detectivechandler

[detectivechandler]

Sorry guys. It’s been an animal day. We’ve been go, go, go all day. Tomorrow too probably. Gotta be at the barn from 8am-6pm but hoping I can sneak a break in during the middle of the day so I can write a bit. On another note, look how handsome our satanic grandpa is.

#you gotta see the pre blanket pic to appreciate the full majesty 😂😂😂

[detectivechandler]

Have you ever seen a dog this excited to go to the vet?

#he knows exactly where he’s going too 😂

[detectivechandler]

Got a nicker and a trot up to see me today. When annual budgets cuts occur … he’s officially safe 😂

#hALLMARK MOMENT !! #iykyk #tank has done it twice in fourteen years 😂

[detectivechandler]

Me to the vet: I feel like tank is stiff. Maybe painful?

Tank today:

#20? who’s 20? not him

[detectivechandler]

Don’t look at me. I’ve got mental problems and sometimes my blog reflects that 🤷‍♂️

[detectivechandler]

It's been a long while since he's met anyone who can get under his skin as effortlessly as Detective Inspector Joseph "No Nonsense" Chandler, with his perfect clothes and perfect hair and perfectly judgmental eyes that look upon him with utter disdain...and yet here he was, studying the other man where he sat at his desk, working late into the night in a desperate bid to catch yet another murderer. It's the sort of dedication that James has come to expect from the D.I., and he allows himself a moment of silent contemplation from his place in the hall, noting the way Joseph presses a hand against his side while a pained frown creases his brow despite whatever distraction is presented by the files before him. There's something there...something that isn't right, and before James can stop himself he's halfway across the Incident Room, announcing his presence by demanding to see beneath the detective's shirt.

Yes, perfect. That will go over swimmingly.

As expected, Joseph's reaction is far from the cordial greeting of a friend or even the cool acknowledgement of a colleague - instead it's more akin to the response he might get if he'd asked the detective to pet a sewer rat, the frown that twists his brow deepening and his lip curling for just a moment in what James would assume is disgust at his sudden appearance. Then the perfect façade is back in place, the ruffled feathers smoothed and the in-control D.I. present and accounted-for.

"It's not just irritation from your shirt." His voice is pitched low and quiet, almost soothing - the sort of voice one might use to calm a spooked horse, all soft syllables and gentle intonation, and he leans against the doorframe with a casualness that is as non-threatening as he could make it. "Let me guess...three scratches?"

He doesn't need to hear the words from Joseph's mouth, he can see the answer written in the eyes that fix him with a piercing look before shifting back to where he's rearranging papers without so much as glancing at them; he can see it in the way the younger man's chest rises and falls in a rhythm far more rapid than usual and in the slightly off-center knot of his tie. Joseph is rattled, possibly even a little frightened, and it touches some part of James that has been locked away since he was greeted with words like charlatan.

Fraud.

Ignoring the detective's angry tirade, recognizing the way Joseph is lashing out as a response to that fear and uncertainty that has suddenly touched him in a way that is entirely threatening and personal, James moves further into the office without invitation, settling himself in the armchair tucked into the corner of the office. His gaze is direct but utterly lacking in judgment; rather his expression is gentle and blue eyes are touched with sympathy as they rest upon the detective, searching familiar features for some hint as to how to bridge the gap that formed between them at their very first meeting.

"I was like you, once." The words spill into the uneasy silence that lingers in the room, a silence broken only by the sound of the clock ticking on the wall to mark the passage of time. "I didn't buy into any of this...nonsense. I was a rational adult with a firm grasp on reality, and seeing was believing."

James pauses for a moment, his mind casting back to those days - before Sarah's death, before being confronted by his own nightmares come to life, a wistfulness painting his expression in shades of melancholy that linger when he raises his eyes to meet Joseph's once more. "Some things are impossible to deny, however, no matter how grounded in reality a person may be. Trust me when I say that I wish I had never been given the proof I needed in order to believe...and I pray to God it's something you're never given, either."

[detectivechandler]

The quiet wail from the bedroom derails his train of thought, concern for his daughter momentarily overriding the thread of conversation that has flowed between the two men, and James stifles a flicker of frustration at the interruption. It's not Georgia's fault, after all - her sleep has been broken by bad dreams since...well, since the night he became a single parent, and the poor thing had been through so much since then it's no wonder she's restless now.

Even as he's rising to his feet he gives Joseph an apologetic look, one hand lifting to forestall the younger man's departure. He's not ready to let this discussion end yet, especially with so much unresolved between them and so many questions floating around in his mind about the detective's last remark, and James gives a quick shake of his head when Joseph mentions letting himself out. He can't rid himself of the feeling that once the other man slips out the door he'll disappear, that James will wake in the morning to find that it was all some surreal dream, one which would haunt him for the rest of his days. He has enough regrets for a dozen lives, and letting Joseph Chandler walk back out of his life isn't one he's willing to add to his record.

"Stay." It's a request, not a command, and his gaze holds the other man's eyes for a lingering moment as the little girl's voice grows louder from down the hall. "Please, Joseph. I'll go get her, bring her out here so she can settle back down to sleep, and we can...finish our conversation." He hesitates, his expression cracking for a split second as his voice emerges on a whisper of sound. "Don't leave me."

With that he turns and disappears into the darkened hallway, crossing the threshold of the bedroom door and scooping up his daughter to cradle the crying child in his arms, shushing her gently as she clings to him with something near desperation. He bounces her instinctively, pressing a tender kiss to the top of her head while she sniffles into his shirt front, a quiet whimper escaping her as he moves to pick up her blankie and wrap it around her against the chill of the evening air.

He isn't sure what he'll find when he emerges from the bedroom - perhaps he'll discover that it was all a hallucination brought on by stress, that there will be no Chinese carry-out cartons left abandoned on the coffee table, no jacket hung carefully on the hook where Joseph had put it when he arrived with dinner for the two men, no familiar and comforting presence reminding him that he wasn't alone.

So when he steps into the dimly lit living room and glances around, his gaze settling upon the other man once more, he can't help the sigh of relief that slips from between his lips. "I thought...I was afraid you might have..." James swallows past the lump that has inexplicably formed in his throat and tries once more. "Thank you. For staying, I mean."

[detectivechandler]

@gentlemanstarkey said: "something doesn't feel right." (whitechapel)

The water is warm where it falls over his hands, a steadying gurgle of sound that promises peace with each new bit of skin that is offered to it. He's aware of the other man's presence behind him, can feel that shift of energy that settles between bones and muscle (all the places that water can't reach) with a comfortable heat, so he hardly reacts when James' words fill the quiet room. Blue eyes watch as palms paint one another with broad strokes of lingering soap that fall into the drain, carrying each and every worry to some dark and secret place, some curve in the pipes where they'll remain stuck and unable to touch him.

There will be new worries, of course .. but at least these will be dealt with.

Joe glances up, catching his companion's gaze in a mirror that's nothing but unkempt glass, and makes a mental note to clean it later. James is distorted, backwards (as reflections so often are), but he's still able to make out the worried expression that has painted itself across expressive features. The scoff that leaves him is unintentional, a huff of breath and sound that falls into the dark drain with the slippery ease of something that knows it's overstayed its welcome, and for the first time the detective finally shifts slightly, looking over his shoulder until his eyes lock with those so akin in color to their own.

"It's called panic. I felt it too the first time, you know. I still feel it.." Lips twitch as if fighting back the threat of a smile that doesn't fight hard enough to make itself be known, and Joe feels the skin around his eyes crinkle the smallest bit with unshared laughter. "It's just Ed. Every once in a while he feels the need to host something when his mum is out of town, that's all."

The towel that dries his hands is unblemished white cotton, a soft benediction that licks away any remnants of sins that gather like beads of water between his fingers and along the ridges of calloused knuckles.. and as he sets it aside, folded as carefully as a shroud left within a tomb, the other man finally acquires every bit of his full attention.

"If you're trying to get out of it by starting the foreboding omens early, I'll have to tell you that I tried the same last year. It didn't work. I ended up at A&E, listening to a lecture about how feigning discomfort can cost you - or anyone else - their life. So, trust me .. whatever nerves you're feeling in the face of listening to Ed give a presentation on the birth of some spree of murderous grocers ... facing a nurse like that is much worse." That smile does break through now, lighting up features that can never manage to be quite as dour as they wish to be in the demonologist's presence. One stride closes the distance between them and Joe's eyes soften slightly, straightening his tie with deft fingers that celebrate a job well done by reaching downwards to tickle the tips of James' own.

It's a casual dismissal, a careless shrug against something the older man takes quite seriously, but the detective feels far too light to be plagued by the weight of doom and bloom. "Seriously, James. After all the stories you've used to try and convince me you're not completely mad.. you're going to pretend an evening spent with Ed Buchan is enough to get your guard up? What happened to your sense of adventure?"

[detectivechandler]

This, at least, is a subject he can discuss with a degree of confidence and knowledge, having studied the origins of such myths for years in search of what he would call the truth - if such a thing existed and could be defined with one broad and simplistic term. He rests his weight against the edge of the desk, the sturdy wood surface comforting and solid in a world that feels as if reality is becoming distressingly subjective, his gaze falling to their interlaced fingers. It's difficult to find a place to begin, to pinpoint the best way to tackle a conversation so complex and layered, so full of metaphor and hyperbole that stretches back for literal centuries, and James clears his throat as a thoughtful crease appears between his brows.

"One must, out of necessity, rule out a good many of the myths and legends involving children - remember that parents will tell their young any number of tales in order to ensure good behavior and to keep them safe. And while some may have origins in reality, a vast majority are...manufactured, either frightening to scare kids into behaving, or benevolent and generous as a means of rewarding good little boys and girls."

He pauses for a moment, his gaze lifting to meet Joseph's, searching steel blue eyes for some sign that he is following along the meandering path that James is leading him down. He wants the younger man to understand, to grasp the difference between legends born of truth and those created by desperate parents hoping to keep their children from harm, but it's a subject that has taken him a decade of study and research to parse, and condensing it down to bite-sized morsels that are easily digestible is a challenge he's never had to undertake before.

"Perhaps it would be best to begin at the beginning. Demons." The word feels like acid on his tongue, a flavor he's grown accustomed to over the past ten years but one that never becomes less jarring to the senses when spoken aloud. The cold chill that wraps itself around him isn't new either, and James turns his focus to their joined hands once more, an anchor and a lifeline to both of them as they're tossed about on a tempest of biblical proportion.

"What do you know of them, of their origins?"

[detectivechandler]

The look he gives Joseph is entirely blank for a moment, wondering if the question is serious or if there's a hidden camera waiting nearby to record his reaction to what must be the strangest thing he's been asked by anyone in his academic career. Realizing that Joseph is looking at him expectantly and that he still hasn't engaged his brain enough to respond, James gestures at the book spread open between them.

"It's English." There's a beat or two of silence, one that speaks volumes toward the fundamental difference between the two boys seated at the desk so near each other their shoulders and knees occasionally bump together. James gives his companion a crooked grin and amends his reply. "Alright, it's Middle English. Chaucer wrote the book in around 1400, and that was the language that was spoken at the time."

He takes a moment to glance over the page before them, finding an example of a word that should be relatively familiar to the other boy and pointing it out as he leans closer, his love for the subject both obvious and infectious. It's been forever since he's had anyone to talk to about his favorite subject, and Joseph asking about the language has opened up a can of linguistics worms.

"You've at least heard of Middle English, yes? The language that eventually became what you and I speak today?"

[detectivechandler]

joe + common sense coming through // 3.05

#visage. will an angel of the lord stay my hand #it fits the vibe. #I love this character so much. help me 😭

[detectivechandler]

Oh, spring … please be here to stay.

#please please please be here to stay

[detectivechandler]

Mama showed up.

Sunday surprise !

#best part about spring

[detectivechandler]

Sunday surprise !

#look at the little orange ear ❤️

[detectivechandler]

my goal is to get the barn over as quickly as possible and then lay in my bed and die for the rest of the afternoon.

#i'm gonna try to get some more writing posted this afternoon. #fighting my brain right now because it wants to jump muses and i'm not letting it until i actually manage #to be decently active on this blog considering my goal was to write a character #completely different from my usual

[detectivechandler]

@gravewalks said: ❝ my list of grievances would be about a mile long. ❞

What would you say then? If you were a ghost and some stranger asked what you were after?

The question had slipped before he could stop it, words painted with an amusement meant to hide the shadowed undertones of judgment, and Joe feels his brows furrow in frustration at the other man's refusal to accept it as anything else. Briefly he wonders what it would be like - that sure certainty of self that isn't afraid to blur the lines, to be confident in one's beliefs even if the knowledge of them being perfectly asinine - does his best to imagine a world where Detective Inspector Joseph Chandler is far less sharp angles and crisp edges, a man instead known for easy laughs and cavalier attitudes.

Whatever gets the job done.

He shakes his head at the thought, shoulders curled against the sudden burst of cold wind that runs tousled fingers through styled hair, sending strands blowing in every direction while the hem of his coat snaps against the air as if it too is venting its frustration. Joe will never understand the freedom of thought gifted to some people, that inherent trait that allows them to thread their way through the unconventional with nary a thought, but the knowledge doesn't stop him from trying. Blue eyes glance in Graves' direction while the fingers of one hand set to work trying to right blonde hair, a process as pointless as his current personal investigation.

"Do you really believe that? When people talk about ghosts, I mean ... or being mediums .. you believe them?"

#gravewalks #verse tbd ; #fey this took me ages but i love the concept and this character sooo much #i doubted he went around being like 'hey i can talk to ghosts' so i played with the idea of making it like a comment #after they met someone who *was* vocal about their ability/talent/belief #if it doesnt work let me know and i can change it #thank you for your patience i hope your move is going so great !! #in character. writing

[detectivechandler]

Finally biting the bullet and setting notifications for a lot of you because I genuinely thought you had gone to another dimension

#this is my reminder to do it after chores and work tonight