own closet

he's not coming home

Hide having a spare key to Kaneki’s place (or even picking the lock because he’s that intense) and going there weeks after Kaneki disappeared so that he can wear his clothes and sleep in his bed. Sometimes. Mostly he just lies awake and goes over what he did wrong. What he should have done differently.

Hide cleans the kitchen and talks out loud to Kaneki as though he’s in the next room over. He’s just not responding because he’s so absorbed in his book.

Hide finds one of his own shirts in the closet. He realizes that Kaneki never returned it because of the blood stain on the collar. He wonders why Kaneki chose to keep it instead of throwing it out.

Hide tries to read Takatsuki Sen’s novels but never makes it very far because he imagines every protagonist as Kaneki.

Hide drinks the coffee that Kaneki left in his kitchen. He learns to like it black and it feels like the last thing he has to share with him.

Hide keeping Kaneki’s place nicer than his own apartment.

This is for my dear @giraffedragon-universe, who is celebrating graduation and a birthday! Congratulations!!! :-D

He’s been sitting on the front step for over an hour now, and Qui-Gon finds himself not entirely sure why.

Most of what Obi-Wan has done in these last weeks before leaving has made sense, if only to those who know him well. Qui-Gon has poked his head in on the tidying of his room, on the neat stacking and filing and labeling of schoolwork left for some unknown future purpose or nostalgia; he has helped sort through old clothes for donation (or burning, Obi-Wan had occasionally said, with a wry grin which Qui-Gon only sometimes knew the meaning behind, but he tended to suspect it had to do with Anakin); he has offered the use of the luggage he’s kept tucked away in his own closet, battered and covered in stickered memories, and been gently turned down, told that Obi-Wan intended to earn some of his own rather than take someone else’s with him.

There’s an hour, still, before the car is due to pick him up to go to the train, and it’s starting to get hot with late August heat, but Obi-Wan is already outside. Has been, for a while, and Qui-Gon, watching the front walk from the kitchen with his cooling tea in hand, cannot figure it out.

Anakin is hiding somewhere, he knows, both seeking attention with and ashamed of his tears, when he finally steps sideways out of the screen door and settles down beside his older son and his (new, not-yet-battered) suitcase. His extraordinary, accomplished, wise old irritating soul of a son, his mind adds, and not for the first time he needs a moment to beat down the sudden intake of breath that threatens to make his pride spill over into sorrow.

“Comfortable?” he asks, eventually.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says. He’s staring calmly down towards the road, his hands interlocked around his kneecaps. “You didn’t need to come out here.”

“I wanted to.” A pause. “Would you preferred it if I waited inside?”

“No,” Obi-Wan says, slower, and then, skinny and overstretched and big-toothed, he looks sideways briefly, and grins. “Just - baby steps.”

“What, sitting on the stoop?” Qui-Gon asks, and suddenly it’s almost funny, and he’s thinking of toddling, fumbling feet on his front lawn in the earlier days of summer. “You’ll have no trouble going. You never have.”

“True,” Obi-Wan nodded. “It’s odd that this time feels different. Because it is, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps. But it doesn’t have to be.” He’s thinking, unbidden, of how much it won’t be; of how Obi-Wan has been prepared for this all his life, of his own accord and probably despite Qui-Gon rather than because of him. “You’ll figure it out, youngling.”

“Hm,” Obi-Wan says, and his fingers slip a little, turn a little less white from pressure as he leans slightly sideways, his hair, finally growing out just beyond his ears, catching the sun. “Thanks, dad.”

“You’re very welcome,” Qui-Gon says, and means it. “Have you said goodbye to Anakin?”

“I tried,” Obi-Wan says, on the end of a fond chuckle. “I think we both need our space.”

“Well, I’d better see to him, then,” Qui-Gon sighs, and levers himself up from the brick with only a slight tinge of regret. “You’re alright out here?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Qui-Gon goes back inside not entirely sure whether he will be going out again when the car full of Fisto and Vos and all of their chaos arrives to take Obi-Wan with them into the unknown. He knows beyond a doubt, however, that he won’t worry.

His son is, after all, in the most capable of hands - his own.

Divination Drinks: Teas to Aid in Divining

Originally posted by ofallingstar

Divination in all of its forms (tarot reading, tasseomancy; palmistry; pendulums, etc,.), can be quite exhausting and require large amounts of energy. These teas and tea blends will aid you in divining by enhancing your psychic power, and/or boosting your energy.


Tea Blends:

Psychic Tea (Scott Cunningham)

  • 3 parts Rose Petals
  • 1 part Cinnamon
  • 2 parts Yarrow

Brew the tea, strain it and drink a cup before performing any form of divination as this tea enhances psychic awareness.

Tea for Divination (Moura)

  • 1 tbsp China black tea
  • 2 tbsp Lemon Balm
  • 1 tbsp Rose Hips
  • 1 tbsp Mugwort*

Brew the tea, strain it and drink either before divination or sip during/throughout.

Teas:

Jasmine Tea

  • Jasmine is said to induce prophetic dreams, which can aid in the growth of psychic power and psychic awareness making this tea a good choice of drink to be had before divining. 
  • Drink 1 cup of this naturally sweet and fragrant tea before sleeping the night before you wish to divine.

Vanilla Tea

  • You can brew your own or buy ready-made Vanilla tea/tea bags. Vanilla enhances psychic ability and allows the benefits of this enhancement to be better felt and absorbed. 
  • Drink Vanilla tea before and during any divination work to open yourself up and be more receptive.

Peppermint Tea

  • Peppermint tea heightens your psychic sensitivity, as well as working to clear the mind and sharpen focus. It can also be used to cleanse the mind and body of any negative energies beforehand.
  • This tea should be consumed before any psychic or divination based activities. 

Some Other Things to Consider:

Some herbal tea blends may not be to your taste but this can be remedied by adding honey to taste. 

Other herbs, such as Cinnamon, are used to add oomph to magick and can be added to tea blends and teas to do just that. If you don’t want to add pre-ground and grainy Cinnamon to your drinks, you can use a Cinnamon stick to stir instead. This will add the oomph you’re after without altering the taste too much.
If you want to make your brew even more potent, stir clockwise. This adds positive energy to your tea.

[* = This herb is harmful to pregnant or nursing women!]

Casual Witchy Things ✨

🌱 Working in glamours with your morning makeup
🌱 Watering your plants with growth spells
🌱 Making healing soup spells when you’re sick
🌱 Sewing protective sigils into your clothing
🌱 Making herbal teas based on magical correspondences
🌱 Painting your nails with colors to match your intent
🌱 Using shower scrubs to scrub away negativity
🌱 Chanting your favorite song lyrics as spells
🌱 Tying knot magic into your shoelaces
🌱 Writing sigils on your skin with concealer

the fact that ace discourse or w/e is still a thing is ridiculous – nobody “wants in” to the lgbtqia+ community if they don’t need the safe spaces we provide…. like, we’re a marginalized group yall….. there is no privilege to identifying as lgbtqia+ or queer. there are no “invaders” (just like trans women aren’t just really invading men and nb people aren’t just really invading cis people – I could go on) because nobody wants to be marginalized, yall.

(also, don’t screenshot this post. reblogging it is fine, but screenshotting it will give me severe anxiety. it’s a shame i have to put this here bc people can’t respect my boundaries.)

Dean’s Flannel

Originally posted by demondetoxmanual

Summary: Flannel is a standard in the hunting world but it slowly becomes something more for Dean and the reader…

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 1,300ish

Warnings: language, implied smut

A/N: Written for @thing-you-do-with-that-thing ‘s Favorite Things Challenge. My prompt was “Flannel”…


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Imagine hanging out at Jeff’s house one day and changing into one of his shirts as you always do. He questions why you do it and in return tries yours because he can. Needless to say, your shirts are not fit for Jeff’s physique.

I gotta give credit where it’s due and thank @tapes-at-monets for creating ‘Dating Jeff Atkins’ headcanons which spawned this idea :)

Originally posted by yalica

Jeff Atkins X Reader

Bliss. 

Warm, comfortable bliss is what your mind immediately conjures up as you snuggle into one of Jeff’s shirts. The two of you got a little sidetracked from your after-school study session, and you prolonged your stay just a little longer when it started to drizzle outside. But with your shoes kicked off and jacket hung up in the front closet, your own t-shirt wasn’t cutting it and you wanted to be comfortable. Truly comfortable.

“Why is it,” Jeff laughs as he enters his room, “that every time I leave you alone for a minute, I come back to you wearing my clothes?”

Keep reading

Hello! I have been meaning to start a Tumblr for quite a while now, but found it difficult to devote any time to the endeavor. So here’s hoping i’ll be able to post content on a (somewhat) regular basis.

Now that all of the second season of Star has aired I thought it would be fun to go back through some episodes and post a few things that I have gotten to do on the show. Since the final 2 episodes just aired lets start there, and then I’ll post some earlier episodes from Season 1 and 2. Here’s a scene I storyboarded for “Face the Music” of Moon opening up her own “secrets closet” and suiting up for battle. 

2

Something fun and simple, inspired by what I wish I had in my own closet. Here’s an edit of the base game wedge heels with two versions: a strappy sandal and a peeptoe sandal. Chances are these already exist somewhere but I looked for something similar and couldn’t find any, so hopefully I’m not offending anyone by sharing these.

DOWNLOAD ON SFS

julia071499  asked:

If the red queen characters attended school,what would be their favorite subject?

I’m gonna do this by university major cause it’s so much easier. 

Cal: mechanical engineering (with a political science minor cause he doesn’t actually want to be doing that… but he’d gonna have to take over for dad some day.)

Mare: electrical engineering with a minor is ass kicking (she and cal meet in lab for the first time when she moves his project cause she wants to use the tools he’s using and she breaks the project by mistake and he literally almost cries about it) (then he sees that she took his tools and he’s like “um excuse me… thief! and she’s just like sitting there holding the tools and without looking up from her project says “obvi.”) 

Kilorn: environmental studies (he just wants to save the fish, literally has a shirt that says “save the fish” has thrown multiple rallies to save the fish, all of which only mare and shade have shown up to)

Maven: political science and psychology (wants to be pres. cause mom says so)

Farley: composition government while double majoring in anthropology while also minoring in sociology. (the ultimate try hard that shade oogles in all his classes and drools about when he day dreams)

Shade: the art of being alive. (but in all seriousness double majoring in philosophy and literature) (he may or may not have stalked Diana Farley through the library once and pretending to be reading books on anthropology for a paper (it depends if you ask him or mare))

Evangeline: art major (she’s an art hoe who wears big sweaters, and beenies everyday and just looks down on everyone)(has a strange obsession with metal welding, aspires to be an underwater welder)

Elane: art major (Concentration in drawing and painting) (Evangeline has asked her before to draw her like one of her french girls) (she and Evangeline have their own art closet that no one goes into cause someone once did and caught them making out and it was not a pretty picture what came next. 

Ptolemus: finance and management double major (with a minor in being a frat boy extraordinaire) 

I’m going to go write a college fic now. 

3

meanwhile, in a nearby bush:

Being in the closet around your parents
  • Mom: How was your day, hun?
  • Me: Simply the straightest
  • -------------------------
  • Mom: How'd you sleep?
  • Me: Entirely female.
  • --------------------------
  • Mom: What are you doing?
  • Me: Oh you know, just heteroing it up in the heterosphere. Loving the cis, straight air. Ah, the hetero is just lovely.
Tricky Fingers

Originally posted by visual-17

(requested by @zayyoung17 )

Member: Hoshi/Soonyoung
Genre: Fluff, smut
Word Count: 2,759


“Mom, Dad, Soonyoung and I are getting married.”

You held your breath and then let out a sigh. Could you even go through with this? You knew you had to, especially with that shiny ring now on your finger, but what if they were against it? To say that you were nervous was an understatement. When Soonyoung had first proposed to you, you were more than ecstatic. You were going to spend the rest of your life with the man of your dreams and couldn’t wait to tell your parents. But now that you were going to meet up with them and tell them the news, the butterflies that flittered in your stomach was a bit too much and made you feel sick.

“It’s going to be alright,” Soonyoung told you as he came up from behind and wrapped his arms around your waist. He set his chin on your shoulder and gingerly kissed the skin.

You sighed and set your hands on his. “I hope so. What if they’re against it?”

“We’ll still get married anyway, despite what they say. You know that, right? Just because your father says no doesn’t mean I’m going to stop loving you. I want us to be together,” he hummed as he moved up to your neck. You relaxed under his warm kisses and stared at yourself in the mirror. Soonyoung was right; whatever was going to happen at dinner, it wouldn’t matter. You two were going to get married, and that was final.

“Soonyoung,” you started, “come on. We need to get ready if we want to make it for our reservation.”

Soonyoung groaned in protest. “Let me distract you first. Give me about ten minutes and then we’ll get ready, okay?”

Keep reading

Dances and Kissing

Summary: Archie Andrews invites you to the back-to-school dance, hoping that this is finally his opportunity to take your friendship to the next level.

Word Count: 2,150

A/N: My first Archie/Riverdale fic! I had a blast writing this out and I hope you all enjoy it just as much. Feedback would be greatly appreciated too, folks :-) 

Originally posted by dailycwriverdale

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18 Year Old Costume Designer Brings Disney Dresses To Life

Angela started sewing when she was just 14

Angela Clayton is a young and talented costume designer from Long Island, New York. The 18-year-old pursued her dream of costume design and she has already created several stunning Disney and medieval dresses. Clayton first turned to costume design three years ago when she was involved in cosplay and would frequently make her own outfits.

These days Clayton is seen to be at work on her latest masterpiece, which started in January but will end soon, according to her. She attends less cosplay functions and has diverted most of her energy into sewing original designs. Her dresses require at most 250 hours of handwork and she has even worked with 11 meters of fabric to bring one of her designs to life.

The young costume artist is sure that she wants to spend her career designing dresses for the runway and the set. In a recent interview she told, “I hope that there is a future career that I will get out of it. I love making costumes and I love bringing ideas to life. If I could do that for fashion, especially for theater or film, that would be awesome…I would rather go straight into that if I can instead of spending four years at school.”

Her knack for stitching together a dress plucked straight from the pages of a fairy tale or history book started when she was 14 years old and couldn’t afford to buy costumes online. Her solution was ingenious - she would make her own costumes. Her closet now holds famous dresses from fairytales such as Brave, Frozen, Cinderella as well gowns from the medieval period.

“The first thing I really finished was a school uniform from an anime show when I was 14. It took me about two months”

“I was into cosplay, making costumes or wearing costumes to conventions, and I couldn’t afford the costumes that were available online”

“I was like, ‘Oh, I’ll make mine! That will be great and easy!’ It really wasn’t but I really enjoyed it”

“I have one that I’ve been working on since January and I’m still not done with it, but I hopefully will be finishing it soon”

“I continued making the costumes because I enjoyed the sewing aspect of it”

“I decided to just give myself more freedom for focusing on historical projects and original design”

“If you practice, you can definitely do it. It might take you a while”

“It comes naturally to some people but it is definitely something you can learn how to do

“I really enjoy doing it. I love making costumes and I love bringing ideas to life”

2

when u put on flannel and ur Cassie af:  👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ sHit👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌th 👌 ere👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my self 💯 

when u remember the rest of the books and the mess of PTSD she must have:  do NOT sign me the FUCK up 👎👀👎👀👎👀👎👀👎👀  bad shit ba̷̶ ԁ sHit 👎 thats ❌ some bad 👎👎shit right 👎👎 th   👎 ere 👎👎👎 right ❌ there ❌ ❌ if i do ƽaү so my self🚫 i say so 🚫 thats not what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) 

dennis’s internalized homophobia is a different beast entirely because unlike mac he knows intellectually that there’s nothing wrong with being gay but translating that knowledge in his own life is something he can’t even contemplate. and so rather than addressing his own feelings or his own attraction to men he just projects all his self-loathing onto mac - really harshly berating mac for going back into the closet, condescendingly telling the mediator that mac is gay, etc. - essentially enacting the process of being closeted and coming out vicariously through mac in a way that makes dennis feel in control of himself and his own private feelings. but then mac actually comes out and dennis can’t hide behind that defense anymore and all the intellectual posturing in the world can’t distract him from the fact that he has his own closeting to work through

Behind the Rear Window - Ch.1

Rear Window AU. When injured photojournalist Jughead Jones thinks he sees a man murder his wife from the window of his apartment it’s up to him to convince the police, and socialite-cum-girlfriend Betty Cooper, that what he saw actually happened, and what starts out as an investigation may just be the key to unlocking a few of their own skeletons in the closet.

First chapter of my multi fic! Rear Window is one of my favourite films and when I was watching it recently I realised just how easy it would be to slip these characters into the world of Hitchcock’s movie. This film, for those of you who haven’t seen it, is very observation and conversation heavy, so while the plot is pretty much the same here it’s those aspects where it will differ some. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy!

(special thank to @formergirlwonder for reading over this chapter! She’s an absolute gem!)

Read here on AO3


Jughead Jones had always known that bricks and mortar did not make a neighbourhood. His thoughts were only confirmed every time he regarded the rear windows facing the shared back alley courtyard from the vantage point of his second story apartment. The last hints of pink and orange faded from the sky, revealing another clear, sunny Riverdale day as the clock crept closer to morning. Each window frame became a small screen, most with cracked and peeling off-white paint. As he sat sleeping in his wheelchair, performances played out behind the open shutters and ajar glass panes; the tiny colony was beginning to bustle.

The man who spent his nights camped out on the fire escape, mattress and all, stirred as the first blinding rays cast their glow over his closed eyelids. His name wasn’t known to Mr Jones, but he certainly knew his wife’s was Ginger, given the amount of times he heard it pleaded at all hours of the day and night. To Jughead, he was simply ‘Mr Screw-Up’. The man stretched, rubbing the heel of a palm into his sleep encrusted eye, before standing precariously on his broken spring mattress and wobbling his way to the open window. He glanced furtively inside, checking left and right for signs that he could make an attempt to gain access back into his abode for the morning ritual of washing, shaving, and listening to early morning advertisements on the radio. Guaranteed, he’d be back sulking on the stairwell before eight thirty.

Jughead flinched on the edge of sleep as cawing crows swooped a little too closely to his window. He had left it ajar to combat the oppressive heatwave invading his apartment, which had left beads of sweat balancing in miscellaneous constellations atop his slightly wrinkled forehead, but his effort appeared to be in vain. Blinking into wakefulness, Jughead swiped at the moisture, which tickled while it dripped down his temples. As he came to, still in his chair by the window, he glanced down at his leg, adorned with a cumbersome cast stretching from his toes to his pelvic bone. Jughead sighed; he’d hoped that this time his hindrance really would have been a dream. His eye caught the bold, black pen strokes against the slightly discoloured plaster, and he allowed himself a chuckle as he read once more the words, “rather a broken bone than a broken spirit”, written in the hasty cursive of his superior, Kevin Keller. His chuckle turned to a grimace as a twinge turned to an itch, fate conveniently placing it directly out of reach beneath the bulky aid to healing.

The glint of a copper penny stole his attention, though, returning his gaze to the array of scenes awaiting his audience for yet another day in the listless stretch of weeks that he’d been chained to a chair for. The copper belonged to the girl opposite and to the left, her window a few brick widths higher than Jughead’s. Dubbed ‘Miss Legs’, the girl’s flaming red hair hung past her waist in perfectly arranged waves, often mirroring the light as it swung this way and that while she danced before her window. She was a nonstop whirlwind of kicks and strides and spins, low melodic tunes of her record player, thankfully, barely reaching Jughead’s apartment; but he couldn’t deny even he was captivated by her talents. He assumed, she embodying what was considered conventionally attractive, that most other men would be jonesing for the chance to have a glimpse at her in her brassiere and matching briefs as she paraded herself about her household chores. To Jughead her overly full lips, painted a shudder inducing crimson more often than not, seemed suffocating. The train of dance partners that appeared every so often in his line of sight confirmed his suspicions, however.

As she tripped out of view his eye caught a scurrying of burnt umber as the miniature daschund, affectionately cooed after under the name Caramel by Ginger multiple times a day, set its sights on a neighbourhood cat and decided to give chase. Millimetres above the game of cat and dog, Jughead lifted his scrutinising blue eyes to ‘Miss Lonelyhearts’. Still young, attractive though somewhat plain, the woman that earned such a title made frequent habit of setting the table for two, eating for one, and then crying herself into a stupor as the empty chair opposite failed once again to partake in the evening’s conversation. Her thick, mousey hair frequented a tight twist at the nape of her neck, round glasses perched just so on the bridge of her delicate nose, eyes wide and unassuming. Her usual dress was erring just slightly on this side of try-hard, but Jughead had seen her at her worst – tattered, flowery hand-me-downs shrouding her fragile figure as she knocked back the wine poured for her, and then the wine poured for her date. Having never seen another soul in the apartment in all their days occupying the same courtyard he only knew her real name by her woeful, self-pitying cries of “oh, Geraldine” that always rang out when he was just drifting off, jolting him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

The next curtain pulling up moved his eye away from her tired face to the window directly above. A worn looking man with dark skin and deep set eyes trudged through his apartment, pulling up the shades as if he were reluctant to face another day. His balding head shone with perspiration in the early morning heat, shoulders dropping several degrees as he exhaled a mournful sigh, head turning to his left. An overly long pause passed before he began to move again, disappearing from view for a moment before the shades covering the next window along rippled and rose, revealing a bedroom. Crumpled sheets were occupied by an elegant woman in her mid-thirties, probably once the height of beauty but now looking as if she’d seen better days. Her frame was withered and meek and her hair hung limp and lifeless around her face. Her smile, Jughead noted, had not met the same foibles of time. She beamed at her husband, head tilting to one side as she spoke, looking more the young girl Jughead imagined she once was in that moment. Her husband nodded, slow and mechanical, before moving back to the kitchen, collecting a tray of breakfast foods, and then returning, setting it gently over the ridges of her legs under the blankets. He leaned in to place a chaste kiss against her cheek before retiring to the adjoining bathroom. His attentive, husbandly duties had earned him the title ‘Mr Caretaker’.

The sight of breakfast made Jughead’s own stomach rumble in anticipation. He wheeled back from his usual perch, rolling past the cabinets and shelves holding countless camera parts – flashes, lenses, bulbs – all stacked and presented perfectly. A tower of copies of the latest issue of Life magazine took up the side table by the front door, his photograph adorning their front covers, staring back at him in duplicate. The rest of the apartment was an unorganised disarray of knickknacks and keepsakes. Broken mechanical parts, overly read and worn copies of his favourite books, boxes upon boxes of old yellowing magazines he called ‘inspiration’ flooded the space. His old typewriter, barely breathing amid the flurry of tat on his desk, took centre stage.

The shrill ringing of his telephone pulled an exasperated sigh from Jughead’s lips as he just managed to manoeuvre his way to the kitchen’s threshold. Reversing a couple of inches he shoved the discarded dress shirt out of the way before picking up the shiny, black receiver.

“Jones,” he spoke into the phone, voice slightly hoarse from disuse. He cleared his throat.

“Well, it doesn’t exactly sound like you’ve been celebrating,” the voice of his assignment manager at the magazine, Kevin, crackled over the line, his tone taking on a minor lilt of amusement that had the skin of Jughead’s back prickling, and not from the excessive heat.

“What exactly is there to celebrate, Keller?” Jughead asked, rolling his neck slightly to ease the tightness he’d suddenly become aware of.

“Have I got the wrong day? Seven weeks since Wednesday – that cast should be coming off by now,” Kevin answered, confused. Jughead huffed a disgruntled breath out of his nose, pressing his lips together.

“Right day, wrong week,” he lamented, throwing a dirty look at his offending leg. Kevin’s laugh rung out of the speaker.

“I told you to stand further to the left,” he chastised, referring to the incident that caused Jughead’s current predicament. He’d been given the go-ahead to stand directly on the track for an in-action shot of the racers in the Grand Prix. Only Jughead would have had the balls to do it, Kevin thought, watching him stride purposefully onto the tarmac to get the snap of a lifetime. He’d worked it all out, what he thought was perfectly. What he didn’t account for was the slight nudge one car gave another as it attempted to undertake on the sharp bend, bumper clipping the rear door and sending it winding off course for a moment, long enough to clip Jughead in the hip, throwing him into an ungraceful heap against the barriers.

“Still got the shot though,” he returned, tone and expression equally smug as he remembered the way he cradled the camera against his chest during the fall, concerned only for the protection of the precious roll of film inside. He distinctly recalled the flicker of satisfaction he’d felt as his finger pushed the button, the way the light flashed as it had seemingly heralded the end of his life.

“It’s quite the shot indeed,” Kevin agreed. “Story isn’t half bad either.” The corners of Jughead’s mouth tilted upwards at the deprecating compliment. There was only the distinct static of the line for a moment as neither man attempted to speak. Eventually, Kevin sighed. “Well, if you’re still cooped up for another week then I guess I can’t offer you this assignment.” Jughead’s back straightened as he sat up. He noticed, briefly, that Miss Legs was practicing pirouettes as she scrubbed a dish.

“What’s the job?” he asked, fingers tightening around the receiver, itching to get the camera in his hands once more. Six weeks had seemed an eternity.

“South America, month or so, heading into the camps,” Kevin recited, keeping the details vague. It didn’t matter, however: Jughead was already hooked.

“Can it wait a week?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, leaning ever further forward in his wheelchair until the irksomely hard edge of his cast digging into the soft planes of his stomach prevented him.

“Going stir crazy, huh?” Kevin guessed, a slight note of sympathy creeping into his voice. Jughead sighed, settling back against the leather backing of the chair. Mr Screw-Up was blowing unfurling smoke curls into the air as he rested against the metal railings. He was early today. Jughead briefly considered deducing what Screw-Up had done this time, before dismissing the notion as boring.

“You have no idea.”

“How much time have you spent at that window of yours?” Kevin asked suddenly, catching Jughead off guard. He bristled.

“A while,” he retorted with a stubborn air. Mr Caretaker sat on his couch and put his head in his hands as Kevin’s airy laugh echoed in Jughead’s ears. He felt the sudden, overwhelming desire to hang up.

“Careful, Mr Jones, only the lonesome and embittered spend the majority of their time observing life instead of actually living it,” Kevin joked, and Jughead could practically hear him shaking his head gently in mock disapproval. The words struck a chord with Jughead, the image of his father springing before he eyes before his mind even allowed it.

The old man (salt and pepper beard, greying streaks in his hair, slightly sunken cheeks) drifted before Jughead’s eyes. Even while awake the picture haunted him, bottle in hand and grimace a permanent fixture on his features. He sat, moaning and complaining about the state of the world, sour to the umpteenth degree about the unfair hand he’d been dealt. He chose instead to dish out biting insults and the occasional brisk smack rather than making any effort to fix the mess he’d made of himself and join the rest of society. Moving past the war had taken its toll on everyone who fought, but on none more than F.P. Jones, Jughead recalled as an acrid taste invaded his mouth.

Jughead shook himself out of his revere, telling himself the fading sting in his right cheek was only a mere ghost. He turned in time to catch Caramel hopping into the basket contraption Ginger employed to haul the pup up onto her fourth floor balcony, its little legs unable to handle the climb. Kevin’ voice drifted back to his ears.

“You should get married. They say there’s never a dull moment…” Jughead ignored him.

“Hold the story. One more week,” Jughead commanded, already lifting the phone from his ear. He barely heard Kevin’s exasperated replies.

With a nearly audible eye roll, Kevin muttered, “Who is in charge here?” to no one in particular. A distinct ring cut through the stifling air, signalling that the call was over.