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murderousginger · 3 years

Text

Cherry Red

Cops & Robbers epilogue???

Warnings: They’re criminals, guys, they do bad things.

Word Count: 2,982

Song inspiration here

Warm rough fingertips danced along your bare back, stopping to trace along the horse tattooed upon your shoulder. The cool rings made you grip your champagne flute tighter as the hand -- which most certainly was not your husband's -- dipped from your shoulders down your exposed back to the indent above your waist.

"Backless dresses suit you much better than men's clothing, pet," his breath tickled your ear as he rounded you, his red beard unruly compared to his sharp black suit. "You lied to me those years ago. You are a Shelby."

"You ever hit me again, Mr. Solomons, and I'll gut you in front of God and Polly," you smiled as you tipped your glass to him, your wedding ring gleaming against the flute. "Keep that in mind tonight."

"I don't remember you being so brave those years ago," he squinted, looking over your dress. As his gaze followed the line of your body you cocked your hip, showing your leg through a slit in the gown. His eyes widened before snapping back to your face. "Pretty creature gained courage with a ring on her finger."

His hand lingered on your waist as his fingers played with the edge of your cherry red dress. You lifted your eyebrow at him but refused to move out of his grasp.

"You looked me in the eye far more when I was dressed as a man," you countered before finishing your glass in a gulp. "Perhaps my witchcraft only works on you when you're reminded of my body. You forget what you told me?"

"Which part, love?" He smirked as his free hand smoothed his beard.

You leaned forward and pressed your hand on his chest as you whispered into his ear.

"Funniest thing about pretty creatures, pet," you drawled, mimicking his accent. "The most colorful are usually the likeliest to kill you dead without warnin'."

You pulled back and looked around the room with bored eyes. You could see Arthur shooting glances your way as he conversed with a man, and John and Esme were at a table across the crowded ballroom. Esme wrangled their youngest and John's glare fixed on Alfie's arm. His fist was tight on the table as Esme drew his attention back to his family. Finn and Isaiah were both talking in a corner with the help, darting glances your way from time to time.

You raised your glass to a maid and nodded for her to bring her tray over. She smiled nervously and hastily cut through the crowd.

"Mrs. Shelby," she said, eyeing Alfie standing so close with his hand on your waist before her eyes snapped to yours.

"I'm bored of champagne," you monotoned. "Get me a whiskey, please, Dolly. Mr. Solomons? Would you rather rum? Gin?"

His eyes flashed and you felt his fingers flex on your side.

"Don't drink the stuff, meself," he said. "I suppose, when in hell, I'll have a whiskey."

"How courteous to fall to our level," you teased as the maid tittered away to fulfill your request.

"I've seen no white knight come to your rescue yet, pet," his cold rings pressed against your bare spine. "Why do I feel glares but no one has dared interrupt us? Where is my good friend Mr. Shelby?"

"I've no need for a good man, let alone a knight, Alfie," you smiled and raised your glass to the ballroom. "This is my dear husband's fundraiser. He's around somewhere talking old men out of their money and into his favor."

"Ay, Birmingham and London wasn't enough, he had to join parliament," he chuckled. "And his wife's scandalous attitude has gained more than one headline in the papers."

Alfie's hand raised to graze along your tattooed shoulder.

"You show you are marked so openly," he murmured. "Like a badge rather than an abomination."

"God never visited Small Heath," you laughed. "No need to gain favor of an absent father."

"Blasphemous with a smile," Alfie shook his head and pressed his lips into a tight line. "Perhaps you should be in men's clothes with the balls on you."

"Says the man with his hands on another's wife at a very public gala," you smiled curtly and squinted at him, as if assessing him and finding him wanting.

"How will the papers headline it?" Alfie said, leaning closer as if to tell a secret. "Another man touching the good politician Shelby's wild wife. Her bare back at that. Scandalous, innit love?"

You laughed loudly and threw your head back, running your fingers along the seam of his suspender inside his jacket. You felt him freeze under your touch as you pressed against him, taking in the spice of his cologne as heads turned to follow your laugh to its source.

"Aren't you a prominent beacon in the Jewish community, Mr. Solomons?" You pushed the words into his ear, velvet draping over him as your grin grew Cheshire-like. "I'm not the only one that can suffer a scandal, and I can promise a pious man will make more headlines than a Shelby."

The maid returned with a stiff 'ma'am' as she handed the whiskey glasses to you both. You murmured your thanks, sipped your drink as you deftly took a step away and turned to face your adversary.

You looked over his shoulder to see you had Polly's full attention, her scowl cutting you as your glance stuttered on her. She nodded once slowly as she glared daggers one more moment before returning to her conversation. The signal was loud and clear: behave.

Your eyes searched the ballroom again, finding John's jaw set as he held a toddler, his eyes squinting at yours in question. You winked at him, a smile curling on your lips that you tried to hide by the rim of the whiskey glass. He was not amused.

"Getting all your orders signed to you, love?" He chuckled. "Did you get in trouble with your family? Not as free as you'd like to think."

Alfie smiled wide, a wolf who realized he found a soft spot, and took a large gulp of his drink. He grimaced, clearing his throat as he frowned at the glass.

"I'll forgive you this once," you said, your attention returning to him. "So it won't interfere with our business."

"Business?" Alfie frowned. "You would never interfere with my business with Tommy."

"No, Alfie," your eyes hardened as Alfie's expression blanked. "I do mean our business."

"Alfie, old friend," a warm voice called from behind you as a familiar hand rested on your back. "I hope you didn't start business without me. Some of my guests require more attention and it becomes difficult to get away. I see you found (Y/N) to entertain you."

Alfie watched as Tommy came up beside you, all ease and familiarity as if it was instinct. His suit was crisp, every corner of his appearance perfect and every bit a politician, down to the fake turn of his lips. His fingers played with the fabric against the small of your back and goosebumps covered your skin as he talked with the increasingly agitated man in front of you.

"What do you mean she's in charge of your shipping business?" Alfie's voice had clipped, his games falling aside as his shock got the better of him.

"Exactly what he said," you smiled. "If you would like a piece of our shipping gin -- and possibly your rum -- to the Americas, you'll need to speak to me."

"Ah," Alfie said, tongue circling an eye tooth as he reassessed you in Tommy's arms. "So the soldier had become a general herself."

"More like a queen," Tommy said, leaning down to kiss your cheek as he pulled you into his side.

"Wouldn't the charity be better business for a woman to run?" Alfie frowned, squinting between you both.

"Lizzie is running the charity," you supplied, your fingers running along Tommy's arm that stretched along your middle. "We're a modern company, Mr. Solomons. Multiple women can run multiple pieces."

"I was hoping to introduce you two, make the transition smoother," Tommy said as his jaw ticked. "But you seem to have shot straight for (Y/N) before I could."

"We've met, we did," Alfie said as he twisted his beard in his hand. "Had a nice little discussion all those years ago, didn't we pet? Thought it only proper to give her a hello while you were busy."

Tommy's face was blank, his eyes half lidded as if bored. If anyone could shut Alfie Solomons' erratic energy down, it was Tommy Shelby and his nature of being completely still. Looking between the men was like looking between fire and ice. Both were dangerous, conniving, and ambitious to a fault.

Alfie was loud, erratic, constantly flipping moods, expressions, energies, to keep everyone around him on their toes. You never knew when he would strike because he constantly tapped on walls for weaknesses. By the time he had done what he wished, no one flinched because it was old hat. You couldn't tell whick way was up or down by the time Alfie was done with you.

Tommy, on the other hand, preferred to be still, watchful, quiet. People often would see his blank face and -- unable to read an expression -- take whatever he said as truth. He would hold himself still until everyone forgot he was there and when he would strike there would be nothing but astonishment and dust in his wake. He was a ghost.

Tommy licked his lips, letting the air thicken between them before he unwrapped himself from your waist and took your hand. You placed your drink on a nearby table. His eyes instantly warmed as they left Alfie to look you up and down.

"Do you like this dress, Alfie?" Tommy asked as he twirled you slowly in front of the man, letting the long red fabric frame you. "I picked it out myself. I believe it's from Paris, right love?"

Alfie grunted, looking between you and Tommy with suspicion.

"It is," you said evenly, allowing him to spin you in front of the man like he was showing off a jewel in the light.

"Your taste has always been rich, Tom," Alfie squinted. "No doubt about that."

"It's made from a very fine silk, I believe," Tommy went on, ignoring the comment, his eyes dancing between your figure and Alfie's confused face.

"The thing about it is the cut," he went on, leaning toward Alfie as if conspiring. "My beautiful wife can't wear undergarments with it. Low back, that slit up the side, how the dress flows over her more like water than fabric. Very unfortunate, don't you think?"

Alfie's eyes widened as he eyed your body even closer. He reddened slightly as he finally made his way to your face to see your eyebrow cocked at him daringly, the smallest curl of your lips a mix of a snarl and a smile.

"Very unfortunate, indeed," Alfie mumbled. "Why are you telling me this, Tom?"

"Oh no reason at all," Tommy tilted his head and winked as he pulled you closer to him, his hand dropping yours to rest splayed on your hip.

"You're going to dance with my wife, Alfie, while I grab a smoke," Tommy said, the edge to his voice sharper than his locked jaw. "And you'll figure out the conditions for our joint alcohol smuggling effort during that dance."

Tommy's blue eyes burrowed into Alfie as he waited for an answer. Alfie nodded slowly and extended his hand toward you, a grimace on his face as you dipped your head and accepted his hand. His hand extended yours out as his other rested on your waist, flitting over your skin rather than holding. He was nervous like a clumsy child that was told to set the table with fine china tonight.

"Oh, and Alfie," Tommy called before Alfie could pull you too far away. You both looked back at him, but only you had a sparkle of mischief in your eye.

"She might cut you if your hands wander," Tommy said, his eyebrows raised as his chin and voice sank. "I'll shoot you in the fuckin' face."

You exhaled a sharp laugh as Alfie's hand on your waist all but hovered above you, his face white as a sheet as he pulled you away from your husband. Tommy gave a nod and moved within the crowd, finding a place next to Polly for a moment. You looked around the room for a moment before reading your eyes back to the uncomfortable man in front of you.

"I will, you know," you smiled as his mouth quirked. "Cut you."

"With what blade in that dress?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," you said.

Alfie grunted and looked over your shoulder, no doubt looking for the positions of the Shelbys.

"Stop being grumpy, it's lame," you laughed as you rubbed his shoulder. "We have business to agree upon."

"Easy for you to say, pet," he mumbled. "Didn't realize I would be holding a bomb to me chest tonight over business."

"Isn't that the only way to do business?" You frowned. "I even wore red to alert you. I thought you knew better."

"Fuckin' should've," he breathed. "Alright, now, let's get to it then."

----

As the song ended, you and Alfie had agreed on a preliminary run of a limited amount of his rum going in your next shipment to America. If the numbers and shipment went well, you would ramp up within a fortnight.

"May I have this dance?" Tommy appeared, his hand outstretched and pushing the two of you away from each other.

"I believe we have amenable terms for now," Alfie bowed his head as he kissed your hand, in much better spirits than when the dance began. "I will leave my favorite cutthroats to go forth and ruin someone else's night with their fuckery. I do believe I need to return home and wash the sin from my clothes before it stains."

"Goodnight, Alfie," you said warmly as he easily transferred you to Tommy's side. "Safe travels home."

"Goodnight," Tommy said, all edge of his voice gone as his attention was only on you, his mouth dipped to kiss your shoulder.

Alfie looked between you two and exhaled a soft laugh before he turned away, shaking his head.

"Are we going to dance before you leave me to Polly to be yelled at, or was that just a way to cut short my time with your ally?" You murmured as his hand tickled your back.

"I can dance," he said as he kissed your neck and swept you into his arms.

You giggled as his hot breath tickled your ear and he pulled you across the hall.

"So Polly is unhappy with me," you laughed as you pulled back to look him in the eye.

Tommy sighed.

"You threatened to make a scene, love," he said as his eyes softened. "With Alfie of all people."

"I think she's more upset about the half a glass of whiskey I had than dealing with Alfie," you said, earning a confused look from Tommy. "Alfie was only trying to make me uncomfortable."

"You didn't flinch a bit," Tommy toned.

"Oh! You're jealous," you gasped. "Did Alfie Solomons upset my dear husband, king Tommy?"

"No one's to touch my wife but me," he said, roughly tugging you to the other side of a pillar as he pressed you against it in the shadow.

He lifted your chin with his finger as his knee pressed between your legs and his other hand found its way into the slit of your dress and squeezed your ass.

"Will you take me right here, Mr. Politician," you taunted, grinding a little against his knee as his eyes caught flame. "Need to prove your claim that boldly? Not enough to dangle me in front of your colleagues?"

"You're bored of the parties," he said as his head tilted and his hand wrapped around your throat, holding you against the pillar. "You aren't made for the pleasantries of the light."

"I'd much rather us in the dark," you tipped your chin up, your hands roaming up his chest and neck to pull him close.

"I hear you," he panted as your foreheads touched. You teased, your breath on his lips as you kept just out of reach. "But tonight is about what's best for this family."

"I agree," you smirked. "Our little one deserves a good life."

Tommy's mouth slacked and his hand dropped from your throat as you chuckled.

"S'why Polly's upset," you whispered into his open mouth. "The whiskey. She called it last week. John was in the kitchen. Why do you think your little brother had grown so protective over me again?"

You smiled, taunting as he stood frozen.

"Did you fear he was trying to claim me again?" Your hand traced his jaw before you closed his mouth. "I'm yours, Tommy Shelby, just like this child is."

"Well, Mrs. Shelby," his voice was hoarse as he pushed the words out, shoveling them like gravel. He cleared his throat as he licked his lips. "Perhaps we should retire for the night."

"And leave your fundraiser?" You asked, your brows raised.

It was not like him not to be the last one in the ballroom, talking to every last person as if to stuff his pockets with every cent and favor he could. You bit your lip as you watched the gears turn behind his soft eyes. He had completely melted against you.

"My poor pregnant wife must be exhausted from the stress of the night," he said evenly, his hand tickling your thigh. "And what sort of man would I be if not to take care of her?"

"What sort, indeed," you smiled as you kissed him softly.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #tommy shelby x reader #storytime with murderousginger #promptmurderousginger

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440mxs-wife · 3 years

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The Hunter’s Princess- Chapter 2: The Princes’ Challenge

Pairing: Dean x OFC Kira (eventual), Prince!Dean x OFC Lady Kira. Other Characters: Sam Winchester, Prince!Sam Winchester, Castiel, Rowena, Gabriel, King!John, Queen!Mary, Lucifer and assorted minor characters.

Chapter 2 Word Count: 2550+

Warnings: Kira’s self-doubt, Dean angst, mostly fluff though. Each chapter will have individual warnings as needed.

A/N: This is from some material that’s been rattling around in my head from another project that changed direction. Couldn’t let all this content go to waste, though, so here it is. It’s a work-in-progress, and I will try and update as regularly as I can. If you want to be tagged in this series, send me a message!

Thank you and happy reading!

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Castiel bowed and left the room, knowing his friends, Prince Dean and Prince Samuel would explain everything to him later. "As we have gotten older, we have decided it's time for one of you to take over as king. However, you will also need a queen to rule by your side," Queen Mary remarked.

"So, to choose your queen, we suggest a tournament of sorts. Something to help you find the woman most likely to fulfill her duties as your queen. There will be challenges to demonstrate each candidate's strengths in archery and the equestrian arts. Your mother and I will also conduct an interview with each woman," King John explained.

"Each province will send their best competitor. At the end, there will be a ball, where you will each announce your final choices. If you do not find a suitable wife by that time, we will choose for you. This is an important decision, one you will have to live with your entire life, so please choose wisely," Queen Mary warned. "For now, I suggest we ALL get some sleep, so we can do some planning in the morning," she advised.

Each of the princes came over to kiss their mother's cheek and say goodnight. Then they went to their separate rooms, changed into sleeping attire and went to sleep. Castiel would have to wait until morning for his explanation of the conversation between the princes and their parents.

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The next morning, a proclamation was issued. A search was being held to determine who would be the next queen after marrying either Prince Dean or Prince Samuel. A tournament would take place, featuring events in archery and the equestrian arts. An interview with the current king and queen was also part of the competition. On the final evening, a ball would be held to announce the winner.

Word of the tournament spread quickly throughout the land. When it reached Kira's ears, she began to wonder how it fit in with the reason she was sent here. She got ready for the day and checked across the hall to see if Rowena was awake yet. Her door was open, but she was not inside, so Kira went downstairs for breakfast.

"Good morning, everyone," she announced. Alfred and Rowena were discussing the matter and looked up to greet Kira in return. Stefan offered his good morning wishes when he brought the coffee and tea pots to the table for refills. He also placed a tray of his decadent cinnamon rolls on the table, making her mouth water. Business first, though, she thought.

"I assume you've all heard of the Princes' Challenge?" Kira asked.

"We were just discussing the matter, Lady Kira. Lady Rowena has mentioned that you stand an excellent chance of winning and becoming the next queen. I happen to agree with her assessment," Alfred stated, nodding in solidarity with Rowena.

"You definitely meet all the criteria, dearie," Rowena affirmed.

"So what are the criteria for this 'Challenge'?" Kira asked.

Rowena listed the following requirements to compete in the Princes' Challenge.

One: The candidate must be of noble birth.

Two: Only one candidate may be chosen from each province.

Three: Events will include Archery and the Equestrian Arts. These events will be followed by a private interview with King John and Queen Mary. On the last night, a ball will be held, where a decision will be announced.

The Princes' Challenge will begin in two weeks. Candidates must report to Winchester Castle upon arrival.

"You really think I can pull this off? I mean, I have the athletic stuff covered, no problem, but a private interview with the king and queen? 'Soft-spoken' and 'demure' are not exactly in my vocabulary, you know. If I'm going to screw up anywhere, it'll be there. That and....I can't dance," Kira replied, mumbling the last part about dancing.

"Och, not to worry, Kira, I'm working on a solution to get you some help in those areas. Even the dancing part, dearie," Rowena smirked. Kira stuck out her tongue at her in response.

"See? I'm acting like a child. I'll just mess everything up, so I might as well not even go! Besides, who will run the pub, make sure the townspeople are taken care of?" Kira added.

"Lady Kira," Alfred began. "I have worked for this family since before you were born. Well, the you that was born in this dimension," he smiled wryly.

"Wait a minute, Alfred. You've known all this time?" she asked.

"As I said, I've worked for this family for a very long time. I know you are not the Lady Kira native to this dimension. You are very much alike, don't get me wrong, but there are some subtle differences. But I also know that you are our best hope of restoring each Lady Kira to her rightful dimension. I believe the only way you can do that is to compete in and win the Princes' Challenge," Alfred finished.

"Beggin' your pardon, Lady Kira, but Alfred and I can look after the townsfolk in your absence," chimed in Coraline. "And you know Ella can run that pub of yours inside and out, backwards and forwards. Besides, you may find true love when you least expect it!" she exclaimed.

"All right, all right, I'll go! Rowena, I'll need you with me. No telling when I'll need the services of a witch, especially since it was magic that sent me here," Kira muttered.

After a breakfast of coffee and one of Stefan's cinnamon rolls, Kira and Rowena went upstairs to pack. Kira made sure to bring practical outfits, due to the nature of the competition. She also took her best gown for the ball on the final night. It was made of a dusty rose-colored satin, off the shoulder, corseted bodice and a long flowing skirt with tulle overlay. Kira threw in a few pairs of leggings, her boots and some tunics for the competition days. She included some "day dresses" for wearing when not in competition.

When Kira walked downstairs, Rowena was ready to go and Kira bid farewell to her house staff. The carriage was packed with their luggage, and as they pulled away, Kira waved goodbye to everyone. She knew she was leaving her tiny estate in capable hands. The staff was more than that, though, they were family. Kira knew they would do everything possible to take care of their home.

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The princes met up with Castiel so that they could fill him in on what's going on. He seemed a bit skeptical that their parents' plan would work to decide the next queen.

"You have to find your true love through this competition, and decide before the ball? I don't know, my friends," Cas remarked.

"I'm not so sure either, Cas. But what choice do we have? If we don't choose, they'll choose for us. Besides, they still have the chance to interview the candidates, so that should alert us to potential red flags, right? Dean?" Prince Samuel replied.

Prince Dean was lost in thought when his brother's voice jolted him back to reality. "Hmm? What? Absolutely, brother, whatever you say," he stammered.

"Dude, where is your mind? You've been like this ever since we left that pub. Now, what's going on?" Prince Samuel demanded.

"Sorry, I can't help thinking about that woman, Kira. I wish we could meet up with her again. She was....different. But in a good way," Prince Dean hastily added. "I asked around about her. Collins said she inherited her land from her father, since there were no male heirs and she had no husband.

"When he died, he left her with a mountain of debt, so she's had to sell off pieces of her land to keep things afloat. Even so, she struggles with making ends meet, but she makes sure to take care of the townfolk, like her family. He said everyone adores her, and they're fiercely loyal to her," he finished.

"Sounds like someone's a little smitten," Castiel snickered.

"So what if I am? From what I've seen, she's kind, caring, has a great sense of humor. And as loyal as the townfolk are to her, she's just as protective of them. Remember how I teased her about being 'Lady Kira'? She quietly let me know how things work around there and how she doesn't do it for the recognition. She does it because she cares," Prince Dean retorted.

Prince Samuel held up his hands in surrender. "She sounds great, almost too good to be true. But, I hope she does show up, so that I can get to know her a little better as well. I wasn't too focused on that the first time we met."

Prince Dean hadn't thought of that. Since she does hold a title, she's eligible for his parents' little "tournament". That would give him the chance to find out even more about her. He really didn't like to admit when his brother is right, but in this case he is: Prince Dean is a little smitten with Lady Kira.

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"Rowena? Are you sure I should be doing this? I mean, it seems like there's so much more I could or should be doing at home. I'm not 'queen material', and probably never will be, because I know myself too well. I'm not the uptight, 'genuflect when you say that' type. The kingdom is much larger than our little space in the world, so much more to have control of. It'll take a bit of a strong hand to keep order, and I don't know if I can do that," Kira finished.

"Och, darlin', don't you worry about that. Just be yourself, and they will love you. Besides, I think a member of the royal family is already a bit smitten with ye," she added mysteriously.

"What are you talking about?" Kira demanded.

"I was talking to Alfred before you came down for breakfast, and I happened to tell him about last night in the pub. He said that the two men that came in late for drinks were none other than Prince Dean and Prince Samuel!" she announced.

Kira gasped in complete surprise. "No.....I'm completely doomed! I was such an idiot last night! Prince Dean called me by my title, and I got a little upset with him. I explained how things work in our neck of the woods and kind of slammed his beer down on the bar. I should go back. Driver? Please take me home," she commanded.

"Driver, you'll do no such thing, keep on course," Rowena declared. To Kira she said, "He is under strict orders to deliver you to Winchester Castle, even if you give him a direct order to do otherwise."

Kira crossed her arms over her chest and slouched in her seat, pouting in her corner of the carriage. She knew Rowena was right to keep on their course to Winchester Castle. She still had her doubts, though, about whether she was fit to be queen. Rowena must have sensed that, because she came over to sit beside Kira. "Don't worry, dearie. I've arranged for some assistance--" she broke off, and as there was a whooshing of wings, Gabriel appeared where Rowena had been sitting.

Kira sat up straighter in utter surprise. "Gabriel?? How did you know where I was?" she asked incredulously.

"Uh hello? Archangel?" he said sarcastically. "I can go anywhere I want, and Sweetcheeks, I'm particularly tuned to where you are. Besides, Thing One and Thing Two explained to me what happened. I suppose I'll be nice and let them know you're all right, but that you have work to do in this dimension."

Tears sprang to Kira's eyes as she thought about how worried her Sam and especially her Dean were about her disappearance. She wiped the tears away and looked at Gabriel. "Will you please do me a favor, Gabe? Will you please tell Sam and Dean that I love them, that I'm sorry to be away from them but that I'll be home as soon as I can?"

Kira knew Sam and Dean weren't Gabe's favorite humans, and the feeling was kind of mutual. But, she thought if he saw how upset she was, that he'd do as she asked. Gabriel rolled his eyes and said, "Fine, I'll tell them. You're lucky I love ya, kid. But I'm not kissing either one of them for you, no matter how many tears you cry," he declared.

Kira smiled through her tears and reached for his outstretched hand. "Thank you," she whispered. She turned her attention back to the rolling hills and trees that dotted the landscape. It had been awhile since Kira got to sit back and relax. Soon her eyelids became heavy and kept drifting closed. Before she knew it, she was snoozing away in her corner of the carriage, dreaming of a certain green-eyed prince that she was hoping to see again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Back at the bunker, Sam had pulled some lore books to try and figure out how to return Kira to their dimension. On the other hand, Dean paced the floor, running over every detail of what had occurred in Room #17.

Rowena said that Kira's locket was a powerful charmed object that had been passed from mother to daughter for generations. With it, the wearer could move between worlds, which could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. Dean only hoped that Kira would be found quickly and returned home before too much time had passed. Rowena was a powerful witch, but Dean didn't know if even she had enough juice to bring them both back.

As he paced the floor in the library, he heard the flapping of wings. At first, he thought it was Castiel, but before him stood none other than Gabriel. "Give me one good reason why you're here," Dean growled.

The archangel rolled his eyes. "Dude, I bring you news of your girlfriend, and this is the greeting I get?" Gabriel retorted.

"She's not my girlfriend," Dean shot back. Not yet anyway, he thought.

"Uh-huh, yeah. Right. Keep tellin' yourself that, bucko. Anyway, I'm supposed to tell you and Samsquatch that Kira loves you and she's sorry to be away from you. Also that she'll be home as soon as she can," Gabe finished.

"If you've seen her, where she is in that other world, then you can bring her back, right?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Um, no. It has to do with that locket around her neck that's blocking me from doing that. Relax, Dean-o, she's in good hands. I'm on her wavelength, so if anything goes wrong, I'll be there for her," Gabriel assured Dean.

"How the hell can I relax, when the woman I love is stuck in another dimension? Plus, no one has any real plan of how to bring her home!!" Dean roared.

"Well, at least you finally admitted your feelings for her. I'll see what I can do. Meantime, you two flannel-jockeys keep researching," Gabe snarled as he zapped out of the bunker.

Sam came over and laid his hand on Dean's shoulder. "He's right, Dean. We'll get Kira back. Then you can tell her how you feel," Sam remarked.

"I hope so, Sammy. I sure hope so," Dean replied softly.

Part 3 here!

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overheardatthecontinental · 3 years

Link

John Wick had a problem.

Helen would tell him he had many problems.

But for now, he was concentrating on one. What had started as weekly tradition of breaking into his therapist’s home had quickly increased to every day he was in New York. Then he was making excuses to run into the city so that he could watch her sleep. And now… it had been more than a week since John spent a night in his own bed.

In the early hours of the morning, John would either make his way to the Continental or home, where he would shower and sleep, confident in the knowledge that Helen was at her office. He would work, or find something to occupy his waking hours, until the clock struck eleven. And then he would, inevitably, find his way back to her.

His obsession with his therapist was getting out of hand.

But he couldn’t resist. He craved the very sight of her. It was like his body hummed with frustration and anxiety whenever she was out of his sight, only to be eased by the image of her in bed, the smell of her lotion, the soft sighs that escaped her as she shifted in her sleep.

It was a problem.

But he couldn’t bear to stop.

And unlike his other problems, he couldn’t just talk to Helen. The idea was laughable.

He can picture it now, as he sits in the parking lot outside her office:

“What would you like to talk about today, John?”

“Well, I can no longer go twenty-four hours without being in your presence, except, we only meet once a week, so the other six days, I break into your house and watch you sleep.”

Yeah. That’s not happening.

He stares at the clock on the dashboard, watching the minutes slowly dance by until he can see her. At 3:50, he watches her previous client leave the building and the remaining five minutes creep by. By 3:54, he’s had enough. He turns off his idling car and heads into the building, no longer caring about how it looks to arrive so early to a session.

Her door is open, as usual, and she is standing over her desk, leaning over so she can type on her laptop. Her seldom-seen glasses are perched on her nose as she does, and John has to stop the barrage of thoughts that come from seeing her in such a position.

Her sweater dress could so easily be pushed up her thighs and…

No. Entertaining these thoughts is doing nothing to help him and every day, he feels himself slip more and more into his obsession.

“Come in, John.” She says, only then glancing up from the screen. “How was your day?”

“Alright.” He says, and Helen closes the laptop and takes off her glasses. A pity, he thinks. She really is so pretty in those glasses.

She grabs a Keurig pod from the basket over her desk before checking, “Planning for a late night?”

Always, now, he thinks. John nods and Helen slips it into the coffee maker and quickly turns it on.

“Oh! Before we start, can I ask a favor? I need to use your body.” He nearly chokes at her phrasing but immediately relaxes as she points to the air conditioner in her window. “I tried to take it out earlier and I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

John glances at her outfit. “In heels?”

She sends him a half-hearted glare. “Honestly, I didn’t even think about it before I came in today. But I heard on the radio that we’re supposed to get a frost this weekend. Usually I’d ask Mike, the building super, but he’s not answering his phone.”

“No problem.” John says, slipping out of his suit jacket and laying it on the chair. “Where does it go?”

“The floor is fine; I just want it out.”

He gives her a look and repeats himself, something he would never do for anyone else in the world, “Where does it go?”

Helen rolls her eyes good-naturedly, “There’s a storage closet down the hall.”

It’s already unplugged so John tucks away the wire and lifts the window off the machine. “Hold the door.” John tells her as he tugs the unit free of the window. It occurs to him how easily an air conditioner, if properly timed, could be used to make a murder look like an accident. A push at the right moment and a crushing death for whoever awaited below…

He follows Helen into the hall and down to where the closet. She quickly unlocks the door and points to the metal shelves where it goes.

He sets it down gently on the shelf, “Good to go.” He says, straightening his vest.

“You’re the best.” Helen tells him.

“Next time,” John says, “Just call me. I’m usually in New York. No near-death experiences with air conditioners. It might be… difficult” impossible “to find a new therapist.”

Helen smacks him on the arm as they walk back to the office, “You’re ridiculous.”

He inclines his head as they slip back in. Helen finds a cover for the coffee, which has finished brewing, and hands it off to John.

“What have you been up to this week?”

Killing, stalking, and watching you sleep.

“Nothing new.” He answers, taking a sip of the coffee as he finds his seat.

“Did you have many cases this week?”

I took extra so that I would be in New York, just so I had an excuse to check on you.

“A few. Nothing too extreme.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask for your definition of extreme.”

His lips twitch.

“Have you given much thought to what we discussed last week?”

“Which part?”

“Your identity. The age-old question that we all must ask of ourselves: who am I?”

Of course, he has. He is now fluent in Erikson’s model, killing the daylight hours with reading things she referenced. Taking delight in the fact that, after his mention of Godwin, he had found the anarchist’s texts on her bedside table.

A silent exchange.

Neither of them will address it but he knows that it has happened. That she cares, in whatever way she does. And he loves her for it.

“A bit.”

“And what did you think about?”

John sinks back into his chair, “My house.”

Helen inclines her head, “Oh?”

“It’s, uh… it’s a nice house, a nice property but it’s just a house.”

“It’s not a home?” She asks, trying to clarify his meaning.

And John nods. “If you were to walk through it,” ah, what a thought, “you probably wouldn’t be able to tell it was mine. I still have the furnishings and the art that came with it. And I don’t have a lot of… stuff. Aside from my clothes, and my books, there’s nothing really there that’s mine.”

“Possessions don’t always reflect personality.”

He thinks about her home. The throw cushion on her couch that says choose happy and the fleece blanket she wraps up in while watching television that’s covered in daisies. The potted plants that advertise the presence of a nurturer, the pictures taken with her friends. There is framed artwork on her walls that seem to highlight her softness.

He thinks of Aurelio’s place, littered with spare car parts. John had once gone to sit on Aurelio’s couch only to land on a steering wheel. There were pictures of his family. A neon sign that Aurelio claimed to have stolen from a pub in Queens. Old magazines on his kitchen table, beer bottles piled next to an overflowing recycling.

Even Winston, who John regarded as a fairly private person, displayed a collection of old chess sets. He proudly put a collection of knives under a glass that he claimed belonged to the third Elder. While there were no pictures of friends or family, he had a taste of the extremes. Large leather couches and glass tables. A collection of top-shelf liquors sat next to an antique globe.

“That’s true,” He says, “But I see other people’s homes and spaces, and they almost seem to belong to them. And mine is as empty as a hotel room.” John pauses in thought, “I’m well aware that my personality is… bland but—”

Helen cuts him off, “Bland?” She repeats, amusement etched onto her pretty face.

John shrugs, “I was recently compared to a block of wood.”

“By who?” Now, there is disbelief in her voice.

“Santino. One of my,” he cannot think of a better word, “colleagues.”

She rolls her eyes, “Well, I expect that you tend to close off around your,” she uses quotations, “’colleagues’.”

John opens a hand in well, what are you gonna do kind of way. “It’s hard to trust trained killers. The less they know about me, the better off I am.”

“We’re going to circle around to that.” Helen tells him, “But I do want to try to understand your thoughts surrounding your home.”

He isn’t quite sure what to say, “I don’t know. I suppose I have a tendency towards utilitarianism.”

Helen is nodding, thoughtfully. “Yet, you’re far past the time in your life when you weren’t able to afford the things you want. Which makes me think that it’s a choice you’ve made, to leave your own space barren.”

“I’ve considered as much.”

“And?”

John shrugs, “I’ve come to several conclusions but no real answers.”

“Tell me.”

“The first, is the most obvious. I grew up without having anything that was mine. I shared blankets, when we had them. Food. Clothing. I learned to live without superfluous things.”

She considers that, “A possibility, and certainly a contributor, but many people who grew up in poverty who, for lack of a better term, rise above their circumstances do the opposite. They buy everything they were never able to have as children.”

“If there’s something that I want, I’d get it. There’s just nothing that I want.” Except for what I can’t have, he thinks.

“When was the last time you bought yourself a little luxury? Nothing related to clothes or food or hygiene. Nothing for work. Just something for you?”

He bought himself several books on and by Erikson, the psychologist she had referenced the week before, but he doesn’t want to tell her that. And, now that he thinks of it, his last several purchases were books she had either mentioned, or he had seen on her bedside table and picked up for himself. Just in case it ever came up in conversation.

“Just books.” He tells her. “A few months ago, I bought a new coffee machine. Does that count?”

She smirks, “I would consider coffee a necessity.”

He grins back, “I’m sure you would.”

“So, nihilism aside…” John snorts at that assessment, but Helen continues, “You said you had other theories?”

John nods, “I also have to consider my Romani heritage. Even the orphanage moved around a lot. Nothing was permanent, until I got to New York. And then, I ran away. And then I was in the military, where we weren’t exactly able to bring things with us. Maybe I just can’t put stock into the idea of permanence.”

Helen seems to sigh, quietly. Empathy burns in her eyes and John can feel it, in turn, burning into him. He’s not quite sure how to deal with it.

Helen offers him a smile and it’s weighted in emotion as she teases, “Keep making connections like that and I’ll start to think you don’t need me anymore.”

“I’ll always need you.” It slips from him before he has a moment to think better of it.

A moment passes, his words lingering in the air and John hopes against hope that she can’t see just how enamored with her he is.

He desperately tries to think of something to say to fill the silence, to take back his words without taking away the meaning behind them.

“Good.” Helen says softly and, just like that, it’s over. “Now, going off of that idea of permanence, I wonder how much of it is habit, like you were saying, and how much of it might be a reflection of the loss you’ve gone through?”

“My experiences have conditioned me for loss?” He interprets.

And Helen shrugs, “Haven’t they?”

John thinks back. The Romani had kept him alive as a child, but they had shipped him off without so much as a goodbye. And while New York had been an improvement, there was still nothing that was his save a stolen Bible. He had left it behind when he ran away to Mexico.

In Mexico, he had shelter. He was a child, but he still had his own tiny place carved out in the world. His own blanket, his own clothes. A worn copy of 1984 that he had stolen from a passenger on the train. It had all been burnt when his village had been razed, leaving him only with the clothes on his back.

The years that followed weren’t much better. He was forced back into the Underworld and while it was far from perfect, he preferred the freedom of it rather than being forced into social services. Being forced to make up some kind of lie to protect his Romani brethren. No, the Underworld was not perfect, but it was all he knew.

He was paid terribly because they could pay him terribly. He was given shit jobs but he took them so he could eat. And once he started growing, he needed new clothes. Over the course of two years, he grew a foot.

When he finally escaped that world again, he took only what he could carry with him. A small duffle full of clothes, a spare pair of shoes, and two knives that didn’t fit on his person.

When he joined the army, he didn’t take anything with him aside from a single book.

And it wasn’t until years later, when he decided enough was enough, and rejoined the fold that he had the ability to settle down.

“I can understand why that may be a part of it.” John admits, “But I think, mostly, it comes down to the fact that I just don’t care about most things.”

“Once again, nihilism makes an entrance.”

John shrugs, “I have more money than I ever dreamed of. And permanence doesn’t matter when I could afford to buy things a thousand times over. The only priceless possessions I have, I keep in my car. Just in case.”

She seems to brighten at that, leaning forward with interest, “And what does John Wick consider to be priceless?”

Not much, he thinks.

Her business card, which she had given him that first day in the café, with her cell phone number etched on the back. He keeps it tucked away in an envelope and locked in his glovebox.

A revolver gifted to him by Marcus. The only present he had ever been given without an expectation of reciprocation.

The copy of Walden he had taken from the little library at the military base where he trained. His only constant companion through three tours of duty.

He decides not to mention the first. “A gun given to me by an old friend. And a copy of Walden.”

“Thoreau.”

John nods.

Helen sits back, “I don’t associate you much with a love for nature. Is it the isolation aspect that attracts you, the civil disobedience piece, or that idea of self-reliance?”

“I would say all of it, although the self-reliance was what first pulled me in. It…” He hesitates, unsure of why he feels the need to share such a little thing with her, “It was the only possession I brought with me everywhere when I was in the army. And when I returned home.”

“It really stayed with you.”

John nods, “I suppose, it helped me learn to think a bit more critically. To challenge the automatic assumptions that came with growing up in the Underworld.”

“I imagine there was a sort of irony about reading such a text while in the military.”

He can’t stop the smile that crosses his lips. He doesn’t have to explain his bizarre humor or reasoning to Helen. She just gets it. “I’ll admit, that was part of the charm. Imposing those shades of grey into my life that were absent in the Underworld and, again, missing from the marines.”

She smiles back, “You pursue that duality in life. Toeing the line of arbitrary rules and ethics, while simultaneously embracing the meaninglessness.”

“Nihilism and Walden have been my constant companions.”

“Let’s add absurdism there for good measure.” She jokes and John finds himself laughing. Something he only does in her presence.

He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

He knows it, he feels it so deeply within him, but he can’t act on it. He won’t.

He knows she deserves so much better than him.

“Alright, back on topic.” Helen says with a small smile, “You said something last week that I’ve been considering in relation to this discussion.”

Grateful for the segue, John asks, “Oh?”

She nods, “You were talking about the idea of a normal life. A life away from the Underworld that you wanted, or at least considered, but identified as being out of reach.”

John nods back.

“I wonder, and please feel free to tell me if I’m off the mark, if those desires intersect with your decision to keep your house bare?”

He blinks, taking in her meaning.

His house is empty, in more ways than one. Just him and he doesn’t need anything. And the things he wants, well, he can’t have them. So why bother to fill his house with things that don’t matter? Why fill his house with trinkets when they’ll only serve to remind him of himself? Of the life he lives alone.

And John swears, “Fuck.”

Helen waits, in silence, as she always does while John works through his thoughts.

She’s right, to a degree, but it’s deeper than that.

He wonders if she realizes how much more it is. If she was truly asking him a question or manipulating him into figuring out for herself what she already suspected.

She was good at that. At breaking him down in ways that thousands of assassins never could figure out. He’d survived hundreds of attempts on his life but one question from Helen and he was ready to fall to his knees.

Fuck.

Minutes pass before Helen asks, “John?”

He swallows heavily, “I hate it when you’re right sometimes.”

“Epiphany?”

“Epiphany.” He echoes, “I think…” He hesitates.

She was right. Both today and last week, she had pinpointed the cause.

“I think you give me too much credit.” He had said softly.

“I don’t. But then, we’ve discussed your issues with self-esteem before.”

John rolled his eyes, “I don’t have poor self-esteem.”

“Oh, I agree. You have no self-esteem.”

Self-esteem just didn’t seem like an important thing. His reflective thoughts about himself didn’t affect his ability to work or to kill or to function.

And so, he had written them off as unimportant. Whereas Helen had been telling him, for weeks it seemed, that his sense of self mattered.

He tries not to look at her. He doesn’t need to look to know that she is staring at him kindly, non-judgmentally. Ready to listen and offer comfort.

“It’s okay, John.” She says softly, “You know you can say anything here.”

Anything, he thinks, except the words he swallows back every night.

He lets out a breath, “You’re right. About the self-esteem thing.”

She nods once, waiting for him to continue.

“I… don’t understand it, fully. I don’t get why it matters how I see myself but, I guess it does. At the end of the day, I don’t deserve a normal life. And I don’t deserve the things that come with it. Even if the things are just small tokens of normalcy.”

A moment passes that feels like an eternity to John.

“I want you to know, I’m unbelievably proud of you right now.”

He doesn’t want to look at her after that confession, but her words force him to raise his head in stunned disbelief. She can’t be serious…

But she’s staring at him in earnest, smiling softly, looking at him with kindness and gentleness and yes, with pride. She’s looking at him with pride in her eyes and he can’t quite figure out why.

And, as if she can sense his confusion, she adds, “You’ve been coming here for seven months and, for most of that time, you’ve been fairly resistant to actually being vulnerable.”

“I’ve told you things I’ve never told anyone.” John argues.

“I know. And I appreciate your trust in me. But there’s a difference between trusting me with legalities and learning to trust yourself enough to admit to these feelings. You’ve been sitting on these emotions for the better part of your life, John. Keeping them hidden or ignoring them. We joke about your nihilism when I think we both know that it’s easier to pretend nothing matters when we start to feel things too heavily.”

He sits with that.

God, is that what he’s been doing?

Ignoring his own self-hatred by ignoring anything that has to do with himself?

Filling his free time with work to keep him busy or reading, filling his mind with rationality and bullshit intellectualism rather than dealing with the emotions that linger below the surface?

But what else was he supposed to do?

Emotions were ignored most of his childhood, when fighting for survival was the precedent. And he just never learned.

Fuck.

Helen assesses him carefully, “What are you thinking, John?”

He’s not even entirely sure what he’s thinking but he settles on, “Life seemed simpler when my only focus was survival.”

She nods, thoughtfully, “I’m sure it did. Thought some people might argue that emotions offer a lot of evolutionary benefits.”

“Like what?”

“Well, anxiety warns us when we might be in danger. Anger helps us to protect ourselves. Sadness can help us to process complex events. Happiness and joy help us bond and create social alliances.”

She lets him mull that over before adding, “Your emotions are as much of a tool as your eyes and ears looking and listening for potential enemies.”

He considers that, too.

He gets her point. He really does, but his eyes and ears have never fucked with him the way his emotions did.

“I think it comes down to control.” He says thoughtfully.

“Oh?”

“I can close my eyes. I can choose not to listen. But my emotions…”

“You can’t shut them off. And ignoring only works for so long.”

“Yeah.”

Helen nods, “Our emotions are, arguably, one of the most complicated things to understand. And you’re right, they are one of the hardest things to control and while there are ways to change our thinking and challenge our automatic thoughts, we often can’t help what we feel.”

John knew that well.

He couldn’t help the hopelessness and the loneliness he experienced as a child.

He couldn’t help the intense anger at watching his first real home be burned to the ground.

He couldn’t help the contempt he felt for himself whenever he looked to deep inside himself.

And he certainly couldn’t help the intense obsession and other unnamable emotions that arose in him whenever he thought about Helen.

It wasn’t like he had tried to change any of it, though.

“Sometimes,” he admits softly, “I think that I force myself to feel the bad emotions. To force myself to suffer.”

Again, she nods, “Earlier you used the term deserve.”

“I don’t deserve anything.”

Fuck, did he really just say that? Out loud? To her?

He probably sounded like a whiny teenager. But Helen doesn’t look at him with annoyance or contempt.

She just inclines her head, “You know, I have a lot of clients who come in here and use the same language. I deserve this. I don’t deserve that.”

“I doubt most of your other client have killed people.”

In fact, he knows they haven’t. He had a background check run for every single person on her caseload to make sure she was safe in the hour she spent with them each week.

Helen, however, ignores him. “For most, it’s based on the Just World Theory. A sort of westernized karma that subscribes to the idea that the world is a fair place. And I know that you know, more than most, that this world is not a fair place.”

“No.” He agrees. “It’s not.”

Helen shakes her head, “We often bestow judgement. Upon ourselves, the people around us. Total strangers, even. And I’m as guilty as it as anyone,” he doubts that but she continues, “But you know what?”

“What?”

She shrugs a shoulder, “Doesn’t do a damn thing, offering judgement. It doesn’t change our past, our future. It doesn’t help us.” Her tone softens, “I know it’s not my place to offer an opinion…”

John shakes his head, “You know I value your thoughts.”

“I don’t know if God exists or if there’s a higher power. But I do know that we don’t get to decide who deserves what. We get dealt our hand and we do the best we can with it. And the more we fight that, the more we tell ourselves that we deserve better or worse, the more miserable we make ourselves.”

He hears her.

And he gets her point, he really does.

It’s not his position to make judgements. He doesn’t have a say in the twists and turns of luck that have amassed him a great wealth.

But it must be wrong because his most glaring example is looking into his eyes. He’s certain that he and Helen are not the same.

Helen is good, and kind, and gentle.

And John is harsh, and dark, and bad.

He’s not sure he can accept a world that views them on an equal playing field.

“You don’t have to believe me.” She tells him, her voice soft and understanding. He wonders, not for the first time, if she can read his mind. “But just consider it, okay?”

…..

He considers it. He spends the rest of the day considering it.

At the Continental, eating dinner, John found himself trying to challenge his automatic assumptions about the people around him.

Assassins, killers.

But did he really know anything else about them? Beyond rumors and hushed whispers? The same kind that followed him, that had turned John Wick into the Boogeyman.

He ponders her words: the more we tell ourselves that we deserve better or worse, the more miserable we make ourselves.

He was an expert at misery.

At best, he was a master of apathy. Hiding his misery under layers of not-caring. Like she said, it was easier to pretend that nothing mattered. It was easier to accept the self-hatred, or at the very least self-contempt, when he could just shrug it off.

Idly, he wonders what would happen if he just continues to ignore it.

Even as he thinks it, however, he knows it’s ridiculous. Helen could sit there and berate him for an hour each week and he’d still sit there happily.

With that thought in mind, he paid for his dinner and left the Continental. Tomorrow, he’ll come back in the early morning. Nap for a bit, then take a contract or two.

He wonders if it’s his obsession with Helen that will keep him in New York or his aversion to returning to his empty home after having that conversation. Neither seems to be a particularly healthy choice but he accepts it nonetheless.

He drives to her house and tries not to think of it as home.

He knows that something is wrong the moment he sees the house.

Helen is energy conscious. She rarely leaves a room without turning out the light. And right now, it is past her bedtime and the kitchen light is on.

He stops the car for a moment, just outside of her house, wondering if he’ll see a shadow move. Maybe he’s being paranoid. Maybe she just got up for water.

But nothing moves.

John throws the car in park. Normally, he’d hide the car a few blocks down and walk back to her house, but he doesn’t care. Quickly, he unlatches the glovebox to pull out his gun. He doesn’t even check it as he hurries out of his car.

The door is shut but the lock has been picked open. And not by him. No, whoever had done this didn’t have the skill to leave no marks in the metal. It was a rough, haggard job. And it was left unlocked.

Fuck.

He opens the door, gun-raised.

His head seems to be screaming a chorus of no, no, no, no, no, no as he clears the kitchen. He should clear the entire first floor, but his fear is outweighing his senses.

Emotional mind Helen would call it.

Her bed is empty but slept in. It wasn’t made and it looked as though she had thrashed about.

Someone had taken her from her bed.

He was shaking.

John was unsure if it was rage or fear that was pounding through him right now, but someone was going to pay.

A phone rings and it takes John a moment to recognize it as his own.

The screen has her name. Her work cell.

John accepts the call and puts the phone to his ear.

“Hello, John.” The voice is male. He doesn’t recognize it but there is a slight accent that he can’t quite place.

“Where is she?” He asks trying not to sound as desperate as he feels.

“Safe. For now.”

“Put her on the phone.”

“I’m afraid Miss Kingston has been sedated for the time being.”

“If you’ve hurt her…”

“I believe that now is not the time for you to be making threats.” His unknown opponent interrupts.

John tries to control himself. He can’t act until he knows more. The disgust pours from his voice as he forces himself to ask, “What do you want?”

“Very good.”

John closes his eyes and tries to focus on what it will feel like when he guts this man alive.

“Lorenzo D’Antonio will be in New York from tomorrow night through Monday.”

John can already tell where this is going. Lorenzo D’Antonio was the Camorra’s current leader. He held a seat at the High Table which made him virtually untouchable. No contract could be taken out against him or the Continental, and the High Table, would respond with force. To be caught even conspiring was to be dead.

“And you want him killed.” John finished.

“Not just Lorenzo. His heirs, as well.”

John let out a noise of disbelief. With Lorenzo dead, followed by his children, the Camorra would collapse.

Christ.

John had never given a flying fuck about Continental politics. He followed their rules to gain their services but this…

“And you’ll let her go?”

“Right into your waiting arms.” The man taunted.

John felt his nails digging into his palm as he struggled to maintain what little control he had left. “I want proof that she’s all right.”

“Fine.”

The line drops.

#this is a niche piece #but it is so fucking fun to write #john wick #helen wick #pre-john wick chapter one #pre- john wick #helen x john wick #john x helen wick #baba yaga #the boogeyman #john wick fanfics #john wick fanfic #john wick fanfiction #otp: daisy. of course #otp: daisy #otp: your best friend

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meowdymista · 3 years

Text

v. we might be dead by tomorrow

Part of the Devil’s Backbone project - Masterlist

“My God, is that Sadie Adler?”

Turning around, the woman’s mouth drops open. “Arthur motherfuckin’ Morgan!” she squeals, throwing her arms up and hugging him tight. “Oh my god! I thought you were dead! Am I dreaming? Is it really you?"

"It's me, alright." He groans as he squeezes her close, both of them laughing as he finally releases her and holds her at arm's length. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"Bounty huntin' mostly." She slaps his arm looking him up and down, her eyes still sparkling with disbelief. "What about you? What have you been doin' all these years that you couldn't drop by to say hi to your good friend Sadie?"

"Avoidin' Pinkertons mostly." He nods at the bartender who promptly pours two double shots of whisky. They toast and only Arthur pulls a face. "Been travellin' around with Jack and Abigail, tryna get them settled someplace."

"You're still with them?" She nods appreciatively. "Does that mean you and Abigail…?" He gives her a blank stare. “Are you two… together?”

“Oh! Nah, o’course not. She’s always been in love with Marston.”

“Well, John’s been dead goin’ on eight years now.”

“So’s Jake. Have you met someone?”

Sliding another dollar to the bartender, she blows a long raspberry. “Have I hell. I think that was it for me. I’m not exactly meeting the best of suitors in my line of work.”

Arthur shrugs, accepting the beer she pushes into his hand. “Well, there you have it.”

“Oh no, you ain’t getting off that easy! You can’t be tellin’ me you ain’t ever slept together?”

“The women we travelled with were working girls, Sadie, with the exception of you. I mean, even Molly was startin’ that way ‘til Dutch picked her up.”

“I meant since I last saw y’all.” She laughs at the colour creeping up Arthur’s neck. “I knew it!”

“It ain’t like that, Sadie-”

“Well what’s it like then?” she teases with a big smile.

“It’s- y’know what it’s like. Some nights are more lonely than others.” His gaze is fixed on his fingers as they pick at the label,

“So you’ve only done it once or twice?” The heat starts burning in the cartilage of his ears. “Or once or twice this week?”

“We ain’t done it this week!” Arthur sits up a little taller, his cheeks still burning.

“No sexual activity at all?” He glances at her, his faltering voice making her laugh. “Arthur Morgan, how I’ve missed you!”

“Shurrup!” he growls, shoving her gently and draining the rest of his beer in one. “Don’t you have some work to be gettin’ on with?”

“Why? You sick of me already?” Her hand squeezes his shoulder until he meets her gaze. “Listen. I��m happy for you. You deserve to have a loving family.”

“You got the wrong end of the stick. I’m just helping ‘em get settled. We bought some land and built a ranch on it. When it’s paid for itself and they got a foot on this farming shit, I’ll leave ‘em to it.”

“How old is the ranch now?”

“About a year or more.”

“And you’re set on movin’?”

He shrugs. “I ain’t gonna outstay my welcome. Just wanna make sure they’ll be alright.”

Shaking her head, she heaves a deep breath. “What’s Abigail say about that?”

“We ain’t really talked about it-”

“So you’re sleepin’ together, runnin’ a ranch and helpin’ with her boy… but you’re still intending to leave?”

“Shit, Sadie, it won’t be for a while yet. Another year or more... it depends. I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

Quiet blankets the conversation. They each accept another beer, drinking wordlessly.

“Pearson runs the shop out in Rhodes now,” she states calmly.

“Really? Good for him!”

“Got himself a wife too - Esther.” Her sideways glance is enough to tickle him. “She’s got him as whipped as his Aunt Cathy!”

“Well, it weren’t for lack of suitors!” He laughs remembering their first trip into Rhodes. “Damn, Mrs Adler. Where does the time go?”

“Speak for yourself, old man! Them grey hairs had to come from somewhere.”

He scratches the stubble on his jaw self consciously. “Shurrup. I’m retired.”

“Didn’t know reprobates could retire.”

He chuckles again, shaking his head as he stands up. “Me neither, but it’s nice to try.”

“Well if you ever want any work, you know where I am. Most towns have bounty posters up and around. If you need money for the ranch, or if you’re serious about leaving ‘em to it…”

“Huh, maybe. I used to pick some up back in the day. You got an address, or an alias if I wanna write?”

“Nothin’ particular. Send it to wherever you hear from me last. No alias - this is legal work I’m doin’ now, so Mrs Adler is just fine. Yourself?”

“Beecher’s Hope, West Elizabeth.”

“Near Blackwater?”

“That’s the one.”

“I heard there’s some rough folk thataway.”

“The Skinner Brothers? Yeah, they can be pretty nasty.”

She hesitates. “I guess I can see why you want to stick around a bit longer… To make sure they’re safe.”

He agrees without much commitment - that reason is as good as any. “You should drop by if you’re in the area. I’m sure Abigail and Jack would love to see you and how well you’re doing for yourself.”

“I’ll definitely think about it.” She offers her hand, but he knocks it aside and pulls her into another hug.

“I’ll see you again, Mrs Adler.”

“Another time, Mr Morgan!” She tips her hat as Arthur waves back.

*****

Rufus gallops across the ranch as Arthur rides in trying not to jostle his arm. “Go away, boy,” he hisses. “Where’s Jack? Go play with Jack.” He swears as the dog begins to bark at him. His horse is too used to his grumpy antics to be moved by the aging pup.

He nudges his horse to the barn doors, using the bottom of his bow to prod them open ahead of the mare. Inside, he swings himself down, not caring if there is a steaming pile of manure where he lands. He's fortunate to land on the concrete with little more than a hiss at the jostle. Moving to the nearest stall to light a lamp, he finds Jack reading besides his favourite calf.

"Hey, Uncle Arthur."

"What are you doing out here at this hour?" he growls, snatching the book out of his hands and marking the page with a feather from his hat. "Get inside!"

"Y-yes sir." The boy is clearly taken aback. Arthur rarely exposes his fierce side nowadays - mostly he is calm, quietly cheerful, and appreciative of even the smallest conveniences. He scrambles to his feet, reaching out for the book when his eyes are drawn to the wound with a horrified gasp. "Uncle Arthur!"

He grimaces, still trying to usher him outside. "Shurrup! You want to wake everyone?"

"You're hurt!" It is more of a question than an exclamation, but his stuttering doesn't expect an answer. "What happened? Are we in danger? Is it Pinkertons? What do we do?"

"Shit, Jack! Breathe!" He squeezes the boy's shoulder, staring him in the eye. "It's nothing you need to worry about. No one's coming here, no one is coming to hurt us, alrigh'? Take a breath before you pass out or somethin'."

"Then what happened to your arm?" Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes. "It looks pretty deep. Did a bear get you?"

"Sure."

"Do we need to get the animals in? What if it comes onto the ranch? What were you doing out so late anyway?"

"Boah!" Gritting his teeth, he closes his eyes to help keep his composure. "Get to bed or God help me, I ain't above knocking you out to get some peace!"

When he opens his eyes he expects the boy to be moving away, but instead he's leaning in to look at the wound.

"You need me to bring Ma? You look like you need stitches."

"No!" He grips his arm tight enough to make him whimper. "Do not breathe a word of this to your mother. This is between you an' me, a'right?"

"You need help-"

"I can take care of myself." He releases him and steps back, beginning to get supplies from his saddle bags. "Don't you go breathin' a word about this to anyone, y'hear? Nobody."

Jack watches tentatively as the man begins to remove his jacket and shirt. Seeing the ripped flesh makes his stomach churn. "What can I do?"

"I told yer-"

"Let me help." Jack nods once, his small soft face gripped with determination. "What do you need? I- I know where Ma keeps her sewing kit. An' I'm sure there'll be some boiled water left over for drinkin'. Will salt help?"

Arthur sighs, his body sagging as he deliberates. He has never been good at accepting help. The only reason he accepted any help in the past was because of Grimshaw's steadfast stubbornness or he was outnumbered. All those years of being strong… standing tall… and now he can't even scare a boy out of a barn.

"Fine. Bring me a clean union suit too. I think I saw my blue one knocking about somewhere. An' a pair of pliers - the small ones. Should be under the sink or up in the loft with Uncle."

The boy runs off leaving Arthur to reflect. For a boy without his father, he was growing up strong. He was lucky to have his mother's lust for learning, but somehow his father's gait had survived, especially when he ran. Sometimes Arthur would catch himself watching him and remembering the crap John got into at his age. If John was a coyote, Jack was a fox. He had a good head on his shoulders, and always assessed the risks rather than blundering in blindly like his father did. It was just a shame that the recklessness had been completely swallowed by such delicate hesitation - some things were best learned by jumping in the deep end.

The door creaks as Jack slips back inside breathless, his cheeks rosy from the exertion.

"I was quick as I could. Nobody saw me I don't think."

"Good." Arthur pulls the cork from an open bottle of whiskey with his teeth, spitting it against the wall before chugging its contents. “C’mere. Best we get to by the light if you’re gonna do this.”

Jack gulps as Arthur sits himself on the milking stool, wincing as he inspects the wound. “D’you got the pliers?”

“Right here, sir.”

“OK, now I’m gonna need you to take a look in the wound. I’m sure one of ‘em got me with an arrow before the bastard sliced me.”

“An arrow?” repeats the boy, swallowing his stomach as he eyes the mess of flesh. “You said it was a bear?”

He scoffs. “I’ve said many things in my life, Jack Marston, not all of them honest.”

The boy doesn’t reply. He’s trying to breathe through his mouth but the iron in the air still caresses his tastebuds. “I can’t see anything, Uncle Arthur.”

“Alright. Grab a shirt from Gwyn and bring over the salt water. We gotta get this clean before you sew it up.”

“I ain’t done much sewin’ before.”

Arthur grunts. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

The boy is obedient. He tries to be as careful as possible, but despite his ginger pats, a hiss still seeps out between his teeth. Arthur leans his head back against the barn wall to keep himself steady.

“I saw Sadie Adler when I went out Valentine way. D’you remember her?”

Jack thinks back as he wrings the shirt out. “Maybe?”

“Well, she’s doin’ well. Bounty huntin’. Said it’s good money.” He exhales sharply. “I been doin’ some here and there. Mostly fraudsters or petty thieves. None with any fight or any weapons or shit.”

“Why?”

He tilts his head to review the boy’s reaction. The whiskey and blood loss has loosened his tongue. “I want to help you and your ma buy this place outright. Eight dollars a day is plenty to keep y’all fed and clothed but the bank likes to charge more the longer it takes you to pay it back.”

“Ma will kill you if she finds out.”

“Don’t tell her.” He grips the boy’s wrist with his good arm. “Please? This- this was foolishness. I knew I shouldn’t have taken it.”

“So why did you?”

“I used to be a good shot. A few years back I could have taken ‘em out without any bother, but either I’m gettin’ slow or they’ve got faster.” He glances at his arm and scoffs. “Maybe both,” he grunts as he takes another deep swig of liquor.

“OK, well, it looks clean. Still doesn’t look to be anything much in there.”

“A’right. Bring a needle an’ thread over. Next bit is easy, ok?”

After Jack overcomes his squeamishness, Arthur is sewn up in no time. The boy helps him clean the smaller cuts and injuries, including a bullet in his leg that hadn’t gone too deep. By the time he’s finished, Arthur is dozing, slumped against one of the beams. He wakes him with a gentle shake and heaves him to his feet.

“Hol’ up a minute.” Arthur staggers to the horse and begins to pull at the saddle. Seeing what he’s trying to do with limited mobility, Jack quickly unfastens the clasps and helps set it aside. “Thanks, son.” He ruffles his hair fondly. “Y’know, you look like your father did at your age?”

“Really?” Jack pulls his arm over his shoulder, leading him in the direction of the house. Colour is beginning to light the sky. It must be near three in the morning.

“Yeah. I didn’t care much for him then.” He snorts laughing. “Your Uncle Hosea wasn’t best pleased with me.”

****

Arthur grunts as a hammering brings him back to consciousness. His body is stiff, his mouth dry, his head thumping without the noise. Squinting in the morning light, Jack is sticking his head through the door.

“Uncle Arthur? Are you ok?”

“Never better,” he growls sarcastically. “What’s up?”

“Mrs Adler - the lady you spoke about last night? She’s outside.”

#sadie adler #rdr2 fic #rdr2 fanfic #red dead fic #red dead fanfic #meowdymista #jack marston

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thegeekyblondegirlwholovesstars · 4 years

Text

Coming Home Part Nine

JJ x Reader

Warnings: There will be mentions of the sexual assault from the previous episodes. Other than that, nothing that the show doesn’t cover: alcohol and physical fights, etc.

Hey guys! I’m so sorry I’ve been MIA lately. Not even going to lie I have been procrastinating writing part nine because I have SO much going on atm. Basically I’m leaving to go to gymnastics camp for three weeks and I’ve been trying to get a bunch of little things done and see all my friends before I leave. I was planning on getting this out last Sunday but my laptop fell off my bed and broke lol. Alas now I have a new one and it is super nice I’m so thankful for my Dad (this is the laptop I’m going to be using for college ahh it’s so exciting). Also I’m sorry this is a little shorter than normal but it felt organic for where the story is going. Anyways, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list :) and thank you for reading I hope you enjoy!!💖

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Your aunt and uncle looked between the two of you confused.

“You know how he is babe?” JJ let out a half laugh half sob.

You walked over to JJ and carefully embraced him. JJ dropped his bag before wrapping his arms around you and crying into your shoulder.

“I know babe I do.”

Once JJ’s breathing steadied slightly you picked up his bag and gave your aunt and uncle a look saying I’ll explain in the morning, before taking him upstairs and into the bathroom. You knew all too well what his father was capable of. You had been there when Luke first started hitting his son. Your mom and dad had taken JJ in on multiple occasions and every time JJ came to you battered and bruised, you helped him clean up and did everything in your power to make him smile. As you indicated for JJ to hop up onto the counter you tried to push away the thoughts of what his father must have done during those five years you were away, and all the pain JJ had endured.

JJ sat on the counter in the bathroom at the top of the stairs, his head was bowed and he licked tears away from his lips as they streamed down his face. You bent over and took out the clean clothes from his bag and set them next to him on the counter. “I’ll be right back J.” You brought his things into the hallway and closed the door behind you. Just when you thought you didn’t have anymore tears left in you, they began to spill down your cheeks again. Opening the door to your room you were met with questioning looks from the pogues but they understood once they saw you place JJ’s bag next to your dresser and go into your bathroom and retrieve the first aid kit. You glanced back at John B, looking for the slightest bit of comfort in his gaze, he nodded his head in the direction of the bathroom. Looking away from him you walked back out the door and into the bathroom.

As you entered JJ immediately looked into your eyes, his ocean eyes were red and puffy, identical to yours. You dropped the first aid kit on the counter and placed your hands on either side of his bruised face, placing a soft kiss on his cut lip. When you pulled away and reached for the first aid kit he wrapped his arms around your waist, neither of you had said a thing. You knew better than to ask him what happened. Taking out the gauze and alcohol you began to tend to the cuts on his face and lip, gently patting the gauze over them to clean the wounds. He winced slightly at the feeling of the alcohol on his broken skin. Whenever he did this you replaced the gauze with a tender kiss. It was only when you moved to unbutton his shirt and assess the damage that lied underneath it that JJ spoke, as you knew he would.

“When I got home he wasn’t there. I was stuffing a bunch of my clothes into my bag when I heard the door slam.” He gulped and pulled your small hands away from the buttons on his shirt. He looked into your eyes before continuing, “I borrowed some money from him for tonight so I could, you know, get all dressed up and get you flowers. I was going to pay it back this weekend.” JJ’s head fell forward onto your shoulder as he started crying again and you ran your fingers through his hair. “He was not happy. You know how he gets. Going down the old reliable path of calling me a worthless piece of shit and telling me I’m the reason my mom left.” He sat up and wiped his face, shaking his body in attempts to rid himself of the thought. “I think you know what happened next.”

You looked up at him and nodded. “JJ, Bubs. You are not worthless. You are not the reason that your mom left. You are worth so much more than you give yourself credit for. Don’t let that piece of shit get it into your head that you are anything less than the wonderful person, friend, and boyfriend that you are. Look at the way the pogues love you, the way my parents and Big John loved you, the way my aunt and uncle love you, the way I love you.” When you began to unbutton his shirt again JJ pulled you into a passionate kiss. Tears streaming down both of your faces. You both pulled away breathless.

“I love you too Bug.” JJ uttered unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, revealing a large bruise and cut on his ribs.

Your hand immediately flew to it and ran over it lightly. You looked up at him and there was a silent understanding that neither of you wanted to talk about this for the rest of the night. You stepped out from between his legs to retrieve a washcloth and wet it with warm water. Resuming your previous position, JJ placed his hands on your hips and a small smirk grew on his face. As you carefully dragged the warm cloth over his cut, cleaning the blood, he said, “I’ve got to admit. You have always done a good job of cleaning me up and making me feel better but the kissing certainly helps even more.”

You chuckled placing a band aid over the cut. “Well I’m glad I can be of good service Blondie.” You stepped away from him and allowed him to get down and put on a clean shirt and pj shorts while you packed up the first aid kit and tossed the bloody gauze into the trash and the washcloth in the sink.

Before you exited the bathroom you wrapped him into a tight hug and took in the scent of his clean clothes.

“Thank you for everything tonight.” You looked up at him, your chin on his chest and a small smile on your face. “I couldn’t have made it through that without you.”

“Always Bug.” JJ planted a quick kiss on your lips, “Lets go to bed. It’s been a long night.”

Taking JJ’s hand you lead him out of the bathroom and down the hall to your room. You open the door to find everyone else already asleep. John B and Sarah are curled up together beside your bed while Pope and Kie are snuggled up at the foot of your bed. A smile flashes across your face at the sight of everyone so peaceful following the emotional rollercoaster of a night that each of you had. Carefully stepping over Sarah’s legs you collapse onto your bed and JJ crawls in next to you. Cuddling up next to each other, JJ wraps his arms around you, seeking the comfort that you both desperately need and you lay your head on his chest. For the first time all night you are fully relaxed and you doze off listening to the sound of JJ’s heartbeat.

Planting a final kiss on your forehead JJ whispers, “See you in the mornin’ sun my love.” And drifts into his own peaceful sleep, glad to know that you are there safe in his arms.

The next morning you are woken up to a hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling you off your bed onto the floor. You let out a squeal as your heart beats in your throat for a brief moment until you hear Pope say wistfully, “CUDDLE PUDDLE.”

You find yourself wrapped in Pope’s sloppily hug as you lay across your four friends on the floor. Kie jokingly smacks your ass, prompting a hearty belly laugh. JJ sat bolt upright the moment he felt you leave from beside him and heard your scream. As he realized what was going on he facepalmed and began to wipe the sleep out of his eyes.

“It’s way too early for this Pope” he remarks with a soft chuckle as he plops down on top of everyone and gives John B a forehead kiss. John B returns the affection and jokingly whispers, “Baaabe I thought we were keeping this a secret.” JJ lands a soft punch to John B’s side and pulls you into him as everyone laughs. Now everyone is lying on their backs on the floor staring at the ceiling. Sarah breaks the silence.

“Okay I don’t know about you guys but I’m starved.”

Kie springs up and looks at you, “Banana pancakes!!!?”

You nod and shift to a sitting position, prompting JJ to put his arms around your hips like a seatbelt and lay his head next to Pope’s. Sarah wastes no time getting up and pulling you to your feet practically dragging JJ across the floor.

“You guys have no idea these pancakes are heavenly.”

“I’m sure they are but a simple JJ could you let go of your girlfriend would have worked.” JJ states snidely and shoots a sarcastic look in Sarah’s direction.

“But why would we use words right?” John B shrugs and stands before pulling JJ and Pope to their feet.

You all parade downstairs in a good mood and a sense of normalcy lingers in the air throughout breakfast.

Pope pushes his plate away from him and leans back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head.

“Wow. That was.” he huffs.

“Phenomenal.” John B finishes his fourth pancake.

JJ lets out a muffled “Yeah.” his mouth full with what is at least his sixth pancake. You look over at them and chuckle as the girls place their dishes in the sink and you begin to clean up the kitchen.

“Why thank you, I’m glad you guys liked them.” you bow into an exaggerated curtsy still giggling.

Suddenly your door opens and you hear the familiar footsteps of your aunt and uncle coming toward the kitchen and someone else following them. Your uncle emerges and his face is hard but it softened slightly at the sight of the six of you smiling. After your uncle your aunt emerges followed by Ward, Rose, Shoop, and the unmistakable figure of Rafe. The metal bowl and whisk you were holding clatters to the floor at the sight of his slicked back hair. The pleasant lethargic feeling that filled the room previously evaporated immediately as JJ, John B, and Pope spring to their feet and surround you. Your uncle motions for the boys to relax but they don't even flinch, forming a rigid barrier between you and Rafe.

Your uncle speaks first, “Everyone is just here to talk and settle a few things regarding the restraining order.” He turns his gaze directly to JJ, “There is no need to be on high alert, this is all a safety precaution to begin with.”

JJ gives your uncle a small nod and your aunt steps forward, interlocking her arm with your uncle’s. “Let’s all take a seat in the living room.”

Pope bends down to pick up the bowl and whisk that you had dropped while Sarah moves to give her father a hug and say good morning. Kie and John B follow your aunt and uncle to the couch as JJ places his hand on the small of your back before pulling you in for a hug and glaring at Rafe.

Once everyone is seated, you speak first, “Okay so what needs my approval exactly?”

Ward decided to pipe up due to the visible amount of stress your aunt and uncle were under. “It’s just some details, for starters how far away do you want Rafe to be at all times.”

“Well three hundred feet is the norm right?”

Rose nodded. “Yes but we can extend it if you’d like.”

“It’s a small island so I don’t know if it could realistically be any further.”

John B and Kie rubbed your back in support of your decision but JJ looked as though he would like Rafe to be on the opposite side of the island from you at all times.

Shoop took note of your decision, “Okay y/n, now I just need you to define the terms of peace and the Camerons can be on their way.”

“Terms of peace?” JJ questioned Shoop.

He opened his mouth but Pope answered JJ’s question before Shoop could, “Like what would make y/n anxious. In relation to the people around her or any mutual friends.”

JJ nodded as you spoke. “I don’t want Rafe, Kelce, or Topper bothering me or any of the pogues.”

Kie chimed in, “I don’t know if this is my place but after what I saw that night I don’t feel comfortable having Rafe at the Wreck. At least not during my shifts.”

“No don’t worry Kiarra, that is totally reasonable.” Rose offered Kie a sweet smile.

“Honestly that’s all I can think of, other than the normal terms of a restraining order.” You leaned back into JJ’s arm and he began playing with your hair.

“Okay yeah, we’ll be heading out then. I’m genuinely so sorry about everything that happened, and that we had to bring Rafe along today. It was purely for legal reasons. We care about you so much sweetheart. I hope you know that.” Ward stood and offered his hand to Rose and looked at you.

You offered him a small nod as your aunt ushered the Cameron’s from your house.

“That was pretty painless” Sarah tried to shed some light on the situation.

“Kinda” Pope huffed.

Your uncle was sitting across from you leaning forward with his head resting on his hands.

“Kiara, John B, Sarah, Pope. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m sorry but there is something Patty and I need to discuss with y/n, JJ, and the Sheriff.”

If anyone ever needs anything, wants to give me feedback, or just wants to chat about fandoms please message me and let’s be friends:))

@tangledinsparkles @hopelesswritingxd @im-a-stranger-thing @jenahbell @annedub @hmspxgue @harrysbbby @spn-pogues @nxtrogers @whoeverineedtobe @jjmaybby @thegreatestofheck @maybebanks @k-k0129 @kamri-janae123 @aliensknewmyblogs @rudyypankow @pm-my-hubbies @beatement-l @ilovejjmaybank @runway-to-my-aid @pogxe @themagicdragon1234 @pete-bowen @jjtheangel @thoughtsofthestars @alexa-playafricabytoto @thatfangirl42

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gumnut-logic · 4 years

Text

Thunderbird XL (Part Three)

Title: Thunderbird XL

Sequel to Thunderbird X

Thunderbird X | Thunderbird XL Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Author: Gumnut

Feb – 11 Mar 2020

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: “I’ve got you, son.”

Word count: 1572

Spoilers & warnings: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3 EPISODE 25 & EPISODE 26

Timeline: Episode Tag, written episode

Author’s note: Sequel to Thunderbird X. so much is asking to be written about the last episode of the series. This one just happened and in a way I didn’t plan. Many thanks to the Thundernerds on Tumblr for all their support and especially @scribbles97 for the readthrough.

I’m having the strongest feeling that ‘Need’ might be the sequel to this, so it is probably a good idea for me to actually finish it. Also, for some reason, I was drawn to it today. So we have Part Three.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

Hate wasn’t really a word for what he felt for Gaat. Pity was closer, but considering Jeff was a man who had been stuck alone for eight years, that was saying something.

When Brains entered and Gaat was flung across the room to be caught by Gordon and Alan, Jeff had a moment to greet his old friend, the man who had managed to save him yet again.

And still be completely socially awkward about it.

He could only love him for it.

Scott grabbed Gaat from Alan, stepping between his little brother and the pest who had hurt them so much, and he and Gordon rough housed the criminal below decks.

That left Jeff with Virgil, Alan and Brains.

“That was some pretty hot shot flying there, Allie.”

His youngest son flushed a little red, his hand going to the back of his neck. “Aww, thanks, Dad.”

An awkward silence fell after that. Virgil shifted to a work station off to the right. His hand hitting his comms. “Thunderbird Five, cockpit is secure, what is our flight status?”

“Eos is running a damage report. The EMP did have some impact and we will need to make some repairs.”

“Point me where you need me.”

“FAB.”

Virgil looked over to his fellow engineer who was on the opposite side of the cockpit, running his own assessments. “Brains?”

“J-John is c-correct. I also want to r-run a s-systems check. T-to m-make sure there is n-no sabotage.”

Jeff’s stomach tightened. Gaat had been alone for who knew how long and when foiled, he could have done anything out of spite.

“Brains, timeframe?”

He was aware of his two boys and Brains both suddenly staring at him.

“I am unsure, M-Mr Tracy.”

“Keep me apprised.”

“FAB.”

“Dad, you should be resting.” Virgil appeared beside him, a gloved hand gently touching his arm.

“I am. There is no gravity in space, Virgil.”

“Dad-“

“Virgil, I need you in the aft computer core. I’m reading a series of faulty processors and I have some concerns about the air circulation system in the secondary life support hub.” John’s voice demanded immediate attention.

Virgil hit his comms. “FAB, John. I’m on it.” He turned to his little brother. “Alan.” An indrawn breath, worried eyes cast over Jeff. “Look after Dad.”

“Sure.” His youngest son propelled himself closer.

Virgil’s fingers brushed across Jeff’s forearm as he pushed himself towards the exit.

Brains muttered to himself absently at his console, but that awkward silence returned.

A glance at Alan and he caught his son’s profile. As the young man turned towards the front of the cockpit, Jeff was struck at the contrast yet again between the child he had left behind and the man who had flown this ship all the way out here.

“Dad, I should probably give you a quick orientation for safety’s sake.”

Jeff nodded once and there followed a very professional systems report. Within five minutes he knew the location of all the main controls, the functions of each of the stations, and he was pretty sure that he could give a good go at piloting the craft himself.

Not that he had any intention of trying.

But it was reassuring to hear familiar terms and watch his son, ever so confident, speak the language of astronaut.

He had been eleven when Jeff left on that rescue. All starry eyed and rocket obsessed. And now…

A competent young man flying rockets into the unknown.

He had so many questions.

But they would have to wait as Scott burst back into the room. His comms were lit up. “Eos, yes, thank you for your assistance, and no, I have no intentions of letting anyone shoot you with an EMP ever again.”

“Good!” That high-pitched voice again. “John is on his way down to the cockpit. We are showing green on all systems except those Virgil is currently attending to. Thunderbird Five is prepared for the jump, deflectors are at one hundred percent. Navigational data is being prepared.”

“Thank you, Eos. Couldn’t do this without you.” The frown on Scott’s brow got just that little bit deeper.

Gordon floated in behind his older brother, a frown equally severe on his face. It looked alien on those features as he turned to Jeff. “The Hood’s stowed in his ‘cabin’. Rope and all.” There was some satisfaction at that announcement. “We will now return to our scheduled inflight entertainment. Due to the lack of a movie, MAX will be providing juggling for your amusement.” The robot on the ceiling squawked. That was MAX?! “Alan will be providing the rollercoaster effects.” A hand up to Gordon’s face as he shifted to a not-quite whisper in an aside to Jeff. “He really has been playing far too many video games.”

“Hey!”

“Yes, Dad, you may have to curb his screen time when we get home.”

The youngest turned back from the helm. “Fine, Gordon. I’m sure Dad will love to hear about Corfu while I’m not playing those games.” The glare in those blue eyes was furious.

“Woah, Allie! Hold on the big guns, it was a joke.” Gordon reacted enough to float backwards.

Jeff held up a hand. “Boys?”

Two pairs of eyes darted at him. Alan pointed at his brother. “He started it.”

Jeff stared at them both and was suddenly struck at the familiarity. His boys were bigger, yes, but they were still his boys.

He opened his arms. “C’mere.”

Neither hesitated and he once again was able to wrap himself around dreams-become-reality. He kissed two golden heads.

Scott floated into his vision, a small smile on his face.

Jeff had to squeeze his eyes shut for just a moment before he let his two youngest go.

His eldest’s voice was gentle. “Alan, we need pre-flight. Gordon, Eos is about to relay navigational data for your approval.”

Chorus of two. “FAB.” And his two boys moved.

Scott approached Jeff. “Dad, we have a seat for you.” He reached down into the centre hub of the cockpit, just behind the two forward seats and unfolded a chair. It clicked solidly into place as if it had always been there.

“S-Scott, I can f-find no trace of sabotage.” Brains’ hands were dancing over his controls. “Eos, have you c-completed the d-data and programming checks?”

“I have, Hiram. There is no sign of interference of any kind. I find it highly doubtful that the criminal would sabotage his only way back to Earth.”

John sailed in through the rear hatch. “Eos, we’ve spoken about human idiocy, particularly regarding the Hood.” His middle boy smiled gently at him as he passed smoothly to his place in the cockpit.

“Oh, I thought you were joking.”

Those turquoise eyes that had kept Jeff company for all those long years, blinked. “What gave you that idea?”

“The illogic of it all. Why would the Hood be so stupid? Also, you swore in six different languages at the time.”

Another blink and a darted glance at his father. “Well, I wasn’t joking. The Hood is an idiot.”

Jeff couldn’t help himself. “Only six?”

John’s eyes widened just a little. “I was distracted trying to keep Thunderbird Two airborne.”

“What?”

Said Thunderbird’s pilot chose that moment to return. “John, processors replaced and the air circulation system is patched. I wouldn’t give it long, but it should survive enough to get us home.” A nudge off the ceiling and Virgil was once again beside him. “We should get you strapped in, Dad. The ride out here was rough.”

Scott’s hand landed on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed as he turned back to the helm where Alan was taking his seat.

That left Jeff to Virgil again, who gently urged him into the chair and buckled him in.

He stared at his boy as he let him do the simple task. It wasn’t as if Jeff was incapable of strapping himself in, it was just…

“Virgil?” He tipped his head down, trying to catch those worried eyes.

His son continued to fiddle with the belt, not acknowledging him at all.

“I’m going to be okay.”

At that Virgil did look up and the love in his son’s eyes pierced his heart. “I know, Dad.”

It was said with such finality, such determination…come whatever, Virgil was going to make sure he was okay.

Jeff opened his mouth to respond, but he didn’t have a chance as Scott began launch preparations and Virgil spun himself away to his station.

Jeff followed him with his eyes, his heart thudding in his chest.

God, it was hard to believe this was all happening.

Lucy, our boys.

Our boys!

“Alright.” Scott’s accent always made itself known when in command. That at least hadn’t changed. “Go / no go for launch.” He turned towards John. “Telemetry?”

“Go.”

To Gordon. “Navigation?”

Again with that serious expression on the aquanaut’s face. “Go.”

To Virgil. “Airframe?”

“Go.”

To Brains. “Propulsion?”

“Go!”

To Alan. “Helm?”

“Go!”

“Then let’s go home!” His eldest turned around to Jeff. “Wanna count us down?” Those blue eyes flashed.

There was no question. “I was hoping you would ask.”

With a heart so tied into his family and the wonders they were capable of, he counted down from five, each number thrown into fate’s face as he took that last step home.

And the ultimate in defiance.

“Thunderbirds are go!”

Alan moved.

The ship blinked.

-o-o-o-

End Part Three.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Jeff Tracy #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #Alan Tracy #John Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Eos #episode tag #tag spoilers #tagspoilers

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chaoskirin · 4 years

Text

The Seven Seas--Final Chapter

Fandom: Queen Genre: Sci-fi/Gen Rating: PG Chapter 4 Word Count: 2003 TOTAL WORD COUNT: 8073

A couple notes: I originally outlined this for the inclusion in a zine. When that didn’t happen, I sort of set the project aside for a while... But after The Seven Seas of Rhye came up on my playlist recently, I decided to expand it a bit and write it. My original target for zine printing was 4 pages or 4,000 words, so I’ve expanded it a little. I hope you enjoy the end. Thank you for reading.

---

The magnitude of a concert can be outlined by several things.

First, the talent. In the case of Queen, this was largely a non-issue, as they were four of the most talented people on the planet. To be fair, this was Roger's assessment, and Roger possessed an ego roughly the size of a stack of thirty blue whales. For the purposes of comparing size, it might have been more logical to select something land-based, such as school buses or football fields. However, in dealing with an ego so large, one must delve into the outright ridiculous or downright strange--sometimes both at the same time. Therefore, whales.

Roger's ego was only surpassed by Freddie's, which no scientist has ever been able to measure.

Second, pizazz. No concert performed by Queen could ever be any less than a spectacular free-for-all of pyrotechnics. A smorgasbord of sparkles... Each properly calibrated to draw the most admiration from the crowd. Professionalism demanded a panel of lights so bright and hot that it could melt the cheese right off a hamburger from a whole kilometer away. If the entirety of the fire brigade wasn't on standby, the show just wasn't worth anyone's time. On the other hand, if the venue burned to the ground in the middle of the concert, it made for particularly bad press. It was a very fine line.

(There are other, more mundane things that go into making a concert a huge success, but this is not a bedtime story, and boring the readers to sleep would be far from ideal.)

But most of all, a crowd defined the magnitude of the concert. Without a crowd, nothing else mattered. That was Roger's expert opinion, at any rate. Which meant on the day of Queen's impromptu, unplanned, desperate, world-saving, hail-Mary concert, Roger Taylor delivered.

Though the fallow field stretched for acres in every direction, it was full to capacity, with people pressing in shoulder to shoulder, eliminating any space between them. Queen's stagehands--those they'd been able to rouse from their vacations--struggled to keep the crowd away from the makeshift stage. This task was hampered by a rather massive electronics rig that jutted out into every opportune space... much like an exploding flan.

John and Brian bent over it, whispering to each other as if they were the best of friends. If one could hear their words, though, one would understand that these were not the hushed intonations of friends--barbs abounded; when Brian called John an incompetent buffoon, John retorted by telling Brian in no uncertain terms that he was a technologically inept upside-down tortoise who couldn't wire his way out of a paper bag. When Brian noted that no one would need to wire their way out of a paper bag and that only an uncivilized rutting salmon wouldn't just tear through it to escape, John insinuated something terribly rude about Brian's dear mother.

In other words, they weren't friends at all. They were brothers.

"Five minutes," Freddie said for the thirteenth time. Delays, as always, remained a trick of the trade. "Is this thing gonna work or not?"

"The aliens are in place?" John asked. One of the lighting scaffolds dimmed, casting the shadows under his eyes into positively evil relief.

"Yes. All of them. Leader, Glasses, Arsehole, and their entire crew." Freddie gestured up onto the far corner of the stage, where they'd built a tiny set of bleachers for the occasion--so tiny that Roger had to squint to see them. The slug-like creatures undulated over them like... Well, like an exploding flan. One must never fail to re-purpose a simile where appropriate, after all. Their shining silver ship lay just behind them, reflecting the light of the setting sun.

John looked at Brian. Brian looked at John. Neither of them trusted each other, and yet they both trusted each other implicitly, with their very lives. They were and would always remain a true paradox in every sense of the word.

"You guys can make out later," Freddie said. "Is the thing ready?"

Brian rolled his eyes. "I can say with absolute certainty... That is, with nearly every resource available to us... Ah, there's a VERY strong likelyhood--and a very TINY possibility that... I guess what I mean is that were I a betting man, which I'm not. Well, I am occasionally, but there's a time and place for it, and it's probably not here. Let me put it this way. I believe, with every fiber of my being--"

As Roger wondered if Brian had an off switch, John interceded: "We're as ready as we'll ever be."

"Good enough," Freddie said.

Brian thanked John for his ability to summarize. John patted Brian on the shoulder. They all climbed onto the rickety stage as the crowd cheered.

The aliens also cheered. Probably. Never easy to tell when you were sitting behind a drum kit several meters away from something approximately the size of guitar pick. Freddie acknowledged the would-be invaders with a nod, put his hand over the mic, and turned to the others.

It was never a good idea when Freddie put his hand over the mic on stage.

"I've changed some of the lyrics, darlings, for this special occasion."

Roger, who would be singing backup, paled enough for Freddie to see, even in the shadows. Freddie smiled and flicked a dismissive hand. "Don't worry, dear. Everything still rhymes."

"But... rehearsals!" Brian argued. "Our chance at--!"

But Freddie had already turned back to the crowd, his microphone live. "We've got something special for you tonight I think you're going to love. A new song!"

He waited, as all great showmen did, for the crowd to both cheer uproariously and fall to silence. As they were taking just a bit too long to get to the silence part, Roger smashed one of his floor toms as close to his own mic as he could get, creating the wiggle of noise juuuuust prior to a sound system emitting feedback. It had the desired effect.

With a devious grin, Freddie sat at the piano and stared daggers at the aliens. In the few seconds between the stage hand whisking away the standing mic and the sound crew activating the mic at the piano, he said, "This is what you wanted. This is what you're gonna get."

Ominous.

Even from the opening piano riff, the crowd was hooked. On their feet. Cheering. And Freddie sang the Seven Seas of Rhye for the first time in public, with some modifications which would never be heard again:

"Fear me, you lords and lady creatures. I descend upon your earth from the skies. I command your very souls, you unbelievers. Leave me what is mine--The Seven Seas of Rhye." Not bad so far, Roger thought as he eyed the special red button just to the side of his bass pedal. Out of all of them, he alone could be trusted with the proper timing, and it had to be perfect. If it wasn't perfect--

Well, it would probably still be okay. But Freddie thrived on perfection, so perfection it was.

The second verse got a little weirder.

"Can you hear me, you slugs and sluggy counsellors? I stand before you naked to the eyes! I will destroy any snail who dares abuse my trust-- You'll leave me what is mine--The Seven Seas of Rhye."

Roger, whose eyesight was very bad to the point where sometimes he couldn't even be sure whether he was staring at his own drums or a series of giant, empty bowls, glanced over at the alien bleachers. He thought--he hoped--they were no longer cheering.

He eyed the red button again. Not yet. First, he had to try to keep up with Freddie's lyric alterations; at the last minute, he decided maybe it would be better to loudly hum into his mic instead, then--either out of charity or mischief--Freddie kept the lyrics exactly the same as he'd written them.

"Sister... I live and lie for you. Mister... Do and I die. You are mine, I possess you. I belong to you forever."

Roger didn't hear the next verse. At all. Brian took over singing along, and Roger played on shoddy muscle memory--After all, he'd only just learned the song, so no one could blame him for missing a strike or two on a cymbal.

If Roger knew anything, though, he knew timing so implicitly, so instinctually... and he knew exactly when...

"I'll come out alive," Freddie sang. His arm blazed with hidden pyrotechnics as he pointed directly to the aliens' home planet of Denmark.

And Roger smashed the button next to his bass pedal.

Freddie sang, "Be gone with you, you small and shady conquerors," and the sky exploded with the most precise of direct hits. As Brian had calculated, Denmark lay at an amazingly fortunate and perfect angle to explode from earth's northern hemisphere. At least, that's what Freddie wanted them to think--for a Queen explosion, this one was rather small, but it had to look real.

Despite their tiny size, Roger could hear the aliens' audible gasp even over his drumming.

Unwilling to break his stride, Freddie continued.

"Give out the good, leave out the bad evil cries. I've challenged the mighty Leader and his arsehole-- And taken what is mine. The Seven Seas of Rhye!"

Although everyone had doubts that the ploy would work given its absolute simplicity, the aliens still piled back into their ship, their slimy backsides squirming over each other like maggots in roadkill. As the ship lifted off to retreat, the stage crew covered their escape with a helpful volley of fireworks that exploded just a bit too close.

Roger turned his eyes to the sky just in time to see the silver saucer streak away into the sunset.

---

"Am I going to wake up at some point?" John queried hours later. Long after the concert ended and the crowds had filed out, Queen still sat on the stage as their crew cleaned up around them. "I feel like that should have been a dream. Was it?"

"I was thinking maybe we were dead," Brian answered, after which the two of them shared a private chuckle.

"No, we're not dreaming and we're not dead," Freddie said. "We've single-handedly saved the planet from annihilation, all thanks to yours truly."

Roger sighed. He knew this whole thing would go right to Freddie's head. Any attempt science made at measuring his ego now would backfire tremendously. People would die if they ever tried to figure out Queen's prodigy of a singer, and they would have been asking for it. No one could pin down Freddie Mercury and hope to survive.

"They'll be back," Brian said, after which John applauded him and handed him a certificate printed on expensive parchment. It was already framed.

Bran scowled. "This says, 'award for the most obvious statement ever,' and it's sealed by the prime minister and the queen."

"I've had that in my suitcase for the past year," John said. "Figured tonight you'd say something stupid enough for me to give it to you."

"But the queen," Brian stammered. John shrugged.

"Be that as it may," Freddie said, "Captain Obvious is correct. They'll be back, but I suppose that's a problem for the future."

Roger very much thought that was the right way to look at things. After all, the future wasn't real. It couldn't hurt them. And with every day that passed, the future technically got farther and farther away. By right of its very existence, the future could never be the present, and Roger preferred to live in reality.

As a dubious corollary, Roger also believed the past didn't exist, insofar as he couldn't get drunk in it. So maybe he wasn't the right person to ask.

"So now what?" Brian asked. "What do we do?"

With a smile and a flourish, Freddie said, "We play, darling. We play."

#queen #queen band #fanfic #freddie mercury #roger taylor #john deacon #brian may #ck writes #not bestiary

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tslasvegas · 3 years

Text

Episode 8: “On the upside we got the numbers.” - Andrew (who is then voted out by those numbers)

It’s always a sad and unfortunate thing when a player needs to leave a game for personal reasons. I’m wishing Kevin all the best!

Welp. I don't wanna say that this sucks, but this sucks. My closest ally walked from the game, and I hope he's ok. I really hope everything is ok with him. But now, I'm a green in a world of pinks. What my pink friends don't realize though, is I have a Safety Without Power advantage. Nobody knows about it. So if we lose, they cannibalize themselves, and that will be a sight to see. But I'd like to keep my advantage for as long as possible. But if we lose, that'll be a fun tribal council. I can only hope it's a double tribal. Now this - this is a redemption arc.

If a merge at 13 is next, then we are done! ugh.

MERGE HAPPENS

We merged!! And I only had to attend a single tribal council in the premerge with 8 eliminations. That’s wild! We’re sitting here in merge with 7 OG Palazzo, 3 OG Bellagio and 3 OG Luxor. If Palazzo sticks together, we’d have the majority whichever way you look at it. However, I don’t imagine that group is going to stick together very long. Joey wants to get myself and Jaiden into single digits. I’d love to help get Jake into single digits as well. And I’d also like to get Livingston to at least 6th place. Honestly a group of that 5 sounds like a pretty good idea, and I might pitch it to Joey later today. And now we’re doing mastermind! A game I love but rarely ever win. I usually come close and I’m hoping this time around I can snag a win and be safe this first tribal. Nothing is scarier than the merge round of the game. Anything at all can happen. There’s still some idols and extra votes floating around, maybe some steal a votes too. There’s also that safety without power and the legacy advantage, which may be able to be played this round? Exciting things are brewing im sure.

We made the merge!!

youtube

So OG Palazzo must be tight. Good thing Steph and Joey are still reaching out. But I don't know if we can build up a resistance with the non-OGPalazzo. I mean, in theory, it can happen. 6 of us, with a steal a vote. But so much has happened voting on opposite sides, I don't know if it is doable. We can try. Better to go out blazing at 13th, than just waiting for your turn to be voted out before F7.

I MADE IT TO MERGE AGAIN... okay I feel good about my surroundings, as well as the people I’m next to. OG Palazzo wants to go all the way to Final 7, but I know that ain’t gonna happen, cause I’m turning on them as fast as humanly possible. I need others to see that I’m a strengthener to their games, and now that its every player for themselves, I think I can grab some allies and make shit happen. I have a Legacy Advantage, and I’m just trying to get to 6.

I’m sad I lost all my chips. On the upside we got the numbers

MERGE BITCH

Ok but for serious I don't have much to say so I'm just going to do an assessment of everyone on the tribe. Andrew - I thought I was gonna like Andrew bc I thought he was c*te then I find out he likes The Sims so there was something easy for us to talk about!! But then... come to find out. He's not really interested in talking I guess. So I'm just going to leave him alone and not carry on a conversation. Ben - WHY is Ben still here. I'm so annoyed. Ben tries so hard to be my ally but I don't trust him that much. Before the merge, he pitched a plan to pool our coins (meaning: I had to send him all of mine) so that I could spin the wheel and avoid going bankrupt. Then he said we're a final two. I was like,,, no thanks. I feel like he's going to blow up his game at some point, but I just gotta pretend better to be on his side. Idk how to do that exactly... Jake - Jake has been THE biggest surprise of the merge to be honest. I actually really like Jake. He's a little "irritating" I guess, but more in the sense that he is just pretty bro-y and that's not my energy. I respect Jake's desire to be great in Tumblr Survivor, we have that in common here. I think right now, Jake and I are as close as you can get to working together without actually being a legitimate alliance. I want to see where this takes us because he's a cool guy and I really feel bad for talking shit about him before the merge. Jeff - Part of me likes Jeff, but part of me views him as the enemy simply because he's part of the "Palazzo 7". I want to try and work on Jeff because maybe he and I see things the same way? I don't think this game is strictly "seven strong" like Joey perpetuates, I'll get to that in a minute though. Anyways, I want to see how things go with Jeff cuz he seems like a cool dude and I'm definitely a meninist and want to be his bitch! Joey - I hate that I'm in a position where I both know Joey is vital for my game right now, but also that I can't stand his strategy. I like him as a person, let's make that very clear for the post-season - I just don't subscribe to his idea that there's a seven person alliance (which btw includes him according to numbers???) running the show. I will definitely feel Joey out some more before I make any decision to attach myself to him fully or throw him to the wolves. John - THREAT. I'm on high alert for John and kinda trying to maintain a safe, social-distancing-approved level of space between us. I think that John is definitely running things at least in one or two circles and I don't want him to turn that target around on me. I also can't let him know that I'm onto him. John is probably playing it where everybody just likes him and includes him in plans, but in the event that he is pulling strings, that's where the issues start. Kailyn - I don't really care for Kailyn anymore tbh. I kinda think Kailyn is playing a good under the radar game and I think it's in a lot of people's benefit to send her off to the jury sooner rather than later. I have no read on who she's close with though so that's the danger. Probably John? But who knows. Keegan - I also am surprised that I like Keegan as much as I do. He seemed a little bit too smart for his own good? But he's actually rather nice. He flops like I do but I think he's a danger if I'm not careful. I'll keep on this guy and hopefully he doesn't target me <3 I'd rather work with Keegan than against him especially now.

Livingston - WOW I thought I'd like Livingston but goddamn this guy is BORING. Not only does he not message back, but he has nothing interesting to provide to a conversation. If he was the first person to go this round I wouldn't really be upset oop Pat - We talked a lot about drag race. We played an org together and I remember now that Pat was fucking IRRELEVANT so I'm surprised to see this new energy. Who are you and what did you do with the real Pat? Stephanie - I don't really like Stephanie's strategy either, she's just too damn likable and kind of floats on by, I wish she had left last time instead of Rachael because then it's likely Rachael gets the boot soon. But we'll see what happens. I just hope that me voting for her isn't going to kill our relationship and we can work together at some point, at least until she gets voted out. Xavier - I have a hard time reading Xavier. I think I'm calmed down from feeling threatened by him. I trust Xavier enough to not go and screw up a vote again, but does he trust me? Don't really know. I want to work with Xavier at least for a couple votes but I know that he and Ben aren't on good terms and Ben is a vote that I need right now :/ The issue I have with Xavier is that he is positioning himself to kinda be a doormat just doing whatever people want and not necessarily.. taking control of how people look at him I guess. He sticks out for being the "dad" on the tribe and doesn't bring a lot of his own personality to conversation - it's just really basic strategy. I don't know anything about him that I didn't have to go fucking find out about him on his public YouTube. Insert clown emoji here. Anyways, overall I feel okay about my chances on this tribe... So far. I honestly don't see myself playing a winning game right now - BUT it's final thirteen and there is a lot of time to turn that around for myself. I feel good in comparison to my previous Tumblr Survivor seasons because there hasn't been a vote where I've completely made myself stand out like a sore thumb. My head is in a good place to finish out this game strong, just gotta put the pedal to the metal and work shit out. Maybe win a couple challenges! Whatever twists are ahead... I'm not prepared. But I am going to walk away from this season for the better, one way or another. Eight people down, twelve left to go.

Well, I came close to winning but unfortunately didn't. Kailyn won immunity and we had a twist where we all had to choose between two buttons. Aaaaand Kailyn now has immunity this tribal and next tribal. Lovely. After the challenge, Andrew immediately threw out Jake's name, which was worrying but I think Jeff and I have managed to sway things towards Ben. Which is a little scary, since it's highly possible he has an idol or advantage (though he did play an idol on himself at the Rachael boot. So maybe not?) Now, the question is going to become: how do Livingston and myself navigate these next few tribals with Jake? We need to keep him safe and the target off his back. There's also Joey and Jaiden who I definitely want to keep working with moving forward. I think I'm in a decent spot. I really don't see Jaiden or Jake keeping their mouth shut if my name comes up. I think I've managed to build enough of a bond with them that they won't target me. My concern is definitely Ben being a little sneak, as well as Kailyn and Xavier, who really don't talk at all. John... can also be kinda sneaky and he also has been super quiet. However, when all is said and done, I just want a single digit placement. I don't care what happens before/after that, just please let me get there.

My first merge in 3 seasons of Tumblr Survivor, finally! It would be awesome if the tyrannical force of pink wasn’t here. Right now I’m practically a sitting duck. I’ve made connections with Jaiden and Joey who I just met, I’m hoping they’d watch my back. Ben and I are great friends from outside the game, we’re called the Jew-O Duo, for obvious reasons. I’m in a duo with Jeff called Jeff Squared, a duo with Pat called The Best Men, a trio with Liv and Keegan (that’s super dangerous cause I know they’re friends), and me John and Xavier are the Luxor Losers. I should feel protected - but I don’t. I need to keep working socially and hope that I can scoot by a couple more rounds. I wanna buddy up with Steph and Kailyn, I have no interest in working with Andrew after he flat out told me he wasn’t turning on Pink. It could be me tonight. We’ll just have to see.

....five seconds later

No. No no no no no no no. I'm sick of Andrew trying to get me out, and then going after my allies instead. I can't just sit here and let him walk all over me the entire game. He has been wishy washy and fake with me since I met him. I'm not gonna play a game of what ifs, I'm taking a gamble and gonna get his own tribe to flip on him. I've got enough information from Jeff, Pat, and Liv to spin into a lie. I know Andrew said my name - but Jeff and Keegan changed it to Ben, so if I tell Keegan that Andrew blamed him on my name coming up I think I can flip him. I can try to get John, Ben, and Xavier, Keegan can get Liv and Joey, that's 7. If it blows up in my face - Oh well. This is season 99! We're high rolling now.

Had a nice long conversation with Jake this morning. Andrew has been throwing my name under the bus for some reason? Well Andrew, better watch out because I’m driving that bus and swerving it at you. OG Palazzo is... not my favourite. Honestly I’m okay if it dies tonight. Jake, Livingston, Ben, Joey, Jaiden and myself can definitely switch things up. I imagine we can get John and Xavier on board as well, maybe even Kailyn. I was perfectly okay riding the pink wave for a few rounds, but Andrew you just had to go and mess that up. Why? For what reason? Hoping it’s you tonight. xoxo Gossip Girl

I feel good about tribal, rip Andrew I guess, but I'm nervous as hell for some reason that it could be me. It would be perfect because I don't even see it coming... :/

I don't know what happened, but there seems to be a "merging" of tribal lines. Which is good for me. The vote is going Andrew with 9. And the 4 are voting Ben. Or everyone is playing everyone. I am just happy I am not one of the options BUT I was told that Steph and I are being mentioned by people as a tight 2. Well, they're right, but I didn't want that to come out.

Andrew is being his paranoid self. And rightfully so. Unless I’m getting completely bamboozled, the vote should between 7 and 9 votes for Andrew, and between 6 and 4 votes for Ben. Fingers crossed this goes off without a hitch

Okay so premerge wasn’t too hard tbh. Just making friendships with my og palazzo. I just hope that every week people see someone else as less important to their game. I have a long mental game for this and I am prepared to take this game week by week and adjust to everything that comes. I just pray that I make it through this week and even if I lose Andrew I don’t mind tbh because then I have an idol to myself. I’m obsessed with Livingston tbh he’s so funny and I like a good amount of the people I didn’t get a chance to meet premerge so I think there’s good room to move about

After last tribal I honestly want Ben gone. He’s kind of rude and frustrating. OG Pallazzo has the numbers so in theory we should be set but who knows? 🤷🏼‍♀️

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crescentmoon223 · 4 years

Text

Two Worlds Collide Chapter 20

Read it on AO3 | Rated: NC-17 | Stella x Scully

Chapter 20

(This is the 3rd new chapter in 3 days - read it from the beginning here!)

Stella walked out of Scully’s flat and kept on walking, heels slamming into pavement, muscles moving, carrying her blindly forward. When she finally lifted her head, she had no idea where she was, an unfamiliar street somewhere in London. Actually, she could have been standing in front of her own building, and she wasn’t sure she’d recognize it.

The world around her seemed somehow altered, everything muted and strange. There was a dull whooshing noise in the back of her head like rushing water, threatening to drown her in her own misery. She blinked, attempting to bring her surroundings into focus. Spotting a sign for the Underground up ahead, she walked toward it. She didn’t often ride the tube. It was too crowded and unpredictable for her taste. She preferred taxis whenever possible. But right now, it would do.

She swiped her card, descended the escalator to the platform, and boarded a train that would take her back to the office, despite it being Saturday and despite having just worked for twenty-four hours straight. Whatever vibe she was giving off this morning seemed to work in her favor, at least. The other commuters parted around her as she walked, reminding her of a video she’d seen once of a shark swimming through a school of bait fish. For a brief moment, she considered snapping her teeth for effect. But, in the end, she just chose an empty seat and sat quietly.

Forty-five minutes later, she strode toward the comfort and familiarity of her own desk. This, at least, was the same as she’d left it. Black laminate strewn with reminders of the case she’d just closed, notes stuck to various surfaces, photos, strategies. With a heavy sigh, she sank into her chair.

“Stella?” DSI Chen stood in the doorway to her office. “I thought you’d gone home.”

“Forgot a few things,” she said, gesturing vaguely at her desk.

“Great job on the Swanson case,” Chen told her. “Really nice work.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, I won’t keep you,” he said, backing into the hall. “Go home and sleep. Enjoy your weekend.”

She nodded, and he left. Sleep. She hadn’t managed more than a catnap at her desk last night, but she couldn’t exactly curl up on her cot at this hour, and if she went home now, the empty flat would swallow her whole. Instead, she sat at her desk, staring blankly at the case notes in front of her, letting the morning pass her by.

Eventually, she became aware that people were staring, looking in at her as they passed her office, wondering what she was doing here on her day off and after just having solved her most pressing case. So, she gathered her things and left, but instead of going home, she went to the pool. She put on her swimsuit, and she swam, and she swam, and she swam.

Beneath the water’s protective surface, she removed her goggles, and she cried, releasing her tears as the water masked her emotions. She swam until the ache in her ribs resurfaced, and she wondered if it would ever fully go away. Would the ghost of Paul Spector always be there in her chest, reminding her of the way he’d beaten her?

She swam until she couldn’t swim anymore, and then she went home, just long enough to change her clothes and make herself presentable, to make it look as if she was a normal, functioning human being, but not long enough to let her mind wander to Scully, to smell the scent of her hair on Stella’s sheets or see one of Scully’s blouses mixed in with her own in the closet.

Then, she went back to work, because what else could she do? She sat at her desk and began making notes on the Petersen case, her next priority now that Swanson was closed. The next thing she knew, her eyes popped open. She sat up, disoriented, blinking as she realized she’d fallen asleep at her desk with her head on her arms.

Next to her mostly illegible Petersen notes, there was a sandwich and a can of soda, and before she could even wonder where they’d come from, she saw the note beside them, in Chen’s handwriting.

Thought you might need this.

And she felt such a warm surge of affection for him, she almost smiled. Chen was one of the few people in this world she could truly call a friend. She’d done this for him once, right after he’d split from his wife, reminding him to take care of himself. Because as she stared at the sandwich on her desk, she realized she hadn’t eaten today. She probably hadn’t eaten much yesterday either. And the dull, pounding headache currently assaulting her brain was the result.

So, she unwrapped the sandwich and ate, not really tasting it and not caring. She sucked down the can of soda, crawled onto the cot behind her desk, and slept.

The next week passed more or less the same. She worked. She swam. When she slept, it was usually on the cot behind her desk. In the back of her mind, she was aware the date for Scully’s flight home had come and gone, taking her back to Maryland, to the friends and family waiting there.

Scully had texted the day before her flight. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.

I won’t, Stella had replied. And then, Safe travels. And then, because she couldn’t quite help herself, I’ll miss you.

Scully hadn’t replied.

Now, she was gone.

And Stella was tired of her wretched post-Scully existence. It was time to move on, to get back to her real life, the one she’d led before Scully came swooping in with her warm eyes and big heart. There was only one way Stella knew to cleanse herself of emotional baggage. Well, only one way that she currently allowed herself to indulge.

So, when Friday rolled around, she left the office on time. She went home and changed into a casual black skirt and a beige top that showcased her tits, easy access so she could fuck with her clothes on. She dabbed a bit of perfume on her neck and carefully reapplied her makeup. And then she called a taxi to take her to one of her favorite bars, an upscale place with a luxury hotel next door, the perfect location for a hook-up.

She’d done this before, done it enough times that she didn’t even need to think through the steps. She sat and ordered a drink while her gaze roamed the bar, assessing her options like a leopard on the hunt. Almost immediately, her gaze settled on a man four seats down. Younger, clean-cut, with an enthusiastic air about him as he made idle conversation with the bartender. Just what she liked.

She imagined him whispering dirty words in her ear, the feel of his cock inside her, waiting for the rush of arousal that was sure to follow, but none did. Her body remained cold, indifferent. Still she watched him, appreciating the dusting of stubble on his cheek, his strong grip on the glass in his hand. He had nice hands. Nice hands were always a good sign.

As if he felt the weight of her gaze, he turned, and their eyes met. Handsome, even more so than she’d thought initially. And he recognized an invitation when he saw one. Within seconds, he had stood from his barstool, walking deliberately toward her.

“Mind if I take this seat?” he asked, gesturing to the empty stool beside her.

American. Perfect. Except it wasn’t. She’d already lost before she’d even made it out of the gate.

“Not at all,” she replied, crossing her right leg over her left, letting her foot bounce idly as she watched him sit.

“John Baker,” he said, extending a hand.

What a perfectly boring name, as unmemorable as the man beside her.

“Stella Gibson.” She gave his hand a quick, firm shake. “Are you here on business?”

“Yes,” he said with a nod before launching into an explanation that almost immediately became white noise in her ears. She caught the words “data acquisition management” and “global expansion.”

“How nice,” she said blandly, downing the last of her scotch.

“Can I buy you another round?” he asked, already gesturing for the bartender.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, giving him a look that expressed clearly what she wanted instead.

“I’m staying at the hotel next door,” he said, eyes wandering over her body, clearly liking what he saw. And she let him look. She let him look because that’s why she was here, after all.

“Perfect.” She stood, gathering her purse as he drained his drink, and then she led the way outside. They didn’t talk as they walked next door to the hotel. The evening breeze tossed her hair over her shoulders, cool, crisp. A shiver rolled over her skin.

She remembered another hotel, a lifetime ago, a deceptively innocent-looking redhead waiting to beckon her into her bed, into her life, into her heart. Stella clenched her jaw, looking pointedly at the man beside her. Jeff? John? What was his name?

It didn’t matter in the long run. She only needed a few hours of his time. She didn’t need to remember his name or anything else about him. They walked to the lift at the rear of the lobby, and he pressed the button to take them up.

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, ran her eyes over his body, ran the errant thoughts out of her mind. He stood close enough for her to smell the slightly-too-strong scent of his cologne and the alcohol on his breath. He held her gaze as he leaned in, lips pressing firmly against hers. Hard. Rough. His stubble pricked against her cheek. She’d always loved that about kissing a man, the play of rough against smooth, hard against soft.

“Everything all right?” he asked with an air of confusion, and only then did she realize she’d turned her face to the side, breaking the kiss.

She blinked at him in surprise, feeling nothing but cold inside where there should have been heat. No, she was not all right. Not even close. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve made a mistake.”

And she walked away, leaving him standing beside the lift, mouth slightly agape, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers.

***

“So, you and Dana broke up, huh?”

Stella looked up as Chen settled himself into the guest chair across from her desk, a sympathetic look on his face. “What gave it away?” she asked wryly.

“Oh, you know.” He gestured around them, the rumpled cot behind her and the trashcan overflowing with discarded coffee cups. “It was either that or you decided to give up your flat and move in here.”

She laughed softly, leaning back in her chair. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

“Want to talk about it?” he asked.

“Not really.” But there was no conviction behind her words.

Chen leaned back in his chair, resting his right foot against his left knee. “It was the same for me for a while after Aisling left me.”

“I remember,” she said. “How did you get past it?”

“Time,” he said with a shrug. “And work.”

She laughed bitterly. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Who dumped who?” he asked, comfortable enough in their friendship to push harder than most would dare, and since he was Chen, she allowed it.

“I did,” she admitted, unexpectedly relieved to finally talk about it out loud. Maybe he could tell her why she was still caught in this miserable limbo where she couldn’t get Scully out of her head, couldn’t move on, couldn’t seem to do much of anything at all.

“Why?”

“Because…” She paused, looking around her office as if the answer was tacked to the wall somewhere between case notes and crime scene photos. “The job. This life. I was afraid…I was afraid I couldn’t be what she needed me to be.”

“I see,” he said, staring at his hands.

“Why did Aisling leave you?”

“The job. This life.” He looked up with a sardonic smile. “The truth is, over the years, we grew apart. And the more distant I felt from her, the more I buried myself in work, until finally, there was no one there for me to come home to.”

“That is exactly what I feared,” Stella said softly, remembering the hurt in Scully’s eyes as she’d pushed her away, the tears on her cheeks. It tore at Stella’s heart even now.

“The thing is,” Chen said, “if I had it to do all over again, I’d still marry her. I’d still take that chance. And maybe this time I’d try a little harder to make things work.”

Stella inhaled sharply, fingernails biting into her thighs as she stared at him.

“Maybe we’d still fail,” he said. “But at least I’d know I tried.”

She shook her head. “You’d be setting yourself up to make the same mistake all over again.”

“Maybe. Aisling is a teacher. She was always home by dinnertime, and she wanted me to be too. She needed the steady, predictable kind of life that I couldn’t give her. But Dana’s like us. She works long shifts and unpredictable hours. She’s probably slept behind her desk too. Are you sure she really needed more than you could give her?”

You are enough, Scully had said that last day. You are enough.

Stella shook her head to clear away the memory “I didn’t want to hurt her.”

“Did you ever consider that you already did?”

She looked down at her desk, wishing she could put into words the rest of her fears, her inadequacies, all the reasons Scully would be better off without her. “No.”

#Two Worlds Collide #fanfic #stella and scully #Stella x Scully #The X Files #The Fall #Stella Gibson #Dana Scully

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selfcallednowhere · 4 years

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February 3, 2018 Dallas, TX

They opened with "James K. Polk." This surprised me--I expected them to keep doing it during the Quiet Storm section cos that was what they did the previous two nights. I'm honestly feeling pretty burned out on this song live after seeing it a million times--seeing it done acoustically during Quiet Storm was different enough to keep me interested, but when it's just the normal arrangement I am yeh rather sick of it.

Next they played "Damn Good Times," the second song all three nights on this trip, which I very much am not sick of even though I've seen that one a bunch too. It's one of my favorite live songs, actually--it's just SO FUN. "Hey, Mr. DJ, I Thought You Said We Had a Deal" was next and also superfun, even though the presence of Curt would've made it way better.

After that Flans said that this theater was "the box that rocks," and then, gesturing at the balcony, told us that we'd be meeting our accusers one by one and then all our verdicts would be read.

After "All Time What," Flans that it was time for the "fastest-singing portion" of the show, and that they were going to try to sing together. Then John said that this show was like a re-enactment of the instore they'd done earlier in the day cos so many of the same people were there. Then Flans said that he'd gotten our verdicts and we were all guilty.

I didn't really try to think about what song has them both singing really fast and singing together when he said it, but if I had I probably would've been able to figure out what the song was: "Letterbox." I was really excited to see it again, cos it's one of my top top top favorite songs.

After "New York City," Flans said that the show was "going too fast." Then he made them turn the house lights on for a "beard assessment." He said the beards looked "shockingly natural," and ordered a "round of beards" for everyone.

John said that they were going to be playing a lot of new songs and it was "a burden" and "a weight pressing down and crushing everything." I don't understand why they kept acting like we were going to hate seeing the new songs so much--I loved it and actually wished they would play more new songs.

Then Flans said that what they were aiming for was volume, and "as Bob Dylan said, there's just too much sound." Then they played a little bit, and Flans said if you buy I Like Fun you can get "all your favorite classical themes in one set."

Then they played "Mrs. Bluebeard." John really mangled the lyrics when they played it for the first time two days prior to this, but then the next day he did a lot better and only screwed up a couple of times and I was proud of him! But this time he was back to screwing up all over the place again. I was amused because afterwards he said "That's how it goes!" NO IT ISN'T JOHN. (Yes, I of course understand that he knew that too and that was the joke.)

Next they played "Music Jail, Pt. 1 & 2" which is one of my fav Glean songs, so I'm glad that one is still in the set.

After "Particle Man" and then "The Famous Polka," Flans said that they were playing two sets, which gives plenty of time to email and text.

Then:

JL: We're playing a lot of new songs, so bear with us. JF: No one likes the new songs, John. But we've already locked the doors!

Then there was this really obnoxious and probably drunk woman screaming for "When the Lights Come On," which they were most likely going to play anyway because they'd already played it at every other show on the tour. They said they weren't gonna play it and she just kept screaming for it. Then Flans said that they were gonna play it but now they weren't because of her, and then she started yelling "BUT I LOVE YOU," which made Flans tell a story about how they played at Bonnaroo which "is like being on the surface of Mars, you want to be anywhere else, and we were getting paid," and he met someone who told him how TMBG meant so much to them "and by the way, I love '500 Miles.'" Then the obnoxious woman went back to screaming, and I guess Flans figured there was no way to get her to shut the fuck up besides playing the song, so he asked John if he wanted to play it and John said "Sure. Fuck it." So then they played it and it was COMPLETELY AWESOME like it had been the other times I'd seen it, but also I was just happy to not have to hear that woman screaming anymore, and I'm sure all the rest of the crowd and the band and well anyone else in the building actually were too.

After "Your Racist Friend" they played "Nothing's Gonna Change My Clothes," YES YES YES. Even though I'd just seen it the day before I was ecstatic, since it's one of my fav songs and I've only seen it live a handful of times.

Next came "Cyclops Rock"--I'm really happy that's one of the Mink Car songs they've brought back into the set. It's great live--SO ROCKIN'.

Afterwards, Flans asked John about the current political climate.

JL: It's awesome! JF: Who needs nightmares when you have daymares? Things are gonna be great...later.

John introduced "The Mesopotamians" by saying that when he was a kid in 3000 BC there was a TV show about them.

Then came the set break and then Quiet Storm, the first three songs of which were the same as the previous two nights: "Older" and "I Like Fun" with the contra-alto clarinet, then "Tippecanoe and Tyler Too" on accordion. Before the third Flans said they were "Tres Might Be Giants" and made Marty give a sample of what he can do with the electronic drums.

After that there was something that really upset me:

JF: How are you, John? How are you doing with that accordion? JL: I'm ok. The accordion...just have to deal with it.

This is definitely not the first time I've witnessed him complaining about how much he hates playing accordion these days and I'm sure it won't be the last, but it still really upsets me every single time because seeing him play it is pretty much my favorite thing.

Then Flans was talking about the storm sound effects--he reassured us that they are in fact not just fans blowing in mics.

Then they played MY THEME SONG. Nothing is ever going to be as special as seeing it for the first time the day before, but I was still unbelievably excited to see it again.

After that they played something they hadn't played either of the previous two days: "Meet James Ensor." So that was an unexpected surprise. I love that song, and I thought it worked really well in this format.

Then the band came back on stage. Flans introduced Dan as being "the finest guitarist in They Might Be Giants."

Next they played "Istanbul." I'm so unbelievably sick of this song live, but I do at least like the crazy jam session at the end of it. Flans jumped up on Marty's drum riser for part of it and it was silly.

Afterwards, Flans said he was sick of that acoustic music and that it "reminded him of his folkie days." Then he asked whoever was in charge of the A/C to turn it on (he was right, it was for some reason really warm even though it was chilly outside). Then he said that the next song they had to play "out of contractual obligation to our band."

The song was "Number Three," which is superfun live. It's become one of the Pink songs I've seen the most cos they've been playing it a lot the last few years, but I always really enjoy it.

Afterwards Flans said that they wanted to thank "the guy holding the beer perilously close to the end of his fingertips."

Then:

JF: This next song is from the album Glean, everybody. JL: That's right. JF: All the way back to 2015! JL: Not a song that we have to do. A song that we get to do. JF: Think about the good old days. 2015. Things seemed so...so normal then. No dystopian...hellscape.

They played "Answer," and then John put his accordion on and Dan came over to the keyboard. Flans said that he was getting on the keyboard "where he belongs," and I was like "Ummmm how does the keyboard player feel about you saying that?" But HEY if you ask me John does belong with his accordion on, not behind the keyboard.

The next song was a major show highlight for me: "Put Your Hand Inside the Puppet Head"! This is a very special song to me, it was my very first fav TMBG song (in other words the one I'd most rock out to as a 5-year-old hearing my dad play his cassette of Pink), and I still love it dearly now. I've only seen it a handful of times, so it was a big deal.

Next they played "Doctor Worm," which wasn't as big a deal since I've seen it a million times, but still really fun as always.

Flans was mentioning where the next few shows are going to be, and said if we know anyone in those places we should tell them to come to the shows.

Then:

JL: If you don't know anyone in those towns...the first letter of each city...backwards spells out...an important message. I know it seems like a random tour where you like...it's like drawing a star on the map. There really is a reason for it. JF: Our booking agent is keeping it a secret from us. JL: Yes, he hasn't told us what the message was. We haven't been able to figure it out. JF: But it appears the letters spell out some kind of swear word. JL: Yes. Something very harsh. JF: It seems to be some kind of swear word and then the words "you guys." We're not sure what it means. It's impossible to know what that message could mean. JL: Before we get off-track here. Apparently--there's a thing called the Kessler effect. [The name of the venue was The Kessler.] And I believe it originated here. What it is, is when stuff in space starts smashing into each other and...all of space is destroyed. Do you guys know about this? And I don't know why but this theater is the very first part of that chain. The Kessler effect. JF: I first heard about it when we were described as the Kessler effect of bands. JL: I mean, yeh. We've smashed into, um...Soup Dragons, I believe.

(I thought he might've been making this whole thing up, but my friend Ant, who's very knowledgeable about space stuff, informed me that no it's a real thing, it actually is when stuff in space smashes into other stuff and they break apart, and it can actually be really dangerous. The "all of space is destroyed" part I'm pretty sure he made up though!)

Then they played "The End of the Tour," which is so good live (though I do think it works best as a show closer).

Next came "Spy," lots of fun as always. At each show I'd been to John played a sample of something as part of his improv part--this time it was "Here Comes Santa Claus," which was silly. I also managed to scream during the parts when Flans was trying to get everyone in the crowd to scream, even though I was feeling almost weak from excitedly singing along with every song and screaming after they played songs I particularly loved.

Then they played "I Left My Body," which was the last I Like Fun song of the night. I really loved all the new songs I got to see them play, but I just wish they'd played even more!

They closed out the main set with "Twisting," which was, as always, COMPLETELY KICKASS. For some reason Dan was singing the "she wants" backing vocals instead of John--I'm not sure what was up with that and I didn't like it.

They started the first encore with "Let Me Tell You About My Operation." This is my current favorite Flansong, so I love seeing it live.

Flans said that the next song was their new single, which I was confused by because they'd already played "I Left My Body" (which wasn't a single exactly, but the closest thing the album had). But he was just joking--it was actually "Why Does the Sun Shine?", which is of course very much not a new song. John informed us that things that are a gas on the sun included Fiestaware, which he held up his red mug when he said (holding tea instead of coffee this time, I noticed, as evidenced by the string and tag sticking over the edge). He paused for a long time before the list of things that the heat and light of the sun are caused by the nuclear reaction between, but finally it was "Stuff! Things! Items! And objects!" He is so silly!

The first song of the second encore was "Wicked Little Critta," and they closed the show the same way they did the night before: with "Birdhouse in Your Soul." A perfect close to a perfect night.

John continued on his "stripey shirts, nothing but stripey shirts" streak, so he was 3/3 on this particular show trip for me. This time it was a black and white stripey t-shirt that I don't think I've ever seen him wear before.

#tmbg #show reviews

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galadrieljones · 5 years

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The Lily Farm - Chapter 38

AO3 | Masterpost

Rating: M (Mature) - sexual content, violence, and adult themes

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey to the north, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life, like the wilderness, is full of uncertainty and complications, and as they embark on their desperate search for meaning together, they endure many trials, some small, some big—all of which bring them closer to one another, and to their future.

Chapter 38: Wild Horses

Childhood living is easy to do.

-The Rolling Stones, "Wild Horses"

“Your wife,” said Eagle Flies. He and Arthur were up on the top of a hill, looking down at the great oil refinery of the Heartlands. It was bustling, sundown. “I noticed that she shielded her stomach, when she was defending you, back in St. Denis. She is pregnant.”

Arthur did not look away from his binoculars. “Yep.”

Eagle Flies sighed. “I understand now why you were so reluctant to help us, and why money is so important. I am sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, son,” said Arthur, chewing on a reed. “What’s being done to you is beyond repair, and Mary Beth was right. Standing idly by is an old habit for me. I’m trying to be better. Granted, I never thought that being better would mean stealing from the State Government, but as I said the other day, morality is relative.”

“Morality is relative,” said Eagle Flies, staring off into the distance, at the pink clouds. “That is a wise sentiment. Is it yours?”

“No,” said Arthur. “Belongs to some German.”

“A German?”

“A writer. I can’t even pronounce his name, but when you live like I do, you got a lot of time on your hands.”

“What does that mean?” said Eagle Flies.

“It means I’ve read practically everything. Now come here, take a look at this.” Arthur handed him the binoculars, directed him to watch the covered wagons rolling in through the front gate. “Wagons are going in and out through there, on supply runs. Probably a couple times a day.” He squinted into the sky, glanced around, tipped his hat backward so he could assess the weather. “There’s a storm on the horizon, over that way.” He pointed south. “I wait till dark, I may not beat the rain.”

“It is unsafe for you to go during the daylight. Also, if those files are as incriminating as we believe, Mr. Cornwall’s men will destroy them if they see you coming.”

“On that I agree with you,” said Arthur. He took a deep breath, put his hands on his hips and thought hard. “Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen. The sun’ll be down in one hour. When it is, I’m gonna stow away on one of them wagons, next one comes through. If nothing comes in due time, I will find some other way in, but I reckon this will work.”

“Do we need a contingency?”

“Hopefully not,” said Arthur. “But you hear bullets start to fly, son, that means I may need your help.”

“I am on it,” said Eagle Flies.”

“Who am I looking for.”

“The foreman’s name is Danbury,” said Eagle Flies, handing the binoculars back to Arthur. “He has the files we need in his office, above the refinery room. It’s that window, with the blinds drawn up.”

Arthur glanced through the binoculars, quickly. “I see it. What will the files say, the ones I’m looking for?”

“There’ll be a report from Leland Oil Development Company.”

“Very good,” said Arthur. He sat down, leaning against a great rock, studying the refinery and how it was this huge and ugly mass, leaking poison into the heart of the land. He lit a cigarette, offered one to Eagle Flies who politely declined.

“You got a wife, Mr. Eagle Flies?” said Arthur after a little while, taking off his hat, smoothing the lining within.

“No,” said Eagle Flies. He sat down next to Arthur, took to sharpening his hunting knife.

“You want one?”

Eagle Flies shot him a look, but he was curious. “One day. There is a girl.”

“A girl, huh.”

“Yes.”

“Well, do yourself a favor then,” said Arthur, smoking, “and refrain from starting any wars. Women, you see, they’re smarter than us, and they don’t take too kindly to that sort of stupidity.” He closed his eyes to the breeze, blowing northerly. He could feel the rain on it, like a bite.

“Sometimes, war is an unavoidable consequence.”

“Indeed it is,” said Arthur. He plucked up a long piece of grass, started shredding it in his fingertips. “Just—I know that you’re young, Eagle Flies, and you got a lot of blood running through your veins and your ego, but try to listen to your father on this. He may know a fair bit more than you think he does.”

“Is your father living?”

Arthur laughed to himself. “No. He died when I was a teenager.”

“Did you listen to him. When he was alive.”

Arthur studied the tip of his cigarette, watched the ashes burn off and fall into the dirt. “Only as far as I had to to survive. But my father was a bad man. Yours is a good man. I can just tell.”

“Good men fail all the time, Mr. Morgan,” said Eagle Flies. It was a sad sentiment. Arthur was staring into the advancing twilight, how it fell in purple hues across the land and over the refinery. The wind was picking up. The clouds now covered half the sky.

“You got a point,” said Arthur.

He knew exactly what Eagle Flies meant. He saw no clean answer.

Meanwhile, back at Shady Belle, John and Abigail were slated to head to St. Denis, where Dutch wanted them on a job together, scouting the trolley station on a tip from Angelo Bronte. Initially, he had planned on doing said recon himself; however, Hosea said no. After the wedding and such business as Hanging Dog, Dutch needed to lie as low as possible, and with Arthur out on other business, it was pretty much John and Abbie or bust. It was good to use a pretty lady on a job like this, said Hosea. Trolley clerks are idiots. Desperate for somebody to think they’re important, they’ll bite the first baited hook they see all day.

It had been raining something awful that morning in the swamps. A nasty storm whipped through off the Lanahechee, headed north with alarming speed. A straight-line wind came through, tipped Pearson’s wagon over. Nobody got hurt, but it was an awful mess. The storm left behind it some humidity, and a brand new heat in its wake. The sun came out, drying everything, illuminating the destruction. Mary Beth and Abigail were tidying the chickens, gathering eggs. Abigail chose two to put on the slaughter, as the stew had been destroyed and the camp needed food. Charles had left to find boar, and Sadie was out on the perimeter. John, now that their trip to the city had been delayed half a day, was hauling up the wagon with help from Bill and Javier. It was hot and he was smoking, and he stripped shirtless along with several of the men doing the heavy lifting that day. Mary Beth had a skirt full of eggs, and Abigail held those two chickens that she had broke at the neck. They stood watching the boys haul up that wagon to its busted axels. Pearson stood by in shambles, complaining like his livelihood had been destroyed. John barked at him to shut the fuck up. It wasn’t so bad. It was just a goddam hiccup.

Mary Beth watched Abigail, who watched John. She seemed bothered. Both women were in white sleeveless blouses and sweating in the sun.

“You okay?” said Mary Beth, nudging.

“What?” said Abigail, as if disturbed. “No. Or, yes. Goddammit. I’m fine.”

“I was just askin,” said Mary Beth.

Abigail sighed, looked at her. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little on edge. This heat is makin me itch.”

“I hear you. How’s John?”

This seemed to stir up something. They could hear him shouting out orders then, and the other men followed. Miss Grimshaw was comforting Mr. Pearson, who sat on a wet log with his head in his hands.

“Abigail?”

“What?”

Mary Beth shrugged.

“Oh, shit,” said Abigail. She took Mary Beth by the hand then, dragged her over to the porch where it was they could not be overheard.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” said Abigail.

“Okay,” said Mary Beth, pushing the sweaty hair off her face. There were flies buzzing, too. “Did something happen, with you and John?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” said Abigail, shaking her head, reading Mary Beth’s mind. “No. That’s just the thing. No. Nothing." She took a deep breath. “Something keeps…coming close. To happening. But it never does.”

“Hmm,” said Mary Beth. “I see.”

“Yeah, well.”

“How long has it been for you two?”

“Lord knows,” said Abigail, studying her nails. She dropped the chickens into the long leather sack she had flung over shoulder. “Years. We ain’t been—I mean, we ain’t really been on any kind of terms in a long time. It just…it’s been a lot of complications. With Jack. But Jack is his. He’s his. I swear it. I slept with other of these fools but not then, not no more. I picked John, and after that, I didn't touch a one of them.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” said Mary Beth. “I understand.”

“Don’t know how you could,” said Abigail, gazing at John as he worked. “I don’t mean that like, any kind of insult. Just the opposite. You and Arthur, you seem so sturdy? He’s such a—a man, you know? Just such a goddam man. He always has been. Like he was born that way.”

Mary Beth swatted at a fly that was getting up in her hair, and then she sat down on one of the chairs there, right by the front door. Abigail followed suit, sat beside her. “He’s got his own albatross to bear, Abbie,” said Mary Beth. “It ain’t that simple, I promise.”

“Oh, shit. I know. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“It’s really okay,” Mary Beth went on. “I just, I know how we must seem. Like a whirlwind, getting married. And I love him so much, I do, but it ain’t pie, being with Arthur. He ain’t a easy man. Maybe his demons don’t manifest like John’s, but he’s older. He’s different. It’s just different.”

“I get it,” Abigail said, breathing. She placed her hand on Mary Beth’s knee. “I do.”

Mary Beth cradled the eggs in her skirt, looked down at them, counted. There were fourteen in all. “I know you do.”

“You worried about him?” said Abigail.

“Yes,” said Mary Beth, taking a deep breath. “It’s strange. Before we got together, I loved him still, but I didn’t worry about him, not really. It’s like, like I knew he was coming back, no matter what, back then. He was like a knight of legends, a hero who could never die. But now? I don’t know. Maybe because I know him better, because I seen him in the dim light of the evening, because I've lived with him, right on the cusp, and the two of us, we been together under some awful predicaments, but also a lot of joy. Loving him, knowing what he does, and knowing what's out there, I worry all the goddam time. I mean, I shot a man to save his life. What if I hadn't been there? I think about that, constantly. Sweet Jesus.”

Abigail nodded like she understood. “You’re pregnant, too,” she said. “Being pregnant makes you feel all sorts of…anxiety. Trust me, I know.”

“I keep having these vivid dreams. More like nightmares,” said Mary Beth, “that he’s dead, or that he never existed at all, but I’m still pregnant. In one, he was being dragged away by a wild horse on a mountain. Drug him right off a cliff. It’s terrifying.”

“I get that,” said Abigail. “I do. I had the same sorts of dreams when I was pregnant with Jack.”

“And I’m so goddam thirsty. Like, just so thirsty. I drink so much water, and yet, I’m always thirsty. Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Abigail. “But that ain’t really gonna go away for a long time. Try fruit juice? Juice always made me feel better. I liked orange juice with Jack.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” said Mary Beth, smiling.

“Me, too,” said Abigail.

They looked back at the boys then, out in the yard. John was taking a break, drinking some water and finishing his smoke. He had his hair knotted off his face. He glanced at them, waved sarcastically.

“John Marston,” scolded Abigail, but she blushed. He smiled and looked away.

Mary Beth found this very sweet. “So what do you think?” she said. “You gonna let him back into your bed or what?”

“Excuse me?”

“In St. Denis. You guys are going tonight, right? You’ll stay the night, won’t you?”

Abigail looked down at her boots. “Yeah, we're staying the night,” she said. “But I don't know. He kisses me goodnight, every night lately. Since your wedding, in fact. We been sleeping in the same bed, sometimes. We just ain’t been, you know, doing anything but sleeping.” She seemed nervous as she spoke of it, fidgety. She kept fussing with her hem. “I don’t know why I’m so goddam anxious.”

“I do,” said Mary Beth, shrugging. “It’s a big deal, Abbie. The two of you is…you’re getting strong again. It only makes sense, that you’d be thinking about it. Do you want to?”

“Yes,” said Abigail, without hesitation. “I just—I keep feeling like I’m ready, but then the time comes, and I choke. He ain’t never once pushed me or even made the suggestion. And he's been drinking less, so he's not even his idiot self no more, looking for a bite anywhere he can. He's changed. I know he’s waiting on me, but I just don’t know what’ll get me there.”

“You’ll know,” said Mary Beth, confident. “Like you said, it’s been real complicated for you guys. But when the time is right, you’ll know. Trust your gut. And don’t put no pressure on tonight. I was just kidding with you.”

Abigail blushed, her eyes bright. “Thank you, Mary Beth.” She seemed young and looked so pretty in the sunlight. It always felt like she was so much older, because she had a son, but her and Mary Beth were the same exact age. “You need anything, picked up in the city?”

“We was just there,” said Mary Beth. “So, no.”

“Maybe I’ll get you some juice. What kind you like?”

“Anything,” said Mary Beth sighing. “Juice would be good though. I ain’t had none in years. Thanks.”

“Arthur is fine,” said Abigail. “He’ll be back in less than a week.”

“Yeah,” said Mary Beth, trying to smile. “I mean, he should be.”

“He will be.”

Jack came running up then, comically, as he had to pee and wasn’t brave enough to go by himself yet. He was prancing about and had two toads in his possession, one in each of the pockets of his jeans.

Later that night, John and Abigail were in St. Denis. They rode in after straightening out that business with Pearson’s wagon, and it had gotten dark, and the lights of the city were buzzing overhead in advertisement of a finer, more organized and upscale existence. They had not shared in any such romance for some time. Abigail recalled how, once in Denver right after they met, they had stolen tickets to a show off a southern gentleman with an alligator briefcase. They sat in the back, reveling in the mystery of ladies dancing on stilts, and then they left and took a walk to a little lake there, holding hands and looking up at the stars. John remembered, too, as he tied up their horses outside the saloon and guided her through the doors and into the tasteful raucous within.

“You was wearing a green dress,” he said, bashful. “I remember, it had moons on the collar.”

“Geez,” said Abigail. “Not even I remembered the moons.”

“Well it looked good on you.”

They got a table toward the back. A girl came around and took their orders. They got a plate of fish to share and a couple glasses of whiskey with water splashed in.They ate and drank and talked a little. John went up to pay the tab and came back to the table with two keys.

“We should hit the hay,” he said. “It’s late. Trolley station opens early.”

“What you got there?”

“Oh. One for me, and one for you.” He gave her one single, solitary key.

She held it in her hand, and she looked at him. “Two, huh?”

He shrugged. “I just figured.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding.

He gave her his hand and helped her up from the table and they walked past the bar, saying goodnight to the bartender, and then they went upstairs. As they parted, John said goodnight, and he kissed her in his sweet way that was becoming more reliable with each night, a little like he was. When she went into the room and closed the door behind her, she sat down on the bed and thought about what had incited this change inside him. The bed was vast and soft, and the covers were full of decoration and tassels and things, and there were these pretty glass doors that led out to the balcony, which overlooked the bustling city below.

John had started being different almost the very day he went on that fishing trip with Arthur. Arthur’s proposal that they travel up to find a better life had infused him with something, shaped him up a little bit. Some tiny seed of opportunity had taken root and started growing and he had just become a better person, and for her, the quiet, far away hope of lily farms in Wisconsin—and whether they were even real or some symbolic figments of the imagination did not matter—it had brought stillness and comfort and made her better, too.

She started digging through her valise and found a tin of tobacco and some rolling papers. She made up a few cigarettes, kept one out to smoke and put the rest in her pocket. She went outside, out the glass doors with a book of matches. Leaning against the balcony, she smoked and took her hair down and enjoyed the cool air of the evening, listening with intent to a conversation going on below between a couple of guys who sounded drunk and like they were going in on some cockamamie business venture together. They looked young and educated and all kinds of stupid. She was smiling.

“Sounds like they got it all figured out,” said John. He had come out as well, to the balcony. She was surprised to see him. It seemed the balcony was one big affair and it wrapped around the whole building, connecting all the rooms in all the hotel above the saloon.

Feeling warm around the rim of her collar, she offered him one of the cigarettes from her pocket as well as a match. He thanked her, took the cigarette, but he had his own match. He leaned on the balcony same as her. He’d taken a bath in the lake before they left for St. Denis with some of Mary Beth’s lavender soap she had stolen off a well-to-do passing through Valentine. He smelled clean, even as the ride over from Shady Belle had been rough and long.

“This ain’t nothing like Denver City,” said John, smoking, “but it sure is something.”

“Yeah,” said Abigail, looking down at her hands on the rail. “That was a whole different life.”

They stood beside one another, smoking for a while. At some point, John finished his cigarette, tossed it to the floor of the balcony and stamped it out with the toe of his boot. “Well, Abbie,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Wait,” she said, grabbing his hand.

“Something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” she said. She held his hand in both of hers. She looked down at his veins and how they traveled through his hands and his whole body, their outlines raised in his skin. His hands were big and rough, and like the dirt just lived inside them now. They had always been like that, from the first time he held her. “Come inside,” she said, finding his eyes. “With me. Stay with me tonight.”

John seemed to fix on her, focused. He was searching for the second thoughts back there, but he was coming up empty, because there were none. "Okay," he said.

She got up on her tip-toes, and she kissed him. This time, it was not a goodnight kiss but something more. He seemed taken by surprise at first, but he gave in fast, put his hands on her waist. When they parted, they looked softly at one another. John seemed expectant, but nervous. She took his hand and led him through the door to the bed where they undressed and found each other again, by the lights of the big city. Mary Beth had been right, in that Abigail would know when it was time, and it was. In truth, as she felt his warmth and his dedication to her and to her body, and she guided him inside of her and together, they left their old lives behind them, Abigail was no longer sure what she had been waiting for.

That night, Mary Beth was looking after Jack at Shady Belle with some help from Tilly and Miss Grimshaw. Together, as Mr. Pearson worked tirelessly to reorganize his provisions, the three of them baked a dewberry pie with berry crop that Charles had foraged and brought back upon his hunting excursion in the bayou. They shared the pie with the whole camp, and everybody had a piece save for Micah who sat in the shadows like some sort of outsider, cleaning his shotgun and whistling a tune. Javier played his guitar, and Uncle slapped his thigh and drank and led them together in a song. The Reverend went to bed early. Dutch had even come downstairs at some point. He seemed a little lost without Molly, even as it had been him who’d asked her to go. Hosea sat with him in the gazebo and they ate together, Mary Beth thought probably talking about the old days or the new days coming, or perhaps talking about nothing at all. She slept in her and Arthur’s bed with Jack, as there had been coyotes cackling in the distance, and he was frightened for some reason and did not want to be alone.

“I don’t like coyotes,” said Jack in his little voice.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Mary Beth. She told him a story of a nice coyote who wore a hat and a jacket and went into town one day to buy a Christmas ham for him and his wife. Jack listened and asked if she could include a knight in her story, and a battle with a dragon on the top of a mountain, and of course she obliged before they both fell asleep.

Meanwhile, Arthur sat alone, under the stars beside Moonstone Pond in Ambarino, thinking of Eagle Flies and how he had saved his life back in them oil fields, and the operation had been successful. It complicated everything. He’d caught a fish for dinner and cooked it plain and smoked and nursed a cup of gin. The earth was damp, and he had to sit on a log, but generally speaking, where he sat now was the same spot he and Mary Beth had camped some months before, on their way up to the Roanoke Valley, as they pried each other open for the first time and bonded over their broken dreams. A couple of busted umbrellas. That is what she had called them. The sounds of nature were loud and familiar here, and Diana slept soundly. He missed Sarah. He thought of her often, but he had promised Diana to Kieran, and it was getting to be time that he moved on, got himself a new mare.

That next morning he was gonna ride over to Annesburg to meet up with Texas Rangers Call and LaBeouf. The hideout they were gonna raid was in Roanoke Ridge near the Kamassa, and he had a pretty good idea of where. He hoped to stop through O’Creagh’s Run to say hello to Hamish and perhaps get some fishing in, and so he planned to get going real early. Even still, sleep eluded him. He drew a picture of Mary Beth’s face by the light of the fire, how he remembered her from their wedding day, and he drew the pond, too, and how the moonlight glanced through the broken clouds that still lingered after the storm. Sometimes lately, he would stop to remember how things had happened, and the fact he was a married man, and he would look down at the ring given to him by Mary Beth. It comforted him beyond the edges of the earth. He took a deep breath and tried thinking of horses. He knew there was a good stable south of Annesburg near Van Horn, or else he could always head back to St. Denis. That is where he might find a quality steed. He did not feel up to breaking a new horse. That is what he decided. The timeline was already tight, with him scheduled to get back just a day or two prior to the riverboat job, and if he was gonna break a horse, he wanted it to be a prized girl. A real nice filly he could take with him anywhere. He had heard of wild Arabians living like nomads up in the Grizzlies, and he thought, maybe one day, once he got all this shit behind him and they were actually headed north, they could stop in them mountains for a day or two, and he’d catch one, maybe two, maybe even one for each of them if John was willing to help and his patience held out.

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thelonelytraveler11 · 6 years

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Is this really the best I can do?!

It's been three years since I've done any form of research. I haven't worked in almost three years. Just in case anyone's wondering, yes, I filled out job applications (a lot, like ~250 before I gave up). For the past couple years, I've been living off my savings, the little bit of money I get from my family, and the little bit of money I get from having part time jobs. My work experience since dropping out has been pretty dismal (on average), I haven't been able to hold down a job that gave an appreciable amount of money for longer than 3 months at a time without being fired or being so miserable that I just said "fuck it" and quit.

I understand the concern some may have. You may consider it my fault for being unemployed. Quitting a job that I'm miserable while doing may seem irrational or irresponsible, but speaking as a person who spent almost the entirety of his college years being miserable, I can say with all honesty that being broke is better than being miserable. I envy those that can’t seem to comprehend my way of thinking, because that probably means they have a very good life. I wouldn't want to work in an environment that negatively affects my emotional state for 4 decades anyways. Having disposable income isn’t more important than my well being. Having a job I actually enjoy doing is very important to me because I don't have many sources of happiness in my life.

I'm kind of a loner. I don't have a strong relationship with any of my relatives and I don't have friends anymore (and even more troubling, I don't care to have those types of relationships anymore). The only potential source of happiness is my job. I don't foresee me failing in love or developing a close relationship with anyone. If the current trend continues, I think its more probable that it doesn’t happen.

I feel numb most of the time and when I do feel something, I'm usually thinking about my college days and that something is usually anger. It honestly was my biggest regret, going to the University of Illinois. Sometimes I wished I never went to college. Literally the only thing that was even remotely good about my college experience was my grades, everything else sucked. Looking back, I wish I went back to working at CVS after I graduated from HS.

In the alternate timeline, I probably would have been better off in the long run (very little stress, no debt, live rent free at my mom's house for a couple of years after graduation while working a presumably full time job which would enable me to save up a fair amount of cash before moving out). Instead, I came away with nothing. My college education was completely worthless, I reaped no benefits from being a degree recipient. All I did was waste 7 years of my life and thousands of other people’s dollars studying stuff that ultimately wouldn't matter. If I were a benefactor for the UIUC department of chemistry, I would be pissed to hear my story because that means my money isn't being put to good use, especially if I added into one of the scholarships that was awarded to me.

So, I know what your wondering, why am I writing this post? Well, I was trying to get ride time with CFD and I called for a specific person that wasn't in. Someone took a message and wrote my name down as Joel Dennison. Dennison was the last name of the NMR guy at UCI. That got me thinking about my college days and how I hated basically everyone. I caught myself looking through emails and for the most part, the more I read, the more I remembered, the more enraged I got. Now that's one sure fire way to put me in a bad mood, get me thinking about the bad ol' days. I bet many of the people I went to grad school with are enjoying their careers, while I was completely forgotten (and if they're not enjoying them, well at least they have them).

I’ve always wondered why were the other students so complicit? Is racism really that prevalent? Is there something else going on? See, it's one thing to not say anything while they were still students because it runs the risk of them being treated like I was treated. But to not even offer a helping hand even after their careers were established, knowing what they know, is un-fucking-real.

I never really felt welcomed in chemistry. People seemed to be more in love with the idea of me. I noticed the longer I stayed, the worse I was treated. At U of I, it was .... kinda bad. I experienced a form a discrimination where I would have written essentially the same answer as my lighter counterparts but received lower grades (slightly lower, but still). People assumed I did well in certain classes because the professor "liked me" (pretty sure no one at U of I liked me much). People also made statements that are crazy racist and then tried to pass them off as jokes. I fucking hated life in Champaign-Urbana.

SIDE NOTE: the following story doesn't necessarily reflect the chemists, but it does represent a subset of the student body at U of I. So, I'm sitting in the cafeteria with three dudes I already knew and some guy from the next table looks over to me and says "Sorry, if I offended you". I calmly replied "what did you say?" And Oh....My....God.... the look of utter fear was plastered all over his face. I said, "What did you say?", again, calmly. I can not stress enough that I was visibly calm throughout this entire situation. And then I noticed he was shivering, I figured I would warm up a lil bit by using my hot ass breath, so I repeated the question louder and slower (you know, to give the guy's body time to come to thermal equilibrium), again.......calmly. He was still frozen in fear. So now I am mentally gearing up to jump across this table to snatch this little boy's neck out from under him. And then something miraculous happened, my tunnel vision broke down and I realized someone was calling me. It was Jon (one of the kids I was sitting with) telling me to drop it...so I did......so, yeah, that's the story of how I almost got kicked out of U of I for snatching the neck out from under some little white kid during sophomore year.  

But there was one instance of me being the butt of racist jokes in chemistry that I can remember. Then UIUC grad student, John Overcash (who I believed worked for Ken Suslick), made mention of me "cooking crack up in the kitchen" on more than one occasion. Apparently, since I was a black chem major (that specialized in organic chemistry) I must have been a drug dealer beforehand. Or maybe he thought I was a drug dealer then....who knows...

To make matters worst, people have used the stuff other people made up to put themselves a head of me. Senior year I had an interview with eli lilly. My interview was at 9 am and there was one person interviewing before me at 8 am. The 8 am slot was taken by one Joseph Cullen (a fellow undergrad). During the end of his interview , I could vaguely hear what was said, but it sounded like Cullen told the interviewers that I was a drug dealer. The door opens up, the interviewer shoots me a look and goes into the room where my interviewers were and talks to them. Meanwhile Cullen walks past me. I give him a thumbs up and he walks away chuckling to himself. These are not good signs. I can’t say for certain that these people really believed I was a drug dealer, but their behavior suggested it. It was their reaction to me saying the phrase "nice white crystalline product", that’s what suggested it. I was describing the physical characteristics of the product from a reaction I ran and it just so happen to be a white crystalline solid (...smh). What I want to know why were these people so quick to believe Cullen? Yes, what Cullen said could be true (which it wasn't) but couldn't it also be true that he's trying to give himself a better chance of getting a job by undercutting the competition?

I wish I got a job offer as an undergrad. I honestly didn't want to go to grad school, but I had no other choice. Visiting grad schools was a whole ordeal, I was told in one way or another that I wasn’t welcomed ... at every school. At Scripps I was told explicitly that I wasn’t good enough to be there by complete strangers (how exactly would they know given that they never assessed my ability to think ... who knows). At Indiana University, I was placed in a hotel room by myself because they heard I slept naked. At UCI, I was told that I wouldn’t make it pass my first year (again, by complete strangers). At Caltech, I was told I didn’t belong because I was a drug dealer (or that I look like a drug dealer, apparently).

Now, I ask you, how do drug dealers look exactly? What are they’re defining characteristics? I ask because if you asked someone who lived in Champaign-Urbana for four years to imagine what a drug dealer looks like, they might imagine a srcawny white boy in a frat (not someone that looks like me). What makes the Caltech visit even weirder was that Prof. Sarah Reisman was just standing by, staring at me while I was being told I didn’t belong (by the help, you know, the people who was serving drinks). It was like she was trying to read my facial expressions to get a sense of what type of person I was (or am). Or was she using the help as a proxy to express her own thoughts (I’m not sure)? Was she waiting for me to “defend myself”?  How would I be able to do that exactly?

SIDE NOTE: it’s impossible to defend yourself when there’s no evidence for or against whatever accusations there may be. It all comes down to what people choose to believe. The help has already chosen to believe I’m a drug dealer (or at least look like one) and I’m willing to bet there’s really nothing I can really do about.

No matter how I analyze the situation, Reisman’s behavior does not reflect positively on her as a person. I’m not sure if she knows this, but she was the primary reason I had to not go to Caltech. I found her behavior to be very off-putting and I got the sense that she didn’t really want me to go to school there. On top of that there was talk of her wanting to have (oral) sex.  

DISCLAIMER: I am effectively asexual, I don’t have sex ... with anyone ... or anything (yes, I actually needed to say both).

Now, I didn’t believe the talk when I first heard it because I thought there was no way a self-respecting, competent professor would admit to wanting to engage in a sexual relationship with a perspective student ... this is what I choose to think. However, the more I heard of her desires to have (oral) sex, the more I believed it. But I never fully accepted the rumors as the truth until my first year at UCI. Reisman came to Irvine for a talk and as always almost all the Organic students showed up. Before the event, I was sitting at the small table with another grad student in my year, her name was Beth R. (I don’t know how to spell her last name and I’m not going to try to google it). Beth ended up mentioning how pretty Reisman looked .... I “mmmhmmm”ed her. I could hear the chatter going on behind me, Reisman seemed mildly disappointed that I didn’t agree. Beth soothed her ill feelings by saying that I didn’t disagree. After the event, I was talking to Prof. Scott Rychnovsky and Reisman came up in the conversion. This was the final nail in the coffin that made me believe the rumors were true. It wasn’t the fact that he said she would’ve blown me, it was the fact that he said it soooo enthusiastically. He was as enthused as a person could possibly be in a professional/academic setting. No one should that enthused by the thought of a man getting his dick sucked as much as Rychnovsky was by the thought of Reisman putting my dick in her mouth, no one. It was kinda weird.  

The thought this woman hocking loogies on my dick tip, and imagining the sensation of warm saliva slowly rolling down my shaft (as I quote lines from the movie, Shaft (the Samuel L. Jackson version...obviously)) as I knock my head back, praying to god that I don’t come away from this situation with paper cuts (she has thin lips) just to look back down after noticing she paused just so she could fill the waves from my pulsating erection and make eye contact as she goes deeper and increases the pace eventually moving to the point where she starts straggling my balls and moaning like Lady Gaga singing a lullaby to baby while stroking my hard cock until I cum for her as Nicole Nava sits beside her while taking notes shouldn’t be even remotely amusing.....TO ANYONE...EVER!!!!!! But apparently to Rychnovsky, it was. It was at that moment I never wanted to be affliated with Caltech as long as Reisman was there. If Caltech and Illinois were the only two places that offered me jobs after finishing the PhD, I’d have to change careers. 

Okay, so here’s the thing. I don’t really view professors as people. When I was a student, they were more like encyclopedias that could talk to me. They simply took the form of a human, kinda like a barbie doll. They’re anatomically incorrect, they lack genitalia, so they don’t have a gender. I honestly, believed this. One time, during senior year, I walked in the third floor bathroom in RAL and I saw Prof Steven Zimmerman taking piss. My face immediately screws all the way up, my inside voice says “How is he standing up and taking a piss when he doesn’t have a dick?”.....I thought that....I literally thought that....I shit you not. Just so you know, it wasn’t just Zimmerman, it was every professor. The women are doubly dickless, in my mind Suzanne Blum was like —(Mia Khalifa) because she has negative two dicks inside of her at all times.

DISCLAIMER: just so we’re clear, I’m NOT alluding to the fact that Blum has to get people to agree to have sex with her. Nor am I alluding to the assertion she’ll probably be nothing more than an afterthought for literally anyone. I’m merely trying to stress the fact that I don’t think of professors as people, but as encyclopedias that can talk to me.

I was made to feel unwlecomed at every school I visited. Why? Well, you'll have to ask them. I can honestly say that by the time graduation (from U of I) came around I didn't believe that i would have a successful career as a chemist, but I put everything into this so I couldn't just leave...

Grad school was even worst because on top of being the black kid, I was also the social pariah. The other students did a real good of making me feel unwelcomed. So much so that after two weeks of living in Irvine I stopped trying to make friends. No one seemed interested in being cool with me (I'm basing this off people's behavior ... obviously). And if some of them were, the way they showed it was so unique that I couldn't even recognize it as a sincere attempt to get my attention.

I also experienced some the same stuff I did when I was at U of I. Namely, instructors not giving me what I earned. In Dave VanVraken’s class I always received the second highest score on the exams. The really curious thing is that no one knows who received the top score. Once, when I asked to see the printed out distribution, the TA refused to show me (why?). I'm willing to bet that single point ahead of me was a dummy point. In Liz Jarvo’s class, when the first exam came around, we found out the high score was a 83. Who got the high score?...no one knows, but when I received my test the number 38 was written on (Also note I just so happen to get the same score as the other kid from U of I). At first, I was puzzled and glanced over to Peg (the TA). She sees my score, turns to Jarvo and says "he knows he didn't get that low". While I don't remember Jarvo’s exact words, she stated in some way that I would come to her and argue my case for a higher grade. So, here's the thing. I shouldn't have to defend myself or argue with you to ensure that I'm treated like everyone else. It should be a given.  

From what I hear the reason why I was treated this way has something to do with them not wanting me to "talk stuff" to the other students.  

Okay, so where is this coming from? I ask because I’ve been me long enough to know their opinion of what I’m like isn’t actually based off me. If they actually talked to my fellow classmates, the most common thing you’d probably hear is that I’m quiet. So either these people are just making up stuff to justify treating me how they want to treat me or my classmates are liars. I’m not really the type to talk about my grades (or really anything) unless the topic is explicitly brought up in conversation (and this is assuming I feel like talking at all). You can dress it up however you want, but treating me like a second class student for any reason solely reflects poorly on you (it gives no indication as to what I’m like). There were instances like this in half the classes I took. Some, admittedly were a smaller deal than others. In Vanderwal’s class I got marked off once because I didn’t draw both arrows in a mechanism that included a homolytic cleavage. For those that don’t know, if a homolytic cleavage occurs and you show one electron going in one direction, it is assumed that the other electron goes in the opposite direction and therefore does not need to be explicitly stated (minor, but mildly annoying). In polymer chemistry (taught by Aaron Esser-Khan), we had one assignment where we needed to propose something that wasn’t in the primary literature. I proposed a polymerization based off a derivative of the Hiyama coupling. Khan’s critique was that since it wasn’t already in the primary literature, it probably wasn’t a good idea ... really?! And don’t even get me started on spec because that spec TA was sketchy as fuck. He intentionally told me the wrong due date for a homework assignment and I’m pretty sure he shaved a couple points off one of my exams...

Okay, so these experiences are only a subset of the shitty things I experienced as a UCI student. But do you know what made life at UCI worst than life at U of I? My research advisor (Suzanne Blum)....and to a slightly lesser extent my fellow group members. Over the years I grew to hate them. I was lied about, I had a homework assigns hidden behind water coolers (Darius Faizi), I’ve had the nitrogen lines removed from air sensitive reactions (Darius Faizi, Suzanne Blum), I had products from reactions switch out for reagent alcohol (it’s a mixture of ethanol, methanol, and isopropanol) (Josh Hirner), I’ve had septums removed from reaction mixtures (Josh Hirner), I’ve had people try to placate me with sex (Katrina Roth), I’ve had people try to use the fact that I was in an agitated state to get something they wanted (Katrina Roth), I’ve had people turn on the indoor lights in my car in an effort to drain my battery while I’m allowing them to use my car to practice driving so they can get a U.S. driver’s license (Muhammed Al-Amin), I’ve had people ask questions just so they can not listen to the answer (Chao Zheng, Drew), I’ve experienced asking people for help just so they can not even try to help brainstorm what the answer could be (Darius Faizi, Kim Tu), I helped others brain storm shortcomings for a proposal, just to catch an attitude when they realize I didn’t catch everything the first time around (Quinn Easter).  

SIDE NOTE: To provide context, Quinn asked me to look through a synthetic route in his proposal that he was intending to present in his advancement to candidacy exam. There was something I didn’t immediately see but did bring up during a group when he was giving a practice presentation. He became visibly upset and mentioned he thought I was trying to make him look bad. If I was really trying to make you look bad, I wouldn’t have told you anything, so that you would’ve made the same mistakes when it actually mattered. Quinn, you’re an idiot.  

l’ve had people call me after I already dropped out and given up on chemistry from a redacted telephone number claiming to be an official representative of UCI calling me in an effort to get my address (Suzanne Blum, Ashley Davis), and I’ve had the experience where I ask for information pertinent to group website maintenance and they act like I’m hitting on them (Adena).

SIDE NOTE:  This is something that always amused/offended me, having someone assume I’m attracted to them because I acknowledged their existence. It’s funny because because they have the audacity ... but it’s also offensive because the operating assumption is that I don’t have standards, which couldn’t be further from the truth. (They seem to make a lot of faulty assumptions)

What was this experience suppose to teach me? How was I supposed to become a better person or scientist because of my affiliation with the group/university? Me coming to Irvine and working for Blum was a total waste of my time. I’m not entirely sure what her deal was, but it seemed she had a preconceived notion of who I was. No matter what type of relationship we have (or suppose to have) this will cause problems where there shouldn’t be.  

Is the request that someone’s opinion of you is actually based on you too much to ask for? Because I feel it’s a basic request that most people should be able to easily do. The contemptuous treatment did subside with time (mostly because I avoided talking to other students when ever possible) but it never really stopped. Why did it start to begin with? I’m willing to bet the only things they don’t like about me has everything to do with me reacting to the way they treat me. Again, I have to ask, is racism really that prevalent? 

Then one day, I started getting so fed up with life that I decided I needed an escape, even if it’s only for a couple weeks. So, I started planning a trip to Europe. I worked hard in the weeks coming up to the trip. I was trying to finish my entire project before I left (sadly, I didn’t, but I tried). Things were looking on the up and up. Before I left, Blum even said I was meeting her expectations, that was the nicest thing she ever said to me (it was the nicest thing anyone at UCI has ever said to me). I went off on my trip, and during the middle of it I received an email essentially telling me that my time at UCI was finished. Why? I still don’t know. 3 years later and I still don’t know why my career was ended before it was even given a chance to start. It’s hard to move on with your life when you don’t have closure. It’s really hard to move on when you still have to live with consequences of other people’s actions.

SIDE NOTE: I got the sense sometimes that Suzanne Blum did not really care about her job 100% of the time. I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. It’s like, either she truly didn’t understand the importance of her role (as the leader of a research group) or she truly doesn’t give a shit. Either way, she doesn’t deserve to be in the position she’s in.  

I still remember my last day in Irvine. It was bitter sweet. I was so happy to finally get to leave but also a bit anxious because I knew that the thousands of hours I spent studying and doing research was time wasted and it would never amount to anything. I knew I wasn’t going to get a job with my credentials. I even saw Eric (the other kid from U of I) in the student center when I went over to get lunch. He was looking at me all sad and shit because he knew I didn’t have a future in chemistry. We didn’t talk, we just walked past each other and exchanged glances. I tried to conceal a smile as I walked by. By the time my Dad’s flight landed, I had moved most of the stuff out my apartment.  

Life at home was hard. Depression is a mother fucker. I liken it to a less severe version of sleep paralysis. I felt like I was stuck in my own body. Kinda like how I felt in the early Irvine days when it would take me hours to roll out of bed. I would literally wake at 6 am and just stare at the ceiling for ~4 hrs before I could convince myself to get up. And to make things worst, no emotional support was offered by my family. Their assumptions that I’m somehow responsible for other people’s actions along with their snide remarks about me being lazy did the opposite of help. I regretted coming home, even more so when I found out I somehow failed the background check for CPD.  

Now, how in the holy fuck does someone without a criminal record fail a background check? The only reasonable thing I could come up with to explain this is that the work experience I listed (my research experience) doesn’t count as work experience because instead of working for a salary, I worked for credit hours or a stipend. I have to tell myself things like this to convince myself I’m not getting screwed over in every facet of my life. If this is true, then my college experiences are doubly worthless because not only can the credentials I’ve earned not be used to get a job I’m more than qualified to do, but they can’t even get me a job you don’t even need a bachelor’s degree for.  

I wish I moved to LA after dropping out. If I stayed in Cali, I’d be force to move on with my life because I wouldn’t be able to sulk in my mother’s house for months. What would I do for work? idk...but I’d find something, and when I get fired, I’d just move on to the next dead end job.

As time went on, I found it easier to move, I still have scars though. Scars that may never heal. What can I do from here on out? I’m not sure. Going back to graduate school isn’t an option (or any program that requires letters of recommendations) because after experiencing what I’ve experienced and allowing those that I depended on for letters of rec to learn about my experiences, everyone seemed to be complicit. Either they didn’t do anything to change the course of action or it seemed like they were trying to cover it up by telling me to take the site down. I lost faith in everyone, I don’t think I can trust any of the profs to submit a letter of rec on my behalf when they either have done something that goes against my interests, are complicit in the wrong doing of others, or seem as though they’re attempting to cover up what happened to me. Even if I could get in anywhere, I still don’t want to go back to school. I lost faith in higher education. I lost faith in people. Whatever I do, I have to be able to do it without a college degree.

Just in case you’re wondering, I can’t depend on my college friends either. Mostly because I wasted no time trying to make friends. I’ve come to believe that friends are a worthless luxury.

I honestly believed that if I studied hard and knew my shit someone would hire me. I was wrong. I learned the hard way that to the outside world you are not you. You are not the sum total of your thoughts and actions. You are your skin color. You are your hair texture. You are the clothes you wear on your back. You are what people choose to believe you are. You are not you. People don’t care to get to know the people around them, they just want to feel as though their justified in believing the way they do. So I guess in order to get by in life you just need to be everyone’s friend and present yourself in such a way that everyone deems acceptable. Having the skills needed to do the job is more of an afterthought, huh? You know, one of the corollaries is that you’re expected to exhibit a certain level of extroversion. Welp, it just so happens to be the case that I’m an introvert and if the previous statements have some truth then I can honestly say this system was set up for me to fail. The only way I can get by in life is because I’m better than the other guy. No one will ever choose me because I’m their best friend.

I believe that’s where some of my problems stem from. When people see my face, they expect an extrovert (or at least someone who is more extroverted than me). When they find out I’m not who they want me to be, the reactions can range from essentially nothing, to mild disappointment, to mild hostility. And I think this is because people are more interested in the idea of me than actually getting to know me. So when they meet me and actually get to know me after building me up in their heads they’re kinda like “...oohh, this is it?!”. I don’t understand people. It’s like people just assume that you’re going to conform to their world view while refusing to even bend to yours. Now, I’m totally opposed to the very concept of “fitting in” because of all that. I got the sense “fitting in” means assimilation, which may involve losing qualities that make you unique (ones you may actually like about yourself). I don’t see why I should change in any way for people I don’t like, that I don’t see the benefit of being associated with, or for people that never liked me to begin with. People even sometimes mock my behavior, presumably because I’m not what they want me to be and this is just their way of trying to get me to conform. 

The most recent example of this is my cousin Sonia (she’s multicultural). I went to her graduation party during the summer. And as with most family functions, it pretty much consisted of me sitting quietly most of the time. So fast forward to when it’s time to go home. My mother and 2/3 of my brother’s children are making their way to the car, noticing the third one is missing I go back for her. As I’m making my way up the front porch, three of my cousins (one of which is Sonia) are in my path and I say “watch out”. As I walk past Sonia, she says something along the lines of “woah, he must be serious....” while laughing... I’m going to say this once, “Mocking my behavior because I don’t act how you want me to act will never help anything”...... unless you’re actively trying to get me to dislike you. I have to remember that Sonia is just a child. Maybe it hadn’t dawn on her yet that there’s more to life than what she’s experienced. She’s probably never met a person like me, so she won’t know what to say in order to get me to interact with her. But then I’m like, “But what makes her think making herself look like an ass would actually help her in any capacity?” How does this explain the behavior of grown ass men and women who do the same thing?”. I wonder if it’s a cultural thing, and these people just don’t realize how bad they make themselves look to people that aren’t like them.  

On the way home, I started thinking, “Is this really the best I can do?”. Have I been doomed to live a life where I’m not really happy? No, it can’t be the case. I still have faith. I may not have faith in other people anymore, but I still have faith in myself. I believe I can make something out of nothing, even if no one else does.

After going through all I’ve gone through, all I want is to not suffer anymore. I just want to be insanely rich for no reason. This won’t solve all my problems but it will eliminate many. If I ever come into having an ungodly amount of money, I’d give some of it to my family so they can afford many of the things that they want in life. Then I’d disappear, never to be seen or heard from again. 

I’ve become acutely aware of the fact that people want to learn useless knowledge without ever having to talk to me.

DISCLAIMER: the knowledge is useless because we won’t/don’t have a relationship of any sort. Why waste your time learning information that isn’t relevant to your life?

So I’m going to take this opportunity to answers some personal questions because the thing I hated the most about you people is your unique combination of arrogance, ignorance, and obliviousness. While I can’t help with the arrogance and the obliviousness, I can help with your total lack of knowledge. So, without further ado ...

QUESTION TIME

Did you ever like life in Champaign county?

I was excited to be there in the beginning, then I met the people and all that excitement went away quick.

What’s your fondest memory from college?

That one time when Chipotle was doing that 2 for 1 deal. That was cold.

So, what’s up with your sexuality?

I don’t have sex because I don’t want to take the risk of having children, also no STDs. People were oddly obsessed with my sexuality and I never quite understood it. Here’s the thing, I’m a little self centered and I’m like you in the sense that I don’t immediately acknowledge other people’s way of thinking all the time. I honestly don’t understand why there was as much “interest” in knowing what I’m interested in (I use quotes because if people were actually interested they probably would have try talking to me). My viewpoint is that your claimed sexual orientation is irrelevant, it’s not even worth bring up in conversation. The reason why is simple. If you see a pretty girl and you know she’s interested in men, it doesn’t necessary mean she’s interested in you (assuming your male) right? That’s why the only thing that matters to me is whether or not the person I’m interested in is interested in me.

It’s funny because if you completely ignore the fact that not everyone thinks like me, it would seem as though there were ALOT of dudes that wanted me to fuck them when I was in college.

To the people “interested” in knowing my sexual orientation. Ask yourself two questions. Do you want a shot? Do you think you have a shot? Think hard about it. If the answer to one of those questions is “no”, don’t waste your time.

If you haven’t already figured it out by now, I don’t think like a normal person. I’m never going to adjust or change to make you feel comfortable, the best thing I can do is not talk to you at all. I don’t adjust to you, you adjust to me. Why? because fuck you, that’s why.

Are you ever going to have sex?

Maybe, maybe not. What’s it to you?

Do you think people like you?

I know they don’t. Based off their actions, they don’t want to like me either. They’d spend less time gossiping about the negative characteristics I could have and more time actually getting to know me if they did.

You don’t think people know anything about you?

It all depends on what you think it means “to know”. Personally, I don’t. I’m never around people long enough for them to be able to get a true sense of who am I as a person. All people get are snapshots. Sadly, that isn’t good enough. That’s something I don’t think most people realize, actually.

What if after reading this, people actually started trying to get to know you, how would you react?

My recommendation is that you don’t waste your time. You can’t undo the damage that’s already been done. I’ve already stopped caring.

If you could go back in time and pick another college, which would you pick?

Xavier University in NOLA. I’d pick this HBCU because I’m fairly confident some of the problems I encountered at U of I wouldn’t have existed there.

Why did you choose UCI?

Because they told me I wasn’t going to make pass my first year. I knew what type of student I was. I knew I had what it took to make it through any program. But I was at a low point in my life, where nothing seemed to be going right. I figure If I go there and get forced out after a year, it wouldn’t be my fault. The devastating thing is they let me get so close to graduating before just booting me out like they did.

Why did you use the word “they”?

Someone easily could have stepped in and did something. The department just enabled her (Suzanne Blum).

What grad program do you think you should have choose?

Indiana University or Rutgers probably would been better for me.

What motivates you to do well?

Meaningful positive reinforcement. Don’t just give out compliments for the sake of giving out compliments.

What’s one thing you hate most about people?

Their stupidity. Before I was told I failed the background check fro CPD. I’d get calls from some sort of case worker for CPD who was suppose to determine my eligibility. This dude asked me if I “resigned” from the Blum group and acted like that was a perfectly valid question. This wasn’t a job, it was a component of an academic program. I WAS A STUDENT. There was no resignation. You don’t resign from school. You either graduate, drop out, or get expelled. I know some college education is required for employment with CPD, so it’s far more likely that this guy is an idiot. REMEMBER GRAD SCHOOL IS STILL SCHOOL AND THERE ONLY 3 WAYS TO LEAVE.

Did you ever consider taking legal action?

Yes, but I know the people I’m dealing with aren’t above lying. Since there’s no physical evidence (that I have in my possession) proving that wrongs did occur, I’m reluctant to believe I’d actually win. It’s not smart to get into a “he said she said” battle with people that are believed to be pathological liars.

Are there any common misconceptions you’d like to clear up?

I wasn’t doing the school shit to make friends. I only wanted to make money. That’s the only reason why I was there, to make money. Every time someone why I as getting a PhD, my answer essentially went like, “I’m getting a PhD because money.” I see no point in trying to make friends with people who seemed to have been conditioned to dislike me.

Also, just because I’m quiet it doesn’t mean that I’m stuck up. It is in fact possible to be someone who isn’t a big talker.

Contrary to popular belief. I am in fact a HUMAN BEING. I have emotions and sometimes something could happen in one part of my life that can affect other parts of my life (like how well I do in school or how productive I am in lab).

Why did you just give up?

What’s the point of playing the game when you know you’ll never win.

It seems like the college years were a hard time for you, did you ever do something to ease the pain, like drugs or alcohol?

No, I love myself too much to potentially set myself up for problems later. I gave comedy a thought, but I found really hard to want to be funny when all I’m thinking about is the depressing shit that inspired the joke. If I’m gonna do something, it’s gonna be something were I don’t have to live with the consequences of my actions. I was suicidal. I was planning to kill myself the night before my thesis defense.

Why then?

I was fairly confident that no one there cared to save me from myself. But just in case someone wanted to surprise me, I figure it would be best to do when no one would expect it.

How?

potassium cyanide. The night before my defense I was going to make it my point to get a bottle of potassium cyanide. a couple months before my trip to Europe, I looked up who had it. It was on the fourth floor (or maybe the fifth). Go all the way down to the last lab space on the right hand side. When you walk into the lab space go along the right hand side and go through the door on your right. After that go to the first door on the right hand side. I placed a bottle on KCN in the first column on the left hand side, top shelf. The bottle should be on the wall on the left side (assuming it’s still in the same place I left it). I figured it wouldn’t get much use due to its inherent toxicity so it would probably be in the same place I left it when I needed it. I wouldn’t be surprise if the bottle is still in that exact spot. 

Did you ever think about getting help?

From who? When I did finally ask for help, the first thing I was told was that the department sided with Blum (mind you this is before any type of investigation occurred). As soon as I posted the email from Chris Vanderwal on this blog, his tune changed immediately. But his actions didn’t reflect the words he put out in the public space. He was of no use. He had no interest in helping me in any capacity. I’m sure of it. I’m all alone in this world, I don’t have a safety net so if I fall, that’s my ass.

What about the professors from UIUC?

My previous statement stands. I had no one.

Is that why you started the blog? You felt like your were all alone and just wanted someone talk to, even if that someone was actually a void in space?

Yes, that’s exactly it.

Is that why you’re still posting, you still feel alone?

yes

But what about your family?

With them I’m a dependent not a provider. They’d be okay without me.

So have you really never sought out a therapist?

I couldn’t find steady work. I can’t afford it. Depression is a rich people disease. When you’re broke you’re just labeled as lazy.

What’s one thing you want everyone to know?

You shouldn’t let your assumptions or the assumptions of others affect how you treat me. Remember, you don’t know me. I could come to be your best friend, your faithful and supportive business partner, or the love of your life and you’d just let me slip away all because someone told you dislike me.

(Also, please don’t waste my time talking to me about all the typos I made)

#introspection

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even-my-ph0ne-blog · 6 years

Text

count the headlights (pt. 2)

The one where Y/N and Harry take a detour on their road trip with the band.

(If you missed it, read pt. 1 here.)

Thanks for reading! This is my first piece of writing on here, and it’s a bit slow to set the scene but more will be coming! Feel free to submit any feedback or requests you might have here.

Also, feel free to check out my masterlist for more!

———————

You weren’t quite sure when you fell asleep, but when you woke up you found your head resting on something soft, the smell of warm tobacco mixed with vanilla filling through the air, and a quiet melody playing in the background.

You opened your eyes for a moment and realized that, in falling asleep, you had ended up leaned over the center console of the Range Rover, with you head resting on Harry’s shoulder. Your first instinct was to jump, startled by the lack of composure you were clearly demonstrating to your boss, but you decided not to when you heard Harry’s voice singing quietly alongside the melody of the song playing through the speakers.

“Hold me closer, tiny dancer. Count the headlights on the highway...”

Part of you felt guilty listening to him sing. His voice was raw but soothing, a bit of rasp laced with it but nonetheless practically angelic. It felt as though you were intruding upon an intimate moment between him and the music, but hearing the way he sang along with Elton John, the headlights of the car illuminating the dashed lines separating the highway lanes on the road ahead through the dark, was something you found so beautiful that it seemed as though it’d be a sin to interrupt.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Harry’s voice abruptly departed from the melody, and this time you jumped. Sitting upright in your seat now, you scrambled to push stray pieces of hair behind your ear and ran your hands across your face to wake up.

“Shit. I, um... sorry. How long have I been out?” You stammered across your words, blushing as guilt washed over you. Your embarrassment that Harry had caught you listening to him was written all over your face.

“Not long, love. Only about half an hour.” Harry looked over to you, and you felt the heat rise to your face once again, so you diverted your eyes to the backseat - Sarah, Mitch, and Clare were right where you had remembered, still asleep in the back seat.

“Shit, I’m so sorry Harry. I was supposed to stay awake and help navigate. This is all my fault, I should have gotten a coffee or something earlier...” Aside from being embarrassed that you had fallen asleep on Harry, you felt horribly that you couldn’t complete the simple task of staying awake through the car ride. Harry smiled as your words flew out at a mile a minute, letting out a quick laugh before turning his eyes off the road and to you.

“No need to apologize. I’ve been having a grand old time, as you heard.” You cringed as he acknowledged your spying on him. “I am a little bored though, and could use a stop to stretch m’legs. You’ve spent some time in this area though, right? Any cool places we could take a detour to explore?”

You looked up at the road and looked for the nearest highway sign to decipher where you were. To your surprise, you were in a small town about an hour from where you attended university, which you recognized because it was on a route that you used to frequently take on road trips to the beach with friends.

“Well, the next exit leads us to the coast, and there are some cool beaches out there.” By your estimations, you were only about 10 minutes from a little cove where your friends and you used to go cliff jumping.

“Lovely.” Harry’s accent somehow made the word sound equally as melodic as his earlier rendition of Tiny Dancer as he flipped on his turn signal and pulled over to the exit lane. You looked down at the clock on the navigation system. 1:17.

“Um, Harry, isn’t it a little late for a beach trip?” You raised your eyebrows and looked over to him, only to see the sides of his mouth curl up in a smirk.

“You gotta live a little, Y/N.”

———————

A short while later, you had successfully directed Harry to the edge of the woods where the path to the cove began.

“Park there.” You pointed to a little clearing off to the side of the road.

“You sure, love?” Harry raised his eyebrows at your words, which prompted an eye roll from you.

“Remember how you didn’t believe me that fries and milkshakes were a good combo? This is another time when I’m right.” You were shocked at the level of sass you felt comfortable giving to Harry at this point. Over the course of the trip, you had become exponentially more comfortable with him, but there was something else about it that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Harry laughed, shook his head, and pulled the car over to the side of the road before putting it in park.

“Alright then, lead the way.”

You took off in front of him, walking down the overgrown path through the woods. While it had been almost a year since the last time you had made a trip out there with your friends, you remembered that it was only a few minutes through the woods before You would arrive at the cove where there were rocks you could jump from into the ocean. Regardless, you had to admit that it was somewhat ominous walking through the woods so late at night. Your head turned at every distant sound coming from the trees, which Harry apparently noticed.

“A little spooked, eh?” Harry caught up to you and positioned himself directly adjacent to you on the path, putting his arm around you and giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. You were confused by the action. While your first instinct was to believe that it was just a friendly gesture, you couldn’t help but appreciate how well you fit under his arm, and how comforting it was to have his arm around you. You could have sworn that there was almost a flirtatious tone to his voice. Your thoughts were cut short, however, by the fact that you had arrived at your destination.

“No need to play the white knight here, Haz. We’ve arrived.” You looked up to Harry, and watched as his eyes took in the scene. As you exited the forest line, you two came upon a little sandy area, flanked by rock formations on either side. It was beautiful, you had to admit. The moon reflected off of the water and provided just enough light for the scene to be visible. You were stunned when Harry removed his arm from around you and jogged forward, before stopping and pulling his sweater over his head and reaching down to unbutton the black jeans he was wearing.

“Whoa, Harry. What on earth are you doing?” Your mouth was wide open, taken aback by his sudden actions. Scanning over his toned torso, now bare aside from the tattoos scattered across it.

“You said you used to go swimming here, yeah?” Harry called back to you from his position, removing his trousers now such that he stood only clad in the briefs he was wearing underneath. After a moment, you nodded. “Well, then. What are you waiting for?” And with that, he took off in a jog, climbing up the rocks on the outskirts of the cove and up the cliff which flanked the water.

He looked absolutely captivating, and you could practically feel your heartbeat racing through your chest. What on earth have I gotten myself into? As Harry approached the top of the rocks, you shook your head to yourself, kicking off your shoes and jogging towards where his clothes were in the sand. Fuck it. You pulled your own sweater over your head and unbuttoned your own jeans, discarding them in the sand next to Harry’s before taking off behind him, climbing up the rocks and towards him in only your black bra and underwear. Thank god I picked matching ones today.

Harry looked over to you as you approached him on the rocks and froze for a moment. Even though it was dark, you swore that you saw him look you up and down, and despite being nearly naked you felt completely comfortable in his presence. He smirked slightly before tearing his gaze away, toeing to the edge of the rocks and leaping off. The suddenness of his motions made you let out an unconscious yell. and you ran to the edge of the rocks and stared down into the water, only to see Harry’s curly hair emerge from the ocean seconds later, his emerald eyes peering up to you as he shot you a grin.

“You coming, love?” Harry’s voice echoed from the water to where you stood. You assessed the situation, utterly baffled by the fact that you were now literally about to jump off of a cliff, nearly naked, into the water where Harry was swimming. At the same time though, it felt exhilarating. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but at that moment, looking down at Harry in the water, even in the weird situation as it was, you felt completely at ease. You took a deep breath before leaping off of the rocks, feeling the sea breeze against your face as you plummeted, followed by the sharp embrace of the cold ocean water. You shuddered a bit as you emerged for air, your body adjusting to the temperature of the water. Turning your head, you look around for Harry, finding him a few meters to your left.

“I guess that’ll wake you up, huh?” Harry calls over to you across the water. You laugh as you make your way back towards the sand, walking along the beach, taking a seat on a fallen tree next to where you guys had left your clothes. Harry follows suit, shaking out his hair as he plops down on the trunk next to you.

“You’re a crazy person, you know that? Now we’re gonna be all wet for the rest of the car ride.” You turn to face him and make eye contact, finding his emerald eyes already looking down on yours. You find an odd comfort in his gaze,

“You know what I think though?” Harry raises his eyebrows as he addresses you.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t think you mind.” With Harry’s words, you hear the familiar tone that you had noticed earlier, and you can swear again that it seems as though he’s flirting with you. But he’s Harry Styles, you tell yourself. He dates models, why would he be flirting with you? At that moment, you notice also that you two are sitting so close that your thighs are touching, and suddenly a wave of nervousness overcomes you.

“I, uh. We should get going. The others will probably get worried if they wake up on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere and we’re gone.” You stammer and scan the ground, looking for your clothes and trying to push away the temptation to kiss him. Harry stands up and turns to face you, reaching out a hand, which you gingerly extend your own to take. He pulls you up, and as your feet get stuck in the sand you clumsily trip and lunge forward, straight into his bare chest. Luckily, his arms reach around you and catch you by the waist, his hands resting on your hips to steady you. You look up, meeting his gaze, those same piercing emerald eyes looking down at you.

His eyes flicker towards your lips and you feel your breath hitch, and then his face lowers slowly to yours, lips hovering over yours as if asking for permission to kiss you.

“Sarah will kill me if I do this.” You say to him, barely even a whisper. As you speak, you feel your lips brushing against his, soft and warm. It’s silent for a moment, your chests raising against each other as you both struggle to control your breathing. His voice is the next to break the silence.

“I don’t think you mind.”

His words linger in the air and resonate through to you. He’s right. You lift your lips to his, intertwining your hands with his hair as you do so. His hands shift as well, one finding its way over your bum and the other making its way upwards to cradle your check as he pulls you in further. His tongue traces your lower lip, begging for entry, and you part your lips further to allow him access.

Breathless, you pull away, his hand still cradling your cheek. You open your eyes to see his peering down at you, a smirk taking over his face.

“Well, I guess sitting next to me for the road trip didn’t turn out so bad after all.”

#harry styles #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction

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perfectlyrose · 6 years

Text

a cup of sugar, a pinch of magic (4/?)

Summary: It’s just another night spent baking instead of sleeping for John Smith, owner of The Blue Box Bakery, when a mysterious blonde woman knocks on the bakery door hours before opening time. He never expected that letting her in would draw him into a world of magic and shadow organizations or be the start of a life-changing love.

Pairing: Nine x Rose || Word Count: 2293 || Rating: All Ages (for now)

Note: tagging @doctorroseprompts since this was originally for fantasy month :)

AO3 || TSP || tumblr

John spotted Donna the moment he walked into the café, her red hair catching the light in the small space.

“About time you got here,” she said as he took his seat and set the bakery box in the seat next to him.

“Route took longer to walk than I expected,” he answered with a shrug. “It’s good to see you, Donna. You’re looking well.”

She scoffed. “I’m looking overworked, which I am.”

“Sorry for adding to it.”

Donna opened her mouth to chide him but was cut off by the waitress approaching their table to take their drink orders. They quickly ordered coffees and waited for her to get far enough away from the table to resume their conversation.

“I’m never to busy to help a friend,” Donna said, tone brooking no argument. “And you’ve landed neck-deep in trouble and need all the help you can get.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Are you really? What do you know about Torchwood?”

“Mostly what I put in that email. The human testing on people with abilities bit of their operation. From what I heard, they’re loosely associated with the government but not an official government agency.”

“That’s right. I would have already greenlit an op to get rid of them if they weren’t unofficially sanctioned,” she said, making a face. “Always seemed skeezy to me. I didn’t actually know about the human testing until you asked about it, but the file on Torchwood has information about on that part of their operation.”

They paused as the waitress set their coffees on the table and took their dinner orders.

Donna gave him an assessing look once the girl was out of earshot again. “Word is that Torchwood is on high alert and that they were in your neighborhood looking for someone last night. Know anything about that?”

“Might’ve traded words with them,” John answered. “They knocked on the door of my shop.”

Donna sighed. “I can help you better if I have all the information. You know this.”

“It’s not my call to make,” he said. “You know I trust you with my life.”

“But not with whoever you’re protecting.”

“I do, but they don’t know you,” John explained. “Have good reason to be mistrustful, if you ask me.”

“If Torchwood had them, I can understand that.”

“What else is Torchwood into? I didn’t want to do my own research in case they tried to monitor my computer.”

Donna snorted. “I could barely monitor your computer when I was supposed to. I doubt Torchwood is worried about you enough to break through your excessive layers of encryption.”

“Not excessive if it works.”

She waved away the familiar argument. “The most public aspect of Torchwood is their weapons development program. They work on specialized weapons for the military and the intelligence service.”

“Which is why they can run their other even less savory programs without being touched,” John growled.

“Pretty much. Now, I looked into the human testing that you asked about. It seems they’re scooping up people with untested abilities and claiming that they are test subjects, not humans.”

“Lines up with what I’ve been told.”

“It seems like the government knows but they’re not doing anything about it because no one has kicked up a fuss about it and they think they’ll get some sort of military advantage out of the whole mess.”

“This kind of thing is why I got out of the game,” John said.

“I would’ve been right behind you if I thought I could leave without everything turning even more hellish,” Donna replied. “As it is, I can try to undermine the really terrible things from inside.”

The waitress came back with their sandwiches and they both tucked in.

“Where is the facility where they do the human testing?” John asked after swallowing a bite.

“You did hear me say that they’re on high alert, right?”

He nodded.

Donna rolled her eyes. “You probably just think the added complication is fun,” she muttered.

“I’d wait for their security to calm back down but I’m not leaving those people in there to be tortured for any longer than necessary.” He had a feeling that Rose’s friends who had been recaptured wouldn’t be kept around for much longer. They needed to get in there before it was too late.

She slid a USB drive across the table. “This is the whole file on Torchwood. I figured you would want to have everything. Their location and basic security measures are in there. If you can tell me when you are planning on hitting them, I can try to draw some of the extra bodies to one of their other facilities. I’m good at manufacturing emergencies.”

He pocketed the USB.

“I want to go tomorrow night but I have to talk to my partner,” he said. He thought Rose would be ready to go after her friends as soon as he came back with the information.

“Please tell me you’re not going to take them on with just yourself and whoever you’re harboring that these people are looking for.”

“I won’t tell you, then.”

“You’re going to give me an aneurysm one of these days, Spaceman,” she said, rubbing her temples. “I’ll see what I can do to get you some cover.”

John leaned forward. “I’m taking them down, Donna. This isn’t just a rescue mission. I can’t let them keep doing this to people.”

“And just how do you plan on doing that? I can barely touch them and I’m me.”

“I don’t have to work within the system anymore. I’m going to get those people out and then I’m going to get their story out. I want Torchwood destroyed.”

Donna pressed her lips together. “If I can scrape together more info on other Torchwood scandals that have been swept under the rug, that could help discredit them.”

“You said they’re still operating because they’re still in the shadows,” he said. “Let’s drag them into the light. Then the public can eat them alive and you can get them shut down from the inside.”

A half-smile formed on Donna’s lips. “I have missed the way you put a plan together when you bother with one. I’ll start leaving hints for reporters to find tonight. That way they’re already on the scent when you start dropping bombs.”

“Fantastic.”

Donna pulled out her wallet and left a couple twenty pound notes on the table. “Keep me updated when you can,” she told him. “And next time don’t wait until there’s an emergency to call me.”

He smiled at her. “I won’t. When this is done, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Her smile softened as she read the traces of affection on John’s face and in his voice. Whoever he’d rescued this time was already important to him. “I look forward to it. Now, give me the pastries I know you brought.”

John chuckled and handed over the blue box. “Don’t let them get stale.”

“They may not make it through the night,” she said. “Definitely won’t make it to stale.”

“Good.”

“See ya later, then,” Donna said, standing up. She squeezed John’s shoulder on her way past him. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

He stayed long enough to order some food for Rose and then left with the to-go bag hanging from his forearm.

John took a different route back to his flat, doubling back frequently to make sure he wasn’t being followed. His knife was ready to slip into his hand but it was just his heightened paranoia that made his palm itch for its familiar weight. There were no signs he was being followed.

He slipped inside the bakery and secured his knives to the underside of the table once more before locking up. He took the steps two at a time and knocked on the door to his flat.

“It’s me,” he called out. “I’m back and I have food.”

He heard Rose on the other side of the door followed by the click of disengaging locks and then the slide of the chain.

“You weren’t gone that long,” she said as she opened the door.

He stepped inside and waited for her to re-engage the locks before handing her the bag of food. “Wasn’t sure what you would want so I got a couple of things.”

“Thanks, John. I’m starving again.”

“It wasn’t a full debrief which would’ve taken longer. Donna gave me the information to look over myself,” he explained, patting the pocket with the USB drive. “She’s going to help us as much as she can from inside the government system. Can’t do much for the rescue mission but she can help us burn Torchwood to the ground.”

Rose grinned from where she’d taken a seat on the sofa. “Brilliant. I like the sound of that.”

John grabbed his laptop and took it to the couch. He plugged in the USB and started working his way through the security Donna had put on it. “If you’re up for it, I think we should hit them tomorrow night,” he said as he worked.

Rose nodded, her mouth full of food. “I’m ready.”

She took another bite and then reached for a piece of paper on the coffee table. “I drew a map of the containment unit where I was kept. I don’t know where in the building it is or even where the building is, but I saw the majority of the unit and know the security in there.”

“Fantastic,” he said, taking the paper and studying it. He noted her detailing of security measures against intruders and the prisoners. “Do you think they have security against magic in the whole building or just the containment unit?”

“I think it’s just the containment unit, but I don’t know that for sure. Is the map helpful?”

“Very. I should have the building location and maybe basic blueprints somewhere in this file but firsthand knowledge is always better. Plus, this is remarkably detailed.”

“Spent fourteen months memorizing it,” she said with a quirk of her lips. She turned back to her food, leaving John to shift focus back to his laptop.

He sifted through the information until he found the file on the facility that housed the magic testing program. He pulled up the blueprints and the security schematics and started committing them to memory.

John startled when Rose rested her chin on his shoulder.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump. Just wanted to see what you were so intent on,” she said.

“Trying to memorize the layout and where the security is likely to be,” he explained. “Want to know all the exits so we can make a fast exit if we need to.”

“Is there only the one containment unit?”

“Looks like it. And look,” he pointed to a large blank space on the schematics, “I think this is where the containment unit is located. They didn’t give details on it, so your map will be instrumental.”

They worked together to plot a route into the building and to the containment unit, coming up with potential solutions to security measures using a combination of John’s military knowledge and Rose’s magic.

Two hours later, they had a tentative plan in place and Rose was yawning again. John was feeling rather knackered as well, not having managed to get any sleep since Rose showed up at his door.

She rested her head on his shoulder from where she was sat next to him on the sofa. “I’m worried about Bill and Amy,” she said, words falling heavy in the quiet.

“We’ll get them out,” he promised. “They’ll be okay, Rose.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t. But you don’t know that they won’t be, either.”

She took a deep breath. “I keep imagining what they’re doing to them as punishment for escaping.”

John shifted to put his arm around her shoulders. “We’re going to get to them as soon as we can,” he said. “Worrying is inevitable but it also doesn’t do them any good.”

“I know. Just can’t help it.”

“I’d be concerned if you weren’t worried about them.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Why don’t you get some sleep so you’re ready for tomorrow. Going to be a long day.”

“Are you going to sleep too? I can take the couch,” Rose said. She turned her head into his shoulder, nuzzling closer as she edged closer to exhaustion.

“I’ll take the couch. I’ve slept here plenty,” he said.

“Actually sleep this time. You need rest before tomorrow, too.”

“I will, Rose. I think the shop will only be open for a couple of hours tomorrow. Didn’t get back down there to get doughs started for tomorrow.”

“Sleep’s more important,” she said.

John chuckled, soft and low. “Tonight, I agree with you.”

“Good. Goodnight, then, John.” She pushed to her feet and squeezed his shoulder before walking towards the bedroom.

“Goodnight, Rose.”

As soon as the bedroom door closed, John set aside his laptop with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes, trying to push down the urge to go down and make some dough just to work out his stress. He knew if he did, he wouldn’t get any sleep and he desperately needed some sleep before tomorrow’s mission.

Yawning, he stood and collected some blankets from the closet. He turned off the lights and settled onto the sofa, ready to finally steal a bit of rest.

For the next couple of hours, his dreams were haunted by the thought of what Torchwood was doing to their prisoners.

Rose was in all of them.

By four AM he was down in his bakery working some dough by hand as he tried to chase away the images his brain had conjured.

#ficandchips #doctorroseprompts #nine x rose #wheeee i'm back with this after four months #sorry i'm terrible at timely updates #i wrote this #a cup of sugar a pinch of magic

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thefamilyineverknew · 6 years

Text

Turning 47: pt. XV

“Ch-ch-ch-changes”

26 May 2018

“You know, in Sweden they make these perfectly shaped butter knives. They’re just ideal for spreading butter on pancakes,” I say as I wolf down a hot stack. It’s a bright Sunday morning in Evergreen, Colorado at Benny & Kathleen’s. Thankfully, they were home last night and were willing to put me up for the night (kicking their middle child out of his room for me...extra thanks to him). I woke to a family of deer peering in my window from the surrounding forest and the smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen upstairs. How did I deserve all of this? Again, I am overcome by the generosity and warm hospitality of people who I haven’t seen in forever.

“So, how did the meeting at Barnes & Noble go?,” they ask with baited breath. “Well, wow...,” I reply, and proceed to reiterate the details of the story that I have laid down in the previous parts of this tale, showing them the photo of Arla and me in the park. “Oh wow! It’s really undeniable,” they marvel. I am here and present, but also in a bit of a daze. That just happened, and here I am in the home of old college friends on a Sunday morning, eating breakfast before they go off to church. Time is playing ALL KINDS of tricks. Now is then is now is then. Waxing and waning. Kathleen is buzzing around the kitchen, whipping up pancakes in her Sunday best, while Benny and I commisurate over coffee. It’s as if I walked through a wormhole from 1993 to 2018. I feel the same way in their presence as I did when I was 22.

“So, are you going to the reunion?,” Kathleen asks, effervescently as she does. ”I think I have to, seeing as I was professoring there this last term. If I can cobble the funds together; definitely,” I say, and we commence to listing all of our old classmates who we should pester to be there. “Do you think Dan Rauter would come?,” zips Kathleen. ”I’m not sure. I’d love to see him. Just the whole gang. That was one of the best things about being back at Wheaton, being able to see so many people who I hadn’t in so long. It was crazy. Yes, I really need to be there,” I say. Declarations are made, and names dropped. It’s so good. So bizarre. It was crazy to see so many people over the Spring term, slipping in from a faded memory to LIVE, flesh and blood reality, just like sitting here at Kathleen & Benny’s dinner table.

The house is bustling with activity as Kathleen and the kids are bolting out the door to make it to the Episcopal church. Benny and I are engrossed in a light theological conversation, and he asks Kathy to save him a seat as he will catch up soon. Benny has already been to one early morning service this morning, a Catholic mass, and he is explaining to me his slow conversion to Catholicism.

Unbeknownst to me, Benny had grown up in the Evangelical Free Church (a merger of the Norwegian and Swedish Free Churches in America from 1950), just as I had. It turns out we were both at the same Youth National Conference in Denver in 1988. “Did you know Big John?,” he asks. “Wow....there’s someone who I haven’t thought of in decades. Yeah, I even drew a cartoon picture of him,” I confirmed. Neither of us knew much of who Big John was or where he came from, but he was definitely memorable; a man in his 50’s or 60’s, who must have been on the spectrum. Who or which group was he connected with? If it raised any eyebrows at the time, I didn’t hear of it, nor did I hear anything ever happening. Today, I don’t think his presence would be acceptable, just cause, well, you know. But again, it didn’t cross my mind then and there was nothing untoward that happened to my knowledge.

Going to the National Conference was the hilt of summers for me back in high school; 2500 teenagers converging in one place for a week. Half of those were girls, and my hormones were racing around like atoms in the particle accelarator at FermiLab. It was a perfect stage on which to try out all my extroverted show off tricks; breakdancing, skateboarding, or just being able to make people laugh. It was heaven, and the fact that all of these kids were coming from a similar place in the church community meant that I didn’t have to feel awkward or edgy about being a pastor’s kid. And I remember, there was this one person at this very National Conference in Denver who left a massive and lasting impact on me, one which solidified the course I’ve been on to this day. His name was Fred.

Fred was a part of the youth group that came down from Rochester, Minnesota, and, in my opinion, that group was THE coolest bunch of kids I’d ever met in person. They were punk and New Wave, and while I had dabbled in the style a bit, this was the first time I had ever been around people actually like that. I mean, I had seen that style in John Hughes films and on MTV, but never in real life. Where we came from on the Eastside of Des Moines, it was all Classic Rock (when it was just known as Rock); feathered hair, Van Halen, combs in back pockets, and muscle cars. These kids from Rochester were all laid back skaters. There were so many firsts I witnessed coming from that group. I just wanted to hang with them. And in right there in the middle of all of them was this guy Fred.

The thing about Fred that blew me away was that he was plain, and at least physically, NOT cool, but every one of the other cooler-than-Alaska kids deferred to him with respect. Fred was fairly overweight, which where I came from was an instant social death sentence, but if it was something that he ever felt insecure about, it didn’t show. No, he was solid, sitting in their midst like a Buddha, normal as could be; the sun in a solar system set-up. And I thought....if this guy, who by all appearances should be a cast aside (in my limited, teenaged prejudiced opinion), is able to just be, cool with himself as he is and command the respect he does...then...why should I ever give a second thought to what other people think about me? And that set a tone for me, going forward. My early leanings toward non-conformity were absolutely crystalized meeting Fred. I think I may have written him once after that conference, but there was never a correspondence kept up. I don’t even remember his last name, but I do remember the impact he had on me. Thank you, Fred.

So, Benny comes out of the same soil that I did, which is just wild to me. Wilder still, is that his train has switched tracks toward Catholicism. As he explains it to me, it all comes down to doctrine. The Catholic church is less emphasis on one’s individual personal responsibility in attaining and keeping up one’s salvation. It’s already a done deal. Its all in the doctrine and the sacraments , allowing him to just go and worship, without having to strain and stretch to try to receive God’s favor. It’s already been done, he just needs to be present. Kinda like Fred, just being there, content in this space. He makes an appealing argument, and I am very far from being dogmatic about the different flavors of Christendom. “Do you think it’s the Protestant appointment to continually fracture into smaller and smaller shards of belief until it stops meaning anything?;” I ask. How many denominations can there be, each one believing their way and vision is the RIGHT way? Benny says this is part of why he started investigating Catholicism.

I remember back when I was in undergrad at Wheaton, one of the best parts was trying out these different flavors of Christian worship. There was the hippie church, Jesus People (JPUSA), in Chicago. Then there was the generic, big box non-denominational variety, like Wheaton Bible or College Church. And the Presbyterian churches. And the Episcopal churches, like Church of the Resurrection and St. Mark’s (where I had my first communion with REAL wine, not Welch’s Grape Juice). It was a blizzard of experimentation, investigation, and research into the style, views, and formats. Now, at Wheaton, being a college firmly rooted in evangelicalism, going to church was basically expected, which meant that Sunday lunch in the cafeteria was a natural place for assessments on whether or not others had gone to church, based on the clothing people wore. I am more than certain that several stressed out about this to the point where they would dress up for lunch if they hadn’t made it to church. I couldn’t be bothered with that. If there were ever a snide comment like, “Where’d you go to church, Kurt?”, I’d just say I had spent some time in The Word. Not only did it cut the snark, it was 100% true. I called my bed “The Word”, with a big sign on it stating its name. This became a problem for at least one of the underclassmen on my floor when I was an RA, borderline heretical. I do remember, Brendan. 😉

It is easy for me to listen to Benny describe his journey and thinking. We come out of the same place, and I can understand transformation and maturation far more than I can stagnation and samey-sameness. I live in Sweden now, have been for 16 years. True belief in Jesus, or any deity, is highly out of place and foreign; viewed with eye-narrowing suspicion. While Christianity is solidly a part of Sweden’s history and heritage, it has also always been lock and step with the government. For hundreds of years, it was mandatory for the people of Sweden to attend church. The church was in charge of keeping people in line, as well as for the country’s census and population control. It was not optional. Therefore, church in Sweden is not viewed as a place to receive any kind of true belief, but an institutional organism where tradition is upheld; in infant baptism, weddings, and funerals. This underlines my conviction that church and state should always remain separate. Belief should always be a choice, not compusory.

So, I don’t blame Swedes for being narrow-eyed, at all (I half-expect my Swedish friends to be reading this side-eyed, all this church talk, but I’m cool with that. This is my story, this is my song). Moving here was a cultural womp on a multitude of levels, including spiritually. I share this with the Hindus, Jains, Buddhists, Muslims, Jews and anyone else I’ve encountered who has moved here with a spiritual belief system from outside. It is a spiritual desert, with a fixation on the sensory and material here-and-now. Belief is dead wood, relegated to tradition or the sole domain of the sciences. But it is good to know, life still does thrive in the desert (if you’ve ever watched David Attenborough), it just looks and behaves differently than, say, a jungle or forest. I have adapted and I feel good about where I am, and I feel good about the people around me. I reject “us vs. them”. It’s just us. If I am viewed as a “them”, whether it’s true or not, so be it.

Benny and I wrap up. I go downstairs to pack, and do a couple “idiot checks” to make sure I am not leaving anything behind. And then we’re out the door, headed to our cars. “Benny! It’s so great to see you. Send me your address. I will send you some Swedish butter knives. You’ll see,” I bark in parting. And we head out, up the drive and onto the winding roads of Evergreen; Benny to join his family at the Episcopal church, and I, through the soaring cathedral of the Rockies and up to Boulder to see if I can meet up with Jolly Northrup.

I text Jolly... “Jolly!”

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