#I know i have an overdeveloped sense of shame and that is not better!

[monstermoviedean]

my new mental catchphrase at work is aren't you embarrassed? aren't you embarrassed to show up late and keep people late because of your poor time management? aren't you embarrassed that we can all tell you aren't actually working because you're in a car? aren't you embarrassed that you refuse to navigate online file storage? aren't you embarrassed that you don't know the names of people you claim to supervise? aren't you embarrassed that no one laughs at your jokes but you?

#I know i have an overdeveloped sense of shame and that is not better! #but i think a tiny bit of shame on occasion is healthy

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 96

96

James could suck the exhaust pipe of the van for all Keith cared. Werewolves were huge, far bigger than the normal family dog or what most people thought. Yet with all that size came zero brain cells. Keith in a huff, not able to stop thinking of Lance and slightly murderous thanks to James loudly mocking him for his “Breeder Boyfriend”. So much for not making a fucking thing out of it, and you know, not putting Lance in extra danger. Sure. He smelt like Lance, before he’d been sprayed top to bottom with that horrible floral crap he and Shiro had used on their scent last time, but if their positions were reversed, Keith wouldn’t be attempting to humiliate him through his boyfriend. He knew it was his name that made James mad... and that he was so close to Shiro, but that wasn’t his fault. He never ever wanted the extra attention.

Worried about his boyfriend’s behaviour, Coran was going to have Curtis check in and maybe stay with Lance. Keith felt like it was something else than birthday blues because he knew birthday depression far too well. He wished he could get Lance out of his mind. Being mad a James helped with that, but that anger was mostly about his comments about Lance, so his mind kept drifting back to his boyfriend as he triple checked his snipers scope. He understood why Coran told him to be extra careful before he left. Vampires had their own set of rules, not terribly considerate towards hunters in that respect. Maybe he really has become soft working here, and actually feeling appreciated for himself. Training his scope onto the recon team, things slowly dissolved to shit as shots rang out. They’d supposed to get the lay of the land and decide from there whether to engage with the werewolves and continue surveillance, the mission plan was basic about the initial components, but being discovered so soon to arriving and in the middle of the freakin’ day was not planned. The first surveillance team had like no contact with the targets. They’d pretty much hadn’t seen anything, and they’d been watching from sun up until relief. Even if it did give them the advantage, some wank stain had ruined everything with that first shot

“Open up the roofs, get us some light in there”

In other words fire a dozen shots into the steel roofing over their target buildings.

There were three target buildings in the shipyard. Keith think he’d thought about there actually be a ship yard in Platt, seeing it was Platt, but the actual words for a place where they constructed ship parts escaped him. Other than the sea of buildings, truck yards, trucks and about 20,000 shipping containers to hide between... they couldn’t shut down the docks without raising suspicion, so instead power for 15 city blocks had gone down with press releases that the problem was being worked on. The Blades didn’t fuck around. Everything outside the mission was null and void until they came back. He shouldn’t be sitting there wondering if Lance would have shot someone’s balls off if he’d been in Keith’s position, no matter if it brought a smile to his face at the thought. Taking aim, he fired at the roof of the closest building, as it was breeched by agents. There were more Blades here than he’d seen in Platt in the whole time since Kolivan waltzed in.

“Explosive device recovered... fall back. Teams X, R, M, rerouting”

Explosives were usually a Blade thing when evidence needed to disappear. Keeping the communication clipped, it failed to warn him it was discovered on a rooftop some 50metres from his position. He didn’t know he was supposed to run until the screams of an unfortunate Blade member filled his ears and huge explosion went off towards the gates of the yard. With the roof blown sky high, Keith was gathering up his rifle and running, before a second device triggered... then the third, this time taking off the side of a storage shed. If that didn’t scream “motherfucking setup”, then Keith didn’t know what did. Nearly clear of the roof, the roofing beneath his feet shifted, Keith losing his step and nearly getting himself killed as he fell off the side of the building and onto a pile of electrical reels... which really hurt. He was getting in mentally before the mocking started. Lance would have a hundred puns to annoy him with after he punched him in the dick for nearly getting hurt.

Being winded saved him as the barred windows to the left and right of the reels blew outwards, glass, concrete and metal showering over him. Had he been getting to his feet, he’d have taken the shrapnel head on, not copping parts second hand as the reels went up in flames. Lance was going to be pissed. You only went after roofs when you knew someone was hiding there or you suspected snipers... Fuck. He had to move and pull back. Something else had been blown up and the air stank from burning things that shouldn’t be burnt. Gathering up his rifle, he was half crash tackled before being pulled along towards the front gate. The mysterious figure was dressed in black, yet he instantly knew they weren’t a Blade member.

Short of the collective of hunter’s, they reached another figure dressed in all black. Hunching over to catch his breath, the first figure who’d pulled him along cackled

“Look at him. Human’s really aren’t good for anything”

Narti?! What the fuck?

“Careful. We need to fall back”

And Ezor? Or was it Zethrid? Which was the tall one again?

“But I wanna take him home”

“This place holds no leads for us. Leave him to return with the human”

Narti crossed her arms

“That’s enough, Ezor. Narti will be mad we meddled as it is”

Ohhh... not Narti... that actually kind of made him feel better... Narti was the grumpy one... Ezor wanted to have fun. He needed to remember that

“Fiiiine”

Ezor licked the pad of her gloved thumb, before reaching and rubbing at spot on his mask

“Good as new. Right. Off you run”

Keith found his voice. He couldn’t let the two of them run off when they knew something

“Wai-...”

“Don’t go getting emotional on us little Keefy. I know you want to join us, but you’re a human and we have a strict no humans allowed rule. Until next time”

With that the pair of them were off, heading back towards the chaos. Feeling every bit of his bruised body, Keith started limping over to where the hurt hunters were getting immediate medical treatment. Had Lotor sold them out? Or was he following them? What the fuck was going on? And where the fuck was Shiro? He was going to kill him very slowly if he’d gotten himself killed.

*

The clean up was worse than falling off the roof. Why the didn’t have a back up team in the sewer system Keith didn’t know, because that’s how their pray had escaped. Right down the jagged hole middle of the building... and of course the arseholes had taken everything with them. It was a mess he was glad he didn’t have to deal with. Fuck being in Kolivan or Krolia’s shoes right now. He didn’t even want to be in his own shoes. He’d traded his sniper rifle for a pair of hand guns, but there really wasn’t anything to do... because thankfully he wasn’t a werewolf with an overdeveloped sense of smell. Ezor and Zethrid weighed on his mind, he hadn’t the chance to tell anyone he’d seen them there, and Shiro was too busy first with the mission, then fussing over him.

Leaving the cleanup crew still working, Keith was still late to Lance’s birthday dinner. Shiro was late too, but that was okay because he wasn’t dating Lance. Between getting back to VOLTRON, showering, changing, and not being able to talk to Coran thanks to the fae being busy as fuck with the Blades mess, he was still late. Heading into the restaurant with Shiro, Curtis was the first to notice, out of his seat and throwing his arms around Shiro within moments of his noticing him.

Lance was sitting with Pidge in his lap, there was a smile on his lips that didn’t turn genuine until he set his eyes on Keith. The warmth in his smile and the relief in his eyes. That was everything he needed after what’d happened. Keith felt like walking bag of bruises that Lance wouldn’t be happy about. It was a shame Coran and Allura weren’t there, but Lance was and that was all he cared about.

Shooing Pidge out his lap, Pidge grumbled over being evicted. Lance reaching for him, and Keith nearly tripped over his own feet in his rush to get to his boyfriend. There had to be rules about two people sitting in the same seat, this wasn’t like Sal’s or at a pub, the place was fancy, but their table was slightly hidden by a jutting room divider. Sinking into his boyfriend’s hold, Lance slipped his arm around his waist, his lips finding Keith’s with practiced ease. Sharing three small kisses, ending as Keith hissed over his scratched lips. Now he was sitting, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to ever get up again. His boyfriend smelt so nice. A little sweet, and little muddly, but comfortingly like him.

Nuzzling into his cheek, Keith expected Pidge to carry on or tease them for being “gross”. Curtis must have filled them all in the mission going sideways. Softly, Lance asked

“Babe?”

“I’m okay...”

He was ready for bed... Cake, Lance and bed. Lance, cake, Lance, and bed sounded better. Or Lance and cake in bed...

“You sure? Curtis...”

“Yeah. A bit shell shocked and bruised but so much better for being here”

Lance kissed his cheek

“I’m not going to be happy later, am I?”

“Mmmm, maybe not, but I’m in one piece and I didn’t take direct damage. I’ll be fine, I promise you, babe”

His ears weren’t ringing and he had both eyebrows so that was a win.

“Okay. You’ve had your time to talk. Now tell us about this mission of yours”

Matt scooched his chair closer. Shiro groaned at him. With him and Curtis sitting down, the seating arrangement around the table was Lance, Miriam, Pidge, Rieva, Matt, Hunk, Shiro, Curtis, with the chair closest to Lance left open for him, though that had probably already been used by Pidge until he arrived. Curtis explained

“Vampires blew up the depot. You know the transport and manufacturing depot. Yeah, well, their going to have a hell of time explaining that away. Though I suppose with the power black out they’ll say some compound became unstable from lack of refrigeration. It makes Allura’s, Lance’s, and Keith’s previous mission pretty void for now. Werewolves have been deployed to scent track”

Mami was the first to voice her worry

“Oh my dear! Neither of you were hurt were you?”

Pidge a little less sensitive in her worries

“Dude, did you get blown up?”

Shiro shook his head, Keith content with no explaining... though it niggled at him not to mention Zethrid and Ezor. He’d talk to Coran about it. He was more tactful with handling this kind of thing, plus Keith kind of feared being scolded by Kolivan for receiving help from the “enemy”

“No. A few other members were injured. I thought we lost Keith, but he’d already drawn back”

Shit. Lance would worry

“They gave the order to. I didn’t think we’d be worrying about being blown up after nothing happening on first shift. They must have used the time from the moment they detected us to that shot firing to retreat. But we’re both okay, Mami. You don’t need to worry”

“As my son, I’m afraid I do. Do you know long it look Lance to bring home such a nice catch? I was beginning to believe I’d be dead before it happened”

Lance scolded his Mami

“Mami! You can’t say things like that”

Miriam laughing it off

“Consider it a perk of being old. They give you the good stuff when they think you’re a bit nutty. Now, we didn’t order for you two boys, and by the sound of it you both need a good meal and rest”

Matt snickered

“I doubt Keith’s going to be getting any of that”

Keith was now sure he was missing something. His anxiety started curling in his gut. This was why he hated being late. He hated feeling like he was on the outside

“Okay. No more picking on Keith. Babe, I’ll tell you later. Mami’s right. You need to eat something. I’m happy you came home safe”

“Yeah. Me too...”

Pidge finally butting in

“And now you’re being gross again. This is supposed to be a nice dinner to celebrate Lance. You’ve got witnesses”

Keith forced himself to slide from Lance’s lap to the empty chair. Ordering felt like too much effort

“Careful, gremlin. I’ve got stories of my own remember”

Pidge scowled at Lance

“I’m going to find a way to make you forget all those embarrassing stories”

Lance picked up his wine glass, mischief in his eye

“I’d like to see you try. Your mother’s potted plants came straight to mind”

“Ugh! I hate you... Matt, Lance is being mean”

“You’re the one who tried to spray paint mum’s plants so she couldn’t tell you’d killed them”

Keith sucked in his lips, trying not to bark out a laugh lest he also be accused of betraying her. He could see Pidge doing that so clearly... or trying to frame Matt for it. Grabbing her knife she faked stabbing herself in the heart, letting herself fall forward dramatically as she whispered

“I’ve been betrayed by both of you. Run, Keith, take Hunk. Be free!”

Flopped on the table, Matt poked at her

“Right. Well, I call dibs on her piece of cake”

Miraculously Pidge was revived

“Touch me piece of cake and I’ll tell Rieva how you couldn’t sleep with your light off until you were 15”

Matt was unruffled

“Seeing you already have, your piece is now forfeit”

“Noooo... Shiro, is there like a training collar for werewolves? I’m going to have to teach him to respect his little sister”

“Notice how you only refer to yourself like that when you’re trying to win me over”

“You can’t be mean! I’m a poor defenceless human”

“Defenceless my left testicle. You’re as defenceless as a barbed wire fence with the personality to match”

“If anything Lance is the “steely” one”

Lance raised an eyebrow

“If I’m so steely, why is it that my home was invaded by a cow today? Pidge, we know you better than to know you won’t go for a kick to balls if you’re cornered. Matt, stop upsetting the gremlin. She can have cake, but only before midnight”

“Why before midnight?”

The words slipped right out, their friends laughing at him... including Mami. Obviously it was some kind of pop culture reference he wasn’t getting. At least Lance was nice enough to comfort him

“Oh, babe. You’re exhausted. We’ll watch the movie when we next get a free weekend”

“Which won’t be for another two weeks”

Lance groaned, cheeks red and hunching down as he did

“Maaaaatt. Shut up”

“Why another two weeks?”

Lance spluttered, replying too fast

“Oh, you know, work and stuff. Stop teasing him before I talk to him about it”

“Fine. But on a serious note, you’re prepared right?”

“Curtis helped me out this afternoon”

“Good. Keith, make sure you take care of him”

He’d had enough of being confused

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Thanks, guys. Babe, come order with me. I’ll order for you too, Shiro, while I’m at it. You all suck”

Keith didn’t know “ordering” meant a trip to the men’s room. Lance splashing his face with water as Keith hung back towards the door. Catching his gaze in the mirror, Lance smiled at him, though it was one of those faked smiles that should be banned

“Sorry. Matt’s been like this all afternoon”

“You want to tell me what’s going on? I haven’t been able to get out my head how you looked at me when I left”

Lance ducked his head, turning off the tap, that blush was sneaking back in

“I... uh... okay. So don’t be mad, and you totally don’t have to be there if you don’t want to... I... um... I’m preheat”

What the what now?

“Preheat?”

“You know how werewolves get horny in spring but before that they’re all like super affectionate and make sure they’re well stocked and safe? Yeah, I’m that”

“You haven’t been preheat before. You kind of just go into heat”

Lance huffed. Turning, he crossed his arms and stared at his feet

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Curtis came by earlier because you’d talked to Coran and we kind of figured it out together. I drank your blood like 3ish months ago... I’m either pregnant or preheat... and seeing we use protection... well... yeah. Matt reckons he smelt it on me. Rieva agrees. My... uh... scent’s sweeter and stronger ‘cause apparently my body is trying to tell you I need looking after and stuff. Look, I was going to tell you at the hotel, but Matt hasn’t stopped teasing me and it’s not fair you don’t know. He told the others were having a romantic week together... but I’m not forcing you to be there. I mean, we don’t know how long it will last and can you please say something because I’m kind of freaking the fuck out and embarrassed as hell about how I acted last time”

“So this is a thing?”

Smooth. Real smooth. A heat was better than a baby... but a proper heat... Hadn’t he had a long enough day as it was? Now he was being unfair to Lance

“Yep. Surprise”

And Lance sounded resigned

“I... Okay. Neither of us know much about this really and honestly I’m pretty much asleep on my feet and the only thinking happening isn’t much. But you can’t act like I don’t want to be there with you”

“And you can’t act like I didn’t freak you the fuck out last time. You went through that all for me! When do I finally get to do something for you!? It isn’t fair! I hate this body of mine. I just want to be a good boyfriend!”

Lance covered his mouth. Keith kind of felt like punching him in the dick. If Lance could tell, so could he!

“Why do you have to be like that? You can’t help it!”

“Because I’m this! This is me! What I want is to go back to you living with me and none of this other shit even happening! You’re too fucking good to me!”

“You’re the good one! I woke up this morning and realised I hadn’t even gotten a present!”

“I don’t need a present! All I want is you!”

“It’s your birthday!”

“And all I wanted was to be with you!”

“I’m here now! Again!”

“And I don’t want to leave at the end of it!”

“Then why are you yelling?!”

Keith spluttered

“I don’t know! You yelled back at me!”

“I was yelling because you were yelling! I miss living with you!”

“And I miss having you around! I miss it! I miss it and I can’t change it because I won’t put you in danger... I can’t lose you”

Both of them stared at each other, Keith moving at the same time as Lance... more or less crashing into each other than a romantic moment. Wrapping his arms around Lance, Lance held onto his jacket

“I miss you, Keith. I know I’m supposed to be the cool older one... but sometimes it hard to go home”

As hard as it was to go back to “normal” life while Lance wasn’t around

“I miss you too. You’re like... the good thing in my life I still can’t believe I have... I... confession time, Shiro helped me with your present”

“Confession time, I don’t mind. We’re working out this boyfriend thing together... I’m haunted by the memories of things I’ve written in cards”

That seemed to be a common theme. Keith wasn’t too sure about what he’d written in Lance’s card

“Shiro said the same thing this morning”

“I’m far too much on his wavelength”

“Bad taste in music. Odd taste in men. A constant need to talk thing out...”

“Don’t forget I care about you. I don’t want people caught up in this that shouldn’t be. I’m ruggedly handsome and mysterious... Um. I... care about you”

“You said that twice”

Lance sighed against him

“I really do. When Curtis said things went south my heart nearly stopped. Three months isn’t long enough... not to be around you. Not to know you...”

Lance was being too adorable and too sweet. Keith couldn’t lie to him about today

“I’m okay... Don’t tell Shiro but I fell off a roof and was saved by a pile of electrical cable spools”

“Babe!”

“And then Ezor saved me. She was there with Zethrid”

“Keith! What the hell!?”

“I don’t know why they were there, probably poking into the same things as us...”

“God. Why can’t you Blades be bloody careful!?”

“I was falling back when it happened... does that count?”

“Yes, but, babe... are you sure you’re okay? Did you hit your head? Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in some weird restaurant with some weird guy?”

“That isn’t funny!”

Lance was in tears now. He’d teased him too much. Kissing Lance’s hair, his boyfriend was still clutching him, Keith wondered if the jacket would forever retain the marks from how hard of a grip Lance had on him

“I’m fine. The suit protected me for the most part. The worst I got was a little winded and a few bruises. I’m with my boyfriend, on his birthday, which is the only place I want to be”

“I... You’re not allowed to scare me like that. You’re too important”

“I know. I only had to survive for Shiro before, now I have you... and... maybe I think I want to survive for myself”

“I should punch you in the dick”

It’d be deserved. Lance wore his heart on his sleeve and Keith really loved that about him

“Please don’t”

Lance sniffled softly, still angry despite crying

“Only because it’s you asking... You have to tell Shiro you saw them there. It could be important”

“I’m going to let Coran know”

“And Shiro”

That wasn’t a conversation he relished the thought of

“He’ll worry... How about I tell them together?”

“Fine. As long as you swear you’ll tell them”

“Only because it’s you asking. We should get back”

“I suppose so... I’m so fucking relieved you’re alright”

“I know... me too, babe. I wouldn’t miss being here with you for anything”

“You’re such a fucking sap... but... I really like you. I know it’s your job, and this preheat is making me extra emotional... but... the world is better for having you in it”

What was he supposed to say to that? It was Lance’s birthday but he felt like he was the one who’d been given the best present of his life.

#once bitten twice stupid #oncebittentwicestupid #ashratherose

[eldritchsurveys]

674.

have you ever violated school dress code? >> I wasn’t allowed to wear anything that would have violated any school dress codes, so I have no idea how that would have ever happened.

if you are listening to music, is the singer male / female? >> I’m not listening to music.

what [ if anything ] do you give up for Lent? >> I don’t observe Lent.

what phrase leads your mind directly to the gutter? >> I mean, I can’t think of any on command, but there are plenty I come across online and stuff that make me snicker. I just like wordplay, tbh.

when you feel like giving up, how do you convince yourself not to? >> I mean, it’s mostly Can Calah who gives the impassioned arguments in defense of not giving up. I just listen and gripe and wait for his infallible logic to work its magic.

what are your opinions on immigration? >> I don’t have a blanket opinion on immigration. I have no personal issue with individual immigrants, no matter their story. They’re just people to me, who want the same things I want -- to survive, to have their needs met, to make a better life.

would you tell an actual immigrant your views? >> Of course I would, if they were unsure where they stood with me.

what was the subject of the last list you made? >> I don’t remember the last time I made a list.

do you ever get nervous before interviews / important meetings? >> I mean, I would if that was a thing that occurred in my life.

who pays for the majority of your belongings? >> It’s pretty evenly split between me and Sparrow.

would you ever willingly shop in a thrift store? >> Of course...?

what is the most that you would ever spend on an outfit? >> I mean... that depends on many factors, including what the outfit is for and how much money I have.

is there anything you do that just outrages your parents? >> ---

when was the last time you were embarrassed in public? >> I don’t remember.

have you ever won an award you were actually proud of? >> I mean, maybe a long time ago. Doubtful, though.

the importance of education, rate it from 1-10, 10 as most important? explain your choice to rate it as such? >> I rank formal education rather low on my personal importance scale, but I rank informal, interest-based learning very high on my personal importance scale. I love to learn, but I don’t operate well in school settings and actually end up learning less in those settings.

what is the coolest science experiment you've ever done? >> I haven’t done any cool science experiments. :(

are you experiencing difficulties with any friends right now? >> No.

how do you deal with a fight between yourself and a friend? >> I don’t know how to deal with that kind of thing anymore.

when you apologize to someone after a fight, how do you go about saying that you are sorry? >> I haven’t been in this situation in a long time, I don’t know.

have you ever played around with "dry ice"? >> No.

do you think parents are responsible for the actions of their children? >> Of course they are, if we’re talking literal children (not teenagers). It takes some time for a small human to develop the sense of independent reasoning and reckoning of consequence that would allow them to take full responsibility for their actions.

how do you, personally, define music? >> I never really thought about it, it’s one of those concepts where I basically take my understanding of it for granted.

should the military draft take both men AND women? why / why not? >> That’s not a debate I’m willing to get into. I want nothing to do with a draft and I ideally wouldn’t want anyone else to have to deal with getting drafted, actually.

when was the last time that you corrected someone? >> I don’t remember. It was probably something really minor and not a big deal for either party. --Oh yeah I remember now, it was about why Bourbon Street is named Bourbon Street.

when was the last time you were corrected? >> It was also probably about something minor and nbd. I think the last time might have been when I misspelled “Lolth” because believe it or not, I’ve been doing that since 2009. I always misspell it “Lloth”, it’s just what happens.

when did you last say " i told you so "? >> I don’t remember. I try to avoid saying that unless it’s about something funny/silly.

is there any celebrity you like to " keep up with "? >> Not especially. I mean, there are definitely actors and directors that I pay attention to more than others when they get involved in new things, but I always forget to like, keep regular tabs on them or whatever.

celebrity gossip: YAY or BOO? >> Boo.

what is the most life-changing book you have read? >> I couldn’t say. A lot of books I’ve read have had a significant impact on me in some way.

have you had a negative impact on anyone's life? >> Sure.

has anyone had a negative impact on yours? who / why? >> Absolutely. I’m not going to elaborate, the negative impact that others have had on me is both 1) way too lengthy and sensitive to elaborate on and 2) not worth dwelling on right now when I just want to chill and take a survey.

what does marriage mean to you, specifically? >> It means legal recognition of our partnership, which is necessary for things like, say, being each other’s advocates in a medical emergency.

how will you know when you are ready to get married? >> I didn’t bother fretting over whether I was “ready” or not. We’d been living together for a couple of years by the time the topic even came up, it didn’t seem like a weird next step to make.

how much time have you spent contemplating your own death? >> Way more time than is logical, probably.

is there a joke that you just can't stand? >> I mean, probably. There are a lot of insensitive jokes out there.

have you ever read any self-help books? >> Yeah.

what's your take on the obesity problem in america? >> I don’t have a take on it. You know what I do have a take on? The constant social pressure to be thin, and the resultant contagious obsessions with eating the “right” foods, compulsive exercising, and worrying about a number on a scale. Being fat, of all things, shouldn’t be this dramatically frightening or repulsive to people, but that’s what we’re made to believe, and that’s the message we’re all internalising on a daily basis. I’m fucking tired of it. I got enough problems.

what is something you used to love, but now greatly dislike? >> I don’t think I’ve ever flipped that hard on anything. There are things I’ve liked casually that I ended up not caring about later on, but nothing that I loved that I started hating later. I might shift from being obsessed with something to just being chill about it, but that’s it.

what is something you used to dislike, but now like? >> I disliked Metallica as a child.

when ( if ) you become a parent, what will you do differently, compared to how your parents raised you? >> I don’t plan on being a parent, but how I treat children in general is almost directly in contrast to how I was treated as a child. I treat them with respect, I listen to what they have to say, I let them feel their feelings, I show interest in their interests, etc.

do you equate spanking with physical abuse? would you spank a child? >> Let’s just say that I did not ever feel loved or respected when I was spanked. I felt terrified and shameful and being left alone to self-soothe afterwards with no real understanding of why I was being punished so harshly definitely didn’t help. I don’t feel like my understanding of right and wrong was healthily developed by corporal punishment. I don’t see any benefit to it, but I see a lot of harm. So, no. I would not spank a child.

what's the most ridiculous thing you've done this week? >> I have no idea. I don’t think I’ve done anything especially ridiculous?

--- did you regret it / love it / hate it / want to do it again / etc? >> ---

is emotional cheating ( in a relationship ) as bad as physically cheating? >> I have no opinion on this, it’s irrelevant to my life.

if your bf/gf wanted to wait until marriage for sex, would you be willing? >> ---

when you look at the sunset, what do you think about / feel? >> I mean, it all depends, don’t it? I don’t have the exact same thought every time I look at something.

is there someone you wish you could trust / you wish was trustworthy? >> No. I just wish I didn’t have such overdeveloped trust issues.

is there anyone that you no longer want in you life? who / why? >> Well, yeah, and those people are, therefore, no longer in my life.

how has your outlook on life changed in the past few years? >> I’m not sure, I haven’t really kept track.

have you ever walked out of a boring movie ( in theaters )? >> No. I did want to walk out of Infinity War, though. Not because it was boring, but because it was pissing me off. (Also, that was back when Anthony was still around, and he wanted to walk out too.)

how open are you with people you know online? >> It depends on how I know them, what we have in common, how long I’ve known them and to what degree, etc.

what do you think of athletes that take steroids? >> I don’t think about that.

if a celebrity is involved in scandal after scandal, is that likely to effect how you view him/her & his/her work? >> Not really. I barely notice when scandals like that happen, anyway. It also seems like most scandals are just sensationalised overhyped nonsense to get people talking about whoever it is, for publicity, and has nothing to do with, like, the merits of the performer’s art or whatever.

what is one celebrity that you have zero respect for? >> ---

what is one fashion trend that you hope makes a comeback? >> ---

what is one that you wish would just die out already? >> ---

have you ever driven under the influence of alcohol / drugs? >> I don’t drive, period.

are you overly attached to your material possessions? >> No. I can be a bit under-attached, in fact. I’ll throw a thing away in a heartbeat. (This doesn’t apply to like, electronics, or any other expensive thing that I use on a constant basis. But like, t-shirts, books, toys, novelty items, other shit that ends up just taking up space and collecting dust? Bye.)

have you ever ridiculed anyone for their clothing choices? >> Not since I was a teenager, most likely.

living in poverty: what do you think it'd be like? >> I... I have lived in poverty. Poverty is my default state of existence. I don’t really know what to tell you about “what it’s like”. What’s it like to not be poor?

what is one " diet " that you think is just utterly worthless? >> All of them are worthless to me.

what advice would you give someone that is uncomfortable with his or her body / appearance? >> I wouldn’t give them advice. Advice is what the entire world is going to try to give them. I’d imagine they’d be tired of advice (unless they’re specifically asking me for it, I guess). But I’ll always have a “mood” or “I know that feel” to offer, because... yeah. Same. The shit sucks and there’s no easy way out of it.

what advice would you give someone about to start high school? >> I don’t even want to think about that phase of life, I’ll pass.

what foreign food are you NOT interested in trying? >> *shrug*

what foreign country do you believe is misunderstood? >> I mean, I don’t know. USian attitudes towards and assumptions about a lot of countries are... misinformed at best.

have you ever felt entirely unwanted and alone? >> Yeah.

in your eyes, which is worse: rape or murder? >> Nope, don’t care.

do you understand / read shakespeare? >> I have never been able to grok Shakespeare, and I’m not interested enough to keep trying.

would you feel comfortable living with someone that owned a gun? >> Most likely not. Luckily, that’s not likely to happen.

do you know anyone that lives in a foreign country? >> I mean, yeah, I use the internet.

#surveys #survey #random survey

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: An Internal Affair - Chapter 9 (Ao3 link)

Fandom: The Flash Pairing: Leonard Snart/Barry Allen

Summary: Leonard Snart, the CCPD Captain of Internal Affairs, is known as Captain Cold for a very good reason: He hates corrupt cops with a merciless vengeance, and once you’re on his list, you’re in serious trouble.

His next target?

A CCPD lab tech named Barry Allen who’s developed a suspicious habit of disappearing at random intervals.

—————————————————————————————————

"You're doing it again," Danvers says gleefully.

Len puts his phone down. "No idea what you're talking about," he lies.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Nope."

"You're smiling. You never smile."

"I smile."

"You really don't, boss," Danvers chides. "You should. It's a good look on you."

Len arches his eyebrows at her.

"It is!" she insists. "I mean, sure, okay, you've managed to convince at least six people here that you're about to purge the department, but that's just because you look kinda smug and demonic when you smile -"

Len grins, with teeth.

"Stop that, it's not a good thing."

Len's not so sure about that.

His phone buzzes.

Len can feel his vicious grin melting into a softer, fonder smile.

"Go on," Danvers says, her own smile turning positively wicked. Len's proud: that's entirely his influence. "Don't leave your boyfriend hanging."

"We went on one date, Danvers."

"Oh, it was a date, now; I thought it was just an information-gathering dinner..."

"It can be both," Len says with great dignity. "Please ignore all previous statements to the contrary."

"Boss..."

"I know, I know," Len says, holding his hands up in concession. "Don't worry, I'm not crossing any lines with it. It'll stay platonic - at least until I clear him, anyway. Then we can be boyfriends."

“Woo hoo!” Danvers cheers. “One very cute guy, in the bag –”

“And how would you know that?”

“I went to sneak a peek at him, obviously,” Danvers says, absolutely shameless. “Have to know what’s good enough to catch my boss’ eyes, don’t I?”

"Oh, shut up," Len tells her, but his attention is back on his phone, reading Allen's latest ridiculous story about his (highly implausible) workday. The most recent twist involves several long paragraphs regarding his newly discovered dreams of retiring to a goat farm.

Allen texts remarkably fast.

Must be a millennial thing.

It's nice, though; Len's used to being the talker, the chatty one, but Allen (should he call him Barry?) has a motor mouth that puts Len's to shame.

(Mick would find it hilarious and say it’s exactly what Len deserves.)

At least Len's still winning their pun-off hands down.

Not literally hands down, of course, since it's happening largely through text.

Heh, he'll have to mention that one to Allen...

"When are you going to see him again?" Danvers asks, interrupting Len's pun-related reverie. "For a date, I mean; not for an investigation."

"I'm still investigating him," Len reminds her. And himself.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, you’re still investigating, of course you are," Danvers replies, flapping her hands at him. "You're way too paranoid - what you told me about Allen investigating the Flash makes perfect sense to me. Especially since we've managed to correlate a lot of Allen's mysterious disappearances and out-of-field conversations with all the stuff the Flash is up to. We just need to prove it and bam! Dating free and clear."

"Bam? Really?"

"I watch a lot of Food Network," Danvers says. "Shut up. Seriously, though, you're not going to wait until the investigation is done to go out with him again, are you? Tell me you're not!"

"I'm seeing him again tonight," Len admits.

Danvers literally punches the air.

"You're overly invested in this," Len tells her. "Seriously over-invested."

She rolls her eyes at him. "You tell me all about it! All the time!"

"You're my secretary! I need you to make sure that I don't double book over any MR days or anything."

"A, it’s admin assistant, not secretary. B, you went to see Mick yesterday," Danvers says. "Because Allen was working late to make up for taking the day off after being at court in the morning the day before. You know perfectly well that you're not missing anything; you just want to gloat."

Well.

She's not entirely wrong.

Though Len still feels obscurely guilty about how much time he's spending on Allen instead of his usual work, even though the DAs have suggested that they’re appreciating the break.

Or maybe the guilt comes from the fact that he still hasn't figured out exactly how, or why, Allen faked the coma business, and how that ties in with whatever STAR Labs is up to with the Flash - a question that will only be answered either by Allen himself, or with the arrest of the Flash.

Both, ideally.

(No, Len does not have daydreams of presenting the Flash handcuffed to Allen on a silver platter. Really. At all. That would be unprofessional and unproductive, and anyway he probably won't be the one making the arrest if everything goes well; that honor would be going to Detective Thawne, him being an actual detective and all.)

He really hopes Allen is clean – well, clean of everything but a bit of insurance fraud, but insurance fraud in the pursuit of his mother’s murderer; surely that’s somewhat more understandable, right?

Mick would understand that.

Len thinks Mick would like Allen.

He confessed the whole thing to Mick during his visit the day before: how wonderfully their dinner (date) had gone, how they'd connected and talked and kept talking, how Len's infatuation was moving from a mostly physical attraction and a slight appreciation for Allen's niceness towards something far more dangerous...how he was worried that he would let his feelings interfere with his investigation.

How he knows they already have.

They have been from the start, when he began investigating Allen as much because of Mick as anything else, and they are now, with his fondness for Allen leading him to want to find a result that will exonerate him.

Yes, the Flash theory makes sense, but it isn’t the only possibility. After all, Allen could still be an accomplice.

He could still be corrupt.

God, Len wishes he knew what STAR Labs was up to.

He just can’t figure out what the Flash's deal is.

The guy claimed that he isn't seeking glory, and despite himself Len thinks he believes him, so it’s not about that. Nor does the Flash seem motivated by revenge, the way the Hood/Arrow's vendetta against crime had obviously been at the start. And it certainly isn't some idiot joyriding around on some new technology, either.

Len would be willing to give the Flash the benefit of the doubt and say that the whole thing really is stemming from an overdeveloped sense of public duty, but every time he considers it, he thinks about Allen, and more than Allen, he thinks about all those damn disappearances.

Far too many people seem to disappear without a trace after an encounter with the Flash, or at the very least streaks of lightning that suggest his presence.

The latest disappearance: LaShawna Baez, an ex-medical student that'd gotten tangled up with a bad boyfriend with Family ties.

Of course, they all suspected the boyfriend was responsible when he'd gotten caught, but when questioned, he swore that he'd left her behind to be captured by the cops or the Flash when their little Bonny-and-Clyde streak of robberies went off the rails.

Heh.

Streak of robberies...

Either way, another disappearance like that, right around yet another Flash sighting? Not good. After all, at most, Baez would have been guilty of grand robbery without any aggravating factors, like use of arms or felony manslaughter, and that sort of crime doesn't come with a death sentence. If the Flash killed her, then there can be no doubt that he is perverting the legal system in the worst of ways.

And if he isn't killing them, then where are they?

A mystery.

Unlike many people, Len didn't become a cop because he likes solving mysteries. He became a cop because he wants to see justice done. Mysteries are nothing but an impediment to that goal.

Len's phone buzzes again.

Not Allen, though; it's a text from...Danvers?

It reads: "Where are you taking him?"

"Very funny," Len tells her, looking up and rolling his eyes at her.

"Hey, since it seems like you're only accepting messages by phone today, I figured I'd follow protocol," Danvers says, laughing and putting down her own phone. "But seriously, where are you going? Not somewhere outside, I hope; the forecast is for intermittent bursts of rain."

"No, not outside. He's picked a restaurant downtown," Len says. "Hole-in-the-wall in an iffy area, but supposedly the best pasta you can find in the city."

"Better than Antonio's?"

"Doubtful -" No one's pasta is better than what the seemingly immortal Antonio served up in his eponymous restaurant, and Len's not just saying that because he more or less survived his pre-teen years on Antonio's willingness to trade extra bowls of pasta for help washing up the tables that Len suspects he didn't really need. "- but it's always worth a try."

"Have fun," Danvers says. "Though - if it's an iffy part of the city -"

"I'm not wearing the mask on a date, Danvers," Len says sternly. "No. Just - no."

"Fine," she says, pouting. "But you take two phones and an emergency alert, got it?"

"Danvers -"

"No, boss. This is non-negotiable. You're still basically number one on the Family hit list. Just because they've left off a bit now that you're doing internal affairs in the middle of a police station most of the time doesn't mean that they'll hesitate to shoot you if they see you on their turf."

"I'll be careful," Len promises.

Danvers doesn't look entirely appeased, but it's the best she's going to get, so she takes it.

Len kills the next few hours with a combination of texting with Allen and finishing up the paperwork to get warrants on the next batch of cops under suspicion.

He's a little worried that all that texting means that they won't have anything to talk about during dinner, but that fear turns out to be totally misplaced: the conversation flows as easily as the endless refills of soda that Allen keeps draining in his infectious excitement.

(The pasta's no Antonio's, but the breadsticks are definitely out of this world. He'll have to tell Danvers.)

Len's not even sure what they talked about: everything and anything, from the deplorable state of politics in Central to the perils of paperwork, the need to improve infrastructure in the slums without it resulting in gentrification and the eviction of the current residents, to the trials and tribulations inherent in finding just the right present for their respective siblings/best friends.

They're both laughing over some dumb joke Len made - some unnecessarily complicated and definitely not-actually-that-funny thing about the Central City Combines and the Transformers cartoon/toy series - when they leave to go home, with Allen laughing so hard that he needs to lean a hand against Len's shoulder to steady himself and Len wiping tears of amusement out of his eyes.

That's probably why he doesn't see the guy sliding out of the darkness to cut off the exit to the alleyway that's the only way in or out of the restaurant.

He definitely hears it when the guy snarls, "Put your hands up and no one'll get hurt," though.

They both stop laughing at once and turn to look at the mugger.

He's of average height and build, dressed in baggy clothing of assorted colors that have faded through over-use. He seems moderately well-put together, though, despite the stringy brown hair that seems to be trying to form white-man's-dreadlocks - which is to say, knots.

He's holding a switchblade on them.

It's not even a gun.

"Seriously?" Allen says. "Seriously? You just – to – right in the middle of – jeez, some people just have no luck."

Len couldn't agree more. What sort of unfortunate luck must a mugger have to pick not one but two CCPD employees, a cop and a CSI, to try to rob?

Of course, Allen doesn't know what Len does, and Len doesn't want it to come out this way - then he'd have to confess to the yet-unfinished investigation, because there's no way that he works at the same precinct and doesn't know about Allen.

If anything, that restriction cripples him more than his current need to use a crutch.

"I mean it!" the mugger insists. "Now!"

"If you need money, there's a cardboard brigade outpost not far from here," Len tells him. "I can point it out to you if you're not familiar. But robbery's only going to get you thrown in jail."

"Seriously," Allen says again, this time in emphatic agreement. He's shifting from foot to foot, looking as though he's torn between options of what to do - Len can't blame him; a middle-class kid like Allen's probably only been mugged once or twice in his life. He's probably debating whether fight, flight, or concession makes the most sense.

Not unlike Len, who, despite many years of experience on the wrong side of muggings, needs to decide if it's worth discarding his disguise and revealing his secret to get them both out of this.

The mugger's eyes fix on Len and abruptly narrow. "Hey," he says. "Don't I..."

And then he grins.

Len doesn't like that grin, nasty and cruel and planning nothing good for anyone.

"Oh hell no," Allen yelps as the mugger, without any other warning, suddenly lunges forward, knife extended, straight at the two of them.

A second later, the knife clatters to the ground - Allen must have swatted it out of the mugger's hand at remarkable speed - followed very quickly by the mugger himself, because Len balanced on his good foot and used the crutch in his other hand to bash the mugger right over the head, knocking him out.

They both look at each other.

And burst out laughing.

"My hero," Allen chokes out.

"You're the one who went for the knife," Len reminds him, sniggering. "Right back at you."

"Oh, sure, I went for the knife, yeah, but you broke out the crutch-foo -"

"Hey, a man's gotta know to defend himself! It's a hard world out there!"

"What the hell's going on here?" a voice bellows from behind them.

They turn, still laughing; it's the maître d' from the restaurant.

"Sorry," Allen manages to get out between hoots of laughter. "This guy tried to mug us -"

The maître d' glances down at the unconscious mugger. "Oh, great, him again," he says with annoyance. "All right, get out of here, both of you; I'll call it in to the cops."

He probably won't, if he knows the mugger personally, or at least he'll give the mugger a chance to wake up and flee the scene first, but whatever; Len's on a date he doesn't want to disrupt, and he never much liked arresting poor people even when they clearly deserved it.

He glances at Allen, who nods and thanks the maître d', and with that they both leave the alleyway behind.

"Well, that was a terrible ending to a pretty good dinner,” Allen remarks.

"It wasn't that bad," Len says. A bit of unexpected excitement goes a long way to making even the dullest dinner interesting, in his view, and this was far from the dullest of dinners.

"I don't know," Allen says ruefully. "I take you to a restaurant I like in a sketchy part of town and then, for the first time ever in my experience coming to this place, someone tries to mug and then kill us? I don't see how it could possibly be worse."

The second he says that, there's a roll of thunder.

No. It can't be. The world does not love anyone enough to give them such perfect timing.

It is.

The skies open up above them, rain sheeting down in one of Central City's infamously abrupt downpours.

Len's heart is going to explode out of sheer what-wonderful-timing glee.

"You had to say it," he tells Allen, beaming.

"I had to say it," Allen agrees, starting to laugh again.

Allen - Barry - looks so happy, standing there with the rain sheeting down on him, soaking his clothing and plastering his hair to his skull in what really ought to be an unattractive wet-dog look but really isn't, that Len finds himself taking that extra step forward and pressing their lips together.

A second later, he abruptly remembers himself - and his investigation! - and pulls away. "I'm sorry," he says. "I should have asked - we said this was just about getting to know each other -"

Allen reaches out and pulls Len back into the kiss by his jacket lapels.

Oh, Len really shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't.

But he's happy, damnit, and it's been so long since he's been happy, really truly unabashedly happy - not just with a possible romantic partner, that's been forever and a half, but with anyone at all, months and months -

God, Len is so screwed.

He leans into the kiss, reaching up to grab Allen by the shoulders to pull him in -

His side gives a sharp, sudden stab of agony as his crutch falls to the ground.

"Oh, man, I'm so sorry!" Allen exclaims, breaking away, taking care to steady Len on his feet before squatting down to pick up the crutch again. "Man, I should've been thinking -"

"If you were thinking, we were both doing something wrong," Len says dryly, trying to recover himself while also clutching at his side a bit. He's familiar with pain, has a great pain tolerance, but even he gets tripped up by it sometimes.

Allen smiles at him as he hands over the crutch. "Yeah," he says. "I - don't think we were. I mean. If you don't."

Len's still hurting - joy and love making pain go away is the stuff of fairytales and romance novels - but he does end up smiling helplessly back. "No," he says. "Though maybe -"

"We go slow?" Allen suggests.

Len nods.

"That works for me," Allen says. "Like, really. I've got some stuff I need to work through - stuff I want to work through. I - I like you. A lot. And I'd like this to work out. But for that to happen, I need to get over some stuff. So, uh, yeah. If slow works for you, slow works for me."

"Slow works," Len agrees, smiling. "I've got some stuff on my plate, too -" That stupid investigation, for one. God, he wishes he could just get over himself and decide that Allen is innocent, but that's just not his way. Not until he's proved what happened. "- so, yeah. Slow works great."

Allen laughs. "This is kind of ironic in ways you don't even know about yet, but you will," he says, a promise dancing in his eyes. "And, uh, yeah. Good. I'm glad we're on the same page. Want me to catch you a cab?"

Len manages, through valiant effort, to keep them to a single kiss good-night before he gets into the cab and goes home in an utterly fantastic mood.

He'd say that it's the sort of mood that can't be brought down, but that would be a lie, because limping into his supposedly secure apartment and finding Charlie standing there browsing the cookbook section of his bookcase does the trick pretty well.

"What the hell do you want," Len says flatly.

"That's not nice," Charlie says peaceably, continuing to browse. "You should be nicer."

Len rolls his eyes. Charlie is an old - is friend the right word when you can't stand someone but put up with them anyway out of long-standing habit? Probably not.

An old contact? That works.

Len has known Charlie since they were both in juvie together. He was mildly unsettling back then; he's positively creepy now.

It's the way you're distinctly aware of those priors for cannibalism (technically, disgracing a corpse) and possible kidnapping the entire time you're around him, even if you don't actually know about them.

Still, while, despite that fact, Len generally considers Charlie to be harmless - he's usually willing to accept a firm 'no', bizarrely enough - that doesn't mean he wants Charlie appearing in his apartment.

Len sleeps here.

"Who let you in?" Len asks.

"Your house-cleaner," Charlie says promptly. "She remembered me from last time."

Len's going to have to have a word with her.

"And why are you here?" Len prompts, since Charlie seems to be getting distracted with a book on large-scale barbecuing that Len'd gotten for Mick as a present one year.

"I was wondering if anyone had tried to kill you yet," Charlie replies.

Len stares at him.

Charlie blinks back. "Hasn't anyone told you about the new bounty on your head?"

"No, Charlie," Len says, keep his voice mild and controlled. "You're one of my contacts, remember? You're supposed to tell me about these things - I don't know them if you don't tell me them."

"Oh. Right. Well, they only put it up a day or two ago. Hasn't anyone tried to kill you yet?"

"No, I don't keep a regular schedule, which makes it harder to -" Len pauses.

That's his usual answer, but it's not true, is it? Someone did try to kill him.

Sure, a random probably-high mugger acting on impulse, not a Family assassin, but now that Len considers it, the guy had stared at Len, recognizing him, before escalating from a mugging to attempted murder.

If there's a bounty on his head, with a picture attached, that would explain the recognition.

"A Family bounty?" Len asks.

"Of course," Charlie says. "They really do hate you, you know."

"I do know," Len says. That doesn't mean he's not puzzled, though. "Still, recognizing my face...I thought they'd put the bounty on the backburner for a while? On account of them not wanting to start an outright war with law enforcement?"

Charlie shrugs. "It's back on. Or, well, it was never off, but notice of it was redistributed. I heard a rumor that you crossed one of their assassins and they made a request."

Assassins? Len hasn't been allowed anywhere near anything Family related, much less one of their trained killers.

Maybe one of the corrupt cops he'd taken down?

But the only one in the last week or two was Cichowski. That seems highly unlikely.

Besides -

"Why wouldn't an assassin just take me down themselves?" Len asks, a little skeptical. "Seems the most straightforward approach."

Charlie shrugs again. "Laziness, vanity, doesn't want his name associated with it - who knows? Could be plenty of reasons."

Point well taken.

“How good a rumor is it, that it's one of the Family assassins' behind it?” Len asks. "Rather than one or another of the Family's brass getting a bee in their bonnet for some reason or another?"

“Just a rumor.”

That’s not worth much.

“Let me know if there’s anything more in that?” Len asks.

“Of course,” Charlie says. “I’ll ask around. But you should be careful.”

Len's lips twitch. "No one gets to kill and eat me but you?"

"If I kill you, I'm going to eat you, yes," Charlie says, as mildly and peaceably as ever. "Same thing if I find your body in a well-preserved state. But you're my friend: there's no reason for me to want you to go before your time."

That's almost heartwarming, if you ignore the kill-and-eat part. And possibly the "before your time" part; Len's going to have to check that Charlie hasn't hatched another plan to kidnap, murder, and devour him again, especially now that he doesn’t have Mick to keep an eye out about it for him.

It's a good thing Charlie's plans are invariably crap.

"Well?" Charlie says expectantly.

"I'll be careful," Len promises. "Now get the hell out of my apartment."

Charlie does, taking with him one of the cookbooks - not the barbeque one, which he knows is off limits, but one of the how-to-make-macrons ones, which, uh, what?

"That's not nearly as funny as you think it is, boss," Danvers informs him the next morning, when he tells her the story. "Can we get back to the part where your life is in danger?"

"It's just a bounty," Len objects. "There's technically been one on my head this entire time."

"Yes, but you haven't had random muggers escalating to attempted murder the second they recognize your face!"

Oh, boy. Danvers is breaking out the increased emphasis.

"It wasn't a serious attempt -"

"Boss!"

"I'll keep wearing the mask when I go out on Flash business, okay?" Len says. "I promise."

Danvers crosses her arms and glares.

Len swears he can feel the hair on his arms start scorching.

Time to use his trump card.

"I also promise that I'll stick to Jitters and other well-lit areas for any more dates with Allen," he offers.

Danvers keeps glaring for an extra second to make sure he knows that she's only going to fall for his bait because she wants to, not because he tricked her, and then she grins. "You're going to have more dates?"

"We are," Len confirms, unable to keep himself from smiling back. "Going slow, though - he's getting over somebody, and I need to finish the Flash investigation first."

"If you get the Flash, then Allen can stop doing all the suspicious things he's doing," Danvers agrees. "And you can scratch the whole thing off as well-meant but misguided over-enthusiasm."

"Well, not the whole thing," Len demurs. "I'm still going to make him deal with the insurance fraud aspect of it all. But yes, if he's not corrupt, that makes things much easier. But remember -"

"Yes, yes, I know, people on your list are guilty until proven innocent."

"No," Len says, rolling his eyes. "Just Occam's razor: corruption is unfortunately still the more reasonable explanation. Do you really want me getting in deep with someone with an asterisk by his name?"

Danvers softens. "Yeah, okay," she says. "You sure it isn't too late for that?"

"I'm infatuated, not in love," Len says. "If we find out that he's no good, I'll live."

He'll be disappointed, sure, even maybe a little heartbroken, but whatever.

"What's on the agenda today?" he asks, changing the subject. His resolution to practice talking about his feelings with Danvers so that he doesn't choke up when apologizing to Mick after he wakes up (if he wakes up) aside, he still doesn't enjoy it. Give him work to do instead any day.

That pesky work ethic is probably why he was Central City's most successful freelance thief for over a dozen years running, possibly more, depending on how you count these things.

"Let me check," Danvers says, sliding back over to her computer. "Looks like a pretty light day - you've got some meetings in the afternoon with the DAs to walk them through some of your evidence again so that they don't get cold feet about bagging a cop, again -"

"In an election year, with only a short while to go before the primary? They ought to be happy that I'm giving them so much law-and-order cleaning-up-the-system cred."

"I'm not the one you need to convince of that," Danvers says dryly. "Anyway, that left this morning pretty open, so I took the liberty of arranging an informal powwow on behalf of the Anti-Flash Task Group -"

"It's not actually called that, you know."

Danvers rolls her eyes at him.

"That sounds great," Len adds. Some solid investigative work sounds right up his alley right now. "They're coming here?"

"Detective Thawne and Miss West, yes," Danvers confirms. "I figured you didn't want every street cop who's potentially on the task force personnel list."

"Definitely not." Len pushes himself back from his chair and up to a standing (well, leaning) position. "I'm going to practice some PT in my office; let me know when they get here."

The joys of healing.

Thawne and Iris - she'd insisted, by virtue of refusing to answer to anything else, and anyway he needs to distinguish her from the other, less amiable West that stalks the precinct with a grim scowl like he thinks that alone would drive Len away - arrive an hour later, when Len's finished and already put his leg up to rest while he grimly drains a green smoothie designed to feed him nutrients he needs.

He hates green smoothies.

All those vegetables –

(They don’t taste like the ones Mick made him eat at all. He wonders if Allen likes veggies...)

"Hey, sorry, are we late?" Iris asks, looking around the mostly deserted conference room that doubles as Len's part of the precinct. "Or, uh, early?"

"Right on time," Danvers chirps. "Please, have a seat anywhere you like; as you can see, we've got the space but not the personnel. Captain Snart will be out of his office momentarily."

Len's mostly glad about the excuse to toss the smoothie.

Danvers glares at him when he comes out to the main room - she always knows when he's thrown away his smoothie, it's uncanny; he swears she can see through walls - but he ignores her and hobbles over to greet his guests.

Teammates?

Whatever.

"I look forward to working with you, Detective Thawne," Len says, sticking his hand out. "I've heard good things."

Thawne looks surprised.

"Eddie!" Iris hisses, elbowing him in the side.

He abruptly remembers himself and belated reaches out to shake Len's hand.

"Don't worry, I get it," Len says dryly. "The fire-breathing gorgon with snake for hair's a lot less intimidating in person, yeah?"

Thawne flushes a bit, but smiles ruefully. "I think ice breath is the more common story."

"Ice? How would that even work - am I breathing it out in solid form?" Len asks, amused. "Or is it more like sneezing snowflakes?"

"Probably more like an artic wind gust, using the Joule-Thompson effect," Danvers volunteers. "Compressed air through a small opening drops the temperature significantly; that, in combination with saliva acting as a freezing agent, would lower the temperature of the exhale to such a negative degree that anything that's hit by it gets iced over."

They look at her.

She blushes. "I mean," she says. "If he had freeze breath."

"No, I like that," Len says. "That would actually be really cool."

Danvers, far too used to him, groans.

"Was that a pun?" Iris says, starting to grin. "Captain Cold makes cold puns?"

"Captain Cold makes all puns," Danvers says.

"This is a non-discriminatory office," Len agrees.

Thawne snorts, and Len can see him finally starting to relax. "Glad to hear that," Thawne says. "Sorry about my reaction. I'm actually really looking forward to working on this task force; it's my first time leading an investigation without a senior partner."

"Isn't Captain Snart your senior partner?" Iris asks.

"No, I'm his boss," Len says. "That's different. Still, glad you’re thinking that way, Thawne; I'm hoping that you'll be able to take a lot of solo lead on this investigation." He nods at his crutch. "I'm ain't exactly my old mobile self these days."

"Not to mention on a Family hit list," Danvers pointedly mutters to no one in particular.

"A Family hit list?" Iris asks, sounding interested. "Really?"

"I used to do undercover work," Len tells her, a little charmed by how impressed she looks by it. Undercover work didn't allow for much bragging, for obvious reasons. Besides, even if he’d had someone to brag about it to, he'd been too angry to really get any joy out of it before now. "The Families don't appreciate that much."

"That's pretty awesome," Iris says. "What did you do when you were undercover, if I'm allowed to ask?"

"Oh, don't ask him that," Danvers says before Len can reply. "He'll be showing off his pickpocketing skills for days; it's unbearable."

She's grinning, though, and Iris grins back. "I don't know," she says. "That sounds like it could be interesting."

"Could be," Len says, and hands her back her wristwatch to an exclamation of delight. "But we should probably focus on the Flash."

Iris straps her watch back on, grinning even more now. "Yeah, probably. We're still agreed on not treating him like a criminal, right?"

"No, we're agreed that we're withholding judgment pending further investigation," Len corrects. "But yes, innocent until proven guilty's still a thing, if that's what you're asking. I won't hold anything wrong he's done against him until I prove he's done it."

"What's he done to make you think he's done something wrong at all?" Iris challenges.

"Other than being an unauthorized vigilante and however many counts of assault on purported 'criminals' - yes, purported, they're innocent till proven guilty, too - you mean? The disappearances."

Iris blinks. "Disappearances? What disappearances?"

"Serial disappearances," Danvers clarifies. "I've been logging strange events in Central City, and a number of them can be correlated with your map of Flash activity."

"That doesn't mean the Flash is behind them," Iris objects.

"He could be trying to solve them," Thawne suggests, though he looks more dubious than Iris.

"Not exactly his job," Len reminds them. "But that's what we're here to figure out. If the Flash really is a do-gooder, and not involved in these disappearances, then we can see about getting him some legal backing - a badge, and the ethics course that accompanies wearing that badge."

"Ethics?" Iris asks dryly, arching her eyebrows in mock surprise. "In Central?"

"Yes," Thawne says, and unlike Iris he's utterly serious. "Just because lots of people don't have any doesn't mean we shouldn't be aiming to do better."

"You sound like a politico before their first reelection campaign," Len says. "But as it happens, I agree. I love this city, dirt and all, but just because it's always been dirty before ain't no reason to tolerate it. Corruption's the root of all the problems we've got, and it starts with people thinking ethics are optional because this is Central. It might be Central, but you gotta put your money where your mouth is when it comes to ethics or else what’s the point?"

Iris nods, while Thawne looks thoughtful. "You really mean what you say, don’t you?" he says. "It’s not a grudge or anything – you're really trying to clean up the city."

"One traitorous cop at a time," Len agrees, even though it’s not entirely correct: he’s one hundred percent fulfilling a grudge, but there’s no reason he can’t clean up the city at the same time. "Well, assuming the Families - or the cops - don't shoot me first."

“Oh, no,” Iris says. “You’re not allowed to get shot before I get to the bottom of these disappearances and prove you wrong about the Flash.”

Len smirks.

Sounds good to him.

#coldflash #leonard snart #barry allen #kara danvers #iris west #eddie thawne #my fic #an internal affair

[kennyrobots]

from an interlude called online dating, part 2a: dancing in the dark

(...i changed the fucking title of this thing. after noticing that i misremembered it, i couldn’t unsee it.) (also, i took the subtitle for this from the first song that came up in my youtube music “my supermix”...mix. (ugh.) you gotta admit that it’s kindasorta provocative - let’s see if it becomes RELEVANT at any point in the below.) (my guess is no.) alrighty. so when i read the first woman’s comment on her profile, i was immediately struck as to why i’m not doing all that well in the online dating sphere. (y’know - aside from the rampant insanity and chronic oversharing.) (also, even though i’m not as ugly as i used to be, i’m still kinda ugly. I’VE LONG MADE PEACE WITH THIS - kinda the reason i even bothered to develop my personality in the first place. granted, i probably OVERdeveloped it, but still - i knew from a young age that i was not going to compete in any meaningful way on looks alone, so.) (wasn’t great, growing up to that realization, but again - I’VE MADE PEACE WITH IT. besides the ugly dude society’s still accepting my dues, so i’m straight.) (...) (...) (...) (..nothing. just...memories.) (i’m glad i learned how to laugh at myself, is all i’ll say about that.) ANYWAY. i read that comment, and it occurred to me that ONE of the reasons i’m not doing all that well is that (and granted, this is a VERY large and overly generalized brush i’m painting with, but) i don’t think a majority of people truly enter the online dating arena fully knowing what THEY want out of it. ...i mean, DUH, right? “thanks for the observation, captain obvious. would you also like to tell us that people lie their asses off on their profiles, while you’re at it?” here’s what i mean: this particular woman chose “new friends” and “long-term dating” as her looking-for options, and given her comment, i think that the “long-term dating” bit is not currently congruous to her current state of mind. (aside: OBVIOUSLY i don’t know her state of mind - for all i know, she could actually be seriously looking for a long-term partner, and just threw that up there to chase off those fly-by-night niggas that are only looking for a quick fuck. i’ll grant you that. i’ll only say that 1) i’m taking her words at face value here, and am simply entertaining myself by deriving intent from it, and 2) she actually put her version of the “no fuckboys or couples looking for threesomes need apply” right before the excerpted part, so although i’m probably wrong, i’m also probably not THAT wrong.) simply put: i do not think she’s actually ready for a long-term relationship, like she claims to want, because she hasn’t moved on from whatever issues that may have arisen as a result of the past one that ended. (i almost put “trauma” in place of “issues”, but again - i wasn’t in that relationship, i’m not privy to the details, so it would be presumptuous for me to assume that it was traumatic in any way. no - all of my presumption is limited to putting her words on this here tumblr, and subsequently pulling words out of my ass in the name of “commentary”.) (we have fun here.) and my guess on this is because about a year ago, i was in the same exact situation myself. and the moment of clarity that comes from hindsight is a BITCH. because i’m slightly uncomfortable with speculating on the private lives of others, i’m going to leave any specific reference of her in the background moving forward, and just comment on it in a more general sense. (along with any other commentary that’s me-specific, of course.) i think that the number of people who jump onto these dating sites, looking for “something real” without actually understanding that, deep down, they probably DON’T actually want that specifically, is higher than any of us realize. (i could probably tell you the exact number, but those cowards over at OKC won’t give me access to their database. i actually had a thought about this earlier as well: whlie i do want a relationship - kinda the whole point i’m on OKC in the first place - i think i’d probably be happier with complete and total access to OKC’s database, so that i can dig into what people are actually doing and saying to each other myself.) (that’s almost a fucked-up thing to admit, but the fact that i’m admiting it means that it’s probably true.*) (god, i hope that my future wife never reads this. then again, it would be shit like this that endears me to her, so i’m kinda stuck, as you can tell.) (”well, maybe she agrees to marry you IN SPITE of all of this.” pfft - FAKE NEWS. no woman in her right god damn mind would read all of this, be uncomfortable and/or offended by it, and STILL say to herself, “yeah - i’m okay with laying down and becoming unconscious next to this every night”.) (c’mon, y’all, i expect a LITTLE better from you.) just a complete, uneducated, pulled-out-of-my-ass guess, but i’m guessing that most folks are just looking to not be alone, not necessarily be in a relationship that takes actual work. they want attention, not a deep bond with someone who could just as easily piss you off as they can make you feel like the most special person in the world, sometimes within the same exact moment. (and yes - i realize that this is all basically scattered across the dating advice/psychology internet. i’m not reinventing any type of wheel here. i’m just giving you my thoughts on this, mostly because i’m too lazy to actually look up the citations, which is funny, because i was a history major.) they’re “not ready to get into a relationship”, but are “open to meeting the right person”, in the same sense that i’m “open to being given a million dollars”. we’ll both gladly accept it, if it (quite improbably) happens, but neither of us are actually willing to put the WORK into it for it to actually happen. (mostly because i lack ambition. or at least, the RIGHT kind of ambition. oh, don’t worry - we touch on that later.) and this is (a part of) why a lot of us aren’t all that successful at this (y’know - aside from all the OTHER extenuating reasons, of course). we see this person, we see that they say that they want a long-term relationship, but even if it isn’t made as explicit as this young lady, we still encounter their wall - we reach out to them with what we’d assume is the best of intentions (and yes, maybe i’m naive for assuming that most people on these things are trying to play this thing as straight as possible, and i know that i am a cynical-ass motherfucker, but even *I* can’t be THAT goddamn cynical), taking at face value that they want the same thing we want: a relationship, and the person is...”justified”, for lack of a better term, to simply brush that person off, “because they’re not the right person that can thread the incredibly small needle that i’ve allowed into my heart, because i’m still dealing with other things that i don’t want to deal with, but i HAVE to put myself out there and move on, because i HAVE TO, right?” (y’know, one year later, i STILL feel somewhat guilty for telling that nice young lady that i went out with that i was withdrawing from the dating game. i could tell she was more than a little interested in me, and trust me - i know how much being rejected fucking SUCKS. i honestly never thought that i’d ever be on the other side of that, but life really does have a way of fucking with you.) (i know she won’t ever read this, but patricia: i really am sorry, and i really do hope that you’ve found someone good for you, and that you’ve completely forgotten about me. you just met me at the worst possible time, and if i could take it back and never send you that first message when i knew i shouldn’t have, i absolutely would.) (yes, that is self-serving. all apologies are self-serving - otherwise, they wouldn’t need to exist.) (fucking fuck. we’re going to a part three.) *so, i wrote this bit about a week ago, before i had...well, let’s call it “an improvement in my personal life”. (again - i’m trying my best to refrain from commenting on any ongoing situations, mostly due to consent reasons, but yeah - it’s pretty much what you think it is. i mean, at this current moment, the ENTIRE EXISTENCE of this tumblr’s pretty much dedicated to that thing that you absolutely know it is, but i apparently refuse to explictly say it’s about, because reasons.) while i still believe this bit to be true to an extent - i do love delving into data, after all (well, SPECIFIC types of data, anyway) - a database isn’t going to cuddle with me at night, or tell me stories about blind dates gone awry that make me laugh, or even just fill me with warm and happy thoughts as i think about it, for no apparent reason, other than that thinking about it just makes me happy. ...i mean, i suppose it technically COULD do all those things, but you know what i mean. (also, the probability that i want to stick my dick into a machine is pretty much next to zero. AGAIN - NOT TRYING TO KINK-SHAME OR ANYTHING, but y’all niggas wildin’ over there, trying to marry VR wives and shit.) (guys, for real - real women aren’t scary and won’t bite. ...*SIGH* UNLESS YOU’RE INTO THAT SORT OF THING.)

[killingthebuddha]

It was the summer of 1990, when I was stuck in Albany because I needed two more courses to graduate. I found a sublet and I signed up for a history course on the Gilded Age, of which I remember nothing, and an English course, The Bible as Literature. The professor was rangy man with a gray beard. On the first day he explained that we would be examining Bible stories as texts like any other, which made my heart rate accelerate with intellectual excitement. The pear-shaped Christian woman who sat next to me had a different view. Whenever she made one of her frequent declarations of faith the instructor looked ready to chew his own arm off. Frankly I liked how she proclaimed her beliefs without embarrassment, and for being the only student in the class who had bothered to ask my name. That is, until she learned that I was Jewish, and she started handing me pamphlets about the upcoming Billy Graham revival meeting.

That summer I went to class, and I must have done the reading, because my transcript indicates that I earned a B in the Bible course and a C in history. (It is typical of my academic career that I earned a B in a course that I found deeply interesting.) I also had a part-time job on campus. I referred to myself as the chairman of the library, because my job was fixing the chairs.

In the evening I’d get high and play guitar. I’d taken a music theory course that had opened up some things for me and I was writing songs. They weren’t necessarily good songs, but there were a lot of them, maybe three or four a week. I was into Paul Simon that summer, especially Hearts and Bones and Graceland. My own songs sounded nothing like his, first because he was Paul Simon and I was some schmuck with a guitar in Albany, and second because I was simultaneously getting into rootsier stuff like the Band and Ry Cooder. I was chasing some combination of lyrical cleverness and rhythm. I wanted Paul Simon’s wit and Levon Helm’s feel. Let’s face it: I never got there. But I like myself for thinking about that stuff at twenty-one. I like myself for trying.

My roommate was my friend Jen. She was a bright, perky brunette who smoked menthol cigarettes and drove a stick shift, which I thought was hot. We had an uncomplicated friendship that was a relief from the tense, neurotic undercurrents flowing between me and my girlfriend, who, in all fairness, was a tall, green-eyed blonde who drove a pickup, which was also hot. But I felt pulled along against my will. Perhaps because I was pulled along against my will. My girlfriend and I had been on and off since high school, and I longed to get away—from her, from Albany, from my overbearing parents, who were, if not physically nearby, never far from my thoughts, judging me, finding me wanting.

When I was a young man, my self-hatred was like an undiagnosed illness: chronic inflammation of the shame organ. I could never understand what my girlfriend saw in me, but she was smart and pretty, so I kept limping back to her. I didn’t know that I was allowed to look for someone more suitable, that her ambition and looks did not, for me, outweigh her overdeveloped sense of injustice and her own crippling insecurities. That I would have been better off with someone like Jen, who by the way liked my songs, or at least pretended to like them, as opposed to my girlfriend, who was threatened by my playing, because it was a space I had created wherein she didn’t exist.

Not that I was any prize. I was always short of cash and I stank of cigarettes, and, as you will soon learn, I could be a dick.

One night Jen brought home a six-pack and we sat on the crappy carpet and I played her some songs. After a few beers the good kind of tension was so obvious that even a timid kid like me couldn’t deny it, and I kissed her. We went to bed and had drunken college sex. It was delicious. After she fell asleep, I lay awake considering that apparently I was the cheating type.

Unless I was supposed to, you know, be with Jen.

But in the morning Jen said that she valued our friendship and she felt really bad, and I said that I valued our friendship and I felt really bad (even though I felt fine), and although it seemed possible that Jen was waiting for me to say I’d rather be with her, and I liked that idea, I wasn’t equipped to ask for what I wanted.

Aside from my self-doubt, another irritant in the summer of 1990 was the Grateful Dead, which was unavoidable. Their fan base had exploded. Maybe the Deadhead subculture, with its meandering nostalgic drugginess, appealed to early Gen-Xers as an antidote to the constrictions of the 80s. Maybe it was more fun to wear a tie-dye than giant shoulder pads. Who knows. I was mostly neutral to their music. My upstairs neighbors, however, absolutely fucking loved the Dead—Ronnie, and Dan, both nice Jewish boys grooving out to “Sugar Magnolia” as they played Nintendo and passed the bong.

Actually Dan wasn’t such a nice boy. A short, swarthy kid, he was already a kind of low-level grifter. For example, one evening Ronnie came home to find that Dan had treated him to takeout Chinese. Ronnie was touched until a few weeks later he saw that the food had been paid for with his own credit card. Finally we got wise to him and started locking our doors. There wasn’t much else to do, as we’d seen the last of him: Dan had disappeared, of course without paying the rent.

One day when I came home from class there was a Fed Ex package waiting for me.

“Dan called,” Jen said. “He asked if we got a Fed Ex package for him in your name. I told him I hadn’t seen it.”

“Good thinking.”

I looked at the Fed Ex. It was the first one I had ever received and it carried with it an air of great mystery and import, as if inside were the manual to adulthood. Instead there were four tickets to a Dead show in Buffalo. I called my bank and sure enough the tickets had been charged to my credit card. Since I hadn’t ordered them, the bank erased the charges.

“What should I do with the tickets?” I asked the operator.

“You, could, you know, use them,” he said.

I invited Ronnie to go with me. We made the four-hour drive in his mother’s Oldsmobile. A big, voluble blond kid, Ronnie was good company. We shot the shit and smoked Camel Lights and listened to his Dead bootlegs until I begged him to put on something else. As usual, when you are young and on a driving trip, there was sense of expectation and freedom. Traffic was light and the sky was big over the New York State heartland.

But inwardly I was anxious. We’d planned to sell the extra tickets for food and gas, and I kept thinking about when my enterprising brother had almost been arrested for scalping Rangers tickets in front of Madison Square Garden. I imagined spending the night in some Western New York jail cell and, God help me, having to call my father for bail. There was no guarantee that he’d help. Freshman year I had taken the bus to Boston to visit a friend; I’d gotten lost, and in those days before cell phones I couldn’t get in touch with my buddy and I didn’t have a credit card. I called home collect and asked my dad for help.

“You’re not getting a fucking dime,” he yelled and hung up.

But the tickets sold easily. Just after we got off the highway, there was a scraggly young dude on the verge, an expression of grit on his bearded face as he held up two fingers, the universal gesture of a Deadhead in need of tickets. Ronnie pulled over, and the Deadhead slapped fifty bucks in my hand. As we hunted for parking at Rich Stadium, I was feeling better. I had cash and a full pack of smokes. I had my own credit card now for emergencies. Most importantly, I had weed.

Ronnie and I set a time to meet back at his car in case we got separated, which, because we immediately got very high, happened within minutes. I wandered the parking lot alone, looking at the Deadheads, wondering if their evident joy grew out of their shared values or if it were merely the drugs. Either way I remember wishing that I could be a part of it. I didn’t want to be a Deadhead. I did however want to submerge myself for a while, to find some relief from the relentless pulsing of the shame organ.

I ran into Jill, a slim, tall, sloe-eyed girl with straight shining brown hair. We had made out twice freshman year. The first time we had been interrupted by my dumbass roommate. The second time ended when she puked. Now she and her boyfriend were following the Dead around the Northeast, supporting themselves by selling homemade granola bars. I was so impressed by their initiative. They had a VW bus and everything. More importantly they had found a way to be in the world. I tucked that knowledge away for later usage—that it was indeed possible to create your own independence while doing something fun.

At some collectively acknowledged moment the deadheads moved together toward the stadium. I had a general admission ticket so I made my way to the open area before the stage. Crosby, Stills and Nash was the opening band and I was looking forward to seeing Steven Stills play guitar. It was a lovely day, and it wasn’t too crowded, and I found a spot maybe 100 feet from Stills, and CSN was singing “Southern Cross,” a song that I loved for its drippy earnestness and killer harmonies.

And yet a pilot light of anger had flicked on in my gut. I had forgotten how Graham Nash gets on my nerves. His leftover sixties things seemed like a pose. I should add that Ronnie and I had dropped acid in the parking lot. I have the impression that Dan the Grifter had given it to us, but that seems impossible. Nevertheless, I had put a tab on my tongue, and it was coming on pretty strong. I watched CSN, and after Graham Nash said something incredibly annoying as the band played the intro to Woodstock, something like, “show us you deserve to wear those tie-dyes and get into it,” the pilot light flared, and I did something that I would forever regret.

“You suck, Graham Nash,” I shouted. “Go back to England.”

“Dude,” said some guy.

I swear to God that I saw Graham Nash look at me, baffled, before returning his focus to the song.

“Graham Nash. You’re a stupid limey.”

A circle had formed around me, dozens of heads backing away from this white-hot center of hostility. I think that was what snapped me out of it, that I was surrounded by people gaping at a crazy person, and the crazy person was me. in the shame organ pulsated with mortification.

So I left. I shouldered my way through the crowds and returned to the parking lot, where a wizened hippy sat on a cooler, chanting, mantra-like, “Groovy, groovy soda. Get your orange soda.” He repeated this line with unflagging enthusiasm, even though it was only me and him and the cars.

I was thirsty.

I bought a soda.

“You look like Bob,” he said.

“Bob Weir?”

“That’s what I said man, Bob. You look just like him.”

“No I don’t.”

“Dude, it’s good. Girls love Bob. Hey,” he shouted, open-mouthed, revealing blackened stumps of teeth. “It’s Bob.”

“I’m not Bob,” I said, feeling close to tears. “I’m Gordon.”

“It’s Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaab,” he shouted.

I ran away from the dentally challenged hippie and kept going until I found a shaded picnic bench on a grassy strip between the parking lot and a chain-link fence. I took out a cigarette. To my surprise, I was also holding a Zippo. I had no idea how I had acquired it.

It was nearing dusk and the air was cooling. I hadn’t been aware of the heat but now I felt the sweat drying on my back. I remembered my orange soda; it was a little warm but the sugar made me more alert. I could hear the roar of the crowd as The Dead took the stage. (The Internet tells me that the first song of the show was an eight-minute “Hell in a Bucket,” which indeed sounds like hell.) I smoked and I played with my Zippo until I felt ready to be around other people.

But when I tried to get back into the stadium, the security guards wouldn’t let me. I tried another gate with the same result. I shuffled back to my picnic bench in defeat. Mostly I was disturbed by my outburst against Graham Nash, who probably never hurt anybody, except maybe Joni Mitchell. I mean, what the fuck? I had just heckled Graham Nash! Was it the acid? Did it have some speed or mescaline or (God forbid) PCP in it?

Anyway, I was calmer now. I could hear Jerry’s guitar chiming away in the mixolydian mode, as it had done for decades to an audience of Caucasians that never seemed to tire of it. And I had to admit that I wasn’t disappointed about missing the show. In fact, I was relieved. There was a kind of clarity in the aftermath of my acid trip that allowed me to assimilate that I wasn’t merely indifferent to the Dead. I actively disliked their music. They were excellent musicians, but it didn’t cohere into anything. It was a sonic mess. They didn’t leave room for one another. At any given moment, an instrumentalist chooses between playing and not playing. Jerry, Bob, Brent, Phil, the drummers whose names I forgot, they were always playing. Every beat of every song, they were playing. Whereas the musicians that I admired—Ry Cooder, Taj Mahal, Levon Helm—they all knew when not to play.

And by the way did anybody really think that Jerry was a good vocalist? Did anyone really believe that Bob was as soulful as he believed himself to be? Could anyone honestly state under oath that they actually enjoyed the tedious, apercussive wankfest of “Drums” and “Space?”

Okay, the Dead had some good songs.

But the Grateful Dead was not a good band.

There is always the temptation when writing about this kind of experience to force a neat little lesson out of the narrative. But that too would be dishonest. It would be years until I put it all together, until I finally understood that I was free to like Stephen Stills, just as I was free to dislike the Grateful Dead and Graham Nash. I was not, however, free to heckle Graham Nash. In other words, it didn’t matter what I liked or disliked, so long as I wasn’t a dick about it.

It took me even longer to grasp that I was allowed to go after what I wanted.

It was fully night now and the lights above the parking lot were painfully bright. The Deadheads flowed through the gates, mobile clumps of hair and swirling tie-dye bearing the scent of sweat and patchouli. The acid had just about run its course; all that was left were wisps or tendrils of color in my peripheral vision. It was time to go home. Or at least back to Albany. Now if I could just remember where Ronnie had parked his mother’s car.

#IFTTT #WordPress