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selene-tempest · 3 years

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It’s my birthday and apparently the hubby isn’t going to let me ignore it...

((Author lady is putting this up now to celebrate, but it won’t be uploaded to Ao3 yet because it doesn’t fit the timeline at the moment, so you’ll have to wait.))

“What do you mean she’s not coming home?” Scott asked.

“She’s not coming home,” John replied with a shrug. What else was there to say? How else could he make that simple sentence any clearer?

"Like never again?" Alan whimpered.

John didn't dignify that with an answer.

“But why?” Gordon asked.

“Because she doesn’t want to.”

“Did you try to talk her round?” Scott asked.

“Of course I did, but she’s being stubborn, and you know what she's like when she sets her mind to something.”

“Why? Did we do something wrong? Does she not love us any more?” Alan asked, looking like he was about to cry.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course she still loves you. Do you honestly think that after four years in this family and all the things we’ve been through, this would be the time she decided she wanted out?” John couldn’t believe how dramatic they were all being about it.

“But it’s her birthday, she should be here with us,” Scott said firmly, like that was all there was to it.

“Yes, her birthday, and she does have a choice in the matter,” John reminded him.

“No, she doesn’t.”

“You can tell her then,” John said. “Because I’m certainly not going to get involved with that.”

“Did she at least say why?” Virgil asked, ever the sane one.

“Yes, she said that she isn’t having a birthday this year, she’s ignoring it because someone,” John paused to glare meaningfully at Scott, “keeps teasing her about getting old because she’s hitting the big Three-O.”

Scott sniggered quietly to himself.

“I wouldn’t be so proud of it if I were you,” John warned him,

“I didn’t even say anything that bad to her,” Scott protested weakly.

“No, but you asked me what it was like being married to a cougar that only wanted me for my youthful body.”

Scott sniggered again, turning it into a cough when John’s glare rached up a notch.

“And yesterday you got up off the couch and asked her if she wanted to sit down,” Virgil added.

“I was being considerate!”

“If that was the case you shouldn’t have said that you were doing it because it’s only polite to give your seat up for the elderly,” Gordon laughed.

“Oh for the…” John dropped his head into his hands in utter despair. Scott was just lucky that he was only there in hologram form or he’d have punched him.

Scott just shrugged. “She needs to come home, it’s her birthday.”

“Well she’s not going to,” John told him, wondering if he should whip out the hand puppets to get him to understand the simple answer of no.

“Go and get her, she’ll do it if you tell her to,” Alan tried.

“Let me think about it...no.”

“Aw, come on, John, please?” Alan was going to pout, John just knew it.

“I’ll try,” John sighed, knowing he was beaten.

-x-

“Come on, love, get out of bed.”

“No,” Selene said, her voice muffled since her head was currently stuffed under a pillow.

“Everyone wants to see you,” John wheedled.

“I don’t care, I’m not moving.”

“You have to celebrate your birthday.”

“Lies! I say the same thing to you every year and every year you tell me you don’t want a fuss. No party, no going anywhere, no nothing. Why can’t I do the same?”

“Because I’m me and you’re you. You’re the sociable part of our couple, you’re the one that forces me to go places I don’t want to by insisting that I'll have a good time when I get there.”

“And you still argue, complain and refuse to go. Maybe I’ve finally started to listen to you and realised you were right all along, birthdays are bad, social is bad, celebrating anything is bad. I get it, you were right.”

“Don’t even try that,” John warned her.

“Try what?” she mumbled innocently.

“Telling me that I’m right so I’ll be so shocked I won’t argue with you any more.”

“It was worth a shot,” she grumbled to herself.

“Enough of this,” John declared, grabbing the edge of the duvet and yanking it off the bed, revealing his darling wife lying flat out on her belly like a dead starfish. “Come on, get up.”

“No! I’m not getting up. If you really loved me and wanted me to celebrate you’d go and get a Chinese and eat it in bed with me.”

John paused for a second, because honestly that did sound very tempting… no, he had a duty as a husband, a duty to give his wife a birthday she wouldn’t forget for such a milestone.

“No, we’re doing something for your birthday and that’s final. You asked me to trust you for my birthday last year-”

“And you didn’t! You bitched and tried to seduce me into staying on Five and ignoring the trouble I and everyone else had gone to.”

“Never happened,” he lied smoothly. “You have two choices, get up and come with me or I’ll call your mother and let her drag you out of this pit.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”

“No, because then you’d have to talk to her and you know how that would go,” Selene left the threat hanging in the air.

John paused, his brain frantically scurrying to come up with something like a hamster spinning on its wheel. What could he do that would be special for her birthday? He’d used up his one good idea planning a night away for the four year anniversary of the night they met… huh..maybe he could…

He pulled his phone out and sent a quick message to EOS asking her to get to work rearranging the surprise. Selene's birthday was close enough to their anniversary, shifting the two bookings he had made shouldn't be too much trouble.

“Fine, then you have two more choices, get up and pack yourself an overnight bag and be waiting patiently for me to get back so we can go, or I’ll pack for you and throw you over my shoulder and drag you out. Choose wisely.”

“I choose door number three.”

“Stop being dramatic, plus you know that’s not an option. You can see your family tomorrow, for today you’re mine. I would strongly advise you pick the first option as you know my idea of suitable clothes to pack differs wildly from yours, you know I can’t be trusted…”

“Not convinced.”

Huffing he grabbed hold of her legs and yanked her backwards down the bed. She shrieked like a fire alarm. He ignored it. Flipping her over he tugged on her arms, pulling her into a sitting position.

“There’s my beautiful wife,” he lied, taking in the messy hair, mascara smudged around her eyes and the fact she was wearing the hideous nightshirt that he loathed with the fire of a thousand suns.

She snorted, clearly not falling for his line.

He knelt down beside the bed, taking her hands in his.

“Do you trust me?”

“Most of the time.”

“Then trust me now, do as you’re told and stop being obstinate for the sake of it. Think about it, you and me, a whole night away…”

“And no mention of my birthday?” she clarified.

“Not if you don’t want it,” he promised. “I had something arranged for our anniversary but I think you need it a little earlier.”

She still looked suspicious but she reluctantly nodded her agreement. “Alright, I’ll trust you.”

“Good. I’m going to head back to the island to pick up Dad’s plane-”

“Plane? Just where are we going, exactly?”

“That’s on a need to know basis and right now you don’t need to know,” he told her. “Just concentrate on getting yourself ready, have a shower if you want to, dress in something you feel amazing in and be ready in two hours.”

“You’re really not going to tell me anything?”

“Nope, now move your backside,” he ordered, giving her butt a little swipe.

-x-

John had walked straight out of their flat after giving her her orders, leaving her to it. She procrastinated for half an hour, feeling that he would have totally won and she would have lost if she got up and did as she was told straight away. She needed to keep some form of dignity and control over her own dramatic leanings.

She then slowly packed a few essentials, throwing in a nice maxi skirt, some leggings she could wear under it if they were going anywhere cold, a peasants blouse along with underbust corset she could add to jazz it up in case they went anywhere fancy, a thick shawl for chilly weather, a T-shirt to wear in bed, fresh underwear, makeup bag, toiletries and she was done.

She did take a shower, not because he suggested it but because she felt a bit grotty and knew it would make her feel better. She resisted the urge to stare at herself in the mirror and scrutinise her naked body until she wanted nothing more than to hide back in bed again, and got on with the laborious task of hair washing, leg shaving and getting dressed.

She was just about ready in jeans, T-shirt and a hoodie she’d stolen from Alan, comfy travelling clothes, when he texted to demand her presence downstairs.

He had an automated taxi waiting that took them straight out of town to the nearby private airfield that Scott used whenever he was taking a break and leaving One at the island in case of emergencies, although this wasn’t a surprise since he had said he was going to get Jeff’s jet.

The flight time had been relatively short in relation to standard commercial flights, only an hour and a half, but when you were used to being in a family that could zip across the globe in half an hour it was quite long. This comparison did absolutely nothing to tell her where they were at any given moment or where they were going to end up, so she stuck with sitting quietly, letting him get on with the whole flying thing.

“Are you still grumpy at me for making you leave the house?” John asked after half an hour of mostly silence from Selene.

“No,” she sighed, “I just really didn’t feel like doing anything, I’m not sure I’m going to be the best company at the moment.”

“Did I ask for you to be good company? It’s not like I’m a shining example of how to be the life and soul of a party.”

“I know, sorry, I just kinda wanted to forget about it. Everyone wants to make a big deal about my birthday and I don’t. Mum wanted to drag me around to visit people, to which I firmly said no, so she’s not really talking to me at the moment. She did that a lot when I was a kid, kept having parties and events that were loosely based on one of our birthdays, but she’d invite a lot of her friends and family members we didn’t really like. She’d have a great time but we didn’t because it just wasn’t what we wanted to do."

“I can understand that, Grandma was much the same.”

“Plus it’s the first big thing, apart from our wedding, without Dad and I’m just not really in the mood to celebrate, I’d rather just have a quiet night in and get a pizza or something.”

So that was what was really bothering her. Not so much the fact that she was getting older, though he was sure that wasn’t helping, but the fact that her Dad wasn’t going to be there. He could understand her point. Scott had turned thirty while their father had still been missing, presumed dead and it hadn’t been the celebration it should have been. Birthdays without their Mom had been much the same, celebrating milestones without important people was always hard. Maybe they were a little guilty of forgetting what that felt like, since their Father had been recovered after so many years. They were used to him being there again and didn’t let themselves dwell on the past if they could help it.

“I promise you that we don’t even have to think about your birthday,” John assured her. “This is just us, having a night away from the madness that is our lives and tomorrow I’ll send Virgil to pick up Celia and Adam, she loves him so she'll behave, to bring them back to the Island for the night so we can have a quiet family dinner. Will that work for you?”

She thought about it for a moment or two, but could see no other way of getting around it.

“Yep, that’ll do.”

"Good," he smiled, turning away tk check on the course settings.

Watching him fly the plane, knowing he had put in a lot of effort already made her feel like a complete bitch.

“I’m sorry, it’s not that I don’t appreciate you going to all this effort to arrange something, I didn’t mean to be a grumpy cow.”

“I’ll let you off this once, because it’s your birthday,” he teased, earning himself a half hearted glare that turned into a giggle as she finally let go of the tension she had been holding onto.

“I’m gonna smack you, you know that, right?” she warned him.

“Not while I’m flying, and maybe wait until after dinner, I’ll be slower then and easier for you to catch.”

“Noted,” she nodded, reaching over to drop her hand on his knee.

“I hope you’re not planning on distracting me,” he said mildly, acting as if nothing was happening, his eyes on the sky.

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, or is that another thing best left until after dinner when you’re too full to run away?”

“I could handle a little distraction now, but if you want me to be able to reciprocate with a little distraction technique of my own, you’re going to have to wait.”

“I’ll wait,” she decided, but that didn’t stop her leaning closer to smack a kiss to his neck. “Have I told you today that I love you, husband?”

“No, you were too busy ignoring me, wife. My heart is shattered by the way.”

“Oh, yes, you seem so very heart broken.”

“I’m hiding it well.”

“Sure you are,” she drawled, trying very hard not to laugh. “I do love you though.”

“As you should.”

His tone was so serious that she lost the battle to hold herself together and started to laugh. John smiled to himself, relieved to see that she had perked up. Hopefully she would have loosened up enough to enjoy the activities he’d planned for them both that evening as they were certainly more her thing than his.

John landed the JT1 on what appeared to be a small runway with a barn, in a field, in the middle of nowhere. He had refused to let her see where they were travelling to, insisting she pull down the window blind next to her as they got closer and close her eyes for the last three minutes of their descent and landing.

A local woman was there to meet them, her accent saying she was american, southern by the sound of it, although Selene wasn’t too good at identifying accents. After the woman had opened the barn doors and John had taxied the small jet into it, she introduced herself as Cherise. Hands were shaken and pleasantries exchanged before she led them to the small truck that she had parked nearby. A five minute drive and…

“Is that a river boat?” Selene asked, unable to figure out just what the heck was going on.

“Yep, now get on,” John instructed, guiding her onto the walkway with one hand while grabbing their bags with the other. They waved a goodbye to Cherise who assured John she’d be ready and waiting the next day and to just text when she was needed, and went in search of seats.

The boat was more of a ferry, containing around 150 seats, only half of which were filled.

"Now will you tell me where we're going?"

"No, I don't think I will."

"You would if you loved me."

"Its because I love you that I'm not telling you," he replied cryptically, getting up from his seat and moving to the front where an attendant sat.

“What river is this?” Selene sneakily asked a nearby passenger as John paid their fare, a measly sum of five dollars each.

“Please don’t answer her,” John called over, obviously overhearing.

The man chuckled, having been shamelessly listening in and finding the situation most amusing. “Are you being kidnapped?”

“I don’t know, you'd better ask my husband,” she pouted.

“It’s her birthday and it’s a surprise,” John explained as he returned to his seat next to her. “She’s being impatient and sneaky.”

“You’ll only have to wait five minutes,” the man told her, patting her shoulder. “Surely that’s not too bad?”

“You’d think so,” Selene huffed, crossing her arms as the boat slid out of the dock and out into the open water.

Just as their fellow passenger had promised, just a shade under five minutes later the boat cruised into another dock and they were ushered off.

“Now will you tell me where we are?”

“Nope, not quite yet,” John grinned, enjoying this game immensely. Tucking her hand into his they followed the stream of passengers out of the dockyard and onto the streets beyond.

It wasn’t until she saw the streetcar waiting for the offloading passengers that she figured it out.

“Oh my gods, you didn’t?” she gasped, the pieces of the jigsaw finally sliding into place. The river, which surely had to be the Mississippi, the streetcars and the friendliness of the locals, there was only one place they could be. The city of New Orleans was famous for being one of the only places in the world to still have a working historical streetcar line, something she had heard all about from her friends who had been lucky enough to visit. It was one of the places on her bucket list, her spiritual home for her laidback, chilled out self.

“I did,” he smirked, feeling incredibly pleased with himself at that moment, knowing that his hunch had been correct.

"You are amazing!" she screamed, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Finally you realise it,” he teased, wrapping his arms around her waist for stability as she bounced enthusiastically on the spot, almost knocking him over. “Shall I assume you approve?”

“Hell yes I approve!” she squealed, smacking a kiss to his lips.

“Good, because we’ve got a full evening booked up.”

“And time factored in for a wander?”

“Translation, time to look at some shops?”

“Obviously.”

“Maybe we can find a little time tomorrow morning,” he allowed. She smiled happily, knowing that was a yes.

She squeezed up as close to the window as possible on the streetcar, wanting to see everything, squeaking and pointing like an excited child whenever she saw something she recognised.

When he had been thinking of somewhere to take her for an overnight stay he'd happened to overhear a phone conversation between Selene and another friend. They had been discussing a mutual friend and their shop in New Orleans and had spent ten minutes talking about the area with Selene saying how much she wanted to go, how it was on her list of places to visit before she died. The answer, it seemed, had quite conveniently fallen into his lap.

It had been simple enough to organise, just a hotel booking, pick up from the landing area in St Bernard Parish and tickets for the tour he’d found. He’d planned on surprising her for their anniversary, knowing that it would never be something she would think to plan herself. She knew their busy lives, knew that time off was a rarity that could never be counted on, plans often had to be ditched at the last minute and so she never made them, not wanting him to feel bad if her efforts went to waste because IR were called out and he had to return to Five.

He had thought she would want to do something with family and friends for her birthday so had booked for the week after, but once again she had surprised him with her insistence that she wasn’t going to celebrate. So he’d had to make some quick decisions, adapt, improvise, overcome.

He kept his eye on his phone, watching the little dot moving on the screen that was them and their streetcar, waiting for the right stop to disembark. Seeing the stop for Toulouse Station coming up he grabbed their bags and waited for her to notice. When she didn't, so engrossed was she in the streets going past, he had to catch her hand and tug her out of her seat.

“Come on, we’re walking from here,” he instructed, pushing the bell to indicate to the driver, nothing was automated in New Orleans if they could help it, that they wanted to get off.

The stop wasn’t terribly close to the hotel he’d booked, but he’d thought it would be nice to walk, allowing her to see the sights a little and familiarise themselves with the layout of the area.

They walked hand in hand through Jackson Square and out onto St Ann street. St Ann’s was a pleasant walk past a number of shops, bars and restaurants, the end of which intersected onto Bourbon Street. Selene insisted on dipping into a gift shop and grabbing a few items for the family, just in case they didn’t get a chance to later. It took all his skills in sneaky manipulation, and promises of later distractions, to get her moving again, following the street until they reached their hotel. The whole walk took them less than half an hour but they were already feeling a little damp and sweaty.

The Lafitte Guest House was on the quieter end of Bourbon, something he knew both of them would appreciate. Selene liked her sleep and hated being woken suddenly and, although she suffered it well on the island, he knew for a fact that she would not appreciate it while they were away. He’d debated the wisdom of knowingly booking into a haunted hotel but experience had told him that his wife would find a spirit no matter where they were and at least this way they would be forewarned.

“This place is so nice,” she had cooed, running a hand along the ornate wooden handrail on the staircase.

“It’s a little smaller than some of the fancier hotels, but I thought you’d prefer the atmosphere here.”

“I do, it’s the perfect choice,” Selene agreed as they were shown to their room. And it was, a three storey building that fitted in perfectly with its surroundings, the classic New Orleans French inspired architecture.

“This building was constructed in 1849,” their concierge told them, “by the same man who designed our opera house, Robert Seaton."

He turned down a hallway, beckoning them to follow along.

"I’m afraid, although your original booking was for our most haunted room, room 21, it is already occupied, I do hope that won’t be a problem?”

“Not at all,” John assured him. “Any room you have will be fine, we’re just thankful you could accommodate us at such short notice.”

“No problem at all,” the man said, leading them up a flight of stairs and along a corridor. He opened the room with a flourish, stepping aside to allow them to enter.

The room itself, much like the rest of the hotel, was like stepping back in time, containing period furniture, a lovely large four poster bed and large french door windows that opened out onto a small wrought iron balcony overlooking Bourbon street.

“It’s gorgeous,” Selene sighed, flopping backwards onto the bed with a woop of delight.

“Happy wife, happy life,” John quoted, much to the man’s amusement.

“Will you be requiring anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you, we’re just going to freshen up and then head out to dinner," he said, dropping Selene's bag in a nearby chair." Actually, is there anywhere you can recommend?”

“Many places, but I’d say the best idea is to follow your nose and your stomach, although I would encourage you to try something authentic, the gumbo at SoBou is my favourite.”

“Then we’ll be sure to try there,” John promised. “Sel, are you done messing up the bed?”

“Nope,” she answered, continuing to roll around like a happy puppy, burying her face in the pillow.

“I’ll leave you in peace,” the man laughed, backing out of the room after John shook his hand, discreetly pressing a twenty into the man’s palm.

“I’m going to freshen up with a shower,” John told her. “Try not to fall asleep.”

“I could come with you,” she offered, perking up at the idea, sitting up on the bed expectantly.

“No, I’m far too hungry for that, besides which we have somewhere to be tonight, so your continued attempts to distract me will have to wait,” he told her, grabbing his bag and firmly shutting the bathroom door behind him.

“Unfair,” she pouted, flopping back down again. “It is my birthday you know!”

-x-

“I literally can’t eat another bite,” Selene complained, pushing her bowl aside with half the, admittedly delicious, Jambalaya still in it.

“That’s because you ate four bits of bread before they brought the food out,” John told her, finishing the last bite of his gumbo and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“I regret nothing,” she insisted, reaching over to swipe the crust of a piece of bread off his side plate, wiping it through the sauce left in his bowl.

“I thought you were too full to eat another bite?” he asked as she popped it in her mouth, chewing hard before swallowing to answer him.

“Of my own food, obviously, yours is fair game,” she sipped her coke and smiled sweetly.

“Of course, how stupid of me not to realise that.”

“It really was,” she agreed, holding in a giggle at the martyred look on his face.

“Dessert?” he eventually asked once she stopped sniggering like an idiot.

“Obviously, do you want to share one?”

“Sure,” John shrugged, at ease with pretty much anything at that moment. He had worried that he might find the whole area overwhelming as it had a reputation as a nonstop party town. He’d been dreading crowds of people getting too close for comfort, being too loud, too boisterous and invasive. But he’d found that, while it was loud it wasn’t unbearable, seeming to consist of a lot of music, laughter and the occasional shout.

Although it was crowded, they weren’t shoving and barging, they were respectful of personal space and friendly enough without being over friendly. It was a pleasant surprise, one that was reflecting in his current mood. Selene, for her part, was so chilled out she was practically horizontal, four witch types had already waved hello and greeted her like a long lost friend even though she didn’t know them at all and she seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the experience, her grumpy mood of earlier completely forgotten.

“What do you fancy?” Selene asked, currently studying the dessert menu on the board.

“Besides my gorgeous wife?”

“Yeah, besides her, wives are not for eating,” Selene snorted.

“I beg to differ.”

Selene tore her eyes away from the menu to look at him. He lifted his bottle of beer and took an innocent sip, his eyes projecting trustworthiness. She wasn't fooled.

“Something chocolatey?” she offered, trying to distract herself away from the thought of his mouth on something other than the neck of the bottle.

He thought about it for a second or two then shook his head. “Maybe something with fruit?”

“ Or possibly Ice Cream?”

“Maybe,” he studied the menu himself. “Bananas Foster?”

“Perfect,” she nodded.

They finished up the last of their meal at a leisurely pace, chatting in between sharing bites of the delicious dessert. Bananas Foster was a favourite of Gordon’s and she snapped a picture to send to him later, wanting to make him jealous.

John paid the bill, leaving a generous tip and reached for her hand, guiding her outside. He took out his phone, checking the time and location for their next activity. Keeping hold of her hand, using it to pull her in closer to his side, he led the way further down Bourbon and onto St Peter’s where the tour guide would hopefully be waiting.

"Hello!" one of their guides greeted them as they closed in on the group of maybe twenty people already waiting there. "Tracy, party of two?"

"That's us," John confirmed and Selene nodded too. She had no reason to, she just wanted to look like she had some kind of clue as to why they were there and what was going on.

"Good, then you're the last ones, let's get started. I'm Delphine, this is Remi, and we'll be your guides on this, the world famous New Orleans Ghost Tour."

Selene squeezed his hand excitedly and he allowed himself to release the breath he had been holding. It was always a bit of a gamble with her when it came to planning anything like this. In most things she was incredibly laid back, but when it was anything that involved the potential for witchcraft, mediumship or ghosts then you were swimming in muddy water. It depended on how respectful the people involved were. He had done his research as best he could, seeing that the tour had been running for more than 80 years in some form or another and that they didn't employ the use of jump scares, people in costumes or sensationalise it in any way. He just hoped it was all it promised to be.

"This is a two hour walking tour, ending with a visit to the beautiful and very haunted St Louis Cemetery No 1," Delphine informed them all. "But we're going to start right here in the heart of the French quarter where murder, mystery and voodoo magic helped shape our history."

The other attendees ooed and ahhed, already impressed by the mere thought of ghosts and ghoulies.

Selene was busily looking around them curiously as they wandered slowly down the street, Delphine and Remi giving them a run down on the architecture, the history, the customs and the people that make up New Orleans. But he could feel that she was already on alert, the hand that held on tightly to his arm seeming to warm against his skin, letting him know that her gifts had already awoken, sitting up to take notice.

As they walked they were told a little about the Le Petite Theatre and the young chorus girl who, falling out of favour with the producer, hung herself above the stage during the opening night's performance. Legend had it that every opening night her shadowy form could be seen hanging against the backdrop of the stage.

The first place they stopped at properly to take pictures and listen to the full history was the Andrew Jackson hotel, somewhere John had looked at as a possible place to stay but had decided against it when he had realised it was on the tour.

“The Andrew Jackson, once a boarding house for boys, fell victim to two major fires at the end of the 1700’s,” Delphine told them. Her voice was pleasant to listen to, loud enough that they didn’t have to strain their ears but soft and lilting in that southern way that put you at ease instantly.

“One of those fires burnt the school to the ground, killing a number of young residents. The spirits of the boys are often seen and heard in the hotel, being described as mischievous spirits who like to play outside people’s rooms at night. One guest reported waking up in the middle of the night to see three small boys sitting on the end of her bed. Of course, she screamed, which the boys copied, screaming back at her in terror before vanishing.”

“Can you sense anything?” John whispered to Selene, making sure to keep his voice low, not wishing to interrupt Delphine or distract the other people listening.

Selene waggled her hand back and forth in a ‘meh’ gesture, indicating it could be something or nothing.

“I can feel energy from there, but nothing is coming forward to say hello,” she whispered back. “If we were inside I’m sure I’d get something more but out here, not being funny but the spirits are probably so used to tourists coming through that we’re boring to them now. That and, where I’m usually one of the only mediumistic people to come in to talk to spirits, there are tons here, you can trip over a witch by accident. So they are probably just keeping themselves to themselves.”

“Fair enough,” John chuckled, he always loved the way she explained things, a mixture of simplistic and colourful language with a hint of ‘I’m the expert’ that he so admired.

They continued walking, Remi pointing out interesting landmarks and telling the odd story of a murder or some other tragedy that had occured until they reached their next proper stop.

“Here we are at the historic, and very popular, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar, the oldest in the city. History is mixed on whether this building was owned by the famed Lafitte brothers, Jean, or John, and Pierre or just named after them. Some accounts say that they ran the blacksmith shop as a front, others say that they cannot find any actual evidence of their involvement. All we know for sure is that they were nasty pieces of work.” Remi swept a hand out, gesturing towards the bar that was already hopping even though it was still relatively early.

“Jean and Pierre, the Pirate Captains, were instrumental in helping to win the battle of New Orleans during the war of 1812 against the British,“ Delphine continued to explain, glancing at Selene and winking at the mention of the British. “Jean was given a pardon for all his misdeeds as reward for their help, but in exchange he was ordered to leave the state of Louisiana.”

“Bit mean,” Selene whispered to John, who nodded in agreement, imagining how it would feel to help save a city only to be thrown out of it.

“It’s said that they left great treasures around the French Quarter and in the Mississippi itself which have never been found. The only other person that knew of their whereabouts was a fellow pirate that Jean made the mistake of trusting. Unfortunately, as is often the way with pirates, he was untrustworthy, returning again and again to the cache's to skim a little off the top, so to speak. When Jean found out he did a little skimming of his own, he killed the pirate and it’s said that his spirit is cursed to guard the treasure forever more.”

“That’s a bit of a rough deal,” Selene muttered. “All eternity guarding something he can’t have? That’s like Virgil dying and hovering over the coffee pot.”

John snorted out a laugh, picturing his brother in ghost form, wailing as Scott took the coffee pot, poured himself a cup and drank it in front of him.

As they wandered on, John and Selene were asked for a few selfies by tourists not in their group and they had to hurry to catch up a few times, finding it impossible to be rude and refuse even though John would have much rather done so.

They were told of the Pharmacy Museum. The building had the dubious honour of being the first licensed pharmacy in the United States but the treatments offered often did more harm than good, verging on barbaric. From drilling holes in skulls to relieve the pressure as a cure for headaches, to chemical concoctions that would have you put in prison were you to use them today.

The second doctor to practice there was known to kidnap pregnant women and perform horrific experiments on them and it was his grizzly spirit that was said to shunt the building still.

They stopped outside a large, three storey building, getting comfortable as their guide started her story.

“The Palace, the Sultan’s house and the murder house,” Remi called out over the increasing noise of the streets and the chatting of the tour attendees. “All names for this building. Originally the second home of a wealthy businessman, he was hardly ever in residence and often rented it out in exchange for some extra cash that he probably didn’t need. Legends differ, one saying that the mysterious young man, a tall, dark and handsome stranger, was the brother of a sultan, hence the name, while others talk of him being some kind of demon or devil.”

“Demon’s aren’t real are they?” John asked Selene in a side whisper. She didn’t answer but her scrunched up nose and avoidance of his eyes told him all he needed to know.

“Do you know any?”

She nodded vaguely, clearly not comfortable talking about such things out in the open as they were so he took the hint and shut up, tuning back into the talk.

“The man was very exotic,” Delphine was saying. “He had an accent that no one could place, he arrived with a full entourage of young and beautiful people, both male and female. Again, here accounts differ, some say that the Sultan actually hired a number of assassins to murder his brother and his entourage but others are far more sensational.”

“How much more sensational could it get?” an older woman whispered to her partner.

“I don’t know,” the other woman whispered back, “maybe an orgy?”

John dropped her chin to Selene’s shoulder, burying his face in her neck as he tried not to laugh. Selene was less composed, out right giggling as he pulled her closer, his arms around her waist so she could lean back against his chest.

“The man and his ‘family’, for that was how he referred to them on the rent agreement, moved in. They immediately closed all the window shutters, hung heavy drapes and weren’t really ever seen again, although the neighbors knew they were in there. They could smell food cooking, they heard music playing at night and the smell of incense often wafted out. But, more disturbingly, the sound of screams would be heard, although it was never known if they were of pain, or pleasure. After a while the house grew quiet, no signs of life were seen and with the silence came a sickening smell. When the police broke down the door they found a scene that they likened to a slaughter house. Dead bodies were everywhere, blood splattered the walls and in the garden they found a freshly dug grave that contained the body of a man, supposedly buried alive. “

“Damn,” the woman who had suggested the orgy, muttered to her partner. "That's definitely not as much fun."

“As I said, accounts vary, some say that it was the sultan’s brother’s harem that had been killed and the brother was the body found in the garden, others say that the family escaped and killed those that either attacked them or that they were demons feeding on the flesh and souls of their victims. We will never know for sure. But rumour has it that the ghost of the sultan’s brother haunts these halls, that passers by still smell the incense and that the echoing screams can still be heard coming from inside.”

“Anything there?” John murmured in her ear, nodding towards the big building.

“There’s definitely an energy of some kind in there,” she answered, keeping her voice low and quiet. “It feels more like residual energy though, not so much an active spirit, but I'd have to be inside to know for sure.”

As they walked Delphine told them of another house, 734 Royal Street where a young black woman had frozen to death on the roof, having been told to disrobe and wait up there by her lover as a joke. He never expected her to do it and was the unlucky person to find her the next morning, naked, frozen, dead on the rooftop. It was said he died soon after from a broken heart.

Some people report to have seen a woman standing on the roof, being concerned enough to call the police. But as soon as the police hear the address they are known to dismiss it as just Julie, still waiting.

Next on their stop was the LaLaurie Mansion. Delphine, their guide, told them the story of Delphine LaLaurie, the beautiful lady of the house who married a man named Louie LaLaurie, a doctor from Europe. They were what was considered an it couple of the time, the height of fashion and threw extravagant parties to show off their wealth and to network.

The only thing of note that anyone found strange about them was the high number of slaves they seemed to own. Delphine LaLaurie would explain it away as nothing if you asked, brushing it off but if you continued to press the issue, or asked anyone else, you would find yourself ousted, shunned, never to be invited back again.

On the tenth of April 1834, whilst hosting another of their elaborate events a fire broke out in the house. The fire brigade were called and soon had the flames under control. Everything seemed fine, the damage seemed to be minimal but they checked the area thoroughly, just to be sure.

The fire looked to have originated in the kitchen and there they found an older enslaved woman, huddled close to an open window, coughing harshly, almost overcome by smoke. They wondered why she had not left through the window to save herself, but they soon found the answer. They discovered that she was chained to the stove by her ankle, unable to even leave the room, let alone the house itself.

They questioned her on the fire and she admitted that she was responsible, she had set the fire. When they asked why she pointed above her head and told them to look in there. In the room above the kitchen, the slaves quarters, they met with the most horrific sight.

The attic room was full of tortured, mutilated slaves. The doors had been locked but they had soon broken it down. As soon as the doors had opened the smell that hit them had made them heave, some of them needing to turn away to vomit. Papers from the time told of at least seven slaves, chained, beaten, tortured. Victims of pain experiments, their muscles and limbs stretched and broken.

Even though the people of time didn’t hold slaves in the same regard as others they were up in arms, calling for the LaLaurie’s blood. A mob gathered outside but they could not find them, the LaLaurie’s had made their escape in a carriage.

“People talk of a dark and depressive atmosphere in the house,” Remi continued, “and many have reported to have seen the ghost of LaLaurie. A young couple once lived here with their baby. One night the man awoke to see a woman standing over the crib. At first he thought it was his wife but she was right there in bed beside him and she didn’t have long, red hair. He yelled out loud and the woman turned to look at him before running away. He made to follow but something told him not to, instead he stopped to check the baby. The baby’s sock had been removed and had been stuffed deep down into the baby's mouth, partially down its throat, choking it.”

“I don’t like this one,” Selene whispered, her eyes fixed on the building in front of them. Even though it was a lovely warm night and she had her shawl around her shoulders, John could feel that she was shivering and wrapped his arms around her tighter.

“There’s a darkness in there, not like at the Sultan’s Palace, different. I feel that this building still has evil inside it. The energy is so...spikey,” she finished, not really knowing how to describe it. “Like it could prick you or hurt you just because you were there. I can’t say if there are any spirits in there, I’d have to go in for that, but the things that happened in there, it’s soaked into the walls, the floor, everything.”

She shuddered again, taking an instinctive step backwards, forcing John to do the same or have her knock him over. He knew what she meant, the house felt strange even to him, like every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to turn around and leave. He was a Tracy, he didn’t back down from anything, even with the fine hairs at the back of his neck standing to attention, but he was more than happy to start walking as the tour moved on.

The last stop on their tour before they moved on to the cemetery was the famous house of Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans who, despite being dead for over 250 years, still seemed to hold some sway over the city, still having powers from beyond the grave.

“Born in 1801, to a wealthy white plantation owner and her black mother, Marie was said to be incredibly beautiful,” Delphine told them. “She married and went on to have two children before her husband mysteriously went missing. After this she called herself a widow, though some people believe that this was simply to save face and that he had actually abandoned her and their children.”

“Is this place any better?” John asked, his voice low in her ear, making her shiver for an entirely different reason.

“Much better,” she replied, keeping her voice quiet. “I can feel power here, but it’s neutral, nothing that I would call malevolent or nasty.”

“After her husband’s disappearance she was in need of money with which to take care of herself and her children. With precious little options, she began working in a hair salon, serving wealthy white and Creole women of New Orleans. Just like the salons of today they were a hotbed for gossip and secret spilling. She hoarded the information she was privy to, using to her advantage to rise up the ranks of society.”

“Honestly, I can respect that woman,” Selene muttered. “I gather gossip and use it to my advantage too.”

“Sweetheart, you said that finding Grandma’s old photo album and stealing the picture of Dad’s emo phase was you doing the Gods work.”

“I stand by that,” she sniffed, ignoring the giggle from the young man standing behind them.

“Marie entered into another relationship with a wealthy and powerful man from a prestigious local family,” Remi continued. “And they had a total of fifteen children in quick succession.”

“Sod that!” Selene yelped, crossing her legs in the ultimate act of self defence.

“And you said I have too many brothers,” John teased, hugging her tighter when she attempted to elbow him.

“Obviously, with so many children to look after she found that her time was limited,” Delphine said, ignoring Selene’s outburst. “She quit her job at the hair salon and devoted herself to raising her children. It’s believe that this was the time when she started to pay more attention to her mothers voodoo beliefs and practices.”

The story, which Delphine and Remi continued to tell them as they walked towards their last stop of the night, St Louis Cemetery number one, said that while she had a basic knowledge from her mother she learnt most of her craft from a voodoo doctor known only as Doctor John.

Selene turned her head back to look at John as she walked beside her.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a side hustle in Voodoo? You’ve been making me do all the magical heavy lifting for years.”

“Well, I had to leave you with something to do to make you feel useful,” he retorted, smacking a kiss on her lips when she squeaked a protest.

“Quite Christian based in the prayers used, voodoo combines the use of saints, incense and dance into its practice,” Remi continued as they walked. “She was known for her pet snake which she had named Zombie, and for providing Gri-Gri bags, spiritual readings, spells, fortune telling and mediumship for the wealthy of New Orleans upper class. She was said to have died with a smile on her face in 1881 and, when her death was reported in the newspapers they called her the kindest woman that had ever lived. She was said to have nursed the sick and helped out with all manner of problems that people might have, although many said it wasn’t so much because of her magical abilities that she was so powerful, but the secrets that she kept. Secrets that kept many politicians in her debt.”

They came to stop outside the crumbling white walls that surrounded the cemetery, glowing eerily in the rapidly darkening twilight between dusk and full night. The walls themselves were actually made up of wall tombs, a place for families who couldn’t afford a large above ground one.

“Marie Laveau was laid to rest right here in this very cemetery. It’s said that she still wields a remarkable amount of power even from beyond the grave, so much so that people often petition her spirit in the hopes that she will grant their wishes,” Delphine said as they entered.

She and Remi led the way through a maze of tombs, some old and crumbling, others surrounded by iron railings that tilted at odd angles due to age and decay, some large, some small, some classical, some extravagant while others were just so outlandish that they looked completely out of place.

They stopped beside a rather plain white tomb, relatively small in comparison to some of the others they had already seen. Delphine reached out a hand to touch the side of the tomb, right beside a green X that had been scrawled on the paint.

“The practice has since been banned and is considered a criminal offence, but in the past people would mark her grave with an X, although as you can see some people ignore the law. The ritual stated that you should mark the grave with an X, turn around three times, knock on the tomb and then yell out your wish. If the wish came true you were supposed to return, draw a circle around your X and leave an offering to the lady.”

“I can think of a few wishes I’d like granted,” a lady in their group stated, making a fair few people laugh. “Not much, just a few million in the bank, a nice house and a good looking man on my arm.”

“Well, I can’t help with the millions,” her husband said, “but at least you have the good looking man.”

“Yeah, in my dreams,” she countered, although he didn’t seem too offended by it.

“Marie’s ghost has been spotted in many locations throughout the French quarter where she made her home," Remi told them. "She is most recognizable by the red and white turban tucked around her hair and the bright clothes she wears. People are still drawn to her and often follow her wanting to introduce themselves but she always vanishes, sometimes right in front of them, before they can do so.”

“She doesn’t sound scary,” a man said dismissively.

“Oh, she’s seen as very friendly,” Delphine answered, “until you cross her. She’s been seen many times in this cemetery, walking between and sometimes through the tombs. Usually she leaves you be but, if you do anything that she deems disrespectful, such as disregarding or insulting her beliefs or religion she has been known to scratch, pinch and shove people to the ground. Voices have been heard coming from inside her tomb and some people that get too close have reported feeling sick.”

“She’s not too bad,” a voice beside Selene and John said in a conversational tone.

“Have you seen her?” Selene asked, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Delphine and Remi as they told of the cities other famous inhabitants of the cemetery such as Bernard de Marigny and Barthelemy Lafon.

“Seen who?” John asked, dragging his attention away from the talk and back to her.

“Sorry, wasn’t talking to you,” she whispered.

“Do you happen to know where the Vignes tomb is?” the man asked, changing the subject from ghost talk to something more mundane.

“No, sorry, we’re just on a tour here, we don’t know the area,” Selene admitted.

“Who were you talking to?”

“This guy,” she said, nodding towards the blond man who had begun to wander closer to the front of the tour group, obviously wanting to take advantage of listening to the information without having to pay for the privilege like the rest of them had.

“Who?”

“Him,” she replied, waving in his direction. "That new guy, he definitely wasn't with us at the start. He must have joined in along the way."

“There’s no one there, Sel,” John said quietly. She looked at him, studying his face to make sure he wasn't messing with her, but he seemed serious enough. She sighed, for someone so observant John certainly seemed to be missing the obvious.

“Yes there is, he’s right there,” she insisted. Praying for patience she grabbed his hand to drag him closer. “See? He's right there.”

“Yes,” John gulped, eyes widening, “I actually do see him.”

“Right, so he was saying that Marie Laveau isn’t as bad as everyone says she is, I assume he meant that her spirit isn’t that menacing, I was asking him if he’d seen her but then you interrupted and-”

“Sel,” John interrupted, his eyes locked on the man who was meandering back their way, “I don't think he joined the tour, he just walked straight through that tomb.”

“Damn, then he’s got some serious energy in him,” she breathed, catching John’s meaning. “He must have if I didn’t sense it straight away.”

“Sorry, I had to listen to make sure they told my story right,” the ghost said, reaching her side. John’s eyes almost fell out of his head, confirming that he could now hear him as well as see him.

“Oh, are you a famous one?” Selene asked as the tour moved on, affording them a little more privacy to talk.

“My name is Henry,” he told them, dipping in a courtly little bow. “Oh, that's my cue, if you’ll excuse me…”

Henry vanished and reappeared nearer the front of the tour. Making a face of pure boredom he stepped into a gap between two tombs and moaned in a low, quiet voice. “I need to rest.”

Several people in the tour jumped and an older lady stumbled. John, actinb on instinct, reached out to steady her, letting go of Selene’s hand in the process.

“Where did he go?” John asked, returning to her side after assuring himself that the lady was unharmed.

“No where, he’s still right there,” she answered, giving Henry a small wave.

“No, he’s not.”

“He is,” she insisted, “come on, we’ll go talk to him again.”

“As we were saying,” Remi could be heard above the mutterings of the other attendees. “The story of Henry Vignes is a sad one. A sailor who trusted the wrong person, Henry died having no place to be laid to rest, his tomb sold by the lady he had entrusted with his most important papers.”

Henry nodded sadly, leaning casually against the side of a tomb.

“He has been seen by many people, usually so clearly that they do not realise that he is even a ghost,” Delphine told them. Henry preened a little at that.

“He often strolls right up to tourists and asks them where the Vignes tomb is located as he’s having trouble finding it himself. He’s even been known to appear at funerals and ask if there is any room left in there for him.”

Selene giggled, she couldn’t help it and Henry winked at her, tipping his hat before fading away.

“Are you sure he was still there?” John asked later that night as the tour returned to the french quarter meeting place.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she sighed. “I don’t know what happened there, you seemed to see-”

“And hear,” John added.

“And hear him just fine. Then all of a sudden you couldn’t anymore.”

“I couldn’t at first either,” he reminded her, “I thought you were talking to yourself.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she grumbled. “Sometimes I’m the only person that will listen to me.”

“Was there anything you did that might have allowed me to see him?” John asked, ignoring her insinuation that he never listened to her. He listened to her all the time, he was just selective with what he chose to reply to, knowing she needed very little encouragement with some of her more ridiculous ideas.

“No, I didn’t do anything at all,” she promised him. “All I did was move you closer so I could point him out.”

“You took hold of my hand,” he said, mentally rerunning the moment in his head. “And kept hold of it the whole time.”

“Not the whole time,” she reminded him. “When Henry did his haunting voice that lady stumbled and you caught her before she hit the deck.”

“And I didn’t hold your hand again until we were walking back,” he finished.

“Nah, it can’t be that simple,” she scoffed. “I hold your hand all the time.”

“But have you ever done it while there was a spirit around?” he asked, guiding her around a group of drunken young ladies all carrying brightly coloured cocktails in yard long plastic containers with straws sticking out of them, most of which were being eagerly slurped from as they walked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, thinking about it. “I don’t think so now that you mention it.”

“Do you think that could be another side effect of that little bonding mistake we made?”

“I guess anything is possible,” she mused. “Tanzi did say that we might keep noticing new things for a while after.”

“I guess there’s only one way to know for sure,” he shrugged, “you’ll just have to make sure you tell me next time you see one.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised him. He smiled at that, knowing how just a few years ago she would never have dared to even agree to try, let alone have any intention of doing so. Her ex, Nathaniel was responsible for messing up many things in her life, her confidence in herself and her abilities being one of them, but John was determined that, no matter how long it took, he was going to prove to her that she never needed to be wary again.

Bourbon street at night was like no place they had ever been before. They heard it before they even got close, the neon lights glowing from a distance. The lights reminded Selene of London but that was where the similarities ended.

The entire street was a wall of noise, music of all kinds seeming to spill out of every single bar on the strip on either side. She felt John tense beside her, knowing that it wasn’t somewhere he would be at all comfortable.

“Do you want to try and avoid it?” she asked and he nodded gratefully. A quick word with Remi and they had secured directions and a suggestion to head down Dauphine St instead of continuing onto Bourbon. They could follow it until they reached St Phillip’s St which would lead them to the intersection where their hotel was located.

They thanked him and Delphine for a fun and informative tour and struck out on their own. Dauphine street was much quieter than Bourbon appeared to be, there were still small crowds milling around outside but not enough to send John into flight mode, so they took that as a win.

“Want to grab a drink?” John offered but Selene shook her head.

“No thanks, I’m not really feeling it today, maybe it’s the crowds or all the walking but I think I’d rather wait until we get closer to the hotel, that way we can find a quieter one to try before we head to bed.”

“Good plan,” he agreed, pulling her in closer. It was only eleven at night, relatively early for them, but they had had a long day and the thought of the comfy bed awaiting them was a very pleasant one.

They located the intersection where Dauphine met St Paul's and soon hit the tail end of Bourbon. From there the music was far more bearable, seeming to be a mixture of classic rock, Selene could hear Smoke on the Water playing from a bar, and some kind of Jazz.

With Virgil, Scott and Jeff being fans of old fashioned Jazz music they decided to move a little further in that direction, meaning to take a video or two to show the others when they got home. That was their first mistake.

“No, no way,” John protested as a woman separated herself from the crowd outside the bar where a band was playing and grabbed his hand.

“Come on, honey, you have to dance,” she insisted, swirling on the spot and dragging him with her.

“Help!” he yelped as his arm was pulled this way and that by the enthusiastic woman.

“Little busy,” Selene laughed, having been swept up into the arms of a man who was trying to lead her in some kind of 1920’s era Jazz hop dance that involved a lot of quick footwork and much arm waving.

John managed to escape as the band paused before launching into their next number and stole Selene back. She took full advantage, holding on to his hand as the music began to play again.

A couple near them started something that looked vaguely like a charleston mixed with a waltz that Selene was determined to try to copy. Neither she nor John were very good, not knowing the steps or the music enough to actually follow along and ended up finding their own rhythm, not caring that they didn’t match the others, not caring that they were slower and less energetic. It was nice, it was simple and it was very much them.

“Thank you for forcing me to celebrate my birthday,” she said, pulling him in closer to steal a quick kiss.

“My pleasure,” he grinned, twirling her on the spot then dipping her in his arms. “Anything for the birthday girl.”

-x-

“It was so nice to see Myst again,” Selene sighed, relaxing deeper into the passenger seat of Jeff’s jet as they cruised over the Pacific, on course for Tracy Island.

“I haven’t seen her in two years, not since she last visited Tanzi, I can’t believe how great the shop looked, they’ve run it for years but don’t get to spend much time there.”

“Well, with what we spent they'll still be open for at least another ten,” he teased, not in the least concerned by her shopping spree. You only turned thirty once and if she wanted to buy up half of the shop that was her choice.

“I didn’t buy that much,” she pouted, but couldn’t hold it for too long when, with a no doubt on purpose twitch of the controls, the little plane rolled sideways, sending a number of bags cascading to the floor.

“You were saying?”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” she huffed, trying not to laugh. "You said they were birthday presents.”

“So I did,” he agreed, lifting his hand off her knee to poke the console, bringing up a comm line to the island, announcing their impending arrival.

Virgil had messaged earlier that morning to say that he was picking up Celia and Adam in time for their return, so all they had to worry about was enjoying a leisurely breakfast.

They took him at his word and shared a delicious three egg omelette, an order of beignets and the best coffee she had tasted in forever. Bellies full and suitably rested after an uneventful nights sleep in the hotel, the resident ghosts declining to visit, they had wandered around Jackson Square and the shops of the French quarter.

John had insisted that he was hungry again and craving something special for lunch, that something special had turned out to be oysters. Selene had watched in morbid fascination mixed with horror as he had proceeded to devour a dozen oysters speckled with hot sauce, which she refused to try, while she munched her seafood salad. She was still undecided if watching him swallow them down whole so easily was hot or disturbing, the jury was still out.

Cherise had been as good as her word, waiting for them to dock from the ferry and taxing them to the bar where the jet waited for them. They had waved a happy goodbye after awkwardly stuffing their shopping (the pieces they hadn’t arranged to have delivered) and overnight bags into the back and taken off for home.

“I hope mum doesn’t make dinner awkward,” Selene sighed, knowing that with her family anything was possible. “I know she’s going to be a bit disappointed that I didn’t want to spend the actual day with her.”

“Then let her, you can always blame it on me.”

“My hero,” she smiled, lifting his hand to her lips to kiss it. “What would I do without you?”

“Marry Scott?” he joked, ducking out of the way of the smack she aimed at his shoulder.

“I think Cat would have something to say about that,” she huffed. “Besides, you know you’re the only man for me.”

“I know, but it’s nice to be reminded now and then.”

She was still giggling, feeling relaxed and happily clinging to his arm, as the lift from the hangars completed its ascent, the doors opening to spill them out into the hall just beyond the lounge.

“Why do I hear music?” Selene asked suspiciously.

“I have no idea,” John admitted as they rounded the corner into the lounge.

Selene stopped dead in the doorway, as did John, unable to believe what they were seeing with their own two eyes.

“Am I that old now that I need glasses,” she whispered, “or am I actually seeing this?”

“Unfortunately it’s very real,” he whispered back, wrapping his arm around her protectively.

The lounge lights were flickering to the beat of the music, someone had laid out food on the coffee table, including a plate of mini sausages that Armstrong was steadily working his way through and someone had opened the concealed drinks cabinet.

It wasn’t the fact that there was quite clearly a party in full swing, a party that she had said on no uncertain terms wasn’t to happen, it wasn’t the fact that the entire family , plus her mother, Adam, Cat, Penelope, Parker, Bandon, Conrad and Moffie were all there.

No, it was the fact that each and every one of them was sporting a wig in various shades and stripes of purple and black. Wigs they had apparently teamed with half the contents of her wardrobe and every band T-shirt Jeff had ever collected.

“What the ever loving fu-”

The music quietened as the party animals realised they were no longer alone. They looked at John and Selene rather guiltily, not saying a word.

Scott, who had somehow squeezed his chest back into her favourite corset, was tossed under the bus and shoved forward to greet her.

“I’m going to kill you,” she hissed, trying to back away as he advanced on her, arms open in anticipation of a hug.

The world's most annoying best friend simply grinned at her, flashing those dimples that he knew she could never resist.

She tried to duck behind John but Scott was too quick for her, herding her directly into the path of the oncoming Virgil.

She was swept up into a bone crushing bear hug, vanishing under the tide of Tracys that descended to join in.

-x-

“Admit it, it wasn’t that bad,” John said, catching up with her beside the pool and handing her another can of her favourite cherry coke.

“I didn’t want a party,” she argued.

“But…”

“But I guess it wasn’t that bad,” she admitted, moving over on the padded bench seat to make room for him to sit next to her.

“They only did it because they love you.”

“I know, but they are all idiots.”

“I know, but it was a special birthday and they wanted to celebrate with you.”

“I know,” she said, leaning against his side with a contented sigh.

"I've got a present for you," he announced, jiggling his shoulder to get her to move and shifting so he could dig into his hoodie pocket.

"Really? Why?"

"Because it's your birthday."

"You really didn't have to, New Orleans was more than enough."

"The trip was supposed to have been for our anniversary, I just moved it forward," he reminded her. "Besides, I'd be a pretty lousy husband if I didn't get you something special to mark the occasion."

He offered her a bright green velvet pouch which looked to contain something rectangular and hard.

"Open it," he instructed.

"OK." She did as he bid, noticing that he was watching her very closely. Did he think she wouldn't like it?

She loosened the draw strings and tipped the pouch up, catching the bundle of cards that slid out.

"Tarot cards? What are they…" she paused, turning them over, her eyes widening as she realised exactly what they depicted.

"Oh my gods," she gasped then burst out laughing. "These are amazing!"

She flicked through them quickly, laughing even more at some of the pictures, each matching perfectly with the subject.

"Where the hell did you find Muppets Tarot cards?" Kermit was the Emperor, Miss Piggy his Empress, Fozzy the Fool, Sam the Eagle as Justice, Animal as the Devil and most perfect of all, Statler and Waldorf as Judgement.

"Tanzi put me in touch with someone who makes one of a kind sets to order," he replied, breathing a little easier now that he saw she liked them.

"They're perfect, absolutely perfect. I love them so much."

"Good," he smiled, slipping his arm back around her waist and pulling her in closer. "I wasn't sure if it was something you would like or I should actually buy for you and didn't want to do the wrong thing. But Tanzi said that tarot cards are often gifted to people so it was OK."

"Why would you think I wouldn't like them?" she asked softly.

"I know how important your tools are to you and how Nathaniel never respected them. I guess I wanted to show you that I care too, that I'll always respect you and your beliefs."

"You are the best husband in the world," she assured him, pulling him closer for a kiss. "I love that you did this and I love that you know me so well that you could commission the most perfect set of cards just for me. Thank you, I love them."

"You're very welcome. I'm glad you like them."

"You always surprise me, just when I think you couldn't be any more amazing you pull something like this out of the bag, literally," she laughed, holding up the green pouch.

"So, does this mean that you enjoyed turning thirty?"

“I guess, as birthdays go, it wasn’t too awful.”

“Not too awful?” he mock gasped, clutching his heart.

“Not awful,” she repeated, tipping her head back for another kiss. “Did you know they were planning all that?”

“Not all of it,” he admitted, “I suspected that they might not stick to a quiet meal but the rest was as much of a surprise to me as it was you.”

She let out an elegant snort in response, clearly not convinced.

“Honestly it was,” he promised, making the rescue scout sign. "Scouts honour."

“OK, I believe you, even though you weren't the scout, Scott was.”

“Thank you,” he grinned, draping his arm around her shoulders, his head tipped back to look up at the night sky above their heads. “All over for another year, how do you feel?”

“Better than I did yesterday morning,” she answered.

“Good, then my work here is done.”

She nodded, resting her head against his shoulder, just enjoying the peace of the late night,

“You’re quiet,” he said softly a few minutes later. “Everything alright?”

“Yep,” she promised. "I'm just thinking.”

“Care to share what you’re thinking so hard about?”

“Yep,” she repeated, grinning evilly. “I was thinking that mine isn't the only special birthday this year.”

Realisation dawned on him, a feeling of dread skittering up his spine.

“No, absolutely not.”

“But you said it yourself, you only turn thirty once.”

“No.”

“You forced me to celebrate, so it’s your turn next.”

“No, listen to me very carefully. I, as your husband, forbid it.”

“I’m thinking of a nice, relaxing trip somewhere quiet. I’ve heard that Finland does an amazing range of glass igloos to stay in to watch the sky, it's supposed to be beautiful that time of year.”

That didn't sound too bad, he had to admit.

“OK, that wouldn’t be too terrible,” he agreed, breathing a sigh of relief. “For a second I thought you were going to say you were planning a party.”

“Would I do that?” she asked innocently, sliding out of his arms and off the bench. "I'm just going to show these to Mum, she'll have a fit."

“No, you aren't. Get back here. I forbid you to even think about planning a party."

"I'm not planning anything," she said, deftly avoiding his attempts to catch her and pull her back down.

"Promise me you won't plan a party," he pleaded.

"I promise," she vowed, dancing around the side of the pool towards the kitchen.

John's eyes narrowed, she looked entirely too suspicious…

“I’m going to leave that to Scott.”

She dropped her bombshell, turned tail and ran like her life depended on it.

#selene tempest #John Tracy #birthday girl #birthday trip #thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirdsarego #thunderbirds 2015 #healthy relationships #relationship goals

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platypanthewriter · 3 years

Text

See You On The Other Side 2/4

Prompts: Day Ten, “I’m sorry, I...didn’t know,” with a side of Day Five, “Take me instead”

Part One The chapters are shorter here on Tumblr, so chapter two on Ao3 comes after this!

When Steve came back after work the next day, Billy walked to meet him, right through the fence, and then shoved his face through Steve’s face, again, as Steve reflexively tried to shove him away. “I can’t find it,” Billy said, running his hands through his hair, and Steve watched, fascinated, as it stayed messy. Billy looked thinner, too, he thought, and he stumbled for no reason on the even ground. “My fucking corpse.”

“...you looked under the dome?” Steve asked, swallowing, his brain running like a hamster wheel. “Nothing there?”

“I looked,” Billy groaned, spinning to look back at the mall. He looked a little frenzied. “I’ve done nothing but look—”

“Okay, okay, just— can you sit down?” Steve asked, waving his hands helplessly.

“I don’t need to fucking sit down,” Billy snarled at him. “Dead people don’t sit down.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, cataloguing the circles under Billy’s eyes, and his shaking hands. “...Billy,” he said slowly, then bit his lips together.

“What,” Billy sighed, tiredly.

“...d’you get hungry?”

“I’m always fucking hungry,” Billy laughed harshly. “Maybe it’s the Mindflayer. Maybe I’m turning into some—some hungry thing— I’ll probably—”

“It’s not the Mindflayer,” Steve said quickly, and Billy snorted and sighed, his momentum gone. He rubbed his face, and swayed, and Steve reached for him again, then clenched his fingers in a fist. “Billy. You’re not the Mindflayer.”

“What if you take my rotting corpse home and I go crazy and kill you,” Billy laughed, unevenly. “Braaaaains.”

“...I’m taking you with me,” Steve said, stubbornly, and Billy’s mouth quirked.

“...sounds like a shitty idea,” he said, but he smiled, a little. The patch of Upside Down that followed him around buckled the pavement, a little, and Steve watched him stumble again.

“Has anyone else seen you?” he asked, and Billy snorted, shaking his head.

“Nobody comes here.”

Steve nodded, and then bit his lip, watching Billy yank at a tear in the knee of his jeans. He looked dirtier, too, but less bloody than the first time Steve had seen him standing in the parking lot of Starcourt Mall, and there were other differences, like his nails, torn now, when before they’d been getting a little long.

It was hard to feel hopeful, exactly, looking at exhausted, bloodied Billy Hargrove, but the thought of Max’s tears sent him running back to his car. After rooting through his trunk and glove compartment, the floor under the driver’s seat yielded the flashlight. He returned to find Billy standing in the chainlink fence.

He was just standing there, his arms crossed, but his head jerked up as Steve crunched across the rubble.

“Harrington,” he said. “You didn’t leave.”

“Sorry, I needed something,” Steve said, taking a deep breath, and he held out the flashlight.

Billy raised his eyebrows. “You want me to break your flashlight? I’m just gonna drop it—”

“No, touch it,” Steve said, keeping his breathing steady as he chewed his lip, and tried not to telegraph to Billy that something important was happening. Billy looked at him for a long second, then waved his hand through the flashlight.

It flicked on and off.

Steve bit back a loud whoop, but he couldn’t help smiling, his heart rate kicking up with the urgency.

“...hey,” Billy said, waving his hand through it again. “...d’you think it’s using me up?”

Steve yanked it away, glaring at him. “Why the fuck would you say that?!”

“Maybe I can jumpstart cars,” Billy snickered, sighing. “M—”

“I’m sorry,” Steve told him, truthfully, “I really have to go.”

“...yeah, okay,” Billy nodded, crossing his arms, and smiling sarcastically. “Fine.”

Steve drove clear to Chicago that night, taking a deep breath before he got out of the car. He banged on the door, heard shouting inside, and then both Joyce and El squinted out at him, one over, one under the security chain. They looked at each other, and opened the door.

“Billy’s alive,” Steve panted, having run up the flights of stairs to their apartment. “I, um, I think. Like Will. Billy, um, Billy Hargrove, I think he’s alive. He’s in the Underneath.”

“...the Upside Down,” Will said, white-faced, and Steve pointed at him, nodding.

“There, he’s there. We—we have to get him out.”

Jonathan was frowning hard at him, and Steve waved the flashlight. “He—he turned it on! Like Will! And he’s changing—he’s getting...he’s skinny, he’s tired,” he said, sighing as he lost momentum, thinking of Billy’s face as Steve walked away after a five minute visit, his first in two days. “...he looks so tired,” he repeated. “You—you gotta open a gate. We have to save him.”

Jonathan sat down at the table, opening his mouth, but Joyce cut him off.

“We went in with the lab’s equipment before—”

“No, Nancy went in by my house,” Steve told them, sitting down, and folding his hands together to keep them busy. “To look for Barb. She couldn’t—she didn’t find her, not in time. You have to make me a gate—”

“What do you mean he looks tired,” Jonathan asked, frowning around, and Steve blinked.

“He...he has circles under his eyes, it—y’know, it almost looks bruised,” he waved his hand around his eyes, wondering why the hell Jonathan’’d never seen anyone exhausted before.

“You can see him,” Jonathan said slowly, watching Steve’s face, and he nodded.

“...the Mindflayer came through at the Mall,” El said, squinting at him. “Maybe there’s a gate there.”

“It looks like the Underdown around him,” Steve reported. “That flakey stuff? And he kind of makes a noise. But he can’t touch things.”

“...Upside down,” Will repeated, frowning harder.

“Sounds like you would need a gate,” Joyce said, grimly, and Steve nodded frantically.

“I need to get him out,” he said again, and El sat back in her chair, thinking.

“...it’s not like...here,” she said quietly. “It might be difficult to get through—”

“He’s just—he’s right there, he’s just at the mall,” Steve shouted at her, and jerked back, waving his hand, “—sorry, I’m sorry—sorry—”

“Good thing it’s summer,” Joyce said, grabbing her purse, and Steve’s voice cracked as he laughed with relief.

The chapters are shorter here on Tumblr, so chapter two on Ao3 comes after this!

#Harringrove #Season 3 fixit of sorts #Happy Ending #Billy and Steve think Billy's a ghost #Until Steve puts two and two together

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eternal-happiness-by-imagination · 4 years

Text

Just writing my mind into a few words

Genius minds numbed and flushed out by intoxicative tendencies. All due to the long term societal pressure of fitting in, of frantically trying to attach our lives to ideals of tradition.

Welcome to societies long-term consequential result of exploiting our species to the absolute max. Pure manipulation and psychological control. We’re forced to produce something.

Always trying to be better, always reaching for the top, never taking no for an answer, conquering all knowledge and all info, as quickly as possible.

We’re a very hungry species.

We are manifesting the ideals and traditions of previously lived experience, we listen to our long dead (ignorant towards future generation) ancestors, and we’re applying their experience and solutions to our modern lives as if this is the way to live. We have followed in a pattern, in a track. Because of this contributory tree effect we create a grounded base of morals, categories and patterns to live by, as well as a capitalistic society with hierarchies, to make things more simple, to let a few of us do all the work, so we can just easily follow.

We live dynamically, constantly adapting to our surroundings. Continually fixing every problem temporarily until the consequences of our solution happen to sprout this circle once again. The cycle of life.

Its very simple see, we are brought into this world by someone else. Someone who has had somewhat of a life experience, influenced by tradition, probably mostly according to what their parent/guardian influenced them with according to their own beliefs.

An animal that is around another animal from birth, picks up tendencies from the that animal. Even if it is not the same species. Even minor characteristics. We teach the younger generations the way we see correct, but really, even though we were once children, we have no idea how a child will react. We have had the experience of a childs mind but we cannot enter into it mentally. We are more used to the world, so we don’t see it so simplistically. At the end of the day, we all have different brains, different ways of reacting, different rational and irrational, creative and simple thought patterns.

We learn to make things as accessible as possible, so much so, that we can no longer survive in the natural habitat we were originally exposed to. We distance ourselves from nature.

So, on a long enough timeline. disaster is natural. We destroy our species.

We try to manipulate our next generation. We incept thoughts and ideas that we believe will make them a better person, but essentially, we just expose them to things that we think they need, things that we’re made to believe they need. But we apply the same to ourselves. We eat the things that are available to us. We take what we are given, we don’t ask. We use the surroundings we’re in.

‘Never think about your own world, your own situation, so much so that your room is dirty, but office desk tidy. Live someone else’s dream. More conditioning. Yes that’s good, you’re more productive now, let’s keep that up, get this piglet running faster until he has grown and exploit him for what he’s worth and so that the lube used for the hamster wheel he’s running in is all used up, and the gears come loose and oh no! piggy’s in a wheelchair. Health insurance, a drip & a life machine? No problem.’

We constantly share new ideas, on a very large scale. So it’s no wonder that, new disasters happen, new diseases come about, consequences that we have not accounted for. Consequences we don’t have answers too. Experiences that we have never encountered because of such a largely vast, limitless network of experience and exposure. Exposure to mass amounts of species, nature, colour, physics, science, spirituality, pain, intensity, anxiety, shock, trauma, pleasure.. the list goes on..

On top of all this, life is short, you can’t get around to everything, so you either try to cover as much as you can, ‘live as much as possible’, or you become obsessed with the idea that you won’t be able to do everything, so you don’t let the race get to your head. You shut it out and live calmly. This freaks people out, it doesn’t make sense to them.

#haha #life #funny #book #working #writing #philosophy #psychology #psycho #psychiatry #psylocibin #lsd

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thelastspeecher · 4 years

Text

Recoil - Chapter 4: Squib Load

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 AO3

I was too busy working on my thesis last week and getting sick this week to upload this chapter. The fic is already written, but it takes time to post, especially since I sometimes edit while I’m posting it. But! It is here. And things go from bad to worse...

(Again, this fic was inspired by “1 Step Forward, 20 Years Back” by @infriga)

Squib load (noun): a firearms malfunction in which a fired projectile does not have enough force behind it to exit the barrel, and thus becomes stuck

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Stan paced anxiously by the side of Ford’s bed, glancing at Ford every now and then. Ford was sleeping peacefully, his chubby, cherubic face particularly angelic. Stan scowled.

He has no right to look so relaxed when he did this to himself. Why the hell did he eat that plant? He knows better than that! Hell, I know better than that, and I’m a dumbass.

“Yer bound to wear a hole in the floor like that,” a voice said. Stan spun around. Fiddleford had returned from his house. He handed the plastic bag he was holding to Stan. “That oughta fit him. Yer lucky that I’m a bit of a hoarder. Children’s clothes are expensive.”

“I know,” Stan mumbled, thinking back to some of the price tags he’d seen at the mall, what felt like years ago. “Why didn’t his clothes shrink with him this time?”

“The cause was dif’rent,” Fiddleford said. Stan rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I got that, Fiddlenerd. I’m complaining, not actually asking a question.” Stan set the bag down next to the bed. “It looks like he’s done shrinking, at least.” Stan looked at Ford again. “No clue how old he is now.” Fiddleford crossed over to the bed and sat on the edge. He stroked Ford’s hair out of his face.

“I can’t give ya an exact age, but he looks to be ‘bout three. Maybe a young four or an old two. Depends on whether he was larger or smaller than average as a child.” Fiddleford looked at Stan expectantly. Stan shrugged. “Well, the range of old two to young four ain’t exactly an easy one. If ya thought he was difficult ‘fore, he’s goin’ to be extra difficult now.”

“Why did that plant do this to him?” Stan asked. Fiddleford let out a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know, and I won’t until I get a chance to observe it more closely. Unfortunately, Stanford was the one who knew biology. Combine the fact I ain’t that knowledgeable in the first place with the current state of my mind and ya wind up with someone tryin’ to shoot with both eyes closed.”

“You figured out what was going on with the energy whatever,” Stan protested. Fiddleford shook his head.

“Stanford collected most of that data hisself. And it was regardin’ a machine’s impact. This time, it’s a plant’s impact. My knowledge on plants is strictly from growin’ up on a farm. That plant wasn’t alfalfa or an apple tree.” Ford made a small noise and rolled over. Fiddleford smiled faintly. “These are terrible conditions, to be sure, but I’m a sucker fer a cute face.” Stan sat on the edge of the bed as well, watching Fiddleford watch Ford.

There was no doubt that Fiddleford was a loving, caring father. He radiated an aura of gentleness while he looked at Ford. Stan felt an ugly jealousy unfurling in his chest, thinking of his own childhood. Dreading the sound of heavy footsteps on stairs, being ignored until he succeeded or, more often, screwed up.

Why is this hick who looks like there’s a chicken nesting in his hair a better dad than I got? Fiddleford looked up. He furrowed his brow thoughtfully.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“No, just-” Stan looked away and tried to fight back his sudden irritation. “Just thinking about when we were this small before.”

“Ah.” The sound was small, but full of understanding. Stan looked back at Fiddleford. “I ain’t privy to the details, but Stanford told me a few things ‘bout his – your – parents.” Fiddleford gazed down at Ford. “I forget sometimes that not everyone had a ma and pa that took care of ‘em as well as mine did. When ya grow up with somethin’, ya tend to not realize that there are folks who don’t have that thing.” The jealousy that had arisen out of nowhere began to settle into a low simmer.

Right. The reason why he’s a good dad and Pops wasn’t is because this guy actually cares about other people. And he had a good dad, so he had someone he could copy. It was like a stone had been tossed into Stan’s stomach. It’s for the best I haven’t had kids yet. Maybe I shouldn’t ever. It’s not like I had someone who could show me how to do it right.

“What’s in the past is in the past,” Fiddleford said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Stan snorted.

“Sounds like something someone who had a good past would say.”

“Or it’s somethin’ someone would say if they’re beginnin’ to learn the hard way that they need to find a healthy way to move past negative events,” Fiddleford said sharply. Stan raised an eyebrow.

I touched a nerve, didn’t I? The urge to keep pushing was strong, especially since Fiddleford had been strangely specific. Stan fought back that urge. Don’t. If you push him, he might leave. And if he leaves, you’re stuck with three-year-old Ford and no idea how to take care of him, let alone cure him. Stan frowned, a stray phrase that Fiddleford had mentioned earlier suddenly catching his attention.

“What did you mean by your ‘current state of mind’?” Stan asked. Fiddleford stilled. “You’ve mentioned it before. That your brain isn’t what it used to be.”

“That’s private, personal business,” Fiddleford said tightly.

“Not really, if it’s gonna make curing Ford more difficult.” Stan had touched another nerve. Fiddleford’s jaw clenched.

“Then it serves him right, ‘cause his actions ‘re what led me to it,” Fiddleford growled.

“So it has to do with whatever happened between you and Ford,” Stan said. Fiddleford nodded reluctantly. “What was it? Bad breakup?” Stan joked. Fiddleford completely froze, every muscle tensed. Only his eyes moved, darting back and forth like a bee trapped inside a room. Stan could practically hear the gears frantically turning in Fiddleford’s head. Finally, Fiddleford relaxed.

“No.”

“…That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say? ‘No’?”

“What more do ya want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me what happened with you and Ford. And why it might make curing him more difficult. You might have a beef with him and I do too, but he’s still my brother, okay? I want him to get back to normal!” Stan began to pick up steam as he spoke, physically shaking by the time he bit off his last word.

“Fine.” Fiddleford carefully pulled Ford’s blanket higher, covering Ford’s shoulders. “I’ll tell ya.” His voice was soft but firm. He looked up at Stan, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. “But only if ya tell me in turn ‘bout yer own issues with him.”

“Hell, no,” Stan said immediately. “That’s my business.”

“It’s only fair fer you to share with me, if I have to share with you.”

“Your shit is relevant to the situation! Mine isn’t!”

“So you don’t think that there’s even a slight chance Ford might use whatever bad blood is between the two of ya as a weapon?” Fiddleford shot back. “He’s a toddler. Toddler’s aren’t exactly known fer their self-control, and honestly, Ford wasn’t particularly good at that as an adult! He’ll get frustrated at some point and use it against ya, to get ya to back down or hurt yer feelin’s ‘cause he’s upset he can’t stay up past eight! It might not be relevant in the same way, but that don’t mean it ain’t!”

“You goddamn fucking-” Stan started. Ford let out a loud groan and began to move. Stan and Fiddleford froze. Stan belatedly realized that his voice had been getting louder, as had Fiddleford’s. Fiddleford seemed to have come to the same conclusion. Once Ford stilled again, Fiddleford got up.

“Maybe we should have this conversation in the living room,” Fiddleford said quietly. “A toddler is one of the worst people to wake up from a nap. A toddler who will wake up and know he’s not supposed to be one? Bound to be even worse.”

-----

Stan entered the kitchen. Fiddleford looked up from the papers scattered across the kitchen table. Stan held up the bottles he had found.

“Time to get liquored up!” he said cheerfully. Fiddleford raised his eyebrows.

“You can. I think I’ll avoid imbibin’ fer a while.” He pointed at a cup sitting next to him, likely leaving water rings over everything. “I’m fine with my water fer now.” He looked back down at the papers, frowned, and picked one up. “I don’t need to mess up my mind with alcohol. It’s a bit like a hamster in a wheel as it is.”

“Suit yourself.” Stan opened a pantry and grabbed a glass tumbler, then poured amber liquid into it from one of the bottles. He picked up the glass and sniffed the liquid experimentally. “Hmm. Smells like some fine whisky. Ford’s got good taste.” Stan joined Fiddleford at the table. Fiddleford set down his piece of paper.

“So. Tell me about yer history with Stanford,” Fiddleford said, nonchalant.

“One sec.” Stan gulped down half of his glass of whisky. “All right. Ford and I were best friends when we were kids. Mom would call us ‘joined at the hip’. We…” Stan trailed off.

You don’t need to spill the whole thing. He doesn’t need to hear it. Stan cleared his throat.

“But when we were in high school, Ford made this science fair experiment. All of a sudden, colleges were looking at him like he was gonna solve world hunger or cure cancer or whatever. He decided that he wanted to go to one of ‘em. I was pretty pissed, ‘cause we always planned on doing stuff together when we were finally old enough to leave New Jersey. And I went to go yell at his experiment about it.” He managed a weak laugh. “Like that was gonna help.”

“Better ‘n yellin’ at Stanford,” Fiddleford said, his tone carefully neutral.

“Not really. I bumped a thing, something fell, and the damn machine broke. I tried to fix it, but I couldn’t.” The memory filled him with a hot, pulsing shame. “That screw-up screwed up his shot at going to a fancy school out west,” Stan finished. Fiddleford nodded.

“I knew he was bitter ‘bout not gettin’ to go to West Coast Tech, but I never knew why he didn’t go there.” Fiddleford rolled his eyes. “He complained about it all the time at Backupsmore.”

“He- wait, you went to college together?”

“We were roommates.”

Oh my god, they were roommates.

“Even if he got into West Coast Tech, I doubt he’d have enjoyed it. That school might be years ahead of the general population in terms of technology and science, but it’s way behind in…how should I say it? Social progress.”

“Sounds like you have experience with them.”

“A bit.” Fiddleford took a drink of water, his eyes stormy. “I got in. West Coast Tech accepted me to their engineerin’ program. But then they found out somethin’ personal about me. Don’t know how. Maybe some spiteful feller from my high school told ‘em. But it don’t matter. Once they found out, they decided they didn’t want to be associated with my ‘lifestyle’.” Fiddleford etched quotation marks in the air, a distinctly sour look on his face.

“They couldn’t rescind my acceptance over it,” Fiddleford continued. “I mean, they could’ve. But my ma was a lawyer ‘fore she married my pa, which they knew, ‘cause I mentioned it in my cover letter. So they knew I’d make a stink over it. Them backin’ out on their decision to accept me over a rumor.” Fiddleford swallowed. “A rumor that was true, but I didn’t confirm it to ‘em. I ain’t always wise, but I ain’t dumb, neither.

“They didn’t want to deal with the bad press, so they quietly changed the rules fer financial aid. When I first got in, I qualified fer all sorts of grants and scholarships. Practic’ly a full ride. But after they changed the rules, I didn’t qualify no more. And without financial aid, I couldn’t go.” Fiddleford downed the rest of his glass. “They effectively shot me in the legs. Didn’t kill me, but wounded me enough that I couldn’t go on.” Fiddleford’s voice broke. “Absolute horseshit, the lot of it.”

“I’d agree with that,” Stan said solemnly. Fiddleford sighed.

“Anyways, I doubt Stanford would’ve thrived in an environment like that.” Fiddleford shook his head. “Never mind. Was that the end of yer story?”

“…Basically,” Stan said. Fiddleford took off his small reading glasses and busily rubbed at them with his sleeve. “I don’t know how that’s gonna help you clean those. Your shirt’s even dirtier.”

“Hmph.” Fiddleford set his glasses down on the table. He locked eyes with Stan. Without a thin layer of smeared glass covering them, his eyes were a bright shade of blue, something that took Stan by surprise. He wasn’t completely sure why it startled him, but nonetheless, it did. “What happened when Stanford’s machine was broken?”

“Ford got pissed.”

“And yer father?”

“Even more pissed.”

“What did he do?” Fiddleford’s questions weren’t purposeless. Each one was sharp, short, and thought-out. A chill ran down Stan’s spine. Fiddleford knew there was something Stan wasn’t saying. Something Fiddleford was determined to find out.

“Why do you care what my dad did?” Stan snapped. “It doesn’t have anything to do with- with anything! Back off!” Fiddleford’s mouth straightened into one flat line. After a moment, he leaned back.

“I mentioned before that Stanford told me a bit ‘bout yer parents. Not a lot, but enough to know that yer father would not have reacted well to this.” Stan was silent. “I don’t consider myself a busybody, but-”

“You’re doing a pretty good job of pretending to be one, then.”

“Am I wrong?” Fiddleford pried. Stan scowled. “Am I wrong in that somethin’ particularly awful went down that day?”

“I don’t need to answer any more of your questions!” Stan thundered. “I said I’d tell you why Ford and I weren’t on good terms. I did, so I’m not gonna tell you anything else.” Fiddleford held up his hands placatingly.

“All right. I’ll drop it. Fer now.” Fiddleford looked down at the spreading water ring from his glass. “I s’ppose it’s my turn to share my bad blood with Stanford.”

“Damn straight.” Stan leaned back and took a swig of his whisky. “Talk, Fiddledork.”

-----

“That’s essentially what happened,” Fiddleford said. His mouth was dry from talking for so long. “Both to make things…tense between Stanford and myself, and to leave me in my current state.” Fiddleford’s shoulders drooped. “I’ve felt scatter-brained before, but nothin’ like this.”

“Huh. I get it now,” Stan said thoughtfully. Fiddleford was too weary from the weight of his decisions to respond energetically. He picked up his glass of water.

“Get what?” he asked.

“Why you and Ford used to get along so well. You’re both dumbass geniuses.” That startled Fiddleford out of his tiredness. He slammed his glass down on the table and glared at Stan.

“Excuse me?”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m a dumbass, too,” Stan said airily. He ran his finger along the rim of his glass. “But I’m not the kinda dumbass who makes sci-fi villain weapons, I’m the kinda dumbass who licks a metal pole in winter.” Stan shook his head. “How the hell did you think it was a good idea to make something that would erase memories? That’s like, the plotline of half of Ford’s favorite books.”

“Being able to erase traumatic events would revolutionize treatment! Think of all those folks with PTSD-”

“Look. I’ve been through plenty of traumatic shit I’d rather forget,” Stan said. His voice was level but firm. “There are things that haunt me. But forgetting ‘em would mean I- well, if I don’t have my memories, I’m not me anymore. And isn’t that the same problem you’ve got? You used that thing on yourself and started forgetting and now you’re not the same guy that got into West Coast Tech.”

“To be fair, there have been side effects from prolonged use,” Fiddleford said. “If I had worked out the tweaks more before beginning to use it-”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be dealing with this,” Stan finished. “But maybe you would. I stand by what I said. Everyone’s got things they wish hadn’t happened, or that they could forget happened. Erasing them, though, changes who we are.” Stan was silent for a moment. He looked out the window, his eyes mournful. “I don’t always like who I am. That doesn’t mean I’ll try to become someone else. I don’t know how to be someone else. I barely know how to be me. Y’know?” A heavy silence filled the room.

“Yer quite the philosopher,” Fiddleford said finally. Stan shrugged.

“I think a lot. Not enough to be like you or Ford, but my head isn’t completely empty.” He cracked a small grin. Fiddleford managed a weak smile in return. Quiet footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Stan and Fiddleford looked over. “You found the clothes,” Stan said to Ford. Ford looked down at himself. He was wearing bright red shorts and a white T-shirt that Fiddleford remembered having a lizard on the front. The lizard wasn’t visible at the moment, though. “Your shirt is inside-out,” Stan said helpfully. Ford scowled.

“I’m aware. My coordination is currently lacking.”

“Tots aren’t really known fer their gracefulness,” Fiddleford said, in what he hoped was an empathetic tone. Ford rubbed his eyes.

“‘Tots’? I take it I’m a toddler, then?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Looks like,” Stan said. He seemed to be taking the tactic opposite to Fiddleford’s. Rather than keep Ford calm by commiserating, he appeared to be downplaying the seriousness of the situation. His voice was light and cheerful, like the latest wrinkle to occur could be smoothed out easily. Fiddleford nodded slightly, appreciative.

Stan might try to deny it, but he has very good instincts. Children pick up on the emotions of adults and will mirror them.

“What brought about this development?” Ford asked. Stan got up from his chair and crouched down in front of Ford.

“You ate a weird plant in the woods. Lift your arms.”

“Why?”

“Why did you eat the plant or why should you lift your arms?” Stan asked. “I don’t know the answer to the first one, but the answer to the second one is so that I can fix your shirt. C’mon. Lift ‘em up.” Ford did as he was told. Stan slid off Ford’s shirt, turned it outside-in, and put it back on Ford. Through the process, he was gentle and careful.

“Do you not remember the plant?” Fiddleford asked Ford. Ford rubbed his chin, an action directly contradicting his current youthful appearance.

“No. Do you happen to have it? Seeing it might jolt my memory.”

“It’s in the lab,” Stan answered. Ford nodded.

“Excellent. I’ll need to run some tests on myself anyways. Two birds with one stone.”

“Oh, hell no,” Stan said firmly. Ford’s eyes widened, taking Fiddleford aback. He’d expected a scowl or frown. Ford seemed less angry than startled.

“What? Why?” Ford whined. Stan stood up.

“You’re three.”

“So?”

“Your lab isn’t safe! There’s all sortsa weird, dangerous stuff in there.”

“Stanley!”

“Calm down, gents,” Fiddleford said. “Stanley, Stanford’s right in that more tests need to be run on him. Stanford, Stanley’s right that it ain’t really safe fer ya to be in the lab. Yer too lil to do any experimentation anyways.”

“I beg to differ,” Ford muttered, crossing his arms and looking away. He let out a small squeak as Stan picked him up. “Hey!”

“Fiddlesticks, think you can run the tests on him?”

“I can do my best,” Fiddleford said hesitantly.

“Your best is gonna be better than mine,” Stan said. “Let’s go get those tests done. Then…I dunno, maybe we put Ford down for a nap.”

“No!” Ford protested. He squirmed in Stan’s arms. “Put me down!”

“I thought you didn’t wanna be put down for a nap,” Stan said snarkily. Ford stopped squirming to glare at him.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it! I can walk downstairs myself!”

“I’m not gonna risk it. Those stairs are steep. I don’t want you to trip and break your nose.” Fiddleford watched the bickering with some amusement. It wasn’t quite the same as an argument between siblings, which Fiddleford had plenty of experience with. But it also wasn’t quite the same as an argument between a parent and child, which Fiddleford also knew well.

Whichever fightin’ it’s most like, it’s kind of cute. Though that might have somethin’ to do with the people who are arguin’. Fiddleford flushed slightly. Now what did I mean by that?

“Fine, dad,” Ford grumbled, giving in. Stan was facing away from him, but Fiddleford could still see him tense slightly. “You can carry me down the stairs. But I refuse to be carried all the way to the lab. I can walk to the stairs.”

“Sure,” Stan said quietly. He set Ford down. Ford immediately set off, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. Fiddleford got up and walked over to Stan. He placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder. Stan startled.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Fiddleford asked softly. Stan looked away. “…All right, I won’t push it. But ya seemed mighty tense just now.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Stan muttered. “It’s- Ford’s never called me ‘dad’ before. Even jokingly.” Stan rubbed the back of his neck. “But he was joking, so yeah, it’s- it’s probably nothing. I’m probably just a bit on edge about all of this.”

“It’s understandable fer ya to be on edge.” Without thinking, Fiddleford squeezed Stan’s shoulder reassuringly. Stan eyed him.

“You’re a bit touchy, aren’t you?”

“My apologies,” Fiddleford mumbled. He removed his hand. “I’ll grab what I need to. You bring Stanford down to the lab.”

-----

By the time Fiddleford arrived in the lab, Stan had found an old blanket and covered the large window through which the portal could be seen. It was a challenging task, in that he had to do it one-handed, with Ford constantly trying to break free of his hold. Now, Ford ambled around the lab, standing on his tiptoes to try to see over the edges of counters and mumbling to himself. Stan couldn’t quite make out all of Ford’s words, but he recognized a few as frustrated swears. Ford’s cussing was incredibly endearing as he puttered around in the distinctive toddling gait of a very young child.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” Fiddleford said, finally arriving in the lab, carrying a cardboard box. He looked around. “Why haven’t ya turned the lights on?”

“There’s a light switch?” Stan asked. Fiddleford reached a finger out and flipped a switch that Stan had seen before but assumed turned on some sort of death ray. The lab was filled with light. Fiddleford glanced at the window tensely. Stan was relieved to see his face relax.

“I see you’ve hidden that bad decision.”

“Yeah.” Stan shrugged, passing off the action as inconsequential to him. “It hasn’t done anything good so far, so I figured, why stare at it?”

“Very sound logic,” Fiddleford said. He flashed an appreciative look in Stan’s direction. “Stanford, c’mere. Let’s get you all tested. Sooner we’re done with that, the sooner you can have lunch and take a nap.”

“I don’t need a nap,” Ford protested, but he toddled over to Fiddleford obediently. Fiddleford set the box on the ground, got down on his knees, and pulled a device that looked like a grocery store scanner out of the box. “By the way, how long was I unconscious?” Ford asked. Fiddleford moved the scanner up and down Ford’s body.

“A coupla hours,” Stan answered. “Not too long.” He glanced at his watch. “We went on a hike around nine, you passed out around ten, it’s noon-ish now.” Ford’s stomach rumbled. “Fiddleford was right about lunch. We need to get some food in you. Any requests?”

“I’d think somethin’ not too strong,” Fiddleford said. He looked at the screen of the scanner, his face grim. “Toddlers should be restricted to blander food. Maybe somethin’ like chicken nuggets or mac ‘n cheese. Do either of those sound good to ya, Stanford?”

“Either one should be fine.” Ford craned his neck around to try to look at the scanner’s screen as well, but Fiddleford put the scanner back in the box. “What were the results of that?”

“Odd.”

“Odd how?” Ford pressed.

“Yer no longer givin’ off the energy of a dif’rent dimension. Yer cells seemed to have realigned with this one.”

“That’s good, right?” Stan asked. Ford rolled his eyes.

“Duh, dad,” he scoffed. Stan’s chest tightened. Fiddleford looked up at him. Their eyes met. Fiddleford nodded slightly.

He thinks it’s weird, too. For weeks, Ford never called me ‘dad’, even though I acted like one. But since he turned into a toddler, he’s called me that twice. Jokingly, yeah, but what if he starts saying it seriously?

“On the surface, yes, it’s good,” Fiddleford said carefully. He removed another item from the box. Stan squinted. It looked like a pair of tweezers. “I’ll see ‘bout testin’ some of yer DNA.”

“You don’t have much experience with that,” Ford said.

“I’ve seen you do it plenty of times. I think I can figure it out. And if I can’t, I can always ask ya.” Fiddleford plucked a strand of hair from Ford, who let out a small yelp. “Sorry ‘bout that. It’s not a pleasant feelin’, but I figure it’s better ‘n blood samples.” Ford paled.

“Yes. I prefer this over taking blood samples. Needles…” Ford trailed off. He shivered violently. Fiddleford’s mouth pursed in concern, but Ford’s reaction didn’t surprise Stan. He remembered well his brother’s childhood fear of all things medical. As a medical anomaly, he was in and out of doctors’ offices near constantly, and not just to try to fix something. Filbrick used to brag about the number of studies they’d been paid to have Ford participate in, back when Ford was too young to protest being treated like a lab rat.

“Needles suck,” Stan said, trying to take some of the focus off Ford.

“No disagreements here,” Fiddleford said, feigning cheer. He took out a third device from the box. This one looked like a cross between a satellite dish and ray guns on the shows Ford used to watch. Like with the scanner, there was a screen on it directly facing Fiddleford. “This is the last test I’ll be runnin’ fer now.”

“Really? There are so many others!” Ford said. “You haven’t even taken my vitals, for one.”

“Well…” Fiddleford set down the satellite dish-ray gun. He pressed the back of his hand against Ford’s forehead. “You feel fine temperature-wise. Hold out yer wrist.” Fiddleford silently took Ford’s pulse. “Heart rate is also fine.” Fiddleford placed his hands on his knees. “There ‘re plenty of other vital signs, but those two are the ones I’d be most concerned ‘bout. I can listen to yer breathin’ ‘n whatnot later, but ya seem fairly healthy to me.” Ford’s stomach rumbled again. Fiddleford managed a small smile. “And ya sound pretty hungry, so goin’ through this as fast as possible to make sure ya get to eat soon is a good idea. Let me get a quick readin’ on ya and then Stan can take ya upstairs fer some lunch.” Fiddleford held up the satellite dish-ray gun again. He pulled the trigger. There was a flash of light.

“Well?” Ford prompted impatiently. Fiddleford nodded slowly, staring at the gun’s screen.

“Yer givin’ off a bit of magical radiation.”

“Wait, Ford’s magic now?” Stan asked. Fiddleford tilted his head one way, then the other.

“Yes and no. I’ll need some time to properly interpret these results, but just goin’ off what I see here, it looks like Ford has a slight magical aura. Prob’ly from eatin’ that plant in the woods.” Fiddleford playfully poked Ford’s nose. Ford wrinkled his nose in response, eliciting a small smile from Fiddleford. “Go on upstairs and have yourself some food, okay? Once yer done with lunch and yer nap after, I can go over these results with ya if ya still want to.”

“Okay.” Ford looked over at Stan hopefully. “Mac ‘n cheese?” Stan nodded.

“You got it.” Stan strode over to Ford and picked him up. To his surprise, instead of attempting to wriggle free, Ford settled against his chest. He began to head upstairs. “And this time, I won’t even make you eat a vegetable with it.” Ford beamed up at him.

“Thanks, dad.” A lump appeared in Stan’s throat. He choked it down and forced a smile.

“No problem, Sixer.”

#Gravity Falls #fanfiction #Stanley Pines #Fiddleford McGucket #Stanford Pines #deaging #Recoil AU #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks

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mypassionfortrash · 5 years

Text

Do More of What Scares You (Part 12)

After you leave, things go from bad to worse for Roger over the rest of the tour as his bandmates distance themselves from him. Back home, your best friend comes up with a plan to take your mind off Roger. 💡Catch up: 1&2 ~ 3&4 ~ 5&6 ~ 7&8&9 ~ 10&11💡

Notes: Thank you so much for reading! I’m going to be posting the final two parts over the weekend! Get ready!

Things got worse for Roger as the tour progressed.

He stumbled through each show, barely registering which city he found himself in; trashed kits, broken bottles and spending a fortune on thrills of every kind had become ingrained in his daily routine. He threw himself back into the rock and roll lifestyle with gusto.

Every night, the parties grew with wild, unchecked opulence. Cocaine did the rounds. It never agreed with him, but he took it by the bucketload these days. Strippers were a staple. He loved those. He especially enjoyed the ‘extra services’ they offered to select (read: rich) clients. He’d tip them handsomely, too - more out of self pity than gratitude.

Each member of his band slowly distanced themselves from him.

Roger couldn’t see past the inciting incident that led to the demise of his relationship. And the blame for that he placed squarely on Freddie. He was as twisted as Roger, and he had other, better and more important distractions to attend to. Any time Roger and Freddie ended up in the same room together, it would always end in Roger reminding Freddie that he left his girlfriend for dead; then Freddie’s assistant, Paul, would drag him away to the nearest sordid club to make him forget about that day’s argument. Roger loved holding grudges, though. There was no way of breaking that cycle, so Freddie made sure to keep his distance for the rest of the tour.

Then Deacy grew tired of his hostility. Roger was like a petulant child, whining about how much he missed his girlfriend, and how it was all Freddie’s fault she left him. There was only so much Deacy could listen to, so much he could watch. Not wanting to be dragged into Roger’s mission for self destruction, Deacy quietly gave up spending time with him. Roger would swing by Deacy’s hotel room after every other gig, looking for another buddy to get wrecked with. But Deacy knew how to fob people off - it wasn’t hard when it was a drunk and emotional Roger. “I’m busy,” “I’m washing my hair,” “Sorry, Veronica’s going to call and put the kids on the phone.” All lies. He spent more time sampling local bars - and local women - with the crew than with his bandmates.

Brian stuck by Roger the longest. He was always the one to try to make Roger see sense when he was deep in the throes of another rough night. But when Roger almost suffocated in a pile of white powder and his own vomit, Brian just couldn’t bring himself to watch as his best friend ruined himself so stubbornly. There was no talking to Roger.

And so, on the morning that Queen were due to fly home, Roger had to be woken up by his assistant, Crystal.

He lay, spaced out of his dainty blonde head, in the centre of a kingsized bed with a greasy looking prostitute on each arm. A peaceful scene, that Crystal took great pleasure in ruining by throwing no less than six icy glasses of water over.

“The fuck did you do that for?” Roger whined, sitting bolt upright.

“You’re supposed to be on a flight home in two hours,” Crystal responded with a jab of his finger. “Get them out of here and get in the shower. You fucking stink.”

Roger groaned, throwing himself back down into his pillow, while his company frantically retrieved their scant clothing from the previous night.

Crystal gave it an hour, standing guard outside Roger’s room. He had even taken the liberty of dragging Roger’s belongings down to the car outside. But when Roger failed to show, he took matters into his own hands. He teamed up with Ratty, one of Freddie’s roadies, to haul the drummer outside by any means necessary. He was like a dead weight - the pair swore they nearly put their back out, carting him out of the hotel.

When the deed was done, and Mr Taylor was safely stowed in First (with enough champagne and cocaine to last him the flight back to Heathrow), they took their places in Coach with a sigh and a toast of cheap lager. Homeward bound.

—————————————

The weeks you spent away from Roger were hard. There was no denying it. The smallest things would remind you of him. Something one of your friends said or a Mercedes zooming past you on the street - even the shape of your coworker’s glasses transported you back to misty forests, open waters and skinny dipping.

But life continued to deal you blows you couldn’t avoid.

Alex meant well. They all did. And you were certain they were growing tired of your musings about where Roger was, or what he was getting up to. And with whom.

It was a Friday night. You and Alex had parked yourselves in front of the telly for the night, sinking Prosecco like it was going out of fashion, and committed yourselves to cheering you up. Temporarily, at least.

Fat lot of good it did you. All Alex was good for was babbling on about how lovely Jake - her ‘oh so perfect’ other half - was. He bought her flowers when she had the flu. He always did the dishes after she cooked him dinner - like that was an achievement in itself. Apparently he was a catch. She was in love. Besotted. And it only made you think of Roger.

Eventually, the conversation turned to you. She couldn’t resist.

But her own sparkling brand of brass blonde narcissism shone through.

“I could have told you Roger was no good for you when you told me about him,” she grumbled, necking the dregs in her glass. “I could have chosen someone better for you. You know, Jake’s brother, Michael’s a dish. Maybe he’d be interested in you.” She reached her slender hand out to brush your hair behind your ear, getting a good look at you with those murky, serpentine eyes of her’s. “Of course, we’re going to have to do something about all of this, aren’t we? You just don’t make the best of yourself.”

Your stomach lurched. “What’s wrong with the way I look? Freddie-”

“But Freddie’s not your friend, remember? From what you told me, it sounds like Freddie left you for dead!” she scoffed, widening her eyes. She looked manic, rocking toward you to hammer home her point. “Tell me you’ll come to dinner with us - a double date!”

“What?”

“Oh come off it! It’s time you got back in the dating game!”

“The dating game?”

“Yes! Me, you, Michael and Jake! It’ll be fun.”

“Which night was it you wanted to…” You trailed off, twirling a strand of your hair around your finger. Your brain clawed for any excuse not to go.

“Next Friday. Jake and I are going to that new Greek place near Covent Garden. Halloumi, it’s called.”

“I-I… I don’t even like halloumi!” You thought that was a good enough reason. Evidently not.

Alex drummed her hand against the sofa, annunciating every single word. “They. Do. More. Than. Halloumi.”

You huffed, sinking back into the sofa. The rushing in your ears was never far away; you could predict how awful that double date was going to be and how noisy your brain would get. But Alex was like a dog with a bone. And you were tiring of this conversation. “I don’t know if I’m up to this.”

Alex rolled her eyes and poured herself another glass of wine. “Always so dramatic. It’s not even going to be half as bad as you think it’ll be. It’s just your… anxiety… thing,” she shrugged.

“If I say yes, will you stop pestering me?”

———

Seven days later, you were crammed like sardines around a table inside Halloumi. The room was packed to the rafters, like they had made every effort to cram as many bodies into one room as they could. Mugginess hung in the air like a noose around your neck, reminding you of stressful summer commutes, or how you felt on your first date with Roger.

Oh god, there he was again.

All those conscious efforts you made to make him leave you alone weren’t exactly working the way you hoped.

It didn’t help matters that you could barely read Jake or Alex or Michael’s lips over the bustle as they indulged in mindless chatter. Unable to join in, you zoned out.

Not that you wanted to be there, or join in, for that matter.

Michael wasn’t even your type. His plaid suit didn’t fit him and his shoes looked like they belonged to a clown. His laugh was so abrasive that it made you recoil whenever he erupted into a fit of it, bashing the table for good measure. Alex said he was a dish, but it looked like he was wearing tonight’s dish - shards of spinach sandwiched between his teeth. He was no Roger.

Another joke and another round of laughs brought you back to your senses for a moment. Just long enough for you to noticed that you had stewed through one of your favourite red dresses while your brain did its hamster-wheel thing and your ears went off to sea.

Had you worn this one for Roger? Fuck, you did. On your first fucking date. Typical.

The realisation forced you to your feet, driving a wedge through the niceties being exchanged around the table. Alex, Jake and Michael put down their cutlery in unison to gawp at you. No words fell from their lips. A first this evening.

You welcomed it. They were insufferable. Three of the most grotesque human beings you had ever met, actually.

“I’m…” you trailed off, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

Alex rolled her eyes. “Go on! Do a runner!” she mocked, with the brothers echoing her cruel laughter.

Your legs couldn’t have carried you through the rickety wooden door in the corner of the room any faster if they tried. When it slammed closed, your surroundings began to cave in on you. Like a victorian outhouse, the stench of faeces burned in your nostrils and settled in your lungs, shaking up the acid in your gut. There was no holding back. Hunched over a hole on an elevated plinth, you let it all go. Heaving and squirming and sweating. The sweat etched blotches underneath the arms of your dress and all down your back. The damp material felt constrictive as it clung to your skin; there was no way you could go back out there. Absolutely not, you thought, straightening your back.

You turned towards the sink and eyed yourself in the mirror. The buzzing and flickering of the lights could turn even the most beautiful woman into a gargoyle. But the signs of your mental state showed everywhere. Trails of vomit tracked down from the corners of your mouth, and your mascara had run a mile. You just looked like a sad clown. Huffing, you puffed out your cheeks and looked up at the ceiling, bracing yourself on the edge of the sink. God, those lights were harsh on your eyes. You scrunched them shut isolating yourself in just one way.

The rushing was still there.

The longer you stayed rooted on the spot, the more unstable your feet in your four-inch heels became. Turning back to the rudimentary throne, your eyes searching the room for an escape route.

A tiny, open window behind the loo caught your attention.

Your heart pounded as you scrambled for freedom. It never occurred to you that your body might not fit through the slender gap. Rational thought didn’t rank highly on your list of priorities in that moment.

You stood up straight on the wooden plinth, sizing up the window. You sucked in your stomach and patted down your breasts (it did nothing to make them smaller, just a cursory comfort ahead of your disappearing act). And then you went for it.

You grabbed the ledge, hauled yourself up and burst headfirst out into the street above.

It was raining. It was dark. But at least you were out of there.

——————————————————————————————————

You couldn’t remember how or when you got home the night before, but you woke up the next morning fully clothed. Complete with your heels still on. Tossing on to your back, you recoiled in horror as a dreamy orange sunrise seeped through your bedroom curtains. You groaned. Life wasn’t going to get better by itself. You had to make an effort. Something. Anything.

So you resolved to make time for yourself; going where you wanted, doing things you loved and trying to make sense of where your life had got to.

That first hour was torture. You were still groggy from the night before; coffee burned more than it usually did and showering felt akin to having millions of ice shards fired at you for a whole five minutes. Even picking out something to wear was a chore.

But when you finally pulled a comfy sweater and your favourite jeans, and fixed your hair and did your makeup, a small sliver of hope shot through your brain. You could do this. You could go a whole day without thinking about Roger. None of your friends’ futile efforts at finding you love, or Roger Meddows Taylor’s sleights could get to you now, you thought, flouncing towards your door and shoving on your coat.

You opened your door, ready to go. But the figure loitering in your hallway stopped you in your tracks.

“Jim?”

He turned to face you, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought I had the wrong block for a moment there,” he laughed quietly. “You’re just the person I wanted to see.”

You crossed your arms. “So Roger’s got you doing his dirty work for him now, has he?”

“No, but he’s the reason I needed to see you.” His brow furrowed, finding the words to say to you. “I haven’t heard from him in three weeks.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“We’ve tried everything. He’s not answering the door, or his phone. None of us have heard from him. We’re not even sure if he’s home. We’re off to Munich tomorrow. To record another album.”

“If this is about money-”

“Please. The label can sing for it for all I care. God knows, we have enough of it to buy our way out,” Jim rambled, scratching the back of his head. “I’m just worried what Freddie, Brian and John will do if anything has happened to Roger. They’re a family.”

“With all due respect, I’m not in the right frame of mind to see him right now.”

“But he’ll listen to you.”

You shouldered past Jim and hurried down the first flight of stairs. “I still don’t care.”

“Please,” Jim pleaded, his words preventing you from taking another step. “Just go and see him.”

Determined to maintain your steely resolve, you clenched your jaw. “That’s not my problem, Jim. I’ll see you around.”

That sadistic streak reared its ugly head within you. Wandering aimlessly through the city, you took pleasure in the thought of Roger sitting in his flat, or at his mansion, pining for you. It proved to be just the tonic for your broken heart. Knowing that he was hurting so badly that he couldn’t even bear to be around his own bandmates had you smiling to yourself at regular intervals. The crowds at Kensington Market were like a warm hug, blanketing you as you threaded your way between the bodies and the stalls, picking up trinkets and treats every so often until your arms were full and your belly ached from hunger. Home time.

You wearily plonked yourself down on a rare, free seat on the tube, settling in for the ride back to Brixton. Your eyes felt heavy. Your head lolled back, allowing the carriage window to judder against your skull. It felt strangely therapeutic, beating your brain to sleep.

The feverish knock of a fist on fine oak rattled you to your senses. Drowsy from the tube ride, it didn’t even register that it was your own hand stretched out in front of you, rapping on a towering auburn coloured door. And then it clicked.

You had never been here before.

But you just knew.

Your stomach dropped.

But you couldn’t stop your hand from battering the door.

You glanced around at the quiet street; the pristine row of white townhouses, the river of crisp orange leaves on the pavement, the expensive cars. Your heart pounded against your ribcage. Your ears rushed. Your hand quickened.

Until…

#roger taylor x reader #roger taylor #queen

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rainforest-zoo-dairies · 4 years

Text

Let It Alllllll Out

I came here because I am a writer turned spiritual.

I used to write, then I found spirituality and my whole GOD DAMN world flipped upside down.

My old passions for writing are null and void now, but a life without writing isn’t worth living.

So I’m here to write and connect and share and all that good BS.

An IG account I follow said to let your frustrations out or you will continue to manifest from your frustrations.... hit me in the feels.

https://www.instagram.com/theaceofmoon/

Follow her. Seriously. She’s pretty bomb.

Every post won't be like today’s post, but I feel like this is a pretty good place to start.

My spiritual awakening has been none-other than a t-total shitshow. Everyone thinks its all rainbows and kumbaya. If you think that: fuck you. Seriously... FUCK YOU.

I’ve felt like I was going crazy, like I was losing grips with reality and felt like I was even losing myself.

According to the BS I read on most spiritual blogs, this is ‘normal’.

Just ‘breathe and ask your spirit guides for help’.

DOUBLE HA

Yeah.. I don’t read spiritual blogs anymore. Them and their suggestions make me sick.

I do that stuff. I practice breathing, meditation, yoga, mindfulness etc. I take care of my body and mind. I literally live every fucking second of my life working on myself.

But... you can’t fully commit to being spiritual without also being a fucking human.

It hits at times when I least expect it. Like my higher self hollering down at me “Hey girl... betchu didn’t see this coming! Try and breathe this one off’. HAHA”

99.9% of the days, I walk around in spiritual bliss. Admiring the trees, my pets, my family, the world really.... but that 0.1% of days, don’t you dare tell me to breathe.

Like today, I’m looking for jobs. Since the writing thing didn’t pan out like I hoped it would, I need a job. I need a source of income.

I’ve been manifesting jobs and abundance for well over a year. Every tip, trick and ritual to meld abundance into my life and stay in alignment long enough for it to manifest. NADA.

My spirit guides are damn silent. My intuition yo-yos like Oprah’s weight and I can’t catch a fucking break as far as getting any type of guidance through this.

I go within to find answers. I trudge up old traumas I have to heal and wounds I have to address. Energy blocks I gotta release and past fears I have to overcome.

I am doing the GD work... but I honestly feel like I am running on the world’s biggest hamster wheel.

Same sights of same old stale traumas that I release then they resurface. I ask for help releasing them... nope.

I ask what I need to do to heal, to change, to move forward. Silence. Again, I’m not afraid to do the work and tackle this shit head on... but it’s like every step I take forward, I take 10 back.

Yeah, sure. I have more happy/joyful days than I ever did prior to my awakening. I am eternally grateful for each and every day that my inner-self is aligned and I feel like I could rock the world.

But for fuck’s sake. Really?

Today, I could hulk smash every damn thing in my office and not bat an eye.

I’m unemployed, can’t find a job, can’t find a single bit of solace financially with the way the world is working.

My mind is beating me up like a nerd in an alley. Sucker punches to the gut, breaking my glasses, stealing my pocket protector.... whole 9 yards.

I can usually get ahold of it and turn things around, but today is like someone chained me to the radiator and I’m stuck.

I have glimpses of relief that make me feel like it’s going to be okay, then my ego or my what-the-fuck-ever goes “Nope! Just kidding! Let’s think about this other horrible area of your life that you need to address RIGHT MEOW!”

So, I’m here. Frantically typing my frustrations for the world to see. Why public? I don’t have a clue. It’s not like one of y’all are gonna be like “Girl... I have the solution.”.... I know it’s something I gotta work through on my own and no one else can help.

But damn. Ya girl is drowning.

Also, please note that I’m not bitching or asking for pity. I’m just super open and I have an odd sense of humor and *obviously* a pretty bad potty mouth.

I hope that my sarcastic, silly tone is apparent enough that I am just a spiritually real person being real on a rough day.

There will be posts when you’re like “This girl is smoking some seriously awesome weed cause it sounds like a Unicorn wrote this post”. Promise. But I don’t smoke. I just live life at a high vibration. Most of the time.

But for today, I am following the one bit of spiritual guidance I can find and I am letting this frustration out.

I’m handing it up to the Gods, the Universe, my higher self, my guardian angels and even to the fucking aliens if they’ll take it.

I’ll gladly release this frustration with my current situation because this minute, stupid stuff really isn’t worth wasting brain space over.... now if only someone would get that message to my brain....

MJ out

#spiritualawakening #spiritualtruth #get it off your chest

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angsty-nerd · 5 years

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Fictober 20

#20. "You could talk about it, you know”

Roswell, NM fanfic

Three conversations: 1. Liz & Kyle; 2. Rosa, Maria, & Liz; and, 3. Rosa & Max.

Beneath the cut for length!

It was nearly midnight when the light knock on the front door of Max's house pulled Liz's attention from her reading. She groaned, frustrated by the interruption, but there was no one else to answer the door. Isobel had gone home, and Rosa went to bed at least an hour earlier. Michael was probably picking a fight with some rednecks at the Wild Pony. He seemed to prefer bruised knuckles over actually doing anything useful these days. It made Liz want to strangle him...except she didn't have the time or patience to fix him too right now.

She didn't even try to hide her irritation when she opened the door to let Kyle in. It was clear that he had come straight from work. He was still wearing his surgical scrubs, although he had at least ditched his white coat.

"What is it?" Liz demanded. "I'm busy going through the Project Shepherd files."

"You find anything?"

"Not yet."

"You want help?"

Liz sighed. "I mean…you can backcheck me if you want. Make sure I didn't skip over something important. But I want to see every page of this myself. I don't want to risk missing out on a single clue that could be the key to bringing Max back."

She turned and went back to the couch, hoping that Kyle would take the hint that she wanted to work, not talk. Of course, he didn't, which just increased her frustration.

"Liz, how long has it been since you slept?"

"I'm fine, Kyle. I just need answers."

"Have you eaten?"

"Yeah," Liz replied, distracted as she opened the next file and started reading. "There's leftover pizza in the fridge if you want some."

"I'm worried about you. You're not going to do Max any good if you destroy yourself on the path to healing him. He wouldn't want that, Liz."

Liz froze, a sharp pain rising in her gut, and before she could even fight it, tears were falling from her eyes. The file folder she was reading slid from her lap, forgotten, as she stood and began pacing around the room, trying to calm herself down. It was impossible though. It was Max's house. Everywhere she looked, everything she saw, reminded her of him.

It was like she was surrounded by all of the best parts of him...his books, so many books, which were like his incredible mind and imagination. There, in a corner, sat his white cowboy hat, part of his uniform. It was like a symbol of his honor and his dedication to working hard to do the right thing, to make up for the scars that haunted his soul. In a corner was a small framed family photo...loyalty, love.

Liz dropped down on the bench in front of his bookshelf, now openly weeping, while glaring at her hands. Her stupid, useless, human hands. Max's hands were like magic...gentle when they touched her, electric with passion and the literal energy from his powers. His hands worked miracles. They were weathered and calloused and absolutely perfect. She loved his hands.

Her hands were soft. Weak. Ordinary. Human. Her hands could flip pages of a file, or mix chemicals in a lab, but they couldn't wake the dead.

They couldn't save him.

An incoherent moan of agony escaped from her lungs as she just sat and fell apart. But within moments, her useless hands were encompassed by larger, warmer ones.

"It's okay to fall apart," Kyle murmured. "Just let it out, Liz. It's okay."

"No," Liz cried. "It's not okay. Nothing is okay. I need to keep it together."

“You could talk about it, you know?” Kyle suggested. "It might help you cope if you stop bottling everything up inside. I can listen, you know, if you want me to."

Liz sniffled and wiped her eyes, looking down at Kyle, who was kneeling in front of her.

"It's just...the pressure is getting to me and I feel like I'm all on my own here. Michael's a mess and Isobel's got her own shit to deal with. I feel like it's all on me, and I don't have any superpowers. I'm just...human. And sometimes I'm just so pissed off at Max for putting me in this position. But then, when I see Rosa's face or hear her voice, I'm so happy to have her back. It's so complicated and hard to reconcile this incredible pain and incredible happiness all mixed up together."

Kyle nodded and gestured for her to keep talking. And the floodgates opened.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The future was kind of weird.

And really, was it even the future, if it was also the present? These were the kinds of complex questions that would get caught in Rosa's mind, cycling around and around like a hamster on a wheel, until she gave herself a headache and felt like she was going crazy.

The world was full of contradictions now. She lived in both the future and the present. She was both Liz's big sister and younger sister. Izzy both was and wasn't her murderer. Papi both was and wasn't her father.

Some days it all made her so dizzy that she just wanted to lock herself in a dark room and hide out. No stimulation at all. Strange how her brain craved that now. Did it have something to do with being a former dead person? Is that what death is like?

At least it was better than what she used to do when she got overwhelmed. Back in the day she would have drunk herself into a stupor, maybe gotten high, and then released her frustration through some good ol’ fashioned vandalism.

Well, the vandalism part, at least, she still had a taste for. She always wanted to try to get a little tagging in on the rare occasions when she could convince someone to let her leave the house. Somehow though, they always managed to figure out what she was up to when she tried to sneak away. Everyone was so afraid that she'd be seen, and no one had quite figured out how to explain to the town how Rosa Ortecho had been resurrected from her grave.

So the night that she dug out a hoodie large enough to hide her face, and snuck out late at night to wander the town and maybe leave some street art in a few key locations, she knew that if anyone noticed she was gone, she'd be in deep shit. But she didn't really care.

It was freeing, walking alone, breathing the cool, fresh night air. On the edge of town, she couldn't resist leaving her classic UFO graphic on the backside of a convenience store that she used to be able to count on to never card her. But she knew that her old art would leave too many clues for people to find her, and she had already developed a new graphic to spread her fingerprints all over this town.

A ghost.

She left a ghost on the back wall of the Crashdown, and one on the side of the J.P. Wright building. She placed her mark on the Mexican restaurant and the high school.

Her mistake was when she was working on the dumpster behind the Wild Pony.

"Hey!" An angry and familiar voice shouted. "Maybe you could lay off the vandalism on my property. I can get Deputy Evans over here in a flash to arrest you."

Rosa froze. She had been begging to go see Maria, but Liz refused. No one could know, she kept saying. Not even Maria. The less people who knew, the safer she'd be. Maybe deep down, that was the point of this whole rebellious excursion. Maybe she just wanted to get caught, right here, right now, by her former best friend.

Liz was going to kill her.

"You can call Max all you want. I guarantee he's not coming to arrest me. He's not doing much of anything these days."

Slowly, she turned around, keeping her head low so that the hood continued to block her face.

"What are you talking about?" Maria demanded to know.

Rosa lifted her head and locked eyes with her best friend. "You really are out of the loop, aren't you? I knew there had to be a reason that Liz wouldn't let me see you, but I didn't realize that you didn't know anything at all."

Maria dropped the bag of trash in her hands and took a step backwards, fear and shock emanating from her.

"Rosa?"

"Hola!" Rosa greeted her with a wiggle of her slightly paint-stained fingers.

"I don't understand. How is this possible?"

"Liz said the same thing when she first saw me, and she at least knew enough to put the pieces together. The short version is that I died. And then Max Evans decided that Liz was better off having me in her life than him, and now I'm alive and he isn't."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Rosa followed Maria into the Wild Pony where they spent about an hour talking and catching up on Maria's life while Maria finished cleaning up the bar for the evening. Once she was done, Maria led Rosa out to her truck and drove her back out to Max's house.

Liz was pacing the house, frantic with worry when they walked in. She gaped at the sight of Maria with her sister for a moment, before starting to unload about how upset she was all over Rosa. But right when she was getting to her rant about how irresponsible Rosa was, Maria held up a hand to silence Liz, who immediately complied.

"Liz, do you know what Rosa was doing when I found her?" Liz shook her head. "She was painting a ghost onto the dumpster at the Wild Pony. From what she told me, she left ghosts all over town. Why do you think that is, Liz?"

Liz sat down, head in her hands. "Because that's what Rosa feels like. Because she's not really living. Because I'm keeping her on lockdown."

"Sure." Maria agreed. "That's part of it. But I don't think that's all of it. Rosa died, Liz. She was dead for 10 years. And now she's not. That's got to be a hell of a weird transition."

Rosa nodded. "I don't even know if I belong here anymore. And I can't find out if I'm locked in all the time."

Liz looked at her sister thoughtfully. "You know, someone pointed something out to me recently. It's really simple, but it is so logical and it helped so much. And I'm not sure it would have worked if he hadn't said it to me." Liz paused and smiled up at her sister. "You could talk about it, you know? I'm here to listen. And if you don't want to talk to me, you can always talk to Maria, or Kyle. Whoever."

"I know that, Liz," Rosa promised. "Just give me some time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You know, we might be the only two people on earth that have died, and been raised from the dead. We're like, a crazy social experiment with unknown consequences that has never happened before and might never happen again."

"You're right," Max chuckled, giving Rosa a wry smile. "It's one thing we'll always have in common at least."

"My sister should put that science nerd brain of hers to work and, like, document this shit. Write a research paper or whatever on us. I mean, obviously she can't publish it or anything, but at least she could, like, bury it in a time capsule so that at the end of the world or something, someone will know that this crazy thing happened."

"There's just one problem." Max mused. "There's no control for comparison. And human to alien can't be compared like apples to apples."

"Point." Rosa agreed. They fell silent for a moment, but suddenly Rosa's eyes widened as a solution popped into her brain. "Well then, maybe instead of Liz documenting it as science, you should use your book nerd brain and write it down as if it were fiction!"

"Hmm…" Max pondered. "Not the worst idea."

"Maybe it would help you…" Rosa suggested carefully. "You know, with the nightmares."

Max's eyes shot up to meet hers. "Liz told you about…"

"Yeah, sorry." Rosa admitted. "She's worried, Max."

"There's nothing she can do." Max argued. "She's with me. She's comforting me when I wake up. She's...she's doing plenty, Rosa. This is my problem to work through."

“You could talk about it, you know?”

"What?"

"It doesn't have to be with Liz," Rosa reminded him. "You could talk to one of your siblings if you want. Hell, you could talk to me, if you want Max...the only other person in this world that somewhat understands what you've been through."

Max found himself wondering why they hadn't talked about it yet. He and Rosa did have a shared experience of sorts, and yet it had been a month since he woke up, and yet, never once had they talked about their deaths and ressurections. Of course, they also rarely spent time alone together like this.

"What was it like for you?" He asked her gently.

Rosa looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment before replying. "It was like time travel." She explained. "One minute it was 2008 and the next minute it was 2018. All of you were suddenly older than me. Technology has changed. And I was a living ghost."

"No, that's not what I meant." Max clarified. "Not the adjustment period. What was it like for you when you were dead?"

She searched his face, a worried expression in her eyes. "That doesn't change my answer, Max. It was like a snap for me. I was in that cave arguing with Izzy...Noah...whoever…and then all of a sudden you were dead next to me. The ten years I was dead? It was just...nothing."

Her answer shocked him, but he was grateful to hear it. It was easier that way. Easier for her to adjust, to live a life now. She was lucky.

"Max, please...tell me that it was the same for you." Rosa begged.

"I wish I could do that." He admitted apologetically, "But I can't. I mean, there was nothing for me too. No light, no feelings, no sound...but the one thing that was there was time. I felt every minute, every day that I was dead. It was like suffering in a lonely, empty, dark world with the absolute certainty that this was going to be the rest of your existence. Waiting alone for anything to break the never-ending monotony. I don't think I've ever been so relieved in my life as I was when Liz pulled me out of that place. I've never been so happy to be alive."

"But sleep reminds you of that place," Rosa realized.

"Exactly." Max confirmed. "I would love to get to a point where I can sleep and dream in peace again. And I think I will, with time. Having Liz next to me helps more than she could possibly know."

"Oh, Max," Rosa cried, reaching over to give him a hug. "Consider me here for you if you ever need an ear. Just call me your ghost-zombie therapy buddy. We’re both gonna be here to help you through this.”

#fictober19 #my fanfic #rnm gen fanfic #liz ortecho #max evans #rosa ortecho #maria deluca #kyle valenti

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rudimentaryflair · 4 years

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daffodil, sunflower, snapdragon, delphinium

Daffodil: Which color suits you best?

Mostly blue, though any of the other cool colors also work. The best way to describe what I look like IRL is a walking, talking amalgamation of blue paint swatches. If I dress in a warm color like red or yellow, I look like a badly rendered Scooby Doo character.

Sunflower: Sun or moon?

Moon! The sun never lets me sleep in and always makes fun of my hair whenever I wake up past noon like the bloated helium bastard it is, but the moon stays up late watching Gravity Falls with me and doesn’t try to sear my eyes out when I look at it, like a true friend.

Snapdragon: Favourite mythical creature?

Ooh, this was a hard one ... I’m gonna have to go with the Kraken. It’s just the right blend of creepy and cool for me.

Delphinium: What’s your star sign, and does it suit you?

My star sign is Libra, and before this ask, I had no idea what that entailed, so I did some digging. I found some conflicting summaries of the zodiac signs but from what I gleaned, Libras are charming, surround themselves with “harmony”, and can be indecisive, gullible, and passive aggressive. They have a strong sense of “right and wrong” and are “deeply concerned about what is fair in the world”.

I think it ... sort of suits me? I’m definitely indecisive about a lot of things, and can be passive aggressive when I want to be. Gullible ... maybe? I’m not easy to trick, per se, but I’m easy to convince if you seem to know what you’re talking about (something I am working on). I definitely do not have a strong sense of right and wrong, but I am incredibly concerned about fairness, which is why i don’t have a strong sense of right and wrong (the world is gray. It’s so fucking gray. Everything is gray, there is no black and white). I don’t surround myself with harmony. I like chaos.

I also really vibe with Virgo. I’ve been told that I seem really chill and easygoing on the surface, but my brain is dialed to Eleven at all times. I like to think there’s a whole bunch of tiny hamsters in my skull frantically running in their tiny hamster wheels. I can be obsessive and critical, especially towards myself (something that is really annoying to a lot of people). But I’m not super organized and orderly.

I like to think that I’m a mix of the two. :)

#thanks for the ask del!#these were really fun to answer #ask #ask game #rudi talks

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juistheseminarian · 5 years

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Eccentric, part 2 : now I’m here

I was planning to be done with this by now - both with this article and with the illness. I can’t believe that it’s been almost 15 years and I still get people congratulating me for acknowledging that I have an issue and going it’s-the-first-step-to-recovery, which they’ve learned was an appropriate thing to say since you don’t want to stand there and be embarrassed like I do with my boyfriend’s mom when she starts crying (which she does a lot). I’ve stirred things and realized things and I intended this to sound like a sort of retrospective from a place of unadulterated success. But guess what!

I ended the last bit on my return from anorexia and lasting relationship with a psychologist I described as abusive, although that may be excessive and may come from the resentment of a long therapy seemingly not having “worked”. I started seeing them around age 12, before the eating disorder really declared, and i was referred to them at the end of an endless session of musical chairs through which I met many, many ‘emergency’ professionals whose schedules couldn’t accommodate another patient. I had to tell the whole story every time as if I were filing a police complaint or justifying an ailment that had long thinned beyond recognition, losing more of its meaning every time; I worried often, and I still do, about making myself sound ill enough to be considered, knowing I was taking their time when they could be curing people with actual issues.

Having been sent to therapy after the school phobia I developed as a 5 or 6-year-old, and then again as a 12-year-old, and on and off ever since, means I’ve barely lived without framing my every breath as something to be treated and fixed, analyzed and made normal, insufficient, dependant, bending the wrong way. I entered this longest bout of therapy as a child and left it a decade later as a child. I believe for the first few years the psychologist was reliable if a little too set in her ways: there was no talk of medication outside of an apparent agreement to exclude it, which comforted my irrational fear of treatment with just as little medical basis as I previously had. However, her patient-based approach helped me feel like this time around it wouldn’t be an issue if I wasn’t “really” anything, or that’s how I viewed it at first. I don’t mean to dismiss the entirety of what happened there, only, you know, the bits where a refusal to diagnose me lead to a refusal to treat me, which in turn lead to desperation to fit me into the superstitious ramblings of an unstable person who refused to treat herself. Fuck that person. Call it what it is.

I resented the amount of information she gave me about herself, the description of her previous marriage leading up to ten years of unhappiness she couldn’t get out of, the description of her current partner’s superior attitude, the way her life was a mess and the way I viewed her as honest instead of genuinely intrusive. She’d offer to pay me to iron her clothes, she’d talk to my teenage self about her finances, about her gynecological health, and I listened, and my mother became concerned. By then she had framed my parents as unable to understand me the way she would, she whose child had run away from home and I had to know all about it, apparently. I defended her.

After the anorexia bit I grew alright for a while. I went to high school, I had a boyfriend, I neglected my own friends in order to make him my first priority at all costs, in short I was playing my role very well. My writing got noticed, as it should be, and I was exempted from english class, as I should be. I was bad at maths, I was good at history, I enjoyed latin class, I had friends I looked cool to because of the whole having had sex thing. Over one year my boyfriend and I had split up and I saw a few boys from my grade, most notably a wreck of a teen who regularly said he could be doing this with any of my friends and prided himself for using me “as an experiment”. When I broke up with him to go have the world’s least satisfactory sex with a friend of his, he called me crying hundreds of times. He had read somewhere that cool people had open relationships so he wanted one: when I took him up on that he said I disgusted him, turned around cause he “couldn’t look at me”, and masturbated in my bed. It was terrific. I was a sheep in shame’s clothing.

There were the “can we do this without a condom”s and the “I want to see you shove that shower up your vagina to clean out the danger and I’m watching you”s and the “I can’t believe you cheated on me”s (he was kind!) and the “I’m storming out of your birthday party because you and your friends are little bitches”s. I don’t like how this is taking the same turn my life took - revolving around boys and men the second it got the chance, which is something I still haven’t worked out today as I live under the constant scrutiny of my several imaginary sugar daddy-leaning role models, but I’m keeping that topic for next time. This is, of course, she says in a white girl voice, about me.

During the last year of high school, the boyfriend and I broke up for good because I had fallen in love with a guy we had met at a music festival and had pursued email after email. I felt glorious cracking the shells of emotionally unstable dudes and making them rely on me for subcontracting introspection: now I take “you’re the closest friend I’ve ever had” as a red flag, poisonous edible paper that dissolves in my water tank and kills me. It seems I do know better now, and it seems no woman ever told me that, and I keep being scared of them, and I keep being gay too, that’s my life’s familiar ghost. I’ve never gone far enough to confront the very real fact of loving women: I saw it as a kid when female nudity made me react, when I didn’t feel any sense of belonging with either boys or girls, when I felt like a monster. That desire is different because I don’t let it exist. Funny i’m only mentioning it now. What’s it like to be out to yourself?

Do you relate to princesses? To female leads? Sometimes I can’t allow myself to replace fictional characters cause how realistic would it be to have the man of the story want to fuck me when my buttcrack isn’t even shaved? Obviously that would never work. Obviously cinderella’s ass is smooth. I never feel polished enough, or good enough an actor, or intelligible enough: expanding like a red giant, I feel like a stomach with needs, and the picture is grotesque - nothing like those Degas ballerinas. Dripping, eating itself, round but not motherly, the hunchback from Ken Russell’s the Devils is too feminine next to me. Suppose i’m fattening from storing all that shame.

***

These days I resent the other diseased. Everyone hates my uncle cause he’s got it too and he drinks and he takes medication that people view with contempt; he lets himself die but it never seems to work even though he acts like it. Somehow something is still barely holding his limbs attached, miraculously, precariously. And my friend’s mother too, brain locked in a hamster wheel, hanging on to people like smeagol consumed, no longer in touch: filtering words like a beekeeper, only letting the crazy in. She makes me afraid to give birth. Would my children grow with a devolved being, Lovecraft’s blind cave-dweller, who once was human and is now condemned to live? Avoiding it in hallways, fearing it under their bed?

By the fourth year of the relationship with festival boy my anxiety had become the decisive factor in every single move I made. I could no longer travel, be spontaneous, laugh, orgasm or breathe. The lump in my throat had grown bigger than I was and my face felt numb, I evaporated, I had emergency doctors drive a camera through my nose only for them to confirm I was choking myself this whole time. It really felt strange: like you’d have tried to swallow turkish delight but it piled up in your throat, invisible. The doctor wrote: patient known for anxiety. I thought: great, now when I die for real they’re gonna think i’m crying wolf and also they’re gonna be right. Fortunately enough, I then was relieved from the constant imminence of choking, you’d never guess how.

I called a therapist my mom had taken me to when i was about 12 and we both liked her a lot - serious and a little intimidating in just the right way, a little soft yet clearly not one to let me bullshit my way out (my mom liked those). I was in the uni hall with some friends when her assistant called me back and scheduled an appointment for me later this same week: it was a huge deal. She remembered me. I suddenly felt safe, suddenly felt myself slip from my own consciousness like the narrator in Janice Galloway’s depression book when she enters a clinic: she’s no longer her own problem, or so she thinks at first, before realizing care never comes in the shape we expected.

I started treatment almost immediately and was in shock at the realization that I did not need to suffer any more. I wasn’t aware, I didn’t KNOW of the existence of medication that would prevent me from spending hours and hours in inescapable pain, contorting my body between screams and frantic sobs, persuaded I was about to die a solitary death that’d leave me to witness my loved ones moving on in relief. Everything around me felt temporary and fleeting and treacherous. And most of all, each of these occasions were a trial for my failure to live, and I sat accused as my chrysalis life developed before me, never free, never daring, hidden, waiting. Every time, I realized how much I was missing out on. Every time I was too tired to seize the day after recovering and just dozed, scrutinized always, for a respite I knew would be short. My idea of living was a xanax in front of any distracting tv show: suddenly sleep was warm, and I wasn’t dying, and things lifted by the tornado gently fell back into place, and disappeared.

(river) Oh, I got plenty of help. Therapists and medications and EMDR and - hypnosis and transcendental meditation. Nothing made me feel better (...) I feel everything. There just wasn’t enough positive emotion to balance me out. (payton: so it wasn’t because of me?) (river) no. you were my only relief. (“the politician” (2019) ep.6)

My trust in festival boy was broken: I felt that if I was ever overcome with the looming fear and froze, he wouldn’t help. I have no idea if it was true: I’m very prone to blaming others for my feeling abandoned, often with no relation to their behaviour. I never could learn his language (i’m sure I can now) and the required travelling to see him became too much, even though we had met through travelling and didn’t feel at home anywhere. This continent of my life was infected and we steeped in sepsis for months and months, resentful, picturing other people when we touched, searching for admiration elsewhere. It’s the worst thing you can do to a bond, demand things from it when it’s dead, as if it was gonna answer. You know it’s been dead for months but when you try and bury it, you can swear you saw it squirm, and then it’s gone, and you took out the doubt.

In this case I didn’t, Martin did. Martin was an old friend I knew through my first partner, and he came back into my life with an exact timing, like he was taking up an offer I was about to throw at someone else. It was all i wanted, car rides at night, feeling desired, watching him on stage, not being shamed. Comfort and help and reassurance, feeling small next to him, and knowing for certain that he understood: everything he says I take seriously, because there’s no way he doesn’t know, I could never lie, and I don’t want to. Well - I omit a little bit since that’s what it takes for me to grow guilt-free: I’m a fangirl and have never felt the need to stop, I let the obsession continent drift and crash, and perhaps it will become submerged and perhaps it won’t. Point is, I can defend it now, all the pieces I feel,I’m no one’s moodboard.

I took a step back and realized I had no way of relying on the trope of a positive ending to this, since there isn’t one. I see no perspective for myself, and I recently understood why antidepressants were considered a risk factor for suicides. It did make me indifferent to things that used to be matters of life and death: school grades, my weight… I care, and I don’t. I gained over 10 kg that sports don’t affect at all: I run all the time, cycle all the time, and it piles up forever, and I don’t recognize myself. I don’t fit in myself anymore. I don’t want to celebrate this thing i haven’t chosen and that I can’t deal with, and when I start thinking about it I end up in a frenzy. I just pretend it’s not there, but I feel so heavy carrying all that me.

It’s a good time to be lost, if you’re okay with it. I’m not. I’m not free enough to be lost: I’m merely pulling on my leash and choking myself, looking at the shop displays, window shopping for life, shiny presents in a snowy christmas street, the others singing while I watch. I watch, I drift off, they see me lose focus, we’re too tired to get me back. There’s so much to experience and when I look back, so much I’m glad I’ve done before realizing I was doing it, because clearly it would be too late by now. I’m not a recluse by choice: I’m one of the weak ones, the eternal witness, or a loser, depending on how you see it. I like both. I think taking myself as seriously as i do now is both a symptom and a cause of why I’m such a bore: what’s so bad about looking stupid? I do it all the time while trying to not look anything at all. It’s not that deep, if I do say so myself, and as you’d expect, I never do. Ah the clever girl’s burden, say the adults, and together we mock the monster we’ve created and the monster takes it personally.

So see, that’s where I’m at: no longer can I lazily bask in the excuse of a shitty partner, this time it’s on me, it’s on being sick, it’s on being sick without an excuse. My parents support me. My partner supports me. My friends would support me if i let them anywhere near me. But I take the crazy and I give it an incubator, I show it films with role models of crazy so it can grow and grow and finally make me special, isn’t this what I do? Look at joaquin phoenix and lose weight, I tell it; you’re not very good at the crazy, looking so plump and healthy. At least show your scars: they’re fading, it’s been over a decade, so now what, we’re just gonna look like someone who should get a makeover without the moving story of why they’re neglecting their appearance? What’s funny is, I’m actually a very ambitious person, mediocre is my rock bottom - listen to me when I tell you. There’s no such thing as effortless when effortless is a mountain.

(payton: i’m scared.) (river) don’t be. There’s more honor in defeat than there is in unused potential. (“the politician” (2019), ep.8)

My therapist recently told me that if I was catholic I’d be in trouble. Duh, right? Jokes aside, she went: then people would see you as a waste because you do nothing with your force. You wouldn’t be allowed to just have that and not live it. I pondered: don’t you think I know that? Is more guilt really the solution?

I know i want things. I know I love things, and people, and sounds, and places, and smells, and being alive. But do you see the difference between ‘knowing’ you shouldn’t be doing something, and understanding it in your very flesh, by experience, growing from it with the intimate conviction that it’s something you must stay away from? I know those things, and I don’t feel them really. I’m a fast learner, I’m a semi competent person, I can almost seem okay in a group. But I have shackles for lungs and I have concrete for breath. It’s got brutalist charm and warmth almost doesn’t spread.

So that’s where I am with the dreams I have and the love I feel and the way it won’t come out. I suppose I’m awake but I’m not quite there. Martin feels it first: the pain on his face when I disconnect is breaking my heart. He’s just trying to bring me back. I’m loved. I’m locked away. And once my arms break I’ll dig my way out with my teeth if I need to.

#my writing #mental health #juistheseminarian

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meanderings0ul · 5 years

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I need to just...immortalize this.

I needed to bake cookies for an event. Ok. I’ve buried myself in a writing project and my brain’s on it like a hamster wheel. That’s ok. I need to cook and eat dinner. That’s also ok.

Those three things at the same time is not ok.

These shortbread take two sticks of butter. I softened one. Ok, got a microwave, no problem. The recipe takes 1 cup of powdered sugar and two of flour.

I dump in two cups of powdered sugar into my soft butter and stir away. I blink in horrified realization, grab a spoon and start frantically scooping out any still-dry powdered sugar. I end up with half a cup of powdered sugar with a few butter bits. Should be survivable, throw in a little extra salt.

Immediately remember I’m using salted pistachios in these. Try not to make inappropriate noises.

Successfully zest a lemon without murdering myself. I obviously do not belong near potato peelers and sharp knives today.

I’ve misplaced the one cup measure so I grab the half cup and very carefully add two scoops of flour to my dough. Stirs up easy, gets rolled in a log and chilled. You see the mistake here? Cause I sure missed it.

I manage to make noodles and a salad without incident.

Get out the dough, slice it up. Think about how the dough seems a bit softer than usual. Watch my pan full of cookies in the oven a few minutes as they start to ooze butter everywhere. Realize you’re missing a cup of flour and they’ve been in the oven baking almost four minutes and wonder if it’s too late and maybe you should just cancel on that event and never leave your place again. Grab the pan out of the oven while keeping it perfectly level so butter doesn’t pour everywhere.

Get a second bowl and add a cup of flour. Scrape all the gushy dough into the bowl and stir it up like nothing happened. Re-roll and put in the fridge to chill, next to the tupperware of slightly-buttered sugar you made yourself earlier.

Sit down by laptop and find the dinner you only ate half of.

I guess I’ll reblog this when I find out if they will bake edibley or not, cause I am about to go for round two of Me VS shortbread I’ve been successfully making for two years.

#omg #o m f g #fml #dnr #honestly #i cannot belive this

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kafkasgods · 3 years

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faaya shah BOT 10/19/2020 There were a lot of ways to go about the wallet in Faaya’s bag. She could have thrown it away. Could have pilfered it. Could have had someone else return it. She really didn’t have any intention of doing what she was doing now. But after Phobos had visited her, Faaya felt inclined to do the exact opposite of what he would have liked. It was the small, spiteful victories that helped her tolerate Phobos being right with the overall picture. But regardless, that was how Faaya found herself on the other side of 105 at the Gray, hoping she wasn’t being presumptuous in assuming Audrey was home at this hour in the morning. Faaya had just gotten off work, so she figured she’d swing by.

@Audrey Ngo October 20, 2020

audrey ngo BOT 10/20/2020 Audrey had absolutely nothing to do today and was consequently about to crawl out of her skin. She wasn’t quite up to interacting with the town-- something about the streets of Epinieos made her feel positively hateful, so she took to the woods. She’d run for she didn’t know how long, but when she made it back to her apartment, she was sweat-soaked and not in any better of a mood.

Which is way she was surprised to see Faaya there, waiting. Audrey almost faltered, hesitating half a stride before continuing on her approach. Don’t shit where you eat, don’t crumble where you live into ruins just because someone you don’t like at all shows up at your door.

“Did someone like, post my address on Craiglist?” she asked hollowly, brows raising in impatience as she looked between Faaya and the apartment. Annoyance buzzed, insistent, in the back of her mind. “If you’re looking for a second round, I don’t think I have it in me today.” ( @Faaya Shah ) October 22, 2020

faaya shah BOT 10/22/2020 Unexpectedly, Audrey was hesitant upon seeing Faaya and there wasn’t much Faaya could do to alleviate it. “No, but you left it in a crater.” Flashing the wallet at the other woman for a light of understanding, she held it out. “It’s entirely possible I overreacted to something I should be well-used to now. I’m not asking for forgiveness, but if you’re not looking to try and kick my ass again, I can lift your ban at the Grapevine.”

@Audrey Ngo October 23, 2020

audrey ngo BOT 10/23/2020 "Oh." Audrey felt a blush starting in her ears, and sheepishly accepted both her wallet and the olive branch Faaya offered. "It's kinda sad I didn't even notice I lost it, huh?"

She nudged her apartment door open, which she'd left unlocked. It was easier than lugging her keys along on her run. Her head tilted, indicating Faaya could enter her apartment, if she so chose. "I appreciate it. My cousin was pretty dead set on us showing up and making a scene, but she talked herself out of it, thank gods."

Audrey moved as she spoke, fetching two glasses of water from the sink. They were sorely mismatched in size, but she offered Faaya the larger one in her own gesture of goodwill. ( @Faaya Shah ) October 24, 2020

faaya shah BOT 10/24/2020 When Audrey gestured for Faaya to go in, it took her a moment to register the invitation. A little surprised, she entered, warily. She didn’t expect Audrey to do anything untoward, but with a naturally suspicious nature, Faaya was always careful with the unexpected. “If I were you, I wouldn’t tell me her name. I’d hate to lose more business.” The uncaring tone in her voice said differently.

Faaya kept her eyes on Audrey, not looking around the apartment. She wasn’t nosy and it’d be rude. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the water. “You throw a mean punch. Though, I have to ask, has reacting on instinct worked out well?” It wasn’t something she ever did, but of course, she was tempted every now and again.

@Audrey Ngo

audrey ngo BOT 10/24/2020 Audrey shook her head, inhaling her glass of water and replacing it before really speaking. “You know her, she’s really just like that, but it’s all good.” Her shoulders lifted and dropped as she finished her second glass. She should probably dig up some of her gear from the Hunt and start bringing her own nalgene, but that seemed like a pain. Especially with Faaya standing in her house just as prim and competent as she did within the Grapevine.

“As for me, I would say it’s got a fifty-fifty shot of turning out alright. Sorry about your face,” she added as a bit of an afterthought, knowing full well that if she had to craft a proper apology, it wouldn’t sound nearly as sincere. “And your concrete. Just... not really my place to cause a scene. I’ll be on my best behavior next time.” As she spoke, she finally sank into her futon, legs lifting on the back and leaving plenty of room for Faaya to sit, even though she doubted the nightclub manager would. ( @Faaya Shah )

faaya shah BOT 10/24/2020 There wasn’t any need to press for more. If someone else wanted to come swinging, she’d deal with it then. Faaya wasn’t thirsty, but despite most people’s impression of her, she wasn’t rude. Drinking about half the cup, placed it back down on the nearby table. “Thank you,” she said of the apology. It wasn’t necessary, but apologizes took pride and she wasn’t going to spit on Audrey’s. “It might be a headache to deal with, but we’re getting a nicer exterior, so it’s not so bad.”

Audrey seemed to relax as they continued talking and Faaya, who really hadn’t been intending to stay long, found herself taking up the invitation of taking a seat. She guessed it was because it wasn’t like she had anywhere else to be. “Really. It’s less of a headache than the bouncers I have to deal with.”

@Audrey Ngo October 26, 2020

audrey ngo BOT 10/26/2020 Twisting so she was in her preferred position-- upside down with her legs hanging over the back-- Audrey turned her head slightly to keep Faaya in her line of sight. She found she didn’t mind the company. She didn’t even get goosebumps when the child of Phobos sat relatively close. “Yeah? I bet. Not one of them escorted me out, they looked like real knuckledraggers. Really, this issue between us is all their fault.” ( @Faaya Shah ) October 29, 2020

faaya shah BOT 10/29/2020 Faaya snorted at the comment. “Seamus is still kind of a kid and Dayn’s an ex, so it’s not great.” Really, saying it out like that, Faaya wondered what their last manager had been thinking. What they needed was older and more experienced muscle. “But I didn’t hire them and as much as I’d like, I also don’t have just cause to fire them.” She let out a short sigh. “That reminds me I need to find someone for next weekend. I really should have made Dayn look for a replacement.” Even if she was mostly talking to herself, she didn’t want the conversation to be entirely her so she waved her hand brushing it off. “What about you, what do you do?”

@Audrey Ngo November 4, 2020

audrey ngo BOT 11/04/2020 “well, last i checked you weren’t allowed to date your boss, so maybe you can use conflict of interest to get rid of dayn,” audrey suggested. seamus she didn’t know so much about, but she could work on that. it felt good to help faaya with her problems, somewhat. more of an apology through action than through weak words.

“i work at the thrift store. as thrilling as that is,” she continued. then the single, frantic hamster in her brain started spinning on its wheel, and a lightbulb went off. audrey sat up suddenly, probably startling faaya with the swift motion. “let me work the door for you this weekend! i’ve got credentials, we can summon artemis tonight, if you want.” ( @Faaya Shah ) November 5, 2020

faaya shah BOT 11/05/2020 “That’s true, but he doesn’t really stay in jobs very long, so I’m better off waiting it out,” Faaya shrugged lightly. Though Faaya let the threat of being fired hang in the air like a suspended guillotine, she wasn’t one to do it ruthlessly. Yet. The first firing she’d do would have to be someone who would make a lesson to the rest of her staff. Until she met someone willing to push her that far, it just wasn’t a possibility at the moment.

Finding out where Audrey worked a little bit of a surprise. Faaya had been to the thrift store and the quaint place seemed ill-suited to Audrey. Though, she guessed it was retail and a person really needed a fearful backbone to deal with it.

It was in the middle of that thought when Audrey moved quickly in her peripheral vision and Faaya just as abruptly scooted back, giving the woman her full attention. Sudden changes required new suspicious eyes. At least until Audrey made her case clear and Faaya relaxed. “Oh. You want to work for me?” Faaya had just been touching on the idea of older and more experienced muscle and the other didn’t exactly inspire that. At least upon first glance.

Faaya hummed, looking over the immortal Hunter of Artemis, who gave a mean right hook. Faaya was already convinced and willing to try Audrey out, but she would be lying if she said she’d never been curious about the Goddess of the Hunt, so jumping at the opportunity, she asked for the reference. “Sure, summon Artemis.”

@Audrey Ngo November 7, 2020

audrey ngo BOT 11/07/2020 * tw weapon mention * already firing on all cylinders, audrey glanced out her window, gauging the sun as it set behind the trees to the back of her building. “honestly, let’s do it now. hope you don’t mind getting your shoes muddy,” she mused, jumping to her feet and stepping into her gym shoes once again. figuring faaya just wanted to see artemis magic in action. it had been a burning curiosity of her own, so she didn’t look back as she headed towards the treeline.

wandering between the trees, audrey found a nice mossy spot and knelt on the ground, nodding slightly to show faaya she should do the same. bowing her head, audrey began to whisper a prayer to summon artemis. her memory had not failed her there, atleast, as she finished the prayer without stumbling over any of the greek words.

her head didn’t lift until her artemis-gifted bow and quiver materialized in her upraised palms. an impossibly large white stag, seemingly backlit with moonlight, stood in the clearing, liquid dark eyes examining her and faaya. “hey, cery,” she greeted artemis’ companion familiarly. “thanks for coming so fast!”

the stag somehow managed a look of benign amusement. “what is it you require of the goddess, audrey?”

“uh, my brother wanted me to ask for a tiger to ride through the streets, but that’s not a requirement,” she continued quickly. then she followed the cerynitian hind’s gaze to faaya. “oh! and this is faaya, she’s considering me for a position as a bouncer at the local club, which you’ve got to admit is much more suited to my personality than my current place of employment. i just needed a good reference for being strong and dependable.”

“if you were not strong and dependable, audrey, you would not be a very valuable part of the hunt.”

audrey raised her brows at faaya in an i told you so gesture. then she nudged her future employer. “any other questions?” ( @Faaya Shah ) November 9, 2020

faaya shah BOT 11/09/2020 Glancing down at her suede shoes, Faaya really didn’t want to get them dirty. It was only recently that she was able to afford the lifestyle she cultivated for herself and she liked taking care of her things. But there was no backing out meeting Artemis over a pair of shoes, so she resigned herself to following Audrey into the forest quietly like a shadow. Faaya’s only business for the moment was to observe.

It was only when there was a sudden heavy presence did Faaya lift her head, and instinctively, she let a barrier of intimidation surround herself. One that insinuated Faaya was not helpless and a being of fear herself. The stag was beautiful, but she knew to be cautious. Audrey, however, was in her element and it was no sooner that her recommendation was backed up. Faaya couldn't help, but have some distaste upon not being addressed personally. Either way, Faaya didn’t have much questions for the stag. She’d wanted to see the process first-hand, but she had no business with the Hunt. Still, she would look foolish without at least a single question. “If Audrey is so capable, what was the reason she was sent back to Epineios?”

@Audrey Ngo November 12, 2020

audrey ngo BOT 11/12/2020 audrey felt a prickle of annoyance at the other’s question, whipping her head over to squint at faaya. she thought they were cool now, and they probably were, but the tone still rankled. the hunt was not hades’ good graces. audrey actually cared about artemis’ opinion. turning back to cery, she was equally surprised to see the stag’s gaze was locked on faaya, unwavering.

“so you do wish to speak, daughter of phobos,” it noted. “it seemed, with your immediate defense, you wished to be left alone. like a hedgehog that curls away from anything that frightens it, i was content to let you be.” its head inclined once, antlers indicating audrey. she felt a little like she was being sent to the principal’s office.

“audrey volunteered to keep an eye on the town in the goddess’ name. she is perhaps stronger than many demigods, with blessings both from hades and artemis. that being said, she is a bit more ornery than most, so the goddess deigned that a small sabbatical might temper one of the hunt’s youngest member’s instincts somewhat. would she suit your purpose, faaya shah?”

audrey felt the back of her neck heat. when she spoke the words tumbled over each other in her embarrassment. “well, that’s a glowing review, cery. maybe don’t put her on the spot like that.” ( @Faaya Shah ) November 15, 2020

faaya shah BOT 11/15/2020 Upon the thrown away comment, Faaya narrowed her eyes at it. Truthfully, it was hard to tell whether or not she liked the stag. Clearly, it was mocking her, but there was also an appreciation for its wit. She chose to ignore it, allowing the divine animal to speak its truth.

Frankly, the review was promising and the job Faaya had seemed perfect for Audrey. Audrey already possessed better qualities than her current bouncers in her opinion, and in return, working under Faaya would be putting Audrey’s temperament to the test. Faaya replied leveled, “By your word, she does. So I suppose this is a good opportunity to judge the quality your lady Artemis keeps. I should hope not to be disappointed. Send her my and my father’s regards and appreciation.”

Breaking eye contact with the stag for the first time, she turned to Audrey. “You wanna start earlier? I need to train you before you take next weekend’s shift alone.”

@Audrey Ngo November 21, 2020

audrey ngo BOT 11/21/2020 so she got the job, but audrey still felt, keenly, the sense of indignation that came with being talked over. atleast she could focus on faaya’s invitation to distract herself from the feeling she knew would pass after a moment. “yeah, say the word. the thrift store closes before your evening rush even really starts.”

turning back to the cerynitian hind, the ethereal beast guessed her line of thought. “you will not be receiving a tiger from the goddess, audrey. but we are glad to see you find more suitable employment, and seeking peace where there was once animosity. i am going to take my leave now.” the great white stag bowed low to them both, and was gone the next instant.

audrey’s head dipped in silent prayer to the goddess, thanking her for the counsel. when audrey was finished, she pushed up off the ground, brushing dirt from her knees with one hand and offering faaya the other. “if that doesn’t go to show you that all the gods can be pretentious, what would?” she asked casually. “though cery is pretty to look at, atleast.” ( @Faaya Shah )

faaya shah BOT 11/21/2020 emulating audrey in what looked to be a prayer, faaya did the same, whether or not she was meant to. better to be safe than sorry. audrey offered her a hand and faaya took it, pulling up and brushing any lingering dirt off. she was glad to note her shoes weren’t entirely ruined, though there was still the trek back. “that’s true.” she agreed. somehow, she preferred phobo’s lack of mannerisms. “we can start you two days from now, if that works. bring some i.d.” faaya didn’t wait for audrey as she started walking back. “i will say, i’d be glad to finally have a decent employee if this works out, audrey.” she turned her head back to offer audrey a small smile over her shoulder. @Audrey Ngo

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