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optimisticluminarynacho · 2 years

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Low Cost 24 Hour Emergency Roof Leak Repair Chicago Near Me

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If you don't bring in an expert to inspect it and repair it, Faulty or damaged roof can lead to a dripping roof or even serious weather condition damage.

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Nature strikes, and often it isn't pretty. With the number of severe storms we've had here in the midlands lately, there have actually been lots of fallen trees that have struck homes, triggering damage and destruction to houses.

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Just how much Does It Cost To Repair A Roof?

The above concern is the first question most homeowners ask themselves when they are facing a roofing issue. If you compare them to replacing your roofing system, Residential roof repairs are inexpensive.

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Roof leakage repair work costs are very affordable, specifically when caught early. Many homeowners spend between $300 and $1,100 for a roof repair or an average of $650 to fix a roof-related problem.

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Roof Leak Repair Costs:

1. Dirty-looking locations or dark-stained locations on your roof. 2. Shingle and shield wear and tear. 3. Buckled, missing, broken, and curled shingles. All of these signs are basic indicators that they'll will over useful life. 4. Blistering/peeling of outdoor paint. This is frequently among the most basic warning signs. 5. Water areas on the ceilings/interior mildew development. 6. Excessive energy costs likewise show the leak issue. A growing number of houses today are being designed and developed with energy effectiveness in frame of mind.

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There are many different type of roof repairs that Chicago-area services might require. Our goal is to help you get the most out of your roofing. By carrying out routine upkeep and finishing scheduled examinations on time, we can reduce damages and keep your repair expenses low. Discover more about the various types of roof repair work when you arrange a service appointment with our group.

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Others pay as much as $250 to $800 for cedar shingle repair work or replacement. The material that the roof is built from effects the intricacy of the repair and the overall expense.

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General approximates put a roofing system repair work at approximately $12,000 or more. The complete expense depends upon elements such as the degree of damage, where you live, the type of roofing system materials required, and the dimensions of your roof. Then there's the extra expense of getting rid of all the old materials, such as shingles and flashing. The costs of roofing system repair truly build up rapidly.

Other Common Roof Repairs and Costs:

Asphalt shingle roofing leak repair usually costs between $150 and $500 to repair, with the majority of people paying $350 for shingle leak repairs. The cost depends on the severity of the damage and the issue that is happening.

For example, changing a few blown-off shingles might be relatively low-cost, while really patching holes and changing the roofing underlayment 3 and after that re-laying shingles could be more expensive and laborious.

Because the shingle pattern easily hides the damage, these roofing systems can likewise make medical diagnosis difficult. Typically, harmed shingles and vertical slits are the most common issues for this kind of roof.

If you don't bring in a professional to inspect it and fix it, Faulty or damaged roof can lead to a leaking roofing or even extreme weather condition damage. Our 24-hour emergency repair work services can conserve you any stress and stress and anxieties. Brought on by unforeseen damage by trees, weather or malfunctioning installations, leakages, broken tiling, and holes can be a nightmare for you.

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Typical causes of roofing emergencies:

There are numerous reasons for roofing emergencies, and general wear and tear are one of the most common. Gradually, it takes a toll on even the best roofing materials. Because of that, harmed flashing, leakages, and wood rot could cause issues that take you by surprise. Fortunately, our full-time specialists are trained and experienced to identify any roofing problem and repair it correctly the very first time.

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Things to remember in a roofing emergency:

If your home is struck by a nasty storm, downed tree, or other roofing emergencies, do not stress, keep in mind these useful suggestions.

When it comes to a roofing emergency, make sure you keep in mind these three points. Do not increase on the roof yourself: a harmed roofing is a harmful environment, and you need to let a professional be the very first to check it out over the interior:

Using plastic sheeting will secure the interior of your house and assistance avoid leaks. Inspect the roofing system visually from the ground, take a visual examination of your roof to keep in mind debris and possible damage.

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It is important to remember that emergency roofing repair can be more pricey.

You require to do a cost-benefit analysis, identify if there are any risks or security dangers, and then decide whether you are willing to pay more to have emergency work carried out. Some roofers keep an open schedule, and they may have the ability to look at the damage within a day or more without extra charges.

If you try to do roofing repair and you do not carry out the task right you might end up needing more deal with your roofing at a later date because of new leakages and other concerns.

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darkblueboxs · 4 years

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Lifelines

For AFTG Angst Fest day 23: “You can’t die”

Read here or on AO3

TW for extreme violence and gore.

His father starts, as promised, with his legs. He slices the tendons with thick, blunt blades that catch in the shredded flesh, eliciting noises that would be stomach-turning if they could be heard over the screaming. There isn’t much left by the time Nathan is finished, lumps of quivering flesh that may have once resembled a human but no more.

By all rights, he should be dead.

But he isn’t. He waits for death to release him from the sweat and blood and agony, but past all reason, all possibility, his heart keeps forcing blood through his veins only for it to spill out onto the cold tiles of his father’s basement.

Eventually, the voices grow distant, and the room grows dark. They didn’t bother locking the door, never imagined that what remained of him could still be capable of movement. On shaky, new limbs that heal with a speed that Neil never thought possible, he drags what is left of himself into the dark.

Three months later, they catch him again at a rest-stop near Chicago. He doesn’t know if they understand what has happened to him any better than he does; he doesn’t stick around to ask. In the backseat of a car wheeling its way back to Baltimore, he cuts and cuts and cuts until the meaty stump of his hand slips through the handcuff without catching.

The cops find a steaming wreck of a car at the roadside, and Malcom’s body cooling in the driver’s seat. The source of the pool of blood in the back, however, remains a mystery to them. The flesh of his regrown hand stings as the night wind catches it, and he picks up a new name and a new look and loses himself once more.

A month later, he is shot.

Days after that, stabbed.

Weeks later, he spits up blood as the gash drawn across his throat seals itself over, fading to a vivid, white line against dark skin. The store clerk stares at it as he swaps his blood-stained tee for a high-collar polo shirt. Later, while examining the scar in a dingy motel bathroom, he wonders in a detached kind of way whether he’ll ever grow numb to the pain, nerves torn through by endless wear and tear. He touches an exploratory finger to the scar, and yanks it back as the ghost of a blade tears through his throat once more. No. He never had that kind of luck.

“He’s been waiting a long time for you,” Lola hisses. Her threats spiral like smoke in the icy mountain air. The wind whips her hair around her face as she backs him up against the cliff edge. “We kept your room just the way you left it. Ready and waiting for your family reunion. We’re going to kill you again, and again, and again, and again, and…” She punctuates her every word with another step forward, and he steps back in turn. As his heels hit the edge, her smile turns sharkish.

Between the cliff and Lola, the decision is easy. He lets himself fall.

He doesn’t hear Lola’s outraged shriek, doesn’t remember landing, doesn’t linger long in the snowdrift before hauling himself back towards civilisation. He doesn’t think about the creak and shift of his ribcage realigning, but he does worry about the deep tracks he leaves in the snow behind him.

He takes a new name, and heads to Arizona.

“You can’t die.” Andrew’s tone is flat, yet still somehow still laced with disdain.

“I said you wouldn’t believe me.” Neil glances over to Wymack, who is watching with his arms crossed, understanding nothing of the German passing between them.

“I never said I didn’t believe you. It would be a stupid lie to tell, even by your standards.”

“So you do believe me.”

“I never said that, either.”

“There’s one way to know for sure.”

Andrew smiles ghoulishly. “I promised coach I wouldn’t spill blood on his carpet.”

“If you can’t figure out how to kill me without spilling any blood then you’re not as good as I thought you were.”

Andrew’s eyes flick over Neil, as though mapping out points of vulnerability, or perhaps looking for something else he missed. “We’ll see.”

Neil waits for Andrew to test his truth, but the night never comes.

A toy that never breaks, Riko calls him, when he uncovers Neil’s secret. His delight drips from his lips like saliva. Buried in the nest, he takes his knives to Neil again, and again, and again, and-

Neil doesn’t die.

With the marks of Christmas still fresh on their skin, Andrew takes him to the roof, eyes roaming critically over Neil’s recoloured hair and naked eyes. He drags Neil over to the edge by his collar, and Neil wonders if Andrew has finally decided to kill him. It’s a long drop to the concrete below, and the horrified churn of Neil’s stomach isn’t lessened by the knowledge that his body will knit his broken bones back together afterwards.

“You’re awfully nervous for a man with nothing to fear.” Andrew has Neil in one hand, his cigarette in the other. One moment of inattention and either could be sent tumbling over the roof’s edge. Neil’s heart hammers so frantically that he’s sure Andrew must feel it through the hand bunched in his shirt, stuttering nervously like the beating wings of a sparrow. The frailty is an illusion; Neil has yet to meet anything that will stop it powering on, dragging him through the worst the world has to offer him.

“You and I know there’s far more to fear in this world than death.”

Andrew makes a noise several shades too derisive to count as laughter. “And what do you fear?”

Neil thinks of a dark, musty room, and the steady drip of blood on tiles. “Eternity.”

Andrew’s hand releases Neil’s shirt to lie flat against his chest, and for a moment Neil is sure that Andrew is finally going to push him over. He studies Neil with eyes that burn amber against the brisk winter sky, and the moment stretches into forever between them. Not the kind of forever that Neil fears – an eternity spent in the dark being broken and broken and broken is the kind that haunts him at night, but this electrifying moment of uncertainty, he could… tolerate.

Andrew’s hand is warm enough that Neil misses the heat when he withdraws it. Neil tilts forward, although whether he’s following Andrew or escaping the drop behind him he can’t say. Andrew doesn’t acknowledge the impulse as he flicks his cigarette butt off the roof, but his eyes don’t leave Neil’s face.

“Just because you can’t die,” Andrew says, words clipped with a tension Neil can’t decipher, “doesn’t mean you have nothing to lose.”

“I know.” It’s a new truth that burns like acid in his chest, painful as it is terrifying. “I went to the nest because I have something I can’t lose.”

Andrew’s fingers twitch. Maybe he regrets throwing his cigarette off the roof. Maybe he regrets not throwing Neil off after it. “Get out of my sight.”

Neil leaves, heart still beating a frantic pace as though he left it up on the roof edge with Andrew.

He used to believe that it wasn’t the world that was cruel, but the people in it. But people – as far as Neil knows – are not responsible for the power that drags him back to life over and over. For a man who spent the best part of his life on the run, immortality should be a blessing; an immunity to the sticky end that was guaranteed to come to him at his father’s hand. Instead, Neil’s fears have multiplied a hundredfold. At least before, he had been guaranteed some kind of release, no matter how slow and painful the means. Now he fears a lifetime spent in a dark basement, a body pulling itself back together only to be torn apart once more, like Prometheus chained to his rock, rip, repair, repeat.

He wonders what his mother, who he can only picture clawing towards him across the blood-stained tiles of his father’s basement, would have thought of it all. A woman who sacrificed a true life in favour of survival, who put herself through the unimaginable just to keep Neil alive, would perhaps have appreciated Neil’s curse more than he ever could. Maybe it was her sheer determination that landed Neil in this mess, bending the laws of reality itself from beyond the grave just to keep her son’s heart beating. For a moment, Neil is so overcome with hatred that he can barely breathe for it. It’s only now, with his Foxes, that he understands the difference between surviving and living, and if he had any real choice in the matter he would take the latter without hesitation.

Surviving is scraping himself off a grey tile floor and losing himself along stretches of highway that tangle into forever. Living is the weight of Andrew’s body pinning him to the floor as he takes Neil apart again and again and again and-

Andrew says, “stay,” and Neil pictures another kind of forever.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

There was nothing of Neil that needed protecting, that could be protected in any way that wasn’t covered by his curse, and yet Andrew had insisted all the same. Give your back to me.

With Nathan’s men watching the door and Lola’s voice still hissing in his mind, Neil looks at his Foxes and makes the only choice he can. He gives them his forever.

Thank you. You were amazing.

The gun digs into his spine as the team heads out, the threat dragging Neil’s attention away from the riot roaring to life around them. Still, the bullet comes as a surprise.

Of course, the only way to guarantee there isn’t a search is to make sure nobody thinks there’s anything to search for.

The sound registers before the pain does, earth-shatteringly loud even in the chaos of the riot. Neil’s ears scream with the aftershock, but the twist of the bullet inside him tears his attention elsewhere.

Muscles rip and bones shatter and organs burst as the bullet grinds through Neil’s body, and oh, he liked this jacket. Red bleeds through the orange of Neil’s windbreaker, and if he had to guess he would say that the bullet had gone right through the o in Josten.

The crowd screams and ripples around him, a blur of faces that could be Foxes or could be strangers for all Neil’s flickering vision can tell, and men dressed like paramedics seize him by the arms and drag him to a waiting van.

In his last, fleeting moments of consciousness he looks for Andrew.

Then the doors shut, and everything goes black.

He comes around with a bullet rattling around in his ribcage. Coughing the bullet up isn’t as unpleasant as it was being shot by it, but still it scratches Neil’s insides like sandpaper. Between retches he runs through curses in every language he can think of.

Finally, he forces the slug back up his throat and spits, watching as it clatters across the grey tiles.

Grey tiles.

Gr-

The realisation feels like falling off a cliff, dizzying, disorientating, and with the certainty of a rough landing awaiting him at the bottom.

“Rise and shine, kiddo.” He would recognise Lola’s voice anywhere. It seeps into his ears like blood, blocking everything else out.

“My teammates-” Neil stutters.

“Saw you die. Don’t worry, they won’t be looking for you. Well, only in the morgues. They won’t find your body, of course, but maybe we could snip a few pieces of you off for them to stumble upon. I’m feeling generous.” She trails a painted fingernail down Neil’s torso as though following an invisible dotted line. “Your immortality frustrated us at first, you know. But now we’ve all had time to reflect on it, and you know what we’ve seen?” She leans in close, and Neil tries not to breathe in as her perfume drowns him. “Potential.”

Neil yanks at his arms, desperate to put anything between himself and Lola, but the rattle of handcuffs at his back is predictable as it is devastating. The cuffs around his ankles are an unexpected addition to the ensemble. He tries for a kick, but she surges forward, pinning his legs easily with the weight of her body.

His time in the nest – what he can remember of it – was a nightmare of knives and exy and Riko’s smile. But Riko was, when it came down to it, an amateur. He knew how to hurt, but he didn’t know how to destroy, didn’t know the ins and outs of a body like his father’s people did, didn’t know where to draw the line that would keep a victim hovering between awake and unconscious, to keep them suffering that little bit longer. Riko was a bully, but he wasn’t a professional.

Neil survived by clinging to a few things – his foxes, exy, his promises to Andrew – but also to the knowledge that he had survived worse. Riko was a nightmare, it was true, but he was no butcher.

They leave him there to stew in the dark. With a lifetime to wait and their tracks well and truly covered, they have no need to hurry. The air that feeds into the basement through an array of soundproofed ducts is stale and faintly ashy. Without windows, he has no way of gaging the passage of time. The room isn’t just dark, it’s a void, and as time melts Neil’s eyes start picking out patterns from thin air, shapes and shadows that slide around him. He thinks of the bitter January nights spent on the tower roof with Andrew, the glistening stars above and the glow of Palmetto below. He had lived each of those moments with the knowledge of how brutally it would all be ripped away from him, had known to savour the hum of the city and the sparkling sky and Andrew’s lips on his, but all the same he longs for it all just once more. The longing is such a persistent, unhealing pain in his chest that he wonders if it might be what finally kills him.

No such luck.

When the lights flick back on at last, it has been so long that the fluorescent bulbs all but blind him. Neil wants to be on guard against what’s coming, but reflexes force his head into the crook of his shoulder until his eyes can adjust. When he finally forces them open, he wishes he hadn’t, nausea rolling over him as his father’s distinctive outline comes into focus.

He speaks, probably, but nothing penetrates Neil’s terror. He’s five years younger, watching Lola drag his mother’s body away in pieces, promising she’ll be back for him next. Trying to connect the bloodstained hands of his mother’s corpse to the ones that first showed him how to tie his shoelaces, that sewed up his wounds with dental floss and whisky, that massaged hair die into his scalp and broke three of his ribs for kissing a girl…

He was too busy watching the patterns his mother’s blood made on the floor to notice the scars on his face and arms slowly seal themselves over. He did notice his father’s approach, freshly-polished axe glinting at his side.

Past and present blur into one. The first time, his father was restrained, savouring every drop of Neil’s blood as it dribbled onto the tiles. Then came the confusion as wounds sealed themselves over, then anger, cutting and cutting and cutting until Neil couldn’t even remember his own name. Both of them staring as his body knitted itself back together.

The sentence “passed out from the pain” was one that had always irritated Neil. People don’t pass out from pain. They pass out from blood loss, or lack of oxygen, or because of whatever is causing them the pain. There is, however, no simple pain threshold after which the human mind will shut itself off regardless. Pain is not a trip switch. It might shut down the mind, but the body powers on. His body always powers on, and trained hands could hold him on the knife-edge between conscious and not for a long, long time without sacrificing an inch of his pain.

This time, the butcher has no need to hold back. The axe swings, and Nathaniel screams.

He screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams until he can’t scream anymore.

And still he powers on.

Time passes. The lights flicker on. The lights flicker off. Light is terror, because it comes with pain, but not knowing what might creep in the shadows is its own kind of nightmare. Sometimes it’s his mother, clawing through a pool of her blood. Sometimes it’s Riko, racquet in hand, the Raven’s victory march roaring at his back as though a stadium is cheering him on. Sometimes it’s Andrew, blood running down his face, laughing faintly as drugs twist his mind into knots.

Lola likes to visit him in the dark, or he thinks she does. Maybe it’s just his own broken mind turning on him. Her disembodied voice puts words to the desperation clawing at the base of his skull. Forever, forever, forever.

Nathaniel forgets the stars. It’s easier than longing for them.

One day, the lights click on, their low buzz enough by now to rouse Nathaniel immediately from sleep. But it is not his father, nor any of his men, who enter.

Nathaniel stares vacantly at the police uniform.

The cop leans against the wall with one hand, makes a faint choking sound. “We got a body down here.”

Do we? Nathaniel wonders.

There are more footsteps, more noises, the door opening and shutting. Neil doesn’t do anything until a hand touches his shoulder, and he jerks back into himself with a shout. Several people scream as Nathaniel wrenches himself away from the touch. The handcuffs bite into the torn flesh of his wrists and for a few minutes everything is a rush of movement and panic.

Eventually, a woman approaches with a pair of plyers in hand. Nathaniel’s vocal cords haven’t healed enough to scream, but the noise he makes seems to get his point across. Gently, without touching him, she twists the chain of the cuffs around his ankles until it snaps, and waits for him to still before repeating the action on his wrists. His arms tumble numbly forward, and Nathaniel slumps for the first time in… he doesn’t know.

“Nathan,” he says, voice like sand in his throat.

The officer glances to her colleague. “Dead.”

It takes Nathaniel a moment to recognise the sound that escapes him as laughter.

He wants to tell them that he can walk, but his throat has done all it can for him, and he doubts they’d believe him anyway. A stretcher comes, and when he catches a glimpse of himself in the upstairs mirror, he starts laughing all over again.

Then they pass through the oak double doors and down the drive towards the waiting ambulance, but the rest of the world fades to a faint mess of colours as Nathaniel stares, stares, stares at the burning blue sky, so bright that he thinks his eyes are going to melt, but he won’t look away.

He breathes.

When he next comes around, the world is soft and blurry, like he’s wearing glasses that don’t belong to him.

“Were you disqualified?” Nathaniel croaks.

There’s a huff of air from beside him. “Jesus, kid.”

His throat hurts too much to repeat the question, so Nathaniel looks pleadingly in what he guesses is Wymack’s direction until he gets his answer.

“We’re playing the Ravens on Saturday,” Wymack answers at last. “Neil-”*

He’s already asleep again, a smile pulling at his lips so painfully that he thinks he might have torn something in the effort.

The hospital doesn’t want to let him go, and neither does the FBI, but in the end neither can find a good enough reason to hold him. They took Nathan in a bust which turned violent, leaving his most of his men dead. The promise of a reunion with the Foxes on the horizon, Nathaniel fidgets with his hair in the bathroom mirror as though taming it to his liking will distract from the rest of him. He can heal himself of anything, but the scars always remained, and there are so many that Nathaniel barely recognises his own reflection. While he’s worried about the foxes’ reactions, more than anything, he’s grateful. There isn’t a hint of his father left in his appearance.

And, at last, he is returned to his Foxes.

The deathly quiet of the room is broken by a whispered, “Neil?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says by way of answer.

“It is him,” Nicky confirms, a little hysterically. Matt makes a pained noise and reaches for Nathaniel’s face, and he can’t help but flinch away from the contact. Matt drops his hand, expression crumbling.

“No,” says Allison sharply. Renee tries to place a hand on her arm, but she throws it off. “No. I’m calling bullshit. We saw you get shot. We saw you die.”

“Where’s Andrew?” He knows the goalkeeper has to be okay, the Foxes could never have made it to the finals without him, but still he needs to see. Allison makes a frustrated noise, so he looks to Renee instead.

“The police just wanted to go over a few more things with him.”

“Like how he beat them at their own job,” Aaron adds flatly. “And how he knew that their dead man wasn’t dead after all.”

Nathaniel ignored the accusation in his tone. “He went to the police?”

“He dragged Kevin in by the neck and told him to say whatever it took to set them after the butcher.”

Nathaniel’s eyes snap to Kevin. “What did you-?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kevin replies with a kind of certainty Nathaniel has never heard from him before. “It worked.” His eyes linger on Nathaniel’s cheekbone, tracing out what remains of his tattoo. “It worked,” he repeats quietly, as though still convincing himself of the fact.

Nathaniel considers dropping into French to scold Kevin for putting himself in the line of fire, but there’s nothing he can say that Kevin doesn’t already know. After all, Nathaniel knows better than anyone how faint the world’s dangers seem with Andrew at one’s back.

He turns to Wymack. “Take me to him.”

“Neil, you need to rest,” says Abby. “You need your injuries checked, you need-”

“I need Andrew.” Nathaniel runs a hand over his face, feeling the new ridges and bumps drag against his fingertips. “Look at me. Really look. These aren’t injuries, they’re scars.”

“Old scars,” says Dan faintly. “But it doesn’t make sense, Neil-”

“You deserve answers. All of you do. But first, I need to see Andrew.”

Reluctantly, the Foxes agree. They seem unwilling to let Nathaniel out of their sight, however momentarily. He ducks back from their open arms, his heart tipping around in his chest like a boat in a stormy sea, overwhelmed by their affection but unable to reciprocate. Every time hands twitch in his direction, his vision blackens and his body tenses, preparing for a new wave of pain. His injuries may have healed themselves, but each brush of contact revives the sensations that scratch through his skin like phantom fingernails.

Wymack drops Nathaniel at his apartment before heading off to collect Andrew, silencing Nathaniel’s protests with a heavy look. He may have a point – the last place Nathaniel wants to do this is a crowded police precinct.

Nathaniel’s legs buckle as soon as Wymack shuts the door behind him, but luckily his couch is there to catch him.

He is woken by the door tearing open.

Andrew is kneeling before him in an instant, but somehow he knows – knows – not to touch. Arms held stiffly at his sides, he looks his fill, cataloguing every new cut and bruise with his all-consuming gaze. It melts something stiff and painful in Nathaniel’s soul, and he lets himself soften under Andrew’s gaze, spine curving as he melts back into the couch.

For the first time in days, weeks, months, forever – he feels safe.

Andrew whispers his name, and it is his once more.

Physical contact is slow to return to Neil, coming in fits and starts as he gives himself back to the steady care of Andrew’s hands. The dark of night is terrifying, but the court’s glaring artificial lights are worse, and it takes a long time for him to feel comfortable under anything but the gentle amber of sunset.

He learns to love the weight of Andrew’s hands pinning his scarred wrists to the pillow, loves the drag of Andrew’s callouses against the ridges of his healing skin.

The Foxes, to Neil’s eternal surprise and gratitude, accept his truth for what it is. He can tell from the sad glances most of them flit between him and Andrew that they have worries that they aren’t intrusive enough to voice, worries about their future. Neil doesn’t know if he can ever die, doesn’t even know if he can age. He may have an eternity, but Andrew doesn’t, and the prospect of a forever without him is a new kind of horror that jerks him awake in the night as frequently as any of his most violent nightmares.

Instead of acknowledging the time-bomb between them, Neil presses his lips to the pale freckle hidden behind Andrew’s ear and whispers, “stay.”

He’s back on court in time for them to face the Ravens, and under the glow of stadium lights he feels all but on fire. The final timer screams, and Neil falls to his knees, the world hazing over as the adrenaline of their victory pounds through him.

He can only watch with a detached kind of fascination as Riko’s racquet whistles down in the direction of his head. He doesn’t bother to brace himself for pain, doesn’t bother closing his eyes, knows that nothing he can say or do will make the pain any less consuming. He feels only a flash of regret that his family will have to witness something so undoubtedly unpleasant.

There’s a sick thud as racquet connects with body, but the pain never comes. Neil blinks, and his world falls out from under him as he sees who was on the receiving end of the strike.

The racquet hits the floor a moment before Andrew does. Both are dripping with blood.

The world blurs into a rush of blood and noise, but this time it isn’t Neil’s blood, but he can feel the impact regardless, screaming through him like a bullet but worse, and there are hands and faces and they want to separate them, no, no, never again, and Neil hooks a finger into Andrew’s collar and holds it like a lifeline even if he isn’t sure who it’s keeping alive, and then there’s the rumble of an ambulance and the fragile blip of machinery-

And then quiet.

Alone in a hospital room, Neil finds the tangle of something deep in his chest and unravels it, unspooling the source of his impossible power like gossamer thread, so thin and fragile between his fingers for all it has endured, and although he had never wanted it he had never had anywhere else to keep it but within himself, but not anymore, and he weaves and weaves and weaves and finally, finally, finally Andrew opens his eyes.

He touches his hand to where the pain should be, before turning heavy eyes on Neil. “What did you do?”

“Why?” Neil says, because it’s the only syllable he has been able to string together since Riko’s racquet hit its mark. “You knew I could have taken it. You knew he couldn’t hurt me.”

“You can’t die. You can still be hurt.”

“Who cares?”

Andrew’s eyes darken with such fury that the rabbit part of Neil’s mind twitches instinctively. A moment later Andrew’s usual blank expression seals itself back over, and the anger is swallowed.

“I made you a promise,” he says at last.

Half-listening, Neil slips one of the knives from Andrew’s armbands and slides the blade across his palm. They watch as blood wells up along the thin slit and pools in Neil’s callouses. The wound stays.

“That’s new,” Neil says faintly. Andrew retrieves his blade and draws it across his own palm.

Neil doesn’t realise how tightly he’s gripping the sheets of Andrew’s bed until Andrew nudges his hand. “You’re getting blood everywhere.”

“So are you.”

Andrew turns his hand over, and slowly they trace each other’s wounds, fresh and painful and wonderfully mortal. Neil can’t feel a hint of the energy that kept him alive for so long, but when his blood mixes with Andrew’s there’s something new, an intricate tangle of something holding them together.

It’s beautiful and terrible, bone-achingly addictive, and when Andrew cups Neil’s head and pulls him in it’s all he can taste, strong and fragile all at once, sweet and tingling against his lips.

They tie themselves together, and they never let go.

#all for the game #andreil #the foxhole court #aftg #tfc #my fic #blood tw #violence tw #gore tw

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opera-ghosts · 3 years

Text

Adelina Patti's voice was one of moderate power, but great range and of wonderful flexibility. Her production was faultless, and she was, and is, undoubtedly, one of the greatest mistresses of vocalization of the century. As an actress, she could not com- pare with many other singers, and her greatest successes were gained in such operas as made the least demand upon the histrionic capabilities of the performer. Her repertoire included about thirty operas, mostly of the Italian school, though she also sang in the operas of Meyerbeer and Gounod, and others. She was one of the many " Carmens ; " but while her interpretation vocally was excellent, she was by no means equal dramatically to Mile. Hauk, and much less so to Calv6, the latest and by far the greatest interpreter of that role. One of the most notable events of Madame Patti's career occurred when, in 1868, at the funeral of Rossini, the com- poser, she sang with Madame Alboni the beautiful duet, " Quis est Homo," from Ros- sini's " Stabat Mater." On that occasion such an assembly of noted musicians and singers was gathered together to honor the great composer as probably never before met under the same roof. To hear that beautiful music, rendered by two such artists over the grave of the composer, was to feel in the truest sense the genius of Rossini, and the part that he played in the music of the nineteenth century.

The name of Patti has always been asso- ciated with high prices, and not without cause ; for, although other singers have received larger sums for isolated engagements, none have ever succeeded in maintaining such a uniformly high rate.

When she returned to America in 1881, after an absence of some twenty years, Patti held mistaken notions about the American people, and her early concerts were a bitter disappointment. High prices and hackneyed songs did not suit the public, and in order to make a success of the tour Madame Patti was obliged to throw over her French manager, and employ an American (Henry E. Abbey) who knew the public, and who immediately cut the prices down to one-half. Eventually the season was suc- cessful, both artistically and financially, her voice showing but little sign of wear, and her execution being as brilliant as ever. At Brooklyn the people took the horses out of her carriage, and dragged her home, one facetious writer remarking that he saw no reason for taking away her horses, and sub- stituting asses. The following clever rhyme, at the expense of her manager, taken from " Puck,' r voices the opinion of the public very neatly, in regard to Patti's tour, in 1881-2: Patti cake, Patti cake, Franchi man ! " So I do, messieurs, comme vite as I can." " Roulez et tournez et marquez ' with care,' Et posez au publique a ten dollars a chair."

Farinelli is said to have made $30,000 per annum, a very large sum for the times in which he lived. Catalani's profits ran almost to $100,000 a season. Malibran re- ceived $95,000 for eighty-five performances at La Scala. Jenny Lind, for ninety-five concerts, under Barnum's management, re- ceived $208,675, all good figures. But Rubini is said to have made $11,500 at one concert, and Tamagno is the highest-priced tenor of the present day.

Patti at one time made a contract for a series of performances at $4,400 a night, and later on her fee was $5,000 a night, paid in advance, but when she came to Boston in 1882, and sang in three performances given in a week, her share of the receipts was $20,895. The attendance at the Saturday matinee was 9,142 people, and her share of the receipts for that performance alone was $8,395.

Madame Patti always had the advantage of excellent management. Until her mar- riage with the Marquis de Caux she was under the management of her brother-in-law, Mau- rice Strakosch, and so assiduous was he in his protection of his young star from unnec- essary wear and tear that he became the subject of many jokes. It is said that he occasionally took her place at rehearsals, that when visitors called on her they saw him instead, and some people, with vivid imagination, declared that Strakosch sat for Patti' s photograph, and that he once offered to receive a declaration of love for her.

One is apt to doubt the necessity of all this management, for Patti seems to have been admirably adapted for self-defence, and even for aggression in financial matters. An amusing anecdote is told of her by Max Maretzek, who, one day, when she was a small child, in a moment of generosity prom- ised her a doll, or, as some accounts have it, some bon-bons as a reward for singing in a concert. It was to be her very first appear- ance. Patti did not forget the promise, and when it was nearly time for her to sing she asked for her doll. Maretzek had forgotten it, and promised that she should have it after the concert, or the next day. But no, she must have it first, or she would not go on and sing. The poor man was in despair. It was late and stores were all closed, but by some means he succeeded in getting the bribe, whether dolls or bon-bons, and, rushing back in breathless haste, he handed it to her. Then she became cheerful at once, and giving it to her mother to be taken care of, she went on and performed her part in the concert.

One of the most amusing of these anec- dotes was told by Colonel Mapleson, the well-known impresario, who says that no one ever approached Madame Patti in the art of obtaining from a manager the great- est possible sum that he could contrive by any possibility to pay. In 1882, owing to the competition of Henry Abbey, the Ameri- can impresario, Mapleson was obliged to raise Patti's salary from $1,000 per night to $4,000, and, finally, to $5,000 per night, a sum previously unheard-of in the annals of opera. The price, moreover, was to be paid at two o'clock of the day on which Patti was to sing.

On the second night of the engagement at Boston, Madame Patti was billed to sing in "Traviata." Expenses had been heavy and the funds were low, so that when Signor Franchi, Patti's agent, called at the theatre promptly at two o'clock, only $4,000 could be scraped together. Signor Franchi was indignant, and declared that the contract was broken, and that Madame Patti would not sing. He refused to take the $4,000, and went off to report the matter to the prima donna. At four o'clock, Signer Franchi returned to the theatre, and con- gratulated Colonel Mapleson on his facility for managing Madame Patti, saying that she would do for the colonel that which she would do for no other impresario. In short, Patti would take the $4,000 and dress for her part, all except her shoes. She would arrive at the theatre at the reg- ular time, and when the remaining paltry $1,000 was forthcoming she would put on her shoes and be ready to go on the stage.

Everything happened as Patti had prom- ised. She arrived at the theatre costumed as Violetta, but minus her shoes. Franchi called at the box-office, but only $800 was on hand. The genial Signer took the money and returned to Patti' s room. He soon ap- peared again to say that Madame Patti was all ready except one shoe, which she could not put on until the remaining $200 was paid. It was already time for the perform- ance to begin, but people were still coming in, and after some slight delay Signor Franchi was able to go in triumph to Madame Patti with the balance of the amount. Patti put on her other shoe and proceeded to the stage. She made her entrance at the proper time, her face radiant with smiles, and no one in the audience had any idea of the stirring events which had just taken place.

In later years, when Madame Patti in- vested some of her fortune in the beautiful castle at Craig-y-Nos, in Wales, the people employed to put the place into repair, know- ing of her reputed wealth and extravagance, sent in enormous bills. But Madame Patti was not to be imposed upon, and the result was that the amounts melted down consider- ably under the gentle influence of the law. The unkindest cut of all was, however, when a Belgian gentleman, who had amused him- self at Craig-y-Nos, who had fished, shot, and been entertained, but who always managed to be present during discussions on business, sent in a bill of ,3,000 for his services as agent.

Under the management of Colonel Maple- son, Patti travelled in most luxurious style. She had a special car which is said to have cost $65,000, and a whole retinue of ser- vants. At Cheyenne, the legislature and assembly adjourned and chartered a special car to meet the operatic train. A military band was at the station, and nearly the whole population turned out to witness the arrival. Tickets to the opera were ten dollars each, and there was an audience of 3,000 people.

California seems to have been considered doubtful territory, for Patti left the question undecided as to whether she would go so far. When she did arrive it was merely as a vis- itor, but her delight with the "heavenly place " was so great that she declared she must sing there. The necessary delay in- curred by sending to Chicago for numerous trunks containing her wardrobe, gave suffi- cient time for the excitement in San Fran- cisco to work up to fever heat. Tickets sold at unheard-of prices, and more or less damage to property was done in the scramble.

Adelina Patti made her first matrimonial venture in 1868, when she was united to the Marquis de Caux, an event which did not interfere with her operatic career, for she filled an engagement of six weeks at Paris, and then went on to St. Petersburg, where the town opened a subscription which amounted to 100,000 rubles, and presented her with a diamond necklace.

In 1885 Madame Patti obtained a divorce from the Marquis de Caux, from whom she had separated in 1877, and the following year married Ernest Nicolini, the tenor singer. Nicolini was a man of fine stage presence, and, for a time, after the retire- ment of Mario, was considered the best tenor on the stage. His voice was of mod- erate power and of pleasing quality, but his tremolo was, to say the least, extensive. For some years Madame Patti declined every engagement in which Nicolini was not included, until the public indignation found vent in many protests. Signer Nicolini seems to have been a devoted and admiring husband, and to have entered heartily into the pleasures of the luxurious life of Craig-y-Nos. He died in January, 1898.

After some years of retirement from the operatic stage, during which she sang only in concerts, Patti made a reappearance at Covent Garden in 1895, and showed that her voice, notwithstanding nearly forty years of use, was wonderfully well preserved. Nev- ertheless it was a disappointment to those who had heard her in her prime. As a reason for its preservation she says that she never sings when she is tired, and never strains for high notes. Sir Morell Macken- zie, the great throat specialist, said that she had the most wonderful throat he ever saw. It was the only one in which the vocal cords were in absolutely perfect condition after many years of use. They were not strained, warped, or roughened in the slight- est degree, but absolutely perfect, and there was no reason why they should not remain so for ten or even twenty years longer. It was by her voice alone that she charmed and delighted her audiences, and she will doubt- less be recorded as the possessor of the most perfect voice of the nineteenth century. She witnessed the rise of many rivals, but none ever equalled her in popularity, though many excelled her in dramatic powers. Lucca, Sembrich, Nilsson, were all greater as ac- tresses, but of all the rivals of her prime only Sembrich and Albani remain, and sev- eral years must elapse before their careers will equal the length of Patti's.

Probably no other singer has succeeded in amassing so great a fortune as Madame Patti. Her earnings enabled her to purchase, in 1878, the beautiful estate in Wales, which she remodelled to suit her own ideas. Here she has lived in regal style and entertained lavishly many of the most noted people of the civilized world.

Her wealth is by no means confined to real estate, for she has a rare collection of jewels, said to be the largest and most bril- liant owned by any of the modern actresses and opera singers. One of her gowns, worn in the third act of " La Traviata," was cov- ered with precious stones to the value of $500,000.

Madame Patti's most popular r61es were Juliet and Aida, and though she created no new parts of importance, she has amply fulfilled the traditional role of prima donna in matters of caprice and exaction, and has even created some new precedents. In 1898 she was still before the public, singing in concerts in London and elsewhere.

via Famous singers of to-day and yesterday by Lahee, Henry Charles, 1856-1953.

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myonechicagoworld · 3 years

Text

CHICAGO FIRE – IT AIN’T EASY (S01E09)

Leslie Shay: [clears throat]

Corrine: Have a good day.

Leslie Shay: Yeah, you too.

Kelly Severide: Hey. See you.

Corrine: Mm.

[kissing sound]

[door closing]

Leslie Shay: You feel better? Feel like you accomplished

something?

Kelly Severide: By the way… she’s not 100% lesbian.

[munching & chewing]

Leslie Shay: [sighs]

Kelly Severide: What? [chuckles] You said it was cool.

cutscene

[siren wailing]

[indistinct chatter]

Man 1 (Machinist): Started getting hot. Smoke started coming in.

I turned around. Next thing I know, fire’s coming

in through the window. We tried to spray it, but

it got too hot, and the propane tank blew.

Matt Casey: Anything else combustible in there?

Man 1 (Machinist): A bunch of cylinders… oxygen, acetylene.

Chief Boden: Truck 81, pull those tanks out before it turns into the

4th of July.

Squad, you’re on search.

Otis Zvonecek: Hey, isn’t that that kid Ernie from the Thanksgiving

dinner?

[water spraying]

Matt Casey: Main room’s clear of hazardous material. No workers in

here. Haven’t checked the supply room yet.

Kelly Severide: We got it!

[beeping]

Vargas: Lieutenant, somebody’s in the corner!

Kelly Severide: Okay, grab his legs! Hadley, Capp, finish the sweep!

Capp or Hadley: We’re on it.

Kelly Severide: [grunts]

Chief Boden: Let’s get two attack lines ready in the back.

Firefighter: Right, Chief.

[coughing]

Kelly Severide: Hold on!

Victim 1: [coughing]

Kelly Severide: One, two, three. Go!

Chief Boden: Truck’s still engaged. I need you two to vent the roof.

Kelly Severide: On it.

Capp: Hey! Supply room’s clear!

Matt Casey: Take one of these.

Capp: Got it.

Matt Casey: All yours, Rich.

Engine Firefighter (Rich): Give me more line!

[glass smashing]

Chief Boden: (into radio) How we doing on that vent?

Kelly Severide: (into radio) We’re venting, making progress.

[water spraying]

[explosion]

Engine Firefighter (Rich): Clear out, clear out!

Vargas: [coughing & choking]

Kelly Severide: Vargas!

Vargas: [groaning]

Kelly Severide: (into radio) Mayday! Mayday! Firefighter down!

Chief Boden: (over radio) We’ve got a down firefighter on the roof.

Get a ladder up there now!

Vargas: [choking & gasping]

Gabby Dawson: Vargas, can you hear me?

Vargas: [gasping]

Gabby Dawson: Take nice, slow breaths for us, Vargas.

We’re gonna get you to the hospital in no time,

okay? Just hang in there for us.

You guys ready?

Matt Casey: Yeah.

Gabby Dawson: We need a hand.

[ambo door shuts]

[siren wailing]

Kelly Severide: Hey. Hey. You torch this place? Huh, you little

tweaker?

Ernie: I’m watching.

Kelly Severide: You’re watching it? Did you do it? Huh?

Chief Boden: Kelly! That’s enough!

Kelly Severide: That’s two fires, two dumpsters, same kid!

Chief Boden: Walk it off, Kelly! I am handling this!

Kelly Severide: Why don’t you invite him back for apple pie?

Keep him close. That’s the plan, right?

- Title -

�� [door opens]

Chief Boden: Good morning.

All: Morning.

Chief Boden: I know you’re all concerned about what happened to

Vargas on the last shift.

Hospital has treated him and released him. He’s

resting up. But he is not out of the woods.

Hazmat has confirmed magnesium shavings

were in a bin at the machine shop, which you all

know is reactive with water.

Christopher Herrmann: Magnesium inhalation.

Chief Boden: He’s got burns on his lungs and an upper respiratory

tract infection.

Christopher Herrmann: So when are we gonna see him again?

Chief Boden: We won’t know until we get the test results.

But look, he’s gonna be fine no matter what happens.

Okay?

Uh, my office. Now.

Door.

[door shuts]

Chief Boden: If you ever talk to me like that in front of the men

again, you will see a side of me that you won’t

forget.

Kelly Severide: All due respect, I’ve got to protect my men.

Chief Boden: And I am doing what? Walking around with my thumb

up my ass?

Kelly Severide: He is a firebug. Plain as day.

Chief Boden: I am taking care of this! Do you understand me?

Step back.

[door closes]

cutscene

[shower water running]

[indistinct background chatter]

[locker door squeaks]

[locker slamming]

cutscene

Phone Voicemail (Vargas): Hey, you’ve reached Jose Vargas.

Please leave a message.

[phone beeps]

Matt Casey: [sighs exasperatedly]

Leslie Shay: Hey, anything?

Matt Casey: He’s not picking up.

Leslie Shay: All right. Well, let me know if anyone’s planning on

going over there. Dawson and I want in.

Matt Casey: You got it.

Leslie Shay: Oh, hey um… Dawson’s landlord is being a dick about

repairs. Her kitchen window leaks every time it rains,

and he won’t do anything about it.

Matt Casey: Really? She hasn’t said anything to me about it.

Leslie Shay: Oh, she didn’t want to come off like a mooch.

But anyhow, she tried to fix it herself, and now

the window won’t go up or down.

Matt Casey: Oh. I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to her.

Leslie Shay: Great. Thanks.

Matt Casey: Yeah.

Leslie Shay: Cool.

Matt Casey: [snaps fingers]

You should have said something about your window.

Gabby Dawson: [chuckles] You want greater Chicago to know your

business, make sure you tell Leslie Shay.

Matt Casey: I can put in a new one for you.

Gabby Dawson: Oh, I-I don’t…I don’t like asking favours.

Matt Casey: Good thing you didn’t ask.

cutscene

[knocking on door]

[door opens]

Chief Boden: The fire at the machine shop… do you know how it

started?

Do you remember Jose Vargas? From the firehouse?

His lungs are burned. Pretty bad.

Ernie: I told you, I don’t know anything.

Chief Boden: But if you did know something, now would be the

time for you to speak up, because that way, I can

still help you out.

Ernie: [sighs] It’s not my fault.

Chief Boden: What’s not your fault?

Come on, son, talk to me.

Look, whatever it is, we can make it right. We can get

you some help.

Ernie: I want to bring my grandma.

Chief Boden: That’s fine.

[radio static]

PA: (over radio) Truck 81, elevator accident…

[radio switched off]

Chief Boden: You come down to the station by 2:00. No one’s

gonna hurt you anymore, Ernie.

Station by 2:00, okay?

[door slamming]

cutscene

Matt Casey: What’s the word?

Man 2 (Security Guard): A bank elevator stopped working. One of

them is stuck. Somebody in there was

calling for help, but now nobody’s

answering the phone.

Matt Casey: What floor?

Man 2 (Security Guard): It’s express. It could be anywhere between

the lobby and the tenth floor.

Matt Casey: Let’s start on ten and get a bird’s eye view.

Mouch: [groans]

Matt Casey: This one.

Christopher Herrmann: All right.

Otis Zvonecek: [grunts]

Matt Casey: Got it?

Otis Zvonecek: Yeah [grunts]

[metal clanging]

Otis Zvonecek: Good.

Matt Casey: All right.

[grunts]

This is the fire department! Can anybody hear me?

Mills, Cruz, Herrmann, throw a rope. I’ll get in the

hoistway.

Otis, get up to the motor room and take over the

power.

Ah, Mouch. You, uh, stay right here and take command

of this floor, huh?

Mouch: [sighs & pants]

[metal clanging]

[elevators powering down]

Otis Zvonecek: (into radio) Power’s down on all elevators.

Christopher Herrmann: Peter Mills, your line’s secure.

Joe Cruz: Line secure!

Peter Mills: All right.

Matt Casey: Yeah.

Firefighter: Okay.

Matt Casey: Hello?

(into radio) Elevator’s empty except for a safe.

Gotta weigh a ton, at least.

[shuffling]

Matt Casey: What the hell?

Man 3: I didn’t do it.

Matt Casey: Hey buddy? I came down here to help you.

You didn’t hear me yelling?

Man 3: Please, I don’t want any help.

Matt Casey: Clearly. What’s your name?

Man 3: I don’t want to say.

Matt Casey: I’m not a cop.

Fine, I’ll call you Ralph. Ralph, don’t do…

Man 3: It’s Mark.

Matt Casey: All right, Mark, don’t do anything stupid.

I mean, don’t do anything stupid again.

Man 3 (Mark): Oh God.

Joe Cruz: Elevator’s dead until that safe’s out, Casey!

Matt Casey: Drop me a rescue harness.

Joe Cruz: On it!

Lady 1: I only noticed the safe was missing when I got back from a

meeting.

Christopher Herrmann: Well, it ain’t going anywhere now.

Man 3 (Mark): I told her I needed 45, and she just said, “take it or

leave it.”

Matt Casey: Looks like you took it.

Mouch: We’ll have him out of there soon.

Lady 1: Never hire family.

Man 3 (Mark): The money never left the building [sniffs]

Maybe Betts and I can work something out.

Matt Casey: There you go. Now, when I say the word… not yet!

Man 3 (Mark): [slipping]

[yells]

I can’t hold on. Help me!

Matt Casey: [grunts]

Man 3 (Mark): Help me…

Matt Casey: Hold on.

Man 3 (Mark): Help me.

Peter Mills: Casey’s…[continues indistinctly]

Matt Casey: Coming for you.

Christopher Herrmann: (over radio) Casey, put your line back on.

Matt Casey: Here, give me your hand.

Come on. Stay calm. Here, now hold on to the beam.

Grab the beam. Got it?

Man 3 (Mark): Yeah.

Matt Casey: Okay. Now give me your other hand.

Man 3 (Mark): Okay.

Matt Casey: One step at a time.

Man 3 (Mark): Okay.

Matt Casey: Edge along. I got you.

Man 3 (Mark): [yells]

Matt Casey: Hold on! Get your feet up.

Man 3 (Mark): Don’t drop me!

Matt Casey: I got you.

Man 3 (Mark): Don’t drop me! Please don’t drop me.

Matt Casey: I got you. Get your feet up.

I got you, I got you. I’m not gonna drop you.

Keep going. You’re okay.

(into radio) I got him. (over radio) Up on line.

Christopher Herrmann: Ready to haul.

Matt Casey: Haul.

Put your feet up. Feet.

Peter Mills: Keep coming.

Move to your right and then… stop! Stop right there.

Man 3 (Mark): [grunting]

Peter Mills: All right.

[applause]

Gabby Dawson: You okay? Let’s go over to the chair.

Man 3 (Mark): [panting]

Gabby Dawson: Well, sir, you look okay. Do you hurt anywhere?

Man 3 (Mark): I feel sick.

Leslie Shay: You’ll be alright.

Lady 1 (Betts): What am I supposed to tell mom, huh? You dropout.

Joe Cruz: Yo, Mouch, I think I left my kit upstairs. Can you run up

and grab it for me?

Mouch: I’d give you the finger, but that would require too much

energy.

[cell phone rings]

Joe Cruz: Hello?

Yeah, I’ll accept the charges.

Leon, you better not be calling me from where I think

you’re calling.

Lieutenant?

Matt Casey: Yeah?

Joe Cruz: My little brother got pinched in a robbery. Unarmed.

Petty theft.

Anyway, he’s at county and if I could get an hour, I need

to bail him out.

Matt Casey: Get us back to 51 and then do what you gotta do.

Joe Cruz: You sure?

Matt Casey: Are you?

Joe Cruz: It’s family.

[truck compartment door closes]

Gabby Dawson: Casey, hey. Uh, hypothetical. A friend comes over

to your house to help out with something…

do you repay your friend with your phenomenal

arroz con pollo picante, or a six pack of his

favourite beer?

Matt Casey: Hypothetically, your friend can bring his own beer.

However, he can barely say arroz c-con yollo

compointe…

Gabby & Matt: [laughs]

Matt Casey: Let alone cook it.

Gabby Dawson: Got it.

Leslie Shay: Look at you. All lit up like a Christmas tree.

Gabby Dawson: What? No, I just asked him if he wanted me to

make dinner.

Leslie Shay: Uh, huh.

Gabby Dawson: Hey, we are not talking about this.

Leslie Shay: Seriously, how long has it been?

Gabby Dawson: He just dumped his fiancée, Shay. But, yeah, it’s

been a while.

Leslie Shay: Right. That’s why you gotta get in there. Pick up the

rebound and slam it on home.

Gabby Dawson: Okay, I’m gonna about to slam something in a

minute.

cutscene

(Over PA): Live and in person, Jose Vargas.

Matt Casey: Ah! There he is! Good to see you, buddy.

Vargas: Lieutenant.

Matt Casey: [grunts]

Otis Zvonecek: What’s up man? [laughs]

Peter Mills: Are you staying for lunch? We’re having brisket.

Kelly Severide: He’s staying. Come on, let’s eat!

Gabby Dawson: Hey.

Vargas: Hi.

[alarm buzzing & blaring]

(Over PA): Ambulance 61…

Gabby Dawson: Save me some of that.

(Over PA): Man down from unknown causes.

Peter Mills & Matt Casey: Sure.

(Over PA): 716 South Morgan Drive.

Otis Zvonecek: Sorry.

Vargas: Doctor’s got me huffing on a nebulizer four times a day.

Plus this inhaler.

Busy day so far?

Kelly Severide: Uh, no, no. Not too bad.

Connie: Casey, Severide. Chief’s asking for you.

Chief Boden: This is Dr. Tenney, CFD medical director.

Dr. Tenney: Gentlemen.

Chief Boden: We wanted to bring you men in since Vargas served

under both your command.

Dr. Tenney: His lab suggests chronic obstructive pulmonary

disease.

Kelly Severide: What’s that?

Dr. Tenney: He’ll develop emphysema, which means his lungs will

gradually deteriorate. He won’t be able to breathe a

normal amount of air, which… could lead to other

issues: weight loss, skeletal muscle dysfunction,

heart problems…

Chief Boden: There’s just no way he can handle the demands of

the job.

Matt Casey: He’s out there right now, Chief. He looks good.

Chief Boden: We are placing him on long-term disability. I wanted

you two to know what was happening. When I get

all this paperwork together, I will talk to Vargas.

Matt Casey: We’ll tell him.

Vargas: So that’s it?

Kelly Severide: I’m sorry, Vargas. It could happen to any of us.

Vargas: Well, be glad it didn’t happen to you.

Matt Casey: Hey, you’re getting paid. Three-quarters salary.

Vargas: Yeah.

Matt Casey: It’s not what anybody wants. But any of us would take

that deal.

Vargas: How about you, Kelly? Would you…would you take that

deal?

Kelly Severide: Uh… [lightly claps hands together] They’re not

offering a choice.

Matt Casey: You still doing landscaping?

Vargas: Yeah. Whenever my buddy needs another guy.

Matt Casey: Take the 75%, start your own business.

Kelly Severide: Or go ride Harleys with your brother like you talked

about.

Vargas: He moved to Albuquerque.

[chuckles] You and me should both be taking 75%.

[sighs]

Matt Casey: Did you see a doctor?

Your shoulder. Do you think no one’s noticed?

Kelly Severide: It’s my neck. And I saw a doctor. She said there’s

nothing to worry about, so I’m not worrying about

it.

Matt Casey: It’s your business, but if it’s an issue for you, it’s an

issue for all of us.

Kelly Severide: Then we’re good.

[alarm blaring & buzzing]

(Over PA): Squad 3, Engine 51. Single car accident.

5512 South Sangamon.

[sirens wailing]

[electricity crackling & buzzing]

Kelly Severide: Car’s energised! Keep your distance!

Tony, get on the horn with ComEd and get this line

cut.

Watch it, guys.

[electricity crackling]

Lady 2: Uh, I knew just to not get out of the car.

Kelly Severide: You knew right. You hurt?

Lady 2: No, I don’t… I don’t think so.

Kelly Severide: What happened?

[electricity crackling]

Lady 2: Well, this animal just darted out, right out in front of my car

and…

Kelly Severide: Well, looks like you missed him, so PETA will be

happy.

Just give us a sec.

Hadley: Severide.

[electricity sparking]

Kelly Severide: All right, we can’t wait for the power company.

Lady 2: Wait, what’s happening?

Kelly Severide: Just stay in the car.

Hadley, throw me the rope bag.

Hadley: Yup.

Lady 2: Oh my God [hyperventilating] Is everything gonna be okay?

Kelly Severide: Yeah, I promise. You’re gonna be fine.

Lady 2: [groans]

[electricity sparking]

Lady 2: Ohh...

[yelps] Ohh…

[groans]

[electricity sparking]

Lady 2: [yelps]

Hadley: You good?

Kelly Severide: Good.

Lady 2: Ooh.

Kelly Severide: See?

Lady 2: Ohh.

Kelly Severide: Safe and sound.

Lady 2: Yeah [nervous laughter]

[groans] Okay [nervous laughter]

Kelly Severide: Come over here.

Lady 2: [groans]

Kelly Severide: You want a backboard and stretcher?

Lady 2: No, no. God, what I need is a massage [laughs]

I’m… I’m good. I’m, uh, I’m fine.

Kelly Severide: All right. All right, well, these guys will check you out

to make sure.

Lady 2: Uh, thank you.

cutscene

[background chatter]

Joe Cruz: You’re moving in with me.

Leon Cruz: Yo, whatever.

Joe Cruz: Whatever? How about, “thanks for saving my ass?”

We weren’t raised like this. You’re turning your back on

your familia.

Leon Cruz: Yo, I got a different family now.

Joe Cruz: What the hell is the matter with you?

Look at where we are! I can’t keep chasing after you your

whole life, cleaning up your mess.

Leon Cruz: Yo, then don’t.

Joe Cruz: You want to die in a gang? Like Moco? Like Ruiz?

cutscene

Peter Mills: Blackboy? That’s your word?

Mouch: It’s a plant. And a triple word score.

Peter Mills: Hey, Dawson, if I said uh, “let’s get a bunch of

blackboys in here to decorate the house,” what

would you think?

Gabby Dawson: Uh, I’m not touching that one.

Mouch: Should I go get the dictionary? It’s a word.

Peter Mills: Wait, I, uh, I saved you a plate.

Gabby Dawson: Thanks.

Peter Mills & Gabby Dawson: [chuckles]

Leslie Shay: Mm.

Peter Mills: Um, yeah, I-I can make you some, if…

Leslie Shay: [gasping] Oh, no. Don’t trouble yourself, Peter Mills.

I had two sunflower seeds in the ambo.

cutscene

Chief Boden: Ernie here yet?

Christopher Herrmann: Not yet.

I know you don’t want to do this, Chief.

But… you gotta do this.

Chief Boden: I just want to believe he’s a good kid.

Christopher Herrmann: But you’re not doing anybody any favours

by waiting for this kid to do the right thing.

Chief Boden: Putting him in the system does what?

Christopher Herrmann: What choice do you have? Let it slide?

Hope that he changes on his own?

cutscene

[squad compartment door shuts]

Lady 2: Remember me? I tried to electrocute you earlier?

Kelly Severide: I remember.

Lady 2: For you. Chocolates.

Kelly Severide: Well, thanks, but it’s not…

Lady 2: No. No, please. I mean, it doesn’t even begin to repay you

for all your help.

Kelly Severide: Miss…

Lady 2: Uh, Renee Royce.

Kelly Severide: Ah.

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): [giggles] Call me Renee.

Kelly Severide: Um, look, my services are free.

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): This is gonna sound, um… okay what the

hell.

Do you want to have lunch or coffee

sometime? It doesn’t have to be today…

Kelly Severide: Look, it’s a really nice offer.

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): Come on, just say yes.

Kelly Severide: Miss Royce?

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): Yes?

Kelly Severide: There’s a well-known phenomenon where people

who have been rescued become attracted to the

men that helped them. Believe me, this will wear

off in 30 minutes, tops.

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): Thank you again.

Kelly Severide: Yeah, it was my pleasure.

cutscene

Peter Mills: Hey, I heard the news. Sorry, man.

Vargas: Want a yo-yo? Even as a kid, I could never figure out how to

do it. Otis says I gotta snap my wrist more.

Peter Mills: How long did it take to get from truck to squad?

Vargas: 16 years. My whole career.

Five weeks to get booted out.

[locker door slams]

Vargas: On the bright side, there’s a spot open now.

Peter Mills: No. Yo, I-I wasn’t even thinking… I would never…

Vargas: Mills. When you get the opportunity, grab it.

[locker door slams]

Vargas: It ain’t easy.

Otis Zvonecek: This is from all of us.

Vargas: Thanks guys.

This is um… it sure ain’t pretty.

[laughter]

Vargas: But I love it. Thanks.

Chief Boden: It was an honour to serve with you at this house,

Vargas.

Vargas: Thanks, Chief.

Mouch: You lucky bastard.

Matt Casey: Good luck, brother.

Capp: You’ll do great, man..

Kelly Severide: Just… get well soon.

Christopher Herrmann: See you later, buddy.

Hadley: Take it easy, man.

Matt Casey: See ya, man.

Chief Boden: Keep an eye on him, both of youse.

cutscene

[knocking on door]

Chief Boden: Hey.

Man 4 (James Whoritsky): Wallace!

Chief Boden: Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.

Man 4 (James Whoritsky): We gotta catch up sometime. Off duty.

Chief Boden: [chuckles] You don’t have to tell me twice.

Man 4 (James Whoritsky): Sit. Sit. So what you got?

Chief Boden: We think we have at least two major fires that are

connected. Both of them started in dumpsters, both

possibly started by a 14-year-old kid who has been

seen at three incidents. Record of station visits,

phone correspondence, medical history, SSI data.

Dad’s doing 30 years in Tamms. Mom OD’d a year

ago. He’s a good kid. Some day he’s gonna kill

somebody.

cutscene

[car door shuts]

[bell chiming]

[background chatter]

Joe Cruz: Flaco.

Man 5 (Flaco): [chuckles] Is that Joe Cruz? Damn, ain’t seen you for

a minute. What up man?

Joe Cruz: Hey, I appreciate you talking the time.

Man 5 (Flaco): Ah, we go back, you and me.

Joe Cruz: I wanted to talk to you about my brother.

Man 5 (Flaco): Yeah? I heard you bailed him out.

Joe Cruz: Yeah.

Man 5 (Flaco): That’s cool. You ain’t gotta worry about Puppet

though. I’m watching out for him.

Personally.

Joe Cruz: Look, he ain’t cut out for your crew.

Man 5 (Flaco): I’d love to help you out, bro. But I put in time on

him. Been grooming him for a while now.

You want to buy out, you gotta drop 10k.

Joe Cruz: What?

Man 5 (Flaco): Time is money, man.

Joe Cruz: I don’t have it.

And even if I did, I put in time with Leon. A lot more than

you. So the way I see it, maybe you owe me something.

[laughter]

Man 5 (Flaco): You got heart. I’ll give you that. And loyalty.

Ain’t nothing more important than loyalty to your

hermanos, right?

Okay.

[slurping]

Joe Cruz: We’re cool?

Man 5 (Flaco): As cucumbers.

Joe Cruz: If we’re having this same conversation a year from now,

I swear to you, he’s all yours.

cutscene

Mouch: Sea salt sarsaparilla? What the hell kind of chocolate is

this? Where’s the nougat?

Gabby Dawson: I love this one.

Matt Casey: It’s junk.

Gabby Dawson: What?

Matt Casey: With our winters, you want one made with wood fibre

strengthened with PVC polymers.

Gabby Dawson: This one’s so cute.

I…

Matt Casey: Can’t compete with cute.

Mouch: Mm.

cutscene

Leslie Shay: Hey.

Kelly Severide: What’s shaking, Sparkles?

Leslie Shay: What’s up with you?

Kelly Severide: Nothin’.

Leslie Shay: You on something again?

Kelly Severide: What?

Leslie Shay: You know I’m not giving you painkillers.

You’d think after Thanksgiving that you’d be…

Kelly Severide: No. I-I’m finally feeling better, Shay, and when I

have a good day I don’t question it. So maybe

you shouldn’t either.

And by the way, didn’t we have an agreement when

we first moved in that we wouldn’t get in each

other’s business?

Leslie Shay: This isn’t some personal thing. This is serious,

what you’re doing.

Kelly Severide: I’m not doing anything!

Leslie Shay: Anyhow… [sighs] I came to tell you there’s someone

looking for you on the floor.

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): It has been over 30 minutes, and it hasn’t

worn off.

Kelly Severide: Well, how about that?

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): Because you made me wait, it is now going

to be dinner.

Kelly Severide: Is it?

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): Have you ever been to Francesca’s?

‘Cause we’re in for tomorrow night.

Kelly Severide: Where is this place?

Mouch: The injury you want is to get shot in the foot. With the right

angle, you can blow that…

Otis Zvonecek: Severide, tell me that lady you were just with wasn’t

the same woman that you saved from the wreck.

Kelly Severide: Why? Is she your sister?

Otis Zvonecek: [scoffs] Doctors don’t date patients. Lawyers don’t

date clients. Victims are off-limits to firefighters.

Mouch: Uh, actually there’s nothing in the Union bylaws that says

you can’t date a victim.

Otis Zvonecek: And might I add, these chocolates? A little too

fancy-pants.

Kelly Severide: So don’t eat ‘em.

Otis Zvonecek: Whoa! Hey, I didn’t say inedible.

Christopher Herrmann: Vargas, hey! You forgot something?

Vargas: You said come back anytime.

Christopher Herrmann: Of course. Yeah

Otis Zvonecek: Hey, you keep showing up like this, you’re gonna

give Mills here a big head.

Kelly Severide: Hey, man.

Vargas: Hey, who’s drinking after shift? I’m buying.

Christopher Herrmann: Aww, jeez, I wish I could. But Lee Henry’s

got a hockey game.

Mouch: Hey, if you’re still buying next week, I’m totally free Saturday

and Sunday.

Vargas: [chuckles] No problem.

cutscene

[siren wailing]

[battalion car door shuts]

Fireman: Fire’s out, Chief.

Chief Boden: Any idea what happened?

Fireman: Yeah. Dumpster fire in the back spread to the house.

Chief Boden: [sighs]

[cell phone ringing]

Chief Boden: You got anything for me?

Man 4 (James Whoritsky): Sent a couple guys over to the kid’s

grandma’s house. Nobody’s there.

Got a hit on something else though.

The grandma’s the legal guardian,

but his SSI checks, they’re going to

another address.

Chief Boden: Text me.

[rustling]

Chief Boden: Ernie…

Ernie: What are you doing here?

Chief Boden: Did you start that fire?

Did you start that fire!

Ernie: The cops were at my house.

Chief Boden: Why didn’t you come to the fire station like we

agreed?

Ernie: You ratted me out.

Chief Boden: I’m trying to help you out.

Ernie: I didn’t do anything wrong. Everything’s all messed up.

Chief Boden: What’s messed up?

Ernie: No. You have to go. Get out of here. Go!

Chief Boden: Hey! Hey! Hey!

Man 6: Who the hell are you?

Chief Boden: Wallace Boden. How do you know Ernie?

Man 6: I’m his uncle.

Chief Boden: You okay, Ernie?

Ernie: He’s my uncle Ray.

Chief Boden: What’s going on here? What you doing to that kid?

I said, what are you doing to that kid?

Man 6 (Uncle Ray): You a cop?

Chief Boden: Hey, Ernie! Ernie!

cutscene

Kelly Severide: You stay the whole shift?

Vargas: Old habits.

Kelly Severide: You still free tonight?

Vargas: How long were you hanging off the side of that balcony?

Kelly Severide: Long enough.

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): [giggles]

Vargas: If I hadn’t raised that ladder when I did, he would have had

nothing but pavement to break his fall [laughs]

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): Wow.

Vargas: [coughs] [inhaler hisses] [cough]

Yeah, sorry I crashed your date.

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): Oh, no, no, no. Stop it. This was uh…

it was fun.

Kelly Severide: I’ve never seen you talk that much in my life.

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): [chuckles]

Kelly Severide: Okay.

Vargas: See you guys.

Kelly Severide: I appreciate you making it three. He’s… struggling.

[kissing sounds]

Lady 2 (Renee Royce): You’re a good man.

cutscene

[tires screeching]

Joe Cruz: Leon!

Oh my God, Leon!

Leon Cruz: What the hell did you do?

[grunting & groaning]

cutscene

Man 4 (James Whoritsky): No record of an uncle. But then, in that

part of town you get a lot of unofficial

“uncles” and “aunties”.

Chief Boden: What about the house where I found him?

Man 4 (James Whoritsky): Uh, it’s uh, rented to a… a

Raymond Martin.

Chief Boden: That’s him.

Man 4 (James Whoritsky): No outstanding warrants. Looks like

he’s laying low.

Chief Boden: Has he got any priors?

Man 4 (James Whoritsky): Ah. Did 8 years in Statesville.

�� Felony arson.

cutscene

[soft music playing]

Matt Casey: Cute enough?

Gabby Dawson: It’s perfect.

I love it. Even the view is better.

Matt Casey: Uh…

Gabby Dawson: Oh God!

Matt Casey: Who you got here?

Gabby Dawson: Oh… [chuckles] That is my niece Maria. She just

started ballet class, and she’s so adorable.

The one next to her, that’s Antonio’s brainiac

son, Diego. I don’t know where he gets it.

Matt Casey: [chuckles]

Gabby Dawson: The twins, Freddy and Caria.

Matt Casey: You his aunt, too?

Gabby Dawson: [chuckles] Yeah, we hang out sometimes.

Matt Casey: Oh yeah?

Gabby Dawson: Well, he knows all the best dive restaurants in the

city.

Matt Casey: Really?

Gabby Dawson: Mmhmm. Here. Try this.

Matt Casey: Mm.

Gabby Dawson: It’s a little spicy. Careful.

Matt Casey: I can take it.

Oh my God.

Gabby Dawson: Yeah? You like it?

Matt Casey: It is phenomenal.

Gabby Dawson: [giggles]

Matt Casey: [chuckles]

Gabby Dawson: Thanks.

Matt Casey: Hey! Let’s take a picture for your wall of fame.

Gabby Dawson: Okay.

Matt Casey: Do that. Here.

Ready?

Gabby Dawson: Ready.

Matt Casey: You sure?

Gabby Dawson: Yeah [giggles]

Matt Casey: [chuckles] Three, two, one.

[click]

[phone vibrates]

Matt Casey: I gotta go.

Gabby Dawson: Okay. What’s up?

Matt Casey: Vargas.

Kelly Severide: Vargas, you gotta stop playing.

Come on, man.

Matt Casey: Hey there, buddy. What’s going on?

Vargas: This is so messed up.

Matt Casey: Why don’t you move away from the edge there,

Vargas?

Kelly Severide: I’ve been telling him.

He keeps living the rest of his life the way he fought

fires, he’ll have a hell of a lot to be proud of.

Matt Casey: Remember the Homewood fire?

We lost the house, and Vargas saves the family photo

album.

But here’s the thing I never told you.

The mom thanked me after it was all over. You know

what she said?

She said, “the house was made out of wood. But the

home was made out of the people in that book.”

Firehouse 51 is made out of you and me and

Severide… and every firefighter that passes through

those gates.

Nothing can take that away from you.

Vargas: [sobbing quietly]

[sobs]

Matt Casey: 51 is always gonna be your house.

Okay.

Vargas: [sobbing]

- end -

Definitions:

Acetylene = Hottest and most efficient fuel gas on the market, making it the preferred product for many applications. It is also the only fuel gas hot enough to weld steel.

Attack lines = Attack hose is designed to be used by trained firefighters to take down fires too dangerous or too large to be extinguished without professional help. These hoses are built to withstand high water pressure and abrasion, giving firefighters the power and range of movement needed to fight a fire.

Hazmat = Abbreviation of Hazardous Materials. Hazmats include such substances as toxic chemicals, fuels, nuclear waste products, and biological, chemical, and radiological agents.

Upper respiratory tract infection = Defined as self-limited irritation and swelling of the upper airways with associated cough with no proof of pneumonia, lacking a separate condition to account for the patients symptoms, or with no history of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease/emphysema/chronic bronchitis. Upper respiratory tract infections involve the nose, sinuses, pharynx, larynx and the large airways.

Hoistway = a passage (as an elevator shaft) through or along which a thing may be hoisted.

Arroz con pollo picante = Spicy yellow rice with chicken

Nebulizer = Piece of medical equipment that a person with asthma or another respiratory condition can use to administer medication directly and quickly to the lungs. A nebulizer turns liquid medicine into a very fine mist that a person can inhale through a face mask or mouthpiece.

Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease = COPD is the name for a group of lung conditions that cause breathing difficulties. It includes Emphysema (damage to the air sacs in the lungs) and chronic bronchitis (long term inflammation of the airways).

Emphysema = Lung condition that causes shortness of breath. In people with emphysema, the air sacs in the lungs (alveoli) are damaged. Over time, the inner walls of the air sacs weaken and rupture – creating larger air spaces instead of many small ones.

Skeletal muscle dysfunction = Characterised by impairment in the strength and/or endurance properties of muscles, is a relevant systematic manifestation in patients with chronic cardiac and respiratory conditions such as chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD)

ComEd = Electricity provider in Northern Illinois.

SSI = Supplemental Security Income

Tamms = Tamms Correctional Centre is a closed Illinois Department of Corrections prison [officially closed since 2013]

Hermanos = Brothers in Spanish

14 notes · View notes

bastardnev · 4 years

Text

Broken (But Not Beyond Repair)

yknow i spent a whole lot of time referring to this as “the valentine’s fic” but meanwhile valentine’s day is mentioned like Once during this whole story. Nevertheless !

tagging: @sailor-slam-dunk @residentjoth @riveliciousx @lambchopviking @storyranger @nerdbrose (lemme kno if u wanna be added to my tag list !!)

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: World Wrestling Entertainment, Professional Wrestling, All Elite Wrestling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mustafa Ali/Pac | Adrian Neville Characters: Mustafa Ali, Pac | Adrian Neville Additional Tags: Valentine's Day, sorta but not really, its more mentioned than anything else tbh, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, i guess, Making Up, au where nev still lives in orlando and also has a big fucking dog, mustafa worries a lot, Implied Sexual Content Series: Part 2 of Jess Has Too Many Fics In Her Notes Summary: By all means, Mustafa shouldn't have even been thinking about Neville anymore. It had been over two years since he left WWE, and they were both at completely different points in their careers. It was pointless to dwell on the past or give any real thought to what could have been — all that mattered anymore was what the future held, and it looked like their respective paths were headed in opposite directions.

And yet, despite all of this, there Mustafa was. Seated in his rental car, in the parking lot of some cheap motel he had planned to spend the night at. Neville's number dialed on his phone.

(link to ao3)

By all means, Mustafa shouldn't have even been thinking about Neville anymore. It had been over two years since he left WWE, and they were both at completely different points in their careers. It was pointless to dwell on the past or give any real thought to what could have been — all that mattered anymore was what the future held, and it looked like their respective paths were headed in opposite directions.

And yet, despite all of this, there Mustafa was. Seated in his rental car, in the parking lot of some cheap motel he had planned to spend the night at. Neville's number dialed on his phone.

Mustafa stared down at the screen, squinting against the bright light. The rain rhythmically tapping against the roof of the car left him in almost a trance-like state as he debated whether or not to hit the "call" button. This wasn't the first time he found himself in this position — he was tempted to get in touch with Neville just about every time he and the rest of the WWE crew passed through Orlando during live event tours. He would usually only get as far as his contacts list, however, and he was never actually able to bring himself to make that move. Once he learned that the latest show would see him in the area again, he assumed that things would play out as they normally did, with him backing out at the last second and pretending like he had zero interest in seeing Neville.

But that didn't happen. This time, the urge to get in contact was so strong , far more than it ever had been. To the point where Mustafa was in the car and fully prepared to drive right over to Neville’s house. He had no idea what exactly it was, but he had arrived in town with an almost overwhelming feeling to just bite the bullet and do it. A sense that he needed to stop putting off something that was killing him not to do. He wasn't even sure where it came from, but it was certainly there — a feeling that he needed to reach out, to call, to talk to Neville again after so long of little to no contact.

To possibly rekindle a relationship that had meant so much to him.

To put it bluntly, Mustafa and Neville's relationship was, at its core, supposed to be just sex. Nothing more than that. "No strings attached", they always insisted. Once a week ( maybe twice, if they were feeling up to it), they would meet up in a hotel room to fool around, to blow off steam after a show. After Raw, after 205 — they weren't picky. Whenever they were both in the same place and could meet up, they spent the night together. It was nothing more than that, at least at first.

But then, it... changed. It had been gradual — Mustafa hadn't even noticed it right away — but the times they shared started to become something else. Before all they had done was meet up, do what they had to do, and then go their separate ways before anyone knew what they were doing. They did their best to make sure that no one even had a suspicion that there was anything going on between the two of them, hence why Mustafa would always go back to his hotel room after they finished. Whoever he was rooming with normally didn't ask too many questions so long as he was back from his "late night walk" ( horrible excuse, but it worked) at a reasonable time.

Then Mustafa started to actually stay the night with Neville. The first time he had simply been too tired and lazy to leave. The second time had followed a very similar format, only Neville didn't put up as much of a fight. Every time it happened thereafter, Neville cared less and less, and before either of them knew it it had become an established part of their routine, their desire not to clue anyone in on their secret be damned.

And then came the invites to each other's houses. It had started as a way to save money whenever tapings were in Chicago or Orlando, but before long they had becomed planned affairs, with one spending anywhere from a day to a whole weekend at the other's home. They acted like this was so they could hook up easier (and more frequently), but the fact was that those nights were... fun . More fun than they thought they would be. It wasn't just sex anymore — they were cooking together, and buying way too many snacks together, and eating those same snacks as they binged the dumbest fucking movies together. (Stupid Movie Fridays, they'd taken to calling them, though they weren't opposed to other days of the week being devoted to corny films.)

They were... getting closer. Close enough that Mustafa wasn't sure if they should be labeled as acquaintances, or as friends, or as... something even more than that.

Whatever the hell they were, it all came to a screeching halt in October of 2017, when Neville left the company and didn’t look back.

Mustafa still texted him after everything happened, but it was clear that things weren't how they used to be. Neville was distracted, so caught up in the drama of requesting his release that he didn't seem to have time to talk with him anymore. It wasn't like Mustafa didn't understand — though he'd never been through the process himself, he could only imagine how stressful it must be, especially given the specifics of Neville's situation. Not to mention that his own career picked up notably only a few short months later, and he hadn't done much better on the consistent communication front. This was far from being a one-sided issue.

What had gotten to Mustafa the most, though, was how abrupt it all was. How one moment the two of them were talking, and laughing, and genuinely enjoying one another's company more than they ever thought they would, only for all of it to suddenly stop. How they used to text each other the most ridiculous and pointless shit, only for their messaging to slowly taper off until it ceased altogether.

As of that moment, in February of 2020, contact between them was nonexistent. Like they were total strangers.

Mustafa wanted so badly to change that.

His thumb was hovering precariously over the "call" button. It was such a simple thing to do, but he was still having so much trouble with it. If he did that, then Neville would pick up, and then two of them would be talking again for the first time in years. He would get what he wanted. It was so easy, so doable .

Even so, he was hesitant. There was no guarantee that Neville would pick up to begin with. It was possible that he would see who was calling him and immediately reject the call, or let it ring and ring until Mustafa eventually gave up and left him alone. Worse yet, he might have deleted Mustafa's number, and he would hit him with a dreaded "Who is this?" the moment he answered. Each of those situations sent a chill down his spine, and it made him want to turn off his phone and forget about this plan like he always did.

But Mustafa couldn't let those worst-case scenarios get to him. Not anymore. He needed to do it, and he needed to do it right then and there. Otherwise, it would likely never happen.

With that, he made the call.

Bringing the phone up to his ear, Mustafa chewed on his lower lip. He listened to the rings, first one, then two. His heart was pounding in his chest by the time the fifth ring rolled around. A little voice was yelling at him from the back of his mind, telling him that he'd made a huge mistake and should just hang up the phone already. It was clear that Neville didn't want to talk to him — if he did, he would've picked up. It was only a matter of time before he got sent to voicemail and was forced to either hang up or leave some embarrassing message for Neville to delete—

"Ali?"

"Oh—" Mustafa's whole body tensed at the sound of Neville's voice coming from the receiver. He'd actually picked up — shit, shit, shit . He scrambled for something to say, anything . "...Hiya."

Real smooth, dumbass . "Hello..." Neville responded tentatively. God , it had been way too long since Mustafa last heard him. He probably would have enjoyed the moment more if he didn't just make a complete fool out of himself.

"What, ah...” Just say something! “What're you up to?"

"I'm... at home." Neville still sounded wary. Mustafa couldn’t exactly blame him.

"You had a match this week, right?" Mustafa remembered seeing tweets about it on his timeline. Reading that Neville had won had put him in quite the good mood for the rest of the night.

"I did."

"Good for you." Mustafa nodded. “Makin’ moves.”

Then, the line fell silent, and Mustafa had no choice but to come to terms with the fact that he did not plan this well — or at all, really. All those nights of internal arguments and wondering about how a potential phone call between him and Neville would play out ultimately failed him. He had no idea what to say next, or how to get to the point without making himself look like an even bigger idiot.

Fortunately for him, Neville was the one who eventually broke the silence. "Ali, what's going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I— Are you kidding? You just called me out of absolutely nowhere. Why?"

“...Oh, that.” What else would he be talking about?!

“Yeah, that .” The tone left Neville’s voice and, quieter, he added, “Is everything alright?"

Mustafa swallowed. There, that was his opening. "Everything's fine, it's just..." He paused. "I... WWE's in Orlando this weekend.”

Neville was silent for a beat. "...Is that so?"

"Mhm. I just got to my motel a little while ago. Haven't even gotten out of the car yet, though, because of this rain." Taking a deep breath through his nose, he said, "I... was thinking about you. Wanted to know how things were."

“I see...” The line went quiet again, the only sound being that of Neville’s breathing and the rain, which seemed to have only gotten worse in the time they were talking. Mustafa was dreading eventually having to get out of the car.

“I-I know it’s sudden,” Mustafa explained, an attempt to save himself from this awkward situation. “And that you probably didn’t expect to hear from me.”

“I definitely didn’t.”

“Yeah... But I just wanted to check up on you. Make sure things were good.”

“They’re... They’re fine, thank you.” After a beat, “And you?”

“Same here.” Mustafa looked out the raindrop-speckled window. “I’m tired as hell, but... Still, it’s all good.”

This conversation needed to end. It was going nowhere, and Mustafa knew this. Hearing from Neville again was great, but all he was doing was embarrassing himself. Clearing his throat, he said, “Well... I guess I should be going. Still gotta get my room.”

“You haven’t even got one yet?” Neville asked. “What do you plan on doing if there isn’t one available?”

“I’ve slept in enough cars during my career to be okay with it. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t remember ever saying I was worried.”

Mustafa snorted. “You haven’t changed a bit, you know that?”

“At least I’m consistent.”

“That, you are...” Mustafa licked his lips. “I’ll... talk to you later, maybe, okay?”

“Alright...”

Mustafa sighed softly. Here’s to hoping I’ll actually have the balls to call him again after this. He thought to himself as he brought the phone away from his ear. Considering how long it had taken him to initiate this five minute chat, it would probably take him an eternity to do it all a second time.

He was just about to hang up when he heard Neville say, “Wait!”

The phone was back to Mustafa’s ear in a flash. “Yes?”

Neville seemed to hesitate for a moment, but he asked, "If it’s not too far from your motel, do you... want to come over for a bit? Just until this storm lets up."

Mustafa’s eyes widened. “U-Uh...” He stammered, very much caught off guard. He had wanted to go to Neville’s house earlier, but he didn’t expect him to straight up invite him , completely unprovoked.

“If it’s too much trouble, then don’t worry about it,” Neville backtracked. “I know the weather is messy—“

“No it’s not,” Mustafa cut him off. “I mean, yes, it is, but I can still drive in it."

"Are you sure? I don't want you to get hurt."

"I won't. You know I'm a good driver."

"I know you're a slow driver."

"Close enough. I’ll... I’ll be over in a little bit.”

He heard Neville breathe out (in relief?) “Alright. You, uh, still know the way?”

“Yeah, I do.” Mustafa could never forget.

The one benefit to the rain being so heavy was that the roads were mostly clear. The few cars that were out at that hour were driven by people getting home late from work and lovesick idiots like Mustafa. He had to be careful, of course, since an accident was the absolute last thing he wanted at that moment (and always, really), but he maintained a decent speed as he went down familiar streets and made familiar turns, ones that he hadn't made in ages. All so that he could see Neville in-person again.

What would the two of them even do ? That question was bouncing around inside of Mustafa’s head the whole time he was driving. He... highly doubted that they would hook up, given the amount of time they had been apart. It was unlikely that they would so easily fall back into their old pattern. Chances were they would spend more time catching up (or sitting in uncomfortable silence) than anything else. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that — happy? Disappointed? An odd combination of both?

No matter how he might have felt, it was definitely happening. And before Mustafa knew it, he was pulling up to the front of Neville’s home, parking in what had been his usual spot only two years ago.

Mustafa shut the car off. Staring up at the house, he realized that it was no different than it had been the last time he visited. Very... ordinary. There weren’t any decorations up, despite Valentine's Day being just around the corner. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected, really — Neville had never been all that into decorating. Thought it was all a scam and a waste of time, even though it made his home stick out like a sore thumb during the holidays. Just as he’d said on the phone during their chat, he was as consistent as ever. The familiarity was... comforting.

Bracing himself for the weather, Mustafa stepped out into the rain, taking a moment to lock the car before hustling up to the front porch. His heart was thumping as he climbed up the steps. Come on, you can do this, don’t chicken out now. All the worst-case scenarios were starting to creep their way back into his mind, telling him that this visit was pointless. That they were far too different now, and getting together again even for a little while would only make things worse somehow. Mustafa stared intently down the doorbell, as if it were challenging him with its faint glow, and he pressed it before he could talk himself out of it. Screw that pessimism — he was already there. If talking to each other was bad, then running away when he was expected was even worse.

And, truthfully, leaving unnoticed at that point was impossible. The door was opened only a moment after he'd rung the bell, like Neville had been standing there waiting for him on the other side, and just like that Mustafa was once again faced with the man who he’d spent countless nights with only a few years ago. A soft, shy smile spread across Mustafa’s face. “...Hey, Nev.”

“Hi...” Neville’s expression mirrored his — his smile was still stunning. “It’s... certainly been awhile, hasn't it?”

“Sure has.” Mustafa’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets. Too long. Mustafa wasn't sure if he should say this last thought aloud or not.

“Well, don’t just stand there — it’s pouring.” Neville stepped aside. The rumble of thunder off in the distance did an equally good job of reminding Mustafa of the bad weather, and he nodded, making sure to wipe his feet as best as he could on the mat before he walked inside. "Just put your shoes with the rest of mine."

"Got it." Some of Neville's shoes were lined up against the opposite wall, surprisingly neat. This alone made it clear that Neville had managed to do (or, scrambled to do) some last minute cleaning before he showed up. They were usually a mess, one that Mustafa teased him about almost every visit. He couldn't say anything this time, however, and instead he went about slipping his own pair off.

Then, a large black shape came charging at him from the end of the hallway.

“Winston!!” Mustafa grinned, and he crouched down, scratching the bullmastiff on his head once he stopped in front of him. The dog responded by licking his face, and Mustafa laughed. “I missed you!”

“Looks like he missed you, too,” Neville mused from behind him, and Mustafa heard him close the door.

“It’s been way too long, boy-o!” Another rub to the head. Winston's tail was like a propeller, wagging rapidly. A paw came to rest on Mustafa's arm, and he faltered a little. "Hey, don't knock me over now."

"I don't mean to interrupt this tender reunion, but can I get you something to drink? Water, maybe?"

Mustafa looked up to Neville, Winston licking his hands now in an attempt to regain his attention. "That'd be good, thanks."

Neville gave him a nod and made his way towards the kitchen. Winston turned and followed him right away, which caused Mustafa's eyebrows to raise. "Wait, where're you goin'? I thought you wanted me to pet you!"

"He sees me going to the kitchen, he follows," Neville yelled back. "Seems to think me being in here automatically means he'll get a treat."

"Doesn't it?"

A pause. "...Well, yeah, but..." Neville trailed off, and Mustafa couldn't help but chuckle and roll his eyes. Who could've guessed the "Bastard" would be such a pushover?

Now alone in the hallway, Mustafa took a quick look around, noting some of the pictures on the wall. He wanted to say it was an evenly distributed assortment of photos, shots of family and the dog alike, but it was clear that there were just a few more of Winston than anything else. Neville's love for him seemed to have grown tenfold in the time he and Mustafa had been apart. Mustafa couldn't help but wish that he had a pet of his own. Winston had filled that role for awhile, but... well, it was hard for him to actually bond with an animal when he wasn't even speaking to its owner.

Mustafa decided to head into the living room then, and he sat down on the couch, shifting in the plush seat as he waited for Neville (and Winston, hopefully) to come back. The rain was still pattering away against the window, and Mustafa silently hoped that it would let up before the end of the night. Having to go back out into such a downpour and drive all the way to his motel — the same one he still didn't have a room at, now that he thought about it — would not be fun. The more he put it off, the more likely it seemed he would be spending that damp night in the backseat of his rental...

Mustafa shook his head and tried to get rid of the thought. He would worry about that later, after he did... whatever it was that he planned on doing with Neville. He still hadn't figured that out.

Sitting there and looking around the room, it was all so... familiar to Mustafa, just as so many other things were. Everything that had happened since he arrived at the house had been apart of his and Neville's routine — the old one, from before everything changed. It was all the same, from Winston greeting him at the front door to the drink offer. There was even some Netflix movie paused on the TV. Mustafa admittedly didn't recognize the name of it, but if he knew Neville half as well as he thought he did, it had to be tacky. Stupid Movie Night lived on, even though they hadn't actually gotten together to have one in years.

Mustafa missed this. All of this.

"Here you are," Neville at last returned to the room, handing Mustafa his glass.

"Thanks." Mustafa took it from him. Winston strolled in behind Neville, and Mustafa watched as he followed him closely, sniffing his lap after he sat down at the opposite end of the couch.

"I have nothing more for you, why are you looking at me like that?" Neville gave the dog a scratch behind the ear. "You've already gotten loads of treats tonight, take it easy."

"I see he's just as much of a mooch as he was before."

" Oh yeah. Actually, he might have gotten worse, if that's possible." Winston jumped up on the couch and settled himself as best as he could between Mustafa and Neville, the latter going right back to patting him on the head. "He's my boy, though. Wouldn't trade him for the world."

And then, without warning, it was quiet again.

The room that had just a moment ago been filled with their voices was now filled only with the sound of the rain. Mustafa licked his lips, and he stared at Neville, whose gaze was trained on Winston. When he looked to Mustafa, their eyes met, and Mustafa gave him an awkward smile (which was probably more like a grimace) before turning his attention to the paused movie on the screen. His nerves were beginning to make a comeback, just in time for he and Neville to have the first face-to-face conversation they'd had in a long time. He cursed his luck and, once again, his past self for not properly thinking through his plan for getting back in touch with Neville — he'd gotten as far as "call him and hope for the best" and left it at that.

Neville was the one that invited him over. He wouldn't have done that if there wasn't even a tiny part of him that wanted to see him, to talk to him. Even so, Mustafa was still hesitant, worried that he might slip up and say something that would do the opposite of saving their relationship. But he needed to take a chance. He'd told himself when he was standing on the porch that it was far too late to back out, and it was especially too late now that he was sitting on Neville's damn couch. Taking a slow sip of his water, Mustafa cleared his throat, and he made the first move. "Uh... So, things have been good with you?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth did Mustafa realize he'd asked him almost the exact same question on the phone earlier. However, Neville didn't seem to notice (or maybe he just didn't care). "They have." His hand was on Winston's back now, fingers slowly trailing over his fur. "Busy, but good."

"Weren't you wrestling on that cruise awhile ago?" At Neville's nod, "Damn, that must've been cool."

"It was... something, I'll say that much. Never thought I'd see myself wrestling in the middle of the ocean."

"Isn't there, like, no phone service on cruise ships, though? How did you even survive?"

"All the questions you could ask me about that trip, and you ask me about the wi-fi? I don't live entirely on social media like you do."

"Yeah, yeah..." Mustafa was tempted to take out his phone and begin scrolling through Twiter just to mess with Neville, but he decided against it. That would come later, once he was sure about where their relationship was at. "Either way, I'm really glad you've been able to find so much success."

Neville snorted. "Me too. And how about yourself? What've you been up to?"

"Things are..." Mustafa pursed his lips as he tried to come up with the right words. "They're okay. A little slow, but definitely not bad."

"Is that the polite version of 'I've been almost exclusively in dark matches for the last month'?"

He grinned sheepishly. "So, you know about that..."

"I haven't actually sat down and watched WWE programming in full in ages, but I still try to watch your stuff whenever I can. Once you stopped showing up, I kinda figured you were— ah, how do you put it? 'Stealing the show before the show'?"

"Hey, don't use my words against me like that!"

"Don't use them all the time, then! Seriously, you post the same thing after every dark match. Usually with a shirtless pic attached."

"Ooh, so you know about those , too?" Mustafa waggled his eyebrows. "You like 'em?"

Neville gave no response to this, though the hint of pink on his cheeks told Mustafa everything he needed to know. Cute .

Putting his glass down on the coffee table, Mustafa decided to follow Neville's example, and he also started to stroke Winston's back, the dog himself already sleeping. Mustafa had never known an animal that fell asleep so quickly until he met Winston. He nodded towards the TV. "I see you're watching a movie."

Neville looked to the screen. "Oh, yeah, that's right..." Had he forgotten all about it?

"Is it dumb?"

"Absolutely. You know I never watch anything good by choice."

"I knew it. So, what, is it a horror film?"

"It is, and it is atrocious , even by my standards. Sooner or later I'm gonna come across one that's actually decent, and I'm not gonna know how to handle it."

Mustafa chuckled. "There's no shortage of bad horror films, so I'd say your odds of finding a good one are pretty slim."

"Thankfully. It's, um..." Neville stopped suddenly, and Mustafa's brows furrowed.

"What?"

"It's... nothing, don't worry about it."

A statement sure to make a worrier like Mustafa worry every time he heard it. "Are you sure? You can tell me."

"Eh, you'll just laugh..."

"I will not." Mustafa's tone was gentle, yet firm. "I promise."

Neville blinked at him, then back at the screen. Mustafa couldn't even begin to imagine what it was that he was so hesitant to tell him. Of course, if Neville insisted that he didn't want to talk about it, then Mustafa would back off, but... Still, he didn't want Neville to think that he couldn't trust him not to make fun of him. Not if he wanted them to be back together for good.

Fortunately, Mustafa's prying seemed to be enought convince Neville. A moment later, they locked eyes again, and Neville quietly admitted, "Well... These movies just aren't the same when you're watching them alone. Sometimes I miss having someone to make fun of them with."

Oh. Mustafa's lips parted, his hand coming to a halt on Winston's back. This sudden stoppage caused Neville's hand to bump into his — ever so slightly, their fingers were touching. He expected Neville to flinch back, but he didn't, and his gaze was just as steady as it had been before. Mustafa couldn't bring himself to look away. Was this... an admission that he wanted he two of them to get back together...? Was that the sign that Mustafa had been looking for? He swallowed. "Um... Neville—"

BANG!

A sudden crash of thunder startled all three of them. The lights flickered, and a second later they went out, plunging the room into complete darkness. The loud noise prompted the now-wide awake Winston to leap off of the couch and bolt out into the hallway. "Winston, no!" Mustafa called after him.

"Christ, not again..." Neville griped. "Now is not the time for this..."

"No kidding..." Mother Nature sure had interesting timing.

The flashlight from Neville's phone was then turned on. Neville squinted at the screen. "Damn thing's gonna die if I keep the light on all night..." He muttered. He then stood. "I'll be right back, gotta go grab some candles."

"Can you check on Winston?" Mustafa pleaded to Neville's silhouette, which was already moving out of the room. "Make sure he's okay?"

"He's probably just in the kitchen — that's his hub whenever the power goes out." The little bit of light that had been in the living room faded away as Neville went down the hallway. "Yep, he's here. Hidin' out behind the island."

Mustafa breathed a sigh of relief. Winston was still scared, but at least he wasn't hurt. That was what mattered. "Good. You think he'll come back in with us?"

"Probably not." Neville's voice was fainter now — he must have gone into another room, possibly his bedroom. Mustafa was disappointed to hear this, but he had to have faith that Neville was wrong. He was sure Winston would rejoin them at some point before Mustafa needed to leave (he couldn't leave without properly saying goodbye, after all).

It was only when Neville re-entered the room holding two scented candles and a box of matches that Mustafa remembered the significance of those items.

The candles. How could he have forgotten about the damn candles ? He watched as Neville placed them down on the coffee table and went about lighting them, his brows furrowed as he moved the match from one wick to the next. That look of (almost unnecessary) concentration was such a familiar sight to Mustafa, one that he'd grown to like quite a bit during their time together, but also one that he had not seen for far too long. Now that he was looking at it again, he was transported to a different time, back when he'd first been invited to Neville's house. It very likely wasn't the same candles, but some of very similar scents and colors had been lit when he'd arrived. He teased Neville at first — he never thought he was a Mood Lighting kind of guy — but it turned out that he was just into candles. There was at least one in most of the rooms in the house. They had been a trademark of sorts for Neville.

Mustafa had lost sight of that fact after their separation. And now, on this gloomy, rainy night, he was once again being reminded of something that he'd missed terribly.

"There..." Neville's voice interrupted Mustafa's reminiscing, and he sat back down on the couch — notably closer than he had before, Mustafa realized. "That should be good enough."

Mustafa stared at the small, dancing flames. "Y...Yeah, it's fine," he replied.

"Something bothering you?" Shit. Mustafa had made his mood just a little too obvious.

"No, not really," he fibbed.

"Are you sure?" Then, "Am I... Am I sitting to close to you, or...?"

"No!" Mustafa quickly assured. "No, that's not it. It's..." He considered lying again, but after pushing Neville into talking a few moments ago he felt he had no right to keep any secrets from him — not to mention that Neville might get the wrong idea again. It was best to tell the truth. "These candles remind me a lot of the times we used to hang out. You had them lit all the time."

Neville followed his gaze, also becoming entranced by the fire. "Ah... Yes, that's right. The cinnamon one was your favorite, wasn't it?"

"It was."

"I wish I still had one, but it burnt out a long time ago. I didn't think to buy another one, to be honest."

Because Neville associated that scent with him. That had to be the reason. Neville had no reason to get a candle of someone's favorite scent if that "someone" wasn't even around to appreciate it. "I..."

"Hmm?"

"I..." Mustafa swallowed. "I miss you. A lot."

Neville didn't say anything to that. Mustafa continued, "I miss seeing you backstage, and talking to you regularly, and watching you wrestle, and just... being with you. Those nights we spent together were so fun , and I looked forward to them. I loved watching dumbass movies with you, and eating way too many sweets, and... everything else. But all of it— it just stopped . Out of nowhere. And I really, really wish that it didn't.

"I... I know you and I are both busy these days in our own ways. And I know that maintaining a relationship with our packed schedules is gonna be tough. But... I'm willing to give it a try, if you are. You obviously don't have to do anything you don't want to do, and I'm more than okay with you deciding that this isn't something that you're interested in, but I wanted to at the very least let you know how I feel."

Satisfied with his rambling, Mustafa took a deep breath, leaning back into the couch. He folded his hands in his lap and waited anxiously for Neville to reply — if he ever did. He was still staring at the candles, his expression unreadable. Maybe Mustafa's sudden confession was a lot to take in at once. Especially since it came out of seemingly nowhere, and was prompted by candles of all things. Is he... okay?

But then, faintly, Neville at last said something. "...I'm the one that fucked everything up."

"What...?"

"I'm the one that stopped texting you. I should've done more to keep in touch with you."

"But it's not like I ever tried to start a conversation," Mustafa argued. "I stopped, too. I'm just as responsible for what happened. You can't only blame yourself."

"I know, but..." Neville chewed his lower lip. "But I care about you. I never stopped caring about you, not even when I was sorting out my contract. And I should've done a better job at showing it. Instead, I just..." He shrugged. "I just let our relationship die."

Mustafa debated it for a moment, but ultimately he decided to take a chance, and he reached over and took hold of Neville's hand. For the second time that evening, Neville did not shy away from the contact. "It doesn't have to stay dead if you don't want it to. We can... try again."

"I want to," Neville admitted. "But like you said, it's not going to be easy. We're always traveling, and we're on completely different work schedules, and..."

"We can make it work," Mustafa cut him off. "It'll take some getting used to, but I think we can do it."

"But what if everything happens all over again? What if... What if something comes up and we just stop talking again?"

"Do you want that to happen?"

"No, absolutely not."

"Then let's try our hardest not to let it happen. We don't have to text every single day or anything, but if we both try to send each other something every now and again, things could work out just fine."

Neville swallowed. "...You're really serious about this?"

"I am," Mustafa said, clearly. "I wasn't lying before when I said that I missed you, and everything that came along with you. I wanna give us one more chance, see where things go. And if you want to, then... I say we go for it. What do we got to lose?"

Neville, whose eyes had been glued to the flames, turned his head to meet Mustafa's gaze. The soft, orange glow from the candles illuminated his face. The light gave him a haunting, mesmerizing appearance. One that Mustafa couldn't look away from even if he'd wanted to.

He looked... amazing.

Mustafa couldn't help himself from slowly leaning in and pressing a kiss to his lips.

It was soft at first. Mustafa wanted to provide Neville with ample time to pull away. It wasn't until he felt Neville gently reciprocating the kiss that he deepened it, a hand moving up to cup Neville's cheek. Mustafa's lips parted, and Neville's tongue slid into his mouth. The intimacy was almost dizzying. This was what he'd been waiting for. After all that debating about whether or not to make that phone call, this was what he'd wanted. What he'd missed so badly.

It had been over two years since their last kiss. Somehow, this one was the best of all.

If only Winston hadn't decided that that was when he'd choose to return to the living room.

All the two of them heard was another rumble of thunder and the sound of nails frantically clicking on the floor before the dog leapt onto the couch, where Neville had been sitting earlier. "Oh my God—" Neville gasped, putting a hand on his chest. "What the hell, Winston?!"

Surprised as he was, Mustafa couldn't help but laugh. "Hey, he came back! That's good, right?"

"Would've been good any other time..." Neville moped, but Mustafa putting an arm around his shoulders prompted him to smile, and a moment later he moved in for a second kiss. Just as good as the first one.

"...Hey," Neville breathed out against his lips. Between kisses, he continued, "Did you... ever end up getting a motel room...?"

Mustafa froze, eyes wide. In the excitement of being back together with Neville, he'd forgotten about the other date he'd be having that evening — the one with the backseat of his rental. "Uh..." He grinned sheepishly. "No, I did not."

Neville smirked. Mustafa's heart rate ticked up just a bit. "Would you like to stay with me tonight? We still have some... catching up to do, you know."

Mustafa's expression mirrored his. Suddenly, his sleeping in the backseat seemed a hell of a lot less likely. "You're right..."

"Is that a 'yes', then?"

"It is. But , I left my bags in the trunk. With my pajamas in them."

This statement caused Neville to chuckle, and he kissed Mustafa again, tugging on his lower lip with his teeth when he pulled back. "Hmm, Mustafa..."

"What?"

"I wasn't anticipating either one of us sleeping with clothes on tonight..."

#mustafa ali #pac #wwe fanfiction #aew fanfiction #long post #just in case the read more decides not to work #jess.txt

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kastlenetwork · 5 years

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kastle + laguardia :)

Laguardia is an airport, right? Lmaoo I’m so stupid, I had to google it. I’ve never been to New York, I only know about JFK.

Karen isn’t really sure what her plan is, now that her father has made it abundantly more clear that she is not welcome home. The rage and pain of the loss of Kevin and the roll of which she played still ever present in his every interaction with her. And she understands that, she really does. It’s not as if Karen has forgiven herself for driving them into a battlement of crunching plastic steel and shattering glass – she doesn’t expect her father to feel much differently. She can still see the red of blood staining the backs of her lids, whenever she closes her eyes – especially now, as she finds herself on the run from more trouble she’s shoved herself into where it she didn’t need.

It was stupid of her to go to the hotel and gain entry into his sham of a prison – she recognizes a plan built on the back of desperation when she sees it, when she carries it out on her own. But, the burning idea of “maybe” and “if he only just…” was too strong for her to not gamble the odds – that Wilson Fisk would reach across the table, after she confessed her most recent crime ending in the red stain of another, and harm her in some way anyway that would get him put back where he belonged.

A stupid plan that didn’t work and she should’ve known.

But, Karen thinks as she stares forward to a little kid playing with a tiny toy car across the discolored carpeting, doing nothing does nothing and she will never do nothing again.

Her father had hung up on her, despite the sounds of her sniffles she is more than sure that he was able to hear through the line, in an alarmingly quick fashion and she’d had less than no time to plan her next move. She knew she was being hunted by someone masquerading as Matt and far more deadly. She knew, better than most, that Fisk was powerful beyond measure. This will be the second time he’s had other men do his dirty work and try and take her out – her mind raises a phantom hand to rub at the span of her neck, where the bed sheet once wrapped. Her only option was to get out of New York for awhile, hunker down and lay low.

It’s not like she had a job to do, anyway – what with the whole being fired thing.

And that’s what she’s doing. She just needs her flight to come, so she can get out of the busy and dangerous city to Bumfuck, USA – or wherever her ticket is to, she can barely remember. Definitely not Vermont. Her father obviously wouldn’t let her in and she figures the rest of the family will follow. She doesn’t want to endure the images of her Granny Louanne (or any other family member who would dare open their doors to her) ripped apart and riddled with oozing burning holes, anyway.

How many people that she loves can she be she damned to get killed? She can’t have any more of their blood on her hands. She can’t. There’s only so much a person can recover, before they’re broken beyond repair.

Karen’s mind is so occupied with worry that she only notices the presence coming closer, as it’s already placing it’s weight in seat next to her. She keeps her eyes on the child while he plays and remains as calm as she’s able, as her hand immediately inches it’s way into her purse, before recalling with a internal curse that she has nothing with her to protect her. She couldn’t very well bring a gun into LaGuardia – that would be thrusting herself into the spotlight, instead of sinking away into the depths of the dark shadows.

How many mistakes can she make in the span of two days? How many decisions can she make that are going to get her fucking killed!

“Chicago, huh?”

Karen whips her head to the right, her ears not believing what her eyes suddenly see – her mind not registering the truth.

Frank tilts his head and lifts his arm, bringing a cup of coffee to his lips, “Good a place as any. Big enough to hide, familiar enough to feel like you stand out.”

“…Frank?! What are you–” she shakes the fuzz out of the space between her ears and drops her voice down to below a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“Got a call from David about some trouble,” he shrugs and Karen takes in the sight of him. She hasn’t seen him since the last time she was kidnapped (and isn’t that a joke if there ever was one – the last time she was kidnapped, shit) where he stood upon a roof and shot at faceless never ending ninjas. (Ninjas! What has her life come to?) “Punched a bunch of fucking buttons on a computer and did that thing where he stalks people ‘til he gets what he wants…found you here.”

His hair is short, again, and the beard the was swarming his face last she saw him long gone. His eyes are bright as they rest upon her face, but alert in a way that hers accidentally stopped being an hour ago, scanning the airport for the both of them. But, best of all, there’s no purple and yellow marks upon his face – it’s as clean as ever, only faint and faded scars of old painted against his skin. And there’s a merry clench around her heart at that clear canvas, just as there was when he’d called out her name on the street and asked to come to her home.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he’s talking and watching her as she watches him.

“Chicago?” she glances down at her ticket, clutched in the hand not grasped at the nothingness in her purse . “Yes…Chicago. Windy…Safe.”

“You know I would’ve come.”

Karen squints her eyes and mimics the tilt of his head, “Do I know that, Frank?”

He nods in an absentminded manner and sweeps the room. He’s not contacted her since he left through the top of that elevator and he knows that as much as she does. “That’s fair,” he hums. “I should have made it clear. I was…busy.”

“Not in the usual way,” she gestures towards his face.

“No, not in the usual way.”

Karen pulls her hand out of her bag and pulls it into a fist, “That’s good…Frank.” She opens her mouth to say more, but a monotone voice sounds out above their heads signaling boarding to her flight to apparently Chicago. Karen hovers for a moment and pulls her eyes back to the child, who’s parent is pulling him up off of the floor. Despite how it’s set her mind off axis, Frank’s sudden appearance doesn’t change the dire consequences of the situation, so she stands abruptly. When Frank does the same, she turns back to him, with a question in her brow and panic seeping out of her pores.

She really doesn’t have time for a famous Page and Castle bounce around, lives are on the line and she has to get out of New York.

“Chicago, huh?” he repeats, pulls another drink from his coffee, and holds up a ticket in his other hand and the breath rapidly leaves Karen’s lungs.

He’s coming with her?

To Chicago?

Her own dad told her not to come.

“You can tell me all about Fisk when we get there. Shit, you’re always gettin’ yourself into trouble, Karen. I do not understand it,” he looks both exasperated and impressed – which is often how she feels about him.

“Yeah, well so are you,” her whisper raises slightly, sharpens with a touch of hurt that she’s not really interested in exposing to him. Especially not now, when everything is so much worse than Frank Castle not pushing through his own fogs to call her. “You’re the king of getting yourself into trouble, I seem to recall a certain trial.”

“Yeah, now that was a party…Guess we’re both willing to throw everything away to get to some sorta justice.”

She watches him reach down to a backpack that she hadn’t noticed and gesture towards the line that’s formed, eyes ever vigilant. “You could’a gotten a ticket to California or something. It’s fucking cold in Chicago, right now.”

She brings them to into the line, “Next time I’m running for my life, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

He huffs out a laugh, “We both know there’ll be a next. Too nosy for your own good – you’d be damn good friends with David, actually.”

She looks back at him, “…I’m trying to be damn good friends with you.”

“Yeah,” he nudges her towards the lady looking to scan their tickets. “I know, Page.”

I gave up at the end ✌ ✌ ✌ writing is hard ✌ ✌ ✌ it’s not three lines ✌ ✌ ✌

#lololz #ninzied #ask #kastleff #kastle #txt: chey #ours

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aftaabmagazine · 5 years

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Summer 2002 Road Trip: Kabul-Kandahar-Herat

Photos and imagery by Fariba Nawa From the June 2004 issue of Afghan Magazine | Lemar-Aftaab

[caption: Tile work at the Gazargah shrine, Herat province.]

I traveled through Afghanistan in the fall of 2000 during the Taliban era and then returned in 2002 and 2003 to report for various publications and radio programs. These pictures are from the summer of 2002, when I took a cross-country road trip from Kabul, through Kandahar, and then to Herat, my hometown. This was before any roads were repaired, and during a time when many Afghans were still hopeful for change.

As a child, I lived in Kandahar, Helmand, and Herat. Now with American and European journalists as my travel mates, I traced back memories from my childhood, visiting sites like the Helmand River and the Gazergah shrine. I went to schools, shrines, bazaars, and private homes, talking to Afghans from every background and age to gauge the mood of the country.

We took a taxi on the road from Kandahar to Herat. It was a nine-hour ride through a dangerous zone where three people had been killed three days before. Our driver was easy-going, almost fearless, speeding at 90 mph on the cracked roads. We stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant, and then our driver lit up his usual after-lunch joint. He smoked it as he drove.

My Spanish companion and I were not happy with his dessert. But our German photographer seemed amused. She was sitting in the front and taking photos of him.

"I can drive blindfolded through these roads," he told us with confidence.

Meanwhile, a group of turbaned men with Kalashnikovs jumped out from behind the small hills motioning us to stop with their guns. Our heartbeats accelerated as our car slowed to a stop. I had heard stories of road lootings, but this would be worse. We were all women and foreign women with a lot of cash on hand. We told the driver to keep going. He didn't listen. I somehow felt responsible for these women because I was the Afghan. A thousand things went through my mind. Will they rape us, kills us, and take our money? I clutched onto the door handle as one of the men stuck his head in the window and asked the driver for something in Pashtu.

I can barely understand Pashtu, but I could tell it was about money. We sat motionless, hoping the driver could rescue us. The driver handed the man a 40,000 afghani note, $1 then, said goodbye and drove off. The women looked dumbfounded. I asked the driver what had happened.

"They were just collecting toll. This is how people in this area make their money."

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

Join me on this journey.

Kabul

[caption: This is a co-education school in the Kabul neighborhood of Wazir Akbar Khan, which is one of the few areas in the capital left unscathed by war, although it suffers from years of neglect.]

[caption: A young girl gazes at the chalkboard absorbing the day's lessons.]

Kandahar

[caption: A view of the old city in Kandahar. Most Afghan cities and large towns are divided between old and new sections.]

[caption: Children at the Kandahar bazaar. It is common to see small children out alone, running errands for their parents, and taking care of younger siblings.]

[caption: This bird seller at the Kandahar bazaar sells most of his birds to vendors who make them fight against each other, similar to cockfighting.]

[caption: A young office assistant at the World Food Program. During her downtime, she uses the computer to draw portraits. She wants to be an artist.]

[caption: A 100-year-old Pashtu manuscript brought to the office of Culture and Information for preservation.]

[caption: Located near the old city of Kandahar, the Chihil Zina (Forty Steps) were built in the 16th century by Babur Shah, founder of the Moghul Empire. Inside the cave at the top of the steps, letters carved into the stone pay tribute to Babur Shah. This is one of Kandahar's most treasured historic sites.]

Kandahar to Herat

[caption: The bombed-out road from Kandahar to Herat. Drivers speed at 90 mph diving off the path to avoid destroyed bridges and then climbing back up. The drive takes nine hours to reach Herat city after passing three other provinces.]

[caption: Nasir, the driver for the Chicago Tribune, changes his seventh tire on the Tunis van. It took us about 17 hours from Kabul to Kandahar on the old, destroyed road. Now that the road has been rebuilt, the trip takes only five hours.]

[caption: Deserted Soviet army barracks. The fields are littered with mines en route to Herat.]

[caption: A taxi driver takes three women journalists, including me, from Kandahar to Herat. He rolls his joint and smokes his daily after-lunch hashish as he drives. "I can drive on this road with my eyes closed. Don't worry," he tells the frightened women.]

[caption: Camels are still common in rural Afghanistan. Nomads use them for transportation.]

Herat: Historic Sites

[caption: Around the majestic Friday Mosque in Herat City, men make colorful crafts including handmade silk shawls. This shawl reads "Herat 2002."]

[caption: One of the minarets built in Herat's cultural renaissance in the 15th century during Timurid rule. They encircle the Gowharshad shrine and school, another landmark from the same era.]

[caption: The Friday Mosque (Masjid-e Jami) is a sanctuary for Sufis and vagabonds. It is one of the cleanest public places in the city with gleaming handmade tiles and marble floors. It is among the finest Islamic buildings in the world. The structure is built on the platform of a Fire Temple dating back to the Zoroastrian period.]

[caption: The Friday Mosque's main entrance. The mosque is decorated with beautiful Timurid tilework and calligraphy.]

[caption: Another view of the Friday Mosque.]

[caption: A malang (Sufi wanderer) in a trance at the Friday Mosque.]

[caption: Near the Friday Mosque are homes from a century ago. The architecture is common to the Islamic world with high ceilings, arches, and fountains in the courtyard. These homes are not being restored. Instead, Afghans are building boxy, whitewashed, modern-style houses modeled after those in Iran.]

[caption: This was once an indoor pool in one of the old houses.]

[caption: The family who lives in this house has been here for generations. But they are not sentimental about the fact that they have no running water or electricity.]

[caption: The view of the Friday Mosque from the roof of the old house.]

Herat: Crafts

[caption: In the corridors of the Friday mosque, workers bake and color tiles that will be used for the facades of other buildings in the city.]

[caption: A tile maker designs tiles.]

[caption: A finished tile looks something like the flower on the left.]

[caption: The glassblower of Herat. He has been blowing blue glass, an authentic Herati craft, for 30 years in front of the Friday Mosque. His young sons aid him in the laborious work, as they endure smoke and 120-degree heat inside a clay hut. "The foreigners come to see how interesting what I do is and how beautiful the glass turns out, but if I could trade this for another job, I'd take it in a second," he says.]

[caption: The father and his sons are busy at work.]

[caption: Designing the glass is a skillful task.]

[caption: Journalist Angeles Espinosa from Spain's premier newspaper El Pais visits the antique shop where the handmade glass is sold.]

Herat: City

[caption: Riding in a horse wagon is a form of transportation in Herat.]

[caption: One of the many sparkling gardens rented out for private family parties on the outskirts of the city. Families gather here on Fridays to picnic and swim.]

[caption: Most homes in Herat have fruit trees and grapevines. Families pluck their dessert right from their yards.]

Herat: Education

[caption: Students at the Fine Arts College at Herat University. The classes are segregated by gender, but men and women study at the same university.]

[caption: Roia Hamid, a 26-year-old recent graduate of the Fine Arts College at Herat University, draws the image of a woman behind bars. Tears drip down from the sky to her face. "This is how I felt when the Taliban ruled here," Hamid says.]

[caption: Hamid's paintings. She copied this from a book lying around in her house.]

[caption: One of the students displays his work in the classroom. The men and women of the Fine Arts College organized a gallery exhibit. Some pieces sold for more than $1,000. The students are influenced by many art schools, including the classical school of Behzad, the 15th century Herati artist who established a unique style of miniature painting, often referred to as the "Rafael of the East".]

[caption: Young girls in school in uniform. At their age, a burka is not necessary.]

[caption: Classrooms in high schools are so full that students have to sit outside for exams. This group of girls is taking a geography test.]

Herat: Country and Camps

[caption: Ishaq Norzi, an Afghan who lives in Iran, visits his family land in Ghorian, a village two hours from Herat city.]

[caption: A young woman in Ghorian village, one of the most devastated areas in the province. It's one of the drug trafficking routes to Iran and the men and women in Ghorian live on the drug trade. This woman is an opium addict living in a clay hut in the desert.]

[caption: A young girl at the internally displaced refugee camp of Maslakh carries bread on her head. Many of the camps inside the country are closing as people return to their homes, but Maslakh remains open for the most down and out refugees.]

[caption: A mother and infant stand in line to see the camp doctor. Camp residents suffer from cholera, malaria, diarrhea, typhoid, and many other diseases. Ailments in the West that are easily treated become a death sentence to many in Afghanistan who have limited access to health care.]

[caption: The camp bazaar. Refugees find innovative merchandise to sell from sweets to blankets.]

[caption: Goat heads or is it sheep?]

[caption: Young girls take care of their younger siblings as if they are the mothers.]

[caption: Some girls shy away from the camera; others own it with their smile.]

[caption: Maslakh's brightest smiles and its hope.]

Herat: Gazargah

[caption: It is an honor to be buried in the cemetery next to the Gazergah shrine, located 3 miles east of Herat city. The 15th century Timurid ruler Shah Rukh built the complex of buildings around the shrine.]

[caption: The Gazergah shrine of Khoja Abdullah Ansary, the renowned 11th-century Sufi poet. Afghans from every walk of life gather here to pray and give alms. The shrine and its surrounding cemetery, mosque, and garden belong to the Mir family, descendants of the poet.]

[caption: Centuries-old Persian calligraphy remains on the walls of the shrine.]

[caption: The gatekeepers of the shrine hid this statue of a lying dog from the Taliban. The architect who built the shrine represented himself as a dog to show his loyalty to the great poet, Ansary.]

[caption: Lavishly decorated tile work at the shrine.]

About Fariba Nawa فریبا نوا

Fariba Nawa, an award-winning Afghan-American journalist, covers a range of issues and specializes in women’s rights and conflict zones. She is based in Istanbul, Turkey and has traveled extensively to the Middle East, Central and South Asia. Visit Her Website

#Afghanistan #افغانیستان

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vrrealty · 2 years

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Things You Should Know Before Buying A Condo Puerto Vallarta For Sale

Gone are the days when only single-family homes were claimed as 'my house'. According to their taste, more and more buyers are turning to the condo Puerto Vallarta for sale. In particular, the younger generation, who avoid the hassles related to house repair and maintenance, are joining the ranks of condo purchases one after another.

In this situation, we introduce the advantages of condos for sale Puerto Vallarta regardless of age or region of residence. Considering the pros and cons carefully will help you organize your thoughts on purchasing a condo.

Advantages

Convenient and safe space

Especially for young people, condos are a great option for moving in easily. A real estate agent said, "Who frequently travel or business trips, are especially interested in condos. It's convenient because you just lock the door when you leave and all living spaces are kept safely behind the door."

As for repairs and maintenance, if you tell us the set time, the house will repair, change, and clean it regardless of whether the owner is at home or not. As long as you trust it, you don't have to worry about theft or other accidents.

Condos can be a good alternative for retirees and seniors. For the same reasons as above, you can use your family travel or leisure time flexibly.

Small luxury

Recently, the daily 'Chicago Tribune' reported that people who have retired or are nearing retirement are increasingly interested in purchasing luxury condos. In fact, they were selected or bought by their children, and the explanation was that they were characterized by a large space composition reflecting the tastes of young people, a good view, and a lively atmosphere. The newspaper analyzed, "A well-organized space in a clean new house is an advantage of a condo, and the fitness center and swimming pool located within the complex also act as elements that appeal to the middle-aged."

The main point of public transportation

Another reason for the growing demand for condos for sale Puerto Vallarta, especially among young people, is that many condos are located in convenient locations for public transport.

Affordable price and insurance

Because the price is relatively low compared to detached houses, condos are an advantage in themselves and it is easy to get mortgage approval. If you do not have a large budget, this is an advantage that is highlighted more importantly, and the house insurance premium is low.

This is because the condo owner is only responsible for the inside of the house from the insurance premium, but the parts outside the house, such as the roof, driveways, and public buildings, are covered by the Home Owners Association (HOA) fee.

Convenient moving

Fully furnished condo Puerto Vallarta for sale are especially attractive to buyers moving on a smaller scale, such as large single family homes. Considering their busy schedules, the 'Move-in ready' unit saves you the trouble of choosing furniture, etc., thank you. Of course, this can be a huge advantage if you do not want to move with a large sofa or table.

#condo puerto vallarta for sale #condos for sale puerto vallarta #nuevo vallarta condos

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williamccreynolds · 3 years

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September 5, 2021 AsktheBuilder Newsletter

I see you standing in the group with Lindsay, Robert, Barbara, Marcia, Mike, and a scad of others. This is your first issue and I welcome you!

This issue, however, might be your 378th one! I've published nearly 1000 newsletters and who knows, you may be one of my first subscribers!

Do you remember the column I did about using the correct gray-colored paint primer? It's pretty interesting when you think about black and white photographs! CLICK or TAP HERE and allow some extra knowledge to seep into your tiny gray cells.

Covid Survivors

This is the first newsletter since the middle of August. You may have noticed no issues were sent out the past two weekends. I contracted the illness, as did Kathy my wife, on or about August 8th. I survived because of the grace of God and the tender care and love I received from Kathy. I know that she alone, with some help from my youngest daughter, ensured my survival.

In the first ten days of the illness, Kathy watched over me like a hawk always looking to see what direction I was headed on an hour-by-hour basis.

She was only slightly ill for 36 hours and nowhere to the extent I was sick. This is why she was able to care for me like a private nurse.

If you want to know all the details of what happened including how we zeroed in on when we were infected, the medications I was taking, and other things, CLICK or TAP HERE.

Roots in Sewer Lines

Look at this simple drawing I made:

While I was recovering from the virus, I received an email from a man who used my method of dealing with tree roots in a sewer line.

He told me my method saved him $10,000. Of course it will!

CLICK or TAP HERE to discover how simple it is to ensure tree roots don't enter your sewer line.

Cincinnati and Chicago Meetups

All good things must come to an end. It's quite possible I'm about to do the last two meetups of my AsktheBuilder career. You may have in interest in attending one.

What happens at a meetup? It's a fun party-like atmosphere. Most of the time the attendees ask all sorts of questions about all the inner workings of what happens behind the magic curtain of Ask the Builder. The conversation is wide-ranging and I'm always very interested in you and your story. Everyone has a story and they are wonderful to hear at a meetup.

The bottom line is an AsktheBuilder.com Meetup is fun!

I'm going to be in Cincinnati the first week of October for my 51st high school reunion. Our 50th was cancelled last year by the governor of Ohio.

If you want to do a meetup while I'm in town, I can carve out the time. It would happen in northern KY at the offices of Bold Homes. The president, Mike Kegley, has graciously offered to host the meetup.

But you MUST REPLY NOW so I know how many might come. The cutoff to keep the event at Mike's offices is eight people. If more than eight people show an interest, we'll move to another location.

The meetup would be in the afternoon for sure. Once enough people RSVP, then I'll figure out the exact date and time.

As for Chicago, another friend has offered up his house for a meetup. He lives in Palatine. He can host about the same number of people. If enough people express an interest, THEN I'll add an extra two days and drive to Chicago from Cincinnati on October 10th or so.

You know what to do. REPLY NOW with all your contact information if you want to get together in either of the two cities. If many decide to attend, then we'll work together on Plan B as to locating a quiet place in each city that can handle the overflow crowd.

Hurricane Ida Takeaways

Hurricanes are big storms and can make for big news. Ida put a few heads on a swivel this past week, especially in the Northeast where it caught many by surprise.

Here are some facts about hurricanes, earthquakes, wildfires, and other natural disasters including widespread civil disorder:

1. Your home and the possessions within your home are the LEAST important asset in your community. This means when a disaster strikes don't count on first responders SHOWING UP at your home.

Why? There might be 1000X homeowners like you needing help for every first responder! What's more, the first responders already have a list of the most valuable community assets. They preserve those first. Guess what? You and your home are at the BOTTOM OF THE LIST. Don't believe me? Ask your fire chief.

2. You may not find someone to do repairs for months. It's the same problem. High-quality contractors will be overwhelmed. You need to meet with neighbors and friends and come up with a plan. Who has what skills? Who has what tools? Figure out how you can work together as a team to do the basic repairs to protect your homes until months later when a contractor can show up.

3. Pre-buy materials. The time to buy that giant blue tarp for your roof is NOT the day after the hurricane. Think ahead. Purchase and store whatever materials and tools you need to SURVIVE until such time as you can get the proper repair work complete.

That's quite enough for my first Sunday back.

Tim Carter Founder - www.AsktheBuilder.com Best Cleaner Ever - www.StainSolver.com Morse - Original Digital - www.W3ATB.com

Do It Right, Not Over!

P.S. What do you think you know about making repairs to concrete block or stucco? CLICK or TAP HERE and let me know if you discovered something new. WATCH ALL THREE videos at the bottom of the page.

The post September 5, 2021 AsktheBuilder Newsletter appeared first on Ask the Builder.

from Real Estate https://www.askthebuilder.com/september-5-2021-askthebuilder-newsletter/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

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adriansmithcarslove · 4 years

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The Best Cars, Trucks, and SUVs of the 2020 Chicago Auto Show

The Chicago Auto Show might not rise to the same dazzling prominence on the annual auto-show calendar as, say, the events held in Geneva or Los Angeles, but it’s a critical display of fresh sheetmetal nonetheless. That’s because during the show’s two-week run this February, a huge number of people—millions—will visit McCormick Place on the south end of downtown Chicago to take in the new cars, trucks, and SUVs on offer. So, while the number of big new-car debuts, premieres, and reveals in Chicago might be small compared to flashier shows, automakers don’t ignore the show entirely. This year saw a number of new or updated pragmatic vehicles perfect for the Midwest, including Chrysler’s 2021 Pacifica minivan and a new sporty version of the Toyota Highlander three-row crossover. Below, though, find the MotorTrend staff’s curated pics for the best vehicles at the show:

2020 Mercedes-Benz Weekender Camper Van

Mercedes-Benz unveiled a freaking camper van in Chicago. It’s not just some show vehicle, either, as the company is actually planning to sell the Metris Weekender in the coming months. Admittedly, the Weekender lacks some of the panache of the luxurious Marco Polo camper van that Mercedes sells in Europe. That said, this is still a factory-backed camper van (replete with pop-up roof panel) that sleeps four and is available with such extras as an eight-foot awning and a pullout kitchen. To paraphrase Futurama’s Philip J. Fry, “Shut up and take my money, Mercedes.”—Greg Fink

1-Million-Mile 2007 Nissan Frontier

Why are we covering a 2007-model-year Nissan pickup truck in a roundup of favorites from an auto show in 2020? Well, for starters, this is no ordinary Nissan Frontier. It has been driven more than one million miles in only 13 years of service as a delivery vehicle local to the Chicagoland area. Its owner, Brian Murphy, has doled out minimal repairs over the truck’s life and has, for the most part, only changed the oil every 10,000 miles and dumped fuel in its tank. Nissan, of course, is highlighting Brian’s pickup as a way of marketing its vehicles’ longevity and toughness, and as someone who grew up in Chicago, it’s remarkable how presentable the well-used Frontier is. There is only some minor paint bubbling around the rear wheel wells—a miracle for a vehicle that’s prowled Chicago’s salty, busted-ass streets for so long.—Alexander Stoklosa

2020 Hyundai Sonata Hybrid

Chicago may be a truck-dominated show, but the fact that the EPA estimates the 2021 Hyundai Sonata Hybrid can deliver up to 54 mpg is hugely impressive. Sure, that matches the Toyota Camry Hybrid, but the Sonata looks and feels more modern. And speaking of technology, what about that solar roof panel that can add 3 miles of electric-assisted driving range every day? Also, Hyundai claims that it will beat both the Honda Accord and Camry in acceleration and road noise; we’ll have to wait a few months to test the car and prove it ourselves.—Miguel Cortina

2020 Chevrolet Corvette C8 Convertible

I’m sitting in the car I picked as I write this on my phone. Why? Because the Corvette convertible is as nice to be in as it is to drive. That is to say, it’s brilliant. And while I’ve only driven the coupe, I doubt chopping the roof off will change it much. Our car of the year is thunderously loud and easy on the eyes, and the convertible only amplifies those elements. Even in this Chicago snow, I’d drive it with the top down every single day and simply suffer the consequences. It’s not technically a Chicago debut—but what a car. I just had to include it.—Nick Yekikian

2021 Chrysler Pacifica

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Minivans aren’t sexy. But they offer best value for the buck if you’re looking to haul families and hamperfuls of stuff. Chrysler has always been the minivan king, in part because of its clever Stow ’N Go second-row seats that fold into the floor. But one of the reasons people gravitate to SUVs is for all-wheel drive and Chrysler’s vans historically offered either AWD or Stow ’N Go—not both. That changes now. It has taken a couple years to sort it out but the refreshed 2021 Pacifica brings back AWD while keeping the seat system intact with no compromises. The on-demand system has clutches front and back and the system chooses when to engage on its own. The floorpan remained intact and the overall ride height increased 0.8 inch to make room for the extra mechanical bits. In addition, the new top-shelf Pinnacle model has a suede headliner, caramel perforated leather seats with diamond patterns, nice stitching and piping, Berber carpet floor mats, a couple of lumbar throw pillows for the back seat, and fold-up infotainment screens. Set for fall delivery, families will ride in style.—Alisa Priddle

The post The Best Cars, Trucks, and SUVs of the 2020 Chicago Auto Show appeared first on MotorTrend.

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perksofwifi · 4 years

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The Best Cars, Trucks, and SUVs of the 2020 Chicago Auto Show

2020 Mercedes-Benz Weekender Camper Van

1-Million-Mile 2007 Nissan Frontier

2020 Hyundai Sonata Hybrid

2020 Chevrolet Corvette C8 Convertible

2021 Chrysler Pacifica

The post The Best Cars, Trucks, and SUVs of the 2020 Chicago Auto Show appeared first on MotorTrend.

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xeford2020 · 5 years

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Robert O. Derrick, Architect of Henry Ford Museum

Robert O. Derrick, about 1930. THF 124645 As part of our 90th anniversary celebration the intriguing story of the Henry Ford Museum of American Innovation’s design bears repeating. It was last discussed in depth in the 50th anniversary publication “A Home for our Heritage” (1979). Our tale begins on the luxury ocean liner R.M.S. Majestic, then the largest in the world, on its way to Europe in the spring of 1928. On board were Henry and Clara Ford, their son Edsel and Edsel’s wife Eleanor. Serendipitously, Detroit-based architect Robert O. Derrick and his wife, Clara Hodges Derrick, were also on board. The Derricks were approximately the same age as the Edsel Fords and the two couples were well-acquainted. According to Derrick’s reminiscence, housed in the Benson Ford Research Center, he was invited by Henry Ford to a meeting in the senior Fords’ cabin, which was undoubtedly arranged by Edsel Ford. During the meeting Derrick recalled that Mr. Ford asked how he would hypothetically design his museum of Americana. Derrick responded, “well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Ford, the first thing I could think of would be if you could get permission for me to make a copy of Independence Hall in Philadelphia. It is a wonderful building and beautiful architecture and it certainly would be appropriate for a collection of Americana.” Ford enthusiastically approved the concept and once back in Detroit, secured measured drawings of Independence Hall and its adjacent 18th century buildings which comprise the façade of the proposed museum. Both Derrick and Ford agreed to flip the façade of Independence Hall to make the clock tower, located at the back side of Independence Hall in Philadelphia, a focal point of the front of the new museum in Dearborn. Robert Ovens Derrick (1890-1961) was an unlikely candidate for the commission. He was a young architect, trained at Yale and Columbia Universities, with only three public buildings to his credit, all in the Detroit area. He was interested in 18th century Georgian architecture and the related Colonial Revival styles, which were at the peak of their popularity in the 1920s. In his reminiscence, he states that he was overwhelmed with the commission, but was also confident in his abilities: “I did visit a great many industrial and historical museums and went to Chicago. I remember that I studied the one abroad in Germany, [The Deutsches Museum in Munich] which is supposed to be one of the best. I studied them all very carefully and I did make some very beautiful plans, I thought. Of course, I was going according to museum customs. We had a full basement and a balcony going around so the thing wouldn’t spread out so far. We had a lot of exhibits go in the balcony. I had learned that, in museum practice, you should have a lot more storage space, maintenance space and repair shops than you should have for exhibition. That is why I had the big basement. I didn’t even get enough there because I had the floor over it plus the balconies all around.”

Original museum proposal, aerial view. THF 170442

Original museum proposal, facade design. THF 170443

Original museum proposal, side view. THF 170444 In the aerial view [THF0442], the two-story structure is a warren of courtyards and two-story buildings, with exhibition space on the first floor and presumably balconies above, although no interior views of this version survive. A domed area on the upper right was to be a roundhouse, intended for the display of trains. THF0443 shows a view of the front of the museum from the southeast corner. This view is close to the form of the completed museum, at least from the front. An examination of the side of the building [THF0444] shows a two-storied wing. Derrick recalled Mr. Ford’s initial response to his proposals, “What’s this up here? and I said, that is a balcony for exhibits. He said, I wouldn’t have that; there would be people up there, I could come in and they wouldn’t be working. I wouldn’t have it. I have to see everybody. Then he said: What’s this? I said, that is the basement down there, which is necessary to maintain these exhibits and to keep things which you want to rotate, etc. He said, I wouldn’t have that; I couldn’t see the men down there when I came in. You have to do the whole thing over again and put it all on one floor with no balconies and no basements. I said, okay, and I went back and we started all over again. What you see [today] is what we did the second time.”

Henry Ford Museum proposed Exhibit Hall. THF294368 A second group of presentation drawings show the museum as it was built in 1929. THF294368 is the interior of the large “Machine Hall,” the all-on-one-floor exhibit space that Mr. Ford requested. The unique roof and skylight system echo that of Albert Kahn’s Ford Engineering Laboratory, completed in 1923 and located just behind the museum. Radiant heating is located in the support columns through what appear to be large flanges or fins. The image also shows how Mr. Ford wanted his collection displayed – in long rows, by types of objects – as seen here with the wagons on the left and steam engines on the right.

Proposal for museum corridor. THF 294390

Proposal for museum corridor. THF 294388

These corridors, known today as the Prechter Promenade, run the width of the museum. Floored with marble and decorated with elaborate plasterwork, the promenade is the first part of the interior seen by guests. Mr. Ford wanted all visitors to enter through his reproduction of the Independence Hall Clock Tower. The location of Light’s Golden Jubilee, a dinner and celebration of the 50th anniversary of Thomas Edison’s development of incandescent electric lamp, held on October 21, 1929 is visible at the back of THF294388. This event also served as the official dedication of the Edison Institute of Technology, honoring Ford’s friend and mentor, Thomas Edison. Today the entire institution is known as The Henry Ford, which includes the Henry Ford Museum of American Innovation and Greenfield Village.

Museum Auditorium. THF 294370 Just off the Prechter Promenade is the auditorium, now known as the Anderson Theater. Intended to present historical plays and events, this theater accommodates approximately 600 guests. During Mr. Ford’s time it was also used by the Greenfield Village schools for recitals, plays, and graduations. Today, it is used by the Henry Ford Academy, a Wayne County charter high school, and the museum for major public programs.

Virginia Courtyard inside Henry Ford Museum. THF294374

Pennsylvania Courtyard inside Henry Ford Museum. THF294392 Derrick created two often-overlooked exterior courtyards between the Prechter Promenade and the museum exhibit hall. Each contains unique garden structures, decorative trees and plantings, and both are accessible to the public from neighboring galleries.

Greenfield Village Gatehouse front view, about 1931. THF 294382

Greenfield Village Gatehouse rear view, about 1931. THF 294386 The Greenfield Village Gatehouse was completed in 1932 by Robert Derrick, in a Colonial Revival style to complement the Museum. From its opening in 1932 until the Greenfield Village renovation of 2003, the gatehouse served as the public entrance to the Village. Today, visitors enter the Village through the Josephine Ford Plaza behind the Gatehouse. Although the exterior was left unchanged in the renovation, the Gatehouse now accommodates guests with an updated facility, including new, accessible restrooms and a concierge lounge with a will-call desk for tickets.

Lovett Hall in 1941. THF 98409

Edison Institute students dancing in Lovett Ballroom, 1938. THF 121724

Edison Institute students in dancing class with Benjamin Lovett, instructor, 1944. THF 116450 In 1936 Robert Derrick designed the Education Building for Mr. Ford. Now known as Lovett Hall, the building served many purposes, mainly for the Greenfield Village School system. It housed a swimming pool, gymnasium, classrooms, and an elaborately-decorated ballroom, where young ladies and gentlemen were taught proper “deportment.” Like all the buildings at The Henry Ford, it was executed in the Colonial Revival style. Today the well-preserved ballroom serves as a venue for weddings and other special occasions. Obviously, Mr. Derrick was a favorite architect of Mr. Ford along with the renowned Albert Kahn, who designed the Ford Rouge Factory. The museum was undoubtedly Derrick’s greatest achievement, although he went on to design Detroit’s Theodore J. Levin Federal Courthouse in 1934. Unlike the Henry Ford commissions, the courthouse was designed in the popular Art Deco, or Art Moderne style. Derrick is also noted for many revival style homes in suburban Grosse Pointe, which he continued to design until his retirement in 1956. He is remembered as one of the most competent, and one of the many creative architects to practice in 20th century Detroit.

Charles Sable is Curator of Decorative Arts at The Henry Ford.

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lindawood · 5 years

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Ask Wirecutter: How Do I Keep the Gutters Clear of Ice and Leaves?

We live in Chicago and just went through some snow and the polar vortex. After the snow we discovered that we may not have enough insulation in our attic because our roof warmed and melted snow, which hit our frozen gutters and caused an ice dam. One roofer suggested we get a gutter heater, which I never knew existed until that day. I said yes out of fear of any damage ahead of the polar vortex. However, I have no idea if I made the right decision. Are gutter heaters even necessary? Should I have just waited for it to warm up and melt off? Should I add more insulation in my attic? Would love to hear some viewpoints on this. I know ultimately each homeowner situation is unique, but I’d love to have a little more clarity on this. —Albert H., Chicago

My gutters were knocked around by the heavy snow we’ve had. Should I get snow guards for the roof? Or something like gutter heat by Frost King? Or just repair the gutters when the snow weighs them down? What is the most cost efficient for the long term? —Maya W., Washington, DC

Hello Albert and Maya,

Okay, I have a long history of living in ancient, poorly insulated homes so I have a long and storied history with ice dams. I get ice dams almost immediately after a snowfall. It’s bananas. I have no insulation in my walls. It’s almost like my house was built in Revolutionary times or something. (It was.)

They happen due to poor attic insulation or inadequate ventilation. In most cases, you want the underside of your roof to be the same temperature as the outside air. If it’s not, the heat from your home melts the snow on your roof (while it’s still below 32 degrees outside) and the water runs down to your eave, which is not warm in any way, and freezes. Little by little this frozen mass builds up until it makes a bowl that traps water against the roof. Depending on how your roof is constructed this can back water up under your shingles and into your home. Once that happens you can be looking at some seriously expensive repairs. Once it gets into your walls and gets your insulation wet, it lowers the R value of your insulation and you can get mold.

There are a few ways to stop these from happening. The least expensive way, which takes a little effort, is to use a roof rake to clear snow from your roof after each snow. Our recommended roof rake extends to 17 feet, so you can use that as a guideline. Ideally you want to get all of the snow off, but if you can’t do that, at least remove it from the eaves (and go as far back as you can) and the valleys, if you have any and you can reach them. With this limited approach there is still snow up there that can melt and run down, but at least this is a start. I roof rake after every snowstorm. It’s a hassle, but worth it.

Heat cables, like the Frost King, 60-foot Electric Cable Kit, have good reviews at Home Depot, although many are from people who have installed them and not used them long-term. On the good side, they melt snow and create channels for water to escape the roof, but on the bad side, they use a decent amount of electricity and they can fail (I’ve seen them completely encased in ice). Also, if you lose power during the snowstorm, you’re out of luck. Just putting them in your gutter probably won’t help much, because, if you recall, the water is freezing at the eave too, so you’ll likely need them on the roof as well.

If you have a house prone to ice dams, I’ve also found it very helpful to have some calcium chloride on hand, both loose and in puck format. You can toss the pucks up on the roof and they melt, presumably dissolving into the water, running down to the ice dam and melting that. I’ve found that it’s not that simple and they work best when placed directly on the ice dam. Calcium chloride is corrosive (and there are reports of it staining roofs), so I don’t like just tossing them up there wherever. I prefer to be a little more specific in my placement with them directly on, or right behind, the ice dam. It’s something to have on hand in case things get out of control (or if your heat cable malfunctions mid-storm). I don’t recommend it as your primary defense against ice dams.

Likely the most expensive and invasive (yet comprehensive) solution is to redo the insulation in your attic or add some ventilation. There are so many variables here that it’s difficult to make any strong recommendations.

As for snow guards, I’ve only seen them on slate roofs, where when the snow slides off, it all slides off at once. (I have a slate roof and when snow lets go, it sounds like a freight train and is pretty dangerous to anyone below.) To have guards you really need to have some bulletproof attic insulation or trust in your roof construction, because the guards just hold all of that meltable snow up there on your roof. My general opinion is to just get the snow off the roof as fast as possible (if your house is prone to ice dams), whether it’s done via roof raking or letting it slide off on its own.

But if the snow is tearing your gutters off, snow guards may be worth considering. You should also look at how high your gutters are hung. Some roofing contractors hang gutters lower on slate and metal roofs so the sliding snow (theoretically) goes over the gutter as it heads to the ground (as shown in this image from Inspectapedia). I’d recommend talking to a couple roofing contractors to get some options for your specific scenario.

For more reading on the topic, Fine Homebuilding has a detailed explanation of how ice dams form and what to do to prevent them. A similar story from This Old House echoes the Fine Homebuilding advice on long-term fixes for ice dams.

—Doug Mahoney, senior staff writer

—

My house has standard rain gutters. The house needs repainting so this would be a good time to replace the gutters, which are 46 years old. My biggest problem is pine needles falling through the mesh on the gutters. Would LeafGuard rain gutters alleviate this situation? Thanks. —H., Houston

LeafGuard and its various similar competitors claim that surface tension gutters cause water to flow over the curved surface into the gutter while keeping leaves out. These things are very expensive. Do they actually work? —Richard B., Cleveland

We polled our homeowners’ Slack channel to see if anyone had experience with covered gutters. One of our editors in Portland, Oregon, bought a house with multiple 100-foot-tall leafy trees on the property about three years ago. It came with covered gutters, and he is happy with them, having never had to clean them.

However, reviews from experts seem to be less enthusiastic. Though we haven’t tested LeafGuard ourselves, we looked at some of the testing done by other people (testing from Family Handyman, videos from EnduringCharm and Roofing Insights, and an even-handed overview from Inspectapedia, a site for home inspectors). We agree with Inspectapedia’s basic conclusion: Gutter screens and covers can be good for “high, hard to access roofs with nearby trees.” It seems that otherwise it may make more sense to skip them and just deal with frequent cleaning. (Regarding pine needles in particular, EnduringCharm’s video says at 0:40, “If there’s big trees nearby, or certain types of trees, like pine needles and things like that can get jammed in here, especially when there’s small holes and things like that …”)

One thing that comes up a lot in the criticisms is that the screens themselves need maintenance and cleaning—just not as often. So you’re still either getting on a ladder or paying someone else to do it (and this is after you’ve shelled out the money to install the gutter covers). For someone cleaning their own gutters, leaf blowers work great. Downspout screens are an inexpensive way to deal with things as well if you want something quick and easy.

—Harry Sawyers, senior editor

Questions have been lightly edited for clarity. If you have a question, send it to [email protected] with the subject line Ask Wirecutter.

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