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hotmesshapa · 3 years

Text

Hold On • Bang Chan

pairing: bang chan x reader

genre: some angst, a whole lotta fluff

word count: 1.6k

warnings: some strong language, descriptions of an anxiety attack

a/n: I started writing this at like 2am one night when I was in my chan feels, then homeboy played Michael Bublé during his last vlive and I took that as my sign to finish it lol. I also highkey recommend the song mentioned in this it totally didn’t make me cry while I was editing this noooo not at all 🖤

You pace back and forth in front of your front door, chewing on your bottom lip, occasionally checking the time on your phone as you impatiently wait for the mail to come. You try to distract yourself by scrolling through instagram and literally every other app you have, but your brain is too focused on one thing: an acceptance letter.

It’s a sunny but chilly Friday of what normally would be a regular week. This week, however, is the week universities send out their acceptance letters, and the first four days were complete agony of not hearing anything back. You had applied to one of the most prestigious graduate schools in the country, one that’s been around for hundreds of years and for some reason didn’t think it needed to upgrade its acceptance announcements with the current century. Honestly, you didn’t know people still sent actual letters anymore, but there’s something a bit comforting in receiving a physical copy of something that could be so important and life-changing to you. You had worked your ass off the day you started your courses in college, ultimately graduating two years ago with high honors and glowing recommendations from a few of your professors. Since then, you managed to score two internships in the film industry, all while working a part-time job and somehow not going completely insane. You did everything you could for a spot in that university’s graduate program, but despite everyone telling you that your acceptance is a sure thing, you still were insanely nervous.

To be honest, you don’t need to go to graduate school. Your bachelor’s degree and internships qualify you for any job you wanted in the industry, let alone your work ethic and resume you’ve built over the past two years. But you love learning, and this is the change to to meet new people and gain new experiences that you could only get from a graduate program. And sure, you didn’t need to apply to such a distinguished school, but the perfectionist inside you wanted the best of the best, and nearly all of your professors and friends encouraged you to apply, so how could you not?

After a few minutes of constant pacing, you check your phone again and let out a shaky breath, your nerves nowhere near being calmed. You sit yourself down in from of the door’s little mail slot and just stare.

“Baby,” Chan chuckles, watching you from the couch as he works on his laptop. “The mail isn’t gonna get here any faster if you stare at the door.”

“I know, but who knows, maybe the mailman will be able to sense my intense gaze from wherever he is and speed over.”

You hear your boyfriend rise from the couch and walk to where you’re planted, sitting behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “You worked hard for this, Y/N, they’d be crazy not to accept you. I’m sure you got in.”

You hum in appreciation and lean back against chest, smiling as he tenderly kisses your temple. Chan, being the actual angel that he is, was one of the main reasons you had managed not to completely lose your shit throughout the entire application process and waiting period. You two know each other like the back of your hand; anytime one of you (mostly you) would get stressed out over something, the other would always be there to help. But for Chan, it’s like he has a sixth sense for knowing when you’re going through it, because he’d be by your side within an instant. He was, and still is, your voice of reason, your comfort, your everything.

He takes your hands in his, gently rubbing circles against your palms. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the letter will arrive any moment now.”

The two of you stare at the door for a few minutes, before you can’t help but check the time on your phone again, and you release a worried sigh, beginning to impatiently tap on the floor. As if he could read your mind, Chan pulls you tighter against his body and snuggles his face into the curve of your neck. “Just relax Y/N.”

Once you manage to calm your nerves down again, he slowly gets up, eliciting a small whimper from you from the loss of his warmth, which only gets you a chuckle in response. “I’m gonna make some hot chocolate, want any?”

“Yes please, with a lot-“

“Of marshmallows, I know,” he laughs as he makes his way to the kitchen.

You smile, resting your chin on your hand, and turn your attention back to the mail slot. You wait as patiently as you possibly can for another five minutes, before you hear a crash from the kitchen. “You okay?” you call out, not taking your eyes off the door.

“Yeah, I’m fine… Just wondering, where do you keep your broom?”

“Christopher Bang, what did you-“

At that exact moment, the mail slot opens and you’re greeted with piles of letters and papers falling into your lap. With shaky hands, you sort through the mail, tossing a couple bills, a magazine, and some weird catalog from a brand you’ve never even heard of aside before finally digging up the letter you’ve been waiting for. You can feel your heart beating out of your chest as you frantically try to rip it open without giving yourself a paper cut.

“Was that the mail? Did it come?” Chan calls out from the kitchen, but you’re too in your own head to put words together to form an answer.

You finally manage to open up the envelope, your hands trembling as you pull out the letter and slowly unfold it. All the words just seem to blur together, except the ones that catch your attention:

not accepted

In a matter of seconds, you feel yourself spiral. Your breathing begins to become more shallow and quicken, while your mind begins to race a million miles per second, trying to make of what you just read.

What are you gonna do now?

All that work, for what, nothing?

Did you do something wrong?

Is there something wrong with you?

Are you just not good enough?

A tear falls on the paper you’re holding, smearing the ink stating your failure, but you didn’t even realize you were crying until then. You furiously wipe them away with the back of your hand, but no matter what you do, tears just keep falling, and you can feel yourself beginning to hyperventilate, you whole body trembling. You know this isn’t the end of the world, but then why did it feel like it is?

“Y/N? Did you hear-“

You turn to your boyfriend, and the look on your face must have said it all, because the next thing you know, Chan is engulfing you in a warm hug, stroking your hair as you start to sob into his chest. “Hey, everything’s going to be okay. Y/N, please listen to me. Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll figure something out.” He kisses the top of your head and continues to let you cry as he hugs you close.

It seems like eternity, but you manage to calm yourself down a bit, clinging to Chan’s hoodie while listening to his steady heartbeat, and you finally bring yourself to look up at him. “I just… I just really thought I was gonna get in,” you say quietly, your eyes welling up again.

He gingerly wipes away the tears from your cheeks and offers you a sympathetic smile. “I know, baby, I know. I’m so sorry.” He pulls you back into a hug, rubbing your back to help ease the knots that had build up there from the stress. “Fuck them,” he mumbles against your hair. “It’s their loss for not choosing one of the smartest and hardest working people on this planet.”

You let out a weak laugh in response, grateful for his attempt to crack some jokes to ease the tension. You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, closing you eyes to try to get rid of the stress that lingered in your head.

“I have an idea,” Chan suddenly says, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen in the room. He gently pulls away from you, and you watch in confusion as he makes his way across the living room, taking his phone out from his pocket and placing it on the coffee table.

The next thing you know, Michael Bublé’s “Hold On” fills the room, and a small smile forms on your lips as Chan turns to you, offering his hand. You take it, and he pulls up from where you’re seated and close to his strong body, putting his hands on your waist as your arms instinctively wrap around his neck. Slowly, the two of you begin to sway to the music, and you feel any remaining sadness and tension drain from your body as you dance with your boyfriend, and your smile begins to grow.

“So hold on to me tight, hold on, I promise it will be alright,” Chan’s smooth voice sings along with the music, and he’s looking at you with so much adoration, you can feel your heart swell. “Cause it’s you and me together, and baby all we’ve got is time. So hold on to me, hold on to me tonight,” he continues to serenade you, and you can’t help but giggle, causing him to start giggling as well.

You rest your head on his shoulder, releasing a sigh in content as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “I love you Chan.”

“I love you too.”

#bang chan fluff #bang chan imagines #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids fanfiction #kpop fluff #kpop imagines #bang chan #stray kids

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thefactsofthematter · 3 years

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spravey office romance but like... they're not cops and theyre nice to each other

ask and you shall recieve!! (two months after you asked... oops)

here is some good ol spavey, vaguely inspired by the office, where they are in fact nice to each other!!! its like 2.8k, modern au, and fuck it disabled!spot rights he’s in a wheelchair because i said so. here you go anon!!

"David... Davey. My office, now. Get in here."

Davey can't roll his eyes quite hard enough to express just how annoyed he is in this moment. Race shoots him a sympathetic look from across the office.

"Coming, Mr. Wiesel!" He's thankful his desk faces away from his boss's office, so he has time to school his expression into something happier before he turns around. "Can I help you with something?"

Now... Mr. Wiesel isn't the worst boss in the world. He really isn't. But he most certainly isn't the best either, despite what his favourite mug (that he probably bought for himself) might tell you. He's nice enough most of the time, and he seems to try his best... but god is he ever incompetent.

Like right now, he's probably going to task Davey with something that could've been handled by literally anyone else. Davey has actual work to do— he's not sure what Wiesel even does all day in that office of his, because he seems to delegate everything off to his unfortunate employees. He's a regional manager, in charge of sales and finances for the Manhattan branch of a major New York City newspaper, and yet he seems to have the brain of an actual goldfish.

"Secret meeting," Wiesel says, as Davey walks in. "Close the door behind you and sit down."

"It's not exactly a secret, sir," Davey replies, though he does as he's told anyways, settling into a chair once the door is closed. "You yelled across the office to tell me about it."

Also, he's immediately going to disclose every detail of the meeting to Race and Jack as soon as they're done in here, but Wiesel doesn't need to know that.

"Details, shmetails," scoffs Wiesel. "I have an important job for you."

This can't possibly be good.

"I have a lot of other work to do," Davey sighs. He truly does— he's the head of accounting for their office, and they're in the middle of a company audit. "Jack didn't look that busy, I'm sure you could give him something to entertain himself with."

Jack works in sales— which basically just means he has to convince distributors that newspapers totally aren't a dying medium, and they should definitely keep buying their copies to sell. He's remarkably good at selling newspapers, but he's also easily distracted and seems to have far too much time to plan stupid office pranks.

"I don't trust Jack. Salesmen... they're too charming. You never know what they're up to."

Okay, so Wiesel is batshit fucking insane. This is, unfortunately, par for the course that is trying to hold any kind of conversation with him.

"What is it you need me to do, sir?" Davey is beyond exasperated. Why he of all people had to become Wiesel's favourite employee, he'll never understand. "Again, I'm already very busy."

"It won't take long, don't worry." Wiesel smiles wide. "I want you to be our official welcoming committee. We're getting a new employee."

Davey can't physically stop his eyebrows from shooting up, practically to his hairline. What?

"Look, boss, the audit isn't finished yet, but I can tell you that it makes absolutely no financial sense to hire someone new right now." He knows he's talking to a stubborn brick wall, but he continues anyways. "We're barely turning a profit, and some of our numbers don't make any sense. Why do we have two janitors?"

"I wanted to give my nephews a head start in the industry!"

"The... custodian industry?"

"Morris and Oscar are smart boys, they'll make something out of it." Wiesel shakes his head. "Anyways, we're just getting a transfer from the Brooklyn office. He won't even be on our payroll. Corporate is sending him in because they think our office is... unproductive."

It's like it physically pains him to say that last word, though Davey knows it to be true. He wouldn't be surprised if they get downsized in the near future.

"Okay..." Davey sighs. "You just want me to say hi to him, then?"

"More than that, David. Show him around. Give him the good ol' World Welcome."

"Is that a thing? Am I hazing him?"

"Oh my god, yeah—"

"No." Davey cuts him off before that idea can escalate, regretting that he even brought it up. "Okay, I'm going back to work. I'll say hi to him when he gets here."

Rather than go back to his own corner of the office, Davey makes a beeline for Race's desk.

"Did you know we're getting a new guy?"

Race, being the receptionist and all, generally keeps track of anyone who comes and goes from the office. However, he's either hungover or high a good fifty percent of the time, so he's not the most reliable source.

"I think I was probably supposed to know that," Race says, frowning at his computer. "I skip the emails that don't look important. Lemme go check."

"A new guy, huh?" Jack asks, sauntering over from his desk, which is only like ten feet away. "I need to start planning a welcome prank."

"No, you absolutely do not."

Before Jack can go off on some prank-related tangent, Race interrupts.

"Found it! Weasel emailed me this morning. He said: New guy is called Sean Conlon. Transferring in from Brooklyn for a week. I heard a rumour that he doesn't have legs."

The three of them share a moment of confused silence.

"Maybe he'll get along with Crutchie," Jack offers. "You know... since he only has one leg, and this guy has no legs. They could, like, bond."

Davey chokes on a laugh— he definitely feels like he shouldn't be laughing, but he can never help it when Jack says shit like that.

"Okay, I'm glad you got that out now. You know how badly Weasel handles sensitivity training, so let's avoid it if we can."

Their last round of sensitivity training was due to Wiesel's running gag of only speaking to Jack in broken Spanish. Jack is originally from New Mexico, he's Navajo, and he doesn't even speak Spanish. Jack thought it was hilarious (while ridiculously offensive), but it was making the entire office uncomfortable, so someone must have anonymously called it in to corporate.

"You mean we can spend a whole day listening to Weasel tell us he's not racist again? Sounds like a party." Jack laughs. "But yeah, I'm not stupid. I'm not gonna make fun of a guy with no legs."

"We don't even know that he doesn't have legs," Race interjects. "At this point I don't believe anything Weasel says, especially if he's willing to admit it's a rumour. Where did he even hear that?"

Davey shrugs.

"Who knows. Legs or not, we're gonna be nice to the new guy. Weasel made me the designated welcoming committee, so I'm officially adding you two to my team."

"Extra work?" asks Race. "Not happening."

"You've been playing the Sims all morning. You haven't been doing any work," Jack points out. "Can we go on a donut run at lunch and have a staff party for him?"

Davey can do nothing more than sigh. There's no reasoning with Jack when it comes to his obsession with throwing pointless staff parties.

"Sure. Whatever. No balloons, though."

And that's that— they head back to their own desks and wait for the new guy to show up.

The elevator dings about twenty minutes later.

The guy does, in fact, have legs— though he's using a wheelchair, so they must not work very well. That's probably where Wiesel got the rumour from. He's got a grumpy look on his face, like he's not particularly thrilled to be here, and a messenger bag on his lap. Above all, Davey notices, the new guy is really fucking hot.

He makes his way over to Race's desk to check in, and Davey decides to wait a moment before going over to introduce himself, so as to seem like he hasn't been obsessively watching the elevator for his arrival. He needs to compose himself— his tie is feeling a little too tight. Holy shit, that man is so beautiful.

Race, ever the professional, pulls out one AirPod to greet the new guy, and they have a short conversation that Davey can't quite overhear. It ends with Race shouting Davey, come here! because apparently no one in this office knows how to use the paging system built into the phones on everyone's desks.

"You called?" Davey sighs, as he approaches the reception desk. "I don't sit that far away, you really don't need to yell."

"Yelling gets things done," says Race with a shrug. He gestures to the new guy. "This is Sean, he's the assistant manager from the Brooklyn branch. Sean, this is Davey. He's the manager's assistant at our branch."

"I'm not Weasel's assistant," hisses Davey, glaring at Race. "I'm just bad at saying no to him." He turns to Sean and extends a hand to shake. "David Jacobs, head of accounting. Sorry about Anthony— I swear we're not all like this."

Race scoffs.

"Please, I'm hilarious and everyone loves me."

Davey and Sean both pointedly ignore him.

"It's nice to meet you," Sean says, with a handshake so firm that Davey nearly goes weak in the knees. "I'm looking forward to getting to know this location."

God, he's a sucker for a professional. This is either going to be the best or the worst week ever, and Davey has no clue which way it'll go.

He shows Sean to his desk, manages to stop Jack and Crutchie from setting off a party popper behind his head as a welcome prank, and then finally tries to get back to what's he's actually supposed to be doing.

It doesn't last long— he gets a text from Race just a few minutes after sitting down.

Racer: new guy is fiiiiine as hell ain't he Racer: i mean just look at that smoulder while he works

Davey: he's too old for you, don't even think about it.

Racer: heyyy i'm 19 now >:(

Davey: and he's gotta be at least 25 Davey: not happening, kiddo

Racer: look at me

Davey looks up from his phone, only to see Race flipping him off. Okay then.

Race somehow got hired here straight out of high school, while everyone else in the office has at least some college education— making him the baby of the bunch. While hilariously incompetent at his job, he is fun to be around, so Wiesel has kept him on. He's become Davey and Jack's pseudo-little-brother, much to his annoyance.

Anyways... back to the audit. Davey can hardly focus. Sean is sitting right across from him, and he feels like a stupid teenager with a crush on someone in his class because he just can't draw his eyes away. The morning goes smoothly, though, apart from Davey's heart fluttering a little every time he looks at Sean. In fact, it almost feels too good to be true... until Wiesel finally emerges from his office.

"A wheelchair!" is the first thing he shouts, which makes Davey want to smash his head through his computer screen and then throw himself out the window. So much for his hopes of avoiding sensitivity training. "Isn't that neat! You must be our new friend from Brooklyn."

Sean looks almost stunned, which is the most emotion he's shown since he got here.

"Sean Conlon," he says, slowly and confused, definitely offended, but still sticking out a hand to shake. "Um... I take it you're the branch manager. Is the wheelchair going to be a problem?"

"Oh, god no!" Wiesel replies, shaking Sean's hand far too enthusiastically. "We love disabled people here. I mean, hell, David over here is gay!"

Davey very nearly spontaneously combusts with the heat that immediately rises to his cheeks. He ducks his head a little to hide the blush and avoid eye contact with anyone. He's certainly not the only queer in the office, but he's somehow the only one Wiesel has picked up on, and he loves to make stupid comments about it. Davey is simply far too awkward to stand up for himself when it happens.

"That's... not a disability." When Davey looks up, Sean is staring Wiesel down with a look that screams you're getting fired if there's anything I can do about it. "Frankly, that's incredibly rude to both David and myself. Is this the standard of conduct you set for your employees?"

"Woah," Wiesel immediately starts to backpedal. "Calm down Mr. Professional! It's just a joke between friends."

Sean's expression doesn't change.

"Jokes are supposed to be funny."

From a few desks away, Jack and Crutchie burst into silent, muffled laughter, while Davey shoots them a desperate look. What the fuck does he say? The entire office has gone quiet, watching the standoff go down.

"Davey!" Wiesel says, frantically. "You thought it was funny, right?"

Davey swallows nervously.

"Actually, it's really hurtful when you say stuff like that." He's shaking a little— standing up for himself is not something he typically does. "My identity isn't a joke. It's part of who I am."

Wiesel doesn't seem to know what to say, and Davey can do nothing but wait for some kind of response. His face is burning and his palms are sweaty— it's humiliating.

"Period! You tell him, Davey!" Jack shouts, from his desk, which instantly breaks some of the tension. "Get his ass!"

"I think I'll be taking this up with HR," Sean says, once Wiesel has been quiet a little too long. He's so smooth with it that Davey's heart flutters a little. "I'm getting a sense that this is a running issue— I'd like them to have a look into your position here at the company. It was nice to meet you, though."

And then he turns back to his computer to work on whatever he was doing. Holy shit. There's a general rustling of papers and clicking of mouses around the room as everyone follows his lead, and Davey has to bite back a smile. It felt kind of good to stick it to Weasel.

The work day is pretty much over, Davey is packing up, and he really wants to figure out a way to make conversation with Sean.

He's so cool. He's so damn cool, and he's hot, and he's well-spoken and professional... Davey is desperate to at least be his friend. It's a Monday, not typically a night he'd go out for happy hour after work, but he's considering making plans anyways. He is the welcoming committee after all.

He shoots off a group text to Race, Jack and Crutchie, suggesting a little welcoming party at their usual bar down the block, and everyone drops a like on it within moments. Perfect.

"Hey," he leans over the little gap between their desks and can't stop himself from smiling. "A few of us are gonna go for drinks once we clock out, and you're more than welcome to join us."

Sean finally cracks a real smile, and Davey nearly passes out. He's gorgeous.

"Really?" He looks so happy just to be included. "That sounds fun, I'd love to."

"I'm really sorry about earlier."

Davey and Sean sit at a table, while Jack and Race play pool, and Crutchie tries his best to make a move on the bartender that he's been crushing on for ages. It never quite goes his way, but his commitment to the cause is admirable.

"What?" Davey asks. "Why? It was so nice of you to stick up for me!"

"I just feel bad that you got dragged into it," Sean sighs. "I mean, um... I'm gay too. So I kinda know how it feels when people say stuff like that, and sometimes it really is easier to brush it off. I didn't mean for you to get put on the spot like that."

Davey shrugs, trying to play off the way his heart has begun to flutter with the knowledge that he might have a chance— Sean is gay! This is too good to be true.

"It felt good to finally say something," Davey chuckles. "It was about time someone put him in his place. He's old and out-of-touch."

"And an asshole."

Davey laughs, loud and abruptly.

"Yeah, you're right. He's an asshole." He pauses, unable to stop smiling. "I'm gonna go grab another beer, can I buy you one?"

Sean, once again, looks surprised that Davey is being so nice to him, and his face breaks into that incredible grin from before.

"Sure, yeah! That'd be nice! Thank you so much."

And if the evening ends with a folded up napkin with a messily scribbled phone number and a note about the stupid nickname all my friends usually call me being casually slipped into Davey's back pocket... well, that's no one's business but Davey and Spot's.

#spavey #davey jacobs #spot conlon #racetrack higgins #jack kelly #newsies #newsies fic #my writing #my tag list hasn’t been updated in a very long time so i’m gonna scrap it and make a new one if there’s interest #let me know if you wanna be tagged in the future

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tired-college-student-writing · 4 years

Text

The Many Misconceptions of Malcolm Bright: Semper Progredi

Summary: Bright was confusing on the best days, but JT and Dani had him as figured out as anyone else.

Someone that would poke and prod at everyone because the world decided that it hated him so why not use his skills to needle them?

Someone that didn’t know social bounds because he was never welcomed but never hesitated to apologize whenever he crossed a line, acting like he expected to be hit for each transgression.

The son of a Serial Killer determined to put people like his father away and throw the key into the deepest pits of hell.

What more did they need to know?

Chapter 1 (HERE)

Chapter 2

_______________________________________________________________________

“Easy,” A voice said next to JT as the detective’s head swam, “Let’s get you out of here, okay?”

He felt his right arm being pulled over someone’s shoulder before he finally managed to turn his head to see Bright’s face set into a grim frown.

“Malcolm?” He felt himself ask, mind sluggish as the profiler pulled him up, “Wha’ happ’n?”

“Felix kinda dropped a crate on your head. Looks like you have a concussion, a few broken ribs probably and if the way you’re holding your left arm is any indication, a broken arm.”

That’s right, JT’s mind was catching up. Ryan Felix, the perfect fit for Bright’s profile for the murder of Eric Adams, and an apparent gun smuggler as they had found out once breaking into the warehouse. Bright had said that there was something the Romanian businessman had been hiding from them, a deal that Adams had tried to blow the whistle on that got him killed for his troubles, but they didn’t think it would be anything of this magnitude, making them sorely unprepared to deal with what was happening.

“Gotta call back up,” His voice was a little less slurred now as Malcolm led him through the maze of crates.

“Gil and Dani are on it. We were mostly worried about you, buddy,” the smaller man reassured, “They chased after him after I said I’d get you out”

JT just hummed as they continued only to freeze as they heard footsteps ahead of them.

“Shit,” JT groaned as he and Malcolm press against a crate as they see Felix turn the corner, not thirty feet from them, looking around with his back to them aiming his gun at the slightest of noises.

“Stay Here,” Bright whispered, unhooking JT’s arm from his shoulder.

“Bright? Wait-” His hissed warning was ignored as Bright stalked forwards, silently ducking behind different crates as Felix caught his breath.

Suddenly Malcolm lunged, from his hiding spot, launching himself at Felix without a word. Felix wiped around, finger twitching towards the trigger, but it was knocked out of his hand before he could shoot with a well-placed strike from Malcolm’s open hand, sending it flying down one of the numerous paths of crates.

Without waiting for Felix to gather his bearing Malcolm struck out again, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him down into Bright’s raised knee hard enough to make JT wince at the chocked gasp, before grabbing his arm and flipping him onto the ground arm twisted painfully behind him as Malcolm straddled his waist.

JT felt himself blinking at the display that lasted less than ten seconds.

There was no way that was Bright.

Bright may be insane and weirdly fascinated by murder and make calls that no one else would in a million years, but he didn’t fight back.

He talked people down, risked his own neck to stop JT from shooting a woman that had a shotgun pointed at his face. He was the one that distracted and gathered info, not the one that took down the criminals, before now JT would have wagered good money that the spoiled rich boy didn’t even know how to throw a decent punch, let alone willing to.

“Can you pass me your handcuffs?” Malcolm asked, voices steely calm, eyes boring into Felix’s back like he wanted to burn a hole through his heart.

He was silent until Bright’s eyes flickered up to his, eyebrows scrunching with concern, “You still with me JT?”

“Yeah,” He breathed, “Yeah, No I’m…”

Malcolm’s face twisted into a wince and suddenly he was avoiding the detective’s eyes. “Great,” he said, “Can you give me your handcuffs? And maybe radio Dani and Gil?”

JT numbly walked over to him, pulling his handcuffs off his belt to hand to the profiler, before backing off and bringing his radio up.

“Felix is down,” He relayed as he faintly heard Malcolm reading Felix’s Miranda rights off to him, perfect cadence and wording as if he was reading it from a book, “We got him.”

The evening was a blur after that. JT vaguely remembered more cop cars showing up as Felix was loaded into the back of Gil’s car, a swarm of officers going over the large mass of guns and other illegal products they found in the warehouse hidden in between the electronics and machinery that had been brought to the country legally, as he was loaded up in the back of the ambulance.

He woke up hours later with the diagnosis of a severe concussion, three bruised ribs, one fractured, and a broken collar bone. The doctors decided to keep him for the entire day for observation, releasing him the morning after he woke up. Gil and Dani both stopped over throughout the day however to stop him from growing too bored.

He wondered if he should be upset that Bright didn’t come to see him.

Even after he was sent home he didn’t hear from Bright on his two-week leave.

It wasn’t until he came back to work to find the team working on a new case did he get hit with the full force of Bright’s weirder than normal attitude.

When he first entered the conference room, mid rambling lecture on the latest killer’s psyche to the warm welcomes of Gil and Dani, Bright froze like a deer in headlights, before pointily standing as far away from JT’s chair as he could manage, avoiding looking at him at all cost and only speaking to him when JT asked him a direct question. Even then his sentences were short and to the point, nothing like his normal excited babblings that tended to go off on a tangent before one of the others would pull him back. As soon as the meeting was done Malcolm was out of the room, leaving no time for JT to question his oddness, even as Dani turned to Gil for answers.

The old man didn’t know either, or at the very least wasn’t forthcoming with what he knew.

It wasn’t until JT’s third day back was he able to corner the profiler. It was early evening, Gil and Dani were out following up a lead as Malcolm stayed back to go over some files they had managed to find earlier in the day. Without a second thought, JT quickly made up two drinks in the breakroom, coffee for himself and some floral tea Malcolm claimed to like when he confessed to the group that he didn’t drink coffee due to his meds, and headed into the conference room.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” He accused lightly as Bright nearly jumped out of his seat.

“Sorry,” Malcolm apologized quickly, eyes flicking ever so slightly with fear, “I just thought you might not want to see me after…”

“You ain’t making any sense Bright,” JT countered, taking a seat next to him at the table, ignoring how the younger man flinched at the movement as he placed the cup of tea in front of him, “You got me out of the warehouse and took down Felix, why the hell does that translate to me not wanting to see you?”

The younger man winced, hand twitching like it always did when he was stressed but he didn’t touch the offered drink, “Because I took down Felix.”

“Didn’t we just cover that that’s a good thing?”

Malcolm shook his head, “You looked nervous after took him down, you were stuttering more, eyes dilated even with your concussion, you acted robotic when giving me the handcuffs and immediately backed away to call the others. You were scared, You were scared of me.”

JT hummed, “Well I’ll admit that I was pretty startled by you going full-on Bruce Wayne on him, never seen you take down someone before now. If I’m honest I didn’t know you could take anyone down, you usually just stall them until one of us get there or you’ve talked them down. Honestly thought a rich boy like you would break his hand trying to throw a punch.”

“I mean,” Malcolm still wouldn’t look at him, but the line of his shoulders was relaxing slightly, “I was a special agent in the FBI, I was top five in my class at Quantico.”

“Only top five?” JT snorted, “What were you slacking off? Thought you could get by on good looks, pretty boy?”

Instead of getting a laugh out of the profiler he just winced, “My uh… My teachers didn’t appreciate my unique outlook on the problems given. Always said I thought too much like my father.”

JT flinched at that too. Didn’t think the FBI would pick on such low hanging fruit. Before he could comment Malcolm continued.

“Same reason I try not to use the different forms of fighting they taught us at Quantico, and why I dropped out of Jujutsu after the Surgeon arrest even though I really liked it. Any time I get slightly violent, even in self-defense, people act like I’m just a copy of my Father, like I’m going to go crazy and start killing people just like he did even though he never got physical with his victims,” Malcolm’s words were getting softer but more frantic as the explanation poured out of him, pushing his hands under his armpits as if trying to stop the tremors, “I know you don’t like me already, but I don’t want you to be afraid of me like that, so I figured limiting our interactions would-”

“Bright,” JT cut him off, “I’ve seen you cut the handoff of a guy to save him from a bomb. I don’t think a little takedown is going to spook me more than that.”

Malcolm flinched so hard as if JT’s words had physically harmed him. He opened his mouth to say something, but JT didn’t let him.

“Nope, my turn to speak,” JT kept his voice stern but quiet, afraid to scare the profiler any more, “You’re insane on the best day, Bright. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t trust you a hundred percent yet, and you annoy the hell out of me, but you make good calls on cases and really try and help people in every way you can. So, and I’m only saying this once, You may be a major pain in my ass, but you’re a good man, Bright, and I seriously doubt you’re anything like your nutcase of a dad.”

The look Malcolm gave him as his little speech came to a close could be defined as nothing short of hopeful, painfully making JT’s chest ache with the pure wistfulness aimed at him.

“Oh don’t give me that look, just drink your stupid fancy tea before it gets cold,” JT said with a roll of his eyes.

“It’s just Butterfly Pea Flower Tea,” Malcolm countered, eyes finally regaining with the flickering light they had been missing since the warehouse, his hands only trembling slightly as they wrapped around the cup, “Nothing fancy about it!”

“Bright, it’s bright blue and smells like perfume my gran would wear. It’s fancy.”

JT hid his small smile in his coffee as his comment earned a giggle from Malcolm.

Yeah, he didn’t trust the guy yet, but they’d come a long way from when Malcolm first showed up and JT knew that If he wasn’t careful he’d end up with Bright as a friend just as Dani had.

And yet, as he watched the smile stretch Bright’s cheeks as the profiler started to verbally expand on his profile based on the files he’d read, JT couldn’t really bring himself to care.

#prodigal son #malcolm bright #malcolm whitly #jt tarmel #Malcolm and JT aren't friends yet #But they will be #Malcolm is a badass #Dani Powell mentioned #Gil arroyo mentioned #Martin Whitly Mentioned #Malcolm has problems #but we knew this

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luki-fanfic · 5 years

Text

A Kingdom For A Book: Good Omens/KHR Fic

So...guess what I’ve been watching obsessively the last few weeks? Had to try and hash some of this out before the weekend so I could concentrate on DK&T.

A Kingdom for a Book Good Omens/Katekyo Hitman Reborn

Tsuna, Yamamoto, Gokudera and Ryohei are in Italy, having breakfast with Nono and his respective guardians when it happens.

The Tenth generation had been invited (or, translated into civilian, abducted in the dead of night the day after graduating middle school) to spend the summer break at the Vongola Mansion. However, Hibari had been...forceful, in his refusal, while Mukuro and Chrome had declined and vanished before anyone could talk them into it. Lambo, while excited at the idea at returning home, had refused to leave Nana alone, and had been given the ‘very important job’ of protecting the woman while the teens were away.

Tsuna rather sorely wishes he could have traded jobs with his young lightning. The ‘break’ part of the trip had turned out to be very apt, because tutoring on Vongola grounds was ten time worse than in Namimori, where Reborn had to at least pretend he was bound by foolish things like land ownership, Hibari’s territory issues and physics. The hitman had been enjoying every minute of Tsuna torment, to the surprise of absolutely no one. As such, nobody is really surprised when Reborn walks in and slaps four airline tickets on the table.

“It’s time for your Vongola Negotiation Trial,” he says, as if it explains anything.

Granted, it’s Reborn, so explanations have always been optional. If not for the fact that the man-turned-baby-and-now-rapidly-going-through-puberty-again-teenager always landed on his feet, Tsuna would swear blindly that he just made things up on the spot.

“What’s a Vongola Negation Trial?” he asks, mostly to get things over with. If he doesn’t ask what Reborn is talking about, Yamamoto will, which will set Gokudera off on a giant rant only 2 people in the room can follow, and it’s just too early in the morning for that.

To his surprise, Nono is the one that answers, folding his hands and smiling at his heir.

“It’s a right of passage for all young mafia” he explains. “Especially those in boss positions. It’s a test to show your intelligence, charisma and skill at obtaining objectives.”

Yamamoto laughs and leans over to wrap an arm around Tsuna’s shoulders.

“This’ll be easy Tsuna,” he says. “Those are some of your best qualities.”

“Hieee?”

“Don’t touch the Tenth so casually!” Gokudera hisses at the rain, before he face does some spectacular muscle rearranging to smile at Tsuna.

“But he’s right Tenth! This will be a cakewalk for you,” he insists.

“Sawada can negotiate to the extreme!” Ryohei agrees.

“What? But I’m not good at-”

“Regardless,” Reborn say, talking over him. “As the future Decimo, your role will require exceptional negotiation skills. Granted, this is something you have proven to have a knack for, so this is merely a formality to prove your prowess.”

Tsuna stares at the delighted faces around him and sighs.

As much as he wants to keep arguing, he’s acutely aware of the pointlessness of such an act. At least a ‘negotiation trial’ probably won’t be as violent as Reborn’s usual training. If they have to leave the country, the man can only have so long to-

Oh crap...he’s sending them to a war zone isn’t he?

“Hieee...”

The hitman pretends he doesn’t hear Tsuna’s squeak, and pulls out what appears to be a photograph from his suit pocket.

“The Ninth gave me a selection of possible outbreaks and riots that require ceasefires” he explains. “However, as your tutor, I believe in pushing you to great things, and for that reason, I have decided to give you the toughest negotiation challenge known to man.”

Tsuna pales as he watches Nono’s guardians pale, the man himself leaning forward in something resembling horror.

“Reborn, you can’t possibly be planning to send him there...”

Tsuna watches in astonishment as every mafioso in the room steps back, the photo dropping from Reborn’s hand to the desk.

“Sawada Tsunayoshi” his tutor says. “You must enter the shop of A.Z.Fell & Co in London, and leave with a legally purchased book.”

“...I’m sorry, what?” Tsuna says, just before the entire room erupts in full on outrage.

“Reborn, you cannot be serious-”

“There are limits to your madness-”

“At least give him a fighting chance! A gang war in Nicaragua started a few days ago, send him there!”

Tsuna can only stare at the horrified Mafioso in pure confusion, before picking up the photograph. It boasts an old brick building, with an older gentleman on the stair just exiting the door. He’s dressed a good century out of fashion, but there’s a presence, even in the photo, that makes Tsuna feel he’d look more out of place in modern clothing.

“This is Mr. Fell?” he asks, once the yelling calms down. Everyone in the room sort of glance at each other, before sagging back down into their seats.

“One of them” Nono replies. “The book store has been open since the 1800’s, passed down his family, and has been the bane of many a collector. There are few rare texts, especially of the biblical or prophetic nature, that Fell & Co do not possess.”

“But, then why is it a bane?”

The entire room offers a mirthless chuckle.

“Because the Fell family go to extreme lengths to make sure they never part with a single volume” Coyote explains. “It hasn’t so much as broken even since it opened. We’re not even sure why they have the bookshop rather than just a private collection. It’s got to be some kind of tax thing, though we’re still not sure what considering how immaculate they appear, but regardless, just because those books are in a shop, does not mean they’re for sale.”

“...Has anyone ever succeeded?” Tsuna asks. Everyone immediately turns to Reborn, who is wearing his trademark look of smug, and Tsuna sags.

“Let me rephrase. Has anyone human ever succeeded?” he rephrases, and Reborn chuckles.

“There are stories that suggest the sixth Manachelli boss managed to make it out with a ‘wicked bible’” he tells him. “But given that all ten known copies are currently recorded elsewhere, nobody believes it.”

“Tsunayoshi...” Nono begins. “While I have full trust in Reborn’s decisions, I must tell you that there is no dishonour in failing this trial. Many mafioso have failed. Even Xanxus could not pry a volume from Fell’s hands.”

“Xanxus tried?” Tsuna squeaks, and Yamamoto gives a low whistle while Gokudera splutters. Nono just nods.

“Nearly every family has attempted it in recent history,” Nono continues. “As such, if you reach a point where you feel you have exhausted every avenue, please retreat, and I will insist upon a different challenge.”

The Don glances over at Reborn.

“That will be acceptable, yes?” he asks the hitman. Reborn merely adjusts his hat.

“I have full confidence in my student,” he replies. “But I can accept those terms. What do you say Dame-Tsuna?”

Tsuna drops his eyes back down to the photo. Takes in the unassuming man and the shop.

Well, at least it’s not a literal war zone.

Looks like he’s going to London.

---

All things considered, Tsuna finds himself pleasantly surprised by London. While the architecture is western and the streets crammed with people of every colour and shape, it lacks the sheer chaotic violence that seems to encompass Italy each time he sets foot there. Instead there’s this subconscious politeness that everyone acknowledges exists (although not necessarily acted upon) that his Japanese upbringing just finds pleasant. While he’s certainly not about to up and move, it’s less of a culture shock than his first unchaperoned visit to Rome.

His guardians seem to be enjoying the trip too. Ryohei’s exuberance and yelling get him some amused looks, and Yamamoto has been taken photos since they got off the plane. Gokudera’s had a giddy look on his face, and while he’s not mentioned anything, Tsuna spotted him grabbing a handful of pamphlets from the hotel’s tourist section regarding ghost tours. He’ll have to remember to ask Yamamoto to ‘guard’ him one night so Gokudera doesn’t feel guilty about slipping away.

In fact, Tsuna is surprisingly optimistic about the whole thing, right up until they reach the area of Soho and gets hit with the sheer oddity of the shop. His trio of guardians, equally enamoured by London’s streets, quickly spot the issue itself.

“How is this place still standing?” Gokudera asks, glancing around at the high street retail brands and expensive bistro bars, before turning his attention back to the dull red building that takes up a significant chunk of the corner. “It’s got to be the only independent building on the street.”

“It’s really well located too,” Yamamoto says, pushing up on his tiptoes to look inside the windows. “My Dad would kill for this kind of location, but there’s no one inside. There should at least be a few window shoppers, right?”

“This is insane,” Gokudera continues muttering. “Surely the local council would have slapped a compulsory purchase order on the owner by this point.”

Ryohei is frowning too, walking forward and frowning at a sign on the door.

“These opening times are crazy to the extreme.”

He’s not wrong. Tsuna almost finds himself gaping at the ramblings provided. This shop’s opening hours are the business equivalent of a 100 sided dice roll. Judging from his expression, Gokudera can’t decide if he’s frustrated or impressed. Yamamoto already had his phone out and snapping a photo for posterity.

Astonishingly enough though, while the opening hours are few and far between, the shop is currently open, and with a very put upon sigh, Tsuna pushes the door open and steps inside.

---

His plan is simple. Walk in, find a book that looks particularly cheap or badly damaged and then hope his intuition helps him struggle through the haggling.

Unfortunately, this plan immediately hits a snag when he walks into the shop and feels his intuition goes crazy. There’s no danger or alarm...it just...really, really doesn’t want to be there. It sort of does the mental equivalent of whimper and curl up into a small ball underneath a metaphysical table, and Tsuna wants to about face and walk straight out the door.

Unfortunately, that isn’t an option, because his three friends are still blocking the way, and Gokudera is already hyperventilating, eyes locked on a bookshelf that’s almost changed colour from the amount of dust.

“Is that a first edition Liver De Coloribus Coeli?” he squeaks. “In a bookshop?”

Tsuna has absolutely no idea what a ‘liba de colour bus’ is, or what is so surprising about finding it in a bookshop, but he leaves his right hand to salivate (already the bomber has about five books in his arms, clearly forgetting the odds of leaving with any one of them), and walks around the room.

The building itself doesn’t seem dangerous, but there’s definitely something off about it. There’s an odd damp smell that sticks in your nose and is decidedly uncomfortable. The books themselves are in no clear order, strewn about almost haphazardly, and not a single staff member in sight...which is definitely odd considering Tsuna has it on good authority that this is a store that ‘sells’ the literary equivalent of diamonds. There should at least be a guard, surely?

His intuition peeks out from underneath it’s metaphysical table just long enough to nudge him in the direction of a back room, but the closer he gets, the more awkward the building feels. He tests his intuition by doing an 180 and walking towards the door, and is utterly baffled by the feeling of ‘yes! Yes! Do that!’ that follows.

“Is it just me?” Yamamoto begins as he inspects a half empty bookshelf near a window, hand rubbing the back of his neck where hair is standing on end. “Or does this place feel really unpleasant?”

“It is extremely uncomfortable” Ryohei agrees, leaning next to the door, and that has Tsuna standing up a little straighter. It’s one thing for his intuition to be upset, another thing entirely for Ryohei to pick up on it.

Gokudera seems to realise this as well, because he’s paused in his manic search for books to glance around the building.

“It’s as if the building itself is telling us to go away,” he concludes, and his face lights up.

“Maybe it’s a ghost? A real, live UMA here in London. This shop is old, it’s entirely possible. Dammit, I should have brought some equipment!”

Yamamoto is grinning at the bomber, and Tsuna sags. Any desire to leave has quickly vanished in the wake of ‘supernatural-oddities-are-afoot-Hayato.’

His attention is only drawn away from his storm when he hears the rather dismayed gasp that comes from the other side of the room.

‘Customers, oh dear.’

Tsuna swings round to take in the very well dressed man who looks very disappointed to see them.

‘Ah, hello,’ Tsuna begins, frantically trying to remember his English lessons. ‘We, um, looking for, ah-’

“I speak Japanese” Mr Fell interrupts. “But you really should leave now. I don’t have any stock you would be interested in.”

Gokudera immediately moves forward, gesturing to the dozen books now in his hands.

‘I need all of these!’ he says in English with a grin. ‘Name your price. I can’t believe they were all just sitting in the open.’

This just makes Mr Fell go from disappointed to horrified, and Tsuna winces. Gokudera’s forgotten the point of this whole trip – the books must be truly incredible for his right hand to be this obsessed. Which doesn’t bode well for anyone.

“These books aren’t for children,” Mr Fell replies. “Please put them back where you found them.”

Gokudera’s smile vanishes.

“Are you kidding? There’s a genuine ‘Anatomy of a Chupacubra’ and ‘Fantasy of a Star’s Soliloquy’ in here. You know how long I’ve been looking for copies of those?”

“There are extremely rare,” Mr Fell agrees. “Which is all the more reason to put them back before you damage them. Please, some of those volumes are fragile.”

He moves to take the books forcibly from Gokudera’s hands, and the teen moves back. Before Tsuna can even consider interjecting, Yamamoto is already slipping between the two with a smile.

“Won’t you reconsider?” he asks. “This is a book shop, we’re book buyers. Everything can work out, don’t you think?”

Yamamoto’s easy going grin can and has eased the ire of more than one Mafioso over the years, but Mr Fell however is not included in that number. He’s looking even more upset at being kept from his stock.

“This is doing nothing to convince me you can have ownership of such valuable items,” he says. “Do you even know what they cost?”

“We have money,” Ryohei offers, and Mr Fell scoffs.

“Money does not buy respect or protection,” Mr Fell replies, and glares when Gokudera snorts in laughter.

Tsuna isn’t even certain how he does it. His intuition twinges, and he thinks he hears a finger snap, but quicker than the eye can follow, the man has plucked almost every book from the bomber’s hands, vanishing them under the counter. Gokudera only stops gaping in shock when the man returns to grab the last few books in his hands, clutching them tightly to his chest.

“Fuck you! I’m not leaving without them!” he swears. Mr Fell just purses his lips.

“Yes you are. Put them on that table this instant, or I will be forced to do something I’d rather not.”

Tsuna’s intuition spikes. The man isn’t bluffing, and Tsuna doesn’t have the information to know exactly what he’s promising.

“Gokudera, drop them” Tsuna pleads, and while Gokudera looks at him in dismay, something in Tsuna’s face makes him capitulate. Tsuna is far more relieved than he should be when the bomber submits, placing the books on a nearby table with almost tender care. A hand brushes the top volume with a move one would almost call tender had it not been from Gokudera, while Yamamoto tugs at his other arm.

“I’ll be back for you,” he whispers, only to turn and scowl at Mr. Fell as he’s guided to the door. The book owner seems quite delighted that everything went so smoothly, but Tsuna hesitates as he reaches the door.

“I can’t leave London without a book,” he tells Mr. Fell. The man gives him a tight smile.

“Then I hope you enjoy London,” he says. “You’ll be here for some time.”

The man moves forward and ushers Tsuna out the door. He stumbles as he trips on the top step, only saved from falling down the lot by Ryohei, and turns to see Mr Fell lock the door and swing the sign from Open to Closed.

“What an asshole,” Gokudera growls.

“Now I get why everyone got extremely worried when we came here,” Ryohei agrees. “He’s an extremely challenging opponent.”

Tsuna nods as he pulls away from the boxer, gingerly walking down the steps.

“Lets go to the hotel,” he says. “I think we might need to call some people.”

His friends grin as they head down the street, shoulders loosening when the realise Tsuna isn’t all that upset about getting kicked out. To be honest, he’d have been more surprised if they hadn’t been. It’s not like he’d expected to succeed on the first try.

But maybe it’s time to get some more data to work with.

#katekyo hitman reborn #Good Omens #Fanfiction #Fanfic #Crossover #katekyo hitman reborn fanfic #Good Omens fanfic #Sawada Tsunayoshi #Aziraphale #Crowley in WW2 reminded me of Reborn and the hints about mafia being 'convinced' to leave the bookshop alone had a hand in this #A Kingdom For a Book #Katekyo HItman reborn fanfiction #Good Omens fanfiction

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