ali. they/she. 33. “when you left I walked into the ocean. not to drown but to be held by something reluctant to let go.” -Leila Chatti follow from: softmeetssofter
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I lived and worked in a lighthouse at a previous job. There was a thick line painted in a circle around the shack where the fog signal was kept. The line represented how close you could get to the fog signal without experiencing physical harm in the form of eardrums shattering or worse.
Even in the house it was LOUD. Probably the loudest thing I have ever experienced but at a normal, predictable interval. You would begin to time your sentences with little pauses with the rest of the lighthouse crew so you would talk like this while making your………..HORN…………. tea and then carry on talking because you knew when it would go off. It rattled the walls and the dishes in our cabinet.
At least one girl had died there. They kept photos of her everywhere “in honor of her sacrifice” because she had decided to take the winter watch alone and died in a storm where bounders the size of mini vans had been lifted out of the ocean and left scattered across the island, to say nothing of the ice chunks. People weren’t allowed to be alone on the watch after that.
One day a dead moose washed up on shore and it took my entire crew all day but we managed to rig up a line to hang it up to dry because we thought having a moose skeleton in the house would really spice the living room up a bit. It did. Weird shit happens when six of you are left alone, like ALONE ALONE, no cell reception, no wifi, just a radio to contact the real world and not a lot of reason to do that. People don’t go on lighthouse jobs if they want to stay connected, I’ve found.
That said Id do it all again, I really do treasure those days
people who are like "but with universal healthcare you'll have to pay taxes!!! Up to 8%!!!" Are so funny. Like as opposed to the 16% of my gross paycheck that goes to private insurance, that won't cover shit unless i call my insurance company, then my doctor, then my pharmacy, then my doctor again because theyre pretty sure insurance got approved then my insurance company because they didn't get the letter, then my doctor again, then the pharmacy again, and then the copay i still am on the hook for.
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Everyone has their corny fic trope they will never not love, and for me it’s mafia/organized crime AUs. So, consider.
A summer night in Manitoba. Shane fighting sleep from the driver’s seat of his patrol car, four hours left on his shift.
Nights like this are dangerous because they allow his mind to wander back to a time when he wasn’t always a small-town cop, writing parking tickets and getting the short end of the stick with his patrol times. In another lifetime he was one of the youngest members of the RCMP, back before the lifetime blacklist and demotion down to the lowest possible rung of police work with no hope of ever rising up again.
A car zips by, the first in hours. Barely anyone drives on this back-end, one-way road this late, not even teenagers looking for trouble. Shane ignores half the cars that pass through, but this one has a trifecta of infractions: no plates, double the speed limit, dead right tail light.
Shane sighs and turns on the flashing lights, pulling away from his patrol spot on the shoulder. The car pulls over immediately, obediently. Shane is relieved; the last thing he wants to do at 3 in the morning is start a pursuit.
He gets out of his car, flashlight in one hand, wanders over to the driver’s side door prepared to see a stoned teenager or a night shift construction worker woozy from lack of sleep.
Instead, Shane freezes, his fingers going so limp he nearly drops his flashlight.
The man sitting in the driver’s seat should not be here. He should be miles away, at his home base in Montreal, not driving a piece of shit beater in the middle of nowhere.
And Shane should not be here with him, because as far as Ilya Rozanov knows, Shane Hollander’s body burned up in a car fire four years ago.
Ilya blinks at Shane, narrowing his eyes. It’s dark, even with the flashing light spilling behind them and the tiny light in Shane’s hand. If he gets through this quickly, maybe Ilya won’t even get a good look at his face.
“Can I help you, Officer?” Ilya asks, tapping the steering wheel once, twice, with his pointer finger. Hearing his voice sends twin lines of heat and ice down Shane’s spine.
“Sorry, ah,” Shane clears his throat. “You have…you were going a little fast.”
“I am not from around here.”
“Right, well, just don’t do it again,” Shane says. “Um, and get that tail light fixed. Have a good night.”
He turns on his heel, forcing his legs to move fast despite the fact they feel wobbly. He just needs to get to his car and it’ll be fine.
He hears the door of the other car open behind him, heavy boots settling on the ground.
“Officer,” Ilya calls behind him.
He keeps walking, but the feet behind him are walking, too, faster.
Shane makes it to the squad car, grabs the door handle like a lifeline, but before he can get it open, a heavy body is pinning him down.
“Too slow,” Ilya says behind him, pulling his hand away from the door handle so he could hold Shane’s arms behind his back.
“Sir,” Shane whispers. Tears prick at his eyes, the animal fear rising in his body. “Please just…go back to your car.”
“But I wanted to tell you something, Officer,” Ilya says. “It’s very funny. Do you want to hear it?”
Shane hears Ilya unclip something from his belt, feels cool metal press into his side. Ilya leans in so close he can feel his breath along the shell of his ear.
“You look just like my dead husband.”
Shane’s body goes limp, the memories rushing back to him at once.
He used to be very, very good at his job. So good he was once entrusted to lead an undercover sting of one of the country’s most deeply rooted bratva families. He was meant to find all he could on the family’s young and newly minted pakhan, find a weakness in the newly shaken power structure. He had succeeded more than anyone could imagine, including himself.
But he was not meant to get attached. And in that aspect he had failed horribly.
Ilya’s lips press to his neck, over his jumping pulse point.
“Did you think I would not find you, Зайчик?”
Shane has not heard that name in four years, and it undoes him.
“Ilya,” he whispers, the less scrap of self preservation leaving his body. “Please.”
He doesn’t know what he’s even asking for. To not die? To die quickly and painlessly?
Ilya tugs on his arm. It’s pathetic, really, the way Shane peels away easily from the car and collapses into Ilya’s waiting body. The barrel of the gun is still stuck between his ribs, but he knows he would move even without it.
“Come on,” Ilya says, nodding towards the beater. Shane can see now how obvious this whole thing was, a series of petty traffic infractions laid out of him like he’s a rat in a trap. A bunny hopping blindly to the wolves.
“At least tell me where you’re taking me,” Shane says. He doesn’t know where he finds the strength to say it, to make any request at all. Ilya looks at him like Shane has asked the color of the sky.
“You do not know?” he asks. “I am taking you home.”
I am pleased by people messaging me telling me that after adding a carb or protein to their snacks or meals they feel more satisfied all day. Yes, my plan is working. People are getting through their days with less hangry.
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I remember the first time Ilya brings up Svetlana, that upset me because I’m already reading through the eyes and POV of Hollander. So just hearing “I could marry Svetlana” is horrifying. That means regression. That means, “Oh, we’re living fairy tale right now, and that’s reality.”
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