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apuckishwit · 1 year

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Making Room

Steve never gets into DnD.

Not even after Eddie convinces him to join a one-shot over one Christmas when the kids are all back from college and jobs and far-flung adventures. He's not a jerk about it or anything. He sits and makes a character with his boyfriend and he does his best with the role-playing and he only asks Dustin for help with the dice seven or eight times (and everyone had promised to give him an even dozen before they gave him shit about it, so it was fine). It's fine. He's not mad that he spent the time doing it with Eddie and the kids (some of them taller than him now, in spitting distance of college degrees and first apartments and jobs and spouses and lives, but they'll always be kids to him).

But afterwards he kisses Eddie and says it really and truly isn't for him, sorry babe.

And that's okay.

When he and Robin are scavenging through yet another thrift store for furniture and dishes and lamps for the apartment she and Nancy are getting in Indianapolis (he's so sad that her room in the little house he shares with Eddie is going back to being a guest room, but he's so damn happy that she and Nance have stopped dancing around each other...and they're only moving about half an hour away, he'll still see her all the time), and he spots an impractically long desk/table, onviously custom-built, with an absurd number of drawers and compartments built into it, he buys it immediately. He wrestles it into Eddie's van that they borrowed for the day, and smiles apologetically when Robin has to hold like three boxes on her lap. He gets it into their dining room while Eddie's at work, graciously gifting their own table to Robin and Nancy, and it's worth all the hassle (and the fact that one end of the table pokes about a foot into the living room space) when Eddie comes home to something big enough for even his most complicated campaign maps and with plenty of storage for all his dice and miniatures and source books.

And sturdy enough for Eddie's most...enthusiastic...thanks, they find out that night.

Steve never gets into DnD.

But every time Hellfire (whatever incarnation of Hellfire it is, be it the Hawkins crew or some of the guys from the little record shop Eddie works at in town, or some combination) meets up for a game, they get used to Eddie yelling, "Stevie! Evens or odds?" everytime a situation calls for a luck die. They learn that complimenting the snacks Steve sets out will sometimes get them advantage on a roll. They watch Eddie snag Steve's wrist as he passes in or out of the dining room and get him to roll a D20 for various and random reasons. Steve always obliges, before drifting back to the couch with a beer or a slice of pizza and whatever basketball or baseball game is on.

Steve never gets into DnD.

But sometimes Eddie spreads newspapers over the Campaign Table (TM) and sets pots of paint and rows of miniatures out, and he and Steve sit together for a few hours, Steve slapping on the basecoats with a single pot of white, gray, or black and Eddie going to town on the details while they chat about their day, playing footsie under the table or stealing kisses while they wait for something to dry.

"Babe! I need a name for the friendly barkeep who knows more than he seems!"

"Carl."

"He's a half-orc!"

"Those are the big green guys, right?"

"Yeah!"

"Hmmm. Big Carl."

"Perfect!"

Steve never gets into DnD. But he loves Eddie, and he loves how into DnD Eddie is. So he makes room in his life for this thing that Eddie loves.

***

Eddie never gets into sports.

Like, objectively he understands that some people enjoy running around getting all sweaty, trying to keep some kind of ball away from other people and make it go into some kind of receptacle. And he certainly appreciates the view of some of those people in tight little shorts.

Particularly Steve.

Like honestly? If it wouldn't get him labeled a total creep (and they weren't so careful about giving anyone a reason to question the assumption that they're just two young friends living together to save money until they find respectable women to marry)...he'd park his van out by the little middle school where Steve teaches gym and coaches basketball and baseball every day during his lunch break, just to watch his boyfriend run the mile with his students in those shorts that hug the muscles of his thighs just right.

But he doesn't like sports apart from the strictly prurient interest he has in watching Steve wear sports-appropriate clothes.

He tries. He wants to know just what it is that keeps Steve glued to the TV when his favorite teams are playing, wants to understand why Steve yells and groans and jumps up with wild cheers, spilling popcorn all over the living room floor. He just...doesn't get it. Steve tries to explain March Madness to him one year and it makes no more sense than when Wayne tried to when Eddie was a kid. Eventually he just shrugs, kisses Steve's nose, and goes back to petting through his boyfriend's hair with a, sorry, baby, it's not for me.

And that's okay.

He gets up early the week Steve is overseeing baseball tryouts, to make sure his boyfriend has a travel mug of coffee fixed just the way he likes it, and a good breakfast waiting for him when he gets out of the shower. Steve is unquestionably the cook in their relationship, but Young Eddie ate a lot of breakfast for dinner over the years and Adult Eddie makes damn good pancakes, omelettes, and French toast.

Eddie never gets into sports.

But he gets Lucas to break down exactly what kind of notes and stats Steve will be keeping track of and draws up a template "character sheet" for baseball players, spending an hour at the local library laboriously making copies with their cantankerous mimeograph machine.

He sure as shit never gets up at the crack of dawn to go running around the neighborhood the way Steve does...but on days when it starts raining or snowing halfway through Steve's run, he'll drag himself out of bed and throw some towels in the dryer, so they're nice and warm when Steve comes back inside.

Eddie never gets into sports.

But he takes every overtime shift he can for a month, so he can take Steve to Chicago for his twenty-fifth birthday to see the Bulls play. The seats aren't great or anything, and it's noisy as fuck, crowded as fuck, and he has no idea why his boyfriend is losing his mind every time that Jordan guy so much as touches the ball...but Steve's eyes are sparkling, the color is high in his cheeks, and when they get back to their hotel that night, they've barely closed the door before Steve is shoving him against it, devouring his mouth.

"Hey Eds, Ohio State or Georgia Tech?"

"For what?"

"I'm doing my brackets for the pool I've got with Hopper and Lucas!"

"Um, whoever's in red!"

"Ohio State it is, thanks babe!"

Eddie never gets into sports. But that's okay. He loves Steve, and he loves how happy Steve is when he's playing, or coaching, or running (God help him, he fell in love with someone who gets up at six am to run. Without anything chasing him.) So he makes room in his life for this thing that Steve loves.

Because certainly, love grows in shared passions and matching interests. But it also flourishes in the carefully tended space you make just for the things that make your person happy...even if it's just not for you.

#steddie #stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #my wriitng #I dunno i was just feeling soft

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thediktatortot · 1 year

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I really implore fans of media (whatever media it is you enjoy) to understand why a story is told in the way it's told. Even bad stories have a structure and a meaning and if you know the basis of how stories are structured and how the characters fit into that structure, the more you're going to be able to understand the story and better enjoy the characters as a whole.

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What is an Antagonist? An opponent, villain or Rival.

The Villain is a person whose intentions are morally corrupt or anti-human and most off deliberately harmful to those around them.

(ie. Thanos from Avengers, Billy and Stu from Scream, Henry from Stranger Things)

The Anti-Villain is a person who commits corrupt, unjust or morally wrong actions in the belief that they are doing the right thing.

(ie. Magneto from X-Men, Killmonger from Black Panther, Jason Carver from Stranger Things)

The False Antagonist is a person who's viewed by the audience or the characters as a antagonist, but through the story shows themselves to have been falsely labeled as an antagonist or a villain.

(ie. Severus Snape from Harry Potter, Alexei and Billy Hargrove from Stranger Things)

The Hidden Antagonist is a person who's intentions are not shown to be corrupt until later in the story, leading the audience and the characters into a false sense of security.

(ie. Senator Palpatine from Star Wars, Agatha Harkness from Wandavision, Ernesto de la Cruz from Coco)

The Inanimate Antagonist is a non-human force that can be anything from the weather to an illness or an object like a meteor or a car.

The Inner Antagonist is when the main character is their own Antagonist, fighting against themselves through the story.

(ie. Drug use, mental or physical illness, change in morals, desires vs needs)

The Hero Antagonist is a person who's intentions and morals are not corrupt, but they act against the Protagonist in the story.

(ie. The Roadrunner from Looney Tunes, Carl Hanratty from Catch Me If You Can, The Parents of Stranger Things)

No Antagonists is a type of story where there is no direct force working against the Protagonist. This can often be shown as someone living day to day life or there is an unclear singular force working against them.

Stories can often have and most often do, have multiple Antagonists. Some stories use these different types of forces to put even more pressure on a Protagonist and to give depth to the stories they are writing. Often times, nothing is cut and dry when it comes to a persons intentions in a piece of media, but knowing what sort of force they are within the story they are written in can help you understand the Protagonists journey on a even deeper level.

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What is a Protagonist? A lead character, hero or heroine of a narrative.

The Hero Protagonist is a person who's goals are often viewed as courageous, admirable or charitable in nature and often requires a sacrifice or change in order to achieve their goals.

(ie. Captain America from Avengers, Superman from DC Comics, Frodo Baggens from Lord Of The Rings)

The Anti Hero is a person who's actions or morals may be honorable or good, but their actions go against those morals due to necessity or irresponsibility but in the end the audience is rooting for them to win.

(ie. Deadpool from Marvel Comics, Batman from DC Comics, Kali from Stranger Things)

The Tragic Hero is a Hero Protagonist that throughout their journey are corrupted by either surrounding forces or by a fatal flaw within their own character, leading them to fall from the Hero status they once held.

(ie. Anakin Skywalker from Star Wars, Jason Todd from DC Comics)

The Passive Protagonist is a person who's actions are not the leading force of the story, the driving actions of their journey are controlled and moved by other characters and forces in the story.

(ie. Forrest Gump from Forrest Gump, Karl Childers from Sling Blade, Will Byers from Stranger Things)

The Villain Protagonist is a character who is still the focus of the story, but they are not necessarily being cheered to win. These types of characters are often a window into the darker side of life whether we sympathize with them in the end or not.

(ie. Dexter from Dexter, Gru from Despicable Me, Loki from Loki, Walter White from Breaking Bad)

The Protagonist itself does not automatically mean the character is a good person and it's important to remember that when reading or writing. A protagonist is simply the Main Character, the person who the story's focus is about and people themselves are deep and involved people with lives that are different from every other person around them even in small ways.

Understanding a characters role in their story is important for understanding the character on a base level.

I highly recommend watching other videos from that channel and other media analysis channels as the more you know on how to understand a story, the more you will get out of the stories you entertain yourself with or create.

#Media literacy #Media analysis #Character Archetypes #Protagonist #Antagonist #The Hero #The Villain

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granvarones · 8 months

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the roots of queer clubs can be traced back to the early 20th century. many of these spaces existed in secrecy, then in the aftermath of the stonewall uprising against police violence in june 1969, queer clubs began to emerge from the shadows. the uprisings served as catalyst for transformation of queer nightlife.

in the 1970s and 1980s and throughout the 1990s, clubs continued to serve a profound role personal and collective liberation. these venues provided a space that offered a sense of freedom and refuge from homophobia and discrimination and music played a pivotal role. the songs , which often times could only be heard in queer spaces - months before they crossed over to mainstream pop radio, were a sonic invitation for everyone to come out to dance and be free on the dance floor.

below are a few of the songs that soundtracked the celebration of coming out to and/or inviting people into your world. may we all find a dance floor to move and be with abandon as we sing, or lip sync, to our favorite songs!

I WAS BORN THIS WAY • CARL BEAN

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defiant in its profound message about gay pride, self-acceptance, and self-affirmation, “i was born this way” was initially released in 1975 by motown recording artist valentino. two years later, in 1977, carl bean, also on motown, covered the song and made it an anthem on and off the dance floor. bean’s version was remixed and re-released as the “better days” remix. it ignited dance floors again - almost a decade later.

I’M COMING OUT • DIANA ROSS

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written by the prolific producer nile rodgers, “i’m coming out” was inspired after nile saw multiple diana ross drag performers in a bathroom at a new york queer club in 1979.

although the term “coming out” had been used to describe self-disclosure around sexual orientation and gender identity since the turn of the 20th century, ross was surprisingly unaware of the concept until nile told diana, “..this song is gonna be your coming-out song. we think of you as our black queen…”

I AM WHAT I AM | GLORIA GAYNOR

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“i am what i am” was initially written for the 1983 broadway musical “la cage aux folles.” gloria gaynor, first lady of disco, released a dance version later that year. “i am what i am,” became a global queer anthem during a time when “coming out” was fiercely encouraged to build community and organize around the still unfolding AIDS crisis.

I’M COMING OUT OF HIDING | PAMALA STANLEY

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philadelphia-born and raised pamela stanley scored a string of dance hits in the early 1980s. Her most notable song was the Hi-NRG classic “coming out of hiding.”

released nationally in 1984, “coming out of hiding” became a massive club hit, reaching #4 on billboard’s dance chart, and became an anthem among gay men during the onset of the AIDS crisis. a time when severe homophobia threatened to chase LGBTQ folks back into the closet.

NEW ATTITUDE | PATTI LABELLE

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by the release of “new attitude” at the end of 1984, patti labelle had already cemented herself as a queer icon for her fashion, performance style, and resilience. she was also one of the first recording artists to support and perform at AIDS benefits.

if a jolt of energy could be a timeless self-empowering anthem, it would be “new attitude.” the song’s uplifting message of self-confidence, transformation, and embracing one’s connection with queer audiences.

COME INTO MY HOUSE | QUEEN LATIFAH

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“welcome into my queendom, come one, come all…,” the opening line of the first verse of queen latifah’s 1990 hip-hop/house track “come into my house” is an invitation into her world, extended to those of us who were either exiled from or denied entry into kingdoms that valued hyper-masculinity and conformity. and visitors are greeted with the song’s refrain, “give me body!,” an invitation into her world and community.

GO WEST | PET SHOP BOYS

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originally recorded and released by queer disco group the village people in 1979, “go west” is an unapologetic rallying cry about gay freedom and migration to san francisco. english synth-pop queer duo pet shop boys’ 1993 cover was hopeful and reflective in its yearning for acceptance and community. a theme that resonated emotionally during immense loss during the height of the AIDS crisis.

FREE HAPPY & GAY | THE COMING OUT CREW

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in the 1990s, as LGBTQ+ culture continued to gain mainstream visibility, the coming out crew’s 1995 exuberant dance track “free, gay and happy” captured the unwavering power of queer joy and hope. written and performed by renowned vocalist sabrina johnston, “free, gay and happy” became a club hit in both the US and UK.

#granvarones #gay #queer #latinx #storytelling #afrolatinx #lgbtq history month #latinx heritage month #AIDS #national coming out day #Youtube #Spotify

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soft-for-them · 1 year

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I don't know a thing about love - Daryl Dixon x plus size non-binary reader

Summary: A Daryl x plus size non-binary reader based off the song 'I don't know a thing about love' by the White Buffalo.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: This is both a non-binary reader and a plus size reader, so cis people this isn't for you. The reader has been left vague because this is a short fic and not all plus size non-binary people are afab (really, it's real problem with authors, non-binary people aren't women!) This is coming from your very own non-binary/queer op. 👍

Everyone knows that you and Daryl Dixon are partners but everyone also knows that your relationship, or lack thereof, is complicated.

It’s clear you love each other, Rick or Carl could tell you (with various amounts of excitement) about the first time the two of you met, how Daryl’s eye widened, how you smiled like you had be given the sun and moon.

From the very start of joining Rick’s group you had it hard. Having to explain to people that you’re non-binary and not a man or woman was hard, both for yourself because you were coming out again to complete strangers and for them for most of the group aren’t queer.

Carl got it straight away, he happily used your preferred pronouns and asked you many questions most of which weren’t about being trans but where about random this like comic books and how your survived.

Rick, Carol, Glenn and Maggie learnt quickly too whilst the rest took their time getting used to someone so different to their heteronormative life.

Maybe it was because living people are hard to come by, maybe it’s because most of the bigots of the group had met their grizzly end but somehow you feel safer with Rick’s little rag tag group of survivors then the people you house shared with before the apocalypse arose.

Then there’s Daryl.

Now don’t get me wrong, the first few weeks of you joining Rick’s crew he didn’t talk to you, he just stared at you. He was raised by bigoted people and he was trying to be better, before the end of times even began he was trying to be better. He wasn’t racist or homophobic like his dad or brother nor did he go out his way to antagonise anyone (for he isn’t Merle after all) but still he was learning.

He was drawn to you, it made him panic just a bit but he has long realised that he isn’t so straight, that he identifies with both Bisexual, Pansexual and Queer, that he didn’t need a label for one he loves you and two who fucking cares.

But still it took a long time to come to terms with, thankfully you were there with him to help.

He remembers one day when you still were new and everyone was still stuck in the prison out the blue he asked about your jacket, an oversized black denim jacket sparsely covered in handmade patches.

You told him about the small amount of patches that you had; a non-binary flag on the breast pocket, an anti-Nazi patch on your arm, two ridged band patches that really should have been ironed on instead of sew on dotted around, tin badges decorating the collar like a jewelled necklace.

Over the years the jacket has evolved like he has, both have become more outward and full of love.

Daryl still cracks a smile at the back patch adorning your jacket made out of an old t-shirt of Carl’s that depicted a superhero dog.

You and Daryl talk, sleep close, sneak kisses when people aren’t looking, go hunting together, laugh at each other’s silly jokes. You’re out going and talkative whilst he stands back quiet and stoic his eyes always filled with love for you. You share clothes like it’s nothing, he loves holding you close at night the feeling of your plush body against his better than any bed or pillow, he knows you in and out, as do you for him.

But somehow still the two of you have never breached the subject of how much you love each other, you’ve neither had the conversation trying to figure out what to call one another.

Well not until today.

Sitting idly on the front porch of a nice enough house in Alexandria you work away under the watchful eye of your lover.

It was no surprise that you and Daryl were put together in the same home, neither is it a surprise that you both sit so close as the sky starts to turn orange, the sun slowly setting and the moon rising into the sky.

Knees touching, you carefully try to stick on a new patch onto your jacket next to one of many pride flags you’ve acclimated over the years.

Daryl leans over watching you quietly sew wonky stitches, his face almost pressed to the side of your round cheek.

“You know what Daryl?” you whisper, eyes flickering up to look up at him.

He just hums out a yes.

“When I first met you I didn’t know anything about love, I don’t think I fully know a thing about love now but with you I- I well-“ you face goes warm, your fingers stop sewing as he looks up at you with sparkling eyes, “-I think I’m learning because of you.”

He just stares at you for a moment, shock and what you assume is love morphing his face into a sweet smile.

That moment disappears as he leans down and kisses you, his chapped lips gentle on yours, your hands dropping your handiwork on your lap to hold his face in place.

You pull away first but still hold onto him with pin pricked hands, eye still connected staring like a fool at him, happiness flooding through your bodies.

“For years I was told I’d never find love because of who I am-“ you begin again still in a whisper, the thoughts of the long dead people who said such cruel things being pushed away by the many memories of your and Daryl.

You push a piece of his long brown hair back from his face, you smile growing big and proud.

“- but I had been looking for love below and above despite all the dead roaming around and then there you were.”

He lets out a small chuckle, one that isn’t filled with malice like old lovers did but one filled with a joy you’ve only seen for yourself.

“Do you?” he asks covering your wondering hands with his, “Because I do, I love you.”

“So many eyes in the world are searching for love and somehow I find you, of course I love you Daryl.”

The two of you laugh together as you kiss again, the set of wings you were stitching onto your jacket fully discarded as the kiss deepens.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x plus size reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x nonbinary reader #x nonbinary reader #nonbinary #x plus size reader #the walking dead #the walking dead x reader

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teabreakpancakes · 1 year

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A Taste Of Life Aesop X GN Reader

Genre: Fluff

Just why were you so bright?

Ever since he's arrived at Oletus Manor, the place has always been oh so glum. But, with your arrival, not only has the manor started to become more lively, it seemed that most of the participants started to become more outgoing.

Did everyone forget that they were in a game where they couldn't trust anyone? why was everyone so happy? Aesop grunted, leaving the room. It wasn't that he hated being happy, it's just that too much is annoying—gee blame it on that will ya?

As much as he wanted to embalm you, he knew that they'd kill him if he did; "how dare he take their sunshine away" blah blah blah, he could practically hear The Will Brothers crying while chasing him.

He tensed up upon hearing footsteps approaching, wondering about who it was. Terror pricked him as he prayed to whatever god existed, please don't be Jack.

Luckily, it seems Lady Luck still smiled down on him, since it wasn't the hunter but their sun instead. "Hey Aesop, I noticed you going out and I was wondering, do you not like parties?" they inquired with a skip in their step as they approached the young man with queerly grey hair. He coughed, shaking his head instead of responding verbally.

They frowned gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. "If you're not feeling well, please rest, but if not, I'll accompany you" you smiled, evoking something within him—just what was this warm feeling?.

Aesop nodded — albeit a bit hesitantly; the embalmer shifted in his black boots, teething on his inner cheek behind his mask. Their eyebrows remained furrowed, eyes zeroing in on the small traces of anxiety on his person. "Do you perhaps not like me mr. Carl?" they asked, seeming a tad bit disappointed—but not so evidently that people gazing from afar would be able to notice.

His eyes widen slightly and he swallows nervously, a small amount of guilt gnawing at him. The man sighs, shaking his head, "No, that's not the case, not at all" he responds, attempting to remain as brief as possible.

He watches them light up, as if never showing any signs of being upset in the first place—it almost makes him wonder if they were ever upset in the first place, were you perhaps only trying to get a certain reaction out of him? he wondered, a bit too reluctant to even think of actually voicing it out.

"That's great! I was worried about whether or not i've done something to dissatisfy you" they replied, smiling their usual smile. Before Aesop can react, they add more, but this part was truly the most astonishing bit of information he's ever known.

"I w, wouldn't really like it if you hated me... especially since I like you so much" they blushed, looking away from the handsome survivor. The embalmer blanked out, mouth hanging agape—how?!. You could almost hear him panicking really.

He gulped, rubbing his wrist with his other hand. "T, Thank you..?" he trailed off, ears tinged red due to his fluster. The other survivor smiles—this time, a genuine one. "Do I perhaps take this as you saying you like me as well?" they inquire, leaning towards him with eager eyes.

Aesop could feel sweat building on the back of his neck due to their increase in proximity. How did everyone deal with you on a daily basis when even your words had impacted him so much—well, that, and you expressions—your oh-so human expressions that exposed everything you felt.

He nods, this time, giving a more firm nod. You open your arms, seemingly acting like you were going to give him one of your signature bear hugs. He prepares himself, knowing it might be a very very tight one, only to be embraced gently. He could feel himself melting into your touch, and slowly but surely, he even reciprocated the hug.

He could feel you whisper into his neck, hearing the words "I love you" before you dug your head into his nape. He takes in your scent, labeling it "home" in his heart. He finally understands why they seek solace in you, the only light the game hasn't squandered from their already lacking lives.

#lawless.writes #idv.writing #idv x gn reader #idv x reader #idv scenarios #idv embalmer #idv aesop #idv aesop x reader #idv embalmer x reader

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kemetic-dreams · 12 days

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When and why yellow was first applied to people of East Asian descent is rather murky.

The process occurred over hundreds of years. As some scholars have noted, it's not as if there were people with yellow skin. The whole "yellow equals Asian" thing had to be invented. And in fact, there was a time when there was no such thing as "Asian" — even that had to be invented.

Enter Carl Linnaeus, an influential Swedish physician and botanist now known as the "father of modern taxonomy." In 1735, Linnaeus separated humans into four groups, including Homo Asiaticus — Asian Man. The other three categories, European, African and American, already had established — albeit arbitrary — colors: white, black and red. Linnaeus, searching for a distinguishing color for his Asian Man, eventually declared Asians the color "luridus," meaning "lurid," "sallow," or "pale yellow."

I get this bit of history from Michael Keevak, a professor at National Taiwan University, who writes in his book Becoming Yellow: A Short History of Racial Thinkingthat "Luridus also appeared in several of Linnaeus's botanical publications to characterize unhealthy and toxic plants."

Keevak argues that these early European anthropologists used "yellow" to refer to Asian people because "Asia was seductive, mysterious, full of pleasures and spices and perfumes and fantastic wealth." Yellow had multiple connotations, which included both "serene" and "happy," as well as "toxic" and "impure."

He tells me that there was "something dangerous, exotic and threatening about Asia that 'yellow' ... helped reinforce."

Which might explain why the fear that East Asian countries would take over the West became known as yellow peril.

In 1956, Marvel's short-lived Yellow Claw comic featured a villain of the title's name. He was drawn with a bald head, long scraggly beard, slanted eyes and, yes, fingers that resembled claws. True to the name, his skin had a distinct yellow hue.

That was all make-believe. The real-life consequence of vilifying a race included things like the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, which banned Chinese immigration to the United States until 1943; the violence against hundreds of Filipino farmworkers in Exeter and Watsonville, Calif., who were mobbed and driven out of their homes by white Americans in 1929 and 1930; and the incarceration of more than 100,000 Japanese Americans during World War II.

For as long as Asians have lived in the United States, white people have been trying to label us: who we are, what we look like and how we should be described. It was also white people who defined our terminology — for many decades, "Orientals" was the moniker of choice. (And when people hurled slurs at us, we've been called Chinamen, Japs, gooks, Asiatics, Mongols and Chinks.)

That started to shift in the 1960s.

That's when the term "Asian American" was born. At the time, it was linked to political advocacy. Yuji Ichioka, then a graduate student and activist at the University of California, Berkeley, who would later become a leading historian and scholar, is widely credited with coining the term.

This period, often referred to as the Yellow Power Movement, was one of the first times these disparate people — Korean Americans, Vietnamese Americans, Japanese Americans, Indian Americans, Laotian Americans, Cambodian Americans, to name only some — grouped themselves under one pan-ethnic identity.

There was power in numbers, which Ichioka knew as founder of the Asian American Political Alliance. In a letter and questionnaire to new members, AAPA made clear that its organization was not just advocating for the creation of Asian American studies courses, but for broader social causes. That included adopting socialist policies and supporting the Black Liberation Movement, the Women's Liberation Movement, and anti-Vietnam and anti-imperialist efforts.

Spurred in part by the activism of the times, the term "Asian American" rose to popularity. It also helped that the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 was passed, allowing an influx of Asian immigrants to the U.S.

But over the years, the term Asian American revealed itself to be a complicated solution to the problem of identity.

For one thing, most people who technically fit into the "Asian American" category refer to themselves based on their ethnic group or country of origin, according to the National Asian American Survey (NAAS).

Karthick Ramakrishnan, a professor at the University of California, Riverside, and the leader of NAAS, says he and his colleagues found that most Americans think of "Asian Americans" as East Asians.

Karen Ishizuka, who wrote Serve the People: Making Asian America in the Long Sixties, says that "Asian American" is still an important identifier because of the political power it has carried for decades. But it's crucial for people to be educated about what it once meant, she says, because the term has become "more like an adjective now, rather than a political identity."

Ramakrishnan and Ishizuka seem to reinforce why I've been searching for a term like yellow. In all my conversations about this issue, I've found myself remarking how the question of "What about yellow?" feels so hair-pullingly existential. Maybe it's because Asian American seems like it has been watered down from activism to adjective. I find myself wanting a label that cuts a little deeper.

In 1969, a Japanese American activist named Larry Kubota wrote a manifesto called "Yellow Power!" that was published in Gidra, a radical magazinecreated by Asian American activists at the University of California, Los Angeles.

His words were a rallying cry. "Yellow power is a call for all Asian Americans to end the silence that has condemned us to suffer in this racist society and to unite with our black, brown and red brothers of the Third World for survival, self-determination and the creation of a more humanistic society," he wrote.

Kubota wasn't the only one using yellow in a new and different way.

Ishizuka tells me about a bunch of different groups in the 1960s and 1970s: Yellow Seeds was a radical organization in Philadelphia that published a bilingual English-Chinese newspaper of the same name. The Yellow Identity Symposium was a conference at Berkeley that helped ignite the Third World Liberation strikes. The Yellow Brotherhood was an Asian group made up mostly of former gang members in Los Angeles that tried to disband gangs and curb drug addiction. Yellow Pearl, a play on "yellow peril," was a music project started by an activist group in New York's Chinatown.

I call up Russell Leong. He is a professor emeritus at UCLA and was the longtime editor of the radical Amerasia journal. As a kid, he used to make Yellow Power posters in San Francisco's Chinatown.

"Do you call yourself yellow?" I ask him.

"That's an interesting question," Leong says. "If I'm with a group of yellow people like my close friends, I'll call myself a Chink, a Chinaman, a yellow. But in public, I'm not gonna call anyone else that .... it depends what I'm comfortable with. It's the same with my English or Chinese name. Sometimes I'll use my American name. Sometimes I'll use my Chinese name."

Whatever the word, he adds, "I think it's better that we have more words to describe ourselves."

I get it. Despite the incompleteness of any one term, together they can become a powerful tool.

Still, if there were no term like "Asian American" — if it didn't exist, if we gave up on it entirely — then what could we have to anchor ourselves? After all, it's not just about a word; it's about an entire identity.

Ellen Wu, the historian from Indiana, digs into that point: "To circle back to this question of, do we use something like yellow or brown? ... Why do we even feel like we have to?"

Wu acknowledges that we're always craving words that might come closer to encapsulating who we are.

"I think that invisibility — that feeling that we don't matter, that worse, we're statistically insignificant — in some ways really fuels that desire to have a really concise and meaningful way of talking about ourselves," she says.

I pose all of this to Jenn Fang, an activist and writer who runs the appropriately-named blog Reappropriate.

She's not so convinced that yellow would resolve the issues that plague Asian American. It might be a useful identifier if yellow was used very intentionally and people knew its history, she says. But it could also fall into the same traps as Asian American. With ubiquity, it could eventually lose its power.

Fang also thinks that if people were to identify as yellow, there would be more people staying in their own lanes, so to speak — that, say, East Asians who call themselves yellow might not advocate on behalf of Asians who call themselves brown.

"Are you reclaiming the slur, or reclaiming our history?" Fang asks me. "The thing I'm concerned about is — is [yellow] a truly reflective way of talking about the East Asian American experience? Is yellow more nuancing? ... Or more flattening?"

In the pinnacle of the civil rights era, activists used yellow as a term of empowerment — a term they chose for themselves. In some ways, I'm still seeing that today.

When the director of Crazy Rich Asians, Jon Chu, wanted to include a Mandarin version of Coldplay's song "Yellow" in a pivotal scene of his movie, some people were concerned that including it might not fly in such a high-profile movie about Asians. But that was exactly Chu's point. He wrote a letter to the band pleading his case — he wanted to attach something gorgeous to the word.

"If we're going to be called yellow," Chu wrote, "we're going to make it beautiful."

I can't help but think back to a group of people I spoke to late last year.

The Yellow Jackets Collective is an activist group, the name an echo of the 1960s. They're four people in New York City who identify themselves with a wide swath of terms, in addition to yellow: she/her, womxn, brown, Asian American, femme, child of Chinese immigrants, Korean American, 1st gen., first gen. diasporic and "collaborating towards futures that center marginalized bodies."

I send them an e-mail. "Why yellow?"

They point out that they don't just walk around the world calling every East Asian person they meet "yellow."

"Identity ideally is about you and how you feel and what you believe has shaped you," Michelle Ling responds.

I let Ling's words percolate. I don't know if I'll walk around in the world calling myself yellow — maybe to people who have similar experiences to mine; certainly not around people who've flung slurs at me.

Even so, having different words to choose from is itself a comfort. Having yellow in my arsenal makes me feel like my identity doesn't hinge on just one thing — one phrase, one history or one experience.

After a back-and-forth with the group, something they've written stops me in my metaphorical tracks. It's from the Yellow Jackets mantra; a snapback comment that I can't help but appreciate:

"We say Yellow again because at our most powerful we are a YELLOW PERIL and those who oppress us should be afraid. We are watching you. We are making moves."

In “The Travels of Marco Polo,” the people of China are described as “white.” Records left by eighteenth century missionaries also report the skin color of Japanese and other East Asian people as clearly white. Yet in the nineteenth century, this perception quietly gave way to descriptions as “yellow.” In travel books, scientific discourse, and works of art, portrayals of East Asians began presenting them as having yellow skin. What happened in between?

In his 2011 book “Becoming Yellow: A Short History of Racial Thinking,” National Taiwan University professor Michael Keevak delves deeply into the origins and history of how and why East Asians went from being seen as “white” to being classified as “yellow.”

The first suspect implicated in applying the “yellow” label to East Asian faces is the famed Carl Linnaeus (1707-78). At first, Linnaeus used the Latin adjective “fuscus,” meaning “dark,” to describe the skin color of Asians. But in the tenth edition of his 1758-9 “Systema Naturae,” he specified it with the term “luridus,” meaning “light yellow” or “pale.”

It was Johann Friedrich Blumenbach (1752-1840) who went beyond the coloring ascribed by Linnaeus to apply the completely different label of “Mongolianness.” Regarded as a founder of comparative anatomy, the German zoologist did more than just use the Latin word “gilvus,” meaning “light yellow,” to describe East Asian skin color: he also implicated the Mongols, a name with troubling and threatening connotations for Europeans with their memories of Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan, and Timur.

While the references remained anomalous at first, travelers to East Asia gradually began describing locals there more and more as “yellow.” By the nineteenth century, Keevak argued, the “yellow race” become a key part of anthropology.

But the yellow label came associated with discrimination, exclusion, and violence. Just as no one in the world is purely white or black, neither does anyone actually have skin that is deep yellow. By “creating” a skin color and investing traits such as “Mongolian eyes,” the Mongolian birthmark, and mongolism (the old name for Down syndrome), Westerners made the perceived yellow race synonymous with abnormality. They also responded to the arrival of immigrants from Asia by sounding the alarm over the “yellow peril” - a term with a whole range of negative associations from overpopulation to heathenism, economic competition, and political and social regression. The hidden agenda of this racial color-coding becomes apparent when one considers who benefits from a hierarchy that places “yellow” and “black” beneath “white.”

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imaynotdrinkbutiknowwhatilike · 2 years

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1958 Carling Black Label Beer

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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 2 years

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Oh my.

* the community label is incorrect, there are no dirty themes in this *

Happy belated Hallowtide, y’all. Here’s another chapter, slowpokes :)

When - right after A cause for concern. You’re still at the table with Hershel and your glass of activated charcoal. S02 episodes Cherokee Rose + setup for Chupacabra.

What - Hershel just asked you if your brother Shane “is a cause for concern.” Turns out, Daryl walked in and heard. You also keep meaning to talk to Lori but there have been a lot of interruptions...

Relationships - slow cooker Daryl x You is in the works, of course. Right now y’all are at the cooking stage where Daryl just wants to hang out with his only friend :( but you keep being otherwise occupied. You even defend him to Hershel tonight. As for you and the gang, we got casual brotherly/sisterly affection between yourself, Shane, Rick, and Lori.

Perspective - still stuck in 2nd person You + 3rd person “one who often carries the crossbow”

TWs - some language and some alcohol use (Dary-bear)

Pronouns - they/them, feminine implied at times

Word count - it won’t irk you this time

Masterlist - capital idea considering all the references! Checking out the four chapters chronologically before this one (What were your nightmares about?, Better with a friend, Picking a flower = saving the day, and A cause for concern) as well as Too much thinking before bed, Part 2 is recommended.

Him

That old man is sharp. At least somebody else is seeing it.

Really, it’s as if Daryl could literally smell the bullshit during Shane’s little speech at the funeral.

Though, the other old man might see it, too. Dale. It was about a month ago he’d noticed that Dale stopped being chummy with Shane the way he was with everyone else, even to Daryl himself.

And Lori has seemed real uncomfortable around Shane, too, come to think of it.

Maybe he’s not as alone in seeing that guy’s hiding something as he first figured.

It just sucks that Y/N is having to admit that about their own family, if just to themself. And Daryl knows all about what it’s like to admit that shit about a brother, if just to himself.

Speak of the devil, Lori is now walking by him, quietly whispering, “How are you, Daryl?” as she scoots out the front door.

Dr. Farmer (his bad, he doesn’t remember Dr. Farmer’s actual name) tells his friend something about a ‘solution’ (?) and Y/N picks up the glass with black stuff in it and—ew, start to sip it through a straw. The hell is in there?

But before he can get a word out and ask, a high, small voice from behind him scares the shit out of him as it squeaks, “Why are you in here?”

He jumps, turns—and holding a choose-your-own-adventure book is the teenage girl, frowning at him and probably freaked out as fuck. Just look at her eyes, all wide and scared like a bush baby’s.

In a way that sounds kinda like she’s accusing him of something, she next questions, “Do you, um, n-need help findin’ Carl’s room?”

“Nah.”

...

...fuck, this is awkward.

Eyes still so wide they’ll probably fall out, her high little voice again squeaks, “What do you want, then?”

Lucky for him, saving his ass is Y/N’s voice. “Daryl? Hey.”

He takes a few steps toward the table, thinking to himself that it sounded like Y/N’s throat was tight but feeling relieved that he isn’t gonna have to talk to Baby Spice anymore/ever again.

“You here to tell Carl about the Cherokee roses, too?” they ask him with a teensy little smile.

No, I don’t know why I came in here but you’re my only goddamn friend and I knew you were in here. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember which room he’s in?”

I actually have to walk in there and talk to the kid now. “Yeah, s’the one with the little boy in it, right?”

Instead of finding that funny, they make a face that reads as annoyed and tired.

Psht. Getting annoyed himself, he marches down the hallway to the room where the kid is recovering while Y/N, dunno, probably keeps drinking that black sludge and gets interrogated by the old man more.

You

All Mr. Greene asked was if Shane would be ‘a cause for concern.’ That’s it. All you had to say that is that he’s going through a rough time, what is wrong with you?

You need to say something to explain why you couldn’t answer and you gotta figure out where the doctor was coming from in the first place.

“I ain’t cer — I am uncertain as to what your question meant, sir,” you say by way of asking for clarification.

“Simply if you feel that there is a cause for concern regarding him.”

“In what way?” croaks from your throat not much more substantially than a whisper.

But now Beth is joining you and her father at the table so nothing more is said.

She thanks you for the flour and tries to make polite conversation, you try to stay upbeat and friendly.

You’re grateful that her voice is soft, because the ringing in your ears is making sounds louder. Plus, her and Maggie’s accents are twangier like yours, so it makes you feel less self-conscious around her father.

You gulp the drink as fast as you can through the straw. That Mr. Greene mixed the charcoal with Tang and gave you a straw is helping to make it less gross.

And when you notice Beth’s holding a choose-your-own-adventure book, you and she start to have a normal, easy moment—until you feel Mr. Greene’s eyes on you and figure he wants you o-u-t.

So, you excuse yourself, thank him again, and stand up to go wash your glass and straw while hoping your dizziness isn’t too obvious in the way you walk as to upset Beth.

But the doctor stops you. (?)

“I was hopin’ to ask you a favor. Or enlist you, rather.”

“It’s okay, I’ll take care of your cup, you can sit back down,” Beth murmurs to you, and takes it from your hands.

You swallow and find your seat again. “What d’you need help with, Mr. Greene?”

He clasps his hands together on the table. “I gather you’re likely planning on searching for the missing child first thing tomorrow morning?”

“Yes.”

“Is it your intention to remain out for the entirety of the day?”

“No.” Oh my God, why did you just—“I meant, I don’t think it’ll, the, um—” please formulate a coherent sentence. “W-we’ll have re-combed the whole grid and further by the afternoon,” you stammer. “And with seven or, um, however many of us will be out again, I can come back. I ain’t writing Sophia off, doctor, I just know that my duties also lie elsewhere. We all have jobs to do.” Good enough. “Do you need me to stay with Carl?”

You thought you felt his stare burning holes in your face, but when you actually look at him, he’s got his eyes on the table, lost in thought.

“That your group has searched so thoroughly and for successive days, it likely means one thing — and you understand that, I can see it. But it doesn’t discredit the other entirely; perhaps that tomorrow the whole area will have been re-swept means you’ll finally recover her. Sophia.”

You have to cover your face with a hand and turn away. How many times are you gonna get close to tears, this is getting old.

Swallowing the latest lump in your throat, you dab your eye with the corner of your sleeve and nod. “We were going to,” sniff, “check the road off the trail tomorrow, then he — that’s Daryl — he mentioned going to the top of a ridge someplace near to get a high view.”

Mr. Greene looks so much less impatient and unwelcoming than he did before but you aren’t certain the reason. Even his body language has changed.

“There are no infected individuals in any of the houses on that road, I can tell you that,” he informs you. “Otis went by that way more than a few times. There’s one home, however — it’s the one closest to the connecting road, northside. The family boarded it up because of that proximity, I would imagine.” He sighs. “No one answered Otis when he called from outside. It may be because they were newer to the area or perhaps there was somewhat of a language barrier, but the house is boarded securely and Otis never received any responses.” Scratching his eyelid, he finishes, “We decided to assume the Bardales left for a safe zone or perhaps a relative’s.”

“But the family might could still be inside,” you state more than ask. In what manner the family could be in, you neither state nor ask.

“There’s the potential,” he confirms. It seems as if he’s intending to say more but is having trouble doing so.

You wait.

He finishes slowly, “We aren’t certain if they caught the illness.”

Beth is coming back to the table with a snack-sized bag of barbecue chips. She offers to share, so you take one despite your newly discovered taste aversion. Chew. Swallow. Think of Amy and Jim and the Morales family.

“What I wanted to ask you was to help me give Carl a transfusion tomorrow. Now, I don’t know…” He stops talking entirely. “I don’t know if it’s an advisable thing. As we are aware, I am not a medical doctor—”

“—For humans,” you interrupt. He is a medical doctor and he saved your Carl’s life.

He unclasps his hands and holds his palms up. “I am a veterinarian and walking a fine line. Now: I know in some circumstances, anticoagulants are prescribed to postoperative patients who are at an increased risk of clotting. Carl, with his injury in that spot,” he shakes his head, “I cannot get it out of my head that he is at risk.”

His daughter loops her arm through his and rests her head on his shoulder as he takes a deep breathe. “And after the miracle we had in saving him, and the sacrifice it cost,” his tone sharpens when he says that part. You bow your head.

Then he exhales heavily and controlled. “My blood type matches his. Before his surgery, while he was still bleeding out, a transfusion from me would have killed him because I still take a daily anticoagulant. It’s a very low dose, but even that would have been too much for him. Now, however…”

“What risks would there be?” That Carl is alive is what’s keeping you sane and grounded.

“I do not believe he would be at risk of bleeding out with just one pint from me. We know that the stitch has held, and I have been restricting him from moving his core in order to maintain that, and I will insist upon it for a few more days.”

“What did Lori and Rick say?”

“I haven’t spoken to them yet. I suppose one could argue I was practicing the proposal with you.” Mr. Greene rubs the spot on his forehead in between his eyebrows. “If his parents agree, I would like both Patricia’s and your hands on deck. You take direction well, and have much more experience with human medical cases than Margaret.”

You must look as overwhelmed and unconvinced as you feel, because he shakes his head at you and goes on to say, “I’m telling you this in earnest. You did an extraordinary job getting that child’s vein on the first try, at a time when he was profoundly hypovolemic, not considering the emotional trial you were undergoing during the event and the two injuries you sustained in its onset that could have interfered.”

“There’s no need to butter me up, I’ll be there for him,” you mumble. Why is he suddenly being so generous with the compliments?

He appears to sigh again, and next turns to his daughter. “Beth, sweetheart, would you mind putting the tea kettle on for me? I want to ensure privacy while Y/N and I discuss some matters a bit further.”

That tiny seed of dread is still firmly rooted in your gut.

When you see in your side-vision that Beth is off in the kitchen, you state the prepared phrase quickly and quietly. “About your question earlier: Shane is a good and decent man, he simply hasn’t been himself.” There.

Mr. Greene gets that serious, discerning look on his face again. “Has he spoken to you about what happened that night? It must be weighing on him heavily.”

Your posture slumps and you can’t meet his gaze. “He ain’t even talked to Rick about it.”

The front door opens again.

Lori’s back from wherever she had gone. She looks like she’s close to passing out. You even begin to stand because she really doesn’t look well. “Lore, are you feelin’ alright?”

“Just feeling extra tired, honey,” is what she tells you as she walks blindly to the hallway, then stops and heads toward the kitchen. You sit down when you hear the faucet turn on.

“One last question for now, and I thank you for allowing me to do so. The man who walked into my house before, the one who often carries the crossbow?”

“Daryl,” you confirm, somewhat cautious.

“Will he be a problem?”

Your head is shaking ‘no’ before he’s finished asking. “He can come across as…” You shrug, unable to think of a word. “But he’s proven himself to be remarkably…good. My mama would call him a work-in-progress.”

But Mr. Greene’s response is completely justified. “I cannot help but somewhat wonder against your statement when I and my family all noticed the schutstaffel symbol on his motorcycle.”

Holding up your hands as if trying to prove your innocence, you explain, “It was his brother’s, he’s no longer with us. And we all hate it, too.” You grimace in disgust and mutter, “I don’t think Daryl even knows what it means.” With a peek at the doctor’s unreadable expression, you unhelpfully mention, “Glenn and I are keepin’ an eye out for black spray paint to fix it.”

Lori’s footsteps sound back down the hallway. The door to Carl’s room opens and closes.

“Do you feel safe around the man, Y/N?”

“Yes, oddly enough.”

“Why ‘oddly enough?’” he counters.

Is there a bright interrogation lamp over your head? “He comes across as otherwise, and he can be a hot-head,” you concede, shrugging one shoulder. “But he never leered at the women, and the kids didn’t feel uncomfortable or unsafe around him. He hunts for us, is teaching me how,” you go on, then feel testy enough to meet his gaze head-on. “And he’s spent more time out there searchin’ for Sophia than any of us.”

“He never made, um, I’ll call them ‘advances,’ toward you? I don’t know his inclinations, but Margaret is about your age, my Beth is even younger, and I likewise worry about Jimmy’s safety in that way. Their—” he cuts off as the front door opens yet again.

It’s Rick this time. He greets the two of you, pecks a kiss on your head, and goes down the hall.

Mr. Greene takes a moment as if he’s collecting his patience. “Their safety is paramount. And as you can imagine, having strange, angry, armed men tramping around my house and property feels like a very risky game.”

“He’s made none at all to me, and I-I don’t think to others, neither.” No way, y’all would have discussed that. Andrea would’ve been very outspoken about it if he’d ever stared at her chest, for one. “We would have discussed that.”

But whatever the thoughts in his head are, you can’t quite to read them in his expression. And he changes the subject.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he repeats, sighing. “Now, with your permission, I would like to reexamine your shoulder before sending you on your way.”

Him

He told the boy about the flower, all about the search, and even about having been lost for nine days when he was a kid. He sanitized it for Carl’s sake, obviously, made it seem like an adventure.

Sophia is his friend, he’d needed to hear it. At this point, everyone should know so they won’t write that little girl off as a goner.

Weird thing was, the teenage girl—sorry, ‘Beth’— had walked in there partway through and sat herself down as if she didn’t trust him to be alone with the boy.

He ignored her and kept telling Carl stories.

Now the kid’s asleep, still with his dad’s giant deputy hat on.

At one point, Carl fake-complained that “After this, it’ll be forever until they let me go hunting with you guys.”

So, he reminded him, “I told ya: be this tall or when your voice changes, then you can come with.”

Beth is reading her book, still sitting kinda stiff as if she’s nervous.

As for he himself, he’s just listening to a clock ticking and thinking that he wants a smoke and another beer and to not be around someone who doesn’t like him, even if it was just Baby Spice.

When Lori came back into the room with a glass of water, she looked paler than her kid, and that’s saying something. Carl’s about as tan as a sheep.

He didn’t think he should leave, to be honest, she looked so drained. So, he sat there.

Waited.

Wondered what the hell to do and felt awkward as fuck.

It can’t have been more than three minutes when Rick quietly steps into the room.

Relieved, Daryl stands up, grunts “Night,” before zooming out.

Trying not to stomp too loud, he walks out of the hall to find Dr. Farmer doing stuff with Y/N’s arm.

The old man straightens it. Positions it forward. Up. To the side. Up. Asks them to apply pressure from different angles. Has them twist their neck side to side, up and down.

Daryl leans against the wall and crosses his arms.

Sometimes it looks like it hurts them, sometimes not. They make eye contact with each other for a second. Y/N gives him a resigned look, he blankly offers a thumbs up in response.

Then he wonders what the hell he’s waiting for and to stop being creepy, and so stands back up and figures he’ll leave.

“It was mentioned before that your shoulder was previously injured?” the old man questions Y/N.

The door to Carl’s room clicks open again, Lori and Beth exit. Beth scurries away, Lori starts to make for the door.

“About a month-ish back,” Y/N replies.

“What was the mechanism of injury?”

“Um, we was tryin’—we were trying,” they rephrase it, less twangy than usual, “to escape from someplace with a…very shut door. We, um, the pain started after I rammed against it too hard.”

Lori stops where Y/N is sitting and lightly smooths some flyaways in their hair.

The old man makes a hm. “That was the original injury?”

And Lori cuts in, weirdly enough. “It was a slight twisting injury.” Softly, he can hear her murmur, “Honey, remember what happened a couple days before that?”

Y/N looks confused, then remember whatever it was. Their mouth opens, closes.

As he finally walks by and out the door, he ears them whisper all shy, “Th-that only bothered me for a few hours after.”

You

“A twisting injury makes much more sense for the other affected areas to which the pain is radiating, especially the neck and chest,” Mr. Greene affirms.

You didn’t even remember that your shoulder technically got hurt when you attacked Ed. After all, your jaw had been what was bothering you the most.

It’s still so wild to you that you’d gone so…wild.

“Lori, don’t let Carol know—oh, and Daryl, you neither,” you call in case he’s still in earshot. That woman can’t find out, she’ll blame herself.

“If you didn’t recall the initial injury as having been serious, consider it having been akin to small ding in a windshield. Minor impact or driving into a pothole in the road can lead to a bigger crack, and from there, much more serious damage at a moment’s notice. Likewise, having a small injury, even a barely noticeable tear, made the force against the, uh, door injure you more than it may have,” he explains, “which eventually, if the injury did not fully heal or heal properly, worsened still when you carried young Carl here.”

Lori kisses you on the head and places her hands on your shoulders, rubbing them gently.

“Now, I have just about zero knowledge of physical therapy, but Pat will remember the exercises Jimmy needed after a baseball injury last year to his shoulder. In fact, he went back outside to your group’s fire, you can ask him there. They may be helpful.” He stands. “Now, Lori, I’d please like to speak to you and Rick about something important.”

Him

When Y/N came out of the farmhouse, their brother sped over to them and helped them walk back. They ain’t even talking or nothing now, they’re just sitting quietly listening to the conversation and staring into the fire. By the looks of it, they’re dozing off a little against their brother’s shoulder.

Y/N had a silent, tiny cry soon after they first got back, too. Shane simply put his arm around them.

The basic way he’s noticed everybody handle that stuff was to just allow the person get the tears out in peace and not make a big deal about it. Maybe pat the person on the back or whatever but nothing dramatic. There are more reasons to cry these days, you know?

Anyway, Carol is warming up Y/N’s oatmeal.

As for himself, he’s just about to—wait a sec, only a few gulps left—ah, okay, yep, he’s done with his third beer of the night.

Except he doesn’t even have the spins yet, what bullshit. Why doesn’t he just go to bed?

It can’t be because he’s clinging, no way.

Aw, lil Darylina wants to feel like he belongs by clutching to his only friend like a little blankie.

Ugh, you know what? He could just have a fourth beer and shut up. Still got two left back at his tent, and he could crash after. He’ll need the full night’s rest if he’s gonna find Sophia tomorrow. Check out the road, check out the ridge, get that little girl back safe.

You

You must’ve fallen asleep because all you remember after you stopped sniffling was that suddenly Shane was tapping you so you’d sit up. He stood and quietly set off somewhere, passing Lori on his way.

Huh. Lori. You’d been dreaming that she was crying around the campfire. That must be because you had a cry and knew Lori wanted to talk—oh poop, you haven’t talked to her yet, have you?

As you blink a few times to clear the brain fog, Carol hands you a bowl of oatmeal. Smells yummy.

Lori sits by you. Carol hands her a bowl, too. She lifts her spoon but does nothing else. It’s as if she’s miles away as she stares at her boots.

“It’s true, my dad wore his Bulldogs jersey every Saturday,” you overhear Jimmy say. “I wish he could’ve, um…” He pauses when his voice cracks.

If this is where the conversation had been heading, it makes sense to you why your brother hurried off. The guilt from what happened with Otis. You brush away those horrible, heartless, stupid doubts in your head about what happened that night and pass Lori the unused glass by you that she’s gesturing to.

Lori holds out the glass and Carol pours him some of the Tang that Jimmy brought for you all in the pitcher. The kid takes a big gulp, and T-Dog delicately taps Jimmy’s glass with his beer bottle in ‘cheers.’

“He would’ve been so excited to meet you, Mr. Douglas.”

“Nah, I ain’t nobody impressive, Jimmy. But your dad?” T-Dog’s serious expression warms into a grin. “The dude who volunteered on the regular to save lives? I woulda been honored to have met that man.”

Sniffing, Jimmy clears his throat and takes another few sips of his drink. Lori rubs his back a few times from where she’s kneeling, then gets up and sits back by you.

“His favorite game was the day after Thanksgiving, 1994. I was a baby so I can’t remember, but the way he retells the story every Thanksgiving makes me feel like I do.”

“That was a damn satisfying game, let me tell ya. Perfect way to finish the season.”

Cue Jimmy’s eyes to expand two times their normal size as T-Dog begins to chuckle.

“Were you…y-you were playing during that game? The Dawgs obliterated Georgia Tech, it was 48 to 10!”

“Hell yeah we did, kid.”

Him

The discussion morphed to video games and how the teenager’s never fired a gun “Other than in video games at my friend’s house.”

Proper farm boy, minus the part where he’d need to know his way around a rifle to deter hogs and all that. He had a BB gun, and “did skeet shooting with Dad’s shotgun a couple times? We used birdshot, so it was easy enough.”

That’s when Glenn and he hopped into a happy little discussion about…eh, Daryl isn’t sure. He needs to sleep.

Y/N is dosing again, otherwise they’d probably be just as excited to talk about whatever Glenn and farm boy are into. He’s still weirdly disappointed he didn’t get to talk with Y/N. Find out their big secret…or just hang and feel wanted.

Sweet baby Darylina, you getting all mopey? Are you PMSing, sugar?

Dale already excused himself to hit the sack, Lori looked like she was about to. That woman’s looked tired as fuck even before all that went down at the highway.

However, Y/N is accidentally using them as a pillow, and Lori has her head resting against Y/N’s with this look across her face like she’s having war flashbacks.

He closes his eyes for a moment as he stretches before standing up to just get back to his tent already.

…

…zzz...zzz…

You

“Honey,” softly whispered in your ear pulls you out of a similar dream to the one you woke from earlier, but this time, Lori was crying in the house and her older sister was with her. Mr. Greene was sitting at the table and frowning. Shane was trying to get inside. Mama was outside with him but had her hands covering her face.

Rick and you were by the door, but it was almost as if you were guarding it.

Dreams can be so creepy. And stupid, like, as soon as you saw Evie, you should’ve realized it wasn’t real life.

Back to the here and now, Glenn and Jimmy are really into whatever they’re talking about. Videogames? You’d probably be into it if you weren’t half-asleep.

Lori stands up. Hold up, are her eyes wet?

“You should head to bed, too, come on.” She holds her hand out to help you up. Taking it with your good arm, you hold on when you stand, and the two of you bid your goodnights to the group.

Aw, Daryl is asleep where he’s sitting, can you believe it?

Him

It’s when his head flops forward that he finds himself jolting awake.

Turns out, like his friend, he also fell asleep right there in front of the campfire.

Except now Y/N and Lori are gone.

…This night has been really annoying, just saying.

Actually standing up this time, he grunts what probably passes as a ‘goodnight’ and shuffles drowsily storms off to his tent, set apart from the others.

You

Ears still ringing, you walk slowly to your tent and wonder where Sophia’s sleeping. “I just had the funkiest dream, Lore. Evie was in it.”

The muscles in her arm tighten. “Evie?”

“She looked good. Had on civvies instead of a uniform.” You chuckle to keep it light. “She was hugging you.”

Lori runs her hand over her face. Once at your tent, she and wishes you a “Goodnight, Y/N,” and wraps her arms around you in an unusually tight embrace that she maintains.

“Did you wanna talk now?” you check. “We kept gettin’ interrupted.”

She avoids eye contact as she pulls back and assures you, “It-it’s okay, honey, it’s nothing.”

Memories of that strange night and morning at the CDC start replaying in the back of your mind. There’s a red flag waving with it, but maybe that’s due to your weird nap dream a few minutes ago.

Still, you offer, “I can talk about nothing, easy.”

She hesitates. Inhales.

But all she finally says, with a smile that doesn’t convince you, is, “I just need some sleep.”

White lie. You almost tell her she owes a quarter.

Her lip wobbles and she hugs you again, and you squeeze back as much as your shoulder will allow.

“I’ll see you at breakfast, honey, okay?”

“Make sure you sleep in, Miss Patricia mentioned that. G’night, Lori, love you.”

And as she pulls her button-down off her hips to put it back on, whatever was in her back pocket falls out.

Ha, why does she have a digital thermomet…oh.

Oh my.

Ohh my, okay. Okay.

That wasn’t a digital thermometer, a fact made clear by the way she scrambled to grab it when she realized it had fallen.

“Lori?”

You end up on the floor of your tent, sitting there dazed with your mouth open while the ringing in your ears seems to grow louder. She quickly crouches and pulls the door flap down.

She stops hiding the test and rests her hand in her lap as she sits beside you, her fingers gripping it tightly.

You stare at it.

Yep, it’s a pregnancy test.

It’s got the little plus sign, too.

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