#gonna duck my head down and organize my shit. work's got me on the holiday hours too tho

[fairymint]

updated pinned to announce a wholeass hiatus, I gotta hardcore focus on things like cleaning for the rest of the week/month...

I’ve made it to where I have no interest in playing more violet for the most part, I’ll probably finish it once I consider this place spotless, as like a reward/rest, and I’ll return to regular RP activity once things settle down overall.

little reminder that I may be selective in the meantime to active muses if i get the time, and that my rules will be changing to reflect a hopefully less stressed environment and vibe for next month.

#ooc. #hiatus. #negative. #since an anon was so kind to send hate earlier this month to someone else- don't even. #literally I do not have the patience for criticism rn lol i'm sick from stress. do not want to hear it #gonna duck my head down and organize my shit. work's got me on the holiday hours too tho #i plan to clean for like the whole 6 hours or until i drop lmaooo

[expectingtofly]

Fuck Mistletoe

2k

post 15x20, human castiel, established dean/cas, fluff

also on ao3

Day 8 of @bend-me-shape-me‘s SPN Advent Calendar 2020 prompts

Dean didn’t want to admit it, but yes, he’d hung mistletoe in the bunker.

He’d found a sprig tied with a red bow while helping Jack go through the boxes of Christmas decorations Mrs. Butters had left behind. It’d been more of a gag than anything to hang the bright green plant over one of the doors leading into the War Room, and when he’d explained the tradition to Jack, he’d made sure to emphasize that it was a sappy, Hallmark-y tradition. Jack seemed unbothered by that fact and chased down Miracle every time the dog padded under the mistletoe to give him a kiss on the nose. And it shouldn’t have been a surprise when, later that day, Dean needed to make a hasty retreat from the room when he walked in and spotted Sam and Eileen under the mistletoe.

It was great that everyone else was getting some mileage out of it, and he was happy for them and totally not moping around the bunker because he hadn’t seen Castiel all day. At the moment, Jack was wrapping presents, Sam and Eileen were nowhere to be found—not that Dean wanted to find them—Miracle was occupied with a Christmas tree-shaped chew toy, and Castiel was out Christmas shopping. Dean had not been invited because apparently Castiel was shopping for him—which was a little bit concerning because Dean wasn’t sure what types of gifts he’d end up receiving. All he did know was that he was currently bored out of his mind, occupying himself by wandering around the bunker. 

He was flicking the switch on and off for a dancing, singing snowman figurine (Jack found it endlessly amusing and Dean knew Sam would end up taking the batteries out soon enough), when the bunker door creaked and he looked up to see Castiel coming down the stairs with bags hanging from his arms. 

“Hey Cas!” he called. He started forward, then stopped awkwardly and watched Castiel come down the stairs. He and Castiel hadn’t been dating long and, to tell the truth, Dean often got tripped up over how to act around him. Did he kiss him when Castiel returned from a day-long shopping trip? Did he hug him? None of the above?

Thankfully, Castiel saved them both from some awkwardness by clutching the bags tighter to his chest. “You can’t look,” he said, and Dean held a hand up over his eyes.

“I won’t.” He peeked at him through his fingers. Castiel was wearing an oversized red and white striped sweater with a reindeer across the front. Once he’d discovered Christmas sweaters, there was no going back. If when Dean was younger, anyone had told him he’d find himself dating a former angel with the strangest wardrobe… “You buy me tons of gifts?”

“Tons,” Castiel deadpanned and looked around the room. “Did you guys decorate more?” 

“Yeah, uh, we added a few things.” He followed as Castiel headed to the mistletoe door—not that it mattered that there was mistletoe over it; the whole thing was a weird idea anyway. Why some leafy plant with the word "toe" in its name? Why any plant? Who started this absurd tradition in the first place?

“You have to see what I bought for Jack,” Castiel told him over his shoulder. “Just let me hide your gifts first.” Then he stopped in his tracks a foot away from the mistletoe and turned. “Oh, wait, I bought more cookie mix, I have to bring it into the kitchen.” He passed Dean to go through the other door and Dean stared at the mistletoe before sighing and following him. 

No big deal, he could kiss Castiel under the mistletoe later. Not that he really cared; no, not at all. This was only his and Castiel’s first Christmas as a couple, which only made everything more nerve wracking because he didn’t know what to do with himself. Was Castiel a kiss-under-the-mistletoe type of person, or would he be confused by the tradition? A few years ago, probably the latter, but this year, ever since becoming human, Castiel had wholeheartedly accepted every holiday tradition, researching them to know the history of their creation. Dean grinned despite himself watching Castiel tuck the bag of cookie mix onto a cabinet shelf. Such a dorky little guy. He really loved him. 

Leaving the kitchen, Castiel ducked into one of the extra bedrooms and, after a few moments, emerged with only a small, white bag. “Jack will love this,” he said, and, looking conspiratorially around, pulled out a knitted beanie. Bright green, with white pom-pom snowmen and one big, fluffy, white pom-pom crowning the top.

Dean blinked at it and Castiel beamed at him. “Isn’t it nice? Touch it, it’s got pom-poms.”

“Yeah, that’s um...” Castiel held the hat out and Dean dutifully touched the pom-poms. “Very bright. Festive.”

“Very festive,” Castiel agreed, studying the hat with a smile. “I don’t want to wait, I want to give it to Jack now.”

“Cas, you can’t just give everyone their presents early. What’s the point of Christmas morning then?”

“But it’s cold outside! He might need it before then.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Alright, give it to him early.” He followed Castiel down the hallway. “You have any gifts you want to give me now?” Fingers crossed it wasn’t a similarly ridiculous hat.

"You are gonna have to wait until the 25th. Where is Jack?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe check in the War Room, or the Library?” He winced hearing the words come out of his mouth. God, he was pathetic. These things were supposed to happen organically, not by tricking Castiel to go through the mistletoe-decorated doorway.

“Dean, we just came from there.” Castiel paused, then turned down the corner. “I think music’s coming from Jack’s room. He must be in there.” 

Dean followed and, hating himself, tried again, “You should check out the decorations Jack and I put up, though. He's really excited about them.”

“Is he?” Castiel asked, not pausing. “I’ll go look at them after I give him this.” He smiled at Dean over his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re getting into the holiday spirit, Dean.”

“Hmm.” Not that it was working out very well for him so far.

And he didn’t have any more luck the rest of the night, either. Jack loved the hat, of course, and even proceeded to wear it through dinner. Sam and Eileen were disgustingly cute as they washed dishes together. And Castiel successfully avoided the mistletoe like the plague.

Dean didn’t know why he was letting it get to him. Alright, maybe he knew why. Sure, he and Castiel were “dating” now and sleeping together, but everything was still new. After years of stepping around his feelings for Castiel (not to mention being woefully unpracticed in the art of romantic relationships), officially becoming a couple felt strange, unfamiliar. Sam and Eileen, they were the perfect couple who had it all figured out. Whereas, half of the time, Dean didn’t even know how to act around Castiel. He alternated being between too handsy and too friggin’ bashful. 

Not to mention it was the holiday season, which meant a hundred and one traditions centered around romance. Was he the kind of boyfriend who’d take Castiel ice skating as a date? Wear matching Christmas sweaters? (Okay, he knew the answer to that one—hell no). Maybe go for a drive and look at Christmas lights? Who knew? Maybe he did want to be that boyfriend. But, seeing as how he couldn’t even manage to kiss Castiel under some damn mistletoe, he wasn’t sure he was cut out for any of that romance shit.

The mistletoe hung cheerfully over the War Room doorway, mocking him, when he entered in search of a drink. Pouring a glass and sitting down, he beckoned for Miracle to join him. Obediently, Miracle came over and Dean reached down to rub his fur. 

“You wanna be my Christmas romance?” he asked him. Miracle stared up at him, one ear askew, then flounced away to play with his new favorite tree toy. 

Alrighty, then. Straightening, Dean eyed the mistletoe. Dammit, he really was shit at these romantic gestures. Who did he think he was? Did he think he was in some damn Hallmark movie? This was ridiculous. Making up his mind, he strode over determinedly, reached up, and tore the mistletoe from the doorframe. 

“What’s that?”

Startling, Dean turned to see Castiel watching him, his head tilted to one side, his arms full with several wrapping paper tubes. “Oh, uh.” Dean looked down at the plant in his hand. “It’s mistletoe.” He felt stupid even saying it aloud.

“Why are you taking it down?”

“Um, I wasn’t—I was just, uh, adjusting it.”

"That’s one of the decorations you hung up earlier?”

Dean felt his face flush. “Uh, yeah. It’s stupid—”

“No, it’s a very nice touch.” Castiel walked over. “I’m going to help Jack wrap presents. I would ask you to join us, but we’re wrapping your presents.” He smiled at Dean and walked out of the room, through the doorway which Dean had just torn the mistletoe down from. 

Dean stared after him, then back down at the mistletoe in his hand. Shit.

After all that, he was tempted to throw the mistletoe in the trash and give up, but his pride demanded he try again. He had not worked up the courage to tell Castiel he loved him after years of denying it to himself and others, just to lose his nerve over an absurd holiday tradition. He’d be damned before he let a fucking plant get the better of him.

So he changed tactics and hung the mistletoe over a doorway he knew Castiel would have to walk through eventually, and he waited.

And that night, when Castiel opened the door to their bedroom, Dean tossed aside the book he’d been trying to occupy himself with, scrambled off the bed, grabbed the absurd Christmas sweater Castiel had taken to wearing, and kissed him soundly. 

Castiel let out a surprised noise and, letting go of him, Dean exclaimed, “Finally!” He pointed at the mistletoe. “You know you’ve been avoiding this crap like you’re allergic to it?” He was aware that ambushing Castiel under the mistletoe wasn’t the most romantic act, but screw that. He’d done it; romantic Christmas tradition accomplished. Put “good boyfriend” under his list of accomplishments.

Castiel stared at him, then up at the mistletoe, then back at him. “I didn’t realize… Have you been waiting all day to do that?”

“Um, no,” Dean faltered.

Castiel slowly smiled. “You know there’s no need for mistletoe, right? You can just kiss me whenever?" 

Shit, when Castiel put it that way. “I mean, yeah, but—” Castiel grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss him again, successfully shutting him up for a moment. But he’d endured too much to let his efforts go ignored, so he broke away to finish, “....but it was super romantic and I think I should get boyfriend points for this.” He was half-joking, but of course Castiel grew serious. 

“Dean,” he said, “you know I don’t need any dramatic gestures to know you love me.”

“Yeah, but you’re the poster child for dramatic gestures,” Dean pointed out. “You confessed your love in a three minute monologue right before dying on me.”

Castiel looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s true. Perhaps we are both a tad dramatic. And I do appreciate the gesture, really.” Then he smiled. “As it happens, I have a surprise for you too.” 

No, fuck, please, no, Dean thought desperately, but, sure enough, Castiel produced a beanie from behind his back. Similar to the one he had bought for Jack, though this one was blue, decorated with reindeer and tiny red pom-pom noses. “I couldn’t wait.”

Dean stared at the hat. The universe was testing him today, that was for sure. But then he smiled and took it from Castiel. “I love it.” If dating Castiel meant corny holiday traditions and putting up with his absurd fashion choices, so be it. They were figuring out what being a couple meant for them, and he was happy with what they had together.

(And if the hat disappeared under mysterious circumstances, that wasn’t his fault.)

Castiel beamed at him, then glanced up at the mistletoe. “Now do I have to hang this over our bed to keep kissing you or—?”

Dean didn’t need to be told twice. Grabbing Castiel’s sleeve, Dean dragged him into the bedroom, kissing him as he shut the door behind them, pausing only to tear down the mistletoe and toss it across the room. Because fuck mistletoe.

Tag List

@becky-srs @xojo @marvelnaturalock @aelysianmuse @prayedtoyou @letsjustdieeveryone @good-things-do-happen-dean @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @theninthdutchessofhell @madronasky @famouspsychicpizzabandit @multifandomdisorder @dean-you-assbutt-cas-loves-you @arcticfox007 @gmos-winter-wonderland @celestialcastiel @improvedpeanut

Let me know (message, ask, comment) if you’d like to be tagged in my other destiel fics or removed from the list :)

#what even is the bunker layout #i kept adding doors to go through #idk #SPNAdventCalendar2020 #christmas fluff #dean panics #castiel wouldve been one of santa's elves in another life #expectingtofly writes

[dweetwise]

have a semi-rushed riconti one shot because i couldn’t not write them for valentine’s day 💕

ship: ace x felix warnings: none word count: 4180

The problem with secret admirers

Holidays usually weren't something the survivors had the luxury of celebrating.

The occasional seasonal decorations in trials along with some ridiculous, thematical outfits seemed more like a sign of their Eldritch captor's morbid sense of humor than evidence of the passing of time. But sadly, lacking calendars and all, it was the most accurate estimate they had.

So when the Entity plopped down some fireworks and talismans on the generators to proclaim the Chinese new year, it barely affected any of them.

Yui and Feng seemed more on edge than usual, the decorations crude imitations of the festivities they were used to back home. Adam had told the group about the year of the ox and the Chinese zodiac, the teacher donning a new hoodie he’d received for the occasion.

For Ace, the holiday meant nothing more than looting as many firecrackers as he could manage, along with making questionable “horny” jokes to the few killers that had received ox-themed outfits.

But in the midst of the survivors' celebration or lack thereof, they'd completely forgotten about another well-known February celebration.

When Ace returns from a successful trial and goes to stash yet another firecracker into his generous collection of items, he immediately notices something that doesn't belong.

Inside the trunk, on top of the organized chaos that is his pile of items and add-ons, lies a note.

Curiously unfolding the piece of paper, Ace makes out somewhat messy handwriting on a worn piece of paper.

'Your smile lights up the room'.

“Oh, ha ha, very funny,” Ace says, turning to face the small group of survivors by the campfire.

“Huh? What's up?” Steve perks up, others following suit and turning to watch the spectacle.

“Someone left me a little prank note,” Ace says, rolling his eyes and flicking the slip of paper over his shoulder.

“What?” Claudette says with a frown, immediately reaching for the discarded note.

“What does it say?” Cheryl asks curiously, coming up beside the botanist.

“'Your smile lights up the room,'” Claudette reads.

“Aww, that's adorable!” Kate exclaims. “A Valentine's day card!”

“The joke being that we're continually outdoors,” Ace explains. “Meaning my smile does jack shit.”

“Are you sure? Maybe they meant figuratively,” Claudette gently prods.

“Yes Claudy, I'm sure I'm not getting mystery love notes,” Ace snorts at the incredulous suggestion, before turning back to the others. “Come on, whose idea was it? Fess up!” he demands, looking over the group

When nobody makes a move to come clean, others also looking around in confusion, Ace eventually focuses his stare on Nea, Meg and Feng, the trio of troublemakers sitting together by the fire.

“The hell you looking at me for?” Nea cusses.

“That’s lame as fuck,” Meg agrees.

“I'm tempted to make one now just so you’ll see—” Feng starts.

“That's a great idea! We should all make Valentine's day cards for each other!” Kate suggest, missing the gamer's point entirely.

“Look, there's a drawing too!” Cheryl suddenly exclaims, pointing at the back of the mystery note still in Claudette’s hands.

Ace sighs and leans over to look, fully expecting a doodled caricature of himself or even a crude phallic sketch.

Instead, he finds a pretty good drawing of some sort of flower. It’s not perfect, but it looks like someone clearly put a lot of work into it.

“It's a clover,” Claudette informs, glancing up at Ace with a smile. “No doubt for luck, even if it doesn't have the iconic four leaves.”

“Uh. Maybe,” Ace says, a little taken aback at the information. Someone really went through a lot of effort just for a small prank.

“So? Who's it from?” Steve asks impatiently.

“It still doesn’t say, Steve,” Cheryl sighs in irritation.

“I mean, Jeff and Jane are the artists,” Quentin points out.

“Uh-huh, sure, Jeff would draw a flower card for Ace and not his botanist girlfriend,” Meg snorts, making Claudette duck her head bashfully.

“And Jane—" Steve starts, excitedly turning to the former talk show host.

“No,” Jane interrupts the teen. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but hell no.”

“No offense taken, sweetheart,” Ace grins good-naturedly, the cheesy flirt making the woman grimace.

“What about Bill?” Nea suggests out of the blue.

“What the hell are you on, kid?” Bill snorts, and even Ace has to bite back a laugh over the thought of the gruff veteran writing love letters.

“Just trying to think of someone in his age range!” Nea protests.

“Well, did anyone see anything?” Quentin asks. “We can’t all have been in a trial when the note was placed.”

“I’ve been in like three trials today,” Feng complains.

“I don’t think any of us really keep track of people at the fire,” Kate says. “Anyone could have walked by and put it there.”

“Aww, so we’re not gonna know who it was?” Steve frowns.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Jane says.

As the commotion seems to die down, Claudette hands back the note back to Ace.

“You should keep it. It seems you have a secret admirer, after all,” Claudette says, smiling.

“Guess it can’t hurt,” Ace says, reluctantly pocketing the card. He’s still not sure it's genuine, but is intrigued by the sudden turn of events nonetheless.

Surprisingly, it seems the kids aren’t quite ready to give up on finding out the culprit. Some time later, Ace sees Cheryl, Steve and Quentin huddle together by one of the tree stumps, Cheryl looking to be taking notes on a map.

“Did you ask the ones who just got back?” Cheryl asks.

“Yup! Steve says. “Jeff was mostly confused, and David laughed his ass off. Laurie said she hadn't seen anything weird before she got taken to the trial. And Tapp just looked like he'd lost all hope for humanity,” Steve summarizes.

“Sounds about right,” Quentin huffs.

“Okay, so we've ruled out us three, Laurie, Jeff, Claudette, Jane, Bill, Tapp and David,” Cheryl recaps.

“And Nance has Jonathan, and Felix has his girlfriend,” Steve reminds.

“We should definitely rule out Nea too, since she’s way younger than him,” Quentin says. “Meg and Feng too, I guess."

“You're right, they always bully Ace too,” Steve casually remarks.

Ace rolls his eyes behind his shades and keeps shuffling his cards, not understanding why the group is so hell bent on talking about him like he’s not even there.

“Oh, and Yui,” Cheryl says.

“Good point,” Quentin says.

“Huh? Why?” Steve asks, confused.

“She, uh…” Cheryl falters. “Girl talk. I know it's not her.”

“Okay!” Steve beams.

And that pretty much sums up Ace's expectations for their little operation to succeed. If Steve somehow still hasn't figured out that the Japanese woman is solely interested in other women, Ace doesn’t have much trust in his detective work.

“Kate?” Cheryl suggests.

“She’s making Valentine’s cards for all of us as we speak,” Quentin snorts. “I don’t think she’d play favorites.”

“What about Dwight?” Steve suggests.

“Well… it’s definitely awkward and weird enough to fit his MO,” Cheryl considers.

“I thought he was into Jake?” Quentin says.

And that’s about the time Ace tunes out and goes to bug Tapp to play cards with him, hoping the detective will be happy to pretend like this entire thing never happened.

Ace doesn’t know how long it is before he’s finally taken to a trial, but it feels like an eternity. The atmosphere around camp is awkward as people trickle in and out from trials and someone always feels the need to point out he was on the receiving end of an anonymous person’s affection. The reactions, unsurprisingly, range from awkward confusion to straight up laughter.

So when the fog finally surrounds Ace, he actually welcomes it. The familiar sight of the Autohaven gas station is enough to take his mind off the teasing back at camp, at least momentarily.

But another problem presents itself right as he rounds a corner of scrap and finds Élodie on a generator—

“Hey, come here often?” Ace jokes, crouching down next to the machine to get to work.

—And the woman immediately gets up to leave.

“It wasn’t me, so don’t get any ideas,” Élodie scowls in his direction.

“Huh? I didn’t—” Ace tries to explain, but she’s already taking off in a sprint, and Ace thinks he hears her mutter “creep”.

Ace sighs and barely resists the urge to bash his face against the generator in frustration. This day just keeps getting better.

To Ace’s utter delight—that is to say, absolute annoyance—his mystery admirer becomes the biggest source of entertainment for the survivors. He doesn’t mind playing along for the first few jabs at his expense, thinking the others will surely get bored after just a few hours.

They don’t.

Most of the group still seem determined to figure out the person behind the note, others are content to gossip and joke about the possibilities, and some go as far as to blame Ace for intentionally stirring up drama. His not-so-subtle suggestions to let it go are shrugged off, and after a few days, Ace resigns himself to his fate and figures the sooner he lets the whole thing sort itself out, the better.

It doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.

To add insult to injury, even the killers seem to have a sudden hard-on for him, focusing Ace with single-minded determination every chance they get.

It's only a few days later, when the Pig kneels down Ace's prone form to place a trap on his head, that he realizes why.

“There you go, lover boy,” the woman's voice sounds mocking despite being muffled by her mask.

“Wah?” Ace asks, the device attached to his jaw making it hard to speak.

“I heard someone has a little admirer,” the Pig says. “I figured it warrants some special treatment.”

The word is accentuated by throwing Ace up on a hook, and the gambler's following scream is as much from pain as it is from frustration.

When Ace gets back to the campfire after having his head popped by the killer’s trap, he sits down on a log furthest from the group, hoping to get a breather—

“Hey, look who it is!” Ash immediately interrupts his moment of solitude, sitting down uninvited next to Ace. “How you doing, champ?” Ash grins, elbowing him in the side.

“What do you want?” Ace asks, feeling much more irritable than usual because of the constant teasing.

“I mean…” Ash says, before looking around and lowering his voice. “Have you figured out who it is?”

Ace rolls his eyes and resists the urge to slap the man with his own prosthetic hand.

“Come on, you can tell me!” Ash grins in a very suspicious way.

“If I find out, you’ll be the first to know. Trust me,” Ace whispers, lying out of his ass.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Ash laughs, way louder than necessary. “I’m happy for you; at least someone around here will be getting laid!”

Half of the camp erupts into snickers and the other half turns to glare at Ace, notifying him that their conversation was definitely loud enough to overhear.

“Not in front of the children!” Jane sneers, like Ace enjoys having his sex life publicly broadcasted.

“Oh, would you look at that!” Ace quips with fake cheer as fog starts creeping up his legs, thankful for the Entity’s timing even though he barely got back to the campfire. “Time for another trial!”

When the fog clears from around him, Ace is in the killer shack in Red Forest with Cheryl and Felix right beside him.

“I'm gonna go find Zarina,” Cheryl whispers to Ace, informing him of who their last teammate is.

“Sure,” Ace says, knowing it’s good to split up, as Felix has already started repairs on the generator in the shack—

“I need to privately ask her about the note!” Cheryl beams and is sprinting away before Ace can reply.

Which is just as well, because he might have said a few choice words to the kid through his annoyance. Thankfully, he's left with Felix, one of the few people who have treated Ace normally throughout this entire thing.

“Fuck this,” Ace curses, joining the handsome German on the generator. Felix glances up but doesn't ask, and Ace appreciates being given the space to rant. “This is the worst thing that's ever happened!”

“The note?" Felix asks.

“What else? It seems it's all anyone ever talks about!” Ace rages, throwing one of his hands up in frustration and nearly causing the machine to explode. “I swear, this is worse than middle school,” Ace huffs. “I have girls gossiping, kids pestering and killers bullying me. And for what? A shitty piece of paper!”

Damn, it feels good to get this out. Ace doubts Felix cares, but it's nice to get to vent to someone he knows won't make the situation worse.

“Whoever left the note must be an idiot,” Felix comments bluntly, and it gives Ace pause.

Sure, Ace is frustrated, but he's still a little sentimental over the note and cute gesture behind it. Regardless, he shouldn’t be surprised that the no-nonsense architect would find the notion ridiculous.

“I'm just so done with it,” Ace sighs. “At this point, I'd take any explanation. Even an 'oops, wrong trunk, it was never meant for you'. Sure, I like being in the spotlight, but this is getting unbearable.”

Felix doesn't say anything, only keeps working away; probably embarrassed being forced to discuss Ace's (lack of) love life.

“I—” Felix starts after an awkward silence.

“Shit, I'm sorry,” Ace interrupts with a chuckle, not wanting the German to be any more uncomfortable than he already clearly is. “Didn't mean to talk about ear off about this stuff. Let's get this gen done, huh?”

Felix immediately seems relieved, and Ace jumps at the chance to change topics.

“You ever been to China?” Ace asks, nodding at the firework decoration on top of their generator.

As they chat about one of Felix's business trips to Shanghai, Ace is simultaneously glad for a distraction from his Valentine's fiasco and melancholy about their shallow friendship.

Maybe he'd take this whole thing more seriously if there was any possibility it would actually lead to something with the one person he's even remotely interested in. If Ace was in his prime, he'd probably have made a move on Felix months ago, girlfriend and heterosexuality be damned. Young and reckless Ace wouldn't have cared, happily flirting his ass off.

Meanwhile, old and slightly less reckless Ace has to settle for shitty jokes and sneaking glances at Felix.

When the Ghostface finally makes an appearance during their second generator and proceeds to chase and tunnel Ace to death despite the others' best efforts to save him, Ace isn’t even surprised anymore.

“I'm starting to wonder if the note is even legit,” Quentin says one day.

“How come?” Kate asks, cocking her head.

“Don't you think Ace's secret admirer would have come clean by now?" Quentin prods.

“Maybe it was just the Entity messing with us?” Laurie suggests.

“If it was a prank from someone, I’m kinda proud of them for pulling it off,” Nea says. “Especially for this long!”

“I think it’s mean,” Claudette says. “They’ve allowed this to go on for way too long. Just look at poor Ace!”

Everyone turns to collectively look at Ace, who is just trying to play some goddamn solitaire in peace while the rest, again, seem content to talk about him like he’s not even there.

“He looks the same as always,” Meg snorts.

“He’s been tunneled to death the last then trials in a row,” Laurie scolds.

“I’m fine,” Ace insists.

“I think his secret fan is just shy!” Kate continues and sparks another debate, oblivious to Ace’s annoyance.

When Ace gets back from yet another unsuccessful trial and sees a group of gossiping people and a grinning Nea, he groans in exasperation.

Before anyone can bring up Ace’s least favorite subject, Felix butts in.

“Ace,” Felix addresses, coming up beside the group. “Do you have time to teach me that perk you used the other trial? With the longer aura-reading?”

“You want… one of my perks?” Ace asks, surprised.

Felix has always seemed more altruistic than others, and it’s no secret Ace's perks were only used by… Well, Ace.

“Um, yes. If it’s not a bother,” Felix says, discreetly glancing at the group of gossip-hungry survivors waiting to attack Ace’s misery.

And it dawns on Ace that Felix is giving him a distraction to slip away.

“Oh, of course!” Ace grins. “Right this way!”

As soon as they’re out of earshot from the campfire, Ace starts prattling away.

“Thanks for covering for me!” Ace beams. “I thought they’d have gotten bored by now—"

“It was me,” Felix interrupts grimly, making Ace pipe down and turn to look at him.

“Uh… come again?” Ace asks, confused.

“I did it. I wrote the note,” Felix confesses, looking at Ace in determination.

“What? Why?” Ace asks, incredulous. When Felix's bravado falters, he keeps going. “Look, you don't have to cover for whoever it was,” Ace sighs. “I don’t blame you for wanting this entire thing to be over—"

“I'm serious,” Felix says. “I've been lying for way too long. I should have come clean before, but I was too much of a coward.”

Alright, what the actual fuck? Why would Felix, of all people, have sent Ace a love note?

While he’s gaping stupidly, Felix continues:

“Claudette was right, it’s my fault for letting this go on for so long. I’m sorry.”

“But… your girlfriend—” Ace starts, struggling to wrap his head around the whole thing.

“Will hopefully move on once she realizes I'm not coming back,” Felix says. “I've started to accept that I'm not getting out of here.”

“Well, that sounds cheerful,” Ace comments.

“Sheiße, I didn't mean it like that,” Felix winces. “I just… thought I'd do things differently this time. Since I never had the courage to, in my old life.”

“So… where do I come into the picture?” Ace asks, skeptical.

“I…” Felix says, wringing his hands in a nervous gesture. “Wanted to see how you would react to the note. It was stupid.”

“Huh? How come?”

“I caused you nothing but harm,” Felix sighs. “First you thought I was mocking you, then the others kept bothering you, and even the killers were giving you a hard time. I'm sorry, I should never have done it.”

“No, I mean—” Ace flounders for an explanation. Sure, he'd been annoyed, but none of the things that happened were Felix’s fault. “Why give something like that to me?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Felix says, scratching at his neck while averting his eyes. “I admit I haven't celebrated Valentine's day much, but I assumed…” he trails off.

What? Felix was seriously trying to test the waters of… getting together with Ace?

It slowly starts to make sense. Felix’s strange behavior. The messy handwriting on the note, probably from Felix’s nerves. The surprising artistic talent of the sketch, after a lifetime of architectural drawings.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Ace says with a smirk, not able to keep the cockiness from seeping into his voice at the knowledge that Felix, somehow, seems to be interested in him.

“Sorry—”

“I said unexpected, not unwelcome,” Ace interrupts.

And then gets to watch the realization slowly dawn on Felix, the perpetual worried frown on the other’s face smoothing out as his eyes widen in hope.

“You don't mind?” Felix asks.

“Let's just say I'm surprised you haven't caught me looking,” Ace grins. “I never expected someone as handsome as you to return the attention,” he can't resist flirting.

“Ähm, well, I…” Felix flusters from the compliment, looking at the ground. “Am not very good at this.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ace says.

Then, he reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out the infamous note he’s kept on him this entire time. Felix’s gaze follows his movement as Ace carefully unfolds the paper, crumpled and smudged from having been with him trial after trial.

“I thought you threw it away,” Felix says quietly, eyes wide in awe.

“You don’t just throw away a good luck charm,” Ace chastises playfully, pointedly brushing his thumb over the clover drawing. “Especially not one that’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time.”

Ace bites his tongue to stop prevent more mushy sentiments from slipping out. Felix is still staring way too intently and not saying a word, so Ace clears his throat self-consciously tucks the note safely back into his pocket.

“I can’t believe you kept it,” Felix finally says, an adorable smile on his lips as he meets Ace’s eyes.

“Well, seeing as we’ve now established that we’re both sentimental saps…” Ace starts with a smirk, stepping closer to Felix to test the waters. “I have a question.”

“Oh, umh… Yes?” Felix says, straightening his back but still seeming nervous.

It's adorable, and Ace wants to kick himself for not noticing anything sooner. Still, there's no time like the present.

“Be my valentine?” Ace asks with a grin.

Felix's posture instantly relaxes, and the smile is back on his face.

“I'd love to,” Felix says.

Ace’s grin widens until he feels like it’ll be permanently etched onto his face. This is a much better outcome than he ever expected when he found an unassuming note with his items.

“So, ehm…” Felix starts after they’ve been staring at each other for a beat too long, snapping Ace out of it. “Do you… should we…?” Felix falters, nervously brushing a stray lock from his face.

“Wanna find a place to sit down and chat?” Ace suggests, not feeling any need to rush things now that he knows where they stand with each other. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a break from the others.”

“Me too,” Felix says, seeming relieved. “I admit I’m not looking forward to what the others will say about this.”

“Fuck em!” Ace says. “They’ve had their fun, I’m not gonna let them put you through the same shit as they did me. We don’t even have to tell them.”

“No, I want to,” Felix insists. “If I have to hear one more rude joke about you from Feng…” Felix’s mouth pinches into a thin line.

“Aww, babe,” Ace teases, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. “You don’t have to defend my honor.”

“I do, and I will,” Felix says with surprising determination.

“Well, in that case, I won’t stop you,” Ace grins.

“Good,” Felix says with a smug little smirk.

And the sudden assertiveness makes heat creep up Ace’s neck, quickly starting to regret his suggestion to take things slow.

“I, uh, I think I saw a pretty cozy clearing not far from here,” Ace says, eager to get the chance to get to know more about his companion.

“Lead the way,” Felix agrees.

They end up sitting next to each other under the stars and talking for what has to be hours, but goes by in the blink of an eye. No longer having to filter himself and keep their conversation casual is a much-needed break from the past few days, and the smile never once leaves Ace’s face.

Talking to Felix makes the feelings Ace has tried so hard to ignore come back full force, reminding him of why the man caught his eye in the first place. Sure, Felix is still more attractive than anyone has the right to be, but he’s also insanely smart and surprisingly witty past the initial anxious exterior. The way he smiles and gives his undivided attention even when Ace talks about silly, insignificant things not only makes Ace forget all about his recent frustrations, but also takes his mind away from the strange world surrounding them.

And when Felix eventually scoots even closer and looks at Ace with nothing but fondness in his eyes, Ace has no trouble throwing his initial hesitance out of the window and going in for a kiss.

It’s not earth-shattering or particularly intense, it’s just really, really nice and makes Ace’s heart do stupid leaps in his chest. It’s been so long since he even kissed anyone, and getting to smooch the person he’s been secretly pining over for months and have said person eagerly return the kiss?

“Why the hell haven’t we done this sooner?” Ace voices his thought when he pulls away from the gentle kiss, making Felix huff a quiet laugh into their shared breathing space.

“I should have just signed the note,” Felix says.

“Good thing you can make it up to me now, Valentine,” Ace grins.

Felix chuckles warmly and a callused hand comes up to gently cup Ace’s cheek before tilting his head up into another kiss.

And even though Ace isn’t normally one for holiday celebrations, he’s looking forward to spending many more with Felix by his side.

#riconti #dbd fanfic #ace visconti #felix richter #dweetwrites #dbd #dead by daylight

[sunmoonandeddie]

a brooklyn blackout

pairing: steve rogers x oc (helena nepheros)

word count: 1,609

summary: Steve finds a light in the darkness in the middle of a rainstorm.

warnings: Some h*ckin’ words.

a/n: Thank you so much to @queen-kass-the-writer for commissioning this!  I had such a good time writing it, and I love your OC!

Steve couldn’t help but let out a sigh as he jogged through the rain.  It had been pouring down for the last twenty minutes, but he didn’t take much notice of it.  The serum kept him warm.  And from getting sick, which was convenient.

It was early in the morning, before most things had opened.  The sun hadn’t even risen yet.  But there was a glow coming up ahead.  A light at the end of the tunnel almost.

He frowned as he came to a stop, looking up at the sign hanging over the small corner building.  “Helena’s Heavenly Bites…”

There was a knock on the window, and his eyes met bright baby blues.  He was struck for a moment, almost ashamed that he’d been caught staring up at the sign.

But then she motioned for him to come in, flicking the lock for him.

“Uh, hi,” he said shyly as he poked his head in.  “Sorry.  I just didn’t expect anywhere to be open this early.  Especially not in this monsoon.”

“Oh, we’re not open,” she said with a shrug, wiping her hands on her apron.  “I’m just getting all the baking for today done.  I was putting fresh cookies in the display when I saw you.”  She eyed him for a moment, and he could swear that she was about to recognize him.  “I’m Helena.”

“Are you…”  He motioned towards the entire bakery, a slight grin on his face.  “You know…  The Helena of Helena’s Heavenly Bites?”

She snorted, covering her mouth with her hand demurely as she nodded.  “Yes, that’s me.”  The pretty brunette led him back towards the counter, and she poured him a cup of fresh coffee.  “... Are you going to tell me your name?”

“Oh!”  His cheeks went fire engine red.  He had just gotten into the habit of assuming that everyone knew who he was by now.  “Uh…  I’m Steven.”

“Steven,” she said, a flush on her cheeks as she poured herself her own cup of coffee.  “So, Steven, what are you doing out here so early?”

He sat on one of the bar stools that lined a good section of the counter.  “I start my run at four-thirty in the morning every morning,” he said with a shrug.  “It wasn’t raining when I left.”

“Hmm…,” she mused absentmindedly as she absentmindedly wiped down the counters.

The bakery smelled heavenly.  Like…  Like chocolate and goodness and…  It was like…

“Are you making Brooklyn Blackout cake?” He asked, his mouth falling open.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that he was in his childhood home again, watching his ma move around the kitchen as she stirred various bowls.  It all seemed like such nonsense until it came together in the end in the most delicious cake he’d ever had.  She only made it on special occasions, like birthdays and holidays and when he graduated from high school.

It was one of the few memories he had left of her.  And then when the war had started and he’d become a soldier, it had become even more popular.  It was a comfort in the darkest nights.

“Yeah, it’s my specialty,” Helena said, her cheeks rosy as she ducked her head.  “Once it’s out of the oven, I’ll give you a slice.  On the house.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he said, shaking his head.

But the girl—no, woman—just shot him a look.  “Nope.  I insist,” she said.  “Besides…  I’m the owner.  I can do what I want.”

He finally relented with a bit of a smile, holding his hands up in surrender.  “Okay, okay…  How can I resist an offer of Brooklyn Blackout cake?”

She disappeared back in the kitchen, and he took a moment to look over the bakery.  It was cute.  Really cute.  It was decorated in pastels and all things sweet.  Kinda like a 1940s soda shop.  It was sweet.

When Helena came back, it was with a still steaming tray of lemon blueberry muffins.

She was so damn cute…  With her oversized turtleneck and messy bun…  Not to mention the sneakers that squeaked every time she changed directions.

“So…  How’d you get this place?” He asked curiously, nodding his thanks as she poured him a second cup of coffee.  “Not to be rude, but you can’t be older than twenty-five, and you already have a corner building?”

The giggle she let out was heavenly.  “I’m twenty-six, actually,” she said, giving him a playful look.  “Um… actually, I got the money from my dad…  He saved up my entire life.  Never knew until after he died…  I was gonna go into nursing school.  I’d been baking my whole life and I really wanted to go to culinary school, but… there’s more of a guarantee in nursing.”  She leaned against the counter, a bittersweet quirk to her lip.  “He died my senior year of high school… and then they read his will, and we found out that he’d saved up over a hundred thousand dollars for me to go to culinary school and start my own bakery.  He could’ve spent it on his medical bills and not worried so much about them, but…  He wanted me to go to school.  Follow my dream.”

He wished he had a father like that.  His ma was great, but… Joseph Rogers was a piece of fucking work.  He’d had to work two jobs during art school, which wasn’t an easy feat.  He had to help ma with the bills as well as pay for school as well as making sure his art homework actually got done.  Sometimes the paint on his canvas would still be wet when he left for class in the morning, and he’d have to hold it in a way that would ensure it didn’t get fucked up.

“That’s amazing,” he said quietly.  “Really…  You’re lucky.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, sitting up on the counter as she sipped at her coffee.  “I…  I got really lucky, having him as my dad…”

There was the sound of a timer going off on the oven, and she let out a squeak as she jumped down and ran for the kitchen.  “My cake!”

Steve Rogers was pretty convinced that she was the cutest fucking thing he’d ever seen.  She reminded him of the good girls in the forties, the good girls with the starched skirts and shining Mary Janes.  If they were in the forties, there was no doubt in his mind that she’d have pristine red lipstick and her hair would be in the most perfect victory curls.

But he liked her like this.  The twenty-first century had taken a while to grow on him, but…  Knowing that a woman could own her own business, choose her own life without as much backlash or hurdles to jump through…  It was amazing.

Helena was amazing.

He felt a spark in his heart that he hadn’t felt in so long.  Something he thought was impossible.  He’d thought his heart was out of commission.  It was over a hundred years old by now.  Shouldn’t he have needed some kind of transplant for… well… all his organs by now?

Steve perked up as she came back with the cake on a display tray.  “That smells absolutely delicious.”

“Well, we have to wait for it to cool down so I can ice it,” she said, her cheeks pink.

“Or we could just eat the entire thing right now.”

“Right now?” She giggled, shaking her head as she watched him.  “I do have to save some for the other customers.”

“What if I bought the entire thing?”

“The entire thing?!”

“The entire thing.”

She looked at him in a way he hadn’t been looked at before.  Or at least, not in a long time.

Like he wasn’t just the shield.  Like he wasn’t just a weapon.  It was… refreshing.  He could just be Steven with her.  Maybe he’d be Steven the Artist.  Yeah…  He could be Steven the Artist.

When she finally did serve him up a piece of the cake, he was quite sure he had died and gone to heaven.  “Holy shit, this is perfection,” he moaned, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Yeah?” Helena asked, her blue eyes bright with excitement.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning as he took another huge bite.  “I’d pay you to make me one of these every day for the rest of my life.”  His eyes met hers, and there was a change in the air.  There was definitely a… a moment.

He opened his mouth, ready to say something along the lines of, “Any chance you’d wanna go out for dinner sometime?”, when there was a knock on the door.

When Steve saw Bucky standing at the glass door, his car parked right outside, he seriously considered the possibility of shoving him into the first trash can he saw.

And from the look of realization on Bucky’s face, he knew it, too.

“I guess that’s my ride,” he said quietly as he looked at Helena’s sweet face.

“Oh,” she said, trying to hide her clear disappointment.

He stood up from the stool, shoving his hands in his pockets.  “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?  And I can pay you back for the coffee and the cake?”

Helena shook her head, a shy smile pulling at her lips.  “No… Don’t worry about it,” she said softly.  “Just…  I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, you will,” he said with a grin as he walked backwards towards the door.  “You’ll have some more of that cake, right?”

She nodded, trying to fight the instinct to bounce in excitement.  “One Brooklyn Blackout coming up.”

#steve x oc #steve rogers x oc #steve rogers fanfiction #steve x ofc #steve rogers x ofc

[bbrandy2002]

Wacky Drabble #18: The Turkey Drop

This is part of @emceesynonymroll weekly wacky drabbles.

Prompt: What if I dont see it

Im a day late on this one, wasn't sure if I even wanted to post it, but, here we are.

A/N: I can't take credit for the idea of this as it comes from an old show and I'm just recreating one of the Thanksgiving episodes from it, sort of.

Summary: The gang gathers together in Ramsford to celebrate Thanksgiving with the Beaumonts. Let's just say, all hell is gonna break loose.

Warning: Turkeys may be harmed but I'm choosing to defy reality and believe they are all okay. If you don't feel you can, this is the heads up not to read 🦃

I put a "read more" in every story, sometimes they work and sometimes they don't. Crossing my fingers.

**********

Riley has always respected the customs and traditions that have been carried down throughout Cordonian history. Being the American- born, Queen of Cordonia, she opted to celebrate this holiday during her first year of marriage, in private- just she, Liam, and their close friends. She didn't want the Cordonian people to ever feel that she was trying to "Americanize" their great country. Liam, however, loved the idea of having one day out of the year for reflection and giving thanks, as this was something even Cordonian's would appreciate.

It was during their second year of marital bliss, the King presented this idea to the Royal Council, where it was passed almost unanimously. Madeleine was the only dissenting vote, having nothing to be thankful for.

It was decided the third Thursday of every November would be designated, Thanksgiving, in Cordonia.

What you are about to read is the real and true account of how the Duchy of Ramsford chose to kick off thier first official Thanksgiving.

**********

The weather was chillier than normal that day for the typically warmer climate of the Mediterranean country. Ramsford citizens bundled in light coats, braving the elements, in anticipation of the first Thanksgiving festival hosted by their Duke and Duchess. As festival goers wafted through the rows of vendors who were preparing enticing delicacies synonymous of their homeland, purchasing turkey related memorabilia, and partaking in games often seen at these event, they eagerly awaited the appearance of their very popular royals.

Maxwell had insisted he be the one in charge of putting this shindig together, planning every single detail, even down to the location of each port a potty. Bertrand was all too happy to oblige, having no free time with a toddler and a brand new baby. The only request made- absolutely, under no circumstances, were those 'blasted, overly feathered, menaces' of his, to be in attendance. Well, of course not, Maxwell had another kind of bird in mind, ones that were more in the spirit of Thanksgiving, and he would make sure each family in Ramsford had one of their own.

Drake walked morosely behind Liam and Riley, who were busy greeting their adoring citizens with Bertrand and Savannah. He wasn't in a festive mood since being dumped a few days ago. It wasn't that he was in a serious relationship yet with the sexually oppressed American from Illinois, but, who she left him for....Neville.

"Ohhh Walker!"

Drake cringed at the unbearable voice calling out to him and he had no use for entertaining her today. He clutched the whiskey flask, a former fiancee had given him, preparing to drown out the incessant mockery that was sure to follow.

"So...", Olivia eyed him with a devilish grin and her signature raised brow "...enjoying the single life again?", she taunted.

He huffed, "at least I had an "again", what's your excuse?"

She cackled, "Touche". Her eyes roamed the surroundings as they continued to stroll along, her mood shifting with curiousity "where the hell is Maxwell, he's usually at every one of these goddamn things making a fool of himself".

Bertrand turned to the Duchess, having finished with the receiving line of guests, clearing his throat, "My brother is off preparing a surprise that will be the delight of all of Ramsford today".

Savannah looked at Bertrand adoringly, "That's right Bertie, we are giving away a free turkey to enjoy with their families this holiday season".

"That's very generous and kind of you both, I'm sure your people will be very grateful, especially those less fortunate", Liam nodded, clasping Bertrand approvingly on the shoulder.

Drake shook his head, "I still can't believe Maxwell put this whole thing on himself, I don't trust it", sipping the last remnants of his drink.

"Drake, don't be a hater. Besides, Maxwell has proved himself to be more than responsible and mature of late", Savannah defended.

"What if I don't see it?"

The group continued to enjoy the festivities and fanfare as the sun finally broke through the thickened clouds, shining a ray of warmth below. A group text message from Maxwell came through as each of them checked their phones simultaneously, telling them to look up.

Bertrand, Savannah, Liam, Riley, Drake and Olivia, each shielded their eyes from the bright sun as they looked toward the sky eagerly. The faint sound of a helicopter getting louder as it approached closer to their location. A crowd began to gather around them as Bertrand smiled on proudly.

Riley pointed up excitedly, "Look! It has a banner on the back of the helicopter".

"Happy...Thanksgiving...from the Beaumonts", Liam read aloud as the banner became clearer. Savannah and Bertrand acknowledged the ohh's and aww's of the crowd, who were enchanted by the extravagant display taking place 2000 feet above them.

"What the hell just came out it?", Drake squinted to get a better look, as a small object appeared to have fallen from the large chopper.

"I don't know, maybe its a skydiver...", Riley answered as she looked on in anticipation.

Olivia furrowed her brows, "I don't see a parachute yet... wait!...there's another one and a third".

"Those can't be skydivers...I just can't quite make out what they are though", a bewildered Liam replied before his eyes widened with realization,"OH MY GOD...THEY'RE TURKEYS!!"

The crowd began to scatter in panic as live turkeys came crashing down around them, most of them landing on the soft tarps vendors had set up. Brown and white feathers intermingling through the air as stunned turkeys flapped wildly in anger. Patrons pushing and shoving one another in desperate search for safety, running for their lives.

A stunned Bertrand, scrambled to calm the masses to no avail. Savannah cried out loudly, "Oh my god, the humanity!", after ducking under a table, pulling Bertrand down with her.

Bastien made every attempt to shield Liam and Riley, who clung protectively to one another, while dodging and weaving through crowds of fearful people, stray feathers and irate falling turkey's. They stopped only briefly as they passed a padre, recieved their last rites and hauled ass to a picnic shelter. As the helicopter circled the grounds to launch a second wave of birds, Liam hurridly scrambled to reach Maxwell to cease the unintended assault.

Drake took off running with Olivia hot on his heels. He banged relentlessly on the door of the nearest porta-a-potty where an older gentleman allowed a frantic Drake and Olivia to hide. Due to being unable to hold three grown people, Drake stood in the doorway, having just enough room to shield his head. Olivia peeked over his broad shoulders as the last of the fowl fell on a tent across from them. They stood in astonishment momentarily, unsure if it was safe to exit while screams and the jumbling shrill of turkeys reverberate off their metal enclosure.

The older gentleman with them, finally spoke out when something strange caught his eye, "what are they doing?", gesturing at the 15 or so gathered birds in front of them.

Drake scratched his head in thought, "I think the little bastards are...organizing"

"I've seen this before", Olivia replied surely, "they're strategizing... its basic battle tactics...they're planning a counter attack".

Drake motioned to the formation of incoming turkeys, questioningly, "You've seen this before?"

Olivia patted her clothing down and began pulling knifes from various hidden holsters underneath, a determined look sketched across her face. "People...birds...whats the difference, they're both full of shit. I'm a Nevrakis, damn it...I will not be turkied to death by these...disgusting chicken wanna be's...you with me or not, Walker?". She holds up a knife that barely misses his face as he stumbles backwards off the edge to avoid it.

Drake swipes the blade from her steady hand, his dark brown eyes filled with savagery, "Let's end these fuckers!".

2 hours later...Ramsford Memorial Hospital

"Drake, can you hear me?", a concerned Liam stood at the bedside of his lifelong friend, when Drake's eyes began to flutter open.

"Liam...wh...where am I?"

"You're in the hospital buddy, you've got a nasty concussion and a broken nose, but, the doctors had a head CT ordered and it didn't show any serious trauma or permanent damage...you will, however, have to stay here overnight for observation".

Drake glanced around the room, grimacing at the shooting pain from his throbbing, bandaged nose and the seering pressure behind his eyes. The overhead lights making his already blurry vision so much worse. He attempted to speak, but, his voice was hoarse and dry. Liam reached for a cup of water that sat on his bed tray and assisted him in drinking.

Drake licked his lips, "what happened? The last thing I remember was grabbing the knife from her", he nodded at Olivia, who was standing in amusement at the end of his bed, "why the hell am I'm so jacked up?".

Liam looked to Olivia, he, himself not entirely sure of the exact circumstamces for Drake's injuries, hoping she could shed light on the situation.

Olivia moved around the bed to stand next to Liam, an uncontained smiled slipping across her pale face, "It was a giant Turkey...smashed right into your face", she clapped her hands together loudly, "Smack!". A light chuckle escaped her as both men glared back with astonished expressions.

Several seconds of silence commenced as that information began to process.

"What?", Drake snapped.

Olivia explained that Maxwell must have had one turkey left because another one came barrelling out of no where, dropping like a stealth bomber, and crashing right into his face. Never one to mince words, she took the opportunity to let him know that his face looks better now that most of it is covered in bandages.

Liam took in a deep breath, "I'm going to take my leave now that I can see you are well. I told Bertrand I would attend the press conference with him...apparently, Maxwell thought turkey's could fly".

Drake rolled his eyes, mumbling to himself, "Responsible and mature, huh?", he looked back to Liam with a grateful smirk, "thanks Liam for being here".

Liam clapped Drake's arm, "No problem", he turned to Olivia as he made his way for the door, "you coming?".

"Yeah", Olivia grabbed her coat and clutch that were laying across one of the hospital chairs and followed Liam to the door. She hesitated before fully exiting, turning sharply on her stiletto heels. "You did...well out there today soldier".

"I got clobbered in the face by a fucking bird, Liv!", he shouted back, grabbing his nose in pain as his head jostled from his over-exaggerated retort.

"Even so...", she trailed, as a long pause followed, the silence nearly becoming awkward. A small hint of compassion crept through her strong features and Drake instantly recognized the change in her demeanor.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Walker".

"Happy Thanksgiving...Liv".

#the royal romance #wacky drabbles #liam x riley #drake walker #maxwell beaumont #thanksgiving #long post #wkrp in cincinnati #bbrandy2002

[victoodles]

The Look

I had a lot of fun writing this and now I’m addicted to writing for Chief Hopper. I also really like music from the 80′s and while that isn’t a focal point, it still was cute to imagine a scenario jamming out to Roxette with my main man. Just some fun nonsense, enjoy!

“I’m an officer in training, though I guess that’s just a fancy way of sayin’ I’m your new assistant for the time being. Regardless, it’s a pleasure to meetcha’!”

Jim Hopper is momentarily taken aback by your overly sunny disposition, finding it too bright and warm for the given situation. It’s Monday, approximately eight in the morning - no one should be that…cheerful on a fucking Monday.

But there you are, standing in the door of his office beaming like you won the goddamn lottery.

For some indescribable reason, it’s grating and makes his heart rate increase. He chalks it up to irritation...for now.

“I’m sorry, run that by me again?” Hopper asks incredulously as he runs a hand through his hair; it’s too early for this crap, even if it comes in the form of a cute, sweet, lovely-

Wait, focus Hopper!

You’re still looking pleased as punch, not bothered none by his grousing. “I’m aiming to join the force! Yours specifically but it’s still a work in progress, so I was assigned to shadow you for the time being. But like I said-“

“Yeah, yeah assistant or whatever. I got that much. But I don’t really have the time or patience to be some newbie’s babysitter.” The words come out harsher than he meant for them to but you’re still not deterred. You just continue to smile that same breathtaking enthusiastic smile his way and his heart insists on beating faster than should be normal. All that smoking might finally be catching up with him.

“I’m here for whatever you need, Chief!” You chirp, giving him a mock salute in an attempt to alleviate the tension. While being a glorified secretary wasn’t an ideal position, hopefully your tenacity would shine through to the Hawkin’s chief of police.

Hopper cocks an eyebrow at you, bemused, and then sighs heavily in defeat. He could already tell you were the type that wouldn’t take no for an answer and clearly you wouldn’t back down from this.

Great, just what I needed.

“Fine whatever,” he grumbles, pulling a full folder of reports from a drawer. He drops them to his desk with a gentle thud and you eye the papers curiously, awaiting further orders whatever they may be.

“I need you to go through these case files. All of them.” Hopper instructs with the same sternness of a scolding father. What was that saying about old habits?

“Cross the t’s and dot the i’s. Make sure everything is in order, got that?”

You’re positively radiating with an energy that Hopper simply cannot comprehend considering the gravity of the task he’s assigned.  

She’s a strange duck.

Of that much he is sure of at least.

Eagerly you take the file, fingertips brushing against his own briefly and Hopper feels a heat rushing to his cheeks like some lovelorn school boy. You don’t seem to be phased (of course not it’s just a simple interaction with a pretty girl Hop) and he mentally reprimands himself for acting so needlessly foolish.

“Rodger dodger Captain! Er, I mean Chief!” You laugh melodically at your own witticism that not only catches his attention but that of the entire office as well. Hopper is sure he’s dying when the erratic thumping in his chest rears its ugly head again.

Quickly he decides to dismiss you with a wave of his hand, the other attempting to cover the red now dusting his cheeks that you (thankfully) don’t notice. He doesn’t need his first impression to be more humiliating than he thinks it already is. You take your leave with another playful salute before turning on your heels to saunter to your new desk.

Hopper deduces that your eccentricity will soon run him into an early grave. And now he had to have a sit down with Flo about not letting just anybody waltz into his office at any given time unannounced. Especially someone as peculiar as you.

This new girl is gonna be a problem.

And yet...

Does Hopper take a quick peek at the way your pencil skirt hugs your ass while you walk?

Yes, yes he does.

Does it amplify his enthusiasm about working with you?

Only a little bit.

***

Summer has transitioned into Winter, leaving behind bathing suits and sunshine in exchange for sweaters and snow. The station has followed suit and is aptly decorated to show even the Hawkins Police Department has the holiday spirit in them.

It’s mostly your doing, personally going out of your way to cut and hang handmade paper snowflakes around the office. That along with colorful strings of Christmas lights. 

Hopper still twitches whenever he sees them after Joyce’s crazed epiphany that lights could somehow help her communicate with Will from the Upsidedown way back when. But he doesn’t have the heart (or the mental capacity) to tell explain that to you.

Instead he revels in your holiday giddiness, masked behind a scowl because the poor fool is still in denial that he even likes you.

You like like her, as El had so fondly put it over dinner one night. Thankfully he can successfully hush her up with a tickle bout.

The same solution sadly doesn’t apply for his nosy secretary. Hopper contemplates firing Flo after she teased him for blushing when you placed a Santa hat snugly on his head, insisting he stop being “such a Grinch”. He quickly realizes that would be “unwarranted” and the idea is soon discarded.  

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and Hopper has a slew of frantic calls to deal with much to his chagrin. In order to do that and achieve some semblance of success with it all, Hopper needs papers.

Your papers specifically.

Hours ago, he had assigned you to organize citizen report forms for him so he could properly assess and assist each member of lovely Hawkins Indiana. Missing cats, rambunctious teenage hooligans, all mundane things really. And as usual, you took your work with a grin and excited nod.

Hopper began to enjoy the warmth that you exuded. And the curve of your lips when you smiled. And-

Enough, Hop! You creep…

Now he was ready to welcome the distraction from another onslaught of racing thoughts. About you, no less! But he couldn’t do that without that work, that you usually would have immaculately finished within the hour.

Sometimes you would sign them with a pink heart.

Not relevant!

Today, however, it was almost half past one and still no papers. No bubbly entrance, no perfectly alphabetized folders paired the same cup of black coffee for him. Not so much as a peep from your direction.

Weird, Hopper thinks as he pushes himself up from his desk with a grunt. He might as well investigate, otherwise he would have nothing else to do today. Otherwise he would’ve loved to procrastinate this for as long as humanly possible. Who would’ve thought Wednesday afternoons would be slow.

Hopper steps out of his office and scans the bullpen, neglecting to return Flo’s usual greeting. Almost immediately he spots you hunched over at your desk, head nestled too comfortably on a stack of papers. 

His feet are carrying him with a stomp before he can parse what he’s really seeing.

“Go easy on her, Chief,” Flo urges in a hushed voice. The request is again ignored.

Is she...sleeping?

It would appear so.

A cup of now cold coffee sits abandoned as you continue to snore with an adorable dopey smile on your face. You look carefree, relaxed.

Cute.

Hopper shoos that last thought away before he bends down to your level. He would not have any of his staff lazily snooze the day away, on his watch no less!

“Hey! Sleeping Beauty,” he nearly booms in your ear, instantly causing you to jolt up in your seat. Your usual pristine appearance is now disheveled: a messy bun now atop your head, blazer discarded, and the top few buttons of your blouse precariously unbuttoned.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t l-

He looked.

God dammit.

You look up at him drowsily, still not awake enough to realise the consequences of your stupidity.

“Huh,” is all you have to offer in your defense. It doesn’t seem to placate him.  

When you notice his annoyance (finally), you rush to break through your sleep addled fog. Quickly, you sit up straight and smooth away loose hair before meeting his glare.

“M-morning chief,” you say sheepishly, daring to wave hello to him. The stink eye treatment continues.

“It’s 1:30 p.m,” he responds back cooly, unamused by your jests.

You genuinely look surprised, and turn to the clock ticking idly on the wall above. “Afternoon?!” A few sniggers can be heard around the office.

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry Chief,” you apologize sincerely. Hopper doesn’t even think he’s seen you frown before and now you’re saying sorry for mistakes you never make. He’s taken aback for a moment and you continue to express your regret.

“I came in early to decorate for the holidays. Like, super early,” the emphasis is accurately dramatized with a yawn. Hopper’s rigidness softens. He knew you were responsible for their newfound winter wonderland, but he didn’t realize how much work you actually put into it.

Aw Christ.

Hopper clears his throat. “Y-you did all of this,” he asks incredulously. He’s seen some freaky shit in his career but right now he is truly shocked by your dedication. For something that he previously found tedious and unnecessary.

“Yeah,” you admit shyly, a tinge of pink adorning your cheeks. Hopper notices, and pretends he doesn’t think it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. “I just thought it would be cute.”

Cute?

Was it really that simple? You just wanted to spread some Christmas cheer and it tuckered you out in the process?

Hopper brings a hand to his lips to hide the smile that’s starting to form there.

As soon as it comes, it leaves and he composes himself. He doesn’t know what comes over him (is it love?) and he places his hand on your shoulder, patting it with a huff.

The entire department watches wide-eyed at the interaction.

They’ve been placing bets (secretly) on when and where Hopper finally decides to ask you out. It doesn’t seem like today’s going to be that day, but it’s a step in the right direction. Powell curses under his breath and pulls out a dollar and hands it to Callahan. Flo smiles to herself.

“Just-“ Hopper takes a deep breath in. It’s hard to focus when you’re looking at him with those doe eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Just make sure I get it before the end of the day.”

Your apprehension melts away and it seems Hopper has succeeded in bringing your smile back.

Merry Christmas to me.

“Rodger dodger, Chief,” you chirp before turning your attention back to your own desk, already hyper focused on your work.

You don’t see the small smile he sends your way as he returns back to his office.

Fifty nine minutes later, on the dot (a new record for you!) you bring the fruits of your labor back to Hopper’s office. It seems you just missed him unfortunately, leaving the folder on an empty desk. You quite enjoy the small interactions shared between the two during the lulls of the work day, progressively getting longer and more friendly in nature.

You cross paths with him on the way out however, exchanging smiles and hellos as you both return to your designated posts.

On your desk, you find a fresh cup of coffee made just the way you like it: cream and two sugars.

It’s signed with a heart.

***

Indiana snow storms have devolved into gentle flurries, snowflakes idly cascading down a thin veil of snow covers the nearly empty streets.

Nearly empty.

Where else would Hopper find himself late on a Thursday evening then on his way to a local watering hole. El found herself at Max’s house for the evening, and Hopper’s restless boredom soon gets the better of him. Nothing a cold glass of beer can’t fix.

He, in turn, finds himself in town, meandering his way to a dive-bar at the end of the block. Neon lights flicker dully in the dusty window, barely illuminating the bartender and lone figure inside.

Seems someone else had a similar idea, sneaking out into the night for a pint and handfuls of shitty peanuts.  

The door opens with a soft jingle and through the haze of lingering cigarette smoke and dim lights, Hopper spots you at the bar. You’re as perky as ever, chatting the bartender’s poor ear off about this and that. Hopper, childishly, is jealous.

In your hand is a can of cheap beer - Schlitz to be exact. 

Hopper’s favorite.

Be still my beating heart.

You notice him shortly after, and your smile practically lights up the room.

“Chief!” You call out with a raise of your drink. The bartender, (Chris - or something, Hopper can’t bother to remember) breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of a normal customer. It seems no grouch can ruin your good time.

“Chief,” Chris greets (with considerably less enthusiasm) and slides him a coaster. Hopper pays his greeting no mind and devotes his attention solely to you.

You look significantly more casual, blouse and skirt replaced with jeans and a flannel, hair loose and falling to your shoulder in gentle curls. Despite the shift in appearance, you still hold yourself the same way as you do at work - poised.

Hopper admires that about you.

Among other things.

“Hey,” he greets. Before he can get another word in, make some lame comment about the weather or what the cat dragged in, you’re already patting the stool next to your eagerly.

“Sit with me!”

“W-what?” Hopper responds (stupidly).

You’re already ordering him a beer, disregarding his confusion. “You heard me. Unless you just came out in the snow to say ‘hey’ and scram?” Your voice has a teasing lilt to it that enchants Hopper. He wants to hear more of it

“Just doing my nightly rounds,” he jokes back, “but since I’m here I might as well hang around. Make sure you’re not getting into any trouble.” It’s rare for Hopper’s bark to have no bite, just playful nips. He appreciates the relaxed atmosphere your presence envelops him in.

“Unfortunately for you then, you’ll have to stick around for a bit. I have a grand scheme in the works that involves drinking with the chief of police,” you say with a mischievous smirk. “Gotta keep me from ‘getting into trouble’.” Hopper can’t help but guffaw at your attempt to impersonate him. It’s comical and endearing all the same.

“Sounds mighty serious,” apprehension dissolves as he sits down next to you, the old chair creaking as he turns toward you. Your knees practically touch and neither of you seem to notice or care.

Handing him his respective can of beer, you knock yours against his with a harmonious clink.

You do that for the first.

And then the second.

And the third.

With each drink comes a new story shared between you.

You tell him about your time at the police academy. He tells you about his continuing struggles with El and her pesky boyfriend, Mike.

You like hard rock and your old Suburban.

He loves hound dogs but is too busy to actually get one.

Drinks keep on pouring.

Time passes effortlessly, bleeding into midnight and your laughter echoes throughout the emptiness of the bar.

“Oh Chris isn’t always this bad. You know sometimes, he’ll let me order a mimosa at 8 p.m and he won’t give me a hard time” you titter, earning an eye roll from the aforementioned bartender. Hopper fights to contain his chortling.

“You’re the only one who orders it and you’re the only reason I have to keep stocking champagne.” Chris grumbles, cleaning a glass a bit more aggressively than necessary.

“Well you should be thanking her for the extra business then,” Hopper adds with a gruff laugh. Chris doesn’t seem to find it amusing. He opts to turn on the small radio behind the bar, hoping to drown out your nonsense. with some music

It works for a little bit.

A little bit.

Until Roxette starts playing...

Then all Hell breaks loose in the form of an ecstatic cheer of, “I. Love. This. Song!”

Hopper really can’t contain his enjoyment now.

Upbeat pop music from a second-rate radio fuels you now.

“And I go la la la la la!” 

You’re booming now, swinging your head from side to side to the beat. Your hair is wild now from the throes of your merriment. Hopper likes it even more this way.

He joins in from time to time, singing a lyric from the chorus (poorly he thinks) but takes more pleasure in watching your one woman performance.

She’s got the look indeed.

Chris regards you with a cocked eyebrow and looks to the chief, shaking his head. “She’s something else,” he says with a dry laugh.

Hopper is too busy watching you hurrying to the whirring jukebox now, a hand full of quarters and promises of “you’re gonna love this song,” on your tongue as the first one fades out.

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

“Yeah,” he says reverently, “she really is.”

#vic's fics! #stranger things #jim hopper x reader #i love my thicc police daddy

[ericsonclan]

Meeting Clementine

Summary: Kenny convinces Lee to give adoption a chance and brings Clementine to meet him for the first time.

Read on A03:

“So, how are you and Duck doing?” Lee asked as he handed his friend Kenny a beer.

Kenny let out a long sigh, taking a swig of the drink before answering. “It’s been some fucking year. Katjaa’s been out of the hospital two weeks now, but it’s gonna take a hell of a lot longer than that for her to really bounce back,”

“She’s a fighter,” Lee took a sip from his own beer, looking round the bar. “She beat cancer; she can make it through the recovery,”

“I sure hope so. We almost lost her back there, Lee. Raising Duck on my own…” Kenny shook his head. “I couldn’t imagine it,” He glanced over at Lee, then looked down at the table. “I heard about you and Claudia. Sorry I couldn’t be there when all of that went down,”

Lee shook his head. “There was nothing that could’ve been done anyway. Claudia’s moved out… and I’m stuck in that big house we’d planned to start a family in. It’s a weird feeling, being in such a huge place all alone,”

Kenny looked like he was about to say something, but then a voice crackled over the microphone. “Alright folks, it’s time for Mueller’s weekly Trivia Night to begin!” Nick, the host, shielded his eyes from the lights as he looked out into the crowd. “Hey, I see we have some familiar faces back after a long time! Lee, Kenny, good to have you back!” There was a round of applause from those in the bar who also recognized them. The pair raised their beers appreciatively. Six years of attending Trivia Night at Mueller’s and they’d never missed a week of it until this last year from hell. With Katjaa in the hospital and Lee’s marriage collapsing around him, it just hadn’t seemed like a priority. Now that they were back though, it felt like life was finally returning to normal in some small way.

“Alright, first question,” the mic crackled again. “Independence Day was first established as a holiday by Congress in what year?”

Lee’s hand came down hard on the buzzer. “1870!”

“That is… correct!” Nick rang the little triangle that dangled from the mic stand while his partner Luke manned the whiteboard that tracked the points.

Lee pumped his fist in satisfaction. Civil War history was his forte, but anything within American history was a good bet for him. He had history and literature covered while Kenny had the sciences down pat.

“Liver!” Kenny called out in response to the question “what is the largest internal organ of the human body”. Another ding from the triangle, another correct answer.

Lee shook his head in good-natured disbelief, taking another drink from his beer. He’d asked Kenny back when they’d met how he remembered so much random knowledge and Kenny had shrugged it off, saying his brain was like some sort of sea sponge, soggy and absorbing everything round it. Now they were back in the proverbial ring and he was still as sharp as ever, hand poised beside the buzzer, ready to strike as soon as the next question was given.

Things progressed smoothly throughout the rest of the night. They didn’t end up sweeping Trivia Night as they had for several weeks in the past, but they’d accrued a respectable score, keeping things close between them and their main competitors while everyone else lagged behind. Now it was dark out though, time to pack things up and head home.

“Lee,” Kenny started, “Before you leave, there’s something I was meaning to talk about with you tonight. Should’ve brought it up earlier, but there just didn’t seem to be a good time,” Lee raised an eyebrow. “Go on. I’m listening,”

Kenny fidgeted nervously with his trucker cap. “I know that before things went south with you and Claudia, the two of you were considering adoption. I was wondering if that’s something you’d still be interested in,” He raised his hands up. “Now of course, if this ain’t a good time for you, you can tell me to fuck right off. But there’s this one girl I’ve been trying to find a good home for for years now, and I think you two might be a good fit. She’s not a bad kid or nothing, it’s just that life seems to like kicking her when she’s down. Figured you could relate,” Kenny had been the one Lee and Claudia had approached with thoughts of adoption back when things were going well. Given his job as a social worker, they knew he could help them through the intricacies of the adoption process. However, they’d been looking into getting a baby. Lee wasn’t sure if he could handle that on his own.

“How old is she?”

“Just turned fifteen,”

Now raising a teenager was another problem in itself. Lee saw that Kenny had noticed the indecision in his eyes.

“I know, I know, it’s not an easy age to start with. Hell, Duck’s the same age right now and some days I think he’s worse than when he was a toddler. But this girl’s special. Kat and I were seriously considering adopting her ourselves before we got news of the cancer. I just want her to have somewhere safe to grow up at least till she ages out of the system. But it doesn’t have to be you if you don’t want it,”

Lee pursed his lips thoughtfully. “What’s this girl’s name?”

“Clementine,”

---

It was about a week later when Lee found himself in his kitchen, anxiously looking out the window as he waited for Kenny to arrive with Clementine. He had decided to give this a shot. He trusted Kenny’s judgment enough for this girl to deserve that at the very least. Lee still wasn’t sure if he was cut out to be a teenager’s dad, but if Clementine was as special as Kenny seemed to believe, then just maybe this could work.

He set down his coffee mug as he saw Kenny’s truck pulling into the driveway. Stepping out to his front porch, he gave an awkward wave before walking forward to greet them. Kenny hopped out of the truck, giving Lee a quick hug and patting him firmly on the back.

“You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,”

Kenny nodded, motioning to the young girl who’d just stepped out of the car. “Lee, this is Clementine. Clementine, Lee. I’m gonna head out for a few hours, give you two some time to get to know each other, then I’ll be back to pick Clementine up. You good, kiddo?”

The girl nodded noncommittally, looking around the outside of the house with a sort of jaded boredom.

Lee cleared his throat awkwardly, extending an arm to the house. “Wanna come in? I just make a fresh pot of coffee,”

Clementine nodded, following without a word. The kitchen was immediately to the left of the entryway. As Clementine took a seat, Lee searched for another mug. “Sorry there’s not much décor around the house. My wife and I had just moved here back when we were planning to start a family, but, well, things happened and now it’s just me in this big ol’ place without a clue about interior design,” Way to go, Lee. Telling this kid about your history as a sad divorcee is a great way to kick things off.

Clementine simply nodded politely, taking the cup of coffee that was offered her. Lee had a fleeing panicked thought as he wondered whether it was appropriate to give coffee to children. Then he remembered Starbucks was a thing. Shit, Lee, you’ve gotta calm down. She’ll smell your fear. Lee took a long sip of his coffee, watching Clementine. She seemed like a normal enough kid, though a bit closed off. On her head she wore a baseball hat emblazoned with a blue D. He wondered what it stood for. “You a baseball fan?”

“My dad was. He gave me the cap,”

Now that he looked more closely, Lee could see how worn out the thing was. Dirt and dust were caked over every inch of it, and maybe even a flew splatters of blood. The embroidery on the D was starting to come loose in one corner, causing the tip of the letter to curl out from the hat. The cap must mean a lot to her. “You know, Morgantown High has a pretty good baseball team from what I hear. The coach there used to be in the major leagues,”

“That’s cool,” She didn’t sound impressed.

Lee cleared his throat. “Have you had anything to eat yet? I should have run out and grabbed some sandwiches for us,”

“I had a granola bar,”

“Now that’s no sort of proper breakfast!” Lee walked over toward his fridge, searching for what he had handy that was healthy and fresh. It was pretty bare, just the basic like eggs, milk… Now wait a minute. Lee walked over to the pantry, rooting around in it for a minute before finding what he was looking for. He popped his head out of the pantry door to look at Clementine. “Any chance you’d be interested in making some pancakes with me? We’ve got eggs, bacon, O.J… we could make it a full on breakfast feast,”

Clementine’s eyes widened a bit at the offer. She looked pleased though. “Sure, that sounds fun,”

“Alrighty then! You get out the ingredients, and I’ll find us some bowls and pans,” With that they set off on their missions, Clementine assembling the milk, eggs and pancake mix while Lee banged around in the pots and pans drawer before finding something fitting. He wasn’t sure where any of the old cookbooks were (if Claudia had even left any), so they Googled a recipe and got started from there. As Clementine stirred the mix together, inspiration struck Lee. “You know what? Now that I think of it, I’m sure I have some bananas stored away somewhere. Do you like those in pancakes?”

Clementine nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Do you have any.. chocolate maybe?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Lee reached up onto the top pantry shelf. “It’s a bit musty, but that’ll cook off, right? Worth a shot,”

Clementine chuckled, taking a cup measure and ladling the first pancake onto the frying pan.

Lee cautiously plopped a few pieces of chocolate on top of the bubbling mass, watching it with curiosity. “Let’s see what else we can find that’d go well with pancakes, shall we?”

In the end, they found the bananas, a stray container of blueberries, some stale walnuts that Lee threw in with his own banana pancakes, and a few raspberries. Lee was worried there wasn’t any syrup, but Clementine took the initiative, bravely scouring the depths of his pantry until she found it. She plated the pancakes while Lee finished frying up the bacon. They sat down together once everything was ready, their mouths watering.

Lee watched in contentment as Clementine attacked her stack of pancakes. Damn, this girl could eat. It made him wonder if her last foster home had been feeding her enough. The sleeves of her shirt were pushed up to avoid getting syrup on them. He noticed a nasty looking scar sticking out by her left sleeve, but decided it was best not to ask about it. She also had a scar indenting her forehead, small yet noticeable. This girl looked like she’d been through hell and back. He could see why Kenny wanted to protect her.

“Do you… want to hear a little bit about me?” Lee offered. “I’m not super interesting. I work at WVU as a history professor, specializing in American history and the Civil War,”

“I like history,” Clementine responded through a mouth full of pancakes.

“Well, alright then!” Lee felt the history geek in him getting excited at the prospect of a new student to take under his wing. He started going through some of his favorite historical events: the Battle of Fort Sumter, Antietam, the Emancipation Proclamation and Juneteenth… Clementine listened with what appeared to be genuine interest, munching happily on her pancakes and providing surprisingly insightful questions from time to time. Lee found himself losing track of the time. He was genuinely surprised when he heard Kenny’s truck pull up in the driveway.

“So soon?” Lee’s face fell. He saw Clementine’s do the same, looking down at the table. Lee leaned forward conspiratorially. “Maybe if I invite him in for a cup of coffee, we can get a few more minutes. How does that sound?”

Clementine nodded appreciatively. “Yeah, let’s do it,”

Lee stepped out to meet Kenny as he made his way up the steps of the front porch. “Back so soon?”

“Soon? It’s been almost two and a half hours,” A smile crossed Kenny’s face. “I see the two of you hit it off then?”

“She’s a good kid. I can see why you’re fond of her. That foster home that she’s at right now, are they feeding her right?”

“Clem’s actually between foster homes right now. Her bag’s in the back of my truck,”

“You mean…”

“If you’d like, we can sign the paperwork for you to foster her starting today,”

Lee felt a rush of excitement run through his veins. “Alright, let’s do it,”

He and Kenny stepped inside, walking into the kitchen just as Clementine was finishing the last of her pancakes.

“Hi, Clementine. Have a good time?” Kenny asked.

Clementine nodded, but looked down as she got up. “Is it time to go?”

“Actually, Lee here was wondering if you’d be interested in staying. What do ya think, Clem? Would you like to stay here?”

Clementine’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Seriously?”

Lee nodded, a warm smile on his face. “You’re welcome for as long as you want to stay. There’s a guest room just down the hall. It’s nothing fancy, but feel free to move anything around in there however you like so you feel at home,”

Clementine seemed genuinely touched at his words. She looked away, clearly unsure how to react to such good news.

Kenny chuckled, tossing her the keys. “Go ahead and grab your stuff. I’ll get Lee started on the paperwork,”

Clementine caught them, bounding out the door before either of them could say anything else.

“Well,” Kenny placed a hand on Lee’s shoulder, “You’re a dad now. Or a surrogate dad at least. I wish you the best of luck,”

“Thanks,” Lee looked out the window, watching Clementine as she hurriedly grabbed her stuff. “I think it’s gonna be a really good thing. For the both of us,”

“I couldn’t agree more,”

#fanfic #twdg lee #twdg clementine #adoption #twdg

[maddiemccarthy]

DATE & TIME: December 20, afternoon

LOCATION: The Little Flower Shop

TAGGING: Noah Puckerman @thepuckrmn​

NOTES: The boy needed a hug, okay?

Puck cursed softly to himself as he walked down the sidewalk. With everything that was going on, he completely forgot that Hanukkah was right around the corner. He usually bought Sarah a couple of things for the first night, and he knew she needed a distraction now more than ever. He spotted the flower shop up ahead and decided to duck in there to see if he could find her anything nice. Puck rolled his eyes at the stares he got from the people on the street. His unkept hair, dark circles under his eyes, scabbed up knuckles, and the fact that he probably still smelled like whiskey all pointed to the fact that he was in mid-spiral. He entered the store and was immediately overwhelmed by all of the variety of flowers in front of him. He was never really a flower buying guy to be honest. Looking around, he spotted someone who looked like they worked their and approached them. “Hey. This is gonna sound dumb. Do you guys have any Hanukkah-y flowers? Or like I dunno. What do you get your pregnant sister that says ‘the kids will be cool’ and ‘Happy Hanukkah’ at the same time?” Puck asked before they even had the chance to turn around. His eyes widened once he realized who he was talking to. “Oh. Shit. Hey. I didn’t know you worked here.”

With her last day of work upon her, Madison was shuffling about trying get all the ducks in a row for her absence. Keeping an organized store and office helped, but it was the end of the year, five days til Christmas, things were a little nuts. Truthfully, she was avoiding customer interactions as much as possible, the staff more than plentiful to handle the needs, but when Puck approached she knew she couldn't not attend to a friend, especially when said friend looked so rough. "Hey, yourself," she greeted in return, pausing to wonder if she should press about his appearance, but figured they could get the business out of the way to start. "We've got some Hanukkah arrangements made, if you want the baby factor in there, we'd probably  have to make some adjustments." She'd put in for extra when Hunter had ordered his flowers for the holiday. The Berrys and Puckermans were no small part of the town, nor were they the only Jewish families around. "I can show you?"

He nodded at her suggestion and ran a hand through his hair to try and attempt to calm down whatever was going on up there. “I guess let me look at the Hanukkah arrangements first and then we’ll go from there. I can’t tell if she’s super pumped about the babies so I don’t wanna push it, you know?” he replied before following her to the mentioned arrangements. Puck glanced down at her pregnant belly for a moment before smiling softly up at her. “You look good. You getting excited?” He had learned from Quinn that no pregnant woman actually wanted her belly touched or her size commented on. His scabbed hand reached out to inspect one of the Hanukkah arrangements in front of him. “Flowers are so weird. It’s like…here’s this pretty living thing…watch it slowly die on your coffee table…it means I care.” Chuckling, he shook his head. “I know I’m not making any sense. I also don’t know which one of these looks best so I’ll trust whatever you say.”

"Babies?" she echoed, prying gently as she led him a few steps away. It was a small corner that wasn't decked in reds and greens, but she liked to think they'd covered something for every budget all the same. At his question, Madison smiled at him and nodded. "Yeah, we're a week or so from the due date. I'm getting really anxious to meet him," Madison told him, her eyes following the movement of his hand, pausing to examine the blemishes. Something was definitely not right. Or hadn't been right? "You okay?" she finally asked, pausing briefly enough to make it clear it was a genuine question, but not lingering long enough on it to force him. "Trusting a sales person is only gonna get you the biggest, most expensive one, you know?"

He nodded at her prying. “Twins. Gonna be a double full uncle in 5 months,” he replied, “I happy for you guys. I mean Ben is a complete idiot…but he’s an alright dad. I’m sure the little one is gonna be awesome.”  Puck noticed her checking out his fucked up knuckles. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged at her question. “Yea…I’m fine. Everything is gucci,” he said unconvincingly. Clearing his throat, he turned to face the arrangements next to him. “I’ll spend whatever. I don’t really care.” And it was the truth. It was hard for him to actually care about anything right now.

Madison's eyes grew a little in surprise. She knew the stressful feeling of anticipating one baby when she wasn't sure how to feel yet. Imagining it was two? "Congrats? If you're excited about it. If not... sorry? or good luck? Luck probably either way," she reasoned, then chuckled, "I honestly can't even argue with him being an idiot. But thanks." Gucci Her eyes rolled as she sighed. "I keep telling you gucci isn't a thing. It's a brand. You don't have to talk about it. But you don't have to lie about it either. Fine doesn't have busted knuckles," she told him gently.  She picked up one of the vases, "get this one. It's big enough to be noticed, but not take up too much space. It won't take much maintenance because being a nurse is enough work without everything else she has going on. And, with your friends and family discount, you won't be too broke for the other seven nights of Hanukkah."

He shrugged at her reply. “I don’t actually know how I feel yet. Still in a little bit of shock. She’s the smart one in the family. So I definitely wasn’t expecting this. Ask me again closer to her due date.” Puck rolled his eyes right back at her. “If it’s in Urban Dictionary then it’s definitely a thing. You’re just not cool enough to get it,” he shot back, ignoring the second half of her comment. Nodding at her suggestion, he reached out to take the vase into his own hands for a closer look. As he turned it, his eyes couldn’t help but land on his bruised knuckles. Puck sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor. “…I saw my dad,” he said simply. He wasn’t sure how much she knew about Papa Puckerman, but assumed that being involved with Ben meant she knew at least some of their dysfunctional family history. “It didn’t end well….obviously.”

"Fair enough. If you need uncle practice in the meantime, he might only be a half-nephew, but the excessive and rugged handsomeness will surely make him ignore that detail," she teased, though the offer was sincere. She'd never tried to force the family bond too hard. Puck and Ben weren't exactly close as brothers, but she'd never turn away family if they wanted to be there. "There's a lot of things in Urban Dictionary that shouldn't be used. And Gucci is on that list," Madison insisted. She was quiet when he spoke again, imagining a few different scenarios for what exactly seeing the man meant. Puck looked rough, but he didn't look like he'd taken any punches. She rested a hand on his forearm, tentatively giving him a gentle squeeze in some form of silent support. Maybe he'd continue, maybe he'd take interest in the flowers again, but either way, she wanted him to know she was there.

“Excessive and rugged handsomeness is a very very important part of being an uncle,” he smirked back. “We’ll see though. I don’t think me and Ben in the same room is a good idea…especially if you want family photos that don’t involve him rocking the Rocky Balboa look.” He looked down at her hand on his arm. He knew she wanted to make sure he was okay and he knew she knew that he was not okay. But he couldn’t tell her everything. Not when she was so close to Ben. Sighing, he put the vase down on the shelf. “He hurt someone I care about. So I hurt him. I paid him off and told him to leave town and never come back. Which means I bough us about two months of Papa Puckerman free life…until he runs out of money and comes back to ruin someone else’s life.”

"Fortunately Gabe and I can roam free of Ben from time to time. If you want," she told him, still not really understanding the entirety of that situation. But that could wait, couldn't it? Keeping them separated kept conflict at bay and that was enough for now. "And that's the vicious cycle?" Madison asked curiously. It would be a lie to say she didn't have curiosities about the infamous man, for gossip's sake alone, but even more because her son came from that. "Do you feel any better having done all of that? Knowing he's gone, even if temporarily?"

“You sure? Because I’m pretty sure you’re literally stuck with Ben until that kid turns 18.” Puck shrugged at her follow up questions. “That’s the vicious cycle. Dad needs money. He shows up. Causes a bunch of shit. I pay him to leave and to not contact ma. He leaves for a bit. Then always finds his way back. Usually most people at least know OF him by now to avoid him at all costs. Wasn’t the case this time.” He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Does it look like I feel any better? I don’t think he’s actually gone. He’s just laying low. There are too many Puckermans in this place for him to completely disappear. You know…Ben is kinda lucky. I wish dad knocked up ma and just fucking left her. Having a dad for eight years just to have him up and leave is worse than never having a dad at all,” he commented bitterly. “By the way, Peyton and I have torpedoed so if you wanna go make out in the back room I’m down,” he added, trying to lighten up the conversation.

"Doesn't mean we have to be together twenty-four seven," she pointed out. Puck wasn't wrong, he didn't look good. But she hadn't seen him for days either, so this could, in fact, be better than he'd been. "If you stopped giving him money, would he keep coming back?" Madison challenged carefully. "Ignore him and he'll go away is such elementary bullshit advice, but if he can't get what he's coming for..." It probably wasn't her place to be offering advice, she knew.  "For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry you went through all of that, then and now. You don't deserve to have people like that around you." She swatted at his arm then and shook her head defiantly. "What is it with Puckermans and wanting to make out in the backroom?" she teased, "besides, we've gone through the many reasons why it could never happen."

“If I stop giving him money he’ll ask my mom. Or Sarah. Or reach out to anyone with his last name. I’d rather deal with it myself. Maybe me actually hitting him this time will change something. But I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” Puck shrugged and dropped his arms to his side. “You never hooked up at work? I’ve hooked up at work a bunch of times. The first time Peyton and I hooked up was at the studio. I think it’s the risk of being caught and getting paid while you’re fucking,” he explained with a smirk, “hey I held up my half of the deal. Just waiting for you.” He picked up the vase she suggested. “I think I’ll go with this one. Thank you, McCarthy…for everything.”

Madison nodded along with his reasoning. On some level she could relate to the need to be the protector, even if her circumstances were far from relatable. She would hope it worked the way he wanted it to. What else could she do? "Oh, no, I hooked up at work," she admitted, gesturing to the whole of her belly. "Maybe that's my aversion to it." She only shook her head at his insistence, but that was the game they played anymore, wasn't it? "C'mere," she said in a brief warning, before tucking into his side and squeezing a hug around him. "Wash your hair before you see Sarah, okay? And brush your teeth, with toothpaste, instead of Jack," she recommended, and while her tone was light, her face made it clear it was serious business. "Door's always open, Puck."

Puck dropped his gaze to her belly and raised an eyebrow. “Well shit. Nice work, Madison.” Her warning didn’t give him enough time to dodge the affection. He awkwardly placed his arm around her and patted her shoulder slightly. “I hate hugs…” he muttered, but let it happen. He let go and reached into his wallet to pull out the appropriate amount of cash. “But if Ke$ha brushes her teeth with a bottle of Jack why can’t I,” he joked as he handed her the money. Tucking the vase under his arm, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll catch you around, beautiful.” Smirking, he turned around to leave the store.

#puckrmn #askmepara #para: all #puck: para #puck: all #puck: 001

[khrsecretsanta]

To: Pickingweeds (Choi)

ARC 1 - COMING SOON!!!

ARC 2 - Crismalsnowburst (Hana)

Arc 2! @Pickingweeds I really had fun with this one! I hope you have a wonderful holiday <3

ARC 3 - Raineynight713 (Rainey)

Hello, this is my Arc 3 gift for Pickingweeds (Choi)! I hope you enjoy it!

So they slept together occasionally. That didn’t mean anything. They were adults, and neither of them were unattractive, and it was convenient. Romance didn’t even enter into it.

Damn Bianchi and her romance obsession.

“Oh Hayato, I’m so happy you found love young. I’ve only ever wanted the best for you, little brother,” she said sappily as she pulled him into a choking hug. He gasped, trying to claw his way out of her grasp.

“What’re you talking about, you crazy woman?!” he growled as he patted his suit down to remove any wrinkles caused by the sudden attack of affection.

“Why, this of course!” She brandished a magazine and waved it in his face until he grabbed it irritably and read the title of the article it was opened to.

“Couples Bucket List? What does this have to do with anything?”

“I saw you reading it earlier, Hayato. Don’t think you have to hide it from me, I’ll never turn you away because of who you love,” she proclaimed dramatically, clutching his lapels. He tried to brush her away to no avail.

“Look, I don’t know how you know about that, but love doesn’t enter into it. It’s an understanding between coworkers, that’s all,” he gritted out as his face turned red.

Bianchi gave him a knowing look, made all the more aggravating because she was wrong, before turning dramatically away. “Whatever you say, dear Hayato. But remember, the bud of love can only bloom when given sweet nourishment and delicate care.”

Hayato was left standing in the middle of the corridor, befuddled, holding the stupid magazine, and wondering if that had been an innuendo, or if his sister was just nonsensical.

For days, he hadn’t been able to put it out of his head. The question would lurk in the back of his thoughts, waiting until he’d almost forgotten about it, then strike. Was he in a relationship with the Baseball Idiot? Surely not, they just slept together, they didn’t do couple-y things.

_________

Number 36. Horseback Ride on the Beach

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I told you to make sure we had a getaway vehicle, you moron!” Hayato screamed, in a not at all high pitched voice, from where he was clutching onto Takeshi for dear life. Bullets were hitting the sand around them, spraying it into the air as they charged down the beach.

His very valid criticism was met with laughter, of course. “Mah, I didn’t know you had a preference. You didn’t say earlier,” Takeshi said with a smile. Hayato couldn’t even see his face, since he was riding behind him on the horse, but he just knew there was a big smile on the idiot’s face. He could feel a vein in his forehead throbbing.

“I didn’t think I needed to, it should be understood that when I said getaway vehicle I meant a car, not a fucking horse!” Hayato devolved into Italian curses, which garnered more laughter.

“Haha, it’s rude to talk about people in languages they can’t understand Hayato.”

“That might be true, but don’t even fucking try to tell me you don’t speak Italian, you-” Hayato’s angry shouting was cut off when Takeshi spoke again.

“So would this be a bad time to tell you I don’t know how to drive a horse?” The idiot didn’t even have the decency to sound ashamed.

“You don’t drive a- wait, what did you just say?!”

If they both made it out of there alive, it would be a miracle.

Number 48. Cliff jump while holding hands

The screams had died down behind them, leaving only burning wreckage behind. Unfortunately, their bikes had been casualties of an explosion, and one of the guys had gotten off a signal for reinforcements before meeting a swift end on Takeshi’s blade. They’d been forced to run through the forest at the back to escape.

“Ch, I don’t know what those bastards thought they’d get, doing sick shit like that on Vongola turf,” Hayato huffed as they ran.

“Haha, yeah, it was pretty dumb,” Takeshi answered with a grin. His voice abruptly darkened for his next words. “They’re lucky it was us that was sent to dispatch them and not Mukuro. He doesn’t take kindly to human experimentation. He’d have their brains leaking out their ears.”

Hayato couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran down his back at that tone of voice. It always did something for him when the Baseball Idiot got into one of his dangerous moods.

They abruptly pulled to a stop when the ground they had been running along dropped sharply off into a cliff that ended in a large lake.

“Huh, I don’t remember this being in the area maps we received, do you?” Takeshi asked, ruffling his hair in consternation.

“No, it wasn’t. Must be pretty recent. How to get around…” Hayato wracked his brain to find a way out of their situation.

“We could just jump,” Takeshi suggested nonchalantly, his smile growing when disbelieving eyes were turned on him.

“That’s at least a two story drop, there’s no way we’d make that, plus we have no idea if there’s rocks at the bottom. How in the world do you think we’re gonna survive that?”

“I think I can use Rain flames to get us down safely. I mean, in theory.”

“In theory?! Theory isn’t gonna mean shit when we’re splatted-” Hayato’s rant was cut off when Takeshi grabbed his hand and leaned in for a quick kiss.

“Trust me?” he asked with a warm smile.

Hayato huffed. The idiot already knew the answer to that question. He tightened his hand, and the next moment, they jumped.

Number 63. Kiss in the rain

“Ugh, it’s been raining for days. I hate the fucking rain,” Hayato grumbled as he walked across the courtyard. There was no point to ducking under an awning to escape the downpour, he was already soaked.

Strong arms encircled his waist and a familiar body molded itself to his back. Warm breath tickled his ear.

“But you love fucking the Rain, right?” Takeshi asked teasingly, a wiggle of his hips making absolutely sure Hayato couldn’t miss his meaning.

“Really? That’s the line you’re going with? Try a little harder, Baseball Idiot,” was the snide reply.

“Aww, c’mon Hayato, I just got back from my mission. I missed you,” Takeshi whispered into his ear, leaving light kisses on his earlobe and starting down his neck.

Hayato ruthlessly suppressed the smile threatening to show. “You should go to bed if you just got back, idiot.”

“But Hayatooo, I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he whined piteously.

“If you’ve been waiting for a week, you can wait a few more hours. Some important paperwork just came in regarding an alliance Juudaime has been working towards,” Hayato told him firmly.

Takeshi huffed, clearly realizing he wasn’t going to win that argument. “Fine, but at least give me a little sample to tide me over.”

Before Hayato could ask what he meant, he was being turned around and pulled to Takeshi’s chest. Warm hands slid slowly down his sides, over his hips, and landed on his ass, where they pulled him even closer and copped a generous feel while his lips were caught in a kiss.

The kiss didn’t last for more than a moment, but it was enough to leave him breathless. Takeshi smirked down at him. “Alright, I’m off to bed. I’ll see you later, Hayato.” With a wink, he was off, and Hayato was left to hurry inside out of the rain. The sooner he finished with work, the sooner he could teach that idiot a lesson about teasing him.

Number 61. Slow dance

The Christmas Gala was packed, just like all Vongola events were. Juudaime would be happy, he’d organized the event specifically to raise funds for charity.

The guardians were keeping watch around the ballroom (excluding Hibari, who Juudaime had tasked with patrolling the grounds for the sake of everyone). There usually was at least one bastard willing to try something at these things, but so far there’d been no trouble. Maybe it was the holiday spirit infecting everyone and making them practice goodwill to all men or something. Hayato didn’t really care, so long as no one ruined the event Juudaime had worked so hard on. His fingers itched for some dynamite at the thought of some bastard trying just that.

“May I have this dance?” A deep voice asked from beside him, and he whipped around, ready to turn the invitation down with prejudice before he realized who was asking.

“Oh, it’s you. I thought it was some other idiot,” Hayato said, catching Takeshi’s smile and cursing his fair skin when he felt himself flush lightly.

“You’re seeing other idiots? I thought you were a one-idiot kinda man,” Takeshi teased, using Hayato’s spluttering as an opportunity to lead him onto the dance floor and wrap his arms around his neck, encouraging Hayato to put his own around Takeshi’s waist.

“Most guys here would make it some kinda dick measuring contest, trying to figure out who could lead,” Hayato said, tightening his arms as he resigned himself to dancing. Takeshi snorted, burying his face in Hayato’s hair to muffle it.

“Yeah, but most guys here can probably dance better than me,” Takeshi said with a smile.

Hayato rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, idiot.”

“Mmm, your idiot,” was the whispered reply. He almost said something sarcastic, but instead decided it was a better idea to kiss Takeshi until they were both out of breath.

_________

Damn it, they were a couple. He hated it when Bianchi was right. She was always so smug about it.

Biting his lip in indecision, he decided to hell with it and shot Takeshi a text.

10:16am, Me: hey, you wanna go out for dinner w me tonight??

10:16am, Baseball Idiot: YES :DDDD

Snorting, he turned his phone off and got back to work. It was a busy day, so he’d have to hurry if he wanted to finish in time to get ready for his date.

_________

List can be found here: https://bucketlistjourney.net/couples-bucket-list-things-to-do/

#pickingweeds

[the-headbop-wraith]

2_35 The Non-smoking Section

The group came in about around the time the morning shift ended, when the lamps in the diner’s inner rooms bad been shut off.  This is on the verge of the breakfast rush, when the local patrons swarm in for the early bird specials before the time slot expired. Probably students, they weren’t regulars, but I had never seen them before.  The two guys carried a few beaten up books stuffed with pages, a lot of it notebook paper, and the girl carried a laptop.  I guessed they were ready for a day haul or something, that wasn’t all uncommon.

“Just find yourself a seat,” my supervisor chirped, without an upward glance to the newcomers.  He passed by with a tray loaded with plates, headed toward the kitchens walk-in entrance across the room.  “Someone will be with you in a moment.”

“Any open plugs?” the girl queried.  I really wasn’t paying attention, while in the midst of wiping down a table and collecting some coffee mugs.  However, I knew where a few of our plugs were for the cleaning, and the tall guy was a hunk.

“In the back room, over there.  There’s a booth in the back corner by some,” I offered, as I straighten up and motion with my rag hand toward a doorway.  “It’s kind of quiet too.”  I conclude wiping down the tables surface and the seats, then pluck up the mugs and return to the kitchen.  

The clatter of metal pots assaults my ears and the snap-clack of a spatula on the grill.  The kitchen atmosphere is hot and noisy, as the cooks work to fend the grills from scorching smoky eggs and potatoes.  Again I remind myself to appreciate the stifling temperature, the walk to my car will be cold and that’ll last until I reach my apartment, since my heater decided to stop working.

I pass between the tall steel bar where the heating lamps dangle, and the coffee station.  Under the low hanging lamps awaits the next order of pancakes and ham.  My co-worker Stella is over by the coffee station, putting in another filter and filling up the tank.  I pass her on the way to the far side of the kitchen towards the dishwashing rack, and add the mugs to the collection of grungy plates.

“We got a live bunch in the house,” I call, for the kitchen staff. “Is anything needed from the freezer?”

Flames spit from the cast iron grill opposite to the breakfast cook, and he swats at the bluish gust with his tongs.  “Another bag of hash and fries,” he calls at my back.  “And shrimp.”

Shrimp?  This early? Gross.  I don’t argue, I go to the far side of the kitchen and enter the walk in freezer.  Our restaurant carries the most basic food groups of the pyramid, either to be flash heated or burnt fast on the grill.  I deliver the potato and seafood combination to the fryer station, and still beat Stella out into the dining room.

There’s an issue with the dog.  Or a closing issue.  The group had a dog with them and none of them had papers for it, but my supervisor was done arguing.  Probably a good idea too, since the guy really didn’t have an arm.  He probably didn’t want to argue in front of a subordinate either, he was weird like that.  My manager could be a real dummy sometimes, like, what’d he think was gonna happen?  They’d go somewhere else for breakfast and we’d look like total a-holes for turning away a guy with a disability.  Probably wind up with a bad review, but who checked those out anyway?  Just my manager.

I didn’t get the gist of the ending discussion, an older couple arrived and had themselves seated so I had to take an order before getting back to the study group.  What a waste of time.  It gave them a chance to get their stuff settled, without me in the way.  The girl shoved her backpack into the booth and climbed right in, while the two guys put a couple of books on the table and organized these shit torn notebooks.  Some no longer had their covers and were just pages barely tethered by a spiral ring, and pages filled with this really tight half handwritten and most of it cursive, was it even in English?

“Hey, welcome to Cranberries,” I began, after a sharp breath. My warm expression took an immediate plunge, and they probably saw it.  The shorter guy and girl sat on one side of the table and looked really worn out. They sort of glared at me, not a mean glare, but they just kind of projected this suppressed irritation regarding my presence.  I was used to that look after finals week.  The hunk just raised his eyebrow over the edges of the tinted shades he wore.  I couldn’t help but smirk, at least he was nice.  “Um, I’m really sorry about my boss.  We have strict policy about service animals and—”

“Stop right there,” the girl said.  She raised a finger above the blonde guys hunched backside.  The smaller guy was pushing a stack of books toward the tables center, and the hunk was staring at them.  “We need all of your coffee.  And menus.  And silverware….”

“Take it easy, Vi,” the hunk broke in.  Thank you gentle giant.  “She wasn��t the one trying to kick us out.”  A white snout poked out from under the table between small guy and girl. “Sorry, rough night,” he explained, and wilted a bit under the girl’s redirected glower.  “Some coffee to start, and do you have an appetizer this early? What time was it?”

“Er… how ‘bout the family breakfast plan?”  I described it off – a bowl of hash browns, scrambled eggs, a choice of either sausage or bacon.  My voice trails off.  The girl is really scary, she looks at me like I’m here to steal the big guy away. “How ‘bout the menus, then?”  

I nearly forget the older couple’s drinks.  Damn, ten minutes in and the days already ruined. Something’s banging around in the kitchen when I enter.  I hear water and see steam, one of the cooks probably washing out the larger pots. Stella walks by with a stack of used plates and gives me a little nudge with her elbow as she walks through.

“Carter got them nice and worked up for you, did he?” she sniggered. “Isn’t he the most thoughtful?”

I follow her.  “The guy doesn’t know when to mind his own business,” I hiss.  This is after, of course, I give the kitchen a short glance around.  “He’s great and all with help, but unless someone’s being rowdy or obscene, he doesn’t need to get involved.  I mean, I’ve seen worse for fudgen sakes.”

We go our separate ways.  Stella drops off the dirtied plates at the dishwasher, and grabs the new orders from the bar.  I grab one of the freshly steamed trays and return to the coffee station.  The coffee is still brewing but it’s almost done, so I gather up a pot and some mugs from the drying rack and check again.  I fill the pitcher, grab some spare glasses along the way and leave the kitchen.  I loop around the diners perimeter to hit the fountain dispenser, remember the menus from the front desk, and drop off the fountain drinks for the couple.  

The older couple a ways from the doorway to the study tables room, but I can’t see the back corner until I enter the room from this side. It’s a loop, there are two exits or entrances to the dining rooms but only the rooms directly beside the kitchen can be entered from the kitchens side.

I catch a few snips of their conversation.  Something about glamour, and I automatically think of some makeup brand like Loreal, but the guy and girl are talking to the bigger guy. The small guy dabs at his nose with a napkin, at first I thought he was crying.  

“If something comes up, I can duck out quick,” the hunk was saying. “But I have been working on this for a while, y’know, why not?”

“Y-yeah,” the blonde guy murmured, his voice raspy.  “C’see that.”  He has one book open, a crushed page is nearly falling out as he holds it elevated off the table and stares over the top.

As I pour out three mugs of coffee the light above the table pulsed on bright and dims, but doesn’t go out.  In the winter we usually turn the diners lights off at seven, if the weathers good the sunbeams built into the ceiling would have the rooms filled with natural light.

“Here are those menus,” I say, and passed them out.  “If the light keeps giving you problems, you can just unscrew it.”  I breeze away for a bit to nab some silverware off the nearest table.  It helps keep me from staring at the blond guy as he does everything methodically one handed, from pouring out some sugar from its bottle, to undoing the little utensils wrapped in napkin.  I kind of wanted to help him but it’s hard to gauge how handicaps react to assistance.  I’ve had to deal with some certified nuts before, that laid out a garden full of hostile intents and just waited by tending their extreme irrationality until some naïve cinnamon bun stumbled through their field of bristling with agitation.

The littler guy was the saddest sight, his vest barely holding his shoulder up rather the other way around, and he kept his eyes downcast from the guy vertical to him, even when he passed over a menu.  The hunk gave the menu an edgy kind of scowl and set it aside. “Is there anything else I can get you for the time?”  I hold the tray over my legs, hoping for some sort of errand.  I don’t know why, the diner was going to be busy in about a few more minutes and I wouldn’t have a moment to text friends.

“Honey,” the blonde states.  I’m a little taken.  Did he just call me…?  “There are none on the table?”  He tilts his head away.  Oh.

Blue girl checked at the assortment of syrups and condiments at the far end of the table, then turned back.  “Honey would be good.  Oh, and I am sorry for being ticked off at you… y’know, indirectly.”  She straightened her back against the uncomfortable chair and nudged her glasses up a little on her brow.  “He’s right, we’ve had a… long night.”

“You’re fine,” I say, and smile.  Normally I had no trouble with the students coming through on holiday… they looked like students anyway.  It was best to be on good terms, since they looked about ready to move into the diner. “You on vacation?  Or visiting family?”  I motion my thumb off the tray, towards the books piled on the table.

“Could say that,” the blonde mumbles.  He gets poked in the side by the girls elbow, but he doesn’t react much aside from glancing her way, without another word.

“We’re traveling,” the girl says.  She’s working at the bag she shoved into the booth, unzips it and slips out a laptop, the sides of it are scuffed and scratched.  “This is our last stop before we head back.”

I gave a small forced laugh.  “In that case, I’m glad you were able to come by and dine with us this evening.” That was flat out embarrassing.  I grimaced and inched away from the table. They – or just the hunk and the girl, the scrawny guy didn’t look up – seemed to share my inner turmoil for waitresses trademark pre scripted lines.  “Damnit, that was bad.  Wish I had skipped that.  Um, give me a few seconds, and I’ll have your honey and get back to you for those orders.”

It smelt like the cast iron grill cook lost another shred of beef through the bars of the stove.  The beef was one hundred percent, and if it wasn’t packed and rolled right it’d just sort of fall apart before it was cooked through.  I stood off to the side and looked up occasionally, watching as the cook used the scorched tongs to get the piece out before the kitchen was smoked up. I posted about the group that came by, and pined about getting off in six hours.  Hopefully I’d get some customers that actually tipped.

I checked on the old couple, but they were content for the time and only needed a refill of soda.  A few new customers had come in; a family with rowdy kids and a big guy in a big coat which he would not remove.  I went around passing out menus and started people with customary drink orders, a few times I passed by the doorway of the back room and could see the study group being more than antsy about something.  I couldn’t get clean ends of what they were saying, but they weren’t being quiet about.

Rather go directly to that group after my rounds, I doubled back to the kitchen to take up a tray for some glasses of milk, and gathered up some food orders ready for the diner.  I dropped off the food and made rounds; guy in the coat needed more time; the family didn’t know what they wanted, they thought they did but five kids on the extreme spectrum of age, and the eldest wouldn’t stop screaming about ‘Frozen’ happy meals.

“—their eyes aren’t dark cause they don’t manifest the same way,” the blonde was mumbling into his mug.  He stirred the hot drink slowly, hardly looked up when I approached the table and set a bottle of honey down by his cup.  The thin figure was leaning out on the edge of the seat now, one leg bent out from his side.  “Hey,” he said.

“Are you all ready to order, then?”  I heaved a breath.  The dog was now seated on the girls lap, she had a menu open and the dog – this dog had little glasses on his snout – he was scrolling through the lunch selection with great meditation.  “If my boss catches the dog at the table like that….”

“You gotta get down now,” the girl said.  The dog obliged, and slipped between her and the blonde dude to the floor beneath the table.  “I know.  We were keeping an eye out.”

That was very considerate, though it didn’t feel as such. “I don’t wanna lose my job,” I added. “My boss is really kooky about this sort of thing.”  I took the notepad and pen from my apron, and flipped to a semi clean page.  “What can I get you?  Did you find any appetizers to start with?”  I glanced to the hunk guy, but he only had his gaze set on the girl across from him.  She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe it was those tinted sunglasses making my eyes play tricks on me.  The girl tapped away at the computer, then looked beside her.

“You wanna go first?  Art?” she asked.  The scrawny guy gave his head a minute shake, and continued sipping at his black drink. “I’m gonna order you some fish and chips, and you’ll work on those.  Okay?” The guy didn’t look at her as he adjusted himself on his seat.  The dog set its face on his lap, and the small guy lowered his hand to rest on its thick mane. “Fish and chips, an extra buff Chillisaster with a side of Quesadilla, and your ‘I can’t believe it’s not a Texas chicken basket’ special.”

As I jotted all this down, she took the honey bottle and squeezed it into her coffee.  The hunk guy hadn’t moved, aside from a shift of his head.  I read off the order, and looked at him.  “Was that everything?  Are you getting something, sir?  Sir?”

“Huh?  What?” He glanced at his hands, splayed them out onto the two books opened up in front of him and seemed genuinely surprised to see he had hands.  “No,” he answered.  “She ordered for me.”  And that seemed to be the unanimous agreement.  Girl orders everything.

“Maybe they’re closer to residual,” the scrawny guy was saying. His question was directed to the girl, mostly.  He turned away as he raised his hand, and hacked into the crook of his arm.  “Are residual the same as ghosts?” he sniffled.

“There hasn’t been enough case studies gathered to compare the two,” the girl answered, as she typed.  “Is your wifi password secure?” she chimes, without looking up.

“No.  Just look for Cranberries,” I answer.  “I’ll have your orders out as soon as they’re ready.”  She said a thank you as I turn to leave.

The family was still working on getting their decisions organized, but for the most part they made an off menu request for burgers and condiments. Guy in the coat was still fine, he admitted he was just warming up and I suspected he was straight off the streets. I’d have to talk with my manage about the guy.  Another group of people came in, wanting orange juice and milk; I handed them the menus and returned to the kitchen for more glasses.

The diner began to pick up as noon trickled by, the time spent between impatient customers and the zesty smells of the kitchen was tolerable. I announced orders each time I returned to the kitchen, and either food or refreshments adored atop a tray accompanied me out to the customers.  Between the yogurt shack, a clothing store, and a few other odd end shops that shared space in the strip mall, Craneberries always had a steady stream of customers through the course of the daylight hours.

Food went out to the study group, while Carter escorted another arriving group to some seats in the back.  

“But you didn’t do anything to… dispel them, did you?” the blue was asking.  The laptop was slanted across the table beside her elbow, and an open notebook sat to her opposite shoulder.  A couple of the books lay open around the table, the wrinkled notebook paper sticking out of most that I could see.  The trio had been idly flipping through the pages and passing the books around, while they waited for the cycle of fresh mugs and bottomless pots of coffee.  The brass pots always left the table empty and the scrawny guy’s mug was never full but always warm.

I set the cluttered tray on the neighboring table and began passing out plates weighted with food.  “Okay, who got the Chillisaster and Q-dillas?”  The girls hand shot up, and I hovered over with the two plates as she reorganized the collection of cold coffee mugs and books.

The hunk was slouched forward facing the blue, his arms crossed over the book before him.  He opened his palms and motioned his thumbs outward.  “You had everything under control,” he said.  His brows creased behind his shades as he frowned.  “You didn’t expect me to charge in, did you?  That’s part of making a situation worse.  What say we give a little credit, where credit’s due.”

“You were getting fish and chips?” I lowered the plate beside the blonde.  He glanced up from the duo book and scribbled in notepad he was scanning through, and kind of scooted the items aside to make space.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“I was right there,” the hunk added.  “I wasn’t gonna let anything happen, if I could help it.”  I stood there for a total of forty-five seconds before he realized I was waiting on him to take the chicken tender basket. The menu said a whole pound of chicken, I don’t think it exaggerated that enough.

“Can I get some hot sauce for the ‘dillas?” blue asked, then turned back to the big guy.  “Okay. Okay,” she said.  “If we get the chance, I’ll ask you about that later. Art, do you….?”

“Don’t drag me into this.”  The scrawny guy was picking at the thick potato slices on the plate and nibbled on one.

“Are you done with this pot?”  I can feel its empty when I raise it from the table.  “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.  Aside from the sauce, is there anything else I can hurry on by?”  I pointed at the blue when she looked my way, but she shook her head.

“Nope,” the hunk added, as he handed off one of his chicken slices to the girl.  “Good for now.”  The blue accepted the chicken slice and passed it under the table, where the sounds of snapping jaws and content gurgles became audible.  Carter didn’t need to know about this, but I would make sure to do my vacuuming rounds before I got off work later.

Eggs and pancakes, refreshments of juices and dairy gave way to sodas and teas.  The guy in the coat finally ordered the super stack sandwich with a side of mozzarella sticks.  That saved me from getting in the midst of another drama spiel with my manager, justified or not.  The guy in the big coat didn’t give me bad vibes, but he couldn’t just be around taking up space when we had dozens of hungry customers waiting for service too. I hovered around the family with five screaming kids, and balanced them with another family of three – both these tables were always out of some beverage, or wanted more condiments for their burger buns.  For all the trouble neither family left a good enough tip, and I was glad when they gathered up their small clan and left.

People started to fill the back room around mid-noon, and I started to get more snippets from the study group.  They were practically oblivious to the change in activity around them.  After I brought by another pot of coffee and Cranberries trademark picante sauce – which hunk guy curled his nose at (I don’t blame him) – blue needed a pot of hot water and a new mug for tea.  I got a good gist of the books they were reading, on the rare occasion one of them had a book raised off the table.  Stuff about the true ghost stories, medium exploration, the scientific process of paranormal investigations, and poltergeist… something.

“There’s virtually no evidence to back up peoples claims,” the girl went on, voice livid and high pitched.  “They’re hard to explain, but the theory I liked was the pocket dimensions.” She set aside her fork coated in beef chili and mustard, and pressed her hands together forming a circle.  “And it kind of does have something to do with residual haunts.  This scene is just kind of imprinted in a certain area, their home unchanged.  They can be no wiser.”

“There’s a lot of limestone in this region,” scrawny guy said. Aside from poking at his fried potato slices when they first arrived, he really didn’t touch the food.  He poured out another mug of coffee and leaned over, toward the girl beside him.  “So what’s that?”

Meanwhile, as they discussed onward, I was getting an order from the table across from them.  I glance up as my customers trail off, mulling over what had the lowest calorie content. “C’mon, order a burger.  You can’t go wrong with a burger.  Pack it with onion rings, special sauce, bacon, and extra meat.”  I couldn’t make out much of what blue was doing, but the other two seemed absorbed with that spot on the table she worked at. “You know we have a vegetarian deluxe bonus meal plan.”  I offer.

Half are absorbed with an iPad one carries, and she’s showing of pictures or something.  One girl over twiddles her fingers at the touch screen of her phone, and sets it down on the table.  She fixes her hair long hair aside and shifts in her seat, to face me.  “Ya, no, see, we’re not like vegetarians.”  She fanned herself with a hand, her bright fingernails flashing.  “We just ya’know collectively don’t like meat.  Meat’s cruel and we, like, really-really hate it.”

“Yeaah,” chimed the girl beside her.  “It’s sooo cruel.  How can you, just like, handle animal flesh?  It’s so hurtful.”

Honestly, I can’t tell if they’re trying to be funny or what. They can’t be real.  Eventually their veggies ship does set sail.  “So, the low cal stuffed bell peppers with a side of seasoned cucumber bites, and a bowl of berry splash chunks?” I asked the girls, most of them still oogling over the iPad and whatever it displayed.  To be fair, two had noticed the purple vested hunk a few tables over.

“Oh mi gosh, isn’t he the hottest piece around?”  A few others on the side of the table facing hunk zone deemed the sight worthy of a rating.

The ‘it’s so cruel’ girl whined.  “Why can’t my boyfriend be hot like him?”

“Remember H.G. Wells ‘Time Machine’?” The hunk was saying, without a clue to the rabid evaluation the fem. squad had set on him.  “The home is still there, or a version of it in a time and place?  Wait, no. That’s confusing.  Don’t think about it, Art.”

“Too late,” scrawny guy moaned.  A thud came from the table.

I try to sound chipper, energetic. “Okay, is that it?”  That was not It.  They had a whole list of customized orders to dish out, and had to know the precise percentage of the calories in each meal.  I made up some numbers, though it was right there BESIDE THE DISH on the menu if they just looked.

“If they all died around the same time,” I overheard the girl say, “the house then just ‘remembers’ the way things were, maybe they’re attached to the home.”  She said something here, I couldn’t hear with orders being screamed at me and ‘Why wasn’t I faster at writing?’  Blue went on calmly, despite the assault on human vocabulary that I was subjected to. “I mean, that’s an explanation for why they’re still around.”

A low noise hums on the air.  I think it might be the electricity in the wiring, but I can’t place the exact sound of it.  I only noticed when the lights came on again, brightening dully in turn before losing all power.  A few of the customers notice this time.

“How can we be sure it’s not them that’s making the illusion?” The hunk asks, poses.  I don’t know.

“Okay,” I say, and flip the menu shut, “you know you’ll have to pay the difference.”  They’ve done this before.  “It might take a while, but I’ll go ahead and get your short cake milkshakes started.”

“It could work either way,” the girl chirps.

The guy in the coat was waiting for a friend.  I took the new arrivals order, and stole a few empty stacks of plates for the kitchen dishwasher.  I place the super complex orders for the Barbie’s and ask Mabel, part of the noon staff, to mix up a whole round of milkshakes.

Most of our customers stay for only an hour and take off, but a few stick around for several hours on either the internet or read a book (or two or three). The guy in the coat and his friend leave a sizable tip, and I’m glad Carter didn’t get involved with them at all.

I dropped off milkshakes and return to the slightly subdued study group.  A ‘bite’ had been taken from a fish slice, and a few of the potato slices were missing.

“—be better to get an obscure sound,” the blonde muttered.  He was wearing headphones with the cord attached to a small box sitting on the table, the digital device or whatever was by the blank page of a notebook with a column of times written down.  He pulled one ear muff from the side of his head and grinned. “What if, just saying ‘if’, you do some mild manipulation?  Then we can focus on the ghosts as a priority.”

The hunk didn’t look up.  He flipped a page of the book he was reading and handed it across the table to the blue. “No,” he rumbled.  He picked up the next book that lay open on the table. The girl set the book she was given down, and shifted a bit over to check her laptop screen.

“It’s a joke,” the scrawny guy mumbled.  “Take a joke Lew, you need one to lighten up.”  He glanced my way when I reached the table.  At his feet lay the dog, curled up over his white tennies.  The dog has been a model guest, better than some of the people that flooded through after season end games.

“If you’re done with that basket, and the plate,” I say, indicating the blues empty quesadilla plate.  “Thank you.”

“Are you planning to tell the Hershey’s about the nature of their tenants?” the hunk asked.  He had his finger pressed to some line in the notebook, and slouched to the side with his other arm holding his head up.

The girl hands me a cold coffee mug, and hesitates as I balance it in the chicken tender basket.  “I wanna gather more info.  It’s tedious,” she nods toward the blonde beside her, “but maybe we should focus on getting our facts together?  Hm?”

“Are you ready for your check?” I insert.  “Or is there something else I can get you?”  Without meaning to, I glance to the plate of fish and chips. The scrawny guy leans to the side and pressed his face into his shoulder.

“We’ll be here a bit longer, if that’s all right?” the girl replied. She’s digging around in the backpack beside the wall, until she produces a camera.  With practiced ease she pops the panel in its corner edge open and slips out a tiny SD reader.  “I could do with some more tea, and a glass of plain water, no ice.”  I glance the hunks way, but he just looks away and motions slightly with the hand splayed over the notebook.

As I walk away, I can hear the blue say behind my back, “Art. Try and eat some more.”

There’s a shrill break in his voice, as he coughs.  “I’m doin that.  Don’t pressure me.”

The Cranberries diner reaches its midday lull.  The complicated table gets their meals, and I only have to take five of the seven plates back on three different occasions to fix their orders – why we don’t have regulations for this sort of thing will forever mystify me.  I’m not surprised they don’t tip.  On one occasion while I’m in the kitchens back, I make it a point to warn the cooks about the weird power flares the restaurants been having.  For now, the kitchen seems unaffected.  Carter gets wind of the problem and offers his usual ‘I’ll look in to it.’  The old couple takes some soup and pie to go, the antiquatedness of this conclusion strikes me as endearing.  

Eventually people have stopped screaming at me for refills, and I have enough time for a lunch and send out some text posts to a few friends, finalizing out the evenings plans once my shift is done.  I do my rounds clearing out the used plates and take the bottle of spray cleaner for the tables.  We’re a bit overstaffed and aside from a few regulars and the study group, I look for another task to keep busy with while filling out orders.  I know it gets obnoxious when me and my associates keep coming around to the tables with the same questions, but if we don’t look like we’re looking after the customers, I guarantee you Carter will catch us somewhere and give us his classic undermining talk.  At least, until someone happens upon the scene and it gets ten times more awkward.

“The only article that keeps popping up is this fire, no mention of deaths,” blue muttered.  She sounded irritated, so I only pass through to drop off another pitcher of just hot water and deposit a few teabags, then go.  “There’s absolutely no information about surviving families.”  I walk a little faster and hide out in the kitchen.

One of the cooks had extra onion rings left over from early noon, and I shared them with Mabel and a few of the janitors that popped up around the kitchen for the maintenance cleans.

“He is such a beef cake,” Mabel was saying.  She leaned out from the large entrance of the kitchen and at this precise angle, we could see across to the furthest doorway to the back room and a few of the tables within.  Scrawny guys leg was barely visible through the doorway, but I knew who she was talking about.  “You gonna ask him for his number?”

“Mabel!” I scold, and reach out to slap her shoulder.  She only giggles and chews on her onion ring.  “I think he’s already taken, or has to be. A guy like that.”  I bite my lip as I struggle to suppress a grin, but fail.

“Never stopped you before,” she sniggered.  Mabel waggled her eyebrows and stuck her tongue out at me. She always teased me like this, but I did the same to her when she was waiting on a hot guy.  It didn’t save her from my wrath though.  I knocked the onion ring out of her hand, and she wailed as it hit the tile floor and tumbled up under a rolling cabinet.  “You saboteur!”

“Serves you right.”  I nodded her way, as I crossed the kitchen to the coffee tanks and filled up another pot.  I picked up a tray and a few empty glasses, and hit the fountain dispenser as I circled the dining room.

A new cluster of people had already seated themselves in the front room near the entrance.  “We’ll be with you in a moment,” I called.  I delivered the cold drink to a couple with a baby near the back room, then entered to check on the study group.  Already I can see something’s up, I’m not sure what, but after dealing with enough characters over the years you get to a point where you can kind of detect a shift.  

First off, the plat of fish and chips is virtually untouched since the last time I’ve been by.  The group as a whole is quiet; probably due to the thin guy snuggling into the crook of his arm with his hand curled up by a near empty cup of coffee, the syrupy swill of undissolved sugar languishes in the bottom.  The blue is fully engrossed with her laptop as I come up, and she occasionally jots notes down in her notebook.  Beef cake has his attention on a book, the same book he’s had for the day and he just sort of flips through each page slowly; even without seeing his eyes I can tell he’s not reading.  I’d rather run off again, but I was already here.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I start, softly.  I don’t need to ask if the small guy is asleep, he is or wants to be left alone.  “I brought a new pot.”  That sounded traitorous, but I replaced the old pot with the new pitcher.  I had no idea how many cups the scrawny dude had drunk, or how he managed to sleep under all that sugar.  “Can I take some of your cups?  And, do you guys want a desert or something?”

“Yes, please.”  The blue gathers up some of the empty glasses, and I balance them on my tray. “I’m sorry,” she says, as she hands over the fish and chips.  “I don’t think we’re ready for anything else, aside from more drinks maybe.”  The cold fish pieces have taken on that translucent gummy color, as if the air was toxic to them as they had sat exposed.  “We’re good for now.  Oh, do you have any fruit sodas?”

“We have Purple Stuff,” I say, as I transfer empty mugs onto the tray. The scrawny guy’s knuckles twitch as the ceramic cups clink together.  “You want some of that?  Or something else?”  I look over at the hunk and felt my face heating up.  That’s right, his color theme was purple.  I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.  Oh geez.  Oh geez.  Fix this. Fix this!  “But we have an assortment of fruit themed—”

“Purple Stuff!  Perfect,” blue chirped.  Then, of all derailed conversations, she turned to the hunk across from her. “Huh.  You’re really purple.”  The hunk dropped his book onto the table with a plunk and grabbed at the front of his shirt vest; he stared at blue, then looked over at me.  Scrawny guy gurgled something in his sleep and sort of shifted a bit, his stump twitches at his side.

“Well, I’ll go and get that for you then.”  I shouldered the awkward tray and began backing away a little. All I needed now was to fall down and break something, and probably the hunk would be the first of them to help me and pick up the mess.  I would practically die of embarrassment if that happened.  “Anything at all,” I went on, voice a little creaky.  This is absolutely the worst. “Just give a holler, and someone… I’ll be right by.  Thanks. Bye.  I’ll be back, okay.”  I hasten back to the kitchen, drop off the tray and dishes, then head on out and pass out more menus for a group of newcomers.  After all this, I completely forgot about her drink.

__

Cranberries were a nice little restaurant chain and they offered a large variety of foods from Hawaiian dishes, Irish classics, a lot of American, or whatever else was popular across the continents.  For the assorted range, the quality wasn’t the highest but it was better than Flapjacks, and had customized menus for the adventurous.  It was the perfect place to try for a customized pizza, and Vivi had hopes of encouraging an appetite out of Arthur. The theory had been a good one but, Arthur’s cold was a high stakes factor for his inability to eat.  Vivi was virtually at a loss if not for Mystery’s aid, he had forced Arthur to take a chicken filet, and then threatened to cease eating himself until Arthur had a bite more of some food.

Aside from the meal and some necessary catching up, they were able to analyze the collected media from the previous night.  They wouldn’t dream of dedicating themselves to the critical work of their investigations in the Hirstein home, it wasn’t worth the risk.

The pictures taken the night before rendered undiscernible results at best, and nothing Vivi would dream of bothering Arthur with enhancing later for further scrutiny.  Some of the images did have potential, she felt with her expertise of persuasion she could make the lead paranormal professor see shadows in the photograph. If only she had thought to snap a picture with the phone when she was caught in the former household of deceased members, but if the illusion was as fragile as she suspected then it probably wouldn’t have mattered.

Vivi disconnected the SD card and returned it to the protective slot in the camera.  She raised her hand above her glasses and rubbed at her eyelids.  How long had they been sitting around?  An audible shuffled came from Arthur, as his hand jerked against the coffee stained spoon resting on its napkin.  “At least he’s sleeping,” Vivi murmured.

“Yeah,” Lewis mumbled.  The tone and voice sounded natural, as if he were using lungs, but there remained an off scratchy tang in his utterance while he was distracted.  “Background garble would put me into a comma too.”

Carefully, Vivi pulled the ears muffs out from over Arthur’s head and raised them to her ears.  Verifying there was no audio playing through she plucked up the digital recorder beside Arthur’s head, and tucked it into the backpack beside her.  “He’ll bounce back in a few days,” she assured.  “It’s the worse being sick while on the road.”  She lifts her gaze and sees that Lewis was no longer mindlessly flipping the pages of his book, and was now reading the passage he had found thoroughly.  Or was he? “Do you remember being sick?”

Lewis tensed, and a little flash of ember spiraled from the peak of his pompadour hairstyle.  “How many days was I asleep?”

“Four,” Vivi answered.  “What does that… ah.”  She put her hands around her tea mug and felt the cold ceramic on her palms.  “You knew Art was—”

“Can we change the radio?”  This time Vivi could tell that Lewis was reading something in his book. She didn’t ask what it was, Lewis probably wasn’t as absorbed in the text as he wanted to be.

“I need to stretch my legs for a bit.”  Vivi crawled over the back of the booth, despite Lewis’ protests of ‘Vivi don’t.’  “Vivi, yes,” she proclaimed, and slid out from the neighboring booth.  She smoothed out her skirt and then knelt a bit.  “You wanna come too?”  Lewis was about to glide on out, when Mystery launched himself from under the table and joined her.  “I know you’re a gentleman and you won’t follow.  After all, someone needs to keep an eye on Artie.”  Vivi waved back over her shoulder, and Mystery followed with a few departing yips directed at her back.

Lewis scooted back into his seat and gave Arthur his attention. Arthur was out, like, did Arthur court commas or something?  He reached over and poked at the little sliver of skin visible at the top of Arthur’s forehead, just beneath the dark strands of hair.  A low shudder twittered from Arthur, he stuffed his face down into the crook of his arm and quivered visibly.

From the kitchen in the room over, a muffle scream shot up and the sound of something like a plate or glass cracking echoed to the furthest side of the diner.  Currently, there was no one in the back room where their group set up shop, but Lewis had seen a woman in the next room turn her head up curiously to the sudden commotion. Pretty soon they’d start to see shadow people too.  It was best not to give such a situation much thought, they would be leaving soon… he hoped.

Lewis readdressed his book, and flipped through a few more pages as he scanned the title headings.  It was one of Vivi’s rarer tomes that she had not yet parted with (Duet would absolutely have it if Vivi let on she had found it).  The contents of the book covered haunting manifestos and theories behind poltergeist activities, and recounted some of the earliest recorded documentations of spiritual contact in Western culture.  Much of the content was a challenge to follow, though the greatest disappointment was that it didn’t shed any light on Lewis’… unique predicament. The book was written from the human perspective and was completely biased.

Another one of those stifled whimpers came from Arthur and he jerked, the hand on the table curling into a disjointed fist and then relaxing. The table top was littered with crumpled napkins and the straw covers from the waters that frequented these parts. Lewis set the book atop a stack beside Vivi’s laptop, and began picking up the little pieces of paper and gathered them on his side of the table.  After a while, Lewis stretched out and let his feet hover on the seat across from him, weightless, and he began to crinkle the straw bits into pea sized balls; or, marble sized if you were a person of average height.  Arthur had always seemed very short on his own.

Once Lewis had a satisfactory collection, he began – or attempted – to balance the little arsenal of pellets on Arthur’s spiked hair tips.  That wasn’t so difficult.  Arthur made groggy snore sounds and tucked his face deeper into the side of his shoulder, as per usual, the sounds became little whining mewls.  Lewis tore the covering off the straw that was meant for him, and used its pieces to form a little pyramid right beside Arthur’s hand.  He was going to balance the coffee spoon on Arthur’s wristband and fill the scoop side with more paper pieces, but Arthur gurgled something and jerked.  Lewis casually set the spoon aside and leaned far over in his seat.  Arthur muttered gibberish, none of the slurred syllables Lewis had the slightest clue of.

“Art.  Hey. Not here.”  Lewis reached over Arthur’s head and shook the smaller frame by the back of his vest.  “C’mon,” he says, “Open your eyes.”  Arthur actually convulses a little as he’s raising his head, as if he’s being hit with a blunt object over and over.  Arthur raised his head sideways and opens his eyes blearily, focusing on the person now across from him.

The reaction is something Lewis isn’t prepared for. Arthur slings his arms out, or arm, and thrusts Lewis’ hand away awkwardly.  “Hisus— Yais!” Arthur sputtered and slumped back sideways, nearly clear out of his seat.  One of the half empty cups tumbles over and rolls along the table edge, spilling water over a mess of singed napkins.  Lewis moved his hands to clean the mess but stops himself, as Arthur fumbles around in his seat evidently disoriented.  “Oh man… what are you doing?”  Arthur pulls his hand to his face and digs his palm at the bridge of his brow, his clipped sleeve swivels uselessly along the backseat of the booth seeking fulfillment. “Where?  Where?”

Lewis set his arms before him, over the books, and checked the table where the water had spilt.  He brushed at his shirt sleeve, a little sizzle of cinder puffed off and extinguished on the open air.  “Bad dream?” Lewis ventured.

Arthur was coughing, and trying to speak.  He glanced around the bare back room of the diner, someone from the doorway had looked over in response to the erratic movements.  A bunch of these little… paper balls fell out of his hair.  Arthur shoved himself upright, internally thankful he had fallen on his good side. “I don’t remember,” he answered. Once in a comfortable position, he brushed the remainder of the pellets out of his hair.  “It really… I thought I would’ve….”  He turned his face up to Lewis.  “Where’d Vivi go?”  Slouching sideways, he saw that Mystery was not under the table either.  He might’ve been able to surmise that, had he first taken into stock Lewis legs beside him on the seat.  He scooted away.

“She and Mystery went out for a bit,” Lewis surmised, with a slight flick of his hand.  He moved his fingers to the ascot and was trying to smooth it or remove a crease in his shirt collar, plucked up and bent over the shirt vest.  If one watched carefully, the subtle flaw in Lewis’ illusion could be glimpsed.  The cloth was almost too white, pristine, there were no visible weaving fibers but that on its own was hard to tell.  It was hard to explain what Arthur decided he saw, but clothing couldn’t be a ghost. They had been talking all day about memories.  “She didn’t actually say where.”

Arthur tilts his head down, and murmurs, “I-I see.”  His hand resting on the table before him opens, then relaxes into a loose fist.  His eyes trail to the small puddle of water on the table, and Arthur takes a burnt napkin and blots up what he can.  “She’s not very discreet, huh?”

Lewis chuckled.  “Nope.” He moved one of the open notebooks aside, as the water hurried to escape absorption.  While Arthur was cleaning the table, sort of, Lewis began organizing the stacks of books and collecting up the loose bits of trash into one cup. Lewis waited until Arthur had poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and had a sip.  “The possession.”  Arthur paused as he was lowering the cup from his face, the hot steam burning his lips. He gazed through the mist and raised his thick brows, to those dark sunglasses staring back.  

“I-I’m not ready for this,” Arthur said.  He shook his head, or tried.  His movement became stiff, muscles locked.

“This is important for you to hear,” Lewis replied.  

“No, this isn’t a good time.”  Arthur set the mug down and curled his hand around it.  “Later.  Much later, yes?  Don’t make me do this now.”

Lewis adjusted his voice and leaned forward.  He set his hands on the table.  “I was weakened,” he hummed.  Oddly, his voice had a subtle tremor in it, or a drumming.  “It wouldn’t have worked, unless you were willing.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Arthur mumbled.  He wrapped his arm across his chest and gripped the side of his neck.  He fought off the burning in his chest, the dull pain in his skull that he promised himself had vanished overnight.  “You… don’t know,” he took another shaky breath, “what this means to me.”

Lewis paused.  Arthur shuddered and gripped his shoulder tighter.  “Look, I’m trying to tell you.  That’s…” Lewis stops and tugs his arms back towards himself.  “Arthur, look at me.  Try and hear me—”

“DON’T say that.”  Arthur shoved himself back into the uncomfortable seat cushion and pulled his arm up, his only arm, up to hold the back of his shoulder.  He focused on the coffee mug and the frail little wisps of white, twirling inside the rim of the mug.  “I don’t blame you.”

The sounds of the kitchen came in through from the doorway, dishes hosed out by scorching water, the distant drone of voices from a far off world.  Lewis set a hand to the edge of a book and picked at the loose pages.  On either side of him bright ember flurries sputter out, waved away by his free hand.  “I didn’t want this.”  He stopped and tilted his head up, as their waiter skipped back into the room.

“Sorry to drop by,” she paused, and looked Lewis’ way.  “Just checking to see if you needed anything?” She had another tray pinned behind her back, and a few empty glasses pinned in the other hand.

“Yes,” Arthur said.  He relaxed a tad and twists to her, arm loosening from its vice grip on his shoulder.  “Can I get, do you have fried mushrooms?”

“We… have sautéed mushrooms,” she offered.  She gave the two another once over, her expression conflicted.  “Hey.  Are you guys doing okay?”  Lewis could only nod.  Was she really digging him or something? All day she had hardly given Vivi or Arthur a second look.  Lewis looked behind him to the blank wall.

“No.  I mean, no mushrooms,” Arthur sputtered.  He brought his hand to his brow and took a deep breath, and another.  Steady, slow; one one-thousand, two one-thousand.   “Do you make fajitas?”

She nods, and places her eyes on Arthur.  “We do.  We have chicken, beef, and shrimp.  You can get a full dish—”

“No-no,” Arthur said, and shook his head.  He braced his arm across his chest so he could set it on the table beside him, and keep himself from pitching forward.  “Just a water.  A water and a Sierra Mist.”

“Arthur,” Lewis spoke, gently.  The light above their table flickered and flashed.

“S-some steamed veggies,” Arthur stammered, coughed.  He was trembling from each hack as he pressed his face into his shoulder.  “You can do steamed veggies?”  Keep breathing, don’t think.  Calm, steady.

The waitress backed away, but nodded.  “I can speak to the chef.  Steamed veggies and a water.”

“And a soda,” Arthur groaned, as he bowed his head forward. “That’s right.  Yeah, thanks.”  He pulled his legs around to angle them off the side of the seat, and placed more weight onto his arm.  

Lewis waited until the waiter was out of the doorway.  “You shou—”

“I need some fresh air,” Arthur utters, as he stands.  His voice is jittery, and it takes him a painful few tries to urge himself to stand on his two legs without the tables support. “It’s still daylight.”  He wasn’t actually sure, he couldn’t look up. Lewis isn’t aware he’s giving Arthur any sort of look, until Arthur looks his way and frowns.  Arthur reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tinfoil packet, some of its cells empty.  “I got this, I got it under control.  If you could just stop.”

Lewis leans away and clasps his hands together.  “I really am not the one you should be worrying about,” he rattles.

“I know!”  Arthur counted the little capsules left, before he pocketed his gum.  “This… it’s been helping.  I’ll see you in a bit.”  And he leaves.

Beautiful.  Spectacular. It couldn’t have gone better. Lewis looked to the laptop across from him, facing the empty seat of the booth.  That was something to look at, but he was irritated.  No secret, no hidden agenda.  His eyes gleamed a little brighter, and he began a systematic mission to locate each little pellet and burn them to ash.  One, two, five, eight.

The light flashed for its final time, as Lewis held up a hand. With a red spark the bulb popped and no more betrayed his true nature. Eleven, thirteen, twenty.  He was taking new recruitments, and scorching the crumpled spherical shapes on his palm.  Each time a little more of the flesh faded and flacked away in ember peels, revealing ebony and bone.  He crushed the ash in his palm until there was nothing but dust; dust so fine it settled over the tables top in a fine velvety blanket.  One more page.

When he swivels his head up, he has to take a double take. Here comes Vivi, with a look of utmost… why is she looking at him like that?  Behind her is Arthur, sullen; trailing them is Mystery.  She marches through the doorway into the room, and Lewis sees that her hands are bunched up beneath the collar of her scarf.  Arthur makes a motion with his hand, he can’t do much but poke at his own chest.  Lewis begins to fear Vivi has uncovered some mystic way to maim the nonphysical form of a ghost.

Oh?  Oh! Lewis turns his skull down, his sunglasses clatter onto the table and he can understand what it is that Vivi has sworn her agitation upon.  He’s disappointed, and internally wounded, but better they find him like this now than someone else stumble upon him.

When she’s near the table, Vivi snaps.  “Lewis!  What happened?”  With Lewis sitting and Vivi standing, they’re the same height.  Almost.

“I lost focus,” Lewis crackled.  He was shuffling the books aside on the table, and had a notebook in one hand as he tried to fan off the ash.  Mystery’s paws scratched at the table, slick with soot, as the dog tries to raise himself to inspect the damage.  “Well, Arthur walked away!”

“Too soon,” Arthur gagged.  “I am not.”  He broke off and began wheezing fits.  Probably irritated by the dust kicked up.  “Fix it. You can’t be seen like that.”

“And why not?” Lewis challenged.  Vivi turned away to check around, no one in the other room had happened to look in.  “What is so offensive about my appearance?”

“Damnit Lew, if you—” Vivi bite her tongue.  Mystery was yapping at her, the dog had spun from the table and faced one of the outer diners as the waitress walked past.  Vivi cursed and swung back, she snatched the notebook from Lewis’ hand and held it up.  The notebook unfolded, loose pages skim over the table as they swoop out in descent.  “Would you? For me?”

Lewis had already shuffled away, smacking into the tight confines of the table as he recoiled his feet.  “I need a mirror.  I need something.”

Arthur squeezed into the booth across from Lewis and took up the orphaned tinted sunglasses.  “Here, look at this,” Arthur said.  He turned the shades surface to face Lewis, and let the other take them.  “Any reflective surface works, right?”

Lewis didn’t reply.  “It helps if you’re not watching,” he said, instead.  Lewis raised his other hand and pinched the glossy lens between his thumb and forefinger.  Arthur curled up against Vivi’s backpack, and moved the laptop screen to face him.  Arthur pulls his hand back and finds his skin brushed thick with a gray shade.  

“Is everything all right over here?” the waitress posed.  As she neared Vivi she tries to lean over and see beyond the open notebook.  “’Cause, I thought I saw something strange.”

“I know what you mean,” Lewis’ voice was coming off its scratchy tinge, but it was coming back.  He fixed his sunglasses in place, and leaned over the backside of the neighboring booth to see the waiter.  “Can we, by any chance, see our check?”

The waiter stared at him as she moved away, and began to leave. She cast a few more looks over her shoulder before she was out the doorway and into the main dining room.

Lewis leaned back onto his seat.  He raised his head when Vivi took the edge of the seat beside him, and pointed a finger to his sleeve.  “It’s okay. That wasn’t too bad,” she said. “Art?  Can you cover the tab, and I’ll pay you back later?”

Arthur wasn’t looking at her, but he nodded.  Perched on the seat with him was Mystery, and Arthur had a hand resting on the dog’s dark mane.  “Don’t worry about it,” Arthur said.  He had found something on the computer screen to distract himself with, for the time. “I’ll pack up then.”

“I’ll help you, there’s no hurry.”  Vivi fixed her glasses.  She tells herself nothing would have happened, it would have all worked out. Really.  “It’s getting late, anyway.  Will you carry some of these books back to the van?”

Lewis agreed.  Only because she asked and he couldn’t say no.  He managed to clean up the table a little better, and organize their gear before the waitress returned.  When Arthur made it out to the van in the strip malls parking lot a little later, Lewis cringed inwardly.  Arthur came with two Styrofoam drinks balanced upon a carryout box, of what he reminded Lewis was steamed vegetables.

#msa #mystery skulls #mystery skulls fanfic #animated #mystery skulls animated #msa fanfiction #msa fanfic #mystery skulls fanfiction #msa vivi #msa arthur #msa mystery #msa lewis

[whatdoyouthinkmyjobis]

Hunters on the Hellmouth

masterlist

first chapter

previous chapter

AN: This chapter was inspired by events in BTVS 7.10 “Bring On the Night.” Links to character sheets at the bottom of the story.

Warnings: Some torture, gore, death

Chapter 28: Question & Answer

Dean rubbed his eyes, but the discharge papers in front of him were still blurry. His head featured its own drummer on hour twelve of a solo. When had he slept last? Sunday? No, Saturday. Even then, Buffy kept waking up with nightmares every few hours.

“There a cafeteria here?” he asked the nurse.

She paused and glared at him with bleary eyes; she was probably on fumes, too. “What do you need the cafeteria for? She’s leaving,” she said, pointing at Willow sitting blindfolded and stiff with worry in a wheelchair.

Dean grinned at her bad bedside manner. “Point me in the right direction, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”

His charm won out against her exhaustion as she tilted her head to the side with a smirk. “Down the hall. Take the elevator to B. Left at the second hallway.”

Willow had to hold his coffee as he pushed her through the parking lot to the waiting, crowded Impala. He’d gotten up before dawn to fetch two more Potentials from the bus station before picking up Willow, who didn’t seem too happy with his presence.

“Everyone is busy?” she asked again.

“Gotta work to pay for the sudden houseful. I know we’re not BFFs, but I’m what you got, Red. Everybody wanted to be here, trust me.”

“That’s not what I -- sorry...What about Giles?” she asked, as Dean, protecting her head with his hand, guided her into his car.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about him.”

“Really?”

“No! He’s out all day picking up girls. In the come-with-me-if-you-want-to-live way, not the back-to-my-place-for-a-drink way. You know, you’re not the first injured person I’ve handled. Don’t need to be so uptight.”

She was responding as he closed the door. Grabbing his coffee from the roof, he leaned against his car and took a giant gulp. With another gulp warming him, he slid into the driver’s seat, the girls already chatting.

“So you are blind?” asked Lys, green-haired and with a heavy French accent. “Zat does not exactly make me feel safe.”

“Not blind. Just a flash burn,” Willow explained.

“That means she will be able to see in a few days. They are bandages, not eyepatches,” said Grace, a round-faced girl from somewhere in Africa.

“‘ow do you know?” asked Lys.

“We just covered eye injuries in one of my medical classes. Least favorite class so far.”

“Gonna be a doctor or nurse?” Willow asked.

“Doctor,” Grace replied, “if vampires stop interrupting me.”

“I ‘ave been training a few months,” said Lys. “‘aven’t seen a vampire yet. Pretty excited about zat.”

“I bet you are, Ghost World,” Dean muttered. He tossed a bag into the back seat. “Welcome to America. Gotcha some donuts.”

Willow had initially been disappointed to discover Dean, and only Dean, had come to pick her up. It made her feel forgotten, though that wasn’t a fair feeling. Her friends, including an unexpected Giles, had spent most of the previous day visiting her. But to her surprise, Dean’s presence began to grow on her. Instead of blaring his rock music, he told her cheesy jokes on the drive home, asking her opinion on which Xander would like most.

Grace and Lys, who hailed from Nairobi and Quebec respectively, contributed their own groaners. By the time they arrived home, their voices were comforting.

Willow had barely been in her room five minutes before a whiny English voice exclaimed, “Why do I have to watch her? I’m not a nurse.”

“Because you have to pitch in, Cardigan. This ain’t a hotel. Holler if you need something.”

“Hello,” Willow said, waving toward where she assumed the girl was standing. She kicked off her sneakers and stretched out in her bed, the familiar softness like a hug from a friend. “Sorry about this. You don’t have to stay in here. I just need someone within earshot. Just hand me my discman, and I should be good for a while.”

“I’m Annabelle,” said the girl, who sounded like she was sitting in the corner chair. “Mr. Giles picked me up in London a few days ago. Where are you from?”

“Oh, I’m not a Potential. I live here. I’m Willow.”

The girl’s breath caught. “You’re the witch.” Her words carried a tone of insult, of labeling for some later, darker purpose.

“I’m a witch. I don’t think I’m fancy enough for the The.”

“Do you think you’re funny?” Her voice was short, cold.

“I was trying to be because tense. You’re all huffy, and it’s sort of all I can hear.”

“I don’t care if all you can hear is blood curdling screams. Wait, you’ve heard those, or did you kill that boy too quickly for him to respond?”

Willow’s blood ran cold. Of course, word had gotten around the Watcher community. How many of the girls knew? What had they been told? “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? I’ve been training to be the Slayer since I was nine-years-old. Disappointed cannot even begin to describe how the Council felt when they found out that not only had the pet witch of their rebel Slayer killed a man, but that Buffy let her live. Why on Earth should Buffy do the job she’s been slated by fate to do and actually protect people?”

“It wasn’t like that!”

She heard the girl rise to her feet, her voice getting closer as she approached the bed. “That’s your defense? I visited the Council often. I’ve read their records on this Slayer, on you. You do what you want, consequences be damned. Now we have an ancient evil after us, and I’m fairly certain you lot did something to provoke it.”

There were footsteps in the hall. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Dean barked. Quick footsteps on the carpet. Shuffling. Annabelle squealed. “Get your ass down stairs!” He yelled.

Willow panted and clutched her bedspread. “Dean? What’s going on?”

He stook a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Want some water, Willow? Music?” He was doing his best to mask the anger in his voice.

“Uh, both sound good.”

There was rustling at her desk where her discman was sitting. “Vertical Horizon? Really? Here’s your crappy music. I’ll be back in a minute with some water.”

She could hear him tapping his fingers on the doorway. Thinking? Staring? “Willow, keep your bedroom door locked.”

Buffy stood up at her desk, feeling her muscles and their tension knots roll and stretch. For not even being noon, she felt like she’d been up for a week. The morning had been a typhoon of strangers clamoring for a hot shower and breakfast. There hadn’t been enough time to swing by Dean’s for a shower. Thankfully, Xander had given her a ride to work, stopping for bagels and coffee, both of which she wolfed down in the car.

Once at work, she talked with three students with holiday problems -- one of which was worried he wouldn’t be getting the car he “deserved” -- stole some blank forms for Dean to forge transfer records with, and helped the secretary redecorate the Christmas tree some students had covered in pornography. And every movement had been spent under the curious eye of Principal Wood.

It was only a few minutes before lunch, so Buffy decided to skip studying for her final and meet Sam early. She opened the library door to see a line of students with armloads of books swamping the checkout counter.

“Wow, it’s like you’re giving ‘em away.”

“Kind of the idea,” he said as he stamped return cards. “Research is on my desk.”

“I was looking forward to more research,” Buffy muttered as she slipped into Sam’s office.

Other than the piles of books, the room had little decoration -- a large map of California, a school calendar featuring pictures of the building at its least bloody angles, and a withering plant. The small window looked out on a charming copse of dead palm trees.

Moving Sam’s cold coffee out of the way, Buffy sat down with her pasta salad and mild enthusiasm. They had looked at all of their paltry references and come up empty. Nothing on the First. No clues on how to find and fix Spike. No tips on how to organize a gaggle of teenagers so everyone could get a hot shower.

An unfamiliar blue book caught her eye. It was small, only slightly overflowing her hand, and old, the gold embossed Greek lettering faded. She opened to a page marked with folded notebook paper, on it Sam’s writing:

VESSELS 1. vampires, 2. witches, 3. slayer

The bell rang, and Sam ducked in, the desire to be home clear on his face. “Don’t let the kids get you down, Sam. There’s plenty to be down about otherwise.”

He plopped down in a nearby chair and practically inhaled his sandwich. “You think Willow’s home yet?” he asked after a minute.

“Yeah, Dean said he’d get her right after he picked up the Potentials at the bus station.”

“Shit. How many people are going to be at your house tonight?”

“Let’s think about something more manageable, like research,” she said holding up the blue book.

“That’s something else,” Sam said, snatching the book from her hand, an anxious look on his face.

“Well, what is it? It said something about Slayers and vessels?”

“I’m just doing extra research for me on the whole Slayer story, you know, with the Potentials here and all.”

Before she could probe deeper, a familiar voice purred from behind her.

“Thought I’d find you here.” Principal Wood leaned in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, looking quite coolly handsome, as if he wasn’t a complete creep. Buffy wondered if he was hiding a weapon or simply more blood on his hands.

“You are certainly good at finding me,” Buffy mumbled.

Sam rose to his full height, his back straight, shoulders back, stance firm. Only by slipping his hands in his pockets did he manage to look like he wasn’t aching for a fight.

“Did you need something? I’ve already turned in next quarter’s purchasing request.” He said it smoothly, but anyone with ears could hear an ass-beating in his tone.

“I’m actually here to see Miss Summers.” Principal Wood met Sam’s gaze. He was tall, nearly as tall as Sam, and even through the layers of his suit, it was evident he worked out. A fight wouldn’t be quick or clean.

“Let’s talk out here,” Buffy said, leading Wood away from the standoff to the history section. “Is this about Dawn? Did she fall down again?”

“No, I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re feeling better, and I missed you at the dance Saturday.” Having found his secret file, his smile made her skin crawl. What was the want flickering in his eyes?

“I’m sure those kids could cha cha slide without me.”

“If only their dancing was that advanced. Anyway, since I couldn’t talk you into spending Saturday with me supervising the punch bowl, I thought maybe a nice quiet dinner would be more your speed.” He gave her a smile like he’d been rehearsing this conversation the entire weekend. “Buffy, do you like Italian? ”

“Oh.” Relief surged through her followed by annoyance. Wood was a simple, obsessed stalker, the perfect upright citizen to be helming Sunnydale High. Having been stalked by Spike, she knew this could get ugly in a hurry.

“That was kind of the opposite of the response I was looking for. Is this because you’re not dating Mr. Winchester?”

“I wasn’t lying to you. I’m dating Dean Winchester, Sam’s brother.” She hoped that would prevent him from lashing out at Sam at least.

Wood’s dark eyes widened, his face awash with embarrassment. He took a couple steps back, bumping into a bookcase and knocking a few volumes to the floor. “Oh, my apologies! I’m going to go hide in my office now, and let’s maybe pretend we never had this conversation?”

With the assistance of the Winchesters, Buffy took the jet-lagged Potentials out for their first Slayer training session that evening, both to give them some experience and get her mind focused on problems she could solve. Trouble was with the distraction of two hot guys, the language barrier, and Annabelle’s constant questions, no one was focused on anything she was saying.

The grave she was hoping would hold their first vampire, a former elderly man, was already empty. “And sometimes they rise before you can get there.”

Immediately a high-pitched British voice asked, “You just find suspicious deaths in the paper and wait for the vampires to rise? You don’t patrol? Save people?”

“Hey, calm down, Cardigan,” Dean snapped.

Buffy crossed her arms and glared. “Of course, I patrol. Of course, I save people. Do you want to go find a nest, Annabelle? I could throw you in and see how you fare.”

The girl turned red and puffed out her cheeks.

“I do not think she meant it as a challenge, Buffy,” said Keisha, a sixteen-year-old with a thoughtful face, who had arrived from Atlanta that afternoon. The dossier Giles had prepared on her recommended Buffy give her special attention, but so far she found Keisha difficult to read.

“We wanna see action,” added Dani, twirling a stake between her fingers. Buffy got the sense Dani, in training since her early teens, couldn’t wait to be the next Slayer. She knew the moves but possessed little in the way of leadership skills.

“Fine. You want action. I’ll show you action.”

She couldn’t show them action. Only two of the ten girls had more than a year of combat training. Three of them had not been exposed to the supernatural world at all. When she’d told the girls they were going out tonight to kill a vampire, Cloé had started silently crying into her teddy bear.

It was a few minutes and a lot of pounding before Clem, in full rhinestone cowboy gear, opened the door to his crypt and greeted the Slayer with a warm hug. “Hey there, Buffy! Who are your friends?”

Naomi -- freckle-faced and sweet from a nowhere town -- gave an uncertain but polite wave. Cloé clung to Sam’s arm while he translated for Leticia, barely awake enough after her long flight from the Philippines to register the demon in front of her. Most of them stood still and slack-jawed.

“Clem, these are potential Slayers. Girls, this is Clem.”

“Are you telling me,” griped Annabelle, “that you are actually on friendly terms with a demon?”

“Shut up!” Lys hissed.

“Well, I happen to think of myself as a friendly guy,” replied Clem, extending his hand. Annabelle turned up her nose at him and dipped back to the edge of the crowd. “Okay then. Buffy, it’s nice to see you, but I’m sorry I can’t really entertain right now. I’m getting ready to meet some buddies for line-dancing.”

“It will only take a minute, I promise. This is their first night out, and they want ‘action.’”

The demon smiled, exposing his fangs. “Newbies!”

“Lesson one, ladies: Not all creatures of the night are out to get you.”

“‘Ow can you tell?” asked Molly, leaning in.

“You can’t. Being a Slayer isn’t just about weapons training and quick reflexes. It’s also about instinct and good decision making. That’s part of why you need to do research. If you go all half-cocked killing everything in sight, you’ll have no allies, no intel, and no advantage when it comes to tackling the Big Bads. Now let’s move on to lesson two. Clem, you mind showing them that thing you can do?”

“If it helps!” Clem took off his white cowboy hat, and the flaps around his face peeled back, hissing tentacles shooting forth from his glistening red insides. The girls screamed, and to Buffy’s amusement, even the Winchesters jumped back in disgust.

“Thanks, Clem. Enjoy your dancing.”

The monster closed his face, replaced his hat, and gave her two thumbs up. “Anytime, Buffy. Hey, you wanna get some coffee and catch up?”

“Sounds great.”

“What was the point of that?” snapped Dani once Clem had returned to his crypt.

A couple girls snickered behind their hands, delighted to see Dani ruffled.

“The point is that not everything that’s unfamiliar should be killed, and not everything that’s seemingly benign should be ignored. We have an empty grave on our hands. What does that mean?”

The girls looked at each other for answers.Grace raised her hand. “An empty grave would mean that there is a vampire on the loose.”

“Grace gets an A for the night. Even though this vampire will look like an old man, that doesn’t mean he can’t hurt you. We need to be on the --”

Screaming cut her off. Dean bolted toward it while she worked her way around the confused knot of girls. An elderly vampire was biting the neck of a girl in a cardigan.

“We have a crisis!” cried Andrew, waving around an empty paper plate. “Even though I said I don’t like pepperoni, we ordered a cheese, a supreme, and a pepperoni. Now all the cheese is gone, and I’m still hungry.”

The Scoobies gathered around the dining room table kept their noses buried in the old books and letters scattered about. “I’m crying you a river over your woes. Now sit down and help,” said Xander.

“Why don’t we just lock him up again?” Anya asked, taking a bite of cheese pizza.

“Because I always get stuck with bathroom duty,” Xander explained. “It’s not like he has anywhere to run.”

Giles dropped another half dozen books on the table. Andrew and Dawn each took new volumes from the pile.

Anya scowled. “I would have thought that the upside of no Watcher’s Council meant fewer books. Fewer books, less research. Less research, fewer nightmares about taking a pop quiz in my underwear.”

“Yes, the ideal situation is having no idea what’s going on,” said Giles, opening his notes.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Anya lamented.

“I like research,” said Dawn, not looking up from her book.

“More than homework apparently,” said Xander. “Rumor is you have a final to study for.”

The girl shrugged.

Anya continued. “I would have thought with all the Potentials in the house, we could have passed some of the boring off on them.”

Giles sighed. “They can learn research skills anywhere. They are here to be under Buffy’s tutelage, to gain more of a sense of what awaits them.”

“Finish your sentence.” Dawn spoke through gritted teeth. Her face was stone, but already tears were forming. “‘What awaits them’ when Buffy dies. Isn’t that the whole story?”

“Dawn--”

“Have you listened to them? All they can talk about is how excited they are to be superheroes. They criticize her non-stop. They can’t wait for her to --” Her voice caught in her throat, and she bit her lips, holding in the dark word. She pushed away from the table. “I need a break. I’ll be studying in Willow’s room if anyone needs me. Not that anyone ever needs me,” she grumbled as she trudged up the stairs.

“She still mad about being left behind?” Anya asked.

“It’s the story of Dawn.”

“I wanted to go, too,” Andrew added. “Watch Buffy do her thing, blonde hair flowing, watching Sam and Dean as they--”

“Difficult as it may be for Dawn to accept, Buffy has a role to play, training to do,” said Giles. “No doubt we all want Buffy to be the Slayer forever, but we cannot confuse our desires with reality.”

Everyone tried to ignore his words dangling ugly and close, but no amount of page-turning or note-scratching could change the fact that one of the Potentials was going to be the next Slayer. It wasn’t going to happen today, but it was going to happen.

“Hey guys, I think I found something,” said Andrew. He passed a fat brown book to Giles and pointed at an illuminated page. At the bottom of the page were twisted, blinded men in robes. “Do they look Bringery to anyone else?”

“It’s a poem. Sumerian.” Giles traced the words with his fingers, his lips moving as he translated in his head. “Roughly, it says since the Bringers sold themselves to evil, nothing can grow under their feet.” He pointed to the bright flowered border, which turned brown above and below them.

“So they’re bad gardeners?” Andrew asked.

“Poor horticulture is one of the lesser known signs of the end times,” said Xander.

Anya rolled her eyes. “How is this helpful? Do we just knock on every door in town and ask people about their water and fertilizer routines?”

Before anyone could answer, Dawn came running down the stairs with her cell phone in hand. “Buffy called. One of the girls got bit!”

As soon as they arrived back at the house, all of the adults, plus Grace, rushed upstairs with Annabelle. The rest of the Potentials joined Dawn waiting in the living room for the chaos to die down.

Soon, Cloé’s silent tears turned into racking sobs. Naomi squeezed onto the couch beside her and gave her a big hug. Settling the crying girl’s face against her chest, Naomi began to hum “Amazing Grace.”

As Cloé’s sobs subsided, Dani chimed in. “For all Annabelle’s talk about training, she didn’t do a hell of a lot to fight that vamp off, did she?”

A pillow hit Dani in the face. “Wha--”

“Shut. Up,” said Keisha, calmly, with a finger raised in warning. “No one wants to hear about how great you are. That’s not helping Annabelle or Buffy. And you’re certainly not helping us.”

Three more pillows flew at Dani, eliciting a small grin from Cloé.

“You know, it’s okay to be scared,” Dawn announced to the room.

“I woz not scared,” said Lys. “It is ‘ard to be frightened by anyone wearing fringe.”

“I almost peed when that demon did that thing with his face!” Naomi exclaimed before turning beet red. “I didn’t though.”

“‘E seemed nice enough,” Molly added. “Clem was it?”

A big smile burst across Dawn’s face. “Oh, you guys met Clem?! He’s super nice. He watches me sometimes.”

“Watches?” asked Wook, a laconic girl from South Korea.

With that, Dawn’s smile disappeared. “Tonight was scary -- and totally get the tears out -- but I know you’ll all be safe here. I know, because I’ve been the Slayer’s sister since she was called. And what better way to jerk the Slayer around than to grab her not-at-all-special little sister?”

They all leaned in, hanging on her every word. As much as some of them annoyed Dawn by treating this like an adventure, she recognized the terror in their eyes.

“Look, Buffy can be bossy and sometimes she doesn’t listen. She’s self-righteous and in charge, but that’s because she has to be. If she wasn’t, I’d be dead. So I know listening to her is less fun than Algebra, but learn everything you can for the sake of your sisters and brothers, for your parents. It’s not just the world you’ll be saving.”

Some of the girls had gone pale as they comprehended this new threat, and Dawn worried that she’d said too much. “Do you guys like chocolate? I keep a stash hidden from Buffy if you’re interested.”

With that invitation, the girls followed Dawn to her room.

After bandaging up Annabelle, Buffy and Giles retreated to the bench in the corner of her backyard to discuss her disaster of a training session. She breathed in her chamomile tea as she watched the girls mill about her lit house, reminding herself over and over again that they were terrified. But they were still annoying.

“Giles, they wouldn’t listen to me at all! Molly couldn’t stop giggling over two very taken adult men. Cloé is a trembling fear-ball. Dani and Lys kept wandering off on their own. Annabelle would not stop second-guessing everything I had to say, and her bruised ego is the whole reason she was bitten in the first place! You are so lucky you just had me to deal with.”

He covered his face with his mug, muttering, “Quite.”

“You should have seen them when Dean staked the vamp that grabbed Miss Mouthy, which I totally would have done if I’d been on that side of the herd. You’d think I’d hadn’t just been telling them all of this stuff for an hour. You’d think I didn’t have years of slaying under my belt. You’d think they were here for Dean and Sam to protect them, not me.”

“All of them reacted that way?”

Buffy pursed her lips recalling the incident. Maybe it had only been a few voices, but it was enough to bother her. “Felt like all of them.”

“The Watchers’ diaries often spoke of the difficulty of training a new Slayer. Several of the young women chosen through the years were simply unable to grasp the idea that they had authority, that they did not need someone, a man in particular, to save them.”

She pictured girls in petticoats and corsets fainting and dying on their first night as Slayers.

“Why did you take the Winchesters with you?” Giles asked.

The answer pressed out a sigh. “You haven’t seen them fight, but they’re really good. They just sort of go into automatic, like how you can’t forget how to ride a bike. I don’t know if they could win against a vampire like Spike, but the Bringers wouldn’t have a prayer. If they pray, that is. I just kinda assumed with the whole monk vibe.”

“You were concerned they might have shown up tonight?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? They already broke into my house and kidnapped Spike for God knows what reason. Their whole mission is to kill the Potentials, and I happen to be hosting a victim party in the graveyard. You see how I’m sitting? So duck-like.”

Giles looked at her with soft eyes and a small smile. “Even if this were merely a training camp, the next few weeks wouldn’t be easy. The Council filled the head of every Watcher with stories about duty and discipline, but when I met you, none of their methods worked.”

“I don’t think the Council ever met a teenage girl,” Buffy said pulling her coat tighter around her.

“Not an unfair assessment; however, you are far from average, my dear. I have had the distinct pleasure of watching you grow up from a unique girl into the strong woman before me. If anyone can train this lot and keep them alive, it’s Buffy Summers.”

She bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying. Even when she did everything wrong, he still believed in her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“That’s good, seeing as I’m picking up at least half a dozen more girls this weekend.”

It looks like a mask from one of the better costume shops. Spike tried to focus on anything other than the feeling of his intestines being removed. The closest thing was the creature the visage of Buffy kept calling a vampire. Between its grey skin, jagged fangs, reptilian eyes, and bald pate, it struck Spike as a caricature of a vampire, the sort of creature spoken about by supposed good people who don’t want to imagine the passion and lust tied in to actually being a vampire.

The image of Buffy crouched by his face, her eyes half open, her lips full and soft. She waved a finger over his face and touched his nose, only her non-corporeal finger slipped through, a low tingle like a mild shock. “I had such high hopes for you, Spike. You were the one, my right hand giddy on the pain of humans.”

“Wrong number, love.”

“The demon in you wants to help me. I can see it practically worshiping me. It’s that dirty little soul mucking things up.”

“Sod off.” He gritted his teeth. It felt like the grey-skinned monster was poking pins in his bowels.

“This is fun, though,” said Buffy’s image, stepping back to better survey what her pet monster was doing. “A human would have died by now, but you, you just keep growing back. We could do this forever. Unless you don’t feel like playing anymore, then all you have to do is say ‘Winchester.’”

As his fingers dug into her, she bit her tongue and pressed her face into the pillow. “Your shoulders are like rocks,” Dean said as he massaged Buffy’s back.

“After tonight’s disaster, do you expect me to be goo girl?”

“That sounds like the world’s lamest superhero. Goo Girl! She makes villains feel sticky!” he said in a terrible old timey radio host voice. “Supergirly could kick Goo Girl’s ass.” He skimmed his warm, soft lips over her neck, slipped his hands under her pajamas to tease her skin.

She rolled over as he tugged at her shirt, his half-closed eyes and freckled cheeks inches away. She wanted to kiss him, slip her tongue into his mouth while he slipped into her, but she didn’t deserve it. “Sorry, babe. I’m not in the mood.”

Pulling her shirt back down, he curled his body around hers and asked, “Still upset about Miss Stick-Up-Her-Ass?”

“She’s just one part of the Buffy Failure Show.” Giles had given her hope for tomorrow’s training session, smaller groups for graveyard patrol while Sam and Dean covered weapons training in the backyard. Still, she had a long way to climb after Annabelle’s attack.

“It wasn’t that bad. It’s not like anyone died.”

“That’s your yardstick of success?” Images of Dean as a child watching his baby brother popped to her mind -- candy for dinner, porn on the TV, and no one died.

“A hell of a lotta hunters die their first time out. So a girl got bit; so what? At least now they all know to take this seriously. Couple of ‘em ‘bout talked my ear off today about how awesome they thought being the Slayer would be.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That the Slayer’s awesome because she’s Buffy Summers.”

The idea that anyone would envy her position made a laugh bubble in her throat. She could hear a group of girls in the bathroom talking and fighting for mirror space. They can have my life. Dean turned off the bedside light and laced his fingers with hers in the dark. Some of it.

She slid into his arms, her head on his chest, her private cocoon from which she’d be reborn come morning. Bloodied know-it-alls, boy-crazy dreamers, sniveling children, all of those things faded from her memory. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“I don’t know. Must’ve been pretty shitty.”

They laid in the dark, listening to the buzz of the house as they pretended sleep would arrive. One by one, the girls settled in downstairs. Eventually, Giles’ muffled snoring leaked into the hall. For a moment, an hour, all Buffy could hear was the beating of Dean’s heart. Then a wave of voices rose from the living room, and feet pounded up the stairs. Her bedroom door burst open, and Molly gasped, “Annabelle’s missing!”

By the time Buffy and Dean finished checking the upstairs, rousing the rest of the house, and joined everyone in the living room, the girls were having a full meltdown.

“Shut up!” Dean bellowed, silencing the cacophony.

“Who saw her last?” asked Buffy, scanning the crowd. Immediately, four girls started talking over each other.

“Who noticed she was gone?” Dean asked, his voice easily overpowering all of them.

“I did,” said Grace. “I thought I should stay near her since she was hurt. She didn’t want to talk to anyone and laid down to sleep first. I woke up maybe twenty minutes ago and noticed she was missing.”

“She wasn’t in the basement with me,” Andrew added.

“I-I saw her leave,” squeaked Naomi. “I couldn’t sleep. She put a bunch of stuff in her bag. I thought she was going to the bathroom.”

Buffy ran her hands through her messy hair. “Alright, girls, Willow, Dawn, stay here in case she comes back. Giles, Dean, and I will go look for her.”

Bus station, hospital, taxi companies. Dean slipped on jeans and a henley as he ran through a list of places a scared, homesick twenty-something may go for comfort. Yes, the girl was embarrassed and upset, but she knew better than most what was out there.

Downstairs, he, Buffy and Giles were rushing through plans of where to look when Naomi shouted, “Found her!” She was looking out the front door where she’d just flipped on the porch light.

“Hang on!” Dean snapped, but Naomi walked out on the porch anyway.

“Annabelle, you had us all --” She stopped, her face twisted in horror, and released a blood-curdling scream.

Buffy rushed outside to pull the shocked girl in. Annabelle sat perfectly still, leaning against a column on the porch, pea coat on and knapsack by her side. Dean grabbed his gun and crept outside, worried she was the bait for a trap, but the night was as still as she was. The girl was a faint shade of blue, her eyes clouded over. Blood dripped down her sweater from the shredded area where her throat had been. It looked to Dean exactly like the vampire bites from home. Painted in blood on the front door was the word BROTHERS.

Read Giles’ dossiers on: Annabelle      Dani       Cloé      Molly     Lys     Grace    Wook    Keisha    Leticia     Naomi

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