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thetomorrowshow · 5 years

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The Poignancy Of Silence, Pt. 2

A/N: This is the second half of my entry for @stop-it-anxiety‘s fall fic contest! Here is the first part! This is now completed, but I have ideas for one-shots/an epilogue that takes place in this universe. So those may happen at some point.

Word count: 4735ish

Tw: I don’t even know where to start, depression, discussion/mentions of suicide, brief mentions of self-harm, light kissing, Dee’s a gay disaster

Pairing: Roceit

“Oh, Mr. Boiga. You've never done a restraining order, have you?”

“No, sir.”

Professor Reynolds handed him a folder. “There you are. Name's Roman Gutierrez. He's asked for a restraining order against his brother. I'll need you write three pages about each meeting. More details are in the folder.”

Dee rubbed the scruff that grew on one side of his face. “How many meetings will it take?”

“As many as necessary.”

Professor Reynolds, wanting the students in his Masters program to get real-world experience, requested local firms to send real cases for his classes. He assigned them to students based on grades, priority, and type. For example, a failing student might be assigned an everyday, low-level case, while the top of the class would get intriguing, high-level cases. Dee was somewhere in the middle, receiving low-priority cases that were still decently interesting, and he was learning a lot.

Those the case concerned were asked to sign a slip, acknowledging that it would be handled by a student, and in turn, that they wouldn't sue the firm. As Dee was handling this case, Roman Gutierrez had obviously given permission.

The public library had a private conference room. Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, it was reserved from 3pm—8pm for students, who signed up for hour-long slots. This service was generally utilized by the law students and tutors. After some communication, Dee reserved a slot on Friday for 5pm—6pm.

Roman Gutierrez hardly spoke. At points during their meeting, Dee looked up and thought that Roman Gutierrez could have been handsome, were his hair combed, his eyes not unbearably sad, the dark shadows from his light grey hood not quite hiding the smattering of freckles on his cheeks and nose.

“So I looked up your brother, Remus Gutierrez. Apparently he's currently on parole after trying to steal the car in the mall?”

Roman Gutierrez shrugged. When he spoke, his voice was unbelievably soft, making Dee wonder if he'd ever raised it. “Hadn't heard about that one. It does sound like Remus, though.”

They'd been in the conference room for forty minutes. Dee kept trying to get a reason out, why he wanted this restraining order, but Roman Gutierrez didn't seem to want to talk about it—or anything, really. He'd even asked outright. The man had just shrugged again and looked away.

“Well, Mr. Gutierrez, unless you feel comfortable telling me why, I'm afraid we'll have to end this meeting here.”

“I'm sorry,” Roman Gutierrez apologized immediately. “I'll—I'll drop it, it's not that important. I'm sorry for wasting your time.” He stood, awkwardly pulling on his over-sized hoodie.

“No, no,” Dee said, standing as well. “It's fine. We can meet every week until we figure this out.” He glanced at the file. “I might be able to get the order based on what he's done alone,” he added dubiously.

Roman Gutierrez sighed. “You're busy. I don't want to bother you.”

“You aren't bothering me.” A lie. He was already annoyed that he'd wasted a good hour of his time trying to work with an uncooperative client who wasn't even paying him. Still, he very much wanted to become a lawyer. He had to be dedicated to this man's case.

“Really, I'll be fine. I don't need it.”

“Roman Gutierrez.”

The man winced, then looked at him. His eyes were an odd mix of grey and brown, a stormy sea, swallowing any positive emotions that tried to brave the thrashing waters. All frustration Dee felt for the man momentarily dissipated, replaced with fathomless pity.

“I will not give up until we resolve the issue. Trust me.” It hurt dully to say that, remembering all the times his lies had eaten away at his trustworthiness. It was okay, though, he realized, as the other man gave him a doubtful look. Roman Gutierrez didn't trust him anyway.

Three meetings in and Roman Gutierrez still hadn't explained his reason for wanting the restraining order. Outside of meetings, Dee was digging through reports of Remus Gutierrez, printing everything that could be of any help to his case. His folder grew steadily thicker, but he never opened it in the conference room of the public library.

They talked about memes, movies, politics. Dee expressed the pains of a law major and Roman Gutierrez confessed that he'd dropped out of community college to pursue a failing acting career. Dee found that odd. He didn't really seem the acting type, but maybe he was different onstage. Happy.

Sometimes, a spark of something almost happy flashed in Roman Gutierrez's eyes, pleasing Dee immensely for some unknown reason. The man was warming to him, cautious smiles and eye contact.

Knock. Taptaptap. Knock knock.

Dee's head swiveled toward the door. A couple of classmates were tapping on the window in the door, their personal songs that only Dee could hear emanating from the other side of the glass. They beckoned to Dee, who smiled briefly and shook his head.

“What do they want?” Roman Gutierrez asked uncomfortably.

“Oh, game night. Hitting the slots or whatever.”

Roman Gutierrez stood hurriedly. “Oh, I can go. Sorry for holding you up. Go have fun.”

Dee laughed a little and waved him back into his seat. Two meetings ago, he would've been begging for an escape from the fruitless conversation. Now, for some reason, he found that he was sort of enjoying their awkward chats. “No. Gambling was a habit I kicked about a year ago.” And a year too late, he added to himself.

“Are you sure you don't want to go?” Roman Gutierrez looked awkward as he looked at the door. “That guy seems to really want you to.”

Dee turned back to the door to see a blond man throwing flirty eyes at him. “Oh, that's just Remy. He flirts with literally everyone, but won't commit.” He knew. He'd been down that road.

Silence for a second. Then Roman Gutierrez said quietly, “He's kinda hot.”

Somehow, the words made Dee a little . . . jealous? No. There was nothing to be jealous about. He was just a little mad at being ignored. He'd just said that Remy was a player, hadn't he? Roman Gutierrez needed someone dependable.

They were meeting twice a week now. They could only meet once in the library conference room, so where the second meeting was varied. One week it might be in a cafe, the next in the campus library. For confidentiality purposes, Dee didn't bring his folder on Remus Gutierrez to these meetings.

He told Roman Gutierrez that these meetings were for trust, and so he could get a better idea of why he needed a restraining order. There was another reason, though. One that he would never say aloud.

Roman Gutierrez didn't have music.

The man had smiled, laughed (neither of which quite reached his eyes), but never a single note. Dee wondered if he actually had none, or if he just never truly experienced a positive emotion strong enough to trigger a tune. Before he'd met Roman Gutierrez, the only person without music had been Dee himself, a fact that often brought him down. Now, though, he wasn't the only one. Who could blame him for wanting to get to know the man better?

They grew looser, more friendly. Dee found himself reminded of Roman in the most unexpected places and tasks. Their text thread, which had once been strictly formal, was now flooded with memes sent by both, captioned with little “saw this and thought of you”s and “me rn”s.

Dee saw their two meetings as the bright points of his week, his face lighting up when he saw those grey-brown eyes under that mop of dark hair, the fourteen freckles spotting his caramel-toned skin. His heart jumped at every smile, cheeks grew warm at every joke.

Dee couldn't deny it now, couldn't say that the reason he arranged the meetings was to study the man who had no music.

Dee had a crush on Roman Gutierrez.

Roman Gutierrez didn't own a car, so Dee often picked him up or dropped him off at his town house. Roman had three roommates who were never home, architecture students who stayed out late and left home early every day.

Roman always seemed down—well, more down—at their parting. Dee always made him swear to send a text the next morning, and though Roman rolled his eyes, he always promised. Dee was growing increasingly worried that . . . that Roman Gutierrez might harm himself. Light research told him that the man displayed a good amount of the symptoms of depression. Maybe he was just being paranoid, maybe he just cared too much. Better safe than sorry, though. He really liked this man—far more than he'd liked anyone in years. He couldn't lose him.

“I stayed with my dad on weekends.”

They were in the conference room again, but instead of sitting across from each other at the sleek table, they were relaxed on the floor. Dee had brought some pillows and Roman had ordered a pizza. The heavy folder sat untouched on the table.

“He wanted custody of me and Remus, but my mom wanted us too. They ended up splitting us. I kept dad's name and visited every weekend,” Roman frowned. “Remus never visited us, though.” He smiled brightly; no music sounded. “But, all's well that ends well.”

“It's not the end yet.”

“No. The hero always has more challenges to overcome. But the ending of the story is magnificent.”

Dee hoped that was true. He wanted Roman Gutierrez to have the best ending possible.

He couldn't help but remember everything he'd read in his high school literature class. Happy endings were nice. No one ever said they were guaranteed, or even common.

Dee filed the request for the restraining order. The document was packed with Remus Gutierrez's wrong-doings and warnings from the law, as well as a short testimony from Roman.

He tried to tell himself that he hadn't put it off, that he'd needed all his spare time to do homework, that it was okay that this project had extended a month past its tentative deadline.

It was hard to finally click 'send' on the very professional-looking email requesting the order. The meetings would end. He and Roman would drift apart. He'd never get the chance to hear the music that might not exist.

He decided then, that as soon as the request was approved, he would ask Roman Gutierrez out on a date.

Hello?

It wasn't necessarily the message that immediately bothered him, nor the tone of it. What first stuck out was the fact that it was a voicemail, not a text.

It's Roman . . . Gutierrez. In case you know any other Romans.

Dee flew out the door, not bothering to put on a coat or shoes, despite the brisk autumn air of the night. He fairly threw himself into his old brown car.

I, uh, I dunno. This is hard to say.

“C'mon, c'mon,” he muttered. The car was slow in the cold, he knew that. But this was important. He didn't have time to wait for it to warm up, he needed to get to Roman.

I've decided to drop everything against Remus.

He'd left an email open on his laptop before going to bed. A message from the firm, saying that they were certain it would be approved, there were just a few more hoops they needed to jump through. It was so close.

So, I won't be bothering you anymore.

The car finally started; Dee threw down his phone and swung it into reverse. His searches were still pulled up: how to talk someone out of suicide—what to do when you find a suicide note—when a loved one takes their own life—

I'm sorry. For taking up your time. You didn't need to patronize me. Sorry—sorry for making you put up with me.

That intersection, the one that was so busy during the day, the one that still brought painful flashbacks of waking up on asphalt and blood and that shining freckled face with the music he hadn't heard in almost three years.

So, um, please. Don't—er, you don't need to contact me again. I—I won't be bothering anyone again. Click.

He drove recklessly. The radio showed a green 1:41 AM. The roads were the quietest Dee had ever seen them, no one waiting at intersections, no one honking at slow-moving pedestrians. He ran three red lights with no consequences, considering this a matter beyond traffic laws.

Roman? Roman, please. When you get this message, call me back. We'll talk about this. Please.

Here it was. The street with too many cars parked on the road. The town house with one car in the drive, the car with two flat tires and no air conditioning that none of Roman's roommates ever bothered to fix.

I'm coming over, okay? I'm coming over right now and we'll talk about this. I'll help you through this. Where are my keys—Click.

He tore the keys from the ignition and leaped out, slamming the door shut and running for the porch, the grass damp and poking under his bare feet. The window glowed through the curtains, so someone was up—and the other tenants weren't home, judging by the singular (broken) car in the driveway.

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.

“Roman, let me in,” Dee pleaded. “Come on! Please!”

Knock-knock-knock-kn—

Then the door was open, and Roman was there, and he was alive and here and Dee couldn't hold himself back and wrapped him in a hug, needing to confirm his solidity. Roman froze, then gently detached himself.

“You haven't taken anything, have you?” Dee asked frantically. “No drugs or poisons or anything?”

“What?” Roman sounded confused. Dee looked him up and down for signs of harm—sweatpants, t-shirt (for the first time, he noticed light, uneven scars on his forearms), messy hair. Tear tracks down his cheeks from red-rimmed eyes. “Why are you here?”

“You wouldn't answer when I called!”

Roman shrugged, his feigned nonchalance entirely transparent. “Sorry, my phone died. That doesn't mean you had to drive here at—” he checked an unseen clock— “almost two in the morning.”

All of the emotions that Dee had been keeping inside by sheer will burst out. The mind-numbing fear when he'd received the voicemail, the deep pits of dread in his stomach when Roman wouldn't pick up, the panic as the car wouldn't start and he was certain that Roman Gutierrez would be dead by the time he arrived—and he couldn't stop seeing his lifeless body, blood pooling around his wrists or foam leaking from his mouth or—or—

“I thought you were going to kill yourself!” he yelled, tears spilling out onto his own hideous face. Roman's face grew stony, but a tear rolled down his perfect face as well.

“Why would it matter to you if I did?” he said bitterly.

“Because I love you, you idiot!”

The shout echoed through the neighborhood, and Dee clamped his mouth shut. Never yell at or insult someone you believe is suicidal, one webpage had said. Oops.

Roman let out a jarring bark of laughter. “No, you don't,” he corrected. “You think you do. But you don't. No one ever does.”

“Okay, maybe I don't. But I want to!” The truth was was spilling out uncomfortably, but Dee couldn't stop. “I was planning to ask you out as soon as the case was closed! I—I feel good around you. Like I could mess up and not be embarrassed. Like I could say anything and know you would still care about me! I feel . . . happy.” And he knew it was true, even without music of his own to prove it.

Silence. Too long of a silence. Dee looked away, pretending to be enthralled with the tinkling wind chimes hanging on the neighbor's porch.

“I know,” Roman choked out eventually. Dee turned his eyes back on him, saw the deluge of tears brimming in the man's eyes. “I know. But—I was. . . .”

Dee nodded. He didn't know what Roman was trying to say, but understood somehow.

Roman cleared his throat. “I called you because I just found out I'm getting evicted. Remus was the only person who offered me a place to stay.”

“That would be awkward,” Dee tried. He got a small, sad smile in return.

“Yes. Probably shouldn't get a restraining order against the one person who's giving me a home.”

“Wait—you're actually accepting?”

“It's my only option.”

“Um, no, it isn't.” Dee shuffled his feet on the rough pavement. Now he really wished he'd taken time for shoes, or a jacket, or something. “Heck, I've got an apartment. I'd love to split rent with someone.”

A spark of hope glinted in Roman's eyes, then disappeared, as if he was too scared to let it stay. Dee continued, his teeth chattering.

“Besides, I'm not dropping this case, hon. We're in the final stages. It's going to be approved. And,” he said, quieter, softer, “I don't know—and I never have to know—what Remus did to you. But it's okay to get away from him. Forgiveness doesn't mean you have to put yourself back into a toxic situation.”

A moment of bated breath. Dee counted the fourteen freckles (to make sure that they were all there) and stared into Roman's eyes, the grey-brown irises disbelieving, and brimming with tears, and so so tired.

Finally, suddenly, Roman's face crumpled. “I—I can't say th-that I wasn't—that I didn't think—that I wasn't planning—” he sobbed.

Dee didn't know what he'd said that had broken the dam, or even if it had been something he'd said, but it didn't matter. Roman fell into his arms as soon as they were open, burying his face into Dee's shoulders.

“I—I'm sorry,” Roman gasped, his voice muffled. “I'm sorry I'm so b-broken.”

Dee didn't know how to respond. He let his fingers comb through Roman's hair, mumbling something about how it was going to be okay. He wanted to say that he himself had thought the same thing many times. Wanted to tell Roman that he wasn't broken, he was just hurt, and healing took time. Wanted to say that he would hunt down and threaten whoever had hurt Roman so if they even so much as thought about him.

But he didn't say any of those things. Instead, Dee just held Roman Gutierrez as he shook, and knew that this was just the beginning of a long challenge. But by Jove, would he do anything for the man crying in his arms.

“Come on, Dee. We'll miss the opening of the gates!”

Dee straightened the bowler hat and smiled at his reflection. Roman had assured him that Steampunk was perfectly acceptable at a Renaissance Festival, so he'd thrown some gears on a dapper suit and bought a patched leather half-mask, matching the leather of his gloves. He flashed a tentative smile at himself, adjusted his frilly collar, then left the bedroom.

The stowaway bed was pulled out of the couch, blankets curled up on it, as well as a stuffed lion. They'd been 'officially' together for months, but Roman wasn't comfortable sharing a bed (something that made Dee curse Roman's abusive boyfriend from the past).

Dee caught sight of his boyfriend by the front door and felt the oxygen leave his lungs. “Wow, Moondrop. Now I know why you wouldn't let me see it.”

Roman reddened slightly. His princely uniform was a silky white, ornamented with golden accents and a red sash stretching from his right shoulder to his left hip. A sheath at the other hip held a sword Dee knew to be wooden. White pants tucked into tall black boots; shimmering gold make-up applied around his eyes brought out specks of gold in his irises that Dee had never noticed before. The stormy sea that he had always found himself comparing those eyes to now had rays of sun peeking out through the clouds.

A small smile played at Romans lips while he waited for Dee to say something, which made him realize that he had been staring for a little too long.

“Wow,” Dee said again. He leaned closer, swept Roman's dark hair from his forehead. “You look simply breathtaking. Are you sure you don't need a crown?” he added.

Roman laughed. “A prince never wears his crown while on an adventure.”

Dee placed a hand on the back of Roman's head, then leaned in for a kiss. It was quick and light and full of love, and for a moment , he thought he heard some barely-audible violin strains. It had been happening on occasion as of late. He hoped it meant that Roman was happy.

“Let's go, my prince.”

The April morning was crisp as they roamed the festival. Roman bounded ahead, his excitement akin to a small child's, his smile threatening to split his cheeks. Sometimes, kids pulled on his sleeve and he suddenly became Prince Roman, holding his head higher and telling stories about faraway lands with dragons and slumbering forests and doves made of pure sunlight. Not for the first time, Dee marveled at his imagination. He caught whispers of maybe-Roman's-music through the dozens of overwhelming tunes that floated in the air. For perhaps the first time, Dee was glad he didn't have a song of his own. If he did, it would only be adding to the cacophony.

They purchased turkey legs and relaxed to watch some shows—a fire-eater named Dr. Dumpe, an act called Bob The Incredible Juggler, a high-school choir. Under the acts was that music.

Under everything there was music, of course. He was good at ignoring it, but this certain music felt important. And it was always in his ear. Always near Roman.

The song was floating and brash, sad and enthusiastic, pondering and rushed. Strains of strings were echoed by brass instruments, an ensemble of discordants coming together to create beauty. Sometimes, when Roman was entertaining a particularly awestruck bystander, an electric guitar or drumbeat would join the mass, somehow accenting the best parts of the tune. It really was the most wonderful sound Dee had ever heard.

Roman Gutierrez was truly happy. Dee couldn't help the joy that rose in his chest.

“Dee? Are you all right?”

Dee opened the door to his bedroom. He'd shut it as soon as he'd gotten home, needing to be by himself and knowing that Roman liked to be alone right after a rehearsal. Roman stood outside, his hair mussed with sleep.

“How'd rehearsal go?” Dee asked instead. Roman shrugged.

“Fine. I had to call for my line three times.”

“And what good things happened?”

“Um. . . .” Roman chewed his lip. “I made someone laugh. But what's up with you?”

“Nothing's wrong,” Dee lied. “I'm fine.”

Roman sighed. “You never shut your door. What's wrong?”

He really didn't want to tell his boyfriend the problem. He was afraid Roman would laugh, or brush him off like Patton always did, comforting him in the moment but making him feel worse in the future. “I, uh. I just get fed up with my face sometimes.”

Roman nodded slowly. “That's a start. What happened to make you feel bad now?”

“Nothing,” Dee said. “I just—” and it was all going to come out, he could feel it— “Sometimes I think maybe I would be happy if I looked normal! Maybe—maybe I could have a—” He cut himself off. There was no way that was going to get out of his head.

“A what?”

“Nothing,” Dee muttered. “You can go back to bed.” He hated that he did this, he always did this, pushing people away when he needed them the most, not wanting to bother them with his problems. Roman, however, didn't move. His face was shadowed with stubbornness.

“Dee, you're here for me on my bad days,” Roman said softly. “Let me be here for you on yours.”

“Maybe I could have a . . . a family.” Dee cringed, waiting for Roman to say that he did have one, and it was him. That wasn't what he meant, though. He wanted parents and banter between siblings and a loving home to come to whenever he needed it.

Then Roman's arms were around him, and Dee was crying into his shoulder, the tears that he'd dried before opening the door coming back tenfold; his face pressed into the Lion King themed t-shirt. Roman's hands rubbed small circles on his back.

“I love you,” Roman whispered. “I love you. And I'm going to help you.”

“I love you.”

“I hear music.”

There were no nerves, like there had been with Patton Esperanza. He smiled wide across the table at Roman, who had frozen, a forkful of syrupy pancakes halfway to his mouth. Roman had made breakfast—Dee had woken to the smell, padded into the kitchen, smiled when he heard that gorgeous music he could now associate with his boyfriend.

“Like, right now?”

“Well, not right now,” Dee replied. Roman's music had dwindled into silence over breakfast. It was okay. Roman was different from anyone else Dee had known. His music was rare, took much more to play. “But each person has a tune that plays when they have strong feelings of joy or pleasure, or the like.”

“And you . . . hear this—this music?”

“Yes.” He didn't understand why Roman seemed so concerned. Now he had doubts—would his boyfriend truly accept him? Or was his confession just the beginning of another painful break-up?

No. He loved Roman. It wouldn't end like this. Dee pushed back his chair and walked purposefully into the living room. The keyboard wasn't nearly as dusty as he'd expected, he noticed as he sat before it. The scrapes of a chair pushing back and soft footfalls on carpet alerted him to Roman's presence behind him.

He hadn't heard Patton Esperanza's song in years, but it was still the first thing that came to mind. He let it flow out, a cheery, plunking tune that sounded flat, somehow. It didn't hurt to play, as he had suspected it would. It felt . . . boring, like a movie he'd seen one too many times. He cut it off early, looked up at Roman, saw his jaw still hanging open. Probably shocked at just how crazy he was. He cringed inwardly, but looked away.

Silence.

Then Roman spoke, his voice subdued.

“I don't have one.” It wasn't a question. It was a sad statement.

Dee hadn't heard much of his boyfriend's song, but what he knew he'd been learning, recording pieces of it on a piano app and humming along.

He didn't close his eyes. He didn't try to relax. He fumbled through the complex tune, some patches rougher than others, but he heard it come through, and in his head he knew where the trumpets fell, where the flute came in. He stopped as he ran out of material, not sure where the notes were to continue.

“Everyone has a song—except me,” he confessed, feeling a pang of sadness. Every time he thought he was over not having music, it hit him afresh. “Yours is so interwoven and beautiful and loud and you. I tried, but I can't do it justice.”

Again, silence. Dee hadn't turned around, and he was afraid Roman had left during the rough song. Then, soft hands on his shoulders gently urged him to a standing position, then pulled him around the chair. Fourteen freckles met his gaze, then grey-brown eyes flecked with gold and filling with tears. For a moment that wasn't near long enough, their lips touched. Dee blinked, not expecting the display of affection, and before he could comprehend what was happening, music was coming from the keyboard.

Roman had sat. The tune his fingers picked out was mysterious, light, curious. Then the tone suddenly changed—still mysterious, still curious, but any light-heartedness had disappeared, replaced with a dark, intricate, compelling quality. Dee found himself lost in the music, the song he'd never heard before, yet was inexplicably familiar. Then it stopped; Dee found himself blinking back tears as he was forcibly jerked to the present.

Roman's eyes sparkled as he looked up at Dee. “I hear music, too,” he whispered. “And that was yours.”

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sangngx · 5 years

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INTRODUCING... SANG NAMGOONG ||| vale of york hoard

hello, this is sang. they’re very ambivalent about meeting you.

age: twenty-seven

gender & orientation: agender (they/them), pansexual

role: archivist for the ialis museum of history

team: none! we have one (1) impartial person

the vale of york hoard was buried in ad 927 and found undisturbed in 2007, in north yorkshire. the hoard contains a mixture of different precious metal objects, including coins, complete ornaments, ingots (bars) and chopped-up fragments known as hack-silver (67 objects in total and 617 coins). it shows the diversity of cultural contacts in the medieval world, with objects coming from as far apart as afghanistan in the east and ireland in the west, as well as russia, scandinavia and continental europe.

Sang Namgoong was not named with any great intentions though, according to their grandmother, to carry the Namgoong name and not do it with pride is a waste. Sang had pride, but most of their first meetings tended to end in “Mr. Nam- what? I am so sorry” and “please just call me Sang”.

Sang was raised in England, born from korean business moghuls that decided to relocate to Europe back in the 80s. they’re the second child and have three other siblings (one older and two younger) with increasingly bigger age gaps.

one of Sang’s greatest influences was their grandmother, a korean old lady who wore her pride like another layer of her hanbok. she had pride for her family and its history, pride for the traditions and lifestyle that had been passed down for generations. she was extremely traditional and, because of it, extremely wary of change and anyone who’d dare bring it. growing up and until her death, Sang and their siblings would spend every summer under her watch at the Namgoong’s centuries-old family estate back in Seoul. she was the one to start Sang’s interest in history and order.

the Namgoong estate was hundreds of years old and while some of the older parts still remained, it had been remodeled over the years, the main building a modern adaptation of the traditional hanok structure. the old parts were the best spots to stay at if you wanted a shot at winning hide and seek. if you were found by the oldest of the house staff, though, you should be prepared for a sleepless night– the darkest and oldest corners of the estate were ripe with stories of ghosts that still roamed the estate, vestiges of ancestors who had died mysteriously in their homes centuries ago. It was Sang’s favorite thing, to find out about the story of their family and the history that surrounded them.

Sang has always been slow to adapt and reticent to change, a stickler to what was perceived ‘as expected’ and always a reserved person to contrast their sibling’s willingness to overshare. while Lin (their older sister) was the kind of person who’d easily make friends by relating to their experiences and sharing her own, but Sang had a hard time relating to people outside of contexts where they could keep themself slightly removed. Sang was possessive with things they perceived as theirs, keeping them tucked away and hidden so no one would be able to find them unless they were the one to bring them up first. growing up it had been toys and candy, the box of ancient coins their father had gifted them as a child; and later, they coveted the experiences lived outside their family’s caring but watchful eye. sometimes they’d avoid talking about what certain people meant to them, relationships an absolute secret.

unlike grandmother Namgoong’s insistence to pass down her beliefs into her grandchildren, Sang’s parents were never the kind to push a path on their children. but Sang felt like someone had to keep up the legacy their parents were building. so they went to school for Finance (and a double-major in History, at their older sister’s insistence that they had to be someone outside of their family’s legacy) and started working on their parents company as soon as they graduated.

they felt pressured by their name but were happy to be involved in the company, especially as they worked their way to director of finance. when their parents decided to retire, Sang was supposed to step up and take their place but during Sang’s appraisal meeting for the role, the board of directors in the company built a whole case about why Sang might not be "the ideal candidate” to take over their parent’s role.

it was a public execution and part of the 'proof’ (all of it fabricated or completely dependent on irrefutable loopholes) that backed up Sang’s inadequecy was provided by one of Sang’s closest, if not only, friend. to not step down from the CEO position, or even the director position, would have been embarrassing at that point. so Sang left, ashamed, and didn’t tell anyone outside of their sister what had really happened (a part of them suspected that their parents knew what was going on but the fact that they might know and decide not to bring it up is perhaps worse than a direct confrontation).

ialis island

Sang painted their sudden departure and distance from the family as a change of career. they sold their luxury apartment in London and moved further North to start a postgraduate program in Archival Science that’ll complement their History degree. if it was so hard to maintain any structure in their life, they might as well use their knowledge to keep important things in order.

this is how their connection to Ialis island starts: a professor, incredibly worldly but not quite right in the head because of it, took a liking to Sang and their tidy nature and no-nonsense attitude. he constantly talked about Ialis island and the impressiveness of its landscape and its mysterious history. Sang had never been superstitious, but they had respect for the warnings that came from tales of old wizened men. that respect is what made Professor Addair recommend Sang for an internship at the Ialis Museum of History one summer.

one summer of the history and myths surrounding the island was enough to make Sang want to come back as soon as their masters was done. they obtained a permanent job as an archivist in the museum, a position sorely needed in a place were most systems were outdated or relied heavily in analogue mediums. but to be an outsider trying to immerse themselves in the island’s history made them no friends at Ialis. it served Sang well enough, though. it’s easier to keep walls intact when no one comes knocking.

the dig is something that they regard with mild curiosity and intense skepticism. it has taken Sang well over a year to organize most of the information in the museum but there were gaps in the history that were hard to get simply by looking through hundreds and hundreds of archived papers. the two groups of outsiders bidding to find hidden treasure wouldn’t be worth noting if it weren’t for the people attached to it. the name Cambra was talked about enough in England and elsewhere that not making note of it in your book was a mistake. and Taha was a name Sang had stumbled upon more than once while going through files on the island’s history. Sang personally didn’t know any of the men, or the specifics of their business, and neither did they trust any of the teams intentions towards the island. Sang was mistrustful and, in their sister’s words, “possessive of every little detail you discover about that tiny island in the middle of nowhere”.

but when the time came for them to ask for help from the museum’s archivist (which any research team worth their salt would definitely try to get), Sang’s own curiosity would override their mistrust. also, they were probably contractually obliged to provide their service under the name of the museum, but that was just a tiny detail.

if you made it to the end of this: wow, you are brave. no plotting section because this is already too long but I’m open to any and all plots, let’s talk!!

#intro ||| vale of york hoard #when i tell you this was way longer you might not believe me #but it is the truth

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foxofthedesert · 5 years

Text

RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch 8

Chapter 8 – A Bitter Draught

An uneventful month meanders by after the destruction of the garrison at the border. In the interim, Regina has spent her nights much the same way. Tonight no exception is made to the routine that has played an integral role in maintaining an even keel through the undulating seas portentous of a tempest about to blow in from the southeast.

The entire morning was spent embroiled in mostly monotonous meetings, one after another spanning a broad assortment of topics ranging from lumber industrialists bitching about deforestation protocols to a presentation chock full of charts, graphs, and illustrations given by an appallingly boring magistrate from the southerly regions regarding the 'dire threat' posed to her local waterways by wildlife run amok. Apparently overzealous beavers and moles alongside unusual upsurges in foxes, deer, and other agricultural and animal husbandry endangering critters pose as severe a threat as a witch hellbent on the kingdom's destruction – an elucidation for which Regina was ever-so-thankful. The highlight of the morning, and the entire day really, was a girl's chorus from the vicinity of Perrault who visited just before midday to finalize booking them for a gala to be thrown in Red's honor. Regina was so besotted with their cherubic enthusiasm for celebrating the upcoming birthday of the Queen they all adored that she allowed them to lunch with her.

Unfortunately, the proceeding afternoon and evening hours sapped all of the positive energy of that delightful hour. Drafting budget proposals for the council to review was not her idea of fun, nor was reviewing the repairs to the western wall nearing completion after a series of delays. All the same, those things had to be done lest the nobles had cause to question her commitment to the kingdom's financial health and the citadel's security. So after seeing the girl's chorus off, she sequestered in her office, hunkered down and scribbled figures until the wrist and fingers of her right hand ached. Several hours later, she emerged only to spend the next two meticulously inspecting stonework and newly dug rainwater management culverts in the midst of an autumn chill rolling through the area.

By the time Regina trudges up the corridor to her bedchambers, she is weary to the marrow of her bones. Pausing at the door, she fondly recalls how Red had returned from a similar visit to the western wall the month before. Coated in sweat and mud, Red had stank something awful but was nonetheless the picture of simple satisfaction at having broken Queenly protocol to help the workers haul rocks, mix mortar, dig trenches, and pour concrete to fill said ditches so that the new section of the wall had stable foundations. Regina's nose turns up at the memory of the smell wafting from her filthy wife, but then she melts at Red's happy smile at having exhausted herself in hard, honest work that paid objective dividends she has personally witnessed. The wall is now twice as strong as it was before repairs were undertaken. Several times during her review, she was approached by workers and offered thanks for Red's unnecessary but greatly appreciated aid.

I'm just glad it was her that pitched in with the grunt work and not me, Regina thinks, smirking down at her pristine clothing. If Red wants to break her back getting down in the mud with what she insists will always be her sort of folk, she can have at it. As for me, I'll be staying clean and dry. Like mother said, 'That is what servants are for, Regina, and we pay them well enough for their labor. Your job is to ensure that labor is not done in vain.' She wasn't right about a lot, but that's one point I'll agree with her on.

There is a part of Regina that cringes at how snobbish that sounds. Fortunately for her, it is not big enough to make any notable impact upon her conscience. The last time she let the stark disparity between the haves and have-nots bother her, she was a young and criminally naive fool who believed in concepts that will never harmonize with reality – such as the idiotic assumptions that love will always triumph over hate and good over evil. Daniel's death was a slap to the face curing her of those delusions, one that she has yet to recover from and probably never will when five years of marriage to a hopeless romantic has only made a tiny dent in her condescending streak. Besides, if Red can put up with her occasionally sneering down her nose at the common man, why should she be bothered to change any more than she already has? And it isn't as if she is the same callous tyrant who constantly abused the impoverished lower classes during the Dark Days.

Since she fell in love with Red and that hopeless idealism her mother tried to destroy flickered back to life into a quaint but undeniably extant ember, the plight of the rank and file has conclusively improved. There is still destitution, yes, as there always will be in a world as cruel as theirs. But there has been steady upward progress. Salaries of workers all over the citadel, and indeed all over the country, have reached record highs under her audacious agenda to redistribute some of the gross wealth being hoarded by the nobility. The program has not boosted her popularity among the effected noble houses, although even the hardest hit among those most wealthy individuals cannot argue with the wholesale economic benefits produced by a proletariat that is increasingly awash with disposable income. Merchants are especially reaping the harvest of this marked upturn in consumerism, and their nearly universal support of her measures has offset any intransigent defiance from the excessively privileged aristocracy.

So no, Regina does not feel bad for still being a bit of an arrogant, pompous, egotistical asshole. And why should she when Red admittedly finds that side of her...oddly arousing? The answer to that question is self-evident.

As Regina loiters outside in the hallway, the manifesting temptation to provoke Red's attraction to her nasty side is quite potent. Yet as enjoyable as the lengthy, highly energetic romps with her wife invariably are, she is not really in the mood tonight. Unusual as that is, all she wants is to settle in for a relaxing evening in the company of her favorite person in the universe. Red's consistently reliable warmth and devotion is more than enough to take her mind off of the sinister looking storm clouds always a nagging pace ahead of her stride. Storm clouds that thunder the ominous promises of the witch that murdered Robin in front of the whole court and wiped the garrison at Tamerlon off the map.

Prior to entering the chambers, she preemptively sets a number of wards over their door to match those she applies to her wife's person each morning since that terrible day they watched helplessly as one of their dearest friends died. She cannot be too careful since the witch threatening her life also made that lewd comment about Red. Expressing an intent to kill her is one thing, but implying untoward intentions toward her wife is another altogether. So Regina ignores Red's limited amount of snarky griping about her paranoia as she carefully applies the wards, and does not feel a bit bad about doing so. There is no length to which she is unwilling to go to prevent such an indignity being visited upon the only person she has ever known who deserves to live a free, peaceful, and happy life.

Thus far there have been no assassination attempts, much to Regina's equal relief and consternation, which is why she has not immediately recalled Mulan from her task shoring up the southern border with Drakkenhall. It also comes as no great shock since there have been no further sightings of the witch, though she wishes that were not the case. Were there actionable intelligence, she could be out there doing something about the threat. As is, her frustration only grows with each passing day and it feels more and more like the introductory theatrics at the garrison and with Robin were a pot of water hung over a lit fire. Now whatever malefic brew is being prepared has been left to simmer, and once heated to a rolling boil, the concoction will be poured out, no doubt inciting mayhem within the kingdom. To Regina, the waiting is far less preferable to the attack sure to unfold any day now. At least in open conflict she can retaliate. Right now all she's done is sit on her ass, hands tied behind her back, powerless to strike out at an enemy who has yet to reveal herself save through veiled taunts. Psychological warfare is being conducted, and having it waged upon a person of action such as herself is beyond aggravating.

The only comfort through the interminable period of peace before the storm is her nightly ritual with Red. Relaxing together before bed, sipping the finest vintage, and talking about their days helps to unwind the massive knot of frustration that is her entire body and mind of late. Somehow, Red is able to stay calm whereas Regina's self-control is fraying at the edges, and when they are together that inner serenity soothes her irritated nerves as if seeping in via emotional osmosis. After the destruction of the garrison and Robin's death, she's been constantly itching for a fight that refuses to present itself. Red, though, is eerily composed, able to go about her daily business without thoughts of their close friend's abrupt demise hindering or entirely paralyzing her. Whether she's just being brave for Regina's sake or has simply stowed away her grief until the current crisis is over remains uncertain. Regina is too selfish to ask which is the case. Right now she needs her wife's unshakable devotion, quiet strength, easy-going companionship, tender reassurance, and dependable affection – perhaps more so than she ever has.

"Hey, hon! You look beat," Red greets upon Regina's entry.

"I am," Regina says. "It was a long day."

Approaching from where she was perched at their vanity, reading the latest in a long line of epic romances gifted to her by Belle, Red offers Regina a compassionate smile. "I heard. Lots of meetings, huh? And drafting the yearly budget proposal on top of that. I don't envy you."

Regina hums her acknowledgement. Red had spend her day in the town that sprung up beneath the looming shadow of the castle almost immediately after construction was completed some two centuries ago. Referred to now as Eisentor as much due to the easily defensible layout teeming with choke points around the base of the mountain as to the massive steel-reinforced gates, manned around the clock, that bar entrance to the sinuous access road carving a path up to the precipice upon which the Dark Palace sits. In Eisentor, Red is a regarded as somewhat of a fixture, as she can be found there as oft as permitted by the many duties incumbent upon a sovereign.

Today Red paid a visit to the bakery Regina once spied upon and learned of the shifting opinion of her people regarding her rule. Red does not say anything to indicate where she went, nor does she need to; Regina can see the burn marks on her fingers and forearms from greedily plucking hot pastries out of the oven because she was too impatient to wait for them to be safely removed. Ennis and Hanna, the baker and his wife, permit Red to have her run of the place. The indulgence isn't surprising since Red is their Queen, although Regina does not think that factors into their overly kind allowance. Red has a way with people that disarms them almost instantly then has them reduced to so much putty in her palm within a few more minutes. The proprietors of the bakery, all four of them, did not last even that long before they were not only letting Red have her pick of the fresh-out-of-the-oven goodies but were letting her design – and hand-make! – her own confections. The first time that happened Red came back home with flour on her face and dough on her dress, which was a costly garment to have produced. Fortunately for her, the gingersnaps dipped in white chocolate she had baked were delicious. Had Regina known Red had a talent for baking she might not have resisted bedding her quite so long as she did.

In any case, Red's day was far less strenuous than Regina's, thus the reason for her being extra sympathetic. Which she most certainly ought to be as she probably had Ennis and Hanna's absurdly attractive children pawing all over her while she was flitting about their establishment like a butterfly perfectly at home in an environment that decorum would expect her to avoid appearing too comfortable in.

"As well you shouldn't. How are Rina and Alfred, by the way?" Regina asks, unable to keep the venom out of her question. She is still uncomfortable with how much time those two funny and kind, extremely gorgeous, and very single siblings spend around Red.

"Doing good," Red says, smile shifting with longsuffering affection for Regina's irrepressible jealous streak where those two are concerned. "You don't have to keep saying their names like a dirty word, by the way. They're just friends who know I don't have eyes for anybody but you."

"Maybe so, but I'd still feel better if they both got married already," Regina grouses, mood souring further when Red chuckles at her discomfort. "Yuck it up, buttercup. Mock my concerns. But answer me this, what are two highly attractive and eligible individuals like them doing unmarried in their mid-twenties? Huh?"

"Waiting for the right person just like I did," Red calmly answers, ever the diplomat. "The see what I have and want it for themselves. And you know what? I don't blame them one tiny iota. Everyone should be as lucky as me to have found somebody like you."

Eyes dancing, Red sidles over to Regina and pulls her into an embrace without permission. To Regina's frustration, she allows the uninvited move, even appreciates the motive behind it and the comfort it gives her. Ten years ago, she would have incinerated anyone who dared such boldness. Instead she melts into the embrace and accepts the kiss pressed gently to her lips.

You've turned into a pathetic sap, Regina. But who can blame me? These arms are the safest, most loving place in the world. And those kisses are worth all the gold in the kingdom. I may be a sap but at least I'm a happy one.

A chuckle reverberates through Red's chest as Regina loops her arms behind Red, hands joined at the small of her back. "You've been jealous of Rin and Alfie for years for absolutely no good reason. How many times do I have to remind you that neither of them are interested that way in girls?"

Regina pulls away, brows arched. "I thought the same once. Before Leopold's death, I held to my mother's puritanical view of same sex attraction. And then I..." she trails off before mentioning her introduction to Maleficent, not wanting to put Red in a bad mood as well.

Red does not care very much for Mal. Never has really since their introduction almost seven years ago. She insists it is because of the ancient hatred her kind harbors for the race of dragons. One of few historical contributions Anita made to her daughter's thirst for knowledge about her roots was an oral tradition passed down for untold generations which holds that the dragons created werewolves and then enslaved them as a labor force they then exploited mercilessly to erect their great castles and earthworks, some of which exist to this day. That enmity is apparently ingrained into werewolves, which might explain why Red is on constant alert whenever Mal is around for the week or so she visits two or three times per year while her daughter Lillian is with her father. It might, that is, if were not for the scathing glances Red often cast at Maleficent, whether Mal was paying attention or not, only occurring when Regina was present. Among other trustworthy sources, Iris has informed Regina that Red acts perfectly normal when alone with Mal, and that they even seem to get along rather well without Regina between them as she oft is to the keep the peace. Obviously, Red's loathing for Mal is just her own jealous, possessive streak rearing her ugly head – and it is a her, as there is no question the source is the wolf, who thought of Regina as her mate long before her human half did.

So, while it is true Mal was her first foray into the boundless pleasures of a woman's intimate touch, naturally she avoids speaking such a truth aloud to prevent any consequential effusion of blood. A fight between a dragon and the most enormous werewolf on record would not only result in one of the participants being seriously harmed, but there is no telling what damage those two would cause around the citadel tussling in their bestial forms. And as much as Regina enjoys Red acting irrationally possessive and territorial, she does not want her pleasure to come at the expense of innocent bystanders. Or worse, at Red's. Strong as Red is in her fur, could she really take on a dragon as big as a small castle and escape the encounter unscathed? Regina doesn't think so, and thus keeps her trap shut.

Plus, if Mal hurt Red...? Well, then Regina would have to hurt Mal, and she really does not want to do that. She has precious few friends as is that accept her for who she is and not who they want her to be. Mal is one of those, and the oldest at that. It would be unspeakably tragic if Regina lost their deeply embedded camaraderie because she was no better than Snow White at keeping a secret, even if it was her own and not that of another.

"Well," she amends after clearing her throat, "then I learned differently. Such revelations can sneak up on you, as you well know."

Red nods, nibbling her lip bashfully. Unlike Regina, Red had no prior sexual experience with another woman when they became lovers. Her innocence in the matter was as precious as it was exciting. And not only in that aspect, but Red was a virgin as well, having never been brave enough to breach that momentous threshold with Peter before his horrific demise at Red's unwitting...paws. Those crucial details made their first time a priceless gift twice over, so lovingly and trustfully offered by Red and accepted by Regina with all due reverence. Regina will never forget a single detail of that night. Every delightful moan Red let loose, every delicious shudder of the taut muscles in her flawless body, the keening encouragements as Regina's lips, tongue, or fingers discovered all the right spots she never imagined could make her feel so good, and even the whimpers of pain as her maidenhood was delicately torn – all are recorded for posterity within the vault of Regina's memory. Honestly, if she hadn't already known, simply being allowed to observe Red's first time while caught in the throes of some euphoria induced out-of-body experience would have convinced her she was indeed a bisexual woman with a clear preference for the fairer sex.

Getting to be Red's first in two distinct facets almost made her regret giving away both of hers, one to Daniel – a secret Leopold kept for her, one of his few commendable kindnesses to her during their marriage – and the other to Maleficent. Almost. But then she remembers Maleficent breaking her in, how the older dragon had made sure she felt immense waves of almost unbearable pleasure before being allowed to attempt reciprocation, and then how she was expertly guided in the particulars of bringing a woman to orgasm. Under Mal's diligent tutelage, Regina became an expert in her own right and was thus able to impart her wisdom to Red, who proved as eager a student as she once was.

The point, however, is that their fateful encounter on the mountain pass when Regina was hunting down Snow was the first time Red ever experienced attraction to a woman. The intensity of their connection, as she confessed to Regina during their initial and somewhat awkward dinner, had taken her completely by surprise. The fact of the matter is that when confronted by the right circumstance or person, attractions can spring up previously thought absurd if not downright impossible. And if it happened to Red, it could also happen to the baker's offspring. Even Alfred and Rina's preferences are as stated, they would not be unique in questioning them for Red's sake. More than one noble lady with a husband has let slip that they would be receptive to overtures from Misthaven's junior Queen. Hell, Regina herself has been propositioned by seemingly heterosexual women. As unlikely as such as turnabout is, it is not outside of the realm of possibility.

And so even if Regina knows she is being silly, knows that Red is being sincere when insisting she is a one woman gal, that she couldn't be happier in their marriage, and that there is no one else who could ever stir her heart or her passions the way she can, Regina cannot help but feel these irrational surges of jealousy. They aren't Red's fault by any means. No matter how much she has matured emotionally since meeting Red, she is still an inherently possessive woman who finds the concept of others wanting what is hers utterly infuriating.

And Red is mine, dammit. Mine!

"True," Red says, rubbing reassurance into Regina's back between the shoulder blades, like she can sensing Regina's troublesome thoughts. Which is not unusual. Damn werewolf senses. "And maybe they are attracted to me," Red goes on. "Just a teeny tiny bit. If so, they aren't the only ones, and that's not me being boastful. I've had to deal with roving hands and leering eyes since I first grew breasts and developed a figure that didn't more resemble a twig than a girl. That's partly why I made Gran teach me how to shoot a bow and Peter to swing a sword. But that also means I have a lot of experience ignoring that kind of unwanted or unrequited attention. At least the eyes, that is. Hands get slapped."

"Or cut off," Regina growls, remembering one time when a drunk stumbling through town groped Red's chest. On instinct, Regina drew her sword and relieved the man of the offending appendage. Red was not pleased.

"Let's not go there," Red says, nose wrinkling as if remembering the same thing. She then shakes her head, clearly finding the direction their discussion was heading odious. "In fact, let's just drop this topic altogether and meander over into safe waters."

Regina nods curtly. She had not liked the subject any better than Red. "Agreed." Silence then descends in the absence of a topic, not pleasant although not exactly unpleasant either.

"Have you heard anything else from Mulan?" Red asks a moment later.

Knowing this avenue of discussion is in many ways more stressful than the one they'd just been on, Regina indicates towards the plush sofa pushed against the far wall right next the bay window. "Let's sit first." Red's agreement comes by silently allowing Regina to grab her hand and pull her over to the sofa. Only once they are both seated, hips touching, Red leaning into Regina's shoulder, does Regina finally give a proper answer. "Yes, I have heard from Mulan," she says, as Red listens intently, Regina's tightly clutched hand sandwiched between her own in her lap, legs crossed, body angled inward toward Regina. "I received a letter yesterday. There have been no further attacks in Drakkenhall since the two last month. She seems to believe this lull in activity is indicative of an imminent strike. Called it the calm before the storm."

"And you agree with that assessment?" Red asks, looking every bit as worried for Regina's safety as she had the night after they buried Robin.

"I trust Mulan, so yes," Regina says, her tone betraying her own concern. "Also, I have heard reports from my spies of troubling rumors spreading through the lowlands between Snow's realm, Stefan's, and ours. Rumors of armed men being spotted in the dense forests, never long enough to identify numbers before disappearing into the shadows like ghosts. All attempts to scout out these interlopers have come back empty-handed. I'd ordinarily regard them as poppycock, but the locals have long claimed there are secret tunnels criss-crossing the region, remains of ancient works built during the Great Ogre Wars an age ago. Perhaps there is some truth to these rumors and some clandestine force is gathering right under our noses. Or this information can be dismissed as of no consequence because they are ludicrous. Frankly I'm not sure which is the case, though I am inclined to side with the latter over the former."

"Is there not anything we can do to find out for sure? Maybe send some troops to check it out?" Red asks, voice hitching with trepidation that has nothing to do with fear for her own safety or having to don the armor of war. Red is a fearless fighter, has proved so on many occasions. But the thought of sending her people out to battle, to fight and die on her behalf against an enemy whose strength is unknown, is to her an intolerable one. And, more than anything else, she is ever-aware of the witch's threat on Regina's life.

"Not with our forces already stretched thin since the corps stationed nearby was redeployed to Mulan's command on the border." That decision had come a week after Mulan's letter announcing two more villages on Stefan's side had been obliterated by their elusive magic-wielding enemy. It hadn't been an easy one to make, as those troops had standing orders to keep a close eye on Snow and Charming's realm. And if there was any chance those two self-righteous morons might be up to something nefarious, the time to instigate those plans was right now when Regina's eyes were elsewhere. "Best to address the foe we know for a fact is operating in Drakkenhall than to waste resources on what may or may not be a real threat. If you'll recall, we made that decision together," she points out, and not unkindly.

Regina is spared Red's response by a knock on the door that she answers by straightening in her seat before bellowing an affirmative command to enter. Iris strides in seconds later, a little behind schedule, looking slightly harried. In her hand is a silver tray holding two large bell-shaped wine glasses that each contain a generous portion of the castle's finest vintage.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Your Majesties," Iris says, sounding as atypically out of sorts as she looks. "I bumped into someone in the hallway, a redheaded woman I'd never seen before, and nearly lost the tray and it's contents." Her fair face darkens almost imperceptibly. "I stopped a while to question her. Turns out she's new, just got hired onto the custodial staff. Anyway, that's no excuse. I bet your pardon once more, my Queens."

"It's alright, Iris. No harm, no foul," Red says, demeanor warm and accommodating for the maid she would insist is not just that, but her friend.

Both Regina and Red accept their wine with smiles and thanks, though Regina's response is slightly strained by Iris' explanation as to her tardiness. She knows of no new hires amongst the staff, but that is not unusual since Red encourages her to trust more in those to whom she has delegated responsibility instead of micromanaging everything as she is apt to do. Iris, to her credit, says nothing about Regina's reaction except to inquire whether she can be of any further service other than the delivery of their nightly wine.

"No, thank you, Iris," Regina says, still sitting primly while in company other than family or friends as Red nervously worries the surface of her glass. As fond as Regina is of Iris, she cannot seem to lose the distinction between servant and friend ingrained into her from a child by Cora. "You may go." When Iris gives a curt curtsy then immediately begins to leave, Regina feels Red's eyes cut into the side of her head. She sighs. "Wait." And when Iris halts to turn back, adds, "Take the rest of the evening off and don't bother coming in until the afternoon tomorrow. I'd like a lazy morning for once. Both of us could use one, I think."

"Definitely," Red says, looking much more pleased than she did a moment ago. "Have a wonderful evening, Iris. And give John our love, won't you?"

"I will, my Queen," Iris says with effusive gratitude that makes Regina feel a bit better than it probably should. "Thank you both." Whereas Regina nods politely, Red offers Iris one of her big, toothy smiles that could light up the whole castle if she stood in the right place.

With Iris gone, Regina sinks into the cushions of the sofa and blows out a breath. "I'm sorry about before. If I sounded upset or harsh, that wasn't my intent."

Red softly squeezes Regina's hand that she has still yet to surrender. "I know. And I wasn't going to argue. I agreed with your suggestion just like you said and nothing since has changed that. I'm just concerned is all. A witch burning villages in Drakkenhall, rumors of strange men lurking in the lowland forests. I don't like the feel of this one bit."

"Me either," Regina agrees, then takes a sip of her wine. The full texture and smooth flavor go down easy, warming her from the inside out. "Believe me, I wish that underhanded she-devil would just come out swinging already. I'm sick of the games. The waiting is intolerable."

"I know what you mean. There's a tension in the air all the time now. I hate it. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Only when it does, I can't help but feel I'll wish it hadn't."

"As much as I agree, we can't afford to think that way. Negativity breeds defeat, and I'm not about to let this uppity sorceress, whoever she may be, beat me on my own turf. When it comes to fighting fire with fire, I don't lose, darling. You know that."

"Ah, my heroic Midnight Queen!" Red sings, using the title she'd given to Regina long ago. "There is no foe in heaven above or Hades below with whom she will not stand toe-to-toe and prevail."

"Damn straight. And don't go forgetting that any time soon." Smirking, Regina tips her glass to Red, who clinks hers against it with an airy laugh.

"As if I could," Red says after they both take a luxurious drag of their wine. "You're not exactly timid or humble about your martial prowess. Never seen anyone best you with sword or spell, and we have a lot of good fighters and magicians in our arsenal."

Head swirling pleasantly from the alcohol, though it has hit her a little harder and faster than usual tonight, Regina grins darkly. "I just look forward to defending my undisputed title in both against the bitch who killed our friend."

"Hear, hear," Red says, then raises her glass. "To justice for Robin."

Approving of the gesture, Regina raises her glass as well, smile fading into an expression of iron resolve. "To justice for Robin. May it come swiftly and violently. And preferably at the business end of my sword or your furrier half's maw."

"I'll drink to that," Red says, and then they take another gulp of the delicious vintage Iris delivered.

The rest of the evening passes with amiable conversation and a few easy silences that see them leaning against each other while basking in their mutual adoration. They also sneak in more than a few kisses, most of them chaste, though a few get heated, one so much so that Red winds up in Regina's lap before they come to their senses. All too soon, however, the wine collides with Regina as if a sledgehammer descending upon a brittle clay pot, obliterating her senses. Vision blurring, hearing obfuscated, heart suddenly pounding in her ears, she rises unsteadily and nearly collapses straight into the floor.

"Wow," Red says, helping her to stay upright. "That wine sure hit you hard. Weird. Didn't do anything for me." Regina thinks, but is not sure, Red pulls a suspicious face. "Musta just been 'cause you're tired. Let's get you to bed so you can sleep it off."

Regina does not remember much else that comes next except for being wrangled onto the bed, her clothes stripped down to the underwear, and Red's wryly chuckled comment as she is tucked in, "Good thing you gave Iris the morning off. You'll be sleepin' late for sure." Then sheets are pulled up and tucked around her shoulders and all at once, before she can even manage to part her lips to speak, the lights go out.

Once the irresistible darkness claims Regina, she remembers no more.

#once upon a time fanfic #red queen #regina x ruby #Zelena is up to no good #mentions of DragonQueen #a bit of foreshadowing in this one

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piecesofscully · 6 years

Text

The After: ch. 8

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

The mud squishes like a sponge beneath their feet, expelling brownish-grey muck as they scurry along the back of the motel. There will be no way to hide their tracks, Scully thinks as their boots pull from the mud with a *pop*, like the smack of a kiss. They need to move quickly, put as much distance between them and Bobby’s boys as possible.

Their feet slide to a stop when they come to the edge of the moat. The ten foot wide body of water puckers under the Wash with ecru ripples colliding into each other, the chaos of the surface creating a milky film along the shoreline.

Mulder whistles. “Looks pretty deep. Want me to carry you-” he begins to offer, but she pushes past him. The water splashes around her boots, up to her knees as she trudges deeper, her backpack held above her head once it circles her waist.

The numbness in her legs spreads to her chest as she propels herself forward, even the smallest cells in her body recoiling at the frigid water, and she breathes through her nose to keep it from getting in her mouth.

“Come on, Mulder,” she tosses over her shoulder through gritted teeth. She hears the splashing and feels the rush of his waves against her back as he follows, and she works quickly to lead him to the other side.

“We need to change into dry clothing,” Mulder says as they step up onto the shoreline. “We’re at risk of hypothermia.”

Scully positions her backpack on her shoulders, grabs his hand, and pulls him towards the treeline. “Right now, they’re a greater risk.”

Their feet squish in their wet boots as they race into the woodland, and Scully cringes at the thought of the blisters that are sure to line their heels in by sundown. Her chest burns with the strain to control her breathing as she and Mulder zig-zag through the trees, ducking under fallen branches, occasionally looking behind them to ensure they aren’t being followed. Fueled by the need to survive, they run. The woods grow more dense the further they go, their stoic grey and white surroundings blurring into what resembles a modern, busy printed wallpaper.

Mulder grips Scully’s forearm and tugs gently, slowing their pace. He points ahead of them to a small group of branches hanging over a fallen tree.

“We should keep going,” she insists.

“I think we lost ‘em.”

After a quick glance behind them and seeing no activity, she nods. “I think you’re right.”

Scully removes her jacket and drapes it across the top of the brush creating a temporary shelter, then crawls in next to Mulder. They huddle together and she’s thankful for the warmth of another body, knowing it won’t be long before her body temperature and heart rate returns to normal, and she’s cold again.

“That was smart thinking,” Mulder says.

“What was?”

He points to her jacket above them. “Blocking out the Wash. I think my toes are starting to prune.”

She sniffles in response and wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out what remains of the crackers, handing Mulder a few.

“So, Bobby,” he says before putting one in his mouth.

“We had a...” Scully pauses, chewing slowly while she takes her time to consider her answer. “A misunderstanding.”

“In regards to what?”

“He thought he deserved an extra payment since I decided to leave early,” she says. “And he was wrong.”

Mulder cringes. “That man’s a bully.”

The disgust in his voice isn’t lost on her, and neither is his matter-of-fact tone. He knows Bobby. She knows she shouldn’t be surprised at the confirmation, she heard the rumors, was made painfully aware that he was a frequent visitor to the Hampton. But the affirmation does nothing to salve the splinters that crack the edges of her heart at knowing the rumors are true. “You know him,” Scully states.

“I do.”

“How well?” she asks slowly.

“How well do I know Bobby?”

Scully tips her head to the side. Her brain’s weak begging for her to not continue is subdued by the strength of her heart’s urging and desperate need to know. “You’ve been in town for a few weeks. I’m sure you’ve met-” she pauses as she searches for the right wording, not brave enough to give away the true subject of her questioning. Becky. “Made certain acquaintances. How well would you say you know them?”

The crease between his eyebrows disappears as her implication registers. He shifts beside her, and then drops his eyes to his lap. He clears his throat. “Not very well at all.”

“Did you spend a lot of time with them?” she asks carefully, focusing intensely on her thumbnail that picks the salt from the cracker.

“No,” he replies. “We are, um, practically strangers, really.”

“Strangers,” she repeats.

“I know how it must look, but please believe me, Scully, it was never like that. I- we didn’t…” His voice trails off and he sighs.

Images of him with that woman flicker in her mind, glimpses of snapshots created by the camera of her imagination. She sees his fingers dig into the small of her back as he pulls her closer, her breasts pressing against his chest. She sees the smile on the womans face as he drags his lips beneath her ear, her eyes closing as his tongue flicks the skin of her earlobe. She sees the woman sigh and grip his shirt for dear life, so sure that she will combust beneath the fire of his touch.

Scully shakes her head. She wants to believe him.

“Ok,” she whispers.

He turns to her and grasps her hand, relief on his face. “Ok?”

She *needs* to believe him.

“I believe you,” she says with a smile.

“It’s just us, Scully. Me and you against-” He gestures to the rain that falls outside of their temporary shelter. “This.”

“The Wash,” she provides.

“Someone needs to let Nostradamus know that his calculations were a little off,” Mulder says with a chuckle. “I always thought it was going to be an alien invasion, or maybe a solar flare that took us down. None of the work we did on The X Files could prepare us for an act of…” His voice trails off.

“Man.”

“I was going to say God.”

Scully shakes her head. “This wasn’t God, or even Mother Nature, Mulder.”

“It sounds like you have a theory, Agent Scully,” he says. “Care to share with the class?”

“Weather engineering.” Mulder’s head tilts back as he laughs, and Scully grimaces. “You don’t believe me.”

“You know, Scully, I expected you to have changed after two years, but-”

“But what, Mulder?”

“I never expected for the tables to turn, for us to switch roles.”

Scully chuffs, and twists the sleeve of the few remaining crackers, then stuffs them back into her backpack. “And I never expected you of all people to be completely blind to what is really going on, but here we are.”

Mulder purses his lips, suddenly serious. “Then explain to me what I’m not seeing,” he says.

“HAARP, the High Frequency Active Auroral Program, was established in 1993. An ionospheric research program funded by the US Air Force under the facade of analyzing the ionosphere and investigating the potential for developing ionospheric enhancement technology for radio communications and surveillance.”

“In Alaska, I remember. They created the Ionospheric Research Instrument,” he says.

“The IRI. A high-power frequency transmitter which was used to temporarily excite a limited area of the ionosphere. The goal was to better understand the physics of the ionosphere, but that was a lie. It was all a front, Mulder.” She pulls her journal from her backpack and flips a few pages. “What they were really doing was nothing short of abhorrent. Instead of gathering data for research, the satellite sent high frequency radio waves back into our atmosphere, altering the weather.”

“For what purpose?” Mulder asks.

She stares at him for a moment, unable to believe that he even has to ask. “Control,” she replies finally. “Using the weather to control the human population. Wreaking havoc with natural disasters, from droughts to floods, earthquakes to super cell storms that produce tornadoes.”

“Scully, weather modification as warfare was banned by the United Nations.”

“And when has that stopped any of them?” She asks. She flips to the next page in her journal and holds it up for him to see. “Project Cirrus, 1947. The first attempt to modify a hurricane by the US Air Force, Army Signal Corps, and the Office of Naval Research. Operation Popeye, clouds seeded to prolong the monsoon in Vietnam. South Africa in 1997, seeding storms in an effort to increase rainfall to enhance crop production. It’s been going on for years, Mulder, under the guise of human welfare. This is just what we knew of, what was made public. Did you even read your own file?”

“I did, but the claims were completely unsubstantiated, Scully. Outlandish claims that didn’t offer even the smallest glimmer of proof, which is why it was never investigated.”

“You’re wrong,” she says. “It may have appeared unsupported, but we just didn’t have all of the supporting information as we do now, and didn’t know how to look at the pieces to make a complete puzzle. Like they say, hindsight is 20/20,” she mumbles as she flips through her journal. “Two years ago, that same satellite took a direct hit by a stray asteroid that charged into our atmosphere, then proceeded to send out a signal, setting those catastrophic events into motion.”

She finds the page she has been looking for and holds it up for Mulder to see, pointing at a list with her index finger. “First an intense heat, the atmospheric temperature rising ten degrees fahrenheit in just a matter of seconds. That heat penetrated the earth's surface almost immediately, resulting in an instability of the tectonic plates. This led to the earthquakes, which led to the monstrous tsunamis that wiped out the coasts.”

“But what about the rain?”

Scully closes the journal and sighs. “The satellite taking direct impact must have caused a glitch in the system, triggering constant precipitation.”

Mulder pulls his knees closer to his chest and rests his elbows atop of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, and says, “If we still had the internet, those conspiracy nuts would be going crazy for you.”

Scully tucks her journal back into her backpack and hums in response.

“So, what do we do with this knowledge?”

Scully chews her lower lip as she zips her backpack closed.

“Scully?”

“There was an address listed in one of the printouts in the file,” she says quietly, keeping her eyes as low as her voice. “Winnipeg, Manitoba. I can’t remember it entirely, but I believe it to be the most recent location of the center of control for the weather manipulation program.”

She turns to Mulder to find him staring at her incredulously, and she smiles. “I think I can stop it, Mulder. All of this.”

He opens his mouth to speak, and her jaw clenches in preparation for an argument or an onslaught of questions, but he returns her smile instead. “Then I guess we had better get moving.”

“Mulder, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he says as he pulls his jacket over his shoulders. “I lost you once, Scully, I’m not about to make the same mistake twice.”

#the after #the after chapter 8 #my writing #msr fanfic #txf fanfic #txf fanfiction

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spootiliousrps · 6 years

Text

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like stanner, and science bros.

You: [TW: Torture/experimentation] Tony stood in his lab absolutely horrified by the sight before him. He had never been one for boundaries (unless they were his own) but perhaps he had taken a step too far. The room was filled with the sound of a whirling machine, the sound as bone chilling as the sight of it cutting into the flesh of the man strapped to the table in the video before him. There were no screams which only made it more horrific. Why didn’t he scream? Tony should shut if off… Protect his sanity… but he had already made it through two of them… He needed to know. He needed to know how much Bruce went through during those trials. He hadn’t meant to find the videos, not entirely. He had allowed his curiosity to guide him into the sealed SHIELD files that contained backgrounds on each Avenger. Natasha’s was the most interesting; Steve’s was pretty bland; Clint’s even more so; and Thor’s was practically empty; His own held nothing he didn’t know. Bruce’s though… his was… unexpected. The experiments conducted by General Ross was gut wrenching. Tony had already had to empty his stomach once. How could such a selfless, caring man, have gone through all that? He watched as green flashed in his friend’s eyes but he never allowed the Hulk out… Why? He could have escaped… Could have destroyed everything and gotten out of there… made it all stop. The feed cut off and another immediately began. “January 14th, 1998. The subject has shown an astounding regeneration ability. Trial 7 will begin shortly in which the subject’s vital organ’s will be removed and regrowth documented.” The woman doctor stated in a monotone voice, filling Tony with such hatred that he wished he had a Hullk of his own.

Stranger: (reading, won't show typing)

You: [No worries! Thank you for reading! :3]

Stranger: "You shouldn't be watching that," Bruce said after having stepped into the lab quietly. He turned the lights on, and looked exhausted himself, but Tony looked even worse. "Those files are confidential. And though I've got nothing left to hide, it was secured for a reason." He came closer to Tony and offered a mug of tea. "Do you realize how late it is?"

You: "Bruce." Tony practically started in surprise, scrambling to close out the screen. How long had he been there? For the first time in quite a while Tony felt ashamed of himself. He shouldn't have pried into Bruce's past. To be far... he'd done it to everyone but still... He accepted the cup of tea and didn't look the other man in the eye as he stirred it, trying to focus on anything but the guilt he felt. "Thanks." He mumbled softly before taking a small sip. "Like two a.m.?" He guessed, not having the faintest idea. "Three... maybe." He shrugged. Since when had he bothered to keep track of the time?

Stranger: Bruce sighed and shook his head. "You need to rest. And I can't imagine you'd sleep too well after watching that," he said, watching Tony carefully. "I'm okay, you know. Here and now. You're keeping me safe," he said, gently putting a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Don't go trying to dig up the past, okay? Nothing good is there." He gave Tony's shoulder a light squeeze. "Come on, let's watch a movie or something to clear your head."

You: Tony's frown deepened at the comforting gesture. "How can you do that?" He asked seriously a hand lifting to rest on the outstretched elbow as if holding him there. "How can you be concerned for someone else after everything you went through? How can you just ignore it?" He had been trying to do the same... Trying to forget everything that had happened with New York and the aliens and he just... couldn't. It haunted his every waking moment. It was one of the many reasons he found himself buried in the lab night after night.

Stranger: Bruce took a deep breath and shook his head. "Like I said, that was a long time ago. I'm more interested in helping other people when I've got the chance," he said. "I can't afford to let myself get trapped in those moments. And honestly, I can't remember much of it. Only comes back in nightmares. But it doesn't matter, because I'm here, in this moment with you. Safe." He tried to put on a smile for Tony. "Don't worry about me, okay?"

You: "No. It's not okay." Tony replied, perhaps a bit more harshly than he had meant to. "How could any of that be okay?" He demanded, with a wave of his hand. He paused if considering something. "We should let Cap know... We Nat could track them down... We could destroy them. I know Clint would jump at the idea... Even Thor would offer some form of help." He mumbled more to himself than to the other men.

Stranger: "Tony, this was years ago. I doubt all of them are still alive, and the program's been shut down for a decade," Bruce said, trying to keep his tone even. "If I was driven by revenge, I'd be no better than them. Don't tell the others. I don't need more pity." He took a step back and adjusted his glasses out of nervous habit. "I'm tired of running, Tony. Please. Just let me take a break without staring new trouble."

You: That had Tony hesitating, considering the other man's words. "Pity..." He mumbled softly taking a step forward. "No one here pities you, Bruce." He reassured softly, reaching out again as if /he/ was the one in need of reassurance. "Why would we ever pity you? What you faced back then was... terrifying. You were nothing but brave and determined... Now you're nothing but selfless and kind. What's there to pity? You're the best of us Bruce. The fact that you don't want to go after these bastards is proof of that."

Stranger: Bruce shook his head, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. "I'm not a hero like the rest of you. You keep me around to make sure I don't run and to have a monster on your side in battle," he said flatly, like it was common knowledge. "I just try to help people when I can because I've killed and hurt so many innocent people. People I cared about..." He shut his eyes for a moment before he shrugged Tony's hand away. "Go get some rest, Tony."

You: "Bruce." Tony whispered almost as if in prayer. "You know that's not true." He tried to reassure, turning to block his retreat. "The Hulk is not a monster and neither are you. You've both saved countless lives. You helped me create a new enzyme that stops arterial bleeding in less than a second. The Hulk managed to catch me when I was falling to my death in the fight against Loki. Cap is just a wanna be politician in spandex, and Nat and Clint are assassins. Thor is an alien! And I... Well... I'm an arms dealer... If anyone knows what its like to try and erase the mistakes of the past its me... But you... you're not like us... You're better. You have more heart in your pinky than Capsicle could conjure up in the countless years he's been alive. You value a life more than Nat and Clint ever could combined; and you're far better than I could ever be in ever aspect..." He paused before a small smile played on his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Except maybe financially." He shrugged. "But my point is you're right about one thing: You're not a hero like the rest of us... You're so much more. We're the sidekicks compared to you."

Stranger: "Don't," Bruce muttered, shaking his head. "You can't compare me to them. I'm not special or good. I'm guilty, and a coward. All of you have changed, you've become something people idolize. And I become the physical manifestation of every mistake I've ever made. Sure, it's useful sometimes. But you can't pretend I'm better than everyone because of it." He tried to push past Tony to get to the doorway.

You: Tony side stepped to cut him off once more, for once thankful of his boxing sessions with Happy. "No, you're right Bruce." He agreed. "You're not better because of it. You have always been better. With or without the Hulk you're the greatest person I've ever met. Myself included." He offered, hands going to the man's shoulders. "I just wish you could see what I do."

Stranger: "Stop that!" Bruce demanded, flinching away from Tony, shaking his head and starting to wrap his arms around himself like he wished he could be smaller. "Stop lying to me! Why are you doing this? You saw the videos. You saw what I am. What I /always/ will be. Why do you keep pretending?" He was getting more upset, but there wasn't any hint of green.

You: Tony's heart broke at that and for a moment he looked surprised at the outburst. But as quickly as it came it was gone and he was stepping forward to wrap his arms around the other man. "Have you ever known me to pretend?" He asked softly. "I have always been transparent, Bruce. Especially when it comes to you. Why would I need to start lying now." He sighed softly. "I mean every word."

Stranger: Bruce was shaking, especially in Tony's arms. He was tired of trying to argue though, and didn't fight it. Instead, he just let Tony told him and leaned into him for support. "... You're stupid," he mumbled, not having the energy to give more resistance than that. He his his face against Tony's shoulder when the tears stated to fall.

You: "Yeah... I get that a lot actually." Tony mumbled softly, holding him a bit tighter when the tears began. He buried his face in the other man's neck breathing him in as if to comfort himself. He was content to just stand there, soaking in Bruce's warmth, for the rest of eternity. The fact that the two of them had never actually been this close was not lost on him as he stood there lost in his countless emotions. They were both so cautious about anything that came to emotion that they kept their distance, contenting themselves with witty banter and science experiments, at least thats what Tony told himself. To be honest, he had no idea how Bruce felt about him and at the moment it didn't really matter... All that matter was Bruce seeing the way he felt about the other man. "Even more when it comes to you, it seems." He admitted softly, squeezing him gently.

Stranger: Bruce stayed in Tony's arms for far longer than he intended. Eventually he pulled back, wiping his eyes and sniffling. "... I'm sorry," he whispered, his face still a little red as he looked away. He didn't want Tony to see him so broken, but he was grateful for the company. "I don't know what got into me. I'll... I'll leave you to do whatever project you need to work on," he mumbled, but didn't exactly want to leave the warm embrace.

You: Tony couldn't help but give a soft have smile at the words. Only Bruce would apologize after his privacy was invaded and an argument ensued. "You don't have to." Tony offered. "I always enjoy your company, Dr. Banner." He offered face heating just slightly as he forced himself to continue. "Perhaps more than I should admit." He didn't make a move to step closer or to kiss him like he wanted to... had wanted to for a long while now. But instead kept his place. He wouldn't endanger their friendship like that... Not when Bruce was so distraught to begin with.

Stranger: Bruce took a shaky breath and hugged Tony a little tighter. "Thank you," he whispered. "... Could we maybe go somewhere more comfortable though?" He didn't quite realize what Tony was trying to say, but he was still feeling pretty raw and upset from the argument. Even if he said that the videos and experiments we in the past, they still haunted him.

You: "Whatever you want, big guy." Tony agreed, turning, arm still wrapped around the smaller man. "I wouldn't mind taking you up on that offer of a movie." He teased lightly. "I'll even let you break into my secret stash of Disney movies." He offered. "JARVIS. Popcorn." Tony ordered as he lead them forward. "Extra butter."

Stranger: Bruce managed a small smile when Tony offered the movies and he leaned into Tony's side with a sigh. "Sound great. Which one is your favorite?" He asked, glad to have a light hearted distraction. Tony was always good at spoiling him, and though he wouldn't admit it, Bruce was starting to get used to it.

You: "I don't think I should tell you. If Nat finds out then I'll never live it down." He chuckled as the door slid open. "But I suppose turn about is fair play..." He sighed over dramatically. "I personally have a soft spot for Beauty and the Best. There's nothing more attractive than a big brain." He admitted wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "That Belle is one smart cookie... Her dad is pretty awesome too. Oh... Speaking of cookies... JARV" "Of Course, Sir." The AI returned, already preparing the popcorn and drinks, and now on to the sweets.

Stranger: Bruce rolled his eyes with a small smile. "And here I was worried you had a thing for big hairy beasts," he teased. It was nice to relax again with Tony. "It's a classic though. I always liked Peter Pan. Maybe I just have a thing for running away," he tried to joke, but he knew it fell flat. "Anyway. Thanks for letting me in on your secret."

You: Tony chuckled regardless. "Well, it's not exactly the pentagon papers of secrets; but I do have a reputation to uphold." He teased as they entered the theater room. "Peter Pan isn't bad. Got a thing for tights or something?" He teased lightly, finally letting him go to move over to the wall. He pressed a button and the panel lifted revealing his massive collection of DVDs. He could have uploaded them all to a cloud but there was something about the actual presences of the movie that softened him. He had the same quirk about books.

Stranger: Bruce actually laughed a little as he settled down on the couch after grabbing some snacks. He didn't have much of an appetite, but the popcorn smelled too good to resist. "What are we watching?" He hummed, pulling a blanket closer over his lap as well. He was making himself at home already.

You: "I was thinking... Hook. Unless you have another preference?" He offered, fingers dancing over the titles. The twist on Peter Pan had all you'd ever want or need. Action, Adventure, Romance, Comedy, Drama. Plus, you couldn't go wrong with a younger Robin Williams. "You /did/ say you liked Peter Pan." He pointed out playfully.

Stranger: "Sure. I don't think I ever got to see that one anyway," Bruce said with a bit of a shrug. He ate a mouthful of popcorn while he waited for Tony to start the movie and join him.

You: Tony put in the movie before moving over to sit next to the man, perhaps a bit closer than he should have. He rest an arm on the back of the couch just as the title scene began, the trumpets filling the room. He reached over to steal some of Bruce's popcorn, doing his best not to focus on what he had witnessed in the lab. If he were being honest he knew he was going finish the video files when he got another chance. He needed to know, though he didn't know why.

Stranger: Bruce wasn't used to much physical contact, but he was able to let his guard down with Tony. He stretched a little before settling in against Tony's side, letting his head rest on the engineer's shoulder. He shared the popcorn and just let himself enjoy the movie and the comfort.

Stranger: (hey I've gotta run for an appointment soon, but would you like to continue in email?)

You: [Sure! What's your email. I'll send the log and my reply.]

#stanner #sciencebros #science boyfriends #tony/bruce #bruce/tony #omegle #rp

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jackieisonline · 5 years

Text

[eroft] Readings from your Favorite, Obsolete (childhood?) Website

Github Link to Project

Prompt

Invent an “-omancy,” or a form of divination/prophecy based on observing and interpreting natural events. Your reading of “natural” should make some reference to digital/electronic/computational media. (What counts as a “natural event” on the Internet? What’s the electronic equivalent of phrenology, from both a physical computing perspective and a data analysis perspective? Does it count as “interpretation” if it’s being performed by a computer program?) I’m especially interested in responses that take the form of purposefully inaccurate data analysis.

Coming up with an idea

For this week’s project, I was thinking about a lot of ways to frame “natural events” in the context of digital media. Allison’s reference to our browser search history being a possible “natural event” made me think about internet history on a broader scale: what sites did we frequent when we were much younger? Which ones remain in our memories? Which ones are sentimental to us and what could that imply about who we are and how we’ve grown?

In a sense, the first websites we interacted with could be considered a “natural event” in the sense that its embedded into our history (like our IRL birth place and time), and we didn’t really think consciously about it or navigate the web with some higher meaning in mind (likely, people just went on whatever site was cool or fun).

I decided to make a python program to engage the user in a reading, first querying for some key personal details, and then generating a brief reading based off of keywords scraped from their favorite childhood (I’m saying childhood here because that’s how I experienced my first time on the web, but I realize there are people whose first experiences on the web were much later) website. The old websites in question are scraped from the Wayback Machine, which over the years has saved snapshots of websites and lets you make API calls that link you to a certain website’s view at a given time in history (or the closest possible snapshot to that point).

Some other things I tried but ruled out:

A web-based js program: this didn’t work out because I intended to embed the result from the Wayback Machine into an HTML iframe, and then do the parsing. This didn’t work because you’re not allowed to access the HTML in an iframe embedding a site from a different domain.

A browser extension: I guess this would ideally display as a popup over the given wayback machine page in question? Couldn’t really figure out if this could help calculate which page to go to in the first place, so I went with a simple python program instead.

System diagram + implementation

Here are the general steps my program takes:

Query for the user’s birth year, favorite website, and what age they remember using that site.

Use Wayback Machine API to request their view of the favorite site at the year they likely used it (or the closest year).

Scrape all text with BeautifulSoup Python library and segment it into “words”, i.e. strings containing only alphabetical characters.

Use a master list of all English words in ConceptNet, and filter out “words” from the website that are actually English words in ConceptNet.

Select a few of these resulting keywords from the website. Use ConceptNet’s relatedness API call to compare these words to common Personality Adjectives from the Corpora project. Keep track of the adjective with the highest relatedness for each keyword.

Use the best adjectives we’ve tracked to construct a reading.

Some notes:

The list of resulting English words from the HTML page tend to be long, so I have a way of randomly selecting a few of these keywords to be used in the reading. Currently, my randomizer works such that words that appear more frequently have a better chance of being selected, proportional to their frequency in the HTML file.

I realized early on that comparing selected webpage words to *every single* adjective in the corpora project (there are >300) via the ConceptNet API wasn’t going to work. So I reduce down the pool of personality adjectives randomly each time the program runs. This likely weeds out adjectives that could be better fits for a given word, but it’s unclear how to work around that and make more API calls without making the program run too slow.

The program breaks if you don’t put in a valid website (that has archives on the wayback machine) and other valid inputs. It also assumes that the website you used to go on has text to pull from (so websites that are made in all Flash are a no-go and will break the program).

Program Walkthrough

Hey there! This is a program that peers into your formative internet days and from that, tells you a bit about yourself.

To start, what's your name?

> Jackie

Hello Jackie! It's nice to meet you. To give us a bit more information to work with, what year were you born? Please format it with four digits, i.e.: '2019', '1991'.

> 1996

Now, dig deep into your memories and think of a website you loved to go on in the past. Type it here. Some tips: don't include www. or https://. If your favorite site was google, type it like 'google.com'

> oekakiart.com

Now, final question. What age were you when you used that site? Type in a single number, i.e. '9' or '16'.

> 11

* Formulating your reading... Please be patient :)

*~*~*~*~Your Reading~*~*~*~

Growing up, you've been somewhat lively at your core.

You've learned some sullen tendencies in more recent times, Jackie.

Try playing around with a deep point of view.

This is a canned structure I currently have in place for all readings: “Growing up, you’ve been somewhat [Adjective 1] at your core. You’ve learned some [Adjective 2] tendencies in more recent times, [name]. Try playing around with a [Adjective 3] point of view.

Reflection

I guess one of the reasons that this concept stuck with me is that I personally have a strong sentimental attachment to websites from my childhood. The one I selected: “oekakiart.com” was an online drawing community (that also intersected with fandom/anime cultures), where I first developed an interested in visual/digital art.

I recognize that my program is slightly imperfect: the fact that I only ask for ballpack dates, rather than specific dates for birth year/age, makes the Wayback Machine website query susceptible to finding a version of the page that the user doesn’t remember.

For example, when I put in age 10, I got this version of oekakiart.com:

I don’t remember seeing this homepage ever, even though I started to interact with the site at age 10.

Meanwhile, when I typed in 11 as my age at the time, I get the version I was acquainted with:

With some more time, I’d like to explore how to make the canned response for the reading less canned. Perhaps there are ways to explore how adjectives are semantically different, and structure the reading in a way that can allow for sentence structures like “You’ve been brave recently, but in the past you’ve been trepid”.

There’s also something really impactful and melancholy to me about seeing the broken vestiges of a site I really used to love and frequently daily in conjunction wistful phrases that make me reflect upon my life/personality. I’m super curious to how other people would use this and what they’d feel.

#electronicrituals

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hellojasminemyers · 7 years

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New Post has been published on Myers Life Coaching

New Post has been published on http://myerslifecoachingllc.com/why-couples-should-tire-of-comparisons-in-relationships/

Why Couples should be tired of Comparisons in Relationships

Comparison is generally the fast track to unhappiness. Comparisons of the ideal relationship will lead to problems. It’s a recipe for misery. All it does is keep you focused on what you don’t like about yourself, your partner and your life. Ever since I made the decision to change career direction, I’ve tried to focus on my new path. I’ve pictured myself as a bull, because I knew that looking too much on the sides would only keep me side-tracked. Bulls steam straight ahead.

It worked for a while. While, I was in graduate school working on my doctorate, I kept my eyes on the prize. But, when I got married, relocated, got pregnant, loss my mother and father, it wasn’t so easy anymore. I caught myself glancing over to what other people had, and I didn’t. Analyzing where they were in life and I wasn’t. I had made the decision to rebuild my life from scratch, so of course, I was “behind” when comparing myself to my friends. The more I focused on their path, and not my own, the more I lost control. So, in this experience and in the numerous experiences of my clients, I have seen how comparison has torn many a relationship and life apart.

Out of control comparisons = Low-self-esteem.

Case Example- Let’s take the story of Sara and Jim. When Sarah compares her husband Jim to her friends husband Roger, she can’t help but notice that Roger is better at helping his children with homework. She also notices that Roger takes her friend out every Friday. Roger also makes more money. Sara slowly becomes resentful. Sarah comes home from work and asks husband, “why don’t you ask for that promotion at your job so that we can purchase that boat and hang out at the river with my friends”. Later that week, Sarah finds herself sitting at the table with her children helping with their homework and Jim walks by, heads to the fridge and grabs a beer. Sarah stops him and asks, “Why don’t you join us, the kids have never received any homework help from you”. …

Do you see where this is going? Keep your eye on the prize. We will tackle how this communication pattern will lead to lost love in your relationship in later chapters. However, I want you to be mindful of how important it is to not fall in that trap of comparisons. Comparisons distract you from focusing on the great things you are doing. Comparisons keep you moving forward towards your relationship goals.

Now let’s get to the psychology. I came across this great study that found that people compare their partner to others and this leads to significant consequences for the relationship. People who are low in self-partner overlap have difficulty maintaining a positive perception of their partner. This may be a key source of stress and conflict in people’s relationships. Penelop Lockwood’s study provides insight into developing interventions to address boosting partner perceptions as it applies to comparisons may help people cope with and overcome negative outcomes of comparing their partner to the Jones next door.

I want to provide you with some tips and tricks to avoid the comparison trap. This is my attempt at developing a coaching intervention that will help you work through comparison challenges and refocus your energy on who you are!

Stop watering the grass of others! When we focus on other people, we lose time that we could otherwise invest in ourselves. How many conversations/thoughts have you had regarding someone else’s progress or situation in the last 24 hours?

Get off of the internet or phone for a day. Electronics are blessing and a curse. Take some time to step away from the noise of the outside and focus on the inside. Social media can be a great source for inspiration. But, if it triggers inadequacy, self-doubt, and frustration, then choose to do a detox. Make sure you control social media and don’t let it control you.

Love your past. The journey that you and your partner has taken together is unique, yours and undeniably meant to be. What have you learned and how have you grown from it?

Know that this isn’t the end of the movie. If you are not happy, this doesn’t have to be the end, it can be the beginning. Where you are today doesn’t say anything about where you’ll be in one or three years from now. What matters isn’t where you are. What matters is your mind-set, attitude, and where you’re going. Be that bull, use the positive to fight for what you want and need.

Be grateful for what you have. Whenever you find yourself looking at what other people have, remind yourself of what you do have. For me, that means appreciating my family, my wonderful friends, and the fact that I am healthy. So, shift focus from what you don’t have, to what you do have.

Log how many times you say should or could? Comparison often leads to us “shoulding” all over ourselves. We say things such as, “We should have this by now” or “We should have come further.” Should keep us tracked in the negativity of the past use “we want” and notice how your inner dialogue changes.

Make sure love is the foundation for your choices. To stay on track, ask yourself this powerful question, “What would love do right now?”

Tell a better story through positive affirmations. If the story you’re telling yourself isn’t one of empowerment, strength, and optimism, then tell a better story. Instead of telling yourself we are not smart enough, tell yourself we are brave enough to try something new. Instead of blaming your partner for mistakes in the past, remind yourself that he/she did the best they could and that you both have learned from it. Here are the three affirmation, I want you to text each other for 14 days straight. We attract what we talk about, so we only speak positive words. We can have, do, or be anything we choose. We easily attract all the abundance, love and joy that we want.

Remember comparisons lead to low self-esteem which redirects your focus from what you can do. Focusing on what others did stunts your growth and opportunity. Life has so much to offer. Dig deep, dive in and take that leap of faith with your partner. You can fix your relationship!

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1. Week 1: Be Courage’s-Speak Your Mind! 2. Week 2: Be Calm- Learn how to manage your anger! 3. Week 3: Be Assertive-Learn how to win/win your arguments! 4. Week 4: Be Respected-Learn how to uphold respect! 5. Week 5: Be Loved-Learn how to make your partner feel loved! 6. Week 6: Be Heard-Learn how to listen to each other! 7. Week 7: Be Fun-Learn how to have fun again! 8. Week 8: Be Intimate-Learn how to physically connect! 9. Week 9: Be Trusted-Learn how to rebuild trust! 10. Week 10: Be Forgiven-Learn how to forgive your partner! 11. Week 11: Be Valued- Learn how to honor your partner! 12. Week 12: Be Goal Driven-Learn how to work towards to your relationship goals!

Life happens. We have all experienced adversity. Things come up that you never expected, things like sickness, job changes, financial problems, and more. Sometimes life circumstances can make relationships tough. Even when there are good changes like the birth of a child, the purchase of a new home, or the start of a new and better job, a strain can be added to your relationship. If you feel like you’re in that place today, I’ve got something that could help. It’s called “Save Love” and it’s a resource that offers tips and solutions for doing just that—saving your relationship. Email us with what you would like to see change in your relationship!

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#appreciation #Boyfriend #celebration #Coaching #communication #dontbeafraid #healthy relationships #life coaching

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davidcarner · 6 years

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The Kiss Ch 14, The Talk, Part II

A/N: In a shocking upset that I didn't see coming this was voted the fic to post on the Chuck fanfiction Facebook site. Do you want to tell Ellie? I don't want to tell Ellie. Someone has to tell Ellie. I give you The Kiss Ch 14, The Talk, Part II

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, and we fanfic writers had kinda made Ellie a force to be reckoned with….I'm good with that.

Chuck was about to bite the nail off of his finger. Ellie was signing documents, along with Devon. Chuck had forgotten how many NDAs had to be signed each time someone became a part of this mission….well, he was the only one so far that he had watched do paperwork and he was a little numb at that point about becoming the Intersect.

"This is so exciting," Ellie said finishing her stack and grinning at them. "You must have a lot of government contracts to need this much paperwork."

"You'd be surprised," Sarah said. Chuck let out a nervous laugh and she gave him a look to hush him. Maybe Chuck was right. Maybe she wasn't ready for this like she thought she was. "So let's go show you some things." She led them to the back room, put her hand on the scanner, and it opened to Castle. They went in, Casey lagging behind.

"Awesome," Devon muttered.

"That's one," she heard Chuck say under his breath. She elbowed him in the gut. He hadn't forgotten that last night she said Awesome would say awesome about forty-five times. Chuck cleared his throat. "So, Ellie we have this computer program that has been created by the government and put in someone's head. It must have frequent updates but we're not sure of the material in it, or if it's even safe. We have reason to believe different agencies might try to sabotage this project to get sole access to it." Chuck hit the clicker and the Intersect schematics popped up on the screen.

Ellie studied them, her eyes wide. "Chuck, this is so wild. This is like something out of your and dad's sci-fi movies."

"Awesome," Devon muttered. Chuck held up two fingers and Sarah, trying to look mad, but grinning, grabbed those two fingers.

"You need to stop," she said softly. She turned to Ellie. "We think you can help us figure out the neurological part of the Intersect. Chuck is probably best suited for the software part."

"I mean this would take a lot of work," Ellie said pouring through the schematics. "I just wouldn't have the time."

Chuck grabbed two folders slid one to her and one to Devon. "Sis, we'd like you to come work with us. Please, just take a look." She opened the file, glanced at it, and her eyes widened. "You'd be working with us, it would be family." Ellie closed the folder and looked at Chuck. Chuck gulped.

"What aren't you telling me?" She glanced at the schematics. "Who made this, and whose head is it in?"

"Chuck me," Casey muttered and fled.

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose. She hadn't yelled yet, but that hadn't stopped Chuck from hiding behind Sarah. Several times she told him to get out from behind her, but he reminded her he was under her protection.

"You don't know who created this program?" Ellie asked again muttering.

"Not awesome," Devon agreed. Sarah felt Chuck's fingers in her back trying to count and she had to fight off the simultaneous grin and grimace. Her head shook a little and Chuck's fingers quickly pulled away. "Do you know where he is? How to find out?" Sarah stared at Devon, if they could find the creator, they could get it out of Chuck's head. Make sure the Intersect was safe and not hurting him. That needed to be the lead mission. Find the creator of Intersect.

"No, but it is going to become our main priority." She turned to Ellie. "Ellie, we need you, this project needs you."

"This program could do damage to someone's head, are you going to let me fix it? Do I get full control over the Intersect?"

Sarah sighed. She started to speak when she heard the words behind her.

"I'm the Intersect, Ellie." Ellie's eyes got wide, as she walked toward him. Sarah stepped in front of her. "Sarah, she's not gonna hurt me."

Sarah nodded. "Sorry," she murmured.

Ellie stared at Sarah. A slight grin played on Ellie's lips. "So you protect him."

"Always," she replied, her voice low but confident.

"Because…it's your job?"

"If you mean my job as his fiance, then yes. If you mean my actual job, yes to that to, but I'd quit my job with the government tomorrow if he'd ask me." Chuck was stunned at that. "I have a lot to explain, I get it. But I love your brother and no one gets to hurt him."

"Good," Ellie replied, her eyes dancing. She turned to Chuck. "Why?"

"It kinda wasn't my fault." Ellie tilted her head to the side and crossed her arms.

Sarah winced and decided to save him. "Bryce Larkin sent it to him. He's a spy in the CIA."

Ellie's eyes got wide, again and turned to Sarah. "Bryce Larkin was a spy?"

"Is," Chuck said softly. Ellie turned toward him. He cleared his throat. "Bryce Larkin is a spy, and he's currently running around the world making the bad guys think he has the Intersect in his head." He watched Ellie's reaction. "Listen, he's a jerk, but, he didn't trust the government with the Intersect, so he sent it to me."

"So it's in your head?" Ellie asked for clarification. Chuck nodded. Ellie grabbed the paperwork and began to sign. Chuck saw Awesome give him a thumbs up and mouth, "awesome!" Chuck turned to Sarah who gave him a glare and grin all at the same time. Ellie finished signing, and smacked down the pen. "Now," she said, pointing at the two of them. "What exactly is going on, and don't tell me it's complicated."

Sarah took a deep breath. "It all started when I was supposed to approach Chuck at the Buy More after Bryce had sent him the program." She stopped and looked at him, a warm smile on her face. "As I was hitting on him, trying to get him to ask me out, a dad came up and had screwed up his daughter's dance recital. He looked at the dad and little girl, and then he looked at me, and mouthed, 'sorry.' He went and had his crew setup a stage, so this girl could dance. He told her real ballerinas were tall, and I was in freaking love and didn't know what to do about." Ellie smiled at them as Sarah continued their story.

"Ellie," Chuck began, looking around at how he was strapped into a machine.

"Hush, Chuck. I need some scans and you need to be quiet or we have to do it again, and if I have to do it again I'll tape your mouth shut." Ellie waved for Sarah to follow her and the two left the room.

"Tape his mouth shut?"

Ellie shook her head grinning. "No, but I needed him to be quiet. I need to ask you something and it may upset you."

"Anything," Sarah replied.

"Are you really that good of a spy?" Sarah's mouth dropped. "I mean I've known you've been in love with my brother for a while now." There was a grin on Ellie's face. "Sarah," her voice was softer, and she took Sarah's hand. "You promise you'll keep him safe." Sarah nodded. "Good, because if you don't you'll have me to answer to."

"You know I'm trained in all…" the look on Ellie's face stopped her cold. "You know what. You're his defacto mom and sister, and I'm not trained in that, so point and threat taken, not necessary, but taken."

"Which makes you soon to be my sister." Sarah grinned. "Sarah, do you want it out of his head?"

"Only if it's unsafe and you can't fix it. We've effectively taken him out of the field, but he does manage to do things now and again."

"What if we gave him some physical move sets?"

Sarah grinned. "I like the way you think."

"So, I'm an emergency doctor for CIA or NSA agents, but I am basically here for you guys?" Devon and Casey had slipped away from everyone. Casey and Devon had a weird kinship. They were both part of the family, but they knew sometimes, Chuck and Ellie just had to work things out by themselves.

"And other medical tests or any tests you can run. You'd be surprised how often we could use your knowledge."

"John, thank you for keeping him safe." Casey studied the doctor. "I know you probably have a military background and Chuck, while I love him to death, must try your patience with how he acts sometimes."

Casey was silent for a second. "I've seen a lot of brave men, but Chuck Bartowski takes the cake. He's had all of this thrown on him and he's done the best he can with it. He drives me crazy but I'm proud to be on his team."

"What about the other two employees?"

Casey grunted. "They were codenamed Gretta, but Chuck decided to give them names so he quit confusing himself saying Gretta all the time." Casey shrugged. "All he did was treat them like human beings and they've basically sworn their loyalty to him."

"Chuck does that," Devon agreed nodding. "He's unlike anyone I've ever met." Casey could only nod in agreement.

"It's made too much like a computer program," Ellie said to the group. "I can tweak it, but we need to find the designer of the program. We need whoever created it, because we need to get it out. It's going to eventually drive him crazy." Sarah glanced over at Chuck, concern covering her face. "Sarah, he's okay, we've got time, but we need to figure this out."

"Well, if we don't at least dad won't be the only crazy person in this family." Ellie stared at Chuck. "I know, bad joke." Ellie looked at the schematics again. "Ellie?"

"Nothing, just thinking. Sarah do you think you can begin looking into the creator of the Intersect?"

"As of right now, it's our main mission."

That night found Ellie digging in the top of her closet for a box. She pulled it out, dug around and found the old notebook she was looking for. She studied the drawing, read the notes, and then closed the notebook. She chewed on her thumbnail for a moment, before she grabbed the notebook and took off across the courtyard. She looked at the door in front of her, took a deep breath and knocked. Sarah opened the door.

"Ellie, come on in, Chuck's in the shower."

"Actually I want to talk to you, can we sit at the fountain?"

"Sure," Sarah chirped, shut the door and followed Ellie. Ellie didn't say anything, but thrust the notebook into Sarah's hands. Sarah opened it, flipped through it, looking at parts, and then saw notes on subliminal imagery. Sarah looked at Ellie. "This was the class at Stanford." Ellie nodded. "These drawings…"

Ellie cleared her throat. "They're part of the schematics that I found in the Intersect. I think my dad may have worked on the Intersect, Sarah. I think my dad might have made the Intersect."

Sarah looked over at the door to her apartment. "We can't tell him yet." Ellie gave her a look. "Ellie, we find your dad and we find out if he is the creator of the Intersect. If we tell Chuck what we think then he'll think he's going crazy just like your dad. We know nothing right now."

"Sarah, this is a bad idea."

"You are exactly right, it's a terrible idea, but a worse idea is to tell Chuck that his dad, who you both think is a little crazy, might be the creator. You know what Chuck will do with that information. He'll go worse case scenario. When we get some facts we'll tell him. All we currently have is speculation. I hope to tell him tomorrow, and if we see this may take some time then, we'll tell him." Ellie nodded.

"I don't like this, but you're right, he'll think up something ridiculous, or worse." Sarah took Ellie's hand. "God, Sarah what if dad did make it and what if he can't fix it?"

Sarah gave Ellie a reassuring smile. "Ellie, there are two other Bartowskis that I know and love, and if anyone can figure this thing out, they can. Now go, I'll get to work in the morning figuring this thing out." Ellie nodded, gave Sarah a hug, and went back to her apartment. Sarah slumped over, her elbows on her knees and her hands on her face. They had to figure this out, because there was no way in hell she was losing Chuck Bartowski.

A/N: Uh, David, dude…..wha? Hoped you liked it, reviews are always welcomed…til next time.

#Chuck #Sarah #Charah #The Kiss #fanfic #fanfiction

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