February 2019. I Was A Little Late To The Party But I Intend To Stick Around!

Cold Night - Ralph Anderson x Reader (The Outsider)

GIF Credit: X

Sure Be Cool If You Did / Bienvenue From Hell, Mon Amour / Made in the USA / Under The Weather

Author’s Note: So, we’re still using book Ralph’s personality. Because that’s where I’d like to keep him! 

I just got this idea whilst thinking for a little too long about the show… And also this song, as ever, popped up on shuffle and went “You know what would be good…!”

And thus, you all get your 5th installment of Ralph Anderson

*Note, the DA is back to his book name, Samuels, for part consistency. 

Disclaimer: Characters and plot lines from The Outsider are all Stephen Kings / Thanks YM@S for once again providing some great lyrics from this album / Gif not mine - credit as appropriate.

Premise: As detectives and partners, it’s good from time to time to discuss cases… But sometimes you need something a little more than just discussion to help you through them… 

Words: 2063

Warnings:  All Fluff  - I just needed me some Sweet-Soft!Ralph.

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Aidan as Phil Hendricks in Thorne: Sleepyhead

Thank you to @beautyofthend! Without her this would never have been finished.

Holding On - (Ralph Anderson x Female Reader) - Ch.3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Summary: All you want is for this nightmare to be over…Maybe there is a way to leave it all behind you?

Notes: This short piece is the last chapter. Thanks to those of you who stuck with this story.

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reminder

• it’s ok if you accomplish things “more slowly” than other people • it’s ok if you find difficultly in what others consider “easy” • it’s ok if you fall behind, you will still reach your destination • it’s ok to take life at your own pace

The Gospel of Alfie Solomons

Written by Steven Knight, Performed by Tom Hardy

PART I - LISTEN HERE

You see, the idea I fuckin’ hate the most, right, is that everything starts off perfect, yeah, and then it gets worse. That is demonstrably not fuckin’ true. Some things are just born bad. Some people are born with no intention to do anything good on this Earth and they carry out their plan to deceive and cheat and rob and desanctify all that is Holy, just because that is the way that they were born. That’s how they are. That’s what they do, is relentless, relentlessly. 

Their creed runs thus: If I can, I will rob you; if I must, I will kill you; if you let me, I will fuck you; when I’ve fucked you, I will leave you. My father, Alfred Solomons, said it was such a man, with such a creed, who was a dispenser. A dispenser of semen to the gullible and the bewildered. A make of bastards on a scale unseen since Ghengis fuckin’ Khan. A barbarian, for whom every empty womb was Rome. He planted the seeds but he did not tend the gardens, he stayed only long enough to piss on the compost. And he had the roses to sell in Summerstown in the market there. With his stolen roses in his pockets, he would leap the garden gate, leaving behind only the scent of rum. Miles he passed. Tobacco and Portugal, water, which he did. He sold out of his suitcase, right, at six pence a bottle. At least that is what I’ve been told. 

Yeah, so I’m fucking told because all I ever saw of him was his fuckin’ hat. It was hangin’ on a wall, on a nail, above the sink where my mother washed other people’s laundry. That hat was a holy relic, size 8 ½, made in Luton where the hatmakers go insane on the fumes of their trade, and leave little messages sewn under the hat bands. The message in my father’s hat was this: “This hat is a kettle, in which to boil up your wicked dreams and make a soup of your soul.” It is a hat that actually I wear to this day It still smells of Portugal water, and when I wear it, the schemes and proposals come out of the darkness as if seeping out of the felt and the leather that is stained with his erotic sweat.

My mother washed bedsheets, my father was a fucking hat. No kisses, no bedtime stories, just parcels of sheets to deliver to the hotels, and the brothels, Camden Town for nothing more than flat bread, and a pinch from the priest who would then open up his robes when I passed, and from that I drew my dark and accurate conclusions on religion. 

So! Alfie Solomons Jr. grew untended and wild, a stem with hardly a root sticking up like a skinny cock out of the gutter so every nasty little Christian kid walking by their nasty little Christian school with their gropey old Christian masters could kick it down, and stomp on it and shout, “it was you lot who killed Jesus, so have that in your belly, and have that in your face, and see it as charity. We’re not nailing you up like you did our Lord.” But every time I got stopped down, I fuckin’ stomped back off again, mate. I survived out of spite. And instead of learning how to fight, I learned how to put right the wrongs done unto me tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousandfold, yae, unto the fuckin stars, right, by using the bit of my body that God had cleverly put inside a strong-boned box, so the kicks and the digs could not reach it. 

The bit of me that is my brain. 

With the help of the alchemy of my Portugal water hat and the strong-boned box I processed the schemes and solutions the mad hatters in Luton and my father had put there, my brain a factory producing schemes and solutions, dodges and speculations, ways around, ways to undermine, a trickle at night and a flood in the day when I unlock my bakery and smell the aroma of secrets and sin and begin the process of accumulation. 

I am the chairman of Alfie Solomons’ Aerated Bread Company, Bonny Street, Camden Town, to be precise. My two vice chairmen are Mr. Threat and Mr. Violence in the form that I prefer but, but, the latter is necessary to support the former, because without violence there is no threat, and without threat there is no accumulation, and without accumulation, well there’s just no fucking point, mate. As a baker I occasionally sell bread. As a bookmaker I occasionally let the fastest horse win. As a landlord I occasionally have a roof fixed, but mostly I find it is quicker and it easier to deal with the complainer, right, than deal with the complaint. 

From all of this you are drawing your conclusions - Alfie Solomons, begat from a bad man, and beguiled by a hat band, became a bad man, inspires bad men to do bad things in bad ways to good people with bad, bad luck, but is good enough to at least admit he is a fucking bad, bad man. [grunts]

But, consider this, right? In all my years, yeah, as a baker in Camden Town, I have overseen, I have organized or otherwise been responsible for the deaths, right, of 35 fucking men. All of whom, I’ll have you know, attend my dreams each night in various disguises in regular order, with no pattern or logic to it, but with the consequence that I wake up each morning in sheets that have to be wrung out from sweat, right, by my maid, Edna, yeah who, it should be noted, I have never had an evil thought about in fifteen years because when she washes my sweat from the sheets, she reminds me of my poor mother, now residing in Hell and washing the robes of Satan himself.

So, 35 men, 35 times I am a bad man. But here is where mathematics comes to my rescue. Logic rides in like an accountant on a penny farthing just in time to make proof of mitigation before moral bankruptcy is officially declared, yeah?

Here is, [clears throat], here is what logic puts forward, in my defense.

In France, right, Passendale, for example, take one day, one hour, one fucking second, I am standing, right, in the uncultivated mud, a stem with hardly a root in my hands, I have an artillery shell. It is the size and weight of a newborn baby. A little bastard made in Birmingham, sharp nosed, the color of the morning sky. And in that one second, right, one fucking second of one day, of one month, of four years - in that one second I feed that baby to the upturned mortar barrell ass-first, upturned, I put my fingers in my ears, and boom, I send my baby into the morning sky. To do the only job it was ever, ever intended to do. Two seconds later, another boom, and there in the mud, over there, lie 36 men. 

Brown bread.

The 36 killed by the soldier, right, are just as dead, right, as the 35 killed by the baker, but the 36, they do not attend my dreams, and are not there in God’s ledger counting the good against the bad. I was given a medal for the 36, but I took a bullet by the Peaky Blinders for the 35, so. 

Therefore, my beloved congregation, I will leave you with this conclusion, right. There is no good and there is no bad that is categorical in this world beyond the calculations of powerful men, right, who shift the definition according to their own selfish schemes of accumulation. The only things that are categorical are life and death and for arguments’ sake we say life is good, and death is bad - purely, purely for arguments’ sake. 

Which means - which means my father was fucking right, mate. You dispense your semen, you piss on the compost, you deadhead the fuckin’ roses, leave the garden gate, take what you’ve stolen to market and you sell it at a reasonable price, leaving behind only your hat and the scent of your fucking wares, mate.

That is the creed of Alfie Solomons. A lame shepherd among nimble goats who nevertheless at the stable door shall be counted and accumulated as lambs to my gentle slaughter. 

Because never forget this, right: 

Alfie Solomons, he is always waiting.

On this day so many years ago,

You opened your eyes and welcomed the world.

You, an old soul, with new things to learn

Bravely you have walked the path before you,

The one you chose and made your own, 

It has not been an easy path,

But you have walked it with integrity in your soul,

Mistakes a plenty for the human condition is inescapable, 

Yet wisdom gained with each one,

So broken at times but still whole,

For out of sheer will you have picked up the pieces of you and filled the cracks with gold,

Tears may be streaming down your face, 

Yet your face is always raised against the wind, 

Oh, so brave, 

In your heart, hope still ablaze,

Freedom always gracing your wings, 

As you fly high above,

Faith always painted in your eyes, 

The desire to live and fill the world with the beauty at your fingertips is never ending.  

Let forevermore this day be called blessed, 

All the joy in it be condensed,

and into your blessed heart be laid,

Let the angels sing louder and more beautiful today,

Let the flowers bloom more brightly,  

The wind play more joyfully, 

The sun shine more warmly,

For today is your birthday. 

e.v.e.

Charles x Reader

Short AU one shot where Charles and Erik do not have powers. Charles is a psychiatrist and is trying to get the reader (Erik's sister and a police woman) to open up to him about a traumatic event in her past.

Charles reaches out and touches your hand across the table, you look up at him and he holds your gaze "Just talk to me Y/N, it's my job, I can help. I want to help." You wipe a tear from your eye and look away. "Charles, please stop. I appreciate that you are trying to help, really I do, but you can't. No one can." You get up from the table and go to refill your glass from the large, but almost empty, bottle of gin on the counter.

Charles isn't about to give up that easily. He knows about your past of course, Erik had told him years ago of your Mother's suicide and that you had been the one to find her body when you were only 15, but you never spoke of it. On the face of it, you had overcome the tragedy well. You appeared strong, confident, self assured and, above all, happy. You laughed, joked and seemed, not unfeeling, but unphased by the horrors you encountered at work. You shrugged off the pressure and stresses of your job as though they were a coat that you could simply put on and take off as you pleased. Most would never guess that you had ever experienced such sadness, perhaps maybe even Charles wouldn't have realised had he not already been aware. But he had seen it. Every once in a while, beneath the smiles and the happiness, he could see the pain. These moments were short lived and you would quickly recover your composure in time to deflect his questions. You were infuriatingly good at it in fact. He had never known anyone so skilled in avoidance. But this time was different. This wasn't a fleeting glance at the pain that simmered below the surface. This was raw and unchecked emotion.

"Y/N, I can help you. But you have to talk to me."

Still with your back turned, you slam the glass back down on the counter. "Why can't you understand?! I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to be helped... I don't deserve it... I..." your words falter.

"You don't deserve help? Why would you think that?"

Your shoulders sag and you suddenly seem to Charles so small and vulnerable. You let out an almost imperceptible sob and say quietly "Because I didn't stop her."

This admission strikes him like a hammer to the chest. He realises that you blame yourself. He feels tears pricking in his own eyes. He knows how that feels, the torture of believing that you are responsible for the death of another. "What happened to your Mother, what she did, it isn't your fault. You were a child Y/N, and there was no warning, no reason. How could you possibly have prevented it?"

You turn to face him, tears streaming down your cheeks "I didn't find her after she had killed herself Charles, I saw her. I knew what she was going to do..... I didn't stop her....."

.....