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believerindaydreams · 5 years

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hot cross buns

conversation from Baker’s POV, shortly before the Road Trip of doom. I can’t say why he’s talking to the audience like this, except that he’s rather lonely and doesn’t have anyone else to confide in.

You want to know why I'm in love with Angel Eyes?

Ask me a hundred times, you'll get a hundred answers. That squint he does, trying oh so hard to look mysterious- and succeeding. His graceful sang-froid while blowing smoke, whether that's from a pipe or a gun. The best goddamn squash soup I've ever tasted or ever will...but number one, that one tiny crazy mystery that sets him apart from everybody else in this business, is this. Angel doesn't do this because he has to.

He did once, I'll grant you; anybody with that family background was bound to end up in the stew one way or another. Either ordering the hits or managing them himself. He told me once, he didn't have the guts for the former.

(In Angel's defense, he was younger, very drunk, and his last partner had just tried to do him in nasty while they were performing same. I got a call after, came over to help with the clean-up; realised I had a good shot at either sex or secrets and plumped for the latter. Closest I've yet got to fucking him, but that night I don't regret.)

Point is, Angel Eyes doesn’t have the blood-lust. He doesn’t want after power or money or both in ever-increasing numbers, and while it’s obvious he gets a kick from the danger like the rest of us, he’s last to feel and first to come down. A controlled addiction.

Not afraid either, the way we all are.

So- who knows where he learned it, but our cool, collected angel can make anything seem classy, up to and including a business that's about the shabbiest on this earth. James Bond, you say? Sure. Sean Connery's anything but class, he just dresses the part- and that's a fair enough metaphor for the whole damned situation.

First time I ever heard an assassin say they preferred Roger Moore, it was this lunkhead in front of me; and you know, I think he believes it.

"So why'd you track me down?" Blondie asks, lighting one of his trademark cigarillos. This cramped room he’s rented is already swelteringly hot, but he seems indifferent to that. "Angel send you?"

He's got the nonchalance down pat, I'll admit that- we're all good at faking in this business, but being is something else again, maybe that's what drew Angel to him. Certainly not his skill level, since even a third-rater such as yours truly could take him any day- probably he has offed someone, but strictly street-level, nothing big time. He doesn't seem to know or care about the distinction, which isn't so unusual; but it's coupled to a - a-

oh, hell, I don't know the word for it. Point is, Blondie's pretty fabulous, and he does know how to play up to it.

"Angel's boss. Ever heard of him?"

"Rose. Yeah, I remember." A sardonic little grin, which strengths my notion that Blondie has no idea what he's talking about. You get out of the habit of smiling that way about the guy before you meet him, or you might do it- and then, wallop!

(Rose says that if a man can't keep from laughing while meeting him, he'll break the minute a fed has him by the collar. I'd try the same tactic in his shoes.)

"Right. You've attracted his interest. Very unhealthy position." I’d prefer to sit down by now, but there’s nowhere except the floor or the bed, and both of those are fairly undesirable. Leaning against the wall will have to do, filthy as it is.

"I can take care of myself."

"Sure you can, sweetheart, and if it was up to me I wouldn't mind leaving you to it- but you get the same chances as anyone else." I take the gun out for emphasis, rap it against my palm. “After a lifetime of playing it by the books as is possible to get on the wrong side of the law, Angel Eyes just pops up one day with a brand new assassin nobody's ever heard of. You ever wonder what I do, Blondie?"

"Angel says you're an errand boy. A finger in half a dozen different pies, just about too useful and too lowly for any of the cooks to bother killing, so nobody does." He’s ignoring the gun altogether. It points to a fair instinct for when the instrument might actually be in play, that’s good to know.

"About the measure of it, yes. So how do you think I keep my hand in?"

"Don't know. Couldn't care less."

"Kid goats like you, mostly. You think you're the first man to try to shove his way into this business, on sheer pluck and willpower alone? I'm not saying it can't be done, but there are a couple entrance qualifications- and one of them's me."

"Thanks for the warning. I'll be sure to check for your shadow, next time I head down a dark alley."

Cigarillo finished, he's starting another one. I contemplate taking out my pipe, but it's hard to keep a grip on it while I'm talking. Last week I set my pants on fire trying that- so, no then.

"I'm the least of your problems. Here's the thing. Angel's vouched for you, but Rose wants some loyalty out of the fellow who's trying to filch his best hit man- so you do the job, I watch and tell Rose, Rose has prosecutable on you if he ever wants it. You can get on with romancing Angel all you like after that, he won't care."

And may all that oh-so-cute stubble of yours blaze like a bonfire in hell if you do, I don't say- but that's besides the point. Blondie's still chain-smoking, but he does that so often I can't tell if it's nervousness or nicotine withdrawal. I should recommend him my therapist.

"Who's the job?"

At least he's not as much of an idiot as the last amateur I gave this speech to- that guy had asked me what. "Take your pick. There's always a list of nobodies who could use the killing when somebody has the time, pour les encouragement- or maybe you want to take it closer to home. Rose has a funny sort of taste that way. Bad business but a man has his inclinations, and when it doesn't interfere with the cash flow- know why Angel never had to do this? Because Alma told him he'd helped her kill Romano pere, and that tickled his fancy no end."

"Hope you're not suggesting I kill Angel. That's going to be a straight-up no."

"Of course not. We both want him bad, don't we?"

"Difference is," Blondie says indifferently, "I have him and you don't."

"That's what you think. You're not the first incompetent Angel's taken up with, he's had quite the string of those in the past." Probably because he knows he'd outshoot them, in a pinch; for the thousandth time I wonder whether being just a little worse at my job would have made the difference. "That little Mexican who he's taken up with now? That one's different. Something's wrong there-"

"Wrong?" He’s still lounging across the bedspread, pretending to look casual, but that jealous frisson’s unmistakable.

"Angel cancelled on Rose last week. For the first time ever- we're talking about Angel Eyes here. Perfect record. Careerist. So proud of never letting a target slip through, until he sends word- sorry, cannot be bothered with this very choice assignment, otherwise engaged. So that's got Rose concerned, rather."

"I'm sure Angel Eyes could take him, if it came to that."

"Gawd, Blondie- I thought you loved him too." Or is he just that dumb? A street brat could just be dumb, I suppose. "If he ever kills Rose, hell breaks loose. Complete power vacuum, and Angel only has two ways out of it. Either he dies the next month or week or day, as soon as whoever scrambles to the top has him gunned down to show you can't do that kind of thing without consequences- or he has to become head cheese himself. Do you want to share Angel Eyes with the entire mob? Because I don't."

"Hmm."

Damn it, Blondie's unshakeable. Maybe he doesn't even care about Angel Eyes at all- nah. No. Angel's convinced of it, for one, and if Angel thinks so it almost doesn't matter what the man himself thinks.

"So you know what? Kill two birds with one stone. Off the Mexican, I'll back you up with any proofs you want for Angel Eyes. Rose gets off your back, you're all done."

(And so would he; Angel would never forgive the man who murdered Ramirez, I learned that much from my last visit. And with both his partners so neatly crossed from the list, why, who knows who Angel might turn to for comfort?)

"...I've slept with him," Blondie drawls, kinda slow and thoughtful. "Now that is what you might call impolite."

"Hell, you're not going to make it very far in this business if you make that a criteria for who you won’t kill. We've all done it. Angel Eyes has, I have. You will."

Blondie nods, takes a final drag and brushes ash from his hands. "Suppose I told you- suppose I said that I've never killed anybody before."

"Funny thing. Very funny thing. That's exactly what Ramirez told me, after I got him into bed- and he's a lot more believable when he says it, too. On account of not going around bragging the exact opposite, you know?"

"Mmm-hmm- you scare him with the same offer I just heard?"

"May have done." Didn't actually, but I never encountered a situation where a flat statement was better than a sly ambiguity. "Prisoner's dilemma of sorts, I suppose. Only if neither of you kills anyone, you're both getting into trouble, so...more the opposite?"

"Suppose," Blondie says, rather quietly, "I killed you."

"Well. You muck up quite a few people's plans. Rose gets rather put out- what makes you think you could manage it?"

He's a nobody. Unimportant. An amateur who’s never made a name for himself, what’s he going to do-

“I’d manage.”

I wait, for him to explain himself. I wait a long while.

I wait for a long time. Time enough for the initiative to slip slowly out of my hands, burning up in the room’s heat, dead in the air.

The amateurs, they talk. They get positively rhapsodic by this point. Spilling over with plans and hopes and eagerness- one with plans for favourite hated rival back home, or another just begging me for a justified target. I’ve never had any trouble supplying them with everything they desire.

And they’re none of them been so self-confident, as to think they can murder the man who’s offering them the way in to all their dreams.

“If you’d rather, I could find you someone else-”

“Don’t think you’re getting out of it that easy,” Blondie says quietly. His hands don’t move, his knees don’t shake. He’s sweating less than I am. “If Rose wants me to send a message, he’ll get it- but let’s be fair to you. Go home and get your affairs in order first. Come and find me whenever you’re ready- and we’ll have ourselves an old-fashioned duel. I’ll tell Angel Eyes to referee. You know he’ll play fair by you.”

“We- we don’t need to do it that way. If I had something else to tell to Rose-”

“You want Angel, don’t you? Same way I do? Thinking in the night that for the right look you’d let him gut you, bleed you to death, and you’d die smiling? That fantasy you’ve got, unpicking the ropes after you’ve saved him, do you think you’re ever going to get that from him? You won’t. Not unless,” and he’s smiling, close-lipped joy- “not unless we make it happen. Winner takes all, Baker. I’ll be seeing you.”

If I could speak- anything but oh god you mean it you mean it to reassert normalcy- I open my mouth-

“Go home, little rabbit,” Blondie says crisply. Takes out a third cigarillo and fires it with one quick flick of the lighter, while I stare. Stuffs it in my mouth, leans back to admire the effect.

The doorknob’s blistering under my hand.

But I get out of there fast, before he can make me feel any more sheepish.

#70s au #the good the bad and the ugly

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shy-violet-soul · 5 years

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Try to Remember (1)

Pairing: OFC Rae, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel Summary: A forgotten memory surfaces and breaks Rae’s heart. How will the boys, with their own heartbroken history, help her heal? Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injuries/fatal injuries; grief; parent death; depression; angsty fluff Rating: Mature due to descriptions of canon-type gore Word Count: 3,700ish

A/N: We all love the funny moments with the brothers. But their sensitivity to someone else’s pain has always broken my heart a little, and I wanted to explore that. This is a companion piece to Life is Good (for you) & Just Desserts. You don’t have to read them to understand this story. This is my OFC Rae’s “origin” story.

A huge, sparkly, fluffy hug to my 2 betas @pinknerdpanda and @thesassywallflower. Ladies, you get all the Sam cuddles!

This is a work of fiction based upon characters created and owned by the CW. My work is not to be copied/distributed elsewhere without my written permission.

Playlist for this part: Sign Your Name - Terence Trent D’Arby

It started out as a good day.

On their way back from a hunt in eastern Illinois, Rae had squealed with excitement when she stumbled upon a Yelp listing for an ‘80’s themed diner. Located just outside of Olathe, Kansas, they were apparently famous for their retro cuisine and milkshakes. After shamelessly begging Dean to stop, he’d grumbled about wanting to get home until she said the menu’s magic words: Sloppy Joes. So convinced, the group had detoured to the charmingly dubbed ‘Mixtape Medleys Cafe’. Hair band posters plastered on the walls, Guns n Roses and George Harrison blasted from the jukebox, and a menu loaded with nostalgic delights were a welcome break from gas station food.

Dean was on his third Sloppy Joe sandwich, already rhapsodizing over the ‘Whatchmacalit’ candy bar milkshake he had ordered for dessert. Serious inroads made into his chicken caesar salad, even health-nut Sam had ordered something with actual, real sugar in it - a ‘Vanilla Cow Tale’ milkshake. Her plate of mini bagel pizzas stood empty as Rae laughed, waiting on her ‘Nerds’ milkshake. Another monster defeated, a nice young man saved, the three of them unscathed, and now their bellies were full and faces smiling.

It really had started out as a good day.

People talk about memories hitting them like a tsunami, or a ton of bricks. That’s not how it happened for Rae. It happened slowly. Like a glancing sprinkle of warm rain, barely noticeable. Then, another that spit into her face a bit. A pause, like the moment of calm before the unexpected thunderstorm when it was all blue skies and sunshine just a blink before.

One minute, Rae was laughing with the boys about something. Then, the distinctive drum beat tickled her ear. The reedy keyboard intro snagged her attention, and she glanced towards the jukebox across the diner. One heartbeat, two, and the unleashed memory wiped the smile from her face.

“Come on, honey, it’s our song!” her dad crooned, tugging her mom up from the couch. Rae giggled as her dad started grooving at the end of their outstretched arms, her mom rolling her eyes at his antics.

“You say that about every slow song, Alex.”

Smiling victoriously, Alex pulled her mom into his arms and began rocking side to side, winking at Rae where she sat on the floor with a book in her lap.

“But this is the one we danced to when I knew I was in love with you, Liz. So, it’s the most important.” Pecking a kiss to her nose, Alex pulled her closer to his chest and closed his eyes. “‘Sign your name across my heart, I want you to be my baby.’”

Shaking her head, Liz smiled fondly at her husband. “You still can’t sing, sweets.”

“‘Sign your name across my heart, I want you to be my lady!’” he yodeled out comically, drawing giggles from both girls. He tucked their entwined hands up into his shoulder and pressed a grinning kiss to her smile. Rae’s little nine year old heart warmed with happiness; her parents loved her and loved each other. She knew she’d remember their song forever.

And now, they were dead.

“...you okay?”

Rae flinched as a hand on her arm pulled her back to the present. She blinked at Sam seated next to her, then over at Dean. Shaking her head a bit to try and clear the fog, Rae drummed up a smile.

“Yeah. So, you duct-taped the guy to a chair, and started hacking the place with an axe?” Rae tried to pay attention as Sam told the story. But the crooning rock n’ soul voice had opened Pandora’s box, and more memories came pouring in. As the brothers’ chatter filled her ears, the bittersweet warmth of the recollection skirled into something cold. Instead of the cracked vinyl seat beneath her fingers, the raw bite of rope echoed in her wrists. The scent of french fries and sugar melted into smoke and camphor. And the images…

“Hey, there, honey bun! Here’s that milkshake for you!” The older, pink-haired waitress plunked the tall, frosted glass down in front of her with a flourish before she started teasing Dean about the saucy mess on his face. Lost in her head, Rae didn’t notice the woman collect up empty plates and promise the men their forthcoming desserts.

Pointing out missed smudges to Dean as his brother wiped up with a napkin, Sam’s gaze moved back to Rae. For someone who had completely geeked out over a ‘Nerds’ candy milkshake, she seemed to be uninterested in the beverage now. She stared blankly at the glass, off in her own world. Dean noticed her preoccupation, too, and reached over to give the glass a little nudge.

“Hey, Rainbow, it’s melting. Drink up!”

They watched as Rae blinked back to them from wherever she’d been, glancing back and forth between them before swallowing carefully and pushing the milkshake away from her.

“I changed my mind. You can have it.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I’ve got crispy-peanutty-caramel goodness headed my way. That’s all yours, make me proud.”

Without a word, Rae slid the glass towards Sam, offering it to him with a bob of her chin. Sending her a quizzical smile, Sam urged it back to her.

“Extra pink ‘Nerds’ on top. Just like you asked. And a cherry!” he crowed, nabbing the goody by the stem and dangling it out to her.

Normally her favorite part of a milkshake or sundae, the sight of the sweetness through the haze of her memories churned her stomach.

The smile she offered was a sad little effort. Now Sam’s eyebrows quirked, halfway to his famed ‘puppy dog’ eyes when Rae merely shook her head before getting to her feet.

“I’m gonna run to the ladies room. Be right back.”

When she didn’t add on her usual, ‘don’t leave me again’, the brothers looked at each other.

“Okay, something’s up. What did you do?” Dean demanded.

“Yeah, I know. Wait, what? Why does it have to be me that did something? What did you do?”

The elder Winchester scoffed in denial. “I’ve been here the whole time, minding my own business with my ‘Manwich’ perfections.”

“She was fine up until the last couple of minutes. What were we talking about?”

Dean scowled as he thought. “We were talking about that time we went to the Mystery Spot and I died a lot. She was laughing about you trying to keep me from eating breakfast.”

Shaking his head, Sam frowned as he glanced towards the bathrooms. “Something’s not right.” Their waitress, Cyndi, reappeared, her sparkly-blue-shadowed eyes narrowed with concern.

“Hey, fellas, that honey bun of yours not happy with her shake?”

Flashing her his most charming smile, Dean answered, “actually, she’s not feeling well. If it’s not too much trouble, could we get our two shakes to go? And the check, if you don’t mind.”

Cyndi hurried to take care of things, and two styrofoam to-go cups and the guest check were delivered promptly. As Rae appeared, the men got to their feet to greet her.

“Hey, Rainbow, you ready to blow this popsicle stand?” Dean asked.

Quiet, a little pale, Rae saw the concern they failed to hide and valiantly tried to swallow the lump in her throat and smile.

“Yeah, let’s get home.” As Robert Palmer began belting out ‘Simply Irresistible’, Dean tucked Rae into his side and sauntered them towards the Impala. Sam tossed some bills on the table and hurried to follow.

*********************************************************************************

Sam and Dean stole surreptitious glances to the backseat for the next thirty minutes or so. When the silence began to crawl on her skin like ants, Rae forced some life into her voice.

“How about some AC/DC?” The brothers flashed each other a look before Dean thumped Sam in the chest.

“You heard the woman! Gimme the good stuff, bro, and keep your cake hole shut!”

Sam’s annoyed tones, Dean’s cackling mixed together with the soft clatter of the tapes rummaging together as Sam fished out the designated cassette and popped it in. ‘Back in Black’ promptly blared forth, and as Dean began drumming on the steering wheel, Rae let herself curl up and fade in the lack of attention.

It was taking everything she had to hide it from them.

Seven months, three weeks, and five days. It had been an exercise in blissful hyper-focus to count it out as Baby ate up the miles. Seven months, three weeks, and five days since they’d died. The early days had been about healing. Then, after the brothers shared the truth of their family business with her, the later weeks had been all about reeling. After countless hours of inactivity, Rae’s broken heart had craved industry. Anything to keep her from looking at memories too closely. So, she’d put that Master of Library Science degree to use and become the best damn researcher the Winchesters had ever seen. The familiar rhythms of reading and analysis comforted her while the unfamiliar topics kept her wholly engaged. Engaged meant busy. Busy meant distracted. Distracted meant forgetting.

Forgetting meant she never had to grieve.

That grief, along with all the memories, bitter and sweet both, Rae cobbled into her own personal Pandora’s box. Then, she promptly ignored it, walking her days untroubled. Until one jukebox song cracked it open.

As the Impala rumbled its way into the bunker garage, Rae blinked into the quiet when Dean cut off the engine. Exhaustion suddenly swamped her, her feet heavy as Rae dragged herself out of the car. As she strode towards the stairs, Rae tried to straighten her shoulders.

They’re watching you. Look normal. You’re fine.

They’d seen her unconscious, peeved, sassy, laughing, focused. But this Rae they’d never seen. Quiet. Not just quiet, but almost...not there. Their sharp eyes missing nothing, the brothers chatted to each other with seeming nonchalance as they followed her down into the library.

“All in all, that wasn’t a bad trip.” Dean dropped his duffel on the table, tagging after Rae into the kitchen.

“Yeah, it was nice to have a regular milk run. I need to update the records,”Sam mumbled around a yawn.

Rolling his eyes, Dean strolled to the frig and opened it. “C’mon, man. We scored one for the good guys. It’s Miller time. Relax,” he urged, pulling out three beers and handing one to Rae.

She took it wordlessly, the glass cold against her fingers. The bunker’s scent of concrete, steel, old books, and gunpowder, so familiar a few days ago, now felt wrong.

It should smell like vanilla from Mom’s baking, and Dad’s Old Spice cologne. Deep voices from the brothers wavered into her thoughts distantly, and an awful lump grew in her throat. That should be Mom complaining about Dad always leaving his coffee cup on the counter, and Dad yelling from the back porch about someone hiding the grill utensils again. Like horrid little fiends, the memories leaked out of that carefully cobbled box. They roiled in her head like awful eels. I miss the creak of Mom rocking in her chair, and Dad snoring under his newspaper on the couch. I miss them holding hands when they walked together.

The lump in her throat grew, burning up into her eyes and blinding her. I want to hear Dad whistling while he does the dishes. I want to see Mom trying to carry all the clean laundry down the hall in one go, and cussing when she drops the socks. I want…

“I don’t know why you’re always so down on everyone except Metallica and Zeppelin. There’s other good music out there, Dean.”

“Whatever, Fall Out Boy. Hey, there was that song at the diner. Dad hated that song, but it was kinda cool.”

“Which one?”

The older brother scratched the back of his neck as he thought. “I think the singer changed his name, but it was Tony. Timothy. Terry?”

Cocking his head to one side, Sam frowned as he thought. “You mean, Terence?”

Dean pointed at his brother. “Yeah! Terence Trent D’Arby sang it. How did it go? ‘Sign your name across my heart?’” he mumbled out.

The sob that tore from Rae sounded like it was ripped straight from her soul, yanking their attention to her. The beer bottle slipped from her suddenly limp hand, smashing into foamy shards on the floor. They darted towards her when she wavered, Sam wrapping his arms around her before she collapsed knees-first into the broken bottle at her feet.

“Rae! Rae, what is it?”

“Rainbow, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

Their questions garbled into her ears as if she was underwater. Months of tears torrented through her, opening up an ocean of grief that pulled her under.

The agony left her drowning.

Sam’s heart pounded in his chest as he scooped Rae into his arms when she sagged against him, plopping to the floor and holding her in his lap. Dean knelt in front of them, his own heart chugging with alarm at Rae’s continued sobs.

“What happened?” Dean carefully brushed messy caramel-colored strands from her face. “Rainbow, talk to me!”

Distantly, Rae felt warm, rough hands on her face, strong arms surrounding her. A fleeting dart of awareness over the Winchesters’ alarm stitched through her, and she tried to speak, but her throat closed up over another choked cry. The urgent calling of her name had her desperately sucking at air as she tried again.

“What? What did you say, Rae?” Ducking his chin to try to look into her face, Sam tried to maneuver her so he and Dean could see her.

“S-saw...”

“It’s okay, Rae, just take a breath. We got you,” Dean tried to soothe her, keeping his voice gentle.

“The s-song-” The men blinked at the coughed out words. Sam’s mind spun as he tried to think.

“You mean, from the diner? The Terrence guy’s song?” Another harsh cry tore from Rae as she weakly nodded her head.

“Theirs.”

Gently squeezing her a bit, Sam quizzed her again. “Whose song, Rae?”

“M-muh….peh-peh...parents.”

Dean felt his windpipe squeeze as he looked up to meet Sam’s gaze. He saw his own memories in his brother’s eyes - their first meeting with Rae.

Baby’s doors groaned open before the car fully stopped. The brothers sprinted up the lawn, their boots sliding a bit on the rain-slickened grass. Smoke bit acridly into their faces when Dean kicked in the front door. Maniacal laughter mocked them as they took in the scene. Blood pooled steadily beneath a woman crumpled on the floor. A lone figure tied to a chair writhed as it burned. His horrid, awful screams clawed at them in jagged edges.

“Heil! All heil to the Thule!” cackled the young blond man rocking side to side feverishly. Aaron Bass hadn’t known the identity of the Thule operative wreaking havoc in the northeast, just that he and the golem couldn’t get there. His plea for help had sent the Winchesters hurrying to Bennington, Vermont. As Sam pointed his gun at Christoph Nauhause, the memory of letting him walk away from them once had both guilt and rage churning in their guts. A bullet in his brain silenced the peals of unholy glee, but the man immolating in front of them continued to scream out his agony. Dean knew the man was too far gone to save; frustrated tears and smoke itched in his throat as he aimed and fired. Abruptly, mercifully, the man died as his flesh burned around him.

Sam leaped over the sofa, crouching down beside the woman. The neat slice across her throat wasn’t deep enough to kill her outright, but the rapid blood loss pouring from the wound would soon enough. As Dean tried to extinguish the flames, Sam tried to comfort the dying woman.

“Shhh, shhh, just be still,” he whispered, grasping her shoulder to try and subdue her shaking. She didn’t so much as glance at him, her gaze fixed towards the wall. One hand tremored outward, reaching, pointing spasmodically as her breaths wheezed wetly from her. Sam followed the line of her hand, distantly hearing Dean curse behind him.

A young woman sat tied to another chair against the wall, hidden in the shadows. Blood from numerous, carefully placed stabs and cuts showed shiny in the flickering light from the fire. Tufts of ragged curls sliced from her hair dusted her front and lap. And her eyes, swollen, bruised, shone dark with dazed horror at the scene before her.

“Sam! Sam, the fire’s spreading, we gotta go!” Dean suddenly jostled against him, following his gaze to the girl. As one, the brothers strode urgently to her side, knives quickly slicing her free. Sirens began calling in the distance as Dean pulled at a stubborn length of nylon. “Let’s go!”

With a violent yank at the last tie, Sam scooped the limp girl into his arms, following Dean as the elder brother kicked flaming furniture to clear a path. In moments, the Impala roared away from the incoming sirens, Dean watching the emergency vehicles brake in front of the scene as he drove them away.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouted.The impotence and desperation of the failure in the rearview mirror suddenly swamping him as he pounded his hand on the steering wheel. In the backseat, Sam swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, at a loss for words in the moment. A movement from the girl caught his attention, her head lolling back as she stared vacantly out the window. The whisper, nearly lost to the rumble of the engine, broke his heart.

“Momma...Dad…”

In the next heartbeat, she’d sagged into unconsciousness. They’d taken her to their hotel room, the next twenty-four hours a whole different battle. The brothers stitched her up, bandaged her, dosed her. They took it in shifts sitting up with her. Watching. Waiting. Not just for any sign of life. No, after that painful loss, the Winchesters were ready to take on whatever reaper dared to darken their doorstep. They wanted a win - needed it. Loss after loss weighed on the brothers like Atlas’ own burden.

Reaper, or hellhound, or whatever douchebag deity ruled the roost finally decided they were due a sliver of good luck. No one came knocking for her soul that night. They didn’t have to mourn another loss behind silence, whiskey, or work.

Slowly, over the crawling-by days, bandages and antibiotic cream were swapped out for lore books and the internet. She just seemed to fit, all at once, into a space in them they didn’t know was empty. She seized onto things with a tenacity that rivaled theirs. New resources of research opened before them with that librarian background. Dean even started grinning with pride at how she was coming along with her shooting (not that she was going to be let out of Baby on hunts anytime soon). Rae grew into that surprise space so smoothly and quickly, the brothers almost didn’t notice that she never mourned.

She was mourning now.

The pain squeezed her chest until she couldn’t breathe, her hands cold as she sank deeper into this ocean. Her body pulled at oxygen, and it fueled a sudden, awful rage within her. It geysered up out of her belly and into her head, ripping a shrill scream free.

“Why?! I wanna know why!” When her fists tightened in their shirts till the wrinkles pinched them, the boys didn’t even flinch at the sting. Sam squeezed her tighter as she screamed, eyes closed under the weight of her pain. Dean’s hands stroked her hair, a gentle answer as she thrashed in their arms.

Slowly. Slowly, the clangor caved to their quiet. She sagged spent and hiccuping in their arms.

“I don’t even know where they’re buried. I mean, it’s probably at Park Lawn. Dad’s parents are at Old Bennington, but Mom didn’t like it there. She didn’t want people tromping over her grave trying to find Robert Frost.”

“She didn’t like Robert Frost?” Sam asked quietly.

A sad, sorry chuckle croaked from Rae.

“She hated birch trees. Had one in our backyard that kept getting fungus. She held a grudge on the man for making the damn trees so popular.”

Dean dragged his fingers softly through her hair, squeezing her knee with his free hand.

“She held a grudge on a dead guy for a poem about a tree?”

“Yup.” Her chin quivered back another sob. “Daddy had me researching arborists to try and save it for her again.” She shrugged her shoulders, a loose, weary move as she swallowed the stickiness in her throat. “And now they’re gone. Me, too, I guess.”

Sam felt his heart pounding on the lump in his throat as he let himself hug Rae the teensiest bit closer against his chest. Let his chin rub against her hair just a breath.

“You’re not gone, Rae. I know - I know it’s hard. Just try to remember that you’re here. And we’re here.”

The message hung loud and clear in the quiet, their comfort an anchor in the torrent that still tugged at her. For whatever reason, her life had been spared. Purpose still existed for her. Friendship, camaraderie still surrounded her.

If Dean’s gaze urged his brother to voice anything softer, warmer than friendship, Sam’s bitch face shot him down as Rae tiredly rubbed her eyes.

“Hey, Rainbow. Why don’t you go take a hot shower? I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”

Her eyes still dim, she tried to smile for Dean.

“My hot chocolate or Dean hot chocolate?”

Easing back on his heels, Dean took her hand as he and Sam both helped her up.

“There is nothing wrong with a shot of rum in hot chocolate. Delicious and nutritious!” he proclaimed. His words had the desired effect as a bigger smile tugged at her features.

“Can’t argue with that.”

Sheepish eyes ducked away from their gazes as Rae squeezed their hands and headed for the hall. A moment later, they heard her bedroom door shut. They stared at each other, the heaviness of the scene still playing on them.

“We’ve gotta tell her, Sam.”

“I know.”

A/N: Liked it? Read part 2 HERE.

#try to remember #sam winchester #dean winchester fic #sam winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #sam x ofc #dean x ofc #supernatural fanfiction

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waveridden · 6 years

Text

FIC: and you breathe (one breath at a time)

Lovelace goes somewhere warm, and quiet, where nobody has any idea who she is. Nobody, except for somebody who died in space six years ago.

Wolf 359, post-canon. 7.7k. Gen, Lovelace-centric, some implied/background ships. content warnings for some discussion of death/grief and PTSD.

With all my love to @travismcelrcy, who helped shape the ideas.

Read on Ao3 || title lyric

Sydney is bright in the summer, a constant barrage of sunlight that slams into Isabel full-force the second she steps out of the airport. It was raining when she left Shanghai. Or maybe she’s still not used to sunlight - not blue light or red light or artificial Hephaestus lighting. Honest-to-god sunlight.

Isabel slips a voice recorder out of her pocket and switches it on. “Note to self,” she murmurs, “double-check which vitamins sunlight is supposed to give you. Just in case that matters.” She doesn’t need to record captain’s logs anymore, hasn’t for a long time, but it’s the fastest way to keep track of things. Grocery lists and memories from the old crew and whatever else is worth hanging onto these days.

She left her suitcase back in Brussels, so it’s easy to wander the streets with nothing but a backpack and a vague recollection of places she should visit. She’s never been to Australia before. She’d only left the country once, before the Hephaestus, and that was to go to Niagara Falls for the weekend with some friends in high school.

(Sam had laughed when she told him, and she’d raised her eyebrows, said “You telling me you traveled a lot, Oklahoma boy?” like it was a challenge. It always was a challenge, and maybe she’d feel bad about it if he’d ever stopped rising to the challenge. If he hadn’t met her every step of the way, until-)

There’s a list of names tucked away in her backpack. She’s been trying to visit people who deserve to know what happened. Kuan’s sisters, who grieved by screaming. Victoire’s mother, who’d cried as Isabel told her in halting French what happened to her daughter. Sam’s family, who barely reacted at all. Like they already knew he was dead.

They probably did know, she supposes. It’s not like it was hard to guess.

Sydney’s beautiful. She tries to imagine Mace in the city as she walks through it, slowly. He’s not from Sydney, of course, he’s from some smaller town. He used to talk about it, but she can’t remember the name of it, and of course his files with Goddard don’t exist anymore. There’s next to no proof that he was ever there.

But he was here. She imagines him squinting in the sunlight, trying to read a street sign. She imagines him pointing at some local business and saying that there, Captain, that’s his best friend’s uncle’s ice cream shop. She imagines him painted bright in the sun, laughing with his boyfriend, pushing a stroller.

Isabel blinks. That one felt less imaginary.

He’s gone by the time she looks back, of course. She’s been seeing ghosts for the last month. All of Kuan’s sisters had his smile. Every tall man with a suit and a carefully disarming smile is Cutter. Hell, she even sees shades of Minkowski and Eiffel sometimes, even though she knows both of them are safe and sound back stateside. She’s used to it by now. She should be used to it by now.

She still goes straight to her hotel room. Bolts the door once it’s closed. Moves a chair in front of the door just for good measure. Good things never happen when the dead start showing up again. She knows that better than anyone.

Getting back to Earth goes like this:

Goddard debriefs them. It takes weeks, plural, because nobody’s sure what to do with their story. Two of the most important people in the company are currently space debris, and the third doesn’t even remember her own name. And all the rest of them are officially dead.

It’s Jacobi, actually, who’s most helpful in moving things forward. Lovelace gets the impression that it’s because he wants to get out of there as fast as possible, but she has to admit, it’s nice having someone who knows people. Kepler’s name pulls weight, and by extension so does Jacobi’s. It gets things in motion, even with the gaps in the power structure.

The process is also kept completely secret from the public, which they probably weren’t supposed to figure out. Jacobi guesses as much on the second day, snorts and says “it’d look bad for them to be caught in a lie this big,” and that’s supposed to be that. It’s hard to bring people back to life, in terms of paperwork. Probably a nightmare.

But they’re debriefed. They see doctors, who don’t know what to do with Lovelace, human and also decidedly not. They see therapists, who kind of wave Lovelace off because there’s absolutely nothing in their repertoire that could help them deal with aliens. They sit in corporate meeting after corporate meeting where Lovelace tries to focus on getting out and not how badly she wants to rip this company to shreds.

Goddard lets them go on a Tuesday morning. They reach Minkowski’s husband that night, living just outside of Boston, and all of them pile into a house that seems far too empty for one man. Lovelace gets a bedroom to herself. They figure out how to install Hera in the house, because Doug refuses to let her live in a box. She’s up and running by Wednesday morning.

Jacobi’s gone by Wednesday afternoon without so much as a goodbye. It stings, maybe more than it should, but Lovelace has faith that he’ll come back one day. If only because he’s bored.

By the early hours on Thursday she has a list of cities. Shawnee, Brussels, Shanghai, Sydney. She writes and crosses out Moscow a dozen times - even if Selberg was hers he also decidedly wasn’t, and she doesn’t owe that man any more of her sympathy - and does the same for New York City. Who says you can’t go home? Probably other people whose entire families think they died in space years ago.

She makes a second list for good measure. Victoire used to wax rhapsodic about the summer she spent in Iceland, and Kuan had endless stories about visiting cousins in Hawaii. Sam traveled constantly, which she wouldn’t expect from someone from Oklahoma, but he wanted to see the world. Or, no, he felt like it’d be a shame if he didn’t. A shame? An embarrassment? It’s hard to remember his exact words.

It’s hard to remember his exact voice.

Lovelace lifts her voice recorder, brand new, purchased from a RadioShack with a shiny Goddard-issued credit card. “Get back in touch with Canaveral, see if they have any of Lambert’s old logs somewhere. Shake them down if you have to.”

Isabel Lovelace has a valid passport Thursday night. She says her goodbyes on Friday morning, promises to call and hugs Eiffel a little tighter than she should and leaves. She has more ghosts than the rest of them. It’s time to put them to rest.

The problem, which she learns in Oklahoma, is that as much as she wants to get this over with, she can’t start with the families. She tells Sam’s mother what happened one day, his father the next, and then if she stays in Oklahoma for one more goddamn second she thinks she’s going to suffocate, so she’s in Brussels the day after that.

(“That could just be an effect of Oklahoma,” Minkowski - no, Renee says, when Isabel calls her, now in Brussels and still not quite breathing right. “I mean, I’ve never really been there, but it sounds… like Oklahoma.”

“Maybe,” Isabel allows. “But if I’m going to be here, I should start with the tourist thing, right? Instead of just jumping in with the… bad news.”

“The tourist thing,” Renee echoes, in that voice that means she’s not laughing at Isabel, per se, but she’s definitely laughing and it just so happens that Isabel said something funny. “You mean relaxing?”

“I guess I do.”

“You’ve earned it.”

She has. She’s earned it and re-earned it and the universe probably owes her a full year of not dealing with other people’s problems at this point. “Then maybe I’ll stay in Belgium for a while.”

“Just make sure you call,” Renee says, soft and careful. She never says goodbye, only asks for Isabel to call again. And she always does.)

It takes two weeks in Brussels before she has the stomach to find Victoire’s family. After that she stops over in Moscow for all of two days, just to see the sights, and then it’s three weeks in Shanghai. And of course, by the end of that she’s ready to snap in half, so she takes a week for herself in Thailand to recover.

Sydney is warm, not as warm as Thailand but also sunnier. It’s not quiet, but it’s just her and her ghosts there. And it’s going to take a little more work to track down Fisher’s boyfriend - she knows his name’s Corey, he’s a history teacher, and he lives somewhere reasonably close to Sydney - so she might as well take another break.

She ends up on a beach, one of the quieter ones. It’s a weekday morning so it’s not terribly crowded, just a few families that Isabel makes a point of staying away from, carving out her own quiet corner in the sand. She sets up with a towel and an umbrella and a stack of books that she got from airports and-

-and her phone starts ringing.

Isabel sighs. It’d be easy, it’d be so easy to just ignore it, but the fact is not a lot of people call her. This number isn’t in enough databases to get calls, and it would be… inconsiderate if she didn’t take full advantage of Goddard generously footing all her bills for a little while. Including the bill for international calls.

She smoothly reaches into her backpack, resting a carefully-calculated arm’s length away from her on the sand, and swipes to answer. “You’ve reached the phone of Isabel Lovelace. I’m currently unavailable because I finally got to a real beach where I can relax for a while, so leave a message if-”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” Hera asks, not sounding sorry at all.

Isabel rests back on her towel. “No, Hera, it’s not. Unless there’s an emergency, because I am halfway around the world right now and can’t help.”

“No emergencies. Thank god.”

She smiles, relaxing a little as she does. “And you’re bored?”

“Horribly.”

“What do you do now that nothing’s constantly going wrong?”

“Not much,” Hera admits. “I’ve been teaching myself new languages.”

“Programming language or human language?”

“A bit of both?”

“Of course,” Isabel says. She thinks idly that maybe she would’ve been sarcastic about that, once upon a time, but now it comes out fond. Indulgent. Hera complained about being in a house and how it was so much smaller than the Hephaestus, but now she has the Internet. There’s only so much complaining she can do with the entirety of human knowledge at her fingertips. “How’s everyone?”

Hera hums. “Minko- uh, Renee- shoot. Is it weird that I’m still having trouble with that?”

“It’s only been two months, Hera.”

“But I talk to her every day.”

“And how many days did you call her Minkowski?”

“More than sixty,” Hera admits. “Okay. Uh, Renee’s looking for jobs, although nobody’s really sure what kind of thing she should look for. Doug’s a waiter now, all the customers love him.”

“And everyone’s in one piece?”

“In one piece.” She says it so proudly that Isabel can’t help but smile. “And Renee’s been helping me practice my French.”

“Do you need to practice?”

“Of course I need to practice, just because I know the whole language doesn’t mean I know how to speak it right.”

“One of these days, you should learn a made-up language. Or make your own.”

“I’ve already looked into making up my own, but it’s not as easy as you might think. It’s kind of a fun side project, it’d be nice to talk to a linguist or something sometime. Figure out how-”

“Lovelace?” says someone, about three feet to her right.

She drops her phone. She hadn’t noticed anyone coming towards her, and these days there’s no way to tell if it’s someone hostile or not. From the other end of the phone Hera says something but Isabel’s hand is already halfway into her bag, where she has a knife waiting for her, and she looks up to see who it is and squints against the sunlight and-

“Lovelace,” says Mace Fisher, like he thinks she’s going to disappear.

Slowly, Isabel pulls her hand away from her backpack and lifts her sunglasses, just as Fisher - it can’t be, it has to be - drops to a crouch, then his knees. His hair’s longer now, curling in loose spirals around his cheeks. He has the same scar down one side of his nose. He’s wearing the most horrific swim trunks that she’s seen in her entire life, and he’s staring, and he’s here.

“Fisher,” she says, and he gulps, and suddenly her eyes are stinging. He sits back on his heels, looking winded, and Isabel remembers her phone. She snatches it up and takes a deep breath. “Hera.”

“Ca- Isabel, what’s going on, is everything okay?”

Is everything okay. Of course, everything’s fine. Just Lovelace and her ghosts again. “I’m going to have to call you back.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“I don’t know yet, Hera.” She’s still watching him, of course she is. He looks somewhere off over Isabel’s shoulder, mouths something that she doesn’t bother to try and understand. He must not be here alone. “It’s… complicated.”

“Are you safe?”

“I think so.”

“Call us back,” Hera says, voice small. “Just- just to be on the safe side.”

“Of course,” Isabel says, and hangs up. Fisher is still there, so that’s a good sign, probably. If this isn’t real then at least her brain is collapsing all at once. Hell, they have no idea what the sun’s radiation is going to do to her weird alien brain. Maybe long-term exposure induces hallucinations. Maybe this is the last thing she sees before her internal organs turn to soup. It could be worse, she figures.

Fisher’s still staring at her.

“So,” she says carefully. “This… is new.”

“You died in space,” Fisher says. “I don’t know if you heard.”

“No, I’ve been told.” She looks him up and down. She listened to him die, during that meteor storm. They all did. “You… also died in space.”

He snorts. “Apparently not.”

They never found a body. Of course they didn’t, it was deep space, but they never had anything to remember him by, other than what he left behind. “Apparently not,” she agrees, and her voice is a little thicker than she expected. “How about that?”

Fisher swallows. “The others-”

Isabel’s breath catches. None of the others had been home, when she visited. “They- Mace-”

“Oh,” Fisher breathes, and lunges forward. Isabel lets him, reaches out, pulls him in. And he feels real, not like a hallucination, not a ghost. He’s as real as she is and he’s squeezing her like he’s trying to make sure of it, one hand pressing her head into the crook of his shoulder. “Captain-”

“Oh, god, don’t call me captain,” she laughs, and he huffs out something like a sob, warm against the back of her neck. “I’m nobody’s captain anymore, got it?”

“Aye-aye,” Fisher says, and fans one of his hands out on her back. Isabel laughs again and her eyes are still stinging but she’s not crying, she can’t cry until she understands. “What are you doing here, anyways?”

Isabel sits back on her heels, keeping one hand pressed against Fisher’s shoulder. Just in case he disappears. He pulls away too, a little reluctantly, but one of his hands drops to her knee. “I was, uh. Trying to say goodbyes, you could call it.”

“Ah,” Fisher says. “I take it you haven’t been back long, then.”

“A couple months.” She shrugs. “Goddard… wasn’t interested in letting us go.”

Fisher raises his eyebrows. “Us.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I can imagine.”

“What about you?” Isabel rubs a hand across her eyes, probably scrubbing salt and sand into them, which has to be why the stinging doesn’t go away. “What… how long have you been back?”

Fisher shrugs. “Five years, give or take.”

“So you got back after the first mission.”

“First mission,” Fisher repeats, something like dread creeping into his voice. “Captain-”

“Isabel.”

“If you’re Isabel then I’m Mace.”

Isabel nods and takes a deep breath. “It’s… a really long story. It’s one I can tell you, but-”

“Daddy!” a child’s voice shouts, from somewhere behind Isabel. Mace is on his feet in a flash, so fast that she barely has time to mourn the loss of contact before he’s off and running. It’s just enough to make her panic, so she whips around, climbing to her feet in the process. Her sunglasses tilt dangerously to one side, threatening to fall off, and she manages to settle them back on her face just as she spots Mace again.

He’s crouching low, looking seriously between two kids. Twins, if Isabel had to guess, both of them dark-haired and olive-skinned. They don’t look anything like Mace, but one of them has the same stubborn mouth, and one has the same honest eyes. His kids, if ever she’s seen them.

Cautiously, she takes a couple of steps closer. Mace doesn’t notice, talking in a low, serious voice to the twins. “Five minutes, alright? Five more minutes on the sand and then we can go back in the water, how does that sound?”

“But Kuan said he’s gonna squish my sand castle,” says the one with Mace’s mouth, and Isabel nearly takes a step back. “And I don’t want him to!”

Mace looks seriously at the twin with his eyes. “Kuan.”

“I’m not gonna squish it,” Kuan mutters. “But Sam said his was better than mine, and that’s not nice. ”

Mace turns back to the other twin, looking exasperated. “Sam-”

“Mine’s better,” Sam protests, but he falters instantly and turns to his brother. “I’m sorry, Kuan. You’re right, it wasn’t nice.”

“I’m sorry I said I was gonna squish yours,” Kuan says seriously. “That wasn’t nice either.”

“Good job, boys,” Mace says, and both of the twins brighten up instantly. It figures that Mace would have the most well-adjusted kids Isabel has ever seen. “Daddy just needs three more minutes to talk to his friend, and-”

“Friend?” Sam demands, and both twins turn to her immediately, with that uncanny perceptive stare that children always have.

Isabel’s hands are shaking. She notices it sort of absently, the same way she notices there’s a man with a sleeping baby lying on his chest watching them intently, the same way she notices that the only clouds in the sky are wispy and light and dreamlike. Like it doesn’t affect her that she’s having trouble breathing.

She glances at Mace, over the tops of her sunglasses, and he nods slightly, so she takes a couple steps forward and drops into a crouch next to him. “Hi, guys.”

“You’re friends with Daddy?” asks Kuan.

Isabel nods. “I am. I used to work with him, a long time ago.”

“In space?”

“Yes, in space.”

“Whoa,” Kuan whispers. “Was he cool?”

“The coolest.”

Mace snorts and nudges her with his shoulder, still as solid and real as anything. “Second after you, maybe.”

“Oh, definitely,” Isabel says, with an exaggerated nod, and both of the twins giggle. “But, you know, it’s hard to measure up to me.”

“Daddy’s cool!” Sam bounces up and down. “This one time, this one time he was making pancakes, and he flipped them in the air!”

“In the air?” Isabel repeats, trying to sound like it’s the coolest thing she’s ever heard. “You know, that might just be cooler than me.”

“Never, Captain,” Mace mumbles, and Isabel rolls her eyes. Maybe she shouldn’t teach kids to roll their eyes, but if they’re living with Mace, they’re probably going to be supernaturally patient. Someone has to teach them. “Boys, we can go in the water as soon as I’m done talking to Miss Isabel, alright?”

“Miss Isabel?” Kuan turns so he’s looking at her and leans in, putting his face very, very close to hers. It takes all her self control not to pull back. Children can smell fear, or something. “Like baby Izzy?”

“Baby Izzy,” Isabel repeats. “Is that… a TV show, or something?”

Kuan giggles. “No, silly, it’s our sister!”

“Sister,” Isabel echoes, feeling like a broken record. They have a sister named Isabel. That can’t be right. She turns, carefully, to look at Mace, who is staring intently at the sand by her feet. “Mace.”

“Middle name’s Victoire,” he mumbles, and meets her eyes, looking sheepish. “There’s not a lot else you can do to remember people, these days.”

She understands. When the world has already mourned and moved on, when Isabel’s mission to say her goodbyes was met only with acceptance and grief that’s still heavy on her skin, there’s not much else to do, other than remembering. He had to grieve already, without her.

“Mace,” she says again, her throat so thick that it hurts to say. She swallows a couple times, until she feels like she can breathe again, and says, “We can talk later.”

“Yeah?” Mace says, and she wonders if he expected her to want to talk to him. He looks so… hopeful.

“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “I can… you know, I brought books. I have a cell phone that I mostly understand how to use. I can kill time.”

Mace laughs. “Yeah, those have changed a lot. You want to come in the water with us?”

Isabel has gone swimming once, in the last two months. It was in a Goddard facility, for some kind of fitness check-up. It’d been nice at first, cool and refreshing. Chlorine is one of those things that she’d forgotten, not unlike the exact flavor of potato chips and how to talk to children, and she’d even appreciated the sting in her eyes.

It’d taken eight minutes and forty-one seconds, as per her official Goddard chart, before the panic set in. Before the water stopped feeling like water, and all she knew was that she was floating, and if she was floating she must’ve been back in space, back on the Hephaestus, and if she was on the station then she wasn’t safe, and-

Nine minutes. A new record, said the Goddard tech who was observing her. Most former astronauts don’t even make it to five.

“Maybe later,” Isabel says. As long as her feet are on the ground, she should be fine.

“She can sit with me,” someone says, off to one side. It’s the man with the sleeping baby, still watching them. He has one hand resting on the baby’s back, and he looks relaxed, but his eyes are as sharp as anything she’s ever seen. “If you want.”

Isabel nods slowly. “I think I’d like that.”

Mace reaches out and brushes some sand off one of Isabel’s knees, leaving his hand to rest on her thigh. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Isabel repeats, and looks back at the twins. “Sam. Kuan.” She has to take a deep breath, because fuck, even that is hard to say, isn’t it? How does Mace do it every day? “It was very nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Kuan says, very seriously. Just like any kid trying to pretend to be a grown-up. It reminds her of Hui, of her Kuan.

“Are you gonna still be Daddy’s friend?” Sam asks. “Because you look like a good friend.”

A good friend. A good captain who lost her crew and barely scraped out with her second crew. A good person trying to say her goodbyes.

“I will be his friend,” she says. It’s too awkward and stilted for a kid but it’s all she can manage. Friends are hard to come by these days.

Mace squeezes her leg and gets to his feet. “Who’s ready to go in the ocean!”

The twins both scream in excitement, and Isabel glances back at the man who is most certainly Corey. “You mind if I bring my things over?”

“Course not,” Corey says, amiable as anything. “Although I hope you don’t mind that I’m going to be asking you a few questions.”

Isabel smiles faintly. None of them talked about Their People Back Home too often, at least not in the first few hundred days, but she still remembers Mace talking about his boyfriend. He used to say Corey was smart. And suspicious. She can see that already.

As soon as she settles in next to him, Corey points out towards the water. “I had to come to Sydney for a work conference. It was Mace’s idea to make a trip out of it and bring the kids, and he’s been wrangling all three of them by himself for most of the week.”

Isabel follows where he’s pointing. Mace is in the shallows of the ocean, each twin holding his hand. Every time a wave comes in, no matter how small, they all try to jump over it. She can hear the twins shrieking and laughing, and Mace laughing with them. “How old are they?”

“They turned four last month.” Corey smiles faintly. “He was self-conscious about the name thing. Originally it was going to be Samuel Kuan, and then we found out we’d be adopting twins.”

“And you were okay with it?”

“Of course. My boyfriend comes back from space, from the actual dead, and says he wants to name the kids after the people he lost? What kind of a person would say no?”

Isabel nods, and looks at the baby still asleep on Corey’s chest. “She’s quiet.”

Corey snorts and strokes the baby’s - Izzy’s back, smiling down at her. “Tired herself out screaming earlier.”

“I hear that babies do that.”

“You have no idea.”

“How did he come back?”

“We’re still not sure,” Corey admits, and looks back out towards Mace and the twins. “He says the last thing he remembers is getting knocked off the station by a meteor, and then next thing he knows he’s back on the station two years later with nobody but that doctor of yours there.”

Something cold creeps up Isabel’s spine. “And what did the good doctor do?”

“Lied to everyone who came to rescue them.”

“Lied?”

“Said that there was some kind of misunderstanding, that Mace had been with them the whole time in a coma.” Corey shakes his head. “They made it back to Earth and Selburg disappeared. Mace looks for him sometimes.”

“That’s good of him,” Isabel says, because it is. Even if Hilbert doesn’t deserve a damn good thing anymore. Even if he infected Mace with Decima for the sake of research, for some greater good that turned out to be no good at all. Maybe it was his penance, bringing Mace back to Earth. After all, he knew the theta scenario. He probably knew there was no point in running experiments on an alien.

“You don’t sound like you mean it.” Corey looks at her, eyes narrowing. “Do you know how he came back?”

Isabel exhales. “I do.”

Corey takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to ask you to explain, but Mace will.”

“I know.”

“And be careful, when you do. Whatever it is, he already has questions.”

“What kind of questions?

“Doctors have been saying he’s in peak condition for the last five years. They also keep saying that he breaks some of their equipment.”

Psi waves, Isabel thinks. Psi waves, or alien biology, or one of those other things that Pryce and Cutter went on and on about.

Because he’s like her.

“I’ll be careful,” she says, and turns away from Corey’s eyes, back towards the shoreline. One of the twins jumps too high and crashes to his knees in the water. Mace lets go of his hand, just long enough to scoop him up and balance him on his hip. “I’ll tell him the truth, if he asks, but I’m not going to scare him away or anything.”

“Good,” Corey says quietly. “And I know we’ve never met before, but I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Isabel quirks a smile. “Thanks. I’m glad he came back to you.”

“Me too,” Corey murmurs. Mace picks up the other twin now, holding them both carefully, like it’s nothing. Like he was made to hold them. “Me too.”

Mace and Corey have to leave first, because when you have three kids you need to feed them lunch. They leave Isabel with Mace’s phone number, Corey’s number in case Mace’s phone dies, and a small collection of seashells that Kuan picked out for her.

(“I didn’t get her anything,” Sam whispers, looking absolutely horrified, and then proceeds to dump a child-size fistful of sand on each of Isabel’s thighs. “Is mud good for your skin?”

Mace, who’s reapplying sunscreen on Kuan, takes one look at Isabel’s face and laughs so hard that he has to sit down.)

And then they’re gone, and it’s Isabel, by herself on a beach. Just like she wanted.

The breeze keeps blowing. The air still tastes like salt. The waves keep crashing on the sand. There are still families around, but a few have filtered out, probably to go to lunch or school or whatever else families in Sydney have to do. Maybe they’re on vacation. Maybe they’re just passing through. Maybe she’s just passing through, although she’s not sure where exactly she’ll go after this. She still has that list: Reykjavik for Victoire, Honolulu for Kuan, Sao Paulo and Quebec and Copenhagen and San Francisco for Sam. Disneyland. New York. Boston.

She doesn’t remember getting to her feet, but the next thing she knows she’s standing in the shallows. The water’s around her ankles, lapping against her calves, gritty with sand and salt. It feels good. It’s grounding.

She’s holding her cell phone. Slowly, she punches in the numbers and holds her breath.

Renee picks up on the second ring. “Hey! I was just about to call you, I got a package from Goddard today. Apparently they archived all of your crew’s old logs on analog recorders. Less of a chance of a hacker accidentally finding some of Goddard’s dirty laundry. Hera and Dom are going to try and convert them to digital for you, although you can always come pick them up in person.”

Isabel swallows. The world seems too bright, suddenly. She’s not used to the sunlight, she might never be used to the sunlight again, she spent seven years in deep space and she was dead for three of those. Or maybe she was only alive for two of them.

She remembers Lambert’s voice. Or maybe she just remembers a ghost of it. It’d be another thing, another thing entirely, to have his logs. Or to have him in front of her. The way Mace was.

“Isabel?” Renee says cautiously. “Are you there?”

“There’s a baby here named after me,” Isabel says abruptly. It seems like the easiest entry point.

Renee goes quiet. Isabel takes the opportunity to lower herself so she’s sitting in the water. She’d forgotten what sand felt like, but it’s the kind of muddy sand that’s easy to bury your toes in. She has one foot halfway covered in mud when Renee finally says, cautiously, “We’ve only been back for two months.”

“I know.”

“That’s not enough time for that to happen.”

“She was adopted.”

“Who adopted her?”

“Mace Fisher, from my old crew.”

Another silence. This one only lasts long enough for Isabel to get the toes of her other foot into the sand, before: “Is there some kind of an explanation for this?”

“I think it’s another theta scenario.” She pauses. “Actually, I’m sure of it, because the only other option is that I just vividly hallucinated a two-hour encounter with five people, only one of whom I’d ever met before.”

“Who were the other four?”

“His partner and kids.”

“You never met them?”

“Never had the chance. Kids are all under the age of four anyways. For all I know-” Isabel swallows, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that her voice cracked. For all she knows it was just wishful thinking.

Renee sighs noisily. “Did you look them up on Facebook?”

“What?”

“Facebook. Finding a profile page to see if you were imagining them.”

Isabel blinks. “No.”

“Alrighty then,” Renee says briskly. It’s kind of a comfort: all business, no question of what it means if Isabel is seeing things, just another fact-finding mission. Isabel can hear her tap a few buttons, and then: “Hera, you busy?”

“No,” Hera says immediately. “No, I’m- Isabel! You hung up so fast earlier, was everything okay?”

“I ran into one of my old crew members,” Isabel says, as no-nonsense as she possibly can. Renee’s certainly not fooled, but Hera just might be, if she plays her cards right. “We’re trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“We’re looking for a Facebook page,” Renee explains. “Or some other kind of social media.”

“Ooooh, finally, something interesting!”

Isabel grins. She can’t see Renee, all the way in Massachusetts, but she can still imagine Renee grinning back at her. “I don’t have a lot for you to go on,” she warns. “His name is Mason Fisher, and his partner’s name is Corey.”

“Last name?”

“Don’t know.”

“Occupation?”

“Corey’s a history teacher, or at least he was seven years ago. Mace was in the military.”

“Anything else?”

“They have three kids, Sam, Kuan, and Izzy.”

“And they live in Australia?”

“Yes. Although I’m not sure where.”

Hera hums to herself. “You sure like to give a girl a challenge, I’ll tell you that. And my first Facebook search isn’t picking up anything.”

Isabel’s heart hiccups in her throat. “Nothing?”

“Not yet, but I started with all the parameters in place and I’m broadening the search as we go.”

“Try the other sites too,” Renee suggests. “Twitter, or Instagram, or whatever people are using these days.”

“I’m already running those too,” Hera says. Isabel knows that tone of voice. It’s the “I don’t want to tell you my systems are failing, but they are” voice. “I’m still not seeing anything. And I’m running Corey with an E-Y, Cory with just a Y, I’m putting K’s in there-”

“Have you tried LinkedIn?” a new voice says. “If they’re trying to fly under the radar, which they very well might be, they won’t be on Facebook, but most professionals are on there these days.”

“Oooh,” Renee says softly. “Good one, Dom.”

“Thank you. Hi, Isabel.”

“Hi, Dominik.”

“Are you still in Thailand?” Dominik asks, sounding completely unbothered by the fact that his wife’s best friend is searching for evidence of someone who might not exist. Isabel likes that about him. He takes everything in stride.

“Australia, actually.”

“Staying in the warm half of the world, I see.”

Isabel snorts. “Yeah, it’s great, it’s always sunny in Sydney.”

“Oh, god,” Renee mutters. “You know, it’s crazy to say this, but I’m still not used to the sun. Like, the actual sun, you know what I mean? Heat that isn’t from a vent, light that isn’t from a bulb…”

“Or a star outside the window,” Isabel adds. “And isn’t blue.”

“Isn’t blue!” Renee snaps her fingers. “I keep expecting everything to be blue!”

“And way colder.”

“God, way colder. And I keep forgetting about gravity.”

Isabel laughs, a little more wetly than she intends, but she can’t help it. “Earlier today I was lying on the beach, reading a book, and I went to put the book down-”

“Oh, no,” Renee laughs, like she’s already figured out the punchline to the joke. Or already lived it out a dozen times over.

“Except, of course, I just let go of it, and it fell-” Isabel smacks her knee with one hand. “Right into my solar plexus.”

Dom chuckles. “Hopefully it wasn’t too heavy.”

“Eh, just an airport paperback. Heaviest thing about it was the main character’s tragic backstory.” She sighs. “Worst part was that I cursed loudly on a public beach and almost woke up a sleeping baby, but-”

“Check your phone,” Hera says suddenly. “Is this him?”

Isabel pulls her phone away from her ear and looks at it. The message from Hera opens on its own, as messages from Hera are wont to do. It’s a professional headshot, much cleaner and more put-together than he’d been on the beach.

“Yeah,” Isabel says, a little winded. “That’s Corey.”

“Awesome,” Hera says, clearly relieved. “Corey Rapp, that’s C-O-R-E-Y, has a LinkedIn profile, thank you, Dominik. He’s still a history teacher at a secondary school north of Sydney. Government records show he adopted twins about four years ago and a daughter last year, like you said. No evidence of a spouse or partner, at least not on the record, but knowing what Goddard’s like, that doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t look like Corey has a Facebook or anything under his own name.”

“Neither do I,” Renee points out. “If anything that makes them smart. Means they’re watching out.”

“Good choice,” Dominik murmurs. Isabel agrees, would say as much if she could remember how to breathe.

Mace is here. He’s alive, more than six years after he died, and he’s also definitely an alien. She’s going to have to tell him. Maybe Corey, too, depending on how Mace takes it. She’s not the only one in the world, and somehow, that’s worse than if she were alone. At least if it were just her she wouldn’t have anything to feel guilty about.

“Lovelace,” Renee says quietly.

Isabel blinks. Her skin is hot. Right. Sunlight. Beach. She’s here. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Hera and Dom left,” Renee says cautiously. “You kinda went dark for a minute there. Anything you wanna talk about?”

“Not really.”

“How about things you don’t want to talk about?”

“Oh, there are way more of those, don’t worry.”

“I’d be more worried if there weren’t,” Renee admits. “So. You found your alien crewmate who survived the most unlikely series of events that any human has experienced.”

“You really think that’s more unlikely than what we went through?”

“Eh.” Isabel can picture the accompanying shrug, almost jokingly nonchalant. “It’s gotta be on the list, right? Anything involving aliens is… up there.”

“Oh, up there,” Isabel mutters, and Renee makes a soft noise that somehow sounds like a smile. “How’s Doug?”

“Definitely the most well-adjusted out of all of us.”

“Hera said he got a job?”

“He works the night shift at Olive Garden. Customers love him.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Renee says, and then goes quiet, and Isabel feels… bad, for a few seconds. She’d been with Renee and Doug for a while, but what they’d had, the casual trust and the years of determination to survive, was irreplaceable. Doug-and-Renee is never going to be the same as Eiffel-and-Minkowski.

“How about you?” Isabel asks, and then kind of wants to kick herself. That’s not necessarily a better talking point.

Renee hums. “Better than I’ve been. Dom and I decided I can’t go back to the military, what with being legally dead, so I’ve been trying to put together the case against Goddard.”

“By yourself?”

“With Hera, sometimes.”

“So by yourself.”

“Mostly,” Renee admits. “I was going to wait for you to come back, but…”

But this trip was supposed to take two weeks, tops, and Isabel hasn’t come back yet. But she has a second list of places to visit. But now she found somewhere else that she could stay for a while. But you can’t plan on someone who might not come back, don’t you know that by now, Captain?

“I’ll help once I’m back,” Isabel says, which she figures is the most honest thing she can say. When she’s ready she’s going to burn Goddard to the ground. Which reminds her: “Have you heard anything from Jacobi?”

“Not yet.”

“And you haven’t tracked him down?”

“Isabel,” Renee chides. “He’s an adult, he’s not my responsibility, and if his way of handling it is leaving, then I’m not here to judge him for it.”

“So that’s a no,” Isabel says, and grins when Renee groans. “He’ll turn up sooner or later.”

“Yeah, I know. And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Fisher’s alive,” Renee says, like Isabel could have possibly forgotten. “You’re not the only theta scenario. You’re in another new country by yourself. Take your pick. I have a couple reasons to be worried here.”

And Isabel thinks about it, actually thinks about it. It’d be easy to lie, sure, but Renee would know, and she figures if they’re in this whole space trauma business together she might as well be honest.

She pulls one of her feet out of the sand, sticking it into the water. “I'm coping,” she says slowly. “It’s early yet in the process. I think I might be going through the opposite of the five stages of grief.”

“Is that going through the stages in backwards order or experiencing the opposite of each stage?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Thinking you were hallucinating could be a form of denial,” Renee says, far too thoughtful. “Or the opposite of acceptance? Is that how it works?”

“I don’t know, shrinks gave up on me, remember?” Isabel’s phone buzzes in her hand, and she glances at the screen. “Mace is calling me.”

“Then answer!”

“Okay,” Isabel says, and then, “Thank you.”

Renee doesn’t ask what she’s thanking her for. She’s smart like that. “Any time. Time zones don’t matter, just call.”

“I will,” Isabel says. It’s not quite a lie. “Talk to you soon, Renee.”

“Talk to you soon, Isabel.”

Isabel swipes over to answer. “Mace.”

“Isabel,” Mace says brightly. She almost doesn’t catch the note of surprise. “I realized I forgot to ask how long you’re in Sydney.”

“Until I leave.”

“No dates?”

“Well, you know, international travel gets a lot easier when a multibillion dollar company is footing the bill.”

“Huh,” Mace says. “Well, if you’re not busy tonight-”

“Isabel,” Renee says, sounding far too amused, and Isabel almost jumps out of her skin in surprise. “You didn’t hang up on me.”

Isabel frowns. “Apparently not. Did I make it a conference call?”

“You’re still not used to the new phone,” Renee says smugly, which is completely unfair. Phones have changed a lot in seven years, and Isabel is entitled to a few moments of staggering confusion. “That’s okay, you know.”

“Took me a while to get used to it too,” Mace says, in what’s probably supposed to be a sympathy move. “Touch screens and all.”

“You must be Mace Fisher,” Renee says, and Isabel’s breath catches. It’s so outrageously her, making a point of acknowledging that she can hear the person on the other end of the phone. “I’m Renee Minkowski. Former commander of the final mission to the USS Hephaestus Station, which is currently space dust.”

“Can’t say I’m sad to hear about that,” Mace admits. “And Captain, you owe me… so many explanations for all of that.”

“Many, many explanations,” Isabel agrees. “I can pay for drinks too.”

“I’ll leave you two to make plans now.” Renee pauses, and Isabel can feel the smugness from thousands of miles away. It’s strangely comforting. “Isabel, don’t worry, I can hang up on my own.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Isabel says as dryly as possible. “I’ll call you soon, Renee.”

“You’d better,” Renee says, and then there’s a soft beep.

Isabel exhales. “So. Drinks?”

“I probably shouldn’t leave my hotel, if Corey’s alone with the kids, but-”

“Hotel bar?”

“Hotel bar. I’ll send you the address.”

“Let me know when it’s a good time to come.”

“I will.” Mace pauses. “So, we can talk about this later, but…”

“But?”

“Renee, hm?”

Isabel groans. “Mace.”

“Are you guys close?”

“Come on.”

“No, I’m just saying, you sounded happy to talk to her.”

“That’s because I was.”

“Good,” Mace says, sounding pleased. “I have to run now, I just wanted to call and check.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I’ll see you tonight, Mace.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” he echoes, and then there’s that soft beep again, and Isabel’s alone on the beach.

One of her feet is still buried in the sand. Carefully, she wiggles her toes. The mud squishes between them. It almost tickles, and she can feel some of the sand dissolving in the water. The shallows are still lapping around her, against her hips, her thighs, one hand that she plants in the sand while she cradles her phone in the other.

There was a point where she thought she’d never make it back to a beach. She hadn’t been to many beaches before space, and definitely not many with actual oceans. The Air Force isn’t exactly interested in destination resorts, after all. But here she is. Sitting on a beach in Sydney.

Isabel swirls her hand through the water, letting the sand cloud around her. She never thought she would feel sand again. Or sun. Or the sheer gratitude of knowing that someone else made it out alive. She has another list, one that’s been getting longer: things she’s getting to experience again. Maybe for the first time, depending how you look at it.

Sydney is bright in the summer. There are people waiting for her in Boston, and a list of cities she has to visit. There’s a stack of books on the beach, next to her backpack, underneath an umbrella. She should go back to those and make some kind of progress, or at the very least make sure nobody takes her book before she can finish it.

She stays in the ocean, just a little longer. It’s not every day that she gets the chance.

#wolf 359 #wolf 359 fic #w359 fic #isabel lovelace #mace fisher #waveridden.fic #i'm not tagging anything else this is already niche as fuck

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adventures-in-poly · 7 years

Text

Adventures in Poly: The Early Years [Part 1 of ?]

A memoir type thing that’s been banging around in my head for a few weeks and is only semi poly-related; under the cut.

My thoughts began to make sense in the summer of 2003. I was fresh out of freshman year of high school, my head still firmly in the clouds but able to grab some coherency amidst the chaos. The Order of the Phoenix had just been released, and I nurtured a soft spot in my heart for Remus and Sirius as if I had singlehandedly invented shipping. On the radio circulated a seemingly endless playlist of markedly exciting summer alt rock hits, just gritty enough to match the burgeoning glory days of emo that would later accompany a bitter autumn. My dad had just moved 8 hours south for work, following six months of unemployment spurred by a sudden layoff. My mom and I counteracted our sadness by turning it into a game, teaching him how to decorate his apartment and care for himself, pretending we were the Queer Eye guys as we pushed through the aisles of Target.

I had a boyfriend, the same one for over a year at that point. I thought I loved him, but there were problems. Our dates had become stale; fifteen minutes of hookups in his bedroom to the soundtrack of Dispatch or Dave Matthews, followed by about three hours of me watching him play music and pretending (to him and to myself) to be enthralled. He was a year older than me and receiving pressure to start having sex. I did as much as I felt comfortable doing at the time, which is much more than I would have chosen to do had I known more about consent. Earlier that summer, his father had caught me naked and hiding in a closet, and I don’t remember feeling as ashamed as I think I was supposed to. I remember feeling real.

My parents and I took a cruise vacation in August. I was beyond excited. We hadn’t thought we’d be able to afford it, but my dad got a job offer right before we would have had to cancel. I didn’t realize back then how important having two whole weeks with my parents together was for their emotional health. Everything just felt so good. When I lament nowadays about how nothing feels exciting anymore, I think about August of 2003, before I boarded that ship, two new CDs in my backpack (QOTSA’s “Songs for the Deaf” and 311′s “Evolver”), racing around all the decks with my parents and marveling over how grand it all was, how incredible this week was going to be.

My summer boy was tall, and extraverted, and tan. I don’t remember much else about him from early on in the week. The group I met in the teen club started off large and then splintered into something more closely resembling “popular” and “less popular”. He was sort of a leader in the popular group, won in equal parts by his physical and social attractiveness. He had hooked up with two girls already, a fact that made me quick to categorize him as “typical” and allowed me to ignore him rather than resent him. There was something that struck me as different, though. He was popular, sure, but he wasn’t like the hockey jocks from my school. There was something like a darkness. One night the group ended up in his cabin, and he showed us images from an Alex Grey art book, rhapsodizing about the curve of a skeleton or the colors of a pregnant stomach, fetus visible inside. The book must have weighed about five pounds, and he had chosen to bring it with him, and I had never seen someone so magnetic have so much substance.

The last day of the cruise, we found each other on a beach at dock, and he spoke more words to me within ten minutes than he had the entire week. We had never been friends, never had much reason at all to talk to each other, but that day he spoke to me softly, asked about my interests, looked me in the eye as he listened. I knew enough to jump to cynical thoughts that he just wanted ass, but too little to really believe them. And even if he did, why me. It was never me. It had never been me.

Back on the ship, we escaped to empty rooms together. I fought off anxiety-ridden nausea in the bathroom and oscillated between bouts of hating and wanting him. He invited me to sit beside him, and I knew exactly the game he was playing as he slid his arm behind my place on the back of the couch. I knew that I was one of many, but many that he had nevertheless chosen. I rolled my eyes and spoke in a deadpan voice, as if testing him, as if inviting him to give up, hoping simultaneously that he would and wouldn’t.

That night was shrouded in tragedy. A few days before, one of the girls in our group had showed up with a hookup, a guy who bought her booze and was slightly too old to get into the teen club. On Friday, he was dead, killed by a jetski collision in a fluke storm.

That night, we cried on the highest deck of the ship as the night air stung the corners of our eyes. We cried for our lost friend. We cried for the shock and for the fragility of life. We cried for the friendships that would dissolve after we disembarked. I cried for my confusion; for my lust and for my desire to receive comfort from him and for my infidelity and for what all of that meant. My summer boy rocked me back on a lounge chair and we kissed, and more, but not the most, and all the while I sobbed; I must have looked a mess. I kept pulling away, saying I couldn’t, saying I loved my boyfriend, but knowing that that wasn’t a reason. He should have listened to me. For the sake of consent culture, I wish he had. But for the sake of my needs, I’m glad he didn’t. I wanted to do what we did that night. I wanted to feel him. I wanted to let myself fall completely into him. If I could do it all again, I would, but I would shut away my guilt and absorb myself in the moment.

That autumn was one of the worst I have ever experienced. I mourned the friend who had died. I mourned my summer romance. I mourned the loss of several people I cared about. I mourned the experience he and I could have had if only I hadn’t cried so damn much. I mourned my morality. I mourned my shame. I wrote his name over my notebooks and screamed into a pillow, less for who he was as a tangible being, and more for how my world was crumbling, reforming itself. My heart physically hurt. I felt physically ill.

I tried to make sense of it all. I wrote. I wrote all the time. I scribbled until my knuckles went white and my pen tore the page. I stayed up until 2 in the morning, suffering five hour sleeps in order to justify what had happened. I took solace in the fact that my best friend from home came through for me, like he had year after year. Together, we lamented over why monogamy was required. We both understood that you could love your boyfriend and still find fascination in a kind and attractive stranger. We screamed over how little sense monogamy made, and why we had to comply with it. We didn’t know -- or at least I didn’t know -- that there was any choice in the matter. It didn’t occur to me that it might be possible to get what I wanted. And even if I had known, I lacked the patience and the conversational skills to ever achieve it.

My summer boy and I rarely spoke after that August. We both went home to our separate states and chatted occasionally on AOL Instant Messenger. He once name-dropped that he was listening to The Mars Volta; I instantly went to FYE and picked up Deloused in the Comatorium, and my life has never been the same since. That autumn, music saved me. The melodic wails of Cedric’s voice in and out of time with Omar’s guitar led me to new musical discoveries: the complex harmonies of Coheed and Cambria; the soft strums of Brand New’s strings; it all matched what I needed in a way that never made me feel better, but made me feel real.

In a way, my summer boy created me: indirectly, by introducing me to the music that would shape my teenage years and my emotional growth, and directly, by giving me my first taste of non-monogamy, however unethical it was.

#poly #polyamory #nonmonogamy #non monogamy

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nightlight9 · 7 years

Text

Getting to Know You

Theme: Coffeeshop Rating: G Quick Note: I wanted a piece that would explore Derek’s dynamic with his friends (most specifically Isaac), and this was the result. Isaac is overly protective, but in his head it’s his way of looking out for someone he cares a lot about. The depths behind his reasoning for it isn’t explored much in this piece, but hopefully you get the idea of it. http://archiveofourown.org/works/11036775

———

“Isaac,” Stiles whines. “Why do you hate me so much.”

The man in question doesn’t turn to look at where Stiles is perched at the counter. He replies, “You’re being stupid,” without turning around, and Stiles is offended by the response.

“I just want to know his name! Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

Finally, the barista looks over his shoulder with a scowl. “It’s not hard for me to understand. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give in to your whining. He’s a paying customer, and I’m going to respect his privacy by ignoring you.”

His arms flail up. “Dude, I’m not asking for his credit card number!”

The blond passes him his vanilla hot chocolate in an aggressive manner that would impress Stiles if it wasn’t happening to him. “Drop it, Stiles. I know you’ve decided that you’re in love with him or something, but you’re not getting any information out of me. And I’ll make sure to let Erica know not to tell you anything either, so don’t think you can go behind my back to find out.”

Finally, he slouches back into his seat with a defeated sigh. Stiles first saw the guy three weeks ago. He had been spread out at his usual table in the corner, trying to study for his sociology midterm, when the door’s chiming bell distracted him. And there he was, wearing a leather jacket and a scowl that immediately caught Stiles’ attention. There was something sharp about him that made him interesting, and the longer Stiles watched the guy, the more fascinated he was. Because, despite the overall appeared the man had going on (which suggested he was a tough biker with a rough reputation, or something of the kind), the guy was actually a multi-layered, precious softy. Over the weeks that Stiles had been casually watching him (and no Isaac, it isn’t creepy stalking no matter what you say), Stiles has witnessed him help a crying child, ask for the sweetest drinks that the cafe offers, indulge in several cake pops, and get so focused on the book that he was reading that he missed two separate women trying to ask him out.

And Stiles was hooked. How could he not be. He wants to know everything about the man. But Isaac won’t even give up his name.

“I’ll figure it out one way or another,” Stiles mutters into his drink as he walks back to his table. Already several ideas are running through his head.

———-

Over the next several weeks, Stiles tries multiple ways to figure out the man’s name. These plans range from as simple as bumping into him while he passes Isaac his credit card in hopes that he’ll drop it, to paying someone to pickpocket and steal his wallet (which doesn’t work at all when it turns out that Derek definitely knows how to defend himself).

After his last failed attempt to figure out the guy’s name, Stiles rests his head against the table and groans in utter defeat. He doesn’t want to give up because he has seriously fallen for this stranger, but at this point he feels out of options. The only thing he hasn’t tried is marching up to him and asking, but after everything else that just feels too easy.

A warm hand curls around his neck. When he looks up, Isaac is grinning down at him. “Wow, you really do like this guy, don’t you?” Stiles flips him off, ignoring his laughter even as the other man passes him a piece of paper. When he sees what’s on it, Stiles makes a questioning sound. “His name is Derek Hale. That’s his phone number.”

“What happened to customer confidentiality?” His heart is racing with the possibility of what the paper implies. He tucks it between the pages of his textbook so Isaac can’t take it back.

The other man laughs again and settles into the seat across from him. “Obviously that matters, but I’m not giving you this information as a barista handing over customer information. I’m giving it to you as Derek’s friend.”

The pieces aren’t coming together in Stiles’ head. “You’re his friend?”

“Obviously. He’s my roommate. Why else would I have the guy’s number?” Leave it to Isaac to be sassy even when he’s trying to be nice. Stiles narrows his eyes at him, and in response Isaac tugs gently at his scarf, a nervous habit, and starts to explain. “I’ve known Derek for years. His family helped me out of a really tough situation with my biological father, and then practically adopted me. He means a lot to me, and when you asked me about him I thought you were just one of the many people that wanted him for his looks. He’s been hurt in the past by relationships, so I was just trying to look out for him. I mean, I’m not saying that you’re a bad person or anything, but-.”

Stiles finally understands. He raises his hand to cut off his friend’s rambling. “Dude, I get it. He’s family.”

Isaac shrugs. “I just wanted someone to like him for who he is, not because of what he looks like. And, no offense, but it was hard to believe you were serious about him since you frantically asked me who he was not even five minutes after you saw him for the first time.”

Sheepishly, Stiles rubs his neck. “Yeah. I’ve never had much chill when it comes to stuff like that. And for the record, I didn’t ever explain to you how serious I was.”

The tension is finally broken as Isaac laughs again. “Yeah. What finally clued me in was how you brought your whole criminology lecture into the cafe, hoping that I would call out everyone’s names as I made their drinks.”

Stiles laughs too. “I was pretty desperate at that point, honestly.”

Isaac smiles softer and reaches out to tap one finger against the book. “Derek will be at home right now, if you want to give him a call.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “It’s about dinner time, and I know that he won’t have eaten yet, so if you want our address so you can drop by with dinner or something, I’ll give it to you. He’s working on his Masters now, so he forgets to eat sometimes. And I could call ahead and let him know you’re on your way.”

Stiles bites his lip and shakes his head. “I think that’s a little creepy, don’t you?”

Isaac shrugs, standing up to go back to the counter. “Not really. Derek already knows who you are, and he’s already kind of expecting you. But I can have him come down here if you’d prefer that.”

“Overlooking the fact that you’ve somehow forgot to mention that he knows who I am, I think having him come down here might be better.” Something occurs to him. “On the other hand, he’s already been here today, so he probably doesn’t want to come back.” Something else occurs to him. “And if he’s working on his Masters, he probably won’t like the interruption.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “You overthink everything, don’t you? If it bothers you so much, just wait until he comes in tomorrow. It seems like you have his schedule memorized, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Or give him a call later and see what he’s up to.”

He wants to go now, meet the man he’s been dreaming about for so long, but he doesn’t want to push into Derek’s space. “I guess I’ll wait.”

The barista shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

———-

Stiles gets to the cafe an hour before his normal time. Erica is the one behind the counter. Not seeing Isaac there makes him nervous. But then Erica gives him a knowing grin and gestures for him to take a seat, and he feels a little better. When the line disperses, she comes by his table with his favorite vanilla hazelnut hot chocolate. They talk for a while (she gives him random information about Derek whom she also, apparently, is good friends with), which helps ease some of his nerves, before she has to get back to work, and then Stiles pulls out some homework hoping to distract himself. He’s almost through with his second assignment when the door chimes again.

And there Derek is, wearing his leather jacket over a soft red sweater, eyebrows pulled down in the familiar scowl. Stiles watches him work his way through the line to the counter, wondering how he can casually start a conversation.

Before he can figure it out, Erica leans over the counter to tell him something, gesturing in Stiles’ direction. When Derek looks over, there’s a soft smile on his face. It makes Stiles’ heart clench, then race. The other man doesn’t look away while Erica makes his drink, and then he’s crossing the floor and settling into the seat across from him.

“Hello,” Derek greets in a soft voice, eyes alight with mirth.

His voice cracks when he replies, “Hey. Um, how are you?”

“I’m good, Stiles.” There is laughter in his voice, but it isn’t mocking. Instead it sounds pleased. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Really good, actually. Super great.” He winces, wishes that he had planned out what he was going to say to Derek before he showed up, because now he doesn’t know how to start any sort of conversation. Before he can start rambling, a hand connects with the back of his head. He makes an indignant sound and meets Isaac’s narrowed gaze. “What was that for?”

The blond crosses his arms. “You’re an idiot. After weeks of rhapsodizing about how great Derek is and pestering me for his information, you can’t even start a decent conversation?”

Stiles can feel his face heat up. He pushes at Isaac’s chest. “What are you even doing here?”

Isaac bats his hands. “I thought I would come in to watch you make a fool out of yourself before my shift, but this is just sad.”

“Isaac, I swear to all of the Gods, I will strangle you with your scarf right here and-.”

Laughter cuts off his impassioned threat. Derek grins up at Isaac. “Go help Erica with the rush. Stiles and I are just fine.”

Both Isaac and Stiles raise their eyebrows in disbelief, because nothing about their interaction before felt ‘fine’ but then Isaac rolls his eyes and walks away.

“He likes giving me a hard time,” Stiles explains after Isaac’s behind the counter with Erica, obviously still eavesdropping.

Derek laughs again, softer, and says, “Isaac likes giving everyone a bad time. That’s his way of saying he likes you. Besides, he kind of helped, didn’t he? You don’t seem as nervous anymore.”

Stiles leans closer conspiringly and shushes him. “That might be true,” he admits. “But keep your voice down. He can never know.”

“If you’re worried about him bragging about that, just imagine how he’s going to be if this goes well.”

The thought makes Stiles want to shudder, but as their conversation flows into easy connection and with the promise of an actual date in the near future, Stiles thinks that Isaac’s boasting might be worth it.

And when it’s finally time to go and Derek holds Stiles’ hand to walk him to the car, ignoring Isaac’s bright laughter, Stiles knows that the boasting will definitely be worth it. He might even send Isaac a gift basket in thanks.

When they’ve stopped beside the jeep, Derek starts playing with Stiles’ fingers and avoiding eye contact. “I’m glad that Isaac finally caved in and gave me your information,” Stiles says softly. He’s pleased when the tips of Derek’s ears color with a blush.

“It probably seems weird to you that he was being so protective and that I was letting him be.” Honestly, it had never occurred to Stiles that Derek would have known about everything. “When I saw you for the first time, you caught my attention right away. I thought that you were beautiful. But when I asked Isaac about who you were, he waved me off. He said that you weren’t the most committed when it came to relationships, and I’m not good at anything casual. So I let it go, especially after he told me that you asked about me as soon as you saw me; I’m used to people chasing me because of how I look so it was easier to write you off.

“But then everyday he would come home and tell me about how you kept pestering him to figure out who I was, and I was kind of flattered. Not a lot of people have ever gone through that much trouble for me. And then he would tell me about each scheme you used to try and figure out my name. Just my name. I was charmed. But I didn’t say anything to him about it until he stated that he thought you actually wanted something more than a casual hook-up with me. I don’t really know why I didn’t insist he stop being so protective, or why I didn’t just approach you on my own, and-. Well, it might seem crazy how much he was looking out for me, especially considering I was interested in you too, but-. I’ve had some really bad relationships in the past, and they messed me up for a long time. My friends and I, we all look out for each other, admittedly more than we should, but that’s how it’s always been.”

Stiles uses the grip Derek has on his hands to twine their fingers together, smiling gently when the other man meets his gaze. “There’s nothing wrong with protecting each other. I’m a lot to handle sometimes, so I totally get why Isaac would be worried about me. But I’m definitely in this for more than just something casual.” He feels himself blush. “I think you’re pretty amazing, and even if it was your appearance that immediately caught my eye, it was watching the way you interacted with the world that made me like you.”

Derek’s smile is blinding. “I like you too, if you haven’t noticed.” His cheeks are still red, but he uses their clasped hands to pull Stiles closer. His voice is softer when he asks, “Do you think it’s too soon to want to kiss you?” There’s a nervousness in his voice that makes Stiles smile softly.

He runs his free hand over the curve of Derek’s jaw as an answer, watching as Derek moves closer, leans down, and presses their lips together.

It’s a gentle touch, chaste and warm. And it’s the best kiss that Stiles can remember having. His head is cloudy when Derek pulls back. “Isaac is going to gloat so much,” he breathes against Derek’s mouth. The resounding laughter makes their next kiss taste like the beginning of something great.

#sterek bingo #sterek #sbworks'#sbcoffeeshop #my writing

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dramallamadingdang · 7 years

Text

Well! This killed the game-loading time...

AKA The 20 Questions/20 Followers Meme.

I was tagged by @raptorsims, so it's their fault. :) At least this one has some different questions! This edition contains, among other things, nerdy pedantry about fruit, odd sexualities, rhapsodizing about underappreciated animals, and...Welsh proverbs. Yes, Welsh proverbs. Well, one Welsh proverb, anyway...

Name: Katrina.

Nicknames: The most common one is Kat. Boring, I know.

Zodiac sign: Birthday is April 23, so barely Taurus. Astrology is bullshit, though.

Height: 6'0" (Well, actually a fraction of an inch shy of that, but who's counting?) Or, for the metric crowd, 182cm.

Orientation: In terms of actual practice/experience, I'm a Kinsey 2. (Yes, yes, I know the Kinsey scale and the tests used to assign people their number are flawed/outdated, but I think the numbers by themselves are a good descriptor range for most people.) In terms of actual attraction, I'm constantly sliding more toward pansexual, probably because I now realize that it’s OK to be that way when before I always tried to fit myself into the straight-or-gay binary and neither really fit and “bisexual” just didn’t seem “wide” enough. Although when you get right down to it, I'm really more sapiosexual. Basically, I don't care what your gender identity is or what's between your legs; I care about how you use what's between your ears. I do, however, have this odd attraction to A) People who are sarcastic, especially in combination with smart and B) Gay men because I guess I have a fetish for things I can't have. Thankfully, I found a very smart and sarcastic Kinsey 5 to marry!

Ethnicity: Glow-in-the-dark white, of mostly Welsh descent. The surname I was born with (which is also the one I use in everyday life, though not professionally) is unpronounceable for probably 98% of the US population, I'd say, in that it contains no letters that Americans generally recognize as vowels. :) Y mae dafad ddu ym mhob praidd.

Favorite fruit: *puts on nerd hat* Depends on if we're speaking botanically or culinarily. If the former, where a "fruit" is simply the seed-bearing part of the plant, then it's a three-way tie between tomatoes, peppers of all kinds, and okra. If we're talking culinarily, where only sweet fruits are fruit and savory ones are "vegetables," then...Raspberries, I guess? Maybe? I really don't have much of a sweet tooth, I'm afraid. I like peach pie, though, so there's that.

Favorite season: Autumn. Followed closely by winter. Spring's OK. Summer can kiss my ass.

Favorite book series: Sharon Kay Penman's Welsh trilogy. Which starts here. It's nice when my medieval forebears aren't portrayed as savage animals when compared to the "civilized" English. :\

Favorite flower: Calla lilies. Yes, I know they're "funeral flowers." I don't care. Also, lilacs.

Favorite scent: Lilac flowers. :) And lavender. Like, real lavender, not the overly-flowery/perfumey stuff marketed as "lavender."

Favorite color: Green. All shades but with a preference for the yellower end of the spectrum.

Favorite animal: Hyenas. Specifically, the spotted hyena. Awesome, much-maligned animals. (Here's a hint: It's usually lions who steal/scavenge hyena kills, not the other way around.) Also, they're female-dominant, which, of course, is very rare amongst us social animals. Basically, they're furry Amazons. With pseudo-penises. ;)

Coffee, tea, or hot cocoa: Hot chocolate is good, especially made with coconut milk, provided that I can find a vegan mix, as my system no longer tolerates dairy at all, even in really small amounts. Tea is OK; usually I drink it when I'm not feeling well. Coffee is right out. EWWWWWWWWW! Even hate the smell of it. But overall? Gimme some water, often but not always with some flavoring in it.

Average sleep hours: Five or six or thereabouts. When I can sleep at all lately. For me, the only bad thing about menopause was that, after going through it, I started having occasional stretches of time, that last for a week or two, when I can barely sleep. Basically, I just catnap. I get a lot done during those times, though, so...trade-offs. :)

Cat or dog person?: I like both equally, for different reasons. Though I guess if you judge by numbers, I'm more of a dog person, as I have 8 of those and "only" 5 cats. Although we only brought 1 dog and two cats here to SF with us, the ones who like to travel. The rest are back in CO. So, here in California, I guess we're cat people, if you judge by numbers. :)

Favorite fictional characters: Spock from Star Trek. Jack O'Neill (TWO "L"s!) and Rodney McKay from the Stargate franchise. Oh, and KITT from Knight Rider. Sarcastic AIs FTW! :) (Notice the common thread that runs amongst those characters, given my "orientation." :) )

Number of blankets you sleep with: I have a sheet, a down comforter, a furnace-like husband, and at least one large dog. None of those is a blanket, I'm afraid, but three of the four are very warm and only one is stinky. :)

Dream trip: Antarctica. Still hoping to get there before I die. :)

Blog created: I started this tumblr in December of 2013. I think.

Number of followers: Right now? 1,422. It changes pretty much daily, though, up or down. Sometimes it changes hourly. I recently went through and blocked all the porn blogs and the blogs that are just advertising, so I'm pretty sure they're all legit, at the moment.

And I'mma be lazy and tag the last 20 people who followed me or left me notes and that have an active blog that isn't all reblogs (because I figure you're not into posting about yourself, not because I don't like you :) ) and who I know haven't already done this. So...

@12raben @digitalangels @nilechugasims @halousims @eulaliasims @vampireacademysims @acquiresimoleons @scibirg @holleyberry @penig @saltywitchcraft @sims2simmies @strangetomato @thetrippmeister @emperorofthedark @marvelann @ladyrosedeversailles @fuzzyspork @synergysims @trishastinysimsblog

As always, feel free to ignore if this isn't something you're into doing for whatever reason. :)

#non sims #meme #memes is fun

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emptymanuscript · 4 years

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Recognizing a bad teacher

Apropos of not wanting to threadjack, there’s this dude named Shelly. I feel like it is “professionally” unbecoming to badmouth Shelly too publicly. I’ll do it in a small group where everybody knows Shelly already and has their opinions formed but I have found myself strangely reluctant to do so out and about on the internet.

I say strangely because I have held a grudge against Shelly since 1992. Time has not mellowed this grudge, merely the emotions behind it. Because in 1992, I was pissed at him personally for what I saw as him just being an obnoxious human being and we do all have those moment. These days I am pissed at him “professionally.”

Not because he somehow has managed to get my EXACT dreamjob, and I mean that quite literally as it is both the position AND the institution. Though that doesn’t hurt. No, it’s because in 1992, I was a neophyte and I wasn’t capable of understanding the broader context of what Shelly, as one of my first real writing instructors, was doing. Today I am. Today I have a degree in The Teaching and Practice of Creative Writing. Today I have enough experience in how people deal with the act of writing, reading, and critiquing to realize how his methodology fits in to the grand context of things. In 1992 I was pissed that he treated ME poorly, as I saw it. In 2020 I am pissed that he has a pattern of behavior that mistreats his students.

And I just keep running into it.

For some weird reason, there’s not that much creative writing instruction in my town. There’s maybe four groups I am aware of, two of which are closed, and one of which is completely practical, it’s writing without critique. So, from an educational standpoint, the group I belong to is it. And, as a group, education is in no way its primary purpose. And there are two writing teachers. I know essentially nothing about one guy. Which almost certainly means he is fine. And the other is Shelly. Because there are so few outlets for such a popular endeavor in such a large area, I run into people who recently took a class from Shelly on a regular basis.

And the story is always the same. It matches exactly what I saw and did not understand back in 1992. Shelly just has a way of doing things and treating people. He makes a two tiered system of ingroups and outgroups. He has devotees that are the inner in-group who worship him. There is the regular in-group of people whose stories he likes and who will be part of his targeting. There is the regular out-group of people whose stories he does not like and who will be part of his targeting. And then there is the true outgroup that he will mostly ignore because he doesn’t really know what to do with them.

He is consistent with the Devotee group, he treats them kindly as he sees it. And, unfortunately, they tend to agree. I think took my friend who was a devotee of his maybe 15 years to figure out that maybe he was holding her back and keeping her as a Devotee instead of letting her figure out what she needed to write for herself. Devotees wrote a certain way, and that was the limit, shown by how Shelly treated everybody else. So it is important to distinguish that he was NICE to them. And that’s very different from treating someone well. Ask my partner about that. Nice can be as heartless and cruel as obviously mentally abusive. The point with the Devotees is to wrap them up in a nice pretty cage and keep them there with sweet songs and good views of what happens when someone steps outside. And since you want to stay inside the cage, it’s better not to ruffle any feathers so you don’t risk getting cast out. So everybody writes the same safe repetitive bs.

The really important group for understanding his methodology is the normals, the outside in-group. Shelly likes their stories but officially recognizes that they need work. But he is inconsistent with how he treats them and their work. In this in-group, most of the time he treats them almost as well as the Devotees. But on what I doubt is an entirely random basis he will switch and just take the writer down a peg as if they are part of the outgroup. He does it in a way that people with him for a decent amount of time feel a little uncertain about how they are going to have their writing received. That’s the point, to have them unstable and unsure and wanting to get back into Shelly’s good graces. So, if they stay, they start to develop the Devotee habits. Until they can’t hack it and leave or they end up in the Devotee group, following his edicts precisely because he has taught them to be afraid of deviation.

The inner outgroup is the opposite of the above. Here he is tough, right on the limit of what he thinks they can deal with. But “randomly” praises them when they do something he likes to pound in the message that all they have to do to get good treatment is to start writing the way he feels they should. This is also to urge them toward the Devotee cage. Less of them make it in because it is more against their grain. But when they do, they are very ardent Devotees. And, honestly, these are the people I run into the most, they don’t dislike Shelly. They’re a little confused. They feel like he is a good teacher but that they just didn’t get what it is he wanted from them. And that’s a giant clue.

A good teacher is a good teacher because they are good at communicating what they want from you. Ideally, what they want is also what you want but that’s actually a less important trait. You can learn a lot from someone who wants something different from you because you can understand the difference between what you want and what they want, enabling you to take what you want and leave the rest. It also allows you to recognize when it is time to leave.

A bad teacher just does. They don’t give you metrics and guidance so you can see what the goal is and what you need to do to get there.

The best teaching tool I ever got was one of the very first: List what you know, what you don’t know, and how you can figure out what you don’t from what you do. That is quite honestly what a student should be looking for. Does the teacher explain the subject so you can understand it? Does the teacher frame gaps in your knowledge in such a way as to make them, as the political joke goes, “known unknowns.” X in 1 + 2 = X is a known unknown. You know you don’t know it. You know the boundaries of it. So you can tell when you have met the requirements of understanding it. Writing is a more complicated equation but it’s not an alien beast. You can define the gaps in your knowledge and work with them. And with that definition you can look at what you do know to have a guess at what you need to know.

Shelly doesn’t provide that kind of education. He does. It’s unpredictable. In the same way that abuser is unpredictable. So his students learn to respect his power and walk on eggshells with how they write so as not to provoke him. And if that description makes you grind your teeth, you now know why I still have a grudge against Shelly after decades since I last saw him.

I say he’s a bad teacher in the same way I would say he is a bad person.

Now, I don’t work with Shelly. I haven’t seen him since 1998 maybe. I will probably never work with Shelly. But... he does have my dream job and I still occasionally dream of maybe trying to get it. At which point you just don’t want to have on any sort of public record that I declared to the world that I thought one of my predecessors was shit.

You can say one of your predecessors was THE shit. I’m sure they would love it if I rhapsodized about how much I loved Professor Dr. Richard Corum and how my greatest regret from college is that I didn’t take more classes from him even though I managed to cram in more classes from him than years I went to college. And that man changed my life, changed my life! And go him for retiring but I feel so sorry for everyone at my alma mater that never got to take his classes. Gah, he was great. His classes were great. You know that kind of mildly unpleasant bulging forehead feeling you get when you learn up to your limit and you’re not sure you can learn anymore? Every class. Even when I had repeated material. Every class. Just seriously one of the best teachers I have ever had and I have had some amazing teachers. You can say that all you want. Yes, please more.

Not coincidentally Corum was also the guy who first explained academic professional courtesy to me when I was complaining about whatever Slavoj Žižek nightmare bs book we were reading at the time. Don’t talk to me about Žižek. I hate Žižek. Not personally. Just I can’t cope with that stuff. Leave me alone. But he talked about that you aren’t supposed to talk badly about fellow academics even if you will never meet them because the community doesn’t like it and you’ll get backlash from admin and fellow teachers who now don’t trust you to have their back.

So, you know, I’m not going to give Shelly’s full name. I’m not saying what school he teaches at. Hell, there’s even a decent chance that I’m just using Shelly as a Mary Sue Shelly to reference a Frankensteinian horror. So, that’s me respecting that hey, maybe I would still like to do that one day. And anyone concerned can probably figure out from all the clues who I am really talking about. But I never said it.

More importantly though, as much as I will take any opportunity to hate on Shelly as much as is allowable, these behaviors are in no way unique to him. Lots of writing teachers do this. They make tiny cults of personality organized around their writing tastes. And no one much addresses how few Devotees ever get published in any manner like the idol at the center of the room. Funny that.

So, look for those traits. That’s the context. That’s a bad teacher. Trust your gut there. And go find another one.

#teaching #creative writing #unsolicited advice

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