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laurensprentiss · 2 years

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Jouska [Hotch x Reader]

Chapter 25:

A/N: so sorry about the wait, for those of you who don't know, things have been Rough lately, but as ever, I appreciate your patience more than words could ever say!!

That being said, the time jumps and physical distance are coming to an end in this chapter, this is their endgame now, we are on the home strait!! Still have some pining to do, but all will be well soon.

I have plotted out the next few chapters so hopefully I can get back on schedule and knocking these out for you guys. Thank you so much for reading!

Warnings: canon-typical violence, blood mentions, heavy mentions of rape, guns. MAHOOSIVE plot twist at the end!

———

"I am, in your ocean, sailing, and the wind is taking me back to you." - Unknown

———-

The California air is dry, thick and heavy, the humidity making it hard to suck in enough air to steady your heart. A flickering street lamp on the edge of the chain link fence is the only source of light in the junkyard, forcing you to keep your eyes wide and alert. With your weapon cocked in front of you, index finger parallel to the barrel, you keep your breathing steady and your feet crunch over the dry dirt underneath you.

Backup is close to arriving, you know they are. You remind yourself that they have your location, you told them you were in pursuit of a dangerous, armed unsub and to bring medics. But the wild hammering in your chest makes you think even the Kevlar isn't enough to contain your heart, that it'll burst open at any moment.

But the moment is lined with something else too. Adrenaline. Pure and sweet, you relish in knowing that it's you vs him.

You vs the obsessive predator that's terrorised California for the past six months and you'll relish in nothing more than putting him away for good.

You're sandwiched between two tall piles of totalled cars that create an aisle for you to walk down as you follow the source of the noise you heard just seconds ago. You reach the edge of the yard, encased by a chain link fence, the flickering lamp post above you now.

You turn left. Nothing.

You turn right. Nothing.

With your weapon locked in front of you, you turn left again when a crack splinters from your forehead, down to your face, something cold and heavy making contact with your head. Your ears ring and you distantly hear yourself cry out in pain, as you fall to the floor in a cloud of ashy smoke.

Something warm trickles down your face and onto your neck, obscuring your vision with red.

You're bleeding.

You scramble for your gun with your compromised vision, the firearm getting lost in the attack until something that feels like a mallet comes down on your back, the pain heavy enough that it radiates to your chest. It knocks you back down and winds you until you're gasping for air. The same heaviness makes blunt impact with your sides twice, causing your heart to stutter.

You manage to roll onto your back and see a figure looming over you, silhouetted by the streetlight further above, and you frantically feel for something to defend yourself with. Your hands make contact with something round and heavy just as Bates sneers at you, and you wrap your hands around the object, tight, a pipe, you think - and swing blindly until you hear a crack.

"Fuck me!" He groans out in agony.

You do it again, swinging the pipe against the unsub's shin, and his groan of agony tells you that you made contact. Taking advantage of his temporary indisposal, you reach for the Glock tucked into your ankle holster - a tip an old friend once taught you - and shoot three times in his general direction just as sirens and lights appear in the distance.

A thud of a groaning and still-coherent body next to you tells you that your shots weren't a complete miss and that he's also not dead. Managing to wipe enough blood from your eye, you stand, or rather crawl over to an injured Bates, manoeuvre him roughly onto his back and cuff him.

He interrupts you reading him his Miranda Rights to thrash and groan, his movement limited with your knee on his back.

"I'll fucking kill you." He hisses as you finish reading him rights, squeezing the cuffs tighter around his wrists. "You hear me? I'll kill you."

"Don't hold your breath, you son of a bitch. Stings, does it? That you spent the last year and a half raping half the women in the state only for a woman to send you to prison?"

"Fuck you." He spits.

"You're gonna love jail, Ethan." You murmur as agents and local police storm the scene with paramedics on deck. Agent Delgado pulls you up gingerly, wincing when she sees your split skin and the trail of blood on your face.

"Go get that checked out." She whispers, nudging you towards the ambulances. "We need to talk after this."

You sigh, already knowing the topic of discussion, and with the adrenaline wearing off, you can feel the impending epic headache on the horizon.

Once police tape has cordoned off the area and you're finished being stitched up, your boss approaches you again, sitting down next to you while you hold an ice pack to your face.

"That was a decent pistol whipping, how you feelin'?" She asks.

She's been your boss since you transferred to the obsessive crimes unit out of the California field office four years ago, and while her hair's greyed some and the lines around her eyes have deepened, her voice still holds the same softness and authority that you've come to find comfort in.

"Great. Feel like a brand new woman." You tell her with a sardonic grin.

She pats your knee. "You given any more thought to what we talked about?"

"My answer's still no."

"I can't promise I can hold Barnes off for any longer. I thought you liked DC, thought you had friends and family there?"

"I do. That doesn't mean I want to transfer there."

You miss Emily like you miss a limb, and with both of you having grueling work schedules, you only see her on holidays, or, on more special occasions - when she's in California for work.

Agent Delgado got the call a month ago, about a possible transfer for you to Quantico but you've been digging your heels in, unrelenting in your refusal. DC holds a special place in your heart, but you've only been back a handful of times since the last time - since six years ago.

And while that encounter was full of healing and light, you're not sure you're ready to revisit everything that comes with it. Hallowed memories haunt that city for you, good and bad, and after ten years of trying to grow out of old habits and old people, you don't want to undo that work.

"Barnes is pretty insistent. I have some sway, but the brass in Quantico seem to think that you're a vital asset."

You look at her earnestly. "I can't go back."

"Okay. I'll see what I can do." She pats your knee and sighs as she gets up, pulling her phone from her pocket.

The paramedic approaches you then, lifting the cold pack off of your face, studying you.

"What?" You ask.

"Sorry, I don't mean to stare. But was that-" she points to the leaving ambulance. "The Hills Rapist?"

"Don't call him that. His name is Ethan Bates." You bristle at the glorified nickname. "But yeah. That's him."

The paramedic laughs humourlessly. "Damn. Poetic justice if you ask me."

Your eyebrows pull together. "What's that?"

"Poetic justice." She explains like it's the most mundane conversation she's ever had. "Female agent shoots rapist in the dick. It's karma."

You exhale roughly under your breath. "That's what I hit?" You ask incredulously.

The paramedic stops organising the shelves and pauses, a hand on her hip. "You mean you didn't mean to? That was an accident?"

"Yeah."

"Damn. Must really be karma then." She steps closer, lowering her voice as though she doesn't want anyone to hear. "Between you and me, my guy who patched him up in the other ambulance?" You nod. "He said his shit's all messed up, probably never work again. Three shots to the dick, he's never coming back from that."

A staticky laugh comes through her radio and you both turn your heads towards the noise. The paramedic who you learn is called Bella holds it up to her ear and groans.

"You've still got this on? I told you to turn your radio off when you're with people, damnit Alex."

A heavy feeling builds inside you, you're proud, sure that Bates is never going to hurt another woman the way he did before, but uneasiness floods your veins.

What you don't know is that a barely conscious Ethan Bates with gauze on his groin and a morphine drip in his veins hears the entire exchange. From your conversation with Delgado to the paramedic explaining his injuries and with this new information about his perceived manhood being permanently damaged, he promises himself something.

He doesn't care how long it'll take him, or what he has to do to get it.

He will kill you.

———

You return to work a month later, after it became apparent that along with a concussion, you'd sustained three broken ribs, thanks to Ethan Bates' size twelves. You're greeted with a welcome back party, complete with banners, confetti, poppers and a blood drip cake that reads,

'Congrats on your first pistol whipping!'

You snort under your breath, waving off the commotion as your fellow agents jostle you by the shoulders and neck.

"Ha. Ha. This is hilarious, thanks guys."

Delgado watches from afar, letting you revel in the lightness for a while longer before dispersing the group. "Alright, back to work everybody." She nods her head to her office and leads you back. "Follow me."

You frown, closing the door behind you. "Was there an issue with the intake paperwork or something, I have my doctor's reports here."

"That's not it." She sighs deeply. "Take a seat."

You cautiously do as she tells you, your eyes narrowing. You have a sinking feeling this is something to do with the badgering brass in Quantico.

"I told you I'd try to get this job squashed." You nod. "And I'm sorry. I tried, but apparently the section chief already signed the paperwork, and it's a done deal. There's nothing more I can do to keep you."

"That's impossible. How can they just transfer me without me accepting, does it even work like that?"

Her face looks downcast. "The power structures are different. They heard about your work on the Lambeth case last year and with the Bates takedown earlier this month... I'm sorry, kiddo. There's nothing more I can do. Today's your last day."

The breath leaves your lungs in a half breath, when something prods at you. "Wait. You said section chief?" You shake your head. "Where am I transferring to?"

She looks through the paperwork on her desk, sifting through the pages, her finger trailing down a highlighted memo. "Ahhhh. Here." She squints.

You swallow.

"Looks like an SSA Benjamin McCall signed off on the transfer... section chief of..." she mutters under her breath, trying to find the last piece of the puzzle but the mention of McCall's name sends your mind racing.

It's a name you haven't heard in ten years and knowing he was responsible for your transfer isn't something you're able to wrap your head around.

Good or bad?

Hidden agenda?

"-Ah." Delgado nods. "The Behavioural Analysis Unit. You're going to the BAU."

———

You try to call Emily the day you get the news but when her number goes straight to voicemail, you recall her telling you that she was going to be in Alaska on a case.

Mild panic sieges your veins and an overactive mind begins to run.

Will things be different?

Will you fall back into old habits?

Will you be good at your job?

Will you be able to see Hotch everyday?

You work your last day in a blur, taking the rest of the week to pack and a phone call to your father later, you're on a private plane out to DC. You try Emily again and again, but her spotty cell service made it hard to talk the handful of times you did get through, and you figured this isn't the kind of thing you wanted to tell her over text.

Landing in DC is different than the last time. The last time you were here, you were filled with dread and a heart full of old, complicated, still raw feelings that you hadn't processed, stuck in limbo between your past, present and future.

It's decidedly different now, lighter, warmer with a tinge of something adjacent to excitement. Maybe this is the final phase of your development, the part where you come back to where it all started to make it come full circle or something.

On the drive to your apartment, you do something impulsive, before you're able to process why or even if it's a good idea.

You pass the driver a piece of paper with an address written on it - 4324 Franklin Ave - Hotch's old address. You drive past it slowly, the exterior different now, a whole new family living there. Nostalgia floods your veins when you see the same heat lamps lining the pathway, memories flashing across your mind of the first - and last time - you were in Hotch's space.

Opening your apartment door is literally and figuratively - coming home. It looks exactly how you'd left it, recently cleaned, that much is clear, but it's obviously not lived in. The late afternoon sunbeams coming in through the massive casement window on the opposite wall highlight small specs of dust suspended in the air.

You can't fight the smile forming on your face, as you set your keys down next to you on the credenza bowl, the same film picture of you and Emily at your debutante ball framed on top. Dropping your bags by the door, you make your way over to the window first, attempting to open it.

It catches at first, but after a hefty push, they swing open from the bottom and latch at the top, opening out to let the sun and noise from your scenic street drift inside. You sigh in contentment, checking your phone again for Emily's call, but with nothing there, you work your way through every room.

Your father had reassured you that everything would be in order, from hot running water, to electricity to a stocked fridge. You half debate hunkering down under the covers and avoiding work tomorrow, nerves twisting in your chest but you take some soothing breaths.

At 5:15pm, you get a phone call from a man who introduces himself as Anderson, telling you that you're required in the office as soon as possible. With your nerves kicking into high gear again, you change into some casual work clothes, a smart pair of pants, boots and a thin sweater, holster your gun and go.

You're ushered in by a gentleman you recognise as Anderson, the same urgent, high strung voice hard to miss. He beeps you in and you struggle to keep pace with his long strides.

"Somebody will let you in and out of the building for today, I'll let you in tomorrow and your new ID badge will be ready to pick up from the first floor."

"Okay. Sure. Thanks." You reply as the elevator climbs.

[One.]

[Two.]

[Three.]

[Four.]

"So I understand you know Agent Prentiss?" He asks.

You nod. "Yeah, she's like my sister. We grew up together."

"That's nice. She talks about you all the time." He smiles.

[Five.]

"She talks about you guys too."

And she does. After she told you she transferred to the BAU three years ago, she'd understandably kept work talk to a minimum. She'd talked about cases, her work friends, the places she'd been, the things she'd seen.

Her friends JJ and Penelope who she loved dearly, although the way she would talk about JJ gave you pause. Whether she would admit it or not, you know she'd been crushing on her. Derek Morgan, who you'd met on a case a few years ago, and a kid called Reid.

Youngest of the bunch, whip smart, insane IQ and an eidetic memory. A human encyclopaedia she'd called him.

[Six.]

One thing she notably hadn't discussed?

Working with Hotch.

And it had struck you as odd, the thought of them working together. You couldn't even imagine them in the same room, it had been so long and it occurs to you in this moment, that you're about to see it soon.

*Seven.*

And the doors swing open.

Outside, agents in suits and stuffy sweaters walk in all directions like tiny ants, Manila folders and phones in their hands, the clacking of keyboards and ringing of telephones drifting to your ears when Anderson opens the plate glass doors for you.

You remember coming here once.

Over a decade ago when you were on the other side of what you do for people now. When you were a victim.

You take a deep breath, willing your heart to calm down, static buzzing in your head. Starting a new job is already a treacherous ordeal, add to that a complicated history with your new co-worker, and it sets your fight or flight off.

In the distance of the bullpen, you spot a familiar head of black hair with her back to you, surrounded by a group of people who appear to be engrossed in conversation and laughing. They turn when they see Anderson walk in with you, and when Emily turns around, her mouth falls open.

Her eyebrows pull together first, eyes narrowing as though disbelieving her own eyes. Then her mouth falls open and breaks into a huge smile as she says your name, walking forward and wrapping you into a hug.

"Hey, Em." You whisper and God, you've missed her.

"What are you doing here?! Oh! I missed you!" She laughs, squeezing you and squishing your cheeks into her shoulder.

You let out an 'Oof', conscious of the fishbowl you're in as the others watch the interaction, waiting for it to be contextualised.

She pulls back, waiting for you to explain.

"McCall signed the paperwork. I guess I work here now?"

"You're the new transfer?" She asks, her eyes widening.

———

Inside, Hotch sits in his office with Gideon opposite him, as he talks on the phone attempting to untangle the new transfer mess with his section chief and old friend, Ben McCall.

"It's already been approved. The paperwork somehow came across my desk, and said it was from the director's office."

"Barnes?" Hotch asks, running two fingers over his lips.

"Mmhmm. Look for what it's worth, she's a crack shot, she's a proven agent and I know you'll like her. She's supposed to be coming to you soon."

"How do you know we'll like her?"

"Not everyone. You." Ben says, a lilt to his voice he recognises all too well. Hotch's eyes flicker up to Gideon's, who appears confused and thankfully, oblivious to McCall's words. "Listen I wouldn't have approved it if I didn't think she'd be a good fit. Trust me on this."

Outside, commotion begins, his agents clamouring and gathering in a circle in the middle of the bullpen. It catches his eye through the half open blinds in his office, and he double takes.

Sighing, he speaks into the phone. "Looks like she's here. I'll call you back." He sets the phone down and crosses around his desk towards the window that overlooks the bullpen. His eyes scan the familiar faces and heads, Emily, Morgan, JJ, and Garcia, Reid walking to join the group.

But perhaps the most familiar head of hair, the most familiar body - the same one he'd spent the best part of a year constantly watching ten years ago - slaps him into intuitive cognizance.

It's you.

His mouth goes dry, palms grow sweaty and his breathing shallow.

He can tell you're laughing even with your back to him, and it's the animated hand gestures that give you away. He's never met anyone talk so animatedly.

Unable to peel his eyes away, he's sealed in anticipation for the moment that you shift just slightly and give him a glimpse of the difference six years can make.

It's already strange enough to see you from the back, knowing what he knows about you being the new transfer, he feels out of his body knowing that you're a mere few feet away from him. He's watching you with such laser focused concentration, that when you turn slightly so he can see your face, he feels all the air get sucked out of the room.

He exists in a vacuum now, unable to look anywhere but you, feeling the ghost of a punch between his ribs.

"Hotch?" Gideon's voice brings him back to reality, allowing him to intake enough oxygen to fill his lungs again and breathe. "You good?" He asks, slapping his shoulder.

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm good. Let's go."

You're engrossed in conversation with this surprisingly warm and bubbly team when movement from the office at the top of the stairs catches your eyes and you see a figure move through the room, and come out of the doors. You'd recognise him anywhere, and your heart lurches for a moment with fondness, the effect of years apart.

Emily stops talking to follow your gaze fixed on Hotch's as he walks down the stairs, and she stiffens, her eyes returning to you to gauge your reaction.

After years apart though, and some intense growing pains, you've learned to mask your emotions somewhat. You take a deep breath and plaster a smile on your face that you try your best to make sure is genuine.

"Hi." He whispers, shaking his head a little in confusion after you and Gideon introduce yourselves to one another.

"Hotch." You breathe, dissolving into quiet laughter.

You're both unsure of how to react and when he opens his arms for you, your shoulders sag and you step into his embrace, revelling in his familiar form. You realise that in spite of everything that's changed over the years, the essence of him is the same.

Fondness clutches at you from the inside out.

The group, save for Emily, share a few odd looks at the rare display of affection from their boss. When you pull away, you both take a deep breath and put some distance between you, taking each other in.

He looks older, his shoulders heavier, and eyes tired. Fine lines adorn his forehead and the corners of his eyes, but then again, they'd been there when he was younger, the product of a deep, full laugh.

He doesn't seem like he laughs much anymore.

"It's uh... it's nice to see you." He swallows, his voice strangled. "You look well."

"You too." You breathe.

"You guys know each other?" Morgan asks, gesturing between you.

You nod. "Hotch was my security detail about ten years ago. And he kind of saved my life. A few times." You laugh.

"Sounds like there's a story there." JJ says lightly, packing up her go bag. "Hey, why don't you come with me, I can give you the lay of the land, show you around? We were on our way to dinner, too, if you'd like to join?"

You smile earnestly at the invitation. "I'd love to, but I have some paperwork I gotta get processed I think?" You look for confirmation from Hotch, who nods. "Yeah. Raincheck?"

"Sure." Garcia nods enthusiastically. "See you tomorrow?"

"Of course. It was nice meeting you guys."

As you exchange niceties and polite goodbyes with everybody, Emily keeps a watchful, nervous eye on you. She's the last one to leave, and as she pulls away, she mouths a 'You okay?' And you nod, swallowing. Her face contorts for a moment as though she doesn't believe you.

She has good reason not to; she was there after all, in the aftermath of what happened.

It's not a lie, though. You're at a point now where you think you are okay. You've tried to actively heal from your past and although it remains to be seen, you think maybe you could even be friends with Aaron.

You can communicate wordlessly with Emily so she takes a moment, purses her lips and nods before walking through the plate glass doors, a look that tells you;

'Call me.' As she leaves.

Hotch rubs the back of his neck and holds his arm out to his side, allowing you to pass by. "This way, it's just upstairs."

"Right." You smile tightly. "Thanks."

It feels odd to be in the same space as him after six years apart. Your contact had been non-existent after the night at your father's and the gazebo, but you had been glad for one thing. The closure allowed you to heal and close his chapter in your book.

But seeing him today doesn't feel like it's closed. You'd describe it more as an overfilled suitcase, bursting at the seams, and ready to fly open. But you push that down and follow his lead.

"So. How've you been?" He asks a little awkwardly.

"Good. Good." You breathe. "You?"

His wedding ring glints in the light. "Great, yeah. Busy."

You'd forgotten about that. It helps to keep the Hotch chapter closed.

"I'm sure." You reply.

The walk across the bullpen is filled with pregnant pauses and awkward glances and grimaces, neither of you quite finding the right rhythm or topic of conversation.

In contrast to the smooth waltz of your past conversations, this feels awkward and clunky, more like two acquaintances than two almost-somethings.

Two friends.

As you step into his office, you're transported briefly to the moment ten years ago when he told you he'd be transferring to the BAU. You'd had no doubt even then that he'd excel and end up in a grand office like this one, dark tones and tasteful, carefully curated picture frames, medals and trophies adorning the bookshelf behind him.

"Wow." You breathe, looking around. He looks at you as he takes a seat, smoothing a hand over his tie, his brows knitting together in confusion at your reaction. You gesture sweepingly around the room. "It's a far cry from your desk on the 5th floor, that's all I know."

"Oh right. Yeah. Last you saw me, I had a placard and a tiny desk with a lamp." He chuckles, his dimple creasing and you can't help but mirror him. It's the first genuine moment you've had with him since you first saw him, and it feels like a breath of relief.

The awkward tension you'd had thus far had felt like holding water back with a stick but this opening finally lets you breathe.

"And the rickety chair. I remember you complaining about the back pain." You recall.

"Yeah, well not only did I get a new chair, I got supervisory added to my title and I got unit chief, too."

"No, what you got... is braggy." You laugh, sitting opposite him.

He realises that he is grandstanding in his own subtle way, eager to show you the things he's accomplished since you last saw him in an effort to make you proud.

For a brief moment when you laugh, time stops for him

and an old achingly familiar feeling warms his blood, but it passes before he can really even place it.

Nostalgia. Maybe.

"Hey! I think it's well earned. I mean McCall is the section chief now."

"Yeah... I heard something like that. How is he?"

"He's good." He nods. "Drops by occasionally but he's not nearly as bad as our old section chief. Cuts us a lot of slack."

"Yeah, he always had a soft spot for you." You reminisce.

"Well. He and Gideon taught me everything I know. I think I've aged like thirty years since I was assigned here." He rolls his eyes.

You don't think he has. You think he's as handsome as he's always been. Maybe more so.

You shake it off. "Oh? So I can expect the same, too? I knew I should've listened to Emily about starting Botox early."

"Oh, no, don't remind me." He says, clicking his pen. "Do you remember that one documentary we watched about Botox way back when? What was that word they used?" He asks, clicking his fingers to jog his memory.

"Cat-like!" You remind him. "They said an excess made their features cat-like."

"Yeah! That's it. I remember you said it was offensive to cats and I thought you were insane."

"In my defence, I think I was sweating out a 102 fever, why else would we watch a Botox documentary?" You laugh. "Y'know I had a part-time cat a few years ago?"

"How does one have a 'part-time' cat?" He punctuates his words with air quotations.

"Well, she wasn't really mine. She'd just squeeze through the railing of the balcony from my neighbour's place and spend her evenings with me. Her collar said Alley but I called her Winter."

"Winter?" He asks, leaning back and setting his pen down.

"Yeah." You nod, explaining, "She had a gorgeous white coat and light eyes. And she was always cold."

"Yeah, me and her both."

You roll your eyes. "I remember. The car, my apartment, even the office - even this office. You're like a perpetual ice block."

"Don't say that in front of the team, they already think I'm icy enough as it is."

"You? Icy?" You ask incredulously. In your experience of him, icy seems to be the adjective farthest from the truth.

"Oh, I've changed since you last saw me." That, and he was always a warmer version of himself when he was with you.

"Oh? How's that?"

And for the next hour and a half, you make yourselves comfortable and settle in, detailing everything that had happened in the ten years you were apart. You talk about college, new experiences, living in Italy and France for a few years, the academy, your job and life in California.

He tells you about the BAU, the additions to his team, things he's seen, places he's been. You note that he leaves out personal details, but you can't say you blame him. You missed out chunks of your life too, omitting the parts where you'd cried yourself to sleep and wrote him letters that you'd ended up burning.

But it does feel a little like coming home, like slipping on an old pair of slippers, and you wonder for a brief moment what it would've been like if you hadn't lost the ten years you did. What your life could have been like if you hadn't left when you did.

Would you have worked?

Would it have been worse?

Nonetheless, you're happy to have him back as a friend.

That's something you'll always be thankful for.

His presence alone is a comfortable blanket, and you cement yourself to that idea, especially when you reflect on how easy it is to talk to one another as though no time has passed at all.

"-But yeah, he's a certifiable genius, eidetic memory and has like 3 PHDs, he's a great asset to the team. As I'm sure you'll be."

"And he's what? Twenty-four?"

"Yeah, I mean he went to college at like 12, it's amazing."

You both sit in amiable silence, both of you thinking the same thing.

The awkwardness had made way for something a little more comfortable, a little easier and something warm blooms in both of your chests. Both of you have had enough life experiences to know that presumptions about life rarely come true, but for once, you're both okay with that.

You'd made your way back to one another. Somehow. And even if it's just friendship between you, you'll always be thankful for the tug of the universe that brought you back.

You think.

Suddenly his phone rings, and like a bucket of water, it washes away the familiarity, and he's brought out of his trance. With a grimace, he excuses himself. "Sorry, I gotta take this."

You nod politely. "Sure."

"Hey. Yeah, I'm still at the office, I should be home in around an hour, just finishing up some paperwork." His voice is hushed but you can still make out the words and you embarrassingly realise how selfishly you're monopolising his time.

Of course things have changed. He has a son. A wife. A family.

You play with your hands a little awkwardly, crescent shaped marks decorating your thumb as you pretend to peruse the bookshelves while he finishes his short call.

"Old habits die hard?" He asks, placing the phone on the desk.

"Huh?" You look at him and see him gesturing to your hands. "Oh, yeah." You laugh. "Not one of my best traits. Everything okay?" You gesture to his phone.

"Yeah, all good, thanks." He sighs, breaking eye contact. "Listen, um, this is all but done, you can take off. It's getting late and I'm assuming you have to settle in?"

"Oh."

"I mean-"

"No. Yeah. You're right. I should probably get going, and let you get home, too." You sigh with an awkward smile and stand to leave.

The awkward clunkiness permeates the bubble of familiarity you'd created over the past hour and it stings the both of you. As you're about to reach for the office door, his voice calls you back.

"Hey?"

"Yeah?"

He sighs, and his eyes do that thing that you remember too well. Where they soften at the edges and go all glassy.

"I'm really glad you're around again."

Something wells up in you but you reply quicker than it can come to the surface.

You smile. "Me too."

And after you leave down the stairs of the bullpen, you miss the way his fingers reach for your pendant in his inside pocket. The same pendant he's kept safe for the last ten years, refusing to part with it. The pendant he feels is more a part of him than any other worldly possession he may have.

But he swears you're just a friend now.

———

On the other side of the state, a DOC truck comes to a rolling stop outside the gates of the Virginia Supermax unit where the prisoners are corralled out, shackled and cuffed.

In the midst of the new prisoners being transferred, Ethan Bates keeps his head low but his eyes sharp as he walks past a row of cells with iron bars followed by armed guards and an escort. He's shoved unceremoniously into a cell, locked in and uncuffed.

Rage simmers inside of him, threatening to bubble over as he looks out of his cell, nothing but a bare grey wall with tiny windows at the very top, barely enough to let any light in.

"What are you in for?" A gruff voice says next to him, the unnamed man's hands hanging over the bars. It's the only thing he can see.

"Killed a fed." He conveniently misses out the rape part of his sentence. "You?"

The gruff voice pauses before clearing his throat. "Same. Kidnapping and I killed a fed."

"Wish I'd killed that bitch fed that arrested me." Ethan says, more to himself than anybody else. "She was spry." He mutters bitterly.

"Oh yeah?" The gruff voice replies.

"Yeah." He mutters your name under his breath, slowly as though he's resting the way it tastes in his mouth.

"What's that?" The gruff voice asks, his ears perking up.

Ethan says your name again, clearer this time. "Bitch shot my dick off."

"And you say you wish you killed her?" The gruff voice asks.

"Mhm." From his cell, Ethan sees one of the hands that were hanging over the bars reach to the side to shake his own. He watches in confusion for a moment, before taking it.

"Ethan." He tells the gruff voice. "Ethan Bateman."

"Nice to meet you, Ethan." Says the gruff voice, shaking his hand. "I'm Jordan. Jordan Fitzgerald."

———

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starship-imzadi · 3 years

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S5 E12 Violations

This opening immediately brings to mind the "repressed memories" craze in psychology in the 1980's and 1990's. The "fad" has since become regarded as incredibly harmful and dangerous as human memory can be quite malleable and undependable. A lot of people were treated to believe they had repressed memories of horrible abuse and sexual trauma in their childhoods, made horrible accusations, for events that never actually happened. Not only do these fabrication create real trauma and ruin relationships, they also delegitimize the actual trauma and abuse others have suffered and very much remembered from their childhoods.

Now, that isn't quite applicable to this episode, but this episode has some heavy moments and perhaps the worst abuse, out of all the abuse, Troi suffers through the series, and I want to address it the best I can.

"father, you know you're not supposed to probe someone's memory unless they've given you permission."

A.k.a. you have to get consent

"you are right, but sometimes with a beautiful woman I cannot help myself."

Red flag?! But not the red flag we're looking for. (Still: not appropriate) Beverly's laugh doesn't seem like acceptance to me, rather it's the socially acceptable way for women to cope with remarks that certain men think are flattering but are actually creepy. In a post #metoo world my hope is that as a society this is understood better than when this episode aired. I'm sure for many women it's just as evident as it ever was.

To be clear, this memory reading isn't sexual. What it is, is intimate. For whatever reason no other type of telepathy in Star Trek is depicted as a high form of intimacy, except for the now forgotten telepathic link that Troi and Riker have (which was formed because of the closeness of their relationship). But, to have access to someone's mind would be an incredible vulnerability, the sharing of one's mind a great intimacy, and the invasion of one's mind a great violation. A strong analogy for these is sexuality.

I want to make this distinction because there are violations and intimacies that are not sexual, and I think allowing for a broader analogy makes this a stronger story.

This conversation between Geordi and Data about memory feels like exposition to explain the concept to the audience. But, it seems to misrepresent some of the finer points, like how human recall and triggering recall actually works, how neurological structure and age factors in, how trauma effects memory, or in fact how humans encode specific memory or general concepts (like remembering the layout of your childhood home.)

"perhaps you would like to resurrect solve memories"

Is Beverly flirting with Picard? Or just teasing him

This scene with Troi brushing her hair and drinking hot chocolate is.... incredibly frustrating. Because of the "on again off again" or complete neglect of the story between Troi and Riker's relationship. Why have we never seen this part of their relationship before? Where does it fit it? I've seen people question at which point the memory becomes manipulated, wondering if Riker would ever force himself on Troi...which I would categorically say: no he would not.

"imzadi we can't, not when we're serving on the same ship"

"have you stopped thinking about us, just answer that" "I can't stop thinking about you"

They're clearly on the Enterprise, and Riker has a beard, and it could feasibly be somewhere in the past three and a half seasons. As the audience we are not privy to the original memory free of Jev's manipulations.

"Do you know what she was doing when this happened?" Riker's voice is so gentle.

Beverly's little smile as she walks in and sees Riker talking to Troi is exactly how I feel. "I miss you. Please don't stay away too long." Is so sweet and a bit heartbreaking.

Now, we see an apparent memory of Riker's. Troi's memory seemed to be hazy and pink like an old romance filter might be in black and white, but Riker's memory is distorted and stretched, and both have distorted and slowed audio. By contrast, Keiko's memory had no visual or audio distortion at all. Riker's apparent memory is feasible like Troi's.

Troi's assault is what almost everyone focuses on, because the "violation" of the episode is seen as an analogy to rape and because this element is inexplicably used again in the film Nemesis. However, I would like to point out that the two memories shown up until this point are both memories of vulnerability. The memory with Troi isn't just about sex, it's about the intimacy she has with Riker, a relationship they both want but don't feel like they're allowed to have. Riker's memory is of vulnerability of those under his command, as he has to actively make a choice that will kill a crew member to save the rest of the ship. His crew is ultimately his responsibility, their lives are in his hands, and he has to carry the responsibility of their deaths under his command.

Now we see Beverly's apparent memory. Her's is also a clear instance of vulnerability: seeing her dead husband's body. This memory is most likely of the three we see to have some reality to it. We do know that her husband died and Picard was the one to tell her and Wesley of his death. (It's mentioned in the pilot episode and in "The Bonding")

Rethinking the search parameters is incredibly clever on Geordi's part and he deserves more credit for it. It's almost... intellectually refreshing to see rather than a simple solution, and I applaud the writer who wrote this bit.

If Riker wasn't still in a coma he would be right by Troi's side.

"I'm remembering something from a few years ago" so, it is a memory, they're all actual memories, up until a point. "It's not Will, sombody's taken his place." when the person in her memory is hurting her the face isn't initially shown, we can't see who it is. But, before when the memory was safe and positive, we could see Will's face.

(the background soundtrack is a little too much and the whole sequence of Troi in pain makes me really uncomfortable.) And Worf and Picard.... don't react except Picard, very conservatively, places a comforting hand on her shoulder. Which fits with his decorum and all things considered is really, really sweet.

"A perverse source of pleasure perhaps. A need to exercise control over another." Even though Troi's memory was romantic or sexual in nature and through Jev's manipulation has the strongest direct parallel to literal sexual assault, rape is ultimately about power, the assertion of power, domination without consent. It is in direct opposition to intimacy, sexual or non sexual. intimacy is vulnerability plus trust and safety, regardless of what that vulnerability is.

I just realized the Ullian coats remind me of paper snow flakes.

I've seen some people confused that after everything that has happened why Jev would jeopardize himself by going to Troi. He seems to honestly like Troi, in whatever way he can, but at the same time is not in control of his impulses and desires, and whatever he likes about her is warped into his sick desire to overpower her. It's fantastic to see Troi fight back; Jev talks about how fragile she is, and it's important that we see that she is in fact NOT how he sees her.

"this form of rape" here is the first time the word is specifically used BUT I want to reiterate that Troi, Riker, and Beverly have all been subjected to this trauma.

It's good, and nice to know, that they will be getting counseling and help to process through what has happened. It's not always but on occasion TNG acknowledges that its characters have suffered with potential long term ramifications.

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buildercar · 7 years

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New Post has been published on http://www.buildercar.com/the-apollo-gt-and-devin-c-two-all-american-mashups-forgotten-by-time/

The Apollo GT and Devin C: Two All-American Mashups Forgotten By Time

Bud Bourassa, I’m about to learn, is a man prone to understatement.

“The Devin is like driving a skateboard,” he tells me. “It’s very quick and really responsive.” As for the Apollo GT, “You have to be pretty attentive. It’s a fun car to drive, but it takes concentration.”

In retrospect, I should have taken him more seriously.

Bourassa is a car collector from Scottsdale, Arizona, and he’s agreed to let me drive two of the rarest American cars in his collection. His Devin C is one of about 25 made, and it was Bill Devin’s own prototype. The Apollo GT is one of 39 examples built by the short-lived International Motor Cars company and one of only two automatics. Both cars stand as reminders of how difficult it is to get traction in the automotive business: Conceived in the same era, they launched hard and wound up flaming out.

Devin started his business building race cars, but he was best known for his fiberglass bodies. Made in 27 sizes to fit every chassis from Crosley to Corvette—all of which sold for the low price of just $295—these Ferrari Monza-inspired shells were a fixture of the 1950s and ’60s era sports-car culture.

Stuck for a powerplant for his low-cost sports car, Bill Devin found the answer in the Corvair’s flat-six. Milt Brown believed Buick’s aluminum 215 V-8 was an ideal mill for his GT.

Still, turn-key sports cars were Devin’s dream, and in 1958 he introduced his Chevrolet-powered Devin Super Sport. It was ridiculously fast, but at $5,950 it cost more than a Cadillac. By 1961, the price was $10,000. Devin needed a low-cost model, so he designed the Devin D (for Deutschland), a rear-engine car using either Volkswagen or Porsche power. There was just one problem: Devin’s race cars were embarrassing Porsche at Riverside International Raceway in California, and as a result Stuttgart had little interest in selling him engines. The VW Bug’s mill was easier to come by, but 36 horsepower didn’t quite cut it.

Devin found his solution in the 1960 Corvair. He kept the D’s VW-sourced front end and installed the Corvair’s engine, transaxle, and rear suspension. Devin asked motorsports legend Stirling Moss to evaluate the car. Moss advised him to add one more beam to stiffen the frame. Once that was sorted, the Devin C was born.

The C was made with weekend racers in mind, but the Apollo GT was more of an American answer to European GTs. It was dreamed up by a young California engineer named Milt Brown, styled by Art Center graduate Ron Plescia then later restyled by Franco Scaglione in Italy. Brown saw great potential in Buick’s all-new 1961 Special—not only the light and powerful all-aluminum 215 cubic-inch V-8 but the suspension as well, particularly the rear axle’s four-link coil-spring setup. All were adopted and improved for the Apollo. Carrozzeria Automobili Intermeccanica of Turin, Italy, hand-built and assembled the bodies, frames, and interiors and shipped them to the newly formed International Motor Cars in Oakland, California, for installation of the mechanicals.

Apollo Mission: The GT bears more than a passing resemblance to a Ferrari 275 GTB. But once you turn the key, there’s no mistaking the rumble of the American V-8.

The GT was light (at 2,440 pounds, it was 700 pounds lighter than a fiberglass-bodied Corvette), and it was quick for its time—0 to 60 mph in a claimed 7.5 seconds, though contemporary magazines timed it about a second slower. It went on sale in 1963 for $6,597, midway between a Jaguar XKE and a Mercedes-Benz 230SL.

Reviews were good. “Handles as well or better than a 2+2 Ferrari, an Aston DB4, and a Sting Ray Corvette,” racer and respected journalist Denise McCluggage wrote in Science and Mechanics magazine. In 1964, IMC added a convertible and a new version with an iron-block 300 cubic-inch Buick engine that became known as the 5000 GT, with the 215-powered cars adopting the 3500 GT moniker.

Settling in behind the Apollo’s big, wood-rimmed wheel, it’s easy to see the European parallels: Its leather-lined interior is snug and very obviously handmade, and the Jaeger gauges are labeled in Italian. The windshield pillars are stick-thin, and the hood seems to extend for miles. But one twist of the key, and visions of Modena are quickly forgotten. The engine rumbles to life with a delicious Detroit soundtrack.

Bourassa wasn’t kidding when he said the Apollo requires attention. With the R-1-2-N-P shift pattern of its Dual Path Turbine Drive automatic, selecting a forward gear is a challenge. But even with the automatic transmission—remember, it was the Dynaflow from which this transmission is derived that gave us the term “slushbox”—the bantamweight Apollo is eager to take off. But it’s not so eager to stop. The brakes are drums all around with no power assist, and the pedal rides so high I feel like I have to touch my knee to my chin just to get my foot on it.

The steering wheel is offset far to the right, and despite the fact the Apollo is fitted with unassisted steering and an extended pitman arm to effectively speed up the ratio, it still responds like a Kennedy-era Buick. It has an independent spirit and an insatiable urge to venture off in new directions on its own initiative. Driving it makes me wonder how anyone survived the 1960s.

Leather-lined interior and Jaeger gauges give the Apollo a European feel. Matching luggage was a lucky swap meet find. This is one of two automatic IMC Apollos. Note the funky shift pattern.

The Devin C is a completely different experience, more race car than road car. Devin offered the C with engines rated from 80 to 150 hp, with the highest-spec model using the turbo unit from the Chevy Corvair Corsa. Bourassa’s Devin has a naturally aspirated engine with a multi-carb setup, and a dyno test revealed 180 horsepower—plenty for a car that weighs about 1,400 pounds.

First gear in the close-ratio four speed is funky, if you can even find it. This is still a ’50s-era American transmission. Once you’re in second, you really start to boogie. I expected the Corvair mill to echo the sophisticated thrum of a Porsche flat-six, but the largely unrestricted exhaust on Bourassa’s car belts out a bratty blat like a demon Volkswagen. The Devin steers a bit like a Volkswagen, too. There’s more on-center play than I expected, but once it begins to respond to the wheel it never stops. This car lives to change direction.

The Devin C is street legal but a race car at heart. This is Bill Devin’s original prototype, which once ran 167 mph at Bonneville with an experimental supercharger.

Like the Apollo, this Devin has drum brakes, and it takes a deliberate foot on the pedal to haul it in. Clearly the car was meant to go, not stop. Out of respect for its rarity—and a passing concern for Scottsdale’s traffic laws—I remain mostly at second-gear speeds. The Apollo got my blood pressure up, but the Devin is pure adrenaline. I never wanted to stop driving it, a plan the brakes clearly agreed with.

So what happened to Devin and Apollo? In the end, both companies simply ran out of cash.

“I think [Devin] was undercapitalized, like most startup businesses,” Bourassa says. A successful businessman himself, he knows a thing or two about running a company. “There just wasn’t money there to research and build the cars. He sold a lot of fiberglass bodies for $295, and you can’t make a lot of money doing that.” Devin sold just 25 Model Cs between 1959 and 1965, when he finally threw in the towel.

A similar fate befell International Motor Cars, despite high demand.

“They had orders they couldn’t fill,” Bourassa explains. “They were buying the motor, the suspension, and all the running parts over the counter from Buick. They owed Intermeccanica a lot of money for the production they had already shipped.” With some 39 cars completed, Intermeccanica demanded payment, and IMC went bankrupt.

Owner Bud Bourassa and bodyman Kurt Sowder handmade the low-profile Plexiglas windshield. “We finished the car,” Bourassa says, “the way we thought Bill [Devin] would want it to be.”

Vanguard Industries of Dallas, Texas, which made aftermarket air-conditioners, bought 19 bodies and continued production as the Vetta Ventura, though it reportedly finished only 11 cars before going belly up in 1965. The Apollo went back into production in late ’64 under its own name, with Intermeccanica shipping 24 bodies to the freshly minted Apollo Industries of Pasadena, California. But that company completed only 14 cars before it, too, became insolvent. A shop foreman bought and assembled six bodies. Four went unclaimed at the dock and were sold at a customs auction and assembled. In total, 90 Apollo GTs and Vetta Venturas were built.

Today, it seems only a handful of hardcore collectors and historians know about the Apollo or the Devin.

“We take them to a show, and we just get bombarded,” Bourassa says. “‘What is it? What is it?’ You can spend your whole day answering questions.” He’s only too happy to answer. Bourassa is keeping the faded American dreams of Bill Devin and Milt Brown alive. “I like cars that are limited-production and unique,” he says.

Take that as his ultimate understatement.

Apollo: Bashed panels and Bondo

Bud Bourassa fell in love with the first Apollo he ever saw, a red 5000 GT on the “Still for Sale” lot at a Barrett-Jackson auction. He restored the car and later sold it but soon decided he wanted another.

“One day I get a call: ‘There’s an Apollo on Craigslist!’ I called the guy and said, ‘I want the car. I’ll overnight a check, and then I’ll come look at it.’ His parents each had an Apollo. His mother was 87 and quit driving. It looked beautiful, and it drove fairly well, and I knew they were few and far between, so I bought it.”

But it turned out the car’s beauty was barely skin deep.

“I had a guy soda-blast the paint off, and it was Bondo everywhere! His mother had crashed every corner. They used a slide hammer, then Bondoed it in.”

Bourassa sent the Apollo to the body shop for new panels and almost lost the car.

“It was there for six or eight months,” Bourassa remembers. “Finally they called and said, ‘It’s done.’ It was 114 degrees, and I said, ‘I don’t really want to go get the thing, it’s so hot.’ But I hooked up the trailer, drove into Phoenix, and loaded it up, and that night the place burned down. Everything in it was destroyed.”

The fire left Kurt Sowder, who did the metalwork, out of a job, so Bourassa hired him. And as it turned out, there was still plenty to do on the Apollo.

“The front clip was badly smashed and puttied,” Bourassa explains, “so we got a new one made in Italy. The guy cut it in half to save on freight! I just about crapped. I called him on the phone: ‘Why? Why?’ He said, ‘Well, it’s a lot cheaper to ship in smaller boxes.’ We had to put it back together without making it look wavy. It was really a job.”

It was only later that Bourassa learned just how rare his Apollo was. Not only was it one of just two automatic-transmission examples, but it was also the second car off the production line despite having serial number 0005.

“They didn’t want the customers to think it was the second car built, so they gave themselves a little cushion,” Bourassa explains. An outside fuel-filler flap, downward-angled switches, and chrome trim around the secondary gauges mark this as one of the first two cars built.

Despite its rarity, Bourassa drives it regularly.

“People say, ‘Are you driving it?’ Well, yeah. You can’t just let it sit and deteriorate.”

Keeping Devin’s Dream Alive

While Bourassa went looking for the Apollo, his Devin C found him.

“This was Bill Devin’s car,” Bourassa explains.

“I have pictures of it racing at Riverside. All of the famous racers we know, from Stirling Moss to Dan Gurney, they raced against it. Bill Devin painted it gold so it wouldn’t be confused with Max Balchowsky’s yellow car, Ol’ Yeller.

“Bill Devin was approached by Andy Granatelli, who was in the process of developing the McCullough supercharger. He wanted to mount it on the Devin. The supercharger wouldn’t fit in the engine compartment, so they cut a hole in the back fender. He ran something like 120 mph.” The car clocked an 11.94-second quarter mile at 117 mph and also ran 167 mph at Bonneville, though it was never timed officially. The experiment done, the supercharger was removed. “There’s a picture of it on the track with the hole patched in,” Bourassa adds.

“Bill decided to restore it, and before he finished he passed away. The family sold it to another gentleman in Arizona, and lo and behold he passed away, so the family was looking for someone to finish the project. I was recommended by a few mutual friends, and I bought the car. The body had been painted, but there wasn’t much else done. It was a lot of parts and pieces and an old Corvair motor.”

Because of the car’s unique history, Bourassa had some flexibility with how it was finished.

“It’s not like doing a restoration on a Jaguar E-type, where every nut and screw has to be a certain manufacturer. You can take liberties. We finished the car the way we thought Bill would want it to be.

“The windscreen and the side windows are something we wanted to do. Bill sold the cars with an old-fashioned upright windshield with chrome around it. Ugly as hell. I wanted a screen that went all the way around and on to the doors, so that’s what we did. Kurt molded it out of Plexiglas. We also did the headlight covers. We heated them up in the barbecue! Two-hundred-twenty degrees, and they just shrunk over the form.”

Asked about the Devin’s lasting appeal, Bourassa says, “It’s unique, and it’s something I can finish up and create.”

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