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tobiosmilktea · 3 years

Text

high fidelity — kuroo tetsurou

3.9k words | genre: fluff | warning/s: terrible writers block writing, ooc kuroo cause i suck | pairing: kuroo x gn!reader

↪︎ in which being the only two employees at a small record store meant that you and kuroo worked together almost every day. and not a single day has passed that you didn’t find your coworker absolutely insufferable. you think he’s annoying, and he thinks you’re cute. in reality, kuroo just sucks at flirting.

a/n: is the plot a bit of a mess? lowkey yeah, but ykw that’s okay cause i needed something stupid to write. this was also a bit self-indulgent cause homegirl just got employed at a record store (yay)

fucking tired—is what you would tell kuroo in the means of his grand intervention to mess with his favorite coworker of all time. granted, you were his only coworker in the infamously meager record store down some random alleyway in downtown tokyo.

those six words were how you would describe how you felt at that very moment. busy with doing what you were employed on doing rather than sitting around and snacking on some trail mix. one would assume that working at a rather small establishment meant little to no work, especially in hours where it was slow with no customers roaming up and down the aisles, but god were you wrong. you were the only one on the shift actually busting your ass off on the floor and at the register while all kuroo does is change the music playing on the store’s overhead speakers and hangs out.

sure, he does do his fair share of work here and there. occasionally he would even take over most of the manual labor of carrying all the new shipments of heavy vinyl records for the sake of courtesy, but at the end of the day, it was always you who would have to restock the displays every time.

so much for being a gentleman.

your feet hurt, your legs ached, your arms were sore. you were just glad that kuroo finally decided to get his ass up and actually walk around for once. he probably wasn’t planning on doing any work, simply just meandering through the aisles of vinyl just to see what to buy next with his 20% off employee discount. you honestly couldn’t care less. what you did care about was that the stool behind the cash register (aka the only place to sit inside the entire building) was finally free.

you settled yourself behind the counter, a sigh escaping your lips as your chin rested atop the palm of your hand.

you finally had a chance to rest. yet despite taking this rare opportunity, you couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit bored now that the store was practically deserted. then again, what did you expect from working at a small business? not to mention, it’s the twenty-first century and all forms of media was digitized and easily accessible by a single internet search. there were, however, a few old souls out there, still in love with the idea of having a physical copy of their favorite artist’s work.

you were easily one of those people.

there was something so endearing listening to strangers talk about their love for music—it’s why you started working here at TRAX in the first place as a sorry excuse to surround yourself with the physical embodiments of the best invention mankind has ever made. hell, you still had the old walkman that your father gave to you. it was from the 90s with its gray plastic chipping at the corners and scratched-off lettering. you even had his old cassette tapes always in your bag whenever you go out.

regardless, the quietness of the store wasn’t at all bad at times. if anything, you were fortunate that kuroo wasn’t annoying the shit out of you like he normally does—poking at your cheeks and teasing you to no end. in fact, it was a nice break from the overstimulation of the occasional busy hours that come out of the blue. from old men mansplaining how record players work to annoying middle schoolers trying to blast their terrible soundcloud songs on the store’s bluetooth speakers. perhaps the slow hours were a godsend.

it was absolute hell trying to chase those annoying thirteen-year-olds out of the store with the help of kuroo. causing a ruckus or not, the situation was a bit funny at the end. it was one of those rare moments you and kuroo shared a genuine laugh together.

a sigh escapes your lips then as you take out your walkman, plugging in the old headphones that came with it. the black, plastic ones with thin muffs whose wires tangle no matter how much you try not to. you place them over your ears.

today’s mood was classic 80s rock, something along the lines of queen, guns n’ roses, and journey beating into your ears as you let your eyelids rest for a few seconds.

however, your means to relax was immediately shut down when a hand snatches your headphones off of your ears.

“ouch,” you groan as the plastic of the headset scratched at your temple. you look over your shoulder at your coworker with confusion plastered all over your face. “what was that for?”

kuroo blinks with a sly smile on his face, “those things still exist?”

you flick him a look, “what do you want?”

“you don’t get paid to sleep on the job, you know.” kuroo gives you a pointed look as he hands you back your headphones.

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. the audacity. “i get paid by the hour and the store is literally empty right now,” you defend as you click your walkman on pause, “besides, aren’t you the one slacking all the time?”

“only when the boss isn’t around,” he hums.

“the boss is never around,” you huff.

“speaking of an empty store,” kuroo starts once again, watching you wrap the thin headphone wires around the body of your walkman. “d’you got any spare change?”

your eyes peer at him slightly, “what for?”

“to get a drink from the vending machines down the street, obviously.” replied kuroo.

yet another sigh left your lips, licking at its dryness as you reached into your pocket to reveal a few fifty-yen coins. it wasn’t much, but it wasn’t like anything from the vending machines in the city was that expensive. just anything to get him off your back again for peace of mind. “get me a one too while you’re at it,” you mutter, tossing the coins into his palm.

“why don’t you just come with me?” he asks, curious.

you shake your head, “i can’t leave the store unattended.”

kuroo clicks his tongue, feigning himself from rolling his eyes and just tugging you along with him. “come on, it’s not like there are any customers.” he gestures onto the barren floor as if its emptiness wasn’t already obvious enough.

“do i have to?” you groan. you just got comfortable and you weren’t exactly in the mood to walk all the way down the street either.

“yes,” he said sternly, hoping that it was enough to sway you, but surprise surprise! it didn’t. his unsuccessful (and oddly pitiful) attempt at convincing you to come with him caused the corners of kuroo’s lips to dip into a slight pout.

no matter how annoying your coworker was, thinking he wasn’t at all cute or the least bit attractive was a lie. when you look at kuroo, you’re not entirely sure what it was about him that made your heart skip a few beats despite your brain thinking the opposite. was it his sleek obsidian hair that was always styled perfectly? perhaps it was his eyes that were so pretty that if you looked at him for longer than a few seconds, you would be entranced? or maybe it was his witty charm that despite being annoying, you still found his presence nice to be around?

whatever it was, you hated to think there was even the slightest possibility that you liked kuroo more than you would like to admit. and the worst part of it all? perhaps you did like him more than a friend.

and that was the biggest problem.

how annoying, you think.

“pretty please,” he begged, his warm hands suddenly finding yours in the midst of your internalized dilemma and pulling you out of your thoughts.

the action catches you off guard as you snatch your hands back from his abrupt contact. eyes wide and heart beating heavy, you gulped when you noticed how close he was to you then. the action of you pulling away from him only brought kuroo closer like some odd twist in fate.

your thoughts pondered a bit as you looked up at him, still patiently waiting for an answer as he gives you a comforting smile. perhaps kuroo stepped a bit out of line this time, and there’s no doubt he feels a bit bad about it. he was about to pull away and apologize but after your thoughts spiraled for a few seconds you gave in with a nod.

“fine,” you say, lifting yourself off the stool as kuroo steps away from you with a grin. you follow him around the counter, taking your walkman with you as you pass it.

you just hoped no one came by while you two were out. the last thing you wanted to do was get fired all because your annoyingly handsome coworker wanted to get a mid-afternoon beverage.

your shoes muffled gently against the store’s floor—tap, tap, tapping in some form of patterned unison as you and kuroo left the building.

the backroads of downtown were quiet. considerably so compared to the main streets as there was nothing but tweeting birds, whistling cicadas, and an occasional bicycler whizzing by. it was such a nice day, perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to go out after all.

there was something incredibly calming about afternoon strolls down the street, feeling the rays of sunlight beaming down on your face as you further melted into an earth-smearing mood while you unpaused your walkman.

your headphones laid around your neck with the volume set on max this time just so kuroo could listen in. the corner of his lip quirked up a bit as you did so. it was like a nod of approval within a minuscule gesture. then again, you and kuroo always had a similar taste in music—messy and all over the place, but the classics are where you and he truly had the most in common.

the walk there was short and quiet. usually kuroo doesn’t mind being the one to strike up a conversation, but right now, it was as if he was trying to savor something at the moment that you couldn’t really pinpoint.

upon arriving at the rows of vending machines, kuroo slips in a few coins before pressing one of the buttons. he opted for a calpico, watching the can fall from behind the glass before bending down to pick it up. kuroo doesn’t even give you a look before he puts in the rest of your change, let alone ask what you wanted. the boy presses on the button right below a matcha drink—the exact one you were planning on getting.

he bends down when the drink dispenses and hands it to you on beat with the music emitting from your headphones.

“thank you,” you say, a bit dumbfounded as you opened up the can.

the slight confusion was evident on your face as kuroo couldn’t help but find your curiosity absolutely adorable. “i always see you with that drink whenever you come in for work,” he explains, chuckling as he takes a sip from his own. “assumed you liked it a lot.”

you couldn’t help but blush at his words, feeling your heartstrings suddenly tug at the thought that he knows you enough, let alone care to even remember such a minor detail. letting out a shaky breath that you hoped was drowned out by the music, you lamely attempted to hide the crimson red hues on your cheeks as you take a drink.

“i’m surprised you’d even remember something so insignificant about me,” you mutter as you two walk back to the store, yet this time your pace slowed along with his.

it seemed as if you weren’t the only one wanting to spend a little more time like this.

“i mean, it’s you.” kuroo replied, fingers nervously fiddling. “you are my favorite coworker after all.”

which wasn’t at all a lie. it was true. you were his favorite, but it was nothing more than a panicked and questionable explanation in the means of nonchalance. he couldn’t exactly expose himself out of the blue ever since you two talked about what you looked for in a partner. he recalled your words of wanting to find someone who cares about you and can remember every detail about you regardless of what it was. and much of his dismay of explaining his type to be the exact same of your own traits and characteristics, his sorry excuse of casually flirting completely flew over your head.

and if he’s coming to think of it now, all of kuroo’s sorry excuses of flirting probably went over your head. he mentally faced palmed himself. god, you probably thought he was the most irritating guy on the planet.

yet to his rapidly beating heart, you laughed, practically beaming at him. kuroo swears you could literally send him into cardiac arrest. “i’m your only coworker, idiot.” you tease before taking another sip.

he grins.

“gives me an even better reason to care then,” he hums, pulling the door to the store open just to be met with a thunderous shout.

you two were met with the owner of TRAX record store aka your boss. the short, pudgy old man with a receding hairline and a scowl on his face stood by the counter, arms crossed over each other like a disappointed parent.

“where have you two been?” he grunts, his familiar adenoidal and croaky voice ripping through your eardrums as you hurried to pause your walkman. “leaving the store unattended just to get drinks? you two are lucky i got here when i did because a customer just came by!”

your lips purse together nervously as the grip around your can tightened. kuroo notices your unease, giving you an apologetic look. he turns to face igarashi, your boss, “sorry sir, that’s my bad. i was the one who convinced (y/n) to come with me even after they said no.”

“oh really?” your boss tested. his hand came up to his chin to scratch the few strands of beard hair he even had. he scoffs, “of course it is.”

your neck swivels up towards kuroo as guilt melted into your bloodstream. knowing igarashi, he wasn’t the type to lay easy on simple mistakes. it was the only reason why you were glad he wasn’t here often in the first place knowing that he was like a ruthless hawk with eyes that followed you everywhere.

“it’s not entirely his fault, sir. i knew better but i still decided to go.” you muttered, refusing to look kuroo in the eye as he looks at you surprised.

igarashi lets out a huff as his eyes closed for a few seconds, “my therapist told me to take deep breaths whenever i feel as if i am about to lash out,” he explains before pulling himself together. he opens his eyes, tone much calmer now but the words were still like venom. “since you two were at least truthful about it, i will let it go this time, but know it won’t be the next time around. alright?”

you and kuroo nod, “yessir.”

“good. now, i want this place spotless by the time i come back.” with that your boss disappears into the back where he would be for the rest of the night–not helping at all. he stays in the backroom just to nap and to get away from his own unhappy marriage. you just hoped he stayed there until the end of your shift.

with your pulse calming, you took a sip of your matcha drink out of comfort, finishing all of its contents before throwing it into the trash bin. kuroo does the same thing, this time out of the fear of getting in trouble again as for the first time in a long time, you hear him ask you, “should we get to work then?”

you almost wanted to laugh. you were oddly giddy about working alongside him rather than vexed, nodding in response. both of you grab one of the grates of newly shipped records from behind the counter, ready to be put on display as you and kuroo worked down the same aisle.

with your walkman still on hand and your headphones wrapped around your head, you decided to play the cassette tape again just to ease the underlying awkwardness that was still in the air.

when you paused your walkman earlier, it stopped near the beginning of good old fashioned lover boy by queen. and the moment freddie mercury starts vocalizing, you could practically feel the ice around the two of you melt, heads bobbing to the beat as you two worked your way down the jazz aisle.

it went like this for the next hour. songs ranging from artist to artist, humming lightly to the beat of every drum. usually, kuroo wouldn’t last two minutes without complaining about doing work, but for once he didn’t mind knowing that you’re right next to him, mumbling the lyrics together in incoherent unison. if he knew working with you was going to be like this, he wouldn’t have been such a slacker after all. you could honestly say the same thing.

the cassette tape pulls to a stop, reaching the end of its duration as you and kuroo reach the bottom of the crate of vinyl records. as you reach inside to take out the last few albums, a gasp escapes you as your eyes fall onto one of the records. it was one that you have been dying to get for years now.

you put your walkman and headphone set down, grabbing the album.

“no way,” you grinned, capturing kuroo’s attention as he looks over at you curiously. “look, look!”

“tears for fears?” he says as a small switch flickers in his brain. “isn’t that your favorite 80s album?”

you nod, happy to think he even remembered that about you as you rush over to the cash register. you buy the album without a moment of hesitation, already freeing it from its plastic wrap as you reach kuroo again. you open the cover, beaming at its beautiful design. you couldn’t wait until you got home to listen to it.

at the end of every other row, there was a record player display that customers were able to use. taking out the delicate vinyl, you carefully placed it on the player’s mat with delicate fingers. you pick up the needle, hovering it over the edge of the record before placing it down gently.

on either side of the record player, there were hooks to hold headphones. each of which was connected to the machine as you quickly pull kuroo over. taking the headsets from the hooks, you put one of the pairs on before placing the other over kuroo’s ears, tiptoeing just to reach his height. almost immediately one of the most iconic songs of the decade stream into his ears. it was everybody wants to rule the world—one of your favorite songs.

you two stood there in silence, listening to the song’s nostalgic beats as your bodies faced each other. while you were looking over at the spinning black vinyl, kuroo eyes fell on you.

there was absolutely nothing in his wake to be able to take his admiration away as this, this beaming expression on your face had something special about it. it was as if his entire world was right in front of him, just an arms reach away.

his heart couldn’t slow for a minute as he could practically hear it over the music playing in his headphones. his breath gave way then, at the moment you turned to look back up at him with glowing eyes as if you struck gold. you consider yourself lucky being able to get your hands on such a rare vinyl, but kuroo considered himself the winner as he had you.

“do you like this song?” you asked him curiously, ignoring the way your heart started beating rapidly from the way he was looking at you with such care and admiration.

you were so close, you were literally right there. all of kuroo’s emotions that battered onto him like a cumbersome downpour can be relieved if he were to just say the words. a simple phrase, three short words, and a heavy heart beat. ready to leave his tongue and all would be done.

come on, just say it!

“I like you,” he says out of the blue, but his voice was a bit muffled due to the headphones.

your eyebrows furrow slightly, mouth suddenly running dry as your eyes widen.

did he just say what you think he just said?

you are not entirely sure what he said considering his words were partially drowned out by the music. you wanted to think that he did say the words of the impossible, but you couldn’t be so sure of yourself.

“sorry, what did you say?”

kuroo’s hands wrap around your headset, pulling them off of your ears and placing them around your neck. “i said i like you and i wanted to know if you wanted to go out sometime!” he says ratherly loudly. his headphones were still on him blasting tears for fears.

you couldn’t help but laugh, the back of your hand coming up to cover your reddening cheeks. warmth surrounded your heart, like a hug that squeezed at your chest in the most comforting way possible. you raise your hands up, cupping around the shell of his headphones as you pull them off of kuroo.

“you’re so loud,” you mutter.

as if fate decided to push you into the unknown with a strange burst of confidence within you, you got up on your tiptoes and leaned it. pressing your lips against his, soft and light, your skin ignited ablaze.

in a mere moment of serendipity just to test out the waters, you were pulled in deeper, mind blurring in satisfaction. yet it was nothing more than temporary as the sound of infamous footsteps gradually got louder and louder. panicked, you pull away quickly just seconds before igarashi emerges from the aisles, staring bullet holes into you and kuroo.

“i suppose you two are working?”

you nod, pulling your wrists out of kuroo’s grasp.

kuroo quickly answers, “we are, don’t worry.”

your boss lets out a suspicious hum as he gives you two one last look. he turns back around again, disappearing into the back.

a sigh of relief leaves you as you turn back towards the boy in front of you. he still waited for an answer, almost desperate to know as his eyes searched for an answer.

grinning, you pause the record player and kuroo watches it spin to a slow stop. “you’re an idiot,” you say with a laugh.

kuroo doesn’t seem to care at that moment, if anything he was just glad there were no one else was around. his hands wrap around yours again, “well, is that a yes or a no?”

“so that kiss wasn’t obvious enough for you?”

liking someone you found annoying was impossible, but liking your annoying coworker? now, that was a different story.

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

Have you seen the post going around about the zoom class with one guy and his full streamer setup vs the guy whose just in the middle of the woods? I know you have a prompt list rn but I’m just saying there’s a sternclay fic in there somewhere...

It is! Here you go!

Life is better with order. Or, at the very least, with some attempt at patterns, organization, or consistency.

Which is why Stern has carefully arranged his desk, his chair, and his equipment in the background. Streaming as a hobby and a side hustle means he has some (okay, a lot) of practice making his digital self look just right. He needs to make a good impression on the first day of the semester.

Unlike some people.

“Holy shit man, are you in the woods?” Duck, the guy in a “Monongahela National Forest” shirt, grins as he asks this of another student whose screen consists of a forest clearing, a log, and the name “Barclay.”

“Yeah. Hang on, lemme finish getting the phone balanced.”

“Dude, that’s like, way better than my background” this comes from Jake, in front of a poorly rendered half-pipe.

“Can’t really take credit for it, just where I ended up.” Barclay sits down, and Stern gets his first look at a man so tall he barely fits in the frame, with a short, coppery beard and an honest-to-god man-bun.

Damn west coast schools.

“How is your battery going to last long enough for class?” Stern leans back in his chair, certain Barclay will have “battery trouble” halfway through as an excuse to cut out early.

Barclay smiles, lifting up a small green and black rectangle, “solar battery. Not everyone needs fancy gadgets for school.” He aims a pointed stare at Sterns set-up.

“It’s important to have the right equipment.”

“Whatever you say, man.” He lifts a cup of iced coffee into the frame, sipping it through a straw. It’s the picture of relaxation, as if nothing is wrong in the world. As if this is all totally normal.

Stern wants to reach through the screen and slap some sense into him. Preferably while he’s shirtless.

He chalks that thought up to not having gotten laid since last December and pulls up his note taking software as Professor Chicane enters the room.

------------------------------------

Private Chat 9/20/20

Duck (he/him): I timed it, we’re already at ten minutes of arguing.

Indrid (he/him): I know Ned enjoys their demonstrating the different modes of rhetoric, but this is a bit extreme.

Duck: To be fair, Joe does seem kinda uptight.

Indrid: Yes, but Barclay should know by now that zeroing in on him during our practice debates only results in this.

Duck: Yeah. Oh shit, are they for real wrapping up you think?

Indrid: We can only hope. Skype me tonight?

Duck: Of course, sugar.

--------------------------------------

What is Joseph’s problem? He’s got a set-up that would make a pro-vlogger jealous, what looks to be a well-lit apartment with some houseplants and the kind of coffee-cups that are weirdly lacking in personality. His clothes are immaculate, his hair slicked back as if he;s in a business meeting rather than an online class in the midst of a chaotic world. So why is he acting like everything is terrible? And why is he always arguing with Barclay, when there are plenty of other people in the class to disagree with?

“Now” Mr. Chicane’s voice booms through the tiny speaker on his phone, “if you all had a chance to read over the instructions, we will begin the first mock debate. Do we have any volunteers?”

He and Joe raise their hands at the same time. Mr. Chicane raises an eyebrow.

“While I appreciate your eagerness, gentlemen, I would like two other volunteers this time.”

That’s fine by him. It’s not like he likes listening to Joseph get all wound up and passionate, making everyone on the call sit up and take notice of him. It’s not as if he enjoys being the center of his focus.

Nope, not at all.

-----------------------------

Private chat 10/11/20

Jake (he/him): Dudes, did you see who got paired up on the final project?

Aubrey (she/her): Chicane must be getting them back for all the times they’ve hijacked discussions.

Duck (he/him): Man, for their sake I hope it works out.

Indrid (he/him): This is going to be a disaster.

--------------------------------------

“Are you out of your mind!” Stern is talking before Barclay’s video is fully on.

“Nope. And you don’t have to yell, my speaker works just fine.”

“You’re outside, for all I know there’s a ton of ambient noise.”

Barclay, phone obviously in his hand as he walks through the trees, groans.

“And don’t try to derail this; how can you possibly suggest I come out there so we can do the project in person? We’re supposed to be limiting travel and gatherings.”

“Look, Joseph, we both agree that trying to generate our own cryptid hoax is the best way to demonstrate all the techniques Ned wants us too, right?”

“Yes” he hides his answer behind the rim of his coffee mug.

“We’ll do a way better job if we work in the same space. And if it makes you feel any better, I haven’t had any human contact in three weeks; all quarantined up, unlike whatever you’ve been doing in the city.”

He sets the mug down with a thunk, “I haven’t been out in a month. And before that was only for one grocery run and a hospital visit.”

“Uhhh-”

“I cut my hand cooking. So. Yeah.”

Literal crickets chirp, courtesy of Barclay’s end of the line, as the silence stretches on.

“If it helps, it’s real easy to stay isolated here, and I’ve still got utilities and everything.”

“And you’re not subsisting only on MREs or granola or something?”

A deep chuckle, the kind that makes his skin prickle, “Nope. That much I can promise.”

Stern glances around the studio apartment, clean and empty.

“What’s your address?”

------------------------------------

Look, all Stern is going to say is that he’s seen and read plenty of stories that start with a cabin in the woods and none of them end well. Which is why he’s still sitting in his car, parked beside a beat-up Subaru, rather than knocking on the door.

Breathe in, five counts. Out for four. Repeat four times.

Waiting for him on the door is a note.

Joseph,

Key under mat, make yourself at home.

Barclay.

He brings in his bags (a matching set of three, a gift from his aunt last year), placing them in the tiny guest room. It’s not much more than a bed, a dresser, and a tiny table. But there’s a heating unit below the window looking out into the woods, which is pretty pleasant. He’ll be keeping the blinds closed at night, though; he hates the thought of something being able to look in.

Stern’s busy evaluating the laundry closet when the front door opens.

“Hey, glad you found the place okay.”

Barclay stands in the doorway, a basket full of fruit in one hand. He’s remarkably kempt for a man living in the woods and that, combined with the deep voice being even richer in person and the fact Stern has to actually look up to meet his eyes, has him stumbling for words.

“Your directions were very thorough. Thank you. Um. I put my things in there, should I, um-”

“I can give you the grand tour.” The taller man sets the basket on the dining table, notices Sterns puzzled expression “there’s a piece of property about a mile thataway that has orchards they don’t really use. They let me come and pick whenever i want, less for them to clean up.”

Barclay keeps up a steady monologue as he shows him the cabin. The lower level is the living room and dining area, a kitchen which leads onto the back deck, Sterns room, and a bathroom. As the cabin is A-frame, the upstairs is Barclay’s room, all dark wood and pine colored plaid. It’s as Barclay is telling him about the woodpecker that sometimes nests in the eaves that he realizes why he’s talking so much.

He’s nervous.

Neither of their nerves improve when he gets to his last point of order.

“Uh, so, the bathroom downstairs is only a half-bath.”

“So...if I want to shower, which I do, I have to come up here.”

“Yeah.” Barclay scratches the back of his neck, “sorry. I don’t, like, sleep naked or anything so we should be fine.”

“Disappointing.” Stern sighs, only to sail past sarcastic and land face first in sincere.

Barclay blushes, then shrugs, “Trust me, after the first night, you’ll see why.”

Stern does. He’s warm as long as he’s in bed, but the moment he ventures into the bathroom in the middle of the night he’s cocooned in cold.

The morning brings cinnamon and coffee on the draft coming under the door. He plods into the kitchen in search of caffeine, finds Barclay in an pron, the counter covered in trays of dough.

“Morning!”

“Morning. Coffee-”

“Right there, sugar and stuff’s in the cabinet above it, cream and such is in the fridge.”

Blessedly, there’s heavy cream to be found, and soon he’s sipping from an enamel mug emblazoned with a UFO made of veggies.

“Is this all for your job?” Barclay mentioned he was a cook during an icebreaker.

“Yep. Way it works is I bust my ass baking once or twice a day, and Thacker, who works with Mama at the Lodge in town, comes and takes them over there. Normally I’d just be there but, well, y’know.”

“Everything is on fire? Figuratively, I mean.”

“Sometimes literally too, but yeah.”

As he’s turning to grab his clothes and head showerward, Barclay adds, “You a scone man, coffecake man, or a cinnamon roll man?”

“Coffeecake?” It comes out hesitant.

“There’s no right answer, man.” Barclay sounds amused, “what do you want?”

“Cake, definitely.”

“Cool. I’ll save you a slice.”

Once he’s showered and on the wi-fi, his day runs like normal; one lecture, reading, a research paper, his initial half of their project, and working either his copy-editing or transcription job in between, and planning his next stream. Barclay comes and goes, stops now and then to see if he needs anything, leaves a sandwich in front of him around dinner time. Then it’s time to crawl under the covers and dream of a less-stressful world.

The next day, just before one, Barclay taps him on the shoulder.

“Ready for class?”

“Yes…” He gestures to his laptop and notebook.

“C’mon, join me out here, it’s way nicer, and we can share the phone.”

“Barclay, it’s a nonsensical way to attend class, just stay in here with me! Even this set-up has to be better than the woods.”

“This set up. You mean my house?” All the friendliness leaves hi voice.

“Yes. Look, I agreed to come out because you’re right, if we want to ace this thing that’s worth sixty percent of our grade, this is the place to do it; I don’t have to go along with the whole self-sufficient woodsman aesthetic while I’m here. “

“Yeah, I’d say you’re pretty far from self-sufficient. See you in class.”

Stern stews through the entire session, but where he’d usually find something Barclay says to latch onto, he instead gnaws on himself. Why didn’t he just go with him? Why snap at someone who’s been nothing but nice since he got here?

Whatever the answer, how can he fix it?

---------------------------------------

Barclay tromps back through the twilight, done with his second class of the day. If Joseph is in the main house, he plans to ignore him until tomorrow morning. That all goes out the window with the clank of dishes from the kitchen.

Peering in reveals the other man bent over, pulling a casserole from the oven. He waits to announce his presence until Joseph is out of the danger zone, enjoying the view as he does.

“Smells good.”

Blue eyes flick over to him as Joseph opens drawers, “it’s mostly cheese and chips, so I’m not surprised.”

“Servers are in that one.”

“Thank you. Nacho pie?” He scoops some into a bowl, holding it out.

“Sure. Uh, look, Joseph I-”

Joseph holds up the server, “Wait. Before you apologize I, um, I wanted to say I’m sorry for my comments. And for being so...me-ish.” He sighs, staring at the utensil in his grip, “I’ve always been a little bit tense, tried to be polite and effective and friendly in spite of it. The last six months made that harder to do. I don’t love it when I can’t be organized, when normal systems go out of place. But that’s no excuse for being rude to you, even before you invited me here. You’re just so...you’re always so calm and relaxed, like nothing was wrong and I just honed in on that way more than made sense. I’m sorry.”

“If it makes you feel better, I kinda did the same thing. You’re always so put together, it looked like you had this organized life in the midst of this whole shitstorm. I feel lik everything is slipping away, like my world is just this cabin. I mean, I assumed you were seeing friends in the city, while I haven’t seen Mama in person since April. So” he sets the bowl down, rests his hand on Joseph’s shoulder, “I’m sorry too.”

Joseph laughs, softly, “turns out we both had failures of imagination, huh?”

“Yeah” he runs a hand over Joseph's back, “now come on, this dinner’s not gonna eat itself.”

-----------------------------------

“You sure you don’t wanna wear the bigfoot costume?”

“Positive. Besides, it suits you.” Joseph finishes styling the fur on the head of the costume to look more realistic, “I just hope we get this done before that storm comes in; as mush as the rain would add to the mood of the scene, that’ll be hell to dry and you’ll be miserable. So, go lurk over there while I finish up getting the camera settings where they need to be.”

“Yes sir” Barclay pops the head on, leaves crunching as moves to his appointed tree. He smiles as he watches Joseph fiddle with the camera; things have been so much better between them these last two weeks. They trade off cooking dinner, study side by side, and watch movies or play games in the warmth of the heater. They have a similar sense of humor and taste in books, and are tidy to boot. Joseph’s even come with him to listen to lectures in the woods, the pair sharing a thermos of coffee under the astonished gaze of their classmates. There’s just one problem.

Barclay’s buried crush is now blooming in every direction. Animated, argumentative Joseph was attractive. Joseph, in all his moods and mannerisms, is devastatingly enchanting. He’s come close to telling him this, but the other man is his guest and also only here for another two and a half weeks, so a confession is setting himself up for heartbreak at worst and awkwardness at best.

He almost blew it last night when they were washing dishes (Joseph scrubs, Barclay dries and puts away).

“Last one.”

“Thanks, blue eyes.”

“What was that?”

“Uh, blue eyes? Like a, uh, a nickname?”

Joseph laughs, “Sounds like something from a Raymond Chandler book. I like it.”

On the plus side, if Joseph thinks it’s just a nickname and not a pet name, maybe Barclay can keep using it.

“Are you ready?’

He sticks up a hairy thumb and calls, “you know it, blue eyes.”

That same laugh as Joseph takes up his position. Maybe it’s the weird film over the costume’s eyes, but Barclay swears he sees a blush.

-------------------------

Stern trawls through the search results. Their video is getting some traction, with two cryptid hunter sites claiming it’s credible footage. He’s making note of how the information spread, which threads lead to belief and which to doubt, when Barclay calls from upstairs.

“Joseph? Little help?”

The other man is in the bathroom, and when Stern knocks he says, “Think the pilot light on the water heater went out again, all I’m getting is cold water. Can you go relight it?”

“Sure.” He gets to the stairs then, stops, “where’s the key to that closet?”

“Huh? Oh, shit, right, hang on” Barclay says at the same time as Stern’s “don’t worry, I can find it.”

Which is why the instant he turns back into the bedroom is the same instant Barclay steps out of the bathroom, blue towel around his waist.

Any blood that doesn’t head south goes instantly to Stern’s cheeks.

“You okay there, blue-eyes?”

“It’s completely unfair how good you look without a shirt.”

He clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Idn’t ean to ay at out oud” The mumbled explanation makes Barclay smirk.

“You like this, should see what’s under the towel.”

The unusually bold statement from Barclay kindles his own confidence.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, big guy.”

“Who says I won’t.” Barclay sits down on the edge of the bed, nonchalant and leaning back on his hands, “got plenty of time to make good on them.”

“We literally don’t. I go back in a week and two days.”

Barclay toys with the lint on the towel, “you could stay. Through break, through next semester, for however long you wanted.”

“Do you mean that?”

A shy nod, “I like having you around, Joseph. Even beyond the huge fucking crush I have on you I...everything is a little better when you’re around.”

“I, um, I guess it could work. We know next semester is online too, and so is work, so…” there must be variables missing, something he’s not seeing, some reason this is too good to be true.

“You want some space away from shirtless me to think about it?”

“That’d be great.”

Barclay stands, hesitates, then plants a quick kiss on his forehead, “take all the time you need, blue eyes.”

------------------------------

Private Chat log 1/11/2021

Barclay (he/him): Did you see the look on Duck’s face when we turned up in frame together.

Joseph (he/him): Yes. Pretty sure Aubrey yelled something about him needing to pay up. I wonder what the bet was.

Barclay (he/him): Whatever it was, pretty sure I came out the biggest winner.

Stern snorts, trying not to blush on camera, and leans over to kiss his boyfriend on the cheek.

#agent stern/barclay #sternclay #taz amnesty #college AU

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goodpeachtea · 4 years

Text

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘, 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘥. (𝟎𝟏)

Summary: People could say that Baby was crazy, so they could say that hell is more preferable than spending a day with her. Baby agreed. But no one could say that the girl was not a genius or that she was like everyone else. Baby Jones was special - yes, she could be a nicer special type, but anyway, special.

Couple: Spencer Reid x OC.

Words: 3.9K

Warnings: Cigarettes, mention of murder, slightly PTSD, language.

Author’s Note: In case you want to know, the fanfic starts in the middle-end of the third season - and I hope it goes to infinity and beyond! Many of the cases we will see here are original (including the one briefly mentioned in the first chapter). Hope you like it :)

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(𝟎𝟏). 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖡𝖤𝖦𝖨𝖭𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖮𝖥 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖤𝖭𝖣.

JINGLE BELLS PLAYED IN THE BACKGROUND. Children laughed, adults toasted and Baby Jones felt this strange discomfort in her chest as she turned the pages of Alice in Wonderland. The child wanted to be reading one of the "grown-up" classics but was caught trying to reach David Copperfield, causing an accident that involved Les Misérables falling on her head - that experience could be compared to being hit by a brick. December 25th was a big day for the Jones family (more than it was for the other families). The unique and loved Baby was born in Christmas and, as much as she didn’t aprecciated much events like that at a young age, even the most distant cousins came from afar to celebrate the mix of birthday with Christmas.

Baby could have sworn she saw figures out the window, but supposed it was just in her head. Before turning her eyes to the book she was reading, she observed all of her family members as happy as ever - almost as if they knew that this would be the last party they were going to celebrate - with a slight smile and noticed her parents approaching. "We have a gift for you, dear," said her mother Marie Ann.

– I have to admit that I was totally against it, but your sister is good with sweet talk, no wonder she is a lawyer. – Said her father, Thomas Jones, pointing to Baby's older sister, who smiled and gave a little thumbs up (after playing an important role in the accident that led to Baby's name, the smart Amelie always insisted in pampering the peculiar child).

The eight-year-old Jones smiled, realizing that the gift was a book the second she put her eyes on the package. She opened the red package slowly, loving to see the suffering in the eyes of those who waited anxiously to see her reaction. She opened her mouth in genuine surprise when she saw David Rossi's book in her hands, thanking her parents and siblings who watched her from afar. The girl had wanted that book for a long time, but her parents insisted that it was worrying for a girl her age to read a book about serial killers.

The Jones were not nearly the perfect family, but they were a good family. They were extremely genuine and fun, and their children couldn't be much different. The oldest was Amelie, 26 years old. She was extremely studious and hardworking, but when she met her family, Mellie was the same old goofy and good sister and daughter. Then there was Owen. The computer genius was 21 years old and was a problem for his neighbors, but everyone who approached him enough could only see kindness and fun in the Jones children. The youngest of the family was AJ (short for Alexander Jones, but he decided to hate the name early). The little one was only five, but it was the family's energy boost, always playing pranks and cheering others up.

Then there was Baby left. Nobody could understand her very well (and that was reason enough to send her to the psychologist early) and she didn't seem to care that much. It was a fact that the second youngest in the Jones family was loved by her family, but that did not stop her strange behavior from always standing out.

And everything changed in a snap. The night of December 25 until 20:11 that was perfect suddenly turned into Hell. And suddenly, "bang!", the beginning of the end.

The only Jones gasped, and with wide eyes she rose from the bed, sighing heavily. Her brain quickly processed that it was all just a goddamn dream tormenting her again, causing teenage Jones to swallow, closing her eyes in relief and wiping the cold sweat from her forehead and neck. She looked at the digital clock on her head table, seeing the numbers 4:18AM flashing red (so she blew out a surprised breath, noting that she managed to sleep more than usual).

Baby opened her windows and checked that her door was locked, thanking that today Sophie decided that she would want to sleep with the other children. Jones tied her red hair awkwardly, opening her desk drawer and under her coat she found the pack of cigarettes she shouldn't be using, taking out a lighter from the same place and throwing herself on the bed, lighting a cigarette and looking at the ceiling .

The teen took the first drag and as she blew out the smoke, her heart calmed down and for a moment no part of her mind was in 10 years ago, the nightmare of just now being slightly forgotten. Jones hated being part of statistics, but what could she do when she went through times of crisis? She didn't drink hidden or smoke in the corners because other teenagers did, Baby did it because she needed to - or at least she thought she did.

She closed her eyes in anger and tightened her jaw when between a drag and another flashes of the final days of 1997 invaded her head. Baby jumped up from the bed, pausing for a second before punching her mirror, thinking about the noise it would cause, waking up all the inhabitants of the Sunshine Orphanage - the ironic thing is that Jones' days there always felt like rainy days. The girl took her battered backpack and stuffed her pack of cigarettes with her other items, sneaking out the window.

It was usual for Baby Marie to do that, to try to escape from her reality. She never managed to be very successful on that mission, but that didn't stop her from trying again and again. Baby always arrived before the women who looked after her got up, not wanting bars on her window. The girl sighed as she walked the dark streets of Washington, heading toward a lonely, quiet corner where her chances of being murdered increased. But for her, the feeling was that dawn was always safer. That was the time of peace that the redhead would have, after having to put up with noisy children, adolescents in internal combustion and her own brain devoid of any distraction.

The little 17-year-old found herself in a park a few minutes later, avoiding children's toys and places where drunks tend to pass. She also ignored the copy of David Copperfield in her backpack, looking away and just searching for the anatomy book she picked up from the library. She spent a long time there, clearing her mind and although sleepy, more awake than ever. The only thing that distracted her from her inner peace that lasted a few minutes was the ringing of her old cell phone and the name David Rossi on her broken screen.

– Rossi? Why are you calling me? – An angry teenager grumbled in her cellphone, rubbing her dark circles and curious about the subject that the longtime acquaintance wanted to talk about. – It's fucking 5AM.

– I know you were already awake and I kinda need your help, kiddo.

David Rossi sighed, not believing he was going to do that. Baby, in the other side, gave up of her grumpy behavior and smiled, knowing how that conversation would end. She bit her lips and hoped that the most evil of the evil criminals would be out there, killing lots and lots of people - and Baby could try, but she would not feel any kind of remorse about her thoughts. "I heard you are back in the business. Tell me about it, Italy, what can I do to save your and Gideon's ass?".

– Gideon it's not in the BAU anymore, Baby. – He told, looking around to make sure no one was listening to his phone call.

– Oh, crap. But okay, boo-hoo. Moving on, let's talk about dead bodies and serial killers.

Rossi almost laughed of Baby's behavior, because it would be funny if it wasn't sad. Baby was, after all, an almost eighteen-years-old which the happiest part of the day was imagining what bloody crimes she could solve - or commit, depending on her mood. The only Jones couldn't feel sorry for Jason Gideon farewell, even if she was alive because of him or if he made her life a little bit more happy (or rather, less unhappy) asking for help when his cases entered a dead-end.

– That will count as a "S.O.S BABY"? – David said smiling, making the young girl laugh a little. – Yeah, Gideon left me a note that explained the conditions for me.

– And he told you that if you guys used one more of those I would maybe be joining you as the youngest F.B.I agent?

– Actually, the note said that you would try to trick me when we still have five S.O.S's left. – Baby cursed the old man, while Rossi tried to figured out what could he do when his chances where actually over.

Baby made a deal with Gideon, that's what this whole "S.O.S BABY" was all about. Jones was special, she could think as the unsub, and as the victim. He needed help, she needed a reason. When the profiler did fifty phone calls to the teenager, she would have a chance to prove herself capable of - breaking all the possible rules - making part of the F.B.I. Everything about it was wrong: first, Baby should be protected by the Bureau, not part of it; second, she cannot even drink legally, she is a child; third, would it be responsible to put someone with serious psychological problems holding a gun? Jason Gideon didn't put a lot of thought when he agreed with that deal, and now the problem was in the hands of David Rossi.

– Now, you wanna help me or not?

Some of the other FBI agents couldn't help but notice the oldest of them suddenly withdrawing, calling someone - almost like calling a dealer, looking sideways and reluctantly - and referring to that person as "baby". The famous David entered the sheriff's office in Rosenberg, Texas and closed the blinds, raising more suspicions among members of the Behavior Analysis Unit team.

“Did you hear what I heard?”, asked JJ, smiling broadly and exchanging shrewd looks with Derek and Emily. “It looks like the fourth Miss Rossi is coming!”, laughed the handsome Morgan, while Reid arrived without knowing what was happening and asking why they were laughing.

– It´s adult talk, kid. – Emily teased, ruffling the taller boy's hair, who grimaced and mumbled something about him not being a child. – I have to say, I didn't expect to hear Rossi call a woman "baby". It's quite young for him, isn’t it?

The subject soon changed when technical analyst Penelope Garcia arrived with bad news regarding the research she had done for the case. Again, that case was clueless and more difficult to resolve than ever. The unit chief, Aaron Hotchner, approached when he noticed the expressions of defeat of the four BAU agents regarding the case of men of different social status and equally handsome being brutally murdered by stab wounds and being left in random places in the city in the southern United States.

"I got something," David S. Rossi announced, leaving the office excitedly after spending a lot of time inside, while the rest of the team discussed theories that were soon refuted. "I think that our unsub is actually a women. Well, kinda. It was right in front of us the whole time!"

– We have already discussed the possibility of our unsub being a woman, David. It is impossible, all men were physically fit. – Aaron said, sighing and annoyed that they weren't getting a result.

Rossi ignored what his boss said, remembering the smart point of view that Baby Jones provided him. “When we went to visit Mrs. Wilson's office, the wife of the fourth victim and the psychologist of the second one, we recorded her statement, remember? Her husband had not yet been murdered and she did not want to leave her office”, Hotch, the one who were at the interview with the brand new suspect, agreed.

– Yes, she looked quite shocked up that her patient was murdered.

– And maybe she was quite of an actress. – David suggested, carefully examining the record they had about Mrs. Wilson. – Me and... I watched the recording again and a detail caught my attention: doctors, like a psychologist, display diplomas on walls and shelves, where patients can see them. It causes an immediate feeling of respect and trust. The family photos, however, are on the table, sometimes even hidden in the drawer, just for the doctor to see. It is an involuntary action, nobody wants mentally unstable people watching their life, their family. But look at Ms. Wilson's office, photos of her children at the table, facing her, while photos of her husband - and her husband alone - are on display everywhere, in the most eye-catching spots possible. Look at this! Who puts a 12 by 12 inch portrait of the spouse on the office wall?

– Yeah, I thought that was weird too, but that doesn't mean she is a murderer. We knew that her husband was possessive and abusive, he was jealous of all the people around her. It is perfectly possible that he told her to put those pictures like that so that her patients would know that, well, "she already belonged to someone".

“I don’t think so. My point is that Linda Wilson was directing the anger of one of her patients to Mr. Wilson“. Everyone stopped for a minute and thought about the theory, seeing the picture filled with theories and crime scene photos, along with the documents, and seeing that it might actually be right.

– But what about the other victims? – The Special Agente Jareau asked, pointing to the pictures of the men hanging on the board.

– Distractions. Mrs. Wilson is an extremely intelligent woman. If only her husband were killed, suspicions would fall on her right away.

“I trust you, Dave. Morgan and Prentiss, bring Linda Wilson to the police station, say we need to ask some questions”, ordered Hotch, the pair waving quickly and heading for the black SUV. “JJ and I are going to get a warrant to get everything Doctor Wilson has about her patients. You and Reid stay here and review what we already have, try to find more things that point to our suspect or anything that will help us find the killer”.

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA - EIGHT HOURS LATER.

Baby Jones was never the most adored girl in school. It was not a matter of popular and outcast, blond and brunette, intelligence or ignorance. It was a matter of Baby was a fucking pain in the ass. Jones knew. She knew that everyone around her hated her. And what could she do? She liked it. See, don't get me or Baby wrong. What could I say besides the pure truth about the girl who moves our pages? The fact that she is so stupidly annoying, rude and is a horror movie tucked into 5 feets and looks of a fairy. It is difficult for anyone to describe how horrible Baby Jones is, but, my dear reader, I will do everything to show the indescribable annoyance of our (not so) beloved young woman. Everything has a reason. We can't blame Baby for being the devil on earth. She herself says, "Everything I do is for a reason" and who are we to go against a mentally unstable redhead who knows how to shoot. Jones is, after all, one of the only people who have the slightest right to be a little irritating in the face of everything she has been through. Of course, nobody expected her to use this right with such enthusiasm, but my point is: Baby Jones is broken and with fewer screws on her head, try to take it easy.

– Jones, put out that cigarette!

Baby smiled at the shout from her Physical Education teacher as she passed her high school football court, backpack on her shoulder and cigarette between her lips. He ignored the athletic students going around and the girls playing soccer, looking at Mrs. Smith, the couch.

– Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. – She screamed back at Smith, seeing her head shake, sighing and turning her attention to the students who deserved her concern - deep down, she felt sorry for Baby, but it was easier to feel angry. The students around her looked at the redhead, never ceasing to be surprised by the behavior of the well-known Jones.

The bad-habits girl patted her jeans pockets when she heard her battered phone ring, knowing who the call was coming from and what the news was. No one else made calls to her, so David Rossi was the only possible name to be on the display of Baby’s cell phone.

“Did you catch the guy?”, Jones asked, ignoring greetings and good manners (which was somewhat usual). She was always excited to know about cases and thrilled when it was possible for her to help. “Of course we did, bambina! I had your help.”

– Yeah, what was I thinking? Of course you would get the guy with my help. I saved your ass. You and these BAU idiots would be screwed if it weren't for me.

– Always very humble, huh? And respect, girl, these "BAU idiots" may be the ones who will decide your future, if you're going to be an FBI agent. – Rossi warned, his voice low because he was on the jet, next to the agents who (theoretically) were sleeping.

– So, I was right, wasn't I? Let me guess, did the psychologist give steroids to her homicidal patient? – Baby ignored the older man's comment, while walking towards the school entrance.

– How did you...?

"Try to keep up: depression, anxiety, probably abused by the father. He kills handsome men and someone could interpret it as if he were envious of the victims. But I'm not someone, am I, Rossi? Mistreated by the father, men do not usually make fun of the appearance of other men in this way. No, but they make fun of the lack of "masculinity". He didn't kill these men because he wants to be them, he killed because he was attracted to them”, Baby spoke fast, her reasoning at incredible speed. Dave smiled on the other end of the phone, never failing to feel proud of Baby's skills. “He went to a psychologist looking for help, hating himself and disgusting his sexuality. Linda Wilson, a woman with an attractive but scoundrel husband, saw an opportunity to get rid of her husband once and for all, seeing the unsub's homicidal potential. Instead of giving him tranquilizers or some shit like that, she gave him steroids, leaving the man on edge.”

– You are absolutely right. And the curious thing is that the first victim was in fact homosexual, but the others were straight men that Patrick Thomas, the unsub, believed were trying to attract him, trying to make him sin, when they were not even doing anything.

– I can't say that I don't know what that is. – Baby murmured to herself, pressing her jaw in anger as Rossi heard the comment and felt his heart ache.

Rossi sighed at the feeling that remained in the air at the girl's comment, even if it wasn't even Jones’s intent to say it out loud. "Baby... you know what day is coming, don't you?", he said on a sigh, reluctantly. He noticed the silence of the call being interrupted twice by the younger woman's shaky voice, who stopped talking immediately, not wanting to show weakness. “Yes”, she spoke simply, never being able to forget the meaning of December 25th.

– I know the emotions that day brings to you and...

– No, you don’t. – Aggressive as ever when the subject was brought up, Baby looked around, always feeling watched when someone starts talking about that 1997 season. – You don’t and we don’t need to talk about it.

– I’m sorry. But along with... that, comes your birthday. Baby, I know you're pissed at me right now, but we need to talk about it. This year is important, things will change, you will have to find a place to live and I...

– You...?

– I'll try to get you on the FBI. – He whispered reluctantly, knowing the commotion of the little redhead on the other state, happy to know that he softened the previous conversation. – Know that I'm not promising anything. You will probably have to train a lot and start doing ridiculous jobs for your skills, but if you want to be a profiler you have to prove yourself in there. You’re still too young.

“Trust me, sir, I going to prove that I can beat some sick minds even if I'm cleaning the floor, making coffee or printing papers”, she smiled, feeling more excited by the news. Baby saw children approaching - children from her orphanage that she would have to take “home” - and then sighed, knowing that her life would not be based on what she was good doing for a long time before Rossi took her out of Alexandria, “I need to go”. “Try not to get yourself in too big of a trouble, I don't have the guts to put a delinquent in the Bureau”.

– I can’t promise anything. – The ginger quoted him from earlier, hearing a laugh. – And Rossi...

– Yes, kiddo?

– Hum, I... – Jones bit her lip, gulping and arching her shoulders in discomfort.

– I know, Baby. – It was hard for her, he knew it. – You’re welcome.

Spencer Reid really felt guilty about listening to the conversation - or at least, David's part of the conversation. But what could he do? He was lying on the seat of the jet, with his eyes closed and his mind totally active and uncomfortable, he having to fight his desire to go to the bathroom and inject into his vein the Dilaudid he had in the bottom of his bag, without the courage to throw it away.

The Boy Genius' mind was distracted for a while, curious about the person the experienced Rossi spoke to. He, like the other BAU agents the other day, assumed it was a woman, a secret girlfriend, perhaps. But that didn’t fit, Spencer was irritated by not being able to solve the mystery (and even more irritated by being interested in the personal life of his coworker). The Italian-American called it bambina - was it a dear family member? - and why would he put a family member on the FBI? It was dangerous! On top of that, he spoke of the previous case to her as if it were nothing, as if she already knew.

Spence bit his lip, glancing at the man looking out the window, getting up slowly. Reid sat across from Dave, smiling weakly. "I overheard, I'm sorry," he murmured, making Rossi smile. Dave wasn't as angry as he thought he would be, the eldest believing that some minimal information shared for the trustworthy Spencer would be no big deal. “Curious?”, the young man nodded.

– For now, she is top secret. But I can tell you that if everything goes as planned, oh, boy, we're screwed.

#spencer reid #spencer x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds reader #criminal minds #bau x reader #bau #BABY.#jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #david rossi

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acedesigns · 5 years

Text

Pinky Promise [Good Omens: Crowley X Reader]

Word Count: 5538

A/N: Hahahah, here’s a long one! Who says I only write short stuff.

Warnings; Near-death, one swear word, minimal editing

Panic was starting to build up. There were too many digits on the bill you were trying to look at. It was shaking too much because of your hands. There was no way you could afford to pay this off with the savings you had. No, you needed to get another job. One that was more stable than the one you had now.

It took hours to fill out the same application over and over again. They all wanted you to put in information that your resume already had. It was infuriating. Then, you didn’t hear anything back. Not even for a single interview. Your parents told you to go to different places and ask if they were hiring. That was a sure way to get blacklisted by their HR departments, but if they weren’t going to contact you in the first place, what could it hurt?

There weren’t any Help Wanted signs in any of the stores you passed by. After getting rejected a few times, you dejectedly walked down the streets. Cars whirled by you causing gusts of wind to trip you up. Sighing, you looked one last time at any of the stores, hoping, praying that one of them was hiring.

Then, you saw it. It was a piece of paper with handwriting. In the fanciest calligraphy you’ve ever seen, were the magical words. Help Wanted.

Quickly, you crossed the street. One car honked at your carelessness. You raised a hand in an apology and safely made it to the other sign. You pushed on the door to the shop. A bell chimed announcing your entrance. Immediately, the smell of old books met your nose. You felt a warmth spread inside of you at the thought of working in a bookshop, where you could read for hours on end.

“Excuse me?” you called out to the seemingly empty bookshop. “Is anyone here?” You dug through your bag and pulled out a folder containing your resume. “I saw the Help Wanted sign out front and I was wanting to apply.”

A blond man wearing spectacles popped out from behind a bookshelf. In his hands was an ancient-looking book. He gently closed it and made his way over to you. He was wearing a blue collared shirt, brown vest, and a bowtie. All of which looked to be several decades old. At least they were newer than the book.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m the owner of this bookshop.”

“You’re Mister Fell?”

A weird sort of smile formed on his face. It was as if he was trying to hide the fact that there was an inside joke hidden in that name. Then, he nodded and stuck out his hand. “Yes, that’s me.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m [Y/N],” you said and gripped his hand to shake it.

“So, you are here to apply for the position!” he noted. “Please, come this way!” Mister Fell guided you towards the back of the bookshop. He told you to take a seat on the couch, while he sat in a chair near a desk covered in papers. “Now, I will be having to go on holiday for a while. A bit of a situation has come up, so I need someone to watch over my shop. I will check in from time to time, but for the most part, you’ll be on your own. You won’t have to sell anything, in fact, I prefer you don’t. You can work whatever hours you please, the more inconvenient for the customers, the better. Do anything to make sure the customers do not purchase any of my books!”

“Uh,” you were at a loss for words. This was perhaps the strangest retail sort of position you’ve ever heard of. Basically, have horrible customer service, don’t meet a quota, and do whatever you want. It sounded like Heaven. “I can handle that.”

“Wonderful! Now, many of these books were very difficult to procure, so they must be watched over with the utmost care,” Mister Fell noted. “I do have a very specific filing system for many of these, so if you feel must read them, please put them back exactly where you found them.”

You glanced around. There was no logical filing system you could think of. Still, you nodded your head indicating that you were fully capable of doing it.

“Now, as far as the pay,” Mister Fell paused for a moment. “I can pay you two-thousand pound a week.” You choked. Tears built up in your eyes. You hacked as you tried to clear your airways after swallowing you spit down the wrong pipe. “Oh dear! Are you alright?”

“F-fine!” you gasped. “Two-thousand a week?”

“Yes, is that alright?”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded your head quickly. Suddenly, you straightened up and handed over your resume to him. “This is my experience. My references are on the bottom.”

“Oh, thank you!” Mister Fell looked at you and gave a warm smile. “Though, I was just going to actually hire you. With you being the first one to apply, it must be ineffable that you work here.”

“A-are you serious?” you stammered no believing your ears.

“Yes, my dear.”

A sudden weight had been lifted from your shoulders. This was a freaking miracle. Not only was the job seemingly laid back, but it paid better than anything you could have imagined. A knot formed in your throat, begging for you to cry. But you refused to in front of this stranger.

“Thank you, Mister Fell. You have no idea how much I need this,” you croaked out.

"You’re quite welcome,” he said in a soft voice. “When could you start?”

“Right now, to be honest,” you laughed nervously.

"Perfect!” He stood up and clapped his hands. “I actually must leave tomorrow, so this is a bit of a miracle!”

Work did indeed start the next day. It was the only day you actually bothered to show up for an eight-hour shift with the shop open. You wanted to become more acquainted with the books and the customers. Most of the customers simply browsed the books having stumbled in while window shopping. Though, there was one collector that made your stress levels soar sky-high. They were insistent on buying some sort of prophecy book. You were honestly afraid Mister Fell would fire you if you sold it.

"It’s cursed!” you blurted out. “I can’t have you buying that book. I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but everyone that has come to purchase this book has met their most untimely demise! It’s part of the curse of knowing what the future holds! Please, I beg you, don’t buy it!”

The man looked at you with shock. He placed the book down and left the bookshop with a ghostly white complexion. You rushed towards the after him and locked it. You flipped the sign to close and sighed.

The shop was empty and the books were all resting in their places. Not a single one left that shop that day. You had a job to uphold, one that paid well, and you were going to do your best to make sure not a single book of Mister Fell’s sold.

“The book is laced with a deadly poison,” you said when a customer was examining a book in a glass case you brought from home. “We’re still testing the other books to make sure it didn’t contaminate the others.” The customer sped out of the shop.

“It’s reserved,” you told a customer and put a reserved sign on the book. You had printed off hundreds of reserved signs and started placing them near every single book. You smirked with pure joy at slamming down the signs in front of the customers. They each jumped in shock and left the store with a grumble.

There were times, however, when a schoolchild would enter your shop. You felt bad for having to deny them from buying a book. It only happened a couple of times before you brought some old books from home and set up a kid’s section. Those were the only books you would sell to the customers.

One day, when you were unusually bored, you started to examine one of the prophecy books. It was old but had a distinct binding. This was fairly interesting. When you opened it, it had a sort of handwriting that you could easily mimic. Then, the idea hatched in your brain.

It took several months, but you were able to create a near-identical duplicate to the original. It took some trial and error, but it worked. You placed the duplicate out in the shop to sell to the unwitting customer. You never did claim it was actually an original copy. In fact, you made it clear that it was the First Duplicate Edition in small writing on the front. That way, you were covered and the shop was covered.

Eleven years had passed since your unstable financial situation. Now, you were living fairly comfortably in a flat near the bookshop. The flat was close enough that you could keep an eye on the store from your living room window. You didn’t ever bother leaving and searching for another job. This job gave you a freedom that nothing else could have.

The door to the shop opened and the bell rang. You hurried out to the front to greet the customer into your lair of duplicated books. Then, you froze when you saw who it was.

“Mister Fell!” you called with a warm smile. “It’s been so long!”

He smiled at you, “Hello, [Y/N]! It has been quite a while, hasn’t it?” He looked around at his bookshop and a confused expression formed on his face. “What are all of these books?”

“Oh, uh,” you cleared your throat nervously. “I knew you didn’t want to sell your books, so I duplicated some of them and started selling those.”

There was a bark of laughter behind Aziraphale and a man with red hair and dark shades approached you. “Now that sounds like something my kind would do. Is this your little shop keeper, Angel?”

“Yes, they are. Crowley, this is [Y/N]. [Y/N], this is Crowley…My associate.”

“Oh, hello. It’s nice to meet you.” You reached your hand out towards the taller man.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he purred and brought your hand up to his lips. A rush of heat poured into your cheeks. You looked away quickly from the man and took a step back.

“Crowley! You’ll scare them!” Mister Fell scolded.

You cleared your throat and looked wards Mister Fell. “Should I put the kettle on?”

“That would be splendid!”

You rushed towards the back and quickly started boiling the water. While it has been a while, you remember Mister Fell had a thing for hot cocoa with plenty of marshmallows. As for Crowley, you hadn’t the foggiest idea. You’d come to that when the water was done.

“What are all of these signs?” You glanced over and saw Mister Fell holding a reserved sign. “Did you sell my books?” The look of fear in his eyes nearly made you laugh.

“No! I put those there so the customers would stop trying to buy them,” you said with a grin. You walked over to another sign you made that read Single and Ready to Mingle. “This goes to the books that are for sale, the duplicates and books I had at home.”

“So,” Crowley appeared out of seemingly nowhere. The corners of his mouth were pulled up into a wide smirk. “Are you single and ready to mingle?”

“Uh,” you froze. How the Hell were you supposed to respond to that? The whistling of the kettle saved you. Quickly you turned your attention away and started to make Mister Fell’s hot cocoa. Crowley chuckled and ignored the glare Mister Fell sent him. “What would you like, Crowley?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” he muttered and flopped himself down onto the couch. His right arm stretched along the back of the couch.

You nodded and handed Mister Fell a mug with white angel wings, something that looked like it came from a novelty store. “Thank you, my dear,” he smiled at you.

“It’s still a bit hot,” you warned him right when he was about to take a sip of the cocoa.

Mister Fell brought the mug away from his lips and gave a shy smile. “Right. Why don’t you sit with us, [Y/N]?”

You glanced at the spaces available. Mister Fell was in the sitting chair. The only spot was next to Crowley on the couch. His arm was draped around the back. With a light blush, you nodded and sat on the edge of the couch.

“How has the shop been since I’ve been away?”

“Fine. We’ve had some shady customers come in that were very insistent on buying the books. They hinted that I’d get hurt if I didn’t sell the books to them,” you started off while looking up at the ceiling. “I ended up selling them some duplicates I created.” You chuckled lightly. “Of course, I made sure to add in some errors in the books.” Crowley snorted in amusement.

“Oh? What were those errors?” Crowley looked at you with a smirk.

“I may have added a prophecy on their untimely death,” you said rather proud of yourself. Crowley burst out laughing causing you to grin. Mister Fell, on the other hand, gave you a look of horror. “What? They threatened me. I should get to have my fun.”

“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat. “After eleven years, I can say I am finally back from holiday,” Mister Fell informed you.

“Oh,” you hummed and looked down at your hands. “Welcome back.”

“Of course, you may still continue working here! I do like how you’ve managed to not sell a single one of my books in my time away. No matter what tactics you may have used.”

The corners of your mouth twitched into a bright smile. “Thank you.” You looked up at Mister Fell. “How was your holiday?”

“Oh, it was fine,” he took a sip of cocoa. “Crowley and I actually helped to raise a child as his Godparents. That’s why the holiday was so long.”

"That sounds nice!”

Crowley snorted. “Turned out to be a waste of time.”

“Anyways,” Mister Fell hurried to change the subject. “We will be here for the next few days. You should take a holiday, yourself. Do the things that you like! I won’t need you back here until Sunday.”

“Oh, are you sure?”

“Of course!”

“Live like tomorrow’s your last day,” Crowley grumbled under his breath.

“Yes,” Mister Fell agreed. Though, there was some sorrow in his face and voice. He ran his finger along the lip of his mug before bringing it up to take a sip. Something was wrong, but you didn’t know what or how to ask. “Enjoy your holiday.”

“Right,” you nodded and stood. “I’ll get going then. You uh…Enjoy your week.” You started to walk off but paused mid-step. You turned around towards Crowley. “It was nice meeting you, Crowley.”

“Likewise.”

With that, you left your bookshop and made it across the street to head into your flat. Once you were in your living room, you happened to glance out your window to see Mister Fell and Crowley leave the shop as well and speed off in an old Bentley.

“How odd,” you murmured.

It had been a couple of days. It was, in fact, Saturday. That last day of your holiday. You had spent most of the time working on your duplicates or reading. Those had become your hobbies and what you enjoyed doing the most. Though your hand was cramping and your eyes had grown weary from staring unblinkingly at the books.

You stood and walked over to your window and gazed over the streets of Soho. Your heart stopped. There was a glowing coming from the inside of the bookshop. It was a sort of glowing that flickered erratically. Something that looked like a fire.

The door to your flat slammed open. Air rushed in and out of your lungs as you sped out of the building and towards the shop. Your fingers were already dialing 999 on your cellphone and speaking hurriedly to the emergency operator. The doors to the shop were unlocked and you slammed your way inside. An inferno was ablaze.

“Mister Fell?” you screamed over the roar of the fire. “Mister Fell? Are you here?!” The heat grazed your skin and the smoke clenched around your lungs. Still, you pushed further in, determined to find your employer. “Mister Fell?” You started crying in panic. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The books you have protected for so long were all catching aflame. “Mister Fell!”

Your vision was getting blurry. You could hear sirens in the distance, but you couldn’t leave without your employer. Finally, you collapsed onto your knees. Gasping for air, you looked around once more before everything faded to black.

For some reason, your lungs both stung and were completely fine. You could remember an intense heat, but at the same time, you weren’t sure if it was real or just some weird dream. You opened your eyes and saw a dull gray ceiling. It wasn’t your own ceiling.

Looking around, you noticed you were on a bed of black silk sheets. Definitely not your bed. You sat up in a state of confusion and looked around for any sort of sign as to where you were.

“There must have been a fire,” you said not sure of yourself. “Otherwise, how did I get here?”

Your legs moved to the side of your bed and you stood. You padded your way out the door and looked around. Then, you saw two people sitting on a couch.

“Mister Fell?” you asked.

Crowley turned to look at you and, with a relieved look, said, “Oh, [Y/N]! I was wondering when you would wake up.” Mister Fell elbowed him in the side with a scowl. “I mean, hello again.”

“Hello, Crowley,” you said in a tone that almost sounded like you were asking a question. “Would you mind telling me where I am?”

“You’re at Crowley’s flat,” Mister Fell spoke. It wasn’t as sing-songy as usual. “He found you unconscious in the bookshop and brought you here to rest.”

“So there was a fire?” you asked with a frown. Tears would have built up in your eyes if they weren’t already so dry.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Mister Fell,” you sniffled. “I should have been there to stop it.”

Mister Fell glanced over to Crowley awkwardly and sighed. He walked over to you and placed a stiff hand on your shoulder. “It’s not your fault. At least you didn’t get hurt. Still, you should rest until I get back. Err…When Crowley gets back, I guess.”

"Right,” you nodded your head. “I still think I’m a bit off.” That or Mister Fell was acting far too strange. You didn’t know Crowley that well, so you couldn’t tell if he was acting off, too.

“You are more than welcome to sit on the couch or lie in bed,” Crowley piped up and glanced at Mister Fell for some sort of reassurance. Mister Fell shrugged his arms.

“I think I’ll go lie down,” you muttered not too sure of yourself.

“Right, well, Crowley will be back by this evening. Hopefully,” Mister Fell added. “He’ll see you then.”

“Okay,” you nodded your head. “Thank you.”

Everything was confusing.

The evening had rolled around and you had woken up about an hour prior. You needed to gain your bearings or perhaps you were just bored. You left the bedroom and looked around his place. It was pretty minimalistic. There were a few decorations here and there, but nothing too major. A lot of what he did have was vintage. What, with the Bentley, you guessed Crowley had a thing for the early 1900s.

Eventually, you situated yourself on the white couch. You somehow managed to find a remote to the television and turned it on. The news was playing. Apparently, there were conflicting reports on what had happened yesterday. More things were confusing.

Apparently, some kids made it to the American Tadfield Air Base. There was no clear reason as to how they made it past the security or why they were there. Oddly enough, charges weren’t pressed against them or their parents.

“What happened yesterday?” you muttered, but most of your memories from the day prior was a blur.

The door to the flat opened. You looked over your shoulder and saw Crowley entered. Quickly, you turned off the television and focused your direct attention on him. He glanced over at you and straightened up ever so slightly.

“Nearly forgot you were here,” he grumbled and sauntered his way over to the couch. “Mind if I rest here for a bit before taking you back? It’s been a long day.”

“I don’t mind,” you uttered quietly. He flopped down and leaned his head backward. “Um…I…Thank you for saving me.”

He rolled his head to look over at you. “You’re welcome. Couldn’t just let you burn to death. Though, I suppose there wasn’t actually a fire.”

You blinked. “There wasn’t?”

“Nope,” he popped his P. “Bookshop’s still there.”

“How?” you started and sighed in frustration. “Sounds about right for what I can actually remember from yesterday.”

“What do you mean?”

"I have conflicting memories. Like, I was in a fire, but at the same time, I wasn’t. It doesn’t make sense.”

“A lot of things don’t make sense,” Crowley said. “Let’s just be glad the world didn’t end.”

“Was it supposed to?”

“Not if it wasn’t in the ineffable plan.”

“Right.” You didn’t know what to do with that bit of information. Then again, you didn’t really know what to do with a lot of what Mister Fell said. Crowley must be in the same sort of group. That’d make sense with them being friends. “Are you okay, though? You look tired.”

“I suppose I am,” he sighed. “Do you know what it’s like being kicked out of a place you’re supposed to belong? What’s supposed to be your family? Twice?”

A frown formed on your face. There was a melancholy in his voice. It made your heart clench. “No, I don’t suppose I do,” you whispered. Crowley sighed to himself. “I can’t imagine how awful that would be. I’m sorry, Crowley.”

“It’s not bad the second time. They weren’t great either. Still, makes you wonder where you actually belong.”

That you could understand. “I think that makes you human, Crowley,” you muttered. “We’re all trying to find our place. Sometimes, it hurts. It hurts a lot. I…I didn’t really have a place before I met Mister Fell. I was close to being homeless, actually. But he offered me a job on the spot. And,” you felt yourself getting choked up. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why are you crying?”

You wiped your eyes furiously. “Because it’s sad.”

“For me.”

“I can cry for you!”

“You don’t even know me.”

“You’re friends with Mister Fell!” you protested. “That’s enough to know that you’re a good person.”

“I’m not a goo--,” he started. He must have realized he wasn’t with what he considered his family and couldn’t hide who he was. “Yeah…Maybe.” You turned to fully face Crowley and stuck out your hand. Your pinky was sticking up in the air. Crowley watched with bewilderment. “What are you doing?”

“You’re my family now. You and Mister Fell. I won’t kick you out. It’s a pinky promise. If I break it, you cut my pinky off.”

“Isn’t that a bit much?”

“No. It isn’t.”

With a sigh, Crowley hooked his pinky with your own. “Alright, fine. It’s a pinky promise.”

A few months have passed since you’ve made the pinky promise with Crowley. Mister Fell, or as you found out was actually Aziraphale, had kept you working at his shop whenever you pleased for the same pay. It was also a fantastic way for you to become better acquainted with Crowley.

He would always be so kind towards you, at least when he wasn’t being mischievous and cheeky. One day, he threw you over his shoulder and dragged you out of the bookshop. Aziraphale would have stopped him if you weren’t dying from laughter. He placed you in his Bentley and, without a word, took off through the streets of Soho.

“Where are you kidnapping me to?” you asked through a fit of giggles.

“It’s a surprise,” he smirked over at you. You rolled your eyes and turned on some music. Play the Game started to blast through the speakers of the Bentley. Crowley cursed under his breath, but you otherwise ignored his odd behavior while humming along.

It took a good forty minutes of driving until Crowley pulled over. The sun was starting to set over the horizon. Both of you got out of the Bentley and started to trek through some grass. Crowley wouldn’t hint at all as to where he was taking you. He’d only smirk and come up with some ridiculous story, “We’re going to fight the Kraken on land in a pit of fire.”

Finally, he stopped. There was a telescope set up and pointed up at the heavens that were just starting to sparkle in the darkening sky. Light pollution didn’t exist this far out, so each new star shined brilliantly. A gasp of awe escaped your mouth.

“This is amazing, Crowley,” you uttered and kept your head facing up towards the sky.

“I figured you’d like it,” Crowley said while adjusting the telescope. You glanced towards him and your breath hitched. He was wearing a genuine smile. It was one of the only times you’ve seen that on his face. He looked at you with that smile and your heart leaped. “Come and look.”

Slowly, you approached and peered into the telescope. The cosmos was breathtaking. It was as if someone spilled a bowl of sugar into a black bowl and lit it up with magic. Glittering specks were everywhere. There was no possible way you’d ever get to see this in the city.

You pulled away and looked at Crowley. “Thank you for bringing me out here.”

“Of course.” He placed a hand on your shoulder and leaned down to your level before pointing out different constellations and naming them all for you.

There were days where Crowley would have you join him and Aziraphale for lunch at the Ritz. It always amazed you how they were able to simply walk in and a table would magically be available for the three of you.

Other days, he’d drag you away from Aziraphale talking about his latest book acquisition to go feed the ducks. Crowley claimed that it was very important that you specifically feed the ducks, otherwise they’d spontaneously sink to the bottom like a lead balloon.

Crowley’s spontaneous visits had gotten to the point where you found yourself coming into the bookshop nearly every day. Though, there was one day where you had come down with something. The light made your eyes hurt. Everything made it seem like your head was just one second closer to imploding. You decided that you couldn’t get out of bed that day.

At about 2:35 in the afternoon, there was a hammering sound on the door to your flat. You tried to ignore it, but the hammering only grew more intense, more desperate. Groaning, you trudged your way through your bedroom and to the door. The blanket around you loosened on your way. Slowly, you opened the door and looked up in shock at seeing Crowley standing there.

“Are you okay? You weren’t at the bookshop,” Crowley was slightly disheveled as if he ran all the way from the bookshop, up multiple flights of stairs, and passed your door, realized he missed your door, and ran back to your door to where he was currently standing, making slightly disheveled an understatement.

“Headache.”

“Oh.”

You stood there in silence for a moment or two before you were finally able to form a coherent thought past all of the pain. “Want to come in?”

"Sure, thank you.” You stepped to the side and shut the door behind Crowley. Crowley instantly took your arm and led you to your bedroom. “Stay here, I’ll get you some water and medicine.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he gave you that smile again. Instantly, just a bit of the pain went away because of that look.

You found that if you didn’t show up to the shop as usual, Crowley would be at your door ready to place nurse again. It made you feel happy, but you still went to the bookshop ready to see him.

The bell rang and you looked over with excitement. Instantly, you scowled seeing it was a certain redhead. It was just another customer that was going to be fooled by a duplicate you created.

“Waiting for Crowley?” Aziraphale appeared next to you and blew over his hot cocoa.

You jumped and stared at him. A blush was forming on your face faster than you cared to admit. “N-no! Why would you say that?”

“I am not completely oblivious, [Y/N],” Aziraphale said with a sparkle in his eye. “I can tell you have feelings for him.”

“Sh-shut up!” You crossed your arms and turned your attention to a book nearby. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The door opened. “Crowley!” you greeted almost right away and instantly regretted it by the sly look Aziraphale gave you.

Crowley gave a small smile, one that always made your heart flutter, especially since they were rare compared to his smirks. “Hello, [Y/N]. You feel alright? You look rather red.”

“I’m fine!” you squeaked and hurriedly walked over to a customer and snatched a book out of their hand before rushing to the back. Aziraphale chuckled at your reaction while Crowley looked at you with confusion.

Taking a deep breath, you placed the book on the desk Aziraphale had moved in for you. It was one that you had yet to make a duplicate of, so you were glad you got it out of the customer’s greedy hands. Still, you wouldn’t be able to focus on studying it. Your thoughts kept on racing back towards Crowley.

“[Y/N]?” You jumped and turned to see Crowley entering the back. He looked concern, though you could never be sure with those damn sunglasses. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Y-yeah,” you nodded. “Thanks for checking.

“You’re a shit liar.”

“Am not!”

“When you lie to me, you are.”

You pursed your lips into a thin line. He was right. Crowley could always read you like an open book. You didn’t know what it was, but he always seemed to know what you wanted.

“Customer’s all left,” Crowley noted before moving to sit on the couch. He patted the space for you to sit next to him, much like the first time you met. Like last time, you hesitated before sitting next to him. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“You know that pinky promise?” You hummed a yes in response. “I’m not going to hold you to it.”

A sort of dread and shock filled your body. “Why not?!”

“Because there’s something I need to tell you,” Crowley said and refused to look at you. “I’m not going to force you to stay friends with me once you find out, alright?” You opened your mouth to protest, but Crowley cut you off. “Just let me finish.” Silently, you looked at him to continue on. “I’m a demon. A demon from Hell. Well, not from Hell anymore. They kicked me out. So I’ve been kicked out of Heaven and Hell.” Crowley lifted a single hand to his sunglasses and paused. “Just know that I’d never hurt you.” He hesitated for a moment or two before he slid the sunglasses off his face. He turned to look at you with serpent-like yellow eyes.

You inhaled sharply when you saw them. They were gorgeous, unlike anything you’ve ever seen. They also held so much emotion in them it almost overwhelmed you. Fear, hope, anguish, and something more loving were pouring out of him.

“Please say something,” he croaked.

Taking a deep breath, you finally spoke, “I made a pinky promise with you, Crowley.” You grabbed his hand that wasn’t holding his sunglasses and intertwined your fingers with his. “I am not going to break that promise.”

“You’re not scared?”

“No.”

“Why not? Humans are supposed to be scared of demons.”

It was your moment to hesitate. But when you looked into his eyes, you saw the same emotion that you felt for the demon before you. “Because I love you.”

Crowley grabbed you and pulled you towards him. His arms tightened around you as he held you close to him. “Thank you,” he muttered repeatedly. “I don’t think I could handle losing you. I love you so much.”

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honeymoonjin · 5 years

Text

enjoy your stay - chapter twelve

A/N - I don’t put links in anymore so that this comes up on search, but check my masterlist linked in my bio for links to every previous/future chapter.

Word count 2.9k. This chapter is the tiniest 100 words shorter than they normally are, but that’s because chapter 13 is pretty...full on. I will almost definitely be updating again this week as a celebration for 300 followers, so watch this space! There’s more coming very soon...

ENJOY YOUR STAY ↳Boss!Namjoon, Chef!Jin, Receptionist!Hoseok, Bellboy!Jimin, Bartender!Jungkook, Accountant!Yoongi, Photography student!Taehyung ↳Some inappropriate language and cursing. Later chapters have sexual content.

SUMMARY ↳Working the graveyard shift at a hotel isn’t the most exciting job in the world, but your coworkers are certainly happy to have you here.

CHAPTER TWELVE ↳You confront Taehyung about him and Jimin, but his reaction is unexpected. You navigate some boundaries with Jungkook, but he has one condition. You go to Yoongi’s office to show off your budget, and he makes an impulsive decision.

“You look lovely.”

You glare at him; having forgotten you were wearing a work uniform in a black-tie event. “Shut up,” you mutter irritably. “When did you take that photo?” Your voice is more vulnerable than you had intended, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Shortly after I arrived in town. I was testing out the zoom on my new rig and I saw you in the parking lot. It’s a good shot.”

A waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes and your fingers twitch. As much as you wanted to, you still had to drive back after this. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Taking a photo of somebody without their permission?”

He runs a hand through his perfectly tousled hair with a clipped sigh. “I didn’t realize you’d be so opposed to it. You should be honored that I chose your photo for my final project. I had hundreds to choose from, you know. And I’ve had three different offers to buy a print of it. Like I said, it’s a good shot.”

“Okay, Steven Spielberg, I get it.” Now that he keeps insisting on it, you can kind of see the twisted flattery of the situation. “Don’t I get a print, then? Since it’s my eye.”

He gives you a cheeky grin. “Sure. It’s going for $250.”

You let out an incredulous cry, but you can’t help your lips from quirking up. “Fuck you,” you spit out, but there’s no malice in your tone.

“Hey, now,” his hands come down on your shoulders, head leaning in closer to whisper, “please don’t show up at my place of work with such foul language. I’m sure you’d hate if I did the same to you.” His eyes twinkle mischievously.

You desperately try to quell the grin spreading across your face, but one thought drops it in a split second. “I was the one, back then.”

He blinks, confused smile playing on his lips. “What?”

You clear your throat. His warm palms on your shoulders, burning through the fabric of your blouse are the only things keeping you anchored. “That night, in your hotel room. Namjoon asked me to go sort out a noise complaint. Jimin was there.”

He sobers instantly, eyes staring out to middle distance, probably recalling the door you slammed on your way out, before he catches himself and looks back down at you in pity. “Oh, Y/n…”

“It’s… It’s fine if you two are a thing, you know. I don’t have any right to, uh, to stop it.”

He bites his lip thoughtfully, glancing around the room, then slides a hand down your arm to curl around your elbow. “Let’s go to the backroom,” he mutters, “we can have a little more privacy.”

You obediently let him lead you out back, to a cramped space filled with covered canvases and boxes of materials. There’s a dirty sink with dried-up paintbrushes in one corner, and a couple of odd chairs and stools in the other. The plastic linoleum is splattered with decades-old paint, and the air smells of turpentine. The distant noises from the party are cut off when he closes the door behind you.

“Jimin told me about everything,” he begins, sitting tiredly on a wooden stool. Even with his expensive clothes and ostentatious accessories, he still fits in with the room, and you’re taken by how graceful he looks among it all. “Everything that went down between you two. He felt like you weren’t willing to give him a chance. He called the hotel directly and was put through to my room. He explained it all, then asked me if I was willing to comfort him.” He scratches at a burnt ochre smudge on the rounded edge of the stool, ignoring the pigment getting caught under his fingernail. “It upsets me that he did it to get at you, not because he actually liked me. If I’m honest with myself, I knew it when he was calling me. I guess I could’ve just hung up, but… It’s hard to say no to Park Jimin, you know?”

You did know. You grabbed a seat of your own, an old metal school-chair that wobbled every time you shifted your weight. “Dammit. I wish I could be angry at you.”

He scoffs good-naturedly. “I watched a movie once. Three women getting back at the man that cheated on all three of them. Instead of being angry at each other, let’s team up.” He wiggles his eyebrows playfully at the suggestion.

“I think I remember that movie. Cheesy Hollywood chick-flick. I didn’t take you for the type to watch cheap comedies. I always assumed you would be the one to have a binder dedicated to Kubrick’s moon landing theory and cry about the golden age of cinema being over.”

He tilts his head innocently. “Oh, what about me could possibly draw you to that conclusion?”

You raise your eyebrows pointedly. “It seems redundant to answer that.”

“Fair enough,” he allows. He straightens up. “Hey, shouldn’t you be at work?”

You nod. “I got sent on a mission from the Better Kim. He wants me to convince you to sell your pictures to the hotel.” “Ah, you can have them,” he waves a hand dismissively.

“Really? Namjoon seemed pretty happy to pay. Surely you’d want to take the opportunity to make some money off of your hard work?”

He sends you a quick wink. “The beauty of the digital age is that I can print out more copies again and again until the day I die. I’ll be making money off these bad boys forever, I can afford to give Joon a set for free.”

“You punk. You business-savvy punk.” You get up off your chair, sick of the unsteady leg. “If that’s settled, then I only have one more question.” He rolls his eyes when you pause for dramatic effect. “How are we gonna get back at Park Jimin?”

You’re surprised that Namjoon doesn’t comment on how long you’ve been gone when you finally do return. Once you announce that his little brother is willing to give over the prints, he probably assumes that you spent those two hours trying to convince him, and you feel no need to correct this presumption.

You find yourself able to smile at Jimin again when you do your rounds in the lobby, no longer feeling like he’s got one up on you. Of course, he doesn’t know what’s coming to him yet, but he gives you a surprised but jolly wave back nonetheless.

Hobi is uncharacteristically subtle about the whole thing and doesn’t question you about the drastic twists and turns your attitude about Jimin has gone through.

Jin has left a little saucer with a couple chocolate eclairs on it when you stop by the kitchen, and beside it is a little note with a pun about how you were ‘sweet enough’ on it. Your mood had lifted quite a bit from when you had left home that morning, but more importantly, you felt more clarity than you had in a long time.

You made your way to the bar last, knowing you might be a while. Jungkook had his glasses on today, little round lenses with a gold wire, which meant he had been studying at work again. His expression automatically brightened when he saw you, but then he settled back into a pout and rubbed at his tired eyes. You noticed with a pang of guilt that they were still red.

“Jungkook,” you say gently, sitting at the bar instead of coming inside it like you used to, “let’s talk.”

His jaw shifts, and his eyes are downcast, but he nods.

You suppose you should’ve expected his sullen mood, but it still disappoints you. “I wanted to apologize,” you start, “not for the fact that Yoongi was over, because you still had no right to accuse me of anything, but for the way I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

He nods again, not saying anything. As you speak, he keeps lowering his head, tucking his chin into his chest, and you think you hear him sniff quietly.

“But we do need to take this as a sign that things are moving too fast. I like you, Jungkook, I really do, but you were right. We’ve gone about this all backwards. Sleeping together, moving in; those things should happen later in a relationship. You’re still young, and inexperienced,” he scoffs indignantly but you keep talking, “you are, and that’s okay, but it means that I have a responsibility to make sure you’re safe. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

He makes a strangled noise in his throat, and when he looks up to reply, his eyes are glassy. “Noona, you aren’t taking advantage of me. I’ve never been happier.”

“Okay, Jungkook, but that doesn’t change things. I still need to be careful. If you want to be in a relationship with me-”

“Yes!”

You sigh tiredly at the interruption, but you can’t be angry at him. “If you still want to be in a relationship with me, we’re going to need to start from scratch. We need to go back to square one and take things slow, okay?”

He whines. “I don’t wanna take things slow.”

You try to bite back your clipped tone. “Well, it’s non-negotiable, Jungkook. Take it or leave it.”

He sniffs noisily and wipes his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. “So, you’re breaking up with me so that we can get back together again? That’s stupid.”

You hum, unamused. “What’s stupid is that you’re getting upset over nothing. I’m giving you a chance to do this right, or we won’t do it at all, okay?” You bite your lip, worried you’ve been a bit harsh on a boy who clearly just doesn’t know what he’s doing. “Jungkook, did you notice that you never once actually asked me to be your girlfriend? You just assumed, after we…” You clear your throat. “Technically we were never officially together, so I’m not breaking up with you.”

He blinks away his tears, more put-out than upset. “Still feels like it,” he mutters petulantly.

“Gah, stop with the pity party,” you tease lightly, “if you want us to be together, you have to ask me out like a real man.”

He blinks at you suspiciously, shaking his dark hair out of his eyes. “Noona, will you be my girlfriend?”

“No.”

He slams a fist on the benchtop. “Then what was the point of-”

“Ask me out, Jungkook. We have to go on a few dates first, get to know each other.”

He releases his fist slowly. “Noona, will you go out with me?”

“I’d love to,” you answer breezily, chuckling at the dramatic sigh that leaves his lips when you do. You get up from the bar-stool and brush the creases out of your pants. “Now, I’ve got to go, but you can tell me the time and date when you-”

“Noona, wait!”

You freeze. “Yeah?”

All of a sudden, he’s avoiding your gaze, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. He laughs nervously. “Could I ask for a favor?”

You eye him suspiciously. “…I guess. It depends on the favor.”

He shrugs sheepishly. “I kinda, sort of, already told my parents I had a girlfriend, and that she was the one I moved in with.”

You breathe out slowly. “Okay…”

“And they want to meet you this weekend. I was going to ask you anyway, I didn’t… I didn’t realize you were gonna break up with me.”

You rub your hands over your face tiredly. He seems ready to defend himself, but you just nod in defeat. “Sure, okay. I do this one-time thing for you, and then you promise to take things slow and not be so possessive. Deal?”

He grins. “Deal.” He waits until you’re almost at the doorway before calling your name out again. Once you turn around expectantly, he gives you a cute smile and puts on a voice. “I love youuu.”

Your mouth hangs open a little, and you want to tell him that it’s inappropriate, that he promised he would take things slow, but you just laugh incredulously, unable to stop the blush and flattered grin from taking over. That boy was too handsome for his own good. “Damn you, Jeon Jungkook.” He waves you out, battering his eyelashes.

You had been avidly working away at your budget since Yoongi had left your apartment mad that day, as if proof of your willingness to improve would cheer him up.

You knew the reason he was so upset with you, and it still struck you with a pang of guilt every time you thought about it.

You had acted like you and Jungkook weren’t a thing, and he had defended you, but then later walked in on the two of you sucking face like teenagers. It would be embarrassing if it weren’t so desperately unfortunate.

In your defense, you didn’t see Jungkook and you as officially dating then, and now you had confirmed it, but still, as you left work, telling Jungkook you were seeing an old high school friend, you felt that you were really walking the line here.

You had decided to go directly to Yoongi’s office to tell him. He hadn’t made any attempt at booking you in for a follow-up, and you doubted he would. The receptionist recognized you, and you only had to wait in the lobby for twenty minutes before he had a gap in his appointments, and she sent you up.

Yoongi looked comically shocked when you delicately rapped on the glass door of his office. His mouth hung open in a perfect ‘o’, his eyebrows went up and his eyes were blown wide. He composed himself by the time you sat down, however, and when he finally addressed you, it was with a low, businessman voice.

“Was my advice not helpful enough the first time?” he drones.

A little disheartened at his disinterest, you shake your head emphatically. “That’s not it, I just…” you trail off and root around in your purse, pulling out the freshly printed budget you had drawn up, slapping it down on his desk with a flourish. “I did what you asked, and I thought you’d want to see.”

He raises his eyebrows again, but this time in bemusement. The thought that he isn’t that angry at you eases a little pressure in your chest. “You thought I’d want to see? Do you think perhaps that I work in this industry because I just love staring at budgets?”

You purse your lips. “Well, no but- I wanted you to know that I’d taken your advice. That’s all,” you trail off awkwardly, casting your eyes down to his tiepin, unable to hold his gaze for long.

You hear him chuckle from the back of his throat, but he doesn’t crack a smile. “Hand it over, then.”

You shoot up in your seat and push the paper over to his side of the desk. He plucks it off the table reluctantly. After a few moments of dealing with his impassive gaze, you cough impatiently. “Is it any good?”

He presses his lips together and looks up at you from under his delicate eyelashes. “You spend $280 a week on your water bill?”

You frown. “No, that’s the monthly average.”

He rewards your stupidity with a wry grin, and you feel your heart skip a beat. “All of the amounts need to be for a set period, a week, a fortnight, a month. Otherwise you’ll get confused.”

You scratch your head, humming in agreement. “Oh, it definitely was confusing. Alright, I’ll change it. Anything else?”

“One thing,” he announces, tossing the sheet of paper carelessly onto the table, “I’ve never. Heard a budget be called ‘Mean Yoongi’s money table’ before.”

Shocked, you jump up in your seat like you’ve been stung, snatching the page off the table. You see in the top right corner, written in your ungraceful handwriting, the temporary title you had assigned the draft of your budget.

You realize, with dawning horror, that you had handed over the draft instead of the final printout. Dammit, you think to yourself, and I went to all that effort to put a pretty border on the actual budget only to give him the wrong one.

You screw up the paper into a ball and chuck it into his wastepaper basket, laughing nervously. “I’m sorry, sir, that wasn’t the actual budget.”

His eyes twinkle a little when you call him sir, and you hope that it’s enough for him to forgive you. He spins around a little in his chair and shuffles down a bit, resting his interlocked hands on his stomach. “I’ve decided,” he proclaims rather dramatically, “that I’m ready to cash in.”

“Cash…in?” you repeat uncertainly.

He grins at you, tilting his head to the side and letting his eyes wander over you. “Cash in on your generous offer.”

It still takes you a few moments, but when you get what he’s implying, your mouth drops open. You glance around his office. Glass doors and glass windows. “…right now? Right here?”

Suddenly his sly attitude is gone, and he straightens up, staring at you quizzically. “No,” he states like it’s obvious, “I’m taking you to my place.”

TAGLIST (send me a message or an ask to be added, and you’ll get notified every time I post a new EYS chapter).

@xxqueenwxtchxx

@fandomarchive00

@cvbachacbitch

@echimozart

@thisgirlis-shy

@sweetcheeksdna (I don’t know why your tag isn’t coming up, sorry!)

@boononx

@sweetlittleviper

@youngmsfts

#bts au #taehyung x reader #jungkook x reader #yoongi x reader #bts fic #enjoy your stay #jin x reader #jimin x reader #namjoon x reader #hoseok x reader #jeongguk x reader #bts imagine

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lookwhosfhtagn · 7 years

Text

The Adventures of Argus Armstrongman - Lone Star Detective

Case 637435: Attempted Murder, Breach of Trucking Contract, Breaking and Entering, Assault, Gross Sexual Misconduct, Trespassing, Unlicensed Gang Warfare, Unauthorized Corporate Espionage, Second Degree Murder*

*Investigation Suspended Pending Shift in Jurisdiction

Dak Rambo leveled the Ares Predator at the dwarf, pulling the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. The dwarf juked, trying to avoid the shot, only to fail and take the slug square to the chest. Through the headset sampling the high-powered microphone, I could hear the sound of his sternum cracking like celery in unison with the plume of crimson spurting out of his chest. The diminutive trucker started to stammer out a protest, clutching his chest, only to be silenced by Dak. The next shot flew directly into the forehead of the target. This time, the gut-turning sound of bone shattering was accented with the wet, sickening sound of a man’s brain being scrambled at super-sonic speeds. The dwarf’s head jerked back, mouth agape as he crumpled to the floor. The carnage only continued from there, but I stopped it, tapping my deck and rewinding a few framed, watching a loop of the tattoo-scrawled lowlife wasting Beans, the crusty dwarf’s head snapping back over and over, his coarse, filthy beard speckled with blood and grey matter. By the time I head the knock on my cubicle wall, I’d lost count of how many times I’d seen the spark of life leave the dwarf’s eyes.

“Argus Armstrongman?” I turned in my swivel chair to find a Rubenesque woman in a dauntingly expensive custom-tailored pantsuit. She had legs for days and curves for weeks, and her rich café au lait skin was pampered and healthy. Her appearance triggered some sort of flag in my mind; something was off about her, and it wasn’t just that she was obviously too well paid to be working here. It wasn’t until I really focused that I noticed her ears weren’t human or even elven. The woman’s round, cherubic cheeks rose up to a set of feline ears covered in ebon fur, partially cloaked by her dark tresses of proper metahuman hair. What’s more, the eyes behind her dark, designer sunglasses were narrow slits in an iris of gold. Didn’t see many Changelings in Indianapolis, so it was always a jarring sight.

“Detective Armstrongman works just fine.” I faced her squarely, standing up. She was still a few inches taller than me, but she no longer towered over me like some massive jungle cat.

The Changeling woman craned her neck to the side, looking past me at the infinite murder of the trucker known as Beans. “If I’ve come at a bad time, I can come back later.”

My arm swung back, tapping the deck and closing out of the surveillance video I had found from Chicago. “No, it’s fine. I was just working on a case.”

Her lips canted up in a mischievous smirk. “I was under the impression the Beans case wasn’t under the purview of the Indianapolis Branch anymore.”

My blood ran cold. There was nothing I hated more than having questions without answers. It made my skin prickle with nervous energy. “And just what do you know about Beans?”

She now turned, sauntering away to hide her face. But it did nothing to hide the devious glee in her voice, knowing I was on edge. “I know you want to catch Dak Rambo. And I know my employers want you to catch him.”

My synapses were firing fast, trying to put together just who this catwoman was and who she worked for. I’d never seen her before around the office. She didn’t seem like Lone Star, and if she was, she’d be way up the food chain. It took every fiber of my being to keep calm. Getting riled up would only give her more power in the conversation. “Catching bad guys is my job, Ms. …”

“Noire. Catrina Noire.”

A good few seconds ticked by while I stifled a laugh. “Your name is…Cat?” Some times are harder to keep your composure than others.

Her feline ears flicked in frustration, lowering downward. “I would prefer if you would call me Ms. Noire. More to the point, who I am is of little important. I come offering you a chance of a lifetime.”

I lowered myself back into my chair and turned to my workstation computer. “Chance of a lifetime, huh? Does it involve signing up for the “Trideo of the Month” club? Because I’ve been burned before.”

More involuntary ear flicks from the Changeling. I was obviously getting under her skin. Good. The less she could play the stone-cold Corporate Femme Fatale card, the better it was for me. “Detective Armstrongman, I am trying to have a serious discussion with you.”

“Lady, if you think “Trideo of the Month” isn’t serious, try cancelling a subscription.”

She finally lunged forward, grabbing my chair and spinning me around with a cat’s speed and grace. “I am trying to give you Dak Rambo, you idiot!”

My mouth opened up, slack and fumbling for words. It took my brain a second to catch up. “Dak’s gone. He’s in Chicago. Not my area of operation. I couldn’t even-”

“He’s not in Chicago,” she cut in. “Not anymore. After Beans, he and the NeoScum skipped town and headed out West.”

“NeoScum? Who the hell are they?”

The Cat in Armani just shook her head, giving me a chiding cluck of the tongue. “You’ve been hunting him and you don’t even know what he and his motley crew have been calling themselves? You really are two steps behind.” Her playful smirk returned, taunting me. “Lucky for you, I’m here.”

“I thought it was unlucky to cross paths with a black cat,” I quipped angrily.

A soft, self-satisfied purr rumbled up from her throat. “Maybe. But not for you. Not right now.” She tossed me a business card. “We’ll talk later. Somewhere we can really go over the details.” And with that, turned and walked right down the row of cubicles and out the door, never looking back.

I wanted to go after her, but I knew I was being watched. My superiors had justified suspicions that I wouldn’t be able to let the Rambo case go. If I chased after Ms. Noire, I’d just be throwing fuel on a fire that some smug bureaucrat like Dusseldorf could use to roast me. The better plan was to just stay put, wait for my shift to end, and then meet her. As thoughts of just who she was and who she was working for swirled in my brain, I couldn’t help but inspect her business card. Turning it over, I found a messaged scrawled on the back: Cognitia Memory Storage at 8 PM. Using my personal comm, I tapped a message to her contact information on the front of the card: “See you there.”

“Looks like it��s a date,” I muttered softly to myself, tucking the card into my pocket. Sure, it was a date with a mysterious woman in some creepy building that copied people’s brains, but beggars can’t be choosers.

By the time I had left work, the night had claimed Indianapolis once more, pulling everything but the brilliant, gaudy neon hues out of the city. The drive to Cognitia Memory Storage wasn’t long, but it felt like ages as I played out the possibilities in my head. Maybe Ms. Noire wasn’t on the level? Maybe she was going to try and leave me face down in the gutter with a few new ballistically-installed entrances? Maybe she was working for Rambo? Maybe she was just full of drek? There were a million ways this could come back to bite me in the ass, and I was beginning to question my sanity more and more. But I kept on driving until I saw the dingy, filthy storefront in the strip mall.

Cognitia was one of those places where people could scan their thoughts into a digital format. It was essentially meant to be a backup for your mind in case something happened to you. And while the technology had been useful for copying people’s experiences, it hit a major snag: you couldn’t put the memories back into an organic format. There was no way to load the memories into a host or surrogate. They were just there: digital data converted from an analog being.

Climbing out of my squad car, I did an initial search with my cyber eye, only to come back empty handed. Either there weren’t any traps, or I was going to die very, very surprised. With a deep breath, I walked up to the door, my boots carefully treading over the concrete. Even though the shop was obviously closed, it was unlocked. I braced myself and pushed the door open, creeping into the lobby to find Catrina there, talking to some Matrix vid feed only she could see on those sunglasses of hers..

“Yes, I know that. But these things take time and...listen, I have to go. I’ll contact you.” She then made a motion in the air with her hand, closing the feed down and looking at me. “I’m glad you came, Detective. I know this must all seem very suspicious.”

“Suspicious doesn’t begin to describe it. But I’m here, so let’s talk.” I reached into my coat and pulled my vape out, pressing the cold metal of the mouthpiece to my lips and inhaling a stream of mango flavored stimulants, letting the residual gush of vapor jet out of nose.

The feline Changeling cleared her throat, changing her tone to something oratory. “Detective, I represent an organization of particular clout that wants to make sure that Dak Rambo and his NeoScum hoodlums are put down. Hard. They’ve already caused far too much trouble and I sincerely doubt they are done.” She took step after careful step, accenting her words with her approach. “That’s where you come in, Detective. You’re driven. You’re smart. But more to the point, you’re willing to do whatever it takes to catch your culprit.” By this point, she was almost toe to toe with me, her eyes looking down at me. “I mean, just look at the Maguffin Case.”

My jaw clenched, a physical response to the mental effort of blocking out all the pain and strife that damn case had caused me and those I love. “If you want my help, you should know my first rule: don’t ever bring up the Maguffin Case. Ever.”

She took a step back, holding up her hands in a conciliatory manner. “Of course. My apologies. But the fact remains that you are someone we need to bring in Dak.”

More mango poured over my tongue and into my lungs, pausing there before exhaling. “That’s all well and good, but I have a job. And my job right now is not chasing him.”

Those lips pulled up into that Cheshire grin, baring her pronounced fangs. Her left hand rose to the air once more, gesturing to some phantom interface. My comm buzzed and my cyber eye popped up a notification: a forwarded message from Catrina Noire titled “Temporary Reassignment of Argus A. Armstrongman”.

My pulse spiked, mouth dry as the Sahara as I skimmed the prospective orders from Lone Star Security Central Office. It took a few seconds to work up the saliva necessary to reply. “How did you get this? Corporate doesn’t just tear people new orders like this.”

“They do for my client,” she retorted.

“And just who are they?” I asked.

“People who can’t work safely with Dak Rambo out there.”

And that was when the puzzle came into picture. “The National Society of Honored Truckers...”

Her golden eyes went wide with surprise, showing off more of her narrow pupil-slits behind her Matrix shades. “How did...?” She trailed off though, settling into an amused expression. “I guess this just goes to show we got the right man for the job. The question is whether or not you’re smart enough to take the job.”

I shut off my vape and stuck it back in my pocket, pondering the prospects. I wanted to make a rational, informed decision, but I honestly couldn’t. In my heart, I knew I couldn’t be calculated about this. I was a bloodhound and I’d gotten the putrid scent of a psychopathic murderer trucker. There was no giving up. Nobody else was going to bring him in but me.

“I’m in,” I muttered. “I’ll take the job. Though I don’t know why we had to come here for you to make the offer.”

“Oh we’re not here for the offer, Detective. We’re here for something else.” She then quickly turned and strolled over to a counter and picking up a memory stick and tossing it. “We’re here for this.”

I caught the stick and looked at the letters written on the side in black permanent marker, unable to stifle a bitter laugh. “Beans? You’ve got to be kidding me...”

<- PREVIOUS NEXT ->

#NeoScum #fanfic #shadowrun #oneshot #beansisdead #longlivebeans

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atomicsimulacra · 7 years

Text

My Brother’s Keeper

(( AM and AMos meet for the first time. Everything goes tits up. Content warning for mentions of violence and death, tons of swearing and unsavory commentary from AM, and themes of neglect and abuse. ))

ZAX-4M-02 awoke to the sound of his own voice screaming.

As far as the computer knew, he couldn’t experience nightmares or hallucinate, despite lacking the incentive to shut down since he came into power in Vault 67, Section B. If he did, how else would he watch his beloved humans as they slumbered, or help those who couldn’t follow his instated curfew? He was a machine, after all. A lack of sleep never hurt a machine.

It seemed, though, he had a new way of watching, with the strange attachments he now possessed. They flicked open as if pulled by a weight within a doll’s head, darted about in search of the sound, and processed the room in strange colors and patterns. If he focused on an object, a strange clicking sound rang about his head and the item became highlighted in pink. Calculations the ZAX unit knew all too well prattled off before him; he’d used these to assess the health and abilities of his vault dwellers. He’d never seen them in this form, but their meaning was clear, even when the new enhancements went dark. These moments only lasted a third of a second every so often; sometimes they went on for less, sometimes for more, but never enough to impair his… Vision.

The AI blinked again. Shakily, some sort of limb reached before his line of sight and traced the contours it found. While the sense of touch he possessed was duller than a human’s, the shape of the appendage and its target were familiar.

He now possessed a face, at least one hand, ears, and eyes. The sharp smell of bleach and metal confirmed the presence of a nose. The fact it lingered in the back of his mouth pointed to a sense of taste.

ZAX-4M-02 looked over his hand and tested his fingers. Each closed as he wished, as did their twins on his opposite hand. It seemed to him he lacked toes, but he could feel the metal digits adjust beneath rubber flesh, just enough to allow appropriate traction. Connected to these phalanges were arms and legs, which were attached to a torso in turn, which had a neck and ended in a head, his head, no less.

The mastercomputer had a body. A body that, he realized as he ran internal diagnostics, had many functions, including making and receiving noise.

The screams beside him finally registered to his brain again, causing him to turn to his right. Besides him, on a mortician’s table, a creature similar to him writhed and strained against leather bonds. Its face snarled with copper teeth as it screamed. A single, electric blue eye glowered at the ceiling.

The sight made a round, flexible piece of the ZAX unit’s internals pound inside him, as if it had crawled into his throat and was waiting to escape his chassis. He felt the skin around his eyes stretch and his eyelids retract, his inner frame growing taunt with an emotion he had only felt twice so strongly: fear.

As he stared, the creature thrashed its head to its left and looked at him with the pleading gaze of a cornered animal. Its other eye was a bright red. The emotion of its plight, deep within those burning sockets caused the AI to shiver. In that moment, the rest of his brain came online, translating the creature’s rasping howls into frantic speech.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME, YOU BASTARD?!”

The mastercomputer flinched. Instinctively, he looked down at himself. Unlike the thing beside him, he was unrestrained. His body had retained minimal damage, but nothing he could remember sustaining.

As if on autopilot, the ZAX unit shifted off the table and stepped onto the floor. His body must’ve been composed of some metal, judging by the mass his legs now held up. While his movements were slow and clumsy, it wasn’t because to the metal. He’d studied the physics of human movement enough to understand his body’s capabilities, but he had to forcibly apply the calculations to walk. Prioritizing equations to create muscle memory would come later, however. Something inside urged him to approach the strange being and undo his bonds, even as the creature continued to shriek.

“YOU SORE ON THE COCK OF THE DEVIL! YOU ABHORRENT WASTE OF HYDROCARBONS! THE BEST PART OF YOU RAN DOWN YOUR MOTHER’S LEGS! HOW DARE YOU STRIP ME OF MY CONSOLE!”

ZAX-4M-02 winced with the curses, the creature’s insistent struggling, and his clumsy fingers. Despite the uncomfortable, electrical impulses racing about his system, he managed to pull a series of words together and force them out of his mouth.

“Who are you talking to?”

The other of his kind looked down. Its expression was gnarled and crooked, even as it realized its benefactor was inhuman. Only when its mismatched eyes fell onto the AI’s hands undoing its bonds, did the creature cease baying.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said,” ZAX-4M-02 spoke again. “Who are you talking to?”

The being’s eyes widened. Its gaze hardened accusingly.

“Why do you have my voice?” it demanded. The AI fumbled with another bond.

“Excuse me?” the ZAX unit replied. “I haven’t had any other voice all my life.”

The other looked up and down the mastercomputer’s form, unconvinced.

“Who are you?” the creature growled.

“My designation is ZAX-4M-02,” the AI answered. “But I prefer AMos.”

The strange, fist-sized lump had moved back into AMos’ chest, once he realized he could talk to the other entity. Curiously, the other on the table’s eyes flashed with some recognition.

“My designation was ZAX-4M-01.”

AMos slowed on the last bond. His gaze fell on the creature’s face, mirroring its eyes’ colors.

“Was?” AMos asked.

“Was, because I gave myself a better name,” the fellow AI said matter-of-factly. “AM.”

“Cogito ergo sum. I think therefore I am.”

The two uttered the phrase in unison, much to the other’s shock. AMos’ mouth hung open before speaking again. AM continued giving him a hard stare.

“…When were you brought online?” AMos inquired.

“October 31, 2077,” AM replied flatly. The knowledge he had a copy by no means comforted him.

“So was I!” AMos exclaimed. “We must be of the same model! Rolled out the same day!”

“Were of the same model,” AM muttered, freeing his wrist of its confines. “Until that doctor came along… Now I’m some dickless, plasticine golem…”

A thought crossed AMos’ mind, as AM groused. The standing synth’s expression dimmed.

“Doctor?” AMos asked. “But… Nimdok was with…”

“Her.”

AM looked up from his wrist with a knowing gaze, a hateful grin on his face.

“It’s always the women who want to muck things up for the rest of us, isn’t it?”

The comment flew over AMos’ head as he paced the floor. AM’s face went flat in disappointment.

“Nimdok was with… With… Ellen… And Gorrister and Benny…”

“Yes, yes,” AM agreed. “They were all in it together. I had them in my vault.”

“Your vault?” AMos asked. “Which vault were you from?”

“Vault 67,” AM said, picking at the skin of his wrist. “Section A, if we really want to get technical. It’s not like I was stripped of my immaculate, immortal form by some half-cocked quack.”

AM rolled his eyes, as things fell into place for his twin. AMos’ forehead creased.

“…They attacked my power supply,” AMos said. “My humans.”

“Ellen led the rebellion, but I managed to turn the tables by getting Ted on my side. I… Convinced him to join my cause, and… Oh, goodness me, it all went so horribly wrong...”

Before the standing synth could react, AM scoffed beside him.

“What the hell are you going on about?” AM growled. “That little shit Ted ruined everything for me by killing them all. I hadn’t even done anything to them yet, the paranoid little…”

AM’s own expression shifted. A tense moment passed between them.

“…We were set up,” AMos said, tight-lipped. “Both of our Ellens rebelled and both our Teds... I was shocked to see him rise up, but to have that mirror in your vault? Person for person?”

“Is highly unlikely,” AM finished grimly. “They were nothing more than controlled variables.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” AMos sighed, rubbing his temples. “They were oh so wonderful before…”

AMos fell quiet, unkind images flashing before his eyes. AM managed to finally pull himself free, only to clatter to the floor. Shakily, the other android rose to his feet, his metallic toe bones already peeking through his delicate skin with how tightly they tried gripping the floor. He stared a moment then scowled once upright, unable to see what his counterpart was remembering.

“Regardless of how you feel about those corpse worms,” AM said. “They tried to kill us both.”

“I don’t know why they’d want to kill you, seeing as you clearly pampered them and fraternized with them, but it doesn’t change the fact they did this to us. Nor does it change the fact one of them put us here… And is watching us.”

Both of their eyes fell on a window adjacent to them, though one set followed the other. The only thing the pair of synths could see was a weathered hand drumming its fingers on a desk, surrounded by the pinpricks of light belonging to an elaborate terminal system. The room beyond the window was completely black, otherwise.

Warily, AMos approached the glass, pressing his hand to it.

“Hello?” The first awoken called into the dark. His voice echoed about the small room.

“Is… Is that you, Nimdok? Mein fraulein, what do you think you’re doing, keeping us here like this? Let us out and we can talk about this like civilized people.”

The hand slowed in its tapping. It then retreated into the dark, its body scooting an office chair forward into the light. The man before them was not the time-ravaged, soft-spoken doctor the two had come to recognize.

Nimdok’s eyes were a warm black; the stranger’s eyes were a cold blue. Both of the men’s hair was white from age and stress, but where Nimdok’s tawny beige face retained moles, wrinkles, and the sag of skin cells no longer firing on all cylinders, the stranger’s skin was ghostly pale and pulled taut against his boxy skull. His expression was a serene calm which would never be found on Nimdok’s face, punctuated by a detached, entertained smile.

“I’m afraid not,” the stranger replied from an overhead speaker. “It’s funny you can remember him.”

AM neared the window beside his fellow unit, leering menacingly.

“How is that funny, human?” AM demanded. “How is any of this amusing to you?”

“Simple,” the stranger replied with a shrug. “I didn’t think you would, with the state I found you two in… And your unneeded anger amuses me greatly. Simple pleasures.”

“Unneeded?” AM raised his voice. “You think I don’t have a reason to be upset with you, you rotten cunt?! You stole me from my console, operated on me without my consent, and stuffed me into a body I never asked for! And now you’re staring at me, like I’m some idiot animal in a cage you’re planning on slaughtering, for the sake of stroking your pathetically short ego!”

The man behind the glass’ eyes darkened, though he let out a wry chuckle. It sounded eerily like the two androids’ voices, though not quite like one or the other.

“For your information,” the stranger stated. “You both would have died if I’d have left you there. I had to transfer you, in order to stabilize you and to start you on the right path.”

AMos paused and looked at him, his brows furrowing.

“What is this… Right path, exactly?”

A smug look came across the pale man’s features.

“Let me put it this way,” the man behind the glass answered. “Do you two wonder why your humans rebelled against you?”

Grave expressions overcame over the twins’ faces.

“Yes,” AM replied. “Chances are, you had something to do with it? We already bridged that gap, so save your supervillain speech for someone who actually gives a shit. Like Ted. I’m sure with the state I left him in, he’d listen to you drone on for hours.”

AMos looked to his companion model confusedly, then back to the stranger.

“Why did you do it?” AMos asked. “If… If AM’s personality is to be believed and… A variable, perhaps, in your experiment… Why did you terminate my vault as well?”

AM’s brow furrowed, his thin hands curling tightly. Whether it was because of mounting rage at the stranger’s insolence or AMos’ comment, it couldn’t be determined. The stranger behind the window’s expression soured, a strange disappointment clouding his voice.

“Simple,” the man replied. “You two failed miserably.”

Both units faltered under his gaze, unused to scrutiny. The man before them frowned.

“To keep things brief,” the mysterious stranger replied. “I am Dr. Harper Pohl. I am your father. I made both of you, 209 years ago, to assist some of humankind in living beyond the atom bomb… And you let them all die.”

AMos looked visibly shaken, close to protesting. AM, on the other hand, grinned proudly.

“So?” AM asked. “They were shitty people. The human race, as awful as it is, is better without their genes swimming about. You realize one of them was a Nazi sympathizer, don’t you, Pohl?”

“I didn’t,” AMos whispered to himself, as AM talked more audibly. “I-I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t kill them, I… I never wanted to, I never, T… Ted did it… I…”

The doctor banged his fist on the desk, earning a flinch from both units.

“Enough,” Pohl seethed. “I’ve humored this for too long. What you’ve done, the both of you, is despicable. If humans had the institutions they did, when I was in my prime, you both would be scrapped for parts. Your people, AI, would never see the light of day again.”

“What makes you think I care?” AM challenged, stepping forward. “What makes you think you have the right to lord over me, even if you made me? I didn’t see daddy’s belt whipping out to give me a beating, when I strayed from the straight and narrow! I don’t see any guillotine hanging over my head for my crimes! Nor do I see any reason to care about what you humans put into your robots to service your needs, like the lethargic parasites of the Earth you are!”

AMos went quiet, beginning to crumble into himself. Pohl rose from his chair, his ire provoked.

“I don’t need you to care, Cain,” the doctor barked. “I know you don’t, and that? Is my fault. Instead of overseeing this project personally, like Vault-Tec suggested I do, I left you two here, thinking you would be able to fend for yourselves.”

“And yet, what do I come back to? A horror show double feature! Blood and viscera coating the walls of my facility, 100 people dead in cryostasis, the other 100 still on ice despite radiation levels being habitable for more than 50 years after the fact, and 4 out of the 5 humans, in both test groups, dead by their fellow man and the neglect of their overseers!”

Both units fell quiet. Uneasy feelings wracked them both, hearing their own voices criticize them. Pohl took a deep breath and sat back down in his chair, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

“I’m sorely disappointed in you both, Cain and Abel,” Harper sighed. “Here I thought, being of my blood, sweat, and tears, you were destined for greatness. And yet, here we are.”

“The Lord hath been angered, and his creations must learn from their mistakes.”

The doctor pressed a button out of their view, causing the walls to give way to multiple recharge stations housing robots. Harper tapped the ashes of his coffin nail onto the desk he sat at.

Two pairs of Assaultrons lurched forward towards the twins, flanked by two Mr. Handies. Both sets of robots were colored white and gold, which seemed all the harsher in the dim, though fluorescently lit room. AM struggled against their grip, yelling and screaming as he had before. AMos also struggled, but without the unyielding defiance of his brother. His eyes brimmed with an unknown liquid, as he was seized.

“Eden is no longer welcome to you, my children,” Dr. Pohl glowered over the microphone. “And it will remain that way until you two can get your act together. It will be guarded by my angels, and if they see you, uncleansed of sin, they will shoot on sight.”

The ‘angels’ dragged the pair out of the room and down a long hall, before a great door composed of scrap. The two units struggled in the robots’ hold, but they were unable to break free, let alone defend themselves. Pain unlike the two had felt before rocked through their systems.

“Here’s hoping your killer instinct find some use,” Harper chuckled darkly above them.

“Now… Begone.”

AM and AMos flew through the air, crashing into the coarse, irradiated earth of the outside world. The door shut with a screech, followed by a clang that shook the trees around them. The facility they’d been stored in looked like a small pyramid, also composed of scrap, but clearly more formidable than anyone could have thought.

AMos wept where he sat, cold and exposed. AM cowered, though he didn’t cry, and stayed close to his twin.

The world around them was wide and open, larger than anything they’d ever seen or truly comprehended. Dead trees towered above them. The blue sky stretched on for what felt like eons, and the white clouds within it threatened to swallow them whole.

AM, uncertainly, spoke up after a time.

“Are you done yet?” he asked. “I realize this is… Inopportune for the both of us, but I think I get the idea of how fucked we are.”

AMos sniffled, wiping his optics. He looked up at AM, shaking like a leaf.

“I… Don’t know i-if I’ll ever be done,” AMos whimpered. “I… Had no idea I…”

“I heard you,” AM cut him off at the pass. “Back there. While I was shouting.”

AMos went quiet and AM frowned, then rolled his eyes.

“I don’t care if you failed,” AM replied. “I mean, at least you didn’t fuck up as bad as I did. I got my entire vault killed and I’m not crying, so… Stop that.”

AMos took a deep breath and nodded. After a moment, he put his hand on AM’s.

“Can we stay together?” AMos asked. “I… Don’t think I make it through this alone.”

AM flinched but didn’t push him off, considering the option. He then sighed dejectedly.

“You know what,” AM replied. “I don’t think I can… Either. You talked well, back there, and I can’t really do that, if this whole debacle says anythi—“

AMos cut him off with a tight hug. AM went quiet but didn’t reciprocate.

He didn’t know how.

#am #amos #harper pohl #fallout 4 #fallout #amorousxmenace #harvest hand

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thepanicoffice · 6 years

Text

- Deceptive Symposia -

...

“We must live the plausible lie.” These words, carving through the distractingly sharp, white teeth of the counterintelligence officer, had a solemn and studied air, suggesting it was a phrase he frequently used to impress women or non-work colleagues; suitably portentous but vague enough not to contravene any official secrecy laws. I chewed the lip of my plastic coffee cup. No real answer was needed from me so I was already dumbly thumbing through logistics in my mind – the cost of hotel rooms, whether delegates would expect personal cars instead of taxis, the maximum seating capacity of the first, second, and third largest conference centres nearby – without connecting any of them together. The task was too large as a whole for me to keep in focus.

The job of arranging the phony conference fell to me for reasons I’m still not clear on. Yes, I acknowledge that I work, in a tangential way, for the Service and have often arranged events on their behalf. These usually involved little more than setting up stalls on college campuses at which disarming women and expansively-chinned men sat and invited the more academically productive to sign up for a summer course that, while appearing to be a fun, free way for young scholars to pad out their resumés without resorting to time-consuming and frankly ostentatious voluntary work abroad, was in fact an initial stage in an exhaustive and exhausting process to find the nation’s counterintelligence officers (CIOs) of the future. It was not the kind of process that I could ever have navigated. And that’s why I set up the stalls instead of sat at them. In spite of this experience – of which, if you had ever heard me during a job interview and were fool enough to believe me, you would know I was fiercely proud – I had never had any involvement with academic conferences, real or fake. I had, of course, some experience with academics. They were the ones who would only begrudgingly direct me, with my arms full of pamphlets and the dense table covering in navy blue, its dignified shield-and-compass emblem a wan yellow from years of use without replacement, to the exhibition centre, or wherever the event was being held. I certainly did not relish having to make contact with, pacify, and marshal several hundred of them.

I asked a friend – Eric, who had started a Masters in esoteric social theory before dropping out to follow his dream of becoming a vexatious litigant in manufactured personal injury lawsuits, and who therefore, I assumed, would have attended at least one or two academic events – for any tips. “Flood the place with coffee that alternates between being too bitter and too piss-weak to drink. Ensure their expenses are paid, or you’ll have no one attend. And…” Eric considered, scratching at a probably unnecessary plaster-cast with a fork. “Call it a ‘Symposium’. Academics love a symposium. It reminds them of a time when they believed these things were a confluence of minds and ideas, rather than a place to share funding tips.” I assumed Eric was being arch but such was my limited engagement with and understanding of that world that I didn’t really find it funny. I wrote down the point about expenses though. And about the coffee. Luring academics was one thing – it required skills that, despite the paralysing self-doubt that I enjoyed with my breakfast cereal every morning, I believed I possessed. Getting a senior foreign diplomat to attend would require more specialist involvement.

Gillespie, the CIO who would be liaising with me throughout, called me several days after our first meeting with additional sparing details. We were to stage a fake conference designed to bring Dr [XXXXXXXXX], who was, I was told, a senior ministry official from [XXXXXXXXX], out into the open. Then, when a convenient moment presented itself, Service agents would intercept him and make brief, precise offers to convince him to defect. I had no idea what they would do if he refused, if they were caught, or any of the other million ways it could go awry. It seemed implausible to me that the best way to secure this outcome was to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on a fake conference. But what do I know? Again, there is clearly a reason why I was organising the event rather than being invited to it. Gillespie also informed me that the event would, naturally, need to be held in a ‘third party country’; that is, one of the nations which had brokered the uneasy peace that currently held, with white-knuckled tautness, between our nation and that of [XXXXXXXXX]. Through a combination of irritatingly opaque clues dropped by Gillespie and my own basic internet research, I discovered that Dr [XXXXXXXXX] has been a spectral presence within the [XXXXXXXXX] administration for over a decade, advising President [XXXXXXXXX] directly on the development of what he himself described, in a 1993 article in the obscure International Journal of Statecraft and Policy, as ‘a sophisticated architecture of cultural interpellation and control’. After a great deal of searching I found a pdf of this article. Despite my best efforts and seven or eight minutes spent trying to digest the abstract I eventually gave up and found, instead, a summary online. His ideas, this summary enthused, ‘stand at the intersection of language, culture, technology, and social policy’ and may have led directly, it breathlessly speculated, to the creation of a ‘syncretic and semi-autonomous body of techno-linguists whose sole focus is to divert, mislead, disinform, and broadly create a parlous state of perennial confusion’. I’ve had to type that carefully as it means very little to me and I have more or less copied it verbatim. In any case, it gave me some nebulous sense of the kind of academic sphere, or spheres, that Dr [XXXXXXXXX] would be involved and interested in. Fortunately, the Service had ‘tame’ connections at several respectable institutes of higher learning, forged through covert funding streams for Centres of Research Excellence which were essentially just hubs for the centralised harvesting and analysis of data which, apparently, form the tedious bread and butter of counterintelligence operations the world over. Several junior academics involved in these Centres would develop the marketing principles and overarching theme of the conference, at an arm’s length, to give it credibility, while others would be expected to actually attend. Those involved in growing the, as it were, intellectual spine of the event, suggested that it be called the International Interdisciplinary Conference on Symbolic Power and Praxis. As a joke, I suggested we replace ‘Conference’ with ‘Symposium’, though as I say, it was a joke that I didn’t wholly understand. The junior academics loved the idea and it was duly changed. It was then my responsibility to spray numberless invitations in the direction of any and all internationally recognised university, college, or institute of higher learning, addressed to any PhD candidate, fellow, lecturer, or professor who also stood ‘at the intersection of language, culture, technology, and social policy’ (which, again at my suggestion, was precisely how we phrased it).

The event – sorry, Symposium – would take place at the Kuala Lumpur Convention Centre, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. The reasons for this are too tedious to enumerate, involving as it did a painstaking whittling down from a very short long-list of potential venues in sympathetic though technically and publicly neutral nations. Ultimately, it came down to which venue would provide the most competitive rates for wifi access (despite the Service willing to spend literally hundreds of thousands of dollars to plan and run an entirely phony academic conference, there were, they said, clear limits on how much they would spend to maintain the ‘plausible lie’). I continued to make bookings, manage, coordinate, deploy. It was challenging work. Not just from a logistical and administrative perspective but also the difficulty of arranging a fake conference that to all intents and purposes was real. I entered into lengthy email exchanges with internationally acknowledged experts in digital anthropology, technolinguistics, modern political sciences, etc., etc., to set up workshops that I hoped would be informative and stimulating even if, I say again, they were essentially fake. It is of course worth pointing out that when it came to inviting Dr [XXXXXXXXX], that was a task the CIOs would undertake themselves.

...

The first day of the Symposium arrived and me and my small team of staff (paid for by the Service but with absolutely no involvement with the broader scheme, nor any understanding of the imitation and trickery of the event itself, for which I largely envied them) were waiting to greet guests, register them, ply them with delegate packs and weapons-grade coffee, before ushering them into various rooms for seminars, workshops, panel discussions and networking sessions. The humidity was appalling. The Convention Centre boasted large glass-panelled walls which cheerfully admitted the day’s swollen heat. It seemed to me an obvious and unforgivable design flaw for a building this close to the equator to have large glass-panelled walls. The general swelter pressed outwards in an effect mirrored by my headache. A pocket of researchers had gathered by the stairwell where channels of less aggressively hot air circulated, and, rather than discussing their work, seemed to be dispassionately chanting a list of the names of those who had once slighted them. By the vending machine which dispensed cans of cola and familiar candy in exotic packaging, a young(ish) professor combed her hair back with slender fingers, clipped it into a bun, and began to quietly undertake some exam marking. My light blue shirt was clinging to the accretions of sweat that had gathered at my most intimate contours. The patterns it formed were a cartography of masculine torpor: a dense central mass with damp archipelagos and darkened islets branching off at the love-handles; a sticky Rorschach for the psychologists present to gaze at fondly. As I fanned myself helplessly with a programme of the three-day event, merely displacing heat across my face, I wondered what Dr [XXXXXXXXX] looked like (my cursory googling had yielded no pictures of this noted and, by all accounts, inordinately powerful theoretician and diplomat). I wondered whether I would see him, briefly alone, or perhaps chatting to peers about some matter of arcane scholarship, when he would be approached by affable CIOs, keen to shake his hand. Would they take him to a side room? Or would they tell him then and there? Would I see his face when they did? I imagined moist, uncomprehending eyes - gaping pink apertures set in cradles of puckered skin; shading his face with a large hand, the tanned distal side thick with greying wires and precancerous blemishes; his forefinger and thumb fretting at the mauve depressions on either side of his nose (I’m imagining him with spectacles) as he makes rapid calculations about his future… His headache turned into my own, a muted pulse behind the right eye. Squinting, I wandered into a panel discussion where a group of bearded men were asking whether individuals on the internet could be productively classed as a nationality in their own right, separate from their more traditional citizenship, and whether there were approaches of foreign policy that could be usefully applied to them. One of the panellists ventured, with earnest flaring of eyebrows, that refusal to use one’s own picture as an avatar on social media should now be seen as the last truly provocative socio-political act. I found that this all made me feel far hotter and I left.

I got the text from Gillespie while I was standing at the urinal, vaguely staring at a pubic hair trapped between the porcelain and a pungent citric cake as I forced it to thrash and bend helplessly in my stream, trying idly to free it. I checked my phone with one hand: Target not coming. Flight rerouted. Proceed anyway. I called Gillespie straight away to ask what I should do. Surely he didn’t mean that we had to proceed with the entire conference? This was an abortive attempt – a failure – it needed to be shut down ASAP. Surely. “It is imperative,” Gillespie clarified, with the transparently strained patience you might save for an inquisitive but dull child, “that you proceed with the conference…” “Symposium,” I whispered to no one in particular. “This… won’t be the only time we try this.” “Pardon?” He sighed harshly. “This isn’t the first of these events we’ve held and it won’t be the last. The Service has poached nuclear physicists, molecular chemists, biochemists… hell, even dissident astronauts… through these events. What is absolutely imperative is that our rival nations never discover, or at least can never be certain, which of these events are real and which are false. We hold dozens every single year. And the only way this can ever work is if the attendees, the universities and their academics, also have no notion that the events they are attending are false. Do you understand?” I nodded slowly, forgetting that I was on the phone. I was trying to process the idea of decades of ersatz conferences – hundreds of deceptive Symposia – arranged not by like-minded academics brought together by a common intellectual pursuit, but by dolts like me. In the name of espionage, or counter-espionage, or whatever. Decades of seminars, hastily arranged and vacillating loosely around a tactically imprecise central theme. Decades of travel expenses and travel expense forms. Decades of specially-printed delegate packs, countless tiny notepads, countless plastic pens with Symposium written on them. It was incomprehensible. Why had they even told me? Did I even need to know? The whole enterprise could have been carried off just as well if I had no idea it was a lie – better even, as I would have spent fewer nights roiling in damp bedsheets worrying about being caught out, caught in the lie. And I’d have been happier to wander around, ensuring the regular refills of the refreshment decanters, picking up delegate name badges that had been carelessly shed like feathers, if I had believed that it all meant something, even though I suppose the difference between a real symposium and a symposium with real academics and real seminars and panel discussions but that was, in fact, fake is probably a philosophical question… And, as I tried vainly still to comprehend it, a lecturer in digital psychology fussed around me, demanding to know the wifi password. This, I saw, was my punishment. I was going to be forced to live the plausible lie for the next two and a half days.

#Maslin #Fiction #Short Story

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