“Bobby, you can’t keep doing that to him.” Bob raises his eyebrows, putting down his fork. “Doing what, Alicia? Corralling our son into talking about his crush?” “Exactly.”
Or, A fic about Bob and Alicia noticing Jack’s feelings for Bitty before even he does.
Bob Zimmermann is kind of messy, only a bit of a smart ass, and just a tad hard of hearing. Yet even without perfect hearing Bob can’t miss the affection in his son’s voice when talking about a certain line-mate.
Bob Zimmermann is many things, but he is no idiot.
“Did you get that paper done for your…what was it again- american pie class?”
Bob looks over his shoulder just in time to see Alicia send an appraising look from the couch. He catches a hint of a smile.
He winks back and she rolls her eyes in return.
Bob turns again to the large window, the white light blinding him for a moment. The large expanse of grass is still littered with snow, lining the way down to their lake. A blank sky hugs the horizon.
“Women, food, and American culture, Papa.”
“Right. So how’d you do on the paper? Did Eric help you out?”
(Revised Prompt): Miraculous Ladybug, "So you're saying in a class of over a dozen people NO ONE CAN AGREE ON WHAT LADYBUG AND CHAT NOIR LOOK LIKE?!"
“So you’re saying in a class of over a dozen people NO ONE CAN AGREE ON WHAT LADYBUG AND CHAT NOIR LOOK LIKE?!” Kim bellowed.
Marinette face planted against her desk and groaned. Tikki hadn’t been kidding about her identity being protected by magic.
“Listen,” Chloe screeched above the din, “I’ve been rescued by her the most and I am telling you her hair is shoulder length and slightly wavy no matter what little miss blogs-a-lot says!”
“You also said she is taller than you, so clearly your opinion is worth nothing,” Alya shouted back.
“All the people I like are taller than me,” Chloe retorted, “isn’t that right Adrikins?”
“Please leave me out of this,” Adrien said. So far he was the only other person in the room who looked just as miserable about this class squabble as Marinette felt. His head was cradled against is crossed arms as he stared listlessly towards the door as if wondering if he could make a run for it. She could kiss him for that. Not that she wouldn’t take any excuse to kiss him. Maybe she should suggest they both sneak of somewhere to make out while their classmates argued. Marinette smiled at the daydream. As if she could ever actually pull off something so bold where Adrien was concerned.
“This is stupid,” Kim complained “we have photos we should know every detail about what they look like.”
“I’m pretty sure there is some sort of magical element that keeps us from properly retaining the information in a way that might jeopardize their identities,” Max theorized.
“If Ladybug had magic power over her appearance you would think she would have attempted to look more attractive,” Lila said flicking her hair behind her shoulder. “Instead she is such a short thing with dull black hair and beady dark little eyes.”
The class burst out into another round of shouting as Chloe and Alya both attempted to dive atop the Italian girl, only barely being held back by Kim and Nino.
Marinette wondered briefly if anyone would care if she just threw herself out the window. She was about to attempt to sneak off to the bathroom when she heard Adrien talking quietly to himself.
“Blue,” he murmured softly.
Marinette’s breath caught in her throat.
“Her eyes are blue.”
(I am no longer taking sentence prompts just finishing the ones I have left)
Andrew slips through a slit in the crowd, brushing through the sleek trains of expensive gowns, rich wool suits jackets catching on his own. He’s on his second flute of champagne, and the tartness keeps him focused. His attention is on the flavour and the rim of the glass and the warp of faces through it. His earpiece crackles and whispers.
He can see his mark on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by servers and liars and pretty things. One of them is all three, Andrew can tell: a waiter’s vest, a seam of over-applied foundation, and bright blue eyes.
He’s distracting, flighty, a rubber band pulled all the way back. He looks like the memory of a case file, and a name occurs to Andrew one second before Kevin hisses it into his ear.
“It’s fuckin’ Charlie Pilot. Don’t engage, Minyard, we’re not here for him.”
Andrew doesn’t make any effort to reply, just takes another pull of champagne. He’s not really watching the troupes of entertainers or the clockwork security or the velvet and silk blooming under bowing chandeliers. He’s not even watching the man he’s either going to rob or kill, who’s laughing and weedy, red in the face from the alcohol. He’s stuck on Pilot – next to his target, holding a heavily stocked tray of appetizers, his expression pleasant and empty.
He’ll be an irritant to what should be a straightforward plan, if he keeps hovering. Andrew takes a loaded step forward and the voice in his ear complains.
“Don’t even think about moving in until Pilot leaves. He’s probably doing reconnaissance for Matt. I bet he doesn’t even know about the file.”
Andrew watches Pilot’s face tick, the way he blinks like he’s on a timer, the way he’s worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth.
“I bet he does,” Andrew murmurs, and he drains the last of the champagne. He plucks his tie pin away from the fabric and drops it in the empty glass, leaving it on a passing tray.
“What— what the fuck Minyard, we’ve lost visuals. Do you hear me? Andrew? Andrew?”
Andrew weaves through the rest of the golden crowd, ignoring the buzz of Kevin’s reprimands in his ear. He finds a new spot on the outskirts of the crowd where Pilot has installed himself.
“Do you know how fucking expensive those cameras are? You’re such a piece of shit operative,” Kevin says. “When you inevitably come back without the intelligence and without our equipment, it’s costing usto keep you around, do you realize that?”
Andrew’s more focused on the way Pilot’s shoulders are turning to face him, the slim line of his tailored pants, that eyelash-thick smudge of un-blended make up.
“Shrimp?” Pilot offers, swaying the tray in his direction.
“No,” Andrew says, but he stays uncomfortably near, feeling along the edges of his boundaries without finding any seams. Pilot’s composure is still and reserved as a frost-ravaged garden.
“Have a good evening then,” Pilot says graciously, turning back towards the host that Andrew should be sizing up but hasn’t even looked at. He glances at him for a sliver of a moment, finds himself uninterested, and looks back at Pilot.
Andrew catches him suddenly by the arm, but relaxes his grip just as quickly, caught off guard by his own impulsivity. His own disguise is just an invitation and sun bleached hair; he isn’t playing a character like Pilot is. He’s neutral for a living, but Pilot is a new weight on his scale, unbalancing him so that he can’t quite settle at zero.
When their eyes meet, the polite, curious waiter snips out of existence. Charlie Pilot stares at Andrew, with eyes like the bluest part of a fire.
“There’s a conflict of interest,” he tells Andrew calmly. “And your interest will lose.”
“I’m not interested in anything,” Andrew says broadly.
“Hm,” Pilot says, unconvinced. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie,” Andrew says. He’s always saying it; it’s a novelty that employers enjoy and enemies challenge, amused.
Pilot raises his jaw, mouth twitching. “No, you wouldn’t, would you.” His eyes flicker to the side of Andrew’s face, where Kevin is breathing furiously through his earpiece, then down to the grip he still has on his forearm. He lowers his tray down until the rough edge is pressed to the root of Andrew’s hand threateningly. “You’ll want to let me go, Andrew, or you’re going to end up needing a longer armband.”
Andrew feels genuine surprise squeeze his fingers around Pilot’s wrist. He hadn’t noticed the black fabric extending a whiff beyond his crisp white sleeve. He lets go, and Pilot tucks his shoulders back, satisfied. His hair is too dark to match his freckles, Andrew notes quietly. It is, perhaps, what the make up was meant to cover up.
“You are not going to win, Charlie,” Andrew says. “We’re the more capable team.”
Pilot smiles indulgently. “‘Charlie’,” he repeats, mouth curling around the name. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been Charlie Pilot.” He jostles his tray from one hand to another, and loosens his collar with his freed hand. “And I don’t think you understand how much farther ahead we are than you. If you’re looking for information, we already have it. If you’re trying to find the connections this place has to the Yakuza, we’re the ones undoing them.”
“Who’s we? I don’t remember seeing anything about loyalty in your case file. You’re just a runner.”
Pilot looks briefly bothered by this, and he juts his chin again. “I’m loyal to whoever’s doing the work that needs to be done.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Who are you?”
He looks down, at Andrew’s empty hands, at the hip where he’s hiding his gun. His expression is warped and sad when he looks up, like the real filling in his strange costume is finally oozing out.
“You can call me Neil,” he says, and drops the whole tray of food so that it clatters and rolls into the host’s feet. There are gasps and yelps, partygoers dodging and stooping to catch the runaway platter. Andrew looks impulsively down to track its progress, and when he looks sharply back up into the knot of activity, Neil is gone. Of course he is.
He doesn’t have time to think about where he might have disappeared to, just steps neatly into the opportunity that’s been afforded to him. He uses the distraction as a doorway directly into the offices behind the coddled host.
Kevin is asking repeatedly for updates, and Andrew fishes the earpiece out and tucks it into his breast pocket. He likes to be alone for this part, when the most important door closes behind him and everything makes as much sense as a ticking clock.
He keeps thinking of Neil’s reaction to ‘runner’, of the vulnerability trussed up in his persona. He finds himself sick to his stomach wanting to know what his real hair colour is.
He tries every door in the polished row of them, finding all of them locked. He picks the lock on the door farthest from the burble of the ballroom behind him, and cracks into what looks like a room built for business arrangements and drinking. There’s a snifter next to a half dozen tumblers on a cart along the wall, and extensive cabinets under the desk.
He feels his way along the underside of the desk, and opens each drawer, idealistically left unlocked and unprotected. He finds useless information and shady information and heaps of anonymous, unlabeled tapes.
He finds the safe in the floor, facing up patiently under a wingback chair and a panel of floorboard. He stoops so that he’s face to face with it, shrugs his jacket off like a dead skin onto the floor, and puts the heart of a stethoscope to the face of the safe.
He’s sweating, spread out surreptitiously on the floor, but the safe is flimsy. It cracks in under an hour, the party wilting two rooms over, pressure taking him by the hair. Andrew flicks the door open impatiently, unwinding the stethoscope from around his neck.
It’s filled top to bottom with paper, and he reaches for the first file, carding his fingers through the spill of sheets.
Got you, it says. Over and over again, in unassuming little typescript. And on the next page, got you.
Andrew’s fingers flex. The next file is the same, and the next. A million taunting, twirling repetitions: got you.Got this. Got here first.
The safe was already cracked. The list of names was already stolen. Neil’s face winks and swarms when he closes his eyes, furious. If you’re looking for information, we already have it.
He roots around for the bud in his pocket and pops it back into his ear. He leans back, splayed away from the spill from the safe, the stacks of failure. He enunciates clearly into the microphone sewn into his collar.
By popular demand: Peter finding out you’re pregnant.
Just in time for mother’s day!
Peter shut his eyes and looked away as he held back
your hair. He wasn’t doing the best job at it. A few strands had fallen in your
face, but he was too busy trying not to throw up himself, to bother tightening
his grip. He’d been in disgusting situations before. He’d grown up around
dozens of men who didn’t know what it meant to shower. He’d been covered in god
knows how many different types of alien muck. He’d been peer pressured—while drunk—to
eat all sorts of strange foods…and he was fine with it all. But when it came
to vomit, he could hardly hear the word without inwardly gagging a little.
Thankfully, none of his current shipmates tended to
get ill; save for one occasion when Drax caught the A’askavarian flu. Peter
physically locked him in the bathroom for the duration, and took to sleeping in
the cockpit, as far as possible from any noises. It was a rough few days for
his stomach—and Drax’s—but they both managed to survive, no thanks to Rocket’s incessant
But this situation was different. There was a
difference between friends and girlfriends, and that meant holding your hair back,
rather than flicking a band in your direction and running away, like he so
desperately wanted to do.
Pledis: Okay you guys it is FINALLY time! We are going to release a dark concept!
Jun: Thank God
Joshua: *quietly* noo
Vernon: *high fives S.Coups*
Pledis: Um maybe because you have only done cute concepts since debut, and Carats are ready to see you be mysterious, dangerous, bad and show yourselves as tortured souls.
Minghao: *looks up with puppy eyes* I thought we already were tough?
Seungkwan: *pulls out nail file and begins filing nails* Yeah our manly image exudes in every performance we give!
Jeonghan: *rolls eyes*
Pledis: Whatever. Look I want you to come strong with the action and charisma. We need mega sex appeal!
Dino: Pretty sure I’m not legal
Hoshi: Pretty sure nobody cares, SO! I have a great idea for the outfits!
Woozi:*under breath* of course you do
Pledis: Tell me
Hoshi: How about we wear these really cool jackets and we ta–
Pledis: TAKE THEM OFF AND SHOW BARE SKIN! GREAT IDEA! Usually that’s something Starship would do, but it’s not like that’s helped them one bit so we can do that most definitely!
Hoshi: I was going to say that when we take them off we reveal a track suit underneath!
Joshua: *raises hand* I second this idea.
S.Coups: Wow that is sexy! And how about we have a lot of spy and espionage type things, maybe even sho–
Pledis: SHOW YOU GUYS KILLING OR BEING KILLED IN LIKE A SUPER TRAGIC WAY! THAT IS GENIUS!
S.Coups: No…I was going to say we can show a bunch of maps and kind of stand out on in a soccer field or something.
Seungkwan: And I can even have a restless sleep with a ship in a bottle behind me!
Vernon: Wow, This dark concept sounds awesome. Move over BAP. We’re about to be the top dogs of darkness!
Wonwoo: I want to dye my hair blonde, I want to really show the bad boy look
Mingyu: And we did get the okay to dye my hair out of this ridiculous orange color right? It’s bad enough having one video with this color I DEF don’t want two.
Pledis: DO ANY OF YOU BOYS EVEN KNOW THE MEANING OF DARK CONCEPT???? NONE OF THE THINGS YOU SUGGESTED ARE EVEN DARK!!!!
S.Coups: Oh so you want us to suggest something dark to you?
S.Coups: *gestures to Jeonghan*
Jeonghan: *flicks his hair back and walks over to Pledis*
Jeonghan: *puts hand on Pledis shoulder*
Jeonghan: *leans in and whispers* If you don’t let us do whatever the CENSORED we want to CENSORED do then we’ll leave you and your CENSORED company in the dust so fast you’ll be kissing Nu’est butts with chapstick to try and hit it big again. Got it?
S.Coups: *yells* DID YOU GET THE FREAKING PICTURE?!!
Pledis: *jumps* Y-yes Sir…I mean Sirs!
S.Coups: Good, now go. And don’t come back unless you have our paychecks and a–
Dino: bag of skittles!
S.Coups: *rolls eyes* Bag of skittles in your hands!
Pledis: *turns and leaves*
Joshua: So….when did we get so bold exactly?
Hoshi: when we realized our record sales were the only thing that was keeping the lights on.
Joshua: I’ll admit, it does feel a little good.
Jeonghan: *stands back up* I’ll be back. I want to go scream at him again and see if he’ll cry this time.