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emospritelet · 6 years

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Kiss of Life - chapter 5

I’m taking a break from the Rumbelle Angst War to post KoL. Just recharging my batteries you understand...

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

AO3 link

Belle had Tuesday off, and she spent her time exploring the town, sharing an iced tea with Ruby at Granny’s and picking through the book selection at the local thrift store. She walked through the park in the afternoon, smiling at the sounds of local children playing on the swings, bundled up in scarves and gloves and colourful hats. The sun was out, frost sparkling on the ground, and she had her hands deep in the pockets of her coat, a scarf wrapped around her chin to keep out the cold. An old man was making his way towards her, wrapped in a long coat with a black felt hat on his head, white beard twitching as he approached one of the benches. Belle watched as he reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out a book and promptly dropping it.

“Oh, let me get that for you!” she said hastily, trotting over, and bent to pick it up.

The old man smiled, bowing his head.

“Thank you, miss,” he said, in a low voice. “Not as limber as I used to be.”

Belle turned the book over in her hands.

“Lord of the Rings?” she said. “It’s been years since I read this.”

“I read it once a year, in winter,” said the man. “Sort of a ritual, you see. On sunny days like this I like to take some exercise around the park, sit on the bench until it’s too cold and then get a coffee at Granny’s. When you’re retired, it’s good to get out of the house.”

“What was your work?” she asked, and he smiled, his eyes crinkling.

“I taught at the elementary school,” he said. “Oh, years ago now, but I enjoyed it. I’ve seen the kids I taught grow up and have kids of their own. Makes you feel old.”

“Must have been rewarding, though, sharing knowledge and encouraging children to read and grow,” said Belle. “I had plans to be a librarian when I left college.”

“Oh?” he said, interested. “What happened?”

She shrugged.

“Life,” she said, a little gloomily. “Couldn’t find work, and had to move back with my dad. I’m working up at the hospital at the moment. Just helping out, but it’s enjoyable. Worthwhile, you know?”

“Ah,” he said. “I was in there not so long back with my hip. Wonderful staff. A little lacking in reading material, though. Mostly magazines.”

He lifted his book, with a somewhat rueful smile, and Belle chewed her lip thoughtfully.

“Well, maybe I could do something about that,” she said, an idea starting to take form in her mind. “It was lovely to meet you. I’m Belle French, by the way.”

He touched his hat, his beard twitching as he smiled.

“Alfred Prentice, at your service.”

The sunny weather didn’t last, the rain returning by Thursday and turning to sleet, but Belle was busy at the hospital and barely noticed. She had decided to take Mr Prentice’s comments about a lack of reading material on board, and so she had returned to the thrift store and bought all the decent-quality novels they had. Getting them to the hospital had meant persuading her father to give her a lift when he was out making deliveries, but as flowers were ordered for patients on a regular basis, they were able to kill two birds with one stone. The locker room now had three boxes of books stacked in a corner, and Belle had hunted around for something that she could use to transport them around the wards, eventually borrowing an old cart from the janitor. She hadn’t bothered to discuss the book collection with Zelena, instead going straight to Glinda South, who was Zelena’s senior. Glinda was a warm, pleasant woman, who could see the benefit to patients being able to access reading material, and was only too happy for Belle to run the scheme.

Belle was in the process of arranging books into genres in the patients’ waiting area, separating romance from fantasy, horror from history. She chewed her lip as she looked over the titles she had managed to gather together. I need more children’s books on this thing. The kids are sometimes in this place the longest.

“Here you go-o!”

Ruby’s sing-song voice made Belle look around, and she smiled as she saw Ruby standing with a wide grin on her face and a paper bag swinging from one hand.

“Pastrami with tomato and hot mustard, just as you like it.”

“God, you’re an angel,” sighed Belle. “I’m starving!”

“Figured you’d forget to eat lunch if I didn’t remind you,” said Ruby cheerfully. “Too much dedication’s a bad thing. You make my half-assy waitressing look bad. Take a break.”

Belle smiled, nodding, and stacked the pile of books she had been sorting on the cart. Ruby looked them over with interest as she handed Belle her sandwich.

“You running a library in this place?”

“Well, kind of,” said Belle. “I bought a bunch of books from the thrift store, and added some of my own - the patients don’t get to read unless someone brings in material, so I figured this would help.”

She bit into the sandwich, mouth watering, and let out a tiny moan of pleasure as the heat of the mustard and the salt of the pastrami bathed her tongue.

“That’s so good,” she said, in a muffled voice.

“Hey, Belle.”

Dorothy’s voice made her look around.

“When you’re done with lunch, could you bring some fresh linens to the kids’ ward?” she asked, flicking dark braids back over her shoulders. “Grace threw up again, and if I have to clean up another pile of vomit I think I’ll kill myself.”

Belle giggled.

“Not a problem.”

Dorothy sent her a grateful smile, eyes flicking to Ruby, and she nodded a greeting before stomping off in the direction of the children’s ward. Belle took another bite of her sandwich, noticing that Ruby’s eyes had gone very wide in her face.

“Who’s that?” asked Ruby.

“Oh, that’s Dorothy,” said Belle carelessly. “Nurse Gale to you.”

She gave Ruby a cheeky grin, and Ruby shook her head, huffing out air as she fanned herself with a hand.

“She could check me for a fever anytime,” she remarked. “How come I haven’t seen her before?”

“New in town,” said Belle. “I could ask her out for you, if you like. Couldn’t go any worse than the date you arranged for me.”

Ruby sighed.

“Okay, I admit Isaac was a disaster,” she said. “Don’t lose heart, okay? We’ll find someone who’s perfect.”

“And in the meantime I can pass on your fondest regards to Dorothy,” said Belle, with a grin.

“Oh no, don’t do that,” said Ruby hastily. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

“Only way to find out is ask.”

“You’ve never asked a girl out, have you?” said Ruby dryly. “It takes at least two years of politeness and mutual pining before one of you gets brave or drunk enough to make the first move.”

“Sounds way too complicated,” said Belle. “But have it your way. Maybe I can see if she wants to come on a girls’ night.”

Ruby perked up.

“That would be okay.”

Belle found that she had to bow out of the Friday night get-together when she was asked to work a double shift that weekend. An outbreak of flu was spreading through the town, and several of the hospital staff had been struck down, leaving everyone else overworked. Belle rushed along the corridor, carrying an armful of fresh linen and trying to ignore her aching feet. She had worked four days in a row, and hoped that no more of the staff would succumb to the illness. They were short-handed as it was, and things were only getting worse as the weather turned colder.

For most of the residents of Storybrooke, staying in their own homes and drinking plenty of fluids was enough, but this strain of the flu had been particularly nasty, taking its toll on the weak and sick, the young and the elderly. She bit her lip as she saw old Mr Prentice being wheeled along on a gurney, eyes closed above his white beard, looking drawn and tired. Wishing him a speedy recovery, she hurried along to the children’s ward, pushing open the door and almost knocking Dorothy on her back. Belle apologised quickly, but Dorothy shook her head.

“It’s okay, we’ve all been here too long, I think,” she said wearily, and glanced over her shoulder. “Especially him. Do me a favour and see if you can get him to go home and get some rest. The guy’s been here eighteen hours at least.”

Belle peered over her shoulder. Dr Gold was reading a chart at the end of little Grace Milliner’s bed and frowning. He looked exhausted, but she knew full well that he was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Getting him out of there wouldn’t be easy.

“I’m done for the day, anyway,” added Dorothy. “Gonna go home and try to get a whole six hours of sleep before we do this again.”

She patted Belle’s shoulder and wandered off down the corridor, and Belle hurried over to Dr Gold’s side, setting down the armful of linen.

“You look like death,” she said, not unkindly.

Dr Gold glanced up. His eyes were dark hollows in his face, his cheeks drawn, but he smiled briefly.

“Miss French,” he said. “I had no idea you were still here. Shouldn’t you be at home?”

“You’re one to talk,” she said, and he shrugged.

“There’s too much work here.”

“Yeah, and it’ll still be here after you’ve actually had some rest,” she said firmly. “You know Dr Whale’s on shift now, right? Let him take over.”

“With new patients coming in every hour?” he said dismissively. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He turned away, hooking the chart over the end of the bed and reaching over to feel Grace’s forehead. He frowned again, and Belle sighed.

“Look, you know you have to sleep sometime,” she said reasonably. “Sleep deprivation can lead to mistakes, everyone knows that.”

“I just need more coffee,” he said repressively. “If you want to be useful, why don’t you go get me one? And then you can go home, you look dead on your feet.”

He walked to the next bed, picking up the chart and fumbling it. Belle caught it before it hit the floor, and he sighed and ran a hand over his face.

“Go. Home,” she said firmly. “Eight hours, that’s all I ask. If you don’t rest, your immune system will be throwing a welcome party for that flu virus, and you know it. How much good is it gonna do your patients if you’re too sick to tend to them?”

Dr Gold’s face appeared to go through the five stages of grief, but eventually he sighed heavily.

“Fine, you win,” he said, in a defeated tone. “Get your coat.”

Belle blinked.

“My - my coat?”

“Well, if I’m leaving, so are you,” he said tersely. “Or are you too stubborn to take your own advice? I’m driving you home. Meet me outside the main entrance. Ten minutes.”

He stomped off with an air of irritation, and Belle gaped after him. He was driving her home?

#fic: kiss of life #rumbelle fic #my fic #dr gold x candy striper belle

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jobanana7 · 6 years

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the one with all the christmases

so i’ve been binge watching friends and i got to this episode so this fic happen so this is very much inspired by chandler’s time in tulsa… enjoy! also i promised @chele20035 i would write something christmasy so there it is!!!!all mistakes (and boy i bet they are a few) are mine, i do not own the hunger games nor do i own f.r.i,e..n.d.s

When Peeta Mellark fell asleep in his company’s meeting and woke up to find out that he’d say yes to moving to district 11 without knowing what he was saying yes to he thought to himself that it was fine, he taught about everything he was getting out of it: the company will load him a brand new mercedes! that was it. ok so it sucked , it sucked even more when he tried to tell his wife. she tired to be as supportive as a wife can be and he’ll never forget those beautiful words she used when the gather everyone to tell them they were moving “i have to go don´t i? cause of this stupid thing” and she pull up her wedding ring aaa his loving wife, but dammit he missed her like crazy. he should’ve told her to turn down that new job she landed but the project Abernathy gaver her at her biology lap was too good to past, looking around this office he kinda wishes he did thought.

“Ok everyone is really necessary, the name calling and the note on my back? you can all call me peeta by the way” he said as he sat down on his uncomfortable office chair, he received a collective grown as an answer , he glared at his team

“My son is in a play right now” his right hand Seeder says

“You people want me to say it? i’ll say it, this sucks! is it really quite shitty to be stuck in an office on Christmas alright but at least you all get to go to your families at the end of the day, i get to go to a cold hotel room and a very questionable bed!” he cried almost winned, really but at this point he was over it of this dead end job as an accountant had everyone back home loved what they were doing first there was Finn his beast buud and actor who thanks to his good looks landed the lead in a soap opera that was a an instant hit, the there was Madge and Gale an odd pair who should be together if you asked him one a fashion executive at Gucci and the other a professor on environmental science ,finally there was Jo a masseuse by day and a fighter for human rights by night , what did he had?

“Now it feels like a holiday! and hey great pep talk!” the new girl chimes in, blue eyes full of laughter

“I know and i’m sorry, but hey! i know what’ll cheer ya up” he says pulling out the white eveloves he was handed earlies by her supervisor Mrs. Coin “you know a little bonus for all your hard work”

“ a donation was made in your name to the New York ballet” someone reads out loud

“Well that’s like money in your pocket” he says but just barely fooling anyone

“i can’t wait! “ the same girl, GLimmer was it? says “what would you be doing back home right now?” she asks

“ Oh well, our Christmases are pretty traditional just the usual ” he says and he’s brought back to one of his favorites christmases….

“so i wrote this song for some very special people in my life so… here we go “went to the store and sat on Santa’s lap asked him to bring friends all kinds of crap he sias all you need one little song now you haven’t heard it so don’t try to sing along… no don’t sing along, finnick oh finnick have a happy christmas eve, saw santa Claus he wanted he wanted Peeta’s buns, please tell Gale this year will be real snowwyyy and Madge and Katniss i love you guys something”… thank you all, happy holly days!” jo said as people on the coffeehouse applauded to her.

that was one of the few memories he’s made with thi bunch of people in over 7 years, Peeta makes his decision right them and there

“ You know what, go home everyone, be with your families is bad enough that we’re working new years eve too.” Everyone gape up at Peeta anger clearly written on everyone’s face “ Did i not tell anyone about new years? go. go home” His team didn’t need to be told twice, within the minute everyone was gone

“Oh your not gonna go?” Peeta asked Glimmer “naaaah i can’t leave you alone with all this mess, besides i don’t have anywhere to go my family is upstate” he’s nodding his head when the office phone rings

“ Peeta Mellark speaking” he tell the line

“Hi babe, we just wanted to call to wish you a merry christmas!” Katniss, his beautiful wife says to him and he hears a chorus of “merry christmas” from his friends as his heart swells at the gesture

“awe merry christmas to you guys too, i miss you all” Peeta returns the sentiment genuinely

“is it real bad over there? everyone working hard?” Katniss asks

“No everyone left is just me and Glimmer here” at her name Glimmer perks up waving at the phone as if she was greeting his wife.

“Oh, that is kind of a girls name, isn’t t?” Katniss aks trying to sound casual but he knows her better that that

“ it is, but is ok she’s just the new intern dont worry, did i not told you about her?” Peeta asks and her hears a light “aja” from his wife and a “wrong move dude” form one of the guys, he sewars is Finn

“ Where’s your team?” she finally aks “I send them home” he admits to hi wife not wanting her to worry about this, is funny how she still has no idea the effect she has on him

“Such a good boss, is she pretty?” Katniss says and edge her voice

“Oh honey, don’t be angry if i could i would be with you guys but i can’t besides she’s just a colleague” she reasures her “ there’s really nothing to worry about”

“ok” she says a little harsh

“ok?” he ask her going for just a second to that place where only the two of them go where even when they are apart is like he’s right with her, his voice soft and low

“ok” she breathes out more gently this time and he smiles even jealous he is completely crazy about her “Merry Christmas love” is a whisper to her and she returns it

“Merry christmas you guys” he says to to his friends and eternal trirt wheels and they say it back after promising Finn he’ll be back soon he hangs up, he turns back to Glimmer not wanting to make a big deal about what she just heard

“ The wife says hey” Peeta laughs at set the phone down on the desk

“ ha, been following the conversation” she says, setting down some documents

“Well she just thought that because we’re alone something’s gonna happen” he sheepishly admits

“ oh really?” Gimmer says reaching out to smooth his tie and he steps back “would that be so terrible so terrible?” sha asks seductably witch makes his so confused because he’s never thought of himself as sexy and in any case the only person he want to be saxy for a far awy not this blonde, blue eyed assistant that would just make it more of a cheesy pron that anything else

“ok step back there Glimmer, i am married” he says and Glimmer pulls up her hand “Me too” he rolls his eyes “ i’m HAPPILY married ” he clarifies to her “ oh, what’s that like” Glimmer asks

“Yeah so i’m sorry nothing is gonna happen tonight besides me getting node with this papers” he says to he firmly

“ seriously, you’re happily married? so the phone call just now was happy?” she questions him

“Well we’re apart is hard you know? she is right to be a little worried i know i would be if i were her and in this case she’s right, but she’s amazing and smart and if she were her… well you’d be gone by now, you seem lovely but no i don’t need this what i have back home with K is all i need ” Peeta tells her honestly

“let me ask you something then, if it’s enough, why are you here with me on a holy day?” Glommer says and she seems to be serious and he come up empty because truly … there is no one good reason he has to apart from her …

“ wowowowo what’s happening, you and i just made out? we’re making out” twenty four year old peeta asks twenty three year old katniss

“well not anymore” she says out just centimeters away from his lips as her arms were around his neck her silky red dress against his pajamas making weaked things to his brains

that was the beginning of it at Gale’s wedding in London Katniss was upset because she was watching her brother get married for the first time with incidentally ended up in a divorce for Gale

the first time they fought when Jo broke her arm and Madge got them dated with some nurses

“well you made it clear that we’re just goofing around, so i figured why no goof around with him too” katniss said referring to an earlier comment he’d made

“ i don’t know if you’ve looked the term “goof around” but i have and it said that technically is two friends that care a great deal for one another and have amazing sex and like to be together” he cringed “ i am so bad at this“

a smiling Katniss had told him that that was true, they did cared about each other and they spend the rest of that night together not quite ready to tell their friends about each other

“ Peeta you’re not listening to me!! i don’t care that we can’t afford a big wedding right now, the only thing that matters to me is that i’m getting married to the love of my life, big wedding or not.” katniss argued but Peeta wanted to give her the perfect wedding day to her to treat her like a princess, a queen but at twenty six his job was unsteady, he found himself frustrated unable to meet this one expectation but she was right she never asked for anything he couldn’t give her, ever.

“ but don’t you want a big beautiful wedding where our families can see you walked down a beautiful isle and your dad will give you away, Maddy as the flower girl?” he asked because that was his dream exactly to see Gale’s little one walk first with the floews and then, Prim Madge and Jo as maid or honor and the al last her, his bride in a white dress with her dad.

“i really don’t, i swear, i don’t my parents didn’t have a big wedding and i want what they have. a home , a marriage” she said

“a little girl with your eyes” he whispered reaching out to cup her face stilling a soft kiss the smile that she gave him when he pulled out was so bright it nearly blinded him

“ a little boy with your hair”

soon they were engaged and married the last 2 years of his life had been the best ones yet only to be topped with the news of their own little one on the way and here he was waistinging his life on this job and this Christmas as well so he walked out right out of there.

NEW YORK (4 hours later)

he heard their voices as he approached the apartament , he was home finally stepping in he heard Jo first

“ oh look! is snowing you guys!” he says excitedly everyone was by the window when we cleared his throat they all looked back at him, on seconds his wife was on him kissing him firestly

“ woow we have a baby here people” Madge reminded them of hunter her and Gale’s son, they pulled away hos and resting on his own baby

“what happened, don’t you have to be in district 11 ohio? can the fire you?” Katniss asked consent on her voice

“turns out they can’t because i quitted” he said katniss gasped

“ you quit your job?” Gale asked shooked

“yeah, i couldn’t stand being away from you and i know this is not the time but, i’ve bee planit to leave since we learned about the baby and i’ve already applied to other jobs, jobs i could be better at and plat just as well” he rescued her and her face relaxed “what do you think? i’m sorry i didn’t talk to you about this before but today was the last drop, plus , i missed you ” he kissed her knuckles but before she could talk Finn piped in

“but who did you missed the most?” he asked his trademarked Finnick Odiar smile on handsome face

“Katniss” Peeta said without a moment’s hesitation

“yeah, that’s cool dude” Finn said playing cool then making faces as if to say “ i know you HAD to say that for Katniss’s sakes i you you missed me more”

“But really are you, ok with this?” he asked katniss once more

“i think you hated your job and if you can do something you like, support you” his wife said and she kissed him again

“Peet, i can’t tell you how happy i am that you’re back” Jo finally said and he was touched to hear that from her “thi is honestly the best christma gif i’ve been given, but now give me the real one” he laughed and kissed her cheek handig the white envelopes

“A donation was made in your name to the New York ballet” Gale read out loud “ how did ya know?” he said sarcastically

“ but wait i can’t return these” Madge winned

“I DON’T HAVE A JOB” Pee eclamed

the end

#my fic #everlark fic #f.r.i.e.n.d.s #mondler #everlark

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hollywoodx4 · 7 years

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Sticking With the Schuylers (49)

It’s here, I finished! Thanks for your patience, this one is an emotional burden, and honestly took a lot of time. But hello to all of the new readers! I’ve been watching the notifications (thanks for liking, by the way) so thankful that you guys have given this long ass story a chance. This series is my entire heart, so thank you. I appreciate every like, comment...everything.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 1112 I 13 14 15 16 17 18A 18B 18C I 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 I 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 I 43 44 B 45 46 47 48

Tagging: @linsnavi @workworkbae @adothoe @oosnavi

Warnings: This story is pretty heavy on mentions of both physical and emotional abuse.

“Schuyler Liar? A look into the life, love, and lies of America’s middle daughter.”

Social media was buzzing with a flurry of mixed emotions when James Reynolds, political hopeful, admitted the rekindling of his relationship with Elizabeth Schuyler. The two had called it quits in March based on terms James “couldn’t and still can’t understand.” In September, in flooded news of a new romance for the middle Schuyler. And in November, those rumors were confirmed. From there, Shuyler’s social media has been dotted with photos of herself and Alexander Hamilton, a fellow student at Columbia University. But even these photos, beautifully presented have raised a lot of speculation. The main question? Is Elizabeth Schuyler really dating this poise-less immigrant? Sources have been back and forth on this argument from the day Eliza herself confirmed it. And Mystery Man? His private Instagram has recently been made public, his follower count raising by the thousands.

But is this all just a publicity stunt? Reynolds says yes. According to an anonymous source, the two have started dating again. And Hamilton? A front. But other sources say that these allegations are also false. And at the center of it all? A red-handed Schuyler, caught in the act of serial dating. All three parties refused to comment on these accusations, Reynolds offering only “If it’s true, if she’s dating someone else, I don’t know what I’ll do. That would break me, I think.”

What do you think? We think that someone has some major explaining to do.

___

Madness is a murky pond; stagnant and still, a breeding ground for new life that isn’t quite wanted. The lurking of bacteria within that pond presents itself as a tightened stomach, nerves that roll and flip and eat at the soul. It’s the disguise of something simple that sparks the nerves, paranoia consuming the murky waters until they bubble over with the addition of new rainfall. But this is rain that falls heavy, with gale-force winds and storms that shake the land around her. This madness is a pond wracked by fallen branches. It’s a rain that will not cleanse.

Eliza spends a majority of her time in a state of busyness; the winter has brought along a lot of busywork she isn’t prepared for. The holiday season, and then Alex’s birthday, had come and gone so quickly that her course work piled up. Now, she sits on it-or, within the depths of it. With a full backburner of work, Eliza finds herself in a state of uncommon disarray; her hair in a messy bun, the canvas bag she uses to tote things back and forth now cluttered with a collection of her week’s discarded items. Empty gum wrappers crinkle as she gets out a book, the floor receiving a coating of glitter from an art project she’d lead in an Early Childhood class. Among these things, charcoals and pens that have lost half their volume, shortened by a newfound flaring of emotions she’s unable to convey through any other means.

Then, the white journal that Lisa had given her. She’d been asked to use it frequently, with assignments and with the use of another outlet. It’s supposed to help, to clear her mind and give her something to keep herself busy, and grounded to reality. So far, her work had spanned from a quote written in neat handwriting over the front cover (which she’d spent far longer on than necessary) to the first page, which she’d covered in Polaroid photos and similarly picturesque captions. Everything reads sweet, docile. She uses pastel pens and watercolor paints in this book, which she’d presented proudly to Lisa the next session.

“It looks very well put-together.” She’d turned the journal over in her magenta manicured hands, considering it with a nod and half of a smile before returning it to Eliza’s waiting hands. “Soon, we’ll work on pulling you away from that.”

Lisa does a lot of half-smiling in the weeks that pass; Eliza’s journal does not get filled, nor does what has been put inside encompass a stitch of her therapist’s expectations. Each week she presents it like a master chef showing off his greatest dish, and each week Lisa nods. She takes notes. She fills up the legal pad she’d opened when they’d first started working together and immediately opens a new one. Her hand can’t seem to stop during their sessions, where Eliza fills Lisa in on her week in broken up fragments, bits and pieces she tosses in to fill the awkward silence.

“Are you ready to talk about the journaling?”

Eliza shakes her head.

“I’m working on it.”

Thursday morning has Alexander practically bursting through the door of Starbucks, scanning the tables and couches until he finds her in the back, scribbling in a white book in an enclosed area of the room. He ducks past a line that swivels out the door, grabbing the espresso-laden drink John had made ahead before sinking into the seat across from his girlfriend.

Eliza doesn’t look up. Her eyes are glued to her book, her hand frozen in time. He clears his throat. She takes in a soft breath, just enough of a clue for Alexander to know that she hasn’t died right there on the unsteady corner table. He presses, saying her name again in a soft and gentle sort of tone before her head snaps up from her work. Eliza’s hands are shaking when she brushes the loose strands of hair from her face, combing it between her fingers before her long, dark locks fall over one shoulder. She tips her head in the opposite direction, leaning over the table for a kiss.

“How’s work?”

“Good, I wish I could go in and finish filing those papers though.”

“Does your boss have another stupid, weird task for you to do today? Dusting the ceilings of his office, getting his mail from the P.O box?” Alex turns his head slightly, subconsciously.

“Liza, it’s Thursday…I have off. We always meet here on Thursdays because of that, before my 7 a.m?”

“You’re right,” She shakes her head. “This whole change of schedule thing is really killing me, I only knew what day it was when I had to say it during morning lesson.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay over last night; our whole electric bill problem? Insane. They had to take the phone from me. Apparently I’m not as calm under pressure as Laff is.”

“You? Stressed? Never.”

She laughs, then, tucks her hair behind her ear again. There’s a crack; somewhere, within the smile that’s not quite hers and the shaking hands that bring a hot cup to peach colored lips. She’s not present in the writing upon it-Soy caramel latte, espresso- that’s not quite right, or in the way that her feet swing slightly under the table. He reaches over to take one of her hands, hold it in his.

“Eliza,” He can only say her name at first, stuck between her eyes and the half of her smile with a gentle sort of unease, one that hits him with only the smallest wave of rolling-stomach nerves. “Are you alright?”

One hand squeezes his. The other cups his face, thumb rolling off of freshly trimmed stubble that bristles as she touches it. She brings her lips to his cheek, lets them linger before releasing herself. There is just enough space between her lip and his cheek for air to pass through, and she speaks to him in a reserved, dulcet sort of tone before kissing him one last time.

“I’m fine.”

His nerves had always been overactive anyway.

Emptiness would have been a better companion than this-hell, it had been for a very long time. The more time she spends with Lisa, and on her work, the more she feels the progression of the inevitable collapse. She had been warned. Multiple times, Lisa had taken stock of their conversations and attempted to bring up the change in emotions that would come with the sudden release of what she’d been repressing. Eliza had brushed it off, told Alex and Angelica and Peggy to ignore the words. She’s always been the face of positivity. In a storm, she’s that first heart-stopping breakthrough of a lighthouse’s illuminating guidance.

She doesn’t feel much like a lighthouse anymore.

With each passing day; with the conversation crawling deeper, and the darkness cracking through its long-housed hiding place, Eliza feels like she’d like to hide as well. So she does. She fills her schedule with meaningless tasks, highlighted and underlined as if their significance is related to anything but her gradually fraying mental state. There is suddenly too much, yet not enough. Not enough work, not enough of a responsibility outside of herself to maintain. But this state of being is different, trapped between the living and the successful and those just barely scraping by. On any given day these feelings create a dissonance that wracks Eliza’s body with sickness and sucks away the hope. The confidence of success; of receiving a good grade, or reading a positive article written about her (finally, because these are now dwindling), makes her heart soar. But in that same note, that same day, the churning storm that hovers over her soul continues its darkness, takes that lightness and positivity away in one greedy draining of shining water from her shoreline.

“I need you to think about this for a moment, Eliza.”

She runs a lot; three miles, then five, and suddenly her feet are pounding against concrete and her heart against her chest and the ten mile mark rolls around and finally, finally, she can’t feel a single thing except the exhaustion that weighs on her bones and the sweat that drips down her nose. It cakes her face in moisture that blends itself with the salt-ridden drops that come from her eyes, osmosis implementing a perfect disguise. There’s a track her feet beat along the pavement; the heat of her frustration could melt the perfection of that shoveled, blackened tar, create craters of catharsis that don’t quite reach high enough into her mind to ebb her issues completely. There aren’t enough hours in the snow-ridden days, aren’t enough degrees on the thermometer to cure everything. She runs anyway. She runs until her cheeks are bitten red with cold, until the snow has penetrated black sneakers and wool-thick socks.

It feels amazing in the moment. In the moment, with the span of a sparsely populated Central Park is lain out in front of her, Eliza is able to clear everything else away. There is nothing but the bitter air and her hot breath, rhythmic and visible against the continually grey sky. At first, it’s as if every blog she’d been combing through held a truth comparable to her own; running truly is the best therapy, the curative she’d been looking for all along. It’s a stronger prescription than a silly white journal, or even the sketchbook under her mattress. For Eliza, running is the best therapy until her feet no longer hit the pavement.

Everything shatters when she enters her apartment again, strips off her sweat-ridden clothes and lets her body adjust to one simultaneous temperature. Without the biting wind or the surroundings of the busy city to distract her, the perfect solution she’d read and prescribed herself to so intensely becomes nothing but an illusion. There is no change in her soul, which is riddled with a hot-breath-in-February swirling, a smoke-and-mirrors game just teasingly perfect enough to hold an addictive property. When she’s home, when her feet are given their long begged-for respite, Eliza wants nothing more than to beat them up again. A shockwave of pain begins to pound up her leg, to knees that pinch and pop in protest. Her soul begs her to continue anyway, to carry on this bodily abuse if only for the temporary relief of her soul.

…

“I have something to tell you.” Eliza’s soft hum is her response, and she stirs the pot on the stove in concentration. The strain in Angelica’s voice is evident, yet hidden. The wood flooring knocks beneath what Eliza envisions as her sister shifting her weight from foot to foot, focused-or hesitating. She guesses the latter when Angelica lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“You know I love you more than anything else.”

“Yeah…”

“And I’ll always be here for you, no matter what,”

“Did John propose? Because I know you weren’t into that idea but if he did,” She can feel the roll of Angelica’s eyes before she sees it, stops herself mid-sentence and turns back to her work. There is an air about the room, an air between them that Eliza cannot decipher. It is not the golden, shimmering playfulness they’d had as kids, or when Peggy is with them and they’re hit with the freedom to spend the day together. It isn’t the air of purple guidance, a soothing lavender brushing against her porcelain skin when Eliza wasn’t sure if she was going to get into Columbia. It isn’t even the placid sort of mocha, comfort and a coffee shop warmth in just being together. This is something new altogether, a flickering orange that stops and starts itself as Angelica moves herself to stand next to Eliza at the counter. It moves up and down that orange spectrum just slightly as Angelica fidgets; taps her foot, puts a hand on the knob of the stove. It’s in her breathing, slightly irregular, and the press of her darker hand against her middle sister’s.

“Back in September, I applied for an intensive study abroad program in England. It would mean that I could get my double major completely done instead of having to come back to Columbia next year. I could be in a law firm at the start of next year. I could be heading protests, working with the Association for Women’s Rights in Development. Do you know how many job opportunities are right in this city, how many lives I could change?”

“So you applied.”

“I got in.” She nearly whispers the words, as if they are a secret so precious that she must keep them close to her chest. She breathes in, a great upheaval of emotions, before a wide and exuberant grin shift her mature, more collected features. It is a resounding firework of bliss and unfiltered pride that buries itself into Eliza’s stomach, and she begs her own lips to turn up in a congratulations she can barely manage.

“I’m so happy for you,” this is honest. Her mind repeats the words, holds on to them as her older sister runs through the details with a fine-toothed comb, explaining the process of application and sorting through the emotions that had been running through her head.

“When I got that letter, I just-I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t know what to do. It’s been a crazy month going back and forth, and John wasn’t happy with me for a really long time. But this is so important to him, and Peggy agreed that it wasn’t fair that you didn’t know, and,”

“Wait, Peggy knows?”

“Yeah…yeah, I told her when the letter came in, back when I told mom and dad and they were being crabby about my going across the country with John, as if we haven’t been dating our entire lives.”

“Oh.” It’s all she can muster. She turns back to the stove, where the soup has begun to bubble up rapidly from the lack of attention she has paid it. Eliza turns the burner down, focuses the turn of her stomach and the prickling of tensed nerves on the stirring of the liquids in the pot. She pictures her oldest sister, her source of guidance, spending a semester away from her in England. The grin that had encompassed her face, the one that had seemed so different on her typically composed features that would be a common occurrence at Oxford. John had always wanted this, Angelica had pretended not to. Eliza feels the tears before they come, attempts to blink them away.

It seems silly to cry over something as simple as this; Angelica deserves this happiness, this time apart from the chaos that is erupting. And Eliza is nothing but willing to give it all to her. If it had been her choice, if Angelica had come to her first, she would have sent her on that plane instantly. No matter what. There is a piece of her that realizes that. Angelica moves to hold her, to turn off the burner and wrap her in her arms.

When they were younger, when Eliza was scared or hurt or unable to sleep, she’d crawl under the duvet in Angelica’s room. Her older sister would brush her fingers through her silky hair, press their faces close together and hum words of encouragement through the light innocence of a child’s voice speaking a mother’s words. This feels no different; her tears, although they are few from what she can feel, soak through the shoulder of Angelica’s soft purple work blouse. The material is butter in Eliza’s hands, where she keeps them wrapped tight around her sister’s waist. She longs for the darkened silence of her childhood bedroom, where Angelica had been able to keep her safe from everything with just her words. And then, her weakness snaps with the resistance of a rubber band. Heat encompasses the muscles that had relaxed and numbed with sadness. She pushes herself from Angelica’s embrace, her eyes engulfed with the clouds of a storm.

“Why am I the last person you told?”

“Betsy,”

“No, really. Why? Because it’s not like I’m the last place you’ve visited in a day. You got accepted last month. You’ve been hiding this from me for that long. And not everyone, just me.”

“Eliza, you know it’s harder with you. You’re…it’s different. I can’t just up and leave you, I’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Why, because I’m fragile? Because I’m broken? I’m not a child anymore, Angelica. I’m doing perfectly fine, and you would know that if you spent more time talking to me than at me. I’m not just some project you can throw yourself into because you’re looking for someone to fix. I’m fine, and I’m tired of being treated like I’m not.”

Angelica, wounded from the verbal bullets her red-eyed sister had aimed her way, takes a step back. She gathers her coat, laces her boots, and stands by the door without a single word. She shakes her head, multiple times, as if the motion is settling the jumbled mass of thoughts and emotions that have clouded her usual judgement. The calm, collected state is gone from her mind, replaced with a form of despair as she looks upon her sister’s cracked frame, which is held together by arms that hug herself tight.

“I’ll call you later.” Angelica’s voice is soft, cracking as she closes the apartment door behind her. And when she does call, over and over, Eliza does not answer.

…

“Breakthroughs don’t just happen with the bare minimum of work. If you choose to ignore this, the loneliness? It’ll only get worse.”

…

Monday brings a missed class, Wednesday a canceled date night. By the time Friday rolls around, Eliza claims sickness and burrows herself in a pile of blankets and tea. She attempts to read, but the words on the page dance and rearrange themselves into situations she remembers only in the faint hours of the night, when there is nothing else to distract her. She watches reality television that holds none of her interest, watching beautifully made-up girls try on wedding dresses and fight with their bridal parties over the pros and cons. First there is a low, one that picks at her brain and forces her to place her head upon these bodies, imagine herself in such a state of bliss. But each time she gets close enough to feeling the light that would allow, it disappears.

The effects of her current state of emotion are instantaneous, and frightening. Eliza lingers in a limbo between them all with no control, begging her brain for release from the heinous behavior she no longer has the will to contain. She will not answer Angelica’s phone calls. She considers skipping brunch. The thought of socialization hangs heavily, exhaustingly over her head. And when she attempts to write in her white journal, it only intensifies.

She begins with something simple; his name. She writes it over and over, until her hand has memorized the pattern she had known so well. She presses hard with her pen, then soft. She uses writing delicate as spring, with curly letters and hearts, and next to it places the stark contrast of capital letters and roughly pressed ink. She researches, looks up the origin of his name and laughs when it tells her the meaning ‘to overthrow.’ She’s sure the truth is just a coincidence, that the action of taking over her mind isn’t caused by some stupid website on the internet with little historical citation. Her mind must be playing tricks to consider the fact that this one word is exactly what is happening. But then, Reynolds; a powerful ruler.

She gives up on her little white journal.

She shuts herself further into her burrow.

It is a reluctant Sunday brunch, one which she barely remembers through the closed pieces of her mind and the pushing of her fork over another beautifully done vegetarian dish. Her father prods her, reminds her of the chef’s kindness in remembering her dietary choices after all of these years. It is Peggy who drowns the potatoes and tofu in Sriracha and blocks her nose, playfully mocks her sister’s choice over steak and chicken. Eliza holds herself well enough to bring some of the shining light into the photographs they’re asked to take.

She falls asleep almost instantly when she gets back to her apartment.

There isn’t enough time in the day to sleep anymore, not when her dreams are restless, filled with dark hands that press themselves too tight, suffocate her until she wakes in choking agony.

…

“It is not your fault. You did not choose for this to happen.”

On Monday, after a full week and a half without seeing Eliza, Alexander picks at the spare key dangling from his keyring. He holds it during class, lets it make indents in his palm until he is sure they will be permanent. Her name rings through his mind for the entirety of the day, until he feels a strong and bubbling nausea rise to his throat.

He excuses himself from his class half an hour early. He makes it to her apartment in record time.

She isn’t anywhere to be found, and at first he is thankful; maybe she’s in class, or with Angelica. Maybe she’d decided to take the unseasonably warm day to roam the city instead. But the slight differences within his once home are evident, calling him to search further than the kitchen. There are dishes in the sink, a dishwasher full of dirty ones that hadn’t been run yet. There aren’t any blankets on the couch, but a line of teacups take over the coffee table. The floor crunches with a layer of salty outdoor debris, its origin made clear by the shoes that litter every corner except the empty basket they are supposed to be in. Every blanket in the apartment; the one that used to be on the couch, and the armchair, and even one of his own fleece touristy blanket-they’re all discarded on her bed, crafted into a cocoon worn and wrinkled with use. Laundry litters the floor there, too, as if everything she had said to him about discarding his clothes in the bathroom had been a joke.

The bathroom-when he approaches the door, there is a light shining through its narrow crack. There is no sound; not from the outside, and not after his entrance is announced with the creak of its hinges. He notices her instantly, the way she sits in the middle of the tiled flooring. She is surrounded by papers, papers covered in blacks and blues that have transferred to her arm. From the tips of her fingers to her elbow she is covered in paint, the substance drying and caking itself, consuming. Her head is bent, legs spread as her body stretches over another recently blank canvas. She paints this one a brilliantly crafted grayscale, one that begins with a single speck of white in the center. From there it is a spiral, a blend of darkness that leads to complete black, darker than night and lining the canvas. It traps the brilliance of the white inside of its spiral, keeps it prisoner within itself. Eliza’s brush moves with delicate, shaking strokes as she perfects the lines , concentrates and hides behind the thin veil of the unruly waves of her hair.

He is silent. For a moment, he watches her focus, although he is sure by the slow and unnatural rhythm of her breathing that her focus is drawn to something other than acrylic paints and the storm cloud of paints that decorate her arms. Her silence is broken by a minute sound, a sniff that barely reaches the motion of her body. It is enough; enough to bring him next to her on the floor, the bitter cold of the tile seeping through his jeans. Alexander’s voice is just above a whisper when he holds his hand out, asks if he can use the warmth of his touch to break through the numb, unresponsive state she had holed herself up in.

When his warmth reaches her back, when his hand rubs small circles and his voice takes the place of the stagnant silence she had been living in for a week, her head falls to the floor. His heart, which had all but stopped upon seeing her so still and silent, cracks and throbs as Eliza’s body shakes. She presses one hand to the floor, hitting the brilliance of her painting without noticing, and uses the last ounce of her strength to pull herself into his lap. One cheek presses into his jeans, which are just beginning to lose the chill of the outside air. He uses both hands to support her now, one on her back and the other in her hair, on her waist. He presses her as close to him as he can, feels the feeble weight of her body lose the last ounce of its strength.

He does not say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

For that singular moment, Eliza presses play on her life.

Alexander transfers her to her bed, presses a kiss to her forehead and promises to return. He cleans the teacups, washes the dishes and starts the dishwasher. He folds the laundry stuck stagnant in the dryer. He cleans the paintbrushes in the sink, watches the water go from clear to murky black and back again. By the time is done, and he pulls the covers back from her bed, Eliza is asleep in the deconstructed cocoon. Alexander lays beside her, and draws her closer.

Eliza, for the first time in a week and a half, sleeps through the night.

“Breakthroughs don’t happen in a night. They take patience, time…they take a hell of a lot of work. But if that work is put in, if pain is felt for just a moment, your life could change.

Take this journal; I need you to remember, Eliza. I need you to feel.”

#mine: swts #swts #character: Eliza Schuyler #hamliza #hamilton #hamilton au

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crossedbeams · 7 years

Text

Animosity - Trinity Ch. 8

Genre: Casefile | Fandom: The X-Files x The Fall x Sreetcar | Rating: Mature | Setting: Circa 2012. Canon compliant | Chapters: 1/6 of Part 2

Trinity Part I

Chapter 1 - Perfume || Chapter 2 - Impression || Chapter 3 - Connection Chapter 4 - Delusion || Chapter 5- Confrontation || Chapter 6 - Post Mortem

Trinity Part I

Prologue - Purgatory

Trinity: Part II Chapter I - Animosity

72 hours earlier

There is no cordial greeting or tussle for dominance when Scully and Stella reunite at the airport, no apology by either party for boundaries overstepped or trust betrayed. Stella offers only the bare bones of the latest murder, a brusque report of her phone conversation with the officer on the scene and the headlines from happenings at Riverview Psychiatric. Scully responds with her findings from the morgue, conveyed with such matter-of-fact concision that her findings become not only a breakthrough but a rebuke. Stella accepts the stack of notes offered, wordlessly acknowledging that Dana Scully has done what the task force could not. She has advanced the case with real, scientific data and become the opposite of the paranormal decoy they intended her to be.

But it is too soon for a truce and Stella is not yet willing to offer even a hint of an apology. Instead, she offers the only concession she is willing to surrender: her car keys. It is a tiny gesture, dropped wordlessly into Scully’s hands. The silent journey that follows is broken only by the rustle of neat, detailed autopsy notes transferring information from the observations of one woman into the theories of the other.

They arrive at the station in a lightning storm of flashbulbs, the media scenting a serial case and waiting for something, anything, to shout about. There’s an anticipatory hush as they park and step out and then a murmur of disappointment. At least for now they are unknowns, nameless women in plain clothes, passing unseen in a setting where the important announcements are made by men with big badges and bigger guns. Stella smirks a little as this small act of everyday sexism shields them from the flurry of questions that buffets the essentially irrelevant uniforms who swing in seconds later. These officers accompany an unmarked vehicle, and an unfortunately loud police scanner reveals to the waiting press the arrival of a witness. The flashbulbs explode again, reflecting jaggedly on the tinted windows that hide Blanche. A uniformed officer approaches to open the door and Scully presses forward, instinctively knowing that exposing the fragile woman to this circus is a terrible idea.

But even as she processes the thought and begins to move, Stella is there, exerting her steely authority over the harried officers.

‘You. Take her to the back entrance. Now. And you two hold the press here. We have no comment at this time. Understood?’

Instinctively obeying her, the driver is on the move before Stella has finished speaking, whilst the two uniforms prevent the press from following. In the bustle, one man sneaks past, but Scully grabs his sleeve, distracting him for long enough that he misses Blanche’s removal into the building. By the time the pack of journalists work out what is happening, Scully is inside with Stella on her heels, the back of their heads caught only by the photographer closest to the door before they are safely inside the lobby. As the door seals shut, a gale of shouts starts up, demanding to know who they are, who was in the car, and whether or not New Orleans has a serial killer on its streets. Scully and Stella retreat into the depths of the building, putting fire doors and linoleum between them and all the questions that they don’t yet have an official answer to.

They halt at the double doors of the incident room, adrenaline spent and harsh reality awaiting. Another victim, another life lost, and maybe this time they could have stopped it. Scully feels again the ache of Mulder’s absence, the niggling feeling that with his belief, his instincts, he might somehow have ended things differently with Blanche the night before. Perhaps he might still have been with her when the incident began, and they they might somehow have saved the victim. At the least, they might have known more about exactly what Blanche had gone through before her screaming drew the doctors to her room. Scully knows it’s improbable but she’s seen more improbable things happen than most. Stella's doubts are more readily quashed, the emotional sting of perceived failure firmly subdued by the irrefutable fact that professionally she is beyond reproach. Every lead was followed, every avenue explored and there is no way to know if a different act at any point would have changed anything. Second guessing has no place in a police investigation and so, as the door swings away from her, Stella writes off the uneasy feeling in her belly as sleep deprivation or maybe hunger.

‘Gibson! Finally! It’s about time you got here! Do you have any idea how fucking impossible it is to explain a psychic witness to the Deputy Director of the FBI when the woman with all the facts is off on some girls’ trip out to the morgue?’

Special Agent Kyle Stanning’s bullish tone is matched by the set of his jaw and the tense angle of his shoulders. Striding across the busy incident room to collect them, his indignation cuts a path through file-shuffling rookies and morning-weary agents. He doesn’t look back to check they are following, pausing only to snatch a coffee from the breakfast spread before positioning himself at the head of the long table tucked in the back corner of the room and indicating they join him. As they arrange themselves side-by-side in the next seats down, Agent Stanning makes a show of reordering his notes and Scully feels a wave of irritation wash over her usually stoic companion. Before she can begin to work out why, the table fills, the chatter fades and Stella is once again the picture of composure.

‘Good morning everyone,’ Stanning begins before countering his own introduction with a bitter half-smile. ‘Actually, you know, it’s not been a very good morning. It’s been goddamn disastrous really. We have another body, another seemingly useless crime scene and to top it off, the press have caught on that something big is going down. All of which means our status has shifted. Yesterday, all we really needed was to catch the bastard. Today we need to catch him, catch him fast and look so good doing it that the headlines read “Heroic FBI Stops Sadistic Murderer in Record Time.” Anyone who doesn’t understand that can leave right now and I’ll have you reassigned to fertiliser checks. It’s that simple. Anyone want out?’

He pauses for effect. ‘Increased scrutiny also means that everything, and I mean everything, goes by the book. No hunch following, wisecracking to witnesses or mad tangents. Speaking of which --’ His eyes flicker to Stella. ‘We need to discuss the elephant in the room, or rather the witness in Room 2. Miss Blanche Dubois. Details concerning her presence here, her status within the investigation and her... theoretical “affliction” must - not - leave - this - room. If they do, you’ll all have me to answer to.’

An obedient murmur follows Stanning’s warning and people awkwardly shuffle and avoid eye contact. Stanning himself does not scan the room and instead fixes his eyes firmly on the side of Gibson’s head as she underlines something in her notebook, composed and cool. A hush settles back across the assembled taskforce, but he doesn’t shift his gaze and Stella does not return his attention. The silence stretches awkwardly, and the wall of suits seems to lean in as it becomes pointed, focussed on the seemingly one-sided stand-off at the head of the table.

For a moment, Scully is reminded of the way Mulder would scrutinise her as she read his reports, waiting for her to react, his eyes boring a questioning hole in the side of her head as if he could convince her to validate his mad theory by just looking at her hard enough. But the parallel is shattered when a frustrated Stanning admits defeat and speaks again, his bright tone not disguising the disapproval of his words.

‘Those of us who were here on time for the emergency briefing should be up to speed with last night’s happenings, so I’m going to skip over that. No point wasting time when DSI Gibson has some… important findings… which kept her away yesterday and this morning, to share with the room. If you’d be so kind Stella…’ His voice trails to a questioning drawl and one corner of his mouth curves in challenge.

‘Thank you, Kyle,’ Stella’s tone is as light as his was laden with meaning and she sits back in her chair resting her hands lightly in the stack of notes before her. Ever so subtly she rotates the chair towards Scully and the rest of the gathered agents, refocusing their attention squarely on herself and effectively dismissing Agent Stanning’s dramatic introduction as nothing more than the opening act for the true professional. Turning further she presents Stanning with the blank silk of her back and gestures at Scully with a warm smile.

‘For those of you who haven’t already met her, I’m very pleased to introduce Dr. Dana Scully who has been assisting me since her arrival yesterday morning. Dr. Scully was formerly with the bureau and has already been a tremendous asset to the investigation; her brief forensic inspection at the morgue, during which she identified concealed needle marks common to all the existing victims, has given us a much-needed focus in determining a murder weapon.’ An impressed ripple rushes round the table and for the first time since arriving at the station in Stella’s wake, Scully feels like part of a team rather than the poor, paranormal relation. The feeling doesn’t last long.

‘Yes. Very interesting findings, though I can’t find any record of Ms. Scully being signed into the morgue or issued with clearance to conduct-’ Stanning’s accusation is harshly curtailed by the impatient flick of Stella’s slim hand and the slightly raised crystal of her voice.

‘Doctor Scully was there under my orders and with the appropriate permissions issued by Dr. Quinn, the chief medical examiner. If the paperwork has yet to be filed, perhaps that might be to do with your demand that her entire staff put in overtime to process your latest crime scene as a matter of urgency. Either way - we have a lead. You’ll have your paperwork.’

Scully is not sure what surprises her more, Stella lying to cover for her or Stanning’s openly antagonistic interruption. He is now leaning as far forward in his chair as is possible without physically climbing on the table, an attempt to insinuate himself back into Stella’s orbit and reclaim control of them head of the table. Having failed to do either, he opens his mouth, presumably with a new plan of attack on the tip of his tongue, only to once again be brought up short by Stella’s unhurried, deliberate speech.

‘I can tell that Special Agent Stanning is dying to cross-examine me and Dr. Scully about our visit to Riverview Psychiatric yesterday and our observations there of Miss Dubois, the witness. I feel, however, that processing the influx of new evidence should probably take priority, so I’ll keep this brief; listening to Stanning and me negotiate our way through inter-agency bureaucracy is probably not the best use of everybody’s talents.’ A chuckle follows Stella’s pointed statement and stops short of Stanning who bristles behind her as she continues. ‘All that really needs to be said at this stage is that we are convinced Miss Dubois is in some way linked to the killer. We don’t yet know how exactly or what it might mean, but further investigation and an extended interview will surely reveal more useful information. I’ve prepared a brief round-up of the key points thus far, and Hannah has a copy for each of you to read at your convenience after we’re done here.’ She gestures at a slight brunette tucked unobtrusively in the corner who waves awkwardly at the sudden attention. ‘Now, unless anyone has any burning questions or Agent Stanning has any objections...’ She pauses barely long enough for her antagonistic colleague to draw breath, let alone gather his thoughts, and immediately continues, ‘...then we’re done here and I’ll see you all at this afternoon’s catch-up.’

Sweeping her notes under one arm as the noise level begins to rise, Stella turns to Scully and says, ‘Grab some breakfast and I’ll meet you in fifteen to prep for the interview. And Kyle?’ She doesn’t even make eye contact as she begins to walk away, raising her voice just loud enough to ring clearly across the noise of people returning to their work. ‘Why don't you come to my office and I'll get you caught up as quickly as I can - I agree that we don't want to waste any more time.’ There’s a momentary dip of disbelief in the hubbub as Agent Stanning sits frozen, and then a scramble to get out of his way as he rapidly reassembles his macho facade and storms after the petite, retreating figure of Stella Gibson.

As the door to the corner office slams loudly, Scully sits slightly staggered in the vacuum left behind them, wondering what in the hell she has walked into and whether, based on Stanning’s rising colour, she’ll soon be needing her expertise on the phenomenon of spontaneous human combustion. She’s halfway to the breakfast cart when the shouting starts.

‘Goddamnit Stella! We don’t have to like each other but do you have to make me look incompetent in front of my juniors as well as the Assistant Director?’

Kyle Stanning is six foot two of offended male ego and Stella is not in the mood for it. She debates saying as much, but knows if he doesn’t vent his head of steam now there will be an uglier explosion in the near future, so she crosses her hands in front of her, leans on the edge of the desk and tries not to yawn. She’s so very, very tired.

‘You insist on bringing this outside doctor in to handle your weirdo witness. I sign it off, against my better judgement may I add, and then before I know it, the two of you are off together, progressing the case and I’m suddenly out of the loop? What happened to that partnership we toasted your first night in the city huh? Where was that Stella Gibson when I was getting my ass handed to me by AD Gilmore for not knowing what the fuck was happening in my own investigation? And since when do you decide what we do and don’t discuss at briefings? Are you really that offended by what I said that night to need to question everything I do? You know how these places work Stella! Reputation! And mine was doing pretty well for itself until you turned up and started throwing doubt at my ability to do my job. I thought working with you was gonna be a laugh. God was I an idiot.’ His bluster spent, voice lowering to a frustrated buzz he flops back in his chair and folds his arms.

She might be almost five thousand miles from Scotland Yard but it seems to Stella that the frailty of the male ego is a universal constant. She weighs her options and her energy and decides that this time correcting his outlandish conclusions is not the priority. Stella has an interview to conduct and for that reason, this time, Stanning earns a reprieve.

‘Kyle, if you’re quite finished with the dramatics then I can catch you up on this loop you seem so concerned with being out of. I called you from the car yesterday. You knew as much as I did at the point of last night’s alert, Dr. Scully and I weren’t scheduled to meet until this morning, until the circumstances changed. That’s all there is to it. That and a murderer’s crappy timing.

You and I agreed before I even landed that we’d keep investigating this in our own ways, share our intel and stay in touch and that’s all I’m trying to do. Things like last night catch us all off guard! It wouldn’t have mattered how much you knew, the AD was going to react badly to another victim. Besides, I’m sure if you really felt under pressure, you’d have made it clear the gap in communication was my fault…?’ Stella pauses and Stanning has the decency to look embarrassed, confirming her suspicion that he has already thrown her under the bus to save his own ass. She manages not to roll her eyes at his predictability before continuing in a tone neutral enough to placate even the most inflamed ego… or the most frustrated one.

‘As for your team? I’m pretty sure none of them had any idea there was tension between us until your little display this morning. Honestly I wasn’t aware of it either. We’re adults and I thought the issue was closed. If, however, you can’t handle the non-drama of our deciding not to sleep together after a couple of drinks, then I think we do have a problem. Knowing that something so insignificant can shake things so dramatically, I’d put the chances of us solving this case successfully at approximately zero. And I don’t think you want that. So shall we put all of that,’ Stella waves a hand in his general direction, unable or unwilling to verbalise what exactly about him she finds fault with, ‘firmly in the past where it belongs? Surely we can at least agree on that?’

Stanning looks ready to argue but is smart enough to recognise in the set of Stella’s shoulders and the measured cool of her voice that she has offered him an olive branch. She’s so far maintained a neutral expression but her eyes are steel-solid and unforgiving, telling Stanning that if he argues, Stella is not above rescinding her offer and making things increasingly uncomfortable for him. Outmanoeuvred, he nods curtly.

‘Fine. I guess I was a little… stressed… this morning,’ Stella fights to keep her disbelieving eyebrow under control, ‘But can you blame me? Last night was a helluva night and you walked in so cool and collected…well it threw me.’ Stella wonders why men always find the ability of women to function after a setback so hard to process; the lack of tears or hysteria that they expect from their own sex seems to unsettle them when it manifests in their female colleagues. Stanning seems to expect a response to this concession, maybe a pat on the head for his begrudging acceptance his second chance, and when he doesn’t get one he stumbles on. ‘So, what exactly did the good doctor find that we missed?’

Stella flips open her folder and starts to go through the photographs and notes that Scully handed over, equally thankful for Stanning’s instinct for self-preservation and her new consultant’s meticulous record keeping. The catch-up is mercifully brief, affording Stanning few opportunities to put his foot any further in his mouth, and Stella escapes without the facade of politeness she has pasted over her gathering irritation cracking. When she emerges, the incident room is mercifully quiet and for a few blissful minutes she is able to sit at a desk and marshall her thoughts.

Something about Blanche Dubois is niggling at her. Something that doesn’t add up… doesn’t fit. These dreams she’s having must be coming from somewhere, dreams always do. Stella’s own dream diary is a complex web of connections made and scenarios unravelled in ways that her waking mind cannot fully comprehend. If that was all Blanche was claiming then a few sessions with a psychologist would likely unlock whatever buried experience was causing her to dream their case. It should be that simple.

It would be, except for the fact dreams are never regular and they don’t arrive on schedule. The human mind is suggestible; it can be influenced by drugs, by conditions, such attempts endlessly studied and quantified, but it can't be programmed to dream to order. And yet it seemed, somehow, impossibly, Blanche Dubois is doing precisely that, receiving transmissions, across town, on a murderer’s wavelength. As if synchronised like clockwork to their crimes, Blanche views the macabre scene in her mind while the real action goes on elsewhere.

Despite herself Stella shivers. There must be an explanation, a logical one, one that will suddenly stumble into the light of their investigation. They just need to find it.

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#txf #the fall #Dana Scully #Stella Gibson #fanfic #my writing #crossover #Trinity #Blanche Dubois

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