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.Make Yourself Useful in General Fiction More Like This
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
Attached"What would you do if I was shot?" 300 asked innocuously.Attached in Romance More Like This
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
Old Broken Heart250 gazed wearily at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. With a sigh, he prodded the weathered lines in his face with a finger, his eyes drifting to his receding hairline. His graying hairline.Old Broken Heart in Drama More Like This
He thunked his forehead against the mirror and sighed again. God, he felt so old. He was still muscular, still in shape, but fatigue seemed to settle further in his bones during every idle moment. When he called for his body to work, it worked, but how much longer would that last? Every step was a chance for some joint to creak, every stretch a chance to agitate a scar. Today he was being plagued by a mild headache that made him dizzy when he turned too fast and heartburn turning his chest into a pressure cooker. Tomorrow it could be arthritis or something worse for all he knew.
With a final, heavy sigh, he shuffled out of the bathroom and down the stairs. 300 was already awake, seated on the sofa with his usual newspaper. The question was out before 250 could consider its consequences:
Old Broken Heart, Pt. IIAs it turns out, the next time 250 ends up in the hospital, there's no relationship upgrade.Old Broken Heart, Pt. II in Drama More Like This
They all agree to skip the formalities and jump straight to the burial. Irene and Britney were essentially the only family he had left, and Thomas the only friend. There would be no one to offer condolences or send flowers or file past the casket. No need to compound their suffering with a few painful eulogies to an empty room.
And so the graveside service is a small affair, closed casket. It's not that the second heart attack left physical trauma; honestly, 300 just couldn't bear to look at him, and at some point Irene and Britney had quietly ceded all control in the decision-making process.
It is, of course, sunny -- a mild 72 degrees Fahrenheit, complete with oblivious songbirds trilling in the oak trees tastefully scattered throughout the cemetery. 300 stands by the headstone, a shiny black hunk of granite paid for by the Agency, and stares unseeing at the edge of the pit. His hands are cla
Pressure300 dumps 250 on the sidewalk, fumbling for the phone buried somewhere in his jacket pockets. His bloodied fingers skid on the silk lining and bump against his mobile without catching. "Damn it!" Seizing the hem of his pocket, he rips it partway off and digs out the phone.Pressure in Drama More Like This
"300..." 250 attempts, one hand gripping his stomach as he sits up, blood oozing out from between his fingers.
Somehow 300 succeeds at flipping the damn thing open and speed-dialing the police department. Slapping the phone against his ear, he drops to his knees by 250's side. "Put pressure on it," he pleads, pressing his free hand against the gaping hole. "You need more pressure on it."
"300--" 250 repeats, but an officer picks up the call.
"Agent, for the millionth time, this line is for--"
"My partner's been shot," 300 interrupts, the words stumbling off his tongue. "Bleeding from the stomach; please, I need an ambulance."
The cop's shift in tone is immediate. "Where are you both?"
"In front of Gyldensted's recycl
Mountain's Crossing Part 1Mountain's Crossing Part 1 in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
The one thing Skári would say about the trip from the inn is that it was not the most comfortable way to travel. After leaving his boss, Gunnhildr, in a state of utter, furious speechlessness, Ingrid and her fellow barbarian sisters had Skári pack his bags and lead him out to where their horses and cart lay in wait for them. The horses themselves were bigger than the barbarians, and that was saying something. Their coats were of either beautiful, deep black or warm, chestnut brown, and their hooves were draped with shaggy hair, matching their shaken manes. These beasts were so intimidating to Skári, who had worked only with travel ponies and work mules, asked politely if he could ride in their cart of things rather than on the back of one of their horses. This proved to not be a very smart endeavor.
The cart that Skári rode in was small, barely five by five feet in area, and packed with things like furs, barrels and crates of the gods only knew what. So there wasn't
The Unlikely Maid P2The Unlikely Maid P2 in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
She looks like a mountain side.
This was the first thought Skári had that morning. It wasn't a thought he was particularly proud of, seeing as that the subject of those thoughts practically saved him from rape, but none the less, there it was. It was still very early in the day, and though Skári had the perfect opportunity to sleep in, he found that he could not. So he rose, before the sun did, even, but not to head straight to his duties. The longer he could stay away from that snarling boss of his, the better. Instead, he sat where he was, in bed, staring at the giant barbarian woman beside him. In his mind, he recapped last night's scene over and over again.
An elf, who had taken a shining to Skári, had offered Gunnhildr a decent lump of silver and gold for one night with the maindweller as a prostitute. And then, with no real reason or motive, the barbarian woman who had saved Skári from insults just moments prior offered an even grander sum of money for