“It is not your fault,” he said.

“How can you know that?” Joe asked, a trace of desperation in his voice. “How can we ever possibly know?”

Often when he had small jobs such as this to do, Nicolò would come to sit beside him and watch closely, or sing in a wavering voice. The sound was pleasing enough on its own, even discounting it as proof of the trust they were beginning to share. On one occasion Yusuf had caught the melody and joined in, only for Nicolò to stutter to a stop and stare at him, something unreadable in his face.

An AU take on Season 5’s “Doctor Bashir, I Presume.” With no recourse but to resign from the service, Bashir takes a chance that he couldn’t have contemplated as a Starfleet officer. Meanwhile, the crew looks for a creative solution that will keep their doctor on the station.

Daniel’s barely thirty; he can’t fathom one century, let alone five. It’s probably a wonder Armand doesn’t spend his time skulking in a cave somewhere, muttering to himself, covered in the blood and muck of his innocent human victims.

Armand tilts his head a little, lips pursed, chiding. “Really, Daniel. Must we give in to such lazy stereotypes?”

Daniel just got pleasantly fucked in a Japanese love hotel and taken out for pancakes by his sleep paralysis demon; there’s nothing stereotypical about this.

“Pleasantly?” Armand picks up on, with no little offense.

If the reason you don’t make a child vampire is because they’ll be perpetually stuck in the hormonal throes of pubescence, then it’s worth asking what that means for the adult vampires. Louis’ clock stopped at thirty-three, Armand’s stopped at twenty-seven.

Ashamed of the person he was when he was thirty-three, Daniel decides to give the vampires some grace. It doesn’t change much about the outcome, but what it changes matters.

They putter around the house that evening, each in a loose, easy orbit around the other

u/city_0f_day_after_tmrw • 45 minutes ago I can’t believe the freaks of r/onlyingotham think Superman should move there He would have to become mediocre man or possibly even “fucking sucks” man #52nd in water quality #49th in literacy #only thing it’s number one is in is cannibalistic serial killers per capi…

“Tell me something that brings you comfort.”

“Something that brings me comfort?” Robby shot back, his tone mocking the frivolity of it, because he never was one to just follow directions.

“Yes,” Gene said, eternally unfazed. “It can be the smallest thing, whatever comes to mind.”

What came to mind was: Pens games, the trails at Frick Park, the rare book collection in the Oliver Room at Carnegie Main, a cortado at Sage Caffe. But what he said was: “Jack.”

…wait. Shit.

“Daniel’s way of dealing with fear is anger…and bowling.”

The inevitable Devil’s Minion confrontation at the bowling alley fic.

“So hot,” the other woman agreed, shooting a quick glance out at Jack. “Those arms. Have mercy.”

Robby hid a smile. Jack was gonna love hearing about this.

Her friend made an agreeing sort of noise. “Yeah, but I’m gonna be so real with you: the leg kinda freaks me out.”

And Robby froze, a ripple of offense sweeping him.

It was not, Phryne thought as she steered Josephine through the French countryside, that you could precisely call her job boring. There was a war on, and she was much nearer the front than she told her parents in her infrequent letters home. She was driving an ambulance between the French triage unit and the hospital, avoiding potholes as best she could. The men in the back of her bus moaned or swore at each one she hit. It was important work, one part in the chain that saved as many men as possible from the jaws of death. It was good work, and more meaningful than she’d thought it would be when she’d signed up for the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, desperate for anything that would get her out of London.

It was only that she’d driven this route so often she could do it in her sleep. The only change was the appearance of more potholes and ruts.

Phryne’s ambulance breaks down just outside the village where Peter Wimsey is stationed.

Building the ER on a 24,000 square foot space, Ruscio always wanted to stay as accurate as possible so the audience would stay immersed in the story.

It had been one of those days - the kind that scraped you down to the cartilage and called it a good save. He’d woken up with the ghost of a dream under his skin, hours before his shift even started; one of those ones where he had to just lie there to remind himself the world was still spinning. Part of him had been tempted to call Jack. He would have picked up. Taken his shift - or better, offered to come over. Then they’d do that thing where Jack would put on some shitty Spaghetti Western and keep running commentary going until Robby felt like a person again.

Instead, he’d gotten up, gone through the motions, and into work.

---

Robby doesn’t know how to keep going - he knows it’s more than just exhaustion. He also doesn’t know how to let himself love Jack. Lucky for him, Jack knows how to do both.

Jack just laughed and shoved him a little harder into the door, a visceral, physical reminder: he was in control now. He expected Robby to bitch him out, sharp like he got when cornered—

Except instead Robby slumped, his breath out almost relief, like all the fight had drained from him. He didn’t say anything, just took a few shaky breaths, body shivering under Jack’s—

…oh.

The English class system is complicated, even before one considers its hierarchical werewolf components.

That morning it’s the scent of rain that does it

May, 1493. A letter is published. A world grows.

Nile builds out her internal map of Andy, Joe, and Nicky . . .

“You know,” Jack says. “It wasn’t your fault. Any of it.”

Robby is sure that there are many things that happened today, a thousand days ago, that he can’t help but bear some blame for. He lets his breath pass through his teeth. “Whatever happened to your Catholic guilt, huh?”

“It got blown to pieces with my leg,” Jack says. “Besides,” he says—and it’s this morning on the roof again, the sun coming up. “This is about your guilt, misplaced as it is.” His gaze sinks to some far-off place. “Not mine.”

(or: following PittFest, Jack follows Robby home)

“If you really want to know, the hot new thing is an app called findr. It’s for bougie professionals who like to pretend they’re elevated while slobbering all over each other, so entirely your speed.”

At that, Robby lost his war with self-control and did flip her off.

Ellis actually laughed. “The vision,” she said again, dark eyes dancing. “findr,” she said again, like he might have forgotten. “Go fuck away the raincloud, Robby. For everybody’s sake, but mostly mine,” she drawled as she sauntered away.