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msnessy · 2 days

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~Interlude: Part II.~

Von:

Naturally, nobody likes to have their morality called into doubt, much less what they genuinely accomplish with their lives. It may be interpreted as offensive in some situations. But it's never surprising when individuals—or the general public, in particular—want to know the specifics of someone's work. Von was no stranger to rumors in the community. On the days he truly wanted to exact revenge, he would, in a sense, generate speculation. He was working on a ten-page article spread and separate cover for LIFE magazine today. He saw his beautiful friend Vanessa do her own thing last week. She arrived ready to support him, of course, just as he had come to hers.

It was almost like the Oscars, well, when Von had accompanied a few past friends to the Oscars almost. Meaning, he was on his fifth cigarette, tracing around his dressing room—a bit nervous. Von has his fair share of "interviews," but a spread spanning ten pages? Were all those pages truly required for him? Von smiled broadly, letting the smoke escape his nostrils. With a furious groan, he glanced out the window. There wasn't much to him—Von was a publisher and a filmmaker, as modest as he could be; an independent director. The general population was aware of some of that, though.

"Hmm, ya nervous?" Vanessa asked. Had she appeared from thin air? Von, didn't even see her come in, much less when had she arrived?

"A little bit. Bring me any tequila?"

"No." Vanessa deadpanned him, but gently laid her red crop jacket on the couch and pointed to his rider desk; "But you have Cali-Water right there."

With an eye roll, the distinguished man scoffed. "Cause that will take my nerves away. Thanks, Cali-Water."

Von and Vanessa have been pals for a very long time. Nonetheless, they were always certain of the precise number of years they had spent together. They became friends not because of any tragedies or traumas, but because they happened to be in the same social circles. No, Von was not a Disney child; in fact, he was very different. He used to make fun of Vanessa by saying that his first on-camera performance was for a very dramatic, unsuitable for children TV show on CBS, while she was singing happily with Zac Efron in High School Musical. Despite their familiarity with Hollywood's business, they grew close through mutual acquaintances.

"Ten pages,"

"Yeah, who would've thought... William Von Thatcher would get ten pages." Von mocked; his twinge of sarcasm breaking in. Nessa, eyed him and playing yanked at his freshly gelled hair. "Okay, ouch. What the hell?"

Vanessa, crossed her left leg over her right one. Her elbow rested against the couch and she gave Von, the most serious; but grinning smile. "You deserve it."

Von, always knowing that without a doubt he could always have and count on Vanessa, moved closer to her and gently reached out to ruffle her hair playfully. "I guess I do. And before you ask, yes, they're gonna ask about you."

"Me?" Came her soft voice, as her eyebrows rose with curiosity. "Why me?"

Von rested two fingers under his chin, that devil like smirk curling his lips. "Because, why not?"

He just received an eye roll, before the pair began elbowing each other, playfully.

|||

The interview was conducted by the chief editor. The day seemed to drag on forever. Von, though, found it enjoyable. It was time for the portion of the interview that required sitting down. While the cameras were rolling, his personal hair stylist attempted to manage the constant cowlick he had on throughout the day. Naturally, he had some Cali-Water by his side, and he requested a Miller's Light Beer at Von's request. It's not your usual beverage or interview pick, but why not?

"Your first name is William?"

"Yeah, weird right? We've walked throughout my entire home; you saw my shrine to the great Kobain and...ya didn't even know my real name." Von laughed, raising his fist to his mouth to let out a soft cough as the editor cackled. "But yeah, my full name is William Von Thatcher."

"Why don't you use William? In your credits for publishing or anything else?"

Von's left shoulder shrugged up, and he twiddled his thumbs for a minute. "Ah, I mean... there's a thousands Williams. But, who really has the name Von?"

The entire gamut was covered in the interview. Talking about Von's early years, his upbringing, his first feature film, and his Oscar nomination for best independent picture this year. Von reached into his jacket pocket and took out his pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He offered one to the editor and they carried on their conversation with a courteous nod.

"Two nominations, three published books..." Trailing for a bit, the editor flashed a smile underneath his beard and continued. "Yet, most people don't know who you are."

Von couldn't help but blush, as he held his cigarette between his two fingers. "Ah, what's to tell? I mean, I'm just... being Von."

The questions came and gone, there was some laughter; and tears, as Von always knew just to time his jokes perfectly, making the editor laugh. Stubbing out his smoke, he straightened up his chair, resting his right leg over his left knee. To his right, he could see Vanessa perched in her chair, along with some of his other friends; and what he assumed was extra camera and lighting people.

Running a hand through his hair, at the expense of his stylist, who he was sure, was bound to tackle him—Von didn't care, one of the lights above his head, was almost burning a hole through his skull. It was hot.

Folding back a piece of paper, the editor spoke, "Who's in your inner circle?"

Taking a fresh drink from his beer, Von let out an "ahh," causing the surrounding people to giggle. But, being serious he drummed his fingers across his knee. "Same people I've known for years."

"Like who? Is Gwyneth Paltrow a part of it? Leo Dicaprio?"

"Shit, I wish." Von grimmed, through an airy chuckle. "Nah, no one like that. I know them and they're cool but, my inner circle are people who've known me for a long time and I've known them."

Making sure the camera followed his direction, he pointed behind the editor's head and grew a large smile, as he winked and pointed to Vanessa. "Vanessa, is in my inner circle."

Examining Von's star-studded smile, the editor craned his neck to peer over his own left shoulder. Vanessa sat there and observed, taking it all in. Her face was framed by her flowing, jet-black wavy hair. She waved at them, letting out a shy giggle. After adjusting his spectacles, the editor glanced at his notes and then back at Von, who was enjoying another drink of his beer.

With a hushed exhale, the atmosphere almost changed a bit. Von, already knew what was coming. Maybe, if he was "nervous" this would the reason. Clearing his throat, the editor fired off the burning question. "Your no saint, you've said it yourself, and I think most people know that. Three stints in jail, some DUIs, and most recently a stay at the Betty Ford clinic. Can you tell us about that?"

Shaking out his left hand, Von gave a nonchalant eye-roll, before clearing his own throat. "Um, I mean... I could." There was that cocky, but deflective defense he always used. "I was told I had a problem, so I signed myself into get some help."

"So you don't believe you had or have a problem?"

"I don't know," Von cracked his knuckles averting his eyes down to his now folded hands. "I, can say all day that I don't have a problem. But, someone who will read this or watch it, will think otherwise, right?"

The editor agreed, and leaned almost empathetically. "Have any of your wild antics calmed down? Or any issues with substances?"

Von felt a tingling sensation at the mention of "substances." He preferred to view his leisure activities as vices. Because he might figure out how to maintain control over himself in his own way by using a vice. However, Von felt almost like a statistic when it was referred to as drugs. The man with dark features and blue eyes raised both shoulders and nervously rubbed his neck. What could he possibly say? His irrational behavior was just what he thought was typical. He didn't loot banks or intentionally harm anyone, but he was arrested for a number of other offenses. "This is gettin' pretty deep, huh?"

There was a silence that filled the air. Licking his bottom lip, he slouched a bit in his chair and nodded now. "My issue is immediate access. I know, that I'm aware of what I'm doing. At least a I think. But then... things can get out of control."

"When you say out of control, do you mean when it comes to certain actions you've done?"

"Yeah,"

"Has it caused a riff in some friendships or family?" He was asked.

Von nodded again, "Yeah, that's pretty standard."

A page was turned, and the editor read off a headline; "Von Thatcher, arrested on six counts of public endangerment, along with verbally abusing a police officer at the Beverly Hills hotel. What happened that night?"

~June 5th, 1997~

Von tossed over the dining table in the hotel room, his eyes bulging furiously as he began his rants, yelling at the top of his lungs. His crisp white dress shirt fell loosely from his shoulders, a few droplets of dinner sauce or wine visible. He shot daggers at Vivian, who was holding the cordless phone to her ear, as he leaped from the bathroom and returned to the bedroom. "Put the phone, Viv!"

"Von! Stop it!" Vivian shouted, as he ducked from the large glass, vase, Von chucked at her. "Yes, can I have security come up to room 315 please?"

Ignoring Vivian's pleas for him to calm down, Von threw more of the hotel room crockery. How in the hell could he calm down? Was she serious? Von was tracing past Vivian, physically swinging himself into a tasmanian devil spin. He grabbed the phone out of her hand and banged it against the wooden table as he took a step back. Von staggered back a little and ripped through his hair while yelling obscenities. He then returned to the bedroom, tearing through the space while keeping the door ajar. "You don't just throw out, my stuff! Get the hell out of here! Ugh! Where's my black case, Vivian!"

His voice was shrill, teetering on the cups of raspy, as he literally flipped the entire mattress over. Slipping a bit on the sheets, he powered back into the room where Vivian was and made her, face him. Not a hint of playfulness, Von spoke clearly and angrily. "Where did you throw my black case?"

"I threw it out, in the trash." Vivian's voice trembled a bit, but she stood firm on her decision. "You... don't need that."

"Fuck you!" Von hollered, before trying to control his breathing. "Who are you to tell me, what I need?"

"Look at you! You're acting psycho!"

"Psycho? You threw away my case full of... my case of my personal items."

As Von was about to elaborate on his reasoning, fighting the need to perhaps throw Vivian out the balcony, a loud tap on the door interrupted him. Von covered his face and rolled his eyes as he attempted to dash back to the bedroom.

Everything happened so quickly—indeed, everything had to happen quickly. Four LAPD policemen, who were accompanied by the dependable boys in blue, charged through the door of the hotel. Vivian was being consoled by a female cop after she inadvertently trotted on glass with her bare feet. Von and the other officers were in combat.

Von was spewing curse words, throwing all his strength muster; as the officers were finally able to detain him and handcuff him.

The small fifteen minute break, allowed Von to chat with everyone; including Vanessa. As he lounged in the chair, he nodded to the director who gave him the three minute warning signal. "These ten pages, better not be all about my 'wild antics."

Vanessa snickered slyly. "You wish,"

Von flashed her an evil smile, before reaching out to tickle her ribs, through the fabric of her pretty, sheer shirt. "Mhmm. I wish you'd do the interview with me."

Shaking her head from side to side, Vanessa spoke softly. "This is for you and about you. Not me."

"Yeah-yeah, we still on for dinner?"

"Maybe."

"We need you back, Mr. Thatcher," Came the director. Before Von could offer a snarky rebut, he consumed himself and made his back to his interviewing chair; which was still under the intense bright light. It was like being in a inttergotation, almost.

"We're back with Von, who's been pretty open about his life thus far." Pausing, the editor once more flipped a page from his stack of papers. "Has there ever been a moment where you, thought you were just out of control?"

"Almost, everyday." Von teased, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "Ah, I mean, yeah... but, to be in control, I gotta be out of control."

"Do you think that attending rehab helped you at all?"

Taking a soft glare into the camera—not in the sadistic way, Von shrugged while he gathered what he wanted to say. "I suppose."

"You seem kurt with your answers."

"It's not something, I genuinely feel comfortable talking about." Von pressed the pad of his thumb into his cheek, giving the editor a boyish grin. "I didn't make it a big deal, about going..."

"Was there anyone in particular, that encouraged you to go?"

"Oh yeah, almost everybody."

"Four months ago, you said that your lifestyle is what you've created, and that's the life you intend to live. You intend to live this way?"

Brushing the non-existent dust off his black trouser, Von flattened his lips at that. Did he say that? He couldn't remember. "I don't remember saying that. It sounds like me, so yeah."

"Are you happy? Are you finding love? Is your work, something that keeps you leveled? Or is your career what drives you, to do some of things that kept you in the headlines almost everyday?"

Von let out a deep breath. That was almost a loaded question, for sure. He fervently hoped that he would win the Oscar for best independent film, so that his transgressions from the past or present wouldn't bite him in the ass. Von was a complicated person by nature. Von had gotten divorced as of last week. Despite being married for six years, he felt as though it had only been together for two weeks. He had made the quick, illogical choice to get married on a whim. He claimed to have been in love, and during the first three years he genuinely wanted the relationship to work out.

Finally, answering, Von raised his hands to his head, interlacing his fingers. "I would say, I'm pretty much happy, yeah."

"And your career?"

"My career has been thriving since 99' and no... matter what, I'll always be about it."

To switch gears, the editor held up a photo of Von. Von didn't even realize that anyone else had seen the adorable photo before. With both hands covering his face, Von let the "oos and awws" fly throughout the room. Just as expected, Vanessa shot into view, blushing as she asked to see the photo for herself. It was so cute! Vanessa turned to face Von, and she chuckled and reached out to pet his hair in that friendly way they had. With a mischievous growl, Von looked up from his hands and attempted to push her aside.

"Alright, alright, move along." Von teased, before snaking Vanessa back around and gave her a soft hug around the waist. Letting her go, Von politely took the picture, studying it. He had to be about ten or maybe even around the age of fourteen. Biting down his lower lip, he chuckled. "Wow. I thought shaving the sides of my head, would get me all the girls."

"Did it?" The editor laughed, playing along.

"Nah, it got me jumped after school once." Turning to the camera, Von gave another wink. "I got a few hits in, I think."

As the laughter died down, the editor signaled that time was almost up. "What's something, you're looking forward to?"

Scratching the back of his head, Von let out a soft sigh with a disguised yawn. "I'm looking forward to getting some sleep." Clapping as if to say cut, he shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "I'm looking forward to helping Nessa, with her second poem book. I'm... newly divorced, so y'know, I'll try dating again or maybe just bake some brownies and gain two-hundred pounds. But tah, I'm looking forward to life man, life is life."

#nessa #roleplay #fictionaladventures #solo

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thehorsedispatch · 1 year

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New Post has been published on https://horsetoloan.com/heartland-tv-show/spartan-heartland/

Spartan Heartland

Heartland is a popular television series that has been running on CBS since it first premiered in 2007— and it seems to still be going strong. The series takes place on the Heartland ranch and in the surrounding areas, and as we all can assume, where there is a ranch, there are horses!

Alongside its cast of human characters, there are many equine characters who are part of the show, too. One of these equine characters is Spartan, who has been there since the start.

Read on to learn more about the horse Spartan and his role as a key character on the Heartland tv series, as well as a little bit more about the real horses that portray this character!

What Is Heartland?

The Heartland tv series is a long running show on CBC that has been around since its first episode aired in 2007. Now, there are 16 seasons of the show! It is, at its heart, a sprawling family saga style show. It focuses largely upon the Fleming family, who own the Heartland ranch, and the other characters who they interact with on the ranch and in town.

Also Read – Where is Heartland Filmed?

There is a cast of both human and horse characters, and the 16 seasons have allowed for us to really delve into storylines that focus on many of these different characters. There is always a lot to follow. The show begins with the death of Marion Fleming— she died in a car accident— and her tragic death throws the family into turmoil.

This happens in the very first episode. The family must come together, heal old rifts, and deal with their grief. The show continues from there to watch all of the characters over the years as they chase their dreams and try to do their best with the challenges that life may send their way.

Who Is Spartan?

Spartan is one of the many characters on Heartland. He is one of the equine characters and was in the very first episode of the very first season on the show! He has become an important character and is very important to Amy Fleming, who is the main character on the show. We first see Spartan when Marion, Amy’s mother, is still alive. In the first episode of the show, Marion and Amy are trying to rescue Spartan when Marion gets into the tragic car accident. Amy is also injured, and when she wakes up, she asks about her mother and Spartan. Marion, we and Amy find out, did not make it. Spartan survived, though.

Spartan is one of the first horses that Amy truly connects with, and helps her realize that she has also inherited her mother’s gift with horses. She begins to work with Spartan, which also helps her to deal with her feelings of guilt and grief about her mother’s passing. This starts Amy on her journey of working with troubled horses.

Once Amy starts to ride Spartan and he starts to trust her, she notices that he has a talent for jumping. Soraya suggests that they get Spartan back into show jumping competitions. However, when they try to trailer Spartan, he reacts poorly, and they realize that he has developed a fear of trailers from the accident. Amy has to work with him to get him used to and comfortable with trailers again.

Amy and Spartan do begin to enter show jumping competitions, and they start placing in them, too! Mr. Mallen, the previous owner of Spartan who was not good to him, sees this and demands his horse back. Spartan spooks when he sees his former owner, and Lou and Amy give Mr. Mallen a bill for Spartan’s stay at the Heartland ranch. This angers him and gets him off their back— at least for now. Over the years and seasons of the show, Spartan finds himself in the midst of more drama, such as in season 2, when he gets pesticide poisoning and almost dies. Luckily, Ty is able to get him to drink a concoction that saves his life!

He is also stolen and sold in an auction before Amy and Ty are able to get him back. Even though Spatan has his fair share of intense storylines, he always ends up coming out of them okay, much to viewers’ relief. He also builds a very strong bond with Amy over the course of the show and its many seasons, and is special to her.

Also Read – Does Amy Die On Heartland?

Also Read – Why Does Ty Leave Heartland?

Who Plays Spartan on Heartland?

Unlike the humans on the Heartland series, the equine characters are usually played by more than one actor. This is certainly true of Spartan! He has been— and is still— played by multiple horses. There are three who play Spartan, and their names are Stormy, Rocky, and Sisko. One of the benefits of having different horses playing one character is that the strengths of different horses can be used for different scenes. It is almost like Spartan has a stunt double! For instance, Spartan is a fantastic show jumper, so the best show jumper of the actor horses is used for the competition jumping scenes.

Stormy is one of the horses that plays Spartan, and has been on set with the rest of the Heartland cast for a very long time. Stormy was just 5 when he started his role as Spartan on the silver screen.

It was also Stormy’s first acting job, just as Heartland was a big breakout role for a lot of the human actors!

Stormy is well-loved on set, and many of the cast members say that he is a friendly horse and always eager for attention. He loves to be in front of the camera— a natural actor— and does not get bored easily, which is great for scenes that end up requiring many takes! Stormy is an intelligent horse and his favorite spot to be petted or scratched is right under his chin. We certainly hope he gets lots of those for a job well done!

Frequently Asked Questions

How many horses played Spartan on Heartland?

There are a few different horses who played the character of the horse Spartan on the Heartland tv series. It’s similar to how, when a baby is on a show, there will often be more than one actor playing that character!

This is pretty common for animals in a show or a movie, just like the horses playing Spartan on Heartland. There were three different horses who played Spartan on the CBS series. Their names are Stormy, Rocky, and Sisko. One of the great things about this is that horses can have different talents and can be used for different scenes— such as one horse being used for show jumping scenes.

Is Spartan in season 15 of Heartland?

The horse Spartan is an important character on Heartland and has more than a few storylines around him. He has been a regular on the show for a long time and has certainly become one of the fan favorite horses!

You may wonder, then, if Spartan is still on the show all the way in season 15. Spartan is still part of the show at this point, and has a plotline surrounding him in this season. For example, in season 15, episode 9, “The Long Game”, Amy realizes that Spartan is not ready to retire from competitions. Due to this, she enters him in an endurance race.

Does Spartan get sick in Heartland?

Spartan is one of the horses on the Heartland tv series and is often seen with Amy. Amy has trained Spartan, really, since the beginning. Due to this, there have been plenty of storylines focusing on Spartan— or on Amy and Spartan, together as a team— and there are a few times when Spartan does get sick or injured.

For example, in season 2, there is a scary incident when they discover that Spartan has pesticide poisoning. Amy and Ty are able to save him, though. There is also an incident in season 6 where Spartan injures his leg in a jumping incident, and Amy must decide whether to have Spartan get surgery or put him down due to his painful and severe injury. Of course, we know that Amy ends up opting for the surgery!

How old is Spartan Heartland?

Spartan is with the Flemings and the Heartland ranch through all of the years and all of the seasons of the show. In fact, he appears in the very first episode and is the horse that Marion and Amy are trying to save when Marion gets into her tragic accident. It does not say, explicitly, in the show, how old Spartan is.

However, he is getting older in the later episodes and Amy begins to only ride him sporadically due to his age and the arthritis he is developing. The horses that play Spartan are of different ages, but one of them, Stormy, has been acting on the show as Spartan for around 14 years, and started his role at the age of 5!

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wonbini · 3 years

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#sanha #astro #bias tag #the air in this cb is a bit different around him #i mean LOOK

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incarnateirony · 2 years

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Y'know hearing Jared go on about formerly being in WB holding contracts and now being with CBS makes his blowout make even more sense.

Like of course of COURSE CBS knew there'd be some sort of SPN revival. And they weren't about to try to do combat with Norris over profits only for Jared to deuce out in a few years, so they presented a contract which Jared just kinda signed again like, this is normal, rather than having or at least leveraging any kind of clout to attain it another way, or doing what Jensen did with Chaos Machine as a contract holding desk for WB while staying a free agent, or what Misha did on PBS where he wasn't signed into long contracts (which honestly lends towards the idea that Misha Knew, tbh.)

So CBS basically makes sure that if they invest time, energy and money in this, they get their profit back and then some by making sure Jared doesn't try to run back to the more profitable WB/SPN pastures 1-2 years into a project; and Jared, despite the many times Jensen talked about working with SPN alumni on things in front of Jared, assumed it was some distant pipe dream and not pretty heavily under work.

Then the leak hit and not only was it a thing, it was in Script stage. Past optioning. With episode order contracts and licensing hashed and potential investors and the studio about to be scoped out and everything.

And now, he's mad. He's stuck with CBS for an indeterminate amount of time--5 years being a fairly solid average holding contract (special features while trying to get people to re-re-sign can be like 2 to extend things a bit, some can be upwards of 10 years, or a given number of content production like X amount of movies, whatever timeline that may be). Like. Is it till 88 episodes for syndication? Is it years based like 5, which would pan the same with its episode orders currently?

Either way, SPN is 1-2 years out from filming its prequel and he realizes he sold his soul to a different company, while Jensen's flying around playing freebird but locked down SPN rights with exclusivity by proxy that protects Jensen and... well, it's there. Jensen's just-as, and frankly more actively successful right now without a retaining contract limiting him and he's... gonna be stuck sitting at CBS for god knows how many years.

So then it becomes!! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME!!! I'M GUTTED

dude I did you just weren't paying attention and didn't offer any ideas so I worked on it with the people who did

ET TU BRUTE?!?!?! WHAT A TERRIBLE THING U'VE DONE, U COWARD NO I'M NOT JOKING (tells NYT he was joking)

So then Jared doubles down on swearing he's been "developing" a Walker spinoff since January when Walker aired, when that "development" is only as far as Optioning--which basically means, there's some vague scribbles on a proverbial post it note somewhere as a longform pitch that CW stuck on the wall and said, "sure, maybe, some day"--no writers, no investors, no actual development or studio or anything set, it's literally just. A post it note. But time to shove it out there. BC I CAN DO SPINOFFS TOO MOM!!! (*only for CBS products)

Like this elucidated a LOT about his tantrums.

#jared padalecki #jensen ackles

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andreafmn · 3 years

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Running In Circles - Chapter 1

Word Count: 3,196

Characters: Female Reader Rossi Character, Aaron Hotchner, David Rossi, Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid, Jennifer “JJ”Jareau, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia, George Foyet, Multiple Unsubs and Victims

Story Description: (Y/N) Rossi is following in her father’s footsteps by joining the BAU team as a profiler. The girl genius knew almost everything but she could have never predicted falling for Aaron Hotchner, her boss and her father’s friend. in their world mutual feelings are not enough to push them together. Will all the adversities and obstacles they face pull them together or push them apart forever?

*DISCLAIMER* I do not own in any way Criminal Minds, all credits of the pre-established characters, script, and storyline belong to Jeff Davis and CBS Network. The only thing I own is Arden Rossi, any upcoming characters, and her storyline, as well as her effects in the others' story line.

Chapter: 1/?

Chapter Description: (Y/N) remebers her first day in the job and recounts all the cases and events that led to the downfall of George Foyet.

A/N: I decided to say fuck the anxiety of posting and put up my Aaron fanfiction. It’s been gathering dust in my documents folder and I love writing too much to keep it to myself. I’m not sure how many chapters this will have but there’s already 8 chapters all finished up. Soon I’ll be posting ff of all the fanfictions I enjoy also! If you enjoy my writing I’ll also be posting them in AO3 and Wattpad along with other stories (I also hope to start taking requests if ya’ll want) Hope you enjoy and all constructive criticism is encouraged.

Next->

Chapter 1

“Good morning, BAU!” I said as I walked through the doors of the elevator and entered the bullpen. I could still remember how it felt the first time I got here.

I walked out of the elevator and made my way to the first office on the left. I was to meet

SSA Aaron Hotchner for an interview to join the BAU. My hands were shaking, and my body was getting warmer by the second. But I remembered my father’s encouraging words. “You’re gonna do great, mia bella.”

Not only was I extremely young, but I also had a lot to live up to. Being the daughter of SSA David Stephen Rossi was no easy task. He was an amazing agent, mentor, and father. He always pushed me to be the best at everything I did. When I started high school, I decided to get a head start on my college studies and applied to dual enrollment. When I graduated I did so with a Bachelor’s in Computer Science. Then, I worked my way to a Master’s in Psychology and Social Work, and a Doctorate in Criminal Justice. At the same time, my father trained me as a profiler. All my life I knew I wanted to be in the FBI, just like him. I was always impressed at all he did and wanted to be just like my hero. The day I told him I had been recruited by the FBI and was set to work in the BAU he said it had been the greatest day of his life.

Now my shaking hand raised to softly knock on the door before me.

“Come in,” someone said from inside. The door softly creaked as I opened and was met by a tall man with dark hair and a shorter blonde woman. “Agent Rossi, welcome.”

“Thank you, it’s an honor to be here.” I smiled and shook Aaron Hotchner’s and Erin Strauss’ hands.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Agent Rossi,” Erin smiled. “Have to say, you have a very impressive curriculum and your disinvolvement in our past interviews and tests have been outstanding.”

I smiled and turned the bracelet on my wrist for comfort.

“I must concur with Chief Strauss,” said Hotch. “I believe you will be a great addition to the BAU team.”

After sharing a few pleasantries and being handed my badge and gun, I was following Hotch to the briefing room to meet the rest of the team. Formally, at least. I had heard everything about them when I spoke with my father. He left no detail out.

“Morning, everyone,” Hotchner started. “I called you all in early today so you could meet the newest addition to the team. This is Agent (y/n) Rossi.”

To the sound of my name most of the mouths in the room dropped.

“Rossi, as in David Rossi?” The slender, messy haired agent said. I could only assume that was Spencer Reid. As my father had described him, a curly mess dressed in vests.

I nodded.

“Rossi, you didn’t tell us you had such a beautiful daughter.” That would be Derek Morgan. The hottie Casanova with a silver tongue.

“I hadn’t?” My father questioned and smirked, knowing full well the answer.

“Well, he’s talked a lot about all of you,” I smiled.

“All good things I hope,” Emily smiled.

“Great things,” I returned the smile. “I could probably make out who is who by the things he’s told me.”

“Go ahead,” Aaron challenged.

“Alright,” I cleared my throat and started going around the table. “Curly hair, vests, analyzing everything I’ve done and said since I walked in… you’re Spencer Reid.”

He smiled brightly.

“Tall, dark, handsome, and a silver tongue. Plus, you checked me out as soon as the doors of the elevator opened… Derek Morgan.”

He smirked.

“Calm, cool, and collected. Quiet but present, inspecting my presence here… you’re Emily Prentiss.”

“She’s good,” Emily muttered to Morgan beside her. I continued.

“And last but not least, bright colors, fun accessories,” I said looking at Garcia. “Even though you’re smiling, you’re not sure about me yet because you don’t like change and are probably going to dig up everything you can on me as soon as you can… Penelope Garcia.”

She stiffened and Derek chuckled.

“Don’t worry, I get it. I do not like change that much either. And here,” I reached my hand into my bag to pull out a rather thick folder. “I’ll save you the work. Background check, complete internet history, social medias, and all the whatnots you would need to build a very extensive profile.”

“Oh, thank you,” she reached out her hand and grabbed the folder, smiling at the floor.

“And well, I already know Agent Hotchner and my father, so they don’t need much of an introduction.”

“No, but you do,” my father said joining my side. “Tell them a bit about yourself.”

“Well, I have a bachelor, two masters, and a doctorate degree: I’m 23, I’m Rossi’s daughter…” In the middle of my thought process dad cut in.

“She’s beautiful, she’s intelligent, and she’s the one I call when I’m stuck on a case.” I smiled.

“She also passed every test with flying colors,” Aaron added. “And her profiling skills are exceptional.”

“Thank you,” I blushed. “I think it runs in my blood.”

“Well, welcome to the team,” Aaron continued. “Let’s get to work.”

That was almost three years ago. A couple of days after, I met JJ who had visited with her newborn son Henry.

In very little time I had grown attached to this family. I was most of the time partnered with Spence and we developed an amazing bond. It did help that I loved playing chess and we could have highly erudite talks. Also, I very much enjoyed his over sharing of facts. But really, I was close to them all. On my spare time I was found watching movies with Derek and Penny, perusing book shops with Reid, having girl nights with JJ, Penny, and Emily, or sipping on top grade scotch while finishing paperwork with Hotch.

Spending time with Hotch was my favorite pastime of all.

I realized I had developed feelings for him the day he was captured by Foyet and left at the hospital. Receiving the call from Emily that she had found blood at his apartment literally knocked the air out of my lungs. Reid could tell that my reaction would not have been the same where it had been any of the other members. For some time, he had deduced my attraction to our unit chief. Once we had captured Patrick Meyers and Reid had been sent off to a hospital, we sped off to St. Sebastian Hospital. I could feel my heartbeat going faster and faster as I felt time slipping by. More than once I had asked Morgan to go faster and with sorry eyes, he told me he was going as fast as he could.

Seeing Hotch on a hospital bed, greatly hurt, broke me. I knew everyone on the team, just like Reid, had figured it out. I was the first one in when the doctor announced he was waking up. His eyes fluttered open as JJ, the last one to enter, made it in.

“Where am I?” He groggily asked.

“In the hospital,” dad answered.

My eyes could not leave his face, even as all I wanted was to imagine him in a different state. Derek told him how he made it to the hospital and Emily asked Hotch what had happened. Closing his eyes, Hotch explained step by step how everything had gone down. Upon more investigation, we quickly figured what Foyet had taken and, a page from his planner that held his ex-wife’s and son’s current address and a picture of them, respectively.

Once we had that information, the team knew exactly what to do. Emily and I volunteered to stay behind and update the team if anything changed. As soon as he went to sleep, we let out a locked breath. But the relief was short lived as his pulse started to get exceedingly fast.

“What happened?” The doctor asked.

“I don’t know,” I croakily muttered out. Emily put a hand on my back as I softly touched his arm.

“Agent Hotchner. Can you hear me?” The doctor called out. “Agent Hotchner?”

He finally opened his eyes and responded. “I’m okay.”

The doctor asked us out of the room as she checked on him and Emily helped stabilize my walk as we made it out. I saw the doctor and a nurse check him as I picked the skin of the thumb of my right hand. Emily noticed and grabbed it, knowing well of my nervous ticks. The other being closing my fist hard enough to dig my nails in it.

“He’ll be okay,” she smiled. “You know he’s a fighter.”

I softly smiled at her, not knowing if she said it for me or for her to believe it too.

Once we knew Haley and Jack were safe the three of us let out a relieved sigh. Hotch squeezed the hand I had been holding as he slept, needing the reassurance of a trusted presence next to him. He asked Emily about the scene at his apartment, but she could not give him definite answers. In a moment of silence, she excused herself to go buy coffee and I took this chance to ask him what had been going through my head.

“Do you wanna talk about what happened?” I asked worry evident in my eyes.

Sighing, he responded. “I don’t know. After he stabbed me the first time, it all goes blank.”

He looked straight into my eyes and I could tell he knew more than he let on, but now was not the time to push him. He had been drained: physically, emotionally, and mentally. In that moment, Haley walked in and I let go of his hand to leave them to talk. From outside of the room, I could hear the heartbreaking moment and knowing he was in pain shattered my heart. That day had absolutely devastated us as a team, but it only made us more determined to find Foyet and end him.

But life and work went on. The whole month he was off, I spent most of my free time helping in his recovery and his healing, using the little training I had in wound treatment. The other part of my time I spent with Reid, who was also in recovery. A far less pressing injury, but an injury, nonetheless. And he was my best friend, so I could not completely abandon him.

We were all worried about him coming back to the team with Foyet still out there, but dad reassured us he would only be more motivated. Yet the first case back, he was different. He was usually professional and understanding, now it seemed that no matter how well we worked, we would make a mistake. And when we finally tracked down the unsub and he made his way inside the house, no vest, and no gun, I knew there was something different in him. I tried to follow him inside, but dad stopped me.

“We have to trust him,” he told me. Even with those words we were all unsure of the outcome. My head was working 1,000 miles a minute coming up with different ways this could all end up in, and when I heard the gunshots, my mind only went to the darkest end. Quickly we stormed in the house and saw Hotch putting handcuffs on Darrin, and a very dead Jarvis on a recliner.

My father spent most of his time with me reassuring me that Hotch was still the same man he had been a month before. And I spent most of my time with Hotch reassuring him that he was not alone.

At the end of most cases Emily, dad, and I sat with Hotch in his office to drink a cup of scotch and unwind after a stressful day. I stayed nights overtime often and was there on the night that Strauss had landed a surprise visit to his office. The next day he became hyper focused on Derek’s work, which later he revealed to me the reason why. The bureau was questioning his leadership and he meant to step down as unit chief at the end of that week. This ended with Derek becoming active unit chief whilst Hotch was being investigated.

The days that followed were quite strange. We were used to taking orders from Hotch and now taking orders from Morgan was completely different. But business went on as usual. We worked on cases just as hard and solved them just as efficiently. With one case always hanging on us like a dark cloud. George Foyet. With every case we finished we knew he was still out there, which meant that Hotch was still hurting and hunting.

But the dreaded day had caught up to us. With the last case we had been on in Hampton we knew Foyet had found Hotch. He was taunting Hotch, dangling his life in front of him. Once he had sent us that calling card, we pressed harder on our investigation, pulling at whatever string we could find.

Thankfully, JJ pulled our medication string harder when she found out about the ability to substitute prescriptions with over-the-counter meds. We worked tirelessly and strongly to shorten the investigation part of this case. We needed to catch him, fast.

“Wait a minute, guys. Foyet likes things that have meaning to him,” I said looking at the map presented in front of us. I could see that Reid knew where I was going.

“The eye of providence, the addresses in blood he wrote on the bus that led back to him,” Spence added, and I nodded.

“Maybe he’s doing the same with his name,” I said as Reid wrote down George Foyet on the board.

“Like an anagram or something,” Emily chimed. Quickly, Reid got to work on the theory crossing out and circling letters. Adding ‘The Reaper’ onto the board and utilizing it, once Hotch had pointed out Foyet gave himself that name. He kept up this process until the name Peter Rhea came to existence.

Garcia tracked down the name and quickly found an address in Arlington. We had found him, but it was just too easy.

We were waiting outside of the apartment building for too long, waiting for something, anything. Once Morgan had given his orders, the plan was set in motion. Still, something in the back of my mind kept telling me it was too easy. We stormed the empty apartment and searched for anything that would help us find his actual location. His computer was quickly deleting files, but Garcia was better. Haley’s protection unit was in trouble.

As soon as it clicked, we were on our way to the stash house. Inside the house Marshal Sam Kassmeyer was hurt, losing blood quickly. With the little he was able to tell us we knew that Haley and Jack were in danger. Sam had not told Foyet anything, but George was smart, unfortunately. He had disguised himself as a Marshal and lied to Haley to get her where he needed her. Only him had communication with her. Everyone was on edge wanting nothing more than to find this man.

In the office we heard Hotch’s conversation with Foyet. He was working hard to buy some time for us to find him but knowing George he already had a plan set in motion. He had eyes on the pair, he was with them. I could only imagine what Hotch was going through.

“Alright, Foyet has to be in control,” Derek said, breaking me out of my thoughts. “He had Haley come to him.”

“Yeah, but where would he take her?” Spencer asked. We all started thinking and speculating. There was something in the call that told Hotch where to go. That was the key.

“Reid, what did he say, exactly?” I emphasized on the last word.

“Haley’s hair looks good dark. She’s lost some weight. It must be because of all the stress you caused her. Where’s the little man? Oh, there he is now. Do you think he likes Captain America because of you? That’s your wife on the other line. Hold, please. Hi. Open the gate and I’ll drive in.” Spencer recited in a monotone voice.

“Open the gate?” My father questioned.

“It would be someplace with the biggest emotional impact for Hotch,” I said looking down to organize my thoughts.

“And Haley has access to the gate,” Derek added, and it clicked.

“Their house,” I said. “Where they lived together.”

“Of course,” Emily said. “Foyet planned this all the way to the end. It’s everything to him.”

“He wants to take over Hotch’s house, to be in control, to prove his dominance,” I finished. We knew where he was going, and I was sure Hotch knew too and was already on his way.

On the way, Hotch got a call from Foyet’s phone. It was Hayley. I heard the emotion grabbing him by the throat. We could hear the whole conversation and my heart broke when he asked Hayley the magic words.

“Tell Jack that I need him working on the case,” Hotch breathed out. One drunken night he had told me about how he had found Jack inside a storage bench in his office after he had knocked on it. The smiling kid had told his father that he was working the case with Hotch. Hotch knew what was going to happen and so did I. This was the best chance Jack had at survival.

When Hotch told Jack to hug his mom and he said I love you, I let out a loud sob and Emily grabbed my hand tightly for support. But I was not the one that need the care. Hotch did. Haley’s words would forever be engraved in my head, and in the heads of our friends.

Three gunshots rang through the line right before it cut. Then I could not hold back the tears. I knew. I just knew.

Hotch was the first one on the scene and all I thought of was that he did not have a vest or any backup, so god knows what could have happened. For the second time in a matter of months all I could ask for was that Morgan drove faster.

At the house, Morgan was the first one in and the scene that unfolded in front of us was heartbreaking. Hotch was hitting Foyet over and over, and Derek had to hold him back. He was dead. I surveyed the scene and instinctively went to Hotch’s office, Hotch following close behind. Jack had to be there. I let Hotch walk past me and watched as relief overtook him when he lifted the lid.

“I work the case, daddy,” Jack said. Unbeknownst to everything that had happened. “Just like you said.”

“You did a great job buddy,” Hotch lifted his son out of the bench.

“What happened to you, daddy?”

“I’m okay. I want you to go outside with Ms. Jareau. Ok?” The child walked to JJ and she took him out in her arms.

And Hotch let go. He silently cried and I helped him make his way to where Haley laid. I stood by the door and turned away a police officer. Morgan stood up and squeezed my shoulder as he left the room behind the officer. I stayed outside of the doorframe, listening to the sobs of a strong man.

Next->

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lol-jackles · 2 years

Note

I was reading through your codependency tag and I had a question that I didn’t see discussed - do you think this J2 dynamic has had an effect on the way the extras talk about each j? I noticed most of them seem to actively talk about and suck up to Jensen and don’t really talk about Jared unless he’s brought up first. Do you think a lot of the con extras were maybe around more during the time when Jared was starting to put up some boundaries from Jensen and the extras, not understanding the dynamic they walked in on, saw it as Jared being rude or standoffish or ‘cold’ to Jensen who they, and lots of fans, know as his best friend? Or since some of them were around from earlier on do you think the way the J2 relationship looked from the outside somehow painted Jared in a bad light vs Jensen? I don’t know if this question is even making sense, sorry, I just am always confused by the discrepancy in the way the extras are towards Jared and Jensen and the typical reasons that I see don’t really hold water for me. I see a lot saying that they’re sucking up to Jensen because of his production company, which does make sense to me but Jared is also an ep on a current show, has a prequel in the works, and apparently has a few other shows in development as well. So he might not have his own production company but he’s not out of work or just some random actor on a show. But also this started even before Jensen had CM or Jared was ep, this started while spn was still airing so there has to be something else to it. Any thoughts about what causes this discrepancy?

You got to go back 15 years and then go from there. First, Jared is the youngest in the cast but he's also playing the lead protagonist and therefore by default he also has to play the unwritten role of leader of the cast and crew, whether he likes or not and regardless if he’s qualified. Lead actors are expected to function something like a quarterback and captain of the football team. And he's paid the most. So already the cast and crew is going to treat Jared differently from Jensen.

Imagine you’re back in high school and your classmate is a rich kid who skipped a grade (or 3) and is not only ruining the grading curve but is the class president and the football captain and has the power to cancel prom. Can you honestly tell me you’re going treat this kid the same as your other classmates, much less like him?

Second, Jensen has a warmer relationship with the producers, including co-producer Jerry Wanek who followed Jensen to Supernatural without reading the script. Jerry, like most producers, assumed Jensen was going to be the major star of Supernatural and beyond. Producers hire directors, crew, and actors. Kiss up to Jensen and you kiss up to the producers by proxy and maybe score yourself a future job.

Third, Jared was viewed as bit of a wild card because enough people knew about his breakdown in season 3 because it happened on set. They may even know about his attempt to break his contract and putting all of them out of the job. So while fans tend to gravitate to Jared at conventions due to his gregarious personality, none of that matter to the “con extras” when Jared’s mental illness could put their jobs on the line.

Fourth, now Jared is being indirectly blamed for ending their cash cow Supernatural when he accepted the holding deal from CBS. Already Creation is starting to rebrand the SPN con to J2 con and gradually those “con extras” will get squeezed out.

#Jared Padalecki #con extras #high school

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bookishofalder · 3 years

Text

The Bet

Hotch x Fem!Reader

Request: @honeyshelley - ‘Hiii, I just discovered you and I hope to read soon your work ! And i hope you are safe and healthly ❤ i wondered if you could write something for Hotchner, the reader can be a police officer who call the bau for help to catch a serial killer or something, a bit of angst maybe and write only of you are inspired ! Don't force yourself, 🤗’

Warnings: Panic attack description, mild CM content.

A/N: Man, I love Hotch. They did him DIRTY on CM because he stood up for his cast mates and I’ll never forgive CBS for it.

Hotch was annoyed.

Though a regularly occurring emotion for him, it was rarely so focused upon himself. Today he stood in the conference room of the D.C. FBI Field Office, where they were assisting on a local case. And he was irritated with only himself.

Because of you.

He didn’t blame you in the least, of course. He wasn’t irrational, wasn’t one to deflect or project his emotions onto others-least of all someone entirely innocent and unaware. It was just exhausting, though, working this case. You were a new addition to the field office, having just transferred from Seattle in hopes of further advancing your already impressive career within the FBI. Hotch had heard of you before, details of your more prolific cases and intense work ethic were often relayed by Spencer Reid, who was one to stay up on fellow agents that might one day suit the BAU team.

And while Hotch had been impressed, mildly interested, happy to get a chance to work with you, he had not expected the woman who walked through the front lobby and extended her hand to him three days prior. No, you had caught him entirely off guard, and he was still reeling. He hadn’t felt this way about a woman in...probably ever if he was honest with himself. Hailey and he were high school sweethearts-that kind of love was different, steady and safe and expected. Beth had caught his attention, her kindness and overall different lifestyle an alluring escape from the realities of his day to day. But things never really took off with her, despite their mutual respect.

But you, well you had him captivated the moment he met your friendly gaze, your eyes wide in clear excitement for getting a chance to work with the BAU. Your hand grasped his and he’d felt like time had slowed, just enough that he could take in every single detail as he introduced himself. The way your hair fell, the curve of your hips, the small pout of your lips. Your posture, head held high to convey the message that you were a leader, not one to be overlooked. It all struck him at the moment, and when you repeated his name in your breathy voice, he knew he was done for.

Three days later the case was going well, though there was an uphill battle, progress was progress. Hotch was happy with how his team was performing. They’d worked plenty of cases with the staff of the D.C. field office. With different sections, and even interacted with many of the agents in social settings and workplace functions, given the proximity to Quantico. But Hotch felt he wasn’t working at his best, behaving entirely unlike himself as he was completely distracted by you every time you stepped into the room.

It had been three days of variable torture, his mind continually informing him of the why not’s-the age gap, that you probably already had a partner, that Hotch was damaged and cursed and certainly didn’t deserve a woman like you. And then you’d bring him a coffee, or stand closely next to him as you both surveyed a map provided by Reid, or tuck your hair behind your ear with a little smile when the conversation turned away from work, and Hotch would feel hot and bothered and not at all like himself.

“Agent Hotchner?” Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, his gaze lifting from the tablet he’d been pretending to read, and meeting yours. You smiled down at Hotch, leaning against the table where he sat. The scent of fresh linens and honeysuckle wafted toward him, delighting his senses further.

Hotch returned your smile automatically, something he was aware was rare for him. He hadn’t needed Derek mentioning it last night as they made their way out the doors, calling attention to his sudden eagerness to smile around the beautiful, strong new agent. But Derek had always enjoyed teasing him when he could get away with it.

“I’m sorry, Agent (Y/L/N), did you say something?” Could you hear his heart right now, as it beat against his chest? The thrum, thrum, thrum signalling just how you affected every cell within his body-could you sense it?

You smirked, extending a coffee you’d been clutching toward him with a small shrug, “I think you need this more than I do, sir.” You giggled, and Hotch’s cheeks flushed in response. His fingers brushed yours when he gratefully took the proffered beverage and he felt a shiver of electricity across his skin.

Hotch nodded in thanks, “Cases like this always seem to require extra coffee.” He admitted, taking a sip and noting how you enjoyed your coffee much sweeter than he did, but at that moment he didn’t mind. It was quality coffee, hot and given by you.

Sighing, you crossed your arms and Hotch kept his gaze level with yours despite the captivating way your breasts pushed out. Inwardly, he chastised himself for his train of thought. You were his colleague. His colleague. His very beautiful, disarmingly charming colleague.

“I agree, though they come along often enough that it’s starting to become a poor excuse for overindulging.”

Hotch glanced down at his mug as he laughed, then back up. When he met your eyes, he noticed they widened slightly, a faint flush dusting your cheeks. This captured his attention fully, but before he could begin to consider how to move forward, how to find out what your blushing meant, Derek and Emily walked into the conference room, heads low.

Another victim had been found.

“I really hate alleyways. I think society needs to eliminate them entirely,” You said, your hand clapped over your nose and mouth to ease the intensity of the scent of rotting flesh from the victim that you, Hotch and Reid were staring down upon. “After this case, I’m petitioning for it here-at least within my jurisdiction.”

Hotch laughed aloud. Reid glanced up from the victim, brows furrowed and opened his mouth to no doubt educate you on everything and anything he knew about alleyways. Which you assumed was a lot, because you’d known the genius a few days now and already understood there was little he didn’t know. But you shook your head, resting a hand on his arm as you laughed.

“She’s joking,” Hotch supplied, giving you a warm smile as Reid nodded in understanding. Your knees trembled every time this man looked at you, and you were surprised you didn’t just collapse the moment he flashed you that gorgeous grin. Fuck, you had it bad.

You’d always had a thing for older men, though you hadn’t dated any. You had had a few previous relationships with men your age, either fellow students in college or agents at the academy, but they were all short-lived. You counted some of those men amongst your closest friends. But you focused instead on your career and hoped one day a suitable partner would appear.

You hadn’t expected Agent Aaron Hotchner to tick every single box on your list the moment he introduced himself and those dark, warm eyes searched your face, as though he was seeing something unexpected. You’d spent the last few days finding any excuse to work with or near him, even going so far as to join him and Reid at this most recent crime scene despite how much you really, truly hated alleys.

Nothing good ever happened in an alley, as far as you were concerned, and though you tried to hide your discomfort behind humour, you were eager to assess the scene and get the hell out of the narrow, stifling gap carved between two old buildings.

It was a short while later, when the crime scene photographer was following your instructions, you and the two men on either side of you discussing the case from the vantage of the latest victim, that the discomfort began to fester. It evolved, so slowly you hadn’t realized until suddenly your spine felt tight and your level-headedness seemed to disintegrate. You swallowed, setting your jaw and working to disassociate yourself from your surroundings, hopeful the renowned BAU agents were too focused on their work to recognize your sudden internal struggle for composure.

Though, it seemed that Agent Hotchner had been paying attention, and you couldn’t fathom why. At first, you saw his eyes sweep over you from the corner of his own, taking in your stiff posture, the way your hands clenched at your sides. You thought he would leave it alone, be embarrassed for you when suddenly his large hand was slowly pressing into your lower back. Your shirt pressed to your skin and it was then that you realized the layer of sweat that had broken out over your body as your panic attack raged within.

You closed your eyes briefly, focusing on that hand, but it wasn’t enough. The alley was too narrow, too damp and hot, the odour in the air foul and suffocating. “Come with me.” He suddenly murmured in your ear, and you didn’t hesitate to comply, moving with Hotch as his hand remained on your back, guiding you to the mouth of the alley. Once you were on the street, he moved toward the SUV that you’d all driven over in.

Using the keys, he opened the trunk and gestured for you to take a seat. Again, you followed his instructions, lifting yourself, legs dangling slightly. You still couldn’t breathe, even though the air out here in the open was moving, fresh, a soft breeze dancing across your skin.

You felt like the air wasn’t meant for you anymore, your lungs incapable of pulling it in.

Hotch leaned in front of you, his warm eyes full of concern, “Can I touch you?” He asked you, voice low. You nodded, and his hands found your shoulders, grasping gently. After a moment, during which he gauged your reaction to his touch, his grip tightened and his hands slide up and down your upper arms, grounding you somewhat. “Close your eyes, breath with me, sweet girl.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you followed his suggestion and began to take deep breaths as your eyes closed. Your hands lay flat on your thighs, applying your own slight pressure. He took exaggerated breaths to ensure you could hear him and match your own.

You weren’t sure how long you and Hotch stayed like this, but his movements never ceased, and you could feel his eyes watching you. When your breathing evened out, you focused instead on the cool air, the strength behind his hands on you. Slowly, you opened your eyes and met his. “I’m sorry, I-“

Hotch shook his head, “You have nothing to apologize for. We’ve all been there.”

You smiled shyly at his words, nodding. “Well, thank you. This...it really helped.” You watched as he returned your smile, his right hand releasing your arm to brush falling strands of your hair over your shoulder. The gesture alone was enough to make you shiver again, your mind and body reconnecting as your panic attack diminished.

He seemed to notice your reaction this time, and pulled his hands back, appearing surprised. He didn’t move away, though, for which you were grateful. You weren’t ready for the moment to end.

“I hope I didn’t overstep, Agent.” He muttered, his serious frown returning. You shook your head quickly, eager for him to understand just how much you appreciated what he’d just done for you.

“You can call me (Y/N),” You replied quietly, considering your next words carefully. “Although...I didn’t mind sweet girl if I’m being honest.”

You had held his gaze as you spoke, which allowed you to bear witness to the emotions that played across the usually stoic man's face. Shock morphed into a small smile that met his butterscotch eyes, a blush creeping across his skin and his right hand moved to rub the back of his neck nervously. After a few moments, which you could see he was using to come up with a reply, he sat down next to you, your sides touching. He sighed with a smile.

“Could I take you to dinner once this case wraps up, (Y/N)?”

A grin spread across your face at his words, and, feeling bold, you took his hand into yours as you looked up at the handsome man. “I’d love that, Aaron.” You squeezed.

His eyes lit up at your reply and he returned your pressure as he smiled down at you. You stayed like that for a long while, grinning at one another like lovesick kids, so enamoured that you both missed Reid pulling out his phone to snap a picture.

He sent the photo to the team, conceding defeat to Derek and Emily, who had both bet it would take only three days for Hotch to ask you out. Spencer had bet on four days, JJ on a week, and Garcia on a week after the case would wrap up.

Now he was out forty bucks, but it was worth it to see the smiles lighting you both up as you gazed at one another. The rest of the world was background noise.

Did you enjoy this story? Please consider reblogging or commenting to ease my inner turmoil as a writer. Likes are basically just a bookmark!

#reader insert #fanfic #aaron hotch x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #bau x reader #fluff #criminal minds #hotch x y/n #requested #feedback appreciated #spencer reid #olderguy #comfort

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binniesthighs · 3 years

Text

hello stranger | reader x changbin |

Part 3

Pairing: self insert, female reader x seo changbin, female reader x han jisung

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, angst

Tags: (of this part) college au, rapper!changbin, rapper!jisung, artist!reader, establishedfwb!jisung, skz side characters, explicit language, conflicting feelings angst, reader has past trauma/trust issues (implied), fingering (f receiving), multiple orgasms (implied), fluffy n’ intimate body touching (this is a thing I think lol), lil bit of nipple play, seo changbin being the soft soft dom of my SOUL

Word count: 4.6k

Chapters

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

ding-ding-diNG!

Your teeth chattered, battling the early morning frigid air. White wisps of your shaking breath vaporized in front of you. Your arms were tightly wrapped around your chest and your knees bounced with a little dance to keep your blood flowing.

[02:29] CB

me: where the hell are you? are you coming down?

Your dry and cold fingers typed out the words hurriedly on your phone screen. One more time, you smashed your finger on the buzzer button. You figured that if he had fallen asleep after inviting you over, you would kill him.

“Come on, come on,” you hissed into the open air.

Thick footsteps came clomping down the stairs from the other side of the frosted glass door, and your attention quickly whipped over.

As expected, he had adorned himself in nearly all black clothing. Nevertheless, he had thought to pull out his silver chain over the padded coat with white stripes down the arms.

“Took you long enough. Let me in, I feel like my toes are frozen.”

Changbin’s eyes cast down to your thin canvas sneakers you had put on in your haste, which were now covered in snow.

“You should have worn better shoes then. Lets get going.”

“--Get going??”

He swung the door behind him closed and it locked with a little click.

“We’re going somewhere?”

“I’m hungry.” Changbin simply announced, then took off walking down the block.

“I thought that--”

“--Keep up. It’s not that far.”

He led the two of you onward, and you snuck one more look up at him and the way that the snowflakes got tangled in his hair.

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“Here, be careful, it’s hot.”

After brushing off the ice crusted bench, Changbin presented to you a giant bowl of steaming noodles so large you guessed you could keep live fish in it. The smell of the broth was dreadfully nostalgic and was full of all of your favorite ingredients, almost as if he had known exactly what you would’ve ordered. You couldn’t help but feel giddy while the steam wafted up your nose.

You wondered with full eyes, “Oh my god, what is this?”

“-The best thing that you’ll ever have in your life. You might as well thank me now.”

You pulled the little heater closer towards the two of you with radiating orange coils. Changbin didn’t skip a beat sitting right down next to you, letting the fabric of both of your coats intermingle.

“This is my favorite place in the city. Their recipes really remind me of my mom and grandma’s.”

“Well I’m really excited to try.” You blew off a handful of noodles steaming into your nose while Changbin expectantly watched you hork it down.

“So?”

You covered your chomping mouth with your hand. “So, so good.”

“Hmm.” He scoffed, then there was that smug little smirk of his.

You thought to yourself that it was kind of cute.

The two of you sat quietly together, watching the silent sounds of the snowfall on the road in front of you, following the cars that passed. Over time, your body seemed to gravitate: bit by bit and piece by piece, closer to the boy next to you.

Changbin set down his metal chopsticks with a tiny clink on the table. “So, are you going to tell me about yourself now?”

“Me?”

“Didn’t I say last time I wanted to know?”

You remembered, but this time you couldn’t as easily kiss away the questions on his lips.

“How do you mean? There isn’t too much to know.”

“I don’t think that’s true. What is it that you study?”

“You want to know what I study?”

You nearly laughed in your surprise at the mundane question considering that the person sitting across from you had seen you turned inside out, a moaning and muttering mess upon first meeting, and he wanted to know what you studied?

“Why does that matter?”

“Matters ‘cause I want to know.” He simply returned, and gave you that look.

Normally his eyes were stormy grey, like the way that the sky would sizzle with energy before lighting would crack. They clouded with severity that seemed dangerous when he was angry, or when there was something that he wanted. But, looking at you like this, there was no danger that they held.

“Are you going to tell me or just keep glaring at me like that?” Changbin nodded to your nearly empty bowl. “Finish that. Don’t let it go cold.”

You did as you were told--at least it wasn’t answering the question.

“Fine. You don’t have to tell me. But tell me something else at least. Why were you at that show?”

“My friends took me? My friend Chan is really into underground rap and stuff like that so he usually drags me and Felix with him. I don’t mind.”

“See? Was answering that that hard?”

You had forgotten, then laughed a little to yourself. “Chan actually was there to see you. He had heard about you from whatever those circles are. He was really excited.”

“I’m actually glad you were there for that reason. For a second there I thought you might’ve said that you were there to see Han Jisung.”

You nearly spat out your bite of noodles, and choked a little on the broth.

“Guy’s a fuckin’ showboat and a cocky asshole. The girls at the shows are usually there for him.”

“What the fuck? You didn’t just say that.”

Anger bit like acid in your throat.

“What? He is!!”

It should have hurt more that he had assumed that you were one of the masses that would fall over their feet for Han Jisung, but it didn’t. Your chest twisted in knots knowing that the assumption was right--that hurt the most. You felt sick knowing now how he would look at you if he knew where you would stoop.

“I’m complimenting you!! I’m glad that you don’t waste your time on assholes like him.”

“Since when do you get to pass judgement on who I do and don’t spend my time with? -And aren’t you one of those same assholes? Up there on that stage, what makes you think that you’re any different from the rest of them?”

“I mean...I like to think that I’m not--”

Your eyes rolled back so far it might’ve hurt a little.

“You’re all the fucking same. I’m so fucking stupid.”

The words quietly fell off your lips like venom.

“We’re all?” What are you talking about?”

“And what the hell is this with trying to get up all in my business? We fucked once Changbin, what more do you want from me? You think I owe you something now? I’m not falling for that again.”

The crunch of your footsteps padded the snow when you turned out of your seat to speed away from him as fast as you could, and as far as you could.

He was the unbelievable one.

“Stop! I don’t get what you’re talking about. Falling for what again? You’re not making any sense! And no, I don’t think that you owe me something. I’m sorry if you thought that. I’m just--” He grabbed at your arm.

“--WHAT?” you tore his hand away.

“Is it a fucking crime to fuck someone and then give a damn about them? Ever heard about that happening?”

In your life?

Something terrible and suffocating rose in your chest that felt like a sob that you had held in for much too long.

“Listen.” Changbin approached you closer, carefully, that look softening. “It’s freezing out here, it’s late. We...don’t have to talk about it any more. I’ll take you back to my place, I’ll call you a cab, you can go home? Okay?”

Changbin poked out his arm looped in his pocket for you to link up to.

You didn’t need his help when you knew the way.

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Rosemary and cedarwood again. It was like it was everywhere. It was in the hoodie that he insisted that you put on and all entangled in the fabric of that blanket that he draped around your shoulders. Had you remembered what it was like under the covers of his bed, it was likely there too.

“Warming up?”

The bed bounced a little where he sat next to you with the tips of his ears pink. As cold as you were, you were certain that he must have been colder.

“I’m fine. Thank you.” You crossed up your cold feet under your legs.

“20 minutes? Then I’ll call them?”

You nodded, pulling up the blanket hem to your nose and covering half your face.

Changbin breathed out a little laugh. “You look like a marshmallow.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Not a bad thing.”

His smile fell, and he focused on the silver rings twisting around his fingers. He fiddled with them, and you watched, neither of you knowing really what to do with the silence. After some resolve, he crawled over next to you, to lay facing your bundled up face.

At last, he sighed, “I could tell you about me. If you care.”

Rather than respond, you merely kept on looking at the way the silver would glimmer in the dim yellow of the light.

“Everything that I do, I do to rap and to perform. My parents never supported me doing this kind of thing and said that if I wanted to do it, I would loose their support. After a while, I realized their support wasn’t that valuable anyway if it was going to be over something that didn’t matter to me. I moved out after high school, I’ve been doing this ever since.”

“You like it that much?”

He cracked his fingers, “Sometimes you just know what it is that you’re gonna spend your life doing. For me, it’s this.”

Your eyes fell to your own hands which still were speckled with little flecks of acrylic.

“I know what you mean.”

“You do?”

“I...paint. And stuff like that. It’s not my major, it could never be, but I feel like that when I’m mixing the colors together and it’s just right. Helps me get the thoughts outta my head.”

“Yeah...it’s exactly like that.”

In the warmth of the blankets, you felt a yawn escape your lips and your eyes grow heavy. Your vision had grown blurry, and your dry eyes begged for sleep, but you could still see the way that creeping little smile tugged at his lips.

You thought to yourself that it was kind of cute.

“Thank you for telling me something about you.”

His voice was some kind of dreamy watercoloring of pale pinks and blues. You thought you had likely imagined it. The weight of his hand on your arm felt weightless too, why was it lingering here? His fingers tickled your ear while he swept your hair behind the skin.

The way that he whispered, “You’re making me want to kiss you.” must have been some kind of dream too.

Laying like this, right by your side reminded you for before, and the way that your brain had gone cloudy--you could’ve kissed him like that for hours.

“You...didn’t stop yourself before.”

Your challenge was all that he needed to take both sides of your face into his hands connecting himself to you incessantly, but gently. He spilled into your mouth kisses of sky blue and lavender, every single one more dedicated than the last. He kissed like he was dizzy and that you would make it all right for him, and like you were the one that he could find over and over. His mouth was blazing hot with warmth and he missed no part of you, moving on to kiss you in places you didn’t know needed the attention: over your bottom and top lip, in the corners of your mouth and the tip of your nose, carefully on the peach fuzz on your cheeks and the bone of your jawline. Each one was purposeful and sweet and melted into your skin snowflakes.

His wandering hands were cold under the blankets, but you didn’t mind the sensation against your bare skin where he crept his way in, smoothing over the curves of your body.

Changbin cascaded is way down, pulling you in by the hips closer to his own body. Your core tightened feeling his hands trickle over your waistband.

“Can I?” He whispered into his kisses.

You nodded: your exhaustion mixed with some state of unconscious desperation that you had entwined together, and you were completely at his mercy once more.

“Yes. I’ve...wanted you to.”

He popped the button and unzipped your pants with little effort, slipping those same cold fingers into the heat of your folds. You shivered with the two temperatures mingling and the pressure of his fingers on your slicked bud in little circles.

All you could manage were a couple of attempts at forming some kind of words that would eventually get caught in your throat. With one hand, you clawed at the fabric of his tee, hoping just a little that he liked the way that your nails would dig into his skin. His digits mingled all in your arousal, and brought it back up to your clit to make it twitch. After a while he would let you throw your head back into the pillows to feel every little bit of it and focus only on the way that he would press his fingers in harder and faster, then tease you over with barely touching you at all. He would remove his fingers too, to admire the way that it would string between them, leaving you a writhing mess without him.

“Bin, please, just wanna--”

You didn’t need to finish your sentence before he granted your wish. He sped up for you, rubbing in perfect circles for your clit to throb under his touch, closer and closer...

“Can I--?”

He didn’t answer you, but instead, leaned down to fill your mouth with more kisses and maintained his pace with forearm muscles flexing slightly.

Your orgasm was faster and much harder than you had expected: it rocked your whole body, from top to bottom where your legs thrashed and your toes curled. The muscles of your stomach tensed, and you felt your whole core spring upward as you came. Luckily, you remembered to be quiet and kept your breath short and sharp, letting only the tiniest of moans meet the air.

Changbin helped you ride your orgasm out until you could take no more sensation, then stopped, snapping your underwear hem a little on the way up. He held you close as you caught your breath, snickering a little when your body would shake. Your euphoria calmed you down into an even more exhausted state, but the way that the endorphins coursed though you felt like a high. Greedily, the closeness and the way that your head spun made the word slip out of your mouth.

“More?”

Changbin said nothing while he indulged you and peppered your skin with kisses in all those places that you didn’t know needed the attention. He would smile into your lips each time that you would come undone; slipping deeper and deeper into him.

“M-more. I just want...one...more.”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“Just skipping one class isn’t the end of the world. You know that you look like a mess right?”

Minho, your assigned seat partner turned friend-in-suffering poked his pencil at the baggy black hoodie that you had forgotten to return. On the bus ride to campus, you had realized that you hadn’t taken it off.

“I know, alright? You don’t have to remind me.”

“You gonna tell me about it?” Minho poked at you once more with his teasing grin. You retaliated by raising your phone up as if to chuck it at his head.

Behind the two of you, a group of two ambitious girls hushed as they organized their plethora of colored pens and highlighters. Minho bowed a little sorry in apology.

His voice dropped to a whisper, “I’m assuming that this isn’t yours.”

“I-it’s new. I just haven’t worn it before.”

He scanned over the fabric and the little white brand on the left sleeve. “Huh. Must be a popular one I guess. I’m pretty sure that my one of my friends has the same one.”

“--Will you lend me something to write on...and with? I...didn’t bring my stuff with me.”

“Really.” Your classmate tore out a piece of his notebook paper--a little extra loudly as well--just for those eavesdropping girls behind you. “You should’ve just not come.”

To your left, your phone vibrated with the screen illuminated:

Low Battery: 20%

[10:39]

felix: I can’t believe you. You went over there again? Didn’t you say that he looked at you weird or something like that?? What happened??

Your heart dropped a little remembering how you had pardoned Felix’s worried nagging and turned on the Find My Friends feature in your phone.

“shit.”

Your phone screen lit up the underside of your table as you frantically tapped through your settings to turn off the slide bar. In the corner of your eye, you had seen Minho take his phone under the table as well.

[10:41]

CB: good job leaving your keys at my place

i can’t get them back to you until much later. i’ve got work.

“shit.”

me: i have work until later too

and sorry

CB: my roommate said that he could get them to you at 5. you’ll be at the library then?

me: your roommate??

CB: relax. he doesn’t give a shit.

╚ ——————————————— ╝

You read over the messages over and over, refreshing the little chat nearly every two seconds. Over the time waiting, your hand had grown embarrassingly damp, and your foot nervously tapped at the floor to the same tune that your chest thumped with your anxiety.

This was fucking humiliating.

Granted, you were no stranger to unsavory behavior, but somehow, this felt even worse. Furthermore, it all could have been avoided:

What the hell had happened last night?

It was becoming all too a common theme for you: you didn’t remember falling asleep, only waking up to the blaring of your alarm to those obnoxious Tardis sounds that were just a little too out of date...considering that you had long past all that Dr. Who stuff.

Changbin had actually left the bed all to you, waking up some time a little before you from sleeping on the couch and offering you some horribly cheap tasting coffee. You still drank it.

CB: just stand somewhere by the front door. i told him that’s where you’ll be.

The library overlooked the main quad of your university. In the wintertime, the trees that encircled the usually grassy circle were reduced to craggy and bare fingers powdered in the white snow.

“What the hell were you thinking?” You scolded yourself though clenched teeth.

“--Y/n?”

He had snuck up on you, coming from the right, rather than the front of the entrance.

You squeaked out, “Oh fuck.”

Minho twisted your jingling keys around his fingers.

“This is...” Minho laughed out incredulously, “...a coincidence.”

You clawed your keys from his hand with a hasty “Thanks.”

His eyes scanned you up and down as if he was meeting you for the first time, which he certainly wasn’t.

“The hoodie. Dammit. I should’ve known.”

“I-I really need to get back inside, they might need me in th--”

“--So you’ve been screwing him?”

Your heart thumped even more painfully.

“Wait, and you’ve been inside my apartment before and I didn’t even know?”

“Well I didn’t know that you were his roommate!! I didn’t even plan on meeting any of you if I could help it!!”

“So what is he, like, your type?”

“HEY. I don’t mean to stay over, it kind of just happens...I didn’t even want to see him after the first time--”

Minho scoffed then shoved his pink hands into the pockets of his navy and white striped bomber jacket.

“Will I be seeing you around there now?”

“--No.” You cut in. “You won’t.”

Your classmate huffed out a visible breath, “You say that now, but I know that you don’t mean it.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

Minho rolled his eyes, then gave the top of your head a chastising pat.

“If you’re gonna be over, you might as well bring snacks or something. No one in that damn apartment knows how to grocery shop for themselves besides me.”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Too many fucking coincidences.

You had sat yourself at the exact same table that you had sat at the night before, but this time, you watched as it was Changbin who was standing behind the counter of the noodle shop, taking orders, and smiling much too widely for it to have been normal. He was even wearing one of those cutesy little aprons that the rest of the employees had: there was a little chicken embroidered in the corner next to his nametag.

To anyone else, it made no logical sense why you had decided to show up there: but your frazzled brain still working off your embarrassment from earlier thought this was the best thing to do. You felt like yelling just to get something out of your body. It wasn’t even his fault that his roommate happened to be one of your friends. Your head however, made it his fault.

He had clocked you from where you had sat fuming, not even looking phased at all. In fact, he had dished out for you one of those smirks. One of those stupid, cute smirks.

“See you tomorrow.” He clapped his coworker on the back while he took off his apron.

The shop door creaked out when he opened it.

“Didn’t expect to see you here. You really wanted to see me that soon already?”

You shoved the bundle of his hoodie from your hands to his.

“Here.”

“You came all this way just to give me my hoodie back? That and I’m assuming Minho told you that I work here.”

“How come you didn’t tell me that before?”

“Didn’t seem that important--”

At last, you let yourself snap. “--You made a fucking fool of me today!! Do you know how awful it was??”

“Ahhh Minho did say something about knowing you.”

You had expected sympathy, but rather he teased you with that little cocky grin. Had you known any better, it was almost like he was admiring how flustered you had become.

One, two, then three fat raindrops fell from from the sky and onto his parka, then the rest followed all at once. The bits of slushy and freezing rain barreled in suddenly and fell sideways. It slapped against the sidewalks and pattered on the shutters and gutters of the buildings lining the road.

“Great! This is just great!!” You pulled your coat over your head.

Changbin grabbed at your hand without hesitation. “Come with me.”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“Open the door!! Open the door!!”

Frozen bits of snow and rain matted your hair and dripped off into your collar; meeting your bare skin. Your entire body felt as if it had been plunged into a freezing cold ocean, and you shook with ferocity. By now, your jeans had completely soaked through with with water and the denim stuck to your legs.

Changbin fumbled with his wallet and wet fingers, finally unlocking the door with that same,

ding-ding-diNG!

The heater in the little vestibule blasted you with heat upon your entrance: a welcome feeling to your drenched body. He had reached out for your hand to guide you to the elevator even though you knew the way.

Water dropped off your bodies into the linoleum floor of the elevator and it got all muddled too by prints from your shoes. After, you followed him further into the apartment building, to the very place you had sworn up and down that you would never see again. You didn’t know how many more times you would have to say it out loud before you would actually obey your own words.

“Fuck--it’s so cold.”

Changbin clinked his keys into the brass keyhole in the long and dank hallway that had matted red velvet carpeting. There was an odd and old-looking stain in front of his door that you had noticed last time.

“It’ll be warmer inside.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He didn’t need to, but he reached out to you once more to pull you through the doorframe. A sense of determination seemed to sweep over him, and you could just barely see that stormy expression cloud over his eyes.

“Ah! Y/n! How nice to see you here officially at last!”

Minho perked up from his book where he was cuddled up on one of those pleather couches in the living room.

Changbin didn’t give you a chance to to respond, but rather tugged you away down the hallway to the bathroom at the very end nearest his room.

“Changbin, what are you--”

He slammed the door behind the two of you, then flicked on the lights at the exact same time as he crashed his whole body into you, flattening your back against the door and scooping up both sides of your face to run his cold lips over yours. His hands were just as cold, and the tips of his bangs dripped tiny droplets of water onto your forehead.

In your shock, your hands were suspended in the air, but he just as quickly took them to wrap them around his sides.

The wooden door rattled a little behind your back, but the sounds faded when he deepened his kiss: floating his tongue over your bottom lip and letting out a breathy little gasp along with it.

“Fuck. You’re really good at making me want you.”

His voice had turned grave with his want, and he never broke your gaze while he peeled off every single piece of your soaked clothing. His eyes ravished your bare skin riddled with goosebumps, and he immediately took to kissing into your shoulders and collarbones once he had access. You tried your best to help him take his clothes off too, but instead he pushed your hands away to do the task himself. Once he had finished, he connected his lips with yours.

“Touch me.” He commanded of you.

You found the request odd, but you still obliged him, starting by running your hands down this pecs then to his abs and around his waist where you scratched at the skin of his lower back. He did the same to you: tracing gentle fingers down your breasts, then going to kneed at them, tweaking the buds just slightly. It wasn’t for long until he encapsulated you completely into his arms, then drew a line into your spine with his ring finger.

Your body warmed by the second: skin now set ablaze by his teeth grazing the skin of your neck.

He drew you along with him, then turned on the water to the shower with a metallic sounding groan. Within a couple minutes the whole room filled with a dense steam. He lead you in to the small compartment, stopping too for a moment to watch the way that the water flowed down your body in little transparent veins.

“You’re perfect.” He whispered into the nape of your neck.

The showering of water was too loud for you to hear, and it wasn’t like you were paying attention anyway. Your phone vibrated where it at fallen in your mess of clothes on the tiled floor.

[23:27]

jisung: what the hell’s been up with you the past few days?

phone break or something??

you didn’t see the other texts I sent you?

are you doing anything right now?

...

are you

ok?

#stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids imagines #changbin smut #seo changbin smut #changbin x y/n #changbin x reader #changbin x female reader #stray kids drabble #stray kids imagine #stray kids oneshots #kpop drabbles #kpop imagines #kpop imagine #kpop smut #when she turns out longer than you expected ooP #hehe its ok its ok its for the plot development hehe

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lovelyyy-luna · 3 years

Text

deadly nightshade {pt. 1}

fandom: x-men

fic summary: y/n escapes out of a Trask prison in order to find her sister. She ends up in New York and is found by a group of young mutants and they take her back to their school to see if their professor can help.

chapter summary: y/n escapes from a prison facility and is now out in the world looking for her sister.

warning: fighting, guns, blood, death

word count: 951

a/n: I’m really excited about this fic!

date: april 18, 2021

CB | PART 1 | PART 2 |

masterlist

The metallic ringing echoed throughout your cell, “Wake up, inmate!” the guard yelled.

The door swung open and you sat up holding up your hands so they could cuff you. The two men stood next to you holding you by your arms.

You were weak and sore from lack of everything. Once you were in the cell it was just a bed and a toilet, nothing else. You weren’t allowed food or water in there. And due to your mutation, you weren’t allowed the normal amount of water a human would need to survive.

Your mutation was plant manipulation, so the doctors figured that if they treated you like a plant, lack of water and sunlight, they could control you.

The men dragged you under the burning fluorescent-lit halls, a guard was locking the door to your cell and you saw the numbers he inputted on the pad ‘4758890’, you repeat it over and over in your brain until it was stuck in there. They then sat you down and they place a tray of the world’s blandest food in front of you.

You were the only one besides the two guards in the eating room, you slowly finished the food so you have a little bit more time outside of your cell. The guard went in front of you and turned on the TV that was hung in the ceiling. The only sound in the room was the theme song to The Facts of Life.

You get up from your chair and start to stretch and walk around the small room.

The guards were just talking to themselves not paying attention to you.

There’s a window near the wall of the TV, it was used as observation and you could hear voices coming from behind the window.

A man in a white coat was talking to a group of people behind him, two men and a young lady you couldn’t see because her back was turned.

And then you saw her. You hadn’t seen her in 10 years. Your sister Angel.

You didn’t know what to do, she stared at you and you ran to the window banging on it, “Angel! Angel, it’s me! Y/N!”

She just looked at you confused and the doctor and the other men were huddled leaving the hall.

The guards aggressively grab you and take you away from the window. You flung your legs in the air as they dragged you down the hall to your cell.

You have one foot steadied on the floor and you use the other to kick the guard causing him to hold himself in pain and with one of your arms free you use it to punch the other guard holding you. With both of them on the ground, you get one of their guns and shoot them both in the leg and take one of their key cards.

You walk over to the keypad swipe the card and type in ‘4758890’, and on the small screen it asked which cell to unlock, a noise came from the opposite end of the hall and a door opened a group of guards armed saw you and you gave them a sly smile and press ‘open all’.

Then the cell doors open and heads pop out. One man who was 3 times bigger than you in all ways possible came running down the hall screaming and the guards were firing shots but none made a dent in him.

With that, the rest of the prisoners ran in rage towards the guards and the alarm went off.

Flickering lights of red are all you could see. People were fighting, different mutations were being used to kill.

You make your way down the stairs towards the main operating center. In that room was a man and he was paying attention to the monitors.

You tap on the window with your gun and he looks at you in horror, you point the gun towards the door for him to open it. He does it out of fear and you tell him to drop his weapon and leave. He drops it and runs out of there.

You sit in his chair and try to find out where the exit is out of this facility through the monitors. You find it labeled as M36 on the screen and find it on the map. It was 3 stories down on the right.

You hear a loud shuffle coming from outside and you duck down. It was just more guards and you waited till they left and slowly went out the door.

You are almost down the hall where you can reach a stairway that leads you to the front exit, then you see a locker room. You look down at your clothes and on your pale blue scrubs, there was blood splattered on them.

You walk into the room and search for a locker that has clothes that fit you. You found some and when you tried to take your top off you realized you couldn’t due to you still being in handcuffs, you looked around and saw hooks full of keys next to some handcuffs. You uncuff yourself and continue with changing.

It had been so long since you had been in regular clothes. You take the backpack that was in the locker as well and fill it with extra water bottles and some magazines for the gun and make your way out of there.

You made it down to the front exit. Swarms of guards pass by you not knowing that you were supposed to be in a cell. A smile was plastered on your face and you walked out into the real world.

CB | PART 1 | PART 2 |

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tags: // @amourtentiaa // @extra-justice-for-peter-maximoff // @jaziona92 // @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual // @breathinfive // @papiazullll8 // @powerpuffluuvv // @bi-lmg // @haileyybird // @swiftssss // @fandomxreader // @haileyybird //

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sparkkeyper · 3 years

Text

And They Flew Anyway

Summary: It’s 1969 and Crowley and Aziraphale sit in a pub watching humans make their own history.

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

It was a raucous night in the London pub.

Indeed, Aziraphale had chosen this one specifically because of the excitement pouring out of it. He didn't have a television in his bookshop and if he was going to experience what was certainly a significant moment in Earth's history, he wanted some suitably celebratory surroundings. His search for the prefect venue (which consisted chiefly of picking a district of bars and restaurants and walking the streets with all his senses extended until he'd found the happiest, liveliest pub with a TV set) had resulted in a pub that would have been rather spacious if it wasn't packed to the brim with Sunday night patrons. A football match had apparently concluded not long before, and a sizable group of young people in the corner were drunk and rowdy in celebration of whatever team had won.

Football notwithstanding, there was a swarm of people crowding up towards the bar where the television was located. Aziraphale's eyes landed on the back of one head in particular, the haircut not so different from when he had last seen it in a Bentley in Soho two years prior. "Crowley, is that you?"

The demon turned, face spilt in an enormous smile. "ANGELLLL!" he crowed loud enough to be heard on the street outside, and Aziraphale winced, as though that in itself was enough to summon Gabriel. But Crowley was already bounding towards him, stumbling gracelessly around the people in his way and beaming like a bonfire. "Fancy runnin'in'ina you 'ere! Wonderful, marv'lous, just in time!"

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile back at the enthusiasm as Crowley clapped him excitedly on the shoulder. "And just how drunk are you, exactly?"

"Oh, unbelievably drunk," Crowley confirmed gleefully. "Hideously drunk. Only way to be, night like tonight! Least until the main event. Got your work cut out for you if you wanna catch me up. C'mon! C'mon, got good seats, right by the telly!" He flung an arm around the angel's shoulders and Aziraphale let himself be dragged over to the bar, not the least bit put out by this unexpected company.

The counter was packed full of people, but two barstools and a few cubic feet of space seemed to grow out of nowhere for them to sit comfortably. "Oi, Rico!" Crowley called over to the bartender. "One for my mate, same as me! Put it on mine!"

"Oh! Well thank you. What are you drinking?"

"I have *no* idea." The demon knocked back another mouthful of whatever was in his glass.

Aziraphale accepted the drink - some pinkish cocktail - from the bartender graciously and bit back a protest against 'my mate', figuring Crowley was drunk to the point that admonishment wouldn't stick. "So. Red letter day for downstairs?"

Crowley pulled a face and waved the notion off, swaying unsteadily on the stool. "Nahhhh. Nothin' t'do with it. Red letter day for...monkeys! Humans! Mad li'l tail-less monkeys, they are." He gestured at the television set where a pair of news anchors were discussing details. "They're tras'iting...tra'smit...they're sending the broadcast all the way from America. Got Cronkite and everything."

That was indeed true, Aziraphale saw. The conversation in the pub hadn't decreased a bit in volume, but he could tell that it was shifting more and more away from football and towards the news programme.

"Angel, d'you know how long I've been waiting for this? Six centuries. No wait..." The demon paused to count on his fingers. "- ty. Sixty centuries. Ever since Adam looked up at th' night sky and went 'wha's tha' thing, then?' I've been waiting for th' humans to get to see it up close." He raised his arms to encompass the ceiling, sloshing half his drink from the glass and nearly smacking the man next to him in the face. "She put all that beautiful, magnificent stuff waaaay up 'n the sky, way up where they could never touch, and stuck 'em down on th' ground. Gave 'em feet 'n legs 'n stuck 'em down in the mud and said 'here, you can look at it I guess but tha's it'. And humans, they looked up at the stars and said 'that's bollocks, d'You know how bollocks that is?' and got to work mapping th' sky 'n figuring out rotations and then! And then!" He grabbed the angel's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "They built a set of wings out of a metal capsule and a bunch of maths and wires and they called it Eagle! I mean, mostly I think it's the Americans being ostentatious but come on! Eagle! And they said 'nuts to Your limitations' and they went and flew anyway!"

His eyes were shining, and Aziraphale thought he had never seen Crowley so proud. "They do have incredible ingenuity."

"Blessed right, they do! W'as the time?"

"Nearly eight, I think."

"Blimey, it's soon. Hang on, I wanna 'ppreciate this." The demon ducked his head, hands gripping the counter. He let out a pained grunt and an obscenely undignified belch as he forced the alcohol from his system, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes just a little. Crowley scrunched up his face in disgust and washed down the taste of suddenly-not-drunk with another sip of the cocktail.

"They made this leap so quickly," Aziraphale observed as the anchormen began to look more flustered. "It's only been, what 70 years or so since they started toying with motorised flight?"

"Tenacious, this lot." Crowley side-eyed him. "You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?"

"No," Aziraphale answered truthfully. "In fact I was specifically told to leave the research alone."

"Same."

The whole pub was focusing on the television now as radio broadcasts came in. Radio signals from space - Aziraphale could hardly believe it. If someone had told him a hundred years ago that humans would get to this point so quickly he'd have laughed in their face.

"I was at the launch, you know." Quiet awe coloured Crowley's voice as he watched the screen. "Hopped a flight to Cape Kennedy earlier this week. Oh, it was brilliant, angel; you should've seen it."

The broadcast switched away from the anchors to an indoor studio somewhere. A model lander was being lowered slowly, awkwardly onto a model set, with the caption "CBS News Simulation" beneath it. But with the accompanying radio transmissions, it didn't take too much human imagination to make the visuals match the audio.

The murmuring of the patrons around them died slowly with each minute that passed until the entire room was silent, watching the screen. Even the drunkest of the football fans recognized the weight of what was happening.

"Four forward," crackled the radio signal. "Four forward, drifting to the right a little. Okay, down a half."

Aziraphale risked a glance beside him. Crowley was wholly focused on the television set, stock still and not breathing. In fact, the angel would have bet money that he hadn't remembered to breathe in several minutes. His glasses had slipped a bit down his nose so he could see the broadcast unhindered, and his yellow eyes were wide, waiting, desperate: hope and joy and fear raging behind them in a maelstrom.

"Contact light. Okay, engine stop. ACA out of detent. Mode control, both auto. Descent engine command override off. Engine arm off. 413 is in."

"Man on the moon," one of the news anchors breathed, but the pub held its collective breath. It had to be official. If anything went wrong at the last second...

There was were a few moments of radio static.

"We copy you down, Eagle."

"Houston... Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed."

"Roger, Tranquility. We copy you on the ground-"

The pub exploded, drowning out the rest of the broadcast. Crowley was on his feet, whooping and hollering with the loudest of them. Aziraphale applauded enthusiastically and clacked his glass against the beer of the gentleman beside him. "Well done, humanity! Well done indeed!"

Crowley was jumping up and down and screaming himself hoarse, hugging whatever stranger happened to get close to him and being hugged by other random strangers in return. One of the drunker football girls kissed him full on the mouth and he didn't seem to care in the least, going right back to his screaming as she moved on to kiss the bloke beside him.

Aziraphale couldn't help but bask for a moment in the happiness radiating from the humans around him. It wasn't hard to find excited people if you knew where to look, but it was rare that one found so many people all deliriously excited about the same thing. He could feel a sizable portion of Europe celebrating tonight.

Crowley grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him enthusiastically, breaking him out of his reverie. Aziraphale thought he glimpsed tears glinting from the corners of the sunglasses. "They did it! Angel, they did it!"

"I can see that! It's very hard to miss."

"Sixty centuries and they made it! Take that, You great cosmic killjoy!" This last was hollered at the ceiling but Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to be cross about it, not with so much happiness humming through the air. "Rico! New round for me and him! Ah Heaven, round for the bar!"

"You're cut off, mate!" the bartender yelled back. But a snap wiped his expression clean as that particular thought was miracled out of his head.

"I," Crowley asserted, downing the rest of his cocktail, "am fresh and ready to go. This party's just getting started. Gonna join me, angel? Betcha the news coverage'll go on for ages."

Aziraphale took the offered refill, already tipsy off the joy coming from both the humans and Crowley. "Oh, why not?"

#good omens #good omens fic #apollo 11 #the moon landing #my writing #it's fun listening to the original radio transmissions

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dherzogblog · 3 years

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The Birth of The Daily Show: 25 Years of Fake News and Moments of Zen

It was July of 1995 and I had left MTV to become President of Comedy Central. It was the basic cable equivalent of going from the NY Yankees to an expansion team. I was on the job just two weeks when I received a call from Brillstein Grey the high powered managers of Bill Maher, host of one of the networks few original programs, "Politically Incorrect". We were informed Bill and his show would leave the network when his contract expired in 12 months. It was a done deal. Bill wanted to take his show to the "big leagues" at ABC where he would follow Night Line. Comedy Central was left jilted. Terrible news for a network still trying to establish itself. We had a year to figure out how to replace him and the clock was ticking. So began the path to The Daily Show.

It was very much a fledgling Comedy Central I joined, available in barely 35 million homes, desperately seeking an identity and an audience. It was just over three years old, born into a shot gun wedding that joined two struggling and competing comedy networks, HBO’s Comedy Channel and Viacom’s HA!, Watching them both stumble out of the gate, the cable operators forced them to merge, telling them: "We only need one comedy channel, you guys figure it out”. After some contentious negotiations the new channel was born and the red headed step child of MTV and HBO set out to find the pop culture zeitgeist its parents had already expertly navigated. The network had yet to define itself. The programming consisted mainly of old stand up specials from the likes of Gallagher (never underestimate the appeal of a man smashing watermelons), a hodgepodge of licensed movies (“The God’s Must be Crazy and The Cheech and Chong trilogy were mainstays) and Benny Hill reruns. The networks biggest hit by far was the UK import “Absolutely Fabulous”, better know as “AbFab”. Comedy Central boasted a handful of original shows, including the wonderfully sublime "SquiggleVision" of “Dr. Katz”, the sketch comedy "Exit 57" (starring the then unknown Amy Sedaris and Stephen Colbert) and of course Maher’s "Politically Incorrect". In retrospect I don’t think Bill got enough credit for pioneering the idea of political comedy on mainstream TV. Back then he was the only one doing it.

Politically Incorrect performed just fine, but got more critical attention than ratings. It was a panel show, and I had something a bit different in mind to replace it. I knew we needed a flagship, a network home base, something akin to ESPN's Sports Center where viewers could go at the end of a the day for our comedic take on everything that happened in the last 24 hours….."a daily show". I had broad idea for it in my head. I would describe it as part "Weekend Update", part Howard Stern, with a dash of "The Today Show" on drugs complete with a bare boned format to keep costs low so we could actually afford to produce it. We could open with the headlines covering the day's events (our version of a monologue), followed by a guest segment (we wouldn't need to write jokes...only questions!), and finish with a taped piece. Simple, right? We just needed someone to help flesh out our vision.

Comedy Central was a a second tier cable channel then and considered a bit of a joke (no pun intended). It had minuscule ratings, no heat and even less money to spend. Producers were not lining up to work with there. Eileen Katz ran programming for the channel and the two of us began pitching this idea to every producer who would listen. One of the first people we approached was Madeleine Smithberg, an ex Letterman producer and had overseen "The Jon Stewart Show" for us at MTV. We thought she was perfect for the role. “You can’t do this, you can’t afford this, you don't have the stomach for this, it will never work ” Madeliene said when we met with her. We could not convince her to take the gig. Ok then....we moved on. The problem was we heard that same refrain from everybody. No one wanted the job. So after weeks being turned down by literally EVERYONE, I said to Eileen: “We have to go back to Madeleine and convince her to do this with us"!

Part our pitch to her was we would go directly to series. There would be no pilot. The show was guaranteed to go on air. We had decided this show was our to be our destiny and we had to figure it out come hell or high water. As a 24 hour comedy channel, if we couldn't figure out a way to be funny and fresh every day...what good were we? We told Madeliene we were committed to putting the show on the air and keeping it there till we got it right (for at least a year anyway). That, plus some gentle arm twisting got her to sign on. Shortly after that, Lizz Winstead did too.

Madleiene and Lizz very quickly landed on their inspired notion of developing the show and format as a news parody. It brought an immediate focus and a point of view to the process . All of the sudden things started to take shape and coming to life. Great ideas started flowing fast and furious while an amazing collection of funny and talented began to come on board. Madeliene and Lizz were off to the races. Now all we needed was a host.

The prime time version of ESPN's Sports Center was hosted by Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann back then and it was must see cable TV. But I had recently started to notice another guy hosting the show's late night edition. He was funny, with a snarky delivery reminiscent of Dennis Miller. His name was Craig Kilborn. On the phone with CAA agent Jeff Jacobs one day, I asked if he knew happened to know who repped him? “I do" he said. "We just signed him”. Within days he was in my office along with Madeleine, Lizz, and Eileen who were all a bit skeptical about the tall blond guy with the frat boy vibes sitting across from them. After opening the meeting with a few off color comments that would probably get him cancelled today (an early warning sign fo sure), Craig ultimately won them over and we had our host.

FUN FAC#1: Minutes after the news of Craig's hiring went public, Keith Olberman's agent called me directly to ask why we hadn't considered hiring him?

Ok, we had a host and producers...but what to call it? After sifting through dozens of ideas for a title, Madeleine called me one day and said, "I think we should just call it what we've been calling it all along...."The Daily Show". As we approached our launch date we taped practice shows and took them out to focus groups to get real life feedback. The groups hated it.... I mean with a red hot hate. They hated Craig, the format, the jokes, everything. We were crushed and dejectedly looked around at the room at one another. "Now what?" “Either they’re wrong, or we are". I said I think they are...but it doesn’t matter, we're doing this!" We never looked back.

The show took off quickly garnering some quick buzz and attention, we felt like we had crashed the party. Well, sort of. We had no shortage of fun, growing pains and drama along the way. The Daily Show version 1.0 was about to unravel. In a December 1997 magazine interview Craig made some truly offensive and inappropriate remarks about Lizz and female members of the staff. Whether it was poor attempt at humor or just plain misogynist (or both) is beyond the point. It was all wrong, very wrong. Craig was suspended for a week without pay. Lizz left the show. In the moment I chose to protect the show and its talent more so than Lizz. That was wrong too. It's more than cringe worthy looking back now, and I regret not making some better decisions then. My loyalty to our host was later "rewarded" when in the Spring of 1998 Kilborn's team, a la Bill Maher, unceremoniously informed us he had signed a deal to follow Letterman on CBS when his contract expired at the end of the year. No discussion, a done deal. Comedy Central jilted again. Like Maher, Kilborn wanted his shot at the network big leagues and we had a little over six months to figure out how to replace him. We all know how that chapter ended. That search would eventually reunite us with Jon Stewart who along with The Daily Show took Comedy Central and basic cable to the "the big leagues" on their own terms, redefining late night comedy in the process The rest, as they say, is "Fake News" history.

Fun Fact #2: before approaching Jon (who I did not originally think would be interested) I initially offered the job to a chunkier, largely unknown Jimmy Kimmel, fresh off his co hosting duties on "Win Ben Stein's Money" ...only to have him turn us down.

My fascination with late night began as a kid. I remember how exciting it was to stay up to sneak a peek at the Carson monologue and watch him do spit takes with his chummy Hollywood guests. Later on I also loved the heady adult conversation Dick Cavett would have with everyone from Sly Stone to Groucho Marx. But it was the comedic revolution of Saturday night Live in 1975, followed by Letterman's game changing show in 1981 that truly established late night as the coolest place on the television landscape. I could only dream of one day being part of it.

25 years on, I couldn’t be more proud of The Daily Show and its legacy. Those days helping build it alongside Madeleine, Lizz, Eileen and the team were among the most satisfying (and fun) experiences I have ever had. It was thrilling to take a shot at the late night landscape and try and make our mark, especially when no one thought we could.

I am prouder still of what Trevor Noah and his staff have achieved since they took the hand off from Jon, evolving and growing the show through a new voice and lens. I think my personal "Moment Of Zen" will last as long as Trevor remains behind the desk, allowing me to selfishly boast of having hired every host this award winning and culture defining franchise has ever had.

25 years later. it remains as relevant as ever, a bona fide late night institution, standing shoulder to shoulder with all the great shows that inspired us to start.

#the daily show #jon stewart #trevor noah #comedy central

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ncisfranchise-source · 3 years

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Although much has changed for NCIS as the CBS mainstay enters its 19th season, the plan is to give faithful fans the familiar show they have long known and loved.

Among the on- and off-screen shifts: Two characters were written out last spring, a pair of series regulars have been added for fall, Gibbs’ suspension took a deadly turn when he and his new boat went boom…. And on top of all of that, TV’s most watched drama has been handed its first time slot change ever, moving from Tuesday’s leadoff spot to Mondays at 9/8c (beginning Sept. 20).

TVLine spoke with showrunner Steven D. Binder about navigating this transition, bringing the big orange room’s “band back together,” and inviting fans to rediscover a familiar favorite when they now tune in on Monday nights. (Tiny bits of this Q&A have previously appeared in TVLine scoop and Fall Preview columns.)

TVLINE | We said goodbye last season to Jack (played by Maria Bello) and to Bishop (Emily Wickersham). You have since added Katrina Law full time, as well as Gary Cole, and we’re reportedly getting a bit less Mark Harmon. How does this season rank as far as the challenge of transitioning? The biggest transitions we’ve had to face were last season — trying to find a fitting end to the Jack Sloane character and then a fitting end to the Emily Bishop character. Now, Katrina’s here, so we’re getting a chance to get to know [Agent Jessica Knight], but as you might imagine, there’s some cleanup work we have to do based on the season finale that takes precedence over the more subtle character moments. Gibbs blew up in his boat, so we’re not going to open up with light banter in the squad room.

TVLINE | How much time has lapsed since Gibbs went boom? We’re going to go fairly real time. We decided it’s too interesting of a moment to skip ahead of unless you’ve got a really good reason to do that, and we didn’t.

TVLINE | As I noted after the finale, Gibbs swam away on his own volition after “playing dead” for what seemed to be a purposeful amount of time. Did I read that right? Yeah. We shot a lot of different things for that and there were a lot of different ways to cut it, and what we left with was something that we felt in many ways left all possibilities open. You see someone swimming away with purpose but he was pretty badly injured. Just speaking from experience, I got nailed by a car when I was 10, and if asked me how I was doing, I’d tell you I’m fine, and I wasn’t fine. So, all things are still possible with Gibbs. He’s not dead and we know he’s able to swim well enough to do that broad stroke we saw, but any number of levels of injury were possible for him at that point.

TVLINE | Is there anything else you can share about what Gibbs is up to when Season 19 opens? Well, he’d been hunting down a serial killer, with a reporter (Marcie, played by Pam Dawber) who doesn’t really necessarily have the tools to deal with a serial killer. And he’s been cut off from his team, from that portion of his world. In the beginning episodes, that’s going to change. We’re going to “bring the band back together” to some degree so they can do what we have liked watching for 20 years, which is these people solving crimes together.

TVLINE | It was made very clear that Gary Cole’s character, FBI Special Agent Alden Park, is not “replacing” Gibbs. But is he there to fill a void as “the well-seasoned law enforcement agent”? This is something I’d been saying we should do for a very long time, and when I took over as showrunner it was like, “We’re going to do this” — and then we just didn’t for a little while. I have been saying that we need to populate more characters in this show, in the vein of Joe Spano who plays Fornell, Muse Watson who plays Mike Franks…. The way you get those people who are really fantastic characters is you bring people in and you try them out and you see how it goes.

That was what initially motivated [the casting of] Katrina [Law]. With Gary Cole, you can almost imagine [that Agent Park] may be too close to Fornell in a lot of ways — he’s from the FBI, he’s in the same demo — but that was the initial impetus for bringing in characters. And we’re trying to do that this season with a little more forcefulness, bringing in people in the building who you haven’t necessarily seen but you know have been there doing stuff. And if something clicks, we’re like “OK, let’s bring that person back.”

TVLINE | But now some fans are worried that we won’t see Fornell again. I can tell you that we will be seeing Fornell for as long as Joe Spano would like to be on the show. He’s just fantastic. We have him at least in one [Season 19 episode] and possibly more. Possibly more.

TVLINE | What do you want to say about Mark Harmon’s reportedly reduced presence as Gibbs this season? I’d say that a lot of things are reported on the show that aren’t necessarily true. We are focusing right now on telling the best stories we can with the characters we have, and Gibbs is a part of that world, and I think we’re doing a pretty good job with that. It’s a little more complicated under the COVID regulations we’re under again, but one of things that we felt was missing in the last half of last season was that we had broken our band up and we wanted to get them back together. That’s really what we’re focusing on now.

TVLINE | I’m surprised to hear you say that, because it sounds like Gibbs might become some form of team leader again. I will tell you that it’s not necessarily in a form or shape you might have expected. It’s not typical, but it will be something that is ultimately really enjoyed.

TVLINE | What’s the aftermath of Bishop abruptly peacing out on Nick and us? It would be a really sad commentary on the Nick Torres character for her to just disappear like that and have it not affect him in some way. It could affect you in a lot of ways — you can be generally affected, you could be walking around telling everyone you’re fine and clearly you’re not…. But Nick Torres is tough exterior, soft interior, and we get a look at that soft interior.

TVLINE | Can you clarify what Ellie meant by when she said to Nick, “I didn’t mean for us to happen”? Was that not necessarily their first kiss? I think there have been hints dropped along the ways that that was not their first kiss. And you will get some more hints of the extent of their relationship. Normal people might leave toothbrushes at the other one’s house, but Nick Torres might do things a little differently! You’ll get more clarification on exactly how far that relationship might have gone, although, as you could guess, when consenting boy adult meets consenting girl adult, and they like each other, things happen.

TVLINE | Once you’re done with the early-season “cleanup work,” will NCIS return to a typical Case of the Week format? That’s the other thing we talked a lot about, and I will tell you that after we put some of these things to bed that we have been running with for a while, one of the things we said to ourselves was, “Let’s get back to some interesting cases without any overarching arcs.” Out of 400-plus episodes, 360 of them are described that way, but we’ve been not doing that for a while, so I think it’s time for us to sort of regroup and get back to telling good mysteries of the week with interesting characters, interesting stories, emotional hooks, and a satisfying ending.

TVLINE | Was going back to that trusted formula especially important with a brand-new time slot? So that if and when people do find you, they’re getting something familiar? That could be a reason we would give, and it’s great that it worked out that way. As a writer working with writers, some of us are eager to get back to doing the things that we know. When we get off brand, that’s not what our training is in. Sometimes you get the more interesting episodes that way, because people get pushed past their comfort zones, but I think we’re all feeling it, too, that want to go back to what works. It’s a new time slot, so let’s not make everything new right now.

TVLINE | Any germ of an idea yet for doing a crossover with NCIS: Hawai’i at some point, to bridge the two shows on Monday night? You know, I thought we left some good stuff on the table by not doing more of those in the past. I would love to do something like that, especially if I wrote it and got to fly to Hawaii while it was shot!

TVLINE | Hey, only if I in turn get to do a set visit. [Laughs] Exactly. We haven’t discussed it yet, but I’ve worked with and known [NCIS: Hawai’i co-showrunner/former NCIS co-EP] Chris Silber for a really long time, so that always makes those sorts of things easier.

TVLINE | Lastly, is there any contingency plan in your back pocket in case someone decides that this is NCIS‘ farewell season? There’s really a couple possibilities here. One is that we get cancelled tomorrow and then there’s nothing to be “contingent” about. The other option is that Gibbs is either solving cases in his 90s, or he gets a gold watch and retires. Neither of those things sound interesting to me, but at some point in time when that happens, if we find ourselves still on the air and people are thinking of retiring, you have to think about something befitting that character — and a gold watch ain’t it. But we’re not really thinking too hard at this moment about such things.

TVLINE | A handful of fans have been very doom-and-gloom, bleating “they’re putting the show out to pasture!” with a time slot change and all. I’m like, it’s TV’s most watched drama; it’s not going to lose its entire audience because of a time slot change. That’s our reaction, too. When a show is on the bubble and the time slot changes, it’s usually to Sunday at 10 pm, and that’s not what we got. We got Monday, an hour later.

TVLINE | And you’re leading out of two solid sitcoms, and teeing up a buzzy new drama. That’s right. We’re always the one leading in for everybody else, so I’m somewhat excited to be the show that gets a lead-in!

TVLINE | It’s pretty crazy, man. Nineteen years without a time slot change. Yeah. Like you said, it’s a No. 1 one show, plus it’s 2021, not 1921. People watch TV differently now. As someone said to me, “Oh, it’s just going to be available a night earlier?” These days it’s not all about when a show drops. But you can watch it when it drops, and now it will be available to watch a night earlier, that’s how they thought of it.

#ncis #interview

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xhxhxhx · 4 years

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Rick Perlstein, Reaganland (Simon & Schuster, 2020):

AT THE SAME TIME, HOWEVER, a separate anti-liberal backlash was taking root. It was spurred by summer after summer of race riots, and its political base was not business but middle-class homeowners, who blamed civil rights and the War on Poverty for a civilization-threatening breakdown in law and order. Business was largely on the liberal side of this issue—like the author of a 1966 article in the Harvard Business Review predicting “riots and arson and spreading slums” if “the businessman does not accept his rightful role as leader in the push for the goals of the ‘Great Society’ (or whatever tag he wants to give it).”

No, business’s backlash, its emergence as a [class for itself], came a little bit later, in response to a new, and different, sort of liberalism—one whose buzzwords were “environmentalism” and “consumerism,” and which, unlike Lyndon Johnson’s War on Poverty, placed corporate power squarely in its sights.

Date its origin to the summer of 1967. Around the same time Congress was responding to middle-class constituent anger over black riots by voting down a modest bill funding rodent control in the slums, a remarkable hearing was held by the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation, chaired by Senator Warren Magnuson of Washington State. Magnuson had been approached by a Seattle physician who described a “chronic, unrelenting procession of burned and scarred children” in his work at Seattle Children’s Hospital, caused by the sort of flammable fabrics that had supposedly been outlawed by the Flammable Fabrics Act of 1953. That law, however, had been written by industry lobbyists. Back then, Commerce Committee members were classed by what industry they served: “textile senators,” “trucking senators,” “railroad senators,” “tobacco senators” (the leading tobacco senator was the former president of the Tobacco Institute). They sponsored protectionist laws written by their benefactors—like the Wool Products Labeling Act, which banned manufacturers from selling a product as wool if it contained a single strand of recycled or synthetic fiber; or bills fixing prices for legacy companies. The process was so corrupt that when Chairman Magnuson hired a young lawyer in 1964 named Michael Pertschuk to run the committee’s portfolio of consumer products legislation, the fellow he replaced congratulated him on all the price-fixed products, from audio equipment to toasters, that he soon would be getting for free.

This all would soon be a thing of the past.

Magnuson had been a fisheries senator and an aviation senator. After almost losing his seat in 1962, however, he reinvented himself aggressively as a new kind of liberal legislative entrepreneur: a consumerist senator. He put Pertschuk to work toughening up the limp Flammable Fabrics Act. A textile industry lobbyist replied “blood would run in the halls of Congress” before his industry let it pass. But the hearings Pertschuk staged in July of 1967 were a masterpiece of legislative melodrama. The Seattle doctor testified: “In all honesty, I must say I do not consider it a triumph when the life of a severely burned child is saved.… Death may be more merciful.” A beloved CBS News commentator told the story of his eleven-year-old daughter, burned nearly to death when a cotton blouse that met federal safety standards combusted when a match was dropped on it. A representative of the Cotton Textile Council boasted of the “admirable” results produced by its standards committee. The square-jawed and stentorian Magnuson replied:

“How often does your standards committee meet?”

“Regularly, Senator.”

How often, Magnuson followed up, before they’d received his recent letter warning them of impending congressional action?

“Ten years,” the lobbyist admitted.

The amendments passed the committee unanimously, then both houses, virtually unchanged. President Johnson signed the bill with Magnuson by his side. The following day he signed the first update to meat inspection law since the 1906 Pure Food and Drug Act, with Upton Sinclair, the novelist whose 1905 exposé The Jungle had inspired it, standing next to him. A landmark “truth in lending” bill went to conference six weeks later. The former senator Paul Douglas, a New Deal economist who had lost his seat in 1966 largely because white Chicago factory workers turned their back on him because of his advocacy for a failed bill outlawing housing discrimination, had been pressing for it since the 1950s, but was defeated in the Finance Committee session after session. Now, however, it passed the committee unanimously.

The floodgates opened: to laws fighting deceptive practices by door-to-door salesmen and moving companies, outlawing hazardous radiation from electronics equipment, closing gaps in poultry and fish inspection, demanding accuracy in product warranties, regulating cigarettes. “Consumer Interests: Legislative Derby Has Begun,” one Midwestern newspaper reported early in 1968. That headline appeared just as Congress voted to outlaw housing discrimination in a desperate response to the riots following the April 4, 1968, assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. The version that passed, however, weaker than one killed in 1966, added near-police-state provisions limiting militant blacks’ freedom to travel. Riots had burned down Lyndon Johnson’s War on Poverty. “Consumerism” sprung forth phoenix-like from the ashes.

Politicians discovered that scourging industry greed was the smart political play. It certainly was for Magnuson, who glided to reelection in 1970 with ads that bragged, “There’s a law that forced Detroit to make cars safer—Senator Magnuson’s law. There’s a law that keeps the gas pipelines under your house from blowing up—Senator Magnuson’s law. There’s a law that makes food labels tell the truth—Senator Magnuson’s law. Keep the big boys honest; let’s keep Maggie in the Senate.”

It heralded a remarkable shift in public opinion. In 1966, 55 percent of Americans had a “great deal of confidence in the leaders of major companies.” Five years later, the percentage was 27 percent. Between 1968 and 1970, the portion believing “business tries to strike a fair balance between profits and the interest of the public” fell from 70 percent to 33 percent. Wrote pollster Lou Harris, “People have come to be skeptical about American ‘know-how,’ worried that it might pollute, contaminate, poison, or even kill them.”

[...]

IDEALISTIC YOUNG LAWYERS FLOCKED TO the organizations [Ralph] Nader began forming [in the late 1960s]. The first product of these “Nader’s Raiders” was a 185-page report on the Federal Trade Commission, a notoriously toothless regulatory body that took, on average, four years to investigate every complaint, punishing the guilty with unenforceable orders to cease and desist. The monograph was couriered to 150 key journalists out of the back of a Raider’s Volkswagen. It called the FTC a “self-parody of bureaucracy, fat with cronyism, torpid through inbreeding unusual even for Washington, manipulated by the agents of commercial predators, impervious to government or citizen monitoring,” ridden with “alcoholism, spectacular lassitude, and office absenteeism.”

By then the president was Richard Nixon, who had to accede to the new anti-corporate mood just to maintain political credibility. He ordered up his own FTC investigation. It arrived at similar conclusions. So Nixon replaced the FTC director with the shrewdest bureaucrat in his administration, Caspar “Cap the Knife” Weinberger, who roared out of the starting gate with actions against dubious advertising claims of such blue-chip products as Hi-C, Listerine, Wonder Bread, and McDonald’s.

Nixon then signed a landmark mine safety law and the National Environmental Policy Act, establishing the first new independent federal regulatory agency since 1938, then added another with a law authorizing the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. That project was inherited from the Johnson administration, and at first, Nixon’s version was so mild that the U.S. Chamber of Commerce endorsed it. But the “creature that ultimately stomped out of Congress,” a historian recounted, was a “Frankenstein of Chamber members’ nightmares.” Federal agents had never had the authority to inspect individual businesses for health and safety violations. OSHA gave them the power to do it without warrants, then levy hefty fines with no avenue for appeal. Richard Nixon didn’t dare veto it.

Nor did he veto tough amendments to the Clean Air Act of 1963 that included something nearly unprecedented in previous environmental legislation: specific deadlines for compliance. It also enjoined the new EPA from considering costs in establishing ambient air standards—inspiring Robert Griffin, a Republican automotive senator from Michigan, to snarl that the 1975 deadline for limiting auto exhaust pollutants “holds a gun to the head of the American automobile industry in a very dangerous game of roulette.” The technology to implement the standards, he complained, did not exist. Democrat Edmund Muskie of Maine, the leader of senate environmentalists, responded, “This deadline is based not, I repeat, not, on economic and technological feasibility, but on considerations of public health.… Detroit has told the nation that Americans cannot live without the automobile. This legislation would tell Detroit that if this is the case, then they must make an automobile with which the American people can live.” The version that passed the Senate 73–2 was stronger than what had been debated in any hearing. A cowed GM lobbyist told the National Journal that “the atmosphere was such that offering amendments seemed pointless,” and that “I wouldn’t think of asking anybody to vote against the bill.”

The Senate Commerce Committee, that former redoubt of trucking senators, railroad senators, textile senators, and tobacco senators, became a regulator’s paradise. At confirmation hearings for a new FTC head, Frank Moss congratulated the agency for having “stretched its powers to provide a credible countervailing public force to the enormous economic and political power of huge corporate conglomerates which today dominate American enterprise. That is as it should be.” Then one of Moss’s conservative colleagues, Senator Ted Stevens, Republican of Alaska, asked the nominee to “become a real zealot in terms of consumer affairs,” tough enough that “these big businesspeople will complain.”

In 1971, Webster’s added the word consumerism to its Third New International Dictionary. A book called America, Inc.: Who Owns and Operates the United States? coauthored by the Washington Post’s consumer reporter and original Nader champion Morton Mintz rode the bestseller list for months. Children begged at bedtime to hear Dr. Seuss’s new book The Lorax, in which a pitiless capitalist “biggers” his business by harvesting every last Truffula tree, crying triumphantly, “Business is business and business must grow!” and leaving behind a barren hellscape. Gore Vidal published a cover article in Esquire touting Nader for president, and 78 percent of columnist Mike Royko’s readers who sent back a questionnaire he published said they wanted him as the Democrats’ presidential nominee. Another new independent regulatory agency, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, was born. Congress passed bills requiring childproof packaging for poisonous substances, killing federal subsidies for a supersonic transport plane, restricting lead in house paint, and establishing safety standards for recreational boats. Nixon signed them—not because he was a closet liberal, but because, as his aide Bryce Harlow, a former lobbyist for Procter & Gamble, delicately explained to the American Advertising Federation, though “President Nixon profoundly respects the critical contribution made by industry to the vitality and strength of the American economy, if this respect were to over-influence his actions, I am certain that the fall of 1972 would bring a new and hostile team to the White House.”

Nader had by then established a permanent presence in the capital, based in a decrepit mansion which had been slated for demolition in the down-market Dupont Circle neighborhood, where, amid a shambles of borrowed third-hand furniture and wooden fruit crates stuffed with books and files, staggeringly devoted young Ivy League–trained Nader’s Raiders institutionalized their hero’s agenda. The neighborhood was pocked with similar offices. Common Cause, Friends of the Earth, the Natural Resources Defense Council, Nader’s own Public Citizen, Environmental Action, the Center for Law and Social Policy, and the Consumer Federation of America were all established in 1969 or 1970. Nader started six new organizations in 1971 alone, including Public Citizen, a membership group that raised more than $1 million from sixty-two thousand donors in its first year.

That was another new pattern. Throughout the seventies, pundits cast their eye on declining election turnout and agonized over voter apathy. But apathy at the polls did not extend to joining consumer and environmental organizations, whose memberships exploded, thanks in part to the same computer-based direct mail technology that Richard Viguerie employed. Nearly one hundred thousand households contributed at least $70 to not one, not two, but three progressive membership groups. Major foundations pitched in, too. Thanks to the shower of cash—and because most new consumer and environmental laws awarded attorneys’ fees to plaintiffs who sued to enforce them—lawsuits against corporations increased exponentially.

George McGovern considered Nader as his running mate. (He replied, “I’m an advocate for justice and that doesn’t mix with the needs of politics.”) Nixon vetoed the 1972 Clean Water Act, for its “staggering, budget-wrecking” $24 billion cost—but his veto was overridden with considerable Republican votes. In October, he signed a law establishing the Consumer Product Safety Commission, the third new regulatory agency in three years.

Then, however, following his landslide reelection, he proposed a radical right-wing budget that Newsweek described as “one of the most significant American political documents since the dawning of the New Deal,” intended to “pull the government back from the proliferating social concerns of the years from Franklin Roosevelt to Lyndon Johnson.” Thanks to Watergate, he never got the chance. Senator Sam Ervin’s televised hearings had reverberated with accounts of briefcases full of corporate cash laundered through the Mexican subsidiaries of blue-chip firms like American Airlines, Goodyear, and 3M. In the midst of it came the first energy crisis, which a majority of Americans—and some senators—believed the big energy companies had cooked up to line their pockets. Pollster Daniel Yankelovich found that 70 percent of Americans believed big business controlled government through illegal bribes. And that was before spectacular revelations, following Nixon’s resignation, that the same slush funds companies maintained to bribe Nixon were also used to pay off foreign officials. The Securities and Exchange Commission’s chief of enforcement was gobsmacked. “Until two or three years ago,” he said, “I genuinely thought the conduct of business… was generally rising. But what can you say about the revelations of the last couple or three years?”

Under President Ford, government checks on corporate power expanded yet further. One of the first laws he signed was the Employment Retirement Income Security Act, or ERISA, which strictly enforced the pension promises companies made to their employees, placing thousands of company’s books under federal scrutiny for the first time. In 1975 he signed the Energy Policy and Conservation Act, a landmark law demanding that every American car manufacturer achieve a “Corporate Average Fuel Economy,” or CAFE, of eighteen miles per gallon by the 1978 model year. That meant every manufacturer had to redesign every car on the drawing boards. An automotive think tank estimated that it would cost manufacturers $60 billion to $80 billion, virtually their entire store of capital assets, and made the companies fear for their very survival. A group of automotive lobbyists approached the chief of staff of Edmund Muskie’s environmental subcommittee, Leon Billings, with a memo suggesting some ideas on the bill. Billings fashioned a paper airplane out of the document and sailed it straight over their heads.

This passage made me change my mind about Richard Nixon.

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workofthediesel · 3 years

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The Long Way Home - Chpt 1

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(Chpt 2) (Chpt 3)

Summary: CB's plan was simple: escape. Run away and leave the pain and shame and humiliation of the crash in the championship behind him. It was supposed to be easy. No one was supposed to care.

It wasn't supposed to end up like this.

Word Count: 11,971

The setting of the sun had plunged CB’s house into darkness, much to his relief. The crash had left his head aching, and even the smallest shred of light had felt like it was trying to stab clean through his skull. But now, in the dead of night with the curtains drawn against the rest of the world, he could function just enough to put his plan into action.

The first order of business would be repairs. He’d been in enough crashes that he was decently experienced in patching himself up. Although, he thought, rooting skeptically through his first aid kit, none of those previous times had been anywhere near this bad. Cuts and bruises he could handle, and he’d even dealt with the occasional snapped axle or broken wheel, but he wasn’t even sure where to start with his current state.

The second thing he needed was somewhere to go. A new yard, far enough away where they wouldn’t know what had happened. It only needed to be a temporary spot, someplace for him to buy a little time. The story of the championship would catch up to him eventually, but he’d be long gone by then, moved on once again.

He’d need a new identity at some point. He couldn’t keep running forever, and the only way he knew to leave his past behind him was to become someone completely new. New name, new look, new personality if he could manage it. It would take quite a bit of acting, but it would be worth it if it meant CB the Red Caboose completely disappeared.

He was getting ahead of himself. For now, he just needed to get himself back in working order, or as near to as he could. He wanted to be out of here before the morning, which meant he had to work fast.

The cheap painkillers he had in his cabinet did almost nothing for him. Not that he expected anything different. They were store-brand, over-the-counter, and wasn’t it just his luck that he wouldn’t have anything good when he needed it? Still, he knocked back twice the recommended amount in the hopes that it would at least take the edge off and got to work.

The meager contents of his first aid kit were seeming more and more pitiful by the second. A few rolls of bandages, a handful of butterfly strips, a few small boards—enough to possibly fashion a makeshift splint or two—some saline solution, and an ice pack. It was nowhere near enough for what he needed to do. CB frowned, tipping the kit out onto the counter on the off chance that there was something buried in there that he had missed. Apart from a few loose strips of gauze, there was nothing else. CB fought back a sigh. There was nothing else to do; he’d just have to work with what he had.

It was a long and painful process, forcing himself back together all on his own. In the end, he ran out of supplies before he got himself completely patched up. Despite his attempts to be conservative with his supplies, there were still a number of painful dents, scrapes, and gashes that he wasn’t able to take care of. Not to mention the deep aches in his chest and back that had him worried about some sort of internal damage. Nothing to be done about those, he figured, tossing the empty first aid box carelessly back onto the counter. He was a far-cry from being okay, but he’d just have to manage.

He rolled back into his room, making a beeline for his closet. He threw open the door, squinting into the shadows to try to find what he was looking for. And there, all but forgotten in the corner, it was: his old bag. It wasn’t big, but he was planning on travelling light anyway.

He grabbed a handful of his spare bandanas, shoving them to the bottom of the bag. He didn’t necessarily need them, but it would be a while before he could get himself a new look and he refused to look unkempt until then. He saved one of the bandanas to tie around a long scratch on his arm. It wasn’t as good as a bandage, but he figured it would do about the same job. Plus, he realized with a wry smile, they blended in with his body perfectly. He could easily use them to cover the bandages so they wouldn’t be as noticeable. It’d be a useful trick if he ended up somewhere he needed to keep a particularly low profile.

His next stop was the kitchen. He’d be on the road for at least a few days, and he’d need something to eat while he was. He threw a few water bottles and as much dry food as he could carry into the bag, not paying much attention to what, in particular, he was grabbing. As long as it was edible, it was good enough for him.

There was one last thing he needed, and that was in his office. Radios were a hobby for him as much as they were a job. Even in his downtime, he enjoyed building and tweaking his radio systems, or even just hopping on the air and seeing who else was in range. His home system wasn’t quite as good as his official setup in the radio control room, but it was entirely his and he was proud of it.

He hadn’t come in here for any equipment. He was planning on completely reinventing himself wherever he ended up, so he wouldn’t take another job working radios. What he was looking for was his collection of maps.

Pinned up all over the walls, with a few extras and duplicates tucked away in drawers, were maps of all the different rail lines. Most of them were local, focusing on the tracks that led to and from their yard in particular, but there were a few maps of tracks across the country. He rooted through the drawers—taking anything off the wall would have been too obvious—grabbing any map that seemed useful. He wasn’t sure where he was heading yet, but that didn’t mean he wanted to end up lost in the middle of nowhere, especially if he ended up states away like he was planning.

That was everything. He poked his head back into his room and cast one final glance over it. There were plenty of things still scattered about that he wanted to take with him: a picture of him and Dinah, the scrapbook Poppa had made him for his last birthday, the chain Greaseball had given him after the diesel had gotten a new one. So many little things, so many important memories. CB swallowed thickly and closed the door behind him. Anything he took was just evidence of who he used to be. It all had to stay.

The sky was just beginning to lighten when CB crept out of his house. The sun wouldn’t properly rise for at least half an hour yet, but he was still pushing it more than he would have liked.

He took care to move quietly through the yard, sticking to the shadows as much as he could. He caught sight of Wrench’s work room as he snuck to the yard’s exit, and it made him pause. For a moment, he considered breaking in. He knew Wrench had brought tons of medical supplies with her when she came and, with any luck, there still might be some left. Of course, luck hadn’t been on his side lately, but it couldn’t hurt to at least check.

The yard was still. It was too early for anyone else to be awake. CB glanced over his shoulder—though he wasn’t quite sure what he was checking for—before sneaking over to the work room door.

The building itself was an old feature, dating back to when the yard was much busier than it was now. The yard had been home to at least a dozen engines then, and probably about a hundred coaches and freight cars. Their track had been an important one, too, and trains from other yards would always be stopping by, getting a quick refuel or taking a well-earned break, sometimes even staying the night so they could finish their route in the morning. CB had only the vaguest of memories of those days. They were happier times, he thought; he’d been happier, at least. People were nice to him, he’d felt like he belonged, and the future was worth looking forward to.

He couldn’t recall when or why things changed. Slowly, other trains had just stopped coming. Their track saw less and less use, and the visitors had petered out until suddenly it had been a month and not one new train had passed through the gate. Then, some of the yard’s permanent members disappeared, either transferred to newer, more important yards or decommissioned. Their numbers dropped steadily until there was just a handful of them left, seemingly forgotten as the rest of the world moved on to bigger and better things. A lot of the yard had fallen into disrepair after that. After all, there was no point in trying to keep it up; no one was using it.

The building Wrench had set her work room up in had at one point been the yard’s main repair station. In those days, the yard had employed their own repair truck. It had made sense then—with the number of trains working there or even just passing through, they needed to have someone on hand in case anyone got hurt. As the number of residents in the yard dwindled, however, that need had all but disappeared and their old repair truck had moved on to a busier yard. Now, if someone got hurt, they’d go to Poppa. The old repair building hadn’t been touched in years.

Outside the door, CB paused. It was still ridiculously early in the morning, so he didn’t anticipate anyone else being up, but he listened carefully just in case. He couldn’t let himself get caught now.

Silence. Silence all around him and, more importantly, silence inside the building. CB held his breath, reaching out for the door handle. To his dismay, it was locked.

CB bit his lip. He knew how to pick lock and he knew he could easily open this one. But… He dropped his hand with a sigh. It would look suspicious. He was trying to leave with as little fuss as possible. If he was lucky and didn’t leave any suspicious traces, it would be a few days before anyone noticed that he wasn’t just holed up in his house. That would buy him just enough time to get his plans in order, and that was all he needed. But if someone noticed that Wrench’s work room had gotten broken into, and if they noticed that some of her supplies had gone missing, it wouldn’t take them too long to figure out he was the one responsible. Someone would be out looking for him before the morning was over, even if it was only Wrench coming to get her supplies back.

He cast one last longing glance at the door. He really would have liked to get those supplies, but deep down he knew it wasn’t worth it. There were other yards he’d be stopping at before he found a new place to settle down; at least one of them would have supplies he could use.

CB took a deep breath, fighting to ignore the deep ache in his ribs that spiked into a sharp pain at the action. He tried to collect himself as much as possible. It would have taken him hours to make it to the nearest yard on a good day, and this was far from being a good day. It was going to be an unfortunately long and uncomfortable journey.

Well, CB thought, forcing himself to push out of the yard even as his heart screamed to stay. Better get started, then.

***

“What are you doing staring at his door? Again?”

Dustin jumped, swinging around to find Rocky 3 watching him as intently as he’d been watching CB’s door.

He bit his lip, turning back around to avoid Rocky 3’s eyes. No one had seen CB since the championship and the truth was, he was worried. As silly as it felt to say, he didn’t want to admit that. Especially not to one of the Rockies. No one else seemed bothered by CB’s absence, and he got the feeling that they thought he shouldn’t be bothered by it, either. The few times he had tried to bring it up, his concerns had been rather rudely dismissed. He didn’t think they were trying to be mean, but the Rockies had a tendency to be a bit rough with their words and their actions. Tough love, Flat-Top called it. The love Dustin liked just fine, but he had a few issues with the tough part.

He fidgeted in place for another moment, but Rocky 3 was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. “It’s just… He still hasn’t come out.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“And it’s been days,” he went on, wringing his hands nervously.

He could feel Rocky 3’s eyes still on him. “So?” Despite Dustin’s fears, there was no judgement in his voice, just a subtle prompt for Dustin to say what was actually on his mind.

Still, it took Dustin a moment to build up the courage to say, “So, what if something’s wrong?”

Rocky 3 didn’t seem particularly concerned. “What would be wrong?” he asked, as if none of the past week had happened; as if the championship hadn’t taken place; as if nothing in the yard had changed at all.

Dustin frowned. A week ago, Rocky 3 would have been worried about CB, too. He may have hidden it under some gentle ribbing or teasing, but the concern would have been there. He didn’t know how he could dismiss CB so completely now. “He got hurt in the crash too, didn’t he?”

Rocky 3 thought about it for a second. “I guess he did. He’ll be alright, though.”

“But how can you be sure? What if it’s bad? I mean, you saw how Greaseball and Electra were.”

“Yeah, but Wrench fixed them up just fine,” Rocky 3 said, like he wasn’t worried about it at all.

As much as Dustin wanted to be reassured by Rocky 3’s confidence, he couldn’t be. “But CB’s a lot smaller than them, and he’s nowhere near as strong. He had to have gotten hurt worse than they did. He’s got to need help. And if he hasn’t been out at all in days…”

“Poppa’s already been over to help,” Rocky 3 broke in. “CB didn’t let him in.”

“What if he couldn’t let him in?” Anxiety was flooding into Dustin’s thoughts, and his stomach twisted uncomfortably with all the terrible scenarios he could see in his mind. “What if he’s stuck in bed, too hurt to move? And he’s all alone, with no one to take care of him, and he’s just getting worse, and—”

“Alright, stop,” Rocky 3 cut him off. “This is really bothering you?” At Dustin’s nod of confirmation, he sighed. “I’m sure Poppa’s got a spare key to his house. If you’re really so worried, you can go in and check on him. Just don’t come crying to me when he yells at you for it.”

Even just having that small scrap of a plan made Dustin feel ten times better. “Really?”

“Is that what it’s going to take for you to feel better?”

Dustin nodded again.

“Then sure, whatever. But I’m telling you: he’s not going to be happy about this.”

In that moment, all Dustin could think was that CB’s anger would be nothing compared to the relief of just knowing that he was okay. “Oh, thank you, Rocky!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Rocky 3 said, brushing off Dustin’s gratitude with a wave of his hand. “Wait here.”

Without another word, Rocky 3 turned on his heel, rolling off towards Poppa’s house. Dustin, on the other hand, did as he was told and remained standing where he was. He kept watching CB’s door, just in case he came out before Rocky 3 got back. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he didn’t, but that didn’t have Dustin quite as worried as it had in the past few days. After all, in just a few minutes, he would be able to go in and see for himself how CB was doing.

It wasn’t long before Rocky 3 came back. “Here you go,” he said, holding up the key for Dustin to see before handing it over to him. “One key, as promised.”

The first thing Dustin felt as he took the key was a rush of gratitude and relief, but after a second of thinking about it, he paused. “Should we really be doing this?” It felt suspiciously like breaking and entering.

Rocky 3 shrugged. “Do you want to check on him or not?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Then this—” Rocky 3 gestured to the key in Dustin’s hand, “—is how you check on him. It’s not like you’re getting in any other way.”

Dustin was still hesitant, but he had to admit Rocky 3 had a point. His own reservations didn’t matter; this was what he had to do to make sure CB was okay.

He forced himself into a moment of bravery and shoved the key into the lock. He turned the key before he had the chance to second-guess himself and let the door swing silently open. He was about to take his first step inside when he realized Rocky 3 wasn’t following behind him.

He turned to look over his shoulder, finding Rocky 3 hanging far back. “Aren’t you coming?”

Rocky 3 shook his head. “I already told you: he’s not going to be happy about this, and I’m not trying to get on his bad side. I don’t need anyone crashing me the next time I’m out.”

“CB wouldn’t—” Dustin started, but the words died in his throat when he saw the look Rocky 3 was giving him. He turned away with a pout. Just a few days ago, everyone had loved CB. Now, they were acting like he wasn’t worth their time. Of course, Dustin knew that he had cheated against Rusty in the championship, but that didn’t mean that CB was out to get them. He was still their brother, and he needed their help.

He wasn’t brave enough to comment on it. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “Alright, I’m going in.”

“Have fun,” Rocky 3 said from behind him as he turned to leave.

That, once more, made Dustin pause. “You’re not going to stay, at least?”

“Why would I need to?”

Dustin frowned. “What if CB needs help?”

“That’s what you’re here for.”

“But what if I need help?”

Rocky 3 gave him a knowing, if slightly exasperated, look. “Dustin, if you want me to stay, just say so.”

Dustin wanted that. Very much so. “Please stay,” he said quietly.

“Alright,” Rocky 3 said, and that was that. He leaned against the front of the house, still refusing to go in, but at least he’d be there in case Dustin needed him.

Knowing that Rocky 3 was there was at least a little reassuring. Dustin took a deep breath and pushed himself into CB’s house.

The place was silent. He supposed he should have expected it, but it was still mildly unsettling. Dustin moved quietly down the hall, unable to shake the feeling that he was intruding.

The front hall emptied out into the CB’s living room. Dustin cast an eye around, hoping to see CB lounging on the couch, but the room was empty. Dustin frowned, trying to convince himself not to get too worried about that. He poked his head into the kitchen, only to find that CB wasn’t there, either.

Dustin’s unease was rising quickly. “Rocky!” he called.

Rocky 3 appeared in the front doorway. “What?”

“I don’t see him,” Dustin said, concern creeping up his throat.

Rocky 3 shot him a look, clearly of the mind that Dustin was being ridiculous about the whole thing. “His house has more than two rooms, Dustin.”

“I know,” Dustin said hesitantly. “But isn’t going through his house without permission kind of wrong?”

“You wanted to come in and check on him, right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“So, go check on him. He’s around here somewhere. Try his room, or his office, or… I don’t know, his bathroom or something,” Rocky 3 said, finally coming inside. “We already let ourselves into his house, looking around a little more isn’t going to make things worse.”

“But—” Dustin started again, only to be cut off.

“Just go and find him,” Rocky 3 said, giving Dustin a light shove to push him further into the house. “Then you can see with your own eyes that he’s perfectly alright and you can stop worrying about this. Okay?”

Half of Dustin was screaming at him to stay back, but the other half was too worried about CB to let him. “Okay,” he said hesitantly, rolling slowly down the hall.

Dustin had been over CB’s a few times before, but he’d never gone farther than the living room. All of this was CB’s private space, and the feeling that he was intruding doubled.

There were a handful of doors at the end of the hall. He felt a bit uncomfortable opening them all, but he knew that he had to if he wanted to find CB.

The first one he tried had been left cracked, and Dustin slowly pushed it open a few more inches. It led into what had to be CB’s home office. There was a radio set up on the desk, not too different from the one he used in the radio control room. The walls were lined with maps, and though on any other day Dustin would have been happy to spend minutes on end studying them all, they weren’t what he came here for. The room was packed with electronics and boxes and general clutter, but CB was nowhere to be seen.

The next door he tried was the bathroom. It was also empty, but there was an empty first aid kit on the counter that made Dustin frown. He knew CB had gotten hurt, but it didn’t feel good to be reminded of that.

There was only one more door to check. It had to be his bedroom. CB had to be there.

“CB?” he called, tentatively knocking on the door. He waited a few moments for an answer, but none came.

Dustin bit his lip. Contrary to Rocky 3’s assurances, the worry that CB needed help was getting stronger by the second. Going into CB’s room uninvited felt like a huge invasion of privacy, but at the same time, he needed to check on him. Hesitantly, he pushed the door open, poking his head into the room. “CB?” he called again. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, especially when I’m sure you’d rather be alone, but no one’s seen you for a few days and—”

Whatever else he was going to say died in his throat as he looked at the room in front of him. It was empty.

Empty? Dustin’s mind was reeling. No, that couldn’t be right. There was something he was missing here. There had to be.

The first thing he checked was the bed. The blankets were rumpled, and the pillows were strewn about carelessly. They could have easily hidden a sleeping form amidst their chaos, especially for someone as slight as CB.

But there was no one there. No fingers poked out from under the blanket; not a single tuft of hair could be seen. Dustin peeled back the comforter, tossing it off the bed like CB could have been hidden under a single corner, but it was of no use.

Dustin’s thoughts went racing, trying to think of something, anything, just a single explanation that would mean that CB was still here. Maybe he had heard them coming, and now he was hiding? Earlier, the thought that CB would actually hide from his friends when they were only trying to help would have stung, but now Dustin was actually hoping that was the case. He dropped to his knees, peering under the bed, silently begging for CB to be there.

But there was nothing.

Maybe his closet? Dustin rushed over and threw open the door, shoving CB’s things carelessly aside to check every nook and cranny of the space. But of course, it was pointless. CB wasn’t there.

Panic clawed its way up his spine, leaching through his limbs, turning his fingers shaky and his mind fuzzy. This couldn’t be happening. CB was hurt! He needed help! And now… Now…

Dustin stumbled from the room, pushing himself back down the hall on unsteady legs. His thoughts were spinning too fast for him to hold on to a single one. All he knew was that this was too much for him to handle on his own.

Rocky 3 was waiting in CB’s living room when Dustin burst in, looking incredibly nonchalant, as if the whole scenario truly wasn’t bothering him in the slightest. “Feel better now?” he asked before he got a good look at Dustin’s face. Seeing the panic there, a small frown tugged at the corners of his lips. “What? Isn’t he okay?”

Dustin shook his head, his heart threatening to pound right out of his chest. “He’s gone.”

***

Reaching the nearest yard had taken longer than CB had thought. It might have been a testament to how hurt he was that what should have been a relatively quick and easy journey had left him feeling drained and breathless, despite it taking him at least twice as long as it should have. If anyone came after him, he knew they would catch up to him easily. And this, being the only yard nearby, would be the first place they would look for him.

If he’d been in any better condition, he would have pushed right past it. As it was, he was tired and in pain, and his head was spinning so fast that he wasn’t sure he could follow a track any longer. He needed somewhere to recuperate.

He rolled to the yard’s entrance, leaning heavily against the fence as he tried to catch his breath. He took a moment to adjust his outfit while he was at it, trying to cover as many of his splints and bandages as he could. He was going to stay here for at least a day or two—possibly more, if he felt like risking it—and he wanted to make a good first impression, if only to keep the cars here from asking any uncomfortable questions.

While he was putting himself together, he took the opportunity to really study the yard. Just from where he was standing at the entrance, he could see most if not all of the yard’s space. The buildings were derelict; there were only a handful at most that could be used, and even those weren’t in the best shape. The whole place seemed dusty. It wasn’t at all the type of yard he’d ever want to stay at, but it was small and quiet, and that was what he needed most.

CB took a deep breath, trying to compose himself as much as possible. The pain and exhaustion were wearing him down emotionally as well as physically, but he knew that if he showed up as short-tempered as he felt, he wouldn’t receive the sort of warm welcome he was looking for. Putting on his old happy face was harder than it used to be, but after a moment of trying, he got it just about right.

When his image was as good as it was going to get, CB rolled his shoulders and pushed himself into the yard. It was, by his estimation, about noon, so the yard should have been breaking for lunch about then. He looked around as he rolled through, but the place seemed all but deserted. He wasn’t sure if, considering his circumstances, that’d be a good thing or a bad one.

Eventually, though, he came across the exact target he was looking for. A pair of workers—a steam engine and a bulkhead flatcar—all on their own, chatting quietly as they finished up whatever they were doing. CB wasn’t sure if everyone else had already gone off or if these were the only ones here and the yard really was that small, but at the moment, it didn’t matter much.

CB came to a stop at a low stone wall, leaning on it in a way he hoped looked casual and not like he was using it as a support—which, to be honest, he was. “Excuse me,” he called out, trying his best to sound friendly.

The bulkhead looked up. It was hard to tell from this distance, but CB thought he looked a little confused. The bulkhead turned his head to the side, exchanging a few words with the steamer next to him, before pushing himself up and rolling closer.

“Hey, there,” he said, sounding almost wary.

“Hi,” CB said. It took quite a bit of effort to make his voice sound bright and friendly. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m passing through the area right now, and I was wondering if I might be able to stop here for a bit.”

The worker looked shocked, and honestly, CB couldn’t blame him. This yard was even smaller than his own—his old one, that was. If it was a rare and special occasion for them to see anyone new passing through their front entrance, he could only imagine how much less common it would be someplace like here.

The bulkhead looked a little unconvinced, but the steamer who came up behind him seemed to be the one in charge. “Of course, you can,” they told him warmly.

CB forced a grateful smile in return. “Thank you.”

“I’m Crank,” they went on, placing a hand on the bulkhead’s shoulder, “and this is Gear.”

“My name’s Caboose,” CB told them. It wasn’t quite a lie—it was his name, he just never used it—but it was just generic enough to not be easily traceable to him.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Crank said, reaching out a hand for him to shake.

CB desperately wanted to skip the formalities, but he knew he needed to keep up a good appearance. “Likewise,” he said, returning the gesture.

Crank flashed him a friendly smile. “Have you been on the road long?”

“All morning,” CB said, seeing no reason to lie. “Like I said, I was looking for someplace to take a break in. Rest up a bit, you know?”

“Well, we’re just stopping for lunch,” Gear told him.

“Would you like to join us?” Crank was quick to follow up.

Honestly, CB wasn’t hungry. Still, he didn’t want to turn down their offer. He wanted them to like him, and after all, he needed more time with them if he was going to be able to talk them into giving him what he needed. “That’d be great, thanks,” he said, forcing a friendly smile. He slipped out from behind the wall, and for the first time, Crank and Gear got a good look at his current condition.

Gear frowned, looking CB up and down. “Are those bandages?”

CB’s stomach dropped. For a moment, he’d forgotten just how bad all of his injuries looked. He couldn’t let them get suspicious. “Yeah, I, um…” He let out a small, embarrassed chuckled, trying to look sheepish. “I derailed on the way over here.”

“What?!” Crank cried, rushing forward. They took CB’s face in their hands, peeling up his eyelids and looking deep into his eyes. Checking for a concussion, CB figured. “How bad are you hurt?”

“There’s an emergency repair center farther down the track,” Gear said, sounding concerned as well. “It’s not really close, per se, but we can get you there in a few hours if—”

“No, no! It’s not that bad,” he quickly interrupted, waving off Crank’s well-meaning hands. “It’s mostly superficial damage. I’ll be fine. I just need a few more bandages to keep everything closed up.”

Gear shot him a skeptical look. “Are you sure? Because, no offense, but you really don’t look so good.”

“Positive.”

Gear still didn’t look convinced. Neither did Crank, but they, at least, were a little more willing to trust him. “We might have a first aid kit that could be of some use,” they said, but they sounded a bit unsure.

CB couldn’t imagine that any sort of first aid kit they kept here would be particularly well stocked, but it would be better than nothing. “That would be great, if you have one.”

“I’m sure we do,” Gear said. “No promises about what’s in it, though.”

If that was the best they could do, CB would have to take it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and all that. “Anything you can spare would be wonderful.”

“Alright,” Gear said, drawing the word out slowly and uncertainly. “It’s probably in the office. I’ll go check.”

Crank nodded, watching Gear as he left for a moment before turning back to CB. “What are you doing traveling on your own? Did you get separated from your train?”

Shit. He hadn’t planned a lie for that question. He needed a story, and quick. “No, it’s just me. Got transferred to a new yard,” he said, thinking on his toes. “It’s about halfway across the country, so I didn’t want to put anyone out by asking them to pull me all the way there.”

Gear tilted their head to the side, thinking. “Are they expecting you soon?”

CB shook his head. “Not for a week or so. I was planning on showing up early so I’d have some time to get settled, but I don’t think I actually told anyone that.”

“In that case, why don’t you stay with us for a bit? I’m sure you could use some time to recover.”

CB had to restrain himself from breaking out into a victorious smile. This was exactly the offer he was hoping for, and he didn’t even have to work for it! But he needed to keep up his act. He needed to be humble. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense. We have a guest room over this way,” Crank said, taking his by the arm and leading him through the yard. “I know we just said we’d get lunch, but why don’t you lay down for a while, instead? You look pretty beat. I’ll have Gear bring that first aid kit up to you as soon as we find it.”

CB allowed himself a small smile. “Thanks, I’d really appreciate that.”

The building the guest room was in was tucked away in the corner of the yard. CB was thankful for that, hoping it meant that he’d get a good bit of privacy. He followed Crank over to it and got hit with a wall of stale air when they opened the door. “I know it’s not much, but…”

That was an understatement. The room was small and dusty, and obviously outdated. The wallpaper was yellowing and peeling, the floral design that had been printed on it severely faded. It was incredibly tiny, just barely fitting a twin bed, nightstand, and a small dresser. If CB had been in any better state, he would have been loathe to stay here. All things considered, however, he didn’t have any better options.

“It’s perfect,” CB reassured them, slipping past them and into the room. He dropped down heavily on the bed and the springs squealed in protest. He could tell before laying down that the mattress would be thin and lumpy, the blankets probably smelly and scratchy. But they were all he had, and it was better than nothing.

Mindful of his injuries, he laid back on the bed. It was just as uncomfortable as he had imagined. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so he forced a smile onto his face, pulling off his hat so he could rest his head on the pillows.

Crank was watching him carefully as he got settled. “You sure you don’t want me to bring you to that repair center? It’d be no trouble to pull you over.”

“That’s a kind offer, but I’m alright. Really. I just need to rest for a bit.”

“Okay,” they said skeptically. For a moment, CB was worried that they would continue to press him on the matter, but to his relief, they turned to the door instead. “We’ll keep looking for that first aid kit. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

“Thanks,” CB said sleepily, his eyelids drooping as Crank quietly shut the door behind them.

Although the bed was far from comfortable, it was still a relief to be able to lie down. He was tired from his trip over, and his whole body was sore. He let his muscles relax, sinking into the lumpy mattress with a sigh. He was sure he’d feel better after a quick nap, sleep already overtaking him.

In the end, he stayed at Crank and Gear’s yard for four days. Despite his assumptions that the rest would give his injuries some time to heal, he only felt worse and worse. He was tired all the time, and a deep chill had settled in his bones. His head felt heavy and every time it was a struggle to push himself out of bed. His body had been aching since before he left his old yard but now the pain had escalated. It had also been joined by a constant feeling of nausea that left him unable to eat so much as a bite of anything. He tried his best to hide his worsening condition from Crank and Gear, but it didn’t work. They were clearly getting worried.

As desperately as CB wanted to stay, to have more time to recover in someplace safe and warm before he had to start spending nights on deserted tracks, he knew he had to leave. Crank and Gear had started talking behind his back about bringing him to a repair center whether he liked it or not, and he was certain that someone from his old yard had gotten suspicious of his absence by now. Whether or not they cared enough to come after him was a whole different question, but he didn’t want to risk it.

He was unsteady on his feet when he slipped out of the yard’s back entrance that morning. Much like how he had left his old yard, he made his second exit in the early hours of the day before anyone else was awake. He didn’t want anyone to see where he was going, and he didn’t want anyone coming after him.

He felt awful. Every minute he spent moving away, he wanted more and more to go back. He wanted to tuck himself back into bed, to have Crank and Gear fuss over him in the way that a couple of well-meaning strangers might. He’d even let them bring him to a repair center if they wanted.

A part of him he refused to even listen to wanted to go home.

But no. There was nothing left for him at his old yard. He’d made a plan to move on and he was going to stick to it. There was no way he was going to let himself get caught now.

***

They hadn’t been on the tracks too long—a couple hours at most—before Dustin called for them to stop. They’d come across the entrance to a small yard, and Dustin wanted to check it out. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but something in him was certain that this place would help them find CB.

Rocky 3 didn’t have the same conviction. “And what makes you so sure he went here?” he asked, peering skeptically past the gate.

“It’s the closest yard,” Dustin told him. “Where else would he go?”

“It seems to me like he’s looking to run away,” Rocky 3 said. That notion made Dustin wince—as true as it seemed, he couldn’t bear the thought of CB being so unhappy at the yard that he wanted to leave forever, especially without telling anyone. Rocky 3, however, was unbothered by that thought, and continued on, “and if he’s running away, he wouldn’t move into the first yard he came across. He’d know how easily he’d be found here.”

“But if he needed help…”

“No one said he needed help,” Rocky 3 said. “I’m telling you, he fixed himself up just fine on his own. All this chasing after him is useless. He’s had a six-day head start, and there would’ve been no reason for him to stop in a place like this.”

Dustin wanted to be as confident as Rocky 3 was that CB was okay. As it was, the twisty feeling in Dustin’s stomach hadn’t gone away yet, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that CB needed his help. “Well, it won’t hurt to just check.”

There was a protest on Rocky 3’s lips, but Dustin was rolling into the yard before he could voice it. Truthfully, he could understand Rocky 3’s skepticism: the yard was run-down and tiny, and it didn’t look like the type of place CB would like to stop. But if he’d come this way, the cars who lived here might have some information on him. Besides, like he said, it wouldn’t hurt to at least check.

The yard was small, and it wasn’t long before they came across someone who might be able to answer their questions. “Excuse me,” Dustin called, waving down the steamer. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. He left our yard a few days ago and—”

The steamer looked up from their work, eyes quickly landing on Dustin and Flat-Top. They seemed confused for a moment before they broke out into a bright smile. “Oh, hello! Of course, come in, come in,” the steamer said, ignoring Dustin’s implied question and ushering them further into the yard.

“Oh, thank you, but—” he tried again, but the steamer wasn’t listening.

“Hey, Gear! More visitors!” they called to someone further into the yard.

“Seriously?” came the incredulous reply. “Crank, you better not be lying, or I swear…”

“Why would I be lying?”

“I don’t know! I can’t read your mind. But it sounds fake.”

“Just get over here.” The steamer—Crank—said with no small amount of humor. They were chuckling lightly when they turned back to Dustin and Rocky. “You’ll have to excuse the excitement. We’re not used to getting so much attention.”

That seemed like a strange statement, and Dustin couldn’t quite figure it out—nor could he figure out how it related to what he’d asked them about CB, which was the main thing on his mind. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just unusual, that’s all.” Crank shrugged.

“Cars don’t usually stop here,” one of the workers—Gear, Dustin assumed—said, coming closer. “We’re too small, too out of the way, you know?”

“You don’t say,” Rocky 3 mumbled under his breath. Dustin elbowed him sharply in the side.

“But,” Gear went on, either oblivious to or politely ignoring their interaction, “we actually had someone staying with us recently.”

“And now here you two are,” Crank added, “not even a week later.” They chuckled softly. “I think we’re getting popular.”

Dustin hardly paid attention to what Crank had said. Gear’s mention of someone else stopping here had captured his whole focus. It was exactly the news he had been hoping to hear. “This other car that was here, what did they look like?”

“He was a small guy. Bright red, kind of boxy. Said his name was Caboose,” Gear said.

“That’s CB!” Dustin exclaimed, excitement setting in. His mind was already flooded with images of bringing CB home and the relief of having the whole yard safe and sound once more. “That’s our friend, the one we’re looking for. Is he still here?”

“No, he left a few days ago.”

And just like that, Dustin’s spirit sank. “Oh.” He supposed he shouldn’t have expected it to be that easy. “Do you have any idea where he went?”

“Not really,” Gear said with a shrug. “He left in the middle of the night. No one was up to see which way he went.”

“He’s probably heading over to his new yard,” Crank added. “Wherever that is.”

“New yard?” Dustin echoed.

“He said he’d been transferred to a yard halfway across the country,” they explained. “He didn’t give any names, though.”

“What? CB didn’t get transferred,” Rocky 3 said, sounding every bit as confused as Dustin was.

“Well, that’s what he told us.”

Dustin frowned. It didn’t make sense. Rocky 3 was right: CB hadn’t been transferred. Poppa would have at least mentioned it if he had, especially with how worried Dustin had been these past few days. But that just raised a whole slew of new questions: Why had CB left? And where was he going? Why had he lied to Gear and Crank? The part about him moving to a yard halfway across the country was just a part of the lie, right?

Unfortunately, Crank and Gear wouldn’t have the answers to any of those questions. Instead, Dustin asked something they would know. “How long ago did you say he left?” If it hadn’t been long, he and Rocky 3 might still be able to find him.

“A couple of days,” Gear said. “Two, maybe.”

Dustin sighed, his shoulders slumping. “In that case, we’ve got no hope of catching up to him.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Gear said. There was something in his voice that Dustin didn’t like at all. “I can’t imagine he’s been moving very fast.”

Dustin’s stomach swooped uncomfortably at those words. “What do you mean?” he asked, hoping he was misunderstanding something.

Gear and Crank were quiet for a moment. They exchanged an uneasy look before Gear went on, “He wasn’t looking so good when he showed up here, and he looked even worse before he left.”

“You mean he was hurt?” Dustin asked, the concern he’d been feeling for the past few days nearly doubling. Gear and Crank nodded, and his worry tripled. His every fear was being confirmed. Alongside the worry, a small spike of anger rose as well. “Why didn’t you take care of him? Why didn’t someone go after him?”

“We tried,” Crank said. “We fixed him up as best we could when he got here, but… well, we don’t exactly have the best supplies on hand. We wanted to take him to a repair center, but he wouldn’t let us. We were going to take him in, anyway—”

“Drag him in by the ear if we had to,” Gear broke in.

“But he left before we could.”

“Sounds like CB,” Rocky 3 mumbled.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Dustin had to agree. If CB’s flight from their own yard was anything to go by, he didn’t exactly seem willing to accept help, even if he needed it. That realization was worrying enough on its own, but coupled with the knowledge that CB was alone and hurt, maybe even stranded in the middle of nowhere, it made Dustin’s stomach twist into so many knots that he was starting to feel a little nauseous.

“We have to find him,” Dustin said, turning to Rocky 3.

“Dustin—” he started.

Dustin ignored him, turning back to Crank and Gear. “You really have no idea which way he went?”

Crank at least had the decency to sound apologetic when they said, “I don’t. But him leaving in the middle of the night—especially without saying anything—seems a little…”

“Sneaky,” Gear finished for them. “And if someone was sneaking, they’d probably go out the back.”

Even if it was just speculation, it was a place to start. “Which direction would that be?” Dustin asked.

“Over there,” Gear said, gesturing behind himself. “No one really uses that track anymore, so it’s probably in a pretty sorry state.”

“We’ll manage,” Dustin said with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. “Thank you for your help.”

He hadn’t taken more than a few steps towards the back of the yard when Gear stopped him with a hand on his arm and a meaningful look. There was a weighty second of silence before he said, “I hope you find your friend.”

Dustin swallowed thickly, the stone of fear in his stomach sinking even lower. “Me, too.”

He stayed there for a moment, just in case Gear had anything else to say, but all the bulkhead did was take his hand back, letting Dustin go. Dustin nodded once, then set off for the back of the yard.

“Are we seriously going after him?” Rocky 3 asked, following Dustin completely willingly.

“Rocky, you heard what they said. CB’s hurt!”

Rocky 3 groaned but he didn’t object any further. He followed Dustin to the back entrance of the yard, looking skeptically at the track. Gear’s warning rang true: the track had obviously been neglected for quite some time. The sleepers were weather worn to an alarming degree, looking like they could disintegrate at any moment. The rails wobbled concerningly under his wheels, no doubt because of the loose—and some places even missing—fasteners. Under normal circumstances, Dustin would have avoided using a track like this, but if this was the way to CB, this was the way he’d go.

“Come on, Rocky,” Dustin said, already moving down the track. “CB would do the same for us.”

Rocky 3 snorted. “I doubt it,” he said, but he joined Dustin on the track anyway.

Dustin wanted to reprimand him, to tell him to have a little faith in CB and to stop being so hurtfully negative. But when it came down to it, he just didn’t have it in him. He swallowed down all the words he couldn’t say and pushed forward. They could work out all their problems when they found CB.

***

Moving was difficult.

Every limb felt like it was weighted down with lead. His feet were all but impossible to pick up, and anytime he lifted an arm to swat a low-hanging branch out of his face, it seemed to move about two seconds too slowly.

The ground was rolling under his feet. What should have been a solid and steady forest floor was pitching up and down like a ship in a storm. It was throwing off his already precarious balance and sending his stomach rolling. A tide of nausea was pushing higher and higher, threatening to overtake him. Again.

CB struggled to swallow down the acidic knot in his throat. He’d already thrown up once today—at least, he thought it was today—and he didn’t want a repeat performance.

He wasn’t on a track. He wasn’t sure why that was. Weeds tangled in his wheels, trying to trip him up, making his already difficult journey all the harder. It was tiresome. Despite his best effort to stay upright, he stumbled. His leg buckled underneath him, and he could have sworn he heard something snap. A yelp rose in his throat as he fell. Short of breath as he was, it only came out as a strangled groan.

He laid on the ground in a state of shock for a moment before taking stock of his condition. He’d hit his head on something on his way down. The wound stung, and he could feel a trickle of blood trailing its way down his face. He winced as he pressed on it with the heel of his hand, trying to stem the flow. In a bit of a daze, he glanced down at his leg, but his vision was too blurry to get a good look at the injury. It hurt, but no more so than everything else he was dealing with. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself back onto his feet, setting off again with a pronounced limp.

Loose strips of fabric dandled from his arms and legs and chest, snagging on every branch he passed. It was annoying, and he longed to tear the fabric off, but something was stopping him. A small itch in the back of his mind told him that they were important, that he needed them for some reason. But whatever he was supposed to be using them for, he didn’t think they were serving that purpose anymore. Now all they were doing was irritating the deep gashes and sensitive skin they were draped over.

He pushed blindly forward. His vision was swimming, fuzzy around the edges, and he couldn’t make out more than an indistinct sea of greens and browns in any direction. Still, he was facing this way, so in this direction he’d continue to go. He didn’t know if he was going anywhere in particular, but something inside him knew that he had to keep moving.

He dragged himself forward another few steps. Just keep moving, he reminded himself on loop. It was the one thought that was keeping him going, and he clung to it like a lifeline. If he focused hard enough on that, he could almost block out all the other sensations. And that’s what he did, pouring all his attention into that one thought, trying to tune out everything else around him.

His shoulder slammed into something hard and he was sent reeling. His head was spinning even faster than before. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath, trying to steady himself enough to take another step. He braced himself on his knees, ignoring the way his good leg trembled and his bad leg sent waves of sharp pain shooting up his body, both of them threatening to give out underneath him at any moment.

Shivering, he stood there for a moment. He was cold, so cold. And tired. And achy. And just generally miserable. He couldn’t remember why he was out here, especially when he was feeling so awful.

Keep going, he screamed at himself in his head. All of this complaining and feeling sorry for himself was pointless. It didn’t matter how he bad felt, he had to move on. He needed to get… somewhere. Right?

One foot in front of the other. That was all he had to do, that was all he was focusing on. One foot in front of the other. Keep breathing. Don’t fall. Don’t throw up.

Exhaustion was weighing down on him. His eyelids were drooping; keeping them open was getting harder by the second. His bad leg hurt more and more with each step. His head felt heavy, still spinning, and he wanted nothing more than to lay it down on something. Actually, he wanted to lay his whole body down. Maybe that would help with the pain, and the nausea, and the way all his muscles felt like they were turning to stone.

No, he couldn’t. He had to push through; he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know why, but right now it felt like the only thing he knew.

The pain in his leg was almost impossible to push through, now. He felt flimsy and weak; his feet were dragging, he could barely lift his hands anymore, and he was struggling to even just keep his head up. His eyes slipped closed, and it was a long moment before he was able to force them back open. Keep moving, he told himself. Nothing else mattered. Keep moving, keep moving, keep…

It’s no use, he thought to himself, leaning heavily against a tree trunk. He knew he had to keep moving, but he was just so tired.

A minute to rest, that was all he needed. He’d feel better after that, he was sure of it. Then he could go on.

Just a minute, he told himself, letting his eyes slip closed as he dropped to the ground. Just a minute.

Just a minute.

***

They’d been searching for hours, and so far, they had nothing to show for it. There were no signs of CB on the track, nothing to tell them they were getting close or even heading in the right direction. Every so often, Dustin would think that he saw something useful—an unexpected splash of color amongst the leaves, what could have been wheel imprints in the dirt—but it always turned out to be nothing in the end.

It was disheartening. All the dead ends were starting to wear him down. He kept at it, though. This was all for CB, and Dustin had promised himself that he wouldn’t stop until they found him.

Rocky 3 was clearly getting tired of the search, too, but he had nowhere near Dustin’s level of patience or concern for CB. “Don’t you think it’s time to give it up for the night?”

“What? No,” Dustin said. He was almost offended that Rocky 3 would have even suggested that. “We haven’t found CB yet.”

“The sun’s going to go down any minute now,” Rocky 3 pointed out, “and I don’t want to be completely lost in the middle of nowhere when it does. Let’s just go back to the yard.”

“But CB—”

“You heard what they said back there. He left days ago. He’s probably hit some other yard by now and is laughing at the thought of a couple of losers like us killing ourselves trying to find him when he’s not even in any trouble.”

Dustin pouted. It was such a horrible image of CB to have, and he couldn’t understand how Rocky 3 could actually think that CB was like that. No matter what CB had gotten up to during the championships, he just couldn’t believe that it meant CB secretly didn’t like them, or that he was happy to see them fail. CB was family, and it hurt to see everyone else so quick to turn their backs on him, regardless of what he’d done.

Rocky 3 must have caught Dustin’s look because he backpedaled, bringing his voice down into a gentler tone. “Look, let’s just go back to the yard. If you’re really so insistent, we can try again tomorrow, but I’m telling you there’s no point. He’s fine, Dustin. He just doesn’t want to hang around the likes of us anymore, and you need to accept that.”

“But… But he’s hurt, and…” Tears blurred the edges of Dustin’s vision, and he turned away so Rocky 3 wouldn’t see. No matter what CB had done, Dustin wouldn’t believe that it meant CB secretly hated them. He couldn’t. CB was freight; he was family. And the fact that no one else seemed to value that was baffling. Dustin knew they were all still mad at him for cheating against Rusty in the championship—and honestly, Dustin was a little mad, himself—but that didn’t mean he didn’t deserve a second chance. He couldn’t understand why everyone else was so quick to give up on him.

Still, he had to admit that Rocky 3 had a point. It was getting late and they’d have no hope of finding CB in the dark. Getting themselves lost in the middle of nowhere wasn’t going help anything.

Dustin gave the forest in front of him a final scan, desperate for any sort of clue to tell them to keep going. He was just about to quit, to accept that they wouldn’t find anything and go home like Rocky 3 wanted, when something caught his eye. “Rocky, look!”

Rocky 3 turned back. His eyes followed Dustin’s pointing finger, but to Dustin’s mild frustration, he didn’t seem particularly impressed. “What?”

“There’s a path, off the track! We have to check it out.”

Rocky 3 squinted at it skeptically. “Doesn’t look like much of a path to me.”

In all actuality, Rocky 3 was right, but Dustin was too excited to see it that way. “Look at how all the branches are broken. Someone had to have gone that way!”

“That doesn’t mean it was CB,” Rocky 3 fought back. “It could have been anyone.”

But Dustin wasn’t listening. He was already moving toward the path, his hopes rising for the first time all day.

Rocky 3 followed him, struggling ever so slightly to keep up, complaining the whole time. “Or even if it was CB, there’s no way we’re going to catch up to him. He would have come through here ages ago. He’s probably miles away by now.”

Dustin paid him no attention. Here, at last, was the sign he’d been looking for. Something in him just knew this trail had been made by CB. All he had to do now was follow it.

Moving over the forest floor was harder than Dustin had anticipated. It wasn’t a properly laid track and he felt off-balanced by the soft dirt and scattering of rocks. But none of that was important. He kept his thoughts focused on CB, on how they were finally on the right track, on how they were getting closer to finding him with every step they took.

CB was easy to spot. His bright red paint stood out against the greens and browns of the forest like a beacon. Dustin only had a split second of relief before he took in the scene, worry rising with every detail he noticed.

CB was on the ground, curled up at the foot of a tree. Even with his back to them, Dustin could tell that he was hunched in on himself protectively, though whether he was doing it because of the cold or pain or something else, Dustin didn’t know. There were a few dirty bandages wrapped loosely around his limbs, the ends of which had been torn off, caught on some near-by branches.

Dustin swallowed thickly, quickly closing the gap between him and CB, dropping to his knees next to him. It wasn’t the most elegant landing, and it must have caused quite the crash, because even in his poor state, CB felt it. He dragged his eyes open, looking around him without seeming to see anything. It was unnerving, the way his eyes were moving while remaining so distant and unfocused.

“CB?” Dustin said quietly, trying to pull CB’s attention onto him. It worked, to an extent. CB’s gaze ended up in Dustin’s general direction, but it didn’t seem like he was actually looking at him. There was no recognition in his eyes, and it sent Dustin’s stomach twisting into tighter and tighter knots.

There was a quiet rustle of leaves behind him as Rocky 3 finally caught up. “Dustin, what…?” he started, trailing off with a quiet swear as the scene in front of him sunk in.

“He’s shaking,” Dustin cried, reaching out for CB as if he had any idea of how to help. The heat radiating off of him almost made Dustin recoil. “He’s really burning up!”

Rocky 3 bit his lip, leaning to get a good look at CB over Dustin’s shoulder. He quickly took in the details of CB’s condition, finding them as worrisome as Dustin had. “There’s an emergency repair center not too far from here. I… I think it’ll be okay to move him.”

Dustin nodded, carefully gathering CB into his arms. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, but the caboose felt a lot lighter than he remembered.

Dustin looked up at Rocky 3, begging him to tell him what to do. “This way,” Rocky 3 said, turning on his heel and leading them back the way they came.

Dustin wasted no time in following him, constantly looking back and forth between his charge in his arms and the path in front of him. He was trying to be quick, but he still had to be careful. He didn’t want to jostle CB or upset his injuries in any way.

“You’re going to be alright,” Dustin said to CB, trying to keep his voice as soothing and as steady as possible. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get you to a repair center, okay? You just have to stay awake. Alright? Just stay awake, and we can take you and get you all fixed up, and then you can come home. Won’t that be nice? Coming home? So just stay awake, yeah? You’ll be alright, just stay with me.” He wasn’t sure CB could even hear him, but the caboose’s glassy eyes were still trained on him, and if there was even the slightest possibility of giving CB a little comfort, Dustin would take it.

He kept up the stream of words, barely aware of what he was saying. All he knew was that he wanted to keep CB’s attention on him. In his mind, as long as CB was awake—perhaps not lucid, but at least a little responsive—it was a sign that he would be okay. They could get him to the repair center, and he’d be fixed up before the night was out. They could take him home, and the yard would be whole again, and everything could go back to normal. Dustin clung to that thought like a lifeline as he rambled reassurances to CB, reassurances which were as much for his sake as they were for CB’s. “You’ll be okay,” he said over and over. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay, I promise.”

Then, CB’s eyes closed.

Dustin’s stomach sank like a stone, plummeting to his feet before he had even fully registered what happened. “CB?” he said, giving the caboose a little shake.

Nothing.

Dustin shook him again. “Come on, now. Look at me.”

No response.

Panic was quickly flooding into Dustin’s chest. “Don’t do this, CB,” he pleaded, fear bleeding through into his voice. “Wake up.”

CB was completely still.

For a brief moment that felt like a small eternity, Dustin couldn’t think of what to do. Terror overtook his thoughts, turning them to static. “Rocky!”

Rocky 3 turned around. For a second, it was clear that he didn’t understand Dustin’s immediate spike in concern. Then he took in how CB’s eyes had closed, how he had gone limp in Dustin’s arms, how Dustin was clutching him hard enough it was sure to leave bruises, and a change washed over his face. Dustin could see his own fear reflected in Rocky 3’s eyes.

“Come on,” Rocky 3 said, his voice tight, “we need to hurry.”

Rocky 3 took off down the track as fast as he could, and Dustin picked up speed to match. He knew he’d never been the fastest car in the yard, and it had never bothered him before, not even in the championship. Now, though, he couldn’t help but curse his size. He needed to be fast. CB needed him to be fast. If something happened to him because Dustin couldn’t get him to a technician in time, Dustin would never forgive himself.

Rocky 3’s description of the repair center being “not too far” turned out to be relative. In the end, it took them almost an hour before Dustin caught sight of the lights in the distance. In that moment, he could have cried in relief. He didn’t stop to let himself enjoy it though. Terror was still a tight knot in his throat, and he kept on towards the lights, going as fast as he could manage. Adrenaline gave him a final burst of speed, and soon—though not soon enough for him—Dustin was carrying CB in through the emergency room doors, calling out as loudly he could for help.

Everything happened in a blur: technicians rushing in with a stretcher, taking CB from his arms and carting him away down long hallways and doors that swung shut behind them; the receptionist sitting him down and gently asking him about allergies and medical history and emergency contacts and next of kin; a stack of forms being handed to him and someone asking him to fill them out as best he could; him and Rocky 3 poring over the papers, the words running together before their eyes, asking them questions about CB that they had no idea how to answer.

At some point, it all stopped. The initial flurry of activity had long since died down, and the others in the waiting room had lost interest in the scene. Rocky 3 gathered up the forms—Dustin wasn’t sure if they had actually finished them or just given up—and brought them back to the receptionist. They talked for a minute, but they were too far away and their voices were too low for Dustin to make out what they were saying.

When Rocky 3 came back, he hovered uncertainly in front of Dustin. “I’m going to call Poppa,” he said quietly.

Dustin nodded. Of course, someone would have to tell Poppa. The rest of the yard might not have been worried before, and even now Dustin wasn’t sure they would care, but Poppa needed to know. “I’ll wait here, in case there’s any… any news.”

It was Rocky 3’s turn to nod. He couldn’t find the words to respond. The weight of the situation was clearly pressing down on him. Dustin could tell because he felt it, too. The tiredness in Rocky 3’s eyes resonated deeply in Dustin’s chest.

After another second of hesitation, Rocky 3 turned back to the reception desk. Dustin heard him ask where there would be a phone he could use and get directed to the hall leading to the building’s entrance. Dustin watched him go, distantly noting the slump of his shoulders and the reluctant dragging of his feet. His heart clenched with sympathy.

Part of Dustin wanted to go with him. It was going to be a tough call for him to make, and Dustin wanted to give him as much support as he could. When it came down to it, though, Dustin was just too tired. He sagged into his chair, exhausted now that the adrenaline had passed. He felt like he needed to sleep for a week, but at the same time, he was too scared to even close his eyes.

Alone in the waiting room, the silence was oppressive. Dustin could feel the weight of everything pressing down on him. He struggled to swallow down the lump that had risen in his throat, so big and heavy it felt like, pretty soon, he wouldn’t be able to even breathe around it.

Tears stung his eyes, turning his vision watery and blurry. He blinked quickly a few times, then squeezed his eyes shut, then dug into his eyelids with the heels of his hands; anything he could do to keep the tears from falling.

It was no use. First a single tear leaked out from the corner of his eye. After that, he couldn’t stop. His breaths came quick and heavy, and he had just enough presence of mind to keep them from turning into loud and ugly sobs. He was trying not to make a scene, but he could feel all the eyes on him all the same. For the first time in his life, all the unwanted attention didn’t matter. He was too tired, too upset, too scared to care that he was being stared at.

#starlight express #stex #stex fanfic #cb the red caboose #dustin the big hopper #rocky the boxcar #cb #rocky 3 #angst #read on ao3 for the full list of tags

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