#fuck your 'thoughts and prayers' it's empty fucking platitudes

[orcelito]

i dont understand ppl being like "people died, now isn't time to push your politics 🥺" with regard to gun control like what the FUCK are you TALKING about????? When we have the 60th or so mass shooting of the year (midway through FEBRUARY) & the umpteenth school shooting, now is EXACTLY when we need to be discussing these things!!! But because you assholes have your 2nd amendment pride so far up your fucking ass that it's coming out of your mouths as Bull Shit, this keeps happening over and over and over and over and over again endlessly without ever fucking stopping because the blood of innocents is worth your fucking idealistic "we need guns to defend ourselves from the government" BULLSHIT. fuck OFF and i hope you choke on your fucking misguided American Pride.

#speculation nation #gun violence/ #no one on here is talking about the MSU shooting which is kinda baffling lmfao but whatever #i keep going on twitter to look at posts which is a mistake apparently bc im just getting so angry #fuck your 'thoughts and prayers' it's empty fucking platitudes #if you really cared youd do smth about it. but nooo innocent americans have to be constantly butchered for the sake of your Guns #and the fact that some government officials literally wear rifle pins in support of the NRA. you make me Sick. #so like happy valentines day i guess. 3 more college kids have been murdered with 5 more in critical condition #bc gun obsessed americans refuse to ever let go of their pretty little murder weapons #this is why im not in a valentines day mood. im so deeply fucking angry.

[tehjleck]

I'll say it...

Your 'all knowing god' knew these people were pedophiles, rapists and murderers

Your 'all powerful god' did nothing to stop pedophile priests from raping children, just like nothing was done to stop ignorant people from murdering other people with assault rifles

Enough with useless fucking platitudes like empty thoughts and prayers...

No lives matter to the NRA

#mass shootings #another mass shooting #gun violence #insecure ammosexuals #the nra is a terrorist organization #nramurikkka #no lives matter to the nra #thoughts do nothing #prayers are pointless #common sense gun laws #nothing changes unless we make changes

[mediumsizetex]

I wonder how many of the people who get vocally furious about the utter worthlessness of “thoughts and prayers” after rare events like public massacre shootings have responded to the perpetual, ongoing, society-wide crisis of starvation-wage workers being declared “essential” and forced to put their lives on the line going to work during An Actual Plague by... applauding from their balconies and middle class suburban front lawns and making tearful Thank You For Your Heroic Service posts on social media instead of writing one single motherfucking letter to their elected representatives to demand universal health care, or even something as fucking paltry as legislation guaranteeing a federal living wage.

I literally make less money driving an hour and fifteen minutes through deserted, plague-infected streets to get to my ~~essential~~ job than I could be making if I’d actually been laid off and were collecting Trump Virus Distraction Payments in unemployment while I stayed home and wasn’t risking my family’s lives by going out; I don’t give two shits in a shoebox for your fucking attaboys or empty platitudes. Get up off your goddamn asses and demand that your parasitic douchebag congressweasels pass a law to force the multi-billion dollar asshole corporation I work for to pay me enough to not be permanently in debt and constantly on the verge of having to turn to violent crime to pay my fucking bills. Save your clapping for when sportsball is back on TV, real human people are dying from poverty in the richest motherfucking nation in the world because the electorate is too fucking terrified of change to demand something better.

#politics #gun control #COVID-19 #thoughts and prayers #no pony #SFW

[douxreviews]

The Handmaid's Tale - ‘Heroic’ Review

"Don't do that. She's one of us."

This is the third episode in a row that I didn't like much. But yes, I got the point.

Aunt Lydia decided to punish June for her treatment of Ofmatthew, whose real name is Natalie, and forced June to do penance by kneeling in Natalie's hospital room until the baby is born. That's such a horror when you think about it, the torture of being forced into an uncomfortable position for hour after hour, day after day. And again, much of the focus of this episode was Elisabeth Moss' face – her colorless exhaustion, the bags under her eyes.

Let me pause for a moment and ask why punishment was more important than June getting pregnant. Aunt Lydia doesn't know what goes on in the Lawrence home, so what about the monthly sacred ceremony? What about endangering one of those all-important walking wombs? The handmaids are sacred objects, except when they are not. Their bodies are all important, except when they're not. It's senseless. But Gilead is senseless. Maybe that's the point.

Anyway. There was a purity to that sparkling white hospital room, the three evenly spaced windows and the lines of perspective pointing toward June and her suffering, while some of the shots with Natalie's body in the center made her look like a crucified Jesus in a Renaissance painting, eyes closed, her head on her shoulder, hair cascading down. With nothing to see but the comatose Natalie, June became obsessed with the sounds and smells of the hospital.

"Oooh, heaven is a place on earth." Why did June hear that oh so fluffy pop song? Assigning musical notes to random beeps and boops is like claiming that Gilead's policies have meaning, and June and Natalie were most certainly not inhabiting anything resembling Heaven. In her constant internal monologue, June said the Wives smelled like the Ceremony and the Handmaids who stopped by to pray with her smelled like food. And that Natalie smelled like a baby, a blameless infant, as she was treated like an object. Let's slice into her leg to increase the amount of fluids that the fetus is getting. Let's not worry about what that does to Natalie herself.

Increasingly desperate to reach the end of her punishment, June still couldn't make herself stop the respirator, couldn't stab Natalie with the scalpel. Her rage dissipated when she finally realized that Natalie wasn't the enemy – she was a fellow victim of this horrible place. And that like Natalie, June is at risk of death, which I think was the point of this episode.

Doctor Yates didn't report June for stealing the scalpel, and he knew that June had taken a "swipe" at Serena. Yates knew June's mother. ("Doctor Maddox, she was scary.") When June confessed that she had planned to kill the doctors and the Calhouns as well as Natalie, Yates saw it for what it was – a way for June to commit suicide. By shocking her out of her rage, Yates made June see the path that she was on.

(Of course, he did nothing to actually help her other than stitch up her bloody hand, because this is Gilead. He might have made a stab at honoring his Hippocratic oath, but as he was leaving the room, he turned so that we could see the Gilead star on his shoulder. Message received.)

After the premature birth of Natalie's son, June voluntarily stayed with Natalie until she died. Aunt Lydia chose to see it as June learning the lesson Aunt Lydia was trying to teach her, but it wasn't that at all. June was acknowledging Natalie's humanity, their sisterhood as Handmaids. At the start of the episode, June was calling her "Ofmatthew." At the end, she called her "Natalie."

During her punishment, June thought she was hallucinating the girls in pink, and it would have been better if she had – the girls were coming into the hospital for their "menarche exam." While adults all remember life before Gilead, those girls in pink do not. They weren't taught to read. Instead, they spout religious platitudes about their marvelous future bearing babies for the state. Rose, that freckle-face little girl with braids, is a slave of Gilead, a future baby incubator like Natalie and June. It's horrifying.

So June has now decided to focus on freeing the children. But what I don't get is how June can possibly think she's going to get children out of Gilead. What has changed? Nothing has changed. Increased hangings, that's what is going on right now.

Most of this bottle episode was about June, but there were some nice bits of Janine and Serena Joy that I should mention.

Whenever we see Serena these days, I ask myself, "Is she a good witch or a bad witch?" This time Serena was a good witch. Serena noticed that June was in terrible distress and cared enough to stay and talk to her, to acknowledge her pain, and later, to conceal the fact that June attacked her with a scalpel. Why?

And Janine, who was seriously injured by Natalie to the point of having a hospital procedure on her empty eye socket, came to Natalie's room to forgive her. Janine had every reason to be enraged with Natalie, but she was not. As a reward, Aunt Lydia brought her yet another red Handmaid accessory – an eyepatch.

I am always floored when we get a cute eye-related scene with Janine and Aunt Lydia, and we've gotten several of them. None of those scenes ever acknowledge that Aunt Lydia took Janine's eye as punishment. But we all remember it. The show doesn't have to remind us.

Bits:

— The little girl in the hallway was named Rose. They actually gave her a pink/red name.

— After all of Natalie's worry that she was having a girl and how that girl would fare in Gilead, she had a fourth boy, after all. June had a point that boys in Gilead weren't free, either. They might have it better than the girls, but oppression is oppression.

— The scene where June put her hand in that sharps box and came out with a needle in the tip of her finger made me cringe. Would anyone actually put a scalpel in a sharps box, though? It's mostly for needles and lancets. Scalpels would be sterilized and reused, wouldn't they?

— And I should mention that Doctor Yates put the scalpel back in the sharps box, still within June's reach, when he left the room. You'd think he would at least take it with him.

— This bottle show took place almost entirely in a bright white hospital room. The use of color was striking: June's blue eyes and red uniform against that vast white floor, the trail of blood. I especially liked the four Wives in graduated teal and blue shades as they prayed over the baby. It would have been nice if they could have included a prayer for Natalie.

— I'm glad Janine said, "I look like a pirate" because it would have been silly if no one had said that. I hope the eye patch means less time in the make-up chair for Madeline Brewer, who is so consistently wonderful as Janine.

Quotes:

June: (re: the wives) "They smell of powder and soap. They smell like the Ceremony. Like Serena Joy, when she held me down. It's hard not to fucking gag."

June: "Maybe I'm crazy and this is some new kind of therapy."

Aunt Lydia: "God never gives us more than we can handle." June: "Are you sure?" I don't know why this made me laugh, but it did. Like Aunt Lydia is any sort of authority, like she actually knows what God wants. That's the thing that drives me nuts about some religious people, that they think they can decide what God wants.

Janine: "When did you get to be so selfish? Everything is always about you now… You're different. I don't like it." Were they listening to the fans of this show?

Doctor: "They're not sick. They're here for their menarche exam." Mrs. Calhoun: "They've flowered? How lovely." June: (to herself) "That will be Hannah soon. Too soon."

Serena: "You were supposed to be one of the strong ones." Everyone has limits, Serena. Even the strong ones.

Doctor Yates: "How long have you had suicidal thoughts?" June: "Homicidal." Doctor Yates: "Doing any of the things that you said would put you on the Wall, and you know it."

Doctor Yates: "I honor the Handmaid's life by saving her child. How will you honor your daughters?"

June: "I'm sorry I was such a shit to you. I got lost, I think."

Beautifully written, acted and filmed, as always. But I'm not happy with this one. It feels like we're meandering instead of forging ahead. If we have to meander, couldn't we do it in Canada?

Two out of four discarded scalpels,

---

Billie Doux loves good television and spends way too much time writing about it.

#The Handmaid's Tale #June Osborne #Serena Joy Waterford #Fred Waterford #Aunt Lydia #The Handmaid's Tale Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews

[derebantran]

im so sick of seeing the name of a school or a town on trending and the people in charge just posting up empty platitudes about what a tragedy this was

i dont care if its stricter gun control or better mental health policies, just fucking do something other than give us your thoughts and prayers and empty promises

this shit is so depressing and im tired of the same fucking cycle of it happening, people arguing about what should be done, our officials sitting on their fucking thumbs waiting for the storm to blow over, nothing happens, rinse repeat

im fucking beaten down from reading these headlines every month and its just exhausting

#btw the correct answer is both stricter gun control and better mental healthare #and people that try to convince its only a one or the other solution are idiotic #saugus fucking deserves better #we all fucking deserve better #any NRA lobbyist that tries to spin this into anti gun control rhetoric is an automatic piece of shit #and any tinfoil hat conspriacy theorist that tries to claim this was staged is scum

[junkyardlynx]

Pt. 11

Nothing worked. The world happens, the world changes, the world, it is written here, in the next line, is only its own membrane—

Enlightenment. Vijay Seshadri.

---

Thomas scratched his cheek meekly, regarding the problem of the stranger he’d brought home as he stood in the kitchen, waiting for some water to boil. He had no parents to speak of and the uncle that was supposed to be his “guardian” simply left him money for food each month. There wouldn’t be any teen movie hijinks of hiding someone in his room only for his kind-but-suspicious mother to “accidentally” make too much dinner or anything like that. 

Rummaging around in the cupboards for a couple of tea bags, Thomas sighed. Why was he doing this? Obviously Jeal was being attacked and Sarisa defended him. The lady with the sword and mask was some kind of crazy ninja assassin. A crazy ninja assassin sitting on his couch. Was it because Jeal was rich? Like, he didn’t seem rich, but his crazy-weird dad owned a couple local businesses and they had that huge house. By all means, Thomas should be taking the side of his close friends.

But, ah. It was obvious.

Sarisa had used some kind of...magic. 

Not some Harry Potter wand waving stuff with dementors and the like. Like. Final Fantasy magic. With the elements and the -ga suffixes and the mana cost and the really overpowered party member who learned all the good spells and had the best materia.

Thomas was unable to be considered a thoughtful boy and that was because he simply couldn’t let the sheer wonder at such an event go. He had to know, and if he knew his friends (which it felt like he didn’t, really) he knew they wouldn’t tell him. They always “protected” him. They’d lie and call him crazy and make him doubt his own eyes until he buried the subject himself. They’d done it before. For his sake, they said.

Truthfully? 

He felt a little betrayed.

Jeal moved with supernatural grace and speed, stepping between every slash that girl had levied at him like it was boring. Every time Thomas replayed that scene in his head, it was more and more apparent that Jeal was simply playing with her. His friend’s red eyes, which seemed like a curious touch of albinism, now seemed preternatural and overly cruel. He was more a sculpture of ice than a person.

Shaking his head and sighing again, Thomas poured the boiling water over two bags of blueberry chamomile in two matching mugs, both reading “World’s Coolest Kid.” He thought it was funny. Steeping them for a practiced three-and-a-half minutes, he then discarded the bags in the trash and brought the tea out to the living room.

He sat one down in front of his guest, who regarded him with one cursory glance before picking it up. She seemed to use it as more of a hand-warmer than anything else as it was still far too hot to drink comfortably. 

“How’s the jaw?”

She winced at his words, rubbing it with her right hand. Luckily (or perhaps unluckily) it had merely been dislocated and Thomas had been able to snap it back into place for her. 

“Fine. And your hand?”

He gave it an exaggerated shake. She’d bitten into it when he was performing what one might call “amateur non-invasive surgery.” 

“Probably broken, I’ll chop it off later.”

She didn’t really smile, but her eyes seemed to lighten up.

“So uh, what’s your name?”

“Fujiwara. Yours?”

“Damn, you really get to the point. Not one wasted word. Uh, I’m Thomas. Nice to fix your face and also meet you.”

“Pleasured.”

He noted that for whatever else, she didn’t seem to actively dislike him. The thought was strangely comforting. Fujiwara was probably her family name or whatever.

“So uh, Fujiwara. Can you tell me why you were trying to fillet that weirdo alive?” 

“You know who he is.”

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit. Of course she knows I know him if she’s hunting him, Thomas thought. It’d be stranger if she didn’t.

“I agreed to this because you do not know what he is. I would ask that you dispense with falsehoods.” 

“Uh, fair enough. So why were you trying to kill Jeal?”

“He’s a demon.”

In spite of himself, Thomas laughed. He laughed so hard that tea splashed out of his mug, landing with a wet little splat on the coffee table. He apologized quickly.

“Sorry. Uh. I’ve known him since we were like, four feet tall. Jeal’s not a demon.”

“You think demons cannot simply be born like any other creature? What do you know of demons? What do you know of Sarisa? What do you know of Jeal? Of magic? What do you know of any of this?”

Her words were cold, but not cruel. Fujiwara seemed to be genuinely inquiring as to what Thomas knew.

“I mean, I’m sure you know I’m gonna say magic isn’t real outside of games and books. Jeal and Sarisa are weird, but they’re not like, demons. Where’s the horns and flames and stuff? Or where’s the like, overwhelming sex appeal? Neither of ‘em have it for me, man.” 

“I only said Jeal was a demon, but your outlook is fair. They’ve lied to you and done the utmost to keep you from finding out the truth. I suppose it is a sort of mercy. After all, magic has a tendency to destroy the lives of whatever it touches.”

It sounded to Thomas like she was speaking from experience. He went to apologize again before swallowing his words with a swig of tea from his mug. Empty platitudes never served anyone well.

“Jeal Culaine is a demon, born to a family of mages from his father’s side while his mother is a youkai - a yuki-onna, to be precise. In the past, we pursued his mother as a matter of honor, but now our sole concern is Jeal’s existence. He should not be.”

“Well, right away I can tell you that you’ve got the wrong guy. Jeal’s last name isn’t Culaine, it’s Innhamlet.”

She looked terribly sad for a moment.

“Have you ever heard of the scion of a wealthy family attending a public school under an alternative name? This is a...similar case.”

Thomas set the mug down before he could drop it, masking his frustration and surprise remarkably well. He scratched behind his ear - all of his scratches were something of a nervous habit - and then spoke.

“So you’re telling me his last name is Culaine and he’s half-Japanese? Jesus, how many lies can one dude tell? That’s one hell of a backstory. What’s next, you’re gonna tell me that he’s like, some sleeping demon lord and he’s gonna nuke the entire earth? That’s a little too Marty Stu for me, Fuji.”

“You may not enjoy how close to the mark you are. I spoke of Jeal being a demon; this is both figurative and literal. In the figurative sense, he is simply too powerful to be left alone. His heritage gives him strange powers and draws strange things to him. His natural talent is also...quite terrifying.”

“So he’s really strong? But Jeal’s really kind. I don’t see how that’s a problem. He usually just does his own thing, and the only time I’ve ever seen him act out was to help, like...people like me. Mostly me, actually. Pretty much just me.”

“We have observed as much. Were this and this alone, we would simply be content to leave him be. The heart of the matter comes from the literal sense of the word demon.”

“I know enough about folklore to know that youkai are kinda demons or whatever, is that what you mean? Like, he’s a halfsies on his mom’s side, he should be pretty normal. A little cold, haha, but y’know. Normal.”

“Your poor humor aside, that is both what I mean and not entirely what I mean. As he is the offspring of a youkai, his mana - think of it as life essence - is heavily intoxicating to the inhuman. This, coupled with the sorcerer’s blood from his father, has attracted the attention of what you might equate to, ah, the devil.”

“Oh, okay. I see. So you’re fucking with me.”

“I am not. Do you know how many bled against Emirus to find information on this vessel?”

“Jeal’s dad? He’s way nice, too. I find this all really hard to actually beli-”

Fujiwara had begun to levitate off of the couch, still sipping her tea. Thomas realized that an innumerable amount of eyes stared back at him, peering from every exposed piece of Fujiwara’s skin. She levied her multitudinous stare at him.

“Okay. I get your point. Magic’s probably real. I still don’t really believe any of this, but go on.”

His words seemed more like a prayer to himself rather than a real denial. All the pieces were coming together, all the strange things he chose (or was told) to ignore. All the doubts he had, all the vague feelings. Every inconsistency lining up with a lie revealed by this stranger from a strange land.

“His name is Soritoroth. All of the classic Abrahamic demons draw their origins back to him, along with a few others that are somewhat more difficult to categorize. A detailed history would be a waste of time, but suffice it to say he is a calamitous event unto himself.”

“And what, he wants to wear Jeal like some kind of humansona?”

“Why do you insist on using words that both vex and amuse me? But yes. Jeal’s body and power are acting as a beacon for Soritoroth, though he can make use of any vessel that has bathed in the proper pow...ah, this is....”

Thomas found her two dark eyes on him, regarding him with a stark and clinical look. The rest had vanished. He wasn’t sure if they were an illusion or simply a part of her. He wasn’t very interested in finding out for sure.

“Uh?”

“It’s nothing. I was going to tell you that you seem to be a viable candidate due to your prolonged exposure to Jeal, but I’m sure your own latent magical prowess is far too lacking. As we thought, there appears to be the one vessel. That makes my mission all the more pressing.”

Fujiwara stood up, checking her body with a few pats. She pulled the mask out of her robe, channeling a bit of her strange power into it. It seemed to ripple, restoring the lost material, once again reflecting the face of a terrifying oni. She gave Thomas a short bow.

“The tea was...delicious. Thank you. I appreciate your help. If I may offer a word of warning?”

“Uh, shoot.”

“Do not act differently around those two. They are uncannily attentive. Though I know quite little about Sarisa, her own lineage is storied and the both of them are, frankly, absurd; both seek out trouble and revel in it.”

“And you’re gonna try and murder him again, knowing that?”

“I suppose. It is all I can do.”

“How about...”

His voice trailed off. This was betrayal most supreme. He’d have to change his name to Thomas Judas after this. But he felt that this was the only way to really save his friends.

“How about you let me help?”

“Excuse me?”

“I love those guys. There’s got to be another way. Just let me be your inside man and I’ll do what I can, you know? There’s always another way that doesn’t involve Jeal mopping the floor with you again.”

“You are...not entirely incorrect.”

“So it’s a deal?”

Fujiwara considered Thomas for a long moment, arms crossed over her chest. Eyes simultaneously like honeyed amber and black mud regarded him, dissected him a thousand ways, looked into what he was. At least, that’s how it felt to Thomas. He felt very small under her stare.

“If you continue to serve tea of this quality and allow me to reside here as I plan, then I suppose it is.”

Thomas thrust his hand out and Fujiwara took it, thin and pale lips finally curling into a real smile. She was terse at first, but she had gradually opened up over the course of their questionable conversation. It felt like all disjointed pieces were coming together now. He could begin to see the big picture - where his friends would go when they gave vague excuses, what they were doing, who they really were. In the end, it didn’t matter to him. They were the people he loved, and he was going to protect them this time. He’d help them like they always helped him. He’d save Jeal from both this assassin and whatever was coming for him. Things felt good. Things finally made sense.

Of course, their hard times had just begun.

#writing #my writing #the deeper wound #magic #modern fantasy

[areiton]

not our happy ending

Tag warning: self harm, suicidal thoughts, depression. Read with care, lovelies.

A03

~*~

You always thought dying would be the worst pain you ever felt.

Because you did. Senses screaming, skin prickling, you felt every second of it, the ripping agony, and his eyes, wide and dark and panicked and sad.

You didn’t want that, never wanted to see him sad, never wanted to be the reason he was sad. You apologized for it, even as you faded into nothing, and it was the first thought you had, when you came back.

Tony.

You look for him. In the chaos, and the after, and then May is there, dragging you close and there are tears in your eyes and hers, and you think, later. You will find him later.

~*~

Later never comes.

You go back to the Tower, and it’s--different.

It’s empty.

There is only Ms Potts and her red eyes and blotchy face and you know.

~*~

The world comes to life, and you don’t.

The world grieves and you don’t.

The world looks to the future--and you don’t.

~*~

“He wanted this,” Rhodey tells you, a few months after everyone comes back. He’s sitting on the edge of the Tower, and his voice sounds cautious, careful, like you’re a skittish animal he’s afraid of spooking.

You watch the sun peeking up over the water, and realize--you’ve been out here since the sun went down behind you.

“Peter,” he says, desperately, “he would have done anything to get you back.”

You know.

He did.

He died, and you have to live with that.

~*~

Statutes go up, and memorials.

Flowers cover the sidewalk around the Tower for months, and you see people putting up his mask, on street corners, grapitted on buildings, and small candles--prayer candles--lit under them.

You think he’d hate that.

You think you understand why they do it.

Tony Stark saved the world, sacrificed his own life to save the universe.

Except--that isn’t true, is it?

Tony died to save you, tore apart the fabric of reality and yes, he brought them all back--but he didn’t remake the universe for them.

You don’t know how to live with that.

~*~

Karen is gone and his voice is snarky and fond in your ear when you pull on your suit.

You know it’s not real, but sometimes--

Sometimes you do something stupid, just to hear him snapping, just to hear the spike of fear in his voice and the rush of knowing he loved you.

~*~

Tony Stark loved you.

He loved you.

Enough to die--he loved you.

You don’t know how to live with that.

~*~

They worry.

May and Rhodey, Pepper and Ned. Steve comes to see you, once, and you stare at him like he’s a stranger, this man who hurt Tony, this man who let him die.

Bucky pulls him away, and you don’t see him again.

Strange comes to you, too. He doesn’t offer platitudes or sympathies. He says, only, “It was the only way.”

You blink back tears.

“I looked, Peter. And it was the only way. He had to lose you.”

“And I had to lose him.”

He’s quiet and you shake your head, tears on your cheeks, and pull your mask on, pull Tony--what you have left of him--close and leave.

~*~

The universe got it’s happy ending. Everyone did. They all came back and fell into each other.

You--you didn’t.

Tony didn’t.

You hate them--the whole goddamn universe--for that.

~*~

“It’s not fair,” you whisper.

“I know, kid,” Tony says and it’s so real it makes you hurt.

“I miss you,” you tell him and he sighs.

“I miss you too.”

~*~

The world moves on.

You--you don’t.

Sometimes, you think you’re still stuck in that moment when Tony looked at you in your bedroom and asked you to go to Germany.

Sometimes, you know you’re still stuck in that moment when you died in his arms.

You don’t move on. You don’t know how to move on without his hand, heavy and hot on your shoulder and his voice, sharp and snarky in your ear and his gaze, warm and fond, watching you.

You don’t know how and more than that--you don’t want to.

~*~

One night, you get cut up on patrol.

Bad enough Tony is panicked and furious in your ear and you barely register it as you swing onto a roof and lay there, bleeding out.

For a moment, you think--it would be easy to let go. To be with him.

You want it.

Then your healing and the nanites kick in and your wound closes, your bleeding stops and he slips away, and you--

You are left thinking.

~*~

“Do you think it’s what he would have wanted for you?” Strange asks, and you look at him, eyes cold.

“Do you think I give a fuck?”

~*~

You take more risks.

Fight bigger and badder and dangerous, and you come home bruised, bleeding, broken.

You get used to Tony’s fury and May’s fear, and Strange’s knowing gaze.

You get used to Steve and Bucky showing up and shouting after you when you swing away.

You get used to a lot of things, but never quite the absence of red and gold and sass on the battlefield.

~*~

“I am sorry,” he tells you, and you look at him. You’re tired, and you can feel the sharp pain in your side that means a cracked rib. “What I did--it was to save the universe. I am sorry, that you and Tony paid the price for that.”

“If you’re sorry, don’t stop me,” you say and he watches you, watches you, watches.

“I never intended on stopping you,” he says, finally, “Only reminding you what he died to save.”

~*~

The world moves on.

The new Avengers do.

They grieve and they honor and they forget.

You don’t.

~*~

“Kid,” Tony says, and you close your eyes, because god you miss him.

“I don’t want to miss you, anymore.”

“Sweetheart, please,” he says, pleading.

Your hands shake as you unbuckle your wristshooters and Tony makes a low, hurt noise.

“Don’t,” he begs.

You open your eyes, and the sun is bright and your city--his city--sprawls beautiful below you. This is what he saved, what you protected. “They don’t need me.”

“Pete, don’t.”

“I can’t do this,” you say.

“I love you,” you say.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

~*~

The world moves on.

But you--you’ve been standing still, since Titan and dying and coming home without him.

You knew, going up--it was the last thing you’d do. You’d die on that spaceship, with him.

It isn’t fair, that you didn’t. That you lived, and he didn’t.

That isn’t what you signed on for.

This--it feels like righting a wrong.

You've been doing that for people since you were fifteen--it feels like past time for you to do it for yourself.

“I'm putting things back where they belong,” you murmur.

And you belong with him.

~*~

He’s soft, soothing, his voice calm and familiar, and it’s all you hear--not the rush of wind or the screams getting closer, or the pounding of your heart.

Just Tony.

It’s the last thing you hear.

#starker fic #starker #tw: self harm #tw: suicide #angst #arei writes fic

[blacklister214]

Second Son (New Chapter): Uninspired

It had been nearly twenty years since Jacob had set foot inside a hospital, but one whiff of the bleach, sanitizer, Lysol and recirculated air and it all came rushing back. The fear. The anger. He felt like that foster child all over again, being escorted down sterile white halls by various hospital staff. He'd hated them. Hated the ones that believed the lies his foster parents had told. Hated the ones that hadn't and had called Social Services, patting themselves on the back, and not realized the consequence that inevitably befall Jacob because of them. Mostly though, he'd hated himself, for being so small. So weak. So helpless. He'd sworn after that last cast had removed only a few days shy of his thirteenth birthday that he'd never feel that way again.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Hartwell appeared at his elbow wearing a lightly flirtatious smile. Apparently her distemper with him had passed.

"I'm wondering where you left your primary." He took a long sip from his bottle of water, waiting for a response.

"She's in the bathroom down the hall. I presume you don't intend for me to follow her into the stall." He was half tempted to tell her to just that, but that was simply his bad mood taking the reins. He knew that nothing that had happened was Hartwell's fault. It was a situation neither of them could have anticipated and they both had reacted as best they could. He needed to put his own feelings aside and play the hand he'd been dealt.

"What have the doctors told Scott about Korpal's condition?"

"Broken bones, internal injuries. They'll know more when he gets out of surgery, but that will take a few more hours." Presuming the doctor didn't die on the table, he would be relatively safe until he was in recovery. By that time Dembe would be a position to ensure no one entered Korpal's room who wasn't meant to.

"Visiting hours will be over soon. Are they kicking Scott out?" Jacob had no idea how these places worked. He couldn't see the harm in letting family members linger in waiting rooms while their loved one were under the knife, but he wasn't a hospital administrator.

"I wish. Currently the woman is the reigning queen of this place. It seems like every member of staff has dropped by to offer prayers and sympathies." Hartwell's tone told Jacob she shared his opinion regarding the value of such sentiments. Empty words, signifying nothing. Social niceties people felt obliged to pay, lest they be thought insensitive. Still, not everyone thought like he did. Maybe Liz did take comfort in the platitudes offered by Korpal's co-workers.

"What more can you tell me about the incident?" The agent had to have something to offer him other than the license plate. Glen had promised to run the number, but it undoubted belonged to a stolen car that would ultimately be discovered torched somewhere. He needed some kind of lead to chase.

"Not much. I was following the target out of the restaurant. He kissed the blonde on the cheek and put her into a cab. The boyfriend then left on foot, in the direction of the hospital. He waited for the signal and just as the light turned, a grey sedan roared around the corner and mowed the guy down in the middle of crosswalk." Korpal put the blonde in a cab? Why hadn't he gotten in with her, back to her place, or to a hotel?

Jacob shook his head. How Korpal choose to conduct his affair wasn't the issue here. He needed to stay focused on the details that mattered.

"If the assailant drove around the corner, there's no way he could have seen Korpal was in the street without a spotter. Did you see anyone?" Hartwell's lips thinned. The moment's pause was all it took to tell Jacob that the exemplary agent had slipped up in some way. He waited a beat, wondering if she would compound her error by lying to him about it.

"A waiter followed me out with a cell phone in his hand. He asked me if it was mine. I'd thought he was just hitting on me." He had to hand it to the kid, it was a good excuse. He probably sent the text the second he had eyes on Korpal, then covered his tracks by pretending the phone had been lost by one of the restaurant patrons.

"Description?"

"5' 10. Hispanic. 120-125 pounds. 17/18 years old. He took off after the accident." Jacob fixed Hartwell with his coldest stare.

"And you didn't think that was suspicious?" Hartwell returned the look with a scowl of her own.

"A teenage boy of color avoiding the police? No, I didn't think it was overly suspicious. This kid was no agent." Though Jacob didn't relish jumping to conclusions, he was inclined to agree. From his description and the way he'd fled the scene, the boy didn't sound like a professional. Odds were the kid was just as much a mark as Korpal, which meant he was likely in just as much danger.

"Doesn't have to be, just greedy and gullible." This was actually good news. The kid could be decent lead, assuming Jacob could find him before the hit-man did. Assassins tended not to leave loose ends. The question was, would he seek out Korpal first or this witness?

If it were Jacob, he'd target the boy. Korpal was unreachable at present, and even if the doctor did survived and regain consciousness, it wasn't as if he possessed any remotely damning information.

Jacob checked his watch. It had been about two hours since the attempted hit. That was more than enough time for the driver to destroy and ditch the car. The killer would already be looking for the boy. The fact the kid took off was promising. It told Jacob the teenager knew he life was in jeopardy. Whatever story the assassin had feed the kid to get him to cooperate, it probably hadn't included vehicular homicide. Hopefully after realizing he had been lied to by a murderer, the kid knew better than go home. If he didn't then the boy was likely already dead.

"Did you establish a cover story?" Hartwell rolled her eyes as if insulted by the question.

"I chatted up an old woman when I arrived. Her husband had a stroke and is in surgery. If anyone asks I'm his beloved niece. How about you? Do you intend stand here, holding up the wall all night?" Jacob considering telling her, but after her slip with the waiter, and the fact it took her two hours to share that piece of pertinent information, he wasn't interested in reading her in. He settled instead for one of his trademark enigmatic smiles.

"You should head back." Hartwell tilted her head to side, not doubt trying to gauge his mood.

"Not without what I came for." The operative stepped around him to the vending machine on his left. After feeding in the dollar, she bent at the waist, ostensibly to check the prices on the lower selections. Thanks to her swoop top, the action afforded an excellent view of her black lace bra, not to mention her perfect and prominently displayed ass. A quick scan of the hall told him he was not the only man, and in one case woman, to have noticed.

Hartwell glanced up at him and smiled seductively. A week ago he would have been more than willing to smile back, but now he merely raised an eyebrow. He was under no illusions about her motives for this little display. She was hoping to use sex to control him. If Hartwell thought fucking him would buy his silence about her screw-up, she had not read him well at all.

Whatever the operative saw in his face, it was clearly not the expression she'd anticipated. She straightened, her smile disappearing into a look of total indifference. Whether that was any more genuine than the flirtatious facade was anyone's guess. She entered in the code for a Snickers bar, collected her snack, and left without another word.

Jacob watched her retreating form with detached admiration. She was objectively stunning, but that fact mattered significantly less to him today than it had when he'd first met her. Jacob wasn't exactly a believer in monogamy or long term relationships, but it wasn't like him to lose interest so quickly, especially with someone as talented in bed as Hartwell was. Was his professional irritation with the woman that had left him suddenly uninspired by her? Or was it something else?

"Was that the St. Regis operative? You truly have the most unfortunate taste in women." A genuine smile stretched across Jacob's face as he turned toward the rich and familiar voice. Dembe stood before him, regaled in the blue shirt and black slacks of the DC police. A badge was clipped over heart, and a walkie attached at the shoulder. Jacob squinted at the pin that sat atop the right breast pocket of his brother's shirt.

"Well, well, 'Officer Lawrence', is it? The uniform suits you. I was a bit worried Sergeant Thomson wouldn't be able to find one in your size." He made a mental note to send the cop a bonus for setting Dembe up so another lesson from Reddington: Good work should be acknowledged and rewarded. That's what kept people loyal.

Dembe raised his eyes to the heavens. Jacob mentally congratulated himself. It usually took him much longer to exasperate his perpetually zen brother.

"You do remember I cut my visit with my daughter short to do this for you?" Jacob felt a rare pang of guilt. Since Dembe discovered the girl's existence, about six years ago, he'd make it a point to maintain regular contact, calling every few weeks, and visiting every six months. Jacob himself have been dragged along more than once. Watching his oldest friend with the girl had been a revelation. Dembe adored her. His whole face lit up in way Jacob had never seen before.

"What? I was paying you a compliment. If I was a criminal and I saw you running at me wearing that thing, you'd scare the hell out of me." Dembe's lips fought the smirk threatening to soften his expression, but Jacob could tell it was a losing battle.

"You are a criminal." Jacob waved him off.

"You know what I mean. So how is that niece of mine?" He'd never admit it, but every time his brother went to visit Isabella, he had nightmares that Dembe would never come back. Jacob knew he should want that for his best friend; the happiest Dembe felt went he was with his child. He should encourage Dembe to settle with her permanently, to give up the dangerous and rootless life he led with Jacob and Reddington. Unfortunately he was too selfish for that.

"Even more lovely than when you last saw her. Missing her uncle, of course." And the hits just kept on coming.

"Please send her my love." Jacob resolved to send his niece a large gift when all this was over. Not exactly an even exchange for stealing precious time with her father, but it was something.

"Of course." With Jacob's guilt slightly lightened, they could both get down to business.

"Check in with head the nurse. Korpal should be in surgery for a few more hours. Hartwell and the primary are in the waiting room on the other end of this floor." Jacob strode toward the elevator, confident Dembe could handle any issue that arose. His mind hummed with singular purpose, with no more thoughts of Dembe, Isabella, Hartwell, or Elizabeth Scott. He would find the waiter, with any luck while the kid still had a pulse.

#Second Son #blacklist fanfiction #keen2 #tom keen #elizabeth keen

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, jeremyrennerfanxxxx123!

February 5 - Clintasha, smutty, writer's choice prompt, for @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123

Written by @ozhawkauthor

Set in pre-Avengers days. Natasha seduced Clint on a mission; he had no idea at the time she was a spy. A couple of years later, he ended up bringing her into SHIELD. Obviously, it’s a non-Laura AU.

“So this is your place.” Natasha walked around his shabby apartment on silent cat feet, examining everything minutely without touching anything. “Huh. I thought all Americans lived in luxury. You do not even have television.”

“Never here to watch it,” Clint said shortly. Having her here in his personal space, the space which literally nobody else ever entered, was making him intensely uncomfortable. He was going to strangle Coulson for turning him into a watchdog slash bodyguard.

“Well. Perhaps we can pass the time some other way.”

To his shock, she unzipped her leather jacket and tossed it to one side, following it with her blouse, kicking out of her boots and her skinny leather jeans to reveal skimpy red lace underwear. The same pieces she’d been wearing on the night that still haunted his dreams, unless he misremembered, which he was pretty damn sure he didn’t.

“What are you doing?” Clint choked out.

“Getting undressed so we can fuck.” She shrugged a pale shoulder, her red curls brushing the perfect white skin as she unhooked the bra and threw it at him. “You get undressed too.”

“You seduced me to steal secrets and then you tried to kill me. What makes you think I’d ever fuck you again?” It was a huge effort to keep his eyes on hers, but Clint was good at focus.

Natasha smirked, stalking towards him with that sinuous glide. “Firstly,” she purred, moving around him slowly, fingers tracing across his shoulders, touch light through his thin T-shirt, “I’m on your side now. And secondly… I was the best you’ve ever had, and you’d rather fuck me than fight with me any day.”

For a spy and the most accomplished liar he’d ever met, she told a lot of damn truth. Clint’s jaw clenched as delicate fingers pulled the hem of his T-shirt from his pants.

“I only showed you a few of my tricks,” Natasha whispered, standing on tiptoe to catch his earlobe between her teeth briefly. He shuddered, and she let go, her hands sliding around him to unbuckle his belt. He stood stock still, making no move to stop her. “That was just business, after all. This… this is for pleasure.”

“This is a really terrible idea.” Clint couldn’t quite make himself push her away, though. Small, skilled hands danced across his skin and he closed his eyes.

“Why?” Natasha sounded genuinely curious. “It’s just sex.”

“Maybe for you,” he muttered. “I wasn’t raised as an agent of seduction, though. Stop. Please.”

Her hands stilled, and she stepped back. Clint opened his eyes to find her watching him curiously, her head tilted slightly to one side.

“You turn me down.” She sounded surprised, not offended, for which he was grateful.

“Look - you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And yes, that night in Kiev has been a good memory to warm me by on cold nights. But we’re partners now, and casual sex is… well, it’s one thing if it’s a one night stand in a faraway city with an exotic foreigner you’ll probably never see again, but something else entirely if it’s someone you have to work with every day.” He was babbling, but she was after all standing there in just a pair of skimpy lace panties, apparently completely oblivious to her own nakedness.

“You are very strange man, Clint Barton,” Natasha said eventually.

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, smiling awkwardly. “You’re not the first person to say so.”

She laughed, and he thought it was the first time he’d heard her laugh genuinely.

*           *           *

Natasha had a habit of walking around his apartment naked, or nearly so, which almost gave him heart failure several times. Clint doubted it would ever be something he could get used to, either. Eventually he figured out that to her it was just another symbol of freedom; she’d been told what to wear and how to wear it for so long, the choice to wear nothing at all was a gift.

She was still undergoing debriefing at SHIELD, and training in their procedures, but soon enough they started missions together, with Coulson as their handler.

The first time he saved her life, she looked at him strangely, as though seeing him for the first time.

The first time she saved his life, he realised he was in love with her.

He was pretty sure Natasha already knew. As she sat by the hospital bed where he lay recovering from several stab wounds, Clint reached out a hand towards her and was surprised when she took it and cradled it to her cheek.

Neither of them spoke, but when he was released from hospital she drove him home and, as the apartment door closed behind them, she reached up to frame his face in her hands and kissed him.

“I cannot lose you,” Natasha said simply, and Clint took that for the declaration of love she would probably never be able to give him. He didn’t give her empty platitudes in return, instead folding his arms around her and lowering his head to claim her lips.

“This,” she said, as they were both struggling to rid themselves of their clothes, “is not just sex, is it?”

“It never would have been, for me.”

“I don’t know how to do the other way.” Her green eyes were almost afraid as she looked up at him.

“I’ll show you.” A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never made love to a virgin before.”

Natasha laughed, surprised, before grinning wickedly as she pulled him down to the bed atop her. “A virgin wouldn’t know how to do all the things I want to do to you, Clint Barton.”

“I don’t know whether to be terrified or aroused,” he admitted.

“I think your body does.” She rolled her hips against him and Clint groaned; his body was indeed very much aroused, his cock almost painfully erect.

“Natasha,” he said on an exhale, and her eyes darkened.

“You say my name like a prayer,” she whispered.

“Well, you are a goddess. I plan to worship you as you deserve.” Clint smiled before sliding downwards. “Since I have no doubt at all you’ll completely blow my mind, I thought maybe I could get in first. Show you how that making love thing works.”

She smiled, slender fingers sliding into his short, sandy hair as he settled his body between her thighs. “Show me anything you like, my archer.”

#clintasha

[angelwithoutleave-moving-blog]

The Guided Tour of Mortality | Castiel & Damon

Pulling my thread with ricsidiotbestfriend over here from the archived blog~ My next response will be reblogged directly from your blog to the new one!

“You can’t stay.”

The words rang in his ears still, tightened his throat, ached empty and cold in his gut.  Even after all the platitudes and dodgy explanations Dean had tried, in halted and awkward attempts at conversation, between the Bunker and the bus station.  Castiel couldn’t even remember anything else he had said.  Only those three words.

Dean had given him money for the bus.  Enough to take him wherever he needed to go.  A few changes of clothes in his bag, an untraceable cell phone in case he needed to get ahold of them.  Toiletries, some human credentials with the name ‘Steve Cronin.’  His Angel Blade, and even some hunting supplies.  Dean left him with a promise that he would call.  But no direction.  No destination.

He’d watched the names of cities and states pass on the display board above the counter as the sunlight left the windows and the station emptied.  It must have been some time after midnight when the announcements for the last bus flashed on the marquee.  And still, Castiel had no direction.

The woman on the other side of the counter looked pitiless, but she offered him a blanket left by someone who had formerly been in his position and gave him change for the ten in his wallet for the vending machines.  It took him far longer than it should have to decide on plain peanut butter crackers and water for dinner.  He laid across the uneven seating, but the blanket smelled like mildew and body odor.

The woman turned off all the lights but one in the back office, where someone on the overnight shift watched a television Castiel could hear from the lobby.  Having something in his stomach seemed to make it easier for him to think, though, and he slowly processed his options in the dark.

None of the other hunters he knew were still alive, other than the Winchesters.  He had only ever had the loosest connections with his friends’ contacts, and he imagined Dean would have given him any ideas if there were any to be had.  The only other people he had were the Angels, and they were probably hunting him.  Without his Grace, he couldn’t even hear them on Angel Radio.  But he had just taken their home away from them.  Every Angel had fallen to Earth, in the same position that he–

Except for one.  The knowledge came from some dark recess of his mind, otherwise forgotten and nearly useless until now.  He knew the story of Shamsiel and Jehoel – it was used as a cautionary tale in his garrison – but he couldn’t quite remember what had happened to the latter after he was sent to Earth.  He could have died, or cut out his own Grace.  But there was a chance that there was an Angel on Earth who didn’t hate him.  Didn’t know him, but didn’t hate him.

All he could offer was a prayer.  But it was the only thing he had thought of so far that gave him any kind of direction.  And if he named the Angel directly, only Jehoel would hear.  All he could do was try – and hope he had nothing left to lose.

Jehoel?  he prayed, easily and naturally finding the faith in his heart that turned thoughts into prayers.  My name is Castiel.  I was an Angel, but I have fallen.  I am mortal, and I don’t have anyone to turn to.  If you’re out there…  I need help.

It might have been one of the worst moments of Jehoel’s very long life.

He’d been staying in an apartment for a few weeks. It was empty while the wealthy owners were in Europe, and it was luxurious, and almost devoid of any kind of personality. A penthouse. He’d been reading when it happened. He heard, or felt, a crack, or a… void, or… human words were idiotic and nothing translated. Something not earth-shattering but worse. And then he sat on the roof and watched them fall. It seemed to take forever. Days. Jehoel (not Damon, because he felt very much like an angel, in those moments) watched, and wondered; who? Samael, Balthazar, Rebecca, Anael. Which of them were dead, and which were alive, and were they still angels?

And then, because anything else was impossible to contemplate, and because he hated them for fearing him, and because they were complicit, and right, he went back to the couch and read some more. He didn’t imagine homeless angels with their wings destroyed, huddling in shop doors and rocking on the balls of their feet because Earth felt like Hell and they didn’t recognize hunger. He didn’t imagine his friends lying in hospital beds, screaming for a father who’d genuinely stopped giving a crap the moment his golden boy had waltzed off the chess board (fuck you, mixed metaphors are brilliant). He didn’t imagine their broken bodies being uncovered by gardeners and cops, in trees and creeks.

–

It was a good thing he hadn’t thought any of that crap. Because, hello, instead of thousands of homeless semi-humans in need of rounding up (fuck, who had the energy to teach them to operate a shower?), the world was instead full of pissed-off angels. He’d encountered a half dozen, that first week. Five had looked straight through him (idiots) and a sixth had made a grand attempt to start a fight, in the seconds before he’d learned that Jehoel’s – Damon’s loyalty to humans did not in any way extend to angels who were just stuck in his beautiful home and had zero appreciation for her complex beauty.

It was a genuine shock when he felt the prayer. It was rare for anyone to call on him directly, and Damon’s instinct was to stay the fuck away, since it was undeniably a TARP (meeeemes). And yet. The voice felt forlorn, and human.

“Castiel,” he said. If the air was disturbed for a moment by feathers, no one had noticed. Damon tapped his chin with one finger. “Hmmmm. This is ten kinds of weird.” He leaned over and plucked at the disgusting blanket, cleaning and sanitizing it with a shake. “Excuse me for saying so, but you look like you’re having eight spectacularly shitty days, all at the same time.”

He sat on a row of bucket seats across from Castiel, and clasped his hands, letting them dangle between his knees. Bus terminals, like all liminal spaces, were strangely compelling and repelling at the same time. At a busier time, Damon might have sat for a few hours and watched. People coming, going, running away from something or running to something else. Worldly possessions wrapped up in ugly duffel bags and newly purchase suitcases. Lovers saying goodbye, families saying welcome home. At night, they were only spaces. No one should sleep anywhere so uncertain.

“Thousands of angels down here looking to make a new world order, and here’s Castiel, human,” he said. “They all just fell, but you… Fell? Rumor has it – if you listen to rumors, which of course I do – that you’ve been down here for years.”

He glanced at the empty cracker packet and shook his head.

“That’s not food. You need actual FOOD. Nothing that comes out of a vending machine. Burger. Ooh, ever had a blooming onion? Genius. You wanna tell me what happened, or you wanna scarf down some empty calories first?”

Despite that he had literally called for an Angel, Castiel startled some when Jehoel actually appeared in the otherwise empty room.  His immediate thought was, So this is what the Winchesters put up with, but that thought made something painful twist in his gut.  Not anymore.

He had barely started rising before the Angel was tugging the blanket off and shaking it out.  Castiel shivered, but it was a relief from the rest of his senses.  He straightened to sit up on the bench and accepted his blanket back with a small, “Thanks.”  He really didn’t know what to say about his clearly miserable impression.  The observation was technically impossible, but he had enough grasp of figurative language to understand the exaggeration.  And it felt accurate.

Jehoel sat across from him, and he looked so natural doing it.  Castiel admired how he could physically relax his vessel, just let it be human in ways that he had never been able to master himself.  As he watched, he could see the man’s attention wander, and it fascinatedthe new mortal.  Jehoel had none of the stiffness or intense focus so characteristic of their species, and it made Castiel wonder just how long he had been down here.  How long it had taken him to get comfortable with this.  It made him… hopeful, in a way.  Maybe this wasn’t as impossible as it seemed.

At the question pertaining to his Fall, he frowned and lowered his gaze to his own hands, resting apart on his knees.  “Yes,” he said quietly.  He was mildly surprised that Jehoel still listened to whatever Angel gossip had been spreading about him, but he answered the speculation anyway.  “I have had a vessel here for the last several years, yes.  But I…”  He struggled with how to sayit before he concluded with, “still had my Grace.  Until now.”

At the mention of food, Castiel’s stomach churned hopefully, and he looked at the plastic wrapper of crackers himself, crumpled and stuffed in the empty water bottle.  A burgersounded fantastic.  It was the only kind of food he knew he loved, and he wondered if Jehoel somehow, absurdly, knew that.  He looked up and hesitated to express his enthusiasm, but frowned at the mention of a “blooming onion.”  That didn’t sound nearly as pleasant as the burger.  He closed his mouth as he considered the offer.

“Why would you eat a vegetable bulb before it’s fully grown?”

And really, it didn’t matter what Jehoel was offering.  He was offering.  Giving him something to do, something to say, something to want.  And there was definitely a possibility that he would regret this, that whatever the Angel wanted in return would be too steep a price to pay, that this would somehow end with another knife in his back.

But he simply had nowhere else to go.

He tried to smile when he answered, hoped that his question hadn’t sounded ungrateful.  “Actual food sounds… very appealing.”

Funny; Damon couldn’t sense any trace of whoever had owned that vessel before. Maybe the pricess of falling had extinguished it, maybe it was more complicated. Not his business.

(… he was definitely planning to find out, but that didn’t mean it was his business.)

“A veget… what? No, It’s… they cut it so it looks like a… and they soak it in ice water, and… you know what? Never mind. I’ll get you a burger. Keep it simple.” And ideally, lots and lots to drink. Get him completely plastered, let him sleep for a solid sixteen hours, maybe he’d start to feel better. Or not. The apartment Jehoel was very helpfully looking after had a well-stocked medicine cabinet. He was sure they could spare a little oxy for a miserable ex-angel, when the hangover hit.

Damon stood and stretched, and reached out a hand to pull Castiel to his feet. “I hope you haven’t lost your sea legs, brother, because I didn’t bring the car. Better keep the blanket, now that it doesn’t smell. Ready? Brace yourself.”

He put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and they closed into nothing, leaving only the sound of beating wings.

–––

No point in eating the second best burger Damon had ever encountered. Nope. He went straight for the best he could think of in three states, in a weird diner with terrible décor and comfortable bench seating. He settled them on the ground only a few yards away from the door, in a mostly empty parking lot, and gave Castiel a moment to settle.

“You alright? If you need to puke, puke, but try to avoid the shoes.”

Inside, Damon winked at the waitress, who had a fondness for him, and led Castiel to a booth in the back, ideally situated near a heating vent, since he was reasonably sure the weather was cold. Guy needed clothing, as well, but that could wait. He pushed a menu in front of his very disoriented friend, and took one for himself.

Jehoel relied heavily on interpreting people’s facial expressions, since people were generally terrible at using their words. But Castiel’s expressions were completely alien.

Small talk? Keep it light? That sounded sensible.

“So, what happened? To your grace? Seems like a bad thing to lose. Me, I lose car keys, the occasional wallet… never misplaced my grace. Order whatever you want.” He waved down a waitress.

“We’re gonna need bourbon. Quite a bit of it. We could do that thing where you forget you’re not supposed to bring a whole bottle, and I could thank you by tipping you enough for a new pair of shoes. Agreed? Oh, and… probably some water.” That would do for now.

Jehoel – funny how it was harder to think of himself as Damon in the presence of another angel (sort of, anyway) – crossed his arms on the table.

“Talk. You look like you’re still waiting for some penny to drop. Is the rest of the family pissed with you? Did you break something, Castiel?”

… .so much for small talk.

Castiel’s brow gathered as he tried to follow Jehoel’s description of a “blooming onion,” his chin tilting as he visualized, and he was dismayed by the incomplete image when the angel abandoned the effort. His expression eased at the idea of a burger, though, and he nodded his agreement. He took Jehoel’s hand when it was offered and stood, but he shook his head at the suggestion that he bring the blanket along.

“It isn’t mine,” he explained. Then he folded it – unevenly, but as best as he could do rather quickly – threw away his trash, and grabbed the bag Dean had given him before they took off. Though he hadn’t been the one who cleaned the blanket, it still felt good to leave the station in a better condition than he’d arrived in. As the familiar sensation of flight rushed around him, he spared a thought to hope the bus terminal’s next unfortunate overnight guest would be more comfortable.

------

Flying was strange. Of course in part because he was missing a couple appendages – and the reminder made the raw ache in his chest throb – but also because his stomach rolled around very unpleasantly until they landed. His head spun with the sudden jolt of the halt, and he reached for Jehoel’s arm to steady himself while it stopped. Something burned in his chest, but after a few uneven breaths of chilly air, it calmed, and he shook his head.

“I won’t vomit.” He nodded reassuringly and pulled his arms in close to his chest as the wind picked up. He followed his brother inside, trying not to step on his heels in his rush to get out of the cold.

Castiel physically relaxed some once they were in the diner, dropping his arms and easing his pace. Jehoel led him to a booth towards the back, and he noted the brush of heat when he sat down. He tried to offer an appreciative smile, hoping it was more successful than the last. Taking the menu slid in front of him, he could swear saliva was building in his mouth just looking at the printed images.

His eyes automatically rose to Jehoel when he spoke, but they flicked down at the table when his brother started his interrogation. Every time he started to think he could answer and opened his mouth, Jehoel was asking another question. The waitress was at the table before he could decide what to eat, and while Jehoel ordered drinks, Castiel scanned the menu in a panic.

“Oh, wait, I want– um–” he tried to stop her as she turned to leave, and she smiled at him a little differently than she smiled at his companion.

“Take your time, sweetie! I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

Castiel exhaled and nodded as she walked away. But instead of looking back at the menu, his eyes slowly fell to the angel across from him. He flinched at the very direct questions, and something in his throat swelled. He tried to swallow it while he articulated an answer.

“My Grace was taken from me, to be used in a spell. By Metatron. The Scribe.”

He knew it wasn’t much of an explanation.  But he hoped that it was enough, somehow. Hoped that he wouldn’t have to give Jehoel a detailed account of the entire traumatizing experience. Or give him every reason that all his other siblings already had to hate him. His eyes were on the menu, but they weren’t following any of the words.

It was like watching a five-year-old get overwhelmed at the zoo. Jehoel wished he could teach himself to shut up. Maybe not interrogate people who weren’t in any kind of shape to be interrogated. But then, they had a few problems, here, not least of which was that Castiel was damnably sober, and at least that one could be solved. This angel hung out with hunters. He had to be at least marginally familiar with strong liquor.

He opened his mouth to ask another question, and schooled himself to keep it shut instead. Let Castiel take a minute to let his mouth and his brain get into sync. He looked tired. Jehoel – Damon couldn’t even think about what it would be like to lose his grace. To be down here without wings.

He felt bad for Castiel. Who needed food and still didn’t seem to have taken in a word of the very simple menu.

“You can just point,” he said. “Bacon cheeseburger. Easy.” Jehoel clasped his hands on the table in front of him, twiddled his thumbs. He had a lot more questions. That vessel – was it home to one, or two? That was a good question – what happened to a human in a vessel where the grace had been extracted? What –––

Shut up, you.

He took a deep breath, eyes on Castiel. What he really needed to know was how likely they were to have problems with their typically vengeful brothers and sisters, but since his own angel blade was on hand and he sensed no immediate threat, he just waited. The waitress was back with two small glasses and the bottle of bourbon, and bonus, she’d brought water as well. Damon gave her a wink, and poured a couple of generous measures.

“let your brain catch up,” he said, pushing one across the mica-flecked tabletop. “I forget my manners. One of my very few character flaws; other than that, I’m essentially perfect.” He threw the shot back, and put his glass down with a quiet tap.

“So this spell – is it the reason for the recent angelic meteor shower?” Fucking Metatron. Jehoel had never liked him, pompous little fuck. Of all the angels he didn’t miss, that one was high on the list.

“Or maybe the sixty-four thousand dollar question… where are your hunter pals?” He leaned closer, because this could be a sticking point. After years of help (and yeah, Jehoel was low on details but the brush strokes were pretty clear) figures they’d return the favor. “Seems to me like you being alone in a bus station in the middle of the night isn’t a thing that should happen when you’ve already got friends down here.”

Castiel could feel Jehoel’s eyes laser-focused on him as he tried to make sense of the menu. It wasn’t that he couldn’t comprehend the words, it was just that he couldn’t make the connections between words and senses. He didn’t know what a tomato tasted like, or whether or not he – or Jimmy – liked it. When his Grace had been intact, he could recall Jimmy’s memories when he needed to – as well as the entire wealth of information in the known universe. But since his mental capacity had been reduced to that of a mere human, it seemed that his vessel’s former occupant’s memories had been inconveniently discarded.

He jumped when Jehoel called his attention back to the menu. His eyebrow twitched at the suggestion that he just point; it sounded like a joke at best, and an unnecessary risk at worst. Surely he could do better than just guessing. But a growl from his stomach reminded him that he could be here for much longer trying to choose something with so little information. At least he knew he liked burgers.

He put down the menu when the drinks arrived, and this time, the waitress withdrew a pen and small notebook from her apron pocket.

“I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger,” Castiel said when she prompted him for his order. “Please.”

She was devoting most of her attention to Jehoel, but she did flash him a practiced smile and say, “Comin’ right up!” before she spun around and walked away.

Castiel automatically reached for the water, but he paused and let his fingers fall to the offered shot of alcohol instead when Jehoel slid it across the table to him. He watched the angel throw it back, something he had seen Dean do before, and he mirrored the motion. The amber liquid burned on his tongue, and when he swallowed it, it burned all the way down his esophagus and spread into his chest. He coughed, once, and his face scrunched tight for a moment before he could straighten it again.

“What?” he asked, but Jehoel was already moving on to his next question – about the spell. “Yes,” he answered, rather plainly, about its relationship to the ‘meteor shower’ that was actually the fall of every angel in Heaven.

But the next question his brother asked was the one Castiel was least prepared to answer. Because Jehoel wasn’t really asking ‘where are your friends,’ he was asking ‘why aren’t they here.’ And Castiel didn’t have an answer for that. So he stared into the bottom of the now empty shot glass.

“I don’t know.” His voice was low, and it trembled. He could list a hundred reasons why the Winchesters would suddenly decide that he was no longer worthy of their friendship, but he really couldn’t understand what he had done now that was worse than anything they had forgiven him for in the past. “Perhaps… they ran out of chances to give me.”

Jehoel had an extraordinary capacity to make himself a promise to stop doing something, and then carry on doing it only moments later. And Castiel wasn’t getting any less overwhelmed. He looked his actual age, for a second there, and Jehoel was preeeEtty sure that was even older than his own spectacularly aged self, so that was bad.

He watched as Castiel struggled with the menu, ordered, did a shot, all pretty simple things he was absolutely going to have to get used to. Those, and more. Laundry and hygiene and having to walk places or catch buses. Jehoel wouldn’t have swapped places with Castiel for a million dollars, even if he’d had use for a million dollars.

He’d considered falling, of course. More than once, over the years. In the beginning, especially, when his heartbreak was so wretched there were days he couldn’t do anything but curl up, on the floor of some flophouse or in a forest (that was worse; all Jehoel’s memories of trees had been so closely tied up with Shamsiel) and grieve, for days or weeks on end. He tried to blame Heaven for that pain and he fantasized about cutting ties with them forever.

And then, when the pain got less, he thought about his wings, and the sensation of grace, and he couldn’t do it. He was too selfishly in love with the air to settle for the earth.

As he watched Castiel’s face crumple, Jehoel found himself wishing he’d stopped asking questions just a little earlier than he had. He knew very little about the Winchesters. Seemed like good men, if a little heavy-handed; they’d saved a lot of lives, Jehoel had to respect that. But a friend who stopped being a friend during your low point wasn’t much of a friend. He sincerely hoped there was a good reason for the hunters abandoning their friend; meantime, he had more practical things to be concerned about.

He poured them each another drink. Probably should have waited until Castiel had some food in him, to soak up the liquor, but eh, a hangover wouldn’t kill him. He pushed a glass of water towards Castiel and leaned back in the bench seat.

“So the fam will be gunning for you. I know what that’s like.”

He didn’t, really. Back in the beginning, he’d assumed he was universally loathed, but he really didn’t know if there was any truth to that.

“You’ll be safer staying with me than on the streets. I should probably find some protection for you. Wards, something.” There had to be a way to place a warding mark on Castiel’s body. Tattoo, maybe? Practical and badass. It might not go with the… homeless accountant look, but Castiel probably wasn’t the type to wander around in a muscle shirt, so no one would ever know.

The waitress returned suspiciously quickly with the food. Or maybe Jehoel had been more lost in his head than intended. He gave her a panty-dropping smile, and shooed her off.

“I’ve got all the mod cons,” he added. “Like, for instance, a shower. Nice, right?” Jehoel winked. “Coffee machine. Probably even find you something to wear, if you don’t mind sexing up your look with a little black on black.”

Castiel replayed the events of the last several months in his head. Sam’s trials to close Hell, the heated arguments between the Winchesters about the sacrifices involved, his own unpleasant encounters with his family, but most of all, his conversations with the Scribe. He replayed everything Metatron had ever said to him, combing through the words for some clues, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he should have known he was being used.

He had yet to find it when Jehoel interrupted his train of thought by sliding another shot of alcohol and a glass of water into his field of vision. He took the shot without hesitation. He had not had many “human” experiences as an angel, but he remembered being drunk, and he longed for any relief from his ruminating thoughts.

“Yes,” he answered, and words came easier as warmth spread in his belly. “The garrison was not happy with me before I helped Metatron close the gates of Heaven.” His brow pinched, and his eyes rose to the bottle of bourbon. “Now, I would expect any of them to kill me on sight.”

He reached for the bottle to pour himself a shot and raised an eye to Jehoel when he spoke of Castiel staying with him. Could he afford to hope that this long lost brother of his would help him for longer than just a meal?

“Wards,” he repeated, then threw back the third shot. “Like I warded the Winchesters. So angels couldn’t find them. Carved Enochian on their ribs.” He didn’t know why he said that. Except he vaguely remembered that alcohol had a tendency to skew word association – and turn thoughts into speech. He took a drink of water next.

The food came, and the delicious smell of it had barely reached Castiel’s nose before he was biting into the burger voraciously. He barely heard the waitress’s salutation over the pleased grunt he made around the food in his mouth. He had surely never tasted anything so fantastic, and he had struggled to swallow a few more large mouthfuls before he could bring himself to slow down.

Remembering he was supposed to be participating in a conversation with his host, he looked up at Jehoel as he chewed, in time to catch the word “shower.” That didn’t sound quiet as wondrous as food, but close to it. He had never even liked being dirty as an angel, and he found the sensation far less comfortable without the ability to instantly cleanse himself with his Grace.

“A sho–” It was hard to talk with his mouth full, and he swallowed before he attempted to again. “A shower. I need one,” he agreed.

He was already chewing again by the time Jehoel was discussing his wardrobe, and he tilted his head curiously at his brother. Why would he want to “sex up” his attire? Furthermore, why did Jehoel solely possess clothes that would accentuate sexual appeal? His eyes wandered over the Angel’s vessel, at least as far as the table blocked his view, and tried to imagine himself wearing something so… tight.

Finally, he swallowed and formed his question slowly. “What do you do, here on Earth?”

#p: the guided tour of mortality #ricsidiotbestfriend