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scribble-scrabbles · 3 years

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Writing Prompt - “Wrong Timeline”

[WP] You’re doing research in an old library when a stranger comes running up to you. They go to give you a hug while saying, “My love.” You flinch away and their expression falls. Under their breath they say, “Fuck. Wrong timeline.”

...based on these findings, we can conclude that the enzymatic reaction is stable at physiological pH, and thus…

My eyelids drag coarsely across my weary eyes as I blink up at the time. I'd been waist deep in journal articles in the ancient half of the university library for hours, and everything was blurring together, getting me nowhere. Another day wasted. I sighed, gently closing the journal and placing it back in it's spot on the table, where dozens of books and journals littered the workspace. I closed my eyes and inhaled the musky scent of old books and old buildings, letting my thoughts drift as they wished, relinquishing control.

I was 2 years into a PhD program, researching the biochemical processes of aging and going nowhere in the meantime. The whole field was chock full of pseudoscience and impossible to prove theoreticals, resulting in a metric fuck-ton of useless drivel that I needed to parse through while writing my thesis. Trying to be a “serious scientist” in a field of superficial commercial products was exhausting and disheartening. And yet, like all budding scientists, I felt my cause was righteous - that unlocking the mechanisms of aging would let us reverse senility and save those we held most dear. It was a pipe dream, and I knew it, but I clung to the hope that one day this would all mean something. I peered at the stacks on my table and sighed, rubbing my temples and feeling the headache starting there.

Time for a change of scenery. I thought to myself, standing and stretching. I was deep in the stacks of the older section of the library building, where largely forgotten volumes of scientific journals and old medical texts were housed. The room was largely silent, minus the hum of the ventilation system and occasional creak of the floor above me. I liked it here, wrapped in solitude and blanketed in the smell of books and old wood, as opposed to the laboratory or classroom where I was constantly asked questions I couldn’t answer about where my project was heading and what, exactly, it was that I wanted to accomplish here. A female in academia isn’t exactly new, nowadays, but a female in academia studying biochemistry in a laboratory that also tested makeup and skin care products was treated as a joke.

Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I turn to go back to the main library when I hear a faint “pop” somewhere in the stacks beside me. I know the odd pops and creaks this wing makes well enough, and I’m stuck with the sensation that I am no longer alone. I shift to see into the cluster of shelves and see a figure moving among the rows. How did someone get past me without me seeing them?

“Hello?” I call, “Sorry, I have a whole bunch of journals over here on the table, so if you can’t find what you’re looking for you may want to…” I trail off as the figure moves into the open. He’s a tall, slender college student, and he looks at me with a sudden warmness and recognition that sends a flush of embarrassment through me. I’ve never seen this man before in my life, but he’s looking at me as though I am his oldest friend.

“Oh thank goodness! My love!” He rushes towards me, moving to embrace me. I flinch backwards, suddenly alarmed, running through every potential acquaintance in my memory and coming up blank. I am absolutely sure I have never seen this man before in my life. He stops, his warmness instantly replaced by despair. “Fuck!” He exclaims. “Wrong timeline. Again.” He drops his hands to his pockets and averts his gaze. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” I stand in stunned silence, gripping my purse. His green eyes flick back up to mine, briefly, and I see what seems like true sorrow there.

“Does that line ever actually work on anybody?” He stares at me, confused. “Because, I mean, I have to admit it’s unique but a little bit over the top.” I smile at him, and after a moment, he returns it.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He snorts out a short laugh, still obviously embarrassed. “You look just like someone I know.”

“Someone you love, you mean? She must be pretty special.”

The stranger looks at his shoes. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Why did you think she’d be here? I’m pretty much the only one who ever uses this section of the library - at least for the past few months.”

“Ah, well..” he rocks back and forth on his heels, “She’s been working on this project for astrophysics and I thought I’d find her here.”

“Well, there’s your problem.” I laugh. “This is the medical wing.” He looks up sharply.

“Medical?”

“Yeah, pretty sure it has been for at least 2 years or so now. Probably a whole lot longer than that.”

“You’re in the medical field?”

“Well no, not exactly. I’m in a biochemistry program, but I’m studying the aging process and…”

“Oh, well,” he starts, then pauses, “that’s different.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I feel heat rising to my cheeks. “Because I’m a girl and I’m…” he holds his hand up soothingly.

“No, no! I just mean…” he trails off. I cock and eyebrow at him, waiting. He sighs. “I just mean, you’ve never done this before.”

“Well of course I’ve never done this before, it’s not like I have other PhD’s just lying around.”

He meets my eyes for a moment, seeming to weigh his options. Then he shrugs and says “I mean, in every alternative universe, I’ve never once seen you pursue medicine. It just...isn’t you. You’ve always been a physicist and a damn good one. I just have a hard time seeing you as anything else.”

“I….what?”

He sighs. “Your name is Rachel Turner. You grew up in Huntsville, Alabama where you were supposed to get interested in rocket science and physics. I don’t know what diverted that, but I know that in every other timeline, you still love books, terrible movies, and have a soft spot for old things and history.” I shift uncomfortably and he laughs softly. “And when you’re uncomfortable you push your hair back behind your ears like that, and shift your weight to your left foot.” I straighten, and consciously shift my weight back to my right. “You’re stubborn and fierce and have never encountered a puzzle you couldn’t tease apart.” The twinkle in his eyes falters, slightly, “Until you open the portal.”

“Was I your TA or something?”

“What?” He looked confused.

“Is that how you know so much about me? Are you stalking me?”

“What, no, I…”

“Because if you did you’re a terrible stalker. I only lived in Alabama until I was 3, we moved when my father died and my mother needed to go back to Ohio to find work and be closer to family.”

“Your dad died?”

“Yeah, early onset dementia.”

“...which is why you’re studying aging.” He nods, satisfied. ”Look, I’m sorry for scaring you and wasting your time. I’ll let you get back to your work.” He motions to the stack of books on the table.” He turned to go back into the stacks.

“Wait!” I exclaim, before I know what I’m saying. He looks back at me over his shoulder and smiles.

“You may want to find Sam Albertson over in the physics department.” He says, turning back to walk away. “But he’s not going to remember any of this though.”

I stood, stunned and watched him disappear into the stacks. I heard another faint “pop” a few seconds later and the sound snapped me out of my confusion. I rushed into the stacks after him, but found nothing. I searched and searched, feeling along the walls, looking for hidden openings, until the library lights flipped on and off flipped on and off three times, signaling that it was about to close. I returned to my table, looking all around for any clues of the stranger’s identity or where he could have gone. Had I really just met a time traveler? Could such a thing really be possible?

I shook my head, thinking it was more likely that I had just fallen asleep while reading my articles.

As I made my way back to my apartment, I remembered the name he had given me and decided to search for “Sam Albertson” on social media. I nearly dropped my phone when the stranger’s green eyes looked back at me from his profile picture.

“That little fuck.” I whispered, heading towards the physics department. He was a graduate student, so maybe he would be there this late in the evening. He was published on a paper describing faster-than-light travel models, which gave me a place to start looking. My heart thundered in my chest, a mixture of rage and embarrassment, as I ran up the steps of the physics building. I looked briefly at the directory, then started making my way towards the quantum research labs. Halfway down the hall, my annoyance became tinged with terror. Why was I looking for my stalker in a mostly empty building at night? What if he was dangerous? My steps slowed as I came to the door. Did I really want to do this? I froze, suddenly acutely aware of the insanity of my undertaking. My thoughts whirled through a hundred possible scenarios, not one of them favorable. I turned, and started quickly back down the hallway. All of this could wait until morning, until after I had eaten and slept and had a clearer head.

The door opened behind me, and I reflexively quickened my steps.

“Can I help you?” A voice called after me. I stopped, chagrined, and slowly turned to face him.

Behind me stood Sam Albertson, just as he had stood before me in the library a few hours ago. Except, not the same, I realized, as I took him in. In the library, his hair was longer and shaggier, and his face held a whisper of stubble that made him look older and more rugged. The Sam in front of me now was clean shaven, with short, but still unruly hair. His green eyes looked at me curiously.

“Sorry.” I muttered. “I was just…” He took a couple of hesitant steps towards me. My mind was racing, trying to make everything make sense.

“Are you okay?” He said, curiosity shifting to concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I shook myself, trying to fit the pieces together. You’ve never encountered a puzzle you couldn’t tease apart, the stranger had said. The stranger. Not the man in front of me. I suddenly knew exactly what I was going to do. I straightened and extended my hand. “I’m Rachel,” I said. “I’m thinking about changing my major.”

Sam grinned, taking my hand. “Oh yeah, what are you interested in?”

I grinned back. “Tell me about alternative universes.”

#reddit #writing prompt #creative writing #time travel #alternative universe #alternative timeline #short stories #fiction

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annecoulmanross · 4 years

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Bridgens/Peglar Egyptology AU

(for the @theterrorbingo square “modern AU” | word count: 1k fic + 1.5k AU details | rating: T | warnings: mild spooky; talk of mummies; description of a panic attack)

The Terrors are all members of the Classics (Greek & Roman Studies) department. The Erebites are all members of the Egyptology department. These two departments share the beautiful Barrow Hall building on the campus of their university, but they do NOT get along….

….until Henry Peglar, a first-year graduate student in Classics, decides that he wants to learn how to read Egyptian hieroglyphs.

(Drabbles and AU info below the cut!)

It turns out that most students who want to study hieroglyphs have already finished the introductory course, however, because Henry ends up in a tiny winter-term class with only two other students. The three “hieroglyph 101s” all show up a bit early to their first day of class, fumbling into a dimly-lit classroom in the basement of Barrow Hall, across from the archaeological store-rooms.

They exchange quick introductions while waiting for the instructor to arrive. Both of Henry’s classmates are undergraduate Egyptology majors: Tom Hartnell is a bright young freshman with a passion for Egyptian mummies (and, admittedly, a slightly spotty undergraduate record), and Henry Collins is a terribly anxious junior who recently switched majors from Engineering (“Please call me Collins,” he says, after Henry begins to comment that they share a name. “Everyone else already calls me Collins.”)

The moment of revelation for Henry Peglar, though, is when he first sets eyes on their instructor: a senior graduate student named John Bridgens, who walks in just a minute after the hour, with a thermos of what smells like mint tea.

John Bridgens looks almost mournful for a moment, his dark eyes soulful, a thick pea-coat sitting heavy on his shoulders (which he quickly shrugs off; it may be a chilly January outside, but Barrow Hall is toasty and warm). When John looks over to his students, though, he smiles, and his face is transformed: Henry feels like the sun has suddenly come out from behind the blustery clouds.

Henry quickly realizes that learning Egyptian won’t be like learning Greek or Latin, but fortunately John is a very good teacher. Even though John holds office hours at an ungodly hour of the morning, Henry shows up to every office hour with a bright smile and a long list of questions.

What Henry doesn’t yet know is that he’s in for the most exciting semester of his life…

(Featuring such hijinks as: John and his students Henry, Tom, and Collins get locked into the archaeological store-room with the mummies, in the dark! Henry and Tom Hartnell uncover a secret that could overturn the Egyptology department! Henry develops an unfortunate crush on his instructor! What could go wrong!)

“We’re Trapped in Here, Aren’t We?” (Bonus Drabble)

The four of them have now been locked in the basement, in the dark, for over an hour.

Collins is quietly freaking out, sitting on a storage crate in the corner of the main room of the museum storage space. Henry watches Tom Hartnell deftly trying to help Collins regulate his breathing to a pace approaching normal, with some success; Henry decides not to intervene.

“We’re trapped in here, aren’t we?” Collins asks. He doesn’t sound panicked anymore, just stressed; it’s an improvement.

Tom rubs Collins’s shoulder reassuringly, and says, “I don’t know for certain, but I’m not going to let it worry me – we’re going to be okay, alright?” Tom then turns to Henry Peglar and tilts his head, adding: “Eddie Hoar told me that there used to be a secret passage that ran between Barrow Hall and the library, and that the door opened up somewhere here in the storage-rooms. Maybe we can find it?”

Henry nods, flashes a grin that feels fake but must seem genuine in the low light of the storage-rooms’ emergency lighting, because Tom smiles back at him. “I’ll go check on John,” Henry says. “See if he doesn’t know anything about a tunnel.”

Slipping in between the shelves of Greek ceramics, Henry winds his way toward the back workroom where he left John Bridgens, who had been convinced that there must be an extra key somewhere in the workroom desk drawers.

Henry is so caught up in thoughts of tunnels that fails to notice the packing box sitting next to the shelves and he manages to trip right over it. He takes the fall hard, feeling the chilly linoleum under his now-aching arm, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. When he opens his eyes, though, Henry feels a bolt of fear run though him – for a moment he thinks he’s gone blind, because he sees nothing but darkness. A moment later, the ancient emergency lights flicker back on, and that’s worse because Henry is face-to-face with the mummy.

Henry had forgotten that she was stored here, under the shelves of Egyptian faience. He distantly remembers Dr. Blanky pointing out “the Egyptian girl, our princess,” in her lovely painted coffin, on a tour through the storage rooms last year when he had been a prospective student – but the fact that she was down here (trapped with us, his mind whispers) had escaped his mind.

Shuddering, Henry pushes himself up from the cold floor and backs up against the wall as the lights keep flickering. He knows, he knows, that there’s nothing to fear here, but the sight of the girl’s skin, drawn tight against her skin, her eerie grimace, had shaken him.

“Henry?”

Henry jumps about a foot in the air, but it’s just John, peering out from the workroom door.

“Henry, are you okay?” John continues, his brow furrowed with worry.

Henry swallows. “Yup, yeah, just took a tumble.” He straightens up, tries to collect himself. “Did you find an extra key?” he asks John.

But John isn’t so easily dissuaded. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He steps up next to Henry, a hand hovering over the arm that Henry’s cradling to his chest (Henry’s certain it isn’t broken, but he knows it’ll be bruised a bit).

Henry looks up into John’s eyes and exhales softly to see the loving concern written there. John’s so close now, lifting a hand toward Henry’s cheek, and Henry wants this, wants to reach out and embrace; he finally feels his limbs stop shaking now that John’s here, even as his heart races and his face tilts up…

…. and that’s the moment when the emergency lights finally flicker their last, and the corridor goes dark as a tomb.

Some Background on the Humanities Departments of Barrow Hall

The Department of Classics

The Classics program at Barrow Hall is small but powerful. Most of the faculty get along well with each other, professionally, although they don’t socialize much. There aren’t many graduate students in the program, but most of the grad students they do have are quite active on the university campus.

Classics Faculty

Dr. Crozier is the department chair of the Classics program. He teaches early Roman history, with a focus on land surveying, and he takes a very scientific approach to his material.

Dr. Little is an associate professor who teaches Greek military history and gets very excited about ancient weapons. (“Like the shot that killed Leonidas at Thermopylae!”)

Dr. Hodgson is an associate professor who teaches Greek drama; he’s particularly obsessed with the tragedies of Euripides – the more ritualistic violence the better.

Dr. Irving is an assistant professor who teaches later Roman history, and can turn any conversation into a debate about the early history of Christianity. His most recent book was titled “Coming Out Christian in the Roman World: How the Followers of Jesus Made a Place in Caesar's Empire.” * Despite Irving’s own Christian faith and his social justice outreach work with the campus Queer Interfaith club, Irving’s a bit of a chronological traditionalist when it comes to academic research, and tends to dismiss any literature written after Augustine.

Drs. Peddie and MacDonald are actually part of the History Department, but because they teach Medieval Latin, they’re considered honorary members of the classics faculty. (MacDonald teaches a wildly popular undergraduate seminar – cross-listed with Classics and History – called “Witches, Ghosts, and Potions: Medical Mysteries in Medieval Europe.”)

Dr. Blanky is the exception to the “we hate the Egyptologists” rule – Thomas gets along quite well with a certain Dr. Reid, both of whom have a passion for film studies, and together they’ve organized a weekly historical film series for the undergrads. Dr. Reid’s top picks are old-school classics like Cleopatra (1963) and Julius Caesar (1953); Blanky, on the other hand, is partial to Gladiator (2000). He’s also the exception to the “this department doesn’t socialize rule,” being, himself, a long-time best friend of department chair Dr. Crozier.

Classics Grad Students

Thomas Jopson is an older graduate student – he’s just a breath away from receiving his PhD: Dr. Crozier, who has been supervising his thesis on the systems of enslavement in the Roman Republic and the lived experiences of Roman slaves, is extremely proud of Thomas’s sensitive eye for historical evidence. Thomas also works for the campus mental health office, leading a therapy group for adult children of those suffering from addiction.

Billie Gibson, another grad student, is part-way through writing his dissertation on the reception of Greek ideas about homosexuality in the Victorian period, under the supervision of a confused but supportive Dr. Irving. (“Isn’t this more of a History department topic?”)

“Hickey” started the PhD program at the same time as Billie, and he’s begun writing his thesis on cannibalistic imagery in Greek poetry with Dr. Hodgson. Everyone just calls him Hickey, and Henry Peglar hasn’t been able to figure out his full name (or whether “Hickey” is a first name or a last name, or even whether “Hickey” is part of his real name at all) because no one ever updates the Classics department website. Hickey is part of a student organization called the Dionysians, but they’re not listed on the university’s roster of sanctioned clubs, and no one seems to know what it is that they do, exactly.

Henry Peglar is the newest member of the department, a first-year grad student. He’s planning on studying depictions of ancient history in modern fiction, hopefully with Dr. Blanky, who also happens to be his first-year advisor.

The Department of Egyptology

The Egyptology program at Barrow Hall has been having some hiring problems in recent years. Not only did several older professors retire, but the young Dr. Gore decided to move into museum-work full-time and Dr. Fairholme was ‘poached’ by the rival Egyptology program at another university. As a result, the Department of Egyptology has been under-staffed, with too many grad students and too few professors, resulting in two controversial recent faculty hires.

Egyptology Faculty

Dr. John is the department chair of the Egyptology program. He teaches ancient Egyptian literature and has a rather old-fashioned perspective on middle Egyptian grammar.

Dr. Reid teaches courses on the history of archaeological discoveries in Egypt, and the culture of artifact (mis-)handling by European excavators. He’s friendly with Dr. Blanky in the Classics program, and he lovingly crafts discussion questions for the film-showings that he and Blanky run. (He’ll never admit it, but he secretly loves the 1999 Mummy movie.)

Dr. Stanley teaches classes on ancient Egyptian medicine. He’s known for his severe grading policies and for his impressive ability to ruin the fun of topic that involves things like magic spells and fever-demons and having sex with crocodiles.

Dr. Fitzjames is one of the two new faculty members, a dashing archaeologist with an impressive résumé of excavation in Egypt – although, as Dr. Crozier has wryly observed, some of his funding sources for those digs haven’t always been completely above-board.

Dr. Le Vesconte is the other new faculty member, an associate professor with an equally flashy history of excavation and publication. Rumor is that he and Dr. Fitzjames once found a live cheetah in an Egyptian tomb and tried to keep it as the excavation’s mascot.

Egyptology Grad Students

Edmund “Eddie” Hoar is a senior doctoral candidate, working dedicatedly on a massive dissertation about Egyptian stamps and seals. He’s been working with Dr. John because his old advisor recently retired, and with Eddie’s advisor gone, Eddie’s pretty much the only person on campus who knows his way around the dusty archaeological collection in the basement of Barrow Hall.

John Bridgens has been with the program about as long as Eddie, but he’s closer to finishing his thesis, a sprawling dissertation on Egyptian poetry under Dr. John’s supervision.

Charles “Freddie” Des Voeux is part-way through writing a thesis on Napoleon’s excavations in Egypt; his advisor is Dr. Reid. (He’s also roommates with Eddie Hoar, and the two of them are known as “(Fr)eddie” in the grad student group chat.)

Harry Goodsir is a first-year PhD student, who entered the program at the same time Henry Peglar started in Classics; the two of them met at the university-wide graduate student orientation, and Harry encouraged Henry to take hieroglyphs, which Harry had learned himself while he was an undergraduate, while volunteering with his siblings at an Egyptian museum in their hometown. Harry’s interested in Egyptian archaeology, hoping to study with Dr. Fitzjames and Dr. Le Vesconte, but there was a paperwork mix-up that placed Dr. Stanley as Harry’s first-year advisor (Harry is unhappy about it; Dr. Stanley is even more unhappy about it).

Members of Associated Departments in Nearby Ross Hall (& Their Drama)

Dr. James C. Ross is the co-chair of the anthropology program and a dear friend of Dr. Crozier in classics. Though he does have a complicated legacy with the university – being a descendent of the famous (if problematic) explorer, Sir John Ross, for whom Ross Hall is named – Dr. James is well-liked by his students and forward-thinking about his discipline.

Ross’s co-chair, Dr. Silna Kamookak, thinks Ross could stand to apply his anthropology to real-world problems a bit more intensively. Dr. Kamookak is a rising star in applied archaeology and she publishes on issues of museum collection ethics and heritage management; the graduate seminar she teaches on Inuit oral history documentation is known to be one of the best courses in the department.

Dr. Jane Franklin is the chair of English Literature; her research interests revolve around the writings of Charles Dickens. All the students in Barrow Hall call her “Dr. Jane,” and call her husband “Dr. John,” because neither would agree to let the other be called “Dr. Franklin.” A memo was circulated. It was messy.

Dr. Sophia Cracroft is an assistant professor in the History of Science department, and a frequent collaborator with Dr. Crozier in an ongoing interdisciplinary project about ancient cartography; although Dr. Cracroft has often tried to get Dr. John Franklin to permit a collaboration with the Egyptology department, Dr. John has always refused. Cracroft’s grad students say that it’s because Dr. John heard something “unsavory” about the relationship between Dr. Cracroft and Dr. Crozier. None of the grad students know what this “unsavory” thing is, but gossip ranges from the vanilla (an affair) to the bizarre (a papyrus smuggling ring).

Other Details

Goldner’s is a purveyor of textbooks of dubious quality. For some reason, all of the introductory language classes in both the Classics and Egyptology departments are always assigned Goldner’s textbooks, much to the students’ and instructors’ displeasure.

* “Coming Out Christian in the Roman World: How the Followers of Jesus Made a Place in Caesar's Empire,” is a real book! (It was not, however, written by John Irving.) I had a fantastic time reading it a few years ago – go check it out.

#theterrorbingo #first square!#based on real life accounts #(only partly I swear)#henry peglar #john bridgens #thomas hartnell #henry collins #the terror #the terror amc #terrorposting #mummies cw

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fanfictionaries · 4 years

Text

Love and Academia Ch. 1 - Retirement and Revelation

Pairing: AU Professor!Bucky x OFC

Warnings: Swearing, smut, NSFW/18+ only, mentions of death/violence/suicide

Author’s note: This started out as an original stand alone book, but then I thought why try to publish it and make money when i could turn it into a fan fiction and give it to people for free instead?

I do not currently have a beta reader so please excuse any larger issues. it’s just little ol’ me!

***

“Retiring?”

Emily sat, shocked to her very core as the older man sitting across from her nervously removed his glasses and began cleaning them on the corner of his Hawaiian printed shirt. Her graduate advisor of three years at Idaho State University, Dr. Erskine, had always been a fair man. He was a scientist! He was logical, factual, practical. So, why on God’s green earth was he retiring at the tail end of her doctorate degree?

“I understand this is probably frustrating Emily, but to be fair when I took you on as a graduate student it was under the impression that you were to just be a master’s student,” Dr. Erskine sighed. Emily opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand to stop her before continuing, “And I know I encouraged you to transfer to a PhD program.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger. “If I’m being completely honest Emily, my health is diminishing. It has been for a while. It was even before I accepted you into my lab, and it wasn’t fair of me to accept you when I knew that my position here was potentially—" he paused to look down at his desk, “—that my time here was potentially limited. Think of it as an old man’s last hurrah.” He chuckled darkly, almost as if he was baffled by his own decision, “I was going to turn you away, recommend you to some of my colleagues that were taking on students at the time, but when I looked through your CV, read the glowing recommendations from your references, interviewed you and got to know you, I guess I saw something in you that reminded me of myself when I was younger. I guess, I just wanted to relive that. Help you as much as I could.”

Emily fidgeted in her seat, unsure of what to even say. This was a man she spent the last three years with. He was her mentor. He was like a father to her and she found it incredibly jarring to hear all of this now. He had never mentioned his health before; hell, he had been spry as a teenager their first summer, traipsing through the mountains of northern Idaho. But now that she thought back on it, the small groans when he stood from his chair every morning her first year, how he’d opted for the elevator over the stairs her second year, his insistence that he wasn’t needed out in the rolling hills and woods her third year, and the large bottle of aspirin next to his desk all started to make sense. She felt like such an idiot for not realizing. Even worse, she felt like a bad person – a bad friend. She considered herself a friend to Dr. Erskine, even if he was almost fifty years her senior, and friends noticed things like the failing health of those closest to them.

“But now Frances is insisting that I retire and spend what time I have left at home with her and the family. Which, to be honest sounds quite…nice.”

She looked up at Dr. Erskine and took a deep breath, “That’s some heavy stuff Doc.”

A smile spread across Dr. Erskine’s face until it reached his eyes. Emily watched as he physically relaxed, “So I’m forgiven then Marty?” She nodded and smiled back as they slipped back into a comfortable repertoire. In their early days, the two had bonded over the mutual love for the Back to the Future films. They had even gone as far as to compare themselves to the duo Marty McFly and Dr. Brown – mainly because of their drastic age difference and Dr. Erskine’s habit of being erratic and unpredictable. So, over the years they had begun to affectionately refer to each other by the characters’ names.

“I wish you had told me sooner. I would have complained infinitely less about you flaking out on my last trip into the field,” Emily admitted, trying to throw a little humor into the mix. She had never been good at talking about feelings and the mushy gushy stuff.

“I guess I didn’t want to burden you with an old man’s troubles.”

Nodding, she bit the inside of her lower lip trying to decide what to do, “I guess I could see if someone else in the department could take me on for my last year. I mean there’s not much left, all my data collection is complete. I just have data analysis, the conference in the spring and then defending my thesis. Maybe Dr. Foster would—”

“Actually—" Dr. Erskine interrupted her “—I’ve solved that little problem for you.”

At Emily’s surprised expression he laughed, “What? Thought I was going to leave you high and dry?”

Emily laughed as well, but with relief. She had thought that.

“Yes, they’ve managed to find my replacement already. Now, I don’t know whether I should be relieved or insulted that my spot was so easily filled, but nonetheless he has graciously accepted to take you on for your last year, as well as take my place on your graduate committee,” said Dr. Erskine.

Emily rolled her eyes affectionately at his comment – he knew very well that most could not hold a candle to his position within the field of ecology.

“And just who is it that they’ve chosen to replace the great Dr. Abraham Erskine?” Emily leaned in, raising an eyebrow in intrigue.

“Dr. J. B. Barnes.”

Emily’s mouth hung open in shock, “Barnes? THE Dr. Barnes?” She blushed momentarily at her small outburst before clearing her throat, “I mean, that’s uh great. I’ve read some of his work. When, um, when will he be arriving?”

Dr. Erskine gave Emily an amused smile, very aware that Emily had read all of Dr. Barnes’ work, before answering, “I believe he’s actually already arrived, but seeing as I still need to move about thirty years’ worth of stuff from my office and the lab, he probably won’t be moving in for a week or so – right before classes start.”

As if on cue, Dr. Erskine’s office phone rang. He made quick work of answer, “Ahhh Margret. Mark mentioned you’d be calling today.”

Emily took the phone call as an opportunity to stand from her seat and make her goodbyes. Catching Dr. Erskine’s eye, she gave him a quick wave, “Let me know if you need any help packing things up.”

“Could you hold for just one second Margret?” Dr. Erskine asked into the phone before placing it to his chest, “Are we still on for dinner Sunday, Marty?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss Frances’ salmon for the world,” Emily said before ducking out of his office and shutting the door behind her. Dr. Erskine’s office sat nestled in the far corner of his research lab – a large space filled with messy counter tops and lab tables covered by slides, scales, and various pieces of equipment that were worth more than Emily’s entire education. Sitting down at her desk, she attempted to work, but her head couldn’t stop spinning. Her heart ached for Dr. Erskine, but his leaving sent her stress level up a whole new level. Not to mention, the prospect of working with Dr. Barnes was a whole other story. What was that saying again? When one door closes, another one opens? Well this was certainly a big door to open. At least for her. Her phone buzzed on her desk beside her.

Clint:

If I have to listen to Dr. Stark’s Himalayans story one more time, I may drive this car off of the road.

Emily laughed, her boyfriend Clint, currently on a three-week field excursion in Montana, had a love/hate relationship with his advisor. He loved the man but hated having to hear the same braggadocios stories over and over again.

Emily:

Lol! What time are you getting home tonight?

Clint:

7, still at work?

Emily:

So late :-( Yea, I planned on staying until 5. Can’t wait to see you tonight!

Clint:

Me too. See you tonight <3

After about an hour, Emily decided that trying to get any work done that day was futile. Her whole body vibrated with excitement. So, she grabbed her bag and headed out of the Life Science’s building. She contemplated what to do with the rest of her day as she hopped into her old Jeep Cherokee and immediately rolled down all the windows allowing a small breeze to blow through the stuffy space. If there was one thing you could count on, it was the unbearable summer heat in Pocatello, Idaho. Leaning her head back in the driver’s seat, a large smile spread across her face and she let out a small squeal. She couldn’t wait to tell Clint about Dr. Barnes. Her boyfriend had unfortunately been listening to her fan girl over the man’s work for the past two years. She could only imagine his reaction when she told him that she would be working with him. With that thought in mind, she put her car in drive and headed towards the store. She would splurge on a couple of nice steaks and some champagne, maybe even bake a chocolate cake, and surprise him with the news over dinner when he got home.

As she carried the heavy bags up the stairs to her third story apartment, she cursed silently under her breath; it was hot, and she was out of shape. She fished her keys from her purse and balanced the bags on her hip as she unlocked the front door and stepped in. She rounded the corner into the kitchen and began to put the groceries away when a voice startled her.

“Em, what are you doing here?”

“Oh!” Emily let out a small shriek and turned around to find Clint standing behind her, “Jesus, you scared me! You said you weren’t coming back until seven tonight babe.”

She crossed the kitchen to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. He wore only a pair of boxers and his hair was damp from a recent shower. Burying her nose in his neck, she breathed in the scent of his familiar body wash before pulling back and pecking him on the lips.

“I, uh, I thought you were at work until five,” he pulled her back in, wrapping his arms even tighter to her. Emily smirked into his chest, figuring she had just ruined his attempt to surprise her.

“Well, that’s actually a really long story. I was going to surprise you with dinner tonight and tell you about it, but I guess you beat me to the surprise.” She leaned back in his arms and smiled up at him. Clint laughed stiffly, his eyes not meeting hers, and Emily scrunched her brow in confusion.

“Babe, are you oka—”

“Clint honey! Are you getting water or not? I need something to cool me down after that steamy shower,” a voice called from the other room. The sound hit Emily like a brick. Unhooking her arms from around Clint’s neck, she took a step back.

“Em, I can explain,” Clint said, his eyes large and panicked.

But Emily didn’t listen, instead she moved towards the bedroom, no longer in control of her body.

“Em, wait!” Clint followed behind her, but his words were a hazy buzz. She swung open the door to her, their, bedroom and found Sharon, Clint’s coworker, lying in their bed. Sharon let out a shriek and quickly moved to cover herself with the sheet.

“I thought you said she wouldn’t be home for hours!” said Sharon, jumping up to dress herself. “Oh my god.”

“Em, please. I know how this looks,” said Clint, but Emily did not reply. Instead she stood still, rooted to the spot, watching as Sharon hastily pulled her pants up her legs and shirt over her head. It wasn’t until the woman brushed past her and exited the apartment, that she looked up at Clint.

“Get out,” she said, voice calm and even.

“Emily…”

“I’m going to leave, and when I get back tonight, I want you and all your stuff out of my apartment.” She turned on the spot and headed to the kitchen to grab her bag.

“You can’t be serious Em. This is my apartment too. Aren’t we at least going to talk about this?” Clint tried to reason with Emily, grabbing ahold of her forearm to stop her.

“Last time I checked, only my name was on the lease Clint,” she said icily, ripping her arm from his firm grasp.

“Where the fuck am I supposed to go Em? Huh? You’re going to just throw me out on the street?!”

The anger in his voice shocked Emily to her core. She didn’t know this person. Two years and she had never heard Clint so much as raise his voice, but now he was yelling at her like it had been her cheating on him in their bed. The urge to run from the situation was so strong, she didn’t even hesitate when she grabbed the handle to the front door and swung it open. “I’m sure Sharon would be more than happy to let you stay with her.”

Sprinting down the stairs, she ran to her car and pealed out of the parking lot. She had no idea where she was going, but all she knew was that she needed to be as far away from Clint as humanly possible. With shaking hands, Emily pulled her phone from her purse and called the first person she could think of. The phone rang a few times before a sultry voice answered.

“Well hello sexy, calling for a mid-day booty call?”

“Hey Nat,” Emily answered.

“What’s wrong babe?” her best friend, Natasha, asked picking up on the tone in Emily’s voice.

“Want to help me pick out a new bed?”

#professor!bucky #bucky #buckybarnes #bucky x ofc #au #college au #marvel #fanfiction #smut #fluff #cheating

27 notes · View notes

roman-writing · 5 years

Text

two, across (4/?)

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Hilda Valentine Goneril / Lysithea von Ordelia

Rating: T

Wordcount: 8,470

Summary: Lysithea can barely keep afloat under the workload of giving undergrad lectures and finishing off her PhD thesis. Meanwhile Dr. Hilda V. Goneril is somehow both the laziest person as well as the most successful young professor she has ever known. It’s absolutely aggravating.

Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

Lysithea allows herself to be distracted by Hilda for the entire weekend. She does not open her laptop to check her emails, or even sneak onto her phone to peek at the university webportal login. On the same front, Hilda does no visible work despite the fact that she has a class to teach on Monday. Whereas Lysithea only allows herself this rare luxury because she does not have her lecture until Tuesday.

She will regret it come Monday evening, but during the weekend she cannot bring herself to care enough to actually disrupt the two days by worrying about university work. She messages one of her flatmates that she will be out all weekend, and spends the time alternatively lazing about Hilda’s apartment, or being dragged around town by Hilda to spontaneous events.

In the past, Lysithea had never been much interested in going to animated little bars with live music and decorative antlers. Hanging out in trendy establishments specifically designed for the consumption of alcohol, when she preferred to not mix meds with spirits, is not high on her to-do list, but something about the company more than makes up for it. Hilda herself opts to not drink much either, despite being on a first name basis with everyone on the premises, including Claude, the owner -- a rakishly good-looking man with dark hair, and eyes even more cunning than his smile -- who clears out other lesser customers from the best seats in the house for them, and personally ensures that their glasses are never empty.

So it is that on a frosty Monday morning Lysithea returns to work more refreshed than she could remember feeling in years. This time she and Hilda take the train from the apartment together. It is far too easy to go about her usual daily routine with Hilda in it; Lysithea does not even pause to think that it might be odd. It isn't until they are ordering their coffees at the cafe just around the corner from the university, that it strikes her that this is a departure from the norm.

Lysithea murmurs her thanks to the barista as she accepts her mocha, a slight furrow in her brow. She is so preoccupied with the notion that she does not even scold Hilda for stealing one of the marshmallows resting atop the lid of her takeaway cup.

The feeling lingers when they are waiting for the elevators with their coffees in hand, as though the return to what used to be the normal routine was more jarring than what had occurred just previous. Lysithea tries to shrug it away. Hilda doesn't seem to notice. Or if she does, she does not mention it.

They do the crossword in Lysithea's office. Hilda leaves for her class -- late, as usual -- and Lysithea opens up her work emails for the first time in two days.

A few of the usual suspects litter in inbox. Three spam emails that had slipped through the cracks of the university's firewall. A flurry of students worried about their upcoming assignment at the very last minute; the paper is due at the beginning of next week, and by the looks of it some of them have only just started now. No surprise there.

Midway through clearing the list of emails, Lysithea goes stock-still. Tomas has replied to the final thesis draft she had sent him on Friday. His response takes up only one ominous line on the screen:

‘We need to meet to discuss further. Come by my office Monday 2pm, if it suits. -T.’

Her heart races in her chest. A million possibilities pop up into her head about what could have possibly gone wrong this time. Or perhaps it has gone right for once, and she is simply over-reacting.

The latter seems unlikely. And besides, Lysithea had never been predisposed towards optimism. Life had taught her that, and if nothing else she is an expert study.

She responds to the email with an affirmation, and then spends the next few hours agonising over it. She wishes Hilda were here. She wishes Edelgard were here. But Hilda is in the second floor lecture hall, and Edelgard is four hours time difference away and probably busy with very important meetings.

Briefly, Lysithea considers going to Hanneman to pick his brain, but by the time she has thought to do so it is half an hour before she must meet with Tomas. She was supposed to have spent the day writing up her lecture for tomorrow, but instead she stews in a soup of anxious anticipation, unable to bring herself to do anything more than stall and not dissolve into full-blown panic.

She arrives at Tomas' office fifteen minutes early, unable to stand the idea of waiting a moment longer. In one hand she clutches her notebook and pen, and in the other her bag. Thankfully, he is inside. The door is ajar, and the lights are on. Lysithea has to steady herself with a deep breath before she raps lightly on the door, and pushes it open.

"You wanted to see me, Tomas?"

For a portly old man who dresses all in unassuming beige, his presence never fails to fill her with dread. He glances up from his computer. "Ah, Lysithea. Good. Come in."

This is how it always starts. With smiles. With a veneer of kindness and understanding.

Lysithea perches herself gingerly on the edge of a seat which is located at the end of his desk. She puts down her bag at her feet. He already has a copy of her latest thesis draft printed out. She feels ill at the sight of his handwriting scrawled all across the margins.

"About this draft -" she starts, but he cuts her off before she can get more than a few words in edgewise.

"Yes. I'm glad you sent it to me." Tomas pulls his chair a little closer so that he can angle his notes towards her and they can both read them. "I have a few concerns."

"O-Oh?" She clears her throat, and tries to hide the tremble of her fingers when she opens her notebook to a fresh page. She has already labelled the top of the page with the date, time, and meeting title.

Tomas flips to midway through her thesis, where a portion of her data is spilled across the page. The rest of the extensive tables and figures are located in the appendices. Meticulously, he puts on a pair of round spectacles, and pulls out a pen of his own.

"This main section here," he taps with the end of his pen at the corner of the data table. "It still isn't clear enough. You don't prove the correlation between your data and your results."

Even though Lysithea is poised and ready to take notes, she cannot bring herself to write anything down. Her notebook is filled with pages and pages of figures and sketches and explanations and minutes of their meetings on this exact topic.

"I don't understand," Lysithea says slowly. "How else can I explain it?"

"In a way that makes sense, preferably." His answer is dry and biting.

She has to mask a wince at his tone. She takes a moment to respond, and when she does so, it’s like hearing her own voice from a distance.

"With all due respect, I think that what you're asking me is outside the scope of this project."

He goes still. He leans back in his seat, and studies her. His eyes look very small through the lenses of his glasses. "I beg your pardon?"

"I just -" Lysithea swallows thickly, and forces herself to sit up a little straighter. "I just don't think that what you're asking of me is what this thesis is meant to deliver."

"Incorrect. This -" he taps at the pages, "- is not a thesis."

A chill settles over her. "What?"

"This is not a thesis. If you submitted it to anyone, they would fail it."

"I don't understand," she repeats. It's a sentence she has said many times in this office, and which she imagines she will say many more times yet. "I received independent advice from other academics in the field, and they said that -"

"Which academics?" Tomas' face has gone hard.

"Ha-Hanneman, of course -"

"A secondary supervisor is not an independent source."

"And Dr. Goneril," Lysithea adds.

It feels like a trump card, using Hilda’s name. The rising star of the department. The young up and coming darling of the field with a bright future and an academic matrix to die for.

This time when Tomas smiles, it looks forced, like a baring of teeth. “And what did Dr. Goneril have to say?”

“She gave me constructive feedback, which I took. And then she said it was ready to submit,” Lysithea answers truthfully.

The last bit in particular had made Lysithea’s chest swell with a sense of accomplishment at the time, as though her thesis had already passed the examination stage by the grace of Hilda’s approval alone.

Tomas takes a moment to clean his glasses with the edge of his beige sweater. “Well,” he perches the spectacles back upon his nose, “Dr. Goneril is very young. And unless I am very much mistaken, she has never been an examiner before.”

“Then, can you please tell me what you would have me do to fix whatever problem you think there is with my thesis?”

“Get more data.”

A prickle of fear down her spine. “That would take months. It’s not feasible within the timeframe to -”

“And yet it must be done. What you have here is -” He shuffles a few of the pages, and then waves at them like they’re garbage that has sullied his desk. “- nothing. It doesn’t prove anything. You’re miles away from finishing. You need more data, and you need clearer explanations as to how you arrived at your conclusions.”

“I -” Her mouth feels dry. Her stomach squirms like a bed of snakes, and with a sense of unreality she says, “No. I won’t.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t change it anymore.” Lysithea shakes her head. Her voice is faint, but immovable. “I don’t have time to rewrite my thesis to be what you want. It’s - It’s never going to be what you want.”

Tomas stares at her for an uncomfortable length of time. A muscle leaps at his jaw. Then, he tosses his pen down, and crosses his arms. “In that case, I will not be endorsing your thesis for examination.”

Lysithea glances down, unable to hold his gaze any longer. Her fingers are still clenched around the pen, poised to take notes upon a blank page. She closes the notebook, and clips the pen into its sheath.

She grabs her bag, stands, and is surprised when her legs support her. “Then I suppose we are finished here.”

As she reaches the door, Tomas’ voice gives her pause. “You’re making a mistake, Miss Ordelia.”

She doesn't answer. Her fingers rest upon the door's handle. She pushes the door open, and walks out into the hallway.

When the door closes behind her, Lysithea stands in the hallway for a long moment, unsure of exactly what to do. She looks at the opposite wall, at the abstract painting of a cancerous cell hanging there, until she begins to walk. Her feet carry her down the hallway in a daze, and Lysithea does not think of her destination. Indeed, she has no destination in mind, but her legs seem to know.

She strides towards her own office, but freezes when she sees that Hilda's door is open; she must have just finished her lecture. Lysithea approaches, and walks in without a word.

Hilda is wearing earphones. She hums merrily along to a song that is playing on her phone while she texts simultaneously. Upon noticing Lysithea's presence in the doorway, she glances up, beaming. "Hey! What's up?"

Lysithea's mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Hilda frowns, and reaches up to take out her headphones. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Um -" Lysithea swallows and tries again. Her hands are trembling uncontrollably now. "I - uh - I just had a meeting with Tomas, and he told me he isn't going to support my thesis."

Hilda looks blankly at her, as though she had not understood what was said. "I'm sorry -- what?"

The words fall from Lysithea’s mouth in a torrent she can’t stop. "He - He said that I would need to collect more data and rewrite whole sections for clarity, but I don't - I don't have time. I came to the university on a grant basis, which pays for full tuition and ensures I have a job, and it runs out in three months, and if I don't submit - if I drag this out any longer I'm not going to be able to stay without paying out of pocket, and my family isn't - I can't ask El to do this for me. I can’t go home like this. I can’t do that. My parents are - they aren’t -"

The world is spinning at the edges. Her chest aches, and it is difficult to breathe. Lysithea hardly registers the fact that Hilda has risen to her feet and shut the door so they are alone. Gentle hands are suddenly on her shoulders, but Lysithea flinches so abruptly she drops her pen and notebook.

"Woah. Okay. No touchy. Got it." Hilda turns off the lights, and twists the blinds shut so that the room is dimmed and nobody can peer inside.

Faint music is still playing from Hilda’s headphones. The cheery pop tune is a stark contrast to the all-consuming panic that washes over her. The whole scene feels surreal, like she’s watching herself drown in a dream. She covers her face with one shaking hand. Her breaths are sharp and rapid against her palm. Lysithea closes her eyes and tries to will the world to stop turning so that she can collect herself -- just for a moment.

"Do you have your phone on you?" Hilda mumbles as if to herself. This time when Lysithea feels a hand start to sneak into her bag, she does not move away.

Hilda grabs Lysithea's phone and pulls up the screen. She unlocks it without any trouble, and starts flicking through the contact list before lifting the phone to her ear.

A familiar voice answers on the other line, but without the speaker on, Lysithea can't quite tell what Edelgard is saying.

"Hi! Nope. It's Hilda. Yeah, sorry, no time to chat. Lysithea is having a bit of a meltdown right now, and I need you to talk to her, okay?"

A touch at her wrist. Hilda gently tugs Lysithea's arm down so that she can press the phone between her fingers.

Trying to calm her breathing, Lysithea's voice is still a trembling mess when she says, "H-Hello?"

"Lys," Edelgard sounds grave and concerned. "What happened?"

Lysithea gasps on a sob. She tries to bite it back. Her teeth dig into her lower lip hard enough that she can feel them cut into skin. Her eyes burn, everything goes blurry, and suddenly it's all coming out in a rush.

Edelgard listens while Lysithea babbles on the phone about the events of the day, and even her silence is thunder-graven, as though she were hanging off of Lysithea's every word. When Lysithea finally stops to choke on a sob and wipe at her cheeks, Edelgard says in a soothing tone.

"You know I wouldn't let that happen."

"No, El."

"Lysithea -"

"No!" Lysithea has to lower the phone for a moment to compose herself. She roughly drags the back of her hand across her eyes, and brings the phone back up. "Accepting gifts is one thing but this is - this is too much. I can't. You can't solve everything for me with money. I don't want you to. I just - I just want -"

For this to have never happened. To submit her thesis. To pass. To graduate. To teach. To live without something horrible looming on the horizon, like she had for so long.

"I know," Edelgard murmurs. "And if that's what you want, of course I will respect that. But it isn't weakness to let others help you. This isn't the end of it. There is a way to solve this. You just have to find out how."

It takes a good fifteen minutes on the phone with Edelgard for Lysithea to finally get her breathing under control. By then, she has sunk down to sit on the ground, her back leaning against the wall. Hilda is sitting on the corner of her desk nearby, waiting patiently even as her foot jiggles and her fingers play with one of the gold bangles at her wrist.

Edelgard’s voice sounds distant for a moment as she pulls the phone away to speak to someone else, “Just another moment, Hubert. I’m almost done.” She brings the phone back. “I’m sorry. I really need to go.”

“Yeah,” Lysithea closes her eyes, and leans her head back against the wall. “I know you do.”

“I will call you tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

“Can you put Hilda back on the phone?”

Wordlessly, Lysithea holds the phone out, and feels Hilda cautiously take it from her.

“Y-ello?” Hilda chirps into the phone. “Nah, it’s fine. Got it. Yup. Yuuup. I said I got it, didn’t I? Geesh. Sure thing. Bye.”

Lysithea’s eyes are still closed. She can hear the soft beep of the call being ended, followed by silence. She opens her eyes when Hilda sits down gingerly beside her. Their thighs are pressed together. Lysithea stares down at both their shoes; her own outstretched feet stop midway somewhere between Hilda’s calves and ankles.

“I’m sorry,” Lysithea says; she sounds raspy and wooden to her own ears.

“Sorry?” Hilda stares at the side of her face, incredulous. “For what? Tomas being a bully?”

"For -" Lysithea waves at herself and then at Hilda's office. "- barging in here and just -"

"Oh, no. You don't have to apologise for that. You know how many people in their mid-twenties I have made cry in these very walls?" Hilda leans in closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So many."

Lysithea can't keep a watery laugh at bay. She wipes at her eyes again, and sniffles. "What if he's right? What if it's all complete rubbish, and I've just wasted the last three years of my life?"

"Look at me." Hilda tugs at Lysithea's hand until she reluctantly glances up. Hilda is wearing a stern expression, as though she has just been insulted. "Are you calling me a liar?"

Lysithea blinks in confusion. "What -?"

"Because that's what it sounds like to me."

"Hilda, I don't -"

"Seriously though. Seriously. Have you ever known me to spout platitudes just to make someone feel better?"

Slowly, Lysithea shakes her head.

"That's right," Hilda says. She runs her thumb across Lysithea's fingers. The gold and coral rings she wears are warm from prolonged contact with her skin. "Because I am many things. Brilliant. Talented. Funny. Gorgeous -"

Lysithea's laugh is weak, but she can still feel the smile splitting her face.

"- but a liar is not one of them. I’m a modern day Oracle of Delphi; I only speak divine truths, which no one is ready to hear or appreciate," Hilda continues. "And your thesis is good. Alright? It's really good. And Tomas may be playing some fucked up game that's unfairly involved you. I don't know what it is. Maybe he's after more grant money. Or maybe he's just a dick. Personally, my money is on the latter of those two options. Occam’s razor, or whatever."

"I don't know," Lysithea sighs.

She allows Hilda to keep playing with her hand. She even responds, turning her palm face up and curling her fingers so that their hands are laced together. It doesn't last long; Hilda is terrible at keeping still. Soon, she's toying with Lysithea's fingertips again like they're her own personal playdough putty.

"What am I going to do?" Lysithea says softly.

Hilda mulls over that for a moment before replying. "Well, it's your thesis, you know? And a supervisor's role is to supervise. Which is very tautological of me, but tautology has its place in the world irregardless of the fact that it's mostly bunk. So, my point still stands. It's your thesis. And technically speaking you don't need a supervisor's permission to submit it. You can just submit it on your own."

Lysithea stares at their hands, and then at Hilda herself, who is watching her intently. "But how would I find examiners, or - or -? I don't know the process behind the bureaucracy."

"No," Hilda drawls the vowel out as if savouring it in her mouth. "But there are other people in the department who do."

"I can't go to Judith," Lysithea says, adamant. "She was taught by Tomas! He's the professor with the longest tenure in the school, let alone the department! He's untouchable."

Hilda uses her free hand to tap the tip of Lysithea's nose. "Au contraire. He’s very touchable.” Realising what she has just said, Hilda makes a disgusted face. “Oh, ew. Forget I said that. Anyway! I wasn’t talking about Judith.”

“Then who do you -?” Lysithea’s eyes widen, and she pales. “You can’t mean Rhea.”

“Directly to Rhea,” Hilda confirms. “Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”

“I can’t do that. He would be so mad.” Lysithea even checks over her shoulder towards the closed office door and drawn windows, as if he were a boogeyman lurking just outside and eavesdropping on every word.

“Yeah, well. Maybe he should’ve thought of that before being a fuckwad.” Hilda slips her hand free of Lysithea’s in order to shuffle a little upright and turn towards her. “Listen. I get it. Rhea puts the fear of god in me, too. But she’s the Dean. She is literally everyone’s boss. And as part of her job description, she is supposed to weigh in on these things when they crop up. Speaking of cropping -- do you want me to dismember Tomas horribly?”

Though Hilda is smiling when she asks it, her eyes are very cold and her voice very serious.

Lysithea takes a moment to mull the offer over. “Tempting, but no. Thank you.”

“Oh, anytime. You need someone’s ass kicked? You call me.”

“Isn’t that job reserved for older siblings, not younger ones?”

“Well, la-dee-da, Miss Only Child! When did you suddenly become an expert on sibling relationships? I’ll have you know, I kicked many a deserving ass without my brother’s help.” Hilda pauses, then adds. “That being said, if Holst were to kick someone, their individual vertebrae would pop out of their mouth like a pez dispenser.”

Lysithea pats Hilda’s knee in a consoling fashion. “Don’t worry. I’m sure if you bulked up some more, you too could kick someone into low Earth orbit like a Saturn V rocket.”

“Aww...That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yes, nothing says romance like a girl stumbling into your office and blubbering like an idiot for thirty minutes,” Lysithea says dryly. It is a testament to Hilda’s skill at distracting her that Lysithea is even able to summon up a bit of sarcasm right now.

In answer, Hilda uses the edge of the table to pull herself to her feet. Then she turns to offer Lysithea a hand. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

“But -” Lysithea starts to protest, but Hilda shakes her head.

“No way. You’re not staying here after this fustercluck. Take the rest of the day off. And tomorrow, too. I know you have lectures tomorrow, but I’ll bet my studded McQueen boots that you haven’t missed a single day of class this term, so don’t even think about coming into work. Now,” Hilda wraps her scarf around her neck, and hoists her black bag over her shoulder. “Do you want to go to your place or mine? Up to you.”

At the thought of having to explain this whole thing again to each of her flatmates as they come home, Lysithea cringes. “Yours, please.”

“Great choice. I’ve got that pizza place’s phone number burning a hole in my pocket, and enough ice cream in my freezer to tranquilise a horse.”

Lysithea lets herself be pulled up from where she is seated on the floor. Crying has completely drained her, and the promise of food does little to rouse her appetite. If she had gone back to her own place, she wouldn’t have eaten at all that evening. Indeed, the idea of curling up on the ground and sleeping for the next thousand years seems like the best available option, but Hilda is already opening the door for them to go.

As they step out into the hallway, Lysithea briefly considers grabbing her laptop from her office, but the thought makes her stomach turn, so she leaves it behind. Walking to the elevators means walking past Tomas’ office, and Lysithea skulks behind Hilda the whole way. She doesn’t relax until they are leaving the building entirely and striding across the snowy street towards the train station.

Arriving at Hilda’s apartment feels like reaching the promised land. The familiar clutter draped over every surface, and the smell of Hilda’s perfume on the air might as well be salvation.

Hilda flings her bag into a corner of her bedroom, and taps away at her phone to turn on her automated heating system as well as order them a pizza with all the trimmings. Without needing to be told or ask permission, Lysithea opens up one of the drawers to pull out a spare set of Hilda’s overly large sweatpants and t-shirt for pajamas.

She wanders into the restroom, but doesn’t bother to lock the door. She runs a bath, and strips. The hot water scalds at first, then cools to just the right temperature. She cries a bit more. She lets the bath wash away the day’s events until Hilda is knocking on the door to announce that their food has arrived, and that the delivery boy was a seven.

Lysithea emerges from the bathroom with wet hair, dressed in Hilda’s clothes. She flicks a quick email off to her students on her phone that she is feeling unwell and will be unable to make it to tomorrow’s lectures, while Hilda opens the pizza box in the kitchen and puts a few slices onto a single plate for them to share.

Four episodes of a netflix show and a tub of ice cream later, the world outside has fallen to an early wintry night. Snow gathers on the windowsill, illuminated by the glow of the laptop on the bed between them. It’s barely nine in the evening, but snuggled up beneath the warm sheets Lysithea yawns. Hilda shuts the lid of the laptop and sets it on the ground. The room is plunged into a quiet darkness. Rolling over to face the window, Lysithea buries her head into her pillow.

The mattress dips slightly as Hilda shuffles around. “You still in no touchy mode? Or are cuddles acceptable?”

In answer, Lysithea gropes around in the dark for Hilda’s hand. She finds her wrist, and pulls it over so that Hilda’s arm is wrapped around her stomach. Lysithea lets her eyes fall shut as Hilda curls up against her. And as she drifts off, she dreams that Hilda presses a chaste kiss to the back of her neck.

Lysithea decides she is very bad at playing hooky. She spends the day at Hilda’s apartment. She tries to not do work -- she really does -- but the itch is so overwhelming that it’s a relief to use Hilda’s tablet to plan her Friday lecture.

She may not have had the crossword with Hilda that morning, but at least she can do one thing that feels normal and routine. Today of all days, Lysithea clings to any creature comforts she can get her hands on. And if that means meticulously planning out notes and a slideshow for a two hour lecture, then that's what she's going to do, god damn it.

Eventually however even that isn't enough to keep her occupied. Hilda had promised to return early from the university, but without her the apartment feels haunted by her absence. More than once Lysithea looks up, ready to speak to Hilda only to realise that she's not there. Disappointment twists her gut, which only makes her frown and throw herself back into her work with more zeal than before. By the time it reaches one in the afternoon, Lysithea has finished with her notes, and has even added a few extra slides to her powerpoint in case she needs to pad out the time, leaving her with nothing to do.

Opening a new tab in the browser, Lysithea goes to the university website. She looks up the dean's page. She chews nervously at her lower lip as she stares at Rhea's email address. And then, before she can convince herself that it's a bad idea, she copies the address and pastes it into the send bar.

The email she sends to Rhea is simple, a request for a meeting to discuss her main supervisor.

No sooner has Lysithea put down the tablet and gone hunting through Hilda's kitchen for the ingredients for a hot chocolate, than she hears a faint chime of an email in her inbox from the other room. It takes her very little time these days to find things in Hilda's apartment, and she returns to the tablet with a mug of steaming cocoa, complete with whipped cream and a cinnamon stick as a garnish.

She almost drops the mug when she sees that Rhea has already responded to the email.

'Of course. I have fifteen minutes in between meetings tomorrow at 3:30pm. Your schedule permitting, come around to my office then. -Rhea, President of the University for Biology and Medicine, Dean, Division of Biological Sciences and Physical Sciences, PhD.'

Lysithea takes a hasty gulp of cocoa that's too hot, but the scalding grounds her. Her stomach was a hive of anxious activity again. She didn't know if she could handle another meeting like the one she'd had with Tomas just yesterday all in the same week.

And the worst part about it is that Hilda was right. And Lysithea just knows that Hilda is going to be insufferable about it.

Lysithea sits in a chair outside the dean's office. The walls in this level of the building are sleek and wood-paneled. She feels excruciatingly out of place with her knee-length skirt and tattered old notebook clutched in her hand. For the fourth time since arriving and being told by the assistant to take a seat while she waited, Lysithea checks her watch. As she turns over her wrist, the door to her right opens, and she nearly jumps out of her skin.

Rhea stands in the doorway, wearing a white dress. Her hair is long, extending down her back, and from beneath the hem of her dress Lysithea can just see the hint of sandals, the kind that Hilda would have liked and therefore must have been fashionable. On anyone else, the outfit would have made the wearer appear to be an ancient Graecian noblewoman or perhaps a lost ghost from a gothic Victorian novel, but on Rhea it just makes her look sleek and imposing.

Rhea opens the door a little wider and steps back in a wordless invitation. "Miss Ordelia. I'm glad you could make it."

Lysithea rises to her feet. When she slips past Rhea, she tries to stand a little straighter, but it has very little effect. Rhea is one of the tallest people she's met, and somehow Lysithea always feels even shorter when around her. As though Rhea were not tall at all, but that other people were merely too short to stand beside her and meet her gaze.

"Thank you," Lysithea says. She holds her notebook and pen in both hands as though they were a shield. "I really appreciate you making the time to meet with me so promptly."

"Not at all." Rhea closes the door so that they are alone in the office. She gestures to a chair. "Please. Sit."

The office is large enough to house an enormous desk on one end, and a seating area for guests in another. Also an entire wall of floor to ceiling bookcases, complete with a marble bust of some religious figure or another that Lysithea does not immediately recognise. Rhea had gestured towards the desk half of the room, so Lysithea takes one of the seats there.

Rhea meanwhile rounds her desk and sits behind it as though seating herself upon a throne. She leans her elbows on the polished wood surface, her gaze sharp and green and attentive. "How can I help you?"

For a moment Lysithea fiddles with the lavender-coloured ribbon that marks her place in the notebook. Then, steadying herself, she explains the events of not just yesterday but the last year during which all her troubles with Tomas began.

Rhea listens, calm, never once interrupting. Her face is a mask of composure. Lysithea wishes she could read her, but Rhea has always come across as cold and distant no matter the occasion, be it during Lysithea’s entrance interviews, or during departmental holiday parties. It makes Lysithea even more nervous, and more than once she has to pause to collect herself before she can continue once more.

Finally, when Lysithea stops, Rhea speaks. "First, allow me to apologise on the university's behalf. Students in your position are vulnerable to this sort of behaviour, as they are reliant upon their supervisors for advice and information through a very stressful time. Had this issue been brought to my attention sooner, I might have been able to act upon it then."

Hearing that, Lysithea can feel the small ballooning of hope in her chest fade. But then Rhea continues.

"However, I believe the solution to your problem is quite simple at this point. I understand that there are certain time sensitive elements to your employment and connection to this programme, but this works in your favour, not against it.” Rhea raps her fingers against the desk as she speaks; her fingernails are painted a pale green, like Wedgwood porcelain, or the shell of an egg. “I am going to make the recommendation that Tomas’ supervisory role be transferred immediately. I will ensure the paperwork is expedited so as to take into account your grant deadline, but I will need you to first send me an email outlining everything you have told me here today. Spare no detail.”

Lysithea blinks in confusion, wondering for a brief moment if she has heard that incorrectly. “You’re going to give me a new supervisor?” she asks slowly.

Rhea cocks her head to one side. “No. While I understand that due to the interdisciplinary nature of your work that you had two supervisors, I trust that between you and Dr. Essar, you will deliver a more than passable thesis. Unless you take objection with this option?”

Lysithea shakes her head furiously. “No! No, this is fine. Thank you.”

Hanneman as her sole supervisor. It’s better than fine. It’s what she wishes had happened to begin with, but which she only could have known in hindsight.

“Excellent. Now,” Rhea leans forward in her seat. Her glass-green gaze is fixed and unblinking, like that of a great serpent. “Have you by any chance been keeping record of specific dates and notes of your meetings with Tomas?”

Lysithea nods. She holds up her notebook and gives it a little wave before placing it back in her lap.

Rhea’s gaze flashes with something keen and sharp. “Good. Be sure to include those as well.”

“Might I ask -?” Lysithea hesitates, waiting for Rhea to give a slight incline of her head before continuing. “What exactly are you going to be doing with this information?”

Rhea smiles, and for the first time Lyisthea notices two things. One: that Rhea has not seemed to blink even once during this entire encounter. Two: that Rhea’s teeth are remarkably sharp.

“While I cannot speak too much on the matter outside of a confidential arrangement, I can tell you that yours is not an isolated incident, Miss Ordelia. Let us say that Tomas has a not insignificant file on record. Any details, any specifics at all you can give me may be instrumental in current proceedings.” Rhea’s long, pale, green-painted nails are like talons atop the darkly-varnished wooden desk. “So, do be sure to send me that email at the first available opportunity.”

Less than two weeks later, Tomas is no longer her supervisor, and Hanneman is signing the administrative paperwork to submit Lysithea’s thesis. That sense of unreality still hangs over her like a cloud. Hanneman hands her the pen to sign on her own dotted line, and it feels like reaching for a piece of candy that is going to be snatched away at a moment's notice.

The giddiness starts up when Lysithea is carrying her final bound and printed thesis copies from her office for submission. There's a bounce in her step that she hasn't felt in ages. There are two copies of over two hundred pages each, bound in white with her name in simple gold lettering embossed on the cover.

Her step falters when she has to walk by Tomas' office. She had avoided him ever since that meeting. Every day where she went without seeing him was a day she breathed a sigh of relief. Today however, as she strode down the hall towards the elevators, she noticed his office door was wide open.

Lysithea walks a little faster, but then pauses. She turns and peers into Tomas' office.

The desk and chairs remain, but the shelves are empty. Indeed, all personal affects seem to have vanished. Tomas himself is nowhere to be seen.

Her grip upon the twin copies of her thesis slackens. As if she had seen a ghost, Lysithea hurries off towards the elevator, stabbing at the button with her finger to call the lift from the second floor. Her heart is hammering in her chest, and her mind whirls at the speed of light.

Upstairs, she drops off her thesis copies and the forms Hanneman had signed onto the desk of one of the dean's many administrators. The woman seated at the desk checks over all the paperwork before stamping it with an official seal that she then signs and dates. Afterwards, she smiles up at Lysithea, and ensures her that everything is completed. She also reminds Lysithea that neither she nor Hanneman are to attempt to contact the examiners in any way, no matter how long the process takes.

"You will hear from the dean when your examination results are in," the administrator assures her.

"Thank you," Lysithea says for what must be the fifth time since she arrived just moments ago to turn everything in.

"Not a problem. Go. Relax." The administrator waves at her in a kindly fashion. "Try to think about something else for a while. You've earned a break."

"Thanks," Lysithea repeats, then realising that she has said it yet again, turns to leave.

The dean's offices are located on the top floor of the building. Between the wood-paneling and the statues and the light streaming through the stained-glass windows, it feels like standing in the wing of a cathedral. Lysithea bounces on the balls of her feet, and hums to herself as she waits for the elevators to make their long haul back up to this floor. Before the elevators can arrive however, someone steps up beside her.

"Good afternoon." Rhea smiles down at her in that chillingly beatific way of hers.

"Hello." Lysithea tries to return the smile, but it feels tremulous all the same.

They stand in silence. Lysithea watches the light counting the floors over the shining elevator doors. She has never thought of herself as being a particularly fidgety person, but beside Rhea's poise, Lysithea feels like a child unable to keep her hands and feet still for longer than a few seconds. Perhaps she really has been spending too much time with Hilda lately.

The doors open, and Rhea gestures for her to enter first before following after her. Lysithea hits the seventh floor button, while Rhea presses the third. As the elevator doors slide shut, the image of Tomas' empty office puts an immediate dampener on Lysithea's recent triumph. The elevator shudders, then begins its descent.

Bracing herself, Lysithea turns towards Rhea and asks, "Excuse me for asking this, but I was walking past Tomas’ office and - well. What happened to him?"

Rhea does not glance in her direction, instead watching the floor counter overhead. "I fired him."

Lysithea stares. "You - You what?"

"Perhaps I misspoke," Rhea says in that same decorous tone she always seems to use. "There was an official panel inquiry by the board of directors, and then I fired him."

Finally, Rhea looks over at her, and all of a sudden Lysithea very much wishes she hadn't.

Lysithea drops her gaze to study her own shoes. The long hem of Rhea's elegant dress brush against her ankles, and Lysithea has to resist the urge to shuffle further away. She thinks of all the notes she had typed up and sent to Rhea in that email, all the dates, all the hours Tomas had spent berating her over data and clarity and other nonsense, all the correspondence she had forwarded between them. Damning evidence, to be sure, but she never could have dreamed it would be enough to get someone with that much history at an academic institution actually fired.

Somehow she knows even without looking in Rhea's direction that Rhea has turned her attention away again.

"I really ought to thank you. The panel had already been meeting for over a month at various times. Your notes came at just the right time."

Lysithea's head spins. She swallows past an obstruction in her throat, but does not trust herself to speak.

"Though I should also tell you that this was not your doing alone. Tomas tied his own noose long before you arrived on the scene.” Rhea gives a wave of one hand, as if trying to clear the air of flies. “He was near impossible to get rid of due to his tenure, and so I began building a case against him some time ago. You were merely the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

Despite Rhea's obvious attempt at mollifying, Lysithea does not feel very soothed by her words. After a few seconds of chilly silence, Lysithea manages to croak out a weak, "Oh."

Rhea hums a note at the back of her throat as if in agreement. The elevator slows its descent, and Lysithea is eager to escape being alone with Rhea in a small steel box. When the seventh floor illuminates on the screen, and the doors slide open, Lysithea nearly trips over her own feet in her haste.

“Miss Ordelia?”

Lysithea hesitates, and glances over her shoulder.

Rhea is smiling that cold smile of hers, a smile that never seems to touch her eyes. “Congratulations on your submission.”

The moment Lysithea returns to her office, feeling dazed and bewildered from her run in with the dean, Hilda is already waiting for her.

"You all done?" Hilda asks. She stands leaning against the closed and locked door to Lysithea's office. Her thumbs tap away at something on her phone, but after a moment she puts her phone away and awaits Lysithea's answer with an expectant expression.

Lysithea nods. "All done. It's submitted. Now, I wait."

A slow smile spreads across Hilda's face. She pushes off from the door, and links her arm through Lysithea's so that she can steer her back down the hallway towards the elevators.

"Where are we going?" Lysithea asks.

"Out to celebrate." Hilda hands over Lysithea's own bag, presumably pinched from her office just earlier. "You forgot this at home, by the way."

"Oh." Lysithea flushes.

So, not pinched from her office, then. Lysithea must have been so distracted this morning at the thought of printing and submitting her thesis that she had left her bag behind at Hilda's apartment, where she had been staying for -- well, for weeks now.

At this point, Lysithea is greeted with surprise by her flatmates when she actually returns to her own apartment.

Hilda drags her back to Claude's bar, which Lysithea has learned was her favourite haunt in the city, though certainly not the only trendy place she frequented on her nights on the town. It's only three in the afternoon, but still the bar is flooded with customers. When they enter, Hilda waves at a few people as they call out to her. One or two even flash Lysithea a familiar smile as well, to which Lysithea reacts with pleased puzzlement.

She has never been recognised at a bar before. Especially not one like this.

Hilda breezes her way through a few customers to get at the bar and order drinks. Lysithea has a soda, but despite the hour Hilda orders herself a fruity drink with more vodka than sense. Grabbing up both their drinks, Hilda heads towards her usual seat in the house: a series of rich leather couches on a raised platform like incredibly comfortable thrones upon a dais. The walls behind them are festooned with gold-lacquered deer antlers for which the establishment takes its name. A well-stocked fireplace keeps this area warmer than the others. Logs are meticulously stacked against one of the walls all the way up to the ceiling to give the impression that they are lounging in a luxury lodge in the middle of the woods.

Hilda leans back into one corner of the couch, her feet propped on the low table before them. From her seat, she can see everyone in the room, and they can all see her. Lysithea feels like she’s on stage sitting next to Hilda here. And indeed a few other customers glance curiously in their direction.

“So,” Hilda sips at her drink, and says around the bright yellow straw, “how was Rhea?”

“Terrifying,” Lysithea admits truthfully.

Hilda sniggers. “You gotta admit though: she gets results.”

“She fired Tomas.”

“Good. I never liked that guy anyway. Gave me the creeps the first time I met him.” When Lysithea squirms somewhat in her seat and doesn’t answer, Hilda rolls her eyes. “Oh, please don’t tell me you feel guilty about this.”

Lysithea frowns, indignant and a little irritated that Hilda can read her so easily. “I just wish we could’ve found a better way around this whole situation.”

“Honestly? To be honest? To be perfectly frank?” Hilda gestures emphatically around the drink in her hand. “I think everyone got what they deserved. Tomas got fired. Yay. Hanneman gets to be your main supervisor. Yay again. Good for him. And you got to submit your thesis on time. Double yay.”

Lysithea still hasn’t touched her soda. It remains on the table, atop a coaster because she remembered from the last time their visit how one of the wait staff had scolded Hilda for not using one.

“And you?” she asks.

Hilda tilts her head. “Me?”

“What did you get?”

For a moment, Hilda appears utterly puzzled by the question. Then, she snorts. “I got to help a friend. Duh.”

It occurs to Lysithea then that of all the times she had thanked everyone throughout this process -- Rhea, Edelgard, Hanneman, even the administrator whose name she couldn’t remember -- she hadn’t thanked Hilda. Thanking her for offering to maim Tomas just doesn’t feel the same.

“Thank you,” Lysithea says. "I don't know what I would've done without you."

"Oh, pssht!" Hilda waves her away. "I didn't do anything. You and Edelgard and Hanneman and Rhea did all the work. I was just an accessory."

Lysithea shakes her head. "You and I both know that's not true. If you hadn't been here, I probably would've given up."

"Bull. Shit." Hilda slams her drink down on the broad arm of the couch, where it teeters precariously. "You would've pulled through just fine. You're amazing! I've never met anyone more resilient and hard working. Not gonna lie, it's a bit spooky. You were, like, super intimidating when I first met you."

The idea that Hilda could have been intimidated by anything let alone by Lysithea is ludicrous. Lysithea doesn't believe it for a second. She scoffs.

"That's ridiculous. I'm not special. Not like you. I'm just diligent, whereas you're -" Lysithea gestures to Hilda, "- actually gifted. You just chose to be lazy. And even then you make it all seem so effortless. I wish I were more like that."

“As much as I just love being complimented, the sincerity of your delivery is kinda starting to freak me out. Are you feeling alright?” Hilda reaches over to test the temperature of Lysithea’s forehead.

Lysithea doesn’t pull back, but she does scowl. “I’m trying to express my gratitude!”

“Yeah, well, gratitude expressed. I’m great, and you’re welcome. Anyway -”

Lysithea isn’t letting her off the hook that easily. She sits up a little straighter on the couch and looks Hilda dead in the eye. “I mean it. It’s important to me that you know that I - well, I -”

The dim lights of the bar wash the room in a golden sepia glow. The fire flickers and warms the air around them. Hilda is watching her with an expression that can only be described as star-struck, and Lysithea wonders how long Hilda has looked at her like that for, or if this is just the first time she’s noticed.

“- appreciate you,” Lysithea finishes slowly. “And everything you’ve done for me.”

A steady flush rises up Hilda’s cheeks until her face is bright pink. Lysithea stares. Hilda is the first to break eye contact. She snatches up her drink, and slouches back against the couch to sip at the straw, holding the glass like she’s trying to hide behind it.

It hits Lysithea like a freight train, the sudden realisation. Her jaw goes slack. Hilda has already recovered, and is striking up some new spirited conversation about the band that’s setting up across the room, but Lysithea can barely hear over the blood-dimmed rush in her ears, roaring like the tide.

She doesn’t know what’s worse. That she now has to wait a harrowing few months to find out if her thesis has passed. Or the newfound knowledge that she is absolutely, irrevocably head over heels in love with Hilda Goneril.

#fe3h #fire emblem three houses #hilda/lysithea #hilda valentine goneril #lysithea von ordelia #two across #roman writes

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fleurpurr · 5 years

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A mere glimpse into the true vastness of Alan’s kindness and friendship. (A long read, but well worth it)

A friend of Alan Rickman, Peter Kyle, has shared a beautifully moving tribute on Facebook.

Alan Rickman: The Most Beautiful, Fearless, Person I've Met

“We’ve lost another giant. Someone who made us laugh, who thrilled kids with his sinister and sensitive portrayal of Snape, and who made us sob with his achingly beautiful portrayal of grief with Juliet Stephenson in Truly, Madly, Deeply. So collectively we say goodbye to someone who brought us together with his awesome talent. This is true for me, but I have also lost a very great friend too, a most beautiful, fearless, and caring presence who’s been in my life for almost 25 years.

Way back in the early ’90’s when I was just 21 years old, I was part of a small group of people setting up an aid agency and we needed money and support. I wrote to the star of Die Hard and Robin Hood, who’s career had just gone through the roof, and a week later he was in touch. Together we put on a show at the Brighton Dome called The British In Love.

But Alan would never have been happy just handing over a cheque. His brain was creative and strategic, so he would help us solve problem after problem in the years ahead. Soon after The British in Love he called me up and said a film he was working on had finished ahead of schedule and he has a few days free. So together we flew out to north east Romania to join the team working in an orphanage supported by the money he helped raise. The kids adored him, but the hardened team of care workers did too. The village we lived in had no running water and he was first down to the spring to collect water for everyone in the morning. He slept on the floor of a school hut with the rest of us; I remember waking up on the first morning to have Alan peer over from his sleeping bag and say in his trademark droll tone, ‘you didn’t mention that mice would feature so prominently in our trip’. The room was infested and you could feel them running over you at night — I had forgotten to warn him, something he ribbed me about periodically for decades.

At key times in my life, he was always, unstintingly, there. He desperately wanted people to use all their talent and he hated it when friends talked themselves down. Once we were walking down a street and I laughingly said, ‘oh the university have suggested I do a doctorate’. He asked why I was laughing. When I said that people like me don’t do PhD’s and, anyway, I’m not bright enough, he stopped in his tracks and rounded on me. He literally tore strips from me for underestimating my own potential, for taking the easy way out by not taking something tough but achievable seriously. He took me back to his flat and sat me down with his partner, Rima, who was a lecturer, and from that moment sprang the first step to me becoming Dr Peter Kyle. I wasn't alone either, there are dozens of people out there who have similar stories to me.

With his resolution came extraordinary sensitivity and caring though. I worked myself too hard writing my thesis and became ill at one point. He called once to say ‘hello’ and didn’t believe me when I said I was fine, he heard something in my voice. Half an hour later came another call, ‘I’ve booked us tickets to Circ de Solei tonight, you’re coming up, staying over, and having an evening off. I won’t take no for an answer!’. He was right, or course.

We know about his career, but there’s more to it than people realise. He was fearless and values-driven — not just in his personal life but whenever he could professionally too. The best example is Rachel Corrie. Rachel was a young American diarist who became a campaigner for Palestinian communities in the West Bank. She died under an Israeli bulldozer and her diaries told the story of her journey. Rachel’s parents treasured the diaries and wanted them to inspire others, but were careful about who to trust to tell the story. Alan met them and grew to love them and lovingly adapted the diaries for stage and directed the play both in London and New York. There were protests and rancorous arguments about such challenging subjects, but in his heart he knew the story was sincere, powerful, and need to be told and nothing would stop him.

I learned so much from Alan. He was disciplined, fun-loving, and thought deeply about people and the world. A great example of what it's like to be his friend is when I was staying with Alan and Rima in Italy. One morning he said we were meeting some friends for lunch, so I drove us. The friends turned out to be Richard and Ruth Rogers, the architect and famous chef, and some other amazingly successful and talented people. I was awestruck by each and every one of them. The conversation, the food, and setting was like nothing I’d ever experienced. As we were driving home he said to me, “you know we always go through life thinking of ‘what’s next’. That was a great lunch, what’s for dinner? That project went well, but quick I need another one. But sometimes you have to stop and say to yourself, ‘this is as good as it gets’ and celebrate the moment. Today was as good as it gets for me and I want you to know that.”

What a moment to share. What a beautiful thing to say. And what a fantastic insight into how to enjoy life and recognise the people who make it special.

Last year Alan came to campaign for me in Hove for the day. What he really wanted to do was thank the people who had worked so hard for my election. I’m posting a photo from that day, it was very special to everyone. The public moments are what everyone sees, but what people didn’t know was that even though he was directing his film with Kate Winslet, A Little Chaos, he was also calling and emailing me furiously with lovingly supporting messages, urging me to stay focussed, to work hard, but most of all, to never forget to listen to people.

I write with a swelling heart and tears in my eyes. I loved him very, very much I’m glad from looking at the news today that so many of you did too, Peter”

#alan rickman #i'm not crying you're crying #my heart is so warm #wemissyouAlan #thank you for everything

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heartcravings · 5 years

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50 Questions Tag!

@jongin-be-my-jagi tagged me for this a while ago, but I took my sweet time to answer. Here is my secret intel if you want to know me a little bit more!! Check hers as well, she’s an amazing writer and friend. 1. What takes up too much of your time? Tumblr, my stupid procrastination prone brain and my thesis.

2. What makes your day better? Friends and loved ones, music and these absolute dorks (Channie especially)

3. What’s the best thing that happened to you today? I hopped on the mat today in the early hours of the morning, rain on my window and the neighbours cat peeking at me from his window across the street.

4. What fictional place would you like to go to? Wonderland, bacause it’s “curiouser and curiouser!”

'Who are you?' said the Caterpillar. Alice replied, rather shyly, 'I — I hardly know, sir, just at present — at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.'

5. Are you good at giving advice? I think so. Not so good at following my own advice though. I do always consider where the other is standing and if I don’t know how to proceed then I’ll just be honest and say I can’t help. But i’ll always listen with my heart.

6. Do you have any mental illnesses? Not diagnosed. I do think i might be going through something now.

7. Have you ever experienced sleep paralysis? No, but i have a recurring nightmare: the world is made of black and white paper thin layers. I am a paper thin person walking along a street surrounded by paper thin buildings. I walk for a long time, looking up at the white sky. Until the street ends, there is no more building and i fall into the abyss of a blank page. I have had this dream since the age of 8 or 9 years old. Fear of not being good enough, you say?! Ding, ding, ding!! We got a winner in the back! 8. What musician inspired you the most? I get inspired by music all the time!! One of my all time favourite songs is Spanish Sahara by Foals. Its sublime!

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So I’d say I’m mainly inspired by these artists: Queen, Arctic Monkeys, Foals, Radiohead, Bowie, Daughter, Bob Dylan, Beirut, Yeah yeah yeahs, Arcade Fire, The National, Joy Division, Blur, Warpaint, Gorillaz, Sufjan Stevens, Bon Iver, Chet Baker, The Cure, Courtney Barnett, The Maccabees, Car Seat Headrest, Florence + The Machine, Editors, Kasabian, Crystal Fighters, Death Cab for a cutie, The Doors, Efterklang, Explosions in the Sky, Franz Ferdinand, The Horrors, James Blake, José Gonzalez, Los Campesinos!, Metronomy, Nick Cave, Nina Simone, Patrick Watson, Phoenix, Sharon Van Etten, The Shins, Simon & Garfunkel, The Smiths, St.Vincent, The Strokes, Toro y Moi, tricot, Tune-Yards, TV on the radio, Unknown Mortal Orchestra, The Vaccines, Vampire Weekend, The Velvet Underground, The War on Drugs, Wild Beasts and Yo La Tengo.

And the electro, pop and hip-hop groves of my heart: EXO, 2NE1, Janelle Monáe, Big Bang, Kris Wu,LCD soundsystem, SBTRKT, Childish Gambino, Frank Ocean, Kendrick Lamar and Daft Punk.

And special mentions to the portuguese ones (learning from yixing and promoting when i can :P): Capicua, Joana Espadinha, The Legendary Tigerman, Linda Martini, Mayra Andrade, Noiserv, Ornatos Violeta, Paus, Samuel Uria, You Can’t Win Charlie Brown and The Silence 4. I know, tldr right? Sorry folks! 9. Have you ever fallen in love? Yes I have. I have mistaken a crush for love too. But i have definitely been very deeply in love. A wrecked kintsugi heart over here people! 10. What’s your dream date? I don’t think I have one. I’d love to do something unique with that someone special, something special for the two of us. It could be as simple as riding the subway while sharing earphones & listening to our playlist or walking the dogs out! Idk, I’m easy to please. But right now it would have to be with this handsome man :D pretty please?!

11. What do others notice about you? I am very kind and warm hearted, so I think that’s what people first notice when meeting me. Although I maintain good eye contact, I am also timid and will be quieter if there are very energetic people in the group. When alone, I usually take the first step and try to meet people, but only if i really must. 12. What’s an annoying habit you have? It’s really hard for me to ask for help. I also like to tell detailed descriptions of everything... Couldn’t you tell? 13. Do you still talk to your first love? I’ll text him on his birthday and he does the same to me. We met when we were 10 years old and that childhood friendship remains. But regarding my one and truly deep relationship, no we do not talk, unless we randomly meet.

14. How many exes do you have? I have three exes. The first love who was just an idealized crush on my childhood friend: we dated for 2 weeks during summer break xD Then my first real boyfriend, we met in my first year at university, dated for quite some time, he really loved me and made me love myself a little more. Finally the one i loved too much. I mended his wounds and made him love himself as much as I did. I always say all the love we feel makes our hearts grow bigger. I do not regret loving any of them, I am me now due to them and I would not change it if I could. 15. How many songs are in your playlist? I have way too many playlists for each and every mood... But my favourite songs list on spotify has about 1500 songs! uwu! 16. What instruments can you play? Triangles and flute?! I had mandatory music classes in school... so in reality I can’t really play a instrument...

17. Who do you have the most pictures of? Probably my cat, Sushi. With a second close of my doodles and sketches.

18. Where would you like to go before you die? EVERY WHERE!!! But I really want to go to Japan and Scotland and Iceland and South Korea and New Zealand and i’ll shut up. 19. What’s your zodiac? Capricorn. 20. Do you relate to it? Sort of.

21. What is happiness to you? You know when it’s really cold outside in the winter and you manage to find a sheltered place where no wind can hit you and you still get to feel the warm rays of the winter suns on your skin? You hear the birds outside and you are contempt in that moment, at peace. That is happiness to me. 22. Are you going through anything right now? Yes, I am a bit lost. Trying to finish my thesis and trying to find what I want to do after. It’s liberating but also pretty scary. 23. What’s the worst decision you ever made? It’s a series of small decisions really. It started with going for a phd with the same people i worked in my msc. Should have gone to a different place. Then deciding to come home after a traumatic loss in the family. Should have kept my life going but I stalled it then. (I don’t regret helping my loved ones though).

24. What’s your favourite store? Probably Wishtrend for beauty stuff. Other than that I don’t have any favourite brands/stores. 25. (HALFWAY!) What’s your opinion on abortion? I think everyone is free to decide what they want or need to do. I couldn’t possible judge. If I would it? Probably not.

27. Do you have a favourite album? I don’t think so, I have favourite tunes for different moods and moments in my life. But if threatened with my life, I’d maybe say Total Life Forever from Foals.

28. What do you want for your birthday? It’s such a long time until my birthday comes! But maybe a real EXO ot9 reunion as a goodbye to Minseok?

29. What is most people’s first impression of you? Friendly and easy to open up to, i think.

30. What age do you seem according to most people? In real life, people usually think I am way younger than I am. 31. Where do you keep your phone when you’re sleeping? In the crook of my bed, between the mattress and the bed frame.

32. What word do you say the most? No idea really! 33. What’s the oldest age you’d date? 40s? I don’t think too much about age actually.

34. What’s the youngest age you’d date? 20s? Again not very important to me. Love is love, whomever, whenever and wherever <3

35. What job / career do most people say would suit you? I don’t know! People always say i don’t totally fit in anything... so there’s that. If you have an idea please let me know! 36. What’s your favourite music genre? Go back to question 8. I listen to everything! :D 37. If you could live in any country in the world where would it be? I’d like to live around the world, every few months a different place and get to know different cultures.

38. What is your current favourite song? I’ve been obsessed with RM’s intro/teaser song, Map of the Soul: Persona. (I’m not even a bts fan, but this music and lyrics just touched me a lot.)

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39. How long have you had this blog for? I think for about 6 years? It’s my personal space, where I dump all my obsessions.

40. What are you excited for? I’m visiting some friends in Granada in a couple of weeks. Yay, tapas!

41. Are you a better talker or listener? Normally I am a better listener. But there are a few people to whom i open like a book. Either words flow right out of me without even thinking or they see throw me. Those truly are my people.

42. What is the last productive thing you did? Prepped meals and cleaned the kitchen. Open the folder and file of my thesis. Read the latest chapter I wrote. 43. What do you want for Christmas? Well, just like for my birthday, there is still such a long time to it! But let’s say i want to have already finish this part of my life and want to find my next adventure.

44. What class do you get the best grades in? No more exams! Ehehe! But I used to have good grades at everything. Physical Education was my lowest mark i think.

45. On a scale of 1-10 how do you feel right now? Right now, a 4? I have a headache.

46. What can you see yourself doing in 10 years? Smiling? :D I want to be happy in my own skin. To feel contempt in my life, doing something that gives me a sense of purpose and having time to share and enjoy with my friends and family. 47. When did you get your first heartbreak? Oh my kintsugi heart has been broken quiet a lot. By friends and lovers and even by myself. I keep patching it up with gold dreams though. 48. At what age do you wanna be married? I will only want to be married if i find the one. So until then I guess.

49. What career did you want to have as a child? I wanted to be an astronaut and a ballerina. Preferably both!

50. What do you crave right now? Just sitting somewhere and listening to Yeol play the guitar.

Well i finished it! :D I’ll tag @thedeviousdo @ohsenhun @hongseok and @paepsi. I’d love to read yours! Feel free to dismiss it though, it is quite a lot. Lots of love everyone!! <3 <3 <3

#50 questions tag #personal #sam's ramblings #mutuals #hope you enjoy reading about boring old me :)#it's very long i know! i talk too much

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itsblissfuloblivion · 6 years

Text

Kindle - Chapter 6

In which Harry's PhD is definitely not in the field of flirting.

Enjoying his wild attempts at wooing? Send us an ask, leave us a comment & tell us what you think❤️

Chapter can also be read on FFnet and AO3 :)

Much love,

@gryffindormischief & @fightfortherightsofhouseelves

When they meet two hours later, it’s over the largest cheesy pizza Harry can find in the time span between their early morning conversation, dressing Teddy for an impromptu outing, persuading Snuffles to go for a walk - he is Sirius’ dog alright, and the present in which they are crammed at one of Ron’s square tables with little red polka dots on it, dog resting his head on Ginny’s lap.

“Took you long enough,” she remarks between two mouthfuls of cheese bliss, licking the corner of her mouth in search of any stray bits and absentmindedly scratching Snuffles between the ears.

“Well I am insulted,” Harry composes his face into a shocked expression, reminiscing how he had basically run to get to the bakery as fast as humanly possible - and as fast as Teddy could walk without having to carry him under one arm as he carried the elephantine pizza with the other, even though he did consider the possibility. “And may I point out that I was the first one here, child, dog and pizza brought along.”

“Only because Ron bullied me into running the longest list of errands known to mankind,” she replies, tongue cheekily sticking out as she scoots closer to him, earning an annoyed grunt from Snuffles who’s not too happy to engage in any changing of his comfortable position.

“Bullied? You use big words, little sis,” a harrassed voice looms above them. “And I do hope that my eyes deceive me, otherwise I will be forced to believe that my own best mate and my only sister are lavishing over a - a pizza on the premises of my honorable establishment,” the older Weasley presses on, hands on hips, apron and bonnet in general disarray.

“Pizza’s just as honorable,” says Ginny before pushing almost a full slice of the pie into her already full mouth, and Harry can’t help but add extra bonus points to her overall excellent score. He hasn’t even eaten half his part of the pizza and she’s already done, which, to him, is pretty awesome. She’s pretty awesome. He sighs.

Before Ron can get beside himself and launch into a full on banter with his sister, a distraction in the form of Teddy arrives, swinging himself into the redhead’s arms. Always excited to hear the little steps padding their way up and down the room, Snuffles lets out a joyful bark from under the table.

“I missed you too, little buddy,” he chuckles, spinning the five year old around and then balancing him on his hip. Judging by the flour and icing stains on his shirt, face and hair, he’d say that Teddy just successfully finished an exciting tour of the kitchens in his slight absence.

“So much for ‘don’t let him go wild in the kitchen’”, Ron turns his head to whisper to a bushy haired young woman wearing a knee-length navy blue dress and a guilty smile on her lips.

“He’s beyond my control and that’s all Harry,” Hermione shrugs and walks over to give Ron a kiss on the cheek and ruffle Teddy’s already messy hair.

“I will take offence on that,” the man in question scoffs, earning a giggle from his godson.

“You do you,” Hermione rolls her eyes and takes the little boy from Ron, safely putting him down and taking his warm hand in hers. “Meanwhile, I’m taking Teddy and Snuffles for a fun walk outside, isn’t that right, Ted?”

“Yeah!” He jumps and claps, grabbing his light jacket and handing it over to Ginny to dress him.

“Still playing favourites, I see,” Harry teases as he leans over to tickle his godson’s belly, eliciting many an awwww from the bakery’s early morning customers. Subtly, he turns to look over his shoulder at Hermione and mouths thank you . She rarely takes a day off, because work is Hermione’s fuel and one of her main basic needs some might even say, and Harry makes a mental note to properly thank her for choosing to spend her scarce free time with Teddy and his somehow adopted dog to give him - dare he say them ? - some emergency alone time.

“Just make it worth my while,” she whispers near Harry’s ear as she pretends to add another toy to the little boy’s backpack, then grabs hold of the dog’s leash and secures it to his collar. Harry gulps, musing over exactly how much he’d like to do as he’s told, but he has rushed to meet Ginny this morning for entirely different reasons so that’s that, he guesses.

“You kids have fun now,” Ron grins, rubbing his hands of the flour excess, “and I’ll be ready in about an hour.”

“Whatever for?” Ginny raises a ginger eyebrow.

“I resent the tone and implication of your question, baby sister,” he pouts, “but I might be able to tell you that I’m taking my girl for a romantic evening with champagne and a candle lit dinner plus -”

“Eww, TMI, Ron! T-M-I,” the younger Weasley crinkles her nose and pretends to gag to Harry and Hermione’s amusement. Still, her protests fall on deaf ears and Ron winks at his girlfriend, mouthing something to the effect of “tonight, dreams will come true” with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a would-be sensual grin. Hermione hides her blush behind a curly lock of hair, shepherding Teddy out of the bakery, light trench coat hugging her form as she waves her friends goodbye with one hand and wraps the soft leather leash around the wrist of the other.

“Please tell me that the two of you are not coming back home after your romantic dinner , as I do plan on sleeping tonight. Thesis submission date is three weeks away, you know,” Ginny stresses, fixing Ron with a gaze worthy of the strictest professor Harry’s had in his uni years, one Minerva McGonagall. A woman who could not be crossed - and it makes Harry both scared and amazed to see the same light in Ginny’s eyes.

“I doubt he can hear you,” Harry chuckles, watching Ron stare after Hermione’s form disappearing into the distance. He’s quite happy for his two best friends and they’ve come a long way, after hitting it off with a rocky start and entirely too much banter and bickering.

“So this is my cue to leave you two alone,” Ron says with a clap on his knees, turning on his heels to make his way towards the kitchen, “even though I will be right around the corner, yeah?”

“How very chivalrous of you,” Ginny drawls, mostly bored.

“I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Harry. I know my baby sister well,” Ron shoots back, pointing a finger at her as Ginny pulls a face, index finger pulling down her lower eyelid as her tongue sticks out.

“Mature,” he dismisses, walking away.

“You two,” Harry remarks, amused yet entertained.

“What?” She asks, a playful smile nestling on her lips.

“Nothing - you’re funny’s all,” he smiles back, his gaze darting towards her hand and he can swear that it got closer to his own somehow. So tantalizingly close that it’d be hard to imagine something he’d want more than to take it and squeeze it and hold it over his chest so she could know what her presence is doing to him. If there will ever be a relationship of some sort developing between them, Harry acknowledges that he’d need a very good heart doctor as so many changes in his blood flow and heart rhythm are sure to gift him a myocardial infarction or two in the long run.

“Anyway,” Harry shakes his head, putting a stop to his train of thought before he loses his already meager ability to focus. “You summoned me here because you found a way to save my article and I’m all ears.” Still, he catches the way her chocolate brown eyes caress over the corner of his lips, stretched into a mischievous smile he likes to think he has worked into perfection over the years.

“Yes, that,” she replies as her eyes light up and she scoots closer, pizza box ungracefully nudged aside with her forearm. She leans in with a conspirative air, as if to share a well kept secret, making Harry’s pulse nearly go into overdrive. “I’ve been thinking about your nifty little theory and I was wondering - wouldn’t it make sense that the driest point of the desert might’ve been believed to be the one place favoured and blessed by the Sun god and, as you’ve cleverly pointed out, also the place to bury rulers of the old civilization, which, if my History trivia is correct, were thought to be half-gods, thus direct descendants of the worshipped god?” She delivers the explanation without stopping to breathe, without blinking, “so, what I am saying is that this would also make sense because the most arid point equals top notch mummy preservation conditions. Now, if I’m even five percent right and you were to dig there, maybe you’d stumble upon a lot of brilliantly preserved historical goodness?” Her voice falters a bit by the end of her well exercised speech, seeing how Harry’s features froze, his emerald green eyes fixing hers intently from behind his glasses, so she can’t be too sure if it’s a good thing or a bad one, but a girl will take her chances. “Harry?” Ginny tries again, mildly concerned, the ghost of a crease starting to form throughout the freckles splattered on her forehead.

“I could kiss you right now,” his mouth moves slowly, forming words he had no intention of speaking out loud.

Ginny’s face breaks into the widest grin, a blazing look about her that takes Harry’s breath away faster and harder than a punch to his chest. She’s beautiful and he’s a lovestruck fool, no sense denying it.

“Go on then,” she lets her tongue roll out the three small words as she slides left until their knees touch and their elbows knock against each other on the backrest of the small corner shop settee, polka dots table pushed aside with the sole of her boot to free up space.

Feeling a blush creep up from his neck to the top of his ears and traveling higher up north to the ends of his jet black, messy hair, Harry holds his breath and dares himself to move. Just move. Just do anything rather than sit there, staring at her wide eyed. His five year old godson has more spunk than him, he knows, but she’s right there, next to him and looking up at him with her beautiful eyes and waiting. What is she waiting for? Harry cannot recall but oh look, there he goes stretching across the table and touches her freckled cheek with his lips and, oh dear lord, he prays for mercy and hopes to simply drop dead right then.

Recovering faster, Ginny lifts her chin and raises her small hand off the table, gently presses it to his chest, pushing him so that he has to look her in the eye. He’s under the impression that she can see deep inside his soul, and maybe she does and maybe she can read that his intentions are good , truly and utterly good, but his style is a bit rusty. Alternatively, she might want to be as far away as possible from the weird bloke who kissed her cheek three seconds ago, when he was clearly invited to snog her senseless in her brother’s alleyway doughnut shop - one can never really tell with witty, amazing, brilliant women like her and oh god -

“I meant properly.”

And apparently she did mean it because the last thing Harry feels before losing control of his vital functions is a fresh flowery breeze tickling his nostrils up to his brain and shutting it down completely.

His face cupped between her hands, Ginny kisses him softly, upper lip brushing against his own before gliding down to caress the bottom one. She spends a bit more time where she feels his lips are chapped, nursing them, her hands traveling up to his hair, twisting a lock between her fingers.

As if waking up from a long, mind numbing sleep, Harry allows himself to kiss her back, nails scraping at his own jean cladded knee as the tension releases from his tired, lanky, lonely limbs. He tilts his head and deepens the kiss and Ginny’s arms drop to his shoulders, circling his neck while his clumsy palms move to rest on her lower back. Harry’s so dizzy with the feeling of it all he’s sure everyone can hear the crazy drum of his happy-happy heart.

A lifetime later, it’s her who gradually ends it, returning to plant another kiss, even if chaste and sweet, on his still parted lips, teeth bumping teeth in the process.

“Are all PhD holders this cute and dorky?” Ginny giggles, pressing the tip of her index finger to her front teeth.

“I was shooting for ‘adorable’, if I’m being honest,” Harry grins and repositions his glasses over his nose, as they’ve been slightly knocked aside with all the kissing they had going on. Hmm, kissing. He quite likes the thought of it, as well as the butterflies spinning wildly inside his stomach. He’s a happy man and the world is suddenly beautiful and bright and nothing can hurt him.

“I’ll humor you and settle for adorkable.” She winks and he feels like a school boy, in too deep and fancying the most beautiful girl in the class with every cell of his body.

He attempts to formulate a clever response, but only a sad blabbering sound exits his mouth and he’s having this odd out of body experience of horror at his own behaviour.

“Pardon?” Ginny laughs, eyes closed, a shining string of pearly white teeth half-showing behind her upper lip.

“Oh don’t mind me, I think my brain’s experienced a small short-circuit, nothing serious,” Harry grins sheepishly, one hand flying to the back of his head.

“Oh no,” she smirks, “how will you finish your article if every kiss will leave you with less and less gray matter to help you through your academic quest?”

His eyes widen behind the round specs, limbs suddenly stiff with the realisation.

“I have to,” he stammers, mouth closing as soon as it opened and he takes a moment to figure out exactly what he wants to say. “I’m -”

“You have to?”

“Go write my article before the brilliant idea you just gave me disappears?” Harry squeaks, gaze everywhere but at her.

“You academia people,” Ginny rolls her eyes. “Go then, Indiana Jones. Show them what you’re made of,” she presses on the words teasingly and he’s fairly certain that, if the bakery’d been less crowded, she would’ve given him a playful slap on his arse to send him on his way.

Harry hazards to grab his coat and general belongings and turns to see that she’s also gotten up to full height - which is not saying much, since the top of her ginger head reaches as far as his chest, but still this poses a new and terrible dilemma: should he kiss her goodbye? Should he wave? Should he back away slowly without breaking eye contact? He’d seen documentaries on Discovery Channel showing that’s what you do when faced with a dangerous situation.

“Bye then,” his stupid mouth speaks before he can make a decision.

“Bye, Harry,” she responds, albeit a little disappointed.

Alright, you’ll have to buckle up, Potter , he thinks and dives in to...hug her?

“Listen, Potter, if you have the faintest desire to make this work, you’ll have to start actually kissing me when I throw out all the signs, yeah?” He can hear her voice muffled by his shoulder.

“Sorry?” Harry shoots his most innocent smile and leans to brush his lips against hers, experiencing the same savage effect on his mind and heart as before. She might well be the death of him, but alas, everybody’s gotta die of something one day.

“Better, but there’s still room for improvement. Now go and get that grant before I change my mind and keep you here with me all day,” Ginny teases as she shoos him out the glass door and waves through it at the tall man smiling dumbly back at her.

It’s only when he arrives home, huffing and puffing after a three kilometer sprint, when he realises that he’s forgotten all about his godson and dog. Inhaling and exhaling at precise intervals to avoid working himself into a right state, Harry’s fingers move as fast as possible to reach his phone and dial Hermione’s number.

“Hi, what would it take to convince you to bring Teddy and Snuffles over to my place when you’re done instead of Ron’s shop? I may or may not have already left and arrived home, ha-ha?”

“I take cases against people like you for free, you know,” Hermione drawls as Harry hurries to end the call before she can scold him further. He’s been both a witness and a victim of her sharp tongue and he can confirm that it’s not an experience one might want to voluntarily go through if one is of sane mind.

“Kay, thanks, you’re the best, bye!” Harry slams the lid shut and throws himself in his home office chair, not bothering in the slightest to kick off his shoes or coat. He’s incredibly close to earning the grant of his dreams, after all.

“So? How’d it go?” Hermione inquires, steaming cup of Earl Grey’s with a splash of milk in her hands as she snuggles into Harry’s extra layer of pillows he keeps on the living room couch to nurse the back ache that’s been gradually increasing since his first year of university.

“It was...nice,” Harry answered, more preoccupied by his doodle drawing on the carpet with the sole of his socked foot.

“This will sound very weird coming from me, but the situation calls for it: L-O-L. You don’t just say nice when you’ve snogged intensely in a public space, Harry,” she admonishes, placing the cup down on its coaster and crossing her arms.

“How did you -,” his voice sounds unnaturally high and loud before he remembers that Teddy and Snuffles are currently taking a nap in the next room and he really doesn’t want to wake them up and face the consequences. “How did you find out?” He tries again, leveling down his tone. “Is Ron livetexting my life to everyone now?”

“I wouldn’t say you’re too far from the truth, but, to answer your question, yes, it was Ron who told me. And don’t you go making faces and pouting after you’ve left your godson and dog in my care and ran off irresponsibly.” There’s the sharp tongue Harry feared. Time to change tactics.

“I already said I’m sorry!” Great tactic.

Hermione only throws him a pitiful glance before returning to her black tea sipping. “Nevermind that now, tell me about you and Ginny,” she continues with an encouraging smile.

“Erm - yeah, there’s not much to say,” he admits, socked foot back to tracing random lines on the carpet.

“What do you mean? You did kiss, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but then I kind of left?”

“You left?” Hermione blinks, as if unprepared for this plot twist.

“Yes?” Harry tries to add in a smile but it falters at the look of disgust on his friend’s face. He lets out a long suffering sigh.

“I’ll call her and confess that I’m an idiot.” He sighs again.

“You do that. Meanwhile, I’m off to see your other half.” Hermione sips the rest of her beverage and gets up, straightening her dress with one palm and searching for wild strands of bushy hair in need of taming down with the other, a routine long exercised since she’s started work as a fully authorised lawyer.

Just as he walks Hermione to the door, thanking her again for all the help, his phone buzzes from somewhere in his ‘office’. Harry curses, as he’d been certain that he’d left it on silent mode, and sprints to get it before any damage could be done.

“Am I speaking to Harry James Potter of England?” A high pitched voice scratches at his eardrums through the handset.

“Sirius, I know it’s you,” he answers, feeling harassed. “Are the States that boring?”

“No, the States are perfectly fine, thank you. It’s you, my dear godson, that’s boring.”

“I am boring?”

“Yes indeed, you’ve bored me out of my wits.”

“Care to indulge me with a reasonable explanation?” Harry drawls, checking the time on his battered old watch. Twenty to one, meaning that he’s wasted half the day when he could have been writing, ughh .

“My little birds have informed me that not only you’ve passed on the opportunity of a healthy snogging session with the brilliant and most incredible Miss Weasley, but you’ve also hugged her before you left?” Sirius parrots, as though reading a play by play report.

“I will murder Ron, mark my words,” Harry grunts, his mind already crafting the fun conversation he needs to have with his so called best mate.

“Know what, no need to make up excuses, my darling boy. It’s all James’ fault and there’s no way around it, so -” A commotion is all Harry can distinguish, followed by the sound of another voice.

“Sirius was supposed to ask about Snuffles, but he’s just lost his privilege,” James’ warm voice takes over the line.

“Hi, Dad,” Harry laughs, happy to hear him.

“Hi, son. How are you? Everything alright?” He starts off cheery, but before the young man can get a chance to answer, he adds in barely a whisper, “Is it really true that you hugged her goodbye?”

Harry groans, forehead hitting the hard wood of his desk repeatedly. They really are just as bad.

“Put Mum on the phone.”

“Ungrateful,” James scoffs. “Lily, your son wants to speak to you.”

“Hello, love. How are you?” Lily’s gentle voice makes his heart ache. He’s already missed them all so much.

“I’m good, thanks, Mum. I’m actually getting closer to finishing that article I’ve been telling you about, which I didn’t believe possible yesterday.” He can’t help but smile, stress slowly evaporating after nightmarish weeks.

“Brilliant, well done, dear!” The response is so naturally Lily he can’t help but grin widely. She’s always been his biggest supporter.

“How are you guys? Alright with the moving and the job?”

“It’s mostly going fine. We’re still paddling through boxes and I have to jump over five of them to get to bed, since some of us have been overwhelmed by the many tourist attractions and traps of New York,” she coughs as James and Sirius protest in the background.

Harry feels something warm and familiar unfurl in his chest, and he lets his eyes drift shut so it’s almost like they’re in the room with him. There’s a scuffle and then Sirius has returned to the line, “I believe I initiate this phone call,” his attention swivels back to Harry, “Please stop being embarrassing, Harry.”

A smile rises on his lips as James’ voice shouts in the background, “We love you even though you’re embarrassing!”

Sirius harrumphs and lets out a squeal before he speaks again, clearly not aimed at Harry, “Alright, alright, I’ll put it on speaker - bloody buggering hell, woman.”

“My son is a lovely, respectful boy who sadly got his wooing skills from his father.”

James lets out a yelp but Lily plows ahead, “I’m talking to my son without you two.”

The noise gets decidedly lower and Harry hears a door click shut. “Love, Potter men are wonderful, sweet, yet utterly awkward in the beginning stages of relationships. And before you say it’s not - I will agree with you. And it’s going to continue to be nothing if you keep up with the hugging and running bit.”

Harry laughs, “Thanks?”

“Just say what you’re feeling - which I hope is lots of good nice feelings because she’s adorable and cheeky and amazing and you should give me grandchildren.”

“But no pressure, right?” Harry says with a chuckle, toying with the worn knee on his sweats.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t know my son, and she’s not just some woman to you,” she pauses, “Just take my advice, don’t let this go.”

“...I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Well you could’ve fooled me.”

Harry scowls. So much for having faith in their own son slash godson.

“We have to go now, love. It’s induction day at the hospital, but we’ll catch up with you later, yeah? Don’t forget to feed yourself and Teddy and Snuffles. And call Ginny. We love you, bye!”

“Bye, Mum,” he replies and ends the call, ready to actually finish writing something for the day. Surely he can patch things up with her when he’s done, if he’s ever going to be done with that life-sucking article. Grant, you better be bloody worth it, you’re costing me one too many good things , he says to himself as he slowly drags his feet back to his desk.

“I can feel you staring, you know,” Ginny drawls, feet over the armrest of her favourite living room chair, book held gingerly in front of her as she’s following each line with a pen in her hand to mark down ideas on a battered notepad resting in her lap.

“I know,” an older - and male - version of her grins, leaning forward a bit more.

“Is there more to it? Or do you simply like staring at women as they read? ‘Cause if you do, allow me to express my profound regret for Angelina,” she shoots back, her tone bored, eyes never leaving the tome she’s been perusing since the other night.

“Excuse you, but Angelina’s absolutely pleased with my moves,” George pauses, incensed, “Unlike you, baby sister, if what I heard is true.”

“Should I also be pleased with your moves? If that’s what you’re implying, you should know I’m telling Mum.”

“Ha-ha, clever. Let’s cut to the chase, then. Is this Harry Potter your boyfriend or is he not?” George inquires, fist under his chin as he watches his sister slowly close her book and turn to face him, an expression worthy of their mother etched on her face.

“Three things here,” Ginny starts, holding up three dainty fingers to better illustrate. “One, stop snooping around as it’s not your business who I date.” She brings down one finger. “Two, I’m going to kick Ron’s arse so hard he’ll feel the taste of my shoe in his mouth if he doesn’t quit playing spy.” Two fingers down. “And three - actually, never you mind, three’s also my business.”

Ginny closes her book and gathers the general chaos of pen, paper, sticky notes and coloured markers that she’s been carrying around with her for nearly ten months, since she’s started drafting her never-ending thesis. Three more weeks , she reminds herself, three more weeks and I’ll be done . MA diploma, here I come.

“I’m not done, you know,” George wags his finger at the departing form of the youngest Weasley.

“I am,” she shouts back, before slamming the door of her room shut.

Still, five seconds later, her phone buzzes in her pocket and she’s not pleased to see that, instead of the messy haired man she’s been hoping for, it’s her brother not giving up without a fight.

George: is he a good kisser at least?

His text is followed by three lines of emojis of varying forms of kissing, smirking and heart eyes.

George: is he the sloppy or the tender kind?

Ginny groans, a wild desire to throw her phone down on George’s head taking over her.

George: did he use tongue?

Ginny: That’s it, I’m blocking you.

George: whatever grinds your gears, baby sis *smirk emoji*

George: aaanyway, i’m off for a proper date with angelina. house’s all yours for the night, if you catch my drift *another smirk emoji*

Ginny: Get out.

She throws her phone on the bed in frustration and plops down next to it, groaning again. She’d really like to barge down to Harry Potter’s flat, bang on the door, and shake him by his shoulders until he snaps out of whatever state he’s in and confesses his undying love for her. But instead, she acknowledges that she’s really got to get a move on with her thesis writing process. A grad school diploma would finally mean better job opportunities and decent money, less hand-me-downs and moving out of her parents’ house and oh so many more wonderful things.

She sighs, rolling over and placing her head on her favourite puffy pillow. At least she’ll have the house to herself for the night, with Mum and Dad over at Bill’s to babysit while him and Fleur are visiting the in-laws in France, George will be over at Angelina’s or in his small London apartment - at least he’s recently started using it again, it’s been long since - but better not think about that now; and Ron, well Hermione will certainly have enough sense to take him to hers after their romantic whatever.

Ginny sticks her tongue out, annoyed at the pleasant activities in which her family members are engaging while she has to suffer, and plops the pillow over her face.

As the clock ticks eleven PM, godson and - erm, dogson? - playing at his feet, under the desk, Harry stretches over to reach his phone and is terrified and surprised to see five text messages from “Gin” (yes, he is a real sop and privately refuses to bring any amendments to the way he saved her phone number while in a most drunken state).

Gin: HELP

Gin: I need your help

Gin: I’m not joking, you hear me? This is not a drill!

Gin: Harry Potter, you answer your phone this instant! I’m literally one moan away from driving a screwdriver through my eardrums.

Gin: I may be sending this message from the afterlife but nevertheless call me, thanks

Harry blinks and breathes in before pressing the dial button and involuntarily clenching his buttcheeks in sheer anticipation.

“Oh thank god you called,” Ginny answers with a tremendous sigh of relief.

“Everything alright there?” He asks, more scared than anything else.

“Depends on who you’re asking. If you’re asking Ron and Hermione, well then yes, they’ve been agreeing with each other very loudly for over an hour now. If you’re asking me, then no, as I’ve been living through the worst possible night in my existence,” she whispers, sounding rather harassed.

There’s a pause and then Harry starts laughing wholeheartedly, not able to control himself. He doesn’t know if it’s the relief of finding out she’s fine or if the whole story is entirely ridiculous, but what he does know if that he’s not laughed like that in ages and that he has his heart set on Ginny Weasley like he had on no one else.

“Would you stop laughing?” She interrupts his laughing fit, even more harried than before. “Listen, I was supposed to be alone tonight and, you know, write so that I did - on my laptop, lights shut all around. And then I hear keys rattling downstairs and them laughing and flirting so loudly it made me sick. They probably don’t know that I’m home, so Ron’s putting his words from earlier into action and I really cannot stand any more of it and I don’t want to knock on their door and just die of second-hand embarrassment and -”

“Say no more,” Harry chuckles, feeling like this is the puzzle piece he needed to finally complete his plan of revenge against Ron for being such a tattle-tale. “Come on over. Teddy’ll be beside himself and probably refuse to go to bed, but either way we can dive into a full night of writing our respective pieces together.”

“Aww, I’ve always wanted a study buddy,” she jokes. “If you’re positive I’m not intruding -”

“Positive.”

“Then I’ll call a cab and be right over,” Ginny finishes and Harry can feel the smile in her voice.

“And I’ll wait for you with tea and biscuits,” he replies before ending the call and spinning twice in his rolly chair, fist closed in victory. He sends a short text message, a delighted smirk plastered on his face, then makes his way to the kitchen, snapping his fingers and shaking his limbs to a jazzy tune. It takes him all his self-control not to break into singing right away, as that would alarm Teddy and Snuffles and he does intend on putting them to bed before long.

Harry to Ron: Mate, you better be doing this on purpose or I’m no longer the most embarrassing person I’ve met today. ‘Night, you git *heart emoji*

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shakespearesglobeblog · 6 years

Photo

Experimental Education: Studying with Shakespeare’s Globe

Words: Kim Gilchrist

As I write this, I’m two weeks past my viva – the meeting where a student is required to defend their completed PhD thesis, answering questions posed by two senior academics. Happily, I now get to call myself Doctor Gilchrist.

It’s been a long process, an adventure, from Shakespeare enthusiast to doctor of early modern drama. And the journey started, academically at least, with an application form to KCL and Shakespeare’s Globe MA in Shakespeare Studies.

I have a BA, and general background, in theatre studies. I had worked on a number of productions of Shakespeare’s plays over the years, in a role we called co-directing but which would probably now be called dramaturgy – I filled gaps that needed filling: talked to the actors one-on-one, composed songs for our folk-rock wayward sisters in Macbeth, researched the plays, read all the Arden footnotes etc. I wrote a play of my own, Forgiving Shakespeare, a comedy in verse about Shakespeare, John Fletcher, Cervantes, and Shakespeare’s daughter, Judith. I read books, and books, and books, about Shakespeare. But I’d never thought I could “do” Shakespeare for a living.

For some reason, around the end of 2011 it all fell together and I realised I spent more time reading and thinking about Shakespeare and his world than almost anything else. Without realising, I’d stumbled on the thing I was meant to be doing. Back to that application form.

The KCL and Shakespeare’s Globe MA in Shakespeare Studies runs, at the King’s College London end, from the English department. As such, I was an unusual candidate – out of further education for many, many, years, and with no English literature experience since my A-levels. Yet I soon found, in a good way, that a grounding in English Literature offered only partial preparation for the MA. For those used to studying Shakespeare and early modern drama only on the page, only as a kind of refined form of novel – reading the characters for psychological dimensions, arguing about motive and metaphor – the MA could be a shock.

There were classes on textiles and costume, the most valuable properties owned by any early modern playing company or theatre owner; sessions on music, and make-up – Globe Education’s Farah Karim-Cooper has literally written the book on cosmetics in early modern drama: I remember the reverent hush the day we passed a pot of shimmering pearl powder around the class; we learned about the strange acoustics of playhouses, the economics of touring, the poetry of doubling, how the person sitting on the throne of England determined what did, and didn’t, get played; we learned about the cultural pressures that caused, shaped, and sustained Shakespeare’s plays, pressures that are often left invisible by more traditional teaching methods. Central to the MA was its location – within the Globe complex itself.

There was always a sense of practical activity, of theatre at work –crowds audible as we walked to class, costumed actors swooping past, props under construction in the car park. This helped the theories, the history we were learning feel less abstract. We could study theories of bare-stage, open-air performance, and then see theory put into practice from the pit of the theatre itself. Was Henry VI different when performed over ten hours in torrential rain? It was. It was.

Meanwhile, through the modules offered on the KCL campus, the culture of the Elizabethan-Jacobean world was uncovered. Just as Shakespeare’s Globe afforded greater understanding of the material pressures and conditions of theatre and performance, at KCL we learned about the production, economies, and peculiarities of playbooks, those ephemeral, fragile, largely disposable little volumes without which we would have no access to the texts of early modern drama. Who printed these books, once the players were done with their scripts? Who bought them? How much did they cost? Why were so many hundreds of plays printed? Why were so many thousands of plays never printed?

When I started teaching early modern drama at my current university, Roehampton, I took some students on a tour of the Globe. They were able to see the Sam Wannamaker Playhouse, a version of the kind of space in which, for example, John Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi was first performed. We then crossed the river via Blackfriars Bridge to the churchyard of St Paul’s Cathedral, once the centre of the London book trade. We stood on the spot where, once it had been published, The Duchess of Malfi was first put up for sale by a bookseller called John Waterson from his wooden stall.

From the Globe, we were able to retrace the footsteps, and the lifecycle, of a single play and its customers, from stage to stall. On this theme, if you want to read more about what I learned, I adapted my MA dissertation on the play Mucedorus – the most frequently published play of the early modern era – into an article that was published last year by the journal Shakespeare.

Beyond the formal parameters of the course itself, there were constant opportunities to participate in and observe events put on by Globe Education. Of particular impact for me was Read Not Dead, the regular stagings of little-or-never-performed early modern plays put on by skilled actors with a single morning’s rehearsal. It opened my eyes to strange and beautiful plays I would never otherwise have been able to see; it provided valuable insight into how plays work in performance – a play that may have been dismissed by literature scholars as unpoetic or crude can reveal subtleties and depth of artistry when spoken and acted aloud.

Finally, there are Globe Education’s internships – open only to MA students when I was there, now open to applications across the UK. I was lucky enough to get a placement, and even luckier that this coincided with the opening of the SWP. I filled a bulging folder full with articles and research for the director of the SWP’s inaugural production, The Duchess of Malfi and then, like all dramaturgs and researchers will do, I scrutinised the final production to see if my research had had any influence.

To learn at Shakespeare’s Globe was also to conduct research, watch plays for fun, and make long-sustained personal and professional friendships that have enriched my life and career ever since. It was, and is, a dynamic, forward-thinking, challenging and experimental institution. I learned a lot.

Photo: Pete Le May

#Learning #Shakespeare #William Shakespeare #MA #King's College London #London #Education

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secret-captain-swan-blog · 7 years

Text

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 26189/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3

Read on: Ao3

A million thanks to my cheerleader/coach/cinnamon roll @katie-dub for being my beta and telling me cute stories about 2-year-olds!

Unfortunately, the incident with Killian and the creepy guy forces her to avoid Mamie’s. She doesn’t know if she’ll run into him there and she is not ready to talk about what happened in that scarier-than-hell pawn shop, or whatever it was. Honestly, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to.

Instead, she makes do with coffee made in the French press she finds in the apartment’s cupboard. It’s not great and certainly not as wonderful as Mamie’s, but well she’ll take what she can get.

She throws herself instead into university life to give herself proper distraction. As part of her fellowship with Misthaven University, she’s responsible for teaching a course to undergraduates. She finds out this week that she’s assigned to teach an Intro to American Lit class. She hasn’t really dealt extensively with American literature class, it’s certainly not her specialty. She imagines that they gave it to her just because she is American. Emma spends an afternoon sifting through books and trying to pick some novels selections for the semester. It’s hard to decide on a proper survey, weighing the options of a more traditional canon American reading list against a more diverse one.

The next day, she crafts the syllabus. It’s several hours in the library with a thermos of coffee and a bag of croissants and stroopwafel (dang, at least Misthaven has one thing right- the perfect intersection of food). The library in Misthaven is gorgeous. While most of the university buildings are more modern architecture, the library is older. Its rich wood and elegant windows makes her feel like she’s in a fairy tale. It’s the closest she’ll get, so she might as well enjoy it. She outlines the entire course, including details on papers and reading assignments. She realizes that classes in Europe might actually be different than they are in America, but she doesn’t really know how else to structure a class, so she goes for it.

On Friday morning, she finds herself in Professor Hood’s office for her advising meeting. He’s younger than she imagined, probably late thirties or early forties. His office is sunny and decorated with illustrations of various English folk stories and legends.

“How have you been settling in?” He asks her, as she slides down into a seat and he passes her a cup of tea.

He speaks with a crisp English accent, no trace of a Misthaven accent. She assumes he must be an implant like herself.

“I’m doing well,” she tells him.

“You’ve secured lodgings and all that?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’ve done an apartment swap,” she informs him.

“That’s great. Sometimes foreign students can have trouble with that kind of thing,” he tells her.

“No problems here.”

“And the culture shock isn’t too much?” He asks, “I know it was hard for me when I got here.”

Culture shock? She thinks. More like “worry for my life” shock . But she can’t tell this random professor about her brief dalliance with scamming the Queen. Or the creepy man in the pawn shop who might’ve tried to kill her. Or the stupidly attractive Misthaven guy who made her heart a little swoony.

Instead, she smiles sweetly and says, “It’s not terrible. I’ve been dreaming of visiting Misthaven for so long, so I think it’s mostly just excitement for now. I’m sure the culture shock will kick in soon enough.”

“Good to hear. If you ever need suggestions for places to go, let me know. I’ve been in Misthaven for a while, so I’ve found the expat troves.”

“How did you find yourself here?” She asks.

Emma is becoming increasingly curious about this guy. There aren’t a ton of expats in Misthaven, since the borders have only been open a few years. He’s not a visiting professor either. She wonders how this British man ended up with a secure place on the Misthaven staff.

“Love,” he says, blushing, “I was working on my undergrad at the University of Nottingham and I fell for a visiting student from Misthaven. I followed her here. Just after that, the Crown fell and we were trapped here. We made the best of it and got married. We needed something to be happy about.”

Emma likes stories, even personal ones. Suddenly she wants to know all of Professor Hood’s story. Besides, part of her research involves listening to stories of resistance and accounts from people who lived through the Dark Times. This seems to be a place to start.

“That’s so sweet,” Emma prods, gently, “What happened after that?”

He smiles, thinking of his wife then sighs, as he continues to spin his story. “It was a dark time for academia. There was a witch hunt here for people who had royal sympathies or who were opposed to Gold’s dictatorship. A lot of professors lost their jobs, most imprisoned, some worse.”

Emma can’t imagine living under such a harsh regime. Academia has always been her safe escape. This story is turning from sweet to scary in a matter of words.

“That’s horrible. Were you okay?” Emma asks.

He grimaces, painful memories stretched out across his face.

“Sorry,” Emma says quickly, “This is really personal. You don’t have to tell me these things if you are uncomfortable.”

He shakes his head, “It’s okay. I wanted to work with you for a reason, Emma. When I saw your proposal, I jumped at the chance to have our story told, the stories of many like us told. The work you are doing is rare and important.”

Emma nods and carefully slips her notebook out to start jotting down notes. Professor Hood takes a sip of his tea and then continues.

“Eventually my name went onto a black list and I was certain that I was bound for prison. My wife and I decided it was best for me to go into hiding. I spent three years living in a secret panel in my basement. It was maddening, but my wife, my Marian, she took exceptional care of me and never let me grow lonely.”

“That’s great of her,” Emma says. She wonders if she’ll get to meet this woman. From this story it sounds like they are a perfect match.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice melancholic, “we were both growing impatient. Things were getting worse and worse. Food was being rationed and we shared just her ration, so we were both constantly hungry. Oil was rationed as well and everything was always cold. I was worried I was going to spend my whole damn life freezing in that basement and Marian blamed herself for moving us here. So, we got involved in the resistance movement. She was in deeper than I was, since she could leave the house. She eventually ended up being part of the team that planned the final battle for the castle, the movement that ended the Dark Times in Misthaven.” He gulps, “but she met her end there.”

Emma’s mouth opens in shock. She’s read countless things about Misthaven resistance movements, but it’s different to hear it from someone who lived through it.

“Thanks for telling me that,” she says, not knowing if she should reach out in comfort, but she hardly knows him. Instead, she busies her hands taking notes. “I’m really sorry about your wife. That’s part of why I’ve come here, though. I want to understand resistance better from people who lived through it. I want to be able to argue how and why Blanche Neige used her books to encourage revolution.”

“Well, I can certainly help you find people to interview,” He says, “Those of us who remain from the resistance are still very close. We’d be happy to help you find people for your project.”

“Thanks so much,” she says, finishing her notes.

“What else do you need help with?” he asks.

“Well, I’m hoping to use the Misthaven U Folk and Fairytale collection to look at the stories she based her novels on,” Emma adds.

“That’s great idea. We have some rare collections that I can grant you access to.”

“Amazing,” Emma breathes, excited at the very notion of pouring over the old tomes.

“If you need help with anything else, let me know,” Professor Hood finishes.

“I will,” she promises, stacking up her notebooks as she feels the short meeting approaching it’s end.

“And will you send me your thesis so far?” He asks, “I don’t think I’ve actually been sent it yet- I’d love to give you feedback if you are up for it?”

“That’s great,” Emma says, earnestly, “All I want is for this thing to be the best it can be.”

“I look forward to reading it. Do you have plans for tonight?” he asks.

Emma’s feels her forehead wrinkle. Her new advisor is hitting on her? That’s definitely unprofessional, not mention that he’s far too old. And he just told her the story of his dead wife.

“Sorry,” he amends, seeing where her thoughts had turned, “Not like that. It’s just that they give out free opera house tickets to foreign students every Friday. They do really great performances there, operas and ballets, if you like that kind of thing. Even if you don’t, it’s a nice excuse for an evening out and the building is gorgeous.”

“Oh thanks for the tip,” Emma says. “I’ll think about it.”

She bids her goodbyes and gathers her stuff.

The Opera isn’t a bad idea. She’s still spooked from the events earlier this week and she’d rather not spend the night alone in her apartment. Plus, it might be a way to meet some other foreign students, since she is yet to make friends. Other than Killian, if you counted the 12 hours they were wary friends.

She stops by the foreign student office on her way to the tram and picks up a ticket for the performance that night. It’s an opera by Samuel Barber. She doesn’t know much about opera, so she hopes it’s alright.

When she gets off the tram in her neighborhood, she finds herself ducking into little clothing stores to window shop. This area has a lot of thrift shops and independent boutiques.

Emma won’t deny that she misses her old jean jacket. She’s upset that it was a casualty of that horrible night. There was something comforting about the worn jacket - it was a talisman of sorts, protecting her from harm. She weaves through racks at the thrift shop looking for a replacement. She fingers tan suede jackets, black corduroy ones, and a bright pink windbreaker.

A red jacket catches her eye and she slips it on. It feels right. After her last jacket was ripped from her shoulders, this one feels steady, like armor. It’s the kind of jacket that is perfect for a girl who has always had to do everything for herself.

She buys the thing, spending more than she had planned to. But hey, she got a free ticket to the opera. She can splurge on something .

It’s just past noon when she gets back to her apartment and she’s exhausted. Honestly, this week has been so fricken much. She needs to escape and not think about her grant applications or the creepy man in the pawn shop. She hasn’t been sleeping well, images of that night dancing before her eyes and make it hard for her to calm down. All Emma wants to do is relax. She tosses her opera ticket and new jacket onto the counter and heads over to her bookshelf.

Today she needs an old favorite, she picks up a Blanche Neige book. This is one of her favorites, Towering Hope , a twist on Rapunzel. It’s much more empowering than the traditional fairy tale. In this version, the savior of Misthaven is trapped in a castle. There is a hero, a dashing rapscallion of a thief, who comes to save her from the tower - but only so that she can use her powers to save the whole country and lead them all to freedom. Emma’s always liked this narrative because while the damsel gets rescued from the tower, she’s also the hero of the story. That’s what she loves about Blanche Neige, the way that her stories are always empowering, always about resisting, and yet still have the magic and charm of fairy tales.

The story is more than familiar, it’s like an old favorite song. She’s read it countless times. She’s analyzed it and wrote essays on it. Somewhere along the familiar pages and the softness of being curled up on the sunny sofa, Emma falls asleep.

When she awakes, the light is low and she finally feels rested for the first time that week. She can’t remember her dream, but she knows that there were traces of Towering Hope in it, but that the thief had Killian’s eyes. Stupid, attractive Killian. She wishes she could get him out of her head so she could move on from that night, that idiotic idea. But she can’t.

She pushes him out of her mind, for now at least. She has bigger things to do, like get ready for this opera.

Emma has never really owned the sort of things that one wears to an opera, but after rummaging in her closet for a bit, she picks out a plain black dress and a statement necklace. With a pair of heels and some red lipstick, she figures she can almost pull it off.

She quickly makes a mug of coffee with the French press, toasts a few slices of bread, and then she’s out the door. It’s a tram ride into town, just across the river to Old Town. The opera house sits along the water. It’s ornate, as an opera house should be, white with gold accents and a domed roof.

Outside, she finds a person carrying a sign that reads “Misthaven U Foreign Students” and she joins the crowd. There is a cluster of undergrad students speaking very quickly to each other in Korean, two girls chattering in what might be Norwegian, and a few more chattering in French. Emma was expecting to use this outing as an opportunity to make new friends, but she quickly realizes this might not be the case.

The group moves into the opera house and Emma shuffles along beside them. She squares her shoulders as she walks in. She doesn’t need friends. She’s always gotten through life on her own grit and perseverance. She’s going to enjoy the night even if she is by herself.

The opera house is lovely and certainly distracts her from her problems. There are gold and marble embellishments everywhere, fresh flowers, and velvet draping. Emma wants to look at all of it all at once, but the group is guided along to where their seats are.

Emma glances through her program as the curtain drops and then all at once she’s absorbed in the show.

And it’s weird. It’s really weird. An older woman is waiting for her lover, Anatole, to return to her - but his son does instead. And somehow she falls in love with him? But he impregnates her niece. Yeah, it’s super weird.

At the interval, Emma downs a glass of red wine because she knows that’s the only way she’ll make it through the rest. Plus, the broody plot lends itself to red wine.

By the end of the opera, three and half hours that feel like the longest of her life, the wine has made its way through her system. All she can think is that she has to pee. Like right now.

While the applause starts, she bolts out of her seat and dashes to the closest bathroom before the bows begin. As much as she should feel bad for not adding the applause, she really doesn’t because the opera was so strange.

As she exits the toilets, she washes her hands and pauses to fix her hair.

“So, what did you think?” asks a voice and Emma glances up to see the woman next to her.

Standing beside her at the mirror is a woman with short cropped hair and a nice pantsuit. Her face is lightly lined. She’s probably in her late forties, maybe early fifties. She has an elegant way of carrying herself that Emma envies. She’s always had atrocious posture.

Emma tries for something intellectual to say. This lady seems like the serious opera type.

“Well, it was certainly literary,” Emma manages, after all, she is really good at analyzing things. “The plot was wholly modernist, I think. Though I think anything with that many Oedipal allusions isn’t necessarily my cup of tea.”

“It’s okay, I won’t be offended if you say it sucked,” the woman says.

She has a clear, posh Misthaven accent to her English - with a hint of something that Emma can’t quite place. She’s the kind of woman you’d never expect to say the word “sucked.”

“Okay,” Emma laughs, “It did kinda suck.”

“Honestly, I think most operas in English tend to,” she explains, “Maybe go to an Italian, or even a French one, next time around.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Emma says.

“Is it your first time at the opera?” asks the lady.

Emma nods, a little shyly. She’s an intellectual. She doesn’t like to admit not knowing things.

“Well, I hope it doesn’t deter you from coming back,” the lady says, “There are usually very nice shows on here. There is a very promising ballet planned for next Friday, if that interests you. It should be a bit better than this.”

Emma laughs, “yeah, maybe I’ll come back. I’m here for the next few months.”

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” the lady says, “I can arrange some free tickets for you.”

Geesh , Emma thinks, they must be desperate in this town to get people into the opera house if they are always giving out free tickets.

“That’ll be great,” Emma says, sounding more enthusiastic than she actually is. She’d feel bad disappointing this opera aficionado who seems so zealous about getting Emma interested in this place.

“I’ll leave two tickets next Friday at the door under your name,” she tells her, “What is it?”

“Emma, Emma Swan.”

The woman’s eyes widen and she shivers. Emma can feel her looking her up and down, before she meets her eyes, staring intensely.

“Sorry, is something wrong?” Emma asks.

The woman startles, “what? No, sorry. I’ll arrange the tickets for you, Emma.”

“Uh, thanks,” Emma replies feeling a little awkward.

The woman exits the bathroom with a final, closed mouthed smile. Emma turns back to the mirror and gazes at her reflection. What had the woman been looking for? What had she seen?

Killian has often dreamt of the night he fled the castle. The screams of the queen echoing through the castle. The feeling of air tearing through his lungs as he runs as fast as his short legs will take him to his gran’s cottage. The empty, hollow feeling as he watches Liam and a small bob of blonde hair disappear from sight. Killian knows that dream well.

So, when a new one begins, it startles him.

The night he returns from the pawn shop, his bones rattled, his hand still shaking from the altercation with stranger, the new dream begins.

He climbs in bed, thinking of Emma. For a moment, he had been sure that the man was going to kill her. The knife raised above her, the fierce look in her eyes replaced by terror - he thought that he’d led the girl to her demise. He hopes that creating a diversion was enough of an apology to her for the mess he dragged her into. He knows she probably won’t ever forgive him for the trouble he caused her, but he’ll miss the lass. He’s known her for a day and he’s already charmed by her quick mind and golden hair.

Her golden hair somehow fades into another’s.

He dreams that night of being a child in the palace. He dreams of the tiny apartment that he and Liam had in the basement. They shared a bed, Killian just small enough to fit under this brother’s shoulder.

He dreams of the royal library, where he discovered new books and would spend hours stretched out on the floor flicking through pages - gazing at pictures and attempting to read the words beside them.

He dreams of trays of rich food that his brother would bring him in the evenings. He’d explain they came from the king’s table, leftovers from the feast.

He dreams of a night when he snuck up the stairs to watch a ball. He remembers all the couples waltzing to the most beautiful music. He thinks of the elegant clothes, the smells of sweets, and the ornate decorations. Even for a young boy, he was very impressed.

He dreams of the family. The father with his blond hair and ponytail. The mother with her round face and long, dark hair. And the daughter, the princess - Emma.

Emma with her wispy gold locks, her dimpled chin, her doey green eyes. Emma with her infectious giggle and toothy smile. He remembers playing with her. She was smaller, first a baby that he’d sing songs to. Then she was toddling and cooing, chasing after him down palace corridors. She was three or four when she fled with Liam. He remembers that she was finally the age where they could play proper games together. He wonders if they would have been real friends when they grew older.

She’s everywhere in his dreams. He’s chasing her down hallways. She’s always one step out of reach.

He awakes with the image a different blond haired girl in his mind. One with longer legs, lovely curves, and a determined poise. Emma .

He tries to get her out of his mind. He throws himself into work at the bar, engaging with customers, making them laugh. He gets Ruby to distract him when he can, having her play dice with him when the bar is having low periods.

The rest of the time he has to himself he reads. He decides on a whim to reread the Blanche Neige series. They’ve been his favorite always, since he discovered them in the library as a teenager. He craves their easy comfort now. He loves the way that the words coax him, familiar like an old favorite song. Even now, in the sad nostalgia and strange dreams left in Emma’s wake, the books lull him and help him to forget his worries.

He manages to stay distracted through the weekend, the bar is busy enough then. It isn’t until the stillness of his Tuesday afternoon that he find himself at Mamie’s with a Blanche Neige book in hand. All he wants to do was to drink an americano and try to lose the dismally restless feeling he’s acquired since that night in the pawn shop.

So, his heart stops a little when he looks up and sees her. Emma.

Her hair is up in a high bun, square rim glasses balanced on her nose. She’s dressed in a black thingy, which Killian thinks might be called a romper, only because Ruby’s called it that before. She has a red leather jacket over it, the overall look seems to match her fierceness. Her laptop is in front of her, a stack of books to her side.

He doesn’t know what to do for a moment. Does he go talk to her? He wants to. He really wants to. He hasn’t stopped thinking about her, try as he may, and here she is right in front of him. He wants to apologize. He wants to make things right with her.

But then again, things left off so horribly between them. He wonders if it’s best to duck out the backdoor and pretend that he didn’t see her. That way he doesn’t have to confront how awkward their last moments together were.

Emma looks up and their eyes meet. She glances away and for a moment he thinks that she’s made the decision for him. She is going to ignore him. Then, she swallows and meets his eyes again. A tiny smile graces her lips, an invitation.

Killian leaves his coffee and book behind to go to her table.

A gentle blush rises in her cheeks and she tucks a strand of hair into her bun.

“Emma, look, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for how everything turned out,” He begins, looking down at his feet, scratching a hand behind his ear, “I never, ever meant to put you in danger.”

“Um, yeah, I’m not going to lie to you, last Tuesday was one of the scariest experiences of my life,” she babbles awkwardly, adorably. “And like, that’s really saying a lot considering my childhood.”

His eyes widen a bit as he takes in her accidental overshare. Just what has this poor girl gone through? He wants to know her secrets, her stories. But they are strangers, former business partners - it’s never going to happen.

“Anyway,” she continues, clearly not wanting to dwell on her admission. “It seemed like you were trying to help. I mean I know that you said the guy was creepy, but I think we were both blindsided by just how weird that got.”

Killian nods furiously. “You can say that again.”

“You got out okay?” she asks, lightly.

He nods again. “Yeah I was just behind you. I haven’t the seen the fiend since.”

“That’s good,” Emma says, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do.”

Killian sniffles and looks down again, thinking it’s probably best to start retreating back to his table and back to his americano. Things are always going to be weird between him and Emma. They can’t just go from the horrible night they experienced and expect to become anything like friends afterwards.

Then he sees the book on top of her stack, Towering Hope by Blanche Neige.

“You read Blanche Neige?” he blurts out,flushed with surprise. Those books are everything to him. They’re the reason he was able to rebuild his life after being a young offender. They’re the reason he was able to find hope.

And there is this girl who has already woven a little tendril around his heart sitting in front of him, reading the very same book.

“Um, actually,” she says, the blush returning to her cheeks. “I’m writing my PhD dissertation on Blanche Neige. I’m basing my career on her.”

“So, you’re something of a Blanche Neige expert?” he asks.

She snorts a laugh. “Not exactly. Not yet, at least. I’ve got to finish the dissertation. But yeah, no one’s written on her before. So maybe, one day.”

“Emma Swan, Blanche Neige expert,” he says, sliding into the seat opposite of her. “Wow, that’s sexy.”

She lets out a full laugh this time, tugging on her bun again.

“I take it you’re a fan?” She asks, curiosity lacing her voice.

“Right, well, you know that horrible childhood thing you talked about before?”

She purses her lips together, her forehead wrinkling again.

“Well, yes, I had one of those too. Quite miserable.” He rattles on, not ready to give details. “But Miss Blanche here, her books were the things that helped me through it.”

She nods, her voice soft, the moment suddenly intimate for the coffee shop setting. “I understand that. The way books can save you from the bad stuff.”

Killian nods and smiles, because Emma gets it. She’s probably the first person he’s ever met who gets it.

“Books are like a little bit of hope,” She adds.

“They are exactly that, Swan.” He nods.

“So what is your favorite?”

“Of Blanche Neige?” He muses, “Probably Never in this Land. ”

He thinks of the novel, a twist on Peter Pan where a modern Captain Hook has a change of heart, abandoning his life of crime and becoming a hero. He ends up sheltering three “darling” children in his house to keep them safe from the dictator. Like all Blanche Neige, it’s a story about freedom, bravery, and resistance.

“Interesting choice,” she says, smiling.

He wonders if she sees through his choice. He wonders if she sees his previous life of crime. He wonders if she sees a villain in him.

But instead, it seems her thoughts are purely intellectual.

“It’s curiously the only Blanche Neige book that’s not based directly on a fairy tale. Well, that and The Yellow Bug. I can’t find the source material for that one, no matter how hard I look.”

“The Yellow Bug?” Killian muses.

He tries to place the tale. He recalls it a little, the story of an outsider who comes to town in a yellow VMW. She’s looking for her family, but never ends up finding them. Instead, she discovers she can talk to animals and uses the ability to help foil the uprising. In the story, the dictator keeps his soul in an egg which was taken from one of the animals and the heroine eventually finds a way to destroy the soul inside. In typical Blanche Neige fashion, she delivers the town from the dictator.

“You can see traces of the Goose Girl in it,” Emma explains, “In the plot line with the talking animals. And other traces of the Firebird in it, with the soul in the egg. But there are other bits that I can’t place. Blanche Neige usually draws from one source fable, so it doesn’t make sense that she’d mash up a few, or that she’d deviate from using a fairy tale.”

Killian opens his mouth in wonder at Emma. She really is the Blanche Neige expert. Listening to her talk in such detail about his favorite book with so much enthusiasm endears her further to him.

Only he notices one thing she doesn’t.

“I know the story,” Killian blurts.

“What?” Emma asks, surprise in her eyes.

“The source story,” he says, “I remember being told it as a child. It was called The Yellow Carriage. A stranger comes to town in a yellow carriage.”

“What do you mean?” Emma says, “I’ve done extensive research. I’ve looked through countless fairy tale databases.”

“I promise you,” He says emphatically, “I remember it from childhood. The Yellow Carriage.”

Emma gapes at him.

“Well, do you know where to find it?”

“I haven’t heard it since I was a child,” He admits, “I wouldn’t know the anthology it came from.”

Emma frowns. He doesn’t like the disappointment and unhappiness on her face.

“But listen, I’ll try my best to think back and see if I remember it. If I think of it, I’ll tell you.”

The frown abates from her face, “Thanks. It’s just that there is a whole chapter of my dissertation about the irregularities of The Yellow Bug and if there is a source for it - well, it changes things. I wouldn’t want to submit it with an error in it.”

“Listen, I’ve only listened to you talk about Blanche Neige for five minutes now, but I’ve never heard anyone as passionate and informed as you. Anyone reading your thesis or whatever will be able to tell,” He flatters.

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not really how academia works. People don’t care about enthusiasm, just precise analysis and fresh ideas.”

“That’s too bad,” he says, “Or else all your work would be done.”

A blush ghosts her cheeks again, before she admits, “well, that would save me a lot of trouble. The reason I’m so desperate for money is because I need to pay for another semester of grad school.”

“That’s why you agreed to my proposal?” He clarifies.

His heart melts a little for her. Emma, so sweet and studious that her ambition is not for a vacation or a large house or money to spend on clothes and jewels, but to learn, to read literature, to study Blanche Neige.

“I just really want to finish my PhD.” She nods. “And the money would have helped to pay back my student loans from undergrad as well.”

Killian feels a flair of anger at the expense of university education in America. In Misthaven, university fees are very minimal and heavily subsidized by the government. He wishes that Emma didn’t have to worry about fees and that she could enjoy her time here instead of focusing on finding funds.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Killian says, sadly.

Emma gives a rueful smile. “It’s fine. I’m not sure anyone would have believed that I’m lost princess anyway. It was probably a stupid plan.”

“I would believe it,” Killian says, softly.

Her blonde hair, bright green eyes, and dimples - he would believe her to be the lost princess any day.

“Okay, Romeo.” Emma says with another eye roll. “Anyway, a student loan is better than a jail sentence. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’m still sorry,” he says, “Let me make it up to you.”

She looks up and meets his eyes. Her fierce look falters for a minute and he sees something vulnerable in her gaze. There is loneliness there, hurt, and rejection.

There is a certain yearning there too.

Then she smiles good naturedly, “Well, I don’t really have any friends in Misthaven yet. So, you could buy me another cappuccino and we could talk about Blanche Neige for a little longer.”

Killian lets himself grin back at her. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot Emma.”

tagging some fans (people who i looked through their tags and found out they really liked it) // let me know if anyone wants to be added or subtracted:

@sambethe @kmomof4 @pocket-anon @hooked-mom @the-corsair-and-her-quill @kiwistreetswan@lenfazreads @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story

#cs ff #captain swan #emma swan #killian jones #cs au #cs modern au #cs mc #cs crew

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pisati · 5 years

Text

I feel like I want to write something, but I don’t know what.

my thoughts always stray back to that one year, and those few years that followed, but not out of any kind of longing anymore. it was a lot that happened that was entirely new to me. there’s been so much nothing lately. and my tendency for the last few years to think back on the few good things had me replaying them over and over. it seems kind of hashed out at this point. what good does it do me to remember?

I barely remember it, at that. I barely remember yesterday. the only thing keeping my memory of 5 or so years ago fresh is timehop. I don’t even remember tweeting half the shit I tweeted last year. maybe since I’ve spent the last few years re-reading everything from years previous, that’s slightly more ingrained. most of each day going by is complaining about school work, trying to let out my thoughts on my metaphysics assignments so I could work through them (since I had nobody to talk to about it). the few tweets alluding to things that happened. I’m about to come up on 5 years since T and I were anything. timehop reminded me that this time two years ago he’d called me in an effort to stay more connected to his friends, and I was gutted to realize that I’d made his contact picture the picture of us at point state park, sitting on the edge of the fountain. charlotte had taken the picture; both of us blinded by the sunlight and the wind whipping my hair back across his face. I didn’t like the picture itself much but I looked so goddamn happy; of course I kept it. I had no recollection of even setting it as his contact photo, though, and I probably wouldn’t have remembered anyway, since what conversations we did have anymore were mostly through facebook messenger. but then he called.

I’m a little embarrassed now, thinking back. feeling so strongly over something that only lasted, what, 5 or so weeks? we hardly knew each other. we wouldn’t have worked out anyway. I spent so long in such a melancholy over him. I guess it’s just like that when it’s the first time anyone genuinely seems to give a shit about you. I really wasn’t keen on letting it go. going back to this. what has been this for the last 5 years. 5 years now. geez.

maybe a little bit of a weird analogy, but there’s that scene in that one old episode of spongebob where squidward travels forwards and backwards in time and when he tries to escape he breaks the time machine; things get real noisy and weird for a few seconds before it all disappears and goes silent. and there’s nothing. that’s kind of what this contrast feels like. so much, then nothing. it can feel like a relief at times, but at others the silence is deafening. the aloneness is so intensely magnified in it. where’s the time machine? where’s anything? where, where, where?

I do almost miss that filthy little house on 10th street. I had bought slippers with puppy heads on the fronts to wear around the house because I would have wanted to chop my own feet off touching those floors in bare feet. the day I moved in was the first time I saw it, and I cried, ha. I did what I could with it. I had moved in two days before my 19th birthday. I was so anxious I made myself sick from not eating. my one housemate was kind enough to take me to the store to get light foods I could eat, plus ginger ale. I could barely walk, I remember. we may have taken a walk on my birthday, and I felt so weak. once I got my room settled, though, it started to feel better. I remember everything still being a mess; I had hardly had the energy to put clothes away, and I had to go buy light-blocking curtains from walmart because the streetlight outside my window made my bedroom glow orange at night. but I remember curling up in bed next to my overflowing nightstand, and pulling out my copy of The Book Thief. I laid there and read and read. I latched on to the main character, seeing her through new eyes. she was so strong through so much adversity, at such a young age. she was frightened too. imagine having your whole world upended like that. that’s kind of what it felt like to me, anyway. she could do it. I could be like her.

that bed was fucking awful. we could only have furniture that our landlord provided, and it was all old, shitty furniture from god only knew where. my twin bedframe was low to the ground, I had I think a boxspring and a mattress, and it was so noisy. every time I moved it creaked. mom didn’t feel like buying me a new bed set either, so I had to make do with my XL twin set from my dorm. every few weeks I’d have to take everything off my bed and re-position the fitted sheet. I had so many goddamn pillows, but it wasn’t too big a deal, since up until the end of march I was the only one in my bed. the house was designed so poorly too. sometimes I ended up using the toilet with one foot up on the bathtub, because it was so tiny that I couldn’t sit comfortably without hitting my knees or sitting at an angle. I learned to appreciate the spiders that made their webs in the corners above the tub. sometimes it smelled like cigarettes; probably because kids would smoke behind our house and my roommate would turn the fan on when he showered. I swear the kitchen floor was at an angle. the time the construction workers tore out our front stoop with no warning and we had to start using the side door that we shared with the driveway for the pizza place next door; I remember being afraid I’d forget the step down and fall on one of the delivery cars. we didn’t know when trash day was so we’d just put our trash in the pizza place’s dumpster. I’m sure we weren’t supposed to, but nobody said anything.

so many good small-town memories. just nice things to look back on, you know? so sometimes it’s nice to just sit in it. remember the uncomfortable heat. the smell of the shampoo and conditioner that came in those huge pump bottles. the apple cinnamon glade candles I used to make my room smell less like the rest of the dirty old house; that very distinct smell. how the walk to my nearest class was literally across the street, rather than 20 minutes. the walk down to carriage house at three in the morning; looking up and seeing the moon; feeling like we shared some late-night secret. drunk sheetz, hot chocolate and everything bagels from the starbucks at folger hall. so many hours in rehearsal; the echoes in the stairwell down to the bass/cello storage room. commonplace. midnight jesus cakes. the feeling of pure joy I got from knowing my professors genuinely enjoyed teaching me and that I genuinely enjoyed learning from them; how they pushed me to reach higher, even if it was away from them. how my orchestra professors were sad I was leaving; I was such a mediocre cellist but they just enjoyed having a non-major so invested in it. I can’t even describe the feeling I got when I visited my old philosophy department the fall after I graduated from UMD, and my first philosophy professor remembered me and was so thrilled that I got such a good education at the school where he got his PhD. he knew I was going to do well there; he wrote my letter of recommendation that I’m sure got me accepted. he even stopped the department director in the hall, and she remembered me too, even though she’d only taught one of my classes for half the semester, covering for my professor who’d had surgery. she knew I’d wanted to transfer, but put in the paperwork for my philosophy minor anyway. I was happy that she seemed genuinely happy to hear I’d done so well too. I couldn’t even believe she remembered me.

things are really different on campus now; they’ve torn down some old buildings that I’d had classes in and built new ones. the philosophy department is in one of the new buildings; it used to be in the administration building, and I’d tutored symbolic logic there. one day I think I was waiting in an office for anyone from my class to show up and I heard cello music coming from downstairs; there’s a recital hall in that building as well, and I knew I recognized my orchestra’s first-chair cellist practicing. I remember sitting there, smiling to myself, thinking good on you, Steve, it sounds great. that was the building I got my acceptance letter in. standing in one of the side hallways, they called each of our names and handed us envelopes with our decisions in them. it’s a very unique acceptance program; the only university I know of where you can do very early admissions, like, early October, when typical early acceptances don’t start going out until late winter or early spring, if you bring all your physical application materials to campus and they tour you around while your application gets reviewed. I remember being nervous to open my letter, even though I didn’t have a doubt I’d get in. mom started crying as soon as she saw me smile; I think it was more my baby got into college than oh thank god, at least my dumbass kid can get in somewhere, ha. I was just relieved it was over and done with. I still have my letter, I think. dated October 10th, 2011. it congratulates me on my acceptance into the school of health and human services with the intention to study interior design. how far we’ve come, hm?

these things, I remember. I’m not sure how that works. my long-term memory is better, I think. sometimes. maybe it’s because I made those memories before things got bad. they were formed properly. stored properly. at least, more so than now. I remember the topics of my midterm and final thesis papers in both philosophy of language and metaphysics, 6 and 5 years ago, respectively, but hell if I can remember anything I did three days ago.

I guess it’s time to sleep, though. I took a little nap earlier which was a mistake, so now I’m up at 5am. such is life.

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