I’ve made some more Tumblr blog banners!
They work best if you go all the way into “Edit Theme” and change your header image from there ❤❤❤
As with my other icons, banners and dividers; feel free to use them on your blog if you want to, but please comment or reblog if you do.
Want some other SPN resources? See what I have: here!
Flesh and Fantasy tells three stories, unrelated but with a supernatural theme, by Ellis St. Joseph, Oscar Wilde, and László Vadnay. Tying together the three segments is a conversation about the occult between two clubmen, one played by humorist Robert Benchley.
When Connor inherits a beautiful old bookshop, he’s not entirely sure he’s the man for the job. Then he discovers that the shop has a resident ghost, Markus, who seems determined to persuade him to stay. But why?
And do the books he occasionally finds scattered on the floor in the mornings give some kind of clue as to Markus’ motives?
(I am halfway through an anon request at the moment, but had this ready so..)
Okay, I just felt like writing something Halloween-inspired. This is the start of something new (I KNOW, FINISH SOME OTHER STUFF). I’m getting back to RP, I promise, but I wanted to post something since I haven’t lately, so here’s this.
Warnings for Mary (so yes, abusive relationship), and mentions of child abuse, mentions of the abusive pasts of our boys.
The Ghost in You
*******
Andrew gave what passed as a glare from him at Wymack as he stalked into the man’s office. “How the hell am I supposed to help Peter Minkin if I can’t understand him, hmm?” he asked in a deceptively mild tone of voice as he slapped his latest case file onto his boss’ desk and narrowly missed sending a pile of paperwork toppling over as a result.
Used to him by that point, Wymack didn’t even flinch or pause in drinking his coffee, merely gave Andrew the finger as if gesturing for ‘one minute’ while he finished his needed influx of caffeine before speaking. “Because that’s why I hired a damn translator last month? Which a shitty little maggot like you would know if you’d attended the supposedly mandatory staff meetings.” Wymack glowered as he folded his tattooed arms on top of his messy desk.
Andrew waved aside the usual gripe as he snatched up the abandoned file, partially mollified that he’d have a way to communicate with the kid. “That’s what Kevin’s ten page summary emails are for,” and ignored – he relied upon Renee to fill him in on any necessary details, but she was currently on sabbatical, off helping out some old Peace Corps friends with a project for a couple of months. Hmm, he had to wonder if the new translator had anything to do with the ‘hot piece of ass’ Nicky had been going on about lately, which was even more reason for Andrew to ignore his cousin. “I’m scheduled for a preliminary meeting with Peter in half an hour, the translator better be there,” Andrew said as he turned to leave the cluttered office.
“It’s already on Josten’s schedule,” Wymack called out. “You’d know that, too, if you read your damn emails!”
That was another familiar complaint which was waved aside as Andrew left, intent on having some more caffeine himself while he checked for any important updates to Peter’s files before the appointment; on the way to the kitchen and then to his own office (a lot less cluttered and disorganized than Wymack’s), he ran into Nicky and Robin, yet managed to fend them off by waving the thick folder in the air. Nicky grimaced, clearly in the mood to talk and unhappy to be denied, while Robin, finally cleared to work on cases of her own after shadowing Andrew for the past few months, smiled and wished him a good day.
It was such a hopeful thought, but highly unrealistic; the children brought to Palmetto Services (nicknamed the Foxhole because of all the stuffed foxes scattered around the place and the playful versions painted on the walls in an effort to soothe and cheer up the kids) were abused and/or traumatized, were the ones who’d been fucked over by the ‘official’ child services system in one way or another and so it had been decided that they needed more specialized attention (that they’d be someone else’s problem).
It meant that Andrew was working with kids who often suffered through the same thing he’d gone through as a child, the same pain and abuse and neglect… and he got to end the horror for them. He got to make it better, but it took a lot of work, a lot of patience and digging and effort, and he knew firsthand the nightmares would still continue even though the monsters had been vanquished at last (at least those monsters).
At least, he did everything he could to help the children assigned to him, so the new translator – Neil Josten – better not fuck things up with Peter Minkin. From what the files said about the boy, he’d been taken into custody from a violent father up on various charges with no sign of the mother, and could barely speak any English. The boy was malnourished and bore repeated signs of abuse (Aaron had done a thorough physical on Peter, and Andrew could tell from the sloppiness of the handwritten notes attached to the copies of x-rays and bloodwork that his brother was furious about the results).
He skimmed the newly added details from his brother and what Seth had been able to unearth about the boy’s father, everything committed to memory, then went to the one prepared play room where Peter would be brought for their first session. It only took a minute for Andrew to reach it since it was right down the hall, and he was surprised to find someone there already.
The person was a young man around his age, perhaps a little younger, and had a couple of inches on Andrew’s five feet. The dark grey sweater he wore hung on his lean frame, the sleeves falling past his hands, and dark brown hair fell onto a handsome face bearing a faded scar down the right side, obscuring what seemed to be brown eyes. “Andrew Minyard?” the young man asked, his voice a quiet tenor and accent bland, lacking in any regional indicators.
“Neil Josten,” Andrew said by way of an answer, and noticed that Josten didn’t offer a handshake nor seem offended when Andrew didn’t do the same. “How’s your Russian?”
“Good,” Josten said then fell silent as he took a step back to lean against one of the bookshelves containing a multitude of stuffed animals.
Not a talker, which seemed odd for a translator, but that was fine with Andrew, who wasn’t much of a talker himself. He checked his phone to see that Abby was bringing Peter, along with a surreptitious glance at his associate; despite the shaggy haircut and baggy clothes, Nicky wasn’t too far off about Josten.
It was just a casual observation while he waited for the kid.
“And here we are,” Abby said as she arrived with Peter Minkin, a bright smile on her face and ash-blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Even though she was the head nurse practitioner for Palmetto Services and helped run the medical offices where Aaron and Katelyn interned, she often escorted the new or more skittish children around (her or Renee) since she projected ‘safe’ so well with her friendly smile, the colorful scrubs she wore and her genuine kindness.
As for Peter, he appeared small for his seven years (probably the malnutrition), his dark brown eyes huge in his face and his light brown hair cropped close to his skull. He was dressed in a Winnie the Pooh t-shirt and jeans that were a little too long for him, and was obviously reluctant to come near two strange men.
Before Andrew could do anything, Josten moved away from the bookshelf with a stuffed Pooh in his hands and knelt a safe distance from the boy while he spoke softly in Russian. After a couple of seconds, Peter’s face broke into a smile and he gave a shy smile as he reached for the bear; Andrew noticed that Josten was mindful to hand it over slowly and without touching the child.
Josten spoke for about another minute, and then Peter joined in as well. That went on for another minute or two while Andrew’s annoyance grew, until he heard his name be brought up. Peter’s eyes flickered toward Andrew and whatever it was that Josten said seemed to put the boy at ease, to the point that he gave Andrew a slight wave with his right hand.
Soon after that, Josten nodded once and slowly stood up as if mindful not to startle Peter. “All right, I told him that you’re going to talk to him for a while, perhaps ask him some questions but that you’re here to help him and it’s going to be all right, that you won’t touch him.” Something made Josten’s jaw clench for a moment before he went back to the one bookshelf. “No one here will.”
Interesting, that Josten said ‘not touch’ and ‘not hurt’, not that either would happen while Andrew was around. “He’s right,” Andrew told Peter even though the boy might not understand him. “As he said, I’m Andrew, now shall we play a couple of games?” He motioned toward the one table that was already set up with the various coloring books and simple games he used to help him know the children assigned to him better as well as work toward gaining their trust while Josten translated.
The session went by quickly despite Andrew’s inability to talk directly Peter, with Josten only speaking to translate and staying quiet otherwise. Peter seemed to enjoy being able to play with crayons and to draw what were probably meant to be animal shapes, but drew into himself whenever Andrew brought up his father or the one coloring book had images of a man and a woman with a child or children in it.
Probably not a good idea to have Wymack attend any sessions with the boy in the near future.
The session ended with Andrew certain about Peter’s abuse and forming a plan on how to move forward with his treatment, but aware that it would take numerous more sessions. He remained seated when Abby returned for Peter, intent on retaining the slight bit of trust he’d earned with the boy so far.
It was difficult to tell with the overlarge sweater, but when Josten left the room first, Andrew thought Nicky might be on to something about the man’s ass. Also, he’d have to talk to Wymack about having the door looked into since something was wrong with its hinges – the damn thing would have slammed shut in his face if he hadn’t stopped it in time. He also felt a blast of cold, so the air conditioning was acting up.
He stopped by Bee’s office to share his initial observations with her about the boy and go over his reactions to the new case, as well as his workload in general. After about half an hour, they moved on to more ‘safe’ topics (the latest books they were reading, a new bakery), and he brought up Josten. “What’s his story?”
“Neil?” Bee handed over a fresh mug of hot chocolate before she returned to her desk. “David felt that we needed an official translator on site rather than request one on demand all the time. We can’t keep limping along with the various languages everyone on the staff knows, so he brought in a heavy-hitter,” she said with a smile.
Andrew thought about that for a moment, about Josten’s quiet voice and professional behavior. “What does he know besides Russian?”
“That I know about? Chinese, Spanish, French, German and Arabic.” Her smile strengthened when Andrew’s brows drew together. “Yes, I know, impressive.”
“Why’s he working here, then?” One didn’t go into a social service related job for the money, and it seemed to Andrew that someone with Josten’s skills could be working for the government or some big corporation.
Bee was quiet while she sipped her own hot chocolate as if debating what to say. “I’ve only met him a couple of times and David’s been quiet about how he found Neil… but I’m willing to bet that Neil works here for much the same reason that most of us do,” she admitted. “It’s personal for him.”
Andrew thought about that after he left to continue with the rest of his current cases (Isabel and Ryan and Cory), while he worked with Laila on the upcoming court trial for Cory’s prick of a father and spent some time with Robin on one of her own cases. He had just enough time to meet with Aaron for lunch and was satisfied to have an excuse to turn down meeting up with Kevin later that evening to watch some stupid game in a bar, even if it had been too long since he’d gone out drinking or had any ‘fun’.
Josten showed up each day to translate for Peter, a quiet, unobtrusive presence who stood off to the side and relayed what Andrew and Peter spoke as Andrew worked hard to earn the boy’s trust, to slowly try to pry the truth out of him about what his father had done to him and his missing mother. Each day Josten would show up in thick sweaters despite the fall weather still being warm for that time of year, covered from lower neck to hands and feet, his hair barely combed and falling onto his rarely expressive face. He would translate and then leave, and Andrew wouldn’t see him in the break room or the small cafeteria or anywhere else around the Foxhole.
It wasn’t that huge of a building.
“What do you think of him?” Nicky asked during lunch one day, about two weeks after Peter had arrived at the Foxhole. “You’re so lucky you get to work with him – all of my kids speak English or Spanish,” he said with a slight grimace, as if he didn’t adore his cases; he worked with kids facing difficulties due to them coming out or transitioning, often because of their home life or the situations at school.
“He translates, which is good,” Andrew said as he broke apart his cheese sandwich.
“Oh come on.” Nicky rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner as he leaned back in his chair. “I’ll admit that Neil needs a major wardrobe overhaul and makeover, but he’s still hot. How can you stand being in a room with him every day and not notice that hotness?”
Andrew greatly regretted his cousin finding out about him and Roland, even if it was just a casual thing. “Because I’m working and we’ve said like five things to each other?”
Nicky frowned at that. “Yeah, he’s not very outgoing, is he? Matt’s tried a few times to invite him out to some of our group events but always gets interrupted by something. “ He grinned as he leaned forward with his elbows on his table. “I wish I had my phone out the one time the coffee maker just started shooting water out all over him! It was the weirdest thing but funny as hell! Another time he leaned against the fridge wrong and somehow hit the ice button and the cubes started just falling out onto the floor! I think Neil’s terrified of being around him because of what’ll happen next, the poor guy.”
Well, Boyd was a bit of an eager puppy when he decided to go after something, though not as bad as Knox – there was a reason the men helped Kevin with the sports therapy programs. “Nothing’s going to happen,” Andrew told his cousin. “Drop it.”
“But-“
“No.” Andrew grabbed the rest of his sandwich with the intent of finishing it in his office and ignored his cousin’s crestfallen expression with ease as he walked away.
Still, something about the conversation stuck with him, as did Bee’s. It made him study Josten even more, made him pay close attention to the way the younger man was so patient with Peter, would soften his voice or offer up a new stuffed animal at just the right time (when Andrew had to ask more details about the bastard of a sperm donor). How there seemed to be a darkness in Josten’s eyes when Peter began to give up halting details, when he drew angry red marks on the child images (and the mom images as well).
“Who is he?” Andrew asked Wymack when they met the day before Cory’s trial would begin. “Where did he come from?”
“That’s confidential information,” Wymack said with a stubborn set to his jaw. “Just know that he had great recommendations and leave it at that.”
No, not quite, but the old bastard had installed a better lock on the personnel file drawers after he’d realized that Andrew had gone through them to check up on the last few hires, so Andrew would have to bide his time to read Josten’s file (that or get enough dirt on Seth to have him hack the online version, which might be easier).
His part in Cory’s trial lasted two days, two days of mental exhaustion and barely constrained anger while he was questioned and cross-examined and had to push down the urge to get up out of a damn uncomfortable wooden seat and bash in the brains of some fucking prick who’d dared to harm a defenseless child. Two nights of the memories rushing back to the fore worse than usual, of the demons riding him harder than usual… but it was worth it for Cory to be free, for the prick to receive a guilty verdict, according to the text he received from Laila as he worked on his daily tasks once back in the office.
Perhaps it was that text, or perhaps it was the way that Peter smiled at him when the boy saw him, the sense of progress during their session, but after Peter was gone and Josten went to leave as usual, Andrew spoke up. “Soon I’ll start working in new elements, have him sit in with Bee and try some sessions with Kevin as well. He’s going to need to learn English and get back in classes once he’s stable.”
Josten paused by the door to look back at him. “Yes, I’ve been asked to do a language evaluation of him in the next week or so, and to sit in with Dr. Dobson.”
Still so distant and polite, as always. Andrew shoved aside a thought on if he was like that with other things. “No other cases you’re assisting with right now?”
“A couple.” Josten cocked his head to the side. “It’s fine, I can manage.”
“Is that what keeps you so busy? I don’t see you around here at all.”
Josten tugged the cuffs of his light grey sweater (he always wore grey or light blue, wore such boring colors and clothes) even farther over his hands; Andrew thought he caught sight of faded scars on the long, slim fingers before they disappeared. “I have things to do.”
That wasn’t much of an answer, was it? “What do you think of Peter’s progress so far? Perhaps we can discuss it over a cup of coffee?” Andrew didn’t usually do the whole ‘social’ thing, but there was something interesting about the translator, something that drew his attention the more that Josten tried to hide away.
For a moment he thought that the man was going to say ‘yes’, and then Josten drew in a quick breath as he wrapped his arms around his middle. “No, I have paperwork I need to do. I’ll send you an email with my thoughts,” he said in a rush before he spun around and almost ran from the room.
Surprised by the reaction which seemed almost fearful, Andrew stepped forward to follow Josten and find out what had provoked that response. He shivered as he encountered a spot underneath the air conditioning vent (hadn’t Wymack fixed that yet?) and cursed when the door slammed into him with unexpected force, enough to knock him aside and leave his left arm throbbing with pain; it would have been his head if he hadn’t thrown his arm up in time.
Apparently Wymack hadn’t fixed that, either.
Josten forgotten for the moment, Andrew cradled his sore arm against his chest as he stalked down the hallway to go have a ‘nice’ chat with his boss.
*******
Neil frowned when he noticed that the grapefruit weren’t on sale anymore, but perked up when the green apples and pomegranates were instead, both of which he stocked up on until he felt a harsh tug on his hair. He grabbed some radishes and yams since they were cheap enough to pass without complaint (and the few vegetables he didn’t mind), then left the produce section with some regret.
Chicken thighs were on sale as well, so he grabbed a couple of packages with a whispered ‘I’ll freeze some’, then checked to see what cheese was marked down and got some decent cheddar. He managed not to sigh over the ramen packages he added to the cart, and at least would have the chicken, radishes and yams to make a proper meal out of it, and got a loaf of not quite the cheapest white bread along with a jar of peanut butter.
He grabbed some more shampoo, laundry soap and toilet paper, then saved the first aid aisle for last where he stocked up on bandages and antibacterial ointment. At least he didn’t need hair dye for a few more weeks, he thought to himself as he headed to pay for everything, mindful to pick a different cashier than last time.
The young woman smiled at him while she rang up his purchases, talking all the while about how she loved ramen, too, and wanted to try making an apple pie that weekend. He busied himself bagging up the items as they came down the conveyer belt, uncertain as to why she had to talk so much and not just focus on doing her job, and shook his head when she asked him questions along the lines of if he baked (he didn’t like sweets) or if he liked Japanese food (he did enjoy sushi, but it was rare when he allowed himself the treat).
She kept smiling at him despite the lack of answers, and brushed his fingers with her own when she handed him the receipt after he used his debit card to pay for everything. Aware of Mary’s cold presence behind him, he was quick to grab the bags so he could leave, and didn’t flinch when he heard what sounded to be a drawer slamming shut and the woman cry out in pain.
He didn’t know why people couldn’t leave him alone, couldn’t ignore him like he wanted. Why did they have to smile and talk to him? He wasn’t worth their attention, their attempts at friendship… or worse.
Mary tugged on his hair several times during the drive back to the apartment, hard enough to make his scalp burn but not enough to distract him from the road ahead. She waited to ‘speak’ until they were inside with the door locked and deadbolted for the night.
/Did you have to encourage that slut?/ Mary accused as she yanked on his hair again, that time hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“How did I do that?” Neil asked as he forced himself to carry the bags into the kitchen, the British accent slipping back into his voice since they were alone. “I didn’t even talk to her and I barely looked at her. Next time I’ll avoid her register,” he promised.
There was another tug to his hair, but that time it was almost gentle. /Good. What have I told you about her kind?/
His head hurting and arms aching from the scratches from earlier which still throbbed, Neil set the bags on the counter and took a deep breath before he recited the words he knew by heart. “That relationships are evil and will only harm me. That people who try to trick me into one aren’t ever to be trusted, that they only want to hurt and use me.”
/Yes./ That time Mary when stroked frigid fingers through his hair, he shivered from both the chill and the gentleness of the touch, from the rare show of affection. /You need me to watch after you, to keep you from falling for their tricks, Abram./
“I know, Mum. You’re always looking after me.” He gave her partially see-through form as grateful a smile as he could summon before he started on the groceries. “How about some tea?”
/Yes./
Once the chicken was put away (most of it in the freezer, as he’d promised), he filled the kettle with fresh water and started it heating up on the stove, then decided that he wasn’t in the mood to cook that night and settled on a peanut butter sandwich with an apple for dinner. He’d just finished making the sandwich, the kitchen orderly once again with the groceries tucked into their places (it wasn’t hard to keep neat considering how little food he bought) when the kettle whistled, so he rinsed out the two mugs to warm them up before he dropped teabags in them.
Mary hovered over the steeping mug set out for her, a pleased expression on her incorporeal face, her long hair drifting about much like the tendrils of steam rising from the mug. Neil allowed his to steep a little longer while he ate the sandwich, the large apple saved for ‘dessert’.
His mother was quiet for about an hour or so, during which he cleaned up after his dinner and took to reading a book in Chinese in the living room’s only chair. /How much longer are we going to stay here?/ she asked as she floated around the bare room, her expression one of displeasure.
Neil marked his place in the book then hugged his knees up to his chest. “I told you, this is a good place for us and there’s no need to run anymore. The money’s enough for all my bills, no one’s questioning my past and I like what I do.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly when she drifted closer. “He’s dead, Mum. No one’s looking for us anymore.” No matter how many times he tried to convince her of that, it never ‘took’ for long; he didn’t know if it was because of all those horrible years of living with a monster, of the harsh time on the run or her terrible death, but she couldn’t move on from the past.
But wasn’t that what made a ghost a ghost?
(And who was he to throw stones at glass houses, when he lived with said ghost?)
There was a blast of freezing air, Mary’s displeasure made evident as she whirled around the chair and tugged on his hair once more as a furious, sparkling silver blur. /Nowhere’s good, Abram. Everywhere is full of liars and betrayers and murderers, did he teach you nothing? How many times did we think we were safe, only to run away in pain? How many?/
“Everywhere and always,” he gritted out as he forced himself to not lift his arms to protect his head, to try to shove her away (as if that would work). “But he’s dead, Uncle Stuart killed him years ago. That doesn’t make anywhere safe, but… but that’s why I have you, yes?”
The whirling blast of cold eased up and the tugging stopped, right before Mary coalesced in front of him, her head downcast and wisps of hair floating in front of her face. /Yes, that’s why I’m here, Abram. I have to watch after you, have to protect you./
“I know, Mum,” he told her with a trembling smile. “You’ve always looked after me.” She taught him French and encouraged him to keep learning new languages when they were trapped in that nightmare of a home back in Baltimore as a means of distraction, to keep him busy and out of his father’s sight (as much as possible). When the abuse had finally gotten to be too much, she’d stolen money and run away with him, had managed to keep them out of his father’s reach until that awful night in Seattle.
Even after Nathan had nearly caught them, had left them bloody and beaten, Mary fatally so, she hadn’t given up. Her spirit had lingered on after Neil (Nathaniel) had burned her body, had kept him going long enough to reach out to the Hatfords for help (at last).
Neil thought that Stuart suspected that Mary hadn’t entirely ‘moved on’ after her death, that he’d picked up on her presence around him. After all, Neil had to get the whole ‘I see dead people’ from somewhere, not that many other ghosts came around him with Mary constantly there, for which he was grateful. There had to be something special about the Hatford bloodline which allowed Mary to be so powerful as a ghost.
Or maybe it was just more of their lives (and afterlives) being fucked up and cursed.
The debate about him leaving his new life behind settled for the time being, Neil made some more tea and read a little longer, then went to take a shower before bed. He sighed at the sight of the long, red scratches along his arms and even a couple of across his chest, but none of them were deep enough to require any bandages.
That time.
He took care not to scrub them too hard while washing clean, and only looked into the mirror to check his roots (they would be fine for a few more days) before he removed the contacts and brushed his teeth for the night.
Once he was tucked beneath the heavy blankets, Mary took up position by the bed, a familiar sentinel which never tired, never wavered in her duty to watch over him. He missed how she used to sleep in the same bed as him, her back pressed to his, but knew that when he’d wake up from the nightmares that she’d be there to brush cold fingers along his sweaty brow to calm him down, to reassure him that she was there and all was safe.
He was Neil Josten (now), he had a home to call his own, one with a deadbolt and a comfortable bed (even with the gun under the pillow), with no ghosts of people cruelly murdered by his father (save Mary), no monsters in human flesh eager to hurt him lurking about to cause harm. He had a job where he got to help children, something that paid the bills (even if Uncle Stuart had set up an account for him) and allowed him to do something he enjoyed.
He had Mary to watch over him, ever and ever.
It was enough.
*******
okay, pretend i know what i’m writing about here (in general).
