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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

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Persephone's Symphony | Night One | Persephone

Hey lovelies, here's the next part. It's a little longer-- I got carried which, if you know me and my work, tends to happen frequently. I do hope you all enjoy and thank you so much to everyone who has sent me kind words and thoughts and ahhhh thank you!! I am forever grateful. Now, without further adieu...

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: meh some angst, some talk of death-- the normal for this series

Word count: 5.2k (omg)

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Master List

The rest of the day goes smoothly. Well, as smoothly as a day can go when there’s someone out there trying to kill you. Maybe smooth is the wrong word. For dinner she pops a frozen pizza in the oven— she’s already used up her quota for homestyle cooking on the grilled cheese and, besides, Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. If he does then he doesn’t say anything about it, at least. He pounds back five slices— she really doubts he hates it that much. She eats three. Had it just been her she would have eaten one— maybe. She doesn’t have the energy these days to eat more than that. It’s a paradox, one that has her going to bed tired and waking up exhausted most days.

Something is different with him though. She wants to eat more because it means that she gets to sit a little longer at the creaky wooden table and pretend to be normal. She never thought feeling normal would mean eating cheap pizza with her bodyguard in a safe house but, well, they say normal is relative, right? Usually she eats in the dark, under the glow of whatever movie she deems fit to fill the silence that night. Sitting across from him makes her feel like she has some semblance of her old life back. Like she has a life at all— even if he’s being paid to sit there and listen to her prattle on about nothing.

After dinner is a little more awkward. She spends the next two hours milling about, pretending to read this book of dogs she had found earlier on the coffee table. She had always wanted a dog when she was younger, one of those huge great danes, charcoal black and big enough to snuggle with. The kind that would keep her safe and follow her everywhere she goes. There’s one just like she had always imagined on page one hundred and nine. Sleek and beautiful and huge. That’s probably why she keeps going back to the book.

All she really does is look at the pictures, not that she would tell him that. She can see him glancing at her every so often and she would like to keep her guise of being smart up for as long as possible. She wasn’t lying when she told him that she was the top of her class— she was, and valedictorian too. She is smart. Well, smart when it comes to technology at least. The rest is debatable. Her mother used to tell her that she’s book smart— that if she were kidnapped and dropped off in the middle of nowhere she would be screwed.

If only her mother could see her now— could see that she’s holding up.

You know, if holding up means wanting to scream and cry and throw this stupid Big Book of Dogs against the wall because she can’t scream and cry. She’s holding up on the outside— that’s what matters. If everyday is as bearable as this one then she’ll be able to do all three before she knows it. She’ll be able to sit in the dark, spoon in one hand, Chunky Monkey in the other, and throw whatever the fuck she wants at the wall. For now, though, she just has to look at the pictures of the great dane and swallow her screams like they’re ice cream.

Eventually she stands, shifting on her feet, trying not to cringe when the boards squeak under her. It doesn’t make his head turn and look at her— how can it when his stare has been burning into her since before she stood up? She doesn’t really know what to say— it’s nine-thirty and she could sit there for another two hours— two or three or seven, what’s the difference?— but there’s no point in pushing the inevitable. Eventually she is going to have to get ready for bed and then, by default, actually go to bed.

How is that going to work?

A picture of her laying next to him pops into her mind, one where her limbs are curled tight against her chest, her legs ramrod straight, afraid to even do so much as breathe. Not out of fear that he’d hurt her or anything like that, though. Out of fear that she’d embarrass herself is more accurate. That she would wake up— if she even slept at all— with her body sprawled on top of his like the protagonists in one of her cheesy, unrealistic rom-coms. This isn’t a movie— she doesn’t want it to be. If this is her life’s movie then she wants to have a word with the director. She wants out. This isn’t the script she agreed to.

She doesn’t know what to say so she doesn’t say anything, only gathers her bag from where she stashed it next to the couch. A threadbare messenger bag big enough for a few pairs of leggings, her older brother’s Dodgers t-shirt, and some toiletries. She slings it over her shoulder, acutely aware of the fact that his gaze never leaves her, watching as she straightens and turns, meeting his icy blue eyes without so much as a hint of shame forming in them. Why should he be ashamed? It’s his job— he’s being paid to stare. That’s what she tells herself. It doesn’t make her feel any less exposed— any less seen.

For a moment she just looks at him— like really, truly looks at him. Sure, she’s been with him for roughly twelve hours now. Theoretically she’s had plenty of time to look at him. And of course she has— there’s no way she could have avoided it even if she wanted to. She has looked at him just not like this. Not the details. The facts. That’s what this is— a fact finding mission. Yeah, that sounds right— that’s what she’ll say if he asks, at least.

She takes in his face first, craning her neck slightly to do so. Slightly means far enough that your head touches your shoulders now. She ticks things off in her head as goes— bronzed skin, strong jaw, straight nose. She finds it hard to believe that his nose has never been broken. She drops lower— pink lips, the bottom one fuller. She doesn’t linger there despite the ache that grows in her throat. When was the last time she kissed a man? Too long ago.

She continues on her mission before she has time to stop and think about what it means to stare at her bodyguard’s lips and think about kissing. Absolutely nothing good, that’s what. She tries to distract herself with his broad shoulders and the way his henley stretches at the seams, scrounging for any and every ounce of space. For a moment it works. She starts thinking about the kind of regime one would have to undergo in order to get to his size, then about where he has to buy his clothes, before finally landing on what it would feel like to slip her arms into his shirt and to be totally engulfed—

Nope— she flicks her eyes even further down, skimming over something that, though she’s been looking at it for the better half of all day, she still can’t wrap her head around. His hand. His metal hand. She can feel his stare turn to lead on her forehead— feel him waiting for her to ask.

She’s not going to.

Not because she doesn’t want to know the story. Of course she wants to know! Her whole life is— or at least was— technology. She wants to know why he needs it, who made it, what it’s made of, if it’s connected to his nervous system, if it’s— the idea is there. She’s curious— she’s a scientist. Just like it’s his job to keep her alive, it’s her job to be enthralled by innovation.

That doesn’t mean she’s going to ask though. She likes him too much to do that. He’s nice enough to her and he doesn’t treat her like the little orphan girl that everyone else does. He doesn’t tiptoe around her— not that he could. He’s too big for that. He just doesn’t treat her like a freak, so she won’t treat him like an experiment.

And, of course, he’s a human being not a machine. That’s probably more important. She likes him and he’s a human. Priorities or whatever.

She meets his gaze again, watching him watch her, her face setting on fire. “Bedtime?”

What the fuck is wrong with you, y/n?

He presses his lips together, holding her stare for a beat before shrugging his shoulders, giving the henley a run for its money. “Bedtime.”

She turns at that, scampering up the stairs, listening to the thumping of his boots against the hardwood. It’s not a race but it’s also not not a race— she wants to get to the bathroom before he can so she can lock the door. She needs five minutes. That’s it. Just five minutes. Maybe it is a race.

“Hey— shit— wait!” She doesn’t, she only pumps her legs harder, almost slipping as she bolts into the bathroom, slamming the door and clicking the lock shut.

He really thought she wasn’t going to try that, huh? She learned her lesson this afternoon— the man takes his job very seriously.

The knob jiggles and she sticks her tongue out at it, finally in a space where she can let her bones relax. For the first time all day it feels like her skin isn’t on fire. It’s weird— she almost misses it. The door handle jiggles harder. Almost.

Five minutes, that’s all she needs.

His voice cuts through the door and she almost groans out loud. “You know I’m supposed to—”

“I know—” she starts pulling things out of her bag, hastily dropping what she doesn’t need and gathering what she does onto the vinyl countertop, very much aware of the ticking clock— “but the window in here isn’t even big enough for me to crawl out of so I think I can brush my teeth, yeah?”

She can practically feel the stress rolling off him, seeping under the crack between the door and the tiled floor. Half of her feels guilty but the other half couldn’t care less— she’s a grown ass woman and she will use the toilet without help.

She hears him let out a loud sigh and practically jumps in excitement— she won. “Fine— you get ten minutes, got it? Ten minutes and then I break this door down.”

“Aye-aye, captain.” Thank gods he can’t see her right now or she would most definitely melt through the ground.

“You’re down to seven now.”

She shakes her head at her reflection, scrunching her nose and rolling her eyes at herself— “That’s fair.”

She hurries to slather some toothpaste on her brush, plopping it into her mouth as she shimmies out of her daytime leggings and into her nighttime ones. A fashion icon. She somehow also manages to take her dad’s hoodie off, avoiding the toothbrush and replacing the tank top underneath with a fresh one from her bag. Take that, Barnes.

She scrubs at her teeth, simultaneously digging through her pile of things for the deodorant she knows is in there. She finds it after a moment, rinsing her mouth and running the bar one too many times over her armpits— there’s absolutely no way she’s about to go into that bedroom with even the slight possibility of smelling bad. Especially when she still doesn’t know the sleeping arrangements.

She swipes her things back into her bag, shoving them in roughly, not noticing the hairbrush teetering precariously on the edge of the counter. It’s like it’s taunting her, just waiting to get her in trouble. That’s exactly what it does, too— just as her eyes meet the sinister blue plastic it’s too late, the brush already hurtling off the edge and crashing against the floor. Of course it has to hit the tiles head on and miss the hoodie by an inch. Time freezes for a moment when she hears the clang— well, there go the last three minutes of solitude.

She scrambles back just as the door slams open, fully expecting it but not any less startled, the area where the lock would be splintering into a million tiny pieces of wood— of dust— he pulverized the door! Her heart pounds furiously as Bucky surges forward, his jean clad legs pressing against her exposed shoulder, his body rigid as he does a full circle of the tiny bathroom, yanking back the shower curtain as if an assassin would really think that is the best hiding place. God she’s so fucking mortified.

He doesn’t move away from her when he finally looks down, his dark eyebrows drawn into a tight line, chest heaving so hard she wonders if the material is going to split right down the middle. His leg against her is hot, even through the material. Almost as hot as her face— face, neck, shoulders, toes.

“What happened?”

She meekly holds up the blue plastic brush, squeezing her eyes shut. “He just snuck up on me Bucky— I thought I was a goner.”

She cracks an eye open to his clenched jaw, his still heaving chest now much lower— closer. He takes the brush from her hand, setting it on the counter before offering his own hand— the flesh hand— out to her. She takes it, letting him effortlessly pull her body from the ground without so much as even a grunt. Before she knows it she’s eye level with the buttons on his shirt, leaning all the way back in order to meet his simmering crystal eyes.

“We’re not doing that again.” We’re. As in both of them— a team.

She tries to keep from trembling at his deep voice. It doesn’t work. He notices— of course he notices— and takes a step back. She doesn’t have the heart— or the gall— to tell him that she’s not shaking because she’s afraid of him.

“It was a hairbrush.” She sighs, curling her arms around her chest, suddenly feeling more exposed than ever under the surprisingly bright fluorescents.

Of course now, when she’s standing in a flimsy tank top, is the one time the lights aren’t dimmed.

He doesn’t back down, seething his words between his teeth. “This time— this time it was a hairbrush.”

She shakes her head, dropping her eyes and bending to scoop up her hoodie— she doesn’t want to see him angry at her. It makes her feel guilty; like her her chest is caving in on itself. She doesn’t need that on top of everything else.

“Fine, whatever.” She grabs her bag, brushing by him.

She knows that she’s being childish. She isn’t an idiot, contrary to what her mind likes to tell her. She’s just exhausted. Exhausted of having to always look over her shoulder, exhausted of wondering who’s going to die next— if she’s going to die next, exhausted of having to actively try to stay alive. She’s just exhausted in general. She doesn’t want to die but, gods, if she isn’t so damn tired of having to think about it. Aren’t you supposed to just live? Not think about living?

She pushes open the door to the bedroom, dumping her bag next to the cedar chest at the end of the bed, refusing to turn around when she hears his footsteps— much quieter than she’s yet to hear them— enter behind her. She crosses her arms again, digging her fingers into the flesh hard enough to give herself something to focus on other than how much she wants to rip every strand of hair from her head. Her eyes wander over the olive duvet, noting how the color makes the black iron frame pop in contrast. Maybe she should change up her bedroom back home.

She bites her lip— she’s stalling. It’s a queen sized bed, more than big enough for both of them. Maybe she should offer it to him. There’s barely any room on the floor to sprawl out, only a small space either next to the dresser beside the bed or in front of the chest. Either way he would probably have to lay as stiff as possible to avoid bumping his limbs. The right thing to do would be to offer it to him— to take the floor.

She listens as he takes a step, the air behind her shifting, and she tenses. “Look, I think we should talk—”

“Do you want the bed?” She tries to keep her tone balanced— to keep from hurling the words at him like daggers. Or like hair brushes.

“I’m serious, I’m sor—”

She whirls around, her hair flying around her face, features schooled but tone edging closer towards being unhinged— she just needs to sleep. “Do you want the bed?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes— she’s tired of that game, it's time to start a new one. This one’s called how long can y/n stare at the buttons on his henley until before she sets them on fire out of sheer willpower. His chest deflates, his hands twitching at his sides before curling and slipping behind his back. He’s looking at her— of course he is. It’s all he does. It’s his job.

“You take it.” He says it so quietly she barely hears it, his tone the picture of resignation. It doesn’t make her feel good— she didn’t think it would though.

His stare never leaves her. She’s still not looking at him but she can tell. It makes her skin burn from her ears all the way down to her chest, her skin prickling like she's being prodded by a thousand mini suns. She feels like she’s in the desert and she forgot to put sunscreen on. Is this what flowers feel like? Does the sun beat down so relentlessly on them that they feel like they’re being set on fire? As relentlessly as he watches her?

It’s his job, it’s his job, it’s his job.

“Okay.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She lays in bed for three hours, eyes wide open and body pin straight. The room is pitch black, spare a hint of light pouring in from under the door. It shines a stripe onto the olive duvet, one that she just barely flicks her wrist back and forth through. Not enough to ruffle the loud blanket— which for the record crinkles louder than a chip bag when she moves even an inch underneath it— but enough to watch the light dance over her skin and keep her from going completely mad. She feels like a cat chasing a laser— entirely moronic but strangely entertained. Alas, all good things must come to an end.

By the time the fourth hour rolls around she is beyond restless. The strip of light got old a half hour ago— which, granted, kept her entertained for far longer than she would be willing to admit but still. Now she wants to move. She needs to move. If she were home she would still be awake. The digital clock beside the bed flashes one-thirty, scarlet red and glaring at her. It’s not even close to the ungodly hour in which she usually crawls into her bed, pulling the blanket over her head and praying for the sun to magically disappear. Not even close.

She can practically hear Lindsy Lohan calling her name— it’s Wednesday, y/n. On Wednesdays we wear pink. Yeah, she knows Lindsy! Unfortunately the big man on the floor doesn’t know that. Usually her Wednesday's aren’t so blocked— is it even Wednesday? It doesn’t matter. She just wants to watch Mean Girls now— with or without the Chunky Monkey.

She waits another ten minutes, mulling the idea over as the anticipation steadily grows in her stomach, churning her organs into soup over the idea of having to tiptoe past her sleeping bodyguard. She holds her breath a few times, making sure his breathing is even and calm. Making sure that he’s asleep. Each time his breaths are the same, gentle, even hiss of air. In, out, pause. In, out, pause. Over and over and over again. For a moment she debates staying and just listening to him breathe for the rest of the night. But no— that’s creepy and she’s sure that she can be in and out without him waking up in the hour and thirty-seven minutes it takes to watch the movie.

Yes she counted and every minute is worth the risk— she’s doing it!

She takes a deep breath, sliding as silently as she can under the covers. Each movement feels magnified— like someone is holding a microphone to her limbs. She just prays that the microphone isn’t connected to his ears. What are the odds that he’s a heavy sleeper? Nevermind, she doesn’t want to know.

After what feels like an eternity of inching her way to the edge of the bed her foot finally shoots over the edge, greeting the chilly air and sending a jolt racing up her spine. She’s really doing it. She slips the other out next, rising onto her elbows and holding the position. She can’t see her legs— hell, she can’t see her hand two feet in front of her face— but she can feel the space depleting as she slips off the mattress. Biting back a hiss as her toes brace against the hardwood, she just barely stops herself from hopping up and down. If she were home she would amp up the theatrics, maybe throw in a squeal for good measure— forget technology, being a drama queen is her true calling.

Just not when there’s a man who she needs to stay asleep laying a few feet away from her.

She shuffles blindly forward, trying to remember where she saw him lay down before she turned off the lamp. That was four hours ago though and she’s starting to think that all that time playing with the crack of light has fried her brain. She thinks he’s near the chest but she can’t be sure.

She could swear—she could drop the loudest f-bomb this planet has ever known. She would, too, if she knew it wouldn’t wake him up. All she wants to do is watch some petty, pretty girls fight over a mediocre brunette. Is that really too much to ask for?

No— the answer is no. So she does what any self respecting woman would do in that situation and she wings it. She guesses. That’s respectable, right? Right. She takes each step with care, searching for any warm spots that might give her a hint as to where he is, all the while chasing after that little crack of light like it’s heaven. Because that’s what it is— a haven from having to lay alone with her thoughts all night.

As was to be expected sooner rather than later, her toes brush against a rather hot patch of wood and she freezes. He’s here— somewhere— she just has no idea where here is. She squints, searching for even a hint of the man. When she comes away with nothing, the scream— the one that’s never quite gone, always just simmering in the back of her throat— surges. She has to swallow— swallow, gag, same thing— in order to keep from foiling her own plan.

She brushes her foot forward. Slowly. Painfully, excruciatingly slowly. When her toes brush against the folds of a blanket she gasps. It slips out before she can stop it and she plasters a hand over her mouth as soon as it happens, praying that it isn’t too late— that there’s still a chance she can make it.

She hears Bucky shift on the ground, holding her breath, her toes a mere foot away from the soldier. She counts in her head— one, two, three, oh fuck is he moving, four— before taking another step. Repeating the process, it takes four rounds of this little tip toe game until her hands finally land against the door frame, searching through the darkness until her fingers curl around the knob. Mean Girls here she comes.

“Where ya’ going?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the night easily, rich and deep and cruel.

There isn’t even a hint of sleep in his tone— he was awake the entire time. Her face flushes, her neck searing hot. She can almost hear her skin crackling where the straps of her tank top touch her. She should have known he wouldn’t be a deep sleeper— or sleeping at all, apparently. Damnit.

“I, ah, was just going to the bathroom?” Really? The bathroom?

She has never been so thankful for the dark than she is in this moment, if only because he can’t see the way she rolls her eyes at her own stupidity and scrunches her entire face up. She can’t scream— that idea’s already been scrapped— so it’s the next best thing. That doesn’t stop her throat from bubbling though, the frustration knocking on her windpipe like the friendly neighbour back for even more sugar.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” She swears for a moment she can hear a hint of laughter in his voice, just enough to make the accusation bearable.

She whirls around, hands glued to her hips and trying not to slam her foot down like an insolent toddler. Something hot flares up in her chest— something which she hasn’t felt in ages. Anger. It makes her want to smack him. She wouldn’t, of course, but she wants to— she wants to wipe the smirk out of his words. She wants to more than she’s wanted to do anything in a very long time.

“What do you want me to say then, hmm?”

She can just make out the way Bucky pushes himself up, his shadowy figure now taking up more space. Taking up space in general— of course now she can see him. If she were closer to him she is sure his head would sit above her belly button, right under her brea— stop that, y/n!

“How ‘bout the truth?” God she can still hear that insufferable smirk.

“That was the truth.”

“It wasn’t.”

His breath comes in hot puffs against her stomach— he’s closer than she thought. She doesn’t realize her tank top has ridden up until his face is inches away from her exposed skin. She tries not to shudder as she yanks the material back down her abdomen. Traitorous body!

She wants to rip her hair out— again. “Yes, it was—”

He’s standing now, pushing his way towards her in the dark until she can feel the heat rolling off his body, face to face with a hulking chest. “Just tell me what you want so we can do it, alright?”

There it is again— we.

She can’t breathe. This seems to be becoming a trend— her not being able to breathe when he’s around her. This time it’s her fault though. She squishes her eyes closed, taking a moment to pull in some much needed air. It does little to help her— it smells like nutmeg and cinnamon. She has no idea how he manages to smell like a bakery— or how she hasn’t noticed until now, when she needs more than anything to pull away from the warmth and not fall deeper into it. Unprofessional, y/n— you’re supposed to be the grieving daughter.

She takes another moment, ignoring how he shifts on his feet, clearly becoming impatient, before finally whispering— “I wanted to watch a movie.”

A pause— a long one— before a soft ‘okay’.

For a moment she thinks she hears him wrong— no way the giant soldier is down for movie night with her. Shouldn’t he be telling her to go back to bed? Telling her that it isn’t in his job description to babysit her— to keep her entertained? Surely he doesn’t actually want to watch a movie.

“You don’t have to—”

“Actually, I do.” Oh yeah. He has to follow her wherever she goes. She almost forgot that she might die.

Die for what— wanting to watch a god damn movie?

“Forget it— it was stupid.”

She goes to brush past him, tucking her shoulders up and into her neck, trying to put some space between them as she tucks tail and slips back towards the bed. Talk about a busted ego.

A hand curls around her forearm, halting her retreat. “Let’s watch a movie— can’t sleep anyway.”

She swallows thickly. If she were to turn her cheek a few inches she is sure it would brush against his shoulder.

“Are you sure?”

“‘Course I am.”

She nods— she knows he can’t see her but she doesn’t trust her voice— and that’s how she ends up watching Mean Girls with a man large enough to rip her in half with his bare hands. A few times she glances over at him, searching through the glow of the TV to the other side of the supple leather couch where his gaze remains locked on the screen. She’s even sure she hears a few breathy laughs— like he’s trying not to laugh but he can’t help it.

The big bad bodyguard likes chick flicks.

About halfway through something unexpected happens— her eyelids begin to heavy. It’s stange, the clock on the wall reads only slightly past two in the morning. She never sleeps before six. Regardless, though, she curls her legs into her body, tucking them under the hoodie she had replaced before leaving the room. Her head slopes against the arm of the couch, eyes fluttering a few times before dropping shut. She’s not going to sleep, obviously— just resting her eyes.

She feels something heavy pool on her lap and the faintest wisps of fingers— some warm and some cold— adjusting the new weight. It brushes against her shin— a blanket. He put a blanket on her. She pulls it closer, dragging it over her cheek, trying her best to stave off the sleep tugging at her limbs. Maybe a conversation will help. There are a few things she’s been meaning to tell him.

“I didn’t mind it.” She whispers it but she’s sure he can hear her over the all but muted TV.

The couch cushions shift, sinking for a moment before stilling. She can picture him facing her now, his head tilted, blue eyes serious. Always on alert, always ready to defend.

“What?” He even sounds defensive— like he’s waiting for her to drop a bomb on him.

Silly man, can’t you see that she can barely even force the last word out of her mouth with how tired she is?

“Doll. I—” she yawns, pulling her limbs closer to her, tucking a hand under her head— “I didn’t mind it.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. If it were daytime she’s sure she would have cared but for now she’s okay not feeling any of the prescribed embarrassment.

“Oh.”

She doesn’t say anything else, only snuggles deeper into the arm of the couch. It must be the exhaustion talking— that’s what she’ll tell herself tomorrow anyway when she’s forced to confront this conversation again. For now she just gives in, letting herself fall into the darkness without fear for what feels like the first time in months.

_________________

Tag List: @xhollycowx @remembered-license @dumble-daddy @hellotvshowtrash @thesummerbucky @elijahs-wife @cari1bunny @im-just-star-dust

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky #bucky fic #bucky x y/n #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #mcu #mcu fic #mcu imagine #marvel cinematic universe #marvel cinematic universe fic #reader insert #Persephone's Symphony

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spencersawkward · 3 years

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switchblade faith//spencer reid - chapter 8

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid.

pairing: Fem!OC/Spencer

word count: 3.9k

content warnings: discussion of a dead body (for a case), discussion of sensory overload (idk if that's a warning but just in case).

A/N: sorry this took so long! i've had a lot of writer's block with this series, but i'm feeling a lot more motivated with it, now. anyway enjoy!

masterlist

my feet slam into the pavement at a rate that makes me wonder if my heart can take it. I can feel the air in my lungs, stinging, and the way it never seems like enough. I can't stop. my arms are pumping and my legs burn.

I'm sure I look like a mess right now, exhausted and sweaty as I make my way up the biggest hill by my apartment. I haven't been running in a while, and this incline is even more daunting than it was before.

I use the momentum I've built from before now and force myself up. every breath rips through me violently until I'm sure that if I stop running, I'll collapse. but I keep pushing, knowing it'll be worth it.

I hated running until college. just absolutely despised the thought of getting outside and forcing myself to move quickly. the older I get, though, the more refreshing it's gotten. it helped me escape from midterms, from the pressure that constantly seemed to mount with every passing day. sometimes it feels like all of it keeps piling on, and it's never going to stop.

of course, that's not really the way to look at life. I've had things to balance out the work, friends to call and ways to let out the hammering violence that always seem to fill the spaces between my ribs. running clears my head when nothing else does.

once I get to the top, I bend over and rest my palms on my knees so that I can relax. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and can feel my pulse thudding against my throat. it's good, though. I needed to do this again, to get exercise.

I resist the urge to lay down flat on the pavement. DC isn't really a good place to do that; everyone around me is on a morning stroll with their partner or they're out for a jog themselves. I pass several enthusiastic-looking dogs out for a walk. the sheer number of people around me should make me feel normal.

it doesn't.

I straighten and stretch out my muscles, wincing at the way my calves feel if I move them funny. I don’t want to get called in for a case today, but that's naive. there will always be another case because there will always be people we need to stop. maybe I'm just not jaded enough to not care. I like to think that's a good thing, though.

...

when I head into the office a couple hours later, there's a to-go cup of coffee resting on my desk. I smile to myself, set my bag down and shrug off my coat, then peek over the divider to see Spencer with a case file open and an identical to-go cup a couple inches away.

"is this your doing?" I refer to the coffee. he nods and smiles at me, seemingly not in the mood to talk.

"thanks, Reid."

sitting down to do some work, I sneak a peek at him. Spencer is acting different from last weekend. more shy. I'm not really sure the reason, unless he just felt particularly outgoing at the party and is now back to his default self.

we get a case before the hour is up, and then my mind is occupied by the details.

jet rides, though now a familiar routine, are probably my favorite part of the job. I don't feel totally unproductive, but I still have time to unwind and talk to people on our way. Emily and I have gotten much closer within the past few weeks and sometimes she tells me stories about her old job that keep me on the edge of my seat.

there's something so mysterious about her that I just appreciate; she's like a cool older cousin to me. and she's great at making fun of Morgan, which is something that I've found enjoyable as well. sometimes he needs to be knocked down a peg-- she's the woman to do it.

"how many?" I trace my finger down the smooth skin of Derek's arm, where he's lifted his sleeve just enough to show the inked lion. it's a big tattoo, and I'm somewhat surprised he has one at all. he just doesn't really seem the type.

"five right now." he flexes his bicep flirtatiously, and I immediately remove my hand with a repulsed expression, rolling my eyes at the chuckle he lets out.

"don't feed his ego like that." Emily warns from across the table. she's flipping through one of the plant magazines that we've stashed in the snack cupboards (much to Hotch's disapproval). I turn to see Morgan's reaction.

"you a little jealous, Prentiss?" he teases. her only response is a glance that dares him to push further. they both know that Emily has absolutely no interest in him, which I suppose adds to their friendship. Morgan leans down by my ear, but he makes no effort to quiet his voice. "you should ask about her tattoos."

"you have tattoos?" my eyes widen at this, voice a little louder than usual. Hotch glances over at us from his seat a ways away, but doesn't say anything. Reid is passed out on the couch, strangely tired for the middle of the day; Rossi's writing something in his miniature journal.

"that's not anyone's business." she says more to Morgan than to me.

"I wanna see!" I set my glass of ice water down on the table and straighten up. Emily pretends to be exhausted by the persistence, but she closes her magazine momentarily.

"look, I can't show them all here." she raises a suggestive eyebrow.

"then how does Derek know?" I smirk. Emily makes a face, but Morgan is the one who replies.

"this one gets a little loose-lipped when she drinks too much." he teases. I snort and glance at Emily. I've seen her tipsy before, but never drunk. at most, she gets affectionate with all of us and calls us her best friends in the whole world. which, honestly, isn't an unwelcome sentiment.

"I do not." she argues.

"yeah, you do." Reid mumbles from the couch cushion where he's been resting his head. I jump at the sudden noise, and we all turn to him.

"look who's up." Emily smiles. Reid stretches his legs out, limbs so long that his feet hang off the end of the couch. he's wearing mismatched socks again today, one with bananas and one covered in sushi rolls. I smile to myself.

"I'm not," he argues. "someone had to correct you."

Morgan and I let out an amused laugh. my eyes dart between Spencer and the two other agents. "I feel like I'm the only one here who hasn't seen Prentiss drunk."

"yes, you have." she frowns.

"no. not, like, plastered."

"don't let Garcia hear you say that." Morgan laughs. I snort.

"why?"

"any excuse to party, and she'll take it." he shakes his head affectionately.

"she'd just call it bonding." Prentiss adds in. I have a soft spot in my heart for Pen. for all of the darkness we see here, she makes it a little bit brighter with her quips and sparkly pens and neon glasses. she's a blessing.

"what's so bad about that?" I defend for her sake.

"nothing's wrong with it, per se," Emily shrugs. "it just means we aren't as professional as we should be."

"I'd argue that our job actually means we get to let loose more when we have the time." I shrug. Morgan offers his fist to pound, and I oblige with a satisfied smile.

"you two are children, you know that?" Emily gestures between Derek and me. I shrug, about to return to my crossword when she speaks again. "how many tattoos do you have, Clea?"

I blink for a second, deciding whether or not to lie. it would be kind of cool to sound badass, but I don't know if I even have the mental capability to fib to a bunch of profilers. "none."

"what?" Morgan looks at me with confusion.

"yeah, none. why is that such a big surprise?" I laugh at their reactions. Prentiss is alarmed, too.

"I don't know-- you seem like the kind of person to get a heart tattooed on your thigh or something." Morgan shrugs. I make a face, silent.

"that's offensive."

Prentiss snorts and finishes her drink. I peek over and see Reid with his eyes closed but a slightly amused smile on his face. by the couch, I can see through the window. we're slipping through gray clouds that are saturated with rain, and the weather change causes the jet to shake a bit.

my fingertips wrap around the arm of the seat and Emily eyes me warily.

"you okay?"

"don't like flying." I answer, nostrils flaring slightly. usually with these trips, I've been able to hide my apprehension for flying by holding onto my knee below the table or something, but the sudden jerks are putting me off.

it's stupid-- plane anxiety is ridiculously common, and I don't think it's necessarily unwarranted. the problem is that to a bunch of people trained in behavioral analysis, it shows a blatant fear of not having control.

which is true, but it's not like I need that plastered all over my face every time we board a flight.

"would you get a tattoo if you could?" Emily changes the subject, thankfully, and I bite down on my bottom lip.

"I think so, yeah." it's said without much thought; all that's on my mind right now is wondering what our ETA is. Morgan shifts in his seat to smirk.

"really."

"sure."

he nods appreciatively before turning to look back out the window. droplets of moisture are collecting there, but they only distort the image of Portland stretched out below. the water is steel gray and rippled with wind.

I've never been here. for some reason, I find myself wondering what it smells like. that mingling of city scent and ocean, if they meet in the middle to form their own distinct identity. if it will settle on my tongue and in my clothes.

it's funny to me that when I go to different places and return, I don't notice how different it all smells until I breathe it in through the fabric of my shirts, and from there it all comes rushing back. Spencer mentioned during a case once that scent creates the most powerful memory reaction out of all our senses-- and I believe it.

DC smells like humidity and rain-slicked streets, Montana like dust. even the jet has a particular one that I don't associate with anything right now, but I know I will in the future. like I'm standing in the formation of a memory.

half-baked.

...

we've got the hoods of our raincoats up as we make our way into the office of our latest victim. Morgan holds the door and I wander in, staring up at the enormous glass walls of the place. a stray droplet falls from the hood of my jacket and onto my nose, rolling down the bridge and causing me to sniffle.

her boss is surprisingly dismissive of us when we get to his office, reluctantly getting off a phone call and giving me something of a dead-fish handshake. as we take a seat at his desk, I can smell the overbearing stench of his expensive cologne.

he's got exactly the kind of look that I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole: taut, judgmental face with a stiff mustache and slicked-back black hair that honestly is probably dyed. his eyes linger on me for a bit longer than I appreciate, but I clear my throat and try to brush off the discomfort.

Winona's body was found in a ditch off the side of a highway, dumped like trash. based on the ME report, she was alive when he threw her in, but died shortly after from her wounds. the whole thing is gruesome and as her employer notes her tendency to daydream and occasional tardiness, I want to reach across the table to smack him.

Morgan is able to keep his cool better than I can, nodding. I know it's important to know her behaviors in order to build our profile, but I still don't like the way this guy is talking about her.

"she wasn't really the strongest employee we've got, but she was nice enough around the office." he shrugs. I notice the gold wedding band that glints on his ring finger, the way he leans back in his swivel chair. he's got evaluative eyes.

by the time we're done, I'm practically flying out the door of his office and hurrying to the elevator. we got what we needed to know from him, if not through a somewhat convoluted method.

"nice guy." I note sarcastically after punching the down button. Morgan tucks his hands into his jeans pockets and looks at our warped reflections in the elevator doors.

"we talk to a lot of people like that. you get used to it."

"didn't seem too concerned about her at all."

"I don't think guys like that are concerned about much more than themselves."

"you should have mentioned a tax evasion investigation happening around here," I smirk. "that would probably put the fear of God into him."

Morgan chuckles and looks over at me. it would be unprofessional to fist bump with so many people around, although the smile we share is definitely a great equivalent.

as we pack into the metal box with a bunch of employees, they look at us curiously. the enormous FBI label on the back of our jackets probably doesn't help, but I pretend to look like I know what I'm doing as we step out into the lobby.

in all reality, faking it until I make it is the only thing I know how to do.

...

the late night cravings come as a surprise as I stand over a map of Portland. my eyes are starting to cross from staring at all the minuscule details for so long, and my fingers are twitching from a mixture of hunger and overloaded caffeine.

we were supposed to go to bed about two hours ago, but I know for a fact that I'm not the only one sitting in my motel room with open files and a determined expression. I do happen to be the only person rooming alone, however, and the silence has been helpful.

Reid's been working on a geographic profile, but there's something missing. I'm not sure what it is. all I know is that if I don't figure it out soon, it's going to eat away at me. based on his activity patterns, there are only a few more days before this guy abducts another woman.

except now I'm just thinking about how much time we don't have, and that sort of sends me into a spiral, too. I'm prepared to always be running against a clock for this job, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I'm going to lose it if I stare at any more tiny lines indicating roads or side streets or whatever else demands attention.

I need to get out of my head.

before taking time to really consider anything else, I grab my phone and look up pizza places nearby. what I need right now is some sustenance and tv-- or at least something to distract me enough to recharge.

I change into my pjs and wash my face while I wait for the delivery person to arrive, try to ease the day out of my bones. there used to be a whole process for me after work every day, where I'd shut off my brain. The Real Housewives of Atlanta provided ample help for this, along with fuzzy socks and glasses of red wine. I can make do with this.

once the pizza guy comes and I pay for my food, I don't even make way to my room; instead, I go to the person I know who needs this more than I do.

"Clea?" Spencer rubs his eyes as he swings open the door, glasses held in the other hand.

"hi." I smile brightly.

"what are you doing here?" his soft tone and the dim light from a motel lamp in the corner tells me that Morgan is asleep right now in the other bed.

in response to his question, I hold up the box of pizza with a grin. his eyes widen.

"I can't eat all this alone." definitely a lie, but saying that he needs to take a break probably wouldn't sway him enough.

for a second, Spencer seems to debate this in his head. when he runs a shaky hand through his hair, I roll my eyes. "it's pizza, dude. not a wedding proposal. you can go back to the case in twenty minutes."

he nods this time and looks up at me as I turn and start toward my room. closing the door gently behind him, I don't miss the way he increases his pace a little to catch up with me.

"did you get mushrooms?" he asks. I throw him a disgusted look before realizing what he's talking about and breaking into a grin.

"you remembered!" I reference my hatred of the fungus. Spencer smiles with pride, turns his gaze to the carpeted floors. I unlock the door and let us in.

"of course I remember," he snorts. "it's hard to forget."

I giggle at the way he immediately uses the sink to wash his hands, and I join him after setting the box on the bed.

"favorite soap scent?" I ask absently. suds cover my fingers as he rinses the water from his. normally, this isn't a question I'd ask, but Spencer seems like he would have a response.

"you know, I really enjoy anything fresh-smelling," he thinks about it. "like waterfall smell."

"I like those, too."

"what's your favorite?"

"there's this brand that I love that specializes in antibacterial soaps, and they have a lavender one that literally makes me ascend." I laugh. Spencer is drying his hands with a folded towel and his face lights up.

"Ravi's Organics?" he suggests. my heart leaps with recognition.

"yes! oh my god, have you used their cracked cinnamon one?"

"I have the hand sanitizer in my bag." Reid's eyes are so pretty. they sparkle with a hazel color, almost chocolatey in the cheap motel light.

"they have a hand sanitizer for it?" my jaw drops. he nods and I shake my head slowly. we walk over to the bed to eat the pizza. he seems hesitant, though, and pauses.

it takes me a second to remember that Spencer has different boundaries and is just kind of awkward in general. even though there's no obvious tension between us, I don't want to make him uncomfortable, so I plop down on the floor.

"you like Ravi's Organics." he states it back to himself more than to me, and as I pop open the box to reveal a beautiful pepperoni pizza, I nod vigorously.

"yeah, it's actually kind of a funny story," we start to dig in immediately. I lift an enormous slice to my lips and bite into the perfection. it's so good. "when I was little, my parents used to call me Rascal."

"Rascal?" he laughs through a bite of food.

"like the raccoon? from that book?" it's a kid's story.

"why?" he snorts. I take a second to chew before replying.

"I just get really overwhelmed by certain sensory things-- like, I hate being sticky or having any kind of weird texture on my hands. so whenever we went out to eat or anything, I would always sit on the outside of the booth so I could run to the bathroom and wash my hands as I pleased." I explain all of this with a slight frown on my face. it's true, I've just never really thought about it.

"I don't like sticky stuff, either." he offers.

"yeah, it got pretty bad. but I guess I just grew out of it. I'm not sure when." I pluck a piece of pepperoni off the top and slide it into my mouth.

Spencer takes in this information for a second while he eats, and I'm momentarily worried that I've overshared. he came for some food and now I've served up a weird childhood memory to accompany it.

but then he does something funny and altogether endearing.

"actually, raccoons are very cleanly creatures, despite their dietary habits." he tells me.

frankly, it makes me feel better than anything else that he could have said. "fastidious little things, right?"

"exactly." he chuckles. his shoulders are hunched, elbows leaning on his knees.

"fix your posture." I say gently, noticing the way his spine curves abysmally when he's sitting across from me. his cheeks turn a pretty pink, but he follows directions.

"is it that bad?" he's a bit embarrassed. immediately, I soften and do what comes easily, making a joke.

"if you don't work on it, you're gonna be living in a French cathedral by the age of thirty."

Spencer snorts-- genuinely almost chokes on his food-- and looks at me with his almost childlike eyes. there's something in them that I can't decipher at all, almost so obvious that it completely goes over my head.

"that was mean." he's still trying to recover from the onset of giggles, and I lean forward to grab another slice, suppressing a proud grin myself.

"your future straight-backed self will thank me."

"I'll remember that." he nods dutifully.

"I'm sure you will."

we share a secretive smile before I bite into my pizza and launch into a different subject. the more I learn about Spencer, the more I want to know. I feel like there are things beneath every new surface that would be fascinating to understand.

"what's it like having an eidetic memory?"

he frowns like he isn't sure how to answer. I thought he'd already have something locked and loaded, a prepared response for a question he definitely gets frequently. when he opens his mouth, I find myself hanging on every word. "it's... interesting."

"blessing or a curse?"

"both."

"would you ever give it up if given the option?" I narrow my eyes a bit. I'm especially curious about this.

"no." this is delivered with certainty. for a second, I stare at him with about a million more questions in my head. of course, they're completely out-of-bounds and way too personal, but they're still there.

"hm." I say instead. as usual, delivering thrilling commentary at every turn.

Spencer peeks at me over his pizza for a second, seeming to want to say something else, but decides against it. our eyes meet; I'm not sure what it is, maybe a silent agreement or something else that's unspoken, but we decide not to press further on either end.

whatever he's got tucked away in that big brain of his, he's not ready to talk about it with anyone-- much less a new colleague in a dumpy motel. there's a time and place for certain things, and boundaries to respect.

I change the subject before he can make some lame excuse to leave. for some reason, I just don't want him to leave me here in this room.

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added/removed for this series): @reidsconverse @voidsfilm

#spencer reid #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #best friends to lovers #fanfic #mgg #matthew gray gubler #baby spencer #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x reader

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beetlemancy · 4 years

Note

Anon again: Thank you!! I appreciate you taking the time to answer me because I am kind of active in the community but very very new. I did know your opinions but being new I just wanted to know whether those recent posts held any weight. I want to be socially responsible with my media consumption and I was worried there was something I was missing, given I have seen specific call outs for certain cast members (Travis, Laura, Sam, and Liam) recently. Thanks again!!

Anon pt2: you don’t have to post this but for context the call out posts were as follows: Travis actively supports the military, Laura voiced a black character?, Sam did brown face??, and Liam is fake woke/virtual signaling (or something along those lines). Obviously I can find out information about this for myself but I have seen more anti-CR stuff lately which prompted my ask.

As with everything, I suggest you do your own reading on those topics, and any topic that comes up in regards to the media you watch. Below is simply my opinion. Note: this gets long.

Travis does support the military - but not as an institution. He has family in the military. He supports the soldiers. He works with Operation Supply Drop and I’d encourage you to look into OSD specifically. Whether you agree with the idea that we should even have a military or not, you cannot deny that our veterans and soldiers are given the short end of the stick. We cannot just abandon them because helping them might be viewed as giving money to the military. I have so many military vets in my disability groups. The VA is awful because it has no funding (I know good people who work at the VA too, but they just cannot help everyone like they’d want to). Programs like OSD are genuinely helpful to a lot of hurting folk and the people who shit on Travis and CR for promoting and helping them out have clearly never actually sat down and talked to a vet or a soldier before.

Laura and many many other voice actors have voiced people of color in various shows. Yes, this is a legit problem. However, obviously as with most things, the problem is nuanced. The fault mainly lies with the VO industry as a whole, in that actors actually have very little control over what they do. There was a whole strike about this very topic (though the strike covered other issues in the industry as well). In the case of Laura, for instance, she was never told what her character would look like until after the fact. And that is super common in the industry. One of the things they tried to get in the strike was more transparency so that actors could make the decisions themselves whether to voice characters or not - not just based on race or culture but also based on type of work (stressful screaming vs chill dialogue) and whether the content of the game itself was something they wanted their name attached to.

Sam’s blackface scandal is extremely old news. That’s not to say it isn’t important to note, and in fact Sam made a point to note it again back in 2018. I know people who can’t watch CR because of it, even after his apology, and that’s fine because its not my place to judge others for how they react to that kind of thing. However I know a lot of people who read his apology and the circumstances surrounding it and decided to forgive. To some people, the fact that he was asked to do so by will.i.am changes the situation. To others, it doesn’t. To some the fact that he apologized and has clearly worked to improve his behavior matters, to others it doesn’t. You have to decide that for yourself. You can read Sam’s letter HERE.

Now. Regarding Liam. * sigh * I think, and again this is my opinion, that you cannot proclaim someone you do not know as ‘fake woke.’ I think there are parts of this fandom that have it out for Liam because of a whole bunch of gross reasons, many of which I’ve spoken about before. He is sensitive and a man - that makes people uncomfy. He plays a lot of women characters and tends to embody them in both personality and body language - that makes people uncomfy. He fully embraces the bi energy (this is not to say whether he himself is or not) - that makes a lot of people uncomfy (and angry). He loves theatre and loves to explore the human condition, warts and all - that makes people super uncomfy. Now. There are people who thinks he’s homophobic. Do you know why? Its because his bi character ended up with a woman instead of a man. That is biphobia, no matter how they twist it. Bi people being “allowed” to be bi and not ‘pick the right side’ in the LG (not BT, lets be real) community IS revolutionary because its so very hated.

Another reason they say he’s homophobic is because of the jokes he is often involved in - some gay men in the fandom believe that joking about sex is him ‘making fun’ of gay relationships. As a bi enby, I disagree, and I read many of the jokes he himself makes as the kind of humor I use among my own friends. I think there is a definite disconnect between bi vs LG humor and I’m not entirely sure who would be considered in the ‘right’ on that. However, when LG people in the fandom claim that he cannot talk about gay relationships because he is cishet? They cannot know that. That is an assumption they are making. When LG fans say that he alone is responsible for this issue and not -literally every single member of CR- ? I have to question whether its really the issue and not just that they still hate Liam for deigning to make a bi character bi instead of gay.

Another thing re: Liam. Aside from Marisha, he is the one I see the most hate about. People on Twitter and Tumblr both have legit uttered death threats about him if he doesn’t do exactly what they want his characters to do in the game. Usually this is about shipping. I have seen people claim that they WISH he was ‘like vic mignogna’ so they’d have a reason to hate him more. I’ve seen a certain group of people and one in particular say they have ‘dirt’ on him but refuse to say what the dirt is - and yet continually bring up that it exists, but that they just cannot say. Why would you incessantly bring up information you possess just to say that you cannot divulge such information?

Legit issues about CR that is attached to Liam is the whitewashing issue. Some say that only Liam is responsible here because he controls all the art. I would say that we actually don’t know that for sure. He is ‘Art Dad’ and clearly has some pull. I do think that CR should address this issue, but I’m not sure they can legally do what the fandom wants them to do, which is “call-out” artists by name and denounce them. Now, this too is more nuanced than the fandom makes out because its often way more about colorism vs whitewashing. Many people do not draw Beau as white, but they do draw her as much lighter skin tones than her original art. Colorism is a real problem, but white allies tend to go about talking about it wrong or making smaller things a bigger deal when POC would really rather talk about something more important to them. It was these same white allies that tore Mica Burton apart on Twitter because she liked and enjoyed a drawing of Reani, her own character, that was a few shades lighter than the drawing she herself had brought in, even after she had said that she appreciated the variety of skin tones due to seeing herself in each of them. On the topic of whitewashing/colorism in the fandom, I personally tend to wait to hear from POC over the masses of white allies.

The CR fandom is very big for a niche thing like DnD. As such, there are many many corners of the fandom that can get really jaded, really dark, and really up their own ass in regards to the discourse. There are legitimate issues in the fandom and with CR as a whole. Nothing is perfect, nothing ever will be perfect, and people should absolutely do what they can to do better and to ask their media to do better. That being said, there are also people who think that if you don’t do something exactly like they want, then you’re Problematic by default. There are also members of this fandom who have an active vendetta against certain cast members and will use any opportunity to co-opt legit issues in order to shore up their false arguments. These people are only using the real issues and it becomes clear pretty quickly that they don’t actually give a shit about the people they say they are trying to speak up for.

There is also some fandom drama that has occurred ONLY in fandom and has absolutely nothing to do with CR other than the fact that the people involved happen to be CR fans. Certain people in the fandom think that CR should arbitrate this issue and involve themselves, call out the individuals responsible, etc. This is, I believe, a GROSS misconception of what CR’s role is and asking way too much of a source of entertainment. The fact that CR has not involved themselves in this issue has led certain members of this fandom to claim that CR is homophobic. I would caution that most callouts of CR as homophobic are directly linked to this first issue, and also a callback to the Vaxleth drama from campaign one, and is incontrovertibly tied to bi and enby-phobia and a seriously sick misunderstanding of the responsibilities a show has versus the responsibility individuals have as viewers of said show.

That’s it for now. I could go way more in depth on this problems, but I’m tired of typing. Suffice it to say, its easy to make a list of things Problematic with CR, but once you actually delve into each topic hopefully you’ll realize how complicated and filled with nuance and Different Opinions going on back from the first episode of Campaign One... Listing problems without actually addressing them head-on isn’t a good way to deal with the problems that are true anyway, let alone tell them from the false ones.

#no fandom tags we die like passive aggressive chipmunks #Anonymous #cr discourse

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mononoavvare · 4 years

Note

richard siken. “three proofs”. when you paint an evil thing / do you invoke it / or take away its power?

Sai likes to walk home from training with the team each day.

He starts taking the street after a few weeks of simply running the rooftops back to his sparse apartment. The long roads home hold more life than any he’s ever seen-- residential districts, brightly colored homes with laughing children chattering on their way home from school, old women hanging laundry out to dry, young lovers whispering to one another with ducked heads as they scurry home in the hot, mid-afternoon light. Sai likes to watch all of this, as if it might give him some great insight into the minds of people. He likes to watch all of this like he might learn something important from them.

On the way home, there is an old man. He sits in a wheelchair in an open doorway at the top of a set of narrow stairs and he frowns down at Sai the first few weeks he watches him pass. For lack of anything better to do, Sai always gives his plastic smile and waves, undaunted by the lack of friendly response in return. Walking past his door and his frown with a smile and a wave swiftly becomes a tradition, one that is broken after twelve days when The Old Man lifts a hand back and calls out, “Young man.”

His voice is reedy, thin and his fingers gnarled like twigs but they do not shake in the warm summer air. The words stop Sai in his tracks and he turns to fully face the man, head tilted curiously. “Hello,” he greets politely, “My name is Sai.”

“I don’t care, kid,” The Old Man replies, beckoning him closer. Sai climbs the steps without thought as The Old Man continues, “I need your help.” He wheels himself back and Sai follows him inside-- the home is well-lit, full of pictures of smiling children and grandchildren, neat and lively in a way Sai didn’t expect. He is not sure what he expected to see instead, but he has little time to dwell on the minor curiosity. “I live with my daughters and their husbands,” The Old Man rasps, “and they never leave me enough damn water. I can’t reach the glasses or the sink in this, but the husbands loathe me and they never leave me enough damn water!”

Sai hums quietly in response and wanders into the kitchen, carefully picking through the cabinets until he finds the one with the glasses, and he gets The Old Man a cup of cool tap water while he waits in the doorway, tapping his bony fingers against the armrest of the chair. Sai is quiet, and the man looks at him suspiciously while he finishes off the water greedily, and holds the glass out for more. Sai obliges him.

That day, he leaves without saying another word, and The Old Man only grumbles a reluctant ‘thank you’ as he wanders out the front door-- Sai just hums in response.

Every day for the next few weeks The Old Man beckons him inside of his unexpectedly cheery home and asks him for a glass of water, and Sai silently obliges because really, he has nothing better to do. It’s a few minutes of his time spent on a mindless, simple task. Sometimes The Old Man is silent outside of his gruff demands, and sometimes The Old Man tells him about his family-- the successful daughters, the sons-in-law who hate him, the grandchildren who go to tutoring after school that are going to be doctors and lawyers and other such things just like their mothers. He tells Sai he is alone all day and the sons in law don’t leave him enough water to drink because they hate him and wish him ill, and Sai almost fondly thinks The Old Man reminds him a little bit of Lord Danzo.

The more time he spends with team seven, the less fond the comparison seems-- he tries not to think too hard on it.

After helping and listening to The Old Man rattle off whatever comes to mind for nearly two weeks, The Old Man tells him of The Neighbor’s Dog. The Neighbor’s Dog, he claims, barks relentlessly all day when The Old Man is alone, drives him up a wall.

“Well,” Sai responds mildly, “perhaps your neighbors leave her alone all day as well. Perhaps she is as lonely as you.”

The Old Man scoffs. “I am not lonely,” he grumbles, gnarled hands curled tightly around the half-filled glass resting in his lap. “I am not lonely,” he insists again, louder this time, and he continues, “I want you to kill the dog, please.”

Sai’s expression does not flicker because he feels nothing, but he has to admit to himself that he doesn’t see much sense in the request. “You want me to kill the dog,” he responds flatly, crossing his arms when The Old Man nods at him with wide eyes. “Won’t your neighbors be upset if their dog dies?”

Shaking his head hard enough to nearly spill his water, The Old Man stares up at him with wide eyes. “No, no,” he insists, pointing a jagged finger at the wall to indicate which neighbor it is. “They leave her out all day and night! But she only barks when I am alone and she is alone. She barks and barks and barks, rain or shine. If you love a creature you do not leave it out at all hours in all weather, no? You care for it. She is just a thing to them.”

Sai does not want to kill the dog.

He tilts his head and gives The Old Man a vague answer about seeing if he could talk to the neighbors, ask them to chain her elsewhere or perhaps bring her inside, and The Old Man reluctantly agrees that perhaps this is the less contentious solution. Sai then tells him he will be going on an assignment and won’t be in the village for the next few weeks, but he will see The Old Man when he returns. He slips out of the open front door before he can hear the grumbled response.

The Neighbor’s Dog is standing in the next yard behind the slatted fence at the very end of her chain, staring at The Old Man’s house when Sai emerges, just like she always is when he comes by. He has never thought it strange. When he approaches the fence and leans his arms against the warm metal and peers down at her, she turns her gaze slowly from the house to him, and it strikes Sai as ... uncanny, somehow. It strikes Sai that before now, he has never seen her move at all.

“Hello,” he greets blithely, defaulting to something familiar in an attempt to settle the strange feeling shifting within him. The Neighbor’s Dog drops her head and her tail and takes four steps back until she is settled on the neighbors’ front porch. “Oh, you don’t have to be afraid,” Sai says, hopping easily over the fence and landing in a crouch in the grass. “I just want to know why you bark all the time-- I will not hurt you.”

The Neighbor’s Dog creeps forward when he holds out a hand for her to sniff, her steps silent in the grass beneath her paws. She’s cautious, but she doesn’t growl or bare her teeth when he settles his palm atop her head and strokes her ears. They’re silk-soft against his two bare fingers, enough so that he almost wants to take his glove off and repeat the motion. They lock eyes when he draws his hand away.

Suddenly, he knows.

It’s like his skull has been cracked open and his brain has been half scooped out and replaced with something else and then his head was shaken until the original matter is indistinguishable from the new. Though he’s dizzy with it, he doesn’t reel or flinch back from her because such an instinct was trained out of him long ago. He doesn’t know exactly what he knows but he knows this: something is Wrong. The Old Man is in danger, and the golden-eyed mutt next door knows the truth.

“Oh,” he says. “I... What should I do?”

He isn’t sure there’s a protocol for reporting a danger to an old man just because a dog told you it existed. She isn’t even a ninken, she’s... Well, not normal. But she doesn’t talk. She doesn’t respond to his question, either, just slinks back to the front door and lays down on the porch with a long, canine sigh. Sai sits for a moment and he tries to pick apart the feeling but he can’t parse anything from it and it makes him nauseous so he takes the feeling and he puts it in a box and shelves it. “Okay,” he says, resolving to deal with this when he gets back from his mission, “okay.”

Sai goes home and he packs and, predictably, he almost dies multiple times on that assignment, like he always does with team seven. All manner of things crawl about in his feverish dreams and they whisper things he cannot hear or understand, like he’s under water or perhaps they are, and when he sits around the fire at night and Sakura’s hands rest warm and glowing green on his shoulder he starts to ask her what he should to about The Old Man and The Neighbor’s Dog, but there are bags under her eyes and his tongue doesn’t want to cooperate with him long enough to explain, so he just goes to bed.

And when he gets back to the village, he goes to see The Old Man in the middle of the afternoon at the usual time despite the fact that he is not training with team seven that day. The Old Man is sitting at the door like he always is, but his skin is pale and waxy and there are deep bags under his eyes and his hands tremble like leaves in the wind. Sai stands on the top step and stares for a long time before The Old Man speaks.

“She’s dead,” he starts. Sai’s gaze turns to the empty yard, and then back to him. He wheels himself further into the house, and Sai follows. Gets him a glass of water. Stands in the doorway of his kitchen and wonders if the man ever goes outside. After an eternity The Old Man continues, “she started barking more often after you left-- when everyone was here, when the neighbors were home. Her barks... sounded like speech, to me, so familiar they were. Is that crazy?”

“The human mind can find patterns in almost anything,” Sai replies automatically, instead of asking what the dog told him. “Whether there is a pattern to find or not. We seek them out because we find them comforting.” The Old Man’s shoulders slump and he nods weakly, turning to look at the photos on the wall with a troubled expression. Sai opens his mouth and blurts, “I think you might be in danger--”

“I am tired,” The Old Man interrupts him abruptly. “I am old and I am tired, young man. Why don’t you go home?”

Sai pauses, tilts his head, and then nods in acquiescence. He turns and slips out the door, closing it softly behind himself, and he stands in front of the neighbor’s house staring at the grass in their yard with his arms on the bars of the fence. He stands there until the sun starts to set and the air cools and the neighbors come home, and when he sees them he smiles politely and he greets, “Hello.” It rings hollow, but even though the man and the woman exchange glances he continues. “I was wondering-- Well, I usually see a dog here? What happened to her?”

The pair exchanges a glance, and the woman sighs sadly: “She got rabies or something... started getting all crazy and aggressive, wouldn’t stop barking and growling, all the time. We had to put her down.” Sai nods once, curtly, and bids them an insincere goodnight. He goes home.

The Old Man is dead within the week, he hears. Accidentally wheeled himself down the steep stairs outside of his front door he never left the confines of and crushed himself under his chair. A tragic accident. Sai stands in front of the house exactly once on the way back from the training ground and he peers in the windows like he might learn something, but there’s nothing to see at all. There is no movement inside-- the people are still gone from it during the day, and there is no one to beckon him inside and ask him for water. Sai doesn’t know what to... do. Who to tell, or how to tell it.

So he goes home, and he doesn’t take the long way back from the training grounds anymore.

#// drabbles #animal death /#sorry to inflict this on all of u but life comes at u don't it #please clap #netsurai

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karliahs · 4 years

Note

um for prompts idk anything specific but maybe more midoriya gettin angry over stuff and dealin?? really loved the way u handled it in something else to pretend, would love to see ur take on how he deals with more aggressive/harsher anger? idk tho

content warning for discussions of bullying and brief references to (canon) child abuse

“Why did Kacchan do that?” Izuku asks. It’s one of those shards of memory that lingers far longer than it should, muddying over years and re-rememberings, but never completely fading away.

Izuku can remember the question, his grazed knees, the sun shining on the grass. He can remember his mother helping clean him up, smiling a comforting smile and saying, “I don’t know, sweetie. I think he was angry.”

Izuku isn’t sure if the question that comes next comes from his mother, or if it’s just something he’s thought about so much over the years that it’s gotten tangled up in the memory, an unwitting passenger. “Don’t you get angry, Izuku?” someone asks.

ao3 link / continued below

In hindsight, Izuku is sure the thoughts that come next can’t be part of the memory. His five year old self wouldn’t be capable of this kind of self-analysis. But the thing is, Izuku thinks he knows what anger is. It’s not really that distinct from other kinds of overwhelmed, when the world is too loud, too much, too impatient and needling - and so he cries, because this happens every time a feeling is too large to hold all of it inside him, and ‘wanting not to cry’ is always one of those feelings, so there’s no way out.

Izuku supposes he must have thrown tantrums when he was little. Thrown his toys around, fallen on the floor, screamed. He can’t remember doing any of that.

He’s never felt whatever Kacchan is feeling when he pushes Izuku into the dirt. He tries to imagine it, a feeling bubbling over into bright, harsh action, like Kacchan’s explosions. He can almost get there, but after comes a sweep of shame that pulls him back into himself. Izuku Midoriya, quirkless and strange, who causes enough problems without pushing other children over. Izuku, who can feel the aftermath so much more distinctly than that initial explosion of anger. He can’t think about explosions without thinking about wreckage.

…

“Don’t you ever get mad?” Matsuda asks.

Izuku had been on his way to take shelter in the school library over lunch. He’d been distracted, as he walked, wondering if the doors would be open today - the library is sparse and neglected enough when it’s open, but the school’s staffing levels are such that he frequently turns up at the doors to find the whole place shut up and locked, leaving him to try and think of another place where he might be able to spend the next 45 minutes safe and left alone - so distracted that he hadn’t noticed Matsuda until they almost collided in the hallway.

He was lucky, really, that it was just Matsuda, not one of Kacchan’s true entourage, but a hanger-on who rarely missed an opportunity to take Izuku down a peg. In a class without Izuku there, it wouldn’t be that hard to see Matsuda in Izuku’s place.

But something about Izuku’s distracted expression during his taunts seems to have triggered something else, a kind of disbelieving disgust. “Like, ever?” he asks. “Don’t you ever get tired of like ‘thanks, excuse me, sorry for existing and all, good luck with the test tomorrow guys!’” He says this last past in a high-pitched imitation of Izuku’s voice, and Izuku thinks maybe they’ve returned to familiar ground, but Matsuda is still staring intently at him, seemingly waiting for an answer.

He doesn’t have one to give. Half his mind is still on those library doors, and whether they’ll be open when he gets there. The rest is fuzzed over with panic, leaving him with nothing but his polite, stammering default - which never makes it better, but silence never does either.

“Whatever,” Matsuda says, suddenly growing tired of him and starting off in the other direction. “It’s like you like it this way.”

Izuku takes a shuddering breath and turns the corner. The library doors are closed.

…

Izuku tries, later that day, once he’s safe at home, to get angry on purpose. He sits on his bed and tries to summon it up, like the opposite of meditating, reaching for fury instead of calm. For a few minutes nothing happens at all, except that he gets distracted thinking about other things and has to drag himself back.

He thinks about Kacchan pushing him down, and him never finding out why. He thinks about the look on his mother’s face when she came back from meetings during the dissolution of her marriage, meetings Izuku was kept well away from; he thinks about how hard she tried to be normal, but how her knuckles were white where she gripped her water glass.

Eventually, there’s a kind of hot, prickling feeling over his skin. He feels briefly untethered, out of his own body, and wonders if he really did end up meditating after all. Then comes a wave of nausea, so physical that he feels a prickling in the back of his throat. He remembers having the flu last semester, and the nausea that had flooded through him when he’d tried to walk just to get a glass of water - nausea that felt like a warning, like a plea; stop, whatever you’re doing, stop.

He opens his eyes to find he’s gripping his notebook in his hands, so tight he’s bent the spine, leaving little wrinkles of damage spreading out from where he’d held on. He releases his grip and tries to smooth it over, bend it back into shape, but it only looks sadder for his efforts, care shown far too late to help anything.

…

Always, at the root of anger, we find a desire for change. Izuku grips his highlighter pen, unsure. He doesn’t think this passage has much to do with the essay question he’s been assigned, but something about it peaks his interest anyway.

A person enraged is a person committed to affecting change in the world around them. If we all gave in to those desires at every opportunity, we would have a world of tyranny and chaos. However, the alternative extreme is no better - a world of stasis and apathy, drifting, stagnating. When we tell our children to banish their anger, we tell them to cut away a significant part of their own agency. When we tell this to some children and never to others, we invite a different, more incisive kind of tyranny.

Izuku is torn between a desire to slam the book shut, and the urge to try and pivot his essay in a direction that will let him analyse this. He highlights the words in yellow, realising that when he thinks of change, he doesn’t think of anger. He thinks of All Might, defeating impossible odds, saving dozens of terrified people, and doing it all with a smile on his face. What is that if not agency? Can you really not have one without the other?

…

He supposes what he’s doing is building a case, the way he always does. Trying to capture the sum of his understanding of something, so that when he needs the knowledge it will be there. The crucial, long, stuttering thinking will already be done, and in the heat of the moment he can just act.

That’s Hero Analysis For the Future , and he thinks that’s why he’s holding onto these memories too. Almost every aspect of a hero’s life affects their career in some ways; if anger does too, it makes sense that Izuku needs to work out what he thinks. Don’t you ever get angry, Izuku? Don’t you ever get mad? Always, at the root of anger, we find a desire for change. It’s like you like it this way.

Izuku wishes, for a moment, that feelings were as real and tangible as organs. He wishes he could go for a scan and have someone tell him yep, anger’s right there. It isn’t enlarged or shrivelled. It isn’t inflamed or sickening. It isn’t poisoning everything around it.

…

He asks his friends, now that he has friends, specifically targeting those who are more on an even keel - he already knows he can’t relate to big, obvious anger.

“Sure, Deku,” Uraraka answers. “Everyone gets angry.”

“What does it feel like, when you are?”

“Are you gonna take notes?” she teases, but then she’s concentrating, tapping her fingers together, trying to figure out how best to describe it. Izuku still isn’t used to this; if you’d asked him to predict what Uraraka would give him, even though he thinks the world of her, he assumed he’d get a quick, uninterested comment at most. Either his UA friends are so much better than most people, or his calibrations for what friendship is are all off; Izuku suspects it’s a little of both.

“I guess I have two types of anger?” Uraraka muses. “Like, there’s…determined anger? Like at the sports festival, I just got really fired up and wanted to win so bad!” She makes a fist, as if to demonstrate, and man, Izuku likes her so much.

She lets her hands drop. “Then there’s the kind that’s less fun. Like…when your heater is broken and you’re mad that it’s broken, and that you’re cold and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Your heater isn’t really broken, right?” Izuku asks. “It’s been getting really cold out!”

Uraraka gives him a warm smile. “No, Deku. It’s fine.” He stares at her smile for a second too long, trying to grasp the idea of Uraraka being really, truly angry. He thinks it’s like how no one can really know that they’re seeing the same colours everyone else sees. For all he knows, they’re feeling totally different things and giving them the same name; he can’t imagine Uraraka feeling anything in the disjointed, sickly way that rage finds him.

…

Ashido is his next target, and she laughs before realising he’s serious. “Anger feels like anger, you know?” she says idly. “Like…” She holds up her hands in a claw-like gesture, and makes a kind of ‘rrargh’ noise.

Izuku must look slightly disappointed, because Ashido sighs and throws up her hands. “I don’t know, man! I don’t like to think about it. Everything is stupid when you’re angry, and I’m always there, so it’s like I’m stupid. The stupidest thing in all the stupid.”

She looks down at her shoes as she talks, and it’s so unlike the Ashido he knows that Izuku wants to apologise for having asked. Before he can, she lightly punches his shoulder, giving him a smaller, more subdued version of her usual bright smile. “You don’t always gotta dwell on stuff, you know?” she says. “No one’s gonna give you points for it. Chin up! Plus ultra!”

She skips away, and Izuku feels like he understands her both more and less than he did five minutes ago.

…

He doesn’t actually plan to ask Todoroki, but he’s in Todoroki’s room taking back his notes for English class when he finds himself doing it anyway.

“You…get angry sometimes, right?”

Todoroki blinks at him. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his left hand, cupped in a way that makes Izuku anticipate flame, makes him aware of the ghost of it among his fingers.

“Yes,” Todoroki says simply.

“Yeah,” Izuku says, wanting to smile to soften things but not wanting Todoroki to think he’d been making fun of him. “I’ve been asking a lot of people. People in our class, I mean.” He fidgets with his hands for a second. “I think I’m doing it wrong? I don’t know if I have too much anger or too little, but…I don’t know. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Todoroki waits patiently while he speaks, all his attention fixed on Izuku. Izuku thinks that’s one of the reasons he likes Todoroki; even for all of his ambition, he gives off this impression of patience that makes it feel okay to talk, to talk imperfectly and at length, now that he’s past Todoroki’s initial barriers. The other ambitious people Izuku knows, himself included, aren’t like that - he’s dogged, determined, but not patient. It comes from starting so far behind everyone else, making it feel as though no movement is ever really fast enough.

Todoroki thinks for a long moment before replying. “It can’t be worse than what’s wrong with me.”

Izuku gives him a small smile. Kind things hover in the back of his mind, wanting to offer reassurance, but he knows from experience that when you offer some glimpse of how you feel about yourself, sometimes the best thing to receive back is just space and acknowledgement, instead of attempts to convince you otherwise that mostly just make you regret speaking up in the first place.

Izuku knows he’s so behind with this, too; having friends, talking to people, trying to give them reasons to be glad that they talked to him. But maybe Todoroki would understand that, out of all of his friends - maybe they can muddle through together.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately,” Todoroki offers, and Izuku thinks maybe he made the right choice after all. “I used to want to never be angry, so that I’d never act like my father. Now I think if I don’t get used to it, get control of it, I’m more likely to make the same mistakes he did.”

Todoroki flexes his left hand, frowning.

“You’ve come so far, you know?” Izuku says, before he can stop himself.

Todoroki meets his eyes. He’s familiar and strange all at once. Even now that they’ve spent more time together, Izuku can so rarely predict what Todoroki will say or do, just that he likes him, likes the strange angles of him, likes that for some reason he chose Izuku as the subject of his honesty.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Todoroki says, but there’s a softness there, like gratitude.

“I don’t know if it ever does,” Izuku answers, thinking of all the times this year he’s been told that he’s making progress, and how sometimes he’s still convinced that he’s exactly the same on the inside; the same friendless nothing who spent his lunch breaks cowering in the library. “I just feel so guilty for being mad,” he says. “Even if I just sit with it and don’t do anything, it feels so…dangerous.”

The notes in his hands bring him back to that day in his room, trying to be angry on purpose. “One time I messed up one of my notebooks when I was angry, and even though it’s just paper, I felt so bad…I can’t think about anger without thinking about damage, you know?”

He looks up from the notes, from his own scarred hands, to find Todoroki watching him with a new intensity in his eyes. Immediately he wishes he hadn’t spoken, because of course Todoroki knows more about damage than he ever will. “I’m sorry-” he starts, but Todoroki shakes his head.

“I didn’t know anyone else thought about this the way I do. Especially you.”

Their eyes meet again and Izuku finds himself smiling, just from having spoken and been understood - it was still wonderful and new, every time, each moment where he realises he really does have friends. “Maybe there’s a class we can take?” he jokes.

“I think that’s just therapy,” Todoroki says, sounding thoughtful and disappointed in equal measure. “Tell me why you think you’re doing it wrong?”

Izuku gently sets the notes back on Todoroki’s desk, realising with another little leap of joy that he won’t be leaving for a while yet. He takes a seat and starts to talk about being five years old, about the time Kacchan pushed him over and the only explanation anyone could offer was anger.

#bnha fic #asks #itsa-mi #izuku midoriya #thank you for the prompt!!

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treatian · 4 years

Text

The Chronicles of the Dark One: The Dark Curse

Chapter 154: Saying No

It took him an entire day and night to find Clopin and his band of newcomers. That wasn't too bad considering all the time that had passed since he'd first seen the boy and now. Of course, it helped that he had given them their destination. "Go to the furthest reaches of King George's Kingdom, to avoid the call of war, but bask in the riches that would come after…" They weren't there yet. He found them a few days outside the boarders of King George's Kingdom. He spied them from the trees, looked down on them from a safe perspective. They were more tired than when he'd last seen them, perhaps a little skinnier as well, and there were less of them. Travel certainly did not look good on this group. But there, sitting by the fire at night, was the boy he'd seen before. The same book he'd mentioned was still clutched in his little hands, and he could have screamed. Children…he knew how attached they could get to certain objects, but he'd never seen a boy carry around a book with such fervor. At this point, he was going to need to ask Belle how to get it out of his hands!

He watched them throughout the next day, waited for Clopin to leave the group, and get some rest himself, while they were supposed to track down some food and go collect berries. At first, he'd hoped the boy might be sent out to do some gathering on his own and he might take the book then. But instead, it appeared he might get his chance when he rubbed his eyes and was sent inside their tent to nap for the afternoon. When everyone was distracted, he moved himself inside the boy's tent, hoping the book would be right there and he might take it away and leave the others to assume he'd lost it as little boys did. Instead, the boy was sleeping with the damn thing! His fists curled around it; he held it close to his chest like it was some sort of toy instead of a book!

His options were few. He could take the book and risk the boy not noticing, assume that he would sleep through it and would think he lost it when he woke up. But that entire plan ran the risk that the boy wouldn't wake up. If he did, if he saw him even if it was just a glimpse before he disappeared, he might tell his parents. Two sightings of him and the book missing would give credit to what the boy said and anything he remembered that was in the book. If Clopin put two and two together, it could potentially damage their partnership and that wouldn't be beneficial to him, especially if he didn't know whether or not the information in the book was worth it.

He could have gone back into his tree; waited for another time. He'd told Belle that he'd be back in a week and it was only about two days, he could take a few more days, but he'd already seen enough. This was the final straw. The book was never without the boy, and the boy was never without people. The only thing he could think to do was wait to take the book at a time where there were less people to contend with. They weren't far from George's Kingdom, once they arrived, they'd establish a home of their own, away from Clopin. That would be when he'd tried again. In the meantime…

He used the dagger to cut a small bit off the boy's blanket and pocketed it, then took himself back to his castle.

There were times that he liked to hide in his tower, let Belle think he was still away when he wasn't so he could get work done or even just to get a break from her, get her scent out of his head. But disappointed as he was coming home empty-handed, he sought her out and found her in the kitchen. She was standing at the table, looking down at the food he made sure appeared every day for her to fix their meals. She was laughing! Laughing! Despite the fact that no one had said anything, despite the fact that she was by herself, despite the fact that he couldn't see a single thing that was funny about her situation or this day her shoulders shook with laughter. How did she do that? How did she manage to be in such a good mood during the worst of situations? He could stand to learn to do that.

"My, my, my I never knew my presence could reduce you to bouts of laughter!"

Her smile vanished as she jumped at the sound of his voice. "Rumpelstiltskin!" she exclaimed. "I uh…I didn't know you were back!"

"Well, it is my castle!" he teased. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but I had to return eventually."

She opened her mouth, and her gaze swept over him before she closed it quickly and looked down at the table. She was blushing. Why was she blushing?

"I'm just surprised," she clarified even as her blush deepened across her chest. "I wasn't expecting you until later and I thought I'd be dining by myself tonight but…"

But…

That but could lead to a number of different explanations. But she was happy he was back. But she was upset she had to cook for two. But she was glad to be mistaken. But she'd been looking forward to the night alone?! Which "but" was it?!

"Your trip!" she exclaimed suddenly, looking up at him with bright and interested eyes that made him want to shake her until she went back to whatever it was she was going to say. "Tell me about your trip! Did it go well? Where did you go? Why are you back early?"

He tapped his fingers together as he entered the room and felt heat stir against his skin. "So many, many questions, why so curious?"

"Because while you've been out seeing the world, I've been holed up here alone for the last two days," she joked smiling at him. "And you said that you'd be gone longer, if you're back early I…I only wonder if that means things went well."

"Some unforeseen circumstances cut my trip short," he commented sadly. He knew what she was like when she used that tone of voice. She wanted a story, she was hungry for information. And this time he didn't have a gauntlet to hand her and change the subject. But…maybe something else would work?

"Well, did you find what you were after?"

"Not today," he whispered, disappointed. He would have been pleased to report to her that he'd succeeded, to show her that he'd collected a book of all things. But he'd returned empty-handed. Fortunately, his memories of his last encounter with Clopin reminded him that he did have a book waiting for her. With all the confusion over David and after waking up without his memories, he'd forgotten to give the last one to her. "But," he shrieked, aware that he didn't startle her as she poured warm water for them. How did she always know exactly what he needed and wanted? "On my way back, I was fortunate to come across an old woman selling trinkets out of the back of a wagon, and I happened to pick up a treasure of a different nature."

He offered his hand and she looked put off by it before he summoned the book he'd found for her on the back of Clopin's wagon. Immediately she set the teapot aside so hard that he thought it might break. Her jaw dropped, and she stepped closer to take it from his hands.

"For me?" she asked breathlessly, despite the fact that it was already in her hands.

"For whatever trouble my early arrival caused you."

But he wasn't sure that she heard the words. She was already turning the book over and over in her hands, examining the binding, checking the leather at the corners, her hands touched every inch of that book before opening it up to examine the title page and, he assumed, the author.

"Don't get too excited," he urged quickly. "It's not the author you asked me to look for. It's from our own realm. I'm afraid this time you'll have to settle for a different sort of tale!"

"It's wonderful!" she said with a laugh in her voice. Her blush grew again, and she took a small step that made him fear and hope for one brief second that she might launch herself into his arms again. He was already considering how he would respond to such an action when she stepped back and held it tight to her chest, just as the boy had. The only difference between the two was that the boy hadn't hidden beautiful rounded cleavage from what he was sure were two perfect breasts.

"Thank you," she smiled.

He swallowed and tried to get the thought he'd had out of his head. What did he care if her breasts were perfect or not?

"It's no matter," he dismissed, turning to the table to find a distraction. All he found was the cups of tea that she'd poured for them. Exactly the perfect thing. "But don't get too used to it, dearie!" he snapped, pushing a cup in her direction. "This was simply a coincidence I saw fit to take advantage of. You get a new book to read, and I get the peace and quiet that comes from you reading a new book, after you're finished with whatever it is you're working on now of course." He motioned to the book that she had in front of her, the book that had somehow made her laugh when he'd first walked in.

"Oh, no!" she corrected, setting the new book aside and pulling the old one closer. It was only then that he was it wasn't a regular book at all. It was a cookbook. "I was just trying to figure out what to make for dinner. I think that I've made everything in this book!"

"An accomplishment for someone who'd never set foot in a kitchen before. Surely you must have your favorites."

"Of course, I do, but…why is it always beef?" she questioned with an exasperated breath.

"I happen to like beef!"

"Everyone does," she added quickly. "But I feel like we've had nothing but beef for the last few weeks! I'm ready for chicken or to try cooking fish."

"You don't do the shopping." Neither did he, frankly, but he summoned food based on what he felt like or thought of. To be honest, he rarely had a preference. He supposed beef was just his default. He could fix that, change to chicken and add fish to the rotation for her if she wanted.

"No…but…but I could…"

He swallowed and turned to glance at her again, her eyes examining his face with a less than innocent expression; less than confident as well. The room stilled. Was she asking, suggesting, what he thought she was?

"Perhaps if someone ever cared to accompany me to the village at the bottom of the mountain, I could find us something besides beef. Something we'd both like to try!"

She was asking what he thought she was. And he felt suddenly like the world had flipped them both upside-down.

"Are you asking to leave?" he managed to choke out.

"Never," she snapped with cold insistence, as if she was insulted that he'd even made the suggestion. He'd never felt such relief in his life as that glare. Funny, why had panic been his first reaction? Belle gave a small shrug. "At least not the kind of leaving you are thinking of."

"Then tell me, what other type of leaving do you have on your mind?" His heart raced at her words. What other kind of leaving was there?! She wasn't happy with something and she wanted to leave. What had he done to encourage that?!

She took a breath and turned to face him with a seriousness he'd never seen in her eyes, not even when he'd done something stupid and she insisted he fix it!

"A weekly trip to the village down the road, to their market so I can plan meals and buy the food myself from now on…"

"That village is at the bottom of the mountain, what you are proposing is a day's trip, on your own, down a mountain, and through a thick wood where the path is nearly impossible to follow on several occasions." And she could barely navigate climbing a ladder without falling off. "It's out of the question! Besides, what would I reap from the benefit of a deal like this in the end but a day of solitude wondering if my maid will ever return?!"

"You could come with me!" she insisted before he could storm out of the room, wondering how their encounter could have started so well and ended so poorly. But now…she wanted him to go with her? Wanted him? With her? He couldn't have heard that right. "I never said I wanted to go alone. You could go with me, that way you won't have to worry or be in the castle by yourself. And you won't have to make sure that I have food all the time. It'll make things easier on you."

For a moment, he was tempted. So tempted. He could see the images so clearly in his head he might have been having a vision, the pair of them walking through the forest, her hand in the crook of his arm, chatting and smiling along their way, a basket swinging from her arm as they walked.

She was older then. Older and urging him to put whatever he was holding away and come have a picnic with her in the sunset. An old scroll, that was what he was holding. It was important somehow and yet he quickly rolled it up and obeyed her call.

Fantasy. That's all it was. An image his imagination had conjured up. And it was because of that image, that fantasy, that he couldn't allow the first one to come true. He swallowed before he turned to face her, summoning the courage to tell her the last thing he ever wanted to tell her.

"It's far easier for me to ensure you have food than to take the time to escort you to the village. The answer is 'no'."

With no other explanation he strode out of the kitchen feeling almost lightheaded and sick to his stomach. He hated saying no to her. He hated being the reason she didn't smile.

#Rumbelle #Rumple #Rumpelstiltskin #Dark One #Belle #ouat #ouat fanfiction #fanfic

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eldritchsurveys · 4 years

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794🎂

Did the best moment of your life happen at summer camp? >> You ever get to that point where you just resign yourself to taking surveys you’ve already taken? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve taken 75% of the surveys I run into but it’s not like there’s a great influx of new surveys to take, so what’s a motherfucker to do but just make repeat performances... Anyway, some really great moments have happened to me at summer camp; I’m pretty nostalgic about the camps I’ve gone to at Easton Mountain. They were great experiences, even with the bullshit that sometimes happened.

Do you get tired of fakebook? lol >> I’m just tired of facebook in general -- how ubiquitous it is, how much data it collects and what it does with said data, everything about Mark Zuckerberg, etc. How random people behave on facebook is of much less concern to me than the above.

Are you a poser on facebook or are you real? >> I don’t really use facebook. I have one for the purposes of establishing lines of contact, and that’s it.

Are you a people pleaser? >> I wouldn’t say that.

Do you get irritated a lot? >> Not a lot, no. Irritation is a pretty obvious red flag for me -- if I feel irritated it’s probably because I’ve let some important need of mine go unfulfilled, like hunger or sleep or emotional processing. Or I’ve fallen into a depressive episode.

What's something you've realized about yourself lately? >> Eh, nothing really stands out as particularly revelatory.

Do you know a lot of idiots? >> I don’t know any idiots.

Do you want a puppy or a kitty? >> No.

Do you hate that some people are stuck-up? >> No, because that’s not really been my experience with people.

Would you rather be poor and humble or rich and snooty? >> See, the thing about this is... I’ve only been poor. And for one, I don’t think being poor means I’m automatically humble, I think it means that I have to look at life and at other people in a different way than I would if I wasn’t in this position. It means I have to acknowledge my socioeconomic dependence, which means treating people like objects or means to an end is significantly more disadvantageous to me than it would be to a rich person. It means I have to budget my indulgences, and can’t just be capricious and lavish with my spending, and I can’t just throw money at a problem to make it go away. I don’t know what it would be like to be rich -- I don’t know how having those advantages would change me as a person, and I don’t know what unseen disadvantages would arise. I know who I am now, and despite the hardships of being below the poverty line as an individual (and only a little less so as a member of a household), I more-or-less like how I am. I see no reason to complicate things.

Do you know any humble rich people? >> I don’t know any actually rich people at all. I know upper middle class folks because Sparrow is related to them, but while they do seem to lack class consciousness a lot of the time, they still mostly live in a reality I can halfway comprehend.

Do you hate the millennial stereotype? >> Not really. It doesn’t affect me. But I don’t encourage people to spout that nonsense, either.

Do you think everyone should have a right to live, and by that I mean live a comfortable life? >> The problem with this is that, as a human being who is invested in lessening suffering for all living creatures, I feel as though people should have this right. Unfortunately, as a human being who is equipped with the ability to think about things critically and logically, I think that it makes no practical sense. What I do think is that social systems can absolutely stand to be more supportive to all peoples, and we should absolutely work towards that. We should always seek ways to ease suffering. But we should also expect that even our striving has the possibility of creating suffering, and weigh that against the good we believe we’re doing. It’s just a constant process, I think. Trying to be more conscientious and more humane humans than the humans that came before us.

Does your religion or spirituality teach you to love your enemies? >> I don’t have any of those things.

Do you love your enemies? >> I don’t have any enemies, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t love them if I did. Otherwise, why would they be enemies in the first place then?

Do you struggle to love your enemies? >> ---

Are you bothered by things that have been done to you in the past? >> Yeah, that’s kind of what being post-traumatic is.

Do you hate bullying? >> I mean, I don’t think it’s great.

Do you get bullied frequently? >> No.

Do you often wish you could go to sleep and not wake up until something good happens? >> I’ve wished that before.

How many people do you know who are suicidal? >> I don’t know how many people I know are suicidal. I’m not really... keeping track, you dig. Also, not everyone who is suicidal talks about being suicidal.

Do you read advice columns? >> I read Ask Polly sometimes, I think she has a lot of thoughtful and compassionate and passionate things to say.

Have you ever used a dating site? >> Yeah.

Do you want a fairy godmother? >> No.

Do you enjoy watching talent shows? >> Not especially. America’s Got Talent has had a few episodes that interested me, but I don’t watch it regularly.

Which cartoon character would you want to play you in a movie? >> ---

What is something you do not understand? >> Oh, you know. Calculus and stuff.

Do you know anyone who is spoiled? >> I don’t think so.

Do you think cars are ugly? >> All cars??? Of course not. There are some styles that I do find unattractive, but there are also styles I find very attractive. ...This makes me sound like I’m attracted to cars. I will neither confirm nor deny that assessment. :p

What is your favorite musical? >> Phantom of the Opera.

Have you made a lot of huge mistakes? >> Oh, yeah, definitely.

Are you ok? >> I suppose you could say that.

Do you ever feel God's presence? >> Nope.

Do you believe in angels? >> I had an Inworlder when I was younger that I interpreted as angelic. There was also an angel I knew a few years ago, which was a complicated situation I’m not sure I’m equipped to explain right now. I miss Tobias, he wrote me such wonderful things... :’(

What is your favorite magazine? >> I don’t have one.

What color hair did your favorite Barbie doll have? >> ---

Who were you rooting for in the very first season of American Idol? >> ---

Do you believe in miracles? >> I don’t find the concept useful.

Have you ever been to a tea shop? >> I’ve been to Teavana.

If there were a tea shop in your city, would you go to it? >> Sure. I love tea.

Do you still have your Christmas decorations up? >> Nope.

How many pairs of jeggings do you own? >> Zero.

Do you have any memories that are painful? >> Of course.

Do you learn from your mistakes and move on, or do you do the same things over and over again? >> Sometimes the former, sometimes the latter.

Do you make a habit of taking risks and stepping outside of your comfort zone? >> No, I don’t make a habit of it. Then again, my comfort zone is really small. Like, really. So many activities involve me being outside my comfort zone by default, which means I have less mental energy for purposefully choosing to do things that are outside of my comfort zone. I think this kind of thing is more suited for people whose comfort zone is a lot larger than mine -- who don’t regard basic things like “using the phone” or “being in a crowd” as being outside of their comfort zone.

Is your life boring? >> It can be. But frankly, I prefer this to the alternative.

What is your favorite thing to follow on tumblr? >> I don’t know how to answer that.

What are your favorite Pinterest boards? >> I don’t use Pinterest.

Is your Pinterest profile cluttered? >> ---

Do you wish you owned more board games? >> No, I don’t play board games. Sparrow likes them, but we also have no one to play with. We have three board games and at least one of them is still in the packaging.

Do you wish you had visitors more often? >> Not at all. I’m perfectly happy not having other people milling around my apartment.

Do you hate the economy? >> No.

Do you hate our culture? >> No. These are way too vague to be answerable by me in any real capacity.

Do you live in the USA? >> Yes.

What accent do you like best? >> There is no accent I like best. I like most accents just because I love the many different ways people speak.

Is there a guy you wish you hadn't let slip away? >> No.

What are some things you would like to do this summer? >> Just... go somewhere. I would like to be able to go somewhere. That’s really it, the bar is so low these days.

What are some things you love about spring? >> I think I love everything about spring. The warmth, the increased sunshine, the way the air smells when it rains, the explosion of greenery and colour, the feeling of finally being able to breathe, the fact that the air doesn’t immediately suck all the moisture out of my skin...

Are you feeling optimistic today? >> No. Optimistic about what? Isn’t that something you feel about something specific, not just... randomly?

When was the last time you did something that made you feel stupid? >> I don’t remember.

Do you hate social classes and inequality? >> I mean, it’s not great to deal with.

Is they're anything that you're questioning if you're allergic to? >> No.

Do you believe everyone should be treated with respect when you first meet them? >> Sure. I at least try to treat people with basic respect until it becomes clear that they’re 100% not interested in giving the same in return.

Do you hate that nobody cares? >> Nobody cares about what?

What websites shut down that you miss? >> Xanga, certainly.

What were your favorite websites when you were a teenager? >> Xanga, various band websites, Chimerical Publications (an old David Duchovny fansite).

What was the best class you took in high school? >> ---

Are you happy? >> Mildly.

Would you ever enroll in a college class just for fun? >> I would if it were possible to do so. That always sounded like a fun thing to do -- just take a class to get all the lectures and materials, without having to take the tests and stuff.

Do you feel free to be yourself? >> Well, sure. It’d be real fucked up if I felt like I had to be a different person all the time.

Do you stand up for yourself when needed? >> Yes. Sometimes a little more than necessary, but I’m just so used to having to fight for my existence. Or at least feeling that way.

#surveys #survey #random survey

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cowboy-crimez · 5 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Umbrella Academy (TV) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & Diego Hargreeves Characters: Diego Hargreeves, Number Five, Eudora Patch, Chuck Beaman, brief Klaus Hargreeves, brief Vanya Hargreeves, Mentions of Allison Luther and Ben Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, No Apocalypse, Trans Character, child!Five, he is a Teenager, maybe a bit ooc but hey the charter of rights promises me liberty and i'm taking it, Coming Out, Time Skips Summary:

eudora and beaman are surprised to find out diego has a kid; they're more surprised when they see what their relationship is like

The first thing that tips Eudora off that something weird is happening, is the fact that Diego is wearing a tie. Not just some shoddy clip-on tie, or one that he clearly borrowed from some other detective, like when he has to give a testimony on the stand, but an actual hand tied tie.

The second thing is his absolutely foul mood.

“Jesus, what’s got your panties in a bunch?” Beaman asks after Diego snatches a cup of coffee from him. His question makes Diego scowl more. Surprisingly, instead of just telling him to fuck off, he actual answers.

“I have to go to this bullshit interview with my kid’s principal because my smartass of a son has behavioural issues, which I already fucking knew, and I told them last time I had to go to a parent-teacher interview, I said, ‘He doesn’t like other kids, he won’t do class participation, he’s not going to play games with other kids, he just wants to sit down and learn and read and then go home’ and they said, ‘Oh, Mr. Hargreeves, I’m sure that’s not true, we can get him out of his shell!’. Well! He’s out of his fucking shell now and he’s telling other kids that they’re fucking dumbasses!” Diego seethes, jaw tensing more and more as he goes on.

Eudora and Beaman stare at him, jaws dropping. Diego takes a breath.

Eudora clears her throat. “I didn’t know you had a kid.” Beaman nods in agreement.

Diego looks at them. “He came in like two weeks ago with my brother to give me my house keys.”

They both cast their memory back, trying to remember if either of them had seen a kid with Diego’s eyes, or hair, or mouth, or skin tone. The only kid they remember seeing Diego with was a pale boy with brown hair, who seemed to be mouthing off to an annoyed Diego. The kid came in with Klaus, and given the stories, she heard of him, and their similar colouring, she has presumed that the kid was his or Dave’s. In retrospect, Eudora guesses the kid and Diego had similar noses.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, uh good luck, I guess.”

Diego nods, grabs his coffee and stalks back to his desk.

Eudora doesn’t feel as bad that she didn’t know that Diego had an entire child without her knowing, once she realizes that nothing about him or his workspace advertises the fact.

He has no pictures of anyone at his desk - not even his mom, and Eudora knows how much he loves her - much less any pictures of him and his kid at a baseball game or birthday party. His wallet is sans photos as well; she knows because once she had to dig through it to find a ten dollar bill to pay for some take out they ordered on a night shift. Even his phone screen is just a default black.

The only thing that could possibly point towards the fact that he’s a father is his phone calls when he’s working late.

The Captain is really breathing down everyone's necks to get the crime stats in, and after a brief server crash that erased twenty minutes worth of work for everyone, he’s screaming that everyone is staying an extra three hours to get them back on track. It’s already six, so people groan and start to call and text their significant others and kids that they’ll be late for dinner or bedtimes.

Eudora sees Diego roll his eyes once the Captain goes back to his office, before digging his phone out of his pocket. Usually, he’ll go and walk outside to make phone calls, but he must be feeling tired today because he stays seated.

Eudora hates feeling nosy, but she figures, I’m a detective, and Diego is sometimes a partner, so she should know this about him right?

He clicks on a contact, then puts his phone to his ear.

“Hey,” He says, voice neutral, “I’m gonna be home late tonight. Hm? No, it’s just work stuff. Listen, there’s leftovers in the fridge from last night, if you’re still hungry after you’ve had that then you can order a pizza or something. If I find an empty pizza box and the leftovers, I swear to god, I’m feeding you plain mashed potatoes for a month. I should be back home before you’re asleep, but I’ll let you know if I get held up anymore. Make sure you do your home- oh, you’re already done? Okay, good job. Okay, see you later. Wait! I just remembered that you’re grounded… uh…. If you watch tv, make sure it’s off by the time I get home so that I can pretend that you’re actually being punished. Oh, you do that anyway? Great. Okay, bye.” He hangs up, slips his phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket, and goes back to staring at a report he’s trying to type up.

Curiosity takes over Eudora.

“So, uh, that was your kid?” She asks, leaning over to talk to him.

Diego nods, “Yup.”

“You have a son, right?”

“Uh huh.”

She waits for a follow up that never comes.

“What his name?”

“Five.” He squints at some writing, before backspacing and retyping a line. Eudora blinks.

“His name… is Five?”

“Yeah, he refuses to go by anything else.”

Eudora nods again slowly. “How old is he?”

“He’s fourteen but he acts like he’s a fucking twenty seven year old business major with the attitude that he’s got.”

Eudora furrows her eyebrows. Fourteen? Diego turned thirty less than a year ago. That means he had the kid - got someone pregnant! - when he was sixteen, maybe fifteen. She leans back into her chair.

“Oh.” She says, suddenly understanding why Diego never barged into work showing everyone new baby photos like Martinez from I.T. did a few months ago. Why he doesn’t go around showing off awards or certificates that Five has won. She gets why he doesn’t have any photos of a young kid on his shoulders at his desk, or why he doesn’t go around bragging about his son’s - Five’s - accomplishments.

A lot of people their age have kids, yes, but only around the ages of five or six, maybe even if they started a family early. Baby pictures of Five would also be high school pictures of Diego. To Eudora’s knowledge, Diego is single and has been for at least a few years. He was single when he entered the police academy too, when he was twenty-one, too.

Five’s mom probably isn’t in the picture, hell, maybe she never was in the picture, to begin with.

Eudora made a lot of mistakes with people at sixteen, but never one that resulted in a kid.

She looks over at Diego, still squinting at the screen and typing away, and more than anything feels sympathy for him.

Still, she thinks, turning back to her own work, it’s a bit sad that he seems to ignore the fact that he has a kid when he’s at work.

It’s three weeks later when Beaman looks up from his desk and sees a kid walking towards Diego. He’s wearing a school uniform, knee socks and all, and looks incredibly bored. He has a backpack on but is still carrying a notebook in his hands.

He makes his way to Diego’s turned back, raises his notebook, and lets it drop to the ground. It lands with a loud SMACK that makes every cop in a two-metre radius jump. Diego isn’t an exception, with the way he jerks around, hand finding his holster.

When he sees the kid, he sighs.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?”

The kid shrugs, before leaning down and picking the notebook up. He takes off his backpack then puts the notebook into the bag.

Diego looks at the clock on his computer. “We have a few minutes, let me finish this then we can get going, okay, Five?”

The kid groans, but nods, dropping his backpack at Diego’s feet and stalking off towards the kitchenette.

Beaman wheels his chair over and asks, “Who’s the kid?”

“Five,” Diego replies, “My son.”

Beaman sputters, before managing an “Oh, okay.” and returning to his desk.

After a few minutes, Diego, seeming satisfied with his work, logs off the computer and starts to gather his things. Five returns with a paper cup that steaming.

Diego glares, “I told you not to drink any more coffee today.”

“Yeah, well, you also told me not to drink alcohol and yet somehow I know how to make a margarita.”

Diego sighs pinches the bridge of his nose, and says, “Just pick up your shit and let’s go.”

Five grabs his backpack, before hastily walking out.

“You know, I saw Diego’s son today,” Beaman tells Eudora in the breakroom later, “He was… something else.”

Eudora nods, “They don’t really look related, do they?”

“No, not really. I mean, I guess they have similar noses, but that’s about it.”

Eudora takes a sip of her tea. “He’s… older than I would have thought.”

“Yeah,” Beaman lets out a whistle, “Diego must’ve had him young.”

“He really doesn’t seem like the parenting type, does he?”

“That he does not.” Beaman thinks about Diego’s remarks to Five before leaving.

They both nod, feeling vaguely guilty about talking about Diego’s parenting behind his back, before finding a new topic to talk about.

The next day, they don’t bring up Five to Diego.

Vanya doesn’t dislike Five, in fact, she loves him dearly, would be willing to put down her life for him if he needed it. Five has made her life better in many ways; his existence helped her and Diego’s relationship immensely, him always wanting her to teach him how to read music, how to play the piano or violin has made her a better teacher, and she loves watching him light up as he gets carried away on some tangent about math, or physics or space. Overall, Vanya can’t imagine her life without Five being somewhere in the background.

It’s just.

He listens to her even less than he listens to Diego, which already, isn’t a lot.

She supposes that’s to be expected. Diego is Five’s dad, the highest authority the kid recognizes besides his own, which means that all his aunts and uncles fall below that.

Klaus doesn’t mind the fact that Five never listens to him or Dave, in fact, Vanya thinks he enjoys basically being equals with the fourteen-year-old. Five only listens to Ben occasionally, since Ben can usually use reason to convince Five one way or the other. Sometimes Five listens to Allison, the new(er) mom able to appeal to the childlike tendencies that Five tries to pretend don’t exist. Anything Luther says Five ignores on principle, a fact that brings a smile to Diego’s face.

But, Vanya? She knows that Five respects her authority more than other aunt or uncle - that doesn’t mean he likes her more though, she has learned over time. He just respects her more.

She thinks it’s because she always tried to listen to him when he was younger. She never tried to speak over him or dismiss him outright. She didn’t want him to feel like she did.

When Five was really young, he used to sneak into her bedroom when it was supposed to be his nap time. The naps were partially for Five, and partially to give Diego time to get out all the aggression he couldn’t let out around a kid.

Five would watch as Vanya practiced the violin, or sit on her lap as she read, or sometimes actually nap on her bed while she studied.

Not much has changed, considering she comes home to her apartment some nights, to find Five asleep on her couch.

“You cannot keep breaking into my apartment!” She says, making tea for both of them, waiting for Diego to come to pick Five up. He sounded annoyed over the phone, no longer surprised by Five’s antics but still irritated by them.

“So long as you continue to leave your windows unlocked, I certainly can.”

“I live on the second floor!"

“Rapists can climb!”

Vanya closes her eyes and breathes through her nose. She grabs the cups of tea and brings them over to the coffee table.

“Why did you even come over, Five? It’s late, it’s cold, I know that it takes at least forty minutes on the bus. Why did you come all the way over here?” Maybe it’s a by-product of literally growing up with him - albeit in a very different stage of development - that made Vanya so attuned with Five. She never had to pull the parent card, like Diego did (he was the only one who felt comfortable doing that as a teenager), and she never felt comfortable to just ‘become friends’ with Five, as Klaus and Ben did. She didn’t distance herself or wait for Diego to beg her for help to start a relationship with Five. She’s really, not that she wants to admit it, the closest thing to a normal aunt that Five has.

Five looks at his lap and in a soft voice, he said, “I got into another fight at school and Diego had to pick me up. He was really angry and he yelled at me in the car, and then I yelled back, and then he had to go back to work.” Five’s voice gets impossibly quieter, “I felt really bad and I didn’t want to have to see him right away when he was done work. So I came here.”

Vanya looks at Five’s hunched over figure. Sometimes she forgets how young he is, how young Diego is to have him. She moves over to sit next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Look, Five, I get that. But you can’t keep leaving home without calling or leaving a note. Diego worries about you, and when he worries, so do I. And regardless what you may believe - or may want to believe - Diego is your father and does think a lot like you,” she can see Five rolling his eyes. “He’ll understand if you let him."

Fifteen minutes later Diego is waiting at the door as Vanya gives Five a hug goodbye. She gives Diego a look before he leaves, and tells him to drive safe.

Vanya doesn’t know if her speech had any effect on Five, or if she helped the situation at all. All she knows is that from then on, Five texts her letting her know that he’s climbing the fire escape to break in.

Diego gets a knee to the chest and what’s probably a broken rib a few weeks later. This is on top of the stab wound to his shoulder. Eudora finishes up with the arrests, before going over to the ambulance that he’s sitting in, watching as he winces trying to get his shirt over his head.

“Got a new scar to add to the collection?” She jokes, seeing the paramedic laying out tools, getting ready to stitch Diego up.

Diego finally pulls his shirt all the way off, groaning as he brings his arms back down, “Oh yeah, you know me, can never get enough.”

Eudora laughs before her eyes fall to Diego’s chest. Two symmetrical scars lay underneath his pectorals, only just slightly paler than the rest of his skin.

“When did you get those ones?” She jerks her chin towards his chest. He looks down and seems a bit embarrassed when he looks back up.

“Uh, got them before the academy, way earlier.” Eudora wants to follow up but then sees him tense as the paramedic starts to disinfect the wound, letting him know that the first stitch will come any second.

She always finds it funny that Diego will brush off a stabbing or a bullet wound like it’s nothing, but even mentioning needles will make him pale.

“Hey, so uh, will Five be worried about you?” She asks, figuring that there’s no better way to distract Diego than to get him to talk about his son.

Diego snorts. “Five? No way, he’ll probably make fun of me for being too slow to dodge a knife.”

Eudora hums, pretending like that’s a normal response. “What was he like when he was young?”

The paramedic is starting the first stitch, and Diego’s face gets pinched. “He was a fucking angel as a baby. Quiet, didn’t cry, ate his food. Didn’t last long though, turned into a demon as soon as he could walk and talk. Sometimes I think that he’s making up for lost time by being mouthy now.”

Eudora’s about to ask another question and is surprised when he continued unprompted.

“You know, a lot of parents say things like, ‘I loved my kid the moment they were born’, or even before they were born. My dad, he… well, I didn’t want a kid at sixteen, I mean, who the fuck does? But, I was acting out, and I was angry at that age, and he thought that going through with it would be the ultimate punishment and the ultimate lesson in responsibility. So, even though I didn’t want Five, I had him. And the whole time leading up to his birth, I was thinking, ‘I can love him when I hold him, I’ll love him as soon as I set eyes on him’, and then he was born and I held him and I just. I don’t know. I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t hate him for ruining my life, but I also didn’t love him. I feel guilty as fuck about that now, but I was sixteen, I had to quit my swim team to take care of this kid, I had to quit archery and track, I couldn’t go out to parties anymore, none of my friends wanting to hang out with me, and my siblings didn’t know how to treat me anymore, all my time I was just looking after this thing that didn’t even look like me. But as he got older - as we both got older - I guess I learned how to love him. And I really do love him, I would do anything for him now.”

The paramedic is almost done with the stitches, and Diego looks just about ready to faint.

“I just, I wish I had him at a better time. I wish I could have loved him from the beginning. I think he knows that I didn’t love him at first.” The paramedic ties off the last stitch. “I think that he’ll always hate me because of that.”

Before Eudora can say anything else, Diego’s eyes roll back as he faints. The paramedic catches him, lays him onto the stretcher and says, “Low blood sugar, probably. He’ll be back up in no time.”

Eudora nods, deciding that this is the type of conversation that she won’t repeat, and that she can’t bring up again.

Five never says so, but days with Diego aren’t really as bad as he pretends they are. They’re lounging on the couch after a day of errands, visiting Grace (Five refuses to call her grandma, at this point, not even he knows why), and a visit to the library so that Five could get an extension on a book he hasn’t quite finished reading.

To top it all off, on the way home they stopped at a cafe, and Diego let Five order the biggest coffee on the menu without complaint or comment.

The show on television is garbage, and Five would rather be reading his library book, but he’s so comfy underneath the blanket Diego threw over him, and despite the amount of caffeine he ingests daily, he can feel his eyes slipping closed.

He’s only slightly roused when he feels two strong arms around him, lifting him from the couch. He just curls in on himself more, and he can faintly hear Diego chuckle but it sounds and feels a million miles away.

Five feels himself being placed on his bed, hears Diego tugging at the comforter until it’s over Five’s shoulder, and the pressure as he tucks him in, something he hasn’t done in almost a decade. He barely did it before too.

Five assumes he’ll leave right away, so he starts snuggling into bed, but then his sleep addled brain is surprised when he feels Diego petting his hair and whispering,

“Goodnight, kiddo,” a term Five never lets him use, and then he feels Diego kiss the side of his head, an action Five never lets him do. “I love you.”

After a second that lasts an eternity, Five hears the door to his room close, leaving him alone in his room.

If he sleeps any better than night than usual, he racks it up to coincidence.

Beaman is at a club with his friends on a Friday night. It’s not a common occurrence, but his friend got a promotion and wanted to celebrate. The club they’re in isn’t strictly a gay club, but he can tell there’s a lot of gay people in it. Not that he has a problem with that, it just means that he doesn’t think he’ll be heading home with anyone tonight.

It’s just after ten when Beaman finishes his drink and heads to the washroom. As soon as he opens the door he can tell that people are going at it in the stall. The grunting and moaning can be heard over the muffled music when the door is closed, and he can see the two different pairs of shoes underneath the stall door.

Usually, Beaman would hightail it out of there, but he’s already pleasantly drunk, and he really has to piss, so he just shrugs and uses the urinal. As he’s zipping his pants back up he hears one last grunt and some heavy breathing.

Beaman is just finishing drying his hands at the sink when the stall door opens, and who else than Detective Diego Hargreeves walks out. Beaman turns around after recognizing him in the mirror, and Diego stops in his tracks, mouth gaping.

Beaman has to say, he never expected Diego to own leather pants.

The other man - oh lord, the man Diego was having sex with - walks out of the stall, slaps Diego’s ass, before saying, “Call me sometime, baby.” and walking out, not before throwing a tied condom in the trash.

Diego and Beaman stay frozen.

After a minute Beaman clears his throat. “So, I guess Five won’t be getting a sibling anytime soon.”

Diego lets out a laugh that, even in his slightly drunk state, Beaman can tell is forced and pinched.

They’re saved from any further awkwardness when a skinny dude wearing a skirt - Klaus, Beaman remembers - bursts into the washroom, yelling, “Brother dearest, did you have a good time?”

Diego whips towards him, immediately saying, “I’m going home now.”

Klaus pouts and says, “Ugh, Dave wants to leave too, you guys are so boring. But, fine, let's go. ”

Diego almost sprints out of the washroom.

On Monday, Beaman can barely make eye contact with Diego without blushing.

It starts out a fairly quiet day. Eudora hands in all her completed files and reports before noon, interviews a witness and manages to organize her desk before everything goes to shit.

Before she even sees what’s going on, she hears a voice demanding, “Let go of me, you goddamn creep!”

Diego’s head snaps up, eyebrows furrowing when he sees Davidson, the beat cop, leading Five by the arm through the precinct.

“Five?” Diego asks, eyeing the cut on his cheek, bloody knuckles, and the blood around his nose, “What happened?”

“He got into a fight with a classmate. Happened outside school grounds. A bystander called, I recognized him, figured I would let you handle it since the kid’s parent decided not to press charges.” Davidson turns to Five, “You got lucky this time, kid.

“Fuck off, pig, don’t call me ‘kid’.” Five spits.

Eudora can see Diego’s jaw tense as he says, “Thank you, Davidson.”

Davidson’s hand isn’t even off of Five before Diego is standing and pushing Five into the chair next to his desk.

“Five, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that Eric is a little bitch who thinks he’s better than me, so I wanted to prove him wrong. I miscalculated and got my ass handed to me.” Five says, blunt as ever. Diego pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You can’t go around fighting everyone-”

“Why not? You do.”

“Yeah, because I’m allowed because I’m a cop. You’re a kid.”

“Don’t call me a kid.” Five hisses.

“I will stop calling you a kid when you stop fucking acting like one,” Diego replies.

“Well, maybe I’ll stop ‘acting like one’ when you stop acting like you’re my dad.”

“Five,” Diego starts with a warning tone, “I am your dad.”

“No,” Five says, voice raising, not that it matters since just about every cop on the floor is staring, “You’re not. You’re just some fuck up who got stuck with me and now thinks he knows what’s best for me.”

“Fidel Victor Hargreeves, I swear to god-” Diego seethes, voice suddenly impossibly quiet, but before he can finish Five yells over him again.

“Or what? What will you do, Diego? Ground me? Make me switch schools again? Finally going to send me away like you always wanted?! Guess what Diego, I don’t need you, and I don’t want you around! I’d rather have an actual mom or dad, or better yet, nothing at all, instead of whatever the fuck you are!”

Diego seems stunned into silence, and after a second of heavy breathing, Five starts to get up from the chair to try and walk away.

Quick as a whip, Diego’s hand shoots out, pushing him back onto the chair and handcuffing him to the desk.

“What the fuck, Diego?” Five shrieks.

If Diego’s voice is watery, no one will be brave enough to comment, “You got into a fight - assaulted someone. I’m not letting you leave this precinct alone. And since I’ll have to clean up your mess - again - that means you have to wait here until someone can pick you up.”

For a second Five is still, until he lashes out trying to kick Diego.

“If you keep throwing a tantrum I will throw you into a holding cell,” Diego says, before grabbing his phone and walking away.

“Fuck you, you fucking fascist!” Five screams after him, but as soon as Diego is out of sight, he just crosses his arms the best he can and hunches over in the chair.

Eudora looks around, sees every other cop in the homicide division still staring at Five. Thank god the captain is out at a meeting today, she thinks. “Okay, the show’s over, folks, let’s get back to work!”

She waits a minute, watching everyone slowly get back into their work, before going to follow Diego.

Anytime he needs to make calls he goes out to the old stairwell that has surprisingly decent reception. It’s too narrow for two way traffic, so most people avoid it, which is why Diego prefers it over the roof or the break room.

She opens the door to the stairwell slowly, peeking in she sees Diego sitting on a step, hunched over, palms pressed to his eyes.

“Hey,” she whispers, trying not to surprise him. Her efforts fall short, as he shoots up, hands falling away from his eyes and sniffs. His face is wet, eyes red.

“Oh hey, Patch,” he says. “I called fucking Luther of all people - figured he was the only one physically strong enough to carry Five out of here. He was busy though, so Ben is coming to get him.”

Eudora nods, closing the stairwell door behind her as she goes to squeeze in next to Diego on the step. It’s a tight fit.

He refuses to look at her, an occasional sniffle still sneaking out of his body.

“So, Fidel, huh?” She asks, not having planned to find Diego crying.

He lets out a garbled laugh. “Yeah, I wanted his name to be Spanish, you know, keep heritage or whatever. But then he refused to learn Spanish, and then we got into a fight when he was five, and since then he refused to go by anything besides that: Five.”

“He’s pretty stubborn.” She says, trying to be diplomatic. Diego nods, and for a minute Eudora thinks it’ll all be okay.

But then another sob wracks it way through Diego’s body and he chokes up, “C-c-could you leave me a-alone, please?”

“Yeah, bud, yeah, let me know if you need anything.” She says, almost relieved to leave this situation.

Ten minutes later, Diego comes - eyes red, face damp - to unlock Five’s handcuffs as he passes his son to Ben.

He sits down at his desk, takes a deep breath, and goes back to work until seven pm when he goes home.

It becomes another thing that no one talks to him about.

Eudora never realized that in all her years of knowing Diego, she’s never been to his house.

They’re on their way back from a crime scene when Diego mentions he lives in the area, and Hey, do you mind if we stop by for a minute, I forgot my flash drive on my bedside table, and suddenly Eudora is waiting for Diego to unlock the door to an apartment.

She doesn’t know what to expect. She knows his family is loaded, but she half expected him to live in an abandoned warehouse that doubled as an underground boxing ring. The apartment building that he lives in seems nice, nicer than most single cops with his salary could get (the perks of inheritance, she supposes), but it isn’t obnoxiously expensive. The halls could do with a fresh coat of paint, and Diego has to jiggle the doorknob just right to unlock the door.

“Come on in,” he says, after the door is open, “You want coffee, water?”

“Uh, just water,” she replies, looking around the entrance way. Against the wall there’s a neat row of Converse, Nikes and combat boots next to equally neat pairs of Birkenstocks, runners and leather shoes. The size difference is almost comical.

The entrance gives way to the living room, where a comfortable, but worn looking sofa and armchair sit around a chipped coffee table in front of a tv. There’s some complicated looking textbooks on the table, and the bookshelves surrounding the tv seems to be half books and half knickknacks.

Diego returns from the kitchen with a glass of water for Eudora, and says, “Just give me a minute,” before going down the hall to what Eudora is presuming is his bedroom.

She takes a sip and looks around the living room. There are more pictures on the walls than she would have presumed Diego would allow. Family photos, clearly taken before Five was born, with Diego smiling plastically with his siblings, his father looking regal and harsh, his mother beautiful and sweet. Photos of him as a teenager with Klaus and Ben, grinning with beers in their hands. Pictures of him with medals from a swimming competition, hair plastered to his face, huddled in a hoodie. He looked softer than she expected him to look as a teenager, somehow. Then she spots the pictures of Five.

The newer the photos are, the happier Diego looks in them. There’s a photo taken just last year, judging by the sling on Diego’s arm - an injury he gotten while trying to force a door open - showing him grinning wide next to a straight-faced Five, holding a trophy. A picture of Five at maybe age twelve, him scowling at Diego’s hand on his shoulder, Diego himself smiling softly. Five sitting on a swing, around age ten with a slight grin on his face, Diego looking tired but content. Then there’s the older pictures on the bookshelf. Pictures of a grinning toddler and a frowning Diego, pictures of Diego holding a bundled up baby, surrounded by his siblings who look awkward, his mother who looks as sweet as always, and a father who looks smug. Pictures of Five alone, playing with blocks and laughing.

Still no picture of a mother, Eudora notes. Only Diego’s family, or Diego himself. She wonders where the mom must have run off to if her absence was agreed upon or a surprise.

She finishes her water, and Diego comes out from the bedroom with a lanyard with a bunch of USB sticks hanging from it. He locks his apartment when they leave, and Eudora doesn’t ask any questions about Five’s mom. It wouldn’t be polite.

Five is nearly finished reading his latest library book when he hears a sharp knock on the door, the only warning he gets before it swings open.

“You know the point of knocking is to wait for the person to say ‘come in’.” Five turns the page without looking up.

“Nah, it’s to let the person know that someone is coming in,” Diego replies. He sets down a bowl of strawberries on Five’s bedside table, grabbing the empty mug instead. “Good book?"

Five hums, eyes still glued to the page.

“‘Yes, Diego, it is a good book, thank you for bringing me food,’” Diego says in a comically high pitched voice.

Five grumbles, but Diego laughs and leaves the room. When he hears the door shut, Five looks up and glances at the bowl beside him. He reaches over, grabs the biggest one and takes a bite out of it. It’s sweet and the juice runs down his palm, making him scramble as to not get it on the pages of his book.

He brings an empty bowl out later, and he talks to Diego about his book for an hour.

Eudora gets a Twitter notification before Diego gets the phone call. It’s sad, that school catching on fire, but it’s doesn’t seem relevant to bring it up in conversation. She doesn’t even think about the fact that she’s only ever seen Five in a private school uniform.

They’re just driving, patrolling an area where a witness apparently saw a suspect, even though they both know it’s a dead end. Eudora is behind the wheel since Diego said he wanted to be able to look over the witness statement as they drove.

Diego’s phone keeps vibrating in his pocket, so finally, he picks it up with an irritated, “What?”

Eudora looks over just in time to see his face fall.

“What? When? What do you mean- Is Five- What do you mean you don’t know? What- Fine, okay!” He hangs up almost frantic.

“What was that about?” Eudora asks, almost amused.

“Five’s school caught on fire, and they can't find him, but I know he’s there because I dropped him off this morning, and I need to get there right now,” Diego says all in one breath, looking like he’s a second away from crying.

“Oh damn,” Eudora says, flipping on the sirens and running through a light.

They’re at Five’s school in less than ten minutes, Diego spending the whole time nearly working himself into a panic attack. Eudora pulls up as close as she can to the school, it already surrounded by other parents and emergency vehicles, and before she’s even parked, Diego is jumping out of the car, sprinting towards the crowd of people.

He does his best to push through the crowd without knocking anyone over. After a few minutes of struggle, he manages to break through to the front of the crowd, where all the ambulances and school children who haven’t been picked up yet are waiting.

“Five! Five!” Diego calls out, making a few heads turn. He doesn’t see him, so he’s about to keep moving when he hears a garbled whine.

Diego’s head whips around, finally spotting Five sitting on the back of an ambulance, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, struggling against the paramedic who’s trying to keep him still. Diego dashes over to him.

“Five, oh my god, Five, are you okay?” He asks him desperately, hands shooting out to hold his face. Five lets out another whine, and Diego realizes his arm and shoulder are wrapped with gauze and bandages.

“Oh, Five,” Diego says softly, making sure not to put too much pressure on him as he wrapped Five into a hug. He half expects Five to struggle and push him away, but instead, Five just presses closer and takes in a shaky breath.

And then he starts to cry.

“D-D-D-” Five starts to choke out, and Diego just shushes him and pets his hair, “Dad, I w-was scared, and - and - and there was smoke and-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Diego interrupts, hearing Five’s voice get more brittle, more gasps for air in between words. “It’s okay now, I’m here, Dad’s here, Five.”

Five nods his head shakily and takes another gasping breath.

After a few minutes, Five calms down enough to extract himself from Diego’s chest, face red and blotchy, tears still glistening on his cheeks. The paramedic tells Diego that Five got minor burns, but they aren’t serious, shouldn’t even scar, but that he should still take Five to the hospital, just to make sure everything is fine.

He removes the oxygen mask from Five’s face, and instantly Five is back to clinging to Diego like his life depends on it. Gingerly, Diego wraps his arms around his son and lifts him up, Five’s skinny legs locking like a vice around his hips.

“Come on, kid, let’s get you to a hospital,” Diego whispers.

“Do we have to, dad?” Five asks, “I’m tired.”

“I know, kid, but you can sleep in the car.” He says, before remembering that Eudora drove him. He looks around and finds her in the crowd. She stands awkwardly, not knowing if she should stand away from blubbering families, or if she should get closer to Diego.

Diego walks somewhat awkwardly, trying not to jostle Five too much.

“Hey, Patch, you think you could drive us to a hospital?” He asks, although he already knows she’ll say yes. As expected Eudora nods and starts to show him to where she hastily parked on the sidewalk. They make a brief detour to let a random school official know that Diego is taking Five to a hospital, so they don’t have to keep calling him.

Eudora opens the backdoor to the car for Diego and is only slightly surprised when instead of depositing Five in the back and climbing into the front seat, Diego gingerly sits down in the back, still holding Five in his arms. He rearranges Five’s skinny body so that he sits across Diego’s lap.

“Seatbelt,” Diego mutters, making Five sighs as he helps to buckle it across the two of them.

Five falls asleep on the cautious drive to the hospital, waking up periodically to cough. Occasionally Eudora peeks at them through the rear view mirror, sees Diego rub circles on Five’s back or whispering to him softly. She also feels embarrassed to see these acts of affection, like a voyeur or a peeping tom, given how cold and distant Diego and Five tend to act towards each other in public.

Eudora pulls up to the hospital and she has to help Diego out of the car since he doesn’t want to wake up his sleeping child.

“You know, he’s almost cute when he’s sleeping,” Diego jokes quietly, as he does his best to get a grip on Five’s legs.

Eudora laughs, but it’s tense. She agrees with the statement, but it’s hard to make a quip back when she can see the bandages around the kid’s arm getting darker with plasma and blood. They stand awkwardly for a moment.

“Do you think you could also call the captain and just let him know why I won’t be back at the station today?”

“Oh, yeah, of course, totally,” Eudora says quickly, already dreading the conversation.

Diego smiles, “Thanks, Patch, I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Another moment of silence.

“So, yeah, uh, thanks.” And then Diego is off, walking towards the automatic doors.

Eudora waits until the two of them have disappeared behind layers of glass, before getting into the car and driving back to the station. Diego takes three more days off of work but no one has the gall to bring it up when he comes back.

Beaman feels like he’s dying after Diego walked him through his normal work out. He mentioned wanting to switch gyms, and Diego offered to show him his usual routine.

“Holy shit, no wonder you look like that,” he pants out, making Diego laugh. Beaman decides that dignity isn’t worth it, and hunches over, hands on knees as he takes deep breaths.

“You get used to it.” He says, simply, though there’s still sweat running down his face. He lifts the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his face.

And Beaman doesn’t mean to stare, but he was looking in that direction anyway, and he’s pretty sure Diego just did that to show off his abs, but then Beaman is face to face with yet another scar and holy shit-

“How’d you get that one?” His mouth asks before his brain can tell him not to. Diego makes a confused noise. Beaman jerks his head in the general direction of Diego’s stomach.

“That one.” He’s looking at the long vertical scar, going right up his stomach. It looks old, in some lights it probably isn’t noticeable at all, but with the rest, Diego’s skin bright and sweaty, the darker, somewhat crooked line stands out starkly.

“Oh,” Diego looks down and quickly drops his shirt. For once he seems awkward talking about it, “It’s from a surgery I had a long time ago. It didn't go well. I don’t want to talk about it.”

The terseness of his reply takes Beaman off guard, but he quickly recovers, nods, and says, “Fair enough.”

He still finds it strange, though, how open Diego is about every other mark on his body, but he won’t push it.

Especially not after Diego showed him how hard he could punch.

“Hey, Diego,” Eudora starts before she thinks better. They’re at a bar, celebrating closing a case, and she’s probably drunken more than her fair share, but then Diego offered to pay for the next round and it wouldn’t be polite to decline, even though the question she’s about to ask is anything other than rude, “Diego!”

“What?” He laughs a bit at her slurring, taking another sip of beer.

“Where’s Five’s mom?”

Diego just about chokes on his drink. “What?”

“Where is Five’s mom?” She asks, slower and louder.

“Why do you need to know?” Diego frowns.

“I’m just wonderin’,” she says, “Just ‘cause you’re always taking care of him, and you haven’t dated anyone in a while, so I was just wondering-”

“He doesn’t need a mom,” Diego cuts her off, almost angry, “He has me.”

“I’m not accusing you, or anything,” Eudora says, even though just saying that makes it sound worse, “Like, I said, I was just curious about her.”

For some reason, that comment seems to upset him more.

“Five doesn’t need a mom, he doesn’t need another dad, I’m his parent, his dad. We don’t need anyone else.” Diego almost growls out. He’s gathering his things before Eudora has a chance to backtrack or apologize, and before she knows it he’s gone.

The next morning Eudora' s head is killing her and she narrowly avoids vomiting while brushing her teeth. Her memory of the night previous is fuzzy, but she remembers enough to know that she clearly hit a nerve and was out of line.

She walks into work wearing sunglasses and carrying two coffees. She silently sets one down on Diego’s desk, earning a raised eyebrow from him.

At lunchtime, he tells her that Five got in trouble at school for talking back to a teacher, and the only reason why they haven’t kicked him out is that his marks are so good he brings up the curve of every class he’s in. He looks at her, almost as if testing to see what her reaction is.

Eudora hums. “Well, I’m sure you have it under control.”

Diego looks at her for another second, then shrugs, before telling her about a show he saw a few nights ago.

Eudora figures that means she passed.

Shockingly, it isn’t a knife or a bullet or a hammer or even a machete that lands Diego into the hospital this time; it’s a car. Arguably it’s the most normal injury anyone in the homicide division can recall Diego being the victim of. He was doing surveillance on the street when the suspect got spooked and decided to drive off - right into Diego. He keeps repeating that it’s not a big deal, even after he has his leg in a cast and a doctor telling him that he should stay in the hospital for a few days so that they can check his ribs and head.

Eudora and Beaman decide to wait until his family show up when Diego turns to them with a wince and says, “I need to call Five, can I have a phone?”

Beaman phone is in his hand so he just passes it over. Diego types in a number and winces again as he puts the phone again his ear.

“Hey, kiddo- I know, I know, you don’t like being called that. Someone called you, right? Yeah, I’m in the hospital. No, I’m not dying, don’t sound so excited. Listen, before you come - because you are going to visit me, you little sociopath - can you grab some stuff for me at home? Yeah, clothes, stuff like that, I also need you to get my, uh, stuff out of the bathroom. Under the sink. I’m supposed to do it today, but they wanna keep me here for a bit and I just don’t wanna get off track again. Thanks. If you call Ben or Klaus they might be able to drive you here. You’ll just take the bus? Okay, see you later.” He hangs up and passes the phone back to Beaman.

It’s less than an hour later when Five walks into the hospital room carrying a backpack. He’s out of his school uniform, but he’s still wearing a button up shirt under a cardigan.

He nods at the detectives when they say, “Hello, Five.”

Five looks at Diego and snorts, “Getting fragile, old man?”

“Shut up,” Diego says, groaning when he sits up. “Did you bring my stuff?”

“When you say it like that it makes it sound illegal.” Five says, drily, as he unzips the backpack. He pulls out a first kit, and Eudora is about to ask why Diego needed a first aid kit in a hospital when Five unzips that as well and pulls out a needle.

He walks over to Diego, who immediately looks uncomfortable.

“Can you move this gown without scarring my eyes?” Five prompts and Diego nods and moves it to the side, revealing his stomach and that long scar that is oh so visible in the harsh, hospital lighting.

Five takes the cap off the needle, and Diego closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Three, two, one,” Five counts down, before plunging the needle into Diego’s stomach. He slowly injects the contents of it, Diego holding his breath the whole time. After a few seconds, Five removes the needle, walking over to the biohazard disposal box on the walls.

“I should have brought all the other ones and just thrown them out here.” He comments, before going back to the first aid kit and pulling out an alcohol wipe and a bandaid.

Beaman clears his throat, “Um, what was that?”

“What was what?” Five asks, passing the items to Diego.

“What was up with that, that needle?” Eudora asks.

Five raises an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“What was in it?” Eudora presses on, undeterred by Five’s tone, which suggests he thinks she’s an idiot.

“Testosterone.” Diego supplies, just as Five’s opening his mouth.

That only prompts more questions.

“Why are you taking testosterone?” Beaman asks before his eyes widen. “Oh my god, is it for your boxing? Are you doping”

Five scoffs, but Diego ignores him. “No, it’s totally legal, I have a prescription.”

“Why?” Eudora asks.

“Uh, because I have to, otherwise my body will change back to what it was before.” He looks at the confused faces of his friends. “I’m trying to tell you I’m trans, but I guess it isn’t working.”

Eudora and Beaman gape for a few seconds.

“Can I leave? This is weird for me.” Five interrupts, clearly not caring about the revelations going on inside the room. Diego rolls his eyes.

“You can wait outside.”

“I’m going to the cafeteria.” Five says, not waiting for an agreement before he leaves.

For a few seconds, the room is silent.

“So,” Eudora starts, “You’re trans?”

“Yes.”

“And this never came up before because..?”

“Because it was never relevant and I didn’t want you to know.” His face is unsympathetic when a brief wave of hurt crosses their faces. “It isn’t against you or because I thought negatively about you or anything, it’s just really personal and I don’t like a lot of people knowing about.”

“Is this why you don’t date?” Beaman asks before he seems to catch what he said. “Sorry.”

“I mean, partially. Part of me not dating is also because I’m a cop, and part of it is because of Five.”

Another wave of silence comes across the room.

“And Five is…?” Eudora starts, hoping Diego will understand what she’s asking.

“Five is my kid. I had him when I was sixteen, as in I gave birth to him. Well, actually I had a real nasty c-section because he was upside down. His other dad fucked off somewhere, I don’t care and neither does he.”

The two of them nod.

“Not to be rude, but does Five act the way he does because of… this?” Beaman asks carefully.

Diego snorts. “No, you’re not the first one to ask. He acts like that because he’s a dick, I love him but he is, and he spent the first five-ish years of his life in a house with my siblings and father. So, he was bound to get kind of messed up, I just didn’t think it would result in so many goddamn suspensions."

Beaman and Eudora ask a few more questions before they lapse into a new silence. Five comes back with a cup of coffee that makes him pull a face every time he takes a sip.

“No one is holding a gun to your head, you don’t have to drink that,” Diego says after Five nearly gags into the cup.

“Fuck you, Diego, I do what I want.” He eyes Diego’s cast, “And you can’t stop me.”

It’s almost comical how only a few minutes later Five is fluffing Diego’s pillow before saying, “I’m going home now.”

“Want a ride?” Eudora asks, police brain switching on, viewing Five not as her friend’s son who could probably talk his way out of a mugging, but as a skinny minor, walking through the streets of New York in the late evening.

Five eyes her for a moment, before saying, “Okay.”

They say their farewells to Diego, him making Five promise to go to school the next day.

Eudora isn’t sure what she intends to accomplish or attain from giving Five a ride to his house. Mostly he’s quiet in the backseat, occasionally giving directions, even though Eudora knows her way to Diego’s apartment.

“So, how’s school?” Beaman tries, the silence suffocating him.

“I know Diego tells you how it’s going, you don’t have to ask.” Well, that didn’t work.

They’re almost at Diego’s house, and the curiosity is eating away at Eudora.

“Hey, Five,” She asks. Five hums, looking out the window. “Why don’t you call Diego ‘dad’?”

“Why would I?” Is his response, which throws her for a loop.

“Because he’s your father?”

“The terms mom and dad are possessive terms that came out of the middle class, nuclear family dynamic; a dynamic that I did not grow up with and one that I continue to not be a part of.” He looks over and makes eye contact with her through the mirror, “Besides, what teenager wants to be called ‘dad’?”

Eudora struggles to find a response, but Five presses on. “Diego and my’s relationship is fine, regardless of how unconventional it is. I grew up in a house full of weird fucking people, but Diego was still the only one who could - or at least tried to - raise me. He taught me how to tie my shoes, and read, and gut a fish, and drive, and shave, and how to dress myself. Any deviations from the norm are intentional. If you think something is wrong with the way I act or the way he raises me then you can keep it to yourself, because someone already called social services once and that was a really weird month for everyone involved.”

“I think,” Beaman butts in, “that as long as both of you are happy, then there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Five seems satisfied with that answer and looks out the window again.

Something clicks in Eudora mind. “Wait, did you say he taught you how to drive? You’re fourteen!”

After that, not much changes. Diego goes back to work but is put on desk duty until his cast is off. He still keeps a lot of things private, doesn’t brag about Five’s accomplishments or put pictures of him on his desk. But one day Diego invites Eudora and Beaman over for dinner, saying something about how Five was staying at a friend’s house to work on a project so he was planning on drinking and watching movies.

They have a good time, nothing crazy happens, but when Eudora gets up to get another beer from the fridge she looks over at the bookshelf in the living room and sees all the old pictures of Five. Five smiling with building blocks, the grinning toddler and the frowning teenager. And in the front is a new addition.

Right in the front, in a new frame, even though the actual picture looks worn as if someone's touched it a lot over the years, is, what Eudora is guessing, the first picture of Five ever.

Still pink and slimy, Five is in a blanket, gazing up at a sweaty, tired looking Diego. He looks young, younger than sixteen, but that might be due to the look of confusion and anxiety on his face. He still looks muscular, but his face is softer, and Eudora can see the clear signs of breasts under the hospital gown. His siblings are crowded around the hospital bed, all smiling stiffly at the camera, and Diego’s mother has her hand on Diego’s shoulder.

Eudora remembers what Diego said about not feeling anything when Five was born, and it may be because she’s tipsy, and she’s seen Diego give Five hugs goodbye, and texting him in the morning to remind him to have breakfast, and calling him to let him know that he went grocery shopping so his favourite chips are in the cupboard, but Eudora begs to differ that he felt nothing.

Because despite looking tired, and sweaty, and confused, and anxious, he’s smiling. Not like his siblings are smiling, not like he’s only smiling because someone told him to, but he’s smiling the way he does Five forgets to tell him off for calling him ‘kid’, or when Five hugs him back, or when Five says ‘thank you’ without being told. There are smiles specifically reserved for Five, Eudora has realized, and in that picture, she sees the first one ever.

#the umbrella academy #tua fic #diego hargreeves #number five #trans!diego #idk read if u want its a free fucking country yall can do what u want but uhh if u do... pls leave a kudos or comment pls

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weirdochick56 · 6 years

Text

Next To Me- Dean Winchester Song Imagine

Warnings: Explicit language. A bit of angst and fluff.

Disclaimers: I don’t own Supernatural or any of the characters/spn plots mentioned. I also don’t own the rights to the song “Next To Me.” Imagine Dragons and their record label does.

Word count: 2,476 words

A/n: I was listening to the song “Next To Me” by Imagine Dragons and was suddenly struck by inspiration. It’s so beautiful too! I didn’t do it any justice, and for that, I’m deeply sorry. 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️😑😑

***

Something about the way that you walked into my living room

Casually and confident lookin' at the mess I am

You weren’t much of a softy. As a hunter, feelings and getting close to people was the first unspoken rule of the book. It was impossible to do so. And you hadn’t really minded either way, completely immersed in the way of life that you hoped would eventually carry you to an honorable death. You were a third-generation hunter, and there was no way out.

That was what thought until you met Dean Winchester, at least. The Winchesters were legends amongst the hunter community and the few you’d collaborated with gossiped more than you saw fit, allowing you to be aware of all the messes and clean-up-by-default the brothers and their alliances had to complete.

A scoff or a straightforward roll of eyes was your only response at the mere mention of their name. To you, they were the opposite of what they were to everyone else. They were reckless, irresponsible, and way too cocky.

So it came as no surprise that you were completely against the idea of working with them when your mother had casually mentioned it.

“Y/n,” she sighs, shaking her head. “They’re here to help us with the case.”

You huff. “Mom, we don’t need help. I’m perfectly fine going on my own. We don’t need those two assclowns.” you spit loudly, infuriated she’d even consider the idea of pairing you with someone else as it’d always only been you two.

“Y/n-” she looks at you with the familiar expression you knew to be a warning sign before a harsh scolding.

“Not sure you should be talking about someone you don’t know like that sweetheart.” a voice gruff and teasing interrupted your mom.

You whirl around to face him and your breath hitches in your throat, the words that were about to escape your lips in a hurling insult suddenly dying in your throat.

The man was gorgeous. Tall, broad-shouldered, and lean. His hair was dirty-blonde and messy but fit him surprisingly well. What really caught your attention though, was his eyes. Big, bright and oh-so-green. They looked to have gone through some shit. Real shitty shit. Or maybe that was just you.

You realize you’re gawking at the now grinning man and clear your throat, flushed. Squaring your shoulders in an attempt to redeem your composure, you turn on your old self again. “I don’t think I need to know you to notice you’re a dick, sweetheart,” you growl.

But still you, still you want me

Stress lines and cigarettes, politics and deficits

Late bills and overages, screamin' and hollerin'

You had ended up having to work together, much to your disappointment. Although, it hadn’t been all that bad. A quick salt and burn job. One that was spent doing a ton of research on, urging you and the youngest Winchester, Sam, a bit closer.

Eventually, you became one of their “allies” coming along on almost every hunt. You and Sam became best friends. Dean however...he was a completely different story. The man and you did not get along. At all.

You often yelled at one another, driving Sam absolutely nuts. The truth was, it was just your normalized reaction to the things Dean was stirring up within you. You couldn’t exactly explain it because it was a new feeling, but you often found yourself daydreaming about him, thinking about whether or not Dean would like a certain thing you were wearing or a new song you’d listen to.

You absolutely would never admit it out loud, but the truth was, Dean Winchester drove you crazy.

Dean knew, the moment you’d turned around and snapped at him the way you did -confident in your own skin, knowing of what you wanted- that you were way out of his league. He was attracted to you. That was for sure. You were everything he looked for in a woman. Strong, independent, badass, and your beauty was just an added bonus.

You were the complete opposite of him. You were self-loving, kind (though it was hard for others to see because you hid it so well, he was particularly observant) brave. Even if he didn’t show it, he felt like complete shit compared to you. To him, you had it all figured out. From the way you stood, to the way you got down to business on a hunt.

“Dean.” you stop him abruptly on your way to the ugly motel room Sam was already in, one day after a particular hunt. He glances down at you, startled. “What?”

You sigh. “Are we ever going to acknowledge the insane sexual tension between us?” you inquire bluntly. Dean leans back, alarmed. But when he finally gets his scrambling brain to make sense of what you’d just said, he knew that was it. There was nowhere else to hide, no words were left to cower behind.

So he gulped thickly, nodding slowly and dipping his head down to meet your own. He completely ignored the fact that you were both dirty, grimy with blood and dirt. And he kissed you, letting his desire take over. It seemed as though he couldn’t control his movements or thoughts right now as much as he couldn’t control his small reactions to you before.

When you didn’t make a move to stop him, but instead encouraged what was happening, he did everything in his power not to take you right then and there. Outside a small murky motel hallway.

Oh, I always let you down

You're shattered on the ground

But still I find you there

Next to me

And oh, stupid things I do

I'm far from good, it's true

But still I find you

Next to me (next to me)

Dean was a broken man. You knew that the moment you’d met him. It was in his eyes. They told you everything you’d ever need to know about Dean Winchester. He was a broken, sad man.

But that was just one of the things you loved most about him. Being broken and all that self-hatred gave him the best ability to care and love for others that you’d ever seen. That, however, didn’t mean the idea him hating himself was welcomed. Not at all. Because Dean Winchester was also one of the most beautiful souls you’d ever had the pleasure to encounter and you cokdlnt figure out why he’d hate someone as beautiful as himself.

“Dean, don’t walk away from me, you dick!” You yell, running after him. You’d been officially dating for a few months at this point point, and the fights had started. This time, Dean refuses to talk to you about something he’d said.

Dean suddenly whirls around, his eyes tearful. You gulp at the view, your heartbreaking. “What, Y/n? What do you want from me?” His voice cracked with emotion halfway through his sentence and you tried not to show your own disappointment at the fact that-

“Why would you say that Dean?” You cautiously step closer, whispering.

Dean screws his eyes shut, a pained expression on his face. You gently touch his arm and he immediately jumps back, his eyes flying open.

You don’t even fight the hurt expression on your face at his seemingly instinctive reaction to your touch. He licks his lips, looking straight into your eyes. “We’re done.” His eyes weren’t cold or detached, they looked hurt and his voice sounded forced.

You weren’t buying it.

But it still stung like a bitch. So you purse your lips and nod, running away from him. He tells out your name but you ignore him, practically flying out of the bunker.

Dean had gone off to a bar to get some air and to try to relax about you being somewhere alone at night. He shudders. The more he thinks about it, the more guilty he feels. He didn’t want to break with you. Not at all. You were the only thing tethering him to reality. Keeping him sane.

The fucked up shit he and his brother had been through, the people they’d lost...it wasn’t the reality he wanted for you. You had so much more potential. To live an apple pie life with someone who could lo- wrong word. No one could ever love you as much as he.

No. Impossible. Someone who could give you what he couldn’t. A proper life. With kids and a loving husband. Dean winced at the thought, downing his beer. He slaps a twenty on the counter and stalks away, headed home.

You hear the door of yours and Dean’s shared bedroom bang open loudly and you sit up in the bed, startled. Dean is peering at what you assume was your black figure, before flicking the lights on.

When he sees your cute tired face, he clearly can’t hide his shock. “Y/n?” He breathes, then relief floods his face.

You squint at him, dazed. “Dean?” Your voice is groggy and once Dean hears it, he seems to have slipped back into “reality”. The one he’d made up at least.

“Why are you here?” His voice is cold but not detached as he approaches your bed, stumbling a bit. He didn’t want to say that.

“A-are you drunk?” You opt to say instead, watching him sit in the edge of your bed and struggle to take his boots off.

“Yeah,” he grunts, getting one loose. “Thought I’d try to forget about the fact that I’d never get to see the girl I love ever again.” He isn’t looking at you when he says this, which would’ve really pissed you off, if not for the fact that you were frozen still into silence. You go over all your moments with Dean. The fun ones, the not-so-fun ones, the passionate ones, the heartfelt ones. They were what made up your relationship.

You stay there, still. Realizing, Dean and you had never said the L word to eachother. Yet here he was, throwing it around like it meant nothing.

Dean glances at you with a small, drunken smile as he slips off his clothes, remaining in his boxers. “What?” He frowns, concerned to see you paralyzed in shock.

You slowly turn to look at him. “Y...” the hoarse words die in your throat and you to clear it in order to continue. “Y-you love me?” You stammered out.

Dean looks taken aback at how fretful you looked to even mutter the words. His eyes soften and he seems sober all of a sudden. He plops back down on the bed, taking your face into his big warm hand and looking you directly into the eyes. “I love everything about you Y/f/n Y/l/n. From the way you smile.” He smiles softly, caressing your lips gently with his thumb. You lean in closer to his touch out of pure instinct. He grins. “To the way, you can’t help but shiver when I touch you.” You blush. “I even love when you get pissed at me.” He smirks, leaning into your ear. “Sometimes I do it on purpose because you look super hot when you’re angry.” He confesses, letting out an airy laugh and you can’t help but shiver as his hot breath fans the shell of your ear.

“Dean.” You groan. He separates from you, keeping his hands on your face. Staring at you with a bitter smile, he laughs humorlessly.

“I can’t love you, though, Y/n.” He shakes his head and you immediately frown, finally speaking. “Why?”

Dean’s sighs dejectedly, letting out another pained laugh. “Because it’s gonna get you killed.”

There's something about the way that you always see the pretty view

Overlook the blooded mess, always lookin' effortless

And still you, still you want me

I got no innocence, faith ain't no privilege

I am a deck of cards, vice or a game of hearts

And still you, still you want me

You can’t help but let out a small huff at his dumb notion. “Why would you ever say that?”

Dean swallows audibly then looks back up at you. “I’m poison. I kill everyone I come in contact with. And that includes you.” You can see his lips quiver slightly, his face contorting in one of suppression.

And then the entire wall he’d built around his heart completely broke down and it completely crushed you when a small tear trailed down his face. Dean made no move to wipe it off, so you knew he was tired of holding it all in. Then a lot of tears came. And small repressed sobs. And finally full on bawling. Your heart broke at the sight of him so broken.

So you do the only thing you could think of doing at the moment and wrap your arms around him, urging him to lay his head on your chest. He obliged, and your old T-shirt immediately gets soaked with his tears.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders tighter, running your fingers soothingly through his hair. “Sh, sh, sh. It’ll be okay Dean.” You whisper tenderly, letting him cry into your chest until he finally went silent.

It seemed he was too tired to even get off, so you left him there, letting sleep take over both of you.

The next morning, you wake up to Dean, staring at you with a small smile. As soon as he sees you’re awake, he caresses your cheek, “how could I have gotten so lucky?”

You suppress a smile, pecking his lips. “Shouldn’t I be saying the same?” Your voice is groggy with sleep and Dean shakes his head, his lip curling downward. “It might be hard to admit sweetheart, but I don’t deserve you.” He looks downcast but sincere.

You scowl. “You listen here Winchester and you listen carefully.” You grip his chin, making him look at you. His green eyes are wide and beautifully broken. Just like him.

“There is nothing you could ever do that would ever make me hate you. Nothing could ever make me want to leave you. No matter how bad. Not even my own death. I am absolutely in love with you, Dean.” You whisper the last part, hesitant to say it out loud.

Dean’s eyes widen. “W-what?”

You shift closer to him, grinning. “I.” Peck on the cheek. “Love.” Peck on the other cheek. “You.” Peck on the lips.

You go to pull away, but Dean doesn’t allow you to do so, gripping your neck and yelling you into a loving kiss. It was the opposite of your first kiss. This one was loving, careless of one's selfish needs. You felt loved by him more than ever and you hoped he felt it too.

Your lips moved in sync with eachother, and you were completely immersed in Dean and his soft lips.

When you finally broke away, panting slightly, you placed your forehead on his, both grinning widely. It was comfortably silent for a few seconds until you finally spoke up.

“Dean?”

“Hm?”

“If you ever try to break up with me without meaning it, I’ll break your arm.”

***

Another shitty one, I know. But I needed to put something out there whilst the new series I’m writing is being finished up. Bear with me, please. It’s coming along, I promise.

A special thanks to:

@jessikared97 97 and @lilypalmer1987 my forever tags!!!

Also, tell me if you want to be tagged in any shape or form. And leave replies and send in requests. They make my day!!! Seriously.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader imagine #supernatural #supernatural series #supernatural aesthetic #jensen ackles x reader #jensen x reader #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #jared padalecki x reader #dean winchester series #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester fanfic #nex to me

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multiverseofmiracleshq · 3 years

Photo

In Pleasant Hill, the Avengers rescue squad headed to the Inn to find the heroes who had been absorbed into the town. After bringing them back to their selves, the group had to come up with a game plan to find a way to beat Baron Zemo to the fragments of the Reality Stone that were scattered around town so that they could clean up S.H.I.E.L.D.’s mess once and for all.

These events come BEFORE the MUSEUM / HOSPITAL / TOWN HALL chat logs.

THIS IS THE OFFICIAL CHAT LOG COVERAGE OF THE IC

SAM WILSON: Reality warping never got any easier. Not that Sam had a ton of experience with it. It had just been a long six months, that’s all. Wanda had changed their appearances before entering and did a spell to keep their minds - and identities - in place in case the blocking chips failed, but she couldn’t tamper with too much. The second they entered the town, Sam felt the change ripple over his skin. He was still Black - god bless little miracles - but his wings were gone. Every weapon he had was. Left alone with timbs and jeans, Sam glanced around the slightly too bright and perfect town. “They said to go to the Inn,” he cleared his throat. “Anyone know where that is? Or what we’re walking into?”

DAISY JOHNSON: As much as it pained her to admit it in that moment, Daisy knew exactly where the Inn was. Part of her job in Pleasant Hill over the course of the past month had been to actually live in the town almost every day of the week. She was just glorified security without any access to any huge information like the citizen's identities, but still. The guilt of even letting herself get this involved was twisting her gut as she took a deep breath and nodded. "I do," She took a moment before pointing north of where they were standing. "It's a few blocks over that way."

BUCKY BARNES: Bucky regarded Daisy plainly, watching her with a certain level of scrutiny reserved for people he didn't really trust. It sucked, considering, but he followed her motion and looked towards the direction of the Inn. "Walking into practically naked." he remarked. Pleasant Hill had stripped them of their belongings, including his fucking arm.

CASSIE LANG: Cassie uncomfortably tugged at the side of her shirt, feeling very out of place standing next to all of the other heroes. She had never actually done any field work like this before, and she imagined she’d be doing it alongside her dad for the first time. But now that he was sucked into the town, she had to help get him back. There was no way she was doing home. But that didn’t change how bizarre this all felt, and definitely didn’t get rid of any of her anxiety about attempting to use her powers at some point. “Does the reality stone mess with any abilities in here? Or is it just physical objects?”

BOBBI MORSE: A perk of her job had meant keeping her own face. A tiny piece of freedom given to Bobbi and taken from the residents. That didn’t work now. If she wanted to be incognito she couldn’t call herself Violet Testa and look like Barbara Morse. Her hair was actually blonde now, skin paler in color. “Quake ‘n’ Bake is right,” Bobbi confirmed. “But what we’re walking into, I’m not sure. They were conscious but they may not be now.” Starting up on Keds clad feet - she was dressed in a weirdly old fashioned waitress uniform, the Agent winced at Bucky’s situation. “The town default is to claim all weapons and lock them in the Town Museum as inventory. We’ll have to stop there after. There’s thirteen of them and twelve of us. Jenna Carlisle runs the Inn -- she’s fine, but she’s serious about what she does.”

BUCKY BARNES: "So we don't hit the museum first?" Bucky asked, tone betraying the clear irritation he felt. "What's so important about the Inn right now anyway."

RIRI WILLIAMS: “Naked is right.” Riri mumbled under her breath, flicking at a long maroon braid. Long hair don’t care was fine for the Willow Smith’s who wanted to whip it, but Riri’s scalp ached from where the box braids had been fastened into what had once been her curls. “Natural abilities are negated,” she muttered in response to Cassie. “It was in the dossier. No powers and they took my armor. Aight. That’s fine.” She glanced over at Viv, who once again looked human with tanned flesh and no green hair in sight. “I don’t like this. Any of it.”

STEVE ROGERS: Steve was getting a little tired of having reality warped — it seemed ever since Thanos went after those damn stones nothing ever really settled back into place. “We don’t have to like it, we just have to survive it.” Steve said. “Everyone just keep your eyes up and remember just because their mind and face are altered, they might still retain subconscious powers or skills that could be triggered.”

BOBBI MORSE: Stepping around a piece of litter -- which was incredibly rare in Pleasant Hill and a clear sign something was wrong -- Bobbi snorted. “How about our people that Ripley ate at the Border? People, like Clint and Kate, who are gonna need to hit up the museum too. And we don’t have the luxury of making multiple trips.” As Steve spoke, Bobbi gave a lazy salute. “Aye, aye, Captain. We’re here anyway.” Jutting a chin towards the quaint Colonial home, Bobbi led the way up the structure and knocked on the door. When the Agent answered, she quickly leaned in to whisper Alpha Override Command BM-99078. When Jenna didn’t budge, Bobbi just sighed. “Redwing. Redwing, okay? I’ll explain later.” As Agent Carlisle stepped back and opened the door, Bobbi gestured for everyone to enter. “Call everyone down to the dining room. Meeting time.”

VIVIAN VISION: Strange wasn't even the right word to describe the entire situation laid out in front of them as Vivian sat quietly and listened to everyone speak. It felt bizarre to not see her green locks in the corner of her eyes, or her purple skin. But she shoved past the discomfort as she turned to Cassie and nodded. "It was in the dossier, like Riri said. But I'm sure this is overwhelming for you, being new to everything." She frowned at Riri's words and nodded, wishing she had a better answer for her friend. But unfortunately, it seemed a little bit late to turn back and change their minds. "It will be okay. We just need to stick together."

DAISY JOHNSON: Daisy wasn't sure how to respond to the nickname as she ran her hands through her now shorter and brown hair while they walked. She wasn't really feeling up to pitching into the debate of where to go first, since she didn't even feel like really speaking up at all. She was too wrapped up in her own thoughts of everything that could potentially go wrong, considering they were walking through a town that was filled to the brim with supervillains. Well, mostly supervillains. As they entered the Inn, she looked around the room as they entered and raised an eyebrow as more new faces entered the room.

BOBBI MORSE: “Florence. Kitchen. Now.” Bobbi snapped twice at Agent Carlisle before leading ‘Florence Young’ away from the group of growing people. “They called Subsonic Frequency, all agents active. Even embedded. I need your folder on who’s here. The inmates have Director Hill and Agent Carter, which means I need Avengers and not yogi’s.” When the other Agent didn’t budge, Bobbi took a step forward. “I’m your superior, which means you’re giving me the file and then you’re relieved of duty. Evacuate the city.” A few moments later, the Mockingbird brought the thick folder out to her makeshift squad. “Ta-da. Turns out that ugly asshole,” she pointed a thumb at a sickly white boy. “Is my circus freak ex-husband. This ringing a bell for anyone? Feel free to look.”

GWEN STACY: One of three cheerleaders crashing at the Inn, Alice Kelley was seated on the lap of Max Welch, letterman jacket covering the midriff exposing cheer uniform. “This is, like, a super fun awkward interaction,” she snapped her gum at the people who had entered the Inn. “But the who the hell are you guys?”

RUBY KIM: Ruby Kim furrowed her eyebrows and licked the cherry lollipop in her hand as she took a look at the room full of brand new faces in front of her. Things were definitely hazy the longer she thought about them, like where she was, or more importantly why she was there and not at school. When it seemed to take awhile for an answer, she moved her lollipop in tandem with her hand as she shrugged. "Yeah, who are you? Cause there's a pep rally that we're going to miss."

NATASHA ROMANOFF: Reclining on one of the lumpy sofas, the arm of ‘Lulu Gordon’ was extended above her head as she tried to angle her phone properly. Too much cleavage? Not enough? It was hard to decide. Taking pictures both way, she propped herself up to peer over the edge of the couch and glare at the newcomers. “Yeah, hi. You’re really kind of ruining the energy in the room. So, if you could just arrivederci or whatever that would be a-1.”

RIRI WILLIAMS: “Um.” Riri just stared at the full dining room. She had read the folder fast enough to connect new faces to old, but her brain wasn’t computing properly. Which was a first, actually. “--I don’t think I want to unpack this. How do we fix it?” She couldn’t help but shoot Miles a look where he sat under what had once been Gwen Stacy.

BUCKY BARNES: Despite knowing Yelena's location wasn't here, Bucky still scanned the room, looking for Nat. Most were reclining, chatting amongst themselves. He stopped on Clint, who was just now barely getting with the program that they were no longer alone. He went from flirting horribly (even Bucky knew that face wouldn't get him very far) to blinking dumbly at them. Yeah, that tracked. "Cranial reset." he said, passing his gaze back to the face that wasn't Natasha, but she was buried somewhere beneath. Carol was here too, already standing in defense.

VIVIAN VISION: "Perhaps a jarring action will help them blink back to reality?" Vivian suggested, shrugging as she suggested it. She wasn't sure it would work, but anything seemed to be worth a shot.

STEVE ROGERS: Honestly the sight in front of him was registering but not as his wife. He had expected her to be different but this was...he didn’t have words for it. At least when Wanda warped things everyone looked the same, this was something else entirely. She didn’t appear to have the slightest trace of Natasha on the surface, in fact he was having a hard time understanding how any of it reversible at all—but then again these were magic cosmic rocks they were talking about. Silly him. “So you want us to hit them really hard in the head?” Steve deadpanned.

BOBBI MORSE: “Hit them so hard that reality rights.” Bobbi whistled. “I mean, it’s technically worked before? If any of them are still in there, they should know how to hit back.”

VIVIAN VISION: "That makes it sound worse when you say it like that, but yes."

GWEN STACY: “Slight issue.” Alice raised a hand. “We have a game tomorrow, and Coach said if there’s, like, any head issues at all we can’t play and he’s a starter and Ruby and I are varsity. So, I would love to not get hit. Not sure why that’s even being talked about. We’re minors.”

STEVE ROGERS: Steve shrugged. “Nat did it to Clint once when Loki’s scepter had control over him. Theory tracks.”

CINDY MOON: "I don't know why we're talking about hitting anyone, but I'll totally defend myself if you try. I carry mace." Ruby insisted, her eyes narrowing at the strangers around her.

BOBBI MORSE: “No, I think it sounds exactly as bad as it is.” Bobbi shot back. “The main difference now is that I’m pretty sure I’d break Clint’s face if I hit it. He looks... delicate.”

STEVE ROGERS: “Good news is, it’ll get put back together.”

GABBY KINNEY: Gabby rolled her eyes and grumbled to herself as she walked over to who she hoped was Laura and clocked her right in the nose. She hoped their healing factors kicked in again soon, because it looked like it really hurt. "Laura? That's you, right? I probably shoulda double checked the file.."

LAURA KINNEY: “--what the fuck.” The third cheerleader, who had yet to speak, head snapped back as she frantically tried to cup under her nose to stop from getting blood on the white uniform. “I think you broke my nose.” Stella blinked over watering eyes. Still, a secondary pain shot through her temple. “What the hell.”

BOBBI MORSE. “Jesus Christ.” Rolling her shoulders back, Bobbi was halfway to Clint when the baby badger or whatever the clone’s clone was called punched a walking Barbie. “Did that work or not?” She faltered, arm still prepped to punch Clint.

CLINT BARTON: Clint's false, lanky face flinched, hands coming up in defense. "Hey! Who gives you the right to just barge in here-"

GABBY KINNEY: Gabby couldn’t tell if it was her sister or not, since the cheerleader definitely seemed pretty annoyed. Laura would be fighting back by now. For once, she felt a tingling in her knuckles where she’d punched and raised an eyebrow. Is this what pain felt like? Curious, she shrugged and punched hopefully Laura a second time, this time in the stomach.

STEVE ROGERS: Steve wasn’t thrilled about the idea of having to hit Nat, but he didn’t exactly like the idea of having someone else do it either. Regardless, none of that made him feel any better about walking up to the twenty something year old illusion that had been warped into Nat. “Okay, ya gotta believe if there was another way t’do this, I’d be all over it—but wouldn’t yanno the magic fix to our magic problem is punching each other.” The defeat could not be kept from his voice if he tried. A beat as he looked at her and shook his head “I’m sorry—“ Quickly, Steve hit her really hard in the side of the head with the shield gauntlet on his wrist, probably wincing harder than she did at the impact. It was enough to stun—he tried not to pull back too hard, afraid that if he hit her too gently it might not work and he’d have to inevitably do it again. And this was very much something he never wanted to have to repeat for as long as he lived.

LAURA KINNEY: Still caught up in the tender and definitely broken cartilage of her nose, Stella didn’t see the second hit coming until the fist connected with her gut. As the breath was forced from her lungs, red covered her vision. This time, it didn’t fade. As she straightened one hand shot out to grab her assailant. Jerking it behind her, she used the leverage to twist it behind the girl and shove her face first into the wall. Hard. It was a strange instinct that led one fist to be poised next to her neck even though the flesh remained unchanged. “Stop.”

GABBY KINNEY: Gabby didn’t know what she really expected if the punch had worked. And sure enough, suddenly her face was colliding with the wall next to them and she bit the bottom of her lip, tasting blood. It stung, which was a strange and unfamiliar sensation as her eyes widened and she couldn’t help a smile. Laura was trying to hold claws at her neck, which meant it was sort of working. “Laur, it’s me. It’s Gabby.” She grumbled, trying her best to resist her sister’s grip and turn to face her. “I look different, but it’s me.”

CAROL DANVERS: Carol's false persona let out an obnoxious, very non Carol sound. "This is not how we handle business in Pleasant Hill." she crossed her arms over her chest. "Someone, help Lulu get away from mister violence for hands. It's already over for Stella." Her dark brown gaze slid over. "Oh honey, what a horrible impromptu nose job."

BOBBI MORSE: “S.H.I.E.L.D. did, actually.” Steve punched Natasha then, which was more than Bobbi would have put past Rogers -- but hey, desperate times were met with desperate measures. “And the power of the Vegas minister when he pronounced us woman and douchebag.” Never one to be left out, Bobbi delivered a sharp uppercut before her knee instantly drove itself into his gut as she kicked him to the ground.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: One minute her phone was in her hand, the next it was across the room. As pain resonated across her temple and ate out any comprehensive thoughts, it took two seconds for Natasha to propel herself off the back of the couch and twist mid air to wrap her thighs around his neck. As her body weight came crashing down it pulled him with her and the “influencer” came to rest on top of him with a knee digging into his chest. “What, we don’t say hi anymore?”

LAURA KINNEY: Chest heaving for a moment, Laura pushed Gabby further into the wall before releasing her grip and backing up. A quick check of her nose revealed it was still broken -- officially the longest broken bone she’d ever had. “Everyone looks different.” She intoned. “This is Pleasant Hill. And you’re all here?”

DAISY JOHNSON: Daisy grimaced, knowing what she had to do even if she didn’t really want to. Some of these people here didn’t have anyone aware to specifically wake them up, so she went with Cindy as she approached the cheerleader and swiftly grabbed her arm, easily knocking the mace out of it before elbowing her in the forehead. She tried not to do it too hard, but hard enough to hopefully wake the younger girl up.

CINDY MOON: The cheerleader quickly tried to pull her mace out with a shaky hand as she struggled to find out how to get the lock off. But before she could, suddenly the mace was rolling on the floor and there was a blunt that radiated throughout her head. She blinked for a moment and stumbled back. “Ow..”

JESSICA DREW: “Fuck ‘em uuuuup.” Legs swinging from the counter she was perched on, the firefighter took a bite of her apple and watched the brawls.

CLINT BARTON: Clint winced, pain ricocheting through him from the force of his organs ping ponging around his body. "Dude not-" he wheezed, but just as Bobbi geared up for another kick, Clint caught her boot, one hand cupping the top and the other wrapping around her ankle and calf. "Would you let up already?" he said as he tightened his grip. "This wasn't what the therapist recommended."

BOBBI MORSE: Leg caught in the air, Bobbi paused with a heaving chest. She had been wrong. His face wasn’t that breakable. “He also didn’t recommend running away to fantasyland, did he?” She lightly kicked twice to signal that he should release her. “Song we danced to at our wedding?”

STEVE ROGERS: You’d figure as the breath ripped from his lungs as his back slammed down into the ground, he’d be alarmed or upset, but no, pure relief flooded his lungs when he slowly forced air into them. It was odd to hear her but not...hear her. The voice was foreign but the second his eyes met, hers he didn’t know how to feel about the familiarity of her in someone else’s. for all accounts it was definitely Nat... “Well it’s been a while, wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”

SAM WILSON: “Really, man?” Sam groaned at Steve, who was now pinned under a presumably conscious Natasha. “Setting unrealistic standards for men yet again. Maybe you can hit your girl, but man, my Pops would've--” The former Captain America did a double take. “Shut the hell up, Drew.” Turning to face Carol, Sam held his hands up. “I know you’re gonna forgive me, Cap, but I’m still sorry.” There was a pan on the table, and in one rapid movement Sam picked it up and flung it towards Carol’s head. He still had his shield skills, and he didn’t want to actually hit her.

CLINT BARTON: "Gangnam style." Clint said, pushing her foot away on the release. He rolled, using the momentum to get back to his feet but immediately swaying. "My center of gravity is way off," he said, wincing as he grabbed for his side, only then realizing. His hands went to his chest, then down his stomach, across his thighs. "Am I teenager? Don't tell me they made me a teenager."

CASSIE LANG: Cassie frowned as she looked down at the file again and glanced back up at who she could only presume was Kate, despite not having any of the same physical qualities. It was technically one of the first times she’d seen Kate’s face without a single mark on it. “I’m sorry, dude. I promise we’ll laugh about this later.” She grimaced before clenching her fist and throwing a punch at her best friend’s cheek, trying her best to avoid the nose. Cass had been training with Hope, so she hoped she landed the punch the correct way.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: When her head snapped up following the takedown, the mass of hair that covered her eyes was dark and unlike her own. Although still in shape, her legs were too long and she had to untangle herself from Steve before offering him a hand. “This wasn’t exactly what I meant when I said I wanted to find my sister.” Which, she hadn’t technically done yet. Giving Bucky a quiet nod, Natasha observed the group of people wiping blood from their faces. “But I’ve seen worse.”

CAROL DANVERS: Carol didn't even flinch, didn't even move. As if anyone would have the audacity to throw a projectile at her. She just observed the chaos, face contorted into something displeased until thunk. When she came to, Carol was rubbing her forehead and sitting back up. Her eyes landed on the pan, which she immediately grabbed. On Sam's cue, as if her brain could make sense of it anyway, Carol strong armed it in someone's direction, smacking them directly in the head.

KATE BISHOP: Drinking her coffee and minding her business, Kate attempted to splash her attacker with the hot liquid before her cheek took the hit. Smashing the cup against the edge of the table, she branded it at Cassie. “Who the hell taught you to hit?”

BOBBI MORSE: “You danced to that alone because you were drunk and I was peeing in a bush.” Taking a step back, Bobbi shook her hand out. “Nope, just a malnourished adult man.”

CASSIE LANG: A little hot coffee splashed onto Cassie’s legs, but thankfully she had jeans on and it didn’t make it to her face. She still grimaced though as she took a step back and looked down at the broken coffee mug in Kate’s hand. “Does that matter? And jesus, what’re you gonna do? Stab me with that thing?” Cassie exclaimed.

JESSICA DREW: Caught up in the obvious tension between Lulu and the guy who hit her, ‘Catherine’ didn’t even notice Carmella go down. She also didn’t notice the pan get launched again until it clipped her clean in the temple. Apple hitting the floor, Jessica followed it a moment later as she slumped off the counter.

STEVE ROGERS: At Sam’s comment, Steve definitely didn’t think his father would be particularly keen on Steve hitting any woman for any reason — but then again his dad wouldn’t be very impressed with a lot of things he’d done. The Cap title, sure, but the war criminal part would have really put a damper on things. “Well, we didn’t exactly have an instruction manual.” He said, sitting up right. “Sorry.” he added, gently placing his palm on the side of her head. He knew she’d had worse, but that was entirely beside the point. “What are the chances that doesn’t bruise when we get you back to normal?”

ROGER GOCKING: Normally when brought out of a daze, or brainwashing ( an experience Roger was all too familiar with ), reality came back to you in flashes, but this time - it hit Roger like a brick. Suddenly much much taller and lacking a set of quills, the bewildered man found himself in an unfamiliar room. Hands flew up to examine his face and various other parts of his now distinctly human body, before noise down the hall drew his attention away. A bit unstable on two legs, he made his way out the door and down a set of stairs - very slowly down a set of stairs - finding himself amidst almost total chaos. “Uhh — “ he tried to speak up, voice a bit hoarse, “- hello?”

KATE BISHOP: “I don’t know, slash your radial artery? I’m crafty.” Kate hissed before she dropped the piece of glass, the painted fragment the winking eye of a partial smiley face. “Ouch. Thanks, dude. But ouch.”

CAROL DANVERS: Carol got to her feet, still rubbing the side of her head. "You're an ass." she looked over towards Sam. "But thanks."

SAM WILSON: “I’m sorry, Carmella.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You got a Zumba class to instruct?” Noticing another enter, there was a scoff as Sam nodded towards Roger. “Call the search party out of the bushes. Found the rodent.”

CAROL DANVERS: "Hey Sam." Carol cocked a brow. "You wanna know what a pan feels like to the head? No? Shut it, Perry."

SAM WILSON: Letting out a low whistle, Sam shook his head. “Low blow. I’ve taken a pan to the head. It’s how I knew it would work. I don’t want to tell you how pissed Sarah was.”

ROGER GOCKING: Roger blinked, eying the man who addressed him with confusion, “Wait what — rodent?”

CAROL DANVERS: "I promise I throw harder." but she was smiling, just a little. "Come on. Help me with Jess."

BOBBI MORSE: Wincing, Bobbi smiled apologetically at Roger. “Long story that’s not that long. You were -- more or less -- turned into a porcupine for the last few months. It’s what the Town Database assigned you. But, and I won’t be the first to say it, that should never have happened and I’m very sorry. Drew’s been looking for you. Welcome back to opposable thumbs!” Jesus, S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to pay or more therapists.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: “I’ll take a bruise if it means I look like myself again.” Natasha commented quietly. “But we have bigger problems right now. Beginning with, James --- where’s your arm?”

ROGER GOCKING: The woman that approached him next looked moderately friendly, but her face was unfamiliar to Roger. As she explained the situation, a hand slowly rose to his head again, subconsciously carding through unruly brown hair before gently prodding at long forgotten features. Memories came back in flashes, in sensations. Grass as tall as the sky, flashes of sunlight, the distinct scent of evergreen trees - it meant nothing to Roger, and more than he could imagine. But at the mention of Jessica, his heart rate spiked, recognition flooding back, “Jess? Where is she?!”

BUCKY BARNES: "Oh, this thing?" he motioned to the empty space. "Apparently if it were plastic I would've been fine. Now I'm lopsided."

DAISY JOHNSON: “In the Town Museum,” Daisy chimed in, glancing at Natasha. “The town automatically claims them any weapons and writes them into the museum as inventory. Which means that should probably be our next stop.”

KWANNON: As the room erupted into chaos, the woman formerly known as Kwannon had receded to the edge of the room. She didn’t need to be clocked in the head. The thoughts in the room began to mount and suddenly they were pounding against the mind of the telepath, a punch of a different kind. Poised at the top of the staircase, the telepath closed her eyes for a moment. Purple butterflies flared up on the temples of those they had yet to recalibrate -- Chavez, Morales, Murdock, Stacy -- and righted their memories. “We’re wasting time.” She spoke both telepathically and aloud. “Pleasant Hill is crumbling. The X-Men are sending more in.” As she moved down the stairs, Psylocke psychically compiled the images of their true faces and telepathically placed it in their minds. “Hopefully that helps.”

SAM WILSON: Obediently following Carol, Sam grabbed some peas from the fridge and propped Jess up against the counter. “Jess is here. Someone got a little overzealous with a frying pan.” Still, it was a relief to actually see everyone. “You want to elaborate, Psylocke?”

MATT MURDOCK: At Kwannon’s telepathic prod, awareness flooded Matt’s system as well as the sudden need to take in as much visual stimuli as possible before the worst could happen. Realistically, he knew it wouldn’t be long, but the selfish part of him hoped things took a bit more work to solve and his current state would last just a bit longer. Blinking slowly, he sat in the corner of the room, silently observing.

ROGER GOCKING: Roger approached Jess slowly, despite the intense need to wrap her up in his arms and never let go. She didn’t look like herself yet, but it was her - and they were one step closer to getting home, to getting out of here. Wherever here was. “Jess— oh my god. It’s so good to see you. Well, sort of you,” Roger grinned, eyes brimming with tears.

KWANNON: “I’m speaking from what I’ve heard.” What she had sensed, around the fear. “Zemo and his Circle have taken over the town.” She explained then what the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had said in their cry for help: the plan to lure the heroes to the Town Hall and the fragmenting of the Reality Stone. “The Museum, the Town Hall, the Hospital.” She ticked off. “Each guarded. US Agent, Bullseye and Elektra are at the Museum. Taskmaster, White Widow and Batroc are at the Hospital. The rest are at the Town Hall. I would advise splitting up, dividing and conquering. Polaris, Synch, Rogue, Magik and Nico Minoru have entered the town. It’s my job to make sure they cast the spell your Scarlet Witch instructed on.”

SAM WILSON: “If the boss says we divide and conquer, we divide and conquer. I know a lot of us need gear, so, I’ll head to the museum. Clint, Kate, Parker, Riri, Alexander, Scott and Steve -- you guys good to come with me? There’s some wings and bows with our names on it.”

SAM ALEXANDER: “Aye aye, Captain,” Sam nodded, immediately cringing at his own choice of words.

MATT MURDOCK: Matt stood up, knowing what he had to do, who he had to face, “I’ll come to the museum as well.”

GWEN STACY: Raising a hand, Gwen shifted from one foot to the other. She really needed to find a way to cover up. “I need to go too. My suit’s a symbiote, so they qualified it as a weapon and I don’t have my powers anymore.” A painful admission.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: “I’m going to the hospital.” Natasha was already tightening her running shoes. “I’m finishing what I started. What we started.” Her and Bucky. “Bobbi, I need your codes. Viv, it would be nice to have you as well.”

KWANNON: Now on the ground level, Kwannon stood beside Natasha.. “I’ll be going with you. Magik, Synch and Nico need to be at the hospital. Laura?”

LAURA KINNEY: Nodding once, Laura flexed her fingers as if to try and call forth latent claws.

VIVIAN VISION: Vivian nodded, glad to help in whatever way she was able. She couldn’t help but glance to Riri though as if to silently ask if she’d be following after she got her suit.

GABBY KINNEY: Gabby looked up at her sister and tried to stand up to seem taller, but she still somehow felt small around everyone else. “I want to come too.”

DAISY JOHNSON: Daisy clenched her jaw and nodded at Sam and Kwannon, knowing where she probably needed to go. She had no idea what kind of state Cal would be in, but she knew she had to be the first person to find him. “I’ll go to the town hall.”

KWANNON: “Polaris and Rogue will meet you in the Town Square, but the Council has asked them to leave once the spell is cast. Gabrielle,” Kwannon cast her gaze downwards at the young mutant. I need you to accompany the group to the Town Hall. We have to divide our talents, and I need you to give Lorna a message.”

GABBY KINNEY: As much as Gabby wanted to stick with Laura, she couldn’t help her excitement at being given a specific message to give. “You got it. Uh, what message.. exactly?”

JESSICA DREW: She had stirred at some point from her frying pan induced stupor, clutching a bag of frozen vegetables to her aching temple. Jess had a few harsh words for Carol but they all dissipated when she spotted a very tall and not rodent looking man approaching. “Oh my god. You.” She half scuttled over, sloppily throwing herself on him. May she had overestimated her balance post frying pan a little. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Even the bushes.”

KWANNON: Kneeling down, Kwannon tapped Gabby’s forehead with one finger and a small violet butterfly flew away. It was a telepathic message shared only between the two, and when Kwannon stood she left without another word.

BOBBI MORSE: Sighing, Bobbi grabbed two of the kitchen knives for good measure. Not like they’d do much good, but she wasn’t above slashing her way out of shit. “I have a uniform and staves at the hospital anyway. Catch you guys later. Try and stay alive, yeah?” Turning on a heel, Bobbi left along with Laura.

CAROL DANVERS: "So now that we're in resume mission mode," Carol glanced over towards Jess but left it alone for now. She'd probably have to apologize at some point, but Roger no longer being a rodent was occupying enough of her attention at the moment. "I don't think we'll have time to stop by the museum to gear up. We need to get this handled, now. Johnson," she directed her attention to the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. "We need a plan, especially regarding this. We'll take a group to Town Hall."

ROGER GOCKING: The relief that flooded Roger’s chest as Jessica recognized him was unmatched. She stumbled forward, but large, steady arms caught her, holding her upright. “So I’ve heard —“ he let out a slight chuckle, leaning to the side for a moment to wipe his moist cheeks against the sleeve of his shirt. “Maybe you should sit down,” guiding her over to the nearest chair, he gently lowered her into it, before his hands came up to gingerly cradle her head, “God, I missed you.”

DAISY JOHNSON: “Plan is to make it to the town hall, and do whatever we can to stop Zemo from getting that damn reality stone.” Daisy insisted, not really in the right mindset to stop for a moment and consider a plan. Based on what Psylocke explained, there didn’t seem like much time to consider most of this. If they didn’t act now, there was no telling what he’d do with that stone. “Other than that,” She paused and gave an exasperated shrug. “Whoever is left. Rambeau, Danvers, Lang, Chavez, Moon, Morales, we’re heading to town hall. Let’s move.”

JESSICA DREW: “Maybe you should sit down.” Jessica hiccuped, mouth moving independently from her mind. “You were a porcupine. Which I know you know. I’m sorry. I thought Gerry was one too for a minute.” Carol had been there to drag her out of the bushes. Buried in the mass of his chest, Jess let out a shaky breath. “I missed you too. When you weren’t there to pick up Gerry, they said...” She shook her head. “I knew you wouldn’t, and I’m sorry they did this to you.” Her powers were sluggish but her head was clearing. “We need to get your suit. We need to make sure you’re protected.”

ROGER GOCKING: “God — Gerry. Where — is he okay?” Roger immediately questioned, ignoring Jessica’s concern for his own well-being. “I would never, Jess - I love that kiddo like my own,” one hand lifted to gently stroke her hair as he considered the situation at hand, “Wouldn’t be a bad idea. Sooner we can get out of here, sooner we can get Gerry back in his mama’s arms.”

JESSICA DREW: “He’s okay, he’s okay.” Jess quickly reassured him. “The daycare called me when you weren’t there and I was’t getting my face smashed in for once so I answered. I reached out to Olivia,” which was hard considering that Roger’s ex hated her, “but she thought you bailed. Ben watched Gerry some. I told him to call Jen Walters if I didn’t come back.” Which, she hadn’t. How long had they been in Pleasant Hill? “He misses you.”

ROGER GOCKING: Roger softened, more relief flooding his system, “Urich? Alright, I’ll give it to you, he’s plenty responsible. And of course Olivia thought that. Can’t say I’m surprised.” Hoisting Jessica gently out of her chair upon realizing they were the only ones left in the inn, Roger began to direct them toward the door, all the while grinning like a lovesick puppy, “God, you’re gonna kill me. I missed the little guy as well. So so much. But we’ve gotta head to the museum, Jess - get my suit back.”

JESSICA DREW: “I know. You’re right. As much as I would love to christen the inn,” she paused, thinking about all the criminals who had stayed there. “No, nevermind. Museum is the good choice.” Rising on her toes to kiss Roger on the cheek, Jess grabbed his hand and pulled him out the door. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

#momevents #event: pleasant hill #pleasant hill: finale #chatlog: pleasant hill inn

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olga-eulalia · 6 years

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It’s Terrible Headcanon Time™, Part Two. [launches into I wish none of this had happened. I wish this idea had never come to me speech]

Post-S4. John attends the birth of Madi’s child. (Terrible ought to be enough of a warning, really.)

Her belly grows and grows. Yet she remains the same. He watches her across the camp, unable to do otherwise, and the rush of blood to his face is hot when she returns his gaze and holds it. He trails after her. Gives her as much space as she needs.

Their walking speeds come to match and, often, they wander side by side. They’re friendly with the people who come up to talk to them, but less so with each other. With each other, they exchange many looks, but only few words.

Eventually, she acknowledges him by handing him the small things in her life for mending, making him feel useful again. She never says do this, though. Doesn’t even have to say I'd like, most of the time, as he anticipates her wants and welcomes them, just as he welcomes every moment they spend together, gratefully.

Her mother sits in the corner, praying over an item in her hands. Night has almost swallowed her whole. Madi is on her knees, leaning forward, one arm holding up her weight, one hand gripping the wooden post at the side of the bed. The midwife croons in a low murmur, kneading Madi’s back, feeling her large belly.

But Madi needs space for herself, to be able to be herself, and she's impatient of anyone who would constrain her movement. She shows her teeth, panting through them. Then goes back to a fluttery kind of breathing, her eyes staring into the space beyond. He doesn't have to wonder what she sees. He knows pain that wipes out thinking, carves into the self and whittles at its core until it’s unrecognisable. He knows pain that just is. And he hates that thing stuck inside her for causing her so much of it.

The midwife’s attendant tips a flat, wooden bowl to her lips. Madi seems to relish the draught, lets it pour in. He wants to know what it is that’s being given, but the women treat him as if he’s not in the room at all. And he's very well aware that if it weren't for Madi's insistence, he wouldn't be.

He knows why Madi wants him present. He knows why she favored this place over the hut out in the forest, where her dignity would have remained intact, and chose to give birth inside the camp instead, where her struggle will be heard and known by everyone. But now she's quiet -- and his heart is beating frantically -- she’s so quiet, it's not right. Her mewls are desperate, useless hand-wringing, as her ache churns and churns but can’t get out, can’t find a way to be let go of.

The midwife speaks in low tones. Her attendant gestures at him, calling for his attention, and translates. "She wants you to do what she does." The midwife, stern, nods at him.

He strips down to his linen and kneels beside Madi on the bed, careful not to touch her, waiting for the women to show him how to do it right. The midwife makes an impatient gesture at him, telling him to get on with it. So Silver puts his hands where hers have been, feels the hot skin stretched thin under his clammy palms. Madi grows loud. Her voice tears through her throat.

Later, when it’s early, when the mattress and the sheets and the clothes have been changed, when everything is picked clean to make it look as though the bloody battle had never taken place and the smoke rises reed-thin, he returns, wearing clothes that don’t reek of fear.

"John.” It’s a plea for him to come closer, spoken in a voice that's scratched raw and exhausted.

He’s waited for an invitation like this, for her to say his name, for so long that he wants to do nothing more than go to her and lie down by her side. But how can he when he's afraid to look at the child? He’s had one glimpse of it, alerted by its cry, this strange fleshy thing looking all trussed up and squished, so very helpless that he's angry at it by default.

He’s known himself incapable of fathering children for a long time and always considered it a blessing. So when he finds the strength to step closer to the bed and kneels down in front of it, placing his crutch on the floor with barely a sound, his heart behaves in his chest like a hunted thing about to be cornered.

Madi smiles at him, tired. He hasn’t had much practice recently, but he smiles back, because not doing so would be more difficult. “You’re so beautiful,” he tells her, basking in the closeness of her. She’s reluctant to hear it. Her smile grows more pained. He’ll do better next time.

He’s told himself that he’ll keep looking only at her, only into the warm and watery gleam of her eyes, and nowhere else. But it's no use. Curiosity is stronger than his resolve and makes his gaze slip.

The child rests on Madi’s breast with its back covered by the fluffiest-looking cloth. A tiny brown hand sticks out, curled into a loose fist. When Madi lifts the bundle, he reaches for it before he can think about what he’s doing and takes it into his hands with all the gentleness in the world. With more care than he's ever held anything, he holds it, making sure the limbs are all comfortable where they’re bedded in the cradle of his arms.

Only then does he allow himself to look at the memory of that long, dusty and crimson day once more; at the soft, uncertain hour after they'd retaken Nassau Town. And is surprised to find that it is no longer bruised from all the nervous handling in his mind. That he can remember, effortlessly, the way they'd all touched each other, glad to be alive and so eager to affirm it with their mouths and hands, stripping each other of clothes as if discarding old skin and saying Yes! Yes! to a new world with the keen slide of their bodies; when Madi had kissed them both, longed for them both, wanted to be part of them and them all to be part of each other, as they’d shifted and changed from flesh into heat and pleasure and light in their breathless embrace; when he had ventured a mad thought, his heart spilling over with joy, it’s possible, it’s all possible.

And now, as he looks at the tiny human with the tiny fingers and toes, with the pudgy limbs and the downy hair and the thoughtful frown between the eyebrows, he thinks that thought again. So clearly that he has to hand the child back to Madi, because he’s starting to shake. And before he knows it, tears have filled his eyes and are wetting his cheeks, as though barrels of water have been kicked over inside his head. His body remembers the briny taste of the sobs that wring him, but as much as he abhors it, he decides that, just this once, he won’t force himself to hold them back.

Blindly, he shuffles closer and puts his head on the pillow, seeking Madi’s warmth; finding her shoulder with his lips while he waits for his body to quiet itself. "I love you,” he says, then. “Both of you.”

#terrible headcanon time #fic: black sails

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decodingellipses · 7 years

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“Surpassing Certainty” by Janet Mock

On the cover of Redefining Realness, Janet Mock bares her presence with what looks like a blurred city far beyond her. The ambiguity of what place she’s in front of parallels with her heavy history that she once left behind out of circumstance, driven by heavier ambitions as a young person with multiplicities. She reveals that the cities of her past are Honolulu, Oakland, and Dallas. On the surface of the memoir, she stands at a far enough distance from the background to convey clear separation from what is behind her, yet also stands at close enough distance from the reader’s eyes for her to be detailed, but still untouchable. I can see her curls, free, vivacious, and parted to the side. I can see her silhouette clearly in the tight, short sleeve, V-neck, midi dress in her favorite color, coral, in which she said on Heben Nigatu and Tracy Clayton’s podcast, Another Round, “It’s a color that I keep returning to […] It’s a color that keeps following me […] but it also just looks good!” Her literal position between her background and the reader’s eyes reflects deeply on the ways in which her experiences are familiar, yet distant. She acknowledged this on Oprah Winfrey Network’s SuperSoul Sessions, by tearfully saying, “Just because I clicked my heels and I made it out of Oz, doesn’t mean everyone can.” In the space of otherness, you can still feel othered.

On the cover of Surpassing Certainty: What My Twenties Taught Me, there is no background—only a black backdrop of what looks like the photograph was taken in a studio, indoors and more intimate. Janet is up close and personal, and that shows in the stories throughout the book. Her first memoir, like the cover itself, was expansive and full of depth. This time, the sole focus is Janet, in every multitude of who she is. I love that she wears a long sleeve, crew neck dress—it’s more concealing. Ironic that although she is significantly closer in the picture, she is less revealing. It spoke to me as the power of choosing when to camouflage and when to uncover yourself. She introduces the book with a one-night stand story, where in the midst of her physical nakedness with a stranger, she wore an armor that shielded her from undressing her truth—the complex relationship between privacy and intimacy, and how they are not always as mutually exclusive as we might think. In the picture, her curls are more defined and gentle, parted in the middle. She still wears her favorite color, but this time, on her cheeks, where the coral blush is placed just right to ignite her immaculate cheekbones. Intentional beauty is a kind of beauty I knew all too well—a beauty that has been redefined and refined in order to be granted access to opportunities. There is a relationship between the comfort of hegemonic identities and the ways marginalized folks strategically convey beauty to satisfy those comforts. This is evident in how you wear your hair to an interview (policing of hair textures), how “right” your skin tone is (colorism), and how well your beauty can chameleon itself for whiteness. These experiences Janet speaks of in Surpassing Certainty are beyond her transness. What makes trans women of color’s stories different from “popular” and well-listened-to trans narratives is that their race is involved. In this book, she touches on the roles of her race, disclosure of transness, womanhood, and how they intersect.

ESSENCE’s Cori Murray and Charli Penn from the podcast Yes, Girl! sat down with Janet, where they asked her, “Do you ever grapple with being an advocate?” She responded with: “It’s part of the work that I do. Though I center myself and my experiences […] I can’t forget that so many people don’t know about all these other women who have not been given the same privileges and access that I have been given to be able to live, to survive, and ultimately to thrive and live my dreams.”

My 20th birthday was pivotal in that it marked the end of my teenage years, years that I never knew I was able to give closure to or move on from. Especially the year of being nineteen, which was my expedition of disclosure, sex, intimacy, and its relationships with each other. I—someone who recently begun her twenties whose experiences were also of being a mixed trans girl from the islands, navigating transness in the context of stealth and intentional suppression— never expected to have a kind of resource like Surpassing Certainty, which covered the years from before Janet was even twenty, up until her thirtieth birthday.

I thought Redefining Realness spoke to me in ways nobody ever has. Reading it three times, I felt recognized, cared for, and prioritized. But in telling her own story in Surpassing Certainty, Janet allowed me to see myself. By the end of the book, I had an awakening that in the midst of relationships, job opportunities, heartbreak, spaces, it was beyond crucial that I choose myself over all of these. Always. Oftentimes I catch myself in this tug-of-war of “Who would stand beside you—in public—and call you theirs?” (37) and “But you can’t escape your truth. It follows you. No matter how far you travel, how good you feel with it at a distance, it lingers and sticks to you” (33), and I resort to myself. Janet described the comfort of lonesome in a way I have not been able to articulate— “Perhaps no one would ever know me quite as well” (124).

Choosing myself is healing; resorting to myself by default is lonesome. As a person who grapples with emotional unavailability, I submitted to men who knew I’m trans by only fucking them, and romantically getting involved with men whom I did not disclose my transness to. Spaces in between came with an expensive price of emotional labor, and I couldn’t afford that. My twenties is about being stingy and holding people on a higher level of accountability. When Phoebe Robinson of Sooo Many White Guys interviewed Janet, she asked “Out of all the important experiences that happened in your twenties, what’s one piece of advice that you would give to someone?” Janet responded with: “Not everyone is deserving of you, of your body, of your story, of your time […] Don’t spend it. Budget that shit!”

I started to refuse crumbs to satisfy my hunger for desire. When James texted to see me at midnight, I knew the choreography by heart. I’d see him, he’d be inebriated beyond control. He’d make small talk bullshit before giving me a taste of his night’s bar tab. We’d slip out of our clothes and into my bed, and he’d slip into my body before slipping his way out of my room. I was exhausted of this kind of pleasure, the one-way-narrow-road kind of pleasure, so I texted him back, “No can do, tonight.”

He texted me back with, “Ugh.”

He didn’t even fight for it. He never had to, so why start?

It felt good to know he was upset. It was also so foreign. He could fuck anyone, I thought, and he chose you. Who do you think you are? Why would you turn down a guy who will taste the secrecies of your skin when no one else will?

I thought again.

…Because I’m everything, and he does not deserve even the most sun-kissed parts of my flesh.

A few weeks later, I met a 22 year old guy named Sam at a late night party event in a vintage boutique that hosted his band’s album debut. He sang the harmonies with one hand patting a cajón he sat on, wearing a white Manchester United jersey that looked like it was his favorite shirt to wear—stained and rugged. With cheap red wine and a few ice cubes in my red cup, I unapologetically let his eye contact mutualize mine while I stood in the crowd, which led us to introducing ourselves to each other afterwards. He told me about a rooftop party he attended in Chelsea for his job at an entertainment company, where well-known actors like Lucy Liu and Zoey Deutch surrounded him, boosting his ego. I went home, tired, and swiped on Tinder. His profile was the first to show up, and I swiped right. Instant match.

“Tell Lucy Liu I say hello, will ya?” I teased.

Within the next day, we progressed onto texting.

“Come visit me in the city,” he said. I remembered then that this game of let’s see how long I can pull men into my life before I push them away to avoid disclosure, and possibly, rejection, couldn’t keep on going. That night, I told him about my transness.

Taken aback and curious, he responded respectfully, and proceeded to thank me for being forthcoming. When I shared my relief of his reaction, he messaged me back with an answer that caught me off guard, revealing that he had much more to learn than what I initially thought he already knew.

“Hahaha. You didn’t tell me you were the guy that killed my father. Just told me you’re a guy, that’s all.”

“Mmmm, not quite. I’m not a guy, but you have Google to figure it out yourself. Also, your dad isn’t even dead.”

This was my point of exhaustion and refusal to be anybody’s source of research—especially people whom I catch myself looking for validation in.

Just like Janet in Surpassing Certainty, I was stuck in the pattern of not allowing myself to deserve the best; “I embraced the sweet delusion that ignited all affairs: This time, it will be different” (77). But it never was. It was the same shit every single time; men who prioritize their confusions over my own personhood, men who want me in the darkest of the unseen, men who do not know how to love and respect me.

It is in friendships that I find myself the most powerful, and Janet and Lela’s is one I truly admired. Lela’s reaction to Janet telling her truth was the ideal reaction I never knew I wanted.

“I felt lucky you told me”, Lela said. “But no one should ever feel obligated to know, you know? It’s your story to tell.” (148)

I am so in awe of Janet’s generosity, willingness to give, and ultimately, welcome us into her story. So many of my parallel experiences with hers I dealt with alone, pushing me to a space of singularity. But for her to share them bare, and for me to even see just a spec of a dust of myself in that story, I was pulled out of that deepness. I especially found commanding power in the way Janet and Troy’s argument in the car (while she waited for her train to come) ended.

“‘I love you’, he said.

‘Me, too.’” (208)

There is a potential pronoun antecedent slip here, and I ruminate over what Janet meant by “Me, too.” In a quick glance, I figured that was her way of saying “I love you, too,” but after rereading that part, deep down I wonder if this was a turning point of Janet’s priorities that allowed herself to say “I love me, too.”

Janet’s work makes me dig a little deeper, allowing me to heal numbed wounds I’ve forgotten were even there. Desire, hunger, and persistence are universal experiences that aren’t exclusive to trans women of color in their twenties. But the roots in which trans women of color’s desires, hunger, and persistence are grounded in are different, with respect to race, gender, time, histories, and traumas. Even in our shared communities, our layered experiences still have room for divergence—and that’s the importance of trans narratives; they aren’t monolithic. My chapter one looks different from Janet’s chapter one, and that is a truth to be untouched and unquestioned. Alike of the women in Club Nu, “We were marked by life, decisions, and mistakes” (29). We still are.

I have so much love for trans women of color, even if our community is dying more than I want to admit. I believe in the strength of heart and the selflessness of sisterhood. Janet, you have given us oceans in a time of drought. I’ve surpassed certainty that I will always love you for that.

#transgender #gender #janet mock #redefining realness #surpassing certainty

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mailspoon4-blog · 5 years

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On Baby Changing Areas in a Men’s Bathroom — Curtis McHale

When my oldest daughter started to read on her own it took so much concentration. Every single word involved 120% of her attention. She’d start to sound out a word, get close and guess and then ask me because it wasn’t quite right. I’d tell her what word she was searching for and she’d go off on the next bit. About half way through her first page she was fed up, not because of the effort of reading though.

Whoa, this is a long post. Did you know that Members get it in PDF, and other eBook formats? They also get to join me for discussion on how to improve their business monthly and finally a monthly book group. You should become a member. You can also purchase Getting Unstuck on Amazon.

Sure the work was hard, but the frustrating part for her was that the story didn’t make any sense. The writing wasn’t bad and the story wasn’t over her head. It was a decent kid’s book for a 6-year-old. The problem was that with all of her attention focused on figuring out which word she was looking at, she had no attention to spare to piece the whole sentence together at once.

She couldn’t grasp the flow of the story because she was just barely getting the individual words.

This is where you start with any endeavor. The simple fact of getting the basics done is overwhelming. When I started teaching myself web development while getting my Counselling Degree I could barely get a site up and launched. It was all held together with duct tape and promises.

I couldn’t spare any time to dig into what it took to run an awesome business. I was hanging on praying it didn’t all fall apart around me. I didn’t have a client vetting process, or know how to do great client communication. This is normal. In fact, one of the reasons I suggest you work for an agency or web firm before you head out on your own is so that you can learn a bunch of the lessons while getting paid by someone else.

Then you have less skin in the game. The risk is lower. Once you’re out and running your own business, the risk is all yours. If you make a mistake, you pay the price.

I remember sitting at my screen in my early development days with no one to ask for help. I sat debugging for 8 hours and at the end of the day I still didn’t even know the right questions to ask.

I cried.

You don’t have to do that if you work for someone else to start.

Many people get stuck focusing on the craft of code, or design. They want to sit walled off all day and do that work, but running a business is much more than the specific item you’re selling. Thinking that your business is only about the code is like my 6-year-old spending all her concentration on the words in front of her, with nothing to spare for the bigger picture.

If you’re running a web development shop, or a web design shop, or a freelance writing agency, you are not actually in the business of design, code, or writing.

You’re in the business of sales. You need to know how to figure out the value that the client wants if you want to earn well.

You can’t sit and focus all the time on code like a Maker. You have Manager tasks to do that no one can do but you. I manage these two different types of tasks with The Mullet Method for Deep Work.

With The Mullet Method, I work 6 am – 9 am on Maker tasks. I focus without distraction. Then I take an hour or two off work and get back to it for another three hours where I allow some distractions to be around.

If marketing and sales and managing client relationships all sound like a terrible idea, then keep your job. Stay where you are and do your Maker work, with little worry about sales and management and hiring and billing. Not everyone is cut out to run their own business.

Don’t idealize running a business. It’s a lot of pain and hard work.

photo credit: kwl cc

What You Need To Learn to Run a Successful Freelance Business

You don’t have to stay stuck though. In fact, I assume you’re tired of being stuck and you’re looking to learn to do more than write code. You’re ready to stop focusing on just the design or the writing, and dig into how to run a business that earns well and leaves time for a life outside of working.

You want to start being not only a financial force at home, you want to be a great dad as well. Someone who has the time to build Lego with the kids while not being stressed the whole time about ‘work’ and how it’s going to happen.

You’re in luck then, because we’re going to cover the big areas you need to have a handle on if you want to build an amazing business.

First, we’ll dig into marketing and sales to help make sure that you have a handle on what it’s going to take to handle those well.

Second, we’ll look at what it means to run client relationships well. This is the part where you follow up with prospects and former clients to keep your pipeline full.

Third, we’ll discuss what it means to run a great client project. The tools don’t matter as much as the methods you use to approach the client and keep them in the loop.

Finally, we’ll dig into what it means to be personally productive. When you are on your own it all comes down to you. There is no other team member to jump in and pull you out of the fire. You are either productive and get the work done, or you aren’t. The only person you can blame is yourself.

Now, let’s get started with marketing and sales for the freelancer.

photo credit: clement127 cc

Marketing and Sales for Your Freelance Business

The first place you’ll need to start is to figure out which niche you’re going to serve. I’ve already written a whole book called Finding Your Niche and Marketing which addresses the specifics, so this will be an overview of the high points you better have covered to even be playing the right game.

Why You Need to Niche

Deciding to go for a niche is scary. When you’re starting it feels like you’re going to be saying no to so many prospects that your revenue will dry up.

Your butthole tightens up so hard that it could be played as a snare drum.

I get it. When you’re starting it’s hard to say no to anyone with money because you’re trying to make it all work with duct tape and string. It’s okay to start here. I started there and I haven’t talked to anyone that didn’t. If you want to raise your rates and move out of the barely holding it together financially mindset, you need to start working into a niche.

The thing about a niche, any niche, is that it lets you start to target your marketing. If you decide that you’re going to work with rural farmers, you don’t bother with all the possibilities that market to New York business people. When you’re “for everyone” it’s much harder to make that decision about where to target your marketing.

You’re much more likely to make an inch of progress in 1000 directions and thus gain little traction.

My friend Philip specializes in helping businesses…specialize. He has often said that he’d rather have you pick a niche at random then market to everyone. He’s had clients do this and start earning way more money. They also find out that the random industry has interesting problems to solve. Far from being bored, Philip’s clients dive deeper and enjoy the work with that random niche.

While I agree with Philip that any niche is better than no niche, with a bit of work we can do next, you don’t have to have a random niche. You can be more intentional so your niche builds a freelance business you enjoy.

How to Find a Niche

Let’s start by thinking about what you like to do. What problems do you enjoy solving for clients? Do you love to dive deep into bad code and figure out why it’s terrible and what it should do being so that you can extract a stable system out of it for your client?

Do you love building a basic beautiful and functional site for small businesses?

Are you in love with eCommerce and making more sales?

Each of these is a valid option for a niche, but they’re not an ending point. While you can gain more traction by focusing on eCommerce, you still have to compete against everyone that does eCommerce for any business. It’s even better if you can look to a specific industry.

Do you have a background in farming, or compete in horse jumping? I spent a decade guiding outdoor trips, then 5 years selling canoes and kayaks. This experience puts me in a perfect position to market my eCommerce skills to the outdoor industry and become the leading choice for anyone with an outdoor shop wanting to move into online sales.

Now, it’s time to ask yourself, what provides the most value to prospects out of the things you like. It’s likely that building a basic site for someone is of less value than building them an online store, or increasing their conversions. You need to choose something to work on that has decent interest for you and high value for potential clients.

The final money question to ask yourself as you pick a niche for your beginning freelance business is, who has money to pay for your services.

It’s easy to default to “Fortune 100” companies, but the truth is that along with the high fees you can charge these companies is huge headaches. You get to charge lots because of those headaches.

Instead, think about what scale the business needs to have to pay for your services. You don’t need hundreds of clients a year to build a six-figure business. Five clients with an average project of $20k is a six-figure business. The Fortune 1-million has plenty of money for you and a much larger pool with less headaches. Deal with a niche inside that Fortune 1-million.

Building Persona’s

With your nice defined, it’s time to dig into exactly who you’ll talk to in that niche. Again, you can’t assume you’re going to talk to everyone if you want solid traction. You must pick specific people to talk to and then tailor your marketing to them.

A persona is a named ‘person’ with some basic characteristics defined that you can speak to. As I write this I’m thinking of my “Bob” persona.

Bob has been running a freelance business for a few years. He has had some success, but is ready to start taking the whole thing seriously. He needs to get better processes together around marketing and his own focus time. He’s tired of working 12 hour days. That worked when he didn’t have kids, but he does have kids now and he wants to be a great dad. Phoning it in at dinner while being stressed about the next payment is not what he ever dreamed of.

He dreamed of being around to build cool stuff with his kids. He wanted to roll around on the floor with them and take them sledding in the winter on a random Monday.

That means that as I write this and I’m stuck I can ask myself “what would Bob need to know about this so that he can be more successful.” That question clears up any content blocks right away.

photo credit: clement127 cc

How Do You Build a Persona

If you have any experience in your niche at all, then you have some idea of the people that are around. Start there. My first personas were nothing more than a customer I’d met. I even used their name on the persona and then some bullet points about where they were in business and what the big problems they struggled with were.

Just like any niche is better than no niche, any persona is better than none.

If you’re trying to enter an entirely new market, then you need to start digging into it. Find the blogs, podcasts, forums, and Facebook Groups that serve the industry. As you do this, you’ll see a bunch of the same names pop up. Dig into them and start building your personas off these people.

Look at who they serve as customers and build your persona off your best guess for the customer they serve.

As you’re building persona’s aim for three. I have Brian, the person with a job that wants more freedom to be an awesome parent and is trying to start a freelance business. Bob, has started one and is needing to move it to a business instead of a shoestring and love endeavour. Finally Dave, has been doing 6-Figures consistently, but wants to do more either by building better systems or a team. Dave wants to be able to walk away for a few weeks and still have money coming in.

Each piece of content, each book, each podcast, each guest blog, is aimed at one of these three personas. Some content may be aimed at all three, say something on how to negotiate work and home time with their spouse.

Use Persona’s to Guide Your Content

Now, you’ve got some persona’s which means it’s time to use them in your business. While I don’t claim to be a daily blogger, it pretty much turns out that way. My aim is to have something for each persona in a week.

When I pick the content I’m writing I look at the three persona’s and shape the content to suit them. If I look at a week and only have stuff for that person that wants to run their own business, but isn’t doing it yet, then I look around for other content so that I can hit my other two persona’s. I don’t look at my site content every day. A monthly check in to make sure I’m hitting content relevant to each persona is enough.

Every single piece of content you put out should have these persona’s in mind. Every conference you speak at, should be shaped by these persona’s.

If you’re doing it all in a haphazard way, then you might hit the mark sometimes, maybe. More likely, you’ll scatter your marketing so far and wide that you never reach anyone effectively.

How to Get Your Name Out There

With your persona’s in place, it’s time to get your name out there because it’s possible that your niche has no idea you exist. In fact, it’s almost 100% guaranteed that most of your niche has no idea you exist.

Sure, some of the people in a market have considered you (and even rejected you). But most of the people in the market have never even heard of you. The market doesn’t have just one mind. Different people in the market are seeking different things. – The Dip

The first thing you’re going to have to get over is your fear of selling yourself. If you’re not selling yourself then no one is. There is no freelance god that blesses a beginning freelance business with goodness from the benevolent “awesomeness” of the universe so that it succeeds.

If your plan uses the word “hope” then you’re relying on this god, that doesn’t exist. Hope is not a strategy that’s going to get your beginning freelance business to the next level. It’s going to keep you going at the same barely hanging on level you’re currently at.

Now, let’s look at some of the specific methods you can use to get yourself out there. I’ve written about them in more detail in Finding and Marketing Your Niche, if you need to go deeper.

Blogging

The first place to start is your own site, and blogging on it. This is the place that you control in the easiest manner. If you build a Facebook Group and then Facebook decides that they hate groups and are killing them, your whole following is dead.

While search engines are getting better at reading content that’s not plain words, words are what they’re best at dealing with. Blogging, and being focused in your blogging, will help you get found by your ideal clients.

Start by writing one item a week. If that sounds crazy because writing is hard, you’ll get better. Maybe you need to set aside an hour a week to write and then publish something every other week. The more high quality content you put out there, the faster you’ll see traction from it.

The more you write the faster you get. I can write upwards of 5000 words in two hours, but I have written 5 books and at least 1500 blog posts. Probably more because I have at least 3 old sites that had lots on them which no longer exist. You can get here, it’s going to take a while, but you can get here. All you have to do is start, and then publish.

Once you’ve got a handle on getting content on your site, it’s time to think about guest posting. Strategic guest posting can yield awesome returns. I had one guest post earn me over $50k in a year because people kept reading it and feeling I was the expert they needed. The next year it earned around the same. While I didn’t get paid for the guest post, it was obviously worth the investment of time.

Another great avenue for your content is Medium. I’ve found that republishing my content on Medium, and getting it in a publication, has been a huge driver of traffic to my site. If you’re scared of guest posting and the extra time commitment it may take then start by republishing your content on Medium and trying to get it into a publication.

Podcasting

Podcasting is another great way to get your voice out there. It can be better than blogging because podcasting is a higher trust method of communication. Podcasting is higher trust because people can hear your voice and your mannerisms and they are more likely to trust you. The closer you can get to shaking someone’s hand the better.

In fact, podcasting is so good that I’ve see amazing returns from my podcasting endeavours. Especially when I get one someone else’s podcast. It’s so good that no other method of ‘guesting’ is even in the same league.

I have noticed over the last year that it is getting harder to get on podcasts as a guest. As a podcaster and blogger, I think this is because so many of the requests to get on my site or show are terrible. They’re some generic email I’ve seen a many times. They tell me why whatever the person wants to talk about is perfect for my audience.

It almost always shows that they haven’t even listened to my show or looked at my audience or what I like to talk about with my guests. It’s marketing people trying to get their clients on podcasts.

If you want to start getting on podcasts, then start by finding the most obscure and niche shows possible.

For creators, it is typically easier to reach the smaller, better-defined group. If you reach the smaller group and wow them, there will be many opportunities to spread outward and upward. – Perennial Seller

If you’ve got your niche defined, and some solid persona’s then you can find these podcasts. Listen to them and figure out who they love to talk to and what they love to talk about. Then armed with this information, send a personal pitch telling them why you think you might fit with their guests.

This is a much slower method than the pump and dump method where you fire off the same email to everyone, but you’re much more likely to hear yes.

Networking

As I said already, the closer you can get to shaking someone’s hand, the more trust you’re going to build. It’s far too easy to sit behind your computer screen, sending off emails, and think that you’re doing an awesome job marketing your business. The fastest way to getting clients will always be getting out and shaking hands.

Now, I’m not saying that you need to go out to every crap marketing event that’s out there. You should be picking any networking event in light of your niche and your persona’s. Only go to the ones that fit in with those two filters.

When you head out to a networking event, go in with a clear plan. If you can get your hands on the guest list, identify a few people that you want to talk to and do a bit of research on their business. Then, walk up to them and talk to them.

Introduce yourself and ask more questions about their business. They’ve been to a bunch of these events and they’re used to the terrible superficial questions, so go deeper and stand out.

These are not the only methods you can use to get your name out in your industry. They’re the ones I’ve seen my coaching clients do and have the most success with. In some cases, that’s been because the other even more effective methods like public speaking are so terrifying that you need a foundation of networking to even consider speaking in front of people.

How to Evaluate Your Marketing Channels

Now that you have some marketing channels going, it’s time to evaluate them. It’s no good to continue to spend time doing outreach when it’s not working. The only place you always keep going is with your own blog or podcast. This is your hub, and no matter how small the audience, it’s the place that you send everyone who interacts with you from your other marketing channels.

Establish Your Goal

The first thing you need to do is establish which channels are hitting your goals. Years ago when Stumbleupon was a thing I had clients asking how to get on it so they could get a bunch of traffic. At no point did I ever recommend wasting their time on Stumbleupon.

The thing with Stumbleupon was that it sent a bunch of traffic, that went away immediately. Sure the traffic numbers looked great, but no one made a purchase and few people converted to email subscribers. It was only a cost since it would use your server cycles and provide no benefit.

You need to think about which metric is the important one for you to measure. Do you want more traffic, or do you want more email subscribers? Are you targeting people to your video course? If you don’t know what metric is most important for your site, then you have no way to measure the success of the marketing channels you are using.

You’ll also need a way to identify users from the different channels. Say you’re on 4 podcasts. Two do little, one sends a bunch of users, but that fourth one sends you 10 solid leads who made a purchase. Which one is the most valuable one? Which one should you be looking at harder to see why it worked best and how to find that audience, or an audience like it again?

You can do this by providing a custom landing page for each audience or a coupon code to use with the purchase.

Which Channels are Hitting the Goals

Now that you have a way to figure out which channels are providing the best conversions on your important metrics, you need to look at the information. Not every day. Not every week. Don’t worry about it for at least six months.

You wait six months because it’s going to take you a while to get the ball rolling. If you’re on a podcast, it may not come out for 4 weeks so checking to see if it’s converting before it’s even out is a waste of your time.

When you look at your metrics you should be trying to figure out a few things. First, which mediums are converting the best? Is it podcasting, or blogging, or speaking, or…? Stick with the ones that convert the best and drop the others.

Second, which blogs or podcast convert best inside their medium. Try to identify their audiences so that you can find more people that might match up, but would listen to or read a different site. Then you can target that site and have some relevant “experience” inside the field to point to when you make a pitch to them.

There is more to marketing your business. This is a primer for those of you what are already freelancing, but need to turn it that beginning freelance business into something that supports you and the life you want to live.

There is a bunch more reading if you’re ready to dig in deep to the topic of marketing your business. If you’re ready for that, check out my reading list on Marketing Your Business.

photo credit: activars cc

Managing Client Relationships in Your Freelance Business

Once you get more than a few prospects on the go, you need a way to keep following up with them. While you may think you had a great discussion and that the prospect will remember you forever, they won’t. Most prospects end up going with the freelancer they most recently came across.

Sure, you’re sort of on the list, but for every month you let go by without reaching out to them you’re further down the list.

This section is going to walk you through what it takes to get on a client’s list and stay on it.

One of the big pitfalls with businesses looking at a CRM is that they start with the tool in mind. Almost every time, the tool doesn’t matter. I use a paper notebook now, but have used a number of digital CRM tools.

The issue you run into by starting with a tool is that you don’t have a process worked out yet. Instead of developing a process for yourself that works, you outsource that hard thinking to the tool and just do what it says assuming that it will work for you.

This may bring a little bit of benefit, but you’ll gain so much more benefit by testing a process first, then looking at the tools that will fit into your process.

How To Do Amazing Prospect Follow Up with Your Freelance Business?

Let’s start with the basic rule that you should be following up more than you think. If you don’t feel a bit uncomfortable with the frequency of the follow up, then you’re not following up enough. I’m not saying that instead of every 3 months you should follow up daily, but for most cases 3 months is way too long to wait. It’s so long that you won’t even be on the prospect’s list anymore.

When a prospect first reaches out to you, you’ll need to follow up with them more often. If a prospect emails me on a Wednesday and I reply I assume I’m emailing them again on Tuesday. In fact, if I’ve emailed a prospect in a week and they’re not on my long term follow up plan yet (we’ll talk about that in a minute) then I email them on Tuesday.

Yes, I might email you on Friday and then on Tuesday to check in. If I don’t hear back from a prospect, then I’ll follow up weekly for four or five weeks. I always send them one final email that goes something like this.

Hey $prospect, hope the day is going awesome. I wanted to touch base because I haven’t heard back from you recently. I’m going to assume that you’re no longer doing the project so I won’t bug you weekly anymore. If that changes, let me know. Have an awesome day! Curtis

Almost every time I send that email I get some response back. Sometimes the prospect opens the conversation back up, and I reset to the four or five week follow up scheme. Sometimes they agree that the project isn’t on the radar right now for some reason, and they give me a timeframe for when it will be on the radar again.

I write their name down for follow up in that window again.

Occasionally I hear nothing from them so I put them on my long term follow up plan.

There are a number of prospects or clients that will fall into the long term follow up schedule. The first one we’ll address is the prospect above. Assuming that nothing in the project seemed crazy, I’ll follow up with them every two months for a year. Even if I never hear back from them in the year, I still send them a check in email every two months for a year.

If I don’t hear back from them in any fashion, I drop them off my list of follow up. More often than not I do hear back in some fashion at some point. When I hear back from them I simply reset the two week counter. If they’ve indicated that they want to move forward with the project now, they go back on the weekly follow up for the four or five emails. Then they’d drop back into the long term follow up plan.

The second group of people that fall into the long term follow up strategy are awesome clients I’d love to work with again. They get an email every two months pretty much forever. Oh I’m sure that some awesome clients have dropped off my list for one reason or another, but I don’t intend for it to happen.

Over my 10-years in business, I’ve had a number of clients end up coming back for a big project because I emailed them. It’s been 5-years since we’ve had any interaction outside of my emails, and maybe the odd reply, but because I’ve been consistent they come right to me with work.

There is no one else even in the running for the work.

If you want a business that will run well and generate leads for you regularly, you need to stay on top of this follow up. I’ll say it again later, but the biggest issue I see when I talk to small business owners about their prospect and client follow up strategy, is that they don’t put aside time in their week to do it.

Make sure you put time aside.

What Should My Client Follow Up Look Like?

Now, what should your client follow up look like? First, you need to write your follow up in a way that suits you. I’m a bit looser than some, but it works for me. I use their possible issues with my terrible jokes in email as a way to filter out the prospects I don’t want to become clients.

A general email to a prospect I’m following up with on either the long term or weekly schedule would follow the format below.

Hey $prospect, hope the day is going awesome. (Maybe insert some banter here) I wanted to touch base to see what the status of the project is on your end. Are you ready to move forward with it? Is there something else that you’re planning on doing instead? Do you have any questions or issues around your site that I can help on? Have an awesome day! Curtis

That’s it, in fact the long term follow up email for great clients only has one addition to the format above, and you can see it. Since I’ve got to know them as clients over a while already I may insert some question about them and their family.

One client I have worked with off and on for 5 years is a triathlete. I always insert a question about his training. He’s also been interested in my outdoor adventures so I’ll tell him about what we’re doing and what I’m training for next. I did this for two years after our first project before he started the next one and then for three years before the last one I worked on with him.

The first project we worked on was $5k. The other two were in excess of $20k.

Yes the continual emails for five years has been worth it. I’m still emailing him every two months asking him how things are going.

Now take 30 minutes and work out your follow up process. Write down the email templates you’re going to use. If you need help with writing better emails to clients, I wrote a guide on how to do that called Effective Client Email. It covers more than just your client follow up emails though. It will give you the emails I’ve honed over 10-years to make sure that I’m weeding out the prospects I don’t want as clients.

What Should my CRM System Look Like?

You should have a prospect and client follow up process written down now, but how do you keep track of it? This section will introduce what I do for my analogue CRM system, and what you should be looking for in a digital tool.

What Does My Analogue CRM Look Like for a Freelance Business?

I’ve tried a bunch of digital tools and I keep coming back to an analogue system. If you keep track of my site, I’ll be writing a long piece about how I use an analogue productivity system for everything but client projects that require collaboration.

My analogue CRM is fairly close to a standard Bullet Journal system. When I have a prospect that needs to get a follow up, I stick their name on the monthly planning page that goes with the month.

If that means they fall out of the current month, I add their name to the future log with a date next to their name.

Beside the name I’ll put a number like 4/5 which means that this email I’m sending is the 4th email out of the five emails I send. That way I know which standard email to use when I send the communication.

For a prospect on long term follow up we drop the number of emails and a date goes there showing me when I stop emailing them. If they respond, then the date gets adjusted.

One thing to remember is that you need enough information beside that name so that you have the context required to find their email in your email application. When I used to outsource finding a prospect to a CRM, more often than not I’d have no idea who I was going to be emailing because I had barely glanced at them instead of needing to spend some brain power figuring out who this was and what we had talked about.

If it’s an awesome client on long term follow up, I just write the name down with the date so that I can find their information. Sometimes I’ve seen some extra information about them on social media which I’ll add beside their name so I can bring it up.

That’s it. It’s not fancy and it requires writing things over and over again, but I find that to be a benefit. It means that I become more familiar with the prospect as I have to expend a bit of mental energy. It also means that I only put the top prospects on the list to follow up with. I don’t bother with all the random low value people that send inquires my way until they jump the first bars in my client vetting process.

What Do I Look For in a Digital CRM for my Beginning Freelance Business?

If you’re not going with an analogue system then the place to start is your process. I’ve already said this, but you need to have a system down. You at least need to have an ‘ideal’ you’re aiming for with follow up. Then you need to look at the available tools and choose one that fits with your process.

If you don’t have a basic system ready, then stop looking and do the personal work first. Write down the problems you’re having and what you think the solutions may be.

Some good options for a digital CRM, all of which I’ve used at different times are:

• Contactually • Streak • Pipedrive

I know there are many others out there, but those are the three I’ve spend at least a few months with that I found valuable. I spent the most time with Contactually at first, but found the extra inbox to track too much overhead so I stopped checking it. Then I worked with Streak which was built directly into my email. For some reason I just never fully “got” their system and while it was checked and followed up lots I still felt like it was a bunch of extra work to stay inside Streak.

Hence my analogue system.

The Biggest Pitfalls in Using a CRM in Your Freelance Business

The biggest issue when using a CRM in your freelance business is using it. Most freelancers hear about the benefits of using a CRM and then get a software recommendation for one and go with it. They use it for a few weeks and then it drops of the radar.

They’re still paying a monthly fee, but not using the CRM they picked. It’s an expense, bringing no benefit.

You won’t use your CRM well, if you don’t have time set aside for it in your week. In a standard 40 hour week, have two hours set aside for following up with prospects. Stick to those two hours. Guard them with your life, because a good follow up system is one of the keys to building a freelance business that succeeds.

A second pitfall with CRM’s and not using them is that they’re often outside of your personal productivity system and your project management system. They fall into the category of “out of site out of mind”. You forget about them.

When you’re choosing a system you must choose something that will integrate into your current productivity workflow in a manner that ensures you will use it.

I’ve chosen to use my paper planner for this. As I described, I follow a mostly Bullet Journal system and move prospect names forward in the future log or on a monthly collection depending on when I want to follow up with them. This means that I always need enough information written down to identify a prospect so I have to understand them and know them.

When I used OmniFocus I would end up with links to emails as tasks and I would use that ease of finding the conversation as a crutch. It meant I rarely understood the client and was rarely invested in moving forward with them. They were simply a name that came up that needed a reply. I’d end up reading through a bunch of email again every time so that I had some context.

By moving to an entirely paper system I must understand the client better. I must decided if they’re worth following up with because it’s a pain to continue to move them forward in the system. I can’t simply bump a date forward, making a promise on my future time, I must evaluate their chances of becoming a paying client as I write down their information again.

This system has resulted in a much smaller list of people that I consider prospects and put time into following up with. My win rate on those prospects is much higher though so it’s a net positive.

You can go deeper on Managing Client Relationships with my resource page.

photo credit: clement127 cc

Project Management For A Beginning Freelance Business

The worst way to manage a project is via email. If there is more than a single task to get done, never manage a project in email. Email is almost always only a list of what others think is important for you to do in a week. It rarely matches up with what is actually important for your week.

The answer to “What is the ONE Thing I can do today that will make the rest of my business easier or irrelevant” is almost never contained in your inbox.

By moving your current projects out into a trusted system that’s not email, and that’s not your personal productivity system, you get to filter your incoming requests. You not longer see a client, who has a current agreement with you, and a prospect, who you have no obligation to, in the same interface.

Prospects have no sway on your time. They’re someone that might maybe have something you’re interested in doing if it’s perfect.

What Process Should You Use for Project Management?

You’ve taken the first step and your projects are no longer being managed in your inbox, but what system do you use?

Do you go old-school and stick with a waterfall method?

Do you get right “up with the times” and go for Scrum or Agile?

Does it matter which method you use?

I’m going to fall on the side of saying that it doesn’t matter so much what method you use. They all have benefits, and drawbacks. I use something close to Agile. I work in short sprints with clients on a fairly well defined set of tasks and we ship them.

Regardless of which methodology you adopt, there are a few thing that you need to get right if you want to ship winning projects.

Project Success Page

The first task that should go in your project management system with a client is for them. You should be giving them a link to your project success page with the instructions that they read it and then resolve the task. What…you don’t have a project success page? Well let’s talk about what that is.

First, the whole goal of the page is to communicate information to your client so that they can help you have a successful project. It’s not about berating them, it’s about giving them the information they need.

Many clients will have never seen a page like this. They’ll realize that they make projects harder, and the never knew it. It’s likely that whoever they worked with just made comments about it behind their back instead of addressing the issues like an adult.

In your project success page include any information the client will need to have a winning project. Inform them what a good task looks like. That a task which includes three different action items is one that will probably have something missed.

Tell them not to email you, and make sure you provide another link to whichever project management software you use.

Have them decide on the single point of contact, and any other people that need to be in the project management system. The fewer the better, and there always needs to be one person on their end that is responsible for making sure their team gets stuff done.

You can look at my Project Success Page if you need to see one in action. One I added this, and asked clients to read it, my problems in project management went way down.

photo credit: clement127 cc

Get Something Up As Fast As Possible

Next, get something up for your client to see as fast as possible. When I’m building a WordPress theme, I’ll have as much of the homepage as possible done as fast as possible. Usually within a day or two.

One of the biggest fears that clients have is that you’re going to take their deposits and then flake out. It’s happened to them before. You’ve probably taken way longer than you thought on a project before, so that means you did it as well.

By getting something up quickly for them to see, you build trust. Then you can keep plugging away on the work at a slower pace, so long as you have progress to show regularly and you meet the dates that you’ve agreed upon.

How Often Do We Communicate?

Something that developers are especially good at is going into “mole mode”. They get involved in a project and just keep focused on it for weeks and end. They barely come up for air, and are getting lots of work done.

I get it, code is a Maker task and Maker’s need lots of time to do their work without interruption. But your client isn’t a Maker. They can’t look over your shoulder every few days to see what’s up.

They figure you’ve flaked out on them unless you keep them up to date. Keeping them up to date starts with a weekly phone call. Yes, you’re going to pick one day a week and use part of it to talk to your current clients and give them an update. I use Tuesday as my day.

But that’s not all you’re going to do. You’re going to update them as a comment in whichever PM system you use on Friday and Monday. On Friday, you’re going to give them a recap of how the week went and remind them what’s on the list for next week.

On Monday, you’re going to remind them again what’s on the list for the week and when they’ve booked their weekly check in. If you need to see a format for this communication then check out Effective Client Email. I provide the templates I use there.

This communication is on top of anything you do to update the project management system as you complete tasks. The Monday/Friday email and the call are the bare minimum you should be doing to communicate with your clients. It’s the least they expect, and it will be about 10000% more than they got from their last freelancer.

Avoiding Scope Creep In your Beginning Freelance Business

The final thing that kills a project is scope creep. That list of things that sound like they’re awesome and just get added to the list. Yes, some of them are good ideas, but the longer that list gets the less likely it is that you’ll launch the project.

When I setup a project I have four lists in Trello. They’re labelled:

This Week

Tasks

Future

Questions/Other

‘This Week’ is updated every Friday and has all the tasks that are going to be done in the next week long cycle. That means on Friday you need to look at your ‘Tasks’ list and decide what can reasonably get done in a week. Only those items go on the list.

This is not a list of the hopes and dreams you have for a week. It’s a list of wha you know you can get done. I’d rather see a smaller list that gets done than a big list that you finish 50% of. When your client see that 50% done list, they’re going to loose faith in you and the project.

The second list is all of the tasks that are in the project. I usually have them organized in the order I think they’ll need to be done in. On Friday, I survey the list and move ever any items that I plan on doing the next week.

Those two lists comprise the whole project that was estimated on. The other two lists should contain nothing that was originally agreed upon.

Next, the “Questions/Other” list. This is where your client puts any questions they have on the project or any other stuff that they enter. In general, clients shouldn’t be updating any of the other lists at all unless they’re responding to something I’ve asked them about or approving and resolving a task.

From the “Questions/Other” list I may move something into the “Tasks” if it is something that is included in the project, but needs to be spelled out better for the client. Most of the stuff that comes up here though ends up in the “Future” list.

The “Future” list is for everything that’s a great idea, but isn’t part of the current project. It’s where all the crazy ideas and nice-to-have things end up. They stay there until you’ve shipped the original project and then produced and estimated and been paid for the new items you’re going to work on.

Even if there is something that sounds like an amazing idea, it doesn’t go in to the current project if it can be helped at all. The more items you move from “Future” into the current project the less likely it is that your project will ever see the light of day.

Your job is to ship a successful project for your client which means you need to help reign them in so that the project is indeed successful. It’s your fault if they run wild with extra items and the project never launches.

photo credit: clement127 cc

What Good Project Management Tools Look Like

Now that we know what the highlights of running a good project are, we need to look at what you should be looking for in a project management tool. As much as I love and use analogue productivity, I don’t use an analogue system when it comes to managing my projects.

The biggest weakness of analogue systems is that they offer no way to collaborate with your clients. You need to share screenshots, videos, links, and comments all around the tasks that need to get done for the project. We know email is a terrible way to do this, and that an analogue system like a notebook doesn’t allow for any sharing.

So we turn to software.

Easy to Use

The first stopping point is that you and your clients need to find the system easy to use. For some, that may mean that basic Github tickets can work, for others Github is going to be way to complex.

Since you’re going to be in the PM system regularly, it’s important to find one with a nice spread of keyboard shortcuts. Sticking with the keyboard navigation will save you little bits of time all over. That adds up over the year and turns into a large time savings.

Make sure that there are some training videos for your system as well. You’ll need to provide links to them for your clients to use so that they can wrap their head around the system. If your client finds it hard to use the PM system, they won’t use it and you’ll be getting a whole bunch of emails you don’t want to see.

Has Some Templates

Another key in a good project management system is it’s ability to provide you with project templates. You’re likely going to do similar projects and a bunch of the tasks are going to be the same.

You want a system that doesn’t force you to type every little piece in every time. If you have to type in every task for every project, you’re going to forget stuff. Even if you have your own list in a separate application, you’ll forget to move something at some point and then since it’s not written down, it might as well never have happened.

Link to Tickets

One of the crucial parts of your personal productivity (which we’ll cover in a bit) is pulling the tasks out of the tickets and into your own system. You do this so that client updates don’t derail you.

Remember, we pulled out of email into a PM system to make sure that we didn’t get distracted a whole bunch by the emails that come in and don’t relate to the project. The notification inbox of your PM system can turn into the same thing, especially if you have multiple projects running.

You may have your time set aside for Project A, but Project B keeps pinging you and that draws you into answering things for Project B while Project A languishes.

This is why I think that links to tickets is crucial. Then you can take the link and put it in OmniFocus or 2Do or … whatever and work on the single ticket out of your personal system. Then, when you’re done you can click the ticket link and update the single item. Now, close the browser and get to the next task.

Organizing this way will let you get work done as you had planned. It will allow you to focus on the tasks at hand instead of getting derailed constantly.

Wait, I just referenced OmniFocus which is a digital tool and I said I don’t use them. I realize that I’m an outlier here and you’re most likely using Todoist or 2Do or…something. I’ll talk about the specifics of what I do shortly.

Doesn’t Always Interrupt You

One of the best features that BaseCamp introduced was the idea that you can ‘snooze’ your notifications. They allow you to set hours where you won’t get any notifications of any kind. Your boss can’t even change that setting for the company. This means that you can set the no distraction hours up for the whole day even, and never get interrupted.

Which ever system you use, you need to make sure that it can be silenced. Some of that will come from how you work with it. If you use the system I described above, then it’s going to be hard for anything to distract you because you’ve pulled the tasks out for the day and are focusing on them instead of whatever happens to come up.

That also assumes that you silence your phone and tablet and Amazon Echo notifications. All the space you’re building is a waste if you allow other notifications to jump into your life.

How to Integrate Your Project Management System and Personal Productivity

I’ve already provided you a workflow for updating your tasks if you’re using a digital task management system like 2Do or Todoist, but I don’t use either. My personal system is a notebook and mostly follows Bullet Journal.

So, how do I use that system to stay focused on the tasks at hand and then update Trello, which is my PM system of choice.

It Starts with Planning

For about a year before I went with an analogue system I did use the methods above with OmniFocus. I would pull out the ticket link and put in the detail required in OmniFocus so that I could work on a task.

The problem was, I didn’t always get the right information. Somewhere in the back of my head I relied on the link to the ticket for the information I needed. I kept finding that I hadn’t thought through what the task would take before I committed to doing it. That left me with bigger tasks than expected and a day that felt like it was always off the rails.

I still take a task out of Trello and put it in my notebook, but I have to write down a quick sketch of the task, and any conversation that happened around it so that I’m sure I know where it’s at. If there are screenshots that may go with it, I pull them out of Trello and drop them in a folder in my Downloads folder. I label that folder the same as the task I’m working on so that I know they go together. That title matches the Trello card.

Then, I get down to work and when I’m done and need to update the task I open the Trello macOS application and search for the card to update it.

This does take a bit of discipline because I have to ignore the little red bell that Trello shows me when there are updates, but I don’t find that to be a problem. The advantages that have come from pulling out the task, and making sure I understand it the night before I’m going to work on it far outweigh the small friction that results from not being able to click a link directly to the ticket.

For the most up to date reading on Managing Projects for a Freelance Business, see my reading list.

photo credit: clement127 cc

Personal Productivity in Your Freelance Business

Another component to having an awesome freelance business is getting down to the nitty gritty of getting work done. You can have the best PM system, the best CRM workflow and the best marketing, but if you’re not shipping projects to clients your business will suck.

You won’t be getting any referrals because you’re late all the time.

This is where personal productivity comes in. You need to have a good system, and the discipline to use it so that you can get work done for clients on time and on budget.

The first question that most people ask is some variation of “Should I use Getting Thinks Done or…”. They’re worried about the specific system and tools that they should be using.

Tools almost don’t matter, what matters is you and the process. Does the process fit how you work? Are you going to do it? Most of the systems around provide you with everything you need, if you do the work.

Let’s start by looking at some key concepts in personal productivity so that you can start this journey from the right frame of mind.

I’ll be writing much more about personal productivity coming in February, like 50k words more.

Key Concepts in Personal Productivity for Freelancers

Before you can dive into your personal productivity system there are a few things you need to get straight first. I’ll be covering these key items in short here, as I’ll be covering them in great depth in February.

If you don’t have a handle on these things, then it doesn’t matter what system you use. It will always suck and you’ll never get good work done.

First, you need to embrace constraints. I’ve already talked about how using a paper based system has forced me to better understand the tasks I need to do. The constraint of paper has also stopped me from making a bunch of commitments for ‘future Curtis’ that I can’t meet right now.

Second, you need to be solving a problem if you’re going to change. Most times the issue with a productivity system is you. You change from Todoist to 2Do and feel relief because you have made a bunch of commitments in the form of lists in Todoist. When you change you feel free to abandon those commitments which you never should have made in the first place. The problem is you and the next task manager you use will feel the same way in a bit.

Third, nothing is going to solve every problem. There are things that I don’t love about my paper solution but it has so many benefits that I just deal with the things that it doesn’t do well. The freedom it gives me far outweighs any drawbacks. Give up on finding the perfect system.

Fourth, you have to be willing to make decisions. All those crappy lists you hate, just delete them. Stop pushing it off on the future. Admit you’re not going to do it and leave it there.

Fifth, you need to work based on priority. Ask yourself every day “What is the single thing I can do today that will make the rest of my job easier or irrelevant?”. Then do that thing and be okay with sucking at other things.

Sixth, plan to the now. Just because you started an internal project 6-months ago doesn’t mean it’s the thing to do now. Don’t fall for the sunk cost fallacy. When you look at your goals every quarter, just do the ones that provide the most value now.

Seventh, write it down or it didn’t happen. If you’re not tracking your tasks then it didn’t happen. You won’t remember it and that can be a good thing because so often we write down crap that sits on our back and stops us from getting something awesome done.

Eight, manage based on energy. Not all of your day is equal. Sometimes you have the energy for hard tasks and sometimes you don’t. Make sure you schedule your ‘hard’ work in to the times that you have lots of energy. Brent Hammond and I had a great discussion about tasks and energy. I’ve also written more about managing your tasks based on energy in a bigger series on deep work.

Ninth, make sure that your environment is set up for focus. If you have a bunch of crap distracting you all the time then you won’t be doing awesome work. Set your phone and tablet up for the tasks they’re meant for. Set your laptop up for no distractions. Make sure your work environment is clean and clear.

Now, if you’ve got a handle on these things, you’re ready to start digging into personal productivity. If you don’t have those things dealt with, then no system is going to work for you.

You have too much crap in the way of getting good creative work done.

Which Personal Productivity System is Right for You?

While you may be looking for a specific tool recommendation, you won’t find that here. In February, I’ll walk you through what I do, but even that may not work for you. Most of the time, looking for a new tool is a waste of your time.

For most people, the problem with your current system isn’t the tools it’s you. You don’t do your weekly planning or your daily planning or review all your projects. You maybe make a task list for the day, but maybe not. You might default to email and what it thinks is important for you.

Then you wonder why you feel overwhelmed all the time, but you shouldn’t. You do it to yourself and the next tool you choose will have the same issues.

As you think about your personal productivity here are a few more rules to think about.

photo credit: curtismchale cc

As Few Pieces as Possible

A great system has as few pieces as possible to be productive. My system has a pocket notebook for on the go notes. A Bullet Journal from Leuchtturm1917 for my planning and task management day to day and finally Trello for my project collaboration.

There is nothing else that deals with any of the tasks I have day today.

I don’t have a CRM tool that’s stand alone anymore because it was an inbox I never checked and thus wasn’t getting any value out of. I moved my CRM into my notebook along side all the other tasks that I need to get done in a day.

One item I didn’t mention here is my other notebook, the one that only handles my notes on books. This is outside of my Bullet Journal because it’s got it’s own function. The only thing that goes there are notes on books and ideas for writing that are sparked by the reading I’m doing.

I like analogue systems because it entirely breaks me out of the possibility of anyone dictating what’s important in my day. Yes it makes more work because I have to take detailed notes on what needs to get done so that I don’t have to dive back into Trello or email, but planning is key to having a day that accomplishes something worthwhile.

Adapt it

Your system must also suit how you work. You can’t import my system and figure it’s going to rock your world. Maybe it will but not in a good way. Look at the ideas that come from other people and use what works for you. Throw out the rest.

I don’t use the Bullet Journal system by the letter. I don’t use GTD either, or Kanban or stuff from the 12 Week Year. I use a mash up of all those systems that works for me.

As you journey through building out your own personal productivity system, make sure you refer to the key principles in the last section. Make sure that you write down the problems you have and as you go looking at what others are doing, you import what looks like it might fix your problems and toss the rest.

Keep piloting change in your system. Your personal productivity system is not stagnant. Your work will change. You will change. Your system should change with you.

Review and Planning is Key

Out of all the systems out there, I think that the one common required piece is a review process. A good weekly review of everything you have on your plate is crucial to success. A plan for the week ahead and a daily review and replan in a key element in getting things done.

You can’t wing it and hope to have a bunch of great output. Winging it will mean that you continue to be stuck in the weeds trying to find your way out as you drown in your work.

You Must Create Space In Your Day to be Productive

If you want to get things done, you need space in your day. With a day that’s planned down to the minute with must do tasks, you’re never going to feel like you’re getting enough done.

One of those tasks will go longer and then all the other commitments you just made to yourself will stack up until you’re working late again and still not getting everything done.

The maximum percentage of your day that should have must do items is 60%. Anymore than that and you’re planning yourself into problems.

One of the key reasons that this happens to people is because they allow distractions to creep into their day. All your planning should surround the need to get focused amazing work done. With four hours of focus, you can get more done than most people can in eight hours.

You have to cut all the distractions to get that focus though and to do that you need to be familiar with the two modes of work.

photo credit: clement127 cc

You’re a Maker and a Manager

You’re both a Maker and a Manager. Makers need large blocks of time to do focused work. That’s writing, design, thinking, coding, or anything creative.

If you’re running a business, you’re a Maker and you need to make sure you have time aside to focus on the tasks that are important.

But, you’re also a Manager. You probably have to have sales calls and meetings with clients. You need to answer and respond to email and maybe even jump on social media to update some profiles and such.

The problem comes because most people go Manager first and Maker second. This is a problem because Manager tasks easily overflow into Maker tasks. Email always takes longer than you think, and it always brings up random crap that others think is important.

Instead, go for Mullet Productivity, Maker in the morning and Manager in the afternoon. When you plan your day, make sure you have the details needed so you don’t have to dip into the manager spaces in your work. Give yourself at least three hours of focused time to do your Maker work.

Then be open to Manager work in the afternoons when your brain is tired and has less energy to dive deep into big thinking tasks. I do this and I plan in a 2 – 3 hour break in between my two modes of work so that I can recharge my brain and have the energy required to dive into more work later.

You can’t be on for eight hours thinking hard about your work. You progressively make worse decisions and you can’t afford that. Give yourself a planned break in the day and when you’re working only work. Ignore distractions and focus on the most important tasks at hand.

Plan Space

Outside of planning your tasks out for the day, there are other items that need to get in your week. First, you need unplanned time every day to deal with the extra stuff that gets tossed your way. Second, you need rest so that you can focus. Finally, you need at least three hours a week dedicated to self-improvement.

No day is ideal. In fact while you may have an idea day plan, it will almost never happen. Kids will get sick. A client will have a legitimate emergency that you need to deal with. Your computer will crash and you’ll have to figure out why. If you pack your day hour by hour with tasks, you have no flex to deal with these things. Make sure you have a working hour every day that has nothing officially planned for it. Leave it for overflow so you can deal with what life throws at you.

Second, you need rest every day so that you can focus. Your schedule may not suit three hour chunks of rest between working blocks like mine does, but it certainly can support a 20 minute walk. If it doesn’t, your business is broken. Admit it and start the hard work to restructure it so you can have that walk every day.

Finally, a solid business means you have three hours every week to improve yourself. If you’re a developer, that’s not just looking at new code, that’s learning to run an amazing business. Same goes for designers or writers. You must be reading and learning about marketing your business, planning better, how to write better proposals. If you don’t have time every week to do that, then you’re on a long slow death spiral. You won’t be getting ahead like dream without the hard work required to be better in the fields that aren’t directly your work.

If you can build in this space, and stick to the processes required to have awesome personal productivity, you can get the work done you need to without needing 12 hours a day.

photo credit: ummwho cc

Are You Going to Build a Viable Freelance Business?

Now ask yourself, who are you?

Are you someone that just wants to focus on the craft of code?

Do you want to write, and hate marketing?

Who are you going to partner with to do the stuff you don’t like? Who is perfectly suited to filling in your gaps?

Back at the beginning of this, I said that you needed to figure out who you are. Are you willing to do the work needed to build a business? Are you going to admit you’re in sales and must address marketing in your week?

Are you only interested in writing code day in day out and want to deal with clients as little as possible?

One other option we didn’t go into if you just want to do your craft, is that you can find a partner. Someone that loves the sales and that you trust to take care of the things you don’t like.

If you’re not sure who you can tap on the shoulder, then start looking for them. Look with intention. Find someone that loves the parts you hate.

If even that step sounds like work you don’t want to do, get ready to fail. If you hate the marketing and selling of your business, then no one will be doing it for you.

If you struggle with client relationships and getting projects done on time, then you’ll have a dry well of referrals. Why would anyone refer work to you if you’re over budget and late all the time?

If you want to run a successful business, you’re in sales. You must get into the marketing tasks. You must plan time every week to get better at the tasks that aren’t directly a part of the work you sell.

You must have a plan each week to be focused on doing awesome work and you must stick to it. You must say no to the distractions that are around so that you can get awesome work done.

If you’re not going to do these things, go find a job and stick to what you love. There is no shame in that. It’s the right choice for some people. It might be the right choice for you, if you’re not willing to do the hard work it takes to run that business you dream of.

Have an awesome day!

Curtis

PS: If you’re looking to start filling in some of your holes, you should join my 8 Week Business BootCamp. It will help you set goals and build the processes you need to have a kick ass freelance business.

first photo credit: elstruthio cc

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