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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

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A Few Days Off for Christmas, Part Two

In which Killian Jones isn’t as retired as he originally claimed to be, cute kids continue to be cute, and home ownership is pondered against the backdrop of the world’s most competitive air hockey tournament.

Or: Christmas at the Vankald brownstone

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Rating: f l u f f Word Count: 8.8 of all that aforementioned fluff AN: Hey, remember when I wrote a bunch of Christmas-themed Blue Line stores and then only posted one of them? Attempts to remedy that are currently being made, so we’ve got the Christmas after Killian retires and just before Chris is born, with almost too much fluff, peak!Vankald feelings, and Elsa accepting none of Killian’s nonsense. Plus kissing, I am who I am.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll.

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The door was going to fly off its hinges.

One bump became two, evolving into several kicks before it turned into something astoundingly similar to a hip check and—“Oh my God,” Killian groaned, squeezing his eyes shut while also doing his best to melt into the mattress. Didn't work.

He hadn’t really expected it to.

“Your fault,” Emma mumbled, half into the pillow and partially into the mess of hair covering that same pillow. Her hair was everywhere. And she was smiling. Killian didn’t bother double checking

Maybe smiled himself, actually. Despite whatever was happening on the other side of the door. None of the noises resembled an actual knock. Cracking open one eye, the ends of his mouth tilted up slowly and his hand moved before he even thought about it, reaching out to trace the curve of Emma’s stomach.

Another noise.

They were going to have to get out of bed eventually.

Or the kids in the hallway would resort to drastic measures.

“How’d you get to that conclusion, exactly?” Killian asked, twisting until he managed to lift his arm up in some unspoken attempt to get Emma closer to him. Getting out of bed could wait five minutes. Possibly six if they were feeling exceptionally greedy.

It was Christmas Eve, after all.

Something about the holiday, although that would also suggest the opposite of greed and probably something else about peace on Earth and goodwill amongst men, but the door was not going to stand up to much more of this and if Emma kept biting her lower lip like that Killian wasn’t sure he could be held accountable for his actions. Ten minutes more in bed, at least.

“Your kid is checking the door, Cap,” Emma said, voice lacking any frustration, “how could this be anyone else’s fault?”

His heart jumped.

Skipped a beat, and then defied several other biological rules, and none of that should surprise him anymore. Not when they were nearly six months removed from the third Stanley Cup, and the prospect of a full Jones line wasn’t all that intimidating. Even with the limited space in their apartment. They’d figure it out. Had to, really. And all of it was good. Perfect, honestly. Was nice in a way that deserved a far better adjective, because retirement hadn’t really stuck.

Had rather quickly evolved, actually. Into director of player development for the New York Rangers, a job that came with a fancy office and polo shirts that made Emma’s eyes widen ever so slightly, although Killian wasn’t sure if he was supposed to notice that, and Matt came to practice with him.

Regularly.

That was now coming back to haunt Killian.

And the structural integrity of his and Emma’s bedroom door.

“Blame Scarlet,” Killian argued, “he’s ancient, so he’s got nothing better to do during practice than prove his worth to Matt. This is all his technique.” “Ah, well now I kind of feel like a jerk.” “No, no, he does not get your pity. The kid’s leading with his shoulder out there.” “Is that not how it’s supposed to work, then?” Making a noise in the back of his throat only served to hurt the back of Killian’s throat, Emma’s expression some sort of flashing neon sign that he was being effectively teased and—

She gasped.

“Swan?” Far from parenting experts — and closer to apartment-hunting procrastinators than either one of them would like to admit — they had gone through this twice before, so Killian figured there was something to be said for confidence borne of experience, and he wasn’t really nervous at the hitch in Emma’s breath or the overall dexterity of her fingers when she yanked his hand forward.

No noise on that kick, but it was definitely a kick and his heart must have evolved at some point. Beyond human emotion and into the stratosphere of family-based feelings and if Killian didn’t win the air hockey tournament, he was going to be very disappointed.

Matt was yelling in the hallway now.

“Took offense at the technique, I guess,” Emma laughed, “I think he’s trying to show off.” Killian exhaled. That was unexpected. He hadn’t realized he’d decided to hold his breath. Twelve extra minutes in bed, maybe. They were already late, might as well be very late.

The door swung open.

“Dad! Dad! Dad,” Matt yelled, leaping onto the edge of the bed and Emma barely moved her feet in time. Killian wasn’t so lucky.

Groaning when an elbow somehow found its way into his calf, he squeezed his eyes shut again. “What did we talk about with the door, kid?” Killian asked, trying to shift his leg so Matt would realize he needed to move.

No such luck.

All he got was the dramatic sigh of a nine-year-old who appeared close to demanding Christmas-type attention, and Matt’s head hung over the side of the bed as several pillows fell on the floor. “I knocked—kind of.” Emma’s snicker was far too loud.

Killian gaped at her, but that only got him a wider-than-usual smile, and several strands of hair that drifted dangerously close to her eyes when she propped herself up on her elbows. “Nuh uh, don’t look at me like that. It’s Christmas, and that’s my excuse for everything for at least the next seventy-two hours.” “So, the day after Christmas too?” “You heard me.” Killian’s grin threatened the muscles in his cheeks, nosing at the side of Emma’s cheek because he couldn’t get much closer with a kid draped over his stomach. Or while that kid was groaning quite so loud.

“Gross, gross, gross,” Matt chanted, and the distinct lack of footsteps following him should have been their first clue. Killian was willing to blame Christmas for that too.

And Will, just on principle.

“Thanks for the commentary,” Emma grinned, “why were you checking the door?” “I wanted to talk to you guys.” “Did you just?”

“Yuh huh.” Killian’s eyes darted towards Emma’s. Not parenting experts, but at least passably observant and they really should have checked to see where Peggy was. “What about? And for future reference, checking is not the same as knocking. Who’s even teaching you to check like that because if it is actually Scarlet, then—” Matt shook his head. Ducking his gaze, the bedding was suddenly far more interesting than anything Killian could have asked, and Emma shrugged when he glanced up again. “Not Scarlet?” Another head shake. “What’s going on, kid ?” What felt like several hours passed, color rising in Matt’s cheeks — which wasn’t really fair, because watching his own reactions play out on his kid’s face seemed like some form of emotional torture for Killian, who was barely managing to temper his impatience. He rested his hand on Matt’s back.

“At the Piers?” Killian pressed, only to get a noise that was far too familiar as well. Not quite an agreement, but not an argument either and he briefly wondered how the Vankalds ever dealt with him like this. He knew the answer before he asked—“Dylan, huh?” Shrugging couldn’t have been easy for Matt when Emma’s hand joined Killian’s on his back, but he made the effort all the same. It somehow ended with an elbow in Killian’s ribs.

“I’s not a big deal,” Matt muttered. “I just—” “—Wanted to beat down our door?” Killian finished, fully prepared for the scowl he got and Emma’s inability to control the sound of her own reactions might have been one of his favorite things in the world. “He’s not going to be there. They went to visit Eric’s parents this year.”

At some point in the last nine years, it seemed the entire New York Rangers roster had collectively fallen into family mode, a decision that, while not entirely planned, left the lot of them with kids in the same age bracket. And Dylan Havfrue, at just eight months older than Matt, was ready-made for rivalry. Already impossibly tall for a nine-year-old, he was a penalty-minutes record waiting to happen and not nearly as fast as Matt.

It wasn’t that Dylan and Matt didn’t get along. At least when they were off the ice. On the ice, they played the same position on the same team, competing for minutes and stats and, well, at the risk of losing any metaphorical Christmas points, Killian knew Matt was better. Than Dylan.

And just about everyone else at Chelsea Piers.

“Oh,” Matt said, head falling back onto Killian’s chest and for half a moment it felt like years before and they weren’t dealing with some kind of first-ever bully situation.

“You getting checked, kid? Is that what’s going on?”

Matt shrugged again, burrowing closer to Killian like that would somehow make the conversation end. It wouldn’t — but the footsteps finally racing down the hall might, and they’d probably have to reconsider that whole parent of the year thing when it was obvious one of their kids was hopped on pre-Christmas sugar.

Of the stolen variety.

“Do not jump on this bed, Margaret,” Emma warned, but the smile was back and her voice was soft and Peggy barely slowed enough to flop onto the comforter with a soft thump.

Frosting lined the corners of her mouth.

“Why are you guys here?” she asked. “We have to go! We have to go! Aunt Anna said I could—” Pausing to take a deep breath, her shoulders heaved. “I could use her camera this year, and Kris is going to help and—” “—How many cookies, Margaret Jones?” “No cookies!” Scrunching her nose, Emma hummed in disbelief as she leaned forward. To wipe away the frosting. “Next time make sure you get rid of the evidence, huh? How’d you even find the cookies? They’re supposed to be on a shelf.” “Don’t look at me,” Killian balked when Emma stared accusingly at him. “They’re up there. They’ve been up there since last night.” “MD and I got them while you and Dad were asleep,” Peggy explained, as if staging a daring cookie rescue on Christmas Eve was to be expected.

“Mar!” Pushing his hand into Killian’s stomach when he sat up, Matt’s groan echoed around the room .”You weren’t supposed to tell!”

“I was stuck! You ran away and I had to—” “—Wait, what?” Emma interrupted sharply. Neither kid noticed.

Killian resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Fifteen extra minutes in bed. Ten of which should be used to talk about the Dylan thing, and proper checking technique, and then three minutes solely for kissing Emma. They’d use the other two minutes to get the kids out of the room.

Like responsible adults, and successful parents.

“You were taking too long,” Matt said, “and I wanted to talk to Dad and—” “—I had to jump off the counter!” “Alright, alright, alright,” Killian snapped, voice rising on every repeat and both kids sat up straighter. Emma tried to turn her laugh into a noise that didn’t sound like a laugh and it absolutely didn’t work. “No more cookies. No more plans for cookies. No more leaping off the counter, Margaret. Understood?”

“Hockey voice,” Peggy whispered. Or, at least, tried. She glanced meaningfully at Matt, who just widened his eyes in response, lips ticking down and it all felt so painfully familiar and painfully family that any frustration Killian felt disappeared all too quickly.

“Hockey captain voice,” Emma corrected softly, pressing a kiss to Peggy’s temple and grinning at her conspiratorially.

“Swan,” Killian sighed.

She shrugged. “I kind of want a cookie now.” “We know where they are,” Peggy said, rushing over the words like they weren’t an admission and they hadn’t just been talking about the great Christmas Eve cookie theft. “Yeah, I picked up on that. C’mon, lead me to the cookies, Peg, and then we should pack.” “I packed!” “I’ve heard that before. Last year, we got downtown with three t-shirts and no pants. We’re not doing that again, so—let’s go, feet on the floor.”

Peggy grumbled, but she didn’t argue and Killian tried not to smile too widely. At the scene in front of him, or the memory of last Christmas — two shirts with his number on them and another with a Team USA logo on the front, and Locksley emblazoned across the back. It had made Roland blush.

“We’ll save you guys some cookies,” Emma promised, following Peggy out the door and Killian waited until he heard the squeak of glass sliding across the counter before he looked at Matt. Who hadn’t so much as blinked yet.

“You want to talk now?” Killian asked, Matt making an eerily similar noise to the one he’d let out a few minutes earlier. “How come you didn’t say anything about Dylan?” “Wasn’t really a big deal.” “Sure, sure, you’re not supposed to check much at the Piers.” “I’m not the one checking.” “Yeah,” Killian said, tugging on the front of Matt’s shirt. More team-branded merch. That might have been all Matt owned. “He been doing it for long? “Since the start of the season.” “You tell Hopper?” Matt shook his head. “How come you didn’t tell us before, kid? And how come you’re pushing your sister on kitchen counters to steal cookies that we’re supposed to bring downtown?” “I didn’t push Mar on the counter. She got up there on her own. And it was her idea.” Killian narrowed his eyes, filing that particular bit of information away for a day when they weren’t, once again, behind schedule or coping with on-ice issues of a nine-year-old rec league.

Matt played in more than one league.

“Not an answer.” “I know,” Matt sighed. “I just...it’s stupid. He’s stupid.” “It’s not stupid if he’s breaking the rules,” Killian countered, and Ariel was going to be upset. Disappointed, too. Which, as everyone knew, was fundamentally worse. “He can’t check you. You guys are way too young for that.” “You tell all the guys at practice that they don’t need to back down from hits!” Taking a deep breath was impossible when his lungs were busy disintegrating in his chest, but Killian figured it also might have had something to do with the kid still sitting on his legs and Matt didn’t object when he hooked his chin over his shoulder. “They’re getting paid to get hit. Not quite there yet, Mattie.”. “He’s really good at checking,” Matt grumbled. “Better than me. Even Uncle Will thinks so.” “Uncle Will’s opinion on this isn’t important. And he shouldn’t be teaching you how to check either. You’ll end up in the box and then you can’t score goals.” “I guess.” “Them’s the facts, kids.” Matt considered that, body shifting with the force of his sigh and distinct inability to argue. Forty-seven thousand parental points, at least. Killian grinned at him. “You tell us stuff from now on, ok? No matter how stupid you think it is. That’s the gig, for me and Mom.” “And you didn’t really check guys.” “Because I wanted to score goals. Not sit in the box for two minutes.” “Scoring goals is cool.” Killian nodded, trying to regain feeling in his legs. “You know, maybe we could go somewhere that isn’t the Piers sometime and you could take some shots. No checking, just —practice.” “Practice?” “On our own.” “With you?” His stomach joined the fray, that time. Flipping and flying directly into the middle of his throat, which didn’t do much to help his breathing. Worth it. For the look on Matt’s face, which was somewhere in the realm of of overjoyed and that was appropriate on Christmas Eve and—

“When? Could we go during the break? Today? While Rol and Henry are home? You think Uncle Liam will skate? Did they bring skates? I told Lizzie she should bring skates.”

Plans spilled out of Matt, hardly any defined syllables, more half-shouted demands and Killian felt the smile spread across his face quickly and easily and immediately. And if he’d never really considered a family in some kind of chaotic, cookie-stealing, perfect way, then he’d definitely never considered a son who wanted to practice his forehand at every available opportunity.

“Relax,” Killian laughed, a flash of dark hair in the hall as it dashed towards another room and a suitcase that likely had four shirts in it.

“What about the day after tomorrow?”

Matt nearly trampled Killian in his effort to jump off the bed, a cry that almost sounded like yeah several times over, and he barely stopped before he collided with Emma. And the three cookies in her hand.

“What did you do, Swan?”

“With the cookies or—” Wrapping her arm around Matt, she pulled him against her side and he was far too busy announcing roster spots to express any sense of displeasure. The cookie she gave him likely helped too. “Rubes and I might have planned...something.” “As in?” “As in rented out that rink uptown for the day after Christmas because there’s a million and two people coming to the brownstone this year, and we’re going to need something to do after we try to kill each other in air hockey.” “This is a very violent family, we’re always threatening to kill each other.” “Or check,” Matt muttered.

Emma kissed the top of his head.That got a reaction. “It’s also kind of nice. At least the air hockey. And Uncle Liam will totally have skates, so you can wreck him during faceoffs, Mattie.” Whatever noise he made at that wasn’t so much a human sound, as it was something that made Killian’s ears ring. Which he planned to use as an excuse. For walking forward, crowding into Emma’s space and kissing her.

In a crashing, not-quite violent, but decidedly emotional sort of way.

She pushed up on her toes.

“I love you.” “Weird,” Emma said, but she also hadn’t moved her mouth away from his and that helped lessen any sense of insult.

Killian hummed, bending his neck again with every intention to keep making out in the middle of the bedroom, and it wasn't how he initially planned to use his extra minutes, since it did involve far too much standing, but there was also kissing and he hadn’t noticed Matt leave. Only that Peggy was back. In surround sound. “We have to go! There are presents at V’s. Presents! And you guys not being gross.”

Clicking her tongue, Emma managed to stay pressed against Killian, even as she zipped up the backpack hanging off Peggy’s shoulder. “Take at least three jerseys out of your bag, Matthew David,” she added on a shout.

Killian kissed her forehead.

“But, I—” Matt objected, twisted around his doorframe. Emma widened her eyes. Killian assumed. He didn’t look. He was too busy narrowing his eyes. “Fine, fine, but Mar’s got to bring some socks.”

“Hat might not be a bad idea, either,” Killian added. “What about shirts for under the jerseys?” Silence. Of the resounding variety.

“Figures,” Emma scoffed, ushering Peggy back and they were only half an hour behind schedule by the time the lock clicked behind them. Better than usual, really.

The hat, despite assurances that it’s in my bag, I promise never made it to the brownstone — forgotten in the desperation to get downtown for presents and eggnog and the force that had become Mr. and Mrs. Vankald grandparents.

Adopting Roland and Henry into the fold was as natural as anything, the Locksley family welcomed with open arms after that initial Christmas spent on the living room floor. Especially once Regina started baking. And Leo Nolan was in the midst of a Christmas obsession to rival any kid on the planet, certain Santa preferred the cookies left in front of Vankald fireplace above any other offerings.

Liam and Elsa’s twins, far removed from their own obsessions over cookies for Santa, had stepped into key air hockey roles — refereeing and commentating — while Lizzie Vankald-Jones developed a trash-talking talent that left all of them just a bit stunned.

There were, always, enough baked goods to feed several small countries and enough Chinese food to feed a large army, and enough laughter that it echoed in Killian’s head long after they went back uptown. There weren’t enough rooms for them.

The kids all camped out in the living room.

And the front door swung open before Killian could adjust the bags in his hands.

“Why are you lurking by the door, Banana?” “Waiting for my money.” “Excuse me?” “My money,” she repeated, while failing to elaborate any more and this bit they seemed to do every year had gotten old half a dozen Christmases ago.

“They bet on when we’d get here,” Emma explained. Killian tugged Peggy towards his side so he didn’t do something he’d regret. Matt was trying to work into the brownstone already, mumbling about cookies. “How much, Anna?”

“Fifty bucks, super serious business.” “Sounds it.” Anna shrugged, leaning against the open door frame like it wasn’t December and starting to snow and the telltale smell of cinnamon wafted out onto the block. “Bah humbug, also you guys have never been on time for anything ever. I’m playing to tradition. But I should thank you, because all this was Scarlet’s idea, and he vastly underestimated you.”

“How so?” Emma asked, ignoring Killian’s huff of frustration.

Peggy giggled.

“Thought you’d be late, but only by like twenty minutes and—” “Hey, Banana,” Killian interrupted, and Anna’s eyebrows flew up her forehead when she heard the tone of his voice. She stood up a bit straighter. “In case you also hadn’t noticed, we’ve got some kids out here and Emma’s pregnant, so, uh if you could get out of the way, that’d be fantastic.” Crossing her arms with a huff, it almost looked like Anna was about to stomp her foot as well, and Emma rested her hand on Killian’s chest before he could start arguing. “Did Gina and Reese’s start baking yet? Because I think Killian could use some pie.” “Yeah, I think so,” Anna agreed, making a face at Killian and he hadn’t let go of Peggy yet. She grinned at the kids in front of her, holding out her hands expectantly and tugging them both inside. “You guys want some hot chocolate?” Bags were immediately dropped, forgotten on the steps, as soon as the words were out of Anna’s mouth, leaving Emma and Killian alone with her hand still flat against his jacket. “Maybe you should start checking something,” she suggested.

Killian sighed, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold onto any tension. He kissed the top of Emma’s head instead. Mrs. Vankald probably had extra hats. “Seasonally inappropriate.” “Proves my point, i think.” “Fifty bucks.” “Just means we’re the hottest ticket in town.” He widened his eyes at her, and almost-three kids later the smirk didn’t really accomplish anything except getting Emma to groan, but it had been a strange day and he probably should have expected her to kiss him in response. “Center ice,” Killian said, grinning against her mouth.

“Not even clever.” “It’s a work in progress.” “Guess that means I’ll have to stick around. See how it all plays out.” “You think you’re very funny.” Shaking her head, Emma pulled away before they could start making out in a different location, which was probably for the best, but also a little disappointing and he didn’t realize the door was still open.

“Hook,” Roland said, a note to his voice that made it clear it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get their attention.

“God, don’t sneak up on us like that. How—Swan, stop that.” She didn’t. Hair brushed his cheek when she kept laughing, body shaking against Killian’s side and the flush of embarrassment on Roland’s face shouldn’t have felt like a victory. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know that Ruby won her bet.” “Jeez.” “What was that one, Rol?” Emma asked, twisting towards the teenager. “Also, can you take, at least, four of these bags before Killian has some kind of complete breakdown on the steps?” Roland chuckled, leaning forward to grab five bags in one hand. “Ruby bet David what you guys were doing on the steps and why Matt and Pegs ended up running into the kitchen without any parental supervision in sight. Their words, not mine.” “Jeez,” Killian repeated. “Where’s your dad and why isn’t he telling everyone to grow up?”

“He’s kind of busy.”

Nodding towards the foyer, Killian directed them inside as voices from several rooms made their way into the space and down the stairs that were, as always, covered in ivy and lights and the photos on the wall were different now. The draft night photo was still there, but there other ones too – Stanley Cup finals and second weddings and Roland in a red, white and blue uniform and, right in the middle, that very first Christmas when they’d all fallen asleep in the living room.

That one hung in the apartment uptown too.

“Was I right, Rol?” Ruby asked, walking into the foyer sporting a sweater that wasn’t just ugly, was somehow bordering on atrocious and covered in hockey pucks.

“What are you wearing?” Emma countered.

Ruby brushed her off, staring expectantly at Roland who shook his head. “I’m still on the kid side. I want no part of this.”

“Was the door still open?” “Ruby.”

She grinned — that slow, slightly intimidating look that had terrorized reporters for the better part of the last decade — and jumped towards Roland, slinging her arms around him and pressing a kiss against his cheek. “You’re a God-awful spy,” she said. “David and I should have taken your loyalty into account.” “Where is David?” Emma asked, glancing towards the living room. “Or Robin and Will, for that matter? Or Henry. He’s supposed to show me what he’s writing.” Rolling her eyes, Ruby leaned back against Roland’s side and he was still holding the bags. “You can put those down, mate,” Killian muttered, grinning when he dropped several tons of presents on the floor.

“Oh, that’s why we had Rol out for surveillance,” Ruby answered. “All of those adults are sitting at the kitchen table with several different poster boards and, at least, one full cake, trying to bracket out this year’s air hockey competition.” Emma laughed immediately, but Killian wasn’t sure if it was because of the absurdity of the news or because of how he’d reacted to it. Gaping at Ruby, his eyes widened when he looked towards Roland for confirmation. Who shrugged.

That’s probably where Matt got it from.

“What the hell, Lucas?” Killian yelled. “They’re supposed to wait until we’re all here. There are rules!”

“This is not my fault,” Ruby argued, backing away from Killian like he’d lost his mind. Emma’s lips had all but disappeared behind her teeth. “This is your crazy, insanely competitive tradition. If you want to have a seat at the literal table, you guys should get here on time. And stop making out on the steps. But I will tell you that Liam has tried to get himself higher up the bracket at least six times. Robin’s the only voice of reason. You owe him, Cap.” “I’m obviously the top seed, I won last year, that’s how it works. That’s science.” “Is there science involved?” Emma asked, Roland dropping onto the bottom step with one arm wrapped around his waist while he threw his head back. Laughing. Loud enough to draw an audience. Matt slid across the wood floor — shoes forgotten somewhere between the foyer and the kitchen and back again — and Killian ducked down out of instinct, grabbing him around the waist and tugging him back up

“Dad,” he yelled, tugging on Killian’s t-shirt like that would get him to move. “Dad, you’ve got to come to the kitchen. Uncle Liam and Uncle Will are trying to form….”

“Alliances,” David finished, slinging his arm around Emma’s shoulders as soon as he stepped into the foyer. He kissed the top of her hair, looking almost repentant.

Killian wondered how many alliances he’d made so far.

“Right, right, alliances,” Matt continued, “you have to come. You’re the top seed. You won last year and you have to be up top. We’ve got to go now, Dad!”

Matt twisted, a mix of energy and excitement and Christmas coming to a boiling point that demanded acknowledgement. He got it from Roland. As per usual. “C’mon, Matt. Let’s go challenge Henry to...something.” Lifting his suddenly-empty hands, Killian wasn’t sure what to say to any of that, only aware of how abrasive Ruby’s cackle was. “At the risk of repeating myself, Cap, this is your weird, competitive thing. Although Liam really is trying to cheat, so you know, go in there and be morally upstanding, or whatever.”

“Isn’t that David’s schtick? Maybe El.” David clicked his tongue. “I’m not sure if I should be offended by that, or not.” “Nah, that was totally a compliment. Although you were making bets.”

“Oh, what the hell Ruby?” David groaned. “You weren’t supposed to ask them! Rol was supposed to look.” “Yeah, well, we forgot that Roland Locksley thinks Killian is some kind of hero. He wasn’t going to rat no matter what he saw.” “For the record,” David said, “I said you guys weren’t making out on the front steps with the door wide open, so, you know, take that into account. Although Elsa is probably the most moral.” “Not Reese’s?” Emma asked. She took a step back to Killian, sliding underneath his arm like there was a magnet in his side. “I mean, if we’re going to stage moral high ground competition, she’s got to be near the top.” “Is this conversation weird?” Ruby asked, sitting on one of the bags in the middle of the floor despite protests from Emma and Killian. “This conversation seems weird. Especially when Cap’s going to get screwed out of his top seed and anything Mary Margaret bakes is going to get devoured by the ridiculous number of kids in this house.”

As if on cue, a crash echoed from the general vicinity of the dining room and Mrs. Vankald shouted from the second floor, voice carrying as well as it had thirty years before. She leaned over the edge of the bannister, eyes falling on Killian’s immediately and he waved — like he was ten years old and just coming back from practice.

“Tell Liam he can’t cheat this year,” she shouted.

“I think you’re picking favorites, Mrs. V.” “I bought three things of creamer this year and Liam’s determination to circumvent the bracket rules means they’ve already been through one. I’m picking the Jones brother who isn’t going to ransack my refrigerator and well-organized food options.”

Killian scoffed, but Mrs. Vankald just tilted her head, staring at him with a fondness that, maybe, left him blushing in the middle of the foyer in front of pictures of his entire family. “We bought a new container of cinnamon for you, Emma,” she added. “If Liam’s even looked at that, I give you full permission to kick him out of the tournament.” “Wow,” Emma breathed. Ruby made a face, mouth tilted down as if kicking Liam out of an air hockey tournament was the worst insult a person could level against another human being. “I’ve never really felt this powerful.” “I trust you. You’ll use your power for good.”

“Maybe Mrs. V is the most moral,” Ruby suggested, but Killian shook his head quickly.

“Nuh uh,” he objected. “She’s pulling all the strings up there. Who do you think demanded the referee last year?”

“Go claim your number one seed, Killian,” Mrs. Vankald said. She paused for a moment, pressing her lips together tightly and the air in the foyer seemed to shift noticeably, something important about to happen or, maybe, already happening and Emma shuffled closer. “And...uh, come talk to me before dinner.” “A little foreboding, I’ll be honest.”

“Fill out the bracket first.”

Saluting was another child-esque response, but Killian was almost positive he was getting shorter the longer he stood there and something crashed in the kitchen. Mrs. Vanaklad rolled her eyes.

The crash, it turned out, was a makeshift hockey puck smacking into the baseboard of the dining room, leaving a sizable dent in its wake as the twins argued with Henry over what constituted as the blue line when there was a table and a dozen chairs in the way.

And Killian wasn’t sure which took longer – figuring out those rules or keeping Peggy from climbing on top of the dining room table in an attempt to keep the game organized or attempting to figure out an air hockey bracket.

It was definitely the bracket.

“You can’t do this again, Liam,” Will sighed, perched on the edge of the counter. “I’m actually going to go insane if you do this again.” Liam muttered a string of curses under his breath and Killian’s head fell forward, colliding with Emma’s back. She was balanced on his leg, his arm around her waist and her fingers trailing over his hand, tracing over scars and up towards his wedding ring. It was almost enough to make him relax. Until Liam started complaining about seeding again and the whole process had to start over.

“Why don’t we keep better records?” Robin asked, not for the first time. They were clearly stuck in a time warp. Of Christmas competition and a dwindling coffee creamer supply. “Can’t El do that? Isn’t that, like, her job?” “Do you know what a state senator does, Locksley?” Elsa asked. She’d collapsed onto Liam’s chair when he started pacing two brackets ago, resting her chin on the top of her pulled-up legs.

“I’m assuming your tone that I don’t.”

“Ding ding ding.” “The problem,” Liam started, and Killian didn’t even try to mask his groan. He knew where this was going. The same place it had been going for the last two hours. Absolutely nowhere. “Is that we…” “Have an uneven bracket,” the kitchen finished, and Liam paced louder. Somehow.

“We just have to figure out who’s going to play-in.” “Liam if you say that one more time, I’m going to strangle you with tinsel,” Killian threatened.

“That is oddly specific.” “Christmas spirit.” “That’s another Scrooge reference,” Emma shouted, twisting to knock her knuckles against his shoulder and Killian bit his lip tightly so he didn’t actually make any noise. They shouldn’t have kept flirting in the kitchen. While Liam freaked out about traditions and tinsel. “How come we didn’t bet on how many times you’d make Scrooge references?” “Because we’re adults, Swan,” Killian answered.

Elsa scoffed.

“Ok, if I offer myself up for a play-in game, would that help?” Robin asked, dragging the poster across the table and writing in his name before Liam could object.

“Locksley’s going all dad mode,” Will muttered. “Put Mary Margaret in there too. She said she’d play-in to help because she’s a better person than all of us.” The kitchen hummed in agreement, and Robin finished half the bracket by the time Liam stopped pacing. Forty-five minutes, and only three more arguments later, the entire thing was full of mismatched handwriting in several different Sharpie colors.

Liam taped it to the basement door.

“You know,” Emma drawled, somehow still sitting on Killian’s leg, “I’m coming for your title.”

“That so? Care to place a wager on that?”

“I thought we were going to be grown up.” “I mean, no one has to know except us. Save face when you lose that way.” “Just diving right into the trash talk, huh?” “You’re the one who started it, love. The real question is…” “Oh my God,” she groaned, but her eyes were bright and he’d probably think about her smile for a questionable amount of time. “If you say, whether or not you’ll finish it, I’m going to punch you in the face.” Laughter flew out of him, any sense of competition forgotten in the rather desperate desire to make out with his wife again. “Maybe you should be teaching checking techniques.” Emma sneered, nails digging into Killian’s shoulder as she tried to stay balanced. On top of him. “Give me some credit, love. I’m not going to let you fall.”

Cliches and vaguely romantic double entendres were acceptable on Christmas Eve. Especially if it guaranteed that particular angle, Emma’s head tilted up and her teeth digging into her lower lip, and he couldn’t think when she did that.

So.

Kissing it was. Anything else was overrated.

Although it did make it difficult to hear the pointed cough from the other side of the kitchen.

Mr. Vankald rocked back on his heels when Killian finally looked up, amusement coloring his gaze even as the blush on Emma’s cheeks emitted a very specific kind of heat. “Super grown up,” she mumbled.

“Be glad it wasn’t your brother,” Mr. Vankald reasoned. “Probably steal your number one seed.” “He hung the bracket up,” Killian argued. “That’s Christmas doctrine now. No more changes or the entire house will rise up in revolt.”

“Might keep things interesting.” “There’s a giant dent in the dining room wall and you’re still looking for interesting?” “Depends on how the next few minutes go. C’mon.”

He walked away before either Killian or Emma could answer, leaving them sitting on one chair with matching looks of confusion on their face. “So, uh, we’re supposed to follow him, I guess?” Emma asked.

Killian shook his head. “This has been the weirdest day.” “God bless us, every one.” “Something like that, for sure. Let’s go before someone else comes in.”

Mr. Vankald hadn’t waited for them – retreating to the dining room and the, now, multiple dents on the baseboards. Killian barely noticed them. He was more interested in the stack of papers sitting on the edge of the table, just a few inches away from the pile of plates and the almost questionable number of forks.

And whatever it was Mrs. Vankald was doing with her face.

Like she was half a moment away from a waterfall of tears. If that was possible. It really had been a weird Christmas Eve.

“What’s going on?” Killian asked cautiously, hooking his foot around one of the empty chairs and nudging Emma towards it.

“Overprotective weirdo,” she mumbled. He grinned at her.

“Mrs. V,” Killian continued, trying very hard not to tug on the back of his hair or grip Emma’s shoulder too tightly. “You want to expand on the mandate from before?”

She tilted her head in response, eyebrows lifted slightly and he wasn’t quite prepared for the force of her smile.

Like he was seventeen and deciding to go to Minnesota. He told them he was going in the dining room. Or like he was seventeen and they’d found out he and Anna had snuck uptown on the one the weekend before.

“Sit,” Mr. Vankald instructed, pointing at another chair next to Emma and they must have rented chairs. There were too many people in this family. “We’ve got approximately five minutes before Roland announces he’s hungry again.” “Is that the reason for the cloak and dagger?” “There’s neither cloak nor dagger,” Mrs. Vankald chastised, smile shaking ever so slightly when the tears finally fell to her cheeks. “Suggests this is bad.” “I feel like I’m about to get grounded.”

“Did you get grounded a lot?” Emma asked, glancing over her shoulder and it absolutely would have been wrong to kiss her again. Although maybe Mrs. Vankald would stop crying then.

Killian shook his head, smirk settling into place with practiced ease, and Emma rolled her eyes. She grabbed his hand. He’d appreciate that eventually.

“Not grounded,” Mr. Vankald said suddenly and Killian snapped his head up. “We’re giving you the house.” Jaw dropping and shoulders sagging, Killian hadn’t really been holding his breath then either, but it had been a very weird day and his lungs were no longer functioning. Emma’s head moved on a swivel, eyes like saucers as she squeezed his fingers. His knuckles cracked.

“Wait, what?”

“The house,” Mr. Vankald repeated, grinning and waving his hand through the air.

“I don’t understand.” “What isn’t there to understand?” “Any of it?” Leaning forward, Mrs. Vankald pushed the pile of papers towards Killian’s free hand and he couldn’t actually make out the words on the page. His vision had gone glossy.

And maybe he squeezed Emma’s hand that time.

“But….” Emma started, licking her lips. “Why...we have an apartment.” Neither one of the Vankalds looked impressed. “And how many rooms does that apartment have?” Mr. Vankald challenged. “Also, we’re leaving.” Killian was glad he was sitting because his legs felt like he’d just skated sprints for the last several days. “What?”

“Leaving. In a couple of months.” “I am….wait,” Killian sputtered, blinking again and staring at the doorway like a camera crew was going to appear and announce that this was all some practical joke. Or Liam was doing it to get in his head before air hockey. That would have made more sense. “You’re moving? From New York?” “Oh, no, no,” Mrs. Vankald said, “we couldn’t...not when you are…” “Super grandparents,” Emma finished, and Mrs. Vankald beamed.

“Ok,” Killian said, trying to process everything that had happened since they’d walked into the brownstone. Maybe the kids would let him play hockey after dinner. He wanted to shoot at something. “So, let me get this straight. You’re moving out of the brownstone, but staying in New York and you’ve already decided this is all just going to be ours?” Mr. Vankald nodded, humming in the back of his throat. “See. Wasn't confusing, was it?” “You’re making jokes.” “Killian,” Emma whispered, staring at the papers in her hand. “It’s already done. This is...I mean I’m not a lawyer or a real estate agent or anything, but this is notarized.” She looked up at the Vankalds, eyes as glossy as his and Killian wished, not for the first time, that they could have these major life conversations on ice. He’d be able to keep his balance better that way. “When?”

“When did we decide?” Emma nodded. “As soon as you brought Matthew home,” Mr. Vankald admitted. Killian wasn’t breathing. “And then when you told us you were expecting Christopher and Killian had retired, and it made sense. This is...we want you to have this.”

Mr. Vankald’s smile softened — like gifting the house Killian had grown up in wasn’t some kind of overwhelming type of decision. And on C hristmas Eve, no less. Killian tried to swallow down the bundle of nerves and emotion in the back of his throat, leaning towards Emma before he realized he’d shifted in his chair. She kept moving her fingers, alternating between squeezing his hand and swiping her thumb across the back of his palm, and her eyes hadn’t moved away from the deed sitting in front of them.

“You’re sure?” Killian asked, voice scratchy and maybe he wasn’t seventeen and going to Minnesota. Maybe he was eight years old and terrified that the Vankalds were going to kick him out of the house.

Neither one of them answered immediately, but then the floorboards creaked and Mrs. Vankald was next to him, one hand on his cheek and the other on his chest and she stared at him like he was hers in some kind of overwhelmingly emotional way. “There should be kids here and chaos and horsemen,” she whispered. “There should be yelling all the time and even more holes in the wall and maybe Mattie can learn how to properly check someone."

"See, scathing."

Mrs. Vankald scrunched her nose. "You should have that. Both of you. This is your home.”

Emma sniffled, lip between her teeth and head resting on Killian’s shoulder. “The Jones Line,” she muttered. “That’s what we’ve been calling it. You know with three of them.” “That’s perfect.”

They put another hole in the dining room wall that night — Leo tripping over a hockey stick that somehow ended up propped against the table, and there had been crying and questions about concussions and no one knew how to administer medical assistance when Ariel wasn’t there. Which didn’t make much sense because she wasn’t actually a doctor.

In the end, Leo opted to eat another egg roll.

And then scored a goal when the quasi-hockey game resumed. Spread across several rooms and inching dangerously close to the Christmas tree, the game had taken on a life of its own, and Matt and Lizzie eventually had to be separated when they started arguing over the location of the penalty box.

Mrs. Vankald handed out t-shirts when the game was called a draw, silencing the cries of half a dozen kids as soon as they were gifted brand-new team merch with their names on the back. Matt and Peggy each had a ‘C’ on their shoulder.

“They tell you?” Elsa asked, knocking her hip against Killian’s where he was leaning against the wall. He nearly jumped a foot in the air. “Jeez, KJ, relax. This isn’t an interview.” “I am retired. I don’t do interviews anymore,.”

“Please. You’re as retired as….something that makes sense.” “Coming up a little short of cliches, huh?” “I wasn’t looking for a cliche, just an example. Whatever, you’re deflecting. Did they tell you yet? Mom and Dad?” “How did you know?” “KJ.” Killian groaned, glancing back towards Emma. She was sitting on the corner of the couch, Matt in front of her and already tugging on his t-shirt, with Peggy’s head in her lap, eyelids fluttering and feet tucked underneath her. “Yeah,” he said, not sure why it felt like admitting to something. “Called us into the dining room like they wanted to discuss the end of the world and then just…” “Gave you the house.” “Yeah.” “Good.” He hadn’t been expecting that — and that might have been why he couldn't quite shake the nerves or the twist in his gut and why his eyes kept darting towards Emma and their kids, like he was trying to make sure this wasn’t some ridiculous dream he’d come up with a decade before.

“Good?” Killian asked, and Elsa nodded.

“Do you not think it is?” “Look who’s deflecting now.”

“No, I’m confused. You guys have to move again anyway. Might as well move here. Put some more holes in the wall.” “That is exactly what Mrs. V said.” “God,” Elsa sighed. “Don’t tell me that. It makes me feel old.” Killian grinned, slinging his arm over her shoulders and Emma met his gaze across the living room — probably wondering why he kept staring at her like a lunatic. “Oh,” Elsa sighed, rapping her knuckles across the front of his shirt. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” “Merry Christmas.” “Does Emma know she’s married to a total idiot?” “Probably, at this point.”

Elsa scoffed and the knuckles had taken a decidedly more aggressive approach. “I’m serious, KJ. How come you don’t think you should have the house?” “Get out of my head, witch.” “First of all, that’s rude. Second of all, you’ve been brooding and un-Christmas’y all night. Liam asked me what was wrong with you. He thought it had something to do with the bracket.” “He needs to stop with the bracket stuff,” Killian said, but Elsa narrowed her eyes and it felt exactly like being disciplined by Mrs. Vankald. He didn’t mention that.

“Third of all,” she continued, “It’s not like we’d take it. All things considered.” “What are the things we’re considering?” Gritting her teeth, Elsa sighed with all the drama of someone who’d been keeping something secret for several months. “You have to promise not to react because I haven’t told Mom and Dad yet.” “Ok.” “The national seat is up for reelection next year.”

Killian waited for the rest of it, the explanation that would, eventually, hit and when it, finally, did, he felt like he’d been checked over the boards. “Oh, shit,” he yelled, drawing the attention of the entire living room and several reproachful clicked tongues. Emma’s laugh still didn’t sound much like a cough. “Elsa Vankald-Jones takes on the world.” “At least Washington D.C.” “To start.” “You can’t vote, so your support doesn’t count, but I appreciate it,” Elsa smiled. “And this is yours, KJ. Has been forever. This city and this house and you should be here. Your kids should be here. Stop thinking otherwise.” Killian hummed, resting his chin on top of Elsa’s head until she cursed. Not in English She also didn’t move. And maybe that look Mrs. Vankald had given him before — that promise that this whole roster of a family that didn’t share a last name or much more than a ridiculous desire to make each other happy — was real.

God bless us, every one.

Or something.

The kids fell asleep wearing matching t-shirts with the Christmas tree still on, and it only took a few minutes and several glasses of spiked eggnog to get the presents downstairs.

And Emma was already in bed when he got to his room, pillows kicked on the floor.

“Are the stockings all hung?”

“At least laid by the chimney with a relative amount of care.” Her eyebrows moved, lips twitching slightly and Killian tried to keep his hand out of his hair. It didn’t work. Appeared to be a trend that day. “You know, it’d be easier to get to the Piers from here,” she said. “More space. You really could teach Mattie how to check.” “I thought we weren’t encouraging the checking.” “Ah, yeah, but then he totally dominated whatever game they were playing and maybe he should have several thousand square feet to fine-tune that. Plus, you know, Ruby mentioned something.” Killian dropped onto the edge of the bed — knocking off a few more pillows in the process – and Emma scrunched her nose. “Between you, El and the Vankalds, I feel like I’m on the wrong end of all the secrets.” “More like late-breaking news.” “Enlighten me.” “Ariel texted Ruby about whatever Dylan is doing with Mattie and she’s super upset and she thinks you’re going to be pissed after the break because she’s not monitoring her nine-year-old enforcer on skates.”

“I’m not pissed,” Killian promised, ignoring Emma’s immediate scoff. “I’m not, Swan. I just…” “Killian Jones, defender of his kids.” “Exactly that.” “Ruby was mad enough for everyone involved anyway, even Mattie, and I think he was just upset that he couldn’t score twenty times a game when he was worried about getting hit.” “At this point I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he did score twenty goals a game,” Killian muttered. Maybe he’d had more than one glass of spiked eggnog.

“It’s because he’s trying to be you.”

Twisting wasn’t easy when he was laying on his back — or when Emma’s fingers were in his hair, but he was nothing if not stubborn and there was another joke about magnets to be made. When his hand rested on her stomach again.

Emma smiled at him.

“Don’t talk to me about whatever sentiment that entails. I’m super pregnant and it’s Christmas and we’ve been given several thousand square feet of house.” “Super pregnant, huh?” Emma waved her hand, pointing at her stomach and Killian flipped over – head somehow finding its way onto he legs. She didn’t stop moving her fingers through his hair. “At least now we know where Peggy gets it,” she added softly, tapping her thumb on his temple.

“Are you suggesting she’s inherited an innate desire to have her hair played with?” “Are you?” “Possibly,” Killian admitted, reaching up to tug Emma’s hand back down. He wrapped his fingers around hers, glancing up to make sure she was still smiling before pressing a kiss underneath her wedding ring. “What do you think, Swan?” “About?” “Several thousand feet of check’able living space.” “Overwhelmed, a little,” she admitted, “but not in the way you’re thinking.” “How am I thinking of it, exactly?” “You know Scarlet asked if, and I’m quoting here, Cap is doing that thing with his face because he’s mad about having to face Mary Margaret in the first round of the tournament.” “Jeez,” Killian groaned, hand moving towards her stomach out of instinct. He was met, immediately, with a kick. “Hey, kid,” he mumbled, smiling despite the nerves and the worry and there was a lot of square footage. Room for a whole Jones Line.

“He’s been doing somersaults all night.” “You think that’s a sign?” “About being able to do somersaults in all the space of a downtown brownstone?” Emma laughed, and Killian’s eyes darted back up towards hers. There were tear tracks on her cheeks, but she didn’t look as worried about the ridiculous amount of family gifting they’d been on the receiving end that afternoon. “Kind of,” she said. “And you already said we.” “That’s true. You didn’t answer my question though.” “I’m not worried about some Vankald family overload or even what happens next Christmas when we inevitably have to order the Chinese food. I am…”

She trailed off and the sigh was more of an exhale, eyes falling on the pile of pillows and the edge of the bed and it felt symmetrical to be back in that room — where it had started and sustained a desperate middle and watched Emma Swan tell Killian Jones she loved him for the very first time on Christmas Eve.

“You are…” Killian prompted, grinning when Emma glared.

“It’s not something I ever thought I could have,” she said quickly, stumbling over the words and refusing to meet his gaze and it was like he’d been pulled into the mattress or maybe through the floor and Killian sat up before his mind had processed the idea of moving. “A house and a hockey line and you...trying to make out all over the place.” Killian barked out a laugh, leaning forward and kissing her — again. His lips slanted over hers, one hand pressed into her hair as he tried to tug her towards him or touch every single inch of her and he could live for the rest of time without ever quite getting over how much he loved Emma Swan right back.

On Christmas Eve, or any other day.

“That’s because I;m super attracted to you,” Killian said, and it was the most honest string of words he’d come up with all day. “It’s a struggle not to make out with you all the time.” “Mattie would never forgive us.” “He’d cope.” “I love you a ridiculous amount you giant, vaguely attractive weirdo.” “Vaguely attractive? You wound me, Swan.” “Ah, well, I will admit that becoming a homeowner adds to your overall attractiveness.”

Kissing her again was the only reasonable response — brushing his lips across her face and down her neck and over her shoulder and she probably would have actually punched him if he tried to kiss her stomach, but he was on some other level of overjoyed and Killian was willing to live on the edge, as it were.

“El told me I deserve this,” Killian muttered, pressing the words against Emma’s t-shirt. “But at the risk of being a sentimental asshole, I think you do too, love.” “Team Jones,” Emma whispered, tugging on the collar of his t-shirt so he moved back up, falling asleep wrapped up together.

Until several kids tried to check the door the next morning.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #a few days off for chirstmas #blue line one shots #just fyi guys: the likelihood of me posting chirstmas fic every day this week is very high

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101flavoursofweird · 4 years

Note

Secret injuries would be interesting for some good Flora angst

((Thank you for the suggestion and I’m sorry this is late! I already used the ‘Secret Injuries’ prompt for Rook and Bishop whump... so I decided to add this to my new series about Flora— Put Yourself Back In The Narrative. It still contains Flora whump and angst... Flora secretly misses the professor and Luke, but Kat helps her realise that she’s not alone in that regard! This also contains some criticism of Layton’s decisions during the Relics investigation from Flora’s perspective. I hope that’s ok!

Spoilers for the anime and most of the series below! It starts with Flora writing a couple of letters...))

Em,

It's a relief to hear that the agency aren't involved... I still can't believe the professor never mentioned them! After everything you and Uncle have told me, I hope we never cross paths with those vultures. Don't worry— I memorised Grosky's phone number and I made sure Fen and Kitty did too.

Though, at the same time, it's disappointing that we've you've exhausted another lead.

Where will you be investigating next? Is there anyone else who might hold a grudge against the professor? All of the people I can think of are in prison... well, except for one, but he wrote to me insisting he isn't the perpetrator. I'd be more inclined to believe him if he spoke to me in person!

Maybe you could come home and help us track him down? Kitty said she misses her favourite aunt!

And we could make up some better codenames while you're here.

You stay safe too!

Flora

To Our Wise Guardian,

Thank you for searching for our reclusive father and looking after our restless uncle.

I trust Miss Altava with my life. If she believes the agency aren’t to blame, then I believe her. I don't care what she did in the past anymore then I care about Uncle's past. She wants to find the professor just as much as he does.

Please remind Uncle of that, and don't let him burn down any trees. Climate change is a real thing.

If you aren't having any joy with the Azran sites, maybe you should take a break. (It sounds like Uncle needs it!) There’s a park just across the road from us where you could land the Bos airship.

Fen would love to talk to Uncle about this device he's been working on. And Kitty has been begging for some new books...

Until next time,

The Layton Clan

Dear Brenda & Clark,

We're doing alright here, though we'd be lost without Rosa!

Alfendi has been given some extra time to complete his end-of-year project. At Kat's last parents’ evening, her teachers said she can be quiet in class but other than that, they're pleased with her progress.

Yes, Grandma Lucille is home now— we went to visit her and Grandpa Roland the other day. I just received Kuri is still with her family in Japan.

I feel awful for Marina's family... Please tell them that they're welcome here in England as well. I'm sure that wherever they are, Luke will protect Marina with his life.

...Arianna mentioned Tony's wedding. We'll all have to go dress shopping together. Kat's already decided she wants a yellow dress. (You might have some competition, Brenda!) Can Clark help Al choose a suit? He's a nightmare to shop for!

We can't wait to see you both. If you need help with the move, just give us a call.

Love,

Flora, Al & Kat xoxo

Dear Arianna,

Don't worry about the late reply! You should see my desk— there are SO many letters I haven't even opened yet! I wish I really wish Luke was here. He’s so much more organised than I am...

I miss him too—

The ink was smudged from Flora’s tears. She tried to hide it by scribbling out the last line, but there was no saving the letter now. Sniffing, she crumpled the paper into a tight ball and threw it at her bedroom wall. She didn’t bother aiming for the overflowing plastic bin.

What a waste. If Alfendi or Kat had done that, she would have tutted at them. They couldn’t afford to be wasteful, even with the emergency savings their father had left them…

Flora squeezed her black fountain pen (a twenty-first birthday gift from the professor), wishing she could snap it in half.

He had planned for this. He knew he’d be gone for so long and there was a chance he would never return.

Flora hadn’t come to say goodbye to he and Luke the day they set off, but Rosa had.

“What’s the point in searching for the girl’s father, after all these years? Why take the risk? Don’t you love Kat, Professor!?”

Yes, of course he did, but he wanted to solve the mystery behind her family. Solving a puzzle about a bunch of rocks was more important than raising his daughter, apparently. He had adopted Kat and now he was leaving her behind.

Flora huffed out a tearful laugh. She, more than anyone, should have seen it coming. But she had believed (assumed) it would be different with Kat.

The professor had taken Kat in when she was a tiny baby. A baby couldn’t be left home alone or sent to school. Parenting was a full-time job (as Flora was well aware these days).

Luke had laughed when the professor first announced that he would be Kat’s father.

Everyone, Flora included, had expected the majority of responsibility would fall on Rosa. Or, in Rosa’s absence, another eager friend or family member. (Grandma and Grandpa Layton, Uncle Desmond, the Monte d’Or gang…) The babysitting offers came flooding in much faster than when Alfendi was little. A newborn baby was far more appealing than a grief-stricken child.

Flora would have helped look after her siblings even more, had she not been so busy preparing for university.

But, in the professor’s defence, he had refused to take on any new cases and he had reduced his work hours. When he couldn’t escape his office at Gressenheller, he would bring Kat with him.

He had chosen the name ‘Katrielle’. It was an unusual name, but it went well with ‘Alfendi’.

You would think eight-year-old Alfendi would be jealous of all the attention his new sister was receiving. It was quite the opposite. By spending more time with Kat, the professor spent more time with Alfendi; trips to the park, the library, the museum…

Flora would join them whenever she got the chance. Kat was the glue that brought them all together.

The professor had ‘officially’ adopted Katrielle Layton when she turned three. It seemed he had given up on finding her biological father…

And then Luke (Darn him!) had to stick his nose back in to the Relic Stones business.

He had married Marina in secret just so they could move to England without the professor’s knowledge. Consequently, Flora had been kept in the dark too.

That hurt. After all these years, Luke still didn’t trust her.

She could have assisted him with the investigation. She wouldn’t have told the professor…

Luke had shut her out, along with Marina. (Poor Marina…)

Thankfully, Marina had sought out the professor as soon as Luke went missing.

The idiot had gotten himself caught by Don Paolo. (Yes, a similar fate had befallen Flora once… when she was fifteen. Luke was twenty-five, trained in karate and he should have known better!)

After Luke’s rescue, he was dragged back to the Layton household for a family reunion. Flora had given Luke an earful— “YOU DIDN’T INVITE US TO YOUR WEDDING AND THEN YOU ABANDONED YOUR NEW WIFE?!!”—before she hugged him. She had thought that would be the end of the whole Relics fiasco.

She’d thought wrong.

The professor had gotten involved after that. Family outings were pushed aside in favour of the Relics Stones.

At Alfendi’s eighteenth birthday meal, the professor and Luke were trading research notes under the table.

Flora found a house with her girlfriend, Kuri. The professor never once visited them, despite Flora’s many invitations.

The day Luke left for his journey with the professor, Marina had called Flora, crying because she and Luke had fallen out. Flora had gone to comfort her. (That was the last time Flora had any contact with Marina.)

Flora didn’t blame Luke as much as the professor. Luke was a young man fresh out of university— reckless, full of heart and loyal to a fault. He had watched Kat’s birth mother die and now he wanted to scour the world for answers. But, as Arianna had said, the world was so vast…

When Kat was born, Luke had been a student— too young to look after a baby by himself. So, the professor had accepted the role of being Kat’s parent.

The professor couldn’t just adopt a child (three children) and run off ten years later.

Kat wasn’t a puzzle that needed to be solved. She was a little girl.

A girl who never stopped eating sweets, but enjoyed going to the dentist if they would give her a sticker.

A girl who still hoped Santa and the Easter Bunny were real, even if the Tooth Fairy was fiction.

A girl who practiced her dad’s ‘detective’ poses in the mirror.

A girl who didn’t like tea, but still insisted on drinking it.

A girl who could hold a heated debate with her older brother (eight years her senior).

A girl whose family couldn’t afford a dog, so she stopped to pet every stray she met on the street.

A girl who thought people would only befriend her because of her last name. A girl who feared those friends would leave her when they learned of her father’s absence.

A girl who dreamed about her dad every night and woke up in tears.

A girl who was always trying to make her big sister smile…

“Hey, Floor…?” Kat knocked on Flora’s bedroom door, but she didn’t wait for Flora to answer. She burst in to see Flora wiping her eyes. Kat wondered, “What’s for dinner?”

“I, erm… I thought we could have lamb stew,” Flora suggested, standing up from her desk chair.

“Lamb stew? That’s Uncle Luke’s favourite!”

It was actually roast lamb… Flora could feel her eyes burning again. She turned away from Kat and tidied her desk. “I’ll be down in a minute,” she said distractedly.

“I can help you clean up!”

“Don’t worry, Kat—“

“Have you been writing more letters…?”

Flora glanced at Kat. Kat was picking up the ball of paper that had missed the bin— Arianna’s letter. Flora gasped, “Don’t...!”

Kat, ever curious, smoothed out the letter and read it to herself. She frowned when she reached the end.

Flora sighed. “No one was meant to read that…”

Kat carefully placed the letter on Flora’s desk. “I miss him,” Kat mumbled. “And Dad…”

“I know…” Flora touched Kat’s head. “I do, too.” Her words were mainly intended to reassure Kat, but Flora meant it.

She missed them— both of them— so much. No matter how much they had pushed her away, she missed them and she wanted them back.

“That’s okay,” Kat whispered, reaching up to grab Flora’s hand. She tugged Flora out of her bedroom and downstairs to where Alfendi was impatiently setting the table for dinner.

Later, Flora would rewrite her letter to Arianna, signing off with:

…I miss him too. It’s okay if you ever want talk about it. I’ll be here.

Sincerely,

Flora

#professor layton #flora reinhold #Katrielle Layton #hershel layton #luke triton #marina triton #Flora is here to FIGHT FOR MARINA #Rosa grimes #layton mystery journey #LMJ #my writing #angst #my fics #Arianna Barde #answers

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bethhxrmon · 4 years

Text

do flowers exist at night? -chapter eight

Chapter Eight: A Turkey Dance

Pairing: Steve Harrington x OC

Chapter Summary: After a little while, Thanksgiving has finally decided to show up. It causes Annie to have some realizations about everything around her.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of trauma, dysfunctional family stuff

A/N: Howdy, not gonna lie, I’ve run out of motivation over the last month. I’ve got up through chapter sixteen written, but reblogs and comments are the best way to help me get that motivation! Also, school’s starting for me tomorrow so that is definitely going to come before this fic. Anyways, if you’d like to see the other parts of the fic you can go here.

~*~*~*~

Thanksgiving was ordinarily a good enough holiday. There was food and a parade to watch plus a cute dog show afterwards. Annie's parents were never into football, so she never had to put up with watching the sport. However, this year was a little different than other years.

By a little different, that meant it was a huge difference. Initially, she assumed that it would just be her mom and herself sitting in front of the television and watching whatever was on.

Now, Annie wasn't against her mom dating someone else, but introducing the guy at Thanksgiving just felt a little bit weird to her. It could have been worse, though. The guy could have been a complete dick and Annie would have purposely made the day a living hell for everyone.

Fortunately, Scott Clarke was a nice guy. There wasn't any way around it. A part of Annie wanted to just hate him, but it was easy to like the middle school science teacher. How he and her mom met was beyond her, but her mom seemed pretty happy about it.

Steve told her to just give him a call if things got unbearable. His parents would be around, but he swore he would make up an excuse to help her out. What were friends for if not saving what was originally a well-liked holiday?

Everything was pretty nice that morning. Annie was working on baking a pumpkin pie and was making some mashed sweet potatoes. That was about the extent of her cooking ability. The pie was easy, she just had to pour a few cans of mix into the premade crust and make sure it didn't burn. The sweet potatoes were just the anomaly of being able to cook one thing decently enough.

"I've heard a lot about you from your mom," Scott said.

Annie nodded as she poured in the pie filling, "Yeah, I've heard a bit about you from some kids I know."

"Which kids?"

"Um... I think they're your AV kids? Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Will, and I think Max is in there, right?"

"Yes, you'd be correct," he grinned, "They're a bright group. How do you know them?"

"Um..." she paused, realizing she couldn't explain the real circumstances, "I helped babysit them a couple of times."

It was obvious that Scott was trying and Annie had to give him some credit. From how the kids talked about him, he was a smart and nice guy. While she wasn't ordinarily inclined to trust the judgement of a bunch of eighth graders, she trusted those kids.

While this wasn't the Thanksgiving Annie had counted on, it wasn't warranting a call to Steve. However, when the doorbell rang, a few alarms automatically went off in Annie's brain.

She went over to open the door and saw none other than Carter Hardwick. Already, she could feel her stomach twisting in knots. As nice of a guy as Scott was, she doubted that he dad would take well to him. Hypocritical yes, but what was a shitty parent if not just that?

"Anne, aren't you happy to see me?" he asked.

Annie forced a smile, "Uh yeah! Just um- just a bit unexpected."

"Well, I wrote."

Maybe she shouldn't have burned those letters after all.

Begrudgingly, she let her dad into the house. What other choice did she have? If her mom wanted to force him out, she wouldn't stop her. However, Annie was all too aware that she had no way of telling anyone what to do in this situation.

"And who's this?" her dad asked, nodding at Scott.

"Mom's new boyfriend," she said, her brain simply short-circuiting.

How couldn’t that have happened? The way her dad stared at the other man made Annie want to crawl into a hole. Thankfully, her mom came out into the living room. There was no hiding the look of disdain on her face. It was even more obvious when her mom asked him to talk with her for a moment.

He shrugged, "I'm sure whatever you have to say to me can be heard by our daughter and whatever asshole you've got over here."

"I'm speaking to you alone," her mom insisted.

That left the living room with only Scott and Annie. They both decided to just watch the dog show going on in front of them. Erik hopped onto the arm of the couch and Annie busied herself with petting him.

"So what's that little guy's name?" he asked.

"Oh, this is Erik. He's the family cat, but he likes me the most. Probably because I'm the most relaxed one in the house, I guess."

He nodded, "Poor, poor Erik."

"Wait... you've read Phantom?"

"Well, of course. It has some of the most amazing scientific ideas for the time!"

She thought a moment before nodding, "Yeah, I guess you're right."

While Annie wasn't sure what to think of her mom dating someone, she was at least glad this guy was nicer than her dad. The contrast was obvious when her parents both walked out.

"Anne, you'll be happy to know your good-ole dad's gonna be here for the day," her dad said as she dodged him ruffling her hair.

"You're not my dad," she said plainly before her eyes widened a bit.

That wasn't something she counted on coming out of her mouth, but she wasn't about to take it back. Technically, she was right. Neither of her parents were biological. Still, they took care of her like they were. Except, with all the things her dad had said and done in the past, she knew she could hold that lack of biology against him as long as she wanted.

"Go to your room!" he snapped.

Annie let out a laugh, "Are you serious?! You don't even live here! If you actually wanted to be a good dad you would... you- well you would pay the damn child support once in a while! You only have to make thirteen of them!"

"Annette!" her mom said, "I think you could use a moment to cool off."

That was the nicest way her mom could tell her to go to her room. Maybe she hit a nerve or two, but Annie knew she hadn't said anything that wasn't already true. There wasn't any use in arguing, though. Not when she almost wanted out of the situation. She picked up her cat and took him to her room with her.

This was the exact sort of thing she was supposed to call Steve over. So she took the phone in her room and dialed his number. As it turned out, Steve did have a phone in his room. One which they had both completely neglected that night a few weeks ago. A night she wasn't over by any means. She hadn't told her mom about any of it, and she knew that she probably would never be able to explain it. It still stuck around in her head. The inter-dimensional and the real things that happened just wouldn't leave.

She let out a sigh as she heard the phone ringing and she twisted the phone cord around her finger.

"Hello?"

"Steve?"

"It's not even noon yet," he said, almost laughing, "That bad already?"

Annie chewed on her lip, "My dad made a surprise visit... I kinda told him he's not my dad and to pay the child support for once."

"Oh shit..." he sighed, "I'd try to come and get you but um- my parents sprung a surprise trip to my aunt's on me."

"That- that's fine, I get it. You gotta see your family."

"If it's any consolation, I'll wish I'm not there. I'd really prefer to hang out with you."

She smiled a bit, "That's nice... I'd rather hang out with you too. Of course, I'd rather hang out with a cockroach than be stuck here."

"Well, if I make it back early enough, maybe I can make something work," he suggested.

"I'd like that a lot."

There was shouting in the background of Steve's end, "Uh I gotta go. Good luck, though."

"Thanks um- you too."

Then the phone clicked off and Annie set her own on the receiver. Admittedly, she almost counted on hanging out with Steve. Aside from the kids, there really wasn't anyone else she spent a lot of time with.

The thought of him trying to come over later did make her feel special. Not that she was about to say so. It was normal, they sort of just had each other. She didn't have any friends to begin with and she knew Steve would sooner die than third wheel his ex all the time.

Aside from sort of being social outcasts and dealing with the Upside Down together, what did they have in common in the first place? Maybe they had a similar sense of humor and similar music tastes, but almost anyone could have those things in common. They were just friends and Annie knew that didn't mean they had to do anything more than that.

Either way, Annie knew that she wasn't going to bother with leaving her room until someone told her to. Continuing on with her reading of War and Peace was fine with her. Contrary to her dad's opinions, she thought it was an interesting book.

A part of her was almost too invested in some of the drama of it all. What with Natasha now being tempted by Anatole as Sonya tried to be a good and loyal cousin as well as a friend. It had her reading the pages as quickly as she could. Though, a huge factor in getting through the book as quickly as she was had to be waking up in the middle of the night.

The nightmares didn't happen every night, but it wouldn't have made much of a difference either way. It was too much for her to deal with. While Steve wanted her to talk about it with him, she still didn't say much about it.

"Annie?" her mom knocked at her door.

She marked her book, "What's up?"

The door opened as her mom stepped inside, "You know, I think we still need a couple of things from the grocery store."

"Wait," she looked over the list being handed to her, "I thought we had-"

Her mom cut her off, "We're gonna run out soon. Just take your time, alright? There's no rush."

"Oh, okay."

This happened often enough when they lived in New York. If tensions got really high, her mom would send her out somewhere to do something. That didn't mean she missed out on all the yelling and arguing, though.

Still, it was enough for Annie to take the hint and grab her red, fleece-lined jacket off a hanger and left the house without saying anything. She was almost positive they didn't need any of this. They had more than enough butter and Annie could barely stand Stove Top stuffing in the first place.

She walked rather aimlessly, though she was headed toward the town. If she were too aimless, she would have ended up in the woods. As bright as the day seemed, she still didn't trust herself to go there alone.

Besides, she still hadn't found her switchblade since trying to fight Billy. A part of her thought it was possible he had it. Though, it was just as likely that it was in some obscure place of the Byers' house. She didn't want to go back there any time soon. It wasn't that she had anything against the family, but the thought of going back into the house or stepping into the living room? That was out of the question.

A part of her wished she had some way to actually make Billy pay for everything he did. The problem was that there wasn't any way to do that without giving away everything else. Not that she could think of, anyway. And who knows, maybe she didn't interpret everything properly. Maybe he hadn't done anything.

Her hands clenched inside her jacket pockets as she continued walking. A part of her wanted to tell her mom at the very least. The closest that got was when her mom saw the scar that the cut she got on her face left behind. She blamed it on getting into a bit of an altercation with Erik.

After walking for some time, Annie found her way to a small park. Someone was sitting on the swings. She could see the red hair from pretty far off, but she was unsure of who it was. Though, the closer she got, the more certain she was.

"Max? What're you doing out here?" she asked, sitting on the other swing.

Max looked over to her, "Um... just hanging out."

"None of the guys are available?" she asked.

Max shook her head, "It's Thanksgiving, everyone's with their families."

"Yeah? Well, then what're you doing out here? It's a bit chilly."

"Um..." Max let out a sigh, "You know how the whole divorced kid thing goes. It's my first Thanksgiving without my dad around and Neil and Billy are... um... they're being themselves."

Annie frowned, "They're not hurting you are they? Because if they are I-"

"No, not like that. After I almost hit Billy's nuts with that bat he's been a bit better. It still um- it scares me sometimes, though.

She nodded, "I guess that makes sense. I wish I could look forward to my dad showing up out of nowhere today, but that guy's a dick."

"Oh, was it just gonna be you and your mom?"

"And your science teacher."

"Mr. Clarke?!" Max exclaimed, laughing, "You're kidding!"

She laughed along with Max, "I'm not- I mean, having my mom date some guy like this is weird, but- but I guess things could be a lot worse, you know? Well, before my dad showed up and managed to make it awkward for everyone."

"Oh, that sucks. Sorry, I just don't know what else would help you."

Annie shook her head, "That's alright. You're, like, thirteen? You don't need to worry about helping me."

The both of them stuck around and talked to each other for a while. They managed to avoid actually talking about the awful things Billy had done. Likely because neither of them were prepared for a conversation like that. At the very least, Annie knew that just thinking about talking about that with anyone was enough to make her nauseous.

Eventually, it was for the best that Max went home, so Annie walked her back before turning around and heading back to her own house. She would have to face everything there eventually. But maybe her dad decided to buzz off by that point.

There was no such luck, though. As awkward as it was for her, she gave Scott props for not finding an excuse to get out of the house until the meal was over. If she were him, she would have faked a family emergency in a heartbeat. Though, it was possible that he was just a better person than she was. Lots of people were.

"So, Anne, I've heard you're reading War and Peace," her dad said as they all sat around eating pie.

Annie nodded, "Yep."

"I don't understand why you would bother. I've already told you all the reasons it's a waste of time."

Annie set down her fork before looking over at him, "Maybe I started to realize you compulsively lie about everything. Oh, or maybe I realized people have different tastes from you. Hm, maybe it's the fact that I couldn't give a shit about your opinion of me after everything you've done."

"Language, young lady! Elsa, is this really what you're letting our daughter get away with?"

"I'm not your kid! If I were, you wouldn't send me a ten page letter about how I-"

"Cut it out! Both of you," her mom snapped, "Look, I'm not about to kick my own daughter out of my house, but Carter? I've done nothing but try to make this day decent and, frankly, I'm tired of that. I need you to leave."

Annie focused on her pie as her mom and dad headed out of the kitchen. It beat getting told to quiet down or to stop rambling. Although, it was clear the enjoyment of silence wasn't mutual.

"This pie is great," Scott told her.

She forced a smile, "Thanks... my mom ended up doing most of the work this year, though."

"You know, I hope you don't think I'm intruding on anything. I know this wasn't the best time to try and introduce myself."

"Look, I'm gonna be honest with you. Having my mom date someone is super weird, but I don't hate you. That being said, if you even so much as think about hurting my mom, I'll find a way to make your life a living hell."

Eventually, Annie was able to go back to her room for reasons other than getting into it with her dad. It was nearly midnight and she was focused on the book in front of her as she sat in her bed. There wasn't any school the next day, so she didn't worry about what time she went to bed.

Her distracted state didn't last long when she heard something knock on the window. When she looked out she only saw a shadowy figure outside and her eyes widened. Though, looking closer, it was obviously just Steve.

She opened the door, though she did so a bit sheepishly. How could she have been so easily scared by her closest friend? Steve slid in quietly, though there was a bit of tumbling in since her bed was right under her window. If he got his shoes on her light grey comforter, she would have probably screamed.

He grinned, "Told ya I'd come over."

"Steve, I- I wish you'd told me first," she said.

His smile faded a bit, "I can leave if-"

"No, sorry, just," she sighed, "I don't know, everything just really sucks right now."

There was a long pause before Annie let herself say what happened that day. She wished today could have been normal. That every day could be normal. If that meant her life was boring then so be it. Maybe all the boring people had it right.

"That's really shitty," Steve said, looking at her.

"Yeah."

"Hey, maybe it'll get better."

"Maybe."

A few more minutes and Steve was doing everything he could to get Annie to laugh. It took a solid half hour to get a real laugh out of her, but he did it. After getting her a bit more distracted, they ended up talking about everything except the things they should have probably talked about.

Instead, it meant both of them staying up until the clock in Annie's room read that it was nearly three in the morning. It was around that point that Steve passed out in the chair next to her desk and Annie was only partially on the bed with her head and torso laid out on the carpet and her legs on the mattress.

Tag List (lmk if you want on): @dungeons-and-demodogs @nxncywheeler @ilovebucketbarnes

#steve harrington #steve harrington x original character #steve harrington x oc #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things 3 #stranger things 2 #stranger things x original character #stranger things x oc #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #dfean?

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honeymoonjin · 5 years

Text

ten - ot7 x reader fluff

A/N: the final part to our numbers trilogy! Read the first part here - Seven, and the second part here - Eight. 1.9k. (i’m boo boo the fool and wrote this whole thing before realizing that i couldn’t call it ‘nine’ anymore oops) Life changes now that you and your seven boyfriends are parents.

---

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

Beaming down at the sleeping new-born in your arms, you can’t help but agree with Hoseok. After an excruciatingly long labor and a couple of days in hospital, you had returned home and spent the next week and a half in new-parent bliss with the boys.

The past nine months had been full of trials and tribulations. Seeing the boys anywhere outside the dorm became impossible as countless emergency meetings were scheduled on whether BigHit should let the public know you were pregnant. The thought even came up that you should get a paternity test for your baby so that only the ‘real’ father would be publicly known as the dad.

You cringe thinking back to that meeting. Hoseok had gotten all quiet and scared at the thought that he might not be able to be seen with you in public if he wasn’t the father. Namjoon, Jin and Yoongi had gotten heated to the point of yelling about how that would affect the group morale, Jimin and Taehyung left, telling Sejin that they would go on strike from the group if Sejin wanted to split them apart like that. Worst of all, your gentle Koo had started crying, hand clasped over his mouth and nose as his shoulders shook, letting out upset whimpers with every sob.

The pregnancy wasn’t all emotionally strenuous meetings though. There was an abundance of joy that kept you going in seeing your boyfriends prepare to be fathers. Still, to this day, the eight of you had a parenting-specific group-chat called ‘Operation Baby’, which had started out as a way for the members to give their opinions on baby clothes and nursery furniture since they weren’t allowed to be seen shopping for items like that. Now it was mostly used to designate whose turn it was to get up when the cries started at all hours of the morning.

There were some slight disagreements over time; Jimin, who desperately wanted to buy little color-coded booties and binkies, wanted to find out the gender but Namjoon was insistent that gender wasn’t something to designate a color, and that the sex of the baby didn’t matter, that you would love it equally no matter what. Jimin reluctantly settled for buying booties in every pastel shade there was (he teared up opening the massive cardboard box that arrived in your mail one Wednesday morning). One night, while he was a bit too drunk, Jin suggested that he should be the name for the father on the birth certificate since he was the oldest. Hoseok rebutted that it should be him since he had been dating you the longest, and a scuffle had broken out on your patio. In the end, Jin had won the battle, but with the caveat that he would get no extra rights over the others. That decision was one of the hardest you had to make.

Luckily for you and the boys, it wasn’t touring season. They had just finished the final leg of their world tour when you were reaching the end of your second trimester, and then they were allowed to have a one-month complete break before returning to work. Still, Sejin and Bang PD had decided it was wise to have them working on a new album for a while, at least over the later months of the pregnancy and after giving birth. They had been gradually increasing public appearances on a smaller scale to keep the fans entertained; a new season of Run! was airing, their mobile game had been a hit as expected, and they were taking the time to feature as guests on several Korean variety shows and be interviewed over Skype for some international news outlets. Put simply, everything had gone much more smoothly than you think anyone was expecting.

“Ah, I think Jimin wants to come in,” Hobi says softly, pulling you out of your musings. You glance up to see a shadowed silhouette wiggling around behind the clouded-glass of Namjoon’s studio. The man himself, Namjoon, was fast asleep on the small couch and you didn’t think he’d be waking up anytime soon. He lay there with his legs sticking off the end, his mouth dangling open and a string of drool gathering on the fabric under his cheek. Namjoon looked totally exhausted.

You nod and Hobi and he gets up quickly to let Jimin in, shushing him the moment the door opens. Behind him, Jungkook enters silently, waving to the infant in your arms cheerily and immediately running up to start wiggling her little chubby legs and tickling her tummy as she lets out little coos. With a hushed voice, Jimin questions, “how is our little Hana doing?”

You beam down at the little girl, letting her latch onto your pinky with her tiny sausage fingers, complete with the smallest fingernails in the world. “She’s happy. We’re trying to get her used to the sounds of the equipment running.” There was always a slight buzz in the air because of how much producing equipment was in here and the other studios, and you had read once that if you got a puppy used to certain noises then it wouldn’t bother them when they grew up. Surely babies were the same, right?

Jimin sighs out dreamily, coming forward to rub your back and give the baby’s forehead a kiss. “Can I hold her?” Instinctively, Jungkook steps back to give you two room.

“Of course,” you whisper back, deftly navigating the delicate body out of your arms and into his. “Where’s Dul?”

So, there was another thing. Not that long after you started regularly going to the clinic for checkups, your nurse found two heartbeats. The boys were over the moon – all the more babies to love; you couldn’t stop thinking about how hard it would be when they eventually had to return to work. But for now, you tried not to think about that and just enjoy your sweet little twins. Taehyung, who had twins in his family’s history, thought this meant he was the biological father. But then again, the family resemblance had become a bit of an ongoing inside joke. Your little daughter had Yoongi’s gummy smile, Namjoon’s dimples, and your nose. Her brother, older by sixteen minutes, had Jungkook’s glittering eyes, Jimin’s pillowy lips, and had already started twitching his nose like Jin. Nobody could deny that the little infants looked nothing like Hobi, and while you’d all joke around about it, you could tell it hurt him.

Jimin laughs breathily, bouncing the baby until she lets out a sweet yawn, bunching her fist up by her mouth, and promptly goes to sleep in her daddy’s arms. “We really need to come up with names already. One and Two aren’t going to be cute much longer.”

You fix him with a glare. “Excuse me! I don’t see you posting any better suggestions on the Operation Baby chat.”

He tuts you with a grin. “That’s because the last few options have been Thing One and Thing Two, Bob and Linda, and pussydestroyer69 and pussydestroyer420.”

Having been quiet for a few minutes, Jungkook reflexively blurts, “pussydestroyer420 and 69 are gender neutral, okay? I thought Namjoon would appreciate it.” He turns and gives the sleeping leader a baleful look. “I can never win.”

You reach up and pat his cheeks teasingly, standing up and stretching out your sore arm joints. “Anyway, whereabouts is my little son?”

Jungkook leans into your touch, wrinkling his nose in protest to your pats. “The kitchen. Jin and Tae are telling him how to make spaghetti Bolognese.”

You laugh softly, leaving the three boys sitting and the one sleeping in Namjoon’s studio, heading down the hallway to the kitchen. As you approach, you can hear an angelic low melody hummed by Taehyung, and the animated yet matter-of-fact tone of Jin describing how to properly dice onion.

You smother a grin, rounding the corner and taking a seat at the breakfast bar. Jin had apparently heard somewhere that it was important to speak a lot around growing children to increase their exposure to language, and had taken it upon himself to narrate his entire life in the past week to the little oblivious babies. He gestured passionately with the knife and his elbows as Tae kept a safe distance, bouncing the baby softly as it lay against his chest, head tucked into Taehyung’s neck. The humming had clearly sent your son to sleep; truth be told, the slow version of Scenery had your eyelids feeling heavy too.

Once he notices your presence, Jin sighs heavily. “Finally, you’re here! Your son isn’t listening to me!”

You smile, eyes crinkling. “In his defense, that knife would be fair too heavy for him to hold.”

“Weakling,” Jin mutters.

The humming stops. “You look tired,” Taehyung notes, tipping his head at you. “You and Yoongi were on night shift last night, right?”

You make a noise of affirmation and nod once. “Hana just wouldn’t settle. I think she’s going to be the trouble one of the two.”

“That’s true. This guy seems pretty easygoing.” You let yourself get lost in the sight of Taehyung snuggling your baby boy, Tae’s hand bigger than the infant’s entire back, but then Taehyung calls your name again. “Y/n. Go to bed, baby. We’ve got this; haven’t we, Jin-hyung?”

Jin scrapes the diced onions into the pan and smiles up at you, cheeks puffing. “Dinner’s still a couple of hours away. Get some rest, jagiya.”

As much as you want to savor every moment with your family, you’re certainly relieved to finally have a good reason to lie down. You give them both a soft kiss on the lips, and your baby several smooches on his chubby cheeks and soft head, before padding down the hallway to the only other person who’s still in bed.

“Yoongi,” you whisper into the dark bedroom, curtains drawn. The lump under the blankets doesn’t move. “Are you awake?”

“Physically,” comes the gruff reply. You grin and shuck your clothes quickly, leaving just your underwear on before slipping under the covers. “Hey, baby. How are the terrible two?”

“Taehyung and Jungkook are fine,” you quip.

“Ha ha. C’mere, I wanna snuggle.” You huff a laugh at the demanding way he asks for affection, but nevertheless shuffle into his grasp, letting him wrap his arms around you, planting soft kisses on your bare shoulder.

You hum in contentment at the sensation. “Love you, Yoonie.”

“I love you more.”

You tilt your head up and scrunch your nose playfully. “I love you most.”

His eyes are narrowed at the edges as he smiles. “Fine then, you win. Now let me spoon my beautiful wife and the mother of my children.”

Your eyes fly open. “What.”

“Uh.” Yoongi stammers. “Just, uh, ignore that wife comment. Shit.” You chuckle a little and lie back against the pillows, feeling a lazy finger trace circles on your skin. Minutes later, when you’re almost asleep, you hear him murmur into the silent room, “just pretend to be surprised when Hoseok pulls out the ring, okay?”

#bangtanarmynet #btswriterscollective #btswritingcafe #bts fluff #ot7 oneshot #bts x reader #ot7 fic #jin #yoongi #hoseok #namjoon #jimin #taehyung #jungkook

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foreveralwaysanauthor · 4 years

Note

As previously warned, I have a huge number of questions for the fanfic author ask thing. So, here we go: 4, 5, 6, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 20, 21, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 30, 31, 33, 36, 37 and then, if that wasn’t already enough, and there is anything you want to answer that I haven’t already asked, then pick one of your choosing to answer as well! 💕

Holy crap you weren’t kidding! lol this is gonna be so much fun!

4: What made you start writing fanfiction?

My 3rd grade teacher, Mr. Gula, gave me a challenge to write out my own ending to my favorite movie or TV show. As I was never really one to back down from a challenge, I went home and wrote out my own story about the first Transformers movie and another one about what I would do if I had been in HIgh School Musical. Yeah... needless to say, I was the Hermione of my grade.

5: Favorite pairing?

I know I don’t write for them, but my top is probably either Dee Dee and Frankie from the Beach Blanket Bingo, Bikini Beach, and Muscle Beach type movies or Seaweed and Penn from Hairspray. Something about those types of romance are sort of sweet to me. Guess I’m just an old soul. I also adore Cory and Topanga form Boy Meets World, but I’m mostly here for the older romances.

6: Least favorite pairing?

I’ll probably get flack for all of my answer, but I’m a little bit opinionated about this lol. The way Ginny and Harry’s relationship in the films was, was just confusing and so not what I had expected from them. The books gave them so much more than the movies ever did. The books were way better. Another case I don’t like was Bella and Edward/Renesmee and Jacob from Twilight. I think the other relationships in Twilight were better (Jasper and Alice are so sweet!) and Stephanie Meyer just kinda tossed Bella and Edward and Renesmee and Jacob together in the hope it would work and it just didn’t.

12: What’s the weirdest fic you’ve ever written?

I can’t believe I’m admitting to this.... I used to write full stories about One Direction. I had a full Niall x OC story I posted on a 1D Imagines group on Facebook that got almost 2,000 likes. It was silly, but, my word, it was almost as long as Broken Record. It spanned over the month of October 2014 and I can’t believe it ot the attention it did. It wasn’t all that good, but I guess it was good enough for people to like it, so that’s alright by me lol

13: Weirdest fic you’ve ever read?

I don’t believe it’s on fanfiction anymore, but I remember the basic info on it. It was Make a Wish by FireBladePrime. It was pretty much a girl made a wish on a shooting star and it made her favorite toys come to life as full size humans. I believe she ended up falling in love with one, but I’m pretty sure it just ended up being something that she came up with in her head when she was in a coma due to a car accident. Definitely a weird one, but it was pretty well written as far as memory serves.

14: Do the people in your life know you write fic? How do they feel about it?

Well, quite a bit of my family knows, actually. It started with just my parents, but my dad was always wanting to show off whatever his baby princess did (I was his only biological child, my older siblings were from my mom’s ex-husband). Dad shared with his siblings, mom shared with her siblings and my grandfather. My nieces and nephews know as well, but I believe that’s it. As far as I know, they are all very supportive and have no problem with it. My neice, Lorali, and nephews, Erek and Drake, have read all of my Teen Beach fics and quote things from them daily just to see if I’ll react, but they mostly just like reading them or having me read to them. They’re very loving and supportive of my writing.

15: Favorite fandom to write for?

I don’t know if I could pick one! I love Teen Beach so much, but I also have a certain affinity for writing small oneshots or “x Reader” style stories for Avengers and Harry Potter which can be found here and here. I do share the Harry Potter page with my sister, but she handles reblogging things to our page. Anyway, those would probably be my top fandoms!

17: What is the harshest criticism you’ve ever gotten on a fic?

Holy crap. Okay, I may or may not have repressed this for a long time, but I have more than one that I can’t decide between. The other one was from a girl in my class who stole my writing notebook and read my writing. Fuck you, Ashley She gave it back to me later that day with marker scribbles all over my writing. She said that I was horrible. The next day, I stole the makeup bag she had brought from her mother’s bathroom and buried it on the playground.

I was a good child that believed in getting even. Nobody found out about that btw.

Anyway, the first real criticism I had on a fic was someone who said, “You have no talent and you shouldn’t be writing. It all sucks and you’ll never go anywhere as an author.” I had actually written this down and, when I felt it no longer mattered to me, I burned it. It took me a couple of years to come to the realization that their opinion didn’t matter to me.

20: What’s your biggest struggle when it comes to writing fic?

Having time to sit down and write, probably. I usually have great ideas, but, in order to write them out and have them come out alright, I would need to sit down and feel it all come together while I write. I need time that I just don’t have most of the time.

21: Your biggest strength?

When I sit down to write, it all just flies out of me. Once i start, I don’t stop until my idea is all out into either m notebook or my computer. I can have a simple idea that somehow spirals into an eight page chunk that I never thought was possible. I like to think of that as my biggest writing strength.

24: What’s your process?

Write out the “backbone plot” (The stuff that has to happen, no matter what)

Decide on characters. Figure out appearance, personality and basic traits. (Sorta like a sim, I guess)

Bounce ideas with whoever will listen/listen to music (Gain ideas and write them in a small notebook)

Wait for inspiration and time to line up accordingly.

Write as much as I can.

Go back into that later on and edit what needs to be there and delete what isn’t necessary.

Publish!

I hope that’s what this means, at least.

25: Of all the fics you’ve written, which is your favorite?

Most definitely Broken Record and Creating a Rift. It was one of my first published stories and I just adore them.

26: Which of your fics is your least favorite?

I don’t even know how to find it anymore, but it was called Life’s a Rollercoaster. It was a Transformers fic that I had written when I was 11. Never finished it bc I lost the login stuff and it, now that I remember it, sucked hard.

27: What’s your most popular fic? Do you think the popularity is warranted, or is there another fic that you think deserves it more?

Any of them really! I love that Broken Record has had almost 10,000 reads, but I don’t believe it. As I go back over it, I wonder how on earth it gained popularity in the first place, but I couldn’t be happier that it did!

29: Which of your fics was the hardest to write?

My book. Probably the Christmas one, tbh. I only feel the pull to write it around the holidays and that kinda sucks lol

30: Favorite fic writers?

You better know you’re number one, girlie! For those who don’t know, Eleanor here is one of my closest internet friends and she’s practically family to me at this point!

As for other authors, I love Ulurnaga’s Primary Mechanisms story (Transformers). I know she hasn’t updated it since 2014, but it was so good that she could’ve left it at multiple parts and it would’ve been fine. I think it has abot 118 chapters to it. I have a few favorites from AutobotGuy710 who does a lot of Transformers stories basing around adoption (helps for my references and also a better understanding of what goes on a bit in adoptions/foster care). On Tumblr, I have a few faves, but not a ton. I like imagine-and-marvel and potterlyimagines fics a lot, but that’s about it at the moment as I haven’t sat down to read fics in a little while.

31: Do you write just for fun, or would you ever consider pursuing writing?

A bit of both, actually. I mostly enjoy writing my fics as a bit of an escape from reality. I enjoy being able to place myself in a world that doesn’t exist and sort of play around a bit. However, I do actually write as a job. I was working for my county newspaper for a while and that spiraled into me writing my first book, Feather Picked. I am currently writing one of the sequels to Feather Picked which takes the focus from my original main character, Melody, and moves it to her best friend, Roxy. I am planning on publishing a total of at least 5 books, the first four being the chronological 4 that take place over the course of a full year, each taking one season. The last one will be a look into the future, hopefully.

My first book can be found here!

33: Fanfiction pet peeves?

Goodness gracious. As someone who loves English classes, when people don’t place paragraphs correctly or spell simple words correctly, it reeeeeeally grinds my nerves. I will still sit through a story if it’s a well plotted story, but, come on people, at least do proper paragraphing!!!

Also, when people spell “definitely” as “defiantly”...... uuuuuuuuggggghhhhhhhhh

36: Which charachter(s) would you never write for?

For this one, I don’t really have much to say.

Probably characters from shows like soap operas or shows that never seem to end. If I can’t grasp the character’s backstory or personality after watching it because it never stops changing whenever it benefits the story or what the writers have planned, I refuse to write for them.

Mary Sue types like Bella Swan who are merely the damsel in distress and are only there to play out the author’s wish to be put in some type of scenario where everyone fawns over them constantly (can be applied to male characters as well).

37: Which character is your favorite to write for?

Out of already made characters: Butchy, Lela, Cheech, Evie, Ben, Harry Hook, Bucky Barnes, Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood.

Out of my OCs: Mick, Malina, Roxy Madden, Candi DiMaggio

Since you said I could pick one if I wanted, I’m going to pick #40.

40: Imagine yourself 10 years in the future; do you think you’ll still be writing fic?

I think I will be, yes. I don’t think my ideas for movies and books will ever stop. Especially knowing what I have planned after Creating A Rift is done. But... that’s a story for another time, lol

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natsspammityspamspamham · 5 years

Text

Dino Rambles about their original story that’s kind of an Avatar ripoff

I decided to make this post just to get it out there to anyone who’s interested. This is a complex (I think) story so this might take more than one post to summarize.

It’s a running joke (with myself) that this is an Avatar ripoff because of the four elements, but this changes later on anyway. I created this story out of spite for Masashi Kishimoto who wrote Naruto with its main heroine Sakura Haruno. He confessed that he’s unable to draw good heroine characters and fashioned Sakura as a girl who could not understand men, the best example of a heroine he could come up with. [source] I still respect the guy, but I couldn’t understand how he couldn’t come up with a good female character and how Sakura was the best that he could do. That’s why this story has a female lead.

Where can I read the partially completed story?

https://betabooks.co/books/5772

I write for the sake of getting my ideas down on paper. Quality isn’t guaranteed.

What is this story about?

The name I have for it right now is: “The Manipulators”

It’s about a girl named Seraphina Konan who lives in a universe where children (at age 12) receive elemental (fire, water, air, and earth for now) powers based on a test that is instructed to them. Due to current events and crime rates rising amongst people with those powers, the classes (that were as large as thirty or so) before now dwindled down to eight. Seraphina has seven fellow classmates:

Characters:

Seraphina Konan: Element: Fire Sera is a caring person who is dependable and reliable when it comes down to it. She’s a hard worker, but she doesn’t overexert. She’s a bit quick to snap sometimes, and when she has her mindset on something, she won’t stop until she gets it.

Ayden Hakuryuu: Element: Water Ayden is a guy whose flaws sometimes overshadow his good sides. He’s not very open with his emotions and hates showing affection.

Hikari Chiba: Element: Fire Hikari is a very level-headed intelligent girl who is hardworking and tenacious, but despite what people think when they look at her stoic expression, she is sympathetic and does care about people she’s close to.

Celio Zaveri: Element: Earth Celio is laid-back and relaxed. He’s not easily angered besides the occasional annoyance. He sometimes feels inferior because of his blindness. He feels self-conscious towards the idea of holding back others because of his disability.

Eve Val: Element: Water Eve is very level-headed and relaxed unless peanut butter or sleep are in the mix. She is quite crafty when it comes to getting out of work, but she doesn’t like interacting with people when she’s tired.

Jayden Alphonse: Element: Air She’s extremely laid-back to the point where it might even be a fault. Unlike many of her classmates, she is very open emotionally. She is emotionally and sensibly smarter than the rest of the cast. She’s a bit transparent and ditzy though. She wears sunglasses all the time to the point where only Eve (her best friend) knows what she looks like without them (although it’s a faint memory).

Koa Danzer: Element: Earth Koa is a walking ball of anxiety that eventually opens up to his classmates. He always wants to help those he cares about even if he stutters when talking and trips over himself.

Matthias Xander: Element: Air Matthias is lively and energetic. He is often described as a bouncy ball that never stops, and he is always there to put a smile on people’s faces.

She also has two... eccentric teachers that teach her and her seven classmates.

Hiyoshi Kamiya: Hiyoshi is an apathetic sadistic trickster who loves playing jokes on people. He’s intelligent in terms of nature, environment, and spatial cognitive functioning, but he is just above average academically (but never tries). But he is very apathetic and almost ruthless. This is caused by his upbringing, but he can kill in cold blood without a second thought. He likes blueberry milk, but he’s scared of his cousin and his parents.

Edward Uchiyama: He’s a little similar to Hiyoshi except he prefers to laze around and is generally a lot more caring and sympathetic. He is rarely seen without a blue blanket which is “part of his person”. This character has a lot probably the most connections to one of the major antagonists to the story.

There are other side characters as well, but I think you can skip over this if you’re new:

Serene Kamiya (Hiyoshi’s cousin): She’s the one who keeps him in check as the school’s headmaster. She’s far more diligent than her cousin despite being younger by two years. She was raised by a single mother who is Hiyoshi’s father’s sister.

Amanda Franz (Hiyoshi’s girlfriend) She’s a very kind-hearted girl with a sense of justice. She is able to put on a charismatic front, and she possesses beauty unlike any other. In the past, she used to be quiet, shy, and withdrawn student until she met her best friend.

(Name is up to change) Antagonist: Edward’s former neighbour. He met him after always hitting his ball into the open window of his house on the outskirts of town. They eventually became very close friends. He is jaded by his past and believes that the destruction and rebirth of society are for the best. He knows societal secrets that no one else knows, but he lost his family at age sixteen.

General Overview (probably could’ve done a better job at this):

Chapter One:

Mind: People who are smart and value intelligence can manipulate the element of fire. Soul: People who are laid-back and relaxed can manipulate the element of water. Body: People who are ambitious and determined can manipulate the element of earth. Heart: People who are caring and compassionate can manipulate the element of air.

These are the faculties that you can fit in after taking your assessment.

Sera does the assessment and eventually finds out that she is an unconventional candidate of some sort since her results are undeterminable due to the fact that she fit into all the categories. You can get two or three, but it is strange to get all four.

Her backstory is revealed. She reveals that to her knowledge, her family was killed by a rogue manipulator (which is what you call a person with elemental powers). This includes her mother, father, and older brother. After, she is adopted by an ungrateful family who lost their daughter due to illness and takes their grief out on her.

The government requires you to live with a family (biological or adopted) until age twelve (which is when you are allowed to leave).

Chapter Two:

Sera meets some of the cast for the second time including Ayden who is a bit of a standoffish asshole who’s too tall for his age. She meets her teachers.

There are some demons that exist inside Sera since her power doesn’t fully resonate with her because of the fact that she didn’t officially fit into any faculty/group of any kind. They go home for the day and come back the next day to find out that they have to go through excruciating training. If you give up, your power will leave you unaccepted. This results in only eight students being left: Seraphina, Ayden, Matthias, Koa, Jayden, Eve, Hikari, and Celio.

Cue ice cream bonding trip, training montage, exposition, and Sera abandoning her abusive family.

Sera takes the paper test where they are supposed to use their power/element to affect a piece of paper. Sera fails and falls unconscious because what a loser.

Sera finds out she is neighbours with Ayden who is apprehensive about telling her the conditions of why he lives in such a rundown building (which will be explained much later). Hikari also lives a floor below.

Ayden and Sera do the paper test again. Repeat what happened with the demons coming back in denying her capabilities even though she’s a protagonist (so her success goes without saying).

Chapter Three:

School years start in January and end at the end of October (the 30th to be exact). The kids are two months away (more like three because they always forget that October is a full month) so exam season is coming up. A lot of the students (Ayden, Eve, and Jayden) worry because they’re stupid.

More exposition occurs where characters get more dialogue.

Students try to study last minute.

Exams occur, and some are successful while others aren’t exactly. The teachers finally mention (amongst themselves and just to the reader) that they have not graded any of their students’ assignments throughout the entire year. Jayden has never received a double-digit (meaning more than 10%) on anything. They realize that they need to call the headmaster to make arrangements. She threatens to tell Hiyoshi’s dad (who is named Rintarou).

Chapter Four:

The students now have to do some extra credit since quite a few of them didn’t pass their classes. All of them are roped in though. This is pretty much community service. They have to find a cat named Basura and a bunny named Annabelle. More development happens as they eventually do return the two animals (Basura is a raccoon and not a cat by the way).

Chapter Five:

They end up going on a short trip for the rest of the spare day they have. No teachers end up saying what’s the trip about, but once they arrive, they find a crime scene that shouldn’t have been seen. It turns out that their job was to protect those in that town, and since it wasn’t seen as a major threat, they figured they were safe. They ended up being ambushed where the kids now had to use their powers to do something.

Wow, it took five chapters for this and was an inserted fight because they eventually had to wait longer. They’re still quite weak though.

After arriving back home, nobody exactly wanted to talk about the fact that they had just seen places where people died and actually watched some people die. Sera ends up eventually snapping and asking why they were sent there in the first place and why they weren’t sent earlier to do their jobs and protect the people. It’s explained that it was originally a low-grade threat, but since they were there and saw those crime scenes that weren’t touched since it was generally towards the outskirts, the students were told that they would’ve been killed if they’d been there at that moment in time.

Their teachers explain further saying that it isn’t uncommon for things like that to happen, but it is rare for information of these attacks to surface since the government officials do their best to keep it under the carpet. Sera officially says (informing her classmates) that she could’ve been killed alongside her family. Her classmates comfort her because welp, how are you supposed to support a classmate whose family was a victim of mass murder?

Chapter Six:

Sera and the rest of the students may be approaching the end of the year, but that’s used for an excuse so that they can renovate the school before getting into the colder months. They are given a week off school.

Celio, Hikari, Sera, and Ayden hang out. They end up listening to someone trash Sera over the rumours of her test results from the assessment surfacing. They are quickly put down by her friends as they go to Celio’s house and end up meeting his dad Carter. The friends do stuff.

This chapter is about Celio’s story surfacing.

“His birth mother dropped him at the steps of a house that belonged to Carter Zaveri. He took the child in even after discovering that the child would never see. His wife at the time (Johanna May) insisted on abandoning the child at an orphanage, but Carter refused resulting in their split. He now works as a doctor. Celio did not discover his history with Johanna until Chapter Six where Ayden read a letter to him that Hikari may or may not have exposed while reading books on his shelf.”

Chapter Seven:

They have a year-end tournament with the threat of expulsion if they do not win their match. Spoiler Alert: Nobody gets expelled. Why would they? They have fights that go along like this (the first person in the bracket won): Koa vs Matthias Jayden vs Eve Hikari vs Celio Ayden vs Sera However, due to the overuse of her power, Sera falls unconscious during the battle resulting in her losing from that cause. She is rushed to the infirmary and wakes up a week later to find out that none of their classmates got expelled. They all go out to eat afterwards then vacation starts.

Chapter Eight:

October 31st is not Halloween but is instead a day to honour the dead. Sera and Ayden meet there coincidentally. Ayden opens up that his parents didn’t take care of him for the majority of his life because his mother murdered his father in a fit of rage caused by his infidelity. His aunt on his mother’s side raised him until the age of eleven because she died of leukemia. They end up walking home (partially because Ayden was temporarily banned from public transit until further notice), and they briefly complain about none of their classmates or them being able to get jobs.

Finally, on the last day of the year, they meet, and exchange presents.

Chapter Nine:

Elemental weapons are weapons that can be brought out by a manipulator by using their energy and the mastery of their given element. This is explained to them.

But first, the teachers inform the students that they’re going to be celebrating Ayden’s birthday. Unfortunately, they didn’t get around to any birthdays the previous year because it was their first year as teachers and any mistake (which leads to their firing) would result in them not getting around to all their birthdays. This seemed to be a large concern because they are both highly irresponsible and are both walking liabilities.

Ayden didn’t seem to celebrate his birthday which was seen as odd since he was the type of person to make things about himself in those kinds of circumstances. But it is later revealed that he hates his birthday because it’s the exact day that his aunt (the person he looked up to) died. He blames himself for her death because she had to support him with the little amount of money she had while trying to pay for healthcare. She ultimately pushed herself too hard making herself sicker than she was originally resulting in her early departure. His classmates try to reason with him saying that it isn’t his fault, and Sera ends up kicking him across the face to snap out of it. She says that friends don’t bottle their anguish internally and that being strong isn’t shown by keeping it under wraps. She tells him to hit her with all he’s got. The other students go outside to call their teachers about the cancelled occasion (and to keep other students out of the classroom due to the amount of noise they were creating from the fight). Sera doesn’t fight Ayden back and instead accepts his blows. Once the teachers return, they find that many things in the classroom were broken. Upset, they soon realize the circumstances since the students informed them about Ayden’s aunt’s death. They ask whether Ayden is okay and feeling better to which, he says yes and asks whether they can resume the pizza plans the following day. They ask whether Sera is okay as well, but she lies and says that she’s fine (even though she’s in a lot of pain). Her teachers sense this and decide to drive her home even though it’s an “equally deadly experience”.

They go out for pizza, and Ayden gets a new mattress to replace his old one. He finally happily celebrates being thirteen as he begins to realize that he might actually like his birthday now.

Chapter Ten:

The kids go to the blacksmith house for a weapon orientation (despite not needing physical weapons) with their teachers along with weapon expertise from two side characters that I don’t know will have much of a role later on. Their names are Zahra and Ramiro. Don’t ask. I used a random name generator. They each receive a weapon. There is some fluff written in, but it’s not necessary to the story.

The students’ weapons:

Sera: Sword with flames Ayden: Double-ended naginata with poison Jayden: Kunai fans (two) Eve: Wires (which are used in combination with water) Koa: Staff with a hammerhead on each side. Matthias: A giant shuriken Celio: Two dual axes that can fuse together Hikari: Bow and arrow (arrows are produced by the archer)

Chapter Eleven:

Sera celebrates her birthday.

The kids go back to the blacksmith house for a checkup. It has only been a few weeks, so they find that they are not good with their weapons at all. They stay at the blacksmith for a three-day trip with a two-day training camp. During the final morning of their stay, they are awoken by a man screaming for help at their doorstep. Sera, being the only one who’s awakened by the noise, goes and opens the door. The man bursts in despite her trying to close the door after seeing who it is (since he has a similar appearance to the rogues mentioned in another chapter). Half-asleep Sera has no logic. I relate. Chaos ensues. The man states that he would take the “future rogue of four colours” (regarding Sera’s test) the antagonist. Edward seems very angry about it and ends up killing the rogue before getting any information out of him. Can they get away with murder? Yes, because once you are proven a rogue, your life is worth no more than an ant’s. They ask Sera why she opened the door in the first place. She says that she has the instinct to help those in need which is met with great criticism.

Chapter Twelve:

Rumours of the four colours starts to deepen. With Sera’s results almost being public knowledge, individuals start approaching and harassing her about the details which she doesn’t want to disclose. She gets the crap beaten out of her, and she isn’t allowed to fight back due to manipulators being frowned upon by the public. It’s a manipulator’s job is to protect the citizens, and with the rogue population on the rise, there is more mistrust in the manipulators than ever. Any action taken against citizens can result in automatic expulsion.

She has to prove (with the eventual help of her classmates after they found out in bad circumstances) that she is defending herself when she finally decides to fight back. She succeeds.

Chapter Thirteen:

Eve’s backstory is revealed when Matthias brings in a cat. Basically, Eve meets Jayden after having her cat killed by a bunch of little kid assholes.

Chapter Fourteen:

Ship stuff happens. I don’t know. I wrote it until 5am because I couldn’t sleep.

The old lady from chapter one (not really important but she’s still old) is dying and needs a plant for her treatment. They’re subjected to go to the outskirts and get it. There’s a thunderstorm going on. Hiyoshi and Edward are stupid and split everyone up. The rain causes the ground to give in while Hikari is looking, so while Celio is having some guilt about being literally a waste of space in their search, he almost fails to realize this. He jumps into action and shields Hikari’s fall at the expense of his physical well-being. He’ll survive. He eventually falls unconscious, and when Hikari gets up, she realizes what had just happened. She carries him as far as she can until they reach a higher point of ground at which point she signals for help. They’re eventually found and carried back by Matthias and Koa who find the plant but end up giving some of it to Hikari and Celio so that they would get a lot of the credit for all they’ve gone through. There are other points of view here, but they’re not “crucial to the plot”.

Chapter Fifteen:

We needed a vacation arc sometime, and I thought that it would be good to see how the kids reacted to going to a lake. That’s right. I’m not going to do a bathhouse or a beach. You kind of learn a bit more about the characters I guess, but this arc has not too much relevance to the overarching plot.

Chapter Sixteen (not yet written):

They go in for partnership testing. If that sounds like forced shipping, you aren’t completely wrong.

I’m not sure what the whole process is (I’ve changed it about five times).

The final pairings are as followed: Sera & Ayden Hikari & Celio Eve & Jayden Koa & Matthias

Future Plans and Developments?

The truth behind Sera’s backstory is revealed

Edward’s connection to the antagonist is revealed

Other backstories are revealed

Sera eventually does get captured (kind of like Kacchan) because she is seen as a “loose link that can defect and join the opposing side”

Ayden meets Sera’s brother Yuki who was supposed to be dead but isn’t

“Test of Courage” arc because I always wanted to have one of those other classic anime filler arcs

The origins of the powers and where they come from eventually get revealed far later

New powers are introduced

#dino rambles #I worked hard on this #someone please read it #it's embarrassing though #*sigh*

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bluerene · 6 years

Text

river, part four [starx]

whew, okay, I’m home, it’s late, but I’m putting this out anyways. Linking parts one, two and three, aaaaaand dividing this chapter up a little bit because formatting and length were bothering me. Next chapter should be up by Tuesday night. I work both jobs back-to-back tomorrow so no chances of updates then. As always, all my love for @fireflyxrebel who literally inspired this whole thing and is practically the only reason I wrote it (the other being a sad lack of StarX content and my need to change that).

Let me know what y’all think!

bless <3

blue

Friday didn’t go by fast enough. I woke up and called in sick to work, first thing, intent on decrypting the files I’d stolen the night before. Made myself some eggs and toast, turned on the TV for morning news, set up my laptop, and plugged in the flash drive. Well, no, not true - I burned the toast, forgot to replace the batteries in the remote, and tried to set up the drive incorrectly. Twice. I was distracted. I had a date in twenty-six hours and nothing was ready.

I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous, or why I was so invested in making my time with her perfect.

It didn’t help that I hadn’t stopped thinking about the kiss since it happened.

The thing about fireworks erupting in the background and angels singing is complete bullshit, by the way. There’s nothing earthshaking about it. The kiss didn’t send me to the heavens and back. It just felt right. There was this feeling of comfort that gripped me. She was warm and lovely. Her mouth moved agonizingly slowly against mine. It was torture and bliss and everything I imagined it would be.

And then it was over. She ended it, blushing as she unwound her arms from around my neck. Starfire stammered something about seeing me later and backed away, before shooting into the air.

I waited to hear the tell-tale raven’s call that so often signaled their departure, before teleporting back to my room and flopping onto my bed.

Needless to say, I didn’t get a lot of sleep. I drafted the same text about fifty times, hoping to engage her in conversation.

hey babe. Gross, delete.

that was some kiss. Too forward, she’ll get skittish, delete.

i had a really nice time last night. Where’s the charm? Delete.

i can’t stop thinking about you. It’s not a lie, but it might freak her out. Delete.

saturday, 11 am, key cove. see you there. A little dull, but it’s effective. Sent.

So yeah, stressful evening. Nervous morning. Once the files were finished loading I focused on combing through them. I didn’t like what I saw.

There were blueprints and notes, pdf versions of hastily scribbled equations and messy theories. Plans for some kind of incubation chamber. A complex formula for what appeared to be a chemical virus that could eradicate mutations in DNA. Footnotes that listed the unpredictable factors that could occur, and the ones that had occurred in test subjects.

Where they saw the likelihood of medical innovation, my clients would see the potential for biological warfare.

Shit.

I disconnected the flash-drive and wiped the files from my laptop, initiating a self-diagnostic run to sweep for any bugs that may have come with the folder. Not good, not good at all. The trade was supposed to go down later tonight. There wasn’t enough time for me to come up with an alibi or skip town.

I grimaced, already imagining the beating I would take for backing out of the exchange.

Fuuuuuuuck.

Laptop was clean, so there was a silver lining. I still had to destroy both drives and set some sort of trap for the meetup. I needed that money. I wasn’t going away from this without it.

There was a beep coming from my bedroom, which meant my burner phone had received a message. I put my laptop away and shoved the flash-drives into my pocket, curious as to who had contacted me.

12:34 pm - unknown: bring the drives tonight @ 2 am, 811 lilac rd, construction zone. we have the money.

I knew better than to respond.

My cell rang not long after, and for a moment, I was struck with the fear that they’d somehow gotten my private number and figured out who I was and where I was staying.

But the ID was different. I couldn’t help but grin as I lifted the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Oh...Red X?” Starfire confirmed, sounding a bit taken aback.

“The one and only, cutie.”

“Your voice is different.”

“I don’t live in the suit,” I replied, amused by her curiosity, “why are you calling?”

“I would like to see you tonight.”

Ahhhhh, no, beautiful, we can’t do that.

“I thought you couldn’t sneak out at night.”

“It will be difficult, but I believe I can make it work. If it is convenient for you,” she added hastily.

It really wasn’t, but how could I tell her that?

“Not a problem,” I said smoothly, “meet me at Key Cove tonight, whenever your patrol gets done. Wear something comfortable.”

“Very well. I shall see you then.”

“Sounds good.”

“X? Thank you,” she said softly.

I hung up without another word.

It was not turning out to be my day.

I took a couple of deep breaths and set my phone down, thinking hard about what I was going to do. As far as the date went, I had most things prepared. There was an Italian restaurant down the road, a little bistro called Vinum Domum. It was locally owned by an elderly couple, who were more than happy to offer me a free meal on account of the fact that it was for a date and I apparently needed all the help I could get.

Patrols usually ended between nine and eleven, depending on the route taken and the amount of crime occurring. Jump had a fairly quiet night-life. Starfire would probably show meet me around ten. I’d take her to the planetarium, we’d have a nice dinner, watch the movie I’d selected, hopefully kiss again, and wrap up just in time for me to make the deal. I had enough hours before to try and edit the files so that they were missing the doomsday parts. It would be shitty, and probably a bit obvious that I’d tampered with the drives, but it was significantly better than handing over Jump City’s death certificate.

Plan set, I put it all in motion.

I called Rosalie and Pietro Alexander right away, requesting a bottle of cider and two meals for pick-up in the evening. They made me swear to bring her by the restaurant the next time I had the chance. I laughed, trying not to entertain the idea because if I did, it would be stuck in my head forever.

I retrieved various things from around my apartment - a couple of blankets and pillows, plates, cups, utensils, the DVD I was planning on playing, popcorn, candy, and a pack of battery-operated candles. Stuffed most of it into a bag and set aside the rest to load onto my motorcycle when it came time to leave.

I worked on the files for a couple of hours. Chopped up the uglier parts, patching it up with glitching copies that (hopefully) looked like a virus had eaten away at the documents. I redacted portions of the formula, fiddled with the numbers. Deleted a couple of footnotes, added a few that emphasized the unpredictability of the science and made the data look less reliable. I kept enough information to satisfy them but removed enough to keep people safe. That was all I could really do.

I showered at eight and got a little dressed up. Black fitted jeans and shoes, a maroon button-down, an old woven bracelet that belonged to my mother around my wrist. Packed the Red X suit into the bag I had already filled, keeping the mask and belt ready for use.

All that was left was for me to wait, and I did.

An hour later, I got her message.

10:12 pm - unknown: i will see you shortly

Okay, fuck.

It was now or never.

Raven was quick to notice the scarlet blush I was undoubtedly wearing but knew better than to comment until we were safely in the confines of her room.

We teleported to the common room, where Robin, Cyborg, and Beast Boy were still waiting.

“All good?” Robin asked, rising from the couch.

Raven shrugged, sparing me the trouble of responding.

“Didn’t catch him, he was long gone by the time we arrived. Nothing was stolen, but the security officers received an alert that the main lab was breached so there’s a chance some research may have been copied.”

Robin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “okay, we’ll have to deal with that later. Thanks, guys.”

He was rarely so collected when an instance like this occurred. I couldn’t help the warmth that filled me when he turned my way.

“You okay, Star?”

“Hmm?” my blush deepened as I realized what he was asking, “oh, yes, I am the o and the k.”

“Lookin’ a little flushed, princess.” Cyborg teased, nudging Beast Boy with a grin.

“I am simply tired. I would like to turn in for the evening,” I replied in my most dignified tone.

“Good idea, I vote we all do it,” Raven said.

Beast Boy raised an eyebrow, “it’s not even midnight.”

“You could use the beauty sleep,” she shot back.

I giggled behind my hand, grateful for her ability to distract while I composed myself. Cyborg laughed loudly while they bickered, which had become rather frequent as of late. I believe all of us were waiting for them to ‘kiss and make up’, as Cyborg so often told them.

“Guys,” Robin interrupted, shaking his head, “it’s late. If you’re tired, go to bed, if not, make sure you lock the tower down before you leave the common room.”

“Sure thing, Dad.” Beast Boy replied, flopping back onto the couch.

Robin grumbled under his breath and cast me one more glance, before turning and exiting the room.

Raven curled her fingers around my wrist and tugged gently, “we should talk.”

“I believe that would be prudent,” I said, following her into the hallway.

She pulled me into her bedroom and onto the floor, crossing her legs and looking at me expectantly.

“Well?”

I touched my fingers to my lips and smiled faintly, “he kissed me.”

The lights flickered and Raven’s eyes flared for a moment.

“What?” She asked in a dangerously quiet voice.

I explained that I had messed with his belt and arrived at his home, where we had a short conversation.

She waited until I was finished speaking, her mouth pressed in a thin line by the end of my narrative.

“So you guys are dating?”

“We are going on a date,” I corrected, “it may not lead anywhere.”

“But you kissed.”

“Yes.”

“And you enjoyed it,” she confirmed.

I blushed, “surprisingly, yes, very much.”

She leaned back on her hands and sighed, “wow, okay, that’s a lot.”

“I do not mean to burden you-”

“It’s not that,” Raven reassured me, “it’s just...what about Robin?”

My heart fluttered, my stomach churned, my head ached at the sound of his name.

Raven’s eyes widened as I let my emotions flow through me, “I see.”

“Indeed,” I murmured, “my feelings for Robin are complicated. They are still there. I do not think I will ever be rid of them. But Red X makes me feel...desired. Powerful, even. He sees me differently.”

“I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how terrible of an idea this is?”

I smile, “I am well aware of the repercussions at hand, Raven. I will be discreet.”

“Azar, I hope so,” she muttered, allowing a half-smile to quirk upon her lips, “If this is what you want, I have your back.”

I squeezed her hand gratefully and stayed with her for a little while after, eager to chat about her developing relationship with Beast Boy. She kicked me out of her room shortly after, advising that I go to sleep, warning me that it would not come to me easily.

She was correct. I tossed and turned, contemplating various messages I could send him. Nothing came out of it, except for a single, full thought - I wanted to see him soon.

Just as my eyes gave way to heaviness, the sound of a message pinged from my phone, jolting me awake.

3:26 am - unknown: saturday, 11 am, key cove. see you there.

I bit my lip, thumbs hovering over the digital keyboard. X’hal, how could I possibly wait another day and a half? I could barely make it through this night, let alone another.

If I could establish a means of escape, I could attempt to see him tomorrow.

I opted to set my phone aside and try to sleep. I hoped the next morning would bring some clarity.

I continued to fret quietly for an hour, recalling the kiss over and over in my mind until it was seared in place.

I had never been kissed properly. The others might tell you they witnessed it in Tokyo with the boy on the street, or when I assimilated Atlantean from Aqualad, or when I first met Robin, but that is not true. Language transference, while not unpleasant, does not evoke any enjoyment from me. It is a skill I have used many times with many beings, regardless of how I might feel about them.

But kissing was different. It was not the hard connection between unmoving mouths, guided by a tight grip on the person’s shoulder or neck. There was no rush of thought, no compounded headache as a side-effect.

It was much softer and gentler, like the first kisses I saw so often in films and on television.

One of Red X’s hands had found my waist while the other held my wrist, rubbing circles on my skin with his thumb. His mouth moved sweetly against mine, coaxing movement from my frozen state.

I tugged my hand from his grip and wound my arms around his neck, sliding my fingers along the bottom of his mask to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. He squeezed my hips and pulled me closer, drawing a squeal of surprise from my lips. He deepened the kiss, shaking with silent laughter at my enthusiasm.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it was not the time, nor the place. Reluctantly, I drew back, stumbling through a goodbye before darting into the air, fighting the urge to look back at him.

I felt angry with myself afterward, for too many reasons. Angry because in a way, I had betrayed Robin. Angry because I had let it go farther than I intended. Angry because somewhere, I knew with full certainty, Raven was correct. Somewhere, something in me had attached itself to Red X. And I was happy because of it.

I slept fitfully through the night, coming in and out of lustful dreams that left me flushed and nervous and exhausted. I was no stranger to these feelings, but with Robin I felt in control, certain of the boundaries and lines we had drawn, comfortable in our established relationship. Now, every rule I had given myself had vanished. I did not know where X’s feelings stretched or where his walls were built; I did not know where he felt comfortable being touched or what he saw in me. It was unexplored territory, and it ignited a delicious fear in me that I could not help but enjoy.

Now, I suppose this was a side-effect of the many romance books I indulged in, where heroines had their hearts stolen by handsome thieves as they were rushed into a whirlwind love story. It was an idea that I found both charming and delightful on so many levels.

I woke when the first rays of sunlight peeked through my curtains. I opted to stay in my room and observe the sunrise on my own. Robin usually liked to join me on the roof most mornings, but I could not bear to be around him while I was feeling so guilty and confused and struck with the love.

Not that I was in love. But I have learned, despite what the phrase implies, that you do not have to mean you love something just because you say you do.

Once dawn had fully broken through the clouds, I considered going back to sleep, but I was too restless to crawl into bed. So I began the day.

I selected some casual garments from my closet - a pair of cropped running pants, a bright purple sports bra with black straps, and a soft blue zippered sweatshirt - and changed out of my sleepwear. It seemed like a pleasant day for a run around Titan Island. Perhaps I could practice training in the simulation hall. I felt charged by the sun, my fingertips tingling with unspent energy.

Quietly, so I would not disturb the others, I slipped out of my room and made my way to the stairwell that led to the rooftop. Robin did not usually linger there unless I was also with him.

I spent a few hours outside. I have always loved the cool taste of the air, salted by the sea breeze. I dove from the tower and allowed myself to fall until I caught onto a large gust of wind and flowed in its direction. I twisted and turned through the air, pushing myself to go faster until everything around me blurred into unfamiliar shapes.

My communicator beeped loudly from my waist and I stopped immediately, hovering in the clouds while I flipped my device open.

“Raven?”

“Starfire, where are you?” she asked impatiently, raising a hand to quiet someone beside her.

“I went out for a morning flight. Why?”

She sighed and shook her head, “Robin got worried when you didn’t join him on the roof this morning. And you weren’t at breakfast, and your communicator indicated you were in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

I blushed, averting my gaze, “I may have flown farther than I intended. Please do not worry, I will return shortly.”

“You know,” Raven said quickly, before I could hang up on the call, “Things will never be the same between you two, but you should probably talk to him. Avoiding an issue doesn’t make it go away. He’s starting to feel like he’s losing you.”

“You cannot lose what you never had,” I said, smiling sadly, “I will see you soon.”

I did not rush back to the Tower. An ugly feeling had settled in the pit of my stomach at the prospect of seeing Robin, who would undoubtedly be frustrated and concerned for my well-being. Raven did the lessening of the situation when she explained it to me - she would only ever call to check on me if something serious motivated her.

I let myself drop lower, nearer to the surface of the water, and dipped my hands in, enjoying the cool after-splash that followed. I spied a trio of dolphins surfacing in the distance, their glistening fins cutting through the rippling sea before they burst through the blue.

I sighed, envious of their freedom. To be with the one you wanted, free to go as you pleased, unburdened by who you might hurt, or who you already have.

I knew I could not delay the inevitable for much longer.

I landed on the rooftop of the tower almost thirty minutes later and hurried to the common room, biting my lip as the doors slid open.

Raven and Robin were in a deep, seemingly heated conversation at the breakfast table, while Beast Boy and Cyborg were cooking something at the stove, their backs turned to me.

I plastered on a cheerful smile and threw my hands into the air.

“Good morning friends!”

Robin’s head snapped up at the sound of my voice, his expression alarmingly blank.

“Good morning to you too, lil’ lady,” Cyborg said with a grin, “where have you been?”

“I merely went for a flight. I apologize, I did not mean to travel so far.” I said, smiling back, “I hope I did not cause any of you concern”

Robin pushed back his chair and stood up.

“Don’t worry, Starfire, you didn’t.”

I dropped to the ground, abandoning all pretenses of happiness as he stalked past me.

“I’m not very hungry, Cy. Got work to catch up on,” he said loudly.

The doors slid shut as soon as he exited the common room, and I felt three pairs of eyes lock on me.

I slid into a seat at the kitchen counter and sighed, resting my chin against my fist.

“He is angry,” I murmured.

Cyborg and Beast Boy exchanged a glance.

“Well, y’know, Star, you’ve been kinda weird around him lately,” Beast Boy offered, rubbing the back of his neck, “he’s probably just worried about you.”

“Is everythin’ okay between you two?” Cyborg asked, touching my shoulder.

I wanted to laugh. Things had never been less okay or more uncertain with Robin and I. I felt sick to my stomach when I thought about where things were headed for us. And worse, the guilt I had felt when I kissed Red X was fading, vanishing so quickly it was as if there had only ever been happiness.

I did not tell Cyborg this. I promised him things were the O and K, and that I was the same, and we would be as well. I excused myself from breakfast quickly and hurried towards my room. I could hear heavy, angry grunts from the gym when I passed it, and the muffled sound of fists attacking a weighted bag. Robin was undoubtedly in there, forcing his fury out in a way that would protect him. I lingered by the doorway for a moment, recalling all the times when I pulled him away from his training or studied his movements with undisguised admiration.

Now it is easy for me to float by, barely sparing a glance as I catch the shadows of his form in the pale lights. This is what it feels like to bury your love so deep it cannot break from your chest. I wonder if this is what Robin feels when he glances at me, in all the moments he thinks I have not noticed his attention.

X’hal, what was I doing to myself? It was not fair to me or Robin or Red X. I could not continue to pine for one boy while tempting the other. It was not right.

The pit in my stomach grew heavier.

NEXT: what’s up with Starfire?, some Robin insight, and (finally!!!) the date

#river #part four #starx #starfire #red x #blue writes #fanfic #fireflyxrebel ily this is for u

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sbgridconsortium · 6 years

Text

Comings and Goings

Tom Rapoport, Ph.D. HHMI, Harvard Medical School

Cell biologist Tom Rapoport may be best known for studies of how proteins get in and out of a convoluted compartment inside cells called the endoplasmic reticulum (ER). But his personal backstory rivals his scientific achievements as a Howard Hughes Medical Institute Investigator at Harvard Medical School (HMS). His life has been intimately shaped by major political persecutions and social upheavals of 20th century Europe and America. Here’s the short version:

“My father was born in Russia into a Jewish family that emigrated during the Russian revolution to Vienna,” Rapoport wrote in a 2010 essay. “[In] the 1920s, [he] became a member of the Socialist party and later of the Communist party. He studied medicine and chemistry. While he was on a fellowship in Cincinnati, Ohio, the Nazis took over Austria and he could not return. In Cincinnati, he met my half-Jewish mother, who had emigrated from Nazi Germany and restarted her career as a pediatrician. I was born in Cincinnati, but 3 years later, in 1950, my parents became targets of the anti-communist campaign of Joseph McCarthy and returned to Europe, initially for a year in Austria. Because my dad was blacklisted, he could not find a job in Austria and we moved to East Germany, where he joined the faculty of Humboldt University in East Berlin. I was 4 years old when we arrived, and I stayed in Berlin until age 48.” In 1995, Tom and eight other members of his lab boarded a plane to Boston, where he has happily settled. He returns to hike in the Alps every year with at least one of his children.

SCIENCE BEGINS AT HOME

Rapoport credits his parents for his interest in science. He recalls stimulating discussions at the dinner table. His success in the Math Olympiads enabled him to go to a special high school for math and science. He developed a love for chemistry, thanks in part to Linus Pauling’s General Chemistry.

Rapoport attended Humboldt University on a special research program that combined undergraduate work with a PhD. East Germany’s PhD program also allowed two doctoral students to team up. Halfway through the seven-year program, he switched to biochemistry, putting him in an institute headed by his father. Rapoport ultimately earned two pairwise postgraduate degrees, but not before accidentally leaving a faucet on, flooding three floors of the institute, including his father’s office. His father made him renovate all of the damaged spaces.

The main publication in 1974 from his second doctorate remains his most-cited paper. The thesis, in partnership with Reinhart Heinrich, “described in quantitative terms the importance of an enzyme for the overall flux through a metabolic pathway and for the regulation of metabolite concentrations,” Rapoport recalls. The theory, now known as “metabolic control analysis (MCA),” was independently developed by another team at the same time and is lauded as an early contribution to the field of systems biology.

Moving to another institute in East Berlin, Rapoport became interested in protein translocation during a project to clone insulin mRNA. Fish, he learned, had larger Islets of Langerhans than mammals. On fish days, lab members lined up around a table to harvest the fresh carp parts they needed. (The rest of the fish was sold cheaply to grateful people lined up in front of the lab.) As part of that work, the group determined the first protein and gene sequences in East Germany.

MEMBRANE INS AND OUTS

Rapoport now wondered how a polypeptide’s zip-code like signal sequence is recognized by the membrane and how the polypeptide then moves through the membrane. With his students, Rapoport reported the first evidence that Sec61p forms the essential protein-conducting channel through the ER membrane for newly made proteins. Rapoport realized the similarities with the related bacterial SecY channel and proposed a unifying concept of protein translocation in 1994.

Science was difficult in East Germany, because of the isolation and lack of resources. When Rapoport made a rare trip to the United States, the FBI called each university host after he left to verify he was a “real scientist.” After the Berlin wall came down in 1989 and Germany was reunified in 1990, Rapoport suddenly found his grant applications funded in full. Yet, even the best and brightest East German scientists faced residual prejudices from their West German colleagues, who were now largely in charge at newly merged universities. Rapoport was denied a professorship at the new institution because of his past engagement in communist East Germany.

At Harvard, Rapoport continued to advance the field of protein translocation. In three main projects, his group has been working out how proteins cross into the ER membrane, how misfolded ER proteins are ejected back (“retrotranslocation”) into the cell cytosol for destruction (“ER-associated protein degradation, or ERAD”), and how the ER gets its shape. The ER is crucial for producing certain proteins and most of the lipids needed by other cell organelles. It occupies 10 percent of a cell’s volume and accounts for nearly half the membrane found in a typical animal cell.

While he insists much remains to be learned about ERAD in particular, Rapoport recently added a fourth project, the mechanism of protein import into peroxisomes, to attract students and postdoctoral fellows who want to make an impact on a less-studied biological problem. Peroxisomes are involved in energy metabolism and detoxification, and their malfunction results in serious human diseases.

In a nascent project, Rapoport also recently became interested in lung surfactants after glimpsing “amazing EM pictures” of the onion-like lipid bilayers in aveolar cells. Premature babies need surfactant spray, because their lung cells cannot yet generate surfactant.

“Every project has something to do with membranes,” Rapoport says. “My lab is known for using purified proteins and reconstituting a process with purified proteins. We start out with some murky cell biology problem – how proteins get across the membrane, how the shape of the membrane determines its function— and eventually understand it at molecular level.”

SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME

To learn these mechanistic details, the lab solves a lot of structures, often in collaboration with others. One highlight is the 2004 X-ray structure of an archaebacterial homolog of the Sec61p complex (with Stephen Harrison, a fellow Howard Hughes investigator at HMS). In a major result in 2016, they captured a structure of the active channel with a translocating polypeptide chain being pushed through.

Above: This crystal structure of the active translocon adds important molecular insights about how proteins are inserted into the channel to be ferried through the bacterial cell membrane. Here, the translocating polypeptide (green) is being pushed through the hourglass-shaped SecY proteinconducting channel (brown and purple) by the SecA ATPase (blue). The analysis was published in *Nature* in March 2016. Courtesy T. Rapoport.

For proteins that do not fold correctly in the ER and retrotranslocate back to the cytosol, Rapoport’s group is working on a comprehensive picture of the ERAD pathway in yeast. In 2017, electron microscopy (EM) gave them a first glimpse of how the crucial Hrd1 channel allows proteins to cross the membrane. Ideally, they will catch Cdc48 ATPase, with its ring-like structure, pulling a misfolded protein back through the membrane.

The lab has EM collaborations with Tom Walz at Rockefeller University, Maofu Liao at HMS, and Christopher Akey at Boston University and has recently built independent EM capabilities as well. In June 2016, Rapoport decided he wanted to do more lab work, starting with crystallizing molecules too small for EM analysis. He found it a breeze: One-third of his trays grew crystals. His philosophy is to tackle the biological problem first, being flexible about learning whatever method is required to answer the question.

Rapoport, who turned 70 in 2017, anticipates a thriving lab for at least another decade or so. In this, too, there is family precedence. After all, his mother finally passed her PhD oral exam at age 102 in 2015, 77 years after her thesis on diphtheria was labeled with a yellow stripe, as Jews would soon be forced to wear yellow stars on their sleeves, and her oral exam canceled.

Looking ahead to where cell biology is heading, Rapoport advises young people to go into organ-specific cell biology, rather than trying to work on the fundamental processes of his generation. “Every cell type in a higher organism has a particular biology,” he says. “Major discoveries will be made and will be more medically relevant than in the past.”

-Carol Curzan Morton

#sbgrid #member tale #science #biomedical research #research #structural biology #biology #nature

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chroniclesofawkwardness · 4 years

Text

Words and Fishes

I shaved my balls yesterday.

It had been a minute, and though they were far from resembling an overgrown jungle, they looked like they needed it. In another piece, I wrote about being a late-adopter of the manscaping trend. That’s still true, but adopting the trend didn’t mean that lost my humble southern Ohio roots in an abyss of personal hygiene and marketing tactics meant to make me marvel about how the trimmer I was using (which became conveniently outdated within weeks of my purchase) was so gentle to the touch, you could use it on a balloon animal without popping it. I took pride in coming to my ingenious realization to use the advertisements that came in the mail on Tuesdays and sometimes Wednesdays as mats to catch the trimmings instead of relying solely on the mats that came with my original order and trying to stretch them out as long as possible so I wouldn’t have to pay for replacements (if they’re even available).

As I carefully trimmed my way around my balls and the surrounding areas, I’d occasionally glance down at my improvised mats to gauge my results, as well as new towels, a shower curtain liner, and candle positioned throughout the bathroom. I thought about how it all started.

Words With Friends (WWF) is one of the few games I play. It’s a modern mobile take on a classic --Scrabble-- that allows me to flex and strengthen my vocabulary muscles. When I started in 2011, there was only one tile style, and there were no advertisements to stare through between games. There’ve been some moments I couldn’t believe I got such a high score with a single word or combination of words, but many more (thanks to the Hindsight power-up in WWF 2) when I shook my head at missed opportunities for more points. How could I have been so blind? The best play was right before my eyes.

I know games like WWF are designed to keep me hooked since Zynga has to feed their hungry application developers, but I recently got hooked in another way.

Ever the competitor, I hated losing, even at an inconsequential game like WWF. If I won a game because the other player had timed out, I didn’t feel like I’d earned it because both players hadn’t competed until the end. Who knows what he or she had going on in their life that prevented them from making their next move before the clock ran out?

WWF also has a chat feature you could use to talk with your opponent. I avoided using it for the longest time because for the first several years I played the game, I only played against people I knew in real life. One of my most common initial opponents was my aunt. For months, I beat her every time we played. I relished in kicking her ass all over the virtual game board, which became the biggest drain on my phone’s battery.

One day out of the blue, my aunt’s skill seemed to increase exponentially for no apparent reason. She was suddenly able to beat me (and handily so) three or four times in a row, which irritated me to no end. As quickly and inexplicably as her winning streak began, she stopped playing. The abrupt end to our battles pissed me off so much that I haven’t spoken to her about it since.

***

Eventually, I decided to take a chance and start playing WWF against random opponents. I don’t know if I was looking for a new challenge, or acting out because I couldn’t come to grips with the fact my aunt had finally beaten me. By this time, WWF had a Match of the Day feature that invited you to play against the kind of unpredictable opponent I was looking for. One day, I tapped on the thumbnail of a profile belonging to Kristina from Australia and started playing a game.

She played back fairly quickly and proved to be a tough opponent, winning three or four games for each one I won against her. Like I said, I hated losing. Even though my numbers weren’t great against Kristina, I kept challenging her.

Once, Kristina timed out (which usually occurs after about 10-12 days), giving me a win. I started another game against her. When she played back, I told her the same thing I’ve already told you -- I hate cheap victories that are a result of an elapse of time rather than a display of skill. She offered an apology that she’d been busy. I didn’t expect to hear from her again because the time difference between the Land Down Under and the Buckeye State is anywhere between thirteen and sixteen hours.

Not long after, she messaged me with a simple: “Hello David.” I replied in kind. We exchanged small talk for a few days. I remember wondering how someone who looked as strikingly beautiful as she did in her picture could be interested in talking to me. I told her I imagined she got all kinds of messages from guys all the time because of her good looks. She said she did, but she ignored most of them, adding that one guy asked her to marry him and be a mother to his three children. She declined and blocked him from contacting her, or so she said. Kristina even told me about a stalker who followed her around for a year before being caught. She said she’d never been so scared. Even though we’d never met, I felt genuine concern for her. No one deserves to be harassed by someone who isn’t honest about their intentions, someone who prefers instead to lurk cowardly in the shadows.

Another night, I messaged Kristina saying good evening Ohio time. She wrote back wishing me a good evening NYC (New York City) time. I thought she was just messing with me and I told her so. When I asked if she was visiting NYC, she told me she was living in Hartsdale, working on sponsorship from New York Medical Center (NYMC), and working at a hospital in White Plains. Kristina was very proud of the fact that she’d been selected from a field of three hundred applicants. She added that she’d come to America to get a fresh start after her marriage to her ex-husband Stuart had ended. Her four brothers, Garry, Steven, Michael, and Richard (her twin) drank beer on Scarborough Beach in solidarity with their sister when she’d decided to leave Stuart. She went so far as to say she’d be finishing her bridging visa in January, which would allow her to stay in the United States.

To the question of whether or not she had children, she said she had a daughter. My heart sank slightly because I was starting to feel a connection to Kristina sight unseen. I should have only wanted her Scrabble skills. I thought a child would only complicate things between us if we even got that far. Red flags were starting to pop up left and right, but I was already thinking with my little head. I had to ask, but I also should have known that most thirty-eight-year-old women (ironically, I was exactly two months older than Kristina) would have already had kids if they were planning on having them at all. I should have ended it right there, but Kristina explained that her daughter wasn’t her daughter. She and Stuart had adopted her, only to have her claimed by a biological aunt and taken to live in the United Kingdom.

Crisis averted, it almost seemed too good to be true.

***

I began to open up more to Kristina as the days turned to nights and back again. I told her about how much I loved my grandfather, she told me about her grandmother who lived to be 104 and gave up playing tennis only after falling and breaking her hip shortly before her death. I figured Kristina must have gotten her love of tennis (a sport I’d played as a child), swimming, and golf honestly. I shared with her that my grandfather had been more of a father to my brother and me than he ever should have had to have been, and he too had lived a very active lifestyle until congestive heart failure began to slow him down so much that even he could not fully recover.

She told me many times that she didn’t want gravity to take over as she aged. In reply, I’d point out that I had more to worry about than she did since I was exactly two months older than her. But, one thing I didn’t mention was that not wanting gravity to take over was the same rationale I’d been using for years when deciding to work out. I was afraid of turning into my dad, by which I mean having to watch my gut grow further and further past my belt until my waistline became nothing more than a proverbial line in the sand. A line I once said I’d never cross -- a line I’d move so far away from that despite a steadfast original promise to hold it, I could no longer see. Unlike my dad, I didn’t want to have to take a bag full of medications just to stay alive, even though I’d truly given up on life a long time ago.

Not long after our grandparent conversation in the WWF chat, I began to trust Kristina enough to share some of my writings with her. I can’t remember if we were talking about how emotion and intent aren’t always conveyed well in text messages, or how I’d never quite mastered the use of emojis. Either way, something inspired me to share Ite, emoji est with her. If you haven’t read it, it’s the story of my eggplant emoji fiasco. She laughed hysterically and told me about the eggplants in her vegetable crisper. Kristina said that thanks to me, she’d never look at eggplant the same way again. For an instant, I thought it was odd that she had eggplants readily available. Most people probably don’t keep eggplants on hand. Still, I didn’t think twice about it until much later.

If my ill-advised emoji choice ruined eggplants for the both of us, Kristina didn’t let that stop her from sharing stories of her mishaps. Once, she told me she’d spilled hot chocolate all over the white nightgown she was wearing as she sat in front of the fireplace. Another time, she told me she dropped a fish filet on her foot, but it still ended up in her tummy. I found it odd that she would still eat something after having dropped it, but I dismissed this a personality quirk of hers. I was becoming convinced that she was a klutz, just like me.

Over the next few weeks, I’d discover that clumsiness was one of many traits and/or experiences Kristina and I had in common. I know now that I should have seen all of these commonalities (she’d grown up Catholic like me, her father had been a cop like mine) as significant red flags instead of opportunities to bond with her. At the time, I was too thrilled to meet someone with whom I shared so much to put an abrupt end to our interaction. If I’d known what was to come, I’d wish I had.

One morning, I asked Kristina if there was anything she’d always wanted to try. Her response was skydiving. I said I wanted to dance the tango. We shared visions of tandem jumps and tango lessons. She said she had a red, thigh-high slit dress exactly like one the tiny emoji woman who was always ready to dance in my phone wore. Kristina said Richard had once dropped her while they were doing the tango, so I had to promise to be careful with her. I imagined our two bodies melting into one; our hearts pounding and sweat dripping in unison. I couldn’t wait to feel the shape of her body beneath her dress as we glided together across the dance floor. She purred at the thought of me in a tux.

The more intense our conversations became, the more I entertained the idea of communicating with Kristina outside of the game. I offered her my phone number because it’s a man’s job to move things forward. She didn’t call or text me. Yet another red flag. I wondered if I’d blown it or gone too far since she didn’t reciprocate. In retrospect, this was another chance to walk away from her that I didn’t take, however obvious it was that I should have. I either couldn’t or chose not to see what was going on because I was too grateful for the attention of a beautiful woman read: thumbnail that I would have otherwise considered out of my league and never approached in real life.

Around Christmas, she told me her co-workers were beginning to notice a change in her and surmised that she must be in love. The women wanted to know all about her mystery man; the guys wanted to know what I had that they didn’t. “Personality” was her answer. The rum balls she made for the office Christmas party were a hit. She was the only person I’d ever met apart from my mother who made them, and she admitted to being a piggy when it came to eating them. It seemed our connection was deepening over most trivial things, which made it so much more powerful. I never told her that one holiday season while I was living in Serbia, my mom made rum balls and mailed them to me. I was so happy that I posted a picture of them on Facebook.

One morning, Kristina messaged me saying she had feelings for me and didn’t know what to do with them. Somehow, she said, I’d managed to knock down the walls she’d been building around her heart since she left Stuart, and she’d never felt the same way about another man that she felt about me. She couldn’t figure out how she’d fallen for me. Despite her curiosity, she promised she wouldn’t scroll back through our WWF chat to find out. She closed our exchange of messages that morning by saying that she wanted me to make love to her.

***

I thought this was a great idea. Still, I couldn’t rest on whatever virtual laurels I thought I’d won by having her suggest lovemaking. Instead, I used whatever literary skill I thought I had to paint verbal pictures of the two of us together. I had neither the stamina, nor the potential STDs of a porn star (Kristina was oddly forthcoming about both her lack of STDs and disdain for condoms. Red flag... Red flag...), but I was genuine in my expression of my desire to truly explore her, ravish her, and ejaculate as a choice rather than a punchline. Episodes of our chat became increasingly sexually explicit, both of us contributing content. Sexual tension even spilled over into our WWF games, both players passing up points to play erotic words or make references emotionally charged content of speech bubbles hours or minutes past.

It was wonderful to finally connect with someone on not just a thumbnail but an emotional level. I never told her about my mild Cerebral Palsy, but when she told me she dreamed of specializing in orthopedics, I was convinced I’d found a keeper. I would never immediately volunteer my disability status to a potential partner. Yet I’m sure that somewhere in the darkest corners of the Internet, there are Pickup Artist forums that discuss tactics guys with disabilities can use to get girls. I can see thread now, with posts by guys with usernames like CPaul or DysplasiaDarryl:

Tell a girl about your autobiography, Limp: The Story of My Life. Joke about how you were referring to your leg, not your dick. Ask if she wants to see. If she asks which one or gets the Iceberg Slim reference, assure her your third leg works just fine. If she refuses to investigate on her own, she wasn’t for you anyway. She’s probably a slut who imagines herself having high standards. The girls you really want will get dripping wet at just the thought of being with an artist.

I didn’t think any tactic would have worked on Kristina anyway. Why would I have used something as hollow as a few canned lines or routines with her anyway? She’d have seen right through it all. Besides, I didn’t need to. I’d won her over naturally. My disability was the result of something that happened to me a long time ago. There was no need for me to be angry about it, or keep it locked away like some kind of dark secret. How I chose to handle it would say more about my character than any reaction of hers ever could have. At the end of the day, I didn’t think she would care, so why should I?

Mom and I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. She wanted to be there to watch my niece and nephew open presents before Christmas became less magical and more an opportunity for awkward family photos. I can’t say I blame her. After all the gifts had been opened, my niece repeatedly tried to break a board she’d gotten as a training tool for martial arts; my nephew rotated between riding his new bike around the house and nearly flying his new drone into the oven any time it was open. Mom milled about the kitchen, offering to help my brother and sister-in-law prepare a meal.

As for me, instead of spending time with real people, I’d steal away into an adjacent room to check my phone every time it buzzed. I was less concerned with making moves in WWF than I was with seeing if Kristina had messaged me. I felt bad that she couldn’t spend Christmas with her family. Her mother died when Kristina was three, her father had passed away more recently; her brothers were on another continent. Each time checking my phone revealed a message from Kristina, I felt not only validation but strength. She wasn’t the only one who’d built walls around her heart that were beginning to crumble.

***

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I’d finally connected with someone smart, sexy, athletic, and perhaps most importantly a deep thinker. Kristina was reflecting so much on our future together that it’s almost as if she knew how to put my mind at ease before I could even get nervous. Sure, I was a bit taken aback by her insistence on how clean and STD-free she was, but that was only one instance in which she was all too willing to share. For example, I’d always heard that people who have more money than they know what to do with are usually very quiet about it, especially if it’s family wealth that’s grown with them for generations. So, when Kristina volunteered that she was financially secure, I was surprised, slightly skeptical, but most of all curious.

To hear her tell it, her father (who’d given up his career as a cop for one as a farmer) had accumulated a fortune buying and selling horses. He’d subsequently done very well for himself with stocks and investments, leaving Kristina and her brothers shares upon his death. In terms of which stocks or investments, she only mentioned Bitcoin, which she was able to sell before its value crashed, and an Australian Super Fund, which she claimed had once earned her $81,000.00 in three weeks. At the end of the day, she said, she could afford never to work another day in her life if she so chose. I had a hard time wrapping my Southern Ohio barely-middle-class head around the numbers.

A woman with no kids or STDs who’s both secure and interested in me? It seemed too good to be true.

Despite babies spitting and old men hitting on her, Kristina told me how grateful she was to the staff of NYMC for their hospitality and all she’d learned. Sure, she occasionally had drug seekers tell her to go back to Australia after she’d refused their requests, but her boss had been accommodating enough to actually allow her to go back to Australia when one of her brothers had gotten into an accident two years ago. They’d told her to take all the time she needed.

As much as she loved NYMC, Kristina admitted that she didn’t like New York City very much. She said she was willing to come to Columbus to build a future with me beyond tango and skydiving lessons. As our plans to meet cam closer and closer to fruition, I realized certain aspects of my lifestyle could use upgrade. This is when ordered manscaping tools, cologne, a candle, and a new shower curtain liner. I didn’t stop there. I added new pillows, pillowcases bath towels, and bathmats. I’d be lying if I said these purchases weren’t made at least partially with Kristina in mind (I wouldn’t want to explore a forest, so she shouldn’t have had to either), but they were also very much needed upgrades, no matter how much she’d become my weakness and I’d become her strength.

The Hugo Boss cologne I chose had hints of orange peel and bamboo for Christ’s sake. The “Sexy Man” candle supposedly also had the aroma of a man’s cologne. Kristina said she was curious to find out what the candle smelled like. Unfortunately, we’d never get to make that discovery. I received neither the cologne nor the candle in the mail. On the day they supposedly arrived, I got an email from UPS with a picture of both items in front of my door. But, when I got home from work that night, they were nowhere to be found. The UPS driver who’d delivered them came out to my place the next day asking where I’d looked for my packages. He advised me to file a claim with UPS. UPS in turn advised me to file a claim with Amazon and try to get my money back.

As luck would have it, I got through to an Amazon customer service representative about seven minutes too early the following Monday. Initially, I was told I had two options. The first was to have replacement items sent to me, the second was a refund. Of course I wanted replacements I said. I had to have masculine fragrances to balance out the intoxicating scent of the $29.99 Ambrosia perfume Kristina said she’d be wearing. She’d let me guess which part of her body she’d place the fourth drop of perfume on. She’d promised to leave a bottle at my place to remind me of her. She’d bought lingerie for my eyes only that the store employee told her she was born to wear. She’d told me she slept naked even though I didn’t ask (though she wondered how much sleep we’d be getting). I had a lot riding on this. Could replacements be sent to me?

No.

Since I’d called before 4 P.M. Pacific time (it was 6:57 P.M. ET by this point), my only choice was to a refund. I ended up ordering cologne and bath towels through one of Amazon’s competitors.

***

Even having Kristina in mind while I was trying to make these upgrades was a mistake, but I was acting according to The Awful Truth of where a man’s heart is truly located and giving her credit for things she didn’t earn. For instance, I told her that I had no concerns about her because we’d taken “precautions” even though we’d never met, or video chatted. In reality, we hadn’t done shit but type messages back and forth.

I mentioned that in my experience, fraudsters we usually very demanding, aggressive, and single-minded. They want what they want and they don’t stop until they get it. As proof, I offered my experience with a WWF player who’d messaged me a few days ago, before I even had a chance to accept her invitation to play. That player wanted to know if I was single right off the bat. She demanded that I give her my phone number so we could text, be friends, and maybe more. I blocked her almost immediately. In response, Kristina asked if she was too friendly. “No. You’re just right,” I replied. Goldilocks would have thrown up in her mouth. I was too deeply under the influence of Kristina’s digeridoo siren song to care, and she knew it.

After the first of the year, we transitioned to chatting on Google Hangouts. I sent her a recent photo and asked for one of her in return. She sent me what she said was her most recent one, in which she had long brown hair, dark brown eyes, and wore a white suit. Even though the photo didn’t look anything like her thumbnail form WWF, it did make fa perfect headshot for a medical professional in New York City. As for my photo, she said I had a kind face.

I may have had a kind face, but I never saw Kristina’s real face. She would call me through Hangouts, as she once did even while locked in the morgue, hiding from an active shooter (all the more reason to get out of New York City, she said), but our calls were voice-only. As for photos, she sent me only two more throughout our entire conversation. One was of her dog Buddy, who despite his Australian origins, had once been quarantined for eight hours at the Perth airport when they’d arrived home from the United Kingdom. The other was of her when she was about twelve. She was hanging upside down in a tree, a huge smile on her face.

Kristina gave me the impression that having four brothers made her bit of a tomboy, meaning whatever her brothers did, she did too. It didn’t matter whether they were hanging upside down from trees, or servicing cars. She could do it all. I was falling for her more and more each day. Whenever my phone buzzed, my heart leaped. I didn’t mind the startling lack of visual evidence that she was the woman in the white suit. Sure, she told me videos wouldn’t play on her phone, but I could hear it occasionally buzzing, and birds occasionally beatboxing in the background, when we spoke. We were going to be together. That was all that mattered.

So deep was her commitment to me, our commitment to each other, that she not only vowed to find a job in Columbus (she sent me a screenshot of a job posting at Wexner Medical Center she intended to apply for), she also turned down an offer of a salary increase to stay at NYMC that was more than what I make in a year. She’d even found a house of us to live in and made plans to take her citizenship oath in Cleveland during the weekend of February 19th. I made sure to schedule that weekend off (who knew how much sleep we’d be getting) and introduce her to my mother.

Before any of that could happen, we had to meet for the first time. We made plans to finally connect in person over the Martin Luther King, Jr. Day weekend. She’d even found us a house in Victorian Village (a four-bedroom palace by my standards) that had been built in 1900. She’d pay cash for it of course, and we’d figure out a way to pay off my lease so we could live together. She’d be a doctor and I could quit my job at the bank for a career in freelance copywriting. In the evenings, we’d alternate between dancing the tango and chasing each other throughout the house in various states of undress.

After years of false starts and failures with the opposite sex, my ship was finally coming in.

***

Somehow, Kristina managed to schedule her job interview at Wexner Medical Center and a showing of the house on the same day. I couldn’t be with her since I couldn’t get time away from work on such short notice, but she messaged me once she was back in New York saying that the interview had gone well. They’d agreed to let her have a month off (she suggested we vacation in Hawaii during that time). Her first day would be February 24th, which would line up nicely with what I’d planned to be my last day at the bank, March 1st.

She also said she had a new set of keys in her hand. The wire transfer to purchase the house (list price: $539,000.00) had gone through without a hitch. I’d made sure to have Kristina confirm the wiring instructions verbally with the recipient before sending the money. I didn’t want the woman I loved to be scammed. The house was hers free and clear. She could have both something she wanted (a pool, for only $20,000.00) and something she didn’t (a mortgage).

I was as over the moon as a reserved yet intensely passionate person can be.

In a not so simple twist of fate, Kristina called me the morning from New York. There had been an accident.

Garry had called to say that Richard had been driving in Red Hill (a suburb of Perth) when another driver, who’d gone fishing for their fallen cell phone, rear-ended him. The guy who caused the accident wasn’t seriously injured. Richard, on the other hand, had a broken leg and a collapsed lung. She’d be leaving New York for Perth that night, with a layover in Dubai (another potential vacation destination we’d discussed).

“Do you want to come to Australia with me?” She asked.

Kristina was willing to call Emirates and book tickets for both of us. She wanted to check with me first. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day was fast approaching, but Australia wasn’t a continent I could visit over a three-day weekend. Kristina was disappointed yet understanding. The boxes she’d packed in preparation for her move to Columbus would have to spend several New York minutes in solitude while she traveled to be with her brothers, Richard’s wife Michelle, her niece Bianca (who was the same age as my niece), and the rest of her family. My heart didn’t quite break for her, but cracks appeared. Both of her parents were deceased, now her twin was clinging to life. How much more unlucky could she be?

***

I was sad that I couldn’t see her, but our plans were becoming more specific with each passing day, almost scarily so. There was no question that they were worth waiting for. I’d waited 38 years for Kristina, what was another 10 days?

We’d talked about getting married in our new house, in front of a small group of friends and family. Privately, I hoped my friend Matt, when he finally met Kristina, wouldn’t embarrass me too much with ill-timed disability jokes, but I was bracing myself for the inevitable on more than one front. I’d told Kristina there was no need to spend $6,000.00 on a wedding dress like she did when she’d married Stuart. Even though I had the impression that money was no object to her, I figured the biggest thing she’d be spending money on was travel expenses. Bianca had asked her auntie Kris if she could come to the wedding. Auntie Kris did not object.

We even planned on starting a family. Kristina said she’d been met with surprise from a fellow doctor when she approached them about having a Mirena (inserted into her uterus to guard against pregnancy. I supported her decision and remembered how she’d told me she didn’t like condoms as she reminded herself to breathe during our sexually-charged WWF chat sessions. As far as I was concerned, her body was exactly that. It wasn’t my place to tell her what to do with it. She took it a step further, however, as only she could.

If she had the Mirena removed after a year, would I be opposed to having a child? Of course not, I said. Her voice nearly cracked with joy. I could almost feel the tears running down her face. She’d later tell me of a dream she had in which she was breastfeeding our son, Alexander David when he wrapped his hand around my index finger as I passed by.

Her reaction to our agreement to have a child was as extreme as her dreamy description of breastfeeding, but I didn’t chide her for it. Not my place. After all, it wasn’t the first time she displayed a penchant for the outliers of affection. She loved to send me YouTube videos others had made of love letters to their one and only. You know, the ones where the letters of each word come across the screen one-by-one, with some incredibly cheesy song playing in the background. She sent me a clip of a couple dancing the tango (of course), and the official music video for How Do I Live by LeAnn Rimes, yet another way of reminding herself to breathe.

Though I loved her no less, I sent her only two videos. One was the Raymond K. Hessel scene from the movie Fight Club, in which Tyler Durden challenges Raymond to begin living his life according to his dreams instead of quitting whenever things got too hard. I told Kristina that I tried to live (though I didn’t always succeed) with the same sense of urgency Raymond displayed as he left his apathy behind and ran down the street toward the best-tasting breakfast of his life. Kristina said the scene was scary, and I was nothing like Raymond. She always seemed to know the right thing to say.

The second video was a performance of Nature Boy by Nat King Cole. I’d come to admire the song because I’d heard it many times through the years on my favorite Serbian radio program, Peščanik. Nature Boy had always reminded me of the hundreds if not thousands of hours I’d spent listening to Peščanik to improve my language skills and knowledge of current affairs in the former Yugoslavia. Now, the lyrics had another layer of meaning:

There was a boy A very strange enchanted boy They say he wandered very far, very far Over land and sea A little shy and sad of eye But very wise was he

And then one day A magic day he passed my way And while we spoke of many things Fools and kings This he said to me The greatest thing you'll ever learn Is just to love and be loved in return

The greatest thing you'll ever learn Is just to love and be loved in return

Like I said, what was another ten days?

***

The situation on the ground was worse than anticipated by the time Kristina arrived in Perth. Richard’s lung hadn’t just collapsed, it had been punctured. There was a serious question of whether he’d be able to breathe on his own. Kristina said the driver who caused the accident had been arrested and charged with manslaughter. If that wasn’t enough, she’d had a tense encounter with his sister when she came to the hospital to check on Richard.

As the only medical professional among the five siblings, Kristina had been given the unenviable task of deciding whether to keep Richard on life support or give him a chance to breathe on his own. Even though we were on opposite sides of the globe and dealing with a thirteen-hour time difference, it was hard for me to focus at work. I was constantly checking my phone while at my desk at work, whether I’d heard the buzz of an incoming message or not. My heart raced every time I opened my phone case to illuminate the screen. Getting caught looking at my phone on the production floor could have meant a serious rebuke from management if the wrong person caught me on the wrong day.

I didn’t give a shit.

Someone I loved was hurting. I knew where my priorities were. I knew I would only be with the bank a short while longer (even if no one else did) before Kristina and I started our life together. The last eight years wouldn’t be easy to brush aside. Still, the chance to live in a beautiful house with a beautiful woman, and pursue a copywriting career seemed too good to pass up. I was willing to trade the certainty of the present for my dreams of an uncertain future. Tyler Durden gave Raymond K. Hessel six weeks to get on his way to becoming a veterinarian. If he didn’t, Tyler said, Raymond would be dead. In the real world, March 1st was almost exactly six weeks away.

I’d need no such warning; I’d gotten this far by not heeding warnings.

The next morning (Ohio time), Kristina called me and said Richard had squeezed her hand while she sat beside him in his hospital room, but there was still a long road to recovery ahead. I was no medical professional like Kristina, but I was hopeful this was a positive sign. I didn’t know the man, but I’d looked forward to meeting him ever since Kristina said Richard would be stopping to visit us in our new house after taking care of business in California. She spoke so lovingly of him. I’d always heard twins had a special bond. They were no exception.

She spoke lovingly of me to her brothers too. Kristina said they had come to believe that I must be a hell of a guy if I could make their sister feel the way I did by knocking down the defenses so firmly-entrenched around her heart. She said that in her brothers’ eyes, I’d come a long way from being just a random person she’d met playing a game (a game!) on her phone; someone who could have been a rapist. Kristina made me feel like I was becoming part of their family.

The next morning, I woke to a heart-wrenching message from Kristina. Richard hadn’t been able to breathe on his own and had died as a result of his injuries. Kristina agonized over having made what she said was the wrong decision. I did the best I could to console her from half a world away. I’m not sure how much help I was, but my heart was with her even though I couldn’t be. The time and distance between us meant we couldn’t be together to mourn Richard’s death and celebrate his life. As much as it hurt for us not to be together. Kristina did have one request of me, a request I was happy to oblige: She asked me to pick. the flowers for Richard’s funeral the following Thursday.

I chose pink roses because I felt they were unique. I’d never heard of a funeral with pink roses before. After I’d communicated my decision, Kristina sent me an image of a pink rose, saying she’d bought 300 of them. She promised to make sure everyone knew they were my contribution to the occasion. Since she’d be giving Richard’s eulogy, she’d have ample opportunity to do so.

About two days before the funeral she called me saying that that they’d had a least a hundred people at what had been her childhood home to celebrate Richard. Her father had sold some of the properties the family owned before he died, but her brother Michael still lived in what had been Kristina’s childhood home. Michael suggested Kristina take one of their father’s cigar boxes as a memento, but she was content to leave it where it was.

She took the same approach to her childhood bedroom, which she’d left largely untouched since moving out years ago. Amazingly, she still had a doll of Gizmo from Gremlins, which her father had taken her to see in what probably felt like another lifetime. I admired how she managed to look back at her past and forward to our future. Her family wanted her to stay longer than she’d planned after the funeral, but they understood how much she just wanted to be with me. It seemed “I just want to be with you” was a phrase she repeated every chance she got. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the same way.

***

Kristina called the morning of Richard’s funeral (Australia time) understandably a mess. She and Michelle were about to head over to the church. She said she didn’t know how she was going to make it through without me. I offered the best encouragement I could, told her I loved her (I did), and asked her to be strong. I spent the entirety of my shift at work that day physically in the Buckeye State, but mentally in the Land Down Under. Kristina said she’d try to get in touch with the guys who were supposed to drive her stuff from New York and see if they could meet her in Columbus. We knew she’d be exhausted if she had to drive to Ohio almost immediately after spending 30 hours (she’d gotten a hotel room for the six hours she’d be spending in Dubai) in transit from Western Australia, but it was a price we were willing to pay.

What was waiting for another four days to be together compared to the rest of our lives?

Kristina called me the next morning to say that she almost didn’t make it through Richard’s eulogy. She had to be emotionally and physically supported by her brothers as she bid farewell to her twin. She said she thought about me as she spoke, and she’d gotten a lot of compliments about the pink roses.

She also gave me the impression that it’s customary for people to speak out at funerals in Australia. Her boisterous cousin Anthony, who asked Kristina to “Show us your tits!” a few days earlier (in reference to when she was 16 and her bikini top came off at a swimming pool), wanted to know all about her plans with her “Yankee man” in the middle of the service. I couldn’t help wondering if Kristina had told everyone about our agreement: her bikini top would be entirely unnecessary whenever we were in the water together. I knew those inquiring Aussie minds were so far away from me that our toilet water didn’t even flow in the same direction when flushed, but my face turned as red as the bikini bottom I’d imagined Kristina wearing as we kissed, buoyant beneath the moonlight of the hot Australian summer, her top long ago discarded, floating unattended and aimless on the other side of the pool.

By Friday, Kristina was in the air, and I was making final preparations for her arrival. After the false start of Martin Luther King Jr. Day weekend, I was convinced nothing was going to stop us this time. She’d already worked her final shift at NYMC, and said her toughest goodbyes. Among these was Simon, an eight-year-old with Leukemia who was not long for this world. I’d told Kristina I had a Buckeye necklace she could give to him as a way to both remember her and think of her new life in Ohio. Still, she’d placed serious doubt in my mind as to whether or not he’d live long enough to wear it. At that moment, I’d thought of a quote I’d attributed to Athletic Shorts, a collection of short stories by Chris Crutcher, who I’d met at the American Corner in Novi Sad years ago:

If you want to make life important, shorten it.

I’d always liked that one, even if I hadn’t always lived by it. Kristina and I were about to leave our pasts behind and live fully in the now, however exciting, intoxicating and scary it may have been. The pillow on the left side of my bed, the one she’d chosen, wouldn’t be empty much longer. I had Monday, January 27th off, and hoped to need it after a weekend of little sleep.

***

On Saturday, I made a trip to TJ Maxx. I was looking for a new pair of jeans to wear when I saw Kristina for the first time. As excited as I was, I hadn’t shared in her wealth yet, so I still didn’t want to break the bank. I chose a dark wash that I could wear with anything. I was feeling good about myself when I remembered something I’d learned in Serbia that had nothing to do with athletic shorts: You should never show up at someone’s house for the first time empty-handed.

I already had a cutting board shaped like the state of Ohio that I’d bought at the same place I got the bathmats. I thought it was such a unique idea because it served two purposes. One was in the kitchen, the other was in geography. It was supposed to a a cool way to introduce Kristina to the what, where and when of my home state.

Fresh jeans around my left forearm, I almost got in the checkout line. I was inches from crossing the point-of-no-return barrier that separated the checkout line from the rest of the store when a horrible thought occurred to me. I needed to bring Kristina something to eat. I turned around a ventured into a section of TJ Maxx unspoiled by humans. There was no one around me for ten feet in any direction. Intentionally or not, I was practicing social distancing in a pre-Coronavirus lockdown world.

I saw it when I found a few shelves of snacks, oddly placed there in its box between some graham crackers and a jar of Nutella. It might as well have been a resident of the Island of Misfit Toys, or a sickly puppy from a shelter that nobody wanted because you couldn’t say for certain whether or not it’d be dead in three weeks. In other words, it was exactly what I wanted, what I needed: baklava.

Who the fuck buys baklava at TJ Maxx?

***

I didn’t notice the small details of my new jeans until I got them home. The phrase LUCKY YOU was sown on the placket (a word worth 18 points in WWF) were sown on the placket. There was also a small piece of paper the looked like a fortune from a fortune cookie in one of the pockets. It read: Today is the first day of one wild ride. Lucky # 10, 23, 30, 35, 59, 11. “Kristina is going to love this,” I thought.

Late Saturday night, Kristina messaged me saying she was back at her duplex in New York. Her crystal was all boxed up and her co-workers were running out of time to interrupt our conversations by knocking on her door and begging her to stay. Two guys would be there to start the trip to Columbus with her at 10 A.M. Sunday morning. She’d had to pay extra for them to work on Sunday, but who cared? I didn’t. She certainly didn’t. Money can do lots of things when it’s no object.

The only catch was that one of the guys didn’t have a Driver's License, so Kristina would have to drive her black Ford Focus while the two guys manned the truck. The guys were slow at loading Kristina’s things onto the truck, so they were behind schedule by the time all three hit the road, but Kristina was on her way to me nonetheless.

I’d message her about every two hours to see how far along they were. I paced nervously around my apartment all day because I couldn’t hold a thought in my head. All I wanted to do was step out from behind my phone’s keypad and ravish Kristina in real life. She was so close I could almost taste her.

I’d thrown caution to the wind a long time ago, but I still had some lingering doubts. Like I said, we’d never video chatted, so I’d never seen her face when she wasn’t posing for a picture. I couldn’t find her anywhere on social media. Reason, aka the voice in my (big) head that screamed “Abort! Abort!” had passed out drunk for the last time after too many nights of partying with his false friends Raw, Dick, and Imagination.

***

If anything, the huge plot holes in our love story made my attraction to Kristina even stronger. In my mind’s eye, I saw this woman I had never met as the anthesis of the look-at-me/outrage/cancel culture that screams the loudest in America today. Kristina was the opposite of my oops-my-pussy-is-showing roommate Dragana from Enter the Dragana. We talked about books and fitness instead of counting followers and likes. Kristina had even signed up to volunteer with me at a tennis clinic for kids with Down’s Syndrome. I knew then that her heart was as big as her wallet.

She didn’t need the attention that Dragana craved. At the very beginning of our connection, Kristina had asked me if I had any other women in my life. I asked her the same question about other men. We both answered no. She said my lack of other women was a good thing; the only things she didn’t like sharing were her men and her chocolate.

Somehow, I managed to get a bit of sleep Sunday night, but it came only after I read that Kristina had arrived safely in Columbus. The movers had even helped her unload her car.

Monday morning, I messaged Kristina asking how she was feeling after spending the night in our new house. She replied that she’d woken up in the middle of the night and didn’t know where she was.

After everything she’d been through in the past two weeks, who could blame her?

As I had the day before when she was traveling, I messaged her about once every two hours to see how she was doing. I didn’t want to come across as needy, but I couldn’t help myself. I thought I’d found love, something I’d convinced myself didn’t exist. I wanted to dance the tango with Kristina and promptly rip the red thigh-high slit dress, gorilla costume, or whatever she was wearing off of her. I was convinced she wanted the same and nothing was going to stop us.

***

As hours passed without a message from Kristina, the fears I’d hidden away, buried, or just flat-out ignored from the moment she said said, “Hello David” came creeping back. Around 3:30 that afternoon, I knew I had to do something. I had to know the truth. I requested a Lyft and entered as my destination the address where my new life was supposed to begin. I put on my new jeans, placed the baklava in a reusable shopping bag with the Ohio-shaped cutting board, and waited.

Five-star Jeff came pretty quickly. We talked about what we both did outside the car as we made our way down to the house. Twenty minutes felt like all the games Kristina and I had played, plus the two months we’d spent talking, all rolled into one.

I lied to Jeff for no reason other than it was easy; I told him the contents of my shopping bag were housewarming gifts for friends of mine who were new in town. “Yeah. She’ll be starting a job at Wexner Medical Center next month. They gave her a month off to acclimate herself to her new surroundings. Can you believe that shit?”

I noticed something odd when we pulled up to the house, but I lied again and had Jeff pull over to wait for me in case they weren’t home, even though I instantly knew they wouldn’t be.

A burgundy-colored For Sale sign was still in the front yard.

I silently cursed myself for not having listened to the less-hornier angels of my nature. I felt like I was going to vomit burgundy-colored blood all over five-star Jeff’s floorboards. I liked Jeff, but I couldn’t let him know how badly I’d been played, or all that had led up to what he’d just witnessed. I needed to get home before I could even think of letting my feelings show. At that moment, Jeff was the only other human being on the planet who knew where I was, even if I’d lied about why he’d taken me there.

I walked up the steps and sheepishly knocked on the door. Ringing the doorbell would have been much easier, but my stomach was doing somersaults. I fully expected a classic fat-chick catfish reveal like so many I’d seen on television, but there was no moment of truth, no dramatic confrontation. After five minutes of tense anticipation that quickly morphed into oh-shit-what-if-someone-really-lives-here paranoia, I went back to Jeff’s SUV and explained that they must not be home, so I’d like to go back to mine.

After Jeff dropped me off at my place, I messaged Kristina that I needed to talk to her and it was important. I made sure to include two of the kissy-face emojis that had become ubiquitous in our exchanges. As many times as I tried to send the message, the reply was always the same: Sending failed... tap to retry. I knew I’d been had, but the enormity of both what she’d done to me, and what I’d allowed her to do, didn’t really hit me until I emailed her in a last-ditch effort to tell her something she already knew: I couldn’t reach her through our chat. After I hit send, I finally let my heart sink among the crashing waves of anger, sadness, regret, and self-loathing that had been battering it all day.

David played “why” for ten points.

The pillow on the left side of my bed is still empty when I wake up in the morning. Instead of a four-bedroom house, I still live in my one-bedroom apartment. The walls are so thin that I once heard one of the two homosexuals who live adjacent to me tell someone on the other end of the phone that they could tolerate lemon pepper seasoning in their food if they didn’t know it was there, but foreknowledge of its presence was a deal-breaker.

The things you do for love.

It may not be a reality dreams are made of, but at least its real, and it’s mine.

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brian-wellson · 7 years

Note

What got you into writing? What's your story?

It would be cliché for me to say that I have been writing all my life… cliché, but also true. In order to understand that statement, you have to understand who I am as a person.

I come from a broken home. An actual broken home — my biological parents divorced when I was two or so; I lived with (and was physically and emotionally abused by) my biodad while my mom was in a psychiatric hospital; my biodad told me I was a mistake; and my mom lived with a prostitute because she needed someone to help her make rent. All of this by age five! Books were, by all rights, my only friends. Books were a marker of stability — they were pretty much all I had.

When I had entered kindergarten, I was already reading at the fifth grade level. By the end of that school year, the seventh grade level. Even as a kindergartener, I think I recognized that literacy was imperative, for it was through reading that I could give myself something I was not getting elsewhere. I could play in a peaceful, sun drenched meadow, I could meet dignitaries and nobles and queens and kings, I could be a biological researcher … If I could imagine it, then it would happen. (Reader’s Digest had some amazing coffee table books back then filled with detailed pictures and graphics and flow charts … but, most of all, clear and concise text.)

Anyhow. Around second grade or so, I immersed myself in the Choose Your Own Adventure series (and its compatriot, the Time Machine series). I thought they were amazing. It was then I realized that there were so many different ways to end a story, so many different ways to your demise. I think I liked them so much because the crux of their concept and execution hinges on personal choice; the books were comprised of short vignettes, and every short vignette was accompanied by a choice at the vignette’s end. That choice would send you to a different part of the book, down a new line of inquiry. Retrospectively, I see my child’s reasoning — if I could not control things at home, then I would seek it out elsewhere. Lo and behold, I was given control in the form of books! The choices I made actually mattered! I was hooked, and read every book many times over. I found myself wanting more of them, but none in that series were to be had; I was reading them too quickly, and my pace overtook new book drops.

Concomitant with reading the aforementioned series, I began to staple little books together. They were made of college-ruled notebook paper. As you can no doubt guess, I modelled my own writing off that in which I had immersed myself. I think the first ‘book’ I ever wrote was entitled “The Lost Gold of the Seneca”. I’m originally from upstate New York, and we are pretty steeped in Iroquois culture; as a child, the Seneca tribe fascinated me. Well, I had my culture… what about the plot? The plot was based off a myth my grandfather had told me about an old, abandoned lead mine in the southwestern Catskills. So I merged the lead mine myth with Seneca culture, and made my own story. Of course there was no gold to be had in real life… but I was only eight. A writer typically writes about the things with which they have familiarity. And, like I said, I was eight. (I wonder if that little book, written on scraps of stapled notebook paper, is laying around anywhere?)

When I was 12 (1991), my mom had several psychotic breaks. She became violent and delusional. My reading habits had, of course, grown along with me over time. I had just finished Tom Clancy’s Hunt for Red October and Patriot Games. (I was also an avid reader of comic books, though they did not figure into anything. I just liked Spider-Man, The Fantastic Four, and Infinity Gauntlet. They were so fun to read!)

As my mom battled her mental health issues, my stepfather searched frantically for job following his layoff from a defence contractor… all while I had to contend with being — well, bad things would happen to me when I would visit my biodad.

High school was a difficult transition for me. My mom, stepfather, and I moved from our creepy ass apartment in the bad part of town to a complex close to the high school on the hill; our complex was in the nicest part of town. Somehow the rent was cheaper… well, not somehow, it was about two-thirds the size of what we’d had before. I was small and awkward. I read books. I was a musician. Accusations of homo- and bisexuality were levelled at me, and I was bullied relentlessly as a result (high school was much different in the 1990s… ‘boys will be boys’ was still the norm, and bullying was not that big of a deal). You can imagine how that went — a poor, artistic kid who kept to himself, and was socially awkward, and slapped with the label of – as they would say – “being a queer”? During my walks home from school, rocks and bottles would be hurled at me from passing cars along with derogatory taunts about my mom, my stepfather, and me. What friends I had were people of convenience, people in my orbit. One of them even shot me with a BB gun once just because he thought it would be fun. (Hint: it wasn’t.)

So I took control.

The resultant novella I wrote was sprawling, a true epic of ambition. 150 pages. Gunfights, a conflicted sniper, the mafia, international jewel thieves, a corrupt cop, the mass media, a jet ski pursuit down raging rapids, Army Rangers, and international, multicultural government agents. Oh — and a town levelled in the third act by gunfire and bombs and grenades and an exploding helicopter shot down with a Stinger missile. All of the novella’s characters were metonymic for people I knew in real life. This was my attempt to put them into the slots as I saw them: hero, villain, bystander, enabler, or something in between. This was my attempt at control. I left it open for a sequel, but it never materialized. The novella itself took about 1.5 years to crank out (on a word processor; we did not have a computer in our house until I was a senior). Not bad for a 12-year-old. I was proud of that manuscript. I am still proud of it… in fact, it’s one of the few artifacts I have kept from those horrible adolescent years; the sole copy sits with my other archival materials from later in life (like my ballets and my flute concerto/dissertation). Who knows. If I ever write a novel, perhaps I will use that plot.

With college came baggage, and with baggage came a downward spiral of my own mental health. I ended up functionally homeless for a couple of months… I was not allowed to be around the house when my parents were home, but I could clean myself up and catch some sleep during the day. That summer (1999), I started an Angelfire online journal, one that was modelled after my best friend’s. She and I were in a very similar space, and it seemed to help her out, so I decided to try it; to tell you our state of mind, my favourite line I had written from that time: ‘I wish I was a river rat’. My best friend had been thrown out by her dad, so, that summer, we had each other’s backs: sleeping under bridges, dumpster diving for cans and bottles and trinkets, selling trash at yard sales, eating from abandoned room service trays. Things were bad, but we still had our words – I still had my words.

Every day for a year (1999-2000), I updated that online journal. Over that span, I welcomed more and more followers — so many followers that had I to buy my own domain and server space (2000-2004). The domain hosted not only my own online journal, but those of others, as well. That core of people, we became our own community, and exchanged stories with each another across the continent. We organized an epic meet up, and people from up and down the Eastern Seaboard showed up. In fact, I am still in contact with several of the other online journalers. My site won a “Best of the Web” award, an award I had not sought, nor did I necessarily think I deserved, but one which made me happy. The site was a true labour of love: all of the HTML & CSS coding was written by me (in Notepad), all of the photos were digitally rendered by me, and all of the written (and musical) content was written by me. I even had a live streaming cam for the semester when I reënrolled. (And yes, there were watchers.)

I kept that online journal for years; eventually the constant maintenance became too much for me to handle. I needed to bang out my Masters (including thesis!) in a year, and went straight on to my doctoral program (2004). Writing fell by the wayside for many years…

…and then I had an accident which rendered me neurologically and physically compromised (2010). I couldn’t work, and I hated doing nothing, so I went back to school (2012-2016), and started down a path of study which has proven to be generous to me.

If you had told that disabled guy of four years ago that he would be offered an MFA slot at many different & prestigious schools to study Creative Nonfiction, he would have laughed at you.

If you had told the little, socio-economically disadvantaged teenager from a broken home that he would be offered a slot at an ivy for graduate school, he probably would have tried to kick your ass … it had been accepted that those things weren’t meant for people like him — for people like me. We don’t get to do that, we don’t belong there. This is a belief that still haunts today for many different reasons. That said:

I believe education is the great equalizer. Knowledge, wisdom, and literacy are the things that grant equity in our culture. Yes, it is used as a weapon by some; yes, it is also used as a form of control.

But that control was mine to take. I had no other option. So, I seized it.

That just about sums it up. These are the stories and reasons why I write, why I read, and why I care so very much about literacy. These are the reasons why I care about all of the writing I read on this site every single day. Each person has it in their power to craft a good story, and each story has the potential to change the way a person sees themselves and the world around them.

These are things I believe to be true.

Thank you for such a lovely ask.

(( @alastar-wyatt ))

#Alastar Wyatt #OoC #Author

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mama-ghostie-61542 · 3 years

Text

A Thousand Lifetimes

Rated M++ for language and themes

If you recognize it--IT AIN'T MINE

Sorry for the OOC bits.

Chapter 2

Supper was finished and cleaned up with little in the way of words spoken after that. The evening saw me curling up in my bed with a coffee and the second chapter.

Jooheon PoV--

As soon as we were given our holiday leave, we were talking where we were all going to go. I had saved my days off for three months to have an entire week away. Just the same as I had saved as much as I could to be able to afford that first class ticket. Bryn had sent me half of the money, so that helped. As I packed, I called Bryn, just to verify the time I should get there.

The flight itself was really uneventful...unless you count the attendant openly flirting with me. That guy openly offered things that, umm, weren't on the menu, let's say. Now, don't get me wrong, I love flying first class, and I am used to having underwear thrown at me by western audiences, but getting an invitation to join 'The Mile High Club' by a dude, was a little much for me.

'Would be too much for me too'.

By the time the plane landed in L.A., I was thoroughly embarrassed, and a little pissed off. Then there was a two hour layover until my flight to Chicago. That flight was a lot better than the one from Seoul to L.A. No one bothered me. I was just the Asian guy in first class.

After grabbing my bag from baggage claim, I started to walk down to the pick up and drop off, where she said she would meet me. Bryn told me she has an awful time getting through security checkpoints. The machines pick up the studs on her implants. That was an interesting conversation, I learned my big sister had lost all her teeth due to a strange combination of factors. But, she had gotten it all squared away and everything had healed up a while ago.

'She has implants? Hmm.'

As I turned the corner, I heard a soft whistle followed by Bryn shouting.

"Jooheon! Over here, Lil Man."

'Little? He is at least half a foot taller than you!'

I turned towards the yell, and saw her. The buzz cut threw me for a second. "You cut it all off again," I remarked as I noticed her shoulder length hair was much shorter than our last video chat.

"Yep. Long hair is for men and babies, not ladies. Neither man nor bitch should be able to grab a handful and use it against me," she quipped as she ran her hand over the short, spunky, spikes on her pate. "Got your bag," she asked.

Long hair is for men and babies, huh.

I nodded.

"Cool. My truck is this way," she said as she tilted her head to the side. "Let's blow this pop stand."

"What," I asked, laughing as I followed.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand.'

Turning around and walking backwards, she said, "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

'See. I do know some idioms.'

Imagine my surprise when what she simply called 'my truck' was a tiny little Chevy Equinox.

As we stowed my bags in the back seat, I said, "Bryn, this isn't a truck."

"Is to me," she replied as we got into the front and buckled our safety belts. When she started up the engine, the cabin was filled with a haunted music. Then she said, as we backed out of the parking spot, "We gotta stop for gas before we hit the interstate, so, I suggest you visit the men's room before we leave. We still have a four hour drive ahead of us."

As she put it in drive, I replied with, "Are you insinuating I can't control myself?"

"No," she said, matter-of-factly. "I am straight telling you that you have a bladder the size of a walnut and you are riding with a fucking camel."

I laughed, 'I agree. That woman can make an eight hour drive with a bottle of pop and never once need to pee. There will still be soda in her bottle, too. She's a fuckin camel.'

As we pulled away from the gas station, and onto the interstate, She commented on my shirt. "That is a nice color on you, by the way."

"Thanks. I like red."

"I know. Just never had you pegged as a guy who actually looked good in maroon."

I looked down at my shirt. "It's red," I replied.

"No, Dear, it's maroon."

"Agree to disagree. How many times have I told you to just call me 'Honey'?"

"It weirds me out to call my little brother "Honey'. That's a word meant for a significant other. The closest you will EVER get is Dear. Ah! I know! Wanda," she laughed.

"Absolutely not," I laughed, "but I can see your point," I said, as I looked out the window for a minute, "How is Clark taking it?"

'Who is this Clark, guy?'

"Your visit? We got in a screaming match. It all boils down to the fact you are a guy."

"Wow," I replied then shook my head. Clark was one of those super insecure guys who saw everyone as a threat. "So it didn't and doesn't matter that the mere idea of being anything other than an adopted brother makes me want to poke my eyeballs out with a blunt object."

"Nope," she replied. "You're a dude, and dude's only think about getting 'stuff' from girls."

'Ok, so she is safe with Honey. Good to know.'

I gagged and covered my mouth, "Icky. Just the thought of that makes me want to vomit," I said then shuddered.

"Hey," she chuckled. "No pukin' in my truck," she quipped as she smacked my arm.

"Are you allowed to have gay friends?"

"He doesn't like them either. He would be completely happy if I had no friends at all."

"That is what I call possessive."

"That is what I call fucked up," she replied. "Getting a little sick of the double standards. He can have all the friends he wants, but I have lost most of mine, thanks to him."

"Well, you can't lose me. You are stuck with me now."

"Good to know."

"You know I love you, Sissie," I squealed as I laid over onto the console.

"Yeah, I know. Sadly," she replied and then smiled at me before focusing on the road.

After a few miles, I asked, "So he cost you your friends?"

Sighing, she replied, "Yeah. The only ones left are Lynn and Shayne. He tried to get rid of them, but Shayne threw a fit."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Shayne told him to shut up before he knocked him out. I mean, we have been friends for 33 years and nothing has ever happened. EVER. And I like Lynn."

"Lynn?"

"Shayne's wife. She is awesome!"

"So, do I get to meet the family this week?"

"Nope," she replied. "Ian, Allen, and Jason all have wives that don't like Ma...or me, much. And Los lives in Texas with his wife and their boys, so I don't get to see him much anyways. Costs a ton to board the boys for a visit"

"Los," I asked. I had heard her refer to him, but didn't really know much, other than he was the only biological brother. "I thought he couldn't have kids?"

"Carlos. Most of the family calls him Junior. Juan Carlos Jr. And he can, she can't. The boys are their pitties."

"Wow. What was his mom smoking," I asked.

Bryn smiled, "Don't know, but I wish she would have shared."

"Why?"

"My full name."

"What is it," I asked, mentally preparing myself for the answer.

"Bryn Markham is just the name I write under. Bryanna Ellyen Velvet Colline Brusher nee Loveland, legally. I go by either Annie or Bry, depending on who it is. My parents STILL call me by my full name," She replied, her embarrassment pinking her cheeks slightly.

I grabbed the pad and pen from beside my bed and wrote down the name quickly.

"Oh my god," I laughed.

"Could have been worse, though. If I had been a boy, my dad wanted to name me either Benjamin Abraham or Joshua Earl."

I couldn't help the snort that came out, right before I broke and laughed. I was laughing so hard I was starting to tear up a bit.

"Yeah. Haha. Laugh it up," She said as she rolled the window down a few centimeters and grabbed an ash cup from the rear cup holder. Then, Bryn grabbed the tin of smokes out of the console and lit one up.

"Hold up. You smoke?"

That explains the smell, sometimes.

"Not anymore. Used to, but I found this mix when I quit. I smoked because of my temper, and this mix helps. It's better than looking at the world through two panes of glass and chicken mesh cause I lost it and gave some dumbass what they really deserved."

I looked at her confused.

"A high five...in the face," she said as she glanced at me, "with a chair," Bryn deadpanned as she watched the road.

I snickered a little before I said, "Really?"

"Yeah. More than just a pretty face, little brother," She laughed as she playfully slapped her cheek.

As we settled in to the drive, I realized how much she looked like the girl in Kihyun's dreams. Granted, I could just be seeing what I wanted to see.

They both need someone awesome.

Bryn PoV--

We made it to the house in a little over 3 hours. As usual, Clarkie was pissed. This time cause I actually went and picked up my brother. I guess, he thought if he raised enough of a stink, I would do what he wanted. But, I had a bad habit of never staying in his happy little shell. Mostly because it felt like a cage and I hate to be hemmed in.

He has always said that I need safety and security, but his idea of it is a cage, fences to box me in. My idea was more like a safe place to bed down after a run with the moon, and the freedom to run and stretch out; to sprawl all out and wait for nightfall.

But, Hawkie, has always known its a nice place to land. But that's the way our connection worked, neither one of us had to say much, we just did and it all fit.

I couldn't help but think how wrong this Clark guy was. A spirited filly like that needed plenty of room to run, to roam, or she got stifled. She was right, my idea of security was always just having a good place to land.

As we walked inside, I said, "Look guys, Uncle Jooheon is here."

All three of my kids suddenly insisted on 'Uncle Joey' being his new name; even though I had been coaching them for weeks as to how to pronounce it the right way.

Grimacing, I said, "Sorry, Bud. It appears you have been graced with a new name. In the old ways, a new name is given at the time of adoption. So it looks like it's official. Welcome to the family."

"Hey. I don't mind. There are worse things to be called. Joey works," He chuckled as he shook his head, "At least it's close. I am honored to officially be part of the family."

"Don't get too comfy. Ma picks out middle names at random. So if you ever hear 'Joe' followed by some random Western name, just go with it. And if she whips out the right pronunciation and a random middle name, you are entirely on your own."

"If it's Ma, I would probably answer to it, just to keep her happy," He quipped back.

"It's better that way. She used to call Jamen, the ex, Lynn."

He let loose a belly laugh that had me laughing.

"Seriously," he asked as he wiped his eyes.

"Oh, Yeah. He used to get soo mad."

I laughed at Bryn and Honey and how they acted. Then, I thought about trying that name out in the morning.

As I laid there, curled up and ready to sleep, I felt her. She brushed my hair out of my eyes and whispered softly against my forehead, "You sleep, my love. I'll keep watch."

I fell asleep to her whispering something to me, soft and slow, in a language I couldn't understand. I knew it was no lullaby. It felt more like a blessing, like a prayer. I felt more at peace in that moment than I had for weeks. That night, the nightmares did not haunt me.

The next morning, as we all got around for the day, I took the chance.

"Hey, Joey."

All of the guys stopped.

Honey turned to me, "What did you call me."

"Story said she coached her kids for weeks. They all had it right, but, the minute you walked in the door it was 'Joey'."

"Really," He said as he looked kind of confused. "Joey?" He just snickered and smiled. "Babies. What can ya do," he laughed.

"If what she wrote is true, in her culture, when a person is adopted, they are given a new name. 'Joey' happens to be yours. Not to mention that 'Honey' weirds her out."

The expression on his face dropped. Confusion colored his face for a moment, then the look of understanding followed, "Ahh. Smaller and close to the original so the kids can learn it. Also, so the adults understand that with the small nickname, everything is ok, but the full version, pronounced right, means 'Shut up and listen'. Got it."

"Did you miss the adopted part? She knows!"

At almost two in the afternoon here, I heard her whisper, 'I'm off to bed.' as I felt her presence close to me. Next, came the burn on my cheek, followed by her soft, 'Goodnight, Love.'

Since I was finishing up my lunch, I decided to reach for her. 'Rest well, my queen. You have more than earned it today,' I said as I brushed her hair away from her face. She always looks so peaceful when she sleeps. I almost couldn't wait for the day when I could physically hold her again.

A/N--Still in hell.

#original writing #original fiction #twin souls #soul mates #soul connection #monsta x fic #kihyun fic #past life

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vsplusonline · 4 years

Text

Elliot, an alcoholic, asked his parole officer for help. She sent him back to prison

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Elliot, an alcoholic, asked his parole officer for help. She sent him back to prison

Elliot Hudson found the box on his first afternoon home from prison.

He’d gone up to his old bedroom in his parents’ Ottawa house to unpack some of the clothes his father tidied away while Elliot had been incarcerated. He pulled out the old crock-pot box with “recovery stuff” Sharpied on the side. Inside there were maybe six or seven leather-bound journals, dating back to 2012.

Elliot, a contemplative 37-year-old man with an occasionally destructive tendency to get trapped in his own mind, couldn’t resist flipping through. It was disheartening.

The dates scrawled in the corners changed but the story didn’t. He read one page: I’m back in recovery… I’m super committed… I’ve been to five AA meetings in the last five days… I’m really grateful to be sober. This is it.

Then he’d flip ahead two weeks or two months: I’ve relapsed again and I feel terrible about it… I’m so ashamed. I’m so broken… What’s wrong with me?

“I saw the progression of how this illness has just decimated my life,” Elliot says. Family, friends, work, financial stability, emotional stability —

“There’s not a single area of my life that (addiction) hasn’t touched.”

Elliot Hudson writes in a journal he found inside an old crock-pot box. The journal chronicles his struggles with addiction and relapse over the course of several years.

Jane Gerster/Global News

To be sober and fresh out of jail on that day, Oct. 24, 2019, doesn’t feel all that different from being sober and “super committed” to staying that way in 2012, 2013 or 2014. A little more humbling, sure, with a list of court-ordered restrictions meant to encourage sobriety vis-à-vis the threat of more jail. But if his brain, already well aware that alcohol was ruining his life, couldn’t keep him sober then, what’s to say it will succeed now, rubber-stamped rules or no?

At Alcoholics Anonymous meetings they tell you that alcohol is “cunning, baffling and powerful,” but that if you acknowledge that, and admit your wrongs and are willing to make amends and put your life in the hands of a higher power, you will recover.

It’s an enticing thought, almost like if you know enough about the disease you can protect yourself from it — appealing to a thinker like Elliot. And yet, as two doctors wrote in a March 1993 review of addiction in the Psychiatric Clinics of North America medical journal, “the potential for relapse… persists indefinitely.”

Elliot thumbs through his old journals.

I’m back in recovery… I’m super committed… I’ve relapsed again… What’s wrong with me?

“My first priority is staying sober,” he says. “If I don’t do that, I can’t do anything else.”

***

For many people, addiction rolls off the tongue a little too easily. It’s, oh, I’m addicted to these little scones at the bakery down the street, or this new show on Netflix that I can’t. Stop. Watching. But the reality is that you probably can stop. Or at least, you can stop watching long enough to go to work or to your dinner reservations or to walk your dog.

Many experts, including the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH), rely on the four Cs to differentiate addiction as a catchall term for finding it hard to say no and an actual substance use disorder. The four Cs are: craving, loss of control of amount or frequency of use, compulsion to use and using despite the consequences. Elliot knows that last one well.

Often, addiction stories double as sobriety narratives. We like that story, says Dr. Raj Bhatla, the chief of staff and psychiatrist-in-chief at the Royal Ottawa Hospital, where Elliot has received help in the past, because it’s simple.

Elliot had his first drink at 13, showed up drunk repeatedly throughout high school and graduated to drugs in his mid-20s.

Provided

We don’t like to look at the way social factors and individual people’s thoughts and behaviours interconnect. We don’t like to think about how housing, finances and abuse can each help push someone down the path of addiction.

“Addiction is a complex condition, a complex interaction between human beings and their environments,” wrote Dr. Gabor Maté in In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts, a book about addiction. It’s a book that makes Elliot feel seen.

“Addiction has biological, chemical, neurological, psychological, medical, emotional, social, political, economic, and spiritual underpinnings — and perhaps others I haven’t thought about,” Maté wrote.

“To get anywhere near a complete picture we must keep shaking the kaleidoscope to see what other patterns emerge.”

That’s a big ask. Bhatla explains we’ve simplified things as a society because it’s easier to form conclusions.

“We should be more sophisticated as a society and we should be less judgmental.”

***

The first time Elliot had a drink he was 13 years old and a friend had stolen a mickey of whisky from her dad’s basement.

He’d grown up with a mother who struggled with addiction. So while he knew the effects of someone’s addiction — how they could be selfish, inadvertently cruel with cravings or wreck your plans to go camping or to a movie with their hangover — he hadn’t really placed a mickey of whisky on the spectrum to a lifetime of struggle.

In the backyard, the two friends mixed whisky with Pepsi and drank until Elliot was giddy and a little bit dizzy.

Elliot lay back on the grass.

Wow, he thought, no wonder my mom likes this stuff. This is incredible. I want to feel like this all the time. For a moment, he was content. He looked at his friend and asked, “When can we do this again?”

He didn’t think twice about asking; he felt wonderful and he wanted to feel wonderful all the time. She gave him a funny look, like, why are you already thinking about next time? Why aren’t you just enjoying this moment?

“The problem with substance abuse is that it works,” Elliot says. “Up to that point I had been so full of fear and uncomfortable emotions and in that moment, they just disappeared.”

Clockwise from top left: Elliot as a baby with his mother, Elliot as a toddler with his younger sister and Elliot as a young boy.

Provided

Elliot started showing up tipsy, then drunk to high school events. He wrote an exam hammered. He ignored the lectures: alcohol is bad! Drugs are bad! Don’t you dare use!

It was an easy out from dealing with physical abuse in a home that revolved around addiction, and an incident where he was sexually abused as a teenager. Drunken Elliot appeared so frequently that the school reached out to his parents to intervene. They set up a meeting with an addiction counsellor.

The counsellor was the first person Elliot met who scratched at the surface of why he drank.

Elliot told him the truth: I drink because it makes me feel good and normal, I become a teenager who can actually connect with his friends instead of feeling anxious and isolated in my own brain.

It was as Maté wrote: “Drugs have the power to make the painful tolerable and the humdrum worth living for.

“Like patterns in a tapestry, recurring themes emerge in my interviews with addicts,” Maté wrote.

“The drug as emotional anaesthetic; as an antidote to a frightful feeling of emptiness; as a tonic against fatigue, boredom, alienation, and a sense of personal inadequacy; as stress reliever and social lubricant.”

Elliot went back to the counsellor half a dozen times. He didn’t stop drinking, but he did find himself devoting a little more headspace to why he was drinking.

***

Addiction is a brain-warping disease, but is it a crime?

The desire to see drug use treated as a health issue rather than a criminal one is behind the push for decriminalizing illicit drugs for personal use, an idea that’s come up repeatedly in recent years as a result of the opioid crisis, which claimed nearly 14,000 lives across Canada between January 2016 and June 2019.

In July 2018, Toronto’s board of health asked the federal government to decriminalize drugs and in April 2019, B.C.’s chief health officer asked the provincial government to do the same. So far, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has resisted, preferring to focus on other harm reduction efforts.

Canada has a huge mental health and addiction crisis in prison. Federally, 70 per cent of inmates used alcohol or drugs in problematic ways in the year leading up to their incarceration, per a fact sheet compiled by the Canadian Centre on Substance Abuse. More than half of inmates serving time have a problem with alcohol, while nearly half have had problems with drugs.

Substance use and abuse is a prominent factor underlying criminal behaviour, and not just in obvious ways like impaired driving. Substance use plays a direct or indirect role for people serving time federally for assault (69 per cent), theft (66 per cent), murder (58 per cent) and break and enter and robbery (56 per cent), per the centre’s research.

And the people for whom addiction and mental health disproportionately leads to jail time are some of Canada’s most marginalized residents — Black people, Indigenous people, people who are grappling with the ongoing impacts of intergenerational trauma.

Last month, Canada’s prison ombudsman warned of the “Indigenization of Canada’s prison population” now that the proportion of people in federal prison who are Indigenous has reached more than 30 per cent, despite Indigenous people making up only five per cent of the country’s total population. Between 2005 and 2015, the number of Black people behind bars has grown by 69 per cent, so while they make up roughly three per cent of the Canadian population, they now represent more than eight per cent of the population behind bars.

Elliot, who is white, knows he has privilege. Sometimes it’s hard to acknowledge while shame spiralling after another relapse, but he fights to remind himself. An estimated six million Canadians will meet the criteria (those four Cs) for substance use disorder in their lifetime. Elliot wants to use his experience to help them.

Elliot with his mother and father circa 2009.

Provided

People don’t get the help they need when our society focuses on individual choice and responsibility, says Justin Piché, an associate criminology professor at the University of Ottawa and co-founder of the Criminalization and Punishment Education Project.

We wind up “setting aside our collective responsibilities to each other and to the people,” he says.

Economic, social, racial and gender inequality is well documented in Canada. And so, Piché says, “we live in a society where people experience a great deal of trauma quite frequently.

“We need to be making a gradual shift towards a more compassionate and caring society, while at the same time trying to address the harms that exist now,” he says.

“That’s not easy work, to work towards a just transition, but we need one.”

***

On Jan. 18, 2018, Elliot made a weapon out of a prison regulation deodorant canister and a sock and attacked a guard at the Central East Jail in Lindsay, Ont. He grabbed her by the shirt collar and threatened her.

He would later acknowledge he must have looked terrifying — big and burly, sporting a beard — and want to apologize. But in the moment he felt desperate. He’d been in prison a few months, still waiting to be sentenced and still using. He wasn’t getting the treatment he needed and he had just come out of isolation.

His mother had recently died.

“I was a mess,” Elliot says.

A spokesperson for the Ministry of Community Safety and Correctional Services says it is its “firm belief that when someone is given the chance to address the personal and socioeconomic issues that drive their criminal activity, everyone benefits.”

She acknowledged that “crime, violence, mental health and addictions are complex issues that cannot be solved overnight or by the provincial government alone.”

Elliot Hudson is pictured in the family visiting room at St. Lawrence Valley Correctional and Treatment Centre on Sept. 24, 2019.

Brent Rose/Global News

Elliot worked in audio engineering throughout his 20s, where booze and drugs were normal and nobody batted an eye when he was drunk or high — or both.

Elliot felt functional until he wasn’t. At some point, he realized that once he started drinking, he couldn’t stop.

Then he missed his best friend’s wedding. It was time to get sober.

With a clear head — and liver — Elliot’s world opened up.

He wanted to help open up other people’s worlds, too. He got a diploma in addiction counselling and spent a few years as a peer support worker. In 2015, he was accepted into the social work program at Carleton University. He wanted his thesis to be about the criminalization of addiction.

READ MORE: Ramadan behind bars — How one inmate’s fight to fast highlights oversight concerns

The war on drugs, which was initiated more than four decades ago, “has failed, with devastating consequences for individuals and societies around the world,” wrote a panel of experts in the 2011 Global Commission on Drug Policy report.

It led to the mass incarceration of people with addictions and didn’t even curb drug use. In fact, United Nations estimates show that drug consumption has actually gone up. Opiate use jumped by more than 34 per cent from 1998 to 2008, when it was estimated that 17.35 million people were using. Similarly, cocaine use jumped by 27 per cent to 17 million and cannabis use jumped by 8.5 per cent to 160 million.

“End the criminalization, marginalization and stigmatization of people who use drugs but who do no harm to others,” recommended the Global Commission.

“One of the research topics I was interested in was the criminalization of addiction,” wrote Elliot Hudson in his first letter to Global News on Aug. 21, 2018. “How sadly ironic that I should end up incarcerated for an addiction-related crime.”

Global News

It’s a huge topic; one so big that Elliot’s thesis advisor dissuaded him from pursuing it. And so Elliot winnowed it to access to addiction treatment in Ontario.

Having a purpose didn’t make Elliot’s stressors disappear. After all, logic doesn’t stop emotion. When the anxiety and cravings are overwhelming, it’s easy to seek relief in one sip that becomes two drinks, then 10.

Elliot finished his first year of school in spring 2016. He relapsed in the fall and took a mental health leave. By October he was facing charges for drunkenly assaulting his parents. He was released on conditions to not drink or do drugs. He was arrested again six months later for drunkenly damaging two windows at an ex-girlfriend’s home and failing to comply with the court condition that he stay sober.

Elliot tried to go back to school in the fall, but he was still drinking and using. He was bouncing between shelters. All his money went to alcohol and drugs. He started to shoplift from the liquor store when he couldn’t scrounge up the cash.

“It’s hard to remember what it felt like to be that desperate,” Elliot says. “It’s almost like your brain’s been hijacked.”

By the fall of 2017, Elliot had dropped out of school and was driven only by how to get the next bottle, his next fix.

On Oct. 10, he robbed a store. On Oct. 14, he robbed a gas station. Both times he threatened the cashier, although he had no weapons. The Ottawa police spread his image far and wide after the gas station robbery. Elliot turned himself in.

“Obviously, alcohol has led you down this path at this point and it’s time to deal with it,” Justice C.S. Dorval said during his sentencing on Feb. 5, 2018. He added six months for attacking the prison guard.

READ MORE: The Liberals promise to expand drug treatment courts — but will this reduce harm?

“The mental health issues, you can always get assistance. The addiction, you need to want it, you know, want to deal with it and it’s difficult until you get to the point where you want to be sober every single day,” the judge said.

Dorval encouraged corrections to help Elliot.

Substance abuse cost Canada $38.4 billion, or roughly $1,000 per person regardless of age, in 2014, according to a report from the Canadian Centre on Substance Use and Addiction. About $14.6 billion was attributed to alcohol abuse alone.

But is jail the right place for treatment?

Most addiction experts say no.

As Ontario auditor general Bonnie Lysyk noted in her December 2019 report on Ontario prisons, they are not equipped to deal with the rising number of inmates who have mental health issues.

The report found frontline staff don’t have the training required to de-escalate situations that arise because of mental health. In a review of internal investigations done in response to prison incidents in Toronto and Thunder Bay, the auditor general found that 57 per cent of inmates who tried to harm themselves or others had a mental health alert on their file.

Per the auditor general’s report, enhanced training provided by CAMH is due to be rolled out across the province this year. A spokesperson for the ministry said the program officially launched in January and includes “more job-specific case studies and scenario-based learning, as well as an emphasis on communication and de-escalation skills.”

And yet, there’s a culture clash between health care and justice.

It’s inevitable, Dr. Raj Bhatla says. While both health-care providers and corrections staff value community safety, he says the health-care side is more focused on treatment — “it’s a different paradigm.”

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That means it can be harder to rehabilitate people in prison, says Dr. Lori Regenstreif, an assistant professor at McMaster University who also works with the rapid access to addiction medicine clinic at St. Joe’s Hospital and the Shelter Health Network.

In Ontario, the Ministry of Community Safety and Correctional Services makes decisions about prison health care instead of the Ministry of Health and Long-Term Care. Corrections’ focus winds up being “what’s legal versus illegal on the inside,” Regenstreif says.

In other words, the ministry will be concerned about the safety risk of inmates sharing the drugs Regenstrief prescribes with one another. However, Regenstrief, who prescribes buprenorphine, an opioid medication like methadone that’s used to treat addiction, would rather them share. The drug isn’t very dangerous and won’t get a person high, she says, but it could help them a lot. A spokesperson for the ministry says policies and procedures are in place for delivering health care behind bars and that “decisions are between inmates and medical professionals.”

More than 250,000 people are sent to prisons in Canada every year, which means one in 250 people. It has serious impacts on their health. Researchers in Ontario followed provincial inmates, such as Elliot, for 12 years beginning in 2000 and published their results in the Canadian Medical Association Journal in 2016.

Those inmates were four times more likely to die than the general population. Their deaths were largely due to preventable and treatable causes, including overdose, heart disease and suicide. Inmates also died younger — men’s life expectancy was 4.2 years shorter compared with the general population while women’s declined by 10.6 years.

For Elliot, already feeling desperate in jail, just hearing the judge say he would get help to treat his mental health and addiction was a positive step forward.

Some of the many letters Elliot Hudson exchanged with Global News reporter Jane Gerster while he was incarcerated.

Global News

Except, nothing happened. Elliot stayed in maximum security at the Lindsay jail. When he asked about treatment, he says he was brushed off and told to put in a form to request a meeting with a social worker. The social worker told him it might take months. A spokesperson for the ministry says it works with staff as well as health and social service agencies to make sure inmates get the supports they need.

There was a lot of drug use on his range that the guards ignored so long as there weren’t any fights, Elliot says. A spokesperson for the ministry says it takes the health and safety of staff and inmates “very seriously” and that staff are “trained to be vigilant” with respect to contraband.

Frustrated and overwhelmed, Elliot kept using. What was the point?

“There was already despondency on my part,” he says. “Can I do this? Can I have a good life? Is there any point?”

Using felt like the path of least resistance.

***

“I’m one of the fortunate ones from where I’m sitting,” Elliot said in the family visitation room at St. Lawrence Valley Correctional and Treatment Centre in December 2018.

He was transferred to the centre that summer and was finally receiving the treatment he’d envisioned during his sentencing. It was the first time in a long time he felt hope.

The St. Lawrence facility is solely for men, a special prison operated in conjunction with the Royal Ottawa Health Care Group for inmates with serious mental illness. It provides specialized treatment for a number of issues, including sex offending, trauma disorders and dysfunctional anger. Roughly 100 inmates receive treatment at a time and according to a ministry spokesperson, there are currently four inmates on a waitlist to get in.

Elliot was eloquent and cheerful. He also acknowledged his privilege, even behind bars. So many of the men he’d met in jail had been in and out of prison since they were teenagers. They had no easily employable skills, no stable housing and no further education. Many would have to return to neighbourhoods where there were strong ties to crime, trauma and what landed them behind bars in the first place.

Elliot often found himself reflecting on just how different his life would be if he’d been caught up in the justice system at a young age instead of planted in front of an addictions counsellor who probed into the why of his disorder.

“It helps me have empathy for the suffering that these guys are enduring because a lot of them haven’t had a chance,” he says.

It’s a tough trajectory to put numbers on, says Bhatla, because it’s multi-faceted and you can’t blame just one thing. Correctional treatment programs like St. Lawrence Valley are important, he says, but not the sole solution.

“We need to do a much better job in catching people earlier, prior to them ending up in the correctional system.”

Many people with addiction and mental health issues have adverse childhood experiences, he says.

“We put them in a position where, from a psychosocial point of view, that’s the pathway.”

Growing up, some people experience emotional, physical or sexual abuse, emotional or physical neglect, domestic abuse, parental separation or divorce, mental illness at home, substance abuse at home, or an incarcerated household member.

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Each one increases the likelihood that a person will start using illicit drugs at a young age and use for life between two- and four-fold, according to a 2003 study published in the Pediatrics medical journal looking at more than 8,600 illicit drugs users. Of those surveyed, more than 30 per cent grew up in homes where someone abused substances, like Elliot did, and 25 per cent grew up in homes with mental illness.

“Children and adolescents, who are exposed to the types of childhood experiences that we examined, may have feelings of helplessness, chaos, and importance and may have problems self-regulating affective states,” according to the study.

“Thus, illicit drug use may serve as an avenue to escape or disassociate from the immediate emotional pain, anxiety, and anger that likely accompany such experiences.”

At the St. Lawrence Valley Correctional and Treatment Centre, Elliot was optimistic about the possibility of a parole hearing. He had plans to get out, stay with his father until he could lease his own apartment, and work in construction to make money to return to school.

“I feel incredibly fortunate.”

***

On March 7, 2019, Elliot’s dad drove to pick him up from the prison in Brockville. Right away, Elliot says it felt wrong, “like a fantasy movie that didn’t match up to what was happening in real life.”

He’d spent months planning his first meal free — a diner breakfast with real eggs and real sausages instead of the airplane-style pre-packaged meals he’d been fed in prison — but the restaurant he wanted to go to was closed. The backup restaurant was only so-so.

He was excited to sleep in a real bed with lights he could turn all the way off, but he couldn’t sleep. Every time he dozed off, he’d wake up disoriented by the dark and unsure of where he was.

“I got out thinking, ‘Oh, this is no big deal, this will be easy,’” Elliot says. “It turns out it was very, very difficult.”

Elliot’s anxiety was like a living, breathing entity he couldn’t dislodge from his back.

He’d gone from a regimented prison schedule to the freedom to wake up when he wanted and eat when he wanted and do whatever he wanted so long as he stayed stone-cold sober. And while Ontario prisons are required to assist in discharge planning, connecting people like Elliot to reintegration resources, Elliot says he didn’t get that when it came to parole. A ministry spokesperson did not respond to Elliot’s specific case, but said there are support options for inmates being released on parole.

“I felt like I had to make 1,000 decisions a day,” he wrote in a letter.

There was alcohol at the LCBO at the street corner, in the beer commercials during a hockey game, and in the vodka ad on the side of the bus station.

Alcohol was everywhere.

“FREEDOM!!!” The first email Elliot Hudson sent to Global News after being released on parole.

Global News

He made a to-do list, put his head down, and tried to will his anxiety to pass. As he crossed things off — bank, dentist — there were more to add on.

“I never felt like I was getting ahead so I started becoming very kind of manic about it,” Elliot says.

His dad told him to slow down but he didn’t listen.

Five days after being released on parole, Elliot went to get his hair cut. He sat there, silently battling his anxiety, while the barber trimmed his hair.

He talks about his anxiety as if it is another person inhabiting his brain, deceptively reminding him that there is one nearly instantaneous relief.

“Hey Elliot,” it tells him, “I know how to get rid of this anxiety. Why don’t we have a few drinks?”

Elliot took an Uber from the hairdresser to a bar at 11 a.m. and started to drink. The first sip tasted like relief.

“Many people have watched themselves helplessly as they began to do something they knew would be unhelpful or self-defeating,” Dr. Gabor Maté explains in his book.

“That’s the experience of brain lock: the clutch is stuck, so nothing can be done to stop the motor of ‘doing’ from engaging.”

Elliot drank until they cut him off around 3 p.m. Then, he went somewhere else — too drunk now for specifics — and drank through the night. It was a direct violation of his parole.

He woke up hungover and scared. He worried he wouldn’t be able to stop drinking again, so he called his parole officer to come clean. He thought she might be able to steer him towards a detox centre or some sort of community-based treatment.

She issued a Canada-wide warrant for his arrest.

“Her hands were tied as soon as she found out I was drinking,” Elliot says. “I fault the system.”

Addiction is a disease, says Bhatla: “It’s a relapsing illness.”

“Many parts of our society see (addiction) as a social weakness or an individual weakness and that’s not OK.”

***

The Criminalization and Punishment Education Project, which Piché co-founded, runs a jail accountability and information hotline. It’s for people incarcerated at the Ottawa Carleton Detention Centre and their loved ones to report human rights issues and try to get help staying out of jail.

Elliot’s story — a slip, a plea for help, and an uncompromising system — sounds an awful lot like those calls, Piché says.

Two extreme examples made waves this month after a justice of the peace in Nunavut blasted the Royal Canadian Mounted Police for separately arresting two victims of domestic violence. The women had called the police for help with abuse, but wound up arrested because they had both been drinking contrary to sober bail conditions in place prior to the domestic violence for which they asked for help.

“It is troubling,” wrote justice of the peace Joseph Murdoch-Flowers of the RCMP’s decision.

“The police and the Crown must guard against what I would characterize as ‘institutional indifference.’ They must be sensitive to the big picture, and they must not allow legal papers to get in the way of decency and common sense.”

A ministry spokesperson says it’s modernizing health-care delivery for inmates and working to better identify those who have mental health needs.

“The ministry works to ensure those in its custody are treated fairly, respectfully and with the access to health care services that aligns with those in the community,” she says.

But the system is the problem, Piché says.

“We need a (criminal justice system) that actually makes common sense, that provides people care, not cages.”

Back in the Ottawa Carleton Detention Centre, Elliot felt demoralized. He pictured his life being married with kids and a career.

“I’m approaching 40 and I don’t really have much to show for myself.”

One of the guys on Elliot’s range offered to help with the depression. Elliot got him some money and spent his first week back in jail high on opiates.

***

At the end of March, Elliot wrote a letter to Global News from the Ottawa Carleton Detention Centre.

“I’m trying to figure out where I went wrong,” he wrote. “All I can say is that getting out was WAY more overwhelming than I could have anticipated. My anxiety was through the roof.”

Elliot intended to push for release again when he went before the parole board on April 2.

“I basically explained to them that my problem is not criminal behaviour, my problem is substances and I just need to figure out a way to stay away from substances,” Elliot said that afternoon. “I politely begged them for a second chance.”

They revoked his parole.

St. Lawrence Valley Correctional and Treatment Centre, the secure prison in Ontario for inmates with serious mental health issues where Elliot Hudson was incarcerated for the better part of a year.

Global News

“6 months, 180 days till Freedom version 2.0,” he wrote on April 25. He’d decided to recommit himself to recovery and had been sober again for a few weeks.

Elliot was back at St. Lawrence Valley Correctional and Treatment Centre.

As good as it felt to be sober and in daily treatment again, it also didn’t feel real. Elliot looked ahead to release, wondering how he could avoid the revolving door of prison and wishing he could focus instead on his health and sobriety.

“What the hospital thinks is best and what corrections thinks is best aren’t necessarily the same thing.”

***

Oct. 24, 2019 marked two-thirds of his sentence and so his release; another car ride back to Ottawa with his dad. Elliot does not want to go back to jail and he no longer believes he can outsmart his disease. It means he is living with opposing realities: that he must fight to stay sober while bracing for relapse.

The hardest part is the shame, he says.

“When you relapse there’s so much shame and guilt that just perpetuates more using and it creates a cycle that’s very, very difficult to get out of.”

On his last morning in prison, Elliot’s psychiatrist took a moment to remind him that relapse happens. Don’t drink and don’t use, he told him, but if you do, don’t make it a bigger deal than it has to be. You don’t have to throw your life away just because you have a slip.

To Elliot, that means don’t let the shame of having a beer or two turn into an all-night cocaine bender.

One big metal gate opens and shuts, then the second opens.

Is this real? He spent a moment in the car with his father, just thinking. Yeah, it’s real. Two years. I’m done. I’m free.

***

Less than a week after Elliot got out of jail, he sat at his father’s kitchen table in Kanata, an Ottawa suburb, wearing a button-down with more colours than you’d ever see on an inmate.

He was anxious but not forlorn. He sounded like a person who knew a lot about addiction, trauma and relapse and really, really wanted to stay sober.

“Today’s the fifth day,” Elliot said. “I feel much more calm.”

Elliot Hudson is pictured at his father’s Ottawa home in October 2019, just five days after being released from prison.

Jane Gerster/Global News

On the sixth, the Tuesday, Elliot went to a meeting with the John Howard Society to talk about finding him his own lease in Ottawa. It’s too easy to hide away in Kanata, he said, “I don’t want to isolate myself.”

He’d woken up anxious, lonely and full of fear.

Just after 4 p.m., Elliot sent a text about his day. The meeting went well, he wrote. He got bus tickets and $20 in Giant Tiger gift cards.

A pause. Another text: “I woke up today feeling terrified. I’m having a few drinks right now alone but I don’t want to talk about it on camera.”

Relapsing on probation rather than parole is superior in one way: there’s no condition not to drink. Sure, Elliot wants to be sober, but this time an alcohol slip doesn’t automatically mean a return to jail.

Still, November was hard and December was harder. Elliot drank and used drugs. He went to detox twice, although it made him panicky because it reminded him too much of being locked up.

“I need to learn how to live in the world sober and hiding away in a rehab for 28 days is not necessarily going to do that,” he says. “It sort of breaks the pattern of drinking or using, but it’s not teaching me how to integrate back into society.”

The tricky part was sticking to a routine, not hiding away.

He was looking forward to visiting a friend who’d stuck by him when he was incarcerated. She had two kids, a loyal Lab and an exuberant new puppy.

***

The kids wake up at 7:45 a.m. Breakfast, meds and teeth brushing takes until 8:30 a.m. and then they’re off to school. After school, they get two hours of video games and YouTube followed by one hour of homework and then another hour of games. Then, it’s meds, teeth brushing and lights out.

The routine is for Elliot’s friend’s two kids, who he moved in with just before Christmas. And yet, Elliot says, it’s really helped him cement his own routine. “Addicts are selfish,” Elliot says, but kids demand time and attention in a way that distracts from addiction and makes Elliot feel useful.

Add in the dogs — a Lab named Honey and a pug puppy named Lola — that demand pets and walks and love to wrestle, and his days are full with less time to overthink.

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Elliot is also sober. He marks one month on Jan. 17, 2020. It is a relief. He spent November and early December drinking and using. He went to detox twice. He buried his cousin from an overdose, a cruel reminder of addiction’s end game.

“I woke up clean and sober this morning. I have no intentions of using today, and hopefully I go to bed the same way,” he says. “Rinse and repeat.”

He’s seeing a psychiatrist now who’s made a huge difference. She told him to always come, but to let her know when he’s been drinking so she can adjust her therapy plan. That takes off some of the pressure and shame.

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Elliot’s also on new medications: clonidine for stress and naltrexone for his cravings. The last time he drank was the first time he took naltrexone. It’s supposed to trick the pleasure centre of your brain, he says, and — ever-curious — Elliot tested it out by having a few beers. He felt no relief, just bloat.

“It sounds kind of dramatic but it was a bit of a goodbye ceremony for me,” he says.

“Alcohol’s been hurting me for years. It’s destroyed every important relationship in my life and it’s time to say goodbye.”

Elliot slips later that month. He is admitted to the Royal Ottawa Hospital for inpatient treatment for substance use on Feb. 12.

***

The hospital program is good, “really good,” Elliot says after a few days, but he’s emotional. Right now, he’s listening to Blackbird by Shake Shake Go a lot: Imagine if it all goes wrong / One day I know it must come / But nothing’s gonna change my love for you, for you.

— with files from Abigail Bimman

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