Attached"What would you do if I was shot?" 300 asked innocuously.
250 stopped, one foot on the staircase, and eyed his partner. It had been a long day of cat and mouse with Niels, and 300 was sprawled on his back across the sofa, lounging. His jacket was open, stylishly framing a long expanse of crisp white shirt. One foot dangled off the edge of the couch to graze the ground. He gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, head tilted just so.
If 250 didn't know the man so well, he could've believed that this was a genuinely innocent question - mere curiosity. But there was something calculated to way 300 had draped himself across the couch. 250 furrowed his brow, unsure of what sort of game they were playing. "You really have to ask?" he droned, stepping down from the staircase and resting his folded arms on the back of the sofa.
300 shrugged, knitting his hands on top of his stomach. "I was just wondering."
250 cocked an eyebrow. "Why? You plan on getting shot sometime soon?"
"Of course not," 300 sco
Make Yourself Useful250 sighed noisily and fwumped yet another stack of clothes on the counter. A freshly pressed dress shirt stared up at him from the top of the pile, buttons winking in the light. 250 eyed the offending article of clothing before shooting a sharp look at its offending owner. As usual, 300 sat in his favorite armchair, legs crossed, a newspaper open. He looked the picture of a 1950s sitcom father. 250 huffed and crossed his arms behind the counter.
The newspaper twitched. 300 looked up. "Is something wrong?"
250 frowned. Normally, 300's refusal to help around the house wasn't a real issue - more like something to be thrown in the Scot's face periodically, just to remind him who did the actual work when the day was done. But today, 250 had cleaned the entire house top to bottom: dusting, sweeping, wiping, scrubbing, even vacuuming and mopping; from bedrooms to bathrooms to kitchen to basement. And 250 could have tolerated doing all that by himself - it was, after all, his house, and it ne
What It TookHe sat hunched over in the hard plastic chair, covering his face with his hands. The hurried footsteps of doctors and nurses on the other side of the door and the indistinct voices over the PA system created a counterpoint to his racing heart. The fear hadn't abated since Gyldensted had fired that shot yesterday morning.
Remarkable, really, how focused he'd been through the fear focused enough to take out Gyldensted and four of his men and get 250 out of there alive. Alive oh God They'd rushed 250 into surgery as soon they'd arrived at the hospital the medical team had been waiting, of course the Boss had alerted them but that felt like an eternity ago, and no one was telling him anything.
He stood and started pacing the quiet hall where they'd told him to wait. He had no idea what the Boss had said so the medical staff would let him stay, but he was grateful for it. It was better to feel helpless and terrified here, where he'd hear right away if anyth
Ghosts Of The PastLuther got out of the car, clutching a bouquet of flowers with one hand.
He then walked slowly to the cemetery, a sombre look attached on his face,
as he walked towards the older parts of the cemetery, he sighed to himself
over what he was doing.
"It's ridiculous," he thought to himself. "I should really let go, but I can't.
It feels like a hundred years already."
He walked slowly through the cemetery, the silence and darkness provided a familiar
background for his night time excursion. He then moved towards a set of tombstones,
scanning them for a particular name, before he found out.
Eleanor Bethel, it read, Born 1900, died 1978. Beloved daughter, wife, mother, and grandmother.
Luther placed the bouquet in front of the tombstone, and sighed. "I miss you, Ellie.
It's hard being alone in the darkness. I don't know why I keep on doing this, but...
I guess it's really hard letting go."
As he started to walk away from the tombstone, he heard someone clearing their throat.
That First Night"I sleep in the nude." Agent 300 walked around the living room, taking in his surroundings. Agent 250 stared after him, unsure of how to react. If it had been anyone else saying that, he'd have known exactly what it meant. But 300 was the last person he expected to say something like that 300 wouldn't notice a come-on from a man if it bit him on the lip, and 250 could attest to that personally. But the way 300 had smiled when he said it
Well, it's not like I can do anything about it anyway, 250 thought ruefully, not with this gaping hole in my stomach. And that was another thing that was confusing the hell out of him when he'd woken up in the hospital, 300 had been sitting right next to him, holding his hand. And he didn't leave his side the whole time 250 was in the hospital. For 250, who'd been silently in love with his work partner for months, it felt like a gift from heaven, and he didn't question it. The situation wasn't exactly conducive to in-depth discussion
Wicker Chronicles When the pastry shop opened up next door, well, that’s what did it. The Cakers left a box of iced strudels on the porch as a neighborly gift and, to Mr. Wicker—the world’s most devoted hater of sweet things—it was a call for war. While I sat on a stool eating the cherry-centered strudel of the bunch, he put together a concoction of his strangest ingredients and packed it all into a reeking glass bottle. I was munching on the lemon-centered strudel and watching from the attic when he threw the bottle in their open window and absconded indoors.
The more righteous people in town were always ashamed that a curse-maker lived in the city limits and sold his ill-will to others. When I do the shopping every week, at least one of them asks me if Wicker’s gone broke yet and I tell them straight-faced that he most certainly hasn’t, because whether they like it or not lots
BlockageThe worst punishment for a writer is the inability to write. This man knows the feeling well. He feels that urge to create something – but what? A sudden idea and he scrambles for a pen but just as he grabs it, the idea is gone. He sits there, pen poised over paper, trying desperately to remember what it was. It’s there - it’s still there, he just can’t grasp it.
He lets out a frustrated sound, throwing the pen down. Is this it then, he wonders? Has he finally reached the end of his creativity? It’s been some time that he’s managed to write anything. He yearns to create a piece so beautiful that people will be blown away in amazement but as days go by without any ideas, he begins to lose hope. He struggles to believe that he could ever be capable of something worthy of others’ love. He doesn’t believe he’s capable of waking the dreams buried deep inside him that he’s had since childhood.
He feels the creativity slipping away.