#medic with a glock counter: 2

[idledearest]

keep your friends hostage!

un(g)locked this sfm from my core memory

#team fortress 2 #team fortress 2 fanart #tf2 #tf2 fanart #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #tf2 scouts ma #but robot #chicken kiev #medimedes #tf2 sfm #anonymoose #medic with a glock counter: 2 #berdst friend

[deniigi]

So @petrichordiam and I are menaces and giggled over our ideal dinluke flower shop AU for like 4 hrs and then I wrote this.

Title: murderer next door

Summary: Din works as a florist and Luke works as a bookseller and they’re both assassins trying to keep the other off their turf.

-------------

Two times now, Luke had crashed past that flower shop, and two times now, the fucker inside had taken out his mark. Now all Luke had to say about the whole thing was that it was too bad that he was going to have to kill the guy.

Han told him not to turn back. The mark was dead; the mark was gone. They weren’t fast enough this time, but there would be others.

Luke just couldn’t let it go, though. He had rent to pay, and McFloristApron over there was smashing through all his targets and making that nigh impossible—regardless of how many marks there were in the area.

Luke waited until Han had closed up shop for the night and remained there in the dark with his arm slung over the back of the chair in the backroom, surrounded by books. He rolled his shot of whiskey in its tumbler. The sound against the old wood table offered no comfort.

He stood up and left the glass to get his laptop.

He wasn’t losing to some florist, Han, sorry. Only one family could take innocuous cover on this street, and it was them.

 ---

McFlorist’s name wasn’t listed on the florist’s staff page, but then again, none of the people on that page had names. In fact, the website’s whole vibe was all wedding-chic until you clicked on the ‘staff and contacts’ tab. Then, it may as well have been a line of mugshots.

Luke squinted along the row of increasingly involved headgear until he got to someone with a reasonably-sized neck with no tats. The ladies on either side of him appeared to have sapped all the ink out of McFloristApron. He wore a mask over the lower half of his face and gave a stoic thumbs up to the camera.

Under his picture was the number fifteen.

Damn.

Luke was only making eight per pop. Who the hell was this guy eating up all the feeder fish, huh? Them lower division folks had to eat too, you know.

Well.

‘Lower division’ in a sense of the word. Being two times undercover wasn’t super glamorous, Luke had to say. But when your dad fucked it up for the first family, sometimes you had to take what you could get.

Luke pointed at Fifteen on the screen.

“You and me, pal,” he said. “You and me.”

 --

 Step one was to get paid first.

Luke chased down three marks on the other side of town to pay the rent and the medical bills for now. His hand’s new sleeve felt like a dream. It didn’t overheat like the nylon black one did, and the hand was far less shiny now as a bonus. That had certainly reduced the number of people catching something move out of the corner of their eye.

Was it worth fifty grand?

No.

Was it worth the last nine that Luke had left to pay on it?

Yeah. It was definitely worth the nine.

 ------

 Step two was to go make it clear to Fifteen McFlorist that he and his folks needed to back down in the face of the established guard.

Luke put on his biggest sweater and the thickest glasses he could find. He stole Chewie’s messenger bag with all the pins on it. He slung it over his shoulder and rolled the hems of his jeans up just a smidge too much, then scurried over to the florist’s across the way.

Fifteen was off to the side of the register, fucking around with something in the refrigerator. Luke busily and noisily looked through the wall of foliage on the side of the shop nearest the window. He hummed. He hawed. He made anxious nerd-sounds until a voice asked, “Hi, can I help you?”

Luke glanced out of the corner of his eye and found that Fifteen was standing facing his way now. His mask was gray this time. His apron was orange. His boots were too heavy-looking for florist work.

“I’d love that,” Luke gushed breathlessly. “See, my mom just got engaged and I’m on the way to her house.”

Fifteen lifted his chin slightly.

“What’re her favorites?” he asked tonelessly.

Terrible customer service skills, dude.

“Roses,” Luke said.

“Ours are shit today,” Fifteen said. “How about dahlias?”

Luke didn’t know what those were but sure.

“That sounds great,” he said. “You have any in pink?”

 --------

 He watched Fifteen brutalize some pink, orange, and white flowers into a bouquet wrapped with a silver bow and was sure to smile every time the guy looked up.

“That’ll be $37.59.”

Sir, these are dead flowers. There is no need for that price.

“Can I put it on card?” Luke asked. “How long have you worked here, if you don’t mind me asking? I work just across the way is all.”

Fifteen’s dark gaze flicked up. His hair was covered by a gray beanie two shades darker than the mask.

“At the club?” he asked.

“The bookshop,” Luke corrected him with a shy, but widening smile.

Please be gay. Please be gay. Please be gay. Leia wasn’t going to want to cooperate. She thought it was beneath her to establish boundaries like this.

“Blue paint,” Fifteen said. “Yeah, that place. How long have you been there?”

“My brother-in-law’s place, actually,” Luke said. “I started there last year after I finished college.”

Or, you know, maybe even eight years ago when he’d finished college. No one had to know. Baby faces don’t kiss and tell after all.

“Huh. You must like it there,” Fifteen said.

“It’s fine,” Luke hummed. “You like it here?”

“The kid does.”

“Oh, you’re a father?” Luke asked. “How old?”

“He’s three,” Fifteen said. “Godson. His folks were in an accident; didn’t make it.”

“That’s terrible, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Luke said. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Fifteen handed him his card back. Luke’s hand didn’t close in time to catch it and it fell onto to the wooden counter.

“Sorry about that,” Luke said, reaching for it with the other hand. His knuckles bumped into Fifteen’s when he went for the card at the same time. They both paused and went for the card again with the same result. Luke laughed.

“Slippery, am I right?” he asked, flattening his fingers on top of the piece of plastic and snatching it away.

“Very,” Fifteen said. “I hope your mom likes them.”

“Me too,” Luke smiled. “I’ll see you around—What was your name?”

“You can call me Armando,” Fifteen said.

“Armando,” Luke sounded out. “It suits you.”

It was a falsie.

“And yours?”

“James.”

“It suits you.”

It didn’t.

“Bye now,” Luke said. “Thanks for your help.”

He let the door fall closed behind him with the tinkle of the bell.

 --------

 He informed Han that “Armando” had a toddler and received only a warning look and a scolding for all his effort. Han told him not to get jealous. If there was a kid in the balance, then Fifteen, for better or worse, was going to have to see each day after the next until there was no longer a kid in the balance.

Luke offered to call CPS and report “Armando” as an assassin.

“You do that and those folks across the street are gonna call the VA and tell them I’m an assassin,” Han said. “Lay low, Luke. Lay low.”

Never.

“Christ. At least until that thing’s yours then.”

Luke glared at his right hand.

“Gimme a double,” he told Han without looking away from it.

 ------------

 It was never easy to hunt in the daylight, but Luke wasn’t here to do easy things. He needed to get Mark No. 1 alone. The man took the train once a week to a gentleman’s club on his lunch break. Luke needed a change of clothes.

He had a rainbow windbreaker, white boots, and fishnets all ready to go.

He got on the same train as the mark and dropped his phone nearby. It clattered loudly and the case came off. Luke swore and squatted to drop it at the same time that two girls next to him decided to become good Samaritans. They crouched with him and one of them caught the phone first. They handed it back with a smile.

“I like your jacket,” she said.

Luke let his face struggle to find a smile at her kindness to him, a sweet little twink trying to find the pride parade that happened two weeks ago.

“Thanks,” he said. “I like your bracelet.”

He stood up. The girls were pleased with themselves. Luke glanced back to find Mark No. 1 turn his head abruptly away.

Come here, Markie.

Do you like what you see?

  Mark No. 1 didn’t make it out of his hotel room. A pity. Luke took the elevator down and huffed and puffed about a cheap date when he passed the front desk. He stopped abruptly and went back to ask the receptionist what the cross street was. She judged his go-go boots.

He told her she wasn’t his type. Her manager gave him the cross street.

Mark No. 2 had different parameters.

 ----------

 Mark No. 2’s parameters involved chasing him through a maze of boiler rooms and dumpsters. He was chump change towards a hand that Luke hadn’t wanted in the first place, but alas. The anger still roared.

Luke cornered him, still in go-go boots—no need to sacrifice style for speed—and watched those pale eyes look every which way as Mark No. 2 realized that there was no getting out of this.

“You got options, friend,” Luke said. “I can bring you in hot or I can bring you in—”

“—cold.”

His head snapped up and he lurched out of the way just as the crack of a bullet exploded in the alley. A car backfired around the corner in a sympathetic cough. Luke stared at the body then twisted around just in time for a thick glove to latch onto the back of his neck.

“Well, look who it is,” Fifteen drawled.

Luke glared out of the corner of his eye.

“Hands off, Armando,” he warned.

“I like your boots.”

“You’re gonna love ‘em when they’re on your dick,” Luke warned.

“Back off, Nayberry.”

Fucking hell, Han. This is why they should have set up boundaries weeks ago.

“I prefer ‘James,’” Luke said sweetly.

The glock levelled at his face didn’t care.

“You took my mark,” Fifteen said.

“Aw, poor baby,” Luke pouted. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you took mine.”

Fifteen’s orange apron was gone. He’d swapped it for an old leather jacket—something he could more easily wipe clean. He should’ve gone for patent leather. The brown really wasn’t working with his grey mask-beanie situation.

“Stay in your lane,” Fifteen warned.

“Only if you stay in yours,” Luke beamed.

Fifteen huffed.

“Bookstore,” he scoffed. “Who’d you give the flowers to?”

Luke tsked.

“Myself, jackass,” he said.

“Do you even have a mom?”

“What the fuck business is that of yours? You even got a kid?”

Fifteen’s stare was deadly—the cooling body before them notwithstanding.

“Take one step near him and we won’t be talkin’ so friendly, yeah?”

Mm. Yeah.

“You owe me four grand,” Luke informed Fifteen as the glock went down and Fifteen left him to go take a pulse.

The man’s back stiffened.

“Four?” he asked. “You took this job for four?”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“I got bills, Armando,” he drawled.

“How do you keep that shed open? Have you sold even one book?”

Rude. Luke was a great sales associate. If he actually cared to put his mind to it, he’d be worthy of a promotion to manager.

He pulled the rising legs of his shorts down and adjusted the weapon in his windbreaker. He couldn’t leave the alley the way he’d gone into it. Someone might have seen. He was going to have to take a side street. Hmmm, which one? Choices, choices.

“I’ll give you a Dad’s discount. Gimme two grand, and you can have him,” Luke negotiated as he thought.

“Two.”

Hey, no need for that tone. This was a great deal.

“What’re you gonna do with two?” Fifteen asked, already knelling down to heft the body over his shoulder as proof for payment.

“Buy some more tights,” Luke deadpanned. “Two, final offer.”

Fifteen stood up all the way and gave him a weird look. A long look. His beanie was pulled down low, but Luke got the impression that he was frowning at him.

“Take the four,” he said out of nowhere. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

Luke recoiled a step at first, then recoiled another when the reality of the situation hit him full in the chest.

“Forget it,” he snapped.

He spun around and started to leave.

“Wh—hey. HEY. Where are you goin’?”

“I don’t need your fuckin’ pity,” Luke called ahead of him as he set to climbing the chainlink fence separating him from the adjacent dead-end alley.

“You what?”

“You heard me,” Luke said.

He jumped down. His left hand found his right wrist and squeezed as he walked.

 -------

 The phantom pains kept him up all night, and it was definitely that and not the humiliation that made him call in sick. Han told him to answer his therapist’s emails. Luke told him to go do something useful and hung up. He rolled onto his back on his bed and focused on letting his body relax, his jaw unclench, his joints go limp.

There was sunlight finally streaming through his apartment windows again. It had been months.

Spring was almost here. He just had to hold out a little longer.

 --------

 He came in to work the next day and found an envelope on his chair in the backroom. It was thick.

“McFlorist dropped it off,” he said between aggravated sounds at his spreadsheets.

“Is it tax season already?” Luke asked him as he tried to burn a whole in the center of the envelope with his mind.

“Sure fuckin’ is.”

He stepped forward and snatched up the envelope, then deposited it squarely in Han’s lap. He made an unattractive noise of confusion and alarm.

“For the taxes,” Luke called as he went out to grab his lanyard and name tag. “Gotta keep this place open for another six months at least.”

 ------------

 There were new books in. A new shipment to shelve. Two kids’ displays to set up. And Luke was actually good at this stuff, thanks; he started stacking.

He got peace until he nearly got to the end of the second display, and then what he had was a heart attack. Two liquid brown eyes surrounded by an ocean of ringlets stared up at him from between his knees. The child curled a hand in and out in hello.

Luke jerked himself up to locate the thing’s parents immediately, and promptly found himself in deadly eye-contact with Fifteen.

Armando.

“You were gone yesterday,” Fifteen said flatly.

Luke looked between him and the kid. He was pinned between two enemy parties. How to escape, how to escape.

“Are you sick?”

How to escape. How to escape. How to escape.

“Are you hurt?”

H—what?

“I’m fine, stalker,” Luke snapped with more heat than this present cover allowed. He caught himself and pulled it back. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Thank you for asking. Is this…?”

Fifteen blinked once. The child blinked once as well. It was creepy.

“He’s mine,” Fifteen said. “And apparently the only thing that will get us through the next two hours is a book.”

Dude.

“Kids are kids,” Fifteen said. “You got any books?”

Luke stared at him, then checked the shelves to make sure he hadn’t teleported into another dimension.

You always had to check.

“We’re in a bookstore,” he said.

“He can’t read,” Fifteen said, pointing.

The kid grinned. His teeth were gapped in that toddler sort of way. He was kind of cute.

“You can’t read?” Luke asked him.

“Hi,” Baby said.

Oh no.

Luke loved him.

“How much?” he asked Fifteen.

“Touch him and you’ll be permanently comatose,” Fifteen said.

“Not if I died out of spite,” Luke said.

There was a long pause. Then Fifteen started laughing? Kind of hard?

“Oh my god, that was so unprofessional. I am so sorry,” Luke blurted out.

Fifteen collected himself and shook his head. His little one giggled and reached for Luke’s fingers.

“Boo,” he said.

Luke couldn’t feel the hand, but he could feel all the heart.

“Book?” he asked, crouching down. “Do you want a story?”

“Mmmm.”

“I have the perfect one,” Luke told him. “It’s about a caterpillar. Do you know what a caterpillar is?”

He got a slow, exaggerated head shake back and forth, back and forth. He stood up straight.

“I’m conducting a temporary kidnapping,” he informed Fifteen. “Do I have consent?”

Fifteen looked from him towards the front entrance and mulled over the merits of leaving his kid with his rival assassin. Then he shrugged.

“Consent granted,” he said. “Luke.”

Luke’s heart stopped.

“James,” he said.

“Your name tag says ‘Luke.’”

Well, fuck.

“Luke Nayberry. It suits you.”

Hhhhhhh. This was karma, wasn’t it.

“Thanks,” he gritted out. “And yourself, Armando?”

“Din.”

Woah, look out. Mr. One-Syllable-Cool-Man had entered the building.

“Din, what?” Luke asked as his arm registered tension. Din’s kid had latched onto his fingers and started pulling incessantly with a chubby hand gesturing in the direction of the wall of children’s books.

“Don’t you worry about it,” Din said.

“Fine, go trip then,” Luke said.

He swore that there was a smile under that mask.

 ----------

#dinluke #luke skywalker #ficlet #fic #I can't take any trope seriously it turns out #perhaps I am simply too old now to appreciate them #the mandalorian

[neutron-stars-collision]

The Art of Inversion

Neil x Reader 

Chapter 2 - ‘You’re inverted, the world is not’

Previous Chapter - The Life Changing Offer 

Summary: Neil leads you into the world of inversion and sometimes it might be a little bit too much to take in...

Warnings: Curse words. I’ve decided to bring up rating to T (just to be safe).

Author’s Notes: This came out incredibly long so sorry for that. Hope you enjoy and feedback is always welcomed! Thanks to my fellow Neil enthusiasts for inspiration and hype, you know who you are <3 

You have been following Neil through the crowded streets of London City almost breathlessly. He was walking fast and the shoes you chose were far from comfortable. Neither of you have spoken a word for the last fifteen minutes and you began to wonder whether this was a good decision. After all you have agreed to be lead to some obscure destination by a perfect stranger and did not even know his full name. But before you could voice any of those concerns, he has stopped in front of a grey building with a rusted metal door. He held them open, motioning for you to come in. Inside there was a darkened stairwell and an antiquated lift. As the door closed with a creak the only thought you had was that you were about to be killed. You turned to Neil with an arched eyebrow. The flashing lightbulb above made the shadows on his face stand out and drowned the blue of his eyes. You could only see the outline of his strong jaw and cheekbones. He was looking at you as well with that thoughtful gaze again. After a beat he spoke:

“Don’t worry you aren’t going to be murdered” the hint of smile was playing upon his lips “I have parked the car here” he explained and continued down the staircase not waiting for you.

You rolled your eyes and followed. His enigmatic attitude was starting to annoy you. But then all you could do was hope that you will receive some answers soon.

You found him waiting by a black BMW series 7. He was looking at you expectantly as though he was anticipating your reaction.

What did they use to say about not getting into cars with strangers?, you shook your head slightly.

“I really don’t have a choice but to get in the car, do I?” you asked rhetorically while contemplating the absurdity of the situation you got yourself into.

He flashed you that sly grin again and just got into the driver seat.

Lord help me, you thought while joining on the passenger side.

You scanned the inside of the car with interest.

Tenet certainly isn’t on the budget, you noted while taking in the complex displays on the dashboard and the touch screen.

Neil started up the engine and soon you had left the underground parking. You tried to follow the road signs to guess where you were headed but quickly got lost amidst the different exits and turns. You were both silent. Sometimes you looked at Neil and would swear you felt him stare as well. Only once you have reached the highway, he asked:

“Do you have any questions?”

“Many” you glared at him, and he laughed at your deadpan expression “You haven’t told me your last name” you noticed after a few seconds of thinking.

“You have to be really interested in me if that’s the thing that bothers you most” he replied with a playful smile and you glared at him, stifling the sudden urge to punch him.

“You wish” you retorted under your breath.

Still, you felt your cheeks warm up with embarrassment and decided to stare intensely at the road ahead. Neil bit his lip and glanced at you though you could not see it. He was really enjoying teasing you, probably more than he could have expected.

***

You have arrived at your destination fifteen minutes later. Neil parked the car in front of an old warehouse with no signage or marked entries. You looked at him quizzically and he shrugged:

“Told you it’s a secret organisation” with that he got out of the car.

There were only three other cars parked in front of the building and the area was largely deserted. A high fence was separating the acres of land from the fields around and whoever was entering via the gate had to show ID to the small camera. Neil opened the door with that same ID card, and you followed closely, looking up into another micro camera that was guarding the entrance. He went straight to the desk that you assumed was some sort of reception area and after a small hesitation you joined him. There you came face to face with a smartly dressed woman seated behind the desk with a smile on her face:

“Good afternoon Neil” her grin got even wider as she stood up and beamed at him.

“Hello Anna” he replied with that charming smile on his lips.

God, she’s blushing, you noticed while looking at the receptionist. She has turned a lovely shade of pink and was trying to hide it by looking down at the keyboard. This was embarrassing. You had to admit that Neil is incredibly charming, suave and all but… seriously?! But your train of thought was interrupted by the man in question mentioning your name to Anna and adding: “Our new recruit”

You smiled politely at the woman and shook her hand.

“It’s nice to meet you” she beamed at you as well, but it was lacking that ‘looking at Neil’ spark.

You could not blame her for that. You could feel Neil’s gaze, quietly studying you and briefly wondered if he did that to all the new recruits. The silence has now stretched way too long for a normal social conversation, so you cleared your throat and answered:

“Mutually” you started praying for the awkward situation to end.

“I’ve got some papers for you to fill in” Anna handed you a small pile “It’s for the system and so that we can get you the ID card” you nodded and moved to the side, grateful for something to do.

You got absorbed in filling in all the obscure medical information they wanted. It was hard to suddenly recollect what vaccinations you have had in your late teens and whether you have already had chicken pox. Hearing some high-pitched giggles coming from the desk you glanced in that direction. Neil was leaning over the counter and ostensibly flirting with Anna if her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes were anything to go by. You rolled your eyes for the second time today and went back to the form.

What you have not noticed was that Neil has glanced in your direction just as you have been expressing your annoyance. He smirked and went back to entertaining Anna whose blind devotion was quite cute in his eyes.

Once you have finished filling in the papers you quickly got up and joined the two ‘lovebirds’. Anna took the pile without a further word and you could only await Neil’s instructions. He threw one last sly smile towards her and focused all of his attention on you:

“So are you ready to see what we are dealing with here?” the playful sparks contradicted the serious tone he spoke with.

“I’ve got nothing better to do” you flashed him your cheekiest smile and was pleased to see him slightly surprised.

Well two can play the game…

***

He led you through the maze of corridors into a small laboratory. Although surprisingly it also had a shooting station and a cabinet full of artillery and arms. Neil headed straight for the case and took out an ordinary looking Glock. He handed you the gun and you automatically checked the magazine to find it empty. Neil only motioned for you to join him by the shooting station.

“Just aim and pull the trigger” he instructed, and you glared at him.

“With an empty magazine?”

“Yes exactly”

You shrugged and adjusted your stance, constantly feeling his gaze boring into you. Letting out a long exhalation to focus, you aimed the gun and pressed the trigger. What came next took you completely by surprise. The moment you released the trigger, a bullet flew into the barrel with a little more force than you were used to, and you stumbled, nearly falling into Neil. He caught you with one hand on your arm and grinned, seeing the dumbfounded look on your face.

“Wasn’t expecting that, huh?” he let go of you after taking one last look at your expression and took the gun back “That was an inverted bullet” he explained “So you catch it instead of firing”

That was a lot to take in. You slowly nodded, trying to process it all.

“Are you ready for inversion?” he asked after giving you space to think for a short while.

“Nope” you grinned “But lead the way”

He stared at you for a little longer then, scanning your face in search of something. But this time you stared right back, facing him with determination. After thirty seconds, which felt like much longer, he turned away and opened a heavy door on the right side of the laboratory’s wall. You followed, not knowing what to expect at all. What you did not anticipate was to enter a darkened room with the lights tinted red, where one of the walls had a massive glass window inserted into it. On the other side of the glass you could see a very similar room but with the light tinted blue. At the opposite end from where you came in there was a massive barrel-shaped metal structure with a doorway and complex mechanisms around it. You noticed that there was the exact same thing on the other side of the room.

“Any questions?” Neil was casually leaning on the wall with his hands in the pockets, observing you with a small smile.

“What’s that?” you pointed at the machine.

“That’s the turnstile. We use it to get inverted” he pushed himself upright and walked over towards you “They’ll explain how it works in technical sense during the training. But I can show you the practical side. Ready?” he run hand through his hair, ruffling it in process.

“More than ever” you took another deep breath of the day.

“Okay, so we’ll go through the turnstile once we can see ourselves entering it on the other side of the proving window” he gestured towards the glass panel.

You noticed with a start that in the other room you could see yourself and Neil. They were moving backwards. As they entered the turnstile on the blue side, Neil quickly took your hand and pulled you inside the machine. You felt the machine screech with the years of use and after a few seconds you were being led out of it and into the blue side of the room. Before you could process what just happened, Neil let go of your hand and continued his explanation:

“The air here is sealed but once we go outside you’ll have to wear an oxygen mask because your lung membranes are now inverted”

You nodded and looked at the other side and the scene playing out there. One that just happened for you mere minutes ago. You started feeling a bit dizzy by trying to understand but attempted to focus on Neil’s briefing:

“They’ll tell you all this in training but normally we wear those protective suits to avoid accidentally touching our forward selves”

“What happens if we do?”

“Annihilation” he winked, and you could only stare in shock.

“Don’t worry about that for now though” he reassured while moving towards the rack filled with respirators and hazard suits.

He handed you a mask with a small oxygen tank attached and you put it on, while he continued:

“Once we exit the airlock, you’ll feel a bit weird at first. You’ll have wind at your back and the gravity will appear reversed for the world around you. But we’ll be within a restricted area, so you’ll be safe” he put on the mask and started to open the door “If at any point you stop feeling alright, let me know okay?” he looked at you intently and you got surprised by seriousness of his gaze.

You just nodded and tried to prepare for what was about to happen. As the airlock opened and you stepped outside, you scanned the scene. The area you have entered was separated from the outside world with a tall fence and was very much like a small training zone with sparring equipment and shooting range. Carefully you took a few steps forwards and suddenly felt a gust of strong wind hit you on the back with force. You stumbled and felt Neil look at you worriedly. You took a deep breath, trying to remain calm despite feeling the familiar chill of anxiety creeping in. Usually in those moments you would try to focus on something mundane so you looked up at the sky, hoping that it would do the job. The moment you looked up, a pigeon flew by, cooing and diving near the fence. Only it was inverted for the way you perceived it. Panicked, you looked at the street visible on the horizon. The cars were running backwards too. That was enough to make the anxiety kick in.

Shit… you gasped and tried to take a deep breath but found that you could not. The respirator made you feel as though you were beginning to suffocate. Every breath was not enough. It felt as though you were stuck in an airtight container, slowly losing the precious oxygen. You turned away from Neil, hoping he won’t notice your distress. You started to hyperventilate with increasing speed. Suddenly you felt Neil’s hand touch your arm, trying to make you face him. You did not want him to see you like that, so you shook it off:

“I’m fine” your voice came out breathless.

You heard him huff out a few strong curse words before he forcefully made you face him.

“No you’re not. You’re hyperventilating” he glanced at the small barometer on your oxygen tank and frowned “Okay, look at me”

Grudgingly you forced yourself to meet his gaze, aware of your tear stained cheeks and ruined mascara. His blue eyes were steady, focused on you. He took one of your hands and placed it on his chest. Your eyes widened in slight confusion, but your mind was too busy panicking to think right now.

“You have to slow down so breathe with me” his voice was soothing; the cockiness was nowhere to be found.

He began to inhale slowly, and you tried to match his tempo while forcing yourself to calm down the racing thoughts. After a few deep breaths synced up this way you felt the wave of anxiety die down. Neil was still looking at you with concern.

“Think I’m better now” you muttered, feeling embarrassed at the scene you just made “Sorry, didn’t know it will be that bad…” you admitted shyly.

With a start you realised you still had your hand placed over his heart and that Neil was keeping it in place, looking at you with an unreadable expression. When you awkwardly tugged at your hand, he released it and asked:

“You really don’t like to ask for help, do you?”

“Not really, no” you smiled slightly, and he mirrored your expression.

Your eyes found his again and you both froze, unable to look away. After another minute, which once again felt much longer, you heard someone clear their throat awkwardly. There was someone else in the training zone. That sobered you up. You quickly took a step away from Neil and glanced at the newcomer, feigning calm and composure. It was a young man with a very anxious expression on his face. You briefly wondered how long he stood there.

“Patrick” Neil greeted him with a handshake “Everything alright?”

“Yeah” Patrick looked in your direction quickly “They need you for a mission”

“Now?”

Patrick just nodded. Neil walked back to you:

“Apologies but as you see I’m needed” he squeezed your hand quickly and you just gaped at him.

Only once he started walking back into the building, did you sober up:

“And you’re just going to leave me here?! I’m bloody inverted!” you shouted, ignoring the terrified look on Patrick’s face.

“Well… yes” Neil shrugged and sent you that annoying roguish grin “Patrick here can help you with the turnstile. I’m sure you two will manage”

You really wanted to punch him.

“Oh and your training begins tomorrow” he added “Anna will tell you the details” and with that he was gone.

Fucking hell… you groaned and looked at Patrick who stared at the ground, clearly hoping that the earth would consume him any second now.

You felt very tired.

#tenet #neil tenet #neil tenet x reader #neil x reader #neil tenet imagine #neil tenet fanfic #robert pattinson #gifs not mine #tenet fanfic #the art of inversion

[plaidbooks]

Everyone Deserves Love chapter 6

A/N: The sexual tension rises! This chapter is a lot of housekeeping and waiting for things to happen, much like how the characters are waiting for shit to hit the fan. Fun fact, for fight scenes in this story, I reenacted them with my mom to make sure they were realistic. Also, the thought of Barba flustered and face first in a wall is highly funny to me.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Tags: briefest of child abuse mention (not explicit), normal SVU stuff, Devon gets a little intense during an interrogation scene, but not too bad

Words: 5k+

Office of Rafael Barba

1 Hogan Place

Monday, April 6th. 1:05pm

  “Whatcha working on?” Devon asked as she shoved the last bit of her sandwich into her mouth. It had been two weeks since the last attack on Barba, and today was the day that they were finally going to go get Devon’s stitches taken out. Thank god, these things itch so bad, she thought, fighting the urge to scratch at her shoulder. She was currently in one of Barba’s chairs, legs draped over one of the arms, back against the other.

Barba glanced up, smirking at her easy-going posture. “Just finishing up this closing statement for tomorrow, then we can leave.” His eyes drifted back to the legal pad in front of him, pen tapping on the desk lightly as he thought.

“Barbs, you’ve been working on that statement for the past hour. If it’s not done yet, then what makes you think it’s gonna be done any time soon?”

He huffed out a laugh. “For someone with unlimited patience in terms of staking out a perp, you have zero patience for paperwork. Now hush and let me finish this.”

Devon rolled her eyes and continued counting the wooden boards in the ceiling. Barba gave her another glance, before shaking his head and continuing on his statement. After spending the better part of three months with the agent, Devon had certainly proved herself to him in terms of her being able to protect him. He felt at ease around her, not nervous or anxious at all, even with a deadly gang still out there. And even though she seemed relaxed, especially now, lounging in the chair, he knew that she was still on high alert, listening for footsteps outside his office. He still had no idea how she heard people approach from so far away, but she always knew when someone was about to enter well in advance. And no matter how she was sitting in a chair, or on his couch, she was always up and by his side before anyone came in, ready to defend. It was weird the first couple weeks, and the people who visited—usually other attorneys or colleagues—always gave her, and Barba, a weird look, and a wide berth.

The first day someone had come in, Devon had her hand on her glock, resting it easily, but not drawing it. The poor paralegal who was just delivering a message almost passed out at the sight of it.

“We need a code word…for when someone comes in that you don’t know,” Devon had mentioned after the white-faced messenger left.

Barba raised his eyebrows. “You know, I’m not going to know everyone who comes into my office. I didn’t even know that guy. Maybe you should just not grab you gun?”

Devon shot him a glare at that. “And leave you unprotected? No thanks. Like Han Solo, I plan on shooting first.”

 “I—did you really just make a Star Wars reference? Really?” Devon smirked at him. “No, you don’t need to shoot anyone in here.”

And that was that. They never made a code word, but Devon did stop reaching for her gun when people came into his office. Though, she did still stand by his desk and glared at everyone who entered, daring them to try anything.

“You know, you haven’t written anything in ten minutes,” Devon said, snapping Barba back to the present. He looked at his legal pad, at the words, the scribbles, the scratched-out phrases. Suddenly, inspiration hit; he knew exactly how to finish his closing statement. He furiously started writing, cursing his hand for not being able to keep up with his thoughts. After a few moments of scribbling down some last-minute thoughts, Barba put down his pen.

 “Done. Let’s get you to the hospital,” he announced; he could read over it again later that night, at home. He stood, gathering his things. Devon got out of the chair, stretching with her full body—right arm being able to lift high above her head. She scrunched up her face as she stretched, making a weird, groaning noise, then releasing the tension in her limbs.

“Feeling better?” Barba asked, amused.

 “Much,” Devon replied, smiling. Sleeping on a too-small couch for the past ten weeks hasn’t been the best for her back, but like hell would she admit that to him, especially after their last fight about it. He still tried to force her to sleep in his bed—with him taking the couch, of course—at least once a week, to which she denied him every time. She definitely appreciated the thought, but she was there to protect him, to make him comfortable, not the other way around.

Mercy Hospital

Monday, April 6th. 2:37pm

It was something else to have left the office while the sun was still high in the air; Barba had taken a half day just to make this hospital trip with Devon. It shocked her just how much it meant to her that he took time off to go with her, even though she had offered to have Detective Amaro or Fin cover at his office while she got the stitches out.

 “I need the time off, if I’m being honest,” Barba had said. “I’ve been working too much recently.”

Devon rubbed her arm nervously. “Are you sure? I still feel bad that you’re using vacation time for this.”

Barba waved her off. “Don’t feel bad; I got over a month in vacation days saved. Besides, we’ve been having too much takeout. Why don’t we do some grocery shopping after the hospital? I’ll make one of my mom’s special recipes.”

 “Wait; you cook? And we’ve been eating shitty takeout for months?”

Barba laughed. “Yes, I cook. I just haven’t been allowed to go to the grocery store,” he gave Devon a playful glare. “Besides, I haven’t had the time.” It was true; it was rare that they made it back to his loft before 9pm.

She thought about it, weighed the options of going to the store, about how likely it was that he’d be attacked there. “Fine, but let’s stock up so we don’t have to go back for a while. Plus, I’m going to introduce you to this magical thing called Instacart….”

When the nurse came to get Devon, Barba looked like he was going to stay out in the lobby. Devon only needed to give him a stern look to have him following them back to the room.

 “Family only,” the nurse was starting to say.

 “He’s my, uh, boyfriend,” Devon blurted out. Besides the red creeping up her neck, she kept a straight face. Barba, however, raised an eyebrow, face flushed.  He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed his mouth again.

The nurse gave them both a look. “Alright…,” she replied, motioning for Devon to sit on the raised medical table. Barba sat in the chair in the corner, trying to melt into the wall. After the nurse checked Devon’s blood pressure, throat, and ears, she informed them that the doctor would be there in a moment, and to take off her shirt and change into the hospital gown.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Barba asked as soon as the door was closed, not quite making eye contact. “Amaro and Rollins are going to have a field day if they hear about this.”

 “Look, it was easier than explaining the whole ADA-being-threatened-by-a-gang-thing, okay?” Devon said, taking her shirt off. Barba groaned and turned to face the wall.

 “I feel like I’m in a bad romcom,” he mumbled, voice slightly muffled by the wall.

Devon’s face grew warmer, but she smiled at the sight of Rafael Barba, master attorney, face first in the corner of the room. He was too damn cute when he was flustered. Devon smacked the thought away. “At least you didn’t blow your cover.”

 “After this, we never speak of this again.”

Once in the gown, Devon sat back on the table. Barba eventually turned back around to face the room, face not quite as bright, and they waited for the doctor in awkward silence.

Apartment of Rafael Barba

Monday April 6th. 4:30pm

 The grocery store was largely uneventful. Devon was on high alert the whole time, as per usual, while Barba seemed undisturbed, walking up and down the aisles, grabbing supplies.

“How have you not had a heart attack with how tense you are?” he jokingly asked.

Devon rolled her eyes. “It’s a skill, I guess.” Though, she seemed to relax after that, if only just a little bit.

Once back in Barba’s loft, he changed out of his court suit and into slacks and a simple t-shirt, and started getting to work prepping dinner. Devon grinned; she secretly loved when he wore casual clothes. Even on his days off, when they stayed in the apartment watching TV or catching up on work, he normally wore a polo shirt, or a less fancy dress shirt.

“I hope you don’t mind eating a little late tonight,” he called from the kitchen as he cubed the steak.

“Like we don’t every night?” Devon called back, grinning.

Barba huffed at that. “Fair enough.” After a few moments of them both working in silence, Devon picked up her laptop and moved into the kitchen. It was a decent sized kitchen, big enough that he could work on the counter, chopping and marinating ingredients while she hopped up on the opposite counter, typing away on her laptop, a small island in between them. Every now and again, she’d glance up at Barba working, appreciating how deftly his hands moved from meat to garlic to limes. He had rice already steaming and black beans cooking at a low temperature.

“Did your mother teach you to cook a lot of meals?” Devon finally asked, reports long forgotten.

“A few. My abuelita taught me more, but my father didn’t like the idea of a man stuck inside cooking all day,” Barba replied bitterly.

Devon was going to drop it, to leave the conversation there. She wasn’t quite sure why she opened her mouth, but she found herself saying, “neither parent taught me to cook. But, if dinner wasn’t done before father got home, then there would be hell to pay. Sometimes, mother would be too drunk; she’d be passed out before he got home, so I taught myself to cook basic meals…just something quick and easy, before father got home.”

The silence that followed this statement was deafening. Devon’s face flushed as she realized what she had told him, what she had let loose; she didn’t let people know about that time in her life. She was still reeling from the fact that she even spoke when Barba answered in the softest voice.

“Seems like we both had shitty fathers.”

Such a simple statement, yet Devon felt closer to the counselor. They did let the conversation die there, though, neither one wanting to delve deeper into their traumatic pasts; that would be a conversation for another day. Devon swore she could still feel Barba’s touch, the ghost of his fingertip as he trailed it along the scar on her back all those weeks ago, and she shuddered. Maybe they would continue the conversation.

“So, what’s the name of this dish?” Devon asked, pushing all of that out of her mind. She lightly jumped down from the counter, moving to stand next to Barba. She watched as he moved the marinated meat into the pan with a loud sizzle.

“Bistec de palomilla. It’s simple, but delicious. It won’t be nearly as good as mí Mamí makes, but hopefully it’ll still be good.”

Devon smiled; it was endearing that he called his mom “Mamí.” She had the sudden urge to wrap her arms around his shoulders, to lean her head against his. Fighting this urge, she went back to her forgotten laptop, pretending to type on it. “I’m sure it’ll be great. It already smells amazing.”

“Garlic cooking always smells amazing,” he commented matter-of-factly. She nodded, then snatched her laptop and moved back to the living room. She wasn’t sure what was happening to her. I’ve never had someone cook dinner for me before. That must be it, she thought. It had to be. Why else was she feeling so touched, so excited by a simple dinner?

Dinner, as predicted, was amazing. Devon had to restrain herself from shoveling the food into her mouth faster than she could taste it.

“If this isn’t as good as your mom’s, then I’m going to have to try her version,” Devon said in between bites.

Barba gave her an amused smile. “Usually, we marinate the meat much longer, but I didn’t have the time. One day, I’ll have to make you ropa vieja…maybe on a weekend when I have time to slow roast the meat.”

“I will eat anything you make,” she promised, causing him to chuckle warmly. They talked about food for a little, including Barba raving about his abuelita’s tamales, before they fell silent once more.

Barba cleared his throat awkwardly. “Did you, uh, want to talk about your parents? Because I’m all ears if you did.”

Devon choked on a piece of rice, sputtering. “N-not really,” she coughed out. Once she composed herself, she asked, “why, did you want to talk about your father? Cause I promise I won’t judge you.”

He should’ve known she’d turn it back on him; she always did when he asked about her parents. He should’ve just taken the little bit of information he got earlier, been happy with that. She’d talk about it when she wanted to…if she wanted to.

“Look, I’m not going to push it. I just want you to know that I’m here if you wanted to talk,” he replied gently. Barba’s phone chimed, mercifully saving Devon from responding. A moment later, her phone went off, too.

“Seems Liv wants us to stop by tomorrow,” Devon reported, reading over the text.

“Seems like it,” he agreed. The tension didn’t go away, so Devon stood, grabbing her plate and taking his empty one, heading to the kitchen. She made it to the sink, turning on the water, and started washing the dishes.

“You don’t have—” Barba started, following her to the kitchen, before Devon cut him off.

“You cooked. I’ll clean,” she said simply. He just stood in the doorway, watching her until her hands began to shake in a panic that she hadn’t felt in decades. It’s just Barbs, not father, she thought, but it didn’t stop her heart from beating faster. Finally, he left the kitchen, heading back to the living room and pulling some files out of his case. Once the dishes were done, Devon joined him, taking her usual spot in the armchair, laptop out, and typing away.

SVU Department

Tuesday, April 7th. 10:08am

This had been the most relaxed Devon had felt since taking on the job of protecting Barba. Which wasn’t saying much; she’d seen people sneak guns into the precinct before, perps and suspects alike lashing out and hurting those around them. But it was nice having a room full of detectives around. So, when Olivia asked to speak to Devon in her office, alone, Devon had no qualms with leaving the ADA with the squad; they were going over some case, anyways.

“So, how’s the 24/7 going?” Olivia asked as Devon closed the door behind her.

Devon took the seat across from the Sergeant. “Ah, it’s been going well. No attacks since the Olivera brothers, though that’s just making me more anxious than anything.”

Liv nodded in agreement. “You’re worried that they’re planning something?”

“Why else take this long? Have you heard anything?”

Olivia let out a breath, leaning back in her chair. “No, I haven’t. I don’t know how such a low-ranking bunch of kids are keeping their mouths shut. No one’s talking.”

Devon thought for a moment. “Want to let me have a go at one of them? Whoever you think might be a weak link. I’ll just need someone to watch Barba for a bit while I interrogate them.”

Olivia gave Devon a long look, trying to judge what her real intentions were. “I trust that you know we do not harm the people we’re interrogating?”

Devon gave her a grin. “I know that, and you know that, but they don’t need to know that, right?” That seemed like the correct answer, because Olivia nodded, standing. Devon stood up with her, followed her out of her office. Liv glanced over at the squad; they were in the bullpen, discussing the rape case that Barba was initially called in for today. Seemingly satisfied that they would be there for a while longer, Liv led Devon to interrogation 1, both of them missing the fact that Barba turned at the last moment to see them entering the room, his brow furrowing.

“I didn’t know you had one here now,” Devon said, silently wishing she had her knife; the EMT never got back to her on it, and the small dagger she was using as a replacement was quicker, yes, but paltry in comparison.

“Tony Garcia--we only have him until tomorrow morning. Then he goes to Rikers. If you’re going to get anything, it’s going to be now.” Olivia leveled a heady stare at the agent. “Look, I’m going to let you take point on this. But don’t go too overboard, okay?”

Devon nodded, mentally aligning herself with the mean, scary, intimidating Federal agent that she had to be. She’s only done this a handful of times, and every time, it left a bad taste in her mouth; she saw the look that the observers gave her afterwards, the fear that they tried to mask. But they needed answers, and they needed them now.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Liv said. Devon took a deep breath, rolled her neck, then burst through the door, slamming it against the wall. It hit so hard that it ricocheted off the wall, closing harshly behind her. The man in the chair had been slouching before she came in, but now he was sitting ramrod straight, eyes huge.

“Why, hello there, Garciiiiii-ya!” Devon said in the most obnoxious, over-the-top voice she could muster. “I’ve heard that you’ve been a bit of a bad little boy, huh? Not telling the good detectives here anything.”

“What the hell is this?” Garcia asked, looking at the one-way mirror in horror. Good, so the façade was unsettling him. But would that be enough to make him talk? Devon wanted to push him harder.

“No one’s there ta help ya, buddy boy. It’s just you,”—Devon took her knife out and pointed to him—“and me.” She slammed the knife down hard enough that it stuck up straight out of the table, blade sinking into the soft metal a couple of centimeters, the handle far enough out of reach that Garcia, with his hands cuffed to the table, couldn’t grab it. Devon moved to stand right next to the man, uncomfortably close, putting her head right next to his ear, so close that he could feel her breath on him. “Now, are you gonna answer my questions, or am I gonna start taking bits of you?”

Garcia lurched away as if she struck him, trying to put as much space between them as possible.

In the observation room, Olivia watched, listening intently. It was working. As much as Olivia hated watching Devon play this role, it was actually working. Garcia was going to break, he had to—

“What the hell is going on in there?” A voice asked. Liv turned to see Barba sticking his head in. Once he saw the scene unfolding, he came to stand next to the Sergeant, intrigue and a creeping horror rooting him to the spot, like watching a car crash.

“Y-you can’t do that!” Garcia yelled, once again looking towards the mirror. “Please! Someone! Get her away from me!”

Devon chuckled darkly, pulling her knife out of the table and sitting on top of cool metal, using the tip of the dagger to pick under her nails. “I already told you, no one’s there, Tone. It’s just us. So, here’s how this is gonna go; either you start telling me about the Ace’s hit on ADA Rafael Barba, or I’m going to take your pinky. Then your ring finger. And so on and so forth, you get the picture. Now, which hand is your dominant hand?” When Garcia didn’t answer, she reached for his left hand—the hand closest to her.

“Wait! I’ll tell you everything I know! But I’m only a scout; I don’t know much,” Garcia pleaded.

“You have to the count of three,” Devon replied. She stood, gripping his wrist in an iron grip. She was pushing his hand against the table, attempting to get his fingers to lay flat. Garcia was struggling against her, but with his cuffed hands and seated position, he quickly lost. With his fingers splayed on the table, Devon held the dagger poised above his pinky. “One…two—”

“We’ve been waiting!” Garcia yelled, causing Devon to pause. She didn’t release him, continuing to hold the razor-sharp edge an inch from the man’s digit.

“For?”

“Marco to get back into town. He’s the best of the Aces,” he gasped out. Devon thought for a moment, contemplating if she should try and get more out of him now, if he’d shut his mouth later. She had no idea who this Marco was—never saw anything on him in the database.

“When does he get back?”

“I don’t know! I told you, I’m just a scout, I swear!”

“Wrong answer, Tone,” Devon said, repositioning the dagger above him. Instead of more information, though, Garcia just started yelling, begging and pleading for Devon to have mercy on him, that he knew nothing. Just then, the door burst open, Olivia coming in.

“That’s enough, Motely,” she ordered.

Devon let out a disappointed sigh. “You’re no fun, Sarge.” As she was leaving, she turned and winked at Garcia. “Just remember, I work with the FBI. I can find you anywhere.” She gave a little wave and a bright smile, and she thought Garcia was going to faint. Once in the observation room, Devon let her shoulders drop, resheathing her dagger and trying to shake off that persona.

“That was…highly disturbing,” Barba muttered, making Devon jump; she didn’t even notice he was there. Devon was suddenly embarrassed. How much did he see? By the look in his eyes, he had seen enough.

“Yeah, that’s kinda the point,” she replied defensively. “Besides, at least I got a name out of it.”

“Which is better than nothing, but barely,” Olivia announced, coming out of the interrogation room. “Good job in there, Devon. You made the man piss himself.”

She hated the accusatory tone that Liv used; was she really that intimidating? She couldn’t bring herself to look at the counselor, but she felt his gaze on her, examining her. She didn’t think she was that bad. But then, replaying the scene in her mind, maybe she was that bad. Ugh, she needed a shower.

Barba couldn’t look away from the agent, someone who he had thought he had all figured out. You don’t know her as well as you think you do, he thought disparagingly. “Do we know who this Marco is?” He asked, finally pulling his eyes to look at Liv.

“No, but we can find out,” Olivia replied. “I’ll have Rollins look into it, shoot you an update when we have one.”

Barba nodded, then looked at his watch. “Fine. We need to be heading to the courthouse; I have a trial in twenty minutes.” Still avoiding eye contact, Devon led Barba outside to wave down a cab.

They spent the first few minutes in an uncomfortable silence. Devon looked out the window, willing the taxi to go faster, so that Barba would be sucked into court, and she could just sit in the gallery with her shame.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Barba finally asked, breaking the silence. His voice was low, like he didn’t want the driver to hear him. Like he, too, was embarrassed and ashamed of Devon’s display.

She sighed through her nose, closing her eyes. “Just something I picked up while working.” Hoping he’d drop it, she continued staring out the window. She felt him shift on the seat next to her, but he didn’t ask any more questions.

Courthouse

Tuesday, April 7th. 12:15pm

They made it to the courtroom with five minutes to spare. Barba took his normal spot by the prosecutor’s table, Devon sitting right behind him in the gallery. She was so absorbed in her thoughts, she didn’t pay attention to the trial at all, completely zoning out until the Judge banged her gavel, calling it quits for the day. Devon looked at her phone, shocked to find that it was nearing 5pm. How’d she miss over 4 hours of the day? Focus…she thought to herself, mentally shaking the fog out of her mind. She stood as Barba packed his things, putting the papers neatly away into his attaché.

“Your office next?” she asked; a normal question after a trial. She usually had his schedule memorized, but it changed often, and the visit to SVU had thrown a wrench into the day.

He snapped his case closed, taking the handle and looking up. “Yes. I only have a couple things to work on, then we should be done for the day.”

“Good. That gives me some time to look into Marco,” Devon replied. It’s not that she didn’t trust Rollins and the NYPD’s resources, but she knew that her resources were better. Barba nodded, the same look from the observation room flashing through his eyes for just the briefest moment as he looked at her, then it was gone. Devon swallowed past the lump in her throat, turning to lead him out of the courtroom. After working together so long, she knew the building as well as he did, maybe even better. She had a way of noticing hallways and doors that most people didn’t. She kept at a brisk pace, one that Barba almost had to jog to keep up with.

Office of Rafael Barba

1 Hogan Place

Tuesday, April 7th. 5:15pm

Devon was typing furiously on her laptop, scanning the FBI’s database for any Marco in New York City affiliated with a gang. At first, she simply looked within the Aces, but that search turned out to be futile. It didn’t help that Olivia had texted her as much; Rollins had hit a dead end, and they had no other possible leads on the name. Tony Garcia had refused to answer questions, or to talk at all, anymore. It seemed like he was scared into some sort of stupor, his eyes unfocused and his mouth not forming any words. So, that left Devon to find out what she could on the one lead they did have. And she would find something. She had to. For Barba’s sake.

Ping! A page uploaded. This looks promising…Devon thought, clicking through some files. She found a name, one that had appeared a couple of times in a few homicide cases; Marco Sorrel.

She waited for his page to load, then called, “hey Barbs, come look at this.” She was seated on the couch, Barba at his desk, as per usual. He looked up at her voice, then stood and came over. This was the first time she had spoken since getting back to his office, and he was somewhat relieved to hear her voice. He sat on the couch next to her, huddling close to look at the screen.

There was a picture of the man on the left side of the screen, his profile on the right. The picture showed a Hispanic man in his early 30s with short, black hair. He looked like any face in the crowd, no particular identifying marks outside of mean-looking eyes, and one other thing; he had a tattoo on the right side of his neck: two poker cards, an Ace of Spades and an Ace of Hearts.

“Those tattoos seem a little cliché for someone in a gang called the Aces,” Barba pointed out.

“I’d hate to agree with you, but I do. Tattoos mean nothing, really; just a way to tell him apart from the crowd. Look at this though.” Devon pointed to the other side of the screen, the one with his criminal profile written out.

“Says here that he’s been connected to at least six counts of aggravated assault, and three homicides,” Devon continued. “He’s never been caught; every time he gets cornered by cops, it seems, he shoots his way out of it. Hmmm…no family, no aliases, the guy seems to be unattached.” They sat in silence, letting the weight of Devon’s words sink in.

“That…doesn’t bode well for me,” Barba finally said. He meant it as a joke, but his voice fell flat. “I’m almost glad that whatever persona you had in the interrogation room is at least some part of you.” He wanted to take the words back as soon as he said them. He saw the look on her face, how her eyes seemed to dull slightly.

“You’re right; it’s good that I can scare someone so bad, they urinate. I’ll be sure to remember that when Marco comes after you.”

“Dev, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant…”

“What did you mean, then? What could you possibly have meant?” Devon asked, voice deadly quiet. She stood, closing her laptop and walking to the other side of the office. Barba cursed himself; he saw how she had collapsed in on herself after the interrogation. How could he have made such a stupid comment?

Barba pulled himself to his feet, took a step towards her, then stopped, running through his words. “I’m sorry that I said that; it was a stupid mistake. Devon, you don’t need a persona to take on Marco. Did you forget how you’ve already saved my life? Twice? Hell, you got stabbed protecting me! I can never thank you enough for what you’ve done for me, what you’ve sacrificed for me. And even before today, some thug like Marco Sorrel wouldn’t scare me, because I know I have you watching my back.”

They stood in silence for a moment, Devon drinking in his words. This was the first time he ever thanked her for her service, ever acknowledged the fact that his life was in danger. She felt familiar butterflies in her stomach, and tears briefly tinged in her eyes. She blinked them away rapidly, not even completely sure why they were there.

Just when Barba was sure Devon wouldn’t respond, she spoke, softly at first. “Look, Barbs…I know this hasn’t been easy on you, as much as you like to act like nothing’s changed. You always seem so calm, collected, and hell, maybe you are. I’ve only known you for a couple months, and only while you’ve had a target on you. And I know that I’m not the easier person to be around,” she shrugged, smiling slightly. “But in this time together, you went from a victim in my mind to a friend. I do actually care about you, about your wellbeing. Unfortunately for you, I’m a ride-or-die friend as it is. So, while I appreciate your words, trust me when I say I’m not ‘sacrificing’ anything by being here for you. I’d be here anyways.”

He had never felt safer in his life, standing in his dimly lit office, staring at this stranger—no, this friend—who had come into his life like a whirlwind. So, this is what it’s like to have someone you can trust with your life, Barba thought. He was suddenly very jealous of Olivia; she had a whole team of people like this? Maybe there was something to this whole “friends” thing that Barba had been missing out on, something he didn’t realize he wanted, needed.

“Thank you,” Barba said sincerely. There was nothing else he could think to say; nothing that could convey his thoughts any better. He gave her a smile, one she returned before taking the few steps to him and enveloping him in a hug. It caught him off-guard—Barba wasn’t much of a hugger—but he returned it, rubbing a small circle into her muscular back. He tucked his face into her hair, breathed in her scent; she felt so strong, so reassuring in his arms. He could have spent a lifetime standing there, holding onto her forever. But just as quickly as it started, Devon was moving away, arms releasing him as she pulled back.

“Sorry, I should have asked before hugging you like that,” she said, cheeks flushed.

“No, no, it’s fine. Really. I don’t mind.” Their eyes made contact, locking them into place. Devon wasn’t sure what she saw there, but she couldn’t force herself to look away. She could still faintly smell his cologne on her, feel where his hand had rubbed her, where his head had rested against hers. Feeling her face heat, she ducked her head, breaking the eye contact.

“Almost done?” She asked, gesturing towards the paperwork still scattered on his desk.

Barba swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Ah, almost. One more opening statement to prep for….”

And just like that, the moment was gone, and they were both back to their spots, Barba at his desk, Devon on the couch, both working away into the night.

#rafael barba x oc #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfic #fanfic #my writing #everyone deserves love #edl #edl ch 6 #everyone deserves love chapter 6 #I had a lot of fun writing the interrogation scene

[q00kies]

00Q fic rec list

So, those are my favorite 00Q fics and I thought I might make a list of them ! Most of these include pining and emotional constipation on some level.

The favorites

Sigh No More, by dhampir72 rating : T  words : 20K

Bond wants nothing more than for someone, just once, to be waiting for him at the airport when he returns home. 

My favorite. The characterization is beautiful and gives depth to a damaged, vulnerable James Bond. “Do you want me to arrange a car for you?” Q asks. “I want you to come get me,” Bond says. [...] Q says: “Okay.”

come a lily, come a lilac, by pdameron rating : T warning : AU - flower shop words : 8K

"Most people just pick whatever flower they think is prettiest. It doesn’t require a lot of input from me.” The man walks up to Q, leaning against the counter between them. “Well then, what can I do to get your input?” (In which Q runs a flower shop, and his newest regular is almost definitely a spy.)

This fic features all the good tropes : violent mutual pining, misunderstandings, mild angst, fluff, humor. The characterizations and banter are excellent. pdameron is my favorite 00Q writer, you should read everything they’ve written. 

Ordinary Numbers, by Bootsnblossom, Kyptaria rating : T warning : AU - different first meeting, AU - Q is not Q yet words : 44K

More than anything, Mike Taylor wanted to be ordinary. Being a genius, he learned early in life, meant people expected too much. A career at the MI6 Help Desk seemed the perfect way to guarantee a lifetime of obscurity, until he got a very unusual tech support call.

Excellent plot and detailed writing. Such a worthy and satisfying read.

Ulysses, by girlbookwrm rating : T words : 89K

“Paperwork for the new head of Q-Branch,” Tanner said.“Of course.” The words were like glass in his throat. Smoke inhalation was a bitch. His brain felt slow and foggy, like it was full of smoke too. “Who shall I take them to?”M lifted one white brow. “They’re for you, Quartermaster.”Bond and Q are drawn together by names, work, and a certain Aston Martin. In which Q is kidnapped once, Bond is poisoned twice, and Eve is a badass on at least three occasions. AKA that time I tripped and wrote 80,000 words of 00Q.All titles unapologetically stolen from Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

This also features all the good tropes imaginable. Like, everything you need. Delicious read. Brillant writing. Dialogues and narration were clever. Beginning is Skyfall and Spectre rewrite but don’t let that deter you, it only lasts for 2 chapters or so and it’s well done.

Long-ride / slow-burn

Lay it down, by damphir72 rating : M words : 81K

Bond and Q agreed: their relationship was nothing more than physical. Until it suddenly isn't.

sick fic. Bond takes care of Q. Similar to Where You Are, with such dedication and softness and love. 

Nodus Tollens, by Only_1_Truth rating : T words : 88K

Nodus Tollens: the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore Q's life at the technical help department of MI6 was decently quiet and paid reasonably well - it even gave him vacation time, although he rarely used it. So when Q was finally coaxed to leave work for a bit and relax, he thought that Paris might be fun. Of course, that was before the gunfight, witnessing a shooting, and being kidnapped by a strange, blue-eyed gunman named James Bond.

Yours, J, by swtalmnd rating : E words : 39K

Bond sends letters. Q is vexed. Q-branch starts a betting pool. There are an appalling amount of sweets. Also, 002 is a bit of an arse.

haven’t finished this one yet but recing it because it’s GOOD. pining hell “He was the one person James Bond didn’t want to seduce”. urhhh

Quriosity, by dr_girlfriend rating : E words : 79K

COMPLETE! Bond finds himself increasingly curious about his enigmatic Quartermaster. Excerpt: "Your prior hotel is no longer secure, I will direct you to a new location. Your luggage has already been transferred. A field agent and medic from the Diréction Générale de la Sécurité d'État will be waiting at the side entrance. I have cleared them both personally." In contrast to his crisp dry English, Q's pronunciation of the French words was fluid and flawless, the throaty tone of the fricatives sending a surprising jolt of awareness straight to Bond's cock — all the more remarkable given his degree of blood loss. "You're wasted on Q-branch, you have the voice for a phone-sex call-in line." The words slipped out of Bond's mouth without forethought, although he had plenty of time to think in the sudden pause that came afterward and stretched on for endless moments. Bond hadn't realized until now how Q was always there, with an immediate reply. In all their banter Q had never before been at a loss for words. Ever.

classic. very in character : the banter, the dynamics. good tropes. 

Humor

Dramatic Arts, by scioscribe rating : T warnings : none words : 2,9K

In which Spectre is actually Bond's poorly written attempt at falsifying a mission report. Q wants a flight simulator, Eve wants more lines, and M wants a drink. Everybody's a critic.

So If You Give, by TheCatOnTheMoon rating : T words : 6,1K

Bond gives Q things because of reasons. Q thinks that Bond completely misses the point.

Hilarous. MI6 works like B99. Q is everyone’s darling.

some guys just can’t hold their arsenic, by pdameron rating : T words : 5,8K

“Motherfucking - goddamn - fucking shit!” “Good lord, Q,” Bond says from behind him with no small amount of amusement. “One would think you’d never been in a quarantine before.”

a lot of pining and them being dumb. hilarous dialogues. the writer writes WELL.

By no Ordinary Means of Communication, by laughtershock rating :  E words : 7,9K

Q can’t help but wonder how, exactly, his life has come to this (The one where Bond discovers post-it notes, Q discovers how not to talk about feelings, and together, they fight crime make things far more complicated than necessary.)

this is here because I love the sex scene in it : Q gets plugged for a meeting.

million dollar question, by skylights rating : G words : 5K

Q doesn’t bend for anything and Q certainly doesn’t break for anyone, especially when it comes to stubborn double-ohs intent on making Q’s life hell, so when Q wakes up on a Saturday morning to 12 new texts from Bond and the incessant ringing of his flat’s doorbell, Q makes sure to bring a gun to answer the door. “Delivery for one…Quabik Quadree?” Q feels the weight of the Glock 19 in the pocket of his dressing gown and sincerely wonders whether to shoot the delivery man or himself. (or, that fic where everyone wants to know Q's name and stupid things happen in the process)

Fluff

A modest proposal, by Tokyo_the_Glaive rating : T words : 3,3K

Or, five times Bond asked Q to marry him, and one time Q beat him to the punchline.

there’s love to be had, by pdameron rating : T words : 1,2K

“I won’t begrudge you your happy ending, Bond. If you want to ride off into the sunset, MI6 won’t stop you,” Mallory says. “But I will say this. If you do walk away, take care with what you leave behind.”

(In which Bond has a bit of an epiphany on the bridge and finds that he can't leave MI6 just yet.)

I don’t take your pleasure for granted, by CatchClaws rating : M words : 6,2K

Q tries to talk himself out of having a crush on James Bond. Bond makes that rather difficult.

In which Bond reads sci-fi books. Well written. Banter is delightful.

please stay, by pinknamjoon rating : T words : 2,7K

Bond keeps flirting with Q while he's on missions, both over the comms and through surveillance cameras, and Q is extremely flustered.

Name on my skin, by the runawaypen rating : G warning : SOULMATES !! words : 900

Everyone has the name of their soulmate written on their skin. And Q can't help but feel excited to learn that the James Bond written on his wrist is one 007. It's a shame James doesn't know Q's real name. Things could have been simpler.

Angst (with happy ending. always)

Remember me, by Jen (ConsultingWriters) rating : T words : 5,6K

Bond has lost his memory. Q has lost his love. "What have I forgotten?” Bond asked; Q watched him, trying to find the James he knew. “Nothing that you won’t work out on your own, if it’s really important,” Q said carefully, before returning every fraction of his attention to the computer in front of him.

dying noises

Loneliness is a disease, by fairyjimjam rating : T words : 9,5K

Q stands up, nearly breathless, and ventures towards the lift. Bond is back. He's back. Back. Back Back Back- "I need a car." Q stops in his tracks. He's not back. No of course he isn't. Q's chest hurts. "Have fun at an automobile shop then," is what slips out of his mouth.

Q is absolutely miserable after Bond’s left and Bond is clueless. Sad pining hell. What’s new. Ending is dubious though. 

just like old times (please, don’t ever change), by Rosslyn rating : T words : 5,1K

Sometimes when Q is alone in his workshop and there is an experiment that needs to be supervised and he can’t go home and he can’t sleep, he watches Bond’s vitals.

canon

as permanent as stone cathedrals, by pdameron rating : T words : 6,0K

Q has been in love for two years, six months, and twelve days when James Bond walks away, leaving him with a bleeding head and a broken heart on a dark and noisy London bridge.

If you didn’t get the hint, yes, go and read everything this author has ever written.

Bittersweet, by dr_girlfriend rating : M words : 14K

The first time Bond flirted with Q, it was purely out of self-defense. The second time Bond flirted with Q was largely manipulation. The third time Bond flirted with Q, he just wanted to feel something. The fourth time Bond flirted with Q was out of sheer boredom.

Somehow, flirting with Q became something of a habit for Bond.

And then, it became something else.

features rejection hmm delicious. ‘Those who love to pursue fleeting forms of pleasure, in the end find only leaves and bitter berries in their hands’

Missed chances, by cherrygoldlove rating : G words : 2,7K

Eve leaned across Q's desk.” Bond has someone!” Q's eyebrow lifted as he sent her a quick look from above his glasses. “He has someone every thirty minutes.” He returned his gaze to the screen and continued to type; “No, not like that! He has someone long term, they're dating!”

misunderstandings, jealous Q, fake relationship, angstish, heartbreak, pining what more ?

Favours, by dhampir72 Rating : T Words : 6,1K

James Bond never looks at Q unless he wants something.

it’s not angst but idk where to put this. pining. 

Omega verse

The two fics below are mpreg-free, don’t feature any consent issues and are full of pining. Alpha!Bond and Omega!Q

A Matter of Convenience, by junetangerine (culuyetille) rating : E words : 19K

‘twas why the whole thing had been sanctioned in the first place: minimal disturbance of the status quo, just a blip in their routine, no consequences. So what if the Quartermaster had had an untimely, dangerous heat and 007 had been the one assigned to see him through it. Both of them knew better than to let anything come of it. (Alpha/Omega dynamics) 

Light omega fic. This is the only omegaverse fic you need to read. Wonderful ! 

Where you are, by dhampir72 rating : E warning : WIP 5/7 chapters BUT chapter 5 can be considered as a satisfying ending. words : 44K

An Omega unable to create life is a creature to be pitied, or at least, that is what society says. Q is fine with it, really. He had never wanted children anyway...and settling down with a mate never truly sounded appealing. So he’s fine with it: being alone, bearing no children. It’s fine.Until it isn’t.

Angsty omega fic. Q is diseased, Bond takes care of him with such dedication and softness and selfless love. I cried. (no tragic ending)

Porn without plot

Gloria in excelsis, by feelslikefire rating : E warning : barebacking words : 3,8K

Q has a dirty secret; Bond has an attraction and now he's got the excuse to act on it. Smut featuring glory hole(s).

glory hole

Resource sharing, by rsadelle rating : E  Warning : dom/sub, Bond/Q/Trevelyan threesome, double-penetration words : 3,4K

Q experiences what it means when James says he and Alec share everything.

#00Q #james bond #quartermaster #Q #in honor of #bond 25 #00Q fics #00Q fic rec #00Q fanfiction #recommendation #the reason why there's not enough dhampir72 fics in this list is because i haven't read them all yet

[limpblotter]

Fly me to the Moon

[Next Part] A/N: Shamelessly saw some really inspiring art. Decided to write it. Probably only a three-four part fluff.

Summary: Rainbow drags Johan to New York for a thing. Johan finds out New York is pretty neat after all. 

WordCount: 3855 Warnings: None that I know of 

“This is so great, I am so happy you decided to come with me!” Rainbow beamed the moment they got out of JFK. “New York City, ugh, this place is absolutely amazing. Can you believe just a few weeks ago that huge protest happened right here, a united stand towards equality on the same ground we are walking on.” “Which one?” The man who accompanied her and all her chatter; rolled his luggage along as they approached the rental car station. “I’m pretty sure New York has a protest every other night. Why else would the streets be so dirty?” Bow shot Johan a dirty look as he pulled his hair into a bun. Rainbow had been invited to a Medical Convention down at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. The convention from what Johan remembered from her babbling was just a bunch of doctors getting together to advocate their liberal ideals of health care and free, unbiased treatment. Or something… Rainbow picked out a sweet 2016 Chevy Impala. “Alright, let's go!” She spun the keys around her finger, even after flying across the country she seemed perfectly fine and fresh...in comparison to her younger brother who seemed to have grown crustier the longer he went without caffeine and wifi. “Seriously? You pick the newest car they have? Rainbow do you know where we are?” Johan shook his head, Rainbow’s naivety was showing brighter than the colors in an actual rainbow. “This car screams ‘rob me I’m not from here’” “Johan, please we are in New York City not some third world country. Now get your behind in the car or I will leave you behind.” She motioned Johan into the passenger seat. With a defeated sigh he marched himself into the car dumping their luggage in the trunk. “Honestly, this is NYC, a mecca of liberal, free thinkers, don’t you feel innovation and empowerment just oozing from the atmosphere? Some say it's a lot like California.” “And just like California and every other city there is a large rate of marginalization and angry prejudices.” He countered, his eyes on his phone as he scanned yelp for the nearest 4-5 star place to eat. After a long flight and listening to Rainbow chime and chirp for hours, Johan was ready for a big breakfast and a tall glass of Cabernet. “Don’t be fooled by your idealism of cities who voted Hilary, New York is basically the Thunder-dome, shall I remind you about some of the racially charged assaults and murders that’s happened the last few years in New York alone?” “Johan if I listened to every single report about a ‘brother’ or a ‘sister’ going down because of the color of our skin I would be in over hundreds of years of negativity. Things are what they are but we still have to live on, for example I had a patient once came in with a nasty tumor, it looked life threatening and lo and behold…” And there she went. Johan tuned her out. He wished he had his sister’s ability to look at a clearly black and white world and see nothing. She lived in a world where she could fix things and the color of skin didn’t matter. Johan was living in the now, with President Trump and countless senseless acts of injustice. It was times like these he wished he was back in Europe, backpacking his way to seclusion away from the worries and troubles of their present world. Alas, Dre basically begged him to go with Bow, with reason. If this was how she was coming to New york, with some cinematic mentality of a hopeful city then there was a good chance Dre would be looking for wife number 2. Not to mention Bow was expecting.

After a good hour moving through streets that mirrored LAX, bumper to bumper traffic and an endless symphony of horns blasting from all directions, Johan finally looked up from his phone. (Because it died). He noticed Bow was leaning into the steering wheel, squinting at the nearby street sign. “...you’re lost.”

“Nooooo” she held out the word for some time, puckering her lips as her eyes look more and more like a deer caught in headlights. “I’m just...making sure what number we’re on.” Rainbow made a left down from Ft. Washington and West 176th street into a little Avenue called Haven. The brick buildings were jammed together side by side it looked like they were built as one continuous unit. She parked the car in front of a corner store and sighed. “Ok...we have to be close…” she ran her hand along the side of the steering wheel. “This looks like a little local place.”

“This looks like the where that murder case happened.” Johan answered her.

“What case?” Rainbow blinked, curious if this was truly the scene of a crime.

Johan’s lips turned up into a cold smirk, “the one where two Californians were lost in the ghetto’s of New York city and found dead and dumped into the Hudson. One a wonderful, handsome, well loved adventurous spirit and his idiotic sister who happened to be a decent doctor.” He wasn’t surprised Rainbow slapped his shoulder. He was a little surprised it actually hurt. “Bow just use the GPS on your phone.”

“Or instead of wasting batteries I can ask for directions. My phone is dying and Dre promised he’d call me when the kids got home from school.” She was not going to lose the rest of her battery for something as silly as directions. “Why don’t you use your GPS?”

“My phone died, where is your charger?” Johan arched his eyebrow.

Bow did the same, copying his expression. “In my luggage, where is yours?”

“Same.” There was a silence between them, absorbing their shared moment of absentmindedness. Neither willing to dig through their luggage for a couple of chords. Siblings through and through.

“Look, locals have the best directions. I’ll go ask one and we’ll be on our way. I have to check into the Hospital before we get to our Hotel.” Bow exited the car leaving the keys and the car unlocked. Not waiting for protests the pregnant doctor scampered across the street to a nearby appliance store. Johan watched his hard headed, pregnant sister did whatever it was she wanted, and hoped he didn’t have to be the one telling Dre he lost her. It took him a split second to realize she left the car unlocked and keys still in the ignition.

“She is seriously asking for someone to …AH?!” He jumped at the sight of a young man walking past the car. His hands in his jacket as he tilted his head, eyeing up the vehicle. Johan scrambled to take the keys from the ignition and locked the car. The loud click of all four door locks going off made the young man stop in mid-step. He gave Johan an undisturbable look before continuing his stride into the corner store.

“Sonny you’re late...Again.”

“Aw~ chill out primo, I was at class.” Sonny smirked walking through the chip aisle, snagging a bag of fifty cent doritos. His cousin shook his head, the class did nothing for his slang apparently.

“Nice try, your last class was over an hour ago.” Usnavi glared from behind his polished counter. “Let me guess, you were with your boyfriend, again.” He grunted not waiting for Sonny’s confirmation, his silence was enough. “I hope Pete is worth the pay cut.”

“Aw, come on, Navi! Don’t be like that.” That got Sonny’s attention. He came out from the aisle and leaned over his counter. “Pete is going off to art school in California, I gotta take these moments as they come.”

“Art School in California? Is that what they call moving-into-your-abuela’s beach-house-so-you-can-get-high-all-the-time these days?” Usnavi didn’t hide the fact he wasn’t too keen on Sonny’s choice of lovers. Not because he was gay, god no, Usnavi was not like that. It was because Pete had...so little professional ambition. Sonny was studying hard, got himself through community college now was looking at a fancy scholarship. Sonny wasn’t like Nina, it took him two years of ass busting in a community school to get his GPA to a place he could even be offered a dime. Usnavi was his biggest supporter though the idea of him losing it all rang a little too close to home. Luckily Sonny knew what he wanted, he wanted to get into law. Make the world a safer place, it wasn’t too long ago someone in their neck of the woods was faced with injustice. Sonny was living in the prime of social justice. The world needed more Sonnys in Usnavi’s eyes. That all said that didn’t mean he was going to take it easy on him. “Real jobs would fire you for how many times you’re late. No more lovey sob stories, get here on time.”

“Si señor” Sonny rolled his eyes, he leaned back eyeing up the fancy Impala that was illegally sitting in front of the store. “Yo I think he’s lost.” Sonny motioned to the skittish, big haired man sitting in the car staring out of every window.

“He’s probably waiting for someone.” Usnavi was guilty of standing around waiting for someone to run back to the car. Parking in New York was terrible. “He’ll leave soon.”

“Nah, man locked his car when he saw me pass by. He’s totally not from New York, he’s lost. I know that face.” He pointed with a cheesy covered fingertip. “That's the same face those tourists get when they realize they don’t know how to get out of Time Square. Man is lost.”

Usnavi looked out the window and wondered if it was true. He did look nervous. Not to take offense, most people who didn’t grow up in the Heights or anywhere else would have been frightened of New York City. It was a pretty intimidating city at first glance. Gritty and hard to make a living, but the real locals were just regular people trying to get by. None of those thugs and criminals sneaking around every corner with a glock in their waistband. Sure, they had some, every place had some but overall...people here were just like family. All living life and wanting the same thing...a fucking break. “He’s fine.”

“We should help him out, like, get him to buy something for directions.” Sonny nodded, partly because he wanted to mess with him a little more. “I got it.”

“Sonny? Sonny! Get your ass back here--aye mi madre ese niño me va da un solo ataque del corazón! (this kid is gonna give me a heartattack!)” Usnavi felt the stress rising as he watched Sonny walk out of the store and right up to the car. All Usnavi could do was wait, and have 911 on speed dial in case Sonny got himself into trouble.

Sonny approached the car once more. He peered into the window and gently tapped the glass. Johan jumped in surprise, he placed a hand to his chest like he was some B rank movie actress caught in a bad scene. He merely watched as Sonny motioned him to lower his window. Everything in him said get the hell out of here but he couldn’t drive off without Bow...she knew where their hotel was. Slowly, Johan pressed the window button and lowered it only just an inch. “Yes? C-Can I help you?” He was well prepared to give all of Rainbow’s belongings to save his neck. “You lost, friend?” Sonny smiled, a dimple forming at one side of his face. He looked...a lot more approachable when he smiled, just a young man with a very...openly friendly face. “Just askin’ cause like...you’re kinda parked in a no standing zone...Don’t want you to get a ticket...so if you need directions or something?” Johan looked up and noticed there was, in fact, a white and red sign that said no standing in front of the car. “Uh.” He blinked for a second. There was a catch, what was the catch, if he stepped out of this car right now was he going to get shanked? Johan was momentarily possessed by his sister’s spirit and got out of the car. Unlike her though, he took the keys and locked it once he stepped out. “A bit, yeah.” He admitted, looking down at Sonny. Before Sonny could implement his plan on of swapping knowledge with profit, Johan’s stomach growled like something fierce. It was nearly noon and they still hadn’t stopped to eat anywhere. These were trying times, “Do you know where I can grab a bite to eat?” “Actually I do~” Sonny’s cheeky grin somehow got even cheekier. “I know the single most amazing little place that serves breakfast sandwiches like you wouldn’t believe!” He turned and motioned to the store behind him. “Really? Because I already believe this will give me food poisoning…” He blinked a few times but after another rumble from his stomach Johan released his good senses in favor for anything edible. Sonny waltzed ahead of him, opening the door for Johan. Surely a customer would repay his tardiness to Usnavi. As soon as they walked in they were greeted with a “Good Morning.” Usnavi smiled brightly from the counter. Johan paused, the greeting wasn’t the regular top of the morning, how are you, please get what you want and leave sort of greeting. It was a homey almost welcoming sort of greeting. It had a ring to it like he was walking into someone’s kitchen. Too bad this place smelled like someone’s dank cooler. “What can I get for you?” Johan moved his eyes from the warm voiced fellow by the counter and scanned the menu for sometime. He was silent until Sonny tapped the counter with his knuckle and ordered for him, “Give him the best you got, primo.” Sonny winked at his cousin. Usnavi nodded and started cooking up his famed breakfast sandwich paired with a coffee all under five dollars. A deal New Yorkers dreamed of. “So, tell me, where you headed? Maybe I can help you out.” Right, directions, the other thing Johan needed. “My sister and I are looking for…” He snapped his fingers a bit, she had been talking about all flight...all week...what was .. “Colombian Hospital?” There was a small laugh that came from the griddle. Johan’s ears grew warm and pink at the sound. “You mean the ER? Uh...thats like...if you go down Broadway...or take River Drive.” Usnavi looked up from his griddle “Sonny shut up, you don’t even know how to get to your house without your maps app.” He continued to smile finding the lost newcomer funny, but he couldn’t sit there and get the poor man even more lost. “It's not maps app, its google, lord.” He rolled his eyes at his old fashion cousin. “Yeah, yeah why don’t you make yourself useful, man the griddle.” Sonny begrudgingly obeyed, he walked around the counter and took over Usnavi’s spot. While Usnavi went back to the counter top, facing Johan now. “Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, you’re real close. River Drive is terrible, you’re going to be stuck there for hours. What you’re gonna do is follow Haven down to 168th and Ft. Washington again and boom, it's gonna be right there, you can’t miss it.” “Huh, we were on Ft. Washington I wonder how we missed it to begin with.” Johan was a little ...surprised that Usnavi helped him so quickly and easily. A part of him felt a tad guilty for being so judgmental a few moments ago. “Don’t sweat it most newcomers aren’t taking in the sights of the city, they’re too busy watching their backs and keeping their eyes on the street.” He was no stranger to people being wry. “Once you pull back the stink of the city you get use to the people, and nothing about it is scary.” “Yeah only scary thing around here is your hat~” Sonny chuckled, earning himself a glare from Usnavi who purposely adjusted his cap a little more. “The hat is fine.” Johan blurted out, unsure why he felt like coming to the defense of Usnavi. He was so warm and welcoming, though watching him glare was probably equally as strangely warm and satisfying he felt the urge to insist otherwise. “I mean...its dated yes, but newspaper boy hats are cute, its like a ...Newsies style.” He spoke and both Usnavi and Sonny gave him a blank stare. Johan felt the heat rise to his face, “a Melton look?” They blinked in unison. Johan felt his cheeks heat up with color. “Its vintage, very cute.” “Ah…” Usnavi’s face did the same, he didn’t get most of the references but what he did get was the word ‘cute’. Usnavi was facing an academic so it seemed. “I mean they’re not all the rage with the kids now but wait a few more years.” “Actually kids now are loving the throwback vintage looks, France use to be big on berets, then they stopped once the Americans began sticking them onto every French representation from character to cartoon like it was meant to signifies this was French. Now it's back in style, more so even.” Johan rambled ostentatiously about his beloved-temporary home of France. How he missed teaching there...though it was nice to be home. He felt himself caught between wanting out of this place and wanting to be part of a family. Either way Johan was in a standstill in his life, suddenly talking about France was not doing him any good. Usnavi must have noticed the change in Johan’s face once he stopped rambling, the excited glow had subsided. 

He did what he did best, a poor, awkward joke in hopes for a smile. “Is it as the French say, c'est magnifique?” Usnavi literally only knew that word from a movie he saw once. Johan’s eyes softened a bit. His pronunciation was pretty poor. Usually he didn’t take the jokes without undoing them and making them no longer funny. But something about Usnavi’s shy delivery combined with probably how mind-numbingly hungry Johan was made him chuckle a bit. “I would say your accent is equally magnifique.” Johan placed his hand on the counter, leaning in a bit as Usnavi placed a fist to his mouth, covering his shaky laughter. His other hand tipped down the brim of his hat. There was a strange warmth that washed over him, and it wasn’t just the summer heat of the city beating down on the corner store. Usnavi wasn’t use to having a charismatic customer like Johan...it was nice talking to someone who wasn’t a regular. A clean slate. Usnavi found the courage to meet Johan’s gaze and didn’t question why he found himself smiling wider at the sight of him. “How do you like your coffee?” Sonny’s voice broke both their gazes,forcing Johan to look over at Sonny and Usnavi to look down at his counter. “Hm... “ He looked over the store again, “I’m going to guess you don’t serve freshly ground beans?” Usnavi smirked shaking his head a bit, “Sadly we don’t grind our own beans but we have the best coffee in New York.” The shorter man turned around and picked up a yellow tin can and placed it in front of Johan. “May I entice your senses to the single most amazing brand, the very lifeblood of our people. Bustelo Coffee.” He motioned to the can, Johan rolled his eyes but his smile was wider than ever. “I recommend drinking it light and sweet unless you want to put some hair on your chest then black.”

“Whats a couple more hairs on my body.” Johan answered, and Usnavi’s Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I’ll take it the way you do.” He swallowed again. “I flip between light and sweet or straight black… I usually go for a happy medium.” Usnavi answered honestly unable to come up with something else that was clever. Sonny was much better at this banter, the playful kind, after a while Usnavi’s natural shyness and word fumbling came out. “I’ll take the happy medium then.” Johan was actually relaxing now, Sonny had placed a breakfast sandwich on a paper plate for him, spiced sausage with a runny egg and a couple of avocado slices. All between some buttered, toasted buns. Johan was in mid bite, enjoying the smooth, spicy, creamy sensation of a perfectly balanced sandwich when Rainbow walked into the store. “There you are! Do you know why the car is locked I swore I left it unlock..” She walked over to Johan, his mouth full of food. She looked over at Usnavi and smiled brightly. “Good Morning” He beamed politely. “...also I recommend not leaving your car unlocked. I don’t think anyone around here would rob it but I know plenty of knucklehead kids who would gladly take a nap in a car with an a/c” “Jesus, I do that one time and I never hear the end of it.” Sonny groaned, “the guy didn’t even press charges.” Usnavi chuckled, giving Johan some time to chew before addressing his this woman, was this the sister he mentioned?  “Where have you been?” Johan glanced over at her, running his thumb against the corner of his lips to save a morsel of food. He was damn hungry and this was a damn good sandwich even for his palette.  “I was looking for someone to give me directions, I ran into several people but...we had a bit of a language barrier.” She blushed a bit, “I didn’t think my Spanish was too bad.” From the look she was giving him, and the fact she was empty handed oh it must have been bad. Johan didn’t say that out loud though. “I got directions, no thanks to you. It just proves my resourcefulness in the city surpasses your weird romanticized ideals of this city.” “You’re Welcome!” Sonny called out from the back again. Rainbow shook her head, “Ok, fine, maybe you’re a little more savvy than I am. But this city is a lot nicer than you say it is.” She jabbed her finger into Johan’s arm. She turned to Usnavi and Sonny smiling, “Thank you for the directions, Johan pick me up a coffee, I’m going to get in the car before we get hit with a ticket!” Bow scampered out of the store. Johan felt eyes on him, Usnavi’s eyes who were staring up at him with a thousand questions. “So you think the city is pretty bad huh?” Usnavi accused in a way that sounded playful but Johan still felt guilty. “Blame the media falsely glorifying the common chicanery about New York.” He blushed a bit, Usnavi’s face softened. “...but she’s right, New York is a lot nicer than I imagined…” Perhaps, that or the people were nicer than he expected. “My sister and I will be here for a while so who knows, I might pop by for the ‘best coffee in New York’” Johan grabbed the remainder of his sandwiches and the coffee, playing for everything with a ten. “Keep the change.” Usnavi cranked his neck a bit watching Johan leave. His eyes glued to the man’s retreating back as he slid back into the 2016 Impala. He was left with only more questions, who was that strange human being. The entire time he realized he got no name from him. Nothing, just knowledge he was here and he might come back. A tender smile started to inch its way across his face. “Sweet, if he turns into a regular that HAS to make up for me being late~ Right?” Sonny smirked, Usnavi would have barked something back at him. Instead he was silent. “Usnavi?” He blinked a few times, watching his cousin. From the side all he could see was his brother’s face as the car drove off and left their store. Sonny glanced at the empty space where the car had been then back at his cousin wondering what was going on. When the answer came from Usnavi’s mouth. “You think he’ll actually come back?” (Ohyeshewill)

#crossover #crossover fic #johan johnson #usnavi de la vega #blackish #In The Heights #crossover au #fanfiction #fanfic #josnavi #johsnavi #semi edited #ran out of patience #johsnavi fic

[sm0rches]

Trouble in the Tropics (a Jane Bond story pt. 4)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

On an island somewhere in the Caribbean, one of the world's most cunning villainesses lounges—a stunningly beautiful woman in a white bikini who calls herself Ms. Blanche. Her secret resort is a small slice of paradise: dazzling waves tinted sapphire and turquoise gently hug its creamy shore, while a balmy breeze rustles the palm trees and the feathers of nesting gulls. She won it in a drinking match against a Hungarian prince and soon after had it redesigned to suit her needs. Though it was rather small, she somehow managed to have a great, white mansion of cubist design built on it, accompanied by a miniature waterfall for optimum relaxation.

The sun always shone on Pearl Island, yet there was a storm on its way nevertheless with Jane Bond and Esther Merald en route.

Steering their speedboat like a fine white steed, 007 stood proudly at the helm, her golden locks perfectly tousled in the salty wind. The sleeves of her silk blouse were rolled up,  displaying long arms and creamy skin, while her sunglasses glinted in the afternoon sunshine. Miss Merald stood behind her, dressed in a mint jumpsuit that billowed in the wind, her bare shoulders shining like smoky quartz gems.

The two cut a fierce and regal pair. Ms. Blanche could not help but smile gleefully as she watched them on the horizon. She lay on a chiffon sheet spread out in the sand, a white canopy over her to protect her delicate complexion. Two of her servants, Boris and Vlad, loomed over her in matching white suits, ready to tend to her every need.

When the speedboat came to rest on shore, Boris and Vlad drew their glocks, ready to defend their mistress, but she motioned for them to pause. She had no intention of killing her guests without letting them have a drink first.

The island was much too small to clandestinely sneak up on their target, and Jane knew Ms. Blanche was much too clever to not have some method of surveillance to prevent unwanted intruders. Thus, Jane proposed that they make no effort to arrive unnoticed.

It was a gamble, but Jane Bond was rather familiar with those. So it was with complete confidence that she ran towards Ms. Blanche, pulling out her Walther PPK. Esther followed close behind, providing an intimidating glare and emotional support (Jane often needed it).

When they reached her, Jane pointed her gun directly at Ms. Blanche’s face and said, “Don’t try anything funny, ma’am, or I will shoot.”

"Oh no, you've foiled my diabolical plan," Ms. Blanche sighed in response, taking a sip of her coconut cream cocktail with little alarm. It was obvious she was unconcerned about their sudden presence. In fact, judging by her subtle smirk, she seemed pleased to see them.

She rose from her reclined position and, after waving away her bodyguards and picking up the sheet, sauntered off in the direction of her mansion. Jane and Esther had no choice but to follow, albeit suspiciously.

The two had come across many fine residencies in their travels and had even lived in a few mansions in their day, but they could not help but be impressed by her extravagant (and somewhat peculiar) decor. True to her nature, everything---from the walls to the floor to the furniture---was blindingly white.

Except for, of course, the dead bodies lying in pools of blood in the kitchen.

"Mind the mess," Ms. Blanche said as she gestured towards the corpses. "I've been meaning to get the maid to clean those up."

"Absolutely marvelous," Esther said sarcastically as she gingerly avoided them, her cynicism masking her sudden urge to vomit. "It really adds some pizazz." She glanced over at her partner, hoping for an equally biting comment, but Jane was silently observing, deep in thought. She recalled the conversation she had hours earlier with Q, their quartermaster and computer extraordinaire. Because this was an unofficial mission, Q had to do some digging on the sly, and he had managed to find information about Ms. Blanche, also known as...

"Natalia Dorminov," Q said, showing a picture of the familiar woman on his laptop screen. "34 years of age and the daughter of a Russian crime lord and English baroness, so she obviously comes from affluent standing. She began training in ballet and gymnastics at age 4 and martial arts at age 8. She has been credited with over 30 kills."

"Acting as what? An assassin?"

"...She apparently has many temper tantrums."

"Does M know you're here?" Ms. Blanche asked curiously, disrupting Jane's flashback. When she was met with silence, she smiled wickedly. "Oh, someone's been very naughty indeed. If you died today, who would know? Who would come to retrieve your mangled bodies after I've fed you to the sharks---?"

"Natalia, my dear, what are you up to?" A new voice interrupted. An older woman appeared in the doorway, looking very out of place in a black turtleneck and black slacks. However, she held herself with an air of such confidence and intensity that Jane and Esther did not dare question her place there. Her blonde hair and blue eyes, which studied them critically from behind black-rimmed glasses, mirrored Ms. Blanche's so much so that it was no great surprise (at least to Jane) when Ms. Blanche frowned and said, "Mummy, I thought you were just leaving."

“Mummy?” Esther’s eyebrows flew heavenward.

Ms. Blanche’s mother smiled, amused by Esther’s response. She waltzed into the room, going into the kitchen (paying little heed to the corpses) to pour herself a glass of red wine. “I was planning on it, but I thought you could introduce me to your new friends first.”

Esther was too dumbfounded to respond, but Jane, ever charming, stepped forward and extended her hand. When she took it, Jane bowed slightly and brought the woman’s hand to her lips, saying, “Baroness Gillian van Derson, I presume?”

Gillian van Derson’s smile widened. “Ah, you must be the chivalrous Jane Bond that my daughter adores. It’s a pleasure finally meeting you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She turned to Esther, who had finally recovered from her shock. “This is my partner, Ms. Merald. Esther, this is---”

“Mummy dearest,” Ms. Blanche finished, wanting to be part of the conversation again. She was pouting slightly, having the attention not centered on her. “Who said she was just leaving.”

Gillian waved her hand dismissively, taking a sip of her wine and making herself comfortable on one of the white kitchen stools. “Nonsense. If I knew Ms. Bond would be here, I wouldn’t have made other plans.”

“But Daddy’s waiting for you in Moscow.”

“Your father can wait. The Russian opium trade won’t suddenly dissolve because I chose to postpone the meeting. I’ll let Maurice know to wait on bringing the helicopter.”

At the mention of the opium trade, Jane and Esther exchanged looks, reminded of their reason for being there. It appeared they would need to apprehend two villains today instead of one.

Twenty minutes later, when they found themselves strapped to lab tables in a white room full of scary torture devices and glinting medical instruments, this proved to be a more daunting task than they were expecting.

Gillian, who had taken on a much more frightening expression, stood over them, her wine glass in one hand and a silver scalpel in the other. Her daughter, having done most of the dirty work, sat, disheveled and bruised on the counter near Jane’s feet. “That wasn’t fun at all. I broke a nail,” she mourned, examining a silver stub on her index finger.

“How unfortunate.” Agent 007 was of ill humor, having lost the fight. Natalia Dorminov proved to be very spry, and even though she initially had her at gun point, Gillian intervened by threatening to decapitate Esther, thus forcing Jane to withdraw.

“Now don’t be sour,” Gillian said with a smirk. “If it’s any consolation, I will have great fun dissecting your brains. You will contribute much to science.”

“Now now, Mummy,” Ms. Blanche protested. “You can’t kill that one. She’s mine.”

“I’m afraid you’re horribly mistaken, Ms. Blanche.” Jane raised an eyebrow. “The only woman I pledge allegiance to is the Queen.” And with a dramatic flourish, she broke her bonds and magnificently kicked Ms. Blanche off the table.

Ms. Blanche let out a shriek, and Gillian raised her hand, preparing to slice Esther open in response to Jane’s defiance, but Jane managed to wrangle the scalpel out of the mad scientist’s hand and free her friend.

Two gunshots and three karate chops later, the pair had escaped the white house of horror and were sprinting towards their speedboat. They had barely managed to escape with their skins, much less with the Baroness and her criminal mastermind daughter in captivity.

Bringing Gillian van Derson and Ms. Blanche would be a mission for another day. Until then, the cat and mouse game continued. But such is life for the daring 007 and her trusty colleague, Ms. Merald.

---

Gillian van Derson was of course modeled after Gillian Anderson (thanks @vavaharrison for the idea!). Sorry the ending was rushed :/

#the jane bond series #gwendoline christie #gillian anderson #lupita nyong'o #natalie dormer #writing tag #james bond

[613526362]

You and your daughter

This is not the end.

This is not the end. It’s the beginning of a new world. A world where we realize how vulnerable we are, how weak we are, how defenseless we are, how ignorant we are. 

Surgeon hasn’t realized any of that yet. 

He will.

I sent a text message, “I’m leaving in 30 minutes.”

No response. He and his wife had stayed up late the night before drinking and watching Netflix. His response to the virus was, in general, to watch Netflix.

Finally after I sent a 10 minute text, I heard his footsteps down the stairs.

I told him I was going to West to buy a handgun. It was the only place I could with my drivers license, due to the laws.

I told him I might be back that night, or the next night, if it was okay with him. I would then travel on to the Midwest.

When we were standing outside and I took the cover off my car, Beth said, “Wow Marshall. You sure packed up your car fast.”

“I did it, gradually,” I said, looking at Surgeon with a glance.

I remember my last words to him. All things I had said before.

All falling on deaf ears.

“They’re using anesthesia machines for ventilators, converting surgical suites into ICUs for COVID patients. I understand that you feel that your neighbors - and the hospital - will support you and take care you you when this gets bad. But you see the hospital is already failing. No equipment, financial problems. I hope you’ll take the opportunity to prepare somethings for yourself and your wife in case things get bad.”

All falling on deaf ears.

Two hours later, I started to get repeat phone calls from Surgeon. Then messages, when I didn’t pick up,

“DONT GO TO THE BIG CITY.”

“THEYRE GOING TO QUARANTINE THE BIG CITY.”

“COME HERE OR GO TO THE MIDWEST WITH BRAD. DONT GO.”

Maybe seven or so phone calls. 

Did he realize he just lost his best chance at survival? If so, what spurned it? Did he go downstairs and see that the entire room full of medical equipment, of which he had so stupidly said in passing, “Hey man maybe we could sells some of this to the hospital,” was completely vanished.

And all he had was two vials of expired lidocaine.

But it’s ok. His neighbors would save him. The one with the chronic anal fistula, the blind Vietnam vet. They would save him. He doesn’t need to grow a garden because the neighbors started one. He doesn’t need to buy a scope, or a rangefinder, or deer corn, because the neighbors have it.

He started calling me, “Wild Card,” as a way to make fun of me for suddenly leaving.

I actually had planned out leaving for a week. Not quite a wild card. But expected events are unexpected to the ignorant.

Four hours later, as I stand on a blue piece of tape marked six feet from another blue piece of tape, Will at the gun counter seems a bit unsettled. He started our customer interaction by telling me I could clean by hands with the wipes over there. I did not. At one point, he grasped the pistol with a white-gloved hand and jutted it out towards me - “Look the pistol over and then we will put it back in the box.”

“No, I’m good,” I said. He looked me in the eye with disappointment. 

Before COVID hit, I have a feeling customers actually liked to hold firearms before buying them.

“They don’t make a gun that doesn’t shoot,” I said.

After he placed it back in the box, he directed me to fill out the ATF digital form on a tablet. I expect he may have noticed I looked antsy. Little did he know the thoughts racing through my head - “Am I sacrificing $40,000 for a $500 gun?”

My car was down to 2% battery life since I had driven so fast to East State trying to get one of their last three Glock 19s. A message had popped up on the screen saying, “Charge now. Car will suffer irreparable damage if you do not charge.”

Finally, after standing for 10, 20 minutes, I spoke up.

“Will, I need to go give my father his insulin shot at 2. If the background check takes up to 30 minutes, can I come back?”

After charging and racing back to the sporting goods store, I realized the line outside had grown to probably a 30 minute wait of 15-foot spaced individuals and families standing awkwardly on blue lines.

The lady screaming at people in line wouldn’t send my message to the gun counter that I was back in line. In fears they would give my gun to someone else, I snuck around the corner and call the store from my phone. I peeked around the corner and noticed the same line-keeper pick up her phone.

“Can I please speak to Will at the gun counter?” 

“I’ll put you right through,” she responded.

“Hi Will. This is Marshall Nabrit. I just wanted to let you know I’m back in line.” 

“Will you’ve been delayed.”

“No, I’m not delayed, I’m in line.”

“No, listen. Your application for a firearm has been delayed. It could take 1-3 days for it to be approved.”

“Umm……”

“What do you want to do Marshall.”

“Ummm….. 1-3 days. I guess, um, I guess I won’t take it.”

Oh fuck. I drove four five hours and didn’t get what I wanted. Fuck. Fuck.

First I called Brad. He said he could call an ATF agent on Monday to see why I was delayed, but he expected it was something minor. I mentioned that my identity had been stolen a few years ago. He thought that was probably it.

Then I called my dad.

I hadn’t wanted to tell him I was in his state. 

We discussed the handguns he has. He volunteered to give me his Glock 19.

“Dad I cannot, in good conscience, take away your best pistol from you. I would not be a good son if I did that going into this situation.”

Finally, he agreed to accept $500 in cash for it.

The problem was, he volunteered to meet me 30 minutes from my house. He seemed to think it would be a five hour drive for me, so I agreed we would meet. I would see him, see Budzo for a minute, and grab the pistol. 

But then after hanging up, I ran the numbers and it looked like an 8 hour drive with charging stops.

My mind circled. Would this be the last time I would ever see my dad? How bad did I need the gun? Wouldn’t it be nice to send a video of me and Budzo to Belle. Wouldn’t that cheer her up with how stressed she is?

I reached in my pocket, and felt it there. My coin from Africa.

Even when the coin is deciding, I still have to choose heads or tails.

Moments later, I was crafting a message to my dad. 

“Hey dad, it looks like it would be a 15 hour round trip for me. I have to get back to the Big City, because they’re thinking of quarantining it.”

His response was simple. “Ok, I understand.”

Hours later I was in Memphis. I drove up to what looked like a nightmare of a hotel, with yellow crime tape over the front door. In the reception area my voice was calm and steady as the attendants told me, “I can’t check you in, since our power is off. We hope it will come back soon.”

It didn’t. It didn’t come back on after 30 minutes, or an hour.

On the phone with some guy paid $12 an hour to take calls in the middle of the night for Priceline, I could hear his kids playing in the background.

It was their policy, he said, that they “have to confirm with the hotel that they are unable to check you in.”

And when he couldn’t confirm, he couldn’t refund me or get me another hotel. 

I guess they would just swallow my money and leave me to sleep in my car. I guess so.

I don’t really have a tipping point, honestly. Or if I do, I’ve lived half of the last 10 years past my tipping point, so it doesn’t even matter.

But I do like to yell.

“Simon, HOW CAN YOU CONFIRM WITH THE HOTEL WHEN THEIR FUCKING POWER IS OFF AND PHONES AREN’T WORKING. ARE YOU GOING TO REFUND ME OR GIVE ME A DIFFERENT HOTEL????”

They were going to do neither. They were going to fuck me instead.

“SIMON, IS THAT YOUR DAUGHTER IN THE BACKGROUND. DOES SHE HAVE ELECTRICITY TONIGHT? THEN I GUESS YOU AND HER DON’T KNOW HOW I FEEL, DO YOU?”

I finished up the conversation with a sweet fuck you and fuck your daughter.

Tipping point.

I’m headed back to the Big City in a few minutes. Not sure if I’ll eat or not. I’ve lost 30 pounds in the last six months. My BMI is just bordering anorexia.

Money for guns, money for food. Money for rent went out the window a long time ago. 

Fuck you and fuck your daughter

Fuck you and fuck your daughter

I’m playing out scenes in my head, scenarios. How I would rob an ambulance at gunpoint to take their oxygen equipment. They would probably be surprised I didn’t want to steal the narcotics.

Brad sounds stressed in his tone when I talk to him. Have I divided his family? Butting heads with Surgeon, have I fucked my own chance at an ally?

Fuck you and fuck your daughter…

My attitude isn’t good. My mindset isn’t good. To survive you have to be smart. You can’t do it all alone.

But I never wanted to survive in this life, even when things were good.

I’ve always wanted to die.

But I want to die the way I want to die. And it’s not in this hellhole they call America.

[yesdanielblisslove]

Learn Self Defense - It May Spare Your Life!

Self Defense can arrive in an assortment of ways. Numerous people take up a military workmanship in order to learn to guard themselves while others decide on a "self defense class". Be that as it may, are combative techniques self-defense situated and are self-defense classes worth your time and exertion. Numerous dojos over the world are arranged toward the brandishing perspectives: competitions, customized organization exhibitions, board breaking and outrageous exhibitions that are essentially centered around looking great and doing some entirely flawless gymnastic accomplishments. Competition matches don't reflect great self-defense or even great battling. A few specialists express that "free competing" is the most exceedingly awful thing you can accomplish for getting ready for self defense or battling. I will in general concur. A battle is commonly over with like a flash and the victor is the person who has the most body parts in judgment. Self-defense systems by and large reflect those found in a battle. Individuals get bloodied and tend to lose body parts, especially teeth. A battle may result from a showdown that could be esteemed self-defense. It could be from a robbing or an ambush. You could be the casualty of a trap type attack since you resemble an obvious objective. You might be sucked into an encounter since you saw somebody wrong or are wearing an inappropriate shading garments in an inappropriate neighborhood. Numerous showdowns start with the "monkey move". This is the place one or the two gatherings show animosity without truly accomplishing more than posing. They endeavor to threaten the other party either by words or activities. A few showdowns begin with a sucker punch and go from that point. Typically the individual that grounds the principal blow wins. Self-defense preparing can spare your life, whenever done appropriately. In the event that you have had inappropriate preparing it could push you into genuine difficulty. Taking a six-week self-defense class, as I would see it is very useless. So as to have the option to play out the systems you have to do them many, ordinarily. You should see how you will respond when assaulted and get an abrupt adrenalin dump into your framework. That system learned in the self-defense class that was so natural to perform on an agreeable preparing accomplice all of a sudden simply does not show up on the grounds that your engine reactions strife with your psychological procedures at simply an inappropriate time. Aptitudes must be figured out how to the degree that your "reptilian cerebrum", that piece of your mind held for survival impulses, kicks in and you can perform without deduction. You should probably hit all openings gave and do it adequate goal and power to be viable. You should be eager to take the necessary steps to endure the encounter. In the combative techniques we are encouraged that our whole body is a weapon. The best weapon in our ownership is our mind. We should have an arrangement for our defense. Comprehend that the arrangement is brilliant until the stinky material hits the fast revolving gadget. What you should get ready for is 1) how to get away from the district you are in, 2) how to keep from getting your head busted. Possibly arranging where you are going is a superior initial step then you may not need stages one and two. Continuously consider the "Imagine a scenario in which" in making your arrangements. Continuously plan for an exit plan. Abilities for guarding yourself must be "gross engine aptitudes". When you get under a pressure circumstance and the adrenalin starts siphoning you will lose the vast majority of your fine engine aptitudes and you may create limited focus and passage hearing. Your arms and legs may not fill in as you might suspect they should. Your points of view are additionally reduced. A couple of years back I had the chance to instruct a self-defense class for my little girl and a portion of her partners. I disclosed to them what I thought of transient classes and what they needed to do to make the systems reasonable (steady practice after class). Fundamental punching, front kicks, knee strikes and palm heels were the main things instructed. At that point we rehearsed them for three days doing several redundancies. Do you think any about those ladies will recall the procedures introduced? Likely they won't. In any case, at any rate they were presented to the ideas of guarding their individual. Ideally they will never need to discover the most difficult way possible. In our general public today we have the tragic circumstance where there are packs. It doesn't make a difference who or where they are or what they call themselves. They are hazardous, rough and fierce. They convey firearms, blades, screwdrivers and an assortment of different weapons. They have a penchant for taking medications, for example, cocaine, split and meth. An experience with a few of these thoughtless downers could be lethal. On the off chance that you hit them they may not feel torment as a calm individual would. Their quality might be expanded exponentially on account of the medications. How might you guard yourself against somebody or a gathering under those conditions? A companion of dig used to work for the California Roadway Watch. He has identified with me an account of a meth fanatic that was brought into the booking room in custody. At the point when the sleeves were expelled he assaulted the booking official. The downer dove his thumbs into the eyes of the booking official for all time blinding him. It took four or five officials to pull this moron off the booking official and afterward simply after they had rendered him oblivious. Envision experiencing somebody like that in a self-defense circumstance. Better have your self-defense procedures under control and comprehend what you are doing. A knee to the crotch and a palm heel strike to the jawline presumably would not have the ideal impact. Point scoring systems are totally not feasible. Extraordinary compared to other self-defense methods I at any point scholarly was running. In a long time ago on the off chance that you could run twenty miles you may almost certainly get me. Presently I am fortunate to have the option to keep running over the road. Better to flee and live to run one more day than to play macho-man and get the second place trophy. That is the one with the zipper up the center and is built in order to not let body liquids break out. Tightening influences (stifles and strangulations) are a feasible alternative against a liquor or medication impeded rival yet on the off chance that you treat it terribly you should be prepared to confront the court framework. Perhaps in your self-defense classes they should show restoration strategies, eh? A few people supporter conveying a weapon. I am one of those people. Anyway in light of the fact that you have a Glock taken care of your belt does not mean you can adequately and wisely (or legitimately) use it. You should require the push to get the preparation and practice, practice, practice. In the event that lawful, you might need to convey a blade. It shouldn't be a huge "Rambo" blade. Simply think what a specialist can do with a one-inch sharp edge! I for one would prefer to confront a weapon than a blade. Blades can deliver some extremely ghastly harm in an exceptionally short measure of time and they are consistently very close. They never come up short on ammunition, there is no wellbeing to miss and they are constantly prepared to utilize. Your selection of weapons is up to you. You may wish to not convey a weapon. That is up to you however recall an individual with a weapon has an unmistakable bit of leeway over any of any size and expertise that does not have a weapon. Be careful about any self-defense courses that guarantee their procedures as undefeatable or that you can take on anybody of any size, quality, or ability and win inevitably. Each system has a counter method; each counter strategy has a counter, endlessly, ceaselessly. These cases can push you into genuine difficulty in the event that you attempt to utilize the methods instructed and you keep running toward somebody that knows the counters. Road warriors realize the counters to a ton of hand to hand fighting systems and they practice them. Pre-emptive strikes may give a sound self-defense. In the event that you realize you are going to be assaulted as a result of verbal dangers and non-verbal communication and you can express why you dreaded for your life or wellbeing a first strike is passable. It is likewise suggested. What did that Common War General say? Arrive the firstus with the mostus. In a self-defense circumstance that starts with the monkey move, consistently watch the other person's hands. On the off chance that you can't see them, at that point almost certainly, the person in question is going to send a weapon. That changes things essentially. At the point when a weapon is introduced you currently have support for deadly power. No one destroys a blade just to panic you. Their expectation is to hurt you, forever. A gun is extremely scary and in the event that they are more than arm's good ways from you overlook any clever self-defense incapacitates. Comparable to you might be you can't cover the separation quicker than Smith and Wesson. Somebody setting successful adjusts on objective is another subject. [Author's note: when I went to the police institute we were recounted a circumstance where a cop and a miscreant got into a gunfight at a scope of six feet. Both discharged each of the six rounds from their guns. At the point when the smoke cleared both were remaining there unscratched. Both reloaded and terminated another six adjusts each. Same outcome. Astonishing what adrenalin can accomplish for you!] A decent book to have and to study is: The Endowment of Dread by Gavin De Becker. It discusses tuning in to your premonitions, as your gut is generally right. In the event that you end up in a circumstance that simply does not feel right tune in to that feeling and get the hell out of there. Furthermore, it is alright to be impolite. Better to think about what may have occurred than to encounter it direct. I tell my understudies that all preparation is great regardless of whether it shows you what not to do. So in the event that you are wanting to take self-defense with the possibility that it might spare your life please take a gander at the preparation with a basic eye. Adrenalin based reaction preparing is likely your first best decision. I additionally comprehend that Gunsite Preparing Center has a few openings. Business Name: Tokon Martial Arts Street Address: 1920 Terracina Drive Suite 200 City: Sacramento State: CA Zip Code: 95834 Phone Number: 916 835 7717 Website: www.TokonSacramento.com Business Email: [email protected] Business Hours: Mo - Fr 5PM - 8PM Saturday: 8:30AM to 11AM

[joroanblog]

Learn Self Defense - It May Spare Your Life!

Self Defense can arrive in an assortment of ways. Numerous people take up a military workmanship in order to learn to guard themselves while others decide on a "self defense class". Be that as it may, are combative techniques self-defense situated and are self-defense classes worth your time and exertion. Numerous dojos over the world are arranged toward the brandishing perspectives: competitions, customized organization exhibitions, board breaking and outrageous exhibitions that are essentially centered around looking great and doing some entirely flawless gymnastic accomplishments. Competition matches don't reflect great self-defense or even great battling. A few specialists express that "free competing" is the most exceedingly awful thing you can accomplish for getting ready for self defense or battling. I will in general concur. A battle is commonly over with like a flash and the victor is the person who has the most body parts in judgment. Self-defense systems by and large reflect those found in a battle. Individuals get bloodied and tend to lose body parts, especially teeth. A battle may result from a showdown that could be esteemed self-defense. It could be from a robbing or an ambush. You could be the casualty of a trap type attack since you resemble an obvious objective. You might be sucked into an encounter since you saw somebody wrong or are wearing an inappropriate shading garments in an inappropriate neighborhood. Numerous showdowns start with the "monkey move". This is the place one or the two gatherings show animosity without truly accomplishing more than posing. They endeavor to threaten the other party either by words or activities. A few showdowns begin with a sucker punch and go from that point. Typically the individual that grounds the principal blow wins. Self-defense preparing can spare your life, whenever done appropriately. In the event that you have had inappropriate preparing it could push you into genuine difficulty. Taking a six-week self-defense class, as I would see it is very useless. So as to have the option to play out the systems you have to do them many, ordinarily. You should see how you will respond when assaulted and get an abrupt adrenalin dump into your framework. That system learned in the self-defense class that was so natural to perform on an agreeable preparing accomplice all of a sudden simply does not show up on the grounds that your engine reactions strife with your psychological procedures at simply an inappropriate time. Aptitudes must be figured out how to the degree that your "reptilian cerebrum", that piece of your mind held for survival impulses, kicks in and you can perform without deduction. You should probably hit all openings gave and do it adequate goal and power to be viable. You should be eager to take the necessary steps to endure the encounter. In the combative techniques we are encouraged that our whole body is a weapon. The best weapon in our ownership is our mind. We should have an arrangement for our defense. Comprehend that the arrangement is brilliant until the stinky material hits the fast revolving gadget. What you should get ready for is 1) how to get away from the district you are in, 2) how to keep from getting your head busted. Possibly arranging where you are going is a superior initial step then you may not need stages one and two. Continuously consider the "Imagine a scenario in which" in making your arrangements. Continuously plan for an exit plan. Abilities for guarding yourself must be "gross engine aptitudes". When you get under a pressure circumstance and the adrenalin starts siphoning you will lose the vast majority of your fine engine aptitudes and you may create limited focus and passage hearing. Your arms and legs may not fill in as you might suspect they should. Your points of view are additionally reduced. A couple of years back I had the chance to instruct a self-defense class for my little girl and a portion of her partners. I disclosed to them what I thought of transient classes and what they needed to do to make the systems reasonable (steady practice after class). Fundamental punching, front kicks, knee strikes and palm heels were the main things instructed. At that point we rehearsed them for three days doing several redundancies. Do you think any about those ladies will recall the procedures introduced? Likely they won't. In any case, at any rate they were presented to the ideas of guarding their individual. Ideally they will never need to discover the most difficult way possible. In our general public today we have the tragic circumstance where there are packs. It doesn't make a difference who or where they are or what they call themselves. They are hazardous, rough and fierce. They convey firearms, blades, screwdrivers and an assortment of different weapons. They have a penchant for taking medications, for example, cocaine, split and meth. An experience with a few of these thoughtless downers could be lethal. On the off chance that you hit them they may not feel torment as a calm individual would. Their quality might be expanded exponentially on account of the medications. How might you guard yourself against somebody or a gathering under those conditions? A companion of dig used to work for the California Roadway Watch. He has identified with me an account of a meth fanatic that was brought into the booking room in custody. At the point when the sleeves were expelled he assaulted the booking official. The downer dove his thumbs into the eyes of the booking official for all time blinding him. It took four or five officials to pull this moron off the booking official and afterward simply after they had rendered him oblivious. Envision experiencing somebody like that in a self-defense circumstance. Better have your self-defense procedures under control and comprehend what you are doing. A knee to the crotch and a palm heel strike to the jawline presumably would not have the ideal impact. Point scoring systems are totally not feasible. Extraordinary compared to other self-defense methods I at any point scholarly was running. In a long time ago on the off chance that you could run twenty miles you may almost certainly get me. Presently I am fortunate to have the option to keep running over the road. Better to flee and live to run one more day than to play macho-man and get the second place trophy. That is the one with the zipper up the center and is built in order to not let body liquids break out. Tightening influences (stifles and strangulations) are a feasible alternative against a liquor or medication impeded rival yet on the off chance that you treat it terribly you should be prepared to confront the court framework. Perhaps in your self-defense classes they should show restoration strategies, eh? A few people supporter conveying a weapon. I am one of those people. Anyway in light of the fact that you have a Glock taken care of your belt does not mean you can adequately and wisely (or legitimately) use it. You should require the push to get the preparation and practice, practice, practice. In the event that lawful, you might need to convey a blade. It shouldn't be a huge "Rambo" blade. Simply think what a specialist can do with a one-inch sharp edge! I for one would prefer to confront a weapon than a blade. Blades can deliver some extremely ghastly harm in an exceptionally short measure of time and they are consistently very close. They never come up short on ammunition, there is no wellbeing to miss and they are constantly prepared to utilize. Your selection of weapons is up to you. You may wish to not convey a weapon. That is up to you however recall an individual with a weapon has an unmistakable bit of leeway over any of any size and expertise that does not have a weapon. Be careful about any self-defense courses that guarantee their procedures as undefeatable or that you can take on anybody of any size, quality, or ability and win inevitably. Each system has a counter method; each counter strategy has a counter, endlessly, ceaselessly. These cases can push you into genuine difficulty in the event that you attempt to utilize the methods instructed and you keep running toward somebody that knows the counters. Road warriors realize the counters to a ton of hand to hand fighting systems and they practice them. Pre-emptive strikes may give a sound self-defense. In the event that you realize you are going to be assaulted as a result of verbal dangers and non-verbal communication and you can express why you dreaded for your life or wellbeing a first strike is passable. It is likewise suggested. What did that Common War General say? Arrive the firstus with the mostus. In a self-defense circumstance that starts with the monkey move, consistently watch the other person's hands. On the off chance that you can't see them, at that point almost certainly, the person in question is going to send a weapon. That changes things essentially. At the point when a weapon is introduced you currently have support for deadly power. No one destroys a blade just to panic you. Their expectation is to hurt you, forever. A gun is extremely scary and in the event that they are more than arm's good ways from you overlook any clever self-defense incapacitates. Comparable to you might be you can't cover the separation quicker than Smith and Wesson. Somebody setting successful adjusts on objective is another subject. [Author's note: when I went to the police institute we were recounted a circumstance where a cop and a miscreant got into a gunfight at a scope of six feet. Both discharged each of the six rounds from their guns. At the point when the smoke cleared both were remaining there unscratched. Both reloaded and terminated another six adjusts each. Same outcome. Astonishing what adrenalin can accomplish for you!] A decent book to have and to study is: The Endowment of Dread by Gavin De Becker. It discusses tuning in to your premonitions, as your gut is generally right. In the event that you end up in a circumstance that simply does not feel right tune in to that feeling and get the hell out of there. Furthermore, it is alright to be impolite. Better to think about what may have occurred than to encounter it direct. I tell my understudies that all preparation is great regardless of whether it shows you what not to do. So in the event that you are wanting to take self-defense with the possibility that it might spare your life please take a gander at the preparation with a basic eye. Adrenalin based reaction preparing is likely your first best decision. I additionally comprehend that Gunsite Preparing Center has a few openings. Business Name: Tokon Martial Arts Street Address: 1920 Terracina Drive Suite 200 City: Sacramento State: CA Zip Code: 95834 Phone Number: 916 835 7717 Website: www.TokonSacramento.com Business Email: [email protected] Business Hours: Mo - Fr 5PM - 8PM Saturday: 8:30AM to 11AM