Remington Steele (Pierce Brosnan) was flattered that a character in the newspaper comic strip The Blaster appeared to be based on him. Laura Holt (Stephanie Zimbalist) was less enthused with her comic counterpart. The inker to the strip, Arthur Wayne (Dennis Drake), wanted to hire the agency claiming someone was trying to kill him based on methods in the strip. The prime suspect was the artist of the strip Raymond Kelly (Biff McGuire). On a trivia note, the name was based on the famous comic artists Alex Raymond (Flash Gordon) and Walt Kelly (Pogo). For the episode, the Blaster was illustrated by Ron Harris. ("Illustrated Steele" Remington Steele, TV event)
White hats, black hats - That's what they always wore In those old westerns we watched growing up. So we could tell the good guys from the bad guys. That works in a kids' western. In real life, it's different. In real life, the bad guys ofter wear flashy shoes, their ties aren't bad, either. - Mob City (2013)
sid rothman & ben siegel + saudade saudade : portuguese : the feeling of longing for something or someone that you love which is lost
It’s worst late at night– in the silent stillness, when even the moon’s silver light is hard to reach and the stars play tag with the wisps of clouds passing through the atmosphere. He wakes with a start; an electric jolt through the body, a chill down the spine that’s ice to the core, gasping for air and groping the sheets– shocked awake by the gentle touch of a ghost.
Sid’s heart hammers hard in his chest. He thinks it might burst, thinks it might crack him open and stain the room with his blood. He blinks and sees flashes of red flecks on carpet; shuts his eyes and hears the fire, smells the smoke – sulfur and iron, black powder and blood.
“No,” he mutters, his voice so low that even he can’t hear it. He shakes his head, lifts his trembling hands; his fingers rake through his hair and he forces his eyes open and stares out the window. Open just a crack so the breeze gets in, the way Ben always liked it.
Sid rests his hand on the empty spot beside him as if he can still feel Ben there. Once upon a time he could reach out and feel warm flesh, hear the few soft sighs that escaped Ben’s dreams. He’d wake from fitful sleep and Ben’s strong arms would lock around him, holding him so close he could feel Ben’s heart thudding drumbeats against his own back.
“I love you,” Ben would murmur in that sleepy-soft voice of his, hot breath pooling on Sid’s neck. Sid would cover Ben’s hands with his, run his thumb along the knuckles, lace their fingers together and squeeze. He wouldn’t speak– just press himself against Ben’s body, comforted by his solidness. But Ben would always whisper, “I love you.”
Sid hears his voice sometimes– it sneaks in with the wind. Sometimes, like tonight, it’s too much to bear and Sid leaps across the room and slams the window shut. His hands sting with the force of it. Still, the breeze whistles against the glass.
He looks back the bed, cold and empty; on one half, the blanket is rumpled in a heap at the foot, while the other side looks pristine– untouched, unused –forgotten, left alone, abandoned, waiting for a body that will never return, a warmth that has long since been frozen.
Sid wraps his arms around his middle and tries to remember the way Ben’s felt. His fingers hit the ridges of a scar and he remembers Ben tracing the same thick line from his hip to his ribs, first with his finger and then with his lips. Once upon a time Ben had mapped out his body, learned every bump and raised scar, memorized the highways of Sid’s history like it was the most precious story he’d ever been told.
And then he said, “I love you,” in that husky midnight voice. And then Sid held his hands tight and fell asleep in his arms. He always said, “I love you,” and Sid never said it back.
The three words fit Ben’s quiet baritone. They sounded right; Sid could even feel them in Ben’s breath, the soft ups and downs of the syllables as they slipped off his tongue. He listens to the wind struggle against the window and tries to find Ben’s voice again, the gentle trill, the tone he used with Sid and Sid alone, the words whispered over and over again against Sid’s skin.
He sinks to his knees, back against the wall. He hands his head. The darkness around him presses hard and heavy against his trembling body. His fingers twitch about his waist, desperate for Ben’s hands to hold. Unfallen tears swell in his eyes, quivering at the corners.
“I loved you, too” he rasps. His voice cracks in the middle, hitching on love, and a tear slips down his cheek. Sid rounds his shaking shoulders and tucks his chin against his chest. He tightens his arms around himself as if he can hold himself together and he tells the empty, lonely air, “I love you.”
“A part of him screams—why hadn’t he seen this before? why hadn’t he noticed? Thick scars arc across Sid’s back like a tiger’s lethal scratch. They criss-cross his shoulders and stretch down to his hips, only broken up by raised brown smudges that burned there like brands. It’s a history in etchings, a story carved on skin. Sid’s breath hitches. His whole body stills. The clock in the hall ticks away the seconds.” || Ben cares for Sid after the near-lethal stabbing he took to save Ben’s life and finds a few more scars than he bargained for. || Pre-series. || Ben/Sid. || Low-key written for @acepilotdameron because I like to drag her emotions because I am good friend.
