing sets the box down on the counter slowly. He turns back to face you, his gaze drawn down to your mouth. Smirking, he points to the corner of your mouth. You dart your tongue out to lick up the chocolate, still missing a small blob in the edge of your lips. His body tilts forward, lips parting as though he’s going to speak. His hand raises before he catches himself, dropping it suddenly to his side with a shake of his head.

“What is it?” you ask, confused.

He looks back to your eyes, your lips. “You’ve got some there, on the corner of your mouth,” he says, his voice low and strained. He battles with himself for a moment, a pained expression on his face. His eyes darken, resolved. Stepping toward you he raises his hand and gently cups your face, drawing a thumb along your lips, swiping up the chocolate.

Your body immediately reacts to his closeness, your breathing speeding up as his presence engulfs you. He draws his hand back and slowly sucks on his thumb, eyes never leaving yours. Your world narrows to his mouth, watching as he pulls his thumb back and runs his tongue along his lips.

“Just kiss me already,” you murmur under your breath, not thinking.

His eyes widen with awareness as he processes your words. You abruptly realize where you are and what you just said. Your hands fly to your mouth as if they can shove the words back in. Taking two steps away from him toward the store you dip your head, a blush rising in your face.

“Oh my God, Yixing. I’m so sorry. That was so unprofessional, please just ignore me and forget this ever happened,” you say emphatically and wave your hands in front of you as if you can make the situation disappear like a cloud of smoke.

You turn and start walking back out into the store, embarrassment flooding your body, wishing you could sink through the floor. Rapid steps sound behind you and his hand gently grabs your arm, turning you to face him. He’s watching you with an intensity that you’ve never seen before, breathing deeply.

“What if I don’t want to forget? What if… I want to kiss you just as much?” he asks, looking at you with such passion that you find it hard to breathe, your body flooding with warmth.

You tilt your head to regard him. He’s so straightforward, you can’t imagine he’d be joking or messing around with you. Maybe he’s felt he tension between you as much as you have these past few weeks. Not one to overthink things, you give him a seductive smile and bite your lip. You watch as his attention is drawn to your mouth, internally cheering as his hand on your arm squeezes slightly.

“Well, if that’s true, what are you going to do about it?” you say, voice teasing.

His eyes darken at the taunt. He moves closer, his usual sweetness melting away to become a predator stalking its prey. You back up against the nearby counter, it’s hardness pressing into your lower back as you remain targeted in his hungry gaze. Throwing his arms out to rest against the table behind you, he leans in close, hovering his lips above your own before moving over to your ear.

You breathe in a huge breath, trying to remind yourself that you need oxygen to survive, even if he’s stolen all the air in the room. Of course he smells like chocolate, you think ruefully, but there’s something else too. Some musky undertone unique to him, that invades your senses and makes your mouth water.

His lips are close to your skin as he whispers, “Are you sure you want to find out?”

When he pulls back to meet your eyes he quirks an eyebrow, regarding you seriously. You feel it too, the boundary you’re both about to cross, between employer and employee and… something else. But you’ve never been very good at reality, at consequences; at thinking toward the future.

All you know is the here and now, what’s in front of you. And right now you have a very real and very enticing man on the verge of kissing you, his hot gaze drawn to your lips.

Not one to miss an opportunity for pleasure, or to resolve a curiosity, you nod, not breaking from his intense stare. He grins at you, a satisfied smile that sets your blood on fire. One of his graceful hands slides around your back to hold you intimately against him, the other weaving into the hair at the nape of your neck.

You shiver at the touch, a delicious thrill of anticipation running down your spine. You splay your hands on his chest, your mind already wondering if your imagination of him beneath his shirt is close to the reality.

Achingly slow, he leans in and you close your eyes. You feel his breath across your lips, but for several seconds he waits there. With a noise of impatience you open your eyes, wondering what he’s waiting for. When your gaze meets his, that’s when he dives forward to take your lips. You laugh against his mouth. So it’s a mix of teasing and sensual then, you think.

The laughter dies in your throat as his hand on your back drives you closer together. You slide your arms around his neck, coming up on your tiptoes as his lips play with yours, giving light kisses before pulling back, over and over.

With your new height you grab him by the neck and press him firmly against you, not wanting to waste any time with teasing. Not after waiting for several agonizing weeks. He seems to agree, his hands coming to your ribs on either side, holding you firm. He groans against your mouth, a deep, needy sound that sends heat to your core. You lick his lower lip and moan as he slides his tongue against yours.

A familiar female voice breaks through your haze of passion. “Jesus, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed onto my neck, wouldn’t I?” Vera laughs, and you hear her come through the gate. You and Yixing break apart. Your hand comes to your mouth. Whether in self-preservation, to hide any evidence of what just happened, or on instinct, trying to keep the taste of him near, you don’t know.

She peeks her head in the back room, chattering on, oblivious to the heady mood in the room. “I spent forever digging in my purse and my car for my glasses. I can’t drive without them, you know. And here they are, right where I left them on the counter,” she says, clicking her tongue at herself in chastisement. “Anyways, you two have a good night and I’ll see you tomorrow!” she calls and leaves again.

After she leaves you both regard each other from opposite sides of the room. You finally drop your hand and lick your lips, savoring the taste of chocolate and him on your lips. He stares you down, smirking. Just when you’re ready to stride across the room and grab him again, he looks down, breaking the moment. With a cough he turns back to the equipment, grabbing a clean rag to start wiping down the counters.

“We should get out of here, tomorrow will be a long day,” he says and you reluctantly agree. You don’t say another word to each other as you gather your things and head to your cars.

February 14th, 1997

The rapid pace of the day means the two of you are constantly walking past each other. It’s pure torture for him, watching you bend over to reach into the case, passing behind you repeatedly. He keeps catching his hands as they reach for you, groaning internally, reminding himself why this is a bad idea.

Finally at two o’clock when Vera arrives, he heads out for a brief lunch, making a beeline for Guardians. Junmyeon, the owner, has been a good friend of his since they both opened stores three years ago, within weeks of each other. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even further. He enters the store and a bell dings. Junmyeon comes out from the back room, smiling when he sees who it is.

“Hey, man. It’s been a while. What’s up with you? You look like you got run over by a truck, is the Valentine’s Day rush that crazy this year?” he asks as he starts sorting through some collectable books.

Yixing pauses, letting out a big sigh. He’s not the type to beat around the bush, especially with Junmyeon. He walks forward, leaning against the counter on his elbows. “No, that’s fine. Sales are good and it’s flowing well. But you know that new girl I hired?”

“Oh yeah, the one that’s friends with the owner of the bookstore?” Yixing nods. “Sure, she’s a stunner. What about her?” Junmeyon asks.

He thinks to himself that he’s never seen Yixing this agitated before, and he hides a smile, hoping that it’s about the girl; that he’s finally found someone who captured his attention.

“We were closing down together last night and... we kissed,” he says, memories of your lips and skin and taste washing over him.

Junmyeon lets out a whistle. “Are we talking about an ‘oops, one time only’ sort of thing or a kiss that means the start of something?” he asks.

Yixing groans and drops his head into his hands. “I’m pretty sure it’s the second one.”

Junmyeon pats his shoulder sympathetically. “You’re screwed, my friend,” he says with a happy laugh. “So are you getting her something for Valentine’s Day?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, I hadn’t thought about it. I guess chocolate is out,” he says with a laugh.

He looks around the store, trying to think of something that might be your taste, already imagining the expressive joy that lights your face when something pleases you. When you make a customer happy or when he puts on your favorite CD after hours. Or when you’d tasted the chocolate last night, your blissed out expression running through his mind.

In the corner, behind a stack of old hats, is a sleek, dark wood case with antique silver clasps. It’s so you that he smiles, walking over to examine it. When he opens it he realizes it’s an old fashioned art case that folds out on both sides. Carefully extracting it he brings it over to the counter and pulls out his wallet.

“No, no. It’s all yours. If my perpetually single friend has finally found someone who caught his eye, it’s worth it,” Junmyeon says with a wink.

He leaves the case discreetyl next to your things. When you discover it later, on your way home, you give him an enormous hug from behind.

Holding it out you ask him, “Is this really for me? It’s exquisite,” you say and he grins at you in response.

“It’s nothing,” he says dismissively, even as his face is alight with satisfaction. “I saw it and thought of you, that’s all.”

The moment you get home you fill it with all your supplies – paints, brushes, charcoals, colored pencils. They all fit perfectly. The rest of the day you can’t help but run your fingers over the case, smiling whenever you look at it. You feel relieved, that the awkward tension between the two of you from last night and this morning has dissipated.

February 18th, 1997

Baekhyun and his friend, who you’ve come to learn goes by the nickname Hitchcock, for her obsession with horror movies, stop by on their break, smiling as they dash into the chocolate shop in a flurry of energy.

“After a long week of work, we’ve decided it’s time for another night out on the town,” she says, grinning mischievously.

“Saturday. Shari’s. Nine pm. Bring your dancing shoes,” Baekhyun says in a rush to you and Yixing before dashing over to the clothing store, laughing together.

You raise a brow at Yixing. “Where’s Shari’s?”

“It’s this nightclub up the street, it’s their favorite. Decent drinks, off the map so it’s not crowded with tourists. The best part is that on Saturday nights Jongdae, the unique guy that owns the computer repair shop, leaves his lair and DJs there. It’s always the most eclectic mix of things and it never fails to keeps us entertained.”

“Oooh, sounds like fun. I’m in. Are you coming?” you ask, trying to be subtle.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says in a low voice, leaning over to you. A thrill of excitement runs down your spine.

February 19th, 1997

The club is in full swing when you and your friend from the jewelry store walk in. Before you left last night you’d stopped by to invite her, insisting that she break from her usual routine of reading and have some fun. Her roommate had the Saturday closing shift with Kyungsoo at Barada, but you were excited to meet her at some point. She sounded like a similar “free spirit” as your best friend would describe you in a sarcastic tone. Your best friend also closes her bookstore Saturdays, so you’re happy to have the company.

You nervously run a hand through your hair, letting it fall loose over your shoulders. You smooth a hand down your dress, waving as you spot the group at a large table in the corner. You can’t remember the last time you wore something other than the slacks and soft sweaters that had become your uniform this frigid winter.

The assembled people scoot over to let the two of you in. Looking around the table your attention falls like a laser on Yixing. His normally fluffy hair is drawn back into a small ponytail, revealing closely shaved sides. Without the hair in his face he looks dangerous, you think. Dangerous and sexy, especially as his gaze settles appreciatively on your low neckline.

Chanyeol comes back to the table carrying several drinks in his hands, his face concentrated as he tries not to spill them. You feel your friend next to you go stock still, her hand frantically grabbing yours under the table. Chanyeol sets the drinks on the table, turning to give you a friendly smile. He stops abruptly when he notices your friend. You’d completely forgotten that they were exes, remembering in a rush what she’d told you the first time you had lunch together.

She sets her coat and purse down on the seat behind her and squeezes your hand. Her eyes are wild as they look to you. “Let’s go dance?” she pleads. You glance between her and Chanyeol, who’s mouth is hanging open as he looks her up and down, face white as if he’d seen a ghost.

You nod supportively, setting down your own coat and purse and pulling her up, heading for the dance floor. “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls starts playing and a decidedly female cheer sounds from the crowd. You look up at the DJ booth and as promised, find the mysterious form of Jongdae, looking down at the mixing boards intensely. You find a spot far away from the table on the dance floor for you and your friend.

“Are you all right? I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about him being here,” you say in her ear over the music.

She takes a steadying breath and shakes her head, giving you a small smile. “No, it’s okay. It was going to happen eventually, at least here it’s in a large group,” she says with a shrug. “Let’s dance. I came out to have a good time and I fully intend to have one, ex-boyfriend or no,” she says, her smile widening into a grin, shaking off her shock.

“Let’s do it,” you reply and grab her hand, pulling her into the crush of bodies to shake your booties to the music.

After another song more of the group joins you. Jongin dances with Hitchcock and Baekhyun pulls your friend into a hilariously dramatic tango. In the back you can see Chanyeol at the table, nursing his beer thoughtfully, watching her like a hawk. Next to him the girl from Starlight, the clothing shop, sips a colorful drink and gestures happily while she talks to him. You look around, wondering where Yixing has gone.

A tap on your shoulder has you turning around. Yixing is grinning at you like the cat that caught the canary, eyes sweeping up your body before meeting your gaze. He approaches slowly, giving you time to back away. Instead you step into his embrace, hands coming to his shoulders while his wrap around your hips. He’s wearing dark jeans, a white shirt that shines in the light of the club, and black boots. Out of his usual work outfit of plain slacks and a button-down he looks even better, you think.

The song switches to an upbeat R&B tempo as you start moving together. “Let’s talk about you and me. Let’s talk about all the good things and the bad things that may be. Let’s talk about sex, baby,” the singers croon and you can’t help the teasing smile that comes to your lips. He raises an eyebrow and gives you a knowing look that causes you to tilt your head back and laugh.

The night goes on and you have a couple of drinks with your friend, two delicious lemon drops. Though you take breaks to dance with Baekhyun and Jongin for a few songs, you and Yixing keep finding each other. Late in the night a slower song starts, the heady beats driving your bodies closer together. Emboldened by the alcohol and his hands warm on your hips, you lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. Briefly, testing the waters, seeing where you stand.

When you pull back he’s watching you intently, licking his lips. With a look around, making sure none of the group is watching, he pulls you through the crowd to the back wall, hidden by a pillar. He plants his hand against the wall, leaning in close, his other hand sneaking around your low back to push you against him.

With no hint of his earlier teasing he drops his head and captures your lips in a frantic kiss. Long, sensual movements of his lips against yours, drawing out the sensation. Your hands grasp his shoulders, pulling at him fervently.

You lick along his lower lip, seeking to deepen the kiss, but he pulls back, looking torn. “I’m your boss. I shouldn’t,” he says in your ear, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

“But you want to,” you say. It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yes, I want to, very much,” he says, and you feel his lips ghost over your neck. You arch against him, body flooding with need.

“Yixing, we’re both adults, we’re both single. I’m not some teenager head over heels in love with her married supervisor,” you say with a laugh. “What harm is there in a kiss?”

“What harm is there indeed,” he says with a wolf’s grin, showing his teeth. But he’s persuaded, at least for tonight, and he leans forward to hungrily recapture your lips.

Eventually you tear yourselves away and return to the group. You settled nothing tonight, but that desire in your heart doesn’t care. You might be playing with fire, balancing on the edge of something with him, but a few burns seem worth it when it comes to Yixing.

April 5th, 1997

You’re both humming along to the song on the boom box as you mix batches of chocolates, a new white chocolate mint recipe that’s been flying off the shelves. You look up to see it’s lunch time. On your way past him he pulls you out of view of the store, pressing you against the industrial fridge and kissing the daylights out of you. You laugh against his mouth and he smiles against your lips.

You’ve spent the past few weeks in a routine. Working in the back room with Yixing in the mornings, tending to the counter with Peggy in the afternoons. Valentine’s Day flowing seamlessly into steady business as new love bloomed everywhere with the arrival of spring, carrying on into Mother’s Day preparations.

You and Yixing sneak in kisses whenever you can, sometimes hot and heavy, sometimes sweet and light. All of them leave you breathless and ecstatic. But neither of you push for more, staying in this limbo together.

Eventually Peggy calls back to him, asking if he has any more mixed truffle gift boxes in the back and you manage to sneak away from his arms with a giggle. You sprint over to the food court where your friend is patiently waiting.

“Sorry about that, I got caught up with something,” you say in a rush, linking your arms with hers as you walk in and find a seat in the pub.

“Something, or someone?” she asks with a wry smile, taking in your flushed cheeks and slightly askew clothing. You choke on the sip of water you’re taking, coughing a few times.

You stare at her openmouthed. “How’d you know?”

She gives you a knowing look. “You’re not the most subtle of people when you’re into someone,” she says with a laugh. “So who is it? And how come you haven’t said anything before?” she demands, waving a finger at you.

You lean forward, hands raised, ready to come up with an excuse. But it’s pointless trying to deny it, she’s already seen through you, and you sag in resignation. “It’s Yixing,” you say with a wince.

She laughs joyfully and slaps her hand against her knee. “Ha! I knew it, you like him don’t you?” she asks happily.

“Yes, ugh, the past few weeks, since Valentine’s Day, we’ve been… I don’t know. Tempting each other,” you say with a groan. “We kissed right before Valentine’s Day, then again that night we went to Shari’s, and almost every day since then. If only you’d been there, maybe I would have been able to resist,” you say.

“Since when have I been the voice of reason when it comes to romance?” she asks sarcastically, waving her hand in the direction of KMS Music.

You pick up your water and clink it to her glass. “Well, at least we’re in this together. Here’s to being head over heels for unfathomable men.”

She picks up her glass and takes a sip. “Cheers to that my friend.”

April 23rd, 1997

You’re singing along to the radio, happily pouring the day’s molds when the delivery man arrives. Several more boxes than usual, Yixing thinks. He smiles to himself as he signs for the delivery and starts bringing the boxes into the back room. He opens a box and pulls out the first design, his favorite, because he knows it’s your favorite. The purple of the lavender and the gold of the stars pop on the shiny material.

Sliding an arm around your waist he presses quick kiss against your neck. You turn around to face him and squeal with delight when you see what he’s holding.

“It came out amazing!” you breathe, running your fingers along the material. He was right, you think, the gold does compliment the flowers perfectly. And you’ve already tasted the recipes he created to go along with each design, another area where the two of you mesh perfectly. He presses a lingering kiss to your mouth before turning back to start assembling the boxes.

May 12th, 1997

You and Yixing both have the day after Mother’s Day off. It was a smashing success, selling out of all the pre-orders and the stash of extras you’d prepared just in case. When you finally went home, long after it got dark, you’d stopped at the front display window. Yixing had a large poster of your designs made to advertise the pre-sales, and seeing it after such a successful day made you feel as though you could burst with happiness.

After sleeping in you drag yourself out of bed and get up, finally attending to the long list of chores that had fallen behind in the days leading up to Mother’s Day. You start a load of laundry, tidy up the apartment, write checks for the electrical and water bills and pop them in the mail. You look around in the kitchen for food and come up laughably empty. It’s a gorgeous, warm, early spring day and you decide to walk the few blocks to the grocery store next to the mall.

As you’re coming through the big park by the mall you see a familiar set of figures by the swing set. Yixing and Junmyeon are standing together, sipping to-go cups of coffee, watching the crowd of children play. Junmyeon pauses every few seconds to reach out his other hand and push a small boy on the swings. You’d heard Junmyeon and Yixing mention his son in conversation in the many times he’d come into the store, but you hadn’t met the boy yet. Yixing spots you and waves you over.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Yixing asks with a warm smile as Junmyeon gives you a one-armed hug in greeting.

The boy turns around in the seat. “Dad, I want to go on the slide!” he says cutely.

“Okay, buddy. This is my friend, Y/N, can you say hi?” Junmyeon says with a sweet smile on his face.

The little boy jumps off the swing and holds out a hand to you. “Hello, I’m Sungmin, nice to meet you,” he says with a polite shake of your hand. “Want to come on the slide with me?” he asks, grinning, tilting his head to look at you.

You laugh at how cute he is and nod. “Absolutely, let’s do it,” you say with a look at Yixing. Sungmin pulls on your hand and you follow after him to the slide. You climb up and settle into the side by side slides. Junmyeon sets down his coffee, holding out his hands to catch Sungmin at the bottom. Yixing comes to the end of your slide, holding out his hands with a teasing grin.

“Ready?” you ask Sungmin and he nods excitedly. You both push off and sail to the bottom. He squeals with delight as he slides down, throwing his arms up into the air. You hit the bottom in a rush, falling into Yixing’s strong arms, and he swings you up into his chest. You crash into him with a whoosh of breath and he spins you around, both of you laughing. He sets you down on your feet, his arms not budging from around your waist, gazing down at you.

“Let’s go again!” Sungmin says, tugging on your jacket and you reluctantly break eye contact with Yixing.

“Let’s do it!” you say and take his hand, running back around to the steps to the slide.

You spend over an hour at the playground, chatting with Junmyeon and chasing Sungmin around with Yixing, his sweet little giggles making you grin as Yixing pretends to be a dinosaur. Unbidden, images rise in your mind of you and Yixing chasing around a little girl on the playground, one with his smile and your eyes. With a shake of your head, you push the image away and pick up the pace to catch up with them.

June 1st, 1997

Maybe this is it, you wonder. The sign you’ve been waiting for, a purpose and a place that are calling to you. Sitting on your kitchen table, your feet on a chair, you chew on a fingernail as you re-read the letter in front of you for the tenth time.

It sounds so appealing – a coveted artist-in-residence position at Zion National Park. You’d applied months ago and it hadn’t crossed your mind in weeks. Paid accommodation in the park for a year, a stipend for food and supplies. Unlimited access to the park to paint or draw or create whatever you wished.

They were intrigued at your modern style, mixed with your traditional background and influence. They were trying something new, something “edgy” they said. Past meets the future, technology meets nature. You’d be a fool to turn it down.

But your mind resists, flooding with images of the little group of people in your life - here, now. Lunches spent with your best friend, watching her eyes light up as she talks about the new books that came in that day. The sweet smile that adorns her face now every time Minseok walks by, their eyes only for each other in their little bubble of fresh love.

You’d miss joking with Chanyeol when you stop in for a slice on your way home, his booming laugh when you surprise him with a good pun. Baekhyun and Hitchcock always goofing off, drawing you into whatever adventure they were going on after work. Driving around together off to an arcade or to see the latest movie. Shopping with your friend from the jewelry store, seeking out new paints for you and new stones for her to use in her creations.

Playing hide and go seek on the playground with Junmyeon and his son had become a regular occurrence on your days off. You smile thinking of the hours spent laughing hysterically with Yixing, making silly faces for Sungmin. Your heart tugs thinking of his excitement when he brought out the lollipop he’d made especially for the boy on his birthday last week.

Your attention is drawn again to the wonderful present Yixing got you for Valentine’s Day, the vintage art case perfect for storing all of your supplies. His excellent taste and attention to the people he cares about just one on a long list of reasons you’re completely absorbed in him.

His boundless creativity. His warm, humble smile, dimples showing, when someone compliments his work. His hands, his mouth, his body. Everything about him appeals to you.

But he’d been keeping you at arm’s length.

Because you were his employee or because of something else, you didn’t know. You loved the mall, and the people in it, but staying and being near Yixing; close, so very close, but not fully his, would be a torture you couldn’t endure.

You laugh to yourself, the future uncertain, once again. Now that Mother’s Day had come and gone, how long would you be working there? He hadn’t mentioned anything about commitment, in either the relationship sense or the employment sense. Had the past few months been an escape from reality? Or the creation of a new one? You wonder to yourself, turning the options over.

You bite your nail distractedly, torn as to what you should do. Twisting your wrist to look at your watch you see it’s 7:37 and you decide to confront a situation head on for once in your life. Your best friend had the bravery a few days ago to speak the words in her heart and now she and Minseok were making everyone in the mall jealous with how in love they are. You think to yourself that you can muster up a shred of that courage at least, and ask him directly.

If you hurry you can just catch Yixing as he’s leaving. You throw a sweatshirt over your tank top, slide on your sandals, grab your keys and dash out the door. Driving through the rain, internally cursing every red light, every car that’s going too slowly for your desperate pace.

You don’t even know what you’re racing toward. Are you hoping he’ll have no reaction to your job offer, giving you the push to make a clean break for a new life? Or are you hoping that he’ll decide you’re worth the risk? Either way it lands, at least you’ll have your answer and you can stop dancing on the edge of whatever has been happening between you. You have no idea what you’re going to say, you just know that tonight feels… important. That for whatever reason, you need to be looking him in the face when you tell him the news.

As you pull up to the mall the clock flashes 7:54. You whip into a parking spot and yank up on the emergency break. You jam the gear shift into park, pull out your keys from the car and start running, slamming the door behind you. You sprint across the parking lot and through the main entrance, sandals slapping the floor behind you as you come up to the store.

You skid to a stop out front of the entrance, warmed all over again by the crisp white walls and artful displays. It feels as though it’s been weeks since you last stepped inside instead of less than a day. Just yesterday you and Yixing had started loosely tossing around some designs to compliment the holiday line of chocolates he was working up.

He’s blessedly alone in the store, going through the closing duties on this slow evening. At your approach he rises from cleaning the case, resting his palms against the glass, giving you a smile so warm and open it makes you want to jump over the counter to beg him to be yours.

“Well this is an unexpected pleasure, what’s the occasion?” he asks, wiping his hands off and coming around to stand in front of you.

You’re so on edge you just blurt out what’s on your mind, holding the letter out in front of you. “I got a job offer,” you say in a rush of breath. “It’s an artist-in-residence opening, at Zion National Park. It’s in Utah, and it starts in three weeks,” you say, gauging his reaction.

He meets your eyes briefly, his expression a war of emotions. He sets down his rag and turns abruptly, walking into the back room. You stand there for a moment, puzzled, before following. He’s leaning against the far counter, his arms folded as he regards you steadily. Nothing, for several seconds he doesn’t say a thing. You huff out a laugh, stunned that after the past few months he has no words.

“You don’t have anything to say? After all we’ve been through – nothing?” you say, incredulous, coming to lean against the opposite counter, mirroring his pose.

He breaks your gaze, looking down at the floor. His brow furrows in concentration, but when he looks back to you, your heart sinks. If you hadn’t been watching him closely these past few months you would have missed it. The slight tilt of his lips down, the sadness in his expression.

He’s letting you go. Either because he doesn’t care strongly enough to want you to stay or because he’s too set in his ways to take a chance on you.

You throw up your hands and move to leave, giving one last look back at him as you move to the doorway. “Fine,” you scoff. “Consider this my two weeks notice. It’s been fun Yixing,” you say, willing your expression to stone, knowing that the hurt you feel is seeping into your face.

“Wait,” he says urgently, his voice thick with emotion. “Stay, please.”

You whip your head around in shock. You know he doesn’t just mean tonight. He swallows harshly, eyes burning into yours. Pushing off the counter he comes over to you, agitation clear on his face. He comes to stand inches from you, his hands impatiently darting out to hold your waist.

“When I see something I want I go for it, I don’t wait. The day I knew I wanted to open this shop I drove around to three different malls until I found the perfect spot. I went into the real estate office in the mall that same day. When I have a new idea for something here I don’t pause, I just… start making it.”

His lips twist in a smile. “That’s how it was with you. When I saw you, fighting against the cold, I practically leapt across the parking lot to get to you so I could grab your folder. Before I lost the excuse to talk to you,” he grins to himself at the memory.

“When I realized you were coming to my store, to see me… I’ve wanted a lot of things in life, but I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I wanted – as I want you,” he clarifies emphatically.

“I didn’t want to say anything, to try and lay a claim on you. For lots of reasons, all of which seem silly in hindsight. And now you have this amazing opportunity and I should let you go. I should say thank you for the fantastic job you’ve done, for the incredibly successful collaboration, for the time we spent together.”

“But I can’t let you go without telling you that I care about you, deeply. If you stay, I’d love to bring you on permanently. Peggy’s been bugging me for months about choosing a time for her to finally retire for real. Or if you want to work somewhere else I’ll support you a hundred percent,” he says and leans his forehead against yours.

“Or if you want to go, I’ll of course support you in that too.” His expression turns bashful. “I’ve been meaning to give these to you, but I hadn’t found a good time yet,” he says and you wrinkle your brow in confusion. He reaches up behind you into one of the cabinets and pulls out a box.

“I named them after you,” he says, taking off the lid.

A light dusting of chocolate is settled on top of the truffles, a small purple flower bud resting in the center of each. You grab one and take a bite. It’s delicious. You roll the flavors around on your tongue, eyes going wide as you realize what the special ingredient is.

“What’s in this?” you ask softly, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it from him.

“Lavender,” he says with a smile. “Your favorite.” The look on his face is so raw and open, it’s pulling at your heart. How did you not see it before? How much he means to you, and how much he cares about you in return.

“Do you mean it? You want to give this a real go, you and me?” you ask, waving your hand between you, needing to be explicitly clear before you let your reckless imagination run away with you.

“Yes, darling. If you’ll have me, I’m yours,” he says with a grin. “I decided to give up on fighting what I feel for you that day at the park with Junmyeon. I never found to the words to say to you, so I made these instead. I’m ready to try if you are.”

You launch yourself fully into his arms, grabbing his face with your hands and pulling him to you. He chuckles and wraps an arm around your waist, setting the box down on the counter behind you. His lips hungrily work against yours, holding you against the counter with his hard body. You open your eyes and look at the clock on the wall. Eight o’clock on the dot. You smirk against his lips and then pull back, breathing heavily.

“Want to get out of here?” you ask, beaming.

He looks at the clock and then back to you with a grin. “Absolutely.”

You pull into your parking spot on the curb and he pulls up behind you. A feeling of nervous excitement rises in your stomach and you hold a hand there, savoring the realization that he’s actually here, wanting to be yours. He comes over and opens the door for you, helping you out. You run up the steps to your apartment together, and he playfully smacks you in the butt. Laughing, you do the same to him before unlocking the door to your apartment.

You practically fall inside together, pulling him into the apartment and leaning him against the door. His lips meet yours in a hurry, kissing all over your face. The corners of your mouth, the top of your lip, the tip of your nose, your chin. It’s like now that he’s able to he wants to kiss every inch of you. You giggle and fist your hand in his shirt, pressing into him fully and drawing his lower lip in gently with your teeth.

He groans and you release his lip, sliding your tongue into his mouth. His hands slip up under your sweatshirt and you grin, remembering your dream all those months ago. You break the kiss for a moment to help him slide the fabric up and over your head. He shrugs out of his coat and quickly grabs the edges of his shirt, pulling it off, throwing it to the floor.

You stare appreciatively at his lean body, thinking to yourself that you can’t wait to kiss your way down it. But before you get a chance he comes up to you, hands gently holding your face to kiss you again, walking you backward in the direction of the bedroom.

You kick off your sandals as you walk and he kicks his off using his heels. He stops in the hallway, grabbing the edges of your tank top and easing it off you, followed quickly by your bra. Breathing rapidly, you each remove your pants in a rush, joining together again and moaning at the feeling of bare skin meeting bare skin.

Clad in only underwear you reach the bed and he sprawls out, sliding under the covers and pulling you on top of him, a leg on either side of his thighs. You look down at him through the curtain of your hair, breath catching in your throat as his fingers trace your naked skin, trailing up your sides to caress your breasts. The sight of him is glorious, you think; in your bed, hands on your skin in the faint light coming through the window.

He eases you down against him and kisses you gently. Resting his forehead against yours, he closes his eyes and asks, “Will you let me just hold you tonight? I’m not good at waiting, but - now that we’re here, I want to take my time.”

You nod, touched by his sweetness, and spread a hand across his chest, leaning over to rest against his side, nuzzling into his shoulder. You take a deep breath and sigh. Wrapped up in his warmth, you fall asleep listening to his heart beating in his chest.

June 2nd, 1997

A car starting on the street wakes him at dawn, soft light coming through your curtains. His arm rests around your waist and he bites his lip, trying to smother a grin at the memory of yesterday, at the fact that you chose him. Leaning over he takes in your sleeping face, relaxed and peaceful. He brushes a hand over your forehead, sweeping back the messy fall of your hair to place a light kiss on your neck.

You stir, blinking and opening your eyes. He gives you a lazy smile, running his hand up and down your hip, his leg coming to rest between yours under the covers. You pull his hand up to your lips and plant a kiss on his palm. It feels like a dream, but with him here in front of you, so real and present, you know it’s even better.

He moves his hand to cup your face, his thumb tracing along your jaw, with a wistful smile. Your gaze is drawn down to his mouth and then back to his eyes, and suddenly the air in the room changes. His eyes widen in arousal and his smile turns seductive. After months of waiting, you both know it’s time. You turn around to face him, swinging a leg over his hips.

With a deep breath he draws himself to you, sliding his lips along yours. Your hand grabs at his waist, needy and impatient. He laughs and slides his leg higher to rub along your sensitive core. You moan into his mouth and turn, pulling him on top of you. His lips pull away from yours and start trailing down your throat.

He slides down the bed, pushing the covers aside, his mouth stopping to pay attention to your breasts. You wind your hands in his hair as he laps at first one nipple, and then the other, teasing them to sensitive peaks.

Too soon, or not soon enough, he moves on, heading downward, eyes meeting yours as his tongue leaves a slick trail down your stomach. Stopping at your underwear his gaze turns dark, pupils dilating as he smells the arousal pooling in your core.

He hooks two fingers under each side and pulls your panties off in a rush, his rough hands pressing your legs apart and into the mattress. You give him a wry grin and tilt your head as if to challenge him to do his worst. He raises his eyebrows at you a few times suggestively and you giggle. Bending down he hovers his mouth over you for several agonizing seconds and just when you feel you’re about to scream he dips his head and runs his tongue along your slit.

A strangled cry leaves your mouth and you wildly grab for the sheets. With an appreciative noise he says, “The most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.” You throw your head back against the pillow with a laugh. The sound turns desperate as he repeats the motion, teasingly skirting around where you need him the most.

You jolt when he finally draws his tongue around your clit, in slow circles that reduce you to a writhing mess. He draws the bud between his lips and flattens his tongue, running over it directly. You buck your hips at that, your whines turning insistent.

“Yixing, please. I need you, I’m not going to hold out much longer,” you cry.

After another agonizing few licks he relents, releasing you and moving his body back on top of yours, his erection hard between you. He holds up a finger and leaps out of the bed, finding his pants where he left them in the hallway. Triumphantly he pulls out his wallet and holds up a condom. With a sarcastic turn of your head you stare pointedly at it.

“I’ve been hoping this might happen,” he says with a smug smile. You watch as he peels off his boxer-briefs and tears open the package, sheathing himself. He joins you back in the bed, holding himself up on his arms as he bends down to press a quick kiss to your lips.

You smile up at him. “So, in your hoping did you have a position in mind?” you tease.

His gaze darkens and a smirks comes to his lips. “You know, I did,” he replies, and he turns and sits on the bed, his back resting against the headboard. He motions for you to sit on his lap. You spread your legs and rest one on either side of him, hovering on top of his erection. His firm hands grip your hips and he slowly guides you down onto him. You moan and grip the headboard with both hands as he fills you, stretching you fully.

He drops his head against the headboard and lets out a groan of pleasure. “When you come I want to be able to watch that beautiful face of yours, feel every inch of your body against me,” he says desperately, lifting you up an inch and then thrusting his hips back up into you.

You can’t manage any words to reply, so instead you arch into him, capturing his lips with yours as you rock your hips in time with his thrusts. Neither of you can wait for long, both moaning into each other’s mouth between hurried, frenzied kisses. He knows you’re close as your whimpers become higher, desperate. He reaches a hand around and frantically rubs his thumb around your clit.

Seconds later your orgasm crashes into you, his name falling from your lips over and over, like a wild prayer. His eyes burn into yours as he reaches his completion right behind, the clenching of your walls pushing him to the breaking point. Drawing you in for a long, lazy kiss, he holds you tightly to him as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He slides down, holding you on top of him. After disposing of the condom he tucks you both back under the covers and you fall back asleep, content and tangled up in each other as the sun finally comes up over the horizon.

November 13, 1997

You convinced Vera to switch days off this week so you and Yixing could have the day off together. She agreed without hesitation, saying she’d appreciate the day to boss around the two temps Yixing had hired for the holiday season. She’s enjoying her new position of supervisor after Peggy’s retirement a few months ago, or as she jokes ‘her final retirement.’ Both of them had congratulated you happily when you’d broken the news the week after you finally got together.

After a long Saturday spent in bed together you finally smack him lightly on the ass, taunting, telling him it’s time to get ready. He groans, pulling you back against his chest, sleepily nuzzling your neck. “Mm, remind me why we have to do this again? As beautiful as I’m sure you’ll look, I’d much rather have you naked in my bed,” he says, nipping at your neck with his teeth.

Your friend at Barada had come up with the idea. Something about helping Kyungsoo “reclaim his lost youth” or something else dramatic, as was her style. She’d come up with the idea on one of your girl’s nights.

“Oh my god, I have the perfect idea! Let’s have a mall prom!” she’d said excitedly, slamming her hands on the table, looking around.

It had taken very little convincing to get everyone in your group of friends on board. Jongin had reserved KOKO’s largest exercise room. Baekhyun and Hitchcock invited everyone in the mall they could find. Yixing and Chanyeol took care of the food and desserts. Your efficient and organized best friend had taken care of renting the tables and chairs and her boyfriend, Minseok, had of course handled the music. You and your friend from the jewelry shop made the decorations. You’d spent a hilarious afternoon last week making cheesy crepe paper designs and glittery signs for the photo booth.

You pull him in for a kiss. “Because they’re our friends and it will be fun. Now, move it or lose it buddy,” you say and twist out of his arms as he tries to grab you again.

The dress you picked, a short pink number with a laughably poofy tulle skirt, hangs in your side of the closet. You head into the bathroom to do your hair and make up. A month or so ago he’d offered you a key to his place, and your heart soared when you’d seen the space he’d made in his apartment for you.

You already kept tons of things at each other’s places, but the key signaled something permanent. That these months together weren’t a fling, the temporary whims of two dreamy and artistic people, but something real.

When you come out of the bathroom, finally ready, he’s leaning against the wall. Just when you thought he couldn’t look any better, there he is, looking like James Bond in his tux and dress shoes. His hair artfully slicked back, obeying him for once. He gives you a whistle and you twirl for him.

He holds out his hand to you, eyes dancing in delight. “Ready partner?”

You grab his hand and squeeze. “Ready.”

#yixing x reader #lay x reader #yixing scenario #yixing smut #exo #fanfic #exo au #yixing imagine #lay imagine #lay scenario #exo smut #exodus mall

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caffeineivore · 7 years

Text

For RaeRae

This is for @antivanonmytongue as the start of a cheer-up-emo project, as it were.

Title: Bourbon

Author: Thalia

Rating: PG/PG13

'Ship: R/J for RaeRae!

Notes: This is dedicated to our RaeRae because we love her and she is going through hell. Stay strong, lovey! There may or may not be a homage to living in a bar...

As for the fic itself, it does not belong to any ficverse I have. Also, there is a town called Brave, Pennsylvania. However, there is probably not a bar called Hope's Landing in said town. I don't know, have never been there XD!

Thanks much to @antivanruffles for the help with plotting and stuff!!

*-*

It's a slow Sunday on a windy autumn day at Hope's Landing, and so when she walks into the place, looking a bit lost and forlorn underneath the bravado of a stubborn chin and a cherry-red designer trench coat and perfectly applied makeup, she stands out like a flame in the darkness. A dive bar in the tiny town of Brave, Pennsylvania, is definitely not the natural milieu for a young woman such as her, and Jesse Wilson pauses in between polishing a stack of rocks glasses and stares, just for a minute.

She walks in slowly, taking in the scratched and faded green baize of the pool tables in the back, the jukebox in the corner, the dark wood of the bar scarred and grooved from countless glasses rolling towards countless hands. Hair the glossy black of fresh ink spills down her back straight as rain. Manicured red nails clutch a buttery oversized leather handbag with a white-knuckled grip. The black stiletto heels she wears click on the worn floorboards, the sound over-loud in the bar's quiet. She selects a stool at the very far end of the bar and perches on it, and Jesse makes his way over with a faintly curious smile.

“What can I get for you?”

At a closer distance, her eyes are fabulous, a dark blue-violet like a twilight sky. “Maker's Mark, neat.”

He asks for ID, and she pulls out a New York license. The address is uptown Manhattan. “Raeanne Haley. Nice to meet you. My name is Jesse Wilson.”

Her hand is small and delicate and warm, almost swallowed by his, but she nods in thanks when he places the drink in front of her.

“You're far from home.”

“It's about a three hour drive,” she replies, and there's a veiled hint of escape written all over her features. Jesse, to whom Hope's Landing has been home for almost as long as he can remember, is good at getting a read on people, but Raeanne Haley is a very complex book open only a crack and written in very small letters that can't be deciphered at a glance. He's patient, though, and leaves her to her bourbon and thoughts.

The door to the bar opens to reveal a familiar diminutive figure. Earl Flynn is spry for his eighty-plus years, and moves to the bar only after he makes the rounds with all the regulars. He'd once upon a time fought alongside Jesse's grandfather in World War II, part of the same squadron, and he still wears his tags even now, over an ancient Steelers shirt. He accepts a beer from Jesse with a gracious smile and sidles over to the mysterious Raeanne Haley.

“What's a nice girl like you doing at a dump like this, then?” The question would have been rude on a lot of levels coming from anyone else than Earl, but the girl Raeanne does not seem offended, and returns his smile with a tentative one of her own.

“Resting, for the moment.”

“Well, this place on a Sunday surely is restful,” Earl tells her, even as he lifts his beer in a toast. “Now, it's almost too quiet. Not like a Friday or Saturday night, though. But our Jesse can deal with the riff-raff, so don't you worry.”

Raeanne nods and slowly sips her whiskey, and Earl keeps up a steady stream of conversation about the football game playing on the television screen, the prospect of taking his grandkids trick-or-treating on Halloween, coming up later that month, and how long the fine weather would last before it would take a turn for the worse.

“... And we should have some music in here, shouldn't we?” Earl stands and makes his way to the jukebox. “None of these crotchety fellas know how to entertain a lady. Not used to having one hereabouts.” With a wink which must have been rakish once upon a time and still full of charm, he grins at Raeanne, then feeds coins into the machine. Even as low guitar notes come on, Earl calls out for Jesse quite a bit louder than the music.

“Jesse, why don't you have a dance floor in here? Maybe we can get some more customers that way. Especially pretty ladies like her. What do you think?”

The song that Earl selected is 'Lady in Red' by Chris DeBurgh, and the old man couldn't have been more obvious if he tried. Jesse glances at Raeanne Haley in her red trench coat, and smiles wryly. “I don't think that pretty ladies like places such as these, for the most part.”

“Well, you could always change her mind. Come on, come on,” Earl is not to be deterred once he is dedicated to a set path, and apparently his mind is made up. “There's nobody here to bother you. Walter and Frank and Barry don't need anything, and neither do I. You should dance with the girl.”

Jesse glances at Raeanne, who has set down her half-finished whiskey, and even as she stands, he comes out from behind the bar. “He's harmless,” he finds himself telling her, even as she lays her hand in his, impulsiveness warring with what seems to be innate aloofness on her beautiful face. “You don’t have to. But I hope you don't mind.”

She doesn’t seem to, and when he puts his other hand on her waist and pulls her in just a little bit closer, the top of her head reaches his lips. He only has to bend his head a little bit to whisper so that no one else can hear them.

“What brings you here to Brave, Pennsylvania?”

“Oh, just… stopping for a bit,” she answers softly. Her lips curve up in a tremulous smile as those amethyst eyes meet his blue ones. “I’m on an impromptu road trip. My best friend from college lives out in LA. I could just fly, of course, but I hate both LaGuardia and JFK, and… this way I can take my time.” Maybe the whiskey has relaxed her a little, or maybe it was Earl’s somewhat one-sided conversation. “I paid a cabbie a good amount of cash to just drive… drive until I told him to stop. And here I am.”

“You told him to stop here?” Earl, the sly bastard, has another slow song playing even as the first one draws to a close. But Raeanne doesn’t seem to mind, or notice. She’s soft in his arms and smells faintly like expensive perfume.

“I liked the name. Hope’s Landing.” She ducks her head and her hair brushes his jaw. “That sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

“This was my grandfather’s bar, back in the day,” Jesse tells her to the background music of Elvis crooning ‘Love Me Tender’. “Hope was his mother’s name. He named it after her because she was not really a showy type of woman. Homey, I guess. Sort of like he wanted this place to be.” Jesse smiles wryly as their eyes meet. “This is definitely not a showy type of bar, I’ll say that much. Nothing like New York City.”

“New York is overrated,” Raeanne huffs out a breath. “I’m escaping, if we’re being completely honest. Mina’s okay with putting me up indefinitely in LA; I’ll probably have my stuff shipped there soon. I just needed a change.”

Jesse wonders for a second if Mina in LA is Mina Averill, the rising supermodel and actress, then dismisses the notion as preposterous. “Well, you are well and truly not in New York City any more, Dorothy,” he says gently. “I’m not quite sure what the exact population of this town is, but I’m also quite sure that the population of Manhattan itself is greater.”

“Yeah, and when everyone you know is either a lawyer or a politician or a Wall Street exec or some horrible combination of the three…” Raeanne wrinkles her nose, then shakes her head as Elvis finishes and Sinatra takes his place. “I usually stick to wine. I’m not this chatty as a rule.”

“Maybe you just needed to talk,” Jesse says, and then pulls back enough to look her in the eye. “But if you don’t want to drink on an empty stomach, I could probably make you a sandwich or something.”

“Yes, you go do that, Jesse,” Earl chimes in, as though sensing that the dancing has come to a close, and winks again at Raeanne. “Our Jesse is a good boy. His grandfather and I were friends since we were young. Charlie might have passed five years ago, God rest his soul, but he made sure that our Jesse was raised right.”

Jesse leaves the old man to extol his virtues and takes the stairs in the back of the bar up to the apartment on the second floor. Hope’s Landing doesn’t boast a kitchen or serve food beyond beer nuts and pretzels, but he lives right above it, and while turkey and swiss on rye is probably not typical fare for one such as Raeanne Haley, he returns with the sandwich shortly.

“Thank you.” She accepts it, seeming to know that it’s the exception rather than the rule, and gives him a real smile before tucking in. She’s dainty in that ladylike way while eating, but doesn’t seem to care about crumbs or the fact that she’s only got beverage napkins to wipe her mouth and hands.

The night draws on; more regulars mosey on in, including a pair of ancient, tattooed bikers who offer to teach Raeanne how to play pool. She declines, graciously, but seems to have relaxed as the time draws on. In any case, she watches the game with interest, and when the shorter, skinnier biker wins, claps politely amidst the raucous cheers of the rest of them. She’s still there, unaccountably, her whiskey long-gone and her plate empty, when the clock strikes midnight and the lights come on.

“We close early on Sundays,” Jesse tells her as he finishes cashing out. Under the bright lights, she’s even lovelier, with pale skin and flawless cheekbones. She pays for her drink with a black American Express and signs the slip with flowing, finishing-school script. He doesn’t charge her for the sandwich, but even after the last stragglers make their way towards the door, she remains seated, and he cocks his head to the side. “Do you… do you have a place to stay for the night?”

She shrugs, pulls out a cell phone. “I could Uber it to the closest hotel, I guess. I’m sorry. I was having fun.”

And all of the sudden he feels like he’s on the precipice of something-- something a lot bigger and more important than small talk with a pretty stranger on a random Sunday night. He swallows the surge of nerves and clears his throat. “Well, and please don’t take this in a creepy way, but… you could crash here if you want. I live upstairs. There’s a spare room.”

She stares at him for a moment without speaking, so he hurries on. “You don’t have to, of course. I’m not sure if Uber is available out here, to be honest with you. But if you’d like, I could probably also give you a ride somewhere if you have a place in mind.”

And then she smiles. “You sure I could just crash upstairs? You barely know me.”

“Yeah, and you barely know me. But… yeah, I’m sure. I don’t mind. I just have one question.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Do you like cats?”

*~*

Jesse’s apartment is accessible through the back of the bar, up a flight of stairs, and it is a tidy, open-plan space with two bedrooms, one of which seems to be used as an office with a futon. A small-ish tabby cat darts out from under the coffee table and heads straight for Raeanne’s legs, winding circles around her ankles and staring up with wide, green-and-gold eyes.

“That’s Jim Beam, or JB for short,” Jesse tells Raeanne with a chuckle even as she stoops down to pet the cat. “He’s usually not this friendly. I found him a few months ago as a kitten, hiding out the rain under an empty Jim Beam carton out by the dumpster, hence his name.” Jim Beam apparently finds Raeanne to his liking, because in very short order, he is butting his head against her hand and purring. Raeanne takes a seat on the sofa and the cat hops into her lap, curling up in a ball and blinking slowly in an attitude of contentment, and Jesse grins at her. “He likes you. Anyway, do you need anything? Water? A tour? A t-shirt to sleep in? All of the above?”

She finds herself agreeing to ‘all of the above’, and smiles to herself when she sees the bread bag on the kitchen counter, left untied from when he’d made her that sandwich. Jesse pulls out the futon in the office, but insists that she takes his room instead, fetching fresh sheets and pillows out of a small linen closet and a plain white t-shirt out of the dresser drawer. Jim Beam follows Raeanne into every room, then hops onto the easy chair in Jesse’s bedroom, curling his tail around his feet.

“Shower’s through that door down the hall. And you can probably kick that cat out of that chair to put your stuff,” Jesse says as he efficiently changes the bed-linens. Raeanne exchanges a glance with Jim Beam, and sets her handbag on the bureau instead. She walks up to Jesse just as he finishes straightening up the sheets.

“You don’t have to do any of this for me, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says with a smile. “But, I also know not to subject a lady to a futon.”

That’s not at all what she’s referring to and she’s sure he knows it, but something in his dark blue gaze causes her to acquiesce. She stands on tiptoe, and the jaw that comes in contact with her lips is warm and scratchy with stubble.

“Well, thanks. And good night.”

He lays his hand on her shoulder for a moment, nods, and quietly walks out. Raeanne quickly gets ready for bed and curls up underneath the blankets. The sheets smell like him-- plain soap and detergent, no overpriced cologne, and the pillows are soft. This was not quite what she’d planned when she left New York, but… a smile crosses her face and she stares up at the ceiling and says nothing.

Halfway through the night, Raeanne wakes up briefly to Jim Beam hopping on the bed and curling up on the pillow next to hers. She sleepily runs her fingers over the cat’s soft fur, and lets the purring lull her back to the best sleep she’s had in months.

*~*

Raeanne wakes the next morning to the smells of coffee and bacon and the sound of Ruby Tuesday by the Rolling Stones playing faintly on the radio. Jim Beam meows at her from by the bedroom door, and she follows the cat to the kitchen, padding in barefooted and still wearing the borrowed t-shirt. Jesse’s back is turned towards her as he flips a piece of bacon in the skillet, but he turns with a smile before she even says a word.

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” she replies, and at his gesture, helps herself. Within a few moments, they’re seated across from each other at the cheap dinette set and eating scrambled eggs and bacon as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Jim Beam cannily positions himself at the optimal spot to beg from both of them, and Raeanne is sure that between herself and Jesse, the cat gets away with a good two slices of bacon. Raeanne eats her fill and watches Jesse from underneath her lashes. His hair shines golden in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, and when he smiles, he has a single dimple in his left cheek. She, on the other hand, looks vastly different wearing no makeup and his t-shirt than her norm, and yet, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Want me to do the dishes?” She gathers her plate and mug and walks over towards the kitchen sink. Certainly it is not a task that she has ever needed to tackle. But even-- or perhaps especially-- a Manhattan socialite knows that something cannot come from nothing.

Jesse says nothing, but before she can reach for the sponge, gently takes both of her hands in his, and pulls her away. His fingers are callused and rough against her manicured ones, and he doesn’t let her go even when they’re a few feet away from the sink. She finds herself staring up at him in wonder and a little bit of consternation.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

The smile warms his whole face, including his ocean blue eyes. “Because you need it.”

Raeanne’s next breath hitches in her throat, and she stares down at her bare feet for a moment because the kindness radiating from his whole being is warm and almost unbearable, like being a shade too close to a hearth fire. Her toenails match her fingernails exactly, and she takes a deep breath before glancing up again. “Why do you say that?”

“I just know.” A wry, slightly cheeky smile crosses his face. It’s not stubbly like last night, but he still smells like plain soap and detergent with a hint of coffee thrown in now. “You don’t owe me anything, Raeanne.”

Her name sounds smooth and low on his tongue, and when she frowns at what he says, he chuckles. “Well. I wouldn’t say no to another dance. But don’t tell Earl, or he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“I won’t,” she answers, and even as Queen’s ‘Someone To Love’ starts playing on the radio, she lets him draw her close. Without her heels, he sort of dwarfs her, and in this tiny, sun-lit kitchen, it’s even closer and more intimate than last night downstairs at the bar. But Raeanne lets her eyes fall closed as they sway infinitesimally to the rhythm, and her face fits perfectly into the crook of his neck. Underneath her lips, his pulse isn’t completely steady, and that gives her courage.

“Jesse?” Her voice is muffled against soft cotton and warm skin. “How long can I stay?”

The hand at her waist pulls her just a little closer, and his breath stirs tendrils of her hair. “How long do you want to stay?”

She draws back just enough to look up into his face, and lets herself wonder, only for a moment, why it seems so familiar-- why everything from the moment she’d stepped out of the cab until now seems like destiny knocking. But she still manages a quip. “Until Big Bill and Marty teach me how to shoot pool, maybe.”

“Mmm, and are you a quick study?”

She’s close enough to all but count individual eyelashes, close enough to taste that he drinks his coffee black, just like her, but leans in even closer. Suddenly, she knows that she’s not going to LA after all, though Mina would probably squeal over it later, much later, on the phone once she got through the army of assistants and minions. Raeanne smiles, and answers his question just before she lets her lips brush his as though coming home at last.

“Yeah.”

#R/J #antivanonmytongue #senshi/shitennou #sailor moon #fanfiction #fanfic #The RaeRae Project

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barbecuedphoenix · 7 years

Note

I would like to see a AU with the Eldarya guys in a police station (pleeeease, give me a police officer Valkyon!)

Hang on… the Guard of El is not a medieval police station? Whatabout those underground cells? And Miiko and Leiftan’s good-cop-bad-cop-add-Jamonroutine? o_o

Oh, all right. Let’s assume theGuard of El has been given badges, handguns, and sirens they can stick on topof their car to tell traffic on the road to clear out. Are they going to be anymore efficient?

… …Why am I even asking…? -_-

Nevra, the Detective

The star of the El Police Department’sinvestigative division: the high-flying lead detective with the unerring nose whonever works in anything but dashing black. (Hey, being a plainclothes officer meanshe can actually dress the way he likes on the job. And despite what colleaguesmight say, he does need the sablecashmere scarf, the tight black trench coat, and the designer leather ankle-boots because… it gets cold in the city and he’s not going to miss a day ofwork because of the flu.)

Anyway. Nevra will be happyto confirm that 1.) he does have a veryacute sense of smell, and 2.) he has neverfailed a case since joining the department, even after the Oracle’s fall.Once he’s on the trail, you can bet that he’s going to unearth answers andproduce an arrest warrant for so-and-so. (Actually getting the reprobate into acell isn’t his job though.) In fact,there is no such thing as a cold casein his book; merely one that’s…. waiting patiently for more evidence. (If youtry riffling through his office, you’ll find years of ‘not-cold cases’. But don’tsay a word to anyone, or Nevra will be after your ass for ruining his image as ‘theBloodhound of El’. And for bypassing that custom lock on his office door.)

For all his over-achievingtendencies, Nevra’s actually a popular guy in his department: charming,amiable, savvy, extremely loyal to the force, and the best man you can have foreither a night of swing dancing or a weekend football match. The only catch:think twice about inviting your girlfriend. And sometimes your boyfriend. There’sa running poll in the office on how many disgruntled exes have tried stabbinghim with a cafeteria steak knife this year. And a second poll on how many ‘damselsin distress’ that visited his office this half-year have walked away decidedly lessdamsel-like.

Also, be careful whenworking with Nevra on the field. His loyalty to the department can’t bequestioned, but there’s a reason why he works primarily with his loyal caninecompanion Shaitan (AKA the world’s most terrifying police dog). Ex-partners willwarn you that he never gives up a chase in the long run,even when outgunned and kneed where it hurts the most (and yes… they do have afew stories about that….)

Ezarel, the Chemical Forensics Specialist

Every department needs anegghead who can prove to the court of law that that rust-colored smear isn’tfrom a jar of strawberry preserve smashing into the wall. Or that the faintspecks of dust on a man’s coat lapels are what actually killed him, and not thebullet that was inserted into his chest a few seconds later as an afterthought.In the El Police Department, that (figurative) egghead is Ezarel. (Because hehas an honest-to-goodness ponytail that reaches to his waist. Don’t bother to tell him to get a haircut; he’ll just tell youthat he works in a lab-coat, not a suit.)

No one really knows why thisfilthy-rich trust-fund-baby from uptown is working voluntarily in the dingy labof an inner-city police department. But if they have to guess, it’s eitherbecause he watched too many episodes of ‘NCIS’, ‘Sherlock’, and ‘The First 48’ whilegrowing up, or he’s really a mad scientist looking for a passably legal applicationfor his experiments. It’s honestly hard to tell which theory is true when talkingto him, since the man seems incapable of taking most people seriously unless they’reasking for a report. The number of smart comments that fly out of him at anyand all hours is on par with an award-winning novelist living deep in a forestcave. Or the typical biochem student. He reacts about the same way when untrainedvisitors try touching things in his lab. Including him.

Still, for all his curmudgeonlytendencies, Ezarel inspires respect from the police force for his completeindifference to rank, his thoroughness, and his generally nonlinear thinking (whichcomes in handy for reconstructing crime scenes from tiny scrapings of suspectsplatters). And he’s feared for his pranks. Department rookies are hispreferred prey (though again, office rank means little to him). Many of themhave never forgotten the night that Ezarel secretly smeared ghostly faces,handprints, and body-prints across the walls and windows of the lounge, in apeculiar type of paint that came alive only when the Halloween strobe lightswere switched on. Or that time he posed as a fresh corpse in the archives, withhis arm still caught in a file drawer and ‘bullet holes’ peppering his back,just in time for the records officer Kero to find him. (To this day, Kero stillrefuses to file any of Ezarel’s paperwork for him.) The day never gets boringif Ezarel’s in the building.

Valkyon, the SWAT Captain

Police captain Valkyon—from thespecial response division—is one of the few full-time ballasts in the dysfunctionalpolice department. Part of it is because the man seems incapable of losing histemper. He may frown like thunder, but no one has ever witnessed him so much ascurse, even after all his years in one of the toughest divisions of the police force,that sees the highest yearly casualties from the number of riots, armedhold-ups, city terrorists, mobsters, and generally-lethal upstarts they engageon a regular basis as the frontlines of the city’s peacekeeping forces. Then again, tough talkmight be unnecessary in his case; would-be troublemakers on either side of thelaw only need to look at the span of his shoulders, or the number of pale scarscrossing his chiseled chest and back whenever he drops his shirt in thetraining room, to think hard about their projected lifespans.

Except for his clean (andsomewhat wooden) language, Valkyon comes across as the quintessentialhardboiled officer. Colleagues know him as either a.) the by-the-book workaholicwho refuses to flinch in the face of fire (and doesn’t have much of a personallife), or b.) the dedicated bachelor who defends his privacy with deadpanremarks and genuinely doesn’t know what to do with himself during an officeparty. Besides downing a few bottles of beer in the corner. Personally, Valkyondoesn’t really see it as his fault if people mistake him as unsocial—since whendo people need to talk so much tomake themselves understood?

Even after he downs five tosix beers, no one has ever succeeded in prying from Valkyon the story of hisdays before the police force. (And when his face shuts like a hangar door, it’sa good idea not to piss him off further.) But there’s a running theory in theoffice that not all of those famous scars and tattoos seen in the training roomcame from upholding the badge. That some might have been acquired from a lifeon the opposite side of the law. But who would think of slandering their big bronzebear of a captain that way? You don’t find many people who’ll charge a riflemanon the street with just a riot shield and his weight, coming at speed from halfa block down. Much less succeed.

He does have a darling inthe office though. Sadly for some hopeful officers and interns, Valkyon’snon-professional eyes are trained solely on his pet mouse Floppy, who lives agenteel existence rotating between his office, his coat pocket, sometimes underhis cap, and her handmade little house inside his one-man apartment. At leastuntil the flighty thing escapes again. That’s when he starts papering thebulletin board with office-bounties for her safe return.

Leiftan, the DistrictAttorney

It’s one thing tochase hardened criminals through faked financial reports and pitch-dark docks,prove that three-day-old blood is in fact blood, or send a rifleman sprawlingonto the sidewalk with just a dented riot shield. But if you can’t bring themall to court and convince both judge and jury to believe what happened, thenthere will be no justice. That’s where Leiftan comes in: the so-called WhiteKnight of the El Police Department, always toting a mysterious briefcase and asoft smile that’s even more mysterious.

Although there’s along-running tradition of animosity between policeofficers/detectives/forensics specialists and anything that resembles a lawyer,the El Police Department makes an exception for Leiftan. He keeps reasonableexpectations on them and the court, does his best with what he can workon, never loses his temper when a case is thrown out or grinds to a stalemateand settlement (which happens despairingly often), and is so ceaselessly politethat it’s hard for even the dedicated grouches on the force to hate him. (Maybejust a little for how he never loses his gentleman’s polish like a normalflesh-and-blood person). But more importantly, it’s because Leiftan’sunofficial job is being their PR man whenever a case becomes high-profile enoughto hit the headlines. The public is more likely to buy an assurance that ‘dueprocedure is being followed’ and ‘several promising leads are being explored’if it comes from the gentleman-lawyer in the suit than one of them cops. Especially if they did actuallyslip up once or twice in the chase. And sometimes (i.e. often) Leiftan is the one thingstanding between them and their fire-breathing chief-of-police Miiko if ahigh-profile investigation goes awry, raising one hand politely from the sidewith a life-saving suggestion that they might be able to use acertain piece of evidence in court.

Just because he’s thesoft-spoken type of lawyer doesn’t mean he can’t go toe-to-toe with the best ofthe officers. Over the years, Leiftan has survived many attempts by opponentsto ‘privately settle a suit’: on the street outside the court-house, at thedoor of his apartment, behind a bar, from the back of his car, or even (on onememorable occasion) on the witness stand in court. In all cases, pistol-packershave learnt the hard way that Leiftan has an aikido master’s reflexes and amean right-hand undercut. Not to mention that that reinforced briefcase—withwho knows what in it– seems as determined as he is in defying bullets.

Jamon, the Bailiff

Cell occupants at the policestation know Jamon as that taciturn, terrifying mass of muscle with hands thesize of dinner plates who just shoved them inside. Or if they were out-coldwhen that happened, they know him as the living pillar watching them from themain door of the detention center at the moment they woke, crunching casuallyon raw carrots that are each roughly the width of a girl’s wrist. In eithercase, the possibility of escape tends to leave them. Even if Jamon offers them carrotsthrough the bars as a healthy snack for behaving well.

For a senior police officer,Jamon’s responsibilities are fairly light: he’s mostly tasked with watching theever-revolving population of temporary inmates in the holding cells at thestation. And to escort (and occasionally subdue) the more ornery detainees throughthe foyer, fresh from the patrol car or on their way to the court house. But intruth, it takes a very peculiar figure to turn this precarious, powder-kegposition into little more than a routine stroll through HQ, accompanied by anoccasional loud clearing of the throat when inmates get restive.

No one’s inclined to test aseven-foot officer who prefers five-word remarks and has a grip like a parkingboot. No matter how good he is with the occasional child who visits the stationand insists on climbing onto his shoulders, or how friendly he is if you’requiet and stay at arm’s length when he opens your cell door.

Kero, the Records Officer

The long-suffering head ofAdministration, whose primary task is to ensure that the bunker’s worth ofpaperwork in the station gets filed, stored, and used correctly. And from there…very, very slowly translated into electronic data. Make no mistake: it’s adaunting task even for a modest-sized police department, where at least half theforce despises picking up a pen (for all the other shenanigans they get into ona daily basis).

Or maybe they just love tokick at him… It’s not his fault that he dislikes pulling a gun on people, andinstead honors the tradition of muttering darkly under his breath in theirdirection. And wears glasses. It must be the glasses; who on earth says thatthey’ll make you look more respectable at work? The only one who gets moregrief at work than him is that rookie Chrome.

Needless to say, Kero spendsmost of his daily existence either instructing (for the umpteenth time) hisfellow officers in what needs to be filled out and in what order and where theyshould be deposited. (Not in his briefcase!) Or running a never-ending cycle ofproofread-return-receive-file-repeat for police records, statements, and other liabilityforms deep in the archives. Until a kind soul remembers to bring him outsidefor sunshine.

Chrome, the Rookie

A kid swept in from thestreets who, after the Oracle’s fall, ran odd jobs for the police in exchangefor quick cash and amnesty from the neighborhood gangs, even acting as an occasionalinformer for Nevra. Once he hit fifteen, Chrome finally applied for detectivetraining under the latter’s encouragement, figuring that he can apply hislifetime’s worth of street smarts, spying, making Molotov cocktails, and vanishing through alleyways togood use: cleaning up his hometown.

Unfortunately, he firstneeds to survive both basic training and the company of his new colleagues atthe station. Not all of whom are impressed by his bluster and recklessdetermination in field exercises. Or his notoriety in returning to the stationhours late from a routine patrol. (For the last time: he swears he’s not visiting any girls on the side! Just because he’s ateenager doesn’t mean his hormones are always raging! The last thing hewants in life is to grow up to become his boss, thanks.)

Needless to say, this poorkid is a regular target of Ezarel’s jokes. Within a few days of his official adoptioninto the force, the forensics officer has coined a new nickname for him thatspread through the department like a virus: ‘Puppy’.

Karuto, the Donut Shop Owner

A police force cannotsurvive without a steady supply of cheap donuts and coffee that comes withinwalking distance. But unlike some franchises that offer free pastries inexchange for police protection, Karuto doesn’t actually need police protection: he was first brought into the station afterusing a kitchen blowtorch against a luckless punk who tried pointing a gun athim over the register one night. The punk lost, by the way, and it was theoutraged donut shop proprietor who was slapped with heavy charges instead. Can’ta man defend his own property anymore without the police state cracking down on him?

In exchange for reduced policesurveillance for his ‘dangerous temper’ (you’ll find out what ‘dangerous’ is ifyou dare clap an ankle-monitor on him),Karuto agreed to provide free pastries and coffee to the entire department.Which inevitably brings them sniffing around his shop every morning andafternoon, but at least they’re there as (nonpaying…) customers instead oflegally-mandated babysitters. For the vast majority of officers, he’s oldenough to be their father.

Ashkore, the Urban Legend

The notorious master hackerand systems saboteur who was never caught after bringing down the Oracle: the cutting-edgesupercomputer that once occupied a building of its own just behind the policedepartment’s headquarters. Once upon a time, the Oracle had single-handedlytracked city-wide activities at all hours, from mass civilian movement andcommunication, to entertainment and news broadcasts, local traffic on land, sea,and air, changes in the local power grid, economic transfers, hospital activity,and population fluctuations. It was the (some say sentient) supercomputer that keptvigil over the entire city of El and predicted where and when crime happenedfrom a precise convergence of socio-economic triggers, with an astonishingsuccess rate that ushered in years of civilian peace. The police force backthen were merely the arm of the law, arresting the troublemakers that theOracle identified. They didn’t even need to patrol.

To this day, no one knowsfor certain how Ashkore and his group destroyed the Oracle. (Perhaps they hadcolluders from inside HQ. Or perhaps Ashkore was an ex-officer himself, whichcould explain how he knew precisely when, how, and where to strike.) But their methodseemed to have involved a precise tripping of the city power grid in the deadof night to force the Oracle to fall back briefly on its reserve power sourcebelow its mainframe, shutting off noncritical external security systems forjust a few minutes. Then the hackers moved in, cutting through theround-the-clock team of technicians and engineers who maintained thesupercomputer in the adjoining office. And the next thing the dazed policedepartment of El knew, a fire had broken out from a catastrophic cascade ofshort-circuits that came from deep inside the august machine. By the time thesmoke cleared the following morning, the charred, office-sized hunk that wasthe Oracle was taken apart for inspection and eventually pronounced dead (muchless its cadre of engineers). All except for a single, hand-sized matrix ofcrystal memory chips that miraculously survived the night intact. This mega-chipis now stored in a maximum-security bunker underneath thenow-fearfully-independent police force, in hopes of being the first data blockof the new incarnation of the Oracle (still under construction).

The day after the sabotage,Ashkore’s group leaked an untraceable video on the internet to claimresponsibility for the attack, hailing a new era of freedom now that the commonpeople have wrested control of their lives back from the machine, and that the yokeof the police-controlled city-state has been overthrown. The mastermind himself—wearinga CG dragon’s head digitally-imposed over his face– signed off the video by mock-lecturingthe police force to get off their lazy asses and patrol the streets as wastraditional, using just their wits, brawn, the people they spoke to, and theevidence that they found directly. Oh, and good luck at their new job.

Needless to say, the manhuntfor the dragon-headed hacker and his cohorts is still ongoing. But without theOracle to guide them, crime spiked in all sectors across El, as civiliansupport fell proportionally and police casualties mounted. The El Police Departmentwas hard-pressed to reapply their old training to keep the main avenues of thecity more-or-less safe to walk through, much less pursue Ashkore and his hostof internet ghosts. Who gallingly proved their corporeal existence by branchingout to other activities: from city council blackmail, to leaking highly-classifiedsecrets apparently copied from the Oracle’s databanks before they fried, tofree-for-all theft, to sabotaging whatever convenient police car strays too farbeyond HQ. Just to be considerate, they always email a photo or video of theirlatest stunt to the police department from an untraceable device less than anhour after the event, signing off with a grinning cartoon dragon icon.

Actually, it’s hard to sayany longer if it’s really the original group of saboteurs who’s sticking athorn in their side, or a larger, looser offshoot of the original group, or amotivated team of copycats taking up the cause of city anarchists. Regardless, it’sup to the motley, much-reduced police department of El to save their city,restore their people’s trust in them, and rectify what Ashkore and his grouphave catalyzed, before he strikes with a still more ambitious blow from thecrowbar of civil anarchy.

Whoops. I might have gone a little far with the plot-crafting for that last one. Social subversives are the engine of stories.

Anyway, I hope this satisfies, @mentacomchocolate. :) Though I’m getting the impression that you’d really like a Valkyon-in-SWAT-uniform picture to go with this, but I can’t find any on the internet. :(

Maybe one of you readers can help out? ;)

Oh, and uh… don’t forget to review. If you do, I might post part 2 of this set. ;) A police station isn’t just a chest-thumping club anymore.

Edit: In fact, part 2 is right here. Time for some estrogen action at the police department.

#request #headcanon #Eldarya #Ashkore #Chrome #Ezarel #Jamon #Karuto #Kero #Leiftan #Nevra #Valkyon

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huntertales · 7 years

Text

Part One: We All Go a Little Mad, Sometimes. (Sam, Interrupted S05E11)

Useful Links: Last Part | All Episodes Word Count: 5,867. A/N: Finally, a new episode! I meant to put this out a few days ago, but let’s be real, I've been so lazy. I hope this was worth the wait. The second part should be out soon!

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It's been three weeks since you have been brought back from the dead. Twenty-one days since the failed attempt at killing the Devil. You and the boys tried to keep yourselves busy over the past few weeks by taking hunts where you could try and keep your mind occupied. Most of the conversation between the three of you had been about the hunts, nothing else. Nobody had spoken about the elephant in the room. Nobody had the true guts to talk about what they had seen that night. And you were happy with that. For some reason, you didn’t want to think about what you had witnessed in that horrific day or what the Devil told you. It was crushing enough to know the only lead you’d been chasing for months was just a dead end. You were back at square one with the apocalypse still nipping at your heels. The pressure alone could make anyone go crazy. But that's not why you were sitting in a doctor’s office of a psychiatric ward.

You sat in one of those uncomfortable office chairs as you sat with your hands neatly folded in your lap, watching as Dr. Fuller, one of the doctors at Glenwood Springs Psychiatric Hospital, overlooked the documents you had forged and faxed before arriving this morning. He opened up the case file to read the bogus diagnosis you had given the younger Winchester. It was a fairly simple operation to getting yourselves into the hospital; Sam decided to be the one to take the bait of being the patient you were trying to get help, as Dean was his concerned brother that was fearful the man was getting worse. You reached out to rest it on the wooden armchair of the seat as Dean made sure to intertwine his fingers with yours, trying to sell the marital status between the both of you. Dr. Fuller glanced up from his paperwork for a moment to look at the two of you. You gave him a smile as you watched his gaze fall down to the wedding and engagement ring on your left hand before slowly going back to reading the paperwork for a moment.

“You were referred to me by a Dr. Babar in Chicago.” Dr. Fuller said. He raised his eyes to look at the three of you as he dropped the file to his desk. You nodded your head, not seeming what the problem was. “Isn’t there a children’s book about an elephant named Babar?”

"Really?" You laughed off the question as you smiled again at him. You felt Dean lightly squeezed your hand as he gave the doctor a small smile, joining in on your fake amusement of the situation. He glanced over at you as he gave you a subtle look, wondering why you had chosen a name that would have brought less suspicion. The doctor was right. There had been a series of children's books with an elephant named Babar, they were your favorite growing up. It was late when you were typing up the documents, you were tired and the name just popped in your head. You honestly didn't know anyone would make the connection. "Conidence?"

“I don’t know. My wife and I don’t have any elephant books. We don’t even have kids yet. It’s hard to think about just yet. I mean, we'd love to a few little ones running around in the near future. But we have our plate full right now. My brother's been getting worse over the past year. We think the doc was over in his head with this one 'cause he’s, uh..." Dean attempted to swing the conversation back to why you were here. He pointed a finger at his brother before he twirled it into the air, making a quiet whistle noise to prove that he thought the man was a bit mental.

“Okay, fine. Thank you. That’s—That’s really not necessary.” Dr. Fuller stopped the man, finding his actions inappropriate for the setting he was in. He reached out and picked up the file to read over the diagnosis just one more time. Glancing up at the younger Winchester, he decided to get a bit more of a proper viewing of what he could be dealing with. “Why don’t you tell me how you’re feeling, Alex?”

"I'm fine." Sam said as he let out a frustrated sigh, making the doctor believe he was dragged here against his will. You turned your head and placed your free hand on his forearm. He scoffed when you attempted to give him a concerned look, playing the part perfectly as he looked back over at the doctor that sat behind the desk. "I mean, okay, a little depressed, I guess."

“All right.” Dr. Fuller said, he jotted a few notes down. “Any idea why?”

"Probably because I started the apocalypse." Sam said, deciding the truth was the best form of crazy either one of you could get that. Dr. Fuller glanced up from his paperwork, caught off guard from what he heard. He repeated what the man said, wondering what he meant by that exactly. The doctor looked over at you and Dean, slightly confused at what he was hearing, Dean rolled his eyes, as if he was annoyed at the same story as you gave the man an apologetic smile from the complicated case you were giving him. "Well, yeah. I mean I killed this demon—Lilith—and I accidentally freed Lucifer from Hell. So now he's topside, and we're trying to stop him."

“Who is?” The doctor asked.

“Me. And them.” Sam answered as he pointed a finger at the both of you for clarification. “And, uh, this one angel.”

"Oh. You mean like a—like an angel on your shoulder?" Dr. Fuller presumed as he tapped his pen on his shoulder, wondering that was what the younger man meant.

“No.” Sam said. “His name is Castiel. He wears a trench coat.”

"See what I mean, doc? I mean, the kid's been beating himself up about this for months. The apocalypse wasn't his fault." Dean said, deciding it was the perfect time to jump in on the little act. The doctor glanced up from his paper to give the man a slightly bewildered look, asking why that it wasn't. "There was this other demon—Ruby. She got him addicted to demon blood. I mean, near the end, he was practically chugging the stuff. And there was this one time she convinced him to give her a shot of the stuff.” The Winchester pointed his thumb at you as he continued on telling the story. “You see, at the time we were interrogating this other demon, Alistair. Nasty son of a bitch. Everything seemed to be going well, until, he got loose and started beating the crap out of us. She landed herself in the hospital and we didn’t know if she was going to make it. Ruby convinced Sam to give her some of her own blood to heal her. Which was what Lilith wanted all along.”

"Yeah. You see, Lilith had spent all of last year trying to break these sixty six seals that broke Lucifer out of the cage in the first place. We tried to stop her after she sent us both to hell the year prior. He made a deal to save his brother’s life after he was stabbed. I sold my soul to this demon named Crowley to take his spot. But it didn't work." You explained to the doctor. "Him and I went to Hell, but after four months, we both got out for different reasons. Cas pulled Dean out because

broke the first seal. I got freed because my dad, who’s a demon himself, made a deal with Alistair along with not having any memories of being tortured in Hell. Lilith tracked me down, force fed me her blood, and I remembered everything. Not fun, trust me."

"Kind of put a damper in our relationship for a while, but I like to think we're stronger now." Dean said to the doctor. He looked over at you to give you a smile, knowing last year had been a rough time for the both of you. But you had to admit, things between the both of you had never been better, despite the things he had seen weeks ago. "Right, sweetheart?"

"Wait, wait." The doctor stopped you before you could say anything, wanting to jump back to a small detail that you slipped into the conversation. "You said your father was a demon?"

“Yup. She's a half demon, my brother and I are the meat suit for Michael and Lucifer. Some could say that this entire situation was all his fault. I mean, yeah he made some pretty stupid decisions, but that wasn't him. He's not evil like he thinks that he is. He was just...high." Dean explained the rest of the situation to the doctor. You fidgeted slightly in your seat as he continued on talking. “So, could you fix him up so we can get back traveling around the country and hunting monsters?”

Dr. Fuller gave all of you a polite smile as he pointed his index finger at the three of you. You didn’t need to say anything else for the man to be convinced that you needed help. He reached out to grab his phone and pressed it against his ear, pressing a button, he waited a second before he was connected with his receptionist, thinking he was going to have his hands full for the rest of the day. “Erma...cancel my lunch.”

A few minutes later, you and the boys were being lead down a hallway of the hospital by a nurse who was directing you to a few of the examination rooms to do a quick psychical. “Dr. Fuller would like to keep the three of you under observation for a couple of days.” She explained to all of you as she looked over her shoulder to give you a smile. Dean pretended to be surprised at the news as he asked if she meant by you and him. “Yes, sugar. The doctor thinks that would be best.”

You and the boys were directed to separate examination rooms so the nurse would assess your physical health along with asking a few questions that were standard to get a deeper peek into your mental health. In under a half an hour you surrounded over your clothing for a comfortable pair of slippers, some pajamas and a robe that all of the patients were directed to wear. You felt a little weird about being this honest with strangers when you told them about the mess you had been dealing with for the past few years. To them, you were just another patient, but they listened and smiled, making you believe that what you were saying was all true. The nurse directed you to the recreation room where a few other patients had been occupying. You glanced around to see if you could spot the boys. It took a second to see Dean, who was sitting on top of one of the couches with his arms crossed over his chest, looking a little uncomfortable.

Sam wasn't far behind you, you looked over to see that he was heading forward to the both of you. You furrowed your brow slightly, wondering why he was walking so weird. “Hey,” Dean’s voice brought your attention over to him when he noticed you and his little brother had arrived back after getting acquainted with the place. “How was your silk wood shower?”

"Okay. Yeah. Good. Yeah. Good, um...good water pressure." Sam tried to sound normal. But he couldn't beat around the bush anymore when he asked, "Did the nurse—"

“She was very thorough.” Dean muttered underneath his breath.

You let out a quiet laugh from their reaction of the examine that had become a little too unbearable for them to handle. “What did you guys expect to happen?” You asked. You looked at the both of them before you rolled your eyes. “They do it for safety reasons so you don’t bring in anything that you might use to hurt yourself or others.”

Dean didn't seem to find your words comforting, he took a moment to look around at the place to see what he would be dealing with over the next few days. He could see most of the patients here were a bunch of loons and drugged out of their minds. One was passed out on the table as another was playing with a bunny, who looked like she was having the time of her life. He shook his head and he scoffed underneath his breath, “I can't believe I let you talk me into this.”

“You didn’t have to come, Dean.” You flat out said, not in the mood to hear his bellyaching on this hunt about the stunts he was going to have to pull for a case that might not be even be here. You examined the room yourself, but unlike the oldest Winchester, you harbored no judgement for the people around you that were here to help. When you glanced over at him, you rolled your eyes at the expression he was giving you from the response he wasn’t expecting to hear. “Don’t look at me like that. Sam and I could have done this without your help. But you insisted.”

“Touchy, touchy. Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning, sweetheart?” Dean asked you. You gave him a look from the question that was nothing short of sarcasm, like he was just trying to test his luck at pushing all of your buttons without realizing it. For some reason, over the past few weeks, you’d been in a mood that nothing could quite take the edge off. You blamed it on the stress you had been feeling over the past few weeks. “I’m just saying how I feel. That’s all.”

“Well,” You scoffed quietly underneath your breath at his response. “That’s a first.”

"Guys, come on." Sam snapped the both of you out of a possible argument that might stir up some trouble with the staff. You crossed your arms over your chest and said nothing more, knowing you might regret what came out of your mouth next if Dean kept talking. “It’s the least we could do. Martin saved Dad’s ass more times than we can count. He’s a great hunter.”

“Was.” Dean corrected the younger man. “Until Albuquerque.”

“Besides, I-I think it’s be best to keep busy. That's all.” Sam said, changing the subject slightly. You looked over at him with a bit of a skeptical look, wondering what he meant by that, and why he was looking over at you with a concerned expression. It seemed the mood shifted between the boys, you asked them what was going on between the both of them, Sam let out a quiet sigh, deciding to be the one who break the ice on the topic everyone had been trying to avoid. “Okay, look—uh...Last few weeks, you've been kind of worrying us, Y/N.”

“Oh, guys. Come on.” You mumbled as you shook your head, wondering why they had chosen now to try and ask how you were feeling. “Look, just because we’re in a psychiatric hospital doesn't mean you two need to go all Freud on me.”

“Y/N,” Sam tried his hardest to get you to change your mind about opening up as he gave you his puppy dog eyes, wanting to make it clear that he was just trying to look out for you. “Don't shut us out. We just want to talk.”

“What is there to talk about? I’m fine, guys. Really.” You told them, adding the effort to even given them a little bit of a convincing smile to get them to back off a bit. “There's nothing to talk about.”

You wanted to leave the conversation at that as you tried walking away from them and to another part of the room, but Dean wasn't having it. He reached out and grabbed you lightly on the wrist, pulling you back to them. You gave him a look, he returned it with a concerned demeanor. “Yes, there is. You…” Dean cautiously looked around to see if anyone might be listening in on the conversation, but then he was reminded that he was in a mental hospital, what they were saying would just end up being passed off as some loony talk. “You died almost a month ago, again. And you refuse to talk to about it. You're always grumpy. You hardly sleep and you barely eat. Don't tell me and Sam that you're fine. It's crap, Y/N.”

You retracted your hand as you crossed your arms over your chest, knowing well enough that Dean’s accusations were all true. You've been been barely sleeping at all, you were afraid to. Whenever you tried to close your eyes it was only a chance for your mind to replay the night that everything went wrong, and what might happen if Lucifer was right. Eating didn't seem appetite when your body was filled with constant anxiety. You felt like you were on the brink of a panic attack, but you managed to pull yourself back before you could go overboard. And the attitude came about because you weren't taking care of yourself. They were right. But you didn't want to give the satisfaction of knowing.

“What's there to talk about?” You asked them. “I’m

. Stop worrying about me. It's annoying.”

“Well, now you know how it feels when you're always bugging us to share our feelings.” Dean said, his lips stretching into a faint smile from the joke he was trying to make at an attempt of lighting up the mood. You bit your bottom lip as you stared at him with a glare. “See? You’re stressed. You saw something when you were...out. Why don't you want to tell us?”

“I didn’t see anything!” You found yourself yelling at the boys on the top of your lungs. Suddenly you felt yourself overwhelmed with the pressure of admitting the truth they weren't ready to hear, if they ever could. A few nurses peered their head out to see if everything was all right as the patients looked at you with startled reactions. You inhaled a deep breath to keep from anymore unwanted attention on the three of you. “I didn't see anything. It was just dark before I woke up. That's it. I swear.”

“Don't lie to us, Y/N. Please.” Sam tried to reason with you as he looked at you with an empathetic stare. You looked at him with a hardening expression at what he said next. “You always do this to us when something bad happens. You shut down and pretend nothing's wrong. Losing Jo and Ellen at the same time isn't easy. Not talking about it and avoiding it isn't going to make you feel any better. What you saw out there, it's got to be one of the worst things yet...I mean, you're not like us. You didn't grow up in this lifestyle, you’re not screwed up like us. So it's understandable if you're feeling vulnerable right now."

“What's that supposed to mean?” You asked the younger Winchester, finding his comforting words having a different meaning than what they had meant to be. Sam looked at you with a confused look as he wondered why you were suddenly overreacting at his words that he meant to try and help you feel better. You crossed your arms tightly over your body and snapped at the man. "Just because I wasn't born into this lifestyle—because my mother wasn't an obsessive freak—doesn't mean I'm any less of a hunter than you are. God forbid if I don't wallow in sadness the way you expect me to. I'm handling their deaths just fine, by the way. I think I'm used to people dropping like flies around me."

“That’s not what I meant, Y/N.” Sam said, his voice shifted slightly when you gave hims the response he wasn’t expecting. You stared at him with a glare, not wanting anymore of this help that wasn’t getting either one of you anywhere. “You just can’t keep this crap in.”

Your lips stretched into a grim smile, “Watch me.”

Dean knew there was no way of getting you to talk about your feelings right now from the sour look on your face. Letting out a faint sigh, he looked around the room to see if he could find Martin among the group of patients, it took a moment, but he spotted the other hunter in the far left side of the room. Martin occupied a table that was right next to the window that overlooked the outside gardens. He seemed lost in his own personal thoughts, or too drugged out of his mind to figure out what was going on around him when the three of you started to approach the man. It took Dean of saying the man's name to get him to snap out of his thoughts. Martin looked over at the boys for a second, not sure who they were, but taking a closer inspection, you watched as his face lit up as a smile spread across his face.

“Sam. Dean.” Martin greeted the men as he jumped up from his seat. He eagerly reached out to shake their hands, happy to see them again after so many years. Most hunters you had met who had known the brothers earlier in their life had seen them only as little kids who were little runts. But now, both of the boys being well over six feet tall, were shadows of their previous selves after being raised in the hunting lifestyle. And good genes helped, too. “Wow. Wow, you boys got big. You look good.”

“Thanks.” Sam said, a smile spread across his lips. “You do, too, Martin.”

You observed the other man for a moment, taking notice of how much older he appeared than what you were expecting. Martin had to be just about how old John would be, if he were still alive, with crow's feet outlined at the sides of his eyes when he gave the three of you a toothy smile, with a hint of nervousness behind it. You stretched your lips into a polite smile when he turned his attention in your direction. "Oh." Martin gave you a small wave as he gave you an unsure look, wondering who you might be. "And who's this?"

"This is Y/N. Our other hunting partner." Dean introduced you. You gave the older man a smile as you gave him a wave, showing off the most happiness the brothers had seen since you had gotten here. But it soon faded from the remark that Dean made. "And friend when she doesn't have a stick up her ass."

Martin seemed a little confused at the sarcasm, but he chuckled, breaking what tension there might still be lingering between the three of you. "Well, thanks for coming. Now, come on. Come on." He gestured with his hands for all of you to take a seat. You managed to snag the only free one that was right across from Martin, leaving the boys to pull up a few plastic chairs from other tables before settling themselves down. "In the old days, I could've taken this thing with both hands t-tied behind my back. But, well, now..."

“What do you think it is that we’re hunting?” You asked Martin.

“I don’t know yet. A ghost, demon, monster. Animal, vegetable, mineral.” Martin tried to make a joke as he let out a chuckle. You gave him a weak smile, attempting to understand his weak attempt at making a joke. "Hospital's had five deaths in the last four months. Doctors keep calling it suicides, but they're wrong."

“So you’ve seen this thing?” Sam wondered.

Martin glanced away from the younger Winchester, settling his gaze on the table as he shook his head no to answer the question. "Has anyone see this thing?" Dean asked.

“Well, a couple of patients have, uh, had glimpses.” Martin said. “But that’s not a lot to go on.”

“Are they reliable?” Dean asked the other hunter. Martin wondered why the oldest Winchester would ask such a thing. He thought they were reliable, so why would he question that? Dean had a few ideas of what flaws might be in trusting someone that...might not be all there. You followed his gaze when he shifted around slightly in his chair to give an example. You furrowed your brow to see an older woman enjoying herself as she twirled around the room with an invisible partner as she hummed the music underneath her breath. “Gee, I don’t know.”

“I know you boys think I’m a bag of loose screws. Well, you wouldn’t be wrong.” Martin agreed to that point. The man might not be the hunter he used to be, yet his instincts were still sharp as a tac. “But I wouldn’t have called you unless there was something here. I can feel it in my gut.”

You looked over at the boys for a moment to see what they had thought about this. Things for the three of you were slow, no hunts had popped up, and the Devil was still on the loose. Your only possible lead was a dead end. All of you had been sitting around, twiddling your thumbs, until the boys had gotten the call from Martin. You shrugged your shoulders, thinking this might be a case for all of you to work on and keep yourselves busy. “We believe you.” Sam reassured the man. “Have you checked any of the bodies, found signs of an attack?”

“Well, uh, no.” Martin changed his demeanor at the mention of going around something that made him feel squeamish. He nervously swallowed as his body tensed up at the thought. “I don’t, uh...I don’t go around dead b-bo...b-bodies anymore.”

"Alex, Eddie. Norma." You heard a familiar voice coming from behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you noticed Dr. Fuller had decided to see how the three of you were settling yourselves in. "Well, I'm glad to see you're making friends. Why don't you and Mr. Creaser join us for group? Please. Right this way." You looked over at Sam, both of you thinking you really didn't have a choice in the matter, plus it might give you a better chance at hearing what was going on here. All of you got up from your chairs and began walking down to where Dr. Fuller had gestured, but it seemed there was only room for three more, as Dean was left standing near the table. "Actually. I'm going to be putting you in the afternoon group."

“What?” Dean asked. “Why?”

“Well, to be frank, uh, the relationship that you have with your brother and ‘wife’ seems dangerously codependent.” Dr. Fuller explained to the man. “I think a little time apart will do the three of you good.”

You were a bit thrown off from the observation the doctor had made from just being around you for only a little while. If only he knew that all of you spent almost twenty four hours together, seven days a week. You looked over at Dean, who was a bit confused at why this needed to happen, but you waved him goodbye, thinking that spending some time apart was just what the doctor ordered.

+ + +

"All right, so, who would like to start us off?" Dr. Fuller lead you all into another room just down the hall where he had a circle of chairs all lined up. You sat yourself down and kicked out your legs, wondering what was going to come of this meeting. You looked around the circle of patients to see if anyone was here because of social anxiety. Most people didn't speak a single peep, but one patient in particular didn't waste a second to throw his arm up in the air as an attempt to get the doctor's attention. Dr. Fuller let out a quiet sigh, hoping someone might be brave enough to talk, but everyone remained silent, forcing him to call on the overly eager patient. "All right, Ted. Calm down."

“I am calm.” Ted said. You listened to what he had to say, as it was what exactly what you were hoping to hear. You shifted around in your seat as you looked at Sam from the corner of your eye to see if he was interested as you were about this. “And I’d very calmly like to talk about the monster that’s hunting us.”

“Ted,” Dr. Fuller warned the man that was sitting across from him in the circle. “We’re not going to have that discussion again. It’s not good for group.”

“I agree. You know what else isn’t good for group?” Ted asked. You watched as he began to shift slightly in his seat, seeming overwhelmed with fear at the threat of a creature stalking the halls. “A monster eating all our faces off!”

“All right, fine. Thank you.” Dr. Fuller said, brushing off the man’s concerns. “Now, anyone else—”

“I saw it!” Ted yelled out. “When it killed Susan!”

“I did, too. It had big lobster claws.” A woman agreed with Ted, trying her attempt at helping uncover a monster. But Ted didn't like her description of the monster when he shouted at her that it didn't, but she continued on. "Yeah, and it was an alien, like on 'X-Files.'"

“Stop it! Stop helping! Listen to me!” Ted warned all of you as he rocked slightly in his spot. You watched as his eyes lingered to the door that had a window just small enough to look outside to the hallway. “We’re all dead!”

“That’s enough!” Dr. Fuller shouted at the man, making him cut the nonsense that he was trying to start with the other patients. You looked over to see the doctor wasn’t happy. He leaned slightly in his seat as he took off his glasses and looked at Ted straight in the eye, wanting to make one thing clear. “There is no monster. Now, Ted, do you need me to call the orderlies...Or can you behave?”

Ted shook his head, not wanting to cause trouble. He listened to what the doctor had said as he mumbled, "No."

+ + +

Group therapy was over about an hour later, after hearing a few other interesting stories, you and Sam were still interested in what Ted had to say about this supposed monster. You wanted to have a few words with him to hear what else he might have to say, but it would be almost impossible while Dr. Fuller was around, watching all of you like a hawk. You and Sam headed out into the hall and began looking for Dean, who had to be around here somewhere. You managed to find him roaming around the place, he seemed to have been a bit in a daze, but when you reached out and pulled him back into reality, Dean looked at you with a defeated look, like something was seriously bothering him.

“You okay?” You asked him with a concerned expression.

"I just got 'thraped.' So, no, Y/N," Dean answered you. "I am not okay."

"First off, don't ever say 'thraped' again. Just...don't." You said, not finding his play on words the least bit funny. "And what? Someone finally make you tap into all those emotions?"

Dean looked at you with an annoyed expression, while he was tempted himself to make a remark about your lingering attitude, he chose to be the bigger person here. Well, big as someone with his personality could be. "Tell me you and 'Girl, Interrupted' found something."

"Yeah. A guy says he saw the creature. We should talk to him." Sam said, giving the some information that was the only real lead you had right now. "Want to meet back here in an hour?"

"Yeah." Dean agreed with the plan. "The sooner we take care of this thing, the sooner we can get gone. This place gives me the creeps."

You couldn't agree more with what Dean had said for once. This place just gave you the wrong kind of vibes that you weren't exactly used to. But this place was for people to get the help they needed to make their lives better. Turning around in your spot on the floor, you were about to head for your room, but you came face to face with another woman, who, from the way she was dressed, must have been a patient. You gave her a friendly smile when you noticed she was staring at you with a smile of her. You were about to step out of her way, thinking you might have been blocking the hall, but that wasn't the case at all. She seemed to not have been like the rest of the patients here, for she was all kinds of friendly. You weren't expecting it when she leaned over and decided to have a little bit of fun, and by that, she pressed her lips against yours.

You were nothing short of surprise of what the hell was happening, but you found yourself quickly shutting your eyes and as this complete stranger decided to start making out with you in the middle of the hallway. She wasn't a bad kisser, either. You enjoyed the kiss for a moment or so longer before she pulled away, you inhaled a breath as she looked at you with a grin. She whispered hi, you found your voice, managing to say hello back as you gave her a small smile.

“I’m Wendy.” She introduced herself to you.

“Uh-huh.” You mumbled at her as your lips stretched into a wobbly smile. “I’m...uh...”

Wendy gave you a smirk, seeming satisfied at the greeting that she wanted to share for only you. She looked over at the boys and gave them a smile as she started to walk away, only as she walked passed you, she decided to be a bit more cheeky. You let out a faint squeak when you felt you lightly tap you on the ass. You looked over your shoulder to see her give you one last smile and wave, leaving you standing there with a pink tint starting to creep across the apples of your cheeks, quietly wondering what had unraveled. You waited a moment before your eyes wandered over to the boys. Sam was frozen in his spot as his mouth parted open slightly, he tried to form a few words into a sentence, but nothing really seemed to fall out. Dean stared at you with a slowly itching grin, like a typical man, he thought what had unraveled was the thing of fantasy.

"Well," You cleared your voice as you licked your lips, getting one more taste of Wendy as you felt yourself grow a bit of a smile. "Maybe this place isn't so bad after all."

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thetruthseekerway · 5 years

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Mi`raj: Reviving the Spirit of Hope

New Post has been published on https://www.truth-seeker.info/jewels-of-islam/miraj-reviving-the-spirit-of-hope/

Mi`raj: Reviving the Spirit of Hope

By Sadullah Khan

Mi`raj: Reviving the Spirit of Hope

The Israa’ and Mi`raj is a momentous occasion that occurred at a very crucial stage in the life of the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh). This uplifting (mi’raj = ascend) experience took place in the year the Prophet lost two of his valuable pillars of support; his uncle Abu Talib (whose political authority and care for the Prophet prevented the Makkans from harming the Prophet) and Khadijah (Prophet’s beloved wife, confidante, partner and financier of the nascent Islamic movement). It was after the Mi`raj that the Prophet had to leave Makkah, yet that departure marked a turning point for the nascent Muslim community and changed the course of history. There are many practical and spiritual lessons we derive from the Mi`raj; but we focus here primarily on the attitude of hope that it inspires through the life-lessons from the example of the Prophet (pbuh).

Ideal Attitude towards the Future

Our attitude towards the future influences our mind-set towards the rest of our life. Being positive about life ahead is among life’s greatest motivators. Hope is the best attitude towards the future; this realistic expectation that something good or better could/will happen if only we continue doing the best we can. The human potential for hope is an essential antidote to despair and to harboring a positive attitude towards the future.

Hope is … anticipation, belief, confidence, aspiration, expectancy, optimism. Hope is the motivational desire that you keep inside of you while waiting for the results or outcome of an event. It is the thoughts that you keep in your mind that anticipate an outcome (positive, good, pleasant, rewarding, relieving, happy outcome) that you want. Hope is obtained with optimism, looking for solutions where others see only problems. Hope is our desire to excel and to achieve, despite the odds.

Prophetic Model of Hope

The entire life of the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) is a living example of the quality of hope in action – he patiently persevered, despite insurmountable odds and hardships, in the face of enemies numerically larger and stronger, yet despite all of this, he never gave up hope of establishing the Religion of Islam; and never failed to inspire those around him.

Inspiring others

FIRST INVITATION: When Allah instructed the Prophet [Q 26:214] to invite his relatives to Islam, no one believed except a young 11 year-old boy named ‘Ali. He was mocked for having only a little boy supporting him. Yet, history documents the greatness of both the Prophet’s success and the little boy’s unwavering dedication.

Not to despair in self

Abu Talib, the uncle of the Prophet, was sent by the Quraysh to negotiate with the Prophet in an attempt to have his influence minimized and the Prophet had the positive attitude and confidence to say; O my uncle! Even if they put the sun in my right hand and the moon in my left hand, I will not deviate from my mission; either I succeed in my task or I perish in the process. This, at a time when the nascent Muslim community were few in number and about to be under political and economic siege.

Not to despair in the situation

KHANDAQ: Surrounded by a confederation of armies, under siege, The Prophet participates with his companions in digging a trench around the city of Madinah; he hits the rock with his pick and sparks fly. Salman al-Farsi (who gave the idea of the Trench) asks … O Prophet! What is the bright sparks I saw the three times you struck the rock with the pick? The Prophet replied: As for the first strike, I saw in the spark the palaces of Shaam, which Allah opened to us. As for the second, I saw the palaces of Persia and it’s bright cities, which Allah opened to us, As for the third; Allah presented us with the keys of Yemen and saw the doors of San’aa.

He was saying this to a group of people who were surrounded by enemies, not sure whether they would live to see the next day; yet he inspired them with his confidence and hopeful attitude with hope of a glorious future, a glory that his people eventually realized.

HIJRAH: The Prophet was avoiding the Quraysh trackers who were bent on killing him, and he and his companion (Abu Bakr) hid in a cave on Mount Thawr outside Makkah. His friend was fearful and the Prophet motivated him by saying (as the Qur’an documents 9:40) do not be aggrieved, Allah is with us.

Not to despair in the person

Prophet Muhammad’s attitude towards a severely handicapped companion, Julaybib, reflects a practical way he raised other people above their hopelessness. Julaybib was described as very short in stature, deformed in the face; in other words, he was severely challenged, physically speaking. He had the unfortunate distinction of being both socially and physically handicapped. The Prophet always paid special attention to Julaybib, and since he was use to being marginalized and did not always express himself too well. Julaybib once asked the Prophet.

Am I worthless, O Prophet of Allah? The Prophet responded; You are not worthless in the estimation of Allah.

Julaybib was so frustrated by being ostracized that he once mentioned that he wanted to ask the Prophet permission to fornicate. Those who were present reacted in different ways. Some scoffed at the young man, others pulled him by the skirt of his robe, and still, others made as if to strike him. But the compassionate Prophet, upon him, be peace and blessings, drew him nearer to himself, and reasoned with him (would you like it for your mother/sister…) till Julaybib forsook his wrongful desire and The Prophet (pbuh) concluded the ‘spiritual operation’ with a supplication.

He put his hand on the chest of the young man and prayed: O God, forgive him, purify his heart and maintain his chastity!

After one of the military expeditions, there was a severe armed retaliation against the Muslims and some Muslims were killed. The Prophet inquired about those who were killed and asked: Have you lost anyone? After most people were accounted for, the Prophet said; but I have lost Julaybib! Julaybib was martyred. The Prophet was personally involved in digging Julaybib’s grave, picked him up and carried him in his arms and descending with his body into the grave, with his eyes tearing profusely, saying to this person who had no last name, no relatives, no apparent status, no connections, no real name … You are from me and I am from you.

Not to despair in the community

TAIF was the First town outside Makkah where the Prophet went to preach Islam, he was stoned and insulted; and while wiping off blood from his body the angel asks the Prophet, to pray that Allah may turn the hills upon these people, The Prophet replied: Perhaps Allah will someday turn them towards saying LA ILAHA ILLA ALLAH.

Taif was the first town outside Makkah that the Prophet went to preach Islam and Taif was the last to accept Islam in his lifetime.

TUFAYL was a well-known poet, member of the well-respected tribe of Daws, he was the chief of that tribe. He embraced Islam and went to convey the message of Islam. Not only did his tribe of Daws not accept Islam, but they also increased their indulgence in impropriety.

Tufayl came to the Prophet and lodged the complaint… The people of Daws are overcome by their indulgence in licentiousness and usury; Invoke Allah to destroy them. Tufayl was amazed when he heard what the Prophet say as he lifted his hand skyward to pray… O, Allah! Help the people of Daws and guide them to Islam. The Prophet advised Tufayl, …Return to your people, invite them to the truth and be nice to them.

Tufayl did exactly as the Prophet instructed. Two years before the passing of the Prophet; (after the Battle of Khaybar) the Prophet was in Madinah and Tufayl brought with him 80 families of the Daws Tribe; men women and children …all had embraced Islam. The Prophet had prayed for corrupt people and they eventually came to the right path. When he prayed for the people of Daws at the time of Tufayl’s complaint, he did not see them merely as bad as they were, he saw the potential of how good they could be.

It was the Prophet’s single-minded devotion, his focus on hope and his trust in Allah that brought success to his mission. It was his positive attitude, his inspirational approach and his merciful character that raised people to live according to their highest light.

Be positive even if others are not

PRAYER of JESUS: Prophet ‘Isa /Jesus (pbuh) was responding with loving words to a group of people who were abusive in speech towards him. An observer inquired as to why he was responding to hate with love. Jesus (pbuh) replied: “They give what they have in their heart and I give what I have.” The lesson we learn from this is never to let even the negativity of others prevent the possibility of something positive from ourselves.

Stop being stuck at judging people on where they are in life, but rather help them to be the best they could be. The Caliph Abu Bakr said, Four are the signs of goodness: rejoicing at a person’s repentance, praying for the guidance of one who has turned his back to the right path, seeking forgiveness for the sinner and helping the doer of good. This implies, be happy that people have turned to the right path, (try to guide and) pray for those who are misguided, seek forgiveness (while advising) those who are on the wrong track, and aid (morally, financially and physically) those who are involved in beneficial acts.

In a world so highly critical of everyone, at a time when cynicism abounds us, we need (more than ever) to give ourselves the benefit of hope and give other people the benefit of the doubt. Instead of looking down upon (ourselves and) others and burying people in hopelessness, inspire them to look up to Allah and elevate themselves.

May the commemoration of the Israa’ and Mi’raj inspire us with the spirit of trust in Allah and revive in us the attitude of hope.

———-

Adapted with editorial adjustments from www.islamicity.org.

#Allah #ascend #ascension #Faith #Featured #God #Islam #Mi`raj: Reviving the Spirit of Hope #Prophet Muhammad

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kristinsimmons · 6 years

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Who Cares About the Doctor-Patient Relationship? A Review of “Next In Line: Lowered Care Expectations in the Age of Retail- and Value-Based Health”

By KIP SULLIVAN, JD

A mere two decades ago, the headlines were filled with stories about the “HMO backlash.” HMOs (which in the popular media meant most insurance companies) were the subject of cartoons, the butt of jokes by comedians, and the target of numerous critical stories in the media. They were even the bad guys in some movies and novels. Some defenders of the insurance industry claimed the cause of the backlash was the negative publicity and doctors whispering falsehoods about managed care into the ears of their patients. That was nonsense. The industry had itself to blame.

The primary cause of the backlash was the heavy-handed use of utilization review in all its forms –prior, concurrent, and retrospective. There were other irritants, including limitations on choice of doctor and hospital, the occasional killing http://articles.latimes.com/1999/jan/24/news/mn-1260 or injuring https://www.cbsnews.com/news/supreme-court-wary-of-hmo-suit/ of patients by forcing them to seek treatment from in-network hospitals, and attempts by insurance companies to get doctors not to tell patients about all available treatments. But utilization review was far and away the most visible irritant.

The insurance industry understood this and, in the early 2000s, with the encouragement of the health policy establishment, rolled out an ostensibly kinder and gentler version of managed care, a version I and a few others call Managed Care 2.0. What distinguished Managed Care 2.0 from Managed Care 1.0 was less reliance on utilization review and greater reliance on methods of controlling doctors and hospitals that patients and reporters couldn’t see. “Pay for performance” was the first of these methods out of the chute. By 2004 the phrase had become so ubiquitous in the health policy literature it had its own acronym – P4P. By the late 2000s, the invisible “accountable care organization” and “medical home” had replaced the HMO as the entities that were expected to achieve what HMOs had failed to achieve, and “value-based payment” had supplanted “managed care” as the managed care movement’s favorite label for MC 2.0.

Today, few managed care advocates, and certainly no politician, would hold up HMOs as the goal of health care reform. Today, the managed care movement and politicians across the political spectrum, from Trump’s HHS Secretary Alex Azar to Bernie Sanders, promote ACOs and other “value-based payment” vehicles that Americans don’t understand and can’t see. [1]

So far, the strategy is working. With the possible exception of the increased use of narrow networks, the media is paying little attention to MC 2.0. The media is not reporting on the spread of “value-based payment” nostrums, and it is not warning the public that these nostrums are affecting the doctor-patient relationship even while they fail to contain inflation. [2] Not surprisingly, there are at this date no signs of an impending “value-based payment” backlash.

Unlike the media, the health policy literature does pay attention – lavish attention – to the “value-based payment” bandwagon. But like the media, the health policy literature pays virtually no attention to the impact “value-based payment” is having on the doctor-patient relationship. Health services researchers have yet to produce even a small body of research on doctors’ and patients’ views of how a half-century of managed care experiments – HMOs, PPOs, utilization review, limited choice, “coordination,” drug formularies, report cards, P4P, ACOs, medical homes, EHRs, bundled payments – has affected the doctor-patient relationship.

Voices from the trenches

Timothy Hoff’s latest book, Next in Line, seeks to fill that hole. It is a rare attempt by a bona fide member of the health services research community to understand the impact of managed care on the quality of the physician-patient dialogue. This requires actually talking to doctors and patients as opposed to collecting crude data on the “value” (the cost and quality) of doctors, hospitals, insurance companies, or ACOs. We have reams of studies that tell us, for example, what percent of the diabetics assigned to Tendercare ACO received an annual eye exam or were advised not to smoke https://www.cms.gov/Medicare/Medicare-Fee-for-Service-Payment/sharedsavingsprogram/Downloads/2018-and-2019-quality-benchmarks-guidance.pdf. We have virtually no research on how the spread of ACOs is affecting the quality of doctors’ interactions with their patients. “[F]ew seem to care … about promoting strong doctor-patient relationships…,” Hoff declares early in his book. (p 11)

Next in Line is based on interviews with 44 primary care doctors and 36 patients. The interviews were designed to find out what primary care doctors and patients think the doctor-patient relationship should look like and what it actually looks like under the onslaught of what the author variously calls “corporatized care,” “retail thinking,” and “value-based health care.” Hoff reports that doctors and patients share a nearly identical definition of the ideal relationship, and they share similar views on the damage “value-based payment” and the corporate takeover of medicine have inflicted on that relationship. Both doctors and patients define a relationship built on trust as the ideal relationship, and both parties perceive multiple forces around them destroying trust or preventing it from forming in the first place.

Hoff’s conclusion that patients want a trusting relationship with their doctor will surprise no one. But his report that doctors share that view, enthusiastically and universally, may surprise those who bought into the campaign, initiated nearly a half-century ago by Paul Ellwood (“the father of the health maintenance organization”) and other founders of the managed care movement, that doctors are driven by money and are not “patient-centered.” Ellwood and his intellectual heirs developed this stereotype of doctors to reinforce their evidence-free diagnosis that excessive volume of medical services sold (as opposed to the price at which those services were sold) was the primary cause of health care inflation. The fact that doctors value the trust of their patients is inconsistent with this stereotype. “[F]ew physicians flinched when asked to describe what a good doctor-patient relationship looked like,” Hoff writes. “Striking to me was the consistent manner in which doctors specifically used the words trust, respect, friendship, partnership and communication to help describe an effective, satisfying doctor-patient relationship. They used these words unprompted….” (p. 69)

Hoff describes in abstract terms the destructive forces set loose by the stereotype of the money-driven-doctor – “metric fever,” “corporate medicine,” and “retail thinking.” And he accurately describes problems caused by these forces, including “checklist medicine,” the “dumbing down” of medicine, and making doctor-patient communication “as ritualized as possible.” But, oddly, he never identifies the origin of those forces, namely, the managed-care movement’s grossly oversimplified diagnosis (overuse due to FFS payment and money-hungry doctors) and the movement’s evidence-free solutions (shifting risk to doctors and micromanaging them). His failure to do so is the main reason why the last chapter in the book, a chapter in which he recommends solutions, is so disappointing.

Spitballs versus rhinos

In the final chapter, Hoff offers a half-dozen ideas for “saving the doctor-patient relationship.” With the exception of his suggestion that doctors form unions, these suggestions are grossly inadequate and, in one case, ludicrous.

Hoff’s first suggestion is that doctors “start caring about building strong relationships with [their] patients.” (p. 173) This makes no sense. In previous chapters, Hoff has carefully documented how much doctors care about good relationships with their patients and what little control they have over the forces corrupting those relationships, and now he calls on them to “start caring” about their relationships with patients. I quote at length from the same paragraph to give you some idea of how muddled Hoff’s thinking is here: “Advance preparation for strong relationship-building matters more now than ever…. Knowing ahead of time how and why such relationships matter …, and being able to engage in requisite features such as empathy, compassion and listening – in ways that are efficient and do not require highly favorable conditions – raises the chance that tomorrow’s doctors can achieve some success in maintaining bonds with their patients.” (pp. 173-174) I have no idea what all those words mean.

He goes on to recommend these actions:

* teaching hospitals should expose young doctors to the opportunity to “work with the same patients over time” so they can learn the benefits of long-term relations with patients (as if that will somehow arm tomorrow’s doctors to go to war with the forces that are interfering with long-term relationships);

* doctors should join unions;

* insurance companies and other entities that bedevil doctors with their P4P schemes should include measures of “trust” in their ever-growing lists of “quality” measures (p. 181) and, to develop such measures, “entire exam room conversations can be recorded and then analyzed … for the presence of various relational features in the doctor-patient interaction” such as trust and empathy (p. 187);

* doctors could hire “concierge staff” to serve as “liaisons between specific doctors and patients” that would serve as “listening relay stations” between patients and doctors;

* smartphone apps could be used to create “real-time outlets for patients to ask question and be heard”; and, perhaps worst of all,

* “some consumers [could be] asked to pay extra … for the right to see their doctors more in person….”(p. 184).

With the exception of unionization, these suggestions are at worst technologically or financially infeasible, and at best the equivalent of shooting spitballs at a charging rhino. Hoff expressed his own disbelief in one of these suggestions – the notion of adding measures of “trust” to P4P schemes – in earlier chapters where he blasted “metric fever” and the emergence of “an entire hidden industry … devoted to making primary care physicians … look good to insurers and government agencies….” (p. 34) The notion that a credible, accurately risk-adjusted score for “empathy” or “trust” can be produced for even a few doctors, never mind all US physicians (with or without bugging the nation’s examining rooms) is absurd.

I surmise that Hoff’s inability to make more realistic recommendations stems from his ambivalence about MC 2.0. In certain parts of the book, he is very critical of “value-based payment” schemes – he calls them “half baked” and “magic bullets.” But in other parts he claims, without evidence, that these schemes have created some benefit and, apparently for that reason, are “here to stay.” When he wrote the last chapter, he must have resolved his ambivalence, at least temporarily, in favor of the conclusion that MC 2.0 is doing some good and, in part for that reason, will never go away even if it is damaging the doctor-patient relationship.

The problem must be named

I am under no illusion that exterminating the forces that are weakening the doctor-patient relationship will be easy. The managed care juggernaut has acquired enormous financial and political power over the last half-century. The managed care diagnosis (overuse caused by FFS payment) and solution (exposing providers to financial risk and micromanaging them) is now a well-established religion. But if we are ever going to defang the forces that are diminishing doctor and patient autonomy and weakening the doctor-patient relationship, we must name them and clearly describe their origins. Hoff’s favorite labels for the corrupting forces – “value-based payment,” “retail thinking,” and “corporate care” – are informative but, by themselves, are not informative enough. They do not tell us who unleashed those forces, upon what rationale, and with what evidence.

All of us who care about the future of the doctor-patient relationship must be more specific in our diagnosis of the crisis: The forces that threaten that relationship were unleashed by managed care theology – its evidence-free diagnosis and its evidence-free solutions. Those solutions are the cure that is worse than the disease. There are solutions to the modest amount of overuse that so excites managed care proponents. But managed care, be it the pre- or post-backlash version, is not one of them. Applying managed care to the overuse problem is like using a chainsaw is to cut butter – it is vast overkill.

We must also clearly describe the toxic side effects caused by managed care. Tim Hoff has described one of them – the degradation of trust between doctors and patients. I thank him very much for doing that.

References:

Book: Hoff, Timothy J, Next In Line: Lowered Care Expectations in the Age of Retail- and Value-Based Health Oxford University Press, 2018

[1] S 1804, the so-called single-payer bill Senator Sanders introduced in 2017, contains a section that authorizes the Department of Health and Human Services to extend every “reform activity” authorized by the Affordable Care Act and MACRA to the non-elderly. These “reform activities” include, of course, all the major elements of the iteration of managed care that emerged after the HMO backlash, including ACOs, medical homes, bundled payments, penalties for hospitals with “excess readmissions,” and the Merit-based Incentive Payment System, none of which are visible to patients. The Trump administration has taken no steps to repeal any of these “activities,” and has explicitly and enthusiastically endorsed the concept of “value-based medicine” and ACOs in particular.

[2] The evidence that the latest iteration of managed care is failing to cut US health care costs is overwhelming. There is, first of all, the fact that health care spending as a percent of GDP continues to grow at its historic rate. There is, furthermore, a growing body of literature demonstrating that none of the most important elements of Managed Care 2.0 save money. The research on Medicare ACOs, medical homes and bundled payments, which is the only reliable research, demonstrates these “reforms” are breaking even, and that’s only if we don’t count the costs ACOs, “homes,” and hospitals with bundled payment contracts incur in their efforts to cut their Medicare costs. (The exception to the statement that Medicare’s bundled payment program is not saving money is the joint replacement program, but the main reason that program saves money is that hospitals use their market power to lower the price of implants. Like HMOs, ACOs and “homes,” bundled payments were supposed to save Medicare money by reducing the volume of services, not their price.) Two other elements of MC 2.0, pay-for-performance and electronic medical records, are saving no money either.

Kip Sullivan, J.D., is a member of the Policy Advisory Committee of Health Care for All Minnesota

Who Cares About the Doctor-Patient Relationship? A Review of “Next In Line: Lowered Care Expectations in the Age of Retail- and Value-Based Health” published first on https://wittooth.tumblr.com/

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