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17 and 48 for the prompts thing ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

ayyyyy kari thanks pal 

hope you like it!!!! ✨✨✨

(are y’all sick of me yet? i sure hope not)

no. 17 “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…” & no. 48 “Boo.”

Lucas doesn’t hate his job at the Louvre. Not consistently. He only hates it sometimes.

Like now, when he’s scrambling down the stairs towards the administration office at a breakneck speed. He takes a sharp right as soon as he hits the ground level, towards an empty, dark corridor with a single door at the end of it.

Wessler is probably still yelling upstairs, at the same volume he was when Lucas left, spit flying from his mouth.

“Well, I don’t care! They’ll be here in an hour and we still have to set it up! Someone go downstairs and find me where that fucking USB went! And where the fuck is Demaury?”

Daphné had turned to Lucas and mouthed, Lucas, go, right now, so Lucas had slipped out of the door without anyone noticing. He’s not even really sure what’s on the USB, just that it’s Very Important Information required for the donors meeting they were holding that morning before the museum opened.

It’s a Tuesday. It’s 8 a.m. Lucas doesn’t even work in admin. And neither does Eliott, actually, but that didn’t stop him from disappearing when he was sent on the same mission. Maybe Eliott just decided enough was enough and left for a coffee. Lucas can understand that.

He swipes his key card into the door bursts inside, breathing heavily and scanning the room. There are two large tables filled with powered-down computers, file folders everywhere, and neatly-sorted pencils and highlighters sticking out of ceramic mugs. Lucas doesn’t see any memory sticks.

“Boo.”

Lucas shrieks, letting go of the door and jumping backwards, his elbow smacking hard into something that causes the door to slam shut.

“Oh shit,” It’s Eliott, scrambling out from behind a desk, the knees of his trousers dusty, his hair messy. He lunges for the door just as its slamming, but misses it, hand grasping onto nothing.

Lucas, for his part, is standing there his his hands clutching at his throat like he’s a rich lady in a Hitchcock film who’s just discovered a body. Horrified. Confused. 

“Eliott, what the fuck.”

Eliott is muttering to himself, yanking on the door handle. “I think you may have locked us in.”

What. “What?”

Eliott jiggles at the door handle more furiously. “Shit, did you hit the emergency lock bar? I think it’s jammed shut.”

Lucas whirls around to the door. “Hit the what? Why is that something that exists?”

“It’s on the back of every door. In case of security threats?” At Lucas’s dubious look, Eliott throws his hands out to the side. “They brief us about it every week!”

“I don’t…” Lucas coughs into his fist. “I don’t really pay attention during those.”

“Well, no shit.” Eliott sounds long-suffering when he says, “Normally we should be able to get it open again from this side, but I think you’ve broken it somehow.”

“Okay,” Lucas retorts hotly. “Why the fuck would you scare me like that? What were you even doing?”

“I’m looking for that USB! The same thing I’ve been doing for like, half an hour!”

“You were looking behind a desk?”

“I thought it might have fallen!”

Lucas realizes, belatedly, that they’re actually yelling at each other about a hard drive, while standing locked in a dark, cramped office space. Inside one of the most famous museums in the world.

People weren’t kidding when they said adult life was weird.

“Right.” Lucas pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Let’s just…figure this out. Can’t we call out to the office upstairs?”

“That would be a good idea,” Eliott groans, thumping his head against the locked door, “if the phones down here weren’t still busted.”

Oh yeah. Lucas forgot about that.

He really needs to start paying attention to those morning briefings. 

Eliott turns to him suddenly, face brightening. “But you have your phone on you, right?”

Now it’s Lucas’s turn to groan. “No. I left it upstairs.”

Just like that, the brightness from Eliott’s face disappears. “Shit.”

“Shit,” Lucas agrees.

There’s a moment of silence where it sinks in for both of them. The reality of being trapped in a dark, cramped office space in one of the most famous museums in the world with a coworker that you’re we-talk-in-the-kitchen friendly with but not let’s-get-trapped-together friendly with.

“This is not how I thought this day would go,” Lucas says mournfully.

“I dunno.” Eliott is standing back from the door, planting his hands on his hips. “Maybe it’s not so bad.”

Lucas squints at him. “How do you figure?”

“Well, it looks like we’ll be trapped for a while, long enough that we might have to miss the meeting.”

Lucas brightens at that.

“And,” Eliott says grandly, sweeping an arm towards the back of the office, “they have a coffee machine in here.”

“Oh, thank Christ.”

It actually is appealing, the idea of missing the dreaded donors meeting, where each department has to give a brief presentation about any potential acquisitions, and any new restoration developments. Lucas doesn’t even know why he has to be there. He’s a junior-level employee in the sculptures department. All he’s going to do is pass out Daphné’s colour-coded notes and then spend the rest of the meeting standing near the door awkwardly.

It’s even more appealing to be trapped with Eliott Demaury, the new guy working in Impressionism that has had everyone in the museum aflutter for a whole month.

“Did you see him?” Emma had grabbed onto Lucas’s jacket as soon as he’d stepped into their office on the morning of Eliott’s first day. “There’s this new guy, he’s working in paintings, something, whatever, and he’s so hot.”

“So hot!” Alexia echoed behind her, carrying a mug of tea and a stack of catalogues.

Lucas hadn’t been that impressed at the time, but later that day he’d gone to make coffee in the staff kitchen and had nearly collided with someone, a tall, handsome, and smiling someone.

Eliott Demaury.

All it took was Eliott saying hello to him, offering him a pastry from a cardboard box, and that was it for Lucas.

They’ve become friends, kind of. At least, as good friends you can be with a colleague who works in a different department and who you’re also harbouring a big gay crush on.

But there they are, locked in admin and making coffee, dumping tiny packets of sugar into their mugs. 

“You put in way too much,” Lucas says.

Eliott is unbothered. “I like sweet things.”

They sit at one of the desks and play tic-tac-toe. They crumple up pieces of paper and shoot them into the recycling bin in the corner. They sprawl onto the ground and stare up at the ceiling, drifting in and out of conversation.

“How are things, lately? In Impressionism.” Lucas knows it’s lame, to ask about work while they’re at work, but he’s genuinely curious, and he wants Eliott to keep talking. Lucas likes his voice.

“Things are good,” Eliott says, leaning onto his forearms. Lucas tries very hard not to admire his profile in the low light. “Nothing much going on lately except everyone losing their minds over this meeting.”

Lucas laughs. “Yeah. Same for us in sculptures.” 

“Yeah.” Eliott picks at a loose thread on his trousers. Lucas traces a shape into the carpet with a fingertip, so he almost misses it when Eliott asks, casually, “How was that date you went on last week?”

Lucas blinks at the ground, slowly raises his head, but Eliott is still looking down at his lap. “What?”

“I heard you talking to Emma and Alexia about it. A guy you met on Tinder, right?”

Lucas can feel his mouth hanging open. When had he been talking to Emma and Alexia about it? On Thursday, when they all left for a coffee break, heading out to a cafe across the street. Lucas can’t even remember running into Eliott that day.

Maybe he’s silent for too long, processing, because Eliott adds, “I saw you talking to them in the lobby, before you guys left. You didn’t see me.”

“Right,” Lucas says, still trying to comprehend the fact that Eliott is asking him about a date he went on. Why does he want to know? Is he curious? Just making small talk? Or is he— “Honestly, it was really terrible.” Lucas laughs. “We went to this awful restaurant that was way overpriced and he talked about himself the entire time.”

Eliott makes a face. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine. Bad Tinder dates happen.” Lucas pauses. “He also told me right at the start of the date that I wasn’t his usual type.”

Lucas internally cringes at the memory. Usually I date like, models, you know? Really good-looking people. But you’re okay, you know.

“So…” Eliott is looking up at Lucas now, confusion colouring his face. “He doesn’t go for cute brunettes with blue eyes?”

Lucas is blushing, he knows he is, and he can’t hold Eliott’s gaze right now, not when Eliott called him cute and Lucas feels like he’s two seconds away from collapsing back into the carpet with cartoon hearts dancing around his head. “Well.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“What do you usually like to do, on a date?”

Lucas shrugs, again, tries so hard to act casual when he says, “It doesn’t really matter. As long as I’m with someone I like, it could be anything.” 

“Hm.” Eliott nods, seems to accept this. But then, “Alright, but if I asked you on a date, what would you want to do?”

There’s a smile stretching across Lucas’s face now, because this is what they’re doing, isn’t it? They’re flirting. Eliott wants to ask Lucas out. Lucas might combust with anticipation.

Lucas props himself up on one elbow, leans closer to where Eliott is sprawled out. “If you asked me on a date, I’d want you to surprise me. I like being surprised.”

Eliott’s eyes are hooded, heavy. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.” Then Lucas shrugs and leans back to the wall, “but you haven’t actually asked me on a date yet, so I guess we’ll never know.” 

“Go on a date with me.” Eliott blurts it out in a rush. “Please?”

Lucas feels like lightning is zipping up his spine. He feels like he’s standing at the mouth of the ocean. He feels like he’s in a hot air balloon. His heart feels too big for his body.

It’s a miracle he’s able to get out an, “Alright,” in response.

The smile Eliott gives him is one of relief, and Lucas is just start to grasp that when the door is forced open, and daylight floods into the office.

Daphné and Imane are standing there, the former holding a stack of folders, frowning disapprovingly, while the latter is swinging a memory stick around on her finger, smirking.

“There you are!” Daphné steps inside and actually grasps Lucas by the arm, pulling him up. “The meeting is starting in five minutes.”

“We found the USB,” Imane sing-songs, sending Eliott a look that is too quick for Lucas to decipher. But whatever it is makes Eliott blush, makes him send a look back at Imane that has her tilting her head back to laugh. “These doors are so tricky aren’t they,” she says lightly, turning back into the corridor. “Always getting locked at the worst moments.”

Daphné follows her out, but for a moment, Lucas and Eliott stay in there, pointedly staring and not staring at each other.

“So,” Lucas starts.

Eliott interrupts him. “Are you free tonight?”

Lucas smiles so wide his cheeks are bunching with it. He takes a step forward. Then another. “As a matter of fact, I am.” He stops right in front of Eliott. “Can you plan a date by tonight?”

Eliott scoffs. “Of course I can. I know the perfect place.” He pauses for a moment, considering. “Do you have a flashlight at home?”

Lucas blinks. “What? No. I don’t think so.”

Eliott hums. “That’s fine. I can bring you one.”

“Why do you need to—”

But Eliott is disappearing down the hallway, whistling to himself, hands in his pockets. When he notices Lucas hans’t followed him, he calls back, “Are you coming or what?”

And Lucas goes.

The Big Bear Screams Again

Read the site version: http://codexofaegis.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-big-bear-screams-again.html

When I moved into my apartment in Queens I had a lot of complaints but didn't have a chance to share them. After all, my life at that point had fallen to one of its greatest deeps, and money didn't come to me easily. Perhaps one of the most noteworthy things about the place wasn't the smell of rat piss that diffused through the halls on a near constant basis, or the lack of communication between the ethnic landlord and his audience of tenants, or even the fact that the lock on my door simply held as a ruse and not an actual lock for the first three months of living. No, the biggest, perhaps most important aspect of that apartment, was the walls. It's not uncommon for a tenant to hate the walls. Every wall is paper thin to everyone, unless you're living in some expensive condominium down with the bourgeoisie. But you'll have to trust me when I say that these walls were a very special case. Privacy was already very sparse in 1963, but when it came to the apartments, community was everything. I say that speaking of nearly every single sound-wave passing through your side could very well be audible on the other.  Every day, at 3 pm, I could hear Robert's boys coming home from their classes in the ghetto and turning on the TV to watch some early sitcom I couldn't be arsed to recall the name of. But it wasn't the Robert and his boys I was thinking the most about, but rather the man who stayed in the room opposite to where I held my own bed; the man I knew only as Leubeto. I didn't know Leubeto was a communist at first. There was nothing about the guy that really struck me as strange; he looked like the same kind of muscular, straight out of the navy, first-rate thug you'd expect to live in these types of places. Occasionally when I'd get home from work I'd see him having a smoke right outside – he'd give me a small nod and I'd give a small nod back – and that was about the extent of our direct acknowledgment of one another. And yet, every Friday night – every Friday night – Leubeto would bring a whore from the shack down at Wilhelm Pier with him, and I'll be damned if I didn't hear every god damn piece of it. Listening to Leubeto fuck a woman was like listening to a cheap public school symphony. First came the introduction; Leubeto would bad mouth the girl and she would bad mouth back, and then as the clothes came out the language would get more and more filthy to the point where things were finally ready to get heated. From there was when things really began to escalate, but not for very long. It's strange, from a man with the strength and sexual determinacy of Leubeto I would have expected him to last longer, but every time I predicted his breaking point it would always be a little bit before. Perhaps it was because I always had the habit of overestimating Leubeto, but I digress. As you could tell, this was a bad fuckin' time of day for me. My time in Korea taught me to sleep under hard circumstances, and Leubeto wouldn't last that long anyway, but for that simple five minute period I swear it was a hell of a lot louder than it needed to be. Still, I am a patient man by heart, and so I preserved until a Wednesday night where I had brought my own love over, and right as we were ready to begin, Leubeto's horrifying grunts permeated the room. Turns out he had decided to change schedule on me. It was then that I decided action must be taken. The first thing I wanted to figure out was what in the hell the big fuck was even doing in there. I obviously couldn't just ask him – and if he caught me watching in the act I might have already been dead. So instead what I devised was an ingenious – if a bit perverse – plan. I figured that Hashraj wouldn't mind if his already deteriorating complex was deteriorated just a tiny bit more, so I took the liberty of constructing a very small and precise that gave a very nice birds eye view of Leubeto's eloquent bedroom. In that case, even if he had discovered the hole, it was easy for me to conclude that it must have been done by a previous inhabitant, and that I myself did not even know who put the hole there or what its purpose served. I clearly remember the day the plan first came into fruition. It was winter, heavily snowing – must have been early December – and I had been able to get off work early claiming I was suffering from the same stomach bug that a few other employees had been getting. I ended up not getting any pay that week, but it was worth it; I watched through the looking glass down anxiously as Leubeto finally brought in his escort, and they immediately went to town. I was holding in my laughter and having an existential crisis at the same time. I often wonder what I look like to other people; when I saw Leubeto that night the thought transformed itself to some twisted reality. For the Leubeto I had known – the one who seemed like he can pulverize anyone else in the hall to a pulp, the man of few words but many intimidations – if you told me that man was the same one as the red-faced, lumping, intensely sweaty and slightly emotional man I had seen in the bedroom that night, and you were to say that with no connection between the two bodies like I had, then I would be right to not believe you, as I probably wouldn't. And yet, things came to the head they did, and now my seemingly miserable life had at least one positive – the self-fulfilled enjoyment of a nice Friday night. … “You're telling me he's a fuckin' communist?” “I understand this may come at a great surprise to you, but you must believe me in what I say. In every word. I have already given you the proof; and now I am asking you to step up and help your country one more time.” “I mean, it's not that I'm going to decline the invitation or anything, it's just – what the hell is he spying on? The lame duck couriers down at the pier? Little Ol' Hashraj? Is he spying on his own ballsack?” “I'm afraid I can't tell you exactly what we believe he's done. All we can tell you is what we want you to do; go to that little hole you made in the wall and plant this camera there.” It was a whole three months that had passed when I found the FBI agent at my door. I had been carrying some groceries up when I found him in all his black suited glory, beckoning to me, explaining the situation briefly but offering to explain it in depth over some coffee at a place in the uptown. Being both scared and starving, how could I refuse? I put down the bags inside and then went straight back out to meet him down at his car – a terrible idea in retrospect – but he did keep his end of the bargain and I ended up getting a damn good coffee out of it. I don't recall the entire exact dialogue, but I do remember the key points; so that bit of fictionalized discussion should set up my situation pretty well for you. The Friday was the first Friday since December since I felt as jittery as I did, although now it was for all the wrong reasons. It turns out my casual fun had attracted quite the pair of wolves, and seeing that I was now between pissing off the KGB and pissing off the CIA, I decided to score one for the true motherland. And so, while Leubeto gave his classic rhythmic thumping, I took the liberty of setting up the camera exactly as I had been instructed. After that, truth be told, not much else happened. I waited nervously another three and a half weeks before the feds finally busted down Leubeto's door, probably due to the fact that they had enough evidence of whatever the fuck they wanted to know. And then, things went silent. Life moved on. To be honest sometimes I wonder why I treat it so much more than a funny anecdote in a much greater life. I tell this story at parties a lot and it does a lot of good. I figured I'd write it down too. Leubeto, if you're still out there – sincerest apologies.