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@gonnabefine-blog
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kirk acevedo talking with his hands appreciation post ﾟ*｡(･ω･)ﾟ*｡
Boops nose
“ --- excuse me?”
ladybelowdeck:
The sternness in her eyes falters, fading behind deep affection. Charlie’s always been close to impossible to fight with. She knows because she’s put a damn good effort into it in ways she’d never thought she’d pick a fight. If his reflexes for sidestepping the landmines of her psychology translated to dodging bullets and Big Angry Spider Chimeras, she’d never fear for him again.
Of course, he jumps in front of those, the bastard.
“Go ask Liv if she’ll stay. Go ask Peter.” There’s accusation there but she doesn’t shy from his touch, making room in her expression for an exasperated fondness.
“You know, I heard Liv asking Peter to stay, and figured that between them, they had it covered.” He pinches her cheek, just a little -- looking for a laugh, or a shove. Some little piece of normality. Then again, what is normality, for them? Running around after something that’ll kill them as soon as look at them -- that’s pretty much par for the course.
He glances around until he spies Kepler -- or at least his tail, waggling with ferocious joy from where it’s sticking out from behind a cabinet, and they can only hope that the dog is smart enough to be suspicious of eating anything he finds on the floor in this lab -- and calls his name. Kepler almost gets stuck backing out, nearly tripping over his own paws in its hurry to rush to Charlie’s side.
Charlie crouches, gives him a good, two-handed ear-scratch that’s gratefully received.
“Suppose you’re not gonna stay either, huh?” Kep lathes one side of Charlie’s face in warm, doggy drool with a swipe of his tongue. Charlie reaches up to wipe it off, fond disgust on his face. “Didn’t think so.”
He pushes himself back up to his feet.
“Well, you better keep each other safe, at least.”
blows dust from blog
hi i’m watching fringe and i want to write my charlie
He’s never been one of those people who made promises about his work. Never delineated between home and work. Never set boundaries about when work is and isn’t the priority. Even before his job had become saving the world.
He’s never had to, either, because Scotty is the same. They’re important, but to claim they’re more important than two universes would be an arrogance beyond the both of them.
Still, there’s regret tugging low in his stomach when he gets the call. Four in the morning, and his Olivia’s voice is something more than just strained. He’d had plans, today. Scotty’s birthday. They’d been over-the-top, ridiculous, part teasing and part genuine. Flowers and dinner and stargazing and a necklace, not all that showy or expensive, but meaningful. His Aba’s, and his mom had insisted he take it around the third time she’d met Scotty.
I know a boy in love when I see one, Charlie Francis. Can’t hide it from me.
I’m not trying to hide it.
Good. And don’t ever try. No woman deserves to be messed around like that.
And she’d cuffed him around the ear, as if he’d misbehaved, but there was some tremulous emotion in her eyes when she pulled him down to press a kiss to his forehead instead, and instructed him to go open her jewellery box.
But birthday or no birthday, plans or no plans, he has a duty. Manages the briefest of texts so that she at least won’t be standing at the bridge at the appointed hour, waiting.
( Walter’s quantum entangled cell phone doesn’t work too far from the bridge. Charlie’s not ashamed to admit that he bought a new apartment closer to it. )
Then suddenly, he barely even has time to think about her. It’s bad, it’s like the old days, and the entire time he’s evacuating civilians, desperately trying to empty the quarantine zone, there’s a part of him wondering why, when everything had been getting better. When they’d been healing.
And then, just when he thought he’d had no time to think about her, he’s got even less. Abruptly it’s not an evacuation attempt but an assault, guns drawn and doing his best to rally a scattered team of Fringe agents who weren’t prepared for a fight. He loses two. Takes a chunk of building to his side trying to save another.
( She doesn’t make it, but she doesn’t die alone. )
He’s checked into hospital. He checks himself out.
It’s almost midnight when he makes it to the lab, no doubt about where she’ll be at a time like this. They’ll know something happened. They’ll be worried just as much as their counterparts.
He’s got one arm wrapped around his side, pressed against the faint rise of bandages. He’s limping and he’s exhausted, one foot barely able to press forward in front of the other, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even rest, too scared to lose the momentum that’s carrying him to her.
Kep’s the first to notice him, paws scrabbling against the tiles as he bounds over, tongue lolling in excitement and tail going a mile-a-minute, until he realises something is wrong. Then his ears are pricked and there’s a whine settling at the back of his throat as he presses up against Charlie’s leg, protective and alert.
“Good boy.”
That’s what Scotty hears, and she glances over, almost lost in her work, before she spins around. Clipboard dropped, and she’s rushing over, too, hands clasping at his face before she looks down, trying to gauge how he’s injured, what’s happening.
Before she can say a word, he kisses her. The forward motion pulls at the edges of his wound under his bandages, a bloom of heat that might be pain or fresh blood. He doesn’t care, doesn’t let it show.
“Happy birthday, babe.” Necklace is pressed from his hand to hers, unceremoniously.
It’s not much on his plans, but in the end? He’s here. That’s the only important thing.
@ladybelowdeck
@ladybelowdeck
“Type A. No, wait, is that the good kind? Type B? Type B for ‘bugs’.”
He can feel them, right now, under his skin. Crawling through his veins, shifting in his blood. Less itchy than usual, more like a gentle tingling. Feather-light. A tickle. He runs his fingers over his arms and peers at them, trying to make out the shapes of all the little Kevins.
“---- say hello,” he croons, and whether he’s asking the spiders to greet Scotty or Scotty, the spider, it’s not quite clear.
YOUR SEDUCTION STYLE
You seduce people by tapping into their dreams and desires. And because of this sensitivity, you can be the ideal lover for anyone you seek. You are a shapeshifter - bringing romance, adventure, spirituality to relationships. It all depends on who you’re with, and what their vision of a perfect relationship is.
tagged by: @ladybelowdeck
@ladybelowdeck [ from ]
“Yeah, I know.”
It’s a wry smile that seems undaunted by the fire of her anger and irritation. Apology and concern vie with a total lack of repentance for having asked. He worries about her. He worries about everyone, because it’s who he is and it’s his job, a double burden he has never once complained of. He asks because he loves her, and he loves her because he already knows her answer.
“I know you’re never going to do anything like that.” A shrug, a tip of his head, a finger reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face before it withdraws, gives her space again. “But you know I’ve got to ask.”
One day, maybe she will want to stay. Maybe she’ll be thinking, if only I had a way out of this. Maybe he’ll be her only opportunity, her safe pass to removing herself from danger.
And maybe one day pigs will fly. But that meant more before the entire universe went to shit.
ladybelowdeck:
Her gaze lingers on him, a typical interrupted engineer scowl held up across her face, but there’s a glimmer of entertainment that can’t be hidden.
She’s heard of Francis before now, of course, through Broyles and the head-of-department meetings they all have to go through, the discussions of people under their command on their ways to getting promoted, and through all the gossip people think the “higher ups” don’t listen to.
Once, she’d caught a couple of the less impressive of her crew muttering together, bemoaning Francis as the source of their woes. She’d figured they deserved it and sent them scattering with some more menial tasks to deal with.
Apart from the fleeting snippets of gossip, though, she hasn’t met him. So far, she’s impressed. Sure, most of the department heads on the Enterprise have taken after Kirk’s relative informality to one degree or another, and, as Scotty’s never had the energy to go after every person who didn’t ‘yesma'amScottysir’ her when she spoke, it suits her well enough. But the fact of the matter is that technically he just turned a question she gave him back on her without even a salute. Usually, it takes a day or so before anyone realizes she’s more bark than bite.
“Ye’ll do,” she confirms, evidently satisfied. “Have any experience?” People swap tracks to things better suited to them all the time. A mediocre, or even a decent-but-unimpressive engineer sometimes makes a better security officer, or vice versa. If not, well, everyone has basic Academy training and it’s not exactly warp science to refit a bulkhead.
“No, sir.”
The belated formality is paired with just the flicker of a smile, a tip of his head that says, it’s there if you want it. But Charlie has always been good at reading people, and a combination of what he’s heard and what he sees suggests to him that she mostly doesn’t have time for the formalities that other officers would demand.
“Machines are complicated. Fiddly. Mostly, I don’t get on all that well with them.” He’s not as useless as all that; technology doesn’t spontaneously fry its circuits when he gets near it. But more often than not he finds himself frustrated by anything more complicated than his PADD. And sometimes by that, too, if he’s trying to achieve something he’s unfamiliar with. “But if you need someone to pass you the screwdriver, I’m your man.”
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking for an excuse to stay. It’s not too long until the end of the shift, and barring any sudden desire to surprise some of the newer security team and remind them that this job was as much about watching out for their fellow crew members as it was for vicious space monster attacks.
And anyway, he’s heard his fair share about the Chief Engineer, and an opportunity for a little firsthand corroboration isn’t unwelcome.
ladybelowdeck:
“Ye best be tellin’ that bed o’ yers ta leave a message,” she warns him, eyes narrow and stern. “Given that it’s courtesy t’ give a lady a bit o’ time between heart attacks, y’know.”
She’s not really sure what she can do if he doesn’t listen– she’s only been allowed to stay so far on the basis of some emergency clause or technicality or other. And, if she’s honest, because she’d been sporting some very large teeth– deigning not to use them if she was near enough to Charlie. The situation isn’t half as dire as it had been when that ‘argument’ worked, if she starts making trouble now she doubts the staff will be so understanding.
Won’t stop her from trying if she has too, though.
Scotty eyes him a moment longer, just to get that extra emphasis in, before she allows the subject change, “Should be fine. They ran down tha’ wolf in under ‘n hour, Rook said.” She’s fairly certain they could’ve done it sooner, but it’s no concern of hers if some lunatic wolf gets turned into a sport.
If the pack had been at least a bit scared of her before all this, she suspects they’ll be so by now. But if Charlie doesn’t remember her sinking her teeth in a few ears or biting Rookard’s tail until he yelped, she’s not going to be the one that tells him. It’ll come out eventually. In the meantime, she’s not eager to move; her place is here, with Charlie, as his…
Well, whatever she is.
“Yer pack’s doin’ their jobs, like they know ye’d want them to. They know better‘n tae pee on th’ rug just ‘cause no’ne’s home.”
“You could always come too. Just to make sure I’m okay.”
It’s a flirtation that he can’t quite help, the tired quirk of his lips a little less enthusiastic than it might normally be. The spirit is willing. The flesh has just spend several hours trying to re-knit itself back into some semblance of human form and is, regrettably, weak.
“I’d hope so. Spent a lot of time and effort house training them.” It probably says something about his state of exhaustion that all he can manage are these ribald jokes and deflections. He needs some real sleep, around four days’ worth. And more importantly --
“-- do hospitals serve steak?” For medical reasons, obviously. Even the smoothest of transformations is demanding on the body in terms of energy; his mess of a transformation is demanding beyond belief. He needs the calories. Not necessarily in steak form, but nobody actually has to know that.
It’s been a long time since he was in a hospital, and even then, it had been a privately funded research facility. The odds of him getting a full steak dinner feel pretty low, possibly next to none, but a good cop never rules something out just because it seems unlikely. There’s hope in his eyes.
“Steak sandwich, at the least. No?”
ladybelowdeck:
His voice gives her name an odd, curious ring to it, makes her focus in on it. Perhaps it was just the aftereffects of the earlier orders but he catches her attention enough that she almost forgets to glower at the wolf with the attitude. Almost.
It’s a passable, and even acceptable, pronunciation, which surprises her. “No, ’s not.” Not feeling overly friendly with everyone in the van, she looks to the Accountant to see if there’s a chance for distraction by way of more introductions. He only gives a short mumble, ducking lower in his seat, refusing to look at her or anyone else.
Scotty rolls her eyes but when her gaze settles back on Charlie, she looks more resigned than reassured. He doesn’t need to mean trouble for there to be trouble. It might not be his fault, but there it is.
The rest of the drive is long and uncomfortable (or perhaps it’s just her– her back aches as, even after Charlie places himself protectively in front of the two do-gooders, she doesn’t relax and it isn’t all that easy, paying attention to that many wolves.)
When they’ve finally stopped and they get the order to exit the van, she all but chases the skulking accountant out ahead of her with glares and growls, swearing at him under her breath. The put-upon wolf actually seems nearly relieved to be carted off with the stern-looking Rookard, clearly alarmed by her persecution.
Scotty, for her part, follows Francis obligingly, careful to stick to where he can see her. It’s rude to go hovering around in people’s blind spots. It’s probably a lot more than rude to do it to the police. “It’s Scotty,” she corrects him, without reprove. She’s been landed with worse than ‘Red’ before and with less wolves surrounding her, and with the advantage of more space to deal with them, she’s less resentful of the whole thing.
At least Francis will feel bad when all that ‘trouble’ he doesn’t want to make for them gets brought down around everyone’s ears.
“–’s it standard procedure tae nickname people in questionin’?” This time she’s teasing, casting her eyes around curiously to hide the amusement on her face.
“Only the ones I like.”
He holds a door for her, gesturing her through. It’s immediately obvious that isn’t processing, nor is it holding, nor even an interview room. It’s the break room. Or at least, it’s their break room -- reclaimed to keep the tensions between human and wolf down, given the amount of posturing and squabbling that characterises even the all-human shift change.
The break room smells like all break rooms do. Terrible coffee, stale and lingering. Whatever got microwaved last, and the inescapable scent of twelve-hour shifts. Still, it’s as close to hospitality as the precinct gets, unless you’re lucky enough to have a couple square feet of office, somewhere.
Charlie is not lucky enough. He hot-desks in the bullpen like everybody else.
He checks his watch. Breyman will be on his way back to the precinct, by now, jumped up and pissed off. But there’s protocol lines he won’t step over, and anyone officially brought in by Charlie is off-limits to him without Charlie’s say-so. Besides; he’d never think to check the break room, and Rookard can handle himself.
“Coffee?” He’s already moving towards the pot; he can smell from here that it’s fresh, though that doesn’t mean it’s any better than usual. Makes no never mind to him. He learned years ago to get by on whatever quality of caffeine is on offer. Doesn’t earn enough to buy himself fancy seven-dollar coffee, anyway. “I should warn you, it’s pretty terrible.”
He leans himself against the counter, a cup already in his hands. His boys will be out running off their tension, scrapping it out. He doesn’t need to.
“Been in Boston long, Red?” It’s a deliberate disregard of her previous statement. Not malicious, nor intended to annoy. Merely a half-veiled observation that her correction had lacked a certain level of heft. If she objects again, he’ll stop. Never bring it up again.
ladybelowdeck: ( bae tbh )
It’s always hard, letting loved ones go haring off into the unknown. It’s something she’s been struggling against for a long time, fuels the constant, incessant research and late nights staring at numbers and designs until they almost mean nothing, remembering all of it. If she knows everything, if the pieces are all in front of her, she can put them together, arrange them in a way that keeps Charlie safe.
She’s always been good at building things.
But there’s no information for her now. It’s part of what they’re sending Charlie to figure out– and she feels useless, stuck here with what scraps they do have, with what can be scrounged up by tapping into networks like S.H.I.E.L.D.. It’s out of her control and she despises every second.
With nothing else to do for it, Scotty leans into his touch and tries to breathe the stress out, tries to smile for him because if the last time he sees her is all anger and fear–
She tucks close to him, chin on his shoulder, arms wrapping tight around his back and clinging with a fierceness that almost promises never to let him go. But she does let him go after a final squeeze, giving him a slow nod.
“I’ll take it,” she murmurs. It’s better than nothing, and you learn not to spurn small things like that. “I’d better get Walter on th’ Papier-mâché Solution, eh?” Hell of a patch job.
“Chewing gum might do it, too,” he advises her, mock-serious for all that his fingers in her hair are reluctant to remove themselves. “If you all start chewing now, you might have enough when the time comes.”
And then he pulls back, presses one last kiss to her temple, does one last check -- radio, earcuff, guns, vest. The vest says FBI in yellow letters, and his fingers drag across them in something like amusement. His counterpart will be there too, no doubt. They’ll have to be careful who sees them; Charlie will find himself some sunglasses, perhaps something to cover the lower part of his face.
But it’s too important to play at caution.
He hooks his ear cuff on and offers her the spare from his pocket. This side, they don’t do much good -- no home base to contact, and they don’t work cross-universe -- but they stay in contact with each other, and sometimes that’s enough. If nothing else, they’ll be able to talk to each other.
Useful for all manner of things. He tries not to think about how useful they might be for a goodbye, if the situation called for one.
“No making jokes at awkward moments,” he demands. “Don’t want to go starting an intergalactic war just because you made me laugh.”
fcrrous: ( mud boy )
“ Probably. Must be a reason why you guys’ve decided to move underground. ” The eyes of a once boy wonder had aged, just that little bit — comes with the territory of being the son of a man like Howard Stark; a man forged with iron in his spine and coursing through his veins. Pressure, they had believed, was something necessary. How you make diamonds, after all. Abundance aside, a smart man could make a pretty penny out of it — and a genius? Well, aurum est potestas.
“ No, we can’t, ” and it’s back to business, paired with an almost vampiric smile; a trademark for what he knows those involved see him as ( but ah, how far he’s come ! It’s small pleasures, and he likes Charlie — messing with him, that is ). Shoulders loose, eyes fixed, gaze firm. “ Which is why we have to stick to the plan; and hope that a mudboy’s still a playable trump card. ”
It worked once, there was no guarantee it could work again.
But, Tony has his contingencies; the twenty steps ahead and the fluidity that comes with simplicity. That is, if it follows the right formula. “ You have your part, Olivia has hers, and, ” another grin. “ I’ve got mine. ” Divide and conquer, and hope that this time there’s less…collateral damage.
He remembers the promise to play nice, and it’s the only reason that he only grimaces when the mud boy brings up the reason that they moved underground. There’s one reason, plain and simple, and it’s sitting in front of him. Humans. Their xenophobia, their disregard for nature, for other species. Their tendency towards war, and violence, and destruction.
“Some of us are actually used to following orders,” he says, drily. Maybe it’s a jab at Tony, and maybe it’s a jab at Olivia. She’s a good officer, one of the best that the LEP has, but no one would ever accuse her of being one to follow protocol. “If everything goes according to plan, I’ll personally eat my acorns.”
A safe bet to make, between Olivia and the mud boy. Especially since he doesn’t know the whole plan; only bits and pieces There’s enough distrust lingering there to be concerned about that, and just enough trust to suspect that he’s better off not asking for them.
Apparently, not quite enough.
“What are you going to be doing while I’m busy with my part? Not that I don’t trust you, mud boy, but, well --”
A smile, a shrug. He tips his head, and fingers play idly with the golden acorns on his lapel. “ -- I don’t trust you.”
ladybelowdeck:
It’s always the worst part. Why she never draws out the goodbyes, no matter what she wants to do– this standing here, knowing they don’t want to go, knowing they must and will go. There’s too much time to think, to agonize over all the things that keep them apart.
To realize that to keep seeing each other, there must always be Fringe cases. Their happiness relies on the very worlds they’re trying to keep safe never being safe. It’s not healthy to linger on those things, they’ll damn them both if she lets it carry on.
Scotty smiles at him instead and it isn’t a lie, the joy she feels when she looks at him, but it doesn’t hide the way her eyes travel over every part of his face, recording each line diligently. It’s always the hardest part. It always will be.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, adding scent to the things she will keep memorized until she sees him again, opening her eyes once more to nod, fingers squeezing lightly at a hand as he steps back. “Stay safer,” Scotty returns insistently, knowing it’s completely futile.
There’s an awkward hesitance to the way she stands, though, unwilling, always unwilling, to walk away from him, but still trying to tear her gaze off his face, blinking to keep too much turmoil showing itself in her face, her eyes. She knows what he’ll do if she starts crying, it’s why she holds off until he’s gone and she’s home to think about it all too hard.
The smile is soft and well-worn and genuine, settling into the creases at the corners of his eyes and the curve of his lips and the dark-twinkle of his eyes. He feels it, too -- that knowledge that the two of them exist like this only because two worlds are teetering on the brink of something terrible -- but he saves those thoughts for when he’s alone.
When he’s with her, there are more important things to think about.
“I’l try my best.” The only thing he can promise; he won’t promise her an impossibility, won’t let her be consumed by anger and grief and betrayal over a broken promise made insincerely. They both know his job is dangerous -- more, perhaps, than hers, his side less forgiving, less stable. Still, he’s not dead yet.
A glance over at Liv reveals something warm and a little pitying in her face. He tips his head.
“Keep her caffeinated, Dunham,” he demands, and then he turns, and walks away. This time, he does not look back -- what’s that story, in the bible? He should have been a pillar of salt a long time ago. This time, he doesn’t come back through.
pxtienceisavirtue:
“I’ve been led to understand that you’re no stranger to the UNUSUAL, Agent Francis,” she said cautiously. There were still days when she hardly believed the improbable events of her own life – and repeating it all aloud now sounded like utter madness. Even though every word of it was true. She cleared her throat and pushed on. “I certainly hope that’s the case – because I’ve rather run out of places to turn…”
@gonnabefine | SC.
No stranger to the unusual.
It’s a tactful way of putting it ---- like telling a man in the electric chair he might feel a gentle jolt. Charlie’s life has become a mess of things that have to be seen to be believed, and he really wishes he’d stop seeing them. He misses the days when all he had to worry about was bomb threats and and murder.
Still --- he’s not one to turn someone away when they clearly need help, regardless of what sort of help it might be.
“Only too happy to be your last resort.” The quirk of lips lets her know the words are rooted in humour, though there is a note of caution in his mind, too -- how she knows that, how she found him. He pushes it to one side, for now. “On a scale of one to X-files, we’re talking...?”
