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[rift] a slightly crazed announcement
Nov. 19th, 2010 12:29 am[PUBLIC]
Dear Chicago,
If not for my sister'sangry telephone call at midnight and the accompanying song reluctantly sung by her and my very best of friends (that ended in "asshole"), I'd have forgotten or ignored the fact that today is my birthday.
I demand cake and sacrifices in my honor.
~JUST KIDDING~
No but seriously, someone better bring me some fucking cake because so far this birthday SUCKS.Who the hell wants to be 100 years old?
Yeah, I know I didn't tell any of you, so don't feel bad about not getting me presents. That's not what I'm pissed about. I don't want shit I'll never wear/read/use/need. (And don't be mad at me, Richard. Sorry in advance for not telling you and you finding this out only via the journals etc. It's just something I didn't want to think about and it is my sincere opinion that birthdays are stupid.)
I just want cake. Seriously. With heaps of buttercream icing, please.So I can continue down this slippery slope of aging and get appropriately fat and lazy and gray-haired like I'm supposed to and die with all of Scotland HATING MY FAT, ABUNDANT GUTS.
This is my birthday song. It's appropriate. Enjoy it and the schadenfreude contained within.
Get baking, people.
Love,
Fletcher
Dear Chicago,
If not for my sister's
I demand cake and sacrifices in my honor.
~JUST KIDDING~
No but seriously, someone better bring me some fucking cake because so far this birthday SUCKS.
Yeah, I know I didn't tell any of you, so don't feel bad about not getting me presents. That's not what I'm pissed about. I don't want shit I'll never wear/read/use/need. (And don't be mad at me, Richard. Sorry in advance for not telling you and you finding this out only via the journals etc. It's just something I didn't want to think about and it is my sincere opinion that birthdays are stupid.)
I just want cake. Seriously. With heaps of buttercream icing, please.
This is my birthday song. It's appropriate. Enjoy it and the schadenfreude contained within.
Get baking, people.
Love,
Fletcher
[rift] half-assed apology
Oct. 26th, 2010 10:30 pmTo whoever the hell I accidentally KO-ed in the park the other day,
My bad.
My bad.
[rift] another phonecall
Aug. 22nd, 2010 11:40 pmFletcher is probably not in the best mindset for this right now, but he's calling Sam.
He knows it's about time, but the circumstances aren't exactly ideal. Fletch doesn't like being pushed into doing things.
As the line starts to ring, he takes a deep breath and tries to calm down.
He knows it's about time, but the circumstances aren't exactly ideal. Fletch doesn't like being pushed into doing things.
As the line starts to ring, he takes a deep breath and tries to calm down.
[rift] a night like this
Aug. 8th, 2010 10:44 pmFletcher can't sleep.
He hasn't called Sam yet. He keeps dialing her number, but he never gets to the part where he actually presses the call button.
This isn't making things any easier. He knows, deep in his heart, that he's going to fall for Richard.
He also knows that he's going to inevitably hurt Sam. The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if it'd be worth the pain for either of them to even try what he's been considering—hasn't he already damaged her trust enough? This could drive her away completely, with no hope of any repair. The Order needs her. He can't keep letting his personal problems get in the way of everything else.
They are, though. Continually.
When he turns over and drapes an arm across Richard's chest in the darkness, his mind calms, if only just a little. Because while everything else is hanging in the balance, the fact remains that Fletcher has Richard, still, and that's something to smile about.
So, he does. It's a bit strained, but it is there.
He hasn't called Sam yet. He keeps dialing her number, but he never gets to the part where he actually presses the call button.
This isn't making things any easier. He knows, deep in his heart, that he's going to fall for Richard.
He also knows that he's going to inevitably hurt Sam. The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if it'd be worth the pain for either of them to even try what he's been considering—hasn't he already damaged her trust enough? This could drive her away completely, with no hope of any repair. The Order needs her. He can't keep letting his personal problems get in the way of everything else.
They are, though. Continually.
When he turns over and drapes an arm across Richard's chest in the darkness, his mind calms, if only just a little. Because while everything else is hanging in the balance, the fact remains that Fletcher has Richard, still, and that's something to smile about.
So, he does. It's a bit strained, but it is there.
(no subject)
Jun. 10th, 2010 08:36 pmChicago is a city very keen on keeping its reputation as a shithole firmly intact.
Fletcher, stumbling along and supporting himself against the walls of nearby buildings as he goes, realizes this.
He turns his head to spit out what he thinks is probably a bit of tooth and a lot of blood. He has no idea what the fuck just attacked him—he figures it must've been a Behemoth, if his vicious counter attack is any indication—but there's one thing he's sure of: it was after him. It caught his scent and it followed him. Out of all the people he was near fifteen minutes ago, this thing chose him.
It either chose him or sought him out. Fletcher can't be sure what's what anymore.
After what feels like an hour but is really only ten minutes, he reaches the block of his apartment building. He has no idea how he's going to explain his state to Richard, or if he even wants to, but he knows he has to get inside. He's a limping target out here and if he doesn't move soon—
Mid-step, he freezes. Turns. Meets the gaze of someone a few feet away.
As soon as he sees metal glimmering under the streetlight, he dives toward the alley, but whoever has their finger on the trigger is too quick for Fletch. White-hot pain rips through his left side, spreads out in every direction and shoots up to blur his vision. He hits the ground with a dull thud and a pained groan and that's when he realizes there's a very good chance that he's about to die. If whoever has that gun decides to come closer and fire again, it's over.
There are thoughts he's sure he should be having right now, but his mind is blank. He can't think through the pain. He isn't even sure where the bullet hit him because he hurts all over. Attacked and shot. He's never had two people after him in one night. That'll look pretty badass in his obituary back home.
He has no idea how much time has passed between the shooting and now, but whoever did this clearly isn't coming back for anything. He'd be dead by now, if that was the case.
Fletcher wonders if he's been left here to bleed out.
Except the wound isn't that bad. It takes him a while to realize that the bullet did more damage to his jacket than it did to him; it hurts like hell when he sits up and he has to bite back some swearing, but he's able to work past that just long enough to glance at his side. The bullet only grazed him, thank God.
Some time around midnight, he finally makes it up to his apartment. If Richard isn't sleeping, he's about to see a beaten, bleeding and bled on, exhausted, dirty, thoroughly injured roommate.
Richard is also about to see said roommate collapse in the doorway, if he's anywhere nearby.
Fletcher, stumbling along and supporting himself against the walls of nearby buildings as he goes, realizes this.
He turns his head to spit out what he thinks is probably a bit of tooth and a lot of blood. He has no idea what the fuck just attacked him—he figures it must've been a Behemoth, if his vicious counter attack is any indication—but there's one thing he's sure of: it was after him. It caught his scent and it followed him. Out of all the people he was near fifteen minutes ago, this thing chose him.
It either chose him or sought him out. Fletcher can't be sure what's what anymore.
After what feels like an hour but is really only ten minutes, he reaches the block of his apartment building. He has no idea how he's going to explain his state to Richard, or if he even wants to, but he knows he has to get inside. He's a limping target out here and if he doesn't move soon—
Mid-step, he freezes. Turns. Meets the gaze of someone a few feet away.
As soon as he sees metal glimmering under the streetlight, he dives toward the alley, but whoever has their finger on the trigger is too quick for Fletch. White-hot pain rips through his left side, spreads out in every direction and shoots up to blur his vision. He hits the ground with a dull thud and a pained groan and that's when he realizes there's a very good chance that he's about to die. If whoever has that gun decides to come closer and fire again, it's over.
There are thoughts he's sure he should be having right now, but his mind is blank. He can't think through the pain. He isn't even sure where the bullet hit him because he hurts all over. Attacked and shot. He's never had two people after him in one night. That'll look pretty badass in his obituary back home.
He has no idea how much time has passed between the shooting and now, but whoever did this clearly isn't coming back for anything. He'd be dead by now, if that was the case.
Fletcher wonders if he's been left here to bleed out.
Except the wound isn't that bad. It takes him a while to realize that the bullet did more damage to his jacket than it did to him; it hurts like hell when he sits up and he has to bite back some swearing, but he's able to work past that just long enough to glance at his side. The bullet only grazed him, thank God.
Some time around midnight, he finally makes it up to his apartment. If Richard isn't sleeping, he's about to see a beaten, bleeding and bled on, exhausted, dirty, thoroughly injured roommate.
Richard is also about to see said roommate collapse in the doorway, if he's anywhere nearby.
(no subject)
Jun. 2nd, 2010 08:38 pmFletch has no idea what time it is when he dials Sam's number. It's well past midnight, of that he's sure, but he can't be bothered to reposition himself to look at the clock. Hanging upside down off of the side of the bed is oddly comfortable to someone who can't sleep.
Calling Sam is probably a bad idea. He should be calling Hannah, but his logic is this: he can deal with it when Sam is feeling any sort of negative emotion toward him. What he can't deal with is Hannah feeling that way, so it's Sam's number he dials instead.
He has the distinct feeling that this will not end well. He doesn't know what he's even going to say to her, but whatever's currently burrowing into the pit of his stomach is making it clear that he's about to do something potentially Dumb. Still, he needs to talk to someone close because he needs to get some fucking sleep.
"Oh, pick up yer feckin' phone!"
Calling Sam is probably a bad idea. He should be calling Hannah, but his logic is this: he can deal with it when Sam is feeling any sort of negative emotion toward him. What he can't deal with is Hannah feeling that way, so it's Sam's number he dials instead.
He has the distinct feeling that this will not end well. He doesn't know what he's even going to say to her, but whatever's currently burrowing into the pit of his stomach is making it clear that he's about to do something potentially Dumb. Still, he needs to talk to someone close because he needs to get some fucking sleep.
"Oh, pick up yer feckin' phone!"
(no subject)
May. 14th, 2010 11:57 am[backdated to May 7th]
Room 205, Northwestern Memorial Hospital
4:26 PM
Richard, should he care to wake up any time soon, will find that he has company in the hospital bed next to his: Fletcher. He will also notice an IV drip in his arm and a cast on his foot.
At some point in the day, Fletch managed to acquire a rather large gash down the right side of his abdomen. The doctors don't know this, so the bed isn't technically Fletcher's, but he doesn't need it. He can heal. So for now, he's resting, watching news coverage on the shitty little TV attached to the wall.
He's relatively quiet for the most part, careful to let Richard sleep, but then his cellphone rings and a quiet shouting match ensues. "Don't you tell me I'm out of my fuckin' mind! It's calm back there. We have control. This place is... it's like a war zone, Hannah. I know I don't belong here, but I can't just leave it like this in good conscience. And y'know I still haven't done what I came here to do in the first place..."
And so the conversation goes.
Room 205, Northwestern Memorial Hospital
4:26 PM
Richard, should he care to wake up any time soon, will find that he has company in the hospital bed next to his: Fletcher. He will also notice an IV drip in his arm and a cast on his foot.
At some point in the day, Fletch managed to acquire a rather large gash down the right side of his abdomen. The doctors don't know this, so the bed isn't technically Fletcher's, but he doesn't need it. He can heal. So for now, he's resting, watching news coverage on the shitty little TV attached to the wall.
He's relatively quiet for the most part, careful to let Richard sleep, but then his cellphone rings and a quiet shouting match ensues. "Don't you tell me I'm out of my fuckin' mind! It's calm back there. We have control. This place is... it's like a war zone, Hannah. I know I don't belong here, but I can't just leave it like this in good conscience. And y'know I still haven't done what I came here to do in the first place..."
And so the conversation goes.
(no subject)
May. 3rd, 2010 12:58 pm[LOCKED to the people he knows—this includes Richard, Elizabeth, Harry, John, and Rachel]
ARE YOU ALL ALIVE?
Write back if yes.
Ha ha?
No but seriously, what the flying Christ did I miss?
ARE YOU ALL ALIVE?
Write back if yes.
Ha ha?
No but seriously, what the flying Christ did I miss?
April 9, 2010
Dear Sam,
If you're reading this (I'm doubtful), let me open by saying this: I am a jackass, and I'm sorry.
I thought if I didn't tell you about any of this, it'd be easier to cope and easier to leave, but I was wrong. So here's your birthday present (if this gets to you in time—if not, consider it belated): I'm a jackass, I was wrong, I'm sorry. There. Three things I've never said to you.
And this: I love you.
I wish you were here.
Write back if you read this, please. Or you can call—my number is (312)-645-3548. I'll cover any long distance charges. I really need to talk to you.
Sincerely,
Fletcher
Fletcher
When Dunn takes the podium this morning with neither Fletcher nor Maddock anywhere in sight, most of the Order members know right away that something is Wrong. When their General isn't around, it's usually because something happened — not always bad, but rarely good.
There's never been a situation where he and the Colonel were missing, though.
And that, they're sure, is not a good sign.
A few of the older members shift in their seats, visibly concerned. One fixes a gaze on Dunn that makes him squirm. He quickly clears his throat, fixes his gaze on the back wall, and raises his hand to get everyone's attention. Time to get this over with. "Everyone?" he calls, waving a few stray glances toward him. "Good morning."
There's a lump in his throat that's making his voice rattle. He ignores it.
"I don't think any of you know this yet, but..." He can hear Maddock's voice in his head. Do your job, Kavanagh. "General Hadley's parents were murdered a few nights ago. Colonel Maddock is helping him and his family take care of a few things up in Inverness while the memorial service is prepared. Information about that will be posted later in the week."
There's a very business as usual tone up around Dunn, but once the fourth wall threshold between the podium and the rest of the room is crossed, the shock hangs so thickly in the air it makes someone near the back cough. He looks down at his notes, then back out toward his fellow archangels.
"Demons are responsible. Maybe one, maybe more, but blood was found on the scene that confirms some kind of demon involvement. I ask that you all keep whatever emotions you have contained and not go out on any sort of rampage."
This is his way of saying Fletcher already killed enough for all of us. This is damage control.
"General Hadley knows he has the support of all of us, but right now, he needs time away from this. As long as Maddock is out with him, I'll be your acting General. That is all. We'll meet again two weeks from now for our regular monthly meeting."
And then he stands back and waits for what he's sure will be over a hundred worried archangels and more than a thousand worried questions.
There's never been a situation where he and the Colonel were missing, though.
And that, they're sure, is not a good sign.
A few of the older members shift in their seats, visibly concerned. One fixes a gaze on Dunn that makes him squirm. He quickly clears his throat, fixes his gaze on the back wall, and raises his hand to get everyone's attention. Time to get this over with. "Everyone?" he calls, waving a few stray glances toward him. "Good morning."
There's a lump in his throat that's making his voice rattle. He ignores it.
"I don't think any of you know this yet, but..." He can hear Maddock's voice in his head. Do your job, Kavanagh. "General Hadley's parents were murdered a few nights ago. Colonel Maddock is helping him and his family take care of a few things up in Inverness while the memorial service is prepared. Information about that will be posted later in the week."
There's a very business as usual tone up around Dunn, but once the fourth wall threshold between the podium and the rest of the room is crossed, the shock hangs so thickly in the air it makes someone near the back cough. He looks down at his notes, then back out toward his fellow archangels.
"Demons are responsible. Maybe one, maybe more, but blood was found on the scene that confirms some kind of demon involvement. I ask that you all keep whatever emotions you have contained and not go out on any sort of rampage."
This is his way of saying Fletcher already killed enough for all of us. This is damage control.
"General Hadley knows he has the support of all of us, but right now, he needs time away from this. As long as Maddock is out with him, I'll be your acting General. That is all. We'll meet again two weeks from now for our regular monthly meeting."
And then he stands back and waits for what he's sure will be over a hundred worried archangels and more than a thousand worried questions.
[fic] the end of an era
Mar. 13th, 2010 10:25 amCold, the wind bit through the mountains
and out of white-rimmed clouds
bands of silk light ribboned
into the shadow-slashed canyon
while a mad gang of jackdaws squawked:
far more than a shower's coming
Storm Watch, James Hoggard
March 13, 2010
Hannah's voice is so broken on the other end of the line that Fletcher wonders, a little distractedly, if there's some kind of problem with reception. He pulls the mobile away from his ear and looks to the corner of the dimming screen for any sign of a bad signal, but when four solid bars meet his gaze—and, more importantly, when a sob cracks through the earpiece—he knows that's not the problem.
"What happened, Han?"
Fletcher is familiar with death. It's part of his job description, after all; it's what he does, what he knows. Death happens. Sometimes, he causes it. He's about as used to death as someone can get, especially in the case of sudden, violent deaths; not a week passes without two or three calls from Order members about an attack, or a body uncovered somewhere. This is the kind of world he lives in.
So when Hannah chokes out the words "mom and dad are dead," his reflexive response is this:
"Oh."
An emotionless, flat, distant, businesslike, one syllable acknowledgment: Oh.
Mom and dad are dead.
The line falls silent for a moment, muffled by Fletcher's overwhelming lack of feeling. It almost seems like his whole life has managed to condense itself into that one, tiny, two-lettered word. Everything he's ever done, ever experienced—someone could easily look at the grand picture of his life, step back, and say, "Oh." He wonders if that's the response he'll get when the news starts to spread. "Your parents died? Oh."
His sister's sudden shriek from the miles between them makes him jump and cues the hair on the back of his neck and along his arms to stand at attention. "Did you hear me?" She's screaming at him, falling to pieces through the hunk of plastic and electricity held against his ear, and he has no idea what to do about any of it. Their parents are dead. "Fletcher!"
"Sorry, Hannah. I don't think I heard—y'didn't really just say—?"
"Are you fuckin' deaf?" she snaps. "They're—Fletch, someone killed them. I'm at their house." She inhales, grief and mucous rattling in her throat, trying to regain some semblance of calm. This is not who she is. She does not handle stress this poorly. A voice in the back of her head insists that right now, it's okay; this is the kind of situation where a breakdown is completely allowed, but she pushes it back. "Fletcher, they're dead. There's blood all over."
In his mind's eye, he tries to picture his parents' living room ironically covered in blood.
"It's not just their blood. There's some demon blood... they must've fought back. Oh, mom—"
When she starts to weep, Fletcher's own eyes tear up. "Hannah, sweetheart, listen to me. I need you to get out of there, okay? I'm gonna make some calls and get everyone over there as soon as I can, but you can't stay there. Don't hang up. Stay on the line with me, all right? Everything'll be okay."
But that's a lie, and they both know it.
and out of white-rimmed clouds
bands of silk light ribboned
into the shadow-slashed canyon
while a mad gang of jackdaws squawked:
far more than a shower's coming
Storm Watch, James Hoggard
March 13, 2010
Hannah's voice is so broken on the other end of the line that Fletcher wonders, a little distractedly, if there's some kind of problem with reception. He pulls the mobile away from his ear and looks to the corner of the dimming screen for any sign of a bad signal, but when four solid bars meet his gaze—and, more importantly, when a sob cracks through the earpiece—he knows that's not the problem.
"What happened, Han?"
Fletcher is familiar with death. It's part of his job description, after all; it's what he does, what he knows. Death happens. Sometimes, he causes it. He's about as used to death as someone can get, especially in the case of sudden, violent deaths; not a week passes without two or three calls from Order members about an attack, or a body uncovered somewhere. This is the kind of world he lives in.
So when Hannah chokes out the words "mom and dad are dead," his reflexive response is this:
"Oh."
An emotionless, flat, distant, businesslike, one syllable acknowledgment: Oh.
Mom and dad are dead.
The line falls silent for a moment, muffled by Fletcher's overwhelming lack of feeling. It almost seems like his whole life has managed to condense itself into that one, tiny, two-lettered word. Everything he's ever done, ever experienced—someone could easily look at the grand picture of his life, step back, and say, "Oh." He wonders if that's the response he'll get when the news starts to spread. "Your parents died? Oh."
His sister's sudden shriek from the miles between them makes him jump and cues the hair on the back of his neck and along his arms to stand at attention. "Did you hear me?" She's screaming at him, falling to pieces through the hunk of plastic and electricity held against his ear, and he has no idea what to do about any of it. Their parents are dead. "Fletcher!"
"Sorry, Hannah. I don't think I heard—y'didn't really just say—?"
"Are you fuckin' deaf?" she snaps. "They're—Fletch, someone killed them. I'm at their house." She inhales, grief and mucous rattling in her throat, trying to regain some semblance of calm. This is not who she is. She does not handle stress this poorly. A voice in the back of her head insists that right now, it's okay; this is the kind of situation where a breakdown is completely allowed, but she pushes it back. "Fletcher, they're dead. There's blood all over."
In his mind's eye, he tries to picture his parents' living room ironically covered in blood.
"It's not just their blood. There's some demon blood... they must've fought back. Oh, mom—"
When she starts to weep, Fletcher's own eyes tear up. "Hannah, sweetheart, listen to me. I need you to get out of there, okay? I'm gonna make some calls and get everyone over there as soon as I can, but you can't stay there. Don't hang up. Stay on the line with me, all right? Everything'll be okay."
But that's a lie, and they both know it.
