Harsh Dose of Reality

   He’s a nice person. Soils his shoes walking in a puddle so the mother and her baby can wheel by on the dry sidewalk. Stopping a taxi as he’s late only to give it to the poor intern with the latte stains.

   He works long hours in a job he hates, for money already gone in debts from school, family, and government. Watches as his friends go off to war with a patriotic grin he knows he’ll only see in a picture on a folded flag. He chooses not to call the police or tell anyone about the bigoted jerk of a neighbor who harasses him.

   He pays his taxes, votes for his country, prays for the army, and goes to church. So he doesn’t understand since he’s such a nice guy, why this bigoted jerk gets to decide if he can or can’t marry the man of his dreams. He’s a nice guy, so why? Why can’t he go a day without a joke, or a dirty look when he flirts or when he works.

   He can’t tell the nice stranger making small talk at his favorite cafe when she asks about a girlfriend. He doesn’t understand why kids these days say “gay” and “fag” so much, even less why it is used as an insult. He doesn’t want the dirty looks, the harsh stereotypes, so he hides what he likes, his opinions, hides his true self away in his apartment with tear stains in the dark and wonders what he did wrong. Why he’s like this when he’s always tried to be a nice guy. Wants it all to stop.

   Except when he meets him. He’s everything he could ask for, the perfect guy that he’s only dreamed of getting. He’s on his way to see him, their fifth date this month. He’s walking on clouds, a rose in his hands and a smile on his lips. A brief kiss in front of the resturant, and he can’t wait to tell him the news, he got a new job-

   The click of metal, flash of light, and a tightness in his chest. He falls into his arms, sees his face molded in shock and horror, hears the words “GOD HATES FAGS” being shouted.

   He’s walking on clouds.

Michael Emerson - NO H8 campaign

Effects of Insomnia - PoI

I don’t have insomnia. Maybe I did once, back when I was a shell, filled with pain, with loss. I’d drink myself to sleep, it was the only way I found how, but even then the sleep was never good. When I slept, I’d hear their screams, their voices, see their faces… feel the blood on my hands that would never wash away, enough to drown me dozens of times.

Now I can’t get enough sleep. No matter how many hours I get, it just isn’t enough. I don’t let it show, not even to him, but I feel so tired. It’s why I fall asleep even when I try to wait until he does. Being with him makes me so relaxed, so at peace… Makes me think that maybe, just maybe, some of the layers of blood have washed off.

Maybe a voice that once screamed in my head, goes quiet. It’s so amazing, believeing that, even for a moment. Feeling that if I’m with him, maybe I’m forgiven. That if I can protect this man, make him happy, safe, that all the things that have haunted me will stop. Even if they didn’t, and I can’t be sure they will, I’ll do my all for him.

Which is why it hurts. Hurts when I open my eyes and don’t find him. Find that I’m alone again. Maybe it’s foolish to keep doing it, but I can’t help but wonder if it was a dream. If all the peace, all the pleasure, all the affection, was just a dream and I’m back to reality. Where my hands are stained with blood and I’m nothing but a weapon.

It’s just a second in the morning, but a second that keeps happening. No matter how amazing the night before was, no matter how much he shows how caring he is, that second eats at me. Because in that second, every doubt, every fear that I have that it’s not real, that I didn’t deserve it in the first place, that the only thing that matters to me anymore is gone.

It only lasts in a second, but my mind races with all of this. Then I hear the tip-tapping of a keyboard, and I know he hasn’t slept. Know that he’s working still. I know the job is important, vital even, and I know I can never ask him to not work all the time. I only wish for that second to vanish. Just a second.

But I’ll never ask him to do something he doesn’t want to. If he wants to work himself to the bone, well I’ll be there to help him. I’ll make him tea, relax him, get him to at least sleep a bit. Do the legwork, track the numbers, save the irrelevant, punish the criminals. All for him.

Because he saves me. Makes me think maybe I’m not so haunted that I can at least care for him. And if he can’t sleep because of insomnia, because of the guilt he carries, because of the pain. Then I’ll sleep for us both, I’ll take some of the guilt off his shoulders, ease his pain. Even if I hear their voices, see their faces, feel the blood on my hands more often because of it. Well, it’s worth it. It’s just another effect of insomnia.

(AC: Inspired by a roleplay I have on tumblr as John Reese from Person of Interest. This isn't the same John Reese as the rest of the fanfics for PoI I've made... there's my writing Reese, and then there's this guy, my rp Reese. Please enjoy~)

John Reese and the things that haunt him - drawn by myself

Now What?

Like the dream, it ends as abruptly as it starts. The question is always there, always hauntingly close. Now what? What plan is next, what calculated risk is there to take? How can I get through this as safely as possible?

Now what.

The answer is just as simple. You write. Write until the day you can no longer even ask "Now what?" because there is no plan. There never was a plan, greatness doesn't have a plan. It just happens.

You want to know what happens next? What happens next is you. Move forward, reach out and grab the world with your hands and decide what happens. You're the only one who can decide for you. Your world as been shaken, tilted off balance.

We've been tilted back by guidence, now what are we going to do with ourselves? Now what?

Put that pencil to paper, that pen to page, that finger to keyboard, and write your soul. Put your soul into words and continue to do so until you just can't take it, just can't speak any louder. Until you can catch your breath, slow your heart, calm your mind. And say,

"That's what."

Deck the Halls~ Grell style

Deck the halls with bloody red,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
I'm gonna get Sebby in bed,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

~

Don we now our Gay apparel,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la.
Break the bone down to the marrow,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

~

See the playing life before us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Strike the soul to make a chorus.
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

~

Follow me in bloody pleasure,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
While I take your greatest treasure,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

~

Fast away the soul passes,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Out to get all the dead lasses,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

~

Collect all the souls together,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Mindless of the pain and weather,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
_________________________________________
AC: A rewritten version of Deck the Halls, with Grell in mind.


http://www.zerochan.net/836052



Picking Locks

Finch was a locked up person. Both physically and emotionally. He never let anyone in, never opened his emotional doors to anyone. Even his home was always locked, and he’d only open it to either enter or leave.

He never intended on giving anyone the key. Ever.

It was too painful, giving someone that much power over him. And in his “non-existance” that kind of power could be fatal. To this day, not once had he given someone the key to his heart. It was secure and safe tied up in all the chains he’d built over the years.

Reese was good at picking locks. With a paperclip even. It’d take more than a paperclip to pick Finch’s lock though. But that’s okay. Reese was really good at picking locks.



Mr. Finch (top photo) & Mr. Reese (bottom photo)



Holiday - PoI Fanfic (part1)

It was getting cold. Even in the library I could see my breath. Consequence for not being able to have a large heating bill. I thought it'd be somewhat avoidable because heat rises, and everything important was on the second floor.

Guess Jack Frost wasn't having it. Thankfully it wasn't cold enough to harm the computers, it was however cold enough to warrant a blanket.

So that was how Reese found me. Sitting at the desk, two blankets overlapping on both my shoulders and lap. Earlier in the morning I had made myself tea, but it had been forgotten and was now freezing and unenjoyable at the moment.

His amused chuckled brought me out of my research, and I looked at him, about to make a snide remark about sneaking up on me. Then I saw what he was holding. A tiny potted tree.

Finch & Reese in the library

The tiny tree Reese brings in

Matching - PoI Fanfic drabble

This is meant to be dialogue and the "-emotion-" at the end of each line are how they sound when saying it.
___________________________________________________________
"Ya know Finch, there's been something nagging the back of my mind." -thoughtful-

"And what would that be, Mister Reese?" -curious-

"Your paisley kerchief, what does it match?" -honest-

"And what makes you think it needs to match anything?" -avoiding-

"Because you're Finch." -blunt-

"... Fine. Yes it matches...

... My socks." -hesitant-

"Your socks? You have paisley socks?" -disbelief

"Is there a problem Mister Reese?"-huffy-

"Nope. Not at all." -smirk-

~awkward pause~

"Though, you might want to pick a better lie. I can see your socks peeking under your pants right now. They aren't paisley." -smug-

"I didn't say I was wearing them right now, Reese." -annoyed-

"Then what's the point in them matching at all?" -confused-

"Get back to work Mister Reese. Don't you have guns to clean?" -exasperated-

"Yes I do. I'll get you tea later, Finch. See you at lunch." -devious-

"That's not necessary, Mister Reese!" -hastey-

~He was already gone~

Paisley Tie 1

Paisley Tie 2