Been Waiting So Long For This!!!!

Jackson Brodie x OFC

Based on Jason Isaacs’ portrayal of Jackson Brodie in the BBC adaptation of Kate Atkinson’s ‘When Will There Be Good News?”

Summary: Jackson accidentally declares his love to OFC after being in a train crash. Inspired by the interaction between Jackson and Louise in the BBC adaptation. 

Rachel sat by the hospital bed, watching him sleep. His breathing was shallow and barely audible over the humming and beeping of machines. She hated hospitals, always had, and avoided them whenever possible. The smell, the endless people milling around, it reminded her of things she would rather forget but never could. She closed her eyes tightly, as if trying to force the memories back into the past and returned her gaze to Jackson. He had a large dressing on his forearm, a smaller one on the side of his head, numerous cuts and grazes to his face and what looked like extensive bruising on his chest. The doctors had assured her that it looked worse than it actually was; a fairly nasty head injury and a couple of broken ribs but he was going to be ok. Thank god.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in Scotland for at least another couple of days. She had been working late and had missed his call. He had left her a message. “Hi, it’s me. Hope you’re ok. Look, I’m heading back early and……erm…… I  wondered if you were free this evening…… for a drink or……meal…….or…..erm………well, you’re obviously not free……. probably working …… erm…… I should be back by 8, I’ll try you again then………bye.” She had smiled to herself, he was absolutely shocking at speaking on the phone, and checked the time, 9.15pm. Strange, there had been no other missed call or message. Looking at the pile of paperwork still on her desk, she had decided it could wait until tomorrow and dialled his number while shutting down her computer and switching off her lamp. No answer. She had tried again while heading to her car, still nothing. Maybe he had got caught in traffic, or just changed his mind. Just as she was about to set off for home, her phone had rang. It was an unknown number. “Hello?”

“Hello, is that Rachel Morgan?”

“Speaking, can I ask who is calling?”

“I’m calling from St. Thomas’s Hospital; do you know a man by the name of Jackson Brodie?”

Her stomach had lurched, there was a pounding in her ears, her hands began to shake.“Yes”

“He asked us to call you and we found your number in his phone. I’m afraid he’s been involved in an accident…….”

She hadn't  heard the rest, she had dropped the phone and headed straight to the hospital.

Jackson suddenly let out a low moan and started to stir, pulling her back to the present. His eyes opened slightly, and he turned his head towards her. She leant forward in the chair and gently laid her hand over his, “Hey, it’s about time you joined me. It’s bad manners to keep a lady waiting you know?” He squeezed her hand and a small smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “How are you feeling?” 

Jackson frowned “Where…?” His breath caught in his throat and he looked confused. 

“You’ve been in an accident. I’m told you picked a fight with a train and, apparently, you didn’t come out of it on top. You’re in hospital” He closed his eyes again and grimaced “Are you in pain?” She stood up and leant over him to press the call button for a nurse. 

He opened his eyes again, struggling to focus on her face as he groggily said, “You’re so beautiful”.

She raised her eyebrows and smiled. She reached down and gently stroked his face with her fingertips, careful to avoid the cuts and bruises. “They said you had hit your head; I didn’t realise it you’d hit it that hard…”. Sitting back down on the chair, she saw him close his eyes again and watched his chest rise and fall as he took deep, laboured breaths, struggling for air, pain etched onto his face. She slipped her hand into his and held it tightly “It’s ok Jackson, take it easy. You’re ok. I’m here”  

His expression relaxed and his breathing began to ease. He looked directly at her, just for a moment, gripped her hand and muttered “I love you” before he closed his eyes and his breathing became shallow again. 

She hadn’t expected that. She was shocked, it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under her. 

Just then the nurse entered the room “Everything OK?” 

“What? Oh, sorry, he came round…….he was talking…..just for a moment….he was in pain and struggling to breathe….” 

The nurse walked over and Rachel let go of Jackson’s hand, rising from the chair and stepping aside and out of the way. She watched as the nurse checked his over and her sight became blurred. She couldn’t breathe, she panicked and left.

She almost ran out of the hospital. This wasn’t what she signed up for. She didn’t have serious relationships, in fact up until recently she didn’t really have relationships of any description, serious or otherwise. She had met Jackson during a case a few months ago and he had made an impression on her from the start. As an ex-policeman turned private investigator, he should have been of immense irritation to her, like he was to pretty much all of her colleagues. She had heard rumours about him, both before he left the force and afterwards, but she always preferred to make up her own mind about people instead of listening to idle gossip. Besides, he had interested her. There was something about him that made her want to get to know him better and apparently the feeling was mutual. When the case was over, he had asked her if she would like to go for a drink and she had accepted. She hadn’t planned for anything to come of it, but she had liked him in spite of herself and it became a regular thing. It hadn't taken long for them to take the leap from friendly banter over drinks to something much more. Sure, they were getting on well; he was nice, he didn't place any expectations on her and seemed to accept her for who she was which was a miracle in itself, really. But she had made it clear that she couldn’t offer him anything serious and he had said the same. She thought he was ok with how things were, that they were on the same page. Now he was saying that he loved her. She got into her car and took a deep breath. Maybe it was just the accident, or the medication. He was really groggy. He probably didn’t even know who she was……… But what if it was the truth? What if he did love her? Oh Fuck, what if she was falling for him as well? What then?

She looked back towards the hospital and thought of him lying there broken. A tear came to her eye and she turned the key in the ignition and drove away.

*

Bloody bike. She absolutely loved the freedom she felt while she was riding it, but maintaining the damn thing was a nightmare. The carburettor needed cleaning along with some other minor jobs, so she put her playlist on and got to work. She had spent a lot of time working on it over the past couple of days, it helped her think. The thing with Jackson at the hospital had floored her and she had handled it badly. That was three days ago. She had called the hospital every day to find out how he was but had not visited or contacted him directly. That was really shitty even by her standards. They didn’t live in each other’s pockets by any means, but she had missed him while he was away in Scotland and when she had received the phone call from the hospital, she had been terrified that she was going to lose him and now she probably had anyway. Why would he be interested in her now? Maybe it was for the best, she was a mess and he deserved better. 

Never the less, she couldn’t get him out of her mind. She felt bad for how she had treated him, she had behaved disgracefully and the very least he deserved was an apology. So, she resolved to finish up with the bike, clean herself up and go and see him. Although, that was assuming he even wanted to see her and why would he? Even if he did, what the hell was she going to say to him? ‘I’m sorry I bailed on you when you were seriously injured in hospital, but…..’ But what? What could possibly excuse that? She wasn’t concentrating and caught the back of her forearm on a sharp bit of metal “Bollocks!” Pulling her arm away sharply, there were already droplets of red falling from the deep gash and dripping onto the floor “Well, that’s just brilliant.” 

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Great timing whoever that is, “Hang on a sec…” she called as she scrabbled up from the floor and looked for something to wrap around the cut, finding only a stray sock on the radiator. Well, it would have to do, at least it was most likely clean.

She got to the door, almost falling over her cat on the way, and opened it to find Jackson on the doorstep. He seemed a little surprised to have been confronted by a grease-covered Rachel, spanner in hand, with AC/DC echoing through the hall. But not as surprised as she was to see him. He should still be in hospital. His left arm was in a sling and his face was mottled with bruising. He looked exhausted. “Jackson, Hi. Are you……..How are you?”

“Yeah, I’m good” He seemed guarded, anxious. “I was just wondering…”

“Wondering about what?”

His gaze shifted to the side. “The hospital. I remember you being there, then you weren’t. Did something happen? Did I…….?”

She didn’t know what to say. He knew that something happened but not what. Maybe it was better to keep it that way. “No… nothing happened. I just………I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have……I should have…..”

Jackson stepped forward and looked directly at her, holding her gaze. “Rachel, I may not know what happened, but I know something did. You were with me…..then I woke up again and you were gone and I haven’t heard from you since. Call me paranoid but……..Did I……say something?” he said, with a slight quiver in his voice.

She paused for a moment, considering what to say. “You were pretty out of it...I mean, you had been in a train crash, obviously you were out of it……you said, well…..you told me you loved me.”

Jackson suddenly seemed vulnerable. His eyes watered and he looked away, slowly nodding his head before quietly saying “Right, well, not exactly how I had planned to handle it.”

Rachel gasped in mock surprise “Jackson Brodie, you mean to tell me that you actually had a plan?!” He glanced back up at her and smiled briefly before looking away once more. Her own smile faded as she studied him for a moment, considering what he had said and what it meant. “So, it wasn’t just the fact that you had taken on a train and lost then?”

He shook his head and shrugged “No. Well, I didn’t mean to say it….not like that”

“You didn’t mean to say it, but you meant it?”

“Yes, I did… I do”

She bit her lip and shifted her weight from one leg to the other, unsure what to say. It’s true that she hadn’t planned for her relationship with Jackson to become anything serious, but she felt…..how did she feel? She thought back to the journey to the hospital, the panic that threatened to overwhelm her that he would die. The pain at seeing him so badly hurt in the hospital……had she fallen for him too? She guessed there was only one way to find out. “Okay.”  

He looked back at her with a searching expression “Is it?”

She paused for a moment, before smiling “Yes”

He looked down again and nodded before smiling himself “Okay”.

“Do you want to come in?”

“It’s ok, you’re busy. I don’t want to intrude…..” Just then, he looked down at her arm “Your arm……what happened? Are you ok?” 

She looked down and saw that the white sock that she hand wrapped around her forearm was now stained red and blood was dripping onto the floor. “Oh, I caught myself on the bike. It’s fine, really. It’s nothing.’

“It doesn’t look like nothing, let me see.” As he bent forward he seemed to lose his balance and put his hand out to steady himself on the door frame. 

“Jesus. Jackson are you ok?” She dropped the spanner she had been holding and slipped under his arm, wrapping her own arm around his waist to support him. Just in time. He suddenly went deathly pale and looked as if he were about to pass out. She helped him inside and through into the living room, gently lowering him onto the sofa before crouching in front of him and holding his face in her hands “Jackson….Jackson what’s wrong? I’m calling an ambulance….” 

She stood to get her phone out of her pocket but he shook his head  “No….I’m alright”

“You are absolutely not alright. The hospital shouldn’t have let you out so soon….”

He groaned “They didn’t”.

She looked up from her phone, raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to one side “What?”

Jackson leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, and took a deep breath through his nose, holding it for a moment before exhaling through pursed lips. “I kind of checked myself out. I hate hospitals.”

“Jesus Christ Jackson. No one likes hospitals, but they come in pretty handy when you have been in a train crash. Come on, I’m taking you back.”

He reached up and took her hand “No, please Rachel. I’m fine honestly. I just need a minute.”

She looked at him, he really didn’t look fine. In fact, he looked bloody awful. “You need more than just a minute. What the hell were you think……Woah!” Jackson had suddenly pitched forward and she lurched forward and caught him holding him upright with both of her hands on his shoulders. “Ok….I’ve got you. Let’s get you laid down” Rachel slid her hands down his chest and around his back, holding him tightly as she lowered him slowly to the side and then onto his back before lifting each of his legs and resting them on the sofa arm. She then undid the buttons around his collar and as she began to loosen his belt, Jackson let out a small groan and muttered “Steady on, I have just been hit by a train you know?” Although his eyes were closed, a smile spread across his lips.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“It has been pointed out once or twice”

She laughed in spite of herself and shook her head “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

“Well-”

“Don’t answer that. Back in a second” 

She headed to the kitchen to get him a glass of water and contemplated calling an ambulance. He had been in a serious accident and really didn’t seem well but, against her better judgement, she decided against it. She walked back to the living room and found him sitting up, leaning back against the sofa and resting his head against the wall and staring at the ceiling. “Feeling better?”

He slowly sat forward and smiled “Yeah, sorry”

She offered him the glass “It’s ok, I won’t hold it against you. Here, drink this.”

Jackson took the glass and slowly sipped the water as she walked over to the window, opening it wide to let in some fresh air. Behind her, she heard him place the glass down on the table and turned to find him staring at her. “Rachel….are we….I mean, I know you said…..but…”

She walked over to the sofa, sat down next to him, put her finger on his lips and smiled “Shut up Jackson”. She leaned in closer, her hand reaching round to the back of his neck, pulling him towards her until her lips were almost touching his ear and whispered, “I love you too.” 

He inhaled sharply and pulled away. Their eyes met and he cupped her cheek in his hand as he kissed her lips, her cheek, her jaw, then her neck as he held her tightly against him. His breathing rapid, his hands, searching and hungry, she whispered into his ear once more “And now, I’m taking you back to the hospital.”  

The Outdoor Type - Malcolm Bench x Reader (Vertical Limit)

Author’s Note: I kinda hope you forget you ever gave me this idea and that I asked if I could write it… What can I say, I like surprising you from time to time - as much as I love telling you what I’m currently working on and sending snippets 🤷‍♀️

I literally found this song googling “Songs about mountains / hiking” when I was trying to make him a playlist. So, all of this is just really perfect timing. The Stars Aligned-!

Disclaimer: Vertical Limit Characters not mine - as the idea to put Ben in brown contacts wasn’t, but brilliant job guys! 🙏 / Gif not mine / lyrics not mine 

Premise: Malcolm wants to take you on a nice summer hike in the Great Outdoors… There’s only one flaw with his plan, you’re afraid of heights. And you haven’t told him yet.

Words: 1483

Warnings: N/A 

Keep reading

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.

Aidan as Phil Hendricks in Thorne: Sleepyhead

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....."

.....

Home in England

THENORDROOM.COM - INSTAGRAM - PINTEREST - FACEBOOK

You want to know why Inigo Montoya remains such an iconic and beloved character even 35 years after the Princess Bride came out?

It's because he's one of the few characters in fiction who has a story where he has dedicated his life to revenge, his whole motivation is about getting revenge....and he gets it! and then he isn't empty or despairing! he doesn't regret it! he's totally satisfied!

because so many stories about revenge or rage are about characters "seeing the futility of their actions" or learning "their desire for revenge has only made them the monsters they hated" FUCK THAT.

Inigo Montoya kills the man who kills his father, is allowed to live in the narrative after and be happy about it and it is so satisfying. it's fantastic. it's iconic.

let more characters rage against the world, bring it down with bloodied hands, and let them be FUCKING RIGHT about it. Let them celebrate their success with sharp grins, and let them live happy, full lives where they always remain proud/fulfilled for what they've done