Papers scatter like leaves across carpeted flooring and rest upon the files nestled amongst empty takeaway containers that have been roughly pushed to one side. The back of Joe's head throbs like someone has lodged an icepick into it and blue eyes squint against both the pain and that annoying scratch meant to remind a man that he hasn't slept in two or three days. He napped yesterday though, didn't he? In the quiet of his office .. or was it the day before? Fingers of one hand twitch, curling and stretching as if he's trying to relax cramped muscles instead of fighting the urge to stifle a yawn.. and he thinks of George, fast asleep in her makeshift room down the hall...thinks about how lucky she is to not know what a bloody case report even is, let alone not having to go through them. He imagines her curled up in her blankets like she had curled against him earlier, insistent babbles as chubby fingers fought for a taste of his food fading into silent huffs of warm breath that tickled his cheek. She doesn't know what he keeps coming 'round for, has no idea the threat looming over her future, that faceless shadow watching from the corners ... His heart thumps at the idea that this is a battle he may yet lose, jaw setting against the mere chance of it.

Salvation - James' salvation- lies somewhere in the myriad of facts splayed out before them, some hidden gem placed amidst useless facts. He reaches for a particular file, scans the dates and photographs of evidence until his eyelids begin to close, fluttering in a useless attempt to stay open. There's a book that his nephew has (sitting on some shelf in the corner now, probably gathering dust) ... Where's Wally? An exciting page turner that had often led to Wes falling asleep and his detective inspector uncle hyper-focusing on each individual page, unable to close the cover until the mystery had been solved. Maybe this is another such book, an endless game of find the culprit... the shadowy figure hidden in the midst of illustrated cribs and cars and universities. Maybe there's a connection there ...

@gentlemanstarkey : are you asleep on me?

James' voice, when it reaches his ears, is a quiet blend of amusement and confusion... and Joe is slammed back into the moment with a speed which would almost be impressive had he not already been half dead of embarrassment. There's the feeling of warm skin against his own (oh god, oh god, oh god) and the smell of soap that tickles the inside of his nose while he tries to come up with a way to discreetly find out if he'd been snorting. No...nope. Don't even think of the possibility for that. When he speaks, words tumble over one another in an apology almost as frantic as his widened eyes and the staccato rhythm against his ribs, weight shifting despite the instinct to stay exactly where he is.

"I'm sorry. I've been .. Balancing has been a bit hard at the moment, that's all. I'm fine, I am...I'm just not used to feeling quite so .. stuck." The other man is all patience and warm understanding and the detective forces himself to look anywhere other than those dark blue eyes that he would willingly drown himself in. He's about to apologize again, about to make his excuses and run for the door, when an image once again tickles the barest edge of his thoughts.

Where's Wally?

"James, did you ... at your university, while teaching ... things were bad with Sarah, you've mentioned that. Did they .. how bad? Was there anyone who ... Christ, did you have an affair?"

The ONE DAY I’m like hell yeah I could write a thing or three … our internet and phone provider decides to just fuck off for the entire area.

distracting myself from our weather by trying to download the stuff i made for hunter onto his computer and organize it and.. man. i'm sure windows is a wonderful operating system but my apple brain can not figure it out.

joe + being bashful

every time @trickstercaptain is on the dash at all, i get this weird wave of killian muse strictly because he exists to make jack miserable.

It's been a long while since he's met anyone who can get under his skin as effortlessly as Detective Inspector Joseph "No Nonsense" Chandler, with his perfect clothes and perfect hair and perfectly judgmental eyes that look upon him with utter disdain...and yet here he was, studying the other man where he sat at his desk, working late into the night in a desperate bid to catch yet another murderer. It's the sort of dedication that James has come to expect from the D.I., and he allows himself a moment of silent contemplation from his place in the hall, noting the way Joseph presses a hand against his side while a pained frown creases his brow despite whatever distraction is presented by the files before him. There's something there...something that isn't right, and before James can stop himself he's halfway across the Incident Room, announcing his presence by demanding to see beneath the detective's shirt.

Yes, perfect. That will go over swimmingly.

As expected, Joseph's reaction is far from the cordial greeting of a friend or even the cool acknowledgement of a colleague - instead it's more akin to the response he might get if he'd asked the detective to pet a sewer rat, the frown that twists his brow deepening and his lip curling for just a moment in what James would assume is disgust at his sudden appearance. Then the perfect façade is back in place, the ruffled feathers smoothed and the in-control D.I. present and accounted-for.

"It's not just irritation from your shirt." His voice is pitched low and quiet, almost soothing - the sort of voice one might use to calm a spooked horse, all soft syllables and gentle intonation, and he leans against the doorframe with a casualness that is as non-threatening as he could make it. "Let me guess...three scratches?"

He doesn't need to hear the words from Joseph's mouth, he can see the answer written in the eyes that fix him with a piercing look before shifting back to where he's rearranging papers without so much as glancing at them; he can see it in the way the younger man's chest rises and falls in a rhythm far more rapid than usual and in the slightly off-center knot of his tie. Joseph is rattled, possibly even a little frightened, and it touches some part of James that has been locked away since he was greeted with words like charlatan.

Fraud.

Ignoring the detective's angry tirade, recognizing the way Joseph is lashing out as a response to that fear and uncertainty that has suddenly touched him in a way that is entirely threatening and personal, James moves further into the office without invitation, settling himself in the armchair tucked into the corner of the office. His gaze is direct but utterly lacking in judgment; rather his expression is gentle and blue eyes are touched with sympathy as they rest upon the detective, searching familiar features for some hint as to how to bridge the gap that formed between them at their very first meeting.

"I was like you, once." The words spill into the uneasy silence that lingers in the room, a silence broken only by the sound of the clock ticking on the wall to mark the passage of time. "I didn't buy into any of this...nonsense. I was a rational adult with a firm grasp on reality, and seeing was believing."

James pauses for a moment, his mind casting back to those days - before Sarah's death, before being confronted by his own nightmares come to life, a wistfulness painting his expression in shades of melancholy that linger when he raises his eyes to meet Joseph's once more. "Some things are impossible to deny, however, no matter how grounded in reality a person may be. Trust me when I say that I wish I had never been given the proof I needed in order to believe...and I pray to God it's something you're never given, either."

The quiet wail from the bedroom derails his train of thought, concern for his daughter momentarily overriding the thread of conversation that has flowed between the two men, and James stifles a flicker of frustration at the interruption. It's not Georgia's fault, after all - her sleep has been broken by bad dreams since...well, since the night he became a single parent, and the poor thing had been through so much since then it's no wonder she's restless now.

Even as he's rising to his feet he gives Joseph an apologetic look, one hand lifting to forestall the younger man's departure. He's not ready to let this discussion end yet, especially with so much unresolved between them and so many questions floating around in his mind about the detective's last remark, and James gives a quick shake of his head when Joseph mentions letting himself out. He can't rid himself of the feeling that once the other man slips out the door he'll disappear, that James will wake in the morning to find that it was all some surreal dream, one which would haunt him for the rest of his days. He has enough regrets for a dozen lives, and letting Joseph Chandler walk back out of his life isn't one he's willing to add to his record.

"Stay." It's a request, not a command, and his gaze holds the other man's eyes for a lingering moment as the little girl's voice grows louder from down the hall. "Please, Joseph. I'll go get her, bring her out here so she can settle back down to sleep, and we can...finish our conversation." He hesitates, his expression cracking for a split second as his voice emerges on a whisper of sound. "Don't leave me."

With that he turns and disappears into the darkened hallway, crossing the threshold of the bedroom door and scooping up his daughter to cradle the crying child in his arms, shushing her gently as she clings to him with something near desperation. He bounces her instinctively, pressing a tender kiss to the top of her head while she sniffles into his shirt front, a quiet whimper escaping her as he moves to pick up her blankie and wrap it around her against the chill of the evening air.

He isn't sure what he'll find when he emerges from the bedroom - perhaps he'll discover that it was all a hallucination brought on by stress, that there will be no Chinese carry-out cartons left abandoned on the coffee table, no jacket hung carefully on the hook where Joseph had put it when he arrived with dinner for the two men, no familiar and comforting presence reminding him that he wasn't alone.

So when he steps into the dimly lit living room and glances around, his gaze settling upon the other man once more, he can't help the sigh of relief that slips from between his lips. "I thought...I was afraid you might have..." James swallows past the lump that has inexplicably formed in his throat and tries once more. "Thank you. For staying, I mean."

@gentlemanstarkey said: "something doesn't feel right." (whitechapel)

The water is warm where it falls over his hands, a steadying gurgle of sound that promises peace with each new bit of skin that is offered to it. He's aware of the other man's presence behind him, can feel that shift of energy that settles between bones and muscle (all the places that water can't reach) with a comfortable heat, so he hardly reacts when James' words fill the quiet room. Blue eyes watch as palms paint one another with broad strokes of lingering soap that fall into the drain, carrying each and every worry to some dark and secret place, some curve in the pipes where they'll remain stuck and unable to touch him.

There will be new worries, of course .. but at least these will be dealt with.

Joe glances up, catching his companion's gaze in a mirror that's nothing but unkempt glass, and makes a mental note to clean it later. James is distorted, backwards (as reflections so often are), but he's still able to make out the worried expression that has painted itself across expressive features. The scoff that leaves him is unintentional, a huff of breath and sound that falls into the dark drain with the slippery ease of something that knows it's overstayed its welcome, and for the first time the detective finally shifts slightly, looking over his shoulder until his eyes lock with those so akin in color to their own.

"It's called panic. I felt it too the first time, you know. I still feel it.." Lips twitch as if fighting back the threat of a smile that doesn't fight hard enough to make itself be known, and Joe feels the skin around his eyes crinkle the smallest bit with unshared laughter. "It's just Ed. Every once in a while he feels the need to host something when his mum is out of town, that's all."

The towel that dries his hands is unblemished white cotton, a soft benediction that licks away any remnants of sins that gather like beads of water between his fingers and along the ridges of calloused knuckles.. and as he sets it aside, folded as carefully as a shroud left within a tomb, the other man finally acquires every bit of his full attention.

"If you're trying to get out of it by starting the foreboding omens early, I'll have to tell you that I tried the same last year. It didn't work. I ended up at A&E, listening to a lecture about how feigning discomfort can cost you - or anyone else - their life. So, trust me .. whatever nerves you're feeling in the face of listening to Ed give a presentation on the birth of some spree of murderous grocers ... facing a nurse like that is much worse." That smile does break through now, lighting up features that can never manage to be quite as dour as they wish to be in the demonologist's presence. One stride closes the distance between them and Joe's eyes soften slightly, straightening his tie with deft fingers that celebrate a job well done by reaching downwards to tickle the tips of James' own.

It's a casual dismissal, a careless shrug against something the older man takes quite seriously, but the detective feels far too light to be plagued by the weight of doom and bloom. "Seriously, James. After all the stories you've used to try and convince me you're not completely mad.. you're going to pretend an evening spent with Ed Buchan is enough to get your guard up? What happened to your sense of adventure?"

This, at least, is a subject he can discuss with a degree of confidence and knowledge, having studied the origins of such myths for years in search of what he would call the truth - if such a thing existed and could be defined with one broad and simplistic term. He rests his weight against the edge of the desk, the sturdy wood surface comforting and solid in a world that feels as if reality is becoming distressingly subjective, his gaze falling to their interlaced fingers. It's difficult to find a place to begin, to pinpoint the best way to tackle a conversation so complex and layered, so full of metaphor and hyperbole that stretches back for literal centuries, and James clears his throat as a thoughtful crease appears between his brows.

"One must, out of necessity, rule out a good many of the myths and legends involving children - remember that parents will tell their young any number of tales in order to ensure good behavior and to keep them safe. And while some may have origins in reality, a vast majority are...manufactured, either frightening to scare kids into behaving, or benevolent and generous as a means of rewarding good little boys and girls."

He pauses for a moment, his gaze lifting to meet Joseph's, searching steel blue eyes for some sign that he is following along the meandering path that James is leading him down. He wants the younger man to understand, to grasp the difference between legends born of truth and those created by desperate parents hoping to keep their children from harm, but it's a subject that has taken him a decade of study and research to parse, and condensing it down to bite-sized morsels that are easily digestible is a challenge he's never had to undertake before.

"Perhaps it would be best to begin at the beginning. Demons." The word feels like acid on his tongue, a flavor he's grown accustomed to over the past ten years but one that never becomes less jarring to the senses when spoken aloud. The cold chill that wraps itself around him isn't new either, and James turns his focus to their joined hands once more, an anchor and a lifeline to both of them as they're tossed about on a tempest of biblical proportion.

"What do you know of them, of their origins?"

The look he gives Joseph is entirely blank for a moment, wondering if the question is serious or if there's a hidden camera waiting nearby to record his reaction to what must be the strangest thing he's been asked by anyone in his academic career. Realizing that Joseph is looking at him expectantly and that he still hasn't engaged his brain enough to respond, James gestures at the book spread open between them.

"It's English." There's a beat or two of silence, one that speaks volumes toward the fundamental difference between the two boys seated at the desk so near each other their shoulders and knees occasionally bump together. James gives his companion a crooked grin and amends his reply. "Alright, it's Middle English. Chaucer wrote the book in around 1400, and that was the language that was spoken at the time."

He takes a moment to glance over the page before them, finding an example of a word that should be relatively familiar to the other boy and pointing it out as he leans closer, his love for the subject both obvious and infectious. It's been forever since he's had anyone to talk to about his favorite subject, and Joseph asking about the language has opened up a can of linguistics worms.

"You've at least heard of Middle English, yes? The language that eventually became what you and I speak today?"

joe + common sense coming through // 3.05

@gravewalks said: ❝ my list of grievances would be about a mile long. ❞

What would you say then? If you were a ghost and some stranger asked what you were after?

The question had slipped before he could stop it, words painted with an amusement meant to hide the shadowed undertones of judgment, and Joe feels his brows furrow in frustration at the other man's refusal to accept it as anything else. Briefly he wonders what it would be like - that sure certainty of self that isn't afraid to blur the lines, to be confident in one's beliefs even if the knowledge of them being perfectly asinine - does his best to imagine a world where Detective Inspector Joseph Chandler is far less sharp angles and crisp edges, a man instead known for easy laughs and cavalier attitudes.

Whatever gets the job done.

He shakes his head at the thought, shoulders curled against the sudden burst of cold wind that runs tousled fingers through styled hair, sending strands blowing in every direction while the hem of his coat snaps against the air as if it too is venting its frustration. Joe will never understand the freedom of thought gifted to some people, that inherent trait that allows them to thread their way through the unconventional with nary a thought, but the knowledge doesn't stop him from trying. Blue eyes glance in Graves' direction while the fingers of one hand set to work trying to right blonde hair, a process as pointless as his current personal investigation.

"Do you really believe that? When people talk about ghosts, I mean ... or being mediums .. you believe them?"

Finally biting the bullet and setting notifications for a lot of you because I genuinely thought you had gone to another dimension

he's so fucking cute what the fuck.

my dash thinks i follow all of 9 people.

So what do you think happened to chandler in the end?

first off .. i am very sorry it took me so long to sit down at my laptop and reply to this. i'm also sorry for the level of depth (meaning .. none at all probably) to this answer. i usually try to really delve into these sorts of things but I've been so busy that my ability word is basically gone and my brain is just like brrrr.. so feel free to send any follow up comments/questions if theres anything i could dig deeper into (and some of it, i already plan to).

i've seen what the writers intended for the ending had season 5 not been canceled and there are parts i loved and parts i was meh about. I think my perfect idea for how i would want my version of joe's canon story to end would be loosely bsed around that idea, with some changes. Louise Iver being the saboteur is such a hot idea. I love that. Props to them. I love that the ending of season 4 (don't put them all in the same van) comes around without her even being the main reason. Does she step into the middle of the road? obviously. And that results in the explosion. But the true horror is that it could have been avoided had Joe not hid behind his stubborn belief that it would be shameful/embarrassing/pointless to open the note that jackie said was from his father. He did that. So even though Louise set some events in motion, joe allows them to happen (a theme that is rampant throughout all 4 seasons, especially the last two).

I would keep all of that and as far as the conclusion of five.. I love the idea of miles being the one to put an official end to her instead of kent. For the main reason that while I can easily see kent throwing himself at some demon witch woman, I like the emotional weight of it being miles. The unfortunate truth is that if you watch the show for what it is and stick to canonical interactions .. while kent is very obviously smitten with joe, there is no evidence it is returned (even the finale scene that people are so quick to point to is , in my mind, completely taken out of context. kent messes up and stumbles over his words, asking joe out before covering it up with the correct invitation of coming out with the team. joe says yes. but it's not him saying yes to kent's date invite?? or even to just kent in general?? the whole season and the previous one deal with joe turning down invitations to go places with the team, especially the end of episode 4 in season 4. to turn joe finally accepting an invitation and feeling confident to find his place with his team into a weird acceptance of a date is so awful to me. i'm a gay guy. i love the gays. but we shouldn't ignore character development just so that boys can kiss ). joe spends a lot of season 4 being kind of rude to him and even in earlier seasons (minus 2, where he does apologize to him) he often just forgets he's there. i like the idea of it being miles who stops louise because miles is someone who has become family to joe, a sort of rock that's been there through the very beginning.

The idea of miles finishing louise and therefore breaking joe's 'curse' by being the first murder suspect he can successfully arrest is such a hot one to me ... because i like to imagine it really fucks with joe. the audience could think oh yeah! they defeated the evil! .. but the horror of knowing he had to turn his best friend in, the fact that he split up his family (leaving judy and the boys and little baby martha), that torture of wondering if something he would have done might have helped it turn out differently .. i like the idea that it drives him to the same end his father met. So by 'defeating' louise iver, they actually help the devil get his due. no escape.

i hope this answers your question, @davrosfan23 ! I can do one for my specific joe as well since i have a lot of divergences that are the result of crossovers but i wanted to stick to strictly canon in this instance just because i wasn't sure what you were going for.

middle aged man vibessss