The routine was practiced and all but perfected by then.
On any given Monday morning, Grace went through the same motions. She woke up in some other woman’s bed before any alarm could go off, slipped out from between the sheets, and grabbed her phone to send a text with a location pin so that she didn’t have to run and catch the bus when she didn’t know where the nearest stop even was. From there, she usually had about twenty minutes before the familiar truck parked by the sidewalk, and her best friend would make sure they both got to work on time.
Except, on this morning, she had barely finished clipping her bra behind her back and pulling her shorts up to her waist before her phone buzzed again. This apartment, it seemed, was closer to everything else in her life than she thought, and it put her in more of a rush than she anticipated.
[ text | from: Jane ] whenever you’re decent the truck is warm
[ text | from: Jane ] hurry so I can get my coffee
[ text | from: Jane ] if I don’t get caffeinated because you’re too slow I’ll go in without you
With a roll of her eyes, Grace hit the button to turn the screen off again. She’d gotten that threat plenty of times, and it had never once been true. If putting them a few minutes behind schedule made her best friend abandon her, she probably never would have even made it out of Afghanistan. Jane loved her coffee, in any form, but not enough to disrupt the routine they’d fallen into in the last few years. Since one night in a hospital, she knew her best friend was never going to abandon her for anything – and maybe she took advantage of that, some days.
Grabbing her shoes and a shirt from the floor, Grace slipped out of the bedroom and the apartment without a glance back over her shoulder. Barefoot, without even trying to pull the shirt over her head, she dashed across the cool pavement until she could pull open the door of a familiar gray truck. She climbed into the seat as quickly as she could, not bothering to pull the seatbelt across her chest while she tugged her shoes onto her feet.
“You’re getting bold, Mouse, risking hypothermia so that you don’t have to face someone in the morning.”
She shook her head with a scoff, turning the shirt over in her hands to find which end she needed to pull over her head. “I’d hardly call this kind of weather a hypothermia risk. Aren’t you supposed to be in a rush, or something? I thought Detective Halstead couldn’t function without her caffeine.”
“It would be a lot easier to get caffeine if my best friend wasn’t replacing opioids with sex. Or, better yet, if she didn’t text me every week and pull me away from where I’m supposed to be. I have to drop you off at the district and then immediately go to a scene. Thanks to this little detour, I don’t get coffee at all today.”
Grace pulled the shirt over her head, adjusting it around her chest where it hugged her curves just a little too closely. It wasn’t hers, that much she knew, but it was too big of a risk to go back inside and get the one she’d actually been wearing the night before. “Don’t stop now. Tell me how you really feel.”
It was the same dance they went through every few months, a script they followed as if any part of it was going to change just because Jane repeated herself. It had happened more often since they started working together, since Grace took up running searches and digging into bank accounts and phone records and pasts for the Chicago PD Intelligence Unit. They spent more time together, which gave her friend more opportunities to give her usual monologue.
“Haven’t you considered giving this up? How much longer can you keep playing these games before you... I don’t know. Grow up?” The truck started moving at a slow, safe pace in the direction of their district, and Grace looked out the passenger window instead of looking at her friend’s face and the inevitable frustration and disappointment there. “You can’t keep waking up in different beds every weekend, not forever. At some point, you have to get serious. You have this job now, and you can save money for a nicer apartment, and get the fancy veggie dogs you like. You can have a life that you haven’t gotten to live since you were a kid, right? You can be independent and strong and not weigh your worth against what someone thinks when she sees you naked.”
“My mother didn’t raise me to be independent, remember? My worth is entirely based on what I can do in bed and whether I can provide some rich businessman twice my age with an heir.”
“Yeah, but your mother isn’t a part of your life anymore.” She froze up when a hand briefly rested on her arm, pulling away subtly without aiming her frown anywhere but the passing buildings. “You can do whatever you want, now. You don’t have to worry about what she wanted for you.”
“And what if I want to spend my life jumping from bed to bed every weekend?”
Jane sighed and stayed quiet for a long moment before reaching over to turn on the radio to break up the silence. “Then keep texting me when you’re done so I can make sure you’re not late for work.”
I have been pushing posting this off because after I send the ask I kinda got shy and anxious about this…But here it is!!
This is a fanart gift for @gregorygerwitz and @kitthekazoo based on their amazing Magic AU
It was supposed to be a Christmas gift but apparently, I made this drawing a bit complex for my art skills xD
I try to give a visual and color representation of each power base on the moodboards and small snippets and information that you have posted so far and how I saw that in my mind, im not going to post it here but if someone is interested to know my thought process you can ask me!
I hope you like it, you both are awesome and creative so I wanted to gift you something that reflectes that...
The preview image look pixaleted but if you click on it it look fine (sorry about that)
Ahh that's awesome! Twins!! Truly underrated way to spell it 🔥
Bellamy was often their drive home from practice, which Abby and Jake were more than happy with based on their overwhelming schedules. At first Clarke had resented being shuffled around, but soon the crackling leather seats and old radio of Bellamy’s truck became a cocoon of safety. You had to crank the window down by hand but it was always worth it for the way the wind would stream through it.
Send me 💯 and I will write 100 words in my current project and share my favorite sentence/section.
Tagged by: @kitthekazoo thanks friend! sorry it took so long
Last TV show: First Kill
Last Song: Tug O War by Shameka Dwight
Currently watching: Chicago Med
Currently reading: haven’t read in a while
Tag nine people to get to know them better: idk who didn’t do this, so feel free to do it if you want! @remedial-wit, @quintessentialserenity, @sun-daisies, @ferrisulichsdayoff, @lhquakeaos, @revolvingresidency, @tenderlysecretpuppy, @temmie-loony, @the9muses
It's been a HOT second since I had time to write, but I didn't forget about you, I promise! Enjoy!
--
“Excuse me, Amira,” he says, nudging her foot with his toe as he digs his keys out of his coat pocket.
Hang on.
“Amira?” Theo looks down, finally processing her presence. She’s leaning against his door, knees pulled up to her chest, with her arms draped loosely around them. There’s a pink backpack leaning against her shin, stuffed fuller than he remembers it being when she’d come home from school.
But it’s her face that really breaks his heart. She won’t look at him, but her head lolls to one side enough that he can see the tearstains on her cheeks. Amira isn’t crying now, but she has been, and her eyes are still glassy as she sniffles.
“Is everything alright?”
“I need to move back in with you,” she says finally, rolling her eyes up far enough to see Theo. “I don’t want to live with Bashir anymore.”
Send me 💯 and I will write 100 words in my current project, and share my favorite sentence/section.
Okay, so thirty minutes probably passes most people’s definition of even fashionably late — no, he can admit it, that passes everyone’s definition of fashionably late — but a whole thirty windswept minutes later, Peter finds himself almost forgetting to take off his mask (boy, that’d be bad) as he rushes through the doorway of his apartment building and bounds up three flights of stairs. His hair is sticking up in all directions on top of his head, his breathing, hard and ragged, gives the appearance that he’s just run a marathon, and his cheeks, tinged pink, complete the look. But that’ll be fine, right?
Maybe. It’s not the worst state he’s ever shown up to something in.
He isn’t, though, counting on what he comes face to face with standing in the hallway outside his own locked door: a noticeably handsome guy, mid-to-late thirties, wearing a leather jacket and a smile that’s somehow brilliant to go along with his “Hey, I’m Eddie.”
Oh no, is the only thought that crosses Peter’s mind. He’s in trouble.
send me 💯 and i'll share 100 words from my current writing project!
Thanks for the ask!!! This made me write my very first halstead sister piece, based off an experience I’ve had and it was nice just to write again!!!
*Here’s my favorite section*
Jay looked at you with wonder, trying to figure out what you had gotten yourself into this time. You had somehow managed to fall between the side of your desk and bed and needed some help getting unstuck. “Y/N, how did you manage this?“ he asked, trying not to laugh as he stands in your doorway.
John stares at the paper between them. It’s covered mostly in Paul’s handwriting, but there are arrows and occasional chords in his own familiar chicken scratch. “So that’s it then,” he breathes.
Paul makes a noise of assent, settling back against the sofa, arm brushing John’s. “It’s good. I mean it’s really…isn’t it?”
There’s a hesitancy in Paul’s voice that makes John turn to look at him. Paul’s eyes are shining with tears that he couldn’t wipe away in time. With a shaky hand, John does it for him. “Yeah.” He has to clear his throat. “Yeah, it is.”
Something toward the end of jpl verse, because why write in chronological order?
Send me 💯 and I will write 100 words in my current project, and share my favorite sentence/section.
