#also Donald in his last moments wondering if gray would be friends with him

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

st. jude (the patron of lost causes)

Part 4/8

Donald Malarkey x Reader

Summary: Bombs aren’t discerning, they aren’t sentimental, and they kill without discretion. It’s the truth that got you through Bastogne, when men came to you in tatters and their life blood flooded past the stoppage of your hands. It’s the harsh reality that whispers through your mind as you wonder why Renee and Anna died, and not you–why you were sent on a scavenging run at that precise moment. Then, when the church was shelled.

Moved to an evacuation hospital to tend to soldiers with ghosts in their eyes, you meet Buck Compton and his loyal sergeant, a man with a weight on his shoulders unknown to even Atlas. His name means bullshit, and somehow you find that appropriate: what he’s seen, what he’s gone through? It’s complete bullshit.

The evacuation hospital is set five miles back from the line, out of the sight-lines of German artillery but within range for ambulances or jeeps or whatever makeshift vehicle that has been commandeered for the wounded to come squealing up, loaded with groaning and bloodied men. It also means you have a clear view of the fireworks display, raining hellfire down on the frontlines, tonight.

Mortar blasts illuminate trees in great streaking paintbrush strokes of blue at their hearts, before flaring high into the pitch sky in tongues of orange and red. Two inhales and exhales—you number them, equal parts to count the explosions and to regulate your own too-short, too-high breath—separate the mortar hits, and flare ups, from the great booms of sound carrying through the snow-blanketed forest to you and Constance. Both of you squint against the flares of fiery light, both thinking of men being hit and wondering how many would be brought in before morning—wondering how much of them would be brought in, and if it was enough to save.

A breath catches, ragged, in your throat. Those men, those distant soldiers with featureless faces, who you hoped never to see (‘hoped’ because it meant they didn’t need you), suddenly all look like Malarkey in your imagination. Malarkeys scramble from foxhole to foxhole, dodging death and checking in with comrades, friends, soldiers who have become brothers. The tightness coiling in your chest jerks violently and for the first time since Malarkey entered your life and demanded a corner of your thoughts always be reserved for him, you desperately wish you never met.  

Fire falls like rain and, for the first time, you have someone to lose and you are completely powerless to cheat Fate’s hand.

Buck Compton has stayed too long. The evacuation hospital is a midway point between aid stations and proper hospitals, meant as a prepping station for men to continue on to better, cleaner facilities or to take a handful of days to sleep, recover, and return to the lines. You know it, have been expecting Dr. Schroder’s orders to come through for days now, but you still feel a dagger plunge and twist when you receive the written orders, making you stop short as you cross the short distance between Schroder’s tent-office and the ward.

The all-American boy is to be loaded on the next medical transport truck and sent off to recover, to collect his senses and fight off his demons—a battle you’re not equipped to help him wage in an evacuation hospital. “It’s for the best,” you mutter as you read the orders.

Constance, at your side, gives you a grim, close-lipped smile and touches your shoulder. “It’ll be alright, sweetness,” she says. You’ve heard her call the patients ‘sweetness’ in her molasses-thick accent, but never you. Suddenly, you understand why the men always warm under that endearment. “You can visit him soon. Don’t you have a weekend pass coming up?”

Technically, you have about five weekend passes owed to you since the beginning of the war, when taking time away of the hospital seemed unthinkable with the amount of wounded coming through. You don’t mind; you fear what being in the civilian world would do to you—if it would expose all the memories you try to hide from, if you would be staring into some mirror in some hotel room and not recognize yourself. Still, it’s kind of Constance to say, so you reply, “Yeah, I do.”

She nods, as if that settles matters, and gives your shoulder one last squeeze before striding ahead and ducking into the hospital tent. You can’t take your eyes off the order for a minute and when you finally rip your focus away, the tent flap has fluttered closed behind her. Taking one breath, then another, letting the winter air bathe your lungs, you’ve just convinced your feet to move when the rumble of a Jeep engine makes you turn instead. A hand held your brow allows you to see—

“Sergeant Malarkey!” is out of your mouth before you can consider how you embarrass yourself, how insane you sound. Yet, you can’t really find it in yourself to care, instead waving and grinning because he’s waving back, and smiling, and laughing—and fuck, it is just like how I thought it’d sound.

“Y/n!” he calls, jumping out of the Jeep before the orderly fully stops. He jogs to you, smile stretching impossibly wider, and grabs your hands. “Y/n, it’s so damn good to see you!”

A blush is rising in your cheeks against your will, and you smile eagerly into his face only for your breath to catch. It takes focus to keep the smile stretched on your lips: the darkness, the ghosts, have grayed his face entirely and though he smiles now, there’s something hot and feverish about it. He’s seen things, done things. He’s not as whole as when you saw him last. Oh, my dear Malarkey, whispers through your thoughts. What horrors did you see last night? You force out a reply: “You, too, Sergeant. It’s been quiet without you.” You’re proud of how even your voice is.

Some of the wild shine in his eyes dulls, and he seems to realize he’s holding your hands, that you are close. He doesn’t move away. “I’ve been thinking about how you…and, and Buck are doing. How are you? How’s he?”

Your thoughts, a freight train of worrying over the pieces of him lost on the frontlines—of the darkness—of the ghosts—grind to a halt because of course that’s why he’s here. Of course. Still, it hits you and leaves you gasping for air. “Oh, uh,” you fill into the silence. Suddenly, there’s an expanse between you. “Um, Buck’s…Buck’s okay, err, he will be. Once he gets back farther from the line. Getting away from hearing the mortars will do him a lot of good.”

Selfishly, though, you know Buck’s leaving will do you very little good. Without Lieutenant Compton, why would Malarkey visit the hospital?

Malarkey nods, tension you hadn’t noticed before easing from his shoulders. He still hasn’t released your hands, and instead he squeezes them. “You still haven’t said how you are,” he says. You shrug, and he reads exactly what you mean.

(I knew he’d understand, whispers through your mind before you can deride yourself for how fucking ridiculous that is).

“Come on, Buck will be anxious to see you,” you suggest, regretfully dropping his hands after one last, brief squeeze and you lead him into the hospital tent. It takes a moment, it always does, to blink against the dimness and allow your eyes to adjust. And, when it does, you meet Constance’s steady expression and the questioning quirk of her lips. Her eyes dart from you, to Malarkey at your back, to Buck sitting on his cot, packing his rucksack. A single, manicured eyebrow rises in a magnificent arch. You know Constance will corner you later, but for now you scuttle under her attention, waving Malarkey to Buck unnecessarily. “Take your time. I’ll come let you know when the truck for him arrives.”

Malarkey nods, gratitude in his eyes. You’re relieved to see that heat from his eyes is gone, whatever flurried craze he arrived in scrubbed from and leaving him just a little more shattered, just a little fissured with cracks. He moves from your side and, it may have been your imagination, but you thought you felt the briefest grazing of his hot skin against your wrist.

(How heat thrills up your muscles could be your imagination, too.)

Constance stations herself on one side of Buck, you on the other, and Malarkey leads the way, hefting the rucksack (apparently heavy with bricks from how Malarkey ribbed Buck over its weight). It takes all three of you acting as support to boost Buck into the back of the transport truck, Constance clambering up to instruct him for the umpteenth time on his medicinal regime. Buck, in good humor, grunts and rolls his eyes. Assuring her he’ll remember to take the little pill in an hour, the slightly larger pill in three hours, and yes he has water to wash them down. He rattles his canteen to emphasize this point.

Malarkey takes Constance’s place when she jumps down from the truck, pale blue skirts pluming, and you lead her a few yards away to give the men an allusion of privacy. Constance checks over her shoulder, never one for subtly, before whipping her face close to yours and whispering, “So, the Sergeant.”

You roll your eyes. “You always start off gossiping that way,” you point out, no bite in your voice. A grin twitches your lips.

Ignoring you, Constance insists, “I’m right though, aren’t I?” When you only shrug coyly, she squeals, clapping her hands. “Oh, you minx, giving me that red herring with the Lieutenant when it really was the Sergeant the whole time.” She puts her hands into her apron’s pockets, head-tilt consideringly as she angles herself to get a better look at Malarkey while pretending she really wasn’t looking. “There’s something solid about him. Something good.”

You blink at Constance, at how her voice dips in consideration, and you know you’re properly blushing now. You can feel the heat radiating off of you, even as you smile in delight, before bumping her shoulder with yours. “You say the most ridiculous things.”

Constance’s eyebrow arches, but she doesn’t reply beyond a smile. She turns her face to the morning sun sending white glares of light off the snow, breathing in until her chest swells wide. Measuredly, she exhales, a puff of condensation rising from her mouth, and her words are on a breath: “You deserve something good, some happiness.” Her eyes wander to yours. You never realized they have a hint of green in them. “I haven’t been here long, so what do I know, but it seems to me that happiness is a rare thing in this war.” Her smile never falters, but now, accompanied by the pinch of her brows. Her grin no longer makes her look naïve. She’s different, changed; in the hospital for less than two months, and already the war shows itself on her face.

You want to reply, say something profound to accompany her insight, but she squeezes your shoulder and moves away, returning to the hospital tent. The faintest hint of lavender perfume and rubbing alcohol trails her, distracting you from Malarkey jumping down from the truck and crunching across the frozen, dead grass to stand at your side. He gives you a crooked smile—an expression less meant to convey happiness and more solidarity—as he turns. The truck’s engine turns over, roaring to life. Buck raises a hand of farewell in the murkiness of the truck’s back, you and Malarkey waving back.

Your hands hang suspended until the truck rumbles out of the hospital’s field, swallowed by the road and the Ardennes. It takes a concentrated effort to warm your muscles and coax them into moving, lowering your hand only for your fingers to drift to your icon of St. Jude. The metal is cold under your fingertips, chilled by the winter freeze, and you stare at nothing at all as you trace its familiar ridges.

With the truck gone, you are faced with the habitual emptiness that always shells out your chest after one of your patients leave. It’s for the best, you know: he can’t receive the care he needs here or from you—not with the meager resources of the evac hospital—but the fledgling friendship forged over dog-eared books and oatmeal is over before it began. Despite yourself, despite the months of experience, you still allow yourself to care for the men who came into your care like your friends, like your brothers. Buck’s love letters, his blue eyes wide and seeing beyond the physical world are now details of yet another soldier to be added to your collection. And, as you say goodbye to Buck, in the same breath you must say goodbye to Malarkey.

Not allowing yourself to doubt your decision, you unclasp the necklace from around your neck, and cradle one of Malarkey’s hands in your own. The chain, cool and coiling like liquid, slithers into the basin of his palm. “Here.”

Malarkey blinks down at the necklace and you can feel his eyes swivel to you, warming your cheeks with their confusion, but you refuse to look at him just then. “I can’t take this,” he says.

“You have to,” you reply, more forceful than you realize. You didn’t mean to voice it—that this would be the last time you saw him—but the implication is a heavy lead in your tone and Malarkey hears it plainly. You swallow around the dryness in your throat, folding Malarkey’s fingers over the necklace. “I don’t really need it anymore and I…” After losing Anna and Renee, you doubt St. Jude is really listening much, but maybe he’d watch over Malarkey.

Silence. Then, Malarkey rumbles a low, “Huh.”

“What?”

“Well,” he says, scrubbing his free hand briefly through his hair. You can’t help peek up at his curls, standing on end and in disarray. “I just realized I’ve been praying to your saint over the past few days. I…I didn’t really do it consciously.”

“Then you have to take it,” you reply, eyes drifting to his. It’s only because you’re watching him intently, attempting to decode the shift in those brown eyes just as you know he’s trying to puzzle you out, that you see a spark of decision—realization—ignite in his eyes. A shade of the grayness recedes from his face.

“Alright.” He nods. “I will, but you’re going to have to help me, my fingers aren’t really meant for these tiny clasps.” He displays his squarish hands as proof. A sudden surge seizes you to cradle his hands, to kiss his callouses, and heat floods your face. Malarkey politely doesn’t notice, continuing: “My mom would always ask me to help with her necklaces, and it’d take me minutes on end to get it.”

A bubble of laughter escapes you at the mental image of a boyish, flustered Malarkey trying and failing to battle a necklace. “I wouldn’t force you to fend for yourself. Turn around, I’ll help,” you order, and he complies and your suddenly faced with broad, strong shoulders; with the flyway curls mussed by his helmet and his nervous fingers, and an expanse of neck that is the perfect height for you to stand on tiptoe and press a kiss against.

You reach around his shoulders to bring the chain around his neck, clasping it quickly and with as little physical contact as possible. “There.”

He turns back to you slowly (or maybe that’s your imagination again), looking strange wearing two necklaces. Yet, the thought of double holiness—the double blessing—settles you. St. Jude’s icon is in his hand, but his eyes are seeking yours. “I feel like I should give you something, too,” he offers, the words rattling in his chest, like he debated heatedly with himself if he should say them.

But, you think as that something in your chest connected to him feels less like pain and more like relief, thank God he did. “No,” you insist, shaking your head. “Please, don’t worry about. You don’t have to give me anything.”

Malarkey looks like he wants to protest, has something building in his chest to rebuke your insistence—something that will shake the very earth, the very foundations of reality—but an orderly barks then: “Sergeant, you headed back to the line? Shake a leg, or you’ll miss your chance!”

He drags his eyes from you to look at the orderly, nodding, before turning to blink back at you. Whatever he was going to say, whatever precious notion of your reality he was preparing to shatter, had been ripped from his mouth before it could be voiced. As you watch him go—you’ll never get used to watching him drive away from you, you know it—you wish every word secreted in his thoughts and secreted in words could be voiced and you could talk for ever and ever. You wished you could talk until you talked about nothing at all, and still then, you talked.

You wished there was time for talking, and the war and the dying and the ghosts didn’t cram the words back in your mouths and silence you.

#band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers fic #donald malarkey #donald malarkey imagine #donald malarkey x reader #angst #hurt/comfort #friendship #my writing

[kiss-my-freckle]

Dialogues for @thesweetkeenlife

1x1

Red: Evidently someone with the authority to make decisions has arrived. I think I smell the stench of your cologne, Agent Cooper. Smells like hubris.

Red: You got rid of your highlights. You look much less Baltimore.

1x3

Red: So you went with the gray?

1x4

Red: That’s a pretty blouse.

1x7

Red: Agent Keen, I have a tip. You’re a winter, not an autumn. Stop wearing olive.

Red: You’d look positively radiant in a Guayabera dress. I know a little shop in Reston. We could stop before our flight.

Red: I brought you a souvenir. What’s your feeling about guava? Liz: Anxiety. Red: Oh, you’re in for a treat.

1x8

Red: I don’t know how you do it. I had that done once. I couldn’t bear the tickling.

Maltz: Ray, look at you. You look great. I mean, the elasticity is amazing. You been juicing? Red: Beets, mostly. Some celery, carrots, a lot of ginger. The kale makes me dyspeptic.

Red: I find it so reassuring - the movie stars, the pop singers. They really are just like the rest of us.

1x9

Red: Donald, never let it be said that I valued a Zegna Venticinque tie over a human life, even yours.

1x11

Red: Janice, my sincerest apologies. I’ll take a rain check on the Stroganoff. It smells delicious.

1x12

Red: We brought a little something for Julian - a care package. It’s a Tibetan singing bowl. What do we have here? Some jackfruit, vitamin D, kola nuts. But we’ve got to get him to eat more protein. He looks like hell. He isn’t vegan, is he? Anyway, I’ve also included a couple of my favorite Richard Pryor records. I want to try and inject a little levity into the proceedings. I mean, Julian looks so crabby all the time. House arrest can be grueling. Borakove: Didn’t you spend, like, four months - in Phonthong? Red: Seven. Borakove: How did you survive? Red: Naps. Occasional calisthenics.

Red: If I tell you, you have to promise me you’ll try the fertilized duck eggs. It’s a daring and unique dining experience. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to hell.

1x14

Red: Who decided on this paneling?

Red: You smell nice. Something new?

Red: Wow! And I like your clutch.

1x17

Red: This piroshki is delicious.

1x18

Red: I come bearing gifts - pimento cheese sandwiches, toasted with the crusts cut off. Eartha Kitt’s recipe. It’s a fantastic story.

2x1

Red: It looks so soft. Shea butter?

2x2

Red: Lizzy! I’d like to introduce you to my manicurist, Rosa Heredia. She’s the one I was telling you about, who was dating that nine-fingered bullfighter from Juarez. This woman is an artist, trained at the Latin-American school of medicine in Havana.

2x11

Red: Oh, that’s a shame. She’s gonna miss the most tantalizingly delicious khorem baklava.

2x12

Red: Oh, that’s a shame. Dendrobium? Ruth: My own hybrid. I call them “Snows of Everest.” Red: Lovely.

2x14

Red: You've changed your hair.

Red: Come on. I got to be worth as much as that fake Xuande Ming vessel was. Yaabari: 18. Red: Sorry, Santos, but those cat’s eye Chrysoberyls are brown, not green. An expensive forgery, but a forgery nonetheless. 20!

3x1

Red: I must say, your hair, the way it frames your face is very becoming.

3x2

Red: You have no idea what I’ve offered Chui to divulge the secret of this recipe. He won’t say. I suspect it has something to do with how he beats his eggs.

3x6

Red: I love mauve, but a soft creamy yellow will just open up the entire room.

3x8

Red: You didn’t find anything. Jilly found it ’cause you’re too dense to even look for it. No wonder Cash doesn’t trust you with anything more important than babysitting. T-bone: That’s big talk coming from a g-guy who’s -

3x12

Red: Yeah. Oh, I should probably mention, I booked a pregnancy massage for you. She’ll be here at 9:00. Her name’s Edwina, she’s a registered nurse, and she smells absolutely divine. I hope it goes with the rest of your stuff. I’m told it pulls out.

3x13

Red: I se your new home is a work in progress. What colors are you considering?

3x17

Red: Came together rather nicely. They went with ruby fringe tulips and pink peonies.

3x20

Red: I was just imagining young Katarina covered in glitter. As an adult, it’s easy to dismiss this stuff as girlish frivolity. You forget the wonder it creates, the light captured, secret wishes evoked. It renders even the darkest days sparkly. Never underestimate the power of glitter.

3x21

Red: They say gifting a bouquet of daffodils ensures happiness, while presenting just one means bad luck is on the horizon.

4x7

Red: You looked absolutely ravishing the other night. What do you do to stay in such incredible shape? Calisthenics? Or Jazzercise? Maybe we should be workout partners. I’ll see you in dance class, Samar.

4x18

Red: So I get a babysitter now? I haven’t had a babysitter since Brenda Gilroy. My God, pot pies, Lawrence Welk, bath time with Brenda. Still my perfect Saturday night.

5x1

Smokey: Sorry it took so long. Once I knew Humberto had your African friend and his chums in transpo, I stopped for some Bengay ointment. Think I overdid it with my back. Red: I use Epsom salt baths.

5x2

Red: Oh, my goodness. Look at those Guan vases. And that flatware. Did you know Nancy Reagan - She could dress a table specifically for that night’s guest at a moment’s notice. Russian Silver for a tea with Gorbachev, Italian silver stag-head stirrup cups for a last-minute supper with Sinatra. Can you imagine?

Liz: What color is that, pumpkin? It looks like a pumpkin. Red: His wife says it’s Tuscan Sunset.

5x10

Red: Paris, I’d like you to meet Elizabeth. Paris and I first met when he was a saucier at La Bernadin. Liz: Pleasure to meet you. Paris: Shall I set a third place for lunch? Liz: No, thank you. Red: You may want to think twice. He’s making a turbot with a matsutake mushroom broth.

5x12

Red: What makes her happy? Does she like a good foot massage?

5x15

Red: Maybe a massage parlor. The athletes would love it!

5x16

Red: Mr. Garvey, might I suggest you enjoy what little time you have left - crab cakes, scalp massages, perhaps a double feature of “The 400 Blows” and “Jules and Jim” - whatever floats your boat. Do it now, because I will find those bones, and when I do, I’m gonna kill you.

5x17

Red: I hope you have indigestion. Liz: No. But if it makes you feel better, I’m in a bad mood. Red: Excellent! Dembe: He’s making fenugreek porridge. My ancestors learned that it can cure a troubled stomach and soothe aches and pains. Red: Medicinal South Sudanese cuisine. Liz: Cooking it up in their embassy’s kitchen. Aren’t you living large?

5x19

Red: This apartment. Right here. Oh. My God. To have been the proverbial fly on Clyde Tolson’s duvet. Liz: Clyde Tolson lived here? J. Edgar Hoover’s lover? Red: This was their secret hideaway. Imagine the conversations. Cooing over JFK’s lovers. Slandering Dr. King. What peignoir to wear to bed. When I saw the apartment was for sale, I couldn’t resist. Liz: You own the apartment where the homophobic head of the FBI carried on his affair with his boyfriend? Red: Allegedly. I wouldn’t admit this in mixed company, but J. Edgar and I have a surprising amount in common. For instance, we both always get our man.

Red: What’s that smell? Is that lavender?  And mint. Is that your head? What kind of products do you use? I’m dying of curiosity. Garvey: Wouldn’t that be nice. Red: You smell that? Dembe: Yes. It’s lovely. Red: I’ll say. Absolutely lovely. Whatever it is, you and I need to get some.

5x22

Red: Oh. A lightweight merino. Super 120, natural stretch. I swear by it.

Waters: So, what do you think of this one? Red: Oh, John, yes. I like that. But go with the Snowy River Collection in the Glen Urquhart plaid. It worked for the Duke of Windsor. And, just my opinion, consider a vest. Waters: You think? Are vests in again? Red: Vests have never been out.

6x4

Vega: Yeah. I also got the blade that’s gonna carve you like a pumpkin. Red: Jack-o’-lantern. Vega: Huh? Red: A pumpkin is a gourd. A jack-o’-lantern is the carved pumpkin. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I knew what you meant.

6x5

Baldwin: One. I arrested that man there, in the navy-blue suit. Sima: May the record reflect the witness has identified the defendant. Red: Uh, o-objection. Judge Wilkins: Grounds? Red: The suit is actually a prunelle weave blue with a subtle overlay of red. So in the right light, it goes quite plum.

#dialogues

[shewhowantsmouseears]

Love Like Lava, 16

Notes: As always, major thanks to my fantastic editors Drucilla and BlueShifted! Send them your love and praise!

EEEVERYBODY HURTS... SOOOOMETIIIIMES... Yep, it's the moment we've all been waiting/dreading. While writing the big moment, I had sad Sailor Moon music on repeat - which I do only recommend listening to if you want to feel like your heart is being shredded.

But keep your chin up, folks, 'cause the story's not over yet!

Also, originally in the plans for this story, Mickey did inspire Gyro - but as everything came together, I decided that perhaps it was best to do in a different direction, and I'd like to think it came out better this way.

Summary: For centuries, Mickey kept himself in the dark, believing that's where he belonged. Only now has he been able to step into the light, thanks to the one he loves most. But now that same love threatens to send him back into the shadows of despair.

Even though the grand chariot race was a few days away, the merry town of Ippos was in full celebration. Visitors from all corners of Greece were there to take in the sights and sounds, as merchants put out their grandest riding equipment and breeders trotted out their finest mares. Goofy, Agalma, and Gyro were slightly awestruck by the constant music playing and the eager shouting of excited crowds, and so didn't see their other friends passing right by. Mickey, Minnie, Donald, and Daisy had all decided to come together to take in the town and make plans for the day of the race. This was proving to be difficult as Minnie and Mickey were constantly distracted by everything. Mickey had to be dragged away from the musicians before he could take apart an instrument - as he had wanted to see what made it work – and Minnie kept running off to play with adorable children, loving each and every mortal she came across and wanting to know their whole life story.

After several attempts, Donald and Daisy finally managed to get their excited companions towards the coliseum. Mickey stopped where he was, leaning back to take in its majesty. “Will you look at that,” he murmured quietly, as if no one had ever seen it before. “That's gotta be the tallest building I've ever seen! Are you tellin' me mortals can do stuff like this, without any help from us?” It nearly touched the clouds, with carvings of horses racing around the exterior. Only riders were allowed in for today, with bored guards standing at the wide entrances.

“Isn't it grand!” Minnie exclaimed, running up to touch the walls – or would have, had Daisy not reached out and grabbed her around the chest, lifting her up and then setting her back down.

“Hold your horses! And that's the only horse pun allowed today!” Daisy said in exasperation, loving her friend dearly but already exhausted by Minnie's antics. “We can go in and look, but we'll have to pop out of our mortal forms. They're not letting in anyone in if they don't have a horse.”

“Can we get a horse?” Mickey asked in all seriousness, and instantly Minnie was at his side with the same hopeful look. “Pretty please?”

“No, you can't get a horse!” Daisy snapped, hands on her hips. “It has nowhere to live in that scrawny cave of yours!” She then shot Donald an angry look. “Can I get some help here?”

Donald couldn't resist the temptation. “Sorry, Daisy, I just hate being a neigh-sayer.” He felt the smack on the head was worth it, especially when he heard Mickey and Minnie laugh like giddy children. In all honesty he felt if Daisy wasn't there, he might have well bought both of them horses. Despite the fact they all physically looked like the same age, he felt a constant urge to spoil the mice like they were his own babes. He knew on some level Daisy thought of them the same way, judging by the smile she was clearly trying to fight. “Okay, okay, let's go in and choose where we want to sit. We want the best view!”

“Can we look at the chariots too?” Mickey asked as they headed towards the entrance. The guards were about to block them, but suddenly got an urge to sneeze, and when they looked back up, saw no one. In seconds, they decided no one had been there in the first place, as the foursome casually strolled along inside.

“I bet you could make an absolutely marvelous chariot, Mickey,” Minnie cooed, always at the ready to give Mickey a compliment whether he deserved it or not.

“Maybe I could,” Mickey agreed after a chuckle, having climbed his way out of most of his modesty. “Not sure who I'd give it to, though. Wouldn't have much use of it for myself.”

As they waked down the long gray hallway, Donald glanced back at his nephew. “Say, Mickey, do you ever make anything for yourself? Or is always for other people?”

Mickey gave this some thought, but it didn't take long. “Gee, I always thought it was both. When I make stuff for other folks, it makes me happy. Seein' the look on people's faces... it's like I made those looks! Every time I bring down my hammer, I'm actually creating someone's smile!” He'd long since begun working on projects for Donald and Daisy, but wanted to keep them a surprise. He even had blueprints made up for Goofy, Agalma, and Gyro, and of course he never stopped working on prizes for his dear mermaids and nereids. The concept of making something that would solely benefit or please him had never crossed his mind.

“Oooh, that's like poetry!” Minnie clung to Mickey's arm, squealing in lovey-dovey glee and heaping more praise upon him than he could handle. “You are the sweetest person alive!”

“Aw, shucks. You're the sweet one, Minnie,” Mickey began to blush, Daisy rolled her eyes, and even Donald hoped they would tone down a smidgen by the day of the actual race or it'd be impossible to concentrate on the entertainment. Thankfully they were all distracted when they passed the stables, and spotted the trio of mortals they adored. Agalma was happily brushing Little Helper's mane, earning sighs of contentment from the horse. Goofy was painting the cart, hoping that a few bright colors would help his friends spot him from the audience. Gyro was sitting on top of a wooden crate, jotting down notes on a scroll but then crossing them out and shaking his head.

Donald clicked his tongue and touched his chin, taking a look at the cart. “Doesn't look like much has changed since we last saw it. I guess Gyro still hasn't come up with anything that could help Goofy win the race.”

“You know what he needs?” Daisy walked around, getting behind Mickey and slapping a hand down on his shoulder. “A little inspiration! Get to it, mister poetry.”

Mickey blinked slowly at her, waiting for further explanation. “Huh? What am I supposed to do?”

“You know, inspire him!” Daisy kept pushing him, though she was careful not to go too hard for his damaged leg. “Be his muse! You're the perfect god for this situation.”

“Easy, Daisy, he has no idea what you're talking about,” Donald interrupted, yanking his wife backwards by the hand. He then cleared his throat, enjoying the miniature audience before him and the rare chance to seem intelligent. “All gods, even demi-gods like Daisy, have the power to influence mortals. Depending on what you rule over, you can make them do almost anything. Ares has the power to drive people to fight. Apollo gives them notes for music and lyrics for poetry. I bet if our little Minnie gave someone a nudge, she could encourage folks to fall in love.” At this Minnie stared down at her fingers, in disbelief that she could do such a thing. She was so intrigued and confused by this concept she'd yet to realize how dangerous Donald had come to revealing who she was. “And since you're a mastery of invention, you could give Gyro just what he's looking for, but convince him it's his own idea. All you have to do is give him one poke.” He held up his pointer finger, and Mickey coped the action.

“That's all?” Mickey repeated, looking at his finger, and then back at Gyro, who was regretting chewing on his ink quill – both because he'd destroyed the feather on the quill, and because now his beak was covered in ink. “I come up with the invention, and he'll want to make it?”

Daisy snapped her fingers. “Just like that. And hey, if you keep it up, maybe you'll get your name out there! People can start worshiping you properly like the rest of the gods!”

“Oooh, how exciting!” Minnie grabbed Mickey's hand, squeezing it to her chest. “You could get your own temple! And people would make offerings to you, asking for your help, and everyone would learn how wonderful you are! It's exactly what you deserve!” She was filled with cheer, wanting to turn back into her mortal form so she could run out into the streets and tell everyone to start worshiping the stupendous, marvelous, handsome and brilliant Hephaestus. But she had a feeling if she tried Daisy would be pushed to her limit and put Minnie on a leash. Nevertheless, now she was the one dragging Mickey towards Gyro. “Go ahead! I bet you'll come up with an amazing idea! It'll be you who wins the race instead of Goofy!”

Mickey stumbled as he was led forward, and Minnie let go once he stood right in front of the befuddled bird. She stepped back to watch, and Mickey lifted his finger. At that moment, Gyro laid the scroll down on his lap to take a break, and Mickey could see that in addition to chariot designs and failed ideas, there were drawings of the sea and underwater life, with concepts for round boats and a tube to let you breathe when you were below the ocean's waves. Agalma and Goofy peered over Gyro's shoulders to take a look at his concepts, with Agalma asking why people couldn't breathe underwater and Goofy thinking the helmet was a nifty idea. Mickey looked at all three of them, then at his finger, which apparently held far more power than he could have ever dreamt of.

Donald raised an eyebrow at how long this was taking. “Everything okay there, kiddo?”

“I...” Mickey bit his lower lip, taking a good long look at his surroundings – at the horse that mankind had domesticated, at the coliseum that mortals had built by working together, at the simple cart that was once an ingenious device hundreds of years ago. Mortals had never needed his help in building any of these things or making any of these achievements. “I just... I don't think I should.”

“But why?” Minnie was quickly in his face, worried that her encouragement had somehow hurt someone she cared about once more. “You could get the recognition you deserve!”

“Maybe it's what I deserve,” Mickey admitted, cupping Minnie's cheek to affectionately let her know everything was all right. “But it's not what I want. I don't need mortals constantly praying to me when they can do so many wonderful things all on their own. I shouldn't do their work for them.” Even as he said this Gyro's eyes were lighting up, asking Goofy to repeat himself. Goofy tapped on the idea for a suit for going underwater, but Gyro's mind was going in a different direction. He stood up so suddenly that he accidentally knocked both dogs over, getting into a fevered excitement about a helmet and other ways to protect Goofy during the race. Mickey smiled with genuine warmth to see all of them cheering and congratulating each other, even if they didn't entirely understand what had happened.

“Nah, they don't need my help,” Mickey commented as he put an arm across Minnie's shoulders. “Maybe they don't even need the help of all the other gods too. I don't mind that they don't know me. As long as I've got the folks who really care about me, that's all I need.” Minnie smiled at him, making his resolve even stronger. He was about lay a kiss upon her forehead – and then something occurred to him. He drew back, giving Minnie an odd look, before turning to Donald. “Say...why did you say Minnie had that kind of power?”

Donald had been proud of his distant relative in that moment, and as a result he was wildly thrown off by the inquiry. He'd been told time and time again by Daisy that Mickey didn't know Minnie's godly identity, and while he thought it was a bad idea he agreed not to tell him – on purpose, anyway. Yet apparently he'd let something big slip, and even with white feathers it was clear he was paling. “Uhhh. I say a lot of things! What did I say this time?” He glanced at Daisy for assistance but she was equally panicked, and Minnie was starting to shake.

All of these bizarre reactions weren't answering Mickey's questions – they were only making him more confused. “You said she could make folks fall in love. What kind of goddess could do that?” None of them said anything, unless you counted the stammering “Ummm”s and “Errr”s and “Oh nonononono”s, particularly under Daisy's breath. Minnie swallowed a hard lump in her throat, curling her hands against her heart, afraid to look Mickey in the eyes. “Mickey, I... there's... there's something I've been meaning to tell you, but-”

Never had Minnie been so grateful to hear the sound of a man in pain before. Everyone's heads, mortal and otherwise, whipped around to focus on what sounded like a man – several men – where being pummeled within an inch of their life. The collective group began to run for the source, which turned out to be the open raceway right in the middle of the coliseum. Several horses were running rampant, as their owners were engaged in fisticuffs. In the middle of it were brothers Bouncer and Burger Beagle with their cousin Bombshell – this particular beagle had a scruffy gray beard hiding massive fangs, and his dirty clothes were smeared in mud, grass stains, and pieces of twigs as if he made his home in the forest. Which, seeing as he refused to pay for a shelter, was likely.

“What in the world is goin' on here?” Goofy cried out, amazed to see two pests from home smack dab where he was competing. “You couldn't cause enough trouble back in the village, so you're doin' it here?”

Bouncer saw his enemies from the village and slammed his fists together, grinning manically. “If it ain't our old pals – Piggy and his dumb dame! And Ma wrote about that scrawny rubberneck, he's a perfect addition to the loser squad!” Gyro rubbed his neck, wondering why having a neck made of such a substance would be deemed an insult, while Agalma blew all the Beagles a wet raspberry. Goofy got in front of his companions, arms spread out to protect them in any way he could. The sight of this only made Bouncer laugh harder. “Oh don't you worry, goof! We're settling our score on the raceway! It'll be me versus you – but we wanted to keep it that way, and get rid of all the competition!”

“And Bombshell's gunna help us cheat!” Burger added on, already hungry from doing as little as possible. “And I'm... what am I doing again?”

“Meat-shield,” Bombshell grunted. He was a man of few words, and of many growls and spits.

“Right, that thing! Back home, no one's afraid of us anymore. But the Beagle name is still plenty strong here, so if we say they're out...” He cast a mischievous glare at one of the competitors who had dared enter the grounds, but one look at the trio of troublemakers and he quickly ran in the other direction. Burger laughed at the act of cowardice, but then sighed, rubbing his belly. “Man, all this intimidation and being a real jerk in general works up an appetite.”

“You leave all these innocent people out of this, Bouncer! This race is supposed to be for everyone!” Goofy shook a fist, hoping he wouldn't have to use it. “It ain't nothin' to do with what happened with us!”

“Ain't nothin' is a double negative,” Gyro reminded everyone, but everyone's curt frowns reminded him this was neither the time or the place. “Sorry.”

“Goofy's right,” Agalma huffed, crossing her arms. “If you want to settle things, keep it to yourself! Stop picking on everyone else! You have no reason to hurt these people!”

No, in a rational sense of things the Beagles didn't have any real reason to throw their punches. In fact if they had been allowed to think things through, they would have laid low and waited for a better moment to launch their revenge. But they hadn't been allowed to keep their minds calm, because there in the arena was Pete, keeping himself busy until all of his statues were ready. He knew Mortimer and Gladstone weren't dumb enough to slack off when he wasn't around, if not for the thrill of having Aphrodite return then for the very obvious threat of having their skulls pummeled.

The other four immortals were startled to see him there, with Donald regaining his senses and anger first. “Ares!” he growled, the threat of turning to his smoky form looming. He knew Pete's chosen name, but felt the degenerate didn't deserve one. “Leave them alone!”

Now it was Pete's turn to be startled, seeing the ragtag group of misfits plus the woman he wanted to see. “Well, well, well, just the lady I was lookin' for!” He slapped his hands clean of the affair, letting the Beagles decide for themselves if they wanted to continue brawling. “All right, the rest of you get a move on, she and I need a moment alone.”

Mickey quickly took Minnie's arm, and Daisy stood in front of her friend, poisonous nightshade beginning to dangle from her locks of hair. “If you think I'm leaving you with her for a second,” Daisy huffed, sticking her beak high in the air. “Then you've got less sense than Cerberus! And he's our dog!” A quick pause to Minnie. “Remind me to show you later, he's the cutest thing, he has three heads but each one-”

“God of war, Daisy,” Donald reminded his wife, and she stopped rambling. As for Minnie, any other moment and she would have been happy to see an unusual pet of the gods, but just like last time Pete and Mickey were in the same space, she forgot how to breathe and knew only panic.

Mickey took Minnie's trembling as fear, which it was, but not for the reason he assumed. He released Minnie and took several steps forward, his limp leg lagging, and Minnie made a frightened cry, wanting to keep him away from Pete but had lost the ability to speak. “Listen, Ares.” Mickey stood as tall as his body would allow, causing Pete to snort in amusement. “If Minnie wants to speak to you, she'll say so. But if she doesn't want to, you can't make her. We're just here to have a good time – us and the mortals! There's no need to fight or cause any trouble.”

“Fight? Me?” Maybe Donald could last a few rounds, but the idea of a fight between Pete and all these weaklings was enough to make him laugh, though he tried to muffle it in his palm. He swallowed it down, trying to keep himself calm. “As hard as it might be for any of you to believe, I ain't here for a fight. I need her help, and she's the only one who can do it!” He offered his hand, grinning wide in pride. “Come on, babe, and let's do something amazing!”

Mickey looked back at Minnie to see her response, and she was fervently shaking her head no, trying to walk backwards and drag Daisy with her. “No, no, no, I don't want to help you! I don't care what you need!” They had to leave, they had to get away from this place as soon as possible, they had to go before Pete ruined everything! “Let's just go back to – to Mickey's cave, or the beach, or anywhere!”

Daisy immediately understood Minnie's panic, and helped her turn around so they could make a proper escape. “We can come back for the race. We don't need to waste any time here.” Donald was at her side, ready to teleport them all away if need be.

Except Mickey wasn't moving. “Aw, c'mon guys, don't let him ruin our day!” He wanted to see more of the chariots, more of the fantastic things the mortals had created, and to find out what Gyro's brilliant move had been. “He can't bully us away from here! And we can't leave him to pick on the mortals, that's just not fair!” Pete was quietly pulling his hand back, trying to come up with a way to make Minnie willingly come to his side, but came up with nothing.

The ducks exchanged a worried glance, and Minnie's panic grew stronger with every second. She suddenly pushed Daisy off and ran to Mickey, grabbing his hands and began to desperately plead with him, near to tears. “Mickey, I don't want to stay here!” she begged, her grip so tight it began to feel painful. “Please, we have to leave! Please!” She'd go on her hands and knees if she needed to, and Mickey couldn't be teleported away unless he willingly wanted to go. All she could do was say the word “please” over and over, her body beginning to fall.

Mickey was greatly taken aback by these dramatics, and he tried to lift Minnie up, making gentle shushing noises. “Hey, hey, hey! It's okay!” What had Ares done to Minnie in order to make her break into pieces every time they met? As much as he wanted to learn and explore, these urges were never more important than Minnie's feelings. “Okay, we can go! Just calm down, it's all right...” He cupped Minnie's cheek, keeping her steady and smiling for her. “Like Daisy said, we'll just come back. Everything will be fine, I promise.” He kissed her forehead, but this wasn't a promise he could keep.

It only took a few seconds to teleport a group that large away – but it took even fewer for Pete to sigh in annoyance and say, “So just because she's the goddess of love, she has to love everyone? Even you?”

Fourteen words were all it took to stop the spell, and instead of anyone moving, the four friendly gods were cemented in place – the failed attempt at leaving causing a bizarre draft of wind around the mortals, making them wonder where it came from but forgetting it soon enough. Mickey's warm, kind touch was now cold and stone, the world so still he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He hadn't heard that. He couldn't have heard it. But Minnie wasn't wearing an expression of confusion or disbelief or even surprise – those were hot tears flowing strong down her face, her lips trembling.

“... What did...you say?” Mickey drew out the question as slowly as he could, turning his head back towards Pete, feeling color leave his face.

Daisy grabbed Donald by his robes and began to shake him. “Do something!”

“What am I supposed to do?! Unless he's dead, I can't make him shut up!”

Pete didn't understand all the theatrics going on, nor did he care, for the sound of his own voice was the most important thing of all. “I've been givin' it some thought, about why Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, would hang out with a bunch of rejects. But it makes sense when you use your brain – if she's the goddess of love, she has to love everyone! Even a god with a walking stick.” Saying it out loud made him snicker. “'Course, if you ask me, sounds more like pity than love, but maybe they're related?”

Mickey wanted to hear Minnie say it wasn't true, say that the god of war was the god of lies, that she wasn't Aphrodite – he wanted her to say anything. But Minnie wasn't saying a single word, having dropped to her knees, speechless and floored that all she'd done to hide her secret was undone by a man who didn't know she was keeping a secret in the first place. Mickey's heartbeat became louder as all the little coincidences came together – the odd recognition from his mermaids, her life upon Mount Olympus, and she'd been obviously hiding something from him. But it had been this? He opened his mouth to ask Donald and Daisy – and they weren't surprised either. Daisy had fled to Minnie's side, trying to hold her, refusing to meet Mickey's face. Donald was also avoiding eye contact, rubbing the back of his head and mumbling an apology under his breath.

That made it all worse. “You knew?” he asked breathlessly, his body staggering back. “You knew all this time who she was?! And you never told me? What... what was all this? Were you guys just laughing behind my back the whole time?”

“Of course not!” Daisy hissed, holding Minnie close but Minnie felt more like a rag doll than a girl.

“I would've laughed,” Pete felt his commentary was necessary, and of course it only ignited Mickey's rage further.

“But you knew what Aphrodite did to me!” Mickey was close to screaming, both of his hands clutching his walking stick, his eyes feeling hot and wet. He didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry, but every ounce of his body was either enraged or in agony. Every sweet memory he had was now tainted, every happy time now in a new light. Had everything been for Aphrodite's amusement? Had he been some toy she could dangle around whenever she was bored? “You knew she told all the other gods we were getting married! Like – like it was some big joke that we'd be together! The goddess of beauty with the ugliest god of all! And it's her fault Pete destroyed my projects!”

“It wasn't like that!” Daisy had to defend Minnie since she was refusing to defend herself, limp and lifeless in Daisy's arms. “She was just... She wasn't thinking...” But how did you defend an action that you knew had been foolish? Was that why Minnie was so silent, unmoving?

Donald made an attempt, walking forward with his hands open. “Mickey, I know it's a lot to take in, but she didn't mean any harm!”

“What about you?” Mickey snarled, wanting everyone to feel as horrible as he did. “You said you wanted to make things up to me! But you went along with her lie! How is that supposed to make up for all the years you abandoned me?” Mickey knew he wasn't being fair, but he was far too angry to rationalize it. “You never cared, none of you ever cared!” It hurt, everything hurt – a goddess who could have everything she ever wanted and she chose to pick on him, to make others play in her games, and he was never needed at all – no, they'd never needed him, no one ever needed him, not his mother, not his father, not his uncle, what had he done to deserve this? He didn't ask to be born so pathetic. “You never needed me, you never loved me!”

At this did Minnie finally snap her head up, her voice agonized and breaking. “That's not true!” she yelled, hands curling up in the dirt, her eyes so blurry with tears she almost couldn't see him. “I do love you! I love you more than anyone and anything in the world! I just wanted to make you happy!”

“Then why didn't you tell me?” Mickey slammed his walking stick hard on the ground, hating how he felt, hating that he didn't want to yell at her, hating that he still wanted to hold her, hating that he still wanted to kiss away her tears. “Why did you never tell me?!”

“Well look how you're reacting!” Daisy spat, the leaves falling off of her hair the only giveaway that she was inwardly as sad as her husband. “You hated Aphrodite before you even met her, how was she supposed to tell you? Would you have given her a chance if told you who she really was?”

Had Pete not been there to say what no one wanted to hear, Mickey would have listened to this sound bit of sense. Maybe he would have even calmed down and tried to understand everything himself. But Pete was there, and he felt himself the wisest of all in the coliseum. “Well, of course he would've,” He said casually, as if a teacher speaking to witless children. “She's the goddess of love. Everyone loves her, and she loves everyone. Shoot, why do you think Zeus gave her that title on day one? You can't help but love her.”

“WILL YOU SHUT YOUR INFERNAL MOUTH, YOU USELESS PILE OF ARMOR?!” Donald's body erupted into his monstrous form, rising up to clutch Pete by the shoulders, fingers digging in sharply. Even Pete, who believed himself to be braver and stronger than all, was initially terrified of this appearance, and so temporarily stopped talking.

Yet the damage had been done, and now Mickey was clutching his chest, genuinely unable to tell the truth. Had his love for her been real? Or had he only been won over by her beauty? Was that why, even now, he wanted to look at her and take her hands and stop her pain? Had any of it been real? Had his happiness been a lie from the start? He began to choke, his mind swirling, and he couldn't control any of his words anymore. “Did... Did you ever really... love me? Or did you just... feel sorry for me?”

“I love you!” Minnie was howling now, almost feral in her grief, not even having enough strength to be angry at Pete. After all, for all of Pete's loud mouth antics, this was a day that had been coming. She had told herself over and over it'd be somewhere past the horizon, set in some place so far away she didn't have to think or plan about it. Was it because the very nature of love was being questioned that she felt her insides torn to shreds? Or for the very simple fact that the one she loved most was looking at her with fear and hate in his eyes? As if she was a monster?

“I've loved you from the moment I saw you!” Even then when he'd been so sad and angry, alone and never knowing his own worth. “Ever since we've met, I've wanted nothing more than to be with you! To make you happy... To make you see how wonderful you are...I wanted to take you out of the darkness.” And it was the fact he would very well return to his life of solitude and self-loathing that hurt the most. She'd taken him out into the light, but now there was a chance he would leave it and return to the shadows. The world was a beautiful, ever changing place and now he could leave it forever, and not get all the precious happiness he deserved.

“Please...don't go away...” Her sobs made speaking difficult, and she crawled on her hands and knees towards him, a trembling hand reaching out towards him. This miserable sight was enough to break Daisy's last defense, and she too began to cry, covering her mouth with her hands. Minnie didn't care how pathetic she looked to anyone, her hand still reaching out to Mickey. “Please believe me... I love you, Mickey.”

Mickey wanted to believe, wanted to take that hand and pretend he never heard anything. But the thought of her touch suddenly sent a hard stroke of fear throughout his body, and he drew back hard, remembering. “Donald – Donald said your touch could make anyone fall in love!”

Donald, being brought back into the travesty, suddenly poofed back into his normal form, and now that he was short again he fell from Pete's shoulders. After a humiliating thud and a smoothing down of robes and feathers, he was quick on his feet. “N-Now wait a minute, Mickey! I never – I mean, I was just – I was guessing! I don't know if she can!”

But it had been all too much for Mickey's mind and heart to take. He couldn't stand to look at any of them – the lies, the betrayal, the humiliation, it was more than love could conquer in one moment. “How can I believe that? How can I believe anything anymore?! I never...” he slammed his arm to his eyes, for the tears were coming and he didn't want them to see it. “I never should have left my cave, I never should have listened to you! I don't need this!”

“Mickey, no!” Minnie had her arms out, but couldn't find the strength in her legs, her very heart ripped out from her chest. “Please, Mickey! I love you!”

“I don't need you!” Mickey slammed his walking stick down again, summoning the will to leave the world once and for all. “I-I-I don't need nobody, and nobody needs me!”

Then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but signs of where his tears had dropped. Of course he'd retreated back to his cave, and only there could he let loose the final screams of his despair, his strangled cries stopping the world of all the Axelias, and he let himself collapse on the floor. They didn't help him up. They weren't programmed to. They were never supposed to give him pity.

Yet years of suffering in silence had never told Mickey the truth – that pity was merely one word for sympathy, and that it was a natural feeling in all conscious beings, as is sadness and anger and love. But even if the Axelias had offered their hands, he would have rejected them, for now he held another feeling that was natural in many living souls – self-hatred. He'd been stupid for thinking he could ever be loved. He'd been foolish for believing he existed for anyone's purpose. He'd been born a reject and he would inevitably die the same way. She never could have loved him. He didn't deserve it.

He didn't deserve it, but even as he sobbed himself to sleep, he wanted her love.

As for Minnie, she fell to the floor as well, a tangled mess of heartache and misery. She wouldn't get to her feet, so Daisy took it upon herself to lift Minnie up into her arms and carry her. To where, she wasn't sure – perhaps the Underworld, or Goofy's village, or her temple. “Oh, Minnie,” Daisy sighed softly, knowing her words weren't reaching her friend but making the futile attempt anyway. “My foolish, silly girl...we'll find a way. We'll try to find a way back to him.” Yet even as she said this she wasn't sure it was possible. She forlornly looked to her husband, hoping he had a better answer, but Donald was in his own pain.

He'd only been trying to abide by Minnie's wishes, but perhaps if he said something earlier – maybe even a hint – he wanted to be a good uncle! He wanted to be better than Zeus! Was this his destiny as the god of death – to bring sadness to all who knew him? He finally met Daisy's eyes, opened his mouth, but then closed it. No, he had no answers for her or himself. Things couldn't be resolved with a few pretty words and fingers crossed. He approached the two, tenderly stroking Minnie's head. “You can stay at our place for a while...just don't eat the pomegranates.”

“Sooo, I'll catch you later, Aphrodite?” Oh yeah, Pete was still there – he'd been waiting until this odd theater had closed its curtains. But it looked like any plans would have to be on hold for another day – maybe tomorrow she'd get over...whatever had just happened. Who cared about losing a good toy? They were a dime a dozen. “Right! Big plans, babe, just you and me! You won't believe what a good idea it is!”

It's said that for some married couples, they can talk without using any sentences. This was true as Daisy glared at Donald who understood her wants right away – and, since her arms were full, he took it upon himself to take off his sandal and throw it at Pete's face. As he rubbed his sore nose, the three vanished. Pete grumbled, wondering but not particularly caring what made them so upset. Maybe it was time he checked up on his statues, and so he too left the arena.

By this time, the Beagles had lost the resolve to continue pointlessly fighting, and so after a few more threats towards Goofy and his friends, they departed. Goofy and Gyro began to help the fallen riders back up, but Agalma was standing by herself, staring off into the distance. Goofy only took notice when he saw her cheeks were wet, and he quickly forgot everything else in the world, jumping to her side. “Agalma! What's wrong?”

“... I don't know,” Agalma replied, curiously touching her face. Strange, she didn't feel sad, or in any pain. “But you're crying too.”

“I am?” Goofy asked, and after he blinked he realized he was. In fact, some of the riders were too – those that were married or those who had loved ones they cared for deeply. Each one was deeply puzzled, as were the newlyweds in the next town over, as were the young couple sneaking out to see each other in a dark forest, as were all who knew love and now knew tears.

Off in Aphrodite's temple, there was a sudden, terrible crack in one wall. Perhaps it could be repaired. Perhaps it couldn't. But no one would know for some time – any urges to pray at these temples were instantly snuffed out. In fact, they couldn't fathom using the temple ever again. Despite all of these strange events taking place, time went on for both mortals as gods, as it always would.

And for now, Mickey's cave was quiet.

#disney #fanfic #love like lava #mickey mouse #minnie mouse #donald duck #daisy duck #goofy #gyro gearloose

[renaroo]

Double Time (9/24)

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence Pairings: Tuckington, Chex Rating: T Synopsis: [Hero Time Sequel] After the events of Hero Time, the city and Blood Gulch are prepared for the true return of superheroes in a big way. But while Washington is attempting to adjust to a new relationship and a new living arrangement, the call of new heroes and a new mayor mean major changes for his professional life as well as his personal one. How will the balance of values fare when his new partners come to test everything he’s made of.

A/N: I’m so sorry to everyone for the exceptionally long wait! I had finals and surgical assessment last week and was traveling a lot at the beginning of this week. But! Better late than never! We have this chapter primed and ready for you all ; ) 

Special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, @freshzombiewriter, @analiarvb, @icefrozenover, @alcientracers, BetaZack, Yin,@notatroll7, @a-taller-tale, @washingtonstub, @ashleystlawrence, @kiwibat, @irl-ami-mizuno, @thepheonixqueen, @whimsical-writer, @werkthatasdfl, and orangecookiekay  on AO3 and tumblr for the wonderful feed back! I truly appreciate it more than you know.

An Apple a Day

For reasons that probably spoke a lot to his general psyche, Washington opened his eyes half expecting to see the inside of a dumpster. And it was only a little disconcerting that he found himself a little disappointed when that was not the case.

Still, he felt like he had hit the broadside of someone’s getaway vehicle. And that wasn’t a feeling that was going to get old any time soon. 

“Oh, goodness! It looks as though you’ve finally decided to join the world of the waking!” 

The voice was unfamiliar, but so loud and so incapable of being ignored that Washington found himself turning to face it all the same. When he did, he was met by a dark woman with graying hair and a white surgical mask on with purple trimming. 

Medical getup was less disconcerting. 

“What’s going on? Where am I?” Washington began with a low panic just before trying to raise into a sitting position and finding his body very much protested every bit of it He hit the mattress of the stiff cot almost immediately. “Ow.”

“And that, dear Donald, is why I make a point of not healing everything at once when I receive class S patients! They always think they’re ready to get up and get rolling before they have even the slightest medical approval,” the doctor informed someone over her shoulder.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Washington tried to get his thoughts collected -- the courthouse was on fire, Locus, explosions, super strength, Junior -- but the more he thought, the less sense he could make. And worst of all, the more he realized that he didn’t have time to be laying in a cot in who-knew-where nor to play around with the mysterious doctor figure. He needed to save the city and the people and--

“I have to leave,” he announced before attempting to sit up again. Only that time, the mysterious doctor pushed down on his shoulders and forced him to lay back. 

“My, you are persistent. And one track minded,” she said with a tone that belied some amusement with his struggle.

“There are people in danger,” Washington attempted to argue only for a finger to be pushed against his lips.

“Only one of those people are my patient, Mister Washington! And the danger he is in is of being sedated should he not take the time to breathe, to listen, and to accept the medical care being provided to him by our wonderful city tax payers at the moment,” she warned.

Wash squinted at her. “I don’t know you,” he said, as if that was supposed to be the only response necessary for ending the current nonsense. 

“Yes, well, that would be expected when you haven’t given any of us time for an introduction,” she replied cheerfully. “My name is Doctor Emily Grey! I specialize in Class S patients, but of course I can also see any patient with normal anatomy and physiology. They’re just far less interesting.”

"She’s a friend, Washington,” Doyle spoke up, finally stepping out from behind the doctor. “A personal friend and an expert in her field. The moment I saw that you needed help after that brute Locus finished with you, I knew to call her up immediately.”

“Locus,” Wash spat out the name like it was poison. He pushed up again only for Doctor Grey to shove him back down. “Is everyone safe? The courthouse--”

“Burned down, I’m afraid,” Kimball said, revealing herself to be not too far behind Doyle. “Along with the physical copies of the ballots. We’re going to have to have a special election to decide this monstrosity of an election.”

There were few things less on Wash’s mind at that moment than the major dick waving contest that was this apparent election between Kimball and Doyle. But he should have figured one of the first things out of at least one of their mouths was going to be about it.

“Civilians?” he asked.

“I’m sure their voter turnout will be even lower than it was for the first election,” Doyle sighed. 

“Were any hurt?” Wash asked more testily. 

“Oh, gracious me, no, of course not,” Doyle said firmly. “Everyone stayed back, just as you advised!”

“But their wallets are going to be hurting,” Kimball said sourly. “All the infrastructure damage that will have to repaired? There’s no way we can risk lowering taxes in any bracket.” She then turned her hardened eyes on Washington. “Which is exactly why I wanted you to call on the team for backup! I knew that even if you could manage this on your own -- which you couldn’t -- it was going to be disastrous for the public property!”

“They weren’t ready,” Wash said pointedly. “We just started training and...” Remembering the training session, Wash felt his eyes widen and he began to push again only to be held down by Grey who was still examining him, flashing an opthalmoscope in his eyes. “Wait! What time is it? I have to leave! I have an appointment--”

"I am afraid that linner will have to wait,” the doctor announced. 

Wash squinted at her and opened his mouth to respond only for a tongue depressor to be stuck to the back of his throat and causing him to gag. After getting over the initial shock, he gagged on the stick and forced Grey to withdraw it from her throat. “H-how do you know about linner? I thought it was something that Tucker made up--”

“Because your significant other has been hardly held back in the hallway and told us all about it,” Kimball replied. 

“You seem to be rather... unused to the ins and outs of having a secret identity,” Doyle reprimanded. 

“Says the people who found out my identity and sent me mail directly to my home,” Wash grouched. “If Tucker’s here then I want to see him.”

“Done!” Tucker yelled just before kicking the door in, to the seeming shock of the young heroes who had been standing on both sides of it. Washington made a mental note to put in some new training exercises that involved building the group some backbones in the future. 

“Tucker,” Wash said. “I’m sorry I missed--”

“Oh, shut up,” Tucker said, marching up to his bedside and letting Wash see for the first time that he was visibly shaken, pale, and red-eyed behind his glasses. “Just... Man, I don’t even want to hear it right now.”

“You that angry that I didn’t keep my promise?” Wash tried to joke. 

“Shut up,” Tucker snorted, grabbing his hand. “I’m upset that you got your ass kicked on television and I had to watch it. C’mon. You can’t do that to me. You know Church and I have a running bet on your battles.”

“Yeah, so sorry to disappoint the betting pool,” Wash answered. “I’m okay, though. That... That Locus guy took me by surprise. I’m amazed he didn’t do more damage--”

Banter was good, banter was almost normal. 

But when Washington watched Tucker’s face he didn’t see any amusement or acceptance of the levity. There was a strict seriousness in Tucker’s face instead, something that sat as unnaturally on his brow as a scowl. 

Washington leaned back some. “What? What’s wrong--”

“You almost die on national television and you have to ask me what’s wrong, Wash?” Tucker asked stiffly. “Wow, I must be one cold motherfucker to you, huh?” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Wash tried to argue just before there was another throat clearing to interrupt him. 

Both Tucker and Wash turned to look at Doctor Grey again as she waved her hand and showed that brilliant white smile. “Hello again! It certainly sounds like there is a lot of talking that should be happening between the two of you! Communication is highly important for a relationship!”

“We know,” both Wash and Tucker said at once only to glance at each other again. 

“But I do have a lot of patients to get to and I need to know if I have permission to do my special doctoral duty yet or not,” she said, eyes more locked on Tucker than on Wash.

Wash then looked curiously toward Tucker. “What’s she talking about--?”

“Oh, the healing thing, right,” Tucker said, snapping his fingers. “Yeah, Doc, lay it on him. We’ve still got a lot to do today!” 

“Healing?” Washington parroted as the doctor neared him. “You mean there was a way to heal me and you were choosing not to?”

“Well, yeah, I know you,” Tucker replied, crossing his arms. “I nursed you to health before, remember? Injuries were about the only thing that was going to keep you planted in this bed long enough to hear a few people out.”

“That seems exploitative,” Wash grumbled as Doctor Grey laid literal hands on him. 

“Oh, most certainly,” Doctor Grey said brightly. “But considering how jarring my power can be, sometimes it’s less helpful for me to heal you while you’re unconscious than to wait until your bones feel a bit more settled as they are!”

Washington shifted uncomfortably but allowed the woman to do her work. 

“I’d do what the nice lady calls for, Grandpa. She’s a professional and what not. Especially for our kind.”

Alarmed, mostly because he hadn’t heard or seen anyone else enter the room, Wash sat up more and found himself looking toward the door of the room where a man in gray and orange was leaning against the door, a broad, sleazy smile across his face. 

"Who the hell is this?” Washington demanded. 

“Please, Mister Washington, lie down for the most effective use of my powers,” Doctor Grey said in the same happy tone, though it edged on warning. 

“Well, is that any way to greet the man who just saved your life,” the man continued smoothly.

Tucker shrugged. “It’s true, Wash. Everyone saw it -- Locus was coming for you again when Felix came out of nowhere and helped put a stop to him.”

A little calmer, Wash still looked at the Felix-character suspiciously. “You... You saved my life?” he asked warily.

“Sure thing,” Felix replied casually. “Though you shouldn’t be too surprised. Locus is somewhat out of your league, old man.”

“Old man?” Wash asked almost hysterically. “You’re can’t be that much older than me.”

“But I’m fresh and new in the public eye,” Felix said, tapping on his visor.

“I’ve barely been in the public eye for an hour more,” Wash said critically. 

“And healed!” Grey announced happily, clapping her hands together. She apparently had been paying no mind to the conversation. 

Washington hated to admit it, but he felt more than a hundred percent better as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He was able to get more of a look at Felix that way -- see the sleek design of his suit, the high end equipment from head to toe, and the way he seemed to be genuinely fitted like a superhero that would have made the front poses of a Freelancer lineup.

It kind of made him hate the guy more.

But Wash was quickly yanked from his thoughts as Tucker grabbed his bicep tightly. “Hey, cool it, Wash,” Tucker said soothingly. “He saved your life, dude! The least you can say is a thank you! I’d kick Junior’s ass for not saying thank you to the guy who saved him!” 

Jarred by the statement, Wash looked at Tucker wide eyed. “Junior... Tucker, I think--”

“I think you’re needing to thank someone,” Tucker urged, tugging on the man’s arm. 

Feeling like a little child being led through his manners, Wash let out a thick huff of air and then looked toward Felix. “Thank you,” he said uncomfortably. “Thank you for saving my life. I owe you.”

“You bet you do,” Felix grinned, “Partner. We’ll hash out the details with Vanessa later, until then I’ll leave you to sort things out with your... buddy here,” he joked with a wave of his hand as he headed out the door. “Stay sharp, Washington.”

Washington kept watching over Felix, bewildered and unnerved all at once, but he had little time to truly concentrate on it because Tucker was pulling an arm around his shoulders and giving him a half hug.

“Wow, you’re really healed! Even that nasty bump on your head! That’s amazing, Doc!” Tucker called out, sounding genuinely elated.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she laughed. “I’m always happy to help. Imagine my shock at how normal the majority of Washington’s physiology is compared to other heroes!”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Wash said to Grey, though his focus was still on the hall and Felix. “Guess there’s no end to the number of people I’m thankful toward lately.”

Tucker gave him a curious look but didn’t press it, at least not yet. Wash was sure there was more to discuss later. 

#writing #rvb fic #RvB: Hero Time #RvB: Double Time #Tuckington #Agent Washington #Emily Grey #Donald Doyle #Vanessa Kimball #Lavernius Tucker #Felix

[sly-punk1712]

Raising Clint Barton

Part 1

PART 2

PART 3

There wasn’t a thing on the entire damn planet that made him feel better than Nat. Even from the moment Coulson had picked them up. His favorite agent was giving the pair of them the cold shoulder, but Natalia was there providing a heat to his entire left side where she was seated poised as can be on the edge of a chair. Then she let her leg rest against his as he softly started telling Coulson everything. She would press her leg into his when his voice got soft and he started to falter. Telling Elliot had been a rush to tell. Excitement and discovery. Natalia had been nerve racking for other reasons. Both confessions were to strangers. but this was so much worse, so revealing, too personal maybe? Coulson didn’t interrupt or speak until the end of Clint’s explanation. Clint finished telling him everything and was praying he believed him like the others had. Coulson was a different animal than Elliot and Natalia. 

“I’ve got some friends in New York that might have some answers.” Coulson says finally. “Thank you for telling me.” His tone is soft and Clint wonders if he’s angry. 

His friends are the Charles Xavier and Hank McCoy. They run lots of tests on Clint and Natalia but the walkabouts are no mutation. and Natalia’s DNA is so warped they can’t really tell left from up. Coulson spends a few moments talking to the two professor’s while Natalia gets a phone number from a cigar smoking mutant that promises her a wild time if she gets any sorta leash at SHIELD. Natalia’s satisfied smile has Clint smiling a little too. Already making friends. hopefully she didn’t live up to her moniker. Black Widow. He chuckled. Coulson joins them and they’re headed back to DC.

“Charles tells me we’ve got a lot to talk about. “ He’s silent for a moment before clearing his throat. “

Asset doesn’t mean what you think it means Clint. “ It’s the first time in a long time Clint can remember hearing Coulson say his name.

“SHIELD doesn’t own you. I don’t” He pauses. “I want to be friends. I want to work with you two.” He adds also speaking to Natalia. 

“We can do that” Clint shrugs. Coulson’s shoulders sag in relief. “Just be honest with us and We’ll be honest with you” He looks at Natalia and is glad she gives a curt nod. 

“I’m glad you came home Clint” Coulson holds out his hand and pulls Clint into his arms for a tight but brief hug. Clint is in heaven. 

****************************

The three of them spend the next few years becoming SHIELD’s best strike team. The United State’s best Strike team to be honest Coulson, himself and Nat, who’s now going by Natasha, often get loaned out to handle things beyond other agency’s capabilities. Their work puts SHIELD not only on the map but with the best databases the world has to offer. 

Coulson doesn’t badger Clint about walkabouts and takes his soul spotting into advisement. Clint doesn’t mention that he can’t see Coulson’s soul. Coulson let’s most things Clint and Natasha get up to slide. Natasha see’s Logan almost every weekend they’re not on a mission. So as a result Clint sees a lot of Logan. It doesn’t bother him and must not worry the mutant too much because he let’s Clint curl into bed with him and Natasha every night after they finish fucking. They don’t ask him to join and he doesn’t want to. They seem contented. Wild and Dangerous but good.

Coulson let’s Clint sleep anytime he can. No matter what job he’s supposed to do be doing, because the reality of it is Clint is never unaware of what’s going on. Other SHIELD operatives don’t like it as much when Clint takes to napping in their offices. Clint loves the startled double take the office admin do when they find him curled under the desk in their cubicles snoozing. The complaints get to annoy Coulson and Clint learns of his love of air vents instead. The complaints are many and detailed but Clint steals the reports from Coulson’s box most mornings before he can read half of them. 

Vent stalking is what gets them sent to New Mexico minus Natasha who gets to go play Malibu with Tony Stark. How was Clint to know Fury could see every spitball he shot at Hill’s back during that debrief. They were coming form the ceiling for goodness sake he thought he was safe! But even tho they’re getting separated and a lame ass job Coulson privately tells him his grouping was excellent. 

Phil spends a lot of time officially telling them boring reprimands and such and unofficially telling them his real thoughts. He never mentions the brief hug or Clint’s desire for him. It’s awful. Clint doesn’t mention it either, He knows what it’s like to be called on by someone you don’t want and could never bear the thought of making a move on Coulson that would make the handler uncomfortable. That’s the official reason he gives himself. Nat and Logan say it’s because he’s a coward. and well, that’s true too.

New Mexico is a weird haze of bizarre-o he hopes Coulson will bury so deep he gets out of all the paperwork. Firstly Thor, or “Donald Blake”. His little B&E stunt, his general descriptiveness, his cute little science friends, his not as cute Asgardian death robot and possibly most confusingly his completely White light soul. Clint never seen souls that matched besides gray and black. This white pulls his mind back to an underpass almost two decades ago. He feels old, tired and confused. Then in a swirl of magic tornado the blond is gone before Clint can get answers.

Darcy Lewis however is not gone. Clint meets her for the first time when he’s awake and knows without sleeping she’s going to be incredibly important in his life. 

For all intents and purposes she’s the exact opposite of him. She’s well educated, comes from a good home. she laughs too much and loves to freely. She’s all curves and knitwear and he’s hard lines and military battle gear. But he notices her anyway as she runs mid battle back toward the danger into town. 

Clint sees her out of the corner of his eye, swears and runs after her. She was headed in the direction of danger but ducks into a building just shy of the chaos. Clint doesn’t have time to decide if she’s safe or if he needs to go after her because she’s running back out followed by a herd of animals. It was the pet shop. She’d run headlong into an intergalactic battle for a pet shop. He’s wide awake but he wonders what colour this sweet soul will be. 

After the battle Darcy finds Clint at the bar, one of the few buildings left standing. It’s packed on account of today’s events. When she enters the bar a cheer goes up. 

“It’s Pet Shop girl!” Someone shouts and a large portion of the townsfolk at the bar raise a glass to her. Clint chuckles at the tipsy antics and raises his glass too. Darcy spots him and floats threw the people to shimmy onto the stool beside him. 

“So how was your day dear?” She jokes. Clint snorts and admires how Darcy seems to lounge on the stool like it was a sofa instead of a rickety, in need of reupholstering, stool. 

“Good met a pretty girl. She’s a hero, saved some pets” He grins back. Flirting with Darcy is easy and Clint can’t remember when’s the last time he felt so complete. Natasha is a piece of his soul, like a missing link that fits into his chain. Darcy makes him warm all over and want to hum. 

They drink until closing time and then walk to Darcy’s trailer together. 

“Come to bed Clint” She invites. Clint obeys. It’s weird that they don’t fuck but he likes that she just wants to lay soft kisses on his arms and chest and settle down for sleep. 

He’s right. She’s an orange that takes his breath away. She’s that burnt sun color as the day fades into night. Every breath she takes makes the colour shine brighter and mix with his purple. They don’t match by any stretch of the imagination but somehow he feels more right in her arms than he ever has. 

They wake up before the sunrises and then they fuck. Only it’s not like any sex Clint’s ever had before. It’s sharper somehow more real. He presses into Darcy over and over until at the very end of it, his mind flashes to the Orange color of her soul. It’s renewal, the way the days fade into each other. Ending yesterdays mistakes. It’s the natural order of things on earth. He feels like this is his first time really making love and all those other times wash away from his heart, dripping off his soul and down in face in the form of hot tears. Darcy doesn’t mind he cries and he loves her even more for it. 

Coulson calls and he leaves Darcy to go report for work. She gives him a knowing smile from where she lays naked in bed as he gets dressed and Clint’s glad to know she won’t make it a big deal and doesn’t mind he’s leaving to go back to Coulson. He tells her he is, Just in case. 

“That’s okay Clint. I’m happy for you.” She says earnestly. Clint believes her and walks away feeling completely satisfied. 

***********************

“So what now?” Natasha’s head is resting on his stomach while he tells her all about his encounter with Darcy. Her legs are stretched over Logan’s torso and he’s running his large hands gently up and down her smooth legs. Clint wonders if her DNA refuses to let her grow leg hair he’s never seen her shave.

“I don’t know but I feel good, Nat. Like so good” He admits contentedly. “Maybe I’ll ask Coulson out. Feel good enough now. “ He mutterers. Natasha pokes him sharply in the side rolling on to her side to look up at him. 

“Lewis doesn’t have a magic vagina. You didn’t sleep with an all healing pussy. You were always worth it. Always enough” She snaps. Clint feels a little foolish and remorseful he said that out loud. Its how he feels but he hates to bring up that stuff with Nat, She doesn’t tolerate self hate. Well from anyone but herself, she’s the Queen of Self-Pity but even that’s in a strong bad-ass assassin way.

“Plus is Coulson really gonna wanna hear you finally got yer head outta yer ass by boning a steamy brunette?” Logan points out. Clint chuckles. No that probably wouldn’t be best, but Selfish Clint knows how easy it would be to roll into Coulson with all these good feelings he’s still feeling. Start at the top of a crescendo. 

Suddenly going to Coulson right now feels sour in his gut. He doesn’t want to bring Darcy high to Coulson for the first time. He wants to bring just himself. He wants to drag in Clint Barton and offer it up for Coulson’s approval, acceptance,  His love. 

“I get it. I needed Darcy and you Nat,” Clint rests a hand on Natasha’s head. “But I don’t need Coulson to be me. I want Coulson. and that’s why it’s better right?” Natasha’s eyes widen a fraction and she smiles. 

“Maybe it was a magical Pussy, it cured your stupid” She presses and kiss to Clint’s belly as he laughs.

#clint barton #feelings are hard #darcy lewis #thor #walkabouts #natahsa romanoff #natalia romanova #logan howlett #logan #mentions the x men #office pranks #personal growth #this chapter ate my soul #raising clint barton part 3

[clusterassets]

New world news from Time: ‘North Korea Is the Biggest Threat to All Humankind.’ U.S. Ambassador to China Terry Branstad Talks to TIME

Tucked between northeastern Beijing’s third and fourth ring-roads, the U.S. Embassy in China is a squat complex of silver-gray buildings, with the ambassador’s office on the fourth floor. Inside, besides the requisite star-spangled banners, grinning photos and auspicious Chinese calligraphy, the new occupant has placed what looks like an incongruous addition on a low shelf behind the desk: a model of a yellow-green John Deere tractor.

“They have five factories here,” U.S. Ambassador to China Terry Branstad tells TIME in an exclusive interview, his first since arriving in Beijing in July. “But I had to sell all my John Deere stock when I was appointed ambassador because they do business in China.”

And yet a tractor is, in many ways, a fitting symbol of Branstad’s heritage as the former Governor of Iowa — America’s second most productive agricultural state after California — as well as the deep economic and cultural links he’s built with China since his first visit here in 1984. Some $1.4 billion of Iowa’s total $2.3 billion agricultural exports in 2015 went to China — mainly soybean and pork — and U.S. President Donald Trump has tasked Branstad with helping to boost the trade relationship on a national scale, hopefully eating into the $347 billion trade deficit that Trump claims costs American jobs. (Though most economists disagree.)

But besides trade, Branstad’s new portfolio includes easing the myriad frictions between the world’s established superpower and its presumptive one. Washington and Beijing clash on human-rights, censorship, territorial claims in the South China Sea, intellectual property theft, cyber-espionage and much more. Top of the agenda is how to rein in North Korea’s nuclear ambitions. On the morning Branstad sat down with TIME on a white leather sofa, briefing folder open on his lap, Kim Jong Un fired another ballistic missile into the Sea of Japan — one experts say soared ten times higher than the International Space Station and could potentially have reached anywhere in the continental United States.

“North Korea is the biggest threat to all of humankind as far as I’m concerned today,” says Branstad. “And I think the cooperation and collaboration with China has improved dramatically since I’ve been here.”

It doesn’t hurt, of course, that on Apr. 29, 1985, Branstad met a young Chinese official from Hebei province leading a five-strong agricultural delegation to Iowa. “His business card said ‘Feed Association of Shijiazhuang,’” Branstad recalls. That official’s name was Xi Jinping, and today he boasts several more impressive titles, including President of China. The two men stuck up an easy rapport that continued as Xi ascended the slippery ziggurat of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). When Branstad received Trump’s nomination for ambassador, Chinese officials described the mustachioed 71-year-old as an “old friend of China,” a big compliment in Beijing-speak.

“I’m in a unique situation in that I’m an old friend of Xi Jinping and a loyal supporter of the [U.S.] president,” Branstad explains. “And this is probably the most important relationship in the world — between China and the United States.”

Xi and Branstad connected again in 2011, when, in his second stint as Iowa governor after an 11-year hiatus from public life, Branstad made another trade mission to Hebei province. “Normally I visit the party secretary or the governor of Hebei,” says Branstad. This time, however, “I get to meet with the Vice-President Xi Jinping in the Great Hall of the People.”

Xi spent 45 minutes reminiscing about his time in Iowa in 1985 (“as governor I only gave people half-an-hour,” grins Branstad) — reeling off the names of all the people he’d met and places visited. “He went to a birthday party, he visited farms and factories, he went to the president of the corn growers, he went to a turkey farm, he went to the Monsanto plant,” says Branstad. “He said that when he thinks of America he thinks of the wonderful people he met in Iowa and he calls us ‘old friends.’”

Following that visit, Branstad decided to invite Xi for a reunion in the Hawkeye State the next year. Within months plans were well underway, allowing Xi to reconnect with the Dvorchak family, with whom he stayed in Muscatine in 1985 — even posing for informal photos around a roaring fireplace. It’s a cozy scene that is difficult to reconcile with a man who at October’s 19th CCP Congress was apotheosized alongside Mao Zedong as one of modern China’s greatest leaders.

“Long-term friendships and relationships are really important in this culture,” says Branstad. “But now I have to deliver the message on things that we are not happy with. And yet I think I have some credibility because of that long-term relationship.”

Trump painted China as America’s nemesis during his volcanic campaign, blaming its export-driven economy for stealing American jobs, as well as predatory trade practices such as currency manipulation. As Branstad went through the ambassadorial confirmation process, Trump even questioned Chinese sovereignty over self-governing Taiwan — a bold affront to Beijing, which regards the island of 23 million as its own.

Since then, though, Trump has dialed down his antagonism, welcomed Xi to his Florida resort of Mar-a-Lago in April, and then enjoyed a gilded “state visit-plus” to Beijing earlier this month. Trump was treated to unprecedented honors, such as dining in the Forbidden City — home of China’s emperors. But the subsequent joint press conference featured no questions (in contrast to Barack Obama’s team insisting on some during his last visit, in a pointed reminder to their authoritarian hosts on the merits of a free press). In fact, TIME and several other foreign media were denied access altogether. Critics said China was being given a free pass for its worsening record on human-rights and free speech. Jorge Guajardo, Mexico’s ambassador to China from 2007 to 2013, told Quartz that China played Trump “like a fiddle.”

For Branstad, however, there is no letting up on subjects that are “part of American DNA.” He says: “We are bringing up human-rights issues all the time. Unfortunately, China is an authoritarian system, it’s a one-party communist-ruled country. We are a democratic country with a free-market system.”

Branstad says he had “many meetings” with Chinese officials regarding imprisoned democracy advocate Liu Xiaobo, and managed to allow him to be visited by American and German doctors. Liu died in detention, unable to seek treatment for cancer abroad that medical experts said could have saved his life. Today, Liu’s wife, Liu Xia, remains under virtual house arrest. She has never been charged with a crime yet is unable to leave the country despite repeatedly expressing her desire to do so.

“We’re still trying to see that his wife is free to travel,” says Branstad. “But we find that the best and most effective way to try and get action here is not to shame them publicly but to meet with them privately.”

That’s also how Branstad hopes to make progress on North Korea and he has enlisted the help of Sheena Greitens, an East Asia expert at the University of Missouri. She put together a group to coach the new Ambassador about the Koreas, the South China Sea, Taiwan, and other regional issues. China has also signed up to two new U.N. Security Council Resolutions since Branstad took the job, and he believes Chinese support for its historic ally is wavering. “I think the attitude has changed here,” he says. For one thing, he adds, the timing of North Korean nuclear and missile tests at politically sensitive moments for Beijing show they “are as much against Xi Jinping and China as they are against the United States.”

Whether China will turn off the half a million barrels of oil it sends to North Korea each year is another question. For Xi, squeezing the Kim regime to the brink of collapse would risk open conflict with an irascible nuclear power, as well as a torrent of refugees pouring across their shared border, and the strategic headache of a united Korean peninsular ruled from Seoul, possibly putting American troops on his doorstep. Still, “China has taken steps much further than a lot of people thought they ever would on the sanctions,” says Branstad. “Obviously the big thing is oil — that’s probably the biggest thing that could make a difference.” And if the situation doesn’t improve? “Military action is a last resort, but that is an option as well,” he says.

That would, of course, mean missiles falling less than 500 miles from Beijing, where Branstad has not only been joined by his wife, but also their daughter and her husband — who both work at an international school — as well his two young grandchildren. The family is heading back to Iowa for Christmas, but held Thanksgiving in the sprawling Chinese capital, where Branstad says all are thriving despite an oppressive regimen of choking pollution, whirring air purifiers and freezing temperatures. His daughter’s family has even purchased an electric buggy to weave through the city’s traffic like savvy locals. “They are young,” says Brandstad of his grandchildren, “but this is a great time to learn Mandarin, just like the president’s granddaughter. We’re hopeful that they’ll be fluent before it’s over.”

December 01, 2017 at 01:35PM ClusterAssets Inc.,

#Time #world #news #ClusterAssets #ClusterAsset #Cluster Asset Inc. #ClusterAssets Inc.

[ramialkarmi]

How to lose friends and 'exfoliate' people — Trump's son-in-law Jared Kushner is caught between 2 worlds, and his former friends are cutting ties

Signing up to carry out Donald Trump's vision of America has come at a cost to many of the president's closest allies.

Some have found it a constant struggle to balance their reputations and their newfound access to power.

Perhaps no one knows this better than Trump's son-in-law, Jared Kushner. 

Kushner, 36, has been described as the most powerful aide to the president of the United States. He and his wife, Donald Trump's oldest daughter Ivanka, moved to Washington, DC, from New York so Kushner could take an unpaid role as one of Trump's senior advisers. On Monday, Trump appointed Kushner as the head of the new White House Office of American Innovation, whose aim is to overhaul government operations using ideas from the business world.

But so far, Kushner has found himself caught between two worlds, both inside the White House and out. 

Within its walls, he is considered a mediator between warring factions — the "Republican populists" like chief strategist Steve Bannon, and the "Democrats," the more left-leaning members of Trump's inner circle. Kushner is considered one of the "Democrats."

But outside, liberals who knew Kushner before his administration role have grown concerned. They are no longer sure where he stands — for Trump's America or theirs — and the uncertainty has fractured relationships.

Business Insider spoke with a number of people who knew Kushner before and during Trump's campaign, as well as people who are close to him now. Their feelings toward Trump's apparent protégé mirrors the polarization of the country.

Trump, they seem to feel, is a black and white issue: You can be for or against his policies.

But Kushner is an uncomfortable swirl of gray.

"The hope was that with Jared, there at least was someone who was smart and thoughtful and potentially doing the right things behind the scenes," one person who previously worked with Kushner told Business Insider.

But people "hate him right now," they continued. "Not just him as a person so much but what he stands for and the fact that he hasn’t been able to use his position to do anything meaningful for what we stand for."

Another person who attended Kushner's wedding in 2009 agreed former acquaintances are "seething." 

"I’m not planning on being friends," this person said. "I don’t think I’m going to be over it. ... I feel really, really upset about what they're doing. I think it’s so terrible and so disruptive that I can’t get over that. I can’t endorse that."

Kushner has seen enough relationships break that he now has a word for it: "Exfoliation." 

He is shedding dead relationships like skin cells being scrubbed from a body.

And one particularly bad break-up last July may have inspired it. 

A relationship sours

In September 2015, Jared Kushner met startup founder Wiley Cerilli. Kushner approached him about a business he was launching in the hope that Cerilli might agree to run it.

Cerilli declined the offer but told Kushner he wanted to find a way to work with him. He felt Kushner was sharp and had a healthy outlook on life. 

That way would be a food delivery startup Cerilli launched that winter. In January 2016, Kushner invested in his seed round  — the first money a founder raises from outside investors. Sources familiar with the deal say Kushner's investment was a relatively small amount for a venture capitalist, no more than a few hundred thousand dollars.

Over the next few months, the pair didn't talk much. But Cerilli watched as Donald Trump took to the campaign trail and delivered increasingly divisive speeches. He often noticed Kushner photographed by the candidate's side, but he never heard Kushner speak out against what was said.

Cerilli, a life-long liberal, grew increasingly concerned. In June, Trump went on an 11-minute rant about federal judge Gonzalo Curiel, attacking him over his Mexican heritage and saying he could not fairly preside over a case involving Trump University because of Trump's vows to crack down on illegal immigration and build a wall along the Mexican border.

That's when Cerilli, who said he viewed the comments as racist, cracked. 

Cerilli consulted a group of CEOs and investors for advice. They encouraged him to rid himself of his Kushner association, if only because it had become a distraction to his business. Also during that time, Trump had become the Republican presidential nominee.

In late July, Cerilli Kushner scheduled a phone call. Kushner thought he was getting an ordinary business update.

Instead, he was getting dumped. 

'I don't give a shit. Send me the paperwork. I'll sign'

It's not easy to get rid of an investor.

Once early-stage angel investors like Kushner give money to a startup, they own a piece of the company. There are written terms that can make it easier for a founder to divorce a spouse than part with a venture capitalist.

To remove Kushner from his startup financially, Cerilli had to inform his board and other investors of the decision. Then he had to persuade Kushner to sign paperwork that would give away his rights.

Cerilli was nervous to address his concerns with Kushner. He wrote down a script and took notes of Kushner's reaction. Cerilli later sent those notes to his investors so that he could give them an accurate update. Business Insider obtained a copy and confirmed the document's authenticity.

"If you can hear me out for a few minutes," Cerilli said, according to the notes, "then I would be happy to listen to you."

He continued: "A lot has changed in this country since you invested. ... I am personally and now professionally overwhelmed and concerned with the rhetoric and public discourse on a number of fronts with regard to Trump."

Cerilli said that even if Kushner didn't agree with offensive comments Trump had made, he found his silence unacceptable.

"Your involvement is something that is not incredibly clear to me, but what is is your unwillingness to speak out against it," Cerilli said. "This is not a conversation about what he or you believe, or what he and you do and feel behind closed doors. This is about what he says and does publicly, and what is not said and done publicly by you."

This is about what he says and does publicly, and what is not said and done publicly by you.

Cerilli said that while he once felt his and Kushner's values were aligned, that no longer seemed to be the case.

"You seem like a good person. A smart person," he said. "I am not saying that you are a bad person, or that the way you act is wrong. I am saying that I don’t agree with it, and me, [my cofounder], our team, and our investors ... would like to give you your money back."

Kushner listened until Cerilli was finished. He told him the call came as a shock — and that it was "cowardly."

Then, according to Cerilli's notes of the call, Kushner unleashed.

He conveyed that the process of campaigning with Trump had "allowed him to exfoliate" people he once considered friends. "I am seeing which friendships break in the wind," he said, according to the document.

"We live in a world and time that are interesting. There are a lot of issues that need to be discussed," he added.

He told Cerilli he was doing what he thought was right, with "complicated facets," and that he was "navigating it appropriately."

Cerilli's decision to distance himself, Kushner said, was a "childish thing." He questioned Cerilli's character, describing his messaging as "somewhere between incredibly immature and incredibly intolerant." The decision to oust Kushner seemed emotional, not based on facts. He questioned whether Cerilli knew about his actual involvement in Trump's campaign or where he stood on key issues.

"You clearly don’t have the depth to take on a big challenge when something like this bothers you," Kushner said, "and so clearly your team doesn’t either."

After a few minutes, Kushner concluded: "I don't give a shit. Send me the paperwork. I'll sign."

Who is Jared Kushner?

Those who know Kushner say he never intended to go into politics. His heavy involvement, these sources told Business Insider, spiraled from the fact that Trump ran a non-traditional campaign with few experienced advisers, often relying on people close to him like Kushner for guidance.

But now that he's involved, former friends wonder who's changed more: Trump or Kushner?

Kushner and Ivanka have stayed relatively quiet during some of Trump's most controversial moments, which has fed critics' frustration. A recent "Saturday Night Live" skit summed up the sentiment. It was of a spoof ad for a perfume called "Complicit," starring Scarlett Johansson as Ivanka Trump. The tagline?

"The fragrance for the woman who could stop all of this but won't. Also available in a cologne for Jared."

Kushner's allies have two responses to those who fear he's making a Faustian bargain in exchange for power: He isn't the president. And look harder.

A source familiar with Kushner's White House role says he did not go to Washington to focus on some of the more controversial Trump policies, like healthcare or the ban on immigration from several majority-Muslim countries. Instead, he is focused on issues like creating peace in the Middle East. But that doesn't mean Kushner hasn't inserted himself when he feels it's necessary. 

Kushner, this person said, was instrumental in killing an executive order that would have affected the LGBT community. They also say he was the force that pushed the administration to remove Iraq from the second iteration of the travel ban.

Other Trump associates have faced tremendous criticism, too. SpaceX and Tesla founder Elon Musk, who is a member of Trump's economic advisory council, acknowledged on Twitter that the blowback has been difficult to deal with. Travis Kalanick, the CEO of Uber, couldn't take the heat and resigned from Trump's council. 

"Activists should be pushing for more moderates to advise the President, not fewer," Musk tweeted. "How could having only extremists advise him possibly be good?"

But once you've associated yourself with Trump, the only way to win might be to lose.

As one Kushner defender put it: "If you're doing well in politics, only 45% of people hate you."

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