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soldiersweiner · 3 years

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What a Shift (I can't believe I got to write another one omg?)

(Imagine 2)

Summary: “D'you know how hard it was to keep my cool when I got the call and saw you at the end of it?”

Warning: DUI accidents, mentions of drugs, EMT stuff

I apologize for any errors (English isn't my first language and all my works are not beta-read) and the inaccuracy (I tried my best to research as much as I can). I also use gifs to only show what is happening (actions, gestures, etc.) and not to show the physical appearance, etc. of the reader. Feedback is very welcome, let me know where and how I can improve <3

"Lord give me patience or an untraceable handgun." You murmured under your breath while slowly making circles with your fingers on your temple, all the while putting pressure as the headache grew.

You were thankful that it was your turn to be behind the wheel and not the one hopping out of the vehicle to scan the area for the caller, you watched as your partner turned her head from left to right before leaning to the device on her shoulder to radio in your dispatcher and inform them of your current status.

You already had a hunch that it was a prank call from the start when your dispatcher spoke to both of you while on the way to the location they received the call from. You haven’t heard of anyone using a telephone booth in years, let alone aware of any telephone booths still existing in New York in this day and age!

'We already rang them back three times but there was no answer.' They said, their voice static through the radio. ‘But the caller did request an ambulance.'

‘If you wouldn’t mind having a quick drive-by, see if anything’s going on?’ They added before ending the call.

"Well, that stinks - literally.” The door opened, hands on her hips and brows that were furrowed to meet in the middle of her forehead - the look of disappointment and annoyance that mirrored yours. “What a bunch of assholes - an absolute waste of time.” She huffed some more before climbing back in.

“Tell me about it.” You answered with a frustrated sigh before turning to your side and reaching for the latch of your seatbelt and buckling it back. “Can’t believe some kids would think it’s fun to do this.”

“If they don’t use their heads, they better give it away, then.” Monica shook her head while clicking her tongue, already buckling her seatbelt and leaning back on her seat. “They’re costing us money.”

“They’re costing us lives.” You almost exclaimed as you started the engine, shifting the gear stick and letting the ambulance move away from the prank caller’s location. “Do they not realize that we could have been saving lives, responding elsewhere?”

“Right?” Monica agreed, both of your moods already declining and it wasn’t even halfway through your 12-hour shift.

“They got a special place in hell.” She said just before the monitor in the middle of the dashboard beeped, alerting the two of you of another emergency.

“Oh, lookie here,” Monica said, her spirits suddenly perked up as she sat up more attentively to see what it could be this time.

“What is it?” You asked as you turned on the sirens along with the flashing blue and red lights on top of the ambulance, occasionally honking at cars that won’t move out of the way.

“Vehicular accident involving a sedan and a motorcycle,” Monica spoke the information out loud to you as you continued your drive to the location, following the route that was sent to your ambulance’s GPS. “According to them, the sedan was beating a bunch of red lights before t-boning the motorcyclist.”

“Ouch,” you reacted, your face wincing at the visualization your brain brought up in your head.

“Hello, ladies.” You heard Darcy, your dispatcher, again through the radio. “Cops are already on the scene; we’ve also called for EMT backup.”

“Apparently, the sedan caused more damage as we speak.” She added.

“What’s gotten into the person?” You asked, more to yourself than to Monica and Darcy.

“Police said that the driver of the sedan was DUI, but we’re still waiting on their final reports,” Darcy answered.

“Alright, thank you, Darcy. We’re already around the corner.” You informed her before ending the call.

Just up ahead, you saw similar blue and red lights flashing on top of at least 3 police cars. Some of the officers on site were already guiding and rerouting other cars that were driving in the direction the accident took place.

Unbuckling your belt and stepping out, you opened the side of the ambulance and handed over Monica’s EMT bag, and slung yours on your shoulder before meeting with the police officer who was walking up to you.

Your eyes were already scanning the premises trying to decipher each person, be it the officers, the victims, or some nosy people who were standing on the side to watch.

“The motorcyclist took most of the brunt-” the officer was almost panting as he spoke, most likely out of breath from the adrenaline and exhaustion of chasing down the suspect. “-before hitting the front of an SUV.”

“Where’s the motorcyclist?” You asked as you neared the crowd that was huddling around to get a good look at the scene.

“Right this way.” The officer parted the crowd as more of his colleagues tried to corral the people away. “Seated by the curb - male, in his 30s.”

“And the SUV?” Monica asked.

“A family of four - 2 adults, both in their 40s, and 2 minors.” The officer informed.

“Okay, I’ll take the one with the kids,” Monica glanced your way before asking the officer to lead her to them, leaving you to take care of the t-boned motorcyclist.

Your eyes scanned for the man the officer was describing and sure enough, you found him seated at the farthest edge of the scene away from the onlookers.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” You spoke, a smile almost showing with your hands on your hips as you walked up to him. “And here I thought the Winter Soldier was indestructible.”

At the sound of your voice, Bucky almost snapped his neck at how fast he looked up. The worry lines on his forehead disappearing, the anxious heavy feeling in his chest was already replaced by a light skip in his heart, and felt little flutters in his stomach at the familiar face he was seeing.

“I’m glad you find my pain amusing, doll,” Bucky said, almost chuckling but wincing at the pain he felt on his side.

You ignored the tingling feeling in your stomach at the pet name before you gave a small comforting smile as you dropped your bag to the side, kneeling in front of him to assess his situation.

“Does Steve know?” You asked as you took your little flashlight from the breast pocket of your uniform, already laughing internally at the mother hen-like personality Captain America has for his best friend when he finds out what happened to him.

“He already beat you to it.” Bucky smiled, nodding his head to the side before looking back at you, his blue eyes giving a little sparkle - you weren’t sure if it was the noontime sun or something else that did it.

Looking at the direction he gestured to, you saw Steve already conversing with some of the police officers, his eyes would travel back to the person who caused all of this from time to time before glaring at the man.

“If looks could kill,” you chuckled at his remark.

“Okay, can you look ahead, Buck?” You requested before clicking the small flashlight and pointing it at Bucky’s eyes; inspecting their reaction, the light stubble on his jaw tickling the skin of your gloved palm as you steadied his head.

“You know, you shouldn’t have gotten up right away.” You informed him before clicking the flashlight off and tucking it back in the pocket, satisfied with the eyes' reaction to the light. “Can you feel this?”

You started to tap on his upper right arm and down to his forearm then to his fingers.

“I’m fine,” Bucky replied before answering a yes to your question.

“How ‘bout this?” You then started to tap on the side of his thighs and the rest of his leg. Again, he answered a yes.

“Were you wearing your helmet?” You asked again, now putting your attention in inspecting his head.

“I was,” he answered, gesturing to the now broken helmet just a few feet from his Harley that was laying on its side.

You were glad that he wore it today knowing that sometimes, the veteran in front of you would purposefully forget his headgear, reasoning that wherever he was headed to was nearby. Your hand brushed back the locks that fell on his forehead, did the same on the sides and the back of his head, inspecting if there were any bumps or cuts.

“Can you wiggle your toes for me?” You asked before looking down at his sock-covered feet, his toes doing as you say. You then heard him mumble something along the lines of ‘You’re starting to sound like Steve.’

“Okay, no cuts here and I can’t feel any bumps either,” you hummed to yourself as you continued to part some of his hair. “Do you know what day it is to-”

“Y/N, I swear I’m f-” You can hear the annoyance in Bucky’s voice as he reached for your wrists to stop your hands from trying to look for any more bumps in his head and push you away, you knew he hated being coddled but it was protocol and logical that you check everything.

“You’re hurt.” You told him. “You shouldn’t have moved, it could’ve caused you much more serious damage, y’know.”

He only sighed, knowing that you were right from all the stories you’ve told them of your past experiences and encounters working as part of the EMT team.

“Okay,” you say more to yourself, satisfied that he still has feelings in his limbs and that his helmet protected his head and face. Getting the alcohol-soaked pads, you carefully cleaned the scapes, cuts, and nicks that littered his right cheek and neck. “I saw you winced earlier, where’d the sedan hit you?”

“Right side, feels more like an ache,” Bucky replied looking back at you before trying to shrug off his leather jacket much to your dismay with the movement he was doing while injured. “I’m guessing it’s a broken rib.”

He ignored your nagging and protests to stop moving and that you had scissors to cut the fabric of his shirt but he proceeded to lift the clothing anyway from his troubled side; you can instantly see a bruise was starting to form there.

“Why are you so hard-headed,” you mumbled.

“You still love me for it, don’t you?” He teased, the glimmer in his blue eyes still present.

“Okay, can you rate your pain for me from 1-10?” You asked, ignoring his teasing remark as you tried to gently press on to the area he was having trouble with and looking at his face to gauge a reaction, the blue eyes rather hypnotizing as he looked back at you.

With the sudden feeling of warmth on your cheeks, you looked back down on your hands and ignored the unexpected feeling of closeness between the two of you. You heard him clear his throat as you continued to probe the right side of his torso, trying to feel for any bumps or sunken parts that might confirm his hunch.

When you heard him hiss as your fingers touched a tender part just below his second to the last rib, you looked up.

“That’s an 8.” He panted, his face contorting in pain. “I guess the serum’s taking its sweet time to work.”

Bucky groaned from the ache as you helped him pull his shirt down before taking notes with the pen and clipboard beside you, making sure to be as detailed as Helen wanted the medical finds to be.

“Isn’t that a bit too much, Y/N?” Bucky asked, looking down at the clipboard you were writing on beside him. “And how’d you know some of the information there when I haven’t even told them to you yet.”

“Bucky, I know.” You answered with a little laugh as you looked back up at him and caught Bucky with one brow up and a smirk playing on his lips.

“You stalking me now, doll?”

You rolled your eyes before you heard someone jogging in your direction making both you and Bucky look up to who it was.

“Y/N?” Steve called, almost surprised to see you here. “I didn’t know you were on duty today.”

“Hey, Steve.” You greeted before standing up and letting him envelop you in a side hug.

“EMT reshuffled their schedules, so here I am.” You answered with a smile. “I’m glad that Monica and I got the call. At least now I can directly send these to Helen.”

You waved the clipboard in your hand before kneeling back down to put it back in your bag.

“I’m guessing you can stand up?” You asked Bucky, seeing that in the past he would protest and whine against being wheeled in a stretcher or wheelchair no matter how much persuasion.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He answered before Steve crouched down to his left and looped an arm around his friend’s torso, careful not to touch the tender spot on the right.

You did the same on the other side, careful that you don’t hit the alleged broken rib.

“Okay, one, two-” Steve counted before the both of you hoisted Bucky up and waited for him to adjust his footing.

Slowly walking to the ambulance, you managed to make him sit on the steps of the vehicle.

“So what’s the verdict, doc?” Steve asked as he sat beside his friend. Two pairs of blue eyes looked at you and waited for your answer.

“Bucky’s hunch might be right, one or two broken ribs on his right,” You started as you looked back down on the list on your clipboard.

“There also might be bruising on his right leg, I saw him react earlier.”

You looked at Bucky pointedly as if to tell him that you were eagle-eyed and he can’t hide anything from you.

“What did the cops say about the person driving the sedan?” You asked, tucking the clipboard under your armpit before getting the blood pressure monitor and latching it to Bucky’s arm.

You busied yourself in doing all the basic necessary checkups as you listened to Steve.

“The punk was high and drunk.” He answered with a click of his tongue, Bucky shaking his head too at the gathered information. “They don’t know how the guy drove for so long before finally hitting-” He gestured to Bucky.

“What’ll they do with him?” Bucky asked.

“Put him behind bars, that’s for sure; they said that they’ll also do an investigation on who sold it to him,” Steve informed.

“At least now he’s being dealt with, and hopefully he won’t lead the NYPD in another car chase.” You said before instructing Bucky to sit further on the step and excusing Steve off of his comfortable seat beside his friend to reach for the small oxygen tank and mask.

“Would you mind holding this for me?” You asked Steve as you handed him the small tank.

Fiddling with the equipment, you managed to turn it on and set it at the right amount.

“Here, put this on.” You carefully stretched the garter over Bucky’s head and placed the mask on his face, covering his nose and mouth.

“I already saw you were having difficulty breathing - this might help.”

“You can put it down now,” you told Steve nonchalantly before putting on your stethoscope and gesturing for Bucky to lean forward so you can reach his back.

“I have to check again so this may be a little bit cold.” You warned.

“I can handle it,” Bucky spoke before you lifted his shirt to listen, taking your time on each side to try and hear for anything that may result in further damage.

As you squinted your eyes in concentration, you stiffened at the sudden cool and warm hands on your hips. You tried to ignore it but the sudden feeling of thumbs running smooth comforting circles on your stomach made you draw back and stand with your own hands reaching for his and placing them on his lap.

“Oh, c’mon, Buck. Seriously?” Steve groaned. “I don’t take you for the PDA type.”

“Quit it, Bucky. I’m trying to listen.” You warned at the same time.

Bucky only rolled his eyes at both of your scoldings knowing that the two of you were not as serious before you went back to listening to his breathing.

After a few minutes, you removed your stethoscope and hung it around your neck before leaning to your right shoulder.

“Monica, it’s Y/N. I might need to bring the motorcyclist to Helen.” You radioed your partner. “Suspected broken rib, the patient is already having difficulty in breathing.”

“Copy, Y/N. I’m still assisting the family with our backup EMT. We’ll meet you back at the base.” The static voice of Monica was heard over the radio before you went ahead and called for Helen.

After arriving at the Tower where Dr. Cho instructed you to bring the injured Avenger, you and Steve managed to persuade - it was more of a threat, really - Bucky to be escorted in a wheelchair to Helen’s floor that contained the cradle - this way, he won’t exert much effort and tire himself out and lose oxygen.

As you waited for Steve to return with the wheelchair, you busied yourself by prepping your EMT bag to take with you before you heard Bucky clear his throat.

“What’s wrong?” Your instinct to check on your patient suddenly activated as you turned around from the inside of the ambulance and dropping everything on the makeshift table before you stepped out and stand in front of Bucky.

Scanning for any signs or sources for his discomfort from head to toe and finding none, you looked back up at him. “Do you feel any pain?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Y/N,” Bucky reassured, his eyes looking down on your hand.

There was a moment of silence before he spoke again.

“Married?”

“Yeah,” You replied, relieved that he wasn’t in pain before looking down on the gold band on your ring finger with a smile. “You?”

“Taken, as well.” He answered, looking down at his own golden band - a stark contrast on the darker vibranium color of his arm.

“Wife’s probably going to get mad when she finds out what happened.” He started.

“How come? Wouldn’t she be worried?” You asked as you crossed your arms over your chest, curious why the missus will be more mad than worried.

“She’ll be mad when she finds out I stained my shirt. You know, blood stains are hard to remove.” He answered, his lips pursed as if trying to hold back his laughter.

There was a quiet pause before a deafening smack echoed in the garage.

“You bet your ass I’m mad at you, Barnes!” You almost growled, not really caring at the moment that Bucky was your patient. “Just wait until my shift is over.”

“Ow!” He groaned and tried to soothe the already warm stinging pain radiating on his right arm with his left hand. “What was that for?”

“Do you know how hard it was to keep my cool when I got the call and saw you at the end of it?” You were still not over at the sight you saw him in - seated on the curb looking defeated and in pain, the tears you were holding back almost an hour ago were starting to fill the rims of your eyes.

Gone was the hurt and annoyance that Bucky felt at the unexpected smack you gave him as his face softened at the sight of you, he could only offer you a reassuring smile before his hands reached for yours and pulled you to him.

Enveloping you in a tight hug, you tried to breathe in and normalize your heartbeat. You were sure that Bucky could hear it as his head was against your chest, your chin on top of his head.

“I hope what happened finally convinces you to never leave your helmet at home.” Your voice a little muffled as you spoke against his hair, you looked up trying to fight back the tears that were threatening to spill at the sudden imagination of what might have happened if he did forget his helmet at home.

“I promise-” he spoke as he pushed away from you to look you in the eye, “- I won’t leave it anymore.”

The contrast of hot and cold gave you a sense of comfort as he cupped your face in his hands before pulling you down to him, planting a kiss on your forehead, then your nose and lastly placing a chaste kiss on your lips.

“Ah!” Bucky groaned again, pulling away from the sudden insult of a pinch to his left side.

“I’m still mad at you.” You glared before giving him another peck on the lips.

Did not expect it to be that long, tbh. Hope you liked it!

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popculturebrain · 3 years

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SNL Explores The World Of Dude Bro Makeovers In Unaired HGTV Parody

In a cut for time sketch from last night’s SNL, a couple of interior designers (Nick Jonas, Heidi Gardner) renovate the home of two bachelors (Kyle Mooney, Mikey Day). The result is Bachelor Home Makeover, where the host turns “drab homes into fab pads.

Subscribe to the Pop Culture Brain Daily newsletter for more stories like this!

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bluerighthand · 5 years

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Sugar and Spice

Pairing: Tommy/Alfie

Summary: It’s Tommy and Alfie’s fifth anniversary. With Alfie away at work for the day, Tommy plans the perfect romantic meal. Unfortunately, between misbehaving ovens, disobedient vegetables and the occasional sabotage of his dog, things don’t quite go to plan. Luckily, Alfie loves him anyway.

Notes: Hitting you with some domestic Alfie/Tommy fluff and awful cooking :) Big thank you to @whentommymetalfie for being my Horse Friend and helping me crawl outta my writing slump with fab ideas and pony pictures <3

Words: 6,755 (an arguably excessive amount)

“Tommy” Alfie whispered, tracing the shell of his ear. Though it pained him to do so, Tommy kept his eyes closed, shuffling a little further into the warmth of the duvet. He knew if he woke properly, Alfie would never leave. Not today. Alfie had made a fuss the night before, insisted he wasn’t going into the office, but Tommy had managed to talk him round.

It was cruel to make a man work on his anniversary; even crueller for Tommy to be the one who orchestrated the mild chaos in the office to get him away, but he had grand plans for the day. He needed an empty house, Alfie’s flowery apron and a lot of courage.

The mattress dipped as Cyril hopped on, Alfie trying to contain his laughter as he licked at his face. Tommy’s smile was obscured by the duvet. Alfie slipped away soon after that, with a beardy kiss to Tommy’s temple and a gentle ruffle through his hair. Tommy had half drifted away again, but was roused by the tell-tale crunching of gravel as Alfie’s car pulled away from the cottage. Tommy yawned, peeking an eye open to find Cyril’s face an inch from his own.

Once he’d recovered from his undignified shriek, he sat up, stretching, Alfie’s night shirt falling around his elbows. There was a note on the bedside table, and he grabbed it before Cyril could, grinning at the badly drawn love heart and Alfie’s familiar scrawl.

Happy anniversary sweetheart.

Five years. Tommy could hardly believe it. Would never have dared to, during those months of lingering touches, shy smiles and midnight conversations. But they were here now, away from it all in their own little cottage in the country. Tommy had his stables, Alfie had a vegetable garden, and Cyril had acres of fields to tumble around in.

They’d made it this far.

Cyril was padding around by the door, and Tommy let him out, grabbing some casual clothes from the chest of drawers. He planned to change into his suit later, not sure quite how messy his present would turn out to be. He’d done some cooking before, sure, like when Finn wanted eggs, or the pies he made as a child.

Technically those were mud pies, and had no business in the kitchen, but aside from the fact that Finn’s dinner had more shell than egg in and Aunt Pol had banned him completely after the fire incident, he felt he had a good base to get started on. He lived with Alfie now, and if there was one thing Alfie was good at (although Tommy was proud to say there were many, many things Alfie was an expert on), it was cooking. Which was where Tommy had got the idea from.

Five years was a long time after all, in this life, and he wanted to do something special for Alfie. Meaningful. He had a whole shelf filled with recipe books, and Tommy had been sneaking down to peer at them when Alfie was asleep, gradually forming his menu for a romantic anniversary dinner. Alfie would never suspect a thing; it was the perfect surprise.

Choosing what to make had surely been the trickiest part. Tommy didn’t want to be too ambitious, but at the same time, he had a whole day! If something went wrong, he could always just start again, he had more than enough ingredients. He’d have liked to have done a practice run, just to make sure everything was alright, but had decided not to risk it. He wanted it to be a complete surprise, and he was pretty sure Alfie would notice if all his vegetables disappeared and his chicken mysteriously vanished from the freezer. Although Tommy could probably get away with it by blaming Cyril, he decided he didn’t deserve that.

Even if he did chew on Tommy’s shoes.

Arriving in the kitchen, Tommy pulled out some recipe books, as well as his handwritten notes about kosher food, and what he was going to make. They’d be having chicken, with a vegetable sauce, Alfie’s home-grown potatoes and a chocolate cake for pudding. Simple, but tasty, and healthy too; Alfie was always going on about the benefits of a rounded diet. Tommy usually sent a puff of smoke and a glare in his direction to make his view known, but he did listen sometimes. And sure, the healthy bit would be slightly counteracted by the chocolate cake, but it was their anniversary after all.

He had breakfast: a cigarette and an unbuttered slice of toast, before washing his hands and tying himself into Alfie’s apron. It was a little long on him, and if his brothers saw him in the pink flowery thing (that Alfie still insisted he bought ironically, though Tommy didn’t believe him) he’d probably die, but if he was going to do battle with the kitchen today he needed a uniform.

He thought he’d start with the veggies: he needed to work up to the chicken, and this was just chopping and stirring right? He could do that. There were: carrots, onions, broccoli, celery, pepper, some herby…leaf things he didn’t know the name of but seemed important, and a strangely shaped purple vegetable that Alfie had previously informed him was an aubergine. After consulting the recipe, it was banished back to the cupboard. Tommy couldn’t deal with anything purple today.

The sauce recipe was already worrying him; it didn’t mention anything about water. And after the spaghetti fire incident of 1923, Tommy was loathe to miss out water from any cooking. He filled up a bowl anyway, placed it on the side, grabbing a knife to start chopping. What was first?

“1 ½ cupfuls diced outer stalks of celery” he read out loud to himself. Now that he actually had to do it, the idea of separating the inside from the outside seemed ridiculous. What was so wrong with the inner stalks? Surely he could just chuck a load in, and then- no, no, this was Alfie’s special meal. He had to do it perfectly.

Soon Tommy’s bowl was filling up nicely with veggies. The slices weren’t exactly even, which was frustrating him slightly, but he supposed once they became a sauce it didn’t matter so much. He liked to watch Alfie in the kitchen. He could chop an onion so fast, his hand was practically a blur. How did he do it? Tommy positioned his hands in a vague imitation of his boyfriend’s, and started on the onion. It wasn’t all so different from a razor, Tommy contemplated. And he’d been pretty damn good with a razor blade. He sped up, gaining confidence as he diced the onion in the opposite direction. Sure, he wasn’t as fast as Alfie, but he was really getting the hang of this-

“Shit” he cursed, dropping the knife and clutching his thumb, beads of blood welling up where he’d nicked himself. The bowl wobbled where it had been jolted by the sudden movement, teetering before spilling its contents over the counter.

“For God’s sake” Tommy muttered, sucking his thumb into his mouth as he tried to scoop the vegetables back into the bowl one-handed. The water sloshed over the sides of the counters, leaving Tommy with wet trousers and soaking the pages of the cookbook he’d been peering at. Cyril padded unheard into the kitchen at the disturbance, looking up at Tommy curiously as he flapped around, dragging a tea towel over the counter and attempting to rescue the sodden pages.

Cyril stopped just behind him to lap up the water, snuffling at the vegetables that dropped to the floor when Tommy tripped over him, inconveniently covering all the water with his body. Tommy closed his eyes, barely suppressing a frustrated scream as the cold water seeped through to his skin. Cyril licked at his fingers.

Ten minutes later, Tommy was changed, clutching a packet of cigarettes and determined to uphold the ‘no dogs in the kitchen’ rule. Cyril wasn’t happy about this, and pawed at the door, barking until Tommy eventually gave in and opened it. He dragged his favourite cushion in from the living room, flopping down onto it and watching Tommy with interest any time he caught a whiff of something.

Right, where was he: butter, oil, frying pan. Maybe he didn’t need the water after all. He should have it there though…just in case. He’d been sneaking glances at Alfie turning on the heat over the past few weeks, so he switched it on confidently, quite forgetting that there were different temperature settings in all the excitement.

Let the vegetables cook gently in their own juices, until they are tender.

Tommy wrinkled his nose, leaving the pan to its own devices while he retrieved the chicken from the freezer. His stomach sunk as he set the meat on the table. He hadn’t realised quite how frozen it would be. He blew hot air onto his fingers to warm them up again, poking at the dials on the oven. It should thaw out in there: there was plenty of time, he calmed himself, placing the chicken into the oven as the vegetables sizzled. Back to the sauce.

Fill one tablespoon with a combination of: crushed garlic clove, salt, pepper, and fine breadcrumbs, and add to sauce.

Which one was a tablespoon again? He couldn’t remember. Sounded like it should be large; as close to the size of a table as possible. None of the silver ones were really cutting it, maybe they didn’t have a tablespoon. His eyes fell upon the big ladle. A few scoops of that ought to be enough!

Look at me go, Tommy thought, filling up the ladle full of crushed garlic before tipping it into the sauce. His clothes were drying, he was problem solving, his dog was behaving and he was making a healthy home cooked meal for his boyfriend. Tommy hummed as he worked, some song Alfie had taken to singing in the kitchen. He liked to distract him sometimes. The feeling of Alfie’s arms around his waist, sneaking neck kisses and swaying him as he sang and a hot pan bubbled away in the background was heavenly.

Tommy couldn’t wait for Alfie to come home.

Two hours later, Tommy was less keen for his boyfriend’s return. Steam had curled his hair into an absolute state, and he brushed it out of his eyes as he surveyed the damage. Flour was covering the work tops, broken egg shells littering the floor and crunching underfoot. Tommy had managed to confuse sugar and salt, and baking soda and baking powder, meaning one half the kitchen was a ‘discarded chocolate cake’ zone, and the other was a mess of utensils and bowls filled with God knows what. He was running out of chocolate.

Worst of all was the chicken. He’d left it in the oven for hours, and it hadn’t so much melted the frosty covering of ice over its surface. He only realised that he’d actually turned up the hob instead of the stove when his first attempt at sauce had been burnt to a crisp all over the frying pan. He was now on the third batch (what happened to the second sauce is unspeakable), which had to be his last. Tablespoons, or more accurately: ladles, used up quite a lot of ingredients.

The sauce should be moderately thick, but not lumpy.

Tommy peered into the pan, frowning. This sauce looked more like green water, with great half melted lumps of veggies in. Maybe he just didn’t chop them small enough? He poked at the lumps with his knife, attempting to cut them down. His thumb gave a painful twinge, and he pushed that idea aside. It would be okay: he could fix it later, put it all in a bowl and do some stirring. Stirring solved everything. And though he wanted everything to be perfect, he knew the chicken was far more important. The oven was on properly now, and the damned thing had finally started to defrost. Tommy cast anxious glances at the clock, as Cyril watched the chicken through the glass, whining occasionally as the potatoes made alarming noises from their pan.

“You’ve got food there, and water. Don’t act like I don’t feed you” Tommy huffed. Cyril wagged his tail. Tommy sighed in resignation. “I’ve got to cook it first. Then you can have a bit”.

He had thirty minutes left, before Alfie was expected to arrive home. Ollie had called him from the office earlier, said he was just leaving.

“Stall him” Tommy had hissed down the receiver. He heard Ollie calling after Alfie, something about a lost dog near the canals, but the dreaded smell of burning had gotten Tommy off the phone before he could hear a response. The blackened chicken sat on the work surface accusingly. Tommy had cut into it, with rather more force than necessary, and was dismayed to find it uncooked on the inside.

How could it be burnt and raw at the same time? Had he just invented something? Surely things were either cooked, or they weren’t, but this chicken seemed to be both.

It was all very well creating new dishes the world had never seen before, but he’d rather this discovery hadn’t occurred on his bloody anniversary.Another glance at the clock sent him into a panic, chiselling away at the burnt parts of the chicken so he could whack the rest back into the oven at a high heat.

The kitchen was also a disaster: pots and pans everywhere, food all over the floor, his damp clothes hanging over the backs of the chairs. Feed Alfie awful food, and ruin his kitchen supplies, that’s how Tommy did anniversaries. With no time to clean properly, he started hiding the dirty equipment. Shoving bowls into cupboards, utensils behind stacks of books. Alfie would find a wooden spoon in his gardening boots a week later. He unfolded the new tablecloth he’d bought: white, with little flowers on (Alfie liked that sort of thing), throwing it over the mess of flour and God knows what else. Cutlery was scattered about hastily, placemats frizbied into position.

Everything was going so wrong but he wanted to make it pretty and perfect and there wasn’t enough time-

Breathe Tommy.

Ten minutes. He sipped a bit of the sauce into his mouth, and gagged slightly, dropping the spoon. What on earth…that didn’t taste like vegetables. It tasted like shit. How could he have messed up this badly?

The only way he could have done worse was if he’d just grabbed a whole pig and plopped it down on the table. At least this was kosher, or he bloody hoped it was anyway: his notes were completely ruined by the water. There were a lot of rules, and although he now knew all about the menorah and the Torah and the…horah, the kitchen was Alfie’s territory. Though on second thought, Alfie might be grateful for an excuse not to eat the damn thing.

Tommy fetched the chicken. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. And that…wasn’t enough. This was supposed to be Alfie’s special meal, and what was he getting? Some badly cooked chicken, sloppy sauce and a pathetic excuse for a chocolate cake. Oh shit – the icing. All but throwing the chicken on the table, Tommy grabbed the tube, messily squeezing until the white icing appeared.

HAPPY ANNIV

And…he’d run out of room. Why didn’t he make a bigger cake for fucks sake- if he just added the other letters underneath it might look alright? No, it would look awful. He could blend it in? Start again? He rubbed at one of the clumsy letters with his spoon. It looked terrible. And Tommy didn’t have to be an expert to see that. God, what would Alfie think?

“Happy anniv to me” Tommy muttered darkly, shoving the cake back to the other side of the counter. Staring around at the kitchen, he could have cried. How could everything have gone so wrong? He plated up the main course, covering it with a cloche as soon as possible, if only to hide it from view. The potatoes were burnt and pathetic, the chicken looked disgusting and the sauce topped the whole thing off with a horrible greenish palette.

If he just…closed the curtains, lit a scented candle and scattered a few petals about the place like one of those sappy romantic dinners in the books Alfie was always going on about, would he even notice? Yes, was the answer to that. Yes he would.

It was a few minutes past Tommy’s estimated time, and he was tense, pacing, and unwilling to try and tidy up further or start anything new in case Alfie came home right at that moment. He busied himself with by violently ripping the petals off a rose he’d cut from the bush in the garden, placing them over the stains on the tablecloth.

He was crossing the room to put the stalk in the bin when he caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror, stopping dead. He hadn’t changed. His hair looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, stains and splashes of food covered his shirt and Alfie’s apron, and chocolate had ended up all over his face.

Crunching gravel sounded from the driveway, and Cyril hopped up instantly, running to the window and barking excitedly. No. Alfie couldn’t see him like this. Tommy had plans. A suit, something nice underneath-

The car door slammed, and Tommy heard footsteps coming up the path. He did the only thing he could think of. Pulling the kitchen door closed, he darted up the stairs, shrugging off the apron and dirty clothes as he went. Tearing into his wardrobe he grabbed his suit just as Alfie’s key sounded in the lock. Frantically scrabbling with his buttons, he assessed the situation of his hair in the mirror.

“Tommy?” Alfie called. “I’m home”. Shit shit shit. There was nothing to be done. It was just a fluffy mess that wouldn’t be flattened. Trousers on, socks on, buttons up, jacket on, hair vaguely patted down- no, his collar was all bunched up, and this wasn’t the right jacket-

“Tommy, love?”. Tommy rested his forehead against the mirror, and breathed.

“You upstairs?”. A creak on the bottom step.

“I’m coming” Tommy called, voice cracking slightly. He stared at his reflection for a moment longer, and had that awful urge to just sink down to the floor and pull at his hair. But he opened the door instead, kicking aside his dirty clothes and hanging Alfie’s apron carefully on the back of the door.

He could hear the scrabble of Cyril’s paws on the floor, and smiled despite himself at the “oof” Alfie made when he presumably jumped up on him. It would be okay. He could make it up to Alfie. Hide all the mess and take him out to eat, buy him something nice tomorrow, light a few candles in the bedroom.

Alfie was in the living room, coat discarded on the sofa as he bent down to pet Cyril. He looked up at Tommy’s approach, Cyril not assisting in his attempts to stand.

“There ‘e is. Happy anniversary treacle” said Alfie, holding his arms out for Tommy. He was smiling, but it looked a little off. Tommy could tell he wasn’t quite himself, and he was tense enough to know if anyone had upset Alfie that day they wouldn’t be getting away with it.

“Happy anniversary”. He leant up for a kiss. “How was your day?”. Alfie grimaced, and Tommy’s stomach twisted, fingers faltering as they stroked through Alfie’s hair.

“Not great, actually. I didn’t wanna leave you in the first place yeah, and then there was this lost puppy down by the canals, n’ I didn’t wanna be late but I jus’ thought about him all alone in the cold, so I had to have a look for him”.

Oh no. Oh no. Not only had Tommy fucked up Alfie’s anniversary meal, he’d also messed up his entire day.

“But I couldn’t find ‘im nowhere. Not a sign of the poor guy” he said sadly, scratching Cyril behind the ears. “Keep thinkin’ about him falling in, no one t’ help him”. What kind of boyfriend was he?

“Alfie” he started, reaching up for a hug. Alfie wrapped his arms securely round Tommy’s waist, nosing into his neck as he sighed.

“Sorry love, I didn’t wanna ruin-”

“Shh” said Tommy quickly. I’m the one that’s ruined everything. Cyril sat beside them, his excited panting from Alfie’s return calming them both somewhat, until they pulled back. “Alfie, I need to tell you- there was no dog”.

“What?” he asked, confused. “But Ollie said there’d been sightings, n’ I figured-”. Tommy thought to himself as Alfie continued to ramble. Damn Ollie, he could’ve used any excuse. This whole day had been a disaster, from start to finish. They should’ve just stayed in bed. How could he fix this? Could this even be fixed?

“They found the dog” Tommy blurted. Alfie stopped.

“They did?” he asked, face hopeful.

“Yeah. Um, Ollie, he rang just before you got here”. Alfie broke into a wide smile, lifting Tommy off his feet. Tommy swallowed his usual protests, leaning into the kiss as Alfie spun him round gently, some of the nerves leaving his stomach. Alfie loved him, he wouldn’t care that he was hopeless, right? He was carefully returned to the ground, but not for long, Alfie leading him to the sofa and pulling him down onto his lap. Tommy looped an arm around his shoulders, enjoying the closeness, and security of Alfie’s arm under his knees. Shame he’d ruined their anniversary.

“What’ve you got ‘ere?” said Alfie, turning Tommy’s face to the side and rubbing at something on his cheek. He frowned, before licking his finger as Tommy batted him off.

To his surprise, instead of questioning why Tommy had flecks of chocolate on his face, Alfie looked…shifty. “You’ve, err, you’ve found ma draw then. Look I was gonna tell you, but it just tastes so good n’-”

“Sorry, I’ve found your what?” asked Tommy. “Have you been hiding chocolate in our house?”.

“Hmm, mm” Alfie hummed to himself for a moment, realising his stash hadn’t in fact been subjected to one of Tommy’s household purges. Yet. “Just a draw” he said sheepishly. “It was on special offer see, and it would be stupid not t’ invest, ya know? I’m a business man after all, n’ you’ve got to take these opportuni-”. Tommy cut him off with a kiss. Alfie could have a whole bloody room full of chocolate if he forgave Tommy for today.

“So if you weren’t sneakin’ off with my chocolate” said Alfie conspiratorially, as Tommy rolled his eyes, “why’ve ya got stuff all over you? Yer hair’s all” he made circular gestures with his hands, “fluffy”. Despite Tommy’s silence, Alfie soon made the connection between his red face and the firmly shut kitchen door, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Tommy Shelby, ‘ave you been cooking?”.

“Cooking is one word for it” he muttered, grimacing slightly. Alfie didn’t hear him, too busy lifting Tommy off his lap and hurrying towards the door. Tommy almost tripped over in his haste to grab him, managing to catch Alfie around the waist and pull him to a stop.

“Did you make dinner?” he said, practically jumping up and down with excitement. He looked like Cyril when he found that six-foot branch in the forest.

“Yes” Tommy admitted grudgingly, edging sideways to block Alfie’s path to the door. He couldn’t bear to tell him.

“Can I see?” said Alfie eagerly, shuffling them towards the door.

“No” said Tommy, the word coming out harsher than he’d intended. Alfie stopped, slightly taken aback.

“Why?”.

“Because…” I’m useless. You’ll hate it. I failed. “It’s not…I haven’t…” he trailed off.

“Jus’ show me love, you dun’t have to be nervous” said Alfie, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Though it is kinda sweet you gettin’ all worked up over me present, isn’t it”.

“It is not sweet” Tommy insisted, extracting himself from Alfie’s arms and standing firmly in front of the kitchen door.

“Please? For me?” Alfie begged, turning his best puppy eyes on Tommy. It was unfair really, Tommy thought, as the door swung open. He couldn’t resist those eyes.

“I couldn’t- it’s not very-” Tommy sighed, “I tried”. His gaze fell on his pathetic attempt to lay the table, the rose petals already crumpling. If there was ever a time to just…crawl out of the window and find a corner of the stables to curl up in, it was now.

On the contrary, Alfie’s mouth fell open as he entered the kitchen. The curtains were drawn, but several candles filled the room with a warm glow. Petals covered the table, the work surface filled with plates of food, and Alfie felt a lump rise in his throat. Tommy hovered beside him nervously, and Alfie pressed kiss after kiss into his messy hair.

“Yer so silly, you know that?”. Tommy gave him a small smile.

“Don’t speak too soon. You haven’t had any yet”.

“Plate me up then chef” Alfie grinned, taking his place at the table and appreciating the sight of his boyfriend moving about the kitchen. It looked good on him. Tommy lifted the cloche from one of the dishes, waving a tea towel around to reduce the steam. He wavered in the middle of the room, inspecting the plate carefully.

“C’mere love”.

“You can’t eat this”.

“Come here”.

“I’m just going to-” he took a step towards the bin.

“Tommy, come here” said Alfie firmly. Sometimes you just had to take charge of a situation. What kind of a boyfriend would he be if he let Tommy throw away all his hard work? Tommy stood beside him, and Alfie gave his elbow a comforting squeeze. “You cooked for me” he said, and there was so much gratitude in his voice that Tommy just stopped for a moment. Let his grip slacken and Alfie pull the plate away. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Alfie’s face change the moment he realised it was all-

“I love it” said Alfie, beaming up at him. Tommy scoffed, throwing his towel down and trying to take the plate away. “No no no” he cried, grabbing it. “It’s mine!”.

“Alfie, it’s awful” protested Tommy, trying to pull the plate away without any of its disgusting contents slopping onto the floor. Cyril would lap it up without even knowing what disaster might befall him if he ate it.

“You’re taking away my fuckin’ anniversary meal” whined Alfie. He sounded like a child, and Tommy let go with a huff, but was unable to suppress his grin when a bit of sauce splashed onto Alfie’s shirt.

“Serves you right”.

“I dun’t care ‘bout me bloody shirt” said Alfie, rolling up his sleeves. “I wanna taste this food my love’s spent all day makin’ me”. Grabbing his fork, he speared some meat first, making sure to coat it with sauce before eating. Tommy actually winced as he swallowed.

“No, stop Alfie. You’re gonna get food poisoning”. Alfie waved him away.

“I want to eat it”.

“You’ve had a mouthful!”

“I want more!”.

“You can’t tell me you’re enjoying this?!”.

“Course I am, love. I know how much you hate cookin’. And food in general, really. An you’ve spent hours makin’ me a delicious meal, on the anniversary of the day our eyes locked n’ we-”

“Okay, okay, fine” said Tommy, raising his hands. There was no time for an Alfie ramble now, not when the food would probably go cold in about five minutes and taste even worse. There was still a little bit of steam, though that could be…fumes. No, no, it was definitely steam.

He poked at his own plate, salvaging a corner of unburnt potato and cautiously nibbling at a bit of chicken. It helped that it was the first thing he’d eaten since breakfast. Alfie talked, rambled about their years together and how much he was enjoying the food, and Tommy felt the tension drain from his shoulders. Even if Alfie was exaggerating, which he undoubtedly was, it was nice to hear. And despite the fact that Tommy almost had a heart attack when Alfie offered Cyril a bite of chicken, the meal otherwise went okay. Before he knew it, Tommy was clearing away the plates.

“There’s dessert too?” asked Alfie hopefully. Tommy nodded reluctantly, taking the covered dish from the work surface. He pulled back the cover a fraction, and stopped to peer inside before Alfie confiscated the container, setting it on the table.

“Ah, a mousse! That explains the chocolate ey?” said Alfie as he pulled off the cover.

“It’s a-”. Tommy stopped, gazing at the cake in mild alarm. It did indeed look like a mousse. His icing had been absorbed into a messy looking chocolate whirlpool. He’d only left it alone for an hour, how could this have happened? Food was fickle he thought to himself, dubiously digging a spoon into the mixture. It seemed to be more solid the further down he went, and he avoided Alfie’s eyes as half cake, half mousse, all disaster landed on his plate. On the plus side, his icing failure was lost forever. Tommy could imagine the teasing.

“Hmm?”.

“Never mind”.

Tommy had hardly reached for the scrubbing brush before Alfie was spinning him around, leading him towards the door.

“Where are we going?” he asked reluctantly. He’d just like to get the washing done, and then curl up in a nice dark place somewhere. With no sauce or chickens or tablespoons anywhere in sight.

“I’ve got a surprise for you” Alfie grinned.

“What?”.

“You didn’t think I forgot about your present, did ya?”. Quite honestly, Tommy hadn’t even thought about it. After establishing Alfie wasn’t making him a dinner, the thought had completely vanished from his mind.

“Put yer cap on, it’s chilly” said Alfie, undeterred by Tommy’s nonplussed expression and throwing a distinctly non-razor bladed cap at in his direction. There wasn’t so much of a need for those anymore. Things were settling down. It was indeed chilly outside, when they eventually got there. Alfie had spotted the cut on his thumb, and marched him upstairs to wrap a totally unnecessary bandage around it. Tommy pretended to hate it – “Alfie, it stopped bleeding hours ago” – but honestly, he needed Alfie to dote on him right now. Five years had gone by, Tommy proving time and time again that he was useless, fearing with each anniversary that Alfie would realise he wasn’t good enough. Would give up on him. But he seemed obstinately blind to it all, covering Tommy’s eyes with his gloved hands as they stepped outside.

“Alfie, I’m going to trip” he said, wobbling slightly as they made their way onto the grass.

“No you ain’t, I’ve got ya”. He didn’t guide Tommy towards the stables straight away, he’d know, and Alfie wanted it to be a surprise, so they went on a little trip around the garden. Tommy figured this out rather quickly; Alfie leading him ten paces in one direction then doing a U-turn rather gave it away, but he indulged him. It was the least he could do. Just as his ears were beginning to redden with cold, the familiar smell of the stables greeted him, and Alfie led him to a stop.

“Right ‘ere we are, you ready love?”. Tommy nodded, opening his eyes when Alfie moved his hands away. Standing in front of the usually vacant pen at the end of the stables, Tommy didn’t notice anything different at first. Had Alfie cleaned the windows? Had he organised the hay bales? Then he saw something fluffy, and white, peeking over the gate. An ear. He moved closer curiously. Had Alfie got him a foal?

Inside the pen was a small, fluffy maned white horse. She had tiny legs, and was covered by the red blanket Alfie had made a few winters ago. She looked almost comical, compared to the great race horses in the neighbouring stalls, and Tommy couldn’t help the small noise that escaped his lips at how sweet she looked.

“Hey girl” he said, holding out his hand. The horse came closer, peering up at him with those big eyes and sniffing hopefully. An apple appeared in Tommy’s palm, and he glanced back at Alfie, who was staring innocently up at the hay loft. He opened the pen and stepped inside, the horse eagerly nosing at his hand.

“There we go” he said gently, stroking down her neck as she munched away.

“Not really a ridin’ horse, but she’s a sweetie. Even let me stroke her, n’ ya know most horses can’t stand me” babbled Alfie.

“It’s just cause you’re nervous” said Tommy, quietly. “They can sense it”.

“Is she okay?” Alfie asked, scratching at the back of his head. Tommy turned, catching the insecurity. “I was thinkin’, you’ve got all these race horses, you know, and it might be nice to ‘ave one just for you. To relax with. Without any of that training stuff”. Tommy straightened up, leaning over the gate and reaching out to Alfie. He came, Tommy greeting him with a kiss.

“She’s perfect. Thank you”.

“The man said she likes bein’ brushed. I know it all gets too much sometimes, even out here” he gestured to the countryside surrounding them. He took Tommy’s hand, kissing the bandage. “So…jus someone to ‘ave a cuddle with. Without any expectations, you know? Don’t want her replacing me, mind” he joked. Tommy shook his head, very much enjoying Alfie’s rambling about gathering Tommy close on his chest. “Now then, what ridiculous name are you gonna call her? Cause I’m telling you now I ain’t running around the pasture yelling for Spectacular Albatross or Flying Desmond to come in for the night”. Tommy laughed, his eyes crinkling up. Alfie pulled him close. “It’s bad enough as it is. What must the bloody neighbours think of me, ey?”.

“We don’t have any neighbours”.

“Driven them all off, haven’t I, with those names”.

“What would you suggest?” asked Tommy. Alfie thought for a moment, tentatively reaching over the pen and patting the horse’s head. She was still crunching on the last of the apple, shuffling her little feet around in the hay happily.

“How’s Aviva?” he asked. “Means spring. N’ I can picture her in the fields like, when the flowers are growing”. Tommy smiled.

“Aviva it is”.

The sun was setting fast now, the horizon a beautiful misty orange. They’d stayed out in the stables for a while, Tommy whispering nonsense to his horse, and Cyril running about and rolling over in the grass. The whole scene made Alfie’s heart melt a little. A lot.

Five years of Tommy. If he wasn’t just the luckiest man on G-d’s good earth.

The chill eventually persuaded Tommy to leave Aviva and come inside; although not before giving her a brush down and an extra blanket. And petting all the other horses.

“I don’t want them to feel left out” he protested, over Alfie’s teasing. Cyril weaved around their legs as they kissed in the hallway, jackets thrown over the bannisters. Alfie distracted him with a treat, and Cyril took it to his basket, tail wagging slowly in exhaustion.

“You wanna…” Tommy asked suggestively, nodding up towards the bedroom.

“Jus’ gonna go to the bathroom love, meet you in there” said Alfie, shooting him an exaggerated wink and laughing at Tommy’s raised eyebrow before heading to the bathroom. He leant on the closed door heavily, waiting an appropriate amount of time before running the tap, scooping the water up with his hands and desperately drinking it down. He wasn’t sure how much garlic Tommy had put in that sauce, but he had a feeling he’d be tasting it for weeks. His kisses must be awful.

But he supposed Tommy couldn’t tell: he’d eaten it too. Water dripped down his chin onto his shirt, but Alfie only gulped more. After an hour of resisting the urge to down the water jug in one, it was so good to wash some of the flavour away. He’d thought the…mousse cake would help with that, but if anything it seemed to intensify it. Had Tommy put garlic in there too?!

His eyes fell upon his toothbrush, and he glanced at the door nervously. He usually didn’t brush them until later; Tommy might realise. The thought of hurting him like that, however unintentionally, made Alfie feel terrible. But on the other hand, he wasn’t certain the potato wouldn’t just attach itself permanently to his teeth unless he scrubbed it off.

He thought he could get away with shoving some of the chicken to the edges of his plate, but he saw the worried glances Tommy was shooting him. Watching his plate, his reactions. So he ate it all, the residual texture making him shudder. There was nothing for it, he thought, grabbing his toothbrush. If he was concentrating on anything other than making Tommy’s eyes roll back in pleasure tonight, well, that would be a sacrilegious offence wouldn’t it?

Tommy was sat cross legged on the bed, wearing Alfie’s sleeping shirt, and nothing else by the looks of things.

“I knew you hated it” he said, sadly.

“Tommy, no” said Alfie, sitting beside him.

“It’s okay, Alfie. I know it was terrible. I should’ve just got you some fucking cufflinks or something”.

“Now when ‘ave you ever known me to bother with them, ey?”

“Something else then. An actual present, like you got me”.

“I love that you made me something, darlin’. So nice of you t’ put yerself through that for me”.

“Don’t joke” said Tommy, pouting. “I heard you”.

“I mean it” said Alfie, scooting towards him on the bed, and wrapping his legs around Tommy. He huffed a laugh. “Thank you for doin’ that for me. I know how hard cookin’ can be, yeah? And I know I go on about it a lot, which is annoying, but it makes me so ‘appy that you made me something. And the little candles n’ petals, so sweet. Jus’ love you so much, you silly thing”. Alfie pressed kisses into his hair.

“I love you too” Tommy mumbled, freeing his arms from Alfie’s strange leg hold and wrapping them around him in return.

“I thought we were gettin’ there, ey? You believing me when I say things like that”.

“I do” said Tommy quickly, “I just…it didn’t go the way I wanted it to”.

“And that’s okay” said Alfie. “Not everything does. But I loved it all the same”.

“But…it didn’t taste nice”.

“I love that you made it for me. That’s what makes it special, ya know? I could ‘ave had one of them fancy posh meals from some restaurant, and it wouldn’t mean nothing compared to my Tommy workin’ all day to make me something, ey?”. He squeezed Tommy’s shoulders. “You could prob’ly give me a load of hay n’ sugar cubes and I’d eat it. Cyril would too”. Tommy smiled.

“He was helping me today, or trying to. In his own way”.

“Was he? That’s ma boy- ah, ow, fuckin’ hell” Alfie cried, disentangling himself from Tommy and clutching at his foot. “Cramp, cramp”. He hobbled over to the window, bracing himself on the sill as he rubbed at his toes, Tommy’s laughter in the background making him grin despite his discomfort. It settled down eventually, and Tommy joined him, resting his head on Alfie’s shoulder, hair ticking his cheek.

“I love your hair like this, ya know”.

“Don’t say a word”.

“I already-”

“Not a word”. The sun had set now, and the stars twinkled at them faintly through the mist. “It was awful, wasn’t it?” said Tommy, his shoulders shaking as he laughed. Alfie kissed his temple.

“I still loved it”.

“I know”.

“You happy?” asked Alfie after a while, resting his head on Tommy’s and looking into the garden beyond. Their garden.

“Very” he replied, the warmth of truly meaning it leaving him with a warm glow. “Happy fifth anniversary”.

“To many more”.

Thank you for reading, I'd love to know what you think! <3

WIPs should be updated in February xx

#alfie/tommy #tommy/alfie #peaky blinders fanfiction #woo!

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sneakerhistory · 5 years

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Podcast Episode 4 - March Madness Sneakers

On Episode 4 of the Sneaker History Podcast, Nick Engvall, Robbie Falchi, and Mike Guillory discuss the greatest March Madness sneakers of all time. From the Larry Johnson-led UNLV Runnin’ Rebels in the early ’90s to the Fab Five and their game-changing black socks to the Foamposites of Mike Bibby and Miles Simon and the Arizona Wildcats to the other Wildcats, the Kentucky teams of the Anthony…

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#march madness #Sneaker Podcast

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fixomnia-scribble · 6 years

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Blue Bloods 9x02 Recap & Ramble & Rant

Ahhh! My home internet has been down for a couple of days, and Tumblr mobile chokes on longposts, so here we be, a little tardy...

You know the drill…actually, I never did lay out the parameters of The Drill, did I?

These are just my thoughts and highlights.

Spoilers after the cut.

Feel free to chat about anything episode-related in the notes.

And happy Indigenous Peoples Day and Canadian Thanksgiving.

COLD OPEN TO: The One-Two. Enter Jamie, stunned, with a fine set of Sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve. GO JAMIE! The morning sun is hitting him just right, or something, because even in the cinder-block precinct, he’s kinda glowing.

Eddie, waiting outside the Lt.’s office, jumps up. He tells her he’s been transferred to the Two-Nine, which Eddie calls “a real zoo”. Jamie say the boss didn’t really give him a choice, which is interesting…I mean, as far as I know, anyone getting top marks on a major police promotional exam generally gets presented with a few nice options to pick from? Anyway.

It’s the end of an era, which Jamie seems to be trying to take philosophically. Eddie suggests she might apply to join him in his new digs. (Oh, no, no…you do not want to be that officer who got to chase her fiancé across town on account of his last name.) Jamie has the same hesitation but for a different reason: he wants to see what the Two-Nine is like before they both commit there.

“You look good in stripes,” she drawls, as she heads off to work. THEY’RE BEING SO SPOUSEY. I love The Banter but I could get used to this, too.

CUT TO: Office of E. Erin and Tony are gently interviewing Kara, a young black lady with a fresh black eye, who is trying to walk back charging her boyfriend with assault. It turns out that Billy Conroy is one of the top sports agents of the country. Seven months ago, the ADA assigned to a previous assault on her declined to prosecute him. He’s rich and knows everyone. HELLO TOPICAL NEWS STORY. You can practically see Erin swinging her football pads over her shoulders.

CUT TO: Office of D. Danny and Baez head to Carver’s office, but instead of Carver, it’s Gormley. He explains to them that written threats against Frank have begun appearing that match previous threat from an ex-cop, Roy Cross, who was allowed to resign instead of being fired for nicking money from a narco investigation. Danny asks why Threat Assessment isn’t taking it on. Sid replies that just that morning, Cross was spotted outside the hotel where Frank was having breakfast.

Now:

1. I sorta love that as soon as Sid is outside the One PP for any length of time, he calls Frank “your old man”, his physical speech gets more relaxed and his accent thickens. It’s a nice little nuance that reminds us how out of place he first felt in the One PP, and still does.

2. I really love that Sid has gone behind Frank’s back to enlist Danny and Baez into a de facto extra security unit, since Frank wouldn’t want any extra manpower expended on his behalf.

Sid asks them to rattle Cross’ cage, quietly, and keep it on the down-low.

CUT TO: Office of F. Baker (Baker! Baker! Baker!) is offering KELLY FREAKING PETERSON some coffee as Frank looms large behind them. Kelly declines. Bebe and Tom, both looking fab and classy as all heck, sit down to business. “What’s up?” Frank asks, as if their being within ten feet of each other doesn’t set car alarms off within a two-block radius. They are the Fred and Ginger of the NYPD / City Corp relationship.

Kelly explains that one of her attorneys was sexually assaulted while on a blind date. Damn, we really have a theme going tonight. She speaks very highly of Paula. She asks Frank to review the case personally – specifically the investigating detective, who made Paula “feel like she was the suspect.”

I take a quick break to make a cup of tea, because shit is about to get heavy, and for good reasons. These two cases are normal. This is how victims are treated, and feel, more often than not - and this is me speaking as a past police staffer and Victim’s Services worker who sees what the police are tasked with, too. And if there is to be any substantive change in the NYPD’s handling of sex-related assault and threat cases, it has to come from the top, and Frank is the one on the throne.

Bebe is investing her words with actual people she knows in mind. As I am as I write. Between this and Erin’s case, I can feel every woman and more than a few men leaning forward, going: “Get this right. Please get this right.”

Frank delivers the usual brief homily on Special Victims investigations protocols that generally work, meaning that in cop terms, there is either a solid case built, or not, and the work goes on from there. He’s not trying to convince Kelly of anything, though, knowing exactly what’s coming: Kelly points out that making a victim feel like they were asking to be victimized is just adding insult to injury. The insult is real, and the injury is very fucking real.

Frank is sympathetic and agrees to drill down on the case. Upon which Kelly admits that Paula is preparing to file suit against the NYPD. Frank merely sighs and says, “Look at you – burying the lead.” Kelly has convinced Paula to hold off until Frank had been spoken to.

“I was going to happily look into this for you; now I will just plain look into it,” Frank tells her. Kelly sees her exit and gets up with a muted “Thank you.” She swans elegantly out.

This is downright collaborative, for these two. Can they even function in harmony? For Paula’s sake, I hope so. Even for a high-powered city attorney, the guts it must take to go up against the NYPD for the sake of current and future victims of assault cannot be overstated.

Credits and title cards. Dorky couch wiggle / arm dance time.

CUT TO: Danny and Baez approach Roy Cross at a building site. Everyone makes nice with each other, at least as nice as can be made with everyone wearing a piece or two and wondering about each other’s motives. Cross insists he has no beef with the PC, and his reason for being in the vicinity of Frank’s breakfast meeting was that his favourite specialty shoe store is nearby – “Problem arches,” he says, handing Danny a receipt from said store at the time in question. “Sometimes a loafer is just a loafer.”

He assures Danny there’s no problem. But as he turns away, there’s a weird tension as he says, “Give my best to your old man,” and flicks his cigarette to the ground. If I were Danny or Baez, I’d wait until Cross was out of sight and grab that butt. Discarded in public place, clearly garbage…could come in handy. They have plenty of probable cause to investigate, especially with Cross’ past history and a directive from Sid.

CUT TO: Office of E, where Erin and Tony are still working in tandem. This time they’re questioning a young black ADA who declined to prosecute the case against Billy Conroy seven months ago. He agrees that he had plenty of evidence to indict but that it “was complicated”. Erin calmly (and with her new authority as Bureau Chief) asks him to walk her through the case. They head to her office. Martin, the ADA, says that he would have moved to indict, but that he was told to back off. He’d rather not say by whom.

“I’d rather be Brad Pitt,” Tony says, and aww, Tony, just be you, you loveable lugnut.

Martin alludes to the person in question no longer being with them. “Well then, if he or she has left the office, it should be easier,” nudges Erin.

“She didn’t just leave the office. She left the planet,” says Martin, which was perfectly timed and would be hilariously phrased if we weren’t talking about Monica, who died in Erin’s arms two weeks ago in Hiatus Standard Time.

“I did what I was told,” he goes on, “and I’m not looking to disrespect her memory, but what happened? Wasn’t justice.” He is visibly fidgeting, and I have a feeling he’s been hanging onto this for far too long.

Erin looks gobsmacked, crestfallen and newly determined all at once.

CUT TO: Office of F. Frank is brushing a finger against his moustache in a slightly menacing manner as Sid opens up an official interview with Palmer, the Special Victims Unit detective who was on Paula Thompson’s assault case. Palmer isn’t surprised to find himself called up. Thompson identified herself as a City Corporation Attorney right up front – whatever that it supposed to mean in this instance. She came in swinging her power titles around and therefore was looking for a fight? As a Corporation counsellor, she’ll take any chance to needle the NYPD? Something ain’t right here.

Sid explains in no uncertain terms that Thompson accused Palmer of unprofessional behaviour, and treated her like the perp. Palmer takes this in stride, explaining that he can see why she might feel that way, and that the interview protocol for victims means asking questions about the nature of the relationship between the victim and suspect, that “can’t help but sting”. Got that right. Palmer knows that Frank had a hand in writing the protocol, and maintains that it’s solid.

(Which may be so, in cop terms: a useful tool is one that quickly determines whether a case can stand up in court. BUT such tools aren’t useful in cases with minimal or no evidence, or previous established relationships, except to re-open wounds. As a Victims Services worker, I’ve had to explain to totally numbed victims that after being picked apart several times in succession, after the iniquities of the physical exam and having multiple strangers read the most horrific story of your life – they do believe you, and they want to help, but your case just won’t stand up in court. The best they can do is work on safety and security measures for you. That, too, hinges upon the availability of a whole other set of trained people and the emotional and mental presence of the victim.

/rant)

They ascertain that Palmer followed procedure by the book, but could not find enough to arrest the suspect. Sid outlines the quandary neatly by saying, “And if you don’t do your job, the DA can’t do theirs.”

“And that’s when rapists walk right back out the door,” says Palmer. He sounds sympathetic and somewhat frustrated.

CUT TO: The Two-Nine. Office of J? J’s new boss, anyway. I think I’ve seen Boss on other cop shows.

Jamie learns that the outgoing sergeant had some problems, mostly of his own making. He was more concerned with his golf game than his command. Jamie, very respectfully asks, “If I may, Boss, why me, though? A rookie sergeant?” Which is a pretty clever and layered way of learning more, in this instance.

We learn that in addition to “winning” the Sergeant’s exam, Jamie also won the Mayor’s Award at the Academy. A quick dig turns up what we all suspected: the Mayor’s Award means Jamie also clinched the highest overall score in his class, and was class Valedictorian. “So why not you?” his boss shrugs. He allows that having two PCs in the family doesn’t hurt, but that’s “pretty far down the list of why you.” Hee. I kinda like this guy.

“Here to help any way I can,” Jamie assures him.

“Then let’s put the fear of God into these guys,” says his new boss. Welp. At least he seems like he’s got Jamie’s back, but with what?

Jamie makes a brief suggestion to let his new guys get to trust him, but his boss states baldly, “Sergeant Reagan. This house is on fire. Hose it down.”

Well, then.

Jamie looks so absurdly young again, with everything to learn – and now as a husband as well as a Sergeant. And Will is nailing it. My hopes for S9 have lifted considerably.

CUT TO: An outdoor speech event is being staged along the river. Which one? Not sure. Frank’s detail calls Danny and Baez over to inform them that they found both Roy Cross and a semiautomatic pistol in the parking lot near the event. “Public park,” is Cross’ explanation. “Legally registered gun.” As if that calms all seas.

“Expecting trouble?” asks Danny.

“Dangerous world,” Cross replies. Uh huh. Doofus.

Danny and Baez bring him to the Two-Five for questioning, more or less under arrest, but not in cuffs or shackled to the table. “First time on this side of the table,” Cross remarks. Now we get the first sign of heat from him about the PC ending his career. Danny reminds him that he was working a drug bust in which money disappeared.

“You don’t have evidence I took a single dime,” Cross says, dropping the amiable-doofus tone for something rather more slick and a little sinister. Danny reminds him that the PC let Cross retire with his full pension, without being fired. “Imagine my gratitude,” Cross grumbles back. Well, yeah. If drug money went walking on my watch, on a case I was responsible for, I’d be pretty freaking grateful for that – if nothing else, it’s a statement that the PC didn’t think he was directly responsible, and it leaves him free to keep in contact with people who could re-open the investigation.

Then: “Do you believe in loyalty, Danny?” he asks.

Danny takes a breath. “Yeah, I believe in loyalty.”

Cross delivers quite a speech about his high-risk drug-interdiction task force, which suffered casualties, and that “If some of the cash belonging to some of the scumbags that killed my people finds its way into the pockets of their loved ones, I can live with that.”

Whoa. So either he lifted it himself or turned a blind eye. And he’s sore at Frank for letting him walk out of his job unscathed? Sheesh.

“Is that what happened?” Baez asks softly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cross snaps back. Again, whoa. This guy is morphing from amiable doofus to mission-oriented killer before my eyes.

As Danny tries to explain that his old man actually, really does mourn the loss of every officer under his command (um, yes, including his son), Cross spits out a whole new angry spiel about eulogies being cheap, and being there “after the cameras leave” is what’s important. Which, as we know, Frank believes too. Not so much with this guy. What’s his actual beef? Besides needing to have been cycled off his task force a few years earlier.

Danny is unclear as to the nature of the beef as well, but says he doesn’t care. He issues a warning and then he lets Amiable Doofus Mission Killer walk out the door.

CUT TO: The Two-Nine parade room. Sergeant Reagan glances through the side window as he approaches the door. There are clusters of officers chatting loudly, lounging around, and not paying attention to anything else.

“Officers,” Jamie calls, walking to the podium. “Muster up.”

Nobody musters very fast.

“I said, fall in. Move!” Jamie barks. I, um, whoa. A few officers eyeball each other. “On my command, open ranks for inspection.” Yes, SIR. Let’s not belabour that with anything too metaphorical, shall we?

“Open ranks. Move,” he says, more normally. They sort of do. About eighteen officers spread out, lazily. A couple are without hats. One has only one set of collar brass that I can see. Some are standing loosely at attention while others have their hands resting on the duty belts. Hoo boy.

Jamie walks down the line, calling out Officer Hatless (another hatless dude hastily covers up), and a female officer with a straggly ponytail. “And lose the red nail polish – this isn’t the junior prom.” Ooh, that’s mild for a double uniform code discipline. (Red nails, really?? Sheesh. Friend of mine got written up on account of a very neat French manicure leftover from a wedding.) Dude with ten years’ service has a visible tattoo on the back of his hand, which is also against regulations. I guess that means either wearing makeup on his hand or wearing gloves on shift the whole time.

Jamie recognizes an Officer Jordan for being squared away and passing Inspection, which I’m thinking isn’t going to earn Jordan any beers after shift.

“My name is Sergeant Reagan,” Jamie announces, returning to the podium, in that completely delicious gruff half-California-half-Nyawker accent of his. “I’m the new boss. If you pay me respect, you’ll get it back, with interest.” Aww. I believe it, too. “If you give me grief, you won’t know what hit ya.” Dude. Second-Season Jamie with the All-Night Throw-Down is BACK.

PHEW. Fanfanfan.

Establishing shot. NYC, why you gotta be so pretty? I miss you. (Hastily checks flights. Hm.)

CUT TO: Office of E. Erin wonders aloud why Monica would let off a serial abuser scott-free. “She was a good prosecutor,” Tony says reasonably, “She must’ve had a good reason for letting Conroy escape.”

Erin points out that when it came to prosecuting crimes against women, Monica was a bulldog. Um. Erin. You are literally in Monica’s job now. You can look up her files and things.

Tony knows that look, and throws a monkey-wrench in the work with a “You really wanna start staining her reputation?” Oh, Tony. What about the reputation of the DA’s office?

If Monica had a legitimate reason, then there’s no problem, says Erin. If not, then she needs to know.

CUT TO: Office of F. Oh, NOW Frank and Kelly are dancing. Frank has spoken with Thompson as well as Palmer, and finds them both credible. He can’t speak to other victims who have been interviewed by Palmer on account of the nature of the cases. That leaves them with a he-said-she-said, says Kelly, and “Whaddya know – he wins!” Damn, she’s even elegant when throwing hissy fits. Frank responds that Kelly’s suggesting that a male cop can’t interview a case effectively, but he’s got thousands of cases that say otherwise.

Enter Abigail, Debatus Interruptus.

“Nobody is saying that a man can’t be a good SVU investigator,” Kelly says placatingly, “But he sure as hell starts with a disadvantage.”

“Namely?” calls Frank, as she turns to leave. Tee hee. Kelly does not lay out the specific anatomical disadvantages, but with Baker standing right behind her, exclaims: “He’s not a woman!”

Baker doesn’t even blink.

“Few men are,” Frank says enlightenedly.

Baker doesn’t even blink.

She moves to close the door, but Franks asks her to stay.

“I think I got the gist,” she says.

“You take this to its logical extreme,” Frank begins, and then outlines a scenario in which every victim of sexual abuse should be interviewed by someone who matches them across all demographics. Cool! But not realistic.

“But,” says Baker, “Except.”

“Really?” says Frank, wearily.

Baker comes to life. She leaps into the chair in front of Frank, and outlines key research that proves that a female victim may not be as candid at opening up to a male as a female detective. Well, yes. And that the male detective may be hard-wired with an empathy gap. HOLY HECK I THINK I READ THAT PAPER IN CRIM CLASS NO REALLY THIS IS GREAT!

Frank protests, repeating that his male detectives have closed many solid cases, and that the detective in question seemed absolutely transparent. Baker points out that he has some excellent detectives who work hard to overcome those deficits, and she doesn’t buy Palmer’s seeming candidness, calling it being on best-behaviour. THANK YOU BAKER.

Frank also says “Thank you, Baker.” He asks about her gut-instinct on Palmer. She wasn’t in the room, she says, but she tells Frank he needs to follow up. How much do I love that he trusts her to keep him flying straight, and she’ll just swoop in and do so? I hope Baker finds her way further up the ladder. She needs to be getting in more supervisory experience and making key decisions, not just advising. Maybe she can sit the Sergeant’s exam next time.

CUT TO: Office of D. Nighttime. It’s like a 30’s potboiler all up in here, with the lighting and their postures and clothes. Danny is quietly musing that it’s just a matter of time before Cross strikes again. Baez agrees. Danny actually invokes The Old Days of In House Justice, in which serving up a beating got the job done. Baez is not impressed. She knows it’s personal, but does he really want to take it to that extent?

He’d prefer not to, but that’s not what’s on his mind: he thinks Cross must have insider access, either of his own or through someone else, to the PC’s daily schedule – such as his confidential breakfast meetings. (Why’d they let this mook go, again? They could totally have kept him on suspicion of threat and had 24 hours to investigate. But anyway.)

I love these two when they’re in sync. They make sense together, in an entirely sibling-y way, but less yell-y than the Reagan kids. They have each other’s backs. And Baez, for all she could do more of the heavy lifting script-wise if they’d only give her a chance, has lasted way longer than any of Danny’s other partners. (Oh, Jackie, where art thou?)

CUT TO: Downtown Manhattan. Autumn in New York, all twilight-y and picturesque. (I have just contacted my sister about a winter visit to NYC. Stay tuned.)

Erin takes a call from Tony. He’s been checking for a connection between Monica and “this prick Conroy” – his words. There isn’t one. But there was a connection between Conroy and Monica’s boss, Chief Assistant Whitney, aka Erin’ boss’ boss. (And there’s our complete cycle back to the episode title: Meet The New Boss indeed.) Tony suggests Conroy’s been buying his way out with choice sports tickets and boxes.

Tony gives his character reference of Whitney which is, succinctly ,”A back-stabbing weasel who likes to get people fired. Monica knew better than to cross him. I hope you do, too.”

The music of Dun Dun DUN plays.

CUT TO: Morning, back at the Office of E. Erin and Tony are pedeconferencing to a meeting room. Have these two even slept? They’re hoping they can get Conroy to confess. Erin has a bluff up her sleeve, and she does not fold.

We meet Typical Overgrown Fratboy Conroy and his female lawyer, because look, he obviously respects women or he wouldn’t have hired on to represent him, right? He’s not sure why he’s there, but sure, he’s happy to help.

“Because beating up women is against the law,” Erin says flatly.

Lawyer Lady says that Mr. Conroy has been charged with no such crime. Erin informs them she’s re-opening the case and has asked for Investigative Services. So everyone’s opening gambits are in place.

Conroy “feels awful that he frightened Kara – that wasn’t his intention.” May I give a shout-out and I HEAR YOU to everyone, woman or man, who has been gaslit to their face OR TO OTHERS in this way, by framing a violent event as “being misinterpreted” and “not his intention.”

“What was your intention?” Tony asks mildly.

Lawyer Lady shuts that down, but Conroy is feeling chatty. He admits to an argument, but claims it was never physical.

Whence the black eye? asks Erin. She is not here to waste time letting the tired script unroll. Conroy is a serial abuser who got away with it once and will not get away with it again, she states.

She cuts off Lawyer Lady and offers a one-time deal. Conroy will plead guilty to Assault in the Third Degree, agree to counselling and complete a Batterers program. If they don’t take the deal, Conroy gets charged with Assault in the Second Degree (which in Canada is only one rung down from Bodily Harm, which comes with mandatory minimums and Violent Offender status.) So that’s about as sweet a deal as he could expect.

Lawyer Lady and Conroy whisper. Erin regrets not learning how to lip-read. They decline the offer, with a smile. This surprises nobody. As they leave, Conroy asks Erin to “send my best to Kara,” with a sympathetic nod. I twitch, because yes, indeed, that is the next line in Gaslighting 101 manual. What a pity Kara had to over-react and waste everyone’s time like this. Clearly she’s Not Stable.

Chief Whitney happens to drop by to ask how it went with Conroy, since he was walking down the same hall. Actually, his excuse is even flimsier and slimier: “Oh, well, when you’re Chief DA, little birds always seem to find you.” Ew. Yuck. Whitney has to know that Erin has already had one superior attorney fired and prosecuted for fraud. He’s going to be watching her most carefully.

Whitney is well beyond Typical Overgrown Fratboy and into Soulless But Apparently Put His Dentist’s Kids Through College.

He readily admits to hanging with Conroy on the reg, even summering together. “The thing is,” he goes on, just as a friendly tip, “I like to know when my Bureau Chiefs dig up old cases.”

“I wasn’t aware of that policy,” Erin says, being a smart cookie. Show your receipts, bro. Put everything in writing. Whitney suggests a friendly lunch to “go over the ground rules” because this is all-new territory for Erin, and he’s just looking out for her.

Tony and Erin share a look of solidarity.

CUT TO: Detective Palmer, interviewing a sex assault victim, who, by the way, is Baker (Baker! Baker! Baker) in highly convincing makeup and casual clothes. She spins a tale of Tommy-the-boyfriend, who was too tired to go to the movies, but took offence to her wanting to go alone. “Tommy” grabbed her arm, threw her on the couch, hit her and then raped her.

Palmer continues down the standard list, about past assaults and whether she ever filed a complaint. Tommy’s hit her before, says Baker, but never forced himself on her. Palmer is open and approachable so far, polite but showing every sign of believing her. But then.

He goes on to explain that it’s harder to get a conviction on a spouse or partner, because of the complications of “saying no when it’s been yes so many times in the past.” Why waste everyone’s time, is his implication. Baker confirms: “You’re saying I just have to let him get away with it?” Palmer explains that that’s her choice, but unfortunately, he probably will get away with it. Which, okay, technically not incorrect, but again, not victim-centering, only conviction-centering

For me – just me – I wouldn’t frame his questioning as abusive or victim-blaming, exactly, but certainly dismissive and premature. Relationships are complex things. He didn’t uncover more than a tiny corner. He didn’t even ask about evidence or periodic escalations. He didn’t ask about past breakups, or children, for God’s sake. He didn’t ask about witnesses of past abuse, or offer her any kind of victim’s support services, safety planning, or even information about Peace Bonds or other non-investigatory paths. If that’s the protocol, it’s woefully incomplete. Having consensual sex one or more times with someone does not mean that non-consensual sex will be hard to prove outright. I don’t think that’s how Frank, who helped craft the protocol, would interpret it.

He asks her if he can’t get her a drink. “I’ve got everything I need,” says Baker. And how.

CUT TO: The Two-Nine. There’s an actual knock-down fight going on in the men’s locker room. Hatless Officer #1 is not coming out of it well. The other men are standing around yelling. Enter Jamie, also yelling. He breaks it up and demands to know what’s going on. The two combatants, the other of whom has a bloody nose, clam up, claiming there’s no problem.

“How come none of you were stepping in?” Jamie asks next. There is shifting of feet and looks directed anywhere else but at Sarge. Jamie puts them all on report. He sends them all out to do some freakin’ work, but calls back Jordan. Yeah, if things have disintegrated to this level, Jamie singling out Jordan isn’t going to go well for Jordan. I bet Jamie’s well aware of that, though. He tells Jordan (and us) that of all the shift, he’s the only one with no black on his record, but that won’t last if Jordan keeps his mouth shut like the rest of them. Jordan wants to tell him what he knows, really, but can’t.

SHOUT OUT to @ontherockswithsalt who first suggested that Jamie’s first challenge as a Sergeant should not be an attitudinal cop but a guy who reminds Jamie of himself.

Jamie threatens Jordan again with a write-up. Jordan glumly says better that than getting labelled a snitch. Jamie’s face seems to say he gets it, all right, but Jordan has to break ranks and meet him halfway if he wants his help. You can tell that Jamie really doesn’t want to ding him. Jordan gets that the new boss is actually pretty decent. They both leave looking pretty miserable.

CUT TO: Reagan House. Here’s hoping for a less tense dinner. Last week’s meal cannot have been digested well.

Henry opens with a cheery, “This lasagne’s incredible, Eddie.” Aww. Considering their years of Linda’s lasagne, that’s high praise. Eddie beams, explains that it’s her mother’s recipe, but it’s the only thing she knows how to make. (Hm. Thought she said she could cook? Continuity gremlins.)

I am still not psychically adjusted to Eddie in all these floral and fluttery dresses. I mean, Vanessa rocks that look, but it’s a far cry from badass Eddie. “—and Margaritas.” Jamie adds. AHAHAHA! Was he invoking their Margarita-fuelled first kiss all those years ago? Have we missed Margarita Mayhem and Lingering Looks in Eddie’s apartment, after shifts or lousy dates with other people?

Frank tells her that she shouldn’t feel obliged to do dinner and cleanup all alone. Eddie says she’s happy to, and gives them a wee speech (getting a bit choked up) about being so grateful for the welcome they’ve given her. (WHAAAT? Frank was all suspicious and reluctant and then the whole family threw a massive snit and left her out in the cold last week. The kids have been by far the happiest to welcome her as a new Aunt.)

Jamie, meanwhile, is exchanging coded eyetalk across the table, and muttering to his nephews out of sight. Hmm.

“Yeah,” says Danny, “I think this would be a perfect time to call a Code Blue.”

Jamie suddenly looks less relaxed. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he sputters.

“I do,” says Erin, in something approaching her Mom Voice.

“It’s gotta happen sooner or later,” Henry says.

“That’s right,” Danny says. Then: “Dad?”

Frank, with eyes only for Eddie, says: “I particularly liked this lasagne.”

Eddie smells a whiff of BS. “What’s a Code Blue?” she asks.

“It means it’s time to talk about your wedding, Eddie,” Erin tells her. Eddie’s into this, for a moment, but:

“Jamie tells us you want a big church to-do, all the bells and whistles,” Henry begins.

Jamie ducks and pinches the bridge of his nose as if fending off a headache.

As Eddie falters that she doesn’t remember saying that, and Jamie tries to brush it off, Erin goes on, describing a huge venue for the reception. The PC’s guest list alone will be at least two hundred people. As Eddie tries to crawl out again, saying they haven’t made any firm plans, Henry beams and says expansively, “But that’s what family is for!”

Then Erin brings out the ammo: “You’re gonna look so beautiful in Mom’s dress.”

Eddie’s face begins to fall, as everyone piles in with agreements. She checks in with Jamie: “Mom’s dress?”

“The train’s kinda long, but once you get it moving, you’ll get used to it,” he assures her. His Soft!Jamie voice when talking to Eddie these days is doing things to me, jokester or no.

The gang reaches a crescendo when Eddie finally hollers “STOP! Stop stop stop! I’m glad you’re all very excited…but…” and reads them a fairly mild riot act about her and Jamie’s wedding being her and Jamie’s business. That their only job is to turn up and have a blast, and anyone who can’t handle that can look at pictures.

It’s not quite IMMA FEED YOU THE STEERING WHEEL Eddie, but it’s a partial return.

Silence. A round of applause. A confused Eddie, who thought she’d just put her foot in it and made another dinner really awkward. Danny explains the Code Blue tradition. Erin adds: being on best behaviour gets really old, really fast. Frank thinks it’s sneaky, which explains his first attempt to divert the oncoming train. Henry explains that family is all about telling each other the truth, sometimes the hard truth, but always with love, and that Eddie is part of it now.

Considering that one of Eddie’s few worries about marrying Jamie had to have been the fact that she was essentially also marrying a very loud, usually unified mob that includes her uber-boss, she might well have been concerned about her ability to hold her ground. I’m betting Linda hollered something fierce, probably about – I don’t know, what’s a potential Linda sore spot to poke? Her total competency being taken for granted? Maybe.

“So you’re saying you don’t care if I can’t cook as long as I can fight?” Eddie demands, side-eyeing Frank with all her might. “Well, yeah,” says Frank. That’s my girl. Her instinctual fighty-reflexes certainly saved Jamie, after all.

SIDE CUT TO: Reagan House, Sitting Room. Erin and Frank are sitting over drinks. Erin needs some advice about Whitney, who Frank seems to have heard of. She outlines the situation with Monica and Conroy. Frank delivers quite an enlightened speech about regarding all interactions through a rainbow of lenses, including how Whitney might have reacted if Monica was a white guy and not a black woman. Erin is surprised, to say the least. (Yay Baker!)

The fact that Erin looks him in the eye and say, “That’s very funny, coming from you,” is a quite a daughterly smack, which Frank looks like he’s just realizing how much he deserved – and how much he might have missed in his own family, over the years.

Frank’s right, though. Every person that Whitney overspoke to save Conroy was a person of color, a woman, or both: Monica, Martin, or Erin’s new direct boss. And now here’s Erin entering the fray: woman, yes, but white, with the Reagan banner wrapped around her. Whitney may deal with her differently depending on his biases.

CUT TO: One PP. A young man, Ronnie, is hustling like mad down a hallway, frowning at his phone. Garrett steps out and stops him, and introduces him to Danny and Baez. RUH ROH. Ronnie recognizes the Reagan name and looks impressed, or something.

They confirm that Ronnie is responsible for planning the PC’s schedule, and that he’s aware that it’s confidential. Even from his own personal e-mail. Ronnie gasps and protests that he gets calls all night long (which I’m sure he does) and needs the information handy.

CUT TO: The Two-Nine. Jamie’s boss tells him the Code of Silence ends now. The entire crew Jamie found fighting or standing by is to be transferred immediately. Whoa. Jamie asks to hang onto Jordan, and gets him.

Boss says that the One PP has approved Jamie’s list of One-Two officers to be transferred to the Two-Nine. Five of his buddies will be joining him, but not Janko. Boss can’t say why – that’s above his pay grade. Sigh. The battle of wills continues. Or does it? We don’t know if Frank took Eddie’s name off or if Eddie herself did.

CUT TO: Office of E. Erin’s boss – not Whitney, her direct supervisor, what’s his face – steps in. Erin asks to discuss the Conroy case. She outlines the few facts at her disposal, which is ballsy, I mean big-brass-ballsy, considering the newness of her position and her tentative balance with her boss as it is. But he agrees with her, philosophically, at any rate. Boss seems to have been waiting for something like this to happen, because he warns Erin that Whitney won’t go quietly, and will do a lot of damage on his way out.

He seems appreciate the heads-up that Erin is prepared to go in herself and defuse the bomb, or at least try to contain the detonation, since he will have to clean up a lot of the bits afterwards, too.

CUT TO: Street scene. A cruiser pulls up next to Frank’s detail car, which is parked in, well, a no-parking zone. An officer assures the beat cop that the PC is getting a haircut and will be done in ten or fifteen minutes.

Panning back, we see a man nearby, hunched and hiding, and listening hard. He enters the barber shop, hood up. We see the a man covered in hot towels in the barber chair. The sneaky dude lowers his hood – it’s not Cross after all but Ronnie. He looks scared again, and inches nearer the barber chair.

Danny appears around a corner, confused. He calls Ronnie by name. Ronnie pulls a gun and aims. And in the instant before he fires, Danny, Baez, the barber and the not-Frank man in the barber chair all get up and a bunch of shots ring out.

Ronnie is alive, lucky bastard, and Danny cuffs him and asks Baez to call a bus.

CUT TO: Sergeant Reagan, off shift, loping into a bar to meet his girl. Eddie’s wearing a sunshiney yellow sundress that recalls a similar dress Vanessa wore years ago for some event. She looks fabulous. I guess this is the new normal, Jamie and Eddie catching up after shift from their separate tours.

Eddie doesn’t let him stew in his ongoing dad-angst but tells him that it was she who asked to not be transferred. Maybe Frank is right about them not working together, she says. She’s worked hard for everything she’s achieved as a cop. She doesn’t want to lose it. It’s hers.

She fell in love with Jamie Reagan, she says. I get the flutters. “The Jamie part’s easy. He’s my partner, my lover and my best friend. But the Reagan part? I might need some distance. I don’t want to disappear.”

(I watch this bit about six times in rapid succession to be sure mine ears deceiveth me not.)

(Then: YES! I fistpump. This is why I wanted to give her her own family and backstory and everything. She’s not anybody’s add-on.)

Jamie nods slowly. Then: “Judging from how you handled that Code Blue at dinner the other night, I think you’re gonna do just fine.”

“I did kinda destroy you guys.” (Oh, I think they’re all still walking around.)

“Yeah. Bigtime.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I take back everything I said about Will and Vanessa doing their best with limp lettuce sandwiches. That’s a couple season’s worth of heavy subtext and family dynamics to condense into a very brief exchange, and Vanessa just pierces it, with Will holding the space in that quiet but engaged way he does. Could it have been longer? Sure. But this was poignant and precise.

(Also SQUEEEE. I love yous and a ring! And I wanna hear more about Jamie being Eddie’s lover, damn overachiever and all, but hey.)

CUT TO: Morning. A hospital bed. Danny watching over Ronnie, cuffed to the bed.

Danny looks over and spies Cross, and heads him off. As Cross protests he’s clean, Danny literally frisks him in the ward. Cross tells a tale of his first year on the task force, and of taking down almost an entire family at a clandestine lab – except for an eight year old kid hiding in the closet. Ronnie.

Danny grudgingly admits that Cross must have raised Ronnie to be a good guy, considering he’s cleared to work at One PP. Cross insists that he was letting his vendetta against Frank go, especially considering he knew he couldn’t get past Danny’s investigation. What, then, Danny asks – was Ronnie trying to do his sort-of-old-man one last favor?

Cross asks to see him. Danny lets him, with a warning not to do anything crazy.

CUT TO: Office of F. Baker, Kelly and Frank are discussing Paula Thompson’s case. Baker gives her opinion that Thompson’s impressions were correct. Kelly, pleased but befuddled, asks what they did differently, which they decline to answer. Palmer will be reassigned. Frank promises to call Thompson himself, to give her the news and to apologize. Kelly is most appreciative and somehow manages to give her very professional and elegant thanks while also clearly wondering how drunk they need to get before blowing up the tension between them.

Frank directs the thanks to Detective Baker. Kelly remembers Baker is still in the room with them, and shakes her hand. Actually, I love the scenes the two women get together. I hope there are many more and they Bechdel the crap out of every one.

“It’s a good start,” says Kelly, as she leaves, elegantly.

Baker is deeply amused.

Frank explains that he’s not about to transfer good, specially trained detectives because of their gender. But he’s creating a panel to assess Special Victims protocol, and make recommendations. And he wants Baker to sit on it.

I rather think he’s clued in that Baker, like, oh, 98% of more of female cops, has her own experiences to bear on the project. Baker is a little stunned at how quickly that came together, but pleased.

“And Baker,” Frank adds, as she gets up to leave, “That was good police work, Detective.”

She smiles and nods her thanks.

“…for a girl,” he finishes.

For the second time in two episodes, Baker gives him The Look in full as she quietly closes the door.

WELL.

I’m feeling rather more optimistic about S9.

I predict Erin’s going to eviscerate her dodgy boss and get some great scenes, but not without metaphorical (not literal, I hope) bloodshed. Though she’s been involved in shootouts before, and recently, too.

I’m looking forward to Jamie and Eddie navigating all kinds of new balances and territory, and I can’t wait to see Eddie really going up against Frank or Henry about something they’re all deeply passionate about.

It occurs to me that SID’S PLAN WORKED. He, Garrett, Danny and Baez neutralized a threat against Frank without Frank even knowing about it.

I hope we see more of the kids, especially Nicky working through her NYPD application process, as she’s a season regular now.

And Frank and Kelly.

And Baker. (Baker! Baker! Baker!)

Given CBS’s dismal track record of its treatment of female stars and their storylines, and the ousting of head-jackass Moonves, can we hope for more highlighting of the women of the show? This seems to be, as Kelly said, a good start.

#blue bloods #recap #jamko #jamie reagan #eddie janko #frank reagan #danny reagan #maria baez #METOO #me too

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deadlinecom · 3 years

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gldstr · 7 years

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@nick-goldstar

Nick RIDE ✔️ 97’ Nissan 240sx se Suspension: Stance coilovers 14k(swift)/10k springs Pbm era 1 front knuckles Front: Steering rack moved 20mm forward 30mm extended lca Voodoo 13 front tension rods Stealth custom fab front power brace Z32 steel calipers 30mm Moog outer tie rods and maxima inners Rear: SPL toe arms Megan tension and camber arms Welded diff Pmu drift spec brake pads Modded subframe Engine: Ka24det 9.0:1 cp Pistons Manley h-beam rods Full arp studs Light port and gasket match Excessive crank scraper/windage tray Tomei manifold Tomei cams Crower dual valve springs Supertech valves Garrett gt2860rs Turbo smart wastegate actuator Ported wastegate exhaust housing HKS electronic boost controller Pbm cobra r down pipe Jwt ecu 550cc injectors Drivetrain: Spec stage 3 clutch Welded diff Brakes: z32 front Exterior: Vertex ridge front and rear bumpers Origin side skirts Masa hood Ryo tail lights Ganador mirrors Vertex headlights Advan model 5 18x9 +10 Work cr Kiwami 18x9.5 +15 Weds Cerberus 1’s 18x10 +? Interior Key!s steering wheel Tomei shift knob Bride Zeta ii Bride Brix Bride seat rails Dmax floor mats Rear mount battery

#gldstr #sacramentostreetstyle

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celebbrity-mini-biography-blog · 7 years

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Fabolous Height Weight Biography wiki Girl Friend Age Family Body Measure

This article Fabolous Height Weight Biography wiki Girl Friend Age Family Body Measure is about an American rapper John David Jackson(Fabolous).

Fabolous Biography Full Name John David Jackson Nick Name Fabolous, The Kid, Ghetto Fab, F to da A-B Known as Fabolous Age 39 Sex Male Date of Birth November 18, 1977 Birth Place Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States Residence UnKnown…

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sea-side-scribbles · 2 years

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Fanfiction: You Always Meet Twice

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37455736/chapters/93747028

Chapter 3

A few days later, Morrie Memento arrived at the doorstep of “Nick's Fab Pad” right on time for his first rehearsal. Yet again, he was barely able to hold back his nerviness. The rockstar's behaviour at the audition had made his mind boil up with questions. Did he like it? Did he hate it? But he wanted him, right? He made him a Make Believe. What would he say today?

Again, Morrie told himself he could only put his best foot forward.

After the polite Bobby invited him inside the entrance hall was empty once again. It didn't surprise Morrie that much anymore, even though he had hoped for a more welcoming start. But the painting was there and he couldn't keep himself from giving it a nod. As if the Lightbearer could watch him through his paintings. Well, he had to busy his poor mind with something.

He waited for a few minutes for someone to show up. Mr. Dainty surely knew he was here. But when nothing happened, he decided to take action this time and walk into the studio on his own. Where else would their rehearsal take place? Entering an empty studio, he doubted his decision. Where was everyone? Checking his notes he got from Mr. Dainty, he again learned that he did nothing wrong. Breathing out a sigh, he picked out one of the comfortable white chairs to rest and wait some more. That Golden God surely kept him in suspense.

The more he waited, the more attractive the instruments in the room became. Nick wouldn't mind if he...? That's what he was here for after all. He could...unstiffen his fingers a little. Work out his nervousness and get into the flow... He hesitated for a few more minutes, listening closely. It was so awkwardly quiet in this place.

Then Morrie couldn't bear the silence any more and carefully walked over to the shiny white concert grand. It didn't complain. He played a few chords before he stopped, held up his hands and perked up his ears again. Did someone notice? Could he summon Nick like this? Ah, didn't seem like it. What a shame. He so wanted to get this over with. The musician sat down and began a simple etude just to warm up. It evolved into something more complex as time went by.

He didn't notice that somebody had entered and listened until the man blew an appreciative whistle. Morrie winced and turned around to face a stranger in gaudy clothes who eyed him with a lopsided sneer. “Wow. You're that smashing new keyboard wiz Nick told us about”, he said, causing Morrie's blood to flow right into his head. My god, a Make Believe!

He shot up from his seat, holding up his hands. “Yeah, uh, I hope it's okay that I just opened the session like that. This is the right date, right? I met nobody else yet so I...”, he blustered out. The other man snorted. “Man, chill. This isn't Kingsmead University. Do whatever you like in here. Nobody's gonna arrest you or something.” “Right...” Morrie ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to take steady, deep breaths. “I...I'm just not used to any of this yet.” “Oh, you'll get the hang of it.”

Morrie paused and looked at the other man who was still grinning at him. “I'm sorry...my name is Morrie Memento”, Morrie introduced himself in a slower pace and offered the band member his hand. The man accepted without hesitation despite looking amused. “Sure, welcome to the gang, Morrie Memento. My name's Chris Ward.” “I know...”, Morrie answered shyly, overwhelmed about finally shaking an idols' hand. “I'm...I'm excited to work with you.” “Huh, work”, Chris said. “We'll see about that.” He pulled up a chair and sat down, shouldering his shiny red guitar. “That tune was cool. Can you play this again?” “Oh, sure...” Morrie nervously sat back down and tried out a few chords until he found the tune. He played on and soon heard Chris step in. After a while of testing each other they had a more fluent conversation in their music than with words.

When the other Make Believes walked in, Morrie shortly hesitated. But Chris kept on playing, so Morrie decided to keep his mouth shut. He feared he'd stutter again anyway. Also, the band coming together musically felt more magical than any words could. And he was among them, in his element! He felt that there could be no better welcome.

Of course Morrie was also nervous, trying to keep up. After a session of plain free jamming they seamlessly proceeded to the Lightbearer songs and expected Morrie to follow. Or it was their way of testing him. Morrie did his best and albeit stumbling over a few chords he always made it to the end. It was when they paused that he noticed that he was soaked in sweat. He felt both relieved and embarrassed. But it wasn't too bad. He had passed the test. Who cared what he looked like right now?

It flattered him that the Make Believes gathered around him to exchange greetings. The drummer Brad Wilson slapped his shoulders so heartily that he almost nosedived into the keys. Matthew Reid had a more gentle handshake and didn't even sneer. Chris now even had a proud grin and said “What did I tell you?”, as if they had placed a bet on Morrie's competency. It was all fun and laughter, helping the new band member to relieve his tension.

Then suddenly Brad and Chris left the room, deep in conversation. Morrie's surprised look met Matthews wide smile. “Where are they going?” “They buy flowers for Victoria Byng's tea party”, Matt answered and laughed about Morrie's puzzled face. “No really, work is over. Let's have some fun!” “But....but...”, the newcomer stuttered, searching the studio with his eyes. “Where's Nick?” His voice sounded more concerned than he intended. “Ah, well...”, Matt shrugged. “He's not showing up. Whatever.” “Not showing up? But this is his home! He must be here somewhere!” He earned another laugh from Matt. “You think he's always lurking about here? No, that's not how he works.” “But...” Morrie couldn't wrap his head around it. “Isn't he like the major act of our show?” A trace of sarcasm slipped into his tone. Matt nonchalantly waved him off “Don't worry, you'll see him again soon enough.” Morrie wasn't very content with this kind of practice. “Before the gig I hope?”, he insisted. “You'll be fine. You were fine today, weren't you? It won't get any worse than that.”

Since Morrie had no chance but to submit to the band's habits, he left the room with the Make Believe. The upcoming days before the gig, he had a queasy feeling in his stomach that later turned out to be justified. The Golden God didn't show up again. There wasn't a new rehearsal scheduled and whenever he visited the Fab Pad occasionally he only met the other band members which seemed to kill time there. Every now and then Morrie managed to drag them into the studio to practise. The band kept telling him to calm down, assured him multiple times that he'd be cool, but the newcomer wanted to at least make a minimal effort. They offered him “candy” to soothe his nerves, but Morrie figured he needed his clear head to be any good. The queasy feeling grew the closer the gig came.

The night before the fateful day he didn't sleep. His nerves kept him awake while he prepared himself for the most important concert in his life. Even though he had been warmly welcomed by the band, he couldn't help but feel disappointed by the constant absence of Nick Lightbearer. Morrie wished he could talk to his idol again and leave their awkward first meeting behind. He needed to hear that everything was fine and he wanted to be given the chance to practice with the full band, so he could deliver his best performance. Or at least keep up with them all. But instead...Morrie didn't want to believe that his idol didn't care. But on the other hand he'd be really optimistic to think everything would be alright without even one rehearsal. Morrie wondered if he had made such a good first impression on Nick so that he trusted him blindly. Imagining the Lightbearer's faith made Morrie's heart flutter.

Prepared or not, Morrie had to pull this off, so he arrived at the concert hall on time. Not any concert hall, of course. It was no less than the Orpheum, the place he had never seen from inside before. Again, just like that. But he had no time to ponder about it.

“Is he here?”, was the first question he asked the manager when he entered the backstage area. Mr. Dainty appeared to not understand him right away. “Mr. Lightbearer”, Morrie clarified. “Did he come?” He hated how out-of-breath and scared he sounded. The manager's features relaxed again as he understood and he gave a short, firm nod. “He's here. Don't worry, he won't miss this.” Morrie thought he found a hidden message here. “Does he sometimes miss an act?” Before he answered, Mr. Dainty gently put a hand on his shoulder, probably a comforting gesture, and walked him into the direction of his dressing room. “Listen, Morrie, you shouldn't bother your creative head too much. I heard you play with the others. You're exactly what we need. Just pick up the vibes and go with them. In any case, you're not alone.”

Later, Morrie had no time to worry or to marvel at the Lightbearer who suddenly appeared on stage to be cheered by the crowd. The rockstar's amplified voice sent thrills down his spine, but he had to focus now. As expected, his performance didn't go along perfectly smooth with the Lightbearer's, but his idol didn't seem to mind. He was all charms and smiles and the fans loved him. What a transformation from their first meeting to this! Nick must've had a bad day indeed. After working through a few songs Morrie even found himself acceptable. The ballad “Wildflower” became the most nerve-wrecking act for him, because there was nothing but Nick's voice and his piano until the first refrain. Nothing else to cover up a mistake. Any wrong note and this precious emotional moment would be ruined. But it passed by eventually and Morrie could hide behind the full blast of Chris' guitar again and take a few very deep breaths. He saw Matthew giving him a thumbs up and smiled for the first time this evening.

At the end of the gig, another thrilling moment for Morrie occurred, because Nick suddenly shouted his name and expected him to come out of his hiding-spot in the background of the stage. With a pounding heart, Morrie made his way to the front and all of a sudden he stood very close to his idol who wrapped an arm around him and squeezed him tightly. Pressed against Nick's side, he could do nothing but grin sheepishly while the fans cheered for them. As quickly as it had begun, the moment ended and Morrie left the stage with a spinning mind. They came back to play encores, too and when the gig was really over the young musician was a total wreck, despite a happy one. The others were high, talking fast and loud and laughed a lot. Morrie had a hard time following them. They dragged him along to a hotel to spend the night there and he was thankful he didn't have to walk all the way back home.

The hotel however wasn't quite a relaxing experience. A bunch of fans and friends of the band gathered there and threw a party. Nick was nowhere to be seen, so Morrie lost interest in all this. When he said goodnight to his band members he noticed their weird grin, but he thought they were simply sneering about him going to sleep so early. He didn't expect to find a naked woman in his bed. A little courtesy of the house, she said. She was eager to welcome the new guy and Morrie had no choice but to flee back into the lobby. Panting and shaking, he decided to call it a day. Determined to walk home, he neared the flamboyant double-door of the entrance. His heart skipped a beat when it opened without warning and the Lightbearer strutted inside. Morrie almost bumped into him.

“Whoa!”, he shouted first and then reconsidered. Multiple apologies followed while Nick again managed to look down at him. Oh, those eyes. Morrie wished to run and to stay at the same time. Suddenly, Nick laughed. It wasn't a taunt, but a infectuous, hearty sound that warmed Morrie from inside. “What are you doing here, Morrie? Are you leaving or what?” “Uh... No, I...I...” Now he felt ashamed for being such a killjoy. Nick made an inviting gesture. “Come along!” The young musician didn't think twice.

Nick continued to tease him, pointing finger guns at him. “Let me show you the countless wonders of the universe...”, he purred and then turned around, making Morrie marvel at him from behind. His poor mind began to spin again. That was the kind of Lightbearer he had hoped to meet and he didn't dare to imagine what would happen next. Following Nick along, he observed that they passed by the restaurant where all the fans had their party. Instead they went into the corridor that Morrie had just come from. Were they heading for the bedrooms? Morrie broke out in sweat.

In fact, the Golden God guided him right to a bedroom door. A second later, Morrie felt convinced that they had entered another world. “Bedroom” was a sorry understatement for the flashy suite they found behind the plain door. Nick's world was inhabited by what Morrie assumed to be the VIP of his fans. Surely, it was an honour to be invited to this place, but seeing that he had to share this moment with another group of fans put a damper on his excitement. He looked back at Nick and didn't leave his side. They squeezed past the fans that were sitting on the ground. Cushions and blankets in gaudy patterns lay scattered across the floor. A fluffy carpet made Morrie feel like he was walking on air. They made their way towards something that looked like a throne built out of cushions. The Lightbearer took a seat there amidst the crowd and a fan already hurried to light up his idol's joint. Morrie sat beside Nick and rather silently watched the scene unfold.

Or more likely, he watched Nick unfold. The Golden God that spoke to his disciples. Morrie didn't understand a word he said, but it sounded quite important. The secrets of the universe. How far did Nick go? Did he really know? The scent of Nick's joint made him dizzy. Suddenly, the rockstar nudged his shoulder and then waved a hand in front of his face. He saw Nick's lips moving but he didn't hear his words. Then Nick held out the tip of his joint to him and all the fans stared and laughed. Morrie wasn't too dizzy to be overwhelmed by the prompt closeness. Nick's slender fingers floated only a few inches away from his mouth and the tip of the joint had been touched by Nick's lips just a second ago. He hesitated for the blink of an eye, then he gave in. Taking a drag, he could feel Nick's fingernails gently pressing against his lips.

The smoke made him cough and shake. He bent over while the crowd's laughter rang in his ears. His eyes welled up. When the fit was over, he tried to pull himself together, rubbing his face. A moment later he couldn't feel his hands anymore. Did he even have hands? And why was he floating? Looking around, he found himself floating right under the ceiling. Or was it the ceiling that came down? He searched for Nick, so he could ask him what was going on and realized that the Lightbearer had dramatically changed his shape. He was as tall as the room and he had grown multiple arms that waved in the air. He looked like an Indian god. So he was a god!

Filled with gratitude for this divine revelation, he threw himself on the floor, worshipping his Golden God. The carpet gently caught him, then everything vanished.

#nicklightbearer #morriememento #nickxmorrie #we happy few #wehappyfew #whf #nick lightbearer #whf nick #whfnick #morrie memento #fanfiction #you always meet twice #the make believes #virgil dainty

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sea-side-scribbles · 2 years

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Fanfiction: You Always Meet Twice

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37455736/chapters/93474709

Chapter 2

Morrie had been hard working to make a name for himself in the little niche the great Golden God had left him. He didn't mind his idol's fame. He was sure he would make it too if he kept on. He already had a good reputation as a creative new talent and a fair chance to perform at the Orpheum in the future.

One day he received a letter from Nick Lightbearer's management and thought it was a scam at first, but after reading the letter multiple times he realized he had hit the jackpot. All his efforts finally paid off! He had attracted his idol's attention! He would have an audience with Nick Lightbearer! The God of Rock wanted him in his band! He would be a Make Believe!

He had never dared to hope it would come to this. He had imagined himself being at least noticed, respected and appreciated, maybe the supporting act in a Lightbearer show for some time. But this? Was he even ready yet? Morrie put the letter down, nervously shaking. He felt stirred to the bone. This had to go well! The entire day he was tense, rehearsing every song he could come up with. Of course he knew all the Lightbearer-songs by heart, but he hoped to impress the Golden God with his own creative spirit. He considered The Make Believes to be a kind of genius musical a-team, so he needed to be one of the best to become a part of them. When his fingers began to ache, he stopped. He had to stay in good shape after all, make sure the Lightbearer would regard him with favour.

He didn't sleep that night. Entangled in his bed sheets and sweating, he exhausted his mind by picturing the audition again and again. What he would say, how it would go. It meant so much. He thought of shaking the Lightbearer's hand. What would it feel like? Warm and soft? A little rough at the fingertips from plucking the strings ever so often? He was a hard working genius after all. He held the imagined hand for a while, examined it with his own imagined fingers. The Lightbearer would smile at him of course. One of his enchanting smiles that lay somewhere in between flirting and sneering. He would look him up and down, silently saying: “Show me what you got.” And Morrie would show him.

He had to make sure his own palms weren't covered in sweat. That would be most embarrassing. Morrie winded, rubbing his hands against the bedsheets. He shouldn't be too nervous. Polite, yes, respectful, yes, but not shaking, stammering nonsense, looking like he wasn't up for the task. He needed to look ready. He needed to be confident.

Wasn't he?

Alone, during his own performances, he sure was. They made the Lightbearer take notice of him in the first place. So he better treated the audition like one of his shows. And his idol like a spectator. He needed to look into the Lightbearer's eyes and charm him.

Oh, god.

He was afraid he'd melt down into a sorry pile of sweat as soon as he looked into those eyes. Damn, there was no way to rehearse that! He had only one chance to win the world's biggest rockstar over. But he got invited, so he already made a good impression, right? So everything would be fine?

Like this, the night slipped by.

The next day Morrie began his fateful journey to the place they flippantly called “Nick's Fab Pad”. He didn't need to ask for the way. He had passed by the place a few times, pining to see it from inside. His body demanded him to take a deep breath at the thought. Was he ready? Well, he had no chance but to pretend that he was.

He had always avoided to be seen by the Bobby at the entrance. He didn't find him very welcoming, but showing him the letter helped a lot. The Bobby now very politely invited him in. With a pounding heart Morrie continued his journey, staring at the gaudy entrance hall in awe. This was the place where all the magic happened.

A portrait of Nick looked down on him and made him flinch. Well, that was kind of a rehearsal, he thought while he recovered. Morrie was glad that his nervous reaction stayed between him and the painting. He couldn't help but try to give it a confident look. It's smile wasn't quite what he had expected.

The portrait remained to be his only friend for a unbearably long time. Morrie proceeded to wander around in the hall, wondering if he had done something wrong. He checked the invitation once again, only to find out that the date was right and that he had been punctual, too. Why wasn't Nick here? Oh, he was probably busy, a genius like him would always be. Or perhaps it was a test? If he lost his patience easily, he would most likely not be suitable for the life as a Make Believe. But Morrie wasn't a clueless beginner, he wouldn't fail.

But on the other hand...what if the test required him to stop waiting and approach the Lightbearer himself? He wouldn't have come this far if he had waited for his fate to sort everything out for him. He had to take action. Nervously, the musician noticed that he broke out in sweat again. No, not now! This can't be, I have to do something! In his despair, he looked at the painting again. Come on, Nick, give me a sign! Of course it didn't answer and Morrie felt very stupid. The painting seemed to agree.

Before he could make his decision, he heard the sudden sound of wooden stairs cracking under human feet. Someone was coming. He was coming! Morrie made an effort to sort himself, brushing dust from his suit, adjusting his tie, checking his glasses before a tall figure entered the hall. It wasn't Nick, but nonetheless a formidable sight. Morrie had seen the rockstar's manager in the papers before, but meeting him for real felt different. He seemed to be just the right man to deal with a force of nature like Nick Lightbearer. His grip was firm when they shook hands and his eyes behind the sharp black frame of his glasses looked right through him. He had a deep voice that Morrie was rather to obey as soon as he heard it, even thought it sounded composed and kind.

Mr. Dainty was talented and confident with his words. He politely apologized for the delay and mentioned an urgent matter the rockstar had to take care of. He also assured Morrie that Nick was looking forward to meet him and that of course he would be here for him soon. Just after exchanging a few words with the friendly manager, Morrie was convinced that everything was alright and dismissed all his nervous ramblings from before. He was also very flattered to hear that the audition meant to much to the great rockstar. Morrie was gently guided into a room that looked like a studio while he received more compliments from Mr. Dainty. Morrie pictured how it would be to have him as his manager. He felt more confident by the minute.

When the manager left, Morrie was happy, leaning back into a comfy white seat and smiling the smile he was sure to give Nick the moment he'd set foot into this room. It would go so well.

A few minutes later however, he couldn't help but wonder what urgent matter Nick was dealing with. He regretted to notice that his smile faded, because he feared he wouldn't find it again if he stayed here in this cold empty room for much longer. Golden records covered the walls, shining, blinding his eyes. Eyeing every single one of them while he waited made him feel less safe. He shouldn't look at them. But he couldn't help it. He wanted to be part of this. He even wanted to be vital for Nick's future success. The image was clear in front of his eyes. Gold records with his name on them. The God of Rock fondly shaking his hand, complimenting him. Well, perhaps they wouldn't be so formal any more after all this time. Hoping for more made his cheeks warm up. Shocked by his body's reaction, Morrie covered them with his hands. No, don't blush like a little kid! You're in your mid-twenties, for Christ's sake!

Morrie hoped that the dark moustache on his upper lip would gloss over his nervousness and that his glasses would give him the formidable look that Mr. Dainty's black framed exemplar gave him. His hair was cut short so it wouldn't fall into his face while performing. He also thought it suited him better this way. Actually, he was rather proud of his looks. But he was no Lightbearer of course. Speaking of him... Where was he?

Looking around in the room, he listened to the muffled noises in the house. His hands began to play with the hem of his vest and he recalled a melody he wanted to use to impress the rockstar. His mind stopped when he suddenly heard footsteps come down the stairs. They were different than Mr. Dainty's. Slower and unsteady, as if the person was staggering. Did something bad happen? Morrie sat up. As he had feared, he was unable to recover his joyful attitude. He hoped to make a good impression nonetheless.

His heart skipped a beat when indeed his great idol walked through the door with grand strides. He was as beautiful as ever. Voluminous brown hair, almost unnaturally shining in a tone that rivalled gold, a thick moustache that Morrie could never hope to grow and a bright red suit that Morrie would never dare to carry off. The frilled shirt looked playful and nonchalant at once. Soon, the rockstar's strong perfume occupied the room. Morrie took in the sweet scent of vanilla that surrounded him like an invisible cloak and immediately felt a bit dizzy.

“Ah, there you are”, the Golden God said dryly. Despite his dizziness, Morrie was confused by his idol's demeanour. His stunning green eyes sized him up just as expected, but his charming smile was missing. Morrie got up and said with the widest smile he could manage: “Mr. Lightbearer I'm so honoured to meet you in person. I guess you hear that from a lot of people but I'm a big fan. I'm sorry for the loss of Mr. Terris. I always admired him. Not as much as I admire you, though...”, he stuttered before he could stop himself and his face became warm again. It didn't help that Nick Lightbearer ignored the hand he offered him. Instead, the rockstar walked past him and slumped into a chair. Morrie fell quiet and unsurely watched the other man absent-mindedly rolling himself a cigarette and lighting it up. He puffed in silence for a few times, before he looked back at Morrie, furrowed his brows and asked: “Who?”

Morrie needed a second before he understood. “Mr. Terris, your former band member...” “Oh, that one...”, the Lightbearer interrupted him. “Haven't seen him for a while. Why, do you know him?” “Er...No, not personally, but I read in the newspapers that he...disappeared...” The idol snorted. “Ungrateful bastard! I hope he rots in hell...”, he mumbled and Morrie doubted he heard him right. He was still excited to hear the famous voice for real. It was a little rough, though, and Morrie missed the soft flirting tone. “And you...”, Nick went on, waving the hand that held the cigarette in the air, creating little circles of smoke. “You're the guy...” He snapped his fingers. “Morrie Momentum, right?” Morrie's heart skipped a beat. It wasn't the first time someone said his name wrong, but he had expected Nick to know better. After all, he had chosen him for an audition.

“Morrie Memento”, he said. Nick looked up. “Huh?” “It's Morrie Memento, not....Momentum.” The rockstar contemplated. Morrie had the impression that his face fell a little, disappointed. “Oh, but I thought it's Momentum, like...you know...” He moved his fingers over invisible keys. “...playing fast? No?” Morrie shook his head. “It's more as in Memento Mori...” “Quoi?” “Memento Mori, that's Latin for...” “I know what Latin is,” his idol waved him off. “Don't worry, I'll get that fixed. It's gonna be the least of your concerns.” “Fixed?” Morrie couldn't believe it. “But Mr. Lightbearer, I like that name.” “Yeah, right? Momentum, that's better. It's...catchy.” Nick leaned back and took another puff, unaware of Morrie's struggles. “No, I mean I like my name as it is. I like Memento.” The rockstar honoured his efforts with silence. After releasing another cloud of smoke, he looked right into the newcomer's eyes for the first time. Even from his low sitting position he managed to look down on Morrie, dismissive and kind of bored. The young musician couldn't help but feel that he overstepped a line here. With a mere name.

“You like it?”, Nick asked again, keeping his gaze on him. Morrie suddenly froze, but he refused to give in. That was ridiculous. Why would he give up his name? Nick should know it. Nick should like it. What was happening right now? “Yes...”, Morrie said quietly, returning the look. The Lightbearer averted his eyes with an exaggerated shrug. The illegible sound he made seemed to signalize amusement. Or annoyance. Or both. He continued to smoke in silence while Morrie waited for him to go on with the conversation. But Nick ignored him now.

Morrie cleared his throat, embarrassed about the lump he had to fight down in order to speak. “I'm sorry, I'm not here to argue about a name”, he tried placably, “it's the music I'm here for, right? If you don't mind...” He gestured towards a piano that looked so welcoming in the cold studio. The rockstar answered with another shrug. Morrie felt like starving from a lack of everything he had wished for. Appreciation, respect, at least attention. But he went on, moving over to the part he had actually rehearsed.

His own melody comforted him, so he delved into it until he forgot everything around him. When the last note faded away he collected himself before he looked up again, hoping to see a trace of emotion in the Lightbearer's eyes. Their gazes met. Nick's mouth was slightly open as he stared at Morrie. The young musician immediately wondered what he did wrong. His idol didn't look bored, but surely something was off. He didn't know what. Before he could ponder about it more, the rockstar turned his head away and the moment was over. Promptly, Nick got up and said: “You get everything from Virgil.” Then he left without giving him another glance. Morrie hurried after him. “You mean I'm in?”, he huffed, suddenly out of breath. “I'm a Make Believe?” As an answer, Nick gave him the devil horns without turning around.

Not sure about what it all meant the musician went back downstairs, hoping he would find Mr. Dainty there, but it turned out to be more difficult to seek him out. Morrie hat to shout his name through the house to summon him and when he succeeded, he did his best to explain it all. Mr. Dainty didn't hesitate to confirm that Morrie was indeed a new Make Believe and gave him instructions for the next rehearsal before he would have his first gig.

Just like that.

Leaving the “Fab Pad”, he didn't know how to feel. He had fulfilled his dream, he'd be rich and famous and perform alongside Nick Lightbearer. But he had hoped the audition to be a bit more...motivating? Exciting? He had even imagined a little celebration right after, meeting his new band members and such. And the Lightbearer himself... Did he even care?

Morrie's heart still pounded and he couldn't stop thinking about the sweet vanilla scent. He realized he looked forward to meet Nick again, to impress him. So he shook off his doubts. Everything would be fine.

#chapter 2 already because the first one is so short #nick lightbearer #morrie memento #we happy few #wehappyfew #whf nick #nicklightbearer #whfnick #whf #nick x morrie #you always meet twice

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