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rjalker · 8 months

Text

Boule de Suif, by Guy de Maupassant.

Word count: 15,000

bigotry / warnings:

Classism (from characters)

Misogyny (from characters).

Fatmisia (from characters).

Sex-worker antagonism (from characters).

Off-screen, non-described rape.

Rape apologism (from characters),

Victim blaming (from characters)

Has a lot of big paragraphs, feel free to copy and paste into a word document and break them up.

It was translated from the original French into English, and there are definitely a few words that were mistranslated, since it's not obvious she's a sex worker until they act like the word "mistress" is immediately and blatantly scandalous and not the sort of thing you'd say in polite company.

The moral is that rich people are hypocrites and suck and you should not share your food with them.

People in positions of power will only be "nice" to you when they think they're going to get something out of it for themselves, and will drop you and treat you like shit the second you're no longer useful to them.

It's a really fucking blatant criticism of misogyny, classism, and all the bigotries listed above, portraying the people who perpetuate these bigotries as horrible fucking people.

10/10. Very clear message, very descriptive and interesting, I want to strangle these people.

You can find the book this is from on Project Gutenberg:

"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3090"

(Archived read-more link)

For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms; they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching onward merely by force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue the moment they halted. One saw, in particular, many enlisted men, peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income, bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle; somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of irregulars with high-sounding names “Avengers of Defeat,” “Citizens of the Tomb,” “Brethren in Death”—passed in their turn, looking like banditti. Their leaders, former drapers or grain merchants, or tallow or soap chandlers—warriors by force of circumstances, officers by reason of their mustachios or their money—covered with weapons, flannel and gold lace, spoke in an impressive manner, discussed plans of campaign, and behaved as though they alone bore the fortunes of dying France on their braggart shoulders; though, in truth, they frequently were afraid of their own men—scoundrels often brave beyond measure, but pillagers and debauchees.

Rumor had it that the Prussians were about to enter Rouen.

The members of the National Guard, who for the past two months had been reconnoitering with the utmost caution in the neighboring woods, occasionally shooting their own sentinels, and making ready for fight whenever a rabbit rustled in the undergrowth, had now returned to their homes. Their arms, their uniforms, all the death-dealing paraphernalia with which they had terrified all the milestones along the highroad for eight miles round, had suddenly and marvellously disappeared.

The last of the French soldiers had just crossed the Seine on their way to Pont-Audemer, through Saint-Sever and Bourg-Achard, and in their rear the vanquished general, powerless to do aught with the forlorn remnants of his army, himself dismayed at the final overthrow of a nation accustomed to victory and disastrously beaten despite its legendary bravery, walked between two orderlies.

Then a profound calm, a shuddering, silent dread, settled on the city. Many a round-paunched citizen, emasculated by years devoted to business, anxiously awaited the conquerors, trembling lest his roasting-jacks or kitchen knives should be looked upon as weapons.

Life seemed to have stopped short; the shops were shut, the streets deserted. Now and then an inhabitant, awed by the silence, glided swiftly by in the shadow of the walls. The anguish of suspense made men even desire the arrival of the enemy.

In the afternoon of the day following the departure of the French troops, a number of uhlans, coming no one knew whence, passed rapidly through the town. A little later on, a black mass descended St. Catherine's Hill, while two other invading bodies appeared respectively on the Darnetal and the Boisguillaume roads. The advance guards of the three corps arrived at precisely the same moment at the Square of the Hotel de Ville, and the German army poured through all the adjacent streets, its battalions making the pavement ring with their firm, measured tread.

Orders shouted in an unknown, guttural tongue rose to the windows of the seemingly dead, deserted houses; while behind the fast-closed shutters eager eyes peered forth at the victors-masters now of the city, its fortunes, and its lives, by “right of war.” The inhabitants, in their darkened rooms, were possessed by that terror which follows in the wake of cataclysms, of deadly upheavals of the earth, against which all human skill and strength are vain. For the same thing happens whenever the established order of things is upset, when security no longer exists, when all those rights usually protected by the law of man or of Nature are at the mercy of unreasoning, savage force. The earthquake crushing a whole nation under falling roofs; the flood let loose, and engulfing in its swirling depths the corpses of drowned peasants, along with dead oxen and beams torn from shattered houses; or the army, covered with glory, murdering those who defend themselves, making prisoners of the rest, pillaging in the name of the Sword, and giving thanks to God to the thunder of cannon—all these are appalling scourges, which destroy all belief in eternal justice, all that confidence we have been taught to feel in the protection of Heaven and the reason of man.

Small detachments of soldiers knocked at each door, and then disappeared within the houses; for the vanquished saw they would have to be civil to their conquerors.

At the end of a short time, once the first terror had subsided, calm was again restored. In many houses the Prussian officer ate at the same table with the family. He was often well-bred, and, out of politeness, expressed sympathy with France and repugnance at being compelled to take part in the war. This sentiment was received with gratitude; besides, his protection might be needful some day or other. By the exercise of tact the number of men quartered in one's house might be reduced; and why should one provoke the hostility of a person on whom one's whole welfare depended? Such conduct would savor less of bravery than of fool-hardiness. And foolhardiness is no longer a failing of the citizens of Rouen as it was in the days when their city earned renown by its heroic defenses. Last of all-final argument based on the national politeness—the folk of Rouen said to one another that it was only right to be civil in one's own house, provided there was no public exhibition of familiarity with the foreigner. Out of doors, therefore, citizen and soldier did not know each other; but in the house both chatted freely, and each evening the German remained a little longer warming himself at the hospitable hearth.

Even the town itself resumed by degrees its ordinary aspect. The French seldom walked abroad, but the streets swarmed with Prussian soldiers. Moreover, the officers of the Blue Hussars, who arrogantly dragged their instruments of death along the pavements, seemed to hold the simple townsmen in but little more contempt than did the French cavalry officers who had drunk at the same cafes the year before.

But there was something in the air, a something strange and subtle, an intolerable foreign atmosphere like a penetrating odor—the odor of invasion. It permeated dwellings and places of public resort, changed the taste of food, made one imagine one's self in far-distant lands, amid dangerous, barbaric tribes.

The conquerors exacted money, much money. The inhabitants paid what was asked; they were rich. But, the wealthier a Norman tradesman becomes, the more he suffers at having to part with anything that belongs to him, at having to see any portion of his substance pass into the hands of another.

Nevertheless, within six or seven miles of the town, along the course of the river as it flows onward to Croisset, Dieppedalle and Biessart, boat-men and fishermen often hauled to the surface of the water the body of a German, bloated in his uniform, killed by a blow from knife or club, his head crushed by a stone, or perchance pushed from some bridge into the stream below. The mud of the river-bed swallowed up these obscure acts of vengeance—savage, yet legitimate; these unrecorded deeds of bravery; these silent attacks fraught with greater danger than battles fought in broad day, and surrounded, moreover, with no halo of romance. For hatred of the foreigner ever arms a few intrepid souls, ready to die for an idea.

At last, as the invaders, though subjecting the town to the strictest discipline, had not committed any of the deeds of horror with which they had been credited while on their triumphal march, the people grew bolder, and the necessities of business again animated the breasts of the local merchants. Some of these had important commercial interests at Havre —occupied at present by the French army—and wished to attempt to reach that port by overland route to Dieppe, taking the boat from there.

Through the influence of the German officers whose acquaintance they had made, they obtained a permit to leave town from the general in command.

A large four-horse coach having, therefore, been engaged for the journey, and ten passengers having given in their names to the proprietor, they decided to start on a certain Tuesday morning before daybreak, to avoid attracting a crowd.

The ground had been frozen hard for some time-past, and about three o'clock on Monday afternoon—large black clouds from the north shed their burden of snow uninterruptedly all through that evening and night.

At half-past four in the morning the travellers met in the courtyard of the Hotel de Normandie, where they were to take their seats in the coach.

They were still half asleep, and shivering with cold under their wraps. They could see one another but indistinctly in the darkness, and the mountain of heavy winter wraps in which each was swathed made them look like a gathering of obese priests in their long cassocks. But two men recognized each other, a third accosted them, and the three began to talk. “I am bringing my wife,” said one. “So am I.” “And I, too.” The first speaker added: “We shall not return to Rouen, and if the Prussians approach Havre we will cross to England.” All three, it turned out, had made the same plans, being of similar disposition and temperament.

Still the horses were not harnessed. A small lantern carried by a stable-boy emerged now and then from one dark doorway to disappear immediately in another. The stamping of horses' hoofs, deadened by the dung and straw of the stable, was heard from time to time, and from inside the building issued a man's voice, talking to the animals and swearing at them. A faint tinkle of bells showed that the harness was being got ready; this tinkle soon developed into a continuous jingling, louder or softer according to the movements of the horse, sometimes stopping altogether, then breaking out in a sudden peal accompanied by a pawing of the ground by an iron-shod hoof.

The door suddenly closed. All noise ceased.

The frozen townsmen were silent; they remained motionless, stiff with cold.

A thick curtain of glistening white flakes fell ceaselessly to the ground; it obliterated all outlines, enveloped all objects in an icy mantle of foam; nothing was to be heard throughout the length and breadth of the silent, winter-bound city save the vague, nameless rustle of falling snow—a sensation rather than a sound—the gentle mingling of light atoms which seemed to fill all space, to cover the whole world.

The man reappeared with his lantern, leading by a rope a melancholy-looking horse, evidently being led out against his inclination. The hostler placed him beside the pole, fastened the traces, and spent some time in walking round him to make sure that the harness was all right; for he could use only one hand, the other being engaged in holding the lantern. As he was about to fetch the second horse he noticed the motionless group of travellers, already white with snow, and said to them: “Why don't you get inside the coach? You'd be under shelter, at least.”

This did not seem to have occurred to them, and they at once took his advice. The three men seated their wives at the far end of the coach, then got in themselves; lastly the other vague, snow-shrouded forms clambered to the remaining places without a word.

The floor was covered with straw, into which the feet sank. The ladies at the far end, having brought with them little copper foot-warmers heated by means of a kind of chemical fuel, proceeded to light these, and spent some time in expatiating in low tones on their advantages, saying over and over again things which they had all known for a long time.

At last, six horses instead of four having been harnessed to the diligence, on account of the heavy roads, a voice outside asked: “Is every one there?” To which a voice from the interior replied: “Yes,” and they set out.

The vehicle moved slowly, slowly, at a snail's pace; the wheels sank into the snow; the entire body of the coach creaked and groaned; the horses slipped, puffed, steamed, and the coachman's long whip cracked incessantly, flying hither and thither, coiling up, then flinging out its length like a slender serpent, as it lashed some rounded flank, which instantly grew tense as it strained in further effort.

But the day grew apace. Those light flakes which one traveller, a native of Rouen, had compared to a rain of cotton fell no longer. A murky light filtered through dark, heavy clouds, which made the country more dazzlingly white by contrast, a whiteness broken sometimes by a row of tall trees spangled with hoarfrost, or by a cottage roof hooded in snow.

Within the coach the passengers eyed one another curiously in the dim light of dawn.

Right at the back, in the best seats of all, Monsieur and Madame Loiseau, wholesale wine merchants of the Rue Grand-Pont, slumbered opposite each other. Formerly clerk to a merchant who had failed in business, Loiseau had bought his master's interest, and made a fortune for himself. He sold very bad wine at a very low price to the retail-dealers in the country, and had the reputation, among his friends and acquaintances, of being a shrewd rascal a true Norman, full of quips and wiles. So well established was his character as a cheat that, in the mouths of the citizens of Rouen, the very name of Loiseau became a byword for sharp practice.

Above and beyond this, Loiseau was noted for his practical jokes of every description—his tricks, good or ill-natured; and no one could mention his name without adding at once: “He's an extraordinary man—Loiseau.” He was undersized and potbellied, had a florid face with grayish whiskers.

His wife-tall, strong, determined, with a loud voice and decided manner —represented the spirit of order and arithmetic in the business house which Loiseau enlivened by his jovial activity.

Beside them, dignified in bearing, belonging to a superior caste, sat Monsieur Carre-Lamadon, a man of considerable importance, a king in the cotton trade, proprietor of three spinning-mills, officer of the Legion of Honor, and member of the General Council. During the whole time the Empire was in the ascendancy he remained the chief of the well-disposed Opposition, merely in order to command a higher value for his devotion when he should rally to the cause which he meanwhile opposed with “courteous weapons,” to use his own expression.

Madame Carre-Lamadon, much younger than her husband, was the consolation of all the officers of good family quartered at Rouen. Pretty, slender, graceful, she sat opposite her husband, curled up in her furs, and gazing mournfully at the sorry interior of the coach.

Her neighbors, the Comte and Comtesse Hubert de Breville, bore one of the noblest and most ancient names in Normandy. The count, a nobleman advanced in years and of aristocratic bearing, strove to enhance by every artifice of the toilet, his natural resemblance to King Henry IV, who, according to a legend of which the family were inordinately proud, had been the favored lover of a De Breville lady, and father of her child —the frail one's husband having, in recognition of this fact, been made a count and governor of a province.

A colleague of Monsieur Carre-Lamadon in the General Council, Count Hubert represented the Orleanist party in his department. The story of his marriage with the daughter of a small shipowner at Nantes had always remained more or less of a mystery. But as the countess had an air of unmistakable breeding, entertained faultlessly, and was even supposed to have been loved by a son of Louis-Philippe, the nobility vied with one another in doing her honor, and her drawing-room remained the most select in the whole countryside—the only one which retained the old spirit of gallantry, and to which access was not easy.

The fortune of the Brevilles, all in real estate, amounted, it was said, to five hundred thousand francs a year.

These six people occupied the farther end of the coach, and represented Society—with an income—the strong, established society of good people with religion and principle.

It happened by chance that all the women were seated on the same side; and the countess had, moreover, as neighbors two nuns, who spent the time in fingering their long rosaries and murmuring paternosters and aves. One of them was old, and so deeply pitted with smallpox that she looked for all the world as if she had received a charge of shot full in the face. The other, of sickly appearance, had a pretty but wasted countenance, and a narrow, consumptive chest, sapped by that devouring faith which is the making of martyrs and visionaries.

A man and woman, sitting opposite the two nuns, attracted all eyes.

The man—a well-known character—was Cornudet, the democrat, the terror of all respectable people. For the past twenty years his big red beard had been on terms of intimate acquaintance with the tankards of all the republican cafes. With the help of his comrades and brethren he had dissipated a respectable fortune left him by his father, an old-established confectioner, and he now impatiently awaited the Republic, that he might at last be rewarded with the post he had earned by his revolutionary orgies. On the fourth of September—possibly as the result of a practical joke—he was led to believe that he had been appointed prefect; but when he attempted to take up the duties of the position the clerks in charge of the office refused to recognize his authority, and he was compelled in consequence to retire. A good sort of fellow in other respects, inoffensive and obliging, he had thrown himself zealously into the work of making an organized defence of the town. He had had pits dug in the level country, young forest trees felled, and traps set on all the roads; then at the approach of the enemy, thoroughly satisfied with his preparations, he had hastily returned to the town. He thought he might now do more good at Havre, where new intrenchments would soon be necessary.

The woman, who belonged to the courtesan class, was celebrated for an embonpoint unusual for her age, which had earned for her the sobriquet of “Boule de Suif” (Tallow Ball). Short and round, fat as a pig, with puffy fingers constricted at the joints, looking like rows of short sausages; with a shiny, tightly-stretched skin and an enormous bust filling out the bodice of her dress, she was yet attractive and much sought after, owing to her fresh and pleasing appearance. Her face was like a crimson apple, a peony-bud just bursting into bloom; she had two magnificent dark eyes, fringed with thick, heavy lashes, which cast a shadow into their depths; her mouth was small, ripe, kissable, and was furnished with the tiniest of white teeth.

As soon as she was recognized the respectable matrons of the party began to whisper among themselves, and the words “hussy” and “public scandal” were uttered so loudly that Boule de Suif raised her head. She forthwith cast such a challenging, bold look at her neighbors that a sudden silence fell on the company, and all lowered their eyes, with the exception of Loiseau, who watched her with evident interest.

But conversation was soon resumed among the three ladies, whom the presence of this girl had suddenly drawn together in the bonds of friendship—one might almost say in those of intimacy. They decided that they ought to combine, as it were, in their dignity as wives in face of this shameless hussy; for legitimized love always despises its easygoing brother.

The three men, also, brought together by a certain conservative instinct awakened by the presence of Cornudet, spoke of money matters in a tone expressive of contempt for the poor. Count Hubert related the losses he had sustained at the hands of the Prussians, spoke of the cattle which had been stolen from him, the crops which had been ruined, with the easy manner of a nobleman who was also a tenfold millionaire, and whom such reverses would scarcely inconvenience for a single year. Monsieur Carre-Lamadon, a man of wide experience in the cotton industry, had taken care to send six hundred thousand francs to England as provision against the rainy day he was always anticipating. As for Loiseau, he had managed to sell to the French commissariat department all the wines he had in stock, so that the state now owed him a considerable sum, which he hoped to receive at Havre.

And all three eyed one another in friendly, well-disposed fashion. Although of varying social status, they were united in the brotherhood of money—in that vast freemasonry made up of those who possess, who can jingle gold wherever they choose to put their hands into their breeches' pockets.

The coach went along so slowly that at ten o'clock in the morning it had not covered twelve miles. Three times the men of the party got out and climbed the hills on foot. The passengers were becoming uneasy, for they had counted on lunching at Totes, and it seemed now as if they would hardly arrive there before nightfall. Every one was eagerly looking out for an inn by the roadside, when, suddenly, the coach foundered in a snowdrift, and it took two hours to extricate it.

As appetites increased, their spirits fell; no inn, no wine shop could be discovered, the approach of the Prussians and the transit of the starving French troops having frightened away all business.

The men sought food in the farmhouses beside the road, but could not find so much as a crust of bread; for the suspicious peasant invariably hid his stores for fear of being pillaged by the soldiers, who, being entirely without food, would take violent possession of everything they found.

About one o'clock Loiseau announced that he positively had a big hollow in his stomach. They had all been suffering in the same way for some time, and the increasing gnawings of hunger had put an end to all conversation.

Now and then some one yawned, another followed his example, and each in turn, according to his character, breeding and social position, yawned either quietly or noisily, placing his hand before the gaping void whence issued breath condensed into vapor.

Several times Boule de Suif stooped, as if searching for something under her petticoats. She would hesitate a moment, look at her neighbors, and then quietly sit upright again. All faces were pale and drawn. Loiseau declared he would give a thousand francs for a knuckle of ham. His wife made an involuntary and quickly checked gesture of protest. It always hurt her to hear of money being squandered, and she could not even understand jokes on such a subject.

“As a matter of fact, I don't feel well,” said the count. “Why did I not think of bringing provisions?” Each one reproached himself in similar fashion.

Cornudet, however, had a bottle of rum, which he offered to his neighbors. They all coldly refused except Loiseau, who took a sip, and returned the bottle with thanks, saying: “That's good stuff; it warms one up, and cheats the appetite.” The alcohol put him in good humor, and he proposed they should do as the sailors did in the song: eat the fattest of the passengers. This indirect allusion to Boule de Suif shocked the respectable members of the party. No one replied; only Cornudet smiled. The two good sisters had ceased to mumble their rosary, and, with hands enfolded in their wide sleeves, sat motionless, their eyes steadfastly cast down, doubtless offering up as a sacrifice to Heaven the suffering it had sent them.

At last, at three o'clock, as they were in the midst of an apparently limitless plain, with not a single village in sight, Boule de Suif stooped quickly, and drew from underneath the seat a large basket covered with a white napkin.

From this she extracted first of all a small earthenware plate and a silver drinking cup, then an enormous dish containing two whole chickens cut into joints and imbedded in jelly. The basket was seen to contain other good things: pies, fruit, dainties of all sorts-provisions, in fine, for a three days' journey, rendering their owner independent of wayside inns. The necks of four bottles protruded from among the food. She took a chicken wing, and began to eat it daintily, together with one of those rolls called in Normandy “Regence.”

All looks were directed toward her. An odor of food filled the air, causing nostrils to dilate, mouths to water, and jaws to contract painfully. The scorn of the ladies for this disreputable female grew positively ferocious; they would have liked to kill her, or throw, her and her drinking cup, her basket, and her provisions, out of the coach into the snow of the road below.

But Loiseau's gaze was fixed greedily on the dish of chicken. He said:

“Well, well, this lady had more forethought than the rest of us. Some people think of everything.”

She looked up at him.

“Would you like some, sir? It is hard to go on fasting all day.”

He bowed.

“Upon my soul, I can't refuse; I cannot hold out another minute. All is fair in war time, is it not, madame?” And, casting a glance on those around, he added:

“At times like this it is very pleasant to meet with obliging people.”

He spread a newspaper over his knees to avoid soiling his trousers, and, with a pocketknife he always carried, helped himself to a chicken leg coated with jelly, which he thereupon proceeded to devour.

Then Boule le Suif, in low, humble tones, invited the nuns to partake of her repast. They both accepted the offer unhesitatingly, and after a few stammered words of thanks began to eat quickly, without raising their eyes. Neither did Cornudet refuse his neighbor's offer, and, in combination with the nuns, a sort of table was formed by opening out the newspaper over the four pairs of knees.

Mouths kept opening and shutting, ferociously masticating and devouring the food. Loiseau, in his corner, was hard at work, and in low tones urged his wife to follow his example. She held out for a long time, but overstrained Nature gave way at last. Her husband, assuming his politest manner, asked their “charming companion” if he might be allowed to offer Madame Loiseau a small helping.

“Why, certainly, sir,” she replied, with an amiable smile, holding out the dish.

When the first bottle of claret was opened some embarrassment was caused by the fact that there was only one drinking cup, but this was passed from one to another, after being wiped. Cornudet alone, doubtless in a spirit of gallantry, raised to his own lips that part of the rim which was still moist from those of his fair neighbor.

Then, surrounded by people who were eating, and well-nigh suffocated by the odor of food, the Comte and Comtesse de Breville and Monsieur and Madame Carre-Lamadon endured that hateful form of torture which has perpetuated the name of Tantalus. All at once the manufacturer's young wife heaved a sigh which made every one turn and look at her; she was white as the snow without; her eyes closed, her head fell forward; she had fainted. Her husband, beside himself, implored the help of his neighbors. No one seemed to know what to do until the elder of the two nuns, raising the patient's head, placed Boule de Suif's drinking cup to her lips, and made her swallow a few drops of wine. The pretty invalid moved, opened her eyes, smiled, and declared in a feeble voice that she was all right again. But, to prevent a recurrence of the catastrophe, the nun made her drink a cupful of claret, adding: “It's just hunger —that's what is wrong with you.”

Then Boule de Suif, blushing and embarrassed, stammered, looking at the four passengers who were still fasting:

“'Mon Dieu', if I might offer these ladies and gentlemen——”

She stopped short, fearing a snub. But Loiseau continued:

“Hang it all, in such a case as this we are all brothers and sisters and ought to assist each other. Come, come, ladies, don't stand on ceremony, for goodness' sake! Do we even know whether we shall find a house in which to pass the night? At our present rate of going we sha'n't be at Totes till midday to-morrow.”

They hesitated, no one daring to be the first to accept. But the count settled the question. He turned toward the abashed girl, and in his most distinguished manner said:

“We accept gratefully, madame.”

As usual, it was only the first step that cost. This Rubicon once crossed, they set to work with a will. The basket was emptied. It still contained a pate de foie gras, a lark pie, a piece of smoked tongue, Crassane pears, Pont-Leveque gingerbread, fancy cakes, and a cup full of pickled gherkins and onions—Boule de Suif, like all women, being very fond of indigestible things.

They could not eat this girl's provisions without speaking to her. So they began to talk, stiffly at first; then, as she seemed by no means forward, with greater freedom. Mesdames de Breville and Carre-Lamadon, who were accomplished women of the world, were gracious and tactful. The countess especially displayed that amiable condescension characteristic of great ladies whom no contact with baser mortals can sully, and was absolutely charming. But the sturdy Madame Loiseau, who had the soul of a gendarme, continued morose, speaking little and eating much.

Conversation naturally turned on the war. Terrible stories were told about the Prussians, deeds of bravery were recounted of the French; and all these people who were fleeing themselves were ready to pay homage to the courage of their compatriots. Personal experiences soon followed, and Boule le Suif related with genuine emotion, and with that warmth of language not uncommon in women of her class and temperament, how it came about that she had left Rouen.

“I thought at first that I should be able to stay,” she said. “My house was well stocked with provisions, and it seemed better to put up with feeding a few soldiers than to banish myself goodness knows where. But when I saw these Prussians it was too much for me! My blood boiled with rage; I wept the whole day for very shame. Oh, if only I had been a man! I looked at them from my window—the fat swine, with their pointed helmets!—and my maid held my hands to keep me from throwing my furniture down on them. Then some of them were quartered on me; I flew at the throat of the first one who entered. They are just as easy to strangle as other men! And I'd have been the death of that one if I hadn't been dragged away from him by my hair. I had to hide after that. And as soon as I could get an opportunity I left the place, and here I am.”

She was warmly congratulated. She rose in the estimation of her companions, who had not been so brave; and Cornudet listened to her with the approving and benevolent smile of an apostle, the smile a priest might wear in listening to a devotee praising God; for long-bearded democrats of his type have a monopoly of patriotism, just as priests have a monopoly of religion. He held forth in turn, with dogmatic self-assurance, in the style of the proclamations daily pasted on the walls of the town, winding up with a specimen of stump oratory in which he reviled “that besotted fool of a Louis-Napoleon.”

But Boule de Suif was indignant, for she was an ardent Bonapartist. She turned as red as a cherry, and stammered in her wrath: “I'd just like to have seen you in his place—you and your sort! There would have been a nice mix-up. Oh, yes! It was you who betrayed that man. It would be impossible to live in France if we were governed by such rascals as you!”

Cornudet, unmoved by this tirade, still smiled a superior, contemptuous smile; and one felt that high words were impending, when the count interposed, and, not without difficulty, succeeded in calming the exasperated woman, saying that all sincere opinions ought to be respected. But the countess and the manufacturer's wife, imbued with the unreasoning hatred of the upper classes for the Republic, and instinct, moreover, with the affection felt by all women for the pomp and circumstance of despotic government, were drawn, in spite of themselves, toward this dignified young woman, whose opinions coincided so closely with their own.

The basket was empty. The ten people had finished its contents without difficulty amid general regret that it did not hold more. Conversation went on a little longer, though it flagged somewhat after the passengers had finished eating.

Night fell, the darkness grew deeper and deeper, and the cold made Boule de Suif shiver, in spite of her plumpness. So Madame de Breville offered her her foot-warmer, the fuel of which had been several times renewed since the morning, and she accepted the offer at once, for her feet were icy cold. Mesdames Carre-Lamadon and Loiseau gave theirs to the nuns.

The driver lighted his lanterns. They cast a bright gleam on a cloud of vapor which hovered over the sweating flanks of the horses, and on the roadside snow, which seemed to unroll as they went along in the changing light of the lamps.

All was now indistinguishable in the coach; but suddenly a movement occurred in the corner occupied by Boule de Suif and Cornudet; and Loiseau, peering into the gloom, fancied he saw the big, bearded democrat move hastily to one side, as if he had received a well-directed, though noiseless, blow in the dark.

Tiny lights glimmered ahead. It was Totes. The coach had been on the road eleven hours, which, with the three hours allotted the horses in four periods for feeding and breathing, made fourteen. It entered the town, and stopped before the Hotel du Commerce.

The coach door opened; a well-known noise made all the travellers start; it was the clanging of a scabbard, on the pavement; then a voice called out something in German.

Although the coach had come to a standstill, no one got out; it looked as if they were afraid of being murdered the moment they left their seats. Thereupon the driver appeared, holding in his hand one of his lanterns, which cast a sudden glow on the interior of the coach, lighting up the double row of startled faces, mouths agape, and eyes wide open in surprise and terror.

Beside the driver stood in the full light a German officer, a tall young man, fair and slender, tightly encased in his uniform like a woman in her corset, his flat shiny cap, tilted to one side of his head, making him look like an English hotel runner. His exaggerated mustache, long and straight and tapering to a point at either end in a single blond hair that could hardly be seen, seemed to weigh down the corners of his mouth and give a droop to his lips.

In Alsatian French he requested the travellers to alight, saying stiffly:

“Kindly get down, ladies and gentlemen.”

The two nuns were the first to obey, manifesting the docility of holy women accustomed to submission on every occasion. Next appeared the count and countess, followed by the manufacturer and his wife, after whom came Loiseau, pushing his larger and better half before him.

“Good-day, sir,” he said to the officer as he put his foot to the ground, acting on an impulse born of prudence rather than of politeness. The other, insolent like all in authority, merely stared without replying.

Boule de Suif and Cornudet, though near the door, were the last to alight, grave and dignified before the enemy. The stout girl tried to control herself and appear calm; the democrat stroked his long russet beard with a somewhat trembling hand. Both strove to maintain their dignity, knowing well that at such a time each individual is always looked upon as more or less typical of his nation; and, also, resenting the complaisant attitude of their companions, Boule de Suif tried to wear a bolder front than her neighbors, the virtuous women, while he, feeling that it was incumbent on him to set a good example, kept up the attitude of resistance which he had first assumed when he undertook to mine the high roads round Rouen.

They entered the spacious kitchen of the inn, and the German, having demanded the passports signed by the general in command, in which were mentioned the name, description and profession of each traveller, inspected them all minutely, comparing their appearance with the written particulars.

Then he said brusquely: “All right,” and turned on his heel.

They breathed freely, All were still hungry; so supper was ordered. Half an hour was required for its preparation, and while two servants were apparently engaged in getting it ready the travellers went to look at their rooms. These all opened off a long corridor, at the end of which was a glazed door with a number on it.

They were just about to take their seats at table when the innkeeper appeared in person. He was a former horse dealer—a large, asthmatic individual, always wheezing, coughing, and clearing his throat. Follenvie was his patronymic.

He called:

“Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset?”

Boule de Suif started, and turned round.

“That is my name.”

“Mademoiselle, the Prussian officer wishes to speak to you immediately.”

“To me?”

“Yes; if you are Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset.”

She hesitated, reflected a moment, and then declared roundly:

“That may be; but I'm not going.”

They moved restlessly around her; every one wondered and speculated as to the cause of this order. The count approached:

“You are wrong, madame, for your refusal may bring trouble not only on yourself but also on all your companions. It never pays to resist those in authority. Your compliance with this request cannot possibly be fraught with any danger; it has probably been made because some formality or other was forgotten.”

All added their voices to that of the count; Boule de Suif was begged, urged, lectured, and at last convinced; every one was afraid of the complications which might result from headstrong action on her part. She said finally:

“I am doing it for your sakes, remember that!”

The countess took her hand.

“And we are grateful to you.”

She left the room. All waited for her return before commencing the meal. Each was distressed that he or she had not been sent for rather than this impulsive, quick-tempered girl, and each mentally rehearsed platitudes in case of being summoned also.

But at the end of ten minutes she reappeared breathing hard, crimson with indignation.

“Oh! the scoundrel! the scoundrel!” she stammered.

All were anxious to know what had happened; but she declined to enlighten them, and when the count pressed the point, she silenced him with much dignity, saying:

“No; the matter has nothing to do with you, and I cannot speak of it.”

Then they took their places round a high soup tureen, from which issued an odor of cabbage. In spite of this coincidence, the supper was cheerful. The cider was good; the Loiseaus and the nuns drank it from motives of economy. The others ordered wine; Cornudet demanded beer. He had his own fashion of uncorking the bottle and making the beer foam, gazing at it as he inclined his glass and then raised it to a position between the lamp and his eye that he might judge of its color. When he drank, his great beard, which matched the color of his favorite beverage, seemed to tremble with affection; his eyes positively squinted in the endeavor not to lose sight of the beloved glass, and he looked for all the world as if he were fulfilling the only function for which he was born. He seemed to have established in his mind an affinity between the two great passions of his life—pale ale and revolution—and assuredly he could not taste the one without dreaming of the other.

Monsieur and Madame Follenvie dined at the end of the table. The man, wheezing like a broken-down locomotive, was too short-winded to talk when he was eating. But the wife was not silent a moment; she told how the Prussians had impressed her on their arrival, what they did, what they said; execrating them in the first place because they cost her money, and in the second because she had two sons in the army. She addressed herself principally to the countess, flattered at the opportunity of talking to a lady of quality.

Then she lowered her voice, and began to broach delicate subjects. Her husband interrupted her from time to time, saying:

“You would do well to hold your tongue, Madame Follenvie.”

But she took no notice of him, and went on:

“Yes, madame, these Germans do nothing but eat potatoes and pork, and then pork and potatoes. And don't imagine for a moment that they are clean! No, indeed! And if only you saw them drilling for hours, indeed for days, together; they all collect in a field, then they do nothing but march backward and forward, and wheel this way and that. If only they would cultivate the land, or remain at home and work on their high roads! Really, madame, these soldiers are of no earthly use! Poor people have to feed and keep them, only in order that they may learn how to kill! True, I am only an old woman with no education, but when I see them wearing themselves out marching about from morning till night, I say to myself: When there are people who make discoveries that are of use to people, why should others take so much trouble to do harm? Really, now, isn't it a terrible thing to kill people, whether they are Prussians, or English, or Poles, or French? If we revenge ourselves on any one who injures us we do wrong, and are punished for it; but when our sons are shot down like partridges, that is all right, and decorations are given to the man who kills the most. No, indeed, I shall never be able to understand it.”

Cornudet raised his voice:

“War is a barbarous proceeding when we attack a peaceful neighbor, but it is a sacred duty when undertaken in defence of one's country.”

The old woman looked down:

“Yes; it's another matter when one acts in self-defence; but would it not be better to kill all the kings, seeing that they make war just to amuse themselves?”

Cornudet's eyes kindled.

“Bravo, citizens!” he said.

Monsieur Carre-Lamadon was reflecting profoundly. Although an ardent admirer of great generals, the peasant woman's sturdy common sense made him reflect on the wealth which might accrue to a country by the employment of so many idle hands now maintained at a great expense, of so much unproductive force, if they were employed in those great industrial enterprises which it will take centuries to complete.

But Loiseau, leaving his seat, went over to the innkeeper and began chatting in a low voice. The big man chuckled, coughed, sputtered; his enormous carcass shook with merriment at the pleasantries of the other; and he ended by buying six casks of claret from Loiseau to be delivered in spring, after the departure of the Prussians.

The moment supper was over every one went to bed, worn out with fatigue.

But Loiseau, who had been making his observations on the sly, sent his wife to bed, and amused himself by placing first his ear, and then his eye, to the bedroom keyhole, in order to discover what he called “the mysteries of the corridor.”

At the end of about an hour he heard a rustling, peeped out quickly, and caught sight of Boule de Suif, looking more rotund than ever in a dressing-gown of blue cashmere trimmed with white lace. She held a candle in her hand, and directed her steps to the numbered door at the end of the corridor. But one of the side doors was partly opened, and when, at the end of a few minutes, she returned, Cornudet, in his shirt-sleeves, followed her. They spoke in low tones, then stopped short. Boule de Suif seemed to be stoutly denying him admission to her room. Unfortunately, Loiseau could not at first hear what they said; but toward the end of the conversation they raised their voices, and he caught a few words. Cornudet was loudly insistent.

“How silly you are! What does it matter to you?” he said.

She seemed indignant, and replied:

“No, my good man, there are times when one does not do that sort of thing; besides, in this place it would be shameful.”

Apparently he did not understand, and asked the reason. Then she lost her temper and her caution, and, raising her voice still higher, said:

“Why? Can't you understand why? When there are Prussians in the house! Perhaps even in the very next room!”

He was silent. The patriotic shame of this wanton, who would not suffer herself to be caressed in the neighborhood of the enemy, must have roused his dormant dignity, for after bestowing on her a simple kiss he crept softly back to his room. Loiseau, much edified, capered round the bedroom before taking his place beside his slumbering spouse.

Then silence reigned throughout the house. But soon there arose from some remote part—it might easily have been either cellar or attic—a stertorous, monotonous, regular snoring, a dull, prolonged rumbling, varied by tremors like those of a boiler under pressure of steam. Monsieur Follenvie had gone to sleep.

As they had decided on starting at eight o'clock the next morning, every one was in the kitchen at that hour; but the coach, its roof covered with snow, stood by itself in the middle of the yard, without either horses or driver. They sought the latter in the stables, coach-houses and barns —but in vain. So the men of the party resolved to scour the country for him, and sallied forth. They found themselves in the square, with the church at the farther side, and to right and left low-roofed houses where there were some Prussian soldiers. The first soldier they saw was peeling potatoes. The second, farther on, was washing out a barber's shop. Another, bearded to the eyes, was fondling a crying infant, and dandling it on his knees to quiet it; and the stout peasant women, whose men-folk were for the most part at the war, were, by means of signs, telling their obedient conquerors what work they were to do: chop wood, prepare soup, grind coffee; one of them even was doing the washing for his hostess, an infirm old grandmother.

The count, astonished at what he saw, questioned the beadle who was coming out of the presbytery. The old man answered:

“Oh, those men are not at all a bad sort; they are not Prussians, I am told; they come from somewhere farther off, I don't exactly know where. And they have all left wives and children behind them; they are not fond of war either, you may be sure! I am sure they are mourning for the men where they come from, just as we do here; and the war causes them just as much unhappiness as it does us. As a matter of fact, things are not so very bad here just now, because the soldiers do no harm, and work just as if they were in their own homes. You see, sir, poor folk always help one another; it is the great ones of this world who make war.”

Cornudet indignant at the friendly understanding established between conquerors and conquered, withdrew, preferring to shut himself up in the inn.

“They are repeopling the country,” jested Loiseau.

“They are undoing the harm they have done,” said Monsieur Carre-Lamadon gravely.

But they could not find the coach driver. At last he was discovered in the village cafe, fraternizing cordially with the officer's orderly.

“Were you not told to harness the horses at eight o'clock?” demanded the count.

“Oh, yes; but I've had different orders since.”

“What orders?”

“Not to harness at all.”

“Who gave you such orders?”

“Why, the Prussian officer.”

“But why?”

“I don't know. Go and ask him. I am forbidden to harness the horses, so I don't harness them—that's all.”

“Did he tell you so himself?”

“No, sir; the innkeeper gave me the order from him.”

“When?”

“Last evening, just as I was going to bed.”

The three men returned in a very uneasy frame of mind.

They asked for Monsieur Follenvie, but the servant replied that on account of his asthma he never got up before ten o'clock. They were strictly forbidden to rouse him earlier, except in case of fire.

They wished to see the officer, but that also was impossible, although he lodged in the inn. Monsieur Follenvie alone was authorized to interview him on civil matters. So they waited. The women returned to their rooms, and occupied themselves with trivial matters.

Cornudet settled down beside the tall kitchen fireplace, before a blazing fire. He had a small table and a jug of beer placed beside him, and he smoked his pipe—a pipe which enjoyed among democrats a consideration almost equal to his own, as though it had served its country in serving Cornudet. It was a fine meerschaum, admirably colored to a black the shade of its owner's teeth, but sweet-smelling, gracefully curved, at home in its master's hand, and completing his physiognomy. And Cornudet sat motionless, his eyes fixed now on the dancing flames, now on the froth which crowned his beer; and after each draught he passed his long, thin fingers with an air of satisfaction through his long, greasy hair, as he sucked the foam from his mustache.

Loiseau, under pretence of stretching his legs, went out to see if he could sell wine to the country dealers. The count and the manufacturer began to talk politics. They forecast the future of France. One believed in the Orleans dynasty, the other in an unknown savior—a hero who should rise up in the last extremity: a Du Guesclin, perhaps a Joan of Arc? or another Napoleon the First? Ah! if only the Prince Imperial were not so young! Cornudet, listening to them, smiled like a man who holds the keys of destiny in his hands. His pipe perfumed the whole kitchen.

As the clock struck ten, Monsieur Follenvie appeared. He was immediately surrounded and questioned, but could only repeat, three or four times in succession, and without variation, the words:

“The officer said to me, just like this: 'Monsieur Follenvie, you will forbid them to harness up the coach for those travellers to-morrow. They are not to start without an order from me. You hear? That is sufficient.'”

Then they asked to see the officer. The count sent him his card, on which Monsieur Carre-Lamadon also inscribed his name and titles. The Prussian sent word that the two men would be admitted to see him after his luncheon—that is to say, about one o'clock.

The ladies reappeared, and they all ate a little, in spite of their anxiety. Boule de Suif appeared ill and very much worried.

They were finishing their coffee when the orderly came to fetch the gentlemen.

Loiseau joined the other two; but when they tried to get Cornudet to accompany them, by way of adding greater solemnity to the occasion, he declared proudly that he would never have anything to do with the Germans, and, resuming his seat in the chimney corner, he called for another jug of beer.

The three men went upstairs, and were ushered into the best room in the inn, where the officer received them lolling at his ease in an armchair, his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a long porcelain pipe, and enveloped in a gorgeous dressing-gown, doubtless stolen from the deserted dwelling of some citizen destitute of taste in dress. He neither rose, greeted them, nor even glanced in their direction. He afforded a fine example of that insolence of bearing which seems natural to the victorious soldier.

After the lapse of a few moments he said in his halting French:

“What do you want?”

“We wish to start on our journey,” said the count.

“No.”

“May I ask the reason of your refusal?”

“Because I don't choose.”

“I would respectfully call your attention, monsieur, to the fact that your general in command gave us a permit to proceed to Dieppe; and I do not think we have done anything to deserve this harshness at your hands.”

“I don't choose—that's all. You may go.”

They bowed, and retired.

The afternoon was wretched. They could not understand the caprice of this German, and the strangest ideas came into their heads. They all congregated in the kitchen, and talked the subject to death, imagining all kinds of unlikely things. Perhaps they were to be kept as hostages —but for what reason? or to be extradited as prisoners of war? or possibly they were to be held for ransom? They were panic-stricken at this last supposition. The richest among them were the most alarmed, seeing themselves forced to empty bags of gold into the insolent soldier's hands in order to buy back their lives. They racked their brains for plausible lies whereby they might conceal the fact that they were rich, and pass themselves off as poor—very poor. Loiseau took off his watch chain, and put it in his pocket. The approach of night increased their apprehension. The lamp was lighted, and as it wanted yet two hours to dinner Madame Loiseau proposed a game of trente et un. It would distract their thoughts. The rest agreed, and Cornudet himself joined the party, first putting out his pipe for politeness' sake.

The count shuffled the cards—dealt—and Boule de Suif had thirty-one to start with; soon the interest of the game assuaged the anxiety of the players. But Cornudet noticed that Loiseau and his wife were in league to cheat.

They were about to sit down to dinner when Monsieur Follenvie appeared, and in his grating voice announced:

“The Prussian officer sends to ask Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset if she has changed her mind yet.”

Boule de Suif stood still, pale as death. Then, suddenly turning crimson with anger, she gasped out:

“Kindly tell that scoundrel, that cur, that carrion of a Prussian, that I will never consent—you understand?—never, never, never!”

The fat innkeeper left the room. Then Boule de Suif was surrounded, questioned, entreated on all sides to reveal the mystery of her visit to the officer. She refused at first; but her wrath soon got the better of her.

“What does he want? He wants to make me his mistress!” she cried.

No one was shocked at the word, so great was the general indignation. Cornudet broke his jug as he banged it down on the table. A loud outcry arose against this base soldier. All were furious. They drew together in common resistance against the foe, as if some part of the sacrifice exacted of Boule de Suif had been demanded of each. The count declared, with supreme disgust, that those people behaved like ancient barbarians. The women, above all, manifested a lively and tender sympathy for Boule de Suif. The nuns, who appeared only at meals, cast down their eyes, and said nothing.

They dined, however, as soon as the first indignant outburst had subsided; but they spoke little and thought much.

The ladies went to bed early; and the men, having lighted their pipes, proposed a game of ecarte, in which Monsieur Follenvie was invited to join, the travellers hoping to question him skillfully as to the best means of vanquishing the officer's obduracy. But he thought of nothing but his cards, would listen to nothing, reply to nothing, and repeated, time after time: “Attend to the game, gentlemen! attend to the game!” So absorbed was his attention that he even forgot to expectorate. The consequence was that his chest gave forth rumbling sounds like those of an organ. His wheezing lungs struck every note of the asthmatic scale, from deep, hollow tones to a shrill, hoarse piping resembling that of a young cock trying to crow.

He refused to go to bed when his wife, overcome with sleep, came to fetch him. So she went off alone, for she was an early bird, always up with the sun; while he was addicted to late hours, ever ready to spend the night with friends. He merely said: “Put my egg-nogg by the fire,” and went on with the game. When the other men saw that nothing was to be got out of him they declared it was time to retire, and each sought his bed.

They rose fairly early the next morning, with a vague hope of being allowed to start, a greater desire than ever to do so, and a terror at having to spend another day in this wretched little inn.

Alas! the horses remained in the stable, the driver was invisible. They spent their time, for want of something better to do, in wandering round the coach.

Luncheon was a gloomy affair; and there was a general coolness toward Boule de Suif, for night, which brings counsel, had somewhat modified the judgment of her companions. In the cold light of the morning they almost bore a grudge against the girl for not having secretly sought out the Prussian, that the rest of the party might receive a joyful surprise when they awoke. What more simple?

Besides, who would have been the wiser? She might have saved appearances by telling the officer that she had taken pity on their distress. Such a step would be of so little consequence to her.

But no one as yet confessed to such thoughts.

In the afternoon, seeing that they were all bored to death, the count proposed a walk in the neighborhood of the village. Each one wrapped himself up well, and the little party set out, leaving behind only Cornudet, who preferred to sit over the fire, and the two nuns, who were in the habit of spending their day in the church or at the presbytery.

The cold, which grew more intense each day, almost froze the noses and ears of the pedestrians, their feet began to pain them so that each step was a penance, and when they reached the open country it looked so mournful and depressing in its limitless mantle of white that they all hastily retraced their steps, with bodies benumbed and hearts heavy.

The four women walked in front, and the three men followed a little in their rear.

Loiseau, who saw perfectly well how matters stood, asked suddenly “if that trollop were going to keep them waiting much longer in this Godforsaken spot.” The count, always courteous, replied that they could not exact so painful a sacrifice from any woman, and that the first move must come from herself. Monsieur Carre-Lamadon remarked that if the French, as they talked of doing, made a counter attack by way of Dieppe, their encounter with the enemy must inevitably take place at Totes. This reflection made the other two anxious.

“Supposing we escape on foot?” said Loiseau.

The count shrugged his shoulders.

“How can you think of such a thing, in this snow? And with our wives? Besides, we should be pursued at once, overtaken in ten minutes, and brought back as prisoners at the mercy of the soldiery.”

This was true enough; they were silent.

The ladies talked of dress, but a certain constraint seemed to prevail among them.

Suddenly, at the end of the street, the officer appeared. His tall, wasp-like, uniformed figure was outlined against the snow which bounded the horizon, and he walked, knees apart, with that motion peculiar to soldiers, who are always anxious not to soil their carefully polished boots.

He bowed as he passed the ladies, then glanced scornfully at the men, who had sufficient dignity not to raise their hats, though Loiseau made a movement to do so.

Boule de Suif flushed crimson to the ears, and the three married women felt unutterably humiliated at being met thus by the soldier in company with the girl whom he had treated with such scant ceremony.

Then they began to talk about him, his figure, and his face. Madame Carre-Lamadon, who had known many officers and judged them as a connoisseur, thought him not at all bad-looking; she even regretted that he was not a Frenchman, because in that case he would have made a very handsome hussar, with whom all the women would assuredly have fallen in love.

When they were once more within doors they did not know what to do with themselves. Sharp words even were exchanged apropos of the merest trifles. The silent dinner was quickly over, and each one went to bed early in the hope of sleeping, and thus killing time.

They came down next morning with tired faces and irritable tempers; the women scarcely spoke to Boule de Suif.

A church bell summoned the faithful to a baptism. Boule de Suif had a child being brought up by peasants at Yvetot. She did not see him once a year, and never thought of him; but the idea of the child who was about to be baptized induced a sudden wave of tenderness for her own, and she insisted on being present at the ceremony.

As soon as she had gone out, the rest of the company looked at one another and then drew their chairs together; for they realized that they must decide on some course of action. Loiseau had an inspiration: he proposed that they should ask the officer to detain Boule de Suif only, and to let the rest depart on their way.

Monsieur Follenvie was intrusted with this commission, but he returned to them almost immediately. The German, who knew human nature, had shown him the door. He intended to keep all the travellers until his condition had been complied with.

Whereupon Madame Loiseau's vulgar temperament broke bounds.

“We're not going to die of old age here!” she cried. “Since it's that vixen's trade to behave so with men I don't see that she has any right to refuse one more than another. I may as well tell you she took any lovers she could get at Rouen—even coachmen! Yes, indeed, madame—the coachman at the prefecture! I know it for a fact, for he buys his wine of us. And now that it is a question of getting us out of a difficulty she puts on virtuous airs, the drab! For my part, I think this officer has behaved very well. Why, there were three others of us, any one of whom he would undoubtedly have preferred. But no, he contents himself with the girl who is common property. He respects married women. Just think. He is master here. He had only to say: 'I wish it!' and he might have taken us by force, with the help of his soldiers.”

The two other women shuddered; the eyes of pretty Madame Carre-Lamadon glistened, and she grew pale, as if the officer were indeed in the act of laying violent hands on her.

The men, who had been discussing the subject among themselves, drew near. Loiseau, in a state of furious resentment, was for delivering up “that miserable woman,” bound hand and foot, into the enemy's power. But the count, descended from three generations of ambassadors, and endowed, moreover, with the lineaments of a diplomat, was in favor of more tactful measures.

“We must persuade her,” he said.

Then they laid their plans.

The women drew together; they lowered their voices, and the discussion became general, each giving his or her opinion. But the conversation was not in the least coarse. The ladies, in particular, were adepts at delicate phrases and charming subtleties of expression to describe the most improper things. A stranger would have understood none of their allusions, so guarded was the language they employed. But, seeing that the thin veneer of modesty with which every woman of the world is furnished goes but a very little way below the surface, they began rather to enjoy this unedifying episode, and at bottom were hugely delighted —feeling themselves in their element, furthering the schemes of lawless love with the gusto of a gourmand cook who prepares supper for another.

Their gaiety returned of itself, so amusing at last did the whole business seem to them. The count uttered several rather risky witticisms, but so tactfully were they said that his audience could not help smiling. Loiseau in turn made some considerably broader jokes, but no one took offence; and the thought expressed with such brutal directness by his wife was uppermost in the minds of all: “Since it's the girl's trade, why should she refuse this man more than another?” Dainty Madame Carre-Lamadon seemed to think even that in Boule de Suif's place she would be less inclined to refuse him than another.

The blockade was as carefully arranged as if they were investing a fortress. Each agreed on the role which he or she was to play, the arguments to be used, the maneuvers to be executed. They decided on the plan of campaign, the stratagems they were to employ, and the surprise attacks which were to reduce this human citadel and force it to receive the enemy within its walls.

But Cornudet remained apart from the rest, taking no share in the plot.

So absorbed was the attention of all that Boule de Suif's entrance was almost unnoticed. But the count whispered a gentle “Hush!” which made the others look up. She was there. They suddenly stopped talking, and a vague embarrassment prevented them for a few moments from addressing her. But the countess, more practiced than the others in the wiles of the drawing-room, asked her:

“Was the baptism interesting?”

The girl, still under the stress of emotion, told what she had seen and heard, described the faces, the attitudes of those present, and even the appearance of the church. She concluded with the words:

“It does one good to pray sometimes.”

Until lunch time the ladies contented themselves with being pleasant to her, so as to increase her confidence and make her amenable to their advice.

As soon as they took their seats at table the attack began. First they opened a vague conversation on the subject of self-sacrifice. Ancient examples were quoted: Judith and Holofernes; then, irrationally enough, Lucrece and Sextus; Cleopatra and the hostile generals whom she reduced to abject slavery by a surrender of her charms. Next was recounted an extraordinary story, born of the imagination of these ignorant millionaires, which told how the matrons of Rome seduced Hannibal, his lieutenants, and all his mercenaries at Capua. They held up to admiration all those women who from time to time have arrested the victorious progress of conquerors, made of their bodies a field of battle, a means of ruling, a weapon; who have vanquished by their heroic caresses hideous or detested beings, and sacrificed their chastity to vengeance and devotion.

All was said with due restraint and regard for propriety, the effect heightened now and then by an outburst of forced enthusiasm calculated to excite emulation.

A listener would have thought at last that the one role of woman on earth was a perpetual sacrifice of her person, a continual abandonment of herself to the caprices of a hostile soldiery.

The two nuns seemed to hear nothing, and to be lost in thought. Boule de Suif also was silent.

During the whole afternoon she was left to her reflections. But instead of calling her “madame” as they had done hitherto, her companions addressed her simply as “mademoiselle,” without exactly knowing why, but as if desirous of making her descend a step in the esteem she had won, and forcing her to realize her degraded position.

Just as soup was served, Monsieur Follenvie reappeared, repeating his phrase of the evening before:

“The Prussian officer sends to ask if Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset has changed her mind.”

Boule de Suif answered briefly:

“No, monsieur.”

But at dinner the coalition weakened. Loiseau made three unfortunate remarks. Each was cudgeling his brains for further examples of self-sacrifice, and could find none, when the countess, possibly without ulterior motive, and moved simply by a vague desire to do homage to religion, began to question the elder of the two nuns on the most striking facts in the lives of the saints. Now, it fell out that many of these had committed acts which would be crimes in our eyes, but the Church readily pardons such deeds when they are accomplished for the glory of God or the good of mankind. This was a powerful argument, and the countess made the most of it. Then, whether by reason of a tacit understanding, a thinly veiled act of complaisance such as those who wear the ecclesiastical habit excel in, or whether merely as the result of sheer stupidity—a stupidity admirably adapted to further their designs—the old nun rendered formidable aid to the conspirator. They had thought her timid; she proved herself bold, talkative, bigoted. She was not troubled by the ins and outs of casuistry; her doctrines were as iron bars; her faith knew no doubt; her conscience no scruples. She looked on Abraham's sacrifice as natural enough, for she herself would not have hesitated to kill both father and mother if she had received a divine order to that effect; and nothing, in her opinion, could displease our Lord, provided the motive were praiseworthy. The countess, putting to good use the consecrated authority of her unexpected ally, led her on to make a lengthy and edifying paraphrase of that axiom enunciated by a certain school of moralists: “The end justifies the means.”

“Then, sister,” she asked, “you think God accepts all methods, and pardons the act when the motive is pure?”

“Undoubtedly, madame. An action reprehensible in itself often derives merit from the thought which inspires it.”

And in this wise they talked on, fathoming the wishes of God, predicting His judgments, describing Him as interested in matters which assuredly concern Him but little.

All was said with the utmost care and discretion, but every word uttered by the holy woman in her nun's garb weakened the indignant resistance of the courtesan. Then the conversation drifted somewhat, and the nun began to talk of the convents of her order, of her Superior, of herself, and of her fragile little neighbor, Sister St. Nicephore. They had been sent for from Havre to nurse the hundreds of soldiers who were in hospitals, stricken with smallpox. She described these wretched invalids and their malady. And, while they themselves were detained on their way by the caprices of the Prussian officer, scores of Frenchmen might be dying, whom they would otherwise have saved! For the nursing of soldiers was the old nun's specialty; she had been in the Crimea, in Italy, in Austria; and as she told the story of her campaigns she revealed herself as one of those holy sisters of the fife and drum who seem designed by nature to follow camps, to snatch the wounded from amid the strife of battle, and to quell with a word, more effectually than any general, the rough and insubordinate troopers—a masterful woman, her seamed and pitted face itself an image of the devastations of war.

No one spoke when she had finished for fear of spoiling the excellent effect of her words.

As soon as the meal was over the travellers retired to their rooms, whence they emerged the following day at a late hour of the morning.

Luncheon passed off quietly. The seed sown the preceding evening was being given time to germinate and bring forth fruit.

In the afternoon the countess proposed a walk; then the count, as had been arranged beforehand, took Boule de Suif's arm, and walked with her at some distance behind the rest.

He began talking to her in that familiar, paternal, slightly contemptuous tone which men of his class adopt in speaking to women like her, calling her “my dear child,” and talking down to her from the height of his exalted social position and stainless reputation. He came straight to the point.

“So you prefer to leave us here, exposed like yourself to all the violence which would follow on a repulse of the Prussian troops, rather than consent to surrender yourself, as you have done so many times in your life?”

The girl did not reply.

He tried kindness, argument, sentiment. He still bore himself as count, even while adopting, when desirable, an attitude of gallantry, and making pretty—nay, even tender—speeches. He exalted the service she would render them, spoke of their gratitude; then, suddenly, using the familiar “thou”:

“And you know, my dear, he could boast then of having made a conquest of a pretty girl such as he won't often find in his own country.”

Boule de Suif did not answer, and joined the rest of the party.

As soon as they returned she went to her room, and was seen no more. The general anxiety was at its height. What would she do? If she still resisted, how awkward for them all!

The dinner hour struck; they waited for her in vain. At last Monsieur Follenvie entered, announcing that Mademoiselle Rousset was not well, and that they might sit down to table. They all pricked up their ears. The count drew near the innkeeper, and whispered:

“Is it all right?”

“Yes.”

Out of regard for propriety he said nothing to his companions, but merely nodded slightly toward them. A great sigh of relief went up from all breasts; every face was lighted up with joy.

“By Gad!” shouted Loiseau, “I'll stand champagne all round if there's any to be found in this place.” And great was Madame Loiseau's dismay when the proprietor came back with four bottles in his hands. They had all suddenly become talkative and merry; a lively joy filled all hearts. The count seemed to perceive for the first time that Madame Carre-Lamadon was charming; the manufacturer paid compliments to the countess. The conversation was animated, sprightly, witty, and, although many of the jokes were in the worst possible taste, all the company were amused by them, and none offended—indignation being dependent, like other emotions, on surroundings. And the mental atmosphere had gradually become filled with gross imaginings and unclean thoughts.

At dessert even the women indulged in discreetly worded allusions. Their glances were full of meaning; they had drunk much. The count, who even in his moments of relaxation preserved a dignified demeanor, hit on a much-appreciated comparison of the condition of things with the termination of a winter spent in the icy solitude of the North Pole and the joy of shipwrecked mariners who at last perceive a southward track opening out before their eyes.

Loiseau, fairly in his element, rose to his feet, holding aloft a glass of champagne.

“I drink to our deliverance!” he shouted.

All stood up, and greeted the toast with acclamation. Even the two good sisters yielded to the solicitations of the ladies, and consented to moisten their lips with the foaming wine, which they had never before tasted. They declared it was like effervescent lemonade, but with a pleasanter flavor.

“It is a pity,” said Loiseau, “that we have no piano; we might have had a quadrille.”

Cornudet had not spoken a word or made a movement; he seemed plunged in serious thought, and now and then tugged furiously at his great beard, as if trying to add still further to its length. At last, toward midnight, when they were about to separate, Loiseau, whose gait was far from steady, suddenly slapped him on the back, saying thickly:

“You're not jolly to-night; why are you so silent, old man?”

Cornudet threw back his head, cast one swift and scornful glance over the assemblage, and answered:

“I tell you all, you have done an infamous thing!”

He rose, reached the door, and repeating: “Infamous!” disappeared.

A chill fell on all. Loiseau himself looked foolish and disconcerted for a moment, but soon recovered his aplomb, and, writhing with laughter, exclaimed:

“Really, you are all too green for anything!”

Pressed for an explanation, he related the “mysteries of the corridor,” whereat his listeners were hugely amused. The ladies could hardly contain their delight. The count and Monsieur Carre-Lamadon laughed till they cried. They could scarcely believe their ears.

“What! you are sure? He wanted——”

“I tell you I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And she refused?”

“Because the Prussian was in the next room!”

“Surely you are mistaken?”

“I swear I'm telling you the truth.”

The count was choking with laughter. The manufacturer held his sides. Loiseau continued:

“So you may well imagine he doesn't think this evening's business at all amusing.”

And all three began to laugh again, choking, coughing, almost ill with merriment.

Then they separated. But Madame Loiseau, who was nothing if not spiteful, remarked to her husband as they were on the way to bed that “that stuck-up little minx of a Carre-Lamadon had laughed on the wrong side of her mouth all the evening.”

“You know,” she said, “when women run after uniforms it's all the same to them whether the men who wear them are French or Prussian. It's perfectly sickening!”

The next morning the snow showed dazzling white tinder a clear winter sun. The coach, ready at last, waited before the door; while a flock of white pigeons, with pink eyes spotted in the centres with black, puffed out their white feathers and walked sedately between the legs of the six horses, picking at the steaming manure.

The driver, wrapped in his sheepskin coat, was smoking a pipe on the box, and all the passengers, radiant with delight at their approaching departure, were putting up provisions for the remainder of the journey.

They were waiting only for Boule de Suif. At last she appeared.

She seemed rather shamefaced and embarrassed, and advanced with timid step toward her companions, who with one accord turned aside as if they had not seen her. The count, with much dignity, took his wife by the arm, and removed her from the unclean contact.

The girl stood still, stupefied with astonishment; then, plucking up courage, accosted the manufacturer's wife with a humble “Good-morning, madame,” to which the other replied merely with a slight and insolent nod, accompanied by a look of outraged virtue. Every one suddenly appeared extremely busy, and kept as far from Boule de Suif as if her skirts had been infected with some deadly disease. Then they hurried to the coach, followed by the despised courtesan, who, arriving last of all, silently took the place she had occupied during the first part of the journey.

The rest seemed neither to see nor to know her—all save Madame Loiseau, who, glancing contemptuously in her direction, remarked, half aloud, to her husband:

“What a mercy I am not sitting beside that creature!”

The lumbering vehicle started on its way, and the journey began afresh.

At first no one spoke. Boule de Suif dared not even raise her eyes. She felt at once indignant with her neighbors, and humiliated at having yielded to the Prussian into whose arms they had so hypocritically cast her.

But the countess, turning toward Madame Carre-Lamadon, soon broke the painful silence:

“I think you know Madame d'Etrelles?”

“Yes; she is a friend of mine.”

“Such a charming woman!”

“Delightful! Exceptionally talented, and an artist to the finger tips. She sings marvellously and draws to perfection.”

The manufacturer was chatting with the count, and amid the clatter of the window-panes a word of their conversation was now and then distinguishable: “Shares—maturity—premium—time-limit.”

Loiseau, who had abstracted from the inn the timeworn pack of cards, thick with the grease of five years' contact with half-wiped-off tables, started a game of bezique with his wife.

The good sisters, taking up simultaneously the long rosaries hanging from their waists, made the sign of the cross, and began to mutter in unison interminable prayers, their lips moving ever more and more swiftly, as if they sought which should outdistance the other in the race of orisons; from time to time they kissed a medal, and crossed themselves anew, then resumed their rapid and unintelligible murmur.

Cornudet sat still, lost in thought.

Ah the end of three hours Loiseau gathered up the cards, and remarked that he was hungry.

His wife thereupon produced a parcel tied with string, from which she extracted a piece of cold veal. This she cut into neat, thin slices, and both began to eat.

“We may as well do the same,” said the countess. The rest agreed, and she unpacked the provisions which had been prepared for herself, the count, and the Carre-Lamadons. In one of those oval dishes, the lids of which are decorated with an earthenware hare, by way of showing that a game pie lies within, was a succulent delicacy consisting of the brown flesh of the game larded with streaks of bacon and flavored with other meats chopped fine. A solid wedge of Gruyere cheese, which had been wrapped in a newspaper, bore the imprint: “Items of News,” on its rich, oily surface.

The two good sisters brought to light a hunk of sausage smelling strongly of garlic; and Cornudet, plunging both hands at once into the capacious pockets of his loose overcoat, produced from one four hard-boiled eggs and from the other a crust of bread. He removed the shells, threw them into the straw beneath his feet, and began to devour the eggs, letting morsels of the bright yellow yolk fall in his mighty beard, where they looked like stars.

Boule de Suif, in the haste and confusion of her departure, had not thought of anything, and, stifling with rage, she watched all these people placidly eating. At first, ill-suppressed wrath shook her whole person, and she opened her lips to shriek the truth at them, to overwhelm them with a volley of insults; but she could not utter a word, so choked was she with indignation.

No one looked at her, no one thought of her. She felt herself swallowed up in the scorn of these virtuous creatures, who had first sacrificed, then rejected her as a thing useless and unclean. Then she remembered her big basket full of the good things they had so greedily devoured: the two chickens coated in jelly, the pies, the pears, the four bottles of claret; and her fury broke forth like a cord that is overstrained, and she was on the verge of tears. She made terrible efforts at self-control, drew herself up, swallowed the sobs which choked her; but the tears rose nevertheless, shone at the brink of her eyelids, and soon two heavy drops coursed slowly down her cheeks. Others followed more quickly, like water filtering from a rock, and fell, one after another, on her rounded bosom. She sat upright, with a fixed expression, her face pale and rigid, hoping desperately that no one saw her give way.

But the countess noticed that she was weeping, and with a sign drew her husband's attention to the fact. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: “Well, what of it? It's not my fault.” Madame Loiseau chuckled triumphantly, and murmured:

“She's weeping for shame.”

The two nuns had betaken themselves once more to their prayers, first wrapping the remainder of their sausage in paper:

Then Cornudet, who was digesting his eggs, stretched his long legs under the opposite seat, threw himself back, folded his arms, smiled like a man who had just thought of a good joke, and began to whistle the Marseillaise.

The faces of his neighbors clouded; the popular air evidently did not find favor with them; they grew nervous and irritable, and seemed ready to howl as a dog does at the sound of a barrel-organ. Cornudet saw the discomfort he was creating, and whistled the louder; sometimes he even hummed the words: Amour sacre de la patrie, Conduis, soutiens, nos bras vengeurs, Liberte, liberte cherie, Combats avec tes defenseurs!

The coach progressed more swiftly, the snow being harder now; and all the way to Dieppe, during the long, dreary hours of the journey, first in the gathering dusk, then in the thick darkness, raising his voice above the rumbling of the vehicle, Cornudet continued with fierce obstinacy his vengeful and monotonous whistling, forcing his weary and exasperated-hearers to follow the song from end to end, to recall every word of every line, as each was repeated over and over again with untiring persistency.

And Boule de Suif still wept, and sometimes a sob she could not restrain was heard in the darkness between two verses of the song.

#Boule De Suif #Elisabeth Rousett #Short stories #Public domain stories #public domain characters #Guy de Maupassant #Rjalker reads The Complete Original Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant

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gazellion · 2 years

Text

TWENTY

Words: 6610 Next chapter is the bomb episode...And we're getting closer to a certain someone coming in [ Masterlist ]

"THAT DOG IS crazy," Skylar exclaimed through a mouth full of cereal, waving a spoon around. Her eyes locked with Izzie's, who nodded. They were hiding in the bathroom and they were scared to leave because of their pet roaming the halls. "Did someone steal our Doc and swap it with a wild animal or something?" Izzie was leaning against the door, holding a coffee mug while Skylar sat on the edge of the bathtub.

They heard Doc barking and growling loudly which made them share a glance. "I know, right?"

Eventually, the barking stopped which made Skylar feel a bit uncomfortable. "Am I the only one who—"

Her sentence was cut off by George's muffled yelling getting closer with each word. "Izzie! Sky! Incoming!" The blonde acted quickly, even though she was quite startled. She opened the door and George ran inside as fast as he could before Izzie slammed the door shut before Doc could enter. He sat down next to Skylar on the tub and put his arm around her shoulders. Izzie handed George her coffee mug which he gratefully accepted.

"You know I'm thinking about coloring my hair. Maybe red."

"Really? Red would look good on you, Iz. I thought about going blonde. We should swap," Skylar joked. She was actually thinking about going blonde but she didn't know if she would be able to pull it off or not.

"Yeah, red's good. You would look hot with blonde hair, Sky. And I'm actually thinking about cutting mine," George revealed.

"Yeah? It'll look good shorter."

"You think?" George wondered, a little surprised. They all glanced at each other when suddenly it was quiet in the hallway. Doc's loud barking had stopped. A sigh of relief escaped their lips. Then they heard Meredith giving their dog compliments. George and Izzie opened the door and peeked out. Skylar stood up and joined them outside.

"What a good dog. Who's mommy's good boy?" Meredith was petting and shaking the dog's paw. "You're such a good boy." They were shocked. "What are you guys doing in there? We're going to be late."

"We need to talk about the dog," George started.

"That's not a dog. It's a hyena. Escaped from the zoo just in dog clothing."

"Whatever! I don't chew up his clothes. I don't urinate on his bed. I don't try to mount him from behind!"

"People, he's our dog. We love our dog. He loves us."

"I don't think the feeling's mutual, Mer," Skylar stated as she ate more of her cereal.

"You guys are overreacting. Just look at that face. Does it seem like a face that would want to eat you? No, huh, no, because you're such a good boy," Meredith said as she continued petting the dog before leaving. Just as Meredith turned her back on them, Doc growled at the remaining housemates and then let out a warning bark.

"Tries to mount you from behind?" Izzie apprehensively asked.

"Tries to." Doc barked loudly, starling them. George glanced at the girls behind and whispered, "He tries to."

Skylar chuckled. "You're so adorable, Georgie."

✧☽☾✧

"Listen up, people, new year, new rules," Webber announced to the crowd of surgeons in the lobby of the surgical floor. "Or should I say, new year, and we will be enforcing the rules mandated by the residency review committee." The surgeons were whispering to one another curiously. "There were too many mistakes made last year. Fatigue played too big a role," Webber informed. "Exceeding 80 hours per week will not be tolerated."

Several eyes went wide in the crowd, especially among the interns. "Does that mean we actually get to have a life?" George whispered.

"Sullivan, you were on-call for 28 hours, leave when you hit 30. Grey, you were 'til two a.m. last night, see you at noon."

"I get to go? Free time?" Meredith marveled.

"Run before he changes his mind," Alex warned.

"Oh, and people, our nurses are gonna have to work extra hours to compensate, so treat them well," Webber reminded. "Cranky nurses don't do us any good."

The crowd dispersed as everyone went back to work. "Well, maybe you can cheer them up," Izzie mocked Alex, making George chuckle. Skylar gave her boyfriend a look, not finding it funny.

"Really, Izzie?" She understood that Alex had hurt her by cheating on her with Olivia. But Izzie was mocking him every chance she got. The constant childish remarks annoyed Skylar. Sure, she was a bit childish, but she never berated anyone when she was.

However, something suddenly changed inside the blonde. Instead of walking away and accepting her win, Izzie turned to Alex. "You know what? My New Year's resolution was to let it go, and I am and I have let it go. I apologize."

They all started walking down the hall together in search of Bailey. "You do?" George and Skylar wondered, both amazed. Skylar thought Izzie was the one to hold grudges for at least half a decade. For things like cheating on her, possibly more. This change was a bit sudden, but Skylar couldn't deny that she was happy that Izzie was letting it go.

"I do. How'd your test go?"

"I feel pretty good about it, but I won't know for a few days."

"Well, we're all pulling for you."

"We are?"

"We are."

✧☽☾✧

"Denny Duquette," Bailey greeted, walking into a patient's room. Denny was in for a heart transplant. UNOS had finally found him a donor.

"Hey, Dr. Bailey," he greeted.

"I hope seeing you here means that they finally found you a heart."

"No offense, doctor, but I'm not a big fan of hospitals. It takes something pretty special to get me in here."

"What do we know about Mr. Duquette?" Bailey asked as she looked at Izzie, nonverbally assigning her to the case.

"Capricorn, single, loves to travel and cook," Denny flirted once he saw Izzie. He graced her with his most charming smile.

"Denny, be quiet. Let her show off."

"Denny Duquette, 36, admitted today for a heart transplant necessitated by a viral cardiomyopathy," Izzie stated with a smile on her face. Even though he was a patient, she couldn't deny that he was quite handsome. She was also flattered that he would flirt with her.

"What does that mean?"

"That his heart isn't able to fill and pump blood normally."

"Good. Denny, this is Dr. Stevens," Bailey introduced. "She'll be tending to your private surgery."

"So I guess I'll be seeing you around, Dr. Stevens," Denny grinned, making Izzie smile back.

Skylar noticed the unamused look on Alex's face as Denny shamelessly flirted with Izzie, his eyes now trailing behind the intern walking out of the room. Skylar dragged Alex along with her as they walked off after Izzie. The interns left Denny's room, excluding George and Bailey, and stood at the nurses' station while waiting for them to finish checking on the patient.

"Well, gotta hand it to the guy, trying to get some action when he's practically a corpse," Alex deadpanned.

"Alex, he's just trying to be nice," Izzie retorted.

Skylar shook her head. "And flirty."

Bailey and George walked out of Denny's room and they started walking down the hallway to finish their rounds. Skylar, Izzie, and Alex had to quicken their pace to catch up to them.

"No one enforced an 80 hour work week when I was an intern," Bailey muttered. "110, 120 hours suited me just fine. I learned more 'cause I worked more."

"Well, at least this way, you get to rest before you have the baby," said George and he received a glare from the resident. "I mean being that pregnant, keeping up this pace—"

"What are you saying? I look tired, O'Malley?" She questioned.

"No, not—not tired, no," George shook his head. "You look fresh, spry. You glow." He looked down at his watch, clearly embarrassed.

"O'Malley, go do an intake on Addison Shepherd's patient," Bailey instructed. George scurried off as quickly as he could, wanting to run away from his problems. Bailey turned to the three remaining interns.

"You do glow," Izzie said.

Skylar nodded. "Very brightly."

"Like the moon," Alex added.

"You can spend the day in the pit, Karev," Bailey ordered, turning to Skylar.

"Dr. Bailey, can I—"

"No, you can not," Bailey cut her off before she even finished her question. She was going to ask if she could assist with the exploratory laparotomy that Bailey had scheduled, but she guessed she wasn't going to be doing that now. "The other Shepherd has requested you. Meet him in room E19."

Skylar sighed and walked away from the group. She was happy to be working with Derek. She was always happy to work with Derek, and it wasn't like she had any say if she did or not. As an intern, she did what her resident told her to do, even if it was 30 enemas in a row. That was just the way it was.

✧☽☾✧

Skylar sat in the gallery of a random surgery that she saw on the O.R. board. Derek's surgery had gotten postponed since the patient was nonemergent and other patients needed surgery faster. So when she told Bailey, the resident told her to run labs and fill out charts for her patients. So that's what she was doing, filling out charts.

"Hey," George greeted and sat down beside her. "Aren't you supposed to be with Dr. Shepherd?"

"Oh," she blew out a frustrated breath. "His surgery got postponed, so I'm just trying to do as much as I can. You know, to help the nurses, since they're overloaded with work now. This new policy kind of sucks."

George laughed. "You wouldn't be saying that if you had a surgery."

Skylar nodded. "True." They watched the surgery for a couple of minutes. An ortho attending was fixing a guy's jaw. He had tripped going up the stairs and slammed his chin into a step. It sounded more gruesome than it looked. "What have you been doing today?" She finally asked him.

"I've got this patient," he confided in a low tone. "Teenage girl. Young. She's a hermaphrodite. And she doesn't know. Her parents won't tell her. She says she's always felt like a freak. I think telling her would help. If it were you wouldn't you want to know sooner rather than later?"

Skylar thought about it for a minute. "I don't know," she finally said. "I mean I can see what you're saying. But I can see their side too. Being a teenager is hard already. Telling her could make her feel better or it could just make her feel like more of a freak. Really, it's up to the parents to decide, though. I mean, she'll probably find out eventually anyway, so..."

"If they don't tell her now she'll never forgive them," George direly predicted. "They shouldn't let their freak out about this affect the way they deal with her. It's not right."

✧☽☾✧

Overall, everyone ended that day in different moods.

Alex was the only one who was fairly happy, he had discovered something with his patient that Chief Webber had missed. His patient had mercury poisoning from eating his book. They thought it was just nerves about the surgery, but Alex had caught it and treated it correctly. Skylar wasn't happy or upset, she was just bored, she had basically done scut all day, but she did get to watch Derek's surgery at the end of the day.

Cristina had flown to Idaho and back all in one day to get a heart for Denny Duquette. She had struggled the entire day with questioning if she could have handled a baby or not. It started when Burke had asked her what she would have done with the baby if she hadn't had an ectopic pregnancy.

George had accidentally made his patient's, Bex, parents tell her that she was a hermaphrodite. She was happy that George made them do it, but her parents yelled at him. Saying things like he didn't know what it felt like to want to protect their child. But George just thought that they wouldn't be able to handle it if Bex didn't want to be a girl anymore.

Meredith had had the day off but she eventually did come back just to observe some surgeries from the gallery. She had done five loads and laundry, cut her hair and visit her mother at the nursing home. She had found out that Derek wanted to get her mom into a clinical trial for Alzheimer's without consulting her first. But then Chief Webber had told her that it was his idea to get Derek to do that.

And Izzie had somewhat bonded with Denny Duquette. They were both upset when the blonde had told him that he didn't get the heart from Idaho. The heart was too damaged to give to Denny. It wouldn't have supported his arteries well enough for him to survive with it long-term. In the end, they had to discharge Denny, but Izzie couldn't get her mind off of him...

✧☽☾✧

"He peed on my bed. My bed, Meredith," Izzie informed her. They were in the locker room, discussing Doc. The dog was just out of control at this point.

"And he figured out how to open doors. It's just weird when he stares at me and George when—"

"Stop talking," George had interrupted Skylar before she said anything that might embarrass them.

"He's our dog," Meredith shrugged it off, crossing her leg over the other one from where she sat on a bench. Izzie, Skylar, and George had brought Doc to the hospital, not wanting to leave him at home to tear up the couch or more laundry like he had done to the last load.

"No, he's not my dog," George protests as he put his pager in his scrub pants pocket. "You two bought him without even asking me. Or Skylar!"

"Don't bring me into this, I just don't want him invading our privacy," Skylar sternly said.

"We rescued him from certain death," Meredith said. She didn't want to give up Doc. He was her comfort dog, her dog that was supposed to make her get over McDreamy. "Come on, you guys," she pleaded, putting on her best puppy dog eyes.

"I'm putting my foot down," George seriously said, staring Meredith right in the eyes, immune to her begging. "Either the dog moves out, or I do." Skylar's eyes went wide at that. She didn't want George to move out. Sure, they spent basically all their time together at the hospital, but she liked when she could collapse into bed with him. "Foot down now. Me or the dog, which is it?" Meredith solemnly looked down at Doc, causing the other three to double-take on the blonde. "You hesitated," he shockingly said. "She hesitated!" He complained to Izzie and Skylar.

"You hesitated?" Izzie whisper-yelled at Meredith.

"I didn't hesitate. I was thinking," Meredith came up with an excuse.

"Why do you even have to think about it?" Skylar asked, taking George's side. If it was her in the blonde's position, she would've chosen George in a heartbeat. Even if they weren't dating, she would have chosen him. Even if it was Izzie she was choosing.

"Fine. I'm moving out right now," George said, stomping toward the door. He pulled the door open but immediately stopped when Dr. Bailey appeared. "Later, I'm moving out later," he said, turning back around. "Because right now, I have rounds."

Bailey entered the locker room at the quickest pace her pregnancy would allow her. She sighed when she saw the animal sitting below Meredith. "Tell me that is not a dog."

"It's not a dog," Alex, Cristina, and Skylar plainly said.

✧☽☾✧

"Are we gonna do this or what?" Alex asked as Cristina, Izzie, and Skylar sat down at their normal table in the cafeteria. Both Alex and Cristina had six hotdogs each on their tray. They got inspired by Izzie and Alex's patient who was a competitive eater for a living.

"Yeah, let's—let's go," Cristin said, tying her hair back. She was very competitive and she was not going down without a fight.

"Don't start without me," George said as he came running up with his own plate of hot dogs. Skylar couldn't help but laugh at the situation. One of them was probably going to throw up.

"We're not gonna start if Red doesn't focus," Alex said. They had put Skylar in charge of the timer since she chickened out of joining them.

"What should I put on the flier?" Izzie asked. She was making a 'dog for adoption' sign for Doc.

"Destructive, aggressive, uh, hell dog available," Cristina said in her usual manner, one that sounded like she was serious but really she was joking.

"That's not helping," George scolded.

"Fine, uh, playful, protective puppy needs loving home," she corrected.

"Good," Izzie nodded, writing it down on a scratch piece of paper.

"Hey, George—," Meredith said as she sat down with her own tray of food. In one hand she had Doc on a leash who obediently laid down when she sat down.

"Don't talk to me!" George ordered as he looked down at his food. "You'll only make me mad. You're gonna mess up my game and I'm in the zone."

"Okay," Meredith said, a bit freaked out y his sudden behavior. She then turned to Izzie when she noticed the piece of paper. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, it's a flier that I'm gonna put up—"

"Sky, come on!" Cristina yelled, interrupting the blonde at the same time, George yelled, "Sky!"

"Okay, okay!" She laughed, putting her food down and talking out the timer. "Keep your panties on!" George, Alex, and Cristina all prepared themselves. For George, that was making weird little breathy noises as he tried to even out his breathing. He picked up a hotdog, ready for Skylar to say go.

"No touching!" Cristina yelled at him, pointing an accusatory finger. George put down his hotdog making a face at the brunette.

"Go!" Skylar said as she struggled not to laugh along with Izzie.

George, Alex, and Cristina started wolfing down their hotdogs. Though Cristina opted for eating the actual hotdog first rather than the bun and meat like Alex and George.

"You're advertising for a home for Doc? I said I would do it," Meredith said, going back to the flier topic. They were ignoring Skylar who was busy laughing at the three who were stuffing their faces.

"And you haven't and you won't. And I don't want George to leave," Izzie said, looking over at the brunette boy but then made a funny face when she saw him struggling to get the hotdog into his mouth.

"Well at least down he's not house-broken," Meredith told her. Izzie gave her a look. If they put that down no one would want to adopt him. "What? It's the truth?"

"Okay, so you want me to put the truth. Fine." Cristina had finished her hot dogs and was only left with the buns. She poured water on them to make them less dry, Skylar wrinkled her nose when the brunette shoved the bread in her mouth. "Vicious, hyper devil mutt is available. And will pee on the bed."

"He's your dog too. We got him together." Meredith gave the others a weird look. It looked like Cristina was winning, Alex close behind, but George was pretty much screwed at this point.

"We got him together, please. He's not your dog either. He doesn't even know us. We're not home enough for him to know us."

Cristina stuffs the last of the bun down her mouth and she shouts in victory as she shot up from her seat. Though it was very muffled and hard to understand since she still had a mouth full of bread. Alex and George also muffled their protests because she hadn't swallowed all of it. But they already knew that they lost by a mile.

"You want to be me, but you can't be me," Cristina started gloating. "You want to be me, but you—" She abruptly stopped and looked like something was going to come back up.

"She's gonna blow," Skylar warned. They all stood up, laughing, and quickly ran off, leaving Cristina sitting by herself trying not to throw up.

✧☽☾✧

"Hey," Alex greeted as he sat down next to Skylar on a deserted gurney in the hallway. "Uh...can you..." he trailed off, handing her the envelope Chief Webber had given him. It contained his test score and would tell him if he got to stay at Seattle Grace or not.

"You want me to open it?" She questioned as she gently took it out of his hand. She didn't know why he would choose her of all people.

"Yeah, you know, it's...I can't, so..." he stuttered out. "And you're the one that's least likely to make fun of me when I get cut, so..."

"If," she corrected. He looked at her, confused. "If you get cut." She sighed, tearing open the envelope. He couldn't make eye contact with her, and Skylar realized that this program meant a lot more to him than he was letting on. She didn't realize that it wasn't entirely the program but the people he was surrounded by. When she unfolded the piece of paper, a slight smile made its way onto her face. She didn't say anything as she passed the paper back to him. "Congratulations. You are officially not an idiot."

✧☽☾✧

"Bed rest at home until the baby comes," Addison told Bailey. A nurse was pushing her in a wheelchair since she had gone into preterm labor, but Addison was able to stop the contractions. All of her interns were trailing behind, sad to see their resident leaving them, but she will be back. Bailey always comes back. "You do know what bed rest is don't you, Miranda?"

"Yeah, hell," Bailey uttered, upset that she was leaving her job for maternity leave.

"Hell with TV and books," Izzie said as she handed Bailey a present. "Here, it's from all of us."

Bailey grudgingly took it. They all smiled at her from outside the elevator. Just as they thought they would see the last of their resident for the months to come, Bailey stopped the elevator doors from closing with her foot. "I may be 47 months pregnant." The group looked apprehensive as they were about to walk off. Addison had already left. "I may be on bed rest. I may not be able to see my own feet but I am Dr. Bailey. I hear everything. I know everything. I'm watching each and every one of you. And I will return." With that, the elevator doors closed.

✧☽☾✧

THE NURSES AT Seattle Grace Hospital were protesting. They had formed a picket line in front of the hospital and held various signs. The recent change in work hours had caused unhappiness and problems among the nurses. Instead of getting paid more for working more, their wages state the same as before. Ten days ago, they had informed the Chief that they would go on strike. That day had finally come. George, Izzie, and Skylar were standing at the end of the picket line, watching the protest. They didn't know what to do.

"What do you think they're going to do if we try and enter? They look pissed off and ready to throw tomatoes at the main act," Skylar said to her two roommates standing next to her. Meredith hadn't gone with them, since she wanted to visit her mother.

"Can't. Can't cross the picket line. I can't," George stuttered as he looked at the crowd of angry nurses.

"I don't like it either, George, but what choice do we have? Okay. You took an oath to heal! You're a healer!" Izzie chimed in, her eyes wide at the sight of the signs and yelling.

"Dad's a truck driver. Mom's a teacher. The evening news shows me crossing the picket line...they'll outlive me just to pee on my grave." Izzie and Skylar gave George a weird look. He says the weirdest things when he's nervous or scared—in this case, it was both. Skylar loved it when he got all flustered like this, it was one of the things that first attracted her to him.

"Look, George, you have responsibilities. So get a grip and walk through there like a man," Skylar tried to encourage him, but he shook his head.

Cristina walked up to them and threw her arms over Skylar and George's shoulders. The latter quickly pushed Cristina's arm away. "Has there been any blood yet? I hear they brought in scab nurses."

"I think the nurses know that we are on their side," Izzie tried to think on the positive side with a smile. However, right after she uttered that sentence, they heard someone yell 'Don't cross the line.' "Don't they?"

"I'm not so sure," Skylar said as she fidgeted with the sleeve of her black leather jacket.

"Well, we're doctors. We have sick patients inside. I mean, we have surgeries," Cristina said, being the surgery-hungry person that she was.

"Okay...then you go first," Izzie replied and pointed at the path in front of them. She took a step to the side to make place for Cristina to walk through and face the crowd of angry nurses.

"Screw it." She headed toward the line with confidence. The confidence she had quickly faded when food was thrown at her. "Yeah, doing my job! Doing my job!" Cristina eventually made it to the front door. The other three were quite shocked.

"They threw food at her!" Izzie gasped. The other two nodded with their jaws slack. "That is just wrong! Fine, I'm going in!" She took a deep breath and went in. They threw food at her as well, nobody was really safe. Skylar watched Izzie walk through and use her bag to deflect the food.

"Oh, God. Should I take my chances?" She asked George. But she didn't wait for an answer before she stepped between the picket fences. She was bombarded with all sorts of food. She tried to cover herself with her jacket but that proved to be unhelpful. The redhead ran the last half to the door. She finally reached the front door and stood next to Izzie.

"George, are you coming?" She yelled out.

"No, I'm good here." He remained still at the end of the line as he watched and observed.

✧☽☾✧

Since Bailey was on maternity leave, her interns had been appointed a new resident. They had no idea who it was going to be. Cristina, Alex, Skylar, and Izzie were waiting at a nurses' station and each time a doctor walked past they couldn't help but hope that they were going to be it.

Cristina saw a renowned doctor walking by and quickly pointed him out. "Yes, yes, that's him. He's been published twice and he's flawless."

"Oh, I don't want that guy," Izzie complained. "That guy's a freak. He doesn't let you speak in the O.R."

"Yeah, but he's flawless," Cristina enunciated.

This time it was Alex, who pointed someone out. "I think it's him. What's his name again?"

"Oh, yeah, mouth breather guy. But he'll let you do a procedure on your own if he likes you," Cristina said. Meredith walked up to them, a bit confused about what they were doing.

"What are we doing?" She voiced her thoughts.

"Trying to figure out who Bailey's replacement is," Skylar explained. Their guessing came to an end rather quickly when a loud voice called out their names. A young, cheerful doctor named Sydney Heron bounced down the stairs and made her way up to them.

"Here you are! I was looking for you guys in the locker room but you weren't there and then I thought well maybe my interns are looking for me too and then I come out here and here you are," she chuckled. Skylar raised her eyebrows at the woman, trying to contain a smile but ultimately failed. She never thought that she would want Bailey back so badly. "Yeah." Cristina looked horrified, hating the woman already. "You guys look like a great group." Meredith looked like she wanted to laugh. "Which is awesome. Because my horoscope said it's going to be a very challenging day and I was a little worried, but no, you guys...yeah, you look like a good group. Which is great! Because we're going to have so much fun! Hi!" She held out her arms and huffed a horrified Cristina. "Hi, first of all! Hi! Hi."

Cristina remained stiff and uncomfortable. "Ow! Ow, ow," she let out.

This made Sydney back up and ask, "Ooh, am I hurting you?"

"Ah, no, you're—you're touching me."

Sydney had an oh look on her face but quickly lost it. "I'm Sydney Heron. Fourth year and, uh, my philosophy, just so you know, is, um, is heal with love," she finally introduced herself. Alex and Izzie raised their eyebrows while Skylar tried to hold in her laughs. "Okay, so, wonderful. So, Alex, Izzie, Skylar, Meredith, Cristina, and our little group is just missing—"

"O'Malley. Yeah, he's cowering behind the strike line like a little girl," Cristina interrupted.

"Standing up for what he believes in, that's my kind of 'little girl,' right?" Sydney replied, expecting some kind of response, but didn't get one. "So...the E.R. needs somebody down there for a consult, does anybody—who wants to—"

"We get to pick?" Meredith questioned.

"Oh me, I'll—I'm on it."

"I'll help." Alex and Cristina both quickly dashed off, happy that they could get away from their way too enthusiastic resident. It was quite obvious that the group didn't like their new resident. They were used to strict and tough Dr. Bailey, not this new 'heal with love' crap.

"I have patients I need to check on," Meredith said and ran away like she was being chased by a lion, leaving Izzie and Skylar with Sydney. They were in for quite the ride with this woman. Skylar's mood brightened when she saw a familiar face walking toward them. Addison, holding a chart in her hands, neared their small group and a smile appeared on the intern's face.

"Dr. Stevens," Addison said. "Could use you on a consult." She held up the chart to the intern who immediately took it out of her hand.

"Okay, I'm on it. Absolutely." With Addison by her side, she left Skylar with Sydney, but not before mouthing a sorry to her. Skylar just forced a breathy laugh before looking back at her resident with a stiff smile.

"I have charts to fill out."

✧☽☾✧

Skylar was sitting on one of the beds in the abandoned hallways. Since she wasn't in the mood to run into Sydney, she had grabbed a couple of charts and a snack from a vending machine. She flipped through one of the charts. It belonged to Valerie Estévez, a woman who came in for extreme abdominal pain and nausea. It turned out that she just had gallstones and they were surgically removed. Now she was just filling in some blank spots on the chart. Skylar glanced away from the pages to take another bite of her snack.

She was interrupted from her zone by her pager going off. She quickly checked it and jumped off the bed, taking her stack of charts with her. On her way to post-op, she quickly dropped off the charts at the nurses' station on the post-op floor. She would come back later to put them away.

When she arrived at the woman's room, she sighed and placed her hands on her hips. She playfully glared at the 43-year-old woman, who shot her a smile back. "Why did you page me? You look fine."

"The stupid TV won't turn on. I called for a nurse but no one will come," Valerie complained.

"Here, let me see." Skylar held her hand out for the remote and Valerie playfully slammed it into her palm. The redhead took the remote and pressed the 'on' button. When that didn't work, she smacked the back of it against her hand. She didn't know what that would do but it always seemed to work in the movies. It didn't. "The batteries are probably dead. I'll bring you a new one, Mrs. Estévez."

"How many times do I have to tell you, it's Valerie for you."

✧☽☾✧

A group of nurses was camped out at Joe's bar, taking a break from standing outside of the hospital. They toasted George with their drinks. He had also refused to work that day and had been their inside man so they could still help their patients without having to actually go in. They clinked their glasses and Goerge laughed, happy that he was appreciated. Skylar was happy for him, she just missed working with him but knew that this whole strike thing would blow over soon. She just didn't know if it turn out how the nurses wanted it or not.

Skylar, Meredith, Cristina, and Izzie were sitting at the bar. "She called me unkind. Unkind and lacking in compassion. In front of my boyfriend! I am not unkind," Cristina complained. Cristina and Alex had to work with Sydney on a case. The patient had a flesh-eating bacteria on her leg. Cristina had wanted to amputate the leg while Alex and Sydney wanted to save it—which they ended up doing. Cristina didn't trust Sydney though so she told Burke. Burke, being there on Cristina's orders, had angered Sydney, who ranted and insulted Cristina.

"I think I have to kill a woman tomorrow. I have to take out the tube that's keeping her alive."

Everyone then turned to Izzie who was next in line. Cristina threw a peanut at her and called out her name, but she didn't answer. "This is the part where you say what's wrong with you," Joe encouraged the blonde. Izzie remained quiet and ended up leaving the bar. Skylar scooted down a stool so she was sitting next to Meredith. "You didn't share a sad story," Joe glanced at Skylar.

"I'm actually fine. My goal was to avoid Sydney all day, and I accomplished that," Skylar shared before taking another drink of alcohol.

"I have to kill a woman tomorrow," Meredith repeated.

"And that is a problem, why? I mean if it's what she wants, it's what she wants! And that is not unkind or lacking in compassion. I'm a very compassionate person! I have more compassion than you, Alex!" Cristina pointed at Alex as he arrived to get another drink.

"Shut your pie-hole, Yang," Alex said as he sat down next to Skylar. She smiled at him and they talked about their day. The conversation was interrupted when George came up to the bar and ordered another round for him and the nurses. "Yeah, give Nurse O'Malley a drink on me." Alex couldn't keep his offensive comment to himself.

"Alex, what the hell?" Skylar scolded and slapped him on the arm.

"Heh, what'd you say?" George turned around to face the nurses. "Hey, uh, Karev just called me a nurse." He faced Alex again but didn't look very impressed. Skylar just sighed, shaking her head at Joe who just smiled at her. She sometimes really wondered why she was friends with Alex. "That's the worst you could come up with. Or wait is that an insult? Or was I supposed to be—"

George was going to say more but was interrupted by a nurse spilling her drink on Cristina's lap. "Woopsies," she sarcastically said.

"Are you kidding me? I will kill you, you know that?"

"Bring it on!"

"Oh, she—oh, bring it on! Okay, Mama. Let's bring it on! Oh, look at her, spry! What you wanna cheer it out, soccer mom?"

"Oh, soccer mom!" They both started yelling and insulting each other. Joe quickly interrupted the brewing fight. Skylar looked at the whole thing trying to contain her laughter. She found it funny when Cristina got like this because the brunette could actually be very intimidating but it was just weird seeing her like that. Alex, on the other hand, was smirking at the situation and seemed to be enjoying it.

"Hey! Hey! Hey! If you're gonna beat each other up, there's not gonna be anybody left to set your broken bones." Joe tried to calm down the fight but it didn't help. They continued to yell, totally ignoring Joe. "Hey!"

Luckily, Meredith jumped in and removed her best friend from the situation before it got out of hand. "We were just leaving." She grabbed Cristina's arm, pulling her away from the nurses.

"Yeah, because I gotta go save lives!"

Alex smirked at the whole situation and Skylar was just laughing from her seat at the bar. George stumbled through the crowd of nurses, heading for the door. "Excuse me. I gotta go. They're my ride."

✧☽☾✧

"I can walk," Skylar giggled. "Seriously."

George looked down at her and grinned. "Sure you can, lightweight."

"I'm not drunk, George," Skylar protested and chuckled again. "I'm fine. I didn't even drink all that much."

"Sure," he agreed.

"Get the door, George," she playfully ordered.

George grinned and shook his head at her in fond affection. She was hilarious sometimes. "Right. Is that why you keep me around? To open doors for you?"

"Why would there be any other reason?" Skylar asked in mock seriousness as George unlocked the door and led Skylar to his room.

Skylar giggled and turned her head to capture his lips. "I'm not drunk," she murmured against his lips. "Tipsy, maybe. But we can have sex either way."

George wouldn't have minded just falling on the couch but they did have roommates. Behavior like that could wait until they had the house to themselves and there was a perfectly good bed waiting for them upstairs.

Skylar had been so lost in the pleasure of the kiss and running her hands through his hair that she hadn't been aware of their journey. She quietly gasped when the back of her knees hit the bed. The gasp was quickly muffled by his lips once again covering her own and his body pushing her back on the bed.

✧☽☾✧

Skylar followed George to the nurses' station the next morning, writing down every word of instruction the nurses' had sent with him. "And don't believe 2519 when she tells you she went to the bathroom because she just wants to go home. She just says she went to the bathroom and then she's back here two days later."

Skylar nodded. "Got it."

"Hey," Burke called out as he passed them. "I need sutures in 2602."

"Can't help you," George instantly called back. He realized what he said and stopped abruptly. Turning around, he gazed at Burke with a half-apologetic half-mulish expression.

"What?" Burke sharply asked. Behind George, Skylar leaned on the desk, smirking in amusement. George's stand for the nurses was courageous and cute. She really did like George. He was a good guy.

George shifted a bit uncomfortably on his feet. "Fair hours! Fair wages!" He shouted, thrusting his fist in the air. "Fair hours! Fair..." He stopped and sighed at Burke's shocked look. "It's no offense, sir."

"None taken," Burke told him with a smirk of his own.

George turned around and dejectedly shuffled to the desk. Izzie held out a cup of coffee with a laugh. "Hey, how's the strike going?"

"Do you know—" George set the coffee on the desk beside a grinning Skylar and Izzie. "Do you realize how rarely doctors say 'thank you' and 'please' to nurses? How few surgeons even know the names of...?"

"Hey," Skylar objected. "I always say 'please' and 'thank you.'"

George chuckled and then looked around. "I shouldn't be seen talking to you guys." Skylar and Izzie waved him off with grins.

✧☽☾✧

They never understood why they did this. Some nights the world seemed a bit too big to take on alone, so they went to him. They laid down and either talked or didn't. It never mattered either way. They didn't know why he seemed to make the world a bit smaller. A bit more manageable. No other person could do this for them.

Skylar was usually already there. Then came Izzie. She would lie on her back next to Skylar, just breathing. Within minutes, Meredith would show up and take the other side of the bed.

It was inexplicable. It was comforting. The companionship was something magical and not to be talked about. It was theirs. It was family.

[ Masterlist ] [ Nineteen ] [ Twenty One ]

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thedigitalpromotion · 2 years

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Chemotherapy is a more efficient treatment than traditional medication - Conor Green

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Furthermore, cancer patients couldn’t sleep well. Normally, this fatigue emerges because of chemotherapy. As a result, the patient's cognitive performance gets adversely impacted and they experience mood swings. According to several studies, cannabis can help in enhancing the quality of sleep by making it convenient for patients to fall asleep. It is the discomfort and worry that make it challenging for patients to get sufficient sleep. According to doctors, 2 out of 10 cancer patients struggle from anxiety and depression. Conor Green Consulting LLC takes pride in devising long-term relationships with our tribal partners helps to guarantee that your present goals are developed and sustained for the promise to tomorrow's generation. We work to create partnerships so that you can establish a business and generate revenue both ethically and legally.

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jaedia · 3 years

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Weekend Wrap-Up: 10/07/2021

The Weekend Wrap-Up offers a little look at what I’m reading, the new books that came my way, and anything else I may have gotten up to this past week. I will be linking up to Stacking the Shelves, The Sunday Post and It’s Monday! What Are You Reading? and hopping around your blogs a little to see what the community has to share too! My Week It has been a strange week for me. My sleep issues…

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b0ther · 3 years

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pardon my manners pt. i

In which Kaeya Alberich constantly fucks his secretary silly.

pairing : kaeya x reader (feminine pronouns, afab)

rating : explicit, not safe for work (sexual content)

type : chaptered (probably)

tags : modern au, office setting, dom/sub undertone, office sex, manhandling, vaginal sex, cumming inside, kaeya takes a vid while fucking reader here

word count : 1,755

author's note : title from 'sexy can i' by ray j. don't comment on my disappearance or i WILL cry. this is purely self indulgent <33 also i posted this in wp... im trying out new things ok.

( masterlist │ ask/request │ ao3 │ wattpad )

"Let me see that pretty face, baby."

How many times has he fucked his little secretary by now?

How many times has he felt her drenched cunt enveloping his cock, fill her tight hole with his cum, and watch as his seeds trickle down the inner side of her thigh?

"Nooo..." Her slurred words echo through the dark office room—she is clawing his arm, hiding her face against his shoulder, as he continues to pump her pussy, warm walls milking his cock dry.

"Don't act shy now," he chuckles against the sweat of her neck, inhaling the deep scent of her hair as he raises one of her legs against his mahogany desk for more support. "You're taking me in so well, why won't you show me your pretty face?"

She whines at his teasing tone—highly contrasting the speed in which he is fucking her—and shakes her head even as she so obediently spreads her leg wider for easier access to her cunt.

God. She will be the death of him.

Kaeya laughs, one of the two hands that has been previously propping himself against the edge of his desk now travels to her mound, where he plays for a moment with her little sensitive bud—only to hear her mewl out his name, telling him to "stop or I'll not make it" (really, what else is a man supposed to do?)—before reaching to capture her full tit in his hand, pushing her body flat against his chest as he marvels at the way her body arches in both surprise and pleasure.

"Gorgeous," he places his chin on her shoulder, fingers kneading her chest. "Look at me, pretty."

She whines again—shaking her head.

"Y-you'll take pictures again," she wraps her fingers around his wrist—the accusation got him excited and Kaeya finds himself to be pummeling her pretty hole even harder now—and bites her lips to suppress her own moans.

"But you're so cute when you're all fucked out like this," he retorts with a slight frown, this time tugging his fingers on her nipple. "Look, none of my hands are on my phone, baby."

"Mhmm..."

It looks like she is thinking about it—mulling over the decision to look at him, or to not look at him. He grins at how her hums are cut off, every now and then, as he particularly spreads open the walls of her slobbery cunt with his cock in a sharp thrust.

"Show me your pretty face," he encourages once again, feeling his cock starting to pulse against her pussy. He gives her neck one long lick, squeezing one of her tits so hard that he is sure he is going to leave a mark on her delicate skin.

"I'm comin—"

Blatantly ignoring his request, she wraps her fingers around his arm tighter, ass moving in synchronization with his hips.

He should stop right there, should let her taste her own medicine. But she feels too good wrapped around his length, and so Kaeya can't even think about stopping—he wants to shoot his thick load inside of her, decorate her pussy with his white cum.

He doesn't want to stop pounding her cunt, but that doesn't mean he can't bluff about it.

"Look at me," he says between his gritted teeth, calmly moving his free hand to grasp on her hips. She gasps, raising her ass even more as she managed to climb one leg on the table. "Or I'll stop fucking your pretty hole. Mhm, want me to stop fucking you right now?"

Despite her rebellious phases, his little secretary is the sweetest girl deep down inside. She cries out a little at his threats, hesitantly cranking her neck to let him catch her gaze in his—buds of sweats are rolling down her temple, her own chin wet with her own salivation from her endless, dumb blabbering.

To make things worse, she decides to remove the hand that is so happily kneading her tit and brings it up to her face, where she sticks out her slobbering tongue to peek a taste of his palm, not breaking eye-contact.

A sound that is almost inhumane leaves his throat—Kaeya wraps his arm around her waist and feels his cock on her abdomen, abusing and bruising her cervix as she continues giving service on his fingers.

"Your cock's soooo big," she then finally sniffles as her pretty lips wrap themselves around his two digits, the edge of her eyes are wet with incoming tears. She began pumping her head up and down his fingers, speaking nonsense in the meantime: "Spreading me open—s'big, boss, too big—"

"Shit," Kaeya mutters, weak at the way her lashes would bat against each other, how trails of her wet drool are starting to leak down his arm. "Who would have thought that you'd be such a whore for your boss, huh?"

She only nods her head, keeping her eyes on his like the good girl she is, and continues making a mess on his hand.

"Are you a good slut for my cock?" He coos, only then feeling her walls tighten around his length—he is all too familiar with her body; the little fumble on her throat, the quirks she does whenever she is about to orgasm, all of it—and he begins to focus on chasing his own high.

"Gwood slu—"

Shutting her up, Kaeya presses down his fingers down her throat—the choking sound that comes out of her riles him up even more.

"Good sluts take what they are given, right?"

His head is beginning to spin; he closes his eyes, feeling her nod her head over and over again, still trying to tell him even against the big digits in her mouth about how good of a whore she is to him and how she'll take whatever he gives her.

"You're so fucking sexy," Kaeya buries his face against the strands of her hair yet again. "Gonna mark my whore up then, yeah? Gonna fill you up with my seed, make you walk around this fuckin' office with my cum in you."

His eyes, for a moment, travels to her bouncing tits, how they're uncontrollably elevating with the speed in which they are going right now. When he looks up to her face, and sees her mouth wide open with her eyes rolled to her head in pure, solicited ecstasy, he can no longer hold himself. The string of cum that flies out of his cock instantly meets her cervix, painting her womb with bright white as his ferocity is slowly becoming calmer.

"Fee me uph—"

"Shit," Kaeya laughs at her attempt in speaking, pulling his fingers out of her mouth. "Fuck, I just did, baby. How's my cum feel?"

He lets go of her torso, and watch as she falls upon his cleared desk in absolute fatigue. His hands rub her back, playing with the jiggle of her ass for a short moment as she gather her thoughts; "S'good. Th-thank you, Mister Alberich."

"Mister Alberich," he repeats, his voice mocking. He feels her body, before eventually, with his cock still buried deep inside of her, he turns her limp body around. Her skirt is hitched up to her waist, blouse halfway open with her bra somewhere on the floor. As she settles on the hard desk, he watches how her heavy breathing shows off her glorious tits rising and falling with every breath of air.

She raises one hand to hide her mouth, perhaps feeling somewhat small under his piercing gaze, and turns so that she isn't facing him.

Kaeya takes this opportunity to reach for his phone in one of the drawers, unlocking it easily to start recording a video of her god-sculpted body with the flash obviously penetrating the dark room.

"Mister Alberich!"

In a series of flustered gasp, she reaches both arms in the air as an attempt to grab his phone, but only presses her tits against each other in the process. He skillfully dodges her demanding hands and instead captures the intense look of pleasure on her face in his phone as he feels himself getting hard again inside of his cunt.

"You're only turning me on even more," he chuckles, now aiming the camera at his hand rubbing her abdomen, watching how a bulge grows as he gets more tense inside.

"How do you even take me like this, hm?" He looks up at her embarrassed face, before focusing to record her swollen clit and where he is buried deep inside of her. "Are you used to my cock? Do you like it?"

He must be some kind of sadist—Kaeya watches in satisfaction as she tries stammering out a reply. He softly caress her stomach and she squirms under his hold, even more when he starts rubbing light circles on her pretty clit; he feels it twitching, like it's begging to be sucked on.

"Mister Alberich—"

Comes her whining yet again, Kaeya turns both his camera and his gaze on her face.

"Speak up, sweetheart."

"Nghh," she mewls as she begins rolling her hips against his hand. "Please— I— I can't—"

"Yes?"

The smirk on his face grows wider.

Kaeya tediously slips his growing cock from her hole, before pushing himself back in her sopping cunt in the same speed.

"Faster—" she gasps, now using her fingers to grip the edge of her desk. "Fuck— please fuck me faster— harder, harder."

She pushes himself to sit on the desk, feet pressed against the surface to show him her aching pussy. It's like she forgets about the existence of the camera; her face melts into his favored lewd expression—the one she only uses when she is so needy for his cock, so desperate for him to pound her cunt.

Kaeya presses his camera button, and in an instant, the flash goes out. They are once again enveloped in darkness, and he pulls out of her yet again just to test the waters.

"Harder, was it?" He hums, leaning down to capture her nipple in his mouth, obsessed yet again as he sinks his face deeper into her pair of tits.

"Please," she gasps, arms snaking around his neck.

Kaeya takes her bud between the sharp of his teeth, pressing his tongue flat against it.

"You asked for it, baby," a little warning should be fine. He glances up to see her already debauched in repeated ecstasy. "I'll go hard just for you.

#genshin #one-shot #chaptered: pardon my manners #kaeya #genshin impact #kaeya x reader #kaeya alberich #kaeya smut #kaeya x you #kaeya x you smut #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #kaeya x reader smut

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baloobird · 4 years

Text

Because I Said So

by @baloobird for @searching4sanity716 I hope you like this!!! 💜💜💜

This is my submission to the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange!!!

Ao3 Link (but it’s not revealed yet)

Words: 10.1k (hehe whoops)

Rating: Not Rated

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & May Parker, May Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, May Parker

**Slight Trigger Warning: mention of an eating disorder accusation but there’s no actual eating disorder. Attempted kidnapping while on patrol but it’s stopped before it goes anywhere**

Summary: He should be used to it by now, this almost constant state of hunger, and he knows he should say something to May.

But he can’t.

When his aunt found out about Spider-Man, she - understandably so - wanted to know any and all things about this double life: his powers, how they work, how they affect him, and the like.

So Peter told her everything…except for one small, teeny tiny detail.

That he now has a faster metabolism than everyone else.

Peter doesn't tell May that he has to eat more than the average person because he knows how tight money is for them. He knows his aunt can't afford it so why say anything? And besides, he's fine.

Honestly.

No way is this going to come back and bite him in ass…absolutely not.

Adding my taglist here but the fic will be under the cut. I hope you enjoy!!!

Taglist: @keep-a-bucket-full-of-stars @dexteritymisdirectionsuggestion @peuty @starkaroos2034 @marvel-us-world @podcastsandcoffee @bestofirondadfics @mmmmmmmmmchicken @riseuplikeglitterandgold @desirexwolf @theoceanphoenixhasrisen @ultravioletstark @just-the-daydreamer @my-leg-is-not-a-chew-toy @diminajackson @theofficialdeannawinchester @whatwasmyprevioususername @spidey-mood @autisticbabynurse @ironmanismydad @tinyandsteven @dreamingformuses @smokesteamair @intuitive-mathgeek @softrdj @legendarypenofeating @petermyspiderson @zselenophile @shymothstudios @and-so-my-adventures-begin @sarcasticmusic @fandomsofrandom @cluusheen @mjc-dream @emygirl @pxterbpxrker @pawprinterfanfic @innocent-until-proven-geeky @blackwatchandromeda @jaelyn-karrett @iron-damn @unnoted-invisible @pixeltrix-13 @anyonewantathroatsweet @m0ther-of-dragons @chaos-with-a-pen @spideynamu @bthtallmadge2 @verdonafrost @the-reverse-mermaid @icymapletree @kitkatwinchester @irondad-is-cannon-bitch @brushes-of-sage @ghostinthebau @canonismybitch @tmifangirl24 @loverofstuffsworld @stuck-in-a-fictional-universe @i-write-disney-not-tragedies @drowned-in-books @peanutdoodles @hauntedbybleachella @aelinasardothien @tonystark-built-this-in-a-cave @tonystarkweneedyou @spideygirl2003 @7peternotparker7 @justme--emily @dongjiayun @dykeragee @jmercer1997 @swagfictionreadingnerd @dredfulhapiness @fallenstar07

Let me know if you wanna be tagged!!!

Peter has been staring at that damn clock for about thirty minutes now.

But only one minute has actually passed.

Why do the last ten minutes of class always feel like another fucking hour?

Despite time moving as slow as molasses, the teenager keeps staring at the clock, seeing his life tick away closer and closer to death.

Hey, it’s a hell of a lot more interesting than learning about the Industrial Revolution.

Whoever decided to make AP History the last class of the day deserves to be shot like Abraham Lincoln.

Ten more minutes until Mr. Stark. Ten more minutes until I can finally freaking eat.

As if reading his mind, the boy’s stomach releases yet another growl, so loud that a few of the surrounding students give him weird looks, making him flush in embarrassment.

The hero smiles sheepishly as he wraps his arms around his torso, hoping to suppress any more incoming rumbles.

God, he is so fucking hungry, as he has been for the last couple of hours.

He should be used to it by now, this almost constant state of hunger, and he knows he should say something to May.

But he can’t.

When his aunt found out about Spider-Man, she - understandably so - wanted to know any and all things about this double life: his powers, how they work, how they affect him, and the like.

So Peter told her everything…except for one small, teeny tiny detail.

That he now has a faster metabolism than everyone else. With the powers of his super strength, stickiness, and “spidey sense”, it’s no wonder he developed an increase in his appetite as well.

Of course he wants to tell May, he desperately wants to tell her to buy more food, to make enough dinner to feed four instead of two.

But he’d be an idiot not to notice how tight money is for them. Peter doesn’t miss the bills with the dreaded red stamp that states “past due”, or the student loan payments that she is at least a couple of months behind on.

“You, food, and shelter are always my first priorities, you know that,” May has said on more than a few occasions.

While yes, she always has enough for rent, food, and their phones, the kid would be lying if he said that their water and power have never been shut off. And he can’t count how many months they’ve had to go without wi-fi.

Thank God libraries exist or he’d never get any homework done.

So the teen does what he can to keep from going completely insane from lack of food consumption: since he’s a part of that free lunch program, he thankfully always has a lunch - even though it’s not enough to leave him satisfied - and Ned, the wonderful, amazing best friend that is Ned always packs an extra apple or another sandwich to give him so he won’t feel like he’s completely passing out by the time history class rolls around.

But even then he can hardly stand it.

Peter keeps his arms wrapped around him, watching the clock at the front of the classroom like a hawk.

Watching the last seven minutes tick by at the slowest possible speed.

The genius feels his head start to droop with fatigue and jerks it upright, keeping it from slamming completely onto his desk. He winces as he feels his stomach release another round of grumbling and squeezes it to keep it quiet, even though it won’t do him any good.

He ignores the more questioning looks from his peers but he doesn’t miss the sympathetic one his best friend is giving him from the next desk over.

Peter looks away almost immediately. He already feels embarrassed enough for his obnoxious stomach, he can’t stand someone looking as if he’s a charity case.

Which is exactly why he hasn’t told Tony about this either.

He jerks his head up yet again after feeling it droop for a second time and stares at the clock once more.

Five minutes, just five more minutes, Spider-Man.

The teenager misses his masked alter ego. He hasn’t been able to don the red and blue as much lately for a number of reasons such as homework and decathlon.

The most annoying one being that he can’t patrol but for so long without Karen taking notice of his decreasing glucose levels which she would then send to Tony and the last thing he wants is for his billionaire hero to find out about his money troubles.

Peter takes a deep breath, constantly reminding himself to keep his eyes open, damn it, he refuses to fall asleep four minutes before the last bell.

He’ll sleep after he eats all of his hero’s food.

Because when he stays with Tony, he pigs out, eating enough food to feed a “whole army” his mentor has jokingly said.

And since Peter is planning to stay the night, he relishes in going back home that Saturday with a more than satisfied stomach.

Well, for a few hours anyway, until he gets to what his current situation is now.

The boy looks back at the clock.

Two minutes left, hell fucking yes.

God, he needs carbs if he has any hope of staying awake on his way to the tower.

He just needs food in general.

Any food…allllll the food.

The bell rings at long last, leaving Peter wishing he could race out the doors but he’s too sluggish to exert that much energy. Again, he ignores his friend’s pitying looks as he gets his things before walking as fast as he can to his father figure’s car.

The second he gets in and gives his mentor a tired smile, the volcano that is his stomach erupts in yet another growl, announcing the hunger it so desperately craves.

Tony giggles as he makes his way to exit the parking lot, “Somebody’s hungry, huh?”

You have no idea.

His protege sheepishly giggles himself, wrapping his arms around his stomach once again, “Uh yeah, sorry.”

“Only you would say sorry about being hungry,” the mechanic says with a snort, “McDonald’s drive-thru sound good to you?”

“Please, I can taste the Big Mac already.”

“How many do you want?”

“Uh,” Peter holds back as slight anxiety sets in, “Two?”

As they stop at a red light, his mentor gives him a deadpan look, obviously not believing him, and repeats, “Pete, how many do you want?”

“Four?” Said kid answers in a questioning tone, covering himself in case Tony thinks the number is too high. He then adds on, “All with fries? Please?”

Tony smiles down at his kid, ruffling his hair while keeping one hand on the steering wheel, “How many times have I told you that you don’t need to be shy around me when it comes to eating?”

“I know,” his interns says, slumping his shoulders but taking full advantage of this “curls massage” to keep his mind off his hunger, “I just feel bad -”

“Don’t,” the older man says, firm but keeping a gentle undertone, “If you’re hungry, you’re getting food, that’s the rule when you’re around me. It doesn’t matter if you want to eat the entire damn cow, you’re getting it.”

Peter feels a warmth filter through him at that, leaning closer to his father figure and smiling serenely at the hair ruffling, squeezing his stomach as it continues to gurgle periodically.

Tony lets go when the light turns green, his attention back on the road, “Didya even eat today, good Lord, kid.”

Barely.

“Yes,” the tyke responds, drawing out the syllable, “If I didn’t, you’d have to carry me to the tower.”

“That’s a terrifying image.”

“Relax, Mr. Stark, I’m more careful than that,” Peter responds with a cheeky smile.

It’s true, he thinks. Despite the constant hunger, he’s always been careful, never letting it get to the point of him not functioning as a human being should.

Yes, he’s hungry all the time, but not that hungry.

It’s fine.

It’s fiiiiiiine.

“You lost me at ‘careful’, does the word ‘Vulture’ mean anything to you?”

“Hey, I stopped him, didn’t I?”

Tony rolls his eyes with a defeated sigh, “Yeah, touché.”

Peter snickers in brief victory as they pull up to the drive-thru ordering station, “Hey, I may be clumsy but I’m still careful.”

“Jury’s still out on that one,” his mentor responds with his own snicker before lowering his window, turning towards the microphone. After the usual polite greetings, he says his order, making sure to order for himself as well, “Five Big Macs, five large fries, a Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, and a side salad.”

“Ranch dressing okay?” The fast-food employee asks as Peter gives his father figure a look of pure confusion.

“Yeah, sure.”

“We’ll have your total for you at the first window.”

“Thanks,” Tony says, driving around the curve to the upcoming window.

Peter asks, “You got a salad? At McDonald’s?”

“No, I got it for you, you really think I’m gonna let you eat four Big Macs and no greens?”

“There’s lettuce on the burgers -”

“Nice try.”

“Jeez, ‘Helicopter Mom’, much?”

“You’ll thank me later when your stomach doesn’t hate you.”

For once.

Peter rolls his eyes as his stomach continues acting like a bear, looking on as his hero gives the cashier his credit card.

Eh, it’s more food, I’ll take it.

The second the boy takes his first bite of that heavenly, artery-filling burger, it takes all of his strength not to guzzle it down in five bites or less. He’s unfortunately learned from experience that not eating much for a week and then consuming enough food in one sitting to feed his entire apartment building equates to seeing all of that food again in a not so appetizing manner.

So by the time they get to the tower, only one burger is consumed and about half of an order of fries, yet the spiderling’s stomach is still growling. They settle in at the kitchen counter, with Tony digging into his own burger and fries, making light chatter with Peter unashamedly talking with his mouth full.

That Friday night and Saturday morning are spent in bliss, in more ways than one. The two heroes did their usual thing in the lab, Tony helped his kid with some of his homework, kicked back on the couch, and the tyke’s stomach was never not satisfied.

If only he could feel this way all the time.

The older man actually made dinner that night and told Peter he can take home the leftovers for him and May.

The teen’s heart did what felt like an actual backflip. He gratefully accepted the leftovers with absolute no intentions on sharing it with his aunt, instead his mind going into “math-mode” on how he can ration this throughout the week.

And when Happy drops him off that Saturday afternoon, he’s filled with the most energy he’s had since the previous time with his mentor, damn near skipping to his room in excitement to put on his suit and soar through the skies.

Until he sees May in the kitchen sporting a look of grim disappointment, and his whole demeanor falls immediately.

What happened? I haven’t done anything lately…at least I don’t think I have.

Hold up, did somebody die?

“Um,” Peter starts, gripping the straps on his backpack and praying his aunt can’t smell the leftover pot roast, “May, is everything okay?”

The nurse sighs despairingly, doing nothing to help her nephew’s case, “No,” she taps the barstool next to her, swinging it out, “We need to talk.”

The teenager’s anxiety spikes instantly.

Must she say the most horrible phrase in the English language?

Peter carefully sets his backpack on the couch before walking over and sitting on the designated stool, “Uh…what is it?”

“This,” his aunt slides a piece of paper over to him, “Progress reports were released yesterday and I didn’t check the portal until this morning. Explain this to me.”

Wait, progress reports? School isn’t even an issue, what the hell?

He looks down at the report and studies his grades, most of which are “A’s”, other than a “B-plus” that ruins the streak.

Fuck English and those fucking essays.

And there, at the bottom of the report, is his grade in AP History.

A “D.”

A big, fat, ugly “D.”

“What the hell?” Peter whispers in shock. This isn’t possible, he thinks, he’s never gotten anything below a “B” in, well, anything. School has always been his strong suit.

While yes, there were a couple of history quizzes he did less than stellar on, but shit happens, it certainly wouldn’t cause his grade to jump to a fucking “D.”

“There has to be a mistake,” he exclaims, still staring at the report with wide eyes, “There’s no way -”

“Really? No way?” May counters, voice a mixture of both anger and disappointment.

Making Peter want to crawl under a rock and die.

His aunt goes on, “Read the teacher’s comment.”

I don’t wanna.

The boy swallows a lump in his throat, reluctantly flipping over the page. He skims down until he sees the one for history and reads the comment.

Mr. Parker is no doubt a gifted student but he has difficulty with paying attention in class. While he does well on the homework, he lacks applying what he’s learned towards the tests and quizzes, both of which carry heavier percentages than the homework itself. I suggest taking more time to study, pay more attention in class, and, if possible, seek a tutor.

Peter scans over that comment who knows how many times.

Okay…maybe he’s done less than stellar on more than just a couple of quizzes.

How did he not see this, how in the fuck did he not know how bad his grade dropped?

The boy feels his stomach gurgle as it digests the last of his lunch that he had before he left to come back home.

Then it clicks.

Shit.

By the last class of the day, the food he’d eat at lunch has long since digested and his body is already begging for more.

So much so that he loses focus on the class and instead does what he can to keep himself sane until he can eat more food.

And the only reason why he’s able to do well on the homework is exactly that, he does it at home, where he’s hungry, but it’s bearable enough to where he can still concentrate.

At school, where he feels like his stomach might actually fall out of his body, leaves little room for concentration.

Peter looks back at his guardian with wide eyes, “I can explain.”

“Really? ‘Cuz I’m dying to hear it.” May lets out a light, humorless laugh, “I just, I just can’t believe we’re having a conversation about this. School was something I never had to worry about with you, what gives? Are you and Ned passing notes? Is there a girl you like that’s distracting you -”

“May, oh my God, I’m not ten,” her nephew says, annoyance in his tone, “And there’s no girl, for the record.”

“Then what is it, Peter?” May counters, getting annoyed herself, “Do you not understand the material, do you need a tutor -”

“No, no I don’t need a tutor. Look, I’m sorry, I’ll bring it up by the time report cards come -”

“You really think it’s that much of an easy fix?”

“Yes, look, May, it’s just a progress report, it doesn’t mean anything -”

“Oh, really now?” She asks, raising her voice slightly, “If they don’t mean anything, then why do they exist, huh? How would you feel if this was your report card? You’d lose your scholarship, Peter.”

Fuck, the fucking scholarship.

The teenager puts his head in his hands, his heart feeling heavy at the thought of being forced to leave Midtown, “Pretty shitty, yeah. May, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it got this bad, I promise I’ll bring it up. There’s a test next week, I’ll make sure to study for it.”

“Oh, you certainly will, no question, because until I see this ‘D’ disappear,” May hesitates before she says, “No more Spider-Man.”

“No!” The fifteen-year-old exclaims, head snapping right to his guardian, “May, please, please don’t take Spider-Man away from me. He’s what keeps me sane, c’mon, please.”

“He’s why your grade dropped, isn’t it?” The nurse asks, her only redeeming factor is that she doesn’t seem to like punishing him any more than he does, “That’s it, you’re too excited to be Spider-Man that you can’t concentrate on the class -”

“No, that’s not it! -”

“Then what is? Peter, help me understand ‘cuz I don’t know what the hell this is.”

The words are on the tip of his tongue.

I don’t get enough to eat.

He could say it, right here right now, he could say it. He would get to eat, and he could still be Spider-Man.

But May would feel awful.

And he can’t stand to see her more upset than she already is.

“You’re right,” Peter forces out, mentally kicking himself, “Yeah, it’s Spider-Man,” he concludes brokenly.

“That settles it then,” May confirms, voice small and filled with remorse, “No Spider-Man until you get your report card. And in three weeks, if I see anything less than a ‘C-plus’, it’s gonna be a long while before you see that suit again, you understand?”

As much as he doesn’t want to, the boy slowly nods his head, “This is so not fair -”

“It’s not up for discussion. Dinner’ll be in a few hours,” his guardian says, getting out of her chair to start chopping vegetables.

Peter quickly gets out of his own chair and gets his things before dragging himself to his room, the last thing he wants to do is look at his aunt let alone talk to her.

He gets to his room and slams the door, dropping his things and plopping onto his bed face down. He smushes his face on his pillow and screams into it as loud as he can without alerting May before slumping in defeat.

Words can’t express how mad he is at his guardian but it’s nowhere near how mad the kid is at himself.

How stupid was he? How did he not notice how bad he’s doing in the class? How could he have let it get this far?

And now there’s no more Spider-Man to at least soften the blow.

As much as he knows he needs to study, he doesn’t, he’d rather just lay in his bed and wallow in self-pity for the next week or so.

That’s just what he does until May calls out that dinner is ready. Peter wants to rebel by skipping dinner but realistically, he’d pass out if he doesn’t eat, and he wants to save those leftovers for as long as he can.

Dinner is the epitome of awkward.

Not much small talk is made as the kid eats his food as fast as humanly possible, afterward spending the rest of the night drowning out his thoughts through YouTube videos before succumbing himself to torture and digging out his history book.

No way is he letting the late 1800’s ruin his double life and his future.

The following week, he gets to work.

Unfortunately, his teacher doesn’t offer extra credit but he did say that if Peter continues doing well on the homework, studies hard for the upcoming quizzes and test, along with the paper due at the end of the month, the teen could have the potential to bring his grade up to a “B-minus”, maybe even a “B” if he aces them.

As long as his report card is above a “C-plus”, he doesn’t give a shit what it is.

The hero decides not to eat the extra food Ned gives him right at lunch and instead scarfs it down right before history. It doesn’t fill him up by any means but his stomach won’t sound like a thunderstorm either. Then when he gets home, he eats some of Tony’s leftovers, leaving his hunger manageable enough to make it to dinner.

It works for that week, to the teen’s pleasant surprise. Who knew that eating can make a person more focused and actually pay attention?

With this new routine, not only does the boy continue doing well on the homework but he damn near aces both of his next quizzes with a “B-plus” and “A-minus” respectively. The higher his grades get, the more confident he feels, he can almost taste the sweet freedom of swinging through the air and becoming one with the wonders of Queens.

Hell yes, Peter thinks, he’ll be back to donning the red and blue in no time.

However, that second week proves to be tougher than the first.

For one, Peter finished the leftovers; he didn’t want to, but he knew the food would eventually go bad if he kept it for much longer so he bit the bullet. Pair that with his dinner that night, it made him the most satisfied he'd felt since that waiter at the Thai restaurant gave May an extra plate of food for free.

God, why can’t that happen again?

He sticks to the same routine at school but when he gets home, he limits himself to a small snack to keep him satisfied until dinner.

But that has yet to work.

The teenager is having a hard time concentrating on his homework. The calculus that he normally breezes through is taking him twice as long to complete, same with physics, and he’s forced to put off history until after dinner, where his stomach doesn’t feel like it’s falling out and giving him enough energy to finish it with a passing grade.

Which is where Peter is finding himself now the night before that dreaded history test.

He huffs in frustration as he stares down at his dense brick of a history textbook, words blurring together as he reads over the same page for the fourth fucking time - and maybe the information might actually stay in his brain for once - and starving despite fixing himself a sandwich earlier.

Maybe his dinner should’ve had more sustenance than that but what the hell, he doesn’t know how to cook and May’s going to be at work until like midnight, he had to fix something.

Even though it’s only eight o’clock, the kid’s eyes are drooping with fatigue, resisting the urge to fall asleep on his book and thus making his chance of passing his test get slimmer and slimmer.

That lousy sandwich didn’t do shit.

Peter lightly slaps his cheek to wake himself up and he continues reading through that same page…again.

Why can’t I learn history dates as good as math formulas, this shit’s exhausting.

He studies as much as he can, going from the textbook to his chicken-scratch notes and now graded past homework and quizzes. Yet the more he tries to memorize political figures, the more he focuses on the food that’s in each and every one of the kitchen cabinets.

As if reading his mind once again, his stomach gurgles with hunger.

Okay, I think I saw another apple in the fridge. I mean, it can’t hurt.

Oh my God, and there’s a bag of chips we haven’t opened yet, maybe May won’t notice if I eat a few…or the whole fucking bag.

Maybe she’ll forget she bought them, no harm, no foul.

The hero’s mouth starts salivating at that. He can’t keep torturing himself like this, he has to get something to eat. Just as he’s about to do so, he hears a scream from outside his window.

“No!”

Peter’s head jerks to the window behind him, eyebrows narrowing in curiosity.

He’s normally pretty good at tuning out the murmurs that flood the mean streets of Queens…but that sounded close.

Too close.

Like right-outside-his-apartment-building close.

His worry grows when he hears another scream that sounds like it’s coming from the same person.

“Let go of me!”

Not just a person.

A kid.

Peter is out of his chair in less than a second. He opens his window and peeks out from the corner so he can’t be seen. After a few seconds of searching, his eyes land on a scuffle across the street between a middle-aged man with a black hoodie covered face and a little boy who can’t be older than eight or ten years old.

“You’re not my dad!” The boy cries, trying to get out of the man’s grasp.

“Shit,” Peter whispers, “Shit, shit, shit.”

The physiological need now forgotten, the hero races to his closet while he’s hurriedly taking off his clothes, putting on his suit in record time, and keeping a close ear on the scary situation at hand.

Okay, save the kid, come back, save the kid, come back…

He knows he’s breaking his aunt’s trust - which is saying something considering he kept this identity from her for almost a year - but he can’t just sit here and study shit that’s already happened while a child is being kidnapped.

The boy hears the usual greetings from Karen after putting on the mask, looking out the window once more before sneaking out of it, climbing the last few stories so he can scope the situation from the rooftop. He hears the little boy yell out again, “Let go of me!” but the kidnapper keeps dragging him along, mumbling some shit that Peter doesn’t find relevant to comprehend.

The teen swings to the next building, following the kidnapper and the poor little kid. He tells his AI, “Karen, activate web grenades.”

“Web grenades activated,” she responds, her usual robotic manner sounding out of place given the circumstances.

The spiderling swings to a building ahead of the criminal and waits patiently from the rooftop, web shooter aimed at the guy.

Keep walking, keep walking…aaaaand YEET.

He presses the button and a whole net of web fluid goes flying, trapping the kidnapper and hitting him against the wall of a closed bank. Unfortunately, the kid’s left hand got caught up in it and stuck around the web as well.

And he starts wailing.

Peter webs his way over in seconds, ignoring any bullshit the criminal is shouting, and lands in front of the boy.

He starts speaking words of reassurances, keeping his voice as soft and non-threatening as possible, “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, I gotcha, you’re okay.” The teen whispers to his AI, “Karen, call the police.”

“Already in pursuit, Peter.”

“Thanks.” Peter uses his super strength to tear the boy’s hand free, applying a small amount of web fluid to keep the net intact. He kneels in front of the kid and asks, keeping his voice light, “Hey, I’m Spider-Man. Are you okay, did he hurt you?”

The boy sniffles, wiping away a few tears with his sleeve. He holds out his left hand as he says shakily, “Just m-my-my, my hand…he was, he was holding it too tight.”

The teenager sighs in relief, thanking God that nothing worse happened. He ignores his stomach’s occasional growls as he asks, “I’m sorry he hurt your hand, buddy. Do you know where your parents are?”

The boy hastily shakes his head, eyes widening in fear, “My-My mom, we were walking and-and there were all these people and, and I-I let go of Mommy’s hand but I didn’t mean to!” His panic increases the more he talks, “Someone, someone uh, someone bumped into me, it was an accident -”

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s not your fault, these things happen sometimes. So you got separated from your mom and that’s how you got lost?”

The little boy nods his head, wiping the last of his tears from his eyes, “And, and then, and then he,” he points to his attempted kidnapper, “Grabbed my hand and wanted to take me away.”

“He’s lying,” the offender says from the other side of the web net. Without even looking at the guy, Peter shoots a web at his face, successfully shutting him up.

The hero hears sirens in the distance and smiles from behind the mask, “The police are coming soon and they’re gonna help you find your mom, okay? Can you tell me your name?”

“J-Josh.”

“Well, Josh,” the teen holds out his fist as a police car turns the corner, “It was very nice to meet you.”

“Thanks, Spider-Man,” Josh smiles as he gives his hero a soft fist bump, biting his lip as he asks, “Can you stay until I find my mom?”

Another stomach growl escapes the spiderling but again, he pushes it down, “Of course, buddy.”

Law enforcement finally arrives and a female officer approaches the boy, taking his hand as the young genius stands up. His anxiety starts to rise as he starts to feel unexpectedly dizzy and he’s forced to put a hand on the wall to steady him.

Karen says into his ear, “Glucose levels decreasing rapidly, I suggest you seek appropriate nutrition or I can contact Mr. Stark -”

“No,” Peter commands, “Look, I’ll eat something after we find his mom, okay, just don’t tell Mr. Stark -”

“Are you talking to yourself?” Josh asks, turning around to look at the hero in confusion.

“Uh, just, um,” the other boy stutters, spinning around and again, having to use the wall to steady him, “Uh, Bluetooth.”

The little kid raises an eyebrow but simply shrugs and continues walking away, still holding the officer’s hand.

Peter uses his super strength to free the criminal and his mouth only for the guy to be arrested by two other officers. As they’re walking to a second police cruiser, the kid finds himself having to take short breaths and are his eyes deceiving him or is everything going suddenly blurry?

I thought my powers fixed my eyesight.

Karen again whispers in her owner’s ear, “Glucose levels are drastically low. Willing to contact Mr. Stark -”

“Please, Karen, no,” the spider-boy sharply whispers back, “I literally live here, I’ll eat something when I get back.”

“My concern isn’t when you’ll eat, but for if you can make it back at all. I have no choice -”

“Yes you do, don’t call him.”

Peter walks over to Josh, seeing his kidnapper being handcuffed and put in a car from the corner of his eye, albeit a blurry one, and says, “How you doing, little buddy?”

“Great! They found my mom, she called the police after I got lost and they’re bringing her here.”

Thank fuck.

“That’s great,” the hero says with as much energy as he can pull together, “I have to go now so you be safe, okay?”

“I’m never letting go of Mommy’s hand ever again.”

God, they’re so innocent.

“That’s good, good lesson,” Peter takes a couple more deep breaths as he stands up, ignoring the lightheadedness swirling in his brain, and with a friendly, “Have a good night”, he swings as fast as he can to his apartment.

Food, food, food, food, food…

The teenager sluggishly climbs back through his window and takes off his mask, swaying on his feet as his fingers start to shake. He starts to head over to the kitchen but grips onto the ladder of his bunk bed to let his vision catch up to him.

But then he looks at his bed.

His wonderful, heavenly, comfortable bed.

God, he’s so tired.

No, I gotta eat something.

However, he inches closer and closer to his bed, his world literally swirling around him in such a way that he’s amazed he can still stand up.

Maybe a little nap wouldn’t hurt.

He’ll just eat something when he wakes up.

No harm, no foul.

Peter then gets into position and starts to belly flop onto his bed.

I’ll just take a nap riiiiiiiight here -

He is out cold before his head even hits the pillow.

“Boss, Mr. Parker is in distress.”

Tony’s head snaps up from the TV, gaze going to the ceiling, “What happened? He’s not supposed to be Spider-Manning.”

“Sending Karen’s information to your phone now.”

The man’s phone vibrates on the end table barely a second later. He hurriedly grabs it, reading what’s on the screen.

“Peter Parker’s glucose levels are devastatingly low. His vitals indicate that he is suffering from malnutrition and needs to seek medical attention immediately -”

“FRIDAY, call a suit,” Tony exclaims as he’s getting off of the couch, waiting to hear the rest while on his way to his kid.

“Yes, boss.”

“Kid, what the fuck are you doing?” Tony mumbles as he’s racing to the lab. In no time but it feels like too much time, he punches in his code and walks into the room, instantly getting into his suit, “FRIDAY, read me the rest of what Karen sent, put Peter’s vitals up on the screen.”

“Yes, boss, tracking his location now.”

The hero is out and flying to the location on the GPS only to see that the destination is at…the Parkers’ apartment.

The kid isn’t out.

And Tony has no idea if that’s a good thing or not.

Now knowing where he’s going, he turns off the GPS, trying not to let any panic set in at the boy’s ever slowly decreasing levels.

Or at the open window leading into the kid’s bedroom.

The billionaire stops right outside the window, carefully slipping inside and lifting up his faceplate.

He sees the tyke out cold on the bottom bunk of his bed, his left hand gripping his mask and a small puddle of drool next to his mouth. Tony would’ve thought this was adorable if he wasn’t so worried.

The older man kneels next to his kid and gives him a slight nudge, “C’mon, Pete, it’s time to wake up.” He nudges him a little more.

And a little more.

Tony gets more desperate as his anxiety skyrockets, “Peter, this isn’t funny, c’mon, wake up, we gotta get your idiotic ass fed yesterday.”

But Peter makes no notion of any plans to get up. The only way his mentor knows he’s still alive is by his vitals FRIDAY is whispering to him and the boy’s back rising and falling to the tune of his breathing.

“Kid, you’re really about to make me fucking do this,” Tony says with a sigh, grabbing the teen’s mask and putting if over his head to hide his identity, “FRIDAY, alert medbay, tell ‘em we’re on our way.”

“Roger that, boss.”

The mechanic slips his nameplate back over his face as he picks up his kid, positioning him like a toddler and sitting him on his arm, cupping the boy’s head to keep it close to his neck, “Might need two beds if I get a fucking panic attack over this,” he mumbles.

“Roger that, boss,” FRIDAY responds, not noticing the sarcasm.

“I didn’t mean - whatever,” Tony turns on his repulsors so he’s now hovering over the floor and with one leg at a time, he oh so gently flies out the window, not even bothering to close it as his suit takes off at full speed, determined to get this kid some help before…

He refuses to think about the rest of that sentence.

The entire flight back to the tower, Tony keeps a tight grip on his kid, damn near smushing Peter’s head against his neck. The man says occasional words of reassurance even though he knows no one is listening, “You’re gonna be okay, kiddo, you understand me? You have to be okay so I can whoop your ass later.”

Honestly, he’s not sure if he's saying this more to the kid or to himself.

He has superpowers, of course everything’s gonna be okay.

Because I said so, damn it.

Peter comes to, finding himself in a hospital gown on an equally uncomfortable bed, a bunch of wires attached to his left hand and a remote on the table to his right, assuming to adjust the bed and TV.

“What?” He mutters, taking in his surroundings. The room is a standard size with a marker board stating the healthcare professionals’ names, a portable cart containing whatever necessities the patient and doctor might need, along with an attached bathroom and window with a view of New York City.

What the fuck am I doing here?

He shifts on his bed in an effort to sit up but he accidentally hits something with his right leg.

The spider-boy tilts his head in confusion only to gasp at the sight of his father figure sitting in a chair next to him, fast asleep with his head on his kid’s bed, resting it on his crossed arms.

Peter can’t help but smile at the sight of Iron Man snoring but that doesn’t answer his question. He looks back down at the wires on his hand and follows them up to an IV bag with the label “glucose.”

Wait, glucose?

Everything hits the hero like a sack of potatoes as his mind takes him back to the last thing he remembers: the hunger, the little boy, Karen constantly telling him about his levels…

Deciding to take a nap.

And he wakes up here.

“Shit…shit, shit, shit, shit.”

The teenager jumps as he hears random beeps on some machine to his right. He feels his heart racing with panic and his legs start restlessly jerking from underneath his thin blankets, thus accidentally waking up his mentor.

Tony’s head snaps up when he feels his arms being nudged for about the fifth damn time. After blinking out of his stupor, he puts his focus on his frightened kid, “Peter, hey, hey,” he grabs hold of the tyke’s right hand and gives it a heartfelt squeeze, “Kid, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re safe now -” he cuts himself off at noticing his words aren’t doing shit and his other hand goes the young genius’s shoulder, “Peter.”

The child stops abruptly, looking right at his hero. Said man gives him a reassuring smile and comfortingly rubs his shoulder to calm him, “You’re okay, buddy, take a breather.”

“Wha-what happened?” Peter asks between deep breaths, doing as his father figure says and trying to settle down, “Is May okay -”

“She’s fine,” Tony confirms, releasing his protege’s shoulder. He can feel the kid’s iron-grip in his hand and makes no move to let go, “She was here earlier but I made her go home for a bit and rest up. I’d rather there’d be one adult with a sore back than two.”

“Wait, how long was I out?”

“Well, considering it’s now,” the billionaire takes a brief look at his watch, “One PM, about fifteen hours, give or take. You had one hell of a nap, if I do say so myself.”

“That sounds like an amazing nap, I wish I savored it,” the teen replies, “But what happened?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Tony responds, face looking upset, “Why don’t you tell me why your levels were so low that I had to come get you in my damn suit and bring you back here?”

Peter sighs in frustration, “Glucose levels -”

“That’s right. When’s the last time you ate?”

“Um,” the spiderling starts, trying to be as vague as possible, “Dinner.”

Tony raises a confused eyebrow, “How much did you eat at dinner?”

“The normal amount,” Peter answers with a shrug.

Please don’t see through my bullshit.

“And you didn’t eat anything later on? You always have to eat something before bed.”

“I, uh,” the boy lets go of their grip, feeling his hand start to tremble uncontrollably. He brings it to his lap and puts it with his other hand under the covers, “Forgot.”

“You forgot to eat,” Tony says, face the epitome of unamused, “How do you forget to eat, your stomach practically screams at ya.”

“I just-I just did, okay, I’m sorry -”

“Oh really, you’re sorry? This ‘forgetfulness’ put you in the damn hospital, ‘sorry’ isn’t gonna cut it. I want you to tell me right now what the hell happened. Why did you let it get this bad?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Peter retorts, getting pissed at the man’s tone, “I didn’t want to end up like this, I thought I had it handled -”

“What handled, Peter?” At hearing no answer, the billionaire continues, “I already know about you Spider-Manning when you’re not supposed to -”

“It was one time! I couldn’t just let a kid get kidnapped cuz Spider-Man got grounded.”

Tony’s eyes soften at that, “Was that what happened last night?”

“Yeah, I heard it right outside the apartment building.” The teen’s voice lowers, “I was studying and I was about to get something to eat when I heard the kid scream, I-I couldn’t just let that happen. I was just gonna save the kid and come right back, I didn’t know it got that bad.”

“How hungry were you?”

“What?”

“How hungry were you?” The mechanic asks, repeating the question, “‘Cuz if you were just hungry, your levels wouldn’t’ve gotten that low. Kid, you were way past starving.”

The kid looks down in shame, feeling his cheeks heat up and he can only imagine how red they must look.

Tony then asks, trying to keep his tone as gentle as he can, “What is it that you’re so afraid to tell me, Peter?”

Peter looks up at him with sad eyes, biting his lip.

Fuck, he’s seeing through my bullshit.

Seeing no chance at a loophole, he knows he has to bite the bullet…but how does he go about telling billionaire Tony Stark that he’s not eating because his aunt can’t afford more food?

Said man asks, keeping his same tone, “Why are you not eating?”

“I am eating -”

“But clearly not enough, why? When you’re with me, you eat ‘til the cows come home - oh shit,” Tony cuts himself off, covering his mouth as his eyes widen in fear.

Peter’s eyes narrow in utmost confusion, “What, what is it?”

“You’re not eating as much as you should,” the older genius mumbles, trying to piece all this together, “And you pig out when you’re here.” He turns to his kid, sporting a scared expression, “Do you throw it all up later?”

That makes the other’s skin prickle into goosebumps, his own eyes bugging out, “What?!”

“It all makes sense now,” Tony states, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms in concentration, “You eat like a horse when you’re with me, but I just brought you here because you’re not eating enough at your place. You already threw it up when you saved that kid, didn’t you -”

“Oh my God!” Peter shouts, the insinuation sinking in, “You think I have an eating disorder?”

“What the hell else is it, Peter? No wonder you were scared to tell me -”

“No, Mr. Stark, it’s not that, I promise it’s not that.” The kid swallows a lump in his throat as he briefly purses his lips, finally giving in, “You don’t understand.”

“Try me -”

“I’m serious, you won’t.” Peter props his elbows on his knees above the covers, putting his head in his hands, “And I don’t expect you to understand.”

Tony leans forward, crossing his arms next to Peter’s outer thigh, his face unreadable, “Then make me understand,” he says slowly.

After a long deep sigh, the boy finally spits it out, head still in his hands, “I don’t get enough to eat.”

“What?”

Peter lifts his head up, resting his hands in his lap, “I don’t get enough to eat. At home, I mean.”

“May doesn’t feed you enough -”

“No, she does, it’s not May’s fault. She feeds me enough food…for if I didn’t have powers.”

It takes a few seconds but the hypothetical lightbulb goes off over the man’s head, “May doesn’t know you have to eat more.”

The spider-boy silently nods his head.

Tony asks, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

The tyke’s shoulders slump with dread. The guy who can buy fucking Google is about to hear his stupid working-class money troubles.

He then says, eyes looking everywhere but at his mentor, “‘Cuz she can’t afford it.”

“Wait, what?”

“She can’t afford it. I don’t know how she manages to buy enough for if I was just a normal human being, with all the bills and her loans and everything. She can’t buy more food for me, Mr. Stark. I’d love to get a job and help her out but I’m only fifteen -”

“Stop, stop right there,” Tony cuts him off, looking even more confused than he was earlier, “That’s what this is about? You don’t want her to buy more food?”

Peter looks up at the older man, looking offended, “It’s not that, I’d love for her to buy more food but she can’t. I’ve seen the bills when she thinks I’m not looking, or her student loans she’s behind on. God, if it wasn’t for my scholarship I wouldn’t even be going to Midtown ‘cuz we can’t afford it.” His voice lowers as humiliation sets in, “Which is why I have to get my history grade up.” His eyes grow to the size of his head, “Oh my God, my test is today -”

“Don’t worry about it, I called the school this morning, you can make it up next week.”

“Next week? But it’s Thursday -”

“Yeah, you’re gonna need more than one day to recuperate after all of this,” Tony says, slightly annoyed, “Why didn’t you tell me you guys are having money issues, I can help you out -”

Peter cuts him off with a humorless laugh, “You really think that’s gonna solve everything?”

“If it means to get you to eat more, it absolutely will,” the billionaire responds, raising his voice in offense.

“I knew you wouldn’t get it -”

“Then make me get it, for God’s sakes, you need money and I can give it to you -”

“We’re not a charity case, don’t you understand?” The child exclaims, “We’re doing fine, we don’t need help -”

“Doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing -”

“But we are!” Peter sighs deeply in frustration, “You’re not the first person to offer us money, okay? You don’t know how it feels.”

“How what feels?”

“For someone to try and help you out by giving you money. It sounds great on paper but you’ve never had someone give you this-this ‘look’ of pity that makes you feel this big,” Peter shapes his thumb and index finger into the shape of a “C”, with both fingertips almost touching, “All because you’re not making that much money. I just, I don’t wanna put Aunt May through that again. She’s proud of what she does, she loves what she does, she loves helping people. I don’t want anyone belittling her again.”

That makes Tony pause.

While yes, no shit he knows the vast majority of people don’t have his kind of money but most of the people in his life over the years only hung out with him because of his money. He’s never thought about the opposite end of that coin, how someone is proud of making a living, especially being in a profession that they love.

And that as long as they can provide for them and their family, they don’t need to be a billionaire to be happy.

“You really love May, don’t you?” Tony finally asks, a proud smile spreading across his face.

“More than anything,” his protege says with a nod of his head, “So please don’t tell her -”

“You know I can’t do that -”

“Please -”

“No, Pete, while your intentions are good, I can’t let you keep starving yourself like this. Who knows what would’ve happened if you weren’t in your suit, if I didn’t get that notification from Karen.” The older hero grabs hold of his mentee’s hand again, “Hey look at me.”

Peter reluctantly looks up at his father figure, his shame slowly but surely ebbing away.

Tony gently his thumb over the tyke’s knuckles, giving him a reassuring smile, “You deserve to eat. We’re gonna tell May and we’re gonna figure this out, okay?”

An unexpected third voice erupts from the doorway, “Tell May what?”

Both heroes’ heads snap to the front to see the woman herself walk in, closing the door behind her. She immediately rushes to the other side of her kid, giving him a hug, “How you doing, sweetie, you gave us quite a scare there.”

Peter hugs her back letting go of Tony’s hand, “I’m better now, thanks to Mr. Stark.”

“It’s nothing, bud,” the mechanic says, comfortingly rubbing the tyke’s knee, “I’m just glad I can help.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Tony,” May says when they separate, sitting down in her own chair opposite the older man, “I know I said that like a million times, but really, I owe you one -”

“You don’t owe me a thing, not where the kid is concerned.” Tony turns to his intern, “But you actually came at the perfect time ‘cuz Pete here has something he’s gotta tell you.”

“Oh?” May turns to her nephew, grabbing hold of his left hand, being mindful of the wires connected to him, “Is it about what happened, I’ve been dying to know.”

“Yeah,” Peter replies, defeatedly, “I’m sorry I went out as Spider-Man but I had a good reason.”

“We’ll talk about that later, I’m just glad you’re okay. What happened, sweetie, you’ve been eating just like you always have, what was the problem?”

“That’s the thing, May,” the boy starts, scratching the back of his neck, “There’s something I didn’t tell you about me after I got my powers.” He doesn’t wait for her response, “I have to eat more than I used to to keep up with them. I have I guess what you call an ‘enhanced metabolism’, meaning I have to eat more than everyone else.”

The nurse’s eyes squint in confusion before her eyebrows raise as everything sets in, “Oh my God,” she says, leaning back in her chair and hand covering her face, not unlike what Tony did earlier, “So all this time you were starving yourself?”

“Well -”

“Why, Peter?! Why the hell would you do that?”

“‘Cuz I know you wouldn’t be able to afford it, okay?” Peter cries, “I didn’t want you to struggle any more than you already do -”

“Stop,” May cuts him off with another hug, her eyes glistening with unshed tears behind her glasses, “Stop, baby, stop.” She lets go and looks right in his eyes, “Don’t ever pull that shit with me again, you understand?”

Peter nods his head, letting a small grin escape him at hearing a muffled snicker from Tony, “I promise. Um,” he takes a deep breath as his aunt settles back into her chair, “It’s also why my history grade is as bad as it is.”

“What?” Both adults ask at the same time.

“Uh,” the teen starts, fidgeting with his top blanket, “So the free lunch I get at school doesn’t fill me up obviously and Ned sometimes brings extra food and that helps…for a while.”

“I know where this is going,” he hears Tony mumble.

“Yeah, and history is my last class of the day so by the time that comes around, I’m really, really hungry so I have a hard time concentrating. In my defense though, it’s boring as shit.”

Both adults can’t help but giggle, “Yeah, history wasn’t my strong suit either,” Tony says, coming to his kid’s defense.

“Peter, this is why you need to tell me things,” May says, “You still understand why I punished you, though -”

“Yeah, even though I hated it. Is Spider-Man ungrounded now?”

“You get rested up and eat for once and we’ll talk.”

“Deal,” the kid confirms with a grunt.

As if on cue, his stomach releases an ever so slight gurgle. As much as the IV bag has helped, he needs actual food sustenance.

Tony says, pressing the button to call a nurse, “And on that note, let’s get you patched up and we’ll order in, how ‘bout that?”

May cuts in, “And you can have allll the orange chicken your tummy desires.”

Peter gives them both a timid smile, wincing as another growl rolls in his abdomen, “That sounds amazing.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m a failure.”

“Kid, you know you’re not, it’s just a few dates and inventions.”

“You make the Industrial Revolution sound like it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

It is now the following week, the day before Peter’s makeup history test, and the father-son duo are in the lab after school. Instead of actually working on anything, Tony is helping his kid study.

If only he can get Peter to put the material in that hard head of his.

“You get into that mindset, and it will be the easiest thing in the world, bud.”

“Easy for you to say,” Peter whines, “Your scholarship’s not riding on this.”

Aw, how cute that he thinks I won’t help him out.

“Forget about the scholarship, you’re already stressed as it is. Focus on the triple cheeseburger you’re gonna get after this thing is finally over.”

“The two triple cheeseburgers,” the kid shyly elaborates.

Ever since the tyke dropped that bombshell about him freaking starving himself, things have changed. For one, May - refusing Tony’s help - is buying more groceries and always makes sure her kid gets a lunch in addition to the free one that’s available. Whenever Peter stays with his father figure, things stay the same except now when Tony makes dinner, he purposely makes more for leftovers.

And now, the man is about to present his kid with another way to help him out.

“Pete, I think your brain might actually explode, let’s take a break for a sec, huh?”

After releasing a long, dramatic sigh, Peter drops his pencil, “Y’know what? Fuck history.”

Tony can’t help but bust out laughing, “Kid, you know why you have to learn it, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but it’s not like I’m gonna be a historian or anything.” The teen gets up and walks over to where his father figure is standing, “Whatcha wanna work on?”

“Actually, I want you to do this for me first.” The billionaire takes a folded piece of paper out of his jeans pocket and unravels it, holding it out to his protege, “I want you to sign right here, and initial here.” He points to the designated areas where a signature is required as the teen takes the document, reading what it says in confusion before his eyes widen in shock.

“You’re…you wanna make my internship a paid internship?” Peter asks, not believing what he’s seeing, “And May already signed it?”

“Yup, you’re not eighteen so I needed May’s approval. So,” Tony casually leans against the table, holding out a pen for the kid, “What d’ya say?”

“I-I,” the teen stutters, his gaze not leaving the sheet of paper, “But like it’s not actually an internship, that’s just a front -”

“Really? You think all the stuff you do around here is just a front?” The older genius asks with a cheeky smile, “Making up web fluid and all the repairs you help me do, I should’ve done this a long time ago if I’m being honest.”

Peter looks long and hard at the writing in front of him, occasionally glancing back and forth at both that and the man who put it together.

He’s not stupid, the kid knows why his mentor is bringing this to his attention.

And he’s grateful.

Tony could’ve tried offering money again, making him feel like a loser even though he didn’t mean it in that way.

But no, Iron Man is offering him a job, a job where he can continue doing what he loves while he helps out his aunt in the process.

He can feel accomplished…proud even.

A smile breaks out across the teen’s face as he takes everything in, thinking about what he can do with the money he’s going to make in addition to helping May: saving up for college, a car, and ooh that Nintendo Switch he’s been dying to have -”

His thoughts are interrupted by Tony clearing his throat, snapping him back to reality, “My arm’s getting tired here, kiddo, you in or not?” The man asks.

Peter takes the pen and lays the sheet on the table, signing on the dotted lines before giving it back to him, “Um, th-thank you, thank you, Mr. Stark, you’re amazing.” He concludes with giving him a hug, wrapping his arms around his hero’s torso thus making the older man gasp in surprise.

“Well, I already knew that,” Tony says jokingly, giving the tyke a light ruffle of his hair, “But it sounds so much better when you say it. You’re the amazing one, don’t doubt that.”

“Tell that to my history book.”

“Speaking of,” the mechanic starts with a snicker, “The Second Industrial Revolution -”

Peter cuts him off with a groan, defeatedly resting his head on the other’s chest, “You said I could take a break -”

“Yeah, for a sec.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“But you ‘needa’, c’mon, back to studying.” Tony lifts his mentee’s head and lightly pushes him back to the direction of his textbook, “So, who invented the telephone?”

“Uh, ‘Mr. Telephone’? He probably used his last name when he invented it.”

Tony lets out about the deepest sigh he’s ever expressed, “So this is how my hair goes gray.”

The following week, it is an ordinary day at the Parkers’ residence. May is preparing dinner while her nephew - who is still feeling satisfied from his after-school snack - is at the counter working on homework, trying not to stare so much at his history test that his aunt stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.

But damn, he’ll never get tired of seeing that shiny red “B-plus.”

There is a sudden knock at the door, making both Parkers tense up since they’re not expecting anybody.

May opens the door with her kid standing off to the side. On the other side stands a middle-aged man holding a clipboard with about half a dozen bags on the ground around him.

Are Peter’s eyes mistaken or do those bags look like the reusable ones grocery stores sell?

“Ms. Parker?” The man asks, voice neutral but friendly.

“Uh, yes?” May reluctantly responds, looking the epitome of confused.

“I got your groceries here for ya.”

“What, um I didn’t order anything, Peter, did you?” The nurse turns to her kid who responds with a simple shake of his head, his expression matching his aunt’s.

The man’s eyes squint at the small clipboard he’s holding, “Isn’t this your address, ma’am?” He holds the clipboard out to the older Parker and she studies the sheet for a couple of seconds, eyes looking more and more baffled.

“Uh…yeah, yeah that’s us but-but I don’t understand -”

“No need to explain, I’m just the messenger. If you would just sign right here, saying you received your items -”

“Sir, with all due respect, I’m not paying for something I didn’t order.”

“Don’t worry about it, that’s all taken care of. All I need from you is your signature.”

“Uh,” May stutters, shoulders slumping in defeat, “Okay, sure.” She signs the paper and gives it back to him.

“Do you need assistance with the groceries today?”

“No, we got it from here, uh, thank you, thank you very much.”

“Alright, have a good day,” the delivery man then leaves them be. They pick up the grocery bags and bring them inside, quickly going through them as if it’s Christmas.

They gawk at the food items in front of them: steak, salmon, lobster, there’s even veal and duck amongst a pile of vegetables, some of which they’ve never even seen before.

“Where did all of this come from?” Peter asks, amazed at all that “Santa Claus” has graced them with.

“Wait, there’s a note.” May reaches the bottom of one of the bags and pulls out a mini note card that could mimic one that goes in a flower arrangement. She then reads aloud the brief message.

This is what you get for refusing help. Expect groceries every Monday and Thursday for the next, well, ever.

Signed, “You Know Who I Am” -

“Mr. Stark,” Peter finishes with a disbelieving grin, “Of course he did this.”

May can’t help but laugh, not believing this herself as she gets out her phone, “I’m giving this man a piece of my mind.”

Her nephew giggles in response, already getting out his own phone and sending his father figure a text.

Thanks for the groceries but you reeeeeally didn’t have to do that

Tony responds not even a minute later.

I know 😉

Now for God’s sakes EAT!!

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gutrage-archive · 4 years

Text

a list of logan’s mutations. this is by no means comprehensive, and may be edited/updated as i remember more or infer more.

primary mutations: ‘wolverine claws’ -- he’s the father of this trope, yknow. six claws, three on either hand between the dips in the knuckles, discounting the thumbs, made of bone and about a foot long, if not a little longer. they are plated in adamantium and deadly sharp & practically unbreakable due to the metal. two on his feet in the same place that laura possesses them, however, unlike laura, logan has no conscious control over these and only possesses them because he is afab.

healing factor -- logan possesses a hyperadvanced regenerative factor that allows him to regenerate practically from a single atom. he has, in the past, regenerated from droplets of blood alone.

secondary mutations: super strength -- logan is incredibly strong, and is known to be able to lift up to two tons, so far. (i’m not sure where the wiki gets ‘briefly over 800 lbs’; it is 2 tons.) his adamantium skeleton also allows him to withstand much more physical pressure, considering adamantium is one of the hardest substances in the 616.

super speed -- logan is incredibly fast, to the point that peter parker at first thought that logan was faster than him, and logan is capable of blitzing armed individuals before they can fire on him. he keeps up with peter parker with ease.

animal empathy -- logan is capable of understanding and communicating with animals. its unclear exactly how, if it is a mental link or if he can merely speak to them and they understand him (the latter is proven to be true, at least, with zabu), but he can bond with and befriend animals.

super senses --------

super taste: logan’s sense of taste is far more developed than the average humans, allowing him to discern more individual particles and compounds in food, drinks, and even on the air if he smells it.

super smelling: logan has been observed to be capable of discerning smells from over two miles away.

super hearing: his hearing is almost on par with daredevil, if slightly less developed.

super touch: logan’s sense of touch is also advanced, giving him greater sensitivity to air direction and temperature differentials. (i.e. he is able to sense scott’s incoming power beam based on the shift in air pressure that precedes its arrival.)

super sight: unknown to what extent (how far logan can see), but greatly overdeveloped. logan has claimed he can function in the dark as well as the daylight, which leads me to headcanon he possesses a tapetum lucidum.

super stamina: as part of his healing factor, logan possesses superhuman stamina that renders him at least partially immune to fatigue created by physical exertion, and has a much greater wealth of endurance vs. a normal human. its been described as “metahuman”.

misc: logan is capable of withstanding symbiosis with venom and other symbiote organisms, summoning and harnessing chi when endowed with it by a magical being, withstanding the phoenix (though as all who are not its natural hosts, he inevitably becomes dark phoenix as well), and can have his claws altered by enchantments should another wish to enchant them.

talents and abilities: tracking and hunting -- logan is an incredibly skilled tracker, using a combination of his enhanced senses and natural skill. he is considered one of the best trackers in the world.

mechanics and computers. logan is a talented mechanic and can repair and improve numerous forms of vehicles and other items, as well as being an accomplished pilot, and being trained in the use of numerous computer systems.

gifted level of intelligence. his mind has been described as being in a high stress environment simultaneously playing several different games of chess against a supercomputer and winning.

expert assassin. to the point that he’s often called upon to lead

master martial artist, and is trained in 12-15 forms of combat; is a known teacher of numerous other marvel characters and mutants, including the black widow, rogue, shadowcat, coossus, primal, and others. he is considered by sheer technique and ability alone of the best physical fighters in the marvel universe, on par at least with iron fist, black panther, and elektra.

weapon expert: though logan doesnt like to use guns, he is a model practitioner with various forms of physical combat, including staves, knives, swords, explosives, and, yes, guns, given his history as a soldier, mercenary, and samurai.

multilingual. logan speaks fluent japanese, english, russian, mandarin, cheyenne, lakota, spanish, and krakoan. he is also semi fluent in french, german, thai, vietnamese, and farsi.

infiltration. logan is an amazing infiltrator and practitioner of espionage. he’s former CIA.

weaknesses? drowning and repeated suffocation, as well as sensory overload. (electricity is also a weakness if it is constantly run through him, as it will be enough usually to stop him--but the instant its stopped, he’s back up.)

uhh.. magneto, also.

#HEADCANON.#i dont think ive ever written a full list but here we go

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queen-parasoul · 4 years

Text

Burnout

Summary: All Samson had wanted was to jump on a motorcycle, ride out into the middle of nowhere, and have a life of his own. But like everything with the Medicis, things could never be so simple.

Characters: Samson, Filia, Vitale

Genre: Family/friendship

Author’s Note: This is a fully human AU with no supernatural elements like the Skull Heart.

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There were names for this place on a roadmap. For good reason, “No Man’s Land” was the one that stuck.

A line through a tan blotch on a map did little justice to the scope of the warm arid expanse. Dust and sparse vegetation spread for miles, split by a seemingly endless road. Any rise in elevation rested along mountain ranges barely visible in the shade of night. During the day, the heat could be unbearable, but on nights like tonight the air was pleasantly cool, the sky above cut by the moon and hundreds of stars.

Contrary to popular belief, there were a few dots of civilization around this wasteland. The largest was a modest town, though quiet at this hour. The loudest signs of life came from its outskirts, a dive bar just off the road, parking lot lined with cars and motorcycles illuminated by streetlamps light.

Only people with simple needs or without a future would live out here, and on a Saturday night, this place was full of them. Muffled music played within the walls, briefly leaking out as the front door squeaked open and a brick wall of a man skulked outside.

He looked half like a greaser, in a leather jacket along with a white tank top, jeans and boots. His black hair, styled into a pompadour, led into sideburns then a short scruffy beard, all framing a strong tired face. Before the door slammed shut, he gave a short wave behind him to the patrons inside casting friendly insults and wishing him a good night.

Sober enough to drive, fatigued enough to sleep as soon as he got home. An uneventful end to a Saturday, but a good one in his book.

Walking up to a motorcycle parked in the front lot, he dug through his pockets for his keys when a meek voice addressed him.

“Um, excuse me?”

He looked over his shoulder to find a teenage girl approaching. People around here could be clean-cut, but she stood out, wearing a fresh-pressed button-up blouse and a pleated skirt with a headband pushing back her long blonde hair. He couldn’t help but eye the purse over her shoulder, a designer brand if he wasn’t mistaken. Her face was full of nervous curiosity as she craned her neck a little to look him in the eye.

“Are you Samson?” She asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“…Me?”

That should have sounded like an insult, but her tone showed no indication. He had nowhere pressing to be, so he humored her.

“Yeah, I’m Samson.”

She sighed in relief. “Oh, thank goodness! I thought I’d never find you.”

“You’ve been looking for me?”

“Well yeah, you’re the reason I’m here, after all.”

“Really.” He’d never been called out so politely in a parking lot before. “What for?”

“Well, I thought you’d be at your house, but no one answered, so I came here.”

So she knew where he lived, and when no one was home her first instinct was to check the only bar in town. Either she knew him or just knew what to expect from people who lived around here.

“I get why you’re here, but why were you looking for me in the first place?”

“Well, where else am I supposed to-” She suddenly frowned, “Wait…do you recognize me?”

“Nope.”

Her eyes threatened to mist over, and he didn’t want to stick around for the misplaced waterworks.

“Look, you got the wrong guy.” He started to walk away. “Do yourself a favor and go somewhere worth being.”

Her voice suddenly spiked in frustration. “Samson, it’s me! Filia!”

He froze. Now there was a name.

Memories came rushing back, and as he looked her over again, her features started to fade into familiarity. While her light hair was her mother’s, the dark hue of her eyes was unfortunately like his. The voice was familiar too, if half a pitch lower. The polite demeanor had thrown him off, but if he pictured her a little shorter, with a smug look on her face…

“No way.” He muttered. “Filia?”

The next second, her arms were wrapped around him. “You do remember me!”

He glanced around the parking lot, making sure no one was witness to this awkward encounter then slowly pushed her an arm’s length away. She seemed completely oblivious to his discomfort, smiling ear to ear.

“I can’t believe you got so tall.” She marveled. “And you grew a beard!”

“Yeah, you, uh…you got pretty tall too.” He mustered in reply, still bewildered.

“It’s so good to see you again. I had heard you left the city, but I had no idea you were all the way out here!”

“Well, I wanted a change of pace from New Meridian, and this is where I ended up.” He refocused on the matter at hand. “But never mind that, what are you doing here?”

“Didn’t my Dad tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

They both fell quiet as he waited for an answer. His gaze on her narrowed, and she smiled nervously, searching for the gentlest explanation. Just when he started to feel the rush of an incoming bombshell, she finally spoke up.

“So…” She tapped her fingers together, “Funny story.”

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“Put him on the phone, Vitale.”

“He’s not here.”

“Like Hell he’s not there!”

Samson banged against the wall of an aged phone booth that stood at the edge of the lot, its interior lit by a single flickering lightbulb. It was functional, but the scratched glass struggled to contain both his wild gestures and shouts into the receiver.

“You gotta be kidding me! I haven’t seen him in five years, and he sends me his kid?! He could’ve given me a heads-up at least!”

“You didn’t leave a phone number, Samson.”

He wasn’t about to admit Vitale was right. “Well you still managed to figure out where I was.”

“Marcus already knows where you live. Apparently, he had your address.”

“Yeah, I sent it to him a while ago in case he found any important stuff I missed when I was packing. Guess I forgot to send it to you too.”

Vitale’s voice twitched in annoyance. “How…thoughtful. And yet you didn’t think to send a new phone number?”

“Not important.” Samson diverted. “I don’t even know how you got her out here. I’m surprised she didn’t get kidnapped.”

He glanced over his shoulder. Thankfully, she was still sitting on the curb, patiently sipping a bottle of water.

“We did our best,” Vitale responded, “And she’s a little more capable than she looks. That said, hopefully she’ll be safer in your care.”

“And what am I supposed to do with her, huh? I don’t have any room for her at my place, and I don’t have time to babysit either.”

“She’s sixteen.”

He threw his hands in the air. “Whatever! I haven’t seen her since she was what, ten? I didn’t even recognize her at first, since she’s so…nice. Did she hit her head or somethin’?”

“She grew out of her bad habits, Samson. Most people do that, unlike you.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did you even convince Marcus to do this?”

“It was his idea. And it’s more like he wouldn’t be doing this if we had any other choice. Not to mention you owe us after all the trouble you caused before you ran off on us, and after that for that matter. Your departure and little spats with Leviathan came up when we were trying to make peace with the Contiellos, and it did not make us look good.”

“Yeah, well-” He paused and leaned against the phone booth wall. “Wait, what happened with the Contiellos?”

“That’s…not important. The point is, Filia’s there now and she needs somewhere to stay. You don’t even have to bring her home. Once everything has calmed down, I’ll send Cassandra to come pick her up.”

“Oh yeah, Bella!” He snapped his fingers. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s…fine.”

“Good to hear. I guess you’ve been keeping her busy as your little errand girl.”

Samson heard a satisfying sigh from the other side of the line.

“I understand this is inconvenient,” Vitale admitted, “But Filia isn’t safe here right now.”

“Why not?”

“She just isn’t. That’s why Marcus is trusting you with this. Like it or not, he’s doing what’s best for his child.”

“And what would you know about that?”

The air held still on both ends of the line. Samson wasn’t keen on opening old wounds, but Vitale brought out the worst in him. He decided to bite his tongue, and only act defensively, and luckily when Vitale spoke, he chose to resist too.

“Alright, just…listen. You don’t like this. Neither do I or your grandfather or even Marcus and Amelia. But you’re the only one of us who’s left New Meridian, and if anyone still thinks you’re part of the family, they don’t know where you are. You aren’t in danger so long as you’re out there and neither is she. Trust me just this once when I say we have no other option.”

Samson leaned an arm against the glass and stared out at Filia. The longer he did, the clearer his dusty memories became.

“She’s family, Samson. Surely that still means something to you.”

He ran every grating scene of his old home through his head. Every passive-aggressive jab, every pinch of pressure to be someone different, every tireless complaint from every branch of his family tree.

“Fine.” He relented. “But no guarantee she won’t be a heavy drinker by the time she gets back.”

“I guess that’s as much as I can ask for.”

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Filia had just finished her water bottle when Samson returned, an exasperated look still plastered to his face.

“Is everything okay?” She asked.

“Yeah.” It wasn’t, but he rummaged through his motorcycle’s side bag and tossed her his helmet anyway. “We’re gonna head back to my place. You ever ridden one of these before?”

“Nope.”

Of course she hadn’t. With Vitale’s iron fist, it was a miracle he had even touched one when he was sixteen. “Just get on and don’t let go of me once we get going.”

She took a seat sidesaddle on the bike while he started throwing her belongings into the side bag, surprised by how little she had brought for someone living the high life. Knowing the family, he assumed they had just thrown her a few weeks’ allowance instead to save space. (Still more than Samson’s rent, he also assumed.)

“My place is no Medici Tower, but it’s decent.” He continued. “You’re gonna have to sleep on the couch though.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind. Do you live alone?”

“No, I got a roommate and a dog.”

“Oh…okay.”

And of course she didn’t like dogs. She called them “slobber factories” back in the day, and no matter how different she was now, he could tell that hadn’t changed.

“Well, at least you’ll like my roommate. She’ll be around tomorrow, maybe she can help you get settled in.”

Filia’s eyes twinkled. “‘She’?”

The implication flew high over his head. “Yeah, a friend of mine. We ran into each other a few years back.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s…nice.”

‘Nice’. As if she wasn’t going to laugh herself to death when he explained this in the morning. But she wouldn’t be his best friend if she couldn’t be as much of an ass as he was.

Shooing her further back on the seat, he took his place in front and turned the keys in the ignition. The rumble of the engine brought some ease to his anxiety. He couldn’t even begin to think about this whole mess in the long-term. What he needed was a short ride and a good night’s sleep. He’d figure out where to fit her into his life tomorrow.

His mind couldn’t help but wander back to New Meridian. Just from Vitale, he could tell things weren’t perfect with the family. They took a real risk sending Filia out here even if Marcus did trust Samson more than anyone else in the family did.

As much as he tried not to be, he was worried. Vitale, Lorenzo, and all their goons could take a long walk off a short pier for all he cared, but Marcus and Amelia were good people. Not to mention Cerebella – sorry, Cassandra, a fine name even if Vitale acted like he owned it – was still under Vitale’s thumb, probably promoted from doing chores to dirty work that, worst case scenario, could get her hurt.

Funny how Vitale cared more about the precious heiress than he did his own kids. Samson hoped to high heaven it would come back to bite him in the ass.

For the first time in years, a malicious spark lit up in Samson’s eyes.

Maybe there was a silver lining here, more than just another friendly face and at least one housemate who wouldn’t steal his leftovers. There were ways to twist this in his favor, a little more compensation or one final jab for old times’ sake. He’d have to be careful to keep the innocent out of his line of fire, but if he aimed for the right targets….

He had given up on that life a long time ago, and he’d sworn that all the money in the world couldn’t drag him back into it. Even so, that didn’t stop a devious smile from emerging on his face.

He was still a Medici after all, right? And all that was left of that legacy for him now was the spite in his blood.

“Samson?”

He snapped out of his thoughts. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for letting me stay with you. I know it’s pretty sudden and everything.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“And…I was pretty young when you left, and I know we weren’t the closest,” She hugged Samson so genuinely that he could feel his skin crawl, “But it’s nice to see you again.”

He took a deep strained breath then slowly exhaled. “Damn you, Vitale.”

“Hm?”

“Nothin’.”

He revved the engine and sped off with his cousin into the night, praying to whatever higher power that was listening that there was still booze at home.

#skullgirls #samson #filia #fanfiction archive #this one has been on the backburner for MONTHS #i'm really proud of it though #also tried to clean up the format with that little descriptor at the beginning

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flyswhumpcenter · 5 years

Text

Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me I give myself self-indulgent requests according to this marvelous card!

The last thing I expect going into this bingo was to end with an Arc-V fanfiction of all things, but those things happen, sometimes... It was a fun one to write, even if I’m sure I got either of the characters right. Writing fanfiction is hard guyze.

I’m later going to make a retrospect on my BTHB experience and fills in a video, so I won’t go into too much detail on the background being this one, just that I just find Peregrineship to be really neat and I wish we got more of it in the actual show.

(yes, my title is garbage, I know that. my brain just froze trying to find one.)

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Time Is Pouring Out

Summary: An unlikely duo of lone wolves find themselves split from their group of friends in the ruins of a desolated city. Of course it had to go wrong somewhere and get one of them injured, but stubborn; because they're both stubborn, but one of them is more of a fool than the other.

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Arc-V (canon divergence: see AO3 notes) Ships: Peregrineshipping (Serena/Shun, pre-rel, can be considered as platonic)

Wordcount: 2.8K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

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“You… You’re a fool, Kurosaki.”

Serena didn’t even look up as she told her fellow Lancer so, her hands busy disinfecting small wounds and applying bandages around the cuts he had gotten from duelling Academia students. Not that he was any happier about having to be bandaged up on the go than she was: they were searching for the “Duel Sanctuary” the Resistance had taken shelter in and that Allen and Sayaka had told them about before they had all gotten split up, it was costing them time and, frankly, getting scolded wasn’t a part of his passions. He had essentially duelled these guys because they wanted to abduct her, he’d have thought she’d have been happy about that.

“I’ve told you not to barge into action like that several times already, do you even listen to me?” she continued as if she hadn’t gotten the urge to fistfight her own former alliance before realizing it was going to be hopeless. “Look at where that got you.”

He didn’t respond, preferring to grit through his teeth as she applied antiseptics on his cuts and focus on where exactly he had been hit (mostly his sides), before getting up again and zipping back his coat close. They were losing time, they both knew that, but she had thought patching up some little cuts was important enough to waste that precious time. They needed to meet back with the others before a catastrophe could happened. After all, the ruins of Heartland could have been hiding all kinds of direct threats to them, he knew that well, but she didn’t know what kind of threats exactly. At least, not yet.

“Just be careful, next time,” she told him as she got to her feet. “I don’t have that many bandages on me.”

They exchanged a smug smile.

“Will do. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. I, at least, owe you that.”

They resumed their walking, gazes looking around for their comrades, their footsteps echoing in the deafening silence of death and past destruction. As their eyes kept admitting all there was, was the ever-lasting void of an annihilated city, Shun wondered what exactly had made him trust Serena, who clearly had once been the enemy (and hadn’t hidden that fact to what her faction would have called “Xyz scum”), enough to let her patch up some small cuts.

In a way, she had been lucky that the eerie calm of their situation had made it so he had allowed her to wrap some cloth bandages she had on her (“Academia taught us to patch ourselves up if we ever got injured, so I’ve always had some first-aid stuff on me,” she had told him as he had been opening up his coat). Maybe the sheer absurdity of bandaging someone in a physical representation of what desolation felt like had made it so being a prude had no value anymore, no shame to expose one’s skin to someone else.

And, to be fair, he did trust Serena like he trusted the other Lancers, if not more. She had helped him escape when he had broken a rib: it wasn’t even like she hadn’t seen him when he was vulnerable and left wide open for any potential assailant. Moreover, as far as he knew, things hadn’t changed in that regard between them for her to suddenly want to do the opposite way around: they still were allies and, dared he thought it, friends, despite all odds and the warfare going on. They had to stick together until they reunited with the others anyway: better make the best of it.

“Was it always this silent, before you left for Standard?”

“No. They must have left the city once the Resistance moved bases.”

“…I see.”

Silence again. Neither of them was good at small talk and, considering the current atmosphere, they more than likely didn’t know what to tell each other about either. Looking around for danger was already enough of a distraction.

It wasn’t like either of them wasn’t entirely focused on the mission at hand either. They were the kind to think of the objective and only the objective, which made their tandem surprisingly work despite the former rift between them. Their goal: finding the others, reunite the Resistance, get Kaito back into it and help the survivors fend off against Academia. Nothing else mattered, really, as long as they were aware and able to walk.

Yet, something was off about the situation. Serena could just feel something strange, a something she couldn’t describe in words: a feeling of something about to go wrong, or already going wrong. It wasn’t exactly unfamiliar, but she wasn’t used to it either, like a distant thing she had used to feel before forgetting all about it years ago. Maybe it was just the smell in the air, akin to rust and blood, of dust and, in a way, death. Academia had been made out of monsters all along, and she had contributed to it… The horrors of Heartland kept clutching at her heart, reminding her of the actions and ideology she had once defended.

As she didn’t know the city, Serena was walking behind Kurosaki, who always made sure to signal her when they’d turn around a corner by putting his arm in front of her. She didn’t need protection, as she could perfectly fend off for herself; but her reason told her not to risk getting lost in the ruins and, as such, to tolerate it. Perhaps he was simply trying to pretend like she was his lost sister, as if he was protecting Ruri and not her, making sure she was safe by putting himself first. At least, he seemed passionate enough to do that, to her.

(They didn’t know each other that much, despite the intensity of their recent experiences. Getting to know someone when both parties are involved in a war whose dimension is way above their heads was arduous, and getting split from the group was the best way to learn about a comrade in misfortune).

Nonetheless, even with the needed precaution and the eerie lack of activity all around them taken into account, it was still weird to her that Kurosaki was that slow. His footsteps were heavier than hers, sloppier even, and he was, she’d have sworn, losing more and more speed as time went on. For someone who had first protested against getting his wounds treated, “we don’t have time to do that, we need to find the others”, he sure was the one making them lose all that precious time he had ranted about wasting to his own wellbeing.

The ambient smell was what bothered Serena the most out of all these little things surrounding them. It was, like the impression of incoming disaster, not a stranger to her: in a way, it was frighteningly the opposite. It was faint, but her sense had been sharpened by the training of Academia: she caught up on the iron smell, on the fact it was indeed weak, yet present and strengthening. There had to be a reason why she hadn’t been disturbed by it before, right? What was that reason?

Because she didn’t pay attention as much as to where she was walking anymore, she almost crashed into Kurosaki who, to her surprise, hadn’t anticipated it and almost tripped over himself. At first, she had guessed his foot had gotten tricked by a piece of debris or shrapnel; but there was nothing at his feet, only dust and a plain, crackled surface. His loss of balance seemed more and more unnatural as it went, making her heart do that weird little thing she had felt when she had seen him at the bottom of these stairs, a hand trying to clench his own ribcage through his clothing.

(Funny enough, she had taken advantage of having to take care of his wounds to check if there had been any bruising there. There hadn’t, but she was still left wondering why she had even thought about checking that out. Of course it’d have healed since then).

Serena quickly realized that she was, in fact, getting concerned for him all over again, except she was even more surprised this time around: back during the Battle Royale, she hadn’t had the time to wonder why she was worrying for some “Xyz scum”. Now, due to his speed and now the fact he had stopped altogether for a few seconds, she had the time to question her own feelings for once, not hindered by Academia’s mould or peer pressure. Usually, she’d have been infuriated to be stopped in her walk when she had no time to lose, getting aggravated the moment someone would slow down; but that was then, she supposed, and now she was concerned because the guy she was walking with should have been much quicker than that on his feet. Something was wrong.

“Kurosaki, why did you stop?” she asked him, her voice trying to be both loud enough to get an immediate response out of him and low enough not to echo in the void.

He didn’t respond immediately, preferring to turn towards her before. Looking at his face again, she was realizing he had begun panting despite the low effort they were doing (he hadn’t shown any signs of fatigue beforehand, that was beyond suspicious), eyes looking hazier than they had done before. The smell had gotten stronger too, to the point she was finally able to recognize it: it was, unmistakeably, blood.

And the red stain Kurosaki had his hand over was giving it all away.

“Don’t tell me you’re bleeding again!”

She was more upset at the wound than him, because he wasn’t exactly responsible for the liquid pouring out of it to act up on its own after she had tried to stop it, but her emotions had taken over. He hadn’t recoiled, didn’t even look fazed by getting yelled at, simply looked at his wound and fingers starting to coat in red.

“I guess so,” he responded nonchalantly before ducking his head in the other direction. “I think I saw Yuya and the others far away, we should be close to finding them.”

“Don’t change the topic, let me check that!”

Shun frowned in response. Did he know he was bleeding again? Yes, or at least, he had supposed so before she had pointed it out. Did he want to waste even more time on what was most likely still a minor injury? No, absolutely not. He could swear he had just heard, in the distance and faintly, but had still heard nonetheless, the voice of his companions. There was no mistaking about the fact he had heard Sayaka, Allen, Yuya and the others. He felt faint, a bit weak on his legs, but still very much able to walk.

He’d have had all the time in the world to bleed after they had found the sanctuary and their friends, so pressing on was a better strategy than just stopping there to see what cut had continued bleeding despite the care Serena had put into stopping their doings.

And yet she grabbed his wrist, put her other hand on his shoulder, and forced him to sit down here and there without any warning, leaving him lightly stunned and, admittedly, defenceless.

“We won’t get anywhere if you pull that crap on me, so stop being a child and let me see! I don’t want to drag you through the wastelands because you’ll have passed out from blood loss!”

Shun sighed, but gave in and started opening his coat again. There was no reasoning with the thick-skulled, stubborn, proud Serena: it’d just be a lost battle and, frankly, he felt too tired to deal with it. On second thought, the fact he felt that fatigued was a dead giveaway that these bastards had gotten more hits on him that he’d thought. In fact, she was as stubborn as he was: that was why he felt so comfortable working with her, he supposed. It didn’t help make his wounds look any less concerning, though.

“Make it quick, we need to catch up on them as soon as possible.”

“Will do.”

Serena kneeled to his head level and put out her first-aid kit again. Having nothing else to do and feeling his consciousness starting to leave his body through his vision dimming, he focused his attention on her, on her hands finding the source of the problem, on the kit she had next to her, on the floor. Focus, don’t let yourself pass out. Someone fainting out in the streets was a sure way to get killed. Focus, don’t let yourself pass out. He was in good hands anyway, and would soon be joined by their comrades. Focus, don’t let yourself pass out.

She still had her fingers coated in a think layer of dried blood, showing up as maroon plaques on her hands. Her fingertips traced across his abdomen until she gritted her teeth, having found the culprit. It was, honestly, easy to spot: a red spot tainting the white of the bandages, soaking them until she could visibly guess they were going to stick. Serena gritted her teeth again: she had thought that had really just been a cut, not even thinking back on it that it could have been any deeper.

Her frustration would have to wait.

“Don’t faint on me, Kurosaki, got it?”

He nodded, as it to save energy by doing so.

“I’ll need to peel that off, then disinfect the wound again, so it’s going to sting more than earlier.”

In full silence, she started on her work, doing as she said she would. Her guesses had been right, this time: the bandages stuck to his skin around the cut, the fabric sipping with blood on her hands, until she had reached a point where she had to suddenly tear it off. She muttered an almost-quiet apology before yanking it off, leading Kurosaki to strangle a yelp. She could have contemplated the pain it was bringing him considering her past experience with him, but their time was running out like his consciousness was pouring out of the wound, so she simply kept on with her procedure.

As she disinfected the source of their problems, Serena examined it. It clearly was deeper than she had thought it to be at first, the stench coming out of it almost nauseating, more akin to a stab wound than some artificial scratch done with a blade. From what she could gather, he hadn’t exactly gotten stabbed, but it had been his assailant’s intention all along, leading to a deep cut bleeding heavily, but not immediately life-threatening. Considering their scarce resources in this dimension, Serena chose to bandage the wound again after making sure it wasn’t going to get infected anytime soon, pushing a compress against it as she did so. As she did so, she heard grunts, even if he mostly stood quiet as she did what she had to do. Truly, they both had their ability to hold their ground against their own injuries.

“I’m done,” she said, not without pride, as she rose her eyes and put her kit away. The lack of any response and his glassed eyes made her heart jump for a moment before she had to make sure and asked, “Kurosaki, you’re still with me?”

He zipped his coat close, yet again, got up – and so did she as to follow along –, and shook his head, exhaling what sounded like a sigh of relief, or one at to chase the pain away. She wasn’t exactly able to tell.

“Yeah… Let’s meet up with the others, now.”

As if they had been in the known, she heard their comrades in the distance, before spotting their shapes in the distance, on the other side of the street. As she felt a smile appear on her face, either in relief or just in happiness to see them all again and in one piece, she decided she’d help them go forward by putting Kurosaki’s arm on her shoulders (not that he was objecting to it, busy trying to remain conscious).

“Yeah. Let’s do that.”

They, obviously, were much slower than before, and it’d have frustrated her to no end if she hadn’t able to see their partners coming towards them, Yuya waving at their duo. As it stood, instead, she told herself that she could stomach the slowdown and support them until they’d be reunited, making sure that he was still awake and able to walk with her. They, again, exchanged smiles.

“Thank you… again.”

“You’re still welcome.”

She’d scold that fool further later. For now, she had friends to join back, and he had a situation to explain. In a way, they were both fools.

#bad things happen bingo #arc-v #serena (arc v)#kurosaki shun #peregrineshipping #bleeding #cw blood #AU: Canon divergence #whump #hurt comfort #shun kurosaki #otp: selene ourania #bthb 2

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themockingcrows · 5 years

Text

Whisper Just For Me Ch. 15: Reunion

This chapter is SFW! This chapter is also available mirrored on my AO3.

Just having someone back in your presence doesn't always mean they're really there, especially when that someone is a ghost. How much of Dave is with you, and how much of him was affected by your time apart? Is it really a reunion when only one person is aware of the reuniting?

Your dreams were empty. You were holding out hope that Dave would visit you, would talk with you, would get rid of the lingering worry that clung to your mind like a sticky veil of spiderwebs. Instead you got repeats of different scenarios you've had in the past, strange distortions of shadow and light, a strange sequence of trying to buy a set of pants from a food stall only to find they didn't have your size, and your father trying to pass off one of his finest hats to you after it had been coated in peanut butter, blending the symbolic niceties of adulthood and achievement with a death threat. If you believed in omens it probably would have meant a lot. Good thing you don't believe in it without a gut feeling and the only feelings it gave you were confusion and a stomach ache.

You woke with your hand instinctively curled around the pendant as if trying to keep it warm, despite the material being plenty warm in your hand already, a reminder of who dwelled within it. Good, he was making some reactions now aside from just a loose sensation of presence.

“...Dave?” you said quietly, a sleepy murmur. “Dave, can you hear me in there?”

Silence.

“...Dave, I'm so sorry for what happened. If I was even remotely aware anything like that was going to happen I'd have done everything different somehow. I'm just glad we got there in time.”

More silence, but the warmth in your hand didn't diminish. Dave was definitely still in there. Maybe he was sleeping in too.

Your phone let out a few familiar tones to signal you had messages coming in, rapid fire texts that had you wondering just how many people were texting you at once till you could get at it and turn the screen on with a press of the button along the side. ...Huh. Okay, five texts in a row from a number you were sleepy enough to not recognize as Rose's for a moment.. No, six, your phone chimed again in your palm to try making you scroll down. Okay, maybe you wouldn't have recognized it was from Rose's number right away anyway, this was definitely not her normal way of texting.

TT: hey when you get this cn u like txt me back asap

TT: *can

TT: its roxy rose said i should hit u up again to like

TT: check in and shit about what happened

TT: srry for treating u like u two were gonna rob me blind but 2 be fair u were acting creepy

TT: is that ghost thing okay btw or is that not a gr8 thing to ask

Another few chimes as you were trying to formulate how to even reply, which left you marveling at the speed with which she could text. Was he okay? He still wasn't talking or glowing or.. much of anything beyond keeping the pendant warm. He wouldn't do that if he was sick right? ...Wait, do ghosts even get sick? What was the right word for this. Exhaustion? Strained? It couldn't last forever, he'd be back to normal soon surely.

TT: srry not ghost thing i guess i mean dave

TT: rose filled me in a bit but it still dsnt make much sense

TT: guess it makes more sense than me goin crzy tho

TT: *crazy lol

Yeah, no shit. Even this deep in everything there were times you worried you were just actually crazy and none of this unbelievable mess was real at all. Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you pushed yourself to sit upright in bed, put on your glasses, and started to slowly type out a reply with your pointer finger.

EB: hey, yeah, i'm here. sorry, i just woke up.

TT: o shit my bad lol

EB: no, it's no problem. thanks for getting in contact though. and sorry for uh.

EB: you know.

EB: barging into your apartment and alerting you to the whole concept of ghosts i guess?

TT: like i said dont worry abt it

TT: im just glad everythins back to normal in here

TT: I hadnt realized just how weird the place felt till now

TT: muties finally able to chillax again

EB: i'm still kind of amazed you believed us at all, but if you'd been feeling things for a while then i guess that would all just kind of line up, huh.

TT: just another day in the bullshit mines

TT: rose talks about stuff like this a lot but i kinda never rlly believed her

TT: hindsight 2020 foot does not taste gr8

You grinned at your phone and let the screen go dim once more before stuffing it into the pocket of some sweatpants you then wrangled on. Might as well not delay the inevitable and just get up. It took a few more tries than usual to get up, fatigue weighing heavy in your bones, but get up you eventually did to shuffle to the kitchen. A banana wound up in your other pocket, keeping your hands free for motoring around to thump down on the sofa. Jade perked up soon as you went down, shuffling her legs to get your weight off her feet and poking a head full of sleep wild hair out from underneath the throw.

“...S'it morning..?”

“Yeah. Or later, I didn't look at the time,” you admit, pulling your phone out of your pocket to peek as the banana was yanked out in a dual wielding motion. You bit the standing end of the banana and tipped it sideways till the peel cracked, making it easier to open one handed. Wisely, you waited till you had a bit mouth full of fruit to try talking more. “Closer to noon it look like. Oh, and Roxy wrote.”

“How'd she get your number?” Jade asked. She crawled to the floor to get at her purse, rummaging around for a brush to start taming the mass down enough to apply some strategically placed hair ties.

“Oh, no, she was writing from Rose's phone. I guess they met up today in one way or another? She said everything feels better at her place so.. I guess that at least shows Dave didn't dislodge somehow or anything.”

“Has he.. y'know. Said anything?”

You frowned and took another bite of banana, then another till it was gone, delaying as if the extra few seconds stalled would somehow give Dave enough incentive to interact again. No such luck.

“No. Nothing.. Oh! But the pendant's warm! He's definitely in there, just..”

Just what. Just tired? Just ghost broken? Did ghosts get sick? You sank down further in the sofa and let your leg slide further along the floor with a heavy sigh. This sucked. This really, really sucked.

“...I wish I knew enough about what was happening to fix it.”

“We could always ask Rose if you want. She seems to have good ideas on this stuff, maybe she'd understand what was happening,” said Jade, opening up a compact mirror to check and see if the low segmented pigtails were a good look that day. Verdict was a resounding yes from the way she snapped it shut with a happy grin and dropped the supplies back into the bag. “Or we can just wait and see what he does next on his own.”

“You make me sound like a helicopter parent when you put things like that, Jade.”

“Helicopter boyfriend.”

“Helicopter whatever! Same thing!”

“I mean-”

“You know that's not what I meant,” you frowned. “I just want to do what's best by him. I'm kind of responsible for him now, and I already fucked that up in a big way. Getting him back's like a second chance, but I can't do the second chance right from the very beginning if something's wrong.”

“Then call Rose,” shrugged Jade as she got up from the floor and sauntered off to pilfer breakfast from your fridge.

“Yeah but what if that just makes it worse somehow, what if we're supposed to wait for something to happen!”

“John either call her, let me call her, or shut up and relax! Holy shit, it's not the world ending, it's either getting more potential information from a verified source of accurate information, or making our own estimations based on study and other information sources. It's as if you've never heard of a reasonable hypothesis before,” she grumbled, then disappeared around the corner.

You frowned the way she went.

“You could've at least taken my banana peel with you!”

“Fuck your banana peel, you've got a leg and two arms that aren't broken!”

You immediately stuck your tongue out in her direction, already knowing she couldn't see it, but hoping she could feel your rankle even through the wall. Heaving another sigh, reveling in the dramatic for a moment, you turn your attention to your phone once more. It hadn't pinged again to signal an incoming flurry from Roxy, so you assumed it'd be safe to call Rose now. Jade was right. She'd probably know what to do.

The phone rang several times before you heard the familiar voice on the other line and smiled.

“Hello?”

“Rose?”

“Obviously.”

“Yeah. So. ..Uh.” Come on, spit it out, what if this was time sensitive or something? “Dave's home now... I think. But he's not talking or anything. No dream visits, no lights, no interacting with anything. The most he's done is warm the pendant up,” you start to explain. “I'm worried he's. I don't know. Sick? Exhausted? What happens now, how can I help fix him? I finally got him home but I can't even talk to him.”

Everything had started as a trickle before finishing in a rush of stress balled up into English and launched out of your mouth like cannon fire. You held your breath, listening closely for a response.

“Well.”

….Well that wasn't what you were hoping for. It takes effort to remain quiet and wait instead of pointing that out and being sarcastic. Stress sarcasm didn't tend to do the best things.

“I think he likely just needs rest. Roxy already caught me up to everything that happened prior to and just after him leaving. It's possible he just expended way too much energy while apart from you and needs to rest now. Perhaps even sap energy from his surroundings.”

You frowned and furrowed your brow in thought. It had felt harder to get out of bed today, but was that Dave already sapping from you, or was it just the reality of getting around on crutches for too long at a stretch?

“Is there anything I can do to help though? I mean. I guess if he's going to be doing that draining thing while this tired, is there anything I can do to make it easier for him to do it?”

You heard Rose sigh and the creak of whatever seat she was in.

“Hm. Well, not exactly anything you can DO. Not strictly speaking at least. You can make yourself more open to him, perhaps. Leave yourself like an open door, let him get at you easier. Keep him in range obviously. Make sure you eat and sleep often enough, perhaps rest up and take things a little easier. Be the reserve battery.”

You wet your lips and nodded, though obviously Rose couldn't see you. You hoped she'd get the feeling you nodded anyway.

“Is there any way I'll be able to tell when he's back to normal?”

“When he's back to scattering papers and bothering you, most likely,” Rose said, the soft sound of a chuckle flavoring her words. “But I think he'll make himself known when he's able to. The way you've talked about him makes it seem like he's probably just as excited to talk to you as you are to talk to him.”

It was a comforting though. Another few nods you hoped Rose was able to detect happened as you tried to collect the rest of your thoughts.

“When should I try telling him about the things Jade and I learned? About.. y'know, about his everything. His history and stuff.”

Rose was quiet for a moment. You could almost picture her biting her lip, pale teeth on black lipstick that somehow never seemed to smudge or get spotty.

“I'd recommend keeping your mouth shut about much of that until he's for certain stronger. It's hard to gauge his specific reaction, but the last thing you'd want to have happen is for the information to make him decide to go and then be unable to leave due to not having enough power.”

“So.. I just need to be a good battery and wait for him, and then get to the nitty gritty when he's all recovered and back to obnoxiously normal.”

“That's the gist of it, yes. Keep him close and in contact. Think of it as spoon feeding someone overtaken by illness while they recover.”

“I'm already recovering, I think I can handle a bit more of the resting. Hah, might make Jade happy to finally get off my feet and just take it easy for a while longer.”

She chuckled. “No doubt. I'd be interested to hear about your progress as things continue, actually. Will you be tracking things as you were before? That data is extremely useful to have on hand, it gives good insight on whether things that feel like they should work are actually beneficial. Who knows who might else wind up in a similar situation someday with a spirit and need to tend it before it can properly move on?”

“You make it sound like opening a ghost infirmary or rehabilitation place is an option, Rose.”

Another soft sound from the other end of the phone and far too long of a pause spanned silence till you laughed, awkward. “Rose. I was kidding.”

“Yes. Kidding. Still an intriguing idea. I wonder if spiritual rehabilitation could work in the case of negative spirits as we-”

“Rose, I'm gonna have to let you go for now,” you interrupted. “I'm sorry. I'll call back later on with updates, okay?”

“Have Jade call me later, if you could?”

“About Dave?”

“No, to make dinner plans. I think her phone may be drained, it just goes straight to voice mail.”

That wasn't like her. Maybe she turned it off instead of it dying. Either way, you nod and make a sound of confirmation just in case Rose wasn't psychic enough to understand just how earnestly you'd been nodding this entire time you'd been conversing.

“Sure thing. Thanks again, Rose. And uh.. Rose?”

“Yes?”

“...Could you tell Roxy to send me a bill for what all she'd need to get her laptop running again? I feel like it'd probably be better if I paid or helped pay for a good chunk of that. Even if it was an accident, just. ..Yeah.”

It was kind of the least you could do, considering someone innocent got caught in some pretty serious crossfire. Things could have easily given way to a fire, taken out the entire apartment building or gotten others killed.

“I'm sure she'll appreciate it. Between that and her phone, I think her run of bad luck took a bit more out of her than she'd be willing to admit. I'll just pass her your email address and she'll forward something.” A soft chuckle. “If she doesn't, then I'll figure it out and send the information your way instead.”

“Perfect. Thank you again, Rose.”

You hung up as Jade was coming back in with a bowl of cereal loaded to the brim, sipping milk from the edge where it precariously sat just waiting to spill all over the floor. She cast a green eyed glance your way to be sure she wouldn't squash anything before sitting down beside you on the sofa to crunch away. Apparently the back and forth sassing hadn't left any lingering bad tastes in her mouth towards you, at least judging by how close and comfortable she sat.

There was no mystery involved if Jade Harley was angry with you. You were very, very well aware.

“Rose said to treat myself like a good little battery and just wait on him to make the most of it. Give her updates.. and she wants you to call for dinner plans? Your phone's apparently off.”

Jade swallowed sideways and nearly choked on her cereal.

“What? Fuck. I forgot I did that. Right, don't worry about it, I'll call her soon as I finish this. ...But that's it, huh?”

“Apparently so. Take it easy, eat and sleep plenty, keep him close. I wonder if talking to him helps even if he can't respond yet. Would he be able to hear?”

“If he's awake he'll hear. Maybe he's just not strong enough to respond and he's actually wide awake worrying? Talking is a good idea.”

“Great, more excuses to talk to myself in public, exactly what I want.”

“Truly, you lead a charmed life,” she said with a grandiose gesture of her spoon before popping more cereal into her face. The mood seemed reset now that your obligations were complete. You had solved the mystery of how Dave died, of his origins. You'd gotten Dave back, though you weren't quite able to celebrate freely yet. You were going to repair damage done and set some debts right before they could become an issue. You had ideas on how to help fix things in a lot of ways.

All you needed was patience.

...Fuck does patience suck sometimes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You'd spent nearly two weeks being the best battery you were able to be. You ate plenty of decent food, took naps whenever you could, and otherwise gave yourself as much physical rest as you were able to on the sofa when not busy. The entire time you were also murmuring to yourself, talking softly towards the pendant you couldn't help but keep touching, narrating your life and your thoughts to a sleeping spirit that you were guarding. The stone remained comfortingly warm as a hand you could hold in your time alone, and a few times you swore you could feel a soft pulse of a presence coming from it. There had been no speaking however. No dreams being visited.

The paranoid part of your brain was worried enough that it started to offer up all kinds of awful scenarios that were possibly coming true, despite having clear evidence to the contrary that anything was going wrong. Dave was quiet, but he was there. You knew he was there. ...You just wished he'd react more than a pulse or warmth.

Dave granted your wish one night. While you worked on your laptop in bed, fucking around on a forum in one window, talking with friends in another, and doing a little research into some new devices for spirit communication that were making the rounds in the online sources, you failed to notice the slender trail of red light leaving the pendant. You also failed to notice the red ball form, only realizing something was up when the corner of your eye caught the red haze starting to take a different shape.

“Wh-. Dave?!”

Fumbling with your laptop, you sat bolt upright in bed and glanced down to the pendant before back towards the apparition that was struggling to form something specific. Humanoid was a good start, but it seemed like he was struggling a bit to settle on a specific shape for very long, unable to make up his mind.

“It's okay, you can stay an orb if you want! There's no rush!” you hurry to say, though he doesn't appear to acknowledge you. The red light strains and struggles, forming Dave's face before flickering and distorting grotesquely enough that you're taken aback. He keeps coming back to his own face, but between flashes of it are things you don't recognize. Monstrous half formed things, faces that belong to people you've never met, and even several times faces you recognized. You could have sworn you saw Jade in there a few times, and Roxy. You saw your own face once or twice before it ripped itself apart to bone and reformed as malleable as clay in the vapor.

“...Dave?” you whisper. It's the face of Dave's brother that glances at you sharp as broken glass, mouth set in a thin line as his outer edges twitched and spasmed, only to once more break apart at the seams. He looked like he was melting, and it took effort not to panic. Something was definitely wrong, it was obvious to see, but WHAT was wrong. What specifically was wrong? What could even be done about it? You wet your lips and tried to think clearly as you could.

Be open. Be a good battery. Dave had gone through a lot of strain before coming home, maybe this reforming problem was linked to that? It had to take a lot of power to form a specific shape as opposed to just forming out of habit. You were trying to think of any reasonable explanation you could, despite the taste of bile rising in the back of your throat.

“Dave,” you try again, keeping his attention this time. Maybe just act like business as usual? “I missed you so much. I'm sorry this happened, but.. you're here now! You're home! And I'm recovering, and everything can go back to normal now.”

A frown lit on Dave's ever changing face, but he seemed to be starting to decide on the features you were by now familiar with. His eyes were the things that stayed in place the most, barely there hints of lashes pale on a fairly normal shaped face. At least it wasn't splitting apart at the seams anymore.. His mouth still looked too big, too sharp, too inhuman, but it was progress. You gestured with your arms wide as if expecting a hug at any time to come your way, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, you'd get it to happen if you wished enough.

“I know things haven't been easy. And.. I understand if you're mad. Or scared. Or-”

Something was wrong. Words died on your lips as, finally, Dave's features went into the right order and appeared to hold steady yet the look in his eyes didn't change in the slightest. He looked at you as if looking through you, taking in the room as a whole as if he'd never seen it before in his life. If he was strong enough to form, why wasn't he talking to you at all? Or reaching for you?

“...Dave,” you try again, moving so your legs were over the edge of your mattress and one hand was reaching for your crutches. “Dave. Say something. Anything. Or.. uh. Knock something over. I'm listening close as I can for you, I promise, but I'm not hearing anything. Am I just not trying hard enough or are you just not talking for some reason?”

The spirit was glancing at his hands now, wispy trails of paleness caught in reddish mist that faded in and out of view between fully formed mass and smoke. Even with a fully open link, it still took a lot of energy to do that. You weren't surprised to hear the fan of your laptop suddenly kick into high gear behind you, cooling the inner workings down as it drew more power than usual from the wall. He didn't seem interested in talking, or in doing much at all. Compared to the spirit you were used to, how Dave was acting now just gave you the creeps. He hovered gently off the ground, face grim and expressionless as a doomed man, resolute and lost. A thousand yard stare at nothing at all.

This was Dave, but it was the least Dave-like Dave you thought you'd ever seen. And considering how much you'd learned about him so recently and all the time you'd spent together so far, you considered yourself a pretty damn good gauge of Dave-ness. An unaccounted for lack of Dave-ness with no guidance on what had caused it. Could you soft reset ghosts? Turn it off and on again till the appearance stuck right.

No, wait, that was a stupid idea. Focus, John. You shook your head hard to clear the thought from your head to focus on the other thoughts instead, the ones that felt instinctively like they might help. After all, you'd shared a body before, two minds in one form. You'd had his voice in your head, in your ear, in your heart. Maybe he just needed that..? Needed a touch, a push, a rekindling to remember properly after the traumatic time apart like someone might take their shoes off and flop on a sofa to make a place feel like home again after a return from a too long vacation. You picked up a single crutch and forced yourself upright to your feet, leaning your weight to keep balanced before taking a lumbering step forward, one hand out beseechingly.

“Dave. Come here for a second.”

He stared at you, through you again, then went back to looking at his hands as if they were foreign objects. Maybe they were. The thought chilled your blood, but you lumbered forward another careful step, nearly touching him. It would be okay. It'd be fine. You could do this.

Dave flinched when your hand went through him as if he'd not realized just how close you were. ...Wait, had he felt that? The contact had been chilly, vaguely electric, but welcome. Familiar. Just needed to keep contact up for it to be warm, right?

“Come on.. Here. Remember when we were at the aquarium?” you asked, pausing to grin at him. “Would yoooou... want to try that again? No cars this time. It was kind of fun in hindsight. Scary but interesting to back seat in my own body?”

Were you offering casual possession to an Not-Very-Dave-Like Dave? Yes. Yes you were. It felt important, the closest thing to a hug you could manage when all you craved was contact with someone who couldn't do the literal contact thing very well. Dave stared vacantly, but didn't seem like he was going to dart away anywhere, or at least attempt to given the limitations of the place he was still tethered to. A thought of taming timid woodland creatures crossed your mind as you held your hand out in offer, patient, quiet, smiling.

“Come on. Come closer. I've really missed you, I can see you, you can see me. I can't hear you and I'm dying for a chat.”

More staring. ...Okay, you weren't a very patient man in hindsight, but the attempt was still happening.

“Dave. Come here,” you said again.

More staring.

Well. Now or never. Acting quickly, you moved your crutch forward and lunged for the spirit in his red haze as if you were trying to bear hug him, forcing yourself to think as openly as you could. Welcoming as an open door, trying to recreate anything you could from the aquarium as you went right through him and lurched uncoordinatedly straight into your dresser drawers. Another hard wobble as you rebounded too hard in a panic of over-correcting and started to go backwards, passing through Dave a second time directly before starting to head for the floor.

Though you hadn't been able to see it, the first pass through Dave's body had had a definite effect, a small spark of reaction, memory, something familiar. He'd watched your graceless fumble as well as your rebound without really reacting much beyond observation, too busy trying to organize his own slowly waking thoughts to go further.

...Was he home? Where was this? He'd been somewhere else, right? This felt different, it looked different, there was no pink everywhere, no cat.. It felt familiar. Looked familiar. So did the person falling.

Falling?

Fuck, falling.

You were wide eyed and nearly to the floor when the hand extended your direction, and without a second thought you reached up to grab it. Foolish really, trying to grab the hand of a ghost. There was nothing there to really grab, nothing to hold on to or to use to stop the inevitable crash to the ground, but what could you say? When falling the urge to grab a hand was instinctive. Your hand felt like it was numb with cold before it suddenly surged hot, heat racing up your arm and down your spine, making your head swim. You were aware you were changing position and of the world changing place around you, but kept bracing for the impact on the back of your head.

It never came.

You felt pressure on your elbows, forearms, and good knee instead. The brunt of the impact was taken in your healthy limbs, injured leg awkwardly elevated and hovering an inch or two above the ground before slowly lowering down.

...Wow. That was pretty cool! You'd never even thought of turning like that, it was kind of like a stunt man's moves or something out of a movie. Most importantly, however, you hadn't bashed the back of your head in like a total idiot who'd tried to hug a ghost! Just needed to get up then.

…

Just. Needed to get up.

…

Preferably with the moving and the getting up actions actually happening instead of just waiting. You tried again, but failed to move out of the weight bearing stance that had successfully broken your fall. Nothing felt heavy or really out of place. More like it felt like your joints were a glimpse of what life was like as the Tin Man after being left out in the rain too long, immobilized. You could feel your glasses starting to slide off your nose towards the ground but couldn't catch and readjust them. They slowly slipped bit by bit off your face before thumping to the ground, leaving your vision blurry and soft.

...John?

“Dave?”

Well, at least talking was happening. You were grateful your mouth could move, but the talking wasn't very soothing in the face of suddenly being an immobilized statue on the floor.

“Dave, did. ..Wait, Dave, you're talking now! Where are you at, I can hear you really clearly now!” you realized, voice raising in pitch a bit as the excitement built. Shit, it'd been way too long since you last heard his voice, you hadn't really realized how great it would be to hear him again.

JOHN

“Yes, I can hear you! Dave, come down where I can see you, I can't move, I can't see shit at all.”

...Wait.

“...Dave are you why I can't move. Where are you at. I can't see shit,” you repeated, “let me see where you are.”

John John John John John John John

“Dave, I'm happy to hear you too but like. Seriously, did you do this?” Had to be. In hindsight there was no way you'd be able to do a cool mid-movement flip like that to avoid damaging yourself in a fall. You were not nearly that coordinated. You felt warmth blossom in your chest and down your spine again, down either leg. You could wiggle your toes for a moment before the statue effect was in place once more.

JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN HOME JOHN HOME SAFE JOHN HOME

“Dave. Dave. Let me stand up! I'm gonna get a cramp! Do whatever you were doing a second ago, I could kinda move for a moment there! You can talk and yell at me all you want but just. Can we go to the bed again? I don't want my leg to hurt.”

The excited thrumming focused in your chest like a steady bouncing, or like one of those wacky weasel toys that wiggled the ferret on the motorized ball in random directions. You could still hear his voice as if it were getting further and further away before realizing the warmth was focusing centrally before trying to expand outward to each limb at the same time. This was very different from the experience at the aquarium but.. it wasn't bad by any stretch of the imagination. It was kind of comforting actually, especially once you started to realize where things were and could hone in on where Dave was. It had forced you to stop acting automatically and to instead focus inwards at an acute angle that got rid of the borders around your body and the world around you.

Once again, your body housed two hearts for even a brief moment and you couldn't quite explain just how complete it actually made you feel compared to normal. Not too full but comfortable. Safer. ...Were you missing something, to feel this way? Or was it just a sign of you having a better capacity to work with others?

Or was it just Dave?

The warmth ran all the way to your fingertips, coursing through your veins and muscles till you could feel your arms wobble and then go limp. You face planted solidly against your glasses, mashing your nose into the frames hard enough that for a second you were scared you'd break them, pushing back up onto your hands with a sharp gasp. Okay. There was the movement again, but the warmth wasn't dissipating. You could still feel it in your chest, bouncing from side to side and up and down, spinning in circles as your own name was chanted in your ears excitedly.

JOHN John John JOHN home safe homehomehomesafejohn JOHN SAFE HOME JOHN JOHN JOHNJOHNJOHN!

You pushed upright to sit flat on your ass and picked up your glasses, taking a moment to rub them clean with the bottom edge of your shirt before putting them back into place. The room returned to crisp, clear outlines and familiar shapes. The pendant was all but burning at your neck, and you realized your lips were curled into a smile that was broad enough it made your cheeks hurt. You were.. happy. Absolutely happy. Whatever had happened between you and Dave, it had fixed the problem before it truly could get started and restored the world to its rightful state of reunion. This was what you'd missed last night when your worry hung in your mind as tangible as spoiled milk.

“I missed you, Dave,” you whispered, and hugged yourself as tightly as you could. The warmth stopped bouncing around to hold perfectly still for a moment before surging into both of your arms. You realized you couldn't move them again, both hands locked firmly to your upper arms before they began to make rubbing motions, not quite numb but not quite usable. You may have hugged yourself, but you didn't exactly expect 'yourself' to hug you back.

“Could you feel that too, Dave? Is that why you're doing this?”

This was unexplored territory, and held plenty of implications you were sure, but in the moment you didn't give a fuck. That fulfilled sensation, the warmth, the foreign feeling of your own hands on your arms that steadily trailed up towards your throat and then your own face as if they were the hands of another? All of it was new and all of it was just memories for the making and taking. You were getting to hug Dave in a flesh and blood way, even if it were only for the moment, and nothing could ever take that away from you. Nobody could claim it was impossible.

... John..

Were you. ..Were you crying? You weren't crying, were you? You were. You could feel hot trails on your face that cooled quickly, and the warmth in your chest was soon joined by a clenching that released in a huffed sob. It was relief, you told yourself. The full relief of everything being okay and returning to normal, of nothing being wrong finally, of questions being answered and of that all but overwhelming sensation of not being alone anymore in your own skin.

Your right hand lifted to rub your nose as you snorted in an ungainly way to clear your nose. Your left hand, outside of your control, carefully rubbed some of the water from your eyes with its fingertips.

...Don't cry...

“Don't tell me what to do,” you snuffed. “I'll cry if I feel like it, do you have any idea how scared I was that you were gone forever? And then I get you back and you-! And. And you acted like you weren't really there even when you were in front of me and now everything's just. Everything's okay! Everything's okay now!”

...Still crying...

“Shut up and let me have this,” you mumbled. Though the one hand stayed near your face, the arm you were able to move went to hug tight around your rib cage again, trying to hold everything together in case it somehow fell apart or flew away to the breeze. “Let me have this.. Let me have you,” you murmured.

The tension in your chest lifted and the warmth returned to your limbs, trying to spread to all four at once before it ricocheted around your rib cage again and went straight to your head. You didn't mind the dizziness or the slight ring in your ears, so long as you got to hug it out just a little bit longer.

“Stay with me like this. Even just a while longer, Dave. ..Please.”

The warmth stayed, solid and still as stone. You had a feeling it wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon and were grateful. You'd tell the good news to everyone else soon enough. For the time being, though, this happiness was all yours.

#homestuck #johndave #john egbert #dave strider #my fic

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