iluvroadrunner6 | fandom weekly } { entry tracking post

Entry tags:

fandom weekly } { entry tracking post

A collection of my entries all in one post since they're going to be short fics anyway and I don't feel like making an individual post for each of them. Each piece will be tagged by fandom/character/pairing as well as listed in the directory below.

#001 off stage i stand a better chance | white collar | 483 words
#002 what i'll say is just what i'm hoping for | the flash | 923 words **SECOND PLACE**
#003 you got a face with a view | teen wolf | 994 words **THIRD PLACE**
#004 as i walk on by, will you call my name | leverage/psych | 1,000 words
#005 when you got a job to do you gotta do it well | original (paladinverse) | 860 words
#006 we'll dance and sing and fight until the early morning light | marvel cinematic universe | 926 words **FIRST PLACE**
#007 its time i was on my way | supernatural | 753 words **THIRD PLACE**
#008 all my cares just drift right into space | teen wolf | 947 words
#009 alba gu bra | original | 719 words
#010 if you'd just believe in me | original | 998 words
- - - - Amnesty Week - - - -
#011 even judas knew he had lied | original (riftverse) | 929 words **THIRD PLACE**
#012 baby this a new age | leverage/marvel cinematic universe | 933 words
#013 independence day | teen wolf | 312 words
#014 what's the word, hummingbird? | dctv/mcu | 768 words
#015 our piece of americana | marvel cinematic universe | 676 words **SECOND PLACE**
#016 but don't make any other promises | the blacklist | 438 words
#017 wwndd | sense8 | 886 words **SECOND PLACE**
#018 wild night is calling | psych | 634 words
#019 one thing only cures my blues | original | 587 words **FIRST PLACE**
#020 my life was drowning in tsunamis | original (riftverse) | 545 words **SECOND PLACE**
- - - - Amnesty Week - - - -
#021 say i'm the only bee in your bonnet | csi:ny/rizzoli & isles | 647 words
#022 i don't scare easy no more | legends of tomorrow | 270 words
#023 sugar, we're going down swinging | october daye series | 590 words **RUNNER UP**
#024 i'm not inclined to resign to maturity | psych | 593 words **WINNER**
#025 sometimes love don't feel like it should | strike back | 643 words
#026 the moment my life was set | blindspot | 545 words
#027 out there on the road | supernatural | 753 words
#028 sold my soul to a sweet melody | the italian job (2003) | 528 words **THIRD PLACE**
#029 lawyers, dontcha just love 'em | original | 875 words **FIRST PLACE**
#030 we're all works in progress | teen wolf | 939 words
#031 in a world of pure imagination | castle | 695 words **FIRST PLACE**
#032 social intricacies | chicago med | 842 words
#033 the jury's out, but my choice is you | dctv | 886 words
#034 can you swear that i'm not screaming? | paladinverse | 999 words
#035 the official, unabridged diary of teenage vampire bait | original | 904 words **FIRST PLACE**
- - - - Amnesty Week - - - -
#036 i am beauty with no heart | dctv | 643 words [AMNESTY]
#037 showboating | dctv/mcu | 542 words
#038 thicker than water | the originals | 441 words
#039 got a curse i cannot lift | the vampire diaries | 646 words
#040 sticky fingers | leverage | 340 words **FIRST PLACE**
#041 a kiss with a fist is better than none | dctv | 628 words **SECOND PLACE**
#042 false truths, true lies | incryptid | 702 words **SECOND PLACE**
#043 tpk | original | 400 words **FIRST PLACE**
#044 i think i'm losing my mind now | marvel cinematic universe | 765 words
#045 talk me into losing just as long as i can win | original | 589 words
#046 like diamonds in her eyes | mindhunter | 879 words

Running Word Count: 31,876 words
Part 2

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Saying goodbye to “Neal Caffrey” is a lot harder than he expected it to be.

It shouldn’t be that surprising in the end. Neal Caffrey is the most personal of all his aliases, the one that could have been his real name once upon a time, if he had a real life, but just like everything else, all good things must come to an end. Neal Caffrey died where he had lived, on the streets of New York City, and now it’s time for Neal to start over with something new.

Be someone new.

At least this time he isn’t named after a boat.

He’s waiting in the airport a few days after it happened. JFK is always busy even on the slow days, but even with all the bustle and noise that happen around him, the international terminal is actually fairly quiet, quiet enough that he can pick up on bits and pieces of the conversation around him. Most of it isn’t in English, or the other half is being said into a phone, but he keeps his head down and hides behind his newspaper as he listens in.

“It happened on the first of the month,” one particularly gossipy voice says as they talk into their cell phone, so Neal is only getting half of the conversation. “The diagnosis, I mean. So tragic.”

“Around nine or so,” someone clarifies in French from somewhere in front of him. “I can fix dinner for myself when I get in.”

“Did you call your sister about the dog?”

“Yes, I called my sister about the dog. I’m not gonna leave him to starve for two weeks, Miriam.”

The conversations are so normal. So … pedestrian. It’s the world he’s going to be stepping into, at least for a little while, and he isn’t sure if he’s ready for it. He thinks of all the things he’s going to be missing while he’s gone – Peter and El’s baby, Mozzie’s latest scheme, Teddy growing up – and he can’t help but think that the future he is looking forward to isn’t the pedestrian he is looking forward to. But it’s the only way he would truly be able to be free, no strings attached, and that’s at least a place to start, if nothing else.

The boarding call for his section is called, and he folds up his paper, tucking it under his arm and making his way for the gate. He flashes the attendant his usual charming smile, and watches her flush, head ducking as she goes to process him in.

“Welcome to British Airways, Mr. Willingham. Enjoy your flight.”

Mr. Willingham. It still doesn’t feel quite right, but if nothing else it’s a start. He’ll figure out who he is now by the time he lands.

“I intend to,” he says with a smirk, before pulling away and stepping through to start his new life.

“Iris, I love you.”

They’re four simple words. Words that should be incredibly easy to say and yet equally terrifying all at the same time. It’s the reason why Barry had been staring at himself in the mirror for the past hour, speaking the words over and over again until they feel right.

(They’ll never feel right. They’re not supposed to feel right, he reasons, until he knows Iris is going to say them back, but that doesn’t matter right now. Right now, it’s just hearing the sound of it, the way they roll off his tongue, because he can do this. He can. He needs to be able to tell the truth.)

He adjusts his suit jacket one last time, before the sharp knock and Barry, get a move on comes from the hallway. He exhales slowly, staring at himself in the mirror before repeating it one last time, just so he can hear the words carefully.

“I can do this. I can totally do this.”

He doesn’t.

He spends his junior prom watching Iris dance with Dan Hendlemen, captain of the track team, and winds up sitting at a table and chatting with Becky Cooper who asks him out a few days later. He reasons maybe it’s best that he doesn’t tell her in high school. They have time. They have the rest of their lives. It doesn’t need to be right now, after all.

He probably just needs more practice.

* * * * *

He comes home from college for Christmas break on the heels of a rough cold snap with determination in his step. He’s been psyching himself up on the train ride home, repeating the words over and over again in his head.

Iris, I love you.

It’s Christmas. She’s single (as far as he knows), he’s single (hopelessly so), the timing really couldn’t be better. He knows he can do it this time, because he’s had the chance to get out in the world, to stand on his own two feet. He’s met people he never would have been able to meet otherwise, and none of them are Iris. No matter how pretty, no matter how smart, no matter how driven. At the end of the day, he knows that space that’s been made for someone important, someone who means more to you than anything else has already been filled, and he won’t waste his time not letting her know that truth.

He steps in the front door of the West house, clumsily dragging his suitcase behind him after getting a ride back from a mutual friend, and he announces, into the ether of the house. “I’m home!”

“Achoo!”

The very familiar sneeze snaps through the silence and everything in him cringes. It’s a very familiar sneeze born of growing up under the same roof and mutually infecting each other during cold season, and it is certainly not the romantic reunion he was going for.

“Barry,” the raspy greeting comes from the girl resting on the couch, bundled in blankets and cheeks flushed. “You’re back!”

“You’re sick.” The statement is made with sympathy at least, making his way closer with a frown. “What happened?”

“Caught a post-finals cold from my roommate,” she says, making a face as he makes his way closer. “Don’t, I don’t want to get you sick too.”

“Well, luckily for you, I have caught your cold germs so many times, I’m practically impervious by now,” he teases and she wrinkles her nose some more.

“Gross, Barry.”

“I know,” he laughs, immediately putting to the side everything he wanted to tell her. It can wait. Taking care of his friend now is more important. “How about I make you some soup, and you find some ridiculous movie on Netflix, and we just hang out until Joe gets home?”

She smiles at him, and it’s like the sun comes out, despite the cold he knows is looming in his future. “Sounds perfect.”

He’ll just tell her next time. Next time will be better.

* * * * *

There are a million different next times, and each time he puts it aside.

It’s not the right time. There are more important things to worry about. What if I’m wrong. The words sit and fester in his chest every time, because they suddenly don’t feel like things he has the right to say. Iris’ happiness always comes first, and when he wakes up after a nine month coma, ready to stop putting things aside because she almost never knew how he really felt, there’s already someone else standing in his place, ready to fill in the gaps that he left behind.

He’s too late. He always too late. Even when he’s the fastest man alive, his timing is never right.

But then the man in the yellow suit returns, and Barry starts spinning, caught up in the implications of everything that he’s waited too long for, and Iris is moving in with Eddie. It’s a sudden realization that there’s never going to be the right time, that every time is always going to be wrong, because Iris is never going to choose him.

And she shouldn’t choose him. Eddie makes her happy. It only takes a moment after seeing her, however, for the dam to burst on all the emotions running through him, and he spits out the only one that has ever made sense.

“Iris, I love you.”

He can already feel her slipping through his fingers with the casual way she returns it.

Edited 2016-02-16 14:25 (UTC)

Stiles and Cora manage to move in with each other without really thinking or talking about it. It’s not Cora’s larger, nicer place that they move into, but Stiles’ tiny matchbook of an apartment that he barely manages to afford on his government salary.

It isn’t that Cora has officially let her place go (probably because Derek pays for it, and if there were any changes he would have questions and Stiles, personally, likes breathing), but more that her stuff is finding purchase in his place. Her clothes are in his closet, her toothbrush, shampoo and soap in his shower, and the food in his fridge has balanced out to something healthier than take out, all the time.

(Cora cooks. Who would have thought?)

In truth, he knows that her choosing his place isn’t that surprising. Cora was a girl who had home torn away from her at a young age and has spent most of her life running. Stiles’ apartment, as tiny as it is, is lived in and messy, with all the personal touches and hallmarks of someone who is settled and ready to stay. For Cora Hale, the definition of home is a bit like the definition of porn. It’s nearly impossible to explain, but she always knows it when she sees it.

(Good to know that FBI profiler training is getting put to good use figuring out the mysteries of his laconic girlfriend. He’s sure that his instructors at Quantico would be proud.)

Regardless, Stiles is not complaining. Especially not when it means he gets to wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs in the morning, rather than the smell of last week’s mushu pork dying an unfortunate death in the back of his fridge. He stumbles out of bed and follows his nose to the kitchen, sliding his arms around her waist to pull her back against him so he can nuzzle her neck.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” she returns softly. “You shouldn’t be awake.”

“You’re cooking. I’m always going to be awake.” She has a point though, considering he only crashed into bed a few hours earlier after working a case all night, but the US Justice system believes that sleep is for the weak. “And I have to go in for a deposition in a couple hours. But hey, it’s Friday, so since the case is closed, maybe they’ll just let me go early and I can pass out until Monday.”

She laughs a bit before he hears the click of the stove shutting off and she pulls away from him. “Then sit so you can eat something before you go.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods before going to grab the newspaper off the kitchen table and making his way to the couch. He plops down, kicking up his feet on the coffee table as he starts to flip through the paper. Cora arrives a few minutes later with the plates and hands one off to him in exchange for the funny pages.

“Why do you have a kitchen table if we never use it?”

“Decoration, obviously.” One arm shifts up so that she can settle under it, her back pressed against his side and her head resting against his shoulder. “Besides, it’s much easier to go from eating to making out if we’re sitting on the couch.”

She laughs as she picks at her food. “Clearly your priorities are in order.”

“You never seem to complain,” he teases as he pulls her closer with a squeeze, fingers brushing against her side gently. That seems to be the only cue she needs to settle more, curling up against him like a tiny, warm, space heater that could totally kill him in his sleep if he pissed her off.

There’s a comfortable silence between them as they start eating. “So my lease is up next month.”

There it is. The conversation they probably should have had two months ago about whatever their situation is. Stiles is quiet for a moment, weighing the possible responses in his head before he opts with the obvious. “Is it?”

“Yeah.” She pauses, tapping her finger against her plate so that the last bits of bacon stick to her finger and she can lick them off and he knows that she’s choosing her words carefully. Cora is fiercely independent and doesn’t like to depend on anyone so he lets her take her time, the same hand still rubbing her side gently, as though to say he isn’t going anywhere. “I just … I figured since I spend all my time here, maybe I should just give it up and stay here instead. Most of my stuff is already here too – we wouldn’t have to move much.”

He pauses, considering for a moment, before shrugging. “You sure you want to live here? I could just as easily move into your place.”

“I like it here. My place feels a lot … colder, I guess.” This feels like home is the unsaid statement, and he smiles where she can’t see it, before tipping to press a kiss to the top of her head.

“I will certainly not complain about having a live in personal chef.”

She glances up at him with a wide smile before nodding. “Good. There’s just one catch.”

“What’s that?”

“We have to tell Derek.”

There’s a moment of silence as Stiles’ mouth works around words he’s not saying. “If he murders me, I expect Scott to avenge my death.”

Cora laughs, before shaking her head and resettling the comics against her knees again. “I’m sure the battle will be bloody and glorious.”

“Damn straight it will,” he finishes off his own plate and sets it to the side, before shifting her backwards more so that she’s lying across his lap. “Hey,” he begins, before leaning in to kiss her. “I love you.”

He can feel her smile into the kiss, before she pulls back with a soft sigh. “I love you too.”

Edited 2016-02-22 13:34 (UTC)

“Eliot?”

Eliot had known that going to Santa Barbara at all was a mistake, let alone having him by the face of the jaunt into the police station, but everyone else had been burned at this point, leaving him the only option. He had heard that his Uncle Henry had retired, so he is hoping that he can get in, get out, and no one would be the wiser.

He is wrong.

“Eliot?” the detective next to him turns and glances between where Eliot is standing next to him and where Shawn and Gus are standing like two dumbfounded idiots, acting like they’ve seen a ghost. “I thought your name was Mark Weinstern.”

“Eliot? What’s going on?” Nate’s voice in his ear is clear as day, but he ignores it for now.

“It is,” he says, glaring daggers into his cousin and his idiot best friend so that they don’t blow his damn cover when he’s two feet from the door. Gus shifts back slightly, placing Shawn between himself and Eliot’s fists, while Shawn catches on after a second and starts doing what he does best. Talking.

“Yes! Mark is his name. We just call him ‘Elliot’ because when we were kids he had a great fascination with ‘Billy Elliot.’ He was just a regular ol’ dancin’ fool. Tights and everything. Ask him about it now, though and probably all you’ll get out of him is an ‘I was eighteen and foolish.’”

“Eliot, this is entirely new information. Why did I not know this about you sooner?”

Lassiter glances between the two of them suspiciously for a moment, before Eliot sighs and speaks up with a much more plausible story. “We’re cousins. Eliot is my middle name.”

That seems to make a bit more sense, and he glances back to Shawn before responding. “My condolences.” Eliot nods with a thin smile because at least someone around here gets it, before holding up the file he came for.

“Thanks again, for the help, Detective.” And with that he will leave his side and start charging towards his cousin, grabbing both him and Gus by the arms to shove them out of the precinct ahead of him and into Gus’s car.

“Dude, don’t blame us for nearly blowing your cover,” Shawn protests as he’s forced into the back seat. “If you’re on a job in town you should call first, that way I know not to out you.”

“If I’m on a job, Shawn, I’m not going to call you and let you know about it.”

“Eliot, I hate to interrupt your little family reunion here, but did you get the information?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Eliot sighs.

“Got what?” Gus frowns. “We didn’t ask you to get anything.”

“I’m not talkin’ to you.” Eliot glares Gus back into submission and Shawn scoffs from the backseat.

“Man, we are not twelve anymore. You can’t just make that face like your head is going to explode and expect us to back off anymore.”

“You never backed off in the first place!”

“Eliot.”

“Man, all this time he never talks about his family. Now they finally show up and me without my popcorn.”

“Can it, Hardison.”

“Who’s Hardison?” Shawn and his insatiable curiosity is going to get him killed one of these days, but Eliot just takes a moment to pull out his earbud and show it to him, before putting it back in his ear again.

“What do you want me to do?” That’s directed to Nate, not Shawn, but to avoid any confusion, he’s just going to smack a hand over his cousin’s mouth so that he doesn’t start speaking.

“Get back to the hotel. We need to start working on phase two.”

“On my way.” He shifts to get out of the passenger’s seat, before glaring at both of them again. “Don’t follow me.”

* * * * *

They follow him.

Eliot Spencer has been trained to lose almost every tail in existence, and you would think that a car that’s shaped like a blueberry would stand out enough against the streets of Santa Barbara, but it turns out nearly everyone here drives a car shaped like a blueberry and while they’re in the middle of discussing the next part of the con, Shawn and Gus come tumbling through the front door like a pair of clumsy idiots. Shawn bounces up soon after while Gus takes a little longer, and is pointedly not meeting Eliot’s eyes.

Nate stares at both of them for a moment, then glances to the expression on Eliot’s face. “Your cousin and his friend, I take it?” Eliot grimaces and shakes his head, before Shawn opens his mouth.

“More than that, actually. You might even say we are the Judd Nelson and Anthony Michael Hall to his Emilio Estevez.”

“Why am I the scrawny white boy, Shawn?”

“Because you went into pharmaceuticals, Gus. You know more about math than anyone I know. Let’s face it, you’re the nerd in this equation.”

“I’m sorry, you lost me when you said that Eliot was Emilio Estevez.” Hardison starts to push forward from his computer, a look of skeptical disbelief on his face. “Are you sure we’re even talking about the same person?”

“Trust me, he’s Emilio all the way.” Shawn crosses his arms in front of his chest. “He may not look like it now, but he was all letterman jackets and golden boy charm until my rebel-without-a-cause rubbed off on him and I like to think made him a better person.”

Hardison just grins, the slow smile that makes Eliot want to punch him stretching across his face. “I think I like you.”

“What do you want Shawn?”

“We want in on the heist.”

Eliot closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna hate this.”

“You hate everything, man,” Hardison teases as Nate endeavors to try and talk to the two idiots out of it. “As far as you’re concerned, this is just another Tuesday.”

There are certain things you just learn when you’ve been an NYPD cop as long as Captain Charlie Kilmer has been an NYPD cop.

He is fully aware that his city is not as cut and dry as most of the world would like to believe it is. Most people don’t want to believe that there are things lurking out in the darkness, things that can’t be explained and can’t be justified, and he’s supposed to approach them with human laws and try and find justice, even when there isn’t any to give. He’s learned the hard way, in his thirty years of service – twenty-five of which were spent on the streets, trying to explain things he’s seen that are more impossible than anything else, but in the end, all he can do is follow the law and hope that it comes out the best for everyone.

This particular case has hit a little too close to home, mostly because it happened in his work home, so he wants answers real answers – answers he knows that his detectives in the know probably aren’t going to give him. All he knows for sure is that several of his detectives are dead, one is in a coma and the official cause of things was a “gas main explosion.”

Yeah. He’s sure it was a gas main explosion.

All the same, that night when he arrives at the campaign headquarters of Connor MacNessa, the dark horse candidate for mayor who just … appeared suddenly late in the election cycle and finds the place practically destroyed and the candidate nowhere to be found, he can’t just ignore things any longer. He knows that there are answers there somewhere, sitting on the edge of his peripheral vision, but he knows just by looking at Metlars while Callaghan is getting hauled out the scene on a stretcher with a stab wound (from a sword of all things), he knows he’s about to be stonewalled. And he doesn’t like it.

“Alright,” he says, taking a deep breath as he turns to face one of his senior detectives. “What happened?”

There’s a long pause as Metlars shifts awkwardly, before looking up with an innocent smile. “Gas mane explosion?” Kilmer continues to stare the other man down and Metlars, wisely, keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to dig himself in deeper than he already was.

Kilmer sighs heavily, reaching up to rub at his eyes. “You idiots are going to make my ulcer act up. You are making my body literally destroy itself from the inside from all this stress. Do you understand that.”

“I do, boss. I really do. But trust me when I say that even if I could explain it to you, you wouldn’t like it.”

“Is it the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you try me.” He huffs for a moment, placing a hand on his hip. “I’ve been a cop in this city a long time. I know that things aren’t always what they appear to be, so instead of treating me like I’m a poor sap that needs to be handled with kid gloves, you just tell me the truth and see what happens.”

Metlars seems uncomfortable for a moment, shifting awkwardly again, before spitting out, in a stream of words where Kilmer isn’t even sure there was a breath to breathe: “Connor MacNessa was actually an ancient Celtic megalomaniac dictator named Conchobar mac Nessa and the witness that Wilkinson brought in the other day is actually his wife, Deirdre and in basically the ultimate domestic dispute, Deirdre used her considerable magic to drag both her and him out of this world and into another plane of existence.”

There’s a long pause of silence as Kilmer stares him down. “And how did you and Callaghan get caught up in all of this if it was Wilkinson’s witness.”

“See, Wilkinson is actually from a magical family line of protectors called paladins, and when the other ‘gas main explosion’ happened, part of his power got transferred to Callaghan along with a magical edict to find the person that was trying to kill him so she’s been on the warpath ever since.”

“Uh-huh.” He stares down his detective for a moment. “That doesn’t explain how you know all of this.”

“You really, really don’t want to go there, Cap. Trust me.”

“Why? Are you some kind of ancient dragon in human form that follows Wilkinson around because he’s the one who trapped him?” Metlars face transforms into something unreadable at that, almost as though he is trying to figure out exactly how to phrase it, and Kilmer waves him off before he can get too far. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He sighs heavily before waving a hand. “Let’s just … write it up as a gas main explosion and leave it at that.”

“You’re making the right choice, Cap. You will have a lot less of a headache for it.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Kilmer replies as he walks off to deal with the press he’s sure is accumulating outside the door. “Just six more years until retirement, Charlie. Just six more years.”

There is a reason that the Avengers are not allowed to go drinking in public.

That reason is mostly Thor.

“Mostly” because Thor’s full name is Thor “Revelry” Odinson and the revelry of an Asgardian is apparently a force to be reckoned with. Jane had learned that the hard way when she first met him and a diner in Arizona felt the wrath of Thor’s unexpected jubilance at the pleasure of coffee, but that also isn’t information she shared with the other Avengers.

(Probably because she knew the boys weren’t going to listen to her anyway. Natasha, thankfully, is smarter than them, but she also likes to watch them get themselves into trouble, so in the end, the results aren’t really any better than if Jane had actually issued the warning she did. However, moving on.)

The six of them find a seedy little bar in New York City, claim themselves a table and start bringing on the beer. Boys being boys, the conversation quickly devolves into who’s saved the day in the best way and while Natasha is more than happy to call them out on their dick measuring contest (mostly between Thor and Tony, which … really Tony, you should have never even started down this road in the first place) the two of them have drunk enough at this point that they don’t really seem to care. Asgardian feasts are always full of boasting and storytelling, so Thor is more than happy, after a few beers to jump into a story of how he bested some alien beast with only his hammer, his brawn and his cunning.

“And let me guess,” Natasha cuts in dryly, sipping on her vodka. “It was twelve feet tall and had teeth the size of pickaxes and was going to destroy the world.”

Thor glances over to her with a wide grin, because he knows when he’s being teased and is generally good-natured about it – that, at least, is a plus. When Tony gets drunk, Tony gets insolent, and there’s no arguing with him then.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Thor laughs as he reaches for his glass, downing the rest of the beer. “It was more like fifteen feet tall, and it’s teeth were sharper than the sharpest swords. My warriors still had much ground to cover before they arrived, so all that was between this ghastly creature and the small village was me.”

For all of his bluster, Thor could certainly weave a story. Even Natasha manages to put aside her cool affect for a moment and allow herself to be sucked in, waiting on baited breath for even what she knew was an inevitable defeat for the creature.

“And with hammer in hand, I called lightning to the metal and threw it in the bastard’s face – ” As he finishes the empty beer glass flies from his hand and smashes into the far wall, shattering into countless pieces, all at a sound of protest from the bartender behind the bar.

“Sorry,” Bruce is quick to speak up, giving them a small wave, and later would probably come a big tip. “We’ll clean it up.” The bartender seems appeased for the moment, and Bruce sighs before turning his attention back to the tall Asgardian in front of him. “Buddy, we talked about this – you can’t keep breaking glasses that don’t belong to you.”

“Apologies, my friends.” And at least the apology is usually sincere. “I often forget that your revelry is far more contained than mine.”

“Not always,” Natasha smirks. “But we don’t want to get anyone hurt with broken glass.”

“A fair concern,” Thor says with a nod, before lumbering over to clean up the broken glass as promised. Then back to the table again where there are more stories, more booze, more drinking and eventually, things ended as they always ended.

First, Tony and Thor start trying to one up each other.

“I’m pretty sure that I could lift that hammer – ” is how this particular conversation starts. Natasha’s already rolling her eyes. “ – I mean, all it is, is physics.”

This particular train of thought promptly degrades into good natured bickering, lots of laughter, and more breaking glass. This time, however, it’s not as well received as it was the first time, when the glass is thrown very close to another patron’s eye. Despite having both Steve and Thor at the table with them, they’re still committed to righting what they see is an egregious wrong. One smashes a bottle against the table and the other looks quite angry.

“C’mon boys,” Natasha says quietly. “You really don’t want to do this.”

“Relax, Lady Natasha,” Thor grins as he moves from behind the table. “You can’t have a night of revelry without a good brawl or two.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows at him, before glancing over to Tony who is much more intoxicated than Thor is, but still clearly ready to do battle. “I hope you’re ready to pay for the damages.”

Because damages there are. By the time the police sirens split the air, the two antagonists are bruised, but thankfully not bloody, Thor is praising them on their technique for bar fighting and Bruce is making sure Tony doesn’t have a concussion. Steve eventually moves to settle on the barstool next to Natasha while Clint fetches himself an ice pack and he glances over to her with a smirk.

“Next time, we drink at Stark’s place.”

Natasha glances over at him dryly before smirking. “I’ll let you take over convincing them of that.”

Edited 2016-03-14 19:59 (UTC)

The day after a hunt is usually when Dean’s at his lightest, personality wise. When they’re rolling into town he tends to put his game face on, prepared to pretty much lie his ass off to everyone he meets, and in the middle of the hunt there’s the life-or-death tension, the kind that usually comes when there’s more victims they weren’t able to stop, but at the end, when the monster is dead and they’re hitting the road again … that’s when Dean is most like himself.

It’s probably both the easiest and the worst time to be on the road with his brother, and Sam looks forward to it every time, mostly for the same reasons. They are there for a job well done, and he’s not going to discount that in any way.

They’ve been on the road for a few hours now, though Sam has been passed out for most of it. He’s starting to rouse at the sound of Dean’s favorite Zeppelin album blaring from the radio, and he groans a bit as he starts to push himself into a sitting position.

“Dude, you’ve been listening to that song since we left Chicago.”

“I have not been listening to the same song since we left Chicago,” Dean points out bluntly as he keeps his eyes on the road. “And how would you know anyway? You’ve been out since we left Chicago.”

“Because I was having dreams about cats dragging their nails down chalkboards and calling it music.” Sam knows the barb won’t go unpunished the moment the words come out of his mouth, and it’s evident by the smirk on his face, but Dean doesn’t seem to care that he’s being goaded.

“You take that back right now.”

“I will not take it back. Maybe if you let me listen to something from this century every once in a while, I might not hate it so much.”

“Awww, poor Sammy. Did some boy break up with you, so you need to indulge your inner Taylor Swift?”

“Do you … even know who Taylor Swift is?”

“I watch TV.” As though that answers everything, and nothing at all, all at the same time. “Regardless, if it’s not on a cassette tape, it’s not getting anywhere near my baby.”

“Oh really?”

“Really really.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Dean’s eyes go wide for a moment, almost as though that isn’t the turn he expected this conversation to take. His head tips to the side for a moment, before nodding his agreement. “Yeah. Let’s do it. You find a cassette tape – an actual cassette tape, sold in a store, for something this century, I’ll let you listen to it in the car.”

“Challenge accepted.”

Dean continues to eye him for a moment, before turning his attention back to the road again. “Whatever you say, Sammy.”

* * * * *

It takes four days, three truck stops and five bucks later, and somehow, Sam manages to meet the seemingly impossible standards his brother had set for him. He slides back into the front seat after leaving the gas station with their snacks and drinks for the road, and Dean takes one look at the smug look on his brother’s face and is immediately dubious.

“What did you do?”

Sam reaches down into the bag to fish out the cassette tape in question, holding it out to Dean with an expectant look. “Deal’s a deal.”

Dean takes one look down at the case in front of him and his head snaps up again as he shakes it. “Nope. Not happening.”

Sam’s eyebrows go up in return. “We had a deal, Dean.”

“We didn’t shake on it.”

“Oh, come on, man.”

Dean grumbles for a moment before pointing to the dashboard. “This is a ’67 Chevy Impala and you want to ruin it with that?”

“I just want to listen to something that I haven’t heard five million times before. Safe to say, this is it.”

There’s more dramatic sighing and huffing from the Winchester in the driver’s seat but eventually he gives in, fishing out his Zeppelin tape with a sigh and shoving the new tape in instead. It only takes a few minutes before the opening violins of the song reach his ears and he grimaces.

“Hey-heeeeeey. BYE BYE BYE.”

“I hate you so much right now.”

Sam laughs as he settles into his seat, before leaning back with a sigh. “Don’t worry. I’ll only make you listen to it once.”

“Thank God.”

Edited 2016-03-23 14:25 (UTC)

“I hate Shakespeare.”

The words cut through the focus of Mason’s thoughts, wandering far, far away to places they shouldn’t go, and he picks his head up from the shingled roof they’re sitting on, glancing over at his best friend as though he’s speaking in a completely different language. He can see the concern in Liam’s eyes under the obvious frustration, a kind of wake up call from the path Liam somehow knew that his best friend’s thoughts were taking, and a way to pull him back on track to what they were supposed to be doing in the first place: homework.

“What?” Mason eventually gives up on trying to put two and two together, pushing himself into more of a sitting position as he tries to see what Liam’s looking at. “It’s not that hard, man. You just have to think.” Talking about homework is easier than talking about what happened, talking about La Bete, talking about how it felt to slowly have your sense of identity torn out from under you, and Mason isn’t fully certain if he actually got it back.

Liam takes the cue for what it is, glancing back down at the sonnets that go on for miles in his textbook, words that might as well be jibberish as far as Liam is concerned, but Mason can understand why. His best friend has always been the kind of guy who speaks plainly, says (or punches) exactly what he feels, and he doesn’t understand why poets can’t do the same.

“I am thinking. I’m thinking that none of these lines make any sense and he should have just put it in English.” He huffs as he passes off the textbook to Mason to take a crack at it, before shaking his head. “Why can’t we just stick with the kind of poetry that rhymes?”

“Because if everything rhymed than we would probably be living in a movie musical. No one wants singing and dancing werewolves, dude.”

Liam huffs a laugh at that, before leaning back against the asphalt shingles and staring up at the stars. It’s a quiet night in Beacon Hills, something Mason is learning is a rarer than any of them ever really think about. Or maybe it isn’t as quiet as he thinks, at least not as far as Liam is concerned. He can’t hear the distant sounds of traffic or the music playing in his neighbor’s room next door. Mason has never been so grateful to be so inherently normal, and that’s something he won’t be looking to change anytime soon.

A moment of silence lapses between them, before Mason closes the textbook and shifts to lean back with him, exhaling slowly. “I’m okay, man.”

“You’re not okay.” Liam states that definitively, without giving Mason room to try and wiggle around it. “You ditched all the old lore books you were reading. You’ve been way too quiet, and Scott and Stiles are starting to think you’re mad at them.”

“I’m not mad.” There’s a pause, as those words come far too quickly, and he lets them settle in the air for a moment. “I … I’m not mad at them. I just … I don’t really know what to say to them.”

“Look, they’re not expecting you to be okay either. You just got possessed by some kind of ancient demon wolf. It’s okay of you’re not … okay.” He states it obviously, even though he knows there’s more to it than that, and Mason nods staring up at the stars again, one hand resting on his chest.

“Yeah, I know. But it’s not that.” Well, it is that. It’s ninety percent that. But that’s not the thing that’s really bothering him. “It’s just … it was so cool when I was all on the outside, you know. I could read about all of these different creatures and people and … it’s easier when you’re on the outside looking in. I could pretend to understand without really … understanding.”

And now, on an all too painful level, he understands. He doesn’t remember much of what Sebastian did while he was using Mason’s body, but he remembers parts of it creeping in. The press of the animalistic mind, the need to hunt, the desire to kill and he can’t help but think if that’s what Liam deals with day in and day out. He doesn’t know how they manage to keep each other on an even keel. How they keep themselves calm. How much will power it must take to not become like Sebastian did.

“So now you get it,” Liam states, again, stating the obvious just so that Mason can hear it. “What’s so wrong with that?”

“I don’t know.” Maybe because it wasn’t him. Maybe because they were someone else’s instincts and they didn’t feel like they were a part of him. “It just feels … different. More real.”

Liam’s quiet for a moment, before shifting to rest one hand behind the back of his head. “You should talk to Stiles. I mean, if you can get Stiles to talk to you.”

Mason frowns as he glances over at him curiously. “Why?”

“He said he was possessed by something once. Maybe he’ll get it better than I can.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He takes a deep breath, before glancing down at the textbook again. “But right now, we should probably finish our homework.”

Liam groans, before shaking his head. “I still think this would be easier if we could just study limericks.”

Mason grins. “Ignorance is the curse of God, knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.”

Liam rolls his eyes before snatching his textbook back. “Shut up.”

“Sons of Scotland, I am William Wallace.”

There’s a long period of silence as Mark stared down at his two best friends, both of them looking entirely unimpressed in their paint ball gear. Making the most of their April Fool’s day tradition, they had set up camp on the far end of the field, and Mark was getting ready to go through his usual pre-paintball tradition before the sun comes up and they are launched into the fields of battle. He huffs as the silence prolongs, blowing the long sandy blond hair out of his face as he looks between the two of them.

“C’mon guys.”

“Nope,” Adrian sighs as he checks he over his weaponry, making sure everything is in working order. “Not doin’ it this year.”

“Why not? It’s tradition!”

“Okay, first of all?” Jules says as she pulls her long brown hair up into a ponytail. “Not a son of Scotland. And you’re not even freaking Scottish.”

“Additionally, you want me to recite lines from the whitest white movie ever made.” Adrian glances up under a furrowed brow and shakes his head. “Not happening.”

“Never mind how the Celtic armies totally would send in women warriors to confuse the fuck out of the Roman soldiers and give themselves the upper hand. Women warriors are so underappreciated in mainstream Hollywood.” Jules rolls her eyes. “Their defensive tactics were on point for dealing with uptight Puritanical Romans.”

“Seriously, Jules?” Mark looks annoyed, while Adrian tips his head to the side curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“I learned about it in one of my women’s studies courses. Female Celtic warriors would get all painted up and ride in naked alongside their male counterparts to slaughter hordes of repressive men.”

“Are you volunteering to emulate their example for morale?” Adrian grins before waggling his eyebrows at her. “Because I think that is a much better pre-war prep talk.”

Jules glares at him for a moment before promptly punching him in the shoulder. The other boy hisses out an ow, while Jules turns back to Mark. “Why don’t we table the inspirational speeches this year and just … relax.”

“I can’t relax.” Mark huffs as he drops down between the two of them, running a hand over his face. “We have lost every year. I do not want to lose again.”

“You also do the Braveheart speech every year. I don’t think sticking with tradition is going to save us this year.”

He sighs heavily. “I’m team captain. I should at least do something inspirational.”

“I still think Jules showing us her tits would be very inspirational.” This time Matt punches him, but he laughs through it, as the blow doesn’t nearly have as much force behind it. “Alright, alright – what do we have to work with here? I have a feeling your wealth of inspirational speeches are from war films and inspirational sports movies.”

“Or he could just … say something from the heart?” Both boys stare at her for a moment, and she rolls her eyes. “Right. Now presumptuous of me that you would actually use your own words.”

“Let’s try the other end of things.” Adrian claps his friend on the shoulder before shoving him up. “Inspirational sports movies. Let’s do this.”

Mark gets to his feet, considering for a moment before grinning. “Alright. I got it.” He takes a deep breath, composes himself, and prepares to move forward. “Anybody know what this place is? This is Gettysburg – ”

“Dude, I am going to stop you right there. You cannot do Denzel.”

“You said you were tired of the white people movies.”

“I said Braveheart was the whitest white movie. Please, like black people didn’t exist in Scotland. But that doesn’t mean you can try and do Denzel Washington.”

Mark throws his hands up in the air as the sun begins to rise, signaling that the battle is going to begin soon. As he turns away from them Adrian and Jules glance to each other for a moment, before they both sigh and Jules turns back to their friend’s back.

“William Wallace is seven feet tall.”

There’s a pause, as a small smile crosses Mark’s face that they can’t see, and then he turns to face them again. “Yes, I’ve heard. Kills men by the hundreds … ”

“Truth or dare.”

In a lot of ways, it’s just meant to be an ice breaker. Sandy hair shifts a bit as he turns to face her, and hidden beneath the strands are the bluest eyes she’s ever seen. Confused blue eyes, but blue eyes all the same. “Sorry?”

Her eyebrows go up a bit, as though the question is obvious enough. “Truth or dare. I’m pretty sure the answer is obvious.”

“I just … wasn’t sure why you were talking to me,” he replies as she goes to sit up on the stool next to his, fingers curling through the condensation of his beer and leaving wide lines across the glass. “Since we don’t actually know each other.”

“Oh,” she nods once, before smirking as she reaches out her hand to him. “I’m Gina DelVecchio.”

“Right. Ronnie’s sister.” It’s an easy enough conclusion to draw, given that they’re in her brother’s bar at the moment, and she watches as he starts to extend his hand, before realizing it’s wet and trying to quickly dry it off on his jeans before shaking his hand. “I’m Billy. Browder.”

“So, Billy Browder. Now that we are all acquainted – truth or dare?”

He eyes her carefully for a moment, before glancing back to his beer and nodding. “Dare.”

“Interesting choice,” she says, before turning and scanning the rest of the bar. “I dare you … to serenade old Mrs. McGrady over there with a romantic love song of your choosing.”

Billy balks for a moment, before squinting back at her. “And here I thought this dare was going to involve shots of some kind.”

“Nah. Shots are way too easy.” She smirks at him before crossing her long olive legs in front of her and signaling down the bartender for a beer of her own. “Silly love song or bust. Unless, of course, you’re chicken … ?”

Billy almost seems offended at the implication, and with a huff he gets to his feet and makes his way over to the little old lady sitting in the corner booth. He leans closer to speak to her for a moment, and then steps back as he starts to do what Gina assumes is singing, and Mrs. McGrady looks appropriately horrified but also endeared by the results. By the time Billy stumbles back to the bar, Gina is clapping her hands and laughing her approval.

“Well done.”

“I doubt, Mrs. McGrady would agree with you.” He slides back onto his stool turning back to her with a smirk. “Truth or dare.”

“What?”

“Hey, I followed through. Now it’s my turn.”

“Alright, fine,” she glances around for a moment, before nodding. “Dare.”

He smirks lightly for a moment before asking what she would assume most men would ask for from her. “A kiss.” He pauses and turns his head a bit so that he can tap his cheek. “Right here.”

Gina smirks as she studies him for a moment, before stepping forward and kissing him full on the lips instead. She’s never really been all that shy to begin with, and she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been thinking about it since the moment he walked in the door. His hands stutter in surprise, for a moment, before finding their way to her waist, and he’s kissing her back earnestly.

“Did I satisfy the requirements of the dare?” she asks with a smirk.

“And then some.” He glances around for a moment, his fingers stroking her side for a moment, before he asks, softly. “Want to take this game somewhere else?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

* * * * *

On that night, and the months that followed, “Truth or Dare” almost became like a kind of code, an opportunity for them to disengage before they skimmed too close to something that they didn’t really talk about, and most nights neither party abused it. Most nights. Those nights don’t include nights like this one, nights where Gina comes home with bruises from her brother after botching a deal she didn’t realize she was interfering with, and being unable to hide them from Billy’s quiet, watchful gaze.

“Who did this?”

“Truth or dare.” She doesn’t want to get into it. Doesn’t want to get Billy into trouble. It’s not the first time Ronnie’s left bruises on her body and it probably won’t be the last, but it’s family. You don’t rat on family.

“Gina.”

“Uh-uh,” she shakes her head. “Say the magic words.”

“Truth.”

The word is said with such a firm seriousness that it takes her a second to realize he’s even said it. She swallows uncomfortably, eyes darting away from him for a moment, before shaking her head. “I was working behind the bar and walked in on something I shouldn’t have. No big deal.”

“It is a big deal.”

“No, it’s not.” There’s a firmness to her tone that softens as she moves closer. “Not if you don’t make it one. So don’t.” She covers protests with a kiss, but she knows that the thoughts are still lurking in the back of his mind, ready to take hold somehow. There’s a quiet moment in the movie their watching and she reaches over to give his hand a squeeze.

“What are you thinking?”

He glances back to her after a moment and then glances away. “Truth or dare.”

It takes her a quiet moment before she responds. “Truth.”

“I love you.” He brushes his thumb against the side of her cheek softly. “Don’t go to the club on Saturday night.”

* * * * *

She doesn’t go to the club. She doesn’t see Billy Browder again either. He gets replaced by a Detective William Banner with the same beautiful blue eyes, but a new set of lies that Gina isn’t sure how to handle.

“Truth or dare.”

“Did you ever tell me the truth in the first place?”

“Truth or dare?”

It takes a moment, but eventually she decides that what she needs is to go forward, not back.

“Truth.”

She used to be a real girl.

Once upon a time, before her Calling, she remembers. She smiled and laughed and cared about things like clothes and boys. But then her wings came and the Calling and the high of it all that she couldn’t control. It sweeps her up and crashes her down, and when she comes down it’s so hard that she barely even realizes what she’s doing before it happens.

She’s stronger and faster, strong enough to crush the windpipe of that girl who just couldn’t keep her mouth shut and in the moment, in that time when she’s feeling her struggle, gasping for breath, she felt herself climb higher than she ever had before. It’s the crash back down to reality again that changes her, that takes the thing she thought she would be able to control and proves to her just how wrong she is.

Her dad tries to help. He deals with the cops and whisks her away and tries to help get her back to who she was but you can’t go back from something like that. You can’t stop it either. A Calling is for forever and demons live for centuries. She’ll have to live with the blood on her hands for the rest of her life, and she doesn’t know how to live with that. Not at seventeen.

So she runs. Far, and fast, and free and there’s a part of her that knows that this isn’t the way to deal with this. But logic isn’t what’s speaking to her at the moment, it’s the fear that the next time she hurts someone, it will be someone she loves.

She won’t hurt someone she loves.

It’s the only thing she has left.

***

She doesn’t remember the first time she meets him.

There has to be a first time, when their eyes met because that’s how it works, but she doesn’t remember it. Its twenty years after she left home and she’s living in a subway tunnel in New York City, still hiding from the person her Calling wants her to become. It doesn’t mean she hasn’t taken steps along the way. Her hands are still dirty, stained with red and white and black now, but they aren’t people she cares about. They aren’t people she loved. They’re people who tried to hurt her, so she can live with that. It’s just the rest of the world that she worries about.

The first time she remembers seeing him, he brings her a cup of coffee and a doughnut. The coffee gets set down first, close enough to reach it on her own, but not close enough to be invading her personal space. “I don’t know how you like it.”

She stares back at him, trying to figure out what he’s after. He’s attractive, he’s normal, he’s nice. People like that don’t stop and pay attention to her. “I don’t,” she whispers. Even if she did, she probably wouldn’t drink it anyway. She doesn’t know him. She doesn’t know why he’s giving her the coffee. She’s heard about organizations that try to round up wayward members of the supernatural community and she’s not interested.

He blinks clearly startled by the idea that someone doesn’t like coffee. Then he laughs just a little. “Okay, I deserve that. I probably should have asked first.” He shifts a bit, holding up the brown paper bag in his opposite hand. “Do you like doughnuts?”

“Why?”

“Because you seem like you’re hungry.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because … I’m a nice guy?” Her eyes watch him sharply, trying to find the lie she’s sure is there. She reaches out for the bag as he extends it to her, her hand brushing against his, and they both jerk back in surprise. Him from the warmth and her from the cold.

“You’re an angel.”

“I am.”

“Why … ?”

He cuts her off, his words quiet but somehow loud enough to be heard over the low roar of the subway. “I’m a guardian.”

She knows what it means. Her father taught her a long time ago about the different kinds of angels, but it doesn’t register at first what it means for her. That he’s trying to tell her that she means something to him now, something that she hasn’t meant to anyone in a long time.

“For … for me.” It’s a statement but it should be more of a question. She’s asking, even if part of her already knows the truth. “But—but I’m a … ” Rakshasa. They’re killers. They don’t deserve anyone’s protection.

“Doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way. I could wind up with anyone.” And he wound up with her. He takes a breath, running his hand over his face. “Okay. Can we … just start again?” He reaches across to her, extending his hand for her to take. “My name’s Griffin. What’s yours?”

He could be lying to her. He could be any number of things, an archangel trying to con her so he can gain her trust before he kills her, but she’s dealt with archangels before. She may not be as skilled or trained, but they still haven’t gotten very far. She extends her hand to him again, sliding it into his.

“Leta.”

“Hi, Leta.” He nods, squeezing her hand softly. “Why don’t we go get something to eat?”

She reaches up and takes his hand, and for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel like she has to do this alone.

Edited 2016-05-02 02:32 (UTC)

Eliot stills the moment they walk into McRory’s, every muscle in his body tense so that when Hardison collides with him from behind it’s like walking into a brick wall. The taller man stumbles back, sputtering in indignation as he tries to figure out why Eliot’s blocking the way to the bar.

“The hell, man?”

“The Cavalry.”

Hardison frowns, confused, before following the other man’s eye line to the other side of the bar. Sitting in the booth is an Asian woman with chin length black hair who looks about as happy as Eliot does on a good day. She’s sitting across from a white dude who looks like he has a considerably larger amount of chill, a cup of coffee sitting in front of him. With a name like “the Cavalry,” it’s likely one of Eliot’s old army/special forces contacts but he isn’t about to say that out loud in the middle of a crowded bar. What he will do is about to make a joke about Asian Lady Eliot when Eliot cuts him off at the pass.

“She’s SHIELD.”

That stills any words that would have come out of his mouth, eyes widening at the fact that someone SHIELD (potentially HYDRA) is just hanging out in a bar in Boston. The two of them are tense, eyes scanning every corner of the room without rest. Eventually his brain kicks back into gear and his fingers fly to go text Nate when a very, very familiar voice has him freezing in place as well.

“Alec!”

There are three people who call Hardison “Alec” – Sophie, when she’s in a good mood, his Nana, usually right before she full names him into some kind of trouble, and …

“Skye?”

He spins on his heel to face her, confusion more than anything else, before his face splits into a wide grin and she throws her arms around his shoulders. He reciprocates, lifting her off her feet a bit as he does, before pulling back with a laugh. “Girl, what are you doing here?”

“I need your help.” She pauses for a moment, before stepping in closer and dropping her voice. “SHIELD needs your help.”

Eliot appears from behind Hardison’s shoulder, his tone firm as he demands answers without actually asking for them. “Hardison?”

Hardison glances around for a moment, before tipping his head to the side. “Maybe we should take this to the back.”

* * * * *

“Okay so – first things first? SHIELD? You’re working for SHIELD?”

Hardison’s incredulity is written all over his face as he, Skye and what he can only assume is Skye’s handler (she calls him Coulson, Hardison is going to run a background search later) sit around the poker table in the back room of the bar. Eliot and “The Calvary” (Skye calls her “May”) are leaning against the respective walls of the room, glaring daggers at each other.

“I know it’s a change,” Skye begins, and May cuts her off before she can continue.

“I don’t really think you’re one to judge if you’re working with Eliot Spencer.”

“Hey now,” Hardison holds up a finger. “That’s my boy you’re disrespecting and Eliot’s out of that game. Mostly. I mean, I don’t know what he’s doing on his downtime but I can guarantee that ninety percent of the time he’s one of the good guys.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “Not helping Hardison.”

“Secondly, I trust him more than I trust all of y’all. Last I checked, Captain America was all tearin’ down buildings and saying that you all were actually HYDRA. The man may be a little too obsessed with the red white and blue but I think I’m gonna go with the Star Spangled Man on this one.”

“First of all, not all of us we’re HYDRA. Some of us were blindsided just as much as you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Second of all – ”

“Look, this isn’t going to help.” Skye pauses for a moment before turning to face Hardison again. “Do you trust me?”

“Normally, yes,” Hardison shakes his head. “But who knows what kind of brainwashing they’ve got under their belt. I haven’t heard from you in months, Skye. All your Rising Tide contacts said you’d gone offline.”

“It’s complicated.” Skye reaches across the table and places her hands over his. “But we’re the good guys. The real good guys. And we need your help.”

Hardison stares at her for a moment, studying her face to try and see if it feels genuine, before exhaling slowly. “Alright. But for you – and only for you.”

Skye grins brightly. “We need a whole new encryption system for our tech. HYDRA had a mole on our team, so they probably have workarounds for even my code. We need a touch that they wouldn’t recognize.”

A grin splits across the other man’s face and he nods before flexing his fingers out in front of him. “Sounds like fun. When do you want me to start?”

“Wait – first things first.” Coulson shifts in his seat, leaning forward and holding up a hand before Hardison gets too ahead of himself. “What are your intentions for my technology?”

Hardison snorts in response before shaking his head. “What is this, Meet the Parents? Man, you just sit back and watch as I blow your minds.”

Coulson sighs heavily before glancing back at Skye. “This isn’t going to be another Stark situation, is it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Skye replies with a grin. “You’ve never let me meet him.”

Coulson shakes his head as the two geeks start to dissolve into hacker speak. “I regret this already.”

Every year, less and less students recognize it, and they mostly just think he’s crazy. Still, every year, regardless of how young his students get or how many times they ask him but Coach, we’re playing lacrosse not flying planes, he always begins every game the same way:

“Good morning. In less than an hour, aircraft from here, will join others from around the world … ”

The fact of the matter is, he doesn’t do it for them. He doesn’t even do it for luck, really. He does it for himself, a ritual worn in years of watching high school boys, promising, talented high school boys or the occasional high school girl get this far and collapse under the weight of that same promising talent to inevitably disappoint him. He starts every game with this ridiculous speech because it’s soothing, it keeps him calm and prepares him for the mess to come.

“ … Mankind. That word should have new meaning for all of us today.”

Sometimes, however, his faith in parents teaching their children the important things is restored. Or maybe he just underestimates his importance to them as a coach. Regardless, the fact of the matter is the cheers that resonate through the locker room pick him up to keep going and get him ready for the game ahead.

Who knows. Maybe they just might win this year.

… He’s not getting his hopes up.

“Today, we celebrate, our Independence Day!”

With cheers, the lacrosse players pour out of the locker room and onto the field, ready to fight the oncoming battler with all the vigor their little teenage hearts could muster, and win or lose, despite his dramatics, Coach always knows he’ll be proud of them in the end.

And honestly? He’ll just be happy if someone doesn’t die in the process.

Then again, this is Beacon Hills.

Caitlin’s heels click awkwardly against the floor of the Cortex as she makes her way into the labs, the expression on her face almost as though she’s swallowed something sour and isn’t entirely sure what to do with it. Both Barry and Cisco’s attention is focused elsewhere, Barry on the screens in front of him and Cisco on a project he’s tinkering with, and she takes a moment to clear her throat, starting with what seems like a rather innocuous question.

“Did … we know that Laurel was in town?”

“Yes.” Cisco doesn’t look up, exactly, but he does hold up a finger to accentuate his point before continuing. “She’s visiting her mom and she wanted me to do some quick repair work on the Canary Cry, why?”

“Oh.” Caitlin pauses for a moment, before glancing back over her shoulder. “Because I saw her at Jitters and … she wasn’t with her mom.”

“I’m sure she’s got friends in Central City other than us,” Barry points out, not even glancing Caitlin’s way. “She might have made this an all purpose visit.”

“It was Steve Rogers.”

There’s a pause as both men look up, before their chairs slowly turn to face Caitlin, both curious expressions on their faces along with confusion. “You know,” Barry begins. “That’s a really common name.”

Cisco nods in agreement. “And he’s very much your generic built white dude – I’m sure that he looks like … a lot of guys.”

“Laurel introduced me. I’m pretty sure it’s the Steve Rogers I’m thinking of.” There’s a beat as Caitlin rephrases. “Did we know that Team Arrow knew Captain America?”

“I didn’t,” Barry replies, shaking his head. “And I thought I knew all of Oliver’s mask friends. Though I do think he might break into hives if he was ever that close to someone that open about their secret identity.”

“I didn’t either. Felicity never mentioned it, and you’d think that would be something they would bring up.”

Caitlin gives a small shrug, before making her way over to her work station. “They looked fairly close. I was just … surprised. I figured that something like that would have come up.”

“Right.” Barry watches as Caitlin heads into the other room, and there’s a brief moment of silence before he glances to Cisco. “So I’m going to call Felicity.”

“You do that, man,” Cisco says with a nod. “I need deets. All of them.”

* * * * *

“Wait, wait, wait.” Felicity spins in her seat to face the disembodied voice of Barry Allen coming out of her computer in the Arrow Cave. She seems just as confused as Barry is, which isn’t exactly comforting. “You saw Laurel with who?”

“Captain America.” Felicity hears Oliver and Diggle stop behind her desk, exchanging surprised glances at the same time. “Caitlin ran into the two of them at Jitters. We were figuring that Oliver was making superhero friends without us, or that maybe it was through Diggle and Lyla’s ARGUS connections?”

“ARGUS never had any contact with the Cap,” Diggle replies, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “As Lyla puts it, they stay the hell out of SHIELD’s mess.”

“Oh.” There’s a beat. “Oliver?”

“Not me,” Oliver frowns further, matching Diggle’s stance almost defensively. “I’ve never met him.”

“Who haven’t we met?” Thea asks as she enters in the middle of the conversation, glancing at everyone and frowning in response. “Or … who died?”

“Did you know anything about Laurel knowing Captain America?”

“Who, Steve?” There’s a beat as everyone balks at her and a wide grin splits her face. “You mean I finally know a superhero before you guys? Is this what it feels like to have connections?”

“Thea.”

Thea rolls her eyes at Oliver’s tone before continuing. “They met while you were on the island. She didn’t know he was Captain America at the time, but they kept in touch. They’re friends.” She shrugs as she turns on her heel and heads towards the door. “You can’t hog all the superheroes, Oliver.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Well. That clears that up. Later guys.”

Felicity says goodbye to Barry, before turning in her chair and seeing the sullen look on Oliver’s face. “Awww, are you sad that Laurel’s officially cooler than you?”

Oliver’s eyes narrow, before turning and walking off to do what Felicity assumes is training his brooding away. She glances over to Diggle with a grin, and he shakes his head.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

Felicity laughs before nodding. “You and me both.”

Memorial Day usually brings the kind of sticky heat and humidity that is indicative of arriving summer. It’s the kind of heat that clings to your skin, makes it hard to breathe, and motivates Sam Wilson to do … absolutely nothing. Thankfully, Clint Barton is essentially of the same mind.

The coffee table in front of the TV was a scatter of paper plates stained with the grease and condiments from the burgers Laura had grilled up earlier as well as half-empty beers condensing onto coasters. The baseball game on TV is chattering in the background – White Sox vs. Mets – interspersed with presidential ads littered with mentions of better immigrations policies, fighting back against the Inhuman/vigilante threat, and Sam easily tunes it out, focusing on the delicious food in front of him instead.

“You’re the best,” he grins up at Laura as she hands him a fresh burger. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she says as she returns the smile, making her way around to reload her husband’s plate as well.

“Can I ask you something, though? Why on Earth would someone as wonderful as you marry this idiot?” Sam teases, and Clint turns from Laura with a Look.

“Easy.”

Laura, on the other hand, laughs, before holding up a plate loaded with three burgers and a lump of potato salad. “Where’d Steve go?”

“He objects to the existence of the Mets as a whole, so he took the kids outside.” Clint smirks. “You probably should go save him.” Laura nods before going to do just that. Not that Steve really needs to be saved, necessarily – spending time with the kids is one of his favorite things – but he also probably needs to eat to keep his strength up, and the kids shouldn’t spend too much time in the heat.

Silence falls back between the two men on the couch again, and as the game breaks between innings, one of those generic “Happy Memorial Day” commercials comes up and Clint tips his head to the side pensively.

“Why Falcon?”

“What?” Sam blinks, turning to glance over at his friend for the sudden change of subject. “What do you mean?”

“Your codename. Why Falcon?”

“Why Hawkeye?”

“Because I can hit a moving target in midair from the top of a building without even looking.” Clint reaches forward to grab his beer before turning to face Sam more. “You spend most of your time with Captain America. Wouldn’t a more patriotic bird codename have been Eagle?”

Sam squints at him for a moment, before shaking his head. “First of all, have you seen an eagle before? They have zero maneuverability? Falcons on the other hand, they zip around like crazy, and they’re just cooler.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Secondly, Captain America may work for Steve, but no one is that patriotic these days without it coming across as cheesy. You did see the disaster that was the Iron Patriot?” Clint makes a face and Sam points a finger at him in response. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. War Machine is much cooler.”

“Okay. You have a point.”

“Besides. I may work with Steve, but it’s not like I’m his sidekick.”

“I think you’re pretty close to sidekick territory there, buddy.”

“You mean like you’re Natasha’s sidekick?”

Clint almost looks offended. “I am not Natasha’s sidekick. I am a trained former SHIELD operative. I recruited her. If anything, she’s my – ”

“Do you really want to finish that sentence?”

“We’re not sidekicks. We’re partners.” Clint watches as Sam just gives him this silent look before huffing and letting it go. “Fine. No one’s anyone’s sidekick.”

“Good. I’m glad we agree.”

Both men turn their attention back to the game again and wince as the Mets choke on yet another play. “Man, were the Mets always this bad?” Sam asks, seemingly baffled.

“Yes,” Steve says pointedly as he swings back into the farmhouse and heads for the kitchen for a beer. “The Mets are always that bad.”

Both men laugh, before shaking their heads. “Whatever you say, Cap,” Sam sighs. “Whatever you say.”

Edited 2016-06-09 16:35 (UTC)

The real liars, the true liars, the ones who need to be good enough to have the world believe them, never start off with big lies. They aren’t thrown into the deep end of weaving the delicate fabric of slight truths around themselves and expecting to be believed. They start with the little white lies, the ones that make themselves feel better, the ones that are easy enough to fudged and still be believed as the truth. It’s a complicated balance to strike, one with far more nuance than one would expect, but it’s one that Raymond Reddington has mastered over the years.

His lies are never blatant, and they’re never intended to be cruel. He tells the truth only so much as to get what he needs, and that his real motives are never on the table. His true stories are still colored by the views of a man who has lost everything on more than one occasion and spends a fair amount of time grasping at the straws and trying to hold onto the things he does have now.

(Liz. He’s grasping desperately to hold on to Liz and the last pieces of her mother that are slowly threatening to slip through his fingers, gone now with the realization that they were never his to keep to begin with.

You can’t keep something that’s so desperate to get away from you that they fake their own death.)

The problem with being the master of the little white lies is that you don’t always see when someone us using them on you. It’s almost ironic, lying to someone for so long that you miss the little ways they lie to you, let you believe things that break you in the name of protecting someone else. It’s the moment where you become the expendable one, the collateral damage the thing that it is acceptable to destroy in the name of keeping something else safe that you realize that maybe that castle of lies that you had built around yourself wasn’t really protecting you from anything.

It was just making it so no one else wanted to protect you.

Now all he has left is an empty apartment in South America, Liz and her family completely missing and the betrayal that he never saw coming left sitting in front of him. Kaplan knows what’s on the other end of that silence, the rage and bloodshed that she has cleaned up far too many times before and yet she risked it anyway.

(It’s probably good that she still has a conscience left to follow. Red doesn’t really have much of one left.)

He takes a deep breath as he steps forward, letting the silence linger just long enough to be threatening, before he finally speaks, the calmness of his words betraying the real anger beneath them.

“What am I going to do with you, Kate?”

Nomi Marks has always credited herself for her patience. She plans for opportunities rather than waiting for them to be sprung upon her. It’s how she managed to get herself out from under her parents thumb all those years ago, how she was able to wait so patiently to finally be herself, be the person she really thought she was, and how she was able to stage her own personal rebellion and come away a winner. This isn’t to say that there aren’t scars and the battle was without casualties, but in the end, she won the war.

Amanita, on the other hand, springs on opportunities without a second thought, exposing herself to the world with a kind of joy that Nomi has never seen before, and it’s one of the things that draws Nomi to her like a moth to a flame. So far, even though they’re only a few dates in, she can’t say it’s something she minds. She’s always longed to be loved the way Amanita loves everything around her, devouring it with such greed and gluttony that in many ways Nomi can see why they’re sins, but in the end, she can’t resist the urge of being wanted. Being wanted gives her something she can devour and swallow whole, always demanding more and knowing that she’ll receive it, but at the same time, fearing the day when she won’t.

(Because avarice is still a sin, after all. And sins have their downfalls. Even if Nomi doesn’t believe anymore, she learned her life lessons at the church of Angela Marks and greed and pride always come before a fall.)

Still, when she finds herself in Amanita’s orbit, everything is color and song, an endless explosion of celebration that has more joy in it than any church service she’s ever been to, and she wants to simply drown in it, over and over again, no matter the consequences. It’s that kind of drowning she’s preparing herself for when she pulls up to Amanita’s place for their date that night, and tries to fake being surprised when she announces, in her usual way, that she has different plans for the evening.

“You know, one of these days, you’re going to have to actually let me follow through with my plans,” Nomi sighs as she makes her way carefully over one of the dunes on the beach, balancing precariously in heels that were not made for traipsing across a beach. “Or at least let me know so that I can wear the appropriate footwear.”

“See, that’s the thing we’re going to have to work on.” The other woman tosses her brightly colored hair as she glances back over her shoulder, flashing Nomi a grin that makes her insides melt without even really trying to. “Your sense of adventure.”

“Why does my sense of adventure need work, exactly?” Nomi raises an eyebrow and Amanita’s smile only widens, folding up the paper in her hands as she jogs back across the beach to her.

“Because we have found and honest to goodness treasure map, and your levels of excitement could definitely use some work.”

The treasure map she’s referring to is an old battered piece of paper she found between the cover of an old donation. Nomi knows without having to ask that Amanita spent far too much time when she wasn’t stocking books googling and sifting through pages to find the hidden meaning, and while they’ve managed to narrow down the list of places it could be, Nomi was not dressed for a beach adventure.

“I am excited,” she sighs. “I just would have worn flats.”

Amanita laughs, before shaking her head. “There’s a phrase you’re going to have to learn to appreciate if you’re going to keep being my girlfriend.”

The word catches her by surprise so strongly that it almost bowls her over from it’s presence alone, the word that screams acceptance and love and something that she never thought would apply to her knocks her off balance for just a moment, and she can’t help the way the smile flares brightly across her face at the same time. “What’s that?”

(She doesn’t question it. Questioning it might make it go away, and Amanita is never one to play with subtext. She says what she means, even if it can mean so much more than she realizes.)

“W-W-N-double D.” Nomi must look confused underneath it all, because Amanita is quick to clarify. “What would Nancy Drew do?”

Nomi laughs, before nodding. “I’m guessing she’s going to kick off her heels and follow that map?”

“You bet your ass she is.” There is even an affectionate swat on said ass in return as Amanita kicks off her shoes and takes off down the beach again, and Nomi hesitates only to watch her. She envies her for having grown up with that much freedom in who she is, but if there’s anyone who can teach Nomi to find it in herself, it has to be this beautiful girl.

And to be honest, she already loves her a little bit for it.

A few seconds later, she’s kicking off her heels, reaching for the flashlight she stuck in her back pocket, and following her girlfriend’s lead. “Wait for me!”

(Girlfriend. She hopes that word never gets old.)

Edited 2016-07-20 03:33 (UTC)

After the Incident with Leroy Jenkins, Shawn and Gus agreed to never have serious drinking adventures in a public place again. It’s not like they were hardcore drinkers to begin with, and it’s not as though they didn’t have a blast that fateful night long ago, but given that they work for the cops, they agreed (read: Gus drove the point home that he can not have damages like that on the his car again, Shawn) that it’s for the best if they don’t have any missing time they can’t account for.

It makes sense, in it’s unadventurous way, and Shawn agrees.

That doesn’t mean, however, that they aren’t prone to adventures of the sober variety, which is how Shawn winds up in a SBPD jail cell one night, dressed in his self-proclaimed “ninja gear” and looking worse for the wear. Shawn hears the tried and true footsteps of his father coming around the corner and when his face finally appears he looks just as exhausted as he always does when it comes to dealing with Shawn and while in this particular instance, Shawn can’t really blame him. Shawn does, however, manage to look surprised when he sees Henry.

“Dad! What are you doing here?”

“You called me, Shawn. Shouldn’t you be the one answering that question?”

“It just seemed like from where we left our conversation that you were going to leave me here to do the hard time. I’m already a changed man.”

“You’ve been here for three hours.”

“Really? It’s felt like longer than that.”

Henry sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes for a moment, before looking up at Shawn with his Serious Dad Expression. “What happened, Shawn?”

“I agreed to help Mrs. O’Leary with a case in exchange for advice on how to make my hair more fabulous.”

“Mrs. O’Leary is eighty-two.”

“Yes, and she is still one of the finest cosmeticians of her day.” That point made, he moves on. “As I was investigating the case of her missing dog, Ms. Myrtle, I was lead to an alley where ol’ Betsy was discovered, safe and sound.”

There’s a long pause as Henry waits for Shawn to continue, but when he doesn’t the older man starts to get impatient. “And?”

“And what?”

“You were arrested for unlawful possession of a weapon. Where did you get the gun, Shawn?”

“I borrowed it.”

“Why?”

“Because Gus and I may have been led to believe that Betsy may have been possessed by some kind of demon. I was wandering into very dangerous territory and I needed to be prepared.”

Henry opens his mouth, glances away and then comes back again, looking even more annoyed. “A possessed dog, Shawn? Really?”

“The world is a very dangerous and mystical place.”

“I’m sure it is.” Henry doesn’t seem very impressed with Shawn’s antics, and Shawn, for the most part, doesn’t expect him to be. Henry is never impressed with the mental hoops that Shawn manages to leap through, so he’s just going to stare his father down for a moment, before getting to the point of it all.

“Are you going to get me out of here, or what?”

Henry sighs, before gesturing to the uniform next to him to let Shawn out. “Chief Vick is letting the charges drop. Luckily for you, the gun wasn’t loaded.”

“Sweet.” Shawn waits until he moves past the bars before the latter end of that sentence catches up to him. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah, apparently whoever you ‘borrowed’ that gun from was smart enough not to give you any bullets.”

Shawn’s face falls for a moment, before shaking his head and making his way back into the bullpen of the precinct. “I’m not a completely terrible shot, you know.”

“Yeah,” Henry says as he shakes his head. “Keep telling yourself that, kid.”

“I have to say, this hasn’t been your best idea.”

You look over at your husband, then back to the giant mass that claims to be a cake in front of you. The intention was to make it a layer cake, for your daughter’s fifth birthday party, but it is not working out as intended. You have a piping bag of frosting in one hand and the other is resting under your elbow as you stare it down, with Ben leaning back against the counter next to you.

“You think?”

The sarcasm is obvious and he slings his arm around your shoulders with a smile. His easy-going attitude has always been one of the things you love about him, but you know when you’re being teased and this is one of those moments.

“I guess it could be worse,” you sigh. “It could be purple.”

There’s a moment of quiet contemplation, eyes scanning the massive pile of cake. It’s almost an uncomfortable stretch of silence, before he finally speaks again.

“It could be purple.”

It's a repetition of what you just said five minutes earlier, but it's the tone that's changed. Instead of doubt and revulsion, it's an air of calm consideration, and you turn to the man standing next to you, regarding him almost as though he's grown a second head. Then, you turn back to the piles of cake in front of you and giving it a second glance.

“It could?”

“It could.” Ben shifts to cross his arms in front of his chest, leaning back against the counter casually as though this is a consideration he made every day. “It could be a giant purple ... monstrosity of a cake. She'd love it.”

“You only say this because you don't have to eat it.”

“No offense, Lena, I love you to pieces, but if you were baking it, there was no way I was going near that thing.”

Your eyes narrow in response to that, almost as though you're offended by the sheer audacity of the statement. “I can cook!”

“Yes, you're an excellent cook. But cooking and baking are two very different beasts, and ... honestly I'm not too sure about this one.” His hand comes up to brush against his chin, considering the options in front of him quietly. “Also, you're missing the fact that our daughter, gem that she is, is a grand total of five years old. She's not looking for incredibly beautiful cake art. She just wants to consume as much sugar as her tiny little body will allow without exploding and then proceed to bounce off the walls like a pinball until the demon inside her is sated.”

You turn another look on him, this one milder than the ones previously. It's mostly because you know he's right. The only reason they're actually able to have this conversation calmly is because it's after midnight and Clarissa has been in sleep for the hours which the cake was baking. Otherwise, they would be out a cake and be up after midnight trying to coerce her into some kind of sleep. You sigh heavily, turning your attention back to the cake and considering carefully for a moment.

Then you stop, take a step back so that you're leaning next to him, and consider it some more.

“It could be purple.”

“See? Knew you'd see it my way.”

You don't even skip a beat before taking the piping bag of frosting and squirting some of the white frosting on his face.

Edited 2016-07-20 03:34 (UTC)

From the moment Charlie Wellman locks eyes with a person and sees their death, it’s almost as though a countdown clock starts in his head.

He knows the how. Sometimes, he gets the why. When is a bit more dubious, as it can be anything from a few minutes to two weeks, but unless it’s incredibly obvious that this person is going to die right in front of him, then he likes to hope for the best. His brain starts at two weeks and begins counting down, day by day, hour by hour, until the final blow is struck and he can help that person move on to the next life.

When Charlie first got his wings and became an angel of death, he was living in a small town in Idaho, where people dying was a rare occurrence, even rarer than a new person coming to town. The most he ever helped was the occasional car crash victim or a person who was dying of old age and had lived a full and fruitful life. Then he went to war and was drowned in the violence and brutality of it, watched as lives full of love, hope and potential were washed away before his eyes and he lost a part of himself in learning the way the world worked.

He could go back to Idaho, pretend the rest of the world isn’t like it is. He could hold the hands of men who lived full lives, women who made the most of the reigns they’ve been given. Or he could go somewhere else, comfort the young lives lost, whose questions he doesn’t have answers for and tell them that their existence made a difference. Their place in this world mattered, even if they didn’t finish all they had intended to do.

In some ways, Chicago makes sense. It is the epicenter of the ways this world is broken. The rifts open up and crash down on that city more than any other, and they claw their way through as a means of survival if nothing else. Chicago is a crucible, a test of mettle that not everyone can survive and no one walks away from unchanged, but Charlie is looking for a fresh start.

He can’t go back to the quiet town of perfect expectations realized. Not when he finally knows the real truth about the world. He needs to be somewhere where he’s needed and that is the thing that draws him to the city where the winds blow harder than anyone would ever anticipate.

He’s standing in a supermarket, picking up the basics like eggs and coffee when he bumps into a woman and sees floodgates bursting in her eyes, walls of water whipping through the city he has come to love and washing out everything in its path. She won’t survive the blast of water, and it’s possible he won’t either, but his Calling isn’t ever concerned with whether he would survive. It’s always been more about the people who don’t.

And with that, the clock sets itself at two weeks, and starts ticking itself down, waiting for the unfortunate and the inevitable.

Two days later, the skies open, the water roars, and the streets of Chicago are quickly washed away.

Edited 2016-07-20 03:34 (UTC)

“Ho!”

The loud exclamation is probably not the way Don Flack should have introduced himself to the Boston crime scene, but there’s really only a few reactions someone can have to seeing that many feathers everywhere. The small apartment is covered in brightly colored parrots, each of them being quietly shuffled out by Animal Control so that the medical examiner could get the body out. Two dark haired detectives whip their heads around at the sudden sound, and one of them, a woman with wildly curly hair is quick to step forward and address the situation before he could come in any further.

“Sorry, who are you?”

“Don Flack,” he replies as he goes to flip his badge open. “NYPD.”

“Little far out of your jurisdiction, don’t you think?”

“I do, but feathers aside, I think your DOA might be my murder suspect.”

The medical examiner glances up from the body, flashing the detective a much friendlier smile before reaching off the ID in her hand. “Walton James of Brooklyn, New York.”

“That’s the guy.” Flack holds up his hands. “I’m not looking to throw a kink in your case, but my boss is going to insist that I follow this through.”

“Well, if he’s really wanted for murder, that at least gives us a good place to start for motive.” The female detective steps forward and holds a hand out to him. “Jane Rizzoli, that’s Doctor Maura Isles, and Detective Frankie Rizzoli.”

He smirks at the second name and nods. “Family business?”

Jane laughs. “Something like that.” Then there’s a beat as she moves to gesture him out the door. “Why don’t we go over the case while CSU gets in here to do their thing. We’ve got to run this by my sergeant anyway.”

“Sounds good to me,” he nods, and as they head towards the elevator he makes a face. “I gotta ask – what’s with all the birds?”

“You really don’t want to know.”

* * * * *

Over the course of the next few days, while generally speaking the Boston and New York teams got along well, there’s always a fair amount of friendly rivalry between the two – the natural result of the usual Boston and New York clash. Jane and Flack disagree on everything from baseball to pizza, but it’s all in good natured fun. After all, there’s a murder to solve.

At the end of the day, though, they’re all gathered around the table at the Dirty Robber with a few beers before Flack has to take his train back to New York. Maura makes her way over with her glass of wine as she surveys Flack and Jane’s matching burger baskets and fries.

“Well, aren’t you two birds of a feather,” she teases as she slides in next to Jane. “Trying to get Jane to eat something other than burgers is like pulling teeth.”

“That so?” Flack says, raising his eyebrows with a teasing smile. “I’ll have you know I have a very extensive palate.”

“Extensive palate?” Jane raises her eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Flack laughs before turning back to Maura. “Rizzoli was telling me how you’re always trying to expand her food options. You two ever come to New York, I’ll have to take you down to Gramercy Tavern.”

“I’ve heard such good things about the food there. The chef sounds so creative.”

“How creative is creative?”

Maura starts to open her mouth to explain and Flack cuts her off. “Don’t tell her. It’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Yeah, and that means I’m not gonna like it.”

Flack laughs, before glancing at his watch and getting to his feet with a sigh. “Well, ladies, it has been a pleasure, but I should probably get down to the train station. You’re ever in New York, you look me up.”

“Will do, Detective,” Jane smiles. “Thanks for dropping by.”

When she was younger, she always dismissed it as déjà vu. The sneaking suspicion that she’s been somewhere or done something before is a feeling everyone goes through, and it’s easy to just brush it away as being paranoid about things, or not remembering things properly.

Once Carter comes into her life, all of that changes. He touches her shoulder and some part of her, a part of her that she doesn’t want to acknowledge or remember responds. More than two hundred lifetimes of being partners, friends, pushing at the back of her memory and telling her how she should feel. She doesn’t want to know all the ways she could feel, or did feel. She’s too busy trying to figure out the here and now to worry about the past.

And Carter understands that. Sometimes. A good … thirty five percent of the time.

What she doesn’t expect is the absence that comes in the after. The parts of her that had gotten used to him, used to them and the feelings that had stopped being past and become prologue instead. That there is a part of her who needs him to discover who she is and what she’s meant to do, and now she’s flying blind, without any kind of roadmap.

She’s at the start of something, but doesn’t know which step to take. Instead of laying there wondering, she takes a deep breath, points herself forward, and hopefully she takes steps in the right direction. She doesn’t need Carter to do this – the signs have been there all along. All she has to do is follow them.

“This is a terrible idea.”

“As far as terrible ideas go, I can’t say this is your worst, little fish.” Tybalt’s tone is a teasing one, clearly indicating that he thinks she’s making a mountain out of a molehill, but Toby isn’t entirely sure that that’s the case. Of all the things faerie has thrown at her in recent years, of all the battles and battery and bloodshed, this is the thing that she is absolutely least prepared for, and the one she would have least expected.

Never would she have thought that one of the Divided Courts would have condoned something like paintball. Then again, this is probably to be expected when the owner of the knowe is a seventeen year-old noble and it’s his birthday.

“Your confidence in me is endearing,” Toby sighs, before glancing back over her shoulder. “Who’s bright idea was it to put all the teenagers on the opposing team?” She can already feel the oily splat of the paint against her skin and she doesn't like it.

“You let Dean pick the teams,” May points out with a grin as she does a dramatic series of stretches and rolls her shoulders. “And speak for yourself. You may be no spring chicken, but I think I can keep up.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. It’s time to bust some cats.”

Tybalt looks up for a moment, almost alarmed at the statement. “You are aware that I’m on your team, are you not?”

Toby smirks before shaking her head. “I think she meant ‘bust some caps.’ Slang.” Tybalt doesn’t look all that comforted, so she stops before she can point out that Raj, Tybalt’s Cait Sidhe heir is on the opposing team, so if they’re going to win they’re going to have to bust at least one cat, but that isn’t really the point.

“Whatever,” May shrugs. “We can do this! It’s just a matter of mind over matter.”

“Matter being that they are younger, faster, and way more prone to cheating?”

May considers for a moment, because okay, Toby may have a point there, but almost as soon as she pauses to think it over, a sly grin crosses her face. “If they’re going to cheat, we might as well cheat back.”

Toby hesitates at that, because this sounds like the kind of plan that is going to result in someone losing a limb, but she’s willing to try anything at this point. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”

The smile that crosses May’s face in response is something you’re more likely to find on a mad scientist than Toby’s erstwhile Fetch, and Toby already regrets agreeing to do this May’s way. “Do you trust me?”

“No.” Tybalt’s face makes that very clear, and Toby reaches over to rest her hand on his arm as a gesture of reassurance, even if she’s not necessarily reassured herself, before nodding her head.

“I do. To a point.” She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “But we might as well go all out. In for a penny, in for a pound?”

Tybalt makes a face, before swallowing and nodding his agreement. “Alright, fine. But if any of us lose a limb, I want to make sure my objection is noted.”

“Noted,” May says with a grin. “I’m going to need a flag, some ping-pong balls and a chicken.”

Toby blinks at her for a moment, before shaking her head as she goes to try and gather the ingredients listed. “I regret this already.”

Edited 2016-09-23 20:27 (UTC)

“They’re staring at us again, Shawn.”

“That’s kind of the point, Gus.”

“They are vicious killers, Shawn, I don’t want them staring at us.”

“Relax, Gus.” Shawn glances over his shoulder at his best friend, despite the fact that they’re being sized up by the people they’re pretty sure are the bad guys in this particular scenario. It isn’t the first time that Shawn has followed his instincts and whims wherever they may lead him – a method he promotes as his own personal life hack for getting the most out of life – and it isn’t the first time these whims have gotten them into trouble. Gus should really stop being so surprised, but Shawn also knew that that is a thing that will probably never change.

And part of him hopes it never does.

“We are tied to chairs, Shawn, I know you’re not telling me to relax.”

“Yes, yes, I am.” Shawn sighs as he leans back against his best friends. “How many times have we been captured by the bad guys instead of actually managing to stop them?”

“Way too many times, Shawn.”

“And how many times have we been violently murdered and left in a ditch?”

There’s a long awkward pause at that, while Gus debates the merits of answering that particular question honestly, before he finally sighs and gives in. “None,” he admits dejectedly, usually a sign that he was conceding Shawn’s point.

“Exactly. None. And that streak is not about to be broken.”

“Streak? What streak?”

“Our winning streak.”

“I would not call being captured by a group of angry bikers who may have murdered our victim winning, Shawn.”

“Not yet. But just watch, we’re going to get out of this, just like we always do.”

“We better. I am not ready to die, Shawn. I haven’t even qualified for my pension yet.”

Shawn would like to point out to Gus how he really wouldn’t need his pension if he’s dead, but that train of thought is cut off by the group of bikers approaching where they have them tied up. They’ve got Shawn’s wallet in hand, and are looking at him intently.

“You that psychic detective.”

“Yes.” Shawn glances between them as he tries to figure out where this is going. “I’m Shawn Spencer, and this is my partner Burton ‘Road Rage’ Guster.”

They blink at the use of the nickname, before the larger one, presumably their leader, continues to speak. “You trying to solve the Hodgkins Murder.”

“Yes,” Shawn still isn’t sure where this is going, but he’s trying. “That’s why we’re here.”

“You think we did it.”

There’s a small step forward of aggression, and Shawn and Gus try to recoil as best they can. “That is what the police think.” Shawn’s tone is slow, as though he’s trying to put distance between them. “And in some ways we agree with them.”

“Well, we didn’t.” The bikers cross their arms in front of their chests as they stare down at the hostages. “And we want you to prove it.”

There is a soft muttering behind Shawn’s ear as Gus practically begs him not to do it, not to side with the crazy bikers over the police, but Shawn can’t help but see a curious challenge when he saw one. He leans back, grins wide, and nods in agreement.

“I’ll do it.”

“I am resigning as your best friend.”

“Gus, don’t be the crusty edge on a can of old play-dough.” And then back to the bikers he goes. “Where do you want me to start?”

Edited 2016-09-23 04:08 (UTC)

Plink – Plink – Plink – Plink

The sound is the first thing Damian notices as he starts to come to, the slow and steady tinkle of water into something made of metal. It’s faint enough that most people probably wouldn’t have noticed but steady enough that it was starting to drive him a little fucking crazy and he hasn’t been conscious all that long. The thrust back into consciousness again is slow and painful, the sudden awareness coming that literally everything hurts and not in the good way.

Training and instincts kick in before actual thought does and he plants his hands on the ground to try and push himself up into a sitting position, but the pain that ripples through him at the even suggestion of motion doesn’t have him moving very far. He tries. He tries very hard to get up and get eyes on his partner (Stonebridge has to be around here somewhere) but while the mind is willing, the body is not able.

“Fuck me,” he says as he drops back down against the stone floor beneath him with a groan, and it isn’t long after that he hears a matching sound from further down the room, a very familiar, very British timbre cataloguing his displeasure for the current situation they’re in as well.

“Shit,” Stonebridge hisses, and while there will always be part of Damian’s brain that marvels about how British people can still sound polite, even when they’re trying to sound as crude and crass as possible, now isn’t really the time to indulge it.

“Mike? That you, buddy?” Speaking out in the open probably is the best way to get their captors’ attention, but he doesn’t really have any other way to communicate at the moment – it’s not like he an move his hands.

“Yeah, it’s me.” There’s the sound of shifting somewhere to Damian’s left, and he tries to crane his neck to see Stonebridge pushing himself into a sitting position, taking the time to scan the room like the good soldier that he is. “Can you move?”

“Moving seems to be ill-advised at the moment,” Damian sighs, as he makes another attempt at getting into a sitting position, driven only by the sheer desire not to be one-upped by his partner. If Stonebridge could move, he could move. “But I’ll make it work.”

Stonebridge is at his side in an instant, glancing him over and making sure that he really is well enough to move and not just being a stubborn son of a bitch. Damian can’t necessarily guarantee that he isn’t, so for right now he’ll indulge him. “How much pain are you in?”

“Just enough to start to feel good,” he laughs. “Let’s you know you’re alive.” Stonebridge rolls his eyes before footsteps start to sound in the hallway and he looks over at Damian like he isn’t sure that moving is the best idea – that maybe they should try a longer game, but he and Damian know the same truth. They’re both shit at the longer game. “We need to move,” Damian replies, driving that thought home. “And we need to move now.”

“Are you sure you can make it?”

“Yes.” No. Not even a fucking little. “And when we do get out of here? You are getting me so much morphine.”

Stonebridge snorts in response, before pulling one of Damian’s arms over his shoulder and starts to haul him up onto his feet. It’s like stars exploding in front of his eyes, and is promptly followed by a long chain of expletives to indicate just how unhappy he is with his current situation, but he’s on his feet, and that’s the thing that matters.

“Are you sure you’re alright to move?”

“Morphine, buddy,” he says, giving his partner a serious look as he starts moving forward. “Just get me to the morphine.”

Once upon a time, the FBI office almost used to feel like home.

Once upon a time, Jane wasn’t Jane she was another person, with another kind of home entirely. Apparently she was a child of violence, a weapon of war. She was built to fight and never given a choice until Shepard swept in and took her hand and told her that there was a way she could do good. She wants to believe, that after everything she’s seen through the FBI that she bought into Sandstorm because she believed that they were going to do good, but at the end of the day, there’s too many questions and not enough answers.

Can a group that goes to such drastic extremes really be an instrument of good?

Is the FBI so corrupt that they needed to take these drastic steps in the first place?

Is the only reason she’s able to think critically about this because they wiped away her memories in the first place?

These are questions she’s been asking since she found out she did this to herself in the first place. Questions that she had pushed to the back of her mind when she believed that she was Taylor Shaw and that she had a place with the FBI, with Kurt, with a world that was far away from the violence she seemed to know instinctively. But now she knows that the violence was with her all along, that it has always been a part of every decision she’s ever made, and that makes it so much harder to determine if she’s doing the right thing or not. Not that it really matters. She doesn’t have a place with the FBI anymore. Instead she’s caught between two worlds, one that doesn’t want her and one that wants the girl she isn’t sure she is anymore.

“Jane, could you go find Agent Weller?”

She could think of things she’d much rather do than go find Kurt. She could chop off her own hand. She could go sit in Borden’s office and let him try and pry her emotions out of her. She could play Russian roulette with eating a week old pizza.

She could play actual Russian roulette.

Still, she gets to her feet and makes her way down the hallway, hands tucked into the pockets of her leather jacket and she makes her way to the door of his office. When he looks up at her she finds herself desperately missing the way he used to look at her, like she was the answer to a prayer he’d been saying for twenty years. Now all there is a vacant kind of nothingness, which she supposes is better the hatred and distrust she deserves for unknowingly playing with his emotions, but at the same time it’s still less than what she aches for.

“What is it?”

Cold, distant and to the point, she swallows down the disappointment before continuing.

“Nas wants to see you.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Jane nods and turns to trudge away again, trying not to show her disappointment. She knows she dug herself her own grave, but at the same time, she can’t help but wonder how much longer she’s going to be a girl without a home.

Edited 2017-01-07 16:36 (UTC)

When you spend most of your life traveling on the road, and really don’t want to spend it sleeping in your car, you make due with some of the crazy places on the side of the road that you eventually have to learn to stay. Dean’s seen it all, really. There’s the themed places and the little mom and pop joints that smell like peppermint and cookies – those, personally, are Dean’s favorite, not that he’d ever admit that to Sam.

And then there’s places like this shithole. Places that are not really fit for human consumption – and they know it – but they also know it’s the price people are willing to pay for cheap lodging that won’t ask questions. Right now, however? Dean isn’t entirely sure he’s willing to pay it.

“Are you sure we can’t just drive straight through to get back to the bunker?”

“Dude, you’ve been driving for almost twenty four hours. You need to get off the road.”

“Fine. You drive, and I’ll sleep while we go.”

Sam turns to face him at that, almost skeptical of the offer as though it’s going to jump off and bite him if he happens to decide to take it, but at the same time, curious as to the “why” under it all. “You’d be willing to let me drive. That’s how much you don’t want to stay here.”

“It’s a waste of time and a waste of money.” Sam’s eyebrows raise even higher, the silent stare he knows will crawl under Dean’s skin sooner rather than later, and eventually Dean caves and scowls in return. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

“Dude, this is not the first shithole motel you’ve slept in.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I know this is a bad idea.” Dean trudges after his brother because Sam and his long-ass gargantuan legs do not slow down, but when they reach the door of the room they were given, he hikes his bag up on his shoulder a bit. “Trust me, Sammy. You open that door, you’re going to want to get the hell out of here too.”

Sam’s face is more judgmental than anything he actually says, but at the same time, this is Sam. He’s professionally judgmental. He sticks the key in the door almost in defiance of his brother’s years of motel experience while he was off building an apple pie life with Jessica at Stanford, before twisting the key and pushing the door open.

He doesn’t, however, make it past the threshold.

The smell that wafts out is some kind of bad mix of old cologne and rotting food, giving the indication that the room probably hadn’t been cleaned in a while. While Dean couldn’t actually see past Sam’s yeti-sized shoulders and into the room at hand, he could see his brother’s face, and if he were the type to rub it in, he definitely would have. But for right now, he just w
ants to focus on the matter at hand, and that’s getting the hell out of here and back home to their beds that he knows only they have slept in recently.

(It’s funny, the little things that spoil you. A few years ago, Dean wouldn’t have cared who had slept in his bed last. Now, it’s a luxury he can afford to worry about. Funny how times have changed.)

Sam takes a step back before slowly closing the door in front of him and making a face. It’s clear that he doesn’t want to cave to his brother’s demands, but at the same time, his delicate sensibilities are not going to let him set foot in that room until it’s sanitized by God himself. And as far as Dean can tell, Chuck doesn’t do house calls like this one.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll drive.”

Dean smirks, holding back his keys just out of spite. “Are you sure you’re good? I don’t want to wake up and find my baby smashed to pieces.”

Sam glares at him, before holding out his hand. “Just give me the keys, Dean.”

Dean grins again, before handing over the keys and turning to head back to the car. “Hey, if we hit that bed and breakfast on the way, we can stop there. The one with the mint chocolate chip cookies?”

Sam glances over at him skeptically. “How about we just get home?”

“Whatever, man,” Dean sighs as he slides into the passenger’s side of the Impala and closing his eyes. “Those cookies are awesome.”

The glass cracks under her hands, and there’s a moment where she can’t breathe.

All of the work, all of the effort, all of the investment, and she couldn’t let it end here. She couldn’t let it end because of her. It isn’t a matter of disappointing her father, because John Bridger had never really been a vengeful man – it was a matter of disappointing herself. Of not being able to take what her father taught her and make sure that the man who killed him lost the only thing that truly mattered to him.

She doesn’t even want the money, not really. She just wants Steve to lose. She wants Steve to be left wanting, and the only way she could do that, was to do this her father’s way. She conveys that to Charlie, and she sees the look on his face because this wasn’t part of the plan. He doesn’t explicitly say out loud that Stella is a little rusty when it comes to doing things by touch, but it’s written all over his face. In fact, the only reason why he doesn’t say it is because he knows that they have no other choice. Either Stella cracks the safe by hand, or they lose and Steve wins, and none of them want to see Steve win.

There’s barely a sound beyond the steady sound of her breathing and the thrumming of her heartbeat in her ears as she sheds all the high tech gear and sensitive equipment and just focuses on the feel of the dial in her hand. If she closes her eyes, she can almost hear her father’s voice in her ear, just like when she was a child and he was teaching her how to crack a safe behind her mother’s back.

Gently, gently, Stella. Let the safe do all the work for you.

It’s almost like a conversation, each click of the dial answering a silent question that no one is asking. Is it you? she asks, and the depth of the click makes clear whether the answer is yes or no, and every time she gets a yes, she marks it down on the side of the vault, and hoping that she doesn’t have to start all over again.

When she hears the final tumbler click into place, she almost is too hesitant to try and open it. Whether she doesn’t want to believe her success or can’t bear to think of what will happen if she’s wrong, she hesitates just for a moment, and closes her eyes, praying silently that she’s done this right.

The wheel shifts in her hands as she begins to push turning easily and the door slides open with it. She lets go as soon as it’s free, pulling back in the instinct to avoid the temptation that her father always seemed to succumb to. Except this time, she’s an actual thief, so when she’s asked if she wants to see what’s inside, she can’t help but turn and see just what kind of prize she’s won.

And she has to say, looking at it now – it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

Edited 2017-01-25 00:51 (UTC)

The man sits in front of him with a slick sort of smile, expensive suit and tie looking out of place in the dingy background of the police interrogation room. Eyeballing it Mark can tell that it has to be at least a thousand dollars, if not more, and for blue collar upbringing, he knows it has no business sitting on an ADA. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t an ADA, so he keeps his eyes turned straight ahead, looking past his shoulder into the one-way mirror behind him and hoping that this ends as quickly as it’s started.

“Mark – can I call you Mark?” Mark doesn’t respond, and the man moves on almost immediately, almost as though it was a question that was more out of formality than it was actual caring with regards to how Mark wanted to be addressed. “Mark, you’ve got us here in a bit of a pickle. You are part of an illegal crime organization. You’re looking at some pretty serious jail time here.”

“I ain’t no rat.”

The man’s lip curls, almost in disgust, before continuing. “Charming. Where’d you get that, a Scorsese film?”

“It’s the truth,” Mark smirks as he leans back in his seat, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m not going to roll over on anyone, and I ain’t confessing to anything either. You might as well just move it along.”

“Really? Because I was here to say that I had a deal that would be fairly beneficial to both of us, and you waved your right to an attorney which to me says you have something to say.”

“No, I waved my right to an attorney because I haven’t done anything wrong. You have no evidence, other than my alleged connection to organized crime, and that’s only circumstantial.”

“I see. We have a man who fancies himself a lawyer.”

“I wouldn’t say that. But I would say that I’m a man who has learned the ins and outs of the legal system, so you’re going to have to work a little bit harder if you think you’re going to nab me.”

“I see.” The ADA pauses for a moment, before shifting to lean forward and fold his fingers in front of his chest. “Your loyalty is so strong, that you wouldn’t even go down for a crime if Giovanni himself asked you to?”

His eyebrows go up at that, briefly curious as to where this was going. “Well, he ain’t here askin’, so I’m not sure why that question is relevant?”

“And what if he were?” the ADA leans in conspiratorially. “Would you?”

Mark’s eyebrows go up in response, studying the man carefully, before leaning in to match his stance, just to see if he’ll recoil to keep from getting “street thug” on his thousand dollar suit. “That would entirely depend on what he was offering.”

The ADA leans back, reaching into his pocket and taking out a letter, before placing it across the table for him to take. Mark eyes him carefully for a moment, before reaching forward to flip it open. In it is a letter in Giovanni’s handwriting, with personal details only he would know. Mark looks up at the ADA again, and he’s looking comfortably smug.

“Giovanni gave that to me to deliver to you myself. He would really appreciate if you did this favor for him.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would,” Mark replies. “So I just confess and make a deal with you, and he does what for you, exactly?”

The man looks confident as he speaks, the smugness leaving Mark to think that this probably wasn’t being recorded, as most interrogations usually are. “A few wins under my belt certainly doesn’t hurt,” he begins, before leaning back and adjusting his cufflinks. “And he may help supplement my lifestyle.”

“So you take bribes.” It’s incredibly pointed, but he’s testing how far he’s allowed to take this, and this ADA doesn’t seem to taking the smart approach to this at all.

“I prefer to consider them gestures of gratitude.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So do we have a deal?”

“Sure.” Mark smirks, before leaning back in his chair. “Too bad you’re under arrest.”

The ADA blinks for a moment, looking almost amused at the confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“You. Are Under. Arrest.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, the two detectives who arrested him earlier make their way into the room and move to arrest the ADA in front of him. As he does, Mark unbuttons his shirt to reveal the wire he’s wearing.

“But you’re … ”

“Detective Mark Castenello, first grade. I’ve been undercover in the Giovanni organization for almost two years. We always knew he had an ADA in his pocket, but we could never quite pin down who.” He tips his head to the side with a small smirk. “Now we know, so thanks a lot for that.”

The ADA is already starting to try and plead his case, talking about the convictions that will be overturned and the problems that this will cause, but right now, nothing he can say will bring down Mark’s mood. They put another bad guy behind bars – and that is always a good day in his book.

Edited 2017-02-05 15:52 (UTC)

Malia knows that there are a lot of truths about her father that are a bit hard to swallow.

For one thing, Peter aggressively looks out for his own interests, which mostly is contained to keeping himself (and Malia) alive. For another, should anything get in the way of those goals, he will end that interference, without remorse and without hesitation. And to be entirely fair to Peter, those are instincts she understands. After all, those are instincts she lived by, not too long ago. But Scott put a lot of effort into making Malia a better person, there’s no reason she can’t try that with Peter too.

Stiles is against it, likely because Lydia is against it, and while she doesn’t blame Lydia for that opinion, Lydia isn’t Peter’s daughter. And oddly enough, Scott tells her she should.

“I don’t trust him. I don’t know if I ever will,” he tells her before she leaves, “But we would be dead if he hadn’t come back for you. So … maybe there’s something in there.”

Malia has to hope that there’s something in there. She has to hope that there is something inside her to balance out the coyote, to show that she can be part of a pack, even if it doesn’t seem that way. Peter understands her in a lot of ways the others don’t and he wants to protect her, even if he doesn’t always go about it the right way. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

“This is a bad idea.”

Malia narrows her gaze at Stiles as she tosses things in her bag from her bedroom. Stiles is sitting on her desk chair, trying to talk her out of it for the fifth time even though he knows she’s too stubborn to give either way.

“Did you think it was a bad idea when it was me?”

Stiles gives her a look at that. “You were a coyote for eight years, not some psychopath who went on a murder spree.”

“Because he was in a coma for six years because his family was burned alive.” Malia goes to zip up the bag before sitting on the bed across from him. “What do you think would have happened to me if you didn’t help me learn to control my shift? Or if you didn’t reach out to me in Eichen House? I can be just as violent as Peter is.”

“Yeah, but you don’t kill people.”

“And he doesn’t just tear apart everyone in his way! The people he killed, he killed for a reason.”

“So he says.”

“So the evidence says. You’re the one who’s always talking about following the evidence.”

“Yeah, well, the evidence can be wrong sometimes,” Stiles spits out pitifully, before giving her a bit of a teasing look. “Using my own argument against me – you learned from me a little too well.”

She smirks. “I learned from the best.”

Stiles sighs, before running a hand over his face. “Well, what about Scott?”

“Scott says I should do it.”

“What?” The word falls out a little too quickly, mostly because that was not the answer that Stiles was expecting. “Scott said what?”

“He can tell you himself.” She sighs before getting to her feet and picking up her bag. “Look, I get it, no one thinks they can trust him. But jumped through a portal of fire for me, and then he let himself get taken again so they woudn’t kill me and Scott. If he’s ever going to get better, eventually someone is going to have to trust him, and right now I’m the only one who can.”

Stiles pauses for a moment, listening to her logic before nodding. “Because if he does anything actually worthwhile, he’s usually doing it for you.” There’s another beat, and he’s still not happy about this, but he’ll make his way closer and give her a hug goodbye. “Just be careful, alright? Even if you’re his daughter, he’s still Peter.”

“I know.” Malia hugs him back, closing her eyes into it for a moment. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good.” And with that he lets her go, and she makes her way down to the car where Peter is lounging casually against the passenger’s side. There’s a bag at his feet and the way he eyes her says he’s not entirely sure that her motives are pure and maybe they aren’t – but she could definitely do with getting out of Beacon Hills for a while. “What?” she asks him, raising her eyebrows in his direction.

“Are you sure about this?”

“You’re the one who spent the past few months telling me to get out of Beacon Hills, and when I actually do, you’re complaining?”

“I’m just not sure you suddenly developed a self-preservation instinct.” Malia sighs as she opens the car door, tossing her bag into the back seat before waiting for him to join her. He continues to hesitate for a moment, before finally settling in and swallowing hard. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is, you have to promise to do this my way. I go with you, we get father-daughter time, I’ll even let you pick the music, but when it comes to the big decisions, I’m the alpha.”

Her word choice there is important, and Peter knows it. She can tell by the way his eyes narrow, just slightly, and he swallows hard in response. But after a moment, he nods. “Fine. You’re the alpha.”

“Good,” she says with a small smile, before putting the key in the ignition, and starting to pull out of the driveway. “Where are we going first?”

“You could do something different.”

Richard Castle sits, staring at the blank word document in front of him, the cursor blinking almost as though it’s mocking him. Sitting across from him, lounging gallantly against one of the chairs, is a man who is every picture the adventure hero. Strong and strapping, charismatic and handsome, he’s the picture of the high adventure fantasy novel Castle had always wanted to write before he stumbled over Derek Storm and launched his way to stardom. It’s the fantasy novel that every author wants to write, even if it doesn’t always play to their strengths, and his hero smiles at him, all but charming him to take the bait.

“You know you want to. And it would be a break from the macabre you are so well known for and is so entirely … ” The man makes a face to indicate his position more clearly. “ … well. Certainly not as fun as if you gave me a beautiful companion to sail the seas with.”

“Nice try,” Castle mutters, realizing he’s talking to himself but not really caring at the moment. His mother and Alexis weren’t home, and sometimes thinking out loud works better than trying to keep his thoughts to himself. “We all know what happens, when people change gears – it either works, or it doesn’t, and given the reception of some of my earlier works, I’m gonna say it probably won’t.”

There’s a huff as the hero fades from view, and it’s soon followed by the smell of smoke and the familiar click of heels against a hardwood floor. “What about me?” She makes her way closer and pushes herself up on the edge of his desk, crossing one elegant leg in front of another. “You could still have your bit of macabre, but shift it … slightly to the left.”

“I do love a good femme fatal,” he says with a slow smirk as he leans back in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head as he eyes her carefully. She eyes him return, the silent question on her lips as she takes another draw on her cigarette. He would tell her to put it out, as this is a non-smoking building, but given that she’s not real, that doesn’t really matter does it. “And it has been a long time since I’ve had a female lead.”

“Who could it hurt?” she grins cheekily, ruby red lips parting for wide white teeth. “Take a bit of a walk on the wild side.”

Castle considers, really considers for a moment, before shaking his head as he turns back to his computer again, and the femme fatal fades into the background. There’s a huff of frustration at this point, fingers running through his hair as he tries to find something, anything that would allow him to put paper to pen – or in this case, fingers to keys – and get his publisher off his back, at least for a little while. He continues to stare into the blank, white space for a moment until there’s another sound from the room. The same heels he had heard earlier, but this time instead of delicate stilettos, they’re that of sturdy boots, and there’s a small, graceful swish against fabric as the feet sit down in front of him.

He looks up, and there she is. Long dark hair, dark piercing eyes, and a cup of coffee in hand as she surveys the room. She’s professionally dressed, but not too professional, and her hair is cut short, but is growing out in just the right way. There’s something about the perfection of her look that just tugs him in, and when she catch him staring, she smirks.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he grins, before leaning closer so that he can take in every moment, every detail. He can’t get a single thing wrong if he wants to have any chance of doing her justice. “What’s your name?”

“Nikki,” she says softly, resting her elbows on the arms of the chair. “Nikki Heat.”

“Nice to meet you, Nikki,” he says with a nod as he moves his fingers over the keys. “Let’s get started.”

Edited 2017-02-25 17:04 (UTC)

“You know, when you said facing your fears, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Dr. Rhodes moves up the bar next to Dr. Latham, leaning against it with an ease and casualness that Latham envies just as much as he doesn’t understand it. He can theorize that it comes with years of attending galas just like this one at his father’s behest, as Dr. Rhodes’ family has a great deal of money and influence, but he also believes that it comes from the fact that Dr. Rhodes understands people in a way he never can, and potentially never will. He’s come to rely on that ease with people a great deal through the process of their mentorship, and in no moment more so than the one right now.

“I’ve never played in front of a crowd this large of people I didn’t already know.” Rooftop performances at the hospital were one thing, as he knew most of the staff there. Even if they weren’t considered anything more than acquaintances, there’s a mutual level of respect shown between colleagues. Even though this isn’t a particularly prominent performance, as they were simply playing in the background of the hospital fundraiser, in some ways that makes it an even more delicate situation. These kinds of performances are supposed to be unobtrusive, regulated to the background – heard, but not seen. One note out of order would draw attention that is inappropriate to the situation at hand, and Latham does not want to be responsible for that if he can help it. “This would be a first for me.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” While Dr. Rhodes is more familiar with the complicated way that Latham views the world, Latham also feels that he can over-assume with regards to what the older man is capable of. That being said, his support is appreciated, as Latham can also tell that is not a platitude in the shape of a reassurance. He is starting to learn the difference, and he appreciates that Dr. Rhodes is direct, in his own way. Between him, Dr. Charles, and Dr. Reese, he’s starting to have a much richer view of the world, slowly but surely, and he feels that it’s helped him interpersonally in many ways, both as a colleague and as a physician. “It’s just another performance for your colleagues. You already know we enjoy your music, so don’t worry about anyone else.”

There’s a pause as he tries to weigh the logic in that statement. “The ‘anyone else’ you are referring to happen to be the donors we need to give the hospital money so that we may continue our work.”

“True,” Dr. Rhodes nods. “However, they’re our guests and will follow our lead.” His drink finally arrives at the bar behind them, and he picks it up with a smirk. “You just worry about playing the music – we’ll take care of the rest.”

Latham nods for a moment, before taking a deep breath. “Thank you, for making the suggestion to Goodwin with regards to my attendance here. Social situations have never been my strong suit.” And a fundraiser where it is mandatory that all department heads that are not on shift attend, especially given the notoriety of their cardiothoracic program was sure to be quite the social situation. “Are you sure you are willing to discuss the program in my absence?”

“If anyone can talk up the quality of a teacher, it’s one of their students.” Dr. Rhodes takes a sip of his drink with a smirk. “It will carry more weight if it comes from me. Trust me.”

And he does. Sometimes, he worries that he trusts him too much, but Dr. Rhodes has not steered him wrong yet. Latham takes a deep breath, settling himself for a moment before admitting, almost sheepishly. “I just hope people dance.” It is almost as clear an indictment on the quality of the music as no applause, or a room full of silence – or at least that is how Latham has come to understand it.

Dr. Rhodes smirks slightly, before his eyes wander across the room to where the younger Dr. Charles is standing, talking with one of the patrons who had arrived early. “Don’t worry. I think I can make that happen.” He then tears his eyes away to where Goodwin is waving at them, and places a hand on Latham’s shoulder gently. “I think that’s your cue.”

Latham follows his eyes then nods, before making his way over to the piano. Focusing on the music is helpful, it drowns out the rest of the room around him and allows him to concentrate on the thing he knows he does well, but out of the corner of his eye, every so often, he catches a swish of red silk from what he believes to be Dr. Charles’ dress, and part of him almost wants to smile.

Most days, he is usually incredibly grateful for Dr. Rhodes’ insights as a colleague. Tonight, however, he is simply grateful for his friendship.

“Laurel, wearing a rut in the courthouse floor is not going to make your verdict come back any faster.”

Laurel Lance doesn’t pause in her steps, barely glancing over at her second chair as she continues to walk back and forth across the marble floors of the Starling City courthouse. It’s her first big case as a member of CNRI and in addition to wanting to win for her client – which she does, desperately. They deserve this win – she also wants to win for herself. It’d be a great way to let the world know that she is a contender in this town, no matter what her lack of experience may seem to indicate. Joanna, on the other hand, simply wants her to stop driving her crazy, and Laurel knows that. She hears her. She just doesn’t want to listen to her.

“You don’t know that,” Laurel fires back. “Maybe my pacing actually makes time go faster.”

Joanna gives her a flat look at that, before shaking her head and getting to her feet. “No. It doesn’t. In fact, we are going to get out of here. The jury probably isn’t going to be back for a while anyway.”

Laurel looks hesitant at that, unsure for a moment, before she swallows and nods. “You’re right. You’re right. We should go back to the office. They’ll call us when the jury comes back.”

“Nope. We’re not going back to work. We’re going to get a drink.”

“Wait, what?” Joanna’s hands are on Laurel’s shoulders before she can protest further, turning her around and marching her towards the door. Laurel has no choice but to follow her friend’s lead, letting herself be swept away, even though she doesn’t necessarily want to be. “Joanna, we can’t just – ”

“Oh, we absolutely can just,” Joanna points out as they finally get to the door of the courthouse, when the other woman stops and turns Laurel to face her. Laurel is about to retort when Joanna cuts her off. “I know what today is, Laurel.”

Laurel falls silent almost immediately, because she knows what today is too. Four years since the Queen’s Gambit went down and took her sister and her boyfriend with it. She purses her lips for a moment, before closing her eyes and shaking her head. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, too bad. This obsession with work has got to stop sometime. It’s not helping anyone.”

“It’s helping our clients.”

“It’s not helping you.” Joanna sighs. “You’re never going to heal if you don’t actually talk about it, Laurel. So we are going to get a drink, and we’re not going to talk about work, and we are going to get you out of this rut. You got me?”

Laurel sighs, before nodding and holding out her hand for Joanna to lead, since she seems to be making all the decisions tonight. “I got you.”

Joanna takes it and nods with a smile. “Good.”

* * * * *

“Part of me is still waiting for them to come home, you know?”

They’re a few drinks in at this point, and while Laurel isn’t tipsy, exactly, she’s a little more loose lipped than she was at the courthouse. It’s a rare state for her, really, because after her father’s alcoholism, it’s been a long time since she’s had even a glass of wine, but she hadn’t forgotten how easy it is to feel floaty and free when most of the time she’s all too weighed down by grief.

Joanna twirls the straw on her drink. “So you can be angry in person?”

“Yeah, that.” There’s a pause as Laurel plays with the rim of her wine glass. “But … I can’t forgive them if they’re dead either. And I still love them.” Her love of Oliver may not be the same as it used to be, but she’s known him since they were children. Laurel’s life without Oliver in it is a much colder place, and she doesn’t like it. And Sara is her sister. That kind of love doesn’t just go away, no matter what they’ve done. “I’d forgive them in a heartbeat if they just came back and gave me the chance to.”

“You really mean that? Because if they actually did do that, I’m not quite sure you’d feel the same way.”

“Maybe not,” Laurel purses her lips for a moment. “Maybe you’re right, maybe I’ll just be angry in person. Unload the last four years of anger and grief in one fell swoop but even then, maybe I’ll finally feel better. Not like all of this is dragging me down all the time.”

“I get that,” Joanna says softly, before reaching forward and giving her friend’s hand a squeeze. “You know you can always unload on me, right? I’ll have your back, no matter what.”

“I do,” Laurel says with a small smile, before finishing off her wine and nodding. “And you’re right. I did need this.”

“Good. You should remember this moment later, because I am always right.” Joanna smirks again, and is about to say something else when both of their phones go off at the same time. “Looks like the jury’s back.”

Laurel takes a deep breath and nods in agreement. “Alright. Let’s go face the music.”

Cassandra doesn’t want to be here.

It’s a rainy, muddy night in Atlantic City, and she doesn’t want to be cutting her way through the city, to the club of a man that isn’t really a man at all, but more of a thing who has grown too old to realize that everything he want’s won’t always be his. It’s been centuries since Cassandra has laid eyes on Apollo, the man that made her fake her death, the man who ruined her life, the man who turned her into something she never wanted to be. But she’s seen the visions of the coming decades, of the coming days, and she knows that she needs Apollo in order for the three of them to survive this.

Their friendship won’t. Noah, she will get to keep, but Deirdre will break from her somehow. But the important thing is that Conchobar will have to spend a few more decades searching for the woman he destroyed the way Apollo had destroyed Cassandra.

The irony of this scenario is not lost on her, but she is trying not to think about it.

She steps into the speakeasy with a quiet intensity and the room seems to go quiet with her, but she does her best to stay on task.

“I am here to see the manager.” Her eyes roam over each of them, daring each of them to try and keep her from her goal. One of them points to the back room, where she could already hear the sound of laughter and revelry. She continues on her way, the silence remaining in her wake. She feels the eyes of the room boring into her shoulders, but that’s not important now. She needs to simply open the door, and facing her demon head on.

They’re playing poker in that back room: booze, cigarettes and other vices surrounding them. All of the participants are men, which is odd, considering the company that the god usually chose to keep, but she also doesn’t miss the affectionate way that Apollo’s hand is sitting on one of the men’s shoulders. She should be surprised, but she isn’t really. Apollo’s appreciation for beauty had always transcended silly constructs like gender. The room still goes silent when she enters, but Cassandra’s eyes do not leave Apollo’s, and he is still beautiful in the way that a storm or a fire or a powerful animal can be beautiful – good to view from a distance, but terribly deadly if you’re on the wrong side of it.

He’s quiet for a moment, surprised, before tipping his head to the side. “This is a surprise.”

“I am here to request an audience.”

“Well, sorry sweetheart,” a portly, cocky man bearing the green aura of a witch takes another drag on his cigar, “but we’re in the middle of a game here.”

“Clear the room.”

The order comes from Apollo himself, and the man whirls on him as though he’s about to immediately question that order before he realizes what a bad idea that is. Apollo silences him with a look before he can even start, then continues.

“Cassandra of Troy is welcome to an audience with me at any time.”

The man’s face pales, as does the rest of the players in the room, and they are quick to leave their cards at the table, only taking time to gather their winnings before they escape. Apparently none of them trust the god to not manipulate the game in his favor. Perhaps they’re smarter than she gives them credit for. Once they have all disappeared and the door is closed, Apollo smiles, before gesturing to the seat next to him.

“Please. Sit.”

“I would rather not.” Her hands form into fists, not wanting to risk the chance that he could touch her. “I am here to request a favor.”

“A favor? From me?”

“You are the only choice I have,” she replies, the sneer on her face making clear her distaste. “There is no time to go elsewhere and more importantly, convince her that she needs to do so.”

“You had a vision.” Apollo grins as he leans forward at the table, more pleased with her own work than anything else and it makes her stomach twist in disgust. (Why him? Why here, why now?) “What did you see?”

“Are even you immune to the curse you placed upon me?” She raises her eyebrows at him, and when he doesn’t respond right away, she continues without giving him a chance to answer. “Deirdre MacNessa is going to come to you for help, and I would like to request you give it to her.”

“And why should I do this for you?”

“Because you owe me.” The words are ripped from her throat with a force she hadn’t intended, but it’s clear she could only keep the anger back for so long. It’s been centuries, and she’s still grieving for the girl she used to be, and the one she can never be again. “Because you took my life and my innocence from me because I tried to keep my life as mine and not cave to your every whim. So you will do as I ask.”

His face softens for a moment, a conflicting emotion she isn’t sure she understands because she isn’t used to seeing it on his face. Something that maybe, could even be regret, if she wanted to believe he was capable of such an emotion. She doesn’t let herself look at it too long, however, and her scowl remains in place.

“So will you do this or not?”

Apollo is quiet for a moment, before nodding. “I will.”

“Good.” And she turns to stalk out wanting to put as much distance between her before his voice rises again, soft and uncertain.

“Cassandra – how long until we’re even?”

She pauses for a moment, fingers curled into fists before responding. “The fact that you feel you should ask means we are nowhere close.”

Edited 2017-03-28 01:42 (UTC)

Posted 3/15/16, 2:36 am.

Fuck.

Okay.

I don’t even really know how to explain this so I’m just going to type and see what comes out because I don’t know what just happened, but I know enough to know that it was bad and I know that the cops aren’t listening to me so maybe the internet will.

Jeremy and I went out for dinner. We were heading to a movie after that when we were stopped in an alley by some guy appeared out of nowhere and picked a fight with Jeremy. They were fighting, like they had known each other a long time, which made no sense since this guy had to be fifty at least, but suddenly the guy pulls a gun out of nowhere and Jeremy

Jeremy

I don’t really know how to explain what I saw. Jeremy just grabbed his gun hand and twisted it so hard that I could HEAR THE BONE SNAP. The next thing I know, Jeremy had these fangs and his eyes got weird and he’s lunging at the dude’s throat tearing at it with his teeth like some kind of animal.

I didn’t stick around long after that. Something about seeing your boyfriend covered in blood that sort of ruins the moment, after all. Maybe I’m … insane or maybe I was hallucinating but

Internet, or whoever might be reading this, I think my boyfriend is a vampire.

Posted 3/15/16, 3:29 am.

I mean, how do you even DEAL with this shit? One day I’m just a dude, interested in another dude, and while YEAH I may have mentioned that he had given off a creepy, stalker vibe in the past, but vampire? VAMPIRE?

Fuck me.

I am not old enough for this shit, okay? I’m seventeen. I did not sign up to be vampire date for a two thousand year-old fuckboy who likes to prey on underage teenage boys and decide to turn them into their vampire consort. While I know that teenagers are guilty of believing that they are going to be young forever I don’t ACTUALLY want to be young forever. So let’s stop that train of thought right now.

Also, I pretty much faint at the sight of blood so that’s a no go right off the bat.

Fuck, I should just go to sleep. Not stay up freaking out and rambling into the ether of the internet where no one can hear me scream.

Goodnight world. I’ll see you in the morning.

Posted 3/15/16, 12:30 pm.

Okay, I didn’t actually sleep. Instead I binged the entire first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and I learned three things:

1) Vampires can’t actually come in unless you invite them.
2) Stake to the heart will kill them, as will removing their head or setting them on fire.
3) That tiny blond teenager is more badass than I will ever be in any lifetime.

I haven’t heard from Jeremy, yet, and I can’t decide if that is for the best or not. For one thing, it’s probably better if I never see him again. Gives him less opportunities to eat me. On the other, you go crazy supernatural batshit in front of a guy you claim to care about and you can’t even spare me a frickin’ phone call? Fuck you man.

I guess a part of me just doesn’t want to be RIGHT, you know? I want there to be some kind of reasonable explanation for all of this. Maybe he slipped me a roofie. Maybe I hit my head. Maybe in my feverish studying for finals I had a violent hallucination and all of this can easily be explained with a good night’s sleep and a few days doing nothing but mindlessly playing Dragon Age.

Maybe that’s the solution for this, and I should actually sleep this time. It’ll probably be better than watching another season of Buffy, as fabulous as she may be.

Good night, world. See you … in the evening as it is now after noon.

Posted 3/15/16, 7:00 pm.

Jeremy’s here. He says he wants to talk. I’m not inviting him in, but I am going to walk with him around the well-lit area of the Washington Square Mall. If I am never heard from again, know that the last man I was with was Jeremy Rathbone and when you see him, STAKE THAT FUCKER IN THE CHEST.

And with that, I bid you adieu.

Posted 3/16/16, 12:00 am.

Okay, quick check in. I’m still alive, my boyfriend, unfortunately, is still a vampire, but he’s also still my boyfriend, but hey, maybe that’s a win?

Who really knows.

Until then, I guess I’m going to have to admit I’m safe for now. There’s not much I can really do otherwise, but a lot of what he said is pretty mindblowing. I’m not going to detail all of that here, because it’s not really my story to tell, but let’s put it this way.

Instead of his profile reading: “Jeremy, human, 17”, it reads “Jeremy, vampire, 342”, and while I’m not sure where the statutory rape laws land if you’re a vampire and technically undead, but that’s where we’re at. I still didn’t invite him in, and I don’t know if I ever will, but … there’s just something about him.

I guess I’m going to have to stick around to figure out what it is.

Edited 2017-03-28 01:47 (UTC)

She sees it in his eyes, the minute that he has her in that cage back at the “Arrowcave.” (It’s a terrible name.) There’s a certain kind of desperation that comes in a broken man, but Oliver wasn’t the same kind of broken as most. There are men who simply need to find ways to retain their power in whatever way they can, and they’re usually obvious to spot. It isn’t the torture that broke him, or the solitude, it’s the blood, and the only reason she can see it oh so well? Is because she’s seen it looking in the mirror. Not the restraint, because the restraint is all too obvious, The restraint is in every move he makes. It’s the darkness that she can see, cracking under the surface and desperate to push through.

Oliver’s clinging to hope that he can save her, but it’s not for her, and it’s not for Laurel. At the end of the day, the one Oliver is desperate to save is himself, and for some reason, this Earth’s Laurel seemed to be able to. She was able to put a leash on the dog, to soothe the hurt animal that was on the surface of Oliver Queen, and restrain him in a way that didn’t feel like a danger. She was the lion tamer, sticking her had between sharp teeth and trusting him not to bite, and for some reason, he didn’t. But take her away, and he’s just as much of an animal as he was before. It makes sense really – save the Siren, save himself. Unfortunately for Oliver, she really has no interest in saving him.

He guides her back to the entrance to the ARGUS prison, metahuman cuffs fully in place, and she lets her eyes roam the area as she goes. It’s impressive, that’s for sure. She’s fairly certain the Hood on her Earth doesn’t have these kinds of connections, but if this Earth imitates her Earth, she’s fairly certain that ARGUS would have no interest in an old man who simply wanted revenge on those who wronged him. Her heels click against the floor as they reach one of the holding cells.

“All this, for little ol’ me?” she teases. He doesn’t answer her, simply shoving her ahead and closing the door behind her, listening to the empty sound of the door clicking shut. She laughs, something that she knows to him sounds just slightly off, just the way the low, gravely purr of his voice isn’t quite right to her. “You’ll be back. Once you decide you’re ready to stop playing games, I’ll see you again.”

He doesn’t hesitate or look back when he leaves. He goes back to playing at being a hero, surrounding himself with people purer than him so he can pretend to be better than he is. He lets Prometheus taunt him at every turn, torture him, break him, and when he finally returns to the cell where she’s waiting, she can’t help but smile at the fact that the restraint is gone, and doesn’t show a hint of coming back. If he’s here to let her out, she’ll definitely make sure she has something to say about that. The smile that stretches across her face is catlike and cool, before she hears the click of the door opening. Oliver charges her the second the door is open, pinning her against the wall before she even has a chance to stop him, not that she would have tried. Oliver, her Oliver, was a pretty rich boy who had never done a day of hard work in his life. Pressed against this Oliver is like being caught between a rock and a hard place, and she had to say, she approved. She grins, and snakes one arm out to pull him closer.

“That’s more like it.”

Edited 2017-05-22 15:18 (UTC)

Martin Stein has worked with a great many blowhards in his career. He’s worked with men who thought more of their knowledge, he’s worked with men who worried more about politics than science, and he’s worked with Mick Rory. Martin Stein can work with many different men and still get the results he needs, time and time again. But this? This crosses a line he is not prepared for.

“No. No, I won’t do it.”

“Martin.” Sara’s voice has that calming tone that she uses when she’s trying to work with someone who she believes is being unreasonable, and maybe he is, but he does not need another Ray Palmer type to deal with day in and day out. Especially one who was twice the showboat.

“I’m not being unreasonable, Sara, but do you really think that this is the kind of attention we should be drawing?”

“It’s not like you don’t draw enough attention as it is.” Tony Stark replies before pointing to where Mick Rory was standing in the corner. “That man was in the American Revolution.”

“That’s not the point. The point is do we really want to throw Tony Stark into the picture.”

“It’s not a matter of if you want to, Dr. Stein.” No one’s called him by his actual title in months and it throws him for a moment. That plus a Stark actually being reasonable. “It’s a matter of you needing to. You’re already down a scientist, and as handy as Jax over there is, he’s no replacement for Ray Palmer and you know it.” He glances over at Jefferson for a moment before giving a small shrug. “No offense, but you’re more a mechanical guy, than an ideas man.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“You need someone who knows the science. You need someone who can find the flaws in the theory, not just parrot them back to you. Otherwise, Dr. Palmer is going to be continually stuck in a constant state of magnetic flux and that’s no good for anyone.”

Martin sighs heavily for a moment, before glancing around to the rest of the room. They are all waiting for him to make a decision, to decide what’s best for the team, and in many ways, Tony is right. As much as he is loathe to admit it.

“Your father was –”

“A massive dick. Trust me, I’m aware.” He places two hands against his chest. “I’m not here to weaponize your work, Dr. Stein. I got out of that business a long time ago. And I happen to have some experience with the kind of technology you’re dealing with, thanks to Hank Pym.” Martin scoffs, and Tony smirks. “We’re not friends either. I just happen to know the guy currently playing Ant-Man.”

Martin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck before nodding. “Fine. Fine, but if I see any of your usual … shenanigans, I am kicking you out of my lab.”

“You’re the boss.” Tony waits for Martin to move ahead of him and falls in step next to Jefferson. “Don’t you two merge to form one giant flaming man?”

“We do.”

“And they call me a showboat.”

Jefferson smirks. “At least we don’t do it to rock music and fireworks.”

Vampires are reborn into bloodlines, have been since the beginning. And they all lead back to the Mikaelsons.

For Marcel, it was different. He wasn’t just reborn of their blood through some trick of fate, because another vampire wanted to save him or loved him. Marcel was raised by the Mikaelsons, taught the ways of their ruthless world. He was Klaus’ son, Elijah’s favorite, Rebekah’s love – he was as much theirs as any one person can be without being born into the family and he loved them.

All of them. And he thought that they loved him.

When he became a vampire it was because Klaus allowed him to be. It was his blood that turned him and he became his father’s right hand. No matter how complex the situation or how fraught the uprising, he knew that Klaus would never harm him. That Marcel’s interests were Klaus’ interests, and that Klaus would be on his side. Even when they were fighting over the quarter, there was never any doubt that Klaus did not wish him dead.

(That’s probably changed now, after five years in a hole. Cami may have had a way of calming the beast, but Cami was gone and Klaus had always been a man more driven by anger and wounded pride than anything else.)

The problem is, even if you’re part of their vampire bloodline, that doesn’t make you blood. It doesn’t make you family, and Marcel learned that truth when it came to holding the dead body of his daughter in his arms and feeling Elijah’s hand tearing out his heart. He learned what he somehow already knew – that if you aren’t a Mikaelson, child of Mikael and Esther, than you are easily discarded for their own salvation, no matter how many years they have walked this Earth.

(Maybe he could understand Freya’s desperation. Maybe he already did, because grief and anger lead to desperate things, and Marcel had done the most desperate of all. But that doesn’t make him wrong or them right – maybe in a lot of ways, it just makes them even.)

He knows the Mikaelsons will come for him one day. With every day that ticks by, he knows that they will not leave Klaus alone and in pain if he can help it. In fact, part of him might even be looking forward to the day when they do, and he can finally take them off the map once and for all. Freya, Elijah, Kol and Klaus – the world will be better off without monsters like them.

Rebekah will understand. Hope, his sister, will understand.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

There’s a kind of itch that comes right before the full moon.

It’s almost a drag under his skin, the kind of uncomfortableness that makes him want to pull it off and tear it away to expose the raw muscle underneath. It’s a warning of what’s to come, of the pain and the snap of his bones breaking and he doesn’t want to be going through it again. This is the first time in three years that he’s been forced to turn and while Jeremy is supportive, he’s not the support he’s used to having.

His computer dings the day before the night of, when the not quite full moon is hanging in the sky, and when he reaches for it he’s surprised that someone’s trying to call him on Skype. It doesn’t take much for him to click it on, and he’s surprised for the second time to see Caroline’s sunshine smile, leaning into the camera when she sees him.

“Hey, Tyler!”

“Hey,” he says with a small frown. “What’s up?” Then, a small feeling of dread. “Is someone looking for Elena?”

“No! No, no, no,” she shakes her head quickly, a shimmer of blond flying through the air on the camera and for a moment the smell of her shampoo comes back to him, almost as though it was yesterday. It’s those kinds of feelings that he tries not to give into anymore, but he’ll never deny that there’s a part of him that still misses her. There are some things about your first love that you just don’t forget. Then her face is all concern, a look she knows very well. “Tomorrow’s the full moon.”

“Yes,” he says with a slow nod. “It’s not like I’d forget, Care.”

“Of course not.” She smirks a bit. “But I know it’s been a long time since you’ve had to turn, so I made you a –” The computer dings again, this time with an email notification and when he opens it, there’s a detailed list of all the things he used to use on the nights of the full moons to try and make things easier. (Not that turning is ever easy.) “—checklist!”

His eyes widen for a moment, studying the line of neatly typed words carefully, before turning back to face her again. “You remembered all of this?”

“Kind of hard to forget,” she replies, before giving a small shrug in return. “And I don’t want this to be hard for you. I know you’re probably being hard enough on yourself as it is.”

“Thank you,” Tyler says with a small nod. “Really.” Then there’s a hesitant smile on his face before shaking his head. “You know, I was just thinking how I didn’t know how I was going to do this without you.”

Her head tips to the side, and there’s that soft look that comes when she thinks he’s said something ridiculous. “You’re going to do this just fine without me. Who knows? It might not even hurt. You did all that turning with Hayley, right? So maybe it’ll be fine.”

“Maybe,” Tyler nods once. “But when is anything about being what we are actually easy?”

She laughs at that, before nodding. “Fair point. But I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” Nothing in their world is ever really easy, but there is always something about talking to Caroline that is. He hopes that never actually changes.

“I hope you’re right.”

“Tyler, we were over this when we were dating.” She grins. “I am always right.” There’s a beat of silence, before her face brightens again. “Oh! Speaking of not easy things – you have to come to my baby shower!”

There’s a long, long pause as Tyler process that, his vampire ex-girlfriend, telling him that she’s going to be having a baby shower.

“I’m sorry. I have to come to your what?”

Sometimes, you need an elaborate heist, some kind of complicated grift, in order to get what you need. And sometimes, you just need something quick, dirty and blissfully uncomplicated. It’s no surprise to anyone that Parker tends to prefer the latter.

“Forty two seconds.” The rest of the team turns on her for a moment in surprise, and she rolls her eyes a bit because they should know what she’s referring to be now. “Ten seconds to get to the vault room door, ten to pick the lock, twelve to crack the safe and grab the item, and ten seconds to get back out again. In, out, forty two seconds.”

Nate studies her carefully for a moment, before tipping his head to the side. “We don’t want it to happen to soon. The mark will probably double check the vault to make sure he still has it before the investors arrive. So you will have a very small window to get in there without getting caught by the mark who will likely be nearby. Still think you can do it in forty two seconds?”

Parker scoffs, before looking at Nate like he just happened to say something crazy. Sophie smirks a bit before pointing out. “You do realize she tends to go unseen more often than not.”

“I know,” Nate frowns, weighing the options as he turns back to the plans. “I just want to make sure she knows what’s on the line.”

“Don’t worry, Nate.” Parker may seem like she doesn’t understand things a lot of the time, but all of the members of the team know at this point that she cares a lot more than she manages to let on. “I get it.”

Nate glances over his shoulder and nods. “Alright. Let’s get it done.”

***

By the end of the job, the statue in question is sitting on top of Nate’s desk, ready to be pawned so that the money could be sent to the victims in question.

And Parker did it in thirty eight seconds.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

It’s not that Barry doubts Thea’s ability to be a tiny, violent rage machine. He’s seen her in action, he knows how this works. But Barry is also Barry and he can’t help the slightly cocky edge that comes with the fact that he’s faster than most humans. It doesn’t matter that people have taken him down before, and that usually comes with planning and time – and cold guns.

Oliver just wants Thea to punch him.

“We need to be better at going up against metas.” Oliver is standing on the outside of the ring, arms crossed in front of his chest. “While it’s true, that not all of them are going to have super speed, it at least gives us a frame of reference.”

“That’s not the part I was questioning. Are you really asking me to trying and hit your sister?”

He’s pretty sure that under any other circumstance, Oliver would have killed him by now for even suggesting it. But before Oliver could even respond, Barry’s caught with a hard right hook to the face, followed by a left, and then one straight to the gut. Barry doubles over with a wince.

“‘Try’ was the operative word in that sentence,” Thea smirks, rolling her shoulders a bit, before shaking out one hand. “You have a hard head, Allen.”

Oliver smirks. “I think she’ll be fine.”

Barry takes a deep breath, before nodding and turning to face Thea again, bringing up his fists with a sigh. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

* * * * *

Barry puts up a very valiant effort. He’s not a fighter, and that much is clear from the first time he swings at her, but he’s fast and clever and manages to hold her off fairly well, even if he knows he isn’t winning. However, as they come towards the end of the sparring match, he can feel his energy waning and he knows he needs to take a break or else he’ll risk passing out, and that’s just embarrassing.

He throws a few more lazy punches that Thea can dodge easily, before he slows and starts to turn to Oliver. “Hey, maybe we should …”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. The first punch catches him hard in the face, stunning him entirely, and the next two finish the job rather neatly. Barry goes down hard, and when Thea sees him hit the mat, she cringes slightly.

“Sorry, Barry!”

Oliver pushes up, scrambling onto the mat and going to lean over him to make sure he’s okay. “He’s out cold.”

“Whoops.” Oliver tosses her a look, and Thea shrugs. “What? You said not to hold back.”

There’s another deep, put upon sigh from Oliver, before he reaches down to sling one of Barry’s arms over his shoulders. “C’mon. Help me get him to Caitlin.”

Thea does as she’s told, and as Barry’s moved, he starts to come around some, looking at both of them hazily. “Hey. Did I win?”

Oliver and Thea look at each other for a moment, before looking back at him. “What do you think?” Thea asks, and Barry groans a bit.

“I would have said it could go either way, but from the way my head is pounding, I’m going to go with no.”

“And you would be right,” Thea nods. “But you gave a very valiant effort, and that’s what matters.”

Barry then turns to Oliver, with an easy, dazed grin. “Do I get an A for effort?”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “You get a trip to see Caitlin and an ice pack.”

Barry’s face immediately falls, and he lets himself be hauled off easily between the Queens. “That sounds like slightly less fun.”

She misses the city.

It comes in small, brief moments of relative lucidity, when the quiet of the Baker House becomes all too clear to her. She knows that her family has been blocking her telepathy in order to help her heal, so that she doesn’t lash out and hurt anyone, but at the same time, she misses the white noise of New York, the millions of voices trying to flood her brain only to cancel out each other in the quiet hum of white noise that goes a long way to making her feel less alone.

But those moments are few and far between, and gone all too soon. The moment she may have the fleeting thought, the next it’s back to math phrases that make no sense and theorems that have no effect on the real world. It’s all too easy to forget that Sarah Zellaby used to be a real girl, not just a broken cuckoo, but for right now, the latter is making much more of an appearance. Her head is too quiet, giving her thoughts room to swirl and twist in a way she can’t fully articulate, almost to the point where she doesn’t notice when Alex comes in to take a seat next to her.

“Hi, Sarah.”

She turns to face him, eyes wide and mostly vacant of the cousin he used to know, but at least she knows him enough to respond to him. That should be considered something, right? Alex doesn’t flinch, having lived with it for a while at this point, and extends his hand to her cautiously.

“Thought you might want to talk.”

There’s a risk, a high risk, that if he lets her in, she could scramble his brain, do more damage than she realizes – not intentionally, never intentionally – but she could do it all the same. Still, Alex offers her his hand, and she takes it, if for no other reason than the normalcy it provides. It starts slowly, but eventually thoughts begin to order themselves again, his scientist brain overriding her jumbled one, sorting thoughts back into their proper places and making things rational, neat and orderly. There’s a small exhale of relief as the undercurrent of Alex’s thoughts start to slide into place, a little bit nerves and a little bit trying to talk himself out of those nerves, stating easily:

You’re going to have to trust her sometime.

“I’m not really sure now is the time,” she states out loud, not wanting to risk the chance that she might think too hard to try and speak with him telepathically, even if it was her more natural voice. “Most people would probably prefer I get a little bit better first.”

“Maybe this will help you get better,” he shifts as he turns to glance at her more, a small smile crossing his face in victory. One hand comes up to adjust his glasses as he speaks, reminding her of the Blue Ranger from that superhero show that Verity loved when she was in her superhero phase as a child. “I have a hypothesis, actually.”

“A hypothesis, about me?”

“Yes,” he nods. “When you overtaxed yourself, your brain sort of … lost the ability to manage the traffic of your thoughts on it’s own, and that was only exasperated by your telepathic abilities and the invading thoughts of other people. My supposition is that if you are given small, temporary doses of a more rational thinker, your brain may be able to relearn how to order itself and you’ll be able to come more and more back to yourself.”

Sarah considers for a moment, before smirking slightly. “So you want to train my brain.”

“Yes. That makes it sound entirely too simplistic, but yes.”

The smirk turns to a soft smile, before she inches closer, letting her head rest against his shoulder, careful to only touch his shirt, and closes her eyes. “That would be nice, if you could.” There’s a small pause and she admits something she’d only be able to admit in this moment. “I miss the noise.”

Alex nods as he shifts to accommodate her. “Well, let’s see if we can help you get it back.”

“I really don’t think this is our best bet.”

“I don’t think we have much of a choice at this point.”

We were hovering on the edge of the playing field, foam swords gripped in hand and watching our enemies milling on the other side. There are a lot of different ways this could go down – the two of us, the only remaining living members of our party against the hoard of orcs that were waiting for us to run out to die.

The odds are not in our favor. The odds are never in our favor. But yet, we must try.

Ellie is leaning over my shoulder, her tight curls brushing against my cheek as we surveyed the scene. Her paladin armor glints in the early morning light, the bright silver a solid contrast against her dark skin. We don’t really have to fight. We just have to get the Orb of Justice to its rightful place in the temple and we win.

Well, not win, exactly. There aren’t really winners and losers in LARP. But we succeed in our mission and save the world. That has to be some sort of winning, right?

“We tried sneaking around, it didn’t get us very far,” I sigh, reaching up to tighten my ponytail, held in place by my druidic headdress. “Our only option is through them. And only one of us has to get the orb where it needs to go.”

Ellie turns to look at me, and I can see the set off the determination in her jaw. We’re going to do this, for better or for worse. I smile softly and pull her into a tight hug, slipping the card for my strongest protection spell into the other girl’s pocket. I can feel her doing the same for me, and when we pull back I give her a small smile.

“See you on the other side, then?”

“Give them no quarter. Let’s not let our fallen sisters down.”

I nod, and we turn back to the field, lifting our sword and staff in hand the hoards that await us. “Go for broke?”

“Go for broke.”

We clink our bracers together, take one last deep breath, and let out a fierce battle cry as we charge down the embankment. We may not win the battle, but hopefully we’ll get far enough to gain some ground in winning the war.

Steve frees them from the Raft and Clint claims ownership of Wanda before Cap can even get a word out. Whether or not Steve’s intentions are honorable isn’t really the question. It’s more the fact that he is the one who got them into this situation, and in order to fix the mess, he has to take a step back. Its probably for the best – Wakanda is the safest place for Steve at the moment, and as far as Clint is concerned, he can stay there.

Her return to the farm involves a lot of silence on the girl’s part, and quiet requests for personal space. She never denies the children, greeting her with the kind of hugs that only children can offer, but when Laura tries to do the same, Wanda recoils, retreating into her personal bubble. Laura does her best not to flinch in response, but she understands that what they’ve been through – what both she and Clint have been through – is not going to be something that’s fixed in a day.

So Laura does what she does best. She focuses on her husband, and lets the kids work on Wanda. She places plates of food nearby, knowing eventually they’ll be eaten. And waits patiently through the silence, hoping that eventually Wanda will be ready to talk.

* * * * *

It’s three days before Wanda speaks, and when she does, it’s not to either of the adults, and it’s not in English. It’s in Sokovian to Pietro who is barely old enough to understand the letter of what she’s saying, but can pick up on the emotional resonance behind it. Clint finds her in the nursery, the small child balanced on her lap as she speaks, and the little bits of Sokovian he knows leads him to believe it’s some kind of fairy tale or bedtime story.

Wanda is about halfway through the story when she notices he’s there, but she doesn’t retreat or stop the story. She follows it through to the end, when Pietro is fast asleep in her arms, and she makes her way over to place him back in his crib.

“Did the story have a happy ending?”

“In a way.” Her voice almost sounds foreign, after all this time, but Clint doesn’t flinch or try to sound surprised. “Sokovian fairy takes always have a lesson before the happy ending.”

“I take it these lessons aren’t easy ones.”

“Not really.” Her eyes remain on the small boy in the crib, and she brushes her hand against the top of his head. “Some I am still struggling to learn.”

Clint watches her for a moment, staying quiet before nodding. “Well, if you ever need help talking through it, you know where to find me.”

She glances back for a moment, meeting his eyes for a moment, before nodding. “I will.”

* * * * *

It takes a few more days before Laura and Clint come downstairs to find breakfast on the table, and the kids in front of the TV. It’s not their usual breakfast – all traditional Sokovian meals, and even if Clint doesn’t know what they are, they all smell delicious. They both stare at the spread for a moment, before Wanda turns around and offers them a small smile.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” Laura nods. “This looks … amazing.”

That makes the younger girl smile and she takes another step forward. “I thought I would start, as you say, pulling my weight, if that is alright.”

Clint is about to interrupt and insist that she’s a guest, and therefore there is no weight to pull, but Laura cuts him off, placing a hand against his chest before he can protest.

“Only if you let me do the dishes.” Laura smiles softly. “And teach me the recipes.”

There’s another bright, fleeting smile as she nods, “Deal.” As she exits to round up the children for breakfast, Clint frowns and turns back to his wife.

“She doesn’t have to—”

“It’s not like we’re making her be a slave, Clint,” she replies. “She’s looking for a place.” In the family, in the household – there are a number of ways that can be interpreted, but Clint tips his head back and nods for a moment, surprised that he hadn’t seen it sooner. “I think letting her cook breakfast is an easy place to give her.”

He nods for a moment, before flashing her a warm smile. “I always knew I married up in the brains department.”

Laura laughs, before nudging him towards the table. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

“Damn,” Teddy says with a grin as he makes his way into the ballroom where the company had opted to hold their annual charity fundraiser. “You guys really know how to throw a party.”

The rather large space had been completely decked out in a Vegas style casino, with slots and other game machines lining the walls, while the more traditional blackjack, craps and roulette. Each table is manned by the upper management of the company, while their clients and the associates were able to dress up, have a drink, and enjoy a fun evening of pretend Vegas. Teddy’s only been an associate at Sherman & Moore for a year, and had missed the fundraiser the year before, but he is excited to jump in and see what the night had to offer.

Before he could get far, however, he feels a sharp tug on his arm as Hayley begins to drag him off to the side, out of the earshot of any of the customers. “We need to talk.”

“Why do we need to talk? I was going to go play craps.”

“That is why we need to talk.” When they’re far enough away from prying ears, she turns to face him, placing her hands on his shoulders gently. “Please do not gamble tonight.”

“I don’t understand the request.”

“Teddy.” She huffs a bit, before giving him a look to show that she was serious. “As much as the partners say that we are allowed to participate too, and that it’s for charity so spending money is encouraged, but be aware that this is still a work function and we’re still trying to woo clients here.”

“And my participating will hurt that … how exactly?”

“I think we both know that you can be a little … competitive.”

“You like that about me, last I checked.”

“Yes, and in the office it’s … great. But when it comes to wooing clients, you want them to win. You don’t want them to see you as overly competitive and putting your need to win above theirs. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“So what you’re saying is that you want me to not gamble because you’re afraid I’ll win?”

Hayley rolls her eyes to the ceiling and shakes her head before responding. “I’m saying that you’re a bad winner, Teddy.”

“There’s no such thing as a bad winner. Just jealous losers.” He winks at her as he steps back towards the festivities and Hayley pinches the bridge of her nose before leaning back against the wall with a sigh.

“I warned him. I warned him and therefore am no longer responsible.”

* * * * *

By the end of the evening, the ballroom is in shambles and several members of the team, including Teddy, are propped against the stage and carrying various forms of bruises. Standing in front of him are Hayley and their boss, Mr. Rochester, who is looking less than pleased with the end results of this particular scenario. While as far as he can tell, no major harm was done, it’s still less than professional behavior and there were absolutely going to be repercussions.

Teddy glances over at the broken “Jackpot!” neon sign that is resting on the ground and the black jack table that had been flipped in the corner, and he winces before looking up at Hayley again.

“Okay, you’re right. I might be a bad winner.”

Hayley just shakes her head a bit in return before turning to walk away. “Told you so.”

“I had the most interesting conversation today.”

Annaliese is at the dinner table grading papers as Wendy cleans up the dishes from dinner, engrossed in work as always. Her work ethic is one of the things she loves about her, a kind of dedication to understand the human mind that doesn’t come along very often in another person, let alone a woman. Still, she manages to lift her eyes just enough to let Wendy know she has her attention before she speaks.

“Oh really? I thought you had another consultation with Special Agent Tench.”

“I did. And he and his partner are working on a very interesting study on some of the more … infamous murderers of recent years. They’re actually going to the prisons and discussing their processes with them. The laboratory conditions are almost near perfect.” Wendy turns off the water and dries her hands for a moment, turning and leaning against the sink as she faces her partner. “If they proceed as intended they could find out some very interesting information about the inner workings of psychopaths and what makes these killers so different from the titans of industry that I’m studying in my work.”

“Are they proceeding with a study?” The tone is a bit distant, almost as though she’s not quite listening completely, but there’s a part of Wendy that’s used to that at this point.

“They’re trying but they’re being restricted by FBI red tape. It’s a shame really. They could do great things with it if they had the time.”

“Yes. Such a shame.”

Wendy doesn’t give the dismissal much thought at the time, as it’s not a project she’s involved in, but later, all it reminds her of is the beginning of the end.

* * * * *

“When are you coming home?”

There’s a frustration in Annaliese’s voice is evident, even over the phone, and Wendy doesn’t really know what to tell her. When she’s in the moment, in the office, she finds herself sucked in a way she hasn’t experienced on any previous project. Tench is detached enough to keep them both grounded and remind them that these are people, not just lab rats, and Holden, Holden is bright and intuitive and eager to learn in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

This project is going somewhere. She just doesn’t know how to tell her partner about it.

“I don’t know,” she admits honestly. “There’s a great deal of data to parse through, and while these men are intuitive they’re not true psychologists. There’s still some hand holding that needs to be done.”

“I warned you about this when you agreed to consult on a more long term basis. That it was going to be far more work that you should be handling when you’re applying for tenure.”

“I remember what you said,” Wendy sighs softly, leaning back against the headboard of her hotel bed and wishing she was in her own. “I’ll try and come home this weekend.”

“For good?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the same noncommittal statement, but part of her can’t help but feel that her place is here, with the FBI. That the work they’re doing here may matter more than tenure.

“Think about your future, Wendy. Think about our future.”

She hangs up, and Wendy can’t help but wonder why the idea of a mutual future doesn’t quite fit.

* * * * *

Annaliese thinks that the matter has been decided.

She thinks that Wendy will follow her lead, study respectable subjects and get tenure, settle into a safe life of academia and monotony all to preserve their relationship, and maybe in some ways she’s right. Maybe in some ways, that would be the safer thing to do. But at this point in her career, Wendy isn’t looking for safe.

If she’s being entirely honest with herself, she was never looking for safe. She wants to do work that’s going to change the world, and if Annaliese can’t see that, then maybe her work isn’t the thing that lacks value at the moment. Maybe it’s her partner she should be questioning.

Annaliese rests her hand over Wendy’s, holding it tightly, almost as though the older woman is afraid she’s going to slip away into the ether, but all Wendy can think of is it being the shackle that is keeping her here and keeping her from following her passion. The din of the restaurant fades around them, and she suddenly feels the resolve that usually comes when a decision has been made. She pulls her hand out, gets up from the table, and leaves the restaurant without a second glance.

The decision has never been easy, no decision of this magnitude ever is, but Wendy knows this is a risk worth taking. Better to be on the cusp of something that will change the world, rather than being left in the dust. She goes back to their apartment one last time, picks up the phone, and dials Director Shepard’s number as though she can’t even feel the tug of the dial as it slides against her finger.

“Director Shepard? It’s Dr. Carr. I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I wanted to accept your offer. When would you like me to start?”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

fandom weekly } { entry tracking post

Running Word Count: 31,876 wordsPart 2

#001 ~ off stage i stand a better chance ~ white collar ~ 483 words

#002 ~ what i'll say is just what i'm hoping for ~ the flash ~ 923 words

#003 ~ you got a face with a view ~ teen wolf ~ 994 words

#004 ~ as i walk on by, will you call my name ~ 1,000 words

#005 ~ when you got a job to do you gotta do it well ~ original (paladinverse) ~ 860 words

#006 ~ we'll dance and sing and fight until the early morning light ~ mcu ~ 926 words

#007 ~ its time i was on my way ~ supernatural ~ 753 words

#008 ~ all my cares just drift right into space ~ teen wolf ~ 947 words

#009 ~ alba gu bra ~ original ~ 719 words

#010 ~ if you'd just believe in me ~ original ~ 998 words

#011 ~ even judas knew he had lied ~ original (riftverse) ~ 929 words

#012 ~ baby this a new age ~ leverage/mcu (agents of shield) ~ 933 words

#013 ~ independence day ~ teen wolf ~ 312 words

#014 ~ what's the word, humming bird? ~ dctv/mcu ~ 768 words

#015 ~ our piece of americana ~ marvel cinematic universe ~ 676 words

#016 ~ but don't make any other promises ~ the blacklist ~ 438 words

#017 ~ wwndd ~ sense8 ~ 886 words

#018 ~ wild night is calling ~ psych ~ 634 words

#019 ~ one thing only cures my blues ~ original ~ 587 words

#020 ~ my life is drowning in tsunamis ~ original (riftverse) ~ 545 words

#021 ~ say i'm the only bee in your bonnet ~ csi:ny/rizzoli & isles ~ 647 words

#022 ~ i don't scare easy no more ~ legends of tomorrow ~ 270 words

#023 ~ sugar, we're going down swinging ~ october daye series ~ 590 words

#024 ~ i'm not inclined to resign to maturity ~ psych ~ 593 words

#025 ~ sometimes love don't feel like it should ~ strike back ~ 643 words

#026 ~ the moment my life was set ~ blindspot ~ 545 words

#027 ~ out there on the road ~ supernatural ~ 753 words

#028 ~ sold my soul to a sweet melody ~ the italian job (2003) ~ 528 words

#029 ~ lawyers, dontcha just love 'em ~ original ~ 875 words

#030 ~ we're all works in progress ~ teen wolf ~ 939 words

#031 ~ in a world of pure imagination ~ castle ~ 695 words

#032 ~ social intricacies ~ chicago med ~ 842 words

#033 ~ the jury's out, but my choice is you ~ dctv ~ 886 words

#034 ~ can you swear that i'm not screaming ~ paladinverse ~ 999 words

#035 ~ the official, unabridged diary of teenage vampire bait ~ original ~ 904 words

#036 ~ i am beauty with no heart ~ dctv ~ 643 words [AMNESTY]

#037 ~ showboating ~ dctv/mcu ~ 542

#038 ~ thicker than water ~ the originals ~ 441

#039 ~ got a curse i cannot lift ~ the vampire diaries ~ 646 words

#040 ~ sticky fingers ~ leverage ~ 340 words

#041 ~ a kiss with a fist is better than none ~ dctv ~ 628 words

false truths, true lies ~ incryptid ~ 702 words

tpk ~ original ~ 400 words

#044 ~ i think i'm losing my mind now ~ mcu ~ 765 words

#045 ~ talk me into losing just as long as i can win ~ original ~ 589

#046 ~ like diamonds in her eyes ~ mindhunter ~ 879

Running Word Count: 31,876 words
Part 2