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
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.